#predictive Scripture

[404-found]

Prophecy, Crystal Ball or Clever Spin?

One of the biggest skeptic barbs is this, “Prophecies were written after the fact, so it’s all clever hindsight.” Seriously? Tell that to the dusty scrolls and fulfilled forecasts that nail history before it happens. “Surely the Lord GOD does nothing without revealing His secret to His servants the prophets.”— Amos 3:7 Let’s test the accuracy. Micah’s Bethlehem Bullseye.Written…

[astrovedawisdom]

Did Ancient Texts Predict the Big Bang? Shocking Parallels in the Bhagavatam!

1. Introduction For centuries, humanity has looked to the skies in search of answers about the universe’s origin. Scientists gave us the Big Bang theory, while sages from ancient India offered cosmological insights in scriptures like the Bhagavatam. Could it be that these ancient Indian texts described the Big Bang long before science caught up? The idea may sound outrageous at first, but when…

[bills-bible-basics]

THE MISGUIDED END OF THE WORLD PREDICTIONS OF HAROLD CAMPING -- a Bill's Bible Basics Article #Christian #BibleStudy #Jesus This #BillsBibleBasics article by #BillKochman can be read at: https://www.billkochman.com/Articles/Prediction-Harold-Camping1.html https://www.billkochman.com/Blog/index.php/the-misguided-end-of-the-world-predictions-of-harold-camping-a-bills-bible-basics-article/?feed_id=193792&THE%20MISGUIDED%20END%20OF%20THE%20WORLD%20PREDICTIONS%20OF%20HAROLD%20CAMPING%20--%20a%20Bill%27s%20Bible%20Basics%20Article

[infamousbrad]

I warned you.

About 15 years ago, I had a minor moment of Internet fame when I wrote a lengthy essay series on LiveJournal called "Christians in the Hand of an Angry God." In it, I argued that right-wing evangelical "Christianity" was literally Satanic by scriptural standards, was literally the cult of anti-Christ that Jesus prophesied in Matthew 25:31-46, that they were literally worshiping a made-up guy with the same name to justify cruelty, just like Jesus predicted they would the week before the crucifixion.

And at least half of the people who read it and praised it called it excellent satire. They saw my point, thought I was onto something, but couldn't take seriously that I literally meant what I literally said.

"Do not commit the sin of empathy."

Jesus' prophesy that these people were coming was not especially miraculous, in hindsight. No philosophy or theological movement becomes a large organized church, let alone a majority faith of a nation, without needing rich people's money, and/or government funding, to pay for it all.

And rich people in general, and right-wing governments in general, get to be the way they are by believing that the poor and the down-trodden can never be shown anything but cruelty, should never be rewarded, or else they'll lose all motivation to obey, to work hard, to be good. (By contrast, they believe that the same thing would happen to rich, powerful, popular people if they were ever punished in any way, if they were ever anything but rewarded.)

And rich people and governments are not going to subsidize your church foundation funds, your church repair funds, et cetera if you tell them that they're evil. But someone definitely will come along and offer to take that money. The people who take that money and conform won't even all be lying psychopaths; if you truly believe that your organization matters, is doing irreplaceable good in the world, you'll sacrifice any principle of your faith to keep the bills paid, you'll look away from or excuse any sin. It's that or see it all shrink and crumble into irrelevance.

I've come to the conclusion that it may not actually be possible to be a good person while practicing the majority faith of the land you live in. Or, if it is possible, well, like the man said, "straight is the gate and narrow is the way, and few there be that find it."

The Episcopal Church has its own legacy of sin, they've long overlooked a laundry list of crimes to pay their own bills, so don't rush to congratulate a mainline bishop for preaching mainline Christianity or take too much pleasure from Trump and his fascist followers being surprised that that happened. But do remember this:

From the mid-1970s to the present, right-wing billionaires have poured a LOT of money into church expansion and maintenance conditional on them distorting the Bible's teachings to make it appear that Jesus was pro-fascist. "To deceive, if it were possible, the very elect." So when honest theologians tell you that this is literally anti-Christ, literally checks every box in the Bible's description of the future cult of anti-Christ, you need to hear us.

The modern book and movie image of "the Antichrist" was a well-funded propaganda campaign to distract you from the plain language of the scriptures. The biblical anti-Christ is not some socialist liberal peacenik. The biblical anti-Christ is everyone who tells you that Jesus wants you to be cruel to "the least of these, my brethren" so that they'll straighten up and fly right.

[henryarrietaoficial]

PREDICA 2024 LA IGLESIA NO PASARA POR LA GRAN TRIBULACION,PREDICA CORTA ...

[revpauljbern]

This week's Sunday message from the Social Gospel Worship and Learning Center with Minister Paul J. Bern: "Biblical Predictions About the Near Future: How It Applies to Us" https://greatestservant62.medium.com/biblical-predictions-that-will-soon-come-true-acec44ff5b0c

[colorlessjay]

Part 1 of "Promises Kept" (Title in workshop)

Noble Man Castiel Novak and the scrappy farm hand in town, Dean Winchester Slow burn romance where they meet when they were young. the Winchesters owned large amounts of land and prospered while the Novak's had very little and worked small jobs in town Dean promises Castiel that when they grow older, Dean would own the land he has and would spoil Castiel. That he would build Cas a mansion and make sure he never grows hungry. That he would use the money to help other people too, with Castiel by his side managing the numbers Dean could never get the hang of Castiel promising that he'd do anything to make Dean's dream come true. To help his best friend and always be by his side. That he'd put Dean's needs above his own if it meant Dean would prosper Neither of them anticipated the Winchester Property to burn down through a freak fire accident Neither of them could predict the Novak's striking gold, marrying rich, and becoming Noble Men through Castiel's father's connections Dean had to pick up the pieces of his life at a young age. Grieving his mother, taking care of his baby brother, and helping his father work the field to salvage what they could Castiel was forced to move to a different city to further his education. His father forcing his children into a higher education, in hopes to continue upholding their new Noble position, afraid to go back to the life they used to live And as years went on and the two grew apart, fate brings them together again Dean having built his life back slowly, his father selling most of the land and taking odd jobs out of the town. Dean having to be a father to his baby brother, working Bobby Singer's farm and ranch to scrape by Castiel having gardened praise and attention for his higher education. His studies and work on scriptures and translations have given him enough freedom to travel away from home, back to Lawrence Back to Dean, to fulfill his promise to give the man his dreams He didn't expect Dean to uphold his promise too --------- Eeehhh rough idea. Lemme know whatcha think

[pradeepparihar]

100% व्यक्ति का मन तथा भविष्य जानने की सरल विधि

भविष्य बताने वाला खेल क्या है? | भविष्य जानने की सरल विधि | भूत भविष्य वर्तमान जानने की साधना | त्रिकाल ज्ञान मंत्र | त्रिकालदर्शी मंत्रआज की तेजी से बदलती दुनिया में भविष्य जानना एक जरूरत बनती जा रही है। भविष्य के बारे में जानना एक रोमांचक अनुभव हो सकता है। अधिकांश लोग अपने भविष्य के बारे में जानने की इच्छा रखते हैं। लेकिन इस इच्छा को पूरा करने के लिए अक्सर लोग विभिन्न विधियों का इस्तेमाल करते…

[daydreamkissesxo]

Father Charlie x reader| Sinner part 2; The only piece of Heaven I have ever had

Warnings; heavy smut, breeding kink, mentions of body image, blasphemy, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, manipulative priest? (I think that’s all🙈) 18+

My link won’t work to add part 1 but I am trying!😭

Father Charlie paid you little to no attention during mass, he cruelly ignored you for the sake of his own sanity. The thought of you now sat amongst your family completely bare beneath your dress as your arousal seeps through the fabric and onto the church pew made his head spin.

You'd become increasingly agitated by his ignorance, perhaps his idea of repentance was your humiliation.

You'd began to fidget with your fingers nervously as you pray for time to pass faster, desperate for even a glimpse of his attention when he wasn’t occupied by the scriptures of the bible.

Your heart briefly stopped as you watched father Charlie acknowledge a young woman in the front row with a warm smile, a smile he'd always saved for you.

You grew both jealous and hurt, anxious that your confession had pushed him further away.

Mass had ended just as predicted, you'd barely left your seat before a swarm of persistent mothers surround you and your family, their sons left lingering behind.

"Y/N, have you given any more thought to our proposal?" One asked, pushing her way through the small crowd built around the church pew where your family sat.

You were barely present, your eyes fixated on father Charlie who carelessly fiddled with his papers at the alter as he continued to avoid your gaze.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t.” You abruptly reply, rising from your seat only to be met with the hands of another mother as she places them on your hips.

“My love, you have the most precious birthing hips I have ever seen.” She says, gesturing others to look as she nods down at them.

“No doubt a gift from god. You would bear beautiful children.” Another says, her smile warm as she looks up at you with hopeful eyes.

Father Charlie scoffed quietly in disgust as he overheard, his arrangement of the papers in front of him carelessly thrown down as he loses his care for them.

Usually he wouldn’t intervene, but your desperate confession and the unfinished business between the two of you left him with no choice.

He painted on a warm smile and walked over, the crowd immediately dispersing at his voice.

“You seem to be very popular with the precious mothers here, Y/N.” He attempted to sound sincere, though it came off slightly differently.

He saw the lingering look of upset in your eyes as your gaze met his, it was pleasant to know how desperately you longed for his attention.

“Oh Father, Y/N would be just perfect for my son. Wouldn’t you agree?” A woman asks, her eyes lit up with hope as she so greatly valued his opinion.

Of course he disagreed, nobody’s son was worthy of you but he couldn’t entirely crush her spirits due to his own jealousy.

“I’m sure he’d make a wonderful husband to any woman, but I’m not qualified to matchmake anyone here.” He kindly replied, flashing her a warm smile he knew she loved to see.

He turned his attention towards your mother who stood behind you, a kind but stern woman who undoubtedly kept you close.

“Mrs Y/L/N. Would I be able to keep Y/N behind once you leave? I have something I’d like to ask her opinion of.”

She was very trusting of father Charlie, believing that whatever it was he needed you for would only add to your worth as a self respecting Catholic.

“Of course, father Charlie. Y/N would be honoured to help.” she replied, placing her hand on your shoulder to caress it with her thumb.

“Wonderful. It may take a while, but I’ll see to it that she gets home safely.”

No words were spoken as you followed father Charlie back to his office, the silence was unnerving, and now you were left to wonder whether you'd gotten the entire thing so very wrong.

Father Charlie stood aside and held the door open, extending an arm to gesture you in.

Your heart pounded as you prepared yourself for the stern lecture you were expecting, barely able to look at him as you step in.

You jumped slightly at the slam of the door, desperately avoiding his gaze as he turned to face you.

He sensed your nerves, but chose to ignore them as he walked around you and over to his desk.

He cleared his throat, ridding the room of silence as he finally spoke.

"Take your dress off and give it to me." He simply said, removing his stole and neatly folding it before placing it onto his desk.

Such simple instructions and yet you were frozen, barely able to process what you'd just been commanded.

"Do I need to repeat myself, Y/N?" He asked in an oddly calm tone, looking up from his semi unbuttoned cassock.

You dared to glance down at the skin that was now exposed before quickly coming back to your senses out of fear he may grow frustrated with your ignorance, frantically shaking your head.

"No, father."

Your hands fell to the hem of your dress, bunching it up before pulling it upwards and over your head to free your body of it.

Your lower half was left bare while your breasts were held by a simple white lace bra.

In the time it had taken you to remove your dress, father Charlie had discarded the garments from his upper body, leaving him only in black tight fitting trousers with a protruding bulge.

You slowly lifted your head in shame, your eyes widening a little at the sight of his beautifully toned upper body that was always so well hidden.

Your hand trembled as you held out your dress for father Charlie, he smiled so casually as he took the dress from your hands.

He was cautious not to show any dramatic physical reaction to your barely clothed body, but his cock throbbed at the ethereal beauty that stood before him.

You watched as he folded your dress as neatly as his own garments, placing it on the desk beside his vestments.

His patience and self restraint was oddly terrifying, how could anyone have such great control?

He reached for your hand, linking your index finger with his as he gently guided you to stand before him.

He took a moment to admire the beautifully soft skin that you'd always so modestly hidden, his gaze slowly falling to your waist before he very gently took hold of it.

Your hips had gained so much attention amongst the overbearing mothers of the church, and he finally understood why.

They were perfect for bearing a child, one he could only wish would be his.

"It sickens me to think your family would be willing to let such unworthy men defile their beautiful daughter.." he whispers, grazing his fingertips along your skin in search of your hip bone.

Your breath grew audibly heavier, your lips parting in awe as you gaze up at him in wonder.

"Men who would selfishly prioritise their own pleasure and leave you completely dissatisfied. You don't want that, do you?" He asks, his darkened gaze finally meeting yours.

Your heart fluttered at the intensity of his gaze, shaking your head in agreement with his words.

"Not me, Y/N. I'd worship you like I worship the Lord, you'd never live a day dissatisfied."

His hand slipped between your physically wet thighs which you slightly parted to accommodate his touch, his extended middle finger tracing over your folds.

He watched as your eyes widened, your soft gasp being all the encouragement he needed to take it even further.

He slid his finger through your slippery folds, coating it in your dripping arousal before circling your clit with the pad of his fingertip.

Your explosive moan was truly devilish, who knew something so obscene could slip past your innocently soft lips.

He brought his free hand up to your mouth, firmly holding it over your lips to silence you.

"Sh, sweet girl. People will wonder what I'm doing to you.." he chuckled sadistically, amused by the apologetic look in your eyes. 

"Is this what you fantasised about when you touched yourself like this?" He whispered, increasing the speed of his circling touch.

You whimpered against his hand, your knees threatening to buckle as you'd never felt such pleasure.

He glanced over at the small single bed he'd placed beneath a very low window, so low that if he were to continue his carefully planned sexual activity with you beneath it, someone would undoubtedly see.

He slowly withdrew his hand from between your thighs, smirking as you grew visibly upset by the sudden lack of touch.

"I want you to lay on the bed, on your back with your knees bent."

He watched as you complied despite your confusion, bringing his hand up to lips to suck at his drenched fingertip as he followed you over.

He groaned under his breath with pleasure at the taste of your sweet nectar, running his tongue along the tip of his finger to truly savour the taste.

His hands fell to the buttons of his trousers and you watched in anticipation as he unbuttoned them, the sound of the zip coming undone caused a shiver to rush down your spine.

He knew by prolonging your suffering you'd be desperate and willing to comply with anything he asked.

He tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear before slipping both them and his trousers down past his hips and thighs, freeing his painfully hard cock.

Once past his calves, he stepped out of his trousers and stood at the foot of the bed before placing his hands on your knees to spread your legs.

The sheets beneath you were visibly stained as your arousal drip from your aching folds, the cold air that brush past your now exposed core causing goosebumps to spread down your thighs.

"Missionary, because we're in the lords house." He whispered as he lowered his head to press a sloppy kiss to your knee, smirking against it as he felt your knee tremble slightly.

Father Charlie knelt between your thighs, forcing them to part further to accommodate him before he places a hand beside your head to support him as he hovers over you, your folds brushing against his length.

Your body tenses beneath him as you place a trembling hand on his shoulder, staring up at him completely doe eyed with a slightly panicked expression.

"Father..we can't-"

He knew what you were going to say, yet he did not want to hear it, so instead he slid his free hand between your thighs and roughly inserted his middle and index finger into your core knowing the reaction it would gain from you.

Your breathy moan was even more explosive than before, your back began to arch and your head started to tilt back and this time, he didn't silence you.

"I'm saving you, my sweet girl. Do you want another man's dirty hands all over your precious body?" He whispers soothingly, his fingers gliding in and out of you.

"I want you, father. Only you." You moan out desperately, your walls fluttering around his fingers which forces a bead of precum to leak from his tip.

He could no longer prolong his own pleasure after hearing your desperation, withdrawing his fingers to take hold of his length to stroke it in preparation.

He bowed his head to look down at himself, aligning his tip with your hole before very slowly inserting himself.

He groaned as he felt your virginal walls stretch around him, barely able to lift his head as he was so overwhelmed with pleasure but your pained moan forced him to do so.

"You're okay, it'll pass..it's okay." he whispered reassuringly, cupping your cheek softly as he continued to push himself into you until fully inserted.

You winced in discomfort, but the pain was tolerable due to father Charlie's attentive nature.

He waited until the pain had subsided a little before thrusting into you, the moan that escaped your lips with each thrust forced out small moans of his own.

Just knowing he was taking away the privilege from whatever man your family chose to marry you made him crave more of you, he was determined to ruin you for anyone else.

His thrusts increased rapidly, eliciting almost pornographic style moans from your lips.

He watched as your clothed breasts bounced with each movement, cupping one of them before lowering his head to kiss at your collarbone.

"You've always been so special to me, Y/N." He whispered against your skin, releasing his grip from your breast to drag his fingertips down towards your core as it slips between your thighs.

Your hips naturally lifted from the bed in anticipation for his touch, whimpering loudly as his index and middle finger circle your clit at a rapid pace.

It took seconds for your legs to start jerking, your hips bucking upwards while tears flood your waterline.

"Father.." you whisper with uncertainty as your breath trembles, involuntarily throwing your head back as the unknown sensation that builds in your lower stomach grows larger.

You gasp loudly as an unfamiliar wave of pleasure washes over you, tears rolling down your cheeks as your eyes squeeze shut while your body writhes beneath him as you ride it out.

The unholy display of pleasure beneath him was a sight he’d never forget, now he understood why it was so forbidden, addiction to it would be inevitable.

The sensation of your walls tightening around him along with your desperate whimpering brought him to his own climax, yet he had no intention of withdrawing from you to release his seed.

His thrusts faltered as he began to coat your walls with his semen, bowing his head as he could barely find the strength to hold it.

His grunting drowned out the sound of your whimpers, his body slowly collapsing on top of yours while he remained inside of you.

Your body lay paralysed beneath him, panting heavily as you attempt to catch your breath while processing the fact you had unprotected sex with your local priest who didn’t seem to care.

“I..I can get a plan B..” you say timidly as you stare at the ceiling above you, wondering whether the mention of it will force him to realise what he’d done.

He somehow found the energy to lift his head up enough to look down at you, a disapproving expression replacing the pleasure filled one he had a moment ago.

“You will do no such thing, contraception is forbidden. You should know this, sweet girl.”

He had to desperately fight back the smile threatening to appear as he found it all too amusing, unprotected premarital sex with a man of the church was also forbidden though he was willing to bend those rules.

Tagging @2yeshes bc they asked me to, I hope part two meets everyone’s needs🫶🏼

[thewertsearch]

During his penance, it was said the Sufferer's compassion for his people underwent a divine transformation, into limitless, burning rage.

I would expect nothing less. He might be a hero, but he’s still a Vantas.

It burned hotter than the irons shackling him to the imperial flogging jut, and redder than the blood soaking his Righteous Leggings.

You hear that, Karkat?

Those are holy garments that you’re wearing. Respect them.

When he was finally killed, his anger rung through the cosmos with his last breath. This Vast Expletive was his final sermon, and somewhere encoded in its wavelengths was the truth in his teachings, waiting to reveal itself to any who would inherit his burden.

Some day, the grand legacy of Karkat's bloodline will arrive in his heart – and if I’m not mistaken, it will arrive as the loudest FUCK that our boy has ever heard.

This is exactly the kind of awakening that Karkat deserves. 10/10.

His teachings would also persist through surviving disciples, but in hushed tones.

Redglare was born long after the Sufferer’s tale was censored out of existence, but these Pyropes are savvy girls. I'm sure the Neophyte was wise enough to question her planet’s bloody history, and sneaky enough to seek out like-minded compatriots under the Grand Highblood’s nose.

It seems like she even knew enough to predict the location of her own descendant’s hive, and gifted her a dragon that I’m willing to bet was kin to her own. An unsung hero of the previous age, for sure.

His following would dwindle to an obscure cult facing persecution for centuries.

Surely he’s not talking about Gamzee’s cult? Those clowns are all about the hemospectrum, and certainly wouldn’t heed the sermons of some bleeding-heart redblood.

Maybe the Juggalo cult is technically a splinter of Sufferism, but its founder’s message has been corrupted beyond all recognition, to suit the needs of those in power. We should all be thankful that such a disturbing concept has only been explored in fiction.

The Sufferer preached that after he passed, another Signless would come, heralding the end times for their planet. The Second Signless would continue his work, and lead his people to glory beyond this realm. The followers kept his teachings alive for ages, even as the uproar surrounding the movement subsided. By modern times, the Sufferer's scripture was little more than ancient superstition all but forgotten. Hardly the anathema of old. But the followers had already made their preparations in the shadows, and when the Second Signless finally came he would have a lusus to raise him and a sign to his name.

You hear that, Karkat? You were never really alone. If anything, you were the most loved troll in all of Alternian history – loved by trolls who would never meet you, but who worked for centuries to ensure that you’d be born safe.

That you’d have your Crabdad.

...alright, what if I just cried.

[bills-bible-basics]

THE MISGUIDED END OF THE WORLD PREDICTIONS OF HAROLD CAMPING -- a Bill's Bible Basics Article This #BillsBibleBasics article by #BillKochman can be read at: https://www.billkochman.com/Articles/Prediction-Harold-Camping1.html https://www.billkochman.com/Blog/index.php/the-misguided-end-of-the-world-predictions-of-harold-camping-a-bills-bible-basics-article/?feed_id=116842&THE%20MISGUIDED%20END%20OF%20THE%20WORLD%20PREDICTIONS%20OF%20HAROLD%20CAMPING%20--%20a%20Bill%27s%20Bible%20Basics%20Article

[thorough-witness-enjoyer]

I think an severely underrated perspective of the Traveler comes from Peach the ghost and I think she’s the best for being something along the lines of an atheist /lighthearted

Like you’re so right girl, we don’t know much about the Traveler and probably never will, so we probably shouldn’t make our speculations into divine scripture.

I enjoy how her criticism points towards the Traveler not being much of a god people would want, much less an all powerful god who is so wise and knows so much about what it’s like to be a sentient human/ghost/eliksni/uluran/etc., it can predict the future and create a perfect predetermined fate for everyone.

She’s also right that if you cling onto the idea that the Traveler is an omniscient being that can craft purpose, without ever considering other perspectives on it, you’d have to come to terms with the fact that it would be an intentionally massive jerk for its behavior (and you’ll probably want to cut away at the imperfections of your people and combine their will into a single being who will hunt it down)

And above all, she’s right that we really shouldn’t hold what we think the Traveler would want for us above what we want for ourselves and we shouldn’t hold narratives we crafted of it to fit our feelings towards it as a singular, indisputable truth. We live for ourselves first and foremost, not for the Traveler’s approval. It’s probably just as lost as we are.

Also in regards to some recent lore about her watching Osiris with strand:

I love, love, LOVE when Destiny drops what seems to be a throwaway line in lore that came out years ago, only to revisit it later and turn it into something meaningful for the future. I start jumping up and down when I’m able to spot connections to old lore, I love it!

Guys make sure you think about how awesome Peach is at least once a day and remember, be a gardener when it comes to other perspectives on the nature of existentialism/spirituality/religion/divinity! It is our ability to share how we perceive reality that helps us appreciate cultural similarities and differences, even if you don’t agree with them, which makes us stronger and helps us break down harmful, dogmatic thinking.

[henryarrietaoficial]

PREDICA LOS GENTILES PREDICA 2024,Pastor Henry predicas 2024, PREDICAS C...

[darkseidex]

Kiss it better

right... this one is just a tad bit raunchier than usual but daddy hank is here!!!

၄၃4,315 words. Smut / explicit sexual content (18+). Established relationship. Vaginal sex (m/f). Oral sex (f receiving). No condom (wrap it up irl). Backroom bar sex. Ice cube play. Ass eating. Light power play / dominance. Praise kink. Possessiveness. Size kink. Furniture destruction. Aftercare (detailed). Soft moments after sin.၄၃

Imani knew her man was a damn freak; hell, she knew it from the moment she set eyes on him. He’d made her a napkin rose—a napkin rose, of all things—delicate, careful, and tucked it behind her braids with a reverence that felt too intimate for a first date. His smile had been soft, boyish almost, but his eyes carried something darker, deeper. Like he already knew what her moans sounded like and planned to hear them firsthand.

She knew he was a freak that fourth date too, the one they spent curled up on her couch with reruns of The Bernie Mac Show filling the silence between soft laughter and teasing glances. He’d had his hand in her sweatpants before the second commercial break, fingers warm, steady, unhurried—like he had all the time in the world to learn what made her come undone. When he finally slid them past her panties and coaxed a gasp from her chest that damn near made her see the pearly gates, she’d thought she might pass out. But nothing could’ve prepared her for the way he pulled his hand back, slick and glistening, and brought his fingers to his mouth to suck them clean, never breaking eye contact.

That had been a year ago.

A year of love. A year of watching him work behind the bar, sleeves rolled up and veins flexing as he poured drinks, always glancing her way like she was the only woman alive. A year of kisses that left her breathless, nights of moans swallowed by his mouth as he worshipped between her thighs like he needed her to survive. It was routine now—every night, his hands parting her like scripture, his tongue offering prayers in the form of strokes and hums. Sometimes, when the pleasure crested so high she thought she might break, she'd look down and catch him gazing up at her like this was his religion.

She had to remember all of that—the sweetness, the sanctity, the sheer pleasure—before she walked behind that bar and wrapped her fingers around his pretty little throat. Because right now? He was pissing her the fuck off.

He stood there like he hadn’t done anything wrong, face matching her annoyance like it was him who had the right to be irritated. That worn Met’s cap sat snug on his curls, his jaw tight as he worked the shaker in practiced rhythm. Their usual Friday night routine—her coming down from upstate in her favorite jeans and leather boots, sitting in her usual seat, ordering her usual dirty martini—should’ve been sacred. Predictable. Comforting.

But not tonight.

Because last night, that man—her man—came waltzing into their apartment with a cat in his arms. No warning, no heads-up, just “She followed me, I couldn’t leave her.” As if Imani was supposed to co-sign a whole living creature invading her space with a meow and a mystery. And when she asked him where the cat came from, whose it was, and why the hell she was sitting on their bed like she paid rent—he got cryptic.

Cryptic.

Talking in half-sentences. Shrugging. Saying “It’s complicated.” Like this was some noir film and not real life where litter boxes needed cleaning and fur got on everything she owned.

Now she sat across from him, long legs crossed, sipping her martini like it didn’t taste slightly more bitter than usual, trying not to imagine tossing the cat and maybe him out the window just to make a point.

Last night, the key had barely turned in the door before Imani knew something was off.

The apartment was quiet—too quiet. No music playing from the Bluetooth speaker. No whiskey glass sweating on the counter, waiting for her like always. Just the sound of her heels clicking against the floor and the low, unmistakable purr of something alive.

Then she saw it.

A small calico cat—wide-eyed, dainty, and comfortably perched on the middle cushion of their couch like it had been invited. A pale pink collar dangled from its neck, no tag, no name. Just vibes and entitlement.

“What the hell is this?” she asked, already knowing.

Hank emerged from the kitchen like a man caught mid-crime, holding a half-filled bowl of milk and wearing that same sheepish smile he always used to get out of trouble. “She followed me,” he said. “Found her outside the bar. Wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Did you try not bringing her here?”

“She was cold, Imani.”

“She has fur, Hank.”

He set the bowl down gently, like he didn’t feel her eyes burning holes through his back. The cat hopped down to lap at the milk without hesitation.

“And you didn’t think to call me?” Her voice was low, too even, the kind that came just before a storm.

“I didn’t think you’d pick up,” he said with a shrug. “You were at work.”

“Oh, so now I don’t deserve a heads-up when you bring strays into our house?”

He leaned against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. That damn Met’s cap was still on, tilted back like he hadn’t just disrupted her peace. “It’s just a cat, Imani.”

“No, Hank. It’s a decision. And you made it without me.”

Silence spread between them like wildfire.

She watched his jaw tighten, the way it always did when she was right and he knew it. But instead of an apology, instead of anything that might cool the heat in her chest, he said the one thing that sent her over the edge:

“It’s complicated.”

Imani blinked. “It’s a cat.”

“She reminds me of something,” he muttered, suddenly unable to meet her eyes.

“What, Hank? Your past life? Your drug-dealing days? Don’t start getting poetic now.”

He pushed off the counter, agitated. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

But he didn’t. He just stood there, breathing heavy, jaw clenched, like saying the truth would split him open. She grabbed her overnight bag from the hook by the door and turned without another word.

“You're really leaving?” he asked.

Imani didn’t even glance back. “I’m going to sleep somewhere cat-free. Don’t wait up.”

Was it petty? Absolutely.

Imani didn’t want to spend the night curled up in Jazz’s bed, limbs tangled awkwardly in a nest of pillows and pastel throw blankets, pretending like she wasn’t seconds from texting Hank to pick her up. She didn’t enjoy explaining—through the tight exhaustion that frayed her nerves and tugged at the corners of her eyes—why she wasn’t home on a Thursday night wrapped up in the arms of the man she loved.

But it wasn’t about the damn cat. It was never about the cat.

It was about trust. It was about them.

Hank got into shit, sure. She knew that. He had a past—rough-edged and reckless—but he’d never hidden it from her. He’d been open about the bruises, the bad decisions, the scars he kept tucked under tattoos and half-truths. That was the deal. That was them. They didn’t keep secrets. She knew his inner world the same way she knew her own. Every ache, every soft underbelly thought. He’d let her in like no one else ever had.

So why couldn’t he just tell her?

Why had he looked at her—her—the woman who had stood by him, slept beside him, kissed the bruises into softness—and decided she didn’t need to know? That she couldn’t handle something as simple as a stray cat?

That’s what cut. That’s what ignited the fire in her chest. Because if he could hide this, what else could he hide?

She loved that man. Hell, she was gone for him. From his shaggy blond hair always half-tamed under that worn Mets cap, to the way his black shirt clung to the curve of his torso and did nothing to hide the quiet strength of him. She loved the way he looked at her like she was his only lifeline, the way his voice dropped low when he was teasing her, the way he touched her like she was fragile glass and fire all at once.

But love didn’t erase the need for truth.

She didn’t want pretty lies wrapped in soft affection. She wanted him—whole, unfiltered, raw. And last night, he didn’t give her that.

So here she was, sat in this damn bar, watching him serve everyone with that same easy smile—the one he used to kiss her forehead with. She shifted in her seat, the smooth silk of her dress whispering against her skin, clinging to her curves like a second thought. The dress was backless by design and intention, leaving nothing between the dim light and the art inked into her skin.

Her tattoo started at the swell of her left hip, delicate vines curling like smoke across her lower back, before climbing in a slow, winding path up along her spine. Clusters of leaves branched out at intervals, some small and tight like budding secrets, others wide and fully bloomed, etched with feather-light shading that gave them depth and motion. The design trailed all the way to her left shoulder blade, where the final leaves stretched outward like they were reaching for air.

On her, it wasn’t just a tattoo—it was a story. Wild, feminine, rooted in control and softness. Every leaf a chapter. Every curve of ink a moment survived.

People looked at it. Of course they did. Especially under the warm bar lighting, where her skin glowed like bronze and the ink stood out sharp and stark. But only Hank knew what the whole thing looked like. Only he had traced it with his fingers, with his mouth, with that reverent sigh he made when he got to the spot right below her shoulder and whispered, "I could get lost here."

But tonight, he wasn’t looking. And that pissed her off even more.

“Beautiful piece.”

The voice came from two stools down—deep, smooth, just a little too confident.

Imani didn’t turn right away. She sipped her martini, let the cool burn of olive brine sit on her tongue before glancing over her shoulder.

The man was tall, polished in a way that said corporate by day, problem by night. He looked at her like he recognized beauty when he saw it and wasn’t afraid to name it. His eyes dropped again to her back, lingering at the curve of her waist where the vines began their ascent.

“Sorry,” he said with a half-smile, “It’s just rare to see a piece like that. It’s not just ink—it’s... intention.”

Imani tilted her head, amused. “You flirt like you read poetry at open mics.”

He laughed, warm and unbothered. “Only when the muse is sitting in silk and staring at the bartender like he owes her a lifetime of apologies.”

That made her pause. Not because it wasn’t true. But because he wasn’t the only one who heard it.

From behind the bar, Hank’s shoulders had gone stiff.

He didn’t look up at first. Just kept wiping down the same clean glass, the motion too tight, too focused. But then he did glance up, eyes narrowing the second he clocked the way the man leaned a little closer, the way Imani’s dress dipped lower when she shifted, the way his tattoo—the one he'd kissed more times than he could count—was now a conversation piece for a stranger.

Hank didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. His jaw locked. His eyes darkened. And when he finally set the glass down, it hit the bar just a little too hard.

Hank didn’t say a word at first.

Just moved with that coiled calm that made Imani’s spine tingle—not from fear, but familiarity. That particular brand of quiet he only pulled out when he was simmering just beneath the surface.

He turned off the music first.

Mid-song, right before the second chorus could drop, the speakers went dead. A few people groaned, one woman let out a dramatic “Aww, come on!” but Hank ignored them all.

Then came the lights—dimmed low until the bar was cast in gold and shadow, and conversations started dying out like candles being snuffed.

He walked to the door and flipped the sign.

CLOSED.

It was barely past ten.

“What the fuck?” someone muttered near the back. “It’s Friday, bro.”

“You got work in the morning?” Hank asked over his shoulder, voice light, but eyes sharp. “Didn’t think so. You’ll survive.”

He didn’t argue. No one did.

They filtered out slowly, confused and grumbling, but none of them challenged him. Maybe it was the way his voice dipped. Maybe it was the way he moved—like a man who’d been nice for too long and was finally done with it. Or maybe it was the way he kept glancing over at the woman still sitting at the bar, back straight, martini in hand, silk dress clinging like a dare.

She didn’t move. He hadn’t said a word to her yet, but that look— That heavy, unwavering, don’t-you-dare-leave kind of stare— It pinned her to the seat like a hand at the back of her neck.

Once the last person left and the door shut with a solid click, he didn’t go back behind the bar. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, dark eyes locked on hers, thumb running slow along his jaw like he was trying to decide between saying something reckless or doing something reckless.

“You closed the whole bar?” she finally asked, cool as the glass in her hand, though her heart was doing cartwheels in her chest.

His voice came low. “Didn’t like the crowd tonight.”

She arched a brow. “Or just one person in particular?”

He didn’t blink. “I don’t like when people touch what’s mine with their eyes.”

Her breath hitched. That old, familiar ache curled in her belly—equal parts anger and desire.

“Oh, so I’m yours now?” she said, raising the glass to her lips.

“You been mine,” he murmured, stepping closer, “Even when you were pissed at me. Even when you left me sleeping alone.”

He stopped on the other side of the bar, eyes raking down her exposed back, slow and hungry.

“And you know damn well you wore that dress for me.”

She leaned back with a snort, setting her empty glass on the bar with a deliberate clink. “You’re not gonna charm your way into my panties.”

Hank tilted his head, mouth twitching at the corners like he was trying real hard not to grin. “That so?”

“That’s exactly so,” she said, folding her arms across her chest, her dress dipping just enough to make his jaw flex. “You can close the bar, dim the lights, play your little caveman games—but you’re still on thin fucking ice, Hank Thompson.”

He stepped around the bar slowly, like a man approaching a wild animal he didn’t want to spook—but fully intended to tame.

“Who said anything about charm?” he asked, voice low, hoarse with restraint. “I’m not tryna sweet talk my way anywhere tonight, Imani. I’m tryna talk. But I need you to listen.”

She looked up at him, jaw set, fire in her eyes that didn’t shake. “I have been listenin’, Hank. Been listenin’ for months. When are you gonna admit that you don’t trust me? That somewhere deep down, you still think I can’t handle the parts of you that get messy?”

Her voice cracked, just a little, like a hairline fracture through glass. “Why can’t you just say that?”

Hank exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw, jaw clenching as he stared at the floor for a second like it held the answer. Then he looked at her, really looked—and everything in him softened.

“I love you,” he said quietly, voice rough with guilt and something deeper. “I trust you so much, Imani... with my own damn life.”

He took a step closer. Then another.

“I just... I wanna keep you safe. That’s it. That’s all it’s ever been.”

She stared at him, blinking slow, trying to hold the wall she’d built up brick by brick—but his words hit soft and sharp, and she hated how easily they cracked through.

“You don’t have to protect me from you, Hank,” she said, quieter now. “You just have to let me stand next to you.”

His brow furrowed, like the weight of that truth was landing for the first time.

She stood, silk slipping down her thighs as she rose to meet him eye to eye. “You don’t have to close bars and shut people out and carry everything alone. I’m not scared of the parts you think are too heavy. But I need you to stop hiding behind this idea that you’re the shield and I’m something delicate.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re not delicate.”

“Damn right I’m not,” she said. “But you love like I am.”

That landed. He didn’t speak—just stood there, chest rising and falling, like he was deciding between falling to his knees or pulling her in so tight the world would disappear.

She let out a soft, broken laugh—a small, wet sound that caught in her throat and slid down into something hollow. Her fingers brushed beneath her eye as if to catch the emotion before it could spill, but it was too late; her voice was already cracking.

“Is this what you do before you leave?” she said, shaking her head slowly, like the thought physically pained her. “Pull away. Start keepin’ secrets. Say less. Love softer. Set the stage so when you go, it’s already quiet?”

Her eyes locked on his, searching for something. For reassurance. For contradiction. For the Hank who used to spit truth with no hesitation.

He didn’t speak.

And that silence cut deeper than anything.

“I’ve seen this before,” she said, a whisper now, her voice thinning under the weight of too much knowing. “That slow drift. That quiet kind of cowardice where you pretend you’re protectin’ me when really, you’re just scared I’ll stay and see too much.”

She was trembling—not visibly, but deep, in the way her hands clutched the edge of the bar behind her, grounding herself against the pull in her chest.

Hank stepped forward, just once. His jaw clenched tight, and when he finally opened his mouth, his voice came out low, raw, like it’d clawed its way up from his ribs.

“I love you.”

The words hit the space between them like a confession, heavy and earnest.

“I think about you every single day, Imani,” he went on, voice thick, like he was forcing it through years of practiced silence. “From the second I open my eyes to the minute I shut ‘em. And even then, I still dream about you. About us. About the way you laugh when you’re brushing your teeth or how you hum when you’re workin’ in the kitchen, like you don’t even know you’re doin’ it.”

Her lips parted. She didn’t move.

“I’m not pullin’ away ‘cause I’m leavin’,” he said. “I’m pullin’ away ‘cause I love you so damn much it scares me. Because if somethin’ happened to you—because of me—”

His voice cracked. Just a hairline fracture, but it reverberated through the room like a shout.

“I just wanna keep you safe, baby.”

His shoulders dropped as he exhaled like he’d finally let go of something heavy he’d been carrying for too long.

The room went quiet again. Even the air felt still, like it was waiting.

Imani’s throat bobbed as she swallowed the knot forming there. Her hands loosened their grip on the bar. And when she spoke again, it was quieter. Gentler. Not because she wasn’t angry—but because now she saw the wound behind the wall.

Then, with a gentle movement, Hank tilted her chin upward, his fingers cradling her jaw like it was something sacred—like if he wasn’t careful, she might shatter right there in front of him.

Her skin was warm beneath his touch, soft and trembling with everything she wasn’t saying. Her lips parted slightly, eyes wide and searching his face for hesitation, for regret—finding neither. Just raw, unfiltered want wrapped in restraint.

And then he kissed her.

Slow.

Full.

Like he had all the time in the world but had waited long enough.

His lips were soft but certain, brushing over hers with the kind of reverence that came from knowing exactly what he stood to lose. He kissed her like a man who’d spent too many nights sleeping alone, memorizing the curve of the bed where she used to be. Like a man who had something to prove—but not with words, with touch.

Imani breathed him in as if his mouth were the only air she trusted. Her hands moved on instinct, sliding up the firm plane of his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like she needed to feel him—to confirm he was real, here, hers. The scent of him hit her: smoke, musk, and the faintest trace of cedarwood. That cologne she loved, the one he never wore for anyone else.

His hand dropped from her jaw, sliding down the bare expanse of her back—skin still warm from the low bar lights—to rest at the small of her spine. His palm splayed wide, steadying her, pressing her into him until there was no room for distance, not even breath.

And then the kiss deepened.

Not with urgency. Not with apology.

But with the kind of aching slowness that could rebuild empires. The kind that said, I know every version of you. And I still want them all.

She gasped softly against his mouth, a broken little sound that made him hold her tighter, arms wrapping around her like shelter. Her dress shifted with the movement, silk sliding over her hips, her tattoo catching the light like a secret she’d only ever let him trace.

When they pulled apart, it wasn’t from doubt—it was from air. Their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the quiet space between them, both of them still trembling in the aftermath.

Hank didn’t open his eyes.

He just whispered, “There you are.”

Imani’s fingers stayed against his chest, rising and falling with his breath. And for a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t tense—it was thick with everything that had just passed between them: the apology, the fear, the promise.

She closed her eyes and let herself lean into him, the tension in her shoulders uncoiling, her heartbeat slowing against his.

Well it was… until he roughly murmured four words into her ear.

“Get on the counter.”

Her eyes snapped open.

He didn’t move—didn’t repeat himself, didn’t clarify. Just stood there, muscles taut beneath her palms, waiting. His tone wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a dare. It was claiming.

Imani stepped back slightly, enough to look up at him, heart thudding so loud in her ears she could barely hear herself speak. “Excuse me?”

But he was already shifting—already clearing the two glasses and one lonely cocktail napkin off the edge of the bar with one swift sweep of his arm, sending them clattering into the sink behind him.

“Now,” he said, eyes dark, voice low and commanding. “Please.”

The “please” was a formality. They both knew she was going to listen.

She hesitated only for a second. Then, slowly—deliberately—she turned, hands finding the edge of the bar as she boosted herself up, silk dress sliding against her thighs, cool wood meeting the backs of them as she settled atop the counter.

Her legs dangled, knees brushing his hips as he stepped between them, hands braced on either side of her.

His eyes raked over her face, then down her body like he hadn’t just spent weeks pretending he didn’t need this—like now that he had her again, he didn’t intend to let her out of arm’s reach.

“You mad at me?” he asked, tone quiet, but there was that smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. That cocky, low-lidded grin that only came out when he knew she was right on the edge.

“Still deciding,” she said, voice breathless despite herself.

“Mm.” He leaned in, lips brushing against her jaw, trailing heat down to her neck. “You can finish deciding later.”

Then his mouth found the spot just beneath her ear—the one he knew ruined her—and Imani’s fingers curled tight into his shirt as her breath hitched sharp.

Then, without warning, he dropped to his knees.

Imani’s breath caught like it had been yanked from her lungs. One second, Hank was eye-level, eyes burning into hers—and the next, he was sinking, palms dragging down her thighs as he lowered himself between them like a man bowing before an altar. His gaze never wavered, even as he hooked his fingers in her panties, pulling them down agonizingly slow, letting the damp fabric stretch and cling before he tossed them aside like an afterthought.

She was already glistening, already soaked for him, the evidence of her want catching the low, warm light. He groaned when he saw her, a low, needy sound that vibrated straight through her, and he muttered under his breath like a man possessed.

“Goddamn… I missed this pussy.”

Then he leaned in.

His tongue met her folds in one long, unhurried stroke that dragged a guttural moan from her chest. He didn’t dive in—he savored. Licked her with the patience of a man who had nowhere else to be and nothing else on his mind but her. His lips sealed around her clit, warm and insistent, then sucked gently—just once—and her legs nearly closed around his head from the shock of pleasure.

But Hank was already gripping her thighs, locking her open, holding her in place like a man who planned to stay.

“You’re gonna sit still,” he murmured, breath hot against her, “and take every fuckin’ second of this.”

And then he got to work.

His mouth was sinful—hungry. He moved like he knew her body better than she did, tongue sliding through her folds, circling her clit with precision, then dipping low to fuck into her with slow, filthy strokes. When he moaned against her, it sent vibrations pulsing through her core, and Imani cried out, her hands flying to his head, fingers tangling in his shaggy blonde hair.

“Hank—shit—”

He doubled down, lips sealed tight over her, tongue flicking now, fast and sharp and perfectly wicked. He was greedy, devouring her like she was the last meal he’d ever eat. And God, the way he stayed—unbothered by the way her hips jerked, by the choked sounds leaving her throat, by the way she tried to squirm from the overwhelming sensation—just made it worse.

No, not worse. Better.

He didn’t come up for air. He didn’t ask if she was close. He knew.

She was unravelling, every muscle trembling, hands shaking as she gripped his head tighter. His tongue moved faster, mouth sucking, licking, tasting her like it was the only language he spoke.

“I—I’m gonna—Hank—fuck—” Her voice cracked, eyes squeezing shut.

And then she came.

Hard.

Her thighs trembled violently, heels digging into the bar edge, as she screamed, her orgasm crashing through her like a tidal wave. Her hips bucked against his face, but he didn’t move—stayed locked in, mouth sealed to her as he drank her down, tongue still flicking lazily even as she writhed, whimpering from overstimulation.

 When he finally pulled back, he looked wrecked. Lips glossy, chin soaked, eyes wild and dark with hunger. He licked his bottom lip slow, collecting every last trace of her from his mouth like she was his favorite flavor—and he wasn’t done yet.

“You still mad at me?” he rasped.

Imani could barely sit upright. She blinked, eyes glassy, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like she’d run a marathon. Her silk dress was still hiked up around her hips, her thighs trembling, slick glistening between them like he hadn’t just pulled an orgasm straight out of her soul with nothing but his mouth.

And then his hand was on her throat.

Not tight. Just firm. Just enough to remind her—to ground her. She gasped, breath catching as his fingers curled just beneath her jaw, thumb stroking slow across her pulse like he could feel her defiance and desire beating under her skin.

He tilted her chin upward, eyes locking onto hers.

“When I ask you a question,” he said, voice low and rough, “I expect an answer, baby. Where’s your manners?”

That smug, dirty glint in his eye—like he already knew she couldn’t form words yet—made her legs tighten involuntarily around him. He smiled, slow and dark, leaning in until his lips were brushing hers, still wet from her.

“You go dumb on me already, sweetheart?” he whispered. “Or you just like bein’ bad?”

Her breath stuttered. “I—I’m not mad,” she managed, voice small and wrecked.

He hummed, pleased. “That’s more like it.”

Then his mouth was on hers again—hot, claiming, tongue sliding past her lips in a kiss that was equal parts apology and possession. His hand stayed at her throat, thumb pressing just a little firmer now, not enough to choke—just enough to make her feel it.

“Bet you’re still throbbing for me,” he murmured against her lips. “Bet if I slid two fingers back inside you, you’d come again in thirty seconds, easy.”

She whimpered, legs twitching. “Hank…”

He stilled.

His grip on her throat didn’t tighten, but his thumb paused against her pulse, the silence sudden and heavy as the air shifted. His eyes—still molten, still so dark with need—narrowed with quiet warning.

“‘S not my name right now, baby,” he said, voice a low, gravelled rasp against her lips. “You know what it is. Don’t act brand new.”

Imani’s breath stuttered. Her lashes fluttered as the words sank deep—not just into her ears, but down her spine, straight to her already aching core. Her thighs tightened around his waist, her hands moving instinctively to his chest like she needed something to hold onto, something to ground her.

She licked her lips, eyes wide, heat blooming under her skin. “Yes, Daddy.”

That smile he gave her in return—slow, primal, possessive—could’ve ended civilizations. His free hand moved to her jaw, holding it open just enough for his next kiss to feel like a claim. Deep. Dominant. A reminder.

“There she is,” he murmured, lips brushing hers. “There’s my good girl.”

He pulled back just enough to watch her face, his fingers slipping down from her throat to the valley between her breasts, tracing the swell of them still barely held in place by her half-fallen dress.

“You know what happens to bad girls who lie, right?” he asked, his tone almost teasing—but edged with authority. “Sayin’ you’re not mad, then comin’ on my tongue like that? After the way you looked at me across this bar, like you wanted to strangle me and fuck me in the same breath?”

She let out a shaky moan, unable to stop the way her body responded—wetness growing between her thighs again, her nipples pebbling beneath the thin silk of her dress.

He leaned in again, mouth grazing her ear as he whispered:

“You can be mad at me, baby. You can hate me a little. But this?” His fingers slid down, between her thighs, brushing through her slick again—coaxing a full-body shiver out of her. “This is still mine.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Imani caught the glint of motion—Hank’s hand reaching into the half-melted bucket of ice that cradled a forgotten bottle of champagne.

She barely had time to react.

The sound of sloshing water, the clink of shifting cubes—and then his hand emerged, gripping a single, solid block between his fingers. Her brows knit, breath catching in anticipation.

“Hank…” she whispered, unsure if it was a plea or a warning.

He gave her that look again—that low-lidded, wicked smirk that said trust me, but also I’m not about to behave. He leaned in close, still holding the ice, and kissed her slowly—deep and slow, tongues tangled, heat and intention crashing together like waves.

Then, without breaking the kiss, he brought the ice block to the dip of her throat and pressed it there.

Cold.

Sharp.

She gasped into his mouth, her back arching off the counter as the ice met her flushed skin. The shock made her moan—loud, involuntary—and he swallowed the sound greedily, his free hand gripping her thigh to hold her in place.

“Shhh,” he whispered, breath hot against her lips, lips brushing her jaw as he dragged the cube lower. “Let me cool you off.”

The ice trailed down between her breasts, catching on the edge of her dress. He yanked the fabric lower with one hand, baring her fully to him. Her nipples were already tight, flushed deep rose—and he didn’t hesitate.

He rubbed the ice directly over one nipple, the cold contact drawing a strangled sound from her throat.

Her head tipped back, a broken gasp flying from her lips. “Oh my God—”

He chuckled darkly. “Sensitive, huh?”

He circled it, slow, letting the cold harden her even more before dipping his head down and sealing his mouth over the ice-slick skin. The contrast of freezing cold and wet heat nearly undid her—his tongue hot and hungry as he lapped at her, suckled her, bit down just enough to blur pleasure and pain.

Her legs kicked once, reflexively, and he caught her thigh mid-motion, holding her open with a growl.

“Stay still.”

The ice cube had already begun to melt in his grip, water trickling in a cool line down her stomach as he moved it to her other nipple. This time, she sobbed.

Hank was relentless. Alternating cold and heat—ice and mouth—worshipping her chest like he was memorizing her responses.

“Look at you,” he murmured, pulling back to admire his work. Her nipples were swollen and wet, the silk dress now plastered to her skin, and her breath came in ragged little gasps. “So fuckin’ pretty. Like art.”

He dropped what remained of the ice to the floor, then leaned in close, fingers sliding back between her thighs where she was soaked all over again.

“Soaked,” he said, dragging the tip of his fingers through her folds. “That ice get you off, baby?”

She whined, hips rocking against his hand. “Yes—yes—”

“You want more?” he asked, voice all smoke and gravel now. “You want Daddy to ruin you proper?”

She nodded, dazed, desperate.

He grinned, kissed her once more—messy, consuming—before growling against her lips:

“Then bend over the fuckin’ bar.”

Imani moved like she was possessed—chest heaving, skin flushed, her silk dress bunched at her waist as she turned, planted her hands on the edge of the bar, and arched her back. The wood was cool beneath her palms, but her entire body burned.

Behind her, Hank let out a low groan—guttural, unholy.

Her ass was a work of art. Full, soft, round—highlighted by the sheen of sweat slicking her skin, thighs still sticky from the mess he’d already made of her. She was soaked, clenching with nothing inside her, twitching in anticipation like her body already knew what was coming.

And then she heard it—the clink of ice again.

“Hank—what—”

“Don’t speak,” he muttered. “Just feel.”

She barely had time to breathe before his hands were spreading her apart again, rough but careful, thumbs pulling her open until she was fully exposed—every inch of her glistening, every soft fold laid bare to the cold air and his starving eyes.

Then she felt it—cold, sudden, unforgiving.

He slid the ice along the seam of her pussy, right through the swollen lips, letting the cube melt slowly as it traced her slit. She gasped, hips jolting, a cry torn from her throat before she could stop it. The sensation was jarring—cold water meeting heat, then vanishing as quickly as it came.

Then his mouth followed.

Warm tongue licked right through where the ice had been, slow and deliberate. The contrast nearly broke her.

He took his time.

Licking her pussy like he was trying to memorize it, kissing her clit with his lips parted, tongue swirling over it like a slow spell while his fingers gripped her hips to anchor her. She moaned into the bar, hips twitching with every flick, every suck, every open-mouthed moan he let vibrate against her.

But he wasn’t done.

Oh no.

She felt his hands slide lower, dragging her ass cheeks apart even more, and she knew what was coming.

He didn’t give her time to react—didn’t warn her.

He just spat once, hot and wet, right between the cheeks—and then followed it with his tongue. Slow. Bold. Possessive.

Right there.

“Oh my—” she choked, head snapping up, eyes flying wide as her entire body seized at the contact.

His tongue was filthy—circling, teasing, probing, his nose buried against her pussy, beard damp with her as he moaned into her ass like it was dessert. He was ravenous, devouring every inch of her most sacred places like he’d been starving for it.

And the worst part? He still had the ice cube in his mouth—half-melted now, so as he licked her, the cold dripped over her pussy, over her clit, sending shivers through her every time his mouth shifted.

He was multitasking sin.

Hot tongue, cold water, soft sucks—every swipe of his mouth was torture, and she was soaked. Her thighs were trembling. Her knees nearly buckled. The bar was the only thing keeping her upright.

“Fucking—fuck, Daddy—” she sobbed, breath catching, voice wrecked. “I can’t—I can’t—”

But he just grunted, deeper now, licking up and down with zero shame, like her ass was his meal and he had nowhere else to be. He kissed it, bit it, spanked it once with the flat of his palm before spreading her again and diving back in—tongue sliding lower, teasing, tasting.

“You’re mine,” he growled between licks. “You hear me? This pussy, this ass—mine.”

She could only nod, moaning incoherently, entire body trembling as she began to unravel again. Her orgasm was building hard and fast from just his mouth—no fingers, no penetration, just pure worship.

When she came, it wasn’t a climax—it was obliteration.

She screamed, legs giving out, face pressed to the bar as her body convulsed, thighs squeezing tight around his head. He stayed there, moaning into her, licking her through it, drinking her down like he couldn’t get enough.

When she finally collapsed forward, weak and shaking, he rose slowly—face drenched, eyes feral, cock hard and leaking in his jeans.

He licked his lips, grabbed her by the waist, and whispered against the shell of her ear:

“Now I’m gonna fuck you so deep you forget what bein’ mad ever felt like.”

He carried her into the back room like a man who didn’t plan to return to the world outside. The heavy door swung open with a creak and slammed shut behind them, muffling the outside world with a soft, final thud.

This wasn’t some pristine private lounge—it was a dim, grimy corner of the bar meant for backdoor deals, stolen kisses, and bartenders sneaking shots. The air was thick with the scent of spilled liquor, wood polish, and sweat. A single neon bar sign glowed hot pink and electric blue in the window, flickering just enough to give the room a pulse. The light cast over everything—walls, skin, sweat-slicked shoulders—in a haze of sweaty sin.

And in the middle of it: that leather couch. Worn. Sunk in the middle. Framed by a scratched coffee table and two barstools that wobbled when you breathed near them.

Hank dropped down onto the couch, dragging Imani with him, straddling his lap, her thighs already slick against his jeans. Her silk dress was pushed up to her hips, exposing the soft curve of her ass as she settled on top of him, panting, wrecked, needy.

He kissed her like he needed oxygen and she was the last breath left.

Then—he slid inside her.

All the way.

She moaned so loud it bounced off the walls. Her head rolled back, her hands gripping the back of the couch, fingers digging into the cracked leather as he bottomed out inside her. No gentle start. No teasing now. He was already deep, thick, pulsing with hunger.

“You feel that?” he growled, voice low and broken. “That’s Daddy makin’ a mess of you.”

And then he fucked her.

Brutal.

Unapologetic.

The couch slammed into the wall with each thrust, the back legs lifting slightly from the floor like it was trying to escape the force of them. The side table next to them trembled with every bounce of her hips—and then it gave up entirely.

CRASH.

A half-full bottle of cheap champagne toppled, dragging down two glasses with it, the glass shattering across the floor in a glittering spray of violence. The sound barely registered under the slap of skin, the sharp whine of wood against tile, the moans spilling from Imani’s throat as Hank pounded into her from below.

“Room’s fallin’ apart,” he rasped, gripping her hips so tight she’d feel it for days. “And you’re still takin’ this dick like you were made for it.”

The neon light flickered wildly, sputtering with every slam of her body into his. The room felt alive with it—like it was breathing with them, gasping, groaning, trying to contain something too raw for walls to hold.

Imani was gone. Head thrown back, sweat running down her spine, lips parted in a constant, broken moan. Her body rocked against him, mouth open in a silent scream as he snapped his hips up harder, faster, deeper.

Another crash.

A barstool tipped over somewhere behind them. One of the legs cracked with a splintering snap as it hit the floor.

Hank didn’t stop. Didn’t look. Didn’t care.

He pulled her chest to his, arm wrapped around her waist, mouth pressed to her ear. His voice was thick, breath hot, words sharp and filthy.

“This pussy’s so wet it’s makin’ the fuckin’ furniture break,” he growled. “I should fuck you in every corner of this damn bar. Mark every room till the whole place smells like you.”

She sobbed, legs trembling, hands digging into his hair.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered, thrusts growing ragged now. “Come for me again, baby. Soak this dick one more time. Ruin me.”

And when she came—it was devastation. Her nails scratched down his back, her entire body locking up with a scream as she came hard, clenching around him with a wet, fluttering grip that made his hips stutter.

He held her tight, let out a deep, guttural growl, and came inside her, grinding deep as he filled her to the brim, their combined mess leaking out around him, down his thighs, soaking into the broken couch like a final act of war.

The room stilled.

Just the drip of liquor on the floor. The crackle of glass beneath the table. The neon buzzing overhead, casting their sweat-slicked skin in blue and pink as they stayed locked together, panting, wrecked, still connected.

And somewhere behind them, the barstool lay split in two.

The room was wrecked.

Glass on the floor. Liquor dripping off the edge of the busted side table. A barstool laying on its side like it had been in a fight and lost. The couch they were tangled on creaked beneath them, one leg cracked, cushions damp with sweat, cum, and Imani’s silk dress bunched beneath her thighs.

And in the center of the storm—them.

Still wrapped around each other.

Hank’s chest was heaving, heartbeat crashing against hers. His cock was still buried inside her, softening slowly, but neither of them moved. Her forehead was pressed to his collarbone, her lashes fluttering as her breathing came back down. The air smelled like sex and skin and champagne.

He stroked her back. Slow. Steady. One hand dragging up and down the slick length of her spine, his palm wide and warm, grounding her.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough, low, but laced with a kind of reverence that made her throat tight.

She nodded slowly, her fingers fisting into his damp shirt. “Mhm.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of her head, then another, then another—soft, scattered, like he couldn’t stop. “You were so fuckin’ good for me, baby. Took it all like a fuckin’ dream.”

She let out a soft, exhausted laugh, too wrecked to be bashful. “Felt like a damn exorcism.”

He chuckled into her skin, and she felt his body relax under hers. His hands never left her. They slid down her arms, then back up to her shoulders, his thumbs tracing over every tense knot with slow, gentle pressure.

“Lemme clean you up,” he whispered, brushing her curls off her face. “Stay here.”

She blinked up at him, eyes soft, lashes wet. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m not,” he promised, tucking a kiss under her chin. “Just getting something warm.”

He lifted her off his lap with careful hands, gently lowering her to the couch like she was something delicate now—nothing like the man who’d just fucked her into the furniture. He pulled his jeans up lazily, but didn’t bother to fasten them. His body was marked with her—scratches down his back, lip a little swollen from biting. He looked spent, and yet somehow more focused than ever.

She watched him disappear into the bar, heard the water running in the back sink. Then he came back with a damp cloth, still warm, and a clean bar towel he’d clearly folded with intention.

“Open for me,” he murmured, kneeling between her legs again—but this time with tenderness that could’ve made her cry. He cleaned her slowly, gently wiping away the mess between her thighs, checking her face for every flinch, every breath.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No,” she whispered, brushing her fingers through his hair. “You made me feel like I was the only thing that mattered.”

His jaw clenched, eyes meeting hers like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear that.

“You are.”

When he was done, he kissed her knee. Then her hip. Then crawled up beside her, pulling the bar towel over her like it was a damn blanket. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest, bare skin to bare skin.

They lay there like that—bodies intertwined, her head tucked under his jaw—as the neon light flickered above them and the scent of them filled the room.

He kissed the top of her head again. “I love you,” he said, soft and true. “Even when I’m dumb as hell.”

She smiled into his chest. “You are. But I love you anyway.”

“Good,” he murmured. “’Cause I’m never lettin’ you go.”

tags : @blossom-ndlala

(lmk if you want one)