“Baby, come on. Don’t do this to me right now.” He groans as your hands slide down his chest. “I haven’t done anything yet.” You say sweetly. He bites down into his bottom lip as his eyes roll back at the gentle feeling of your hands roaming his entire body. “Baby please.” He begs. “We have to meet your parents in like 20 minutes.” He tries his best to reason with you but lust crowds your brain. He knew he shouldn’t have planned meeting your folks during your ovulation period. But leave it to him to not check your schedule beforehand. Now, he is suffering from the consequences of that. “You smell so fucking good.” You say as your nose presses against his neck. He felt his resolve crumbling with every touch, every breath, every gaze. He licks at his lips, swallowing heavy as he forces himself to pull away from you. “Dinner first, okay. Then you can have me. Anyway you want. But I can’t meet your parents right after fucking you.” He expresses. You pout but finally relent. “Fine.” You say with a smirk. “But when we get home, you better be ready.” You say before walking out the door. He releases a breath as he watches you walk away, mentally preparing himself for what’s to come when he gets home.
Hey guys. I’m back lol. Been some SHIT but I miss writing so here’s a little sum sum for you. Match it to your faves. Yall know I love me some Ony, Enjin, Gojo, and Choso. Full fics loading😘
𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 12.0K, original!wifeblackfemreader, husband!onyankopon, (in this au; both reader and onyankopon are 31!) dad!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, southerncoded!femreader, shy!femreader, giggly!femreader, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, riding!, standing doggy style!, pet names, dirty talk, aggressive pet names, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, dick sucking, overstimulation, family drama, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི
メモ。— in the honor of me turning 24 soon, how about some more mature, southern coded family drama? hope y’all enjoy, teehee.
THE CAJUN SPICE OF ANDOUILLE SAUSAGE WAFTS THE ENTIRE HOUSE LIKE A WARM HUG, YOUR HOPES OF IT TASTING AS GOOD AS IT SMELLED FILLING YOU WITH EXCITEMENT. This was your domain—the kitchen, as feeding a growing boy and a constantly growing man became a second job for you. One you loved, of course.
The farmhouse kitchen hums with the sizzle of cayenne and thyme clinging to the air like a promise. Outside, the Louisiana sun presses heavy against the wrap around porch, where tangled bougainvillea bleeds pink against peeling white wood. Your bare feet—toes painted a deep plum—press into worn oak floors as you stir the pot, hips swaying slightly to the hum of Need U Bad by Jazmine Sullivan bumping from the Bluetooth speaker.
That Saints jersey of his—swallowed up by broad shoulders on game days drapes past your thighs now, the fabric still faintly carrying his cologne, something smoky and sweet. Beneath it, the lace of your black thong digs just slightly into the swell of your hips, a reminder of the softness you’ve grown into—womanly curves that he worships with his hands, his mouth, his everything.
Heat now rolls off the stove in waves, curling the baby hairs at your nape into tight spirals, your crinkled jet black lengths parted neatly down the middle, crimped and glossy where they spill over your shoulders. You catch your reflection in the oven door—freckles stark against flushed brown cheeks, lashes brushing them like feather tips, lips glossy from the Chapstick you’d swiped on absentmindedly.
And there it is—your wedding band glints under the pendant light, a simple gold oval he’d slid onto your finger at the courthouse when you were both too young to care what anyone thought. Back then, staying home hadn’t been the plan—but neither was the way he had gripped your waist in that ultrasound room, voice rough when he said, “…Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you stress ‘bout shit but this baby.”
And here you are now, sixteen years later. Your men won’t storm in for hours yet. No cleats thudding on the porch from that teenager of yours, and no deep chuckle rumbling through the screen door as your husband shakes off work. Just the quiet, the spice in the air, and the thrum of your own pulse—content, for now, in this life you’ve built.
The back of your thumb grazes over the smooth gold of your ring, twisting it absently as memories flash like fireflies behind your eyes—those early days when Onyankopon was still more boy than man, all rough edges and sharper tongue.
Back then, he wore his New Orleans like armor—cornrows fresh, diamond studs glinting against deep brown skin, tattoos still fresh enough to look angry. That fleur-de-lis inked high on his cheekbone was a declaration, a fuck you to anyone who thought they could box him in. You remember the way his Timberlands kicked up gravel outside your mama’s house, or how his voice dropped to honey thick "Shhh, girl", when he pulled you close behind the bleachers.
And now?
Lord. Thirty one looks sinful on him. The same fleur-de-lis, same tattoos sprawling over corded muscle—but now they tell stories. The pelican inked over his heart for Louisiana loyalty, the NOLA ‘til I’m cold scripted down his ribs. His cornrows are neater these days, edges crisp where they taper into the nape of his neck, that low beard trimmed just right. Age settled into him like whiskey in oak—richer, deeper. The kind of man who walks into a room and the air changes.
Your son—Asaud—carries his name like a blessing. Sixteen and already built like his daddy, all long limbs and broad shoulders threatening to outgrow his jersey. Same sharp cheekbones, same slow, cocky grin when he knows he’s charmed an entire city. But where Ony’s edges stayed hard, Asaud softened— mama’s almond eyes, even your freckles dusting his nose.
Those two? Tight as thieves. Asaud trailing Onyankopon like a shadow since he could walk—“Teach me that throw, Pops. Let me hold the drill, I got it.”
The way your husband’s stern “Aight, show me some shit’,” could make Asaud stand taller than any trophy.
But lately…
Your finger stills on the ring.
The creak of Asaud’s bedroom door—always shut now—grates against your nerves like a splinter you can’t dig out. Two weeks straight of it. No more sprawled across the couch with his cleats kicked up, no more leaning over your shoulder while you cooked just to steal a taste. Just that door locked tight as a vault, the muffled bass of his music throbbing through the wood like a pulse you weren’t invited to hear.
He used to be yours—your baby, even when he hit six feet tall. The boy who’d press his forehead to yours after bad games and whisper, “I’m sorry, Momma,” like your disappointment cut deeper than any coach’s scream.
Now? His “Cool,” lands like a slap when you ask about practice. His backpack stays slumped by the door, untouched since yesterday. Homework? Done. Dinner? Not hungry.
And sleep—Lord, the sleeping. You catch him slumped over his desk sometimes when you dare to knock, cheek smushed against his physics textbook, lashes fluttering like he’s fighting to stay awake even in dreams. Other days he doesn’t stir ‘til noon, blankets twisted around his waist, phone clutched in his palm like it holds answers.
Onyankopon misses it. Not because he doesn’t care—hell no. That man breathes for his son. But between welding shifts at the shipyard—arms streaked with soot, muscles aching from hauling steel—he comes home too exhausted to see past Asaud’s “I’m straight, Pops.”
And you? You’re softer. Always have been. The one who smooths his edges when Ony’s tough love ain’t the fix. But lately…
When your hand hovers over Asaud’s door? The wood feels colder than it should.
Your phone buzzes against the countertop, pulling you from your thoughts. The screen lights up with a text from Papa—your husband's contact name forever unchanged since the day he programmed it himself.
Shipyard lettin’ us slide early. Gon’ grab some crawfish, swing by Nana’s for y’all. You want extra butter?
A slow smile curls your lips. You’re halfway through typing your response—but that’s when the screen flashes again. Not another text.
An incoming call.
Principal Guidry—Bonnabel High.
“…Hello?”
“Hey, baby.”
Principal Guidry’s voice is honey thick Creole, the same one that used to holler at y’all for cutting class back in tenth grade. Now it’s laced with something heavy.
“I’m real sorry to call like this—”
Your grip tightens.
“Cherise, what’s wrong? Is Asaud—“
“He’s fine.”
She hesitates before correcting, “Physically, leastways. But…”
A pause. The shuffle of papers.
“My office chair ain’t never felt this heavy. Got yo’ boy sittin’ right here lookin’ like he wanna disappear into the floor. Suspended. Three days.”
Suspended? The word doesn’t even sound right in the air.
“Black eye and all,” she adds softly.
Your breath catches. Asaud? Your gentle giant? Fighting?
“What happened?”
Cherise exhales hard, “Let him tell it. ‘Need you to come get him.”
The kitchen suddenly feels too hot.
"I’m on my way."
The tires of your truck screech against cracked asphalt as you fishtail into the Bonnabel High parking lot, heart hammering against your ribs. You should text Onyankopon—should—but even thinking about it makes your stomach twist. The man would burn down the entire Eastbank if he heard his son was hurt, the welding torch still in hand, fury hotter than molten steel. No, better to handle this first.
The school looms ahead, its faded maroon bricks and rusted Saints banners looking harsher under the afternoon sun. Then—movement. The double doors swing open, and there’s Asaud, flanked by two security guards, his broad frame hunched like he’s trying to fold into himself.
You don’t even cut the engine before you’re out the car, bare feet slapping against hot concrete.
“Mon bébé—oh my God, look at your face!”
Your hands flutter over his swollen eye, fingers trembling as you trace the bruise purpling his caramel skin. It’s deep, angry—someone hit him hard. The Creole spills out of you unfiltered, a storm of “Qui t'a fait ça?!” and “Let me see, cher—”
Asaud exhales sharply, catching your wrists with a gentleness that belies his size.
“Chill, Momma. I’m fine.”
One of the guards—a thick necked man with a walkie crackling at his hip—clears his throat.
“Ma’am, ‘you gotta clear the lot.”
The dismissal in his tone snaps something in you.
“Clear the—do you see my child’s face? Who did this? Who—”
“Momma.”
Asaud’s grip firms, steering you back toward the car with a nudge. The kids pressed against the cafeteria windows don’t make it any better. He just climbs into the passenger seat without another word, jaw set.
And so, you follow.
The air inside the truck is thick with unspoken words, the only sound is the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of Asaud shifting in his seat. His profile is sharp against the afternoon light streaming through the window—jaw clenched, lashes lowered—a portrait of quiet defiance.
“…Are you alright?”
“Yeah.”
One word, clipped.
“Does Coach know what happened?”
“Not yet.”
That stings. Asaud loves football—loves his team, loves the way his daddy’s face lights up when he makes a play. If he’s keeping this from Coach? Something serious must’ve happened.
“Ti-Loup… are you really okay?”
Little wolf—the childhood nickname slips out before you can stop it, tender as a bruise.
His broad shoulders slump as he leans his temple against the glass.
“…Head hurts.”
“Baby, if you hit your head, you can’t sleep—”
Your hand lifts instinctively, reaching to brush his temple, check for fever—but he tilts away before you can make contact. Your fingers hover in the air for a heartbeat before dropping back to the wheel.
The moment the truck rolls to a stop in the driveway, Asaud is already moving—door swinging open before you even cut the engine, his long legs carrying him toward the house in quick strides. You barely have time to gather your purse before he’s halfway up the porch steps.
“Wait—"
Your scramble after him, bare feet slapping against warm wood.
“Ti-Loup—Asaud!”
He slows down by a millisecond.
“I still need to know what happened—“
“Ain’t nothin’.”
“Nothing?”
You frown, “Look at your damn face!"
You catch his wrist, forcing him to turn—only for him to yank free with a force that makes you stumble.
“Why are you being like this? You don’t—you never avoid me.”
This time when he turns, his eyes aren’t just tired. They’re cold.
“Damn, can’t I just breathe without y’all up my ass?”
The words hit like a slap.
For a second you just stand there, the sting of them settling deep beneath your skin. Your chest tightens—but you won’t cry. Not here.
“Fine.”
The word comes out quieter than you meant.
“You can wait ‘til your father gets home to talk about it.”
His whole posture shifts—shoulders stiffening, eyes widening—like the mere mention of that man flipped a switch.
“Momma—”
But you’re already walking away.
The tension in the house is thick enough to slice with a butter knife—the kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums, heavy and oppressive. Asaud's bedroom door hasn't budged since you got home, not even when you knocked softly with a plate of food an hour ago. The plate is still sitting untouched outside his door, grits congealing into sad little lumps.
This is how it always goes when Asaud knows Onyankopon is coming home to discipline him—radio silence, tense shoulders, the boy steeling himself like a soldier bracing for battle. Normally you'd bridge the gap, smooth things over with a joke or a hug. But today? The sting of his dismissal lingers like a bruise, and you can't bring yourself to force it.
Then—keys.
The front door swings open, and there he is.
Dressed in a navy blue shipyard uniform, his sleeves are rolled up to reveal thick forearms corded with veins, tattoos a roadmap of ink against deep brown skin. A faded Saints cap sits low over his cornrows, shadows accentuating the sharp angles of his face—that strong jaw, all the way down to the facial hair coating his chin. The scent of saltwater and engine grease clings to him, mixing with the spicy aroma of the crawfish takeout in his hand.
“‘Where my baby at?"
His gaze locks onto you—your bare legs peeking out from under his jersey, your hair still crimped and wild from the kitchen heat—and his glare is all sin.
“Goddamn,” he grunts—“You been walkin’ ‘round lookin’ like that while I’m gone? Gon’ make me come over there.”
You huff a weak laugh despite the weight in your chest, watching him flex his fingers like they’re stiff from gripping a welding torch all day.
“Hi, Papa.”
He grunts again—this one softer—as he stomps toward the kitchen, setting the takeout bag on the counter before peeling off his grease streaked work jacket. The muscles in his back ripple beneath his white tank as he tosses it over a chair, his voice rough but easy as he starts rambling.
“Shit was a goddamn warzone today—‘foreman got on my nerves ‘bout some pipe measurements, then ‘them Lafitte boys tried to cut in line at Nana’s.”
He pops the lid off the crawfish, steam billowing up as he scowls—“Like I ain’t gon’ notice they tryna’ snake my order.”
You lean against the counter, watching him. Normally you’d interject—tease him about being territorial over seasoned crustaceans—but your mind is still tangled up in the quiet rage of your son’s dismissal.
Onyankopon glances up, finally catching your silence. His dark brows furrow.
“What’s wrong wit’ you?”
You pick at the hem of the jersey.
“‘Had… a day.”
He murmurs, “I’m knowin’, Mama. A nigga glad to be home. ‘Been thinkin’ bout’ a shower, rubbin’ on yo’ feet—Where ‘Saud at? Lil’ nigga better be hungry ‘cause I got extra sausage just for hi—“
“He’s suspended.”
The moment the words leave your lips, Onyankopon goes still—unnaturally still. Like every muscle in his body locks down at once. The air in the kitchen shifts, thickens. You can practically see the switch flip behind his eyes—the shift from husband to father, from easy laughter to cold calculation.
“Fuck you mean suspended?”
You exhale, folding your arms across your chest, suddenly aware of how small you feel beneath his gaze.
“…I don't know, Ony. He wouldn't tell me."
His nostrils flare—once, twice—before his dark eyes scan your face, picking up the tension in your brow, the way your fingers clutch the jersey fabric too tight.
“"Y'all got into it?"
“He didn't want to talk to me."
A muscle in his temple jumps.
“He ain't got no choice but to talk to you."
His voice is low, final—“Ain't no option."
For a moment, silence stretches between you—thick and loaded—before his calloused fingers hook gently under your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, gruff but tender.
“Gimme’ yo’ mouth first."
You exhale shakily, leaning in. His lips are warm, firm against yours—brief but grounding—before he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours. His breath is hot against your skin, smelling faintly of peppermint and the crawfish he'd been handling.
And then—
"ASAUD!"
His roar shakes the damn house. No hesitation, no preamble.
“Get yo’ ass out here.”
You flinch, knowing how quickly Asaud heard him. Even through walls. Even through attitude.
Silence.
Then—footsteps. Slow. Reluctant.
Asaud appears in the doorway, broad shoulders slumped just slightly, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. His eyes flicker up—just once—to meet his father's gaze before lowering again, careful not to show outright defiance but unable to hold the intensity of that stare for long.
Onyankopon doesn't speak at first. Just looks at him, eyes raking over the swollen skin, the purple black bruise blooming beneath his son’s eye. Then—movement.
His hand shoots out, calloused fingers gripping Asaud’s chin with a firmness that isn’t rough but leaves no room for resistance. He tilts his face toward the light, inspecting the damage with the clinical precision of a man who’s seen—and dealt—his share of blows.
“‘You alright?"
Asaud’s throat bobs.
“Yes, sir."
Onyankopon’s grip doesn’t loosen.
“Then why ain't you tell yo’ momma what happened?"
Asaud’s jaw flexes beneath his father’s hold, his voice barely above a murmur.
“...Didn’t wanna talk about it, sir.”
“What’d you say to her?"
“I ain’t say nothin’."
“Tch."
A sharp click of his tongue.
“Tête levée quand tu m'parles."
Head up when you talk to me.
The Creole rolls off his tongue sharply, and Asaud’s chin lifts almost immediately—eyes snapping to meet his father. The apology spills out before he can stop it—
“Désolé, Pops—"
“Whatchu’ apologizin’ for if you ain’t say nothin’?"
The silence in the kitchen turns electric, thick enough to choke on. Onyankopon’s grip loosens just enough to turn Asaud’s face toward you—not rough, but insistent.
“‘What he say to you?"
“He said—" Your voice wavers, but you force it steady. “'Damn, can I breathe without y’all being up my ass?'"
Onyankopon looks back to Asaud.
“So we ‘up yo’ ass’ now?"
He steps into his son's space, forcing his head up again with a rough tap of two fingers beneath his chin.
"’You think you grown enough to talk to yo’ momma like that?”
Asaud’s lips part—but no sound comes out.
“I asked you a question."
“No, sir," Asaud mutters, jaw tight.
“Nah, see—you acted like it."
Onyankopon’s voice sharpens, cutting like a blade—“You got one mother. One. The woman who carried yo’ big headed ass for nine months, who still make yo’ plate first even when yo’ dumbass bein’ ungrateful. And ‘this how you talkin’ to her?"
The words land like bricks.
"Look at her."
Asaud’s eyes flicker to you once, then darting away again.
“Soft as fuck wit’ you," Onyankopon continues—“Always been. ‘You sick? She up all night. ‘You hungry? She cookin’ before you even ask. You ain’t just disrespectin’ yo momma—you disrespecting’ my wife.”
Asaud swallows hard, his shoulders tightening like he’s bracing for impact. Onyankopon doesn’t let up though, drilling into him with a stare that could crack concrete.
“Apologize."
“I’m sorry, Momma."
Your chest tightens.
“I’m not upset, baby," you murmur, “It just hurt my feelings—I wanna know what’s going on, okay? That’s all.”
Finally, Asaud exhales, defeated.
"...I fought Jamal."
That catches both of you off guard. Jamal? His wide receiver—his best friend?
Onyankopon’s brows shoot up, "The hell for?”
“...Cheer team girl."
The silence that follows Asaud's confession is deafening.
“So you gon’ fuck up yo’ throwin’ hand—lose yo’ scholarship—over some girl?”
The words come out low, measured, but they hit like a sledgehammer. You step forward, hands lifting slightly—
“Hey, let’s just—"
”Who the girl?"
Asaud shifts uncomfortably, shoulders rolling back like he’s preparing for war.
"Sabine."
“She ‘bad like yo’ momma?"
“Onyankopon!”
He doesn’t even glance your way, his glare still locked onto Asaud.
“Why you callin’ my name?" ’His voice drops dangerously—“That gotta’ be the reason. Otherwise, I need yo’ son to explain why he fuckin’ up all his opportunities over some bullshit."
“It ain’t bullshit!" Asaud’s voice booms, raw and defensive—“She’s different.”
Onyankopon doesn’t laugh—doesn’t even smirk. His expression stays stone-cold as he steps forward, closing the gap between them with a single stride.
“That’s what you thinkin’ right now,” he growls, “But I promise—she ain’t. You thinkin’ bout some pussy, and that ain’t gon’ get you in the NFL or keep yo’ wide receiver."
He jabs a thick finger against Asaud’s chest—hard.
“Yo’ head loose, and I ain’t raisin’ no kids outside of you."
Asaud’s chest heaves, his nostrils flaring as his temper flares hotter. Then—
“You were younger than me when you knocked Momma up.”
The moment those words leave Asaud’s mouth—sharp, deliberate, meant to cut—your stomach drops. Your lips part in quiet disbelief, brows knitting together as hurt flashes hot behind your ribs.
“Asaud!"
But Onyankopon is already moving—fast, too fast—his massive hand snatching the front of Asaud’s hoodie, yanking him forward until their faces are inches apart. Asaud’s breath comes ragged, shoulders rising and falling under the strain of his father’s grip, but he doesn’t fight it.
"You right."
A pause—sharp, loaded.
“Here I am sixteen years later—still bustin’ my ass for you the moment I ‘knocked’ yo’ momma up."
His fingers tighten in the fabric, knuckles whitening—" I don’t ever regret havin’ you, and if I can prevent you from goin’ through the same shit me and yo’ momma handled? That’s what Imma’ do."
Asaud swallows hard, his throat bobbing.
"Ion’ give a fuck ‘bout no lil’ ass girl," Onyankopon rasps, “Or yo’ feelings just ‘cause you on some puppy love shit. Football. School. That’s yo’ priorities."
Your fingers curl into Onyankopon’s sleeve, tugging gently—“Baby… let him go."
Asaud’s voice cracks as he mutters, “Pops—"
"Pop’s nothin’."
Onyankopon shoves him back—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make his point. He spits something in Creole—low, guttural—before jerking his chin toward the kitchen.
“Go eat the food yo’ momma cooked."
The moment Onyankopon issued that command, Asaud's shoulders slumped—defeated but still simmering with that same stubborn fire his father carried in his bones. His jaw clenched tight, eyes flashing with frustration before he turned on his heel, storming down the hallway. The slam of his bedroom door echoed through the house like a gunshot, rattling the frames on the walls.
Onyankopon didn’t even flinch.
“Don’t be slammin’ no doors in this bitch you can’t pay to fix.”
And all you could do was sigh, pressing your fingertips to your forehead as the weight of the afternoon settled over you like a heavy blanket.
Hours later, the house was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes when two prideful men refuse to be the first to break. Nightfall crept in, painting the walls in long shadows as you moved through the dimly lit kitchen, plating a heaping serving of shrimp and grits—still warm, just the way he liked it.
But Onyankopon was nowhere to be found.
Not in the living room, not in the bedroom—so you already knew where he was.
Stepping onto the porch, the humid Louisiana air wrapped around you like a second skin. The cicadas sang their nightly chorus, the scent of magnolias thick in the breeze. And there he was—shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips as his massive frame crouched near the steps.
The metal bowl in his hands rattled impatiently as he shook it, muttering under his breath.
“‘What you doin’, Papa?”
He didn’t even glance up, his deep voice gruff with irritation.
“…Tryna’ feed this damn cat ‘Saud be so worried about.”
A soft mrrow sounded from the bushes, and a scruffy orange tabby slinked out, eyeing Onyankopon warily before darting forward to swipe at the bowl.
Of course he was out here—still pissed, still stubborn—but making sure his son’s stray was fed.
Some things never changed.
The stray cat—scruffy, wide-eyed, and perpetually suspicious—padded cautiously along the porch railing, its tail flicking with a mix of curiosity and defiance. It sniffed the air, nostrils twitching as it scented Onyankopon instead of Asaud’s familiar presence. With a deliberate hmph, it turned its head away from the bowl, pretending disinterest even as its stomach growled loud enough for you both to hear.
You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips.
"You’re mean to him too—that’s why he won’t eat."
Onyankopon scowled, shaking the bowl harder, the dry kibble rattling like a warning.
“Yeah? I take care of his ungrateful ass too."
You sighed dramatically, leaning against the doorframe as you murmured—“The Tin Man does have a heart, it seems."
Onyankopon shot you a look before gruffly calling out, "Aight, Tiger—come get this damn food."
“His name is Tango.”
“Same shit."
Finally the cat hopped down, sauntering over with an air of reluctant grace. It rubbed its entire body along Onyankopon’s bare calf, purring loud enough to vibrate the porch boards beneath him.
“Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, nudging the bowl closer with his foot—“Gon’ head."
You stepped forward then, bringing the plate of shrimp and grits closer, the rich aroma mixing with the warm night air.
“You need to eat too, baby.”
Onyankopon’s fingers then curl gently around your throat—not tight, but there, possessive and grounding. He dropped a series of rough, smacking kisses against your lips, each one firm and fleeting before he finally took the plate with his free hand.
“Aight," he muttered, settling onto the wooden stairs.
The cat ate. Your husband ate. Now, you could have the real conversation you’d been holding off on.
You settle onto the wooden steps behind him, the worn planks creaking softly under your weight as you wrap your legs around his waist, molding your body against the warm expanse of his back. He’s hot to the touch—always running like a furnace—and you bury your face between his shoulder blades, inhaling the faint lingering scent of his cologne as he eats.
"Did you check on your son?"
The fork scrapes against the plate as he chews, his shoulders lifting in a half-shrug.
“Nah. But I know you did."
A gruff pause, “‘He still alive? Limbs all attached?"
You hum, fingers trailing lazily through the neat rows of his cornrows, tracing the patterns like you’ve done a thousand times before.
“Funny. He’s asleep.”
Silence stretches between you, thick with unsaid things. Then, softly—
“You do know you were wrong, right?"
“Which part? ‘Cause I ain’t wrong about a lot of shit."
You exhale through your nose, leaning into his shoulder as you murmur, “Ti tèt di."
Stubborn man.
He doesn’t respond, just keeps eating—his jaw working methodically, the muscles in his back flexing beneath your touch. You press a kiss to the nape of his neck before continuing—
”Remember when we found out I was pregnant? How scared you were?"
Silence.
You then whisper, “He’s got an amazing head on his shoulders, Papa. Just like you. Maybe...he’s serious about this girl."
“He’s sixteen.”
“And we were fifteen—sneakin’ into my momma’s house when she went to sleep, havin’ unprotected sex, and then what happened?”
He leans back into you with a rough huff, his head tilting just enough to bump against yours.
“You tryna be funny.”
“I’m not."
Your fingers trail down to his jaw, tracing the line of his beard as you say—“Our parents kicked us out, and we’ve been on our own since then."
The silence between you grows heavier, thick with the weight of memories neither of you ever really talk about—nights spent sleeping in his beat up Chevy, the way his voice had cracked when his own father slammed the door in his face, the quiet tears you'd wiped away when your mama called you a disgrace.
You press a kiss to his shoulder, soft as a prayer.
"But we knew our little wolf was special, didn’t we?”
A beat.
“Yeah."
You smile against his skin, “Asaud is yours, but he’s not you. He’s not gonna make the mistakes we did—and shuttin’ him down like our parents did to us? It’d be unfair.”
Onyankopon exhales—long, slow—his head tipping back against your shoulder.
Your voice is barely above a whisper, soft yet carrying the weight of years as you murmur, "Give him the grace we never got."
Your husband goes quiet. The cicadas hum in the thick night air, the stray cat now curled on the porch railing, licking its paws as if amused by the whole scene.
Then—
“‘Guess I ain't have to yank his ass up like that."
The admission comes out gruff, and you can't help the faint smile that tugs at your lips. With a playful flick to the side of his head, you tease, "Don’t be puttin’ hands on my baby no more."
Before you can blink, his massive arm hooks behind you, tugging you effortlessly onto his lap. You let out a surprised squeak of laughter, instantly melting into the familiar warmth of his hold—his thick thighs beneath you, the hard plane of his chest pressed flush against your back. His heat engulfs you, his scent wrapping around your senses like a second skin.
You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, fingers tracing the shell of his ear as you murmur, "But hey… we didn’t do so bad, did we?"
His arms tighten around your waist, lips brushing your temple—"Nah. We did better.”
You giggle as he kisses you, slow at first, then deeper, hotter—your tongue stroking his with a suddenly filthy, practiced familiarity. You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, “‘Wore your jersey just for you…"
His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he groans, half-amused, half-exasperated.
“You know I’ll never say no—but a nigga tired as hell."
You gasp in mock offense, pulling back to squint at him.
“Oh, so you can yoke up my child— but no dick for me?"
That deep, rich chuckle vibrates against your ribs as he leans back against the porch railing, pulling you tighter against him.
“Daddy ain’t Superman. One city at a time."
You blow out an exaggerated huff, lips pursed in playful frustration as you mutter, “You're annoying."
“And you horny."
You cross your arms over your chest but sink deeper into his embrace anyway, the steady thump of his heartbeat against your back. After a beat, you nudge him with your elbow, voice softening.
“...You love me?"
For a moment he says nothing—just holds you there in the quiet, southern night humming around you both.
Then, sweet as molasses—“When don't I?"
And yeah. That was your answer.
The next morning, Asaud wakes up early—his body already braced for a day of grueling chores and another lecture still hanging heavy in the air. He tiptoes down the hallway, bare feet quiet against the hardwood, expecting silence. Instead? The rich, savory scent of butter, garlic, and smoked sausage hits him the moment he steps near the kitchen.
He pauses. Frowns.
Spread across the countertop is a full Louisiana-style breakfast—crispy-edged fried eggs, golden-brown grits swimming in cheese, spicy Cajun hash, and fluffy buttermilk biscuits still steaming from the oven. His favorite.
Confusion knits his brows as he steps further inside, only to freeze at the sight of you and Onyankopon standing near the stove.
Onyankopon's massive frame is leaned into yours, his head tilted slightly as your fingers glide through his cornrows, re-braiding the edges with careful precision. You're both talking—voices low, words unintelligible from where he stands—but the ease between you is undeniable.
Then you glance up, spotting him lingering in the doorway.
"Mornin’, baby," you greet, smiling—“How’d you sleep?"
Asaud shifts awkwardly, eyes flicking between the food and his father's impassive face.
“...Good," he mutters—“What's all this?"
“Yo’ momma insisted on makin’ yo’ favorite breakfast," Onyankopon grumbles, voice rough with morning fatigue.
You flick his ear.
He then huffs, “Aight, I told her to."
You’re then crossing the kitchen toward Asaud, your bare feet padding softly against the tile. His eyes flicker with wariness, still bruised from yesterday’s heated exchange—though the mark looks lighter now, less angry. You reach up, fingers ghosting over the spot as you murmur, “Want momma to ice it for you?"
Asaud ducks his head slightly, but shakes it—“No ma’am, I’m aight."
You smile, nudging him toward the table where his plate waits.
“Eat ‘fore it gets cold."
Hesitant, he sinks into his chair, poking at the food before glancing between you both suspiciously.
“…Y’all poisoned my food or sum’?"
"Ain’t I tell you he was finna’ think that?"
“Hush, Ony.”
Your voice softens then as you turn back to Asaud.
“We had a…revelation last night... and we just want you to know—we love you. All of you. Every stubborn, hardheaded, beautiful part."
The kitchen falls silent—save for the sizzle of grease in the skillet, the hum of the ceiling fan.
You take a deep breath, clasping your hands together excitedly. The morning sunlight spills across the kitchen table as you announce, “Me and Daddy have been feeling a little disconnected from you lately, so we came up with an idea—Family Date! Yes Edition.”
Asaud blinks, fork hovering mid air over his grits.
“…Yes Edition?”
You beam, “Whatever you want to do today—no matter what—we have to say yes to!"
Asaud's frown deepens, but there's a flicker of something mischievous in his gaze now.
“Whatever I want?"
You nod enthusiastically. On the other hand, Onyankopon rubs his temple as he mutters, “My damn wallet achin’ already."
“The sky is the limit, baby. What’d you wanna do?"
For a long moment, Asaud chews thoughtfully, brow furrowed as he considers his options. Then? It hits him all at once.
“Aight, bet.”
He sits up straighter as he lists off, “First—we hittin’ up Bayou Guns for some target practice. Then, monster truck rally tickets—front row. After that, ’whole rack of ribs from Big Mike’s Smokehouse, extra spicy. And,”—he pauses dramatically, eyes flicking to his father—“Pops, you gotta let me drive the truck today."
Onyankopon almost chokes on his coffee.
“Hell nah I’m not!"
You level the look at Onyankopon—the one that makes his jaw twitch because he knows he’s already lost. His dark eyes flick from you to Asaud’s hopeful expression before he exhales sharply through his nose, resigned.
“It’s yo’ day, Papa. Gon’ head."
Asaud’s grin is immediate, lighting up his entire face like a kid on Christmas morning.
This was gonna be an adventure.
The day starts with everyone scrambling to get ready—you weren’t exactly thrilled about spending hours immersed in testosterone fueled chaos, but the thought of just being with your boys? Had you smiling despite yourself.
Onyankopon emerges looking stupidly fine—his black long sleeve clinging to every defined ridge of muscle, the ink snaking down his arms and neck peeking out from beneath the fabric. Camo pants hang low on his hips, black Dunks laced tight on his feet, and those damn chains glinting against his chest like he stepped straight out of some high end streetwear ad. His face—God—those sharp tattoos along his cheekbones contrasting his deep brown skin, that signature don’t fuck with me glare permanently etched into his expression.
You keep poking at it as you all get ready, making him swat your hand away with a grunt.
Asaud mirrors his energy effortlessly—hoodie layered over his own fitted tee, shoes swapped for something sleeker, but the same vibe radiating off him. Like father, like son.
You press kisses to both their cheeks before stepping back, smoothing down the backless top and capris hugging your curves—classy enough to turn heads, erotic enough to have Onyankopon’s fingers twitching. His dark gaze drops to your chest where your nipples press visibly against the fabric.
“‘You cold?” he rumbles, dragging a single fingertip over one peaked bud.
You pout, swatting his hand away—“It’s just chilly!"
Now, here was the card ride. Pure chaos as you’d imagined—Onyankopon gripping the passenger side handle like he was seconds from yanking the wheel himself every time Asaud hit the gas too hard or took a turn a little too sharp.
“Nigga, I swear—if you don’t slow down, Imma’ have you pull over right here and make you ride in the back like the toddler you actin’ like."
Asaud just smirked, glancing at you in the rearview before purposefully tapping the accelerator again—just to watch his father’s eye twitch.
The gun range parking lot was packed, buzzing with the low hum of engines and the occasional pop of gunfire in the distance. Stepping out of the truck, you immediately felt that familiar dread creep in—not from the firearms, but from the eyes. The looks. The inevitable moment when someone would glance between you, Onyankopon, and Asaud, their brows furrowing as they tried to piece together your dynamic.
Were you his older siblings? Friends?
Then—the shock when they realized—Oh. You were his mother.
Being a parent had never forced you to dress older than you were, never dulled your vibrancy to fit some matronly mold. Even now, trailing behind Onyankopon and Asaud—both towering over you, broad shouldered and imposing—you looked every bit the effortlessly sensual, youthful woman you were. Your deep merlot Coach purse swung at your hip, charms jingling with each step, your jet black curls bouncing against your back. Meanwhile, Onyankopon moved like he owned the ground beneath him, all quiet power and simmering dominance—a kingpin with his diamond in tow.
The inside smelled like gunpowder, leather, and faintly of the fried catfish wafting from the snack bar in the corner. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to your skin as soon as you stepped inside—sharp cracks of gunfire echoed off the concrete walls, making your shoulders tense involuntarily. Each shot sounded like a miniature explosion—too loud, too sudden—and you instinctively pressed closer to Onyankopon's side, fingers tightening around his hand as if anchoring yourself to him.
The man behind the register gruffly asked, “What’chu wanna shoot with today?”
Asaud’s eyes flickered toward the glass case displaying an array of firearms—some sleek and modern, others heavy and intimidating. His gaze lingered on the biggest one—a monstrous, black tactical shotgun that looked like it could knock a grown man flat on his back.
Onyankopon didn’t even blink, “That one."
Asaud's eyes widened, “Forreal’?"
“Yo’ day, right?"
You retreated to the far back of the room, perched on a worn leather bench like a reluctant cheerleader. Your knees pressed together, hands folded in your lap as you watched them gear up—ear protection, gloves, safety glasses.
Onyankopon looked illegal—his black sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, tattooed forearms as he handled the firearm with the kind of casual expertise that made your stomach flip. The range owner walked him through the basics—not that he needed it—but Onyankopon nodded along anyway, his deep voice rumbling something low in response.
The sight before you had your lips parting slightly—Onyankopon lifting that heavy shotgun like it weighed nothing, his massive frame balanced with effortless precision. The first BOOM of his test shot rattled through the private room, the recoil absorbed effortlessly by his broad shoulders. Smoke curled from the barrel as he exhaled, lowering the gun and turning to Asaud with that same unreadable expression—except you knew him, knew the subtle pride in the tilt of his chin, the patience in his stance as he prepared to teach his son the way his own father had taught him.
“Regarde,” he murmured, shifting fluidly between English and Creole as he adjusted Asaud’s grip.
“Firme, yeah? Shoulder tight—non, like this.”
His large hands guided Asaud's calloused fingers, pressing the younger man’s palm flush against the stock.
And just like that—Asaud shifted. His spine straightened, shoulders squaring under his father’s approval. The next shot he took wasn’t perfect—but it was strong, the kickback barely rocking him as the target downrange splintered at the edge.
“Decent,” Onyankopon conceded, “For yo’ first try.”
Your hands shot up in excited applause, curls tumbling over your freckled cheeks as you cheered, “Yay!”—you then blew a stubborn strand out of your face with a playful huff, watching as Asaud wandered over to stand beside you, wiping his palms on his hoodie.
"Gon’ head, Pops," he called out, nodding toward the range.
Onyankopon stepped up, and suddenly, the gun in his hands wasn’t just a weapon. It was an extension of him. Each shot boomed like thunder, paper targets shredding into confetti under his relentless precision. He moved like liquid—fluid, deadly—twisting the gun with an assassin’s grace, reloading without breaking rhythm. The sheer power radiating off him had your pulse thrumming in your throat.
Asaud whistled low under his breath.
“Aight, Sergeant! ‘Where you learn that from?"
“He wanted to be one, actually.”
Asaud turned to you, brow arched.
"Pops wanted to be in the army?”
Your gaze lingered on your husband, watching the way his shoulders flexed as he fired off another perfect shot—the way his focus never wavered, even now.
"Higher up in the Navy, actually," you murmured. “‘Wanted to follow in his father’s path… before I got pregnant with you."
A beat of silence. Then—
“What happened?"
Your fingers toyed with the charms on your purse, but your eyes stayed on Onyankopon. You exhale, “He disowned him. Hasn’t spoken to his father since I was in my first trimester."
The words hung heavy between you.
“He would’ve found a way to go overseas," you continued softly—"But he didn’t want to leave me. Or you. ‘Wanted to watch you grow up."
Asaud’s voice was quieter now, “So…he never went for what he really wanted?”
You turned to him then, smiling—really smiling—despite the ache in your chest.
“You became our first priority the moment I held you in my arms, baby.”
Your voice dipped into honeyed warmth, "And you cried, cried, cried.”
A dreamy little smile tugged at your lips, the memory of tiny fists gripping your finger, Onyankopon's unreadable mask cracking just once as he pressed his lips to your sweaty forehead in that delivery room.
You blinked back to the present, tilting your head toward Asaud.
“Your father can be…difficult," you admitted, “But know this—he loves you more than anything in this world. Everything he does, every hard lesson...it's because he wants everything for you."
Asaud scuffed his shoe against the concrete floor, "I know that, Momma.”
Just then, Onyankopon's shadow fell over you both, smelling like gunpowder and that stupidly expensive cologne he only wore on special occasions.
“Y’all talkin’ ‘bout me?" he rumbled, slinging an arm around your shoulders.
You batted your lashes up at him innocently—“Just tellin’ our son where he gets his handsome features from."
Onyankopon's nostrils flared, “Don’t be flirtin’ with me in front of our child, girl," he muttered, the heat in his low voice betraying him.
Your giggle spilled freely as you leaned even more into him, “Too late."
The monster truck show was deafening, and entirely too boyish for your liking. You spent most of it grimacing, and hiding behind Onyankopon’s shoulder each time you thought you were gonna witness a crime scene explosion. From the activities today? You were sure to be rewarded by this meal.
The scent of hickory smoke and sizzling meat hits you the moment you step into Big Mike’s Smokehouse—a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and bluesy guitar riffs pouring from the jukebox in the corner. The worn wooden booth creaks as you slide in beside Onyankopon, your thighs pressing together beneath the checkered tablecloth. Across from you, Asaud taps his fingers against the menu, though all three of you already know what you’re ordering—extra spicy ribs, collard greens swimming in pot liquor, and cornbread so buttery it melts on contact.
Your fingers trace idle circles over Onyankopon’s knuckles where his hand rests in your lap, his rough skin warm against your touch. You take a breath, leaning into his shoulder before murmuring, “Did you enjoy yourself today, baby?"
Asaud nods, a rare softness in his expression.
“I did. ‘Preciate y’all."
You smile, cheeks flushing—but then you straighten slightly, catching Onyankopon’s eye.
“Well—now that we’ve played—let’s have a serious conversation, yeah?"
Asaud’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, but he nods.
“Yes, ma’am."
“Jamal," Onyankopon starts, “What really happened between y’all?"
Asaud exhales through his nose, dragging a hand over his locs.
"I…always liked Sabine. Jamal knew that. ‘Still tried to get at her."
You hum, tilting your head.
“I don’t doubt she’d like you, baby. But—“ You choose your words carefully, "Did she seem…responsive to your feelings? Or does she actually like Jamal?"
Asaud’s jaw works before he mutters, “She do like me. ‘Told me my dreads was cool last week."
Onyankopon blinks. Slowly.
Then turns to you, one brow arched—“‘That’s how the lil’ girls get niggas’ attention?"
Your shoulders lift in a helpless shrug, “I guess?”
Asaud frowns, “Why y’all actin’ like confused old people right now?”
You bite your lip, exhaling through your nose—“I’m sorry, baby. Y’all’s generation is just…different in courting each other. The only way you know how is to—”
Then—it hits you. Like a freight train.
Your spine stiffens. Eyes widening, you lean halfway across the table, gripping Asaud’s hands tight enough to make him blink.
“Asaud?”
He freezes.
“Lawd, Momma. You scarin’ me. What’s wrong?”
“This…Sabine girl…you haven’t…?”
“Haven’t what?”
Onyankopon leans back, raising a brow.
Asaud’s gaze darts between you both before he huffs, “Contrary to stereotypes with bein’ quarterback—yes, Momma—I’m still a virgin. Damn.”
The breath you’d been holding whooshes out of you. Your head drops forward, curls spilling over your shoulders as you clutch your chest.
“Thank God! Okay, I just…whew,” You fan yourself dramatically, “I almost fainted.”
Asaud shifts in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck before he drops the bombshell.
“Despite y’all thinkin’ my head is loose, I plan on waitin’ ‘til marriage."
“Mon chéri!” you squeal in Creole, launching yourself forward as you kiss his forehead no less than three times as he groans, trying to duck away.
“Mwen si fiè de ou! Oh, mon bébé!”
Oh, my baby!
Onyankopon watches, amusement lacing his voice as he mutters, “She finna’ start speakin’ in tongues—don’t say shit else, boy."
You're still catching your breath from the emotional high when you lean forward, smoothing Asaud’s shirt before saying with earnest warmth, “Okay—well, although that’s amazing to hear—don’t be afraid to ask questions, baby. I know sex education isn’t the best in schools, so…anything in that aspect, you know you can always come to us, right?"
Onyankopon clears his throat, "I think you gotta leave that conversation for me, shawty—"
You wave a hand dismissively, “We’re supposed to be bonding! Don’t leave me out of it.”
Onyankopon exhales through his nose. He then says, “‘You right. Yo’ pops an open book, ‘Saud.”
Asaud’s gaze darts between you both, hesitating.
Then?
“Does the pull out method really work?"
Your mouth drops. Of all the questions—
Heat floods your cheeks as your brain short-circuits. Before you can even think of a diplomatic answer, Onyankopon leans back, arms crossed, and says completely deadpan—
“Ion’ know. I nut in yo’ momma everytime—"
“OHMYGOD—“
You shriek in Creole, “Pouki ou fè sa nan piblik?!”
Really, in public?
“So how come ion’ got a sibling?”
You’re so disturbed by Onyankopon who nonchalantly begins eating his food, taking a moment to process Asaud’s other question. You take a slow breath, fingers tightening around your napkin.
"I got my tubes tied after I had you, baby. You’re my lifeline—but it was a horrible pregnancy."
Your hand drifts unconsciously to your lower stomach, remembering the months of bed rest, the way your ankles swelled like overripe fruit.
Then, shooting Onyankopon a look, you point a stern finger at Asaud—“Had your father answered educationally, you would’ve known why we can have unprotected sex—but you should not! Condoms. Every. Time."
Onyankopon interjects, "Unless y’all in love. Then? ‘Make yo’ wife a twinkie’.”
Your fingers clutch desperately at the diner table as you squeak, “Let’s move on!”—voice pitching high like a deflating balloon. You clear your throat, smoothing a hand over your top as you force yourself back into Mom Mode.
“What do you really like about this girl?”
Asaud pauses, staring down at his half-eaten ribs as if the bones might spell out the answer for him. For a moment, there’s nothing but the clatter of silverware and Big Mike’s raspy laugh booming from the kitchen.
“She got this…quiet way ’bout her," he starts, voice lower than usual.
“Like, she don’t gotta laugh loud to be heard. And when she do smile—" He shakes his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips—“Man, it’s like she savin’ it just for you. Makes you feel…special, I guess."
You reach across the table, squeezing his wrist.
“That’s sweet, baby. Real sweet. But…" You hesitate, exchanging a glance with Onyankopon before continuing gently, “Are you willing to pursue this girl and lose your best friend over it?"
Asaud’s jaw hardens, “Jamal clearly ain’t my friend."
Onyankopon shakes his head, “Nah. He’s a boy on some puppy love shit—just like you.”
You now rub at Asaud’s knuckles.
“Baby, think about it. Jamal stayed at our house more nights than you did sometimes. Went to your cousins cookouts, helped your daddy fix up the car—"
“Even came to yo’ grandma’s funeral," Onyankopon cuts in, dead serious—“That’s family shit."
Your voice softens, “A real friend would’ve stepped back the moment he knew how you felt. But love makes people act stupid—especially at y’all’s age. You sure this girl worth torching that bridge?"
Asaud’s throat bobs.
The diner’s chatter fades into a dull hum as Asaud sits back, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his thoughts. His fingers fiddle with the condensation on his sweet tea glass, tracing idle circles as he chews on his bottom lip—the same nervous habit he’s had since he was a toddler.
Then, finally, he exhales sharply through his nose.
“A girl ain’t finna’ have me lose my wide receiver," he mutters, shaking his head.
“But that ‘don’t mean I ain’t got feelin’s, Momma."
He thinks on his words for a moment.
Asaud’s voice then drops lower, “A lot of my friends’ parents don’t get along—divorced, fightin’, separated, only cordial ‘cause they made a mistake back in the day. I know I clown on y’all’s gushiness…” he continues, waving a hand at the way you’re still practically draped over Onyankopon’s arm, “But…I’m glad I got parents that love each other. And I just—" He hesitates, eyes flickering down before meeting yours again—“I want somethin’ like that. Somethin’ real."
A whimpery giggle escapes you as tears well in your eyes—hot, stinging—before spilling over.
“Shit, here ‘she go," Onyankopon mutters, already rubbing at your hip affectionately.
Your heart swells so big it feels like it might burst right out of your chest. You slide out of the booth in one fluid motion, your hands cupping your son's face—rough stubble scratching your palms, his locs soft against your forearms.
“Do you know how much we love you, sweet boy?"
He rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“I’m knowin’, Momma."
Then, quieter—“Look…I’m sorry for bein’ mean to you yesterday. And…"
He glances at Onyankopon who’s watching with his usual stoic expression, though his dark eyes hold a warmth only you and Asaud ever really see—“Sorry to you too, Pops."
That’s all it takes.
You squeak, pulling him into a crushing embrace, smothering his face in kisses—his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose—while rapid-fire Creole endearments spill from your lips like a prayer.
“Mon petit roi! Mon cœur! Bondye beni ou, mwen renmen ou tout bagay!"
My little king ! God bless you, I love you with all my heart !
Asaud groans, half-heartedly trying to squirm away—"Damn, Momma—I said I was sorry—"
“Non, non! Mwen pa fini ak ou!"
I’m not done with you!
Onyankopon watches, shaking his head—but when Asaud shoots him a pleading look, he just smirks and shrugs.
“Take yo’ medicine, boy."
Your bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout as you turn pleading eyes toward Onyankopon, fingers still tangled in Asaud's locs.
"Be sweet, Papa!" you urge, batting your lashes dramatically—“Tell your son you love him—none of that manly grunting stuff!"
Onyankopon exhales through his nose, but after a beat, his deep voice rumbles—low, rough, but undeniably fond—
“I love you, ‘Saud. Even when you actin’ dumb."
Asaud snorts, but the corner of his mouth lifts as he mutters back, “Love you too, Pops."
You sigh happily, finally releasing Asaud—only to immediately eye his half-finished ribs.
“Baby, lemme get a bite of—"
“Nuh uh!" Asaud yanks his plate away, nodding toward Onyankopon.
“You better ask yo’ husband!"
Onyankopon slides his own plate toward you without a word, smirk smug as you stick your tongue out at Asaud.
“Haters," you mumble around a mouthful of smoky, tender meat.
Later, you’re curled into Onyankopon’s side on the couch, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm as some old cartoon flickers across the TV. The peace is shattered by Asaud’s bedroom door creaking open. He steps out fully dressed—hoodie, sneakers laced tight—and your head lifts from Onyankopon’s chest.
“You okay, baby?"
Asaud shifts on his feet, avoiding eye contact.
“I’m straight. Uh…Jamal finna’ be here in a couple minutes."
You and Onyankopon exchange frowns—just as a knock echoes through the house.
Jamal now stands on the threshold when Asaud opens the door, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly bowed.
“Evenin’, Mr. and Mrs. Osei.”
You blink, glancing between him and Asaud—who’s now lurking awkwardly by the foyer.
“Uh…are y’all…okay now?"
“We talked. It's straight," Asaud mutters, shifting his weight as he glances between you and Jamal.
Your eyes narrow slightly.
“So that's it? Y’all ain’t fighting over this girl no more?"
“This my ‘quarterback, Momma—“ Jamal chuckles, “Beta to his alpha—even though we both run shit, you know how it go."
“Language, ‘Mal."
Jamal dips his head immediately at Onyankopon’s voice—“My fault, Mr. Osei."
You exhale, shaking your head as you sink back against Onyankopon’s side.
“You men are so strange."
Then, glancing back at Jamal with a small smile, you add, “Well—are you staying to hang out, Jamal?"
Before Jamal can answer, Asaud slips in smoothly—too smoothly—“Nah, we headed to a party."
Onyankopon’s arm tenses beneath you, his jaw tightening.
“Did you ask if you could go to a party?"
You press your palm gently against Onyankopon’s chest, “Ony, c’mon.”
He exhales through his nose.
“Curfew at eleven. Not a minute later. And both of y’all better answer yo’ phones when I call.”
Asaud nods quickly, relief flashing in his eyes—“Got it."
"We out, then. Love y’all!”
You wave them off with a smile, “Be safe!"
Your lashes flutter slightly as you watch Onyankopon’s sharp side profile an hour after they leave—the strong line of his jaw, the way braids shape out his face, his deep set eyes locked onto the TV screen like he’s studying every frame. You trace idle circles over his chest with your fingertips, admiring the way the dim lamplight catches the faint sheen of his skin.
"What you starin’ at, girl?"
You grin, pressing a kiss just above his heart.
“My amazing husband."
“Mmm”, he rumbles, “You just love flirtin’ with a nigga.”
You murmur, “Maybe," in a playful tone—then, with a gentle tug at his chin, you guide his face toward yours.
“You haven’t kissed your wife all day."
“Damn,” he grips at your waist, “A nigga finna’ get locked up, huh?"
You giggle close to his lips, “Life with no parole."
And then his mouth crashes into yours—full, warm, tasting like sweet tea and the lingering smokiness of barbecue. His kiss is slow at first, until you smoothly climb onto his lap, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck as you deepen the kiss, your tongue teasing his bottom lip until a rough grunt vibrates against your mouth.
“Why you feenin’?”
You don’t answer—too busy loosening his belt with practiced ease, your lips trailing down his neck as you palm him through his pants, earning another gravelly curse through your husband's mouth.
“Saud’ could walk back in this house at any moment, girl—"
Your laughter spills against his collarbone in breathy giggles, warm and honeyed, as your fingers hook into the waistband of his pants—finally freeing him into your grip. The moment his tip springs free, your breath catches—a sharp, needy whine escaping your throat as your eyes drink in the sight of him—thick, flushed, veins straining against heated skin, the tip already glistening with his impatience.
“‘M hungry, Papa. Can I?”
You mewl these words so desperately, lips brushing the twitching head as you gaze up at him through fluttering lashes.
Onyankopon’s grip tightens in your curls—not pulling, just holding—as he rasps, “Goddamn. Aight.”
Your tongue then darts out, tracing the swollen ridge beneath his crown, relishing the salt-sweet taste of him before dipping into his slit. His hips jerk—hard—knocking a choke from your lungs, but you don’t relent. Instead, you press open-mouthed kisses along his shaft, nuzzling into the thatch of coarse hair at the base before swirling your tongue around the tip again.
“Hollon’, Mama—” he grits out, fingers flexing in your hair, but you’re already sinking down, taking him halfway with a blissful whimper. The stretch burns sweetly, your lips sealing around him as hollowed cheeks suck him deeper. His thighs tremble beneath you, a ragged, “Fuck—” tearing from his chest as your tongue swirls along his length on the upstroke.
You pull off with a lewd pop, running your tongue viciously against your puffy lips at the way his stomach muscles clench.
“Missed this,” you purr, licking a stripe from root to tip before swallowing him down again—deeper this time—until your nose brushes his skin. His groan is filthy, echoing through the living room as his head thuds back against the couch.
“Gon’ make me act up,” he warns, voice dark with promise—but you just whimper again around him, eyes fluttering shut as you bob faster, hungrier. The wet sounds of your mouth on him mix with his ragged breaths, the cartoon still playing forgotten in the background.
Your lips stretch obscenely, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth as you take him all the way down—nose pressed into his pelvis, throat fluttering wildly around the intrusion. Your eyes roll back slightly at the stretch, tears pricking at the corners as you whimper around his girth again— needy, gagging sound that vibrates against his skin and makes his hips jerk instinctively.
“Fuck—look at you," Onyankopon growls, fingers tightening in your curls, yanking just enough to make you mmph—air rushing into your lungs before you dive back down, hollowing your cheeks shamelessly.
You pull off with another wet pop, spit slick lips swollen and glistening as you pant—only to spit directly onto his dick, the glob of saliva trailing thickly down his shaft before you smear it with your mouth. You then smack his length against your tongue, giggling breathlessly.
“Goddamn," he snarls heavier, voice dripping with lust—a vein popping in his neck as he glares down at you like he wants to eat you alive.
You swirl your tongue around his tip, lapping at the precum beading there before sinking back down—deeper, messier—your throat working in desperate swallows around him. Drool drips down your chin, your brows knitting together in a mix of pleasure and strain as you gag prettily around him—the sounds leaving your mouth absolutely disgusting.
“Ain’t no way you suckin’ dick this good and actin’ all innocent at the dinner table," he grunts, thrusting shallowly into your throat, his grip on your hair bordering on painful—“Fuckin’ glutton—can’t even breathe right and you still tryna’ swallow my shit whole.”
You give a desperate moan in response—half-protest, half-agreement—your fingers digging into his thighs as you bob faster, sloppier, spit and precum fully smearing across your lips. His hips buck up violently, forcing himself deeper as he curses under his breath—“Gon’ make this bitch nut all over yo’ pretty ass face.”
You're drunk off him—every suck, every gag, every slurp of your lips dragging up his shaft leaving you dizzy with greed. Your tongue lolls obscenely along the underside of his cock, spit-slick and desperate, drool dripping in thick strands onto his heavy balls, making them glisten under the dim light. The mess coats your chin, smears across your cheeks—ruins you beautifully—but you don’t care, too lost in the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue.
You usually ask—Papa, can I?—but right now, you don’t want permission. You want everything.
So with an aroused impatience you climb fully into his lap, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs. One hand grips his shoulder for balance as you yank your capris with the other, exposing bare skin—no panties, never panties when you knew he’d be home. His tip slaps wetly against your folds, already soaked just from sucking him off, and you whimper—high and broken—as his thumb ruthlessly circles your clit, sending sparks up your spine.
His mouth crashes into yours, tongues tangling sloppily, spit mixing between you as he grunts against your lips—
“I ain’t movin’. Put that bitch in.”
Your fingers knot in the hair at the nape of his neck as you sink down—slowly, so slowly—stretching around him inch by torturous inch. And the burn? It’s delicious. White-hot and overwhelming, your walls fluttering wildly as you take him deeper. Your eyes even begin to water, lashes sticking together as tears spill over, your mouth trembling against his in a silent sob.
Then—squelch—a wet, gushing sound punches from your pussy as you bottom out, his hips fully flush against your ass. The obscene noise—like air forced from a tight space—makes you shudder, your thighs shaking violently around him.
“Fuck—” Onyankopon snarls into your mouth, his grip on your waist bruising, “Tight-ass pussy always tryna act brand new.”
You whimper—pitiful, unable to do nothing else.
His palms cradle the plush underside of your thighs—calloused fingertips digging into soft flesh as he lifts you effortlessly, your body hovering above him for one breathless moment before he drops you back down.
The descent is slow—agonizing—every inch of him dragging against your walls until you’re whimpering nonsensically, Creole curses and praise tumbling from your lips in a slurred mess—
“Ah—Mon Dieu—Papa, li two cho—!”
Then—smack—your ass lands heavy against his thighs, skin sticking wetly before peeling apart with a lewd clap that ricochets through the living room. Your vision whites out for a second, mouth falling slack as pleasure crackles up your spine—
“Shit.”
Your voice fractures, knees trembling where they bracket his hips. His grip tightens—lifting you again—only to drop you back onto him, the force punching the air from your lungs.
“Fuck,” you sob, nails raking down his chest, “P—Papa, li two gwo—!”
You’re too big.
“Talk that shit now,” he taunts, “Thought you was hungry?”
“O—O bondye—P-Papa—!”
I can’t.
The fabric of your top crumples violently in Onyankopon’s fists—fingers twisting, yanking the material taut as he uses it like reins to drive you down onto him. Every bounce wrenches a gasp from your lips, your body jolting with each punishing thrust, his dick spearing into you with a relentless, bruising rhythm. Your face crumples, pouting down at him—eyes glazed, lips swollen and trembling—as he growls up at you in thick, guttural Creole.
"Ou vle sa, mm? Ou vle Papa kraze ou?"
You want me to break yo’ shit, huh?
You nod frantically, a pathetic, shuddering “Mm-hmm—!" hiccuping from your throat as your cream spills obscenely down his shaft, pooling at the base where his balls glisten with your slick.
“I—I’m gonna’ cum—!" you mewl, voice breaking, thighs quivering as your walls flutter wildly around him.
But Onyankopon doesn’t speed up—doesn’t slow down—just keeps grinding you onto him at that same, devastating pace, letting you feel every inch as your orgasm crests. Your back arches, a silent scream tearing through you as your pussy gushes—hot, wet pulses of arousal soaking his lap, dripping down his abdomen in sticky rivulets.
“Regarde ça," Look at that, he mutters, voice rough with lust as he watches you squirt all over him—“Fais un gros désordre, mm?"
’Made a big fuckin’ mess.
Onyankopon’s grip shifts—his hands cinching around your waist as he stands in one fluid motion, twisting you midair before slamming your back flush against his chest. Your breath hitches, fingers scrambling at his forearms as he bends you forward in the same motion, your spine arching obscenely as he crowds over you.
“Ain’t took my pussy like this inna’ minute. Let a nigga feel you.”
This position—back arched deep, ass tilted up, your body folded in half—was never one you could handle. He knew it. You knew it. Years of marriage, and he only pulled it out on two occasions: when you’d pissed him off just enough to deserve it—or when he wanted to ruin you so thoroughly you’d forget your own name.
His dick sinks back into you—slow, sadistic—the stretch bordering on pain as your walls flutter wildly around him. A petulant whimper claws from your throat, your face tucking into your own shoulder as you try to steady yourself.
Too deep. Too much.
Before you can adjust, his palm wraps around your throat from behind—his fingers splayed possessively as he jerks his hips forward, bottoming out with a force that makes your vision blur.
Your cry is muffled against your own skin, tears pricking at your lashes as he starts moving—no build-up, no mercy—just deep, piston-like thrusts that punch the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips.
“Always actin’ brand new,” he grits out, “Like I ain’t had this pussy a thousand times.”
Onyankopon yanks your head back as he starts fucking you with those long, slow, punishing strokes, burying himself to the hilt each time with a rough grunt. Your entire body shudders in shock, fingers clawing at your own ankles as you struggle to stay grounded, but there’s no escape—just the relentless drag of him stretching you open, over and over, the obscene squelch of your soaked pussy echoing in the air between you.
A dumb, pleasure-drunk frown twists your face—eyebrows knitted, lips parted in a silent gasp—before your voice finally shatters into whiny, hiccupping sobs.
“Ohh my god. Shit. Ughn, fuck—!"
Your thighs tremble violently, your back bowing even more as pleasure coils tighter in your gut—each thrust dragging you closer to the edge. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. Just keeps stroking into you—rough, unhurried, perfect—until your mind whites out completely.
The next shift happens like lightning—his arms wrapping around you, hauling you flush against his chest as he lifts you just enough that your toes barely skim the floor, his strength suspending you effortlessly between his body and the air. His palm presses flat against your throat again—his lips dragging hot against the shell of your ear as his thrusts turn uneven, deeper, desperate.
“Missed this shit... missed you…”
You’re too far gone to answer—just weakly nodding, your head lolling back against his shoulder as pleasure crackles through every nerve. Onyankopon’s thrusts turn frantic, his breath ragged against your neck, his voice breaking every snap of his hips—
“Shit—fuck—gon’ make me—"
Your body aches—muscles trembling, thighs slick with sweat—but you force yourself to roll your hips back against him anyway, meeting each deep thrust with a weak but determined grind. Your voice is nothing but a breathless whimper, barely audible over the filthy slap of skin, but you need him to hear your words.
“I love you—love you so much—“
Your words dissolve into a gasp as he rams into you again, the force of it making your toes curl against the floor. You tilt your head back, pressing your temple against his, lips brushing his jaw as you whisper—
“Such a good...good father... takin’ care of us.”
Onyankopon groans—low, raw—the sound vibrating against your skin as his fingers flex possessively around your throat.
"Fuck—" he grits out, voice strained—almost shy—as if he’s not used to being unraveled like this.
You reach back blindly, fingers tangling in his braids, tugging just enough to make him growl.
“Sound so pretty,” you slur.
He curses again, biting at your shoulder as if you contain his own pleasure.
“Chill.”
His warning rumbles against your lips, but it's unsteady—almost shaking—his usual arrogance stripped bare as his breath hitches. You don’t listen. Instead, you crash your mouth against his in a sloppy, desperate kiss, swallowing his next groan whole as he thrusts up into you—harder, deeper—his hips pistoning in a rhythm that has you both practically singing into each other’s mouths.
His moan becomes muffled against your lips—“Oooh, shit—“ low and graveled, his forehead pressing against yours as his pace turns erratic. You nod frantically, whimpering in agreement, your own sounds just as broken as his, your nails scraping down his chest as you begin begging him.
“Fill me up, baby.”
And that’s all it takes.
Onyankopon cums with a ragged groan, his entire body tensing as he spills into you in thick, pulsing waves—hot, endless, like he’s been holding back for weeks. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise as he rides it out, fucking his release even deeper inside you.
You giggle—weak, breathless, but elated—the sensation of him twitching inside you sending little aftershocks of pleasure through your own trembling body.
Onyankopon’s chest heaves against your back, his lips still hovering over yours as he mutters—“Goddamn."
“Mmm,” you arch farther into his touch, “Would’ve gotten that last night if you weren’t so tired…"
His lips drag slowly along the curve of your ear—hot breath making you shiver as he murmurs, “Patience builds tension, girl.”
He grinds deep one last time, lazily rocking into you just to feel your walls flutter weakly around him.
Your fingers tighten around his forearm, a pathetic little “‘M tired now, Papa…" slipping from your lips—weak, whiny, still buzzing from pleasure.
“Oh, ‘you tired now?”
You twist in his arms, draping yourself fully against him—your arms looping around his neck, forehead pressing to his as you sigh, “C’monn, let's go shower."
“Aight. We hunchin’ again?"
“No, boy! I wanna go to bed. It's nearly twelve."
He smacks his lips, eyes flicking past you to the clock on the wall—then freezes.
“It's what time?"
You blink up at him, suddenly aware of the shift in his tone—that dangerous edge creeping in.
“Um…fifteen minutes to twelve?" you offer hesitantly.
Onyankopon exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening as he looks down at you with narrowed eyes.
“Imma' kill yo' son."
Your hands fly up in protest, gripping his shoulders—“Well hold on!—He's a little over curfew, it's fine!”
“So now I'm doin' too much?” He smacks his lips, pulling back just enough to level you with a look—mockingly pitching his voice higher, mimicking your earlier whimpers— “’You’re such a good father’—what happened to allat’, huh?"
You squeak, cheeks flushing hot as you slap a hand over his mouth, cutting off his teasing.
“Stop it!”
He licks your palm—nasty—making you yelp and yank your hand back as he grins, triumphant.
“So you gon’ need the belt after him, huh?”
You scrunch your nose.
“No. And you’re grumpy.”
A chuckle rumbles deep in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away—just tilts his head, pressing his forehead a little harder against yours in that way he does when he’s softening, letting you know he’s conceding.
“Imma’ let up, aight?"
Your shoulders relax, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you exhale, melting into him.
“'…’Kay.”
His lips brush your temple before he murmurs, “Lemme’ just call and check on ‘em—after that? Imma’ rub on yo’ feet and knock the fuck out."
You exhale as he finally pulls away, shaking your head with a quiet laugh. Always unable to let go of that protective dad instinct, even when he was supposed to be letting up—but that was just him. Overbearing, stubborn, yours.
The moment settles into something tender as you watch him grab his phone off the coffee table, his heavy silhouette outlined by the dim light of the living room.
“I love you," you murmur, the words slipping out sweet and easy—like they always did.
He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth tilting up in that rare, real smile—the one reserved just for you.
“’Love you more, girl.”
And just like that—the day ends, wrapped in warmth, in home, in family.
Can y’all provide me some Alphaverse stories. Whether it’s one shot smut or a story in regard to our fav boys. Bakugo, todoroki, kirishima, denki, Midoriya? Please? I’ve become very intrigued with our boys as alphas.
The outline of our hearts | Alpha! Bakugou x Omega! Reader Ch. 6
New chapter, babes. Fresh from the oven ❤︎
Summary: Your life as an omega wasn’t easy, especially while working at a big fashion company. Things didn’t look like they were going to change anytime soon, but the arrival of a new boss certainly promised to get your feet off the ground.
AU: Omegaverse / ABO / Alpha Bakugou x Omega Reader
TW: 18+ (nthg explicit in this chapter); alpha and omega dynamics; fem reader; just Bakugou cursing (and being a handful 😂).
Chapter 5 | Chapter 7
The faint sound of a pen scratching paper reached your ears as you circled the date on your desk calendar. Counting the days in your head, you made a mental note to buy more suppressants, blaming the latest weeks for your lack of attention.
Two/three weeks max, you thought.
Yep, your heat was coming sooner than you remembered.
It was certainly a tornado for your poor omega to deal with. Starting with the arrival of the infamous Katsuki Bakugou, then your ex flooding you with unanswered messages, and now the fact that you were directly involved in a new collection of your company.
You, yourself, helping the stylists and coordinating a new clothing exhibition.
Smiling to yourself, you raised your arms in the air, stretching them above your head till you feel the push in your muscles.
It must be a dream.
Things were better with Bakugou. He really made a name for himself in only a short time. Everyone could see, as clear as day, the improvements in everyone's spirit. He was demanding, strict even, but he valued everyone's work. He even went so far as changing some alphas and omegas' positions, which left everyone shocked, to say the least.
Oh, and speaking of your dear boss, there was that other thing.
You gulped, biting your lower lip while looking at the calendar again. You were reaching the infamous day, and still haven’t given him a proper answer. He was running out of patience, you knew. But what was he expecting, anyway?
Two days have passed since he made you that stupid, utterly inappropriate, out-of-nowhere proposal.
…
“So… Let me see if I understand. You want me to go with you to attend a family dinner? Your family dinner? Me?”
“Looks like you got just the right idea, yes.”
“You’re joking.”
Bakugou just raised a blonde eyebrow at you.
“Explain me again why exactly you wanna take me, your employee, to a family dinner?”
“I already told you,” he sighed, leaning forward and resting his arms on his thighs. “If I don’t attend to that dinner, my dear mother will raise hell on earth, and she’s driving me fucking nuts about bringing someone to that stupid night. In short, I need an omega. You’re an omega.” He pointed at you as if it were obvious.
“So you want me to, what, pretend I’m your date to your whole family?”
“Precisely.”
You laughed like he was losing his mind.
“Ok. And what makes you think that I’m gonna say yes?”
“I thought you wanted to thank me for my kindness, didn’t you?” He snickered. “ And besides, my parents are really famous stylists, won’t you like to meet them, now that you have your own collection to coordinate? I won’t have to meet any random omega, and you will have the opportunity of your life. It’s a win-win. Of course you can say no, but, y’know… You kinda owe me for not firing you.”
“Excuse me, is that a blackmail?” You said, mortified.
“I prefer calling it a friendly persuasion.”
His eyes gleamed with a mischievous glint.
“Look, I—”
“Think about it. The dinner is on Saturday. You have 3 days to give me an answer.”
…
Well, now you have 1 day left.
You shouldn’t say yes. There were a million reasons not to.
First, he was your freaking boss! Second, that was absolutely inappropriate. Third, anyone could find out. Fourth…
You’re gonna meet one of the most respected stylists of your country.
No. Definitely not.
You bit your lip again, surprised it hadn’t already formed a bruise.
He was so, so stupid, unbearable, vulgar, horrible, and good Lord, you shouldn’t accept it.
There was only a problem… You were already considering it.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The office door opened with a loud thud.
“If I accept, you will never, absolutely never mention the offenses from the first day again.”
Bakugou lifted his head from the papers on his desk, surprised by the woman who had come storming into his office.
Bringing that freaking good scent again.
“My secretary let you come in like that?” He asked, unfazed, crossing his fingers in front of him.
Oh, he was a fucking good actor. He thought, shutting his inner alpha down who begged him to go to you.
You pointed a finger at his chest.
“Promise, never again.”
Such a voracious little thing.
“Is that a yes?” Since you didn't answer, he just shrugged. “Okay, consider it done.”
“No one can know about this.”
“Why, omega? Are you embarrassed to be seen with me or something?”
“Don't even think about it. You’re my boss. I’m your employee. I’m not gonna lose this job.”
He almost dared to point out that he was the one who could fire you and how ridiculous that was, but common sense kept him quiet.
“And... I want a raise.”
There was silence for two seconds. It felt like years. Your face heated up, but you didn't back down.
Bakugou threw his head back and laughed so boyishly that you almost forgot the reason you were there.
You swallowed, your courage slowly fading.
"Very well." He tried to compose himself, running a hand through his unruly hair in a way that revealed his forehead. "Give me your cell phone. I'll put my number on it."
“Do you accept my terms?”
“The cellphone, omega.” He raised an eyebrow, hand stretched, that stern commanding voice again.
Your omega purred.
Oh. Fuck it.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Of all the bad decisions you had ever made, that was definitely the worst.
You spun around in front of the mirror for what felt like the hundredth time, admiring your figure. You felt pretty in your midi dress, but was it good enough? I mean, the Bakugou’s were R.I.C.H. and classy, and oh boy, you were starting to get nervous again.
Ok, breathe.
Your makeup was done, your hair was styled, your nails painted. Everything was going to be just fine.
Your phone buzzed on the bed, drawing your attention to it.
Mina: Hey, wanna hang out tomorrow? There’s a new café in town close to my house.
You typed a quick response, feeling extra guilty for not telling her about the arrangement with your boss. Keeping secrets was a no-go for your friendship, and she would surely help you keep your head in place. But then again, she would also misunderstand this as some kind of book love trope, and that was the last thing you needed. You knew that the moment you saw each other, though, your tongue would run more than it should, but for now, a short answer was the best you could do.
A quick glance at the clock let you know that it was almost time for Bakugou to come get you. You scoffed, remembering your earlier messages:
Bakugou: Send me your apartment location. I’ll pick you up.
You: Sure.
[address attached]
Bakugou: I’ll be there at seven.
You: Okay.
A few hours later…
You: I don’t think this is gonna work.
Bakugou: What now, dumbass?
You: First, you rude. Second, we should cancel this. I’m not a good liar, they'll find out.
Bakugou: They will not find out. Stop freaking out.
You: We don’t even know each other, it’s not gonna work!
Bakugou: Too late. Seven o’clock. Don’t keep me waiting.
Arrogant prick.
As if you were summoning him, a beep on your phone sounded with a new notification.
Bakugou: I’m here.
Bakugou typing ….
Bakugou: Taking the elevator.
The elevator… THE ELEVATOR?
You almost choked. He was supposed to wait for you in the car, not at your door. And wait a damn second, how the hell did the front desk let him up without calling you first? You rushed to put on your high heels with one hand while shoving the rejected clothes into your wardrobe. Not that he would enter your room anyway, what in the world were you thinking?
[doorbell ring]
“Shit,” you murmured when you accidentally kicked your other shoe away, scrambling to get it.
[doorbell ring]
[doorbell ring]
“Going!”
A final glance in the mirror and that was it. Ready or not, there was an impatient blonde alpha at your door.
Bakugou was about to ring that damn bell again when the door was pulled open. And holy shit. He wasn’t fucking prepared.
He couldn’t help but stare at your figure, head to toe. Slowly.
You gulped visibly. He accompanied the movement like a predator.
“You’re here,” you said dumbly.
“I said I would be here at seven.”
“Oh.”
You sounded dumbfounded. Well, you were dumbfounded. Bakugou Katsuki was standing at your door, handsome as sin, smelling so masculine and utterly him that your omega nearly got down on her knees and wagged her tail.
“How did you even get past the front desk?”
“You call that a front desk?” Bakugou snorted, shrugging with that usual smirk. “I’m a convincing person.”
“Course you are.”
He ignored your sarcastic tone, eyes scanning the way your dress hugged your figure. “Looking good, omega.”
“Is it good enough for your parents?” You smoothed it, uncertain.
“It’s good enough for me.”
Your eyes met his for a second, and it looked like he was burning you inside. “Thank you, alpha.” The words came out of your mouth before you could think straight, and then your hand flew to cover your mouth. “I mean, Mr. Bakugou.”
“Nah, I'm your alpha tonight.” He smirked, delighting himself in your embarrassment. “Also, call me Katsuki. You're supposed to be my girlfriend.”
“Yeah, right.” You cleared your throat, dismissing his first statement as a joke. “Ok. I can do that. Katsuki.”
The syllables were foreign in your mouth, almost sinful. His predator eyes were back, and all it took was you saying his name.
Let us make her scream it now. His alpha added.
“Are we gonna stand here the whole night?” He asked instead, shoving his inner desires down, and simply walked passed you, inviting himself in.
Your home smelled like you, as he expected, and he honestly had no fucking idea of how he was managing to keep his composure. It was like his alpha was drowning in a pool of you, you, and you, and he wanted more. His eyes wander over your small apartment. Everything was spotless, you knew that — you prided yourself on being an organized person, but still his scrutinizing gaze made you feel on edge.
“I'm gonna get my purse.” You mumbled. “Give me a sec.”
He didn't stop you when you left the living room, still looking at your tidy little apartment, all sweet and omegalike. Cute. Just like its owner. His eyes made a stop at your desk, where a bunch of papers could be seen.
“There, I’m read— what are you doing?”
Bakugou looked at you, holding some drawings in his hands. Not any drawings, your drawings. Different models and techniques you were experimenting earlier and left lying around the table to look into tomorrow.
“Are those for the new collection?”
You rushed to get the papers from his hands, but he averted his body easily, surprised by your reaction.
“No, this is…” You fumbled, “personal, it’s personal.”
He was silent for a second, eyes darting back to the smooth lines and curves. “You draw it all?”
“I— yes, you weren’t… supposed to see that.”
“Hm…”
You didn’t say anything, waiting for his further reaction, but he merely put them down again after a moment, dismissing it. Part of you felt slightly disappointed.
“C’mon, we can’t get late.”
You blinked. “What, wait, aren’t we supposed to set up our stories?”
“We met at work, you fell for me, and I took pity on you.”
“EXCUSE ME?”
Bakugou snorted a laugh. “Stop worrying, dumbass. It’s not a job interview. Just sit there and be pretty, I can take care of everything.”
You wanted to argue, but he was already heading to the front door.
“Wait, wait!”
“What now?” He turned around to face you, mouth twisted in impatience.
“If I’m supposed to be your girlfriend...” You stopped mid-sentence, a heat warming your face. “If your family thinks we’re partners, then shouldn’t we…”
“Spit it out already, woman.”
“Ok, fine. How are they supposed to believe we’re together if we don’t have each other’s scent?”
Bakugou’s eyebrows almost disappeared in his hairline. Of all things, he was not expecting that. Well played, omega. Soon enough, though, a mischievous smile was quick to replace his surprise.
“You want me to scent you?”
“No!” Your eyes bulged. “I mean, not like— That’s not what I meant. I was thinking more of an object or something? I can wear your blazer for some minutes, perhaps?”
Fuck no.
“We don’t have time for it to last in you, guess we’re gonna have to do it the old fashion way.”
His inner beast was fuming in anticipation, that was opportunity knocking at his door and he would be damned if he missed it. Call him a sick freak if you want, but his alpha has wanted to bury his head in your neck since day one.
“Ok, so, maybe you could, uh, rub your pulse against my scent glands or—”
Bakugou cut you off with a scoff. “If we’re gonna do this shit, we’re gonna do it right.”
With slow steps, he approached you, eyes gleaming red. Your deepest instincts clashed between the urge to flee for your life and the pull to submit.
“Mr. Bakugou, I don’t think we should—”
“I told you already. It’s Katsuki tonight. I don’t like repeating myself, omega.”
You found yourself trapped between the solid strength of your boss’s arms and the edge of the living room desk. His vermillion eyes bore holes into yours, burning straight through you. You caught the faint flick of his tongue brushing his lower lip, almost unconsciously.
Submit.
With a sudden urge and a shamefully involuntary purr, you exposed your neck to him, feeling his pheromones hitting your very being. You didn’t remember the last time you were so easily affected like that. Without second thought, Bakugou sank his nose into your scent gland, breathing in.
The growl he emitted was utterly and unmistakably primal. You felt his hands grab your waist like a magnet, fingers digging in a vice grip through the thin fabric of your dress.
“Katsuki.” You chanted, whole body trembling with the foreign feeling. Was it a try to stop him or to encourage him? Neither of you could tell that.
“Fucking right.” Was his only answer, stubble tickling your skin.
Your hands clutched his biceps in an automatic motion, relishing in the hard muscle under your digits. His, on the other side, roamed your body up and down, sending shivers through your spine while he inhaled your intoxicating scent. It was like getting drunk on you, he’d never felt that way before.
In a heartbeat, he has you over the table, positioning himself between your legs and stepping back to take a look at you.
The vision before him was sinful. His little employee with half lidded eyes, her dress skirt slightly raised to accommodate him better, lips lightly parted decorated with a pretty lipstick, chest rising and falling with each deep breath. Fuck, he didn’t even touch you yet. He could feel his alpha fighting for control, canines getting bigger with need, pupils dilating.
You snarled, impatient, pulling him closer by the sleeve, instincts already blurring your mind.
“Steady, omega.” Bakugou used his left hand to reach for your neck, thumb caressing your throat in a languid rhythm, he was enjoying this more than he should. “If you want me to scent you, all you need to do is ask nicely.”
You pull him again, but he merely pressed his fingers more firmly, not moving an inch. In a futile attempt, you exposed your neck further, invitingly.
“Use your words.”
The frustrated whine you let out might have been amusing if he weren’t already so drawn to you.
“Just do it already.” You mumbled and was met with a raised eyebrow. “Please.”
“Not very convincing.”
The closeness was making you go insane, and you showed him your fangs. He couldn’t help but chuckle, resuming his touch on your throat. Up and down.
“This is getting you nowhere.”
You grabbed his pulse, where one of his scent glands was, earning a groan from him.
“Scent me.” You said. It wasn’t an ask.
Bakugou didn’t have to be told twice. It wasn’t the plea he expected, but he was already repressing himself enough. With quick precision, his face was pressed against your scent gland, rubbing his cheek, jaw, and own neck in yours. You interlaced your fingers in his blonde locks, eyes closed, his scent invading your nostrils.
Time almost came to a stop when you felt his canines graze over your mating spot, breath getting caught in your throat. It only lasted a moment before he moved over, but was enough for your omega to make you give out the shameful of moans. His hands slide down on your back, grabbing ahold of your ass he brought you to him, pressing you firmly against his body, hot breath on your neck. Next thing you knew, you were wrapping your legs around his waist, being met with the hard feeling of his bulge against your core.
“Alpha…” You breathed.
His right hand squeezed your ass in a possessive manner, grinding you to him while he continued his meticulous scenting. You rubbed your own face on his hair and he groaned, feeling you so openly accept him. His tongue came out languidly as he licked a path up your throat, warm and wet.
“Fucking delicious.”
“Kats—”
[cellphone ring]
You almost fell off the table, your eyes opening at once. You heard Bakugou cursing.
It was like a cold shower being thrown over your body. In a moment, you were pressed against each other, detached from the whole world. In the other, the buzzing sound of a cellphone made you jump out of your skin, and from each other.
Bakugou growled, his alpha angry by the interruption, pulling his phone out from his pocket.
Your breath came in rags. Oh my God. Oh my God. With eyes like saucers, your mind seemed to process what had just happened. After a few beats, it looked like he had the same conclusion.
Bakugou. Your boss. Your legs around him. The bulge in his pants. The smell of your own arousal. Oh dear God.
The cellphone rang again, and this time he answered, never breaking eye contact.
“What?… Yeah, yeah… Give me a fucking break, old hag, I'm coming.”
He sounded unfazed, voice slightly hoarse, if so, but the way his red iris bore into yours and his left hand clutched the wooden desk gave him away. He was as much affected as you.
“Yeah, yeah, right, bye.”
He turned off the phone without a glance, still staring at you. None of you said anything for what looked like years, and honestly, you wouldn’t be the first. Slowly, you slid your legs from his torso, almost praying that he didn’t notice. He gripped the wood harder.
“I’ll be at the car.”
With a hand pressed on your chest, you felt like you finally could breathe again while watching his back leave the entrance door, body still frozen in place.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Bakugou’s car smelled like him. A lot. And oh dear, you were sure now that you also smelled like him. The ride was silent except for the soft noise of the engine and for your fingers fidgeting over your lap, none of you daring to say anything after the little “slip” from earlier. You couldn’t even start to express how inappropriate that was, having needed a good few minutes in the bathroom to recover beforehand. If he took care of the not-so-little problem between his legs, too? You couldn’t tell, and refused to even think about it, much less check to be sure.
You glanced at him sideways. He was looking ahead, one arm on the wheel and the other resting on the window, appearing unbothered. Even the way he drove was attractive.
Stop. You thought, averting your look. That was not helping at all.
You watched through the window as the scenery shifted—the cozy, unassuming neighborhood fading into wide, manicured streets lined with towering, elegant homes. Everything looked pristine, polished, and unmistakably wealthy.
The closer you get, the more restless you become.
“Stop acting like a spooked animal, for God’s sake.”
You send him a glare. “I can’t help it, I’m nervous.”
Bakugou sighed, pulled over near a big modern house, and turned to face you. You looked back at him, thinking he would lash out at you, but instead, he spoke with a surprisingly calm you didn’t know he was capable of.
“There's no reason to be nervous. I got everything under control. Let me handle this.”
You blinked, surprised. There was no doubt in his words.
“Also, don't let my family scare you out, my mom can be overwhelming sometimes. I'll be there the whole time.”
“Oh...ok.” You mumbled, feeling the wave of assuring pheromones he was emitting to calm you down. It was definitely working, your omega like pudding in his hands, limbs relaxing, heart slowing. Soon, the cold in the pit of your stomach also disappeared.
He felt the change in your demeanor, too, and hummed, satisfied, eyeing you carefully before moving to guide his car to the big house's garage gates, intending to put it inside.
“Didn't know you could do this.” You confess, still too lost in the blissful aura to care about the fact that you were most certainly entering your “fake in-laws” house.
“Do what?”
“Calm someone down.”
He rolled his eyes, moving forward with the car when the automatic gates opened. “Don't usually do that shit. You seemed like you needed.”
“It helped,” you said, more to yourself.
“Course it did.” He scoffed, maneuvering the car. “I'm no shitty alpha.”
Your answer didn’t have time to see the light before you were both interrupted by a happy distant voice.
“Look, Kacchan is here!”
Bakugou physically sulked by your side. From your line of sight, you saw a green-haired man wave from the front door.
“Fucking hell.” He cursed under his breath, gripping the wheel even after you parked. “Shitty Deku.”
“Kacchan?” Your voice sounded in his ears. He could feel the smile on your face, eyebrows raised.
“Don’t say a fucking word about it.”
“No, no, wait. Is that how your family calls you? Oh my God, that’s so cut—”
“Not. a. fucking. word.”
Your chest moved in silent laughter when he shooted you fireballs from his vermillion eyes.
“Aw, sorry. Kacchan, the big scary alpha.”
He growled, ears almost as red as his eyes. “Don’t fucking push it, omega.”
You resisted the urge to tease him further, zipping your mouth with your fingers, trying really hard not to smile.
“Great. Let’s end this shit show already.”
[…]
The house was everything you expected — and more. Grand, elegant, and impeccably decorated, it exuded wealth and sophistication. The Bakugous clearly had a keen eye for design; their taste in furniture and color coordination was nothing short of impeccable, a testament to their skill as stylists. The exterior was just as impressive, with a sprawling yard that could easily accommodate more than three cars, framed by neatly trimmed hedges and a pristine stone pathway leading to the grand entrance.
His family, well, they were… a lot. To your surprise, the first introductions weren’t filled with judgmental stares towards you, but with comical shock when Bakugou blatantly told them you were his girlfriend.
Masaru was lovely, being an omega and everything. He invited you in with a warm smile and a gentle hand on your shoulder when he felt your nervousness.
Mitsuki was… basically Katsuki with a skirt. An absolute hurricane. You almost jumped when she hit Bakugou’s head and yelled at him about “being a damn brat”, but then she turned to you with the most soothing smile and said “Glad to meet you, sweetheart. Katsuki didn’t tell us he was capable of catching such a pretty girl”. Much to Bakugou’s dismay, you adored her immediately.
You also met Izuku, or “Deku”, who you soon learned was the only one who called Bakugou “Kacchan”, having been childhood friends, and his mated pair, Ochaco, a happy rosy-cheeked omega who smiled widely at you.
You also noticed Mitsuki smelling the air slightly when you approached, and couldn’t contain your embarrassment when you caught her looking at Bakugou with a raised eyebrow, confirming your thoughts that yes, you did smell like him, and she absolutely knew that you were freshly scented. You averted your eyes when you saw Bakugou answering her with a more smug expression, shit-eating grin ever present.
You needed to remind yourself once again that this was your boss, cause your omega sure was forgetting.
The dinner was surprisingly normal. Honestly, you weren’t sure what you had expected, but it certainly wasn’t an informal meal in the yard, gathered around a massive wooden table. You had imagined staff serving some kind of fancy dish prepared by a professional chef, yet you were pleasantly surprised to see everyone — including your boss — helping set the table. Masaru appeared with a large silver platter, a wide smile on his face as he chatted enthusiastically about how he was sure he had cooked the meat perfectly this time. It was good. Normal, even.
Mitsuki and Masaru made you fill up your plate with everything that was in front of you, which you politely accepted, giving them a small smile. Everyone seemed happy, really.
On the other hand, the much-present scowl on Bakugou’s face was priceless.
“Fix your face, brat. You look like a gremlin.”
He growled in annoyance. “Funny, they all say I look just like you.”
“What was that?!”
You choked a laugh, noticing that the others were doing just the same. Masaru smiled fondly at his wife as if accustomed to all of that. Bakugou shoved a large piece of meat into his lips, chewing angrily. From your point of view, he chose, wisely, not to answer.
Slicing a piece of the roasted meat yourself, you took the fork to your mouth. Instantly, you felt the warm juices and spices invading your taste buds. It was one of the best meats you have ever had the pleasure to taste. You closed your eyes briefly, enjoying the feeling.
“Did you like it, dear?”
You opened your eyes bashfully, seeing the elder male smiling at your reaction.
“Very much, Mr. Bakugou, thank you.”
“Please, only Masaru is fine. It’s not every day that our explosive son brings a sweet girl like you home.”
“Was busy enough with my career, old man. Don’t push it.”
“I know, son. We’re very proud of you.”
Bakugou only huffed, resuming his chewing, but nodded in recognition. You could see he had a soft spot for his dad in the way he looked, tho he didn’t express it with words. That was a new one.
Mitsuki, on the other hand, wasn’t very phased. “It was about damn time, brat. I’m getting old waiting for you to stop your messing around and find a good mate.”
“Shut up, old hag. It’s not of your damn business.”
“It is when you don’t give me any grandchildren.”
You choked on your drink, getting flustered at the mere thought of.. Oh God.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’re...”
“Darling, you’re scaring the poor girl.” Masaru intervened, softly. She sighed.
“Sorry, sweetheart. But I am getting old, tho I don’t show it.”
“Expect a mirror on your next birthday.”
“LOOK HERE YOU LITTLE—”
“Is it always like that?” You mumbled, dumbfounded, while watching your freaking boss, for God's sake, almost wrestling with his mother like some angry pup.
Masaru chuckled, patting your hand. “You get used to it. Believe me, they love each other.”
“So…” Midoriya started, trying to light up the mood when the bickering finally stopped. “How’d you two meet?”
You immediately gave Bakugou a glare that very much said “I WARNED YOU”, but he merely shrugged.
“Work.”
Izuku deflated visibly. “Always the talker, Kaachan.”
“C’mon, give us the details.” Ochaco snickered at you, earning a nasty glare from Bakugou. “Since when are you together?”
“Uhh… It’s, uh, recent.”
Bakugou shot you a look that clearly said, “How the hell are you this bad at lying?”.
You gave him one right back, just as sharp — because he knew damn well you'd warned him about your lack of lying skills.
“Recent? How recent?” Mitsuki asked, curious.
“Uh, we met when Mr. B- Katsuki! When Katsuki entered the company I work on.”
“Oh wow, that recent! So it was love at first sight?” Ochaco smiled widely.
Bakugou huffed a laugh. “Guess you can say that, round cheeks.”
Oh, that wouldn’t slide.
“Well, actually, I think he couldn’t take me out of his head since the day we met. He practically begged for my attention.”
Bakugou narrowed his eyes at you, and you smiled, all innocence.
“My son begging? That’s news for me.” Mitsuki laughed, delighted. “I liked you already, (Y/n).”
“Oh, believe me, he was like a lovesick puppy.”
The table burst into laughter. Well, in exception of one particular angry alpha, to whom you risked a glance.
Oh boy, he was mad.
You bit your lip, knowing you were walking on thin ice here.
“Isn’t that right, alpha?”
You were ready for his explosion at any minute now, but very much to your surprise, his usual scowl turned the opposite way. With casual ease, his face relaxed, ruby eyes a burning gaze and a wicked grin on his lips. He leaned back in his chair, one finger tapping at the table. One, two, three times. “I don’t know, omega. You tell me. How exactly was I begging then?”
You swallowed, unprepared, smile faltering. His response sent a chill up your spine, and a completely different feeling down there. You crossed your legs involuntarily.
Mitsuki snickered into her wine glass before taking a sip.
“Chill, Kaachan. Don’t wanna scare her off.” Izuku laughed happily. You saw Ochaco giving you a wink from the other side of the table.
Great, (Y/n). You thought, embarrassed, looking anywhere but at Bakugou.
“So, how’s the new company, son?”
He shrugged, giving a half-hearted answer. You occupied yourself by eating another bite of your meat while Izuku and Masaru talked to your “boss-fake-boyfriend” about him buying the company rights. Thinking about it, it was laughable, really, and a huge surprise that the half-ass part you two were playing was working. Never in a million years would you guess that you would find yourself in a situation like that.
“Wait, (Y/n),” you blinked, hearing your name being called in the conversation, “so you work with fashion too?”
Your heart settled as the conversation shifted to a much comfortable territory.
“Hm,” you nodded at Ochaco, smiling. “I’ve been with the company for some years now.”
“Oh, so you’re a designer too?” Mitsuki intervened.
You smiled tightly, prepared for the question. “Not really, I just do it for myself. I help with improvements on the work of the creators. One day, perhaps.”
“Well, that’s a very important part of the collections too.” Mitsuki said with honesty.
“I know, thank you.” You kept your smile. It wasn’t fake, you appreciate your position, really, but a dream is a dream. “Your pieces are amazing, by the way, I hope someday I can do something as beautiful as that too.”
Mitsuki waved a hand at you. “I’m sure you’re a very talented one, your dress speaks for itself.”
You were taken aback. “My dress?”
“It’s handmade, isn’t it?” She raised her lips in a smile, like sharing a secret. “I can recognize an original piece from miles. You made it yourself?”
You could be a goldfish with the way your lips parted. “I— Uh, yes, yes it is.” You admitted, suddenly shy. Who could blame you, honestly? Mitsuki Bakugou, the famous designer, was complimenting your own creation. “I like sewing my own clothes.”
“Wow, really?” Ochaco cut in. “You telling me you made this beautiful dress?”
A sheepish smile tugged at your lips as you smoothed down the fabric of said dress.
“It’s no big deal, actually. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. My grandma used to sew with me.”
The conversation between the three of you flowed more comfortably than you’d expected, laughter and comments passing with surprising ease. Still, you couldn’t ignore the presence lingering in your peripheral vision. Every now and then, you caught Bakugou watching you from the corner of his eye. Even while talking to his father and Izuku, it felt like part of his attention never truly left you. Your eyes crossed more often than you should care to admit.
The rest of the dinner went smoothly, and for a moment, you almost forgot that you were both pretending. Cinderella sends her regards. You discovered that Midoriya — though he insisted you call him Deku — worked in the police, stating that what he loved the most was saving lives. Later on, you found yourself far too amused when Masaru suggested pulling out baby pictures of your boss, which he, unfortunately, shut down with a loud “fucking no” to everyone’s face. A waste, indeed.
“All right, everyone,” Masaru began, rising with a champagne glass in hand. “I want to raise a toast to our Katsuki. First, because he just bought a freaking company — and that’s not something you do every day, right?”
The group burst into quiet laughter, even as Bakugou rolled his eyes and let out a huff.
“And also,” Mitsuki added, placing a hand over her husband’s on her shoulder, “we know you hate this lovey-dovey stuff, but we’re really proud of you.”
“Yeah, yeah, knock it off,” he muttered, though his gruff tone didn’t fully hide the softening in his expression.
You couldn’t resist the smile tugging at your lips as everyone raised their glasses. There was a warmth to this night that caught you off guard, and maybe — just maybe — a little guilt too. You hadn’t expected to like your boss’s family this much.
“Oh, and also for bringing such a lovely girl tonight,” Masaru added with a wink, prompting a round of chuckles and teasing from the others. “Cheers!”
You raised your own glass, catching a glimpse of Bakugou’s eyes on you — steady, unreadable. That flicker of something unfamiliar stirred inside your chest. A warmth that felt a little too real for your own good. That was sure a night you would remember for a long time in the safety of your nest.
Your thoughts were cut short by the sudden buzzing of your phone. You glanced at the screen absentmindedly — and your stomach dropped.
Ryotaro.
His name flashed insistently across the display.
No. Not again. Reality washed over you as images of him soaked your mind, it was like being hit by a truck.
“(Y/n)? Everything okay?”
Too late, you noticed the shift around the table. All eyes were on you, and your scent — sour, anxious — betrayed you. The three alphas present stilled, reacting instinctively to the Omega distress you didn’t even know you were emitting. You quickly ended the call.
“Sorry. Just some telemarketing crap,” you dismissed, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Y’know, very annoying.”
“Right,” Deku chuckled lightly, but none of them seemed very convinced. They didn’t believe you — not really — and the conversation picked up again more out of courtesy than comfort.
You silenced your phone and tried to keep up with the others, but your eyes kept drifting to the screen as message after message piled in. Missed calls. More texts.
The minutes were passing, but Ryotaro wasn’t letting up.
“What’s going on?” Bakugou’s voice was low, close to your ear, quiet enough that only you could hear it. He’d leaned in, head turned toward you with concern darkening his features. “Don’t fucking tell me it’s telemarketing.”
“It’s nothi—”
The screen lit up again. A message, bold and intrusive, appeared before you could swipe it away.
“Answer me, (Y/n), I’m not in the mood for your games.”
Bakugou’s eyes narrowed the second he caught the words. His jaw clenched. The scent of your nervousness only intensified, and his body, on instinct, leaned closer, protective.
“The fuck is that?” he growled, barely holding back the urge to snatch the phone from your hand.
“Katsuki?” It was Mitsuki this time, eyeing you both with new concern.
You jumped in quickly, before he could say anything. “I need to use the bathroom. Ochaco, could you show me the w—”
“I’ll take you.” Bakugou stood immediately, a firm hand closing around your elbow before anyone could argue. His tone left no room for protest.
He guided you across the yard and into the house, silent, purposeful. For a moment, you really thought he would take you to the bathroom — until he turned sharply into a hallway and stopped, placing himself directly in front of you.
His arms crossed, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read every unspoken thought.
“Mind to explain now?”
You bit your lip. “Not really, no.”
His upper lip curled a little.
“Omega.” A warning.
Your inner omega almost submitted to that single word. Almost.
An exasperated sigh left your lips. You honestly didn’t need that.
“With all due respect, I know I still work for you, but that’s not exactly your business, you know? Last time I checked, we’re still pretending here. You don’t have to worry about that.” You knew that wasn’t the proper thing to say to your boss, of all people, but since you were both playing happy couple in front of his family, you figured you had some rights now.
“It is my business when you’re standing in front of my family, my scent all over you, and you suddenly get all weird over a message from another guy. No omega, it’s damn well my business.”
You swallowed visibly, looking up at him through your lashes.
“It’s not like you’re my alpha, okay?”
He squinted at you, not very happy with that answer.
“Sure I’m not. ‘Cause if I were, you wouldn’t be hiding things from me unless you wanted to be put over my knee.”
You almost choked.
“Excuse me?” At this point, there wasn’t even a proper retort for that, and you could punch yourself for the way your inner omega whined at the commanding tone. Bakugou, of course, remained unfazed.
“I told you earlier, I am your alpha for the night, and I’m gonna act like it. And believe me, I do not appreciate secrets from my partners. Fakish or not.”
Outraged, you nearly snorted at the audacity, but one look at him told you he wasn’t going to let it go. The promise of being thrown over his knee lingered in his ruby eyes, making you avert your own.
“Just tell me already. Who the hell is this guy, and why are you so distressed?”
You sighed once more, closing your eyes and accepting defeat. “All right, so, this is Ryotaro. He’s… my ex-boyfriend.”
As you pronounce the last words, his face twisted with something you couldn’t quite name. Alpha pheromones thickened in the air like a sudden storm.
“Ex-boyfriend, you said?” The words came tight, as if he was fighting a growl.
What was that? It sure wasn’t the reaction you were expecting.
“I broke up with him months ago because he—” You hesitated, unsure if you wanted to share that humiliating part of your life.
“Because what?” He demanded through clenched teeth. His alpha instinct had already filled in the blanks — someone had hurt you, and all he could think about was how to make the bastard bleed.
“It’s no big deal, actually. He made it clear I wasn’t the best option for mating when I caught him cheating on me.” You laughed dryly, trying to sound indifferent.
That caught Bakugou off guard because, one, what a dick. Two, what kind of idiot would cheat on you when even he could barely control himself around your sweet omega scent and demeanor? And God knows he wasn’t interested in a mate since, well, forever.
“I know. Pathetic, right? And with a friend of mine, if you care to know.” You rambled, mistaking his silence for pity and trying to brush it off with fake humor. “I mean, I’m sure you’re not really interested, but it wasn’t very nice of him to do it in my old apartment, of all places. Can you believe that? Didn’t even bother to hide it…”
He kept silent until you stopped the nonsense, realizing you were speaking too much. You cleared your throat.
“Sorry, it doesn’t matter.”
“He hurt you, didn’t he?”
You faced him once more, lost in the way his ruby eyes could go from domineering to soft, a feat you would never say he could accomplish. You nodded slowly before you could stop yourself.
He said nothing, jaw tight, the muscle ticking in his cheek. You wondered if he was trying to hold back a growl. Or a curse. Or both.
“Idiot,” he muttered at last. You weren’t sure if he meant Ryotaro or you.
But then, after a beat, he added, “You should’ve told me.”
It wasn’t an accusation. It was… something else. Something you couldn’t name. Warm. Protective.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Almost two weeks now.”
“Did you block him?”
You confirmed with your head. “Yeah, but he changed numbers. And I don’t wanna change mine because of him.”
Bakugou nodded. You didn’t want to give him any more power over you. Fair enough.
“Has he tried to see you in person?”
“No.”
“Do you think he will?”
“I mean… maybe? He’s being insistent.”
“Are you scared of him?”
“I-” You frowned, thinking of it for the first time. “He's never been violent with me, so… no, I guess? I’m just nervous, that’s all. I don’t wanna see him or talk to him, and he’s being kind of a creep.”
As you murmured the last part, your phone lit up — another call from Ryotaro.
“All right. Give me the phone.”
“Uh?” You blinked dumbly.
“The phone. Give it to me.”
“What? No!”
The call kept ringing, cellphone tight in your grip as you watch Bakugou’s outstretched hand. Waiting for you to obey his command like giving orders was his second nature. Well, you guessed it was, actually.
“What for?” You asked, carefully.
Bakugou didn't falter, raising a single eyebrow, lips in a thin line. He wasn't going to take it from you. He wanted you to give it to him, willingly.
“You really don’t have to worry about this…”
He kept in silent, as if telling you “I’m not gonna say it again”.
You looked at your phone. His hand. The phone again. Then back to his eyes.
Oh boy.
You felt smaller under his gaze, all the traces of an alpha in his posture. Not afraid, and not in a bad way. Just… compliant. Yielding like it was instinct. Without thinking, you slowly placed the device in his palm.
“Good girl.”
Your omega practically preened at the praise, purring before you could stop it. If he took notice of it and of your heated face, he didn’t comment, sparing you the embarrassment.
The call had ended, but he was already dialing back.
“Wait, don't!”
Too late. Ryotaro answered in two seconds.
“(Y/n)? Final—”
“Listen closely, you piece of shit.”
Silence. You held your breath.
“Call my omega again, and we’re gonna have a little conversation about it.”
Your mouth dropped open, disbelief washing your features. Bakugou didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. His vermillion gaze told you plainly: Yes. I fucking said that.
Your stomach twisted. Heat pooled low in your belly. You squeezed your thighs together. When did this hallway get so narrow? Has Bakugou always been this close? Right hand holding the phone to his ear, left arm on the wall, mere centimeters above your head. Would he feel the shudder in your breath?
“Uh? Who the hell are you? Where’s (Y/n)?”
“I’m gonna say this once, so you better listen. You’re not gonna talk to her. You’re not gonna look for her. And you’re sure as hell not gonna see her again. She wants nothing to do with you. And if I so much as hear a whisper about you coming near her…” A pause. “It won’t end well for you.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Try and find out.”
Click.
You had no words when he offered you the phone again, taking it in slow motion, your eyes never leaving his face. Awestruck.
“Done, omega.”
“I— what? I can’t believe you did that.”
“He’s not gonna bother you again.”
“How you so sure?”
Bakugou shrugged. “If he somehow grows some balls and decides to do it, I’ll keep my promise and deal with him.”
“But you’re my boss, not my boyfriend.” You murmur, still very conscious of how close you were. He hadn’t moved an inch.
His arm slid lower on the wall, body leaning to face your height. Your heart faltered, chest rising.
“Do I have to repeat myself? What did I say I was today?”
His eyes dropped to your throat as you swallowed hard. Then back to your lips.
“My alpha.” You whispered.
The corner of his mouth lifted into a mischievous grin. “Good girl.”
“You can’t do that.”
“What, omega?”
You gestured between you, your finger nearly brushing his chest. “You can’t say things like that when…”
“When?”
“When I’ll be working for you like any other day on Monday morning. This is— it’s not appropriate, we shouldn’t—”
Your words died in a gasp when Bakugou’s fingers reached out for your face, tracing your lips with a warm digit and parting them slightly. Your face flushed hot.
“Don’t tell me you’re not feeling this shit, omega,” he said, voice low and rough. “Because I’ve been feeling it since the first day we met. You’re driving me fucking crazy.”
“Feeling… what?”
He chuckled darkly, leaning in. “That’s how you wanna play it?”
He was mere centimeters from your face now, hot breath mixing with yours. His caramel scent in your nostrils making your mind go fuzzy. You were sure your heartbeat had stopped once you felt his lips graze yours. “'Cause I can play, omega.”
“Please, stop.” You said, a hand on his chest. Emotion cracked in your voice.
He froze.
“It may mean nothing to you… but I don’t think I can handle being treated like a game again.”
Bakugou pulled back, eyes darkening into something unreadable.
“The fuck does that mean?”
“Just because you’re my boss doesn’t mean you can use me like a pastime.”
Now that offended him.
“Is that what you think this is?” He pointed between you, upper lip raised. You flinched. “Like hell I’d scent a ‘pastime’ like I did earlier. Like I’d risk everything I built for one. Like I’d bring a ‘pastime’ to meet my fucking family. Guess you’re too smart for me, huh.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
“That’s not fair.” You finally whispered.
“No shit, omega.”
“Katsuki—”
“The bathroom’s on the left.”
With that said, he turned his back and disappeared down the hallway.
I loved writing this chapter. Hope you guys enjoy too. Please, tell me what you're thinking in the comments <3
My mom to her friends, my aunts, and literally everyone she knows: Yeah, my kid is so smart. She is on her phone a lot of the time, but it's not like you guys think, She is not like how kids nowadays are, She reads a lot of books on her phone!!
Me, a fanfic reader who can survive off nothing but just words and day dreams herself to sleep:
↳ ❝ { A man that scams will always be a man that can spend, especially on you. He’s not your boyfriend but his scamming ass most definitely acts like it even though he has a girlfriend and it’s not you? You show Sukuna exactly why you can’t have your cake and eat it too. } ¡! ❞
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Sukuna’s knuckles tap against the steering wheel as he waits for the ancient ATM to finish churning. The engine hums beneath him, low and steady like his patience. It’s his second pickup today — a card from a burner he’d finessed into thinking it was a refund from their bank. Easy. Too easy. Money wasn’t the problem.
You were.
His phone vibrates.
You. Again.
I want the mango smoothie. From that spot. You know which one.
Another buzz.
Also, I booked a lash appointment. $120. Tip included. Thank you.
And then, a call. You don’t even wait. You never wait.
He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and answers, “I’m busy.”
You snort. “Yeah, and I’m bored. So? We both have problems.”
“You know I’m with someone,” he reminds you flatly, but there’s no conviction behind the words. It’s not a warning — it’s a recycled excuse.
You laugh, low and cunningly, like that was the most irrelevant thing he could’ve said. “She’s cute. Kinda basic, but cute. She doesn’t know you’re mine yet, huh?”
“I’m not yours.”
“Mhm. Keep lying to yourself, baby. Send the money or I will be by that little apartment and ask you for it in front of her.”
Sukuna’s jaw clenches. You’ve done it before. Strolled up in your tiny little shorts, glossy lips pouting, acting clueless with your hand out like he owed you rent. You didn’t yell. You didn’t fight. You just existed, right in front of his girlfriend, oozing confidence and ownership, like you were daring her to put two and two together.
He should’ve blocked you. Ages ago. But somehow, his thumb moves without hesitation, pulling up Cash App and sending the exact amount. Plus a $50 tip. He adds a memo: Happy now?
“See? That wasn’t so hard,” you say sweetly. “Now go get my smoothie. Don’t forget the protein boost this time — I swear to god if you get the wrong one, I’ll throw it at your car and make it look like a hate crime.”
“I’m working.”
“So work faster. Then come see me.”
“You got a problem, you know that?”
“Yeah, and you love it. Now send me your location so I know when you’re close. I want to be ready when you pull up.”
You’re in the mirror, lip-glossing your already glossy lips. Outfit short, tight, just enough to say I don’t need you, but I know you’re coming anyway. Your phone buzzes again.
5 mins.
You don’t reply. You want him to wait at the door.
He doesn’t knock. He never does. You hear the lock twist — he must’ve kept the key from the last time he crashed here after telling his girl he was “out late working.”
You greet him from the couch without looking. “Where’s my smoothie?”
“Kitchen,” he grumbles, dropping it on the counter like it physically hurt him to deliver it.
You take your sweet time getting up. Stretch, pout, glance over your shoulder. “You didn’t forget the protein boost, did you?”
“No.”
“You listen so well.”
Sukuna rolls his eyes but doesn’t leave. He watches you sip it slowly, eyes trailing up your legs. His tongue pokes at his cheek like he hates what he’s thinking.
“You done now?” he asks.
“With what?”
“This shit. Acting like I’m some errand boy.”
You give him a slow smile. “You’re not. You’re my trick.”
He laughs, sharp and humorless. “Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll remind you who the fuck you’re dealing with.”
“You think I don’t know?” you purr, stepping close, finger tracing down his chest. “You’re a lying, cheating, scamming piece of shit. But you’re my lying, cheating, scamming piece of shit. And when I say ‘jump’…”
“I block your number,” he cuts in.
You smirk. “Then why haven’t you?”
Silence.
Your voice softens, head tilting. “Why’d you even come, ‘Kuna?”
His jaw flexes again. “Because you don’t shut the fuck up until I do.”
“Aww.” You grin, all teeth. “So you missed me.”
He glares. You sip your smoothie. And like always, he doesn’t leave. Not yet.
He’s already too far gone to fight it — not when you know his triggers. Not when you’re the only one who doesn’t ask him to be good.
Sukuna’s still standing by the kitchen counter, arms crossed like he’s trying to convince himself to leave. You’re sprawled out on one of your island chairs, your legs up, sipping your smoothie slowly — the straw pressed right between your glossed lips like you’re daring him to remember what your mouth feels like.
He won’t look directly at you and something’s different tonight. You watch him for a moment, then ask lazily, “Why are you still standing there like you’re waiting for someone to pull the plug?”
He doesn’t answer.
You shift upright. Your tone changes — quieter, sharper. “She think you’re still working?”
His jaw ticks. “She’s not stupid.”
“No. She’s just in denial.” You pause. “Kinda like you.”
He finally looks at you. There’s a flash of something dark in his eyes — anger, or maybe guilt, maybe both. You hold the stare like it’s a challenge.
“I’m not in denial,” he says flatly. “I know exactly what this is.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah? Then what is this?”
He doesn’t answer because he can’t.
Not without exposing something he’s been refusing to name — the fact that it’s not just about sex or control anymore. That he drives across the city for you even when you don’t ask. That he saves your texts even when you’re being a brat. That he answers your calls every single time, even if he’s in bed with someone else.
You lean forward, elbows on the island counter, voice soft but cutting. “You keep saying I’m not your girlfriend, Sukuna… but you sure act like I’m something.”
He scoffs, looking away. “You’re not.”
“Then why are you here?” you ask again. “Why do you always come back?”
His voice is quieter now, barely above a mutter. “Because you don’t ask me to be someone I’m not.”
You blink.
That hits different.
He’s still not looking at you. He’s staring at the floor like he regrets saying it, like the truth slipped out and now he wants to shove it back down his throat. His fingers twitch like he wants to light a cigarette but knows you hate the smell.
“You just want me to pay for your lashes and fuck you when you’re bored.”
“And you do it.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “I do.”
You get up slowly and stand in front of him — bare feet on the tile, smoothie forgotten. You stop just short of touching him.
“Tell me something,” you whisper. “If I told you to stay tonight — if I told you I wanted more than sex — would you run? Or would you lie to me too?”
Sukuna’s breathing slows. His eyes meet yours — hard, unreadable, but flickering. For the first time, he doesn’t have a smart-ass remark. Doesn’t snap or deflect.
You smirk, but it’s softer now. “Thought so.”
You turn and walk away, heading toward your bedroom. “Come when you’re done pretending you don’t care.”
And he stands there a long, long moment.
The hum of the fridge. The quiet drip of the sink. The weight of everything unsaid.
Then, without a word, he follows you down the hall.
The walls are sweating.
So are you.
You’re on your back, legs around his waist, your lips swollen from kissing, tugging, biting. Sukuna’s mouth is still hovering above your chest, breath hot and ragged. His shirt’s halfway off — yours is somewhere on the floor — and his hands are wrapped around your thighs like he owns them.
He doesn’t say your name when he’s like this. He groans it. Growls it. Like he’s fighting it every time.
You drag your nails lightly down his back and whisper, smug, breathy, “Took you long enough.”
He doesn’t answer. Just rolls his hips against yours, letting you feel just how hard he is — how bad he wants it. Wants you. You moan — soft, drawn out — and hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweats.
His phone buzzes.
Once.
Then again.
Neither of you move — not until the third buzz.
You glance at the screen. Her name. His girlfriend. Big and bold.
You laugh under your breath. It’s not amused. It’s mean.
“You gonna get that?” you purr.
He ignores it. Dips his head lower, kisses your neck.
Buzz.
You pull back. “No, seriously. That’s your girlfriend, right? She misses you.”
“Don’t start,” he mutters, voice thick and low.
You smirk. You live to start.
Buzz.
You shift, suddenly straddling him, naked thighs draped across his hips. Your fingers ghost up his chest, teasing. “Go ahead,” you whisper. “Pick it up. Answer her. Tell her where you are. Tell her what you’re doing.”
His jaw tightens. “You’re not funny.”
“You think I’m joking?” Your eyes glint with challenge. “Come on, Sukuna. You always act so cold. So detached. Prove it. Pick up the phone.”
His hand shoots out and flips the phone face-down on the nightstand — hard.
“Ohhh,” you tease. “So you do care.”
He grabs your waist, pulls you flush against him. “You really want me to ruin this right now?”
You lean in, your lips brushing his ear. “Maybe I want to see if you’ll choose her.”
His grip tightens. His fingers dig into your skin like he’s on the edge of breaking something — you, himself, this whole unstable arrangement. You know exactly what you’re doing. And he hates that he loves it.
“I don’t choose either of you,” he grits out.
“That’s not true,” you say, softer now. “You always choose me. You just don’t say it.”
Silence.
Then the buzzing stops.
You can almost feel his pulse slow down with it.
You press a kiss to his throat, then lower, letting your lips trail down his chest. “Now where were we?”
He flips you onto your back like he’s punishing you for the game — but you feel the truth in the way his hands shake just slightly when they touch you.
The second the phone goes silent, Sukuna’s whole energy shifts.
No more hesitation. No more games.
He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, body pressing down into yours, heavy and hot. His voice is low, dangerous — the kind that makes your stomach flutter.
“You think this is a joke?”
You blink up at him, wide-eyed and unbothered. “I think you didn’t answer.”
He laughs, dark and breathless. “You wanna be a fucking brat? Fine.”
You don’t get a chance to respond. His mouth is on you — teeth grazing your neck, lips trailing heat down your collarbone, his grip on your wrists unforgiving. You arch into him instinctively, already soaked from the build-up, the power play, the way you pushed him right to the edge and dared him to fall over.
He kisses down your stomach — rough, fast — like he’s trying to erase the smirk from your face with his tongue.
“Keep talking shit,” he mutters, yanking your thighs apart, “but don’t pretend you didn’t want me to lose it.”
You moan when he touches you — no teasing now. Two fingers sliding between your legs, slow and slick, his eyes locked on you like he wants to memorize every little twitch of your body. You’re still tied up in the sheets, wrists pinned, but you manage to grind down against his hand.
“You’re such a whore for me,” he growls.
You bite your lip. “Only you.”
That breaks him.
He curses under his breath and lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your hole once, twice — just enough to make you whimper.
“Say it again.”
You blink at him, lashes fluttering. “You want me to say I’m yours?”
“I want you to admit that you love being ruined by me.”
He pushes in slow — too slow — and you cry out, back arching, every nerve catching fire.
“Fuck, Sukuna—”
“That’s right,” he grunts, snapping his hips forward and bottoming out in one brutal stroke. You choke on a moan.
His pace is relentless. Deep. Bruising. Every thrust is a punishment for the call you made him ignore, for the tone you used, for the way you keep playing with him like he’s something you own.
But he never stops kissing you.
Your wrists are free now — his hands roam, gripping your thighs, your hips, your jaw. His lips crush yours between gasps and groans, like he needs to keep you quiet, or maybe like he needs to feel you completely.
You wrap your legs around him tighter, pulling him deeper, chasing that edge.
“You’re fucking mine,” he growls into your mouth.
You smile against his lips. “I know.”
That’s when he really loses it.
One hand between your legs again, fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit as he drives into you harder. You’re babbling his name now, moaning loud and shameless as your whole body tenses — your orgasm hitting hard and fast, your nails dragging down his back.
He fucks you through it. Growling in your ear.
“You make me crazy,” he hisses.
“Good,” you pant. “Stay crazy.”
When he finishes, it’s with a curse and a stifled groan into your neck — his hips jerking, heat spilling inside you, his breath ragged and uneven.
For a long moment, there’s just silence.
Sweat. Steam. Skin.
And then, his voice — quieter, raw.
“You’re gonna ruin me.”
You smile into his chest. “Already did.”
His girlfriend is in his kitchen — hair tied up, wearing his shirt, pouring almond milk into her cereal like her life’s normal.
Sukuna leans against the wall, shirtless, pretending to check his phone for work stuff.
But he’s not looking at emails. He’s looking for you.
Nothing.
No missed calls. No “good morning” texts. No bratty demands. No screenshot of a cart full of things you expect him to pay for.
Just silence.
And it’s fucking deafening.
She walks past him, plants a kiss on his cheek, completely unaware of the way he flinches when her lips touch his skin.
“You coming to brunch later with my friends?” she asks cheerfully.
He nods, distracted. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Sukuna goes upstairs and sits on the edge of the bed, staring at his phone. He’s already opened your thread three times, thumb hovering over the keyboard, typing… deleting… typing again.
He settles on something simple. Too neutral. Too safe.
You good?
Three dots. Typing.
Then they vanish.
Nothing.
A minute passes. Then five.
Then he sends another.
Need anything?
Still nothing.
His jaw clenches. He hates the feeling sitting in his chest — this unfamiliar tightness, like he’s the one waiting now. Like you flipped the whole damn dynamic and didn’t even warn him.
He’s so used to you being loud. So used to you texting him at midnight with “send money or I’ll start screaming,” or calling just to breathe heavy until he caves.
But this?
This is new.
This is quiet.
And it’s driving him insane.
You see the texts. You saw them immediately. But you don’t answer. You sit in bed with your hair a mess and your phone in your lap, sipping cold coffee and rereading the same message:
You good?
For once, your fingers don’t type back. You don’t send a cash app request or demand to see him. You don’t even post a story.
You just… sit in it.
Because if he really wanted you — really wanted you — he wouldn’t have gone back to her.
He would’ve stayed.
You told yourself you’d stop begging. Stop calling. If he wanted her, fine. He could have her. But he doesn’t get to have you on mute anymore. Not like this.
Let him miss you.
Let him sweat.
You leave him on read.
And somewhere, in the middle of brunch with a girl he doesn’t love, Sukuna stares at his phone like he just lost something he didn’t know he could lose.
Sukuna’s sitting on his couch, staring at the same thread with no new messages. Still just those two texts from him. Still marked read.
Nothing since.
Not even a like.
Not even a petty response.
Not even a fake cash request.
His chest’s been tight all damn day. Not the kind of tight you can fix with weed or a drive or another scam.
It’s deeper.
Like something he’s used to having at his fingertips just disappeared overnight, and now his hands don’t know what to reach for.
He hasn’t told anyone. But he hasn’t been okay. His girl comes out in leggings and a tee. Tosses her towel over the couch. “Are you seriously still out here?” she asks, almost laughing. “You’ve been off lately.”
He doesn’t answer. She walks over, arms folded, eyebrow raised. “I’m serious, Sukuna. You’ve been somewhere else. For like a week. What is it? Work?”
He doesn’t even bother lying.
“Work’s fine.”
She blinks. “Then what?”
He runs a hand through his hair. Avoids eye contact.
She waits. Crosses her arms tighter.
“…Did I do something?” she asks softly now. “Did I say something that pissed you off?”
He glances at her, guilt simmering in the pit of his stomach.
“No.”
“Then what is it? I’m trying to talk to you and you’ve just been—” She gestures to him. “—here, but not here.”
He says nothing.
And that’s when she realizes.
Her voice drops a little. “Is there… someone else?”
His jaw clenches. The pause that follows isn’t long — but it’s long enough.
She breathes in sharp. “Are you serious?”
“I didn’t say anything,” he mutters.
“You didn’t have to,” she snaps.
She takes a step back like she just touched something burning. Her arms drop. Her face twists — not into anger, not yet — but confusion. Hurt. Humiliation.
“Who is she?”
He stays silent.
“She must be important,” she says, bitter. “If you’re this miserable without her.”
That one hits him.
Because you are important.
And this is miserable.
And he knows — he fucking knows — that none of this would be happening if he’d stayed that night. If he’d just reached for you in the morning instead of going back to this quiet, clean, safe nothing.
She swallows hard, trying to keep her voice steady. “You’ve never looked at me like I was missing.”
Sukuna says nothing.
Because he can’t.
You haven’t posted in four days. Haven’t called. Haven’t sent a “where’s my money” text.
Your silence isn’t for revenge. It’s for self-control. It’s the only kind of power you still have. And it’s working.
Because he’s spiraling.
And you know it.
Your finger hovers over his name again. You think about typing something — something casual, something petty, something to reel him back in.
But you don’t. You toss your phone onto the bed. If he wants you? He’ll have to say it. Out loud.
To your face.
He left his phone on the kitchen counter — stupid, distracted, trying to roll a blunt with shaking hands.
She’s pacing the living room behind him, arms crossed, mind racing. She hasn’t spoken since earlier, but she hasn’t left either.
He can feel her watching him. Feel her searching for answers he refuses to give.
And when he heads to the bathroom, door clicking shut?
She makes a decision.
She picks up the phone.
No password. He never locked it around her. He never thought he had to.
She scrolls fast — texts, apps, skipped names — until she sees yours.
And she knows.
Because the thread is long.
Because the messages are late.
Because it’s filled with cash app receipts and “come through” and “you coming or not” and voice memos that don’t even try to hide how intimate they sound.
You’re bold. You’ve always been bold.
And then she sees the last two texts from Sukuna:
You good?
Need anything?
And your silence.
She stares at it a moment. Heart in her throat. Jealousy curling in her stomach like acid.
She opens your thread.
And she types.
You know who I am, don’t you.
Three dots.
Then they vanish.
You don’t reply.
Not immediately.
She keeps going.
I’m the girlfriend.
The one who’s been here the whole time while you’ve been sneaking around with my man.
I just want to know—what do you think this is?
Nothing. Silence.
But she sees that “Read” receipt.
She knows you saw it.
She waits.
And then—you respond.
I think he answers my calls faster than yours.
And I think you should ask him what this is, not me.
That’s it. That’s all you send.
Because you don’t have to explain yourself.
She stares at the screen like she’s waiting for it to change, like maybe if she looks long enough it’ll mean something else. But it doesn’t.
You said what you said. And now, she’s not just mad. She’s wrecked.
Sukuna steps out, towel slung over his shoulder, still wiping his jaw.
Stops dead in his tracks when he sees her holding his phone.
When he sees your name on the screen.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
She holds it up. “You wanna explain this?”
He goes still. Doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t deny it. She laughs bitterly. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” The air’s thick with tension.
The TV’s on but silent. A blue glow flickers across her face as she stands in the living room, Sukuna’s phone still in her hand.
Your message —
“Ask him what this is.”
— sits on the screen like a match waiting to be struck.
Sukuna rubs his face, pacing once before stopping in front of her.
“Give me the phone.”
“No.” Her voice is sharp now. “You don’t get to shut me down and walk away. You’ve been walking away from this for a week.”
He exhales. “I didn’t want this to blow up.”
“Oh, so what? You thought you could just have both of us quietly?” she scoffs. “Did you love the attention? Was it just sex? Or are you in love with her too?”
That word lands like a gunshot.
His jaw flexes. He doesn’t answer.
Her face twists — pain, betrayal, disbelief all tangled together. “Wow. You really can’t even say no, can you?”
Sukuna turns his back to her like he can hide from the weight of it all.
“I didn’t mean for it to go that far,” he mutters. “It just… happened.”
She laughs — but there’s no humor in it. “Right. Because she forced your hand. She held a gun to your head and made you fall into her bed?”
He spins around, voice tight. “Don’t talk like you know anything about her.”
And that — that’s the moment she knows it’s over.
The way he said “her.”
Like she’s not just a mistake.
Like she means something.
“You just proved it,” she says quietly.
She steps closer, eyes locked on his. “I was gonna fight for this. I was gonna try. But if you’re standing here defending her more than being honest with me, then what the fuck are we even doing?”
Sukuna says nothing.
His silence is louder than any confession.
She swallows hard and looks down at the phone.
Then back at him.
“You’ve got two choices,” she says finally. “You either walk away from her — right now, tonight — or you walk away from me.”
His breath catches.
It’s a cruel ultimatum, but a clean one. No more half-in, half-out. No more shadowy threads and side doors.
Choose.
He looks away. Long enough to answer without saying it. She hands him the phone. And walks out the door. Sukuna stands in the middle of the room, holding his phone. Your message still sits at the bottom of the thread.
He exhales. Thumbs hover over the screen.
And finally—
I need to see you.
You didn’t answer his text.
Not when he said “I need to see you.”
Not when he sent “Please.”
Not even when he called — twice — and left that dead silent voicemail with nothing but his breath on the line.
So now?
He’s at your door.
It’s almost midnight when you hear the knock. You glance through the peephole and see him — hoodie up, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets like he’s not sure whether to knock again or walk away.
You open the door, just a crack.
Eyes cold. Arms crossed.
No smile. No welcome.
He stares at you a long second before speaking.
“You not answering me is driving me fucking insane.”
Your voice is calm. “Good.”
That stings him. You see it.
He runs a hand over his face, exhaling sharp.
“I’m not gonna lie to you. I handled everything wrong. I was selfish. I let shit drag out because I didn’t want to face what it would mean if I chose you.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And what does it mean?”
He looks at you then — really looks at you.
“It means I’d have to admit I caught feelings when I swore I wouldn’t. That I care more than I ever should’ve. That I was starting to feel like I belong to you.” You don’t flinch. But you don’t soften either.
“So why now?” you ask. “Why show up when it’s finally quiet? You afraid I really meant it when I stopped reaching out?”
“Yeah,” he says honestly. “I am.”
You open the door wider.
But still, you don’t step aside.
“You want back in, Sukuna? Then prove it. Show me you’re not just here because it’s convenient now that she’s gone.”
His jaw tics.
“I don’t want convenient. I want you.”
“Why?” you press. “Say it.”
He hesitates. “ Because when shit hits the fan, I think of you. Not her. Because when I’m tired, or pissed, or losing it — you’re the only one I want to hear. Because no matter how cold you get, no matter how loud you scream, I feel something with you.”
You swallow that, hard. That one hits somewhere deep. And still, you don’t move. He steps closer. “If you tell me to leave right now, I will. But I’ll still want you. And I’ll still try again tomorrow. And the day after.”
You finally speak, softer this time.
“And what happens when it’s not fun anymore? When I’m not bratty or hot or easy to chase? When I’m just someone who needs more than what you give when you’re in the mood?”
Sukuna doesn’t blink.
“Then I give more.”
The silence stretches.
You’re scared. You hate that you still care. But the way he’s looking at you now — like there’s no mask left, like he’s not playing games anymore — it’s different. It’s messy. But it’s real.
You open the door fully.
“Then come in.”
Sukuna’s been coming over most nights. Not for sex. Not for excuses. Just to be there.
He sits on your couch while you scroll your phone in silence. Sometimes you let him pick dinner. Sometimes you don’t say two words all night.
And it’s driving him crazy. Not because you’re mean. Not because you’re punishing him. But because you’re calm. Controlled. You’re not yelling, not begging, not chasing. And that is what scares him most.
Tonight, you’re curled on the far side of the couch, eating fruit from a glass bowl. Your hair’s wrapped. Your robe’s loose. And you haven’t looked at him in ten full minutes.
Sukuna watches you like he’s trying to find a crack in the wall you built — a way back in.
“I miss how you used to talk to me,” he says finally, voice low. You glance at him. “Yeah?” You pop a grape in your mouth. “You used to lie better too.” He sucks his teeth and leans forward, elbows on knees. “I’m trying now.”
“And you think a week of showing up quiet gets you a reward?”
His jaw tightens. But he knows better than to argue. You put the bowl down and turn to him fully. “I meant what I said.”
Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “That so?”
“Mmhm.” You cross your legs slowly. “You don’t get boyfriend benefits without boyfriend behavior. You wanna lay up here and enjoy my space, my energy, my body? Show me you’ve changed. Not for tonight. For good.”
He looks at you like you’ve just handed him terms on paper. And maybe you have.
“And what does that look like to you?” he asks.
You lean closer, voice calm but cutting. “I’m not your escape. I’m not your distraction. I’m not your backup plan when everything else falls apart. You wanna be in this? Then you show up on purpose. Not just when you feel me slipping away.”
The silence afterward is heavy. Real. Sukuna nods once. “I get it.” You raise a brow. “No, you hear it. I’ll see if you get it.”
Your thighs are warm against the white leather seats.
Your white mini skirt rides up when you cross your legs, and the cropped top you wore tonight still smells like the club: coconut rum, vanilla gloss, and expensive perfume. Hair laid, lip gloss still intact, sandals swinging lazily from your toes as you scroll.
Your friends are still out, dancing the night away. But you’re not.
You texted Sukuna instead.
Come get me.
I’m bored.
He answered in a second with no hesitation.
On my way.
No complaints. No “where you at?” No “I’m busy.”
Just movement.
He pulled up smooth in his car, didn’t look twice at the length of your skirt or the attitude you gave when you slid in like he was the one lucky to be picked.
And now, here you are — parked at some gas station near downtown, windows down, soft music playing low while he pumps gas.
Your phone’s in your hand, but you’re not scrolling anymore. You’re watching him. The way he walks. Calm. Hands deep in his pockets. No rush in his step, no tension in his jaw. Just… here. Just showing up. He finishes at the pump and heads into the store. You glance down at your skirt, tug it slightly, then stare out the window — jaw tightening just a little.
Because this is what you asked for, right?
Consistency. Presence. No more bullshit.
And now that he’s giving it — not perfectly, not loudly, but steadily — it’s doing something to you that you didn’t expect:
It’s making you want to reach back.
Sukuna slides into the driver’s seat with a plastic bag. Tosses it gently into your lap.
“You like peach rings, right?”
You blink. Look down. He got your favorite candy, plus water and chips. “And a Twix,” he adds. “Cause you be on that fake ‘I don’t want nothing sweet’ shit.”
You bite back a smirk and mumble, “Shut up.”
But something shifts. He starts the car, hand on the gear shift.
And before he can pull out, you reach across the console—
slow, like you’re not even sure why you’re doing it—
And place your hand on his thigh. Just rest it there. No teasing. No baiting. Just a soft, steady hold. His eyes flick to you, unsure.
You don’t look at him. Just watch the road like it’s nothing.
Like you didn’t just cross a line you’ve been guarding for weeks. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move your hand.
But you feel the way he breathes deeper —
feel the heat in the way his leg tenses under your palm. You glance at him once, then away.
“You’re trying,” you say, barely above a whisper.
He nods once. “I am.” You squeeze his thigh gently. Then pull your hand back.
But the air between you? It’s different now.
Because for the first time in a long time?
You touched him first.
Once he made it to your home, you don’t invite him in with words.
You just unlock the door, leave it cracked, and walk inside. He follows. No need to ask where to go. He’s been here enough to know the rhythm — shoes off, jacket hung, quiet like he’s scared to press his luck. But tonight, you want him to. Just a little.
You head straight to your room. White skirt swaying. Top riding up as you tug it loose from your bra. The lights are dim. Scented candle half-burned on your dresser. Fan humming. You sit at the edge of the bed, start to pull off your sandals.
He stands in the doorway. Watching. Like he doesn’t want to get it wrong.
You don’t look up, but your voice breaks the silence.
“You can come in, Sukuna.”
He moves slow, hands in his hoodie pocket. Not cocky, not smirking — careful.
You stretch your legs out in front of you. Your skin glowing in the soft light, that white mini riding scandalously high.
“Why’re you standing like you’re scared of me?” you tease, voice soft.
He exhales a quiet laugh. “Cause I don’t wanna mess this up.”
You finally look at him. Really look. “No more lies?” you ask. “No more lies,” he promises. You nod once. Then pat the bed beside you. He sits. Still quiet.
You shift, turning to face him. Letting your thigh brush his. Your fingers find the hem of your skirt and play with it slowly — not teasing, just thoughtful.
“You been good,” you murmur.
He looks at you, brow lifted.
You nod once. “You’ve been showing up. Not asking for more than I’m ready to give.” A pause. “And I notice that.”
You lean in. Lips close, but not touching. “You want to kiss me?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
You smile.
“Then do it like you mean it.”
His mouth meets yours with a softness that catches you off guard — like he’s not claiming, but asking. You kiss him back.
Hands sliding to his jaw, fingertips skimming the edge of his jawline .
He groans low when you deepen it. Tongues slow. Mouths syncing. No rush. Just heat. Just relief.
Like two people who’ve finally found the same rhythm after dancing around it for too long.
You break the kiss gently. Look at him. Look through him. Then slide your leg over his lap.
You’re straddling him now — chest to chest, lips swollen from the way you’ve been kissing each other like neither of you could breathe without it. The thin white top you wore out is peeled halfway up, his hands resting under the fabric, palms against the bare skin of your back like he’s holding something fragile for the first time. Your forehead’s pressed to his, your breathing slow and shaky as your hips begin to roll. His hands tighten. “Fuck…” Sukuna mutters, eyes fluttering shut. Because it’s not fast — it’s intentional.
You grind against him like you’ve been saving this up for weeks. Like every night you slept alone with your thighs clenched and your pride high, you were still thinking about this exact pressure — his length straining under his sweats, hot and hard against your core, both of you still fully clothed but already aching.
And he lets you take your time.
Just watches you — jaw clenched, eyes dark, hands tracing the curve of your hips as you move against him in slow, deliberate rolls.
“This what you missed?” you whisper, lips brushing his.
He groans — a deep, needy sound — and nods. “I missed you,” he murmurs, barely audible. You pause for a beat — long enough for both of you to feel the shift.
You reach between your bodies and pull at the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down just enough to free him. Your panties are still on — lacy, white, barely covering anything.
You push them to the side and sink down. Slow. So slow it feels like a confession.
Sukuna curses under his breath, body falling back against the bed, his grip bruising now as he grabs your waist — not to guide, just to feel.
You move in slow, deep circles. Not bouncing. Not racing. Just letting him fill you — letting your body memorize him again like he never left.
Your hands slide up his chest, nails grazing his skin as your eyes flutter shut.
“Fuck, I forgot how good you feel,” you murmur.
He growls softly, pulling you closer. One hand cradles your neck, thumb stroking the underside of your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. “I thought about this every night,” he whispers. “You on top. Taking your time. Making me wait.”
You moan — because you know it’s true. You wanted to make him wait. And now? You’re giving it to him, but on your terms.
You lean down, lips brushing his ear.
“This ain’t yours again, Sukuna,” you whisper, voice like silk. “Not yet.” His breath stutters. His hips twitch up involuntarily.
“Say you understand,” you tease, voice tightening as your pace picks up, slick sounds filling the space between your bodies now.
“I understand,” he gasps, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “I fucking understand.”
But his hands are shaking. Because the way you’re riding him now — hips rolling, walls clenching, heat pouring between you — it feels like more than just sex.
It feels like punishment and reward. It feels like forgiveness that hasn’t been spoken yet. It feels like longing finally allowed to burn. And when you both finish — bodies tangled, breath ragged, your fingers tangled in his hair, his mouth buried at your collarbone — it’s not loud.
It’s intimate.
His arms wrap around you like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he doesn’t hold you tight enough.
You wake up to warmth behind you.
Not sunlight — him.
Sukuna’s arm is slung across your waist, palm resting on the soft curve of your lower belly. His nose is buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady, like he’s been there all night, pressed to you like a second skin.
You shift a little. Not trying to wake him. Just testing the moment. He stirs anyway — always tuned to your body, even in sleep. “Mm,” he groans, voice hoarse. “Where you think you goin’, lil’ girl?” You smirk, eyes still closed “Bathroom. Maybe coffee. Maybe out to brunch without you.”
He groans louder this time, pulling you back tighter against him. “Nah. You not goin’ nowhere. You still mine ‘til at least noon.” You hum. “That so?”
“Mhm. Morning-after clause. You laid that punishment coochie on me and now I’m emotionally compromised. You owe me at least one full snuggle cycle.”
You roll your eyes but laugh — that small, grudging laugh that means you’re not mad at it. His voice drops lower, more real.
“You good?” You pause for a second. Then nod “Yeah.” His grip softens. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, lips lingering like he’s not sure he should do more, but wants to.
You turn in his arms to face him. Hair messy. Skin bare under the covers. No makeup. And he grins. “What,” you mutter, “why are you smiling like that?”
He shrugs, half-lazy, half-smug. “Just admiring my success. Look at you. Curled up in my arms. After all that ‘you on probation’ talk.”
You narrow your eyes. “You are still on probation.” He raises a brow, leans in to brush his lips over your cheek.
“And yet I’m here… in your bed… in your sheets… with your thigh over mine like I’m not going anywhere.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Oh, baby. It’s too late.”
You swat his chest and he laughs — the real one. The one you hadn’t heard in weeks.
And it does something to you. Because this isn’t just the smug Sukuna who knows how good he’s got it. This is the Sukuna who stayed. Who kissed your shoulder when he thought you were still asleep. Who folded your robe over the back of the chair instead of tossing it to the floor.
Who checked your fridge and already mentally planned breakfast in his head even though he acts like he doesn’t cook.
You watch him. Not smiling, but not guarded either. “You hungry?” he asks, already sitting up, bare chest on display. “You cooking?”
“Hell yeah. You don’t remember? I make a god-tier bacon, egg, and apology sandwich.”
You roll your eyes. “You are so annoying.”
He leans over, kisses your forehead gently.
“And you look fine as hell in the morning light. So we’re even.”
You don’t say anything when he gets up and disappears into the kitchen. You just lie there for a second, biting the inside of your cheek. Because the version of him you have this morning? Is very different from the one you almost gave up on. And while you’re not falling yet…you are watching.
He’s in your kitchen like he owns it. Sweats slung low on his hips, no shirt, tattoos cutting sharp under morning light as he moves between stove and counter with a kind of ease that makes your chest pull tight. Like he belongs here. Like this isn’t borrowed time. Bacon’s sizzling. Eggs already fluffed in the pan. Bagels in the toaster.
You sit on the barstool, robe pulled loosely around your frame, still warm from the sheets, thighs crossed, eyes sharp but quiet.
You’re watching him.
And he knows.
“You always stare like that in the morning?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m deciding.” He raises a brow. “On what?”
“If you’re gonna be worth the emotional whiplash today.” He smirks, sliding the spatula under the eggs with lazy confidence.
“Oh, we doin’ the cute bratty shit again? Thought I earned a grace period after last night.” You shrug. “Grace has to be renewed daily. Like a subscription.”
He chuckles low, pulling plates from your cupboard without asking. He’s done this before. He remembers.
“Relax,” he says, setting a plate down in front of you. “I’m feeding you. That’s at least one star toward my trial run, right?”
You eye the plate: eggs, bacon, bagels just how you like it. freshly squeezed orange juice. No flashy extras, just right.
“Two stars,” you admit quietly. He leans against the counter across from you, sipping his own juice. Then gets quiet. And you feel it — that shift.
You eat a few bites in silence before you glance up and catch it in his eyes: not the usual fire, not the smugness. Something… heavier. Softer.
“What?” you ask.
He looks down at his food. Takes a second. “I needed that last night,” he says, almost under his breath. You pause, fork halfway to your mouth. “Needed the sex?” you ask, lips twitching.
He scoffs. “I mean—yeah. But not just that.” You put your fork down. Let him talk. He shifts, exhales, and rubs the back of his neck — that small tell that he’s uncomfortable with his own truth. “I didn’t realize how much I missed… not pretending,” he admits.
You blink. Stay quiet.
“I was so wrapped in shit — scams, running plays, keeping up with bullshit, acting like I don’t give a fuck even when I do…” His voice trails off, then he looks at you. Really looks.
“And then you called me. And I pulled up. And for the first time in a long-ass time, I felt like I could just be. No games. No show. Just… you and me.”
You swallow. Hard. “I didn’t mean to—” He stops. Starts again. “I wasn’t planning on staying last night. I thought I’d drop you off, maybe talk shit, flirt a little…”
“But then you stayed,” you finish.
“Then I stayed.”
You both go quiet again. But it’s not heavy — it’s real. He leans forward, arms resting on the counter, tone lower now. “You got no idea how good it felt to wake up and not have to pretend I was somewhere else. Not have to sneak out. Not have to lie about where I was.”
You meet his eyes.
And they’re open now — wide, raw, a little nervous.
“And I know I fucked a lot up before,” he adds. “I know I’m still earning my way back.”
He swallows.
“But if you let me… I’ll keep showin’ up. Not just when you call. Just because I want to.” The silence after is long. You could press. You could test him. You could cut into him with every moment he left you on read, every lie he swore wasn’t one.
But instead?
You pick your fork back up. Take another bite. And say, simply:
“Three stars.”
He laughs — breathless, relieved. You glance up. Your voice is soft, but firm. “You’re not off probation.”
“I know.”
“But I’m not kicking you out, either.”
“I noticed.”
You lift your glass, take a sip, and meet his eyes again. “Keep showing up, Sukuna. And don’t make me regret last night.” His smirk is cocky again. But his eyes? They’re grateful.
“I can do that.”
You didn’t text him first. Didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t even hint.
But he still pulls up in that matte grey car you love to pretend you’re unimpressed by, parking with a lazy angle in your driveway like he owns a piece of you now—and knows it.
You open the door in a tiny set of lounge shorts and a tank top, lip gloss shimmering, hair up like you weren’t expecting company… but weren’t mad about it either.
He steps in, hoodie unzipped, smirk already loading.
“Hi,” he says, like it’s the first time he’s ever walked in here. You arch a brow. “You tryna act brand new?”
“Nah.” He shrugs. “Just in a good mood.” You side-eye him, arms crossing under your chest. “What’d you do?” He walks right past you, brushing a kiss across your cheek as he heads into the living room like he lives here now.
“Nothing,” he says, digging into his hoodie pocket. “Just finished something clean. Needed to get out the way before the weekend.”
He turns and tosses something onto the kitchen counter with a dull thud. A stack. Crisp, wrapped bills. At least two bands. Maybe more.
You blink.
Then look up slowly.
“Boy, what the hell is this?”
He shrugs again, leaning against the counter, eyes shamelessly glued to your thighs now that you’ve taken a step closer. “You said you wanted consistency. I’m just contributing to the household.” You scoff. “We don’t live together.”
“Not yet.”
You click your tongue. “This supposed to impress me?” He licks his lips, tilting his head. “Nope. It’s supposed to shut you up for five minutes while I kiss on you.”
That earns a real smile from you—crooked, warm, unwilling. You step closer, tugging the banded stack toward you, flipping through it just to show him you’re not above being curious.
“Mm.” You look up through your lashes. “This a tip?”
“Nah,” he says, voice dipping. “It’s a thank-you. For keeping me sane this week.” He leans in, brushing his mouth against your jaw, then lower—kissing along the slope of your neck like he has time to spare. But the twitch in his hand against your waist says different.
“You got somewhere to be?” you murmur, voice low now. “Mmhmm. But not ‘til I make you melt a little.”
It starts fast.
The stack still laying on the counter. Your lips on his, fierce and unfiltered.
He lifts you up—hands under your thighs, pushing your shorts aside while your legs wrap around his waist without hesitation. You’re back against the nearest wall in seconds.
His mouth never leaves yours. But his hand? Already down the front of your panties, fingers slick and sure, two knuckles deep before your back even arches.
“Kuna—fuck—”
“I know, baby. I know.”
His breath is hot against your cheek, his body moving in rhythm with yours, his free hand fisting the hem of your tank to push it up and expose one breast to his hungry mouth. He sucks like he’s been deprived.
Like this five-minute quickie is everything he’s been waiting on all damn week. You grind against his fingers, jaw slack, one hand gripping his hair as you gasp into his mouth.
“You better not make me late,” he murmurs, even as he curls his fingers just right and makes you shiver all over again. “Then you better finish what you started,” you hiss.
And he does. He drops you gently to the floor, flips you to bend over the kitchen counter without losing rhythm. Your shorts halfway down, your tank top rucked up.
He grabs his cock and slides his head against your soaked hole and slowly slides in. It’s deep. No warm-up. No slow wind-up.
Just heat.
Skin.
Friction.
The sound of your moans biting into your arm, and his low curses against your shoulder as he drives into you hard and quick—like every thrust is a statement. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing to you?” he pants. “You think I don’t notice how wet you get the second I show up?”
You clench around him just to spite him. And he feels it. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
It doesn’t last long—was never supposed to. But when you both finish, shaky and breathless against the counter, he doesn’t rush.
He kisses your shoulder. Pulls your shorts back up for you. Fixes your twisted tank like he cares. Then smacks your ass once, smirking. “I’ll call you later,” he says, picking up his keys like nothing happened.
You glance at the stack still on the counter.
“Better.”
He laughs as he walks out. And you watch him go—sore, satisfied, and silently admitting:
This is what you’ve been waiting for this whole time.
