emslittlelibrary

[emslittlelibrary]

Note: In honor of 2k followers!!!! Everybody do the whip & nae nae 🗣️ LOLLLL!!! But seriously, once again, thank you all so, so much for liking me enough to not only read my works but to go out of your way to press that follow button. Over two thousand people made the decision to stick with me… I’m gonna cry??? Roll around on the floor??? Seriously, I sincerely hope you guys like this one. It was a… journey. Still working through my writer’s block, so I sincerely apologize if this isn’t the best. But I love you. Thank you a million times over. ENJOY!!

Warning: Stalker/Vampire!Caleb, idk if this has plot lmfao, he creeps around your apartment, brief mention of panty thieving, smut, 🐱 eating, you get bit and taste your blood (not crazy, i promise)

Word Count: 4.5K

Summary: Your vampire neighbor is hooked on you.

Don’t You Want Me, Too?

When you showed up at Caleb’s door with a container full of homemade cookies to formally introduce yourself as his new neighbor, he was well prepared for you to drop the pleasantries and keep your distance once he revealed his true identity.

Although you lived in a world where humans found some sort of common ground in the effort to coexist with vampires, it was still considered luck for his kind to be perceived beyond the fangs and necessary blood consumption without some negative preconceived notion.

Imagine his surprise when not only did you harbor zero contempt, but the beaming smile that you granted him was just as intoxicating as the sweetness he could smell thriving in your veins.

“That’s so fucking cool,” you gushed with an unmistakable giddiness.

While your immediate kindness and fascination was admittedly refreshing, he was almost certain that your first meeting would be the one and only time you two ever spoke and before he got too deep, he was okay with that.

But he quickly learned that there was no such thing as maintaining distance when it came to someone like you.

He’ll never forget the night you casually invited him into your home a few days after, asking if he’d be willing to help you assemble the new couch you received.

“I hope I’m not being a bother. You just seemed trustworthy.”

Caleb knew right then that he was in trouble.

And he was right. He loved how much you talked and how willing you were to share parts of yourself to a stranger like him. Equivalent to an open book and walking sunshine all wrapped up into one, you would even go as far as trying to ensure his comfortability like he wasn’t the apex predator sitting on your living room floor with an instruction manual in hand.

There were no limitations, no such thing as “too touchy”, and you were full of so many questions about his existence that he was more than willing to answer if it got him the captivating wonder that shined in your irises as you hooked onto every single word.

Those handful of hours in close proximity to you was more than enough to teach the vampire that you were both equally dangerous and inebriating. For your safety and his sanity, it would’ve been in his best interest to cut all contact before he was put in a place he couldn’t come back from.

He was far from a loner. Despite his vampirism, Caleb was one of the lucky few that had a boyish charm and an air about him that made humans and many walks of life trust and welcome him. In hindsight, no—sticking to you wasn’t necessary. Realistically, he had no reason to.

But when his invitation was never revoked after his late night departure and he realized that he had indefinite access to your home because of your unintentional negligence, still drunk off the sound of your voice and smell of your perfume, his selfish desire to know more about someone so carefree and affable rivaled over anything sensible.

What started as genuine curiosity quickly evolved into obsession, and a sweet thing such as yourself would inadvertently make it easy for him.

The morning you finally left for your very first day of work, he waited a safe handful of minutes to make sure you were truly gone. That spare key hidden under the fake plant beside your door was basically a wrapped up gift sent with a kiss and an invitation to explore you to his dead heart’s content.

You’d done a lot on your own in the short time to make the four walls a home since his visit and the more knowledge he gained, the more he craved to be a part of it and your life.

Your routine quickly became engraved in his mind and fused with his own, so much so that he risked his own safety in the damaging sun to follow you in the early morning beneath an oversized hoodie to get your job’s exact location. And to make sure you got there without any qualms thereafter, of course.

There was nothing you owned that he didn’t touch, not a semblance of privacy you thought sacred that he hadn’t invaded, and not a piece of information he didn’t already have filed away.

He’d gotten so consumed that he looked forward to his favorite nights where he used his keen hearing to listen in on your moans and whimpers as you touched yourself beneath the sheets that he’s spilled his cum onto when he imagined your naked body in it. With a pair of your used panties stuffed in his mouth to get just a taste of what you were, Caleb fucked his hand until both of you made a mess of yourselves at the same time.

It was exhilarating—electrifying, to have access to you in ways you were unaware of. And it was sick of him to smile in your face and wish you a friendly goodnight as if he were a saint.

But in no way shape or form did he feel guilty or deterred. In fact, he reveled in his invasions.

Looking down at your key that he had copied, he rubs the cool metal between his fingertips as if the weightless object brings him comfort. Because of the world it granted him access to, it held the same level of importance as the person who inhabited it.

A soft smile crept across his face when you entered the building at a time thirty minutes later than the one you normally would arrive at and made your way up through the elevator. You did go grocery shopping at this point in the week, so he understood your tardiness.

Rustling plastic interrupted his attempts to hear your grumbles of annoyance the closer you got to your door and with inhumane speed, Caleb shot up from his couch and opened his own to see you stumbling down the hall with bags dangling in your hands. He breathily chuckled and raised a brow as he peeked his head out past the threshold.

“Need any help?”

“You’d be my hero,” you exaggerate playfully with a quick nod. “Please?”

His door clicks shut behind him and it takes four long strides before he’s in front of you and hauling the groceries without an ounce of struggle, a stark contrast compared to what you were doing.

“I see you’ve got big plans. Whatcha makin’?” he asks as he steps into the familiar layout of your apartment, smiling to himself about the small trinkets he took today for safekeeping that he hoped you wouldn’t miss too much should you notice.

“Probably nothing.”

You pull your flats off by the door with a huff, more than ready to get out of your dreaded work clothes. “I bought all this stuff, but I’m thinking some cereal and a granola bar tonight. Can’t even imagine standing in front of a stove right now.”

Caleb nods, pursing his lips with a thought in mind that he doesn’t keep tucked away for long after each item placed atop your marble counter.

“I could uh… make you dinner,” he shrugs. “If you want. I’m pretty good in the kitchen.”

With a tilt of your head, your eyebrows furrow.

“You? Really?”

He blinks at your surprise with a lopsided grin. “Yeah, me. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Caleb, I feel like the reason for my confusion is right in your face.”

“I don’t know, you’re gonna have to actually tell me what you’re thinkin’ if you want me to catch on.”

He’s firmly aware of the point you’re hinting towards, but if acting oblivious kept him around you for longer, he had no problem playing stupid.

“I just don’t think meat, vegetables, and potatoes aligned with your… palate?”

“They don’t. Buutt, does that automatically mean I don’t know what to do with them?”

“No,” you admit with a shy smile. “I just never would’ve figured a vampire to be interested in something they don’t necessarily benefit from, I suppose.”

“Cooking is a skill, and I’ve had a lot of time to learn and master plenty.”

Facing you, his gaze flickers between your lips and your eyes quick enough for you not to catch on.

“Let me show you? Promise you’ll like it.”

He knows you’re ready to accept, even as you stand there like you need a moment to contemplate. Inwardly, he recites where he’ll need to go to retrieve the things he needs, seeing as their locations have already been mesmerized.

Bottom cabinet near the sink.

“Alright,” you muse. “I’ve been swayed. Pans are in the bottom cabinet right next to the sink and—”

Top shelf, far end.

“—seasonings are all the way at the end in the top shelf. I’ll shower and leave you to it then, if that’s alright?”

“Take your time.” He knew you would. Your showers lasted a minimum of thirty minutes.

“I can’t wait,” you sing-song as you depart down the hallway.

Putting away all your things without needing your guidance, he can’t help but to humbly agree, even if you couldn’t hear him.

“Neither can I.”

Finding out that you lived across the hall from a vampire during your impromptu decision to greet the new neighbors was an interesting revelation, to say the least.

The landlord never mentioned that in the lease agreement.

Undoubtedly, you’re sure that you’ve encountered more than you likely realize, but it was a guaranteed fact that you’ve never spoken to or dealt with one long enough to form an opinion like many humans took it upon themselves to do.

You weren’t anything special, nobody different, but you were certainly fair. It didn’t make sense to automatically group so many individuals together because of the actions committed by some of their kind when they weren’t a direct reflection of an entire collective.

Meeting a man like Caleb made you feel like you made the right decision in not being driven by terror and fear mongering rumors.

He shared so many of his experiences with you, just as you did with him, and even if there were aspects he detailed that you would never be able to relate to, it didn’t mean you were incapable of understanding.

In the end, regardless of how he needed to survive and the routes necessary for him to do it, he was still a person; someone with feelings, wants, and a history just like anybody else.

Now, should your compassion have been a reason to be so careless as to let him be in your home like he’s been?

Definitely not. You recognize that.

But you were convinced that had he wanted to hurt you or operated with an ulterior motive in mind that you were unaware of, it would’ve already been acted upon.

He’s as good as he is handsome, and your favorite soda alongside the full course meal that he prepared just for you with puppy-like eyes in search of approval, was only the tip of the iceberg in supporting your firm belief in those sentiments.

“Ya like it?” he simpered as you groaned with delight around a forkful of steak and pan seared vegetables. While you were shocked at how well he prepared everything to your specific liking, Caleb’s flawless execution was intentional, and he reveled in his ability to satisfy you. Had he failed, he’d take it as there’s a lot more studying and observing that he needs to do.

“You’ve been a vampire for how long? Don’t even eat this stuff or have to know how to make it! Yet you cook better than me. That’s beyond unfair.”

He slides your drink closer with his knuckles. “I only used what you had. Maybe you could recreate if you really think it’s that good.”

“Oh, now you’re humble, you chuckle. “‘If you really think it’s that good’.” The way you mimic him right as you sip your chilled beverage shouldn’t make him feel like he has a lively heart thumping in his chest, but he can’t help but to feel the phantom of the long silent organ.

“If you could actually enjoy my cooking, you’d see there’s no way I can replicate this.”

Brushing hair from his forehead, he hums. “Welllll, you know where I am whenever you want me to whip somethin’ up. I don’t mind.”

“Aww, ‘leb,” you coo and lightly pinch his cheek. “You’d do that for little ole me?”

Your tone is teasing, but truthfully, he would do everything for you if he was given the opportunity to.

“Least I could do for the cookies.”

You nearly choke on your final bite. “Oh, that was shady! How was I supposed to know?!”

He laughs at your outburst, and you can’t help but notice how the overhead lights shine in a way to make his paler skin seem near perfect.

“Do you ever miss it though, in all seriousness? Human food? No pun intended.”

Swiping your plate off the counter, he stands from the island chair and sets your dishes in the sink before rolling up his sleeves to begin washing them as he contemplates his response.

Did he miss it? Does he even remember it enough to?

“I’ve… gone so long without it that when one sole thing becomes the only way you’re capable of satisfying your hunger, it’s easy to forget about what doesn’t.”

Standing next to him, you receive the plate he cleans and dry it with a towel. “That makes sense.”

Once finished and the water is shut off, you internally bring yourself to vocalize the question that’s weighed upon you since being told what he is.

“Can I see them? Your fangs?”

He tenses. “I don’t wanna scare you.”

And truly, he doesn’t. That would ruin everything and taking you wasn’t the route he preferred to go if he could help it.

See, humans had the tendency to seem sure about something until they actually got it. But he knows you, knows that you’re a woman who doesn’t need time to identify what she wants when she’s already declared that she does.

He’s analyzed you better than any historian does a pivotal moment in history to conclude this, but should he heed your wish, it was going to put you two on a level distanced entirely from where you are now.

Only you didn’t know that.

“I’m not scared of you.” You step close to him as if to enforce your sureness. “And you know I’m not, so I doubt your teeth would change that. Have some faith in me,” you joke, but there’s a sincerity there.

When he gives you all of his attention, rather than speaking and delaying the act of letting you have what you want, he doesn’t let you second guess long enough to change your mind. After a quick uptick of his cheeks and leaving his mouth slightly ajar, his pointy and now elongated ivory canines are revealed.

Your eyes widen in wonder at how effortlessly he changes from something personable and beautiful, to breathtakingly threatening.

Caleb can hear your heart rate double in its efforts to navigate all the thoughts swimming in your mind, but he’s not returning to “normal” to ease them. Not when you gape at him with so much awe and the smell of something akin to ambrosia makes that animalistic part of him hungry in the same way your blood does.

The raging pulse in your neck, the melodic beating of your heart, and the slick he knows that’s gathering in your panties—they all work in unanimous tandem to make his cock twitch more than before in his sweatpants.

His most natural state excites you and it ignites something almost daring.

What kind of person would he be to let you deny yourself?

“Say something,” he whispers. “C’mon, you said you weren’t scared. Don’t tell me you’re backin’ out on me now.”

You shake your head, slowly reaching up with the sudden urge to just feel what the sharpness is like, but a strong hand wraps around your wrist and ceases your efforts.

“Shit… W-Was that rude?” you stutter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He tilts his head and smirks with amusement as your sentence trails off unfinished, running his tongue along one of his fangs.

“You want more. You’re aching for it.”

Bringing your wrist to his nose, he inhales the delicacy beneath the surface. “You think I don’t know?”

“I-I’m not trying—”

“Are you afraid of what I could do to you?” he interrupts.

Almost all his self control withers away at how you shudder as his tongue traces your skin. With another one of your side to side movements of denial, he presses a kiss to the freshly lotioned flesh.

“Do you want me to do something?”

“We shouldn’t..” Not even you are convinced by your meek attempt of self preservation, but a human and a vampire? That sounds like a surely signed death certificate.

Your thighs press together harder when you feel the light caress of his teeth.

“You want to. That’s all that matters. And if a no isn’t the next word out of your mouth, you’re about to feel mines. I think that’s fair, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your inability to respond because of your scrambled thoughts is more than enough of a confirmation for him and before you can register just how lighting fast he is, somehow you’re already up in the air with you back flush against the wall and your legs thrown over his broad shoulders.

“C-Caleb! Wait!” you squeak at the heightened altitude and bizarre reality of your pussy that’s only separated by a a thin pair of sleep pants and panties, sitting in his face.

“All you have to do is command me to leave, and I’ll have no choice.” He buries himself in between your legs, deeply inhaling your natural scent and nearly growls when you instinctively buck your hips to force him closer.

“But you know that. It’s just not what you want.”

You nearly make your bottoms lip bleed with how hard you bite it, not trusting your voice to combat his statement and mean it.

“Hold onto me,” he instructs, and with stomach churning nerves, you plant your palms to his shoulders. In one swift motion and with riveting power, your lower half is exposed in milliseconds when he rips the material in half from the back to make the fabric split in two and peel away until it hits the floor.

“I’ve been waitin’ too long for this…”

An impatient long lick from your hole to your clit makes the back of your head hit the wall and eyes roll. “Oh, honey… it’s even better from the source.”

You’re too faded to find anything odd about his words draped with desperation, and he takes that to his advantage to devour you like a newfound supplement for his unwavering bloodlust. The squelching of your juices and pressure of his tongue as he sucks the throbbing bundle of nerves into his mouth, echos in the wide expanse and it nearly sends you into hysterics.

His palms holds and kneads your ass with possession as he keeps you glued to his greedy mouth.

“I can’t…” you cry, riding further up the wall as if you’re trying to escape. Your fingers then dig into his scalp with every skilled flick of the persistent muscle and your next set of mumbled pleas are a complete contradiction to the last.

“Don’t stop… please don’t stop… mmph…”

“You sound so much clearer… Taste even sweeter,” he murmurs into your soaked folds, not even caring about the subtle details that could expose him if you were paying attention to them.

When he separates from his personal fountain of youth, looking up at you with a glistening chin and sharp teeth, he appears to be just as inebriated as you feel. It’s almost like a reflex as he nuzzles his cheek to your inner thigh, nipping at your plushness to make you jolt. But you welcome the sting, sensually running his soft locks through your fingers.

“If you let me go further.” A kiss to your stomach. “You’re not gettin’ rid of me. Ever.”

You should be demanding him to leave, not damn near dangling in the air with your slick all over a vampire’s face as he studies you like the experienced hunter he is. This could kill you one day, if not now.

But playing it safe wouldn’t have gotten you in such a mind numbing position in the first place and you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

“Who said I wanted to?”

Using that same speed you’re unsure you’ll ever get used to, your scenery changes in the blink of an eye and you’re hastily put on the recognized softness of your bed.

“How do you do that?” you question with true amazement, but Caleb’s too busy stripping himself of his clothes to tell you that it’s a skill you’ll learn one day.

Too much for a first time.

His body seems to be crafted by gods and his cock is surely your impending addiction. Pumping himself in his hand with a hiss from the sensitivity, flashbacks of him in the same position and only having his imagination to paint you in the same picture that you now present him in reality, affirms that this is destined.

You spread your legs to make space for him and your nipples harden when he looms above to tug the tank top off.

One of your peaks is quickly sucked into his mouth that he uses to worship your delicate body before the garment has a chance to land on the rug, making him groan from your addicting wails of pleasure.

“Can you take me like this?” He sounds almost breathless. “Or do you need more?”

His length brushes up against your slit and the stickiness that clings to him seems to try answering for you.

“I can take it,” you mewl, arching your back when he gives the other nipple the same level of reverence before releasing it with a loud pop.

“Touch me…” His soft begging has you hastily wrapping your arms around his thick neck.

Grasping himself to line up with your quivering entrance, he first spreads your arousal with the head of his cock. And when he falls into you, his hardness swallowed by every warm and spongey inch of your spasming walls, you know that there is nothing to walk this Earth, not another vampire nor any other creature alive, that could fulfill you like this.

“Y-You’re so deep,” you choke, almost perplexed by how natural he feels like this. Your hands find solace in the cool skin of his smooth back, and the contrast to your fiery one is something you’re surprisingly quite fond of.

“I know… But you gotta let me move…”

Your eager hips match your vigorous nodding as he slides out almost all the way before sinking back inside to the hilt in a dizzying languid motion.

Remembering the fact that you’re still human, he has to be wary as to not break your fragile form, but the idea of it sounds so fucking tempting when he now has you feeling the same level of desperation beneath him.

With your bodies pressed close, not a centimeter of space left in between, each plap of skin continuously meeting and your broken whines is a sound he intends to own for centuries to come. He’ll make sure of it.

Your sheets are balled in his hands as he delivers deep strokes into your creaming pussy, his pretty moans rushing into your ears whilst your nails leave long scratches whenever they reach.

“I don’t know how I’ve gone this long without you…” he expresses earnestly. All you can do in response is squeeze him tighter to let him feel how much you are in agreement.

The visceral need to taste you in the only way he hasn’t is what makes him bury his face in your neck in an attempt to suppress the urge, but you don’t let him hide.

“It’s okay.” You gently grasp his hair and push him closer, relishing in every rough snap of his pelvis that causes the wooden frame of your bed to creak.

“E-Eat. I can handle it…”

He refuses to ask if you’re sure. In fact, he’s incapable of even trying to do so.

The burn of being punctured is immediate when he indulges, making you clench harder around his pulsing cock from the intensity. Sacred crimson spills on his tongue and just as he knew you to be capable of doing, you have irrevocably ruined him.

It’s foreign, the sensation of your blood being drained with such brute force and urgency. But you knew you were too far gone to feel anything other than blissful pride to be giving him so much of you that he’s so eager to accept.

He never loses his consistent momentum the longer he drinks, gliding inside your fluttering cunt without interruption and never wasting a single drop.

“Good?” you tease tiredly, eyes tightening with a gasp when he retracts with a satisfied exhale and laps up the sacred elixir trying to slide down the length of your neck. His hips only begin to falter when he pulls back to stare down at your winded expression.

“How about you tell me?”

His ruby stained lips hover above your puffy ones before he slams them together with a firm hold on your jaw. Unexpectedly, the heady taste of iron is what sends you well over the edge.

Your tongues battle for dominance in a heated exchange of tumultuous emotions, but you’d be a liar to say that you’d given it your all in the attempt to conquer him.

Caleb swallows your cries as your orgasm breaks you apart and builds you up all over again at the same time that he stuffs almost endless spurts of cum into your womb.

He surrounds you with his strong arms and unspoken promises of lifelong dedication, pumping his heavy load until you’re too overstimulated for him to move any longer.

More kisses are pressed all over your face and your throat as he savors the connection.

“I just slept with a vampire…” you push out in the midst of the stunned silence, truthfully astonished by what you’ve done. And how much you loved it.

He chuckles, licking at the two marks where his teeth were imbedded into your skin before giving you his captivating violet eyes.

“Your vampire. The one who doesn’t intend for you to know what it’s like to walk without feeling him riiight here.”

His palm pressed to your lower gut is a promise you’ll hold him to.

“I’d like that. It’s too bad that I have—”

“Work at 8:30 in the morning and need to be out of here by 7:15 to avoid traffic. Yeah, yeah, I know. Don’t remind me.”

“But—How would you—You… sound like a stalker.”

Still nestled inside of your body, he cherishes the way you tug at the strands of his hair at the nape of his neck and giggle at what you thankfully take as a joke.

“Nahh. Just someone who observes. Nothing wrong with that.”

“I guess not. Seems like you observe me quite often, though.”

He presses his forehead to yours and rubs your noses together. “More than you know.”

His naive little human.

If only you knew.

A/N: Self promoting, but if you didn’t read Once Bitten, Twice Repaired and you like the idea of a more “serious” story of a vampire!Caleb, —Click Here—!! Just thought it was fitting. And everyone, don’t be too mean to me about the fic you just read if you weren’t messing with itttt 😭. A girl tried!

🍎 Tags: @xiaprint @mcdepressed290 @calebapplepie @xcelfer @honeymoonfleur @obeythebutler @ajyoursgirl @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @honeycrispangels @dummiebunny @sucre-princesse @brailsthesmolgurl @klossnite @grlyeetswrld @beesin03 @dramaticalsachan @moonchildjae00 @multisstuff @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @meadowinthesky @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @cowaungabungabby @gravity-pilot @nyanahogini @rosiesluv @goochfiddler99 @torturedbabyapple @kiyadeleine @carcelswaifu @blushofeve @whattnanii @ashirelle @sylvieisoffline @saturnquartz @dewmarionette @horanghaeegr @iconoclastoc @hilliserose @alyakhq @rina-lidou @celestialhoneycaleb @jeansdoll

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[emslittlelibrary]

NO ONE LOOK GOOD W ME BUT YOU ! — LADS!MEN

⋆˚꩜.ᐟ : including — 16+ only! suggestive!themes, fem!reader, caleb & raf being master manipuluators, hickies/biting in zaynes, light!stalking themes, lowkey toxic..? [౨ৎ] synopsis: obsessive/possessive things the lads!men do !

SYLUS.

♡ Phrases his jealousy/possessiveness as care; Sylus would never outright control you or limit your freedom—that’s one of the things he adores about you. Though simply pointing out that “most people are untrusting and conniving once they see what they want” or that “not every one has your well being in mind” is enough to plant the seed. His tone is even, logical, almost protective, but the effect is the same—you start second-guessing certain individuals, gravitating back to the one person who always feels safe.

And Sylus? He never has to say a word—you come to the same conclusion on your own, convinced it’s your choice, while he watches from the shadows with quiet satisfaction. Already moving onto the next thing as if he wasn’t just orchestrating it all.

“I’m ready whenever you are, sweetie” he says softly when you finally turn to him, voice calm but carrying that unmistakable weight—like a promise, and a warning. Because to Sylus, your safety, your happiness, and your loyalty are one and the same. And he intends to keep it that way.

ZAYNE.

♡ purposely leaves hickies + bites on your skin for when you're about to go out (makes you have them on display too); you knew Zayne wasn’t really one for making a big show of your relationship, nor was he the type to boast or brag. So when he came up behind you one night as you were getting ready for a night with your friends in your shared bathroom, you barely had time to notice before his arms wrapped around your waist.

“You look beautiful, my love,” he murmured, voice low and teasing as his arms wrapped around your waist, hands rubbing deliberate circles along your sides. You giggled, leaning back into him, “Thank you, sweetheart.” You reached for your lip gloss, about to add the finishing touch when you felt his lips brush your neck.

Zayne hummed softly against it, the vibrations sending a shiver down your spine, soft lips pressing kisses against the bare skin, "What's gotten into you?" You inquired with a giggle, before gasping softly at the way you felt his teeth graze your neck.

“Just wanted to add one more thing angel,” he whispered, biting down gently but firmly, the sharp press of his teeth sending a delicious sting that made you whimper involuntarily. His smirk was visible in the mirror’s reflection—dark, confident, and utterly pleased with the mark he was leaving behind.

Before pulling away, Zayne pressed a slow, deliberate kiss onto the fresh bite, warm breath brushing your skin as he murmured, “Don’t cover it up, or I’ll leave more so you won’t be able to.”

CALEB.

♡ makes up fake reasons to come over and steal your attention/ straight up feigns injuries to do so; Next to Rafayel, Caleb is the master manipulator. He'll go out of his way to come alll the way to your place in linkon late at night with some minor scrapes and bruises, all 'tired' and 'banged up' knowing with one pout and hiss of pain you'll practically pull him in scolding him and all.

Watching you with low eyes, He’ll lean into your touch with a lazy smile, voice low and just loud enough for you, brown hair falling over his purple eyes. The gleam in them way too playful for someone who was wincing a second ago. “You’re so good to me, Pips… M'so lucky to have you.” And he says it slow, dragging out your nickname in that way that makes your cheeks heat up without fail.

And If you try to tell him off for being reckless, he just smirks, resting his head against your shoulder and whispering, “Don't act like you don't love fixing me up, I can feel your eyes burning holes into my abs half the time.”

RAFAYEL.

♡ Stalks your socials regularly (he did this before you were dating—extensively); you simply thought Raf knowing and being well versed in your favorite things was simply from him being sweet and paying attention when you talked.

When in reality he's been stalking all your public accounts and finding old ones from when you were in college, having files and printed photos of you throughout different stages of your life. Cherishing them all secretly. Stored away in a hidden compartment under his paints and brushes, hiding in plain sight.

And when you finally ask how he remembers something you swear you’ve never told him, his smirk pauses only for a second before curling into that sly, knowing grin you know too well. “You’d be surprised how much you ramble on about some things, cutie. You’d spill like a fountain if I didn’t stop you.”

He drinks in the way your face scrunches with mock annoyance, the faint shimmer in your eyes betraying your amusement. Successfully steering you away from questioning him further whilst gazing at you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the room, eyes lingering with an intensity that makes you stutter as you being to ramble once more.

XAVIER.

♡ often sways you with kisses and puppy eyes to make you stay/cancel your plans; you can't count the amount of times you've called your friends to reschedule because your boyfriend needs you. It seems to always be something, whether it's Xavier being suddenly touched starved or sighing about a “long day” that only you can make better.

He’ll pull you into his lap, burying his face against your neck, mumbling about how "it's okay if you leave” and that "he just needs a minute of your touch to feel better.' Knowing full and damn well once he's got you in his arms he has no intention of letting go.

Though if you manage to somehow muster a soft plea about wanting to go out, he'll pull back from your warmth pressing kisses to your face strategically before finally pressing a sweet one to your lips. (Almost giving himself away with the grin twitching at his lips)

And, just like every other time, you sigh in defeat, leaning into him instead of reaching for your purse. Xavier only humming in quiet satisfaction, settling you against him as if it were inevitable. Because in truth, it always is.

® princessxmin all rights reserved. please to not alter, copy or translate my work !

[emslittlelibrary]

𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐞

Zayne

Pairing: Professor!Zayne x Student!Reader

Summary: It'd be absurd to say that your professor stares at you in the middle of class, but you swear that Dr. Li is looking your way each and every lecture. Does he know what you think of him? It's no secret that he's about the most handsome man on campus but it'd still be embarrassing if he knew what you were thinking.

Warnings: Minors do not interact! Smut, Power Imbalance, Age gap, Teasing, Oral Sex (m. receiving), Vaginal Sex, Office Sex, Creampie

*I've been cooking this for a while so I hope you guys enjoy🙂‍↕️

It might be your mind playing tricks on you, but you swear that your professor is constantly staring at you. The moment you step into the classroom, his eyes are on you. You make eye contact for a solid minute before Dr. Li tears his eyes away. 

It’s impossible, right? You sit in an auditorium with damn near 200 other people, almost at the very back. He can’t be looking at you, you blend in with the crowd. But there’s that slight chance that your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you. There’s a chance that he’s staring at you, making direct eye contact during his lectures.

Just the mere thought of it cracks you up. Your crush on Dr. Li has gotten the best of you, and you’re slowly feeding into the delusions. A smart handsome man his age must be married; and you won’t even begin to mention how professional the man is. Dr. Zayne Li who won’t allow his students to refer to him as Zayne surely wouldn’t like one of his students. Certainly not in the manner that crosses your mind.

It’s fun to fantasize about it though. You drift into thought in the middle of lecture, thinking how nice it’d be to have a man like Zayne by your side. Maybe he can read your thoughts and that’s why you make eye contact ever so often– You feel your face get hot at the mere thought.

You know it’s impossible for a human to read thoughts but the moment you get those thoughts in public, you try to think of anything else. You try to focus on the dragged out lecture, attempting to memorize everything that you need to know. It never works though which is how you end up thinking about him again. And you make eye contact again. Every time.

“How do you think you did on the test?” Your friend asks you as you sit down beside her. You almost sigh at the mere mention of it, knowing that you didn’t excel. You want to say that you tried your best, but you procrastinated a little too much while you were supposed to be studying.

“All I knew was that artery means away, while vein is towards the heart.” You confess, and she shares your sorrows. The cardiac system isn’t your strong forte, at least you know that now. It’s a matter that you laugh at now but the moment you get back to your home you’ll be crying about your grade. Especially since this isn’t the first test that you haven’t done well on.

“I feel like he’ll give a crazy generous curve, no way someone aced that.” She comments, and you scoff. You both know that someone got a perfect score. Dr. Li doesn’t like to give out curves unless it’s absolutely necessary, therefore there’s no hope.

“If we pray hard enough.” You joke, bursting into laughter. You continue talking until the ambiance changes. You feel a chill run down your spine, and you immediately know that he’s in the room. Your eyes glue to him as you continue the conversation. He unravels the microphone before putting it on, making eye contact with you– Again.

“Do you think he’ll begin class with a speech? ‘I got the test scores and they’re subpar, I expect better from you all next test. It’s not going to be easier, come prepared.’” She mimics him, earning an awkward chuckle from you. You maintain that eye contact, furrowing your brows. Your eyes narrow as you try to figure it out… Is he actually looking at you? 

“Yeah.” You stop paying attention to the conversation. The chatter promptly comes to an end as Dr. Li begins to address the class.

“The scores for the last test were… Rather low. However, there will be no curve since someone got a perfect score.” He announces, getting groans from everyone in the classroom. If only you could find that student and curse them for being so perfect. “If you have any questions, talk to me after class or during my office hours.”

“I know what I’m doing after class.” You tell her, your voice low, to not draw attention to yourself. She hums in agreement, sharing your same struggle.

You walk into Dr. Li’s office, knocking twice on the open door. His attention is drawn, looking up from his medical textbook. You give him an awkward smile, one that’s not reciprocated. He looks at you coldly, how he usually does. He’s not a very inviting person.

You would’ve talked to him after class but the line was too long, the wait wasn’t worth it. You’d be on campus during office hours, it was logical to come talk to him about your test scores.

“Close the door behind you.” He orders, and you hum in response. Once the door shuts, he adjusts his posture, shutting the textbook in front of him. Your breath gets caught up in your chest as you walk to the chair, sitting down across from him. “Here to view your exam?”

“Yes, I want to see where I stand in the class since–” Before you even get to finish your sentence, he pulls out the scantron and shows it to you. Your eyes widen, at the realization that Dr. Li knows your name, and they get even wider once you see the score on the test.

“You performed poorly.” He doesn’t sugar coat it, you barely hit double digits. You could cry out of embarrassment, but all your body manages to do is laugh. You laugh as if you found this hilarious– Which it sort of is. How you managed to do so horrible is beyond you.

“Is there something wrong?” He cocks an eyebrow in confusion, a little put off by your reaction. You try to hold back tears as you shake your head. “You know this means–”

“I’m failing the class, and I probably won’t pass.” You cut him off, and he gives you a subtle nod. You let out an exasperated sigh, unsure of what to do. You can’t drop the class now but it seems that’s the best option now.

“I’m willing to drop the exam if you perform better on the next one.” He says, and your eyes glimmer with hope at the opportunity he gives you. It doesn’t take a genius to know that you’ve performed badly on previous exams, which is why Dr. Li says, “You’ll have to study hard to ensure it goes better than the previous exams.”

“I study really hard.” You mention, though you know you could try a little harder. It’s not like he’s watching you study, so he can’t prove whether it’s true or not.

Instead of completely ignoring you, like anyone in his status would, he offers, “I can help you study.”

“I’m sorry?” You furrow your brows, knowing that’s well beyond his job. He doesn’t offer any help outside of class, the TAs are the ones that handle that.

“I can help you prepare for the exam.” He repeats, and you feel as if your heart is about to beat out of your chest. You feel your face get warm, recalling all the times where you’ve made eye contact and quickly looked away… Is it really all in your head?

“Are you sure? I know it’s– Thank you, Dr. Li. I’d love the help.” You end up agreeing, standing up from your chair. You won’t refuse the help, especially since the test comes directly from him. You need his help and a prayer to pass the class.

“Of course.” He hums, watching as you walk away. You feel like you can’t walk straight under his gaze, as if you had two left feet. You almost trip, but you catch yourself. Walking to the door shouldn’t be a hard task, but it’s almost like you’ve forgotten how to walk.

Maybe the problem with the exams isn’t your lack of knowledge but the fact that you seem to forget everything while you’re around the professor.

Monday 5:31 PM

Four days after meeting the professor, you go to a café a couple of miles away from campus. He made it clear it had to be away from campus, he doesn’t want any other student to ask for his help. You almost feel privileged that he’s offered to help you.

That feeling quickly fades when you enter the café and notice how upset the professor looks. Most of the time Dr. Li seems stoic, dare you say, indifferent. But right now he looks like he’s ready to give you a piece of his mind.

“Hi, thank you so much for–” You begin, approaching the table with your best smile. You’re trying to put aside the awkwardness that comes with having a one on one session with your professor. 

“You’re late.” He points out, looking at his watch. You furrow your brows, checking the time. Yes, you’re late. By a minute.

You’re late by a minute.

“My apologies, I had to finish some homework and I guess I lost track of time.” You cut your losses. You know there’s no use in arguing, especially since he’s doing you a great favor by personally tutoring you. You are in the wrong in some manner, Dr. Li is a very busy man and he’s made time for you, the least you can do is be five minutes early.

“Don’t let it happen again.” He responds, making you nod in response.

“Would you like something to drink?” You offer before getting into business. He points at the half-empty boba tea on the table, and you furrow your brows in confusion. It catches you off guard. You’d bet on Dr. Li drinking black coffee and nothing else at a café, but he’s proved you wrong. It’s a nice surprise at least.

“Let’s get started.” He doesn’t bother wasting another minute before opening the textbook. You almost sigh, filling up with dread at the mere sight of it. But you have to deal with it. You’re not here to have fun.

Tuesday 8:15 PM

You would have sworn that tonight’s session would be short. He knows that you showed up to class, after all, you kept eye contact. You’ve been swamped with classes and exams, you expected him to make today short. It’s been almost three hours though and he keeps going on about the same subject.

“Don’t fall asleep on me.” Dr. Li comments as he watches you yawn. You hum in response, though that isn’t enough to satisfy him. “Get yourself a coffee, I can wait.”

“We don’t have much to cover, right?” You respond, hopeful that the night is almost over. You’re exhausted, and you won’t mention the absurd amount of homework you have to finish once you get home. You know he’s a busy man as well so you wonder why he stresses on the subject.

“Are you ready to stop?” He asks, and you quickly shake your head. As if you were scared of putting an end to the night. He’d typically keep going but he feels as if your answer is dishonest. “It’s alright if you’re ready to leave.”

“It’s okay–” You insist, quickly biting your tongue as you watch him take off his glasses. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he shuts his eyes. Turns out the man isn’t a robot like you once hypothesized. He might be too perfect to be true, but he’s very much real. He’s also tired from all of this, but he’s pushing through it to ensure that you’re getting the help you need.

An exaggerated yawn leaves your lips before you tell him, “Actually, yeah. I’m checked out for the day.”

Wednesday 7:02 PM

“Can I ask, Dr. Li, are you real?” Three days after the beginning of your tutoring, you’ve grown confident around Dr. Li. At least you’re comfortable enough to interrupt the session and ask him about something else.

“As in?” He cocks an eyebrow, unsure of what you ask him. He adjusts his posture, clearing his throat before speaking again, “I am made of organic matter just like you, if that’s what you’re inquiring.”

“You barely look phased, and I know you’ve had a very long day. I’m so exhausted and I only had one class today.” You comment, and his lips turn into a thin line.

“Is that your way of saying you’re done for the night?” He questions and you quickly shake your head. By no means is that what you’re trying to do, you’re just trying to have some kind of conversation with him. Something that doesn’t involve the urinary system.

“I just want to know how you do it. I’m still ready to learn.” You assure him, and he raises his eyebrows. He isn’t sure how to answer, that’s clear. You lower in voice, as if speaking in sin, “Is it caffeine?”

“Why are you speaking like that?” He questions, and you almost chuckle.

“I’m not sure, I just assumed that you wouldn’t be too happy with the suggestion.” You end up shrugging, looking back down at your notes. You’re just trying to treat him like a friend, even though he’s far from that. 

“Like any adult, I consume caffeine. You see me drinking boba tea, no?” He replies, and you end up nodding. You’re looking away in shame. 

“Yeah, whatever.” You end up nodding, grabbing your pen and attempting to continue the lesson. 

Friday 6:04 PM

Dr. Li shuts the textbook a little too early, making your ears perk up. Your eyes light up, filled with hope at the thought that you’re already finished. You’ve grown used to the tutoring that the time passes in a flash– Except it doesn’t. When you check the time on your phone, only thirty minutes have passed.

“Is that all, Dr. Li? Only thirty minutes have passed.” You ask him, shooting yourself in the foot. You could easily walk out of the café doors and have a relaxing Friday night. You need a couple of hours where you aren’t thinking about your classes. 

“I don’t want to swamp you with material.” The words that leave his lips are unexpected, catching you off guard. Dr. Li suddenly caring about the amount of content is shocking. This week has been rough, but he’s been talking for hours on end.

“Oh, I see.” You have a moment of clarity. You were foolish enough to think that Dr. Li is single. A handsome man his age definitely has a lady in his life. And to think you’re constantly daydreaming a life with him. 

It’s so stupid. You’re so stupid. But it’s so fun, you can’t stop.

“You see what?” He’s confused, wondering what you mean.

“You have plans tonight with someone special.” You try to tease him, joking around with him. You hope that he won’t be as cold as the last time you tried to play around with him. He’s getting used to your personality, surely but slowly. He furrows his brows at your words, confused about what you’re trying to imply.

“You are the someone special.” He clears his throat, quickly realizing what he’s just said. “I apologize, that sounds inappropriate.”

“Then why are you ending the night so early?” You pry.

“I assume that you have someone special, and I don’t want to ruin your night.” He reveals, and you feel your face get hot. Your heart flutters, and it takes everything in you to not fawn over him. 

You laugh. “You have me all for the night, Dr. Li.”

“Then I am a lucky man.” He bites his tongue when he realizes just how wrong that sounds. He won’t apologize for it though.

He opens the textbook. “Let’s continue.”

Sunday 2:51 PM

You don’t understand why he asks to meet you on a Sunday, when you’ve already covered all the content for the week. You’re well versed enough that you can answer any questions regarding the subject, so you don’t understand why he asks to meet you on a Sunday.

In your mind, you’re making up romantic scenarios. After months of denying it, Dr. Zayne Li will finally admit that he’s in love with you. You’re preparing yourself on how to react, even when you know it’s not going to happen. It never hurts to be ready.

“Dr. Li.” You smile at him, walking over to him. He sits at what has become your usual table. A table that’s right by the window. The sun rays usually don’t hit the professor by the time you’re in the café, but right now they illuminate his face. He looks softer than his usual cold self.

You note how he doesn’t carry the usual load of books nor his laptop which makes you assume that today’s lesson isn’t as intense– If there is a lesson. You sit down across from him, happily greeting him. You should be a bit more upset that he’s called you here on a Sunday, but you can’t bring yourself to be mad. Not only is he sacrificing his precious time to teach you, he’s too handsome for you to get mad at. 

“Sorry for bothering you today but I want to make sure you’re ready.” He breaks your fantasies just as fast as you build them up. You slightly tilt your head to the side about to ask what he has up his sleeve but he beats you to it.

“A mock test?” You ask as you look down at the piece of paper he slides the paper to your side. You would laugh at your own absurdity but then you’d look stupid in front of him. To think you were fantasizing a love confession when the man won’t even let you call him by his first name.

“There’s a quiz this week, I want to see your progress.” He reveals.

“And if I do awful, what will you do?” You can’t help but ask, your confidence slowly fading. You know the content like the back of your hand but during the most stressful situations it’s easy to forget what the back of your hand looks like.

“It shows that maybe I’m not cut out for teaching.” He responds, and you laugh at his response. He’d really blame himself over your lack of knowledge; even when you thought you couldn’t like him more, he proves you wrong. He furrows his eyebrows in confusion, asking, “What’s amusing?” 

“Or maybe it means that I’m just dumb.”

“Nonsense, you’re brilliant.” He doesn’t miss a beat, and you feel your heart flutter. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing to you, and it drives you insane. For the rest of the day you’ll daydream about building the perfect life with him. So much for a schoolgirl crush.

“I’ll do my best then.” You try to act confident, reaching into your purse for a pencil. You came prepared for anything. 

You take a deep breath before finally looking at the paper in front of you. You try to joke with him, hoping to ease the sudden nerves that flow through you, “Do I have to put my name on it?” 

“Yes, I tutor too many students.” He attempts to joke right along with you, slowly getting adjusted to your personality. There’s no harm in playing along, it’s just playful banter.

“I’m your favorite one though, right?” You’re stepping on the line, testing just how far you can go. You give him your best smile, hoping to get the attention that you want. 

“Of course.” He mutters two simple words yet so sweet to your ears. Words that could send you into a sugar rush. You grow uneasy, bouncing your leg as you stare down at the mock exam. Now you want to do bad with the intent of continuing this. You’ll happily take any crumbs that he’ll give you.

“Now that puts on a lot of pressure.” You chuckle. You read the first question before looking up at him. You lock eyes, feeling butterflies fill up your stomach. You watch as his pupils dilate at the sight of you. He would never show it but he’s definitely got a thing for you. There has to be a reason why you keep making eye contact, right? 

You clear your throat before asking, “What happens if I do well?”

“Then this is over. We’ve been successful.” He answers, the last thing you want to hear. “I’ve already taught you all you need to know. You’ve passed the class.”

“What if I want to spend more time with you?” One wrong move, and you’re in trouble. Adrenaline makes you speak, forgetting all the possible consequences. Real punishment would be knowing you didn’t take your chance.

“Then you’ll ask me for coffee after you pass my class.” He tries to keep it appropriate. He’s not the type to break the rules, which is why his answer isn’t the one that you want to hear. You aren’t particularly upset about the response.

You aren’t upset, but you aren’t satisfied. You aren’t a patient person; you’ve waited long enough. There’s a smirk on your face before your shoe slips off from your foot. Your foot lands on his knees, slowly teasing up his leg. Dr. Li suddenly becomes stiff, cheeks turning red.

“I’ll do my best then.” You try to play innocent, knowing that you’re up to nothing appropriate. It’s scandalous, beyond inappropriate to do in a café, especially to your professor. It’s like you’ve woken up and become a new person with newfound confidence. A week ago you wouldn’t have ever dreamed of doing this.

You try to focus on the test in front of you, reading the questions ten times over as your foot gets higher and higher. You won’t touch anywhere inappropriate– not anywhere more inappropriate than where your foot is at least. You’re humming, trying to make it clear how focused you are on the paper in front of you. You make a spectacle of every response you make, almost giggling at how ridiculous you are. Not as ridiculous as he looks right now.

Dr. Li looks down in shame, unsure of what to do. One thing is sure, he’s not stopping you.

“Tell me when to stop, I don’t want to go over time.” He knows exactly what you’re trying to say, and he should take the opportunity to scold you. What you’re doing is beyond inappropriate. This is inappropriate.

But Zayne knows that he isn’t doing this out of the goodness of his heart. He’s not here because he saw a potential in you. He spotted a cute little thing in his class and while he tried to stay professional, how could he? He had the bait in front of him, it was up to you to latch on. It seems that it’s functioning the other way around though.

“There is no time limit.” He’s clearly flustered but he gives you approval to keep going. He surely can read between the lines, right? Either way, he can get your foot off his leg and he chooses to keep it there. You don’t cross the line, you won’t go higher than you need to. 

Your eyes widen as you feel it. There’s a change in his pants, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Even if you fail the class, you’ve managed to succeed one way or another. You still won’t stop though, even if there’s a tent in his pants that you can’t quite help him with. You keep your foot steady, attempting to pay no mind to him. 

The teasing doesn’t stop for a second, even when you know you can stop. You finally stop when you reach the final question. You slam the pencil down and slide the paper back to him. You slip your foot back into your shoe, happily going back to normal.

“So?” You cock your brow, slightly tilting your head and acting ever so innocently as if nothing has happened. You have done nothing wrong. You smile at him, “How did I do?”

He hasn’t even begun to look. He’s bright red, trying his best to calm down. You’ve gotten him hot, it’s hard to come down. He’ll for sure need a cold shower the moment he gets home, and he doesn’t know if that’ll be enough.

“You’re on the right track.” He ends up saying even when his eyes barely glance at the paper. The original purpose of all of this is now long forgotten. You could’ve written gibberish on the paper, but he’d never notice.

“Are we done then?” You fight off a smug smile as you get up from the seat. He subtly nods in response, knowing that if he speaks up then his voice might crack. You’ve got him nervous. You wave at him, acting ever so sweet, “I’ll see you on Tuesday then, Zayne.”

Thursday 3:53 PM

Four days after your last tutoring session with your professor, you find yourself at the entrance of his office again. This time around you aren’t concerned about your grade though, but over other matters. You feel your heart about to beat out of your chest as you get ready to face him.

You haven’t talked since Sunday. It’s not like he’s ignoring you, you keep making eye contact in the middle of class, both of you refusing to look away until Zayne moves on to the next topic. You wouldn’t say that your little stunt has turned things awkward at least. You’ve simply gone back to being one among the crowd. The way it should be.

“Zayne.” You poke your head into the office, catching the professor off guard. He’s staring at his phone inquisitively, eyebrows meeting in the middle. He adjusts his posture when he hears you, quickly putting his phone down. The frown doesn’t go away as he stares at you, curiosity taking over him as he realizes just how short the skirt you wear is. Not your usual type.

“Dr. Li.” He corrects you, signaling you to walk over. “Shut the door behind you.”

“You know, I feel like we’re past formalities.” You’re fighting off a smirk as you sway his way. You make your intentions clear the moment you step into the office, your words carrying clear intent. You watch his ears turn pink, quickly remembering the events of your last private encounter. He clears his throat, attempting his best to look unbothered.

“How can I help?” He bites his tongue the moment the question leaves his lips. It’s not a matter of help. You’re here to take what’s rightfully yours.

“I don’t know, how can you help?” You sit on his desk, making a show of crossing your legs. Forbidden fruit right in front of his very eyes. Just one caress away.

Your hand goes under his chin, tilting his head up to look right at you. He can nearly melt under the soft touch of your fingers. He tries to remain stoic but he looks at you with pure lust. You’re flattered, really.

“I want to thank you for your sacrifice.” You smile, and he looks at you in confusion. He opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it, “I owe you big.”

“It’s really no–” He tries to remain professional. He really didn’t do it with an ulterior motive, he simply wanted to help a struggling student who caught his eye. He can’t even finish his sentence because within the blink of an eye, you get on your knees. “This is inappropriate.”

“So was Sunday, but you weren’t upset about it.” Your hands land on his belt, quickly undoing it. You look at him with doe eyes, almost as if you were the one receiving anything from this position. “It’s just a thank you and nothing else, professor.”

“Did you lock the door?” He asks, and you grin at the response.

“Of course.” You respond before he cups your face. Before you can make your next move, he leans down and kisses your lips ever so softly. He could almost fool you with what he truly wants, his intentions barely seeping through. 

Your hands go to his collar, keeping him down and kissing him again. You’re lustful, unlike him. You have a clear motive and it transcends well onto your lips. He’s reluctant at first but he quickly matches the intensity in no time.

He’s breathless when you pull away, cheeks flushed. You’ve broken him down, again. Stoic professor Li is blushing under your touch. You look at him with lust filled eyes, “Let me thank you.”

You pull down his pants, biting your lip as you look at his length. You spit on his cock before your hand wraps around the base. You give him lazy strokes, getting him hard. A task that’s easier than what you expected. 

You look up at him as you drag your tongue from the base to the tip. Your tongue circles around the tip, maintaining eye contact with him before lowering your head on his cock. He bites down his lip, trying his best to not make a sound. 

His breath is caught up in his chest, scared that if he exhales an involuntary sound will escape. He has to remain composed and professional, even in the given situation. Even if your mouth is wrapped around his cock, bobbing your head at just the right pace. He’s happy that this isn’t something he doesn’t have to correct you on, you simply know.

You lift your head, making a faint pop sound as you take his cock out of your mouth. You make a mess, spitting on his cock again as you look at him with mischief in your gaze, “Am I doing good, Zayne?”

“It’s Dr. Li.” He scolds you. His hand goes under your chin, thumb wiping away the drool that dribbles down. Even if you look so beautiful as a mess, Zayne still prefers to see you all clean.

“Understood, professor.” You give him a subtle nod, fighting back a smirk before your mouth goes down to his balls. You suck on them while your hand lazily strokes his cock. That’s when you finally hear it– A low moan leaving his lip, a sign that he’s enjoying this just as much as you are.

Your mouth wraps around his cock again, hands stroking around the part where your mouth doesn’t reach. You’re looking up at him, seeking his approval but to your dismay his head is thrown back. Zayne’s lips are agape, the softest sounds leaving his lips. He’s nearing his release, that’s clear to you.

You lift your head again, just when he’s so close. You get up from your knees, lips landing on his. He’d be livid if your sweet lips weren’t on his. He quickly forgets about what you took from him.

“Fuck me.” You sit down on the desk again, spreading your legs. His eyes glisten in front of glory, and while he should scold you for how inappropriate it is to come to his office with no underwear but he cat’s got his tongue. He freezes, not daring to make a single move. A wrong move might wake him up from this wet dream, and he wants to stay in REM forever.

You break him out of his trance, grabbing his hand and moving it to your thigh. You show him just how real you are as his fingertips touch your soft skin. Zayne’s breath gets caught up in his chest as he finally stands up, lips landing on yours immediately. His hand creeps up under your skirt, caressing your skin as it gets dangerously close to its target.

“You don’t have to be gentle, I can take it.” You assure him as you pull away from the kiss. He kisses your jaw before his teeth nibble on your earlobe.

“I know you can,” his fingers run through your folds, feeling just how wet you are for him, “but I still want to be gentle with you.”

He runs the tip of his cock through your folds, teasing your entrance before slowly pushing himself inside of you. Zayne’s head tilts back, a breathy moan leaving his lips as he finally feels you around him. He needs a second to just process it all, to make sure he doesn’t get overwhelmed too fast.

“Are you okay? Can you handle it?” He asks when he bottoms out. You nod in response, though that isn’t enough to make him move. He cups your face, “I need to hear you.”

“Yes, I can handle it, professor.” You nod again, making his hands go to your hips as he begins to move. His movements start off slow, trying to find a steady rhythm. 

You almost smirk at the sight in front of you. Your ever so professional Dr. Li, who won’t allow a student to call him anything else, is inside of you. It’s ironic that he still won’t let you use Zayne but right now that’s the least of your concerns. 

“Is it good? Do you like it?” For once, he’s the one that seeks validation from you. You’d say that he’s wrapped around your finger, but you aren’t smug enough– But right now, he’s definitely under your command.

“It’s good.” You nod as a low moan leaves your lips. You quickly bite down your lip, fearing that you’ll get too loud with him. He just hits every right spot, it’s hard to contain yourself. He lifts up your leg, wrapping it around his waist, hitting just right. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head as you gasp, “Right there!”

“Don’t be too loud.” He whispers into your ear. You bite down your lip as a hum leaves your body. You’d almost say he’s evil by the way he starts to play with your clit, and just like anything he does, it's perfect. And to think that after this you might have to go back to fucking awful frat boys that can’t even find your clit.

You study his face, watching a sheen sheet of sweat form on his body. Your bodies feel hot, burning up as you mesh together. Your breaths get heavy as you both get filled with pleasure.

Your hands meet at the back of his neck, digging into his skin as your body begins to get overwhelmed. Your foreheads press together while you both look down at where you both meet.

“Zayne.” His name leaves as a whisper as you slowly reach your high. You expect him to scold you for using his name but he’s too lost in you to notice. You quiver around him, reaching your orgasm.

He kisses you again, any sound drowned out by his lips. He’s slowly losing himself in you, losing control. His thrusts begin to get sloppy, knowing he won’t last much longer.

“You’re so perfect.” He pulls away, completely breathless. A grunt leaves his lips as he finishes, getting carried away and filling you up with his cum. He gives a couple more gentle thrusts before pulling out of you, his cum quickly oozing out of you.

You’re both breathless, standing in complete and utter silence for a minute before you fix your skirt. This was better than anything you could ever imagine. Nothing has even come close. 

Zayne wipes your cheek, noticing how you’re a complete mess right now. You’re still beautiful, of course, but he knows it’ll look suspicious if anyone walks by and sees how you look. It’s clear that you were doing something else. However, wiping your cheek isn’t enough to fix the runny mascara and smudged lipstick on your face.

He’ll let it go, it’s not like someone would accuse him of having intercourse with his student. He’s far too strict for that.

“This was a lovely gift.” Zayne focuses on fixing himself, adjusting his pants before running his fingers through his hair. “I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

“Will you be willing to tutor me again?” You bat your eyelashes his way. The last thing you want is for this to be a one time thing. Oh god, the last thing you want is to look back at this whenever you’re laid up next to someone your age.

“Come to my office hours, I’ll happily help.” He answers, catching you off guard and pressing a kiss on your forehead. He helps you off his desk, giving you a subtle smile. “You’ve proved to be skillful.”

“And you as well, Dr. Li.” You wink at him as you walk to the door. You wave at him, and as your hand touches the doorknob, you feel the urge to ask the question. Your lust isn’t one sided, he just proved that, but there’s something else that bugs your mind. You wouldn’t have the heart to ask until now.

“Do you stare at me in the middle of class?” You blurt out.

He chuckles before nodding in response. “Always.”

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi - Bluesky

[emslittlelibrary]

𖧁୧ ִ  late night!

thank u again for 200 followers, my heart is so full. ♡ here’s a lil celebration post hehehe. >< the worm in my brain has been scratching at the sides of my skull for me to get my hands on caleb

the apartment door clicks shut, locks sliding into place, caleb’s footsteps soft on the hardwood. it’s late, much later than he meant to be home. he pauses in the kitchen when he sees the plate on the counter still covered with foil, oven light humming faintly. there’s a sticky note stuck to the edge in your sweet little handwriting:

eat before bed, please! :D ♡

his chest tightens. it’s nothing dramatic, but it’s everything to him. you remembering, thinking, caring—all the little ways you love him when he’s too wrapped up in exams and projects to take care of himself.

he doesn’t even heat it up. he eats leaning on the counter, fast and focused, like the sooner he’s done, the sooner he can see you. he takes a quick shower after, and when he steps into the bedroom, you’re exactly where he imagined you the whole drive home. curled up in his spot, hair messy, cheek squished against his pillow, drowsy frame engulfed in one of his shirts and nothing else. skin soft, inviting, his.

he’s exhausted, but the ache in his chest yearns for you, you, you. he eases onto the mattress, moving carefully so the bed doesn't dip or creak. but the shift still makes you stir, heavy eyes blinking open slow.

“you’re home,” you mumble, voice still thick with sleep.

“uh huh. sorry i’m late, baby,” his palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing over skin warm from sleep. “missed you.”

you sigh, a small, sleepy smile tugging your lips. “s’alright. i missed you too.”

he brushes a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering at your temple. his eyes follow the curve of your jaw, the way your chest rises and falls under his shirt that’s too big for you.

he could stop there. curl you close, soft kisses on your forehead, drift off to sleep just like that. but his gaze catches the hem of his shirt riding up when you shift, and his fingers ghost over your hip longingly.

“wearing anything under that, pips?”

you shake your head, cheeks flushing. he swallows hard, already undone by you.

he leans in, lips capturing yours in a slow, lazy kiss like he’s memorizing every curve, every inch of you all over again. it deepens, tongue teasing yours softly, teeth gently nipping at your bottom lip. his hand dips between your thighs, pressing over you, feeling the heat of you. you gasp, arching instinctively, and he hums against your mouth.

“so warm,” caleb murmurs. “she missed me, too?”

you nod, a small, needy jerk of your head, and he smiles against your mouth like he already knew. his fingers ease in, two thick ones stretching you slow until you gasp. the heel of his hand works against your clit while his other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you up and into his chest so your whole body rocks with the movement.

it’s not enough for him. not after the day he’s had, not after spending every hour thinking about you. his hand slips away just long enough to shove his sweats and boxers down, the warm weight of him falling heavy against your thigh. you barely have time to brace yourself before the blunt head is nudging your slit, hot and leaking from how soft and pretty you are for him.

he drags his cock over your clit in one slow pass that makes your knees buckle, then pushes in, deep, steady, your walls straining around him. it doesn’t matter how many years it’s been, how many times he’s been inside you—he’s still so big it steals your breath, stretches you wide until your nails bite into his shoulders.

hips flush together, his breath hot against your ear, he gasps, “shit. still so tight. how’s that possible?” he groans, holding still for a moment just to feel you clench around him. “spent months opening you up for me. look at her, hugging me so tight.”

the first few thrusts are deep and unhurried, like he’s got all night to ruin you. one hand cups the back of your head so your forehead rests against his, the other spreads over your lower belly to feel the way he’s pressing into you from the inside.

your breath stutters, warm against his lips. “caleb,” you whimper, "more, please, i—”

you shift, hips bucking in tiny, desperate movements, chasing the drag of his cock. he groans, low in his chest, catching your mouth in a deeper kiss. “mm—yeah, that’s it. pretty girl knows what she wants.”

he keeps the pace steady, pressing into you slow and sure, filling you completely each time. his eyes stay on yours, drinking in every twitch, every tremor, every sound you make. your head tips back when his thumb drifts between where you’re connected, brushing over your clit in time with his thrusts. you gasp, legs trembling, and he catches your jaw in his palm, bringing your gaze back to his.

his voice drops to a rasp, breath warm against your lips. “keep your eyes on me, sweets. let me see you,” his thumb moves in lazy little circles, each one making your chest heave harder.

you try to keep them open, you really do, but the heat’s coiling tight in your belly and his cock’s hitting so deep, slow, so deliberate you can’t think. his free hand grips your thigh and presses it open wider, like he needs more of you, all of you.

“been thinkin’ about this all damn day,” he mutters, thrusting just right to hit that sweet spot inside you. “missed my girl, all soft and sweet for me.”

his eyes burn into yours, so close you can feel the way his breath stutters when you clench around him. you’re right there, the pleasure building until your nails are dragging down his biceps, your hips rocking helplessly into every thrust.

“that’s it,” he coaxes. “you’re right there, pips. you can do it, can’t you?”

your breath catches, the pressure snapping all at once, and you break with a choked cry, clinging to him like you’ll fall apart without him holding you together. your thighs shake around his hips, every muscle tightening as wave after wave rolls through you.

“fuck, don’t squeeze me like that,” he groans, his rhythm stuttering as your walls milk him. his forehead drops to yours, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded. “gonna—shit—”

his hips slam deep one last time, warmth spilling into you as he lets out a shuddering moan. for a moment, neither of you move. just the sound of your breathing, the thud of his heartbeat pressed against your chest fill the otherwise quiet bedroom. he kisses you slow, lingering, like he can pour every ounce of his adoration into it.

“so proud of you,” he says softly, brushing your hair from your face before easing out of you, careful, gentle. he disappears for a second, then comes back with a warm cloth, murmuring quiet praises while he cleans you up. “my beautiful girl’s so perfect for me.”

he tugs the blankets up around you, slipping in beside you and pulling you against his chest. his hand rubs lazy circles into your back, lips pressing over your temple. for a moment, neither of you move—just the sound of your breathing, the thud of his heartbeat pressed against your chest. he kisses you slow, lingering, like he can pour every ounce of feeling into it.

“so proud of you,” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face before easing out of you, careful, gentle. he disappears for a second, then comes back with a warm cloth, big hands slow and gentle while he cleans you up. “my beautiful girl's so perfect for me.”

he tugs the blankets up around you, slipping in beside you and pulling you against his chest. his hand rubs lazy circles into your back, lips pressing over your temple one last time. the steady rise and fall of his chest, his warmth, his heartbeat, the quiet promise in the way he holds you like you’re the only thing that’s ever truly been his lulls you to sleep.

to all the caleb truthers of the world i hope i got his vibe right i don’t have my caleb xia certification yet. </3

[emslittlelibrary]

love song- zayne li

in which sudden rain shower and a small umbrella on your first date bring you zayne closer together.

inspired by love song from nct127- this song is a rainy day requirement in this household. fluff

→ zayne has been looking forward to this date for the past week. everyone at work has noticed his cheerful demeanor, but he pretends to not notice it.

→ zayne he wants this to go perfectly. he's been meticulously planning this first date for days now, not wanting anything to get in the way.

→ the sun is shining and zayne looks at you, thinking about how the sun's rays peeking through your hair makes you look like you have an angelic halo.

→ his mind is troubled. zayne desperately wants to initiate physical contact with you— even your hands briefly skimming against his is enough.

→ the weather has betrayed him. the sun's beams of light are quickly replaced by thick grey clouds. zayne checks his bag for his umbrella and his heart drops after discovering his umbrella is nowhere to be found.

→ heavy raindrops fall from the sky and zayne uses his bag to over you both as you run under a tree. he asks you if you have an umbrella, sighing in relief as you pull out a small one from your bag.

→ the umbrella is small. it barely covers one person and definitely becomes troublesome when two people share one. zayne moves closer to the centre of the umbrella and his shoulder brush against yours.

→ zayne's brain malfunctions for a second, processing that you are next to him and aren't trying to move away.

-> zayne who is so thankful for this small umbrella, it being the reason why you two are closer together. it feels like he's on cloud nine and tries to make this feeling last for as long as possible.

→ zayne subtly brings the umbrella closer to you and the umbrella's inner lining is the only thing he can see. he makes a comment about not being able to remember where the café is and you tease him about having a supposed sharp memory.

→ zayne jokingly complains about how he can only see the umbrella. you look up at him and he swears he can see stars in your eyes. you ask him if he has been covering himself with the umbrella and a lie falls out of his lips.

→ you peek over his shoulder and see that his clothes are dripping. zayne makes a passing comment about how he would rather be drenched in the rain than you and the corner of your lips curl up.

→ you place your hand over his and move the umbrella to closer to him and leave your hand resting on top of zayne's.

→ zayne leads you to the entrance of the café, opening the door for you whilst he puts the umbrella in the storage area. a server leads you to a booth but zayne never leaves your side.

→ zayne tells you to ignore the fleeting looks of people judging you for sitting next to each other instead of opposite each other.

→ you and zayne who are still drenched from the rain outside. wouldn't it be easier for everyone is you just stayed next to each other?

[emslittlelibrary]

‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀…𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰…‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀

hot to go! onyankopon.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 14.9K, original!blackfemreader, neighbor!onyankopon, firefighter!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, shy!femreader, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, tipsy!sex, high!sex!, pet names, dirty talk, aggressive pet names, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, pussy eating, dick sucking, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— listen, i wasn’t supposed to even be writing a new fic, so idk how we got here? LMAO. but that doesn’t matter, we got it! + i actually really like this one. it’s cute, hot, funny, sexy. i had fun writing it. i hope y’all enjoy it too, teehee. love y’all, glad to be back.

ビジュアル。 ビジュアル。

DOMINANT NOTES OF BLACK CHERRY SLIDE ACROSS YOUR TONGUE, STELLA ROSE ALWAYS BEING A FAVORITE WITHIN YOUR WINERY COLLECTION. 

It was your favorite day of the week—Friday to be exact, the weekend right around the corner as you looked forward to girl’s night. Always hosted at your apartment, taking place on the porch if it wasn’t too hot. But it wasn’t—the weather was perfect tonight. 

“I’m tellin’ you girl, Stella Rose: Red, is good too!”

“I’m not really into plum notes. What about the Moscato version?” 

The porch was adorned with an abundance of foliage—large spider plants, devil’s ivy, pothos—the leaves all different shades of green. There were also white lights hanging across the bars, the soft glow basking your group in a warm, yellow glow. 

As each of your friends guzzle down the sweet liquid, the sound of their laughter floats through the air. Your wine glasses clink together as the bottles rest on the table. Charcuterie is set out—dried fruits, crackers, cheese—everything was set up for a good night.

Pen scurrying across your journal, your glasses tip at your nose as you flick your round eyes briefly towards your closed textbook. You weren’t supposed to be thinking about homework, but you couldn’t help but ponder over the last question you’d gotten wrong on your previous assignment.

“Lawd—There she go’ with her nose in that textbook.” 

Your lashes peer upward. 

“Sorry. Did you try the Peach one?” 

Three girls are sitting on the porch with you. They’re all different from one another—with two wearing oversized sweaters and a pair of leggings, while your one friend, Ruya, wears a form fitting dress, black strappy sandals on her feet. 

Ruya, who is a nurse, sighs at you.

“It’s girl’s night, girl. Not study night.”

“I know, I know,” you mutter back, “It’s just—why can’t you help me study again? Didn’t you have Anatomy in nursing school?” 

The other two girls shake their heads—Lola, who’s an attorney and Kimora, who runs a local restaurant, both of their gazes flicker between you and Ruya. 

”That was freshman year,” Ruya reminds, “Besides—I barely passed with a B.” 

“B?”  Lola quirked an eyebrow at her friend, “You got a C. You called us sayin’ you were gonna beat up your professor, remember? The nigga nearly flunked you out of school.” 

“So nobody wants to help is what I’m hearing,” you murmur, dropping your pen. 

“We can tell you whether or not blue cheese is a good palette cleanser with your favorite wine,” Kimora hums, “We should be having girl talk right now!”

You sigh, realizing she was right. 

Closing your textbook with an exhale, your french tips reach for your wine glass—you take a gentle sip as you tilt your head, “So, how ‘bout you tell us how you and the hubby are doing? You’ve been so hard to reach since he moved y’all up in that big house in the Garden District.” 

Kimora chuckles, arms crossing over her chest. Her gold bangles clink when she moves, fingers grasping her glass with slender fingers decorated with rings. 

“It’s been great. Just as great as we thought it’d be, you know?” Her lashes flutter, a soft smile pulling at her plump lips, “He’s so busy with work sometimes, the lack of sex can make me a bit fussy—but he makes up for it with every Birkin bag.”

“God, don’t even bring up the word sex. Me and my fiancè haven’t slept together in like—three days!” Lola groans, “I think I’m losing hearing in my left ear.”

Everyone laughs at Lola’s expense, her pout growing. 

“I’m being serious!” She declares. 

“At least you don’t have a doctor like Kimora,” Ruya shakes her head, “I don’t think I could handle the schedule. Me and my man have agreed that he cut down hours at the car shop, so he can spend time with me and the baby, y’know? She’s only three months old, but I don’t want her to feel unattached from her father. What if babies can feel abandoned?” 

“Like dogs?” Kimora questions.

“Babies aren’t dogs, Kim. Geez. I’m just saying.” 

You chuckle, “Dogs, really?” you question Kimora, who shrugs. 

”I read somewhere that dogs are actually very intelligent.” 

“I agree,” you hum, fingers toying with the stem of your wine glass, “God—I want a dog so bad, but my schedule’s too tight.” 

“Oh hell. Please don’t get a dog,” Ruya interjects, “You barely have enough time for yourself as it is. I’m honestly shocked you can make space for girl’s night every Friday—speaking of sex, when do you even have time to rub on your own clit?”

“Jesus, Ruya!”

You shake your head, “I’m fine, okay? I’m just—having a little self journey involving preservation. I haven’t looked at my own vagina unless I’m showering or getting it waxed.”

“Here we go,” Lola shakes her head.

Ruya rolls her eyes, but laughs, “No, but seriously—You don’t even have time to cook, yet you think you’ll have time to take care of a pet?” 

You pout. 

“I’d name it Oreo.” 

“Oreo would lick his own balls for self preservation, so what’s wrong with a little DJ’ing downstairs?” 

Her words make everyone scoff—Lola and Kimora burst out laughing. 

“Please never refer to masturbation as DJ’ing again!” Lola begs, head shaking.

Ruya holds up her hands, “All I’m saying is you need a little fun in your life instead of studying all the time—A.K.A? You need some dick, girl.” 

“God,” Kimora sighs, “You’re filthy, Ruya.”

You groan, shaking your head—this has been a discussion between you and your friends for forever. 

“Sorry that I’m not tryna’ flash my pussy to all of the Westbank. Maybe my education is more important, Mrs. Wife and Kid.” 

Ruya glares at you, pointing a finger in your direction, “Don’t bring my baby into this, girl.” 

Her warning makes you roll your eyes.

“Sorry, sorry—my bad. I’m just saying. It’s not that simple for me, okay? You know how difficult my parents are? The last thing I need is a man.” 

“Not all men are going to try and control you, girl,” Lola counters, “Not everyone is like your helicopter parents.”

“That’s what this is about?” Ruya questions, “That’s why you wouldn’t go out with my fiancè’s friend?”

Your eyes flicker to Ruya, your back straight as your fingers fidget with your necklace. 

”I didn’t even see what he looked like, Ruya,” you retorted, “There’s no way in hell I’m going out with some random dude I don’t even know—look, I appreciate the gesture, okay? I appreciate everyone’s take on my sad, single life. I’m content, alright? Can we stop? Please?” 

The girls all share looks, each of them wearing a sympathetic frown. 

They mean well—truly, they do—they care. They’re just worried about you. Especially since you’re almost thirty, and you’re more focused on work than a love life. 

“I’m sorry, boo.” 

Ruya’s the first to apologize, “We’re not here to tear you down about being single. It’s just—we have this love and family for ourselves, we wanna see you have that, with an amazing career— you know? You’re sexy and big brained, any man would be lucky to have you.” 

“You just deserve a good time,” Kimora adds. 

“We’re not tryna be mean. We just love you, okay?”

You sigh, feeling the guilt weigh you down—you love these women like sisters, they only wanted what was best for you. 

“I know you’re not trying to be mean,” you nod, “‘Sorry for getting defensive.” 

Everyone smiles reassuringly at you in unison, “It’s okay, girl.” 

Kimora then exhales—she takes an unopened bottle of Stella Rose: Blueberry, “Let’s pop open this bad boy, huh? I’m not feelin’ wine drunk yet!” 

“Hell yeah!” 

“This’ll be my last glass,” Lola comments, reaching for the unopened bottle, plucking the top off with a corkscrew, “I gotta work in the morning.” 

“God—you’re such an adult,” Ruya deadpans. 

“Shut up.” 

You smile, as they always made you do.

The warm glow of the string lights dances across flushed cheeks as the girls giggle, now pleasantly tipsy—glasses half empty, voices a little louder, limbs loose with laughter. Kimora sways slightly in her seat as she dramatically recounts her latest restaurant drama, while Lola rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smirk. Ruya leans back in her chair, fanning herself with one hand and swirling her wine with the other.  

Then, a bark interrupts the silent night. 

A deep canine sound cuts through their chatter like a gunshot. All four heads swivel toward the street below your terrace, railing like synchronized puppets.  

And there it is—a man. 

Broad shoulders stretch against his black tee, tattoos snaking up his thick arms, all the way to his neck where a small cross rests just under his left eye like some kind of divine warning label. His Cane Corso trots beside him on a heavily chained leash—a beast just as intimidating as its owner—tongue lolling between sharp teeth as it pants eagerly at something unseen down the block.   

Kimora’s wine glass freezes halfway to her lips.

“Oh?” 

Lola blinks like she’s trying to reboot reality itself, and Ruya? Her mouth drops. Her jaw literally unhinges so hard you hear it creak, she whisper’s, “Who the hell is that?”

His skin glows under the streetlamp, deep brown and smooth like aged whiskey, stretched taut over thick muscle that flexes as he adjusts his grip on the leash. The cross tattooed just beneath his left eye winks when he turns his head slightly—dark eyes scanning lazily ahead while those full lips press into a hard line. The rest of him is a canvas—black ink crawling up corded forearms, disappearing under rolled-up sleeves, only to resurface along the column of his neck where veins sit prominent against artful chaos.  

And then there’s his hair—tight cornrows braided straight back from a sharp widow’s peak, each plait gleaming like polished onyx before disappearing at his crown; neat enough for church, but dangerous enough to make you wonder what those hands could do if they weren’t occupied with pounds of pure canine muscle beside him.

Intimidating? Undoubtedly. 

Your throat goes dry. 

Ruya peeks over the balcony, “Damn. That’s the type of nigga your husband would get mad at you for just lookin’ at.”

“That’s the type of nigga you have an affair with,” Kimora blinks, leaning towards her friend as she also watches him.

“Y’all shut up,” Lola whispers, “Girl—do you know him?”

"Girl….that’s the neighbor I told y'all about," you murmur, voice lower like he might somehow hear, “He moved in a month ago. I see him walking that monster of a dog sometimes when I'm leaving for work."  

Ruya's eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly disappear into her hairline.  

"Wait—this is the new neighbor that’s kinda cute?!” Her whisper is practically a screech at this point, hands flying to grip the balcony rail like she might vault over it if given enough incentive, “Oh my god. You lied!” 

Kimora chokes on her wine mid sip, coughing into her hand before wheezing out—“Hollon’—You never said he looked like that!” 

“I didn’t think it mattered!” you hiss back defensively, still keeping your voice low. 

Lola just shakes her head slowly, disappointed but not surprised by this critical omission of detail. The four of you crouch like naughty children as you and your friends peer over the edge of the balcony—staring. 

He mumbles something low to the dog, voice seemingly deep even from afar. But that’s when it happens—he pauses when the animal suddenly sits and lets out a low warning bark, ears pulled back as its eyes narrow—its gaze fixed on the unit you lived in. 

The man follows the dog's gaze. And then? They lock right with yours.

Ruya, Kimora, and Lola immediately drop to their hands and knees, flattening against the ground as they hide like their lives depend on it. Your eyes go wide as you look down at them, “Don’t be weird—get up!”

“No, now you have to go say something! He caught us!”

“Me?!” you whisper yell, “I wasn’t the one stalking!”

Ruya grabs your ankle and yanks—suddenly you're on your knees beside them, wine glass clutched like a lifeline as all four of you huddle like spies behind the railing. 

Kimora peeks through the gaps, her whisper frantic—“Oh my fuckin’ hell, he’s still looking.” 

And oh god, he is. One thick eyebrow arches slowly over those hooded eyes, the dog letting out another chuff, tail thumping against pavement while its owner’s lips twitch. 

Ruya pinches your thigh under the table, “Go!” 

Lola shoves you inside the house, “You’re the one that lives here!”

“I don’t even have clothes on!—“

Sometimes? You hated your friends. Now, you were scurrying down to the ground level of your apartment, the squeak of your bunny slippers patting along the concrete—you can already feel your nerves getting the best of you as you get closer to that broad frame of his, the dog immediately turning to recognize your presence first. 

“Excuse me?”

Those dark, hooded eyes drag from the sidewalk up your frame. And God, standing this close? You realize just how huge he is—towering over you with shoulders that block out the streetlights behind him, tattoos peeking from beneath his rolled sleeves as thick fingers flex around the dog’s leash.  

The animal sniffs toward your bunny slippers first, wet nose bumping against fuzzy pink fabric, then letting out a low huff of approval.  

But unlike the dog? His gaze doesn’t stop at your feet.  

It lingers on your hips barely hidden beneath those sweatpants, traveling up past the curve of your waist where caramel skin disappears under a long sleeve white tee. The outline of full breasts were impossible to ignore as his eyes flicker there for half a second too long—freckled cheeks dusted in brown tones and lips painted deep pink by nature alone; glasses catching moonlight when you nervously adjust them atop flushed cheekbones, dotted with brown constellations across smooth skin.

His nostrils flare subtly at bergamot laced vanilla curling off heated flesh. Finally, he meets your almond-shaped eyes blinking back at him through round frames, onyx curls draping all around your face and body as you tilt your head. 

Looking at him closer, your brain short circuits.

So you say—

“Does your dog bite?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. 

That one little movement makes your stomach flip. The way that small shift in expression cuts through all that heavy stoicism makes you realize he’s got a dimple on one side.  

A single, deadly dimple.

The dog huffs again, licking its jowls as it sits obediently at his side—still eyeing your slippers with vague interest.  

His voice comes out deep; gravel scraping velvet, “Depends.” 

One thick brow arches higher as he lets the word hang between you two, “You plannin’ on pissin’ him off?”

Your mouth parts a bit. Then, movement catches above you. Three heads pop up from behind porch rails only to dip back down immediately when noticed again—your friends are literally spectating this train wreck instead of helping steer this conversation away from disaster. 

Traitors, all of them.

“No! I—um,” you try to think of words to say, but you could only think about the way this man could probably see your nipples through the fabric of your top. You then manage to get out, “I just—I thought your dog was pretty, ‘wanted to know what breed it was. I have a dog—I mean, no I dont—I want a dog.”

That dimple deepens—just for a split second—before his face smooths back into that unreadable mask. The dog, sensing your nerves, lets out a soft whine and nudges your hand with its massive head.  

His eyes flicker to the porch where your friends are now failing spectacularly at pretending they’re not eavesdropping—Kimora’s shoe is visibly sticking out from behind the railing—Then back to you.  

“Cane Corso,” he says finally, voice low like it’s some kind of secret just for you, “Italian mastiff.”

“Oh,” you nod, “Right. He’s um—he’s a cutie,” you smile a bit, “Can I pet him?”

“Gon’ head, been tryna’ teach him to be more polite around strangers.”

Your fingers smooth over the tip of his head, rubbing both palms against the side of the animal's face—you lean in, “People are scared of you, hm? But you’re a sweetie bean.” 

Why was it easier talking to a dog than a man?

You realize this as you scratch under its chin—you clear your throat to ask, “What’s his name?”

"Bully."  

That one word rumbles out of him like thunder cracking over the bayou—low, inevitable, and somehow amused beneath all that stoicism. Bully immediately flops onto its back at your feet—exposing a belly speckled with pink scars and thick muscle, it kicks its legs in the air like some overgrown puppy begging for rubs.  

You blink down at the beast currently acting like a glorified teddy bear before slowly dragging your gaze back up to his owner’s face—his goatee wafts a fruity scent, seemingly oil, you assume. 

“Why’d you name him Bully?”

“‘Nigga got an attitude most of the time.”

The seriousness in his voice somehow makes you a bit amused—it garners a real giggle from your lips, your fingers splaying over Bully’s stomach to pat rubs onto it—you then murmur, “Well, I’d hope your owners name isn’t as scary as yours, hm?”

His chest shakes with a silent chuckle. A deep, barely-there vibration that makes your fingertips tingle where they're buried in Bully's fur.  

"Onyankopon.”

Your nose scrunches before you can stop it, “That’s long." 

The corner of his mouth twitches again—dimple warning, “Call me Ony, then."  

Bully chooses that exact moment to roll onto his side and nearly crush your bunny slippers under pure muscle, tail thumping against the pavement as if approving this entire interaction.

You catch his eyes as you stand, the invitation of his name somehow making you more nervous. You tug a curl of your hair, adjusting your glasses reflexively as your cheeks flush—you nod, “It’s nice to meet you. You um—live here?” 

Girl.

“I mean—you live in this unit? Did you just move here? Oh god, I sound like a stalker—I just meant, do you like it?”

That dimple breaks free again, before his face smooths back into something unreadable.  

“Moved in ‘bout a month ago,” he confirms. His thumb flicks toward the unit across from yours, “Quiet over there. 'Cept for Fridays.”  

His eyes cut pointedly up to your balcony, three pairs of hands clearly gripping the railing as they eavesdrop. Kimora’s wine glass nearly tips over—ice clinking violently as she jerks back out of sight again with an audible “Shit!” 

Onyankopon doesn’t even blink, “Y’all do this every week?” 

You bury your face in your hands, caught in your entire plan. Your freckles practically go pink as you nod, “Yeah, we do.” 

Bully whines sympathetically, licking your ankle through one bunny slipper.

Onyankopon hums like he’s filing that information away somewhere. Something about him scares you. He’s quiet, observant.

You sigh, “I’m sorry. My friends are the most annoying people on the planet, we weren’t trying to seem creepy. They…thought I should introduce myself,” you briefly explain, “I really thought your dog was cute though, I don’t have enough time to get one of my own.”

He studies you for a long moment. Those hooded eyes trace the nervous way your fingers twist together before landing back on your face.  

“You work nights,” he says suddenly—not a question, an observation. 

Your brows knit together, “How did you—”

“I be hearin’ yo’ lil’ ass sneakin’ through the gate ‘round three in the mornin’.”  

That single sentence lands between you two with all the subtlety of a grenade, his voice casual while your mouth drops open slightly. It takes everything in you not to whip around and glare up at your friends who are definitely losing their minds listening to this right now.

“I, um—Yeah,” you admit, voice dropping an octave like you’re sharing classified intel, “I work at the funeral home on Chartres—‘Embalming right now, but finishing up my Mortician license soon.”  

You brace for that familiar flicker of discomfort in people’s eyes when they hear about your job. Or worse—invasive questions about corpses like you’re some walking encyclopedia on decomposition.  

But Onyankopon? He just nods. 

He glances down to his dog before muttering, “Mortician, huh? That’s why I ain’t never smell no food cookin’ when I walk by?”

That gets another small smile from you. 

You pull a curl behind your ear, “I’m not the best cook,” you admit, “Definitely not the first thing I tell on a date. But um—since you see me coming in from work, I’ve seen you leave for work a couple of times—either you’re a secret agent, or you’re the first person I’ve met to also be an Embalmer.” 

His chest rumbles with a quiet laugh—just once, sharp and deep.  

“Firefighter,” he corrects, jerking his chin toward the faded emblem on his left pec where NOLA FD sits half-hidden beneath taut fabric, “Station 7.”  

Bully huffs like even he’s judging your terrible cooking confession, flopping onto his side again to expose more belly as if trying to derail this entire conversation back into petting him instead.  

Onyankopon watches you chew your bottom lip. He then asks, “So what you be sayin’ on dates, then? ‘Sides the fact that you can’t cook.”

Another dumb giggle bubbles up—partly from the wine, partly from the way his eyes haven’t left your face since you walked up. You adjust your glasses again, a nervous habit.  

“Well,” you sigh, “I don’t lead with how I spend my days elbow deep in formaldehyde.”  

That gets another rumble of laughter out of him—richer this time, vibrating through his chest like distant thunder. Bully’s tail thumps approvingly against the pavement between you two.  

“What? That ain’t romantic enough for ‘em?”

You muse, “I’ve literally had men ask if my hands smell like embalming fluid on a regular basis. You can say it scares people off.” 

“Ain’t never met nobody who could scare off weak niggas just by tellin’ ‘em what they do for a living,” that dimple flickers again—brief but deadly, “Shit sounds efficient.”

It takes everything in you not to visibly swoon at the compliment. The combination of his voice doing that gravelly rumble thing and his unapologetic honesty? It's intoxicating in a way you can't explain. Of course, now that you’re over the shock of him not completely recoiling in horror over your profession, you really start to notice how ridiculously attractive he is.   

Those tattoos on his arms, that sharp jaw and those perfect teeth behind his plush lips—

“I—I mean yeah! Yeah, it um—” a nervous laugh slips out as you straighten up too fast, nearly tripping over Bully’s sprawled legs, “Definitely filters out the losers.” 

Somewhere above you comes Kimora’s muffled “Oh my god!”, followed by Ruya violently shushing her. 

Onyankopon’s gaze flickers down to where your fingers play with your hair, lingering on the curve of your bottom lip for a second too long.  

“Might wanna tell yo’ friends they ain’t slick.”

You glance back up, before looking back to him. 

“I might need the fire department after I’m done with all three of them.”

He snorts—a quiet, barely there sound that makes you realize you've actually managed to catch him off guard. But then, he does that thing again where his expression goes back to carefully blank. It's somehow even more dangerous because of the intensity of his eyes—dark and focused as they watch you fidget like a cornered animal. 

“Well, I’m gonna go. Yeah, I um—need to—do something.”

Onyankopon doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink, just lets you drown in your own flustered words while Bully whines pitifully at your feet, like even the dog knows this escape attempt is pathetic.  

“Do somethin’,” he repeats slowly, voice dropping to that rough timbre again. 

A beat passes. Two. Then—  

“Aight.”  

That single word shouldn’t feel like a challenge, but it does. Especially when paired with the way he steps back just enough to let you flee—knowing full well you’re gonna have to walk past all six-foot-whatever of him to get away while your friends silently cheer from the balcony above.

You give Bully one last scratch behind his ears—“Bye, Bully,” you coo, voice an octave higher than normal. Then, turning to Onyankopon with what you hope is a casual smile—but probably looks more like a grimace—“Nice meeting you.”  

“Nice meetin’ you too.”

You pivot on your heel—immediately tripping over absolutely nothing, catching yourself before face-planting into the pavement. You don’t dare look back to see if Onyankopon’s dimple made another appearance at your expense.

You just scurry forward, locking your eyes back towards your terrace as your friends freak out, in which you yell from below, “Oh my god, that was horrible. Imma’ kill y’all!”

And that dimple? Did in fact reappear. 

The next week of your life hadn’t changed by much. If anything, it was a little more interesting. Ever since you’d had that conversation with Onyankopon, you were finding yourself running into him, seeing him, stumbling over your words each time you talked to him. It wasn’t your friends to blame now, you were just—shy.

That first time you passed him was in the hallway on your way to work, his uniform stretched taut over those broad shoulders, NOLA FD emblem gleaming under the fluorescent lights as he adjusted his duffel bag. He’d paused when he saw you, dark eyes dragging from your freckled face down to the textbook clutched against your chest like armor. You’d offered a shy little wave—all fingers wiggling awkwardly before tucking a curl behind your ear.  

And Onyankopon? Smirked. That dimple carved into his cheek for half a second before he nodded back and kept walking—leaving you standing there feeling like you’d just been branded by that look alone.

Then came the gym incident.

You hadn't meant to spy, but when you glanced out your kitchen window while washing dishes one evening, there he was across the courtyard; shirtless and glistening 

as he worked through reps with weights that should've been illegal in size. Every muscle in his back flexed with movement—tattoos rippled over sweat slick skin, cornrows perfectly intact despite exertion.

You'd dropped an entire plate into soapy water loud enough for him to freeze, head tilting slightly toward where the sound came from—

Your curtains snapped shut so fast they nearly tore off their rod.

But worst of all? The patio debacle. 

 After another grueling embalming session where formaldehyde clung stubbornly beneath fingernails, you stepped onto the balcony hoping fresh air would clear that lingering chemical scent—you froze when you saw him.

There he was, framed within his own apartment window tugging a black tee over an ink-streaked torso, defined abs leading down to a deep v-line, hips disappearing into low-slung sweatpants hanging dangerously loose. And from the thin material? It’s big, girthy, long.

Was this man orchestrating your downfall? 

It didn’t help that friends won't shut up about him either— Just give Big Daddy your number already! 

Giving him your number might’ve solved all the issues of your short circuiting each time you saw him, but you just didn’t want to make a fool of yourself if he wasn’t interested. So, you played it cool. 

Well, not cool enough.

The universe was absolutely conspiring against you.  

Three days after your last humiliating encounter with Onyankopon, you’d decided—against all better judgment—to attempt cooking real food for once. No more microwave meals, no more takeout. You were going to make jambalaya like a proper New Orleans girl if it killed you.  

Which apparently, it nearly did.  

You had your laptop propped up on the counter, an instructional video playing at full volume—“Now add the holy trinity—bell peppers, onions, celery—” while your Mortuary Science textbook sat open beside it, chapter on arterial embalming glaring up at you in stark black and white. Between frantically stirring what was slowly becoming charcoal in your pot and trying to memorize which vessels required the most pressure during fluid injection? Disaster was inevitable.

One second you’re squinting at a diagram of the brachial artery—

The next? Flames. 

Not just a little kitchen mishap either; orange tongues licked hungrily up toward your cabinets as oil spattered violently from an overheating pan of sausage links. In true dramatic fashion, your brain short circuited into full-blown panic mode. 

"FIRE! FIRE! OH MY GOD. I'M GONNA DIE LIKE THIS?”  

Between sobbing into your hands and desperately fanning smoke toward open windows with anatomy flashcards, the fire went out, leaving behind mildly charred cabinets. But oh—the blaring smoke detector overhead now screeched like a banshee straight from hell itself, warning the entire complex about the crime you’d just committed.

Peeking through the blinds, your stomach drops like a stone. The entire apartment complex is outside—neighbors in robes, pajamas, even one lady clutching her cat carrier like she’s prepared for Armageddon. The flashing red lights of the fire truck paint everyone’s faces in alternating pulses of panic as your manager scurries around with a clipboard, visibly doing headcounts.  

Then you see him. 

Onyankopon steps out of the truck—fully geared up in his NOLA FD uniform; thick suspenders strapped over broad shoulders as he speaks into his radio. His partner—a shorter but equally serious-looking guy with salt and pepper hair—nods toward your building just as the apartment manager throws her hands up mid-count.

You duck away from blinds so fast they rattle—but that knock comes exactly three minutes later, firm enough to shake the doorframe.

You consider pretending death for half a second. 

And there they stand—Salt and Pepper looks mildly concerned, while Onyankopon wears an expression of sheer disbelief once he gets a full view of the disaster zone behind you. Smoke curls the ceiling lazily around that still screaming detector; charred remained jambalaya clinging to the pot pathetically, your textbook splayed graphic images of embalming diagrams right beside your laptop currently blaring— “And that’s how you make the perfect Roux!” 

“Ma’am,” Salt and Pepper starts gently, “We had reports of smoke coming from this unit—”

“‘Manager says you were the only tenant unaccounted for,” Onyankopon cuts smoothly, “What happened in here?”

You're standing there in oversized sweats with a headful of messy curls, soot smudged cheeks and an expression like a puppy that's gotten into trouble—hell, you're pretty sure your nose is even twitching from holding back tears. But instead of cackling like the universe seemed intent on making you endure? Onyankopon's face remains perfectly impassive—just quietly studying the mess around you like he's trying to make sense of the situation.

You nearly sob then and there.

"I was just—I was cooking! I was trying to cook and study and—I—I didn't mean to—"

To your surprise, Onyankopon's voice softens. 

 "Hey, Mama. Breathe. You know you can talk to me, stop allat’.”

“You know her?” Salt and Pepper questions.

Onyankopon doesn’t even glance at his partner, eyes locked on you as he steps forward—just enough to block the full view of your disaster kitchen from Salt and Pepper’s prying gaze. 

His voice drops lower, rough but steady like he’s talking someone off a ledge—which, given the way your bottom lip is trembling? Might actually be necessary.  

“Ain’t nobody hurt,” he mutters, “Building still standin’. You put it out yo’self?”  

You nod frantically, wiping at your face with the back of your hand only to realize it’s covered in flour and something suspiciously sticky, “I used baking soda, learned that in one of my classes.”

For one second, Onyankopon's expression does something complicated—like he's fighting six different reactions at once.

“Good.” 

That single word shouldn't feel like absolution—but it does. Especially when paired with the way his thumb brushes over your wrist when he hands you his handkerchief, “C’mon, let us do our job so we can clear this alarm.”

Still trembling a little, you clutch the handkerchief in your hands and look up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.  

"Did I actually almost burn down the building?" you ask weakly, your voice barely above a whisper, “Because it really felt like I did."  

Onyankopon exhales through his nose—almost like he's holding back a laugh but doesn't want to set you off again. He tilts his head just slightly, and that damn dimple makes an appearance as he murmurs, “Nah. But if it'd been worse? ‘Coulda carried you out over my shoulder,” a beat, “Dramatically.”

The unexpected humor catches you so off guard that a giggle bubbles up before you can stop it—which only makes him smirk harder.

Salt and Pepper looks between the two of you like he’s witnessing some kind of code red workplace violation. He clears his throat pointedly, motioning towards the smoke detector still wailing overhead, “We should probably—”

“Right,” Onyankopon cuts smoothly without breaking eye contact with you, “But next time? Maybe stick to orderin’ takeout.”

You press the handkerchief to your face in mortified defeat as they finally step inside—leaving Salt and Pepper to handle technicalities while Onyankopon lingers just close enough— and, for his low chuckle to ghost over your ear when he adds—

“Or call me.”

The next few days were painful. 

After your apartment manager gave you a strongly worded lecture about fire safety—complete with pamphlets and an emergency evacuation plan shoved into your hands—you went full hermit mode. Only leaving for work and coming straight home, avoiding eye contact with every neighbor who may or may not have witnessed the Great Jambalaya Incident.  

You had an exam coming up, so burying yourself in embalming fluid ratios and cranial sutures was a decent enough distraction—except when your mind would inevitably wander back to him. 

Today was also Sunday. Saints game day, football being your one true love outside of mortuary science. Your two-piece set clung in all the right places, gold and black Saints logo stamped across shorts that barely covered the curve of your ass, long sleeved top hugging every dip of your waist before plunging just low enough to tease your full cleavage. Your curls were pulled back by a headband while still cascading past your hips; lashes thick from extensions, catching sunlight as your freckles glowed against caramel skin. 

You're bent over checking the mail when his shadow falls across yours—

“Headin’ out?” 

You jump, mail scattering as you spin around to find Onyankopon standing there. He also wears a long sleeve—football logo large on the material—molding around his muscular frame like it was painted on him, durag and cargo pants making him attractively relaxed. 

“Uh—” You scramble for words while gathering fallen envelopes, “I was. But Ruya has food poisoning, Lola got caught up with her husband, and Kimora just ghosted. So—I’m just gonna’ watch upstairs, do some studying too.” 

His gaze flicks pointedly towards your textbook sat atop of the mailboxes, Embalming & Restorative Techniques Vol 2.

Onyankopon tilts his head, dark eyes scanning over your figure with a slow—almost lazy—appreciation that makes you feel seen in a way that's unfamiliar. 

"’Saints’ colors look good on you," before his gaze drifts pointedly to your shorts, "Even got allat’ ass pokin' out.”

Your breath catches, cheeks flooding with heat as you straighten up—too fast, nearly dropping the mail again. His smirk deepens at your fluster, that damn dimple making another appearance.  

“You um—watching the game too?” You blurt out, desperate to deflect from how his words just made your brain go blank. 

Onyankopon hums in affirmation.

 He then questions, “You got’ a headache?” 

You blink up at him like a deer in headlights. You then remember you had been rubbing your temples before he walked over, “Oh—Yeah, probably from studying too much. I’m always squinting, even with my glasses on.”

"Nah," he murmurs, "’Headache probably came from suckin' allat’ smoke in." 

You swallow as his gaze lingers on you for a beat longer. Then, he nods towards the stairs, "You said you finna’ watch the game?”

Onyankopon doesn’t wait for your answer—just adjusts the strap of his durag with one hand, while the other gestures toward the stairwell like this is a foregone conclusion.  

“You can study at mine,” he says simply, “‘TV loud enough that you can watch from the couch while I cook.”  

The offer hangs between you two—heavy and loaded despite how casual he makes it sound. His eyes flick down to where your teeth worry at your bottom lip, voice rough around the edges, “Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout burnin’ my place down either.”

“Funny, but—I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

Onyankopon doesn’t budge—just arches a brow, stepping closer until his shadow swallows yours whole.  

"You ain't askin'," he corrects smoothly, plucking your  book right out of your grip, “I'm tellin'."

His apartment was immaculate—modern, open, almost minimalist. The kind of space you'd find in an interior decorating magazine, but with a distinctly masculine feel. Dark wood, black and brown furnishings. Art pieces and family photos adorn the walls. The only spots of color come from the vibrant pillows and blankets strewn across the sectional, Saints jersey hung in a frame next to a mini bar that looks stocked to the gills with top shelf liquor. The TV plays the pregame, volume low. 

You're too busy staring around the place to notice Bully bounding up until he all but knocks you over—you giggle as you nearly stumble back.

Onyankopon scolds the dog with an amused shake of his head, "Bully, goddamn,” as he reaches down to scratch behind the dog's ears, “You can't just jump on a woman like that, boy. You gon' hurt her."

“It’s okay,” your murmur softly. You place your other textbook on the table, tugging him down to lay on his stomach—“You missed me, sweetie bean? I missed you too.”

Bully rolls onto his back like he's never seen better days, tail thumping against the floor in ecstasy. He whines, tongue lolling like he's smiling. His tail thwacks the floor. 

“Don’t be givin’ that nigga too much attention, he already spoiled.”

“‘That right? Papa spoils you, hm?” You coo, “That’s okay. You deserve all the love and kisses.”

Onyankopon stands there watching you, eyes darkly amused as he murmurs, "I'm startin' to think you only came over for the dog."

“Don’t listen to him,” you murmur, “He’s just jealous.” 

You grin up at him without thinking, sunshine-bright and unguarded, before realizing how close he is. How domestic this all feels. Your smile falters slightly as heat creeps up your neck.

Onyankopon notices immediately. That smirk returns full force as he pushes off the door, “Sit down ‘fore you start petting him like y’all married or some shit.”  

Bully whimpers when you stop scratching him, trotting after you like a shadow while Onyankopon moves to the fridge.  

“‘You drink?” 

“Did you forget I’m tryna’ study? I can’t be giggling over my textbook.”

You take a second to think though, “Unless you have Stella Rose in there.”

His chuckle is low as he pulls out a chilled bottle of Stella Rose: Black, “You’ in luck,” he murmurs, pouring with practiced ease, coming over to hand you the glass from where you sit. The deep red liquid swirls as he taps his glass against yours, “‘To not burnin’ shit down this time.” 

“Funny.”  

You can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips, Bully immediately plopping his heavy head onto your lap like he owns you now.  

“Game starts in’ ten,” Onyankopon gestures towards your textbook, “Better hurry up with allat’ studyin’. Saints don’t wait for nobody.”

He settles into the sectional beside you—all casual, spread legs, one arm stretched across the back of the couch, body angled toward yours like he's got all the time in the world. Even Bully gives up his spot on your lap to circle around you and collapse on top of his owner's feet, huffing contentedly when his big hand starts scratching under the dog's chin without looking away from you. 

You sigh, “It’d speed up the process if you were a genius—you know anything about Pathology?” you slide your textbook along your lap, tucking your legs on the left side of your body.

“Depends,” he rumbles, “You talkin’ forensic pathology or just general shit?”  

Your eyebrows shoot up, “Smart man.”

“Firefighter EMT certification had us studyin’ some wild shit,” Then, quieter, “Plus, my lil’ sister a’ pre-med.”  

“Seems like the whole family wants to save the world. You’re like Superman,” you hum, “What part of New Orleans are y’all from?”

He chuckles at that—low and deep, “9th Ward,” He nods, watching your eyes go slightly wide. 

He adds, “What, you thought a nigga was gon’ say Uptown?” 

“No, I just—“ 

He cuts you off with a shake of his head—not mad, “Relax,” he mutters, leaning back slightly, “Ain’t shit wrong with being from Uptown if that’s where you at,” His thumb brushes against the fabric of the couch near your shoulder, like he's resisting touching you outright.  

“We moved out when I was ‘bout sixteen after Katrina fucked up everythin’,” The way he says it is has no pity expected—before shifting gears smoothly, “But yo’ turn now. Where’ you from before this apartment tried killin' you?"

You shake your head, swirling the deep red in your glass before taking a sip, “Born and raised Uptown—whole family’s still here.”  

“Explains why you walk around like you own everythin’ but can’t boil water.”  

“Rude!” 

“Just sayin’.”

You both look at Bully who's now flopped between both of your legs, paws up like roadkill, “He agrees with me." 

The dog yawns. Traitorous animal.

Before either of y'all can retort though—the game starts blaring from TV speakers loud enough to make you jump, the crowds roar filling the apartment as the Saints run onto the field.

You try hard to focus on your notes, highlighting key terms, murmuring definitions under your breath—but it's impossible not to peek up every time Onyankopon leans forward, cussing at the TV like the players can actually hear him.  

"Man, what kinda bullshit call was that? That’s a flag! Throw it, blind ass nigga!” 

Bully barks in agreement like he understands every word, pacing before plopping down dramatically when a play resumes.  

Somehow though? The chaos is weirdly comforting. You find yourself smiling into your textbook whenever he gets particularly animated; his deep voice growling obscenities one second, then booming with celebration next as Saints score their first couple of touchdowns.

Halfway through the second quarter—and three glasses of Stella later—you've given up pretending to study entirely, leaning back against cushions while watching the game from over Onyankopon’s broad shoulder.

“‘Thought this nigga ‘boutta graduate,” he mutters without turning around, “Now she watchin’ the game instead.”

“This class is kicking my ass,” you stressfully admit, “Imma’ just stay an Embalmer at this point.” 

“Aight.”

 He reaches for the remote, lowering the volume slightly before twisting fully toward where your legs tuck; he notions, “Tell me what ain't stickin'.”

You hesitate for half a second before sighing, flipping open your notebook to the most confusing section, “Okay, so—putrefaction. The stages keep tripping me up.”  

“Aight. Think of it like this—” His finger taps against your notes as Bully rests his head on your thigh again for moral support, “Stage one? That’s when shit first start lookin’ wrong but ain't smellin' yet. Them’ gases build up, and the body gon’ look like a microwaved balloon.” 

You giggle a bit, “Sounds extremely gross when you put it that way.”

“Stage two? Now we get stank,” He gestures loosely with his free hand, "Skin slippage, blistering—like when you leave chicken out too long and it turns green. Except this chicken used to be yo’ uncle."  

“Onyankopon!” 

“What?” 

His grin is unrepentant, “I’m teachin’, ain't I?”

“You are, Professor. Continue.”

“By stage three? Everything meltin’. Liquefaction got fluids leakin' everywhere—” 

“Okay! I got it now,” you giggle once more, “Thank you.”

“Thank me in yo’ valedictorian speech,” he stands from the sofa, “You hungry now?”

“After you compared spoiled chicken to a decomposing body? Sure,” you muse, “What are you making, chef? Since I’m apparently the worst cook on the planet.”

He shrugs off the playful insult like it's nothing, already stalking toward the kitchen with Bully following behind, “Not just a chef. Culinary King, baby.”  

He then says, “Gumbo. Real gumbo,” he tosses over his shoulder, "Ain't gon’ need no YouTube video for this either." 

You watch from the couch as he moves around the kitchen, graceful for a man his size. His tatted arms flex as he chops vegetables with quick precision, sleeves rolled up to reveal more ink along his forearms; bold black lines weaving stories you can only guess at.  

One tattoo in particular catches your eye—a small, intricate design near his temple. 

“That’ one mean something?” 

His hand pauses briefly on the pot. 

“Yeah.”  

A beat passes where the only sound is sizzling roux. Finally, “Got jumped in at fourteen,” he murmurs, “Took my face tat’ the same night.”  

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“It’s good, shawty. You jus’ wanna know.”

He then continues, “Lost my lil’ brother not too long after,” The words come out rough-edged, “Wrong place, wrong time type shit. Made me realize ain't no glory in that street shit either way.”

The confession hangs heavy between the both of you. 

“‘Moved Uptown right after," His voice gentles, “I finished school, got into the fire academy straight out. ‘Wanted do somethin' that mattered more than colors onna’ block."

You exhale, absorbing the weight of his answer. 

A few beats pass before you venture, “I think you matter. Firefighter sounds much more cool than some nigga inna’ gang anyway.”  

He huffs out a soft chuckle at that, “You think I don’t know I’m cool?” 

You roll your eyes, a grin tugging at your lips, “No, mister humble. You really don’t know just how cool you are.”

You expect a retort—maybe that cocky smirk you've come to find weirdly endearing—but he surprises you with a genuine expression instead. It's softer, less guarded than his usual demeanor; the kind that makes you realize he isn't used to taking compliments.  

Something about that makes your heart skip a beat, but he recovers quick enough—that smirk is back in full force as he murmurs, “You know what is more important than allat’? Food. This gumbo ‘boutta be straight fire, too.”

“Lawd, here he go’. I’m judging like Gordon Ramsay.” 

“That’s cool. We gon’ see.”

The fourth glass of Stella has definitely done its job—loosening your limbs, flushing your skin, making every thought move slower.  

Your textbook lays forgotten on the coffee table as you lounge against Bully like a makeshift pillow, fingers lazily stroking his fur while your gaze lingers on Onyankopon with newfound boldness.

Onyankopon checks on you as you’re silent—he turns to see your low eyes, thick lashes locking onto him from across the kitchen island. 

“Yo’ headache gone?”

You swallow hard around sudden dryness in your throat, managing a weak nod followed by mumbled agreement, “Mhm.” 

You don’t realize, but you’re smiling a bit.

"Uh huh," he rumbles, “You definitely feelin' that wine."

He wipes his hands on a towel before rounding the island toward you—each step deliberate, unhurried—until he’s towering over where you’re slumped against Bully.  

"You good?" his thumb brushes your chin to tilt your face up toward him, "Or I need to cut you off?"

"I'm fine," You murmur—a little too breathless for someone who's supposed to be studying, “I thought you were feedin’ me?” you mindlessly pout in his palm, not realizing how you look beneath him.

He tuts softly, thumb tracing just under your chin, "Now why’ you lookin’ at me like that?" 

"Like what?"

Onyankopon exhales through his nose—half amusement, half something far more dangerous as he leans in, “You gone, shawty. Imma’ get you some water.” 

There’s a sharp, unwelcome pang in your chest when he pulls away—one that sobers you up faster than any water ever could. You straighten yourself out quietly, adjusting your top and clearing your throat as if that could erase the way his touch lingered. 

Bully whines when Onyankopon snaps his fingers twice toward the hall—“Go on,” The dog obeys instantly, throwing you one last glance before trotting off toward his play room. 

He returns with two steaming bowls of gumbo, perfectly dark roux, plump shrimp glistening on top. His large frame settles beside you with far more distance than before. Now you really felt rejected.

You take a few bites of that gumbo and have to resist a reaction. It's perfection—thick, rich, brimming with spices as it slides down your tongue. You can't help but hum in utter satisfaction, eyes nearly drifting shut as you murmur, "Hate to say how good this actually is.” 

Onyankopon chuckles softly at the sight, a low rumble that resonates through the space between you two.

“Told you it was gon' be fire."

You roll your eyes, taking another bite. Your head's spinning from the alcohol, but it's nothing compared to the dizzying rush you feel under his gaze whenever you look over at him. You swallow thickly.

"Listen, I'm sorry if I’m a little too tipsy," You apologize, “It’s been a while since I drank without eating.”

He shakes his head, watching you with that same quiet intensity as he leans back against the couch.  

"You ain't gotta apologize for nothin’," he says simply, voice low, “I wasn’t tryna’ make you feel bad. ‘Long as you’ good? That’s all that matters to me.” 

His words settle over you like a blanket—warm, reassuring. 

After a beat of comfortable silence between bites and faint commentary from the game still playing, Onyankopon tilts his head toward your abandoned textbook on the coffee table, “So why embalmin'?" 

He asks this casually—like it's normal dinner conversation, “Ain’t many people wake up one day thinkin’ they wanna drain bodies for a livin’.” 

The question catches you off guard enough that laughter bubbles out. You compose yourself again, “It sounds bad when you put like that,” You admit with a slight shake of your head.

Your fingers trace the rim of the bowl while gathering your thoughts. You then sigh, “I’ve always been fascinated by death. Not in a morbid way, but—“ you search for the right words—“More about how we treat it? Honor it? My grandmother used to tell me stories growing up about how they’d wash the dead themselves before burial, and sit with them the whole night so the spirits weren't alone.”

Then quieter, you almost become shy about the subject matter. 

“I wanted to do work that meant something even if nobody ever thanked me for it.”

You pause mid rambling, a shy giggle releasing your lips. Onyankopon encourages your words with a quiet, “Keep goin’.” 

He is so goddamn attractive like this—focused on you completely while his food goes ignored, “I'll listen all night."

The warmth of alcohol and his attention makes you soften. You lean your head against the couch, studying him with a lazy, appreciative smile.  

"Sweet," you murmur, "Even though you look like you could break me in half."  

Onyankopon's smirk is instant—sharp and knowing as he leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees again. But he doesn’t deny it; just lets that statement linger between you like a challenge. 

"When was the last time somebody had all this?" Your fingers gesture vaguely at his whole existence, "Don't lie either."

He blinks, expression unchanging for a beat before shrugging—almost too nonchalant, “Couple months." 

You raise a skeptical brow, "Couple months,” you echo mockingly, "That’s all?" 

"Why?" He returns, "You got a nigga or sum’?"

Your expression deadpans, “Don’t be funny, nigga. Why would I be here if I did?”

"Ain't tryna’ be funny. Just askin'."

When he speaks again, his voice is much rougher than before. 

"When was the last time you been’ with somebody, then?"

You exhale slowly, swirling the last of your wine before finishing it off. The admission feels heavier now that it’s out in the open—floating between you two like something tangible.  

"A year," you admit with a slight shrug, "Not for any big reason. Just felt like breakin’ the streak wasn’t worth it.” 

Your fingers trace the rim of your empty glass absently before adding quieter, "Especially not when I got school and this career to focus on."  

His gaze remains steady on yours; a silent, almost dangerous intensity as he murmurs, "Ain’t nobody had you inna’ year?”

You swallow hard, thighs clenching involuntarily as you force yourself to keep your composure. But as you go to part your lips—the game roars within the room, catching your attention and cutting the tension you’d felt before.

You giggle a little awkwardly, suddenly needing to do something—anything to shake off the lingering heat between you two. Washing dishes sounded pretty excusable. 

“I got these.”

Onyankopon watches you for a beat as you make your way to the kitchen, only a beat. He then pushes off the couch with a quiet chuckle, following you into the kitchen anyway. You feel him before you see him—his broad frame crowds behind you, reaching around to rinse his own bowl under the sink water. 

“Thought I was doin’ those?” You question halfheartedly—eyes flicking over your shoulder to eye him, “I told you I had it.”

He doesn’t answer right away—just turns off the faucet and places his dishes aside without breaking contact with your body once. It happens so subtly—strong arms snake around waist from behind, pulling you gently against him in one slow motion until there is no space left between.

 His chin rests atop of your shoulder that it makes you giggle, the sound breathless as you let your head tilt back against him. He rests atop your curls while the both of you sway gently—like there's some slow song playing only the two of you can hear.  

"’Thought you were supposed to be watching the game, Ony.” 

"Game borin’.” 

Then? 

"Been tryna' be good all night,” He admits gruffly into your skin—his fingers tighten their grip ever so slightly at your hips when he feels the way they tremble, "Ain't workin’.”

Your breath hitches when his lips press against your neck—warm, soft, teasing. You can’t help but hum nervously, squirming slightly in his hold. 

“Ony.” 

You giggle playfully, but it comes out more like a whine when he drags another slow kiss just below your ear.

His hands rub soothing circles against your waist like he’s trying to calm you down, even as he continues trailing those maddeningly light kisses along the column of your throat.  

"Stop actin' scared,” He murmurs, “Ain’t gotta’ run from me.”

You lean back fully against him, tilting your head up just enough for your nose to brush against his. Another giggle, met with a low chuckle both filled with heat. Onyankopon’s breath fans over your lips—warm—before you close that tiny distance yourself, pulling him down into a slow, deep kiss.  

His grip tightens on your waist as soon as your lips meet, the sound of soft sucking filling the kitchen between shaky exhales. You can feel his tongue slide against yours in lazy strokes—no rush, just pure indulgence—each press of his mouth making the heat coil tighter in your stomach until you’re panting between kisses.  

Your heads tilt opposite ways naturally every time he pulls back slightly before diving back in; noses bumping playfully, locking together again even deeper than before. That’s when you stick your tongue out, fully stroking it with his. 

Onyankopon breaks the kiss just long enough to murmur, "Goddamn,” before he grabs your face and yanks you back up against him with a hungry grunt—tongue licking into your mouth immediately.  

He’s sucking your bottom lip, tugging it between teeth before slipping between your open mouth again; that’s when you feel a smack on your ass—you squeak breathlessly, giggling as you tug your mouth away—“Bully’s barking, Ony.” 

Onyankopon doesn’t even flinch at the sound of Bully’s distant barking. He just slides one hand up to cradle the back of your neck, tilting your face back toward his with a low, throaty growl.  

“Fuckin’ hell, Bully.” 

His mouth crashes into yours again—hotter this time, hungrier, tongue sweeping past your lips before you can even process the curse. You finally manage to think, pulling away long enough to murmur, “You gotta—“ you swallow hard when the words come out in a hoarse exhale, “‘Gotta feed him.” 

It takes a beat for his breathing to even out—a rough exhale as he leans forward, chasing your mouth for a second kiss that you manage to evade with a breathless laugh. He exhales roughly, “You’ tryna’ kill a nigga.”

“You can show me to your room first,” you hum, “Carry me?”

Onyankopon doesn't hesitate—his hands slide under your thighs in one smooth motion, hoisting you up effortlessly as you wrap your legs around his waist.  

"Greedy.”

He’s stealing another kiss, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours as he walks backward through the apartment without looking away from you once.  

His bedroom is exactly what you’d expect—dimly lit sunset LED strips running along the ceiling, casting shadows over sleek black furniture. The walls are adorned with bold, striking paintings; splashes of color against dark canvases that look like they cost a fortune. A massive king-sized bed dominates the space, neatly made black satin sheets practically gleaming under the glow of those lights.

Onyankopon carries you straight to it without breaking stride—barely managing to kick his door shut behind him before dumping you unceremoniously onto that sea of silk. You bounce once before he’s crawling over you with slow precision; one hand already tugging at your waistband while his mouth finds yours again in a kiss so filthy it should be illegal. He’s dropping his tongue in your mouth, snarling against your lips like he’s hungry for you. 

“This whatchu’ wanted?” 

You stifle kisses through giggles, fingers tracing along his sharp jawline. He groans into your mouth—low and guttural, before you break the kiss to teasingly murmur, "Go feed Bully," against swollen, reddened, lips. 

Onyankopon exhales heavily, "You can’t keep playin’ wit’ me.” 

Your tongue runs across his mouth, “I’ll be here,” sucking on his lips, making that your promise.

Another groan, this time even darker than the previous one. He reluctantly pushes himself off the bed, eyes flashing dangerous when he looks down at you.   

"Behave, girl.” 

You hear him murmuring to Bully in the other room—low, affectionate growls of “Yeah, yeah—eat,” The sound of kibble hitting a bowl follows as you glance around his space again, eyes catching on the small tray tucked neatly on his nightstand. A half-rolled blunt rests atop it alongside a lighter and some rolling papers.  

Before you can investigate further, the door creaks open again—Onyankopon leans against the frame with eyes only on you.

“Nosy.” 

You’re like something out of his fantasy. Your freckles dance beneath the lights of the room, curls draping around your curvy frame at the position you sit along the bed. You sit along your knees as you lean forward, “‘Missed me?”

He’s tongue in cheek—big hands already working at the buckle of his belt, expressing pure hunger as he locks onto where you’re sprawled across his sheets. 

"I did. I’m done playin' nice with yo’ ass too.”

Your lips curl into a slow, teasing smile as your eyes rake over him—tatted arms flexing as he undoes that belt, that hungry glare in his gaze fixated. 

“So…Firefighter Onyankopon,” you purr, “They don’t drug test you?”  

His smirk deepens as he stalks closer, knees pressing into the mattress where you lounge. One hand grips your ankle to drag you firmly towards him, “Nah,” then, “You tryna smoke?”  

You bite down on your lower lip, “Mhm.” 

Onyankopon stands at the edge of the bed, blunt already rolled and sealed between his lips as he flicks the lighter. The flame hisses to life, illuminating the sharp planes of his face for just a second—cheeks hollowing as he takes that first deep pull. Smoke swirls around him when he exhales slowly, eyes locked onto you like prey through low lids. He holds it out between two fingers—taunting as he curls his fingers towards himself.

“Come get it,” His voice is rough with smoke and something darker; command laced beneath amusement.

And at his words? You crawl.

Knees pressed into satin sheets, your hips sway with each deliberate movement until you’re close enough to smell that rich, earthy sweetness clinging to him. His free hand grips your chin at the last second—holding you back from taking it, leaning down so his next exhale coats your parted lips in hazy warmth.

“‘Thought I told yo’ ass not to tease no more,” he grunts, letting go, “Open.” 

You lean back just enough to take a deep pull from the blunt, holding the smoke in your lungs before exhaling slowly—right into his face with a wicked grin on your full lips.

Onyankopon doesn’t flinch. Just watching, those dark eyes tracking every shift of your mouth—every taunting breath out. He finds a grip on your throat, fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver.

"Told you,” he murmurs lowly, voice roughened by smoke, “Play too fuckin’ much.” 

You slide your palm beneath his shirt, rubbing the sculpt of his tatted abdomen. 

He grunts, “‘Gon' learn today.” 

Your teeth dip into the plush of your lip, tugging your hands along the hem of his pants—your lashes flutter, “Lemme’ put it in my mouth, Ony.”

His grip on your neck tightens. Onyankopon’s head tilts slightly, eyes going dark enough to match the room, those muscles jumping against your skin in anticipation.  

“Gon’ head.”

The moment you tug his tip from beneath his briefs? It nearly smacks you in the face, bigger than you imagined it to be. It’s veiny under your tiny palm, and the size of it makes you horny. You drag your tongue against the entire length of him, wrapping your lips along the tip as you immediately begin sucking.

“Fuck,” he groans—low and rough—you’re so crossfaded that you’re already stroking him up and down with your hand and tongue together before pulling up—sloppy as saliva drools from your lips, dragging until he falls free. You look up at him through your own reddened eyes, pupils blown wide, just a moment before he grabs onto your hair, guiding you back down.  

 “Look at me wit’ them muhfuckin’ eyes.” 

You do, mouth open and tongue out. He grunts, smoke spilling from between his own lips.

The sight of your mouth wrapped so perfectly around him was like a dream, poking through your cheek from his size. Even the taste of him is dark and rich, mixed with the sweet burn of the blunt—that scent and smoke swirling in the air as he takes another pull.

You move faster to make him moan, sucking him deep. He drops the blunt somewhere to grab your head with his free hand—thick fingers digging into your curls in ways that make you whine as he guides you against him. You’re taking him as deep as you can—throating him, your mouth tugging back as you whimper, “‘Dick so pretty, baby.”

The air fills with the sounds of your moans and his deep grunts, the scent of weed and smoke still lingering. He’s using your mouth like it was made for him, like your mouth was made to take him, “Mouth so fuckin’ soft, Mama. You suckin’ this dick.” 

You try to respond between wet, rough sucks— all you can manage are slurred whimpers that somehow make him fuller in your mouth. You pull back once more, “Spit on it.”

He obliges, of course.

Onyankopon lowered his mouth, dropping spit on his own dick. It’s dirty, sloppy. But seeing you like this? Mindless, pliant— was like no other. You grip the base in your fist and drool onto him, coating those veined ridges with your own mess before swallowing him again.   

You don’t stop—you stick your pink, slippery tongue out, drooling down the length of him—slicking it up good. He makes a sound in his chest that’s almost animal, thick fingers holding you still while he strokes it against your tongue—you just moaned. 

 It’s rough and delicious as you slurp and drool, taking him down while sliding your hands up and down over what you can’t reach—your eyes nearly flutter shut as you slur out, "Taste sogood, baby.” 

He’s all you can taste.

Your pretty eyes are a haze, curls draping through his fingers like sable oceans. You’re lazily stroking him now as you pull your mouth back—you run your tongue along your lips as you whimper, “So big, Ony. Not gonna’ fit in me.”

His smirk is cocky as you salivate on him, eyes half-lidded but laser-focused on the way your mouth moves along his shaft. He’s too big to take, and he knows it.

“Nah, ain’t gon’ fit you,” he agrees, voice gruff, “Gon’ make you fit me.”   

You give him that dazed look again, eyes muddled—drunk off his smell, his taste— your hands grip him again and start stroking him back and forth. His hand cups the back of your neck once more—firm but careful, holding you still as he strokes himself into your mouth over, over and over again. 

Maybe pleasuring him was distracting your own thoughts of having to take him—but it seems you’ve been caught, as Onyankopon yanks you by your curls, tugging you back in a way to lock your lips with his own. You’re both greedy as you push your head deeper when you kiss one another, tongue sliding against his like you’d never kiss him again.

It’s as if you didn’t just have him bulging within your mouth. The moment his fingers slide down your stomach, dipping beneath your shorts as your legs spread open beneath him—your body tenses, dragging your fingers along the back of his neck as you kiss him shyly.

The sight of your pussy was mesmerizing—already soaked, flushed pink and twitching beneath your shorts. 

“Yo’ shit prettier than a muhfucka’," Onyankopon murmurs—half to himself, half a rough compliment aimed at the way you shudder when his thumb drags through your slick folds. You tremble, hips jerking up off the mattress with a small gasp—your grip on his neck tightens all at once, all while those thick fingers begin working slow circles over your clit.

It’s no words, just a high pitched whimper escaping your swollen lips.

You pout along his mouth, spreading your legs just a bit more—your voice is so soft, begging as you mewl, “Put em’ in me.” 

He grunts, “Imma’ slide them in slow.”

You nod, shuddering. That’s exactly how you want it. 

Onyankopon’s thumb stills at your clit—the roughness of his fingers drags down, sinking inside so slow—he presses forward, burying nearly to the knuckle with a single push.  

You don’t expect the reaction you give—but a year of no sexual activity in fact leaves you tight, two fingers nearly being the death of you in this moment. It feels so good, you’re creaming on his fingers, tears glistening within your eyes as you sob in pleasure, “Oh my god, Ony.”

“Why’ this shit so fuckin’ wet already?” He grumbles through his own parted mouth—his palm grinds over your clit, dropping his fingers in, listening to your folds squelch in return. It doesn’t help that Onyankopon’s grunting into your mouth every time his fingers sink in. 

You tug your mouth inches from his—you mindlessly pant, “I needed that so bad,” it’s soft, breathy as he adds another finger in even slower. 

“Keep talkin’ to me.”

“They’re so big,” you softly whimper, “Stretchin’ me.” 

When his fingers curl, you gasp—your mouth pulls back from his, palm reaching for his fingers to tug them out—you feel his other hand grip you by the throat, yanking your mouth back onto his. 

“Ion’ do that runnin’ shit,” he grunts, “You gon’ take me.”

His fingers slide right back in, spreading you wide as he sinks down to the knuckle once more. It’s hard to catch your balance when he’s rocking you onto his fingers like this—your hands find his wide shoulders to grip onto, head spinning at this point. 

You’re shaking—trembling beneath him as he growls into your kiss, those big hands clenching harder against your neck before sliding down. He licks your lips, “Goodbaby. Watch my fingers just goin’ in.” 

And you do. In and out, they’re just going. 

Maybe he was just good with his hands—in seconds, your shorts are removed, back fully hitting the soft comforter—your clit is being stroked by his tongue, all while his fingers still plummet in and out of you.

He’s so rough—hungry as his mouth feasts on you, eating you out like a man starved of oxygen. Your moans get lost in the sheets, every sensation sending you into a spiral as you’re trapped beneath him, fingers still stretching you out just right. And the noises, they’re getting wetter and messier each minute. 

You’re panting, “Fuck, baby.” 

“This bitch drippin’,” he murmured against your clit, another lick as you mewled helplessly, hands clenching the sheets beneath your fingers, writhing against his mouth that was eating you messily. Your legs are shaking, thighs attempting to close around his head.

“Hold ‘em back.” 

He’s reaching for your thighs in that warning voice. His tongue flattens over your clit, sucking. 

That’s when your vision starts to fade, head spinning as you desperately try to stay present with him. You nod your compliance though, pouting as you hold your thighs open by the tips of your nails, spreading your pussy open. 

You mewl to him, “Wanna’ watch your tongue go in me, baby.”

His tongue plunges in with a grunt of, “That’s a gooood fuckin’ girl.” 

Your back arches off the bed, head tilting all the way back. It’s just too much, being filled like this—every nerve lighting hot and sensitive with so much of him all at once. 

“You’ so wet.” 

He sounds lost—voice disappearing between strokes of his tongue, “You. So. Fuckin’. Wet,” sinking inside—his fingers take over again, pumping thick and slow, “You taste good everywhere, girl. Goddamn.”  

He’s eating you faster, moaning as his mouth works at your clit again—his tongue slips in between your spread folds, lapping like a canine. You’re shaking beneath him, head in the clouds with nothing but gasps to give. 

Your hand reaches down to grip the back of his head—and he doesn’t resist, just allows you to guide his mouth right where you need him most. Your legs shake on either side of his head as he buries his face into your clit, “I’m goin’ all in, baby. Keep droppin’ yo’ shit on my tongue.” 

You were gonna blackout if you let him keep going. You pull him up by the coil of his goatee, sliding your tongue into his mouth with a moan. Hands grip your waist under your shirt as you both share another messy, nasty kiss. You feel his hands pushing your top up, freeing your huge, heavy tits—and then, his mouth is on them. 

Something about your nipples being sucked always made you infinitely more horny—you breathily giggle as you whimper, “Ooh, baby. I love that.”

His mouth was insistent—taking turns with your stiff nipples in his mouth, suckling and licking as they hardened more. He was rough as he grunted, “Pretty ass fuckin’ titties,” tongue circling them in the best way, teeth tugging just right. 

You ramble, “Imma’ take your dick so good, Daddy.” 

Onyankopom grunts at the name. Your grip on his durag tightens when he slides two fingers back through your folds—just to test you—just to make you whimper. 

You don’t run.

Your legs are spread open wide for him as he holds you, “You gon’ let me fuck you?”

“Promise, baby.”

“Yeah? Gon’ let me take this pussy how I wanna take it?”

You’re nodding, begging, essentially—but that might’ve been stupid on your part. Because when he lays the both of you on your side, yet somehow trapping your legs over his shoulders in a missionary position? You’d never been put like this before. 

One arm rests over your knees, the other sliding along the back of your neck in a way that traps you. Your body tenses the moment you feel his tip slapping amongst your soaked folds, your doe eyes peering through his low ones, needy, vulnerable.

As he sinks in, your folds spread apart slowly. Even with how wet you are, the uncomfortable stretch of pleasure burns your stomach like fire, every inch sinking deeper by the second. 

“You look so small like this, like you breakin’.” 

You try to respond—anything to sound like you have any semblance of control—but your mouth only parts open, eyes rolling at the whiplash of pleasure and discomfort.

“You know you ain’t runnin’, huh?” 

You nod, eyes glazed over as he sinks further inside, “Ughn, shit.”

He’s not even halfway in by the time your legs are shaking around his head, hands fisting sheets in a white knuckle grip as he stretches you out, spreading you wide. You’re moaning so helplessly as he slides in another inch. Your hands reach for his—finding his thick, rough ones so you could squeeze them for dear life. 

His voice is a low groan in your ear, “You takin’ it so good.” 

He’s smacking your ass, spanking again at how good you feel. 

You’d never been filled like this before—not this deep or this girthy. You’re trembling in his arms, eyes glassy as he leans forward, forcing your legs wider by the backs of your thighs, “I told you— keep them’ eyes onna’ nigga.” 

You tuck your face within the pillow as you feel the first stroke—he’s still not even fully in, your face pouting as the first expression you give him.

The second stroke, your whole body clenches, fingers fisting the sheets so hard, eyes rolling at one slow roll of his hips.  

“Ooooohh, my god.”  

Another stroke, deep—“Ughh, fuuuck.” 

“You sound too pretty, girl.” 

You’re whining as he strokes a slow, deep rhythm inside of you, your head tossing between the pillow and his face. Your arms throw around his shoulders, fingernails digging into the back of his neck with a vice grip like you’re trying to keep yourself grounded—anything to make sense of the intensity of it all, curls spreading all across your cheek and pillow. 

He’s still pressing you down onto his lap, holding you in place as he just keeps rolling his hips with a grunt, “Ooh, fuck.” 

You nod so fast, whimpering at that feeling of him in so deep, stroking you open. He’s holding your bottom left thigh up in the air, spreading you in a way that made you ache at how much he was giving you, “You hearin’ us?” This shit sloppy as fuck.”

The air was a chorus of mixed breaths, grunts, your guttural moans and sloppy wet sounds from his strokes splitting you apart. Onaynkopon’s hips move slower than he’d ever thought possible—you were just too tight for anything too hard. 

Squish. Squish.Squish. He’s slow stroking—which means he’s pounding into you—his balls are slapping at the cheeks of your ass, his tip bouncing at your cervix in the meanest way. You lock your mouth around his arm, groaning deeply as your eyes roll back. 

“Ughh… Ughhh… Oh, my god… Ugh.”

It happens—you drench his tip as you squirt on him, the groan sinking into a squeal as your thighs tremble dangerously. You tuck your mouth back onto his arm to calm yourself, moaning helplessly through his flesh.

“That’s so good, Mama. Good lil’ bitch, squirt all on me,” Onyankopon’s voice is an octave deeper when he growls onto your lips, “Make a mess on my fuckin’ dick.” 

He snaps his hips forward roughly, almost punishing that spot he’d found for this reaction. Your gasp is prolonged, a broken cry grunting from your lips—you’re singing, “Ohhhh my god!” 

Your whining was delicious as it spilled onto his arm, his mouth hot on your ear that he began mumbling nasty things into. You feel one hand slide up to grip a fistful of hair at the back of your head, moaning into his chest. Your whole spine was shaking because of that roughness, your legs were shaking—his hips still bouncing brutally between your legs. But his last sentence left you pulverized.

“You think I’m done with you?”

In fact, he wasn’t. 

Your sanity was being held by your fingers weakly pressing against the headboard for leverage—you’re now ass up, face down into the comforter as Onyankopon’s palms grip you by both arms, tugging you onto his dick. Your eyes are rolled back, moaning to him chaotically.

You’d never looked this pretty—this fucked.

You can’t even see the expression on his face behind you, not when your eyes keep watering, or rolling back. All you could feel was the brutal snaps of his hips, that grip he has holding you spread so wide for him. Your ass docks on his skin with every thck, thck, thck of his strokes. Your face is smothered between the sheets as you moan into the space, too lost to even speak, let alone think of anything else.

“Fuck me back,” he grunts, “Lemme’ see this bitch bounce.” 

Your body responds by instinct, fingers fisting the sheets in a white knuckle grip as your ass bounces to that pace he’d set. You can feel the wetness between your cheeks as he slides in over, over, over…

You managed to pull yourself partially up the bed, hands gripping the pillow as your voice cried toward him. 

You clench when you hear him groan behind you—his hands spread your folds to keep you open for him, so far forward that you’re on your elbows as he’s pounding against your spot. Your breath hitches when he groans, “Ooooh, girl. Fuck.” 

Your ass jiggled against his hips, those wet sounds echoing between your legs as he stretched you open with every stroke. The sound of your ass clapping against him was downright pornographic. He’s gripping you by your lower waist to make your pussy grind against him even more, taking you roughly. 

“Bounce on this big dick.” 

You turn to find his eyes, reaching your hand up against his lower abdomen—you’re dropping your ass down to his abdomen, your eyes rolling as you mewl, “‘Balls hitting my pussy, baby. Go slow,” you whimper, “Just pound me.”

His grip was practically bruising against your hips, guiding you into that bouncing pace he’d set. Your body was trembling with it—those slow, punishing strokes leaving your head spinning. Your face was smeared down against the sheets again. 

You’re catatonic at this point. 

His hips were still going—thicker strokes that left you shouting every time he pushed back in. His face was still expressionless, the darkness in his eyes still so intense like the first time you’d met him. You’re barely even coherent at this point, just a mess of moans and words that didn’t make sense.

“You finna’ tap out, huh?”

You can only grunt, too busy trying to hold yourself together as your face pushes further into the mattress.

You were too gone—too gone to even form words right now. You barely had enough control over your body either, your thighs and knees were trembling with every stroke he gave. You felt him in your stomach, your spine, every nerve—he was all you thought about as you moaned into the sheets. He was turning your brain into white noise—your vision was almost blurry. 

That’s when you give a whine—it’s loud, so loud that it drags, squirting all on him once more—you’re messily rubbing your clit, bouncing yourself back through your overstimulating pleasure. You’re a whimpering mess to him, “I love this dick, baby. Fuck me, just fuck me…”  

His eyes darkened as your back arched, spine curling forward as that dazed expression danced across that pretty face. You’d squirted all over him again—his hands pulled away as he sat back, looking down at the way your body was squirming, hips still bouncing against the mattress. 

You’re looking back at him from under your heavy eyes, mouth moving to try and speak but all that came out was another whine,, “Ughh… uh, uh.”  

“You’re so fucked out, huh?” He murmured, hand spanking your ass harder than he’d done before, smoothing it over as he heard you sniffle. 

“Lemme’ give you them’ slow strokes.” 

He gently places you on your back, dragging you under his looming frame to place your legs back along his shoulders. The moment he slides back in, Onyankopon presses his nose to yours, nuzzling it as you did to him earlier in the night. The feeling makes you emotional in a way you hadn’t expected—tears glisten in your eyes, your arms wrapping around his neck as you just take him. 

His head buried itself in the crook of your neck as he murmured, “You’re so beautiful,” sliding out, back in, all the way out, “You good, baby? I ain’t hurt you, huh?”

Your hands slide up to his hair, tugging at his durag as you finally manage to breathe, “Need you, Ony.” 

His face is the closest it’s been to smiling in the night. His hand slides down to grip your knee, holding your thigh in place against him. 

“Need you too, girl.” 

You’re giving him small, broken cries. His face is within your neck as your mouth is by his ear, whining softly as your body trembles like you’d been tased. His mouth kept pressing against the top of your head between his rough murmurs, the words too quiet and jumbled for you to really understand. 

“I’m cumming, Ony…”

“I know, baby.” 

His voice was hushed against your neck, hands pressing your hips down into his to keep you still. Your nails dug into his back, teeth biting down on a shoulder to try and muffle your moans. 

“Ughh…Oh. Oh my god. Fuugghhh. Fuck.” 

Your arms were wrapped around his neck in a death grip, holding him to you as you moaned and mewled through your orgasm. You shiver, sniffling as you nuzzle his nose once more—you hear a low chuckle, a soft kiss being snatched against your lips.

You were crazy, but it was in the moment.

“Cum in me, baby. Fill me up,” you tremble, “Please.” 

And that’s when you hear it—a real moan from Onyankopon.

You didn’t even realize how quiet he’d been in contrast to your moans and pants. But the moment he moaned against your neck, it’s all you could focus on. You hold him tighter as you feel the warmth within your folds, Onyankopon grinding into you, moaning into your ear. 

You felt his face in your neck again when he finally collapsed against you—still connected to you, his full weight falling flat against your chest as his arms locked around your waist. You stroked his hair, his durag ending up somewhere away from the bed—his forehead pressed into your neck as he inhaled deep. 

Almost ten minutes of silence went by. 

“You’re heavy.”

You had murmured this, your fingers running down the ridges on his back, feeling the curve of his mouth pull into a grin. His hands roamed your sides, squeezing at the flesh just under your ribs as he murmured back, “‘Feel good, Mama. I’m sorry.”

Now it was your turn to blush, the words being a sweet surprise—your hands slid up to his cheeks, fingers stroking that dark beard as you giggled once more. 

“You don’t gotta be sorry, Onyankopon.” 

You ran the pad of your thumb over the ridge of his mouth, tracing over the roughness of his lips, “You’re good.” 

You gave a small grin, “You were good.”

“Damn right I was.” 

You huffed a laugh that was more like another giggle, hands sliding up once more to run through his hair. His arms wound back around your waist, his mouth sliding up to suckle a new hickey onto your neck. You shivered as he continued, “You got a cute lil’ laugh, you know that?”

“And somehow you have a boner,” you flick his nose, “Unhand me!”

“Not my fault you’ fine as hell.” 

But he did release you, rolling off of you with some effort. 

Onyankapon watched you closely, able to see the wince on your face from the soreness you began to feel.

“You okay, Mama?”

That’s when you shake your head—you throw yourself back onto his body, wanting his warmth and comfort, “No. ‘Think you scraped my insides worse than a Pap smear,” you murmur, “Cuddle me.”

“Just say you’ clingy, girl.”

He chuckled, arms wrapping back around your waist—this time, pulling you on top of him. Your head rested on his chest, your body splayed out in a tangle of limbs. 

You find yourself reaching up for his earlobe, rubbing comfortingly at the flesh. You then ask, “Is clingy bad for you?”

“Nah.” 

His voice held an honesty that you weren’t sure you were expecting. His hands smoothed over your back, fingers spreading across that soft expanse of skin.

He then confirmed, “I like clingy.”

“Even if I’m a bad cook? You’ll still like me?”

“Especially if you’ a bad cook.” 

You felt the roughness of his beard graze against the crown of your head, “You gon’ be a mess in my kitchen.” 

His voice held a gruffness, but there was an underlying affection underneath it that you hadn’t quite heard from him much tonight—but you liked it, and so did he.

The both of you begin to doze off, his fingers captured in a coil of your curls, your fingers tucked within his chest. But that’s when you hear it—a phone buzzing, loud enough to hear, but quiet enough to ignore.

A second call. This one makes him exhale sharply through his nose, and by the third, he’s growling under his breath as he reaches blindly for the nightstand.  

“Yeah…Yeah…Now?” 

A pause. 

Then a grunt, “Aight. Gimme’ twenty.”  

He hangs up without another word and sits up abruptly, scrubbing a hand over his face— turning back towards you, an apologetic frown was already forming on his lips. 

"I gotta go, shawty. Niggas got me on a distress call.” 

That’s all he says at first—but you must have made some kind of face, because he’s suddenly hovering above you, one hand planted next to your head while the other cups your chin firmly.

"Ain't kickin' you out," he murmurs, pressing a hard kiss onto your forehead like a punctuation mark between sentences, "Get yo' ass under them covers."

You heard him, but you were sensitive—he obviously didn’t know that. You tug the covers close to your chest as your eyes watch him go back and forth, a small pout along your face regardless of his words.

He could see the way you curled in on yourself—protecting yourself, even—and it left a strange emotion burning in his chest. That’s when he sighed heavily, running a hand over his face once more as he padded toward the bed, sitting himself on the edge.

"C'mere, baby."

You feel dramatic.

“I didn’t mean to—“

"Nuh-Uh,” he cuts you off, grabbing your wrist to tug you into his lap in one swift movement, legs on either side of his hips. He pulls the blankets tight around the two of you—your head buried into his chest as he keeps you tucked against him. 

"Look at me, pretty girl.” 

You were pouting still, eyes averted from his gaze as you stubbornly kept your lips pursed. That is, until he forced your stubborn eyes to meet his once more.

"I ain't tryin' to kick you out, aight? I just gotta go take care of business.” 

You’re still frowning. 

He leans down to press a firm kiss against your forehead, arms tightening their hold on your waist to keep you against him. 

"C'mon, don't be mad at me now."

Onyankopon's voice drops to that deep, rumbling register—the one he uses to get your attention—you’ve picked up on that. 

"You really gon’ sit here poutin’ while I gotta go handle this?" His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, tugging it down playfully, “Ain't even said you gon’ miss me."  

Then—before you can protest—his mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss that’s all tongue, teeth, and promise. It’s messy enough to make your toes curl, his hand sliding from your chin to the back of your neck to keep you locked in place. It’s to let you know that he wanted you, and everything that came with that.

"Stay right here. Keep my shit warm,” a pause, “Or I could bend yo' ass over this mattress one more time

 ‘fore I leave—your choice."

That finally got you to squirm and grumble in his lap—your fingers dig into the meat of his back in a futile attempt to escape him. 

"I was playin',” he grunted, nipping your bottom lip as if to prove a point, "Goddamn, girl. I was playin'.“ 

“Bye, Onyankopon.”

“What kinda ‘bye’, huh? Like you gon’ sneak off once I leave?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. But of course—you smile. 

“Call Bully in here so I can cuddle with my actual man.”

"Forreal?" Onyankopon repeats, looking down at you with one brow raised in disbelief. 

You can tell he's trying to hold back the grin that's threatening to lift at his lips—those dark eyes of his narrowing with mock-offense, "That's what you call yo’ forreal’ nigga? That raggedy ass mutt?" 

You giggled, “Go, Superman. Save the world.”

He gives you one last look, a boyish grin you could find yourself getting used to.

“Imma’ be back, shawty.”

You smiled once more, “I’ll be here.”

[emslittlelibrary]

‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀…𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰…‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀

pistachios. onyankopon + toji.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 12.8K, original!blackfemreader, original!blackfemwife, threesome!, crossover!, tojixonyankopon!, blackmanxjapaneseman!, tojifushiguro!, onyankopon!, contractor!toji, husband!toji, southerncoded!toji, sweet!toji, dominant!toji, aggresive!toji, bestfriend!onyankopon, contractor!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, aggresive!onyankpon, pet names, dirty talk, aggressive pet names, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, pussy eating, dick sucking, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ��— hey cuties. just wanted to post another one of my fav’s, ngl. love, love, love. these two in the same alternate universe? my god. anyways, when rereading this i kept humming nightcrawler by travis scott? idk. anyways, sorry for the non-black link for visuals! just needed y’all to understand where my mind was at when i wrote this. okay. love you. teehee.

ビジュアル。

HOW DID YOU END UP HERE? 

You kept asking yourself that question as your puffy lips poked in a pout, round eyes flickering in between the looming frames above you. Your freckled cheeks flushed as they glared in return of your angelic face—and then, impurely so, you crawled to them.  

You couldn’t have been that naive. Not to realize their plan, or how long they’d been onto you. But none of this was your plan at all. It just—happened. 

You’d been married to Toji for four years now, falling in love the moment he approached you in the streets of Tokyo, Japan. You were studying abroad in grad school, telling him that you’d been working on your masters degree within Administration, to which he replied that he shared a business with his partner—a contractor, he was. 

You would never forget that initial interaction. The onyx of his hair tousled in a flawless way, matching the natural frown of his full eyebrows each time he watched you speak. 

He allowed you to ramble off with low hums of ’Mmm’, even with it being the first conversation between the two of you. And to be honest, it made you nervous. From the warm ivory of his complexion that was coated with tattoos, being so many that they traveled beneath the white tee he wore, to his frame that was tall, lean, and built—the cadence of his deep voice, a gruffness to his tone as a cigarette sunk between the side of his full lips—He was like no other. 

But you feigned an innocence he couldn’t pull from. The deep ginger curls draping around your freckled cheeks flushed as he spoke to you, round eyes beaming from beneath your lashes—you wore a cherry blossom within your tresses, pale pink mini dress clad around your curvy figure as you held textbooks beneath your arms. Your giggles, your smile, all those things made you like no other even more so. 

He wanted you. 

You both resided in New Orleans as his business was the most successful there, receiving a multitude of clients after Hurricane Katrina hit the city years before. Behind that scary demeanor was a man with wholehearted compassion—He helped others create their new homes after losing their old ones, becoming known as the most popular contractor along the Westbank. But of course, he had a little help along the way. 

He offered you a job as his business’ consultant manager, able to give feedback on their personal brand as contractors, as well as answering emails and phone calls—but here’s where the issue began. 

Onyankopon.

The first time meeting him was entirely friendly, even when his looks might’ve had your stomach do a flip. To the heavy New Orleans twang that slipped between a few creole words as he spoke to you, to the strength of his hand when he shook yours. The brown of his smooth skin complexion shined in cocoa butter, strident jaw clenching as he shook the small frame of your palm.

You’ little as hell, you remember him telling you. 

He was an extreme contrast to Toji—open faced grills within his mouth, teeth straight and white each time he smiled or laughed. His lips were a deep pink, full, kissabl—

Teeth. His teeth were nice.

Your eyes ran across the neatly braided cornrows, broad frame covered in tattoos that moved when he flexed his muscles. In that moment, he’d lifted his shirt to wipe the moisture of sweat from his forehead, goatee wafting a shea butter scent from the follicles—but you couldn’t even finish reading his body over, as your eyes fell right at the sculpt of his abs, Bible scriptures thumping across the flesh as he grunted from the heat of outside. And like an idiot, your reply was—

You have big hands. 

Yeah, you were fucked. 

Well, at first you weren’t. Onyankopon had been the best man in your wedding, constantly coming over to the house, even dozing off on the sofa as you laid a blanket over him. You and him had a good enough rapport with Toji being the common denominator—so the question was, why did you have the inkling to fuck him? 

This wasn’t cheating, right? 

Regardless of Toji and Onyankopon growing up together, they were extremely different—Toji was more aggressive, outspoken, able to soften his hard corners the minute he was with you. On the other hand, Onyankopon was sweet, observant, quiet, and stoic—he was the action, while Toji was the mouth piece. 

So back to the point—this definitely wasn’t cheating, right? 

Okay, but you loved your husband. He was there for you throughout all your highs and lows—He was patient, affectionate, hard-working, all the things you wanted within a man. He was the only man you’d ever been with—sexually, romantically—so you couldn’t understand why your brain was thinking about how big Onyankopon’s hands were—

Anyway, this was your husband’s fault. You couldn’t blame him for loving Onyankopon like a brother, but you could blame him for bringing him around more than he should have. He was like a villain to your origin story. Working out with the both of you at the gym, going out with you late at night, hanging around you just as much as your husband did. To make things worse? He was so. Damn. Nice. Opening the door for you, taking your hand as you needed to walk up the stairs, always asking how you felt throughout the day when your husband wasn’t able to do so. 

It’s not that you wanted him, per se. It was the mixture of both your husband and him within the same room, deep voices talking shit to one another, laughing, eyeing you as you walked past, made dinner, giggled shyly when they both called for your attention—you weren’t trying to make it obvious that he made you a little fuzzy, but the narrow of your husband's eyes might’ve said otherwise. 

Now? You were fucked. 

Here you were now, sitting along your miniature desk as you did emails during the business’ new project. Both men were working on a house within Uptown, a two story home where the family wanted an all white kitchen. You were in between phone calls and looking over shop drawings to make sure the infrastructure was to the family’s desires, claw clip within your curls as they draped in between your fingers, sighing as the paper work had you a bit tired. 

Your eyes wandered over to your husband standing on the opposite side of the room, ear leaning into the screen of his phone as he tugged construction gloves from his large palms—Onyankopon on the opposite side of him, plummeting his hammer into the wall above. You watched both men for a brief moment, as they both wore forest green long sleeves, tugging to the muscular frame of their shoulders and abdomen. 

When you heard the click of Toji’s lighter, your eyes rolled.

“Please don’t smoke in someone else’s house, Fushiguro.”

Of course, that natural frown appeared seconds later. Your husband’s eyebrows lowered, wrist knocking down as he shook off the ash collecting at the tip of his cigar. 

“‘Bout to go outside,” he grunts to you, “The wife said she wants white oak instead of maple for the counter.” 

Onyankopon hadn’t turned towards either of you, but he did stop his hammering. 

A low breath huffed from his lips as he grunted in return, “Why she ain’t say that shit earlier? I was finna’ get started on the window.” 

Toji releases a puff of smoke, “Husband said he’ll pay double.”

“That don’t’ make it any less work.”

Your husband’s grey eyes peered over his slightly irritated friend, a glint within them as he leaned forward, blowing smoke towards Onyankopon.

He now fully turned from where he stood, brown eyes stabbing every inch of Toji’s body—his low voice warns, “Chill out, nigga. You see I’m tryna’ figure out what I need to do.” 

Both men always had an interesting dynamic—one could be playful, while the other couldn’t be at all. It was always easy for Toji to rile up Onyankopon. 

“You’re mad ‘cause more money ‘bout to go in your pocket?” Toji raises an eyebrow, “Quit whinin’.”

Onyankopon turns to face the wall, hand holding onto the hammer, “Ain’t nobody whinin’. Stop talkin’ to me.” 

Toji glances back at you from the other side of the room, a wink being sent in your direction.

You roll your eyes at the both of them, “And where does she think we’re gonna find White Oak at nearly six in the afternoon?”

“She’s tryna’ change everything to white oak,” Toji clarified, “Countertops to white granite, cabinets to off white.”

That’s when Onyankopon tosses the hammer beside his boot. He crosses his arms to lean his back along the wall, face hard from this conversation. 

“She might as well do a whole new renovation,” he mutters. 

“You’ the only one complaining.”

“Don’t mean I ain’t right,” Onyankopon counters, “Shit don’t’ make sense. We got three more days before the contract is up, and now she on some’ HGTV bullshit.”

“‘Can’t complain if that’s what she wants.” 

Onyankopon turns towards you. 

“How’ you feelin’ about this?”

You blink at the question, not wanting to be in the middle of one of their usual disputes. You tug a ginger curl behind your ear, scrunching your nose to adjust the tip of your glasses. 

Your voice is soft, “Onyankopon’s right, baby. I think it’s a little late for changes in renovations when you’re already halfway done with the kitchen.”

You see your husband's jaw tighten at your confirmation, his back straightening as he glances between the two of you. Even if he didn’t agree, he had to understand his partner's point of view. 

“I hear both of you,” Toji glances at Onyankopon, “What you wanna’ tell them?” 

“Finish the current cabinet set up, make the kitchen white, and she can set another appointment if she wanna add other shit.”

You glance down to the paper beneath you, pen flicking beneath your fingers, “We still need more maple—think you can make it to Home Depot before they close?”

Toji gives a nod of approval, stomping on the butt of the cigar he was trying to finish, “I got it. Gonna’ head that way.” 

Onyankopon's eyebrows raise in surprise, “You goin’ by yo’self?”

“Why? You gonna’ kiss and make up with me now?”

Onyankopons’ eyes narrow, “Ain’t nobody kissin’ yo’ overgrown ass, nigga.” 

“You sound like a damn teenager.” 

“‘Cause I’m arguin’ with one.”

“Can you tell me you love me and stop arguing, please?” you tilt your head, “Come gimme’ some love.” 

The smallest smile might’ve found Toji’s mouth. 

“You want love?” His footsteps approach your desk, heavy on the wooden floor, “You want some love, huh?” 

His large hand runs up the length of your shoulder, fingers finding your neck as he pushes your chin up, “You hearin’ me?”

“Mhm,” you hum, pulling him lower by the bicep of his arm, “Don’t be long,” You rub your nose against his, “You love me?”

Toji brings his other hand to the other side of your neck, thumbs grazing your cheeks with that signature smirk on his lips, “You know I do.” 

He pulls your face towards his, gruff as he questions, “You like when I tell you that?” 

You’re met with the familiar taste of his mouth, tongue exploring yours as he sighs through his nose, hushing your small giggle through the kiss. 

“Aight,” Onyankopon interrupts, “Y’all know Home Depot finna’ close, huh?” 

Toji raises his middle finger in the direction of the other man, giving you a couple more pecks—his hand lingers along your neck when he turns back to his friend, “You’re still over there cryin’? Let me kiss my woman.”

He then stands to his full height, “‘Need anything from me before I leave, wifey?”  he sarcastically questions Onyankopon. 

Onyankopons’ eyes roll up in the direction of the ceiling, hand moving to rub the bridge of his nose.

 “Just gon’ head, Fushiguro.” 

“Have those emails ready for me,” He gives a kiss to your forehead, “Behave.”

He then extends back up once more, “Watch my woman for me, bastard.”

“I always do,” Onyankopon murmurs, “She’ good with me.”

And with that, the door closed.

You didn’t expect your husband to be gone for almost two hours. He wasn’t answering the phone, and the heat seeping into the home had you ready to call it quits. Your fingers were lazily typing across the keyboard, flickering up to Onyankopon every once in a while. 

You softly ask, “Did he text you back?”

Onyankopons’ brown eyes glance up from his own set of papers. 

“Nah,” he replies, “I called him, ain’t answer.” 

You pout your lips at the news, now knowing Toji was really taking his time. 

Onyankopon notices your face.

“He ain’t dead, shawty. Nigga prolly’ searchin’ for the best maple wood in all of New Orleans. He’d overwork himself before givin’ a bad service.”

The words make you smile a bit, knowing your husband just as much as he did.

You say, “I’m sorry. I just hate when he goes awol—I probably sound annoying.”

Onyankopon lets out a low chuckle, one that rumbles through the release of his chest. His attention was now on you instead of those papers, leaned forward in his chair. His shoulders seemed to expand in size. 

“Youn’ sound annoying, just worried,” He leans forward more, “He ain’t good at checkin’ the time when he be runnin’ errands.“

He looks back down at his work, a moment of silence passing before he glances up again.

“You ain’t hungry, are you?”

Your eyes find themselves back to his face, realizing how long you’d glance over his muscular frame.

“Hm?” You process the question, “Um—no, I’m fine. I don’t like to bother you guys about food while you’re working and I’m just sitting, y’know?” 

You adjust your glasses once more, “I’m fine, really.”

Onyankopon squinted his eyes in the direction of you, eyebrows cocking up when he asked, “You ain’t eat nothin’ today?” 

His voice was like honey. Sweet, with a deep rumble, and it didn’t help the fact that he was giving you his full attention. 

“You know you ain’t no bother to me. I can go grab you sum’.”

The thing was, you were hungry. Toji was sweet enough to have packed you a lunch earlier, one that you’d already scarfed down and hadn’t thought about until this moment. You weren’t sure why you couldn’t just say all that, but maybe it had to do with the way he looked at you.

Something him and your husband had in common—it was that damn glare they kept upon their faces, whether they were happy, upset, or just fixated on something. You hated to say that the sight had you shifting within your chair.

Your face flushes a bit, “I’m okay, Ony. Thank you.”

You might’ve been crazy. You swear you saw the corner of his mouth lifting at the nickname, but it happened too fast— it had to be a trick of the sunlight. 

“You sure?” 

The concern he displayed was always so pure, it made you wanna kill him.

You nod, “Promise. I’m just gonna finish my emails,” you nearly fumbled your words, “I have a couple more to do.”

“Youn’ gotta overwork yo’self, Mama. You can stop if you’ exhausted,” he gently adds, “Toji gon’ be out for a minute.” 

There was that look again, the one that felt deep within your body, like you were entirely naked in front of him. 

There was also the fact that your heart was pounding. It was either a heart attack, or you were going to spontaneously combust—

“You’ warm?” He questions, “You sweatin’.”

You quickly glance down your body, noticing the sheen of your skin. The soft yellow halter dress you wore hugged along your wide hips with the mixture of sweat—but nothing was worse when you realized your nipples seeping through the fabric up top. You weren’t even cold. 

You run your fingers through your hair, pulling your curls farther away from the back of your neck. You awkwardly giggle, “‘S just really hot in here.”

The corner of his mouth definitely twitched up that time, like he had an idea of what was happening to you right now. He probably didn’t. You hoped he didn’t. 

You could see the muscles of his arms flex when he shifted in his chair, fingers of his left hand scratching along his facial hair.

“It is,” he agrees, “Imma’ finish up this window.“

When he stands from his seat, you then hear, “You need me?” 

You blink, eyes flickering over him as your mouth goes dry, “Huh?”

“I said, you lemme’ know if you need anything, aight?”

You were losing it.

“Okay,” you force the most normal smile, “Got it.”

This had to be your personal hell. It might’ve been enjoyable for anyone else, but this was the worst thing you could’ve witnessed. You were trying to finish your work, but you found yourself…glancing above your computer.

Onyankopons’ hands were rough, strong with large palms as he held up the thick glass window, the muscles within his arms flexing from the power of it. A few beads of sweat fell within the crevasses of his chest, dripping down and soaking into his shirt, tight from how it stretched across his body. His dark brows were focused, tongue running across his lips as his jaw was set, feet were slightly spread apart, stance strong—God, he was so strong. 

His hair was braided back, sweat beading and traveling down his temples, face focused on the work in front of him. He gave a loud huff as he nailed in the window frame, face scowling as his biceps flexed. 

Lord Jesus. 

But oh, you must’ve been in the seventh ring of hell when he tugged that shirt off of his body. He’d begun playing music to keep himself distracted, but if only he knew. 

The tattoos that lined his arms and chest were now on full display, shiny with the sweat. His chest and abs flexed from the work of lifting heavy objects, the thick length of his tatted neck and shoulders flexing from the movements. 

And then, so attractively, he rolled his neck back, grunting as he lifted the weight of the glass once more. 

You felt dizzy.

Your cheeks flushed as you watched him, eyes staring almost dreamily. There was nothing more attractive than a man working hard, sweat pouring down his body as he pushed his strength to the limits. It made you—imagine things. Your body throbbed at your thoughts, a small frown coming between your lips at the sight. 

But that frown quickly erased, as your heart nearly dropped into your ass the moment you heard the door unlock. You hiked your body up to the perfect sitting position, scattering your fingers for your pen as you scribbled random words along the bottom of your papers. 

You couldn’t even look in Toji’s direction.

Your husband could’ve called out your name, but you still wouldn’t have looked over. So when Toji appeared beside your desk, his strong arm draping over your shoulders, the weight nearly startled you.

“Babydoll,” he rasped, “What’s goin’ on? You need some water?”

Your eyes glanced at Onyankopon. 

Kissing Toji’s jaw, your face flushed as you deflected, “The Louisiana heat is dire—what took you so long, baby?”

Toji’s eyebrows quirked up at your sudden affection, catching the tense in your body. However, being your easily distracted husband, he loved when you wanted to be on him. His hands rubbed over your arms, attempting to soothe you a bit.

“The closest Home Depot didn’t have the wood in stock,” he murmured, “Damn near traveled the entire state.”

Your hips had always been your sensitive spot, lower body shivering a bit as he began to rub there. You found yourself wanting to hold his face, tugging his body to be closer as you told him, “‘Missed you, Toji.”

His grip was light, a thumb brushing along the curve of one of your eyebrows. 

“Yeah?” he murmured back. 

He noticed the way you tried to look elsewhere. 

His fingers came to grip beneath your chin, gently forcing your attention back to him. 

“Eyes,” he reminded, “Need em’ here.” 

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

“I’m just a little tired,” you found something to say, your hands rubbing at the smoothness of his jaw, rubbing his neck, rubbing everywhere to distract him.

Toji leaned into your touch, but not much. It made your heart beat more. 

“You sure that’s the only thing?”

You nod, “Mhm.”

His frown flickers your face once more, but the warmth of your palms was all too soothing. His mouth grunted along your throat, “Missed you too,” kissing pecks along the warm flesh. Your fingers sunk into his hair as you giggled a bit, leaning your head back for him to keep his affection going. But in that moment, your eyes might’ve glanced at Onyankopon once more. 

If only you’d realized that your husband noticed.

Finishing off the night was another hour later as you’d both said your goodbyes to Onyankopon, quickly making it home to wash off the heat of the day. You sat in the vanity your husband had built for you, angels carved within the gold trim of the mirror, lights attached to the surface below to do your skincare or makeup. 

As your husband was within the shower, your mind wandered. You’d hoped today’s little hiccup was a spur of the moment, and that you’d become a bit delirious from the heat. However, you still thought about the way Onyankopon looked at you, and something in that still had your thighs squeezing together.

“Kawaī on’nanoko.”

Pretty girl.

You hear your husband call for your attention, the bathroom door opening to reveal him within a towel—it hangs low on his muscular hips, abs sweltering in water, upper body flexing as he dries the damp of his hair. 

“You finished up those emails earlier?”

Shit. 

The tips of your fingers swiped along your cheek with oil, your eyes briefly finding his as you replied, “Um—No, I didn’t.”

Toji raised an eyebrow in your direction, not used to hearing your denial of finished work.

“What happened?”

Your body shivered under the intensity of his gaze, the heat of the shower steam slowly crawling into the room. 

“Got distracted with a couple of phone calls,” was your lie, “Want me to finish them before bed?”

“You seem distracted now,” he points out, “‘Can barely make eye contact with me.”

“You’re the most handsome man in the world,” you hum, “What can I say?”

Toji huffs a chuckle.

His gaze still hardened on you, studying you with those all-seeing eyes of his. You kept your head turned, face flushing again, fingers moving along your facial products as you pretended not to feel it. 

“Let me ask you somethin’.”

Your heart immediately started beating, turning towards him with raised eyebrows. 

You tug a curl behind your ear, “Yeah?” 

Toji leaned his hip along the edge of the sink, towering over you even with feet away.

“How you feelin’ ‘bout Onyankopon?” he flatly questions, “You like him?” 

Your eyes blink at the question. You tilt your head, “You’ve been friends for years. Why wouldn’t I?”

Toji lets a low hum escape his chest, biceps flexing from the position. 

“Is that what I asked?” 

You tried to keep your expression neutral. 

“What are you asking, then?”

“To be honest with me.” 

Onyankopon wasn’t a topic Toji treaded lightly on, especially when it concerned you. He wasn’t a possessive man by any means, but any question he asked, he wanted the truth. 

He repeats, “You like him?” 

“I don’t—“ you went to argue, but his eyes stopped you.

So you try again. 

“That’s a bit of a weird question to ask, Fushiguro.”

His face twitched. His eyes, however, kept you in a hold. 

“Nah,” he disagreed, “It ain’t.” 

You sat there quietly, thinking about lying like you’d been doing all day. But the guilt of lying to him felt too heavy in your chest to keep doing. 

So, with the slightest of hesitance, you softly admitted, “I do.” 

You then follow up with, “But it’s not—like that.”

“Make me understand.”

You shifted in your chair, legs crossing as you attempted to keep your gaze from drifting. 

You replied, “I don’t like him in a romantic way. I just—“

Your teeth scrape at your lip a bit, “It’s just a little fantasy, you know? That’s all. I would never act on any of my emotions, Toji. You know that.” 

His expression was unreadable. 

“You know that, right?” 

You wanted that confirmation, swallowing hard. Toji studied you, jaw shifting in the silence that fell. 

You then added, “You’re the one I married.” 

“That don’t’ answer my next question.” 

“Which is?”

“Your fantasy. Talk me through it.” 

Your mouth parts to speak, but no words escape you. 

“What?”

“Tell me about your fantasy,” Toji repeated, “Don’t act like you don’t understand what I’m askin’ you.”

You felt heat creep back up your body, your cheeks practically on fire. 

“There’s nothing to tell, baby. It’s—silly.” 

Toji’s jaw ticked. 

“You think I’m mad at you?”

You question, “Are you?” 

“I’m not. Shit ain’t silly if you’re flustered like this.”

He then repeats, “Tell me.” 

You swallowed, fiddling with your manicured fingers. 

“‘Promise you won’t be mad?” 

He huffs, “I just told you I wasn’t, babydoll. C’mon.” 

Your legs moved together awkwardly, fingers still a fiddling mess. 

“When I see the two of you being together, working, or just—doing stuff, I imagine…”

Toji waited, watching you fidget. 

“Sexual stuff, Y’know? My mind just gets a little dirty.”

“You think ‘bout him fuckin’ you?”

“Toji.”

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

“Fushiguro!” you squeaked, “Jesus, no. I think about the both of you,” you clarify, “That’s all!” 

You stand from the chair, going over to lightly wrap your arms around his neck—you’re breathless as you whimper, “Shitsumon suru no wa yamete kudasai. It’s a stupid thing, okay? I love you. I’d never do anything with anyone else.” 

“Is that somethin’ you want?”

“What?” you frown, “What do you mean?”

“You want me and him? You wanna take that?” 

You knock your head into his chest, throwing your hands over your face as you squeak again, “Baby!”

The corner of Toji’s mouth lifted with amusement.

“I’m just askin’ a question.”

You felt mortified.

You were stubborn in keeping your face covered, muttering out, “No, Fushiguro. Please. Stop.”

You could feel his chuckle against your head, deep within his chest as his arms wrapped around your waist. 

“You’re so shy, woman.” 

“You’re insane,” you murmur, heart thumping in your chest, “Why aren’t you mad? How aren’t you mad?”

“Don’t really have anythin’ to be mad ‘bout,” Toji murmured, squeezing at your waist, “You like the idea of it; ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.” 

“I feel insane,” You reply.

“Shit is kinda’ cute, honestly.” 

“Toji,” You smack his bicep, “Stop.”

“Ouch.”

 His hands gripped at the full flesh of your ass, forcing you to hold around his neck as he lifted you onto the sink’s countertop.

“You done with your lil’ tantrum?” 

You roll your eyes, “My husband is tryna’ have me admit that I want a threesome with him and his best friend. I think my reaction is pretty valid.”

His lips brushed up your neck, voice deep, gruff with his reply, “Ain’t nobody said nothin’ ‘bout all that, huh?” Your legs hooking at either side of his hips, holding him between the warmth of your thighs.

“Can we stop talking about this?” you question, “Why can’t you just say I’m pretty and that you love me? Why do you have to make my life harder?”

He smirked at your complaint. He then responded with, “I think you’re the prettiest thing in the South; you know that.”

His strong hands were already tugging the fabric of your night gown, palming at the soft flesh up your thigh. You grip at his hair, fingers twisting within it.

“You know I love you so damn much,” he grunts, nose running along the curve of your neck, “You’re mine.” 

You pucker your lips out, awaiting a kiss.

Toji gives you what you want, of course. He groaned from the sensation of you tugging down on his bottom lip, sucking on it with a pop as he pulled away.

You run your tongue along your lips as you giggle, “‘Mkay. I love you too, all is forgiven.” 

You then sigh, “Wanna go to bed? Get a little—freaky?” you playfully wiggle your brows. 

“Yeah. Lemme’ call up Onyankopon first—“

You smack his chest again.

The next couple of days were better than you imagined. It was a resting period, both you and Toji spending most of your time sleeping, cuddling, watching shows, and overall rejuvenating one another in preparation for work the next week. 

Your time off had gotten infinitely better when your husband received a phone call from a client within the Garden District—who he thought wasn’t interested in his services—but when he offered triple Toji and Onyankopon’s pay rate, it seemed otherwise. You whisper screamed as you jumped on the bed above him, your feet thumping on either side of his legs as he talked business, watching as he tried to hold off his chuckle. 

Here’s when things got weird. Later that morning, Onyankopon planned to come over for a football game, as you’d also agreed to cook in celebration of your big contract coming up. It was a usual routine—football, gym, coming back home to cook. 

But something about today’s routine felt…different. 

Toji and Onyankopon. The combination of the two was something you could usually handle, but when you came downstairs that morning for coffee, you felt an energy coming off of them. You were usually comfortable in their company. Toji was his rough, crass self, but nonetheless a loving husband. And then there was Onyankapon, who was usually the sweetheart. 

But now, you felt as if their attitudes had shifted. They’d been quiet and watchful since you’d entered the kitchen, eyes following your every single move. That’s when you realize—they were watching you like you were their prey.

“Good morning?” 

Your voice was sweet, nervous. You waved as if they weren’t ten feet away.

Both men replied with their own version of a greeting, their eyes locked on your form as you moved to grab a cup of coffee. You could feel the heat of their stares. 

It was almost—too silent.

If that wasn’t weird, this definitely was. The energy picked up around the afternoon, both men gulping down a beer together as their low tones barked at the television, watching the game at its peak. You’d finished up with those emails you were supposed to finalize, snuggling yourself into your husband as you leaned your upper body into his, Onyankopon beside you while continuously watching the game. Your eyes were a bit droopy as you weren’t as interested, sinking your face deeper into Toji’s abdomen. And that’s when it happened—you felt Onyankopon graze his fingers along your hip as he spoke to your husband about the game. Your eyes went wide.

Onyankopon’s voice was gruff from grunting and the consumption of beer, but his fingers were steady as ever against your skin. Both men were locked onto the screen as if your reaction was nothing important—All the while, you felt your heart thumping under your rib cage. 

Your clit throbbed. 

Then, it was your husband's turn. Toji’s hand was a stark contrast to Onyankopon’s; rough, large, calloused, and much thicker. His fingers cladded onto your ass, pulling your body back so you were nestled further between the two. 

“You think LSU’s gonna’ make an upset today?”

“Ain’t no way them’ niggas beatin’ Georgia,” Onyankopon shook his head, “I’m reppin’ my state, but they’ be drawlin’.” 

“You always goin’ too hard for the opposition,” Toji countered, “Gotta’ be more confident in the home team.”

“You ain’t even from Louisiana,” Onyankopon sucked his teeth, “Why you defendin’ niggas like they’ payin’ you to say allat’?” 

“I ‘been here for sixteen years now. Chill.” 

They’re both touching. Again.

Your heart felt as if it was being squeezed between two giant fingers. You’d tried so hard to keep your focus on the game, but Onyankopon shifted forward in his seat, leaning more of his body closer to your ass. Toji shifted his legs apart, forcing you to lean a bit more onto Onyankopon.

Your heart palpitated. 

“You wanna’ go against this bet or not?”

Onyankopon was still rubbing at your hip. He grunted at Toji’s response, “Don’t get yo’ ass beat.” 

“Beat this bet, Pussy.” 

“Who’ the pussy?” 

“I’d say the man who’s ‘bouta lose fifty dollars.” 

Your ass was right on top of Onyankopon’s thigh at this point.

You inhaled a shaky breath, feeling a bit dizzy at the scent of them. Toji smelled like nature; earthy, woodsy. Onyankopon, however, smelled like musk and some type of cologne. You weren’t sure which one you liked more, their argument now completely muffled to your ears. 

They were trying to kill you.

Maybe it didn’t actually happen that way. Your mind fed on those delusions as you stood within the gym later that day, zoning out each time you waited to do your rep behind both men. You’d always worked out with them, learning different techniques that left your body sore afterwards—but once again, today was different. 

They were both rough with their work outs, grunting whenever they’d throw down a set of weights. Chests’ heaving, sweat collecting—they were sexy. But today, the attention was on you.

The way Onyankopons’ fingers would graze over your waist as he helped you with your sets, how Toji’s hand smacked your ass as you walked past—You couldn’t handle them.

It all led into the night. Once everyone was refreshed and showered, you were within the kitchen cooking one of their favorite meals—steak, loaded potatoes and broccoli. You were comforted by the candles lit along the house, a glass of wine easing your nerves from the entire day. Your ginger curls draped around your face and past your hips, pale yellow halter top and matching capris hugging the fat of your ass, frilly sock beneath your golden heels to match the jewelry on your caramel skin. You were currently seasoning your steak, eyes briefly flickering to the patio door halfway open as both men smoked a blunt together. You watched them.

Toji was dressed in those loose, dark cargos that hung off of his hips for dear life, a white tee stretched to its limit across his biceps and over the chest. Onyankopons’ pants were black, and his shirt was navy blue. They're both huge. 

A slight breeze drifted through the cracked patio door, blowing into the house and mixing with the scents of Toji’s—and now their—smoke.

Their shoulders flexed as they passed the blunt back and forth, laughter and low conversation heard through the glass. They were both so handsome, so attractive, so rough compared to you.

Your eyes briefly met theirs from the doorway, Toji’s eyes that dark grey, Onyankopons’ a lighter brown. 

They were looking at you. No other way to describe it. They were looking at you. 

The sight made you a bit wobbly. Nonetheless, you waved through the window at the two, dimple poking with the soft smile you gave them.

Your husbands’ fingers rubbed at his jaw while Onyankopon cracked a smirk, waving back at you in return. 

Okay.

When they made it back inside, you were in the middle of cutting your potatoes up—you hummed, “Everything okay?”

Toji’s gaze was focused on your hands as you chopped the vegetables, but it eventually flickered to your face as he replied, "Good, just missed you out there.”

Onyankopons’ head tilted your direction too, eyes scanning you from head to toe, “You look good,” He complimented, voice raspy. 

You blushed at his compliment. Accepting the kiss Toji gave along your cheek, you’re distracted as he tugs his finger through your curls—you giggle a bit, “Just wanted to look pretty for tonight—you guys look nice too,” you turn your face to kiss at your husbands lips, “You guys hungry?”

Toji leaned in for another kiss, sucking your lower lip between his teeth as he multiplied his pecks. You rubbed your fingers along his shoulder, turning your face up for his mouth to find your jaw. You weren’t used to your husband giving this kind of affection in front of his friend. 

“Starvin’,” Toji grunted. 

Onyankopons’ eyes stayed on you, tongue running along those full lips of his, “You always lookin’ pretty, Mama. You know that?” 

The pet name made your thighs want to clench.

“Um—“ you giggled once more, holding Toji’s jaw to keep him in place, “Thank you, Ony. I should be done with dinner soon, okay?”

“Don’t take too long,” Toji murmured along your neck, “Can’t keep my mouth off’ you.” 

His hand smacked the fuller portion of your ass, sending it jiggling beneath your capris. 

Onyankopons’ tongue ran along his lips, “Aight. I’m waitin’ on you, girl.”

That sentence weighed in your chest.

Toji went upstairs to find another lighter, leaving the two of you downstairs—alone. You hummed the low instrumentals of your music, beginning to slice the stems of your broccoli. You gave Onyankopon a small smile as his eyes found yours every so often, tugging your hair out of your face as a way to distract how anxious you felt.  

You softly ask, “How’d you spend your days off?”

Onyankopons’ eyes followed the movement of your fingers through your hair, watching the way your neck exposed when you threw it back. His arms folded over his chest, the veins within his forearms prominent from the action. 

“Shit was aight,” he replied evenly, “‘Nigga just caught up on some sleep. You?”

You hummed, attempting to look for another cutting board, “We caught up on a couple of shows, cuddled; mushy shit that married couples do.”

You then ask, “How ‘you feel about the contract in the Garden District?” 

The corner of Onyankopons’ mouth twitched with a small smile, eyes lingering on the way your hips shifted.

“Feels good to have contracts comin’ left and right,” he replied, “Blessed, essentially. Y’all’ been on my ass since the last project, so I’m ready to start sum’ new.”

You turn your head towards him, hair draping over your shoulder. Your eyes rolled as you mused, “Y’know it’s not like that, Onyankopon. Toji is just—despite the things clients ask for, he wants to go above and beyond that. Not saying you don’t, he’s just—particular, you know?”

Onyankopons’ eyes were practically glued to you as he replied, “Yeah, nah, I ain’t mean it like that. I know how Toji gets, that’s just part of the process,” His head cocked, “He just get’ too caught up sometimes.” 

Onyankopons’ eyebrows then lifted, “How you’ be puttin’ up wit’ him?”

“The same way you do,” you softly giggle, “We both love him. It’s a thing we seem to have in common.”

He chuckled in return, your attention moving back to finish cutting your broccoli. After a few moments of silence, your eyes flick back up to him—you call, “Ony?”

You think on your words.

“I just wanted to say—thank you, for being such a good friend to him. He doesn’t have anyone in his life outside of me, and having such amazing emotional support like you, he’s happier when you’re around. It means the world.”

Onyankopons’ expression changed with the way your voice softened. Something warm, comfortable, almost intimate coming from the way you talked about his friend. His best friend for that matter. 

His voice was softer in reply, “Of course, Mama. Toji’s family to me—A nigga like me couldn’t ask for a better person to have in his corner.”

After a moment, he then questions, “What ‘bout you?” 

You blink at the question, “What about me?” 

“You’ happy to have me around?”

The question makes your heart thump. 

You exhale, “I’m always happy to have you around, Ony. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Ion’ make you feel no type of way?” 

You blink. 

“Of course not.”

There was something about his tone that made your nerves tighten. The way he looked at you was different from the way Toji did, but it had your heart thumping the same. 

“No,” you reply, “You’ve been nothing but sweet to me since day one.” 

He spread his legs a bit, abdomen flexing as he did so. 

Onyankopons’ head tilted, “Just sweet?”

You swallowed, nodding. 

“Yeah.” 

His fingers flexed as they rested in his lap. You turned your back to him, beginning to cut the remaining broccoli. 

“Nothin’ else?” 

Your neck prickled at the way his voice dropped. 

You shook your head, keeping your eyes locked below. But that’s when you hear—

“I see how you be lookin’ at me, girl.” 

Your hands clenched around the knife. 

When your eyes find his, that’s when your body tensed—your hands quickly dropped the knife as you felt a slice along your index finger. You held your hand towards your body, scrunching your face at the discomfort. 

Onyankopons’ chair made an obnoxious noise as he shot up from his seat—It seemed he was across the room in a second, towering over your body as he took hold of your injured hand. His palms were large, long fingers circling all the way to your wrist as he assessed the wound. 

“I—I wasn’t paying attention,” You murmured, “I got distracted. You—“

And then, he’s sucking.

Your eyes widened as Onyankopons’ lips engulfed the wound on your index finger, tongue licking the area with zero hesitance. It was the last thing you expected him to do. 

“Ony—“

“‘Gotta be more careful, Mama.” 

His tongue runs across his mouth as he pulls back, as if savoring the taste of you. Your lips parted, your chest heaving as his lips loomed along yours. 

“You got a taste on you, girl.”

You could’ve died right there. That’s when you hear the heavy thumps of your husband coming downstairs, your face hot as he eyes the two of you in closer vicinity. 

He questions, “You good, baby? What happened?”

You felt dizzy under both of their heavy gazes. You swallowed again, nodding.

“She cut her finger,” Onyankopon replied evenly, “She wasn’t payin’ attention.” 

And as both men conversed normally after that, that’s when you realized—they were in fact trying to get you. 

Your mind was elsewhere during dinner. The wine had your brain fuzzy, keeping yourself quiet as you watched both men talk shit between one another, per usual. Everything up in this moment began to click—the day you watched Onyankopon, the conversation with Toji, the weird interactions between the two all day—at this point, you were just waiting for something to happen. 

“Yo’, you remember when we went into that adult store up on Bourbon street? Niggas was weird,” Onyankopon chuckled, “Never went back after that.” 

Toji huffed, nodding in agreement, “Dude was tellin’ us ‘bout wantin’ to be a dog. I’m not judgin’, but I didn’t wanna hear all that.” 

Both men laughed. Your fingers tapped against your glass nervously. 

Toji then turns, “We went to one a couple years ago, huh, babydoll?”

You blink at Toji’s words, snapping out of your thoughts when your husband addresses you. 

“Yeah,” you laugh a bit, “Yeah, we did.”

Toji chuckled once more, “We were in there for hours.” 

Your eyes widened, “We were not in there for that long!” 

Onyankopons’ head tilted, “What were y’all doin’ in there, applyin’ for the job?” 

You roll your eyes, “Funny, but no. I just wanted to find a—“

You pause, “You don’t wanna hear all that,” you shook your head, “It’s a little TMI.” 

Onyankopon raised an eyebrow. 

“Try me. I ain’t gon’ freak out.”

You eyed him once more. Sitting up in your seat, your throat clears as you fiddled with the stem of your glass. 

“I was just—browsing,” you giggle, “I was looking for a dildo, but the ones they had were a little too big for me. Like, seven or eight inches.” 

Both men stared. Their expressions stayed the same—but you could see in their eyes that there was a shift. Toji’s eyes darkened, while Onyankopons’ jaw flexed a bit. 

And then, Onyankopon chuckles. 

It sends a chill through your spine, one where you didn’t understand what was exactly funny. Your eyes run across him the same way you did a couple days ago—cornrows, strident face, full goatee. You almost missed his next set of words as he looked to Toji.

“She ain’t gon’ be able to fit me.” 

You felt your entire body freeze. 

Toji’s jaw clicked in return, “Nah, she will. She be takin’ my shit real good now.” 

Were you going into shock?

You could’ve melted into the chair. 

Toji murmured, “My pretty ass woman. Always so shy.” 

“She’ more than shy,” Onyankopon murmured in return, his tone low, “Ain’t that right, pretty girl?” 

Your body felt like it was about to light on fire from the inside out. 

“I—“

“What’s wrong, Mama?” Onyankopon questions, “Youn’ want me no’ more?” 

Your mouth dropped open. 

Toji grunted, “Words, baby. We need to hear you.” 

And there it was. The arousal in your body ignited like a flame in that very second, becoming wet. You looked between the both of them, and suddenly, you were trying desperately not to break.

“Toji,”  you pouted, “I—“

“Nuh-uh,” Toji clicked his teeth, “We don’t pout. You gotta’ speak up, don’t you?” 

His gaze was intense, his lips slightly upturning as he watched you flounder around yourself. You had never felt so vulnerable in your life as both men’s eyes kept you on lock—no escape. 

Onyankopon gave a low groan in return, “Use your words, Mama. I love hearin’ that voice.” 

Your chest rose and fell faster, feeling like you wanted to rip your skin off. 

Moral to the story? You were absolutely, positively fucked.

Your round eyes stared from above, fluttering between two looming frames that glared back down at you—the difference now? They were naked, and so were you. Your palms covered the swell of your nipples, ginger curls  draping over your curvy body in a way that almost made you look otherworldly. You chewed at your baby pink lips, horny, curious.

They were so big. 

Even within the bedroom, both men shared many differences—Onyankopons’ dick was massive, thick and veined at the top, long from the base. The complexion of his skin was beautiful and even, all the way down to his deep pink tip. Toji’s, however, was a bit more manageable—he wasn’t as wide, but was about a bit longer, his tip a softer pink as his chest rose and fell in a harsh manner, watching you. 

“Show how pretty your shit is, baby.”

Toji’s voice. It echoes in your mind, low, gruff, and rumbling. 

But that didn’t keep you from listening—even if you were a bit shy. Your back perfectly arches lower onto the bed, cheek pressed into the sheets as you spread your pussy open—your folds were in fact pretty, rougè, glistening beneath the dim lights of the room.

“There we go,” Onyankopons murmured, fingers moving to grip at the full bottom of your thighs. When he spanked there, your body trembled in return, folds clenching around nothing. 

“Look how muhfuckin’ pretty you are.”

You whimpered into the sheets. Toji gave a low grunt of his own, hand coming up to grip at your other thigh harshly, spreading you open more for them to see, “Fuckin’ hell, baby.”

Your back arched lower at the feel of your husband, stomach pressed into the mattress as your body quivered. 

That’s when you felt a thick, heat prodding at your entrance. He’s slapping his tip on your folds.

You clenched once more—your nerves were on fire from just the sensation alone, feeling of his thick, slick head smacking down. 

“Which one’ you feelin’, huh?”

“Toji,” you whimpered quickly, “Feel you, baby.”

“Just me,” Toji rasped, “Always mine. Ain’t she?”

Onyankopons’ voice was behind you, “Yours entirely.” 

You felt your back stiffen to keep in the mewl you were about to let out—your eyes continuously fluttered, cheek still smashed against the sheets. 

“Now you listenin’,”  Toji murmured, “All good girls do that, huh?” 

Onyankopon chuckled behind you; the bed shifted as he spread you even further. 

“C’mere. Show me some love,” your husband husked. 

That's why it was your favorite term—it was something you both used, as you either wanted the sweetest affection possible—or he was planning to rut his dick at the back of your throat. Your body was still shivering as you turned, your teeth grazing over your bottom lip as his hand found your chin. 

Your round eyes glaze up, “Lemme’ have a kiss, baby.” 

His thumb swiped over your mouth, pulling your bottom lip with him as he watched your lips pucker, waiting for him to meet you. 

“Just pretty as hell.” 

His lips touched yours for a second, his tongue sliding inside your mouth to taste you. You returned the kiss, sliding your tongue around his mouth messily, panting when you pulled back—it made you throb everywhere, your mouth then lowering itself to latch onto the edge of his tip. The scent of him, the flex of his pelvic bone, you moan against him, sliding your fingers across his muscular abdomen.

“I know you’re excited baby—watch them’ teeth,” He growled, his head tilting back as the grip in your hair yanked your head further down his length, “Careful.” 

You moaned around Toji’s dick once more, taking him just a little bit deeper into the confines of your mouth as he huffed. You could barely get halfway, your hands moving from his abdomen to rest on his muscular thighs, nails biting into his skin as his fingers kept you moving, the schluck of your mouth already creating a sound within the room. Your eyes cast to Onyankopon who watches, keeping his palm steady around his own dick, vision narrowing at the sight. 

A string of saliva follows your full lips, your mouth pulling halfway off as your fingers wrap at the base of him, rotating your palm. Your voice, it’s higher in this scenario—your curls drape your body as you mewled, “Didn’t mean to hurt you, Daddy.”

Toji’s chest rumbled with a low chuckle, his hands gripping at your hair as you ran your tongue across his slit, spreading pre-cum across his tip before your mouth sucks, “You’re fine, baby. ‘Know you ain’t mean it.”

Toji then grunts, his face twisted back in pure pleasure, “Wanna’ see that pretty face a lil’ more.” 

His other hand came down to grip along the side of your cheek, running his thumb along your jaw, “Tongue out. Show me how good my girl is.”

You didn’t hesitate to do as you were told, your mouth sliding backwards off of his length, tongue poking out to press just below his head. 

Toji groaned, “Shit.” 

 You moaned in return, the sound muffling around him as your eyes locked on his. Your husband wasn’t always the most vocal man, letting you do most of the talking in bed—but to see how elated you were to have an audience, Toji let out a deep moan once you began to take him again, sliding him all the way to the back of your throat. 

His hips pushed forward, slapping up against your chin as your mouth worked him—You looked up from beneath your eyelashes, eyes growing watery with the back of his tip hitting your throat. Your eyes found Onyankopon’s again, giving him a show.

Onyankopon’s jaw clicked at the sight.

 Toji’s hands grip onto you, his face almost vicious in the look he gives. His voice came out in a hiss, “She ain’t stoppin’ no time soon.” 

Onyankopon grunts at Toji’s words, the veins in his hands becoming more visible, “You’ doin’ a good job, girl—shit.”

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

All you could do under his grip was moan, nodding your head through its back and forth.

“I’m watchin’,” Onyankopons 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 Toji continued to move your head with his strong, large hands. 

He grunted through his teeth, “She gettin’ better?” 

“Yeah. Her mouth’ good as hell—I’m tryna’ feel that shit.”

Onyankopon wags his dick beneath his palm, “You gon’ let me?” 

That’s when you slow your movements—your eyes peer back to the heft of his length, nearly the size of a monster you weren’t sure you could manage. At the same time, there was a slight hesitance in your eyes—simply because of who he was to you, and the last thing you wanted was to make your husband jealous. 

Your lips swelled as you ran your tongue against them, eyes flickering up to Toji—your voice is soft, “Can I?” 

Toji’s face flickered with something, but it quickly smoothed once he met Onyankopon’s dark eyes. A moment passed between them—a beat, or maybe two—your husband inhaled then exhaled, his features smirking slightly as he gave a single nod, “Go ‘head.”

“I love you,” you moan, sliding your tongue across Toji’s tip once more, “So much.” 

It was a reassurance for him. 

“I know you do,” Toji replied gruffly, his grip in your hair slackening once you move towards Onyankopons’ now exerted dick—it nearly covers your entire face. You tugged at your lip once more, eyes eagerly facing up to him.

Your fingers didn’t even wrap around him all the way.

Your hands come up to grip at the flesh of his quads, fingers digging into his skin as you flattened your tongue over the sides of Onyankopons’ dick, “Gon’ make me feel good, Mama? This what you been wantin’?” 

You nod eagerly, feeling the way it twitched against your face. It jumped, too.

Your eyes widened. Your mouth was almost too small, or he was too thick. You moaned around his tip, sucking through the immediate fullness of your cheeks. Somehow, this felt rewarding.

You bobbed your head once, twice—He groans, his hands twitching against his thighs as he lets you try and take him, “There you go—that fuckin’ mouth.” 

Onyankopon gritted his teeth; your tongue continued to slide up and down his length, sucking and swirling at his tip, wanting all of him in your mouth. Toji watched you, and he noticed something—the way your eyes rolled, as if this was in fact all you wanted. You were nastier, sloppier with the man opposite of him.

You moaned around his head, loudly, and Toji’s jaw clicked. You were careless—filthier with Onyankopon. 

“Keep talkin’ to her,” Toji grunts, “That’s the shit she likes.”

Onyankopons’ hands finally settled on both sides of your throat, a rough grip on your chin with his thumbs—he moaned heavily, eyes flickering down towards you, “Pretty ass face, Mama. You suckin’ me up like a fuckin’ pro.” 

You moaned in response, “Tastes so good.” 

“Keep takin’ that shit, baby.” 

Toji’s voice was all around you. 

Onyankopon pushed his hips forward, a small shlupp was heard as you gagged. His fingers pressed against your cheek, feeling the curve of your stuffed mouth when he ran his thumb over the flesh, “Yeah? How it’ look?” 

Without a second to waste, you let his tip pop out of your mouth, tongue poking out as you moaned, “‘Look so good. So handsome, Papa.” 

You could hear him growl at the pet name, your face becoming more of a mess from how spit dripped over your chin. You were in a daze.

“Look in her eyes,” Toji instructs, “Look into them when you speak, too.” 

Onyankopons’ eyes flicker down to meet your own once more,  “Like that?” 

You nod eagerly, lips swollen and puffy as you nod, “Mhm.” 

“Always keep them’ eyes on her.” 

Onyankopons’ mouth twitched into a smirk. They were brown; dark, a color you could get lost in if you looked long enough. They were bright despite the dimness of the room, holding nothing else but you. 

His grip on your face got tighter as you slid your mouth back onto his length. You moaned again, feeling so full, “So big, Ony.” 

You were becoming confident, a point you hit when you were so horny that it made you delirious—here it was. The sight of you was blinding—your mouth was engorged with the space of his dick, cheeks bulging as your eyes rolled shut blissfully. That's when you tugged Onyankopon from your mouth, tongue lolling out as you mewled, “Spit on it.” 

And he did—he lowered his mouth, dropping saliva between your lips—he found himself kissing you seconds later, feigning to taste you. It was good, so good. Your body rose up to press against his as your fingers found his shoulders, nails digging into the skin as you moved forward on your knees to get closer to him, your head tilting further back so he could slide his tongue into your mouth. You sucked each other’s lips. 

That’s when it happens—when you lower back down to find the fat of Onyankopon’s dick, you slap it on your tongue so loudly that it echoes—Toji grunts in an irritation, “Don’t be fuckin’ cute.” 

You giggled, running your tongue over Onyankopon’s length, sucking his balls into your mouth. 

“Just wanted to taste him, Daddy.” 

Onyankopon darkly chuckled. 

That's when you hear Toji’s, “Yeah?”

He grunts, “Quit playing. Lay on your back, miss your pussy in my mouth.”

Onyankopons’ voice cut through the room, “Lay that ass down.” 

At both of their commands, you listen. Your heart thumped within your chest as your back made contact with the bed—you hear Toji’s, “Come hold her legs—she be runnin’ from my mouth,” he grunts.

You whimper, “Sensitive, baby.”

Regardless, Onyankopon was behind your head—he hovered over to pull your legs back, holding you by your ankles as he spread you apart.

Your fingers were already sinking in your husband's hair below, clenching the tresses between your fingers—his tongue spread across your folds, sliding saliva all across the flesh. 

Toji groaned as he felt your legs already trembling, your eyes rolling as Onyankopon kept your legs open. You tug at your lower lip, voice high pitched, “F—fuck, baby. Missed your mouth so much.”

“‘Taste’s so good.” 

You moaned in response, writhing—you were more sensitive as his tongue slipped against your clit, swirling around it in slow motions. Your chest rose and fell, feeling the heat of both men’s touch. You whimpered again, hips wriggling under the pressure of Toji’s hands over your pelvis, “Toji,” you moaned, “Ooh.” 

He warned against your folds, “Stop movin’.” 

Onyankopons’ grip on your ankles was borderline bruising, his dark eyes flickering down to watch how Toji’s mouth lapped at you. Each time you moved, he spread your ankles even farther.

“Look at the way he just in yo’ pussy,” Onyankopon grunts in your ear, “Bouta’ have a nigga drownin’ in yo’ shit.”

Your thighs trembled like crazy at the sounds your pussy made, almost as if Toji were blowing bubbles across the flesh. You pouted beneath yourself, “Fuck,” you mewl, “That feels so good.”

Toji’s took one long, slow, lick over your clit. He grumbled in return, “Pussy messy as fuck, baby.”

Your back arches. You lift above to take a look—Onyankopons’ eyes were staring down, watching. You could see the veins in his arms throbbing as he gripped your ankles.

“Goddamn,” Onyankopon murmured, “Yo’ pussy finna’ get sucked up by my mouth. That shit lookin’ edible.” 

The combination of Toji’s mouth and Onyankopon’s words, your pout deepened on your face.

Toji didn’t hesitate to bury his face all into your folds. Your legs were trembling dangerously at this point, watching as he ate you like a starved man. To make matters worse, Onyankopons’ breath was hot in your ear as he continued to hold your ankles, eyes still locked on your husband between your legs—your chest rose and fell, the sensation of Toji’s mouth against you becoming almost too much to handle. You groaned, “Oooh,” legs trying to snap closed, head falling back against Onyankopon’s shoulder, just moaning within his ear.

“You smell so sweet,” Onyankopon murmured, “He eatin’ that pussy,” Onyankopons growled in your ear, “Shit look’ good as hell with his face in it.” 

You whimpered at his words. 

Onyankopons leaned forward just a bit, mouth pressed against your ear, “I’m missin’ yo’ mouth, babydoll.”

He tugs your hair from around your cheeks, looming above you as his dick slapped across your entire face—his tip is sliding between your mouth, making you whimper even deeper as Toji continued eating at you from below.

Onyankopons’ dick was bigger upside down. You moaned around it, making it hit the back of your throat with every quick thrust he made—he grunted, “You doin’ so good, pretty mama. Finna’ have a nigga put his shit in you.” 

Your hands reached back, digging into his hips so you could pull him all the way in, “Fuck, girl. Yo’ throat bulgin’.” 

Toji continued eating you from below; the mixture of him and Onyankopon had your eyes watery, legs shaking as if you’d been tased. Every other word out of your mouth was a moan that went directly onto Onyankopon’s tip. 

That’s when you pull him from your mouth, sliding your tongue on the sides of his length—you whimper below him, “Want it in me, Ony.”

He pulled you down to where your nose was pressed to his pelvis—he groaned within your mouth, “That ain’t how you beg,” he grunts. 

“Please, Ony. Please.” 

“You want it that bad?”

You whined, “‘So bad.” 

A smirk appeared across Onyankopons’ face. You could hear Toji’s slurrpp between your legs, still tongue deep along your pussy—but the moment he heard you begging from below, his mouth pulled away, leaving you cold. It had you whimpering at the loss.

But then, Onyankopon’s mouth was on you. And it was nowhere near the same. He wasn’t as soft as Toji. His long tongue swirled around your clit—you moaned again, feeling it slide against the flesh harshly. 

You gripped at his cornrows, legs shaking in his grip again, “Oh, Ony.” 

He lapped at your clit, “Can’t hear you,” he muffled. 

Toji was behind you now, holding your legs in place of Onyankopon. He moaned in your ear, “You look so good, baby, spread all open like that.” 

“I can’t,” you whined, “Put it in me.”

Onyankopon’s head dipped lower, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking. You were practically vibrating. You lean your head on your husband's shoulder, accepting the kiss he gives you, whimpers muffling into his mouth. 

“I love you,” you kept whimpering, “Love you so much, Fushiguro.”

“I love you,” he murmured back onto your lips, “I know.”  

Your body tensed the moment you felt Onyankopon’s tip sliding across your folds—you’d wanted it so bad, but actually feeling him weigh against your lower body, you shivered. His upper body loomed above your own as Toji stayed behind, Onyankopon’s lips coming to slide his tongue into your mouth, both men close to your face now. 

His dick is sliding between your folds again, again, making them spread apart every few seconds. His forehead presses to yours in such a domineering way—the silence that falls between the two of you feels heavy as his tip begins nudging into your opening—it swallows itself inside, your mouth immediately frowning at the discomfort you feel. Onyankopon sucks the softest kiss on your mouth, grunting as he sinks even deeper. Your eyes rolled, body trembling as you pressed your forehead farther into his. Your fingers found his upper back, nails digging into the flesh as your body responds in all different ways—but it was so good, the tiniest whimper parts from your lips as you lightly squirt on his tip. You’d never done that before, as you creamed more than anything. 

“Pussy tryna’ push me out,” Onyankopon grunts on your lips, moaning into another kiss, “That’s how you cummin’?” 

“Baby,” Toji moaned, “That was so fuckin’ good.  Ain’t even started yet,” he tugs your hair from your face, sucking his mouth against your throat. Your body shakes, gasping as tears seeped from your eyes. You whimpered to Onyankopon, “Oh my god.” 

You could hear yourself—you were whiny, sensitive and too full. You mewled again, feeling your stomach clenching as your eyes rolled back. Onyankopons’ face was dark, “You tight as hell,” pressing his forehead more into yours, “You gon’ open up for me?” 

A weak, “Uh huh,” comes from your lips. 

You could feel him trying to be steady, not wanting to hurt you, but at the same time, his eyes were hooded, lust within them—“Tryin’,” he murmured. His hips stilled for a moment as he slowly, gently slid more of his length deeper into you. You moaned, loud enough to echo off of the wall, “Ugh, fuck.” 

Your mind was going blank. His head fell back, “You takin’ me so good,” Your back kept arching, legs quaking. Toji was right there, caressing your scalp to soothe you. You were releasing sounds you’d never made before, moaning deeper each time Onyankopon pulled out to slide himself in more—the slap of his hips against the back of your thighs has your eyes rolling, your face screwed up in pleasure, nodding against his forehead as all you could do was cry for him.

Your legs were shaking too much, to the point Toji gave Onyankopon a glare, “Slow down.” 

Onyankopon gritted his teeth as if to focus, trying to not give in to all of the sounds you were making.

“Can’t,” he grunted—Your body kept squirming, legs spreading themselves more open for him, “F—fuck,” he cursed. He was grunting and moaning just as much as you were now. 

“Talk to me, Mama. I’m hurtin’ you?” Onyankopon gruffs at you. You find your hand at the nape of his neck, lips closer together—you mewl to him, “Feels sooo good,” your voice was soft, “‘M okay,” you promised to both of them.

Toji was trying to spread some comfort for you, “Look at me, breathe,” his voice was low, his hand reaching forward to touch your cheek. He gave you what you wanted; he leaned his face against your own, “Look at me, pretty baby. Breathe.” 

Your entire body listened to your husband’s commands. You took in a deep breath in response, your body calming a bit as he murmured sweetly against your face, “That’s it, good girl.”

A little easier to process with your husbands’ fingers caressing your cheek, you whimpered, “Please,” you whispered on his lips, “Don’t stop him.”

You spread your legs wider—your eyes rolled at the sensation, reaching your hand up to Onyankopon’s face to pull him into a kiss, moaning into his mouth.

Onyankopon growled, holding onto your chin so he could suck on your bottom lip. Toji’s thumb was wiping at your cheek, swiping away tears that you didn’t even realize you were shedding. 

He pressed his forehead back to your own, mouth still connected in a sloppy kiss, “Don’t move,” Onyankopon murmured against your face. You felt both mouths kissing somewhere along your body, and that pleasure could’ve engulfed you into an explosion. 

But oh, they had so much more to give. 

Maybe you did too. Your shaken legs had found themselves crawling along the bed, doe eyes becoming a sultry slender as you crawled towards your husband— your curls evaded your entire body as you slid your hands across his chest, grinding yourself along his lap to gain his attention—you tell him, “I missed you, baby.”

“Missed you too,” Toji murmured in return, unable to keep his eyes off of you. His large palm slid across your hips, another palm reaching around to smack his tip between your folds from behind. You giggled, hair swinging to one side of your body as you circled your hips atop of him, “You wanna put it in me?” 

Your hands slide across your nipples, making sure to keep Onyankopon’s attention as your hand finds the tip of his dick beside your body—you whimper to your husband, “Want you so much, Toji. Talk to me.”

Onyankopons’ hands found their way to your arms and shoulders, squeezing the flesh there—One of your hands reached up onto Onyankopons’ face, running your fingers against his facial hair, moving to slide your index finger onto his lips. 

“You been’ havin’ fun,” Toji grunted to you, “Come fuck me.”

“Always thinkin’ ‘bout you,” you moaned, your hands leaving behind Onyankopons’ face to slide back onto Toji’s shoulders. Onyankopon grunted, “She need’ you—Drippin’ all over the sheets and shit.” 

You’re guiding yourself down, sinking onto his dick in a way that has your husband leaning his head back onto the bed, clutching your hips within his palms. Toji’s groaning through full lips, eyes narrowing up to you as you’re already bouncing your ass down onto his abdomen. You giggle through a moan, leaning towards Onyankopon with angelic eyes, sticking your tongue out to await for his mouth.

Toji growled from below, “Look at you,” while Onyankopons’ hand pushed a few of your curls aside with a low chuckle, “Cute as hell.” 

Onyankopon’s tongue slithered within the confines of your mouth, hand sliding behind your neck to keep your face close to his—your attention went onto your husband, your hips rotating, circling above him—you take one of his palms, sliding it up your body as you suck his index finger into your mouth, moaning around it.

“Jesus,” Toji growled, “‘Gonna’ have me bust early, baby,” He grunted out, “Keep it up.” 

You shake your head, “Don’t wanna cum without you,” you whimper—so you lean back to your side, finding Onyankopon’s dick between your lips—you’re sucking, keeping your hips moving for Toji, but your attention elsewhere. 

Onyankopons’ hand was resting atop of your forehead, his fingers buried into your hair. You moaned around him again, one hand wrapped around his length and the other caressing Toji’s chest. Your husband was becoming more aggressive below you, his hands finding themselves beneath your thighs to guide you. 

He takes one hand to find your throat, snatching your face in his direction. He grunts to you, “I know you’re hearin’ me. Come fuck me, girl. Bounce on my dick like you missed me.” 

You have your attention fully on him now—you whimper, “Sorry,” all while you press your feet flat along the bed, tossing your hair along one side of your body as your palms pressed against his chest—your ass trembles each time it claps along his abdomen, a wetness drenching his flesh, the sight of you like hell wrapped up in beauty. 

“I love your dick sooo much,” you promised to him, ass clapping at this point, “Love you, Fushiguro,” you whimper, spreading your cheeks from behind, wanting him deeper each time you dropped down.

“I know you fuckin’ do.”

His palm spanks against your asscheek. It jiggles beneath the impact, Toji’s hands finding your hips again to hold you in place. 

“Keep fuckin’ me like that.”

Your legs were shaking as Toji’s hips moved to meet your own, bouncing you up and down himself. 

Onyankopon was behind you, finding his palms along your hips as he helped you—your eyes rolled, mewling as you allowed him to guide your body down. 

Your fingers found your clit below, shoulder shivering as Onyankopon licked up the back of your neck, “O—Ooh,” you moaned, “Please.” 

You mewled at both men, your body quaking as your hands slid up behind you, fingers grazing over Onyankopon’s hair. You sloppily slow your tongue in and out his mouth, tugging his head back as you whimper to him, “Put it back in.” 

You lean down to find Toji’s

mouth within a deep kiss, hearing his murmur of, “‘Go head, wanna watch you cum.”

Your curls draped across his chest as you tugged his dick from your folds, back arching as you grind your lower body for Onyankopon to take you from behind—you whimper to him, “Want it. ‘Want it, Ony.”

“Been patient,” Onyankopons’ husked, “Come drop that shit on me.” 

His hands found both of your asscheeks again, spreading them open. You moaned over your shoulder, the taste of your own skin delicious as he slid himself between your folds, deeper than he’d been before. The giggle you give is elated, eyes rolling as you’re messily bouncing your ass back onto his dick, you’re groaning, “Fuckkk.” 

“Good fuckin’ girl,”  Toji groaned from below, watching you take it from behind, “Greedy as fuck.” 

Onyankopon collected your hair beneath his fist, tugging you back gently while allowing you to fuck yourself onto him—he glares down, “You’ loud.” 

“You feel so good,” you couldn’t stop repeating, your hands pressed into Toji’s shoulders to lean back more, arching as you continued to take Onyankopon as deep as you could, “Feelssogood.” 

“Givin’ you what you been wantin’,” Onyankopon growled behind you, "Look how good you look takin’ this dick, pretty mama.” 

You tried to keep your eyes open, but each time you moved with him, pleasure was rising from somewhere deep within you that had your vision becoming blurry. You were drunk at this point. 

“You feel so good in me,” you repeated one more time—it’s the softest you’ve ever spoken, squealing in a way that your body showed exhaustion. You were just taking him now, Onyankopon’s dick becoming drenched in your cream. You pouted, sobbing lowly through your sniffles.

Neither of them had ever seen a reaction out of you like this—you were so sensitive, too sensitive, too open. Onyankopon pounded into your messy, soaking wet pussy from behind, “You gone. Takin’ my dick without even askin’ for it.” 

His palm slides along your neck, gently tugging your face back to look into his eyes—you could hear Toji’s grunt of, “So proud of you, baby.”

You sob softly in return again, keeping your eyes against Onyankopon’s as he tugs you back and forth—you’re so full of him, you can barely feel it anymore. Your voice was deeper, an inhale shaky in your throat, exhaled as you cried real tears.

You were so far gone. Toji’s one hand fisted the tip of his dick, other fingers running through your hair, giving you a gentle pull to keep your face from hiding. 

“How you feelin’, baby?” he keeps his voice low, gentle. 

You could barely speak—you were so busy crying from pleasure, your hands found his face as you whimpered through tears, “I’m gonna cum,” you trembled, “Gonnacum.” 

You were so beautiful like this. Crying and whimpering for them in such an exhausted state, so full that they were ready to cum with you. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You gon’ cum all on me, Mama?” 

Onyankopon’s voice. 

You nod again, breathless, “Mmm-hmm,” through tears. Toji presses his forehead against your own, allowing you to respond any way you needed to. 

Toji pressed a small kiss onto your face, “Good girl. Keep goin’. Almost,” he encouraged you in the most gentle tone possible. 

Onyankopons’ breathing was a lot rougher now, the sound of his pelvis smacking against your ass filling the room. He was holding onto your hip with one hand, while the other held the back of your neck, watching his dick being coated by your cream.

You moaned between your tears, voice hiccupping with every pound he delivered. He kept mumbling words from above you that couldn’t decipher, but Toji was still there to calm you.

 The room was a chorus of skin against skin, your mewls getting even higher in pitch with how full you felt at Toji’s hands on your face—the warmth of his own cum spurted on your stomach— you were babbling, your body wilder, your toes curling. You squirt again, gasping into a rough kiss with your husband. Onyankopon’s tongue is sliding across your lower back, moaning as you feel a warmth in your pussy—he cums with you. 

Your body feels sore, as if you’d just ran a marathon. You quiver when Onyankopon pulls himself out, feeling the cum dripping from your pussy—and somehow, through everything you’d just done, that makes you bury your face within Toji’s shoulder, cheeks flushed as you masked your face. 

When your brain sobered over the events of the past couple of days, you still couldn’t believe it—Would it happen again? Was this a one time thing? Only the future could tell. 

As your round eyes glanced between both men, the only answer you received was a deep, low, chuckle.

And that’s how you ended up here.

[emslittlelibrary]

YOURE THE SWEETEST AAAAAHHHHH

POOKIEEEEE 🥹💘💘 ty but that’s all you!!! also was it your birthday recently?! i saw your last zayne post and gasped!! if so then i hope you had the happiest birthday! 🎂💐✨ if not then just ignore me lol 🥸 SENDING YOU ALL THE LOVE REGARDLESS 💕💕

[emslittlelibrary]

……这次事故，你负全责。 …And you’ll be held accountable for this. Love and Deepspace (2024), dev. Infold Games

[emslittlelibrary]

Mc you one lucky girl....😞🙏🏻

[emslittlelibrary]

The Dragon’s Gaze

The dragon can only been seen by those who are willing to see him for who he is

The dragon wandered his way through the dark forest. His little legs leading him deeper and deeper into the depths. The farther he got the louder the rumble grew closer. The baby dragon trembled at how scary it was without his mother. A rustling sounded from behind him making him stand strong on all four legs.

His mother taught him to never show weakness in the face of his enemies. He stood firm on the ground, winds expanded and a snarl on his face. The steps grew closer as a growl crawled up his throat. When the sound emerged from the bushes there stood tall his beautiful mother with a smirk on her lips.

“My little dragon is so brave, walking alone without his mommy.” She teased as she nudges him with her nose. He caresses his mother’s snout, purring.

She was proud that he stood up for himself. She wouldn’t be here forever and it was important for a dragon to know that it is better to be feared than not. Especially when it came to those who were greedy. She practically rolled her eyes remembering how the village head threw the child into her claws.

The mother wasn’t evil, no. She’d never eat another’s offspring especially since she knows how she would feel if it were her own. So when the sacrifice was over she would drop the kid off somewhere safe. Bringing them back would only cause an uproar.

If an ‘offering’ is not accepted it is tradition to turn that person into a blood sacrifice. They are then deemed as rotten, damaged, and unusable. The villagers were evil she knew that well so she keeps her offspring out of reach. She would burn the village down if he was hurt.

His mother shape shifts into her human form as she looks at her son adoringly. Her hair was long and white, down to her ankles. Her body adorned in silk. Her red eyes bright and intimidating just as her height was. She was ethereal.

He was the apple of her eye and she’d sacrifice her life for him. She picked him up with a smile and kissed his snout.

“Do you want to try to transform like mama today?” She asked him as he tilts his head in confusion at her question. She snorts before holding him close to which he melts into her touch.

“Not today then.” She chuckled before carrying him into the cave. He whined to his mother who only raised an eyebrow at him.

“If you want to be big and strong like mama then you must rest.” She told him as she laid him in the nest.

There were shiny things here and there from her adventures but she was more about comfort. Though the young dragon had to have his favorite gem nearby, a ruby. This specific one reminded him of his mother’s eyes. It was his favorite.

His mother sang to him until he fell asleep. A classical song from her days spent with her mother. A bittersweet memory more bitter than sweet. Her mother was no evil dragon but much like herself she was deemed as such because of her species.

The older dragon refused to take a sacrifice of children any longer. The villagers couldn’t tell male dragons from female ones anyway. They sent them as brides to strengthen a bond between humans and dragons. The older dragon refused to tear nearly an infant in her eyes from its family much like herself daughter is today.

When she saw them mutilate the sacrifice she grew livid. How dare they take such an innocent life? How dare they make a mother suffer a life without her offspring. The cries of the mother is what broke her. Oh what she would do to protect her child. Her roar was fierce and powerful enough to make all who oppose her bow to her.

The young dragons mother caressed his horns. He will soon have to deal with the same selfishness. She would only hope they wouldn’t intimidate her timid offspring. She gazes over the mountain her red eyes sharp. Something was coming and she knew it well. The faint smell of human on her child was enough of a warning. The next blood moon would change lives.

The young girl wondered what happened to the baby dragon as she listened to the young children play. She laid her head on the windowsill wondering if that small dragon made it back to his family. The people in this village were terrified of dragons sure but finding one smaller than them may have been a different story. She sighed thinking about his wellbeing. He was so frightened out there all alone.

Footsteps creak closer to her as she lifted her head slightly. The familiar sound of her mother’s voice bounced off the walls, “Hungry?”

They ate until the young girl decided to speak, “Mama, I wish to be like the other kids in the village.”

“Whatever do you mean, child?” Her mother asked not bothering to look up at her. The girl puffed her cheeks to her mother.

“I want to go out. I want to play and explore!” She expressed making her mother choke on her food.

Her mother knew this day was coming. She knew eventually her daughter would grow tired of the sheltered life she lived. She just thought it was too soon. She cleared her throat before looking at her daughter a stern look in her eyes.

“You mustn’t go out there. Those children are vulnerable out there but you—you’re safe here.” She explained as her voice trembled with fear. Fear that she would be taken away from here, never to be seen again.

“But mama—“ The young girl whined but her mother was having none of it. She stood up leaving the girl there.

“No more of this nonsense.” Her tone stern and end all. The wooden door shuts making the young girl huff.

She knew she was different than the other children but she wanted to be treated as equally as they were. When night rolled around her mother returned to her bedroom. She was her usual self, like earlier never happened.

Her mother inches closer to the bed and sits on the edge of it. The bed dipping catching the girls attention as her head slowly turned towards her mother. Her mother slides her hand over her daughter’s.

“I know I sound unfair now however, you’ll understand when you are older. I promise.” She whispered to her daughter with a squeeze of her hand.

The young girl listened to her mother’s footsteps walk away as she was unmoving from the windowsill. The moonlight falling over her like a halo as she sat with her mother’s final word.

Meanwhile, in the towns tavern a group of men were drinking their day away. The stench of evil emitting from their bodies. They drank pint after pint, the sounds of their companions screaming wife echoing in their ears. The burlier man sighed as he slammed down his pint.

“Every blood moon we give that damned dragon our kin.” He groaned as the other men nodded and grumbled in agreement.

“Wives are distraught…won’t speak t’us.” He added with a shake of his head.

“There’s nothing we can do about it. If we don’t appease the beast we will die.” One man with a long beard answered.

“What if we could? Think about it.” The burly man suggested with a sinister grin.

The table grew quieter as his gaze fell over the group. They were tired of being blamed for giving the dragon their offspring. Tired of their wives being distant with them. Tired of giving false hope that their offspring was alive somewhere.

“What’cha suggesting?” A dirtier looking man asked. He leaned in with intrigue as the burly man’s sinister grin grew wider.

“We kill that dragon. Take what he’s taken from us.” He whispered so the other patrons couldn’t hear.

“What’s that?” The scrawny man asked with his eyebrow raised. “Life.”

A cold voice echoing amongst them. The plan was set in stone. They would sacrifice the dragon as their children had been sacrificed to him.

My first chapter was definitely better than this. Can you guess how this story is going? Think of a siren’s song’s MC 🌚

[emslittlelibrary]

i don’t think anyone is ready for what’s under this cut (coming from me) ….

@everythingseasoning ur gonna wanna b here for this

caleb loooooves prone bone. he presses his pelvis flush against ur ass and rocks his hips back n forth, rubbing his tip sooooo deep inside you. he plants his hands on either sides of your head while u grip his wrists hard enough to leave ur nail indents in his skin.

all the while he leans over you, burying his head in your hair and the crook of your neck, his dog tag tickling ur spine with each thrust as he groans and whines into your ear with each. thrust. whispering, “like that? huh? right there? that’s the spot?” and “that feels good, doesn’t it? it feels soo good for me, too.”

his breaths are so choppy and desperate, his inhales choked and stuttered bcs he loves fucking you so much. he can’t get enough of feeling u squeeze around him while u cry out his name, begging for more. harder. deeper.

and he hits just the right spot every time, making you go dumb with pleasure just by pressing his pelvis against your ass and rolling his hips in circles. he has to bite his lip and squeeze his eyes sooooo tight when he feels you start to twitch and pulse around him as ur orgasm creeps up on you, murmuring, “i know, i know.” when u start to call his name louder in warning.

it’s not just the feeling that drives him crazy, though, it’s the knowledge that HES the one making you feel so good. HES the one about to make you cum. HES the one whose name you’re crying over and over and over on desperate whimpers before you shatter into a million pieces

and he fucks you through it, whispering praises into ur hair between pressing kisses against ur scalp, saying, “yesyesyes” between clenched teeth, nodding dispite the fact that u can’t see him, bcs again, he’s just in disbelief about how good he’s making you feel.

[emslittlelibrary]

making clark kent keep his superman suit on while he straddles your hips and pushes his bulge against your lower tummy.

then, after a bit of teasing, letting him shift to needily dry-hump you over your bottoms. letting him get the inside of his stretchy disguise sticky with precome and want. he grinds himself into you like he wants nothing more than to be consumed by your intimate affection..

his messy dark hair hanging in front of his forehead, over his pinched brow, as his entire frame rocks with his feverish movements—back and forth and back and forth, like the ocean tide. like the push and pull of your guys’ relationship. the give and take. you need help? he’s there to rescue you. he needs comfort? you’re there to hold him.

the sound of fabric on fabric is drowned out by the broken whines and tiny, hitched moans that he lets out above you, and you find your hands wandering to his shoulders to help steady him as soon as he starts to tremble like a damp kitten. he's more “clark” than ever now, but seeing him unravel this quickly while still looking like a superhero makes you want to sink your teeth into him and swallow him up. there's just something so lewd about watching superman chase his orgasm with the desperation of a horny college student, all the while whimpering like it physically hurts not to be able to shove his cock deep inside you (and it probably does—he's always been vocal with you about how much his arousal will ache when he's missing the warmth and tender squeeze of your walls.. he's much naughtier than his nerdy appearance lets on..)

"faster," he gasps, "can i go faster? please, i'll stay quiet, i won't be as loud as last time, i won't bug your neighbors—i'm already so close to—“

a press of your lips to his jaw is enough to have his huge arms wrapping around you, holding you to his chest as he rolls his clothed shaft quicker against your sex, his noises rapidly raising in pitch as he curls over your body and lets out a string of pornographic ‘haah’s. you swiftly raise a hand to cover his open mouth with your muffling palm, knowing that when it all snaps he won't really be able to control his volume. he never has. as soon as he realizes what you've done, he takes the opportunity to begin to cry out—big, guttural, drawn-out sobs of pleasure as he suddenly stiffens up and squeezes you tight, his biceps caging you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. the waves of orgasm suck him under the surface of coherency and make him begin to babble and throb. he floods his suit with thick, warm ropes of his milky essence, and you can feel his abdomen contracting and convulsing against your own with every gush of burning ecstasy.

"coming, i'm coming.. oh, i love you, i love you, i'm coming, i can't stop," he sniffles, panting and gasping, glossy eyes shielded by low-sitting lids. his hips continue urgently arching into yours until he’s soft and twitchy and prickling with overstimulated nerves. bursts of release become dribbles as he shivers once more before he goes limp, holding his head above yours with his handful of remaining energy.

you push his sweaty locks from his face and revel in the sight of his pink cheeks and crumpled expression. you wonder if he’ll ever get tired of letting you take control. but, then again, he’s never expressed any sort of displeasure when you’ve tied him up and ridden him until he’s cried, or when you’ve sucked him until he got lightheaded. he’s graciously taken everything you’ve ever given him, including this. so it comes as no surprise when the next words out of his mouth are—

“thank you, thank you, ngh!—thank you so much, felt so good, i.. i feel so good.. i.. ‘m ready to return the favor.. please..?”

his soft, pink tongue slips out to wet his bottom lip in preparation, his eyes opening just a bit more to look down to you. his lashes are wet with tears. you swallow down a sound of approval that tries to rise from your chest at the visual of how eager he is to get between your thighs—he weaponizes his puppy-eyes more than he does his heat laser ones, it’s honestly a bit ridiculous. you sigh, but there’s no annoyance in the sound. he keens.

you’d bet money that drool is already pooling in his mouth.. needy little thing.

“okay, mhm, sure,” you murmur, giving him a nod, “you’d better do a good job, clark..”

he knows you’re only teasing, that you’re aware of how much he loves giving head and how well he can work over your sensitive spots, but in that moment—in the post-climax haze of it all—his muddled brain can only take your words as a challenge. he shakily scrambles to slide down until he’s panting in the middle of your parted legs, the heat of his breath washing over you through your clothing. he swallows thickly.

“i’ll do my very best,” he breathes out, beginning to pull apart the fabric with his fingers, the sharp sound of thread snapping and stitches popping loose ringing out. you roll your eyes and push your fingers into his hair, fisting it taut, making a note-to-self that he now owes you a new pair of jeans.

“.. i know you will.”

and the last thing you feel before your head tips back is his lips mouthing at your flesh, accompanied by the rumble of his initial moan of relief sending heady vibrations throughout your sex.

it’s slow, devoted, and hungry.

it’s so very him.

[emslittlelibrary]

[emslittlelibrary]

busy week ahead busy month ahead busy LIFE ahead so i’ll be queuing up some reblogs for the weekend 🫡

[emslittlelibrary]

me ever since that new banner came out 😎☀️💦

omg and HIII by the way! how is everyone? 🥹🥹🥹 quick update! i might stick to more of a bi-monthly writing routine? can’t guarantee it’ll be every-other-week consistent because of school 🫩 and two jobs 🫩and sometimes my writing senses just don’t be tingling fr 🫩🫩 but definitely twice in a month is reasonable for me.

i would rather have a consistent routine than a sporadic random at-whim routine that would ebb and flow a lot more. that’s just how my systematic ass brain works 🤓☝🏽🧠 but that’s just fic posts!! i’ll be way more active with reblogs and random chit chat and things like that. just thought i would let everyone know! 💓🌸🎀⭐️☁️✨

one last side note — guess what the most recent fic i wrote was? TWISTER WITH SYLUS 🥸 yes the GAME twister with sylus like- 🔴🟢🔵🟡 THIS ONE. imagine his big ass on that slippery ass mat lmfao. and somehow it leads to dry-humping and 69 and whoever cums first loses OOPS. have i said too much?? idk if i like it yet so i wouldn’t be on the lookout for this one. just thought it was a hilarious idea like- who do i think i am? 😭😭😭

anyway thank u for being here!! 🫶🏽

[emslittlelibrary]

Beach banner is finally here!! they all look so romantic