prettieinpnk

[prettieinpnk]

Rent-a-Boyfriend (onseshot preview/taglist!)

Pairings - Fake boyfriend! Satoru x Reader

Summary - You bribe your best friend Satoru Gojo with Digimon Merch into pretending to date you for your sister's wedding. In order to get your parents off your back about being a loner, you feel they'd buy it - you've been friends forever, after all. You all go full out, fake kisses, and sharing a bed - problem is that you both have feelings that are far too real.

Will be explicit, a ton of sexual tension, mutual pining, fake dating, friends to lovers. This won the poll for the 25k event! Preview below, comment if you wanna be tagged in the full one (will be out this wknd!)

“Come on, please?” You tug at Satoru Gojo’s dark blue jacket, pouting up at him, he just rolls his pretty blue eyes.

“Don’t you make that face, I won’t give in this time.”

“I’ll buy you so much Digimon merch!” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Toru...”

“Don’t you 'Toru' me,” he crosses his arms, leaning back in the seat – the two of you are in a little cafe together, the one you meet up at once a month. It used to be once a week, but life has gotten ahold of you all pretty good, now that you are twenty three and out of college, both so busy it’s hard. 

Satoru’s been your best friend for as long as you can remember, and you never want to lose him.

“Toru…”

“Stop using that to your advantage,” he looks at you again, pouting with those glossy lips of his. “You know I always do anything when you give the puppy eyes.”

“Pretty please,” you bat your lashes, so cute Satoru can’t say no. He was going to relent anyway, but he loves to get you going.

“Oh fine.”

“Yay!” You hug him tightly, that way you always do that makes it difficult to hug you back, you’re too close, pressed against him, making him feel too much.

Satoru’s been close to you forever, he can’t lose you because you’re just so pretty, you smell so good. Can’t lose you because your touch makes him ache more and more over the years. All of that, bad ideas, especially when you’re one of the closest people to him. His hand comes to the small of your back, inhaling the sweetness of your shampoo, letting it fill his senses.

“Are you sniffing me?”

“Huh, what? No.” Satoru so was, you pull back and giggle all cute, eyes lit up when you kiss his cheek. His hands tense, shoving you playfully. “Yuck.”

“Oh what, I still have cooties?” You raise a brow at him, he shivers in feigned disgust.

“Worse than ever now.”

“Psh,” you sip your drink, his thigh is brushing against yours, and you don’t move away like you should. Satoru’s body feels far too good against yours.

Your parents seem to think you’re hopeless, since you really haven’t ever dated, but how can you, when Satoru exists? It’s a hopeless state of affairs, loving someone you’re so close to, literally in the damn sandbox together. Even if you crossed that line – Satoru’s never shown any interest.

How embarrassing would that be?

“Maybe it will be fun, you think of that?” You tease, trying to feign a little more ease than you have.

“You just wanna lay in bed with me,” Satoru brushes his hair back and winks, grinning when you glare at him. “Admit it.”

“Yeah, never happening - but we will have to share the room to make it believable for sure.”

“They really on your case that bad?” You wrap your lips around your straw, addling Satoru’s senses so badly he can’t even look at you.

The feelings just grow more and more, and pretending to date you would just make him want what he shouldn’t. “They are on my case, they think I’m just wasting away and gonna be a cat lady.”

“You do give cat lady energy.”

“Hey!”

He’s chuckling now, sipping on his own drink, you watch how the sunlight filters in through the window, casting shadows across the hard planes of his face.

Sometimes Satoru is just too handsome for his own good.

“Did you hear me?” He waves a hand in front of your face, and you realize you spaced out looking at his lips too long.

“Sorry, what?”

“How much Digimon merch?” You laugh, shaking your head just a bit.

“However much you want, but you’ll have to be very convincing, you’ll have to kiss me and everything,” you tease, smacking your lips at him, he tenses a bit then, picturing his lips all over his best friend. “Will it be that bad?”

“The worst,” his voice is soft, hoarse with desire that he almost lets spill from his lips. “Bet you suck at it.”

“Bet I’m better than you,” you lean close, far too close, a hand on his chest then, looking up at him under your lashes, his heart races just a bit even as he puts on a casual smirk. “Wanna practice?”

“I’ll require so much merch, in fact you’ll have to come to the con with me – all dressed up as one – if you want a kiss before I have to.”

“You’re so bratty, Satoru Gojo,” he exhales when you pull back, realizing he’s now throbbing under his damn jeans in a coffee shop with his best friend.

[prettieinpnk]

(any pics without tags are bc i didn't know who they belonged to!)

plot: you may pay the rent but sukuna OWNS the apartment

content warning: fluff warning (you might feel lonely)

dean's (aka peachy) yap: i think they might be my favorite guys hehe

everything in you told you to take that nap, yet you didn’t. you straightened everything up for when he came, even lit a couple of candles. telling yourself it’s not because you liked him, though, you just wanted to make sure everything was straight.

sukuna had texted you 5 minutes ago, saying he was on the way. you were scrambling, spraying perfume, fixing your hair, brushing your teeth for twice as long as recommended. you made sure you were in your cutest pajama set and your feet were adequately moisturized.

sukuna was touchy, you knew that firsthand.

there was a knock on the door that made you jump. you walked to the door, unlocking nervously. this was the first time you were actually nervous about sukuna coming over.

“ryo…” you said in utter disbelief, looking at the ginormous man. “you didn’t even have the gall to take a shower?”

“why would i if you have a shower here, woman?” he grumbled, and you just blinked as he made his way in. you pushed his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

“uh… no. shoes off,” you said, looking down at his dirty work shoes. he grumbled, cursing you under his breath as he slipped off his boots. “you know where to go.”

he dropped his backpack next to the door and took his infamous spend-a-night bag to the bathroom with him.

it wasn’t the first time sukuna showered at your place. he claimed your shampoo was better than whatever shit choso put him on to. but you think he just says that so you’ll allow him to shower.

you can remember it like it was yesterday when he barged into your bathroom. you were brushing your teeth, and he started taking off his clothes. you yelled at him to get out and asked what he was doing. that same nonchalant sukuna just grumbled and said, “get out or get flashed, i couldn’t care either way.”

ever since that day, if sukuna wanted to take a shower in your apartment, you just let him. and here you are waiting for his never-ending shower to be over. you tried to focus on the love island playing on your tv, but the sound of the shower, plus him singing whatever song was stuck in his head, distracted you.

after 45 minutes, sukuna walked out with nothing but a pair of sweatpants. everything in you was fighting the urge to look at his upper body. looks-wise, sukuna was totally your type, and you couldn’t deny that by any means.

aside from the way sukuna looked, his aura was attractive too. the way he smelled and the way he walked were also attractive; you would never admit it, but you were eating it up.

“why are you shirtless, ryomen?” you asked, and he frowned, not liking you using his full name. he didn’t even bother answering your question. he just sauntered by, walking around your apartment like he owned the place.

“where’d you put my backpack?” he asked, scratching his head. you could tell today beat him; his eyes were red, and the bags under his eyes were darker than usual.

“in my room. now, answer my question of why you have on no shirt,” you repeated, and he sighed.

“i forgot my shirt at my dorm,” he shrugged, leaving to grab his backpack, taking out the leftover food you brought to him earlier.

it shocked you how comfortable sukuna was during times like this. sure, you’d seen him shirtless a plethora of times, but never in your apartment when the two of you were alone.

“how was your day?” he asked, violently shoveling food into his mouth and flopping on the couch next to you.

“it was pretty good. my parents miss you a lot. i never heard the end of it.” you laughed, and a smug smirk came onto his face.

“let them know i’ll be over soon. i miss my football buddy,” he said, clearly talking about your dad.

“i hate that he likes you.” your dad constantly talks about how much he enjoys sukuna. how they had so much in common and liked the same football team, or how sukuna had his head on straight and would make a good husband.

“you’re just a hater. that’s very unbecoming of you,” he said as if he knew what unbecoming meant.

“yeah, okay, ryo.” you laugh. “how was your day?”

“the usual. rich assholes, dirty cars, fucked up someone’s oil change, got yelled at, and yaga called,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“what did yaga want?” you asked, knowing whatever yaga called for involved you too.

“emergency practice tomorrow. 6 am before my 8:30 class,” he said, and you pretended to choke yourself. sukuna just sighed at your over-dramatic antics.

“what is it with all these emergency practices on days i have class at 2 pm?” you whined, and sukuna just shrugged.

“he wasn’t happy about the last fight,” sukuna mumbled, sipping on a bottle of water.

“nobody was.” you glared at him, and he scoffed at your blunt and rude statement.

“can we wasch ma film. coash shaid i need to shee myschelf get knocked out,” he said, practically inaudible, smacking on the food.

“wanna try again? this time, after you swallow the food in your mouth?” you deadpan, and he swallows with a scowl, hating when you scolded him.

“can we watch my film? coach said i need to see myself get knocked out,” he repeated this time, clear enough for you to hear his request.

“yeah, we can. but don’t get mad if i microanalyze everything.” you warned him, and he scoffed. another thing he hated was how you were always right when telling him where he went wrong.

“it wouldn’t be anything new anyway,” he grumbled, share-playing his phone to the tv as the two of you watched.

“oooo, look, there i am!” you said excitedly as if you had never noticed yourself before today.

“you’re always there,” he said, looking down at you, and you could’ve sworn he said it and meant it another way. he quickly looked away from you and back to the film.

the beginning was fine. he was watching his opponent’s moves and keeping an eye out for the next swing. all of his punches were landing, and his timing was perfect.

“fuckkk my back,” he groaned, standing up to throw away the empty plate. you paused the film, standing up to follow behind him.

“do you want a massage?” you said, and he gave you the meanest side-eye you’d ever gotten from him.

“are you drunk?” he asked, and you shook your head, confused by the question. “high? sick? infected? possessed?”

“none! what is the problem?” you asked, shocked he would even say those things.

“why would you do that for me?” he frowned, and you rolled your eyes.

“ryo, i’ll patch up your cuts. why wouldn’t i do that for you?” you said, pushing him towards the couch, forcing him to lie down. you sat on his lower back, kneading the knots on his back.

“be gentle, brat, i’m fragile,” he grunted, and you just laughed. no way he was trying to convince you he was 6’9, 245, and fragile.

“yeah, right, ryo, i’ve seen you fight two men at once and win,” you said, not letting him even try it.

“you’re gonna snap a bone in my back with how hard you’re pushing!” he exclaimed, and you ignored him, pressing play on the film as the two of you continued to watch. it was undeniable how great sukuna was at boxing. he just got distracted, and that’s how he got knocked out for the first time in his life.

“you’re lucky he didn’t get you there,” you pointed out, and sukuna just lay there enjoying your hands on his back.

“really, brat? i don’t need you to bully me,” he sighed, and you just laughed at his anger.

“oh, this is where you get knocked out!” you yelped, and sukuna just grunted.

film sukuna glanced to the right. his opponent landed a sneaky left hook followed by a quick punch from his right.

“oh fuck, he two-pieced my shit…” sukuna mumbled, and you snorted.

“i told you! rewind it right quick,” you instructed, and he did. “you can see when you looked away and your hands dropped a lil. that’s def where you fucked up.”

“i know that, y/n…” he said, and you didn’t even have to see it to know he rolled his eyes. he rewound the film again, and this time you watched it closer.

“hold on! you were looking at me!” you yelped, and sukuna choked on his spit.

“i what?” he replied quickly, a little too quickly at that. his body tilted to the side, almost making you fall.

“you were looking at me! was i the girl you were trying to make sure was watching?” you asked with a smile. you weren’t sure why you were happy, but your stomach did flips.

“of course i wasn’t looking at you. she was behind you,” he said, almost like he didn’t even believe what he was telling you.

“you’re such a bad liar,” you snorted, getting off his back and sitting next to him again. “movie?” you asked him, and he nodded.

you were getting incredibly tired, and sukuna was taking forever to pick a movie. you wanted to yell at him to hurry, but he was nodding off himself. you both had to go to his morning practice, so it was crucial that you slept.

“c’mon, sukuna, just pick anything. even if we’ve seen it before.” you whined, and he sighed, clicking on the same movie the two of you had seen a million times.

“you’ll do that thing?” he asked, voice monotone, face stone cold, and you scrunched up your brow in confusion.

“what thing?” you asked, and he sighed in frustration.

“that thing you used to do all the time,” he said, and you frowned.

“use your words, ryomen. i have no idea what you mean!” you exclaimed, and he looked away from you.

“the thing. with my hair,” he said, and you covered your mouth to stop from laughing. “now you’re laughing at me, never mind, it’s okay.”

“no, no, i’ll do it, i will,” you said through your laughter, and he crossed his arms. although he was angry and embarrassed, he wasted no time putting his head in your lap.

he wasn’t shy, but he was very ashamed to ask for affection. the first time you even played with sukuna’s hair, he was so tense. he couldn’t process the feeling of someone touching him if not to inflict pain on him.

it became a routine in your first year of college. eventually, he just stopped asking. you thought maybe he just grew out of it, but clearly not.

“if you got a girlfriend, she’d hate me,” you laughed, and sukuna just looked up at you with a frown.

“she wouldn’t be my girlfriend if she hated you. that’s like if someone hated yuji or choso,” he said, and the silence engulfed the two of you. things were different. this wasn’t the usual mean ryomen sukuna you knew. the never-forgiving bully who only knew how to make your life hell.

before you knew it, sukuna was sleeping, mouth open, face content from the scalp massage he just got free of charge. you fought your sleep, struggling to keep your eyes open and on the movie. shortly, you fell asleep after him, hand still tangled in his hair.

but if anyone asked, the two of you had no feelings for one another. right?

to be continued...

one two three four five six

university masterlist

taglist (OPEN):

@grignardsreagent @stardollwrites @keraawrites @soldmysoulto @ac27dj @buttershea07 @charminstasia @ane5e @satorupied @miksolosss @nanamisbbygirl @beabamboo @sweetshrew @gurllss @rhicambo @v3rdee @vamppirez @y8zuriha @probablynotleahhhh @snapcracklen @emma-37 @thabiddie23 @sunset-euphoria @ami-s-k @angelita-uchiha @antikaiii @certifiedchangbinlover @desirehorizon @meowshiki @cypherthecreator @p1nkfl0wers @emoedgylord @kpopslur @palestrawberrycollection @byerno6 @poopooindamouf @padparadschq @frogtits1 @privthemis @zaranobiyuyu @charlie-xo @masterofthepp @arten1234 @unknownw0css @dairyfaerie @sweetagaves @sexylexy12 @jksevendays @1ckyfairy @tnyblckpansxual

[prettieinpnk]

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

baby makin’. onyankopon.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 6.7K, original!blackfemreader, husband!onyankopon, mechanic!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, southernwife!femreader, shy!femreader, jealous!onyankopon, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, breeding kink!, floor sex, doggy style, pet names, dirty talk, aggressive pet names, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, pussy eating, dick sucking, overstimulation, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— couldn’t even tell you where this one came from, had a lot on my mind. but it’s nasty, real southern, real black, real cutesy. enjoy, teehee.

ビジュアル。ビジュアル。

ASKING YOUR HUSBAND FOR ANOTHER BABY WASN’T ON THE AGENDA TODAY. It happened in the exact way it had the first time—your body trembling and writhing, brainless as you released those three words to him. However, you couldn’t lie to yourself. This was kinda your fault.

It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, either. Being fucked so good your mind went blank sounded like a treat, but it wasn’t all in the matter of how you got there, but more so why. 

You’d been with Onyankopon for about three years now, still reeling from the excitement of newlywed bliss each time you stared down at your ring. You had also welcomed your baby boy into the world, Asaan, motherhood bringing you a sense of peace and patience you’d never had your entire life. 

It was perfect, really. You had a modern farmhouse in Arabi, Louisiana. Wrapped in crisp white siding with black trim, surrounded by sprawling land where the sunsets painted the sky in hues of gold and lavender every evening. Close enough to New Orleans for convenience, but far enough to feel like you had your own private paradise. The open concept living space always smelled like vanilla and clean linen from the candles you burned while cleaning—floors so shiny you could see your reflection as you chased after little five month old Asaan crawling around.  

And Onyankopon? God. Even after a long day at his auto shop in the city—grease under his nails, muscles aching from lifting engines all day—he never failed to make sure you felt cherished. He’d walk through that door, drop his bag by the stairs, and immediately scoop up Asaan with one arm while pulling you into his chest with the other. 

His deep voice rumbled against your ear, “Missed y'all like hell.” 

No matter how tired he was, he’d sit at that kitchen island just to watch you move around cooking dinner—his heavy lidded eyes traced every sway of your hips as if he hadn’t memorized them already.  

Even when work drained him dry—Never cold. Never dismissive. Just a kiss pressed to your temple before bed, or calloused fingers grazing over yours when he thought you needed reassurance more than he needed rest—because loving y’all came easy for him, even when life didn't always match up that way.

But today. 

Today had been a little—different.

You had been feeling it all morning. That deep, primal pull—hormones surging, body thrumming with an urgency you couldn’t shake. 

You’d woken up wrapped around Onyankopon like a second skin, breathing in his scent—motor oil and cedar from his cologne still clinging to him despite the shower he took before bed.  

But today? Today wasn’t about you.

Your husband had spent the whole week at the shop—late nights replacing transmissions, arguing with picky customers who didn’t understand why their "quick fix" wasn't actually quick. Then last night? He gave y'all everything he could—dinner downtown where he let you steal bites off his plate while he sipped bourbon as slow as molasses; holding Asaan until the baby boy fell asleep drooling on his shoulder.  

And now? All your man wanted was some peace. His PlayStation controller in hand, headset half-cocked over one ear as Kev from down the way screamed about some nonsense through the speakers. But instead of letting him breathe? You were pouting. Hip cocked against the doorframe of his man cave, you watched him like a stalker. 

“You ain’t hear me calling you?” 

You asked this sweetly—almost too sweetly—fingers tapping along your pendant like a metronome counting down to attitude.

Onyankopon barely glanced up from headshotting some zombie midgame. 

“Nah, baby. ‘You good?”

Even if he asked that, his tone was flat. Finality lacing those couple of words because he’d told you already. Yet here you were, lip poked out thicker than a punished child because ovulation had your brain scrambled and patience nonexistent.

“I’m okay,” you murmur softly, “‘Was gonna’ lay out a little blanket for me and Asan—have breakfast on the lawn since it isn’t too hot.” 

You continuously rub your fingers against your pendant, “Did you wanna join?”

His shoulders were hunched forward, thick arms flexed and tense as he gripped that controller like a vice. He didn’t look up as he spoke—just responded with a soft grunt, “I’m cool, Mama. Gon’ head and enjoy breakfast without me.” 

Why were you upset? You knew damn well he wouldn’t be leaving the man cave until he finished this round. Then the next round. And the one after that. Because the game? It was his peace. One you hated interrupting.

Onyankopon looked dangerous like this though—shirtless, durag tied over his cornrows, tattoos winding over every inch of his skin. The bold ink along the side of his temple only made him seem more intimidating to anyone who didn’t know him—but you? You knew the truth. That beneath all that muscle and ink was a man who melted when Asaan giggled, who kissed your forehead when he thought you were asleep.  

Your gaze flickered downward for half a second—just long enough to catch that thick outline pressing against those grey sweats before snapping back up just as fast.  

And then there was Asaan—your little caramel drop with chubby cheeks and Onyankopon's deep set eyes, crawling straight toward the man cave like he could sense Daddy was in there avoiding responsibility today. You scooped him up quickly before he got too close to any wires or controllers, balancing him on your hip as you stepped inside fully this time.

"Daddy ain't tryna be bothered right now,” you cooed lowly at Asaan, looking back at Onyankopon with those doe eyes that always worked on him in moments like these. 

You then murmur, “But maybe if we ask real nice, he'll take ten minutes and eat with us—yeah?” 

You saw it before it happened. His jaw tensed just slightly, fingers tightening around that controller again as frustration simmered under his skin because damn, hadn’t he earned some uninterrupted time? 

But Asaan then let out one of those drooly baby laughs and stretched his tiny hands toward him—and just like that, he paused mid game without hesitation—despite Kev yelling through the headset about zombies closing in.

He took Asaan from you effortlessly—the baby immediately gripping onto one of father’s face tats because infants had no concept of pain tolerance—but instead of stepping out behind y'all after kissing his son’s curls? He handed him right back.

“Gon’ eat, I ain’t starvin’.” 

His brown eyes locked onto yours while muscles flexed under tension; not angry, just pleading politely for what should've already been given freely. 

Space.

You allow Asaan to become easily distracted by your necklace, tugging at the golden jewelry under the blares of the TV’s lighting.

“‘You on the phone with Kev?”

Onyankopon let out a slow breath through his nose—the kind that came when he was trying not to let irritation seep into his tone.  

“Yeah,” he clipped, adjusting the headset slightly as Kev’s cackling about some grenade mishap crackled through the speakers. His thumb hovered over the unpause button, but you were still standing there like a lingering shadow—Asaan now gnawing on your necklace like it was a teething ring.  

He finally unpaused the game just to stop Kev from yelling louder and spoke without looking up this time.

“Baby.” 

One word, thick with finality.

You slammed the door behind you with a little more force than intended—Asaan giggling in your arms like getting tossed around was some kind of new game.  

In the kitchen, you juggled Asaan on your hip while yanking open the fridge—the cool air hit your flushed skin as you grabbed raspberries and pomegranates, knife chopping fruit a little harder than necessary before you dumped it into a bowl with some honey drizzled over top.  

Outside, morning sunlight draped over your shoulders as you spread out that quilted picnic blanket—the one Onyankopon’s grandma made you as a wedding gift. You plopped down in the grass, robe slipping dangerously high on caramel thighs while Asaan latched onto your nipple greedily, previously covered by the loose pink silk of your robe. It barely held anything in place after pregnancy did wonders on your body. 

And through all this? That damn window stared right back at you—man cave curtains cracked just enough for Onyankopon to glance outside if he wanted to—but he didn’t.

Until this. 

“Afternoon Mrs—whoa.” 

Mailman Claude nearly dropped his satchel when he hopped out of the truck, rummaging through his bag as he made his way towards your porch—his eyes snagged where silk gapped around milk heavy tits—before snapping up quick like god himself might strike him down for looking too long at something so sacredly tempting. 

You smiled sweetly though; shifting Asaan higher to cover the brown of your nipple. 

“Mornin’, Claude.”

Your voice came out syrup thick without realizing it—Southern hospitality mixed with no awareness made every word drip like molasses off your tongue, dark curls bouncing wild around freckled cheeks. 

Your voice is smooth, entrancing.

“Èske ou oke jodi a? They have you out here pretty early.”

Dear god, was your accent a weapon. 

Those soft, honeyed words had a way of making a man fall hard and fast. Claude shifted under your gaze, the heat in his cheeks having little to do with the humidity already sticking to his skin. He could've sworn he'd heard a voice like that come from heaven; sweet as Tupelo honey, as smooth as the best whiskey. 

“I—uh—” His voice cracked like a teenager, eyes darting everywhere, “Yeah, it’s—it's early, but I—I don’t mind it.”  

You reached up—still oblivious—to push a stray curl behind your ear, giving that warm Southern smile.

“Hopefully the weather stays nice. You want some breakfast to take with you? I have some fruits—milk, fresh to go.”

Claude practically choked on air when you leaned forward slightly to wipe Asaan’s mouth with the edge of your finger—your breasts just barely covered as they swayed freely under thin silk, before you tugged the fabric back into place like an afterthought.

“No ma'am! I mean—” He swallowed hard, shaking his head fast enough for his hat to nearly slide off, “Appreciate it but uh—gotta’ finish my route in due time.”

Your brow furrowed slightly—just a hint of confusion playing at the edges of that pretty smile as you tilted your head, robe slipping just a tad lower off one shoulder when you shifted.  

“It’s really no worry," you teased with a little giggle—sweet and light as morning dew— "Don't be shy. Ain't no harm in takin' some fruit or somethin' cold for the road—”  

But then, a voice like the devil had risen. Onyankopon’s deep timbre cut through like thunder rolling across quiet skies. 

“Claude.” 

One word. One warning.

The man nearly tripped backward over his own boots, scrambling away fast enough to leave skid marks in the grass—“Y—Yes sir! I was just leavin’. Right now.” 

His mail bag slapped against his hip as he practically sprinted back to his truck without another glance your way.

You blinked after him, turning toward your husband standing there bare chested in those loose sweats, watching you with an expression carved from pure steel. 

"Bring yo’ ass inside.” 

You scooped up Asaan with one arm, grabbing your bowl of fruit with the other before heading inside—still completely clueless as to why Onyankopon was suddenly looming over you like a storm cloud.  

"What's wrong?" 

You asked this innocently, adjusting the baby on your hip while stepping into the coolness of the house.  

“What’s wrong? ‘You outside in that lil’ ass robe with yo’ fuckin' titties out like it ain't nothin’."  

Your eyes narrowed, “What? I was just feeding ’San, you know that.”

He looked down at that innocent face cradled against your shoulder, that irritation still simmering as he ran a hand over his durag. 

“I know baby, I know. But you ain't even realize just how you’ was lookin’— Like you was tryna’ get the nigga attention.” 

You raise a brow, “You’re mad cause the mailman thinks I’m attractive?”

Onyankopon’s jaw locked tight, nostrils flaring as he exhaled through his nose like a bull about to charge. 

“‘San sleep yet?” He asked instead, ignoring your question completely.  

You hesitated before shaking your head no—because what kind of stupid ass question was that? The baby was wide awake, slapping fat hands against your collarbone like a drum while drool dripped down his chin.  

Onyankopon moved fast then—one tattooed arm snatching Asaan right out of your grip before striding toward the nursery without another word; leaving you standing there holding nothing but attitude and a half-eaten bowl of fruit.

But no, he wasn’t getting off that easy.

Your bare feet slapped against the hardwood as you stormed after him, that silk robe flaring against you like a warning flag.  

“Oh, now you wanna play daddy of the year?” 

Your voice came out sharper than intended—laced with enough venom to make Onyankopon pause mid step at Asaan’s nursery door. 

“You was real quick to ignore me all mornin’—but soon as a nigga look my way, you’re mad?” 

The words tasted childish even as they left your mouth—petty, bratty and deliberately meant to dig under his skin like a splinter. But did you care? Absolutely not. Maybe if he hadn’t been glued to that game for hours, leaving you starved for attention, none of this would’ve happened in the first place. 

Onyankopon turned slow—brown eyes flickering over your face like he could see straight through the act; he could smell the frustration rolling off your skin in waves alongside vanilla perfume and breastmilk.

“Ain’t got time for this back and forth shit,” he muttered, “Either tell me what’s really botherin’ you or drop it.”  

Your lips pressed into a thin line—because no, you weren’t about to admit that your hormones had you climbing the walls, craving him so bad it made you act foolish. Instead, you scooped Asaan right back up and marched out without another word, leaving Onyankopon standing there like a statue carved out of pure irritation.  

An hour passed. 

The house was quiet except for the faint hum of male voices rumbling from the man cave—Kev and whoever else laughing at something dumb through the headset while Onyankopon gave low chuckles in return. 

Asaan was finally asleep in his nursery after fighting naps all morning—leaving you alone with your thoughts, and guilt that felt stupid now that the heat of pettiness had faded.  

So barefoot and silent, you slipped back into the man cave without announcing yourself. Arms looped over his shoulders, face nuzzling into warm brown skin between ink stained neck tattoos as if nothing had even happened between you two earlier in the day. 

And despite himself? He exhaled, leaning himself into your smaller frame.

Your face still hides within the middle of his back—you ask softly, “You winning?”

His broad shoulders rose with a deep, rumbling sigh—all that annoyance from before fading with each second he felt your body pressed against him. Instead of responding to the question, his only answer was an arm stretching back to grab your free hand—long fingers gently lacing between yours before pulling you farther into him like he couldn't get enough.  

You buried your face within his throat opposite of the microphone, softly murmuring, “‘Tried giving Asaan a bottle. He wasn’t too pleased.”

He chuckled at that—low and warm—feeling your lips against his neck, soft as butterfly wings. 

“Lil’ man ain't got a sweet tooth for that plastic shit yet. You know he want’ the real thing.”

You pressed a kiss to the microphone before speaking sweetly into it—voice dripping like honey through its southern lilt, “Y'all better not be feedin’ my man bad ideas while I'm not looking.” 

Kev’s exaggerated cackling crackled through the headset—“Oh shit, we got company. This nigga Onyankopon in trouble!” 

Then you slid right onto his lap, hips rolling slowly against him as you wrapped your arms around his neck. Onyankopon groaned immediately, thick fingers gripping your waist to steady you while still trying to focus on the screen.  

“Shawty, c’mon—a nigga can’t see nothin’ like this.” 

His voice was already rough with warning as your lips brushed teasingly against his once…twice…before he deliberately turned his face away with a grunt, “Baby.” 

But when that tongue darted out? Tracing along the seam of his lips before slipping inside? He kissed you back for a short moment, pulling his mouth away as he murmured, “Chill.” 

With a dramatic little huff, you slid off his lap—but not before nipping at his earlobe just to hear him suck his teeth. Plopping down beside him instead, your hands immediately found their way to the rigid tension in his shoulders.  

“Mwen te manke ou anpil jodi a, renmen. Poukisa mwen pa ka manyen ou?”

You murmured that into the curve of his neck, words soft, taunting. 

Kev’s voice crackled through the headset again—this time louder and laced with amusement, "Damn, nigga! ‘What she sayin’?” 

Onyankopon didn’t answer immediately; just tilted his head back slightly against your touch—eyes drifting shut for half a second while he muttered under his breath, “Nothin’, nigga. She talkin’ shit."

Your freckled cheeks flushed pink as your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweats—giving a slow, testing tug while staring up at him with those big brown eyes that knew exactly what they were doing.  

Onyankopon’s grip on the controller tightened—his glare sharp enough to slice through steel as he gave you a warning look.

But even then—you dipped your fingers below the material, tugging the thick tip of him between your fingers. Your eyes awe at the sight, feeling the weight of him in your small palm as he was hard. 

You whimper softly, so low you know the microphone can’t hear—“Lemme’ suck it, baby.”

You didn’t miss the hissing breath through Onyankopon's teeth at that—low and throaty as he shifted slightly in his seat. His voice came out strained under his breath, "Mama.”

"Y'all good over there or what?” 

"’We good," Onyankopon bit out—the tone sharp enough to cut off any other questions from his friend. His eyes were dark as he stared down at you, jaw clenching.

“Quit playin’, girl.”

But you weren’t. And to show you weren’t? You drop your tongue out as you flatten it, stroking along his tip.

The second your tongue flicked out—warm, wet pressure sliding just right along the swollen head of him—his entire body tensed. A deep, growling “Fuck,” rumbled in his chest before he could stop it.  

And his friends? They were immediately back in the chat, voices full of amusement and suspicion. 

“Bruh—‘fuck was that noise?"  

Onyankopon’s fingers tangled roughly in your curls, grip tightening as he tried to keep his breathing steady while glaring down at you.

"Ain't shit.”

He found a way to lower his face just inches away from yours, heat behind his stare as he grunted, “Slurp my shit up since you want a nigga so bad. Make that bitch nasty as fuck.” 

And of course, you obliged as if you hadn’t touched your own husband in centuries. 

You begin by rotating your tongue in gentle circles around his tip, before the swell of your lips suck the thick head within your mouth, tongue grazing his slit each time he slides back in the hallowed confines of your cheeks. Then, you’re opening your throat, shoving him past the back of your tongue, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you gag—you whimper at the vibration rumbling through your entire body, jaw working up and down as you find a rhythm.

He looked like he hated you in the way he stared. His brown eyes locked onto yours like a starving man—watching the flush of your face intensify as you took him deeper. Those pretty lips, they began to swell and slick from drool. 

"Yo, bruh—you’ still there?” 

Onyankopon had to clear his throat before answering—voice thick with strain, “I’m hearin’ you, nigga. Y’all ready for another round?”

His fingers tightened in your hair—not enough to hurt, but enough to control the rhythm as you bobbed your head over his dick—which was beginning to disappear between your lips, schluck, schluck, scluck. 

"Look at you,” he growled low, thumb swiping at a string of spit connecting your mouth to his tip before pushing it back between your lips, “Fuckin’ nasty ass bitch. Why you—doin’ allat’,” he groans, hearing a soft giggle that shudders through his entire body, your little whine thrumming as you begin slamming his tip against the back of your throat. 

You were nasty in fact—you tug him from your mouth as you arch your ass within the air, lapping your tongue against his balls, sucking the veins of his tip between your mouth like a filthy routine. 

You’re lazily rotating your fingers against the heavy length of his dick, a schlack, schlack from the saliva between your palm. You’re stroking your tongue on his balls again, wagging your hips as you whimper, “‘Dick so fuckin’ fat, baby. ‘Taste’s so good.”

Your husband's breathing had gone ragged, his grip on the controller so tight the plastic groaned in protest.

"Goddamn.” 

His voice was a gravel-rough growl, barely above a whisper as he watched you worship him—those plush lips swollen, shiny and wet, drool smeared across your chin and clinging to your collarbones. The way you moaned around him sent vibrations straight up his spine, forcing another curse lowly through his lips, making his dick grow within your mouth. 

"Why yo’ ass just standing there getting shot? MOVE, NIGGA!” 

Onyankopon didn't even blink, too busy staring down at you with half-lidded eyes darkened by pure lust. His free hand tangled possessively in your curls again—forcing eye contact as he dragged you back onto him with a rough grunt, “‘Muhfuckin’ jaw prolly’ hurt, knowin’ my shit too big for you to swallow down. But gon’ do it for me, huh?” 

The wet pop of your lips separating from his tip echoed as you nodded—you’re pouting, but it didn’t stop you from trying either way—you took him deep enough to make tears well in those pretty brown eyes, hollowing your cheeks like a woman starved. You whimper as you feel his palm release from your curls, thumbing the controller to look at if he was doing something. 

All while? His other hand grazes at the fullness of your thighs as you arch into his lap—your body shudders as you feel his palm thwack the flesh of your ass. His fingers tug back the frilly lace at the edges of your robe, eyes rushing across the round globes of your ass cheeks. Onyankopon swipes his entire hand against your folds—and he groans—because he knew you were nearly dripping onto the couch from how wet you were.

The contact has you quivering—you take him deeper into your mouth, the ridges of his tip jerking in and out between your lips—but you can barely focus, as he’s just smacking, smacking your ass with repeated grunts. 

“‘Pussy wet as fuck just from puttin’ a nigga in yo’ mouth,” he sneers, “You ain’t give a fuck how you had this dick. Jus’ wanted it.”

And you did. You wanted it bad.

Your cheeks bulge as your nose brushes at his abdomen—your eyes roll as you gag loudly this time, your mouth quickly tugging him between your flushed lips as you pant. Your doe eyes flicker up to him as you whimper, “‘Want your nut all over my face, Papa.”

The game was forgotten. The controller hit the couch with a thud as Onyankopon's grip in your hair tightened when he found it once more, his other hand sliding down to cup your chin—forcing you to look up at him with those teary, submissive eyes.  

"Yeah?" His voice was a growl, “You want this nut on yo’ pretty ass face?” 

You whimpered around him—nodding as best you could with his dick lodged halfway down your throat for proof of your desires, spit slick lips stretched tight. 

He yanks himself free and drags the swollen head against your cheek—painting streaks of precum across freckled flesh while staring down like he owned every inch of you. 

“‘Keep yo’ mouth open.” 

And when you did—tongue out like some desperate little thing? He pumped himself slowly over your face just to watch the way arousal flickered in equal measure behind those brown irises, letting loose thick ropes of white right onto your waiting tongue.

You didn’t realize how much worse you were making things for yourself. Because then, your husband watched you lick his nut clean off sticky fingers like dessert after dinner. You giggled, rubbing your palms along his stomach affectionately—your mouth was innocent, “Did so good, baby.”

Maybe you weren’t paying enough attention, though. 

Otherwise, you would’ve realized how his dick hardened seconds after he nutted. You were still giggling, the soft kiss you laid against his chin sweet as a doll.

“Aight’, nigga—Imma’ call y’all back.”  

He stands to shut the door fully—seconds later, his monstrous frame looms over you.  

“Baby—“

 “Nah, baby nothin’. Assume that muhfuckin’ position.” 

You knew exactly what he meant—knees sinking onto the plush carpet as you turned around slow; robe slipping off caramel shoulders while hands braced against the floor within an arch so perfect, so familiar, that he groaned just looking at it.

“Goddamn, girl.” 

Cheek pressed against the fluffy rug, you just feel your pussy keening—the gummy folds shine beneath the dim lighting of the loading screen from his game, your thighs nearly quiver as you feel him—heavy, girthy—it smacks on your pussy from behind, making your hips tense, a low whimper passing your swollen lips. 

"Gon’ learn why playin' with me gets yo' ass fucked up.” 

Thankfully, he was nice enough to slide his tongue across your clit for a while. Your eyes flicker over your shoulder as you watch him, able to hear his mouth sucking and lapping at your pussy. 

You, “O—Ooh,” a tremble between the wet noises, sitting yourself up halfway—you wag your folds on his face, a small whine of pleasure releasing as Onyankopon’s head rotates in a circle, dragging his lips all across the entirety of you.

The sound of his tongue on your pussy is filthy. Wet, rhythmic schlick, schlick noises fill the room as his head knocks up and down, lapping from your clit all the way down to your dripping entrance before swirling back up. 

Your quivering thighs squeeze together instinctively, the pleasure too intense—but he doesn’t stop, just groans against you, vibrations making you attempt to lift up—

"Lay yo' ass back down," he grunts, “I ain’t tell you to move.” 

Your arms tremble as you try to lower yourself onto the rug again, hips still raised so you can peer back at him from beneath fluttering lashes. You pant softly—hand reaching behind blindly in a weak attempt to slow his mouth. 

“You ain’t listenin’. Now you gotta’ tuck them hands where they belong.”

He doesn’t ask things twice. 

Your toes curl at the loud slurrrp of his mouth, "Try movin’ me again and see what happens.” 

And god help you if that dominance doesn’t make the heat coil tighter in your stomach—leaving nothing but shaky whimpers and slick thighs pressed together helplessly. But you oblige, tucking your hands between your slightly parted thighs, allowing him to bury his face within your pussy. 

"You feel my tongue workin’ yo’ shit, huh?”

You nod frantically, breath hitching as his mouth 

takes you—but the second your response comes out too quiet, his palm cracks down on your ass hard enough to make you whimper again.  

“‘Hear me talkin’ to you," he growls, dragging his tongue back up in one long, slow stroke that has your thighs shaking.  

“…Y—yeah, feelsgood, baby.” 

You manage to mewl that out, voice shuddering under the weight of pleasure already coiling in your stomach—your legs tremble where they’re pinned beneath, tears gently beginning to well at the corners of your eyes. You were already overstimulated. 

“Ony, ’M sorry—“ The apology spills between whimpers—but he doesn't even let you finish, “Ain't tryna hear all that shit right now. Just keep puttin’ that pussy on my tongue.” 

 You drop your clit across his mouth, sliding and soaking his lips with it—Onyankopon’s tongue strokes until your apologies dissolve into nothing. They’ve dissipated into breathless cries against rug fibers beneath your cheek pressed flush to the floor.

"Ony—Ony, wait—"  

You gasp his name between shuddering breaths, hips instinctively trying to pull away as the pressure builds too fast, thighs clamping around as if that’ll stop him. But he knows.  

He knows.  

“Nuh Uh, C’mon.” 

Your body betrays you—shaking violently, thighs twitching as you clamp your fingers together beneath your own weight, trying to hold back. 

“Give it all to me,” his deep voice echoes in your ears, “Don’t be doin’ allat. ‘Fuck you holdin’ back for? Gimme’ that shit.” 

That's all it takes. The dam breaks—your entire body seizes up before collapsing into violent vibrations, a desperate cry tearing from your throat as warmth gushes uncontrollably over his waiting tongue, squirting all over his goatee. It’s all so loud and wet, you tuck your face within the rug, cheeks hot as you shy away from your own orgasm.

Onyankopon doesn't let you hide, of course. 

His strong palms hold your body with satisfied grunts, keeping you locked in place as he laps up every last drop—his mouth works slow, like he's savoring the taste of your weakness. 

"’Gon head an’ take this dick now.”

His voice is low, "Don't act like it's too much when yo' ass was beggin’ for it earlier."  

He was right and wrong all at once—because yeah, maybe you did start this mess by teasing him first. But now? That thick tip was already pressing blunt against your swollen folds, still throbbing from being tongue-fucked raw—it feels impossible to take. 

Onyankopon leans forward, wrapping his palm against your throat from behind, tugging you backwards to capture soft cries between rough kisses—all the while, he’s sinking himself inside inch by punishing inch. His tip is only in, and you gasp on his mouth, eyes rolling back—you whimper, “UghOny, f—fuck.” 

He doesn’t move—just holds you there, his thick girth stretching your walls to the point where you can feel every ridge, every vein pressed against your fluttering insides. Your moans are swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you deep, messy—tongue tangling with yours while your body jerks and twitches around him like a live wire.  

"Shut that shit up,” he growls against your lips when another pathetic whimper slips out, "’S what yo’ lil ass wanted, ain’t no need for all them’ tears now.” 

Then suddenly? You're being manhandled back into that perfect arch—ass up, face down on the rug. One hard smack lands on each cheek before he finally starts moving—“Gon’ take it slow,” He lies, because within seconds those slow rolls of his hips turn ruthless—each snap forward making you gasp louder than before.

Each thrust makes slickness gush out your folds like some kind of floodgate broke open inside of you. To make matters worse, you were loud.

And oh, you were losing it.  

"Ony—Ony. Mmmphfuck, baby.” 

Words dissolved into nonsense slurs against the rug—your entire body jerked with each brutal snap of his hips, all while that thick dick of his pistons inside you ruthlessly. You could feel your own cream coating him messily, your pussy clenching around him in desperate pulses as he forced orgasm after orgasm from your trembling body.  

The sound? Disgusting—wet schlicks, flesh slapping against flesh with every deep stroke, mixed with the obscene squelch of your arousal dripping down his balls and onto your thighs.  

“Pussy talkin’ so much shit, huh?” 

He taunts you in a breathless grunt, delivering another sharp smack to your ass cheek—“The bitch singin’ to me.” 

Each spank only made you cream harder—gushing around him like a broken faucet while nonsensical whimpers spilled past swollen lips—“Fuckkk, Papa. Oh my god.” 

When the pleasure turns too much, your voice cracks into something sweet—tiny, desperate whimpers slipping between shaky breaths. 

"M'sorry, Ony. I love you so much, Papa. Ughn…” 

You mewl it, your body arching prettily—but Onyankopon wasn’t taking any of that softness right now. Not when he knows just how nasty you really are under all those tears.  

"Bounce this big ass back on me,” he growls, “Hands stay where I put ‘em." 

And despite the ache in your thighs? You obey. Your hips roll back against him with slow, deliberate grinds at first—until the pleasure makes you lose control and suddenly? You're fucking yourself desperately onto his dick, bouncing, choked out moans as if he’s splitting you in half every time he bottoms out. Tears well in those round eyes again as another orgasm rips through your core—gushing around him like some broken faucet while drool slips past swollen lips.

Your walls flutter, gushing around him in slick pulses while long, shuddering moans spill from puffy lips. He watches you unravel like it's entertainment for him—not moving an inch except to lazily spank your ass when your rhythm falters. 

“This my muhfuckin’ pussy,” a rough palm smacking down, “Ain’t no nigga alive gon’ touch what belongs to me.”  

The threat is casual, but lethal in its delivery before he clutches the flesh of your ass in his palm, tugging you back on his dick like you weighed nothing—“‘Fuck ‘round and find out how serious I am.”

Your moans tremble out in long, warbling notes—sounding like some broken melody as your body quivers around him. Onyankopon’s gaze burns into where your pussy stretches obscenely around his girth, watching slick drip down his shaft with every sloppy thrust.  

“You hear that?” 

His voice is echoing, taunting as he slows his hips just to make the lewd squelch even louder—your own cream makes a filthy mess between your thighs, “That's yo’ shit talkin’ to me.” 

You squeeze him, as that’s all you can do. 

“Relax, Mama. Damn.” 

His command is harsh but laced with something darker, possessive, “Stop fightin' my dick.” 

And when you finally do? When those tight walls flutter weakly before relaxing, letting him sink balls deep in one brutal stroke? His head tips back with a ragged groan—listening intently as you sob beneath him, taking every inch like it was made for you.

“I love you, Ony…”

It’s muffled between the press of your cheek against the rug—so soft it almost gets lost under the wet slap of skin on skin. Onyankopon doesn’t pause his slow, deep strokes—just tilts his head down to watch where your body takes him so well before grunting out a rough—“I love yo’ ass too, girl.”

And then—just to ruin you further, “‘Always got me, even when you feel like you don’t.” 

The confession hits harder than sex ever could. Tears spill instantly; fat and hot down flushed cheeks as you push your hips back against him desperately, taking him even deeper with a choked sob, bouncing messily against him.

“Cum in me.” 

You whimper this, nails digging into the rug beneath you like it’ll ground you from floating away from pleasure alone, “‘Want another baby—want you.” 

“Gon’ give you a baby,” he grunts, “Ain’t no fuckin' way I'm pullin' out now." 

The words rumble against sweat slicked skin before he buries himself one last time—holding himself inside, unloading deep until warmth spills between trembling thighs and onto shivering stomachs pressed together messily, he’s moaning with you. 

As he was still buried inside you, he suddenly yanks you into a rough kiss—your lips part instinctively as his tongue swipes against yours, swallowing every last one of your breathy apologies like they were sweet nothings.  

You twist in his arms, straddling him with trembling thighs—your hands immediately cup his bearded face as you press desperate kisses to the corners of his mouth between whispered confessions.  

"’Love you so much," your voice is hoarse from crying out earlier—but it doesn’t stop the way those words tumble past your lips as you meant them.

“You know I love yo’ ass too.”  

Then? The baby monitor crackles to life—tiny coos and giggles echo through the speaker.

The both of you burst into exhausted laughter; foreheads pressed together as breathless chuckles fill the air around tangled limbs and messy bodies.

“‘Gonna try giving him another bottle,” you murmur, stroking your tongue along his mouth, “Might put a lil’ milk on his pacifier.”

Onyankopon's rough chuckle vibrates against your lips, “‘Can’t be kissin’ on me like that when we’ supposed to be done.”

Your giggle is soft against his lips as you nudge him playfully, “I need to shower and clean up first before feeding him.”  

“We can shower together,” he murmurs, “Then I’ll handle Asaan ‘fore you come in. Papa might get him to take the bottle, you gon’ see.”

The shared shower is warm—steamy air clinging to your skin as playful kisses are stolen between soapy touches and hushed laughter. But when he steps out first to tend to the baby, you take your time under the water, letting it rinse away the lingering heat of hours before, finally wrapping yourself in an oversized tee before padding toward the nursery.  

When you peek inside? There’s Onyankopon—big hands cradling tiny Asaan with surprising gentleness as he finally gets him to latch onto the bottle after some fussing. The sight nearly makes your heart burst. His broad frame hunched slightly over your son while murmuring low assurances like, “There go my lil’ man. Drink up.”

You lean against the doorframe with an endeared smile, watching them until Onyankopon glances up.

“Whatchu smilin’ at?” 

His tone is all faux grumpiness, but his eyes soften when they meet yours across a dimly lit room; sweet, love filling the air.

"Didn’t mean to interrupt," you reply softly, “Just watchin’ my two boys."  

“Ain’t never a bother, Mama.”

For a moment, silence settles—just the soft suckling of Asaan drinking at his bottle.

Then, hesitantly—

“You sure about wanting another baby?" 

You press, “I know in the moment we say…things. But with your schedule and—and how much you value your space sometimes…I don’t wanna assume—“

"Baby. Look at me." 

When your eyes finally meet his? There's nothing but certainty staring back at you, “If I didn't want our second baby, a nigga would’ve said sum’.”

His thumb brushes over Asaan’s cheek absently as he continues—“Ain't no assumin' when I'm tellin' yo' ass straight up what I want.”  

The reassurance is blunt—so very him. But when his free hand reaches out to tug you closer by the end of your shirt, strong arms wrapping around both your son and you—That says enough on its own, too.

You press soft kisses against his chin—a shy, “Okay,” passing against his skin in return. You press your finger against Asaan’s cheek, smiling at the little gurgle he does as he’s finished off his bottle. 

"You think Papa’s gonna join us outside for lunch this time, hm?” 

“I can't trust yo’ ass outside without me no more. Don't even know why you askin'."

You flick his temple, “That’s not my fault Claude acted like he’s never seen breasts before!” You pout, “They’re just a little bigger.”

Onyankopon scowls instantly at the mention of Claude.

 “Yo’ ass better stop sayin’ that nigga name if you want him to keep breathin’.” 

The growl in his voice is only half serious, before it melts into something teasing—eyes trailing down your chest with a smirk.  

"Can't blame ‘em though. You know what they lookin' like,” he grunts, "'Specially since you’ been wearin' them thin ass robes all week.” 

Asaan babbles suddenly—tiny hands reaching out toward you as if sensing the shift in conversation between his parents. Onyankopon immediately turns competitive again—“Nah, say Papa, lil’ man.”  

You lean in closer—“Nooo, say Momma!”—bouncing on your toes to coax those first syllables from him,  Onyankopon making exaggerated clicking noises near the baby's ear just to distract him from choosing you instead. And just like that, you were a family again. 

It's ridiculous.

But it’s perfect.

[prettieinpnk]

[prettieinpnk]

To say you know that they are brother and don’t care and want to see them indulge in sexual acts with eachother is so disgusting

And for you to say “ok I’ll write about two biological brothers kissing eachother” is even sicker. THSI is such a sick world we live in and it’s really sad.

[prettieinpnk]

Beyonce for Complex Magazine, 2003

[prettieinpnk]

Somebody just told me Michael b Jordan look like a regular man. I HAD TO EXIT THE APP I WILL NOT TOLERATE MICHAEL B JORDAN SLANDER.

[prettieinpnk]

Tumblr starting to become unknown and I don’t like that 💔

In a world of AO3 warriors, I'm forever a Tumblr Trooper...

[prettieinpnk]

[prettieinpnk]

doing the "smile if you want a new girlfriend" trend with nanami

as soon as you whisper the sentence to him, his face drops. quite literally turns downward. he stares at you like the economy will collapse if he allows his mouth to curve even a smidge upwards.

you laugh fondly at his reaction, ending the video with a tap on your phone and a kiss to his cheek.

later, at dinner, you finish narrating the drama that happened at work that day in extensive detail. nanami, usually not one to participate in such trivial gossip, would always be invested in these blown-out-of-proportion stories. but today, he stays emotionless, almost catatonic. he's stabbing peas with his fork like his life depends on it.

you notice his silence, the sudden change in his behavior. you try cracking a few jokes, the ones you know make him break a bit. but to no avail. finally, heart wrenching and unable to take it anymore, you stand as you say, "what's wrong, ken? did i do something to make you mad?"

he looks up, a slight frown on his face. "no sweetheart. of course not. why?"

you shrug. "you've just, been acting indifferent today, y'know? not smiling or responding or anything..."

he opens and closes his mouth like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"darling. you told me to 'smile if i want a new girlfriend'."

realization floods your spine in a cold, relieving rush. "kennn! that thing ended so long ago! as soon as i finished that video."

his jaw drops open. "are you pulling my leg? do you know how hard it is to maintain a straight face when you're completely and utterly hilarious?"

you burst into giggles. "oh gosh. and here i was thinking that you started hating me out of the blue. you cannot be real person, nanami kento."

his lips jut out into something resembling a pout. "my jaw hurts from holding in a smile."

you cross over to him in two quick steps, taking his face in your hands. "i can kiss it better."

he hums. "i would like that, my perfect, only, and irreplaceable, girlfriend."

[prettieinpnk]

being anti ai is making me feel like in going insane. "you asked for thoughts about your characters backstory and i put it into chat gpt for ideas". studies have proven its making people dumber. "i asked ai to generate this meal plan". its causing water shortages where its data centers are built. "ill generate some pictures for the dnd campaign". its spreading misinformation. "meta, generate an image of this guy doing something stupid". its trained off stolen images, writing, video, audio. "i was talking with my snapchat ai-" theres no way to verify what its doing with the information it collects. "youtube is impletmenting ai based age verification". my work has an entire graphics media department and has still put ai generated motivational posters up everywhere. ai playlists. ai facial verification. google ai microsoft ai meta ai snapchat ai. everyone treats it as a novelty. every treats it as a mandatory part of life. am i the only one who sees it? am i paranoid? am i going insane? jesus fucking christ. if i have to hear one more "well at least-" "but it does-" "but you can-" im about to lose it. i shouldnt have to jump through hoops to avoid the evil machine. have you no principles? no goddamn spine? am i the weird one here?

[prettieinpnk]

You’re sitting on the back porch with Toji, enjoying the warm, summer afternoon while your little daughter plays in the garden. She’s always been curious and full of questions, and today seems no different. You sip your lemonade while Toji lazily stretches his arm around your waist, eyes half-lidded with his head tilted back against the bench while he enjoys the peace under the sun.

Suddenly, your daughter toddles over, hands clutching a pretty little flower she just picked. “Daddy,” she chirps sweetly, tilting her head up to Toji with wide, innocent eyes. “How do babies get in mommy’s tummy?”

You nearly choked on your drink. Toji’s eyes widen for a second, but he quickly hides it behind a low chuckle. He glances at you, his smirk barely contained. You give him a panicked look — ‘you handle it!’

He leans down, brushing a hand over her soft hair to move the strands away from her face. “Well, princess,” he starts, his deep voice calm and soft, “when two people love each other very, very much, they make a special wish together. And sometimes, that wish turns into a baby”.

She blinks, not fully satisfied with his answer. “But how?”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh or cry at how calm Toji is. He pauses for a second, then lifts her gently onto one of his muscular knee.

“Alright, kiddo, you know how bees go to flowers, right?”

“Uh-huh!” she nods eagerly while paying full attention to him.

“Well, when a bee visits a flower, it helps the flower grow new seeds. Mommy and Daddy kinda do something like that too. We spend time together, real close, and then after some time, a baby starts growing in Mommy’s tummy”.

She gasps like it’s the most magical thing in the world. “So Daddy’s a bee?!”

You finally burst into giggles. Toji’s chest shakes as he laughs, pressing a soft kiss to her head.

“Yeah, that’s right. Daddy’s Mommy’s big ol’ bee”. He winks at you while your daughter giggles in his lap.

You whisper under your breath so only Toji hears, “A very busy bee, apparently”.

His eyes narrow playfully as he squeezes your thigh under the table.

“Don’t make me show you just how busy, later”.

You swat him in the arm lightly, blushing while your daughter happily plays with her flower, fully content with her new understanding of the bee-baby mystery.

[prettieinpnk]

✧˖°🍀🍓⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Rich college boy Sukuna! who actually only got in college because of his parent’s funds. He knows he is smart why does he have to work hard for it??

Rich college boy Sukuna! who met you at a frat party knowing that you were the new scholarship student.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who thought that you will be a quick and easy fuck but wow, weren’t you annoyingly attractive.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who was surprised when you rejected his advances because you were “waiting for the right one”. Sukuna, who was finally humbled by you.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who after that incident hated your guts and when he found out you were his mentor to get his grades up? He was pissed.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who cannot stop looking at you when you tutor him. He is just closely paying attention to what you are saying…. Alright? Don’t think too much into it.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who randomly starts getting you random trinkets and food always saying, “thought you might like it”.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who actually finally starts studying just because he wants to. Totally not to impress his bombshell tutor.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who finally asks you out on a date as his gift for getting good marks.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who has fucked so many girls but got nervous to hold your hand while walking.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who was surprised when you kissed him first but couldn’t be happier.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who quit his old ways and prefers to watch stupid documentaries with you in bed rather than going to frat parties.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who drops his ‘friends’ because they couldn’t respect you and his relationship.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who at graduation told you he loves you while holding you tight.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who doesn’t care if his parents like you or not because no matter what, you are still the love of his life.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who dresses up properly and brings flowers to meet your parents for the first time. And after months, your parents finally like him seeing how much he cares for you.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who proposed to you while you both were sitting on the floor eating takeout Chinese food.

Rich college boy Sukuna! who had a small weddings with both you families and close ones.

Husband Sukuna! who now proudly wears his ring everyone and happily smiles at you and your daughter’s photo on his office desk.

✧˖°🥗🍅⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

[prettieinpnk]

𝒮𝓅ℯℯ𝒸𝒽𝓁ℯ𝓈𝓈

Firefighter Reiner x Black reader

an: surprise shawty! i ended up finishing this in one night because once i started i couldn’t stop. also this fic was made with the song speechless by beyoncé playing on repeat so if you wanna listen to that while you read it might be more immersive!

cw: firefighter reiner! traditional wife reader! (not in the weird conservative way) unprotected sex, creampie, slightly sub reiner! also reiner is southern in this it’s not specified but i was thinking it along with reader being chubby. again not said but sort of implied. also not proofread!MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

It had been four years. Four years of a blissful marriage with the love of your life. Reiner was a hard working man. A provider in every sense. So much so, he picked a job that entailed providing for others. He loved to help, to save, and so it wasn’t hard for him to pick being a firefighter as his career choice. He was so glad he did. It was how he met you. 

-

You remember that day like it was yesterday. At the time, you were staying in your shitty apartment. It was cheap and you lived alone. So the little things, like jammed doors and cracked tiles, didn’t bother you much. Your bathroom door got jammed often. Usually, you were able to just force it open. It was second nature at that point.

That morning you had gotten ready to shower. You took a towel and an outfit layed them out of your bed while you were distracted talking to a friend on the phone. Taking off your clothes before heading to the bathroom with your phone and nothing else. You hadn’t realized you forgot your towel until after your shower. You had sighed, chuckled to yourself (foolishly thinking it was no big deal) before going to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. You shoved at it with all your strength and still, nothing.

First, you panicked. Then, you tried again and again and again. Still, the door hadn’t opened. About an hour passed of being trapped in your bathroom. As embarrassing as it was, you called 911. After explaining what happened, the dispatcher sent firefighters to your apartment. Soon later, You heard a lot of male voices and heavy footsteps in your apartment and it was so humiliating to know a bunch of men were about to see you naked.

That’s when someone called out for you and you called back. You had made a half attempt to cover your breasts and mound once you heard them prying your door open. That’s when you saw Reiner.

You can never forget the dumbfounded expression on his face when he saw you. His eyes wide and his strong jaw slightly slack. Your face grew warm. So embarrassed that the guy coming to save you was ridiculously fine. You both stared at each other before he realized he was supposed to be doing his job. He had shooed his colleagues away before they could see you in your compromising position. Then, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. His face was red and his eyes stayed respectfully on the floor. You had wrapped yourself in his fireman’s jacket and he waited outside the bathroom making sure the door wouldn’t swing open or get stuck while you were changing.

He was sweet and gave you advice on how to fix your doors once you were fully clothed. You thanked him and he smiled widely and gorgeously then uttered “Of course, ma’am. It’s my job,” With such pride and sincereness, your heart had nearly exploded at the adorableness.

About a week later, you had decided to bake cookies for the men that helped you and drove down to the station. You just had to tell them thank you. Especially Reiner. His advice had all of your doors working normally. You had pulled up and walked inside and called out to see if anyone was there. All the men had come down and you smiled sheepishly when they recognized you. Reiner was the first to get to you and you talked. He had complimented your hair. You giggled and thanked him. The rest was history.

-

You were curled up on the couch. Comfortable in a bonnet and one of your husband’s t-shirts and a pair of shorts. A candle lit. Your home smells of vanilla and honey. A fluffy throw blanket thrown over your legs as you sip a glass of red wine. One that Reiner really likes so you ended up drinking too. Not on purpose. Just because it reminds you of him.

When you both got married Reiner made sure you would never have to work again. You really didn’t mind staying home, doing whatever the hell you wanted while reiner worked. You both just happened to like it that way.

As you sit, watching a new show you’ve been bingeing lately, you hear the front door open then shut. You smile to yourself and check the time. It’s eight pm sharp. The same time Reiner always comes home. Never early, never late. You hear his heavy sigh and some shuffling before he trudges his way to the living room.

“Hi, honey,” You coo, watching him walk around to collapse on top of you with a grunt. You giggle as he nuzzles into your bosoms inhaling your scent and sighing. “Long day?” You question, He nods and sighs.

“Had some stupid calls today. Been wanting to come home to you all day,” He mumbles, your smile widens. He looks up at you slightly pouting. You peck his soft pink lips. He sighs, like he’s really been looking forward to it all day.

“I’m sorry your day wasn’t the best, baby,” You say, as you pull away. 

“Just…come to bed with me?” He asks, you don’t hesitate to nod and he doesn’t hesitate to carry you to the bedroom. He kicks the door shut behind you guys. He takes his time to gently lay you down.

“Reiner…” You whisper, watching him remove his shirt. His body stupidly muscled. You're grateful he started bulking. His frame is thicker and softer but the definition of his muscles still stand out.

“Hm?” He hums as he starts to kiss your neck softly sucking hickeys onto your brown skin. His large, calloused, hands gripping your thighs. Massaging the thickness of your thighs and pressing his bulge against your heat. You gasp softly, back arching and legs wrapping around his waist.

“I-I thought you were…tired…” You mumble, a little distracted as he licks up the side of your throat, hungry, desperate.

“Never said that,” He growls, his chest rumbling against yours. At that you decide to stop pretending to not want it as much as he does. You cup his face and smash your plump lips against his. The kiss is sloppy and passionate. The both of you too impatient to take your time. You sit up and push him onto his back and straddle his lap. Your hips grind against his in slow little circles. He groans into the kiss, his lips parting. You take the opportunity to slide your tongue into his mouth. You whine as he swirls his tongue around yours. It’s warm and wet. You pull back to remove his shirt you were wearing. Your breasts, soft and supple, are cupped by his palms almost as soon as they’re freed.

“Fuck!” You gasp as his thumbs circle your nipples until your buds stiffen. He sits up to suck on one before quickly switching to the other. His dick straining in his pants, a small wet spot forming where he’s leaking precum all over himself. Your shorts are worse. Cunt sticky and slick with arousal. Both of you are desperately humping each other. Driving each other crazy.

“Come on, mama. Need to feel you,” He practically whines. His voice is deep and hoarse. The Neediness bleeding into his words. You moan out loud and nod, urgently tugging your shorts and panties off in one swift motion. He does the same with his own clothes, awkwardly kicking his pants off. Your eyes meet and you both share a soft intimate laugh. Pressing your forehead against his, his hands grabbing hold of your waist.

“I love you, baby,” You say softly. His hands slide down to your hips then up your back. You shudder at the contact. He grins.

“I love you too, darling,” He whispers. You grab the base of his cock and rub your wet folds back and forth on his flushed pink mushroom tip. He lets out a breathy “Fuck” Before his hands slide back down to your undulating hips.

“You missed me, baby?” You ask, your eyebrows furrowed in pleasure as you grind your clit against his head. Getting wetter and wetter. Coating his thick length in your juices.

“You know I did, [Y/N],” He says breathily. You smile and shake your head slightly.

“Just humor me, my love,” You murmur. He rolls his eyes a little, though not truly bothered by your teasing.

“I missed you so much, honey,” He mumbles with a small smile. You sink down on his dick and you both moan in unison. He stretches you out in ways that never fail to make you feel it. Even after all these years. His eyes are shut tightly, his grip on your hips bruising.

After a moment of adjusting, you slowly lift your hips up and down. Your hands on his firm chest for support. Your pussy wrapping his cock in warm tight wetness. Dripping and soaking him in pleasure. He sighs and relaxes, getting used to the rhythm you set.

“You feel so fucking good,” He groans, his hands moving to your ass, squeezing and slapping the fatty flesh. You take the stinging sensation as encouragement to speed up slightly. The soft slap of your skin meeting fills the room, your eyes rolling back. Reiner’s eyes open to watch you bounce on his dick. His eyes fixated on where you’re leaving that signature creamy ring around the base of his cock like you always do when you guys make love.

“Reiner, Baby,” You moan out, You make eye contact with him and almost cum right then and there. His face is flushed, his jaw is slack and the softest moans and whimpers escape him as you bounce faster. He collects some of your creamy slick with his thumb, then rubs quick tight circles on your swollen clit.

“I’m so fucking close. Please tell me you’re there too. Please, Baby,” He whines desperately. His hips thrusting up to meet your bounces. Rough and quick, the both of you chasing your releases.

“Yes, I’m there, Baby! I’m cumming!” You whine. You cry out, your voice cracking as you orgasm. Your face scrunching with pleasure while you clench and pulsate around him, milking him for all he’s worth.

“Holy- fuck!” He grunts. His eyes rolling back and his toes curling as he holds you still with his grip on your hips. His cock throbbing inside you as he paints your walls white with his thick, warm cum. You collapse on top of him and he wraps his arms around you.

You both sit in silence, bodies sweaty, trying to catch your breath. His hand slowly and soothingly rubbing up and down your back. Once you no longer struggle to get air in your lungs, you lift your head to kiss him soft and slow. He smiles into the kiss, and when you pull back his smile is still there.

“I love you,” You whisper, smiling back at him. His hand finds your left, fidgeting with your wedding ring before kissing your knuckles.

“I love you, darling,” He whispers back. You giggle and nuzzle your nose against his. He chuckles and carries you to the bathroom, where you both clean up.

You love your husband.

thanks for reading💋

do not copy this is my original works

[prettieinpnk]

‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀…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.”

[prettieinpnk]

Rappers ain’t shit, I might fuck with a baller.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI!!!

“rappers really ain’t shit,” sukuna spits, grinding into you like he wants to rearrange your guts. “should’ve let me bend you over the second he brought you around.”

he fucks you like you owe him something. rough. mean. deep. filthy. his hand’s fisted in the jersey he made you wear—his number across your tits, his scent all over your skin. the same couch he used to smoke on with your ex is now where he’s got your legs pinned wide, dripping and stuffed full of his cock.

you don’t even recognize yourself—whining, trembling, letting sukuna do whatever he wants to you just because you’re pissed and petty and desperate to feel something—anything other than disappointment and anger.

and fuck, does sukuna know it.

“cheating on you?” he laughs low in your ear, one hand palming the bulge in your stomach, grinning when you cry out. “on this pretty little tight pussy? is he fucking dumb?”

you dig your nails into his back, squirming under him.

“don’t stop,” you pant. “don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”

his fingers slide down to rub your clit, fast. “like i fucking would,” he hisses. “look at you. dripping on my couch like a little slut. tell me, princess—was he ever even fuckin’ you right?”

before you can get a proper answer out, he slips two fingers into your mouth, pressing them down hard on your tongue.

he grunts, hips rolling deep, slow, grinding like he wants to leave a mark inside you. “i bet not. couldn’t have been. pussy’s too tight—bet his cock was so fuckin’ small too.”

you whimper, clinging to him, sucking on his fingers like your life depends on it. every stroke knocks the air out of your lungs, every slap of his hips against yours sending another wave of heat crawling up your spine.

“you talk about him like that,” you gasp, barely able to speak with how hard he’s pressing his digits down on your tongue and how deep and hard he’s fucking you, “but he’s your friend, you know… you’re not innocent either.”

sukuna stills for a second, cock buried so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. then he laughs, pulling his fingers from your mouth before curling his hand around your jaw to make you look at him.

“friend?” he echoes. “baby, i was never his fuckin’ friend.” then slaps your pussy once, not hard, just enough to make you jolt.

“you think i didn’t know what he was doing? huh?” he growls. “you think i didn’t see him sneakin’ around, fuckin’ those thirsty-ass groupies while you were waitin’ for his sorry ass to come home?”

your eyes sting, but the tears never come. not when sukuna’s dragging his cock out slow, letting you feel every inch, just to slam it back in with a brutal snap of his hips that makes your body jerk.

“i knew,” he says, panting against your mouth, “and you know why i didn’t tell you?”

“why?” you whimper.

his thumb finds your clit again, working tight, ruthless circles while he fucks you harder—louder. meaner. the couch squeaks beneath you. his jersey clings to your body, soaked in sweat.

“’cause i wanted to fuckin’ ruin you myself.”

your mouth falls open on a cry, body seizing up when your orgasm hits like a truck— fast and humiliatingly loud.

“look at that,” he huffs, fucking you through it, holding your legs wide like he wants to devour you. “you wanted revenge, right? wanted to feel something? you feelin’ this, baby? you feelin’ me fuck that bastard’s name right outta your fuckin’ mouth?”

you nod, frantic, eyes rolling back as he pounds into your overstimulated cunt.

“cheating on you…” he mutters again, like it physically pisses him off. his mouth presses to your throat, kissing just under your jaw. “he’s a fuckin’ idiot.”

he bites you, sharp, right where your pulse is.

“you want me to kill him?” he murmurs. “mh? talk to me baby—tell me i can. i would. swear to god, i fuckin’ would.”

“s’kuna!—fuck,” you cry, not even sure what you’re saying anymore, just chasing another high, dizzy from the way he’s fucking you like he wants to break you in half.

“look so fucking good with my jersey on,” he growls, dragging it up to watch your tits bounce. “gonna send him a picture of you like this, pussy all red and messy from my cock. make him watch the vid when i cum on your face.”

“you’re so—fucking m-mean,” you breathe, hips lifting to meet his thrusts shamelessly. “you’re just like him, if not worse—ah! s’kunaaaa! f-fuck!”

he grins, “maybe,” he says, licking into your mouth. “but at least i’d never fuckin’ cheat on you.”

and with that, he pulls out, flips you over with no effort and shoves back in from behind—so mean and deep, making you scream.

he yanks your head back by the hair, huffing against your ear.

“gonna fuck a baby into you just to piss him off,” he groans, balls slapping against your soaked cunt. “make him see you on my arm, belly round, lookin’ like my fuckin’ wife.”

you moan his name like a prayer, lost in it—lost in him. rough and sweet and dirty all in one. sukuna’s hand slips under your stomach, pressing down until you can feel every inch of him grinding against your front.

“pussy’s mine now,” he says, deadly quiet, kissing the back of your shoulder. “you hear me?”

you nod fast, babbling, “yours—yours, i swear—”

“good girl,” he hums. “now cum again, pretty. cum all over this cock while i fuck you stupid.”

and you do.

for the entire night.

© gojodickbig on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[prettieinpnk]

fluff!!

dating suguru geto who loves giving forehead kisses the most. not because he’s overly romantic about it, but because to him, it’s the most tender gesture.

dating suguru geto who sometimes stares at you for a long time and when you ask what’s wrong, he just says: “Nothing. Just really lucky.”

dating suguru geto who falls asleep on the train ride home with his head leaning gently on your shoulder, his hair tickling your neck, his breathing slow and steady. You don’t move an inch because you know he barely got any sleep last night.

dating suguru geto who lets you braid little parts of his hair while he reads or listens to you talk. He doesn’t say anything about it until hours later when someone points it out and he just shrugs proudly.

dating suguru geto who takes ugly selfies on your phone when you leave it unattended. Like triple chin, the one with tongue like this 😛 (yall get it?) and then sets them as your wallpaper.

dating suguru geto who uses cursed spirits for dumb things.Sends a tiny one to bring you snacks or cute little notes.Yaga probably hates this misuse of power, but Geto is fully committed.

Request are open,feel free to ask for any character

Also‼️I only write fluff (sorry (✿ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)⁾⁾)