Welcome to the Gemini Pimpcess Record Shop, every piece you see below the cut will always be black lead characters. It does contain explicit content not suitable for minors, or anyone under that age of eighteen. There is also dark content, please heed all warnings, and be mindful of your experience on this page. I do not take requests, but I'm open to suggestions if you would like to see more characters added to the Record Shop.
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ೃI SAW HEAVEN ᝰ
In which we spend the morning with Venus and her husband
warnings : grown folk shit
w/c : 2588 words
Venus let out a breathless exhale, soft and broken at the edges, as the low thrum of synths and bass from whatever playlist Jaafar had decided to put on rolled through the room like heat beneath the floorboards. Which artist it was, she could not have told you. Not right then. Not while her limbs felt syrupy and useless, not while her thoughts had gone soft and fogged-over, turning to static beneath the weight of him, beneath the scent of his skin, his cologne, his sweat, all of it filling her lungs until the rest of the world felt far away and unreal. Her ring — that pretty, damning little symbol of a life she had been moments from choosing — had somehow tangled in his dark curls, catching faintly in the low light, and the sight of it there, caught in him instead of sitting obediently on her finger, made something deep in her chest twist with a guilt so sharp it almost felt like desire.
The tattooed J on her hand disappeared and reappeared beneath the fall of his dark curls, the ink half-hidden against him as though even her skin had been telling the truth long before her mouth was brave enough to. Venus let out one more shuddering sigh, her fingers flexing almost helplessly, the curl of her ring catching briefly in his hair while her eyes fluttered shut. For a moment, all she could feel was him — the warmth of him, the weight of him, the terrible intimacy of knowing that even the smallest mark on her body had always seemed to point back to Jaafar.
“Baby, baby mmm,” she whined as she felt the familiar coil in her belly tighten, the sheet beneath her skin wet from their previous escapades… how long had it been, one hour…two? Maybe three, she didn’t know anymore, and she couldn’t find it in her to care any longer, not while his tongue flattened against her, sucking her clit into his mouth and his fingers curled just right; right into that spot he knew all too well.
Before, she would’ve put a hand over her mouth in an attempt to muffle her moans, to maintain some sense of the dignity she knew he was sucking out of her; she would’ve tried harder to be Venus Taraji Hamilton, to keep the façade up just to say he hadn’t completely taken over all of her being, even though they both knew otherwise.
Jaafar lifted his eyes slowly, his mouth still close enough to her skin that every word felt less spoken than breathed into her. The synths hummed low around them, bass rolling through the suite like a second heartbeat, and Venus could still feel the faint pull of her ring caught somewhere in his curls, her tattooed J brushing against him as though her body had been betraying her in ink long before she ever learned how to say his name without lying.
Venus let out a shaky laugh, but there was no strength in it. Her hand moved to his face, thumb smoothing over his eyebrow, then down the warm line of his cheek, touching him with a tenderness that made the room feel suddenly too quiet, too honest, too full of all the things they had spent years dressing up as timing, age, friendship, and common sense.
“You love me, baby?” he asked, and there it was again — that confidence, that impossible, arrogant softness, like he already knew the answer but wanted the pleasure of hearing her surrender it.
Venus swallowed, her eyes glossy as she looked down at him.
“Jaafar…”
“No.” His hand slid over her hip, firm and slow, holding her there like he had no intention of letting her run from the question. “Don’t ‘Jaafar’ me. Not tonight.”
Her lips parted.
He smiled faintly, dark curls brushing against her fingers. “Dilo.”
Say it.
Venus’s breath hitched.
“Te amo,” she whispered.
I love you.
Jaafar went still beneath her hand.
For all his ego, for all his mouth, for all that golden, god-touched confidence he carried like Apollo dragging daylight behind him, those two words did something to him. They stripped him down to the boy who had loved her too young and the man who had waited too long, left him staring up at her like he had finally heard the prophecy in full.
Venus touched his face again, softer this time.
“Te amo, Jaafar.”
I love you, Jaafar.
His eyes darkened, not with triumph alone, but with something deeper, something almost wounded by the sweetness of being right after years of starving for it.
“Again,” he murmured.
Venus gave him a breathless, disbelieving smile. “You’re so greedy.”
“For you?” His mouth curved. “Always.”
Her smile trembled.
“I love you,” she said, switching back to English like the truth had become too large for one language. “I love you, Jaafar.”
He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening against her hip, and for once, Venus saw the confidence falter just enough to reveal the devotion beneath it.
He had been at it all morning.
All morning, Jaafar had woken with the kind of insatiable need that felt less like desire and more like devotion, the kind that pulled him from sleep with one thought already burning clean through him: Venus. His wife. His woman. His altar and his ruin. Everything else had fallen secondary before he could even pretend to care — the calls, the schedule, the world waiting beyond the walls of their room — all of it reduced to distant noise beneath the singular, consuming purpose of pleasing her.
There was something almost religious in it, something ancient and Roman, as if he were no longer merely a man but a soldier kneeling at the temple of Venus herself, offering his mouth, his hands, his patience, his breath, anything she would take from him. He wanted her undone and cherished, breathless and safe, spoiled beyond reason until the only thing she could remember was that she was loved by a man who had made her pleasure his empire and crowned her its goddess.
Because that was what she was to him now.
Not almost. Not someday. Not the woman he had chased through years of bad timing and pride and other people’s names.
His wife.
And Jaafar, arrogant as he had always been, loved that word with a dangerous sort of satisfaction. Wife. It sat in his chest like victory, like conquest, like a laurel wreath pressed into his hands by the gods themselves. It made him greedier. Softer. Worse. It made him want to spend entire mornings proving that the ring on her finger had not simply changed her name, but had given him permission to worship her out loud, without restraint, without shame, without the old ache of wondering whether she would run before he finished loving her properly.
Slowly, he descended back to his altar, pressing kisses down the soft plane of her stomach as if every inch of her deserved reverence before he dared return to the place where he had chosen to worship. His eyes flickered briefly toward the mirror across the room, catching the reflection of them there — Venus laid out beneath him, breathless and adored, and Jaafar bowed between her thighs with all the devotion of a man offering himself at the feet of his goddess. He wanted her to see it. Wanted her to witness the ruin and reverence on his face, the hunger, the patience, the absolute surrender he laid bare before her, because loving Venus had always felt like prayer, but being allowed to love his wife like this felt like religion.
He sucked on her clit, pulling it back before releasing; then he moved down to her pussy, running the tip of his tongue through the edges of her lower lips. Her back arched off the bed as she shut her eyes, and the sounds of her ecstasy resonated through the room, the finest harmony Jaafar’s ever heard in his life.
“Such a pretty pussy,” he whispers to himself as he adds two fingers and eats at her at the same time. As she shut her eyes, with every deep moan her chest rose, gasps resonating through the space, and yet it still wasn’t enough air in her lungs as the coil wound tighter and tighter, her belly clenching as she finally released for the umpteenth time that day. She let out a squeal as she felt him go in for more, shuffling away on the bed, managing to make it a few inches away before he pulled her back in by her hips, tossing her thighs over his shoulder as he dropped his briefs, revealing the thick throbbing girth Venus had taken time and time again.
“I think you can do better, my love, matter of a fact, I know you can do better than that… show me.”
Venus shuddered as she felt the blunt head of him push into her, the gold of their rings clinking together as he intertwined their fingers. Venus’ eyes flickered to the mirror, watching as he pulled back slightly and pushed in further. She watched the bead of sweat drip down his hairline, the way his gaze never left her face as he watched her watch him.
His other hand reached up to caress her cheek, bringing her gaze back to his as he brought their lips together, his tongue intertwining with hers as he began his slow, deep strokes into her, ensuring she felt how much he loved her.
He watched the way his dick disappeared and reappeared into her, covered in her release, everytime he pulled out he was coated with more and more of her, creating a sticky mess between them as the wet sounds of flesh meeting flesh was heard through the room.
“You hear that?” Venus whispered
“You making her so happy baby, can you hear her?”
“Yeah? What’s she sayin’?”
“She wants you to feed her baby.”
Jaafar chuckled low against her skin as he nuzzled into the curve of her neck, his breath warm, his mouth lazy with satisfaction as he pressed a kiss to the bruise he had left there late the night before. The mark bloomed faintly beneath his lips, tender and possessive, a little secret written into her skin while the morning rays spilled gently through the curtains, bleeding gold across the sheets and cocooning them both in a warmth that made the rest of the world feel distant, unnecessary, and far too loud for the quiet devotion of their room.
“Yeah? You not gon’ run from it this time, my love? You gon’ take it?”
Venus nodded, nothing but whines and moans leaving her lips, and Jaafar gently wrapped his hand around her throat, pressing down firmly but gently.
“Usa tus palabras, Venus.”
“Use your words, Venus.”
“Yes, Jaafar, ‘m gon’ take it I swear,” Venus whined as she felt the familiar coil grow tighter and tighter in her lower belly before it finally snapped; she let out a loud whine of Jaafar’s name, one that would’ve had their neighbours banging the wall if they hadn’t moved last month.
Without warning, Venus wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, pulling him down to her with a need that felt almost clumsy in its urgency. Jaafar caught her at once, chuckling softly against her mouth before the kiss deepened, their tongues meeting in that familiar rhythm they had always found too easily, that old, dangerous dance her body remembered even when her mind was too fogged and overwhelmed to keep up. She tried to match him, tried to give back the same slow confidence he poured into her, but all she managed was a soft, helpless whine against his lips, her fingers tightening at the nape of his neck as if he were the only thing keeping her anchored.
“You love this pussy baby?” Venus whispered against his lips, the question barely more than breath, soft and trembling where their mouths still touched.
Jaafar let out a low sound, somewhere between a hum and a groan, his hand tightening at her waist as his forehead rested against hers. “Mhm.”
Venus’s fingers slid into the curls at the nape of his neck, holding him there, keeping him close enough that there was nowhere for either of them to hide.
“Then show me,” Venus whispered.
And Jaafar did.
Not with haste, not with the careless hunger of a man trying only to take, but with the trembling devotion of someone who had spent years turning want into patience and patience into prayer. He held her like Rome itself could fall beyond the bedroom walls and he would not turn his head, like empires could burn, senators could weep, marble temples could split beneath thunder, and still the only kingdom worth saving would be the woman beneath him, breathing his name like it belonged in her mouth by divine right.
For a while, there was no room for anything else.
No ringing phones. No forgotten obligations. No world outside the curtains. Only the warmth of morning wrapped around them, the low music spilling through the room, the soft gold of daylight touching her skin, and Jaafar above her with his forehead pressed to hers, undone in that beautiful, dangerous way only Venus could make him. He looked less like a man then and more like Mars at the end of battle, not conquered, never conquered, but willingly disarmed at the altar of the goddess he loved most.
“Venus,” he breathed, and her name sounded like both warning and worship.
Her hands tightened at his back, her body arching into the vow of him, into the weight of everything they had survived to get here — the years, the running, the other people, the almosts, the ring she had once worn for another man, the red thread that had stretched and tangled and still refused to break.
Jaafar’s breath fractured.
His eyes found hers, dark and glossy with devotion, and for one suspended second he looked almost startled by the force of his own love, as if even he, arrogant as he was, had not expected to be brought this close to ruin by his wife.
Then he surrendered.
It was not loud. It was not crude. It was not something that could be reduced to the body alone. It moved through him like the Tiber swelling past its banks, like a temple flame catching wind, like every vow he had ever made in silence finally finding somewhere sacred to land. His mouth parted against hers, his grip tightening as though he needed to anchor himself to the earth, and Venus felt him give himself over completely — not as conquest, but as offering.
As promise.
As husband.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
They simply stayed there, breath tangled, foreheads touching, the room cocooned in gold around them. Venus opened her eyes slowly and found him already watching her, his face softened by something deeper than satisfaction, deeper than pride, deeper even than desire.
There was reverence there.
Awe.
The kind of love that looked almost painful to carry.
Jaafar brushed his thumb across her cheek, his voice rough when he finally spoke.
“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s me loving you.”
Venus’s lips trembled.
And because there was nothing left to run from, she pulled him closer, kissed the breath from his mouth, and let the morning close over them like a blessing from the gods.
tags <3 : @lov3lylxvender @melaninjoys @cinnamoncunt @healthenature @kryptonianheart @sagittalust @tenacioustestamentambush @tatumcelts @jakardyz @freaky1nterlude @daliscrim @michealsapplehead @asiatarg @imgenuinelyinsane @mrs-dylanobrien265 @plan3tch1ld @mamasturn ( lmk if you want to be added or removed)
theodore spencer is known for many things. well, depending on who you ask at least. some would say the mayor’s delinquent son, all snark and trouble with nothing good to show for it.
others might be a little nicer, simply referring to him as number five: the hotheaded captain of your university’s hockey team. an insanely talented defenseman whose led them through several winning seasons, and never finishes a game without battering something—or more likely someone—in his path.
what never occurred to you, though, was that beneath the cockiness, the iron fists, and the layers of gear he wears like impenetrable armor, there was actually something of substance at his core. a heart.
because if you hadn’t been so eager to get out of training early that afternoon, you might have never discovered that it’s teddy who’s responsible for all of the beautifully crafted, anonymous handwritten letters being tucked into the sliver of space between your car window.
dividers by @cursed-carmine
𑣲a/n lmk if you’d like to be tagged! can’t wait for yall to readdd 🤭 we finna get into some thangs. ciao for now! <3
Trope: Professor AU x Introverted Student [age gap, reader is in early 20's]
Characters: Jack Abbot, Black Reader, Micheal Robinovitch, random side characters
Content: College courses, age gaps, smut mentions, forced proximity, foul language, suggestive themes, forbidden romance, mentions of a prosthetic, masturbation, nosy elders, [p in v], spit swapping, if you blink, age jokes, overuse of a prosthetic, stubborn Jack. potential love bombing, self-doubt, self-reflection. unprotected sex. [wrap it up]! minors dni
Abbot is an asshole as a professor, and I will not explain further.
Head-cannons: 2/?
Part ONE
A/N: 6.6k words, should've just turned it into a chapter, but please let me know if the reader is baseless. I normally don't write reader, [ oc girl myself.] and I found myself, self-inserting a little bit. Still don't like my smut writing but practice makes progress and it could be one of my better ones. anyways. Enjoy!
🪶 You were well aware of the incessant need and want to drop the office visit you had scheduled with Professor Abbot. Not really scheduled. You hoped to randomly show up one night, brace the trek down the hall of the barely abandoned third floor and hope he wasn't there. At least then you can say you tried to see him about his absurd criteria for this Literary Analysis paper you had to write on any piece of work you wanted.
🪶Instead you were greeted with the sight of him in his desk chair, head thrown back as he fisted his dick in his hands, thick fingers flexing when they reached the swollen tip, spilling his juices over his hand. Surprisingly that didn't shock you. No. What did was him singing your name from his lips over and over again until he released one final time, spurts of it shooting out onto his hand, shirt, legs and unbeknownst to you, your last paper that was open in front of him.
🪶You stood as quiet as you could, cursing to himself as he cleaned up, dab the paper as clean and dry as he could before putting it in the scanner to make a new copy to mark on and toss the old one. Only you would know what stained that paper when he gave it back after grading it. Even if he didn’t know you knew. Professor Abbot after an orgasm was something you didn't need to fantasize about during your visit with him, so you left before he could notice you were ever there.
🪶Professor Abbot swore to himself that this would be the last and only time he thought about you this way. He was a perv for masturbating to a young woman half his age. Especially a black woman that would probably feel like a fetish kink for his own desires if he told anyone. He couldn't help himself though. The way you eloquently spoke about topics that interest you, how your posture straightened during his many lectures, or the light in your eyes when he introduced a piece of work from African American Folklore books that you used to read as a child. You were packed with so much intelligence and wisdom, that he mistaken you for being older. His mistake.
🪶Professor Abbot who has one close friend at a nearby medical school. Dr. Michael Robinavitch. A man who tried to poach him into the medical field. He had no desire to be a doctor of any kind. Hospitals and medical settings weren't his thing. He did get a free Physician out of it even if his salary, pension and benefits cover all his medical needs. The only downside was hearing his friend either complain about his medical students or rave about the new piece of ass he got in his bed this time in exchange for a better grade.
“Should a medical student even be doing that?” Jack asks from the other side of his desk as they enjoyed a brief lunch together. “How is she learning anything?”
“No, but I'm divorced, she's single,” Michael would only shrug. “She's smart with or without me fucking her, but why not have a little fun.”
“Also, your student and half your age.” Jack shakes his head. “You could get fired, man.”
“She's in her last semester of medical school,” Michael peers down at his friend over his circled framed glasses, arms crossed defensively. “Thirty and a consenting adult.”
“Power imbalance." 'Jack explains, though he's not doing a very good job at trying to convince himself otherwise.
Dr. Robinavitch could see right through his friend's judgement. Any other time, Jack would change the subject when it came to his romantic escapades. Only now he seemed more interested.
“Who's the girl that got you wanting to “risk” your job. Abbot.”
Professor Jack Abbot who tells it all to his longtime friend, making sure to omit your name, in fact giving you a nickname only you could understand.
“….” Michael says slowly, he knew his friend wasn’t going to give up a name, not this soon. “What is this? Secret’s Anonymous?”
Jack laughs, “I would explain it to you, but you don’t read.”
“I do read.”
“The art of motorcycles,” Jack lifts up said book that was in front of him with a questioning eyebrow.
“It's a book.” Michael huffs out a laugh. “A good one at that”
“It's not Shakespeare, or Edgar Allen Poe, or Charles Dickens.” Jack names off a few of his favorite authors. “Its juvenile compared to what I teach.”
“I should find offense in that.” Michael snips, and leans forwards, arms resting on his slack-clad thighs. “I’ll let it slide, since you are in grave despair.”
Jack stares. Blankly. “How long did it take to come up with that?”
“My advice Jack,” Michael trails off, eyes catching his own brown beauty through his office window. “Make her want you just as much as you want her.” He stands and gathers the last of his items. “If you’re that scared, what till the class is over, or you know don't be a pussy. You only live once.”
It was easier said than done.
But it happened quicker than he thought...
🪶 Professor Abbot who doesn’t understand why you moved from the front of the class to the back. You still participated, but it was minimal, and he had to call on you just to get the response he was looking for when the other students couldn’t get it right. He wondered if he said or did something to upset you or make you uncomfortable. He had to compartmentalize his emotions the remainder of his class just so he wouldn’t walk over to you during quizzes to see what’s wrong.
🪶 You knew he noticed the change in seating arrangements. You could see the confused furrow in his eyebrows every time you sat down. The drop in his greeting smile when it wasn’t back at the front tables like the first day of classes. You didn’t want to read much into his attraction for you, especially because he could have been masturbating to anyone with the same name as you. Right? Then how come he looked like a kicked puppy when you sat in the back for another week in the row, or the longing in his face when he asked a question and you weren’t the first to answer. It would be delusional of you to think he wanted you the same. He was twice your age, he has a retirement plan, probably gets social security. You were just beginning adulthood, why would he want someone that reminded him of a kid.
“...”
Did his voice sound softer than usual?
“Yes professor?” You would meet his eyes that were narrowed on you in concern. The rest of class had already left for the night, leaving the two of you alone for the first time in the semester.
“Everything okay? You dissociated in my class, not like you.” He starts packing up his books, and folders, back turned so he couldn’t see the way you were eyeing the way the black t-shirt clings to his back, or how the grey sweatpants he wore today were starting to hang low on his hips.
“Uhm, yeah, just a lot on my mind.”
“Yeah? school, personal,” Professor Abbot asks, not to pry but to make conversation, “If you want to share.”
‘No, I’m thinking about how you jerked off to the image of me and moaned out my name’. You thought. “Just figuring out dinner, since the cafe is closed.”
🪶Professor Abbot takes this as his only chance, not knowing when the opportunity will strike. “I know this spot; it's open twenty-four hours. Pretty good food, just a few miles off campus.” He could see the wheels turning in your head, pulling that lip between your teeth as you thought about his offer. “My treat?”
🪶 You really should have said no, especially knowing how you felt about him. It would only complicate things further. What if someone from class saw you both and reported. You couldn’t risk your education, even if it was just a casual dinner off campus. It was a bad idea to be in your professor’s truck, but you wouldn’t turn down free food, or the ride back and forth when he realized you walked everywhere and he insisted.
“You know I'm not gonna bite right?” Professor Abbott teases with his poor attempt at flirting. It was corny but got you to relax against the leather seats of his truck a little too easily.
“It's not every day a student rides with her professor in the middle of the night to some diner. Keeping it professional” You casually responded back, “Would hate to get caught doing something we shouldn't, professor.” You knew he was flirting. Your mama always taught you a man doesn't just do things without a reason, genuine or not.
“Please, call me Jack off campus.” He corrects, pulling into an empty park in front of the diner. “There's nothing in the policies that says two scholars can't be friends.”
But she did tell you a man will show you he wants you in the simplest of ways. Jack was old school, he was taught chivalry from a young age, those values and morals even instilled in him during Basic in Ft. Benning. The south didn't play about manners and respect. He opens doors for you, including the car door and offering his hand if you need help getting down, walks closest to the street so you don't have to and he lets you sit first before sitting himself. Jack was an old-fashioned gentleman, and for once it was a nice change in the past dates you tried to go on—this wasn't a date, just two scholars getting dinner together. Nothing romantic–-and even now as your attraction was growing, you needed him to make that first move.
“Professo– Jack.” You quickly correct yourself when he gives you that downward sad ‘please’ look before taking a sip of the rich black coffee ordered, you take note of just the two sugars he added and begin to wonder if he likes his women like he likes his coffee. “How did you find this place?”
“During one of my late-night study sessions, I was getting my masters in English, everything was closed except a nearby Walmart and this place. I was going to Walmart and took the wrong turn on the highway, found this place by accident and became my go to. It's cheap but good food.” He looks at you with a tiny smile and crossed arms.
“Wouldn't peg you for the diner type of guy.” You argue, with a sly smile.
Jack leans forward, with his own amused smile, “yeah?” He whispers. “What kind of guy do you think I am?
You could only shrug and lean back against the booth to create some distance, and maybe defiance. Jack could see the mischievous glint in your eyes.
“He that loves to be flattered is worthy o’ th’ flatterer.” You quote Shakespeare, catching him off guard for a moment before he leans back with a nod. It was creative, but hearing you recite Shakespeare, and in a tone so unique to you, it sent blood rushing down and forming a tent in his pants.
“Though she be but little,” He tilts his head curiously, catching your intense gaze as he speaks. “She is fierce.”
The two of you were obviously flirting, especially in the way he looked at you with adoration, and probably a hint of affection in his eyes. He spoke to you through literary pieces, pulling you into the charm that wasn't Professor Abbot, but just Jack.
“When I exit, I hope I'll be pursued by you.”
Professor Abbot would watch you get up from the table to leave. To his car he knows, but something about this exit was different. He sighed deeply, pulling out his wallet to pay the tab and walking out behind you. Barely giving you a chance to open the door to his truck before his hand closed and held it shut above you. The other turned you around to face him.
“Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, stray lower where the pleasant fountains lie.”
“I don't get down on the first night, professor.”
🪶Professor Abbot wanted to hold a grudge for the way you left him that night, but he couldn't without seeing how innocent you looked trapped between him and the truck. He could've easily found some other girl willing, but even you knew they wouldn't be able to hold the intellectual conversations he was able to have with you. He didn't have to dumb down his vocabulary, you understood more than most. You listened when he rambled, responded back to the multiple letters he shamelessly wrote instead of just asking for your number. You indulged more than you should, boosting his ego and it made him realize he wanted more than just you on his dick. He wanted a connection.
🪶 You were surprised to see when you got to class your favorite flowers in a clear vase at least cut and prepared in your seat. The one in the front. You knew exactly who it was from as you plucked the small card from it.
Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.
~ J.A
You couldn't help my smile at the thought of him remembering your favorite flowers from just one dinner together, even so far as to prepare them for you so you didn't have to. You would put the card in your books, and sit down, surprising him when he comes back from the bathroom. He was half expecting you to just grab them and go back to sitting in the back but was relieved when you didn't.
Professor Abbot would nod when you mouthed a thank you to him as other students entered the room. Grateful you were ignoring their nosey questions about who got you the flowers and began his lecture. This act continued all week, different flowers with a different pickup line disguised as literature each day. To the point the entirety of your dorm desk was filled with flowers. You weren't sure if you would have room for more.
You walked into the next class meeting twenty minutes early prepared to tell him the flowers were too much, instead you spotted a white envelope in its place, and him nowhere to be found. The envelope was thin with your name scribbled across the front.
Opening it, you would pull out tickets and a note.
….,
We discussed a few weeks ago about hobbies we wanted to start doing more that pertained to our passions. Creative writing was yours, but I remember distinctly that you wanted the likes of Othello, Macbeth, Hamlet, and others done as stage plays. If you would have me, these are tickets to see Othello at a broadway theatre in New York this weekend. . All I ask of you is to bring a bag for the weekend and your time.
xxx-xxx-xxxx
~ J.A
🪶You knew the implications of going. It was New York, in a hotel, probably a single bed with just him, for what looked to be a three-day trip. There was no going back if you went and you had to wonder if you cared. Jack had started to win you over in more ways than one. You wanted him, you relished in the fact that he wanted the same. You felt more than just mutual attraction for the man, you wanted more.
🪶It was no brainer that you said yes, had a bag packed and texted him all within two hours. You even showered and dressed in something cute but comfortable for him, finishing up right as he texts that he was parked across the street. You two still couldn't risk getting caught. It was easier, safer, soothed your anxieties of someone you knew seeing you. Still the gentleman, he met you halfway, calling you beautiful and kissed your cheek. A first you smiled shyly at. He grabbed your bags to carry the rest of the way. He wasn't professor Abbot; he was Jack this weekend.
🪶Jack handled everything from getting you both to the airport, through TSA, boarding for takeoff to landing in New York and finding their hotel. A connecting suite so you had your own space in case this was just a fluke. He wanted to be the perfect gentleman no matter how eager he was to touch you now that there was privacy. He let you rest the first night, getting settled and rid of the jet lag from the flight. Pizza and movies in his room was enough to get you comfortable to talk about your goals, aspirations, and your family. He listened and watched you intently when you lit up at the mention of your childhood. How you got into literature was his favorite story, quizzing you on the different books you read. Time seemed to slip by, and he was pressing another kiss to your cheek.
“It's getting late, we should get some sleep, tomorrow is gonna be pretty busy.”
You were upset when he didn't kiss you on the mouth but nodded and helped him clean up before going to your room. It was another thing for you to have a wet dream about, wondering why he won’t just kiss you. It’s past the first night, right?
“Good night, Jack.” You stopped at the door connecting your rooms.
“Good night, ….”
🪶Jack would wake you up to go sightseeing, visit the libraries, and museums, even as to so far finding a few art galleries to enjoy after getting breakfast at the hotel. You both would travel through Times Square, Manhattan, SoHo, Central Park and more. He was giving you a city tour as if he lived there his whole life. He still kept you on the inside of the sidewalk, only this time he reveled in the way you hooked your arm in his, pressing insanely close to him, almost like he was your bodyguard. It made him feel important, though he kept that to himself.
🪶Jack would buy you anything you wanted despite your many protests of it being too much. You had just enough to buy what you absolutely wanted and food. You didn't need more nor did you want to come off at a gold digger. He still insisted that this was the official first date, that he invited you to New York knowing you were a college student.
“I brought a dress,” you two stop in front of a high-end store, him holding the door for you with a cheeky smile.
“I know,” His hand on your back guides into the warm lighted shop, one side set up like a more expensive Men's Warehouse and the rest were lined with floor length dresses from front to back in varying neutral and dark colors. “But The Neil Simon Theater has a theme for the first and last shows of the production, tonight is white tie.” You had no clue what white tie consisted of until you stepped inside the store.
There were so many options that caught your eye, your hands running along the material of each dress. With him beside you, he kept a hand on your hip to let the associates staring that you were with him. “Where do I even start?”
“Dinner reservations are at 7, take all the time you need.”
🪶Jack shouldn’t be this excited to see you try on dresses for him. Yet he was as he sat in one of the chairs by the dressing rooms waiting for you to come out, he made sure the reservations were set, and his tickets were upgraded as the associate's pulled dresses of varying colors, styles, and lengths for you to try until you settled on something.
“I don’t think I need to see more.”
Evening gowns were a rare commodity for you, and you were eager to try on multiple, but the moment your eyes landed on a specific dress and put it on. You knew it was the one. Fitting you like a glove in all the right places, showing over shape just enough to leave little to the imagination. Eager to show Jack, you let the associates help you out, catching his attention the moment he heard the door open and he laid eyes on you.
“It’s perfect,” Jack would nod with an appreciative whistle. You were thankful you couldn’t blush or you would be flushed red as a tomato, even as he stood up to stand in front of you, a hand coming down to grab yours. “Do you like it”
“Yeah, but it’s more than my tuition, --”
“I’ll pay for it.” He would cut you off, almost daring you to argue back. When you don’t respond he smiles and kisses your forehead. “I’ll check out while you change.”
🪶Jack spoiled you to no end; the dress, accessories, shoes, even now as he rushed to find a black owned salon for you to be pampered to your hearts content. He was pulling out all the stops for what you now realized was the official first date. You used the time alone to wonder his motives; why was he spending so much money to why he has kissed everywhere but where you want and need him to. He was a gentleman, yes, but one that was pursuing you of all people. He could do better; it wouldn’t be hard for him to find someone your age. There were plenty. So, why you? An elderly lady next to you could sense your distress. She had watched from the window as Jack helped you out of the car, guided you inside, and made sure you were okay before leaving to get himself ready. The age gap was extremely noticeable. But nothing she could judge as she was fourteen when she was forced to marry her ex-husband.
“I know it's strange to ask, honey, but are you on birth control?” Her hand on your arm startled you. “I just saw that handsome man of yours earlier, I wanted to make sure you weren’t being taken advantage of.”
The consideration was nice, but a little creepy she was in your business. “I am…I don’t see kids in my future.”
“Does he?”
Jack has told you before he was okay with never having children, he was willing to adopt, foster, or run a group home if he really wanted the presence of children in his life. You knew you weren't going to have kids any time soon, you wanted a career, to travel, to be that rich black auntie at family functions. The coming home to silence seemed greater than screaming kids and a messy house. That wasn’t your dream. It never was.
“No,” You would respond, keeping it short. “I told him, I don’t get down on the first night.”
“Okay Monica,” The woman laughs and pats your arm. “Smart girl, making him work for it, then don’t be so tense around him.”
“I’m not tense.” You would argue, shutting up when she gives you that girl please look.
“Yeah, and I’m Foxy Brown.” She waves her hand dismissively. “How long have you two been talking?”
“A few weeks, kinda knowing each other for longer.”
“And you’re still hiding like a turtle? Girl if you don’t jump that man’s bones, before somebody else will.”
“Ms. Edna, leave that girl alone,” The stylist comes back to remove you from under the dryer. “Anybody would be tense with that hunk of a white man.”
“And she’s been seeing him for a few weeks, girl, he ain’t gonna kiss you if you don’t relax.” Edna advises, “That’s a grown man, it’s only son long he gon wait.” Edna noticed the way he didn’t kiss her on the mouth, making the relationship seem less than what it was, she has never met a man who didn’t want a kiss on the first day.
“Don’t listen to her,” The stylist guides you back to your chair. “That man clearly likes you, or he wouldn’t have gone the extra mile to find us. No real man is going to do all of this just for sex.”
🪶Jack would be speechless when he knocks on your room door, you open it n the dress, and all glammed up. Your skin glowed even under the dim hotel lighting. Jack in a suit was also something you wanted to see more of the colors matched your dress. The pants tailored just enough you could catch print that you hoped wasn't an illusion. The suit and jacket gave him just enough room that if he flexed the seams wouldn't rip, the scruff of his salt and pepper beard neatly trimmed, to match his wildly styled cinnamon swirl curls of his.
“Beautiful.” He would whisper and hold out his hand that closes around your smaller one.
🪶 Dinner reservations were at some fancy restaurant across from the theatre. You two would spend the serviced car ride talking about the play, hoping it wasn't cut down just to save time, how you could take what you learned in class to dissect the play. Instantly greeted by the hostess upon your arrival, your seats had been a circular booth, so he could sit directly next to you. The menu was confusing, so he ordered wine and appetizers for the both of you. When you couldn't decide on which entrees you wanted, he ordered your second favorite option so you could still taste it.
🪶You both talked about your favorite plays in literature to classical music you liked by Mozart, Beethoven and others. You would ask him about your final paper, still undecided on the topic you wanted to focus on by Shakespeare. He would give you a loophole, letting you decide from any piece of literature to write about. Whether it was Greek Mythology, Shakespeare or even African American literature. The conversation would continue well after finishing your entrees, waiting until closer to show time before walking across the street.
🪶 You would hook your arms in his crossing the street, jack walking to the closet set of cars until you made it to the large grand doors. The Theatre was packed with people dressed in their most expensive suits and evening gowns. You became appreciative that Jack insisted he buy you a dress, or you would’ve looked out of place. You didn't pay attention to the tickets until you both found your balcony seats, a two-seater love seat and chair with a table in between. You both would be dangerously close to each other, shoulders brushing as he leaned into you to explain the playbill and process. You half listened, amazed by the stunning view you had of the entire stage and ensemble band on the lower level. The only other person on the balcony with you had been some elderly man. He didn't bother anyone, in fact he took a picture of you two at your polite request, helping you and Jack document the moment you would write sonnets about later.
🪶Jack couldn't help but keep a hand on you throughout the play, left arm resting behind you until you were pressed as much into his side without ruining your dress with right hand on your thigh to grabbing your arm with gentle squeezes. You were grateful for any amount of touch as you started to get cold, his body radiating warmth.
Intermission was your chance to use the bathroom, freshen up with a mint before going back out. You would find him talking to some random woman, she wasn't the issue, it was the fact that she was resting her hand on his arm, and very obviously flirting. You couldn’t be jealous as you two weren’t together. But Edna’s comments from the salon did flash through your mind.
“Come on Jack, what we had was fun.” Her voice is sickeningly annoying. High-pitched, nasally, you had to wonder how she was even his type. You would walk slow to hear him call her by her name, with a hint of you learned was annoyance
“That was done when you cheated on me, Beth.” He would dismiss her and move his shoulder back until her hand fell. “Then, you had a baby with him.” He cut her off before she came up with another life. “I've moved on so should you.”
You made your presence known silently, not acknowledging her as you grabbed his hand. He would squeeze in reassurance and lead you back to your seats. Leaving Beth to scowl at the sight of what should've been her.
The rest of the play was finished with just you two, the nice elderly man leaving early when his daughter called. You both were intimately closer, practically breathing on each other with hushed whispers to each other.
“Why don't you ever kiss me?” You pull his attention during the musical score for a temporary set change, after they experienced some difficulties. First shows are always unpredictable.
Jack is confused. “I do kiss you.”
You would explain to him that he's only kissed you on the cheeks and forehead, touching you anyway he could. It was driving you mad that you haven't felt his lips on yours. You didn't want to be weird, but you wondered if he just didn't want to kiss.
He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, catching you off guard, and before you could respond the production had picked back up and his hand patted your thigh knowingly.
You couldn't enjoy the rest of the play, not when the warm soft flesh of his lips finally pressed against yours. Jack couldn't either, pleased that his method of teasing you worked, but he hadn't expected it to work that good when you got back to the hotel.
🪶The moment you shared another kiss your hotel room, there was no turning back, his hands instantly cradled your face like something delicate to the touch. The time in which he got you in the room and out of the dress was an instant blur. You followed suit, leaving you both naked and on the bed in a mess of limbs. One that was deliciously cold against your warm thigh as he moved down to kiss and lick under the swell of your breast, nipping them harshly to leave marks.
🪶You would moan in his ear. Jack leaning over you in the bed, pressing himself between your thighs to keep them open. His mouth finds spots along your neck with his hands roaming every inch of your naked body. They were rough, calloused, warm against your skin. A welcomed touch you both had yearned for.
“Fuck you're so beautiful.” Jack groans.
🪶Jack was a munch. He groaned at the taste of you on his tongue, slipping his own into your soaked hole. He inhaled deeply with each stroke of his tongue leaking your essence. You coated his mouth and chin, dripping on the best sheets with soft moans like a faucet. He would add two of his thickest fingers, thrusting them down to the second knuckle and a curve without warning to feel around for the spot too. It made you buck, and gasp at the intrusion, completely lost in him pleasing you as he would mouth love poems against your sex with satisfied hums. He could feel your hands in his hair forcing him closer, thighs preparing to close. Jack would push one back down with his free hand, while the other and his mouth brought you to the edge of sweet release. His own arousal leaking between his thighs, angry red tip leaking and ready to be inside you.
🪶 Jack would kiss you with a wet face still, licking your mouth open to rub his tongue across yours. You loved the taste of yourself on his lips, mixed with the warm scotch he had a few hours ago. “Jack.” You would whine, rocking against him when you felt the heaviness of his girth rub against your slick folds, the tip brushing the clit in the process. He wouldn't let you look between them. One hand holding himself up while the other pushed your head up, the hand finding home in the curve of your jaw. You loved how rough he was being with you, making you wetter than before.
🪶 “I know, baby.” He coos at her, “Daddy's been waiting so long for this.” Jack savors just rubbing himself against you, gathering your slick as natural lubrication. He pressed quick kisses against the corner of your mouth and cheeks; nose brushed against yours as he continued his teasing motions until your hands found it yourself with gentle tugs and firm squeezes.
“Please.” Your pleading eyes would find his face wet and messy just from a little bit of teasing. “I need you.” You would lean up to try and kiss him with his hand on your jaw, but your legs did wrap around his back and pull him down when you couldn’t reach him, making him laugh at your eagerness.
🪶It was so obscene to Jack how sweet and filthy you could look during suck, begging for him to be inside you like a man starved. His hand on your jaw would grab both of your wrists from between them and push them back above your head. “Daddy's got you sweet girl.” Jack would bury himself in your neck while pressing the tip in and out of your weeping entrance until he hears you gasp from him finally penetrating you. Your legs go too close at the stretch but the wet hand on his dick grabs your leg to put on his good leg, forcing you open for him.
🪶You would squirm at the stretch of him pushing his full length into you, inch by inch. Both of you love the feel of him pressing to hilt. “Professor,” your head turns and mouth presses to his head, clenching your walls around him just to hear him groan. You made the professor sound so seductive when it shouldn't be.
🪶 “Unless you wanna be fucked into the mattress.” He sighs with a laugh, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Don't say it like that again.”
🪶You could feel all thick eight inches of him inside you, the slow back and forth motion of him thrusting the swollen tip of him into you, pressing against that spot gently that would have you seeing stars. Jack had to keep his movements low, letting go of your wrists to grab your thighs and move them up higher on his hips, forcing the angle to shift him deeper. He heard you squeak, hands finding the hotel sheets to grip as you looked up at him with tears brimming your eyes.
“Look at you sweetheart,” Jack would coo mockingly, rolling his hips into yours at a teasing pace. “So, cock drunk on this dick.”
🪶 You couldn't remember when you spaced out. You were in bliss, body arching close enough for him to catch a nipple between his teeth, sucking on the areola to stiff peakness before switching the other. Heat rushing through your body from the raw contact of skin against skin. You never felt so full before, eyes closing as he circled your hips against his pelvis, the soft patch of grey curls rubbing against yours to add another layer of stimulation.
🪶As much as Jack loved the sweet sounds of you being a babbling mess, whimpering and squeaking under his touch, he wanted to hear more, to hear how you sounded when you fully let go, to force you in different positions as you took his dick. Job be damned, he was taking you home. He wanted to see you stuffed with his dick, to see you come fully undone with no restrictions, just to fuck you back to sleep for another round. He wanted complete and utter privacy to ruin you. He needed to ruin other men for you, just so you could be his alone.
🪶Jack would pull out just before either of you could cum, denying release long enough to sit against the headboard to relieve the pressure of his prosthesis, he fumbled with the mechanical release, giving you enough to become lucid enough to help him, watch him, offering a hand when needed. His leg was placed against the nice stand, residual limb sore from having it on all day. You pressed a kiss to the thigh of the amputated leg. Jack smiled at the action and guided you back to straddle his lap. You would probably tell him later, but this was your favorite position. It was intimate, personal, and the fact that you love to kiss him.
“Don't suffer for my pleasure, I like being a lap princess.” You whisper into his mouth between kisses, making him groan and squeeze the cuff of your ass.
🪶Jack seemed bigger in this position. This width of him is a little bigger around the base, stretching you out until you take all of him. You don't move; hands braced on his stomach with your mouth parted from the intensity of him throbbing against your over sensitive walls. Jack would hold your hips and bounce you in his lap, bringing you all the way to the tip and slamming down, mouth on yours to swallow your squeals. Your chest rubbed against his, making him hiss when you squeeze involuntarily around him at your nipples rubbing against his.
🪶 Jack would make the kiss sloppier, licking and biting your lips until they parted for him to lick around your mouth, sucking on your bottom lip as he pressed you to the hilt with a cry that was muffled. Your hands would grip the back of his neck as he pumped into you lazily. You loved the way he groaned into your mouth, finally painting your insides white with his hot cum. He groaned as you came against him, dropping your head against his shoulder.
🪶 “Oh look at you.” Jack softens as when he sees your spent out stage, hair sweated out from earlier style, lips swollen and wet with your mixed saliva and left-over sticky essence from him eating you like his last meal. Your eyes were glossed over, breathing slowing down as he pressed another kiss to your lips. “You did so good, pretty.” Jack would rub his head down the back of your head, bringing you back to earth slowly. “So good.”
“m’tired.” Your eyes falter but he rubs your cheek with his thumb to keep you looking at him.
“Let's shower, then move to my room first, bet you want fresh sheets after the mess you made.” The sheets were soaked, and you agreed, realizing having two rooms connected together made more sense. He was hoping the weekend ended like this.
You and Jack would argue about who is cleaning who. You wanted to repay the favor, pampering him after all he had done for you. “Listen here you stubborn old man.” You would laugh when he pinches your thigh. “Let me help you.”
“You can barely walk by yourself.” Jack reminds her after watching you struggle to get out of bed. Your legs shook a little bit before he pulled you back into his lap.
“I just want to repay the favor, professor.” You speak in a tone that makes him shake his head at you, holding back the urge to fuck you again. You weren't making it easy for him.
“When we get home.” He would kiss your ear, already thinking of how fast he could move you in. Crazy, he knows, but he didn't care.
ೃFEELS LIKE LOVE ᝰ
In which we see the first time they became one
a/n: grown folk shit
To Nala’s credit, she had been talking reckless all week, all damn week, her phone in hand like a lit fuse as she sent him picture after picture, each one less subtle than the last, each one landing in his chest with the blunt, merciless force of a gunshot in a quiet room. There was no real innocence in it, not with the way she posed, not with the way her mouth tilted like she knew exactly what she was doing to him, not with the way she kept feeding that fire and then walking away from the smoke as though she had not set half his self-control ablaze. And because he knew Nala, knew the shape of her boldness and the softer truth living beneath it, he knew this was not the game of some woman hardened by experience and practiced in ruin, but something altogether more dangerous: the half-knowing audacity of a girl who had only barely brushed the edges of desire and still had the power to make a grown man feel dragged by the throat behind it.
He knew, too, that she was not as experienced as he was, and that knowledge sat inside him like a splinter under skin, small enough to seem petty and deep enough to ache whenever he let his mind touch it. Her experience, what little of it there had been, had come in the form of one friend she had asked to take her virginity before college, during some ragged break with her boyfriend, and though Tyriq knew his jealousy over it was irrational, knew it was foolish to resent a history that predated him, there were moments when the thought of it still moved through him like a dark tide, sudden and cold and impossible to dignify. Because damn, baby, if you had waited, he would have made it sacred, would have made it a coronation instead of a transaction, would have turned the whole night into something fit for the stars to witness, the sort of loving that would have left no room in you for regret or uncertainty or the faint bitter taste of being handled without being cherished.
He would have learned her the way sailors once learned coastlines, by patience and reverence and repeated return, by tracing every hidden inlet and every dangerous curve until the whole map of her lived inside his hands. He would have made a study of her, body and breath and blush alike, not the hurried taking of a thing, but the slow discovery of a country too beautiful to invade carelessly. He would have laid her out before him like a temple built by the gods and touched her with the kind of worship that makes religion look small, would have made her feel like a queen in the oldest sense of the word, not merely adorned, but honored, enthroned, treated as though heaven itself had spent extra time getting her right. He would have taken his time with her, Lord, he would have taken all the time the moon could drag across the sea, would have moved over her as gently and thoroughly as tide over sand, wearing away fear, coaxing wonder from every inch, making love to her not like a man proving something, but like a man receiving something holy into his keeping. Not the way she had been given, not in some half-lit compromise with a body that deserved a symphony, but in the full lush language she merited, where tenderness and hunger were not opposites but twins, where desire came dressed in patience and care.
And maybe that was what made his wanting of her so viciously sweet, that he knew just how little had come before him, knew that beyond that one body there had been no long procession of lovers, no crowded history to compete with, only Nala in all her maddening brightness and him with a number he had long since lost count of, an estimate he refused to offer because he already knew it would bruise her feelings in places too tender to joke about. His past was a blurred constellation, too many names swallowed by time and ego and the easy carelessness of a boy who had once mistaken abundance for freedom, while hers was scarcely more than a single star in a wide dark sky, and the contrast between them did not make him feel triumphant, only strangely solemn, almost unworthy in his softer moments, because there was something about her relative innocence that made all his old excess feel tacky and loud by comparison.
So he watched her pictures pile up in the glow of his screen and felt desire move through him with the old violence of myth, like Poseidon striking the sea floor with his trident and calling up waves tall enough to drown ships, like Apollo yanking the sun closer just to see what mortal flesh would do under that much heat. She did not understand, not fully, how she plagued him, how her face and her body and that teasing, half-knowing mouth of hers had begun orbiting his mind like a private moon, pulling at his tides in ways both beautiful and humiliating. She did not understand that every image she sent him felt less like flirting and more like invocation, as though she were summoning from him some older, rougher devotion that wanted not merely to possess her, but to prove itself worthy of the softness she carried so carelessly in her hands. And that was the cruelest part of all, perhaps, that beneath the sexual tension, beneath the ache in his body and the low hot jealousy in his blood, there was still that deeper thing, that emotional eroticism that made wanting her feel less like lust and more like gravity, less like appetite and more like fate. Because Tyriq did not merely want to sleep with Nala. He wanted to undo every lesser touch that had come before him and replace it with something so tender, so consuming, so astronomically right, that she would finally understand the difference between being touched and being adored.
Nala sighed in the video, her hands disappearing in the black lace of her panties, the shirt she wore, his shirt pushed up so he could see her nipples pebble in the moonlight, her breath uneven as she pulled him in closer and closer to his screen, like a siren of some sort, pulling a sailor to their demise. Each arch of her back and press of the vibrator to her clit made her whimper out, her toes curling in the room as she writhed against the cotton of her sheets, her hair around her head like a halo of some sort.
An angel who looked so, so pretty, sinning for him.
“Daddy,” she exhaled through the video.
Tyriq felt himself thicken in his sweats, which was nothing new where Nala was concerned, because his body had belonged to her long before either of them had the language to call it surrender. It had been hers since the beginning, since that first impossible moment he saw her crossing the quad and something in him, something older than reason and far less merciful, rose up with a terrifying certainty and declared that there would be no one else after her, not really, not in any way that mattered. He had looked at her then the way ancient sailors must have looked at the first star that taught them where home was, not with curiosity, but with recognition, with the sickening, holy knowledge that their course had already been altered. And somehow his body had taken that truth and run with it, run a damn mile, because from that day on he found himself answering to her in ways that made every other desire feel counterfeit, dim little candles beside a sun. He did not respond to anything the way he responded to her, not to fantasy, not to memory, not to beauty in the abstract, but to her specifically, to the thought of her mouth, her hands, the dark halo of her curls falling forward when she laughed or leaned in close, the soft wickedness of the way she had started sending him those pictures like she did not understand she was pressing her thumb directly into the pulse of him.
There was something almost humiliating in how completely his body had chosen her, how final the decision had been, as though the gods had taken one look at the two of them and found amusement in making his appetite this faithful. Nala did not have to do much at all, not really, only touch him in passing, only let her fingers linger a second too long against his wrist or the back of his neck, only look at him through those lashes with that half-knowing softness of hers, and desire rose in him like tide answering the moon, immediate and inevitable and beyond all argument. Her hands especially undid him, those beautiful, dangerous hands that painted symphonies onto canvas and poetry into being, those same hands he imagined on him more often than was decent, imagined with the kind of reverence lesser men reserved for prayer. He wanted them everywhere, wanted to feel them learn him the way he ached to learn her, wanted her to understand the scale of the power she held over him simply by being the first person who had ever made hunger feel intimate instead of merely physical. With Nala it was never just lust, never only the blunt ache of flesh, but something stranger and far more consuming, a form of emotional eroticism so deep it made his wanting feel astronomical, as if every inch of him had tilted off its axis and started revolving around the possibility of her touch.
“I love you, Daddy, love you so much,” she smiled into the camera just as she reached her peak. Perhaps this time she’d let him see, but just as her back arched off the bed, the video ended. Tyriq huffed, he let out a painful sound, one he didn’t recognise came from his lips as he took his hands out of his pants, a hand he hadn’t even realised was in there.
He bit his lip as he rewinded the video, right to the one-second split where her eyes shut in ecstasy, right when her peak hit, and he sighed as he raked one hand over his face and slipped his grey sweats down his legs slightly, his dick faintly smacking his lower abdomen as precum beaded from the tip. Spitting in his hand, he wrapped his hand around himself, grunting at the unsatisfactory feeling of it not being her he was wrapped around, not the plush velvet of her walls, not the feel of her wet, tight heat that would undoubtedly suck him in.
Fuck, she would be the best he’d ever had, he knew it, and he knew it well.
That had been twenty-four hours ago, just twenty-four hours ago, he’d wrung himself dry over and over, the groan of her name leaving his lips as his eyes screwed shut, the images of all the positions he’d have her in played like a movie in his mind, a movie he knew wouldn’t do her justice.
He passed her the blunt in the quiet space between them, hoping the smoke might soften her a little, loosen whatever bright restless current had been running through her all week and let her sink more fully into the moment with him. Nala took it from his hand with effortless grace, a grin already gathering at the corners of her mouth as though she knew exactly what he was trying to do and found him sweet for trying anyway. The brown wrap rested against her lips like it belonged there, and Tyriq, watching her, felt that old dangerous pull low in his body, because Nala had a way of making even the simplest things look intimate, as though the world itself became a little more sensual when filtered through the soft dark miracle of her.
She inhaled slowly, smoothly, with none of the awkwardness of somebody trying to look grown, but with the unstudied ease of a girl fully at home in herself, and when she let the smoke go it slipped from her nose in a pale elegant stream that made her look almost mythic in the low light, like some sweet-tempered goddess risen from incense and midnight. Her body eased by degrees before his eyes, tension leaving her inch by inch, first in the drop of her shoulders, then in the loosened line of her spine, then in the lazy deepening of her smile as the smoke curled through the air between them like a private little storm. Tyriq watched the relaxation take hold of her and felt something warm and possessive settle inside him, because he liked this version of Nala too, the softened one, the one who melted open rather than holding herself tight, the one whose laughter came easier and whose eyes turned heavier and more luminous, as though her spirit itself had gone honey-slow.
He took the blunt back when she handed it to him, but his gaze stayed fixed on her, drawn to the fullness of her mouth, to the faint trace of smoke still lingering there, to the way she leaned back and let herself settle into the night like a shore finally receiving the tide. There was something almost astronomical in the hush that followed, the two of them suspended in that dim little orbit of heat, smoke, and wanting, with her body unwinding before him and his own tightening in answer, because even relaxed, even softened, even smiling like that, Nala still had the power to undo him without so much as trying.
He watched as Nala pushed herself upright, slow and deliberate now, the smoke having taken the sharpness out of her edges and left something warmer, looser, more dangerous in its place. Then she came over him, settling astride his hips with the easy confidence of a girl who knew exactly what kind of ruin lived in her and had finally decided to wield it. A grin curved at her lips, soft and wicked and bright enough to make his breath catch before she had even fully touched him, and when she rolled her hips over his, dragging that sweet slow friction across his lap, it felt less like movement and more like invocation, like she was summoning something old and tidal from the depths of him and knew it would answer.
Tyriq had just taken a hit when she leaned in, and before he could even think to steady himself, her mouth was on his. The kiss landed warm and firm and knowing, and the smoke slipped out between their lips in a pale, ghostly ribbon, curling around them like incense around an altar, turning the moment briefly mythic, as though the air itself had decided to worship what was happening between them. Her mouth tasted of smoke and sweetness and that impossible Nala-ness that always seemed to leave him half dazed, and the way she moved against him as she kissed him, hips still grinding slow and sure, made his whole body tighten with the kind of reverent hunger he only ever seemed capable of where she was concerned. She kissed him like a girl teasing at the gates of something holy, and Tyriq, with his hands already finding her waist as though they had been made for no other purpose, could only sink into it and let the smoke and the heat and the soft wicked drag of her body over his make a temple out of the dark.
Tyriq groaned into her mouth the second his hands found her waist, the sound low and helpless and dragged up from someplace deeper than appetite, because Nala had a way of making desire feel less like hunger and more like surrender, like the body bowing before something it recognized as greater than itself. His palms spread over the curve of her, thumbs pressing in just enough to feel the warm, living give of her beneath them, and when she rocked over him again, slower this time, more deliberate, he felt the friction hit him like a prayer answered too quickly, the kind that left a man grateful and half undone in the same breath.
The kiss deepened without either of them seeming to decide it should. Smoke still lingered in the air around them, drifting pale and ribbon-thin through the low light, and Nala’s mouth was soft and wicked against his, her lips parting just enough to make room for the sound he made when she rolled her hips again with that same infuriating, honey-slow pressure. She kissed him like she knew exactly what she was doing to him, like she understood that his body had long since stopped belonging wholly to itself where she was concerned and had accepted that fact with a sort of gleeful tenderness. Her curls fell around them in a dark silken curtain, shutting out the edges of the room until it felt as though the whole world had been reduced to her mouth, his hands, the slow tide of her movement, and the heat rising between them like something almost visible.
“Nala,” he murmured against her lips, but it came out more like a warning he had no intention of enforcing.
She smiled into the kiss, that little wicked smile of hers touching his mouth before she kissed him again, and the sensation of it nearly drove him out of his right mind. There was something devastating in the way she held herself over him, not careless, not crude, but sure in a way that made her seem at once younger and older than she was, a girl discovering the full radius of her power and a woman already fluent in how to wield it. Her hips kept their rhythm, unhurried, almost curious in their patience, as though she were studying the effect she had on him and finding the lesson pleasing enough to repeat. Tyriq’s grip tightened a little at her waist, not enough to stop her, never enough for that, only enough to let her know he was feeling every inch of it, every maddening drag and press and shift of her over his lap.
He broke the kiss only to catch his breath, but Nala gave him no real time to recover, her mouth moving instead to the corner of his, then his jaw, then back again in little grazing kisses that felt more dangerous somehow than anything rougher might have. Tyriq tipped his head back against the couch and let out a breath through his nose, his blue eyes gone darker now, fixed on her face with that awed, wrecked sort of wanting she always drew out of him when she was feeling playful and bold. His hands slid once, slowly, from her waist up the line of her back and down again, as if he needed to convince himself she was really here, really over him like this, really the same girl who could argue with him one minute and make him feel half sanctified the next.
“You keep playin’ with me like that,” he said, voice gone rough and low, “and I’ma forget how to act.”
Nala leaned back just enough to look at him, her lips swollen from kissing, her eyes heavy-lidded and bright with mischief. “That the point.”
Lord.
The words, simple as they were, moved through him like heat through dry brush. He let his gaze drop, following the shape of her where she sat over him, the slow roll of her hips, the way her body had gone soft and languid from the smoke without losing any of that innate precision she carried in everything she did. Even relaxed, she moved like music, like a symphony inhabiting flesh, every motion resolving into the next with the smooth inevitability of tide answering moonlight. Tyriq ran his hands up her sides again, slower now, reverent in his touch, and Nala shivered under it, the grin at her mouth loosening into something softer, more vulnerable, before she leaned down to kiss him again as though she had given away too much in that one involuntary response.
He met her greedily this time, unable not to. His mouth opened under hers with all the pent-up want of a man who had spent too long being teased by pictures and distance and imagination, and the kiss turned richer for it, fuller, their breaths tangling, her lips parting on a small sound that went straight through him. He kissed her until the room felt unsteady, until the smoke in the air seemed to have sunk into his blood, until he could no longer tell whether the warmth swallowing him came from the blunt, from her body on his, or from the old frightening truth that with Nala, everything always felt like the first and only thing that had ever really happened to him.
His mouth left hers only to trail over the line of her cheek and down to her throat, and the second he felt the pulse there flutter under his lips, something in him softened and sharpened all at once. He kissed her there with a tenderness that almost contradicted the tension in his body, but only almost, because with Tyriq desire for her had never been separate from reverence. He wanted her fiercely, yes, but always with that undercurrent of awe, that sense that he was handling something both precious and ruinous, some constellation the gods had lowered into his reach just to see whether he would worship properly or burn. His lips moved against her skin while his hands steadied her at the waist, guiding nothing, only receiving what she gave, and Nala tipped her head just enough to let him, her fingers slipping up into the buzz of his hair and tightening there when he kissed the place beneath her ear.
The little sound she made then nearly finished him.
He drew back just enough to look at her again, his breaths slower than he wanted them to be and far less steady. “You know you drive me crazy, right?”
Nala’s smile returned, softer now, not quite as teasing as before, but somehow more dangerous for that. “You let me.”
He laughed under his breath, the sound warm and wrecked, and lifted one hand from her waist to cup her jaw. “Nah, baby,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her bottom lip before kissing her once, slow and deep and full of too much feeling. “You been had the keys.”
And because that was the truth of it, because she had always had the keys, because his body and his heart and his patience all seemed to answer to her before they answered to him, Tyriq let her set the pace again. He let her move over him in those maddening slow arcs, let the kiss keep building and building without rushing toward collapse, let the tension stretch long and golden between them until it felt almost orchestral, every breath and brush of skin another instrument joining in. The room had gone hushed except for them, for the faint drag of fabric, the soft catch of breath, the occasional quiet sound neither of them seemed able to hold back. Outside, the world no doubt went on in all its ordinary ways, but in there it felt as though they had slipped briefly off the map of time and into some private little cosmos where only longing and laughter and the slow worship of each other mattered.
When Nala finally rested her forehead against his for a second, breathing him in, Tyriq closed his eyes and held her there, one hand at the nape of her neck, the other spread low and steady at her waist. The smoke still hung faintly around them, the last of it curling through the room like the afterimage of invocation, and he kissed her once more, softer now, with all the ache and affection and devotion he never seemed to know how to hide when she got this close.
And still, even with her over him, even with the heat of her and the taste of smoke and sweetness on her mouth, even with his whole body alive to the fact of her, what moved through him most powerfully was not only want, but recognition, that same old terrible recognition that had been haunting him since the quad, since the first look, since the first impossible moment he understood that whatever this was, it was going to alter the whole landscape of him and never once ask permission.
Nala made a small disgruntled noise, her brows pulling together as she shifted against him and felt the stubborn, unmistakable evidence of exactly what her slow teasing had done.
“Move your arm.”
Tyriq looked up at her then, blue eyes bright with lazy amusement, his hands still settled warm and steady at her waist, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a way that told her he had been waiting, patiently and shamelessly, for her to notice. “That ain’t my arm,” he said.
For one suspended second she only stared at him, scandal blooming over her face in the prettiest way, all wide eyes and parted lips and the dawning realization that she had quite thoroughly set her own trap and walked clean into it. Then she sucked her teeth and tried to look offended, though the flush rising warm beneath her skin ruined any hope of conviction. Tyriq, of course, only looked more pleased, the sort of pleased a beautiful, wicked man got when the woman sitting in his lap accidentally gave voice to the exact thing he wanted her thinking about.
“Oh my God,” Nala muttered, but there was laughter threatening at the edges of it now, soft and breathless and no real match for the heat between them.
Tyriq’s hands tightened just slightly at her waist, not enough to hold her in place against her will, only enough to remind her that he was feeling all of this too, every little drag of her body over his, every teasing movement she had offered him with that grin on her mouth and smoke on her breath. “Now why you actin’ surprised?” he asked, his voice low and rough with amusement, but carrying that darker undercurrent she always heard when he was trying very hard not to sound as affected as he was. “You been slidin’ around up here all sweet and wicked like you forgot I’m a man.”
That made her huff, though the sound came out embarrassingly soft. “I did not forget.”
“Nah,” he murmured, lifting one hand from her waist to tip her chin up with two fingers, making her meet his gaze properly. “I think you remembered real good. I think you just ain’t expect me to say it out loud.”
Nala rolled her eyes, but the blush deepened all the same, and Tyriq drank it in like it was something costly and rare. He always did love this part of her, the contrast of it, the way she could talk big and move bold and then still go sweet at the edges when he brought her fully face to face with the effect she had on him. There was something deeply feminine in that combination, something soft and dangerous both, and it made him want to pull her even closer and just sit in the sight of her for a while.
Instead he smiled, slow and devastating, and let his hand drift from her chin to the side of her neck, thumb stroking there in an absent, reverent line. “You want me to move it?” he asked.
The question hung between them with all the mischief of a match held near dry grass.
Nala looked at him for a long moment, then at the wicked little glint in his face, then away again as if the night outside might save her from answering. “Tyriq.”
That was not an answer, and they both knew it.
He laughed under his breath, warm and low, and leaned up just enough to brush his mouth over hers again, one slow kiss, then another, as though he meant to soften the embarrassment out of her before she decided to go hiding behind attitude. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured against her lips.
She made another offended little sound, but this time it dissolved halfway through because he kissed her again, and because his hand at her neck and the other at her waist had gone so careful, so steady, so impossibly gentle for a man sitting there looking as pleased and ruined as he did. Nala felt the whole of herself soften at that, the playful indignation slipping through her fingers the way it always did when he touched her like he was handling something beloved rather than merely wanted.
When he pulled back, his forehead came to rest lightly against hers, and the smile still playing at his mouth gentled into something more intimate, more openly admiring. “You be drivin’ me out my damn mind,” he said quietly.
Nala’s lashes fluttered. “You let me.”
Tyriq’s grin returned at once. “Yeah,” he said. “And you enjoy that way too much.”
She should have denied it. She should have given him something sharp, something clever, something that kept the upper hand where she preferred it. Instead she only looked at him, all curls and smoke-soft eyes and mouth still warm from kissing, and Tyriq felt another swell of affection move through the wanting, making the whole thing richer and somehow more dangerous too. Because that was always the truth of it with them, wasn’t it, that even in the middle of all this heat and tension and teasing, love sat underneath it like deep water beneath moonlight, holding everything up.
He slid his hand down her back in one slow pass, not pushing, not urging, only soothing, only learning her again through touch because he never seemed able to stop. “Come here,” he murmured, though she was already there, already in his lap, already close enough that their breaths touched. “Quit lookin’ at me like I’m the one caused this.”
Nala finally laughed outright then, the sound bright and soft and a little breathless, and the victory in Tyriq’s face at having coaxed that laugh out of her was almost worse than the teasing had been. Almost.
“You’re terrible,” she told him.
He tilted his head, considering that with mock seriousness, then kissed the corner of her mouth in a way that made the insult sound suspiciously like praise. “Maybe,” he said. “But you still up here.”
And Lord, she was. Still in his lap, still under his hands, still letting the night stretch long and warm and intimate around them while his smile lingered and her blush refused to fade. The room seemed to pulse quietly with the afterglow of smoke and laughter and all that sweet unbearable awareness between them, and for one golden suspended moment, neither of them appeared in any great hurry to move at all.
“You gon’ touch it?” he whispered against her lips, the question brushing her mouth so softly it somehow felt more dangerous than if he had said it plain.
Nala’s brows furrowed at once, not in rejection exactly, but in that sweet, uncertain confusion of a girl standing at the edge of something she wanted and did not yet know how to name without blushing. She turned her face slightly, her breath catching against his cheek, curls slipping forward like a curtain between them.
“I don’t really—”
Tyriq stilled beneath her.
It was immediate, the way all the teasing left his face, all the smug little amusement softening into something quieter, more attentive, more careful. His hand, which had been resting warm at her waist, slid up her back in one slow, grounding pass, not urging, not insisting, only reminding her that she was safe enough to hesitate with him. That, more than anything, was what made him dangerous, not simply that he knew how to make her blush, but that he knew how to slow himself when her uncertainty rose to meet his wanting.
“I got you… i’mma teach you, baby,” he whispered as he pressed his lips to her mouth and planted a chaste kiss, a grin on his lips as he watched her sink to her knees, her hand in his pants as she tugged his sweats down.
“Oh. Wow,” Her eyes widened slightly. It was long as it was thick, slightly curved, a little like a rainbow and suddenly it made sense why he walked with all that swagger and confidence. It looked heavy… so heavy.
“Pass me that, please,” she motioned to the blunt politely. Tyriq chuckled as he handed it to her, and she removed her eyes from it. His chuckle turned into a laugh as she took a hit, narrowing her eyes at her challenge.
“What do girls usually say ?”
“Huh?”
“When they see it?”
Tyriq closed his eyes, a chuckle leaving his lips as he cocked his head to the side to watch her, “Oh shit,” he drawled sexily, and Nala nodded as she took another hit, and Tyriq grinned at her, “You funny baby.”
“Okay,” Nala whispered to herself, “If I can double major in chemical engineering and music, I can do this.”
“I mean you don’t gotta-”
“No, I want to. And I can. You know, I climbed Hook Mountain?”
Tyriq laughed harder as Nala drew in more weed smoke, letting it run through her sinuses, unable to look away from it. It was a darker shade of peach, mirroring his skin tone, the tip mauve and flushed as it throbbed, waiting for her to make contact.
“It’s pretty,” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm,” Nala hummed as she blinked, wondering whether he knew what to do with all that. Of course, he did; it was why he had such a long roster before her. It's why women still mourned him, even though all he gave them was a night of half-assed pleasure.
“Nala.”
“Hm?”She hummed as she chewed her lip.
“Come.” Tyriq reached for the blunt, ashing it out before bending over to kiss her, relaxing her immediately and dissipating the reverie she was in and bringing her back to him, back to where they were.
“Come here, pretty girl,” he whispered, guiding her hand onto him. She bit her lip as she watched her hand with half-lidded eyes, unsure grasp growing more confident as he let out the first few low groans of the night.
Nala watched him come undone, his eyes squeezing shit as he let out a low raspy “Oh shit baby.” Nala felt a flurry of confidence hum through her body as she watched him. Licking from base to tip, she took her time and took his bulbous head into her mouth, swirling her head around his crown. Almost instantly, he relaxed further, leaning his head back, revealing the veins in his neck.
She wrapped her lips around him, easing her head down slowly, urging her throat to relax as she welcomed him down as she used all her saliva and her throat muscles, twisting her hands at the base, making up for what her mouth couldn’t conquer yet.
“Mama, shit, just like that baby, ‘s your dick,” Tyriq whispered as he lifted his head up to look down at her. Droplets of her spit ran down her fingers as she used it on the rest of him she couldn’t reach. A few droplets dripped down from his shaft onto his balls as she gagged and moaned around him, almost as if she was inhaling him as their mixed juices coated her cheeks.
Tyriq felt hazy; he felt overwhelmed because, truly, no one had or would ever do it as well as Nala. He watched as she took his dick like she’d been born for it, welcoming it down her tight throat. He groaned at the feeling of it moulding into his shape. Fuck, where had she been all his life?
He watched as she lifted a saliva-coated hand onto his own that were curled into fists at his side, unravelling it and putting it in her hair that she’d pulled back by a headband. Understanding what she wanted from him, he slowly pushed her head down as she began deepthroating him. He felt his crown touch her uvula as her nose touched his crotch, and her eyes shut momentarily, content to stay there, her eyes watering as tears ran down her cheeks.
When she pulled herself off, she continued to jerk him, tears staining her face as she sniffled slightly. She sucked him again, her hand reaching for his balls as he jerked against her. A loud “Fuck!” left his lips, all decorum and sense leaving him as he thrusted into her mouth, fucking her as she focused on relaxing her throat for him. Humming as her tongue traced his veins and focused on suckling at his tip as he withdrew from her mouth.
She looked a mess, a fucking mess, but fuck if it didn’t make his heart swell, “There you go, baby,” he whispered as he looked down at her. Her brown eyes meeting his blue, he felt the coil in his belly tighten, and he whined as she continued to jerk him. “I’m gonna cum, baby, gonna cum.”
Before Nala could pull back, he shot ropes of cum down her throat. She slowed her pace, moaning to herself as she tasted him. Loving the way he tasted, she suckled him harder for more. Tyriq twitched as he reached down and shot his hand down to ease her up and off him.
Not thinking too much of it, Nala pulled him onto her, forcing their lips together as she swiped some of his cum into his own mouth, moaning against his lips as he took it with no complaints. He found himself tilting his head to deepen his kiss against her lips as he moaned against her. Now, if it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have gone for it, not at all; hell, he would’ve discreetly ducked them and put them on all fours, but with her, something in him wanted more, he wanted to consume her, to fuse their bodies as one just so she could feel how devoted he was to her pleasure, a devoted worshipper to his deity. Ever the greedy bastard, he wanted more, more of her lips on him, more of her body on him, more of whatever she would give him.
More, more, more.
He felt like she cast a spell on him, because fuck she was bringing him out of character, so so out of character.
He moaned into her mouth as he lifted her, the sound low and unguarded, dragged from somewhere deep enough to make Nala gasp before the gasp melted into a bright little giggle against his lips. Her laughter was soft and breathy and half-stolen by the kiss, and Tyriq smiled into it, even as he held her tighter, one arm secure beneath her, the other braced at her back as he moved through her apartment with the easy confidence of a man who knew it as well as he knew the shape of his own hands. He did not need light to guide him, not really. He knew where the walls narrowed, where the rug caught slightly beneath his shoes, where the turn into her room came, because he had been here enough for her space to have become part of his own private geography, another map of belonging committed to memory.
By the time he reached her bedroom, the kiss had softened into something slower and more lingering, their mouths parting and finding each other again in little hungry, smiling reunions, as though neither of them could quite bear to stop touching long enough to speak. The room itself welcomed them in quiet beauty. Soft linens waited on the bed, pale and rumpled in the low light, and the walls held pictures of them in scattered frames, candid little fragments of joy and youth and devotion, snapshots of the life they were building almost by instinct, long before they had any right to know how serious it would become. Here they were laughing in one frame, pressed cheek to cheek in another, his arm around her waist in one, her head tipped toward his shoulder in the next. It was, in its own tender way, a museum of their love, every image a small holy artifact of the fact that they had already begun leaving evidence of each other everywhere.
Tyriq paused there for half a breath, Nala still in his arms, her curls spilling over his wrist, her face warm and luminous from laughter and kisses, and something in him gentled at the sight of all those pieces of them hung up around the room like proof. Not just desire. Not just heat. But history, even in its youth. Devotion, even in its unfinished form. He looked at the photographs, then back at her, and whatever she saw in his face made her smile soften too, made the playful brightness in her settle into something quieter, deeper, more intimate. Because that was the thing about them, that even in moments charged with all the ache of wanting, love still sat beneath everything like deep water under moonlight, steady and vast and impossible to ignore.
He kissed her again then, slower this time, not because the wanting had eased, but because the room itself seemed to ask for reverence. His mouth moved over hers with that same consuming tenderness he always reserved for the moments when lust and love became impossible to separate, and Nala, feeling the pictures of them watching like little witnesses from the walls, wrapped her arms more fully around his neck and let herself melt into him. In that room, with their shared history looking on from every frame and the bed waiting soft as a promise, it felt less like he was carrying her into a bedroom and more like he was carrying her deeper into something they had already been building all along.
He lowered her onto the bed with a care that made the whole moment feel more intimate than urgency ever could, as though even now, even with want pulling hard at both of them, some part of him remained reverent in her presence. Then he straightened and pulled his hoodie up and over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the warm bronze of his skin, toned and cleanly cut in the low light. The sight of him made it somehow more devastating by how familiar and unattainable it had once seemed to her all at once. Nala’s tongue swept lightly over her lips before she could stop herself, her eyes fixed on him as though he were not merely a boy in her bedroom but some beautiful punishment sent by the gods, some private Adonis standing at the edge of everything she had not known enough to wait for.
And as she looked at him, her thoughts drifted backward with a cruelty memory specialized in, back to the last time she had been in this room for something like this, though nothing about that night now seemed worthy of sharing language with the one unfolding before her. It had not been awful, not in the dramatic sense, not violent, not catastrophic, but it had not been good either, not in the way sacred things ought to be good. At the time, she and that friend had not even been romantically drawn to one another, not truly, and the whole thing had been carried out with the dull practical logic of somebody checking a box she had convinced herself needed checking before life could properly begin. She had treated her virginity like a task, a threshold to get over before college, something cumbersome to be handled and set aside, something she ought to be able to say she had done simply for the sake of having done it. There had been no wonder in it, no devotion, no trembling sense that her body deserved to be met with patience and awe, only the vague anxious determination of a girl trying to rid herself of what the world had made sound like a burden.
But now, with Tyriq standing there in the soft half-light of her bedroom, with the pictures of them on the walls like little witnesses to the life they had been building, with his gaze on her so full of heat and tenderness it made her pulse stumble, she had never regretted anything more. Because now she understood, with a clarity almost painful in its lateness, what it should have been, what it could have been had she waited for the right hands, the right mouth, the right heart. It should have felt like this, like the air itself had changed in anticipation, like desire and reverence had found one another and refused to separate. It should have been given to someone who looked at her the way Tyriq looked at her, as though even her smallest softness deserved ceremony, as though touching her was not some casual indulgence but a privilege that asked something serious of the man receiving it.
She hated, in that moment, the careless little practicality with which she had once handled something that now seemed almost holy in retrospect. Hated that she had let a milestone meant for tenderness be reduced to an errand. Hated that a version of her, younger and more frightened and eager to seem unbothered, had handed away what Tyriq would have treated like a crown. Because looking at him now, really looking at him, she knew in her bones that he would have made it beautiful. He would have taken his time with her. He would have learned the language of her body like a man studying scripture he intended to live by. He would have looked after not only the flesh of her but the feeling of her, the emotions beneath the nerves, the softness beneath the wanting, all of it held with that same impossible mixture of hunger and devotion that seemed to be his native tongue where she was concerned.
And that was the cruelest part of all, perhaps, that regret did not come to her because she wished herself untouched for purity’s sake or innocence’s, but because Tyriq had shown her, simply by loving her, how worthy she had always been of more than what she had accepted. He stood there before her now, beautiful enough to ruin peace, breathing a little harder, his chest lit warm by the bedside lamp, and Nala felt the full force of that realization move through her like tide through open water: she had not understood her own value then. But she understood it now, and because she understood it now, the wanting that rose in her was sharpened by grief and softened by longing both. She did not merely want him in the shallow physical sense, though Lord knew she wanted him. She wanted to be met by him in all the places she had once let herself be overlooked, wanted him to undo, by tenderness alone, every lesser thing that had come before him.
So she looked at him from the bed with her mouth parted slightly and her curls spread around her like dark silk, and Tyriq, whatever else he may have seen in her face, saw enough to go still for one quiet beat, because there are moments when desire is not merely desire, but recognition, when two people realize at once that what stands between them is not only heat, but the ache of what should have always been theirs to discover together.
He watched her for a moment, his eyes tracing over her figure; she was clad in nothing but his shirt. One he’d left behind during their many nights together. The smell of his cologne and her own scent mixing had his dick hardening more as he watched her. He watched the way her thighs rubbed together to ease the throb she felt between her legs. He watched as she nervously bit her lip, her eyes darting down to his dick and back to his eyes, then back again.
“Eyes up here, baby.” He reminded her as he took a seat by her bed, fully baring herself to him, leaving not an inch of flesh unseen, leaving her to map him out as he did her.
He nodded to her drawer.
“Touch yourself for me, baby… show me what you been doin’ in them videos.”
Nala’s eyes widened as her lips parted, her soul leaving her body as she pouted.
Tyriq watched her with a grin as he tilted his head to the side, licking his lips, fighting the urge to reach for her as her brown eyes looked up at him.
“I don’t like repeating myself, Nalani, are we gon’ have a problem?”
She shook her head as she gazed at him, and he tsked, “Words, baby.”
“N-no, daddy, we’re not gon’ have a problem,” she whispered as she looked at him.
“So why the fuck you just layin’ there? I told you to do something, didn’t I?”
Nala nodded as she swallowed thickly, her hand reaching for the vibrator she kept tucked away in her drawer; watching it buzz to life, she shut her eyes momentarily, taking a breath, and when she opened them, she set them on him, biting her lip, she lifted her shirt from her head, leaving her bare for him.
Spreading her legs, she brought the bulbous head of the wand to her clit, a moan of ecstasy left her lips as she fought her eyes to stay on his. Her legs shook as she fought the impending orgasm that had rushed in on her, the wire in her lower belly growing taunter and taunter as she fisted her sheets. With a whine, she watched as he wrapped a hand around himself using her saliva from earlier. He began slowly, relieving himself, flicking his wrist and mimicking how tight he imagined she'd be as he watched her pussy throb with the new stimulation.
“That’s it, you’re doing it right pretty girl, don’t worry,” he reassured her as she let out a whine and nodded as she spread her legs from him further, watching as he licked his lips, his eyes flickering from her wet heat to her eyes and back again, over and over like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to look at more. He licked his lips as he cocked his head to the side, a gesture he found himself doing over and over tonight. He blamed it on the pure disbelief, pure and utter disbelief that he was here, with her, after all this time, after all the wet dreams where the sweet ambrosia of her lingered on all his senses, too real to be fake.
“What you be thinking ‘bout when you play with my pussy baby?”
Nala bit her lip as her hair fell behind her, the coil in her belly wound tighter, “You, daddy, I think about you,” she sighed as another wave of pleasure rolled through her body. “I think about you touching me, think about you holding my hand while you fuck me, daddy – f-fuck!” she whined as her walls spasmed around nothing, her orgasm building up as she felt her toes curl.
“You gon’ cum for daddy baby?”
“Mhm,” she whined.
“Words, Nala.”
“Yes, daddy, ‘m gon’ cum for you.”
“Then do that shit, baby, you doin’ good baby, so good,” he groaned as his own release snapped in tandem with hers, his vision blanking for a moment as he yelled out a “Fuck!” as he painted his hand with pretty ribbons of white just as she let out a squeal and writhed away from the contact of the wand.
For a moment, there was silence, pure and utter silence, as he stared at her and she stared at the roof, unable to make eye contact with how they’d tainted one another. For a moment, Nala wondered if this was what her first time was supposed to feel like, if it was supposed to feel this… sinful, this wild and ravenous, almost all-consuming as she became a woman she didn’t recognise, a woman who thought with lust first and logic later.
Tyriq watched as she brought herself up on her knees and crawled over to him, taking his tainted hand and licked from the base of his palm to the top of his fingertip, humming in pure pleasure as she opened her eyes to meet his as she licked his hand clean for him, wrapping her tongue around the perfectly manicured digit and humming in delight.
“You so nasty baby,” Tyriq whispered, and Nala grinned, pure unadulterated bliss on her face as Tyriq pulled his hand away and wrapped it around her throat, careful to stick to the allotted pressure points as he brought her lips to his in a slow kiss as he laid her back down onto her bed, his hands brushing her sides as he finally lifted the shirt over her head, his fingers grazing her sides, making her body shiver in anticipation
Her eyes met his.
A clash of brown with blue, polar opposites, but at this moment, they had never been more harmonious.
“You’re so beautiful… you don’t know what you do to me,” he whispered as he kissed her once again. She sucked at his tongue, almost like she’d been deprived of him for so long; it was insatiable at its finest. He gently ran a finger through her folds, groaning against her lips, purely satisfied as her juices gathered on his fingertips.
Nala giggled, placing pecs on his lips as her stomach fluttered from the praise. Watching as he brought the fingers to his mouth, groaning as he looked down at her, making a silent vow to bury his face in her pussy and taste the nectar from the source, but now, looking down at her, all he wanted was to bury himself inside her, his baby, his girl, his beautiful girl.
“‘M gonna love you right, baby,” he whispered, the words warm against her skin as he kissed his way upward with a patience that felt almost sacred.
There was nothing hurried in him then, nothing careless, nothing that suggested he was touching her just to arrive somewhere else. Tyriq moved over her as though every inch of her deserved to be known properly, his mouth lingering where insecurity had once taught her to flinch, where the world had tried and failed to convince her she should be less tender with herself. He gave special reverence to the parts of her most women were taught to apologize for, the soft dimples in her skin, the pale silvered traces time and growth had written along her thighs, handling them not like flaws to be overlooked, but like proof that her body had lived, stretched, softened, become.
And Nala, feeling that kind of attention, that kind of unembarrassed devotion, could only lie there and take it in with trembling breath, because this was what she had not known enough to ask for before, this slow and deliberate worship, this sense of being beheld instead of merely seen. Tyriq touched her like a man who understood that love and desire were not enemies, that tenderness could be every bit as consuming as hunger, and that the sweetest way to undress a woman was often to remove her shame first.
“Don’t hide from me,” he murmured softly, lifting his head just enough to look at her. “Ain’t nothin’ about you I’m not thanking God for.”
“Tyriq?”
“Yes, my love?” he whispered, intertwining their fingers.
“I-I wanna be on top.”
Tyriq paused for a moment, his eyes full of so much love it hurt, and looked into hers.
“Are you sure? You don’t have to impress me, baby, ‘m already so proud of you.”
“I’m sure… wanna learn how to take you…at my own pace.”
He looked at her for a long moment, the weight of it quiet and searching, as though he were trying to decide not whether he wanted her, because that had long since ceased to be a question, but whether he could bear the responsibility of handling her in exactly the way she deserved. In her eyes, nerves moved like startled fish beneath clear water, quick and silver and impossible to miss, and her hands, small against the breadth of him, traced the vein along his wrist with absent, tender concentration, as if she were soothing herself by learning the proof of his pulse beneath her fingertips. It softened him instantly. The sight of her like that, wanting and uncertain, open and afraid of being too open, touched something in him deeper than hunger, something almost solemn, and whatever fire had been driving him gentled into care.
“Nala,” he said softly, her name low in his mouth, more prayer than sound.
She looked up at him at once, lashes trembling, and the vulnerability in her face nearly undid him, because there was trust there, real trust, the kind that made a man straighten inside himself and ask whether he was worthy of the thing being placed in his hands. Tyriq lifted one of her hands from his arm and pressed his mouth to the center of her palm, then turned it and kissed her wrist, lingering there just long enough for her to feel that he was not rushing her, not pulling her toward some finish line she had not yet chosen, but meeting her where she was, fully.
“You ain’t gotta be scared with me,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “We got time.”
That was what made the room change, not desire, because desire had been there from the beginning, bright and restless as a star burning low over water, but the patience of him, the way he held his wanting in careful hands and offered it to her as something she could enter gently rather than be overtaken by. Nala let out the faintest breath, and her fingers curled more securely around his. Her nerves did not vanish, but they softened at the edges, made less frightening by the fact that he saw them and did not turn away, did not mock them, did not pretend not to notice. He only stayed there above her, warm and steady and impossibly attentive, looking at her as though the most important thing in the room was not what might happen next, but whether she felt safe enough to let it.
And when her thumb moved again over that vein in his wrist, slower this time, Tyriq smiled, faint and tender, because he understood then that she was not pulling away at all. She was choosing. Slowly, carefully, bravely choosing.
He repositioned them, lying flat on her bed as she bent down and kissed him, guiding his shaft between her legs as she rubbed him through her folds, once, twice, thrice and eventually she slowly sank onto him, inch by inch, splitting her open as they moaned in sync.
Determined to be flush with his thighs, she brought herself up slightly and sank down further onto him. Her hand held his, squeezing as she looked into his eyes, nothing but love and lust swam in his gaze.
“You alright, baby? Is it hurting?”
She whimpered and shook her head, her curls spilling around her face and shoulders in a dark unruly cloud, painting her in a halo so lush and wicked it seemed almost perverse, as though heaven itself had been remade in softer, more dangerous colors just to ruin him properly. And Tyriq, looking at her there, breath unsteady and beauty trembling at the edges, thought with a kind of helpless reverence that if this was the closest he ever got to paradise, he would take it without complaint, would fall to his knees before it gladly, would call it holy all the same. If all he was ever promised was this angel in his lap, this girl with starlight in her eyes and sin in the shape of her mouth, this soft devastating creature made equal parts tenderness and temptation, then he would count himself blessed beyond measure. Because Nala, in that moment, did not look like something merely mortal or passing, but like the answer to every prayer he had not known enough to form properly, something celestial lowered into his arms for no reason but mercy, and he loved her with the frightening certainty of a man who would rather perish at the gates of heaven than be turned away from the sight of her.
“I know, I know, baby,” she soothed her, his hand running down her side and up again, soothing her the best he could as her wet heat consumed more and more of him, “You’re taking me so good, baby, so good.”
He sat up as she finally made it to the bottom of him, his dick nestled in her warm walls, and he swore under his breath. Her hand still in his as she used him for leverage as she slowly moved up and down his shaft, his eyes met her shut ones as she moved, ecstasy all on her face, and as they became one for the first time, Nala could not stop the future from rushing in, bright and certain as dawn over open water. Seated above him, held in the full, trembling gravity of the moment, she felt time split strangely in two, one part of her still here in the warm hush of his room, in the unsteady rhythm of their breathing, in the way his hands steadied her as though she were something precious and half-divine, and the other part already leaping forward into all the years that seemed, suddenly, not imagined at all, but promised.
She could see it so clearly that it frightened her.
A house.
Children.
Mrs. Withers in place of Devereaux, her name changed not by loss but by belonging, by the quiet holy fact of choosing and being chosen in return. She could see him coming home to her, coming home to their family, broad shoulders filling the doorway, his face softening the second his eyes found hers. She could see the small rituals of a life built together, his kiss against her forehead in the morning, against her mouth when he came back at night, against her temple when he had been wrong, against her cheek when words were too clumsy to carry all he meant.
Hello.
Goodbye.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
The words moved through her like prayer, like tide, like something older than speech and deeper than sense, until she could no longer tell whether she was thinking them or hearing them in the chambers of her own heart.
I love you.
I love you.
“I love you,” she whispered.
And because she was above him, because she could see all of him so clearly from there, the devotion in his face, the wonder, the tenderness, the almost disbelieving way he looked at her as though heaven had lowered something into his hands he had no right to deserve, the confession left her in a trembling hush, soft and helpless and true. It was not simply desire speaking, nor even the sweetness of the hour, but recognition, that terrible and beautiful recognition that this was the boy she could already see threaded through every tomorrow she wanted.
He looked up at her like she was something heaven had handed him with shaking hands, like even now, with her above him and the future trembling open between them, he could hardly believe she was real and his all at once. His palms moved slowly over her, not hurried, not greedy, but reverent, as though he was trying to memorize the exact shape of this moment before time could come and take it from him.
“Nala,” he whispered, and her name sounded different in his mouth then, fuller, richer, like it had finally found the place it was always meant to live.
His hand rose to cup her face, his thumb brushing softly beneath her eye, and when he spoke again his voice had gone low and unguarded, the voice of a boy too young for all that feeling and yet carrying it anyway like a vow.
“I wanna be everything good to you, baby,” he murmured, his lips grazing hers between each word. “Wanna be the reason you smile to yourself in the middle of the day. Wanna be the one you call when the world too loud. Wanna be the one you come home to, the one you reach for in your sleep, the one that make this whole life feel softer on you.”
He kissed her then, once, twice, three times, each press of his mouth slow and deliberate, as though he needed to seal every word into her lips before he let the next one go.
“I wanna be your peace,” he whispered against her mouth. “Your comfort. Your best friend. Your safety. I wanna be the one that knows how to hold you when you’re laughing and when you’re crying, when you’re sweet and when you’re mean, when you don’t know what to do with all that heart in your chest.”
Nala’s breath trembled, and Tyriq kissed the corner of her mouth, then the center again, lingering there like he could live off her breath alone.
“I wanna be where all your roads lead,” he said softly. “I wanna be the thought that settles you down at night and the first thing on your mind when morning comes. I wanna be in every piece of your life, every dream, every plan. I want all of it, baby. All of you.”
His forehead rested against hers for a moment, his eyes heavy and wrecked and so full of feeling she could hardly stand to look at him, and when he spoke again the words came out like confession.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Then he kissed it against her lips.
“I love you.”
Another kiss, slower this time, deeper only with feeling.
“I love you.”
Again.
And again.
And again, until it stopped sounding like a sentence and started sounding like prayer, like prophecy, like something his mouth had been made to say only to hers. He kissed the words into her so many times they seemed to melt into her skin, into her breath, into the very space between them.
“I love you, Nalani,” he said, voice breaking now under the weight of it. “I love you so bad I don’t even know where I end with it. I love you in every way I know how and in some ways I ain’t even got language for yet. I just know it’s you. It’s been you.”
And still he kept kissing her, tender and desperate and full of worship, like her lips were the only altar he intended to kneel at for the rest of his life.
She quickened her pace and angle as they kissed, eager to bring him to his peak, eager to make them closer than they were right now, to feel his love flood her senses.
“Goddamn baby,” he whispered against her lips. “Who taught you how to move like this?”
No one, truly, no one, but she’d been reading books; she'd looked up a few tricks before jumping into the deep end with this with him.
With every movement, her breasts ran up and down his bare chest, the pert nipples rubbing against him as he leaned back to watch his member disappear between her slippery folds. He felt the coil in his lower belly tighten and tighten as he watched her fuck him, his vision grew hazier and hazier as he blindly grabbed for her phone she’d carelessly thrown on the bed when he first got here and pressed record, propping it up against a surface.
She looked beautiful like this, her hands planted on his shoulders, sweaty, a faint streak of his cum on her cheek as her hair covered them both, the wet plap plap plap of their bodies meeting over and over sounded like a symphony.
They made the best music Nala’s ever made with their moans, heavy breaths and the sound of their flesh meeting over and over. The rhythm was perfect as she opened her eyes and looked straight into the camera he’d propped up. Her mouth hung open slightly while she continued riding him. Each time she came down, she fell more and more in love with the feeling of them, how he felt inside her. She loved him, loved him so so much.
“I’m gonna cum Nala, f-fuck slow down baby,” he groaned and Nala shook her head, picking up the pace, grinding her hips while she was riding him her ass clapping as she rode him and Tyriq shut his eyes for a moment, willing himself to last longer than the five minutes she’d been on top of him; however as his eyes opened and his gaze landed on her mirror, the one usually parked by her bed, he knew that wasn’t happening.
The view was absurd, truly absurd, and it was enough to undo him. Her pussy splitting open to swallow his dick and coat it in her juices, marking it as hers over and over. Her thighs smacking down onto his as her ass sounded like a damn applause every time she sank down, he was hypnotised, purely hypnotised by her. He sighed in pure ecstasy, “Look how pretty she is baby, fuck, you fuckin’ daddy so good baby, so good”
Nala let out a moan at the praise, eager for more, she made sure to tighten her walls around him, gripping him even tighter as she dropped her body onto his.
“That’s how you gon’ do me, baby? It’s like that?” he whimpered.
“Mhm.”
“Where you want it baby?”
“Inside, inside, please, Tyriq… let me have your child,” she whispered against his lips, and the words were not born of reason, not of the practical, daylight part of her mind that understood timing and consequence and all the sensible things people liked to pretend ruled love. They came from somewhere far softer and far more dangerous, that honey-warm place he always carried her to, where thought lost its hard edges and everything she felt became huge, tidal, impossible to contain. Nala was not thinking straight, not in any way that would have satisfied logic, because Tyriq had a way of undoing the neat architecture of her restraint and leaving only the truest things standing. And the truest thing in her, in those moments, was not just that she loved him, but that she could see a whole life with him so vividly it felt less like imagination and more like memory arriving early.
That was what overwhelmed her most, not merely the wanting of him, but the way he made the future flash bright behind her eyes like constellations suddenly arranged into a language she could finally read. She would be breathless and half-dazed with him, all soft with feeling and too full of love to hold it properly, and in an instant her mind would leap past the room, past the hour, past their nineteen and twenty years, and land somewhere sunlit and holy. A baby in his arms. Their baby. Brown skin and soft curls and sleepy eyes, a little face made from both of them, a child born not just from flesh but from devotion. She would see Tyriq laughing low and tired in the morning, one hand on the back of a tiny head. She would see herself standing in a kitchen that belonged to them, barefoot and warm, while a child called for her from somewhere down the hall. She would see him coming home to her, coming home to them, his whole face changing at the sight of his family like the day had only become real once he stepped back into their orbit.
And because Nala loved like a woman born with poetry in her bloodstream, because she had never known how to want halfway, those visions did not feel abstract or distant. They felt immediate. Lush. Frighteningly possible. She was drunk on him in the purest sense, not simply dizzy with desire, but undone by the sheer sweetness of loving someone enough to want permanence from him, enough to ache for proof that what lived between them could take on breath and heartbeat and a name. Wanting his baby was, in those moments, less about recklessness than revelation. She was so overwhelmed by the bigness of what she felt for him, so overtaken by the beauty of the life she could already see waiting for them somewhere ahead, that her heart leapt past caution and reached for the most intimate future it knew how to name.
Nala, lovergirl to her marrow, did not only want Tyriq for the night, or the season, or the college romance of it all. She wanted him in the oldest, most terrifying way. She wanted his yesterdays and tomorrows. His children. His last name. His hand at the small of her back in rooms full of noise. His voice in a house full of life. His face bent over a crib in the middle of the night. She wanted the ordinary sacredness of belonging to each other until belonging turned into lineage. So when those pleas slipped from her, breathless and trembling and far too honest, they were not just the language of a girl overcome by feeling. They were prophecy from the softest part of her. They were the future pressing so hard at her spirit that it spilled out of her before sense could catch it and make it quieter.
Tyriq groaned, and Nala lifted her hand, wrapping it around his throat, applying the lightest amount of pressure, cutting off his airway momentarily, and their eyes met, desperation in hers, unadulterated, and soothed by the love in his gaze as she clapped down onto him.
“Cum in me, daddy, please, please, I been good, haven’t I?”
And that was it.
His vision whitened, and he felt his toes curl as the coil in his belly snapped. His words slurring as she ground onto him, his nails dug into her sides as she whined, the pain mixing with pleasure as his hot release painted her insides. Her body jerked a little at the sheer amount of it, but judging by the dopey and fucked out grin on her face, she didn’t seem to mind.
Nala giggled as she removed her hand from his throat, keeping him nestled between her legs as his cum dripped down from her pussy onto his balls, then onto her sheets.
“You alright, baby?” she whispered, and he groaned.
“Fuck, give me a minute, imma take care of you.”
“Take your time… we got all night.”
“Go ahead and clear your schedule for tomorrow too…you gon’ be a bit busy.”
He watched her, his own dopey grin matching her own as he pulled out of her, watching his cum leak down her thighs, gently patting her thigh, he moved her till her pussy was above his face. Looking up at her, he abandoned one thigh to take hold of her hand once more.
“I love you, baby,” Nala whispered.
“I love you, today, tomorrow and forever.”
Throughout the rest of the night, he seemed determined to worship her back into herself, to undo every small imbalance with patience and devotion until her pleasure sat at the center of everything between them. Again and again, Tyriq took his time with her, as if he were trying to make up for every moment that had not unfolded quite right, as if her satisfaction had become a point of honor with him, something sacred he meant to see through no matter how long it took. By the end of it, Nala had lost all sense of time. The hours had blurred into a haze of warmth, trembling laughter, breathless praise, and the kind of overwhelming tenderness that made pleasure feel almost holy.
And Tyriq, insatiable in that way that always made him seem half-devoted and half-damned, never once let up in his attention. He kept coaxing her higher and higher, as though he had decided her body was an altar and he would rather wear himself to ruin than stop worshipping at it. Whatever count she might once have kept was gone now, dissolved somewhere in the sheer excess of feeling, in the relentless sweetness of being so thoroughly adored.
By the time Nala finally collapsed beside him, she felt boneless with exhaustion, her thighs still trembling faintly from the aftershocks of too much sensation, her whole body softened into that delicate, overstimulated ache that arrives only after being loved on far past the point of speech. Tyriq turned to her at once, as if even after all that he still had more tenderness left to give, and kissed her slowly, deeply, with the lazy satisfaction of a man who could taste her joy still lingering between them and treated it like the most precious thing in the world. He kissed her the way some men handled treasure, with reverence, with hunger, with a kind of grateful awe.
Nala hummed softly into his mouth, too tired to do much more than melt, while he trailed that same sweetness into smaller gestures, pressing his lips to the implant in her right arm with an affection so oddly specific and so deeply him that it made her want to laugh and cry at once. It was in those tiny moments, perhaps more than anywhere else, that Tyriq became most dangerous, not merely in the force of his wanting, but in the depth of his care, in the way even her most ordinary parts became worthy of kissing simply because they belonged to her.
“’M sore,” she whined at last, her voice soft and frayed and full of that half-complaining, half-pleased exhaustion that told the real story all by itself.
Aftercare arrived in Tyriq the way all the deepest things seemed to arrive in him where Nala was concerned, not as performance, not as some half-learned ritual of what a man ought to do after pleasure had run its course, but as instinct, immediate and sure and tender enough to make the whole room feel rearranged by it. The second he heard the softness in her voice, that breathy little ’m sore, all the heat in him gentled into something else, something quieter and infinitely more dangerous, because a man who worshipped well was one thing, but a man who knew how to care for the aftermath of worship, who knew how to gather a woman back into herself after she had let him see so much, was something altogether rarer.
He kissed her forehead first, then the corner of her mouth, then the place just beneath her eye where exhaustion had turned her soft in a way he found almost unbearable.
“I know, baby,” he murmured, brushing her curls back from her face with one careful hand. “Stay right there for me.”
Nala made a sleepy little sound of protest the second he shifted away from her, reaching for him on pure instinct before her arm fell back onto the bed. Tyriq smiled despite himself, that small private smile men wore when they were pleased to be wanted even in the quiet aftermath, and he leaned back down just long enough to kiss her once more, slow and reassuring, before he slid from the bed.
The room around them looked like the physical evidence of loving hard. The sheets were twisted into disarray, pillows knocked askew, the warm heavy air carrying the scent of sweat and skin and the sweetness of a night that had gone on far beyond any original intention. Tyriq ran a hand over the back of his neck and winced a little at the state of it all, not with regret, never that, but with the brief startled realization of exactly how thoroughly they had wrecked the room without either of them noticing while they were busy ruining each other instead.
Then he saw the phone.
It was half-buried in the blankets near the edge of the mattress, the little red recording light still blinking like a nosy witness that had outlived its welcome. Tyriq went still for one second, then snatched it up with a low curse under his breath.
“Nah,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else, his thumb moving fast and sure over the screen. “Absolutely not.”
He stopped the recording immediately, the room falling a little more private the second the red light vanished, and set the phone facedown on the dresser with all the quiet finality of a man restoring order where order had been momentarily abandoned for better things. Whatever they had just shared belonged to them first, to memory and body and the private chambers of love, not to some forgotten camera angle blinking in the dark because neither of them had cared enough to notice it in time.
When he turned back, Nala was watching him through half-lidded eyes, too spent to be fully alert and still too aware of him not to follow the shape of his movements. Her curls were spread wild over the pillow, her mouth soft and swollen with exhaustion and lingering kisses, and Tyriq felt that old pull in his chest all over again, that same dangerous tenderness that made him want to ruin her and protect her in equal measure.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she mumbled faintly.
Tyriq raised a brow. “Like what?”
“Like you plotting.”
He laughed softly and headed toward the bathroom. “Baby, all I’m plotting now is getting you cleaned up before you knock out for real.”
He came back with a warm washcloth first, then another, then the big T-shirt of his she always ended up sleeping in anyway. He sat beside her again and slid an arm behind her shoulders to lift her just enough, his touch patient and practical and still somehow affectionate in every movement. There was no hurry in him now. No roughness. He cleaned her with the same care he might have used handling something fragile and deeply beloved, his face gone soft with concentration, every now and then pressing a kiss to her temple or her shoulder when she made one of those tired little noises that told him the tenderness was reaching her where words no longer could.
Nala, half-melted into the mattress, let him fuss over her with the boneless surrender of a woman too adored to argue properly. She only sighed and let her head roll toward him when his hand moved through her curls, only blinked slowly when he told her to lift her arm so he could tug the shirt over her head, only pouted a little when he finally pulled back to look at her and say, in that quiet no-nonsense tone of his:
“You need some water.”
“I need sleep,” she whispered.
“You need both.” He nudged her chin up with two fingers. “And you need to go pee.”
Nala frowned at him immediately, scandalized on instinct. “Tyriq.”
“Nala.”
The full use of her name made her narrow her eyes, but there was no heat in it, only sleepy resistance. “I don’t want to.”
“I know.” He kissed her forehead. “Still gotta go.”
She let out a long suffering breath that made him grin outright, and when he stood and held a hand out to her, she stared at it for one beat too long like the act of sitting up had become an unreasonable demand.
Tyriq shook his head, amused and impossibly fond. “Come on, baby. Don’t make me carry you in there.”
That, at least, got a flicker of life into her. “You wouldn’t.”
He gave her a look that said he absolutely would and both of them knew it.
So Nala took his hand.
He got her to the bathroom like that, one arm firm around her waist, his body a warm wall at her side while she shuffled in borrowed exhaustion and his shirt hanging soft around her thighs. He waited just outside the door while she peed, because some humiliations love made easier without ever fully removing them, and while she was in there he moved fast. By the time she came back out, blinking and sleepy and still leaning against the doorframe for balance, the room had begun returning to itself.
Tyriq had stripped the bed down with efficient hands, peeled off the ruined sheets, bundled them into a heap near the laundry basket, and was remaking the mattress with fresh linen from the closet. He moved with the quiet domestic authority of a man who had done this before, who had learned that love was not only the making of mess but the tending of it afterward. He shook out the fitted sheet with a snap, bent to smooth it into place, changed the pillowcases, straightened the comforter, and every so often glanced over his shoulder to make sure Nala was still upright and not halfway asleep on her feet.
At one point he looked down at the stripped bedding piled at his feet and let out a low wince, scrubbing a hand over his jaw as if the sheer visual evidence of what they had been doing had finally caught up with him.
“Damn,” he murmured.
Nala, still slumped in the doorway, managed the faintest tired smile. “That bad?”
Tyriq looked at her, then at the sheets, then back at her again, and the expression that crossed his face was so deeply, sleepily pleased with both himself and her that it made her laugh despite the soreness.
“I’m not answering that,” he said, though his mouth had already betrayed him.
He crossed back to her then with a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. Not just water. Something with electrolytes, because of course he had thought ahead enough to care about replenishment as much as thirst. He guided her back to the bed, helped her settle against the pillows, then pressed the glass into her hands and watched until she took the first few real swallows.
“All of it,” he said.
Nala looked up at him over the rim. “You are bossy.”
“You are dehydrated.”
“I’m dramatic, not dehydrated.”
Tyriq folded his arms and stared until she drank again.
That made her roll her eyes, but she kept sipping anyway, because his fussing had long since become one of the shapes love took between them. It was never really about the water or the bathroom or the sheets alone. It was the fact of him, the fact that he noticed, that he remembered, that he treated her body not like a site of pleasure only but like something deserving care after it had given and given and given.
When she was done, he took the glass, set it aside, and climbed back into the bed beside her at last. The fresh sheets were cool and clean against their skin, the room restored to order, the phone dead and silent on the dresser, the old evidence of heat now folded away into laundry and memory. Tyriq pulled her carefully into him, one arm under her shoulders, the other across her waist, tucking her against his chest with the same unembarrassed certainty that had marked him from the beginning.
Nala sighed, all the fight gone out of her now.
“There,” he murmured into her hair. “Better?”
She nodded against him after a moment. “Much.”
Tyriq kissed the crown of her head and held her a little closer, his palm moving slow and absent over her side, more grounding than anything else. The room had gone quiet around them again, no longer charged, no longer wild, just dim and warm and full of the deep domestic intimacy that follows being thoroughly loved.
And because he was Tyriq, because his tenderness always arrived threaded with the faintest note of self-satisfaction, he let one beat pass before murmuring into her curls, “You lucky you got me.”
Nala, already halfway asleep against his chest, smiled without opening her eyes.
“Very,” she whispered.
That answer pleased him more than he would ever say out loud. He kissed her once more, soft and final at her temple, then settled his cheek against the top of her head and let the room and the night and the last of the adrenaline fall away around them, his girl clean and warm in his arms, the bed remade, the water finished, the door locked, the phone silenced, and every wild beautiful trace of the evening put gently to bed.
“Keep me warm?” Tyriq hummed against her as he kissed her neck.
Nala’s brows furrowed in confusion, “I am.”
“‘M still cold mama.”
Realisation dawned on Nala as she rolled her eyes, “You so freaky.”
“You got the AC on in here or some shit? ‘S freezing baby, you don’t want me to shiver all night do you?” he smiled against her as she adjusted her body, and lifted her thigh, finding his way inside of her oncemore with a content hum as she squeezed around him, welcoming him back in eagerly.
“You warm?”
“Mhm, more than just warm baby.”
Tyriq laughed softly against her hair, the sound low and warm and far too pleased with itself for a man who had already spent the better part of the night proving he had absolutely no sense of mercy where she was concerned.
“Don’t start nothin’ ‘m tired Tyriq.”
“Baby,” he murmured, tightening his arm around her just enough to make the point that he had heard her and intended, for once, to behave. “I ain’t starting nothing.”
Nala made a sleepy little sound that clearly communicated she did not believe him at all.
Tyriq smiled into the top of her head and pressed a slow kiss there, then another to her temple, all softness now, all aftercare and affection and that deep contentment men got when the woman they loved was warm and worn out and tucked safely against them.
“I’m serious,” he said, voice dropping into that gentle, half-teasing register that always made everything sound a little sweeter than it had any right to. “You done already gave me enough trouble for one night.”
Nala huffed, eyes still closed, too exhausted to do more than shift a little closer into his chest. “Mm-hm.”
He let her have the last word, or at least the illusion of it. His hand moved lazily over her side beneath the shirt, not suggestive now, only soothing, the slow absent touch of a man settling his girl down for sleep.
“Aight,” he whispered after a moment. “Go to bed then. I got you.”
And because that was exactly what she needed to hear, Nala’s body finally gave up the last of its tension and melted fully into him, while Tyriq held her there in the clean sheets and the quiet room, smiling to himself in the dark like a man who had every intention of acting right… at least until morning.
tags : @mamasturn @sheinaskirt @authentic-girl03 @k0niiii-blog @trustmymood @glizzymcguirex @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @blackfemreaderr @blckblossom @trustmymood @unicoo @yourleogf @uniqueoutlierblog @og-goddesstrill @determinednot2fall @melaninhawtie @xoadaraox @thatssokarii @kirayuki22 @the1miscief @plan3tch1ld @daliscrim @szatears @that-one-anxious-mango @sonder-slut @saintaquarius @bestleowoman2exist (lmk if you wanted to be added or removed )
PAIRING: tyriq withers as “cameron ‘cam’ cade” from “him (2025)” x black!fem!reader
SUMMARY: in which your grades unintentionally start to slip, so Cameron prohibits you from any kind of sexual act until you fix them, which motivates you to put forth more effort than you did before. so the moment your final grades get released, you waste no showing them to him so you can get what you need. 🩷
you didn’t mean for it to happen, but once the damage was done, you knew you’d be in trouble.
you may or may not have goofed around with your friends for the first month and a half of the semester, unknowingly prioritizing fun over your academics. sure, your attendance was on point and you never missed an assignment, but when you started going out to frat parties almost every weekend with your homegirls, your grades unfortunately started to slip.
it all happened so fast — the parties, the drinking, the Friday night outings, the reckless fun that practically took over your life — but it all stopped as quick as it started once your midterm grades got released. Cs and below stared threateningly at you, and you swore you felt your heart drop straight to your ass at the sight.
you didn’t know how it happened. you had always been an A and B student, so the sight of multiple grades below those made you sick to your stomach. but when Cameron found out? you felt like you could’ve vomited right in his face.
Cameron wasn’t the type to really fuss at you or even be strict on you, but when he found out what your grades were, he practically turned into your father. he got on you about your grades firmer than you expected, but the moment he told you that he’d stop fucking you and touching you sexually until you got your grades up was when you went rigid.
granted, you weren’t mad at him for taking away those privileges — you shouldn’t have even let your grades slip this bad anyway — but you knew your sexual frustration would eat away at you until the semester ended and final grades were released.
so what did you do? you worked your ass off for the rest of the semester to fix your grades.
no more parties, no more drinking, no more Friday night outings — nothing. when the weekend came, you had completely sheltered yourself in your room with nothing but your laptop and notebooks as you completed assignments and studied for upcoming exams.
you were determined to get your grades back up, but you were even more determined to be rewarded by Cameron for getting your grades back up.
once the semester came to an end and final exams wrapped up, you were practically ecstatic. you had a good feeling that you brought up your grades, but you knew you couldn’t say anything to Cameron about them because he’d ask for proof, so you waited until you were notified that final grades had been released — which came quicker than you expected.
you wasted no time logging into your Banner account and clicking through it to see your grades, your eyes lighting up at the sight of As and Bs staring back at you. satisfaction and relief coursed deeply through you as the realization settled in — you recovered rather quickly from what could’ve been a horrible blow to your GPA.
you didn’t bother celebrating on your own, though. the moment you saw your grades, you were already in the driver’s seat of your car. you drove to Cameron’s apartment with nothing but intense excitement and suppressed sexual desire inside you — though your excitement seemingly overpowered everything else because when you arrived at his apartment, you practically bursted through his door.
“Cameroooon!” you called out excitedly as you quickly pushed open his door and unintentionally slammed it behind you, swiftly locking it before taking off through his apartment, “baby! where you at?!”
Cameron jumped at the sudden sound of your appearance and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion mixed with amusement as he sat up on the couch and watched you practically pace through his humble abode to find him, “i’m in the living room. why you screamin’, you good?”
a squeal flew from your mouth before you could catch it at the sound of his voice and you ran into the living room as you threw yourself at him and into his lap, making him grunt before laughing at you while his arms instinctively wrapped around your body to steady you.
“what’s goin’ on with you, ma? why you runnin’ around here like somebody after you or some shit?” Cameron laughed as both of his eyebrows raised and he leaned back against the couch to properly look at you, his arms loosening around you and his hands moving to hold your waist.
“look!” you practically shoved your phone into his chest, but his reflexes kicked in and one of his hands caught it before it could actually come in contact with him, “i did it, Cam!”
Cameron let out a soft snort at your frantic joy and he adjusted his grip on your phone as he lifted it and his eyes averted to the screen, an understanding smile crossing his face once it clicked in his mind why you were so excited.
“see, that’s what i’m talking ‘bout. congrats, baby, i knew you could do it.” Cameron smiled, looking up at you, as you smiled back, yours wider than his, and you leaned down to him, peppering kisses across his face before moving your mouth to his and pecking his lips multiple times.
“okay, now eat my pussy,” you mumbled between pecks as Cameron laughed lowly and sat your phone aside, his hand on your waist sliding around to rest against your back while his other gently grabbed the back of your neck and slightly pulled you back from his mouth, “Cameron, come on— i haven’t felt any part of you in so long, i need this.”
“that ain’t how you ask, pretty,” Cameron teased, a small smirk creeping onto his face, as you groaned softly and rested your hands against his shoulders, a pout absentmindedly forming on your face at his denial, “ask for it properly.”
“can you please eat my pussy, baby?” you asked sweetly, batting your eyelashes at him, as your thumbs traced small circles against his shoulders and Cameron’s smirk slightly widened, “i need you, Cam, you know that.”
Cameron looked at you silently for a moment, letting the weight of your words settle into the atmosphere, before he suddenly wrapped his arms around you and flipped you over, eliciting an abrupt squeal from you while he laid you on your back.
“well… since you asked nicely,” Cameron paused and gently pecked your lips before slowly maneuvering down your body, “and you brought your grades up like i wanted you to,” he paused again and hooked his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants as he teasingly tugged at them before pulling them down and throwing them aside, “i should reward you for that, huh?”
“yeah,” your voice was softer than before — a bit breathy as well — and you raised your hips as you helped him remove the last barrier of clothing that covered your lower body, “you should.”
“i got you, mama.” Cameron’s arms wrapped around your legs and he spread them wide as he dipped his head between your thighs and pressed soft kisses against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, gently nipping at them before sticking out his tongue and slowly licking a long stripe of your pussy.
your body shuddered from the familiar yet forgotten feeling and you whimpered as your hands came down to cradle the back of Cameron’s head, your fingertips running over his buzzed hair and slightly grazing the stapled scar by his hairline.
Cameron groaned under his breath, though he didn’t know if it was coaxed out of him by your taste or touch, and his fingers slightly tightened against your thighs as he began eating your pussy like a man who hadn’t eaten in years, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows while he buried his face into your cunt.
your head fell back against the couch cushions and a high-pitched moan fell from your mouth as your eyes rolled back and your jaw went slack, a yelp erupting from you at feeling Cameron’s mouth lock around your clit.
“oh, fuuuck, baby— C-Cam!” you cried out, your eyebrows furrowing, as your back started to arch up from the couch but you suddenly felt his palm press into your stomach to hold you down, a whine falling from your mouth while one of your hands slid down to hold onto the back of Cameron’s neck, “uuugh, shiiiit! mmh, don’t s-stop!”
Cameron’s long fingers splayed across your stomach and kept you from running away as his other hand slid between your legs and he dragged his middle finger through your folds, collecting your arousal before he eased it inside of you.
“fuck!” a broken whimper fell from your mouth and your legs jerked as your head raised and you looked down at Cameron, pleasure displayed across your pretty face and mixing with a hint of bewilderment.
you had been so wound up for the past few months from Cameron’s “no sex or head” rule, but it seemed like you weren’t the only one affected by it. Cameron had always been skilled at eating pussy, but the way he was feasting on you today felt different — as if he was practically starving for another taste of you.
Cameron’s eyes found yours and you watched the corners of his mouth slightly lift in what you assumed to be a smirk, the sight of shock mixed with pure bliss in your expression telling him more than you even needed to.
pulling his mouth off of your clit, Cameron rolled and wiggled his tongue against it as he pushed his ring finger inside you and slightly scissored them to stretch you further open, eliciting a desperate mewl from you while you watch him torment you with his mouth and fingers.
“you gon’ cum for me, ma? hm?” Cameron murmured against your clit, flicking his tongue against it, as he slightly pulled back and spit on your clit before replacing his mouth with his thumb, rubbing it in quick circles while his fingers thrusted deeply inside you, “you gon’ let me taste how much you been missin’ me, pretty girl?”
“y-yes!” you whined, your head falling back for a second time, as you gasped sharply and your legs jerked again, your eyes rolling back and your eyebrows furrowing deeply while a small scrunch formed in the bridge of your nose, “ohhh, my G— C-Cameroooon! shiiiit, baby, i-i’m—”
“uh-huh, i know. i know, baby. keep soakin’ my fingers just like that. gimme’ all that good shit.”
