Hi everyone! I hope you’re all having a great year.
Sorry for the recent delays. I know I was supposed to be giving you all lots of lesbianism and monster fucking all month, but between a busy schedule, dealing with life stuff, and recently finding out my work was plagiarized, I needed a short break from this app to figure out my plans.
Moving forward, I am transitioning my longer stories (anything over 8.5k words) to AO3, which will be set up late next month-ish. I want my long-form writing to live in a space that appreciates deeper narration and character development.
What to expect here going forward:
Less frequent short stories
Teasers/beginnings of my longer stories (with links to the full versions on AO3)
Moodboards and character profiles
Whatever I want
I won't be on this app as much since it’s lost some of its spark for me 😅 Take care of yourselves, stay hydrated, and keep thriving!
yeah, there’s ANOTHERRRR THIEF 😭 and they stole THE SAME STORY from @babyjslovergirl
og on the left, fraud bitch on the right!
just because you changed up some words don’t make it less weird, you bitches are truly out of yall fucking minds.
as far as the other loser bitch, @musialaslut goes, they just deleted/disabled their account, but of course there are other weirdos still around stealing shit from more writers than this.
they have more fics up, PLEASE check if your stories are being stolen by these random ass new “writers”
and to everyone who has fallen victim (like me) to unimaginative bitches like this, i’m so sorry like i can’t believe shit like this is still happening
FRAUD WATCH SO FAR: @musialaslut ( deleted acc for now), @jaafarsaura , @ratzworld (deleted for now)
an. hey here's a on the whim Father's Day drabble. had to write for my baby daddy... also heard there was an only drought.
cw. i didn't proofread sorry... p in v cowgirl, reader and only are married with two daughters, also chubby reader was in mind when writing, uh I feel like this is pretty tame, creampie? slightly sub. ony, I just like men slightly submissive can you tell lol?
Onyankopon was the richest man on earth. Maybe not financially but spiritually? He was full. He had his dream career, two precious baby girls, and he had you. The one who’s been with him through thick thin. The one that loved him at his lowest. The one that was willing to go through the trials of pregnancy and birth–not once, but twice. He doesn’t know what he’d do without his family and he’d do anything for his girls.
So, when father’s day rolls around easily you go above and beyond for your beloved. Your two girls are more than eager to do things for their daddy who spoils them absolutely rotten. You guys started with breakfast in bed. Your daughters, doing their best to stay quiet while they helped you make breakfast. Later on, Ony hears hushed voices outside of the door but he pretends to still be asleep–like he does every year. The door creaks open and he hears little footsteps and then the bed shifts under the weight of two little children.
“Daddy… Daddy, wake up…” Arya, who is seven, whispers.
“Yeah, wake up, Daddy,” Ayla, who is four, whispers after her older sister. Ony smiles before peeking one eye open. The girls squeal and giggle.
“Happy Father’s Day!” They exclaim in unison. Ayla plops down on him to give him a big hug while Arya showers his face with kisses. He chuckles deeply, taking the affection happily.
“Thank you, babies,” He says with a grin. You stand there with the tray that has his breakfast on it. Watching him lovingly listen to your daughters yapping about the plans for the day fills you with a love that’s so strong it makes your heart pound against your chest. You can’t help but think about everything he does for your family. The sacrifices, the late nights, and the undying patience. You couldn’t have picked a better man.
After a day full of fun activities, you come back home. The girls absolutely tuckered out. The usual bedtime routine is much easier with the girls so tired. Onyankopon kisses both of their foreheads, sweet and gentle. Ayla is seconds away from slumber, eyes fluttering shut.
“Goodnight, Daddy. Hope you had a good day,” Arya, mumbles before yawning. Onyankopon smiles big.
“I had a great day. Goodnight, love ya’ll,” He replies, Ayla mumbles something incoherent. He chuckles as he quietly makes his exit and shuts the door. You’re in the bedroom ready for bed. Well… ready for Ony. You can’t let him end Father’s Day without his very deserved and final gift.
So, yes you push on his favorite nightgown you owned. Lilac, borderline sheer and loose in a way that leaves just enough for the imagination. So when he steps foot inside of your shared bedroom, he's pleasantly surprised to see his wife. Freshly showered and dressed in his favorite sleepwear (It could be considered lingerie in his eyes). “What’s the occasion, Baby?” He asks with a slight grin. Eyes gleaming like a kid in a candy store. You saunter your way over to him, hands sliding up his shoulders and back down to his chest.
“You’re such a good daddy to our girls… thought you’d like another gift before bed,” You reply. You swear you hear him stifling giggles. He's so giddy.
“Yeah? For me?” He asks, smiling wide and already starting to undress. You playfully roll your eyes. The way he’s acting, you would think he never gets any.
“Yes, Onyankopon,” You chuckle, He pulls you in close.
“Just don’t take this off,” He mumbles, tugging lightly on the fabric. You nod, feeling up his abs and chest before kissing your way down his neck. His hands circle your waist, gently squeezing before his ducks his head to kiss you deeply. He breaks the kiss. “You know what else I want?” He asks and you hum leaning in for another kiss.
That gets you here, on top of him, riding him like your life depends on it. Ony is in paradise unable to take his eyes off of you. So pretty, tits bouncing underneath sheer fabric and your pussy squeezing snugly around his thick length. You both try to stifle your moans. Your pace only building and building.
“Oh fuck, don’t stop, baby. Riding my shit just right,” He groans as quietly as he can manage and you let out a choked whimper.
“Yeah, you deserve it, daddy,” You reply, breathless and whiny. He groans louder, you shove your middle and ring finger in his mouth to muffle the sound. “Shhh, gotta stay quiet, baby,” You mutter. He nods and sucks on your fingers. Laying back and taking what you give. Building him up and up until you feel the familiar twitch and his face screws up. “You gonna cum? Do it, baby, cum inside me,” You encourage with a breathless moan. That he does spilling inside you, hot and thick. His hands hold your hips for dear life until you stop. You giggle as you watch him pant heavily around your fingers that you so gingerly pull out. You grace him with a gentle kiss and smile.
Aww, this is so sweet! Starting the day with breakfast in bed with the family, and ending it with some freaky time with the wife? Perfection. Also, I looove that she shoved her fingers in his mouth, and the dirty talk—Jelly gets it, y'all. SLUT THAT MAN OUT! Anyway, what a lovely fic 🥰
While shopping at a cute boutique, you run into your friend Rangiku Matsumoto—the chaotic and beautiful Lieutenant of the Soul Society's 10th Division. She stops to chat for a moment before being whisked away by her duties. But the separation doesn't last long. Late that night, she shows up at your door claiming she wants a sleepover. As it turns out, "sleeping" is the last thing on her mind, and the two of you stay up for hours exploring a whole new side of your relationship with a variety of toys.
·⭑·6,386 words, build up, light banter, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), making out, cunnilingus, groping, praise, a hint of degradation, dirty talk, use of toys (rabbit vibrator, rose toy, and dildo), service dom reader, overstimulation, petnames/name-calling(e.g., baby, sweetie, honey, doll, good girl), etc ·⭑·
Will edit later; ignore the mistakes!
For the Gala Of Pride (A Pride Month Collaboration Between @h3avenlyglory & @mtcloudsworld)
·⭑·18+ 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝑫𝒐 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕·⭑·
The brass chimes above the door of Ore's Oasis let out a soft, melodic chime every time a customer walked in, but your attention was consumed by the rack of imported linen in front of you. The mid-day sun was scorching outside, baking the city streets in a hazy, blistering heat, but inside the boutique, the air conditioning hummed a cool, crisp tune.
You held a small, woven shopping basket in your left hand, already containing a pair of one pieces and a gold anklet. You were trying to exercise some financial restraint, but everything in this shop was too cute.
Suddenly, the hair on the back of your arms stood up.
A ripple altered the atmospheric pressure in the room. To an ordinary human, it would have felt like a passing dizzy spell or a drop in indoor temperature. But to you—carrying a reservoir of spiritual pressure that had spiked drastically over the last few years—it was a beacon. You tensed for a fraction of a second, your fingers freezing on a hanger, before the specific flavor of the energy registered. It was warm, dizzying, incredibly vast, and carried the subtle, unmistakable undertone of premium sake.
You relaxed, a helpless smile tugging at your lips. You knew exactly who that belonged to.
You had met Rangiku Matsumoto a few months back under eventful circumstances. You’d been over at Orihime Inoue’s apartment attempting to teach her how to cook a standard, edible meal without her adding red bean paste, whipped cream, or mustard to a traditional hotpot. Midway through chopping scallions, Rangiku had materialized through the kitchen window, completely unannounced, clad in her black Soul Reaper robes and looking for a place to crash. The two of you had hit it off instantly over shared frustrations regarding stubborn men, a mutual love for retail therapy, and affection your friends.
Shaking off the memory, you pulled a piece from the rack. It was a gorgeous, lightweight top featuring a vibrant, swirling pattern of pastel yellow, blush pink, and cream white. It was airy for the hot weather. You checked the tag—your size. Perfect. But the matching shorts were scattered, forcing you to begin flipping through the hangers to find your fit.
Ding.
The door chimes rattled again, much louder this time. At the exact same moment, a prickle of discomfort hit your neck. You could feel someone staring at you. Hard.
You spun around on your heel, a "what the hell are you looking at" glare already locked onto your features. You were well-trained in the art of handling creeps. A man a few feet away, holding a shopping bag for his girlfriend, was staring wide-eyed, his mouth practically hanging open. But as you tracked the trajectory of his glazed eyes, you realized something humiliating—he wasn’t looking at you at all. He was staring directly past your shoulder, completely mesmerized.
You turned your head.
Framed in the doorway of the chic boutique was a sight that defied human physics. Rangiku Matsumoto was standing there, practically buried beneath a mountain of glossy, neon-colored shopping bags. There had to be at least fifteen of them dangling from her slender arms, overflowing with tissue paper, silk ribbons, and high-end logos from the luxury district down the avenue.
Right beside her—or rather, completely obscured behind the towering wall of paper bags—was a very short, irritated spiritual presence. You couldn't see him through the luggage, but the sheer, icy-cold pressure radiating from the lower hemisphere of the pile told you everything you needed to know. It was Captain Hitsugaya.
"Oh my gosh!"
Rangiku’s eyes locked onto you through the racks of clothing. Before her captain could even utter a word of protest, she spun around and ruthlessly thrust the entire fifteen-bag payload directly into Toshiro’s small arms, burying him alive.
"Hold these, Captain! I found her!" she squealed, her voice a high, joyful sound that shattered the quiet elegance of the boutique.
She sprinted across the polished boutique floor, her strappy wedge sandals clicking loud against the tile. Before you could even brace yourself, she threw her arms around your neck. Your entire world was blacked out, replaced by the cloud-like, and suffocating warmth of her breasts pressing directly into your face.
You were entirely smothered in her cleavage, inhaling the expensive scent of her human-world perfume—sweet jasmine and amber—mixed with the comforting caress of her spirit.
You smiled against the soft fabric of her top, your voice muffled into her chest. "Hi, Rangiku."
"I knew it was you. I could feel your spirit energy from three blocks away!" she cried, finally pulling back just a fraction, though she refused to let you go. Her manicured hands remained planted on your shoulders, her thumbs sliding down to stroke the bare skin near your collarbone with a languid touch.
Up close, Rangiku Matsumoto was a staggering testament to physical beauty. In her human gigai, she had abandoned her standard Soul Reaper uniform for something more fashionable. She was wearing a low-cut coral sundress that clung to the curves of her hourglass figure like a second skin. The neckline plunged, barely managing to corral the abundance of her breasts, exposing a vast expanse of smooth, golden skin that glowed with a healthy, sun-kissed radiance.
Her face was so perfect to you. She possessed sharp, elegant cheekbones and a rounded jawline that gave her an expression of mischievous youth. Her eyes were a piercing sky-blue—heavy-lidded, framed by thick, dark lashes. Her lips were full, painted in a glossy, berry-pink shade that perfectly matched her dress, curling up into a wide, smile that bared her white teeth.
But her crowning glory was her hair. A cascading waterfall of thick, voluminous strawberry-blonde waves tumbled past her shoulders, spilling over her back and framing her face in a wild, beautifully unkempt mane that seemed to catch every single ray of light filtering through the boutique window. A few stray, golden-orange strands clung to the damp skin of her neck, a proof to the heat outside.
You ignored the envious stares of the other shoppers in the store, as well as the muffled, furious grunts of Captain Hitsugaya, who was attempting to balance a designer shoe box on top of his head while trapped beneath her bags.
"What are you doing in this part of town?" you asked, leaning back slightly against the clothing rack, though Rangiku’s arms just slid down to wrap tightly around your waist, pulling your hips closer to hers in a casual display of intimacy.
"Oh, it's wonderful!" Rangiku beamed, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners as she leaned in close, her breath warm against your cheek. She played idly with the strap of your shopping basket, her long, painted nails brushing against your fingers.
"The Head Captain gave us special permission to stay in the World of the Living for an extra two days to monitor some anomalous hollow fluctuations in the sector. But the Captain finished all his boring data-gathering and paperwork early this morning! So, since we had the afternoon free, I told him he had to accompany his lovely lieutenant out for some much-needed summer shopping. And then I sensed you, and I just knew it was destiny."
She squeezed your waist, her ample chest brushing against your arm as she looked down at the top you were holding. "Oh, that is so cute on you. Let me help you find bottoms. We are going to turn you into a total knockout today. Oh, get that too!"
"I’m just getting a few things," you said, offering a small chuckle as you lifted your woven basket. "I'm really trying to watch my spending today."
Rangiku’s sculpted eyebrows knitted together into a frown. She let out a soft, sympathetic sigh, her lower lip pouting out just enough to make her look disappointed. "A budget? I understand, sweetie," she said, leaning in closer until the warmth of her shoulder brushed yours. "I am so glad I live in the Soul Society. Whenever my personal funds run dry, I just find a way to route my little excursions through the squad's administrative expenses. If the Captain doesn't notice the line items, it didn't happen."
You couldn't help but smile, your eyes drifting past her shoulder to focus on the annoyed, burdened man standing by the entrance.
"Hi, Captain Hitsugaya," you called out, raising a hand in greeting.
Toshiro’s small, white-haired head peered out from behind a massive neon-pink luxury shopping bag. His emerald eyes were narrowed into a flat, exhausted glare, but his manners held firm. "Hello," he rumbled back, his voice carrying the exhaustion of a man who had been walking in circles for hours. "Don't let her pull you into her financial delinquency."
Rangiku ignored him, her bright blue eyes lighting up as she reached out, her fingers gently touching the edge of your shoulder. "Your hair! It’s super different from the last time I saw you."
You smiled, touching one of the neat, long braids resting against your collarbone. "Yeah, I have a lot of plans this summer and I really didn’t want to deal with my natural hair out in this humidity. So, I just went ahead and got braids."
"That's is so pretty!" Rangiku beamed, her hand sliding down your arm in a warm gesture of approval. "The length looks amazing on you. It really frames your face."
With a quick pat to your hip, her short attention span caught on something across the store. "Ouu, look at that black top over there. I'll be right back!" She drifted away, leaving you to finish your task. You located the matching shorts in your size and headed straight for the glass-topped checkout counter.
While the cashier was ringing up your items, Toshiro walked up to the counter, his soul pager abruptly buzzing with a sharp, electronic chirp in his pocket. He looked down at the screen, his posture stiffening.
"Matsumoto," Toshiro said, his voice dropping into his strict, commanding register. "Change of plans. We just received new orders from the Soul Society. We need to report to the local coordinate checkpoint immediately."
A loud groan echoed from the clothing racks. Rangiku trudged over, the long black top dangling limply from her hand. "Are you serious, Captain? We just got here! Can't the anomalous fluctuations wait for like... twenty more minutes?"
"No," Toshiro snapped cleanly, adjusting the strap of a heavy designer bag on his shoulder. "We'll come back later. Let's go."
You couldn't help the amused grin that broke across your face. Even though Hitsugaya was technically centuries older than most humans and held one of the most powerful, respected positions in the military hierarchy of the afterlife, the dynamic between them never changed. To anyone else, he looked like a small kid, but standing next to Rangiku, she was unmistakably the chaotic child he was forced to babysit.
As you grabbed your small brown shopping bag from the cashier, you walked over toward Toshiro, extending a hand to relieve him of at least four of the larger bags hanging from his small wrists. "Here, let me help you with some of these."
Toshiro looked up, a faint, genuine flash of relief washing over his stern features. "Thank you," he murmured, exhaling a quiet breath as his shoulders dropped.
"Yeah. Thanks, doll. He could barely hold a few bags. Some captain he is." Rangiku chimed in, sweeping back into the huddle. She snatched the remaining payload from her captain, flashing you one last, smile as she walked toward the automatic glass doors. "Byeee. See you soon!"
-
The digital numbers on the clock glowed a dim green. 9:47pm. You were freshly showered, your skin smelling of your favorite body wash, and you were sitting comfortably in the middle of your bed in your modest apartment. The only real illumination provided by the shifting, colorful glow of the television screen playing a comforting slice-of-life anime. You sat with your legs crossed, picking at a bowl of fresh fruit with a fork. You had been craving dense, fudgy brownies all evening, but a thorough search of your pantry earlier had revealed you were out of box mix, leaving you to settle for the healthier alternative.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A series of firm thuds rattled against your front door, breaking the stillness of the apartment.
You paused, a piece of melon hovering halfway to your mouth, your eyebrows knitting together in confusion. It was late. Your mind jumped through the alarming possibilities before settling on the most likely culprit. Rangiku. She probably needed a place to crash again to escape Toshiro's strict curfew or simply wanted a change of scenery from the Kurosaki residence.
You set the fruit bowl down on the nightstand, slid off the edge of the mattress, and navigated through the familiar, dark hallways of your apartment.
When you pulled the front door open, the bright, amber glow of the streetlights outside flooded the entryway, framing Rangiku against the night sky. She was leaning against the doorframe, a playful, slightly sheepish grin on her lips.
"Hi," she purred softly.
"Hi, Rangiku," you answered, leaning your shoulder against the door. "What are you doing here this late?"
"I wanted to have a sleepover," she said, her blue eyes instantly dropping down to scan your frame.
The television light from the bedroom cast a faint, angled glow down the hallway, catching the smooth, rich tone of your bare skin. You were wearing a matching pajama set—a lightweight, button-up top and a pair of matching shorts that rode up just enough to expose the full wealth of your thighs. Rangiku’s gaze lingered there for a beat too long, her eyes tracing the soft curve of your legs before traveling back up to meet your eyes.
"Look at you," she murmured, a genuine warmth in her voice. "You look so cute and cozy. Are you gonna let me in?"
"Of course, come on in," you said, stepping back to let her pass. As she walked past you into the cool air conditioning of the condo, you closed the door and slid the deadbolt into place. "Does Captain Hitsugaya need a place to stay tonight too? I can set up the couch."
"Oh, don't worry about him," Rangiku chuckled, waving a dismissive, hand over her shoulder as she walked down the hallway toward your bedroom. "He’s staying over at the Kurosakis' place, doing some boring tactical review with Ichigo. I told him I was leaving... and honestly? I wanted you all to myself."
She stepped into your bedroom, carrying a plastic convenience store bag that rattled with the distinct sound of chips and candy, alongside a much larger, heavy designer tote bag whose contents were obscured in the dim light. She set her things down on the corner of your dresser, her blue eyes taking in the atmosphere of the space. The room was dark, completely tranquil, with the animated characters on the TV screen casting soft blue and purple hues across your sheets.
"Were you about to go to sleep?" she asked, turning her head to look at you over her shoulder, her strawberry-blonde waves shifting over her back.
"Not for a few hours," you replied, walking past her toward your closet. "Let me get you something comfortable to wear."
You opened the closet door, rummaging through your shelves until you pulled out an oversized, soft cotton T-shirt and a pair of loose, stretchy athletic shorts. You walked back over and handed the bundle to her.
"Here, these should fit you well enough to sleep in."
"Thank you," Rangiku murmured, her voice dropping into a lower, softer register that felt intimate in the quiet room.
Without a hint of hesitation or modesty, her hand reached around to the back of her neck, unhooking the hidden clasp of her coral sundress.
You averted your eyes as the fabric slid down her hips, focusing your gaze on the television screen while she changed into the oversized shirt and shorts. The mattress dipped a second later as Rangiku slid under the cool sheets beside you, bringing that immense, comforting wall of warmth with her.
"What are we watching?" she asked, curling her long legs up beneath the blankets. You told her the name of the slice-of-life anime, your voice a little breathy in the quiet room. Leaning back against your pillows, you looked over at her.
"Did you and Captain Hitsugaya actually finish the mission?"
Rangiku let out a dramatic sigh and stretched her arms high above her head, the movement pulling the soft cotton of the shirt tight across her chest. "Yes. Paperwork is done, the spiritual coordinates are logged, and I am officially off the clock," she groaned happily, melting sideways until her shoulder and torso leaned against your side.
She had always been a physical, touchy person, but she possessed such a genuine heart that her constant closeness never made you feel uncomfortable. It made you think of the legendary sleepover the two of you had shared with Orihime a few months back—a night filled with absolute chaos, terrible kitchen experiments, and crying from laughing so hard. The memory kept the atmosphere in the room light, but as you looked down at her, an electric wave of tension rippled through the air. Rangiku had stopped looking at the TV. She was gazing up at you through her thick, dark lashes, her striking blue eyes reflecting the colorful, shifting light of the screen in a way that made your pulse hitch.
-
The lamp on your nightstand was clicked on now, bathing the bedroom in a golden glow that caught the empty snack wrappers piled neatly inside the plastic bag on your dresser. You sat there speechless, your jaw practically unhinged as you stared at what Rangiku was currently holding in her lap. Fished directly from the bottom of her designer tote bag were three very distinct, high-end human pleasure objects: a suction Rose toy, a thick silicone dildo, and a sleek, multi-speed rabbit vibrator.
A spike of embarrassment and sheer shock hit you, a rush of heat flooding your veins, and warming your cheeks. Rangiku, utterly unbothered, was beaming like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Don't look at me like that!" she laughed, her voice a musical, wicked purr as she shook the silicone toy at you. "Remember when we were gossiping at Orihime’s, and you said Ichigo was so oblivious that he wouldn't be laying a finger on her anytime soon, so she should just buy a toy? I looked into it! I am fully aware of all these modern human things now, but..." She shifted closer, her thigh pressing flush against yours as she set the items down on the blanket. Her expression became intensely enthusiastic, her blue eyes glittering. "I really want to try them out with you."
You hesitated, your fingers twisting into the fabric of your shorts, your throat feeling dry. "Umm... so... Rangiku, I don't know..."
Her lower lip instantly popped out into a pout. "Why not? You're my favorite human and you like me too, so it'll be better with you." Then, the playfulness vanished. Her voice dropped into a quieter, serious register that sent a shiver straight down your spine. Her eyes locked onto yours, refusing to break contact for even a fraction of a second. "Besides... I really liked making out with you that one time. And I think doing a lot more of it tonight would be nice. Can we?"
You took a slow, deep breath, taking in the surrealism of the moment. You had gone from eating fruit, snacking, and gossiping about soul society politics to sitting inches away from a beautiful lieutenant offering a pile of erotica. The tension in the room was hot. "Okay," you finally murmured, an assured spark taking over your senses as you leaned slightly over her. "But you're not using them on me. If we're doing this, I'm going to use every one of them on you."
A pleased, triumphant look washed over Rangiku's face, her lips curling into a wicked little grin. "Yes, please," she whispered.
You didn't waste another second. You leaned in and caught her mouth in a slow, deep kiss that fractured into a heavy rush of tongue. Rangiku let out a soft gasp against your lips, her mouth parting to welcome you as you pulled her body flush against yours. One of your hands slid directly under the hem of her oversized shirt, your palm gripping the curve of her hip, while your other hand came up to cradle the side of her jaw, your fingers tangling into the thick waves of her hair. She felt so soft and smooth all over.
The kiss soon degenerated into something sloppy, wet, and fervent. Rangiku pushed herself closer into your space, her tongue sliding deeper into your mouth with an eager, needy hunger that proved she had been thinking about this for a long time. Your hand left her hip, traveling slowly up the warm expanse of her ribs beneath the cotton shirt until your fingers cupped the weight of her bare breast. The supple flesh spilled over your fingers, and a loud, breathless moan tore from the back of Rangiku's throat, her body shuddering against yours. You made out for several minutes, the quiet comedy on the television drowned out by the sound of your tangled breathing and wet, gasping sighs, before you gripped her shoulders and pushed her flat back onto the mattress.
You lean down, pressing your lips back against hers, drinking in the quiet gasp that escapes her mouth. Rangiku’s hands come up to roam over your body, her warm palms tracing the curve of your waist before her fingers dig into the fabric of your pajama top for leverage. You break the kiss, dragging your lips down the smooth line of her jaw to press wet, bites onto the sensitive skin of her neck, right where her pulse jumps. A low hum vibrates deep in her throat as you work your way lower, shifting your weight between her thighs until your hand slides down her torso to find the waistband of the shorts you lent her.
Your thumb presses firm through the grey cotton, finding the exact spot where her arousal is already gathering into a hard, swollen nub. Rangiku’s hips jerk up against your hand, a sharp, involuntary twitch that betrays how ready she is.
You hold her down with the weight of your palm, a small smile brushing against her collarbone as you feel her breath hitch.
"Did you actually finish your work today, Matsumoto, or did you leave the captain stranded and run over here because you wanted to play with toys and sleep with me?"
Her chest rises high as she tries to find her voice in the quiet room. You trace a lazy, grinding circle with your thumb over the fabric, pressing directly into her heat.
"I actually helped this time," she pants, her blue eyes dark with as her fingers grip your shoulders. "I swear I did."
You let out a quiet, knowing hum, letting the disbelief hang in the air as you offer her an elusive smile. With a smooth drag of your hands, you hook your fingers into the elastic waistband of her shorts and pull them down her long legs, tossing them over the edge of the bed to leave her bare. Your eyes rake over her form in the glow of the lamp. Her trimmed pubic hair is a soft patch of strawberry blonde, a flawless match to the thick waves spread out across your pillows. The heat between her thighs is already glistening with a heavy sheen of slick moisture. You use your fingers to gently part her labia, exposing the wet pink flesh.
"Look at that," you murmur, staring at the sight as the fluid pools between her folds. "You're so pretty, Rangiku. Look how wet you are just from a little kissing."
She shifts on the sheets, her inner thighs clamping against your ribs as she tries to hide from your intense gaze. "Stop staring and stop teasing," she whines, her voice thick, eager, and entirely willing.
"Sorry," you whisper, though the amusement stays in your voice and you make no effort to hurry.
Instead of going down right away, you dip your index finger into the pool of her slickness, coating the digit before rubbing it slowly up and down her pussy, spreading her own moisture over her clit until she is slick from top to bottom. You watch her face twist, her lips parting as you toy with her. Only when she begins to roll her hips in a silent beg do you lean down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to the soft flesh of her inner thigh. You slide your arm beneath her knee, lifting her leg high and locking your fingers into the meat of her thigh to hold her open.
You bring your tongue down to her center, licking upward in one long, deliberate stroke. Her folds spreads wide over your tongue. She tastes nice—a clean, salty tang mixed with the calm, cool essence. You open your mouth wide, gathering her sensitive clit between your lips, and suck.
A loud, ragged moan breaks from her, her back arching clear off the mattress. The sheer sensitivity of her body catches you off guard; for a woman with such a formidable military presence, her flesh responds to the slightest touch. Her long fingers reach down, threading into your long braids, her palm pressing against the back of your head to hold you close to her. You look up through your lashes, taking in the view of her face—her lips parted and swollen, her hair wild across your pillows. She looks breathtaking. You keep eating her out, taking your time with slow, heavy laps simply for your own enjoyment, listening to her shaky breaths echo in the dark space.
Rangiku’s voice gets louder, turning into a string of cries as her hips lift off the sheet, grinding her wet center straight against your mouth in a desperate search for more pressure.
You pull back just out of reach, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. "Which toy do you want first?"
She looks up at you with eyes bright and brimming with adoration, her gaze locked onto yours. "The rabbit," she gasps out.
"Open it," you command softly.
You keep your hand resting on her thigh, your thumb maintaining a steady, firm rub over her wet clit to keep her on the edge while her fumbling fingers strip the plastic packaging away. A dark rose flush steals across her pale cheeks, her gaze fixed on yours the entire time. Once the toy is free, you take it from her grip, clicking the power button until the motor wakes with a low, soft hum—the lowest setting. You bring the vibrating tip down, pressing it right onto her wet clit.
Her spine arches, her entire frame jolting against the mattress. A surprised laugh leaves your chest as her features twist with the sudden shock of the pleasure, her eyes rolling back. Down between her thighs, her tight opening is overflowing, leaking a steady stream of slick fluid that glistens against her skin as the rabbit works. Smiling, you slide two fingers deep into her slick heat, curling them upward to hook against her g-spot.
Rangiku shrieked against the pillows, her hips jerking wild as her internal muscles locked around your fingers like a vice.
"You're so tight, Rangiku," you murmur, leaning down so your breath hits her ear. "Relax for me. Don't cum yet. We’re going to take our time."
"Please," she whimpers, her hands dragging up to grip your forearms. "It's too much with the buzzing, just let me do it to you."
"No," you tell her, not letting her back out just to turn around and toy with you. "You said you wanted to try it, right?"
You hold her hips still with one hand, your fingers inside her slowing down into a torturous, deep 'come here' motion, stretching her walls while the vibrator keeps up its steady rumble against her clit. You talk her through every single sensation, keeping her balanced right on the brink of ruin. "You're so loud, Rangiku. Wet too. Feel how my fingers are stretching you out. Look down at my hand. Look at how easy it is. You can take it."
She lets out a broken whine, her head tossing from side to side as she forces herself to look down at where your hands join her flesh. Her pink folds are swollen, gripping your fingers tight. "I see it... god, it feels so good. Your fingers are s-so deep—ahhn-ghnm. The vibrator's—O-oh... let me cum, please, I can't hold it."
"You can hold it," you whisper back, your thumb pressing the vibrator a little harder against her while your fingers execute a sharp, cruel flick inside her. "You're doing so good, baby. Just a few more seconds. You can do that for me, yeah"?
"Yesss," She draws, making needy little noises in the back of her throat as she tries to follow your instructions, her internal walls pulsing and clamping around your hand in an effort to control the mounting pressure. You keep her there for several minutes, manual exploration combining with the steady buzz until her skin is hot to the touch and her breathing is a ragged mess of half-formed words.
Only when you feel her entire body go rigid with tension do you decide she's had enough. You reach down and click the button, kicking the vibrations up a notch, matching the rapid pulse with a fast, ruthless plunge of your fingers.
"Good girl. Now cum for me, Rangiku," you coax her, your voice a proud murmur against her skin.
With one violent heave of her hips, she breaks. Her internal walls clamp down around your fingers in a hard, crushing orgasm, her fluid soaking your hand as a loud, frantic string of cries tears from her throat. You don't stop moving. You keep your fingers pumping deep inside the tight squeeze of her climax, the rabbit maintaining its steady buzz against her clit while she rides out the aftershocks. Only when the pulsing slowly subsides do you slide your hand free, lifting your glistening fingers to your mouth to suck them clean right before her unraveled eyes.
Rangiku's thighs tremble, small tremors writhing through her legs. "Oh god," she breathes, her hand flying down to weakly grip your wrist to pull the toy away.
Instead of letting her find relief, you reach down and click the switch, ramping the vibrator up to its highest, most aggressive speed against her raw nerves. The harsh, loud buzz fills the quiet bedroom. Her grip on your wrist tightens into a panicked squeeze as the heavy vibration hits her overstimulated flesh.
"Do you want me to stop, Rangiku?"
She can't form a real response. She lets out a fractured whine, her body squirming in a vain effort to escape the intense, stimulation of the machine, yet her hips still tilt instinctively toward the touch. You cup her jaw in your hand, tilting her head up to press a firm kiss to her wet lips. She instantly tries to deepen the touch, her tongue searching for yours in a gamble for comfort, but you pull back just out of reach, a smile breaking on your face at the deep, pouty look that forms on her full lips.
"You need to talk to me," you murmur against her skin. "Tell me what you want."
Her blue eyes are dark, glassy, and completely unraveled by the pleasure. "Slower..." she gasps out, her voice a faint whisper as she pleads with you. "Please, drop it down."
You click the button, dropping the device back down to its lowest, gentlest hum. You lean down and lick her up with soothing, wet drags to cool the raw heat of her skin, before turning the power off and tossing the toy onto the sheets.
-
Rangiku rests her full weight in your lap, her bare back pressed flush against your chest as her frame trembles from the heat of the bedroom. The air is thick, holding the heavy scent of her jasmine perfume and the musk of her arousal. She keeps her legs draped over yours, her thighs spread wide to expose her slick center. With one hand, she clamps the Rose toy flat against her swollen clit, the soft silicone mouth pulsing with tight waves of air pressure. Your hand is wrapped firm around the base of the dildo, sliding the thick shaft deep into her wet channel in a slow, unwavering rhythm.
Both of your eyes are fixed on the view between her legs. You watch her drenched pussy stretch open, greedily swallowing the silicone before letting it slide out, only for you to plunge it right back in. Her cream is thick and off-white, bubbling around the base of the toy from the friction.
Your free hand slides up her ribcage, your fingers spreading wide over the wealth of her breast before you trap her hard nipple between your fingers, giving it a firm tug. Rangiku lets out a high whine, her head rolling back against your shoulder. Her appetite hasn't slowed down, even after three shattering orgasms.
"Look at how open you are for me," you murmur against her ear, your voice low and rough. "You're dripping all over my thighs, just taking every inch. Tell me how it feels inside you."
Rangiku shifts her weight, her hips attempting to grind back against your pelvis in a brief show of defiance. She tries to force a faster pace, eager to hunt her own release against your rhythm. "Feels r-really good," she pants, her voice a gravelly, ragged mess. "You're doing this on purpose. Pushing it in so deep and slow… until I can't even breathe. Go faster."
You tighten your grip on her hip, pinning her pelvis flat to prevent her from taking control of the stride. "Shh. No dictating the pace, Matsumoto," you murmur, your voice calm but absolute. "You're too demanding."
She lets out a frustrated huff but keeps her eyes glued to the slick junction of your bodies, watching the dildo slide home. You guide her through the overwhelming sensation, your thumb smoothing over her hip bone. "Hold the toy still, Rangiku. You keep begging for speed, but you can't even handle what you're already being given. You get a bit dumb after cumming so many times, hmm? It's okay, baby."
"You're mean," she whimpers, though her internal walls clamp down on the silicone shaft in a tight, desperate squeeze that completely betrays her words. Her chest heaves as she tries to follow your command, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "The Rose is buzzing too fast... I can't stay still for you."
"You can," you tell her, leaning forward to press a warm kiss to the side of her neck, right where her pulse thumps hard against your lips. "Be a good girl and stay still for me. It's better when it builds up."
The fluid strings between your flesh with every retreat, leaving a messy trail across your lap. The silence of the room is long gone, replaced by the sound of skin striking silicone and the steady hum of the toy. The cotton sheets beneath you are thoroughly ruined, soaked through with sweat and her previous releases.
Rangiku tilts her head back, her mouth open as she gasps for air. You lean across her jaw and catch her lips in a sloppy, deep kiss. Her tongue tangles with yours in a slick, wet slide that matches the motion of your hand below. She moans into your mouth, the sound growing louder, turning into a desperate vibration as her inner thighs begin to shake uncontrollably. Her internal muscles lock around the toy like a vice, tightening so hard your knuckles ache from holding the base.
"I'm gonna cum," she gasps into the kiss, her toes curling. "I'm going to squirt all over you, honeyy—"
Suddenly, a heavy, hot gush of fluid erupts from her. She squirts hard, the sheer pressure of the release trying to push the dildo straight out of her body. You don't let her escape the fullness. You lock your wrist, forcing the thick shaft forward, plunging deep into her core and fucking her right through the peak of her release. Rangiku screams into the kiss, her eyes rolling back as she curses through her teeth, her fingers digging deep into your thigh as she cries your name over and over into the dark room.
You gradually slow down, letting the dildo slide out with a soft, wet sound. You lean forward, pressing a tender kiss to her damp forehead. Her long waves are a wild, matted tangle around her face, and she looks undone, her blue eyes glassy and unfocused as she catches her breath.
"Flip over onto your stomach," you murmur, your fingers trailing down her stomach.
She blinks, looking a bit dazed by the sheer exhaustion of her climax, but she takes a breath and rolls over onto her chest, burying her face into the cover while keeping her ass tilted up toward you.
She lets out a muffled, breathless chuckle into the fabric. "This position is kind of embarrassing, you know. I'm a lieutenant, I should be aloud some dignity."
You get up on your knees behind her, your eyes raking over the gorgeous curve of her backside. "You'll like it like this."
A shiver ripples through her shoulders, her hips giving a small, eager wiggle of anticipation as you run the flat of your thumb over her drenched folds from behind. A wave of pure satisfaction washes over you, your own arousal spiking purely from the sight of her. You decide you're going to eat her pussy from behind until she's begging again, then you'll drive the dildo back into her, spending the rest of the night exploring where else that vibrator can make her scream.
A short story exploring the relationship between Onyankopon and a neurodivergent Reader written with Level 2 Autism and severe interoceptive hyposensitivity. While you struggle with verbal communication and often feel isolated by your differences, you have found a haven in Onyankopon. Through flashbacks, the story explores how you have built a healthy, non-codependent relationship, how you navigate intimacy as an asexual partner, and how Onyankopon has helped you learn to love yourself.
○●3,435 words, fluff, autistic reader, canon Onyankopon behavior (blessing y'all), slice of life, flashbacks, emotional regulation, scrapbooking, established relationship, will expand later, petnames/name-calling (love and sweetheart/sweetie), etc●○
For the Gala Of Pride (A Pride Month Collaboration Between @h3avenlyglory & @mtcloudsworld)
Recommended Audio: "All the Flowers in Time" by Jeff Buckley & Elizabeth Fraser
The melancholy, sweet chords of Violet Indiana fill the quiet bedroom, Robin Guthrie's distinctive voice weaving through the air as the ep track "Special" plays from the small speaker. It is a familiar comfort, a rhythmic symphony that grounds the room. The heavy curtains are drawn back on just one side, allowing the late afternoon sun to flood the space, casting a deep, warm orange hue across the bedsheets and the workspace spread over your lap.
You are absorbed in your junk journal. Your fingers smooth down a scrap of yellowed newspaper print, its fibers rasping satisfyingly against your fingertips. This page has a vintage theme. Carefully arranged across the cardstock are buttons in shades of black, brown, and beige, alongside a strip of film that Onyankopon brought home for you weeks ago. You slide a thumb over the plastic of the film, a smile tugging at your lips.
He should be home soon.
Your internal clock registers the time through the shifting angles of light on the wall. He promised to pick up groceries, along with the fabric you wanted for the background of your next spread. Your eyes drift to the cubby unit stretching along the bedroom wall. It houses thirty journals, their spines bulging with drawings, cut-outs, ribbons, tags, and strings. Some of them date back to your youth—archives of your mind’s need to touch, sort, and preserve.
The click of the lock echoes down the hallway, followed by the thud of his footsteps.
He's home.
You pick up a tarnished coin and apply a drop of glue to the back, pressing it into the center of the page. In your mind, you picture him in the kitchen, unpacking the bags, placing every item onto the shelves you prefer, maintaining the order that the household.
For some reason, he has occupied your thoughts all day.
A constriction flutters in the center of your chest—a buzz that resembles anxiety but carries no dread. Your heart accelerates, and your skin tightens. You don't realize that the room has heated under the sun; your brain fails to process the cue of overheating until it overwhelms you. Sensing discomfort, you instinctively kick the blanket off your leg, letting the air hit your skin as you begin to rock back and forth on the mattress.
Your mind drifts back to a summer afternoon during the first year of your relationship. You stood in the middle of a crowded zoo, the sun's glare filtered through your specialized glasses. It was Onyankopon’s first time visiting a zoo, and you had been eager to show him the exhibits. You stood near the enclosure, your eyes tracking the movement, but your body was beginning to shut down. You wore a thin polyester coat in the dead of July, your hyposensitivity masking the fact that your temperature was skyrocketing.
Onyankopon hadn't been watching the giraffes; he had been watching you. He noted the flush on your cheeks, the dampness at your hairline, and the way your rocking had turned stiff and frantic. He didn't make a scene. He didn't ask why you hadn't realized you were sweating. He simply stepped into your line of sight, his frame shielding you from the sun, and smiled.
"Hey," he had said, his voice cutting through the static of the zoo. "It's getting hotter. Want me to carry your coat for you?" As you shrugged out of the fabric, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a chilled water bottle, pressing the plastic against your palm. "Let's take a seat in the shade for a bit. Since we're out in the sun being so active, we both need to keep up with mandatory water breaks. Drink with me."
The memory leaves a warmth in your chest. You reach into the basket beside you, pulling out a handful of leaves you collected last year, gluing them along the border of the newspaper clipping.
Another memory surfaces, dissolving the sound of the music for a moment. You were tucked under the covers in this bed, the screen glowing with an episode of The Originals.
He leaned against the headboard beside you. "Are you hungry?" he asked, looking down at your profile. You shook your head no, your eyes locked onto the screen. He knew your eating schedule by heart, but he always checked anyway, just in case a craving managed to bypass your lack of internal cues or you simply wanted a snack. "I made chicken, cheesy broccoli, and rice earlier," he said, a meal he knew you would eat, shifting his weight. "There is a container right on the middle shelf of the fridge if you want to heat it up later. Okay?"
You nodded.
He had slid into the bed beside you, leaning over to kiss your forehead, his skin smelling of eucalyptus and mint. Turning onto his side, his hand reached for the volume of his scripture on the nightstand. He was a spiritual man, driven by a love for people and an unyielding code. Yet, in all the time you had spent together, he had never once forced his faith or his ideals onto you. He simply lived them, providing a harbor where you were allowed to exist exactly as you were. You loved how authentic he was in every facet of his life.
When the show lost your attention, you had slid across the sheets, pressing your shoulder against his ribcage.
He looked down, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Want me to read to you?" he murmured. You nodded, closing your eyes, knowing his voice would lull you to sleep within minutes.
A knock at the doorframe pulls you back to the present.
Onyankopon stands there, looking so put together—slacks, a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and leather shoes. He always looks neat, a contrast to the mess of paper, knick-knacks, and glue surrounding you.
"Hey," he says, a smile breaking across his lips. "You doing okay in here?"
"Yes," you reply, your voice small, but certain.
You watch him walk to the foot of the bed, setting down a grocery bag. He reaches inside, pulling out a square of crimson fabric—the weave you had been hunting for. Next, he slides a bag of organic fruit gummies across the covers, knowing you despise the chemical taste of artificial candy.
"I found a few things I thought your book might like," he says, a glint in his eyes. He pulls out a sheet of stickers that shift from purple to teal when tilted against the light, along with packets filled with glitter shapes and characters. Finally, he unrolls a remnant of material. "The clerk called it bubble foam fabric. I think you'll like it."
You sit up, clearing your workspace. One by one, you open the packages, your fingers tracing the holographic stickers as they shift under your touch. Onyankopon steps away, unbuttoning his shirt to toss it toward the hamper and taking off his pants before sliding into basketball shorts. He returns, sinking into the mattress beside you, his legs stretching out as he watches you examine the materials. He watches your fingers grip the edges of the encapsulated stickers, shaking them vigorously. Inside the plastic casing, the cartoon characters and glitter cascade through the fluid, catching the amber glow of the bedroom.
In the quiet warmth, ease settles over him. He reflects on the six years the two of you have built together. The journey had its initial hurdles. Onyankopon spent his life traveling, flying across horizons, and navigating a tapestry of cultures, so treating people with dignity was second nature to him. He didn't have an ableist bone in his body, but opening his heart to a neurodivergent partner in the intimacy of a shared home presented a new learning curve.
He remembers the early days of figuring out the shifts in your environment. There were afternoons when you would slip into non-verbal states, or moments when overstimulation crested into breakdowns that shook your frame. He didn't panic, and he never made you feel less-than, even when arguments occurred due to misunderstandings. Instead, he learned and grew. He committed your routines to memory, adjusted to the rigidity of your schedules, and adapted his own life to accommodate your needs. In turn, he watched you strive just as hard, expanding your own boundaries to adapt to his world and routines.
It is a balance—never codependent, but rooted in a mutual effort to understand one another. Looking at you now, content as you manipulate the colors of the stickers, he knows he doesn't just love you; he admires the resilience required to navigate a world alien to your needs. He counts himself fortunate that you chose his arms as the place to lower your guard.
A memory from his perspective flashes through his mind. He remembers a night a few months ago when you suddenly climbed onto his lap, straddling his waist with a burst of verbal energy. You spent forty minutes detailing an article on the auditory communication of elephants, your hands carving the air. In the middle of a sentence about low-frequency vibrations, you halted, blinking at his jaw before asking, "Are you ever going to grow out a beard?"
He was amused by the pivot, cradling your waist with a laugh. "I'll let it grow for a few weeks," he promised. "Don't think you're going to be playing in it."
You gave his chest a pinch before burying your face into his shoulder, letting him trace circles on your back as you murmured promises of love.
Back in the orange light of the bedroom, you press your thumb into the bubble foam fabric he just gave you. Satisfaction ripples through your nervous system. The material offers a dense resistance before springing back, its micro-bubbles triggering a calming sensory wave. You press it again, your chest rising as you exhale fully.
"This is nice. Thank you," you murmur, looking up from the foam to meet his gaze. "Do you want to journal with me?"
Onyankopon’s smile widens, his brown eyes reflecting the late sun. "I can do that for a little before I head down to the court."
He slides off the bed, walking over to the bottom shelf to retrieve his journal. He has completed only two volumes, unlike your sprawling library.
Onyankopon walks back and slides onto the edge of the mattress, the frame creaking as the springs dip under his weight. He opens his journal across his lap to the unfinished "Flower Garden" page, but his gaze drifts back to you.
The golden hour sun streams through the blinds, illuminating your features and making your eyes gleam with a focus that catches in his throat. Affection surges in his chest—an urge to photograph this flash of peace—but he settles.
"You look beautiful," he murmurs, his voice dropping into the register reserved for you.
He leans close, his breath warming your skin before his lips press a lingering kiss to your cheek. His stubble grazes your jawline, sending a shiver through you.
Before he pulls away, you tilt your chin, catching his mouth. The kiss deepens, breaching your usual fleeting touch. It unfolds deliberately as your tongue glides against his, drawing him in. His lips part, meeting you with an unhurried sweetness that sharpens the flutter in your chest into an ache.
When he disengages—leaving a breath of space between your lips—a knowing smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
"Did you miss me today?"
"Yes," you say cleanly, the word the simplest bridge your mind can construct. Articulating expansive thoughts is difficult; words tangle and vanish before reaching your tongue, confining you to silence or the safety of your favorite subjects.
Looking down at the paper scraps in your lap, you realize how much easier it is to breathe in this room. For most of your life, you lived under the isolating pressure of feeling different from everyone else. Memories of youth carry an ache—the teasing from peers who mocked your rocking, or inability to catch on as fast, the reprimands from adults who misread your silence, and the vulnerability of your own body.
Your interoceptive hyposensitivity alienated you from your own form. You recall the shame of past accidents because your brain missed the signal of a full bladder, or weeks of constipation because you couldn't feel the cues of digestion. You spent days freezing in a t-shirt during winter or sweating to exhaustion in a long-sleeve shirt during sweltering weather, oblivious to the danger until someone intervened. Even during high anxiety, you missed the sensation of your racing heart, recognizing panic only when your hands shook and your mind shut down. You grew up feeling broken, marooned by a body that kept secrets, certain no one would share a life with someone who required strict routines to survive.
But those shadows no longer hold power.
You slide your thumb over a bottle cap on the page, shifting closer to him. Onyankopon didn't just step into your world; he mapped its geography. He learned to read the shifts in your posture long before you struggled through an explanation.
Your mind drifts to a rainy evening years ago when you kissed on these sheets, the air warming. When his frame pressed you into the mattress, his eyes searched yours in the dim light, reading the boundary of your expression before you could formulate your comfort level.
“Do you just want to make out tonight?” he whispered, his hand framing your jaw with protective gentleness.
You nodded, relief washing through your chest as he pulled you against him, content to hold and kiss you for hours despite his arousal. Rooted in his faith, Onyankopon believed every soul was designed by God exactly as intended. He never viewed your asexuality as a hurdle or a deficit. To him, your intimacy wasn't a flaw; it was an integral part of your design. You shared sexual intimacy occasionally, and it remained a safe experience—never a demand.
Over the years, his unshakeable praise and open devotion moved you. In turn, his consistency built confidence within your mind. You weren't just surviving your differences; you thrived within them, loved completely.
The realization of how safe you are, how thoroughly understood after years of loneliness, swells beyond what your system can contain.
Your fingers work frantically, pressing the bubble foam, then shifting to spin a laminated paper wheel in the binding. You need the movement, the contrast of colors, and the control, but your throat locks, tightening. Before your brain can decode the emotional shift, tears spill over your lashes, tracking down your cheeks.
Onyankopon notices the instant your rocking hitches. His pen stops. "Hey," he says, his voice sharpening with alertness as he sets his journal aside. "What's wrong?"
You cannot answer. Your verbal processing collapses under the wave of emotion. Panic spikes in your chest; your hands tremble as you swipe at your face and shove your journal toward the edge of the bed. Your mind locks onto a single goal—protecting the paper, the film, and the buttons from the moisture.
Onyankopon shifts, sliding into your line of sight. His face is inches from yours, his eyes focused with tenderness.
"Talk to me, sweetheart," he murmurs, his hand hovering near yours, waiting for permission. "What's happening in there?"
You shrug, your chest heaving as a sob escapes. Your hands twist into your lounge pants, your body rocking harder against the mattress as you ride out the surge.
Knowing abstract explanations are impossible right now, Onyankopon breaks the situation into manageable phrases. He skips asking why you cry and helps you scan the physical world.
"Are you sad?" he asks quietly.
You shake your head, tears still falling.
"Are you in pain?"
You pause, your brow furrowing as you look at him. The question triggers that familiar disconnect. You don't know. You must manually check your body—scanning stomach, arms, hands—trying to discern if the pressure in your lungs is a physical injury or the sheer weight of emotion.
Seeing confusion cloud your features, Onyankopon's posture relaxes. Concern leaves his shoulders, replaced by a gentle cadence. He knows how your mind handles internal cues.
"Are you overwhelmed?"
You exhale shakily and nod. That word fits.
"Do you want to lie down with me?"
Instead of answering, you crawl across the bed, pressing your palms against his chest to push him backward. Onyankopon yields, sinking onto his back against the pillows. You collapse over him, burying your face into the crook of his neck.
His arms wrap around your torso, locking you against his chest in a firm hold that provides the deep pressure your nervous system craves. Your tears wet his collarbone.
"I've got you," he rumbles, the vibration of his chest acting as a frequency that cuts through the chaos. "Come on, breathe with me."
He takes an exaggerated breath, ribs expanding against yours, then exhales in a steady sigh. You close your eyes, focusing on that physical rise and fall, letting his body act as the clockwork your system forgot. You match his rhythm, inhaling eucalyptus, clean laundry, and craft glue, letting the pressure of his embrace ground you.
Time passes in the quiet room. The orange light deepens into a twilight purple along the walls. The crying tapers off, leaving your skin cool and your mind clear, your body settling into a peaceful rest against his weight.
Another memory shifts into focus. The morning after his thirty-fifth birthday, the bedroom sits quiet as early light drags across the floorboards. Remnants of the celebration—a few ribbons and an empty plate—occupy the kitchen counter down the hall, but here, the world shrinks to the space between the sheets.
You are tangled together naked, skin pressed flush against the expanse of his chest. For someone who struggles to feel the internal mechanics of their own body, Onyankopon’s skin is visceral. He is a furnace beneath the cotton sheets, his heat seeping into your muscles, giving your nervous system a solid boundary of where you end and he begins. You lie still, your cheek resting over the steady thud of his heart, listening to his lungs expand and deflate against your ribs.
His arm rests against the small of your back, fingers tracing patterns over your skin. There is no rush, no pressure; your intimacy has built its own path, rooted in respect and presence rather than expectation. You tilt your head back, meeting his eyes.
Onyankopon is already staring down at you, focused. In the gray morning light, the lines of his face relax, the fatigue of his work replaced by serenity. He doesn't look away when you catch him watching. Instead, his thumb moves to your jawline, sliding over the skin, his touch light but deliberate.
"I'm really happy with you," he whispers, his voice a low rumble that vibrates into your chest.
You don't answer right away, your fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, enjoying the texture against your palms. You shift your hips against his legs, a movement to soothe yourself in the quiet space.
His gaze locks onto yours, refusing to let the moment pass without clarity. He shifts, pulling you closer until your noses almost touch, his breath warm on your lips. "I look at you, and I look at everything we've built here, and I am just so grateful. I appreciate you. Everything you do, the way you care for this space, the way you love me... it means the world to me."
The vulnerability in his voice is real. He has spent his life looking out for the world, carrying the expectations and needs of others, but in this bed, he allows himself to be held, to be safe and cared for. You press your forehead against his brow, the contact tight and reassuring.
"I love you," you tell him, the words simple and clean.
He chuckles, his arms wrapping around your torso, pulling your naked frame against his. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a kiss against your pulse point, holding you in the quiet dawn until the sun rises high enough to turn the room gold.
"I'm really happy with you," you whisper into his neck, the words small, honest, and unprompted.
You can't see his face from where you are buried against his shoulder, but you feel the catch in his chest. When he shifts, tightening his hold, emotion wrecks his features—his eyes gleam, his lips parting in a smile. His heart swells. He knows what those words mean coming from you, and exactly where you learned them.
𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔 :: "Sweet mother, I cannot weave ─ slender Aphrodite has overcome me with longing for another girl" ─ Fragment 102 - Sappho of Lesbos
𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 :: 18+ mdni, sexual content, very detailed...as y'all already know, alternate universe, soft!dom donna x sub!reader, goddess! reader, married!reader, housewife!reader, virgin!reader, black lesbian, wlw, best friends to lovers, arranged marriage, infidelity ( husband ain't shit so...all is good ), mentions of being unhappy, sexually deprived, venting, hurt/comfort, sexual frustration, needy, seeking excitement elsewhere, sexual curiosity, groping, innocence, oral sex, fingering, masturbation, making out, excuse all errors, likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated!
𝒘𝒄 :: 7k...yeah this one's a long one...I'm sorry.
The heavy wooden doors of the throne room echoed with the residual noises of his shouting. It was dead in the middle of the night, yet somehow the same argument that you were currently having with your husband, spun from the same bitter thread, seemed to be the loudest thing right now.
Most would think this marriage was precision and anointing, blessed from the gods above to give you a partner to the end of time.
Funny thing is, this union was never about love, or compatibility, or even mutual respect. It was an arranged marriage, a sterile political contract designed by the elders to bind two powerful kingdoms together against a mutual enemy.
To him, you were nothing more than a pawn to their little game, a necessary nuisance.
The council had whispered of the great things that would come from this alliance—peace, prosperity, and preferably a son to carry on the royal lineage.
But the intimacy required to build a dynasty was completely absent.
There was no warmth in your bed, no tenderness in his touch. No source of security─ and when he did look at you, it wasn't with desire, or yearn or compassion, but with cold hearted disgust.
And yet, there was absolutely nothing wrong with you.
You were a goddess, born from the stars, molded by the moon. You exude poise, peace and comfort, breathtakingly radiant, carrying yourself with an effortless grace that turned heads whenever you passed by.
Your body was…out of this world. It was something to be proud of. A body of a temple, a body to be worshipped on. It was soft and elegant in all the right places, a vision of divine beauty.
And you'd think your husband would partake in every bit of it right? You’d think he’d flaunt every bit of you to every man who ever dared glanced your way or uttered your attention?
Unfortunately? No.
Your husband disapproved of everything you were.
He sneered at the way you dressed, frowned upon the thin, revealing fabrics and silks you favored, calling them unrefined and anything but classy. He believed it to be an embarrassment, a disgrace to the image of his family. As his wife you should be dressed more modestly, more clean and conservative.
But the rest of the kingdom vehemently disagreed with his assessment.
Despite the heavy crown on your head, you were surrounded by a sea of admirers.
Courtiers whispered praises in your wake, and the young girls in the village square would look up at you with wide, adoring eyes, softly proclaiming that they wished to grow up and look exactly like their queen.
But your beauty was only the surface.
You possessed a gentle soul, a woman of deep kindness who refused to be confined to a gilded cage. Rather than sitting idly in the palace doing superficial nonsense while your husband handled "king's work.” You found a sense of belonging to the people, spending your days out and around the town, helping the less fortunate and funding shelters for the homeless. You were anything but the average, compliant queen—and he absolutely hated that.
He hated that you spoke your mind 99% of the time, that 1%? was to keep your sanity in place.
He hated that you argued back, hated that you stood up for yourself with a sharp tongue and unwavering dignity.
Most of all, he hated that he couldn't control you, that he couldn't mold you or fold you into the quiet, submissive doll he wanted for his throne.
Tonight had been the breaking point.
Like so many nights before, after screaming at each other until the air in the chamber grew suffocating, he had stormed out, slamming the heavy oak doors so hard the iron sconces rattled.
His parting words were a familiar venom, sneering that you shouldn't expect him back for the night─ his transparent yet pathetic way of stating that he would spend the remaining hours of the night drunk off his ass, drowning his bruised ego in the beds of local whores.
In the early months of the marriage, a night like this would have broken you. You would have curled up alone in the center of that massive, freezing canopy bed, weeping into the pillows and regretting every choice that brought you to this state.
But things had changed.
Lately? You didn't cry. You didn't scream or pity yourself to sleep.
Instead, you found yourself annoyed and irritatingly frustrated by his behavior. So much to the point that you needed an escape. An escape from this room, this reality, this marriage, this moment of just being.
You'd slip a heavy cloak over your creamy silk gown, quietly leave the royal quarters into the depths of the labyrinthine halls of the castle's west wing. Normally, the grand balconies or the manicured gardens, seemed to be enough peace for one night but moments like these? You needed more.
Where your steps took were a secluded, older sector of the fortress where high-ranking royals rarely bothered to roam, it had become your sanctuary, your place of not feeling like the queen that you usually were. It was a place where you found the walls secured and voices hushed. Where solidarity and confinement felt better for a sense of intimacy.
You moved down the narrow, dimly lit halls, past the stone corridors where the air grew cooler and the potent scent of incense faded into the honest smell of polished iron and old wood.
You walked with purpose until you reached your destination.
Placed in the heart of the guard's quarters, you stood before double doors with gold intricates along it— a private room assigned to the captain of your personal security.
Standing before the door, you took a soft breath, lifted your hand and rapped your knuckles against the wood a few times echoing a soft sound in the quiet corridor.
You waited patiently, your heart doing a familiar, expectant flutter in your chest, hoping she was inside.
A moment later, a quiet, rich voice traveled through the wood from within.
"Come in.”
You turned the iron handle feeling the cool metal sting against your palm as you pushed the door open just far enough to slip through. The hinges groaned before you eased it shut again, careful not to let the latch echo down the corridor. The click of the latch felt like a definitive barrier, shutting out the rest of the suffocating palace, the echoing arguments, and the weight of a crown that felt more like a shackle.
Inside, the air was relaxing but calmer. It carried the smell of worn leather and polished steel, mixed with cedar and a faint trace of dried lavender from the sachets tucked along the shelves. The room was small compared to the grand chambers outside—functional, not decorative. A single oil lamp burned low on the desk, its flame steady, throwing amber light across the uneven stone walls and the scattered papers and maps.
Stood by the hearth, her heavy armor already stripped away for the night. Her black hair hung loose down her back, straight and glossy, slightly damp from earlier’s bath. She wore a three piece loungewear, it was loose along her towering frame but fitted her in a way that was captivating.
The robe hung from her shoulders brushed closely along the floor, its silk black fabric flowing with every move she made, leaving only her feet uncovered. The posture that usually carried the weight of command had softened; her stance was easy, her expression open. When her eyes met yours, the rigid discipline she wore in public slipped away. The commander was gone. What remained was the woman who had seen you at your worst and never flinched.
She didn’t ask for an explanation. She didn’t need one. The tension in your jaw and the faint tremor in your hands told her everything she needed to know.
"My Queen," She hummed, a soothing purr sending an immediate thrill down your spine. She took slow steps toward you, her dark eyes tracking the way the thin, revealing silk of your gown clung to your curves under your loosely draped cloak. "You look as though you've been fighting battles of your own tonight."
"The usual ones," you replied, barely above a whisper. The anger that had sustained you through the shouting match with your husband was torturing, but it left a profound emptiness inside that you wanted to fill. "He left. Won't be back till morning."
Donna closed the distance between you, her steps deliberate and measured, Each movement giving you every opportunity to step back if you wanted to, but you stayed where you were, rooted in place. The quiet between you stretched, filled only by the faint crackle of the fire and the soft rustle of her loungewear as she moved.
When she reaches you, she lifts a hand, her sleeve slipping down her forearm around her elbow as she brushes her knuckles gently against your cheek. The touch light but unwavering. Her skin was warm, calloused from years of gripping a sword, providing a stark and intoxicating contrast to the soft perfection of your skin.
"Then he is a fool," Donna whispered, her thumb tracing the line of your lower lip, her eyes focused on your face with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. "A blind, miserable fool to leave such a goddess alone in the dark."
Her voice carried no theatrics, only conviction. The sincerity in it hit harder than any grand gesture could. You felt your chest tighten, a rush of emotion rising before you could stop it.
"I didn't…I didn't want to be alone tonight," you confessed, feeling flushed from her body heat reaching you as she stepped closer, the faint scent of cedar and oil clinging to her skin made it all so dizzying, familiar, and safe all at once. “I couldn’t stay in that room another minute.”
Donna’s gaze softened, a dark, protective fire igniting in her eyes. "You never have to. You are always safe here. With me."
For months, you’d been told you were too much—too outspoken, too demanding, too difficult—and somehow still not enough. But under Donna’s steady gaze, none of that seemed to matter. She looked at you like you were something extraordinary, and that simple truth broke through every wall you’d built to protect yourself.
Your eyes flutter to hers. Gulping to the one word that felt the most certain, the most clear: Safe.
It was such a simple word. Yet, was it so hard to feel that way? Was it too much to ask for? Why did it feel like you were pulling teeth just for something so important? You felt it nearly as the bare minimum. To you, it was such a simple promise, but it hit harder than it should have. Safety shouldn’t feel rare. It shouldn’t be something you had to earn or beg for. Yet in your marriage, it has become exactly that.
And then, you scoff under your breath, the memory of earlier’s argument flashing through your mind once more. Your eyes rolled before you could stop yourself, your head shifting, glaring to the left of you. Outside, beyond her balcony the night stretched wide. The lake below reflected the stars and the twin moons like shattered glass, the faint shimmer of light rippling with the wind. For a moment, it reminded you of home—the island where you’d grown up, where the air smelled of salt and jasmine and love didn’t feel like a battlefield. The memory was so vivid it almost hurt.
“He’s infuriating,” you said finally, the words coming out on a feathery sigh. “Every little thing I do just… sets him off.” You murmured, turning your attention back to her. Her fingers follow the movement, sliding down until they rested against the side of your neck. Thumb caressing the underside of your jaw and chin with a grounding steadiness. Your eyes hooded with exhaustion glared into hers, noticing the way her brows furrow at your words, lips worn slightly thin. “One minute it's the way I dress then the next it's my mouth. It's like…he wants me to be this submissive quiet wife but…”
The gesture was reassuring and quiet, it made you exhale a heavy sigh, eyes fluttering shut in pursuit. “...that's not me. That’s not who I am.” you say tiredly, arms wrapping around yourself, leaning most of your weight on one side of your hip. “It's even more upsetting when he doesn't compliment my body, when he doesn't find me attractive and then turns to whores for pleasure.” You paused, the words catching. “I know…no marriage is perfect but this… it’s just really disheartening, and…I feel like I'm gonna explode if I don't do something soon. I can't take another moment of this─”
“Hey,” and slowly, and suddenly, staring deep into your eyes like a trance. You feel her strong hands move and reach for your face, palms settled against your jaw and cheek, fingers sliding to the back of your neck. The warmth of her skin was immediate, her thumbs brushing over your cheekbones in small, rhythmic motions. You both linger there for a moment, her hands firm and gentle cradling your face as if she were trying to anchor you.
“Breathe for me.”
You frown, your lips parting. “But–”
“Breathe, love.”
The word came out soft but certain, leaving no room for argument. You exhaled sharply, stubborn at first, then closed your eyes and did as she asked. The air left your lungs in a slow, uneven rush before you drew it back in again. Donna watched you closely, her eyes tracking the rise and fall of your chest, waiting for the tension to ease.
“There,” she murmured. “That’s it. Nice and slow.”
Donna stayed close, her hands still resting against your face. Her gaze softened as she studied you—really studied you. The curve of your mouth, the faint tension around your eyes, the way your breath caught when her thumbs brushed your skin. There was no rush in her movements, only quiet focus. She’d seen you angry, exhausted, and guarded, but this was different. You looked fragile in a way that made her chest tighten and actions reacted in such a dangerous way.
She took a slow breath, her eyes tracing your features with a kind of quiet admiration. Your lips were full, your nose small and delicate, your cheeks flushed from emotion. You were a doll, genuinely created out of pure adoration and beauty. You glowed and flowed with love like the galaxy and even casted onto others unknowingly.
You looked like someone carved from care rather than vanity—someone who carried warmth even when the world gave none back. You had a way of expressing yourself and even had a way of making someone feel worth it. Donna had felt that warmth before, in the way you spoke to her, in the way you listened, in the way you teased and flirted out of playfulness. You had a way of making people feel seen, and she’d been on the receiving end of that more times than she could count.
When she noticed the tension in your shoulders easing, her hands moved again. Fingers found the clasp of your cloak, working it loose with practiced care. The heavy fabric slipped from your shoulders and fell to the floor, pooling around your feet. You stood before her in the thin translucent gown that your husband so bitterly despised—a garment he believed was meant for comfort, not display. Yet you were accustomed these types of clothes, there was no shame in revealing what the gods and goddesses blessed you with, but to him and his people it was frowned upon to be so...indecent.
The firelight caught the faint sheen of the fabric, outlining the shape of your body in subtle, muted tones. Donna’s breath silently got caught in her throat, she didn’t look away or shone you.
She just...let her eyes linger over you slowly with admiration. Finding it difficult how a man saw someone so exalting to be a disgrace. Nothing about you was shameful. Nothing about you was offensive. If anything, you were someone to keep sacred, to keep happy in every aspect.
The elegant curve of your waist, the fullness of your hips and thighs was a mouthwatering sight. The bust of your tits, your nipples hardening from the cool exposure of the wind. The strength in your posture and the luminous beauty of your mahogany skin— all of it was an illuminated glow by the hearth.
But where others may find fault in your flaws, Donna saw something whole. She saw something worth loving. Something worth keeping. Unlike him, she looked at you as if you were the only thing in the room that still made sense. The only treasure left in this broken world.
"Beautiful," Donna exhaled, voice dropping an octave, honeyed and thick, with a simmering ache she was fighting to contain. Her eyes stayed on you with steady intent as she reaches for your waist. "So incredibly beautiful.”
Full of devotion, she guides you closer till your foreheads meet. Till you feel the lukewarm air of her breath fan against your lips. Till the temptation grows more and more deeper as the warmth of her skin meet your own. Every aspect of this moment was intimate and daunting, sending a small tingle through your spine as she proceeds to lightly trace her nose past your cheek, lips nearly touching.
Her eyes moved over your face, lingering over every detail before locking with yours. The touch of her hands, the confidence in the way she looks at you—it all felt different now. This space between you was no longer innocent or friendly, but something heavier, something unspoken. Something that made the air thicken and charged with a need that rose fast and sharp in your chest.
"He doesn't deserve such a beautiful soul like you"
"You're so kind. So sweet."
"I just want to love you."
"I want to care for you in a way thats forbidden."
The praises she spoke made you feel something in an unguilty way. Your eyes fluttering halfway, drawn to her lips, then to her eyes again. You felt your nerves start to wake, your body reacting before your mind could catch up.
Your thoughts blurred, replaced by a familiar ache—a familiar want that had nothing to do with duty or expectation. You wanted to feel alive again. To be seen, not as a title or a burden, but as a person.
You wanted someone to look at you and recognize what you were beneath the exhaustion and restraint. The thought left a quiet ache in your chest, a reminder of how long it had been since you’d felt that kind of connection.
And the more you gnawed on the thought, the faster the distance between you dissolved. Your lips locked passionately in a heated kiss. Your mouths meshed together like a perfect puzzle piece, tangling your tongues over one another, vividly tasting of sweet wine and sharp mint along each other’s bated breaths.
Where her hands traveled, the fabric of your clothes were bunched beneath her fingertips. At the small of your back, her touch curved dangerously close to the fullness of your ass, wanting nothing more than to grope it in her hold. Your own hands glided up the firm muscle of her smooth forearms beneath her sleeves, fingertips tracing the visible lines of her veins underneath her skin.
Even with your back pinned flat against the nearest wall, she seamlessly guided your body flush against her own, pressing you so hard she could feel the subtle squeeze of your tits against her own. Her palm slid down your thigh to the crook of your knee, lifting your leg up and locking it securely against her hip so she could gently grind herself into you. Your brows furrowed deeper and deeper the more she focused on the cadence of her winds. It was a startling feeling at your center, a moment of bliss as she kept the pace to hear your breathing grow frantic, her other hand locked around your plump ass cheek with a grip that screamed desperation firmly pressing into to make you feel it thoroughly.
A breathless gasp escaped you as your head thudded back against the cold stone, your mind completely short-circuiting at the slow, measured grind of her hips against your own. Your fingers tightened convulsively into her hair as you pulled her closer, desperate to keep the heavy friction of her clothes rubbing past the thin material of your gown. It applied direct, maddening pressure to the small, needy bud that was already dripping with arousal. Your arms stiffen around her shoulders, feeling completely undone and vulnerable in her grasp as you whimper her name.
You felt numb, her mouth moving closer, charting a slow path down your jaw to the sensitive line of your neck. You notice the sharp inhale she takes, catching a good whiff of your scent. Her lips then hovered near the sensitive space just beneath your earlobe. An abrupt, high-pitched whimper erupts from your lips into the quiet air when you feel her teeth begin to nibble. Sucking gently at your flesh, she carelessly marks your skin with forbidden love bites.
The biting leaves your pussy throbbing, making it difficult to bear, and with every slow, deliberate rub of her clothes against your center, grounding her pelvis forward, she was driving you to the brink of insanity.
A satisfied hum escapes her throat. Her lips and tongue pressing simultaneously against the column of your throat, leaving trails of wet, scorching kisses behind. “Yes, my love?” she groaned, her breath coming out hotly against your damp skin. Her tone was gentle but completely unwavering as she continued her ministrations down your neck, her hips never ceasing their steady, torturous roll against your dripping cunt.
"Show me," you panted, pleading with every fiber in your body, your eyelids flickering to stay open, voice trembling as a heavy ache churns deep in your belly. “Please… show me. I wanna feel… something.”
The patient restraint she had left vanished the second a low hum vibrated from her chest. Her arms lifting you effortlessly off your feet, cradling you tightly against her chest. She carries you over to the apple wooden desk. She guides you to sit, the cool material cutting right through your arousal, sending a sharp shock to your hot skin.
Donna immediately crowds your space, standing right between your thighs, blocking out the rest of the room like a solar eclipse. Capturing your mouth in a deep, rooted kiss, you surrender to the weight of her dominance, your fingers anchoring to the sides of her waist. Your moans are instantly swallowed by the consuming heat of her tongue. The desperate taste of years of hunger and unspoken longing flooding your senses as the pink muscle sweeps with leaden, marking her territory as she tangles yours in a rhythm that leaves you dizzy.
"I have wanted this… for a very long time, ever since that night…" Donna rasped against your mouth, her voice breaking as she dragged her lips down to the sensitive side of your neck again. "Every single day you walk into those grand halls... every time I have to stand guard and watch him ignore the treasure he possesses.”
With agonizing slowness, her hands slid down from your face, tracking the smooth curve of your neck down to your shoulders, where she pushed the thin, elastic straps of your gown down. Exposing inch by slow inch, the dark, rich expanse of your chest to the cool air of the room and the fiery warmth of her gaze.
Donna’s eyes grew dark as she stripped the material from off your body, her breath catching in her throat when the fabric finally puddles at your feet. Staring, completely captivated by the full curves of your body, her heart hammers as she takes in every beautiful, authentic detail.
But a wave of vulnerability strikes you. Your body cringing shyly under her prying eyes. A rush of innocence floods your mind as your hands move instinctively to cover yourself, your heart beating against your ribs like a trapped bird. It was clearly your body was only meant for the man you had married, but since he wasn't doing his husband duties, The sensory overload of being explicitly desired before someone else was driving your deepest insecurities to the surface by default.
But Donna shook her head, letting out a soft click of her tongue as she caught your wrists, bringing your arms down with gentle disapproval.
"Don’t. Don't you dare hide from me," she murmured, her voice a low, soothing purr that commanded submission. "Let me take care of you. Let me show you what you deserve." Her large hands clamped onto the plush curve of your thighs, her fingers digging gently into your skin to ground you to the edge of the desk.
"You're beautiful my queen. Every part of you."
She leans down, burying her face in the crook of your neck, her lips trailing lower, kissing the slope of your shoulder before her mouth hovered over the swell of your breast where she kneels before you.
You arched your back instinctively, your spine bowing as your hands scrambled up to lock around the back of her head and neck, your fingers twisting desperately into her hair.
A dulcet, whiney moan scrapes past your throat the second her wet mouth closed fully over your hardened nipple. Sucking greedily against the peak, pulling the bud deep into her mouth while her other calloused hand heavily groped and massaged the opposite breast, her thumb rolled the opposite peak in gentle circles.
Her warm tongue swirled and lapped around the bud, sending a jolt of excitement between your thighs. Your mind goes blank at the unexpected ache at your center, cunt dripping wet. Her mouth sucking, smacking and slobbering obscenely around your tender areola, painting your dark skin in a glistening coat of her saliva.
"D-Don-nah...please, i need you. I need you to do something. its throbbing s-so much." you whimper, tilting your head back. The loud, dirty acoustic of her suction echoes in the quiet room, making your hips twitch helplessly against the desk. Undoubtedly, this felt unfamiliar and unbearable. You wanted nothing more than for this throbbing to stop, and because you didn't know what exactly to do with it, humping the wooden surface like an animal in heat seemed like the most plausible thing to do.
And though this was all mentally amusing, it was clear you had spent so long locked in a state of being naiveー starved of affection, that every touch felt magnified, every sensation was a beautiful, devastating shock to a system that had been neglected for years.
Donna felt every tremor run through you, heard every small moan you tried to hide. And yet, when she pulled back slightly, lips grazing at your skin, her dark eyes were an intoxicating mix of obsession and worship.
"You’re so sensitive, my love" she whispered, a knowing smile curling at her lips. She watches your chest heave, covered in spit. The callouses of her hands rubbing up and down your backside in such a soothing way. "So pure, and yet...you take it so well."
Slowly she stands to her feet. Slides her hand down the length of your torso until her fingers reach your thighs to the inviting heat nestled between them. When her hand brushes against the inside of your thigh, you clamp your legs together. A quick wave of shy nervousness rushing to your flushed face.
Donna chuckles adoringly at that.
But she leans forward to place a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, before capturing your lips once more in a sweet, tender kiss.
“No need to be shy with me, sweet girl,” Her hand remains, thumb stroking in soothing circles. "Just relax," Donna whispered against your mouth, her tone dripping with an authoritative assurance that made your resistance crumble. "Open up for me. Let me see you." Your eyes flicker elsewhere, bottom lip caught between your teeth.
Melted by her words, you maneuver yourself to lay on the desk, your thighs parting slowly, falling wide open to offer her total access, abandoning the last of your innocence to yield to her entirely.
Your eyes watched as her hand rubbed down and around the valley of your breasts, mentally fascinated by how massive it was, it practically oozed warmth through you as it slid south of your navel. When it reached past your hip bone, her fingers tangled in the tender curls of your arousal before flattening against your swollen, throbbing cunt to trace the line of your slit.
A deep, ragged breath hitched in her throat as her fingers came away glistening, completely drenched in your slick, hot juices; she tracks the excessive moisture pooling down your inner thighs and realizes with a heavy surge of satisfaction just how desperate you were for her.
"Look at you," Donna rumbled, a thick growl of enticement vibrating in her chest as your attention follows to where her fingers twinkled in the amber light. "You’re completely drenched, my love."
Before you could answer, her thumb found your swollen bud. Pressing down firmly, she rubs in slow, heavy circles before flicking it with a sharp stroke that sent friction through you. Your back arched instantly, your hips bucking completely off the wood with a whiny moan.
While she gradually smoothed the dripping slick all over your folds, Your fingers clawed desperately into the grain of the desk. Her long fingers stretching your lips wide open to the cool air of the room. Lining up two fingers against your tight entrance, she drives them inside with one deep, unyielding thrust, burying her knuckles in your blistering heat till the raunchy squelch of her touch fills the quiet space.
The raw friction of her calloused skin against your soaking canal sent a violent wave to your core. Your eyes rolling back and your head thudding back, a breathless gasp is heard when Donna finally establishes a relentless pace. Her wrist curling and her fingers hooking upward inside your heat, she applies precise pressure against your G-spot.
"Oh...myー !"
With punishing accuracy, the intense internal friction against your front wall, coupled with the amplified wet, slapping of her knuckles bottoming out against your cleft, echoes loudly around the room, pushing you instantly past the point of no return.
Every deep, curling thrust sent liquid shocks to your toes, your heels digging helplessly into the edges of the desk for leverage, your thighs tremored violently; you clutched to her for dear life as your tight walls clamped down around her in a series of involuntary pulses.
"Don—naah! P-Please—" you sobbed, tension coiling tighter and tighter, threatening to snap.
"Mhmm, look at that," Donna mumbled. "So wet for me. So needy. Such a needy little cunt."
She used her free hand to pin your thigh wide open, exposing every bit of you to her assault.
'W-Waitー!"
With determination, she objects against your pleas, wanting to hear something break within you, wanting to see the light in your eyes amplify with bliss, wanting to feel your cunt weep around her fingers. She wanted to see you wither and whimper in her grasp. She wanted you to beg for the very thing you longed for.
And when you tried to suppress it all, you suddenly found yourself breaking unexpectedly.
Your moans were uttered, stuttering loudly against the stoney walls like sinful melody.
Donna nearly chuckles in amusement, smirking from ear to ear as she watches your eye lids grow hooded in bliss.
"Yes, that's it, pretty. Just take it," Donna urged, her movements steady, guiding your body through the storm of your first real pleasure. "You're doing so good for me, goddess. Just let go."
You try to bury your shameful face in your shoulder, brows furrowed as a high, embarrassed whimper tears from your throat. As her fingers stroked you deeper with punishing precision, her thumb still circled your bud. Her two fingers sliding slowly, carefully inside your gummy walls.
The firm pressure of Donna’s hand, and the shattering waves of heat building deep withinー every stroke brought you closer to an edge you had never known existed, a desperate, frantic craving overtaking your mind until you were completely at her mercy.
"D-Don... I can't— IーI don't know what to do," you whimpered, your hips rolling instinctively against her hand, chasing the elusive, mounting pressure.
"You're doing perfect, my love," Donna praises, her breath a comforting contrast to the cool sweat breaking across your skin. She picks up the pace just a fraction, her movements slanting upward to catch a sensitive spot that makes your body tense. "Just ride the wave, sweet girl. Lean into me. I've got you.” She pulls back to look at your face clearly, moving a curly strand from your face. "How does it feel? Does it feel good?"
You hummed, nodding frantically. “Y-Yes....s-so… good.” You gulped, feeling a strange, overwhelming sensation begin to crumble over your entire body, “b-but…m-my body… it feels… funny.”
When your gazes locked, the intensity in them took what little breath you had left away. Watching how the euphoria pools your irises, the moment of relief arriving soon as your body is getting ready to cum. Starting to feel your need and desire climax.
“Yes, that's it, I'm right here,” Donna commanded softly, her voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that brooked absolute obedience. “Look at me.”
She didn't slow down. Recognizing the sudden rigidity-ness in your thighs. The pressure turning into a tight, electric knot of arousal, breaking a whimpering sob from your lips.
"Don, it feels like I have to— It feels…likeー"
"Come for me, darling," she commanded, her honeyed voice shattering the last of your restraint. "Give it all to me.”
You gasped, and suddenly, the pressure crested. Your body finally gives way. Your walls choking down around her invading fingers in spasms, a blinding rush of ecstasy ripples through you, your first climax swimming through your entire body. Your back bows off the desk with a broken wail, your pussy gushing hot, sweet cum all over her knuckles as the orgasm crashes over you.
True to her word, Donna didn't let you look away; she held your gaze, her eyes fierce and proud as she watched your expression fracture into pure, unadulterated pleasure. She didn't halt her movements, pushing ruthlessly through the squeezing measures of your release and driving her fingers deep into your sobbing heat until your hips stopped shaking and you were left spent under her possession.
Your head rested against the wood as you exhaled, your chest heaving in the air in quick patterns as you felt weightless and raw by the lingering tingles of a climax that still radiated from your body. Donna then slipped her fingers from out of you slowly, placing them in her mouth to taste your essence on her tongue.
You watched in astonishment as her long muscle licked between her fingers, watching as the cream-colored liquid was devoured with delight.
You stutter out breathlessly, “Did-did I just…? Was that…?”
Donna swallowed, a handsome smile tugging at the corner of her lips at your sweet innocence. She leaned forward to press a delicate kiss to your damp forehead, her thumb reaching down to gently wipe away a few stray tears from your cheek, not even noticing them rolling down the side of your face.
"Yes, my love," Donna answers lowly, her words coming out like a warm blanket wrapping around you on a friday night. "That was all you. You just broke for me.”
Slowly, your eyes widen in shock. She notices that, the realization dawning on you and immediately smirks.
“Come, I wanna show you something else.” She slid her powerful arms under your thighs and back, effortlessly hoisting your limp body from the edge of the desk and pulling you flush against her torso. Your limbs felt heavy and loose like water, your arms absentmindedly looping around her neck for stability as her steady strides carry you away from the lukewarm wood toward the soft expanse of her bed.
The simple mattress looked a thousand times more inviting than the grand, empty canopy bed in the royal wing. Most importantly, it wasn't gonna be occupied alone.
Laying you down onto the sheets with gentleness, you leaned yourself back on your elbows, your feet planted onto the cotton duvet with your knees bent. Your head tilts to the side when you notice her taking her robe off and hanging it over the bed post.
Donna stepped in front of you, grabbing a scrunchie to tie it near the end of her hair to keep her strands from out of her face. She watches as your body moves to your side, your arm propped and hand holding your head in place, clearly and quickly becoming comfortable enough left admired before her in the firelight.
She observes you, loving how you oh so innocently positioned yourself sensually before her, your breast pooling and pressed against the mattress, following the smooth curve of your backside, your ass poking out, to your thick leg rubbing up against the other.
Your bambi like eyes drifted upward, realizing then how she was looking at youー the sight was like a masterpiece, feeling nearly religious as she takes in the full, elegant temple of your body.
"Magnificent," she breathed, the word coming out like a prayerful vow in the quiet room.
Gently she guides you to lie back against the duvet. Settling into the mattress, still floating in a haze of post-climax bliss, your mind beautifully foggy. Donna climbs onto the bed, hovering over you like a protective shadow. Her hands roaming, tracing the smooth navel of your chubby belly, sweeping down the side of your ribs, and molding to the soft flare of your hip, she memorizes every inch of you.
"You’re such a masterpiece, my queen," she whispered, her lips tracing reassuring kisses north of your navel to the valley of your breasts where she reaches the column of your throat, deliberately avoiding the dark, bruising love bites she had placed onto your neck earlier to let them heal in peace. "Starved of touch for so long, and yet you bloomed so beautifully the moment you're handled right.”
Then, she began to move down again.
“So glorious. So perfect. My beautiful queen, I just want you all to myself.”
You let out a soft sigh, your fingers tangling in her midnight hair as she travels further south. Her kisses lukewarm, trailing over the slope of your stomach. Her breath hot, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps dancing across your thighs.
"I'm yours..." you state, staring up at the ceiling, feeling a sense of peace to the final admission.
Donna's ears perked at your words. still moving lower, until she was positioned between your open legs.
"You're...mine?"
"Yes, I'm all yours..." You were so deeply lost in contentment, convinced she was simply going to hold you or continue those intoxicating touches, that you weren't fully paying attention—not until you felt her hands slide firmly beneath your thighs. And with practiced, effortless strength, Donna lifted your legs, parting them wider draping them right over her broad shoulders.
The sudden shift in perspective jolted you slightly out of your blissful haze. You blinked down at her, your heart taking a quick, erratic skip. The posture felt incredibly vulnerable, exposing your soaking wet pussy to her gaze from a new angle.
A quiet, bewildered sound escaped your throat. You looked at her, your brow furrowing slightly in the dim light, entirely unsure of what was happening next.
"Donna...?" your voice was laced with confusion watching her closely as her fingertips grazed lightly at the tops of your thighs. "What are you doing?”
She looked up from between your thighs, her mischievous eyes shimmering with lust that made your breath hitch. Seeing the sweet, naive confusion on your face, a tender smile touched her lips. She reaches up, her hands smoothing over the dark skin of your calves where they rested against her shoulders, anchoring you securely to her.
"I'm going to worship you, my queen," Donna whispered, thick with a devotion that sent a shiver down your spine. "Every single part of you."
"But I... I already..." You trailed off, your face flushing.
You had never known a woman's touch before tonight, and surely, you assumed that the shattering pleasure she had just given you with her fingers was the end of it. You didn't think there was anything more to it, but the concept of a woman using her mouth, of someone sinking so low just to give you pleasure without expecting a single thing in return, was entirely foreign to your pretty mind.
"There is so much more I want to give you," Donna admitted, leaning forward just enough to press a grounding kiss to the wall of your thigh. "Just lie back and trust me. Let me love you like this."
Your face instantly softens, your shoulders relaxing.
“O-Okay.”
You do as she says.
The intimacy of the position—your legs draped over her shoulders, vividly open and vulnerable to her—made your heart hammer against your ribs, not knowing what exactly to expect making your mind wonder. But as you looked into Donna’s eyes, seeing nothing but adoration and hunger, the last of your confusion melted into desperate curiosity.
-----
The heat of her breath fanned across your exposed folds made your center throb with renewed ache. Before you could even protest further, Donna had already closed the distance between you, her hands locking onto the undersides of your thighs to hold you open. She leaned in further, her lips parting as she pressed her mouth directly against your swollen slit, drinking in your taste with a sharp intake.
An uninhibited gasp hits her ears, but your hands fly to your mouth in shock. Your back instantly arching off the mattress as the wet heat of her tongue makes contact.
The weird yet amazing feeling of her muscle gliding over you made your body freeze in place, unsure of how to respond or how to take it all, you didn't have time to think much while she wasted no time easing into it; she licked from the bottom of your entrance all the way up to the top, her broad tongue coating your sensitive flesh with profound strokes that left a raunchy squelch echoing in the room.
Your fingers flew to the bedsheets, fisting the fabric tightly as your head thrashed back. "D-Don– naahhh...! Oh...myー fff-fuuuuck," you squealed, not sure if it was a plea or a surrender all at once, but it had you crumbling fast.
"Gods, you taste so good. So sweet," Donna purred, her eyes darkening with immense satisfaction as she watches you yield to her fully.
The contrast of her gentle tongue and the slight, teasing scratch of her teeth against your slick skin was overwhelming. She swirled the muscle around your swollen bud, creating a relentless suction that pulled the engorged knot deep into her mouth.
"Oh, donna…s-shit…keep…going—" You cried out, your eyes flying shut as you try to process the intense feeling, your hands clamping down to the back of her head to push her further against your cunt, practically grinding yourself against her face.
Donna groaned against your cunt, the low rumble of her throat vibrating directly against your clitoris, sending a jagged shockwave of pure electricity to your core. She drives her tongue flat against your opening, parting you to taste your cum pooling inside, licking you clean only for your body to instantly flood her mouth with fresh, dripping moisture.
Your head tosses against the mattress, breathless whines escaping your lips with every lick as she begins to lap at you in long rhythmic strokes, swirling over your bud once more with practiced ease. The pace of her mouth growing faster, hungrier, and fiercely possessive.
With heavy friction, your lower stomach coils into a tight, desperate knot all over again. The heat of her mouth, the taunting pull of her suction, and the dominating position ruined you pathetically; you were a goddess, a queen who held power over kingdoms, but right here, pinned beneath Donna’s heavy gaze and her ravenous mouth, you were completely at her mercy—and you had never felt more alive.
"Please, baby... I can't—it's too much, feels like I'm going to─" Your sobs cut you off mid-sentence, your toes curling as she slides two fingers back inside your tight fullness while her mouth continued to worship your clit.
She picked up the pace, flicking her tongue faster, pushing you carelessly over the edge. You could feel the rigid strength of her shoulders beneath your legs, the solid anchor in the middle of a swirling storm of pure bliss.
The world gracefully shatters. Your walls squeeze shut around her fingers as a second, catastrophic orgasm ripped through your body for the second time tonight. An unraveled scream was engulfed by the quiet room as your hips rolled helplessly against her mouth, riding out the massive climax that felt ten times more intense than the first.
She drinks you in like you were the last source of water on earth, holding you firmly against her with her hands placed underneath the curve of your ass cheeks, she swallows every ounce of you thoroughly, refusing to let you go until the very last contraction faded into a sweet, lingering ache.
And when you finally have the clear, your breathing finally slowing down, your hips still trembling. Only then does she slowly slide your legs off her broad shoulders, easing them down onto the mattress with meticulous care.
Your legs felt weightless, heavy and lose all at once, falling open naturally as you lay there utterly spent. You were soaked in faint sweat, your chest heaving, your vision still slightly blurred by the climax of what she had just done to you.
Donna slid up the length of your body, climbing onto the bed until she was hovering directly over you once more. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen and wet from your sweetness, and her eyes burned with smug pride. She looked down at you like a conqueror who had just claimed the most precious prize in the world, yet her expression held nothing but gentleness.
"Now that's how a goddess is supposed to be loved," Donna whispered raspily, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to the corner of your lips.
An astonished laugh escapes you, though it sounded more like a sob of pure relief if anything. You reached up with shaky arms, wrapping them around her neck and pulling her down into your chest with your legs tangling around her, needing her weight on you. Needing to feel the solid, undeniable reality of her body against yours, to remind you that you weren't dreaming.
Donna compiled willingly, collapsing her massive frame over yours, but bracing on her elbows so she wouldn't crush you. She buries her face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, her nose brushing against your collarbone as she lets out a long, shuddering sigh of her own.
"I love you, my queen," she states against your skin, her hand coming up to gently stroke the side of your waist. "I love you so much."
You held her tightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt, pulling yourself as close to her as humanly as possible. The cool night air of the west wing brushing against your bare skin, but you don't feel it; entirely wrapped in Donna’s warmth, protected from the world outside her four walls.
Wow... this is one of the best things I’ve read on here in a while—story, plot, build-up, and prose-wise. I loved every line more than the last. I have a tendency to get repetitive with long one-shots, so I'm a bit awestruck (need to get like you 😔).
I love the au you chose, as well as how you described the reader's relationship with Donna and her husband. I could feel a genuine history there; I didn't feel thrown in at all because the build-up was handled so well.
My Highlights:
Your body was…out of this world. It was something to be proud of. A body of a temple, a body to be worshipped on. It was soft and elegant in all the right places, a vision of divine beauty.
Beautiful paragraph! I looove how this reads.
To him, you were nothing more than a pawn to their little game, a necessary nuisance.
This really showcases their relationship dynamic. Another line that just read well—"necessary nuisance" I was nodding my head in approval 😌
Placed in the heart of the guard's quarters, you stood before double doors with gold intricates along it— a private room assigned to the captain of your personal security.
I could visualize everything so clearly. No over-describing, just right. Reading this actually reminded me to stop trying to make my own stories read like a movie, because a few well-placed descriptors are more than enough.
Most of all, he hated that he couldn't control you, that he couldn't mold you or fold you into the quiet, submissive doll he wanted for his throne.
Really shows the hierarchy of that world and the rigid royal expectations placed on her.
Instead, you found yourself annoyed and irritatingly frustrated by his behavior. So much to the point that you needed an escape. An escape from this room, this reality, this marriage, this moment of just being.
Another section that just flows. Your writing is just so good. I already knew that from reading your Nanami series, but my god 😖
For months, you’d been told you were too much—too outspoken, too demanding, too difficult—and somehow still not enough. But under Donna’s steady gaze, none of that seemed to matter. She looked at you like you were something extraordinary, and that simple truth broke through every wall you’d built to protect yourself.
I love the repetitive use of "too" to emphasize and stack the tension. There is nothing like a lover's gaze.
"My Queen," She hummed...
Folded. Immediately. 😩
Donna’s gaze softened, a dark, protective fire igniting in her eyes. "You never have to. You are always safe here. With me."
Donna, please don't speak to me like that... I'm about to combust.
Your eyes flutter to hers. Gulping to the one word that felt the most certain, the most clear: Safe. It was such a simple word. Yet, was it so hard to feel that way? Was it too much to ask for? Why did it feel like you were pulling teeth just for something so important? You felt it nearly as the bare minimum. To you, it was such a simple promise, but it hit harder than it should have. Safety shouldn’t feel rare. It shouldn’t be something you had to earn or beg for. Yet in your marriage, it has become exactly that.
Awww, the trust and emotional support 🥹 This whole excerpt really captures her finding genuine joy with someone who cares about her and provides what her husband lacks. Marry me, Donna.
"There is so much more I want to give you," Donna admitted, leaning forward just enough to press a grounding kiss to the wall of your thigh. "Just lie back and trust me. Let me love you like this."
The dialogue is just soooo... 😩 GIVE ME EVERYTHING AND THEN SOME! The smut is so good too... so good. I FELT THINGS!
Amazing job, Cloudy. I'm so happy I got to read this!! 10s across the board.
Music!Producer!Stack x Black!Fem!Singer!Reader ‧₊ ♪˚⊹
☆┇a taste of the story: You were having a hard time in the studio today. Things just weren't in your favor today, whether it was the flow or the lyrics. Something was missing, and you just couldn't figure it out..until your producer and boyfriend!Stack helps you alone in the isolated recording booth.
☆┇ingredients & calorie count: this late night sweet treat includes 3k+ word servings. has notes of mr. certifited eaterrrr, music!producer!Stack, black!fem!singer!reader, p in v, porn with a bit of plot, oral (fem receiving), unprotected smexy time. 18+ ,MINORS THIS IS NOT THE BAKERY FOR YOU! Ella’s Mai’s Song 10,000 hours!! all lyrics belong to Ella Mai
☆┇mika's notes: this is in fact a late-night sweet treat for my lovelies who are still up at 2 am!! tried my best with proofreading sorry for the wait, everyone. (this was supposeddddd to be a drabble but…here we are with 3k words) But hope y'all enjoy! dividers cred @cursed-carmine
The music has been playing in your ears for hours now. It's a familiar routine, you inside the isolated booth, headphones that rested against your ear, standing in front of the mic. Sheet music stand holds your printed, now it's not like you really needed them. You know the words by heart, but something isn't hitting the way you want it to. So maybe see the lyrics physically might help you figure out whatever the problem is.
You can't tell if it's your vocals, the beat, or the lyrics themselves, but something is completely off.
Through the double-paned glass that was in front of you, the luxurious control room, with its plush leather seats, top-notch recording equipment, and the walls that were decorated with a mix of your own plaques and favorite artists' records. Sitting on the other side of the glass are your manager, Ayesha, your assistant and close friend, Tia, and right in the middle, sat right in front of the soundboard is Elias, also known as Stack, your producer and boyfriend.
This was supposed to be a quick session, but it has dragged on for three hours now. Wearing a comfortable brown halter top and camo skirt with a double belt that laid low on your hips, with lots of thigh to show underneath, you shift on your feet, the frustration starting to cloud your mind. You hum to yourself, shaking your head murmuring, "Mmm, something ain't right." Usually, you’re entirely confident in your music, but this creative block is causing a stubborn stagnancy.
Now you being in the studio for hours wasn't something new, but you having trouble like this?? now this was something completely different.
Ayesha watched you through the glass as you hummed to yourself . She took note of how you were nodding your head to the beat, but pen in hand and scribbling on the paper that had your lyrics on them.
You were in the studio longer then expected due to something that was bothering you, and you couldn't even place what it was.
You couldn't put your finger on it.
Ayesha took a brief sip of her water as she sighed leaning back in the office chair, that made a slight screeching noise as she leans back. And Stack, oh Stack's eyes never left you, he saw the tension in your expression the uncertainty and doubt clouding your mind, as you shook your head scribbling more on the paper.
Before any of them could speak, your voice broke the silence in the room.
Turning back into the mic, you ask, "Can y'all isolate my vocals? I'll sing it real quick."
Outside the glass, Stack’s head tilts. He leans his elbows on the mixing desk, his fingers moving smoothly against the sliders to mute the backing track.
But as you begin to sing the lyrics raw, it still isn't working. It’s not what you want to hear, and you weren't…..feeling it??
"What do you think it is?" Ayesha asked aloud, to both Stack and Tia, they both knew what she was asking.
Tia shrugged her shoulders as she shook her head, completely stumped on what could be the problem, she thought the song was perfect and sounded good to her "I'm gonna keep it real i ain't got a clue in the world, i liked the song, but you know how she gets when she don't like somethin', it doesn't leave her mind until she fixes it,".
Stack hums agreeing, he knew how she gets in her head so quickly when it comes to her music, she gets like that because she cares deeply about it, he always knew that everything had a place for her and so once something seems outta place, you were the one to fix it.
He just wonders what you were thinking.
You let out a heavy groan, sucking your teeth, unaware of how intently Stack is watching you. He always catches the small things—the furrow of your eyebrows, the tension in your shoulders, the doubt in your eyes.
He twirls a pen between his fingers, his tongue rolling into his cheek as an idea forms. He knows exactly how to break through your frustration or whatever is going on in your head.
"Tia, Ayesha," Stack says, his tone low and calculated as he speaks to the room. "We haven't had our break yet." He briefly looks at you. "Looks like she needs one, and we could use one too. Why don't y'all step out for a bit so I can talk to her?"
Tia and Ayesha exchange a look, then glance back at him. "You sure?" Tia asks.
Stack nods, rubbing his hand along his goatee. "Positive. Y'all go on and grab some lunch. I know y'all were talkin about the new place on 5th, see what happenin' over there. I'll text y'all when we're finished here."
Tia looks at Stack and then you, "You want us to get y'all a lil somethin, heard they got some good fries there too," she offers.
Stacks waves her off "Nah, I'm straight, but you can probably get her something to eat,".
Ayesha gives him a warning look, "You betta make sure she's alright,"
Stacks nods without hesitation "Always,".
Ayesha sighs, pushing back her rolling chair with a slight squeak, and grabs her purse. Tia follows close behind, their distant murmurs fading as the studio door clicks shut.
Now, Stack leans back in his chair, his eyes entirely fixed on you.
You're still looking down at your lyric sheet, pen in hand, aggressively scratching out words and editing lines. The sudden sound of the heavy booth door opening snaps you out of your daze. Looking up, your shoulders instantly ease at the sight of him walking in. Elias stands there taking in your frustrated appearance, his white shirt clinging to his frame, every ridge of his muscles on display, and for a second, the stress of the track completely fades away.
You turn your head back to the sheet of lyrics.
"Elias, i don't know, how do i sound to you?" your head hangs low as you ask.
"You always sound good to me"
Stack's heart softens even more after he hears you call him 'Elias', it was a soft spot for him always. He walks up behind you, his hand on the music stand looking over your scribbles and notes you made on the paper as his hand slither around your waist.
"What's bothering you so much that it's got you writing liking chicken scratch on the lovely lyrics?" He asks with a smirk appearing on his face.
You sigh and shrug. "I don't know.. something ain't clicking, I'm just not feeling it,"
"I'm just….this never happens to me, you know?" you add.
Stack picks up the paper and looks at it, reading it as he paces the room, and he hums the beat to himself .
"How bout, you tell me what you like in the song and what you got going on in that head of yours?" he ask as he lightly taps your temple.
You look around the room, as you pull the one side of the headphones away from your ear.
"Ummm, I like the percussion on this track, also really like slow vibe on the one part that gives a little sensual vibe,". You begin to hum the song and go to the chorus that you love and sing.
"Why you always take so long to call me? Know I gotta wake up in the mornin'. You know every second adds up to a minute.
As you are singing Stack leaves the room heading back to the control room and standing right in front of the soundboard. He watches you, your eyes are closed and singing, he can see that you are easing into the music and then his finger moves against one of the sliders, slowing the tempo down just a little bit.
You like the way that sounds, so you continue.
You sing .
"Need 10,000 hours, We can be so in love, Don't stop, I'm counting them up.
Run the clock, I be counting them up.
We can be so in love.
You know every second adds up to a minute.
Need 10,000 hours
We can be so in love."
As you sing, Stack is adjusting the soundboard, so when you sing the lyrics "We could be so in love" it loops. Your voice is now a background vocal and looping. It sounds exactly what was missing .
A smile can't help but appear on your face as you sing. Before Stack walks back into the isolated room, he watches you as you finish singing and saves that track. You still sing to the music, and Stack walks up to you smiling.
“How does it sound now?" he asks, looking at you.
You smile as you take the headphones off and place them on his ears. Before he even hears the rest, his lips find yours, melting together. His hands immediately find your ass, as he listens to your voice singing to him
"Y/N, you sound so good" he pulls away breathlessly from the kiss.
He presses himself against you and you smile. Your lips dance together as his hand find the back of your head, bringing you closer to him.
"Hold on baby," he says pulling away ripping a needy moan from you. As he takes the headphones off and leaves the room.
He leaves the room and your panties are soaked, you stand there waiting and soon you hear your voice coming from the speakers of the isolated room.
The song you just sang, now playing throughout the room.
He walks back in with a erection that can't be ignored, but he caresses your cheek.
"Told you before to stop doubting yourself, ain't I?". He asks looking down at you.
"Y-Yes," you lean up to kiss him but he doesn't let you get the satisfaction just yet.
"You were stressin' and all I needed to hear was what you were fucking with and what you weren't, and I knew what to add once I heard it.” He kisses your neck, his wet lips sliding up your neck with little bites he leaves as he makes his way up to your ear and kisses it.
You can't help but let out a moan "Mmm, baby,".
Stack smiles against your ear, your hear a soft huff of air and shiver, "Now you just listen to yourself and how pretty you sound," he directs.
You take a sharp breath as he kisses your ear, and smiles.
As you kiss him, your soaked panties cling to your soppy pussy. You feel his fingers pull them to the side, toying with your sensitive clit, causing you to jolt in his arms.
He smirks something cocky as he watches you. He lives for how sensitive you are for him, how wet you are.
His hand slowly holds you, pressing you against the double glass-paned window. You kiss him before he pulls away and shows all the love to your chest, licking the part of skin that shows on your test and squeezing your nipples through your bra.
His eyes lock with yours, causing you to whimper as his other hand has remained busy on your clit. He kisses down your body, your breathing becomes heavy. He moves the material of your skirt and kisses the meat of your thighs. He then drags his tongue on your clothed pussy a couple of times. Your head leans back on the glass window pane.
" 'Lias- you ain't gotta-" you begin to say
"Shh, what i need you to do is it back and sing for me, go on and listen to your song and hit those high notes for me," Stack grins as he pushed your soaked panties to the side, giving your pussy kisses and licks before sliding your panties off.
His grabs your thigh, placing it on his shoulder as he begins to devour your pussy, full of tongue as his nose begins to rub your clit, your eyes widen and mouth agape as you hand supports the back of his head. "F-Fuck S-S-Eliass you—".
Stack smiles as his tongue delves into you. He groans as he hears you having trouble speaking, stumbling and stuttering over your words. Doesn't sound like much singing to him.
Your moans can't be helped from escaping you.
"Baby, I need more, please. I- could you please stop teasing!" you whine out, your hands caressing the back of his head.
Stack chuckles and hits your g spot one last time, leaving a drabble of spit and your juices smeared on his lips and your pussy. He slurps every bit, and he pulls away, standing to his feet as he hears your pleas.
"So damn, impatient. I ain't doing shit until I hear my pretty girl sing like I hear you on these fucking speakers. You got a voice of the angels, princess, and I wanna hear that." He rasps as his dick throbs in his pants.
You clear your throat, realizing he is serious. As he smiles, tilting his head, grabbing your hips and turning you to face the glass window, your hands immediately bracing on the cold glass and your breath panning on the window, fogging up just as you exhale.
And you begin to sing, the lyrics. Your voice oozing like honey in his ears. You are harmonizing with yourself. "I've been high and I've been low." He holds your hips, kissing your shoulder and neck as you continue. You feel the bass from the speakers in your chest, or maybe that was your heart racing because of how wet you were. You begin to find the rhythm of the music as if there wasn't a care in the world."But this time I know it's for sure." He watches you in the glass , his eyes taking in your figure, and feeling your ass, and soon his hands aren't on you. You
You hear a zzziiiipppp sound behind you. Stack fists himself behind you, tapping your leg, signaling for you to spread your legs wider . You continue singing."Cause I'm right where I belong, and we are only getting stronger. Feel's good to be down in my—!"
"Oooouuuu shiit—" You moan as your head leans on the glass, your breath fogging a spot on the window. Stack lined himself up with your soaked pussy so quickly you didn't even realize, and his thrust wasn’t so gentle; they had urgency and passion behind it.
"Fuuck!. You are everything, baby. Ain’t nobody doing it like you ain’t, that right?". He sinks into you again, causing your body to jolt to the window as Stack grips your hips. Your back arching, Stack looks down, looking down as his dick thrusts into you.
In and Out. In and Out. In and Out.
A constant pace, a relentless one.
“You’re so wet for me, baby. All for me, my pretty girl. Sing just for me." He grunts as he kisses your neck. Both of your senses were blown. Your music on a loop in the room, mic stand kicked on the floor. Hands everywhere, and Stack fucking you like there was no tomorrow as you throw your pussy back to him. Stack moaning and grunting in your ear as your head is leaned back on his shoulder, hand on the window, bracing and back arching.
"You sound really close, baby. You gonna come for me, ain't you?" Stack kisses your shoulder, the sound of your lovemaking, remixing with the music you just made in the studio.
Tears begin to prick into your eyelids as you whine. "Aaa-aa- I-I can't hold it anymore".
The wet slapping sounds coming from your pussy only grew as Stack continues, the material of your skirt flipped to your back. You cum, no longer able to hold it, as a moaning cry leaves your lips as your whole body convulses and locks. That doesn't cause Stack to pull back; in fact, it drives him even crazier.
Stack pulls your hips back as he is chasing your release with his own. His thrust pushes you forward to the glass. You use the glass as leverage, pushing your pussy back onto his dick, and you hear him moan. Stack cums with a groan , kissing your neck and sinking his teeth, leaving marks on your skin.
Stack fills you up, and some cum spurts onto the underside of your skirt, sinking into the material. You two catch your breath. As he pulls out slowly, smacking your ass, causing you to yelp, "Eliass!"
“Girl, stop all that," Stack chuckles, rubbing your ass softly and leading you to take a seat.
You both take a minute catching your breath as his arm wraps around you. You look at the glass closely. Squinting and smirking as you whisper, "Oh my god."
Stack looks at you as he is adjusting himself back into his pants, as he zipping his pants back up and catches his breath, "Oh my god, what, what are we whatin' about?" As he moves his head trying to match your eye line and see what you are seeing, a smirk that shows his dimples all too well appears on his face.
You try to stop him. "Don't start."
But you knew it was already done
Stacks smile is wide with pride, "Oh ho hoooo, I'm definitely taking a picture of this for keepsake, damn baby, I had your hand print like that.”
You roll your eyes, giggling at his foolish behavior, as he gets up and grabs his phone, snapping a picture at an angle for the lighting to be just right and.
Click. Click. Click.
A couple of shots were taken, and as he bends down, picking up the music stand and fallen lyrics, phone in hand, he can't help but smile as his eyes examine the picture closer.
"Hold up, I'm not gonna lie, this would make a dope ass cover for the album." He nods at the picture, already thinking of a way to edit it, if you agreed.
You can't help but roll your eyes, but now that you think of it, maybe you would.
A hand print of your love, where you make the music you love, isn't such a bad idea.
˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙— mika’s notes: thank you for reading lovelies, please reblog, comment and let me know what you think!! <𝟑 .ᐟ
۶ৎ if you’d like to continue to become a regular at my bakery, join my taglist to place your order! 🍮🥄 ˚₊‧
╰┈➤ ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
Here is the other baked goods you might want to taste. Check out my masterlist!
Huge round of applause for my sweetie, Mika—your writing improves with every single fic!!🤧🫶🏽 The story is filled with beautiful descriptions. Everything flows AND YOU FEEL THE EMOTIONS. EVERYTHING IS SO EVOCATIVE!! The clear emotional attachment woven throughout this entire story is incredible. I won't get into dissecting the smut right now (will be texting about what I just read), but the dialogue, the clothed sex, how he handled us, and the pacing—everything was amazing!!
Hi everyone! I hope you’re all having a great year.
Sorry for the recent delays. I know I was supposed to be giving you all lots of lesbianism and monster fucking all month, but between a busy schedule, dealing with life stuff, and recently finding out my work was plagiarized, I needed a short break from this app to figure out my plans.
Moving forward, I am transitioning my longer stories (anything over 8.5k words) to AO3, which will be set up late next month-ish. I want my long-form writing to live in a space that appreciates deeper narration and character development.
What to expect here going forward:
Less frequent short stories
Teasers/beginnings of my longer stories (with links to the full versions on AO3)
Moodboards and character profiles
Whatever I want
I won't be on this app as much since it’s lost some of its spark for me 😅 Take care of yourselves, stay hydrated, and keep thriving!
Hi. Just wanted to say that I adore your writing style and appriciate you filling a niche in writing. Your prose is bookworthy. Hope you're having a good one!
Hii, thank you for such a sweet message!! It's so nice to come back to stuff like this 🤭 Can't wait to share more with you. I hope you're having a lovely week.
Lately, I’ve been seeing a huge rise in story theft. People are on here literally copy-pasting work or using word-swaps to try and bypass plagiarism, then they have the audacity to reply to comments, thank people for the praise, or ask what their thoughts were.
Stop, you are not a writer; you are a thief. If you lack the talent or the imagination to create your own narratives, stay out of creative spaces. Stealing someone’s hard work and effort just for digital clout is embarrassing and disrespectful. You aren't inspired—you're a fraud. Originality is a requirement, not a suggestion!
To my readers & mutuals, if you see my work reposted on another blog/platform, stories that look suspiciously like mine but with a few words switched out (Plagiarism), my specific plots, characters (OCs), or unique descriptions being reused. Please let me know immediately. I put a lot of myself into my writing—my thoughts, my identity, and my time.
After a day of being pampered by your devoted husband, you both fall into something deeper than just routine affection. He always spoils you, but tonight, he's not stopping at gifts.
၄၃ 3,223 words, Smut / explicit sexual content (18+), Vaginal sex, Spoiled partner / domestic romance, Established relationship, Oral sex (f receiving), No condom(wrap the willy), Missionary → prone position, Light power play / possessiveness, Praise kink / slight size kink, Aftercare (not detailed), etc.၄၃
“Do you want anything else?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” you said, eyeing the shopping bags—two in your hands, 8 more in his. “That’s all. Can we go home now?”
He nodded, and you looked up at him. He had just taken you on a shopping spree: shoes, clothes, perfume, jewelry. Your husband liked to spoil you—and not just liked, he loved indulging you. It made him happy, and you weren’t about to argue with that.
Back home, you both relaxed. He disappeared into his home office not long after, and you, worn out from the day, dozed off.
When you woke up, the sun had shifted in the room. You blinked, looked around—no sign of him. You got up, padded down the hallway, and knocked on his office door.
“Come in,” came his voice.
You cracked the door open and peeked in. He was typing away, papers scattered across his desk, completely immersed. You stepped inside and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. His hands paused. You tilted his chin gently toward you and smiled.
“Hi, my love. Did you sleep well?”
“Yeah.” You hesitated. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?”
You’d both had breakfast together early that morning, watched a movie around 7:30 a.m., then he took you to the bookstore to grab a few novels you’d been wanting. After that, he paid for your nails and hair, then swept you off on a shopping spree. It was 3:34 p.m. now. You knew for a fact he hadn’t moved from that desk since you got home.
“I have to finish this,” he murmured, eyes flicking back to his screen.
“I know,” you said quietly, “but I still want you to eat something.”
“I will, my love.” He chuckled under his breath, but you could tell he wasn’t taking it seriously.
That was always the issue—he worked so much, sometimes forgot to take care of himself. Before you two even got married, you’d started packing him lunches. Full meals, nothing skimpy. Sometimes he’d text you a photo and write, “This is amazing, baby. But are you trying to get me fat?” And you’d always answer the same: “Of course not, I just want you to eat.”
You didn’t always make food for yourself, but for him? You liked it. You liked feeding him, knowing he appreciated everything you made—well, except that one time you tried to bake...
You stared at him for a while and sighed before leaving.
In the closet, while digging through your clothes, your hand brushed the short white nightgown you’d bought—a soft, fuzzy thing with lace trim. Pretty. Light. Feminine. You pulled it out and laid it on the bed, then grabbed your phone and Bluetooth speaker before heading into the bathroom.
Is it possible I could feel this cool?
I could really love you the way I do
Is it possible I could feel this good?
I could really love you the way I do
See me (Within the light)
Flowing (Take me to you)
Like the river to the sea
You come down (I’m in the light)
You sang along to Flow by Sade, carefree and a little off key. Warm water slid over your body as music filled the bathroom. Once you felt clean—like, just shed a layer of your skin kind of clean—you turned off the faucet and stepped out, wrapping yourself in a towel. The mirror was fogged, your skin warm and glowing.
You dried off and moisturized with your whipped shea butter—vanilla and coconut infused, sweet and soft, just the way you like it. He likes it too.
You slipped into your nightgown and climbed onto the bed, still humming, your body relaxed and your mood lighter. You reached over to the nightstand, grabbed your book, you layed on your stomach and started reading.
Two and a half hours later, and he was still working. You got up from the bed, ready to check on him, but just as you reached for the door—it opened. You jumped back in surprise.
Oh. You hadn’t heard him coming. The speaker was still blasting.
He gave you a curious look as he stepped into the room. You went back to the bed and quickly turned the speaker down from your phone.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before heading to the closet.
You laid back on the bed, watching him undress. He peeled off his shirt, unbuckled his belt, then stepped out of his pants. He moved deeper into the closet to grab a pair of sweats, but you never stopped watching.
He felt your eyes on him the whole time.
“Baby,” he called out, turning slightly toward you with a grin. “You really shouldn’t watch people undress. It’s crude.”
You scooted over to make room as he walked back to the bed. “I’m not watching people, I’m watching you. And besides, you see me dress and undress all the time,” you said, voice trailing off slightly with embarrassment at his teasing.
He laid down on his back, right on his side of the bed, and reached for your book. He scanned the page where your bookmark sat, then handed it back to you.
You sat on your knees, still watching him. He looked so good—effortlessly attractive, even in something as simple as sweats.
“Baby,” he said, eyes flicking to yours, “do you want something?” His hand reached up, fingertips gently brushing down your jaw.
“Mhm,” you hummed softly.
“Yeah?” He smiled knowingly and sat up just a little, the shift of his body bringing you closer.
You climbed into his lap without another word, kissing along his cheek, his nose, the corner of his lips—then skipping his mouth entirely to kiss down his jaw. Your lips trailed lower, down his neck, while your hips slowly ground against him.
His hands slid down to your ass, cupping the soft flesh and giving it a firm squeeze. “No panties, sweet girl?"
“Uh-uh,” you murmured, lips still on his neck.
You felt him hard beneath you, thick and pulsing through the cotton of his sweats. Your hips moved instinctively, slow and steady, dragging over him as his fingers dug into your ass.
He groaned low in his throat, then gave your ass a light slap. “Mm-mm,” he murmured, his lips brushing your collarbone now. “You’re gonna ruin my pants.”
It wouldn’t have been the first time.
You kissed him just below the ear and whispered, “Then take them off.”
That earned you another slap, firmer this time, followed by a low chuckle. “Brat.”
He didn’t argue, though.
You lifted slightly as he shifted under you, pushing his sweats down just enough. Your eyes dropped for a second, and your lip caught between your teeth. He was already leaking—you hadn’t even touched him properly yet.
But before you could tease, his hands were back on your thighs, gripping you tight. In one smooth motion, he flipped you onto your back, drawing a small gasp from your lips. Your body hit the mattress, and he hovered above you, eyes dark with intent.
“I missed you today,” he said, voice dropping to that low, honest register that always got under your skin.
“I was with you all day,” you said, smiling, a little breathless.
He shook his head, already kissing lower—between your breasts, down your stomach. “Still missed you.”
Your nightgown barely clung to your skin. He pushed it up and bunched it around your waist, exposing you. You felt his warm breath on your inner thighs just before you felt his mouth, and your whole body jolted, your legs instinctively closing around his head.
“Shh,” he mumbled against your skin, tongue teasing along your folds. “You’re already this wet for me?”
You nodded, tangled in the sheets. “You’ve been working for hours.”
He chuckled, then dragged his tongue slowly up your slit and latched onto your clit, and your whimper cracked the air.
“So this is what you were thinking about in that little nightgown?” he said between licks.
You couldn’t answer—not with the way his tongue circled your clit, not with his fingers digging into your thighs like he was holding on for dear life.
“You make this too easy, baby,” he murmured. “So sweet. All for me.”
He didn’t rush. His tongue moved with a rhythm that bordered on worship, licking and sucking you like you were his only job. And then his finger slid inside you—slow, deep, curling just right.
Your back arched off the bed.
“That’s it,” he breathed against you, voice drenched in heat. “So pretty.”
He pumped his finger in and out while still licking you. Then he added another, stretching you wider. You squirmed, moaning his name, hands flying to clutch at his wrist as your thighs shook.
“Aww, look at you opening up for me,” he said, gentle but cocky, fingers working you steadily, his tongue never letting up.
His fingers spread inside you, pressing and curling, and your gasp turned into a desperate moan. Between flicks of his tongue and tight suction on your clit, he looked up at you and said, “Yeah, I know, baby—but I need you to open up a little more before I can give you what you really want.”
“Ahh—mmfngh,” your voice cracked as your hips bucked up toward his mouth.
Your body started to tremble, thighs twitching with every stroke of his tongue. Your breathing shortened, your moans turned into whines of his name.
“Go ahead, sweetness,” he murmured, lips wrapping around your clit again. “Cum for me.”
And you did—his fingers thrusting into you fast and deep, his mouth locked onto you like he was starving, pulling every last wave of pleasure from your body until you were shaking underneath him.
Your body was still trembling when he finally pulled back, slow and deliberate, his mouth glistening with you. He kissed your inner thigh once, then again—tender, but with something rough lingering in his eyes. Like he wasn’t done. Not even close.
He crawled up your body, slow and heavy, the heat of him sinking into your skin. When he kissed you—deep, open, tongue sweeping over yours—you could taste yourself on him. You moaned into his mouth, one hand curling into his hair, the other trailing down between your bodies.
You wrapped your fingers around him—thick, hard, warm—and felt his breath catch against your lips. He twitched in your grip, already leaking, already aching for more.
“So impatient,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded as he covered your hand with his, holding it there. The weight of his palm over yours made your stomach flutter, grounding and controlling at the same time.
“I just want to take care of you,” you whispered, your voice breathy, your grip tightening.
He exhaled through his nose, his gaze dragging down your body—lingering on your bare thighs, your chest, the way your body arched beneath him. “You already do, baby. More than you know.”
You stroked him again, slow but firm, and the tension in his hips gave him away. His jaw clenched. His eyes snapped back to yours like a warning—and then he gently pushed your hand away, grabbing both your wrists and pinning them to the bed above your head with one hand.
His voice dropped, dark and sweet. “But this part—that’s mine.”
You gasped softly, thighs instinctively pressing together on instinct. Still sensitive. Still wanting.
He leaned in close, brushing his lips along your jaw. “You want me inside now, sweet girl?”
You nodded, wide-eyed, your breath catching.
His grip loosened. You reached down to straddle him, already guiding him to your entrance—but his hands clamped around your waist before you could go further.
“Uh uh,” he said, the edge in his voice returning. “I asked you a question. I didn’t say you could take control.”
Then, in one fluid motion, he shifted, pushing your hips back down onto the mattress, settling himself between your legs. He spread your thighs wide, locking them against his sides with a firm grip. You were fully open to him now, pinned to the bed with no way to escape.
You let out a whine, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you as his cock rubbed against your soaked entrance, teasing you with every pulse.
He braced himself on one elbow, the other hand trailing down your throat, over your breasts, stomach, then to the underside of your thigh—gripping and lifting, pushing your leg higher to open you up even more.
“I let you have your little fun,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Now it’s my turn.”
Then he pushed in—slow, steady, and deep. Your whole body arched with the stretch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. His weight pressed you into the mattress as he bottomed out, both of you breathing heavily.
Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, nails sinking in. He pressed his forehead to yours, groaning low in his chest.
You whimpered, trying to roll your hips, but his hand kept you pinned in place. “No,” he said, his breath hot against your cheek. “You’re gonna take it. Just like this. Let me feel you.”
He started moving—long, slow strokes that filled you completely and left you aching in the best way. Every push sent sparks through your legs, and every drag-out made you cry for more.
“Look at you,” he whispered, brushing sweaty hair from your face. “Still needy after I had my mouth on you. You really do like being spoiled, huh?”
You nodded, eyes glassy.
“Good,” he murmured, voice dark silk. His hips snapped forward a little harder, a little deeper. “Because I’m not done spoiling you yet.”
Then, in a seamless motion, he shifted—sliding his body over yours with a fluid grace as he moved from missionary to a more prone position. His chest pressed down against your back, his hands sliding down your sides as he lifted your hips just enough to angle himself deeper. You moaned as his cock sank into you again, this time even deeper, the angle shifting, pushing against the perfect spot inside you.
“You’re gonna take all of me, sweetheart,” he growled, his voice thick with desire. “Just like this.”
The change in position had you gasping, your body responding to him in a completely new way. He moved inside you, each thrust deep and hard, making you cry out with every stroke. The way he was taking control, yet still so tender in his movements, made your heart race even faster.
You loved the feeling of his weight draped over you, his chest flush to your back, his breath warm against your shoulder as he moved inside you. He gave you slow, deep thrusts, his hips rolling into yours with deliberate pressure, grinding down in a rhythm that had your toes curling. You could feel every inch of him, dragging along your walls, filling you completely with each push.
“Ah—mghn—fuck,” you cried into the pillow, tears slipping down your cheeks as he fucked you nice and deep, grounding you with the way his arms caged around your body, hands braced on either side of your head.
“I know, baby,” he panted, voice low and aching with restraint. “You feel good, huh?”
“Mhm… y-yes—ah,” you choked out, barely able to speak through the pleasure building hot and fast.
“Holy fuck,” he groaned, his mouth right at your ear, “stop squeezing me like that.”
One of his hands slid under you, between your body and the bed, fingertips trailing with intent until they found your clit. The moment he started rubbing tight, slow circles, your body arched instinctively under him, hips pressing back into his with a whimper.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispered, voice cracked open with emotion. “Wanna cum again, pretty baby?”
“Yes,” you whimpered, breath catching. “Please.”
“Yeah?” he rasped, kissing your shoulder. “Then let go, baby. Let me have it. You’re all mine.”
His fingers circled your clit with practiced precision, matching the steady, deep thrusts of his hips. The dual sensation had you unraveling fast, your body twitching under him, hips rising helplessly to meet each slow grind.
“That’s it,” he whispered, voice strained. “Just like that, baby. Let me feel you.”
You buried your face in the pillow, your cries muffled but desperate, overwhelmed by the pleasure coursing through you. He was everywhere—wrapped around you, buried inside you, coaxing every reaction out of your body like he knew it better than you did.
“You gonna give it to me?” he asked, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you fall apart.”
“I—I’m close,” you gasped, hands fisting the sheets as your thighs trembled. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—”
“Not going anywhere, sweet girl,” he murmured, biting gently at your shoulder. “Come on. Let me feel you cum.”
His fingers pressed harder, the rhythm of his hips tightening, and that was all it took. Your body seized beneath him, back arching as your orgasm tore through you, silent at first before it broke into a moan so needy, so raw, it made his thrusts falter.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he breathed, still moving inside you, still rubbing. “God, you feel so fucking good when you cum. So tight—fuck.”
Your walls clenched around him, fluttering, milking him with every aftershock. He groaned loud, almost pained, and pressed his body down harder into yours, chasing his own edge.
“You gonna take all of me?” he gritted out, voice breaking. “Gonna let me fill you up, baby?”
“Yes—yes, please,” you whispered, voice hoarse, bliss-drunk.
He cursed under his breath, buried himself deep with a final thrust, and came hard—hips stuttering, breath catching in your ear. You felt the warmth flood inside you, and it made you shiver, not from cold but from the way he gave it all to you, held nothing back.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathing. Hearts pounding in sync.
Then he lowered his weight more gently against your back, arms sliding around you as if he couldn’t bear to be apart, not even by an inch.
“I love you,” he murmured into your skin. “Love having you in my life, you know that?”
You smiled, eyelids heavy. “I love you too. And yes I know...thank you for everything." mumbled drifting off.
He chuckled and watched you sleep for a while before getting up to grab a wash cloth.
~°463 words, fluff, baby talk, your daughter trying to get you to understand her, etc°~
The late afternoon sun was streaming into the living room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
He was settled cross-legged on the floor, stacking bright wooden blocks into a tower, while Alma—a solid, determined little chunk of a toddler—sat opposite him, deeply engaged in a serious discussion.
Alma, whose vocabulary consisted mainly of "Mama," "Dada," and a rapidly expanding collection of elaborate, highly expressive nonsense syllables, was speaking with great conviction.“Bah-boo-da! Geee-wah!” she pronounced, gesturing emphatically at the collapsing block tower.
Her dad nodded gravely, leaning in conspiratorially. “Oh, I see. The structural integrity is compromised by the load-bearing pillar at the base, which is simply unacceptable for the proposed trajectory of the intergalactic satellite, isn’t it?”
“Bah-booo! Ye!” Alma agreed, nodding vigorously.
You watched from the sofa, scrolling on your phone but smiling into your screen. You loved the completely serious, lengthy, and utterly fictional conversations he would have with his daughter.
Alma then scrambled onto the sofa beside you, grabbing your knee. She patted your cheek with a damp, sticky hand and leaned in close, her brow furrowed with urgent information.
“Mama! Goo-wah bah-bop!” she stated, pointing back toward the catastrophic block tower.
You looked down at her earnest face, tilting your head. You caught the important part, but the rest was lost to the wind.
“Hi, sweetie,” you said, reaching up to stroke her cheek. “I love your little face. But I honestly don't know what you're saying.”
She froze. Then frowned at you, pulling back slightly as if you'd just failed a crucial pop quiz.
“Bop-wa?” she repeated, slower this time, clearly trying to simplify the critical message.
“I know ‘Bop,’ but I don’t know ‘wa,’ honey,” you confessed with a light chuckle. “You’re too smart for me.”
Alma’s lower lip jutted out, and she looked immediately over at her dad on the floor, her little face a picture of confusion and betrayal. Her eyes seemed to say, Why isn't she getting the urgent intelligence report?
Her partner, still on the floor, immediately chimed in, leaning forward, winking at you.
“She said, ‘Mama, the structural integrity of the base is compromised, and the fire truck is needed for immediate reinforcement!’” he translated, his voice low and serious.
“You missed the whole point of the mission brief, sweets.”
You laughed, shaking your head at his commitment. You leaned down and kissed the top of Alma’s head. “Alright, alright. Go tell the structural engineer you need reinforcements, then.”
She beamed, instantly vindicated by his father's translation. She scrambled off the sofa with renewed purpose, grabbing the red fire truck and barreling straight back toward him, ready to rejoin the complex, secret world only they understood.
After a loud and laughter-filled game night with friends, Kassidy and you finally find yourselves alone in the quiet aftermath of your shared home. Though the day was defined by playful bickering between best friends Suki, Ivory, and Malcolm, the evening shifts into a deeply sensual and intimate retreat.
ꪶ꠸8,831 words, old story, slow burn-ish, small hang out -> sleep over, treats of violence, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), making out, fingering, missionary, dirty talk, praise, petnames/name-calling (e.g., ma, baby, and honey), etcꪶ꠸
.ꪶ꠸18+ 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝑫𝒐 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕ꪶ꠸.
The living room is filled with low-frequency bass, flickering blue light from the wide-screen, and the unmistakable scent of home. You’re leaning against the wall, a soft smile playing on your lips as you take in the beautiful, chaotic mess of people who make up your world.
On the couch, Kassidy and Suki are leaning forward in a state of high-intensity warfare, their faces illuminated by the frantic flashes of Modern Warfare on the split-screen. Suki, your best friend since middle school, is a whirlwind of bubbly energy and pure mischief that usually ends with you having to bail her out of a bad decision. Her skin is a stunning, deep espresso color that seems to soak up the shadows of the room, glowing every time the TV screen white-outs from a flashbang. She’s the sister you chose, the one who knows exactly which buttons to push to make Kassy lose his cool.
Crack.
The sound of a sniper rifle echoed through the speakers. Suki let out a high-pitched, screeching laugh that made her whole body shake.
"Headshot! Sit down, old man! Get your eyes checked!" Suki shrieks, her dark curls bouncing as she does a little victory wiggle in her seat. "You’re lame, Kassy! I thought you was a shooter!"
He doesn't even take his eyes off the screen, though his jaw ticks in that way you’ve come to love—a sign he’s actually trying now. "You’re lucky my controller’s sticking. That was a fluke and you know it. Stop camping and come find me in the open."
"Fluke? Baby, that was pure talent," she shoots back, her thumbs blurring over the joysticks.
From the plush armchair, Ivory lets out a smooth, velvety laugh. She’s lounging back with a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips balanced on her stomach, looking every bit the heartbreaker she is. Ivory’s light skin is flawless, highlighted by that tiny, charming mole on her cheek. Her locs are a work of art, adorned with silver and gold charms that clink like wind chimes every time she tilts her head.
"Damn, Kas" Ivory says, crunching loudly. "She tagging your ass. I thought you were a pro."
"I am a pro. I'm just playing with a handicap. She won't stop talking." He grumbles, though there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Meanwhile, the kitchen is under siege. Malcolm is standing in front of your open refrigerator, his tall, broad frame blocking out almost all the light. He has short black hair faded perfectly at the temples, and when he turns to look at you, his hazel eyes are wide with the desperate hunger of a man who hasn't eaten in at least forty-five minutes. He's Muslim. You're surprised he gets through fasting with his eating habits.
You watch, amused, as Ivory pulls out her phone and snaps a picture of Malcolm with half of your refrigerator already on the counter.
"Look at this man," Ivory teases, crunching on a chip. "Malcolm, stop being greedy, bro. You’re gonna eat her out of house and home."
Malcolm didn't even look up. "I’m hungry, Ivory. This is a medical emergency." He looks over at her, his expression deadpan. "I don’t know how you aren't hungry after smoking that whole blunt on the porch. Your lungs must be made of iron."
Ivory smirks, her eyes dropping to Malcolm’s tall frame. "I ain't hungry, Mal. I'm horny. Different kind of empty."
Malcolm didn't miss a beat, reaching for the leftover chicken. "I can help with that," he jokes, knowing damn well Ivory is a lesbian.
You shake your head. They’d been doing this routine for years—Malcolm playing the willing man and Ivory reminding him he didn't have the right equipment. It was the kind of effortless, platonic love that made your house feel like a sanctuary.
Back on the screen, a massive explosion rocks the TV, and Kassy lets out a triumphant "Hah!" as he catches Suki with a well-placed frag grenade.
"Oh, so we're doing that?" Suki’s voice drops, her eyes narrowing as she gives Kassidy a lethal side-eye. "You're gonna blow me up in front of my people?" She asks, motioning toward you.
"Don't let it happen again, Kassidy. I’m telling you. My feelings are hurt and my kill-streak is gone."
"Then move your feet, Suki," He mumbles, that sly smirk returning to his face. He loved this—the bickering, the noise, your friends treated his house like their own. "Stop crying and play the game."
Malcolm wanders over to you, holding the heavy glass pan of your baked mac and cheese like it's a sacred relic. "Hey, sis... you gonna let me take the rest of this home? It’s just gonna sit here and get lonely."
You look at the pan—there’s still half a pan of the four-cheese, baked-to-perfection mac left. "Malcolm, no. You are not taking half a pan of macaroni home. That’s a part of tomorrow's lunch."
"Please? My fridge is a desert. I'll bring the dish back tomorrow." He pleads, his hazel eyes doing that puppy-dog thing, though it doesn't work as well coming from a six-foot-three man.
"No," you laugh, pushing him back toward the counter. "I'll make you a couple of sliders and some fries, but the macaroni stays in this house." You look over your shoulder at the couch, your gaze lingering on the way Kassidy’s grey tank top clings to his shoulders.
"Kassy, you want a plate? I'm fixing Malcolm something."
He doesn't turn around, but you see his shoulders shake with a laugh. "I want Suki to go home," he jokes.
"In your dreams!" Suki yells, not missing a beat. "I'm staying until I get my revenge!"
"Then I guess she's staying forever." He says, then his voice softens, dropping into that sweet, intimate tone that’s meant just for you. "I'll take whatever you're eating, baby. Just bring it over here so I can keep an eye on this little coward."
"Okay," you say, heading towards the stove, Malcolm trailing behind you like a hungry giant.
-ꪶ꠸
The kitchen is thick with the scent of seasoned ground beef and the sharp, salty tang of frozen shoestring fries hitting hot oil. You’re standing at the stove, a spatula in one hand, while Malcolm hovers over your shoulder like a persistent, hungry shadow. His eyes are fixed on the tray of slider buns you just pulled out of the oven. "Malcolm, if you touch one more piece of that cheese before I put the tops on, I am going to fry your fingers next," you say, not even needing to look at him to know his hand is creeping toward the counter.
"I’m just checking for quality control." Malcolm grumbles, his voice deep but carrying that unmistakable little brother whine. He’s a big man—solid muscle and a face that usually looks like he’s ready to handle business in the streets—but in your kitchen, he’s just a bottomless pit with pretty eyes. "You know I gotta make sure the cheddar is melting at the right frequency."
"The only frequency you’re about to feel is my hand upside your head," you retort, slapping his hand away as he tries to snag a stray fry. "You're so damn greedy. How are you even related to people who eat normal portions?"
"I’m a growing man," he insists, leaning his hip against the counter. He looks over at the door to the living room where a particularly loud bang-bang-bang of gunfire erupts. "And Kas is over there working up an appetite too. I’m just looking out for the team."
"You’re looking out for Malcolm," you correct him, flipping the sliders. The meat sizzles and pops, the edges getting that perfect, lacy brown crust. "Grab the platter and the napkins. The thick ones in the drawer."
Malcolm does as he's told, but not without snagging a slider patty while your back is turned. You catch the movement in the reflection of the microwave.
"Malcolm!"
"It fell!" he lies through a mouthful of hot beef, his eyes wide and innocent. "I caught it before it hit the floor. I’m a hero, really."
You just shake your head, trying to suppress your grin. He’s a badass out in the world, someone people think twice about crossing, but here, he’s just the sweet, hungry brother who’d do anything for you—as long as there’s a plate involved.
By the time you walk into the living room, the war has finally ceased. Suki is sitting back with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s staring Kassidy down with a look of pure, unadulterated saltiness. He’s leaning back, a satisfied, smug smile on his face as he calmly sets his controller on the coffee table.
"Don't look at me like that, Suk," Kassy says, his voice a low, smooth drawl. "You played a good game. You just didn't play a winning game."
"You cheated," Suki says flatly. "I don't know how, but I feel it in my spirit. You used some kind of voodoo."
"Food’s here," you announce, and the atmosphere shifts instantly from war to worship.
You set the platters down, and for a few minutes, the only sound is the crunch of fries and the collective "Mmm" of your friends. Ivory reaches out, her locs clinking softly as she grabs a slider, her charms catching the light. She looks at the TV, then at the group. "Alright, enough of the digital violence," Ivory says, her thumb scrolling through the streaming apps. "Let’s put on something.... uhh, Let’s do Get Out."
"Again?" Malcolm asks, his mouth half-full. "We watched this a few months ago. I don't know if my heart can take the tea cup scene again."
"Sit down and eat your sliders, Mal," Ivory charms him with a wink. The movie starts, and the room goes quiet, save for the occasional commentary. Kassidy settles in next to you, his arm draped over the back of the couch, his fingers ghosting over the nape of your neck in a way that makes it hard to focus on the screen.
When the scene comes up—the one where Chris finds the girlfriend’s mom sitting on the couch in the dark—the tension in the room triples. The mom is sitting there, all polite and eerie, asking him about the night his mother died, her silver spoon clinking against the china with a rhythmic, hypnotic tink, tink, tink.You watch Chris’s face, the way his eyes start to well up, the way he’s being lured into the Sunken Place under the guise of help.
You shake your head, shifting closer to Kassy’s heat. "See, that right there?" you whisper-shout at the screen. "That’s exactly where he messed up. She starts asking about my mama’s death in the middle of the night on a dark-ass couch? I would have been left. My bags wouldn't even have been unpacked yet."
"Real shit," Suki chimes in, pointing a fry at the TV. "I’d be out the window. I don't care if we're in the suburbs or the sticks, I'm hitting a sprint."
Kassy chuckles low in his throat, his hand squeezing your shoulder. "You wouldn't even have made it to the couch. You’d have seen that bowl of Froot Loops in the kitchen and known something was off."
"Exactly," you say, feeling the comfort of the room, the safety of your people, and the weight of Kassidy beside you. "I'm a track star as soon as the vibe shifts."
Malcolm mumbles something in agreement, already eyeing the kitchen for the mac and cheese he thinks he’s taking home, while Ivory just laughs, her charms jingling as she settles in for the rest of the ride.
-ꪶ꠸
The betrayal on the screen is almost physical. You watch Chris’s trembling fingers sort through those photos—Rose with one Black man after another, then women, all of them smiling, all of them gone—and the air in the room shifts from suspense to pure, unfiltered disgust.
"This bitch," you mutter, your voice thick with a mix of disbelief and "I knew it." You shake your head, leaning deeper into the crook of Kassy’s arm.
Suki lets out a sharp, jagged exhale, her face illuminated by the harsh white light of the TV. "Girl, please. I wouldn't have even seen those pictures. I would have been left as soon as that lady knocked my phone off the charger. You touch my property and start acting like a glitch in the Matrix? I’m hitting the 40-yard dash. Goodbye!"
Kassidy’s hand is a steady, warm weight against your lower back, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles through the fabric of your shirt. He’s quiet, just watching the screen with that focused, heavy-lidded gaze, but the domestic peace is suddenly interrupted by a shadow moving toward the coffee table.
Out of nowhere, his voice drops—not into the sweet, soft tone he uses for you, but into that low, dangerous rumble that reminds everyone in the room he isn't one to be played with.
"I'm gonna fuck you up. Put it down."
You blink, looking over to see Malcolm, his hand hovering inches away from the plate where Kasey’s last, half-eaten slider is sitting. Malcolm freezes, his eyes going wide as he looks from the slider to Kasey’s face.
"Chill, big dog," Malcolm says, slowly raising his hands in a mock surrender. He looks like a giant kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, his short black hair messy from leaning against the couch cushions. "You got it. I was just... checking to see if it was cold. I didn't want you eating cold meat, Kas. I’m a humanitarian."
"Check yourself into the kitchen and find a napkin," Kassy grunts, though the corner of his mouth twitches. "Touch my plate again and we’re gonna have a problem, Malcolm."
"You got it, you got it," Malcolm mumbles, retreating toward the armchair. You just shake your head, laughing under your breath at how Malcolm can eat a full meal and still act like he hasn't seen food in a decade.
By the time the credits roll and that blue-and-red police light finally signals Chris's escape, the room is filled with a collective sigh of relief. You stand up, your joints popping as you reach your arms high over your head, stretching out the tension of the movie.Suki, ever the opportunist, doesn't even stand up. She reaches over the back of the couch, snagging one of your favorite plush throw blankets and wrapping it around her shoulders like a cape. She looks up at you with a mischievous, wide-eyed grin.
"Hey," Suki chirps, her voice bubbling with that best friend audacity. "Can I sleep in y'all bed tonight? The guest room feels real far away and I’m scared of the Sunken Place."
You roll your eyes, knowing damn well she’s done this since you moved in. "Suki, no. You are a grown woman. Go to the guest room."
"Why?" she pushes, the corners of her mouth crinkling as she grins. "Y'all gonna get freaky? Is that what it is? You can't have your bestie in the corner while Kas does his thing?"
"No," you say quickly, your face heating up.
"Yes," Kasey says at the exact same time, his voice a deep, unabashed rumble.
You look down at Kassy, who is still sitting on the couch, looking up at you with a wicked, knowing smirk. You smile awkwardly, shaking your head as you give him a playful nudge with your foot. "Put the plates away, and stop encouraging her."
Ivory lets out a loud, barking laugh, standing up and adjusting her clothes. "My man," Malcolm says, giving Kassy a respectful nod as he starts clearing his own mountain of trash from the coffee table.Ivory leans over and snags the edge of Suki’s blanket, tugging her upward. "Come on, little monster. Leave the grown folks to their business. You’re coming with me." She looks over at you and winks, her mole dancing on her cheek. "I’ll make sure she doesn't crawl under your door in the middle of the night."
She herds a complaining Suki toward the guest room, their laughter echoing down the hall.
Malcolm, meanwhile, has moved to the center of the living room, grunting as he pulls the lever on the pull-out couch. The metal frame groans as it unfolds, and he starts tossing pillows onto the thin mattress.
"Listen," Malcolm says, pointing a finger at Ivory as she disappears into the hallway. "If Ivory cuts off the AC in the middle of the night and I wake up sweating, we’re fighting. I'm telling you now. I need it at sixty degrees or I’m a hazard to society."
"Just stay in your lane, Mal!" Ivory shouts back from the hall.
You stand there in the quiet of the kitchen doorway, watching the people you love settle into the corners of your home. Kassy stands up, picking up the last of the platters. The house is full, the mac and cheese is safe (for now), and the night is finally winding down.
-ꪶ꠸
The house has finally settled into that low, humming quiet that only comes after a night of heavy laughter and good food. You can hear the faint, muffled sound of Suki giggling at something Ivory said through the guest room wall, and the rhythmic thump of Malcolm finally getting comfortable on the pull-out couch.
In the sanctuary of your bedroom, the only light comes from the moon filtering through the blinds, casting long, silver slats across the bed. Kassy is already under the covers, his large frame taking up his side of the mattress like he was carved into it. You slide in beside him, the cool sheets a sharp contrast to the radiating heat of his body.
He pulls you in immediately, his arm a heavy, protective weight over your waist as you tuck your head into the hollow of his shoulder. He smells like the soap from his shower and the lingering warmth of the day.
"I’m telling you now," he mumbles, his voice a deep, gravelly vibration against your temple. "I better not find Malcolm head-first in my fridge in the middle of the night. If I walk out there for a glass of water and see that man hovering over leftovers, it’s over."
You let out a soft, bubbly laugh that vibrates in your chest. "Stop it. He’s your friend."
He shakes his head, his chin brushing your hair. "Unfortunately. I really can't believe I’ve known that man since birth. Our mamas really did us a disservice putting us in the same playpen. He’s been eating my snacks for almost thirty years."
"I think it’s sweet," you murmur, your hand wandering up his bare chest. Your fingers trace the hard lines of his pectorals, feeling the steady, calm thrum of his heart. You look up at him, your eyes searching his in the dark. "You have a good friendship, Kassidy. Today was amazing. My heart is just... full."
His gaze softens. The stern persona he keeps up for the guys melts away, leaving only that quiet, soulful devotion he saves just for you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that’s ever made sense.
"It was," he agrees softly. He leans down, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that starts out sweet—a lingering, tender thank you for the day—but it doesn't stay that way for long. His hand at your waist shifts, his fingers splaying wide and dragging down to grope your ass, pulling you flush against his hip. He deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a slow, practiced hunger that makes your toes curl into the mattress. He tastes like heat and possession.
You feel that familiar spark ignite in your belly, but then you remember the thin walls and the three people currently occupying your home. You reluctantly press your palms against his chest, pushing back just enough to break the seal of his lips.
"Stop," you whisper-giggle, breathless. "Not tonight."
He pulls back just an inch, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "I wasn't even trying to do anything," he lies, his voice a low, innocent drawl that doesn't match the way his hand is still firmly cupping you.
You roll your eyes, a playful smirk on your lips. "Liar. We have company, Kassy. They’re like ten feet away."
He rolls his eyes right back, mocking your "responsible" tone with a huff. He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow. "So? I'm grown. This is my house. If they don't like the soundtrack, they should’ve stayed at their own cribs."
"Kassidy!"
"I'm just saying," he grumbles, though he’s smiling now.
You turn over, presenting your back to him as a signal that the shop is closed for the night. He doesn't complain; he just sighs and settles in behind you, spooning you perfectly. His chest is a warm wall against your back, and his arm drapes over you, pinning you to him. The heat of him is intoxicating, and you can feel the thick, heavy length of his dick pressing right against the curve of your ass through your thin sleep shorts. It’s a silent, stubborn reminder of exactly what he wants.
You bite your lip, the thought crossing your mind to just roll over and give him a BJ—to take care of him and listen to those low, wrecked sounds he makes when you use your mouth. But you know Kassidy. He’s greedy. He wouldn't let you stop there; he’d find a way to work his way inside you, and before you knew it, the headboard would be knocking a rhythm that Suki would never let you live down.
"Go to sleep," you murmur, reaching back to pat his thigh.
"Mhmm," he hums, his breath hot against the nape of your neck. He nuzzles into your hair, his grip on you tightening just a fraction, a silent promise that even if he isn't getting his way tonight, he isn't letting go.
You fall asleep like that—tangled together, listening to the quiet settling of the house and the steady, comforting rhythm of each other's breath.
-ꪶ꠸
The morning sun is fighting its way through the blinds in thin, golden needles, and the house is surprisingly quiet—until it isn't.
You stir slowly, the warmth of the bed still clinging to your skin. When you blink your eyes open and look up, you see him propped up against a mountain of pillows. He’s already wide awake, his phone held loosely in one hand as his thumb scrolls through a manga chapter. The glow of the screen reflects in his dark eyes, and he looks so peaceful like this—just a man and his stories before the world demands anything from him.
You lay there for a minute, drifting in that hazy space between sleep and reality, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.
It’s perfect.
It’s calm.
CLANK.
The sound of heavy metal hitting the floor echoes from the kitchen, followed by a muffled "Oh, hush up!" from Suki.
"What are they doing?" you groan, burying your face back into the pillow.
He doesn't even look up from his phone, a small, amused smirk playing on his lips. "Suki came in here about ten minutes ago and whispered—very loudly, I might add—that her and Ivory were taking over the kitchen. She told me to stay out of the way unless I wanted to be put on dish duty."
You let out a long, dramatic sigh and finally roll out of bed. Your feet hit the cool hardwood, and you make your way to the master bath to start the morning reset. You’re halfway through washing your face, the cool water waking up your senses, when Kassy wanders in.
He doesn't say a word, just walks over to the toilet, whips it out, and starts peeing with the kind of unbothered, long-term-partner comfort that only comes from years of being together. You finish rinsing and start brushing your teeth, watching him in the mirror. When he’s done, he flushes, washes his hands thoroughly, and then splashes some water on his face.
You hop up onto the rim of the bathtub, foam in your mouth, just watching him work. He is so damn handsome it almost makes you sick. He’s got his hair in a crisp, fresh fade that makes the silver at his temples stand out, and he moves with a slow, deliberate grace. He reaches for his beard oil, rubbing a few drops into his palms before massaging it into his dark, thick beard.
He catches you staring in the mirror and cuts his eyes at you, that wicked smirk returning. "You’re a creep, you know that?" he rumbles, his voice still thick with sleep. He leans in close, mocking your exact tone from last night. "Stop staring, ma. You ain't getting none while company's over."
You nearly choke on your toothpaste, let out a muffled laugh, and spit into the sink. "Boy, bye," you say, wiping your mouth. You shove past his shoulder, giving his side a playful pinch, and head toward the kitchen.
The smell hits you first—sweet vanilla waffles, savory sautéed spinach, and the salty, crispy scent of potato wedges.
You walk into the kitchen and the sight is... a lot. Suki is standing at the stove, her skin glowing in the morning light, her hair tied up in a silk scarf. She’s plating food like she’s a Michelin-star chef. Ivory is standing near the table, still in her satin pajamas, her charms clinking softly as she gently rubs Malcolm’s head.
Malcolm is sitting at the table looking absolutely devastated. His hair is a mess, and his eyes are fixed on the center of the table like he’s just lost his best friend.
"Good morning," you say, looking around at everyone. They all look bright and beautiful in their sleep clothes, a patchwork of silk, cotton, and oversized tees. You look at Ivory. "What’s wrong with him? Why does he look like he’s at a funeral?"
Kassy wanders in behind you, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded across his chest.
"Suki’s starving him," Ivory explains, her voice full of mock sympathy as she continues to baby Malcolm, who actually leans into her hand.
"Starving him?" Suki scoffs, turning around with a spatula in her hand. "This man kept sneaking over here and ‘sampling’ the potato wedges while I was trying to season them. I told him three times—three!—that if he touched another one, they were coming out of his final portion. He didn't listen."
She slides a plate in front of Malcolm. It’s a beautiful spread: a golden waffle, a mountain of eggs with spinach... and exactly two solitary potato wedges sitting in the corner of the plate.
Malcolm looks up at you, his hazel eyes watery. "Two, sis. She gave me two."
Kassy lets out a short, dry bark of a laugh. "Tragic," he says, not sounding sorry at all. He walks over, grabs a full plate from the counter, and nods to Suki. "Thanks, Suk. Looks good." He looks over at Ivory and Malcolm. "Ivory, stop babying him. He spends his week eating a family of seven portions, he’ll survive on two potatoes."
You grab your own plate, the smell of the waffles making your stomach growl. As you pass Malcolm, you reach out and pat his shoulder, offering him zero sympathy.
"Actions have consequences, Malcolm," you say, your voice full of tough love as you head toward the living room to find a spot on the couch. "Maybe next time you'll believe her."
"I'm a victim!" Malcolm shouts after you, but you can already hear the sound of his fork hitting the plate. He might be sad, but he’s still gonna eat.
-ꪶ꠸
The energy in the house has finally reached that mellow, post-brunch hum. For the last hour, the living room was a battlefield of down feathers and laughter. What started as a simple disagreement between Suki and Malcolm over the correct way to season grits turned into a full-blown civil war. They ended up beating the hell out of each other with couch pillows, their silhouettes dancing wildly against the walls as they swung with zero mercy. Ivory sat back, feet up, egging them on and suggesting that if they really wanted to settle it, they should have used the pool noodles she’d seen in your garage last summer.
Now, the dust has settled—literally—and you’re standing at the open front door with Kas, seeing everyone off. The air is warm, the scent of the morning's coffee still clinging to your breath.
"We really should do this again next week," Malcolm says, standing on your porch and adjusting the waistband of his joggers. He looks satisfied, though he’s still pouting a little about those two potato wedges.
You pull a face, a playful absolutely not written all over your features. "Every week, Malcolm? My grocery bill would look like a mortgage payment. Give me at least a month to recover."
Suki let out a loud laugh, leaning against the doorframe. "Exactly. And you only want to come back so soon because you don't have a life. You need to get a girlfriend, for real."
Kassy leans his heavy shoulder against yours, his hand finding the small of your back and squeezing. "He has several," he drawls, his voice full of that brotherly snark. "They just don't know about each other."
"I am not a player!" Malcolm protests, throwing his hands up. "Anā ʿabdu-llāh (I am a servant of God). I am looking for substance!"
Ivory, standing behind him with her charms clinking as she shakes her head, lets out a dry chuckle. "He’s not a player. He’s a hoe. There's a difference, Mal. One has a strategy, the other just has a high heart rate."
Kas and Ivory exchange a look of pure, mutual understanding and dap each other up, the slap of their palms echoing in the quiet hallway.
After the final round of hugs—long, genuine squeezes that remind you why these people are your chosen family—the door finally clicks shut. The silence that follows is heavy, but it’s the good kind of heavy. It’s the sound of a house that was well-loved and well-used.
You’re smiling as you walk back toward the bedroom, your feet feeling light. You don't even bother making the bed; you just climb on top of the rumpled sheets and fall back, laying on your back and letting out a long, happy exhale.
Kas follows you in, his presence filling the room. He doesn't go to his side; instead, he crawls onto the bed and settles his weight over your lower half, pinning your legs down with the comfortable, solid mass of his body. He props himself up on his elbows for a moment, looking down at you.
You reach up, your fingers finding the soft hair of his fade and the thickness of his beard. You rub his head, your nails lightly scratching against his scalp, and he lets out a low, contented hum that vibrates through your thighs.
"That was fun," you whisper, your voice soft and honey-sweet in the quiet room.
"Mhm," he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours. He doesn't look away. He stays there, just watching you, his expression open and raw in a way he only allows when the door is locked. "You’re so pretty. You know that? The most beautiful thing in this whole damn house."
You feel a flush creep up your neck, your heart fluttering. "You're so cheesy."
"I'm serious," he continues, his voice dropping into that deep, soulful register. "The way you take care of everyone... the way you handle Mal’s greedy ass and Suki’s mouth... I’m a lucky man. I don't say it enough, but I'm lucky."
He leans down, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to your forehead, then your nose, before finally settling his head on your chest. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding him close. You can feel the weight of his head right over your heart, and he adjusted himself until he’s perfectly tucked under your chin.
You stay like that for a long time, the only sound the distant chirp of birds outside and the steady, synchronized rhythm of your breathing. There’s no rush to clean the kitchen or do the laundry. Right now, there’s just the two of you, coming back down to earth after the chaos, wrapped in a love that feels as sturdy and permanent as the walls around you.
The quiet afternoon eventually bleeds into a deep, bruised purple evening. The house is still, the lingering scent of breakfast long gone, replaced by the clean, sharp aroma of the shower you both shared to wash away the day's lethargy.
The no fucking rule had been a point of pride for you all morning, a playful boundary set in the presence of family, but as the sun dipped below the horizon, that resolve started to melt. Kassy had been hovering all afternoon—a hand on your hip while you put away the last of the laundry, a kiss to the back of your neck while you folded the throw blankets. He was patient, but the tension in his jaw told you he was counting down the minutes until the house was truly yours again.
Now, the bedroom is draped in shadows, the only light coming from a few candle flickering on the dresser. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, freshly lotioned and wearing nothing but a silk camisole and small shorts, when he walks in. He’s just in his grey joggers, the waistband sitting low on his hips, his bare chest glowing in the candlelight.
He doesn’t say a word. He just walks over and stands between your knees, his presence looming and warm. He reaches out, his large, calloused hands cupping your face, tilting your head back so you have to look at him.
"Company's gone, baby," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seems to echo in your very bones.
His eyes are dark, focused, and filled with a depth of love that always makes your breath catch. He leans down, his mouth ghosting over yours, teasing the seal of your lips. "I was real good today. I played nice. I let Malcolm eat my food and I let Suki get on my nerves."
You let out a shaky laugh, your hands coming up to rest on his forearms, feeling the hair and the solid muscle beneath. "You were a saint, Kassidy"
"I was," he agrees, his voice dropping an octave as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his beard soft against your skin. "But the saint is tired. And I’ve been thinking about this since three o'clock yesterday morning."
He doesn't wait for an answer. He leans back just enough to pull your camisole over your head, tossing it onto the bed without breaking eye contact. His gaze travels over you slowly, worshipfully, taking in every curve, every inch of the skin he’s been craving all day.
"God, you’re beautiful," he breathes, his voice thick with a refined kind of hunger. He hoists you up to the center of the bed, laying you down with a gentleness that contradicts the intensity in his eyes. He crawls over you, his heavy weight a welcome pressure, pinning you into the mattress.
His hands find yours, interlocking your fingers and pinning them above your head. It’s a position of total surrender, one that speaks to the absolute trust between you.
He starts with kisses—not the frantic, hungry kind, but deep, soul-stirring ones that taste of promise and long-term devotion. He worships your body, his mouth traveling down your throat, to your breasts, to the soft swell of your stomach, his movements slow and deliberate. He’s savoring you, treating this not just as a release, but as a reconnection.
His large, warm hands slide beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, his palms grazing the soft curve of your hips before his fingers dive lower. You let out a jagged breath as he finds you, his thumb immediately finding your clit and beginning a slow, torturous rhythm of deliberate circles.
He leans in, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that is anything but polite. It’s sloppy, hungry, and deep. You cup his face, your palms feeling the slight grit of his beard and the heat of his skin, pulling him closer as if you could pull him into your very lungs. His tongue tangles with yours, tasting like the mint of his toothpaste and the raw heat of his desire.
His hand stays busy, his thumb working you until the friction starts to produce that familiar, heavy ache. He can feel the slick, hot evidence of how much you’ve been wanting this all day.
"Look at that," he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "All that talk about company being here, and you’re already dripping for me."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. He slides a finger down, teasing the sensitive opening of your pussy, dragging the moisture along your length before he finally slips one finger inside. You gasp into his mouth, your hips instinctively jerking upward to meet him. Then, he adds a second, stretching you out, filling the void you’ve been feeling since the sun went down.
He begins to finger-fuck you with a slow, rhythmic drawl, his fingers curling perfectly to hit that one spot that makes your toes curl into the mattress. With his thumb, he maintains that steady, blunt pressure on your clit, timed perfectly with the internal thrusts of his fingers. The sounds in the room change. The quiet is replaced by the wet, sloppy squelch of his fingers moving through your arousal—a sound that makes his jaw tick with a nasty kind of pride. You can't help it; the moans start bubbling up, low and wrecked, vibrating in the back of your throat.
Kassidy pauses, a wicked, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "What happened to that shy girl from last night?" he teases, his voice dropping into a soulful, mocking register. "The one who was so worried about the neighbors? The one who told me 'no'?"
You let out a huff of mock indignation and lean forward, biting down on his shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. "Don't you start," you breathe. "You are not about to embarrass me in my own bed, Kassy."
"I ain't trying to embarrass you, baby," he grunts, his grip on your thigh tightening. He hooks his arm under your leg, pulling your thigh higher onto his hip so his fingers can dive even deeper, bottoming out against your g-spot. "I just like how loud you get. I like hearing exactly how much you need this."
You let out a long, high-pitched moan, your head falling back as his fingers hit that sweet spot again. "Kas... please. Put it in. Just put it in already."
You look up at him, your eyes glassy, pouting with a hunger that makes his own breath hitch. He just shakes his head, his fingers never slowing their work. "Patience is a virtue, sweetie," he insists, though the vein in his neck is bulging. "You were so firm on the rules earlier. I think we should take our time. Make sure you’re real... ready."
He leans back down, recapturing your mouth, and for several long, agonizingly beautiful minutes, there is nothing but the sound of your combined breathing and the rhythmic slap of his hand against your skin. The eye contact is ruinous—intense and filled with a decade’s worth of love and shared secrets.
He watches your face as the tension in your body starts to peak. He speeds up the motion of his thumb, his fingers curling harder, deeper, until your walls begin to milk him in desperate, frantic pulses.
"There it is," he whispers, his voice thick with adoration. "Give it to me, baby. Cum on my hand."
The snap is violent and sweet. You cry out his name, your body shuddering as the first wave of your orgasm crashes through you. You collapse back against the pillows, your pussy clenching around his fingers with a strength that makes him let out a low, guttural groan. You’re shaking, your skin damp and hot, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips as you look up at him through your lashes.
You’re undone, slick, and finally ready for the next part—and Kassy looks like a man who is finished being a saint.
-ꪶ꠸
The room is a blur of warm shadows and flickering candlelight, the only sound the rhythmic creak of the mattress and the heavy, synchronized hitch of your breathing. He's is a solid, radiating weight over you, his chest pressed flat against your breast.
You’ve got your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, your heels digging into the backs of his thighs to keep him exactly where you want him. You aren't letting an inch of air between you. Your arms are draped over his broad shoulders, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck as you pull him down, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.
You’re greedy for the taste of him, your lips find the pulse point in his neck, and you suck hard, the way you know he loves, leaving a dark, bruised brand on his skin that he’ll have to explain tomorrow.
He lets out a long, ragged groan, his forehead resting against yours for a second as he drives into you. His size is perfect—filling you with a slow, agonizingly deep stretch that makes your vision swim. Every stroke is deliberate, a long, sliding drawl of friction that makes the wetness between your thighs sizzle.
He tries to push up on his forearms, wanting to get a better look at your face, but you tighten your hold, your nails scratching lightly down his spine.
"No," you whimper against his skin. "Stay close. Don't move."
He lets out a low, gravelly laugh that vibrates against your chest. He speeds up the pace just a fraction, his hips snapping forward with a little more force. "Mghn—Ma, let me up," he mumbles, his voice thick and wrecked. He knows you—knows you crave the skin-to-skin contact, the feeling of his heavy frame pinning you down. It’s why you always end up tangled in a side-fuck or why you love to sit on top of him, pressing your chest to his until your hearts beat against each other.
You let out a soft, protestive whimper, but as he playfully slaps the meat of your thigh, you finally loosen your grip. He sits back on his heels, never pulling out, the transition making him slide even deeper into you.
The change in perspective is immediate and intense. Kassy is looming over you, his bare chest glistening with a fine sheen of sweat in the candlelight. He’s biting his lower lip, his dark eyes hooded and focused as he watches the way your breasts bounce. Your nipples are hard, peaking in the warm air, and he reaches out, his large hand cupping one breast and squeezing it firmly.
"You don't want me to look at you, baby?" he asks, his voice dropping into that deep, sultry register.
You shake your head, your braids splaying out across the pillow like a halo. You reach up, wrapping your hand around his thick wrist, your other hand trailing down to his lower stomach. Your fingers dance over the rough patch of hair that leads down into his joggers, feeling the ripple of his muscles as he maintains the rhythm.
"You feel so good, Kassidy," you whisper, your voice dropping into that low, dirty-talk tone that you know makes his head spin. "You’re taking up so much space... You’re stretching me so good."
His eyes flicker down, his gaze dropping to the junction of your thighs. He watches with a raw, primal fascination as his dick disappears and reappears, swallowed whole by your pussy. The sounds are filthy—the wet, rhythmic squelch of your arousal mixing with the friction of his skin. His length is wet, streaked white with your cream, glistening in the dim light every time he pulls back.
"God, look at you," he moans, his voice cracking. "Look how wet you are for me. You’re soaking the sheets, honey."
He reaches out, one hand sliding up to loosely encircle your throat—not to choke, but to anchor you, to keep your eyes locked on his. His other hand stays heavy on your hip, his thumb digging into the bone. He stops the slow drawl and starts to pound, his hips hitting yours with a dull, fleshy thud that echoes in the quiet room.
He’s not holding back now. He’s driving into you with a focused, masculine intensity, his jaw set as he watches your face break, your eyes rolling back as he hits that spot again and again. You hold onto his waist, your fingers digging into his skin, riding the wave of the friction he’s building, both of you lost in the deep, rhythmic trance of a love that’s been years in the making.
As the air in the room grows heavy and humid, you’re getting louder, your voice catching in the back of your throat with every deep, rhythmic slide of him. Kassy has shifted his weight, sitting back on his heels while staying buried deep inside you, his hand reaching down to find your clit.
His thumb begins to work in a relentless, blurring motion, and the combination of that blunt pressure and the way he’s bottoming out inside you makes your hips stutter. He lets out a long, fractured moan, his head falling back for a second as he feels your internal walls clenching around him in tight, rhythmic pulses.
"I can't believe you," he rasps, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates through your joined hips. "Acting like a angel all night. Not letting me touch you because you can’t control yourself in front of company." He looks down at you, his dark eyes hooded and full of a nasty kind of heat. "Look at you now. You're a mess, baby. Where's that control?"
You shake your head against the pillow, your hair a wild halo around your face. "You’re just as bad," you gasp, your fingers digging into the meat of his thighs. "You just don't care. Suki would be outside the door with a glass against the wood, Kas. She would mock us for a month. It’s embarrassing."
He lets out a dark, amused chuckle, his thumb never slowing its work. "You’re so cute when you’re worried about her. But she’s gone now, sweetie. It’s just us."
You look up at him, and for a moment, the heat of the moment softens into something deeply, achingly domestic. He is so incredibly handsome. You track the line of his crisp fade, the way his eyebrows are set in a look of intense focus, and the perfect, straight bridge of his nose. Your eyes linger on his plump lips—the ones that have been all over you for the last hour—and the thick beard that feels like silk against your skin.
"You're so handsome," you whisper, the honesty of it making your chest ache. You reach up, your hands tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, trying to pull his weight back down onto you. "Give me a kiss, Kassidy."
He smiles, a slow, beautiful expression that reaches his eyes before he leans down to capture your mouth. As your lips meet, you whisper something sweet and utterly filthy into his mouth, a secret request that makes his entire body go rigid.
"God, you're so bad," he groans against your lips.
He doesn't wait. He recaptures your mouth in a sloppy, deep make-out, his tongue claiming yours while his hips start a frantic, pounding pace. He’s rubbing your clit with a bruising intensity now, and you can feel the heat of his release building in his lower stomach. You wrap your arms around his neck, holding on for dear life, whispering into his ear.
"I love you, Kassidy. I love you so much. You’re so perfect."
"I love you too, baby," he moans, his voice breaking as he feels the first contraction of your climax hitting him. He doesn't pull back; he pushes deeper, burying himself into your heat as you begin to come undone. He moans directly into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your teeth, before he pulls back just an inch to watch you.
He holds your thigh wide open, his hand heavy and possessive as he watches your glassy eyes and your parted, panting lips. The sight of you shattered under him is clearly his favorite thing in the world. He mumbles sweet, protective things—and then some darker, possessive stuff that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.
"That's it, baby. Cum for me. Cum so I can fill you up."
You nod, unable to even find your voice, as the world narrows down to the point where his body meets yours. You shatter, your pussy milking him in desperate, electric waves. He lets out a low, guttural groan, his back arching as he finally loses his own control. He drives into you one last time, holding himself deep as he spills into you, his body trembling with the force of it.
After a few minutes of heavy, silence-filling pants, he collapses onto your chest. He’s a dead weight, his brown skin slick with sweat, his heart hammering against yours. You wrap your arms around his back, your fingers tracing the dip of his spine, getting all clingy and refused to let him move.
He lets out a long, weary sigh against your neck, though you can feel the smile in it. "You're so clingy when you’re tired," he mutters, though he doesn't pull away. He just settles into you, the two of you lying in the cooling dampness of the sheets, basking in the absolute peace of the room.
The silence lasts until a sharp, upbeat ringtone pierces through the air. It’s coming from Kassidy’s phone on the dresser. He doesn't even lift his head. He recognizes the tone instantly.
"Don't answer it," you whisper.
"I’m not," he grumbles. "Malcolm is so damn annoying. It’s nearly midnight. Why is he calling?"
He lets it ring until it goes to voicemail.
-ꪶ꠸
The two of you are cleaned up, wrapped in fresh sheets, and sitting propped up against the headboard. Kassidy finally reaches for his phone, hitting the speaker on the new notification. Malcolm’s voice booms through the quiet room, sounding entirely too energetic.
"Yo, Kas. I know your ball-ass head saw me calling and you just ignored me. I see how it is. You get a little quality time and suddenly the homies don't exist. Cold world, man. Cold world."
There’s a sound of Malcolm crunching on something in the background.
"But anyway, so... um... is sis cooking this week? Because if she is, I need a plate. I’m already thinking about those sliders again. And if she ain't cooking, I mean, you still owe me for that mac and cheese she wouldn't let me take home. Anyway, I just started watching this show, 'The Bear'—yo, Kassy, have you seen this? The stress is real, bro. I’m sitting here sweating just watching them make a sandwich. Why is everyone yelling? It reminds me of Suki, honestly. Just loud for no reason..."
The message continues for another three minutes, Malcolm ranting away about the plot of the show, his car's oil change, and a dream he had about a giant waffle.
Kassidy looks at the phone, then at you, and just shakes his head. "I'm changing the locks tomorrow."
"He just wants a plate, Kas," you laugh, leaning your head on his shoulder.
"He wants our souls," he mutters, but he pulls you closer, finally clicking the phone off.
