enoiocean

[enoiocean]

country slangin’. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 4.4K word count. original!blackfemreader, countryboycoded! onyankopon, farmer!onyankopon, southern!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, size kink, black woman, vaginal penetration, lil bit of sweet talkin’, aggressive talk, creaming, oral [m], choking, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, squirting, riding, condomless sex, kissing, spanking, multiple orgasms, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ after hearing that glorilla sample, it gave me—an idea. so here you go. muah.

visual. visual.

YOUR HUSBAND HAD AN ATTITUDE. It was entirely valid in this case—but you wished that he’d let up just a bit. A small pout formed at the ends of your lips, hand slowing to stir the sugar within your lemonade pitcher as you watched him. You could see it in the way his bicep flexed as he leaned into his Ford F—450, twisting his wrench as he removed and replaced different pieces within the truck's engine. 

It wasn’t Onyankopon’s fault—the day before was completely fine. Your husband was a vision of the south—from the mixture of his New Orleans and Mississippi twang, the annoyance of how he was never afraid to get his hands dirty, the smooth umber of his skin from being under the sun at a constant—his dark pink lips—full, soft, the gold of his grills shining with each word falling from his mouth. He was a dream. 

The morning started off well. You ran your face beneath the warm water of the shower, grinning the moment you felt his broad body step in with you, his low grunt suffocating the flush of your throat as he sucked at it.

Your affection for each other might’ve…distracted from his work on the farm. It was four acres far out from the city—cows, pigs, horses, chickens— a domesticated life that you enjoyed as a wife, coming to live within the countryside of Mississippi the moment you eloped.

Back to the point of how Onyankopon’s attitude came to fruition—it was still the day before, your French tips pouring soybeans into the bucket of your piglets Love and Bug’s tin for their lunch. The deep ginger of your curls drape along your shoulder as you bend forward, your hand raising over your freckled face to block the sun as you look across the field. Horse shoes gallop from across the field as he tugs at its reins—you were always watching him.

Riding bareback, the horse beneath him continued to gallop—the cowboy hat atop of his head blocked him from the sun, cornrows tight along his scalp, white tee he wore clinging to his tatted figure. The sun beamed against his shown skin, and you can nearly hear the whistles he makes as he guides the cows back into their barn.

The halter romper you wear compliments your caramel complexion, the picnic plaid of it hugging your body in ways it shouldn’t have—the mound of your hips, the fat of your ass—you dig your boots into the sediments of the ground, giving him a soft wave. 

“Mornin’, baby.”

His voice is deep, full of grit. It makes your body warm.

His boots fall onto the ground the moment his feet dismount the horse, sizing you up with each step that brings himself closer. Onyankopon’s eyes are on your form—drinking in every inch, your hips, your waist, the full of your ass against the tight fabric of your romper, your blush. 

“You know I’m a lil’ dirty, babydoll. My fault.”  

His hands go to grip your face regardless, pulling you into his body. His musk surrounds you, all man.

“That’s okay,” your voice is as soft as your wave, “You okay? MooMoo fightin’ you instead of going back to the barn?”

His lips drop onto yours the moment he holds your face, his kiss full of an aggression that makes your thighs clench.

“Mm,” he pulls away a bit, mouth still brushing against yours as his hand strokes your waist, “She mad ‘cause I ain’t give her ass an apple like everybody else. Should’ve been listenin’ when I said take yo’ ass to the barn.”

You giggle, rubbing your cheek into his palm, “She’s stubborn— Gets it from her Daddy.”

“‘Cept my ass still know how to listen,” his hand grips at your ass, “She get’ that sassy shit from you.”

Your eyes flick back to the field, seeing the cow standing within the same spot as all the others had crowded back into the shed. You peck at his chin, “Don’t be talkin’ ‘bout me ‘cause you can’t get your children in check, farmer.”

“I gets’ shit in check—I be havin’ yo’ ass listenin’ pretty good, don’t I?” 

“Negative.” 

He chuckles at that. 

“Go start dinner,” He exhales along your mouth, “I’ll get done with MooMoo and we can finish watchin’ that show from last night. I’ll rub yo’ feet, give you a lil’ massage.” 

“‘Kay’,” you pucker your lips, “You’ love me?“

“Yo’ ass cuttin’ up,” Onyankopon grunts, his hand smacking at your ass once more, pecking your lips in return, “You know a nigga love you. Gon’ back in the house.”

And you did—you’d showered, slipped into the soft silk of your nightgown, glasses tipping at your nose as your curls hung beneath your claw clip—you’d prepared brunch for dinner, shrimp ‘n grits with beignets for dessert, your giggles traveling all along the house as he kissed the sugar off your lips. Your fingers played with the coils of his beard, Princess cut diamond ring shining beneath the lights of your home as you watched TV with him—You were in love. 

It wasn’t until the end of the night that things changed. He held you as you slept, tattooed fingers splayed along your stomach as he cuddled you to his chest. The fan peacefully strummed a comforting tune into the room—but it was being overshadowed at the moment—a distressed mooing was sounding through the windows, as the only cow that was out of the barn had still been MooMoo. 

She enjoyed stargazing, so Onyankopon allowed her to stay outside for this one time, planning to put her up the next morning. She was more of the silent animal, and you knew that only meant two things—that she was actually in distress, or someone had put her in distress. To make matters worse, the motion detectors around your house were going off outside. 

Your heart stuttered within your chest as you’d both woken up at the same time, your body turning towards him, clinging to his arm as your first response of fear. But you knew your husband—he was already slipping out of the bed, the darkness only allowing you to hear the click sound of him loading his shotgun. 

Your hands cling onto his back as you whimper, “Ony, don’t leave me—“ 

“I’ll be back,” he presses his mouth against yours, “Lemme’ just go check on my girl, see if all this fuss is over a dog or sum’. Don’t get out of bed, aight? Forreal’.”

He kisses you firmly once more—safe, warm, making your heart slow just a bit. 

“Imma’ be back, I promise.”

You could only nod in return. 

It could’ve been five minutes, it might’ve even been thirty. But your body tensed the moment you heard the front door slam shut, heavy boots thumping up the stairs before the door opened. Your body relaxed the moment his silhouette came into frame—but just by his energy, you could feel his irritation. 

“Baby?” you call, “You okay?”

You could hear the thump of his gun being dropped onto the ground, “I’m good. I just put MooMoo back up—she was layin’ on her side.”

The grunt in his voice makes you frown, “What?” 

“Dumbass niggas was prolly’ passin’ through and seen the farm—thought it was funny to be tippin’ cows like some fuckin’ kids.” 

You watched as his tattooed figure moved into the bathroom, his fingers lifting to turn on the light as he began to wash his hands. 

“Muhfucka’s lucky I ain’t catch they ass—“

“You wouldn’t have shot them, Ony.” 

You can feel his eyes narrow at that. 

“They was’ on our property, girl. You thought I wasn’t gon’ shoot on sight if I seen’ them?”

You sigh, “Baby—“

“‘Baby,’ nothin’,” he rubs at his face, “Why you actin’ like you okay wit’ some niggas jumpin’ our property like somebody else out here? Where’ you think we at, girl? California?—ain’t no law out here unless it’s me.” 

You could see the anger in his eyes, the way his jaw flexes as he stares down at you.

“I don’t wanna talk about this.” 

“Aight, well I do.”  

“Onyankopon.” 

“I ain’t askin’ you to be wit’ me ‘on what I said, but I am askin’ you to understand. ‘Can’t be tellin’ me not to do what needa’ be done when it’s for us. For you.” 

“Baby, it’s nearly four in the morning,” you reminded, “You’re making yourself upset—can you come lay down? Please?” 

He stares at you for a moment, his lips tight before he inhales, jaw working as he nods. 

“Aight,” he exhales, looking up to the ceiling, “Aight, baby. You’ right.” 

He slowly eased himself into bed, his arms immediately holding your figure. You can feel the heat of his chest—the thump of his heart. He was worked up. 

So here you were now the next morning—Onyankopon was still on ten, and he wasn’t the best at hiding it. You were back outside feeding the pigs, your eyes narrowing beneath the sun as the gallop of his horse rumbled the ground, his deep voice commanding the cows to move in the direction he needed them to.

“Move,” he shouts, clicking at his horse as he rounds them all up, “Y’all know where yo’ asses s’pose to be! Ain’t no apples today!” 

Even hours later, he was no better. Agitation was the only word you could think of as you stood in the kitchen, eyes squinted as you watched him from the front door— his large body leaned into the hood of his truck, attempting to fix whatever was wrong with it. He’d just bought the vehicle a couple of months ago, and when a gas station worker made the stupid mistake of pumping it with diesel, it’d been acting strange ever since.

And while you know he’s upset, his irritation is something that he keeps in, something that he tries to hide from your eye with a silence, or a short conversation— but you two had been together five years now, and you knew him inside and out. 

“I thought you were gonna’ take it to the shop?” you questioned from inside, raising your voice a bit for him to hear. 

“Nah,” he grunts back, “Ain’t about to spend another eight hours at that place bein’ told the same thing I ‘been hearin’ for a week—Nigga said he fixed the leak in the lining and I’m still hearin’ it. Swear to god if I need a new muhfuckin’ truck imma’ kill that nigga.” 

Okay—there was something you wanted to admit to yourself, although you shouldn’t have. 

Seeing him like this made you kind of—warm?

Okay, fine. It made you hot. Something about the way his muscles flexed to fix the truck—eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his arms—it wasn’t the fact that he was angry—not even that, but instead the deep scowl on his face, grills shining at the flash of his teeth, hefty belt buckle and boots rumbling the ground as he shifted under the hood. 

“Don’t overheat yourself out there, baby!”

His shirt comes off his body, and you can see it tossed aside on the ground by his truck, his pants hanging low along his waist from the heat of the day. 

“Heard you.” 

He doesn’t really bother with looking your way, but he does hear you.

It made you more soft at your core as his tone is gentle. There was no denying the attraction you held for the man—he was your husband after all, and he knew to never focus his energy onto you, especially if he was upset. 

A couple of hours had gone by—you now stood within the doorframe, his deep voice calling from within the hood, “You need somethin’, girl?” 

You slowly make your way closer, the soft click, clack of your brown boots tapping against the driveway until you finally stand next to him, “I just came out here to check on you.”

Your glasses perch at your nose, curls coiled around the flush of your cheeks as the air of outside brushes against your clothing—the white material only clasped shut by thin strings at the dip of your breasts, able to see the curve of your stomach, matching shorts clinging to the poke of your ass.

Your voice is soft, “Baby?”

“Wassup’, Mama?”

 When he replies, his eyes briefly glance at you—then, he’s back into the car, “You lookin’ pretty.” 

“Thank you, baby—um, you wanna come inside for a little?” You suggest, “I made lemonade for you.”

Onyankopon sighs—his palm runs along the back of his neck, muscles flexing, sweat cascading down his body. 

“Lemme just—finish this first, aight? Imma’ keep fixatin’ on it if I don’t.”

“Hey. You can fixate on it later, yeah?” 

Your voice is gentle, hands reaching out and pulling him out of the open hood—his chest is warm. 

“You’re just as hot as the sun right now. Come with me, please? Just come sit by the fan in the living room for a couple minutes while I make you a glass?”

He’s silent—but he listens. When you pull him by his wrist, he follows with no fight. His footsteps are heavy, his frame tall— You knew that he wanted to keep going—but he also knew not to disagree when you asked something of him. 

Onyankopon now sits in the living room, body leaned back into the sofa, eyes closed while air blows through his face and against his chest. The cartoons you had on play a comforting tune next to the box fan blowing from across the room, instantly beginning to cool his body.

“‘Think you should just take another try at takin’ it down to the shop in Tupelo,” you hum, standing on your toes as you reach for a tall glass, moving around the kitchen to grab your heart shaped ice cubes.

He grunts, arm crossing over his face as he exhales,“I might have to, or imma’ head back in Jackson—Just gotta wait it out, see what the rest of the week lookin’ like.” 

You make his glass, the condensation sticking to your fingers—your eyes look towards him now and then as you do so, taking note of how his head leans back along the cushion, eyes closed and mind elsewhere. You can tell that he’s trying to relax, but it’s a hard feat to accomplish after the events of last night. 

“You know,” you gently place the lemonade on the table besides the sofa—you then lightly plop down onto his lap, the scent of you instantly hitting his nose as you wrap your body into him, “We had a lil’ scare last night—but you did a good job of takin’ care of me, baby.”

His eyes open the moment he feels your body press into him, his arms instantly beginning to wrap around your figure. 

“I had to do sum’,” he grunts, “I ain’t mean’ to make you scared—You know I’d never let anything happen to you, right?” 

His palm slides beneath your shorts, holding the flesh of your ass in his hands.

“I know.”

Your voice is even softer than before, body shifting upon his lap as the warmth of your skin pressed further into his. Your fingers slide along his beard, caressing his jaw before you finally leaned forward—your lips suck at his, a giggle masking your whimper as you feel yourself grind along his lap.

Onyankopon’s jaw works, his hand gently gripping at your cheek to hold your face to his—your whimper makes his lips drop open in another grunt—his tongue moving into your mouth, along your teeth, deeper.

“Been missin’ you, Ony. ‘Been so distant,” you tug at the weight of his belt, leaning forward as you suck at his lips again.

“I ‘been thinkin’ ‘bout you too, girl. Don’t get it twisted, aight?” His voice is a husky rasp, breath heavy. 

“I know you were still frustrated from last night,” you remind, “But so was I—Could’ve kept you in bed with me, you know? You were so busy bein’ be tough—my tough man. My protector.” 

His eyes follow your form as you lower down onto your knees, “Yeah?” 

He’s gripping at your neck, his thumb rubbing circles on your jaw at your soft voice—you knew exactly what you were doing. 

“This what you wanted?” 

His nose practically brushes along yours as you nod—your eyes lower as you suck his bottom lip into your mouth again, dragging it against your teeth, all while your hands slide up the material of his jeans, reaching your hand under the band. 

“Look at you,” he rasps, “Already on yo’ fuckin’ knees.”

His fingers are tight under the thick curls of your hair, and it’s as if each tug pulls at your senses. You’re parting your mouth onto his, lightly dragging it against his tongue, the feeling making your thighs clench. You breathily pant.

He’d never seen you like this—so needy, it couldn’t have been from watching him all day, could it? 

It’s as if his cologne tickles your stomach, you’re breathless as you give a horny sigh, pulling your mouth back a bit as you whimper in a repeat of, “Missed you, Ony.”

“My baby just wanted this dick, huh?”  

He’s nasty.

Onyankopon’s voice is full of grit as his palm slowly slides down your face, his thumb caressing at the soft of your bottom lip. He watches you—a brief flash passes through his eyes of love before they turn hungry, “Show a nigga how much you missed him. Need you throatin’ my shit.” 

The sight of him—the gold of his grills melting within your eyes, attractive features and jaw clenching at you from below—you’re tugging his dick from his jeans, tip fat as you wrap your lips around him, flattening your tongue along the flesh as you moan. 

“You’re so pretty, Papa.”

He tilts his chin a bit, eyes narrowing. 

“You callin’ me Papa now? Huh?” His voice was thick, pulling your hair back even more, “That’s how bad you miss me?”

Your cat eyes taunt him, nodding as you beg, “Spit on it,” lolling your tongue out your mouth, waiting for him. 

And he does—he tilts your head back more, dropping saliva into your mouth, groaning at the pure arousal along your face. You spit back onto his tip, wrapping your fingers along the base as you slide him to the back of your throat—when you pull back, a string of saliva connects your lips back to his dick, your tongue sticking out as you giggle at the sight.  

Onyankopon glares, his fingers finding your curls as he snatches your head back—his palm slaps your face, “Why you so fuckin’ nasty, girl?” 

He’s holding your cheeks with both palms, fucking your mouth, the schluck, schluck of your throat echoing into the ceiling—the whites of your eyes are shown as they rolled back with each movement, enjoying the groans he gave you in return. 

You climb back onto his lap more impatiently this time, latching your lips onto the skin of his neck and jaw—your hand is guiding his palm to your shorts as you whimper,  “Pull,” still kissing feveredly at his throat.  

Onyankopon’s fingers slide along the back of your thigh as he finds a hold of your shorts, pulling, pulling the material to one side of your ass, your glistening folds exposed to the cool air—your body tenses the moment he’s slapping his dick against your pussy, allowing your arousal to coat his tip. 

It’s hot—the weight of his tip is being engulfed by your folds all at once—you’re sinking down, back arching as you breathily moan against his face, “You’ need me?” 

 There’s a growl that leaves his throat, “Fuck. You know I do.”

Your curls drape in front of your face as your vision locks below, rotating your hips down, too distracted by your own actions—your moans are more soft and whiny this time, face slowly turning to a deep pout as your palms reach at the top of the sofa. 

“Lift up,”  he grunts hoarsely, “Lift up, babydoll.”

You lift up, dropping back down, the feeling making you gasp. Your thighs tremble as you slow down—you take one of Onyankopon’s hands, placing it along the side of your neck, swaying your hips, hair cascading all around your body in a circular flow of curls. 

“Look at you,” He grunts, squeezing your throat, “Already goin’ crazy.”

Your face flushes as you can imagine how you look—feet planted along each side of him, dragging yourself up and down—You’re needy.

You move his palm along your breasts as you plead, “Touch me.” 

He does as told, moving the other along your waist, along your hips. It was like he was worshipping you, hands wandering along your soft curves, squeezing your hips, back, stomach, ass, thighs, everywhere. 

”Pretty ass lil’ bitch.”

It’s like your mouth won't shut. Your aroused haze has you swirling your hips above him, nearly hyperventilating in a high pitched whine, “You feel so good, Ony.”

“You’ so fuckin’ sloppy with this shit,” He grunts through gritted teeth, clutching your throat even tighter, making you look at him, “You’ gettin’ drunk off me, ain’t you?”

Maybe you were—and you loved every second of it. You wanted to blow your curls out your face, but you’re too gone, nearly hitting a sense of delirium. You’re bouncing on his dick, lightly squealing as the skin to skin resounds in claps. 

Your eyes roll back as you groan, “Ughn, Yeah…” 

It gets worse, your mouth trembling out a prolonged moan of, “Onyyy…” 

His head knocks back as he digs his nails into your skin, each sloppy slap of your ass connecting with his abdomen making his jaw clench, feeling the secretion of your folds smearing his thighs. 

“Look at them’ muhfuckin’ eyes,” he mutters, squeezing your waist, “You feel that good, huh?”

You’re frowning that it feels so good. You feel his hand slide back to the nape of your neck, leaning your body a bit closer to his, your forehead’s connected as you whimper, “Ohmygodbaby.” 

“You gone,” he grunts, “Ain’t even hearin’ me.”

You hear him, but your brain is muffled.

His eyes roam the way sweat glistens along the soft mounds of your chest, how the vein along your throat pulsates a little bit quicker, and the way your walls clenched him for dear life. You looked like you craved him, and only him.

His hand tugs more at your neck, tilting you down to his face. 

“You think you miss me?”

“Miss you now,” you whimper in reply, placing your arms behind your back as you beg, “Hold them.”

His fingers are rough, the tips of them digging into your skin as he holds your arms—the veins on his hand are a dark blue, a mixture of his blood pumping with the tattoo of your first initials along his pinkie, symbolizing how much you meant to him, even in these moments. 

Onyankopon’s grunt is muffled by the way his hand smacks your ass, the leverage of your arms allowing him to hold you in place—your thighs are plop, plop, continuously plopping onto his abdomen.

Your mouth is directly leaned into his ear as you shake, “S’good, baby—“ but it’s until you can really hear your skin echoing against his, that your eyes roll as you groan.

“You think ion’ miss you too?” He snarls, “I’ll kill a muhfucka’ behind yo’ pussy.” 

You don’t do a good job at all in responding—you’re loud. His hold on you is tight, moving you up and down in a rough motion, “Oh my goddd, Ony—fuck,” it’s as if you’re irritated with him, your voice had you practically singing.

Your scent is so feminine that he can almost taste it—brown sugar, amber—the way your pussy squelches,  you were the personification of a drug, and he was your junkie. 

His voice is deeper, lower, meaner, “C’mere,” he spanks your ass, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he grunts, “Goddamn, baby. She talkin’ right now.”

You were just lucky that all the land around the two of you was your own property—the cows, chicken, farm—and the door was wide open. He slapped your ass even rougher, your whimper muffling his own grunts of, “You got a nigga lost in this shit.”

“Ony—oohshittt, baby.”

You’re both a mess—your curls are a bit wild, your mouth swollen and wet, the softness of your skin against his hands, his neck, lips.

“You gon’ cum on it?” 

He’s asking a question, but you can’t necessarily answer—cause you are—you’re painting his dick with coats of cream, the sop of it traveling back to his ears. Onyankopon chuckles arrogantly the moment you sniffle through your pouts, trembling whiny cries as you squirt so messily, so prettily. 

“Fuck,” he moans, “That’s my muhfuckin’ baby. You gon’ gimme another one?”

Your little sob is enough to answer—you’re drenching his balls, body shaking atop of his as he’s continuously bouncing you onto his dick that’s still hard as before—it’s when you press your together that he groans, holding you close as a warmth fills your walls, his moan dragging a bit to meet the sounds of yours.

Your face buries into the crook of his neck, your lower body spasming a bit to ground yourself. But that’s when you stop—your eyes flicker to the side of the table, your palm coming along your flushed face as you whimper, “Your lemonade, Ony…”  

He’s snorting.

“I was busy,”  he jokes, kissing at the edge of your shoulder blade, “I’m sorry, aight? Imma’ go grab me another glass.”

When he goes to move, you don’t. 

“You gon’ let me go, or you gon’ hold a nigga hostage?”

He chuckles this time, placing his hands along your sides as he pats you, “Lemme’ up, girl. Can’t even move.” 

“No,” you huff, “I don’t wanna let go.” 

“Aight— lemme’ hold you for a lil’, let you get yo’ mind right before you make dinner.”

Your eyes peek open, “Did I say I was makin’ dinner, or you tryna’ gaslight me into saying that’s what you want?”

“Chill,” He grins, “Lemme’ get another chance—Baby, you gon’ make dinner for me?”

“You knew the answer already,” you kissed his bicep, “You never had to ask.” 

“‘Cause you love me?”

“I always love you.”

“How much?”

You giggle, “More than a country boy loves his farm.”

He’s grinning. His hand is at the soft of your stomach, pulling you against him as his lips find your ears, murmuring, “I can do you better than that,” His nose is now against your skin, “More than a fat kid loves cake.”  

“You’re so lame.”  

“Huh? You ain’t like that?”

“…Maybe.” 

“That’s what I thought.”

[enoiocean]

[enoiocean]

writers block kicking my ass

[enoiocean]

[enoiocean]

fanfiction isn’t enough, I need to chew on him

[enoiocean]

damson idris…..F1 driver au?

[enoiocean]

My likes going up on my Damson Idris posts….i know what you all are.

Same, diva.

Same.

[enoiocean]

Ruthless

or: Country!Simon catches you attempting to tag his property, of course he has to teach you a lesson.

cw: 3.6k words, 18+ mdni, Country!Simon, alt universe, no use of y/n, some plot with smut, dub-con, spanking, breeding kink, p in v, creampie, age gap (Simon 29, reader 23), primal play & reencounter (if you tilt your head), pet names (little girl, city broad, lucky), fingering, lite pussy pronouns, degradation.

a/n: a scrapped Drabble turned into a full story cause I love plot

You were running like your life depended on it.

It was dumb for you to even attempt to tag the Riley barn to begin with.

You knew that, your friends knew that, anyone in town would’ve warned you otherwise.

It all started with a little end of college fun, wreck havoc like the good ole days. Nothing out the ordinary. Something that supposed to be a silly little prank, saying goodbye to college and hello to adulthood by spray paint and a little egging.

Was it a little too much for your liking? Yes.

Just plain rude and disgusting because at the end of the day, what exactly did Ghost do to deserve any of this? But peer pressure is a nasty, annoying, bitch. Regardless of age.

The Riley Ranch had been rumored as evil and haunted, the only people who really interacted with the land being other farmers. Even when Simon Riley, the last standing of the family, came to church (on the rarest occasions), people kept their distance. Afraid his families “bad” energy would spread over to them.

They called him Ghost.

There was a fire at the families home, started by Ghosts father who was always in a rage. Your father made sure your family stayed clear of him when you visited, he wasn’t too kind to quote, ‘big headed, posey, no good, city slickers.’ No one thought his rage would grow so large into trying to kill his whole family.

No one one besides Ghost made it out that night, there was rumored to be a large burn mark on his back to prove it.

You’d gotten found too fucking quick, “What the hell do you think you’re doin?” His voice booming on the highway road.

Simon Riley was blessed to have ears like an owl. Heard the car pull up and stop on his property, the rumbling of the engine— a beat passes— the car doors slamming shut and the far off hushed giggles. Nothing new, people had passed his property to spook whoever the hell they were with. Try to show how “evil spirits” ran rampant on his land, even if they were, he hadn’t ask for them to be there. But they’d never stop. They’d do it before.

They’d do it again.

But he heard that can of spray paint shake and his boots hit the floor before he even realized it.

Not the brown farmhouse gate he’d spent so long sanding down as a child with the help of his grandfather. Not the white ranch fence he’d spend so long getting together as soon as the land was properly handed to him and in his name, that’d he hand painted himself and fixed up the grass so people knew better than to drop any litter there.

No fucking way.

Your friends were already in the mustang you’d arrived in, those bastards, revving the engine and zooming off. You dropped the can, more spray getting on the grass fuck, fuck, fuck— your brown eyes slowly looked up, meeting a more than livid pair blue eyes.

You wanted to squeak out, ‘im sorry’ but where would there be room for that? Not in between the ranch fence that already had a squiggly line and crooked smiley face with black spray paint on it created by yours truly. There would absolutely be no room for an apology when his face was already screwed up, jaw clenching from underneath the bandana that hid his face, eyes narrowing into slits.

Well duh, babe. Move those feet!

And you did, turning at a 90 degree angle and sprinting like it was the end of the world. Ghost mumbled a ‘god damn it’, and ran right after you, his boot quickly meeting a carton of unopened eggs.

Oh you were definitely in for it now.

You ran through the Egyptian wheat, tall as the eye can see, green leaves scratching your arms and legs. You prayed to God there wasn’t any crazy animals hiding in there. You were panting, taking a quick glance behind you and you could only hear rustling of the large plants that surrounded you, feet hitting the floor.

Then you heard a distant yell in the field, “[+], you get back here!”

Well it wasn’t exactly the hardest to spot you out, you looked like your mother— who looked like her mother. You came from a family known for actually being good people, never hesitating to help or providing when need be. You’d met Mr. Riley a couple times in your 23 years of life. Quick instances that you vaguely remember. But you knew his face, and he knew yours.

Your mom had been one of the few good people making sure he was well taken care of when he was younger, she couldn’t raise him like she had wanted to with having to travel back and forth from the city for work as a children’s author. But she’d made sure he was taken care of in whatever home he was placed in, encouraged him to join the Boys and Girls club, something to ground him.

“Just needs someone to look after ‘em is all,” she’d ensisted while braiding your hair one night before heading to meet him at his group home, fingers weaving through your curls with purpose, you were around eight. “Some kids need a lil extra love, show ‘em someone’s there for ‘em. Simon’s one of those kids, so is your older brother, even though he’s a pain in my side at times. They’re all good in their core— their heart. It’s important to have someone nurture it. Gods called me to do that.”

Though, the relationship strained when the foster system let him go. “He’s just having boy troubles. Boys go through those weird hormones when they hit a certain age. Wants to prove ‘imself as a man. They get real hard headed [+]. He’ll get over it ‘nd pull through. He always does,” she’d say. So certain. Undoubting. Like a sixth sense.

And Simon did manage well enough, clearly, for him to have a proper farm for himself, one that was properly taken care of and thriving. You’d visited with your mom two years back. It was so clear to you now. Your mother practically smothering him in a hug when she got close enough. Simon was awkward at first, but accepted it. His eyes and whole body softing by her touch. She’d been family when no one else would be.

He looked towards you, you met a gorgeous shade of blue, long blonde lashes to match his short blonde hair, face with a few noticeable scars and half his face hidden under a black bandana. You were standing a ways off so you couldn’t hear what he or your mother was saying, but you saw him nod toward you. Your mother saying something and him nodding in response. She waved you over,

“[+] you know Simon— I mean, Mr. Riley since you’re a grown man now, ain’t that right.” She laughed.

“Whatever you want ma’am.” He looks down at you and extends his hand. You take it, butterflies fluttering in your stomach, and give it a firm shake.

“Good seein you.” It wasn’t just words, he was sincere, caring. Like seeing an old friend.

You nodded, “ ‘S good seeing you too.”

He showed you the farm after that in his truck. The big house that was farther toward the woods, properly fixed after the fire a decade ago, the Egyptian wheat field, the horses and chickens and the new blue barn he was building to accommodate them, the horse training area used to break in horses no one else would. It was a lot of land, a lot of work, but you could tell by the sound of his husk voice, he was proud of himself and the work he’d been able to accomplish. Even more happy when your mom praised him.

It finally clicked: that barn— and right on time, you’d caught sight of it. Not the one Mr. Riley had been fixing when you visited, the old one. Large and in charge that had old wood, and was definitely falling apart. But you made a bee line for it anyway.

What other option did you have?

Your heart was practically beating out of your chest, nerves on a high because you didn’t even notice how close Ghost was to you before you ducked so he couldn’t grab you. Kicking his shin and dashing towards the barn that was bones.

“You damn brat! fuck me!” He cursed, hopping to ease the new pain on his leg before running right after you.

You undid the large wooden latch, sliding the doors open and immediately trying to slide them close. But his hand shot through the opening, a shiver runs down your spin.

Up the steps you went, the only place you could go, and Ghost was right on your heels, quick, almost silent— didn’t call him Ghost for no reason. You tripped and fell on a pile of hay and wild chickens went fluttering and clucking down to the barn floor, clouding your vision. Next thing you knew, Ghost finally caught you. His hands grabbed hold of both of your arms as you rolled around and thrashed underneath him.

“You fuckin asshole! Let me go!” You grunted, trying to kick your legs where the sun didn’t shine but completely missing when the older man closed your legs, gripping them together under your knees in his hands. He had you like a pig about to be roasted.

“You ruin my property but I’m the asshole?” The fucking audacity of you. “Gonna teach you a fuckin lesson cause clearly they don’t teach you city folk manners.”

With ease, Ghost sat himself down on one of the old hay bails, bringing you over his lap. He grunts, keeping you as still as you can, and then like thunder— his large calloused hand comes down to your plump ass, echoing in the empty barn.

“Mr. Riley!” You gasp, your head shoots up, eyes widening— there’s no way- was he giving you a spanking? The next one yanks you out of your thoughts, brutal, harsh, that makes you scream his name again, “Mr. Riley, that’s enough!” But he’s completely ignoring you.

“Spray painting my fences,” SMACK!

“Tryin to egg my house,” SMACK!

“‘Nd Ruinin my fuckin crops?!” SMACK!

“You’ve lost,” SMACK! “you’re damn,” SMACK! “mind! little girl!” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!

You’re crying and whimpering, as his hand continues forming ripples in your ass. You’d gotten one singular whopping your whole life, from your grandma for breaking her good vase when she told you no ball throwing in the house. Life altering from one incident that made you into the goodest girl there ever was.

And then there’s this predicament, one that ripped your soul in two. One half fueled with hatred for doing something so crude— so audacious. And then the other that’s struggling to keep itself contained. one more hit that meets your tender bottom, one that hits you in a place you didn’t realize was boiling over— a smack to the ass that forces an egregious moan out of your trembling plump lips.

Simon stills, his eyes flicking over the state of you. You’re shaking, head down and legs finally not kicking. But he sees the way you try to hide yourself further into his lap, because you and he both know you just moaned because of a little whooping.

Oh— you're crazy.

You’d unknowingly created a fire and Simon would add lighter fluid to it.

He lifts the bottom of your short flower patterned dress, just to peak, you jump but still, your heart pounding even louder than it had before. And it’s a sight for the man to behold— your underwear soaked like the damn ocean. You squeeze your thighs together, trying to bring the hands down to hide the slick that was ever growing.

“D-don’t look.” You sniffle. Too damn cute.

But there’s a snicker, something that makes you look back at him and his eyes are shining with mischief, “My god, you’re a filthy lil thang, aren’t’chu?” It’s almost rhetorical, he’s not asking you, he’s asking your cunt. “Didn’t know you city broads were like that, learn somethin new every day, don’t you?”

You yelp when he yanks your underwear down to your knees, thrashing around once again, but Simon keeps you still. Your pretty pussys glistening as bright as sun on water, slick all over your fat second pair of lips. He brushes his fingers against them, sending shivers up your spine, you cant help but arch further into his touch.

You whine, “Mr. Riley-“

“—Shhhhh, gotta hear her,” he murmured, slowly slipping a finger in your drenched hole. Your pussys practically sputtering out with every thrust of his finger, slipping another one and coating it perfectly. He takes them out, sucking up the juices on his tongue that you’ve left on them, spitting down on your hole before stuffing his fingers back into you. He hums in satisfaction as you lose your mind, “such a fuckin slut, you just get this wet for anyone, don’t you?”

Your eyes reach the back of your head, breath hitching, “Nooo, I don’t- I wouldn’t!— ooh- agh- Mr. Riley!” your interrupting yourself with your own moans. Whatever anger you had before, folding into nothing.

He finally let’s go of your hands and you grip on to his leg, nails clawing at his jean cover thighs. Your stomach tightens running away as your orgasm builds but Simon follows, thrusting his fingers into your gummy walls even more, curving them to find your sweet spot with determination.

“Eaaasy now, don’t want to hurt you. Be good ‘nd cum. Know you want to, make a mess all over me darlin’.”

And that’s all it takes, with a twitch and a squeal, your cumming all over his hand. Simon thrusts his fingers a couple times, watching the wave of euphoria wash over you before sucking one of fingers clean, then bringing the other to your mouth.

“Come on, don’t be fuckin uppity, taste it lil girl” he tsked, you take the middle finger in your mouth, tasting your own arousol, swirling your tongue around it. Slowly pulling your head back with a ‘pop.’ It all goes straight to the blondes aching dick.

You hear it, the unbuckling of his belt, your stomach touching the tint that had built because of you. your mind finally snaps out of the trance he’s got you in. You barley manage to get out of his lap, scrambling through the hay, tripping over your underwear, on your as knees. Giving Simon the perfect view of your tender ass and the slick that’s dripping down to your thigh before you turn when you meet a wall. Pushing yourself into it.

“We- shit- someone- someone’ll come!” You ramble out, panting, still feeling the after effects of your orgasm. Your eyes avert to anything in this barn besides the man infront of you. But he made his way over to you, slow, stalking. And once he’s on his knees and hovering above you, he springs his cock from from his boxers. The blonde is hung, large and girthy, his tip strawberry red and leaking pre cum.

He bends down, sliding his fat cock between your wet folds, and then smacking his tip on your clit creating a plap, plap, plap. You can’t help but whimper at the sensation.

“You want it don’t you?” he whispers in your ear, taunting you, goosebumps wave over your skin. “Don’t want me all the way,” he traces over your belly, and then pokes right where your uterus is, “up here, hm?”

“Don’t want me to make you feel good pretty girl? Don’t wanna feel it once?”

Maybe it’s the adrenaline that’s pulsing through you, the way he’s looking down on you like you’re pathetic, dick crazed maniac. And maybe that’s exactly what you are, just once— you just want feel him stir your guts just. this. once.

“I do.”

And your soft voice is just enough for the brute to yank your legs open, Simon throwing your legs over his forearms and spreading your pretty hole open with just the tip. The man starts bullying himself inside the tightness of your pink walls.

He’s big. He’s too big. You hiccup, shoving at his shoulder while he’s splitting you in half, “Mr.Riley, ‘s so much! hicc- can’t. I can’t.”

He croons, slowly thrust more and more of his veiny length into you. “Come oooon city broad, thought you could take it? Don’t go runnin. Been runnin from me alllll this time little girl.”

“Bet you won’t do no shit like that again, ruining my damn property,” Simon hissed, smacking down your clit a few times. “Gonna fuck that nonsense outta that lil brain ‘f yours.”

“I won’t! I promise! Mmmph- I’ll be good! S-so good just for you. Always for you.” You mewled, one hands clawing at the wall behind you and other hand at his shoulder. He finally feels it, his cock reaching the very hilt of you, balls smacking your ass crack. The damn obscene sounds your syrupy pussy is making to keep him inside you, and his tip giving your cervix the messiest and he’s sure, the first kiss it’s ever received.

A baby.

You’d look so fucking sexy, being all plump with his fucking baby. He pushes your thighs back to you head further, jackhammering into your heat rough and mean.

“Five,” he mumbles, groping at one of your tits in his hand. Squeezing and kneading it like a vice.

“Wha-“

“You’ll give me five ‘f ‘em, won’t’cha? Make me a daddy.”

He’s talking nonsense, partially. Simon wasn’t dead set on five, he’d wanted a baseball team but he’d settle for whatever you wanted. One would do if it caused you too much strain. He’d take care of you and the baby, buy you whatever you asked for, have you sat on that back porch, in a rocking chair. Your hand on your full belly, watching him as he worked all lovingly.

Simon breath hitches, rolling his hips into yours with a grunt, fucking drunk at the thought of it. The thought of you, all while your pussy was squeezing on him like you were reading his fucking mind.

“C-christ almighty, I got lucky with you huh? A snug lil cunt like this deserves to be up filled up with my cum.”

You still couldn’t believe it, thee Simon Ghost Riley, was with you in this old barn fucking your brains out like you were fucking Eve in that damn garden, on top of a pile of hay. Both of you letting out moans and groans like animals that you’re sure anyone who stepped foot on property would be able to hear. It’s hot, and sweat is forming on both of your foreheads, your skin is sticky. Simon’s big balls hitting your ass every punch of his tip into you G Spot. both of your eyes hazy, stupid off the other getting off.

“Feel so gooood M-Mr. Riley! So much!” You keen, reach for the bandana hiding his face. He always pushes your hand away but then he remembers what you’re about to be— his lover, his wife— the mother of hic children.

“Mamma’s gotta know the face of ‘er children’s daddy right? pull it off.” And you do, tugging it. And god, maybe this whole ordeal got you lucky.

So damn pretty. A scar on his nose, another one at the end of his pink lips, blonde strands swaying everytime he ruts into you, “Mr. Riley’s sooo pretty,” you slur, talking to him like it’s some secret. You’re lucid in his cock, eyes squeezing shut in pleasure while you stomach coils up.

“Uh-uh, eyes on me city broad, look at me!” He squeezes your cheeks together, planting a fat kiss on your smooshed lips. He snaps his hips forward, and your head would’ve hit the wall from how good you feel. But Simons still got your pretty face in his hands.

“Gonna have ya allll bare foot ‘nd pregnant, waddlin yer cute ass ‘round here with a ring on that finger.” He’s telling you, as if this is already happened and he’s seein it with his own eyes. All you can do is moan at his words. You can’t even form a sentence at this point. Just nodding your ditzy little head while he gives you his dick.

“Gonna be a pretty fuckin mamma too, fu- shit baby, your pretty tits all full with milk for our kin— damn, you love the sound ‘f that dontcha? You can deny it all ya wont, but she’s achin for it.”

God, you are. She is too. You didn’t even know how greedy your pussy was being as he pistoned in and out of you, “Gonna— gonna cum, fuck I’m gonna-“

“-Yeah, thaaat’s it lucky, come all over your husbands cock.”

All you can utter is a ‘s-shit’ when your orgasm smacks you, your toes curling in your converses, thighs shaking in Simons hold.

The blonde gets you in a headlock, smooshing you down into the floor further, brushing your curls with hay out of your gorgeous face. rutting into you as your walls clamp onto him, begging for his all milk he’s able to give you.

Simon growls, and the strings of cum fill your womb. Your clammy bodies are still stuck together as he rocks the last bit of cum into. Mumbling while kissing your neck, “take it lucky it’s all yours. Gotta keep you nice ‘nd full if you’re gonna get pregnant.”

It’s quiet finally. The barn itself is old and creaks but you can hear the chickens right down the steps clucking, the cicadas chirping, the breeze passing through the trees. The only think you hear are his and your pants,

Simon scoops you up in his arms, adjusting your dress to cover the mess he’s created thats dripping down on that barn floor with every steps he takes.

“Mr. Riley, where are we- where are we going?” You hiccup, gripping onto his shirt. All you can look at is him, a little in shock, a little blissed out. The only thing your able to focus on is the handsome man holding you against his chest. The way his heart pounds louder as he looks down at you.

“To the house. It just won’t take after one go.”

a/n: a draft that’s sitting since last month. Luv you bubs. Can’t wait to write more country!simon

most recent masterlist

[enoiocean]

𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Adonis Creed x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - A quiet visit to a legendary gym turns into something much louder than expected.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Violence, Strong Language, Adult Themes, Mentions of Grief/Loss

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - I said I wanted to write one so I did…sorry for any spelling errors and grammar mistakes!!!

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 9,134+

No matter where she looked, it was all consuming her. On her phone, there was countless of headlines.

“Tennis Diva or Just Competitive? Chantal “Fury” Figueroa Blows Up Again on Court!”

“Foul Mouth, Fast Hands: Fury’s Fiery Win Over Davenport Sparks Controversy”

“Fury’s Blaze of Glory or Blaze of Shame?—Tennis’s Most Explosive Star Under Fire Once More!”

“Amy Davenport Says She Felt ‘Unsafe’ On the Court with Chantal Figueroa”

“Chantal Figueroa Accused of Cheating, Trash-Talking, and ‘Unsportsmanlike Behavior’”

She clicked on her television, and there were pictures of her face on the news as they painted her out to be some monster.

On ESPN. “She’s electric, no doubt. But there’s a difference between passion and outright aggression, and Blaze? She crossed it.”

On The View. “Look, I love Bianca, but she’s gotta rein it in. You can’t scream at the ump, curse out a ball girl, and still expect sympathy!”

Even Amy Davenport post match interview. She sat so demurely, dressed in a baby blue get up, gleaming under studio lights in the conference room. “She’s talented, I’ll give her that. But talent isn’t everything. You have to have grace. You have to have sportsmanship. I didn’t feel safe out there. I mean—she called me a ‘prissy bitch with no footwork’ in the middle of a serve!” Then there was a muted clip of Chantal on the court, mouth clearly forming ‘Are you new to fucking walking?’ Amy then let out a soft laugh. “I’m worried for her. That kind of temper? It’ll end her career.”

And then before she could even think about it, the remote control was out of her hand and a picture frame had been broken on the other side of the room. The sound of the television was faint, but it felt like it was blaring in her mind. She sat back against leather couch, chest heaving up and down in anger as she sat in the deafening silence after the shattering glass.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

Next thing she knew after her angered waned, studio lights that were too bright, too white, and too artificial to feel anything like a fair conversation rather an interrogation, gleaned down on her.

Chantal sat center stage, perched on a sterile white couch in ESPN’s New York studio, the makeup crew long gone, her glossy lips lined, her signature slicked-back ponytail broadcast-ready and her heels dug into the floor like stakes in the ground. She wore a light blue top that, a traditional Asian pattering on it, with black slacks.

Tashi stood just off-camera, arms folded, watching like a hawk with her mouth in a thin, unreadable, line. Her manager, Quentin, flitted between texts and pacing, whispering too-late reassurances.

“This is good press.” He’d said on the car ride over. “A reset. A rebrand. Let people see the real you.” Be explained, sort of rambling off to himself as he stressed over the woman’s image. “You go in there, keep your cool, answer with grace. Make them regret ever doubting you.”

Chantal had looked out the window the whole ride, jaw clenched. “They’ll see what they want to see and damn way.” And that was pretty much all she said back then, just gave a sharp nod and was silent the rest of the way.

Now, she regretted even showing up.

It wasn’t long before the hosts flanked her like opponents on either side. Marcus Dean on her right—a former football player now turned talking head who liked to stir the pot for likes. Loud, smug, always the first to turn heat into headlines. And on her left, Dana Mallory—sharp, polished, and known for her thinly-veiled contempt toward athletes who didn’t play by rules set in place by anyone but themselves. She was cold, pristine. Known for interviews that tore reputations limb from limb behind soft tones and weaponized words, and loved controversial male athletes.

The show went live. Theme music. Camera pans. Intro banter.

Then the two hosts turned to her—smiling like snakes.

Dana tossed her blonde bob over her shoulder as she crossed her legs and smiled without warmth. “Chantal, thank you for being here. After everything that’s happened this past week, the world has a lot of questions.” The pale woman began.

“Yeah, it’s been a week.” The woman answered back in a sort of dull tone with a polite smile on her lips.

Dana gave a brittle laugh. “Yes, and I think the world is eager to hear from you directly—especially after your behavior during and after the Davenport match.”

Chantal raised a brow. “You mean my win?”

Dana’s smile widened, fake as gold foil. “I mean, let’s call it what it is. Some say you’re the most talented player the game’s seen in years. Others… say your temper might end your career before you reach your prime. That you’re heated. Hostile. Many people said that your supposed win looked more like a meltdown than a victory.”

Chantal’s fingers twitched. “Funny. When McEnroe did it, it was called passion by many.”

“Oh, so we’re playing the double standard card already?” Marcus chuckled, leaned back in his chair as he adjusted his gold watch, the silver contrasting against his brown skin. “Come on, Fury.”

“My name’s Chantal.”

“You shouted at the ump, smashed a racquet, refused to shake Amy’s hand. That’s not exactly sportsmanship.”

“I shook her hand. It just wasn’t fake.” Chantal said finely, brows beginning to furrow as lies began to spew from the man’s mouth, though the racquet smashing was true.

“Some would call it aggressive,” Dana said smoothly. “Especially when Amy came forward saying she felt… intimidated by you. Unsafe, even.”

Chantal sat back, looking over at the woman as if she just said something stupid. “Because I told her to stop making excuses? I’m not the one to put up with the dramatics, that’s for other people to deal with if it’s such an issue and then it comes to me.”

Dana’s smile widened, razor-thin. “You’ve been fined three times this season for on-court outbursts, suspended once, and now you’re being investigated by the WTA. Doesn’t that suggest a pattern?”

Chantal’s fingers twitched as a smirk graced her lips, one out of catching the woman in her lie. “First of all, I have never been suspended. Not once in my entire career. And this “investigation”, if you can even call it that. It was more so a meeting, it only opened up due to this entire debacle started by Davenport. So, no, I don’t think it suggests a pattern, I think it suggests the rules bend differently when you don’t come in a dainty form and a losing streak.” She shrugged, and she could feel the hard stares from her couch and manager as she answered the questions. But Chantal was never the one to lie when it came to questions, and she wasn’t going to start now that people felt reheated by it.

Marcus chuckled. “So now the system’s the villain?”

“You tell me.” She demanded the man. “When Novak screams at line judges, he’s ‘fired up.’ When I do it, I’m a ‘danger to the sport.’ Some may find that amusing.” It was silent for a moment, the two hosts either moving the reactions they were getting from her or simply stunned, but Chantal used that time to continue.

“I won the Davenport match.” She interrupted sharply. “I didn’t cheat. I didn’t hurt anybody. I talked trash—just like Amy did. You can see it when we shake hands before the match. Difference is, I didn’t go cry to a microphone afterwards, I talked back.” She spat.

Dana’s eyes glittered. She’d gotten blood in the water.

“But Amy said she felt unsafe.”

“And I felt undermined.”

“Because someone finally called out your behavior?”

Quentin shifted uncomfortably while Tashi’s jaw tightened. She bit on her lips, her stare hard as she watched from behind the cameras.

Chantal tilted her head, slow and deliberate. “What behavior are we talking about?” She questioned, turning her face up. “Me speaking up? Me refusing to smile pretty and take the hits? Or me winning when I’m not “supposed to”?” She questioned.

Dana blinked, licking her lips as she whistled herself in her seat, causing Marcus leaned forward to add onto the questions. “You don’t think your attitude’s part of the problem?”

“My attitude is why I’m still here. My attitude is why I win, and why I won that match. And I’m not apologizing for being intense in a sport that demands it. Y’all like the fire and the fury until a Black woman’s holding the match.”

A few producers backstage froze and there were soft gasps throughout the studio. Dana’s brow arched as if she was offended at such a claim while Marcus smirked. “Whew. You hear that, Twitter?” He grinned, looking at the cameras. Chantal looked over at him with a hard stature before simply scoffing and lightly shaking her head.

Dana’s voice dropped lower as it turned honeyed and sharp. “You know, I spoke to a few former coaches of yours. They described you as ‘difficult,’ ‘combative,’ and ‘emotionally volatile.’ Would you say that’s fair?”

The camera zoomed in on Chantal’s face as she blinked, aiding as she took in the question. “I’d say most of my former coaches couldn’t keep up with me. And the rest wanted to coach a puppet, not a player. It’s why I now have someone more my speed, the Tashi Duncan.” She explained.

Dana tilted her head. “Or maybe they just wanted someone coachable. Someone who didn’t see every correction as an attack.” She rebutted. “And Tashi Duncan has had her fair share of issues in her own career. Do you really think she’s the best for you right now?”

Marcus whistled low before Chantal could even answer, amusement clear on his face. “Whew. See, that’s the issue right there. People are rooting for you, Chantal—but you make it hard.” He said, faking a sympathetic tone.

Chantal laughed, sharp and humorless as she just became tried of even being there. “No, you’re rooting for a version of me that doesn’t exist. The quiet, grateful, humble little phenom. But I’m not here to bow down or beg. I’m here to win and I’ve been doing it since I was sixteen.”

Dana arched a brow. “Even if you burn every bridge on the way there?”

“I don’t need your bridges. I’ve got a racquet and a forehand. That’s all I need for this game, that’s all there ever was.”

There was a small moment of silence, as if evening in the tense air was trying to digest what she truly said. “Sounds lonely.” Dana murmured.

And something snapped in Chantal’s throat. “You think I care what sounds lonely? You think I want to sit here and play PR puppet because Amy Davenport cried on a mic? I’m not here to fix your image of me. I’m not here to make people comfortable.”

“Do you ever worry that this—this fuse, this refusal to own your part—is going to keep making you the villain in everyone else’s highlight reel?”

There it was. The bait. That villain word.

And for one long, boiling second, Chantal didn’t breathe.

It was dead air.

Producers flinched behind the camera. Tashi tensed as she pursed her lips and braced for the worse as Quentin let out a low groan.

Then she spoke. “I’d rather be the villain than the victim.”

Dana smiled like she’d just landed the final blow, the studio still enclosed in slice as she straightened her cards against the glass table top. “Thanks for your time, Chantal.”

Chantal didn’t respond. She stood up, ripped the mic off her shirt, and walked off without another word.

Then it cut to commercial.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

The studio doors hadn’t even finished swinging shut behind her when the first flash went off. Paparazzi crowded the sidewalk like a pack of hungry dogs. Some wore press badges. Most didn’t. All of them shouted.

“CHANTAL, IS IT TRUE YOU THREATENED AMY DAVENPORT?”

“IS ESPN GOING TO BAN YOU?”

“IS IT TRUE THAT YOU’RE BEING INVESTIGATED BY THE WTA?”

Then a man with a Canon camera lunged toward her as she was about to enter the black SUV. “ARE YOU ON STEROIDS?!”

She pushed past them, her stride clipped and narrow. The way she furrowed her brow at that behind her sunglasses was visible to the cameras, her face counting into one of disgust and anger at the claim. Tashi and Quentin tried to flank her, but it was no use—there were too many. Too loud. Too vicious.

Another voice screamed, “SHE’S GOT ANGER ISSUES! IT HAS TO BE ON STEROIDS.“

Then came the flash. A blinding one. Inches from her face.

She stopped. “Back up.” She hissed, poring a finger that the man. But he didn’t move. She could feel the heat behind her eyes, the pounding in her throat. Her pulse buzzed like a live wire as the sounds behind her became mudded and overwhelming but the flashes kept hitting her and the camera moved closer—far too close.

And then—

She pushed.

A firm, instinctive shove to the chest as she pushed the camera from her face with her other hand, not hard enough to knock him down but enough to make him stumble back two feet.

A dozen shutters clicked.

The moment was captured. Frozen. Ruined.

She turned and disappeared into the black SUV waiting at the curb, slamming the door behind her.

Inside, Quentin swore under his breath. Tashi didn’t say anything, just leaned forward, her voice low.

“Now it’s gonna get worse.”

All while Chantal sat, leaned back into the seat with slightly irregular breathing, her head beginning to hurt as her eyes trained outside at the passing city of New York.

The moment floods every social platform. Clips circulate not just from the shove—but from the ESPN interview.

“I’m not here to make people comfortable.”

“I don’t need your bridges.”

“I’m not here to fix your image of me.”

Hashtags trend. Memes explode. People choose sides.

Amy Davenport posts an Instagram story the next morning, nothing but a black screen with white words.

“I just want the game to feel safe again.” And the media eats it up.

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

Chantal sits alone in her hotel room. No lights. No sound. Just a quiet rage, eating her from the inside.

She only blinks before she’s on the court, breathing heavy as the sun beamed down on her. The only sound she could hear before her breathing was the soothing sound of bird chirping. She absolutely loved that. It was rare in the big city of New York, but it was a gem to hear in New Rochelle. She whiffed before moving to the locker room, that reeked of sweat, disinfectant, and tension. Chantal sat still, her fist pressed against the cold metal bench, her racquet still clenched in the other hand like a weapon.

Her long-sleeved black Nike top clung to her, streaked with red clay and rage. Her curls were pulled back into a tightly-wound ponytail, strands falling out like they, too, were sick of containment.

Tashi stood in the doorway, arms crossed, chewing gum with a tense jaw.“You’re not gonna break your racket, are you?” Tashi asked, voice casual, one brow raised.

Chantal cut her eyes to the woman, a sharp and deadly look in her eyes as she steadied her breathing. “Funny.” She deadpanned.

And Tashi smirked. “Davenport’s been playin’ the media like a fiddle since she was twelve.” She begun, knowing what the woman was pissed and overthinking this situation everyone she got quiet. She’s been pissed about it for days now. “Let her. You won. That’s all that should matter.”

Chantal let out a sigh as she dropped the racquet. It clanged against the tiled floor. “But it doesn’t.” She said. “All anyone’s talking about is how I yelled. How I stomped. How I said something mean. Who gives a fuck?!”

“You called her a lousy bitch.”

“She is!” Chantal yelled, standing up from her seat, fire in her eyes as she looked at the woman. “She’s a lousy bitch who’s been getting away with micro aggression for far too fucking long. Every time we shake hands, it’s always some stupid and sick ass comment. The bitch is lousy and that’s why when we make it the championships. Dumb broad can’t even make it to Wimbledon.” She grumbled

And Tashi laughed once, sharp and short, slightly amused by her comments.

“Look, you want to be great, right?” Tashi moved closer, her coach’s eyes scanning Chantal. “Then we need to work on your mental game. The power’s there. But the fuse is short. You gotta figure out why.”

Chantal looked up. “You offering therapy or something? Cause I’m not doing it.”

“No.” Tashi said, grabbing her bag. “But I know something that might help. A place out in Las Angeles. I know something about pressure, and I know some people who can relate as well. Especially to you. And I think you need a vacation retreat before Wimbledon.”

Chantal paused briefly, blinking as she looked down at her hands in thought. Her mind flashed between everything that’s been going on, from her matches to the Amy drama, to the ESPN clips, to the new steroids accusations to simply not having a single soul in her fucking corner. Maybe she needed a break, maybe she needed sometime to…do nothing. Anything to take her mind off what’s been going on…or something besides tennis.

I’ll never do something besides tennis. She quickly thought.

She then let out a sharp sigh before stiffly nodding her head. “Yeah.”

“What?” Tashi asked. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Chantal said, picking up her racquet before rising. “I’ll go to L.A.”

════════════ ⭑.ᐟ ════════════

𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬

The sun in L.A. was a different. Almost artificial and arrogant. To Chantal at least.

It shined with no blocking buildings as it just dared you to look at it head on. Even the breeze had a bite. Everything about the city felt too loud, too glossy, too teeth-whitened and crystal-infused. And fake. And this is coming from a woman from now gentrified Harlem.

But she couldn’t deny how beautiful the city was. And he shared admitting that.

She stepped out of the car, aviators pulled low on her nose, lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. A week ago she was elbowing cameras in midtown traffic. Now she was standing outside a modern California home nestled somewhere between Bel Air and some other city. She actually wasn’t even quite sure if she was in Bel-Air honestly, that’s just the only place she knows.

The home was nice, tall with nice architecture and beautiful greenery. A bit bougie in a way, but one that Chantal like. It looked very homey. The birds chirped, just like in New Rochelle, but these ones sounded like they’d ate healthier with how loud they were, and how many she saw pass across the sky.

“Kill me now.” She muttered, slamming the car door behind her.

Tashi was already waiting inside the foyer of the home, dressed in leggings and an athletic shirt, sipping something green through a bamboo straw. “Welcome to The Resting Ground.” She grinned, all fake serenity as she held her arms out to gesture to the home. “Your chakras are gonna love it here or whatever.”

“I don’t know what that is.”Chantal told her in a deadpan, standing stiff as her eyes drifted over the cozy looking home that looked quite lived in. But she knew this couldn’t be Tashi’s home, so whose was it.

Tashi just let out an awkward laugh before clapping her hands. “Right.” She mumbled. “Well come on. You’ll like it once you stop being allergic to peace.” She said, gesturing the woman between the set of stairs that split into two grand stair cases on the opposite sides of the foyer.

Chantal followed her through the place though hone, it still had that pseudo retreat feeling—zen garden table, koi pond in a fountain outside. The house seemed empty save the two women. And as Chantal followed the woman through the home, passing the kitchen, she was confused on what she was even doing here anymore.

“So, whose house is this.” She said, cutting right to it.

“One of mine.” Tashi said, only sparing her a single glance over her shoulder as she responded. Chantal just raised a brow at that but nodded. She then faced outside, seeing nothing but a nice green yard with a pond in the back.

“No court?” She asked, tearing her eyes away from the patio doors just when they cut off and the women entered a hall.

“Nope.” Tashi sighed. “Cause that’s not what this home is for. Trust me, I learned relaxation the hard way.” She mumbled.

And now Chantal hated all of it.

They got to the room in the hall, to her right but not far from the kitchen. It was a sun-drenched room with floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the perfect view of the back yard. There was a large bed in the center of the room, with nice dark wood detailing as the base and bead board, with matching nightstands. Which there was a tray of fresh fruit sitting on, like an apology of sorts.

Chantal threw her bag on the floor and stood stiffly in the middle of the room, like the floor was lava. “Let me guess, there’s no gym either?” She asked, moving over and picking up a piece of pineapple, tossing it back.

“No, there isn’t. Not the kind you’re thinking of.”

She whipped her head around. “So what the hell am I supposed to do here?”

“Not punch someone.” Tashi replied, peeling a slice of mango from the tray and popping it into her mouth. “You’ll be here alone, but I’ll come by and take you out to experience some calming things. Maybe meet some more people like you. Athletes. High performers. Folks who’ve been through the wringer. But for now? Just… rest. Try to. Find a hobby, sit with your woke thoughts and not cloud your mind by working out.” She explained.

Chantal stared out the window. Trees swayed in the wind. A butterfly floated by. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

“What if I don’t know how to relax?” She asked, and Tashi glanced at her when she caught how soft her tone was, it was gentle. Like she was…scared, almost.

“Then you’ll learn.” Tashi said gently. “You’re not here to win anything, Chantal. You’re here to learn how to stay in the game without letting it eat you alive.”

Chantal didn’t respond. She just nodded once, slowly, like she’d just been handed something she wasn’t sure she could hold.

Tashi left with a light pat on her shoulder, telling her ahead had to get back home and coach Art. And then she was alone.

Alone with quiet. With herself. With too many thoughts. With nothing to fight.

She sat on the edge of the bed for ten minutes before standing up again. Paced. Looked through the closet. Turned on the shower. Turned it off.

She finally settled on the balcony, knees pulled to her chest, watching the sun melt behind the hills. It was stupid how perfect the sky looked.

Still, for the first time in days, she let herself breathe. Not the kind she used for control. But a kind of…relief?

A hummingbird darted past her head. And surprisingly, she didn’t flinch. Not even once.

But trust, this calm didn’t last long.

The quiet, against all odds, had started to settle around her like a weighted blanket. Chantal remained on the balcony well after the sky blushed itself into twilight, until the soft hues dimmed into a navy blue curtain speckled with stars she rarely saw back home. A plane blinked across the sky. The wind cooled. And for the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t pulling her hoodie over her head or checking her phone for the next match, meeting, or press circuit.

Eventually, the fatigue she’d been ignoring for weeks—months even—caught up to her. She didn’t cry or make a scene. She simply peeled herself off the balcony chair, brushed her teeth in the cozy bathroom, and climbed into bed like someone giving in rather than surrendering.

To her surprise, she slept, and she slept well.

So when her alarm pierced the morning at 6:00 a.m. sharp, she was already stirring.

No snooze button. No groan. No delay.

She blinked the sleep out of her eyes, swung her legs over the bed, and stood with the same silent command she brought to the court. Her hands moved automatically, reaching for the stretch band tucked inside her duffle, tying her braids tighter as she padded to the bathroom. Her joints popped. Her face looked less tired.

Though she was in a different home, she fell into routine like any other time.

She started with stretches, slow but intentional, letting each vertebra crackle back to life. Then bodyweight circuits. Squats, planks, push-ups, all in the middle of the room while the sunlight poured in from the linen curtains she pulled back earlier. The sports bra she slept in stuck to her skin by the end of it, her breath even but measured. She flowed through the movements like choreography. It kept her mind quiet.

Next came breakfast, and she used the things available within the home. Oats with flaxseed and almond milk, topped with banana slices and chia seeds. She found everything she needed in the kitchen, her brow slightly raised at how well-stocked it was for a place supposedly about “rest.” Coffee with three creamers and four sugar cubes and a protein shake on standby. She ate standing up, scrolling through her phone, and the first thing she did was check her emails.

There were a few from her manager, some promo requests, one PR notice reminding her of an event she’d since skipped out on. She fired back quick responses between spoonfuls, paused only to rotate her shoulder.

Then she showered, and came out of the bathroom dressed in black leggings, cropped white tank, and a black hoodie covering her form. Her blue duffel bag was back over her shoulder. Her braids braided into one at the back of her head, edges laid. Phone charged. Water bottle filled.

She was out the door before 7:15.

And that’s when it hit her.

She stood on the porch, blinking at the serene, unfamiliar neighborhood. No honking horns, no bustling sidewalks, no traffic noise. No corner bodega. No subway station. Just sunshine, kids laughing and sprinklers running.

No gym in sight

And also no car.

Her brows pulled together in disbelief as she turned in place, then back toward the house with an annoyed sigh escaping her lips.

“This is ridiculous.” She grumbled, closing the heavy wooden door behind her. When she stepped back inside, ready to text Tashi something foul, she caught a glint of silver in the entryway. A keyring, hanging on a hook near the door.

Attached to it, a folded note in Tashi’s slanted script:

“Figured I couldn’t leave you stranded. Though I was going to. - T”

Chantal snorted in amusement. “Yeah, whatever.” She grumbled, balling the paper up and tossing it.

She grabbed the keys without hesitation and followed the logical next step, which was the garage. The motion sensor lights flickered on as the door rose slowly, revealing what had to be some kind of sick joke.

A pastel yellow Volkswagen Beetle sat parked squarely in the middle.

Chantal just stared at it, blinking once.

Then twice.

Then she muttered. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” In a small hiss. This was far change from her sleek black Porsche.

It looked like something a sorority girl in Malibu would drive. Round edges on it’s vintage body. Like it belonged in some feel-good teen movie about summer and surfboards and an endless supply of ice cream.

Her lips parted in a dry, unimpressed scoff. But still, she hit the unlock button, and the lights blinked in reply, customized with hearts on them. This caused her to furrow her brows more, wondering whose car this really belonged to, because no way was it Tashi Donaldsons.

Chantal opened the door, ducked into the Beetle, tossed her bag in the passenger seat, and sat there for a second.

Then she pulled her phone out and typed “nearest gym” into her GPS. A handful of results populated. She picked furthest one and hit Go.

With a low grumble, the car sputtered to life. “Don’t stall on me.” She warned it like it was an opponent.

Then Chantal Figeruoa—New York-born, Bronx-trained, nationally ranked tennis star—backed the pastel yellow Volkswagen Beetle out of the garage like she’d done it every day of her life, pulled out onto the unfamiliar California road, and followed the calm voice of her GPS toward somewhere she could finally sweat again.

She drove to a Planet Fitness, parking in the lot. But as she stepped out, her eyes caught a mural across the street—a painting of the infamous Apollo Creed on the side of a building. And she immediately knew what it was, and it hit her like a punch to the chest. It was the Delphi Boxing Academy. The sight stirred something in her. Even though she was parked at the Planet Fitness, she didn’t even think before she walked across the street to the boxing gym. It called to her in a way she couldn’t explain.

The gym door creaked open, letting in a sliver of midday sun—and her.

She stepped inside, looking around in slight shock as her eyes moved across the gym. The sound of grunts and hits echoed throughout the place, people making hit after heat over the sound of rap music coming from the speakers. The familiar scent of sweat, leather, and chalk hit her all at once, oddly comforting, like stepping into a memory. She moved toward the front desk, where a young man—couldn’t have been more than nineteen—looked up from his phone. His face froze.

“Hi,” She said, a small smile and a polite tone. “I was wondering if I could get a day pass? I’ll, uh, I’ll pay whatever you need.” She shrugged, feeling a bit awkward being in a place like this again. The kid blinked hard, his jaw tightening as he registered who she was. He tried—truly tried—to play it cool, but the awe leaked through the cracks in his expression. “Uh… nah. You’re good. On the house.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, unsure. “You sure?”

He nodded, grinning a little too wide now. “Yeah. It’s cool. Really.” He nodded.

She murmured a soft thank you with a sort of bashful smile and stepped past the counter, feeling his eyes trail her as she walked deeper into the gym. That always happened—people staring, recognizing her, whispers. She never got used to it.

She was awkward. That’s what she truly was, and it’s what people used to call her when they saw her in public. The people from her neighborhood. Even Mando used to say it to her. Now she was standoffish. Aggressive. But the truth was far more simple. She was just a girl once—thrust into a spotlight she never asked for, alone and scared, and she wore that cold demeanor as armor. It was survival for a world that she knew was gonna chew her up and spit her out.

She made her way towards of the corners of the gym, where the lighting was a bit brighter since she was next to the large floor to ceiling windows. The position gave her a clean view of the ring, where two women were sparring with quick hands and tighter footwork. She watched them for a moment, appreciating the rhythm, the discipline, and the grit it took to show up and give everything.

She dropped her duffel bag onto the floor and sat beside it, stretching her legs and cracking her knuckles. Her eyes drifted toward the heavy bag hanging nearby. For a moment, she just stared. It had been nearly fifteen years. Fifteen years since Armando passed. Since she had last thrown a punch with purpose.

And now, here she was.

In a place they had talked about visiting together. A place where Apollo Creed himself once trained.

She stood and moved toward the bag, shaking out her arms. Her hoodie came off slowly, revealing toned arms and a tank that clung to her frame. No gloves. No wraps. Just her bare fists. She stood in front of the sandbag, drew in a breath, and let loose.

The first few punches were rusty—more force than form. But then came rhythm. Sharp jab. Another. Left hook. Right cross. The sound of her fists slamming against the bag echoed through the space like gunshots. Her breath grew heavier. Her body moved faster. Every hit carried something—anger, grief, longing, the ache of time lost.

She didn’t notice the people watching, not at first. She didn’t hear the slow hush of the gym as others paused to look. She didn’t feel the weight of the eyes until her chest heaved too hard, and her focus slipped for half a second. She stepped back, letting her hands fall. Sweat beaded along her brow as she reached for her duffel, pulling out a bottle of water.

She twisted the cap and was about to drink—

And then she saw half the gym was looking. Watching her.

They looked away quickly when she stared back—heads turned, eyes dropped, everyone pretending they weren’t caught. So, she took a long sip of her water, unbothered on the outside, but her pulse still quick, from the hitting and the unwanted eyes.

That’s when he approached. A tall man in his about his fifties, thin build with a beard peppered with gray. His walk had a natural authority to it—like someone who’d spent years on the floor, reading fighters the way others read books. “Name’s Duke.” He said, holding out a hand. “I run things around here.” Chantal let out a huff before she reached and shook his hand. Firm grip. No smile.

“You hit like someone who’s been doing this in for a while.” He said. “Got good form, too. You want some gloves?”

She hesitated. A flicker of something in her eyes—nostalgia, maybe. Or pain.

“Nah,…Nah, I think I’m good.” She said. Her voice trailed off, and she seemed to want to say more the way her mouth opened, but she just shook her head again and looked down.

He nodded at that. “Alright. How about just some wraps then? Least you won’t tear your knuckles up.” He suggested.

She didn’t answer right away, looking down at her raw, reddened hands. She clenched her hands, her knuckles on the verge of tearing as her skin thinned and her blood rushed to the surface. Then, finally, she reasoned with a small nod. “Wraps are fine.” She said, looking up at him.

Duke nodded before he walked off to grab them, and she exhaled, flexing her fingers slowly. It had started as a visit. Just a place to remember the man she lost long ago. Duke then returned with a roll of fresh wraps in hand, nodding for her to sit on the bench nearby. She dropped down, stretching her arms out as he knelt in front of her, unrolling the fabric with a casual ease that came from years of practice. “You’re heavy with the hands.” He said as he started wrapping her right hand, careful not to pull too tight across the knuckles. “Gotta say, you hit like someone who used to do this for real.”

She didn’t say anything at first, just watched his hands move. Efficient. Steady. “I was good once, I guess.” She finally muttered with a lazy shrug. At least, that’s what he used to say. She thought.

Duke chuckled under his breath, glancing up at her. “Yeah. But I know boxings not your thing.” He stated. “I’ve seen you before.” He added. Chantal’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t stop him. “Thought you might.” She mumbled. He nodded, focusing back on her wrist, though he caught sign of how tense she’d became. “Didn’t mean to make it weird. Just—lotta folks come in here trying to prove something. You walk in and nearly knock the bag off the chain, no gloves, no warm-up. Impressive. Got the heart of someone remembering a lot.”

She gave a quiet snort, but it wasn’t unkind. “Something like that.”

He moved to her left hand, checking the spacing between her fingers before looping the wrap again. “So what brings you in today? Felt like hitting somethin’ or someone call you in?” He asked.

Her eyes flicked toward the massive mural of Apollo Creed painted on the gym’s window. “The mural, actually. I was parked at a Planet Fitness across the street. Saw that painting and… couldn’t ignore it.” She said softly, causing Duke to nod thoughtfully. “That’s how we get most people.” He said with a small smile. “Apollo’s still pulling them in, even years after. Gym’s been here a minute. You ever train here before?”

“No. Always..wanted to.” She hesitated. “Someone I knew—he wanted to bring me here. Mentor, long time ago.”

Duke glanced up at her again, something softer in his expression now. “Sounds like he was important.”

Chantal nodded, her eyes distant. “He taught me how to fight. How to survive.” Silence settled between them for a moment as Duke finished the last loop and secured the wrap.

“Well,” He said, giving her hand a light pat as he rose to his feet, “You’re wrapped and ready. Should hold up fine if you go at that bag the way you were earlier.” He said, giving the air some lady jab, causing Chantal to let out a small chuckle. She then flexed her fingers experimentally, nodding once in approval.

“Thanks.” She said quietly as she stood up from the bench.

“Anytime. And hey—if you feel like sparring, or if you want a trainer while you’re here, let me know. No pressure.”

She gave him a faint smile, small but real. “I might.” And her response let him know that she was just like that, short and simple answers to pretty much anything he had to say. She was naturally guarded. Duke smiled back at her. “No rush. This place’ll be here when you’re ready to decide.”

And with that, he left her alone with her thoughts, nothing but her and the bag.

Chantal let out a long sigh as she slipped her headphones back over her ears, the booming hum of bass surging into her bloodstream like a familiar drug before 50 cents voice came through. She returned to the bag without another word, rolling her shoulders loose before stepping into her stance. With her hands freshly wrapped, she moved with more purpose now—her jabs crisp, her footwork light and coiled, like a spring constantly threatening to snap. She danced around the bag like a pro, ducking and weaving, throwing uppercuts at shadows only she could see, landing clean three-piece combos like muscle memory had never left her.

She was in the zone. Locked in. Each hit a purge. Each hiss of breath through her clenched teeth a release. Every strike whispered of the lessons Armando Fuentes has taught her. Of The Bronx, of long nights with nothing but a jump rope and cold gym lights. She didn’t care who was watching. Didn’t even notice she was being watched.

But someone was.

In the ring, Sandra Alvarez—five-time world champion, undefeated, and cocky as ever—was barking at her sparring partner, who’d just taken a knee.

“Get up!” Sandra snapped, frustration boiling off her. “You’re weak! I don’t need this! I need a challenge, not a fucking warm-up!”

Her coach tried to say something, but she waved him off and turned at the sharp sound of fists and hisses echoing from the back of the gym. That’s when she saw her.

Chantal, in black leggings and a fitted tee, moving like the bag had personally offended her. Her technique was tight. Controlled. Angry. Powerful.

Sandra smirked.

“Aye!” She shouted, her voice slicing through the heavy air and silencing the gym in one instant.

Chantal halted, panting slightly as she pulled her headphones down to her neck, slightly frightened by the loud noise that cut through the gym. Her brows furrowed when she saw the woman pointing at her from the ring. She didn’t like being yelled at, especially not mid-round.

“Yeah?” She replied, wary, her voice clipped and a little awkward. All eyes were suddenly on her, and her fingers tightened on the wraps at her sides.

Sandra tilted her head, cocky smile widening. “What’s your name?”

The woman blinked, her eyes moving to the other that lingered in the building, now eyeing the twos “Chantal.” She said, lowering her fists.

“Yeah, I know,” Sandra replied with a nod , eyes still glued to her. There was something smug behind the statement, like she was waiting for a reaction. Chantal didn’t give her one. She simply rolled her eyes and went to put her headphones back on, uninterested in whatever performance Sandra was looking to start.

But Sandra wasn’t finished.

“Wanna spar?”

A hush rippled through the gym. Some people went back to training, but others stayed watching—Duke among them, leaning slightly forward now with interest. Even an older man from Sandra’s team, someone recognizable from TV, was squinting toward the back.

Chantal blinked, taken aback. She shook her head, quick and dismissive.

“Nah. I’m not a boxer.”

Sandra didn’t skip a beat. “I didn’t ask you that,” She shot back. “I asked if you wanted to spar.”

“And I said no.” Chantal snapped, her temper flickering at the edges. She was tired of the attention, the sudden challenge, the performance of it all.

Sandra scoffed and turned toward her corner, laughing with her coach and sparring partner. Then, just loud enough to carry, she muttered, “La perra tiene miedo.” They chuckled, assuming Chantal had tuned them out.

But she hadn’t.

The moment the words left Sandra’s mouth, Chantal froze. Her headphones never made it to her ears. Her jaw clenched, and her eyes narrowed as rage began to simmer up her spine. “What the fuck did you just say?” She asked, loud and sharp, ripping the headphones fully off and tossing them onto her bag.

The gym quieted again, the one that went back to their training pausing to look back at the commotion.

Sandra turned slowly, eyebrow raised, but didn’t respond fast enough for Chantal. She didn’t wait for her to respond before she marched toward the ring, venom in her voice, switching fluently into Spanish now. “¿Qué carajo dijiste de mí? ¿Ah? Repítelo, perra.”

Sandra and her crew stiffened, but said nothing. Sandra’s face flickered with surprise before she pulled on her smirk again. “You better watch who the fuck you’re talking to.” She shot down from the edge of the ring, leaning on the ropes.

“No, you better watch your fucking mouth. I don’t fucking know you.” Chantal spat.

The heat between them intensified, voices rising with every second. They spoke over each other now, Spanish and English blending into a furious mess. Chantal’s fists were balled, her shoulders squared like she was ready to climb through the ropes, and Sandra leaned forward as if daring her to do it.

Before Sandra could even step down from the ring, Duke stepped in, moving away from the conversation he was having with the other Creed boxer.

“Alright—Alright!” He barked, stepping between them with his hands raised. “That’s enough!”

He turned to Chantal first. “Look, I know she talks slick, but this ain’t the place for it, alright?”

“She called me a bitch.” Chantal growled, her hard stare moving to the man now. “You better get her.”

“And you looked ready to fight about it—which I get.” He said quickly, cutting a look toward Sandra. “But no fights outside the ring. Y’all wanna settle this? Then do it with gloves. Otherwise, cut the noise.”

Sandra threw up her hands mockingly. “I said spar. She said no. Guess she is scared.”

Chantal’s nostrils flared as Duke gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t give into unless you plan on handling it.” He said low enough for only her to hear.

Chantal frowned as she huffed out of anger. She then glanced around and he was right. Pairs of eyes lingered on her, some amused, some stunned, others just curious. Even the bag she’d been working on seemed to pulse with the tension still radiating off her.

Chantal let out a sharp exhale through her nose, jaw tight.

“What’s it gonna be?” Duke asked, voice low but firm. Chantal didn’t answer right away—not with words, anyway. Her jaw was clenched so tight her teeth could’ve cracked. Her nostrils flared with every breath, each inhale hotter than the last. And her glare was almost loud. Loud enough to shake something loose in the gym’s atmosphere.

“Run it.” She hissed, her gaze locked on Sandra, who was now grinning down at her from inside the ring like a lion already tasting blood.

Duke gave her a long look. Not quite disapproval, but close—more like the reluctant resignation of a man who’d just agreed to light a match near gasoline. Still, he nodded, turning on his heel to get her corner ready.

Sandra was already peeling off her hoodie, bouncing in place as her coach tightened her gloves and handed her a mouthguard. She looked excited. Eager. Like she hadn’t had real competition in months.

While Duke moved to grab gear for Chantal, a voice came from behind him.

“Yo, D,” Adonis called out, making his way over with furrowed brows. “Are you sure about this?”

Duke didn’t look up. “Yeah, I’m sure. Sandra needs a fight.”

Adonis glanced toward the ring, then to Chantal, who was tightening her own gloves without a hint of hesitation before moving to get them paid up. “And you think this is it?” He asked, subtly gesturing at her, his tone low and unsure. Chantal didn’t react outwardly to the slight jab. Maybe because she didn’t blame him. She was a stranger—one who just stormed into their gym and challenged their top fighter out of pure spite. But it didn’t matter to her. She was angry. And nothing else existed outside of that.

“I mean—this is reckless, man.” He continued.

Duke didn’t even look up, didn’t pause in his movements as he taped her other hand. “Yeah, you would know, wouldn’t you?” He said dryly, voice hard-edged.

Adonis frowned. “Duke.”

“Adonis,” Duke fired back without missing a beat, finally standing to face him. They stared at each other for a long second. Not aggressive, but there was something tense and unspoken between them, a kind of mutual challenge layered beneath years of trust and respect. Neither one of them moved, as if deciding whether to press it or let it die.

Chantal, fed up with the testosterone-fueled standoff, scoffed loudly and shoved past both of them without a word. Her shoulder clipped Adonis’s arm as she walked by, but she didn’t apologize.

She had a ring to climb into.

With a practiced hop, Chantal pulled herself through the ropes and into the ring. The moment her feet hit the mat, something inside her shifted. The gear, the weight of the gloves, the feeling of the canvas beneath her soles—it all came rushing back like muscle memory waking from a long nap.

She started bouncing on her toes, loosening up her shoulders as her body fell into rhythm. She slapped her gloves together and hissed short breaths between her teeth as she threw jabs at the air, working up momentum like she was stoking a fire. Her eyes stayed on Sandra across the ring, but her focus was inward. That familiar flood of adrenaline was back, and it was delicious.

The gym watched in hushed anticipation.

“Aye!”

The shout snapped her head down toward the ropes. Adonis was standing just below, holding a padded vest in one hand.

“At least put this on.” He said, not unkindly. His eyes were serious, but there was no trace of the earlier doubt in his voice. Chantal’s jaw ticked. For a second, she didn’t move. Just stared at him, letting the weight of her glare settle.

Then, with a sharp exhale, she slid back out of the ring.

Adonis met her halfway, pulling the vest over her head and strapping it tight across her back. His hands moved with focus, quick and efficient. And though he was clearly trying to stay professional, Chantal’s eyes never left his face—sharp, unreadable, almost daring him to look up. When he finally did, their eyes locked for a second. Just a second. But it was enough for something to pass between them—respect, maybe, or understanding. It didn’t linger long.

Chantal pulled away and slid back into the ring without another word. Though she couldn’t help but to think about how good he looked,

The crowd in the gym seemed to lean in as she rolled her shoulders, fists clenched and ready. She smacked her gloves together again before.

Then the bell rang.

Not an official one—just the sharp clang of Duke’s whistle echoing across the gym like the start of a war. The entire room tensed. All eyes locked on the ring as Chantal and Sandra stepped forward from opposite corners, gloves raised, shoulders tight, heads low. There was no friendly touch of gloves, no nod of respect. This wasn’t sport. It was a grudge match.

From the jump, Sandra made her experience known. Her guard was solid, elbows tight, and her footwork steady and grounded. Her movements were calculated—compact hooks, efficient slips, sharp uppercuts that came with professional precision. But Chantal was lightning. Unpredictable. Her fists moved like flickers of flame, and her body flowed with a rhythm not taught but earned. Something one can only be born with, or started young,

The first official hit came from Sandra—a tight left hook that caught Chantal’s temple. It sent her stumbling half a step, and the gym gasped.

“¡Vamos, Sandra!” Her coach shouted from the corner. “¡Enséñale quién manda!” Come on, Sandra! Show her who’s boss!

But Chantal only grinned, blood rising like heat beneath her skin. Her rebuttal came fast—a one-two combo that rocked Sandra’s jaw and gut, forcing her backward.

“She fast.” Adonis muttered under his breath, arm folded tightly as he watched from ringside.

“Yeah.” Duke replied, eyes never leaving the ring. “And mad.”

Sandra threw a looping overhand right, but Chantal ducked, slid inside, and landed a jab clean to the ribs.

“Is that all you got?” Chantal barked.

Sandra answered with a grunt that spit some blood through her mouth guard and a punch to the mouth that snapped Chantal’s head back.

“¡Te voy a tumbar, perra!” Sandra snarled. I’m gonna knock you down, bitch!

“You can try.” Chantal spat through her mouthguard, tasting the metallic liquid her mouth. “But you better swing harder than that, mama.” She taunted. The gym roared with each exchange. The air was electric, thick with sweat, adrenaline, and mounting tension. Sandra’s corner yelled commands, rapid-fire in Spanish, while Duke’s voice boomed over everyone else’s. “Guard up, Chantal! Don’t admire your work!” He yelled.

Adonis leaned closer to the ropes, eyes wide. “Watch the left! She’s loading it!”

But Chantal didn’t need to be told anything. She was already shifting her weight, bobbing just out of reach, her eyes sharp and predatory. Her counters came quicker now—three jabs in a row, each one tagging Sandra’s face with vicious precision. Left cheek. Chin. Nose. The sound of leather hitting flesh echoed like gunfire in the gym.

Sandra’s steps began to falter.

Chantal’s feet never stopped moving. Light but rooted, springy but deadly. She ducked a wild haymaker and punished the woman with another barrage—jab, jab, hook, jab—all to the face.

“¡Cúbrete, Sandra! ¡La cara!” Her coach screamed. Cover your face!

But it was too late. Chantal was relentless now, her gloves dancing like knives across Sandra. “You tired already?” She taunted, voice rising over the noise. “I thought you was bad, huh? ¡Pensé que no podía pelear!” I thought I couldn’t fight!

Sandra staggered back, clutching at her busted lip, face red and wet. Blood smeared along her glove.

“Get up!” Chantal screamed, bouncing on the balls of her feet, circling like a lion. Her eyes blazed, fists twitching. “Get up!” The gym fell into stunned silence as Sandra slowly rose, wiping her mouth with the back of her glove. She squared her stance again, fists up, breathing heavy.

“Alright, come on then, bitch—” Sandra started, but she never fully finished.

Chantal snapped forward and delivered a straight shot to the face—clean, fast, and full of fury. Sandra’s head whipped back as her body flung into the ropes, collapsing like a ragdoll. The impact sent a shock through the gym.

“And stay down.” Chantal hissed through her teeth, chest heaving.

Sandra groaned on the mat, face twisted in pain. Her coach vaulted onto the apron, shouting, “¡Mierda! ¡Esto es una locura!” Shit! This is insane! Others in her corner erupted in fury.

“You let that animal in the ring?!” One shouted at Duke, voice shrill.

“Y’all crazy for letting this happen!” Another yelled, pointing fingers. “She ain’t even licensed, Duke!”

But Chantal didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She spat her mouthguard into her glove and dropped her arms, walking to the ropes with a searing glare. Her teeth clamped down on the tape at her wrists as she tore it free with furious yanks, ripping her gloves off as she eased out of the ring. The vest hit the matted floor with a thud as she tossed it aside, chest still rising and falling like she’d run through fire.

Duke took a step toward her as she moved to leave. “Chantal—”

Adonis followed. “Yo, hold up—”

But she was already gone. She brushed past both men without a glance, her fists clenched tight by her sides. No one in the gym tried to stop her. No one dared. Most were too focused on the beating she’d just delivered. She made it to her side of the gym, grabbed her bag with one hand, and slung it over her shoulder with the other. Her body moved like a storm—tight, unyielding, vibrating with leftover heat. Duke called after her. Adonis too. But Chantal didn’t even slow down.

The front door of the gym closed shut behind her as she marched out into the street, her car parked across from the building. Still breathless. Still burning.

But for the first time all day—Chantal felt alive.

@j0joworld @vile-harlot @inkdrippeddreams @imsohappyilovekbop @bbymuthaaa @healthenature @susanhill

[enoiocean]

Mr. ocean i need you :(

[enoiocean]

𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐲 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Franklin Saint x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - In which a promised night out reveals more to two unexpected parties.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Mature themes, implied tension, gossip, emotional restraint, let me know if I’m missing something

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - I’m not a slow pace kind of girl at all, this is the third chapter and things are already getting a lil hot….but I’m writing this to get my fix of Mr.Idris, so trust, I will be doing that the way I see fit! I hope yall like it though.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 12,081 +

It had been a week or two since Kimora and Franklin really talked—nothing major, just life getting in the way. Between work, family, and everything in between, there wasn’t much room for anything else. They still greeted each other when they crossed paths—quick nods, soft “hey’s,” polite smiles. Nothing deep. Nothing that implied they were anything more than neighbors, because they weren’t. Not really.

That was until tonight. But that’s a later topic.

It was the weekend, in a way. Friday night. Her parents were finally taking a much-needed date night, and Mason was spending the evening at his girlfriend’s place. That left Kimora with the whole house to herself and no excuse to stay in.

That how she found herself at the mall with Lexie. It was buzzing with life that afternoon—families weaving through department store aisles, teens huddled in food court booths, sneaker scuffs echoing off the tiled floors, the soft hum of mall music blending with chatter and the occasional ring from the payphones. Posters of Aaliyah and Boyz II Men hung in store windows, and the air smelled like soft pretzels, popcorn, and perfume samples.. Kimora had a mission, and she was determined to stick to it: find her mama the perfect birthday gift. Something elegant, useful, maybe a little sentimental. Kimora clutched her purse tight under her arm, determined not to get distracted. “I’m only here to find Mama a birthday gift,” she reminded Lexie as they passed a Claire’s bursting with glittery barrettes and chokers. “Nothing else.”

Lexie, however, had a different goal entirely.

“I’m just saying,” Lexie called over her shoulder as she stopped in front of a window display for a trendy boutique, “You came all the way out here, might as well grab somethin’ cute. You always talkin’ about how you don’t got nothin’ to wear, but you pass up every sale like you allergic to spending money.”

Kimora rolled her eyes, shifting her purse on her shoulder. “Because I came here to get a gift, not act like I got money just to some like that.” She coffee softly. Lexie turned to her with a tried look. “You do have money to spend like that, little miss spoiled. You’re the youngest and only daughter of your rich ass family.”

“We’re not rich.” Kimora stated.

“You see how that’s the o my thing you took from that? Right.” Lexie scoffed and pushed open the glass door anyway, motioning for Kimora to follow. “One dress won’t kill your budget. And I know you got it like that—you just like being responsible and boring.”

Kimora grinned despite herself, letting Lexie lead her inside the store filled with sleek racks and soft lighting. “Being responsible isn’t boring.” She argued as she glanced at a display of silk tops. “It’s called being an adult. Try it sometime.”

Lexie waved her off. “Whatever. I’m just trying to keep you from showing up to places lookin’ like you came from work when we not at work.” She said, giving the girl a once over.

That earned her a light smack on the arm and a shap look from Kimora, even though she was laughing. “This is a sweater set, not a uniform. And you’re the one always talkin’ ‘bout savin’ for bigger things.”Lexie shrugged. “Yeah, but that don’t mean I gotta look broke doin’ it.” She grinned, and the playful energy stayed between them as they drifted through the aisles. Lexie grabbed things off hangers left and right—a velvet crop top, a body-hugging midi dress, a faux leather mini skirt—while Kimora kept her arms folded and her wallet zipped tight, eyeing a silky button-down blouse for a moment before stepping away.

“I still need to check JCPenney.” She said. “Mama mentioned wanting a new robe last week, and I think they got that soft kind she likes.”

Lexie waved her off, one hand already full of hangers. “A robe? Girl, she’s gonna be forty-five, not eighty-five. Get her something fly.”

Kimora ignored her and made her way across the mall, Lexie eventually falling back in step beside her after ditching half the clothes she’d picked. They cut through the beauty section of a department store, where women in red lipstick and blazer skirts offered paper perfume strips to anyone who passed.

Lexie caught a whiff of something floral and spun around. “Hold up. That smell good. What’s that?”

Kimora leaned over the counter. “Ooh, that’s the one I was tellin’ you about. It’s by Dior.” She grinned.

Lexie squinted at the fancy cursive on the bottle. “You know they ain’t cheap.”

“I ain’t buyin’ it,” Kimora said, spraying a bit on the white card. “I just want to see if it smells like Mama. She like powdery scents. Clean ones.”

Lexie took a sniff and tilted her head. “Mmm… that’s like Sunday morning.” She said before taking another sniff. “Han picked flowers before church, and don’t touch my tablecloth.” She said and Kimora chuckled, holding the strip close to her own nose. “Exactly.”Kimora smiled. Her mom was picky, but it wasn’t about brand names or big price tags—it was about the little things. The ones that told her someone had paid attention.

“Ooooh, girl, come smell this!” Lexie called, waving Kimora over with exaggerated urgency. “I’m not tryna spend $140 on a scent I’m gon’ wear once a month.”

“That’s why I’m smelling it for free,” Lexie shot back. “I swear, you act like we 40 and got mortgages.”

Kimora smirked and stepped beside her, reaching for one of the testers. “That Dior one wasn’t bad though,” She said, spritzing it on a card and waving it gently in the air. “It got that powdery kinda warmth. Like… fresh laundry.”

Lexie leaned in to sniff and nodded with approval. “And it smells expensive. But like… soft expensive. Not ‘I sell lashes out my trunk’ expensive.”

They both cracked up, the easy laughter settling between them like old times. They were just about to head toward the checkout when Lexie paused, her brows lifting as she spotted someone a few counters over. “Who is that?”

Kimora looked up to see a man with neat cornrows and a trimmed goatee leaned casually against the counter, talking to a salesgirl. He wasn’t dressed loud—just a white tee, some dark jeans, and spotless sneakers—but there was something sharp about him. Like he didn’t need to talk much to get his point across.

As if sensing eyes on him, he glanced over—and when he saw Lexie, he grinned.

“Damn,” Lexie muttered, straightening herself just a little.

He walked over, two of his boys trailing behind at a distance, hands in their pockets, peering around the mall with their head on a swivel.

“Wassup, Ma, how you doin’? You from around here?” He asked Lexie, giving her a once-over with a grin that said he already knew the answer. “I might be.” She said, arms crossed, trying to keep it cute. “Who’s askin’?”

“Name’s Leon.” He said. “My people just opened a spot not far from here. New club. Thought you might wanna stop by.”

Lexie gave him a skeptical look, though she was clearly intrigued. “And how do I know you not just saying that? I ain’t heard about no new club.” She questioned as she crossed her arms.

Leon’s smirk widened as if he found her challenge cute. “I don’t have a reason to lie to you, mama. They just got it up last week. It was being renovated, closed for a hot minute.” He said, licking his lips.

That’s when Kimora spoke up, her curiosity getting the better of her as she stood behind Lexie, holding the bottle of Dior in her hand. “Oh, you mean the old joint behind the laundromat? That’s been boarded up since summer? Southside Peach?”

Leon’s eyes flicked to her, his eyes skimming her face before dropping briefly to take in the rest of her. A glint of interest sparked behind his lashes. “Yeah.” He said with a nod. “It’s under new ownership now. Called Candy Paint now.“ He looked back at Lexie. “You should come to the door.” He said to Lexie, a little smirk on his lips as he gave her a slow once-over. “Tell them Leon said let you in. They’ll let you right in. Should be no problem.”

Lexie raised a brow. “You sure about that? I ain’t tryna stand outside no club like a dummy.”

“You won’t.” He said, stepping closer just a bit. “You—beautiful—and your pretty homegirl too. Y’all should come through. See what it’s about. Speak to a fella.” He gave them both a last look, tongue wetting his lips in a way that made it clear he wasn’t shy about his intentions. “If not… I’ll catch y’all somewhere else.”

With that, he turned and walked off, rejoining his crew and leaving behind a silence filled with perfume and surprise.

Kimora blinked after him, a little stunned. She wasn’t used to being hit on like that—so boldly. So confidently. All she could really do was stand there, unsure if she was flattered or caught off guard.

Lexie turned slowly, arms still folded, eyes narrowing as she looked Kimora up and down. Then, without missing a beat, she said, “We’re going to that club.”

Before Kimora could argue, Lexie grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the next store. “Come on. We need outfits.”

“What?” Kimora asked.

“Girl, we are not missing this.” She said, already pulling Kimora toward the nearest boutique. “You heard him. New club, new energy, and you saw the way he looked at us.”

Kimora let out a soft laugh, still trying to shake off the encounter. “He was lookin’ at you. I was just standing there like a third wheel with a perfume strip.”

“Please,” Lexie scoffed. “He called you pretty too, don’t act like you ain’t clock that. You know what that means?”

Kimora rolled her eyes, though a small, amused smile tugged at her lips. “That we gotta go spend money we wasn’t supposed to spend?”

Lexie tugged her into a cute store, the loud music from the speakers almost drowning them out. “Exactly.”

Inside, it felt like stepping into a fashion capsule curated by every cool, grown woman—silky slip dresses in rich jewel tones, cropped leather jackets, sheer blouses with lace trim, and high-waisted trousers that hugged in all the right places.

Lexie made a beeline for the rack of halter tops, her eyes locking onto a pink satin one with a low cowl neck and a delicate tie that dipped low at the back. It was bold, grown, and perfect for the kind of night that didn’t start till after midnight. “This right here?” She said, holding it up to her chest. “This is a ‘you gon’ regret not speakin’ to me twice’ top.”

Kimora looked around, her brow furrowed. “I don’t even know what I’d wear to the club. I wasn’t prepared for none of this today.” She shrugged. “I done even know the vibe of the place.”

Lexie snorted. “You already got the body, Ki, you don’t gotta do too much. Just do enough.”

Kimora picked up a black satin mini skirt, hesitated, then tucked it over her arm. “You think this with a crop top would work?”

Lexie’s eyes lit up. “See, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

From there, it was game on. They bounced between stores like they were on a timer—Contempo Casuals, DEB, even a quick detour into Wilsons Leather to feel on some jackets they definitely couldn’t afford. Lexie tried on three outfits, finally settling on a skin-tight spaghetti strap dress with a thigh-high slit in a deep plum that hugged her like it was made for her. She turned to Kimora with a satisfied smirk.

“I’m about to break hearts in this.”

Kimora stepped out in a black ribbed crop top with short sleeves and silver buttons down the middle, paired with the satin mini and strappy block heels she already had at home.

Lexie eyed her up and down. “Yup. You look like a problem. Like one of them girls that walk in and got every man adjusting his collar.”

Kimora turned to the mirror, smoothing her skirt down as she looked at herself. “I don’t know… it’s cute, but I don’t want to look like I’m tryin’ too hard.”

Lexie leaned against the dressing room wall. “You not. You look grown. That man at the counter gon’ wish he’d stared a little longer.”

They both laughed, walking up to the cashier with their selections, trying not to look at the growing total. As they left the store, shopping bags in hand, Lexie looped her arm through Kimora’s. “Now we just need some lip gloss, a cassette with slow jams for pre-game, and somebody sober to drive.”

Kimora then rolled her eyes. “I’ll drive us back, Lex, damn.”

Lexie grinned. “Perfect.” She cheesed as they walked off, bags swinging, already buzzing with anticipation.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

It wasn’t long before the car slowed in front of Kimora’s house, tires crunching lightly over the gravel. The sun was now behind the horizon , the last peaks of lights waving them goodbye from afar. Lexie leaned over the steering wheel, her bangles clinking against the leather as she parked.

“You good?” She asked, glancing over.

Kimora nodded, arms already full with shopping bags and the small box for her mother. “Yeah, I’m good. You sure you don’t wanna come in?” She asked, pointing over to her home.

Lexie shook her head, already unbuckling. “Nah, girl. I gotta go home and beat this face. My palette’s there and I need time to marinate. But I’ll be back in a couple hours. Don’t be late to get dressed!”

“I won’t,” Kimora laughed, pushing the car door open with her shoulder.

Lexie waited until Kimora made it to the porch before she pulled off, music already blasting through the rolled-down windows. The echo of her engine faded down the block, leaving Kimora alone under the porch light, her arms aching with bags and her heels clicking against the wooden steps.

Balancing everything on one arm, she started digging through her purse with the other.

“What the hell…” She murmured, brow furrowed as her fingers combed through lip gloss tubes, receipts, gum wrappers—everything except her damn keys. She crouched down and shuffled through the shopping bags next, even checking inside the box with her mother’s gift, though she knew better.

Still no keys.

“Fuck.” She hissed, louder now, as she dropped her bags with a thud and sat down on the porch swing. Her head sank into her hands, the soft creak of the chains and the distant sounds of the neighborhood filling the quiet frustration swelling in her chest. She took a deep breath, then another, trying not to get too hot too fast.

After a moment, the realization hit her like a slap.

She’d left the keys sitting on the kitchen counter. She was too busy talking to her mom about her plans for the day that afternoon, but was distracted thinking about the woman’s birthday gift, as well as simply being used to someone being home to unlock the door.

“Shit.” She muttered, leaning back on the swing and staring out at the street. It was full-on nighttime now. A few porch lights glowed, some windows still flickered with television static, while others dimmed one by one. The air was warm, still sticky with the last traces of the day’s heat.

She blinked slowly, her eyes drifting toward the house to her left.

Franklin’s house.

Though the lights were off upstairs, she could see a faint, warm glow coming from one of the downstairs windows. She sat there, chewing her lip, her eyes on that window. For a second she hesitated—but just a second.

Then she was up.

With a soft grunt, she tossed her purse strap over her shoulder, grabbed her mother’s gift, and hopped down from the porch and hopped the fence instead of cutting through the side gate that separated their homes, just like she had done that morning weeks ago. She moved quickly across the grass, her sandals barely making a sound as she stepped up onto his porch.

She took in a small breath before she knocked gently. A few taps. Just once.

Her knuckles met wood, and then—silence. And then more silence.

She sighed, already turning to leave. “Of course.” She whispered to herself. One foot hit the first step.

And then the door creaked open.

She turned, eyes widening just a little.

There stood Franklin. Dressed in a casual dark button-down and khakis, looking freshly showered and relaxed, with that same calm expression she couldn’t ever seem to read all the way through. But tonight, there was a softness to it. Like he didn’t mind being caught off guard by her.

“Hey.” He said, voice low and almost amused, the corners of his mouth tugging into a small smile.

Kimora smiled too, a little embarrassed, a little grateful. “Hi.” Kimora said, her voice soft as her arms crossed behind her back.

They stood there for a moment, just staring. The glow from inside his house spilled across the porch and lit her face, casting a faint golden hue on her cheekbones and catching the gloss on her lips. Franklin looked down at her, not saying a word just yet, his face unreadable, and Kimora suddenly became hyper-aware of how long the silence had stretched.

“Uh… sorry if I disturbed you or anything.” She mumbled, breaking eye contact.

“Oh—nah, it’s fine. I wasn’t doing anything,” Franklin said quickly, straightening a little as he shifted in the doorway. His voice was calm as ever, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Interest.

Kimora adjusted her footing, looking at him. “Well… my keys are locked inside my house, and I was wondering if I could use your phone to call Lexie?” She asked.

“Of course.” He said without hesitation, stepping aside and nodding toward the inside. “Come on in.”

“Thank you,” She breathed, brushing past him as she stepped inside. The citrusy scent of her lemon perfume trailed behind her, and Franklin clenched his jaw slightly as his eyes shut briefly, exhaling through his nose. He shut the door gently and followed her toward the living room, where the dim amber lamp lit up the couch and a little side table.

“The phone’s right there.” He said, gesturing.

Kimora rushed to it and picked up the beige rotary phone. She brought the receiver to her ear and began to dial Lexie’s home number from memory, her finger slipping into the round slots.

But then she paused.

The dial hovered above the last number. Her shoulders slumped a little as her hand dropped back to her side, the phone still pressed to her cheek.

“What’s the problem?” Franklin asked from behind her, folding his arms across his chest.

“It’s no use,” Kimora sighed and gently set the phone back in its cradle. “Lexie’s probably not even home yet. She left to go get ready, and her folks don’t even know we’re going out tonight. And I don’t wanna be the one to tell ‘em.”

Franklin nodded, slowly stepping a little closer. “Makes sense.”

“Everyone else is busy. I can’t tell her I’m not gonna make it… can’t even get ready for the the party.” She huffed and let out a breath that puffed her cheeks before collapsing onto the couch. “Ugh, and I left my clothes outside.” She groaned, throwing her head back before springing up again. “I gotta go grab them before someone snatches my stuff.”

“You can get ready here,” Franklin said casually, but his words stopped her in her tracks.

She paused mid-step and turned to look at him. “Huh?” She asked, a bit genuinely since she couldn’t quite hear him but also a little shocked if she heard him correctly,

“You said you had your clothes with you, right?” He asked. “You can just get ready here. Bathroom’s clean. Ain’t no big deal.” He shrugged,

Kimora blinked, surprised. “Really?” She asked, her voice rising just a little with hope.

“Yeah.” He nodded, his mouth curving into that soft little smirk he wore sometimes.

A gasp escaped her as she lit up with joy. “Oh my goodness, Franklin!” She gushed, rushing over to him and wrapping her arms around his neck without thinking.

The sudden contact caught him off guard—his hands hovered awkwardly in the air for a beat before settling gently on her hips, his fingers warm and grounding against the thin fabric of her dress. “You don’t even know how much this means.” She said sincerely. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s cool,” He chuckled quietly, feeling the way she melted into the hug just for a second.

And that second felt like more.

Kimora’s heart was fluttering now, thudding loud in her ears. The contact, the scent of his cologne—woodsy and clean—so close to her face, his voice low and near her ear… it was all suddenly too much and not enough. She drew in a sharp breath, her chest rising against his. Slowly, she pulled back just a little, her arms still draped over his shoulders as she looked up at him. Her eyes met his and held them there.

She started to pull away further, suddenly aware of how intimate it all had become. Franklin, as if on instinct, gave her waist a gentle pat before letting his hands fall.

They stepped back from each other, the air still thick with something neither of them could quite name—but both of them felt.

And for the first time in a long while, Franklin couldn’t help but smile for real.

“Go grab your stuff.” He said, voice still low. “I’ll clear the bathroom for you.”

Kimora nodded, her heart still fluttering as she made her way back to the porch. “Ahh!” She squealed with delight, darting back across the lawn to her place. Her sandals slapped against the grass as she bounded over to the fence, jumping against it with the careless energy of someone still high off a small but important win. The night air hit her skin, cool against her flushed face, but her mind was still stuck inside—still stuck on the feeling of Franklin’s arms, the tone of his voice, and the way he looked at her like.

Franklin stepped out onto the porch after her, watching with a faint smirk playing on his lips. His brow lifted slightly as he observed her shimmy halfway over the fence and then almost trip as she walked up her porch and grab the bags she’d left behind. The girl had no business being that graceful and that clumsy all at once.

He walked over, shaking his head a little but unable to look away. “Damn.” He muttered to himself, just low enough that the night could swallow it.

By the time he reached the fence, Kimora was bent over grabbing her tote and the little shopping bag she’d left on the porch. Her shorts lifted just enough to reveal the soft curve of her back. Franklin quickly looked away, pretending to fix the cuff of his sleeve.

“Here.” offered, stepping forward and gently taking the bags from her hands when she walked back over, before she could hop the fence again.

Kimora glanced up at him, her cheeks flushed from rushing, and gave a small smile. “Thank you.” She said, softer now—less excited and more… intimate? At least, that how he felt by the effects of her tone.

Franklin didn’t say anything, just dipped his head in a short nod before turning back toward the house. Kimora climbed the fence again, a little more carefully this time, as he held the bags steady for her on the other side.

Back inside the house, the air was warm and quiet—softer than outside, like stepping into another world entirely. Franklin led her down a narrow hallway, their footsteps muted against the worn carpet runner. He stopped just across from what looked like a study—glass-paned doors slightly ajar, papers scattered across the desk inside—and opened the door to the downstairs bathroom.

“Here you are.” He said, setting the bags down gently inside.

Kimora stepped in behind him, eyes darting around the decently sized bathroom. Cream tiles, soft lighting, and other intricate and fancy details. It smelled faintly of soap and something else—a cologne lingering in the space.

She turned toward the doorway, where he still stood, leaning a shoulder lightly against the frame.

“Thank you so much, again, Franklin.” Her voice was quieter now, a little breathy. “Really.”

He shrugged one shoulder, though his gaze stayed steady on her. “It’s no big deal, Kimora.” He said, and the way he said her name sent a little ripple through her chest. “Just… have fun.”

He offered her that signature half-smile then—the kind that made people nervous because you never quite knew what he was thinking. Kimora leaned against the edge of the doorway, her fingers gripping the trim lightly as she looked up at him. The space between them felt heavier again, thick with the kind of tension they’d danced around all evening.

There it was again.

That stare.

That lingering moment where neither of them moved, where it felt like the world dipped into slow motion just to give them a beat too long in each other’s eyes.

Franklin’s gaze swept her slowly, not in a rude way, but measured—like he was taking in all the little details of her, memorizing the way she looked standing in his hallway, holding onto her nerves and excitement at the same time.

“I’ll be over here.” He said finally, nodding toward the study. “Catching up on some business.”

“Yeah…” Kimora breathed, not fully moving just yet. “Okay.”

They peeled away from one another slowly, like something inside them didn’t want to let the moment go. Kimora slipped inside the bathroom and gently closed the door behind her. Franklin crossed the hall and pushed one of the glass study doors open, but left it cracked—whether for air or for her, it wasn’t clear.

Inside the bathroom, Kimora stood still for a moment, leaning back against the closed door, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her heart was racing. She touched her lips absently, then smoothed her clothes down with trembling fingers. The scent of soap and tile cleaner mixing faintly with her own floral body spray. She paused for a moment, then let out a soft breath as she dug into her bags on the counter. With practiced hands, she unzipped the small makeup pouch she always carried—her “just in case” kit that never failed her—and pulled out a compact mirror, a tube of brown lip liner, and the soft mauve lipstick she swore by.

The mirror lights were soft overhead as she leaned in, touching up her lips with precision. Her roller set had settled nicely last night, but it needed styling. She pulled out a few pins and began twisting sections of her soft curls upward into a loose, elegant updo. Her nails clicked gently against the bobby pins as she secured the final curl into place, letting two face-framing tendrils fall forward to soften the look.

And across the hallway, Franklin sat behind the desk in his study, the soft glow of the desk lamp illuminating stacks of papers and notebooks spread out before him. He adjusted his reading glasses, tapping the eraser of a pencil against the wood, his eyes scanning numbers he’d already memorized but double-checked out of habit—but his eyes kept drifting back toward the door.

Some deals were clean. Most were not. The money still coming in from the projects needed a wash—he had a few fronts still operating, but one was behind on rent and the other had too many eyes on it.

The music of the house, the tension of the night, the quiet pull between two people who weren’t quite sure where the line was—but were getting dangerously close to crossing it.

And the night was still young.

He rubbed a hand down his face, the weight of the work pressing behind his temples.

Then—

“Franklin?”

His head snapped up, the sound of her voice slipping through the open door like smoke. Soft. Sweet. That same slow melody she always spoke in, like honey dripped on hot cornbread.

He looked up to see her in the bathroom again, leaning over the sink. Her updo was styled now, her dress smoothed out as she touched up her eyeliner. She didn’t even look his way.

“Yeah?” Be answered.

“If you don’t mind me asking…” She paused to check the angle of her blush, dabbing at her cheekbones with a steady hand. “Where’s Lucia?”

Franklin’s fingers hesitated over the corner of a sheet of paper.

“She’s out.” He said, flipping to another page he wasn’t really reading. “Dinner with some of the women from the neighborhood. Something about them wanting to start an HOA.”

“An HOA?” Kimora blinked, eyes going wide in the mirror. She opened the bathroom door a bit more and turned her head to glance across the hallway. “She’s out with Lauren McAllister?” She asked.

Franklin looked up at her again, brows raising slightly.

“Uh… yeah. I think so.”

Kimora gasped, stepping just outside the bathroom now with her mascara wand still in hand. “Franklin, you cannot let those women get their hands on Lucia. They will suck the life and all of the ethnic qualities out of that woman.”

Franklin blinked, sitting back a little in his chair. “What?”

“Lauren McAllister and the rest of her little PTA-HOA-Bring-Your-Own-Botox crew,” Kimora started with a hiss. “They’ve been trying to kick out the Black residents on this side of the block for years.”

She pointed her mascara wand like it was a pointer stick in a classroom. “They’re all mad they live at the front of the block, and want the houses in the back. But majority of these houses? Generational. Been here. And now that Lucia done snagged one back here, they’re either gonna snatch it from under her or get her in on their scheme.”

Franklin gave a dry chuckle. “I can guarantee you Lucia isn’t interested in that kind of thing.”

“Oh, I’m not saying she is,” Kimora said quickly, spinning back toward the bathroom but pausing at the doorway. “But Lauren? Lauren is not the type of woman you want your wife around.”

“Fiancée,” Franklin corrected gently.

“She recently got caught cheating on her husband of fifteen years,” Kimora said without missing a beat, “And they have six kids together.”

Franklin blinked. “Six?”

“Six.” She repeated, holding up her hand and wiggling her fingers. “She was sleeping with the yoga instructor.”

Franklin leaned back in his chair, blinking. “Wow.” He mumbled, more so just playing into the young woman’s gossip session instead of actually being that interested.

“I know, right?” Kimora said, crossing her arms now. “Is that the kind of woman you want around your wife?”

“No,” Franklin admitted, chuckling airily. “That is not the kind of woman I want around my fiancée.”

“Exactly.” She turned back toward the bathroom and looked into the mirror, brushing her lashes delicately with the mascara wand. “And if I’m being completely honest with you, Frank—can I call you Frank?”

“No.”

“Well, Frankie.” She continued with a sly smirk in the mirror, “I just don’t like the woman.” She shrugged.

Franklin tried to suppress a grin but failed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, still holding onto a half-filled ledger but no longer reading it. “And why is that?”

Kimora gave a little shrug, as casual as a summer breeze. “She’s a bitch.”

Franklin’s brows shot up. “She’s a bitch?”

“She’s a bitch,” Kimora repeated without flinching. “Always has been. Hates anything that isn’t up to her standards, like she doesn’t live in Bankhead. Her sons are misogynistic assholes who hit on Black girls for some ‘exotic’ thrill. Her daughters wanna be thugs, like they not out here wearing Guess jeans and lying about their curfews.”

Franklin let out a low whistle, watching her in the mirror as she smoothed a bit of setting powder across her jawline.

“And her husband?” Kimora added, lowering her voice just a touch. “I think her husband has been hitting on me since I was about sixteen but I can’t necessarily prove it. It’s just this vide he gives off when we he’s around. You know that vibe?”

Franklin’s face went still, the humor draining from his features just enough to show a sliver of something protective. “Yeah.” He said carefully. “I know that vibe.”

Kimora paused in the mirror, catching his reflection catching hers.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then she broke the silence with a small, teasing smile. “So yeah. Just… keep an eye on your girl.”

Franklin nodded, his voice low. “I always do.” He said, staring at her intensely, trying to fight the double meaning that flickered in his mind at his own words.

Kimora’s gaze lingered for a moment more before she turned back to the mirror, eyes soft but steady.

And Franklin, for all his business and numbers, didn’t even remember the papers sitting in front of him.

But he eventually had to go back to. He couldn’t stare at her all evening when he had things to do. So his eyes scrolled through the papers in front of him. Numbers. Notes. Numbers. Notes. The balance of his world was wrapped up in these sheets, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Kimora’s words from earlier still lingered in his head like the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights above him.

She’d told him Lauren wasn’t the type of woman he or Lucia should be associating with. Lauren McAllister—PTA president, neighborhood whatever but the things that seemed to stick the most was that she was an all-around snake. Kimora’s assessment of the woman was blunt, but sharp. He wasn’t wrong to be cautious. He wasn’t wrong to protect Lucia.

His fiancée was could be too naive for her own good, and he knew it. That’s what got them in the situation to begin with. This dilemma of a faux marriage since she wanted independence from her psychotic mob family.

But before he could think more on that, the office phone rang, cutting through the silence. He picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Yo, Franklin!” Leon’s voice came through, loud and clear, like a breath of fresh air after a long day.

“Yeah?” Franklin asked, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his forehead as if he’d already been through too much today.

“I’m gonna need you to pull up to the club tonight, Candy Pain,” Leon said. “We got some fine girls coming through, and you know how it is. A little fun never hurt nobody, right?”

Franklin immediately shook his head, even though Leon couldn’t see him. “Nah, man. I’m not really up for it tonight,” He replied, his voice dismissive but not harsh. “I’ve got business to handle.”

Leon sighed on the other end of the line, clearly not deterred. “Come on, man. I’m telling you, it’s not just about partying this time. I need you to come check out the club, see how the money’s moving now that it’s up and running. We need your eye on it. Business, you know?”

Franklin paused, the flicker of the neon sign outside his window casting shadows across his desk. Business. That was what he was about. That was what he needed to focus on.

“Alright.” He said, relenting, but his tone remained firm, detached. “I’ll come by. But only for the business, Leon. Nothing more.”

“Yeah, yeah, man,” Leon replied, and Franklin could hear the grin in his voice. “I got you, I got you. See you tonight. But aye, I also wanted to say….”

Franklin was leaned back in his chair as he listened to his closest homie talk, just as the bathroom door softly clicked open, and Kimora emerged. His eyes instinctively trailed to her as she stepped out, her figure now transformed.

Her hair was styled into a sophisticated updo, the glossy curls twisting into a neat, elegant shape at the back of her head. The dress she wore was a slinky black slip with delicate spaghetti straps, clung to her frame and swayed gently at her thighs. Vibrant flowers bloomed across the fabric in shades of deep red, violet, and fiery orange, their petals wrapping around her like nature’s own armor. Her earrings—tiny gold hoops shaped like tiny hummingbirds frozen mid-flight—glistened as she turned her head, catching whispers of candlelight. Emerald-green stones circled one of her fingers, and on the other hand, a chunky gold ring gleamed like a secret. She walked in heels that clicked softly on the floor, her black bag tucked neatly under one arm, her presence confident, untouchable.

The dress was short, just enough to be playful but still mature, a perfect balance of sex appeal and sophistication. The thin straps highlighted the grace of her shoulders, and the little black leather handbag she carried was a small but elegant touch that completed the ensemble.

Franklin couldn’t help but stop whatever he was doing. His eyes traced the length of her from the tips of her mules, up the curves of her legs, over her hips, and finally resting on her face. His gaze lingered, slow and deliberate, almost as if he was savoring the sight of her, taking it all in. His breath hitched as his gaze lingered, and he felt a slight heat rise in his chest. It wasn’t just the dress, though that was enough to make any man pause. It was the way she carried herself, the effortless grace, the poise in every movement. She knew she was captivating. The tension in the room thickened as his mouth went dry, his thoughts clouding for a moment.

“Damn…” He muttered, almost under his breath, but loud enough for her to hear.

“What?” He heard a nice say, and that’s when he realized he was still on the phone with Leon. “Uh, yeah, I’ll be there, Leon.” He muttered, cutting the conversation off with the click of the receiver. He didn’t need to hear Leon’s “goodbye” or whatever else. His attention was firmly on the woman in front of him.

Kimora stopped in front of the mirror, adjusting the lipstick in her hand. Franklin stayed rooted to the spot, lost in her presence. He tried to shake himself out of the trance but couldn’t. Kimora stopped what she was doing and turned to face him, the smirk on her lips growing. “Be honest, Frankie. How do I look?”

Franklin sat there, speechless for a beat, his eyes still locked on her. The words didn’t come right away. His gaze slowly drifted up to her face again, his lips parted slightly as he swallowed hard, his eyes following the curves of her body again before slowly meeting her gaze. She was a vision, and his breath hitched. He could feel the air in the room thicken, the tension between them almost palpable. He swallowed hard before he spoke, his voice rougher than he intended. “You look…wow.” He said, his eyes not leaving her figure. “You look good, Kimora.”

Kimora took a small step forward, the heels of her mules clicking softly against the floor. She stood in front of the study’s door, the air between them charged with something unspoken. “Good enough to turn heads tonight?” She asked, a playful grin creeping onto her lips. She hit a few more poses for him, almost too comfortable in her skin. She was feeling herself, the way she always did when she wore something that made her feel like she owned the room.

Franklin’s throat went dry, and he swallowed hard, trying to shake off the haze of desire that clouded his thoughts. His eyes were still fixed on her, his chest tightening with a growing intensity he wasn’t used to. He cleared his throat and forced himself to focus. “I’m sure you always turn heads.” He said, his voice steadier now, though the tension still clung to the air between them like a heavy fog.

“Oh, why thank you, Franklin.” She gushed, crossing her arms lightly over her chest as she assessed him with a look that made Franklin feel like she was reading him. “You look good yourself, you know?” She added with a wink, her tone dripping with playful flirtation.

Franklin’s response was cut short by the sound of a horn honking outside. Kimora glanced down at her watch and her expression shifted to one of mild surprise. “Opp! That’s Lexie, I gotta go.” She didn’t waste any time, grabbing her handbag and rushing toward the door. “Catch you later, Franklin. And again, thank you so much! You’re spectacular, love!” She said over her shoulder as she was already halfway out the door, not even waiting for his response.

Franklin sat frozen for a moment, his eyes still on the door she had just walked out of. His mind was reeling, his body betraying him in the quiet of the room. He could still feel the weight of her presence lingering, the warmth of her figure still fresh in his thoughts. Her voice echoed in his ears, and his body responded to the image of her in that dress, those heels, her confident grace. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he felt his khakis tighten.

“Shit.” He hissed under his breath, his body betraying him as a wave of desire hit him unexpectedly. He was still sitting there, eyes closed for a moment, trying to force the image of her out of his mind. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape it. The memory of Kimora’s curves, her scent, the sound of her heels, all of it lingered in his mind, and his body reacted accordingly.

Franklin’s pulse quickened as he reluctantly peeled his eyes open. His hands were tense as he moved from the desk, trying to distract himself. His gaze fell to the bathroom door she had just left ajar, her bags still scattered across the floor. It was a mess, a little bit, but it was better than the alternative. He knew he couldn’t just leave them there; that would raise too many questions with Lucia. Questions he didn’t even know where to begin to answer.

With a heavy sigh, he bent down and started gathering the shopping bags she had left behind. They were filled with clothes, trinkets, things that were far too personal to leave lying around. He knew if he didn’t handle it, the story would end up being something he’d have to explain later — and he didn’t need any more explanations tonight. So, he took the bags, grumbling under his breath, and made his way to his study.

The closet door creaked open, and Franklin tossed the bags inside, trying to get it over with as quickly as possible due to the lingering scent of her lemon perfume wafting in his nose. But when he placed the clothes Kimora had changed out of onto the shelf, his eyes caught a glimpse of something that made his heart skip. Her undergarments—black lace panties and matching bra with white polka dots and a tiny bow at the center—were still partially visible, tangled in the fabric. Franklin’s breath caught in his throat, and he couldn’t help but stare for a second longer than he should have.

His pulse raced, his mouth dry as he swallowed, snapping himself out of his daze. His hands moved mechanically as he placed the clothes into the wardrobe, but his mind was still consumed by the image. He shut the closet door with a slight snap, trying to regain control of himself as he caught the sight of the tent in his pants.

“Shit.”He muttered again, his voice low, almost lost in the quiet of the room. He exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the desire building in him. But it wasn’t working. Franklin leaned back against the desk, a low groan escaping him as he adjusted himself, still trying to ignore the rising tension in his pants.

Everything about Kimora had him off-balance. She was a temptation he couldn’t seem to avoid, a complication he had yet to sort through. And he knew deep down that tonight was only going to make things worse.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The moment Kimora slams the door shut and buckles her seatbelt, Lexie peels off from the curb with a grin that practically glows in the dark. “Okay, and here the hell are you coming from?“ she asked, glancing over at the girl in her passenger seat. Kimora just sighed, leaning back against the leather with a soft shake of her head. “It’s a long story.”

“I’m glad you said it because we don’t have the time, let’s tune on some music.” Lexie grinned before she twisted the knob to let the radio up, letting the R&B flood from her speakers.

Kimora lets out a soft laugh, looking out the window as the streetlights strobe across her face. Her mind tries to stay in the moment—focus on the bass she can already imagine, the drinks she’ll sip slow, the warmth of bodies under flashing lights—but her thoughts keep snagging on a pair of slow, trailing eyes… and the way Franklin said, “You look good, Kimora.”

She shifts in her seat, pressing her thighs together and shaking the memory from her head.

The glow from the neon signs outside washes over the dashboard—gas stations, liquor stores, the outlines of bodies posted up on the corner like statues in the night.

Kimora leans back, finally letting a small smile spread across her lips. She wasn’t ready to unpack what happened at Franklin’s—not yet. Not until her blood warmed with something stronger than tension. Not until she could bury that look he gave her in the blur of lights, smoke, and sweat. “Let’s just have a good time.” She said softly, once they stopped at a red light. Lexie looked over at her, a bit confused on where this was all coming from but smiled at her nonetheless. “That’s the only kind I believe in.”

The light turns green. The bass in the car kicks in, loud enough to blur thoughts. They speed off into the night, headed straight for Candy Paint.

And when they arrived, the old Southside Peach was unrecognizable.

Gone were the boarded windows and weathered paint—Candy Paint glowed now, bathed in pink and purple neon like a candy-coated mirage. The line stretched halfway down the block, a living display of gold grills, bold prints, baby hair, and high-top fades. The bass hit deep, like a second heartbeat for everyone standing outside.

Lexie eased her freshly oiled legs out the Cadillac, high heels clicking onto the cracked pavement. Her fit was tight, red, and didn’t leave much to the imagination. She checked her lip liner in the side mirror, then glanced at Kimora—who looked less like she just left a man’s house and more like she meant to shut the club down.

The club glowed like a jewel in the middle of a dimly lit block, its name flickering in hot pink neon above the entrance. Music throbbed from inside, pulsing right through the pavement as the line wrapped around the building. Bodies were already swaying to the bass on the sidewalk, heels clicking, gold glinting, perfume cutting through cigarette smoke and cologne.

“Let’s just make sure we don’t get stuck outside lookin’ crazy.” Kimora said, eyes bouncing around at all of the people waiting to get in. Lexie scoffed, looking over at her. “Girl, please.” She said before flipping her ponytail over her shoulder and strutting forward. “He said tell ‘em Leon sent us.”

They walked past the velvet rope, heads turning before they even made it to the door. A few men called out soft “damn”s and “what’s your name?”s, but Lexie kept her focus. So did Kimora, even though she felt her own nerves trying to rise—like she was stepping into something bigger than just a club.

The bouncer squinted down at them when the duo walked closer, suspicion clouding his gaze. “Y’all on the list?”

Lexie didn’t hesitate. “Leon said to let us in.”

There was a shift in the bouncer’s demeanor—subtle, but there. His eyes moved over them, lingering just a moment too long on Kimora. Then, with a grunt, he nodded toward the entrance and unhooked the velvet rope. “Go ’head.”

Lexie’s lips curved into a smug smirk as she stepped past him. Kimora followed, her expression unreadable, though her eyes scanned the dimly lit entryway. In the shadows, near the wall, she caught sight of a familiar face—one of the men who’d been with Leon at the mall. He stood like he was casing the place, casual but alert. For a moment, their eyes locked. Then he looked away.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The night had folded in heavy around Candy Paint, and the inside of the club pulsed like a living body—thick air, sweet smoke, and a bassline that rattled through bones. Neon light painted everyone in shades of violet and rose, glinting off gold hoops and slow-rolling sweat.

Lexie and Kimora were deep in the crowd now, just left of the dance floor but still in the orbit of it. They’d been posted at the bar for a while, but now, a couple drinks in—Patrón for Lexie, gin and pineapple for Kimora—they were loose-limbed and laughing. Not quite drunk, but definitely buzzed, shoulders relaxed, filters low.

Lexie was throwing her head back mid-laugh, pointing out a girl across the club wearing the same dress she almost bought earlier that day. Kimora was leaned against the table they’d claimed, her glossy lips parted in a dreamy smile as she swayed slightly to Jodeci playing in the background. She hadn’t thought about Franklin in at least twenty minutes, which felt like a record.

She didn’t notice the shift in energy near the entrance.

But Leon did.

Near the entrance, he stood just past the velvet rope, posted up like security with a little more swagger. He dapped up a few regulars, exchanging nods and hand slaps, when Franklin Saint walked in—cool, calm and collected, cutting through the noise with that signature slow stride of his in his father usual attire. The short-sleeved black button-up he wore was crisp, tucked neatly into dark slacks, a gold watch flashing with every flicker of light overhead. Always clean. Always quiet.

Leon grinned wide when he spotted him.

“Look who crawled out the house.” He quipped

Franklin smirked, hands in his pockets as he walked closer to him. “Had to see it for myself. Heard y’all flipped this spot and needed to see how serious this was.” He said as he looked around at the place before nodding subtly. “It’s nice.” Leon’s chest swelled with pride. He nodded toward the back booth, where a few men leaned into a quiet conversation, and behind a curtain, a girl in fishnets was counting out a thick wad of cash.

“Yeah, we movin’. Right now, it’s just frontin’ as a club, but give it a minute. You see all them bottles flyin’ off the bar?” He chuckled. “That’s two-fold. Half that liquor ain’t come from no distributor.”

Franklin’s eyes sharpened. “And the other half?”

“Clean money, bro. Every bottle sold, every door cover paid? That’s straight wash. We got dancers pullin’ tips too, we runnin’ games upstairs, and we lookin’ at a late-night kitchen next month. Whole other stream.”

Franklin gave a slow nod, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. “You got it runnin’ smooth?”

“Couple bumps, but it’s under control. No heat yet.”

Then Leon’s gaze shifted—and a grin stretched across his face as he caught something far within the crowd. “Aye… hold up. Ain’t that shorty from the mall?” He asked himself before he nodded subtly across the club.

Lexie was near the dance floor, hips rolling slow to the beat, fingers slicing the air in rhythm as she hyped the DJ’s drop. But it wasn’t Lexie Leon was really looking at.

It was Kimora.

She stood by a table, drink in hand, head tossed back in laughter at some guy she talked to. Her curls bounced with every breath, her hips swayed lazy and loose like the music was something her body understood better than words. The blue lighting kissed her skin, gave it a glow. And the way she moved—unguarded, carefree—made her look like someone else entirely. Not the girl Franklin remembered in his kitchen. But he still recognized her.

Even before she saw him.

His jaw tightened as he stared, a strange weight settling in his chest as he and Leon walked closer. Not jealousy. Not exactly. But something close.

“…Kimora?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the bass just enough.

She turned.

And blinked.

“Franklin!”

A grin broke wide across her face. Her eyes, glassy from liquor and surprise, lit up as she stumbled forward without hesitation. Her heels clicked fast against the floor until she landed in his arms.

“What are you doin’ here?” She asked, her voice slurred just slightly, full of joy.

Franklin caught her easily, his hands firm on her waist to steady her. For a second, neither of them moved. Her body was soft, warm against his. The scent of her perfume drifted up, sweet and expensive. And she was looking at him like nothing else in the room mattered.

“I could ask you the same.” He murmured.

Kimora pulled back just enough to see his face. “Lexie said we should come, remember? This is the spot I was talking about. This dude from the mall told us to say his name at the door. Leon.”

She gestured vaguely in Leon’s direction, still beaming.

Franklin glanced past her, catching Lexie near the bar. She’d clocked the whole thing and was already sipping her drink as Leon eased his way over to her.

Kimora looked up at him again, and something shifted in her face—just a flicker. A moment of clarity. Of awareness settling in, like the haze of the night was starting to lift. The club thumped behind them, neon lights washing the place in flashes of pink and red, but Franklin and Kimora stood still—caught in a silence the music couldn’t touch.

The beat of Aaliyah’s “Back & Forth” rippled through the open doors, a low, seductive pulse that vibrated in the air. But Franklin barely registered the sound. His focus was on Kimora, her voice a little slurred, a little soft—still touched by whatever she’d been sipping on inside.

“You didn’t answer me.” She said, head tilted, lips glossed and parted slightly. “What you doin’ here?”

Franklin didn’t rush to answer. His voice came quiet, steady. “Just checkin’ on some business.” He said, tilting his head down some so she could hear him over the speakers.

He cast a quick glance toward Leon, who was conveniently turned away, playing dumb as he whispered something in Lexie’s ear. Franklin’s eyes returned to Kimora, and his gaze traced her—how the thin straps of her black dress seemed to slip off her shoulder, how her curls framed her face like they’d been made to do it. There was something a little unraveled about her at this moment, opposite of her normal demeanor. A little reckless. A little magnetic. It didn’t line up with the girl-next-door image he’d filed away. But he didn’t hate it.

He didn’t shy away from it.

“…Didn’t think I’d see you here.” He said finally.

Kimora leaned in just enough to sway, a half-drunken smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, well. I didn’t think I’d see you either. Doesn’t seem like you vibe.” Her words teased, but there was a thread of curiosity underneath—like she wanted to know if she was wrong.

Franklin didn’t back up. Didn’t touch her either. He just held her gaze—still, unreadable.

“You here with… Lucia or something?” She asked next. Tried to toss the question out casually, but her voice dipped on the name. Like it tasted strange in her mouth. Like she didn’t want to say fiancée out loud.

Franklin didn’t flinch. “Nah. I came solo.”He said it smooth, not giving much away. “But that’s my boy Leon over there.” He added, nodding toward the man still wrapped up in Lexie’s laugh.

Kimora turned to glance, squinting slightly like the scene in front of her was funny in a way she couldn’t quite explain. “Oh, you know Leon? What?” He questioned before looking back over at him. “How crazy is that? Him and Lexie?” She blinked slow, a grin tugging at her lips.

Franklin let out a quiet, amused breath. “Yeah, I’ve known Leon a long time. That ain’t even the wildest thing I’ve seen him caught up in.”

Kimora raised a brow. “You saying Lexie’s trouble?” She asked, ceasing her arms as she looked up at him.

Her body swayed slightly, and Franklin reached out without thinking, placing a hand on her arm. Light. Steady. Just enough to keep her balanced.

She looked down at his hand, then back up, eyes searching.

He didn’t move it right away.

“Nah,” Franklin said. “Not trouble. She’s just sharp. Got teeth, you know what I mean?”

“Mm.” Kimora hummed as a reply.

He didn’t smile. Just met her gaze with the same even stillness. Whatever was between them wasn’t flirtation. Not exactly. It was quieter. More dangerous.

The beat from the club shifted behind them, rising, and a group of girls brushed past in a blur of perfume and laughter. But Franklin and Kimora stayed locked in their own space—unbothered by the noise, untouched by the crowd.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” She asked after a moment. Her voice was softer now. Less play. More curiosity.

“Say what’s necessary.” He replied.

“Necessary for what?”

Franklin didn’t answer right away. Just breathed out through his nose.

“Keepin’ things simple.” He said, tilting his head at her. Kimora copied him, tilting her head like she heard something between the words. She didn’t smile either. Just looked at him with something steadier. Something that saw through.

Her perfume lingered in the space between them. Warm. Sweet.

And close.

Franklin shifted slightly, eyes flicking toward the door, then back to her. “You got someone makin’ sure you get home alright?” He asked, his eyes darting across her obviously tipsy form.

“Lexie drove.” She said. “So I should be good.”

He nodded at that.

“Appreciate you askin’, though.” Kimora said softly, her eyes darting between his as she looked up at him.

Again, he nodded—barely a movement. No smile. No line. Just a weight in his expression that said more than his mouth ever would.

“Well…” Kimora said, stepping back, her shoulder brushing past his arm just enough to make him notice. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Wouldn’t wanna hold you up.”

She moved past him, heels tapping against the pavement. Not hurried. Not slow. Just sure.

Franklin didn’t watch her go. He stared ahead, jaw set, the pulse of the music swallowing him again.

He’d come to handle business. But now, business wasn’t the only thing on his mind. Not even close.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The hours blurred after that. Candy Paint got hazier—louder. The lights dimmed further, strobes slicing across the dance floor while the DJ spun from Janet to Biggie to SWV. Kimora stayed near Lexie, nursing a watered-down cocktail and laughing a little louder than usual. But every so often, her eyes flicked across the room, catching a glimpse of Franklin posted near the edge of it all, cool and unreadable like always.

He didn’t dance. Didn’t mingle. Just talked low with Leon every now and then, eyes always scanning—like his mind never quite sat still. But once or twice, she caught him looking back at her. And each time, he looked away first.

Around 1:30, the club began to thin. Bodies spilled out onto the sidewalk—some still laughing, others arguing, someone throwing up in the alley beside the club. Leon and Lexie were already gone by then, slipping out with their arms around each other, leaving Kimora behind at the bar with a half-empty drink and tired eyes. And slightly pissed since the girl was supposed to be her ride, even though she wasn’t supposed to be getting as tipsy as she was tonight. But and blamed all that on the man she couldn’t get out of her head.

She pushed the glass aside and grabbed her little bag off the stool. Her heels pinched now. Her curls frizzed at the edges from all the sweat and humidity in the room. She didn’t feel as pretty as she had walking in.

Still, she stepped out into the night.

The air hit sharp—cool and damp with the city’s leftover heat. She paused outside the club, one arm crossed over her body as she rubbed her own shoulder. A part of her was wondering whether she should call a cab. Another part was just catching her breath.

She didn’t hear him at first.

“You good?”

His voice came soft, low—cutting through the chill. She turned slightly, surprised. Franklin stood a few feet away, hands deep in his coat pockets, eyes steady. Like he’d been waiting. Or maybe like he’d just never left.

Kimora nodded. “Yeah. I’m good.” She mumbled.

Franklin nodded before he took a step closer. Not much. Just enough for his voice to land quieter. “You waitin’ on Lexie?” He asked

She shook her head, curls brushing her cheek. “She left with your boy.” She scoffed softly.

He didn’t seem surprised that and just gave a short nod.

“Need a ride?”

The pause that followed wasn’t about distance—it was about all the things wrapped in that offer. Kimora didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him for a long second, unsure of what she saw. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

Franklin didn’t rush to respond. The streetlight above them flickered, casting a dim halo that outlined the space between them like a line neither was sure they should cross. He studied her.

“Why not?” He asked with a small shrug. “I did let you into my house and all. Just bein’ neighborly.” He said, and Kimoraa small, dry laugh, not unkind, just tired. “You’re a lot of things, Franklin. And though you are kind, I’m not too sure ‘neighborly’ is one of those things to make the list.” She chuckled.

His jaw ticked, something unreadable passing across his face as he tried to hold back his own amusement.

“It’s still an option.” He said, like that was all it needed to be.

Her hand clutched tighter at her purse as she gulped. “Don’t you have someone waitin’ on you?” She didn’t know why she said that, even though she had the urge, she couldn’t help but blame it on the alcohol she still felt in her system. She said it so softly. There was no sort of accusation laced within it, no heat. Just a question hung loose in the night.

Franklin didn’t blink.

“That can wait.” He stated, not taking his eyes off her.

Somewhere down the block, a car horn blared. A group of girls stumbled past, laughing too loudly, voices echoing down the emptying street. Life kept going around them, but not either of them budged. Kimora felt that moment land between them like a held breath.

She looked away first this time, eyes down the sidewalk. She didn’t move at first.

She stood on the sidewalk, one hand curled around the strap of her purse, the other tucking into the crook of her elbow like she could hold herself together.

Franklin stood a few feet away, hands tucked into his coat pockets, eyes shadowed beneath his brow. He hadn’t said much, hadn’t moved either. Just waited.

The space between them buzzed—something low, heavy, full of the things that shouldn’t be spoken.

Then, without a word, Kimora stepped forward.

Her heels tapped softly against the pavement as she followed him to the curb where a black ‘95 Chevrolet Corvette sat parked clean and quiet. He opened the passenger door for her like it was nothing, like it wasn’t 2 a.m. and she wasn’t someone he wasn’t supposed to be this close to.

But she slid in.

The leather was warm. The door shut with a muffled click. Franklin got in on his side and took a moment adjusting the mirrors, even though they were fine. His movements were slow, precise. A stalling tactic.

The silence settled thick between them.

Kimora glanced at him, the corner of her mouth twitching. “You always this quiet?” She asked, voice low, more curious than annoyed.

Franklin started the engine, eyes straight ahead. “Sometimes quiet’s safer.” He mumbled, and that statement seemed to have a double meaning as they let it sit in the air.

She didn’t argue. Just turned her gaze out the window as the car pulled away from the curb, the glowing sign of Candy Paint shrinking behind them into the night. Inside the corvette , it smelled faintly of leather and expensive cologne, the kind that lingered—warm, masculine, subtle. The dash lights glowed against Franklin’s profile as he drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose in his lap.

The car ride was quiet.

Not awkward—just full. Like there were too many words sitting in the space between them, none of them quite ready to be said. The night outside drifted by in slow motion—dim storefronts, the occasional blinking streetlight, flashes of gold washing across Kimora’s face before retreating back into shadow.

She sat still, composed, her posture deliberate. One leg crossed over the other, her purse tucked tightly in her lap like it might anchor her to the seat. Her curls had started to frizz from the heat of the club, and her lip gloss had all but faded—but somehow, in the dim glow of the streetlights, she looked more herself than she had all night. More real. Like the shine had peeled back just enough to let something truer breathe.

Franklin glanced over, just a flick of his eyes, careful not to linger.

“You alright?” He asked, voice low but tainted with an ounce of worry.

“Yeah.” She said after a pause. “Just… head’s loud, that’s all.” She mumbled. And she didn’t explain further, didn’t have to. The echoes of the club—its bass still thudding somewhere deep in her chest—weren’t the only thing rattling around in her mind.

Franklin gave a small nod, like he understood. He knew what that was like.

The streets out were different this time of day. Calmer. No sirens screaming past. No cars bouncing basslines off the sidewalk. Just the soft hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of wind against the windows.

“You didn’t have to drive me.” She said after a while, her voice quieter now, and when Franklin glanced over at her, she seemed to be sobering up. He blinked before his eyes moved back to the road. “Didn’t feel right lettin’ you call some random car. Not this late. It the least I could do with Lexie going off with my boy Leon.”

She turned her face toward the window then, like she didn’t quite know how to hold that kind of care in her hands. Like it was something fragile and unfamiliar.

“People will talk if they see me gettin’ outta your car this time of night.” She said after another mount of silence between them, letting the heavy truth slip from her lips in a tipsy haze she was still feeling.

Franklin’s jaw ticked, just slightly at that. But when he spoke, his voice stayed level. “Then they talk.” He said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Don’t mean it’s true.” He said, not even looking her way.

“They don’t care what’s true.” She murmured.

And that sat heavy in the air between them. Long enough for both of them to feel it settle into their bones.

Franklin then pulled up to the curb in front of her home. The street was dead quiet, like it was holding its breath. A single porch light flickered two doors down, the bulb threatening to give out at any moment.

He shifted the car into park but didn’t kill the engine. Let it idle there, soft and steady. His hand tightened around the wheel, thumb tapping once before going still again.

Kimora didn’t move. Didn’t reach for the door.

She just sat there, the hum of the engine filling the silence where neither of them seemed ready to say goodbye.

She then blinked slowly, the moment cracking just a little as she reached for the door. “Thanks for the ride.” She said, looking over and connecting eyes with his, his gaze already locked upon her.

He gave her a single nod, quiet. “Anytime.”

She stepped out, heels clicking against the pavement again. But before she shut it, she turned back.

“You have a good night, now,..Franklin.” She uttered softly. Franking blinked, subconsciously licking his lips as he darted at her. “You have a good night too, Kimora.” With a small smile to her, the door closed softly.

Her heels clicked quietly as she made her way up the walkway, a steady sound in the still air. Franklin watched her the whole way—not because the street was dangerous. Not because he didn’t trust the neighborhood, hell, he lived directly to her left.

But he watched because he didn’t trust the world not to twist whatever this was into something it wasn’t.

Or maybe, deep down, he wished it was something.

She got inside the home with ease, knowing her mother left it unlocked after discovering she wasn’t home. The place was dark and still. She didn’t bother turning on the lights. Just stood by the door, breathing.

Then, slowly, she walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside with two fingers.

Franklin’s car was still there. Engine humming low, headlights off. He hadn’t driven off yet for some reason. He was just sitting there. Still.

Kimora watched him, heart knocking gently against her ribs. She didn’t know what she wanted, and she knew she couldn’t blame what she was feeling on a drunken haze she was barely feeling anymore. She knew it was all an excuse to express something she desired for a while but felt shame to admit.

After another moment, the car eased away from the curb, disappearing into the garage of his own home next door. So she let the curtain fall.

In the bathroom, she stripped off the night slowly—unzipping the dress, peeling off the heels, wiping off her makeup in slow circles. But nothing she did could scrub away the sensation that still clung to her skin. That feeling of him in the air. Of his body against her when they made contact. Of the things they didn’t say but could feel below the surface, things that held other meanings.

She crawled into bed in just a tee, pulled the covers up, and stared at the ceiling.

Next door, Franklin sat still in the car for a moment longer, the engine finally cut. The silence inside was louder than anything else. He didn’t move right away—just rested his head back against the seat, eyes closed, like maybe he could stop the thoughts if he stayed still long enough.

Eventually, he made his way inside.

The house was quiet, lights dim, everything exactly how he left it. He peeled off the night piece by piece—kicked off his sneakers by the door, shed his dress shirt and tossed it in the hamper, ran cold water over his hands like it might wash away the heat still sitting in his palms. He walked down the hall, passing Lucia’s room and glancing in to see the room empty.

His room was across the hall, drenched in a low light and a figure protein from the mattress. He let out a small sigh before he pulled on a pair of sweats and climbed into bed. No music. No TV. Just the creak of the mattress and the steady whir of the fan overhead.

He laid there, staring at the ceiling while Lucia slept. Too aware of how close she was, but not the woman next to him.

She was further away, but not far at all. Mere feet.

And still—it wasn’t close enough.

@notapradagurl7 @onlyrealjoy @frank1nsaint @kindofaintrovert @glassmermaids @ohshesamonet @sweaterblog @orchidwonder @b-m-scott @imsohappyilovekbop @thisaintnai @theghostbusterbitch @capricornrizingheaux @wonderlustwrites @jazziejax @blkandchic @jazzieinthefuture @lotuswritesworld @daelynnnn @kinkymami @vile-harlot @honeipot @niahxo @vampwns @hxneyclouds @borednblk @angel-bx @aldallure @susanhill @dariequeen @333symone @aphroditesdaughter222 @dolldial @earth2niyah @fairy-cores-world

[enoiocean]

the devils come across an angel, elias 'stack' moore & elijah 'smoke' moore

pairing: elias 'stack' moore x cicely 'angel' james x elijah 'smoke' moore

content: a young cicely james, fragile and fearful, meets the twins, changing her entire world.

warnings: mention of child abuse and death.

an: let me tell y'all something! twenty four hours ago i sat in the movie theathers watching michael b jordan eat these roles up. now i've been thinking about this story all night and i can't wait to get more into it. now it's a little bit iffy i know but bare with me. they'll seem a little rough but you'll get my point, what i'm tryna do *weeps*

On a piece of land near a little river a family of five lived on. House small, it did what it could for them. It was still a roof, better than anything else. Seraphine and Otis James had been married for nearly twenty years, the two of them having made it through hell and back together. Although at times it still passed them by, remembrance of those hard times. They tried to find the peace of it all, but it was slowly slipping, that happiness and joy they all once felt. Going from laughter and happiness to pain and crying.

It was all consequences of the truth. A truth that no one needed to know but it had come back to haunt them. And soon Seraphine wasn’t able to take the lie that weighed her shoulders down. Staring into the eyes of her eldest girl pretending as if she didn’t have his eyes. Giving all of her power into loving her anyway because she made a choice to keep her. She made a choice to raise sweet little Cicely James despite the unwanted actions of another man that had brought her into this world.

And her father hearing the truth of this had caused the man to shift. He was no longer the loving father she thought he'd always be. No, he became a man she feared. And she wasn't the only one. Her siblings suffer at the hands of him and his drunken rage along with her mother.

It always seemed like a game with him. Not knowing which one he was going to come for first. At the end of the night someone always ended up battered and bruised in need of the other aid. Most of the time it was Cicely.

It had come to the point where not even a single person in town was surprised when she had come in with a new bruise or cut. All they could fathom was a look of sympathy towards the girl knowing that it wasn't their business to be in.

A small part of her wish someone would get involved, someone to put an end to her pain and suffering. Her siblings are in pain and suffering. Her mamas. Because it almost felt like there was no escaping a man like Otis James.

But someone out there must've heard her prayers. She spoke them loud enough for them to be heard despite them being muffled in between her sobs from yet again another restless night of aching pain.

Upon her mothers request, despite the cut on her lip and bruising forming on her cheekbone, she went into town anyway to get the ingredients her mother needed for supper that evening. The walk was a long one, Cicely trying to move as fast as she could without irritating the bruise that marked her ribs. If she didn't come back by the time her father would arrive home she didn't know what she was going to do.

As always she kept her head down, too afraid to look anyone in the eye regardless of the fact that it was to show attentiveness and respect to those who were kind enough to associate themselves with her.

Mind so intent on making it into town and making it out within good timing she hadn't even paid that much attention to her surroundings. She hadn't heard the rumbling of a motor car as it drove past her on the trail.

Whoever was driving it hadn't caught her attention but she had certainly caught theirs.

Tight curls surrounding her face, they hid her features. However, just from the figure they knew who she was as she walked. Having made it into town she was greeted politely by those who knew her, to which response with a small wave a murmur of greeting so low they almost couldn't catch it.

When she made it to the store, as usual, Claudette Franklin rested behind the counter minding the money as she always had, the older woman content where she sat as one of her nephews often stocked up for her.

Spotting Cicely the women instantly smiled at the young women's presence, "Well, my, if it ain't Lil Ol' Cicely James waltzing into my shop. My my, a sight for sore eyes," she teased the young girl. Despite her hair being in her face she blushed at attention she never seeked but was always given by the older women, "I can only pray your mama's doin' alright, haven't seen her face in here in what feels like ages."

Cicely had done what she was always told to do when some asked about her mother, "S-She's doin' just fine, Ms. Claudette, she just needed a few things," Cicely murmured, her tone soft, as she toyed with the small piece of paper in her hand.

Claudette hummed knowing 'doin' just fine' was far from the truth. She offered at her hand, Cicely hesitantly handing her the list. The woman looked it over before she called out, "Laurent, get these things on the list while Lil Cicely and I catch up." Cicely opened her mouth to protest just for Claudette to wave her off, "Oh, hush girl, let the boys do the shopping for once." the boy had approached, he looked as if he could only be a few years younger then herself, grabbing the list, "We got everything on it boy so I don't wanna hear not complainin', ya here?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

Claudette offered her old wrinkled melanin hand out to the girl gesturing with her head to the back. Cicely obediently followed the women as she led her out of the man shop to a room in the back.

She blindly reached up as she pulled a chain, turning on the light inside the closet with shelves that had vile's and glasses of liquids and pouches of what she could only assume were herbs. Claudette hummed to herself as she searched for something specific.

When she found it, she made a small notice in achievement as she grabbed a small glass that contained a red paste inside, it sealed closed at the the top with a cork.

"Here now girl," she handed it to Cicely, the young woman cautiously taking it into her hand with curiosity, brows furrowed, "Rub on the wounds to fade the pain, and at night when the moon has risen rub on your heart to mend the cracks."

Still her head lowered down, she shook it, "I don't think this'll do--" she began to deny what the women believed the paste would do.

"It will do what it is meant to do." Claudette cut her off, her hands circling around Cicely's and the glass, "Heal the mind, the soul, and the heart," she rested her hand on the girl's chest, "Lord knows a young girl like you can't parish so quickly in a world of pain. There is a future ahead for you, Lil Cicely James and it don't involve death by the hands of a man like Otis James." Chills ran down Cicely's spine at the mention of her fathers name, the man who she considered to be her monster.

She guided her back to the front, voices now being heard in the shop, however Cicely's eyes stayed focused on the glass in her hand, questioning if it would indeed do what Claudette says it would. Mend all she says it's meant to mend. And if it could work on all of them. Her mother, her sister, her brother---her father. Possibly change the fate of her life and return things to the way it once was. The happiness and joy her family once felt before it all changed.

"Nah, uh, y'all gangsta's need to go on and get outta my shop!" Claudette all but bellowed, snapping Cicely out of her thoughts. The girl lifted her head just to be met with two men. Twins, same facial features and all, and the only way to tell them apart were the altercations in their fine tailored suits, one wearing a Panama red hat, and the other wearing a blue Newsboy, and the fact that one smiled and the other didn't. Face stone as she looked at the shop owner.

Cicely looked them up and down having felt like she had never seen them before. Possibly her impeccable timing of coming into the town and missing whoever they were. Claudette clearly knew them, and their reputation couldn't have been the greatest with the way the women reacted to their presence and interaction with her grandson.

But when one of their eyes met hers, she snapped her head down, avoiding their gaze. She held the glass tightly in her hand, in front of her, "Go on, Cicely grab ya things, child," she ushered her on.

She had moved to go to the counter where a bag of the things her mother requested rested, but came to halt at the large figures standing in her path. They towered over her 5'2 frame, Cicely not daring to lift her head. Not even to see that one was smiling at her clearly entertained by her actions, and the other, face neutral but eyes flashed with slight interest as to who she was.

"You boys go on and move out that girl's way, she gotta long way home," Claudette, gesturing with her hands for them to move knowing how Cicely cowered in fear at a man's presence, she wasn't going to ask them to move.

A voice sounded, coming from the left, trying to decipher by memory who was standing on the left, "We far from being boys now, Ms. Claudette." it low, almost like a baritone.

"Well are y'all now," Cicely could hear the smile in her tone, the way she stepped up to them, now directly at her side, "Well a man would know that it's impolite to stand in a women's way, now go on an' move, let the girl get home." she ushered them on with her hand.

Reluctantly they stepped to the side, Claudette guiding Cicely to her bags, "We only want to know who the young Angel is," a warmth crept up Cicely's neck to her cheeks, biting inside her cheek as she surprised her smile at the name he gave.

"Compared to y'all and ya sins, she sure is an Angel," she caressed Cicely's curls as she grabbed the bag, "Tell ya mama Old Claudette said Hi, and 'member what I said," she nodded her head in understanding.

Cicely walked towards the exit of the shop, sparing the twins a glance just to find their eyes already on her. Snapping her head forwards she scrambled away, beginning her journey home.

"You gangsta's need to stay away from that girl, that's a good girl there." Claudette pointed her finger out in the direction that she saw Cicely disappear in.

A face was made at her words, one stepping up, as he held the lining of his jacket, "Now why you keep callin' us gangsta's Ms. Claudette, we nothin' but business men."

Claudette scoffed, "Keep tellin' yaself dat Stack," she retorts to the twin that wore the red Panama, "With the way these folk quake in fear at the sound you twos names, I'd say you was gangsta's," she escorted herself back to her place behind the counter, minding the money, "Besides, business men are presentable folk, they smile instead of pullin' a gun on anyone who so much as glances at them sideways." she described with judgement.

Stack released a chuckle as the twin in blue responded with, "Well then I guess you ain't eva been in business wit a cracka then?" his rhetorical response held no emotion as he spoke, as usual. Smoke didn't do well with emotions; anyone who came across him knew that.

Claudette looked at them sorrowfully. She had watched them grow up, the same child as that poor Cicely, and now she sees who stands before her today. The men who dance with the devil, "Oh, you boys, I just pray that death don't come for y'all," she whispered, shaking her head, her emotions showing. She always tried not to lead herself down the road of attachment to them knowing that she would just want redemption and that wasn't their goal in life. Their goal was power.

As always Stack didn't take her words seriously, smiling as he responded with, "Don't worry now, Ms. Claudette, we ain't goin' nowhere."

Cicely walked home, sun falling on her melanin skin causing sweat to form along the line of her hairline. She held the bag close to her chest, reminding herself to return to town the upcoming day to pay Claudette. The woman had rushed her out of the shop so fast she hadn't even gotten the chance to pay for what she had given her.

An engine running came from behind her, causing Cicely to glance over her shoulder at who was approaching. As they got closer, the speed they were going doing her legs no justice, it was easy for her to decipher who it was just by the hats they wore. She turned her head with no hesitation, looking straight forward as she continued on walking.

She could feel eyes piercing the side of your face, causing her to look down further hoping her hair would block it more. They had gotten a little ways ahead of her just before she heard the motor car come to a stop, engine dying down.

Her steps slowed prior to her halting completely, seeing both of their figures approaching her. Once they got a little closer her instinct was to take a step back for her own safety and precautions, but she hadn't made that move, which shocked her. Instead she clenched the bag of food she had, and instantly said;

"I-I don't want no p-problem's, gentleman," she stuttered out, not understanding why they stopped themselves from going to their next destination, to speak to her of all people.

"And you ain't goin' to get none, not from us," the one with the red panama raised his hands in assurance as he smiled at her, the gold grill that circled two of his teeth made visible, a toothpick hanging out of his mouth, "We just came to introduce ourselves properly to the lovely lady," he removed his hat from his head as he bowed in front of her extending his hat out to her, "The names, Elias Moore, but everyone who know betta calls me Stack," still bowed, his eyes move up to find Cicely's just to see her features closely, "Now, you, angel...can call me whateva you want," he dragged out, biting his lip with a grin.

When he came up, placing his hat back on his head, he brought his finger under Cicely's chin, lifting her head up so he could see her face in the light, and give his brother a look as well, "And who is the mothafucka stupid enough to hurt an angel like you, sweetheart?"

Cicely's words caught in her throat, even though she didn't have words to say. Everyone who knew James knew what happened in the James household, that much was clear. But the two men staring down at her, with a look in their eye that she couldn't decipher left her too stunned to speak.

Slowly she moved her face to the side out of their sight one more, eyes lowered to the ground once more. Stack wasn't stupid, no matter how much people took his lack of seriousness in a situation as a way to determine that, he knew who it was. His brother knew too. Couldn't be a husband, she had no ring on her finger, and that left one person that would leave her scared enough to respond. A father.

They knew what that was like. Until Smoke handled that.

Stack tapped his brother's arm, gesturing to her with his head. He cleared his throat, "Elijah Moore, folks call me Smoke," he introduced himself.

Cicely took her time, biting her lip gently before she spoke up softly, "Names Cicely James, gentleman," she properly responded the way her mama taught her, yet her eyes still didn't meet theirs.

"Now come on, sweetheart, we gotta see those eyes," Stack encouraged in a jesting tone. Cicely inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a moment before she lifted her head allowing her eyes to flutter open as she looked up at the twin gangsters, feeling her heart race as their attention focused on her, "Wooo!" Stack hollered causing Cicely to jump slightly, "Ain't she the finest Angel in all of Mississippi," he nudged Smoke.

"Surely got my attention."

Cicely couldn't fight the warmth creeping up on her, turning her head away smile tried to forces its way upon her face, "Aw don't hide from us now, Angel," Stack made the bold move to brush her hair out of her face to see more of her features, "Listen, there's a speakeasy goin' on not too far from here and we would much oblige your company tonight, Miss. Cicely James."

At the offer, Cicely's eyes widened, shaking her head instantly knowing she would never be able to go, not with her father lurking and not with the guilt that was going to eat her up inside knowing that she left her siblings alone with the man.

"Oh, come on, Angel" Stack flashed his charming smile, "A party with the most handsome business men in all of Clarksdale, Mississippi."

For the first time since Cicely saw Smoke, the corner of his mouth twitched in what she believed would've formed into a smile, "Can't miss that, can you, sweetheart?"

[enoiocean]

[enoiocean]

I went to see that damn Sinners movie, and now I’m spiraling—completely obsessed. where are all the good vampire reads?

[enoiocean]

JAYME LAWSON Sinners

[enoiocean]

"You want some?"

HAILEE STEINFELD as MARY in SINNERS (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler

[enoiocean]

and i got another one for yall.