Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Now

Osha almost misses her connecting flight to Seattle.

She’s the dumb-dumb who decided to fly Spirit fucking Airways, so on top of losing half her luggage (luckily, not the one with the presents in them), barely avoiding a snowstorm and spilling coffee all over her pullover, she almost sprains her ankle in her rush to get to the gate on time.

LAX is a maze, no wonder it swallowed up her luggage. Fifty-five minutes is hardly long enough for a proper layover, and Osha vehemently swears to never cheap out on plane tickets again.

She makes more than enough to cover business class, but she just had to be budget-friendly and sensible. She should have listened to Mae, who’d told her to get that flight with United.

Doesn’t matter now, anyways. She’s here, scrambling out of the Uber in the snow, balancing her duffle bag, a small rolling suitcase and her ludicrously capacious handbag.

Of course the Uber driver doesn’t jump up to assist her. Chivalry is clearly dead and buried, six feet under.

Not that she’d let him, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Oh God, now she sounds like Dr Holden.

She’d have something to say, about the way Osha’s hesitating outside of Sol’s house. It’s a picture-perfect colonial with the roof and bay windows covered in a layer of frosted snow, like a gingerbread house.

It’s only four but the sun is already setting, typical winter, and the windows are lit up, warm and glowing golden.

Home.

She hasn’t been home in four years, not since…

Not since Qimir.

But it’s unlikely that he’s back, now, after years of missed Christmases where Osha’s had to fly Sol up to spend time with her in Chicago.

He’s off doing what he does, travelling snake oil salesman bullshit.

Does Osha talk to her therapist about Qimir?

Fuck no.

The shit she'd have to say about him, the shit she's done with him, would probably get her sectioned faster than you could say ‘ Zoloft’ .

What she does talk to her therapist about, however, is her relationship with Sol. The filial piety she owes him, her sense of obligation. Her guilt and gratitude.

Her deep-seated need to please, probably stemming from her abandonment issues.

Her saviour complex, because surely someone who dedicates over sixty hours a week to her job has got to have some sort of fucking complex. She'd thought about becoming a social worker, for a hot minute there. Like Indara.

But that's too close, too much. She needs distance, that the rules and structures of the law provide her. She's always felt too much and too deeply, enough that she's repressed a fair few non-workable emotions.

Her inability to keep a relationship, although that's a thorny one to untangle because it's hopelessly entwined with Qimir. She’d managed to avoid the brambles, somehow, vaguely obscuring it with the story of a toxic ex from her high school days.

(It's more than a little too close to the truth for her liking)

Nevertheless, she persists. It's better than the alternative, which would involve stewing in her thoughts until she soaks up enough vinegar to pickle her insides.

She even gets some good coping techniques out of it.

Like the breathing techniques she's using to calm herself down right now.

It's been years since she last saw Qimir; four years, to be precise.

Four fucking years.

They've been apart for as long as they'd been together— for a given definition of 'together'.

Sometimes, Osha thinks she's exaggerated it. It couldn't possibly have been that incredible, right? He can’t possibly be that beautiful, that incredibly hot?

No one truly fucks that good. She must have blocked out the bad and focused on the positive, as the human mind tends to do.

But, no, as it turns out, he really is that unreal, that stupidly pretty.

And he’s right in front of her, the moment she lets herself into her adoptive father's house.

Her eyes skip over him, almost burned by his unreal beauty, before she forces herself to ignore him.

Osha sets her bags down and out of the way, leaving her hands free. Sol will probably ask Qimir to deliver them upstairs, and she doesn’t trust him with her luggage, but beggars can’t be choosers.

It's annoying that he's here, ruining her holidays, but she can deal with Qimir. 

Not the way that she always does. That usually ends with her in his bed.

No, this time she has a steel will, an iron resolve.

“Osha!”

Sol’s familiar pine and wood smell envelops her as he draws her into a hug, and Osha smiles, despite the devil lurking in the corner.

“It’s wonderful that you could make it on time,” Sol practically gushes, the moment he pulls back.

The smile is starting to hurt the corners of her mouth, but she keeps at it

It had been a slog to get here, one delay after another, and all Osha wants to do is collapse but she doesn’t want to ruin Sol’s moment. 

“I’m so happy to be here,” she assures him, instead.

“Oshie!”

Mae’s locs hit her right in the face, her sister colliding with her with the force of a car crash.

Geez, this is a day for hugs; probably the most close human contact Osha’s had for months.

Osha squeezes her sister tight and inhales her warm, spicy scent. It’s so good to have her here. Genius idea of hers, really, to invite Mae along to Sol’s for the Christmas holidays.

Mae’d arrived a few hours before her, and clearly she’s had time to settle in, judging by her fluffy socks and knitted cardigan. Her boyfriend is supposed to be tagging along as well, but she doesn’t see any sign of him here.

Maybe he’s inside the living room and has crippling shyness? She had said she was bringing a plus one...

Mae talks of him sparingly, and Osha hasn’t met him yet, on account of work being super fucking busy for the last few months, not even letting up to allow for a quick trip down.

She’d liked Jecki, Mae’s ex, a lot. They’d got on like a house on fire, and Osha was sad to hear that she and Mae had broken up.

Oh well, that’s life. You live and you learn. Hopefully Mae’s new boy toy is at least tolerable...

Qimir stalks forward, really there’s no better way to describe it, and settles very cosily against Mae’s side.

Mae curls her arm around Qimir's arm and smiles, somewhat determinedly.

Oh no. Dread curdles in Osha's stomach.

It couldn't be...

"Osha," Mae takes a deep breath, feline eyes glancing up at Qimir. "Meet my boyfriend."

What.

What the fuck.

Osha knows she's wide-eyed, mouth hanging and catching flies. 

Qimir tries his false sympathy on her, so earnest, "We know this must be weird for you. You know, you're my sister—"

Yes, fucknut, I know!

"— And she's your sister, but we can't help it." he shrugs, and pulls Mae closer. Plants a kiss on her locs.

That's very brave of him. Sol gives a little clap behind her. Osha barely restrains herself from ripping out Qimir’s throat.

She's never seen Mae shy, but this is as close as it comes. Shit. Fuck.

Osha allows herself to look at him, now, under the guise of assessing his suitability as Mae’s boyfriend.

God, he looks....

Osha grits her teeth, subtle as she can, without making it obvious that she's glaring daggers at him.

Qimir looks fucking exquisite, is how he looks. 

Angelic. The perfect son, the perfect boyfriend.

Hair neatly trimmed, bangs swooping over his forehead, brown eyes soulful behind his stupid horn-rimmed, round-framed glasses. 

He's wearing a plushly soft-looking grey hoodie under a faded brown oversized jacket. Dark wash jeans and those boots he's always loved, his slightly scuffed, dark brown leather Chelsea boots.

No wonder Mae's clinging to him, looking close as she gets to beaming.

Or perhaps that's just her happiness at seeing Osha again, who knows?

Regardless, he's not going to ruin her reunion with her twin, so many months in the making. She won't fucking let him.

This is home, this is where she's meant to be.

No one is going to drive her away, least of all Qimir.

Then

He'd tried his level best, though, when she'd first arrived on Sol’s doorstep, all those years ago.

Bruise-hearted and guarded, wary of another foster family who'd likely end up turfing her out and leaving her high and dry, a few months before her eighteenth birthday.

Osha is so close to freedom she can taste it; it's a little like the humid summer air of Washington, the salty sea breeze off the Puget Sound.

However, she'd promised her social worker that she'd try.

Poor, long-suffering Indara, who's put up with one carer after another, acting as an efficient buffer when shit, inevitably, hits the fan.

Osha has cursed fucking luck, but if not for Indara, she'd be a lot worse off.

Still, a secret crack house? Another, a drug smuggling ring. The home before that had a foster dad with creepy vibes that she'd barely escaped and a negligent foster mom only in it for the money.

The family before that had been just perfect, but had to move to Germany for work, and obviously couldn't take her along. And they'd had three bio kids themselves, so it wasn't like they needed to adopt her,

So, Osha is used to change. She's used to shifting surroundings, meagre belongings, insinuates herself into new schools and different friendship groups.

She knows exactly what Sol Kim needs the moment she meets him.

He wants a daughter.

Does she want a parent? Not necessarily, no. 

Osha has essentially raised herself since she was twelve, when that nice family she'd thought had loved her smoothly shuffled her out of her life. 

The system hadn't kept the twins together, despite all their pleas. Her heart aches something fierce for Mae, but she always knows that one day. 

She just has to make it to eighteen.

There's a shadow, lurking behind her new foster father. Dressed in all black, head-to-toe. And Doc Martens, in this muggy heat? 

"Mr Kim," Indara shakes 'Mr Kim's' hand firmly, a professional smile fixed on her face.

Her eyes soften when she turns to Osha, blue eyes clear and reassuring. 

She remembers what Indara had told her on the drive here.

"Mr Kim, Sol, has a great track record with transitioning older foster kids to higher education or employment. He's a good fit for you," she'd recited, turning the wheel to guide them off the highway. "I hope you'll be good to him as well."

Osha had smiled softly. Indara wanted someone easy to work with, who wouldn't give her trouble. She's determined to be that girl.

"I will," she'd affirmed.

Now, with Sol before her, she sees the way he barely holds himself back from hugging her.

Yet, she doesn't sense any bad vibes from him, the way she had from that one foster dad she'd had before. That was a sour taste on her tongue, a prickling at the back of her neck, a curdling-dread feeling that she couldn't explain, until she'd gotten him on audio confessing what he wanted to do to her.

Ugh, no use thinking about that now.

"Verosha," Sol beams, clasping his hands together. "We're so pleased to have you."

'We' ? She didn't read anything about a partner in the file…

"Call me Osha," she replies, a bright grin plastered on her face. "Thank you for welcoming me into your home."

Another foster parent would complicate things, an unpredictable variable…

Sol steps away, and there he is.

Osha's breath catches.

The owner of those scuffed black leather Docs. Black hair, dark eyes, golden skin dotted with moles.

Hot, hot.

The type of attractive you find in Abercrombie & Fitch catalogues. Airbrushed and sleek. Future Calvin Klein model. Scouts queueing up to hand him their business cards. 

"Meet my son, Qimir. He’ll be your new brother!"

Oh fuck.

"Foster brother," Qimir mumbles, petulant teenager with his gaze on his shoes, until his eyes lazily make their way up and seize on her, like a fly caught in honey.

Oh, she thinks. It's mutual.

He smiles at her, a fake-smile, dimples popping yet his eyes are cold, so cold.

"So pleased to meet you, Osha," he purrs.

She is so fucked.

Qimir’s always somehow there .

Larger than life, an intense yet mostly silent presence in her life. He haunts the hall, the peripheries of her vision and dogs her steps.

After Osha settles in, post the massive shopping trip Sol takes her on with state funds, she familiarises herself with the space.

She explores every nook and cranny of her new home, feeling like a thief all the while. Unworthy to be in this space, setting her grubby hands on the nice linens and drapes and silverware.

Despite being the Police Chief, or perhaps because of it, this house is firmly middle class. Edging into the middle-upper class, really, because who has a theatre room and a pool room and an actual pool? As well as four bedrooms?

It’s swankier than any of her previous foster homes.

The first few days go by in a blur, Osha adjusting to all the changes and enjoying having her own space again.

The last place she’d been in, she was sharing a room with two other kids.

And one of them had severe hygiene issues.

Her fourth day there, she comes downstairs to a sight for sore eyes, indeed.

Half-bleary from sleep, she thinks she’s hallucinating until she blinks three times in a row. Her vision doesn’t waver.

Qimir’s leaned up against the pantry door, bare chested with naught but a pair of tiny gym shorts on. His chest gleams with sweat, and Osha traces the droplet sliding down his neck until she snaps back to herself, shaking her head.

When she looks up, Qimir’s tilting his head to the side and looking at her like she’s a bug under his microscope. Something to be examined.

“Hey,” Osha says timidly, rounding the kitchen island.

“Good morning to you,” he greets her, and she swears he knows she’s been checking him out.

Well, he needs to stop parading around in barely nothing. It’s obscene, and she knows better by now than to fuck her foster brother and risk getting kicked out, so close to the finish line.

Yet... there are no rules against looking, are there?

Osha’s eyes are drawn back to his chest, then his arms, then his thighs. He must be on the track team, with legs like those. Lean legs, muscled legs.

Sleek and strong, like a jaguar. Or a black panther. He certainly yawns like a big cat, stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders.

Get a fucking hold of yourself.

She actually pinches her thigh, and that brings her focus back to her body.

Osha realises she’s just been standing there, like an absolute freak, staring at him the entire time. Likely slack-jawed, as well.

She clears her throat, swinging her arms and scooching around him to get to the fridge. She doesn’t tell him to move out of the way, even though his sweaty, massive body is parked in the middle of the kitchen.

It’s his house, after all. She’s just a guest.

Nice, nice. Meek and mild.

Maybe Osha should offer to make him something? He looks like a gym junkie, based off that body. Maybe he’d appreciate breakfast?

“Do you…”

She chances a look at him, to find him staring right at her.

Ay, jumpscare.

“Do you want… eggs?”

The end of her sentence rises uncertainly, as if she’s doubting the existence of eggs in this household.

He looks her up and down, that same penetrating look from when they first met. Osha feels nude, in her loose t-shirt and shorts.

Maybe she should have worn something more covering? But no, Sol had told her to make herself at home. So she is.

“He’s not here, you know,” Qimir waves at the house. “So you don’t need to act like… that.”

Osha temper awakens, the rumbling of a sleeping beast, though she tries to keep it mostly leashed.

“Like what ?” she challenges him.

“So friendly. We’re not friends.”

And with that, he walks away, bare feet slapping against the wooden floor, leaving Osha gobsmacked.

She fumes, opening the fridge, retrieving the carton of eggs and shutting it in a fury. She’s trying to be fucking friendly, yes, because she lives with them.

What’s wrong with that?

She cracks the eggs open in a pan with a pat of melted butter, watches sightlessly as the edges bubble.

A small part of Osha, that young and uncertain part of her that she’s tried so hard to quash, whimpers a little in disappointment. She clenches her jaw against the flood of emotion that rises in her, the sense of being unmoored.

It’s not the end of the world if Qimir doesn’t like her. It’s not.

But she’s always strived to have people like her, before.

Her foster siblings, the real kids of the couple that had moved to Germany, had adored her.

Granted, they’d all been younger than by a couple of years, but they’d idolised her. Clung to her.

And when it came time to go to the next house, they’d held her tight. She’d kissed their heads, inhaling their little kid smell. She’d watched them grow up in front of her for those four years, from toddlers to these independent young creatures that begged her for another cookie, to sneak in another horror movie, to help them make waffles and eggs on special occasions.

She’d held back her tears, not wanting to make it worse, but when Mr Kelnacca had picked her and her bags up, she’d broken, crying like her heart was breaking in his car.

He hadn’t looked at her, not wanting to embarrass Osha, but he’d held out a little handkerchief, seeming tiny in his massive hand, and she’d taken it with a sniffle.

He hadn’t asked for it back.

The acrid smell of burning eggs hits her nose, and osha realises she’s been standing like a statue in front of the stove, while the eggs sizzle and blacken in the frying pan.

“Shit,” Osha hisses, taking it off the heat and around to the sink, dousing it in water.

You even can’t fry eggs properly, a voice hisses, sounding suspiciously like Qimir.

Her hands clench around the handle, rage and sorrow rising in equal measure, before she pushes it down.

Down, down. Where all those negative emotions go.

Summer here is lonely.

Everyone has their own friendships groups, connections and cliques made at the local high school she’ll be starting at in September.

She thinks about how different it would have been if Mae—

Well. It doesn’t bear contemplating.

That leaves Osha at loose ends, wandering the mall endlessly, ducking into local diners and cafés and bookshops, of which there aren’t many.

She tries befriending some of the guys at the local arcade, but that’s a bust.

Qimir is no help, in a class of his own. He usually spends summers or winters here, and he has his own elite group of friends that he takes off with.

Even if he was friendly, and the eighteen year-olds he surrounds himself with didn’t disdain the concept of Qimir’s younger foster sibling tagging along, she wouldn’t want to be the only girl in a group of guys, taking off to unknown locations with God knows what substances.

It’s Sol that suggests the library, and Osha wants to smack herself in the forehead when she realises.

It’s free, it’s air-conditioned and she can fuck around all day, as much as she likes.

And if she’s lucky, really lucky, then she might make some friends. Fellow outcasts like her.

And she does.

Tasi finds her first, in the Youth Fiction section, when their hands collide on a copy of Shadow & Bone.

“You take it,” Osha encourages her.

“No, you had it first,” she insists. She’s a short, sleekly brown-haired girl in a prim, chequered blue sundress. Her eyes are an intense shade of blue, almost lilac.

“I’ve already read it,” Osha reassures her, stepping back. “You take it.”

“Me too,” she counters. And then, shuffling her feet, she says, “I could show you other recommendations, if you want.”

She seems almost… nervous.

Osha beams at her, and that’s that.

She has a shocking amount in common with Tasi, despite her quiet nature; they watch the same shows, read the same things, follow the same big Tumblr blogs.

Instant connection. Like kismet.

And with Tasi, comes Mog, as well. A tall, lanky, nerdy looking guy whom Osha doesn’t immediately connect with, but feels an affinity to, regardless.

A week later, when she tentatively broaches the subject of inviting her friends over, Sol practically vibrates with happiness. It's a sign that she's 'settling in' and 'laying down roots'.

Just what the counsellor ordered.

Osha really just wants to take advantage of the pool room and theatre room, none which she actually gets a chance to enjoy, because of course, because Qimir and his boorish friends are there.

One of Qimir's friends calls them the ' unfuckable nerds' , or 'U.N' for short, and laughs. Osha doesn’t have the heart to tell him that she's not a virgin, and hasn’t been for a few years.

Nothing… untoward. High school hook-ups, too ashamed of her background to actually call her a girlfriend. Whatever, it’s all in the past.

Yet, Qimir says nothing; he just stands there, hands in his pockets, smiling enigmatically.

Mona Lisa smile, so infuriatingly opaque that she wants to smack it off his face.

(Or ki—)

He doesn't tell them off, doesn't utter a word in their defence.

G.R.L. were right, she thinks, tracing the beauty marks stamped over his face. He's cover-boy pretty, achingly so, but with an ugly heart.

Her own heart hardens against him, at allowing this ridicule in a space where she’s meant to feel safe.

“Whatever,” she mutters, gesturing for them to get the fuck out of here. They can watch something on her laptop in her room, as long as she leaves the door open.

Sol’s rule for any boys she has over, even though they’re a) in a group and b) Mog is helplessly gay.

Not that she tells Sol the latter fact, but it is relevant.

It makes for a good story for Osha’s state-sponsored counsellor, proof that she’s making some positive progress.

She's had the same counsellor for the past six years, even as she'd moved all over Washington state. Dr Andor, 'call me Maarva' , is a calm and serene presence in her life, with a defiant undercurrent.

She's been an anchor for Osha, these past few years. She wonders if she can trust Maarva with the truth of her situation, or if she might be shuffled off to another foster home.

Habit wins out; she keeps her mouth shut about Qimir, makes noncommittal, mostly pleasant noises about Sol.

When she's prodded about Qimir, she says, "He's there."

Maarva doesn't pry. That's why they work so well.

She waits, biding her time, until Osha deigns to unburden herself.

Maarva still feels a little guilty, she reckons, for not catching the warning signs earlier.

Until it was almost too late.

(Hands inching ever closer, saccharine words crafted to convince, the looming threat of—)

But Osha had needed proof, incontrovertible evidence. Otherwise, he'd get away with a slap to the wrist, like all the other times; she hadn't let that happen.

Someone had to get their fucking hands dirty, and better her than another kid, more naïve and likely to fall for that bastard’s poisonous bullshit.

The recording on her phone. Audio, because she hadn’t wanted to risk video. Everything he’d said to her, while stroking her locs with his slimy, clammy hand. The fantasies he’d laid out in explicit detail, that she’d closed her ears to and disassociated, only remembering to end the recording at the right time.

Then she’d called Indara, the only person who’d believe her, who’d gotten into contact with the police, and it spiralled from there.

She’d given her testimony and that was it. No need to further traumatise her as a juvenile, even though the bastard’s argument had been that it was just talk , he didn’t actually do anything to Osha.

She sweeps the recollections away. They have no power over her; she’s grounded in the here and now.

Maarva asks her about college plans, now that she’ll be a junior, and she lights up, pulling up her mental list of pros and cons, details of scholarships and awards she can aim for.

Osha’s grateful for the distraction as she discusses her options, weighing up between U Dub or out of state colleges, like Stanford or UChi.

Qimir waylays her just as she’s exiting the kitchen, one fine Wednesday afternoon when she’s finally managed to secure her dominion over the theatre room. She’s setting up for Tasi and Mog’s imminent arrival.

“You know he wants to fuck you, right?”

Osha’s head jerks towards Qimir, almost upsetting the bowl of chips she’s balancing on top of a mountain of dips and the two drinks under her chin.

“Huh?” she says elegantly.

“Mog, your little friend.”

Um, what?

“Mog?” Osha laughs. “Mog Adana, wants to fuck me ?”

Qimir folds his arms across his chest, impassive as always, yet she’s learning how to read him. He’s irritated.

That’s interesting. What would he be irritated about? Mog is her friend, her problem to handle.

If there’s even a problem, like Qimir’s insinuating.

“Mog’s gay,” Osha says definitively. Her gaydar hasn’t let her down once, yet.

“Is that what he’s told you?” Qimir says, almost… pityingly. “That’s how they get you.”

The nerve of this guy. Ignoring her, letting his friends ridicule her and now trying to be chummy with her, by driving a wedge between her and her new friend?

“Why do you care?” she asks him flatly. Osha is very interested in what he has to say in response

“I don’t,” he shrugs. “But you live here, and you’re making it my problem. Gotta say, I didn’t take you for being so naïve.”

Naïve.

No one gets to fucking call her naïve , not after—

You know what? Fuck him.

It bursts out of her in a rush, an explosive outpouring of emotion, “What is your fucking damage?”

Qimir blinks, lazy, eyes-half lidded. Osha pants, almost rendered breathless by her outburst.

“Do you want to know, Osha?” he comes closer, smelling like aftershave and freshly-washed hair. “Do you really want to know what I think?”

She can hardly breathe, whether at his proximity or the tension weighing heavy on her chest.

“Yeah,” she says.

Lay it on me.

“I think it’s pathetic,” he says that one word with such relish, a sharp ‘c’, “how much you cling to Sol. Like he’s your real daddy, not just someone the state assigned to keep you out of trouble, so they can push you out of the system when you turn eighteen.”

Osha huffs a breath through her nose, opening her mouth to retaliate, but he’s not done.

“So desperate for a scrap of positive attention, you’d do anything. Who’d you fuck, just to stay here?”

Qimir smiles, and it’s an ugly fucking thing, for all its surface beauty. “Would you fuck me ?”

His voice lowers to a raspy undertone, as deep as the bowels of the Earth, where he must have crawled out of.

Is this… What is this?

Does he want to fuck her? That’s laughable, but why would he bring it up? Why would he… why would he plant that thought in her head, ignite the barest flicker of possibility, if he didn’t want it too?

No, Osha shakes her head. That can’t be it.

But he comes closer, almost looming, now.

Osha’s hands tremble, almost upsetting the bowl and condiments and beverages.

“Here,” he says, changing moods so quickly, she almost gets whiplash. “Let me take this.”

Qimir grabs the Mountain Dew bottles from under her chin and tucks them under his arms, then grabs the rest of the snacks as well, leaving her empty handed.

And empty-headed, staring after him like an idiot, as he strides away.

Is that it?

He says all those things and just leaves it at that? Doesn’t even let her answer?

There’s no way she’s say ‘yes’, but…

Fuck. He’s letting her twist herself into a pretzel trying to decipher his true intentions and actions, when she should just take him at surface value.

He’s trying to run her off. That’s all this is.

Maybe, maybe he feels an inkling of attraction to her. His eyes don’t lie, but he wants her gone, more.

Too bad she’s here to stay.

There's a part of her, a tiny, disgusting part, that still craves his approval. Ever the people-pleaser.

She doesn’t understand this animosity he has towards her, when they could just... be friends. Confidants.

Not— not siblings. God knows she doesn’t look at him like a sibling should, but. At least, allies.

Not enemies, or rivals, with this wall between that he’s erected with his own two hands and enforced ruthlessly.

It doesn’t matter, Qimir’s meant to go back to LA at the end of summer. Back to his normal life, his wealthy mother and his massive, palatial home.

He won’t be there to bother her anymore, and Osha can live in peace.

Qimir makes the first move in their little dance, the game that Osha hardly knew they were playing.

It’s like he’s pulling at her pigtails, deploying schoolyard techniques to try and capture her attention, like the child he is.

He tries to narc on her, which is fucking hilarious, actually.

Osha knows how to act and when to act out. She knows she’s got it good here at Sol’s, so why would she try to endanger that? Risk bouncing to another foster home where her foster parents might not be so understanding, or free with their money and their space.

Sol had spent an embarrassing amount of money on outfitting her with a new wardrobe, once he realised that the duffle and trash bag of Osha’s belongings was all that she’d brought with her.

She’d withstand whatever humiliation it takes to have this, a bedroom overlooking the water in the distance, a teak desk filled with stationery supplies, a bookcase full of novels and a walk-in full of clothes.

She’ll even play nice with Qimir, when she finds a stash of cigarettes secreted away in her backpack, the carton inconspicuously shoved in a side pocket.

Amateur hour, over here.

Sol does room checks as a matter of course. Of course he would, he’s not stupid.

Just because he’s stupidly generous doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a brain. But this isn’t Osha’s first rodeo, so she does a preliminary check.

And what does she find?

The vape pen in her drawer, the aforementioned cigarettes, condoms stuffed under the bed and...

Lacy underwear?

What the fuck.

Whose thong did Qimir get his hands on? Gross, gross.

Osha gathers all of this in a plastic bag, ties a tight knot on top and dumps it Qimir’s car, which he’s dumb enough to leave unlocked, typical Calabasas mentality.

She takes it one step further by writing on his windshield in marker, ‘Nice try :) ’.

While Osha waits for him to wake up and see it, she enjoys the fruits of her labor, relaxing with a cup of Sol’s green tea.

She drains it as she hears his rushed steps, mourning the lack of opportunity to savour it in her haste, and hustles over to the farmhouse-style sink, rinsing out her cup.

The marker is still in her pocket, so Osha uncaps and draws a smiley face on her hands as Qimir stalks in, looking furious but desperately trying to hide it.

He’s clad in nothing but a pair of black boxers, his golden chest and taut stomach and dusky nipples on display, long legs eating up the distance between them.

She sees him coming down the hall, straight-shot from the staircase.

“What the fucking fuck ,” he hisses, sounding so incensed, so thunderous.

His precious Roadster was defaced? Aw, how bad.

He’s gorgeous when he’s angry; she traces the furrow of his brow, his messy dark fringe shadowing his eyes, the petulant pout of his pink lips, the clench of his razor-sharp jaw.

Osha lathers her hands with soap, smiling benignly at him. “Washable,” she says pointedly, and his left eye twitches.

Osha wipes her hands on the tea towel near her hip, still grinning, and leaves him to it.

It wouldn’t do to look too smug, but God, she loves getting one over on Qimir.

It’s when she’s luxuriating in bed that she realises; he’s not going to let this go. He’s going to come back twice as hard, thrice as fast.

Whatever. That’s a problem for future-Osha.

Present-Osha smiles into her pillow, laying on her stomach, giggling and kicking her legs.

She very rarely secures a win in their war of silent attrition, so forgive her for being giddy.

Two days after she defaces his precious car, the entire time spent being on edge and wary for any sign of revenge, she lets her guard slip, a little.

This is when he retaliates, in his own special way. Choosing to escalate it further, using an unexpected method.

She almost mistakes it for the house settling.

It's an old house, Sol's house. Not inherited, but bought. Something that he'd clearly gotten as a consolation prize in the divorce, whereas Vernestra won the lion's share of marital assets.

Yes, Osha has gone snooping on Zillow. It's not her fault that Qimir's mom is some hotshot entertainment lawyer in LA.

LA property prices are insane as it is, but her eyes almost bug out when she sees how much the house in Calabasas is valued at: ten fucking million?

Damn, Vernestra must be making mad bank. Enough to send Qimir to a fancy college prep academy, one that he clearly disdains but tolerates only for lack of any better option.

Nothing like the school Osha will be attending, come fall. The local high school is as pedestrian as they come, boring and normal.

Osha can’t wait, so excited to be joining Tasi and Mog in Junior year. She’ll have friends that she can keep, maybe even join a few clubs to pad out her extracurriculars.

And then writing college applications, prepping for SATs, studying in the library and hanging out after school at her friend’s houses.

It’s so wonderful, and Osha loses herself in the fantasy of finally having a  substantive high school experience, when she hears the first moan.

She takes it for the wind, at first. It is howling outside, a muggy summer downpour raging late at night. Sol has the night shift at the station, so it’s just them.

But no, the wind has calmed down. It’s not that.

The house isn’t groaning either, as it does from time to time.

There it is, again!

It sounds like someone’s in pain? A woman?

No, her skin flushes hot and cold. Not pain.

Pleasure.

Has Qimir invited someone over? Is he fucking someone in his room, in direct violation of Sol’s house rules?

Osha listens closer, even rolls off her bed and presses her ear against her door; his bed isn’t creaking and the female voice is distinctly echo-y, like a recording.

Like he’s watching porn.

Relief washes over her, followed by fury,

What’s he doing, watching porn at a high volume like this? It’s disgusting, a violation.

Osha should tell him to put some fucking headphones in like an adult, like the eighteen year old he claims to be.

She’s going to, has her hand on the doorknob and ready to turn it and storm in, give him a real piece of her mind, when he groans.

It’s deep and rumbly, so wanton it makes her ache.

Her stomach lurches pleasantly, mind clouding over as all the blood in her brain flows down to her cunt.

Osha sways on the spot, dizzy and so overcome with lust, it’s almost sickening.

Her nipples brush against the soft cotton of her cami, achingly sensitive. Her thighs rub together through her sleeping shorts.

And those sounds keep playing on, the high, keening cries of the woman in the porn video, the low groans from Qimir.

And she knows it’s Qimir, because who else has such a distinctive, raspy voice?

She grips the hem of her cami in her fist.

Don’t do it, a tiny Jiminy Cricket in her head whispers. Don’t you fucking —

Her cami falls to the floor in a heap.

Her shorts follow.

Her hand is on the doorknob, but she only twists it slightly, enough to have the door opening soundlessly, a few inches in.

Enough so sound will travel more easily.

Her feet draw her back to her bed, into the high thread count sheets and satin pillows.

Osha settles onto her back, one hand tracing the folds of her cunt and the other playing with a nipple.

God, she’s already so wet. Her clit is throbbing, begging for attention.

She indulges it, brushes it with the side of her index finger, then applies the barest of pressure.

Pleasure zings through her body, shooting up her back and down to her feet, her toes curling and tingling.

Osha gasps out a moan, barely a breath.

It’s so good. Better than it was with her last boyfriend, even without touching her clit full on.

She plays with herself a bit more, still hearing the pornstar getting fucked, except now she’s crying , “daddy, daddy, fuck me, harder, right there—"

“Fuck,” she hears him curse, and there’s the sound she’s been looking for, the slick slide of his fist on his cock.

Sound carries, in this house. Thin walls and even shoddier insulation. Draughty hallways and space between the floorboards.

So he must hear it, the shocked noise Osha lets out when she slides two fingers into her pussy, straight off the bat.

A counterpoint to the high-pitched pornstar moans; it’s deep and guttural, ripped from her throat, an expression of absolute satisfaction.

The pads of her fingers rub her front walls, despite the awkward angle she’s twisting her wrist at. She spreads her legs wider, digs her heels into the bed, feet almost slipping underneath her.

“Please,” Osha begs, someone, anyone, thrusting her fingers in, tossing her head and undulating her hips.

“God,” she sobs, clenching down, hips stuttering, adding a third finger, but it’s not enough. “More, please, fuck, fuck me, please —”

She cuts herself off, palm of her other hand sealing over her traitorous mouth, except that makes it hotter, imagining a broader hand there, with squared off fingers, nails trimmed neatly.

Osha squeezes her eyes shut, and she can almost imagine it. Her moans rattle against her hand, thin and reedy, as she climbs higher and higher.

Her forearm is cramping, but she doesn’t give a fuck, so close—

“Fuck,” he groans, across the hall, “so good, baby.”

And that’s it, for her.

She comes, that pool of pleasure inside expanding so rapidly, it floods her entire body with bliss.

Osha shakes and convulses and cries, cunt squeezing her fingers, pulsing and fluttering, and she keeps rubbing and rubbing, the heel of her hand mashing her clit roughly, until she comes again, soaking the bed.

She lays there for a good minute, staring up at the ceiling blankly, hand still buried in her pussy.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in—

Post-nut clarity hits her like a fucking truck; what is wrong with her?

Moaning like a fucking bitch in heat, shoving all three fingers in and riding her hand like some desperate slut?

And then moaning for it, loud and shameless. Loud enough that he can definitely hear it, getting off in tandem.

Their mutual masturbation session.

Shame drenches her like the sweat dripping between the valley of her breasts, gathered under her knees as she sinks back into the bed, still panting heavily.

Like she’s run a marathon, instead of fingerfucking herself into oblivion.

The porn noises from Qimir’s room have long since ceased, the only explicit noises being their own.

How is Osha going to face him tomorrow, knowing that she’s given into him like this?

That she’s accepted his invitation, even indirectly? It’s humiliating. She’s a slave to her body, to her desires.

She’s tired, though. It’s late, almost two in the morning, and her ensuite is too far away.

Yeah, she’s going to fall asleep with slick still all over her fingers. It’s effort enough just to lift her ass off the bed and curl up under the sheets.

When Osha wakes the next morning, at dawn like she’s inadvertently trained her body to do, she dreads what the day will bring.

More taunting from Qimir, likely. Oh God, what if he recorded her?

What if he plays back her orgasm sounds, blackmails her by threatening to show it to Sol?

She expects all manner of things to happen, except —

He doesn’t look at her, the entire day.

Qimir acts like she doesn’t exist, in fact, eyes skating over her, tracing the air around her future, like she’s invisible.

And that pisses her off.

She’d expected more, okay? She’d been anticipating it, hyping herself up, and being let down like this is immensely disappointing.

There’s all this energy but nowhere for it to go.

So, Osha plans an offence of her own. She can use this, right?

It’s petty of Osha, but life is all about the small pleasures. The tiny wins.

Knowing what she knows now, about Qimir, she decides to test him.

With a bikini.

See, petty?

But if it works…

Look, it’s high summer and it’s scorching hot, almost surprisingly so. You wouldn’t think Washington state could get hot, but boy, does it.

She’s used to being closer to the pleasant sea breeze, not mired in this humid heat.

Sol has a pool, and she’s been dying to take a dip. She decides to set the scene in two days, when she knows Tasi will be busy with a trip out of town with her parents, and Mog will be attending SAT-prep camp.

Just a day for herself, no Tasi or Mog. She wants to catch up on her reading, maybe make a nice sweet tea and relax at the poolside, wetting her feet occasionally.

One of the items she’d bought during one of her shopping trips with Sol, albeit covertly, was a tiny red bikini.

The top ties behind her back and neck, and the bottoms tie at the hips, on each side. It’s something she’s only seen models or influencers wear, something scandalous and grown-up.

Something for her, which she hadn’t had the courage to wear at any of the foster homes before this.

Osha wiggles in front of her gilt-edged full-length mirror, admiring the way the red of the bikini contrasts against her brown-gold skin. She’ll be getting a wicked tan today.

Sol is at work, being the calm and stalwart Chief of Police. Osha can rely on him to not be there, most of the time.

It’s not like Sol is negligent; he just thinks that providing for her material and spiritual needs is all that she requires.

He’s right, because she doesn’t need a father figure.

Mostly. Maybe. It’s feeling like more of a lie as the days pass by, as she settles into this life and this home.

Qimir’s car is still in the driveway, and his bedroom door is closed. He might still be asleep, as it’s only eleven in the morning. Practically dawn for teenage boys who probably slept at 4AM.

His window looks down over the backyard. It has a prime view of the pool.

Her hands don’t shake as she loops a bow behind her neck, smoothing down the bikini top. Christ, she’s spilling out of it. She picks a wedgie out of her ass, where the fabric has lodged, pirouetting in the mirror.

She looks good.

Osha normally wears fairly baggy layers, a force of habit after growing up too fast and too quick as a Black girl in the foster system. She’d seized on any form of protection with both hands, eager and willing to sweat in the summer heat as long as it meant that eyes and hands didn’t stray too far.

This is the first summer, since she was twelve, that she feels wholly and fully safe.

Even taking Qimir into account.

Sure, he throws her off balance, gets into her head and makes her doubt herself, her desires. But he never makes her feel unsafe.

Not in that way, not in a way that she doesn’t secretly yearn for.

So, she puts herself on display.

The terracotta tiles are warm under her feet as she pads over to the lounger, adjusting the umbrella. A pitcher of sweet tea drips condensation on the small table, next to a high-rimmed glass cup, a platter of freshly cut fruit beside it. At her feet lies a tower of books and sun glasses rest on her head.

This is absolute heaven.

She leaves her phone inside, charging on the cable. There’s no need for it, anyways. She just wants to disconnect.

Osha stretches out, luxuriating in the warm sun. Even as it plays peekaboo with the clouds, the heat still lingers, heating her from the inside.

She knows, somehow without even opening her eyes, that Qimir is standing stock still at his window, staring down at her.

Look all you want, baby.

An hour, maybe two, passes like that; she eats fruits languorously, sucking the juice from her fingers and wiping them on a napkin. She makes headway in the first book of a new fantasy series, about parallel universes and a unique magic system. She sips at the sweet tea, until all the Ice cubes melt and the liquid warms up.

From time to time, she gets up and dips into the water, taking a lap around the pool, locs piled high on her head to avoid wetting them. Chlorine wreaks havoc on her colour; the red has almost faded at this point, but she wants to preserve what she can.

When Osha exits the pool, clutching the guardrail as she does, she chances a look back; each and every time, he’s there.

At his window, unmoving, a fixed point.

Staring at her like a man obsessed.

Osha should be wary. She shouldn’t be poking the bear, flaunting herself in front of him like a tasty morsel. What if he takes it as an invitation?

Because she can’t lie to herself and say that she doesn’t want it, doesn’t want him .

It would be so easy, is the thing, to pin her to the lounger, one strong knee between her thighs, hands pawing greedily at her breasts. Pulling the strings tying her top, the bows at her hips.

She’d feign shock, palms rising up to cup her tits, to shield herself, but he wouldn’t let her.

He’d hold both of her wrists in one of his broad hands, and tear away any barriers between them.

Fuck. Fuck .

Osha wiggles in the water, feeling incredibly warm, even though she’d been shivering just a second ago from the chill of the pool. Her nipples are uncomfortably tight, pebbled through the thin fabric of the bikini top, and her pussy pulses in time with her heartbeat.

If she slips her hands into her bottoms, she’d find her clit puffy, oversensitive. Her fingers spasm at her side, aching to touch.

But not there, out in the open. The neighbours could be watching.

Qimir is watching.

Osha needs a drink of water, not the sweet tea that just serves to parch her. She hauls herself up and over the edge, forgoing the steps, and looks up at Qimir’s window just as she rises to her feet.

Her stomach swoops; he’s gone, leaving a square patch of darkness and parted drapes.

He’s coming. Qimir’s coming.

She leaves droplets everywhere as she scrambles for her towel, but fuck, she’d left it inside. Her brand new beach towel, with a funky red and white palm design.

Osha paws through her belongings for a second look, bending down and looking under the lounger, but nope. She’d forgotten it, like a dumbass.

Nothing to it. She can go without.

She squeegees her body free of water, then slips into her flipflops, footsteps squelching as she makes her way to the glass French doors that lead to the kitchen. It’s faster this way, rather than going through the laundry or the patio doors to the living ro—

It’s locked.

She tries the handles again, jiggles them a little.

And now she’s the idiot who locked herself out. Fuck.

She swears she’d left it open, but she must have nudged it shut while carrying the tea and fruit platter through, then the lock must have caught.

Well, there’s always the other doors.

Osha pivots on her heel, bun on her head swaying heavily, and marches over to the side of the house.

Locked, again.

Once is a mistake. Twice is a pattern.

And thrice…

She tries them all, and every single entry is locked.

Panic beats in her breast and her palms are sweating. Osha wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, beaded with perspiration, suddenly feeling exposed in her bikini. Droplets slide down her back and pool under her breasts.

 If not the back, then she can try the front of the house, despite being in nothing but a tiny swimsuit. The front door is usually left unlocked, because this is a good neighbourhood. There’s no threat of robbery or home invasions here.

She ignores the dread suffusing her body, weighing her limbs down as she races against time, feet pounding the sandstone tiles as she hurries down the path at the side of the house.

She’s fenced in, but she can’t breathe, feeling like she’s suffocating.

It’s can’t be— Qimir wouldn’t —

He would.

And he has.

Her breath comes in pants as she rounds the corner to the front patio, reaches the painted black door and its golden handle.

Please be open, please be open.

She depresses the handle but it’s stuck solid, unmoving.

Locked, again.

She’s locked out. With no way to reach Sol, because she’s idiotically left her phone inside, so fucking smug and assured that she’s the one in control, that she has any power in this scenario when he’s been driving it all along.

The sheer white curtains flutter on one side of the doorway, through the right side light. Osha’s heart leaps; maybe it’s Sol, maybe he’s home early from the station, even though he’d said he was focusing on a serious case, but.

She’s not that lucky.

Maybe Osha was born under a cursed star, because it’s Qimir.

Once again, he’s shirtless, only wearing a pair of grey Nike shorts that leave scandalously little to the imagination, baring his slim and muscled legs, his knobbly and slightly endearing knees.

He’s awake and bushytailed, despite his atrocious bedhead, smirking gleefully and dangling a keyring from his middle finger.

Four keys are threaded through the loop.

Motherfucker .

Motherfucking cunt —

He’s locked her out and he’s taunting her. The nerve of him! The utter fucking gall.

Yet, she can’t make a scene.

She’s a young Black girl, some would call her a ‘ woman’ already, in a bright red, skimpy bikini at the doorstep of a ‘ pillar of the community’.

Osha doesn’t look behind or to the side of her, sure that the neighbours must be watching the spectacle that is her misfortune playing out in front of them.

She can’t show her anger, because that would be bad. And she doesn’t want to be bad, she wants to be a good girl. The good child.

She’s only been here for a few weeks, and Qimir is Sol’s son. Albeit, his adopted son, but whose side would he take, really?

The troubled foster kid who sent her previous foster dad to prison or his privileged, spoiled brat of a son?

It’s too early to tell whether he’d believe her, despite how earnest he’d been about being different from other foster carers, wanting to make a real difference.

Qimir mouths something, and Osha’s bleating lizard-brain struggles to comprehend it, tripping over itself to understand.

She shakes her head, hair scrunchie finally giving up the ghost and snapping off, falling to the ground and leaving her locs to cascade down her neck.

Qimir watches it all hungrily, then drags his eyes from her collarbones up her neck, tracing over her face and ensuring that he has her total attention, when he says it again.

“Beg.”

Osha burns, flushing all over and digging her nails into her palms.

‘Go fuck yourself,’ she wants to say, even opens her mouth to articulate the words, but they hang on her tongue, heavy.

Acting rashly is not going to help her at all. That’s how she’d ended up in this clusterfuck of a situation in the first place.

What options does she have? Bend the knee? Widen her eyes and plead so sweetly, please, please Qimir, let me in? I’ll suck your dick and everything?

No.

Her mind recoils from that idea so fast, it sends her head spinning, even as inconvenient arousal shoots down her spine.

Osha blinks rapidly, the smirk still fixed to Qimir’s face as he tracks her deliberation.

God, she hates his fucking guts. She’s caught between a rock and a hard place, and despises all of her options.

So she chooses a third path.

No one has ever called Osha good at de-escalation. She can escalate with the best of them when the moment calls for it.

Thrill-seeker, danger-chaser, but covert.

He’s trying to play sex chicken with his porn watching and masturbation and general fuckery, but Osha can play chicken as well.

She’s wiggled out of more difficult situations before.

Let’s assess the problem: her bikini is the issue, right?

So, let’s take it out of the equation.

Her hands go behind her back, inadvertently pushing her tits out. His eagle-eyed gaze traces the obvious tightening of her nipples, so he misses it when she unties the back knot.

The strings fall loose, but Osha clamps a hand over her chest to keep the top from shifting.

One eyebrow wings upwards, his eyes widening imperceptibly as he understands, yet he doesn’t relent, idly spinning the keys on his finger.

Osha takes it further.

She reaches the free hand behind her neck, loosening the tie there. She’s fast enough to catch her tits in her hands, halting the fall of her top.

Qimir takes an aborted step forward, jerking his head as the muscles in his jaw feather. She hopes he clenches his jaw so hard, he breaks teeth.

It’s Osha’s turn to smirk and roll her neck. Come and get it, asshole.

She’s teasing the loop at her left hip, sliding a finger underneath to trace the bare skin of her hip, back and forth.

She clenches her legs together, hoping the muscles of inner thighs will hold up the bottoms, and moves to tug the bow.

The jangle of keys, a heated curse and an almighty creak as the front door is yanked open.

There you are.

Qimir grabs her arm and shoves her inside, Osha falling over her feet as he sets her in the entryway, her arm still clamped over her tits.

He’s breathing hard, nostrils flaring and cheeks tinged bright red.

“Fine,” he bares his teeth, ungracious in defeat. “Fucking fine, Jesus Christ.”

Osha wrests the keys from his slack grip and brushes past him on her way to the kitchen, nipples tingling as they scrape his hot chest, through the thin fabric of the cup.

She doesn’t look back to see if he’s watching her ass, but she puts an extra sway into her hips.

After that, Qimir changes tactics.

He’s suddenly solicitous, even overly-familiar. Offering to take her friends to Seattle for a daytrip, so that they don't have to take the ferry. Making himself absent when her friends do show up, leaving them in peace to have their run of the basement or pool.

Even reprimanding one of his friends when they make their usual U.N. jokes.

Too bad for him; now that he's overplayed his hand, he can never go back to that charming façade. Osha sees right through him.

She ignores the fact that he can see right through her, too.

It’s a two-way street, mutually assured destruction. She has her finger on the trigger, her choice when to pull it.

He’s crazy if he thinks she’ll give in so easily.

Qimir ramps up the charm, finally turns on that charisma he deploys as easily as breathing, that’s been missing in their interactions before.

She gets home from helping Tasi plan outfits for the upcoming term and is immediately inundated by a delicious smell.

It’s been a surprisingly chilly summer day, the rain not letting up and she’s soaked from head to toe, from the short walk down the driveway where Tasi’s dad had dropped her off.

Qimir has been… cooking?

She knows that he cooks, but it’s usually only for dinner, and sullenly, at that. He usually throws together whatever cold cuts and cheeses are in the fridge for lunch, or one of his hideous meal-prep bowls.

Never for her, though.

She’s drawn to the kitchen, taking off her shoes then following her nose right up to the counter, where Qimir’s hunched over a chopping board.

He’s chopping green onion to add to a steaming round bowl, filled with… chicken?

It’s chicken soup.

He’s taken into account her preferences, clearly being watching her over the family dinners that Sol enforces, when he’s home to do so.

Osha doesn’t like traditional summer fare like salad or other cold dishes, preferring warm comfort foods like lasagne, minestrone and udon.

Qimir glances up, looking at her through his fringe; it’s a devastating look, soft and enticing. He looks so domestic, with his soft black t-shirt and grey shorts, with a half-apron tied around his waist.

“ Samgyetang ,” he says simply, nudging the bowl forward. “Chicken ginseng soup.”

Osha hesitates, looking around as if he’s addressing someone else, but it’s only her.

“It’s not poisoned,” Qimir scoffs, waving a hand over the bowl near his elbow. Oh, he has his own serving portioned out.

Just to put her at ease, he swaps the bowls, then picks up the chopsticks and takes a bite of the tender chicken.

He groans a little at the taste, throat bobbing as he swallows.

Osha ducks her head as she takes a seat at the barstool closest to her bowl, picking up a soup spoon for a tentative sip.

It’s surprisingly flavourful, the flavours of the ginseng and saltiness of the chicken mingling. Osha sighs after she takes a mouthful.

God, that hits the spot.

“Good, right?”

He sounds entirely too self-satisfied, so she shoots him a warning look.

Careful, bud. Thin ice.

This is a side of Qimir that she hasn’t been privy to, before. Suddenly, she understands why Sol is so blind to his faults, if this is how presents himself.

What a good boy, she thinks derisively. But you can’t fool me.

“It’s okay,” Osha says primly, in response.

Qimir scoffs, “Just ‘okay’, she says.”

Oh, so now they’re friends? What is this, banter?

Too little, too late.

She’ll play along, though, and reap the benefits of his overtures. It won’t last long, he’ll go back to being despicable any day now.

Now

No matter what, Osha can't help it; she's drawn to him.

No matter how far she runs, how many people she fucks, it's him. It's Qimir.

That twin flame bullshit everyone goes on about? Yeah, that might be real.

Because how else can she explain it? The hold he has over her is absolute, has been since the first time she saw him

The worst part about seeing Qimir again, even four years later, is how she forgets herself.

He's charming, is the thing. Slyly funny, with wicked observations and a silver tongue. He makes you feel like you’ve known him for years.

Osha finds herself laughing at his stories, despite herself, only sobering up once she sees the way Mae is touching his arm, the way he's touching her back, tracing patterns over her cardigan.

Eyes on Osha, all the while, as to gauge her reaction. As if this is another of those little games they used to play in their late teens and early twenties.

Jealousy, jealousy.

Fucking whoever they could to rile the other up, bandying texts and calls and voice messages throughout the semester, then colliding explosively during breaks.

The sex had been phenomenal after their time apart. Her core clenches and pulses to recall it, the way he’d fucked her like an animal, a rough hand wrenched in her hair, fingers digging bruises into her hip, his low and raspy moans—

“Do you remember?” he whispers to her, loud enough that Mae can overhear, over the tea that Sol had served in the casual living room. “When Sol used to make us attend Sunday Mass?”

Osha looks down, refusing to answer his question, face burning in shame at her vivid recollections, but Mae jostles her with her elbow.

Right, playing nice. She can do that.

“I do,” she murmurs, and really, she does. That's not really what he's referring to, though.

She remembers it all; she remembers everything.

Then

Osha is a chameleon; she adapts. She finds what people wants and she gives it to them.

For Sol, she folds away the sceptic and brings out the wide-eyed girl she's meant to be. Osha doesn't allow herself to be vulnerable, instead crafting another face, another act to hide behind.

Something a little more soft, a little more open. She plays up the doe eyes and adds a bit of poutiness, a bit of youthful petulance.

Sometimes it rings truer than she means it, times when reality and playacting meet in the middle.

Only Qimir sees the cracks in her armour, the moments where her hardness peeks through.

And he exploits them for all he's worth.

A barbed comment here, a brush of his hand there. Long, penetrating looks.

And, of course, the nights that they both pretend that nothing’s happening, that they’re not doing anything special; those nights, that are now occurring at an increasing frequency, where Osha gets herself off in any number of creative ways, with her door very slightly ajar.

He’s a moment, a breath away from calling her out on it, but she tries not to spend too long in his presence. Counting down the days until he’s gone, and she can finally breathe without it feeling like he’s clouding her head with the intoxicating smell-taste of his presence.

Go back to LA, she wants to scream. Why the fuck are you still here in Washington? 

According to Sol, he would have fucked off (her words) by now, six weeks in, so there must be something special keeping him here.

“Qimir wants,” and here Sol beams, “to bond with his foster sister! How lovely.”

Poor Sol, darling Sol.

He only sees what he wants to see. And she has to give up a large part of herself to meet his expectations, to be the girl he wants her to be.

Osha doesn't believe in God.

She never has, despite various foster parents trying to push religion on her, trying to save her soul from hellfire.

She'd scoffed at them, in secret. How could a righteous and just God allow what happened to her?

But for Sol, she can try. She can be the good girl, the Catholic girl, penitent and kneeling to receive absolution.

She can wash away her sins. Or attempt to, at least. 

"This'll be fun to watch," Osha overhears Qimir mutter, sprawled in a dining chair as he watches Sol and Osha, dressed in their Sunday best, chat over breakfast.

She slants a look at him; he's almost painfully beautiful to look at today, a faded black tee under a blue jean jacket and cuffed charcoal jeans, with his customary scuffed Docs.

Osha, on the other hand, is in a long-sleeved, knee-skimming white and black houndstooth dress with a sweetheart neckline. Very elegant and demure. 

Her locs are pinned back, the front falling like a fringe. She even wears the gold crucifix necklace Sol had gifted her, despite her multiple protests.

When he'd seen her come down the stairs, he'd almost had tears in his eyes. "Like the daughter I never had," he'd whispered, and Osha felt like dying.

Will she burst into flames, the moment she steps across the threshold? It seems like she might, with her multitude of sins.

Once they're cleaning up, Sol and Qimir nursing twin mugs of black coffee, Qimir stands abruptly. 

"I’ll join you," he announces, and Sol is overcome with joy, embracing his son.

“This is wonderful! We must do something special afterwards, to celebrate!”

He brings them into his arms, side by side, their shoulders touching.

“ Fuck you,” she mouths at Qimir, but he only smirks at her.

He's up to something; no way Qimir would attend Sunday Mass, which he's made a face at the entire summer, without an ulterior motive.

And she's right, because he does try it on her.

Sunday Mass is crowded, as it always seems to be, Sol greeting people with handshakes and shoulder touches and back slaps as they move through the lines of people streaming into the church.

It's not a Korean church, not exclusively; though there is a large proportion of churchgoers that are Korean. 

Osha stands out, as one of the few Black girls there. She's glad she has Sol to hide behind, playing up her shy routine so she doesn't have to interact and strain her social battery too much.

Qimir hangs behind her, eyes burning a point between her shoulder blades. She straightens up on reflex, determined not to give him any ground.

Sol seats her next to Qimir, ostensibly so he can teach her the hymns and prayers. Osha doesn’t protest, though she tenses up as soon as she slides into the end of the pew and Qimir shuffles his leg, so that his thigh presses against hers.

Qimir proves himself an adequate teacher, despite her assumptions, so she lets his low murmur wash over her, complying with his directions. She stands shoulder to shoulder with him for the hymns.

He doesn't sing, but Sol does, a lovely baritone.

She kneels beside him, knees on the wooden kneeler, during the prayer. Qimir's head is bowed, blank-faced. She wonders what he's thinking, what's going through that pretty head of his.

They go straight to standing, after kneeling.

"Another prayer," Qimir explains in a long-suffering tone, his nose brushing the top of her head.

Osha covers her mouth against a snort, clearing her throat and rolling her shoulders. Her feet are aching in her heels. She flexes her feet, knowing that she'll need to soak them in hot water after they're done.

Qimir watches her fidgeting, then adds, "There's Bible reading after this. We'll sit for a bit."

She sighs, clasping her hands in front of her body as she listens to the voices mingle in the hymn. She doesn't know which one it is, only that the words are beautiful.

Sol certainly seems to be enjoying himself, completely absorbed in worship. Osha wishes she could find fulfillment in it, the same way her foster dad is.

"Thank you," she tells Qimir, hushed.

He ducks his head again, fringe falling over his eyes. "Don't thank me just yet."

Osha allows herself to relax, despite her previous reservations, lulled into a sense of security. It’s almost… comfortable.

More fool, her.

She thought Qimir would behave for Mass, maybe not put on a show in a public fucking place, a holy space, but she was dead wrong.

He starts slow, during the Bible Reading; it could almost be mistaken for an accident, when he brushes the hem of her skirt while adjusting himself in the wooden pew. These benches are dreadfully uncomfortable, after all.

Her suspicion crystallises, because he gets brave enough to slide a pinkie finger against her thigh.

She should have worn a pantyhose.

Osha despairs at the thought, because she was going to, then she couldn't find the fucking package of the new pair she'd bought the other day, electing to go bare-legged.

A mistake, a deadly fucking mistake.

Qimir takes judicious advantage of her slip-up, tracing higher. Osha can't say anything; Sol is seated on his other side and she can't make a fuss, or he'd notice something amiss.

Osha can't even slap his hand away; she'd tried, but he's just too sneaky.

She stops trying to resist; it takes up all her attention, when she should be focused on the reading, the priest droning on, the air filled with the warmth of a hundred bodies, the sacred ritual. 

It almost works, but for Qimir choosing to escalate matters by slipping his hand under her skirt, right to the apex of her thighs.

Osha tenses, back ramrod straight, barely daring to even breathe, as his hand creeps up her thighs, slowly, slowly. Dragging the pads of his fingers across sensitive skin, nails scraping the tender flesh.

He brushes the edge of her good girl cotton panties, and her entire body erupts in goosebumps.

Osha's hips jolt and she lets out the slightest of sounds, barely a moan, but Qimir catches it.

It's like a white flag, a capitulation. A surrender. He wins; he's gotten the reaction he wanted out of her, as if her body could lie about how much she wants him, even as she breathes in the smoky incense, her head spinning.

Because of the scent, she tells herself. Not because all of the blood in her body has rushed south, leaving her fingers to tingle numbly, her heartbeat pulsing from her cunt.

The tell-tale cunt. 

She almost giggles at the delirious thought, and the mirth must show on her face because Qimir bows his head, looking very sombre and serious, and whispers, "What's so funny?" while still continuing to trace the elastic of her underwear.

"This," she murmurs back. "This whole fucking situation."

And it is, it's truly hilarious, and she almost starts howling with laughter then and there.

They'll think she's possessed, that a demon has taken hold of her, and maybe it has. 

That's a better excuse than whatever this is, whatever fucking game Qimir is playing. 

Maybe he's the demon.

Osha could almost believe it, with his darkly gleaming eyes, the wicked smirk on his face, hidden by the loose hair framing his face, those plush pink, tempting lips.

A vision of sin incarnate.

Temptation made flesh, which she’s tried valiantly to resist.

Alas, to no success, because he finds her fucking drenched for him. His fingers alight on the gusset of her panties and he sighs, mouth dropping open as his pupils rapidly dilate.

He looks like he’s in raptures, trying his hardest not to stare at his hand moving covertly under the skirt of her dress, but Osha just knows.

He’s aching to drop to his knees, ruck the skirt above her waist and bury his face in her pussy.

A surge of heat prickles over her body, despite the cool radiating from the marble tiles and sandstone.

Fuck, she can imagine it now. His dark head bobbing, his jaw working and his soft hair brushing her legs. The plush heat of his mouth, those sinful lips put to a better use.

There’s a whisper of cloth as Qimir drops down to the kneeler, and Osha almost has a heart attack at his audacity.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, but he smirks up at her.

“Prayer.”

She looks around to check that he’s correct, and quickly follows as the priest resumes the prayer. She ignores the shaking of her hands as they’re clasped in front of her, the trickle of wetness making its way down her thighs.

The contrast of the cool wood and her hot flesh makes her sweat, all-too-aware that she’s a sinner.

What was she thinking, letting Qimir pull her skirt up like that, almost fingering her in the middle of Mass?

And, even worse, how she wants him to do it again, to resume their little game of chicken and go even further, trespassing the limits of her boundaries, delving deep within.

Her cunt pulses and she shifts, discomforted.

She eyes Qimir out of her peripheral vision, sees him press the fingers of his clasped hand to his mouth.

Two of them are gleaming. With slick.

She gasps when his tongue flickers out to taste the tips of his fingers. His eyes close in pure bliss, like he’s communicating with the Holy Spirit itself.

Fuck, fuck.

Mercifully, it’s a short prayer, and they’re soon on their feet again for the last of the hymns. Osha smooths her skirt down, sweaty palms sliding over her trembling thighs.

She watches Communion, awkwardly seated in the mostly-empty pews, alongside Qimir, as the line of churchgoers go up to partake in the offering of sacramental wine. Then comes the final prayer, time stretching into infinity before her as her body insists on being touched, despite Sol sitting right next to her after taking Communion.

The Announcements pass by like molasses, Osha alternately bunching and flattening her skirt, until the Final Blessing arrives.

She sighs with a little too much relief, muttering, “Finally.”

Qimir laughs but Sol sends her a sharp look, before it softens. She’s never been to a service this long before, and Sol expects them to attend every Sunday?

Torture. Fucking torture.

But he’s been so good to her, so she can’t say anything. It’s worth it, just another thing to endure.

Next time, though, she’ll sit in between Sol and the nice old white lady on his other side.

No more allowing herself to be a victim, to be vulnerable to Qimir.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…

It doesn’t stop the dreams from coming, though.

Osha’s dreamt about Qimir before, but this is the most vivid; probably, because this is the first time he’s actually dared to touch her like that.

His hands, all over her. Strong and broad, with thick fingers that dig into her bare waist.

His mouth, hot on her breasts. Osha’s nipples are sensitive, but no one has actually taken the time to play with them, before, too focused on rushing to the final act.

She knows Qimir would. He’d probably find a way to make her come just by playing with her tits alone.

Then his mouth, that wicked, sinful tongue at the apex of her thighs, licking wetly.

Her dream self bows up, clutching at the insubstantial sheets of the bed, the room a blur as she closes her eyes. She wavers between dreaming and waking, and fights hard to keep herself here, where she can fantasise about him, guilt-free.

“Osha,” he drawls, so dark and delighted, breathing her name into her cunt. “What do you want?”

“Fuck me,” she sobs, shameless.

“As you wish.”

And he raises onto his haunches, suddenly naked, She swears he was clothed just a second ago, but whatever.

In dream-logic, the sequence of events don’t matter because suddenly he’s sliding in, so thick and firm and utterly bare.

No STIs in fantasy-land, so she moans loudly and clutches his shoulders as he hunches over her, hitching her legs higher over his hips.

Her cunt clenches around his length, feeling every ridge and vein, and it’s so good. She’s wetter than a firehose, and it sounds obscene when he pulls out and punches back in, but also the best thing she’s ever felt in her life.

“Fuck me,” she cries, digging her nails into his shoulders, and wow, the fact that she can do this in a dream is really something.

“Harder,” she begs, and he obliges her.

“As you wish,” he grunts, grabbing her ass, practically bending her in half to pull her back onto his cock as he thrusts forward, rubbing all over her front walls, the head of his cock glancing at the bundle of nerves that sends her spasming.

“So sensitive,” he taunts, because of course, even dream-Qimir can’t shut up and fuck her in silence.

That’s okay, because here she can be bold.

“I told you,” she clamps hard around his cock, bearing down, and he curses, hips stuttering, “to fuck me . Not talk.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” he threatens, and follows through when he gets his bearings under him to pummel her pussy, setting an unreal pace, practically drilling into her.

It jolts her entire body, and she clenches around his cock helplessly, held in place, unable to even move her hips because of his iron grip, but she arches her back, scrapes her nails down his back, draws blood.

In no time, she’s climaxing, the walls of her cunt cramping so hard that it’s painful, pleasure suffusing her fully, settling languidly into her bones, but he’s not done. He doesn’t let up, fucking her through another orgasms that slams into her with the force of a punch to the stomach, winding her.

Then another, and another.

It blurs together until she’s openly sobbing, her face wet with salty tears, body wrecked but not sore or aching, because this is just in her imagination, and she can be as loud and wanton as she likes, because he’s never going to know , is he?

When she wakes, long after the sun has risen and her room is warm with mid-morning light, it’s to Qimir’s bedroom door creaking shut.

She’s breathless, panting up at the ceiling, knowing that this can never happen again. Her cami is soaked through with sweat, and so are her cotton shorts, and she’s slick and still throbbing.

Her gold crucifix lies heavy on her chest, mocking her. She’s not worthy of it, or any good will from Sol, but she’ll still take it.

She’ll whatever she can get with both of her hands, greedy and grasping.

This dream, this fucking diversion, is all a distraction from her true goals. To find a family, somewhere to stay and rest her head. A place to call home.

Osha is not going to ruin it by giving in to the demands of her libido, or a silly crush on a cool, available older boy who happens to be Sol’s adopted son.

She’s not going to fuck her foster brother. She isn’t.

She isn’t.

They maintain the peace, for the most part.

Another thing that they don’t talk about directly. It’s nice, if Qimir could even be called that, for him to indulge in her delusion.

Mutual delusion, mutual madness. Folie à deux.

He’d drag her down with him, if she let him.

So she rebuilds that wall, sequesters herself in its fortifications, watches the mirth and friendliness drain out of Qimir’s eyes when he notes the renewed distance.

As if it’s a fucking surprise, to him. He’d crossed the line, several lines many times over, and he knows it.

It comes to a head after dinner one night, closer to the start of the school year, when the clock is ticking down on Qimir leaving.

Sol broaches the topic of adoption, specifically adopting Osha, and it’s like all of her dreams have come true.

“Staying here,” he searches her face over the meatloaf Osha had cobbled together. “Is that something you’d like? More long-term?”

He’s hesitant, tone soft and gentle, but he brightens up when Osha beams at him.

“Yes,” she stumbles over her words, “Yes, please, Sol. Do you mean—”

“Formally adopting you?” Sol lets out a breath, shoulders straightening. “Yes.”

Osha’s practically vibrating, when Sol adds, “With your assent, of course. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable…”

“You could never,” Osha smiles, so widely her cheeks are hurting.

“Well then, I hope you’ll forgive me, because I already went ahead and started the process…”

“Oh, Sol!”

Osha’s eyes prick with tears, a lump forming in her throat, a ball she swallows down roughly because she’s not going to burst into tears here at the table. She hugs him, delicately, across the dining room table.

But he really, truly does want her as his daughter. It’s intoxicating, this parental love, this promise of unconditional love…

When she’d said she didn’t want a father figure? What a lie.

“When you feel comfortable,” Sol says meaningfully, petting her hand, “and only when you’re ready, you can call me ‘ Appa’ .”

‘Appa’ . Osha mouths the word. She knows it’s Korean for ‘father’.

Wow. Wow wow, this is really happening.

She wants this more than anything, to be someone’s daughter. She wants to be Sol’s daughter more than she wants Qimir, and he knows it.

Does she look at Qimir, throughout all of this? No. She refuses to.

So that’s why he corners her long after dinner has been cleaned up, portioned and packed away in the fridge.

Sol has retreated upstairs to shower and change out of his work clothes, and Osha is rubbing at a particularly stubborn stain in the marble.

Who the hell puts marble counters in a kitchen—

"His love is still conditional, you know." 

Her head whips up so fast, she almost hits her head on the cabinet door, left ajar above her.

It’s Qimir, leaning against the kitchen island, both hands shoved in his thin sweatpants, tense and clenching his jaw.

Okay, let’s do this.

Osha sets the rag down, wiping her hands on the kitchen towel and crossing her arms.

“So don’t fool yourself,” Qimir continues, relaxing now that she sees he has her attention. His neck stretches, like a panther. “You think he’d be so forgiving if he knew—"

"Shut up," Osha says heatedly. "What would you know about love?"

"Far more than you, I’d imagine," he tilts his head. "Why do you love people who can only go so far? Even your twin abandoned you."

How does he even about Mae? She’s never, ever once brought her up. Not even to Sol.

"Don't talk about Ma—"

He continues on, steady but louder, more resonant, "Who can't go as deep as you can?"

Osha is floored by his audacity, blood roaring in her ears, even as moisture pricks her eyes, fists clenching and unclenching. 

"If this is you playing one of your games again—"

"I'm not," he says it so simply, without any of his usual sly artifice, that she can't help but believe it. Even after she's been fooled so many times, she still chooses to hope.

"Then, what? Would you love me better?" she spits scornfully, and he steps closer. So close that she has to crane her neck back, cursing her lack of height. It's not fair.

He lifts a hand up, and she tenses, but it’s only to close the open cabinet door above her head, so it won’t collide with his head.

On his way down, however, he strokes the tops of her head. Osha shudders.

“I could," he rasps, lifting a finger to toy with one of her locs, rolling it between his index finger and thumb. "Would you ever consider?"

"No," the answer shoots out by reflex. 

What sort of 'love' is he talking about? 

Certainly, not the brotherly kind, not with the way he's looking at her, practically devouring her with his eyes, covetous.

Not with what they’ve done, the way he’s touched her. The way she’s imagined him touching her.

He's possessive, she knew this already. He'd tried his hardest to get in between her and her friends, even if at the time she'd thought he was still trying to run her off. 

Why does he capture her attention? Why does she turn towards his voice, seeking his opinion, checking in when something funny happens so she can share the reaction? 

The answer lies within her, in a place that she's terrified to uncover, to consider the truth that hides within. 

How long can she lie to herself? How long until she's forced to fully face the truth?

Chapter Text

Now

Sol has a particular blindness when it comes to Qimir and Osha. A wilful pulling of wool over his eyes, a tacit ignorance.

Mae is assigned to the guestroom on the other end of the house, with Sol’s room in between hers and Qimir's.

Osha is in her old bedroom, still bearing the markers of her late teenage years, with all the furnishings and knickknacks intact.

And Qimir is right across the hall.

The staircase neatly bifurcates the east and west side of the house, a separation that they’d taken gratuitous advantage of when they were younger. Either Qimir or Osha, mostly Qimir, sneaking into the other's room and fucking them senseless.

She rolls in bed, rustling the sheets. The housekeeper still comes once a week so the bed linens are crisp and pleasant-smelling. Qimir’s bed would likely smell the same—

Not today, Satan.

Osha pushes down the fervid imaginings, tries to conjure up some feeling resembling tiredness, but she can't. 

She's wired, practically vibrating in her bed, and ready to go. 

You know what would soothe you? whispers the devil's voice in her ear.

Shut up.

No, really. Don't you want to know—

"Shut the fuck up," she says, out loud, like a goddamn madwoman.

With Herculean restraint, she manages to contain herself that first night.

And the second, and the third.

It’s the fourth night that proves her undoing. Not the night before Christmas, but the day of.

What a gift, eh?

But let’s roll it back, to the day after she arrives. What does Osha do in the time between arriving at her dad’s house and fucking her adopted brother?

Well, she does what any good sister would do when her twin comes and visits her for the first time: she takes her out.

Sol drops them off at the wharf in his cop car, like they’re seventeen again. He hadn’t taken their assurances that they could just take an Uber in stride. Not when he was there to help.

The State Ferry doesn’t take long to arrive, and they use their ORCA cards to pay at the terminal, breezing through. Osha’s impressed that Mae even has an ORCA card, though she must have set hers up yesterday.

The ride is pleasant, if chilly, Mae murmuring at the expanse of water in front of them, Qimir with his arm slung casually behind her back, sprawled over the green leather seat.

He can’t shut up for long, though.

"So, what do you do?"

Here it comes, the question Osha hates with a burning passion. Fortunately for her, she's mastered the perfect response:

"I'm an attorney," she answers Qimir casually, who could have easily gotten the answer from Mae. Or, you know, asked his dad. "Specifically, family law."

"Ah," Qimir nods his head like she's just said something enlightening. "Child support and divorce money."

Her jaw tightens and Mae shoots him a look, exasperatedly fond. She must know something about the animosity between them, but not the whole truth.

Osha almost snorts; of course she doesn’t. The truth is beyond the pale.

"I do it for the children," she emphasises. Qimir puts a hand on his chest, silver ring stark on his thumb, worn down from rubbing it repeatedly.

He has the ring. 

Of course he does. He probably dug the box out of the trash, like the gremlin he is.

"Of course," he intones gravely. "Think of the children."

Mae snorts, and that's a gross betrayal. Her own fucking sister turned on her, in favour of her asshole boyfriend.

Wow. This one hurts.

Once they get to the city, bundled up against the cold, Mae in a truly impressive amount of layers, they realise how busy the Seattle is. It is two days out from Christmas Day.

Osha’s eyes are drawn to Qimir, but she’s not the only one; he attracts attention wherever he goes.

Today's look is different to the one from yesterday; a tight black thermal instead of a hoodie, paired with a leather motorcycle jacket with a fur collar, embellished with black gloves. He also has straight-leg black jeans and black Chelsea boots.

It’s distinct from Mae’s outfit, which stands out because of her royal purple puffer. She looks like an adorable marshmallow when it’s zipped up, black knitted beanie perched over her locs.

It’s a cute look, when paired with her peasant skirt, knee-high boots and fleece tights. Osha feels overdressed in her beige trench coat, knitted black mini dress, thick woollen stockings and boots.

Odd, that Qimir matches her, more than his girlfriend.

Shoppers are out and about, families dragging children bundled up against the cold and in strollers. She pays an exorbitant amount for entry to the Seattle Christmas Market, with its booth manned by people selling trinkets, nibbles, hot chocolate and mulled wine.

Qimir buys them both a cup each, Osha curling her fingers around the cardboard cup and begrudgingly offering her thanks. He hasn’t forgotten her fondness for Glühwein, something her twin clearly shares.

Ugh, another thing she’s sharing with Mae.

(Along with Qim—)

Qimir is Mae's, fair and square.

But, he was hers, first.

Osha really can't call herself a good person, not with the way she's still so possessive over Qimir. It’s something she tries to shove down, for the sake of her sister.

Tell it to her heart, though; that monster inside her chest rears its head, throughout the day spent with the two of them. Third-wheeling them.

It shakes its vile green fur, rumbling as Qimir leans close to whisper something in Mae's ear. She pushes him away, rolling her eyes, but there's a dark red tinge to her cheeks, and the flex of her acrylic nails in his black thermal doesn't lie.

He shares a bite of his Bahn Mi with Mae, telling her to open wide, and yeah, that’s enough of that.

She can’t believe she’s standing here, resenting the sister that she’s longed after for so many years. All because of Qimir.

Osha isn’t going to let him ruin her time with Mae. She elbows Qimir out of the way, linking elbows with Mae.

“You get to have her the rest of the time,” Osha says, trying to keep her tone cordial, light and joking. “Let me catch up with my sister.”

“Alright, alright,” Qimir holds one of his hands up, like she’s got him at gun-point, smiling easily.

It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Good,” she huffs, and flounces off with Mae.

Osha ignores the spectre of her Qimir haunting them, dogging her steps so expertly. He's surprisingly quiescent, almost compliant as Mae drags them here and there.

It makes Osha nervous, because he's definitely plotting something.

This is the calm before the storm, and he's gracious enough to allow her the time to brace herself.

She can sense it brewing, ozone and lightning and utter destruction, even as she revels in the light dusting of snow that Seattle manages. Nothing like the frozen wonderland of Chicago. She's gotten sick of being snowed in.

On the way back, the sunset is spectacular. All pinks and blues and purples lighting up the sky, shading Mt. Rainier in the distance.

Mae leans her head on Qimir’s shoulder, seemingly tired after a day of running around. It’s the combination of good food, the extra cup of mulled wine she’d taken to-go before leaving, and the slow and steady stroke of Qimir’s hand down her back.

She eyes that hand, the breadth and width of it spanning Mae’s body. A direct mirror to how it would look on her.

Mae perks up a little bit and exclaims, “We didn’t even take a photo!”

Osha smiles and starts shifting her bag, in preparation to take a cute selfie with her twin, but Mae’s not talking to her.

She means Qimir.

Of course.

Osha slumps back in the leather seat. Of course Mae wants to take a photo with her boyfriend. They pose and Qimir kisses her cheek, Mae faking a pout and looking away.

They take various snaps together, while Osha seethes silently.

She’d never taken any photos or videos of them, and had forbidden Qimir from doing the same, despite the numbers of times she’d caught him sneaking his phone.

Now, though, she wishes there was some form of remembrance. Some proof of their existence, that it hadn’t been some figment of her imagination or fevered fantasy.

The way he’s looking at her, though, wipes all doubts clean away. Like he’s taunting her.

Look, you could have had this.

God, he's such a fucking creep. Turning up on her sister's arm, charming her while staring deep into her eyes with what, if Osha was inclined to dramatics, she'd call a penetrating stare.

Mae is her identical twin, her mirror image. They even wear their hair the same, now, purely by coincidence.

Long, red coloured locs, though Mae has hers styled slightly different at the front, almost a hime cut. It frames her sharp chin beautifully, cascades down her back and Qimir plays with it almost absently.

Yet, every move he makes is deliberate. Calculated. She can’t let herself forget that.

At night time, however, there’s no distracting from the memories. She’s all alone in her room, the past and present blurring into each other.

The familiar smell of the sheets, her misshapen throw pillow she’d squeezed of out shape. The creak of the springs and creaking of the trees outside, limbs scraping against her window and casting faint shadows on the floor.

She shivers in her bed and imagines warmer days.

Then

After the… incident at Church, thoughts of Qimir plague her incessantly.

Night after night, she tosses and turns, haunted by the sense-memory of his hands, the sight of his mouth, the gleaming pink of his tongue.

Those fucking dreams, that feel so real and leave her sweaty and shaking and shameful.

Qimir is right there for the taking, yet Osha can’t allow herself to succumb.

She stops the mutual masturbation sessions; the next time he tries it, she stays silent, hands trapped firmly at her sides.

It doesn’t happen again. He learns his lesson.

Everywhere Osha looks, he’s there. He even makes an appearance at the library, while she’s there with Tasi and Mog, feigning interest in local arts and culture.

Ignoring Qimir would be easy if he played along with her aloofness, but of course, he doesn’t.

He finds any excuse to talk to her, touch her, acting like a good older brother in front of Sol. So much so, that her foster dad beams and says an extra-long Grace at dinner one night, praising them to the Lord.

How lucky he is, how blessed to have such dedicated and responsible children.

Forgive her for the blasphemy, but what a fucking joke.

If Qimir’s dedicated to anything, it’s finding ways to fuck with her.

One relatively uncloudy day, when they’re out on the sailboat Sol borrowed from a friend and casting lines – Sol’s teaching her how to fish – he updates her on the adoption progress.

He doesn't have a boat himself, because he's not given to displays of excess. Unlike their neighbours, his subordinates on the force, and basically everyone on this island.

Qimir’s sitting on the other end of the boat, bucket hat pulled over his face and sprawled over a chair, fishing rod lax in his grip, but she’s seen him move as fast as lightning to reel the line in when something’s taken the bait.

His catches rest in the cooler filled with ice, which number at four so far, to Osha’s zero.

Her competitive spirit flares up, but she reminds herself that she’s still a beginner. This is her first time out on a boat, for God’s sake

“I don’t want to call any favours, that wouldn’t be fair,” Sol smiles at her under his silly fishing hat, looking gentle and paternal with his neon-orange life vest and beige polo shirt. “But it’s been surprisingly smooth.”

And it has been, startlingly so.

Indara has been in contact with Osha often, arranging lunch at a local café to make double-triple sure that this is her choice.

Yes, she’d told her social worker, over and over. Yes, yes, yes.

The paperwork has been completed and filed, and the Adoption Program Specialist has come and gone, completing their report.

All they’re waiting on is the court date to finalise the adoption, and it turns out Sol has good news.

“Next week, on Thursday.”

Osha gasps softly and drops her fishing rod, and Sol has to dive down to stop it from falling into the water.

They lock eyes and laugh sheepishly, and Osha is buoyed up with happiness. She blinks the tears away and tries to curb her smile, but fails at the latter.

“I’m arranging a celebratory dinner, after. What cuisine would you like, Osha?” Sol is kind enough to inquire.

“Italian, please.”

“Of course,” Sol pats her back, handing her fishing rod back, the line still cast out. “I knew you’d say that.”

Their local Italian place is her favourite for take-out. They make their Bolognese sauce fresh and slow-simmered for hours, assembling the lasagne on the spot with house-made sheets and bechamel sauce. And their cannoli is to die for.

Osha’s feeling generous, so she decides to include Qimir, as well. She’s just a giving and loving person, in general.

“It’s Qimir’s favourite too, so I’m glad he’ll get to be there. I know he’s going the week after.”

Indeed, Sol has been hinting that Qimir’s heading back to LA soon, what with the Fall term starting at his fancy prep school. He’ll be in his Senior year, Osha her Junior year.

SAT year and college-prep year. Much to do.

Sol smiles enigmatically, which goes unnoticed by Osha because she finally, finally feels a tug at her line. It’s surprisingly forceful, so she grunts and braces her feet, yet almost falls over.

“Here,” Qimir comes up behind her, supporting her waist. Osha jumps, looking behind her at Sol, but he’s letting Qimir have his moments, hands-off.

He’s your sibling. Act like siblings.

“Lift your rod, maintain tension on the line,” Qimir coaches her, while she keeps spinning the reel steadily. “Then lower, up again!” he barks.

She repeats this over and over, seeing the line get shorter and shorter. Her arms strain, almost shaking, but Sol claps his hands to encourage her.

“Go, Osha!”

Once they can see the end of the line, and the small fish hooked on it, she cheers.

“Good girl,” Qimir breathes in her ear, and Osha shivers violently.

She can’t even pretend it’s from the wind, because it’s mildly hot out, and he’s plastered so close to her that he can likely feel every movement.

He doesn’t say anything, not with Sol bare feet away. He’s sly but not stupid.

What he is, however, is a ticking time bomb. They both are.

Osha thinks she can wait him out, but the prospect of him leaving is both a relief and a source of angst. It’s a battle between her morals and her desires; she doesn’t know which is winning.

She hates him, but she wants to fuck him just as bad.

Osha’s seen (and heard) Qimir. She’s stalked his social media. He even has a forum dedicated to him on some obscure gossip website – don’t ask her how she found that out.

He could make it good for her. He could make it so good, and that’s what haunts her.

The possibility.

Osha has always looked down at romance novel protagonists and scoffed at enemies-to-lovers relationships.

How dumb do you have to be, she’d thought, to put your faith in your enemy? Someone who didn’t have your best interests at heart?

However, there’s a difference between trusting someone with your body, and trusting them to do right by you.

And lust is one hell of a motivator.

The day that she breaks dawns bright and cloudless.

Not that Osha is around to see it; she snoozes until 9AM, which is practically dawn for any teenager in the summer.

Sol is long gone, leaving a note for them to get take out for dinner. He won’t be back til late, if that night, at all.

Honestly, she thinks fondly, who leaves a note nowadays?

Someone needs to teach Sol how to text, but maybe he likes the physicality of leaving a note. Maybe he likes leaving something that he knows they’ll find when they wake up, because he’s so lonely the rest of the year.

Not anymore, though.

Osha smiles again as she pours cereal in her breakfast bowl. She’ll be there to keep Sol company, so he’ll have a warm meal and laughter and conversation to return to after a hard day at work.

That happiness, the joy on his face to see her when he comes home? That’ll be all her doing.

She almost runs into Qimir when she closes the fridge, colliding with his immobile form as she takes out the gallon of milk.

“Shit,” Osha says, jumping back. “You’re lucky I didn’t fucking swing.”

He leans his hip against the countertop.

“I’d like to see you try,” he crosses his arms, biceps bulging, fringe falling forward into his face, dark hair brushing his strong neck.

Of course, he’s shirtless and in black workout shorts, with nothing but a simple silver chain around his neck. She eyes the chain, wondering how it might f—

“Put some clothes on,” Osha grouses, ignoring the way her cheeks flare with heat. She walks around his body, because he won’t move out of the way.

“What’s the need? I’ll be up by the pool soon, anyway.”

Osha looks at Qimir, then the pool outside through the double French doors. It’s, like, ten in the morning. He’s going to camp out this early?

Ugh, there go her plans of swimming today.

“What, you’re going to be out there all day?”

Please say no, please, please. If only for the sake of her sanity.

“Gotta keep the tan up,” he shrugs.

Fuck.

She pours milk into her cereal, then doubles back to retrieve her spoon. Looking at Qimir, she reluctantly takes out a second bowl and pushes it his way.

“It’s Seattle,” she deadpans. They might get an hour or two of uninterrupted sunshine, max.

Qimir reaches across her, long muscled arm flexing and brushing against the thin cotton of her cami as he retrieves the box of cereal.

Her nipples stiffen at the contact, tingles running down her body. She’d worn a flimsy pair of shorts this morning, pale pink eyelet cotton with frills, bunching up into her ass, and no underwear.

Osha thought she’d be safe from his attentions, owing to the early hour, but the way he’s eyeing her as he fills his bowl is incredibly distracting.

Enough of that.

Osha retreats to the breakfast table, running away from him, again; the sour taste of defeat on her tongue. She shoves a spoonful of cereal into her mouth.

“Even more reason to take advantage of it while it lasts,” Qimir replies, leaving the milk on the counter as he takes a seat next to her, crowding her with his presence.

There’s two other empty seats, but no. He has to pick the one right next to her at the round table.

She stays silent, partly because her mouth is full, but mostly because she refuses to engage him in conversation this fucking early.

A girl needs a bit of a buffer, maybe some coffee in her, before interacting with her criminally hot foster brother.

Soon to be adopted brother, yikes.

Luckily for her, he’s not interested in conversation, idly scrolling through his phone. She takes a peek, and it’s Facebook, full of pictures of palm trees and boulevards and pool parties.

“Do you miss it?” Osha asks, apropos of nothing.

Fuck, fuck, why is she talking?

“Miss what?” Qimir tilts his head, morning sun highlighting the planes of his face, his carved jaw and Adam’s apple.

“LA,” she elaborates, fiddling with her spoon. “Home.”

He hums, studying her for a moment, then answers her. “Not really.”

“And why not?”

She screams inwardly. Why is she continuing to ask him questions?

Qimir pauses, taking a moment to consider his reply.

“It’s lonely,” he admits, and Osha is taken aback by his honesty. Her heart softens towards him, momentarily, before reason asserts itself.

Oh yes, poor little rich boy.

He has to have some sort of struggle, some demons to fight.

She fights back a sneer. Qimir has had everything handed to him on a silver platter.

Osha doesn’t want to disturb with the peace with her antagonism, though. It’s surprisingly nice, this truce they have going on.

“Well,” she says, scraping the last of the cereal onto her spoon. “Enjoy your day.”

“I will,” he says mildly.

And that should have been her first warning.

Wonder of wonders, it’s actually hot today.

Like, really fucking hot.

It must be a heat wave, Osha thinks, tugging at the hem of her sleeveless tank.

She’s sprawled on her bed, trying to put off turning on the A/C, feeling breathless as she tries to read one of her library books.

Six of Crows isn’t holding her attention, though, despite the riveting storyline. Her thoughts are drawn to Qimir, who’s likely wading through cool water right this moment.

How nice would it feel…

No. Stop that.

Osha takes a long drink of ice cool water. A droplet dribbles out of her mouth and down her chin, soaking the collar of her shirt.

She sighs at the feeling, holding the stainless steel bottle against her neck. The perspiration from the flask feels wonderful.

You know what else would feel good?

Jesus Christ.

Osha snaps her book shut and flounces out of bed in a huff, searching through her drawers for her swimsuits.

Something different, this time.

He’s seen one of her best pieces already, the red string bikini. So, maybe she should try the bl—

Fuck.

Goddamn, shit. What is she doing? She’s not dressing up for Qimir.

(Despite the fact that she aches for him.)

This is just so she can cool off, because he doesn’t own the damn pool. She lives here, too. She’s entitled to some space, pool-side.

Osha combs through the swimsuits she’d bought under Sol’s benevolent gaze, all demure cuts and tankinis and board shorts. At the bottom, lay the swimsuits she’d bought with Tasi, during one of their outings to Seattle.

She’d convinced Tasi to buy a matching piece, assuring her that there’d be no one there but her to see, so it was okay to get something sexy.

It’s a black criss-cross one-piece, with a cut out down the centre, between the breasts and around the navel, a ring binding the cups together.

Osha slithers into the suit, tying it at her neck with two of the bronze-tipped strings, then crossing over her waist.

The underside of her boobs are exposed, heavy and sensitive. Her back is almost entirely bare, but for the lines of string knotted at her back.

She turns around, eyeing the high cut and the way it barely covers her ass, showing her cheeks.

Is it… a bit much?

Fuck no, she decides. She’s earned this, the right to wear what she wants.

Fuck anyone who says otherwise.

Sol, she thinks guiltily, isn’t here to judge. Only God, and she’s never been much of a believer.

Osha slides her sunglasses on her head, nestled against the locs bunched on top her head in a scrunchie, slings a towel over her shoulder, then tucks a few books, as well as her phone – she’s not making the same mistake as last time – in a fabric tote.

She’s not hungry, having snacked earlier on the cut-up fruit and vegetables the housekeeper, Ms Maria, had left in the refrigerator earlier. She’d bade Osha a cheery goodbye, after chatting up a storm with Qimir, who she thinks is an absolute darling.

Osha’s first glimpse of him is like something out of a porno. His back to her, he rises out of the water like a Greek god, like Poseidon himself, streams of water sluicing down his back, over his shoulders, and his firm chest.

Qimir slicks his hair back, raking his fingers through the strands. The muscles of his back and shoulder moving obscenely as his biceps flex, golden and gleaming in the noon sun.

He turns around, and Osha drinks her fill of him, breath catching in her chest.

His shorts ride indecently low on his Adonis belt, clinging to his hips with scraps of what's left of his dignity.

It's a slutty look, because Qimir is a slut. Engineered in a lab to elicit the exact reaction she's handing to him on a golden platter: mouth agog, eyes wide, nipples pebbling, goosebumps rising.

He's too good at this, playing her like a violin, strumming her sensitivities.

And he hasn’t even seen her yet.

Qimir sits for a few moments, retrieving a drink of water from his perspiring bottle, then dives back in with perfect form, swimming until he’s at the shallow end.

Then he leans back against the side of the pool, head tilted up and embracing the buttery sunshine.

is it even legal, for someone to look that good?

Osha doesn’t know, and she stop speculating before he catches her.

She takes a few steps forward in the kitchen, where she’d been struck dumb by the sight of Qimir, and moves past the breakfast table to the open French doors.

“She emerges, at last,” Qimir calls out to her.

Her pace doesn’t falter, as she walks down the short steps to the pool, leaving her tote bag on one of the loungers.

Her feet are drawn to him, and she stands there, arms braced at her sides, as she stares down at him.

Qimir blinks up her, moving so that he no longer has to squint, the sun in his eyes obscured by her shadow.

Then his eyes darken, taking in her own swimsuit. The lines of her hips, the lush expanse of skin exposed by the cut out.

It’s flattering. It drives her wild.

“If you’re not going to join me,” he drawls, “I’d like to get out of the pool. You’re in the way.”

Osha glances down, and yes, she is actually blocking the exit to the pool. She goes to move back, then pauses.

“Actually,” she says carefully, consideringly. “Actually, I would like to join you.”

Qimir doesn’t skip a beat, flourishing his hand at the water.

“Be my guest.”

She kicks off her thongs and draws her sunglasses over her eyes.

There. At least now, he can’t catch her staring.

Osha sucks in a breath as she descends into the pool. The way is cool against her heated skin, so she decides to take the plunge instead of sinking in torturous inch-by-inch.

“Ah, fuck,” she shudders and shivers as the water engulfs her fully, nipples tightening painfully. At least it’s not out of arousal, this time.

“Easy,” Qimir coaches her, like he’s some sort of pool expert.

Osha ignores him, lowering herself until water laps at her ears, then rising back up.

He watches her all the while, two pinpricks of heat following her, and they circle each other warily.

Or, well, Osha circles.

Qimir indulges her dramatics, like this is some kind of Mexican standoff.

She can swim; not very well, but she knows how to doggy paddle, float and do a very barebones breaststrokes in an extreme emergency.

Qimir, on the hand, is like a fish. Or a shark, in the way that he just never stops moving.

Osha can’t take her eyes off him, attention riveted to his graceful form, his slim muscles, the cling of water to his skin.

She imagines describing his shorts to Mae:

Okay, so picture the sluttiest swimwear you've ever seen a guy wear. That’s what this boy has on.

Her sister might find this funny; she hasn’t seen Mae in almost ten years.

In the meantime, Qimir has gotten sick of her silence, so he dives in under the water, emerging in the deep end, taking his scantily-clad ass with him.

As if Osha can talk, really, but it’s the principle of the thing.

He rolls and starts a backstroke, powerful arms moving through the water, and she should be admiring his swimming skills, not looking at his dick.

What, it’s staring right at her. It’s so obvious in his shorts, even through the black fabric.

And now she knows Qimir is packing. He’s not a grower, he’s all show. It fucking jumps when he swims backstroke, what the hell.

Is that by design? Or is it some coincidence that he’s wearing the shortest swimshorts known to mankind, that are definitely not designed to contain his dick.

"Take a picture, baby. It'll last longer."

Osha gasps, because she's just been caught red-handed. The heat of her embarrassment battles the cool of the water.

Qimir’s finished his backstroke and he’s upright again, wading closer.

She takes a few steps back unsteadily, venturing into deeper waters. Her feet scrape against the bottom of the pool.

"Go on," Qimir taunts.

And he has the audacity to pose, hair slicked back and biceps behind his head. Like he’s competing for America’s Next Top Model.

Osha grits her teeth against the wave of want that flushes through her, the throbbing between her legs intensifying.

"You're so full of yourself," slips out of her mouth, and she immediately realises the error of her words.

Freudian fucking slip.

Osha sees his eyes light up with unholy glee, and she knows what he’s going to say a split second after he says it; too late to make a difference.

"You could be full of me."

She exhales shakily. "Jesus, Qimir."

"If that's what you're into," he says flippantly. "Can't say no one’s called me ‘God’ in bed before."

The ego on this guy. It’s absolutely infuriating.

Osha drops her arms, then recrosses them, foolishly bringing attention to her tits. His eyes catch and linger, eyeing the shape of her nipples.

"You're disgusting."

"You're the one looking."

Qimir drops his hands and moves closer, a shark in the water, cutting a straight line towards her. He’s so elegant in motion.

"Fuck you," she snarls.

"You want to,” he retorts. Osha’s mouth drops open. “So bad, it makes you look stupid."

Oh, it’s fucking on. Let’s go, baby, let’s bring it all out in the open.

"You're the fucking stupid one, watching porn with your door open."

"You looked, did you?"

"You listened," she shoots back.

"Of course I did, with you moaning so prettily for me." Then, lifting a finger, he brushes the edges of her hair, down her jaw, to her chin.

Osha arches her neck, instinctively. Putting herself on display for him.

Different day, different swimsuit, same tits.

His eyes drift down lazily, taking her in.

"Maybe I should take a photo as well," he says softly, water dripping from his pushed back fringe, winding its way down his cut-glass jaw, his neck. "Or a video. Would you like that, Osha?"

His pretty pink lips shape her name so exquisitely.

it sears into her then, the inevitability of it.

She's going to fuck him; it's not a matter of if, but when.

Maybe even today, if the way he’s looking at her means anything.

“I’m sure you would,” she says, not sure when the tone of her voice became so flirtatious, but it surprises him.

His eyes widen, his white teeth biting into his bottom lip, worrying the flesh.

Osha decides to push him a little farther.

“I bet you love looking at yourself,” she moves close to him, body feeling hot and tight under her swimsuit.

His arms drop to the side, almost anticipatory. Like he wants to draw her in.

Will she let him?

Maybe.

“I like looking at you, as well,” he admits, his naked honesty searing into her.

Fuck, that’s hot. And so is he, practically radiating heat in the cold water.

It only takes one moment of weakness, one capitulation, for the damn to break.

Qimir tastes like chlorine, when she kisses him.

And make no mistake, Osha makes the first move.

He’s been waiting for this, the invitation to unleash himself, because he immediately goes ham, grasping at her jaw and tilting her face back, plundering her mouth. His other hand is right on her bare ass, groping, kneading.

It’s greedy, devouring, intense. Undeniably passionate, and Osha’s knees weaken and she has to fling her arms over his shoulders to steady herself.

He’s hard, she notes, when she presses up against his body. Maybe he’s been hard for a long time, erection only disguised by the water flowing up to his chest.

Osha rips away from him when reason intrudes, reminding them that they’re exposed, that they have neighbours.

“Someone,” she gasps out, “Someone might see.”

“Then let them,” Qimir licks his lips, pouty mouth bruised red from the force of their kisses. “Or even better…”

His hand trails under the water, and she sucks in a breath when it alights on her bare hip, toying with the fabric of her swimsuit, until it slides up her back to pluck at the tied strings.

“Qimir!” Osha gasps, hand coming up to rest on his chest, but she doesn’t push him away. She’s mesmerised by the droplets of water rolling down his chest, his smooth skin, the play of muscles under her fingers.

He feels so good.

And he makes her feel fucking amazing as well.

One hand slips beneath her one piece, the thin black fabric stretching, the sight obscured by the rippling of the water but she can feel him.

His fingers, nails squared off and callused, tracing her mound, through the sparse hair there.

Osha breathes out a moan, eyes closing when he slides a finger down, down.

“Incredible,” Qimir groans, gliding easily between her folds, and she realises exactly how wet she is.

He presses in, and her hips jump, grinding on his hand, seeking out friction.

“Yeah,” he pants. “This’ll work.”

He drives her back through the water, one hand still on her pussy, until her back meets the pool wall, the sandstone tiles smooth against her shoulder blades.

The view of them is blocked on one side by the massive hedges that their neighbour maintains, and on the other end by Qimir’s body.

Osha’s small enough that she can slip between his legs, covered by his bulk. That thought shouldn’t make her quiver, but it does.

He has her trapped, now. And he intends on taking advantage of it by devoting his attention to her, wholly and fully.

He slings one leg over his hip, opening her up further to his ministrations.

“Pretty baby,” he rumbles, ducking down to nip at her neck, as a second finger joins the first.

He pats her pussy, spreading the slick around, getting her messy. Osha battles against the urge to close her eyes; she wants to see it all.

Wants to see the need on his face, the open desire.

The buttery sun dappling his golden skin, bringing out the brown streaks in his hair, highlighting the dips and curves of his muscles.

He’s so beautiful, and he wants her.

It’s heady, that acknowledgement. It’s intoxicating.

He’s intoxicating.

Qimir breaches her with the tip of his finger, dipping in, testing her wetness.

“Shit,” he hisses. “So fucking wet, it’s insane.”

He slides his whole finger in and she hiccoughs, clutching at his shoulders.

This is… she knows what to do. She’s done this before, but it’s a been a while since someone else’s fingers were in her. He’s much thicker than her.

No eighteen year old should be this skilled with his fingers.

They squelch as they pump out of her; one, then two, then three. Curving up and dragging against her walls, the tender spot inside of her, until her stomach squirms, heat building rapidly.

Osha moans, clutching his forearm as it flexes, digging her nails in.

Her other hand gropes at the waistband of his slutty swimming shorts, the pair she’s wanted to rip off him since she saw them almost two months ago. She needs to… she can’t be the only one this desperate.

Her hands finally wiggle their way under the fabric of his waistband, a tight fit owing to how absolutely it clings to his dick, but she finds him hot and hard for her.

Qimir groans as she closes her hand around him, pulsing in her hands, hardening even further.

Osha knows what to do, here. She’s no novice to the art of giving handjobs, and she’s always gotten good feedback from her not-boyfriends in the past.

Let’s see him try to act cool and unaffected now.

She grasps his cock firmly, rubbing the head with the pad of her thumb, spreading his precum. She varies the pressure, soft then hard.

He seems to like a bit rough, when she twists her hand up then strokes the head, digging her thumb in. His hips jumps and he starts up a rhythm, practically fucking her hand.

She can’t act too smug, because he has her on the ropes as well.

Her hips are circling, heavy pressure building in her pelvis, sparking inside of her. He undulates his fingers, the tendons in his wrist standing out as he fucks her harder, faster, fingers blurring.

Her breaths are choppy, held in her chest for longer and longer, like she’s forgotten how to breathe.

“Please,” she wheezes, “please, please— I’m close.”

It’s a mistake to beg.

He withdraws his fingers, right as she’s on the edge, the precipice, and she almost wails at the loss.

“What the fuck?”

“Oh doll,” he purrs, eye half-lidded as she squeezes him tightly, in defiance, before she rips her hand out of his shorts. "You know what to do, if you want that."

He leaves her aching, dissatisfied, gaping at his departing back.

Fucker.

That night, Osha goes to him.

One time, she steels herself, flimsy satin gown wrapped around her body.

It’s her Get Out Of Jail Free card. Guilt-free, because he’s leaving soon, and this is an anomaly.

An irregularity.

One time, get him out of your system.

So that was a fucking lie.

It’s all a fucking lie, everything that Qimir hinted at and insinuated, because he’s not leaving for LA and Calabasas and his fancy college prep school.

He’s fucking staying. For his entire Senior year.

Osha stares at him with disbelief, across the restaurant table, as Sol beams and claps both of them on the shoulders.

“Finally,” he says cheerily ignoring his adopted children eye-fucking each other from across the table, “we’ll be a real family.”

Fuck, Osha thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

That bastard had known. He’d fucking known, and he’d let her—

She’d thrown herself at him, stupid and horny, and you know what? Qimir was right.

Osha truly is naïve.

Was it all a game to him? Did he— and now she feels sick to think about it — did he make a wager with his friends? On how long it’d take her to sleep with him?

Sol loads up on white wine and Qimir drives his Range Rover on the way back, Osha vibrating in the back seat from tension.

She wants to confront him, wants to fucking yell at him so badly. He’s ruined her day, ruined her moment.

Today was meant to be all about her; she’s finally getting the family she wanted, and she’s gone and fucked it.

Osha waits, bides her time, until Sol’s sprawled over his back and snoring lightly, to drag Qimir by the hand to her room.

Shutting the door, she shoves him up against it, arm straining as she shoves her forearm against his throat.

She has to rise up onto her tiptoes to do it, but it’s worth it to see the brief moment of shock.

“You planned that,” she says lowly, furiously.

“I planned,” Qimir says slowly, as he’s questioning her intelligence, “for you to throw yourself at me?”

“Don’t act like it wasn’t mutual,” she hisses.

He looks smug, resting his head against the door like she doesn’t have him pinned against it. Like he chose to be here.

And judging by the reaction in his pants, maybe he did.

Osha lets go of him like she’s just been burned, disgusting at the zing of lust that had shot through her when she’d felt his chub.

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” she continues, like that little moment hadn’t happened at all. “That’s not fair—”

His turn to crowd her.

“Whatever makes you think,” he says pointedly, “that I’m a fair person?”

And that’s... a good point, actually. He’s always presented himself exactly as he is: a dirtbag and a manwhore.

At least, to her. Sol is a different story.

Oh God, Sol.

“This can’t happen again,” she vows fiercely.

Qimir barely holds back from rolling his eyes, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Just to be sure,” she holds up a hand to stop him from leaving. “You didn’t make any bets about sleeping with me?”

He really does roll his eyes, then, at her blatant display of insecurity.

“No, Osha.”

And that’s that.

No, actually, that’s not enough.

Osha should have been angrier at him.

Qimir had made a fool out of her, tricking her into thinking that there was a time limit on his stay, forcing her hand.

She'd acted out of desperation, taking any excuse to act out her true desires. But she's no idiot. It takes two to tango, and she'd been just as willing as him.

Osha is so tired of being angry at Qimir, and at herself, as well. And, if she’s being honest with herself?

The sex had been good. Too good.

She'd never known it could feel that way, like she was exploding from bliss from the inside, overwhelmed and overcome.

And Qimir had been almost sweet, afterwards. So unlike him, when he’d cleaned her with gentle hands then folded her into her arms, until Osha had demanded to leave and wiggled away herself.

It's just physical. That's what she tells herself.

It's just sex, he's not even related to her, and Sol will never know.

He wants a repeat. It's so obvious.

Does she indulge him?

Well, it's only fair to tease him a little. A favour, returned.

She's owed that much.

A few days, to make him squirm, stretch out the tension like taffy. It's just as savoury-sweet, seeing him watching her carefully, expecting her response.

What does he want her to do? Scream at him like before? Scratch him, slap him?

No.

Osha keeps to herself; she celebrates her adoption with her friends, goes to the local library, then makes a daytrip to Seattle for school shopping.

She doesn’t invite Qimir.

It’s not exactly a cold shoulder, because she still interacts with him at home, but the ball is in his court.

She’d made the first move, last time. It’s his turn, now.

Of course Qimir chooses to put on a movie.

He knows that she loves watching films, the same as him. It’s something she hadn’t wanted to share with him, but at least it makes for good bonding activity, in case Sol inquires.

And yeah, spending time with him in the dark, on that leather couch? With the excuse of having the doors closed so it doesn’t let in any light?

Practically a jackpot.

Excitement fizzles in her stomach when she catches him making microwave popcorn, his laptop already hooked up to the HDMI cable.

He sets out two bowls for the popcorn, then retrieves her favourite: sour watermelon gummies. There’s also a mix of Belgian and New Zealand chocolates, as well as some peanut brittle.

The perfect movie feast.

“Tonight’s feature: The Diary of a Teenage Girl,” he announces grandly, reaching up to retrieve the bag of steaming popcorn from the microwave.

“Bit on the nose,” Osha states, grabbing her bowl of watermelon gummies and scarfing a handful.

He watches her, almost… fondly?

Nah, that’s not it. There’s no feelings involved, here.

Osha hasn’t heard of this movie before, and for good reason. It’s indie, but there’s Alexander fucking Skarsgård, looking hot yet creepy with that moustache.

And the overt themes of sex? The masturbation and illicit relationship with her mother’s boyfriend? Yeah, she knows exactly why Qimir chose it.

It’s why she doesn’t fight the hand that makes its way to her thigh; first over her thin lounge shorts, then under. Teasing the band of her cotton underwear.

Osha should stop him right here, but would it be so bad, to enjoy something? To actually take joy in her body, appreciate the pleasure it can give her?

He's addictive, and Osha is so sick of resisting temptation.

What’s one more time? And another, and another.

It turns into a pattern.

It’s not love.

She’s not that fucking stupid.

But it is something, beyond friends with benefits – siblings with benefits? Ugh – because they don’t exactly like each other. But they can’t stay away, either.

It’s just endorphins, Osha thinks. A potent cocktail of hormones combined with Pavlov’s conditioning.

Meaning, that when she sees his face first thing in the morning over breakfast, or wakes up to him when Sol’s away for a case, her heart skips a beat and her stomach jumps. She flushes and smiles almost involuntarily, and he returns it.

They shake themselves at the same time and look away, and Osha stays silent as they drive to school together in his Roadster.

She’ll be going for her permit soon, late behind the rest of her peers, but she hasn’t asked Qimir to teach her.

Mog has offered, and she’ll likely take him up on it. Spending any more time with Qimir in his car, alone, is risky.

Osha’s only allowed him to fuck her in it once, at a drive through movie event. She’d been terribly spooked by a passerby knocking on the convertible roof of the car, probably well aware of what they were up to, judging by the foggy windows.

She’s sworn off ever getting freaky in the car, despite how much Qimir pushes, teasing her as much as he can while driving manual.

They split up once he parks, somewhere far from the main entrance where there’s lots of parking spots, because he can’t risk his baby getting damaged. He rolls up the roof until it’s covered entirely, in case of unexpected downpour.

Osha goes to meet her friends in the library and they spend time chatting with the librarian up until the warning bell rings.

They stream out into the hallway, heading towards Homeroom but their way is blocked by a sizeable crowd.

Qimir’s friends are bunched around his locker like lost puppies yipping at his heels. They’re probably hoping he’ll throw them a treat, just because he’s rich and drives an expensive car.

And they’d be right.

Qimir has a very generous allowance from his mother, that he spends indiscriminately.

If Osha ever were to meet Vernestra, she’d shake her hand in awe at the amount of money she makes. Now that’s a reason to go into law.

Qimir strides up to them, holding up an impassive hand, his form of a wave. They clap his back, asking how his weekend was, and he studiously does not look at Osha.

They avoid each other in public, at school.

It’s better like this, one of her rules that she’d set in stone while he’d been driving her to school on the morning of their first day.

It doesn't stop everyone in Osha’s year, and the seniors as well, from asking her question after question about the prodigal son:

"What's he like at home?"

"Does he really have an eight-pack?"

"I heard Qimir has a back tat–"

"No, it was a tramp stamp–"

"Both of you are wrong, it’s a fucking dragon on his thigh."

"So, how are you related?"

That question stops Osha in her tracks. She slides her tongue over her teeth as contemplates how to answer.

It's not really common knowledge that Qimir's adopted, given that he barely spends any time here and the fact that he and Sol are both Asian.

Which is... kind of racist and problematic of them to assume, but whatever.

"Well..." Osha turns around, Tasi following her, clutching books for her next class to her chest. She'll just answer this quickly and sprint. Mog’s already gone ahead to AP English, the nerd.

She wonders what would fuck with these students the most. Sue her, she’s gotten sick of the round-the-clock questions.

Go fucking ask him yourself, if you’re so curious.

But they won’t, because she’s a convenient target and he’s too intimidating.

Instead, it falls to Osha to run them off. And she has the perfect rejoinder, the thing that’ll send them into a tailspin…

"Guess who's the affair baby?"

Osha winks and strides off, leaving the junior and her friends gaping at her.

It irritates Osha, a little, that they're not asking about her. But then again, she has her own friends to ask her questions.

She likes her friends. They stick by her side and offer protection against the probing questions, Mog’s height offering a great vantage point for spotting people coming.

Tasi even becomes bold enough to run a few of them off, and soon Osha’s settled into the school like she’s always been there.

The questions taper off, the inquisitive glances, the hostile and jealous glares.

There’s one person, however, that doesn’t stop his study of her:

Qimir.

And she’s equally as dedicated to mapping him, always aware of his presence, like a heat-seeking missile.

Under the bleachers, in abandoned classrooms, in the janitor’s closet. And once, very memorably, in the nurse’s office.

Osha had said ‘in public’, as in, ‘out in the open’.

That doesn’t stop him fucking her anywhere he can reasonably hide them.

There’s a few close calls, and more than a few suspicious looks from Tasi, who’s way too smart for her own good.

But for the most part, her Junior year is spent peacefully; it’s what comes after that’s the problem.

College.

Now

The next few days after the outing are an exercise in restraint.

Qimir is being a little shit and he knows it. He presses every button, tests every one of Osha’s boundaries.

She ensures that she’s never alone in a room with him, always sticking by Mae’s side. This means Osha never gets a single fucking moment alone with her twin.

The point of inviting Mae was so she could get to know her sister better after their long separation, without having to worry about rushing back to work or answering emails during her time off.

In the few moments Osha has to herself, she thinks about hitting Tasi up, just idle thoughts. She knows her friend? (former best friend?) is in town for the holidays. Just a friendly overture...

And it's not like they had a falling out, or anything. That's the way high school friendships go when you're scattered across the country; sometimes they fizzle out.

When she had returned for breaks, it was usually Qimir demanding her attention, and she'd been so enamoured with him that texts to meet-up and calls to check-in fell to the wayside.

He'd isolated her, she realises now. He'd succeeded in his mission of getting her alone and reliant on him for comfort.

Osha wonders what Tasi knows. If she knows the truth, or some approximation of it.

She'd expressed her concern about Qimir being so close, despite the rumours and how he'd treated her during their Junior year, but she hadn't listened, had she? Too cockdrunk and dickmatised.

There’s no use losing herself to what-ifs and self-recriminations. Osha is too busy trying not to let her abject loathing (and ruthlessly repressed lust) show on her face or in her body language.

Is it insane, that a part of her still desires him, even after everything? He’d loaded her up and overwhelmed her with so much pleasure, that even years after the fact, her body still associates him with oxytocin and expects her to be touched.

Osha takes them on several other outings on the island, showing Mae their old high school and the place where all the bad kids (read: Qimir and his friends) used to smoke and skate.

They attend Christmas Eve service at Sol’s church, and isn’t that a blast from the past?

After the first time Qimir had fingered her here, she’d been careful to avoid him for the next few Sunday services, seating herself next to Sol and sour Mrs Karn.

Well, up until she’d decided to give in and let him fuck her. After that, all bets were off and he’d defiled her in various ways, covertly, in that church.

It makes for an intensely uncomfortable experience. Osha is going to need fillings, or some sort of dental work done after this, from the way she’s constantly clenching her jaw and gritting her teeth.

Christ.

He also somehow knows which twin is which, even when they're dressed identically.

Later that night, Mae pulls out matching Christmas-theme romper PJs and silk scarves.

Osha groans but acquiesces, letting Mae drag her to her room so they can change. It's admittedly odd having Mae in her space, but also right. Like she belongs here.

She piles her locs high on her head, Mae copying her hairstyle, and it’s like her mirror image when they're done.

Looking at her is a bit of a trip, considering they've spent more time apart than together. Mae blinks, looking perturbed, so she must feel the same.

They pose in front of her full-length gilt framed mirror, taking various selfies for the gram, and Osha posts one with the caption: "always one, but born as two 🤪"

Sol cracks a grin at them when they walk in, hand in hand.

He hugs the wrong twin, though, engulfing Mae in a tight hug.

Her sister, oddly enough, flushes a brilliant dark crimson but makes no move to push him off.

Something about that is odd, but Osha doesn’t pay enough attention because she’s being cornered by Qimir.

He doesn't make the same mistake as Sol.

"Hello, Osha," Qimir whispers huskily, as he takes advantage of Sol and Mae's mutual sputtering to sneak in his own embrace.

It's entirely too intimate, hands roaming, and he has the excuse of thinking that she's Mae.

But not, for a single moment, has he ever looked at Osha and seen her twin.

She hopes the reverse also applies, but isn't quite sure.

The tension between them builds and builds, escalating to a point where Osha can’t see it ending in anything but a disaster.

It finally breaks, on Christmas Day, while she’s prepping their lunch feast. They’re going to exchange their gifts after they’ve eaten, not a moment before, as per tradition.

After Osha convinces Mae and Sol to sit down and take a seat (“A, You’re our guest, Mae. And B, you’re the host, Sol! Let your daughter help you out for once.”), Qimir meanders his way into the kitchen, using the same excuse as Osha.

The massive chicken is roasting in the oven on a bed of vegetables, potato bake bubbling on the rack beneath. Gravy is simmering on the stove, and she has a mound of potatoes to chop into little cubes to boil for the mash.

Osha starts on making a pot of tea for her dad and sister, sure that they just need to spend a little more time with each other to become comfortable.

There’s been an awkward air hovering over them for the past few days, and Osha knows if they just talk it out, they can come to an accord.

She struggles to retrieve the tin of green tea, Sol’s favourite brew. He always forgets that she’s so much shorter than him, used to living on his own. She definitely doesn’t feel any g—

A hot and hard body behind her, pressed close.

Osha squeaks, pinned to the counter as Qimir easily grabs the red and green patterned container, setting it next to her clenched hands, white knuckling the marble.

His lips brush her ear, “You know,” he says lowly. “You can just ask for help, Osha.”

She exhales shakily, keeping her longings locked away firmly, before turning. He’s so close, smelling so good, practically looming over her. She’s eye-level with his Adam’s apple, and she remembers what it felt like to bite—

Qimir steps away, to her eternal surprise, allowing her space. Allowing her to just breathe.

Osha should return the favour, be gracious. “Thank you,” she says simply.

She scoops the leaves into the strainer, lifts it into the teapot. Qimir’s handing her the electric tea kettle before she can take a single step towards it, and she gives him a wary nod as she pours water over the leaves.

Sol has one of those fancy kettle with a green tea option, so it’s perfectly 180 degrees.

Osha taps the counter as she waits the requisite three minutes, before she remembers the wafers and chocolate biscuits. Mae has a fiendish sweet tooth, so this might help her?

She arranges the biscuits on a small rectangular platter, then retrieves tiny saucers and matching cups. She pulls it all together on a tea tray, full teapot and tea cups rattling ominously, but before she can take a single step, Qimir swoops in and takes it out of her hands.

Now, he’s really playing a game. What’s his angle here? Osha can’t really believe that he’s a reformed man.

“Qimir! How lovely of you!”

Ah, there it is. That’s his goal, to ingratiate himself with Mae and show her what a fantastic boyfriend he is and suck up to Sol after being absent for so long.

Osha trails behind him, seeing Qimir kneel at the coffee table and gracefully pour tea into one of the cups, Sol clapping lightly at this display of filial piety.

Barf.

Osha retreats to the kitchen, leaving them to it. Qimir follows, insisting on helping her.

“Stay on that side of the kitchen,” she warns him, before gathering her potatoes. She peels them carefully, watching as he toils away at his own chopping board, dicing cucumbers for the salad.

She’s done with her pound of spuds, contemplating peeling more because leftover mash is always a good idea, when she senses him at her back.

“Wha—?”

Osha swerves around, knife in hand, finding Qimir close enough to cut. His pulse flutters at his golden throat, but he’s unafraid, unblinking, even with a kitchen knife inches from his neck.

His dark eyes gleam. “Oh, are we playing now?”

That’s all the warning she gets.

He takes her by the arm, swinging her around, her back to his chest. She jerks in panic, a soft cry issuing from her mouth.

“Keep it down, doll,” Qimir whispers. “You know how sound travels.”

Osha struggles with all of her power, cautious of the knife still clenched in her fist, but there's no give to him, firm and unyielding.

His grip is like iron, his bicep compressing her throat.

Osha ignores the flutter in her, the sudden, slick heat at the sensation of being held firm against his chest, her ass pressing against his groin.

“You do that,” he smirks into her hair, and she feel it, the smug curl of his lips, “and you know how it’ll end.”

Osha rips herself away, panting heavily. The knife clatters to the floor, unseen.

Qimir watches the rise and fall of her chest in the thin Henley she’s wearing.

Her body is alive, electric with desire and anger. They mingle, twined so inextricably with each other that she doesn’t know where one emotion ends and the other begins. She’s flushed, a dull dark red probably burning at her cheeks.

Where’s that fucking knife—

No.

God, no. What is she doing? About to stab her adopted brother in the kitchen while her dad and sister chatter in the next room over.

It’s either kill him or kiss him, and she can do neither.

He steps back, arms lax at his side, leaning against the fridge and watching her struggle. He’s had his fun with now; now, he’s watching her pick up the pieces.

Osha marshals all of her anger, all of her fury, and swallows it down.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful,” she bares her teeth at Qimir, “and set the table.”

It’s not a request.

“Please,” Osha adds, grinding the word out.

One eyebrow shoots up, but he doesn’t push. “Yes ma’am,” he mutters, and she ignores the wave of heat that flushes through her at those words.

She’s not rising to his bait.

He goes, gathering cutlery, then doubling back for plates then glasses. Two sets of glasses per person: one for water and one for wine.

Qimir moves in silence, surprisingly quiescent, even as Osha tenses, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He doesn’t attack then. Oh, no.

He saves his next sally for later on, when they’re saying Grace over the lunch-turned-early-dinner.

Osha’s palm is clutched in Sol’s on one side, Mae’s on the other. Qimir is right across from her, all of them seated at the round informal dining table just off the kitchen.

Easier this way, Sol had said, than disturbing the formal dining room. Osha would agree whole heartedly, if it weren’t for the socked foot nudging her own.

“Dear Lord, we thank you for the food we are about to receive...”

Initially, she’d thought it was Mae; one of the few childhood memories that stand out stark in her mind is squabbling in secret with her sister, finding ways to annoy the shit out of each other without letting on to their mothers. Footsie had been one of their favourites ways to mess with each other.

“The bounty you have placed at our table, crafted by loving hands. The wealth you have bestowed upon us, both material and intangible...”

So, she thinks Mae’s up to mischief again, and nudges her back, slanting a look at Mae.

But she doesn’t give a sign, just stays blankfaced and disassociating while her dad drones on, her eyes landing somewhere in the vicinity near Sol’s head.

“We thank you for bringing Mae-ho to us, reuniting us with her sister...”

It’s Qimir’s eye that she catches, instead. His mouth twitching up at the corners, irresistibly pink.

“We thank you, as well, for bringing Qimir back into our lives. He is ever a loyal and dedicated son...”

And, oh.

Of course.

Osha’s wearing a dress again, as she tends to do when she’s around Sol. Acting her part as the demure, modest daughter.

“We thank you for allowing Osha to experience this Holy celebration of Christ our Saviour with us, after many years...”

She’d changed out of her cooking sweats, donning a soft baby pink dress, with a sweetheart neckline and an A-line skirt. The hem hits her lower thigh, so it’s acceptable enough, combined with the white thigh-high socks.

It doesn’t feel so covering now, when Qimir’s foot inches higher, stroking. Osha’s hands spasm slightly, palms dampening, and Mae gives her a sympathetic look, as if to say, Is he always like this?

She’s referring to Sol, but to Osha’s panic-soaked mind, she thinks she’s been caught out.

“We thank you for allowing such peace and harmony and kinship to bloom between myself and Qimir’s mother, sinners though we are...”

She swallows harshly, dry tongue sticking to the back of her throat, and manages a quick smile for Mae. Her sister rolls her eyes and ducks her head.

There. Crisis averted.

A toe presses into her thigh, firm pressure dragging down, sparking hunger in her blood. Osha makes the tiniest of noises in the back of her throat, barely a breath.

It feels like defeat.

Should she play along? She could do it; has done it before with Sol happily unknowing while she stroked her foot over Qimir’s erection and he teased the crotch of her panties with his.

Osha tries to trap his foot between her thighs on the next pass down, but he pulls it free easily. She looks up to see Qimir press his tongue against a smirk, quickly, unseen by either Mae or Sol.

Motherfucker.

“We thank you for keeping our home and this neighbourhood peaceful, so that I may never have to raise a weapon in violence, in service of justice...”

Osha wants to get him back, wants to retaliate. But that would just be playing into his hands. Yet, if she ignores him, he’ll continue what he’s doing.

The eternal dilemma: to react or not react? Qimir takes the decision out of her hands when he presses the full weight of his foot into her pussy, just as Sol finishes up reciting Grace.

“And last but not least, we thank you for such a loving and happy family. May we ever remain like this. Amen.”

Osha sucks in a breath sharply and coughs, drawing the attention of the entire room.

A glass of water nudges her elbow

“Thirsty, Osha?” Qimir asks innocently, leaning his chin on his fist. Like butter couldn’t melt in his mouth.

Cunt, she thinks viciously, but takes the offered water and sips carefully.

The rest of lunch passes without anything of import happening, Sol engaging Mae in careful conversation and Osha ducking away from Qimir’s blinding gaze.

The red wine is free-flowing. A cask of expensive alcohol, a gift from the Mayor after a string of burglaries had been foiled under Sol’s expert guidance.

Sol’s cheeks always flush endearingly when he’s drunk. He’ll likely crash hard after dinner is done, and sleep a solid twelve hours.

He deserves to rest, for all the work he does throughout the year.

Mae gets equally as drunk, eyes glassy and laughing like a hyena at Qimir’s stories about the weird and wonderful things he’s seen in his job as a pharma rep. The doctors and patients he’s encountered, client meetings gone wrong, bizarre things he’s been gifted.

Osha sips at her glass of red, and she sees Qimir do the same.

He brings out dessert, a chocolate ganache cake Mae had ordered from a local bakery, and he cuts each of them a slice.

Seeing as Mae is preoccupied by her slice of cake, Qimir seizes that moment to act like a whore, again.

He practically fellates his dessert spoon, pink lips stretching obscenely over the round metal as he cleans the middle with his tongue. His cheeks hollow as he sucks, maintaining eye contact with Osha.

It’s indecent, desperate and slutty.

It’s also undeniably fucking hot.

She stares for an inadvisable amount of time, until the clatter of Sol dropping his dessert spoon on the floor, crumbs and icing and all, breaks the stalemate.

Osha gobbles up her own cake, stubbornly focusing on her plate. Maybe Qimir’s little performance wasn’t an all an act, because it truly is moan-worthy. Osha holds back a sound.

It soaks up the alcohol, whatever little there is in Osha’s blood, though it doesn’t come close to sobering up either Mae or Sol.

Her and Qimir are relatively clear-headed during gift exchange time, where Sol presents her with a lovely golden watch, exactly to her tastes.

She laughs, despite her trepidation at Qimir being there, when Sol exclaims at the silver watch she’s bought him.

Qimir gets her a rose gold bracelet.

It’s a matching one to Mae’s.

“Ooh,” Mae coos, holding it to the light. eyeing the way the stones shimmer. Opals and tourmalines, their birthstones. “Pretty.”

Osha doesn’t have anything for Qimir, and says so.

“I didn’t expect you to,” he says airily. “I did come as a surprise.”

Hm.

Osha grunts, and moves on.

For Mae, she gets her a coupon to the ludicrously expensive Korean spa she loves going to.

She cackles when Mae presents her a voucher as well, one for a massage place she’s been vowing to make an appointment at.

“I’ve already made a booking for the tenth,” Mae tries rolling her eyes, but it’s hard when she’s more than mildly sloshed. “No excuses.”

Osha is amazed that Mae can still recall details like that, but she’s always had an eye for detail as a graphic designer.

There’s a loud thump, as Sol falls to the side, passing out on the couch.

“Don’t worry,” Qimir hauls him up, wedging his shoulder under one of Sol’s arms. “I’ll get him.”

Osha and Mae whisper amongst themselves as Qimir deposits Sol upstairs. It doesn’t long for him to return.

Mae invites him to sit and chat with them, Osha silently begging him not to take Mae up on her offer.

To their surprise, he begs off, citing the need to clean up after dinner.

“You two catch up,” he insists, retrieving the plates and flatware.

How… generous of him.

It’s suspicious, but what nefarious intentions does he have in the kitchen?

Mae sips from her red wine as she watches him, eyeing him appreciatively, and God, that’s unsettling.

The conversation turns to Qimir when he disappears into the kitchen to wrap up leftovers and load the dishwasher.

Osha doesn’t know how she ended up here, on the other end of Mae’s rant as she expounds on her issues with Qimir.

She starts on about Qimir’s erraticness, his reliably unreliable schedule, his emotional unavailability and his secrecy.

"He's just so— ack, opaque!" Mae gestures frustratedly, fingers curling into claws. "What do you think, Osha? He is your brother, and ugh, that's weird. Never going to get used to that."

You're fucking telling me.

Osha flounders a little, grasping for something to say, before voicing what's on her mind.

"You know, I'm not exactly an impartial party here. You should get an opinion from someone not involved in all this."

Please don't ask me for fucking dating advice about my adopted brother, whom I used to fuck on the reg around four years ago. Please, please.

It's like Mae hears her unvoiced plea. "Yeah," she scratches her neck, at the collar of her lacy dress where, yeah, Osha can see the signs of a hickey.

Recent enough to be from last night. When Mae and her had dressed in matching outfits.

Fuck.

"You're right,” Mae lists to the side. “Sometimes when you really want something, it can cloud your mind. You see what you want to see."

"Yeah," Osha confirms, thinking of how stupid she'd been all those years ago, thinking Qimir had actually wanted her. But no, she was just another game to play, another body warming his bed.

Another conquest.

Chapter Text

Then

Osha’s still muzzy from waking up in the middle of a dream, silk bonnet on her head, when the doorbell rings.

“Ugh, Sabine, you get it.”

Then she remembers she’s not in her apartment anymore. She’s home. Her roomie is almost 2,000 miles away, also enjoying her winter break.

Osha flops upright, rubbing her eyes. Midday naps take a lot out of a gal, and she’d dozed on the way home then promptly dragged herself upstairs and passed out.

She gropes around for her phone, wanting to check the time to see if she’s slept the day away, but it’s nowhere on the bed or the side table.

The doorbell rings twice more, insistent.

Of course, Qimir isn’t going to answer it when she’s here.

Osha sighs, put upon, but rolls off the bed and straightens her clothes. She gives up the search for her cell, sure that it’s around here somewhere.

She’s still in her outfit from the flight, which is fleece lined tights and a cute red turtleneck dress. Her black puffer vest and matching beanie are somewhere on the floor.

She steps into her house shoes and clomps down the stairs, opening the door.

“Goodness!” The elderly white lady blinks twice at her, taken aback only for a moment before she smiles, warm and genial. “Why, if it isn’t Osha.”

“Mrs Organa-Solo,” Osha congratulates herself for remembering the old biddy’s name.

Said old biddy holds up a covered casserole dish. “I have some leftovers for Sol. I thought, with the holiday season…”

Osha takes the dish, peeking in under the aluminium foil. Kugel, how delicious.

“Thank you, ma’am,” she says politely, folding the corner down. “But Dad isn’t here right now, he’s in the middle of a case. He should be back before Christmas. I’ll tell him you dropped by.”

Mrs Organa-Solo’s eyes twinkle, and she leans around Osha to see whether there’s anyone lurking behind her.

“That little rascal not home yet?”

“Oh, Qimir?” Osha jerks her shoulder at the staircase. “He’s probably asleep. We both had flights today, but he arrived earlier. He was nice enough to pick me up.”

Ugh, it leaves a bad taste in her mouth to be praising him in any way, but to his credit, he hadn’t even allowed her to contemplate taking a taxi.

“Oh, what a sweet boy. I’ll leave you to it, don’t want to impose.”

Her neighbour leans in to hug Osha, just a quick one with the casserole dish in the way and turns to leave.

“Happy holidays!” Osha blurts out. “And Happy Hanukah!”

“To you as well,” Mrs Organa-Solo replies, and picks her way through the snow, back to her driveway.

How good of her, Osha thinks idly, thinking back to the warm embrace, however brief it was. She’d smelled of warm bread, cinnamon and cloves. Like a grandma should.

Osha shakes herself, shivering on the doorstep, and turns to take the casserole dish into the kitchen.

Then she freshens up, in anticipation of finally, finally slipping into Qimir’s room. Maybe she can even catch him off-guard. He’s always been a light sleeper, but maybe he’s especially tired…

She darts back to her room and her ensuite, splashing her face with water and applying a light coat of lipstain, and changes into something more appropriate. One of his oversized t-shirts she keeps squirreled away in her room, and a pair of panties.

While she’s at it, she searches her entire room and her luggage again for her cell. No dice.

Osha sighs when she remembers that the last time she’d used it had been in Qimir’s car, uploading an Instagram post about being back home. Damn it.

There’s no way that Qimir, with his eagle-eyed gaze, would miss it. It’s probably in his room, which is good, because that’s her next destination.

There’s no way he’d be able to access her apps or photos; she has Face ID turned on and her passcode is something long and incomprehensible.

She centres herself. Osha had been too fatigued earlier from cheap ass 5AM flight to worry about how she presented herself to him.

God, she must have looked a mess. She pats her locs in her vanity mirror, then remembers that she’s a bad ass bitch who takes no shit from anyone and can certainly ask Qimir for her phone back.

And maybe… other things.

Osha hopes he’ll like his gift. She imagines his face when he opens the box, maybe a bit mocking the way he always is, the expression wiped away by surprise. Then delight.

The anticipation fizzles through her. She could bring it up, obliquely at first. Depending on his reaction. What they’ve danced around all these years, needing to keep a secret because of Sol.

They’re adults now, though. Osha’s twenty-two, about to finish college, and the world can be their oyster.

If he makes it easy for her, of course.

She thinks he will, but you never really know, with Qimir.

She wonders if Yord has bothered calling or texting her yet but shies away from that musing. Yeah, they’re not addressing that quite yet.

Not on the first full day on winter break.

Osha can’t say it’s too soon now, not when finals are over, and she’s meant to make that call. Over the phone is better, for both of them.

Osha’s always struggled with handling other people’s emotions, so she doesn’t think she could have stood by and patted Yord’s back while he sobbed over her breaking up with him.

Or maybe he wouldn’t even sob; maybe he’d just stare at her, dry-eyed, and walk away without a word.

Neither option is bearable, so here she is. Planning on fucking her adopted brother before breaking up with her boyfriend of almost one year, so they can have a clean break and she can begin the last semester of her Senior year at college fresh.

Nice.

Guilt squirms like a pit of live snakes in her stomach, but she shoves the feeling down. She needs this, just to take the edge off. To relax her enough, so that she can say the right things at the right moment.

Striding across the hall, Osha knocks on Qimir’s door and doesn’t wait for a response before pushing in. She lingers on the threshold.

Qimir lounges on his bed, looking artfully rumpled, his duvet indented with the shape of his body.

He holds her phone up by one corner, dangling in front of her like bait.

"Looking for this?" he smirks.

Osha exhales slowly, firming her resolve.

“Yeah, I actually was.” She glances behind her at the empty house, the fairy lights twinkling in the dim of her room. “Thanks. Please give it back.”

She turns back, finding him watching her like a hawk. His jaw flexes for a moment, before it settles back into his easy smile.

Qimir laughs lowly, raspy and rough. It brushes over her skin, a caress. “You know it doesn’t work like that. Come and get it.”

Osha hesitates; this is the point of no return.

Her breath shudders through her chest, out her mouth.

She takes that step. And then another, until she’s past the doorway.

He tilts his head and hums. “You look good. Getting cosy with anyone, Osha?”

Osha stills. Of course, he’d be fishing for information. She hadn’t been public about Yord until a few months ago, despite them dating for almost a year.

It’s new, this flagrant breach of their unspoken rule not to bring up what happens during the semester.

“None of your business,” she says primly. closing the door to his room even though Sol’s not home. He’s not likely to be home for a few days; stuck liaising with police in a small town, not far from Port Angeles.

Regardless, fucking with a door open is a dumb move.

And they are going to fuck, there’s no mistake about it.

“It is my business, baby, if you make it.”

Osha’s mouth twists up. He must have seen the posts with Yord on her social media.

There’s nothing wrong with her dating him; she and Qimir had never made any promises to each other to stay loyal or exclusive throughout college.

He’d never brought it up, and she hadn’t asked. Maybe that could change, now.

“I wore condoms,” she explains. “ Yord and I,” she stresses, “are very responsible.”

There’s no chance of Yord ruining his career trajectory by getting her pregnant. He practically examines the damn condom each time after they have sex. it’s desperately unsexy, ruining Osha’s postcoital glow.

Yord’s got a nice dick but he doesn’t really know what to do with his hands or mouth. It usually falls to her to prep herself, if she chooses to prep at all, before sliding down his length, cowgirl position, and fucking herself to completion.

Osha doesn’t say all that, of course, because she doesn’t owe Qimir anything.

Hell, he has a revolving door of girls himself, judging by the posts he’s tagged in on Instagram. He never posts anything. He doesn’t need to, what with his almost 2,000 followers.

He’s clearly not saving himself for Osha or some other maudlin sentiment. He fucks and he fucks widely, not indiscriminate in his taste.

Blonds, redheads, brunettes. White, Latina, Asian.

One standout was a tall, slim Korean girl with long brown hair, in killer heels. She’d had unrealistically perfect, perky tits spilling out of her gold and glittery bodycon dress, perfectly showcased by her pose, leaning around Qimir’s body from behind a couch. His eyes had been glued somewhere predictable.

Although, there is one girl who pops up quite frequently, her arm squeezed around Qimir’s waist like she wants to devour him, a boa constrictor.

Ayesha , that’s her name. Pretty Ayesha, with her silky 3B ombre curls, her golden-brown skin, her dewy brown eyes and tight, revealing outfits, maximised to flatter her bangin’ physique.

Ayesha, who’s been photographed in a passionate embrace, Qimir’s hand resting possessively on her denim miniskirt clad ass, her arms flung over his shoulders, twined around his neck.

She was probably grinding and panting all over his lap in the middle of that house party. In front of God and everyone to see.

“And anyways, you haven’t been a monk yourself.”

Qimir’s eyes light up.

“Jealous, Osha?” He looks so gleeful at that. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

“So have you,” she shoots back.

Her guardedness snaps into place, the old animosity rising up. Qimir makes it so hard to be honest with him, but it’s exhilarating, this push and pull. He always gives as good as he gets.

And no, Osha’s not obsessed. She’s just… keeping an eye on her brother. That’s what she tells herself.

Her adopted brother, she reminds herself, but it’s awfully hard to recall just how bad of an idea this is when he looks like that.

He’s wearing what Osha calls his ‘slutty get-up’, AKA, an indecently tight, stomach skimming black tee and a pair of thin grey sweatpants that stretch obscenely over his crotch.

An outfit tailored for maximum seduction, a honey pot.

And Osha is seduced.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Qimir leans back on his hands, biceps tensing, tipping his head up to look at her standing form. “I’m just being a concerned brother.”

It sounds awfully like the reasoning Osha’s been repeating to herself, except the mocking way he’s saying exposes it for the weak excuse it truly is. His legs shift, opening wider, heels flat on the floor.

An invitation.

Osha swings onto his lap, settling her thighs on each side of his hips. His hands crawl up under her shirt, clutching her waist, possessive.

Her phone, forgotten, in favour of exploring this new discovery.

"This is different," she says, reaching out to finger the dusting of hair on his chin.

It is, she's devastated to say, a killer look. If she thought he was pretty before, with his dark eyes and floppy hair and dimples, he's absolutely handsome now. Growing into his cheekbones and Adam's apple in a way that, frankly, should be illegal.

“Do you like it?” he smirks, the hair above his lip shifting. She ducks to nip at it, sucking it into her mouth and huffing a laugh when he groans.

“Don’t try to distract me, Osha ,” he purrs her name, filthy and decadent. It shoots straight to her cunt.

Fuck, the way he can make those two syllables sound so indecent.

“You were talking about your little boyfriend. Does he fuck you like I do?"

"He's my boyfriend, Qimir. Of course, he fucks me," she retorts, refusing to give him any reaction when his fingers dig in.

"That's not what I asked," he taunts her, singsong. "I asked whether he fucks you as good as I do? Does he finger this sweet pussy?"

One hand ventures down, sliding into her panties, cupping over her mound and stroking a finger over her clit. "Does he make you scream?"

The finger comes away wet, which he raises triumphantly.

Osha flushes, cursing her traitorous cunt which decided to start throbbing the moment she saw him.

He makes a move to swallow the finger, and she watches with anticipation, but—

Motherfucker!

He takes advantage of her inattention to stuff the digit into her mouth instead.

Osha gags at the intrusion, but decides to suck on it anyways, out of retaliation. She hollows her cheeks and swirls her tongue over the pad of his index finger, smirking when he groans, head thrown back.

He strikes back, though, in this own way.

"Did you ever fake an orgasm with him?" His voice is gravel-rough, as he takes his finger out and wipes it on her thigh.

Osha grimaces at him, squirming on his lap, though that just rubs her pussy against his crotch. He's rock-hard underneath her, through his worn sweats.

"Woman fake orgasms all the time," she deflects.

"Not you," he says sharply, hands digging in. "Not with me."

"Well," Osha rolls her eyes. "Not all guys are you."

"That's right, baby," he grinds her on his cock, using the grip on her waist, slow and dirty.

Osha throws her head back and moans. How is it that he can get her hotter than Yord ever has, just with a few heated words and some dry humping?

"I bet he's never seen you this wet," Qimir hisses, "this fucking desperate for it."

"He— fuck!" Osha exclaims, when he thrusts up and shoves her down at the same time, cunt clenching so hard that she leaves a wet stain all over the front of his grey sweats. A wave of heat rolls over her body, shocking her, leaving her speechless.

Qimir looks down, smug. "There it is. You're practically begging for this dick."

"I don't," Osha grits out, " beg ."

Qimir laughs huskily. “Now that’s a lie, baby.”

Even in her worst lies, he always sees the truth in her.

He urges her up and slides her panties down, slowly, torturously, down over her ass. It’s not the usual sensible cotton panties she wears at school, rather a lacy G-string pair that she’d worn specifically for this moment.

And Qimir knows it; despite her antagonistic words, Osha is panting for it. The gusset sticks to her, slick pooling in the fabric and leaking from her cunt in sticky strings.

Jesus .

She lifts each of her legs, fabric stretching taut, almost to snapping, as he yanks it to her ankles, then flings it into some dark corner of his room.

 “Shit,” Qimir breathes, when he sees how puffy her cunt is, her clit shining and swollen.

She’s so ready that he could just slide in without any prep, despite his considerable girth and the months they’ve spent apart. The stretch would feel so good.

Osha wants it. Fuck, she wants it so bad .

She wants anything he has to give, and isn’t that the problem?

“You’re just ready to fucking go,” he murmurs, lifting his thumb to idly rub at her clit.

Her back arches involuntarily, curving like a bow, mouth dropping open in a whine as he rubs her fast and dirty. Her hands clutch his shoulders, digging in. She’s oversensitive, and one touch is enough to have electricity shooting down her spine.

Her hips jerk, thighs shaking as she tries to grind against his hand for more friction, but his fingers curve over her hip and guide her movements. She’s so keyed up, hurtling ever closer to climax, clenching around nothing.

“Think you could get any wetter? You’re fucking dripping, baby.”

Osha pants, not wanting to grace him with a response when she’s so close , but his thumb stills, pressing to one side of her clit. Close, but not close enough.

No, no, no.

She sobs, thwarted . Qimir wants her to use her words.

Fuck. This is one of those days.

She wants it so badly she’s throbbing, her heart beating in her cunt, hazing her mind.

Her only thoughts revolve around how to get his hands on her, in her again. And his mouth, and his cock as well.

But has she ever made it easy for him?

She lifts one of her own hands from shoulders and snakes it down to her clit, lightning fast. If he won’t touch her, then she’ll do it herself. It’s nothing new to her.

Just as quick, he slaps her hand away.

It’s a sharp sting, a momentary flash of pain, but she still yelps.

“I asked you a question, Osha.”

He spanks her clit. Actually fucking slaps her, and she bows over him as she screams, pussy throbbing all over.

“Be a good girl and answer me.”

“What,” she stammers, “What question?”

“If your boyfriend has ever seen you this loose and sloppy,” he slides his finger in her, two of them straight off the bat, to punctuate his words.

They’re so thick, they fill her up so well and rub her right.

“Hnn, ah! He— He hasn’t,” she admits, shamefully.

He rewards her by crooking his fingers up and abusing her G-spot, pressing in and thrusting out at an unreal pace.

They squelch loudly in the silence of the house, because she truly is as loose and sloppy as he says. She wants more, even as she winds higher and tighter, tensing her abdominals and clenching her thighs.

“Come on,” she chants, “Come on, fuck, fuck. Right fucking there , don’t stop—"

“There you go, baby,” he sucks at her neck, bites down on a nipple and she wails, cunt clenching and fluttering as pleasure blooms inside her. It washes over her body in blissful waves, stronger and more powerful than she’s felt it in months.

Osha sobs dryly, a sense of relief rooting itself in her, even as Qimir’s fingers continue their plundering.

“Qimir,” she whimpers, “Qimir, please.”

“Please, what?” A flash of white teeth, a dimple. “Use your words.”

“Fuck you,” she spits. “Fuck me.”

“Close enough,” he shrugs, both shoulders lifting, before withdrawing his fingers with a squelch.

Osha winces even as she hungrily watches the way he tears his shirt off, then shifts to the side as he rolls his sweatpants down, taking his underwear with it.

His cock springs out, hard and leaking precum.

God, she’s dreamt about that cock. Fantasised about it during dull missionary with Yord, using him to get off, even as she’d imagined someone else inside her.

Qimir pulls her back into his lap, the same position as before. His feet braced on the floor, his back upright, his abs and chest firmly muscled.

She wants to rub her pussy all over that stomach. Fuck.

He’s so hot underneath her. The heat is blasting, 77 degrees to combat the frosty chill outside, but that’s not the reason she’s sweating.

Qimir teases the head of his cock at her entrance, sliding it through her folds and rubbing against her clit.

Osha moans and undulates her hips, mimicking the motions of what they could be doing for real, if he just hurried up and shoved his dick in her—

A yank at her locs, and Osha cries out.

He’s grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back. “We do this at my pace, doll. Do you understand?”

Osha blinks at him, wet-eyed.

“I said,” he tugs again, and she whimpers, “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she bleats, nodding, and that’s enough for him.

Qimir lines up his cock, notching it at her cunt and thrusts up. The skin of her ass meets his hips with a fleshy slap, drowned out by her drawn out, throaty moan.

Fuck, fuck, he’s so big .

She’s soaked, easing the passage of his dick inside her. He’d stretched her out earlier but her walls still flutters around him, a bruising ache radiating from her pussy even as she grows impossibly slicker.

“So fucking tight ,” he grunts, “so much fucking tighter than—"

Than who? Osha thinks, but doesn’t get a chance to ask.

Qimir grabs her ass on both sides, broad hands spanning her flesh, and sets a brutal pace slamming up even as she swivels her hips, trying to match him.

It feels so good, the head of his cock dragging along the tender place inside her, feeling like he’s rearranging her insides with his dick.

“Fuck, this pussy is what I needed,” he pants, even as she wonders how he can speak, let alone string two words together.

It’s so arousing, watching the way he disappears inside her, practically sucked in by her cunt, cock shiny with her slick.

“Look at you,” Qimir breaths, and she has to close her eyes otherwise she’s going to come embarrassingly fast. “Creaming all over me, baby. Missed this sweet cunt.”

It’s an empty house, so she’s free with her moans, the way she hasn’t been able to for months.

Shared living does have its disadvantage, and silent sex is one of them. Osha’s always been a screamer.

And she does scream, now. High pitched, desperate screams as he drills up into her, bouncing her on her cock like she weighs nothing, biceps bulging and chest flexing. He’s just as sweaty as her, dripping down his neck and she licks it up.

“That’s right, Osha. Let it out, I want to hear you. Give me a show,” Qimir rasps, fucking her harder.

Her clit rubs against his stomach, caught between her body and his, and combined with the way he’s pummelling her G-spot, she comes in no time.

“God, you feel fucking unreal. So tight, baby. I bet your boyfriend never feels you this tight around his cock, does he?”

Osha seizes, spasming on his dick, clawing at his shoulders as she bears down, pleasure tearing through her body like a violent force.

“No,” she mewls, “only you, yes, yes .”

“Keep going, doll,” he encourages her, slowing down slightly but still keeping up his inhuman pace. “I want to see you come again, do it for me.”

Having her orgasm treated as the goal, rather than an afterthought, is too addictive.

Osha puts her back into it, rising up and slamming down onto his cock, and he’s so deep, it’s unreal.

“Fuck me,” she sobs, even as he continues to thrust up, and she circles her hips desperately. “Fuck me, Qimir , fuck me .”

“That’s it,” he coos, moving the hand on her hip to her clit and stroking it just right.

She sparks and flames again, burning up, and the pressure building inside of her explodes.

“Yes,” she sighs, seeing stars behind her closed eyes. “Thank you, thank you, Qimir.”

She’s riding the high of her climax, hips moving jerkily, clenching around his cock as he swears, setting his teeth in her shoulder and biting down.

“I got you, baby, I got— Fuck .”

His cock pulses in her, twitching as he spurts out cum, lodged deep inside her, and she’s missed this as well.

 “Come in me, baby, yes fuck yes,” she hisses, bearing down around him as he groans. There’s nothing like the feeling of a bare cock inside of you, hot and hard. Even better when they’re coming.

“Fuck, Osha,” he pants, perspiration shining on his skin, kissing all over her face.

Qimir flops back onto the bed, wrung out, arms spread wide, and she’s reluctant to climb off his lap.

Osha doesn’t like the empty feeling that comes with his cock leaving her, so she doesn’t move off him. Instead, she carefully draws her legs down and to the side, until they’re dangling off the bed, and drapes herself over his chest,

It’s stupid, but she’s always so clingy after sex. It’s worse because she hasn’t seen him in so long.

They rest like that, until the sweat on their skin cools, and she’s shivering.

Fuck, she needs to pee. Sloppy sex leads to UTIs, and the last thing she wants ruining her holiday is a preventable infection.

She should maybe also shower… Perhaps Qimir could join her?

Osha lifts her head to take a peek at his face, but he’s already half asleep, eyes shut and bruised lips pouty, clutching her close.

As needy as she is, post-sex, she’s also filthy. And she hadn’t gotten a chance to shower earlier after her flight.

“I need a wash,” Osha whispers, wiggling.

“No,” Qimir whines, like a brat, grabbing onto her even tighter.

“Come on,” she coaxes. “If you’re not gonna join me...”

Qimir hums. “ Mmm , tempting.”

“Then I really won’t get clean,” she slaps at his arms, playfully. “Let me go!”

“As you wish,” he grumbles, and he knows how that makes her heart flutter, having seen Princess Bride a truly unholy number of times.

He’d indulged her obsession, even when she’d taken him to a special anniversary screening in the city, tolerating her whispering all the lines to him. He’d kissed her hand, in the darkness, startlingly affectionate.

Osha's nice enough to drag his legs onto the bed and cover him with a throw blanket on her way to her bathroom. It has all her products.

This time of winter, it takes the pipes a bit of time to get going. The lassitude from her orgasms still lingers, though, so she doesn’t mind. She checks her phone while waiting for the shower to warm up.

She’d had to paw through the bed for it, had found it buried under the sheets, only inches away from where they’d been fucking.

Osha sits on the closed lid of the toilet, thighs tense to stop his cum from leaking out, sore and throbbing. She unlocks her phone and lands on the recent calls page. That's curious.

There are three missed calls from Yord just ten minutes ago, and one call that was... answered. Almost an hour ago.

There’s no reason for that call to be accepted, but maybe—

Her screen lights up with an incoming call, Yord’s face flashing on the screen, and seeing as the water is still freezing cold, she decides to answer it.

She's still languid and relaxed, a bit sleepy but in a relatively good mood. Qimir's is still snoozing off their round of sex, so now's a better time than any to speak to Yord, and maybe, maybe broach that topic she's been dreading bringing up for the past few weeks.

She can have a nice, pleasant conversation with Yord where she lets him down gently. Then she can have a hot shower, dress in her fluffy pyjamas and crawl into bed. Then, in the morning, pancakes.

"Hey, Yord," she says easily. Osha knows it's a bit of a dick move to do it over the phone, but—

"How long have you been fucking someone else?"

Osha chokes on her spit, coughing harshly. "What?" she wheezes, thumping her chest and rubbing.

How the— What—

"I asked," he says, voice tight, and she's never heard Yord so strained, so on the edge before. "How long have you been fucking him? Qimir?"

Icy dread washes her from head to toe. No. No, this is impossible.

"Who's Qimir?" she tries, trying on an airy tone, because there's nothing more that Yord likes than making her feel a bit stupid. He can't know Qimir, she's never talked about her adopted brother with anyone at college before.

Her dirty little secret.

"Qimir," Yord says slowly, "the guy's name that you were fucking screaming just fifteen minutes ago."

With every word spoken, Yord's voice rises higher and higher until he's practically yelling. Well, ‘yelling’ for Yord and ‘yelling’ for other people are very different; he's strained, but still restrained.

Nonetheless, the profanity, combined with the actual content of his words leaves Osha speechless, an abrupt lurch of nausea in her stomach, and goosebumps prickling over her skin.

"I—," How does she explain this away? What did he—

"Oh," she says dully. The answered phone call, which, she checks the call record, went on for almost an hour. Did...

Qimir must have answered the phone while he had it in his custody. Fuck, not even a passcode had stopped him from fucking up her life. 

Osha feels... God, she can't parse out her feelings, aside from pulsing fury, her chest cracked open. Yet, she needs to focus.

She pushes it down in favour of handling Yord. Later.

Her eyes close. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I wanted to do this a better way, but. I— I don't think we're a good fit, Yord."

"You don't think we're a good fit," he intones, borderline hysterical, "so you decided to fuck someone else? And you've been fucking him for how long now?"

"I'm sorry, I meant to tell you before winter break, but mid-terms, and then finals, and I didn't want to throw you off your game—"

"How long, Osha?" And now he really is yelling. "How long have you been fucking him?"

"A," Osha stutters, grasping for a suitable lie. "A, few, um…"

Oh, fuck it. Why not give him the whole truth? As much as she can give him.

"On and off," she admits, "for the past few years."

"Jesus fuck , Osha," he utters, and that blasphemy falling from his mouth gives her the jolt she needs to get up, Qimir's cum sliding down her thighs from the mess between her legs.

"We're over," he fumes, "don't fucking talk to me, don't ever come near me again. And if someone asks," he says nastily, "I will tell them the truth. That you're a Jezebel, a seductress, and that you shouldn't be approached under any circumstances."

Then he hangs up.

Oh, jeez, that's a bit... much. Sure, she fucked someone else, but it's not like she killed his cat.

Guys are like that, though. And, she winces when she remembers what Qimir had said, the things that Yord had likely overheard...

" Motherfucker ," she says to the empty bathroom, realisation bringing a crystal cool clarity to her mind, washing away any and all post-orgasm haze.

Qimir planned this.

He fucking— he’d answered Yord's call, maybe put it on speaker, then said what he said and did what he did to her.

“Give me a show,” he’d said. All the signs were there, yet Osha had been fucking clueless . Caught up in him, like she always is.

Too dickmatised and punch-drunk on lust for her own good.

She’d let him fuck her fast and dirty, all the while unaware that her boyfriend was listening in on his girlfriend getting railed by her adopted brother.

Not that he knows the last part. Just the cheating thing.

Fuck.

She showers, anyway, because she might as well while she’s here, pointing she showerhead away from her hair and furiously scrubbing every inch of her body.

Dark red marks on her tits, hips, thighs, neck.

Osha brushes over her shoulder and it twinges, indents of his teeth set deep right at the curve.

All reminders of Qimir, the destruction he’s wrought on her body, her life.

If she lets this continue, he’s going to destroy everything. This, she knows with a ringing clarity. Like a vision, a premonition.

Osha cries, a little, at what she’ll have to do, sorrow mingling with the fury. It stokes higher and higher, a toxic combination, poisoning her bloodstream until she’s shaking with it.

She twitches off the water with a gasp, wipes the droplets from her face. Her heart is pounding in her chest; the shower hasn’t relaxed her at all.

Osha towels off roughly, forgoing her usual bedtime skincare routine and lotion regimen. She dons the rattiest pair of sweats, then considering herself in the mirror, shucks it all off and pulls on her nicest pair.

No, fuck. That’s not right.

Osha settles somewhere in-between, the fluffy pyjamas she’d initially planning on wearing.

Looking at herself in the mirror, wide-eyed and locs frizzing, she firms her resolve; this is the last fucking time she’s going to be made to feel like an idiot.

No more mind games. No more fucking around.

A clean break.

She lets herself into Qimir’s room quietly, observing the changes over the years. It’s practically the same as it was four years ago, the first time he fucked her, except for a few more movie posters on the wall and a better laptop set up at his desk.

Her hands flex, clenching and unclenching, as she watches his motionless form under the sheets. His chest moves up and down, his duvet pulled up to his chest and secured under his arms. His hair is spread out over the pillow in a dark halo.

He’s sleeping like a baby.

No, not like a baby.

Like the man who’s just ruined her life. The fact that she was going to break up with Yord, anyways, is irrelevant.

(And also, the fact that she climbed into his lap.)

He hadn’t known about her intentions to end it with Yord, however. He’d done this to, what? Mark his territory? Force her hand? Make her life infinitely worse and fuck with her?

Probably all three, knowing Qimir.

One step, then another, and another. Osha climbs onto the bed, soft under her knees.

Qimir’s hot, between her legs, as she straddles him. Sleep-warm and pliable, murmuring as he twitches in his sleep, then coming to slowly with a slight groan.

It’s like watching the sunrise break over the horizon, the illumination of his face as he smiles, when he realises who she is, what she’s doing.

“Couldn’t get enough?” he rasps, reaching for her. “C’mere.”

Osha lets him, chest aching. He slides one hand into her locs, the other resting against the curve of her jaw.

He kisses her, lazy and tender, and it’s almost like—

It’s almost like Qimir—

No.

Osha indulges for one heartbeat, two, then pushes him back by the shoulders.

He goes, reluctantly, hands sliding down from her face to her waist, caressing. Desire, excised, now making way for gentleness.

Then, sitting back in his lap, Osha asks him a simple question:

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“Find out what?” Qimir asks, guileless, stroking her hips.

“Don’t act dumb,” she scolds him and he sits upright, shuffling back until he’s leaning against the headboard.

“Oh, that.”

His smile takes on a cruel edge, curling at the edges. He shrugs, magnificent shoulders lifting and falling insouciantly.

“I assume Yord took it well?”

The fucking nerve of him to act so glib.

“No, Qimir,” Osha says sharply. “Yord didn’t take overhearing his girlfriend getting fucked kindly .”

“Come on,” he jeers, hand slipping under her top to rub at her hip. “It's just a little fun. Weren't you having fun?”

“Nothing,” she rips his hand away, “is fun about this.”

After that, it’s a blur of arguments and screaming and recriminations.

Osha swears at least five times that she’s never going to fucking see him again, and he smirks and says, “Good luck with that.”

So smug and assured.

“You can’t say you didn’t want it,” he says, so languid, while Osha paces the room and rubs her hands, dragging her nails over her palms.

If she’s angry, she’s not sad.

If she’s yelling, she’s not crying.

"Rubbing on me like a bitch in heat, practically begging for it. You couldn’t wait for me to get in this pussy, could you? Had to throw yourself at me, because your stupid fucking boyfriend can't make you come."

Osha does throw herself at him, then, clawing at his shoulders and his chest, wanting to dig her nails in, wanting it to hurt.

She can’t aim for his face, that would invite too many questions from Sol; his arms are fair game, right?

Qimir laughs, the bastard, holding her struggling form tight against his chest. He’s still naked, hardening rapidly.

This is just foreplay to him.

She stills as realisation hits her, going limp. Her arms fall slack at her slides, caged in by Qimir’s arms. They tighten before letting her go, assured that she won’t attack him again.

“You don’t take anything seriously,” Osha pants into his chest, “do you? This is all a joke.”

What a shame, that she’s put up with this for so long. He really had her convinced that he cared for her, that it would be alright for her to—

She steps back, retreating rapidly. He’s watching her like a predator, like she’s prey liable to take off at any moment.

The grief climbs up her throat, welling like storm drain.

"Am I even real to you? Am I even a person?"

Her voice shakes a little, vulnerability laid bare.

"Of course, you are," Qimir says back, easily. "You're standing right in front of me."

He doesn't get it. Of course, he doesn't. She's just a toy to him, another possession. And he doesn't like it when other kids play with his toys, so he has to wreck it.

He has to wreck her.

It’s not enough that she’s his for the taking, always has been

Osha had been ready to be his. Maybe not now, not while she’s still at college, but eventually.

But Qimir has shown his true colours, again, breaking her rose-tinted view of him. He has to fight dirty to keep her, employing underhanded tactics and outright manipulating her into an unfavourable situation, where there’s no winning.

Osha’s reluctant fondness for him shrivels up, her heart hardening against him.

“We’re done, Qimir. I’m done with you,” each word is punctuated with a step back, until she’s at his door, fumbling for the door handle behind here, then she’s out.

Qimir gets off a parting shot:

“You’ll be back, baby. I know you can’t stay away.”

Osha makes up some bullshit excuse to Sol, citing a roommate emergency. Her bags are barely unpacked, so she sweeps everything inside, taking some extra items with her, leaving others out.

She’s not planning on coming back.

Her present for Sol is left under the tree. She throws Qimir’s in the garbage.

It’s stupid, some collectible item from a film he’d talked about once. It’s hard to find, so she’d scoured a few internet forums until she’d tracked it down.

A silver ring, a bit tarnished, but meant to fit over his thumb. Not a promise ring, or a fucking proposal, but something tangible. Solid.

Qimir watches her, throughout it all, hanging back. Allowing her the space, so generous and thoughtful of him.

Fuck you, Osha seethes. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

He won’t get the benefit of a reaction from her, now. She’s said what she needed to say.

Osha waits in the foyer with her luggage, biding the time until her Uber arrives. Her shoes are on and she stills her feet, not wanting to appear impatient.

“I can take you, you know.”

“No thanks,” she replies, eyes fixed on the doormat.

“Suit yourself,” there’s a rustle, like he’s moving closer. She flinches involuntarily, but he doesn’t touch her.

Her Uber arrives with a beep, and she hustles out, one bag hitched over her shoulder, suitcase rolling in her hands.

Sol had salted the driveway, so it’s relatively easy to navigate, even with the thin layer of snow. It’s not drizzling, either.

Small miracles.

Like a whisper on the wind, as she leaves, she hears, “Until next time.”

Osha gets the last laugh, though, because she follows through.

Blocked, deleted, blocked, blocked, blocked.

She removes every trace of Qimir from her life, sends back a box of his sweatshirts and t-shirts express shipped to Sol’s house.

She throws away the keepsake box full of ticket stubs, museum pamphlets of viewings they’d been to, the pearl earrings he’d bought her, the rose-gold Tiffany and Co. Bracelet engraved with his initials. Even the gold cross he’d gifted her on Christmas, at Sol’s urging. Mementos of him, markers of their past.

No more holding on to someone who’d set fire to her life and revelled in the flames.

Qimir’s toxic, Osha convinces herself, tracing the digits of his phone number onto her forearm one night, when she’s inadvisably drunk.

Her college friends have already left her tiny apartment and really, she should get up to clean, but the room is spinning and she’s morose and horny.

Sabine had retreated to her girlfriend’s two nights ago, at the start of Osha’s downward spiral.

She takes another drink from her soju bottle and finds it empty. Huh. When did that happen?

Sighing, Osha throws the bottle on the floor and flops back onto her tiny double. It’s nothing like the bed she has back home—

Stop. She's not going back.

Osha rolls onto her stomach, burying her face in the threadbare sheets. She always gets a little morose when she’s sloshed.

And incredibly horny.

She swipes through Tinder for a bit, finding everyone dull or ugly, unfunny or dumb, or all four.

This is meant to be a clean break, so why does she feel so messy?

An alert comes up from Instagram, her new post alert pinging.

Fuck, it’s for Ayesha. She’d forgotten to turn it off.

Osha taps on the notification anyways, because she’s nothing if not a little bit of a masochist.

Is it a little creepy, to have been stalking her adopted brother’s not-girlfriend, on-and-off fling?

Fuck yes, is the answer.

Does she care? Not particularly, no.

Especially when she sees what the post actually is.

Who the hell does she thinks she is? Osha thinks furiously.

Ayesha is in folded in Qimir’s arms, smiling widely. Her perfect, straight white teeth are on display, her curls are artfully rumpled, as if someone’s hands have just been in them.

She looks stunning, ethereal, her golden-brown skin glowing. Like she’s just had the best diamond facial of her life, or the best fuck. Perhaps both.

There’s the faintest blush on her cheeks, and Osha can’t tell whether it’s real or make-up.

Qimir’s red cheeks are real, though. As is his pink nose, endearingly scrunched as he gives what appears to be a genuine smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle, eyes twinkling, dark hair messy where it peeks out from underneath a black beanie.

The caption reads ‘ reunited 🥰 ’ . It already has fifty likes.

Osha’s hands spasm on her phone, and she almost flings it at the wall.

What the fuck.

What the fuck?

How dare— It’s been bare weeks, and he—

Of course.

She calms herself forcefully, trying to emulate the breathing exercises she’d seen in a mindfulness video on YouTube .

In, three seconds.

Hold, three seconds.

Controlled exhale, count to five.

Of course, he’d move on. Maybe he’d never left, still ‘on’ with Ayesha even as Osha had crawled into his lap, rode like him like the Kentucky Derby and came all over his cock.

She’d never had a chance.

Maybe he’s even dating her, the way he’d never dared with Osha.

Because you’d asked him to keep in on the low, her mind reminds her, and she doesn’t need fucking logic, right now.

Osha still wonders if she ever crosses his mind. If he thinks about her and regrets the way that things had turned out.

Then she snorts, because it’s Qimir . Come on.

He probably doesn’t regret a thing. He’s sitting pretty, in his cushy apartment paid for by mummy’s money, fucking around in the last year of his Business degree.

Osha is not even a thought in his mind, let alone a concern.

She pushes her phone away, under the pillow, and searches for her laptop. She’d left it somewhere under the nest of blankets on her bed.

Osha wants to get even more drunk, watch Bridget Jones’ Diary , then maybe the 1995 Pride and Prejudice , and eventually, when Sabine comes crawling back, score a few joints off of her and smoke up a storm.

There’s a coping method in there, somewhere.

She finds a full soju bottle wedged in between the wall and the edge of her mattress, and cheers triumphantly.

That’s more like it.

Cheers to rat bastards and skanky sluts.

Now

Osha is back where she was, four nights ago, staring up at the ceiling.

Restless, filled with frenetic energy, unable to fall asleep.

She shifts from her right side, to her back, then onto her stomach. Each time, she waits for fatigue to take her, but all she has are her wretched thoughts.

Go to him, they whisper. The devil’s voice, once again, enticing her.

Osha is grown, now. She's gone to therapy; she should be better than this.

She can’t allow herself to fall back into Qimir’s orbit and ruin her relationship with her sister, not when it's still so fragile and new.

She’s always been addicted to things that aren’t any good for her. Curiosity killed the cat, and all that.

Osha thinks about the love bite on Mae's neck and what it means.

It seems like Sol's attempts at enforcing propriety haven't succeeded. No amount of 'leave room for Jesus' can beat hormones.

Mae is out cold, just like Sol. She'd left her sister tucked snugly into bed on her side, pressing a kiss against her temple and inhaling her warm spicy scent, like a weirdo.

A bucket on the floor, in case she needs to hurl, but Osha doubts it. Mae's a giggly drunk, not a sloppy drunk. A contrast to her usual stone-cold hardass of a sister, who nonetheless has a soft marshmallow interior.

So, both Sol and Mae are down for the count. Probably for the whole night.

Leaving her and Qimir… alone. To hash out any unfinished business.

And God, does she have a mouthful for him, and then some.

First off probably being , “Get the fuck away from my sister, you freak.”

Maybe a few light threats, some incentive for him to keep Mae happy, because she can’t possibly ask him to break—up with her sister. She’s not that cruel.

And there’s no way Qimir would do what she wants, just because Osha asked nicely.

It’s a chilly night, so Osha’s dressed in a pair of soft lavender and white pinstripe flannel pyjamas, a plain white camisole inside for warmth, and a pair of bedsocks. Her locs are gathered in a bun and protected by her favourite silk bonnet.

She’s homely and dressed down. Definitely not a seductress or looking to get fucked.

That’s what she tells herself, when she eases her door open, wary of any creaks, and creeps across the hall to Qimir’s bedroom.

The house is dark and quiet, occasionally settling with a groan. They’ll need to be quiet.

She doesn’t want to wake either Mae or Sol with a screaming argument. 

(And he did tend to make her scream, on occasion. For an entirely different reason.)

Osha considers knocking on his door, giving him that courtesy before she enters his space, but she doesn’t give a fuck about niceties.

Has Qimir ever passed up a chance to fuck with her head?

Rhetorical question, answer's 'no'.

So why should Osha be that considerate?

She twists the handle and presses in, breaching the boundary and stealing inside his room with a whisper of her socked feet.

If she’d thought she could catch him unaware, she’s dead wrong.

He's waiting for her, limned in moonlight.

Qimir stands, unfolding his body from the bed. He usually sleeps naked, or close enough; clad in nothing but low and tight boxer briefs.

The sight of him is overwhelming, from what little she can see. Osha’s mouth goes dry, head emptying of any arguments she’d had in mind.

She should… get out of here right now. This isn’t going to turn out the way she wants.

Osha takes a step forward, daunted yet forging ahead.

This isn’t about her.

“I knew it,” Qimir’s voice breaks the silence, hushed. “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”

“I’m here for Mae,” Osha asserts, not flinching when Qimir laughs softly, mockingly.

He saunters closer, cutting like a knife through the darkness.

“If you say so.”

“I do,” Osha says shortly. She doesn’t back away; doing so would be tantamount of admitting weakness.

This is a game of wills, and she plays to win.

“I know you’re using her, to get at me. If you hurt her—”

“Calm your tits, doll,” Qimir moves closer still, voice low and rough. The pet name sears over her skin, the same way it did in the kitchen, when she’d levelled a knife at him.

“Don’t call me that,” Osha snaps. She’s clenching her jaw again, and one of these days she’s going to crack a tooth. Or multiple teeth.

“But you are,” he drawls. “A pretty little doll.”

He’s calling her ‘ pretty’ at a time like this? He really doesn’t take anything seriously.

“Does she know?”

“Know what? About us ?” Qimir’s tone is salacious, as if he’s just aching for permission to tell Mae all the sordid details.

“Okay, firstly: there is no ‘us’ . I was talking about how much of an utter cunt you are."

He throws his head back and laughs, raw and elated. It’s a little too loud, and Osha makes an aborted attempt to lurch forward, wanting to clap a hand over his mouth.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” he admits, with sincere wistfulness.

She doesn’t have any appreciation for his sentimentality. The manipulative fuck probably is being honest. He misses toying with her, triangulating and arranging the pieces.

 “Is she just another Ayesha?”

Osha addresses the elephant in the room, the words that have been burning and aching to be released for years .

“Another fucking replacement for me? Because you can’t have me.”

“I could have you at any time,” Qimir says, so arrogant. “On your knees, begging for it.”

Osha sneers at him, mouth twisting so artlessly, it’s almost painful. “That’s what you fucking think, you two-faced, two-timing son of a bitch—”

He cocks his head, voice low and intent. Aimed like a spear, “So I’m the cheater, now?”

She wants to rip her hair out. “Yes!” Osha whisper-shrieks. “You are!”

“Don’t try to play the victim,” Qimir says harshly, mask fully off now. “You came to me. You sought me out. Look at me, I’m Osha, woe is me, ” he starts speaking in falsetto, and she does not fucking sound like that. 

“ I’m an orphan, my adopted daddy is a rich cop and I fuck my brother and then turn around and run away like a coward.“

And what can she do about that, huh? His smug fucking face is asking for it.

Osha slaps him; it echoes with an almighty crack, like a thunderclap, in the dark.

His face snaps to the side, dark fringe splayed over his face. He works his jaw, cut glass of his cheekbone shifting. 

Osha feels a brief, glancing pulse of fear, then it's overtaken by righteous fury.

He tilts his head slowly, languorously, back towards her.

"Do it again," Qimir rasps, eyes manic, mouth gleaming as he bares his teeth in a twisted smile. He must have cut his lip on his teeth and the sight of his blood, black in the dim dark, stokes the flame burning low in her belly.

It's been simmering away this entire evening, but now it's flaring like a grease fire, terrible and all-consuming. She can't move away.

"Fuck you," Osha spits, and surges forward to kiss him.

Their mouths collide violently, and she tastes copper and the mint of his toothpaste on his tongue, sucks out the taste.

She devours him, or perhaps he devours her. Mutual devouring, with the way that he's teased her all afternoon, first with his game of footsie, then the dessert spoon, pink lips spread taut around the round metal, sucking lightly as he'd stared right at her.

The heat of his cheek radiates against her face. 

If she were to turn the lamp on, it would probably be bright red against his golden skin.

What would Qimir do if she slapped him again?

He'd take it, wouldn't he, like a good boy. 

Osha moans at the thought.

God, she's missed this. The need comes roaring back to life, magnified, fucking tripled, exponential in its intensity. 

Osha claws at him, pawing at his naked skin, realising she has too many layers on, but unable to detach herself for even a second.

She's overheated in her bedsocks and camisole and flannel pyjamas; she didn't come here to seduce, unlike Qimir's bare and chilled state. He's fucking freezing.

Osha yelps as his hands burrow under her clothes, his fingers like fucking icicles against her skin.

Qimir hushes her, "Keep it down, doll."

She doesn't get a chance to tell him not to patronise her because he's yanking her pyjama top over her head, setting her silk bonnet askew, too impatient to fiddle with the buttons.

Her locs fall heavily against her back and he kisses her shoulder, sliding the strap of her camisole down.

Qimir inhales deeply, at the crook of her neck. "You smell so good, like gingerbread. I could eat you up."

His heated words draw goosebumps over her skin and Osha shivers.

She's not wearing a bra, so he kisses all the way down to her heaving chest, taking a nipple into his hot mouth.

" Fuck !" Osha arches sharply, shoving her chest against his face. His hand comes up to support the small of her back, anchoring her against him.

Qimir takes his time, devouring her tit, tonguing the peak until she's a squirming mess, pulling his hair and begging him for more.

But he just pops off, then blows on her spit-soaked nipple, watching it tighten in the cool air with dark amusement, before turning his attention to her other shoulder, repeating the process.

Shoulder, neck, tit. 

By the end of it, Osha's quite sure she's soaked through her cotton panties and the crotch of her pyjama bottoms, and she's furious at herself for it.

She's had many sexual partners since then, but no one's been able to make her feel like this. Not the guy who tied her up and fucking spanked her, not the girl who went down on her for a solid hour.

Desire is a heavy weight on her body and she's weak-kneed under the pressure, only held up by Qimir's strong arm behind her, but he's slinking down and pushing her back towards the bed until her knees hit the mattress.

"One more, for old time's sake?"

He has the fucking cheek, the audacity to ask, as she sits, legs splayed, on the same four-poster he pile-drived and sixty-nined her on all those years ago.

Shameless.

What does that make Osha, then, for spreading her legs for his eager tongue and talented fingers? For coming all over his tongue with a muffled whine, biting deep into the meat of her palm, leaving twin crescents of teeth marks indented in her hand?

Qimir fucks her raw and animalistic, four years of pent-up tension unleashed on her, and she welcomes it with open arms, moans vibrating against the fingers in her mouth, tongue winding through the digits, drooling as his hips slaps her ass and it's so, so good, he's so deep, nudging against something in her that sends white stars dancing across her vision. 

When her knees give out, he fucks her into the mattress, almost crushing her with his weight, relentless and frantic.

"Do you think they can hear, doll?" he bites her shoulder, and Osha clenches so hard she almost starts cramping. The rush of pleasure that jolts through her shoots straight to her cunt and muddles her head.

"You think they can hear this," he thrusts fast and unforgiving, the wet slap of their flesh like a thundercrack in the quiet, "pussy dripping for me? So dirty, baby. Letting me use you, your own brother."

She comes like that, the second time, screaming dully into the mattress as her orgasm hits her like an unstoppable force, radiating bliss all through her body, clenching around his cock as he continues to thrust slickly out of her.

The bed squeaks, their heavy breaths mingle in a graceless cacophony, the obscenely dirty sounds of their (not lovemaking) coupling echo through the darkened room.

"Come again for me doll," he husks, fingers threading through the hand she has fisted around the bedcovers, his broad hand encompassing hers and squeezing. "Such a good fucking slut. So soft and hot, you're going to take it, aren't you? Take my fucking come, say thank you."

"Thank you!" she sobs. "Thank you thankyouthankyou —”

It takes no time at all for her to build up to a third climax, hitting her peak as she cries out again, this time muffled into his palm, as his lips brush the shell of her ear.

Osha shivers and shakes through it, silently convulsing, tears winding their way down her cheeks at the intensity. 

"Fuck," Qimir hisses, hips jerking against her ass, a wet bloom of heat inside her, his dick throbbing as he draws out his orgasm, thrusting lazily.

They rest there for a moment, Qimir shifting his weight to his forearms, but still plastered to her.

The sweat dripping from her limbs chills abruptly in the cold air of his room, always draughty in mid-winter. 

She'd spent many a night curled up with him for warmth, after he'd licked and sucked and fucked her, cuddled tight in his arms, his knee between her thighs.

He's not done with her, though. 

"Did you think once was enough?" he rasps at her, pressing her into the bed with his heavy ass body, draped over her.

Osha turns to speak, drool smeared over her cheek, her mouth dry. "You said—"

"And you believed me?" he swivels his hips, previously soft cock now hard again, what the fuck .

He was lean and lanky before, still muscled, but now he's so strong and broad, can practically fuck her standing up.

And he does, just to show off, muscled biceps flexing as he draws her up and down, her ankles locked behind his back.

She's literally a doll in his hands, as he manhandles her like she weighs nothing, sweat-soaked strands of hair feathering over his forehead, pink lips swollen and kiss-bruised.

Does he fuck Mae like this?

She doesn't have time to contemplate that, because he empties her mind all over again, drawing her off his cock and onto the bed, this time spread wide on her side while he enters her from above. 

He slides in deep and grinds, pressure against her clit sparking bright, numbing pleasure in her limbs

Hungry, she's so hungry for him, practically starving, and he feeds her so well, fills her up again and again.

He palms her stomach, rubbing over it with greedy palms.

"I can feel you," he grunts, pressing down on her pubic bone, and she almost screams as he thrusts in at the same time, rubbing filthily against her walls, feeling enormous in this position, almost too much for her to take.

"Four years," Qimir snarls, at one point. Balls deep inside her, hips slamming against her own, hands sure to leave bruises.

"Four years without this sweet pussy," he groans, "nearly drove me fucking insane."

She's tight around him, growing tighter and wetter as an unbearable pleasure winds itself inside her, flickers of a release that promises to be so deep and fulfilling.

“You’re mine, aren’t you, Osha?” he asks her, demanding an answer. “Say it.”

“I’m,” she stutters, the head of his cock nudging deep inside her, against a tender spot that practically vibrates with pleasure. “I’m yours.”

Her back bows off the bed, ecstasy unfurling through her, shooting all throughout her body, drawn out by Qimir's slow, measured thrusts, still applying pressure from outside.

Osha feels a gush underneath and swears. She should have fucking put a towel—

“Shit,” he pants out. “Fuck, baby—”

And his face screws up, and it's unfair because an ‘o’ face should look stupid and undignified, but he just looks unbearably hot, jerking his hips and pumping her full of his cum.

It's leaking out of her, smeared all over her thighs and running down her legs.

Osha tries to shift her body, once Qimir pulls out, and whimpers.

Thank god for Sol’s bougie taste in homes that Qimir has an ensuite of his own. He's not out of breath and trembling, like Osha, so he brings a warm, wet washcloth back to clean her up.

It's almost… tender. Which definitely isn't what Osha expected 

She did anticipate the sizzling hot hatefucking and Qimir being a dick, but she didn't expect him to wrap her in his arms and nestle close, nose in her locs, bringing her tight against his chest.

She melts into him, unthinking, knees drawing up and allowing his legs to slot between.

Like he belongs there.

A pang of longing vibrates in her like a plucked string.

Don't be so fucking stupid.

This is what Qimir does, draws you in with honeyed words and a silver tongue, fucks you until you're soft, then tears you apart the next day.

Osha should leave. She should leave right the fuck now, before she ends up perpetuating that same vicious cycle, all over again.

She'd hardly survived the last time, had cut him out for four years. 

She's cracked so easily under pressure, ending up back in his bed again, the way she knew she always would.

See, this is why she'd kept her distance.

He nuzzles her ear, murmuring something indecipherable, sleepy and all the more affectionate for it. His heart pounds a steady rhythm against her back, lub-lub-lub . A metronome.

Fatigue weighs down her limbs, despite the hamster wheel turning in her mind, but she gives in to her body's demands and closes her eyes.

Merry Christmas to me, she thinks dazedly.

In between one heartbeat and the next, she's asleep.

Osha wakes at dawn, despite the late night, eyes opening automatically as if she has a sense for subterfuge.

What would it be like if she chooses to stay in the cradle of Qimir's arms? If she turns around, buries herself in his chest, throws a leg over his hips and settles deeper into sleep?

If she allows herself to be found by Mae, knocking at Qimir's door and pushing in, as she is wont to do.

Mae wailing, bringing her dad running.

And then Sol, his face contorted in horror, incredulous and disbelieving as he says her name.

As if he can't believe his eyes, the depravity he's witnessing.

Would it be worth it? For the way her mind, body and soul feel so at home with Qimir? The way she… the way she belongs, in his arms.

No.

She's fought too hard, too long, to mend and rebuild her relationships, to throw it all away on a whim.

One more time, she'd promised herself.

One last time, to get him out of her system. A goodbye fuck.

A good luck fuck.

(And how had that worked out for her, last time?)

Osha wiggles out of Qimir's grip, and lucky for her, he's always been a heavy sleeper.

It's something that used to amuse her, and she'd test the various ways she could get away with teasing him before he'd wake up.

She re-dresses in the dark, only slivers of dawn glow seeping underneath the curtains. She doesn't dare turn the lamp on, finding her clothes by feel.

Osha untucks her locs from her collar, glancing one last look back at Qimir, sprawled over the bed, his arm still outstretched.

Her heart twists a little. She rubs the spot over the front of her pyjamas with a closed fist, breathing out the sorrow. Breathing in resolve.

She drags her sore and aching body across the hall to burrow into her own cold, empty bed. The sheets smell like her perfume and fabric softener, none of Qimir’s cologne or natural musk to be found.

It’s fine, she thinks, flopping onto her back as the sun crests the horizon, shimmering over the snow frosted like icing on rooftops of neighbouring houses. Osha can just get up now and repack her bags. 

She's fallen into the old habit of spreading her things out, like she's staying here for the long-term. A sock here, a silk hair scrunchie there. Her bonnet… her bonnet….

Fuck.

It's in Qimir's room.

Her blood turns to ice, thinking of where it could be.

If it's under the bed, she's safe.

If not…

She debates creeping back in, but her luck has held out once; it might not again.

Fuck it, she doesn't need it. And she doesn't think Qimir's fucking stupid enough to bring it up in front of Mae.

Then again…

He’d do it just to fuck with her, but she’s praying he’s not going to embark on a thorough search of his room.

As much as he’d worn her out, he’s not used to waking up with the sun like Osha. He’ll be out for hours yet, more than enough time for Osha to pack up and flee, with minimal conversation.

This holiday was meant to be for catching up with Mae, but she doesn’t know if she can ever look her sister in the eyes. Not after she just fucked her boyfriend, despite the fact that Osha had him first—

Yeah, not going down that road.

Osha gently, but firmly guides her line of thought away from that disastrous path, and onto safer avenues.

Like, how the fuck she’s going to deal with the likely multiple crises at work when she clocks back in.

Osha leaves early, despite Sol’s protests that she should at least eat breakfast with the family, or maybe she should forgo departing altogether.

"It's freezing," he frets, his brows drawing together in distress. "Osha, they said there's going to be a snowstorm."

"Even more reason to go now," she says confidently, though her knees are locked and she's bracing herself from not looking anywhere in Qimir's general direction, cunt still leaking his cum. 

"If you insist," Sol sighs heavily.

"I do, Appa ," she says, and he beams at her, so uncomplicatedly happy, and guilt fists tightly around her heart and squeezes.

If only he knew....

"You stay, Mae," she urges her twin, turning to her and drawing her sister into a hug, holding her tight, chai scent wafting from her knitted sweater. 

I'm sorry, she begs her, forgive me, forgive me. I'm the worst, I’m a cockroach.

"Oshaaaa," Qimir drawls, and Osha squeezes her eyes shut, so hard she sees multi-coloured wheels against the dark of her eyelids.

She lets Mae go, reluctantly.

"Qimir," she mumbles, and his arms slide around her waist, inappropriately close.

He's showered, and she briefly mourns the loss of her scent on him, even as she sucks down his cologne and body wash. Amber and oud, smoky and warm and sensual.

Fuck.

"Don't be a stranger," he says, holding her at arm's length, a crooked smile and a well of secrets in his eyes.

"I won't," she bleats, like a doe-eyed idiot, and snatches herself away from his hands, fingers flexing uselessly for only a moment before he draws them back into fists at his side,

His easy smirk is now tight at the corners, his gaze intense. 

"Oh, I’ll make sure of that."

He turns to Mae, eyes falsely soft, the look of a wolf that's skinned a sheep and is wearing its ill-fitting pelt. "And we're connected in another way, now," he says, caressing her hand.

Get the fuck away from her, she doesn't yell.

Touch me, instead, she doesn't whine.

Osha gets the fuck out of there, declining Sol’s offer to drop her off with the, very valid, excuse that he has guests to entertain. Mae and Qimir won’t go back until the day after tomorrow, pending on how the snowstorm plays out.

Good riddance.

While she’ll miss her sister like crazy, she can’t get away from Qimir fast enough. The physical manifestation of her guilt and myriad of sins, weighing heavy on her heart, feeling so very much like the last time she’d decide to indulge him. And upended her life in the process.

Osha just needs to stay away from him, and surely that won’t be hard with them being hundreds of miles apart. Oh, and also the fact that he’s dating her sister.

She laid down her boundaries, and she’s going to enforce them. For real, this time.

Cold turkey, no contact.

Osha gets in the taxi Sol called, because he still refuses to use Uber , and waves goodbye.

They wave back, all three of them, standing on the stoop. Looking like a whole and complete family unit.

Chicago is a balm to her soul, Lake Michigan’s frozen surface stretching from end to end, ice breaking in sheets through the waves.

Her boss is a little surprised that Osha’s returned so early, ahead of time, while most other employees are still on leave.

“Enjoy your holiday?” Fennec asks her over the phone. Her boss is a ruthless, mercenary lawyer when she needs to be, but she does care about her staff.

“Family stuff,” Osha explains, which doesn’t even cover the half of it. “Had to distract myself from it all.”

“With work, Osha? Whatever, if it gets the job done. Take care.”

Family law doesn’t sleep, and she buries herself in files and court orders and mountains of evidence that the paralegals have sifted through, as well as spreadsheets of assets and demanding client emails.

The holiday season can be particularly hellish, bringing out the worst in people. Osha wears a lot of hats, therapist and litigator and accountant in one.

Just a few more years, she promises herself. Grind it out and she can choose her own clients, focus on the issues that matter to her most: child protection, child support and parenting issues.

Mae checks in with Osha multiple times. First, to see that she’s made it through the storm okay (she did, her apartment has great heating). Another time, to make sure that it’s okay for her to stay on at Sol’s, even after Osha had left.

“You’re good,” Osha advises her. “Besides, Qimir is there and it’s his home as well.”

Silence, in the other end of the line. The, when Mae speaks, her voice sounds a little funny, “Qimir’s been... distant.”

Oh, here we go.

It’d been bad enough when Jecki had broken up with her (or maybe Mae broke up with Jecki? Osha can’t remember) but this is... on another level, entirely.

Mostly because Osha’s still swimming in guilt, and her tummy feels very unwell, twisting and cramping with anxiety.

“Oh,” Osha says back, because she had warned Mae to get a neutral opinion.

“I know, I know, I remember what you said. I just— need to get it off my chest. Sol’s been great, though. Really accommodating.”

Osha sighs, releasing the breath slowly to calm her rabbit-fast heartbeat

Mae doesn’t suspect anything. She’s not fishing for information or trying to catch her out on a lie.

She’s her sister, asking for advice. Reaching out.

Osha should cherish it. And she does, really. She loves Mae contacting her and chatting with her and arranging watch parties.

She just wishes it didn’t come with the risk of closer contact with Qimir. Of hearing about his day to day exploits, what he eats, where he goes, who he goes with.

Osha tries to make an earlier appointment with Dr Holden, but she’s off on vacation. Taking advantage of the Christmas break to holiday somewhere warm with her wife. Probably back to Trinidad to visit family.

It’s easy enough to hole up at her apartment and work from home for the next two weeks, until everyone gets back from vacation.

After that, she’s back to her usual routine, spending most days in the office.

It's a few weeks later, when Osha starts feeling a little funny at work.

She chalks it up to the lingering side effects of antibiotics. She was on some pretty strong ones there, for a bit, before her chest infection had cleared up before Christmas.

But one day, when Maya’a going around offering leftovers for the intern’s catered lunch, Osha detects a fishy whiff in the air and her stomach lurches violently.

“Osha?” Maya asks, brows crinkling. She’d been perusing the selection of sandwiches on seeded bread: chicken and pesto, roasted vegetables, falafel, smoked salmon.

It’s the smoked salmon that does her in, which is absolutely devastating because Osha loves smoked salmon. Lox bagel is her go-to breakfast at NY Bagel and Bialy.

Osha inhales and her stomach twists again, nausea suffusing her gut and crawling up her throat.

“I’m gonna—“ she starts, then darts off.

She barely makes it to the ladies restrooms, hands clutching the porcelain like salvation, hunched over, knees on the cold tile.

She’s not thinking about how many germs and fecal matter are probably on her hands and skin right now. She’s too busy gagging and spitting in the bowl.

Fuck, what did she eat last night? No, she realises. She hadn’t eaten at all.

And she’d had a latte for breakfast, no time to handle anything else because of the influx of cases piling up on her desk. She’s been strung out and operating on nothing but coffee since... around midday yesterday.

No wonder she’s nauseous.

But that isn’t anything new. It’s a regular routine of hers; putting off eating in favour of working through lunches and dinners, subsisting off caffeine. And nothing’s driven her to toilet like this, before.

An awful, creeping suspicion settles in her. It’s just an inkling, just a hunch.

Osha pushes it off, pushes it down. She works until 8PM, again, because there’s no one waiting for her.

Mae calls her phone, but she ignores it, setting it to silent and face down on her desk.

Maybe she should get a cat, just so she’d have an excuse to come home on time? Something soft and warm and fuzzy, purring contentedly on her chest.

Yeah, that would be nice.

Osha starts researching nearby cat shelters, planning on taking a tour of them. She compiles a short mental list as she packs up her handbag, shutting her computer off for the night.

She’s planning on swinging by a local noodle shop, one that opens until late and is conveniently located a block away from home.

When she gets to the noodle shop, however, they’re out chicken and beef. She’ll have to have lamb, instead.

It’s not her meat of choice, but it’s usually tasty enough.

Osha takes a seat, idly scrolling through Instagram, when she sees a selfie that Mae uploaded of her and Qimir on the ferry, highlighted purple and pink by the setting sun.

It’s a gorgeous photo, a close up of Mae rolling her eyes while Qimir kisses her cheek.

Osha’s stomach roils in discomfort and she clenches her jaw against the metallic taste in her mouth.

God, how is it that he can get such a physical reaction out of her? And how dare he still be with Mae, aft—

Oh fuck. That bubbling stomach...

The smell slams into her, as they box up her noodles. The lamb, so meaty and pungent.

Osha stumbles away from the table near the counter, pinching her nose shut.

“Um,” she says, her voice wavering. “I think… I don’t feel so well. You guys, you guys keep the food.”

And she’s stumbling out of there, like a maniac, because there’s only one destination in mind:

The drug store on the bottom floor, right next to her apartment building.

Osha stares down at the test.

She’s sprung for the more expensive one, the one that tells you, in very simple words whether or not you’re up the duff.

And she is. Up the duff, that is.

“Fuck.”

The test clatters to the floor, and heedless of whether there’s drops of pee on her hands, Osha buries her face and screams.

Osha should have expected this. She really, really should have expected this. She cries, or maybe she laughs, or both. She rakes her fingers through her locs, tugging at them. The shock of pain doesn’t stop the tears streaming down her face, or the hysterical laughter bouncing off the walls.

She’s pregnant.

Osha’s fucking pregnant, with her adopted brother’s love child. Who’s conveniently dating her twin sister.

What the fuck.

Chapter Text

Now

It takes... a while.

To breathe through the shock. To get her head around the mind-shattering revelation.

To stop laughing like a fucking hyena, clawing her mind back from the edge of hysteria because this is simply too much. 

One step at a time, Osha reminds herself.

First, ride out the wave of heart-pounding adrenaline.

Second, swallow the surge of nausea. Eat some fucking crackers. Sip some water.

Third, hold back the impulse to fling herself off the miniscule balcony.

Oh shit, too dark? Does it even fucking matter when she sitting here with her legs splayed like an abandoned doll, head lolling limply onto her shoulders, idly counting the number of hexagonal tiles on the floor? Hand tucked under her dress trousers, cupped over the soft of her stomach.

She shakes herself, yet the haze remains, a sense of unreality warping her surroundings.

Oh yeah, disassociation. A fun past time.

That appointment with Dr Holden is overdue, now.

While she’s at it, maybe an ultrasound as well. To check her progress.

And fuck, she’ll have to schedule an initial pregnancy consult with her OBGYN, isn’t that fun?

See? Baby steps.

Hah. Get it?

Yeah, she’s not winning any awards for the most mentally stable adult of the year.

Maybe the most unstable, though that honour probably goes to Qimir.

God, Qimir. Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

The thought of him is like a bucket of cold water dousing her from head to toe. She shivers violently, launched back into her body with an abruptness so fierce that her ears ring from the impact. 

Her limbs suddenly have weight, her lungs draw breath, whistling out through her nose. She’s chilled and queasy and so hungry that her stomach is twisting over itself in ravenous greed.

And the notion of Qimir, the spectre of him, makes her want to tear out her locs and scream and cry enough tears to fill Lake Michigan.

She levers herself up off the floor, knees aching. She’d slid down from the toilet onto the ground at some point during her brief psychotic break.

Osha hobbles over to the basin, avoids her reflection and instead splashes her face with water.

The harsh LED light is not forgiving, and she’d rather not see her failures writ large on her face. She pats her cheeks, the cool water soothing her burning skin, flushed from stress and exertion.

Once that’s done, she collects the still-positive pregnancy test and snaps a photo on her phone.

For what, she doesn’t know; maybe for proof, that it’s not all a hallucination, a figment of her overworked and sleep deprived mind.

Certainly not to send to Qimir, with the caption of, ‘Surprise!’ 

Maybe, ‘Say hello to my little friend’? Or, ‘I’m just covering all my bases, FYI,’ would send him into a tizzy, with the insinuation that she’s sleeping around. 

Of course she’s not sleeping around. Does it look like she fucking has time for that? She barely has a moment to catch up with her assistant, let alone call Mae or antagonise Qimir.

It’s a brief fantasy she entertains, before pushing it away.

Osha munches on saltine crackers and takes a few tense sips of Gatorade, standing up in her kitchen, surprised when it doesn’t make her hurl again.

Now that the offensive smell of lamb is gone, and she’s not panicking six ways to Sunday, her body has decided that some sustenance is okay, actually.

An idle thought pops up, the words of her conversation with Mae replying in her head, ‘He’s been... distant.’

Distant, how? Distant, as in, not having sex? Not being intimate?

Her stomach twists a little, but not because of morning sickness. No, it’s something more depraved than that.

Is she... feeling happy over the prospect of her sister not having sex with her baby daddy?

How low can she go, truly?

It always comes back to him, the way he makes committing the worst of mistakes feel like euphoria, like freedom, the best fucking thing in the world, nay, the galaxy. 

He’s toxic, she reminds herself, rinsing her plate in the sink, taking the Gatorade bottle with her to her tiny bedroom and shedding her clothes like a snake, crawling under the duvet naked.

He’s a snake, he’s a liar and he’s a seducer. A Casanova.

He always comes back into her life at the right time to suck her dry, take and take and take, leaving her high and dry and aching.

And hasn’t she given enough to Qimir?

But she won't give him this. his is something just for her. A secret she can nourish and cherish.

Osha cups her abdomen, soft in the regular way of someone who has a bit of flesh on her but still tries to work out on a regular basis, and imagines.

Firm and round skin under her hands, rolling kicks and nudges. Tiny, questing fingers and frail wisps of hair.

And Osha wants. God, she wants it in a way that she very much shouldn’t.

She’s single. She lives in a one-bedroom apartment. She has a limited support system here, scant friends and no family.

Her skills as a family lawyer are always in demand, and she’s sure Fennec wouldn’t begrudge her for absconding to greener pastures.

But, but, but.

Osha’s already making up justifications, formulating excuses and lies, plotting and planning.

She has time. Thank God, she has the time to make the decision she needs to make, bless Chicago and the state of Illinois. Osha can walk away, heart sore and aching, knowing that she’s made a decision to empower her future, that there’s nothing wrong in that.

Yet, she’s given up so much for Qimir; it feels like a loss to surrender another thing. And isn’t this what she’s wanted for so long? A family, a tangible connection. Another blood relation, flesh of her flesh.

And, she giggles a little deliriously, they’d make pretty babies. Qimir’s otherworldly beautiful and she’s no slouch, either.

Boy or girl? Who would they look like more, her or Qimir?

Maybe a mix of them both, a sweet boy with her curls and Qimir’s brown eyes and smile, or a darling girl with brown-tinted hair and golden skin, with Osha’s nose and lips.

She wishes she could talk to someone, anyone. Tasi, maybe, but she burned that bridge a long time ago, alongside Mog.

Mae, maybe, but she’d be so freaked out then demand to know who the father is.

Fillik is her only friend at the practice, and even then, he’s only a drinking buddy. Maybe not even that, now, seeing as she’s been avoiding him for the past few months.

Osha winces when she recalls how she’d treated him, after their drunken indulgence, the way that she’d kicked Fillik out after a kiss, even though she’d instigated it. She’d just been so lonely...

You could call Osha a master of self-sabotage. A PhD candidate in it. A Grandmaster in it, if the way she’d folded and allowed Qimir to fuck her, again, was any indication.

Even after she’d sworn to stay away from him.

‘You’ll be back,’ he’d said, like a prophecy. And look where she is now, back to square one, fucked over by Qimir, yet again. Unknowing as it was.

Or is it?

No, how could he have known about her antibiotics cancelling out the pill? He’d just been his usual self, shooting cum into her with no concern about the consequences, trusting that she’d taken care of herself.

Yet, Osha can’t rule it out. He’d always included it as a part of dirtytalk when they were younger, and while the concept of being bred had driven her absolutely hogwild, she’d shuddered to recall it after the fact.

It sounds like a fucking telenovela plot, or one of those outlandish Filipino dramas – pregnant with my twin’s boyfriend’s baby! Who is also, gasp, my adopted brother!

Give her a break. She’d scoff at the screen, if it were anyone else, because how stupid do you have to be?

Very, very stupid, it turns out.

He’s always wanted to leave a mark on her, stake his claim. It had been flattering when she was younger; all this attention on her, his singular devotion. The intensity with which he applied himself to making her come, making her scream, making her cry in pleasure.

The way he’d wrapped himself around her, solid and strong, forearm snaking under her breasts and pulling her closer to him.

Then he’d whisper, all sorts of things; promises about the future, after college, the places they’d travel, the souvenirs they’d buy, the food they’d eat.

Fucked out, spent and sated, she’d given no regard to what Sol might think of them absconding to parts unknown, only humming her assent, satisfaction thrumming through her, a sense of wholeness.

It had been easy, then, to lie to herself. To allow those gentle ideas to take seed inside her, to shyly bud and spread their leaves.

The way he spoke to her, she could almost believe that he wanted her, actually wanted her, not just using her because she’s convenient or to prove something to himself. Or possibly get one over Sol, or all three.

And sometimes, very rarely, she’d even allowed herself to entertain the notion of love.

She loves to hate him.

She hates to love him.

Two sides of the same coin.

She knows his love will tear her to pieces, his tender hands remaking her into his image.

She gives an inch, he takes a mile.

That’s not love, though. She knows it now; it’s possession.

And he’s always wanted to possess her, going to extreme lengths to do so. Even now, what he’s doing with Mae, feels like another way to get at her. But if she voices that, it just sounds insane and wildly self-absorbed

And who would she tell, anyway? Who would even believe her, after so many years of keeping this a secret?

Logic fights her desire for connection, the head and the heart at war.

That night, she thinks about what she should do, what’s better for her, versus what her heart has ached for.

In the end, without a wink of sleep, dawn creeping pale blue on the edge of the horizon, her loneliness and secret desire make the decision for her.

Fuck Qimir, for thinking that this could bind her further to him.

I’m keeping it, she thinks defiantly, spitefully.

Despite what Sol would think of her, getting pregnant out of wedlock. Despite how Qimir might never know, or never want to be a father.

Despite the risk of Mae finding out who the father is.

Because it’s hers. This baby is half of her, and oh God, she’s already thinking of it as a baby, and not just a bundle of cells.

Mine.

Osha traces her stomach again, hip to hip, trailing a finger over her flesh, pushing in.

Right there, cradled in her pelvis. A dot, a period, a full stop.

Barely anything, a blip.

Yet it’s changed her world, reoriented her priorities.

Her alarm shrieks, phone vibrating across her nightstand, perilously close to the edge. She’s still in her clothes from the day, her mouth is dry and she desperately needs a shower to scrape off the dried sweat on the body.

She should be tired, wrung out from spewing up a storm and barely getting an hour of sleep.

Yet, she’s energised, impatient, ready to get this over and done with.

Such a difference from the ennui she’d been experiencing for months before Christmas.

She has a purpose now; maybe it’s stupid, latching on to this idea of a baby so quickly. A child won’t heal her issues, won’t fix her messed up head and shiftless life. Hell, it might fuck it up even more.

She might even… She might not even get so far as holding them. It could be gone in a month, in a moment.

Osha has to try. She wants to try, despite all the trouble she’s courting, with this one choice.

She’s stubborn, though, The same stubbornness that got her through multiple foster homes, her survival instinct rearing its head. She’s nothing if not adaptable.

Even if she’s not ready right this moment, she will be.

Come what may, hell or high water.

Then

The signs were all there, from day one.

If Osha traces back her memory, replays the highlight reel of sex they’ve had over the years, skin and slick and screams, moments blurring into each other, then it’s truly no surprise.

Qimir has, for lack of a better way to describe it, a breeding kink. It started off as something no more innocuous than a come kink, and morphed from there.

And she’s terribly, horribly into it, because as twisted as Qimir is, she’s just as bad.

They’ve always, as the youth say these days, ‘matched each other’s freak’. Even when it’s something that she hardly wants to admit to herself, Qimir brings it out in her.

Her worst instincts, her worser impulses. Qimir draws it out of her, gives it teeth, draws blood.

He drives her to newer and wilder heights, always has. Even when they were teens, newly reunited after a year apart in college. Her, at UChi and him at UCLA.

A condition of staying on mommy’s trust fund, being close enough to reprimand in case he got ideas.

Otherwise, he would have followed her right to Chicago and back.

They make fuck-me eyes at each other they moment they reunite, when he picks her up at the airport, as a favour to Sol. He’s waiting for her as she drags her suitcase behind her, eye scanning the crowd in front of her, until they land on him.

There he is, arms crossed over his chest, standing out in the mass of people. She’s drawn to him, like always.

He’d arrived a few hours ahead of her but he’s looking sharp as ever, in a dark tee tight at the arms and dark jeans that show off his long legs, with a studded belt and loose, swoopy hair.

She’s already pulsing between her legs as he wheels her suitcase with her duffle bag strap looped around the handle. He’s walking so fast, she struggles to keep up.

“Hey,” she complains, pumping her legs faster. It shouldn’t be so hard to match his pace, when she’s wearing her nicest pair of sneakers. “Slow down.”

“Can’t,” he throws back, and she glimpses a golden dimple and the flash of a grin before he starts running, black sneakers pounding the asphalt.

“You little shit!”

She’s yelling, breathless, as she chases him towards where his Roadster is parked between two other cars. The airport parking lot is fucking enormous, and she’s panting when she finally arrives at the vehicle, needing to take a moment to lean against the passenger door.

“You need to work on that stamina, Osha,” he’s condescending as he casually throws her heavy as fuck duffle in the back seat, the top down because he’s still infuriatingly cavalier about his car being stolen.

Osha glares up at him, smoothing down her locs already frizzing from the Washington humidity. “Not everyone is a gym junkie like you,” she retorts.

Qimir expertly fits her suitcase inside the boot of his handle while she boggles at him, golden tanned biceps flexing as he slides it in, hands broad and veined.

Those hands that—

Shut the fuck up.

Osha doesn’t need to be making the horniness worse. She can’t give into him this fucking quickly. It hasn’t even been an hour, for Christ’s sake.

They take off down the highway at high speed, wind ruffling through her locs and sun warm on her skin, a rarity for Washington in the summer.

“So,” she starts awkwardly, in an attempt to distract herself from how good he looks in his Aviator shades, “How have you been?”

He huffs a laugh, slanting a look at her from behind his sepia-tinted sunglasses, his hair fluttering like a supermodel’s over his forehead. “Good.”

The words thrum with some unspoken meaning, as if he’s telling her, Go on, what do you really want to say?

Except, ‘Did you miss me?’ isn’t something she can casually throw out.

Especially not when he’d be so insufferable about it.

“That’s good,” she replies, hands twisting in her lap.

“How’s freshman year?” he asks her, and she hums, noncommittal.

“Come on,” he cajoles her. “Tell me what you really think.”

Osha sighs, rubbing her chest where the lace of her tank is scratching at her skin, then launches into a vent on her various frustrations: the indignity of sharing a tiny dorm room, the bland ass food, the hyper-competitive students in her pre-Law Poli Sci course, how fucking expensive everything is, barely covered by her full-ride scholarship.

She touches, only briefly, on the abysmal state of the dating scene on campus, before realising that she’s not talking to Tasi.

Fuck, what’s he going to say?

Qimir doesn’t say anything, only clenches his jaw and grips the wheel tighter, knuckles turning white. Osha chews her lower lip, contemplating.

They’d never talked about what would happen when they split for college, not really.

He’d never promised her exclusivity and she’d never asked for it. It was an unspoken contract; you fuck who you want, and I’ll do the same.

Except, it looks like he does have an issue with it.

Should she poke and prod and provoke him?

Common sense says, ‘No’, but she’s just spent the better part of four and a half hours napping on the plane, so she’s raring to go.

And she has missed him, just a little, for the adrenaline rush he gives her.

“Sorry, does that bother you?” she asks, sickly sweet. “I won’t bring it up again.”

“It doesn’t,” Qimir says, through gritted teeth.

Osha can’t see his eyes due to his sunglasses, but she bets they’re burning. She feels it, that hot gaze, on the thin spaghetti straps of her white tank, the strip of exposed skin between the hem of her top and her skirt, the smooth expanse of her legs. Freshly shaved.

“Then you won’t mind if I ask you for some advice?”

Butter wouldn’t melt in her fucking mouth. “You’re a guy, right? You know how their minds work.”

She’s laying it on a little thick, but she gets the response she wants; he snorts, then bites his lip, sucking the pink flesh into his mouth.

Osha watches, transfixed, as he shakes his head a little, while still keeping his eyes on the road.

“You want some brotherly advice?” he offers, and she nods.

“Don’t put out for any of those bastards. College guys only want one thing.”

So, of course they end up fucking in the front seat of his Roadster while parked in some nondescript corner of the city, on the way back home.

Soft top closed; they’re not total degenerates.

But they can’t wait, not even a second, clawing at each other like they’re starved, Qimir pushing his seat all the way back so she can crawl over him, riding his thigh then unzipping his jeans. She draws him out of his trunks, pumping over him, spitting right on his dick to get him slick.

“Fuck,” his head thuds back onto the leather headrest, eyelashes fluttering rapidly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows harshly.

He can play cool all he likes, but she knows him. He might think that he can play her, but he’s an Atari CX40 joystick in her hands.

The head of his cock is dark red, flushed and throbbing in her grip, and she wants to lean down and take him into her mouth. She’s missed it, as insane as it sounds.

College had been… educational.

And by educational, she means in the academic sense, not the sexual sense, because the latter had fucking bored her.

She hadn’t known how good she had it with Qimir, until she’d been summarily disappointed by the so-called ‘prowess’ of the male student body population.

All of Qimir’s dirty talking had been accurate; those frat boys really couldn’t hit it like him. Nor the jocks or the nerds, who were surprisingly hung. She’d had okay experiences, but no one who’d really blown her mind the way she was craving.

Qimir hadn’t been a fluke, then. He’s the real McCoy.

He finds her clit with unerring accuracy, even from behind, slippery and slick. He plays with her as she grinds onto his fingers, and she’s enjoying watching him fall apart, but it’s been too long and she needs him in her now.

“Come on,” she breathes, releasing him to brace her hands on his chest, lifting her ass to line herself up.

He teases her, because he can’t help himself, “So eager, baby. Missed me that bad?”

“Shut up,” she bites at his mouth, sinking her teeth into his bottom lip as she sinks down onto him, and they moan in unison.

Her eyes flutter shut at the bruising fullness of his cock, her cunt pulsing around him.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he hisses, and yeah, she’s smug.

Osha rides him like that, cold metal biting her thighs, tank top pushed down from the shoulders, tits hanging out of her bra, skirt flipped up and tucked into her waistband.

He guides her, both hands on her ass and digging in as she undulates her hips, relishing the drag of his thick cock against her walls, the fat head pressing on her G-spot, reaching somewhere deep inside her.

She’s making a mess all over his jeans, slick smearing everywhere, glistening on his lower abdomen where he’s taken his shirt off, but she doesn’t fucking care because he’s hitting her just right, fuck.

He pants, pink mouth wet with her spit, looking up at her like she’s God. She bounces on him until her thighs can’t handle any more, and then he braces his knees and fucks up into her, the force of his thrusts sending stars careening across her vision, the obscene squelching noises and the visual of him disappearing inside her hurtling her straight towards climax.

“Oh, fuck,” she whines, hips stuttering over him as the pressure winds inside her, tightening around his cock. “Oh baby, oh fuck, oh please, please—”

“Come for me, doll,” he grunts, sweat running down his pectorals, biceps flexing, wisps of hair plastered to his forehead. His teeth are bared in a snarl, his eyes liquid dark and focused on her face.

“I need— I need—,” but she doesn’t even have to articulate it because Qimir just knows.

“Baby wants it rough, does she?”

And he obliges her, holding tight enough to bruise, fucking up into her even harder, balls slapping against her ass, and she’s raking her nails down his shoulders, marking up his neck with her mouth, harsh and bruising kisses.

“Look at me,” he rasps, when the tenor of her moans change, catching in her throat, only pitiful whimpers escaping, because she’s about to—

“Look at me in the eyes when you come, doll.”

He swallows her scream when the pressure explodes inside her, searing bliss all through her body, from the tips of her fingers to her toes, shivering violently as she clenches around the girth of his cock, still shoving inside her.

“Gonna fill you up,” Qimir promises her, as he refocuses on chasing his pleasure. “Paint the inside of this sweet pussy. Did you let anyone else come in you, doll?”

Osha tucks her face into his neck, shaking her denial, but he frees a hand to pull at her locs. The jolt of pain shoots right to her cunt.

“Give me a proper answer, baby,” he’s half-feral, teeth gleaming white. “Did you let those college boys come inside you?”

“No,” she mewls, mouth hanging open, because even though she’s just come herself, she can feel it building again, heavy and ruinous. “Just you.”

It slips out of her mouth, that last part. Qimir clearly loves it, because he moans lowly, sounding like he’s being tortured, face scrunching up in pleasure as his cock jerks, filling her with his cum like he promised.

Her pussy pulses at the feeling, the sense of wholeness, fluttering weakly as he empties himself inside her, like he’s been saving it all up just for her.

Shit. Shit, that’s hot.

He pays worship to her later in the cramped backseat as well, burying his face between her thighs and eating his cum out, then shooting another load in her straight after.

They’re like horny rabbits, fucking everywhere. Sol being away while finishing up a case right before their summer vacation trip gives them the freedom to have sex all over the house.

Osha lets him fuck her one more time, in the kitchen bent over the counter, before she pushes him off and complains about the mess between her thighs.

“I need a shower, I’m gross.”

She drains a glass of water in one go, knowing that he’s watching the way her throat works to swallow down the liquid, setting the cup in sink to rinse later, then flounces upstairs.

She’s not an idiot; she gathers up their clothes from the trail they’d left leading from the front door, clutching it in front of her body as she runs up the stairs.

Heavy steps echo behind her, and she shrieks as Qimir scoops her up in his arms, taking the steps two at a time as he bridal-carries her into his room, throwing her down her down on the bed.

Her whole body bounces as she hits the mattress, and he eyes her tits hungrily as he crawls over her, cock swinging, lean body still beaded with sweat.

Osha kicks out a foot and rests it on his chest, firmly.

“Shower,” she emphasises.

Qimir’s grin turns devilish, and she catches onto his line of thought before he can voice it, “Just me.”

His eyes turn pleading, lips pouting a bit, and she folds.

“Fine, but keep your hands to yourself.”

He doesn’t, of fucking course he doesn’t manage to stop his natural instinct to be handsy as hell.

If she thought her desperately unsexy shower cap would stop him…

Nope. There’s no deterring him.

But she can’t complain when she’s arching into him, her back to his chest, as he soaps her up with a delicious amber and musk bodywash, paying extra attention to her breasts, her thighs, dipping between her legs to tease the lips of her cunt.

“Qimir,” she protests, keening as he captures her clit between his index and middle fingers and rubs, sparking heat through her body.

She should be sore. She kind of is, but her body wants him more, beginning that slow climb back into active arousal.

He at least lets her finish her shower before trying anything beyond playing with her clit, but he still ekes a knee-shaking orgasm out of her. Osha has to brace her hands against the wall, moans bouncing off the grey-tiled walls of the ensuite, while Qimir slides his hard cock against her ass.

Having sex again is a bad idea, an eminently terrible idea. She’s dickmatised, though, and he can coax her into doing nearly anything.

Like when he comes in her and immediately withdraws, even as she moans weakly, boneless on his bed after he’d put her through the mattress, hips still elevated with one of his expensive duck feather pillows.

Osha glances up and he’s staring as her pussy, leaking his spend.

“Do you think,” Qimir says contemplatively, stroking the lips of her abused cunt, “you’d ever let me knock you up?”

What the actual fuck?

Osha’s neck strains as she glares up at him. “What is wrong with you?”

He smirks at her. “Oh baby,” and he slides all three of his fingers into her easily, cunt still sloppy and loose from his come. Her back bows up as he continues to speak, “So, so much. So, would you do it? I think you would.”

Qimir starts fucking her with his fingers, obscene and slick and loud. “How do you think Sol would react?” he curves up and her vision goes white, pressing hard against her G-spot, curving up on the outstroke.

“You fuck,” she gasps, trying to clamp her legs shut but he just forces her thighs open with a firm hand, the other thrusting up into her so fast and hard that she almost loses it, thrashing and sobbing.

He gets her off like that, telling her about all the ways he could fill her up, while his fingers squelch inside her, thumb pressing on her clit, until she abruptly comes and soaks the bed with it.

“Fuck,” Osha gasps, as if it’s the only thing she can say, prodigious mind wiped clean with orgasm.

“I think it’d be fun,” Qimir says, nuzzling her ear, breath washing hot over her ear. He thrusts against her stomach, and fuck, he’s hard again. “I think I will get you pregnant. Then you’d stay with me, instead of flouncing back to Chicago.”

What is his problem?

Despite being fucked out six ways from Sunday, Osha finds the strength to struggle against him and curse.

“I think the fuck not,” she grits out.

"You want this," he rasps against her neck, and she tries to kick at him, foot slipping on his sweaty chest.

"Fuck!" Osha cries out, as he gets his hands under her and flips her, face down in his unwashed sheets, almost smothering her.

She tries to close her legs, bucking against him, but he slips his knee between them, then leans down to press one hand on the back of her neck. 

The other takes her right arm and twists it behind her back, using it as leverage.

She gasps, a shot of adrenaline zipping through her, chased by heady lust.

"Be good, Osha," Qimir murmurs, and then lines himself up, thrusting into her wet heat again.

Qimir never uses a fucking condom. Osha despairs for it, even as she moans.

“I think you’d like it,” he starts, running his mouth like he always does, panting in between the words as his hand tightens on her arm. It’ll likely bruise.

“Everyone will know that you're taken, that you're mine. Can’t hide a pregnancy, doll. Twins run in your family.”

“No,” she whines, even as she lifts her hips up for a better angle, pleasure streaking through her. She’d never allow him to ruin her future like that, so it's a good thing she's been on birth control since she was fourteen.

Osha can allow herself to enjoy it, his brutal thrusts and the filth dripping from his mouth as he promises not to let her out of bed all night, because she's going to be a good little cumslut and let him breed her, let him blow in her again and again until she's leaking everywhere—

"You like that?" he growls, spanking her ass until she wails and throbs around him. "Fucking say it."

"I love it," she babbles, lost in the fucking sauce, too fucked out to comprehend what she's saying. "I want it, I want it all, please pleaseplease—"

"I’ll give it to you," Qimir promises, "I’ll give you," he slaps her again and her eyes roll back, the patch of drool under her cheek growing, "fucking everything."

She’ll feel guilty and dirty, afterwards for how much she’s into it, but for now, she allows him to drill into her.

“Gonna ruin this pussy for anybody else,” he promises her, bouncing her back onto his cock with a wet slap.

She’s a limp doll for his using, her pleasure crests higher and higher, pussy clamping tighter yet still soaked, and she’s bucking back into his grip on her hips, dick driving so deep.

It’s an itch she needs scratched, but also an inferno, and he feeds it and feeds it until she’s blazing, radiating heat and moaning so loudly she’ll be surprised if they don’t get a noise complaint, lit up from within, sheer bliss baptising her in unholy flames.

“No one else will fuck you like this,” he snarls, leaning in to press his teeth into the round of her shoulder, chest plastered to her back, dripping with perspiration. His canines sink in, bright pinpricks of pain that fuel the fire.

He bites down and grinds in, slow and deep, and she burns, ecstasy suffusing her body. Spark meet gasoline.

Osha moans into the bed, teeth clenched around nothing, wishing she had something to bite down on.

“Fuck,” she sobs, muffled, even as he demands an answer from her.

“I said,” he snakes a hand around her throat, drawing her neck up. “No one else, doll.”

“No one,” she repeats desperately, tears trailing down her face. “No one else, no one, please, Qimir—"

He squeezes his hand and her pussy clenches down on him, still sensitive from her earlier orgasm. He’s overloading her senses, all five of them, with the way he tastes, his mouth all minty from his toothpaste, the scent of his cologne mingling with the sweet musk of his sweat.

How he looks, as he bends her neck back to look at him upside down and the way he sounds, grunting and groaning, always so vocal for her. How he feels, still shoving into her, hitting her G-spot and stimulating her clit with how her legs are clasped together.

“Fuck me,” she chants, biting her lip, “fuck me, fuck me, God.”

“That’s right, baby,” he jerks her back onto his cock in choppy thrusts, so close to coming but wanting her to have another. “Come for me, you can do it, just one more.”

He reaches around her front to stroke through her folds, where she’s stretched around his cock, then slides up to pinch at her clit.

Fuck, fuck—

Her orgasm crashes over her, sweeping her up in its tide, almost drowning her as she weeps openly. It’s so good, he’s so fucking good at this, fuck—

“Yes,” he hisses lowly, pumping inside her, and she feels a wet bloom of heat inside her as he slows down, lodging deep inside of her. “Take my cum, baby.”

Her cunt pulses, drawing him further in, and he couldn’t pull out even if he wanted to. Thankfully he doesn’t, leaning his bulk on her, like a weighted blanket.

Fucked out of her mind, in a state of peace two steps away from Nirvana, Osha hums happily, sinking into the bed.

Qimir eventually hauls them up the bed, and Osha mumbles sleepily as he shifts onto his side, until her cheek is plastered to his chest.

Somehow, he manages not to dislodge the cock still sheathed inside her. He traces her puffy folds, then the slick mess leaking out from where his dick is buried in her. “Not gonna let a drop escape,” he whispers, like it’s a promise.

“You freak,” she slurs sleepily, rubbing her nose on one of his nipples, feeling his chest vibrate under her with a laugh.

She slips that easily into sleep, her last thoughts being that if she gets a UTI from this, she’s going to kill him.

Now

There’s a lot of thinking involved, over the next few weeks.

She gets into contact immediately with her OBGYN’s office and schedules her initial pregnancy consult. It must be her lucky day, the medical secretary exclaims, because there’s an appointment that’s just opened up in just a few days’ time, in the afternoon.

Though she’s been there before, it’ll be a longer consult as the doctor will likely perform an ultrasound on her and give her extra information tailored to her condition and how far along she is.

Osha absentmindedly makes noises of assent to show that she’s listening, while blocking off her diary for that time.

Apparently, she wrinkles her nose, she should drink a litre of water starting from an hour before the appointment as well, and hold her pee.

Ugh.

She waits in tension while two days pass by her, the rigour of work and her cases a blur, until the moment she’s in Dr Kanata’s office, flat on her black, sensible blouse pushed up past her stomach and trousers unbuttoned and shimmied down to expose her belly.

“There we are,” Dr Kanata, call me Maz, croaks, pressing down rather too hard, in Osha’s opinion, on her overly full bladder. “You’re lucky I didn’t need to get the wand out.”

Jesus. Osha is terrified of the transvaginal ultrasound wand.

Dr Kanata is a wizened slip of a woman, with surprisingly strong, yet gentle hands. She'd made Osha's pap smears feel like a breeze, but even she wouldn’t want that thing anywhere near her.

The screen comes into focus, and Osha can’t tell what’s what on the screen, but it clearly must be positive because Maz is beaming.

“There’s your little jellybean,” she points at the screen, where a tiny bundle is. It looks like a tadpole. A very Xeroxed, black and white tadpole. “Looks to be eight weeks along, now.”

Maz flips a button and suddenly, a whoosh and rhythmic wub-wub-wub sounds fill the room.

“And there’s your baby’s heartbeat,” she smiles, and Osha immediately tears up.

Fuck. Fuck.

She’d never—

She hadn’t ever contemplated children in a serious way, despite Qimir’s overt and persistent breeding kink, one that she shared. It was just words, just play.

She’d known that nothing could come out of it, had revelled in Qimir’s words of possession and ownership, never imagining them as reality,

But she should have. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

Or, as the venerable Dr. Ian Malcolm once said, “Life finds a way.”

Christ. How far has she fallen that she’s quoting Jurassic Park?

Osha laughs through her tears, the room blurring, her baby up on that ultrasound blurring, her vision only black and white and pops of colour from the wall art.

What was that she’d thought all those years ago? If you don’t laugh, you’re going to cry?

Yeah, well. She’s doing both.

Maz gives her a few moments to get the tears out, silently handing her a wad of tissues, and Osha blows her nose loudly as she sits up, gel already expertly wiped away.

She aims the tissue ball in the waste basket and then buttons up her pants, smoothing down her blouse.

There. Like nothing ever happened,

Except, her world has shifted on its axis.

Once Osha has retaken her seat in front of Maz’s desk, the diminutive women congratulates her, gripping her hands in her own strong, wrinkly ones. Hands that have delivered countless babies, some of them resting peacefully in the embrace of parents arms or sleepily bent into sweet positions for the camera, capturing their adorableness.

“How are you feeling?” Maz asks, settling back into her leather desk chair. It creaks, though Maz’s weight is insubstantial.

“Physically?” Osha clarifies, not without a hint of humour.

Maz nods.

“I feel okay,” she fiddles with her hands. “But you know that this wasn’t exactly… planned.”

She winces.

“You have options, Osha. Do you want me to give you an overview?”

Her jaw clenches, sinuses pricking with a another round tears. How blessed she is, to have this non-judgemental, neutral care. If Osha said she wanted a medical termination, Maz would make it happen the next week.

As it is, however…

Her hands settle over her stomach, in the way that’s become a reflex over the past week. It’s absentminded, instinctive.

“Thank you,” she tells Maz. “But I think... I think I’ve made up my mind about it. I’m keeping it.”

Her hands strokes over her belly as she says it, imagining that little dot getting bigger day by day. She’s already downloaded the pregnancy tracker app, excited to see what object her baby will resemble in the weeks, months to come.

Maz doesn’t ask her who the dad is. Where the dad is. It’s telling enough that Osha’s not divulging, that she hasn’t brought someone to the appointment with her.

And Osha doesn’t know what she’d say. Maybe, he’s an ex she’d had a bout (a few bouts) of ill-advised sex with? Close enough to the truth, and very much what she’s going to tell her therapist, when Dr Holden’s waitlist clears up.

Maz writes up her recommendations for prenatal vitamins and hands her an informational booklet about what foods are beneficial and what to avoid during pregnancy.

Osha checks in that her drinking hasn’t harmed baby in any way, and Maz waves her away.

“Pah, I know you’re not an alcoholic. But that reminds me, we need to do a set of bloods.”

Osha has her blood drawn, and gets another pathology form for fasting tests. She’ll have to start keeping a manila folder for her various forms and prescriptions.

She’s restless when she gets home, Fennec advising her to take the rest of the day off when she’d heard that Osha had a specialist appointment, and she paces her small apartment.

She tries working on a few of her cases, but can’t find her concentration.

She ends up making a list of the states in which hers and Qimir’s relationship would be legal, but it’s a short list: Rhode island and New Jersey. Maybe Kansas.

Which is fucking ridiculous, actually, because it’s not like they’re related by blood.

But the law is the law, and apparently, ‘Many states also apply incest laws to non-blood relations, including stepparents, stepsiblings, in-laws and people related through adoption.’

Thanks, Wikipedia. That’s really reassuring.

It’s a grey area, and she’s not exactly willing to inquire with a lawyer whether or not her fucking her adopted brother in the state of Washington was legal or not.

Reddit is no fucking help, offering conflicting advice, and she wants to tear her hair out after Google result page after result page doesn’t yield any answers.

She stops researching, for the sake of her blood pressure and the health of her baby.

What’s done is done, and it’s not like it’s relevant for the future. She doesn’t plan on Qimir being a part of this baby’s future.

It’s a lonely thought, that she’ll be going it alone, but she does have some friends here. Maybe. Fillik counts, rights?

And Sabine said she was moving up West again, getting out of New Yord with her girlfriend, so she’ll be in town as well.

God, she needs to make some friends if she wants any chance at getting out this on the other side sane.

There are new aches and pains in her body, like the constant, low-grade nausea that acts as her companion throughout the day, and the mysterious back pain that crops up every so often.

Apparently, even though baby isn’t a substantial weight, most of the back pain she’s currently experiencing is the result of ligaments and joints relaxing, preparing her body for labour.

Osha drifts through a department store, idly contemplating the offerings. She combs through the baby clothes section, fingering the cotton and ruffles and miniature versions of adult outfits, catching herself cooing out loud.

It’s not too crowded, on a Sunday afternoon, but she still sees couples and parents roaming, a little pang of wistfulness striking her.

She moves from the children’s section to the women’s section, wondering if they have any maternity dresses. She doesn’t go to the office often, but she’d still like to dress up with nice clothes.

On the days that she doesn’t have client meetings at the office, she works from home, grateful for the concessions her boss has given her. Fennec doesn’t know, but she suspects.

She’s scaled back her work hours to account for her health, but she’s working twice as hard in the time that she has. She’s not showing, yet, at barely eleven weeks, but the exhaustion that consumes her is like nothing else.

All the same, she’d rather wait until thirteen weeks to tell Fennec, so that she’ll be firmly in the second trimester. This is her first pregnancy, and maybe only, so she’s wary and superstitious about saying something too early.

Osha hasn’t even told Mae yet, which she knows her twin might be hurt by, after missing out on so much time. She hopes Mae understands.

It’s silly, but she’s so invested now. She’s started daily cocoa butter massages on her stomach, loving the glide of the cream over her belly, the comforting smell. It’s a little ritual just for her.

Her nose has become more sensitive as the pregnancy has progressed, even moreso than it was before. She’s lured towards the fragrance section, her favourite past-time being scenting perfumes and puzzling out the notes.

Chloe, Marc Jacobs, Kenzo, Paco Rabanne, Guerlain, Burberry, Dior, Chanel...

She passes by the Maison Francis set-up when she catches a whiff of a scent so familiar, it makes her pulse speed up and she stops in her tracks: amber, oud, musk.

Fuck.

She swings around, certain that Qimir’s tracked her down somehow, but no. There’s just a startled employee spraying a dark bottle of perfume onto thick cardstock, waving it in the air. The source of the smell.

Shit, that was a jumpscare

If even the smell of Qimir’s perfume can knock her so off-kilter, how is she going to deal with him in-person?

Her proposed solution is not to interact with him at all, pretend he doesn’t exist, but he’s still Mae’s boyfriend. She might decide to bring him on a trip with her.

They have one scheduled in April, over Easter. Osha wants to show Mae around Chicago, as she’s never been. It’s always been Osha flying, or on one regrettable occasion, driving down to see Mae.

Hey, Essence Fest had been worth it, but at what cost? She’d had to drive back to Chicago with a gnarly hang-over.

Oh god, oh god, what if Qimir turns up? She’ll be about twenty weeks, then. What if he finds out?

It’ll be obvious when she’s not drinking and smoking with Mae, two activities she’d mostly avoided while at Sol’s, but indulges with abundance when she’s with her twin.

He’s going to know, he’s not stupid. He can do fucking math. But, maybe.

Maybe, maybe, he might not turn up.

Osha doesn’t know whether it’s her prior experience clouding her judgement, but she senses trouble in paradise.

Mae talks about Qimir increasingly less, blaming his busy work schedule for their lack of contact. They haven’t moved in together yet, not that far into the relationship.

Qimir travels. Like, a lot, mainly for his work, but mostly because he’s a shiftless asshole who can’t put down roots. The last bit is something that Osha’s figured out for herself, not anything that Mae’s said.

He has apartments in a few states that he either stays in temporarily or rents out, as well as a home in California left to him by Vernestra a few years ago when she kicked the bucket.

Osha’s never met Vernestra, and she was still deep in her denial phase of Qimir. She supposes she should have been the better person, reached out to ask him if he was okay, but she’d been so bitter.

The most she’d done was ask Sol if Qimir was okay, and he’d said, “he’s coping.”

She’d also asked after Sol, of course, but they’d been divorced for years at that point, and they’d only really married for tax reasons in the first place.

Qimir had never been fond of Vernestra, never spoken of her kindly to Osha when they were on talking (fucking) terms, but she was still his mother for a large part of his life, from the time he was eight.

She ignores the part of her that’s jealous that he at least got to experience parental affection, or at least guidance, for the majority of his life. He’s had Sol since he was eight, whereas she’d had foster parents who she thought had loved her, right up until they’d abandoned her.

Which brings her to the question: what sort of parent is she going to be?

If she strains her memory, thinks back to when she was eight and earlier, she can recall gentle words from Mama, soft hands, the guiding voice of Mother Koril, or Mom.

The way they’d so seamlessly parented the twins, handling their tantrums, presenting a united front, melding their unique styles of parenting together. Always knowing what they needed.

Maybe it’s nostalgia clouding her momery. Maybe they weren’t really that good moms, and they would have struggled as the twins grew older and into their own personalities.

It’s so hard to recall, when a lot of her formative years as a teen were spent trying to suppress the better times, so she wouldn’t hurl herself off a bridge from grief.

I wish, she thinks, coming across an early as hell advertisement for Mother’s Day, an older woman and her adult daughter embracing. I really wish you were here, either of you.

But if either of them were here, she wouldn’t be in this situation with Qimir. She wouldn’t be here at all, probably still living close enough to her mothers to make it to Friday dinner, or Thursday Movie Night, or whatever tradition she would have established with them.

She tears herself out of the daydream, finding her hands caressing the cheap metal frame of the poster.

She... should probably figure out what she’s going to tell Mae.

Fuck.

The countdown passes, and thirteen weeks arrives before she knows it.

She doesn’t call Mae.

Fourteen weeks comes, and the nausea finally eases. But now her insatiable appetite rears its head— for food, and… other things.

She bites the bullet and finally tells Fennec, in person, at the office. She's wearing a spring-appropriate chic ruffled dress.

Which is very unlike her.

“This is new,” her boss says, leaning back on her desk and crossing her toned arms. “All this,” she twirls her finger at Osha’s outfit, which expertly conceals her tiny bump, “fluff.”

So sue her, she’s a little paranoid.

Fennec Shand is a lean, mean, fighting machine. She takes MMA and BJJ in her spare time. Osha has seen her flip a client’s angry ex-husband over her head in one swift, clean move. She’s a certified badass.

Osha gathers her courage, takes a seat in the chair furthest from Fennec’s standing form, and tells her straight-up,

“I’m pregnant.”

Fennec’s eyes narrow, then her face cracks into a small grin.

“I knew it!”

She’s also a secret softie, which is how Osha had known that she wouldn’t be upset by this news, and she’s right.

“How far along? Don’t tell me if you’re less than thirteen weeks.”

Fennec comes to sit next to her, instead of going behind the desk, and that’s one of the reasons Osha loves her.

The work might be overwhelming as the fifth circle of hell. She’s definitely underpaid for the calibre of work she does and she needs a better assistant, but her boss is cool as hell and always has her back.

“Second trimester, now. Fourteen weeks,” she adds, and Fennec nods.

“I didn’t know you were trying,” she says.

“Neither did I,” Osha admits ruefully, and Fennec snorts, tilting her head. It reminds her painfully of Qimir.

There’s a reason why she was drawn to Fennec at the initial interview, despite offers from, what others would arguably call, ‘bigger’ firms.

She’d just gotten Osha; took one look at her and clocked her immediately, and Osha's been eternally loyal to her ever since.

“Unplanned?” Fennec already knows the answer.

“Yup,” Osha pops the ‘p’.

“You know I can’t— “

“Show me any favouritism?” Osha nods her head. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’m still giving you leave to work as much as you want from home.”

Osha concedes, ducking her head. That goes without saying.

Then, in a softer tone, “Let me know if you need anything.”

Osha draws her eyes up. Fennec pats her hand, a quick stroke of her thumb, and pulls away.

“We’ll sort out your leave when we get to it.”

Osha huffs out a breath. “FMLA,” she offers, and Fennec clicks her tongue.

“We can do better than twelve weeks of unpaid leave.”

“Sixteen, max, half-pay,” Osha negotiates.

“Eighteen weeks at full-pay,” Fennec pushes. “And you’re coming back only part-time.”

Osha opens her mouth to protest, incensed, “I need— “

“Four days. We’ll make up the difference for that extra day. And I want you logging your hours, properly.” Fennec looks at her sternly. “None of that time in lieu bullshit. You work a minute over the clock, you let me know.”

“Okay,” Osha pouts. Then, realising how ungrateful she sounds, she rushes out, “Thank you. I don’t…”

She’s lost for words, truly. This is more than she expected, especially in their cut-throat world where so many women don’t make it because of suppressed or thwarted ambition.

Fennec pushes her shoulder lightly. “Okay, get out of here with that sentimental stuff.”

Osha throws a cheeky salute.

“Ay-ay, captain.”

It’s nerve-wracking, gathering up the courage to call Mae.

It’s been a week since the last time they talked, and Mae’s been snowed under with a few commissions. Osha’s been busy herself, working diligently on a major settlement.

She blocks out an hour of time in her calendar on a Thursday afternoon, from four to five, basically giving herself an early finish. She’s going to need it if things turn sour.

Don’t do the fucking math, she begs Mae. It’s never been her strong suit, or so she’d complained to Osha in one of their many shared discussions about how college had been an absolute trip for them.

They’d reunited after Osha had made concerted efforts to relocate Mae, not knowing that she was doing the same over eight hundred miles away.

She’d gotten the idea after she’d spent a week volunteering for Camp HepSIBah, a summer camp program reuniting siblings separated by the foster system.

The first time she’d seen a pair of sisters reunite, she’d had to excuse herself, running to the surprisingly clean Port-A-Potty near the camp offices. She’d cried her eyes out, then splashed water on her face and went to greet the batch of newcomers, pasting on a smile.

Osha wishes there’d been something like this for her and Mae when they were younger. If only Mae hadn’t—

Well. There’s no use ruminating on decade’s old mistakes, now.

She’d tracked down Mae, having changed her surname from Aniseya when she was eighteen, or perhaps Mae had tracked her down. She wasn’t exactly present on social media, aside from Instagram, and her LinkedIn profile only had her first and middle name displayed — Osha Kira.

It had been an awkward meeting, halfway between Chicago in New Orleans in a bum-fuck town in goddamn Arkansas, up until Mae had leaned across the table and wrapped her in the warmest, most heartfelt hug of her life.

“All we have is each other now,” Mae breathed, but Osha had hesitated, tensing.

“There’s something I’ve got to tell you…”

And she’d explained about Sol and her foster-turned-adopted brother, leaving out Qimir’s name and the sordid details of the true nature of her relationship with him.

Mae had struggled with her emotions, she could see it on her face; relief that she hadn’t been totally loveless, jealousy for the support she’d had, and insecurity.

“I can’t wait to introduce you to Sol,” Osha had said, gripping her hands tightly. “We have so much to catch up on.”

And indeed, they had, staying in that diner for hours, until the irritable glares of the waitress became too pointed and they’d absconded to Mae’s motel to continue their chat until the early hours of the morning, shoulder to shoulder in the double bed covered in a duvet of dubious cleanliness.

They’d fallen asleep like that, curled into each other like inverted commas, clutching hands, the way they would have been in the womb together.

It’s those memories she draws on, now. The champagne bubbles of happiness and blazing, incandescent elation she’d experienced seeing her own face mirrored back at her, for the first time in over a decade.

“Hey MaeMae,” she greets her twin, shifting her phone for a better angle for the FaceTime call.

“Hey yourself,” Mae replies, square glasses perched on her nose and locs swept on top of her head. She’s dip-dyed them purple, and it’s a pretty contrast to her all-black outfit.

“Nice hair,” Osha compliments, because it has to be said.

Mae smirks and tosses her head, the short locs at the front shifting with the movement. “Looks good, right? I followed a tutorial on YouTube and it came out perfectly.”

“No way!” Osha’s mouth falls open. “You did it yourself?”

“Oshie, I’ve been doing my own hair for years.”

“Ugh, give me your skill,” Osha pleads. She can re-twist her own hair, but good luck combing out locs on her own. From all the advice she’s read on pregnancy forums, they’ve recommended keeping a low-maintenance hairstyle. She could always trim her locs, and they’d grow back…

Which brings her to why she’s calling Mae today.

God, this is terrible. Her hands are shaking, and she twists them together in her lap. Her legs are shaking under the desk, and she forcibly stills them.

Rip it off like a Band-Aid. There’s no use dancing around the topic.

“What’s new with you?” Mae asks, and that’s practically an opening she’d be stupid to pass up on.

Fuck the small talk.

“I’m pregnant,” she blurts out, and immediately wants to die.

Mae stares at her, nonplussed. She’s still for so long that Osha thinks the screen has frozen, until Mae croaks out,

“Congratulations?”

She sounds puzzled, following it up with, “I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

Osha takes a deep breath, lungs feeling a little constricted. “I’m not.”

“Oh,” Mae says simply, then it’s like her brain comes online because she leans forward, eyebrows furrowing and mouth dropping open.

“So if you’re not dating someone…. Oshie. Oshie. Did you have a one night stand?”

Osha shrugs, guilt twisting her guts even as she lies, “I might have… gotten a little tipsy one night.”

“Oh my God,” Mae groans. “Oh my God, did you even use protection? How did you let this happen? Condoms, Oshie!”

“I was on the pill!” Osha says defensively. “I didn’t know the antibiotics would cancel it out. They don’t tell you this stuff.”

“It’s just not you. You’re usually so responsible…”

Mae looks like she wants to cover her face with her hands, but visibly pulls herself together, realising that this isn’t about her reaction to Osha’s news, but about Osha’s wellbeing.

“Are you…” she swallows, looking hesitant, chewing on her lower lip. “Are you going to keep it?”

“Yeah,” Osha presses her lips together, lump forming in her throat. She blinks back the tears. “Yeah, I’m keeping it.”

“How far along are you?”

“Past the second trimester,” she explains, hoping and praying that Mae doesn’t pry exactly how far along.

“Does that mean… Oshie, we drank over Christmas.”

“Doctor says it’s okay,” Osha assures Mae. “I didn’t drink after I came back to Chicago, nausea was too bad. But I didn’t know until I took a test a few weeks later.”

“Okay,” Mae settles. “Okay, okay. Wow. You’re… you’re going to be a mom. I’m going to be—”

“An aunt,” Osha finishes her sentencing, warming up to the idea. A smile spreads over her face, a rush of relief suffusing through her.

“Auntie MaeMae,” she teases, and Mae gives her answering smile back.

“Do you want me to do anything? Do you need any help?”

“Nah, I’m good. Save it for when baby’s born.”

“Wow, a baby. Fuck. And what about the… father?”

Oh shit, here it is. She’d known this was coming.

“Is he in your life? Like, is he going to be around?” Mae raps her nails on her desk, the rhythmic sound of the purple acrylics soothing.

“No,” Osha says firmly, shutting that line of thought down, but Mae’s not done.

“It’s not…” Mae leans closer, almost whispering, though she’s alone in her apartment. Osha had made sure of it, telling her that she had something ‘private’ to discuss when she’d planned the call.

“It’s not Yord, is it?”

“What?” Osha squawks. “Ew, no.”

She’d been a bit too free with her stories one time, when they’d gotten drunk together. She’d gone on about Yord’s prudishness, how he hadn’t even wanted to touch her in public, let alone try different positions in bed.

Actually, she thinks it might have been Essence Fest, when they’d retreated to the tiny hotel room Mae had secured, with two double beds squeezed in side-by-side.

God, what a mess she’d been, divulging all that shit.

“It was a stranger, at a bar,” she explains to Mae. “I don’t think I even got his name.”

Lie, lie, lie.

“Oshie…” Mae starts, sounding judgemental as hell. “You let a stranger hit it raw?”

“In my defence—”

“You know what?” Mae shakes her head, locs slipping out of her scrunchie. “I don’t want to know, nah-uh.”

Success. She’s managed to successfully derail Mae—

“Does Sol know?”

Her mind comes to a screeching halt at Mae’s question.

“No,” she answers vehemently, scratching at the backs of her hands, leaving dark red lines on her skin. “And if I have it my way, he won’t know until baby is born.”

“Osha…”

“No, Mae,” she cuts her off. “I know him. He might be my dad, but he’s Catholic as hell. And no one guilt trips better than a Catholic dad. I don’t need that stress in my life right now.”

“If you say so… but what if he asks me? You know I’m a bad liar, Oshie.”

Um, first of all: why would Sol ask Mae? Since when are they on speaking terms, or even more bizarre, casual conversation terms?

“Uh, he call often?” Osha tries to keep her tone casual, not interrogative, but Mae still flinches.

“He calls from time to time, to check in.”

That makes sense, Sol must see her as another daughter, now. It’ll be nice for her to have a parental figure.

She knows all about Mae’s history in the foster system, how she’d struggled to stay in one place for so many years, until she’d run away and been promptly placed in a group home.

“I won’t tell Qimir, though, so you don’t have to worry about him telling Sol. He never answers his phone, anyway. So unreliable…”

Ugh, Qimir. She still hasn’t sorted through the tangled Gordian knot of emotions he elicits in her.

She knows what the solution is, a clean break. Slice clean through that knot, free herself. Let him go, for real.

But look how that had worked out for her, last time.

She can’t say she wouldn’t take him back if he appeared on her doorstep tomorrow. But what would require actually giving a fuck about her, which he categorically does not.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t be dating her sister.

“Thanks, Mae,” she says absentmindedly, finding a pen to fiddle with, instead of scratching the her hand.

“You should let them know, in your own time, but don’t leave it too late,” Mae warns, and Osha winces.

God, if only she knew.

After that, they go back to talking about petty things, like Osha’s cases (okay, not-so petty) and Mae’s deadlines, what TV shows they’ve been bingeing and that new hardcover Osha has her eye on at the local bookshop.

They schedule a time to watch Girls Trip together, because Osha is aghast that her twin has never watched it in her life, despite living in damn New Orleans for nearly a decade.

“It’ll bring back memories of our trip,” Osha promises her. “Not like I’ll be able to go on another vacation any time soon.”

“Goddamn,” Mae blinks rapidly. “Your life is about to change.”

Doesn’t she know it.

There’s endless plans upon plans, preparations that need to be made, and although she doesn’t have Qimir by her side, she finds that she doesn’t need him.

It doesn’t matter that there’s times when all she wants is to be held, for someone to slide their hands under her belly, lift and release the pressure on her back.

Those same hands, venturing downwards achingly slowly, massaging and kneading…

Down, girl.

She doesn’t need him.

Really, she doesn’t.

Then

Osha is no stranger to thunderstorms.

She usually loves them; the lashing of water against the window, the white flash-strike sundering the sky, then awaiting the rumble, counting the seconds in between.

But something about tonight, the slant of light, the branches scratching her window, or perhaps the horror movie she’d gone out to see with Tasi and Mog, one of their last hurrahs before they have to start packing for college, gets to her.

She’s shivering in bed, chilled despite the humidity that had hung heavily earlier in the day.

The house moans and groans in the wind, no one there but herself and Qimir, Sol away at another overnight case. They’d planned to stay over at Tasi’s, but she had cancelled at the last moment with a grimace, probably her parents getting on her case.

Now she’s home and Qimir’s on the other side of the hall, having returned to Washington for the summer.

Another crack of thunders splits the air with an almighty boom and she jumps out of bed.

“Fuck this,” she swears, tearing out of her room and stalking across the hall.

She shouldn’t. She really fucking shouldn’t. Who knows what diseases his caught in his freshman year at college. There’s no way he’s stayed celibate just for her.

But... siblings rely on each other, right? She can crawl into his bed for some comfort, because she’s scared.

She’s not looking for anything else.

His door creaks open softly, and there he is.

He’s not asleep, of course. Being a chronic night owl, probably made worse by college, he’s still and scrolling his phone in bed, but he puts it aside the moment she enters the room.

He doesn’t exactly hide the screen, and she can see that it’s Instagram.

She’s not a stalker, but she can’t say she hasn’t stalked Qimir’s Instagram page, which remains infuriatingly sparse. She has no way to spy on him, except for his tagged photos.

Osha stands there for a moment, shuffling her feet, before she bites the bullet.

An eyebrow rises up, cheek dimpling as she moves closer, his eyes shining in the dim lamplight. His hair is loose, still long but he must have cut it in the time he was away, because it’s not as long as it was when he left.

Not long enough to tie back all the way, but still long enough to clench her hands in.

Stop, she tells herself.

“Um,” her words are awkward in her mouth, fumbling. Months without his physical presence and she’s reduced to this, a stuttering mess. “I want— Can I sleep here tonight?”

He flips the sheet corner up with a deft flick of his fingers, tendons in his forearm flexing.

“Be my guest,” he rasps, gesturing to the bed.

He shuffles to make room for her, and then he’s pressed all along her body, sending a shock up her side at the feel of his warm, firm length.

Osha stifles a gasp, but he hears her, smirk widening. He presses a light kiss to her forehead and her heart flutters.

She shouldn’t be here, not in his bed, but it’s been a lonely Senior year without him.

She shouldn’t be glad that he’s home, disturbing her peace, but she yearns for him, regardless.

She wonders what he would say if she admitted that she missed him. That she’d looked for him around every corner at school before remembering. That her body ached for him every day.

That she’d had to get herself off in the locker rooms and the girls’ bathroom during the daytime, so used to the influx of pleasure he brought her on a daily basis, just to concentrate on her schoolwork.

“The thunder,” she explains uselessly. “It’s loud.”

Qimir hums, holding her closer, the skin of his bare, muscular arms sliding against her naked waist, her sleep tank caught under her breasts, his legs twining with her own, sending a flash of heat throughout her body.

He’s in his usual sleepwear, which is nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, so he’s essentially naked.

And she’s only in a thin sleep tank and ruffled silk shorts that barely cover her ass.

It’s practically an invitation.

She quakes, as another strike of lightning hits, thunder following shortly after. It’s close. Too close.

“If you’re scared, I think I could find a way to distract you,” he murmurs into her locs, Osha shivering and clinging to his shoulders.

There he goes, again. His tried and true method of distraction: sex.

Well, sex and yapping. Two great uses for his mouth.

“Talk to me,” she prompts him, burying her face into his chest. It’s so smooth, and she feels the urge to lick.

She gives into it, darting her tongue out quickly, tasting clean skin and soap, and he makes a soft sound.

His cock twitches against her stomach, through the thin cotton of his boxer briefs. She ignores it, enjoying the tension between them.

In the dark of night, he tells her things. Things he swears that no one else has heard before.

Sure, Osha thinks scornfully, but allows herself to soften, yields herself over to him, leg thrown over his hip hitching higher, wanting to be close, closer.

He smells so good, is the thing. Like expensive cologne, fragrant fabric softener, the faint hint of his natural musk that drives her absolutely insane.

Her nipples tighten, tingling as they rub against his firm pectorals through her thin tank. She resists the urge to writhe against him, pussy already tightening, blood flowing south.

Osha trails her nose higher and it into his neck. He shivers, his hand flattening and smoothing down her back. And veering a little too low for her comfort.

Of course, he has an ulterior motive — feeling up her ass.

But maybe she does, too. She’s knows what stealing into Qimir’s bed implies.

Eventually, they would end up here; Qimir slipping his hands under her shorts to find her sans underwear.

Osha doesn’t sleep with panties on. The kitty has to breathe sometime.

She hadn’t anticipated the storm, but of fucking course, she should have. It’s Washington.

“Fuck, Osha,” Qimir swears, sounding appreciative. It’s an instant ego boost, and she rolls her hips back into his hand.

His hands shifts to the front of her shorts, and she makes a token protest, “Qimir!”

Oh no, anywhere but there.

"After all this time, Osha?" he palms her cunt, sliding through her drenched folds and thumbing her slippery clit, deceptively gentle. "I know what you want; you need me to fill up this pussy." 

He says it with such confidence, that she can't deny it. His words are sweet, dripping poison in her mouth, and she laps it up, despite herself.

Osha moans her denial, even as her cunt clenches at the whispered threat. It’s the same game they always play.

She shouldn't want this, she really shouldn't; but fuck, he knows how to push her buttons, twine her around his pinkie finger. 

Finding her fault lines and fucking stomping on them until she crumbles, succumbs. As she always does, with him. Weak to her own desire, to the demands of her traitorous body. 

The sounds his fingers make as they tease her are obscene, so wet and loud. Little sounds are torn from the back of her throat, hips undulating against his hand until he finally, finally slides two fingers inside of her.

“Fuck, you’re fucking dripping,” Qimir rasps, and it’s so filthy, it’s so fucking wrong, but she loves it.

He withdraws only a little before he thrusts back in, rubbing right over her G-spot, and she sobs, clenching down. She’s buzzing all over, cunt throbbing in time with her heartbeat, and she’s so turned on, the evidence of her desire smeared all over her thighs and Qimir’s front.

She hooks her leg between his knees, spread open, grinding on his hand as his palm rubs her clit. He strokes her from the inside, muscles in his forearms shifting as he drills into her.

If she could see it all, more than the shadows of his movements, she’s sure she would come on the spot.

As it is, she’s close, moaning so loud her mouth has dried out, begging him to please, please keep going, she’s almost fucking there—

Now

“—sha! Osha!”

Osha comes to with a gasp, jolting upright in her desk chair.

Her vision is blurry, so her eyelids flutter rapidly to clear the sleep haze. She turns around to find Maya hovering over her anxiously, clutching Osha’s work phone to her chest.

She’d been tapping at Osha’s shoulder, and she snatches her hand back quickly, wary of Osha reprimanding her.

“Emergency,” her assistant whispers, like it’s something eminently dire, and Osha is shamefaced.

God, the first time she turns up in the office in a week and here she is, daydreaming about Qimir?

Falling asleep on the job, what a joke. But pregnancy fatigue is one hell of a soporific.

And pregnancy hormones are grenade to her libido, blowing shit up. Now she’s horny, unsatisfied and throbbing.

Also, playing mediator in a four-way phone call between her client, her soon-to-be-ex-husband and his snake of a lawyer.

The little tiff takes up the majority of her afternoon, and soon her horniness is forgotten in favour of drawing up property paperwork and bank transactions, plunging through witness statements and statutory declarations.

That still doesn’t stop the fantasies from asserting themselves, again and again.

All throughout the day, all throughout the evening.

Osha is two seconds away from throwing caution to the wind and ringing Qimir when she arrives home, shedding her clothes and kicking off her shoes in the doorway of her apartment, making a beeline for the bedroom and her bedside table.

She needs her strongest vibrator for this. She’s been wet all afternoon, drenching through her panties at an embarrassing rate, and she barely has it turned on and buzzing inside her before she’s coming all over the sheets.

One climax leads to another, and another, a ceaseless stream of bliss, but she’s still dissatisfied by the end of it all, curled around the vibrator, trembling and naked from the waist-down.

It follows her into her dreams.

All night, clenching around nothing, left breathless by powerful orgasms that wrack her from head to toe, an unwelcome guest in her dreams.

It almost seems like a joke that’s being played on her, when a certain someone turns up as the starring role.

But who else? There’s never been anyone else, not really.

They don’t stand a chance against Qimir.

Chapter Text

Now

Osha had honestly thought she was past this stage of her life, yet here she is. Mind and body at war, once again. And while the spirit is strong, the flesh is pitifully weak, indeed.

Blame the hormones. It's all about the fucking hormones. She doesn’t have anyone else to turn to, no pregnant friends or acquaintances, so she consults someone she knows will give her a straightforward answer.

She books an emergency appointment with Maz, who's terribly fond of her and manages to accommodate her in her busy schedule.

"It's normal, isn't it?" Osha asks Maz urgently. She's scoured pregnancy forums and subreddits and internet advice columns all over for information, but she wants confirmation.

There’s nothing quite like reading a Quora post at 2AM and having all your life decisions questioned to humble you.

Her OBGYN smiles at her, somewhat indulgently.

"It's very much normal, Osha dear," and here she winks, patting her patient's hand.

“I'd advise you to enjoy it. With caution, of course," she waggles her index finger. "I'll give you some pamphlets."

Right. Pamphlets. That do absolutely fuck-all to assuage the raging ache in her loins.

Maybe she needs to have a long chat with her therapist. It’s been long overdue, and she’s been on the waitlist for an appointment for a while. To her luck, she gets a call from Dr Holden’s receptionist that afternoon.

She schedules her in for Thursday in the PM, and Osha can just make it fit because that’s one of the days she works from home. She’ll have to block out her diary, just in case, maybe make up some bullshit about being in a client call so she doesn’t get disturbed.

Okay, then. Baby steps.

Heh, baby steps. Get it?

Osha can work this out.

She stares out the window of the L, her station a few stops away.

She can totally be an adult about her desires and work this out in a mature fashion with her therapist.

Dr Holden is pissing her the fuck off.

First, her office fucks up the appointment timing, and she needs to cut a client call short to squeeze the Zoom call in. She apologises about a dozen times and drafts a frankly humiliating email detailing all the ways she’ll make it up to Mrs Mothma, an obscenely rich society lady who’s divorcing her useless sop of a husband (he has the audacity to claim alimony from her).

With that settled, and Mon graciously expressing her understanding about unpredictable schedules, Osha waits.

And waits. And waits.

Staring at the screen, every minute ticking by chiming like a cash register communicating how much money she’s losing by delaying going back to work, Osha laments the uselessness of admin people.

What’s the use of moving the appointment earlier when Dr Holden is still late?

No, bad Osha.

She’s letting her irritation cloud her judgement again, the way she’s increasingly becoming used to these days, as her moods crest and plummet at the drop of a hat.

It’s something she wants to bring up with her therapist, techniques for calming herself when things—

Fucking finally!

Dr Holden’s placid, freckled face appears onscreen next to hers, bronzed gold from her time in the sun, presumably in Trinidad with her wife, Reva. Her blue-green eyes are clear and bright, her lips settled in a neutral smile (if it’s even possible for smiles to be neutral). Her hair is caught up in a brown claw clip, a few golden-brown coils springing free.

“Osha, hello. How are you?”

Million dollar fucking question.

“I’m good,” she says, instead of screaming into the void.

“I’m glad to hear that,” and she really is. Dr Holden is good people, calm and soothing, yet not verging into maternal. She keeps it professional, but she has her moments of levity.

“What’s been going on with you? Anything new?”

Her way of asking, “Why the hell are you back here?”

Well, clearly her method of communicating with Mae had worked. She knows Dr Holden quite well, so she can dive right into it. Yet, something holds her back. The fear of judgement, perhaps? That she’s not stable enough to be a mother, to care for another being, let alone herself.

 “I have a few things that I want to talk about,” Osha takes a deep breath, mustering a smile. She pushes the anger at the delay down, down. It’s becoming increasingly harder to grin and bear it.

Without that propelling her forward, however, she’s floundering; anxiety seeping in around the blockage. Her stomach twists, lurching in a way that has nothing to do with pregnancy nausea.

“How is work? Same as always?”

“No, actually.” Osha is relieved at the question, a little bit of good news to garnish the inevitable wreckage this session is going to become. “I’ve scaled back a bit. Fennec wants me tracking my hours more accurately as well.”

“I’m glad  you took that step of reaching out and articulating your needs. How is it working out for you?”

“Good,” she clears her throat, taking a sip of water. “I’m doing more with the time I have, so I’m more deliberate.”

“We talked about taking a break in your last session, before Christmas. Have you travelled anywhere, lately? Seen any family?”

Got it in one.

Dr Holden has this eerie sense of being able to pinpoint things, and her words strike at the heart of what Osha wants to discuss today. She couldn’t have manufactured a more perfect lead in if she tried.

“Well,” Osha twists her pen in her fingers, tapping it on her desk. “I went home for Christmas…”

The corners of her therapist's mouth tug upwards, into a genuine smile.

“Osha, that’s wonderful! I know we’d discussed this in the past, but I’m so glad you took that step.”

She’s thrilled at Osha’s progress, as it’s something that she’s struggled with for years. She’d used the flimsy excuse of feeling guilty for not meeting Sol’s expectations, due to his religiosity and his image of her as the perfect daughter.

Paper thin, really, to cover up for Qimir.

Except, not really.

“How was it like, seeing your father at his home after so many years?”

Like drowning, she thinks, but doesn’t say.

But she’s not referring to Sol. Oh, no.

“Odd but… good. I even invited Mae over, that was nice.”

‘Nice’, ‘good’.

Jesus, can she be any more insipid?

But at least Dr Holden is truly happy. “I can imagine why you think it’s odd, but think of it as a great development. We’ve discussed your ‘struggle’ to reconcile what you feel like are two worlds. Does it feel more integrated now?”

Cripes, what a question. Are they integrated? More like unhealthily so, wrapped up in the worst of ways.

“Oh,” Osha says, like it’s just occurred to her. “Um, Qimir was there as well. You know, my—”

“—Your adopted brother? Yes, you’ve spoken a little about him before.”

Mainly, that he kept this distance from her and they didn’t interact much. That couldn’t be further from the truth, now.

They’re getting closer to what she needs to say, and not only is her pen tapping the desk frantically, but her leg is jiggling as well, shaking the desk. She forces her foot to still, planting it firmly on the floor, digging her feet into the rug under her desk.

“Well, he’s dating Mae now.”

Dr Holden’s eyes widen, her nostrils flaring. She struggles to keep her smile fixed in place. “That’s…”

“Awfully coincidental, don’t you think?” Now, Osha is fired up. She just wants someone to acknowledge how fucking weird it is. No one wants to really talk about it, aside from her. “I mean, she’s my twin. He’s dating my twin.”

Shit. Shit, she’s said too much.

Does she sound too emotionally invested in this? Does she sound sisterly enough? This is uncharted territory, for her. Her previous romantic entanglements have always been held at a distance, dissected coolly with Dr Holden.

This isn’t romantic. This is…

This is the perfect time to launch a distraction.

“I also met up with someone,” she blurts, heart fluttering in her chest, like a flight of birds readying to take off. “Um, do you remember, when I talked about that high school ex?”

“Ah,” Dr Holden’s pen clicks. She turns away from the screen, maybe writing down a few notes. “The high school ex-lover that you engaged in a relationship with for a few years?”

“Yeah, before I cut him off. I, ah, saw him again. We got to talking. One thing led to another and…”

Her mouth works, lost for words. It feels a little like someone threaded a needle through her neck and is sewing up her larynx.

“Osha.”

It’s not reproachful; not even judgemental. Yet, Osha shrinks back in her desk chair.

Yes, yes, she’s a fucking idiot for falling back into bed with a toxic ex.

(A toxic ex who’s dating her sister and is also her adopted br—)

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, rubbing at her chest in a circular motion. Heartburn is a fucking bitch. She knew she shouldn’t have had that fucking Crunchwrap Supreme. Fuck Baja Blast, too.

“I don’t know…”

“Breathe. You know the exercises. In, one, two, three. Out, four, five, six, seven.”

Dr Holden coaches her, until Osha feels less like she’s dying for air, flapping about like a landed fish. Her mouth is pressed into a thin line when she’s finished, regarding Osha with concern.

You can’t even fucking talk to your own therapist, what good are you? Why can’t you just open your mouth and say it? Spit it out.

But she’s scared. She’s so scared of judgement, the way she wasn’t with Fennec, because Dr Holden knows things. She respects Osha. She’s been so pleased—

There she goes again. Her people pleasing thing.

“Therapy is not about saying the rights words to elicit a positive reaction from me, Osha,” Dr Holden had said in their first appointment. “It’s about you feeling comfortable enough to voice your thoughts and feelings, so that I can identify the areas you need assistance with. It’s a conversation, not a minefield. There’s no right or wrong answer, no bomb under your feet.”

Clearly, she hasn’t been doing her exercises and her mental health is shot to hell.

Being aware of her talking down to herself actively while it’s happening is a trip. While Osha can recognise the negative behaviours, it’s like she’s stuck in a spiral, unable to break free of the behaviour.

It’s a marked deterioration from a few months ago, when she’d felt confident enough to end her longstanding appointments with Dr Holden, regarding herself as better.

She can’t exactly give all the blame to Qimir, because she’s had an active role in it as well, but it’s frustrating to realise the depth of her regression.

“It sounds like you have something you want to say to me, Osha. Is there anything in particular that’s been bothering you?”

“I’m pregnant.”

It lands like a two-tonne anvil, an incredibly heavy weight that punctures the sense of composure she’d began to slowly regain.

Dr Holden blinks, clearly processing this incredible development, while Osha fights the urge to scratch at her hands.

She’s quite sure that she’s about two seconds away from passing out, her vision swimming like heat haze in the summer.

“I… see.”

Dr Holden shakes her head, just a small movement, but utterly human in how it telegraphs her surprise.

“How far along are you?”

There, a question she can answer honestly.

“Fifteen weeks, now,” she admits, taking another sip of water. If she keeps guzzling water, she’s going to need to duck off to her ensuite soon.

She doesn’t ask about the father, her prior words answer enough. He’s clearly not in the picture, by choice.

What would Dr Holden do if Osha told her the truth? She’s bound by doctor-patient confidentiality, but it’s also utterly insane…

No. No, she’s not going to blow up her life.

(Again. More than she has, already.)

So it stays, a hot coal burning in her chest, the secret still a burden on her, but now… a little lighter.

One more person she can talk to, about her pregnancy. She breathes a little easier than before.

Dr Holden doesn’t poke or prod about her baby daddy, because she knows that things are still a little precarious. It took a lot out of Osha to admit it, and Dr Holden allows her to spend the rest of the session talking about work.

Next session, however, she might not be so lucky to escape without divulging something about Qimir, or at least how she feels about the whole situation.

The box in her head shakes, padlocked and chained shut, the place where she’s put the memory of how his hair feels between her fingers, the punched-out sound he makes when he bottoms out inside of her.

Dr Holden’s session loosens the lid just enough, rattling the bars of her composure.

To no one’s fucking surprise, but to her eternal annoyance, because she can’t escape that motherfucker even when she’s awake.

He’s a parasite, insidious, burrowing under her skin, infecting her with this strange heat, this unholy thirst that begs to be quenched.

She’s launched back to eight years ago. It's a glorious kind of torment, a trip down memory lane.

Back to the first time they'd fucked, when she'd still been trying to convince herself that it was only one time.

What a fool she'd been.

Then

Osha is making a mistake.

She knows this, even as she wiggles out of her clothes after a tense dinner on opposite sides of the table from Qimir, refusing to look at him, her skin tingling all over. The memory of his hands, his fingers on her, inside of her at the pool, had haunted her with ghost touches. She’d squeezed her thighs shut even as she’d stabbed the grilled salmon with her fork, shoving it inside her mouth with no finesse.

She knows this, even as she scrubs her skin with shea butter and brown sugar exfoliant, as she lathers herself in rose-scented body wash, as she shaves and plucks and moisturises, ensuring that she’s sweet smelling and lush and soft all over.

She’s a bit dizzy when it’s all done, smooth as a baby, standing in front of her floor-length gilt mirror, eyeing her body critically. Her stomach twists and squirms with nerves, and this is not her first fucking time so why does it feel like it?

Why is she so uncertain? She’s taken the lead before, most of the time really, with fumbling boys who’d treated her like a dirty little secret afterwards.

They’d wanted to keep it on the down-low because of worries about their reputation, or whatever — a humorous reversal of the usual high school dynamics. Or at least, funny to her, if a little tragic.

She’s a fumbling virgin all over again, blushing and wide-eyed.

Look at you, Osha scolds herself. Stand the fuck up.

Her back straightens, tits pushed out. They look plush and pillowy on her slight frame, ready to be sucked and groped. She imagines his hands, those cursed fingers—

Fuck.

A bolt of arousal spears through her, shocking her. She watches in real time as her nipples tighten, her stomach sucking in from the sharp inhale she takes.

She’s winding herself up, all for nothing.

What if she goes to his room and it’s empty? He does that sometimes, sneaking out using the drainpipe and the magnolia trees outside. Even though Sol’s not at home, and there’s a perfectly adequate staircase and front door he could use.

Habit, she supposes.

Osha shakes herself, quite literally, doing a nervous bop in place. Once that temporary bout of insanity is over, she nods at herself.

Casual. Nonchalant.

She can do that.

She’d thought about dressing up for it, donning the lingerie she’d bought with a giggling, blushing Tasi from Victoria’s Secret a few weeks ago. Another of their little secrets they’re keeping from her parents, who definitely wouldn’t approve of their little girl buying sexy underwear.

So what if Osha’s a corrupting influence? Everyone needs to live a little.

She digresses. Where was she?

Oh yes, her outfit.

She opens her drawers, digging under the Church-modest white panties and sensible bras until she digs out the tissue-wrapped lingerie.

She looks at the purple push-up bra and matching thong, really examines them, then puts it aside.

No, not it. It’ll seem like she’s trying too hard.

Her regular sleep shorts and cami won’t work, being something that she wears every day and she wants this to be a little special.

But maybe…

There’s a new pair that she hasn’t tried on yet, a baby pink cropped cami that skims her belly button, and matching frilly pink shorts that barely cover her ass.

It’s see through, a silky crimped fabric that practically floats around her figure. Her nipples are visible through the top, the shorts teasing at the possibility of her pussy, the sparse hair over her mound.

No underwear. What’s the use? And there’s something naughty in going without, feeling the crotch of her shorts rub her core, arousal sparking when her cami brushes against her peaked nipples.

That, combined with a flimsy, short satin gown she’s tied firmly shut, for now, should have her set up for success.

Fuck, this is a bad idea.

But she wants it. But she’s going to.

Because there’s no time, not when he’s leaving next week and she’ll likely spend the entire year cursing herself for her foolishness in passing him up. He’s practically offered himself on a silver platter for her, and he’d fingered her so good in the pool.

She’d been moments away from coming, her entire being lit in pleasure so hot that the cool of the pool water had barely registered.

No one has ever made her feel like that, before. The bare orgasms she’s managed to eke out have always been half-hearted, dissatisfying after trying for too long to get there.

Osha knows her body, knows what she likes. Probably more than a seventeen year-old should, but she’s had unrestricted internet access for years and a penchant for devouring explicit fanfiction.

So yeah, Osha knows what it’s like when a guy knows what he’s doing, and Qimir’s a fucking expert. He’s teased her time and time again, with his fingers and his filthy mouth and that intent, heated gaze.

She’s ready for him to make good on the promise she’s seen writ across his features since the first time he’d seen her, eyes dark and crawling all over her, before he’d smiled in that chilling way.

Vowing to raise hell for her.

Well, she’s here to collect.

One time only. She’s here to get him out of her system, nothing more. If this goes badly, she doesn’t have to see him again after next week.

Osha tightens the waist tie of the gown, again, and strides across the hall, lifting her hand to knock.

There’s a pause while he answers, while Osha questions each and every decision that led her to this moment, a breath away from calling it off—

The door creaks open smoothly, Qimir slithering out like a snake, clad in nothing but loose boxer briefs. His shoulders are so broad, bare and muscled, tapering down to a slim waist. His lean legs are exposed and the shape of him lays heavy against the fabric. Her mouth inadvertently waters.

“Up here, doll,” he has the audacity to snap his fingers, the asshole.

Osha jerks her head up so fast, her headwrap actually shifts.

“Like what you see?” his smirk is crooked, skewed in the direction opposite to his dimple. His golden face is freshly shaven, his dark hair tied back, exposing the larger beauty marks on his cheek and his forehead, the little freckles strewn over his strong neck like stars.

God, he’s turned her into a fucking poet.

“Shut up and let me in,” she grouses, and he sighs, put-upon, but steps backwards, widening the door enough to let her pass, but not wide enough that she can avoid brushing the entirety of her body against him on the way in.

She can’t suppress the shiver that rolls through her at the contact with his hot, hard physique, nipples pebbling beneath her sleep cami.

“So,” her mouth is dry, and she’s waiting for him to make the first move, but he just folds his arms across his chest, biceps bulging, and studies her.

There’s a faintly mocking air to his expression, the cruel curve of his mouth and the jut of his eyebrow.

“So,” he parrots back at her, stretching the vowel out. “What can I do for you?”

He’s solicitous, casual. Like she isn’t half-naked in front of him, clad in nothing but a scrap of satin and see-through sleepwear. Her whole goddamn ass is out.

Oh, this fucking guy. Jesus, does he want her to spell it out?

Osha shifts on her feet, wrapping her gown tighter around her, toes curling into his plush rug.

Fuck him. He does.

“You know.”

It scrapes her throat, a hoarse whisper. Barely audible.

“Hmm?” he cups his hand around his ear. “What was that?”

“I said,” she grits her teeth. “You already know what. So fucking do it.”

He clicks his tongue.

“That’s no way to ask me for a favour, Osha.”

“A fa— Fuck you!” her head pounds, in tandem with her heartbeat, fury clouding her head. “Fucking me is a privilege.”

He cocks his head, fringe falling over his forehead. God, she wants to pull it. Her teeth ache with the urge to bite him until she draws blood, digging deeper until he has to pry her off.

“Oh, so that’s what you want?” he raises both of his eyebrows. “You should have said.”

She growls, actually growls, and stalks forward, untying her gown in a swift, vicious move and leaving it in a heap on the ground behind her.

She doesn’t need it anymore.

Osha stands, close enough for him to touch if he reaches out, and his hands are already outstretched, like his body knows even before his mind has processed it.

 “Fuck,” he says, almost a whisper, tracing the lines of her figure through the wispy sleepwear. Her dusky nipples, peaked under the diaphanous fabric.

“This is…” he chuckles, shaking his head a little, eyes fixed on her breasts, then veering lower. “This is very good.”

She tilts her chin up, challenging.

Come and get it.

She doesn’t know who reaches for who first, only the end result Is being wrapped up in each other. It’s an explosion when they collide, a conflagration, hasty and artless.

Finally, finally. It feels like she’s been holding out for so long, and it’s here, it’s happening, she’s here, and it’s like nothing she ever imagined but also everything she’s ever dreamed of.

He kisses her, first, savouring the moment. Both of his hands cradle her jaw, those strong hands, so warm on her face.

She thought he’d be impatient like other guys, jump to a blowjob or fucking her straight away, but he takes his time.

His lips are so soft, he must use an amazing lip balm, because he tastes faintly of cherry when he finally licks into her mouth, opening her up, sliding his tongue in.

It feels right, that he’d want to draw it out, because he’s leaving soon.

It’s this reminder that makes her the desperate one, the impatient one.

Her knees are weak, actually fucking weak, and she clings to him like a damsel in distress while he plunders her mouth, runs his hands all over her body, squeezing, groping, kneading.

She needs to feel more of him.

Osha slides her hands into his hair, that gorgeous, silky ponytail that she’s been eyeing for fucking weeks, tears the hair tie out and throws it blindly somewhere in the room.

“So rough,” Qimir chuckles against her mouth, a hot puff of air, but it turns into a grunt when she grabs his hair and wrenches his head back. The locks are so sleek and soft between her fingers, exactly the way she’s imagined.

She needs to mark him. She needs to fucking leave some reminder that she was here, but not anywhere that Sol can see.

Sol. Fuck.

But even the reminder of their adopted dad doesn’t douse the fire in her, the way she wants to have her way with Qimir, the imperative to have him inside her.

“Fuck, Osha.” His voice is low and rough. “That how you want to play it?”

Qimir beats her to it; his lips feather down over her jaw and land on her neck, kissing wetly.

Oh. Oh, that’s.. that’s nice. That’s really nice. The pressure of his mouth thrills through her, settling in her core, throbbing and aching.

And then he sucks, right over her pulse, drawing the flesh into his mouth and biting down.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Her back arches, pushing her closer to him, as he does it again, and again, marking her up, not caring about the consequences, how she’d have to cover them up later, conceal them from Sol.

Her dirty little secret.

The rush of desire that sweeps through her is dizzying, almost knocking her off her feet. It’s never felt like this, before, with anyone else.

It’s like Qimir was custom designed in a lab to drive her crazy. Like he was made just for her, to torment her, to drive her to greater heights of bliss than she’s ever pursued before.

Her nails dig into his scalp, and she writhes, keening open-mouthed and guttural.

Her shorts are probably soaked, just from this over-the-clothes action. He hasn’t even gotten his hand on her, or in her, and she’s this desperate.

There’s something humiliating about him knowing just how much this is turning her on. He’s going to fucking say something about it, because that’s who he is.

So, why not beat him to the punch? She’s done this before, Qimir’s just thrown her off her game...

Snaking her hand down to his loose boxers and under the waistband, she grunts in triumph when she finds him hot and bare. And so hard that he’s wet at the tip, leaking pre-cum.

He hisses as she closes her palm around his shaft, pumping dryly.

“Fuck, Osha.”

His head falls back, exposing his gorgeous neck and Adam’s apple for her to feast on. She attacks, nipping and sucking and biting all over, giving him matching marks.

If she’s going down, they’re both going down together. Good luck finding concealer, you fuck.

She snickers a little when his hips jerk forward, and that sets him off.

“Oh no you don’t,” he husks, shoving his hand under her shorts as well, moaning when he finds her just as bare as him. “You’re so fucking wet, you slut.”

Oh, the irony of him calling her a slut, the guy who’s known for getting around. The guy so infamous that he has a fucking gossip board, what the hell.

It may be hypocritical of him but it’s also hot, and she can’t show just how much it turns her on.

Osha snorts, sliding her hand down his shaft again. “What does that make you, then? A super slut? An uber slut?”

“Mm,” he hums, “You laugh now, but...”

She gasps when he circles her clit, sliding a finger down to her folds and tucking his finger inside her. That first breach ripples through her, and she’s so drenched that he slides in with barely any resistance.

His cock jumps in her hand, pulsing as he groans. “You’re going to take my cock so fucking well, I can just tell.”

Another finger teases her entrance, before joining the first, pumping in and rubbing her front walls, over the bundle of nerves, so thick and filling, deftly strumming her body like she’s an instrument tuned to his touch.

God, her hands have never made her feel like this, fuck.

“If only two fingers get you going like this...”

His whisper scrapes over her cheekbones, flaying her raw. “How are you going to sound when I fuck you?”

He thrusts faster, harder, the squelching sounds obscene.

“I think I could make you scream.”

It’s her turn to close her eyes and moan, losing herself to the sensation. Her grip on his dick loosens, even as she feels it pulse and harden further, because all she can focus on is the exquisite thrust of his fingers, the winding pressure within her, the pleasure that sparks all throughout her.

“Do you—“, she struggles to speak, but she needs to fucking say something. “Do you think you’re that good?”

His eyes darken, fingers sliding so deep, they hit something that shoots fire up her spine, her stomach quivering. “I know I am.”

Her heart is pounding so hard, yet all the blood in her body has rushed to her core. He’s practically holding her up with the arm he has wrapped around her back, taking on her weight, because she can’t stand.

“Let’s move this to the bed...”

And she can’t even answer him, to moan no or say yes, because she’s been moved. Back, back, until she topples over, shrieking in surprise when he lets her fall.

She glares up at him, breathless, panting on the firm mattress.

“You... You fuck.”

He smirks down at her, smug, her shorts akskew and sleep cami caught around her waist, exposing her stomach.

“Well, that’s kind of the plan,” he crawls over her, settling his heavy ass body over hers. “Isn’t it?”

He bites at her ear, sucking it into his mouth.

It shocks through her, an unexpected sensations, and she gasps.

She’s never had sensitive ears before, but she guesses everywhere is an erogenous spot with him.

The weight of him over her sends something ticking in her brain, a haze settling over her, and she could lose herself in it, let him do what he wants to her.

Or she could fight back, make it difficult for Qimir.

And when has she ever passed up a challenge, when it comes to him?

Just because she’s agreeing to sex with him, just this once, doesn’t mean she has to make it easy.

So when she remarks, “Is it?”, she’s not surprised when Qimir growls and shoves her cami up, exposing her breasts.

“No bra,” he says darkly, “No fucking panties. What are you here for, then, Osha? Need me to read you a bedtime story? Make you hot fucking cocoa?”

He sucks up her tit before she can reply something witty and cutting, and it whites out her brain. His tongue is working her nipple and he’s trying to fit the entirety of her boob into his mouth, kneading and groping the other.

His harsh grip and the rough way he’s touching her shouldn’t turn her on this much, but here she is, riding the knee he has wedged between her thighs, practically humping it as he curves over her like a vampire.

I vant... to suck… your tit.

She giggles, stomach heaving with the force of the absurdity and she throws a hand over her face.

“What so funny?” he husks, but she’s hiccupping, moaning and almost crying from laughter.

“It’s just,” she gasps, “you’re like— like— oh fuck—”

He licks his way down her abdominals, tongue tracing the invisible line between them, until he’s pulling the waistband of her shorts.

“Mmm, so frilly. They’re not fucking hiding anything, doll.”

He snaps the waistband and she wiggles, wanting him to take it off.

“Do you need something, Osha?” he says, almost bored.

“Aren’t you, you know?”

Oh god, he’s going to make her say it. That fucking control freak.

He scrapes a nail over her belly and her hips jump up.

“Take it off!” she rushes out. “Please,” Osha adds, and he smiles with smug satisfaction.

“Of course,” he purrs. “Anything you ask.”

And God, it burns that she’s fucking folding so easily. All he had to do was toy with her pussy a bit and she’s putty in his hands.

He loves that she’s giving in to him, that she came to him. It’s radiating from Qimir, and she wants to slap his face just as much as she wants to ride it.

He pulls her shorts down, slowly, sensuously, looking like he wants to trace the path it’s taking with his mouth.

When they’re fully off, and he’s thrown them in the corner somewhere, he sits back on his heels and just takes a moment to admire her.

Her cami is in the way. Osha shimmies her shoulders, not sure if she wants it fully off or not, but Qimir makes the decision for her.

“Arms up, baby.”

Osha puts her arms up towards the bedhead and he leans over her. The fabric floats over her head, landing in a pile somewhere, like the rest of her clothes — if they can even be called ‘clothes’ — littered around the room.

Osha shivers, exposed to him for the first time (look, the bikini doesn’t count). Her knees drift together, but Qimir tuts and wrenches them apart.

“Let me see everything, doll,” he rasps, his hands seeming overly-large on her thighs, coiled strength in his arms and the way he manhandles her so easily.

“Shit,” he swears and laughs raspily. “This pussy is fucking glistening, baby.”

Osha tests his grip, trying to close her legs again, but Qimir holds her there, effortlessly.

“None of that, doll,” he warns her, like he’ll leave her high and dry if she continues defying him.

There’s a moment there where she contemplates tussling with him a bit more, but gives it up. When she collapses back against the bed in defeat, neck stretching out and wrapped head digging into the pillow below her, he attacks.

In one swift move, he spreads her labia apart with his thumbs and snakes down the bed. His mouth is on her in the next second, and Osha lets out a string of swears as his tongue traces her folds.

“Jesus motherfucking Christ!”

Of course, Qimir can’t pass up this chance to run his mouth.

“Mmm, so wet, baby. Wanted to taste it right there in the pool. You think you would’ve let me?”

Osha shakes her head, but the spurt of slick that leaks out of her betrays her, her body clearly loving the idea of possibly being watched by the neighbours.

“Don’t answer, I know you would.”

Then he laps at her cunt, teasing around her clit, electric pleasure zinging through her at the feel of his wet tongue. His unbound hair tickles her thighs, so she gathers it in one hand, out of the way.

Qimir glances up at her and winks, before applying himself diligently.

No one’s gotten her off using their mouth before. They’ve tried, but it’s never worked, and eventually they’d gotten tired of trying.

Osha didn’t think it was possible, but here Qimir is, proving her wrong.

When he closes his mouth over her clit, sucking, Osha almost screams, struggling and writhing against his arms, the weight of his body holding her down.

“Fuck, Qimir! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

She hurtles towards orgasm, her thighs shaking, toes flexing, chest heaving. Now that he knows she’s not going to get in his way, he frees a hand so he can squeeze her breast, playing with her nipple. He pinches at the same time he thrusts his tongue inside her, and she sobs dryly.

Osha cranes her neck down to see his dark head working between her legs, and it’s almost too much. The warmth builds quickly, Osha’s moans pitching higher and her abdominals clenching, breath catching in her lungs. She’s so close, so fucking close—

“Come for me, baby,” he removes his mouth and Osha really does scream, because what is he fucking doing? She’s almost there and he goes and moves away? What the fuck?

She looks up at him, his chin and lips gleaming like he’d just gorged himself on fruit, and it’s an appealing picture, but she doesn’t have a chance to complain because then he’s stretching her open with two of his fingers and fucking her rapidly.

“God, fuck!”

She clamps down on his fingers, squeezing her cunt around him, because it feels so good when the pads of his fingers drag against her G-spot.

He’s relentless, battering the spongy spot inside her, a heavy pressure building inside her, centred between her legs.

She’s had G-spot orgasms before, but they take a long time to get there and it’s so much effort, leaving her with a cramped up forearm, so she usually doesn’t bother.

The speed with which Qimir has her climaxing is concerning, if she wasn’t too busy moaning her brains out, practically melting into the bed.

He doesn’t stop thrusting, even when she whines that it’s enough, she’s already come, he doesn’t need to—

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck you, Qimir!”

And she’s coming again, drenching his fingers as he continues plundering her, fitting in a third finger and stretching them out, like he’s prepping her for his cock.

“No more,” she begs him, trying to escape him by scooting up the bed, overwhelmed and sensitive, like a scraped nerve.

“Aw, come on,” he coos, withdrawing his fingers but keeping them on her cunt, pressing on her clit. “Let me play with you for a little bit.”

He leans down to kiss at her thigh, surprisingly tender.

Osha puts a shaking hand up, marvelling at her trembling even as she tries to appear stern.

“Give me,” she pants, “a fucking break.”

“Alright,” he agrees, almost too easily.

He takes her breath away the next moment when he sits upright and pushes his boxers down, showing the full length of his cock. Jesus, he’s big.

And he looks fucking delicious, the fat mushroom head of his dick coloured dark red, with veins running down the golden shaft.

He’d felt enormous in her hands, earlier. How would that feel inside her? How long would it take him to work her open? She wants to be stuffed full of him.

Then, he takes the hand that was just inside her and fists his cock, stroking down to his balls, and Osha’s mouth drops open at the same time as his. He groans lowly, arms flexing, pectorals shimmering with a light sheen of perspiration.

He looks like a god, and Osha should really keep her fat trap shut or she’s going to inflate his overblown ego even further.

Still, her tongue darts out to lick her lips, an involuntary expression of her desire.

He’s eager to give her a show and she obliges him. Why not? It wouldn’t do any good to pretend that she’s not lusting after his physique.

His hand is slick with her own arousal, and she watches, transfixed, as he pumps his cock, spreading her all over him, twisting at the head. It jumps in his hand and she twitches.

“Osha, you’re drooling.”

Pride saturates his tone, and she can’t believe he still has the presence of mind to taunt her, even as a moan breaks through his words.

Osha hurriedly touches her chin, and he’s right. How fucking mortifying.

She quickly swipes it away with her thumb, smearing down to her chin, but her mind is working, whirring rapidly.

What if she— But, no...

She wants to, though.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

Osha takes that same thumb and slides it into her mouth, just the tip, stretching her lips around it and hollowing her cheeks. It pops out, glistening with spit.

His eyes darken and he clenches his jaw. Oh, she’s riled him up.

She counts it as a win when he edges forward, until he’s almost sitting on her stomach. Muscles shift under the skin of his thighs, and she traces them, marvelling at how he almost flinches from her touch, before settling.

“Come on,” he’s holding his cock by the base, milky fluid on the tip. “Open up, doll.”

Osha pushes herself up onto her elbows and bobs her head, the head of his cock glancing her lips, smearing the side of her face.

Jesus, she didn’t plan on getting dick juice on her.

“Stop playing games,” Osha glares up at him, pouting.

He aims for her mouth this time, dragging her lower lip down. Her tongue flicks out for a taste, and he tastes faintly salty and tangy.

That’s… from her. Her core spasms as she realises that he tastes like her.

She opens her mouth eagerly, sucking the head inside and teasing it with her tongue. She’s given a few blowjobs here and there, but not anyone as big as Qimir.

She works her way slowly down his cock, a hand wrapped around the length that doesn’t fit in her mouth, at least not now when she’s still feeling him out.

He hisses when she accidentally glances her teeth against him, but his dick pulses and harden even further, so she guesses he likes a little pain with his pleasure.

Well, so does she.

Osha crams him into her mouth, breathing through her nose, and takes him as far as she can go. She gags when he hits the back of her throat, but she doesn’t stop.

“Fuck,” his thighs quiver under her touch, the hand she’s using to brace herself. “Shit, your mouth is so good.”

Qimir sounds reverent, like she’s blowing his fucking mind.

The praise ignites a fire in her, her clit throbbing with the rush of blood, cunt fluttering as he groans so prettily for her.

Tears stream down her cheeks, her chin is wet with spit but she needs to see. She peels her eyes open to the glorious vision of Qimir throwing his head back, tendons in his neck standing out, his muscled chest heaving. She wants to bite the mole on his ribs.

His hands flex at his sides, oddly considerate, so she takes her free hand and taps them, gesturing at her wrapped head.

“You gonna let me fuck your mouth?”

Osha nods, blinking twice to show her agreement.

His cock twitches in her mouth and he hisses lowly, grabbing the silk scarf and unwinding it swiftly, then carding his fingers through her locs.

Osha closes her eyes again, satisfaction thrumming through her, a blank haze settling over her like static as he fists her locs.

Shit, she’s never liked anyone pulling her hair before, but so many things are a first with Qimir. He uses his grip to draw her back a little, before yanking her forward, thrusting his hips at the same time.

Osha balls one of her hands into a fist and tucks the thumb into her palm, willing herself not to gag. It’d be eminently embarrassing if she threw up her dinner, now.

She sucks air through her nose greedily, wet and filthy noises falling from her mouth as he uses her like a fucktoy. She’s so wet; the sheets beneath her are drenched and her thighs are sticky.

God and stars above, it shouldn’t feel this fucking good, choking around his cock when he shoves deep enough that her body convulses, loving the sweet sting of pain from her hair being wrenched.

He’s groaning and grunting to wake the dead, staring down at her ruined face, a savage light in his eyes.

“Shit,” his thrusts speed up, his grip on her locs tightening, before he growls. “Shit, shit. Fuck, I could come right here but…”

He pulls out, Osha almost whimpering at the loss. She collapses back on the pillow, panting heavily, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand to rub the tears away. She allows herself a brief moment of pride that she was able to get him there so quickly.

“Oh, poor baby bit off more than she could chew.”

Qimir pats her head condescendingly, and it feels nice. She’s tempted to nuzzle into him and purr like a cat, but that would be singularly humiliating.

She feels fucked out and exhausted, already a wreck.

“Come on, doll. First round’s not even over. You want to tap out now?”

She rolls her eyes at his projection. “Stop stalling. Having performance anxiety?”

“I don’t,” he yanks her by the ankle and she shrieks, wiggling her body as he looms over her, “get nervous. Just for the record.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffs. “That’s exactly what someone with performance anxiety would say. Can’t handle all of this?”

She jiggles her boobs, right in his face, and laughs at his cuntstruck expression.

He pinches both of her nipples in retaliation and she yowls, fully completing the cat metaphor.

“Try teasing me now,” he murmurs. One hand drifts down to her cunt, and he looks gleeful when he realises how soaked she is.

“Oh, baby,” Qimir says, so tenderly. “You need this dick, don’t you?”

They both look down at the same time, Osha eyeing his cock with a little trepidation. She’s ready, more than ready. Yet why…

“I’ll be gentle,” he croons, a sweet promise.

But she doesn’t want it soft and gentle. Not from him.

“Promises, promises,” she drawls, tracing his strong shoulders with her nails. The muscles are bunched up from the way he’s hunched over and they twitch under her touch. “I thought you wanted to make me scream?”

He bites his lower lip, lashes fluttering as he takes in the whole of her, from her loose locs to the hickeys he left, down to her still shaking thighs.

“If that’s what you want, I’m happy to oblige,” he affects a southern twang to his last few words, though he’s the furthest thing from a gentleman.

“Tell me how you want it,” he strokes his cock, again, the head darkened from red to almost purple.

Her heart is pounding so fast, she’s surprised she hasn’t passed out. The only thing keeping her going is sheer grit and stubbornness. She could let him choose, let him use her pussy like her mouth…

“Like this,” she lays back, raising her arms up and twining them above her head, showcasing her figure.

“Then, open those legs, doll.”

He brings his cock closer, and her eyes dart around, momentary fear seizing her. No condom?

“What about…” she trails off, looking from his dick to his side table, where she’s sure he has enough Trojan condoms to supply a small island nation.

Raw? He wants to fuck her raw? Jesus, on the list of bad life decisions, this is probably right at the top.

Yet, she’s not doing anything to stop him.

"Is there a problem?”

 “You’re diseased,” she says baldly.

“Ouch, harsh accusation,” he actually pouts. “You’ve already had my dick in your mouth, and you loved it.”

“I...”

 What can she even say to that? ‘No, I didn’t enjoy sucking your cock?’

It’d be the worst kind of lie.

Besides, she’s on birth control, the pill. Why is she even worried? Just go with the flow.

She can’t deny a part of her is excited to fuck him raw. It could be lust clouding her mind, the effect of two orgasms, but it’s almost frighteningly easy to acquiesce.

“Fine,” she grouses, though the eagerness with which she spreads her legs makes her reluctance ring false. Osha hooks her calves over his hips, and he grabs one hip, the other hand filled with his cock.

She’s taking quick, sharp inhales, her body almost vibrating from eagerness, from anticipation.

Qimir doesn’t slide in right away, rubbing his length through her labia, over her clit, catching at her entrance. He teases her, pressing in, each pass slicker and wetter as she leaks all over him.

“Say ‘ please’ ,” he drawls, singsong.

“Eat shit,” she replies. He chuckles, making like he’s going to roll off the bed.

Oh, as if. There’s no way he’s lea—

Fuck!

Qimir thrusts into her and bottoms out in one swift movement, her cunt clenching against the intrusion, trying to expel him even as he groans lowly at the sensation.

He’s inside her, balls deep, really, holy fuck. This is really happening, she’s fucking Qimir. Their entire summer has built up to this moment, the culmination of all their desire, the teasing touches and belligerent flirtation and crackling sexual tension.

Osha’s wheezing, short sharp breaths as she tries and fails to adjust to the stretch. There’s a cramping ache as he nudges deep inside her, and she can feel every ridge and vein as her walls ripple, clamping down on him.

“Jesus, Osha,” he wheezes. “Fucking ease up, will you?”

He withdraws then slams back in, Osha’s back bowing up, scratching at his shoulders, her mouth open in a silent scream.

She can’t. God, she fucking couldn’t loosen up if her life depended on it. It’s too good, phenomenally fucking good, and why has she been waiting so long to do this?

“Look at me, baby,” he demands, after recovering his composure, starting a steady rhythm. “Look at me when I’m fucking you.”

She hadn’t even known when her eyes had fallen shut, too lost in the bliss of him stretching her out, moving her hips mindlessly to meet his.

She opens her eyes, and she’s treated to the visual of Qimir stroking into her, cock head gleaming and covered in her arousal. He’s squelching in and out of her.

“Fuck me,” she sighs, blood flushing in her cheeks, rushing to her head. “Jesus, fuck.”

“Not the name you should be screaming.”

He picks up the pace, practically bouncing her onto his cock, and she wraps her arms and legs around him to draw him deeper, crossing her heels at the small of his back.

“So fucking wet, doll,” he praises her, and she buries her face in his neck, mewling. She scrapes her teeth over his carotid as he drills into her pussy, hips working overtime. She sucks the flesh and bites down, tasting the musk and salt of his skin.

She’s glancing along the edges of something so vast, so ineffable. Tears fill her ears even as she moans gutturally into his neck, and she’s never felt so close to anyone else, to another person, in her life.

“Qimir!” she cries out, almost screaming when he thrusts harder. “Qimir, fuck! Fuck me, fuck me!”

“That’s right, baby,” he’s breathless, grunting the words into her locs. “Just fucking there. God, squeeze me—  fuck. That’s right, come on, come for me.”

Pure, unadulterated bliss floods through her, filling her up, lighting her up like a firework. It sizzles through her entire being, blazing from where he’s joined with her, to the hair he’s planted his face in, down to her flexing toes digging into his ass.

She screams herself hoarse, and when the fire has burned its way through her body, she falls quiet, only humming with an indolent satisfaction as he continues to use her, jerking her onto his cock.

“I’m gonna fill this pussy up,” he promises her. “Fucking have you leaking me for days, shit.”

Her cunt clenches around him at his words, surprise arousal shooting through her, and oh, this is a kink she didn’t even know she had. Fuck.

His measured strokes turning choppy, until he pumps into once, twice, and groans.

“Fuck, Osha,” he turns his head, setting his teeth in her shoulder. He still speaks, albeit muffled. “Fuuck baby, this pussy is so fucking sweet.”

Qimir’s dick pulses and there’s a blooming heat, an odd sense of wetness inside her. He thrusts into her a few more times, drawing out his climax.

He’s huffing and puffing fit to bring the house down, and she titters a bit deliriously at the mental image of Qimir with wolf ears and a tail.

This is what three orgasms and a dicking down does to a motherfucka.

“God,” she sighs, pinned under his weight. “Mm, fuck.”

“Everything you ever dreamed of, doll?”

Ugh, he has to ruin her post-orgasm glow.

Osha pushes his face away, feeling the vibration of his laughter, yet there’s nowhere for him to go. He’s still lodged inside of her.

And, strangely enough, she doesn’t feel the urge to push him away like the rest of her lovers (Boyfriends? Paramours? Ew, no.)

So, she relaxes into the mattress, adjusting her head on the pillow so that her locs aren't trapped under her head, spread out like a halo. Qimir’s a heavy weight above her, but he supports some of his frame on his forearms. They’re both dripping in sweat, his chest plastered to hers, drying tackily.

It’s super weird, feeling him soften inside her, but he’s thick and long enough that he stays sheathed in her. It’s comforting, the way he encompasses her, engulfs her.

He shuffles his hips once in a while, just to hear her squeak, but there’s nothing serious in it. He’s all wrung out as well; sex is still a workout, despite his track athlete build and stamina.

Go out with a bang, and all that. If their first time is only going to be one time, then she’s happy that it ended like this. Exactly as advertised. Five out of five on Yelp.

She traces shapes on his back, scratched to hell from her nails, she notes a little guiltily. But another parts of her preens in satisfaction, that she’s left her mark on him. Real, tangible evidence that she was there. That this happened.

He’ll still be feeling her for the next few days. Osha’s cunt flutters a little at this, and Qimir raises his head up from her boobs to quirk a brow up at her.

“Jesus Osha, you’re insatiable.”

“I’m not—” she sputters, “Don’t— I’m just—”

He snorts, shaking his head.

“I’m going to have to disappoint you,” he declares gravely.

“Oh my God,” she grumbles. “Shut the fuck up, please.”

“You wound me,” he says, a little loopily. He’s like a little puppy, licking all over her chest, hair floofy and messy from where she’d gripped at it like a madwoman.

He’s ridiculous, and it makes her heart skip a bit and her cheeks tingle, and shit, this is inconvenient.

“We should clean up,” Osha blurts out.

“Should we?” he asks contemplatively, his chin digging into her sternum.

He looks up at her with wide brown eyes, and no, she won’t be seduced. Not by his dimples, not by the charming beauty marks on his face that she’s tallied countless times, not his plush, pink mouth bruised red by the force of their kisses.

“Yes, yes,” she rushes out, trying to dislodge him but he won’t go. “Let me up!”

His arm tighten around her, biceps flexing, and she can’t move an inch. Her thighs are stuck under his legs, and they’re far more muscled than hers.

“I don’t think so,” he says lazily.

Fuck her, is he really going for a second round?

Osha won’t admit, but she’s almost disappointed when he springs upright, unsticking their chests with an unpleasant sensation, like ripping tape.

She’s definitely a little devastated when his cock slips out of her, bringing a flood of cum and slick with it.

“Jesus.”

Qimir is staring at her pussy, mouth agape. She’s made such a big mess and she fidgets, uncharacteristic shyness spearing through her, suddenly self-conscious.

He won’t think she’s gross, will he? They should have just used a fucking condom after a—

God in fucking Heaven!

“Jesus,” she babbles, when he tongues her folds. “What the fuck are you— Qimir! Qimir, stop. This is— This is—”

His head pops up. “Fucking delicious? Delightful? Jolly fucking good?”

She covers her face with her hands and screams into them. “Fucking— just eat me out, then. Go on, fuck.”

“Don’t need a signed invitation, doll.”

And he ducks back down, devoting himself to the absolutely filthy, obscene act of eating his cum out of her, what the fuck?

Shit.

Osha throws an arm over her head and decides to just enjoy the ride.

There’s no stopping Qimir once he gets going, so why even try? Resistance is futile.

Eventually, after two or three more orgasms — really, she loses count — he deems her sufficiently clean. He rolls off the bed, his hard cock bobbing against his stomach, leaving a smear of pre-cum on his abs.

Fuck, she feels like a drooling idiot around him. He’s thoroughly melted her brain. She doesn’t think there’ll be anything left of her after he scrapes her up off the mattress.

A pile of goo. Osha-goo.

She blinks when he appears before her, not registering the micro-nap. He holds two washcloths in his hands, damp with hot tap water.

He slings one over her shoulder with a wet slap, and the other he uses to wipe her thighs and between them with swift, efficient movements.

It tickles, like a lot, and she giggles as the touch tingles over her skin. Her tongue darts out to swipe at her lips, and she looks up to find Qimir’s gaze intent on her, dark and heated.

His dick is still erect, ready to go. She’s not nice enough to offer him another BJ, even though her mouth kind of waters when she looks at him for too long.

Osha pokes her tongue out, just to tease a little. Provoke him a little, see what he does.

Qimir sighs, rolling his neck, his hand drifting towards his cock. She bites her lip when he grunts softly, her teeth sinking into soft flesh and relishing the brief shock of pain.

Her hands drift to her breasts, idly cupping and squeezing them. It’s not something she does consciously, though she notes the effect it has on Qimir.

His hand speeds up, the other cupping his balls, and his muscled chest heaves. His cheeks are flushed red, his fringe and loose dark hair sticking to his neck, pink and purple blooms over his neck. Her marks.

The room smells of sex, the mingled scent of their fluids, their laboured panting the loudest sounds.

Summer lays heavy outside, ozone crackling and horns honking faintly. The cicadas chirp and thunder rumbles in the distance, somewhere above Mount Vernon. The heat is suffocating, the anticipation of waiting for the clouds to break and for rain to come pouring down.

But inside this house, inside this room, it’s just them.

Qimir and Osha.

She doesn’t think about spreading her legs, showing Qimir her clean pussy. It just happens.

“Shit, Osha,” his cock head is barely visible in his hands, as he works the length expertly, moving closer. He climbs onto the bed, settling between Osha’s legs, but doesn’t make any further moves. He just kneels there, eyeing her body.

“Come on,” she murmurs. His eyes snap to hers, finding the same eagerness reflected there.

She arches her chest, pushing her tits out at him, and the same hand that was cupping his balls is now groping her, squeezing her breasts.

“Fuck,” he hisses, almost bowing over her. “Fuck, fuck—”

She rocks her hips up, just once, and that’s enough invitation for Qimir to shove his cock inside, groaning like he’s having the soul sucked out of him. A flood of warmth fills her, and this time she properly feels it, as his dick is in a more shallow position than before. It seeps out of her, leaking down to her backside.

Fuck. That’s going to be a bitch to clean, again.

“Thank you,” he says, incongruously gracious, and she blinks up at him as he uses the second towel on her. It’s cooled down, now, so it’s not as nice an experience as before, but it gets the job done.

“You planned that,” she accuses, but he merely cocks his head at her, sharp jawline on display.

“Did I?” he asks, then throws the crud-encrusted towels in the corner — “Fucking gross, Qimir!” — before hauling her up.

Osha shrieks, twisting in his arms, and he rolls them further up the bed, until she’s sprawled over his naked form, legs hitched over his hips.

“There,” he hums jauntily. “All done.”

Her ear is flat against his chest, on the same side as his heart; whether by accident or design, it doesn’t matter, because she’s fascinated by the steady rhythm.

It’s a little faster than usual, still coming off the back of an orgasm. He bands his arms around her back, tight, drawing her close and practically folding her into his embrace.

It’s nice. Too nice. She could fall asleep right here, and indeed, she almost does.

Only the reminder of Sol has Osha jerking upright, breaking his hold. She wiggles the rest of the way down the bed, until she can look at him without skin contact impeding her brain function.

“Sol will be back, soon,” she explains, though she’s sure Qimir is quite aware.

“And?” he quirks a brow.

“And, I have to go. Back to my room. Because it’s, you know, my room.”

There’s a moment where Osha thinks he might not let her go, a tense moment where calculation spins behind his eyes, the wheels always turning, before the furrow between his brows smooths out and he nods, just once.

“Cool,” she blathers. “Cool. cool. Can I go?”

Wait, no. She doesn’t need permission.

She rolls off the bed and almost lands on a heap, legs quivering. Fuck, she’s going to be sore, tomorrow.

Qimir watches her somewhat smugly, shifting to rest his arms behind his head, the picture of cool and unbothered. Only his eyes betray him, radiating irritation like he’s been thwarted.

What was he expecting, a loved-up cuddle session? Aftercare? She didn’t take him for an aftercare kind of guy.

Whatever. It’s not possible.

One time only, remember?

Osha muses about who’s using who, really, as she dons her sleepwear hurriedly and reties the gown, back to square one.

Except for her silk scarf, which is tangled up in the bedsheets, and she’s not going to spend a moment longer in this room.

This is has gone on for long enough, and Osha is dangerously close to being tempted into a second — third? — round, from just the visual of Qimir alone.

Adonis, in repose. Michelangelo would fucking weep.

No, no, no.

Bad idea. Terrible, the worst.

She throws Qimir a half-hearted wave as she leaves, determinedly not looking back, and curses herself as soon as the door shuts behind her.

A wave. What is she, twelve? Way to up the awkwardness, Osha.

It’s a sleepless night for her, tossing and turning as she dissects her every move and reaction, what she should have said at this particular moment, how she could have been less pathetic.

Ugh, it’s no use. There won’t be a repeat, so all this brooding is useless.

He’ll be gone in a week, she recites, like gospel, as if to ward off the memory of his hands and mouth and dick, her body still buzzing all over.

He’ll be gone.

Now

Osha’s known for being professional and dedicated, but distant. She sets herself apart from the other lawyers. It’s something that hasn’t exactly made her a lot of friends.

Some people call her 'frigid' and 'repressed' and 'ice cold bitch' behind her back, because she's rebuffed networking opportunities and dinners and drinks in the past.

This was especially prominent at her old firm, the hellish one that had made her work fifteen-hour days continuously as an intern until she’d started hallucinating cases.

It’s not as bad now, when most of the office is understand and family law tends to lend itself to less cut-throat competitiveness, although it’s still there.

Increasingly, Osha hasn't attended drinks and dinner due to her pregnancy —  both the expectation to drink as well as the aroma of food making her nauseous, but she wants to make connections again, especially because she'll be going on maternity leave and she wants to continue maintaining her professional relationships.

Fennec always hosts a pre-Easter dinner, an excuse for the team to get rip-roaringly drunk and pig out and expensive food. Never let it be said that Verosha Kira Aniseya passed up on a good free meal.

The choice is usually decided on by popular vote. And to Osha’s dismay, what everyone settles on is a popular Omakase restaurant with a waiting list a mile long.

Fennec, with her connections, manages to secure them a table. Osha winces when the selection is announced, but then nods determinedly. Fennec’s hands are tied, unfortunately. She can’t exactly go against popular vote.

That’s okay, Osha will adapt; she always does. It's not like she won’t have options, she'll just have to research the menu beforehand.

When the night comes, Osha is dressed in a midnight-blue wrap dress that combines work vibes and going out vibes, which manages to be classy but also fun, with faint star constellations patterned on the hem.

The atmosphere is great, relaxed and casual. Most of Fennec’s section is there: Fillik, Maya, Ezra, Rose, Finn, Jannah. Osha catches up with everyone, because she’s gotten into the habit of working from home for at least three days a week, and that affords less opportunity for yapping.

The private dining room they’d booked allows for free flow of conversation, which is good because their group always gets loud, especially when they’re drunk. It’s fun, collegial and casual, everyone exchanging their wins and horror stories of terrible cases.

Osha gets to vent a little about Perrin, Ms Mothma’s terrible husband, without giving away too many details. Finn toasts solemnly to her predicament, advising her that they’ve all been there.

Jannah follows up with a story about how she’d gone to an initial meeting with her assistant and the client had assumed he was the principal attorney, shaking his hand vigorously, even though he’d spoken with Jannah over the phone.

The group orders several starters and a massive share plate of sashimi, an eye-wateringly expensive item that Fennec very deliberately does not look up the price of, as well as several rounds of quality sake.

For herself, Osha quietly orders teriyaki lamb chops, though her heart cries out when the hiramasa kingfish and tuna carpaccio is passed around.

“Oh, none for me, thanks,” she smiles at Rose, who’s wearing a fetchingly attractive red satin dress. “I’m saving myself for dinner.”

Her stomach whines in discomfort. Fuck. She hopes that wasn’t too obvious.

Rose raises an eyebrow at her, but chirps, “Okay!”

Osha briefs a sigh of relief, sipping on her mineral water.

She relents, however, when the hot starters come out. The crispy chicken karaage is too good to pass up, and she snags a few edamame to nibble on, as well.

“Oh, look, it’s coming!”

Fillik, seated across from her, points out the waiter bringing two rotund bottles of sake to their table, another waiter following behind them with shallow, earthenware cups for drinking.

The whole table claps, immediately expressing a preference for either warm or chilled sake. The cups are set in front of them, but when the time comes for the waiter to pour, asking for her choice of sake, Osha keeps the cup on the table and denies with a polite smile.

“Neither, thank you very much. I’m waiting for dinner.”

Ugh, that same excuse.

No one really notices, as they’re more preoccupied by tasting the sake and making noises of satisfaction at the flavour. The waiter promises to come back again in a few moments with their platter, and there’s another round of muted cheering.

“Dibs on the salmon belly!” Finn calls out.

“Nah, cuttlefish is superior!” Rose jostles his shoulder.

“Ladies, please,” Fillik cuts in, raising his hands. “Everyone knows scallops are the best. Isn’t that right, Osha?”

Osha, caught in the middle of taking a mouthful of mineral water, nods and sets her cup down.

“Of course,” she fixes a smile on her face, nerves squirming in her belly. “You know me too well.”

And of course, Fillik does. He’s attuned to her preferences; despite their brief, ah flirtation a few months ago, before her pregnancy. Osha hasn’t paid him any special attention, keeping it cool and cordial as colleagues.

He’s stayed as friendly as ever, never once crossing the line. She appreciates him for it, even as she feels insurmountable guilt for the way she’d just thrown him away.

With much fanfare, the share platters are presented to the table, the waiter pointing out each type of sashimi on the elaborate platter, garnished with banana leaf, cucumber, lemon and crushed ice.

Osha snaps a quick picture; just because she can’t eat it, doesn’t mean she can’t memorialise it. And so what if she sends a photo to Mae, followed by a string of crying emojis? Someone needs to share in her suffering.

Mae sends back a drooling emoji, followed by, ‘sucks 2 be you girl’.

Bitch.

Osha huffs and eyes the kingfish and scallops hungrily, the latter practically glistening, begging to be dipped in soy sauce.

At that moment, her lamb chops arrive, still sizzling on the hot plate, and Osha inhales deeply. God, that’s the stuff.

“Sake, Osha?”

Osha turns to see Maya holding her cup up, a waiter standing next to the table with a bottle of chilled sake at the ready. And it’s her favourite bottle, Dassai 45.

Osha strangles the tortured groan at the back of her throat, but Maya still hears it.

“Come on,“ she says playfully, well on her way to being drunk, if the way she’s acting so familiar with Osha is anything to go by.

“I knoooow you want to,” she winks, a bit wonkily, her usually sleek silk press frizzing a little.

 Osha hates to burst her bubble, because she’s always wanted Maya to shake off her innate fear of being reprimanded by Osha and talk casually with her, but now really isn’t the time.

“Yeah, Osha,” Fillik adds, leaning across the table. “What’s up with that empty cup? You going teetotaller on us now? The Osha Aniseya?”

Fuck, her reputation for guzzling sake like a beast is being used against her, now.

Osha catches Fennec’s eye, her boss pressing her lips together, as if to say, ‘Your call’.

God, it’s been frustrating enough hiding her constant tiredness and fatigue from the office, as well as her previous nausea and now ravenous hunger. And it was going to come out, sooner or later.

It's not like she'll be able to hide it. She's well into the second trimester, it's time. So why not just say it?

There's a moment of hesitation, her fear of judgement, once again, holding her back. But she finds the same courage that prompted her to confess to Mae and Dr Holden, and admits,

“I’m pregnant.”

There's a pregnant, heh, silence, before they break out into drunken cheering and shouting, money exchanging hands, Finn asking them what he missed and Maya grabbing her and bursting into tears.

Fennec reaches across the table to slap at her shoulder, someone orders her three different types of mocktails and Osha protests, complaining that she can't finish them all because she's going to be bolting for the restroom—

She doesn’t glance at Fillik, apprehensive of his reaction, but...

He's calm. He's even smiling, good natured as he always is, like he doesn't even blame Osha for blowing him off. This calm confidence is what had drawn her to him in the first place, before she'd realised that it wasn't what she wanted.

(She craves the mess, the rush. She craves—)

Yeah, gonna stop you right there.

“I thought there was something different about you. You seem more… settled.”

Settled? Osha is incredulous. She feels like a bundle of nerves, barely held together by a fraying thread.

Her cheeks are hot, and she presses her hands to them. Gosh, it’s warm in here. Maybe that’s the reason her eyes are stinging as well…

She cradles her stomach, feeling the slight rounding, reassured that they’ve reacted so positively.

Why had she even been scared for?

“So, how many weeks along are you?” Rose leans over to ask, cheeks pink under her fringe, her eyes shining.

“Um, just about fifteen, almost sixteen weeks now.”

“Wow,” Rose breathes. “My sister, Paige, is maybe… twenty-eight weeks? Something like that that.”

“That’s pretty far along,” Osha fiddles with her chopsticks. “Good luck to her.”

And that’s it for the evening.

However, now that the whole damned office knows, they treat her with kid gloves when she comes in.

Around once a week, Osha comes in to sort through her mail and packages, pick up paperwork from her assistant and just do some general schmoozing and catching up. It comes with the territory, and she always enjoys hearing about other people’s cases and the way they’ve gone about solving them.

Except now, everyone is acting exceptionally odd. Solicitous and caring, even smothering, with how they try to ply her with food or offer their own advice about pregnancy and motherhood.

The admin ladies are the worst, those old biddies in filing and admin offer their old wives’ tales and their own horror stories about birth.

Eedy Karn corners her one day and goes on an hour-long rant about how thankless children can be, about how her own son, who once had a good job as a security guard, now disappears for weeks on end to chase a lead as a P.I. He hasn’t come back for months, on the trail of a ‘big one’.

What she really suspects, however, is that he’s shacked up with some no-good hussy who’s probably draining him dry and making him hold her handbag.

Osha cries uncle after her wristwatch ticks over to 2:15PM, citing an urgeny need to visit the restroom. Eedy grumbles about how she remembers those days, when her ungrateful son used to stomp on her bladder, and Osha takes the opportunity to escape, hunkering down in a stall for a good ten minutes.

Once the coast is clear, she texts Maya to confirm that Eedy’s gone back to her spot at the reception desk, breathing a sigh of relief when Maya sends her back a thumbs up emoji. Then, she mourns her lost lunch period. She was meant to get an Italian beef sandwich, God damn it!

But it looks like Maya has her covered, when a DoorDash order comes in for her twenty minutes later. Osha falls upon her sub with a ferocity that rivals a starving lion with a lame gazelle. She kind of blacks out and tears through it, surfacing from her food-induced haze to find Fillik leaning over into her cubicle, mouth hanging open as he gapes at her.

He’s going to catch flies like that. He ain’t ever seen a girl eating a sandwich before?

Osha rolls her eyes and Fillik regains control of his face, but he still looks astonished.

“Damn,” he curses. “You alright there, Osha?”

“Affwood,” she says, through a mouthful of beef. All good. She throws him a thumbs up for good measure, and Fillik retreats to his desk, clearly sensing the wisdom in not getting between a pregnant woman and her lunch.

The days pass by, Osha settling into her new routine, striving to excel in everything to prove that she still has it. Just because she’s pregnant, doesn’t mean her standard of work is going to slip.

She takes the losses with the wins; she's not always successful.

This case is particularly heartbreaking, and Osha argues her heart out in court, presenting all the evidence she has and contesting the claims that the children are in danger with their mother.

Her client, Orla has a criminal history that is brought up frequently, and she's not particularly wealthy, having applied through the firm's pro bono program for access to legal assistance.

She's petitioning to regain access to her children; the father had taken them on vacation, as per their pattern for the last two years, but this time hadn't relinquished them back into her custody.

Orla had waited for hours at the mediation centre, their agreed-upon exchange place. She'd called and texted him relentlessly, unable to go over to his house due to the standing protection order, until eventually he'd called her back, advising her that he was going to keep the children with him permanently for their own 'wellbeing'.

There's no prior court order; the arrangement had been negotiated privately between both parties, mainly over phone calls. Her client has a bare handful of texts to present as evidence, as Illinois is a two-party consent state.

"Your Honour, my client has been, and remains, the primary caregiver to the two children, Jenna and Jamison. Here you'll see statutory declarations written and signed by both the defendant’s sister and the pre-K staff affirming my position, and my client's assertion that she is best placed to parent these children full-time...."

Yet, it's useless. Her every piece of evidence is countered with another, the defence even bringing previously unseen evidence into admission.

Osha suspects the judge is in his pocket, but she can't prove it, and that's the most fucking infuriating thing.

Every minute that passes, and it's short minutes because this judge looks impatient as hell, probably eager to lunch at the Capital with one of his prejudiced colleagues or a cop, she tries.

She tries and she tries and she— she loses the case.

The judge rules in the defendant's favour; the father, a predator if she ever met one, with a flat gaze to rival a shark. He's embracing his attorney in relief, smiling with his loathsome, artificially-whitened teeth.

Osha doesn't miss the nasty little smirk he sends her client. Her fists clench uselessly, a knife of rage piercing through her. Her heart rate spikes, and her feet and back are already aching from pacing around the courtroom for half an hour, and she wants to take that shiny head of slicked-back hair and smash it into the wooden table, again and again and ag—

Fuck. Breathe it out.

Osha wrestles her anger down, bubbling in her stomach like molten hot lava.

What's left is the taste of defeat, ash in her mouth, and a terrible sorrow. It climbs up her throat, insidious, but she masters herself as she focuses on packing up her paperwork with swift efficiency.

Osha swallows it down— this isn't about her, this about her client, who's just lost access to children for the next five years. They'd have forgotten her by then, perhaps poisoned by their father's stories 

No contact is harsh, much harsher than she deserves, but her prior record and the protection order works against her.

There's nothing you could have done, her inner-Fennec reassures her. She's sure that real-Fennec will say the same thing, but her hands still shake, as she clutches her roller suitcase, her other hand on Orla's lower back, guiding her out of the courtroom and down the hall.

They walk in tandem over the polished tiles, Osha whispering reassurances that she tried her best, they can try to push for an appeal.

Osha is already drafting the email she'll need to send to Maya, CC'ing Fennec in. This isn't the final decision, they still have thirty days, but Orla is barely listening to her.

She's picking at her nails, already shredded throughout the hearing, watching blood bubble up dispassionately. There's something insubstantial about her, deflated and demoralised.

Osha guides her over to a side nook, out of view from people walking down the main thoroughfare, and grasps her firmly by the shoulders, shaking her a little.

This is highly unorthodox, but Osha's in an unprofessional mood.

"Listen to me," her voice is steel, threaded through with a command. Orla's head wrenches up, like Osha's manipulating her strings. "This isn't over, do you understand me? You still have time. Don't..."

Embarrassingly enough, her voice cracks, blatant evidence of her distress.

"Don't give up on them. Don't give up on your children, please."

This is more than money, more than her pride at having lost a case.

This is about children losing the only mother they've ever known.

She takes a deep breath, firming her resolve, and she sees the matching determination in her client’s eyes.

“Okay,” Orla’s throat bobs as she swallows harshly. “Okay, tell me what I need to do.”

(They lose the battle, but win the war. That’s a story for another time, though.)

Spring in Chicago is glorious; the blue sky reflected on the boundless depths of Lake Michigan, the budding leaves on trees and cherry blossoms blooming, the fresh fruits and vegetables at the farmer’s markets, the Spring Show at the MART, where Mae picks up a few choice pieces.

Osha has to duck away to the nearest restroom, which is inconveniently located inside a McDonald’s. She needs to purchase an apple pie as a ruse, hopping from one leg to another, before she sprints towards the unisex stall.

When she comes back out, it’s to a befuddled Mae being accosted by an overly-friendly stranger. The woman turns, and Osha realises it’s—

“Sabine!”

Osha strides forward, grinning ear to ear. “Girl, what are you doing here?”

Sabine’s eyes are fixed on her stomach, eyeing the bump with incredulity. “What are you doing here?”

Sabine’s girlfriend, Shin, elbows her in the ribs and Sabine rips her eyes away from Osha’s clearly pregnant belly.

"I knew you said you had an identical twin, Osha, but this…"

Osha tips her head towards Mae, who’s crossed her arms around her friend and is eyeing Sabine and Shin critically.

"Trippy, right?" Osha grins. "Bring it in, bitch."

Osha grabs Sabine in a firm hug, her signature bubble-gum scent wafting over her, and she feels so happy that she ambushes Shin with a hug as well. She tolerates it grudgingly; she may not show it, a bit of a black cat, but Shin appreciates the physical affection.

Osha gets an awkward pat on the back from Shin, before the two of them draw back.

“So, um, clearly there’s a lot going on with you,” Sabine points out the obvious. She’s wearing thick eye make-up, her hair styled in a pixie cut and dyed bright purple. Her and Shin have always bleached the shit out of their hair, and Shin’s hair is still in a platinum blond bob with blunt bangs.

“Oh, you can’t tell?” Osha rolls her eyes a little, pulled back into the easy familiarity they’d shared, habits from years of rooming alongside each other coming back to her as easily as breathing. “I thought you were in New York for a while longer.”

“Nah,” Sabine hooks her thumbs into her belt loops, keys hanging from a carabiner clipped to the front. “Shit is marginally cheaper here. Marginally.”

She’s dressed stylishly in a long-sleeved tee with a chaotic yellow, blue and purple pattern, probably one of her own designs.

By contrast, Shin is dressed more like Mae, head to toe in all black. Her signature colour.

That reminds her…

“Oh!”

Osha is a bad, bad sister for not even introducing her twin to her friends. “This is Mae. She’s also an artist.”

The two of them scrutinise each other, before clasping hands gingerly. It’s like watching two bulldogs size each other up; a little ridiculous, really.

They spend a bit longer chatting, mostly Sabine and Osha, with Mae and Shin making affirmative noises every once in a while.

Eventually, Mae wordlessly begs off and they go their separate ways, but without Sabine extracting a promise to meet up for dinner or lunch later in the month, maybe the next month.

Hey, maintaining adult friendships is hard.

Osha saves the best for last, buying a few pastries from her favourite café before it closes for the day and taking them to the banks of Lake Michigan.

“I never knew it was this big,” Mae murmurs, eyes wide at the vast expanse, salt in the air, the waves softly rolling in, stretching from one side of the horizon to the other.

Having spent the majority of her teens and adult years on the banks of the Mississippi River has shifted her perception of water.

“That’s what she said,” Osha ripostes, and gets a shove for her efforts, Mae reluctantly cracking a smile.

Osha is glad to acquaint her, though it’s still a bit chilly to go swimming, also mildly insane. She tells Mae as much, when she asks.

They stand there, side by side, nibbling at their danishes, looking at a sky full of blue. It’s a bright, almost unreal cerulean blue, burnished with orange at the edges. Spring has truly sprung.

Osha takes a moment just to breathe, dressed in a dotted wrap dress that exposes a bit of her bump, wanting to dress to embrace her growing figure, paired with a lightweight cashmere cardigan and a loose scarf, to account for the slight breeze.

Mae bumps her shoulder against Osha, dressed in more layers. She’s definitely not accustomed to the North, because she’s wearing a black anorak layered on top of a black turtleneck, with loose black pants and a pair of Docs.

Ah, New Orleans weather. Must be nice to wear tank tops and shorts, but unfortunately, the lightest she can go is a long-sleeved midi dress.

Osha pivots towards her, wishing she’d remembered to bring her sunglasses with her, because the light is shining right into her eyes. She squints, then turns her face away from the slowly setting sun.

“What’s up?”

Mae chews her lip, looking uncertain. Osha widens her eyes at her twin, nodding a little as if to say, 'It's okay. Say what you need to.'

"I shouldn't be telling you this, but..."

That phrase activates Osha like a sleeper agent and she perks up, eager to hear the tea.

"Go on," she encourages.

"Sometimes," Mae hesitates. "Look, I know it sounds bad, but I still think about Jecki."

Osha holds back a sigh of relief. Thank god it's not about Qimir.

Yet, the lack of his presence hangs over them, haunting her with his phantom touch.

"That's normal," Osha reassures Mae. "To still think about them. I mean, you were dating for years," she laughs. "It'd be a bit weird if you didn't."

"It's not, like, cheating, right? I'm not being unfaithful to Qimir, just because—"

"No," Osha cuts her off vehemently, the word 'cheating' tripping her heart like a blown fuse. "No, not at all."

She'd be the biggest fucking hypocrite if she lectured Mae on the ethics of being hung up on an ex while in another relationship. But she has to try giving her something.

"Look, I'm not an expert on your relationship," God help her, she doesn't want to fucking hear about any of it, "but I can tell you're not okay. You're having doubts. And that's normal. But, I have to remind you that you can't force someone into doing something they don't want to do."

She pauses, catching Mae's gaze. This is her twin, she needs to give her unbiased advice. She reaches out to her, threading her fingers through Osha’s own. 

"I'm gonna hold your hand when I say this," she squeezes once, and Mae rolls her eyes, knowing exactly what Osha is about to say next.

"But if he wanted to, he would," the two of them finish in unison.

There's a moment of tension held taut, then it snaps when the two of them throw their heads back and cackle at the sky.

The gulls squawk overhead, waves lap at the banks gently and there's the smell of spring in the air.

It’s at that precise moment, hand in hand with Mae, that her baby moves for the first time.

Osha gasps, grabbing her stomach.

It might be gas, she’s just being silly…

But it happens again, a small twist in her belly. Not unpleasant, but more like champagne bubbles sparkling inside her

“What’s wrong?”

Mae grabs her shoulder, eyes wide and fearful.

“Baby,” Osha breathes. “They moved.”

Her throat tightens, vision blurring. Her baby just moved for the first time, and she couldn’t have wished for a better companion than her very own twin. The only person who might have been more suited would be—

 “Oh my god!”

Mae is a little freaked out, but grabs her in a hug. “Oh my god, oh my god!”

They laugh, both damp-eyed, holding each other as the sun slips lower on the horizon, salt thick in the air. A foghorn blares, disturbing the peace, and a flock of gulls takes off in response to the sound.

Osha thinks baby has an affinity for water; their movements are like little waves. A tiny tadpole, or an otter. Swimming, swimming.

Another set of bubbles, like baby is signalling that they’re here, pay attention to me.

“Hello, darling,” she caresses her stomach, cupping the area where baby might be, where she’ll soon be able to feel their movements from the surface. “Mama’s here, sweetness. I’ve got you.”

She can’t help but picture a little girl, a gift just for her. Maybe she’d have tight coils like Osha, or loose curls. Fat cheeks, flushed and milk sweet peeking from a swaddle, downy hair.

I know that things are scary and uncertain, baby love, but we’ll get through it. Mama is a survivor.

She whispers a few more tender nothings, sunset turning to dusk, then Mae complains about the cold and they schlep back to the L, more than ready to head home.

Osha feels complete, and so very happy.

And guilty.

The guilt dogs her every step, but maybe it's okay to shed this burden for a couple of days. To enjoy these brief moments with her twin.

Osha introduces Mae to some Chicago culinary favourites like The Original Beef, stares longingly at a Lox bagel at her favourite bakery and pigs out on a deep dish pizza, all to herself.

“At least you’ve got an excuse,” Mae grumbles, leaning back in the booth, leather creaking behind her as she rubs her stomach. She’d polished off her own deep dish, cursing Osha’s name.

“You gon’ make me as big back as you,” Mae complains, Louisiana drawl creeping in. “Ruined my meal plan and all.”

“No one forced you, Maemae,” Osha answers laconically, brushing a hand over her own full belly, skin feeling tight. She’ll need to moisturise well tonight. “Besides, you’re on vacation. When in Rome, and all that.”

“Fine,” Mae grouses, but she’s hiding a smile. This is the shit they missed out on as teenagers, eating crappy, greasy food together and staying up late watching bad horror films.

Osha even takes a few days off work, instead of frantically cramming what cases she can manage in between the public holidays, like she usually does.

Is it bad for her case completion rate? Maybe, but she knows Fennec favours her and she’s always been a diligent worker. She’s owed this.

Osha feels a little bad for spending Easter in Chicago, but she’d just spent part of the Christmas period with Sol. And really, if she went, then Mae would feel obliged to go, and then everyone would need to pay for flights to go.

And there would be the possibility of seeing Qimir, of course. And that’s not something she’s willing to risk.

Not now, when she’s still figuring out when to tell him, or if. She’s nineteen weeks along and still hasn’t gotten her shit together.

The next few days are relaxed and easy; wandering around Chicago and its various parks, getting lost in the alleys and trying all sorts of cuisines.

Osha is practically ravenous, scarfing down enough portions for two people, and Mae watches her put it all away with fascinated horror.

On their second to last night, they watch what’s possibly the worst movie for Osha’s emotional equilibrium: Past Lives.

Past fucking Lives, which is about missed connections and teenage love, and the question of whether you can really be happy with someone else when your first love is right there.

She doesn’t interrogate why that storyline resonates so strongly with her.

Osha regrets letting Mae pick, but it’s always been their ritual when one twin is visiting the other, and up until now, Mae hasn’t had a chance to exercise that privilege.

She’s gulping down tears by the end of it, mopping her face with the Kleenex Mae shoved into her hand, before relenting and wedging the box in her lap. The gummy worms in the bowl are seasoned with her tears, and she’d polished off the popcorn in under ten minutes, meaning she’d had to get up to microwave another bowl.

“It’s just— so— so sad!” she blubbers, then blows her snotty nose into a tissue, chucking it on the coffee table. There’s a sizeable pile, starting from the beginning of the third act of the film.

She’d thought it was a nice film about childhood friends until she’d been punched in the throat with feelings. She hasn’t been able to take proper lungful of air since it started, though that could also be the baby pressing on her bladder.

“Haesung just left!” Osha wails, batting Mae’s hands away when she tries to comfort her. “And they were soulmates, I just know it!”

She takes a swig of peppermint tea, sniffling violently. She’s never been a pretty crier, her face scrunching up and snot dribbling down her chin. “And the thing is— the thing is, her husband was so understanding! Who the hell just does that?”

She rolls off the couch and onto her feet, agitated now. She paces the small space while Mae eyes her warily, like she’s a caged tiger liable to pounce.

Osha whirls on Mae, wobbling a little on her feet, as her stomach throws her centre off-balance.

“What do you think?” she demands. “Should Nora have left her husband?”

Mae hesitates, eyeing the title screen on Netflix then looking back at Osha, like she’s going to be attacked for providing the wrong answer.

“I think,” she says slowly, really taking the time to mull it over, “that at certain times, people enter your life. People that you have an inexplicable connection with, and you keep coming back to them again and again, regardless of whoever else is in your life.”

She folds her hands in her lap, oddly solemn. “Fidelity is the right choice, but sometimes,” her breath catches in her throat, her voice warbling, “sometimes, the right choice isn’t the best choice.”

Oh, Mae.

Here she is, ranting and raving like a lunatic, and her sister is having doubts about her relationship with Qimir.

Osha takes a seat next to Mae on the overly stuffed couch, curling her arm around her twin. Mae sags a little against Osha, and they lean back in unison, staring up at the popcorn ceiling.

“Like I said, it’s okay to miss Jecki, Maemae. It’s even okay to think about what-ifs. but,” she swallows down bile, because she’s not poisoning Mae’s relationship with her boyfriend, she’s not, “if you feel like this, then I would recommend talking to Qimir. Getting on the same page. And if you’re not…”

Osha shrugs, leaving her to work out the rest for herself.

Mae nods, just once, her purple locs already tucked inside her purple silk bonnet.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she hugs Mae to her boobs, which have ballooned an obscene amount. “You’ll figure it out. Us Aniseya girls are strong.”

 “Not an Aniseya, anymore,” Mae mumbles, but Osha shakes her.

“Look at me,” she smiles, holding Mae’s face between her palms. “Once an Aniseya, always an Aniseya.”

Mae makes a face, and Osha squishes her cheeks, her sister sputtering and trying to break free of her hold.

“Oi!” Mae complains, through puffed out lips. “Who died and made you elder sibling?”

Osha darts forward and bites her shoulder, a familiar childhood habit that’s coming back to her, now.

“You, obviously.”

Osha squeals and cries uncle when Mae tries to tickle-fight her, claiming that it’s unfair for them to duel when she has such an obvious handicap.

Later, that night, she can’t sleep. Mae snores away on the pull-out couch, her soft snorts oddly endearing, but Osha just can’t settle herself.

It’s not a new thing, this restless. It’s very common in pregnant women, but it’s not pregnancy symptoms keeping her up, for once.

Instead, she’s thinking about the movie they watched, Past Lives. The concept of ‘in-yeon’ fascinates her.

Is that what she and Qimir have — that unfathomable, inescapable connection?

The brushing of sleeves, in hundreds of lifetimes. The red string of fate tying them together, leading to the tangle they’re in now, the mess that they’ve created for themselves.

Why can’t it be simple, she despairs. Why can’t it be ever easy?

But nothing good is ever easy, or so they say, and she needs to make a choice.

The truth will out. That’s another saying.

Mae tries to beg off, but Osha insists on accompanying her sister to the airport, sitting alongside her in the Uber so they can eke out a few more precious minutes.

“You’re not an inconvenience,” she tells Mae, in an echo of Dr Holden, from one of their sessions. “I like spending time with you.”

Mae rolls her eyes but shoves her shoulder, grinning a little bashfully. “Do you think I should have stayed for the tulips?”

“You have a commission due in like, four days.”

“So, no,” Mae rubs a hand over her face. “Back into it, I guess.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Osha stays with her through check-in, assisting her when she has to haul her big ass suitcase onto the scale. Mae had bought a truly ridiculous amount of clothes to Chicago, and it turned out she smart to do so, because the weather had been truly variable. One day rainy, the next day foggy, the day after that a bit warm and dry.

The only constant had been the wind, truly living up to its name as the Windy City.

“You know,” Mae says thoughtfully. “I think I’ll miss it here.”

“I thought you said NOLA was the best city in all of America?”

“It is,” Mae insists, “but I think Chicago can be second-best. What do you think?”

Osha replies that she better not say that around a native Chicagoan, because the boba lady is already giving them the stink eye, holding up the line while Mae contemplates between a taro milky tea and a lotus flower milky tea.

Osha chooses a strawberry fruity tea with half strength caffeine, because she’s got to watch her intake but she’s not missing out on boba. She’s sacrificed enough, like sushi and subway sandwiches.

“Aight, aight,” Mae shuts her trap before they get jumped by locals, paying for their drinks swiftly before Osha can even extricate her phone from her pocket.

“Not fair,” Osha complains.

“Uh, bitch, you hosted. Only fair that I get to pay.”

“Let’s not start,” Osha gripes, waiting patiently for her tea on the side. Mae hands her a granola bar before she can dig into her bag, well attuned to her hunger by now.

Fuck, she’s going to miss this.

Osha blinks back the sting in her eyes and inhales sharply through her nose, swallowing the sorrow. She doesn’t how long it’ll last, this peace and goodwill between them. Qimir could shatter it in as moment by opening his big mouth.

Though, really, who would Mae believe? Her sister, her twin, blood of her own blood, or her shady, fickle boyfriend? Osha would like to believe that she’d fall on her side, but there’s no guarantee.

And…

If she’s being honest, Osha doesn’t think she’d deny it. If Qimir told Mae, she would own up to it. It’d cause a rupture in their relationship, probably irreparable damage, but can she really bring herself to spurn him again?

Not when there’s a child in the mix, now. A fragile life, who will likely need their other parent, because it’s hard being a single parent.

It’s a new millennium but old attitudes still persist, and few look upon a Black single mother favourably, especially not one who might have a visibly mixed baby.

And… fuck. She should tell Sol, at one point. She’s been putting it off forever, and now she’s halfway through her pregnancy.

Every time she tries, the dial tone sounds like a funerary march, foretelling her doom.

She either hangs up the phone before Sol can pick up, or she invents some convenient excuse.

There’s little crossover between her friendship circles here and in Washington, and she doesn’t post much on social media, so there’s no risk of him finding out via Instagram. She’d even been paranoid enough to vet each of Mae’s posts, ensuring that her stomach wasn’t visible in any of the shots she’d taken.

“I know, I’ve said this before,” she’d said one night, both of them squished on her couch and have a phone break before their next movie in the marathon. “But you really do need to give Sol a heads up.”

God, not this again.

Osha had huffed, hugging her pregnancy pillow closer. It provides really good back support and it’s a nice resting place for snacks, she’d reasoned to Mae, when her sister had made a minor fuss about the size of the thing.

“He’s my dad, Mae,” Osha sulked. “I’ll tell him when I’m good and ready.”

“And when will that be?” Mae had muttered.

She’d grabbed a handful of popcorn and pelted it at her twin’s head.

“Hey! Not fair, you know I can’t fight back!”

And thus began a popcorn fight for the ages, with Mae relegated to clean-up duty, despite the fact that she hadn’t started it in the first place.

She crushes her twin in her arms now, despite her stomach providing a bit of an impediment. They’re right outside the departures gate, small minnows in a sea of fish, the crowd moving rapidly around them.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she mutters into Mae’s purple-dyed locs. Mae’s chin dugs into her shoulder when she bobs her head in agreement.

“Same to you,” she replies, in a choked up voice.

They sway, wrapped up in each other, and the lines of an old, old childhood rhyme come back to her.

“I am with you,” she begins, and Mae makes a choked noise of surprise.

“Always one, but born as two…”

Somehow, they remember the rest of the rhyme, trading off lines until the final one, that they finish together,

“And you give me, me.”

They laugh a little incredulously, that they still recall something from all those years ago.

“Wow,” Mae shakes her head. “I haven’t thought about that since…”

“Yeah,” Osha says simply. “I miss them, too.”

The silence between them deepens with shared memories, the ghost of their mothers around them. It’s a little comforting to imagine their mothers guiding them.

She thinks about what Mother Koril would say about Qimir and blanches.

Yeesh, maybe not guiding them all the time. Maybe only for pivotal moments.

Anyways, this is all hypothetical, and Mae should really get going.

“Boarding is soon,” Osha says leadingly, loathe to let her go, but she doesn’t want Mae’s voice called out over the PA.

“And TSA is a bitch,” Mae nods.

They float a bit closer to the entry to the restricted section, and her sister is the first to let go, rolling her small carry-on suitcase and matching travel tote to the entry. Osha trails after her, a little lost.

“Well, this is it,” Mae spreads her arms, stalling for time.

“Go, Maemae,” Osha prompts. “Don’t miss your damn flight.”

“Okay, okay,” Mae turns her face away, trying to conceal the twin tracks of tears running down her face, but it’s too late. Osha’s already seen it.

And she’s fighting very valiantly not to end up in the same state, but failing terribly.

“Have a safe flight!” she calls out loudly, people turning and watching the crazy pregnant woman frantically wave at her sister. “Call me!”

Mae gives her the finger, and that’s that. She’s through the Departures gate, onto the other side.

After a thorough a crying jag on her couch, Osha pulls herself together and focuses her attention on some… neglected aspects of her routine.

While Osha she adores having Mae with her, she can’t help but be a little relieved when she leaves, because she hasn’t had the chance to get off properly in a week. The walls are thin, and she’s too wary of sound travelling.

She’d allowed herself one orgasm via shower head, before mortification and paranoia had overcome her when Mae inquired about her long shower, and she hadn’t tried again.

A week is nothing, right?

Well, to a normal, non-sex crazed person it is. To a libidinal pregnant woman? It feels more like a year.

She’s aching to break out her Hitachi wand and put it through its paces again, maybe combined with her G-spot vibrator. What would dual vibrations feel like, inside and out?

Osha shivers at the thought, eager to experiment, but the moment she gets up off the couch, she’s overcome with a wave of fatigue. She sways, lightheaded, gripping the couch arm.

It wouldn’t hurt to lay down in her bed, just for a few minutes. She can always get up later…

Osha ends up sleeping the entire night away.

And, she’s foiled yet again, because the day after Mae leaves, she’s scheduled for her foetal anomaly scan at an ungodly time in the morning. Eight o’clock, to be precise, because she’s due back at work at ten.

Yes, she’d planned for it to fall after Mae’s visit, because she’s not an idiot. Her twin can put two and two and come up with four, so it’s best to be careful.

Not that Mae likely would be able to attend, even if these were normal circumstances. She has a debilitating, paralysing fear of pregnancy, and it freaks her out enough that Osha is pregnant.

“It’s eerie,” she says at one point in her trip, both of them laying on their sides in Osha’s bed, face to face, tracing the changes since the last time they saw each other in person.

Clearly, a lot has changed with Osha, but aside from a bit of puffiness and a rounder tummy, she still looks the same. The differences are minimal.

(Oh, also her hair grows like fucking crazy, and she’s had to go back to the salon for a retwist a few times.)

“Seeing you like, you know,” she gestures at Osha, marking out the way Osha’s shoved her pregnancy pillow between her thighs. You’re like, my mirror image,” Mae explains. “It’s a bit freaky. You know how I feel about—”

“Kids,” Osha finishes. “Children, babies. Fruit of the womb.”

“Ugh,” Mae barely holds herself back from throwing a pillow at her; Osha can see the impulse fighting common sense playing out across Mae’s face.

And she can’t help but wonder… because of their history…

She shouldn’t ask.

Osha  really, really shouldn’t ask, because it’s a taboo topic, and she’s girlbossing too close to the sun—

“What about Qimir?” she asks huskily. “I know he—”

“Wants kids? Yeah. He knows I’m not a fan.”

‘Not a fan’ is putting it lightly, to say the least.

“He’s made clear, that he wants kids one day,” Mae shrugs, a little helplessly. “I said we should to take it one day at a time.”

Osha is so sick of feeling guilty, especially about this. It’s unfair, both to Mae and Qimir.

She’d be betraying her sister for Qimir, but Qimir’s the father of her child. And he wants a baby…

It remains to be seen whether he wants to be a father, however. And there is a key difference between wanting children and wanting to be a parent. She can’t guarantee he’s the latter option.

The point being, Mae is not too keen on hearing about baby stuff that doesn’t relate to Osha and Osha alone, but she still has the gumption to joke about twins.

“What if, walk with me here,” Mae’s voice crackles on loudspeaker, Osha busy straining Penne pasta for her non-Vodka Penne. “What if you were having twins?”

The strainer drops with a loud clatter, spraying pasta water everywhere.

“Oh my fucking God, Jesus on the cross,” Osha swears virulently. “Do not even joke. Don’t you put that evil on me, Ricky Bobby.”

“Jeez, okay, okay!”

God, how would she even raise twins as a single mother on half-pay income?

She shudders, a full body shudder, and baby swims around a little bit in response to her distress.

“You’re okay,” she tells them, hoping against hope that she won’t be proven a liar.

She’s a little bit nervous, when the day comes around. She gets up early, makes herself scrambled eggs, toast and slices avocado on top. She allows herself one, just one cup of black tea, then washes up.

Osha dons a sensible stretchy top and maternity skirt, all the better to push up and down for easy access to her stomach. She also packs a few snacks in her bag, a bottle of water, a flask of hot chocolate (yeah, it’s an addiction) as well as Pepto-Bismol tablets, for that fucking heartburn that won’t leave her alone for even one second, goddamn.

If it’s not heartburn, it’s hunger. If it’s not hunger, it’s her swollen feet and aching back. If it’s not her aching back, it’s Braxton Hicks contractions.

Christ, can she get a break?

You are very privileged, she reminds herself. You’ve had an easier pregnancy than most.

And it’s true, she’s heard tales of people’s hair falling out, even their teeth. Gestational diabetes, preeclampsia, hypertension, placenta praevia, extreme skin changes, anaemia, persistent nausea and vomiting. The list goes on.

She springs for an Uber to the clinic, walking a bit uncomfortably due to the four cups of water she’d guzzled over the course of an hour, all in service to keeping her bladder full enough for the ultrasound.

The clinic is tiny, tucked into the top floor of a private hospital’s consulting rooms, but it’s decorated nicely and smells delicious, like vanilla cake.

The chairs are upholstered in dark brown leather, there’s pretty artwork hanging on the wall, abstract florals, and the waiting room is secluded and quiet.

She’s lucky that she usually has her check-in scans at Dr Kanata’s office, who doesn’t bill her insurance for the imaging. She can afford to have a few more scans than most people, maybe even a 3-D scan closer to her due date to check what bub looks like.

Osha fidgets as she waits for her name to be called, scrolling through Instagram then turning off her phone, then unlocking it again to scroll another social media app. She makes the mistake, only once, of checking Qimir’s Instagram.

She’d unblocked him over Christmas, but now she wishes she hadn’t, because Qimir’s posted a picture from one of his ‘work trips’ in Miami. It’s an old photo, because it’s late fall in the pic, not that it means much in Miami.

Osha’s never been, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to, one day. She’d spent most of her life in Washington up until college, and then she’d been back and forth between there and Chicago, bar one memorable trip down to LA when she was twenty, before consigning herself to stay in the Windy City for the foreseeable future.

She’ll likely raise her kid here for a few years, until she can resume working and building her savings back up, will the goal of moving interstate, one day.

Qimir’s never had a problem with money, she thinks resentfully, then knocks that thought clean out of her head.

Would he hold her hand, if he was here? Would he rub her belly, before giving her a light kiss? Would he speculate about whether they’re having a boy or a girl, about how it doesn’t really matter, he’ll lo—

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, please stop. She doesn’t need to be thinking about all these what-ifs.

She’s pulled out of her self-deprecation when the technician calls her name. A tall, brown-skinned willowy woman in scrubs beckons her into the room, greeting her cheerily. Her sleek black hair is gathered up in a bun, and her hands are already gloved up as she gestures for Osha to lie down.

Osha yanks up her shirt before the technician has to ask, wiggling the elastic waistband of the skirt below her belly.

“Goodness, that was quick! Thank you.”

She introduces herself as Pooja, and she’ll be guiding Osha through her scan today. From her medical history, it doesn’t look like they’ll have much to worry about, but it’s always good to check. It looks like she’ll be carrying high and wide for the rest of the pregnancy.

Osha already feels like a blimp with protruding belly, unlike the other 20-week bellies she sees posted on baby forums and social media, but apparently some people are just like that. Osha’s frame is slight and petite, so it’ll look a bit exaggerated on her.

When Osha discloses her twin status, Pooja assures her by moving the transducer around to show her just the one baby.

“No twins,” she says confidently.

“No twins,” Osha sighs, relieved.

Next, Pooja checks her amniotic fluid levels, which are normal and chuckles good naturedly when bub rolls around, flailing their limbs, looking more and more human baby-like by the day. They measure baby’s head and kidneys, heart and stomach, meeting all the normal development milestones. And there’s also—

“Oh, I forgot to ask!” Pooja grins conspiratorially at Osha, practically radiating sparkles. “Do you want to know the gender?”

Osha stares at the ultrasound screen, at her black and white baby somersaulting, before hiccupping up a storm.

This is another of those pivotal moments, where she’ll look back and wonder if she could have made a different decision.

So, of course, she puts it off.

“Can you…” she pauses, eyelashes fluttering rapidly, suddenly damp. “Can you write it down?”

“Of course,” Pooja assures her. “I’ll pop it in an envelope for you! You can make it a surprise for dad.”

Oh. Yes, that would be the normal assumption, wouldn’t it? That she has someone waiting for her at home, someone who would be ecstatic to share the news with her, who might cheer and spin her around in a circle, while she shrieks and bats at them to put her down…

“That sounds great,” Osha chirps, her cheeks hurting from the force of her smile. It falters when Pooja turns around, messing with the printing, muttering something about Bail never restocking the special photo paper….

How many times is she going to force down tears, today? How many more moments of excruciating sentiment?

This whole pregnancy has been so emotionally fraught for her, never more so than now, when all she wants to do is retreat somewhere private and wallow.

“Got it!” Pooja cheers softly. Osha swipes at her cheeks as the technician turns around, jabbing a button in the printer.

She presses the transducer a bit more firmly against her stomach, Osha grunting at the pressure on her damn bladder, she’s fit to burst—

“Ahh, got you, little bugger,” Pooja exclaims, then jabs a few buttons on the main ultrasound machines, little beeps chiming out. “There, I’ve taken a few shots so you can see exactly what the gender is. Have you got any guesses?”

The question blindsides Osha, who gapes up at her before shrugging sheepishly.

“Haven’t really given it much thought,” she lies.

Why did she fucking lie? Is it too much to be honest with at least one person today?

The rest of her scan goes well, Pooja assuring her that she’ll send the results and the report over to Dr Kanata, so they can discuss it at their next consultation.

Osha thanks her profusely, slipping the little envelope into her handbag, resolving to take a look when she gets home.

She’ll be able to control her reaction, then. Maybe even pre-empt the inevitable breakdown.

Work turns out to be utter pandemonium, call after call and meeting after meeting, so Osha doesn’t get a chance to check the envelope until after dinner, at eight at night.

She stares at it, sitting so innocuously on her kitchen counter. The white envelope taunts her, begging her to open it.

Yet, she can’t bring herself to pick it up. It feels like too soon, even though other people might have found out the gender weeks ago. She’s not ready.

She clenches her jaw, so sick of her bastard brain and all the emotions it coaxes out of her, and elects to take a shower, instead. Maybe it can relax her.

Or, she could find an alternate method of relaxation…

The shower is the best of both worlds, she decides, undressing quickly and leaving her clothing in a puddle on the floor as she pads, more like waddles, over to her ensuite.

The best thing about her apartment is this bathroom. The shower is larger than expected, considering the size of the rest of the space, generous enough to allow her to boogie a little.

However, she’s in no state to be dancing in the shower, at least not now, when her expanding stomach renders her a little wobbly. She still puts her post-work playlist on, to decompress and set the mood.

After she fits her shower cap on her head, she steps into the steamy shower, sighing contentedly as the water sluices down her back, easing the low-grade ache she’s had all day, centred on her tailbone.

She stands in the water for a while, rotating like a shawarma spit to get at all sides, closing her eyes as the water drums at the top of her shower cap. Charli XCX sings away in the background, accompanied by club beats. She sings along softly to Apple and Sympathy is a knife, before soaping up.

She squeezes rose-scented body wash on her washcloth, rubbing it between her palms to work up a lather. Maybe she should get a shower chair?

It seems ridiculous, but other pregnant people swear by it, especially post-partum. And it would be nice, wouldn’t it, to be able to sit down and let the water run over her. Not having to worry about her back getting sore from standing up, or slipping.

Yeah, she decides, gliding the washcloth over her stomach, feeling baby shift around inside her. She’ll order one tomorrow.

A little treat, just for herself.

Once she scrubs up, dripping bubbles on the tiles, it comes time to rinse off.

Her favourite thing about this shower is the detachable shower head. It’s immensely helpful for blasting the knots out of her back with the variable pressure, and she’s, ah, enjoyed it on a few occasions. More than a few occasions.

Her clit throbs a little as she guides the stream over her body, and suddenly she remembers that it’s been a week since she’s come properly.

Sleep orgasms don’t count, though God knows she had several of those in the interim. She wants to work for it a little, draw it out…

And a shower head orgasm is exactly the opposite of that. Too easy.

Fuck.

Osha sighs, banging her head (lightly!) back against the tile, core pulsing. She really doesn’t make it easy for herself, does she?

She can still play a little, as a treat. Wind herself up. Draw out the tension. Yes, exactly what the doctor ordered.

She nudges the switch on the showerhead until she gets to pressure mode, and glides the showerhead down until it reaches the apex of her thighs, and oh.

“Yes,” she sighs, undulating her hips. “Fuck yes…”

It feels too fucking good, the pressure of the water against her clit, steady and unrelenting, like the few times Qimir’s eaten her out in the shower…

It’s okay to let herself think about him, when she’s chasing the high of climax. It’s really the only basis for inspiration that she has, everyone else falling short of his utter prowess in bed and his mastery of her body.

Fuck, fuck.

How would he react if he saw her now, naked and flushed, dewy with water, spread out for him against the tiled wall? The curve of her protruding stomach, the movement of her hips?

Shit, shit. Electric pleasure surges through her, and she’s way too close to coming. She draws the shower head away, whining in displeasure even as anticipation shimmers inside her.

It’s like a ritual, this denial. Every movement calculated to maximise her pleasure.

She dries off slowly, rubbing the soft cotton over her sensitised skin, avoiding her aching nipples. She pats her face dry, then applies her night time skincare products.

Osha moves to her bed for the next part, her lotion. She massages the cocoa butter into her arms, then her breasts, flicking her nipples just once. She flinches away from the sensation, mewling a little. She stands up when she smooths it over her ass, then sits back down to cover her legs, digging her fingers into the fleshy part of her thighs.

It zings through her, the bright pinpricks of pain, and she uses her nails the next time, panting as she reaches her inner thighs. She traces over the seam of her thighs, then up to her hips, teasing, dragging her nails.

She lays back against the pillows with a moan, one hand fumbling for her vibrator and lube. She shouldn’t need the latter, because she already feels wound up and ready to go. Her Hitachi wand is somewhere in here as well, but buried under a pile of panties. She pushes cotton and satin aside, digging deep, and—

There!

She grips it and draws it out, quickly checking if it still has charge. It buzzes in her hand and she grins, triumphant. Fucking fantastic.

Osha leans against a mountain of pillows and spreads her thighs. She braces her feet against the bed, firm mattress giving way under her toes, and switches the vibrator on.

It’s pretty pink silicone and soft at the tip. She teases herself a little bit, wetting it with her slick, before she can’t take it any longer.

It slips inside with no resistance, Osha panting as it breaches her entrance and lodges deep, pulsating softly. She pushes the vibration up to the second-highest setting and screams.

Fuck, yes, this is what she’s been waiting for. Yes, yes, yes.

Her other hands gropes for her Hitachi wand, which isn’t easy when her arms are shaking and her legs are spasming, so close, so close—

And that’s not the only thing vibrating, because her phone is, as well.

Fuck, who could be calling at this hour?

She tries to ignore it, but climax draws further away, the waves receding. She curses the interruption.

Well, she didn’t want easy, did she?

Osha checks to see who’s calling and her heartbeat kicks up a notch when she realises that it’s Qimir.

Fucking—

Of all the people to be calling right now, when she’s in the middle of a wanking session. The timing is uncanny, like he just knew she was thinking about him.

The vibrator is still humming inside her,  jammed up right against her G-spot, and her walls clench around it, clouding her mind.

She needs to deny the call… She needs to—

Fuck!

Her fingers slips, answering the call instead of declining it.

“What the fuck, Osha? You were going to let me find out from Mae that you’re pregnant?”

His voice comes through tinny, from not being on speakerphone, but harsh and furious.

Shit, shit. She’s in so much trouble.

Chapter Text

“What the fuck, Osha? You were going to let me find out from Mae that you’re pregnant?”

His words ring in the silence of her apartment, undercut by the hum of her vibrator.

End the call, a voice tells her urgently. End it now.

But he'd just call back, again and again, until he got hold of her. Then there's no knowing what he'd do, what he'd say to Mae.

Mae. Her big fat fucking mouth, Jesus. Why'd she go and tell Qimir? And how?

Then she remembers that Mae is a massive oversharer when she's drunk, so that must be it.

The thought of Qimir getting Mae drunk and pumping her for information on Osha...

Well. It should freak her out, but there's an odd flutter of... pride? satisfaction? that he's willing to go so far for her.

God, he might even turn up at her doorstep.

Oh fuck. Her body likes that a little too much, clamping down the vibrator that’s still inside her, what the fuck is wrong with her?

Well, she knows what; she hasn't had a proper fucking for as long as she's been pregnant. Even her favourite masturbating position is quite impossible now, without a second pair of hands.

He could help with that. She could ask him—

No. Oh my god, no no.

She needs to say something. She’s been silent for too long, words jammed in her throat.

But what can she say?

“I—”

He doesn’t allow her to continue, well aware of her tendency to prevaricate and dodge the topic at hand. So he cuts straight to the heart of the matter:

“Don’t answer; I know it's mine."

God, he’s so fucking cocky. And despite her instincts telling her not to antagonise him, Osha still manages to muster enough brain power to hurl a retort.

“My, you must have a mighty high opinion of yourself. What makes you think you were the only one I was fucking?”

He growls, actually growls, and Osha’s a little appalled at the way her pussy clenches around the vibrator at the sound. She rolls onto her side, her belly cushioned by the bed. Her hips undulate a little, unconsciously, and she has to still her legs to keep from chasing the pleasure.

She should probably take out the vibrator now, but still hasn’t figured out its buttons and she’s wary of pressing the wrong one and increasing the intensity, instead of turning it off.

Also, her brain is kind of mush right now. All her mental energy is focused on appearing like an intelligent being, instead of a panting bitch in heat.

“Don’t fucking act cute,” then his voice drops, velvet rubbing across bare skin, “I felt the way you reacted to me, how fucking tight you were. No one’s been in that pussy for a long time.”

Shit, she can’t deny it.

“What do you want to hear? Yes, it’s yours. Jerry Springer, come collect your check.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he’s incredulous, and yeah, she’s being a little flippant right now. Anything to knock him down a few pegs, to yank the smugness out of his tone.

Deep breaths, Osha.

Her stomach flutters as she tries to gather her thoughts. She needs to stall him for as long as possible, get him to cool down, because God knows what he might do or say when he’s this pissed.

Stop poking the fucking bear, idiot.

Not to mention the way it’s making her feel, his possessiveness and filthy words mingling with the low buzz of pleasure between her legs.

“I’m sorry,” she apologises, even though it feels like pulling teeth. An admission of guilt, a concession. “You put me on the spot.”

“You were put on the spot? You— Fuck me. Do you know what it— Forget it,” he exhales harshly, and she can imagine him scrubbing a hand through his hair, out of frustration. He might even be rubbing his neck, a tell-tale sign of his agitation.

Osha wonders where he is, that he’s speaking so frankly. Did he hear the news and hightail it from Mae’s apartment?

She ignores the sourness that spreads on her tongue when she imagines him spending time with Mae at her place.

“Do you know, your twin begged me not to tell Sol?” he laughs darkly. “As if that’s the problem here.”

“I still haven’t told Sol,” Osha admits, because he needs to know that he’s not the only one being kept in the dark. “I’ve been holding off.”

Of course, that truth doesn’t help the situation any.

"Were you ever going to let me know?"

And there's pain seeping through his words, a vulnerability, like a bruise found in an unexpected spot. The hurt radiating from him is undeniable, even over the phone.

Osha swallows down another apology, because she was just protecting herself. How was she to know that Qimir would ever take this seriously, that he’s still taking it seriously? She hadn’t been able to bear the possibility of him asking her to get an abortion, so she hadn’t told him.

“In time,” she says honestly. “I don’t know when, but—”

“You’re already past twenty weeks,” he interrupts her — again, she might add — to argue. “Were you planning on telling me only after my kid was born?”

“Our kid,” Osha corrects him, because, hello? She’s incubating the damn foetus.

A little nudge inside her, as if to say, hey, don’t talk about me that way.

‘Sorry,’ she mouths at her stomach. She smooths a hand over the skin, soft and sweetly scented from the cocoa butter. She doesn’t let it crawl any lower than that, her skin already sensitive as it is; just that caress was enough to have her clenching around the vibrator.

“Our child,” Qimir says vehemently. “You didn’t think I might want to know? That I might want to see you? Fuck, Osha. You’re pregnant with my baby.”

He sounds so raw, so wanting. The admission is electrifying, a wave of longing sweeping through her, amplifying the buzzing inside her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, knowing that her apology can’t even begin to cover or even convey the depth of anguish she’d felt at her decision. “But what was I supposed to do? You're dating my fucking sister, you didn’t think that would change things a little?”

How many times has she looked at her phone and wanted to call him? How many times has she hesitated, her conflict-avoidant tendencies and anxieties rearing their heads, her fear of being abandoned, cast away and pushed aside.

Of Mae finding out, cursing her and cutting off their fledgeling relationship, or Sol discovering her unholy perversions and calling her a freak, or a whore.

She’s tried to be better about this, she really has.

Dr Holden had tried to do her duty as her therapist and ease her into better coping methods. And, for a time, it had even worked, before the spectre of Qimir had obliterated any sense of inner-peace she’d been trying to cultivate.

She’d tried to describe this phenomena to Dr Holden in the past, and had almost ended up in the psych ward. Normal people don’t hear their ex’s voice whispering at them insidiously.

Or at least, not for long, They get over it, move on. Too bad for her, there’d been no moving on from Qimir. Not truly.

The appointment after she’d confessed her baby’s paternity had been a tough one for Osha, despite the fortnight she’d had to mentally prepare for it. Dr Holden had asked her some tough questions, none of which she’d felt remotely ready to answer.

She’d navigated the questions with her trademark evasiveness and ambiguity, until Dr Holden had metaphorically thrown up her hands, conceding that this particular minefield was not one that Osha was willing to navigate, just yet.

The good doctor still hasn't figured out that her ex and her twin's boyfriend are one and the same, and Osha wants to keep it that way. It could become incredibly messy if her therapist connected the dots, and Osha’s waiting for the other shoe to fall any day now. She really, really doesn’t want to open that can of worms with Dr Holden, let alone discuss the implications.

Okay, now it really is time to take this fucking vibrator out.

Her fingers creep down to where she’s split open, the soft silicone of the bunny attachment nestled right on top of her clit, the rest of the length tucked inside her cunt, slick and slippery.

Her thumb fumbles for the button, and she curses wordlessly when she can’t locate the small nub, pressing fruitlessly without vision, until she thinks she’s got it.

Fuck!

The vibrations ratchet higher, pressing instantly on that tender spot inside her that makes her twitch and shudder, frissons and sensation sparking through her.

It's involuntarily, the soft noise that falls out of her mouth, a C-note. The trilling of a bird, almost musical.

Osha closes her eyes. Fuck.

A moment of silence, then Qimir speaks.

"Osha," he's saturated in glee. "Are you touching yourself?"

Osha pants, struck mute. What can she even say?

"Or," and here his voice deepens, roughens, rubbing over her skin like the calluses on his fingers. "You've been touching yourself. Were you playing with that pretty pussy before I called?

Her breath hitches, hips canting up as she pulses, his words clouding her mind, robbing her of reason.

“Did I interrupt you in the middle of something, doll?"

“I—”

Distract and divert, distract and divert!

Anything to stop him from speaking any further about his feelings, about their future.

This conversation has taken an entirely different turn, one that she hadn’t expected. The melancholic tone has shifted, heating into something carnal and insidious.

Osha clears her throat, infusing her voice with authority. “You did, actually. So do you mind? I should get back to it.”

“Oh no, not so fast. You’ve been so lonely, haven’t you?” A twinge in her sternum, a corresponding throb down south. “Let me help you with that. What have you got there, Osha? A vibrator? A dildo? Are playing with your pretty little clit or are you filling up your cunt?”

Don’t answer him.

Answer him.

Conflicting desires war within her, but she’s gotten this far; a little further couldn’t hurt, could it?

She’s lying to herself so badly, she’s disbelieving even as she admits,

“Both.”

She’d lied when she’d told herself it was just ‘casual’, back in the day. She’d lied to herself when she’d broken it off, convinced herself that she wasn’t half in love with him.

And she’s lying to herself again, that this won’t change anything, that it’s just one more time.

“Spread your legs,” he husks, and she shakes her head, despite him not being able to see her.

“Can’t,” she explains. “I’m on my side. Not a good idea to be on my back for too long.”

“That’s right,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Your stomach. Are you supporting it, baby?”

Osha gropes around the bed until she finds a pillow, wedges it under her belly so she can free the hand that’s been wrapped under it. The phone goes under her ear, dooming it to being covered with sweat and oils from her face, but she doesn’t give a fuck if it frees up both hands.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “All good.”

“Fantastic,” he purrs, and oh no. That low, raspy register has always spelled trouble for her. “Now fuck yourself.”

She grabs the base of the vibrator and withdraws it a little, keening as the ridged surface glides over her G-spot, stimulating the bundle of nerves on her upper wall.

She shoves it back in, back arching sharply and a cry falling from her mouth as it slams back inside her, the tip nudging deep within, but it’s not deep enough, the rabbit attachment preventing her from shoving it further in.

“That’s right doll, moan for me. Fuck, you sound so good.”

“Deeper,” she babbles. “I need it deeper. Fuck me, fuck me.”

“Shh, baby,” he hushes her, “I’m deep inside you, can’t you feel me?”

If she closes her eyes, which she does, and listens closely to his voice, the rough baritone crackling in her eyes, she can almost imagine him behind her.

 “I can feel you,” she answers him breathily, rocking her hips, movements rustling the sheets beneath her. “I want to touch you.”

Absent of his warmth behind her, she conjures up the memory of his chest plastered against her back, damp with sweat, his muscles flexing. His forearm would be banded under her stomach relieving the pressure. Her thigh hooked over his, spreading her wide as he thrusts into her, balls slapping against her pussy with the force of his thrusts.

She whimpers at the fantasy, using her thumb to press the rabbit prong harder against her clit, almost yelping at the heightened sensitivity.

“Just like that, doll. You’re so tight, Osha, so fucking wet. Squeeze my dick, come on, baby. Cream for me.”

She’s babbling now, urging him on.

 “So good, so fucking good, baby. Need you, want you here,” while plundering her cunt with the vibrator almost violently, lost to the raptures of pleasure. It squelches out of her, so loud that Qimir can likely hear It on the other end. “Fucking me so good.”

He’s grunting, breathless little pants that inflame her body, and he might even be fisting his cock, wet with lube, pumping his length up and down, getting himself off to the sounds of Osha fucking herself.

“Touch me,” she whines, and he coos at her, her overwrought state.

“I am touching you baby, that’s my dick inside you right now. Feel it,” Osha presses the vibrator deeper, deeper, until it’s sunk in to the hilt, her walls swallowing the length greedily. “I’m so fucking deep in you right now, Osha. Balls deep, baby. I’m going to fuck you until you scream and come all over me. Make a fucking mess out of you, Osha. Shooting another load in you won’t do anything, but fuck, I want to feel your hot little cunt tightening around me.”

“Qimir,” she sobs, a hot flush stealing over her, tingling in her fingertips and toes. “Qimir, Qimir, fuck— Qimir!”

“Come on, come for me, doll. You can do it, I know you want to. Be a good little slut and come for me.”

And it’s too much, his words and the slick sounds of her cunt and his groans in her ear, it pools in her with a searing warmth. The vibrator squelches out of her with barely any resistance, her cunt so drenched. She can feel the wetness sliding down her thighs, seeping into her bedlinens.

 “So fucking perfect for me, doll.”

Her eyes roll into the back of her head, seeing stars, and she’s so— she’s so—

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, sounding pained. “Shit, I’m fucking coming inside you right now. Take it, Osha. Take it all.”

“I’m taking it,” she whines, walls fluttering, an unbearable pressure building in her pelvis. “I’m— Ohh, oh fuck—”

And she’s hitting the peak, plunging straight into the volcano, liquid heat like lava spreading through her, suffusing her with ecstasy. She’s floating somewhere above her body, filled with such bright, incandescent bliss.

Her lungs collapse, a breath whooshing out of her mouth and taking months’ worth of tension with it. The pleasure turns to pain at one point, easing into cramps that spear through her pelvis and abdomen, but the lassitude remains.

Osha practically melts into the bed, head sinking into her pillow, eyes glued shut. She hums tunelessly, phone slack in her grip.

With difficulty, she lifts one of her thighs and withdraws the vibrator, tossing it somewhere on the bed. Its battery will run out eventually, she doesn’t give a fuck. Right now, she just wants to be one with the bed.

“You still with me, doll?”

“Hrm,” she warbles, brain well and truly fried. Osha-goo, once again.

He laughs softly, such an indulgent sound, and it tugs at her heart. She wants to be wrapped up in him, wants to nuzzle at his neck and breath him in, the solidity of his arms around her. Or, she looks down, guessing that her stomach would get in the way of that now, have him at her back, someone solid to rely on.

God, she’s getting all maudlin and sentimental again, all over a phone-assisted orgasm.

See, this is why she doesn’t fuck with Qimir. He coaxes these emotions out of her, gets her all soft and pliant for him, willing to do anything for another hit.

“Sleep well. I’ll see you soon.”

Then he cuts the line, and she can’t even bring herself to give a shit about his slightly ominous words, because she’s hurtling headlong into unconsciousness.

__

The knocks comes at four in the morning.

She knows this, because her phone lights up with a text notification from ‘QIMIR — DON’T ANSWER!!!’

Too late for that.

There’s gunk at the corner of her eyes, and she sleepily thumbs it out as she reads the message he’s sen—

‘Open the door.’

What the fuck?

She’s only had about six hours of sleep, much less than her usual eight hours. The lurch in her stomach drags her halfway to lucidity, but not enough for her to avoid stumbling as she rolls out of bed, almost stubbing her toe on the corner post of her bed, and the night air briefly chills her body.

Oh fuck, she’s naked.

With one eye open, she gropes around her bed until she seizes on her satin nightdress, pulling it on haphazardly.

She navigates the apartment by hazy moonlight and the little light on her rangehood illuminating her kitchen.

He doesn’t need to knock at her for her to come running.

She opens her door with shaking hands, and there he is.

The last time she'd seen him, his hair had been neat; short, fluffy and blow dried.

It's lank now, almost greasy, tied back in the most useless ponytail ever.

His chin and upper lip are scruffy, like he hasn't shaved in days. His eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn't slept.

He's a mess, but standing there, gazing down at her like she's a goddess, he's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen. His eyes shoot straight down to her belly, taking in the way the slight bump strains the satin, the last of her non-maternity night dresses that she can wear before she gets too big. They widen, his already expanded pupils swallowing up the rest of his iris.

He bites his lip, indenting the plush flesh with his teeth as he takes one step forward and she takes one step back, instinctively. The same old dance.

"You called," she says hoarsely, voice sleep-rough.

"You answered," he replies, taking a few steps forward and shutting the door.

He tilts his head, eyes roaming over her figure. A few strands escaping his silly ponytail and swinging forward to kiss his chin. And he's so close to her face, to her lips.

She’s dreaming.That’s the only explanation for this. It’s nothing new, she’s had plenty of dreams that play out just like this, before. Though the reaction to her belly is new, probably a result of the phone conversation last night, which is also probably what spawned this dream.I

t’s odd, he’s quieter than he normally is, too. This is usually the point when he taunts her, running his mouth and riling her up.

Next, he’ll kiss her. Or she’ll kiss him. Then they’ll be inexplicably naked, and he’ll drop to his knees right there in her entryway, and lick at her until she sobs.

And once her legs are shaking and she’s out of breath, he’ll fuck her on her couch. Or her bed. Or in the shower.

Yet, this is more than all those times previously. She can see the texture of his t-shirt and sense the warmth of his body.

He’s so present, so physical. She could just…

Osha reaches out across the short distance and touches his t-shirt, over where his heart is. It arrests the momentum of his chest, and she flattens her palm, feeling the firm pectoral under her hand.

Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump.

His heart. It’s beating so fast…

“Are you real?” she asks him, eyes wide.

A shaky breath, wafting over her lips. It smells like mint.

“As real as you,” he answers, and she doesn’t have time to process that because he’s kissing her.

God, god, god.

He tastes like toothpaste, fresh and minty; not like the coppery blood from the last time they collided. She imagines him brushing his teeth in the airplane bathroom, somewhat presumptuous, wanting his mouth to be clean for her, expecting to be kissed—

A flush of warmth suffuses her, from her wrapped hair to her toes, and she blooms at his touch. His hand anchors at her waist, burning through the thin satin fabric of her nightdress, and she arches into him.

She’s still wet from her little session earlier, with him over the phone, fuck, so she’s throbbing in no time, the rush of blood pulsing in her clit, in her cunt.

He smells a little like exhaust, like stale airplane air, like salted pretzels, but it’s overridden by the scent of him. His musk, the faint hint of cologne, the sheer chemistry that makes up Qimir. 

It’s indescribable, and if she tried to explain it, she’d probably sound like a lunatic.

This is real. This is so very fucking real, no fooling herself. The same touch she’s remembered and dreamt of over a dozen times. But fantasy can’t compare with the reality of this, the strength of his muscles under her hands, the rasp of his stubble, the taste of his mouth, the sheer presence of him, radiating warmth and heat and home.

It's such a bad idea. Qimir is bad news in every reality, and he's still dating her sister.

She’s vulnerable, it’s late, she’s still shaking off the vestiges of sleep. Those are the excuses she gives for the way she crumbles so easily, for the words she gasps between their mouths, her fingers curling through his hair, yanking his hair out of that ponytail.

The admission flows from her mouth like water, cooling and soothing her soul:

“I missed this.”

“Fuck, baby,” his mouth, blazing heat, traces down her jaw, her neck, biting and licking and sucking. Her head falls back, a limp doll once again in his touch.

His stubble prickles over her skin, rubbing it raw, as he nuzzles her, inhales her scent. She wonders if it’s shifted, if he’s noticed the changes to her beyond the physical.

His hands roam everywhere, mapping the changes — her expanded ribcage, her bigger tits, her wider hips. He stops at her breasts, spending some time kneading them. The touch tingles over her, ripening her nipples, which ache to be pinched, licked and bitten. Her tits have always been sensitive but this is next level.

"Mm," he hums into her neck, a hot puff of air, and goosepimples rising all over her body in response to the need in that sound. "I like this."

His hands then brush against her sensitive sides, her stomach, stilling over the round of her belly. He groans like the discovery of her blooming body torments him.

She can’t think, she can only feel. Bright bursts of pleasure explode at every movement, until she’s dripping, her thighs slick. Her knees weaken from the sensation.

Her nails dig into his scalp and she clutches him closer, strands of his hair tickling the expanse of chest exposed by the low neckline of her nightdress, the spaghetti straps sliding down.

He draws back for only a moment, Osha whining as his mouth leaves her skin, but it’s only to shove the straps down, yanking the bodice until it’s tucked under her breasts.

Osha gasps as her tits are exposed, the cool night-time air tightening her nipples. Her tits are sensitive and swollen, laying heavy on her chest.

Osha doesn’t know how much Qimir can see from the faint hallway light, but it’s enough to make him curse lowly,

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” she admonishes him breathlessly, her chest heaving as she tries to take in more air.

“I’m going to have you moaning worse than that, doll.”

And it’s a jolt of heat straight to her core when he says that, when he looks at her like that.

“Now…” he feathers his hands up her sides, until he cups her breasts, testing the weight. “I made some promises.”

And oh, does he deliver.

They end up in her bed, Qimir driving her backwards through her apartment, quickly figuring out where they need to go, until she lands on her back.

The air rushes out of her at the impact and she scrambles up the pillows, slightly slower than she’d normally be due to the extra weight she’s carrying, her nightdress shifting every which way but catching at her stomach. It’s ridden up at the bottom, exposing her cunt. It’s bare, Osha not having put any underwear back on.

“Look at you,” he looks down at her, one knee on the bed, dick tenting his grey sweatpants. “So fucking ready for it, baby.”

Her skin heats under his regard. She's flayed open, an exposed nerve. The raw centre of her, open for his perusal.

She spreads her legs, but he doesn’t take the invitation.

Come on, she thinks. She can see the way his eyes fixate on her glistening folds, her swollen clit. Touch me, taste me.

He doesn’t give her what she wants, instead falling upon her tits like a starving man, crouched over her, his weight sinking both of them into the mattress.

At the first touch of his tongue, she almost levitates off the bed, bucking and keening, legs thrashing as he circles her nipple then flicks the nub.

“Fuck!”

He holds her still, with one hand continuously caressing her stomach, almost reverently.

In those moments of weakness when she’d let herself imagine having him here, she thought it would be frantic, animal sex, but Qimir wants to take his time with her. He’s never been one for holding himself back, but for some reason, now, he is.

He plays with her nipples until she weeps, feeling like she could come from this alone. Osha feels hypersensitive, overwhelmed, breathless as he tongues the peak, rolls it on his tongue, then sucks.

She cries out, back bowing up, fingers threading in his loose dark hair, tugging him closer, closer. He’s driving her absolutely fucking insane, mindless with want.

“I’ve missed out on so much,” he murmurs, echoing her words from earlier. A response, albeit delayed. “Has it been hard, going alone?”

“Yes,” she mewls.

“Good,” he says darkly, queer light shining in his eyes, yet his touch is tender. She’s so turned on it physically hurts.  

“I know you’ve been waiting for this, doll. Tell me how much, I want to hear it from your pretty little mouth how much you want this.”

She does. God, she does.

Pride? Please.

She left that behind in the dirt when he’d first called her up, less than twenty four hours ago, and now he’s in her bed, still in his grey sweats, tenting the fabric with his obvious erection.

She’s wetter than a fire hydrant, but he doesn’t touch her there, despite how much she aches for it, cries and pleads.

“Fuck me,” she begs, writhing on the bed. “Fucking fuck me.”

“Say please,” he taunts, rolling her other breast in his hands, thumbing the nipple. She yelps when he digs his nail in, the pain chased by heady pleasure.

Her hips jerk up, searching uselessly for friction, but he won’t give it to her. Not even a knee between her thighs, because he’s cruel.

Osha has an ace up her sleeve, though.

“Stress is bad for the baby,” she breathes, and his mouth drops open.

There, an acknowledgement, out in the open.

His eyes darken as he bites his bottom lip, a feral cast to his features.

Yes, she thinks. Ruin me.

“You think you can just get your way?” he rasps, shoving her legs apart, even further, the stretch almost painful, yet she spreads them eagerly, arching her back. Presenting her body to him.

His hand skims over the satin nightdress bunched under her rounded stomach, between the valley of her breasts, up her sternum to clasp lightly around her neck.

Her breath bursts out of her in short pants, her eyes closing involuntarily.

His touch is light, not pressing in, but she’s gasping.

“Yes,” she whines, but it’s not in response to his question.

He takes it as an answer, anyway. His fingers dig in, applying the slightest pressure, and her pussy spasms, clenching around nothing.

“Fuck,” Qimir breathes, eyes darting from her neck down to her cunt, where she’s positively soaked. And probably soaking the bed as well.

“Please,” Osha pleads. “I need it, I need it so bad.”

He laughs darkly, the sound bringing another round of wetness, but he obliges her. He shuffles down on the bed, ducking at the same time, so his face is level with her cunt.

She hasn’t shaved in an age and a half, let alone waxed, but he eyes it like a feast, laid out for his pleasure alone.

“Shit, baby,” Qimir strokes a finger through her cunt, up her folds and tapping tightly on her clit. It sparks through her like lightning. “Your pussy is weeping.”

“Don’t tease,” she snaps, on edge now that he’s so close, she’s so close.

“I would never,” he vows, and leans in for his first taste.

Her knees clamp over his head and he licks, and licks, and licks.

First, the sensitive skin around her clit, then the bundle of nerves itself, dipping below the hood until she wails from overstimulation.

Osha practically humps his face, as he sets his mouth over her lips, flattening his tongue and drinking down her juices.

His nose nudges her clit as he works his jaw, thrusting his tongue inside her pussy, fucking her with it. He hums, like this is the best meal he’s ever had, and the vibrations shake their way through her body.

She tosses her head on the pillow, likely ruining her locs, clenching the sheets between her fists, then his hair, then her own hair.

Her hands can’t stay still, restless as he drags her higher and higher.

Pleasure courses through her body, from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, and eventually her legs go numb, trembling from the onslaught, and that’s the only sign she gets before ecstasy blooms in her.

She gasps, mouth dry, moans rattling her chest, as he sucks her through one climax, not letting up even after she yanks on his hair multiple times.

Another small wave crashes through her, and she slumps back against the bed, forearm flung over her face, as she moans weakly.

That’s all she can do, just take it, as her legs shiver and shake, thighs straining as he uses one hand to pin it to the bed, the other anchored on her hip, spanning half of her waist.

The next time she comes, he whispers “Thank you”, so softly she almost doesn’t hear. Until he says it again, and again, until he’s groaning into her pussy, almost as loud as Osha.

Thank you for what? she blearily thinks, and then her thoughts are scrambled by the next swipe of his tongue.

She’s raw and oversensitive, sweat beaded all over her body, barely able to take a single full breath. She’s lightheaded, gasping, whimpering when he withdraws, with one last lick over her spasming cunt.

“Delicious,” he’s in raptures, eyes shut and face blissed out, a beatific smile on his face, like he’s reached nirvana. The entire lower half of his face is shining, from his nose to his plush pink lips to his sharp chin.

He’s so fucking gorgeous it hurts her heart, and she wants him, nay, needs him inside her right the fuck now.

“Fuck me,” she begs, pulse thrumming in her throat, hummingbird-fast. It’s not enough, the orgasms he’s given her, cunt empty and aching for him. “Please Qimir, fuck me.”

“Now,” he rears up onto his knees, looming over her. He pushes his hair back with a hand, though it doesn’t stay in place, falling forward again. “I did promise, didn’t I? You haven’t screamed, yet.”

She shivers violently, a ripple of pure lust crashing over her.

He leans down and coaxes her satin slip off her, leaving her bare, exposed to him for the first time in ages. It’s shoved off the bed, crumpling on the floor in a heap of shiny fabric.

Qimir runs worshipful hands over her stomach, marvelling at the roundness, bestowing kisses along the crown of her belly.

Osha can’t describe what she’s feeling, only that it’s something past happiness, past the bounds of reason, her breaths high and reedy, a burning coal in the centre of her, flaring brightly. Like swallowing sunshine, something so bright and incandescent.

 His mouth veers down, over her hips, between the cradle of her thighs, until she’s whimpering and yanking his hair.

“Alright, alright.”

He rolls her onto her side, slotting behind her, a line of pure heat against her back and she sighs, leaning back into him, allowing him to arrange her limbs like she truly is a doll. His doll.

He's good at that, like he somehow knows what position to put a pregnant woman in and oh, that thought burns.

“How do you know?” she spits out, horniness transitioning to irritation, a flare in her breast of indignation.

“Know what?” he noses at her nape, scraping a kiss down and over her shoulder.

“What fucking position to use?”

It’s accusatory, almost histrionic, yet he eggs her on.

“Jealous, Osha?”

She doesn't answer him, pressing her lips together as the rage cools into melancholy, her sinuses prickling with an onslaught of tears. Her moods, ever mercurial.

“Oh, baby,” he croons, smoothing a hand up her side before tweaking her nipple. Her hips jump, grinding back onto his cock, thick and hard against her back. “What do you think? What other fucking reason would I have to look this shit up? Couldn't get the thought of you out of my fucking head, how you’d look moaning so prettily for me — my baby, pregnant with our baby.”

Mollified, she parts her legs, allowing him to hitch her thigh over his leg, just like she'd imagined, the movement opening her up. One arm settles low in her stomach, taking the strain off her abdominals as he cradles her belly.

“Good girl,” he praises her. “Spread it open for me, baby.”

God, what would they look like from the side? If he set up a camera, she might even allow him to film her, just to get a chance to view the way she’s exposed to his ministrations, the slippery slide of his cock through her drenched folds as he uses his other hand to guide the tip of his cock. He taps her pussy with the head once, twice, and she whimpers, flashes of pure electricity sparking from the impact.

“You like that, dirty girl?”

“Ah-huh,” she nods, her locs rubbing all over her silk pillows. He kisses her shoulder briefly, a tender gesture, which only serves to amplify the sheer filthiness of his mouth.

“Yeah, fuck,” he breaths, fitting the fat head of his cock inside her cunt, and she’s so utterly drenched that he pops right in.

Both of them moan in unison, her pussy fluttering as he pulls out slightly, then pushes back in with an obscene sound.

She’s soaking his entire length as he works his cock inside her, muscular hips thrusting against her ass, until he’s seated to the hilt, balls resting against the globes of her backside.

She pulses around him, cunt throbbing and feeling bruised-full, the way that none of her toys have managed, the way she’s been craving to be filled for months now.

“Shit, shit. Been waiting for this for so long, you’re so fucking tight, Osha baby.”

“Yeah,” she bleats, delirious, as he starts pumping in and out of her, cock nudging her G-spot with every push of his hips. “Yeah, baby, needed you, fuck. Fuck me, Qimir, fuuuuck—”

He feels so fucking good inside her, it knocks all and any sense out of her head. She pants for him like she’s in heat, jerking her hips back onto his dick, trying to take him as deep as he can go.

“Shit,” he curses, supporting her thigh with the hand that was just holding his dick. “That’s right, baby, move back on me, so fucking good.”

Pregnancy sex is supposedly the best sex of your life and they didn’t fucking lie, not one bit. She’s on cloud nine, eyes rolling back in her head, practically drooling as he slams into her, drilling her G-spot.

“God, you’re so fucking hungry for this cock,” he bites the tip of one ear, tongue sliding around the shell and she wails, cunt rippling. “Look at you, this pussy is starving.”

Her pussy quivers and clenches, sopping wet noises emanating from where they’re joined, the fleshy slap of their thighs meeting, and she tightens up as that pressure build and builds, her walls clamping down on his as he strokes into her.

“Fuck me— baby, fuck me, fuck me,” she digs her head into the pillow under her, huffing and keening. He shoves harder into her, sending stars flashing across her vision, and she screams.

“Yeah baby, there it fucking is. Let it out, come on.”

He presses deeper into her, shoving the full length of his cock inside her, grinding, but she needs just a little pressure on her clit. Osha wishes he had a third arm to stimulate her before she realises, duh, she has fucking hands of her own.

Osha unclenches one hand from his hair, the other gripping her headboard for dear life, and snakes it down to her clit, pressing her palm over her mound, fingers pressing down on her clit, giving her just the friction she needs.

“Touch yourself, Osha, just like that. Fuck, fuck— You’re so fucking tight, shit, fuck—"

Her toes curl, her thighs tremble, her spine tightens and the heat pooling inside her spreads all over her body, drowning her in euphoria. Her cunt spasms and pulsates, walls rippling as he continues fucking her through her orgasm, drawing out the pleasure, stretching it out as she moans and whines and bleats his name.

“Qimir, Qimir— come in me, please, fucking give me your cum, please, please.”

He clearly loves that, because he grunts, grip on her thigh turning punishingly tight, fingers digging in.

He buries himself as far as he can go, grinding once, twice and he’s painting her insides with hot ropes of cum, groaning in her ear as his dick jumps inside her, jerking and twitching for almost a minute straight.

 Osha soaks in the elation, lets it settle like a comforting duvet over all of her senses, her body limp, her leg only held up by Qimir’s hand, but he gently lowers it to the mattress.

This feels like the first time she’s been able to take a full breath in months, despite the baby practically sitting in her ribs.

Speaking of baby…

They’re nudging up a storm, like they’re rolling around in there, ecstatic that mama is feeling so content.

There’s a smile stretched wide across her face, and she’s utterly loopy, high off the oxytocin and endorphins of what’s probably the best orgasm of her life.

They lay there, chest to black, velcroed to each other, for what feels like aeons, enough for the sweat across her body to cool down and add to the shivers trembling over her body.

Eventually, they break apart, Qimir shuffling behind her until their skin separates, dried sweat acting like glue between their bodies.

When he leaves to wash up himself, she shudders, curling into bed, too lazy to get under the covers, let alone don any clothing.

The tremors don’t stop, even when he returns, crawling into the bed. God, she hasn’t shaken apart like this since…

Since their first time.

It’s the adrenaline rush, she reassures herself. It’s just physiological, it’ll resolve herself.

But she’s so fucking cold.

He’s so fucking tender with her afterwards, it brings tears to her eyes.

Even though he’s never been to her apartment before, he locates her washcloths and wets one with hot water so by the time he brings it back, it’s still pleasantly warm. He wipes the mingled cum and slick from her thighs, eyes rapt on her rounded stomach, barely blinking. Like he can’t get enough.

When he’s done, Osha scooches up the bed opening her arms up.

What the hell, might as well.

It’s an invitation, one that Qimir takes up readily.

She levers herself upright until she’s partly propped up by the headboard and a pillow behind her back, Qimir sprawled sideways on her lap with his ear against her stomach. He’s a heavy weight, but he’s so warm and firm and grounding.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s so pretty, either, stretched out like a big cat, curved around her body.

She looks out the window, at the balcony with gauzy curtains, the full moon silvering everything and a few stars visible in the Chicago night.

The sun will rise, soon. False dawn is already silvering the horizon.

Osha strokes her fingers through his hair, softly, mussing it. It sticks up at the back.

It’s a moment of peace, a détente, in the deliberate antagonism and games they play. The shadow of Mae and Sol hover over them but they push it aside.

That’s for the morning. Well, later in the morning, she guesses.

It doesn’t count until they sleep and wake up.

Qimir’s breath evens out, tired from the exertion of catching a red-eye flight in the middle of the night and a round of rigorous sex. Her pregnancy fatigue is also catching up with her, always waiting in the wings for her to succumb.

They wake in a spot of warm spring sunshine, soaking it in like a pair of lazy cats, Osha having forgotten to draw the curtains last night. But that’s the least of the concerns on her mind.

Her libido is decidedly awake and telling her that there’s a stiff cock behind her. She’s caught up in a tangle of limbs, a firm and wide hand on her swollen belly, strong thighs bracketing her legs, her feet tucked under sinewy calves.

She feels held, cradled. Secure.

And horny as fuck.

Half-asleep, still mired in a desirous haze, she moves back against him (against who?), wiggling her body until that cock is between her thighs, gliding through her folds, tapping her clit on every smooth stroke.

The body behind her wakes with a groan, tensing and stretching slightly, before those rough hands moves to caress her sides. They leave delicious tingles in their wake, creeping up her ribs until they reach two plump breasts. They waste no time teasing her nipples, plucking them until they’re hard little nubs, streaking sensation through her, little sparks zinging straight to her clit.

This is the loveliest dream she’s had in months, and feels so real, so tangible. She moans and arches her body, reaching a hand back to thread through strands of silky hair.

Eyes still closed, she turns her face and welcomes the slow, lazy kiss, morning breath negligible. The cock between her legs is building her up to a sweet, honey-thick release.

“Good morning, doll,” a hot whisper tickles her lips, and she abruptly comes to her senses and flails.

Jesus, fuck!

Post-nut clarity clearly hit a little too late.

Osha yelps as her motions propel her off the bed, almost face-first into the floor, but her heart is pounding in her throat as she whirls to see Qimir, in the flesh, in her home, her apartment, on her bed.

“I thought you were a dream,” she says dumbly, like a total idiot.

He's smug, cat that got the cream smile, Cheshire grin. “You dream about me?”

The cheek of him! When faced with an angry pregnant women, he still elects to mouth off.

“Pregnancy hormones,” she shoots back, arms folding across her chest. “You're not special.”

He eyes her tits, the darker hue of her areolas now apparent in the light of day. Her nipples tighten, but she pushes that physical reaction aside.

“Ouch,” he drawls, yet he doesn’t look one bit hurt, biceps bulging as he folds them behind his head, elongating his body like a big cat. “But still, you fantasised about me, right? No one else, baby?”

Panic and anger cooled to a simmer, because it really is too fucking early for this, even if looks like it’s near noon, she asks him, “Will you shut up if I say ‘yes’?”

He shrugs, powerful shoulders bunching up. She’s almost mesmerised as she eyes the muscles under his golden skin, the tendons in his neck, the small, dark moles scattered over his skin.

Like stars, she’d once compared them to. Once, she’d mapped them all out with gentle, fluttering kisses. He’d squirmed under her, rendered ticklish and she’d—

She shakes her head, reorienting her priorities.

Focus, Osha. Jesus.

“That's not the point!” she huffs, beating the recollection back with a metaphorical stick.  "What the fuck are you doing here?”

‘Have you lost your fucking memory?’ he doesn’t say. Or, ‘Were you dropped on your head as a baby?’

“Oh, doll. Have you forgotten? You asked for this.”

“I didn’t—”

Oh. Somewhere in that lustful haze, their shared delirium, she had.

“What were your exact words? Hm, let me think,” he taps his index finger on his chin, affecting a thoughtful look.

You know what? Let him fucking think. Osha can’t stand here, bare as the day she was born, a moment longer. Her robe is here somewhere...

She’d hung it up at one point, but pregnancy wreaks havoc with her short-term memory and that damn gown tends to slip off whatever peg she hangs it on.

She spots the silky mass crumpled at the foot of her bed, knocked off by their, er, vigorous activities. She shrugs it on and ties it tightly at the waist, smoothing the ice blue silk over her stomach.

“Ah, yes.”

He rolls off the bed in one fluid movement that she envies, stalking closer, practically looming over her.

Drawn up to his full height, he peers down at Osha, imperious, through a curtain of dark hair. She’s at eye-level with his Adam’s apple, the smooth expanse of skin unfortunately not darkened with hic— Ugh, stop.

Osha’s afforded a close-up view of the stubble peppering his jawline and darkened over his lush pink lips, compressing briefly in a mock-frown.

He tilts his head, his signature asshole move, as he muses, “As I recall, you said, ‘I want to touch you’, In addition to—”

Oh God, she can’t be held liable for what she said in a feral state. That’s just not fucking fair.

“— ‘Need you, want you here, fucking me so good’,” he emphasises, eyes rapt on her face, drinking in her reactions. She’s dying of mortification here, the sheer depth of her depravity thrown back in her face.

“Let this be evidence for the jury to consider in their verdict,” he finishes, cracking a cocky little grin at her. His hands float up, propriety, grasping her hips, thumbs tracing patterns on her sides and she lets him.

“Okay,” she says begrudgingly, but doesn’t twist out of his grip. “You fucking win, okay. I said all that shit, it’s true.”

“Osha,” he grabs her chin, guiding her gaze back to his, his hand not ungentle. “There are no winners and losers. Not anymore.”

He releases her face, hands drawn like magnets to her belly. His touch is delicate, adoring, when he rubs his hands over her stomach and the firmness there.

Baby, now awake, makes it their mission to thrash about inside her, probably doing cartwheels and flips in there.

Osha laughs at the mental image of her little bean careening around in there, tiny hands and feet waving. Her hands settle over Qimir’s, his skin warm and familiar. Gold and brown, contrasting skin tones.

Qimir’s head is still tilted when he asks her, “What’s so funny?”

His tone is soft and his eyes, when she meets them, liquid dark and damp. She wants to push his fringe out of his face, trace the contours of his cheekbones, peck the beauty marks on his face.

Warmth buds inside, fragile flower unfurling its petal, and oh, it's so familiar, this feeling—

Keep it together.

Mae’s smile appears at the forefront of her mind, flashing like a reminder. She wouldn’t be smiling if she saw them now, chest to chest, wrapped up in each other.

The warmth curdles in her stomach. Her hands drop to her sides, her smile fading. Qimir watches her curiously, tracking the shift in her mood.

Osha feels dirty. Used. Even though it wasn't like that, even though it had felt incredible, she'd felt worshipped and teased and pleasured, and he’s blown her fucking mind like he always does, but now it’s more intense than ever before—

Osha clears her throat, gathering her resolve. She needs to change the topic, because she can’t lose herself in him again, to the fledgeling tenderness blooming between them.

She takes that fragile bud and crushes it under her foot.

“How did you— Why did Mae tell you?”

She’d sworn Mae to secrecy, and her twin had promised not to say anything. It’s accusatory, definitely, because Mae doesn’t usually spill secrets like that. Not unless she’s pressed.

“I paid your sister a little visit, after she came back from her ‘girls trip,” Qimir confesses, shameless. “Needed to pump her for info, after all.”

Osha gapes at him. Wow, he’s really not hiding anything, is he?

Qimir shrugs, noting her disbelief. “What’s the use of lying, baby? You want to hear how I plied her with alcohol, trying to squeeze details about how you were doing, what you were doing? Or who?"

He doesn’t let her step away from him; when she tries, he crowds her, and unfortunately for her, she's trapped between the bed and his hard body. The backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress, and she can’t go any further.

“Now imagine my surprise,” his voice deepens, roughens, palms sliding down until he’s clenching his hands on her ass, holding her tight to him. “When Mae, truly white girl wasted at this point and loose lipped as hell, tells me that you're pregnant. And then she tells me not to let Sol know, because you’d promised her to secrecy, and I wasn’t supposed to know.”

The biting bitterness burns her, like he has any right to be angry when he’s fucking dating her sister—

Yeah, that’s right. Good point. She needs to use that.

“I’m sorry, you’re angry? When you still haven’t fucking explained why you’re dating Mae, of all people!”

“I’ll leave her,” he says immediately, like he’s just been waiting for her to bring it up. It’s such a prompt response and it blindsides her, Osha blinking at him, mouth agape and likely catching flies. He resumes his slow, soft exploration of her body.

A flare of indignation sweeps through her, and she's incensed by how little he cares for Mae; because even if her twin’s having doubts, that's still her sister and Mae is trying.

"How could you be so heartless? You'd drop her just like that? She's been your girlfriend for eight months!"

"Huh. Thought it was just six," he shrugs carelessly, anger and single-minded intensity of a few moments ago now mellowed into easy calm, broad shoulders limned in the morning sunlight, golden and—

Fucking hell.

She screams in frustration, "Oh my god."

This guy. This fucking guy. He's incredibly, and impossibly, aggravating. testing the limits of her patience, which is already worn thin.

She shoves him away, but he holds tight, doesn’t let her budge an inch, still so infuriatingly naked.

“I've barely fucking seen Mae in the last few months, aside from last night,” he’s intense, pendulum swinging back, all blazing focus centred on her. His eyes burrow into her, like he needs her to understand where he’s coming from.

“It’s— It’s not even anything, basically dead in the water. Is that what you want to hear, that the only reason I was continuing with it was because I couldn’t have you? At least that way, I’d know where you were, what you were doing.”

Holy shit. Hoooly fucking shit.

The revelation sends her mind spinning out like a turn top. She’d suspected, wary of his motivation for dating Mae from day one, but to put it like this—

It’s overwhelming, almost too much for her to compute, because the level of sheer derangedness and unhingery he’s displaying right now...

"Osha. You are the only thing that matters to me," he's so earnest, his eyes wide and chocolate brown. “You and... our baby.”

And that's the problem, isn't it? No one else matters to him, pieces on a board, pawns he can move around then sacrifice when it's convenient.

Is he even capable of feeling love? Or is just possession and manipulation?  He might not know the difference; he's broken, in a different way to her.

While she has so much love to give, overflowing with it, he hoards whatever scraps of emotion he gets.

Yet, he's being vulnerable with her. He's telling her without saying it.

But that's not good enough. She’s been burned by him in the past, when she’d been ready to be all-in. He’d wanted to force her hand, trapping her in an impossible situation that she hadn’t grasped the enormity of until it was over.

And, of course, he’d played his own games with her, triangulating and using other people to enact his desires.

It still stings to recall the fucking photos Ayesha had posted of him. Had he ever fed her lies about how he felt about her? They’d looked mighty cosy.

The thought of him doing the same to Mae, to her, makes her feel ill.

"That’s funny,” she starts slowly. “You say that, yet your actions are completely the opposite. I have a hard time believing you.”

She tilts her head, aping him. He’s attentive, ears practically perked up, waiting for her to finish her line of inquiry.

There’s something powerful in knowing that he’s hanging onto her words, that she has him on a string.

“Do you say that to all the girls? Did you say it to Mae? Matter fact,” she’s starting to sound a bit deranged herself, “I need to know; did you ever love her?"

The way you might have loved me, if that’s even possible?

He twitches, spits, "No," basically immediately.

Good. That was the easy part. She leans back in his grip, as far is she can without unbalancing herself, and his grip shifts to adjust the change in weight distribution, supporting her.

"Did you ever tell her you loved her?"

"I—", he looks around, suddenly uncertain. Almost shifty.

"I'll know it if you lie, Qimir," she warns him, tapping a finger on his chest.

Just as he seems to clock her true feelings, she can do just the same; that shit goes both ways, now. She’s also developed a fine-tuned radar for bullshit, given her career and what she does for a living on a daily basis.

His evasion tactics aren’t going to work on her, unlike four years ago.

“I may have... said it once or twice."

Jesus Christ. Is she surprised? Not really, but it's still a punch to the gut, a blow.

Osha wobbles, knees weak and she leans to the side, grasping at the cold metal frame of the bed. At that exact moment, her Braxton Hicks contractions hit her and she gasps.

In a flash, Qimir is up and beside her, holding her arm, his hand anchoring her up.

"Careful, baby," he murmurs, and she fights the urge to rip her arm out of his grip. Not now, when there's cramps rolling over her back, rendered momentarily breathless by the pulsing pain.

"I'm, ah, fine," she grinds out. "I just need..."

She sits down on the bed, and Qimir slots his body behind her. He traces his hands down her spine, down to where she's aching, and presses his fingers in.

"Oh, fuck," she moans, at the pressure of his hands, the way he's digging into those cramping muscles, the instant relief when he just holds her steady, coaching her to breathe.

God, it's painful having him here, her body and mind warring with her over the right course of action. Part of her wants to pick up the decorative blown-glass vase on her bedside table and punt it at his head, watch it thunk against his temple or shatter into rainbow shards on the wall behind his head.

Another part of her wants to ride him and milk him dry, using him to slake her pleasure, the thirst that's grown and grown until it's unbearable, undeniable.

No part of her is logical or rational about him, and hasn't that always been the issue?

She lets him knead at her back, until the cramps pass, syncing her breaths with his, eyes closed and sagging back into him. Her body is putty, a malleable doll in his hands, so quiet and pliant.

The exact opposite of who she is.

Her eyes fly open, and she pushes him away, breathing, "I can sit on my own."

He hums doubtfully but lets her have her little show of resistance. She can already tell what he's thinking, it won't last.

At least she can tell herself that she tried. Yes, she fought very valiantly and resisted for as long as she cou—

You fucked him six ways from Sunday last night, no resisting there.

Well, that was... extenuating circumstances. She'd half thought it a dream.

A most convenient excuse.

You know what, fuck you—

Aaand she's fighting with voices in her head, Jesus.

And she's been silent for long enough that Qimir's tilting his head at her, eyeing her with more than a little interest.

"What's going on up there?" he asks, so softly.

‘None of your business,' she wants to snap back, but falls into self-deprecation.

"Nothing much."

He tsks, "Now, Osha, you know that's not true. So, tell me. Be honest; you've lied enough for a lifetime, haven't you?"

Well.

Well, well, well. What’s it like, having a taste of your own medicine?

There’s a bit of hurt in his tone. And no wonder; keeping the news of your pregnancy from your baby daddy is a big deal. She should feel guiltier about it.

"An omission is not a lie," Osha says stridently, standing up and pacing the small space. He lets her have that distance, knowing that she can’t run far.

“Why don’t we go back to you and Mae.”

“What about Mae and I? I told you, we’re over.”

“No,” she turns, from the hips this time, careful not to unbalance herself. “You’re not.”

He looks nonplussed, almost adorably confused.

And still naked as the day he was born. There's not a stitch of clothing on him. Her neighbours are probably getting a show.

She pushes down the words on her tongue, the request for him to put some goddamn clothes on.

She doesn’t voice them, because he wouldn’t listen to her, just to spite her.

“You’re going to stay with Mae.”

“No,” he says, slowly, like he’s talking to a child. Talking down to her. “I’m not.”

“Yes,” she says, equally as condescendingly. “You are.”

“I’m not,” he repeats himself.

“You are,” she stresses. Then, “God, are you five or something?”

He crosses his arms across his chest, now the defensive one. “I’m not the one saying immature bullshit. What do you mean, I’m going to stay with Mae? I told you, I was only with her to get to you, you really think I'd go back to that now that I have you? Why would you even want that for your sister, when what she and I had wasn’t even serious to begin with?"

Wasn’t se— Jesus H Christ.

“You really expect me to believe that you were with her for eight months, just because you wanted to keep tabs on me?”

“Yes, Osha, I do.” He’s so resolute, so serious. No teasing to be found. “But even she’s been checked out since Christmas. We barely say two words to each other. What’s the issue?”

“Mae said—” she starts, before cutting herself off. That was something relayed in confidence. And hadn’t Osha been a devil’s advocate, then? Practically begging Mae to break up with Qimir, Christ. She’s ashamed of her actions.

He steamrolls over her feeble protests.

“We haven’t had sex since then, either. Good enough for you, doll?” He clicks his tongue. “So possessive. You’re the only one I’ve fucked in this calendar year, how spectacular.”

God, he’s such a fucking ass.

“I’m not leaving, Osha. Did you think it was all talk? You’re mine. So you can tell Mae whatever you want. Confess your baby daddy’s identity, or don’t. It’s up to you. But if you think, for even a second—”

“I'm— I'm my own person,” she swallows harshly, mirroring his stance. “I'm not a thing, for you to own.”

He drops his arms, prowling closer. He’s so achingly beautiful in the bright light of noon.

“Why fight it, baby? You know where you belong.”

Osha bites her lip, turning away from the open want on his face. She's no longer that naïve young girl from years ago, holding onto impossible dreams; she's seen the true face of him, and she can't bring herself to forget it.

Qimir’s still a master of using his body and intimacy as a weapon, though; he moves close and takes her in his arms, knowing how good it feels.

 They slot together like they were made for each other, a fine bit of propaganda that her mind cooks up. Yet, she doesn’t resist; she tells herself that she’s not giving in.

Really, she isn’t.

“Were you ever even planning to tell me?”

Maybe she’s still that same stupid girl, because she softens at the shakiness in his voice, the open emotion. She wraps her arms around him, returning his embrace.

“I just needed time.”

He exhales heavily. “You had time. Almost five months of it, that I missed out on.”

She hides her face in his neck, mumbling, “I didn’t know until eight weeks.”

“Fucking hell, Osha. Did you think I wouldn’t get suspicious when you turned up with a baby, conveniently nine months after we fucked? What was your plan, for then? And...”

He swallows hard, and his Adam’s apple bobs, a crack in his armour. His vulnerability, on display.

Or a well-crafted façade. Who fucking knows, with him.

 “You didn’t think I’d want to be a part of your life? To be— to be a father. To our baby, Osha.”

She flinches, the same way she had the first time he’d levelled the accusation at her. He’s stuck on the fact that it’s his baby, but she’s a person too, and it’s her fucking body.

He’s not wrong, but it’s the way he’s going about it; still so possessive and controlling.

If she's being brutally honest with herself, she can't bring herself to trust him, to give him her whole heart. She’d been ready to do just that, and look where it had gotten her? Once burned, twice shy.

She’s still new and shiny to him, a novelty. When the novelty wears off, he’ll inevitably show his true colours and fuck off again. The way he’s known to do.

He's not a good person. He's a pharma rep, for fuck's sake. He works for snakes, is a snake himself and—

And he's the father of her child. He hasn't done something so heinous to justify cutting him out altogether. She'd tried that and look how long she lasted.

Osha sighs heavily, rubbing her sternum, where acid is bubbling up in her throat. She needs to fucking eat something to keep the heartburn away and one-shot some Pepto Bismol.

Navigating all these emotions is like trying to thread a fucking needle.

She wants him, she wants him not.

She wants him to stay, she wants him to leave.

She wants to give herself over to him completely, she wants him ten thousand fucking miles away from her.

Her id clashing with her superego, what’s right battling with what would be so, so easy for her.

And who’s defining what’s right? Dr Holden’s voice comes to her. Don’t let your thoughts be a cage, Osha.

“I...”

Maybe she can find a way forward. If he insists on being here, in her life, maybe she can accept it if she changes his motivation. Or her perception of it, at least.

He’s here for baby. She’s not trying to claim him for herself.

Her stomach clenches with guilt, poisoning her gut, even as she firms her resolve. He’s determined to break-up with Mae, despite her objections. He’d had some fair points, even if ulterior motives had underlaid them.

Hell, if she continues to protest, he’ll probably  go ahead and do it behind her back. This way, she can be strategic about it. Twist the situation to her advantage, before he bends her over a barrel.

She apologises to the avatar of Mae that lives in her head, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m dirt.

“Fine.” she breathes out harshly, a twinge of resentment panging in her, that he’s forcing her to make such a difficult decision, to basically sign the death sentence on her sister’s relationship. Though, according to him, it was never truly alive in the first place. It's still going to hurt her sister.

“Break up with her, then.”

She tries to leave, but again, he’s blocking her from moving. When she looks up, his eyes are gleaming in triumph and smug satisfaction at the win.

“I knew you’d see reason, baby.”

Osha takes her hands away from his neck, pushing against his chest, warning him, “I’m not done. Hold your fucking horses.”

He settles down, unholy glee not completely wiped from his face, but bubbling below the surface, only showing hints.

“This doesn’t mean we’re together. We're not...”

She trails off, biting her lip, struggling to articulate herself. “You’re only here for the baby. That’s all. For the greater good.”

“’For the greater good’”, he repeats, sounding so amused. Like he knows she’s going to crack, unable to uphold her promise to remain impartial, unattached. “Alright, whatever you say.”

Fuck, he’s so patronising. He really thinks he’s gotten his way, that she’s so weak.

Her anger flares, even as it mixes with something sweeter and sharper, the low-burning arousal that’s been simmering since she woke up, since she acted on her desire.

Osha should probably... step back. Take a breather. He’s clouding her mind with his musky scent, the whiffs of his cologne still clinging to his skin, and probably her, as well. His skin is so smooth, under her hands. Does he exfoliate?

She tries to move away, but his arms band around her, crushing her to his chest. She’s surrounded by him on all sides, engulfed in presence, his smell, his touch, the sound of his shallow breathing.

“Now,” he says slowly, “where was I? Oh, yes.”

He takes hold of her chin, with the intention of bringing his lips to hers, but she shoves at his chest, weakly.

Too soon, too fast.

(Even though they just fucked less than twelve hours ago—)

To her surprise, he lets her go.

She takes a quick step back, frustration at herself thrumming in her blood, that she’s denying herself yet again, when it could be so simple.

But that’s her libido talking, and she’s not an animal.

(And nothing good is ever easy.)

Qimir watches her, his head tilted and his arms open at his sides. Open, non-threatening posture.

He’s about as harmless as a sabre-toothed tiger.

"Not so fast. It's bad enough that we're doing this," Osha gestures between them, at her stomach, to demonstrate. "I don't want more guilt on my conscience."

"Right," he says, sounding like he doesn't believe her at all, like he's just playing along. "You tell yourself that. Let’s see how long you last."

“I’m serious,” she insists, but he only gives her an arch look and finally, finally turns away to seek out his clothes.

Osha breathes out a sigh of relief, but at that exact moment her stomach protests so loudly, a truly mortifying wail, expressing its demand to be filled.

She squeezes her eyes shut tightly, reaching a hand up to massage her temple. For fuck’s sake.

Qimir, having only donned his sweats, every muscle of his torso outlined in the abundant light coming in from the windows, whistles.

“Sounds like someone’s hungry.”

He holds out a hand, beckoning her forward. Osha doesn’t take it, but she sticks close as Qimir leads the way to the kitchen.

“Let’s get you fed, doll.”

If Osha thought she could keep her mind away from Qimir for long, she was wrong.

After all those months of repression, it’s like a dam has burst; suddenly, every impulse, every thought screams at her to touch him, taste him, fuck him. He tests her resolve, her promise to keep things strictly about baby only.

He's walking temptation, who could fucking resist? And he's the father of her child, the reminder of what exactly they did to create that baby haunting her as she tries to inhale breakfast (lunch?) without looking rude.

Not a slave to her body, she’d thought. Strong morals and self-control.

Yeah, right.

She eyes the way he licks his lips of the maple syrup he’d drizzled all over his French toast, pink tongue darting out and swiping at his bottom lip, leaving a sheen of spit. Her own food is long since devoured, as well as a selection of fruits and yoghurt Qimir had brought to the table.

Her hands rest over her belly, clasped on top of each other, contentment humming in her even as she contemplates a different kind of hunger.

Qimir scrapes his fork over the last of his meal, practically cleaning the plate. Both of them had worked up an appetite earlier....

God, there she goes again. She shifts in her chair, discomforted by her throbbing core. It’s so easy to wind her up nowadays, truly inconvenient.

He’s here. Use him, a little voice hisses. The devil on her shoulder, insidious.

She stands up, mostly to distract herself with the minutiae of clean-up, as Qimir had just let the frying pan soak in the sink, but he thwarts her mission.

He reaches for her plate, smoothly snatching it from her hands and stacking it on top of his own.

“No housework on my watch,” he warns her, not caving to the pout she levels his way. “Sit your pretty little ass down, Osha.”

He’s so domineering, but she should have known he’d be like this.

Osha grumbles as she starts making her way towards the couch, then remembers her vitamins at the last moment and turns around.

After her last blood test, Maz had recommended a daily iron tablet to supplement her intake, in addition to the iron already in her prenatal vitamins, because it seems like baby is dead set on sucking the blood out of her.

Just like your papa, she muses idly, a little amused by the comparison, as she opens the upper cupboard for her basket of medication.

She’d learned the hard way that it’s easier to reach up for something than lean down, but her back twinges anyway when she tries to retrieve it.

It’s not another round of Braxton Hicks, thank God, but it’s still intense enough to make her inhale sharply, slapping her hand down on the counter.

Qimir tuts and moves her aside numbly, broad hands spanning her waist, plucking her meds basket from the upper cabinet shelf with ease.

“Show off,” she mutters, busying herself with shaking out pills.

“A little gratitude wouldn’t hurt,” he retorts, yet it’s not harsh. He leaves for a moment and returns with a glass tumbler full of water.

Osha prefers to take her pills in one go, rather than risking gagging on the horse-sized pills her doctor recommended to her and throwing up.

She crams them in her mouth, and Qimir taps her chin, setting the rim of the cup at her lips and urging her to drink deep. She swallows harshly and wipes her mouth, begrudgingly thanking him for his assistance.

“Anytime,” he says, eyes leaving heat trails as he traces her lips, then down to her throat and up again.

The moment stretches between them, taut, heated. They stand there, suspended in time, the ghost of his touch roaming over her.

The body keeps the score, after all.

He peers down at her through a curtain of hair, brows furrowed and mouth pouty pink, shiny with spit. His eyes are very dark, like a black hole, an abyss.

And she wants to fall, wants to lose herself in him, because it’s hard acting like she doesn’t want him when her very being is aching for his touch, for his caresses.

A strong hand, a firm grip. Someone to lean into...

Stop. Stop.

Her nipples tighten abruptly under the robe, the thin fabric calling attention to her interest, instead of concealing it. Her breaths come heavier, scraping her throat, the burden of desire a terrible thing.

Bad idea. The worst.

She takes one step to the side, retreating from the landmine-filled space between them, wary of setting off an explosion and wreaking destruction that she won’t be able to come back from.

He watches her, a queer light in his eyes. She takes another step, then realises that this is her fucking apartment. Why is she moving like cornered prey?

Goddamn it, Osha.

If she makes it to the bedroom fast enough, she can shut the door in his face and get dressed properly. This robe is doing fuck all to actually cover her.

She’ll feel more sane in a pair of ratty sweats. Dressed down, unattractive. Yes, that’s exactly the right course of action to take.

She pivots, making it a few feet away when he catches up to her.

“Oh, no you don’t, Osha.”

He tugs her by the arm, twirling her until her back is to his chest. His grip is like iron, and she struggles fruitlessly to escape, yet there's no helping it.

Get off, she doesn’t say. Let me go, she doesn’t beg.

Since when has he ever fucking listened to her?

She almost caves, almost, when he starts kissing her neck there and then, dragging his tongue over her fluttering pulse, stampeding like a pack of horses set loose.

It’s electric, her mouth dropping open as a hot flush sweeps over her body, core clenching, liquid heat pooling between her legs.

How could something so wrong feel this right?

"Give in, baby,” he rasps, stubble over his lip tickling her throat. She writhes in his arms, not knowing if she’s trying to move away or towards him. “Why fight it? We both know this is what you want.”

She shudders, caught between warring impulses. If she concedes, she’ll look weak. He’ll come back for a repeat, assured in her capitulation.

“Let me make you feel good,” he purrs, one hand kneading the flesh of her thighs, proprietary. “Orgasms are good for you, ergo, what's good for you is good for baby...”

Compelling argument, hng fuck, he has her there.

“I don’t,” she mewls, “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

The fast pass of his hand on her makes her suck in a breath, sharp and sudden. Her skin is tingling all over, goosebumps rising up, pinpricks of sensation.

He dares to ruck up her robe, moving under the hem, and her entire body clenches with a rush of dizzying desire. The other is still gripping at her arm, his hand circling her entire forearm.

“Come on,” he croons. “You were all over me last night, couldn't get enough of this. Don't tell me you don't want it.”

In a bold move, he cups her pussy, and lo and behold, she's gushing. Her traitorous fucking body.

“Fuck, there it is,” he groans, panting in her ear as he pets her heavily.

She trembles as he strokes a finger through her folds, knees weak.

“So fucking needy. Let me give it to you, baby. It can be just physical.”

Is he begging? He sounds close to it, and God, isn’t that a rush.

He circles her clit, so swollen and sensitive, and she gasps as the motion sparks heat in her blood.

Just physical, he’d said. Just a release, from all the stress and tension plaguing her, even if he’s half the reason that she’s so wound up.

She can’t give him her heart.

But her body...

She could give him her body.

Once can be written off as a mistake. This time, it’s deliberate. This time, she knows exactly what she’s doing, and with who, and what’s she’s getting into.

But she’s just spent a long time arguing with him, followed by an intimate breakfast, and she’s already tired.

Can one thing, just this one thing, be easy?

He’s here for the baby. Helping her get off is just part of it.

(Yeah right—)

So, fuck it. She'll regret it, but why not let him have what he wants? When it's what she really wants, too.

They’ve already fucked once, what’s one more?

Excuses, excuses.

Osha reaches back to twine her fingers in his hair, swivelling her hips to grind back on him. His chest rumbles, a pleased purr. He's not beating the big cat allegations, that's for sure.

There’s no warning before he’s spinning her around, bringing them face to face. She whines a little at the motion tears his hand away from her cunt, leaving her slick and wanting. Fucking tease.

“I need you to say it,” he demands, taking that same hand and clenching it in her locs…

God, he wants her to debase herself further. Fuck him, fuck him.

“Fuck you,” she snarls, and he laughs, pulling a little. Her brain goes a little fuzzy.

“Close enough.”

Their mouths collide, pent up resentment and fury and need, scorching heat.

It’s frantic, in a way that it wasn’t earlier, when she’d been half-convinced that he was a dream, and he’d been so achingly gentle.

Their teeth clack, tongues tangling, Osha moaning breathily as he plunders her mouth, using his hold on her hair to control her head, angle her just right.

Her hands find his waist, claw up to his shoulders, holding on for dear life. She sees the room in flashes, opening and closing her eyes; Qimir’s blissed out face, buttery sunlight, her squashy couch, her cluttered kitchen.

She’s naked under the robe, and it slips a little off her shoulder at her actions. Qimir growls and yanks at the tie holding it closed, the slip tie falling to the ground, sending a bolt of pure heat shooting to her cunt.

The robe slips off her and pools on the floor, leaving her exposed to him, completely and totally, in the strong midday light. All her flaws and bodily changes, on display.

Osha hadn’t felt self-conscious earlier, too preoccupied with arguing passionately against him, but now it rears its head.

He rips his mouth away, ignoring Osha’s whine, in favour of studying her.

A queer flush of apprehensiveness and something that feels a little like insecurity knifes through her, and she moves her hands to cover her breasts.

In a flash, Qimir seizes them in his own, arresting her movements.

“Never hide from me.”

He brings them down by her sides and tugs her closer, closer. He urges her to move closer and she gasps as he presses the full length of her body against him, the naked skin of their chests meeting.

He’s cupping her belly, marvelling at the roundness of it, the way that she’s showing much more than other women who are twenty one weeks along. It’s prominent on her small frame, as are her tits.

"Fucking drives me crazy,” he husks, “knowing that you’re pregnant with my baby.”

Of course it does, like he hasn’t been gunning to knock her up for years, pumping her full of his cum. The freak.

“You’re so sexy,” he murmurs silkily, and yeah, maybe she could stand to hear a little more of that. “You even smell,” he noses her throat, goddamn sniffing her, “so fucking good.”

What had she even been worried about? That he’d somehow find her repulsive, think her changed body was gross?

It's been so hard to feel sexy, lately, what with her stretchmarks and massive areolas and hyperpigmentation, her back aches and cramps, as well as her night sweats and hot flushes and heartburn. Not to mention her ballooning stomach, her wider ribcage and her thicker thighs.

Qimir makes her feel… well, like a Goddess.

And fuck, that's so addictive; his drugging kisses, his heated touch, his greedy gaze.

She’d forgotten who he was, what he’s like. Possessive, greedy, domineering. She could come up with a laundry list of synonyms for him, all the ways his behaviour raises cherry-red coloured, strawberry flavoured red flags.

“I did this to you,” he rumbles, and yeah, that’s just about enough of that.

She yanks the waistband of his trousers down, freeing his cock. It springs out, almost slapping his stomach. The tip is violently purple and weeping freely, sticky strings of precum that make her pulse, hot and hungry.

Jesus, she’d get on her knees for him here and now, if he didn’t have another motive in mind.

He ducks his head and sucks her nipple into his mouth, tonguing her furiously, cupping and weighing her other breast.

“So fucking juicy,” Qimir mumbles, through a mouthful of her tit. “Your tits, you pussy. So fucking wet and lush for me, baby.”

He grinds his cock against her artlessly, and if she didn’t have a bowling ball strapped to her stomach, she might have the balance to sling a leg over his hips and move against him properly.

Somehow, through sheer horny muscle memory, his dick finds the apex of her thighs and he slides against her slickly, impossibly hard, then delves between.

It’s an easy glide, helped by her utterly drenched cunt, and she clenches around nothing as he bumps against her clit, turning her legs to jelly with the electric jolts of sensation.

“Bedroom,” she manages to breathe, a moment of comprehension breaking through the noxious clouds of lust.

“Don’t want to give your neighbours a show, doll?”

His taunt tickles her skin, and she grabs a handful of his hair and hauls his head back, looking him straight in the eye when she answers,

“No, you kinky fuck.”

He clicks his tongue. “As if you’d be opposed.”

Osha rolls her eyes, almost to the back of her head, and walks forward. He stays stuck to her like a barnacle, shuffling his steps until they’re almost to the end of her short hallway.

At the threshold of her room, she pauses, looking at the messy sheets on the bed, the evidence of their early morning activities stark.

Fuck, she’s really about to do it all over again.

Her chin is grabbed in a broad hand and Qimir guides her face to his, so close that his breath brushes over her lips.

“Stop. Thinking.”

Easier said than done.

Yet, the moment he gets her down onto the bed, she does just that.

It’s hard to string two thoughts together when he’s eating her out so thoroughly, moaning like he’s having the best meal of his life.

His hair grazes her thighs, one hand anchored on her tits, flicking her nipple and the other clamped on her hip, prevent her from wiggling too much.

When she remembers that his come is still inside her, because she hadn’t washed earlier, she convulses through the sudden orgasm that sweeps through her body, soaking his face.

“Fuck yes, baby, come for me,” Qimir praises her, fingers tracing her puffy folds. He teases for a few months before brusquely plunging his fingers in, crooking his fingers and fucking her mercilessly,

She’s still clenching and quivering, so she almost screams and bows straight off the bed, cramps panging through her pelvis, because it’s so good, too good, it’s painful.

Qimir plunders her cunt the same way he did her mouth, dominating and controlling her pleasure, pushing her through another orgasm, only this one is deeper, more ruinous. He pushes into her G-spot, abusing the spongy pad on her upper walls while he sucks at her clit, tonguing the nub ferociously.

Her stresses melt away, all her concerns and worries and the ever-present spectre of guilt, they're all washed away, almost cleansed, in the pure holy fire of her climax.

Three fingers, now, stretching her open, as if he thinks she needs it. As if she’s not ready to fucking go right now.

“Fuck me,” she sobs, undulating her hips. “Fuck me, fuck me, now.”

“Baby gets what baby wants,” he strokes through her, one last time, before shifting up and withdrawing his fingers. They’re gleaming with her wetness, and Qimir doesn’t waste a single drop, swiping his tongue over them until they’re clean.

He kisses her afterwards, laying on his side and feeding the taste of her cunt back to her, stroking her tongue, practically fucking her mouth.

When he ventures down for another go at her breasts, she whines, high-pitched and bratty. “You said—”

“Shh, doll,” he pats her hip, reaching around to grope her tits. “Just needed to suck on these again. They’re so pretty.”

He plays with them, twisting and pinching her nipples as she trembles, clenching around nothing. When Osha tugs his hair, he leaves off with one last glance of teeth against her nipple, before urging her up.

One hand under her back, he levers her upright before turning her around, until she’s facing her metal headboard. There’s a few slats to grab, and she holds on for dear life as Qimir flutters kisses at her shoulders while grasping his dick.

His hands bump against her ass he pumps his cock once, twice, and she’s dripping down her thighs in anticipation, practically stupid in her lust for him.

“Open up, baby,” he purrs as he nudges her knees apart on the bed, making space for himself.

“Just fuck me already,” Osha demands, rocking her hips back.

He bestows a slap on her ass for that, and she wails in surprise, another spurt of slick leaking out of her, running down her leg. “Patience, Osha.”

While she wants him to spank her again, she wants him inside her even more, so she pants and throbs as he rubs the tip of his cock through her cunt, wetting himself thoroughly, all the while praising her for how slick she is, how good she takes his dick, how tight her cunt will be.

Without any warning, he surges forward with one, forceful thrust, spearing her with his length all the way, down to the root.

“Fuck!”

Osha spasms as she struggles to take him in, not comprehending that he’s already all the way inside her, a full and bruising ache in her cunt.

He immediately sets a punishing pace, so fast and fierce that she can barely keep up, pummelling pleasure into her body like he's trying to prove something to her.

He’s immediately running his mouth as well.

“I always hit it right, don't I, baby? No one is gonna give it to you like this.”

Osha moans in response, tightening around him.

His hips slap against her ass, plap plap plap, her clit stimulated by the impact as well. It’s dirty and filthy and obscene, the way that she’s utterly soaked for him.

He crowds her, plastering his chest to her back. “You missed this, I can tell. Listen to this pussy, you're fucking creaming all over me, doll, fuck. Fucking full of me, my cum. You want this, don't you? Give me an answer, baby.” 

His arm snakes around to hold her belly, relieving the pressure off her back and yes, yes, fucking yes, this is everything she wanted, everything she’d dreamed of and fantasised and masturbated to.

“Yes,” she can barely gasp, her whole body shaking with his thrusts. “Yes, Qimir, yes.”

“That's right, you're fucking desperate,” he hisses, sounding furious. “That's why you answered the call, that's why you had to fuck your pretty little cunt,” he grinds in, deep and hard, and Osha just about wails at the sensation, ratcheting her higher, “but it wasn’t enough, was it?”

Her legs shake and she tries to brace herself, the metal of the headboard biting into her fingers, her hands clenched so tightly around it that her knuckles blanch.

“No,” he answers his own question, the sweat on his chest running down her back, pooling where they’re joined, adding to the mess. “You fucking needed this dick. You needed only what I can give you, nobody else.”

She ruts back against him, mindlessly, chasing the pressure that builds between her legs, the liquid heat. He’s rendered her silent, only high-pitched, breathy pants issuing from her mouth.

“I'll fucking kill them, if they try. You think I won't? The things I'd do for this pussy...”

Osha clamps right down on him, a punched out groan issuing from them both as she reacts to his threat, a flush of heat stealing through her from head to toe.

He exhales harshly. “Fuck, fuck. Come on, baby. Come on, Osha, give it to me, you’re almost there.”

She is, she is, she only needs— She only fucking needs—

The hand on her belly slithers down to her pussy, to her clit, rubbing it harshly and she’s gone.

A wave of pleasure crashes over her, unmooring her as she shudders and shakes and sobs, her legs almost collapsing underneath her, only held up by Qimir’s stabilising arm.

“There we go,” he says, almost tenderly, continuing to piston out of her, the fleshy slap on his movements now incredibly loud as a gush of slick eases his way.

Qimir fucks her through her orgasm relentlessly, until she’s almost at the point of overstimulation, teary and shivering, pounding her pussy and groaning in her ear. He’s reduced to only feral, formless sounds.

His cock twitches inside her, and she knows he’s coming even before he breathes her name into her ear, fastening his mouth to her neck and sucking harshly.

She obliges him with a few squeezes of her cunt, milking him for all he’s worth, until he collapses against her back, bracing both of his arms on the headboard and leaning his head on her shoulders.

They’re both out of breath, spent and sated. Osha can’t bring herself to regret what just happened, not when she feels so blissful, so euphoric.

She has an idle thought, something along the lines of, ‘This is where he belongs, inside me, behind me,’ that she lightly flicks away, like an errant insect.

That’s just the endorphins talking, the dopamine and oxytocin rendering her silly and floaty and uncaring. Almost loopy, giggling under her breath as she rests her sweaty forehead against the wall.

“Get off me, you lug,” she admonishes, though really, she's not opposed to the heavy weight of his body.

“Mm, how about, no?” he mumbles into her shoulder, dragging his facial hair along her sensitive nape. She immediately folds inward, scrunching up her shoulder and whining.

The motion rocks her back onto his cock and he groans, taking his hands off the headboard and stroking her stomach firmly, basically groping it. The combination of his cock and his touch drives her somewhat feral, and she backs up on him a few more times before he seizes her hips.

“You keep doing that,” he warns, low and rough, “and I won’t be able to resist going another round. That what you want, Osha?”

Her rational mind is not in control. That’s the only reason she nods and mewls, “Yeah,” squeezing the fat length inside her.

“Fuck, baby,” his cock swells and hardens even further inside her, but he doesn’t start pounding her immediately.

He shifts them down and to the side, until the pillow’s under her head and he’s nestled right behind her, cock still sheathed inside her, like he can’t bear to spend even a single second outside of her pussy. His free hand gropes for the other pillow and locates it, sliding it under her stomach.

Osha sighs in relief as her stomach is cradled, reaching back to pat at his hair in wordless thanks. She’d been beginning to tire; another orgasm might have knocked her knees clean under her.

The thoughtfulness behind it makes her ache, just a little, completely unrelated to the carnal throbbing between her thighs.

Qimir can fuck her at his leisure in this position, and he does, gripping her thigh and elevating it slightly so he can thrust lazily into her. She meets his movements with her own, building up to a slow, sweet release.

And when it’s over, when she’s blinking tears out of her eyes at the overwhelming feeling and turning around to exchange languid kisses with him, she realises the feeling in her chest for what it is.

It’s immense, it’s crushing, it’s unfathomable. It’s been building for years, and she’d refused to acknowledge it, still refuses to look at it head-on.

But it’s rapidly becoming undeniable.

She’s the fool, always has been, for letting him reel her right back in. He has a way of pulling her in, crossing her wires helplessly and leaving her yearning for him.

He wraps his arms around her, tight and secure, and she longs for it just as much as she wishes he’d gather his clothes and leave.

Parting is such a sweet sorrow, she thinks, a little delirious, before sleep captures her.

Qimir doesn’t tell her that he’s leaving until breakfast the next day, after a round of sleepy sex Osha had initiated when she’d woken up, in what’s starting to be her favourite position.

“I have a conference coming up this week,” he explains, almost apologetically. She wants to tell him to keep his false remorse to himself, but refrains.

It’s so typical of him, not to say anything until he knows he has her hooked and on a string for him. She’s almost tempted to withhold any further sex from him, but that’d just be hurting herself.

It’s a terrible addiction, but one that she can’t deny herself from indulging in.

She still makes him work for it, riding his face until her legs are trembling uncontrollably, then lying on her side and letting him do all the work.

Yeah, reward him for leaving with more sex. Good plan, Osha.

But what is she meant to do? Ignore him when he looks like that, strolling through her apartment with no shirt on, flaunting his dedicated gym routine? When he insists on having a hand on her at all times, stroking, touching, squeezing?

She’d denied herself for five months, five fucking months. She’s owed a few orgasms in return.

They fuck in the living room, they fuck in her kitchen. They fuck in the shower.

They fuck until she passes out, after lunch (ordering out because ain’t no way anyone is cooking and wasting time cleaning up), ignoring the deadline looming over their heads.

She’s roused from her nap around three, which is just good, because it’s been a few hours and the throbbing between her thighs is becoming more and more insistent…

She rolls over painstakingly, expecting to be met with Qimir’s unfairly beautiful visage, but he’s… not there.

The fuck?

She grumbles under her breath, but he might just be taking a piss or getting a glass of water. She can make an exception for bodily needs, but he better hurry the fuck up.

Osha shuffles back onto the side she’d woken up on, intending on getting a few more moments of shut-eye in, when her eyes catch and snag on a dark figure in the corner of the room.

Her heart leaps, but it’s only Qimir.

She’d missed him the first time; he’s seated at her tiny desk she uses to work from home, legs splayed in her desk chair, stretching the grey sweats at his crotch, chest bare, and face shadowed by the sun shining behind his head, orange light strobing into the bedroom through the uncovered windows.

And he’s dangling envelope in his hands, one that very conspicuously has the ultrasound clinic’s location on the top right edge.

Oh.

In all the chaos of their reunion, Osha had forgotten a critical piece of information: the gender reveal.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

She swings her legs off the bed then twists upright, back twinging a little, her fucking tailbone sliding in and out of place.

Is he asshole enough to help himself? God, she’s going to rip him a new one. He’d had the balls to go snooping while she was sleeping, blissfully unaware of his violation of her privacy.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” she demands, shrill and hoarse.

“What’s this?” Qimir raises an eyebrow at her, tilting his head. Answering a question with a question; classic Qimir.

“Calm your tits, doll,” he tuts. “I stopped reading when I realised what it was: something important.”

She rolls her eyes, hiding her surprise at his thoughtfulness. “Do you want a medal for your restraint? Bravo.”

“The gender,” Qimir says softly. “You haven’t looked yet.”

“Yeah,” she confirms.

“I figured,” he says easily, flicking the envelope in his fingers and sending it spinning. Ugh, he's an ass.

But he’s also considerate, and that annoys the shit out of her. He’d wanted to do this with her, share in the experience.

He ruins it when he asks her, “Why not? Were you scared of finding out you were having a boy? A mini me?”

He smirks and taps the edge against his lips. She could slap him for it.

But, reacting with anger is just what he wants, to pre-empt any emotional reaction he might have. He’s being a dick so he can control her reactions; the best thing she can do is refuse to give him the reaction he wants.

She needs to take ownership of this, before he runs roughshod over her.

“Come here,” she beckons him, patting the bed. 

He blinks at her, silently questioning why she’s not taking the bait. His eyes gleam like an animal’s.

She needs to take ownership of this, before he runs roughshod over her.

“Come here,” she beckons him, patting the bed. He moves like liquid mercury, sauntering over to her, until he’s pressed right up against her side, a possessive arm flung across her waist and cinching tight.

He hands the envelope over to her obediently, and she doesn’t thank him, but she does lean against him, softening into his embrace. Skin to skin.

His scent surrounds her, his fringe tickles her forehead and his breathing is steady and even. Osha’s almost jealous of his calm, because suddenly, she’s apprehensive, nerves fluttering in her stomach.

It’s just an envelope. It’s everything to her.

She takes the piece of paper out, which Qimir had refolded and shoved back inside. When she unfolds it, keeping her eyes strictly focused on the top of the page and not skipping ahead, there’s a big disclaimer that mistakes are possible with the interpretation of an ultrasound, probably so they don’t get sued by unhappy parents.

And there, in the middle of the page under a printout of her baby (their baby), clear as day, a certain body part circled in red and an arrow pointing to tiny text on the side:

‘(F) Female’.

A girl.

They’re having a baby girl.

Qimir takes the paper out of her hands before it drops to the floor, because Osha claps both her hands over her mouth, curling forward over her belly.

A girl. A baby girl.

She’d dreamed of this, she’s pretty sure. Golden skin, loose dark curls, doe-like brown eyes blinking up at her, pink pouty lips.

A joy so fierce and bright blazes inside her, radiant and immense. She realises she’s whispering ‘baby, oh baby, baby’, hands overlapping on her stomach, and she doesn’t know whether she’s speaking to her daughter or to Qimir.

His face is buried firmly in her neck, shoulders shaking, chest hitching. He clutches at her like she’s the last real thing, like he can’t bear to let her go, and no.

No, no. no.

This is too much, too fast.

She’d never planned on getting this emotionally involved, but if she pushes him off now, he’ll lash out. And she can’t stand the thought of him being mean, being nasty to her now, not when she’s so vulnerable.

He’s leaving in a few hours, and God knows when he’ll be coming back.

So she rides out the waves of emotion, makes herself an anchor, crashing against her base.

Eventually, he surfaces, not-so-covertly wiping his eyes. He clears his throat, raspy when he asks her if she’s hungry.

“Yeah,” she says, equally as hoarse. “I could eat.”

They end up in Osha’s kitchen again, as he works his magic on whatever meagre ingredients are in her pantry and fridge.

He unearths a bag of frozen vegetables from her freezer and canned chicken, the latter which she didn’t even know she had. Mercifully, she also has stock cubes and some spices, but that doesn’t stop Qimir from lamenting over the state of her kitchen.

“You have to eat better, Osha,” he condescends, while swirling a glug of olive oil in a stainless steel pot. “I won’t always be there to baby you.”

She mumbles, “You won’t be there, period,” at his back, under her breath, but he somehow hears her.

“Osha,” he says very seriously, turning around and setting his hands on his hips. “This isn’t even real meat.”

Osha rolls her eyes. “Not everyone can live off their inheritance.”

“That’s not— Whatever,” he sighs and sautés the canned chicken, which smokes a bit dubiously, before adding in the frozen vegetables.

It's a reset, back to their usual sniping banter, but there's something irrevocably altered.

Osha checks her phone while he does his thing, scrolling idly through a few shopping websites, idly contemplating whether she has enough room in her budget for a new pair of trousers. The pair she has is straining at her stomach, and she’s held off from purchasing a maternity pair in case her weight fluctuates rapidly.

She has a few court cases coming up, and it’s important to look your best in front of the opposing party. She bookmarks a few tabs, promising to get back to them later, before setting her phone down.

She gets a jump scare when she finds Qimir staring straight at her, leaning against her kitchen benchtop with his arms crossed. His arms bulge in his dark t-shirt, the dying afternoon light highlighting the lines of his chest and his hulking shoulders.  

Osha scowls reflexively, skin prickling under the t-shirt dress she’d yanked on, finding it in a pile on the floor. Her feet are bare and tap against the worn wooden floor.

“What?” she asks defensively.

He shakes himself out of his trance, jerking his head. “Nothing.”

“Fine, keep your secrets.”

She goes to pick up her phone again, and he lets her, stewing in silence. She’s learned to ignore him when he gets like this. She’s not his mommy, coaxing answers out of him like he’s an emotionally constipated toddler.

When he’s ready, he’ll speak up.

But he doesn’t, and the hush falls heavy over both of them as soup bubbles softly on the burner. From the corner of her eye, she spies his motionless figure. The hair at the back of her neck rises as he scrapes his eyes over her, like he’s memorising her figure.

Osha waits and waits, and yet he doesn’t say anything.

After an indeterminate amount of time, the soup is ready.

It’s delicious. She nearly licks her bowl.

He doesn’t need to pack; he doesn’t have any luggage.

Osha very diligently does not cry when he leaves. Hell, she doesn’t even see him off at the door, watching him from her perch on the couch.

He looks back once, twice, expression blank, before leaving with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Chapter Text

Osha has a moment of acute terror the next day, when she wakes up to blood in her underwear. 

It’s seven in the morning, but she frantically calls Dr Kanata's emergency line, who asks her questions ranging from mildly probing to downright mortifying. 

"Ah," Maz says, once she's gotten to the bottom of it. "You had sex over the weekend, didn’t you?"  

Osha is twenty-six years old and five months pregnant. This query should not make her want to melt back into her couch. 

"Um, yes?" 

"And was it vigorous?"  

Was it— Jesus Christ.   

She slaps a hand on her flaming face. Yeah, it had been vigorous, alright. 

Osha clears her throat. "Ahem, yes. You could say that." 

"Then there's no need to worry!" Maz says cheerily . "A little spotting is normal. Your cervix has just been a little irritated by all the action, it's been known to happen.”  

Osha breathes out a massive sigh of relief, her baby bumping her like she’s saying, Mama, okay?  

“Just take it easy now, give your body time to, ah, adjust. "  

This... She's not planning on this being a regular occurrence. She hasn't had sex in five months and it shows, with her aching muscles and throbbing cunt. She's going to feel him for days. 

Which is likely exactly what he was banking on. He’d be so smug if she complained to him about it, but she’s going to keep her mouth shut. 

That’s not the only thing he’s left her with, though. 

She hangs up on Dr Kanata, after thanking her profusely, and goes to brush her teeth. 

When she gets in front of a mirror and looks, actually takes a proper gander at herself, she gasps and drops her toothbrush in the sink. 

Oh fuck. He’s practically mauled her. 

A line of hickeys march down her neck to her nipple, and below. When she spreads her thighs, she sees the source of some of the soreness; he’s bitten small, round mark on her inner groin area. 

She turns around, retreating a bit from the vanity mirror and—   

Yeah, her ass as well. Jesus. 

She stomps back to her room for her phone, considers her angles before snapping a few pics and sending them to Qimir, before she can even reconsider the wisdom of sending her baby daddy some intimate shots of her body. 

She is, after all, wearing nothing but a thin cami and a pair of panties. 

Oh well. 

His read receipts shows that he’s seen it almost immediately, and he lights up her phone with a call. 

Osha ignores it; she’s played this game before. 

By the time she finishes brushing her teeth and washing her face, he’s called her thrice and left two voicemails. 

The first is casual and breezy. The second is a little more desperate, showing the cracks in his composure. 

She smiles at herself, petty with satisfaction. God, he always brings out the bitch in her. 

But he likes her bitchy. 

Work starts at nine — it’s usually a late start on Mondays, everyone coming in groggy. Her section has a check-in meeting at half past ten, and the first part of day is usually spent checking emails and messaging her assistant. 

Osha still has over an hour until she needs to log on, so she takes her time. She fixes her breakfast, Greek yoghurt and honey and muesli, with a sprinkle of dehydrated berries. She also slices a banana in, then scoops up a giant spoonful and shoves it in her mouth. 

Mmm, that’s nice. 

Qimir had been kind enough to run a grocery deliver to her last minute, after inspecting every last inch of her kitchen and declaring it ‘empty as all hell’. 

He’d filled up her pantry and fridge with essentials, including her favourites, like peanut brittle, Belgian chocolates, Manchego cheese, guacamole, nacho chips, berries, microwave popcorn, chocolate chip cookies and light rye sourdough.  

He’d even graciously allowed her a packet or two of sour watermelon gummies. She’d had to beg for it a little, widen her eyes and pout her lips, but it’s worth it. 

Osha has more than enough to last her a while. She ignores the kernel of warmth that blooms in her as she looks over the bounty he’s bestowed on her. 

He’s just taking care of the mother of his child. It’s to be expected. 

She takes care of her dishes then dresses for the day: business on top, casual bottoms. In her case, it’s a flowy long-sleeved blouse and a pair of comfy leggings.  

The waistband is digging in a little, and she makes a note to look up maternity leggings, because hers are bursting at the seam.  

She grunts and shifts at her desk, angling the monitor and clicking through the log in screen. She opens Outlook, OneNote, SharePoint and waits for the notifications to come through. 

And because she’s not a total cunt, she takes pity on Qimir and sends him a message before she starts her workday: 

‘thank you for the food. I had a great breakfast.’  

God that’s so clinical. Well, too late to delete it now; he’s already seen it. 

‘I could be feeding you something else’ , he replies, and she rolls her eyes. 

Don’t even get her started. He’s the one who had to leave— 

‘If it wasn’t for this conference, I’d be on my knees right now baby.’  

Shit. 

A flush prickles over her body as Osha reads and re-reads his message. Should she reply? She wants to, but let’s go for something casual. She doesn’t have time to be sexting when she has, she checks, fifty unread emails, Jesus Christ. 

‘where’s the conference?’  

There, safe enough. 

‘Boston.’  

Holy shit, he flew back to New Orleans then straight on to Boston? Combined with their sex marathon, he must be tired as hell. 

‘It’s a nice hotel. You’d look good in this bed.’  

The audacity—! 

Then a photo of the hotel room comes through, and yeah. That’s… that is indeed very nice. 

It’s all cream and wood and gold, a large California King-size bed piled with a fluffy duvet, wine-red throw cushions and large pillows. Sunlight pours through a massive window one side of the bed, casting patterns on the window seat. His sweats are folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and there’s a half-empty water bottle on the polished wood nightstand. 

She doesn’t even tell him off for his presumptuousness. Her brain has gone a little fuzzy, which is the excuse she tells herself when she messages back, 

‘the bed looks very soft.’  

‘It is ;)’  

Winky face emoji fuck.  

Oh no. Oh no no, she’s not going down that road again. Not right now, at ten past nine on a Monday morning.  

‘keep it in your pants’, she texts back scornfully, then puts her phone on Do Not Disturb mode. 

Her day is productive, following up inquiries and arranging a few more client meetings through the firm’s pro bono program. Osha always feels better about her career choice after she does pro bono cases, like all those years of study and tearing her hair out were worth it when she sees the relief on client’s faces. That they’re not alone, that there’s someone competent and driven in their corner. 

Every once a while, she shifts in her seat and she’s abruptly reminded of Qimir.  

When her thighs rub together, when she crosses her legs, when she settles deeper in her desk chair, and when she fucking stands up and walks around, she feels him. In every movement. 

She hadn’t felt sore yesterday or the day before, being too caught up in lust and kept in a constant state of arousal by his roaming touch, his heated words. 

Osha falls into a trance intermittently, then has to physically snap herself out of it. This preoccupation is fucking with her focus immensely, but then again, she doesn’t expect to have a productive Monday on a normal day. 

Orla sends her a thank you email, updating her on her progress. She’s saved up enough money to take the kids to Disneyworld, and the court order that’s been recently instated allows her to go out of state without needing a letter from her shitty ex-partner. 

She engrosses herself in it, not checking her phone even once, because she has self-restraint. She’s not some animal, panting after Qimir, desperate for his attention. 

She keeps him desperate. 

He sends her a few texts throughout the day, ranging from ‘How’s my baby doing?’, to ‘I hope you ate lunch’, to ‘This CEO is testing my fucking patience’.  

Each time, she yearns to reply, to interact with him, but something holds her back. 

Finally, he sends her a selfie of himself in a suit, a few hours later. Her mouth drops open when she sees it; he looks like a fucking movie star.  

She has to close her eyes reflexively; his beauty shines too bright even through the screen, then angrily pries her eyes open, because he still has this effect on her. 

His hair is fluffy, like it’s been blowdried, partially slicked back with a few strands falling in front of his face, to devastating effect. One brow arched sassily, he gives her a smirk. His pink, plush mouth is quirked to the side, giving her a fantastic view of his dimple. His face is freshly shaved, the beauty marks on his face stand out in stark relief. 

He’s wearing a sleek grey melange suit with a crisp white shirt and a herringbone-patterned tie. It’s clearly corporate, geared towards showcasing his professionalism, but the fit is absolutely indecent. It emphasises his strong shoulders and biceps, without clinging, just hinting at the strength that lies underneath.  

He’s holding up his phone with his right hand, his left ruffling his hair and it’s there that she sees it: the silver ring on this thumb. Her ring. 

He clearly photographed himself in his hotel bathroom, because his products are neatly lined up on the sink, along with his electric shaver.  

Impulsively, she wants to tell him to take it all off, wear a fucking potato sack instead. She throttles the urge, fingers hovering over the keyboard, leaned back in her desk chair. Her stomach isn’t big enough for propping things up yet, but it does provide a great rest for her hands. 

It’s only half past four, almost the end of her work day, but clearly Qimir is getting gussied up to go somewhere special. And he’s baiting her, by sending her this photo.  

He wants her to ask where he’s going, why he’s dressed up like that. Sure, he’s at a conference, but he’s looking extra nice.  

Still playing his games, even after all this time. She won’t give him the satisfaction.  

So, she leaves him on read. His ploy for attention has failed. 

Osha wraps up her work, sends a few more emails and RSVPs to the Social Club brunch on Thursday. It’s a change from her usual schedule, but she wants to shake it up a little, get out of her comfort zone. 

Six PM hits and she closes off her programs, sends a cheery goodbye in the group chat on Teams and follows it up with a semi-threatening message to Maya to sign off for the day.  

Whatever’s not deadly-urgent can wait. 

She stretches her fingers and wrists, rotates them, then pulls her arms straight above her head, lengthening her back until her tailbone pops.  

Fuck, that feels good. 

Osha lets out a happy sigh, standing up and taking a lap around her apartment, bringing some circulation back into her legs. 

Her stomach grumbles, ravenously hungry. She’s been told, by various people at the office, to take gratuitous advantage of the opportunity to ‘eat for two’. 

She’d had guacamole and nachos for lunch, crunching down in between preparing documents for a deposition, ensuring that the questions and answers are airtight. Her client has a tendency to ramble, so she’ll have to coach them on responding to the inquiry posed to them, and only the inquiry. No offering up any addition information. 

So, for dinner, she’ll be having… leftovers from yesterday. Yes, the soup with the canned chicken of dubious provenance. It’d been tasty, who cares? 

She re-heats it in a pot instead of the microwave, recalling the way Qimir had made a face all those years ago when she’d suggested putting his precious Samgyetang in the microwave. 

A cardinal sin, in his opinion. 

He’d cooked a lot for her, over the years. It had been something she’d appreciated about him, a green flag in a forest of red.  

The soup is stirred as she idly reminisces about the Lasagne he’d made one time for her birthday, the Christmas Salmon, and very memorably one year, a whole Beef Wellington. He’d loved showing off, the positive attention he’d get from Sol, and the heated looks from her, black apron tied around his trim waist, sleeved rolled up to his elbows. 

The soup sizzles, a burned smell reaching her nose and she hisses, taking it off the heat. Only a few vegetables at the bottom were singed, so it’s salvageable. Thank God. 

Thoughts about Qimir are the ultimate time-waster truly. She can’t get him off her mind, even fucking soup reminds her of him. 

It’s better one day later. She makes an inarticulate noise as the flavours mingle on her tongue, the smokiness from the burned bits adding an extra flavour profile. He’s spoiled her with a taste of his cooking, and now she wants more. 

When he comes back ( if he comes back), maybe she can get him to batch cook for her? She’s no slouch in the kitchen (see: Christmas Lunch), but she’s just so fucking fatigued nowadays. She prefers quick and easy meals that she can prep without much planning or effort.  

Takeout gets ordered more frequently than is wise for her bank account, all due to the convenience. 

Osha lets herself entertain, just for a brief moment, the possibility of having Qimir here, as a live-in chef, masseuse, sexual partn— 

Alright. That’s enough, now. 

She clenches her teeth against a pulse of arousal, core clenching as she rinses her dishes in the sink, balancing the pot in the drying rack.  

It’s been a long, long day. She just needs to relax, ease into her evening routine. 

She changes into a loungewear set, just a waffle long-sleeved top and loose pants, which clings to her growing curves. It also tests the bounds of comfortability by digging into her stomach. She wedges the waistband under her belly, as a temporary solution, and she really needs to buy more clothes at some point. 

After making herself some peppermint tea, Osha settles on her couch to read a bit of Ali Hazelwood. She’s excited to crack the spine of a new novel, as highly recommended as it is by her Goodreads friends, but there’s just one issue. 

Deep End is horny. Like, really, really horny. 

By virtue of being a lawyer, Osha is a fast reader; she zooms through the chapters until she reaches a point where she can’t venture any further, only because of how turned on she is. 

Jesus, this is inconvenient. She rubs her belly, bub dancing up a storm inside there, as she snaps the book shut with a grumble. 

She sets it on her coffee table gently. It’s not Ali’s fault she’s horned up. It’s her own damned hormones fucking things up for her. 

She keeps getting flashbacks, insanely vivid sound-taste-sensations dancing over her skin, shooting heat through her cheeks, her breath catching at each instance.  

The way his chest felt, behind her, muscled and damp with perspiration. How he’d sounded in the throes of orgasm, throaty and raspy. The salt of his skin on her tongue. The molten-hot euphoria flooding through her, as he’d brought her to the brink time and time again. 

Osha stands up, face flaming, needing a drink of water. Lord, she’s thirsty.  

Her water bottle is nowhere to be found, so she takes a cup from the drainer and fills it up with tepid water, gulping it down. 

She drinks at least three cups before she feels sufficiently hydrated. She taps some water on her face and cheeks, in an attempt to cool down further. 

Her pulse still pounds between her legs, however. And there’s a little chime as her Do Not Disturb mode disengages, and notifications come flooding in. 

Time to face the music. 

She picks it up gingerly, abandoned on her desk, like it might rear back and bite her. She unlocks the phone using her thumbprint and winces at the unread messages from Mae. 

In her attempt to minimise contact with Qimir, she’d also unintentionally cut off Mae. 

She responds to a few of her inquiries about Osha’s wellbeing, telling her that she’s somehow getting through the day, her weekend was utterly boring (guilt, guilt), the most exciting thing about this week will be the free food on Thursday. 

And from Qimir… 

‘Talk to me, baby.’  

It’s plaintive, tone despondent. She’s ignored him all day, left him hanging. The guilt doubles in her, that she’s left him wanting, but is washed away by a surge of righteous indignation.  

He’d been the one to go, claiming he needed to attend this all-important conference, instead of… 

Instead of what, Osha? You’d let him stay?  

She… she might have. If he’d asked… 

But no, it’s still too new, too raw. She might have asked him to get a hotel room. Having her in her space is too intimate. 

Look at her, talking about ‘intimate’ like he hasn’t been balls-deep in her for half the weekend. Christ. 

Thinking about him now, the way she hadn’t let herself during the day, she’s overcome by a wave of longing. 

She wanders from her desk to her bed, perching on the edge. 

Would it be so terrible, if she wanted to see him, if only for a few moments? He’s probably busy. If she calls him, she’ll hang up after three rings if he doesn’t answer.  

Osha navigates to his contact, still without a photo all these years later. Maybe she should change that, if she gets the chance. 

Her finger doesn’t slip, but she doesn’t mean to FaceTime him either. That’s what she tells herself. 

He picks up almost immediately. Like he’s been waiting for her. 

“Well,” he drawls, bringing the phone up and angling his chin, aiming to impart maximum psychic damage with his stupidly pretty face. His hair is mussed, falling flatly into his face. His golden skin is as perfect as ever, dotted with beauty marks, the most prominent of which is on his forehead.  

“Look who decided to be generous.”  

There’s a bit of bite to his tone, but Osha’s not the one who decided to leave. 

(This time.) 

“Sorry,” she shrugs casually, not really meaning it at all. 

“Liar,” Qimir chuckles, trapping his tongue between his unfairly straight teeth. Osha’s pretty sure that her baby is sucking all the nutrients out of her, thus has had to deal with brittle teeth lately. Pregnancy sucks.  

“Look who’s talking,” Osha tosses her head, locs cascading over her shoulder. “Pot, kettle.” 

“Like you said, an omission is not a lie.”  

“Semantics,” she scrunches her nose up at him, easing into the back and forth banter. “Show me what you’re wearing.” 

He raises a brow, a trick which she mirrors, but obediently flips his camera, showing his outfit. He’s clad in black silk pyjamas, which is just typical of him.  

“Your turn, baby.”  

She holds up a finger. “One moment.” 

Osha lays back on the bed and wiggles up. It’s slow going, with her belly in the way, but she manages to curl up on her side, pregnancy pillow wedged under her belly, and hand holding her phone close to her face. 

“There,” she breathes, then fiddles with the camera setting so she can show him what she’s wearing. 

The hem of her top had ridden up during her struggles, so she shows him her bare belly, the waistband of her pants tucked under and strained from the stretch. 

“Beautiful,” Qimir praises, and a flush winds its way through Osha’s body, sizzling in her blood. “Now, take it off.”  

He’s firm, commanding, and she wants to obey immediately, heartbeat thrumming in her core, but she holds back. 

“You first,” she replies, coy.  

With a rustle, he sets down the phone and she can see the faint shadows on the ceiling from the lamp as he shucks off his bottoms. Of course, he wasn’t wearing a shirt. How preposterous of her to think that he could remain decently clothed for a second longer than is considered acceptable. 

Her mouth waters at the sight of his dick, thick and hard in his boxer briefs. The shape of it is prominent, and she could almost trace the crown of his cock through the black fabric. It’d twitch under her touch, always so responsive for her. 

She bites her lip, shifting on the bed. She’s sweating already. 

“Time to hold up your end, doll,” Qimir husks, and she complies. Almost too eagerly, she tears her top over her head, tits bouncing as she brings her arms down. She’d neglected to put a bra back on after work, because her nipples are aching.  

Longing to be touched, to be fondled and licked… 

They tighten as Qimir groans, expressing his appreciation for her naked torso. She holds the phone one-handed, giving him a great view of her breasts, as the other hand works at shimmying her pants down. 

Then she’s bare, except for her plain pink cotton underwear. Nothing to write home about, except Qimir must find it arousing, because he squeezes his dick through his underwear. 

Osha knows that if she lowers her fingers to the gusset of her underwear, she’ll find it completely soaked through. She’s been on edge on day. 

She didn’t call him up with the intention of getting down and dirty, but of course, he talks her into phone sex with him. 

The way to Osha's pussy is through her ego, and Qimir strokes it relentlessly. 

“You're so sexy,” he groans . “Let me see that pretty pussy, baby.”  

Osha finally gives in, sliding her index finger into her panties. She hiccups as she strokes through the wet mess, glances her swollen and puffy clit. 

“Come on,” he begs her, aching for a look. Her stomach is in the way. 

“Oh, fine, you big baby,” she chides breathlessly, spreading her legs wide until she can get a good angle. Then she uses one hand to draw her panties to the side, showing him her slick, glistening cunt. 

“Jesus fuck,” he curses, sounding tortured.  

“Your turn,” she whines, because it’s not fair that he’s making demands of her. 

“Shh, I’ve got you, baby.”  

And then his cock is springing up, the tip purple and angry, veins prominent, bobbing on his stomach. Her tongue snakes out to lick at her lips, involuntarily.  

“Good enough?” he taunts, fisting a hand around his length and stroking down. He must have gotten lube from somewhere, because his shaft is shining with moisture. 

“Mm, yeah,” she mumbles, slipping her middle finger inside. It’s barely any stretch, and she misses the thickness of his fingers, the way he’s scissor her open, preparing her for his girth. 

“I need,” she pants, sliding a second finger in, then whimpers when it’s just not enough. “More.” 

“Get your vibrator, doll. The one from before.”  

Of course she knows which vibrator it is; she’s not exactly a sex toy collector. She only has that vibrating dildo, a ‘realistic’ dildo and a teardrop shaped vibrator. She should probably expand her collection, she muses, switching hands so she can grope in her bedside table.  

Smooth silicone meets the pads of her fingers, a familiar shape, and she grins in victory.  

“Fuck yes,” she cheers as she draws it out of the drawer. She switches it on, just to make sure it has charge, and yep. She bought this brand for a reason, and one of them is its incredibly long battery life. Nothing worse than a toy dying in the middle of a play session. 

“Get it wet for me,” Qimir demands, and she knows he means her pussy, but she’s feeling a little naughty. 

She holds the vibrator up to her lips and switches the camera view. He groans when he sees her lips inches away from the curved tip. Osha gives it a little kiss, a flutter of her lips, and his fist squelches down his cock. 

Her tongue flirts with the head of the vibrator, drawing circles, and she winks before she tries to deepthroat it. 

Well, key word being, tries.  

Because she gags like an idiot, tears springing to her eyes, and fuck. This is the worst part about pregnancy (in her humble opinion): the heightened gag reflex. 

“Shit baby, so fucking hot.”  

Qimir has no issues finding it arousing, so she elects to stick to tonguing the length of the dildo, only sucking on the tip a little bit, bobbing her head for show. 

“You’re going to make me blow,” he grunts, and she eases off. Enough of that, she’s aching to have something inside her. 

Qimir loves nothing more than looking at her face when the tip slides in, so she keeps the camera fixed on her expression as she thumbs the vibrator on. 

It buzzes in her hands, the vibrations soft but powerful, and she only teases her lower lips a few times before she slides in it. 

Her mouth drops open, eyelids drooping, a rush of air punched out of her lungs.  

God, that’s fucking good. 

Even at the lowest setting, the sensation in incredible. The ridges caress her G-spot as she grinds her hips, and she swears she sees stars. 

“Give me a look, baby. I want to see that soaked cunt, so wet for me.”  

Osha obliges, gladly, switching her view on the camera until he can see the way the vibrator glides out of her, slick with her juices. 

"Fuck," he says empathetically. 

"Yeah," she mewls. 

"Turn it up a notch."  

"But—" 

She never uses the higher setting. 

"Do it, doll."  

She follows the command in his tone, blindly searches for the little bump at the base and presses it, keening when the buzzing intensifies. 

"Good girl," he rasps, and she shivers all over, cunt pulsing, nipples tightening, a flush sweeping through her body from the roots of her hair to the tips of her curling toes. 

Her grip falters, unable to thrust any longer, so she just shoves the vibrator as deep as it can go and grinds her hips. 

"That's right, baby," he encourages her. "Work those hips, fuck yourself on it."  

"Fuck," she moans out, "fuck, ah, fuck me, God, please—" 

"You're doing so well," his voice drags over her skin, manifesting as a wave of goosebumps. "Come on, doll, come for me. Do it for me, do it for—"  

'Daddy,' she wants to whine, but bites it back, because she's not that far fucking gone, except she is, because the thought of calling him daddy makes her crest, makes euphoria burn bright and hot, a wave of bliss searing through her, exploding from her core and tearing through her. 

She moans, long and low, her cunt pulsing around the vibrator still humming in her, drawing out her orgasm as her hips jerk. 

"Fuck," she sighs happily, riding her peak, soaking in the pleasure. She traces her finger over her sensitive clit, reorienting her attention back to the screen, where— 

Oh fuck, he's fucking his fist. 

Her pussy spasms, wanting to go another round. She watches, transfixed, as his hips shove up, his cock disappearing in his fist, the wet tip, weeping pre-cum. 

Fuck, she wants it in her mouth. She misses sucking his bob, tonguing the head, taking him in deep and gagging around him. Staring up at his dazed face, his pink mouth dropped open in ecstasy, tendons in his golden neck straining, head thrown back. 

"God," she groans, and hears him echo her. 

Well, time to get her lick back. 

"Imagine me stroking you," she murmurs, and Qimir curses, hand stuttering as his cock twitches.  

"Shit. Shit."  

"Yeah, baby," she eggs him on. "I want to suck you off so bad, fuck." 

"Osha," he sounds so strained. She smirks, bearing down on the vibrator, letting out a quiet sound when it hits her just right. 

"Mm, that's right, say my name, fuck." 

She lazily circles the base with two of her fingers, nudging it against that spot deep inside her, holding it there.  

His hand speeds up, slick sounds of his fist, his hips thrusting up, and she guides him through it. "Imagine," she presses the rabbit attachment to her clit, almost yelps at the powerful shockwave that sizzles through her, "Imagine my mouth on you, you taste so fucking good. Choke me on your cock, baby. I want to feel it. It gets me so wet." 

"Osha, fuck, fuck—"  

"I'm playing with my pussy while you fuck my face," she lets go of restraint and moans fully, unabashedly, actively chasing another climax now. "Fuck me, fuck me, come in me, come in my mouth, do it—" 

"Jesus— Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck," he sighs, squeezing the tip of his cock as his hips still, his shaft jerks almost violently as he comes all over his hand, so much that it drips down to the base, trickling in between his fingers. 

She tightens around the girth inside her and swipes back and forth across her clit, adding pressure with her thumb. 

"Come on," she murmurs, feeling it so close. "Come on, fuck, fuck—" 

It breaks over her again, a full bloody flush precipitating the full body spasms, the surging bliss, her cunt clenching and pulsing in waves around the vibrator, her entire world shaking, tilted on its axis. 

She pants as she comes down, shivering from the rush. She prods the throw blanket folded at the foot of her bed with her leg, nudges it up until she can drape it over her, cocooning herself. 

The view of Qimir’s camera is still fixed on his hand, the cum streaked over his fingers and his stomach. He pants softly, just as wrung out. 

She wants to lick his palm, clean up the mess he's made, but she's hit with a wave of fatigue. 

“That was nice,” she slurs, a little loopily. “We should do it again.” 

“You can count on it. Not going to miss a chance to hear you like that again.”  

So, then, when are you coming back?  

Osha bites down the question that aches to make itself heard, burrowing further into bed. She should get up and put some clothes on, Then she needs to wrap her locs and do her night time skincare routine. 

But she’s tired, and she’s sated and happy. Qimir’s voice rumbles in her ear, saying something or another that she’s too fuzzy to parse out. 

“G’night,” she hums, closing her eyes. Her phone falls from her slack hands. 

She doesn’t see the look of fondness on his face, the rare glimpse of softness.  

“Sleep well, baby.”  

The next two days, Osha spends in regular contact with Qimir. She’s still waiting for the other shoe to fall, bracing for impact. Like a hurricane, he’s yet to make landfall. 

He updates her on his movements, what he’s having for breakfast, what he’s wearing, when he flosses his fucking teeth. 

It’s a little much, after months of no contact. And even before, when they’d been fucking during their college years, they hadn’t texted this much. 

She finds that he’s incredibly lame; not that she didn’t know before, but he sends her stupid cat videos and incomprehensible memes. What the fuck is stonks ?  

She’s not Gen Z enough for this, but it seems like Qimir is chronically online. He even has a goddamn Letterboxd account. 

‘What do you even do for work?’ she messages one day, incredulous, when he sends her the umpteenth TikTok video. She doesn’t even have the app downloaded. 

(To his credit, they mostly consist of food content, which is a special interest of hers, given how much of her favourite foods are on the banned list during pregnancy.) 

‘Make money’, he replies, with a selfie of him in glasses and a baseball cap, throwing up a peace sign. He’s dressed in a thick grey crew-neck t-shirt, so this must have been taken on one of his morning runs.  

His jaw is unfairly square and his facial fuzz is thick, which does things to her stomach, swooping and sinking simultaneously. 

It’s really unfair, is the thing, how he can act like he’s done no wrong. Deploying that same charm on her, easy and casual and intimate. The worst thing is it’s working. 

She succumbs and FaceTimes him on Tuesday and Wednesday night too, and they end predictably: Qimir dripping filth in her ear while Osha pants and sobs like a bitch in heat, crying out for his cock, alternating between fucking herself on her vibrator and her dildo until she goes out in a blaze of glory.  

Sometimes, Qimir comes before her, groaning and panting her name. Other times, he likes to stretch out his pleasure and watch her orgasm first, before he touches himself. 

Osha pushes him out of her mind on Thursday, warning him that she’s going to be attending a very important meeting today, and that she doesn’t want to be disturbed. 

That ‘important meeting’ is just brunch with the senior ladies at the firm, which is really just an excuse for the Social Club to get drunk and pig out at Chicago's premier daytime dining location.  

The choice of restaurant rotates on a regular basis, drawn from a curated list devised by the admin staff. It’s supposedly open to everyone, but anyone with a brain truly knows that it’s a meeting place for the female senior staff, most of whom have either raised or are actively raising children. 

And now Osha has an in, thanks to baby. 

No one would ever complain about discrimination, due to the fact that this firm was founded by women, with the philosophy that family law should be equitable and accessible.  

Osha has never really attended before, but there's a first time for everything. She'd thought this would be a boring older women club, a bitching circle with thinly-veiled power plays, but she'd misjudged her colleagues. 

It's a networking opportunity. And for Osha, who's going to be out of commission for a while after giving birth, she desperately needs to make connections.  

They congregate in the lobby and walk to their chosen destination, which is just two blocks away, thank god. It’s a sunny day, lovely weather to be out and about. Osha soaks it in as she chats idly with the women she does know inquiring about plans for the weekend, what they did for Easter, how their children are doing. 

The rooftop restaurant is impressive, showcasing gorgeous views of sunny Chicago, and somehow, Chef Terence is charmed into allowing them to eat off the brunch menu, though that’s usually just reserved for the weekend. 

They arrange themselves around the wooden table, which is really several smaller tables joined together, parasol arching over them and protecting them from the worst of the sun’s rays. A few ladies still choose to don their sunglasses, rather than squinting. 

Eedy is conspicuously absent, thank god. Fennec doesn’t usually attend, an ally down. However, Hera is here and she’s perfectly lovely. Morgan, who’s Fennec’s boss, is also present, her grey hair combed back and braided in her signature look. She holds court at the table, eyes sharp behind her round glasses. 

Osha orders the Steak and Eggs, because she’s absolutely famished and no one can really fault her. She’s outfitted in a flouncy wrap dress, which strains the bounds of the waist tie, but it emphasises her bump. She wants it to be prominent today, to invite sympathy. 

She ingratiates herself, turns on the charm. What are these ladies looking for? 

Relatability, humility. Do not mention the fact that you're unattached and separated from your baby daddy. Make allusions to a high school love, a rekindled romance. Sell the lie, look at your ring finger wistfully. 

They respond beautifully, cooing over her, asking if she knows the gender, so very exciting. 

Oh, what a glowing mom-to-be! They didn’t know she had a husband— No? A partner, then. Oh yes, what’s he like? 

Osha lies through her teeth while waiting for her food, because it’ll all be worth it.  

“What does he look like?” an eager Runai Skuldun asks, dyed-brown hair teased beehive-high. She sips at her sparkling wine. 

Well, then. Twist her arm, why don’t you? 

Osha doesn’t have any photos of herself with Qimir, because of obvious reasons. Namely, keeping them a secret, and also the fact that they’d hardly had time to snap selfies while fucking the weekend away. 

Luckily, she has an identical twin who did take copious selfies with her beau (ugh, ugh), and she’s enough of a freak to have those photos saved in a separate album on her phone. 

She knows exactly what photo she needs to show them. It’s the one of Mae winking at the camera, Qimir smiling angelically next to her, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She’d seethed at her phone when Mae had posted the picture to her Instagram in a photo dump, but now she’s grateful for it. 

Osha brings up the picture, rotating her phone and sliding it over to Morgan. As the most senior lawyer, she gets first dibs. There’s a rush of craning heads as everyone tries to take a look, pushing drinks aside to come closer. 

"Oh my," one woman says, hushed, bringing her hand to cover her mouth. Eyes wide. A susurrus of whispers and hushed exclamations. 

“So handsome...” 

Yeah. She knows. It’s like a bullet to the chest, that beauty. A shot to the heart. 

There’s a reason he’s been able to get away with everything he’s done; when you see that face, you just want to forgive him, because surely, it wasn’t that bad. Right? 

Ms Elsbeth arches a brow, coldly imperious and inquiring. “Is he... ?” 

Osha knows what she’s about to ask, and answers her pre-emptively. “Yes, he’s Filipino.” 

A few satisfied clicks of the tongue, and Morgan even deigns to give her the smallest twist of her lips. There’s nothing that gets a Filipino more excited than the mention of one of their own. 

“Of course,” Osha continues, “he never really grew up in the culture, and I don’t think he’s really had any Filipino cuisine either. I was going to take him to Kasama the next time he’s here—“ 

“He doesn’t live with you?” 

Fuck. She’s divulged too much. 

A few furrowing brows, the tide turning against her. Osha claws it back, smiling brightly and tightly, clarifying, “He travels a lot for work.” 

“Right.” 

Morgan gives a curt nod, and that’s all Osha needs to be warmly welcomed into their embrace. 

Their food finally, finally arrives, and Osha tucks into her Steak and Eggs with restrained relish, ensuring her table manners are on point even as she yearns to tear into her meal. She makes quick work of the dish, dabbing her mouth delicately with the napkin when she’s done. She folds it neatly into a square on the place, then sips her orange juice. 

All around her, the women continue eating, clearly not as ravenous as her. Most of them have elected for something light, like avocado on toast, and a few of them are even having Chicken Caesar Salad. Most of them are drinking freely, alcohol bought and paid for by generous Social Club funds. 

She strikes up a conversation with Hera, who chats with her about her own experience of motherhood and balancing a career.  

“Life changes, irrevocably, after a child. I’m sure you’re missing out on a lot of things—" 

Osha looks longingly at the mimosas that some of the Social Club members are sipping at. God, what she wouldn't give...  

“—But what do you think you're going to miss most, post-motherhood?" 

Gosh, what a question. it’s not something she’s really, really sat down and thought about because the enormity of motherhood frankly terrifies her, more than a little. She doesn’t really have anyone to go to for advice. 

"The club," Osha throws out, half-joking and half-serious. It’s not the time to get deep here. 

Hera laughs, charmed by her response. “That’s one thing that won’t be on your schedule for a good few years.” 

Osha knows there’s no going back for her, there. Society despises a mother having fun, and the club will be off-limits to her for years, if not forever.  

She’s never been a party girl, but she did have her moments, and there was nothing more freeing than losing herself in a sea of strangers, sweating out to the music. Since COVID and all the restrictions, the clubbing scene has never really recovered. The last time she can recall going to the club and really enjoying herself... 

Was with Qimir. Of course, it all goes back to him. 

Osha broods as some of the other women in the office detail their stories about things they miss pre-motherhood, not that they'd take it back for anything, oh no, being a mother is an utter delight .... 

She'd been, what, twenty? Twenty one? Somewhere around there. No, definitely twenty one, because she hadn't needed a fake ID.  

She'd escaped to Seattle for a night out, telling Sol that she was meeting up with Tasi for an orchestra performance and getting a hotel room for the night. He'd waved her off and told her to stay safe. Qimir had offered to drive her, such a good brother.  

Instead, she'd absconded with him and her overnight bag to a hotel, where she'd proceeded to don the sluttiest, skimpiest black dress, Qimir groping her the entire time she’d painted on her make-up. He’d tried tempting her into a quickie, hand sneaking into her g-string, but she’d been adamant. 

“You said,” she’d pouted, “you’d show me the city. Put your money where your mouth is.” 

God, what a time that had been. Throwing back shots like she didn't have a liver to worry about, dirty dancing with Qimir with no regard to who was watching. Then back to the hotel, getting fucked against the full-length windows, loose and sloppy, exertion leaving a sweaty outline of her figure in the glass.  

She'd riled him up by flirting with the handsome bartender, and he’d gotten her back for it by pounding her so hard, she’d seen stars. He’d called her a ‘little slut’, she’d retorted that he loves it, and— 

Right, she’s cutting her memories off right there. 

“What advice do you have for me, then?” she asks Hera, who takes a sip of her glass. 

“Enjoy the moment. Every second is one that you won’t get back. It’s called the present for a reason.” 

The first round of packages come for her on Friday, almost a week after he’d turned up on her doorstep and insinuated himself back into her life. 

He remains quiet the whole morning, aside from a ‘Good morning’ text that she’d thumbs up reacted to, so she’s a little on edge, thinking that he’s cooking something up. 

Still, she’s not expecting this.  

Jyn Erso knocks on her door around ten, usually when deliveries are made by the postman.  

Osha’s on a first-name basis with Jyn, having used her investigatory services a time or two when a client had been a bit cagey about details, so she recognises the sound of her voice when she asks if Osha’s at home. 

They usually don’t bother with texting, when it comes to simple things like this, being only a floor apart. Osha heaves herself up from her desk chair and walks, a little ungainly, to her door, throwing it wide open. 

“Hi— Whoa !” 

Osha is taken aback by the mountain of packages and boxes in Jyn’s arms, obscuring her face. “Jeez, you should let me—” 

“Not a chance,” Jyn wobbles forward, not allowing her to take a single parcel off her hands, setting it down on the floor near Osha’s shoe shelf. 

She stands upright, dusting her hands off and smirking at Osha, her blue-grey eyes twinkling. “Never say I don’t do anything for you, Aniseya.” 

“It’s ‘Osha’, Jyn.” 

“Bah,” she swats Osha’s correction away, setting her hands on her hips. She’s dressed in a set of grey workout clothes; she probably caught sight of the mailman struggling on the way out. “Lots of packages, been online shopping recently?” 

“Sadly, no.” 

Osha peers at the pile, balanced precariously on top of each other, gingerly picking up the flat package at the top. 

She hasn’t ordered anything in months. Surely, this must be a mis—  

Oh, yep that’s her address. And her name as well. Her full name. 

How…? 

Her phone chimes. Osha picks it up, seeing the message preview on her homescreen. It’s from Qimir, and it reads: 

‘Surprise.’  

And then she realises why Qimir has been silent all morning. He’s been waiting for the deliveries to be made. He hadn’t mentioned a single thing to her, likely wanting to keep it a surprise, because he loves eliciting reactions out of her. 

He’d probably been watching the delivery progress updates and giggling at his phone, the freak. 

A flush steals from her cheeks down to her chest, and she’s glad for her darker skin, if only to disguise how out of sorts she feels. 

“Well,” Jyn’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead and she wears a look of sly interest on her face. “I knew there was a reason for all that noise.” 

All that— “Oh Jesus, God,” Osha covers her face in shame. She’s so, so fucking mortified right now, fuck these thin walls. 

“I’m sorry,” she wheezes. “I’m really, really sorry.” 

Jyn waves a hand, smile growing. “It’s nothing, you’ve heard worse from Cassian and I. God knows…” she trails off, eye glazed, likely lost in her own recollections, then snaps out of it. 

Unlike Osha, when Jyn blushes, it stains her cheeks a pretty and prominent pink. She pats the top of the mountainous pile.  

“Enjoy your parcels! I’m off!.” 

Osha stares in space as Jyn makes her exit, briefly contemplating drowning herself out of humiliation.  

Baby takes a flying kickroll in her stomach and Osha winces, straightening up. It seems like the movements are becoming more varied day by day, as bub moves her limbs and explores the space that she's in. Sometimes, she swears she can feel a little foot on her bladder, or a knee in her ribs. She's always a little out of breath, her heart and lungs working overtime to supply them both with blood and oxygen. 

It aweful and awful, the way her body has changed to accommodate this baby, the changes its going through. It's out of her control, and all she can do is trust in modern medicine and her faith in her OB-GYN, that she won't steer Osha wrong. 

And also in herself, because she's going to be a mother. Hopefully. 

She jerks herself out of her musings and focuses on the now. Where was she? 

Oh, right. The packages.  

She takes the top box in hand, and pulls it off the pile. It takes a little bit of scrabbling to find her X-Acto knife, because pregnancy is doing a number on her memory. The brain fog is like no other. 

She powers through and locates it in the tool box she’d completely forgotten about, stashed in a linen closet in her tiny hallway. 

She draws a line through the tape securing the box, and open it up to find… 

Lingerie. 

Osha blinks, taken aback. What the fuck? 

She takes a closer look at the tags, sifting through the pile of tissue paper. He’s gotten her bra size correct, and her panty size as well. How, and when? 

Oh. Yes. She has a twin with the exact measurements as her, Well, maybe not ‘exact’ anymore, owing to her tits kind of expanding due to pregnancy. 

And these aren’t just any normal bras and panties, oh no, they’re maternity wear. He’s somehow managed to pick out the sexiest nursing bras, black lace and pink satin with bows and beige frills. Some with soft cups, some unlined, varying from t-shirt bras to bralettes and crop bras.  

These aren’t cheap bras, mostly ordered from Nordstrom. She hesitates to look at the tag, and her eyes blow out wide when she sees the cost. God, there must be like at least five hundred dollars of lingerie in this box. 

Perturbed, she opens the next box, one that’s much larger and heftier. Osha opens it right there on the floor, kneeling in her loose t-shirt dress and house socks.  

A bit of knifework and tabs popped and she has it open, revealing an embarrassment of riches. Clothes of all colours, cuts and styles, neatly folded and tagged.  

Silk, cashmere, satin, cotton, linen, bamboo, viscose, chiffon, wool, denim tweed. Blouses, trousers, dresses of different lengths, both sleeveless and not, sweaters, cardigans, blazers with matching vests and skirts, jeans, shorts, leggings, t-shirts, jumpsuits, camisoles, skimpy matching pyjamas, nightdresses, lingerie, hosiery. 

She opens another package, and another, and another, taking it all out and folding it in neat little piles. By the end of it, half her living room floor is covered in clothes. 

She runs her eyes over the items. These are all things that she's had sitting in her browser tabs for months, things that she's salivated over but hesitated buying. Everything needed for her to look professional, poised and put together at work, and living in utter comfort outside of it. All without her having to spend even a dollar. 

Did he see her online shopping on Sunday? Did he look over her shoulder while she was distracted and see her looking at trousers and over-the-stomach panties and blazers? 

But that’s not all he’s purchased for her. There’s also bellybands, two of them. One to go over her bump and one underneath, both to support her back and her stomach, relieve the pressure and ease any strain.  

They came in the same package with other maternity care products: several sachets of scented Epsom salts, tub of belly butter, a bottle of belly massage oil, a box of pregnancy tea (her brows raise at that, what the hell is pregnancy tea?), a copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting (Sixth Edition) and a black eye mask, embroidered with ‘FUCK OFF’. 

Osha laughs at that, a little hysterical, a little teary. He knows her so well. That’s exactly the kind of thing she’d don with all sincerity. 

She strokes the black silk, the white stitching soft against her fingers. Had he gotten this custom made or is it off the shelf? There must be a market for profanity-laden eye masks, especially for sleep-deprived mothers.  

She considers putting it on and snapping a photo, throwing the bird for good measure, but holds off, because there’s one last unopened box, somewhere in the mess of packing tape and cardboard. 

She shakes it, hears a rattle inside. Ooh, this is something more solid. She can’t wait to open it, giddy like a kid on Christmas day. 

Nestled inside layers of foam peanuts, bubble wrap and delicate tissue paper is a bottle of $600 perfume. Maison Francis Kurkdjian , the same fragrance she’d almost tripped over herself in her haste to escape at the department store, a few months ago. 

Jesus, this guy is going over the top. 

And not only that, but he bought this expensive ass perfume so she can, she checks the handwritten note in the box, spray it on her sheets to remember him by. Christ. 

He’s ridiculous. He’s insane. He’s so… 

Fuck, there’s thousands of dollars here, that he just spent on her on a whim.  

It’s hard to ignore the bloom of warmth in her chest, the corresponding smile on her face, the slight heat in her cheeks. 

It’s intoxicating, to a girl who went years without anything considered luxury, or even new, used to hand-me-downs and thrift buys.  

Her first taste of abundance had been with Sol, and now Qimir is spoiling her like she doesn't have money to buy all this shit herself. 

Well, she does, but she doesn't spend it on herself; too cautious of bills and emergency expenses and considering what might happen to her when she goes on leave to spare a few hundred dollars for expensive maternity wear. 

And how he’s given her a new wardrobe. Workwear, loungewear, going out clothes, lingerie, sleepwear. Anything she could possibly need during this time. 

It’s hard to reckon with, and twin urges war inside her: to call him up, ask him who the hell he is to send her all of this, or to sob down the line in appreciation, because she’s so overwhelmed and thankful.  

He's asserting his influence again. Exerting control of her life, how she dresses, how she looks. But there’s no material gain to him, really. 

Maybe he’s doing this because he wants to. Maybe he thinks she deserves it, to be pampered and spoiled and taken care of. 

Osha sits back on her heels, putting a hand to her forehead, feeling the knot of emotion twist in on itself in her chest, rising up her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut against the moisture there, the prickling of her sinuses.  

He always gets her so fucked up. 

Her phone chimes with another message. It’s from Qimir but she also has an urgent email from Maya, forwarded from her work inbox, letting her know about another crisis. One of her clients just got served divorce papers in California, while on a family trip back home.  

Fuck. 

She shoots off a quick reply to his question of whether she likes his surprise with, ‘not bad for a first attempt’. 

Yeah, she’s still playing coy. Can you blame her? He has a lot to make up for. Qimir can work for it a little. Osha knows he loves the challenge. 

She doesn’t check her notifications again for a few hours, but trepidation builds in her when she sees that he’s just sent a winky face back.  

Later that day, she contemplates an everything shower. 

No, she’s not doing it for Qimir. It’s just been a week since she washed her hair, and her body could do with some nice exfoliating and yeah, if she shaves her legs as well, what of it? 

But shaving her bikini line… 

That signals intent. A blatant message to whoever sees it, I’m down to fuck. 

Well, not like he hasn’t been looking at her cunt all week, when she’s fucking herself raw on various sex toys, but he’s a little preoccupied then.  

Also, not like she won’t be fucking him soon after he walks through the door, but that’s considering he turns up again at all. 

He’s been a little quiet today. She’d thought it was just because he’d been trying to be sneaky about the deliveries, but his replies have been sporadic today, though he’s still sent her three TikTok videos about Sinners, New York cheesecake and fine dining in Kyoto. 

It’s fine. It’s okay. It’s not like she’s expecting his messages. It’s not like she’s been looking forward to them, or anything. 

It's just that it seems a little bit colder, a little bit more lonely when she doesn’t have his ceaseless commentary lighting up her phone. Even Mae hasn’t seen her usual check-in text, though she had told Osha that she’d be finishing up a big commission this week.  

People have their own lives. They don’t value Osha any less because they’re busy. 

Or at least, she tells herself, in an attempt to chase away the hollow feeling in her chest. 

Moving on. Everything shower. That’s on the agenda, after she scarfs down basil pesto and mozzarella melted on sourdough. A nice little dinner, to balance the beef mac and cheese she had for lunch. She’d needed it, after trying on half the clothes that Qimir bought and leaving the rest to be sorted out later, in pile in the corner of her room. 

Osha stretches until her back pops satisfyingly in three places, then slowly undresses, throwing her clothes in her laundry hamper, making a mental note to run a load before going to sleep tonight.  

The shower heats up as she dry brushes herself from head to toe, her skin tingling as the sisal bristles drag over her skin.  

Once the bathroom is filled with steam, she steps into the shower, tiles cool against the soles of her feet. She sighs in happiness as the first stream of water hits her back, the pressure exquisite. Tension unknots from her shoulders and she breathes out a long sigh.  

The shower is her happy place, where she can just be, her constantly whirring mind silenced by the fall of water.  

She washes her hair, shampoo on her scalp and conditioner on her ends, then switches focus to scrub her body. Baby does a little happy dance as she runs the washcloth over her belly in slow, smooth circles.  

This is her favourite part of the day, when she gets to decompress amidst the water and humidity. Just her body, and what she brings with it. 

She sighs happily, feeling another round of tension leech from her body, leaving her boneless, almost sleepy. But a slippery shower is no place to fall asleep, so she slaps her face a few times to wake up. 

It’s high time to buy that shower chair she’d been contemplating last week, if the way she’s struggling to clean her toes is any sign.  

While she’s down there, sat on the floor of the shower (hey, it’s extremely clean and she disinfects the hell out of it once a week), she shaves her legs. You know, just general maintenance. Nothing to it. 

The real struggle comes when she has to drag herself back upright, but Osha manages, wheezing a little as she does so. Baby tumbles away inside her, clearly amused by her effort. 

She touches up her underarms and stares dubiously at her bikini line. She’s cleaned up the edges a little, but that’s as far as she goes, with her tummy in the way. 

If Qimir wants it, really, really wants it, then he won’t let a little hair get in the way. 

And that’s on that. 

She finishes off with washing her face, then she shuts the water off and wobbles out of the shower. 

While drying her body off and moisturising, Osha hears her phone vibrating wildly on the bathroom counter but she elects to ignore it. Whoever it is can wait the ten minutes it takes to massage cocoa butter into her body and spray leave-in conditioner on her hair. 

Just as she steps back into the bathroom, she hears a faint knocking sound. She ignores it, until it becomes insistent, clearly not loud plumbing or sex sounds from a neighbour. 

Who the fuck would be knocking on her door at almost eight in the evening? Oh, she knows. She knows, but she doesn’t want to entertain the possibility of being wrong and dealing with disappointment.  

So, she throws on an old t-shirt and a pair of ratty shorts, shoving her phone in one of the pockets and padding barefoot down the hallway. Her locs drip water down her back, absorbed by the worn-soft cotton of her tee, tight around her middle but loose everywhere else.  

“I’m coming!” she yells, at the insistent knocker. 

If it somehow isn’t Qimir, then this better be a fucking emergency of biblical proportions. 

But of course, it’s him.  

Looking beautiful as ever, even with the sparse scruff on his face, the slight bags under his eyes. His golden skin practically glows, even under the sallow light of the hallway. His eyes gleam, like a little kid with a secret, but he’s forcing himself to be incredibly still. His hair is tied back with a useless hair tie, seeing as half of it is falling loose. 

He’s wearing a tight charcoal Henley and grey sweatpants, like he knows her weakness. He’s shouldering a black backpack and holding the handle of a hardcase cabin-size suitcase. He lets it go to lean against the lintel, affecting an easy slouch. 

“Hello, you,” he purrs. "You going to let me in?" 

Osha scoffs; the nerve of him turning up without so much as a by-your-leave. His goddamn signature winky face emoji signalling trouble for her. 

"You need an invitation, Bo Chow?" 

While she hasn't seen Sinners, Qimir has been sending her very unsubtle hints (via TikTok) that he wants to watch it in theatres, bemoaning that he hadn't had the chance to view it in IMAX . 

Qimir grins, a streak of glee shooting across his face. He's vibrating with excitement, now that she’s playing with him. He shuffles a little closer, looming in the doorway, yet not trespassing the boundary. 

She flicks her eyes up, moving towards him. 

"Why don't you," she pokes his chest, "walk your big ass right in?" 

"Well, you're in the way, Ma'am." 

He brings one hand down to scratch at his chin. His ring, her ring, gleams on his thumb.  

Her cheeks flare with heat, as they both look down at her stomach. Her doorway is quite narrow, and there's no way they'd both be able to fit through it, now. 

It stings, but she steps back, allowing him to win the first point of the night. He wheels his little suitcase in, shrugging his backpack off on the floor. Right in the entryway, how rude. He kicks the door shut behind him with his foot. 

And he kisses her full on the mouth.  

It comes as a surprise, his hands framing her face, seeming so big, cradling her head as he devours her, like he wants to inhale her, greedy and all-consuming. 

Osha makes a muffled noise of surprise, clutching at his shoulders, then moans. She parts her lips, shivering as he tangles his tongue with hers, stroking into her mouth, trailing sparks. Her hands trail up to his neck, tangling with the hair at his nape, tugging it out of the tie. 

Her arousal, always simmering at a low burn, flares hot and bright. He smells so good, feels so good, despite stale airport smell clinging to him.  

It’s so right, being back in his arms. Being back with him. 

And it's so much like their reunion last week, except this time she's painfully awake and aware that this isn't a dream, that this is real, that he came back to her. 

Oh God, he came back. 

A bit of worry that she hadn’t even known she was carrying eases, soothed by his touch, his cheeky fingers dipping under her waistband then skimming her ass, flirting with the bottom hem of her shorts.  

His Henley bunches up and she wants to rake it over his head, fling it in a corner and have her way with him. 

It’s immediately overwhelming, this heat and her feral craving for him. She sucks air greedily through her nose, tugging at his hair, soaking up his scent, which still carries a tinge of amber and oud, from his perfume. 

She’s barely aware that they’re moving, stepping back in tandem, until he spins her around in his arms. Osha protests at having his mouth ripped away from hers but he wraps himself around her, plastering his chest to her back. 

They’re facing the window looking outside of her living room, a view across the street, where there’s multiple windows lit up in the dark. The lamplight softens the shadows, outlines their silhouettes that she can see reflected in the windows, dimly. 

All complaints melt away when he lifts her belly, an instant release of tension she hadn't even known she'd been holding, spine curving as she relaxes into him. 

"Fuck," she sighs, and his strong hands cup the bottom of her stomach, baby stirring at the rumble of his voice. 

"Missed me?" he asks cheekily, and when he shakes her head, he has the audacity to tut and say, "Wasn't talking to you, baby. Our other baby." 

“She’s asleep,” Osha pouts. “My bladder just got a break. Do not wake her up.” 

“But she can’t help it,” he snakes his hands under her t-shirt, his warm hands on her naked skin. “She wants to see me.” 

“That makes two of us,“ she says. Then, Oh fuck. 

She... did not mean to say that first part out loud. 

Qimir stills, his roaming hands pressing tightly to her. 

“Did you, now?” he rasps lowly, then rubs his top lip against the nape of her neck. She shudders, eyes drifting shut. She won’t grace him with an answer, she’s said enough. 

Then he shoves her over the arm of the couch. 

Shit!  

She goes down, belly cradled by the armrest, dizzy with lust. Qimir wastes no time in tearing down her shorts, groping at her behind. Osha moans, a throb of want searing through her.  

There’s a rustle of fabric and she squeaks when his hot tongue licks at the crease between her thigh and asscheck, groaning wantonly. He doesn’t care that she hasn’t shaved, that’s she’s ungroomed. He’s hungry for her, regardless. 

“Fuck, baby, you taste so fucking good.” 

He licks up, hands prising her thighs apart, running his nose along her skin and sniffing, like a madman. 

“And your smell, Jesus fucking Christ. Could eat you right up.” 

She digs her nails into her couch cushions, a second away from grabbing a throw pillow and screaming into it. Even though she’s gotten off at least once a day for the past week, she’s still so unbearably horny.  

She hasn’t been properly fucked, really fucked, in a week, and in pregnant horny woman time, that’s forever.

“Get on with it,” Osha pants, straining her neck to stare down at him imperiously. 

He raises his brow, grabbing handfuls of her ass and spreading her apart for his perusal. 

"Is that any way to ask me for a favour?” 

“Mm,” she tosses her head as he kneads her ass. “Like you’re not— ah — dying for it.” 

His tongue snakes through her folds and she gasps, folding over the armrest as her knees weaken, a surge of electric pleasure zipping through her. 

“I know you need it,” Qimir murmurs, lips shaping the words into her thighs, so he’s slightly muffled. “So wet for me already, doll.” 

Always, for you, she doesn’t say, because she’s not fucking stupid. It’d be like handing ammunition straight into his hands. 

Yet, her body shivers, confirming the truth of his words.  

“Look at you shaking,” he caresses her flank, like she’s a spooked horse, tone soft and coaxing. “Go on, ask me.” 

Don’t break, don’t break, don’t— Oh fuck. 

His tongue laps at her again, this time teasing her clit. Her pussy practically trembles, spasming around nothing, leaking a fresh wave of slick. 

“Please lick me,” she cries, pulse pounding hard in her throat, head fuzzy. “Please eat me out, I don’t give a fuck—” 

“Happy,” he rasps, nipping her on the thigh, “to oblige.” 

She swats blindly at him, feeling the vibration of his chuckle as he dodges, then makes a truly humiliating sound when he devotes himself to eating her out like a champ. 

He sups at her like she’s a ripe mango, and he wants to swallow every last bit of sweet flesh. She’s certainly juicy enough, dripping down his chin, smearing all over his face.  

Qimir winds her tighter and tighter, that same buzzing tension flaring through her, down her toes, which are flexing in her rug, up her spine, flushing her cheeks and chest.  

He’s moaning into her pussy, like he’s the one getting licked out, the vibrations humming through her and sparking. She’s vulnerable, bent over and exposed to him, legs spread by his strong hands. He doesn’t allow her to wiggle away when it becomes too much, when she thinks her heart is going to give out from how fast it’s pounding. 

“Qimir,” she moans, bucking her hips back, practically riding his face, feeling his lips spread in a smile, facial hair tickling her folds. “Qimir, Qimir, please, please.” 

He doesn’t say anything, because his mouth is obviously busy, but he sucks her faster and harder, putting his beautiful jaw to work. Osha wails and clutches the couch, her wet hair, her t-shirt, scrabbling for something steady to hold onto. 

He tongues her clit in circles, and it’s too much, too much, overwhelming, and she’s keening and moaning as her pussy contracts, little waves of pleasure rocking through her, like beating against the hull of a ship, until it abruptly washes over her, all at once. 

She’s drowning, drowning in pleasure, only Qimir’s firm hold on her keeping her moored. Her anchor. 

He draws her climax out until she’s jerking away from him rhythmically, when the oversensitivity becomes too much for even her to handle, but not before another round of spasms overtake her. 

Panting, cotton-mouthed, she slumps on the couch as Qimir stands behind her, the soft, washed-out fabric of his sweatpants brushing her legs and ass.  

“Wanted to play with these,” he cups her tits, hands hot and hard through the thin fabric of her tee, and she makes a weak noise, “but I’ll just have to save it for later. Off, now, baby.” 

His tugs up the hem and she straightens up, his hard cock a line of heat against her derriere, raising her arms to allow him to lift the shirt and throw it on the floor. Her locs thump against her back, sending droplets of water trailing down her back, contrasting against her overheated skin. 

“Now…” 

Osha sticks her ass out, wanting him to fuck her right here, in the middle of her living room, with the windows open and the curtains drawn to the side, because fuck it if anyone sees. 

“Fuck me,” she begs, arching her spine. One climax just isn’t enough for her, it’s a warm-up. She wants the real deal. 

“How much do you want it?” 

The Henley falls to the floor, but his sweats brush against her ass. He’s pulling them down but enough to get his dick out. Osha whimpers, pulsing as she feels the weight of him heavy on her thighs, the thickness and length of him. 

She lets out a throaty moan when Qimir slicks his cock through her folds, the head nudging her clit. She clamps her thighs shut, squeezing his length between her inner muscles and he curses.  

She looks down, and the tip is peeking between her thighs. Cute. He’s leaking pre-cum all over and she flushes, imagining the state of his underwear as he played with her. 

She rocks back, dragging her cunt over his cock, her ass flush against his hips, then forwards again. It sounds filthy, with how wet she is. 

“Fuck,” she tenses again, rubbing the crown of his cock against her clit, “me.” 

Qimir curses, grabbing her hips, stilling her. He’s likely about to blow all over her, and that’s the last thing he wants to do. She knows all about his come kink and how much he only wants to climax inside her. 

“Convincing.” 

He’s not fooling her with his nonchalant act, because she can literally feel his dick jumping between her thighs. 

She relaxes her legs, spreading her feet and digging her toes into the rug, readying herself. 

It still doesn’t prepare her for the stretch when he splits her open. 

I have got to get a bigger dildo, she thinks deliriously, panting against the intrusion. She doesn’t tell him to slow down or warm her up with his fingers, because he knows her better by now. 

The struggle is half the fun, feeling him work himself inside her, slicking his cock with the evidence of her desire.  

“God, just fucking look at you,” he holds her waist, caressing her sides, then slides his hands to the front, cradling her bump. He’s obsessed with this part of her, the evidence that they’ve created life together, that he’s changed her like this. 

Who would have thought, years ago, that his promises to breed her would come to fruition? It’s a little ridiculous, that she’d been on fucking birth control and he’d still managed to find a way. 

“What are you thinking about?” Qimir grunts. “I’m clearly not fucking you hard enough.” 

He jerks her back on his cock at the same moment he thrusts inside her, sinking himself in to the hilt. The slap of flesh is loud, and Qimir works his hips as he removes his hands, so he can yank his shirt over his head.  

Then, he plasters his chest to her sweaty back, holding her steady as he drills into her, ceaseless and full of energy, even after coming off a four-hour flight. A sex machine. 

Osha’s still tender and tingling from her earlier orgasm, so it takes no time to build up to the next one, heavy pressure building between her thighs, pussy clamping down and shuddering. She pinches her nipples between her thumb and index finger, whimpering as Qimir pounds into her, her thighs quivering. 

“Fuck me, fuck me,” she chants, biting her lip until she tastes copper, until sweats slides down her face to mingle with the blood. There’s sparks flickering, burning, and it’s— 

“So fucking good, fuck—” 

Bzzzzt!  

Qimir’s pace falters and the tide recedes, orgasm faltering as someone’s phone buzzes. Osha’s jolted out of that lustful haze, raising her head and blinking.  

Who the fuck is disturbing them?  

She expects Qimir to ignore it, but he tuts and moves back, withdrawing until only the tip of him is still inside her, reaching down to pick up— 

Her phone? 

“You’ve got a call,” Qimir announces, thumping the phone down in front of her face, screen-up on the couch. 

She squints down. “It’s Mae. Why is she—” 

The rest of her sentence is lost as he shoves back in, deep and aching.  

“Answer it, baby,” he demands, spreading her cheeks, probably watching his cock glide in and out of her. 

“Wha— What?” she replies dumbly, struggling to keep up with him, her mind still in a fucked out daze. 

He can’t possibly be asking her to answer Mae’s call. There’s no way he’s that insane. 

“Answer it,” he growls, grinding in, “Or I’ll do it for you.”  

Oh God, he is, and he might not even conceal what he’s doing. What they’re doing… together. 

It takes two to tango. 

He’s clearly fucked her stupid, because she agrees.  

“Fine,” she yelps out, and he rewards her by stroking her clit. Osha’s eyes roll back in her head and she allows herself one last, deep moan before she answers the phone. 

Hopefully, this call will be quick. Nothing major. 

Sometimes, when Mae's drunk and lonely, she does this. Either Osha placates her with platitudes or indulges her; usually the latter. They end up Facetiming while watching the latest trash romance or horror movie. 

That’s definitely not an option, tonight. 

Mae had continued calling her, three missed calls while she and Qimir were yapping away, so she’s irate when Osha finally picks up, putting her on speaker. 

“Hey, Mae,” her voice trembles imperceptibly, owing to Qimir moving glacier-slow inside her. “What’s u—” 

“Jesus fuck, finally. God, what were you doing, rubbing one out?”  

Mae’s voice blasts from the speaker, tinny and outraged. 

Close enough, Osha thinks, as she tries to claw at Qimir, urging him to back the fuck off, stop fucking her, but she can’t get a grasp on him.  

He’s pinned her in place all too well, rendering her helpless, with no leverage, her thighs bracketed by his legs. 

She cranes her head back, neck cracking, as she croaks out, “Don’t be stupid, Mae. I was watching TV.” 

Her eyes meet Qimir’s dark and fathomless. He’s smirking. She mouths, ‘Stop it.’  

He shakes his head, once. 

Not a chance, baby.  

“You’re,” her voice cracks. Her nails dig into her palms. “You’re disturbing my show.” 

“Mm-hmm, I bet. Well, pause it, because you’re not going to fucking believe what’s just happened.”  

He slides back in, so smoothly, inch by torturous inch. She’s going to need a fucking gag, because panting into her forearm isn’t doing it. 

“What happened?” she says, echoing Mae, because she can’t find a single independent thought in her head right now. 

“Qimir broke up with me.”  

What. 

“What?” she yelps, because Qimir’s just bounced her on his cock, the evil fuck. He does it again, and she inhales so fast she chokes, spluttering and coughing. 

He mouths at her shoulder apologetically, lodging his dick deep inside her. She can’t compute those words. She knew he was going to do it, but so soon? 

“Can you fucking believe him? He basically does fuck all for so many months, ghosts me and the turns up all apologetic like with flowers. I don’t even like flowers! You know this!”  

Mae prefers edible gifts, that’s true. 

“Yeah, wow,” Osha says, because that’s all she can muster, her cunt fluttering around the length grinding in her.  

“And then he says the most fucking cliché, ‘Oh, it’s not you, it’s me’ , like fuck outta here with that! Clearly, it’s me, because he hasn’t been by for ages, and even when we do link up, he’s just not there.”  

“Uh-huh,” Osha huffs, holding back a keen, because the slow pace has ramped up her sensitivity. Her core throbs, clit thrumming with heady arousal, so intense and devastating. She can feel every ridge and vein in his dick, the smooth, wet slide of him, the tip nudging deep inside her. 

“Do you think he's cheating? I have a hunch…”  

Osha chokes again, cunt seizing around his dick, and Qimir’s chest vibrates against her back. 

“Do you think so?” Osha asks, Qimir balls deep inside her. The cheater in question. 

“I can’t say he’s not cheating, but there’s something about this whole situation…”  

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Throw the whole man away, sis.” 

She flinches when Qimir takes her chin in his hands, guiding her face up. She braces herself on the couch cushions, fabric sinking under her weight, and— 

Oh God, oh God, oh fuck . 

They look obscene, the figures of their joined bodies outlined by the lamplight behind them in the window. Against the backdrop of night, it’s turned into a mirror. Qimir, draped over her, the larger figure engulfing the smaller one, almost inseparable. 

She grits her teeth against a unholy moan, and it comes out as a grunt. 

“I should. If he comes back, I’ll— What the fuck are you doing, Osha?”  

“Um,” she freezes, eyes still stuck on her reflections, Her brain overheats trying to find an excuse. “Uh, the oven looked a little dirty. I’m, ah, cleaning it.” 

Qimir laughs again, muffling himself against her neck. He peppers a few kisses over her pulse, and Osha melts. 

“Don’t exert yourself, oh my God. And turn the rangehood fan on, so you’re not huffing oven fumes.”  

Her breath hitches when Qimir adds tongue and teeth to his kisses. “Ah— Will do.” 

“And anyways, back to it! So then he’s all, it’s over, with his stupid raspy voice and I tell him where he can put his apology, straight up his ass. And he laughed! He fucking laughed , Oshie!”  

He’s laughing right fucking now, in fact, because this is clearly hilarious to him. The best show in the world, and he’s got front-row tickets. 

Give me a show, his voice drifts lazily from the mire of her memories, and nope, she isn’t going to go there. Not right now, when he’s dick-deep inside her, still fucking her and forcing her to watch, while she talks to her sister on the fucking phone. 

“I should have listened to you. I know he has a reputation, and I even heard from Sol what he was like during high school—”  

It’s Qimir’s time to choke, coughing and wheezing into her shoulder, curved over her back. His hips push forward as he clutches at the couch for support. 

First of all, Jesus Christ, how is this her life? This is karma, surely, for Yord and the shit she’d put him through. 

Secondly, what the fuck is Sol doing telling stories like that to Mae? There’s something more there, a little bell ringing at the corner of her mind, but she’s far too gone to pursue it. 

“Ugh, I’m so over Qimir,” Mae groans . “He wasn’t even that good of a lay, it’s been months. The dick wasn't worth it.”  

“Mae!” Osha croaks out, because Qimir's just pinched her clit. She bites her hand, muffling her moan when he rubs fast and fierce over her clit, ratcheting up the tension.  

He goes one step further and jabs the mute button, breathing hot in her ear, “Is that true, doll? Am I a bad fuck? You can tell me. Is this dick—" he jiggles her ass— "not good enough?" 

He resumes his quick, filthy rhythm, drilling into her. 

 “Go fuck yourself,” she retorts, strangled. There’s no way she’s answering that and inflating his ego even further. It’s enough that she’s caught right on the verge of orgasm, only a breath, a thought away from coming. It’s taking all of her willpower not to give in. 

But she’s not going to come all over his cock while she’s on the phone with her sister, his ex-girlfriend.

“Mmm, can’t,” he hums, rubbing his lips all over her shoulders, scraping the sensitive skin with his teeth. “Too busy fucking you.” 

And that’s so— It shouldn’t be that hot, but it is. It flares in her chest, coal burning in a furnace. 

Her spine unfurls and her cunt softens even further. He drives in deep and it takes everything in her not to moan, not to give herself away. It’s so wrong, so dirty. She’s the worst, a bad sister, etc.  

She’s been telling herself this for so many months that it’s rote, water sliding off a duck’s back, impermeable.  

Mae’s still busy talking, yammering on about all the things she’s able to do now that she’s a free woman, how much Qimir was holding her back from enjoying herself, how he’d never really opened up to her— 

“Earth to Osha, are you even listening to me? Oh my god, are you organising your fridge as well? Do that shit later.”  

Unmute again, nails digging into her palm and Qimir tries his level best to really fuck with her, grinding his hips forward, the way he knows drives her crazy. He’s all over her clit again, rolling it between his fingers this time. 

“I’m not,” she huffs, slumping forward until the edge of the armrest digs into her pelvis, giving up on holding herself up. Let him use her body, there’s no point fighting it. 

“What should I tell Sol? Obviously, it’s not my fault, but you know. That’s his son.”  

Ooookay this is getting too weird, now; it’s not even arousing anymore, hearing Sol’s name from Mae’s lips in this context. 

But Qimir loves it, moaning low and raspy, while Osha frantically covers the receiver. It’s like he wants to get caught! 

“Don’t worry about Sol, Maemae. Qimir’s a big boy and can deal with his own daddy.” 

Yeah, he certainly fucking is. Fuck. 

He glides out again, hips drawing back, then eases back in, sucked up by her pussy. She’s only a stroke away from combusting. 

Please let this end. Please, please let this end before she moans too loudly and gives the game away. And it’s clearly a game to Qimir, the best one he’s ever played, because he loves pulling his little phone sex stunts.  

She clenches down when she remembers how filthy he’d fucked her with Yord listening in, how she’d moaned like a cheap whore for Qimir, how loud she’d been. A little spasm swoops over her, a wave of heat spreading across her chest, blazing in her cheeks. 

She needs to say something, anything, to make a hasty escape. Luckily, she has convenient excuse. 

“Mae,” she tries to get her attention, but Mae has pivoted to talking about Qimir’s daddy issues, oh, and of course he has mummy issues as well. He needs to be house trained— 

“Mae!”  

She shrieks, feeling her walls ripple around Qimir, contracting almost desperately. She’s so close, so fucking close— 

“Yes, Oshie?”  

“Um, Mae I love you, but I have to go pee! Bye-bye, bye!” 

Osha rushes through the goodbye, doesn’t even allow her a word in before she’s jabbing at the red phone icon and tossing the phone aside with nerveless fingers.  

Qimir immediately bullies into her, bending her over and holding her by the shoulders, putting all his strength into fucking the lights out of her.  

He runs his mouth, shameless, while her head bounces, locs swaying, cunt fluttering all around him as he pulls and pushes and plunges, the crown of his cock glancing her G-spot on every outstroke.  

“Come on, Osha. Show me how hot that got you, listening to Mae talking about what a bad lay I am while I’m balls deep in you.” 

He grunts, the force of his thrusts pushing her forward into the couch. “I know you fucking liked it.” 

She did, she does, God fucking help her. 

She arches her back, knees and legs rubbed raw by the fabric of her couch, not absorbing his words at all because she’s on the verge of something great, something absolutely ruinous. 

“Fuck me,” she moans out, senseless and desperate. “Fuck me, don’t stop. Please, please .” 

It’s going to be monstrous, this orgasm. Having been denied to her once, twice, thrice. It’s built up momentum over the ill-timed, cursed phone call.  

She tries to match Qimir’s punishing thrusts, breathless and shaking all over. It’s getting tighter and wetter, her pussy contracting in little waves, a prelude to a storm. He gropes at her belly, then her pelvis, setting the full weight of his hand over her mound, pressing down. 

“Squeeze me, fuck— There’s a good girl, fuck. Good baby.” 

And that’s all it takes. She sobs, tears streaking down her cheeks from her clenched eyelids, as she quivers and trembles, only held up by Qimir’s iron grip, biting her lip until she can taste blood. She comes harder than she has in ages, her orgasm stretching on and on and on, pulsing and contracting. 

She doesn’t know how long it is until Qimir comes, floating in a daze, her vision filled with the melange grey fabric of her couch, the printed throw pillow taking up her vision as she lets him pound her until he gives an almighty shudder himself, collapsing over her back. 

They breathe heavily, panting in unison, heart rates galloping and bodies wrung out. Her mind is more than a little blown, floating somewhere in space for a time.  

Sex so good it launches her out of her body. Nice. 

Yet this has nothing in common with a dissociative episode, because she also feels so grounded, so painfully aware of the weight of her lungs, compressing and expanding, the sweat at the back of her thighs, the stickiness of cum between her legs, the scent of musk and slick permeating the living room, the itch of sweat as it dries on her skin, the twitching of her cunt, and the fullness of his cock still sheathed in her. 

It’s blissful, being so empty of thought and full of feeling. Just a body, just a bundle of chemicals and hormones and misfiring neurons.  

Qimir makes little snuffling noises as he nuzzles her damp locs, content just to smell her, to take her in. She’s trapped in his arms, yet she has no complaints about her position, pure satisfaction welling in her chest in response to that insane orgasm. 

She’s tempted to let him sit with his satisfaction. Why ruin a good night? This is good, this is great. 

Her phone buzzes and lights up with a text from Mae. 

Oh, yes. That. 

She shifts, murmuring a little and wiggling her hips, urging him to stop crushing her. He’s plugged her full of his cum, and it’s trailing down to her knees already. So much for that shower. 

“Come on, you big lug,” she complains breathily. 

Yes, her belly is perfectly fine and cushioned by the couch arm, but he doesn’t need to know that.  

Qimir lets up, greedy hands trying to eat up every inch of her skin, roaming and petting. It feels good. Too bad it won’t last. 

She takes one last, deep breath. Feeds the kernel of emotion in her chest. Braces herself. 

The she rears up, one hand at the back of the couch supporting the swift, sudden movement, and grabs Qimir’s hair in her fist. 

“What the fuck,” Osha hisses, “was that?” 

His dick jumps inside her, swelling and hardening, trying valiantly to revive itself. God, he’s fucking into this. He likes the jolt of pain, the fury in her tone. 

Qimir grins against her shoulder, loopily, pressing his mouth into the skin. “You know, baby. You heard Mae—we broke up.” 

He sounds punch-drunk, dreamy. Lazy and playful. 

Osha sways in place, his hands tracing patterns over her belly, massaging over the little bumps she thinks are baby’s feet and or elbows. 

She almost falters. Almost considers giving up this argument, but no.  

Lassitude drains from her limbs, anger filling its place. 

“You knew what she was going to say. And you still made me answer her!” 

It takes two to tango, a little voice reminds her. You picked up that phone yourself.  

Whatever, she clearly wasn’t in a state to be making big decisions. Dickmatised should be a category of defence in court. 

“You still did it, though,” he taunts softly, echoing her thoughts. It infuriates how quick he clocks her, both of them on the same wave-length.  

“You control freak,” she hisses out, because clearly, he’d continued fucking her as a distraction, so she wouldn’t process the full weight of Mae’s news, soften her reaction by fucking the force out of her. If she’s too caught up in feeling good, then she can’t be upset, right? 

“If wanting to reduce your stress makes me a control freak, then guilty as charged.” 

He takes hold of her chin again, despite the tight hold she has on his hair, and attempts to kiss her. 

The fucking nerve of him! Audacious to the end. 

Osha hisses and spits like an rabid cat, resisting him. She actually does spit on his face, and that just turns him on even more. 

“How fucking generous of you, how thoughtful. Get the fuck off me.” 

Qimir groans, cock stiffening inside her, pushing deeper reflexively. She tightens on instinct, clamping down around him, sending ripples of pleasure through her core. 

She fights against it, that inconvenient arousal. If she can’t control her body, impossible with how he has her trapped, she can at least control her reactions to him. 

“Now, why would I do that?”  

He pinches her chin, then shifts his fingers so that he’s tracing the seam of her lips. He pushes in, invading her mouth. His fingers are slightly salty and tangy. The taste of her slick. 

“When I have you exactly where I want you?” 

Osha bites, not too hard, but enough for him to feel the sharpness of her teeth.  

“Fuck, Osha,” he sounds delighted, and she realises that she’s indulging him. Going along with him, playing his game. It’s vexing, this epiphany, because he always does this; breaks past her barriers, tests her limits.  

She bites deeper, canines sinking into the flesh and he groans. It’s not fair that he’s left such a mark on her, when she feels like she’s losing every time they spar. 

“You don’t have me,” she protests, trying to find a way through this quandary that won’t result in another bitter defeat, another capitulation. 

“It’s okay to feel jealous,” he croons, shifting minutely, rocking gently. “You know you’re the only one for me.” 

It strikes at the heart of her, that admittance, smoothing the hackles that she hadn’t even known were raised by the call, hearing Mae talking about Qimir and the time that she’d spent with him, as ill-spent as it had been. 

Mine, mine, mine, the monster in her chest rumbles, that same green-eyes beast that had paced back and forth during their outing in Seattle all those months ago, snarling at Mae and Qimir together. 

He’d broken up with her twin and flown right here, to her doorstep. He’d spent an obscene amount of money outfitting and pampering her. He’s here, right now, telling her that he won’t let her go. 

There’s something very, very wrong with her. This, Osha knows for a fact, because this acknowledgement should not mollify her; it should make her want to fight harder and stronger against him, push him away from her further. 

Normal people, mentally-healthy and well-adjusted people, do not get hot under the collar at the prospect of being owned.  

But then again, they’ve always been too fucked up for their own good. And certainly, no one could call her well-adjusted, when she’s having her adopted brother’s baby. 

So, what’s the use of fighting it? He’s already gotten what he wanted: her, bending over for him willingly, showing her neck to him. They’re bound together, for better or for worse. 

That doesn’t mean she should make it easy for him. 

“Work for it,” she tilts her head back, resting it on his shoulder, her locs pouring down her back like a waterfall, tickling her lower back. “Prove it to me. Give me a show.” 

The last four words are said sardonically, and it sparks the same memory in him that she’s been referencing. He takes a moment to draw her locs out from behind her back, so they won’t get trapped.  

Her chest quivers, ire softened by the show of care. Baby wiggles at his touch, his voice, his presence. Drawn to him the same way she is. 

“As you wish.” 

She whimpers involuntarily when he pulls out of her, not expecting the sudden movement, but allows him to guide her around to face him. 

They’re face to face (well, face to neck). She tilts her head up; his features are inscrutable, obscured by the lamplight shining behind him. She tenses, waiting for his next move. 

A soft noise falls from her mouth when his plush, pink lips press against her forehead, the tender gesture incongruous to the fierce heat that had been building between them. 

A hand settles at her jaw, and he kisses her again, this time over her cheek, then the opposite side, then her nose, and her chin. A little giggle escapes her at the tingling, her traitorous heart growing wings, beating in her chest. Her cheeks glow hot, tingles radiating through her. 

He’s trying to soften her up and it’s working, the shards of piercing anger swept away, subsumed. She grasps at his biceps, ducking her head when he noses his way down her neck, still scattering kisses. Over her collarbone, a hint of tongue and teeth, and she gasps. 

“Qimir!” 

She clenches her teeth against the exclamation, but he doesn’t capitalise on it, too engrossed in exploring her. Surprisingly quiet, his mouth busy devouring her and mapping her angles and curves. 

Osha expects him to pay extra attention to her breasts, and he fulfils her expectations by tonguing her nipples, until the peaks are stiff and sensitive, then bites lightly. It shoots straight to her cunt and she shifts on her feet, knees wobbly.  

If there’s something he’s good at, it’s this; drawing pleasure from her body, playing her like a violin, eking out melodies. 

He hunches over her tits, taking them fully into his mouth, sucking them until she writhes, until she squirms and pants and sobs, fingers threaded through his soft, dark locks. His lips look obscenely pink, stretched around her breast, his jaw working, flexing and he laves her nipple with his tongue. One hand holds her by the hip, the other works at pinching her other breast, teasing and tugging the peak. 

When he detaches himself from her chest, he lays an achingly sweet kiss on her sternum, taking a moment to breathe her in. He looks soft, unguarded. Reverent. 

In the next moment, he drops to his knees. A jolt of excitement shoots through her, legs spreading wider to accommodate his bulk. 

Her view of him is obscured somewhat by her stomach, but she can still make out the shape of him, all golden skin and shadows and angles. The heat of his eyes sears her. His thumbs caress her hipbones, mouth blowing hot breath over her core. 

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “So fucking lush, so sweet.” 

Then he leans up and kisses her belly, right over her belly button. 

She gasps, the sound torn from her throat. Whether from the sensation, or from their baby thrashing about in her belly, trying to move closer. She holds onto the couch for dear life, white knuckling the fabric. 

“You know this drives me crazy.” 

His mouth trails all over her, from the top of her belly, down her sensitive sides, then below, to where her bush is barely tamed. She flushes at it, but he’s undeterred. 

Call him Dora, the way he’s eager to explore.  

He noses at the juncture of her legs, licking the cum that’s dripped out of her and she keens, overcome by the sensation. It’s ruinously, worryingly hot. 

He licks around her cunt, cleaning up the mess he made of her, and it just heightens the anticipation, her clit crying out for attention, her pussy drenched in desire for him. 

When he tries slinging one of her legs over his back, she pushes down on his shoulder, a plea to pause. 

“Hey,” her fingers stroke his muscled deltoid, “Ease off.” 

She’s not steady on the best of days, let alone balancing on one leg while he tries his best to take her apart. He resists, like she’s shutting him down, and no. 

“Big baby,” she huffs, as he peeks his head out from under her belly, glossy lips in a moue of displeasure. “I just want us to move to the bed. Do you want me falling ass over tits?” 

His pout dissolves, an eager gleam sparking in his eyes as he stands, looming over her, the entire breadth and majesty of him. She hardly has time to catch her breath before he sweeps her up. 

“Qimir!” she screams, nails scraping red lines over his shoulders as she clings to him, his feet expertly navigating her dark apartment, gait steady as he walks down the hallway, unbothered by her weight. 

 “Mm, scream my name again, doll.” 

“I won’t,” Osha grumbles, but he jostles her a little. She makes an aborted yelp, drawing blood, leaving angry crescent moons in his skin. 

“Something tells me you’re lying,” he says, sing-song, then lowers her onto the bed, getting onto his knees again and forcing his way between her thighs.  

God, what has she gotten herself into? He’s not going to stop until she brings the ceiling down. She’s going to get a noise complaint from the supe, for sure. 

Yet… 

Who is she to deny herself? She’s been recalling and fantasising about this moment for a week. 

There’s only a flicker of apprehension before her resolve firms. Osha leans back on her elbows, knees falling open. Wider, wider, until she can feel the stretch. 

“Try me.” 

“So, when’s the wedding?” 

It’s late, they’re both fucked out and breathless after a second (third?) round. Osha’s mildly regretting it, only a little, because she’s all sweaty and gross post her everything shower. Yet, her entire being hums with satisfaction and she lays sprawled over Qimir’s chest, held in his arms, her ear to his heart. 

At this raspy words, however, she perks her head up to look at him. He’d been staring at the ceiling, lost in thought, but now he pouts down at her. 

No... he couldn’t have— 

“I’m sorry?”  

She squints up at him, studying his face, but he’s dead serious.  

"You can't tell me you haven't considered it." 

She’s still puzzled, blinking up at him in total confusion. It’s too late to be discussing what’s on their itinerary for events. 

“Uh, who’s wedding?” 

Qimir sighs, chest rising and falling dramatically. “Ours, obviously.” 

He is talking about them, oh God. What— Where the fuck is this coming from? 

She clears her head, with great mental effort, drawing herself out of that content and lazy state of mind. She needs to be sharp for this. 

Mostly, she looks at Qimir like she’s asking him if he’s out of his fucking mind. But, she tries for a little tact. Giving him the benefit of the doubt.  

"Is this your idea of a proposal?" 

Her tone is not as soft as it could be, but he’s never needed softness from her. He wants all her sharp and jagged edges. 

She shifts on her side, bladder making a minor complaint, but it can wait for a few more minutes. She’s waiting his response, because he really— He’s just fucking springing it on her like this? After fucking her senseless? 

Oh, she can see the lines of his strategy — get her loose and pliant, then go in for the kill. She’s familiar with this, having weathered the brunt of his manipulations before. 

Could he be any more predictable?  

He has the gall to be offended, arching an eyebrow at her as he pouts again. A displeased child. “So, I can be your baby daddy, but not your husband?” 

Does he even understand that the two are not the same? A baby daddy she can keep at a distance, remove herself from the situation if it gets too difficult. A husband is permanent.  

Osha’s seen too many bad marriages play out, on the either side, to trust in the sanctity of marriages. Divorces are messy, divorces are painful, emotionally and financially. And— 

Fuck, why is she even thinking about divorce now, when he’s just popped the question? Putting the cart before the horse, much? 

Wait, he hasn’t even popped the question properly! 

“You know what?” Osha pinches her nose between her fingers, headache building behind her sinuses. Her bladder is now fit to burst, and she repositions her legs, preparing to leave the bed. “I am not remotely mentally equipped for this conversation right now.” 

She rolls off, despite his squawking, and tromps to the bathroom so she can piss in peace. 

Her hand on the doorknob, she turns so that she can look Qimir dead in the eye; he’s halfway to getting up from the mattress, sheets tangled around his legs. 

“Ask me properly, next time!” 

She slams door shut.  

From behind it, muffled, 

“So there is going to be a next time? Noted!” 

The next morning, Qimir tries his luck again over breakfast. This time, he’s angling for a minor concession. 

“At least get me a key, Osha.” 

Why? So he can snoop when she’s away from home, maybe even set up a spy cam? Fuck outta here. 

Osha gives him a droll look over her Shakshuka, dipping pita bread in runny egg yolk. “Now, why would I do that?”  

Qimir folds his arms on the table, bringing attention to his muscled forearms and sleek, bare chest. She wants to grumble at him to put a goddamn shirt on. 

“So,” he leans forward, fringe swinging forward to shadow his face, tendrils kissing his chin. “You want me waiting at your door like a dog?” 

Osha hums, cocking her head to the side. “Hm, I quite like the sound of that.” 

At Qimir’s little growl, she raises an eyebrow at him. “You said it, not me. Shall I get you a leash?” 

At the mental image of Qimir in a rhinestone-bedazzled dog collar, she cracks up, thumping her chest and almost choking on the soggy pita bread. 

“You’re a regular comedian,” he grouses, but not before Osha sees his dark eyes twinkling in the morning sun, a smile hidden by the curve of his cheek. 

Once they’re finished with their food, and Qimir has cleaned up to both their adequate standards, Osha decides to take a shower. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have a bath tub, so she can’t soak her body like she wants. 

Qimir joins. Of course he does, there’s no force in the world that could keep him away from a naked and wet Osha. 

There’s enough room in the shower for both of them, but Qimir still plasters himself to her back. She ignores as she lathers up her washcloth, but uses him and him as a handhold so she can bend down to wash her calves. 

He’s all over her, hands roaming her sides, her hips, groping her ass. She doesn’t tell him off because she’s just as needy for him, soaked already. He ruts his hard cock against her core and groans. She gasps. 

“Fuck, Osha. So wet.” 

She doesn’t point out that it could be his cum from last night, not her own slick, but then she’d be lying. 

She rocks back against him, holding onto the soap dish inset in the wall, pulsing when he drags his head over her clit, the arousing sight of his cock head peeking between her legs. 

He could slide right in, and she wouldn’t complain. At all. In fact, she’s so empty, clenching around nothing… 

But there were things she wanted to get done in this shower. Things that Qimir could give her a hand with. 

Osha turns around, bringing their fronts together. Water beats down on her shower cap, her locs safely tied and tucked away. She takes a moment to drink in the sight of Qimir: hair wet and plastered to his face and neck, his golden skin beaded with water, sliding down his muscle chest, trailing between his carved abdominals, dripping over his erect length. His arms are taut and toned, his cheekbones carved from marble, his petal-pink mouth plush and enticing.  

His eyes are dark, covetous, running greedily over her body, just as drenched as him. He bites his lips as he eyes her breasts, the curve of her stomach, the flare of her hips. His dick jumps against his stomach, the tip weeping pre-cum. 

She doesn’t realise she’s panting for him, literally panting, until his hand nudges her chin shut. She glares up at him as he smirks, tearing her eyes from his visage to focus on her mission. 

Behind him, suctioned to the wall, is her shaver in its holder. Osha reaches up to retrieve it, pebbled nipples brushing his chest, her belly between them. She could have just asked him for it, but then that would defeat the point. 

Qimir shivers, grabbing handfuls of her ass, teasing his fingers down, down, until he reaches her folds. 

“Good,” she croaks out. “You’ve got the right idea.” 

She draws back, holding her shaver up and glancing down meaningfully. 

“Time to put you to work.” 

They dry off, Qimir insisting on seating her on the bathroom counter, his face conveniently level with her crotch. 

“I’m not shaving you in the shower,” he says dismissively, like she’s stupid.  

Osha rolls her eyes and insists that he’s going to make a mess. He retorts that he’s not going to risk her slipping and cracking her head open like an egg. 

She compromises. 

Qimir: 1. Osha: 0 

“All clean now,” he rumbles, staring indecently at her cunt. Her legs are spread wide open to accommodate him, so he can get a good look in before he mows it down. 

“I’m going to miss the bush,” he says, almost wistfully. 

“Well, too bad it’s not up to you.” 

Qimir clutches his chest. “Ow, so dismissive. I’ll be the one shaving this sweet little pussy,” he traces patterns on the inside of her thighs, perilously close to her core. “You’ll let me indulge, won’t you? As my reward?” 

Osha nods dumbly, mouth filling with saliva, before swallowing harshly. Her tongue sticks to the inside of her cheek, bone dry. She pulses between her thighs, unable to squeeze them together for relief. 

Jesus, calm down.  

Getting slippery wet is not conducive to good grip, but her body hasn’t gotten the memo. Her clit throbs, erect and angry, the porcelain underneath her ass already slick. 

Fuck. 

“Now come on, I need to trim you first.” 

Qimir roots around in her bathroom vanity while she reluctantly guides him to locate her safety scissors, the rounded edges preventing her from getting nicked. 

“Spread them open, baby,” he grins, then chuckles at himself, like he’s just uttered the best joke. 

“At least someone’s enjoying himself,” she rolls her eyes. 

The sound of the scissors is soft, little snick snicks, but her breathing is embarrassingly loud. The faucet drips, drips behind her back, and she should really get that checked out soon.  

She should be more self-conscious about Qimir grooming her, but oddly enough, she isn't. She feels the strangest comfort with him, at this domesticity, like they’re just another couple helping each other out. People with routines, who know each other’s quirks and favourite foods and preferred side of the bed. 

Like a married couple. 

Don’t go there! she shrieks inwardly. That’s how he gets you!  

Osha doesn’t dare move a muscle in cause she accidentally flails and gets poked in the process. Qimir’s quiet, unusually so, focused on chasing up errant hairs on his mission to be the best landscaper this side of Chicago. He should charge for his services, he’d make a killing. 

And if his clientele expect a happy ending... 

Possessiveness flares in her, the urge to trap him here with her. 

Well. They have another thing coming. 

Qimir notices her bout of ire, quirking a brow up at her in question, his lips pursed tightly. 

She shakes her head and he only bobs his chin, setting the safety scissors aside to reach for her shaving foam. 

He cleans the remnants of the cut hair from her skin then runs the tap until the water runs hot. He wets a washcloth until it’s soaking, squeezes it and lays the steaming cloth over her skin. 

Osha hisses at the heat, letting it sit for a minute or two, before nodding again. 

The care and devotion Qimir puts into shaving her makes her wet again. To her eternal mortification.  

Qimir doesn’t taunt her over it, perhaps realising that teasing someone with five sharp blades running over their skin isn’t the best course of action to take. 

He’s being so well behaved today. Which is surprising, because she’d outright rejected his proposal yesterday, She’d expected him to be nastier, but she supposes it’s difficult to be mean to your baby momma. 

She has to bend her legs in a few awkward positions, in order for him to get in all the nooks and crannies. At one point, when he’s an inch away from her slick folds, he darts his tongue out to wet his` lips and she moans wantonly. 

She clenches her jaw shut as soon as she realises she’d made that sound, but he only chuckles lightly.  

Her thighs are aching by the time he sits back on his heels and stretches his arms, muscles bunching up as he holds the stretch, groaning satisfyingly at the symphony of pops and cracks. 

He rolls his shoulders, damp hair drying in waves around his face, then stands up, caging her with his arms. 

“Now,” he purrs, “let’s see about that reward you promised. “ 

It’s insulting how easy it is to fall into a routine with Qimir. Like backsliding, tracing familiar paths, the same patterns they followed before. 

He comes to her on a weekly basis, stays for the weekend then leaves. Each time, she feels her doubts eroding, her fears that he won’t leave her high and dry assuaged, just a little bit. 

She doesn’t ask him to stay; he doesn’t request it either. There’s a lot they don’t talk about. 

They follow a schedule, which deviates from time to time: sex, then Qimir yapping at her stomach, filling the air with whatever topic is on his mind. Baby seems to appreciate the sound of his voice, and he adores a captive audience. 

They still tussle, mouthing off and egging each other on. It’s something that Osha can’t give up, that rush of getting one over on him, and now she has more ammo to play with. 

She’s aware, now, of how desperately he wants her. How far he’s willing to go, even to date her sister as a proxy for Osha. It’s flattering. It’s a little terrifying. 

It’s sexy as fuck. 

So, what if she pushes him a little? It always results in the most explosive sex. 

Are they always good for each other? Fuck, no. 

But he makes her feel so alive, electrified. Jolting her out of the monotony her life had become, pushing her to abandon her morals and common sense to dance with him on the darkside. 

Temptation incarnate. 

Osha doesn’t mean to, honest. It’s a genuine mistake, when he catches Fillik dropping her off after the team goes for celebratory drinks to mark Osha finally getting Mon Mothma’s case finalised, the judge handing down an order detailing how marital assets were to be split and denying Perrin’s request for alimony.  

It’s still a little bit Pyrrhic, in that Mon didn’t manage to get full custody of Leida, her daughter, but seeing as she’s at boarding school nine months of the year, fifty-fifty seems like a good compromise, especially with how Osha had carefully broken down the days, accounting for public holidays and celebrations and birthdays, to make sure that it’s truly equal. 

But they’ll cross that bridge when they get there. Osha really, really hopes Perrin isn’t dumb enough to withhold custody.  

Osha can’t drink, but that doesn’t bar her from celebrating; her colleagues toast her, glasses clinking against her fruity mocktail. Rose is already two drinks in and pink-cheeked, leaning against Finn. Maya, Ezra and Jannah match each other shot for shot. Fennec, a rare addition, nurses her espresso martini.  

Fillik, her former drinking buddy, is chugging his draft of IPA, the hops smelling yeasty and earthy in Osha’s nose. He’s thigh to thigh with her in the booth, smiling at her intermittently. 

Gossip had gotten around, in the office. Those chismosas working in Admin had clearly spread the word around that Osha’s baby daddy is not only present in her life, but also smoking hot. No one’s brought it up with her directly, they’re not so indelicate as that, but there is the expectation of an introduction. Eventually. 

Right now, it’s a Thursday and half off drinks, so she wants enjoy herself. If she’s not getting sloshed, she can at least take solace in the company. 

“So,” she drawls, leaning her cheek on her fist. “What’s new with you, Fillik?” 

“I should ask what’s new with you, Osha. Been a couple of rumours flying around the last few weeks.” 

Osha scrunches her face up. “There’s a lot of those. Better watch out, they’re not always accurate.” 

Fillik sucks his teeth. “These sources are quite accurate.” 

Oh, so he wants her to bring it up? Cute, but she’s not playing this game. Her private life will remain just that. 

She ignores that fact that she’d been the one to put the moves on him, lonely and tipsy and aching to be touched, to feel something.  

That’s in the past now. Really, truly. 

“Osha!” Maya calls her name, her bronze cheeks flushed prettily, curls escaping her hairband. “We need you to referee. These two,” she gestures to Ezra and Jannah, both giggling, “Keep losing count.” 

“Roger,” Osha throws off a salute and sticks her tongue out at Fillik. 

He takes it good naturedly, draining the rest of his beer while she wrangles her co-workers into some approximation of order. 

Qimir is the furthest thing from her mind, her cell lying dead in her handbag and no one having the forethought to bring a phone charger to a fucking bar. 

Ezra wins their little drinking game, earning bragging rights for a week over Jannah and Maya. Her assistant groans and Osha makes sure to ply her with water, because they’ve still got a full day of work tomorrow.  

Fennec heads off at some point, tossing a casual goodbye while the others shriek in laughter, well and truly drunk. Finn and Rose pile into one Uber, clearly having other plans in mind for the night, while Ezra, Jannah and Maya split another Uber. 

That leaves Osha and Fillik, the former with her hands awkwardly stuck in her blazer pockets. They dilly dally for a bit, before Fillik bites the bullet and offers to escort her home, paying her rideshare despite her protests. 

He knows her address, of course, from… before. 

Silence hangs heavy over them, like an executioner’s axe, but there shouldn’t be anything wrong with what she’s doing. He’s just a co-worker, she’s just a friend. 

Friends kiss, right? 

Friends also discuss things and open up to each other, but she’s not ready to do all that right now. 

When her ride stops in front of her apartment building, Fillik hops out to escort her over the deep gutter filled with trash. There’s a reason this spot is usually left free of vehicles, not exactly being a prime parking spot, on account of the gaping storm drain and build-up of refuse. 

His flexes when she lets go, coming to rest limply at his side. She pats his arm in gratitude. 

“Well,” Osha turns around, wobbling in her low wedge heels. Her feet are fucking killing her, but she had killed it in court today, so it was kin of worth it to look this good. “This is where I leave you. Thanks for the ride,” she adds, so she doesn’t appear ungrateful. 

Fillik smiles at her, easy-going as always, scrubbing a hand through his short hair and bidding her goodbye. “Take care, Osha.” 

Opening the glass door, propped open by a brick (it tends to jam), she calls out behind her, “No, you take care!” 

Osha enters the lobby, breathing in the familiar stale dust smell, the carpet in need of a good vacuum. The sensor lights turn on automatically as soon as she crosses the threshold, and she jumps. 

A shadow unsticks itself from the corner, near the bank of elevators. It’s Qimir, lurking like an absolute weirdo.  

She grabs her blouse, heart pounding rabbit-quick in her chest, terror melting into relief that he’s not some axe-murderer. 

He unfolds himself to his full height, coming away from the wall where he’d been leaning, dressed in all black like a wraith. A fucking Nazgul, is what he is, with his aura of menace. He prowls forward until he reaches her side. 

“Who,” his voice drips with disdain, “was that?” 

Osha hitches her handbag higher on her shoulders and walks past him, not gracing him with a response.  

He asks her again, when they’re in the elevator, jaw clenching and a muscle in his cheek jumping, and she has to say, she likes him like this. 

Downbad and desperate.  

Qimir follows behind her to her apartment door, like an errant kitten with its hackles raised, radiating displeasure. When she shuts the door behind them, he crowds her against it, smelling like a fresh coat of Oud Satin Mood.

She bites back a grin; he’d freshened himself up for her.  

And doesn’t he look delectable, with his dark jeans and black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, boots shiny on his feet.

“It's ten PM,” he rasps, eyes running down her body, catching her on her spun-silver silk blouse, the one that he’d bought for her. In fact, her whole outfit, from head-to-toe, consists of his purchases. 

His mouth falls open, pupils rapidly swallowing his iris, the effect obvious under her entry light. He loves that she’s wearing his clothes, that he’d bought exclusively for her. Marking his territory, though no one will know but her. 

She feels herself grow wet shamefully fast, from his gaze alone. Hell, just from his scent. It’s intoxicating, irresistible. 

“So it is,” she replies, eyes darting to her hallways clock. Just past ten, in fact. 

“You haven’t been answering your phone.” 

His voice has dropped a few tones, gravel-rough.  

Osha shivers, nipples hardening in her bra. “It’s dead,” she lifts up her handbag for emphasis. 

“I’ve been waiting.” 

She bites her lip, worrying the flesh, then pops it out of her mouth. His eyes fix on the faded mauve lip cream. 

“That’s a ‘you’ problem, baby.”  

She says the last word mockingly, greedily anticipating his reaction. 

Qimir doesn’t disappoint; his throat bobs harshly then he growls, deep in the back of his throat. Osha bares her neck for him, the way a prey animal would. 

“Who was he?” 

Osha feigns innocence, rounding her eyes and pushing her bottom lip out. It’s usually extremely effective, but Qimir doesn’t take the bait. 

“Who, Fillik?” 

Qimir hisses at hearing another man’s name in her mouth. This time, she really can’t hold back her smirk. 

“He’s just a colleague.” 

“A colleague who knows where you live,” Qimir says darkly. Now, how does he know that? 

“You’re making a few assumptions,” Osha drawls, though he’s not far off-base.  

“Did you enjoy his company, Osha?” 

She wrestles down the glee, affecting coyness; it wouldn’t be seemly to appear too eager. 

“We went for a few drinks,” her voice is syrupy sweet, and she pauses, lets the tension draw out, “with a few other colleagues. To celebrate my big win.” 

“That’s not an answer,” he bites out, dark eyes sparking. Her rejection has clearly gotten under his skin, because normally he wouldn’t show his hand like this. He’s vulnerable; it would only take a brisk breeze to knock him off-kilter completely. 

“What would you do I said yes?” 

“I would say,” his eyes sharpen, mouth drawing back in a snarl, “that you need to be put in your place.” 

Jackpot.  

Osha leans up as he jerks his head down, and their mouths collide in a frenzy of teeth and tongue. He tongue strokes against hers, urgent and rough. She holds onto his shoulders for dear life, straining up on her tiptoes, rubbing herself against him like a cat in heat. He feels so solid and strong, a line of pure heat. 

He rips his mouth away, grabbing her chin in one big paw. His fingers press harshly into her face, and her lips press together in a pout. 

“Pretty baby,” he husks. “Too pretty for her own good. What am I going to do with you?” 

Fuck me, feed me.  

Love me.  

Osha can’t answer his question, and he doesn’t expect her to. He’s just playing the opening move in their game, the eternal dance they’d mired themselves in since they were teens. 

But Qimir’s always been like this. Too forceful, too involved, too fucking toxic. But she’d loved it, and still does, and she’s just as bad as him, because a part of her fucking preens. 

She’s never felt unsafe with him; infuriated, maybe. Two seconds away from clawing his eyes out, often. But his little displays of overt possession have always stoked something deep inside her, purring with satisfaction that he’s this gone over her. 

God, they really are made for each other. 

He lets her go and she works her mouth, stretching her jaw, before replying. 

“Come on,” she murmurs, eyes half lidded, nails digging into his shoulders. “Aren’t you going to fuck me, big man? Show me who’s boss.” 

She shrieks when he lifts her up, pregnant belly and all, because he’s nothing if not showy. Her shoes fall to the floor as he hauls her down the hallway, once again literally sweeping her off her feet. His caveman way of expressing his masculinity, his ability to take care of her. 

The muscles in his biceps bulge and she hums appreciatively, wanting to fondle them through the fabric. 

“I’ll show you,” he rasps down at her, an unholy light in his dark eyes, catching the glow of her mood lighting and glimmering. 

He sets her down on her bed, her knees wobbling as he makes quick work of his clothes, unbuttoning his shirt with precision and shucking off his jeans. It’s easy enough to shrug off her blazer and draw her blouse over her head, but they encounter a little difficulty when she stands up to wiggle out of her pencil skirt. 

“Give me a hand,” she grouses, drawing her locs over her shoulder then showing him her back. It’s fifty-fifty whether he’ll bother to help her at all. 

He palms her hips, as if he misheard her and took ‘hand’ for ‘handsy’, pressing his brief-covered erection into her ass and rocking gently. 

“You’re useless,” she admonishes breathily, and groans when he slips a hand up to tease the lace edging her bra, the bra that he bought for her. 

He deft fingers find the clasps, flicking them open one by one, until the cups fall down, exposing her breasts. 

Her nipples are already peaked, and he glances his fingers over them only briefly before cradling her tits in his hands. 

They spill over his palms, and she moans as she looks down. What a fucking visual; his broad, hands with thick fingers, nails neatly trimmed, golden skin a stark contrast against her own, her areolas dark and massive.  

“Easy fucking access,” he mumbles, rolling them, before biting a kiss over her pulse. 

Osha shudders, her neck tilting to the side, giving him free reign to mark her up. 

He does so with relish, sucking lovebites high up her neck, behind her ear, in places where it’ll be difficult for her to conceal without significant effort and some creative manoeuvring 

“Yeah,” she sighs, when he rolls a nipple between his fingers, an expert multitasker, while sucking on her neck like a vampire. “Just like that, shit.” 

Osha can’t help the minute movement of her hips, grinding back on him. He seems content to just tease her and play with her body, but she’s about to burst. 

She’s just not that far gone to beg .  

She has other methods of persuasion. 

She puts a little swing into her hips, grinding with more intention. He groans, hands squeezing tight, eliciting a squeal from her. 

“Let’s get this fucking thing off you.” 

He drops his hands, leaving her breasts cold, and tugs her skirt down with one powerful movement. 

It rolls over her belly and drops down onto the ground, leaving her in nothing but stockings and her bra. His chest rumbles, like a purr, as he takes her in from head to toe.  

“Look at you. You love being watched.” 

She turns to find his eyes covetous, his mouth set almost in a snarl. It’s hungry and vicious, like he wants to tear into her.  

His hair has grown out a little, falling messily over his forehead, but he’s freshly shaven, probably due to the demands of his job. She misses the stubble, the way it had scraped over her skin, the stubble burn it had left behind. 

She bites her lips and looks down at his crotch, his dick a prominent bulge in his likely ludicrously expensive boxers. He’s deviated from the norm, this time; they’re grey, a wet patch denoting where he’s soaked through the fabric. 

She salivates at the thought of his pre-cum, reaching out as if she’s in a daze, tracing a finger over where the head is. It jumps under her touch and he hisses, abdominals seizing as he sucks in a breath. 

Osha plays coy, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. 

“Someone’s eager.” 

He yanks her closer, her hand falling against his hot chest as she braces herself. His hand digs into her ass through the stockings, and he’s probably going to poke holes in them. 

She whines out, “You’re going to—” 

Rrrrip.  

“Fuck!” 

That fucker just ripped her stockings! 

“Hey!” Osha beats his chest, indignation roaring in her. ”That was my nice pair of maternity tights.” 

He smirks down at her, clenching his hands and rending it further. Her left thigh and underwear are exposed, brown skin and black cotton peeking through the gossamer grey stockings. Reluctant arousal pounds in her, from the display of strength. The animal part of her sitting up and paying attention. 

“Don’t give a fuck,” he breezes past her protests. “I’ll buy a new one. Now come the fuck on.”  

He lays her down on her bed, not ungently, crouching over her like a sleek, muscled panther. He’s so close yet he’s holding his body away from her, and she just wants him close. 

It’s galling to even think it, let alone admit it; she’s so touch starved. The more she says she doesn’t want him, the more the need intensifies. 

She settles for tracing her hands along his shoulders, admiring the cut of muscle, the coiled strength in his body. She digs her nails in, observing his face for any tells, but he’s nonchalant.  

“Where should I start?” he hums, eyeing her critically. His gaze has heat and weight, dragging over her skin. Just one look has her this hot for him. 

Then again, it’s always been like this; unimaginable levels of desire for him. Like a thirst, a craving. Her brain temporarily goes offline and impulse reigns supreme. 

She arches up, pulling at his waistband, snapping it.  

“Let’s start here,” she breathes, greedy hands urging his boxer-briefs down and off. 

His cock springs out, thick and delicious. The head is almost purple, weeping angrily, and her core clenches at the sight. 

In me, in me, now.  

Unfortunately for her, Qimir has other plans. 

He grabs her hand, which is just about to wrap around the base of him.  

“Not so fast,” he rasps. “I want to take my time.” 

Osha huffs. “This isn’t,” she tries to wrench her wrist out of his grip, fails, “about what you want.” 

“Oh, you’ll find that it is,” he bites his lip, a slutty move. Eyes half-lidded, he looks so imperious, holding his entire body weight over her with one hand.  

“And what I’m going to do is play with your little body until you scream.” 

She tries kicking at his knee but he tuts, leaning down and scraping his teeth over her collarbones. His stomach presses against her own and their baby girl stirs, as if sensing that her parents are at odds. 

“Please,” she tries, because sometimes he likes it when she begs.  

Yes, her resolve lasted less than five fucking minutes. Sue her, she’s horny. 

“Think of it as,” he tilts his head, breathing over her neck. “A punishment.” 

Oh God, fuck yes.  

“For what?” she flutters her lashes, arching her chest up so her tits push out. 

He rears up, looming over her. His brow is furrowed, a frown pulling at his mouth as he traces the curve of her stomach. 

“For… encouraging untoward attention.” 

He’s jealous, alright. And it looks glorious on him. She’s tempted to goad him a little further.  

“He’s a colleag—” 

Qimir slaps her! 

Granted, on her thigh, and it’s not like she isn’t hot for it, but still. 

He tsks, soothing the hurt. “I don’t want to hear about him, doll.” 

Absolute fucking sadist. Of course, he can’t fucking go about anything in a rational fashion, he has to fuck his feelings out instead of having a measured, mature conversation with her. 

She spreads her legs for him, expecting him to pull off her underwear, but he buries his face in her covered cunt, eliciting a squeal from her. 

“Qimir!” she shrieks, as he tongues the gusset of her cotton panties. “Qimir, I’m gross! I haven’t sh—" 

“Ohhhh . Ah, fuck!” 

His hands leaves her clit, where he’s just pinched it through the fabric, fuck you, and slides his fingers through the dampness, pushing them in. They can’t go far, but the tease is enough to have her leaking even more.  

“Fuck,” she curses, straining her neck to look down at him. Her body is too top-heavy to try to lever herself upright on her elbows, and her stomach is in the way, so she can barely see the top of his head, the whirl of his hair. 

“Fucking delicious,” he rumbles, pressing on her clit again with his thumb. Her hips jump up, eager. She’s fully soaked through her underwear. 

He shifts his attention to taking off the tattered remainders of her stockings, peeling them down her legs and off. They get tossed in a corner, discarded. 

Then he draws her panties down her legs. Osha winces at the wet fabric unsticks from her pussy, cold air flowing in. It doesn’t help when Qimir blows over her puffy and swollen labia, cooing at how slick and shiny she is. 

He drags two fingers over her, just stroking, and Osha cants her hips up, wanting them in her. 

Fuck, she’s so empty. It’s been a long week without him and she just needs to get off, be overwhelmed with pleasure, without having to do the heavy lifting.  

“Mm, not so fast,” he purrs. “Did you think it would be that easy? Tell me more about your so-called ‘colleague’.” 

Make up your fucking mind, dude. He’d just told her he didn’t want her talking about it! She can’t win. 

“Um,” Osha stammers, blinking rapidly, tongue flicking out to wet her lips, stalling for time because she cannot string two fucking thoughts together.  

“Ah, we— I mean, I—” Osha trails off, keening throatily when he teases her clit, sliding the hood back, strumming his digits on her exposed clit. 

“You, what? What did you do together, doll?” 

I kissed him. He kissed me. I turned him out.  

She holds it back, because now really isn’t the time, gasping out, “Nothing. Nothing happened.” 

It’s none of his business, because they weren’t together. It won’t benefit anyone if she tells him. 

He studies her, cocking his head, fringe falling over his face, as if he knows she’s full of shit, before shrugging his broad shoulders.  

“If you say so.”  

Just for that, he teases her a little longer as punishment before he finally, finally slides his fingers inside her, and at this point she just wants to fucking explode and maybe take him with her. 

He sets a frantic, rough pace immediately, curling his fingers into her with force.  

“I bet you want me to call you ‘daddy’, you sick fuck,” she gasps, writhing, on his fingers, drilling into her with such precision that she can’t control the flailing of her limbs, the cries wrenched from her mouth, the tears leaking from her clenched-shut eyes. 

She almost wails at the emptiness when he removes his hand, orgasm stalled when just begun to climb that peak. Of course, it only spurs her to get nastier. 

“Do you want to call me ‘mommy’ as well? Of course, you fucking d— Fuck !” 

The fat head of his cock slips in, stealing her words. He leaves her speared on just the tip, not moving any further, despite how much she struggles against him, trying to move back and take him deeper. 

“What were you saying?” 

The way he’s talking, he could be having a casual conversation with her over tea, not stretching her out with his length. 

“Dick,” she pants out, and he withdraws, eliciting a whine from her, then shoves back in, at exactly the same depth. 

“Yeah,” he drawls, so smug. “You want this.” 

Oh, those are fucking fighting words. 

She clenches down viciously, almost strangling the tip of his cock with her pussy, and he grunts, hands digging into her thigh.  

“You want it too,” she pants, “just as much as I do.” 

The hand he has braced on bottom of her belly presses down, until he’s almost cupping her pussy. It’s a light touch, almost teasing, and she wants the full pressure of his hand down there.  

“Never said I didn’t,” he husks, teasing the tips of his fingers in her wetness, so close to tracing where they’re joined. 

“Come on, then” she undulates her hips, rocking onto his cock. “Fuck me like you mean it, daddy.” 

He growls, drawing his hips back, her walls clinging to him, and slams back in with a wet slap.  

Osha keens, jolting forward, the tip of his cock glancing her G-spot and sparking. She oozes slick, easing the passage of his length as he slides deeper, electrifying her entire being. 

He rocks her back onto his cock while shoving forward, and she almost screams when his balls slap her clit, leaving her writhing, split apart by his girth. 

Fuck, fuck, this is so good. She’s fucking dreamed of this, but it doesn’t even come close to the reality. 

His other hand grope her tits, tweaking her nipples, kneading and squeezing them as Osha pants. 

“Say it again,” he demands, drilling into her. 

She’s drooling, thoughts scattered to the four winds, so it takes a moment to parse his words through the haze of need. 

“Wh— Say what?” she manages to wheeze out. 

“Call me ‘daddy’, baby.” 

Shit. Fucking shit. 

She likes that entirely too much, because her whole cunt flutters at this words, a surge of pure lust sweeping through her. 

“Oh,” he breathes out, and she’s in trouble. He slows until he’s grinding into her, his cock sheathed entirely in her, nudging deep inside.  

“You really want to call me daddy, doll? That get you hot? Come on, talk to me.” 

Fuck, fuck, asshole. So she reverts to the time-old tradition of antagonising him. 

“I ain’t saying shit,” she spits, but sobs when his hips distance themselves, almost pulling out entirely. Only the tip is still inside her, and she clenches around it, a futile attempt at keeping him trapped. 

“Play nice, Osha.” 

She shudders, her back arching involuntarily. He’s got her on the ropes, here.  

But so does she. 

“Why don’t you,” she undulates her hips, fucks herself on him. “Take your own advice?” 

Just the tip, only the tip. It drives her crazy; not enough force, not enough friction, but it’s torture for him as well. 

Maybe if she… 

But no, his hand is there, guarding her clit, preventing her from giving herself further stimulation. Fuck, fuck. Is she really going to say it? 

She can turn this around. She can claw back control, somehow. She recalls what she’d said earlier, what she’d taunted him with… 

“Come on,” she purrs, stretching her arms out, offering a fantastic view of her back and waist. “Be a good boy and give mommy a pounding.” 

His cock jumps. She can feel it twitching violently against her, and then he’s groaning, “Jesus fucking Christ,” and slamming into her, knocking the breath out of her. 

Her moans pitch high as he uses her roughly, pent up tension exploding with the force of a bomb. 

She urges him faster, harder, rougher, coming in a record amount of time as he continues to stroke out of her, wet and filthy and obscene.  

He leaves her a slick smear on the mattress, no thoughts in her head but pleasure. Her neighbours probably fucking hate her, what with all the screaming and moaning and headboard banging, but she could not give less of a fuck. 

Let them enjoy the show. It’s probably the hottest thing they’ll ever overhear in their lives. 

Afterwards, Osha pats her fingers through Qimir's hair while his chin digs into the valley between her breasts, the bulk of his body twisted around her. 

A dragon, hoarding his treasure. It makes something flutter in her, to compare his actions to possession, but she pushes it down. 

She’s become fond of the baby hairs at the nape of his neck, silky-soft and downy. She wonders who their baby will take after, like she has countless times before.  

Only now, they both know the gender, and Qimir is here to speculate with her. 

“I wouldn’t mind a baby girl with your nose,” she mumbles, sotto voce. She traces the feature in question with idle fingers, glancing her fingertips over his lips. “It’s a nice nose.” 

He presses up, bestowing the lightest, airiest kiss on them, and she giggles. She’s so sleepy and content, breathless exultation thrumming in her chest 

Dickmatised, she thinks, and it should be scathing, but there’s no room for negative emotions here. They’d fucked it all out, leaving tenderness in its wake. 

She’s physically exhausted, mentally and emotionally satisfied. Laying here, purring under his regard, while big hands massage her belly, cup and caress her. 

“I hope she’ll look like you.” 

Osha blinks down at him, his liquid-dark eyes shining up at her. His face is flushed and sweaty, same as hers, but there’s something shifting under the surface. Some complex cocktail of emotions.  

“Why do you think that?” she asks hoarsely. There’s something in the way he’s looking at her… 

Her heart pounds harder, a bud of affection blooming in her. She doesn’t have the heart to stamp it out, this time. She worries her lip with her teeth, stilling when Qimir reaches up to cradle her cheek. 

“Because you're—”. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” he slides down, burrowing his face into her hip, strangely reticent. 

She tries again, “I'm what, Qimir?” 

“Easy to love.” 

And it takes her breath away, this admission. It bubbles in her chest, balls up in her throat, tears welling in her eyes.  

“Oh,” she whispers. No one has… 

No one’s really told her they love her for so many years, aside from Mae. And that was different, they’d been bound at birth to follow each other; first Mae, then Osha. Their mothers had, of course, but it’s been so long; it’s hard to recall the cadence and texture of their voices, the voiced ‘I love you’s seeming thin and insubstantial.  

No one’s told her she was ‘easy’ to love, either. It never has been easy with anyone else. 

Osha struggles to find an adequate reply, to express the raging knot of emotion in her chest, the silence stretching on and on. She can sense Qimir start to recede in on himself, like a turtle, but she clutches a handful of hair, arresting his momentum, trying to claw that intimacy and vulnerability back. 

“Don’t,” she begs, stroking the soft hair. Because he had been vulnerable with her, just now, showing her the face of a man she’d only seen in glimpses, before. She’s eager to know him better. 

Don’t go, not when we were getting somewhere. Talk to me.  

“I’m just…” 

She trails off, fingers scrunching his hair, scratching his nails in his scalp.  

Qimir doesn’t retreat again, but neither does he open up to the same degree. Wary of giving too much and not having it reciprocated, perhaps? Caught in a holding pattern, not moving forward or going back to the same breezy casualness as before. 

Still, it doesn’t erase the fact that this, that they, aren’t anything permanent. She’d spurned his piss-weak proposal, not that he’d done it properly in the first place. She doesn’t know if he’d really meant it; he’s not exactly known for being reliable, or even a good partner.  

Even if he’s showing a different side to himself now, it could just be temporary, a way of lulling her into a false sense of security and rendering her vulnerable to his machinations. 

But really, that same voice chides her, now scornful. Did you really think that would be enough for him?  

He's obsessed with her. She has to acknowledge the depth of that, the enormity of that sentiment. Not just with baby, but her as well. There’s something worrying about that obsession, the strength of his emotions, the techniques he uses to cope with them, but she’s too tired for all of that.  

It’s a tomorrow problem. 

The moon shines down on them, keeping their secrets, and she needs all the rest she can get. 

Chapter Text

Osha never accompanies Qimir to the airport. She's had enough of seeing people walk out of her life. 

Abandonment issues, inseparable from her people-pleasing complex. If she's good enough, really, really good, then people won't leave her like they have in the past. It's all bullshit, of course, but she's working on it. 

Qimir was the kind of person that she wasn't worried about pleasing, thus, didn’t give a shit that he'd fly away every summer and winter back to college. 

(Maybe she'd known, even then, that she'd be the one to leave semi-permanently. That she'd be the one to abandon him. Maybe even that he'd come back, if called, which is why she never made contact). 

The point being, Osha doesn't need the damning reminder that he's not hers. They don't have that kind of relationship. 

(They could, though, the little devil tells her. You could be his.) 

But would he be hers? 

There's something frightening about the thought of commitment, with Qimir. Something that paralyses her, makes her brush him off with a laugh. 

He never used to affect her like this. Maybe it's the baby. Maybe it's these tender and mewling feelings. 

Maybe it's Maybelline, who gives a fuck. 

She’d been coaxed into taking Friday off, claiming that she had a massive headache and couldn’t concentrate on the laptop screen. Normally, Fennec would give anyone shit for trying to duck out after a drinking night, but she knows Osha. 

Maybe not as good as she thinks, because while her colleagues are dealing with clients and statutes, she’s getting the railing of her life. 

All they do is eat and fuck. It’d be mortifying if she wasn’t filled with hunger for Qimir at all hours of the day, taking her fill of him while she can. 

There’s not enough time to feel shame or self-conscious; she’s too busy debasing herself, moaning for his dick. 

At one point, after two consecutive rounds of doggy, Osha asks him whether he’s bored of fucking in only two or three positions. 

She wonders whether it’s getting repetitive? Should they switch it up? 

She tries to catch her breath, mouth open and panting like a dog, crushed by his weight and still clinging to her metal headboard for dear life. She flexes her fingers, shit that hurts, while she waits for his response. 

Osha is very aware of the breadth of his experiences as a manwhore and former campus slut, had enjoyed the fruits of his experience. 

There’s a waft of cold air against her back as he distances himself, and she feels a jolt of panic spear through her before he slaps the side of her thigh with an open palm.  

Hard. 

"Ow, assh—" 

"Are you kidding?" he talks over her. "I get the best view in the world." 

At that, Osha settles down, mollified. If he says it's not a problem, then it's not a problem.  

Qimir resumes acting as her personal heater, leaving not a single gap between their bodies and curving his arm under her belly. 

Osha feels secure, held in place. Small, encircled in his embrace. 

They breath in sync, and soon their heartbeats slow to match other as well. Apostrophes nestled into each other.  

She smells sweat, the musk of their bodies and fluids, the faint cotton-flower scent of her recently washed sheets, and the tantalising whiff of Qimir’s perfume.  

It’s so easy to get lost in him, to allow herself to get lost. In his eyes, his hands, his body. 

Friday passes too easily, time slipping like water between her hands, and so does Saturday. They don’t talk about their feelings, about all the heavy things hanging over their heads.  

Qimir’s on the same wavelength as her, which is to just enjoy the time they have left together, for now. Before he has to leave again. 

They venture out for a trip on Saturday, to the local organic grocer, because Qimir has standards, even if Osha insists on filling the cart with her sugary cereal. 

They argue over silly things, like the nutritional value of potatoes versus sweet potato, and Who the fuck even eats sweet potato fries, Qimir?  

“Me,” he’d said simply, and she’d rolled her eyes and let him have at it. 

He’d assembled her a smashed patty cheeseburger when they’d gotten home, accompanied by crispy oven-baked sweet potato fries. A healthy twist on a fast-food favourite. 

He’d cooked that night as well; vodka penne, spicy and salty and delicious, accompanied with grilled chicken, because she needs her protein. 

“I could get used to eating like this,” she’d sighed, putting her feet up in Qimir’s lap after eating, rubbing her rounded belly. She’s so full she could just burst. 

“You know what you have to do, to get that,” he’d said, slyly referencing his shitty proposal from last week. 

Yet, she’d been too sated and satisfied to act annoyed. 

“And I told you,” she’d shoved her toes into his ribs, and he jerked. “To do better next time.” 

He’d huffed, but had leaned down to kiss her toes, and things had devolved from there. 

And that brings her to here. Sunday morning. 

Their final day together. 

After a breakfast of ricotta and blueberry pancakes, he slides a sleek black card onto the counter, small and rectangular. When she picks it up, it’s still new and shiny, CVV yet to be scratched off. 

“What’s this?” she asks, even though she knows what a fucking credit card looks like. 

Qimir tuts, like it’s beneath her to even be inquiring. He leans against the counter, dressed in a fresh black tee, still indecently tight, and loose black joggers. He’s barefoot like her. 

“You know exactly what it is, baby. Go on and tuck it into your bag, you’ll be using it a lot from now on.” 

Uh, the fuck she will. Her hackles raise, defences instantly engaging. 

Osha has her own damn money; she doesn’t need to go mooching off him. She makes a respectable amount as an attorney, and she could splurge if she really wanted to. 

Her practicality and pragmatism wars with her instinctual urge to throw him the metaphorical bird. That same devil tells her to use it, use him.  

The angel tells her that she’s better than this, that she doesn’t need handouts from Qimir. 

Or maybe they’re both devils. 

She grinds her teeth, truly fearing for her molars at this point. “And what if I don’t?”  

Osha’s very impressed by the absence of hostility in her tone, but Qimir picks up on her mood, regardless. 

“Then you’ll be hearing from me,” he says, very mildly, and how does that sound so threatening. 

Osha crosses her arms over her chest, the cami she’s wearing sliding up slightly over her belly with the motion. Qimir’s eyes catch and fixate there, on the bottom curve. He bites his lip. 

“You can’t make me,” she insists, and why is she still fighting it? If he’d acted like less of a smug dick about it, she could maybe consider it... 

Let him go, give your blood pressure a break.  

He steps closer, her ring glinting dully from his thumb. It finds its way to her mouth, indenting her bottom lip. The edge of it is cold on her chin, a heavy press. 

“I think you’ll find,” he ducks down, breathing over her neck, “that I can be very persuasive.” 

Her own breaths are embarrassingly heavy, just the scent and heat and presence of him enough to get her wet. God, she hates it but she craves him so badly. The prospect of another week without him makes her want to dig her nails into his back until she draws blood. 

Not that she hasn’t already. Qimir had whistled with glee this morning when he’d taken a look over his shoulders in the mirror, post a round of shower sex. After she’d woken him up by slobbering all over his dick, then riding him into the mattress. 

“Insatiable, doll,” he’d grinned, and she’d been unable to deny his words, because her eyes had been riveted to the droplets of water sliding down his broad back, his slim waist, all the way down to his ass, small and pert. There’d been claw marks there, too, from when she’d urged him deeper, harder.  

“I look like I’ve been ravaged,” he’d said with relish, and she’d rolled her eyes and stomped away.  

Not to be outdone, he’d followed her, cock half-hard, a line against her lower back when he’d grabbed her arm, spun her around and caged her figure against his bulk. 

Fuck, fuck. She needs to stop thinking about it right the fuck now, because she’s just darted out her tongue to lick over the tip of his thumb. 

Qimir’s pupils expand, eating up the deep brown of his iris. 

“There she is,” he husks. “Come out and play, Osha.”

“You’re leaving,” she grits out, holding herself very still. She’s not going to sway towards him, like some weak-kneed damsel. She locks her legs and straightens her back, and he drops his hand. 

“That I am,” he agrees. “Loose ends to tie up and all.” 

So, it’s not because she rejected his shitass proposal? 

He puts his thumb in his mouth, like he’s savouring her spit. Fucking gross. 

“That sounds,” she gropes around for a distraction, “You sound like an assassin. ‘Loose ends’ headass…” 

Qimir only smiles enigmatically, smirk pulling up one edge of his mouth, eyes twinkling manically. The dimple on his left cheek stands out in stark relief, his fringe falling forward before he slicks it back with a careless hand. Most of it is tied back, but it still finds ways to escape. 

“You wish you were an assassin,” Osha adds meanly, rolling her eyes and moving away from him. She’s craving a berry smoothie, even though he’d cooked them a very lovely breakfast of buttermilk pancakes with berry compote and whipped cream.

"Now Osha, why would I tell you if I was?" 

She ignores him, moving to take her Vitamix out of a high cupboard, but Qimir beats her to it, taking the appliance out smoothly, not a single sign of strain on his face as he lifts it off the shelf and sets it down near the power socket on the counter. 

“I can do it without you, you know,” she reminds him, peeved. His hands find their way to her expanded waist, fingers creeping under her cami, stroking over her skin, teasing the sensitive skin of the lower curve of her stomach.. 

“But you don’t have to.”  

His voice is so low and rough, raising goosebumps all over her body. She shivers audibly, canting her hips back. 

Of course, he can’t miss an opportunity to fuck with her. He blows over her neck and she lets out an involuntarily squeal, swinging her head to glare at him. 

Ruin the moment, why don’t you?  

Osha tolerates him clinging to her while she makes her smoothie, limping around the kitchen. He’s not obstructing her but he is making his presence known.  

She’s tempted to shove him off, but he must be feeling it too: the pending ache of separation. The clock on her wall ticking and the time they had to spend with each other winding down. 

They end up on the couch, Osha sucking her smoothie out of a lidded cup while Qimir lays his head in her lap, his limbs akimbo. He bestows a lingering kiss to the skin exposed by her cami, and her heart flutters. 

And... other things too. 

No, not the time. He still hasn’t told her what time his damn flight is, so she’s going by his cues. If he wants to laze around stroking her belly, so be it. 

Osha scrolls through Netflix looking for something to watch, before she settles on The Princess Bride. Qimir makes an interested noise at that, because of course he knows her old favourite. 

Sha settles back into the couch while the opening credits play, wedging the TV remote between the arm and her thigh, before burying her free hand in Qimir’s hair. 

He nuzzles her leg as she strokes his locks idly, quickly engrossed in the story. Throughout it all, she can feel Qimir’s eyes on her, drinking in her reactions. 

She mouths the lines as they come, laughs softly at the appropriate moments, gasps even though she knows the twist, cheers softly when the two lovers are reunited and know each other for who they truly are, her eyes wet as the couple share a passionate kiss. 

“That’ll be us one day,” Qimir says softly, as the movie ends, credits rolling. 

Osha arches her eyebrow down at him, tilting her head in question. 

“Not the sick kid,” he quickly corrects, “but... us. Telling bedtime stories. Tucking her in.” 

Her. As in, their daughter. 

As if summoned, the little bundle of joy inside her belly wiggles around in happiness, as if to say, Yes, that’s me! 

“So, you’ve already nominated yourself for bedtime duty?” 

He shifts his entire body, orienting his face towards her belly, precariously balancing his head on her legs. He bestows a series of kisses on her belly, horizontally then vertically, brazenly kissing his way up to her tits, supporting his body on the hand braced on the couch arm, levering himself upright. 

“Who else, baby? I’d want you getting yourself ready for me while I tuck our babygirl in. And then…” 

He swoops down, yanking the neck of the tee down and kissing all over her chest. She giggles and pushes him away. 

“You play too much!” 

“I play exactly the right amount, baby,” he lifts his head up, smiling right at her, and it takes her breath away. “You love it.” 

God help her, she does. 

Her heart clenches, to have him here, so close yet so far. He smells divine, looks divine. Like he’s been made just for her. 

Yet, she’s placed that distance there herself, all in the name of safeguarding her vulnerable parts.  

“I,” she stutters, unable to continue this game. It’s turned a little too serious. “I—” 

“It’s alright,” he coos, nosing her collarbone, hot breath brushing her neck. “You don’t have to say it. I already know.” 

What do you know? she wants to scream. He’s so frustratingly opaque, sometimes, speaking in riddles and circles all around her. How can he know something that she’s barely begun to acknowledge herself? 

“We have all the time,” he continues, then sinks his teeth into her shoulder. Osha’s leg kicks out instinctively, almost kneeing Qimir in the groin, and he grunts, then laughs breathlessly.  

“Oh, so that’s how you want to do it?” 

He slinks down her body, nipping at her thighs, then hauls her legs up. 

“Hey—!”  

“Come on, play along with daddy,” he husks, and her face flames, her body jerking in his grip.  

“Fuck you,” she spits, but then he’s turning her over like a rotisserie chicken, until she’s on her hands and knees, sinking into the couch, ass shoved in his face. She’s dizzy with lust, clutching the couch arm for dear life. 

“Thank you for the instruction, doll. I’ll take it into consideration.” 

Qimir pants all over her backside, kneading her cheeks over her miniscule cotton shorts, rubbing his upper lip over the crease between her ass and thighs, darting his tongue out in little licks. He inhales, like a freak, and groans. 

“Fuck, baby.” 

And she’s a little embarrassed, because she can feel how utterly soaked she is, and now he can see it too, and likely smell it. It’s undeniable, the scent of her arousal, blooming in the air. 

He continues sniffing and nosing around, even after she jiggles her ass in his face. He idly squeezes her left cheek, humming, 

“Do you need something, Osha?” 

She sighs gustily. It’s never so simple with him, is it? Her mouth stays closed, stubborn to the end. 

“Come on, tell daddy what you need.” 

She makes an inarticulate noise, hips jerking back. 

“It gets you so hot, doesn’t it? Don’t lie to me. I can see you,” he nudges the gusset of her panties, right over her entrance, and she whimpers. “And feel you.” 

“So come on, be honest. You want this.” 

She breaks, messily, shattering to pieces in his hands, hoping he can hold onto her. She ducks her head down, whispering, 

“I do.” 

“You what, baby?” 

Fuck, he wants her to say it louder. To enunciate. 

“I want it!” she damn near yells, lungs heaving as she gulps a breath down. “I want you,” she finishes, much quieter now. 

“Now,” he yanks the waistband of her shorts down to her knees, then draws her panties to one side. “Was that so hard?” 

He licks his broadly from clit to taint and she squeals, squirming in his hold. He’s got her hips clasped tight, spreading her cheeks with his thumbs as he slobbers over her, messily eating her out. 

“Qimir!”  

“Fuck, baby. Sounds so good when you moan my name.” 

She practically shoves her ass in his face, whining that he’s daring to remove his mouth just to yap at her. 

“Qimir,” she says again, in warning this time. 

“Alright, alright,” he nips at her inner thigh. “Bossy.” 

I’ll show you bossy, ass.  

She opens her mouth to speak, but then her eyes slam shut and she’s moaning gutturally as he flicks her engorged clit with his tongue, then darts it in and out of her entrance, teasing her. Her cunt flutters around the minor intrusion, electric shocks winding through her at the feeling. 

She digs her face into her arms, panting into the skin and muffling herself as Qimir grunts like he’s tasting the best drink in the world.  

But then he’s drawing back, unlatching his mouth from her pussy and blowing cool air over the heated flesh. 

“Fuck,” she slurs, blinking stupidly and head spinning from all the blood that’s rushed down south. Her cunt pulses like a second heartbeat.  

“What the fuck?” 

“What did I say,” Qimir smoothes a hand over her ass cheek, then jiggles it harshly. “About muffling your sounds? They belong to me. You belong to me.” 

“I don’t—” 

“Stop,” a sharp slap to her ass, and she yelps indignantly, “denying it.” 

Her chest heaves, her mind wiped clean completely as he spanks her a few more times, until she’s leaking down her thigh. 

He coos when he sees it, swiping his fingers through the mess, murmuring and praising her. 

"So fucking wet, always so wet for me." 

He circles her clit once, twice, then leaves her aching as he fiddles with his sweats. The rustle of fabric being pulled off and down, and then he’s tapping the head of his cock on her ass, a shocking spot of heat. He’s so hot, his dick so hard as it slides through her folds, long and thick. 

“Yes,” she hisses, rocking her hips back. “Fuck me, fuck me.” 

“Not until you say you belong to me.” 

Osha throws her head back. “Come on,” she protests, but he’s not having it, even when she undulates her hips, trying to entice him. 

“You know what I want,” he husks. 

She strains her neck to look back and up, and he’s staring down darkly, hair hanging over his face, pink mouth pressed into a firm line. He’d taken his shirt off, too, and he looks so massive looming above her, his shoulders so broad, his arms starkly defined by the afternoon sun shining through the windows. His chest is gleaming golden, practically shimmering.  

If it weren’t for the expression on his visage, he’d be right out of a magazine editorial. 

Her eyes drift lower, to his hands, but her ass obscures the view of his cock. She tries at widening her eyes, pushing out her bottom lip. She’s sure she looks half fucked-out already, cheeks hot with a heavy flush. Not helped by the bright sun pouring through the windows.  

“Pretty please?” she asks, beseeching. She’s really laying it on thick. 

His nostrils flare, mandible flexing as he works his jaw, then spits out, “No.” 

Well, it was good for a try. 

How bad does she want it? 

Osha contemplates this as her clit continues to throb, slick wet between her thighs. 

Really, really bad, it turns out. Logic and reason are dangling out the window, the demons whispering to her that it wouldn’t be so bad, would it?  

“I’m waiting,” he taunts. 

Fucking fine.  

“Say you’re mine, first,” she counters, because this shit goes both ways. It’s not just one-sided possession; she fucking owns him as well. 

“I’m yours, Osha,” he leans down, bending so that his mouth is by her ear. “I’ve always been.” 

Her heart skips a bit, chest tightening like a heavy weight is resting on it, her stomach swooping, and she blames it on the baby even though she’s ninety percent sure that she’d asleep right now while her parents get busy. 

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

Osha’s shoulders touch her ears as she lifts them up in a shrug. 

“It’s… adequate.” 

“Good,” then he draws back, slapping her on the ass again, this time with a closed palm, so it has an extra sting. “Now, it's your turn” 

“I…” she struggles with it, resting her cheek on her arm, unable to make eye contact with him as she says it. “I’m—” 

“Exact wording, Osha,” he rasps, slicking his cock once again. She moans and clenches down on nothing at the motion, the reminder of what she’s missing out on. 

So, she grits her teeth and stomps on her pride. She’ll get a reward at the end of this humiliation. 

“I… I belong with you.” 

“Good girl.” 

He’s all indolent satisfaction, the cat that got the canary. 

Annoyance flares in her chest, despite Qimir overlooking that she hadn’t followed his instructions exactly. She’s not a girl.

You know what? Fuck hi— 

“Ah,” she whines sharply. “Ah, fuck.”  

She moans as he nudges into her, the head of his dick stretching her open. 

"Shit, baby," 

Osha's reduced to sharp, breathy sighs, folding her body down until her cheeks are pressed to her forearms, a throw pillow slid under her hips to cradle her belly. Despite how slick he gets her, how long he spends fucking her with his tongue and fingers, the first few inches are always a bit of a struggle, only for how long it's been between fucks. 

He loosens her up over the weekend, only to start over again the next week. It's no hardship, because she loves it; the first few thrusts, shallow, then deeper with every push, until he's practically gliding into her, eased by the copious slick she's leaking, smeared on her ass, trickling down her thighs. 

He slams into her with fleshy slaps of his hips, balls slapping her swollen clit, and the impact jolts her forward, shoving her face into the couch. She lifts her head up, letting the sounds flow free. 

It's so good, it's so fucking good. The smooth drag of him inside her, her walls clutching at him like she can't bear to let him go, his tight grip on her waist, controlling her body, rocking her back onto his cock.  

He rubs against her G-spot every time he presses inside, heightening the pressure winding between her thighs, driving her higher, higher.  

Sweat beads on her chest, her back, rolling down in droplets as she gasps. Her cheeks flush hot, the heat spreading down to her chest, her peaked nipples rubbing against her cami, her back arching as he pounds her pussy. 

She turns her head to the side, whines, "Harder, harder— fuck. Fuck me," and gets exactly what she asked for. 

Qimir picks up the pace, rolling his hips into her expertly, fucking her fast and sloppy, her cunt utterly soaked for him. 

"You're getting close, baby, I can feel it. Come on," he croons, lifting a hand from her hips to reach around her front, sliding his fingers down to her slippery clit. "Come for me." 

She jerks and shudders, convulsing on his cock as he plays with her clit, rubbing it fiercely, back and forth, back and forth— 

"Fuck!" she screams, warmth unspooling in her, her cunt fluttering desperately. "Fuck me, fuck, fuuuck—" 

It breaks like a wave over her, pure bliss and euphoria saturating her body, her pussy pulsing and clenching as she comes and comes, stretching on forever.  

It's so strong that she starts cramping, clamping down on Qimir and he hisses, hunching over her until his chest is plastered to her back, delivering deep, punctuated thrusts.  

“You’re mine, Osha,” he growls into her ear, setting his teeth into the sensitive tips of her ears. “Mine, mine, mine.” 

She moans wordlessly, whether in protest or agreement she doesn’t know, just that she needs. 

“Come—,” she whines, fucking her hips back. “Come in me, please, please.” 

He lets out a wheezing noise, like he’s being strangled, and she wants to giggle at the absurdity of it even as she tightens around his cock, pulsing and throbbing inside her, filling her up with a loud of cum. 

“Mine,” he says one last time, biting into the round of her right shoulder, as he always does. His resting place. 

Sweat slides between them, drying tacky as they pant in unison, breathing heavily and coming down from the high together.  

Qimir peppers soft, sweet kisses all over her shoulders, over her locs, the back of her neck. She finds herself sighing dreamily, melting into the couch, before she catches herself. 

“You’re heavy,” she grumbles in faux displeasure, shifting back against him. He’s still lodged firmly inside her. “Get off.” 

“No,” he says simply, then bites down again, harder. 

She squeals but he soothes the hurt with his tongue, swirling round and round, until she’s clenching around him rhythmically, pull and release. 

“I told you, you’re insatiable,” Qimir rumbles, all smug satisfaction. 

“And I told you,” she throws her head back, almost bashing Qimir’s nose in, “to get off of me.” 

“What was that?” he tugs at her locs, eliciting a jerk of her hips. “Get you off? I can do that, certainly.” 

“Qimir!” she whines, yet the wave of slick that leaks out of her belies her protests. They’re empty, hollow, lacking conviction. 

Just like her. Because she’ll fold for him, any day of the week. Bend over for him and show him her neck, let him sink his teeth into her vulnerable, tender spots.  

Her hips ache from being pounded hard to orgasm, but she still allows him to manoeuvre her onto her side, one firm hand cupping the bottom of her belly as he spreads her thighs, hooking one leg over his own to open her up. 

Somehow, he doesn’t pull out. Some kind of tantric sex magic or whatever, that keeps him hard and still stuffed in her pussy. He urges her hand into his hair, the other arm supporting her weight on the couch.  

Her core twinges, sore from being abused all weekend, yet the pain adds an edge to her pleasure, limns it in silver like sunlight around a cloud.  

He slides out, until only the tip is still sheathed, then snaps his hips up. 

Osha sobs, inundated with pleasure, the sweet bliss of him filling her up, the intense cramping ecstasy, the stars that shoot through her blood and rocket all through her body. 

It’s good, it’s so fucking good, and she can’t get enough. She’ll never get enough. 

She doesn’t realise she’s moaning it until Qimir chuckles harshly. 

“No one does it like me, do they?” 

Jesus, the fucking ego on this guy. 

Yet, she can’t refute him. He’s stroking through the evidence of her desire, her pussy quivering around him as he slams into her relentlessly. She moans wordlessly, reedy breaths rattling her chest, mouth dry. 

“I always hit it right. Come on,” he drawls, “say it, fuck.” 

He thrusts deep and stays there, grinding while simultaneously pressing down on her pubic bone.  

Osha cries out as she tightens around Qimir, a supernova building, building, about to burst. Her cunt makes wet, sloppy sounds as he shifts, withdrawing achingly slowly, before gliding back in.  

She flutters around him, climax rapidly approaching, before giving in. 

“No one else, baby. No— fuck, fuck me, right there, there!” 

She convulses around his dick, gripping him tight as he groans, her hold on his hair turning punishing. She tugs rhythmically as she pulses and throbs, undulating her hips to ride out the orgasm. She trembles and twitches through the aftershocks. 

Qimir’s hips speed up, his length plunging into her roughly as he uses her pussy to get off.  

“Fill me up,” Osha pants, nosing around until her mouth finds his. They pant into each other’s mouths, exchanging breaths, as Osha pleads, 

“Come in me, daddy.” 

“Shit,” he growls, his entire frame quivering behind her as his voice pitches low and gravel-rough. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, baby.”  

“Yeah,” she whimpers, feeling his dick jerk in her, wet heat blooming. “That’s it.” 

Their lips meet again, messy and uncoordinated, basically slobbering over each other. Spit smears on her chin, the scent of sex surrounds them, musky and animal. 

Her couch is likely irreversibly stained. Like, she might have to buy a new one after this. Preferably leather. 

They lay there, winded, truly wrung after two rounds of back-to-back, mind-blowing sex. If she wasn’t so filthy, she’d fall asleep right here, buck naked. 

Oh God, her fucking neighbours across the road. 

Osha groans, presses her fingertips against her closed lids. 

She just gave them eyeful and then some. Pornstar worthy angles. She should start charging, fuck. 

“What’s wrong?” Qimir mutters, once again nuzzling all over her locs, as if he can’t get enough of her smell. Just as caught up in her as she is with him. 

She ignores the way her heartbeat stutters momentarily, answering his question. 

“Well,” she unwinds her fingers from his dark locs, a few strands sticking to her sweaty palm. “We just gave my entire street a fucking show.” 

“Mmm,” he hums, the vibration of it rumbling against her back. “Good. Now they know who you belong to.” 

Still on this bullshit, Jesus fuck.  

Osha grabs a fistful of his hair again, jerking hard. Qimir squawks, like an outraged ostrich. 

“How many times,” she growls, “do I have to fucking say it? I belong. To. Myself.” 

She cranes her neck to glare at him, her shoulder twinging. “No one is trying to make any moves. There’s no need for that alpha-male bullshit.” 

Qimir tsks.  

“You don’t know guys,” he says, still running his mouth even though she has him held tight in the palm of her hand. “They all want one th—" 

“Then trust me!” she near-shrieks. “Fucking have some faith in me! How fucking hard is that?” 

Qimir whinges, high-pitched, as he rubs his face all over her shoulder. Like a toddler with a snotty nose. 

“I do trust you,” he mutters begrudgingly. “it’s other men—" 

She interrupts him again. 

“Then, trust that I can take of myself. I did it for all these years, didn’t i?” 

He’s struck silent by the reminder of their years-long separation. 

She feels a little guilty for bringing it up, but also, fuck him. He knows what he did to force her hand. 

“Where’s that bracelet I bought you?” 

Osha’s head spins with the subject change. He’s all cool and casual now, an abrupt 180 from the childish behaviour he’d been displaying mere seconds ago.  

She doesn’t know how he can act so blasé with his dick still buried in her, balls-deep. 

“Uhhh,” she stalls, trying to recall which goddamn bracelet he’s referring to. 

“The one I got you for Christmas, doll.” 

Ugh. 

“You mean, the matching one with Mae? Because you bought your girlfriend, my twin, and your sister the exact same fucking gift?” 

“That’s the one,” he says, guilelessly. Like butter couldn’t melt in his goddamn mouth. 

You know what? She needs to be upright for this. Unfortunately, her leg is kind of stuck in the air, because her hip has gone all stiff. She can’t bring it down. 

“A little help here,” she grumbles, waggling her leg. 

Qimir generously pushes it down, and once it hits the cushion, Osha takes that opportunity to launch herself up.  

Well, as fast as one can ‘launch’ themselves when they’re hauling a pregnancy belly around. Osha grimaces at the drip of cum down her leg, a veritable flood. 

She pushes Qimir flat on the couch with a hand to his (muscled, biteable) chest, and he goes pliantly. She’s not going to think about how sexy that is.  

“Listen,” she towers over him, imperious. “I don’t know where it is. You’re welcome to try looking—” 

“Shouldn’t be too hard, in this space,” he raises his eyebrows and looks around meaningfully.  

She growls at the shade towards her apartment.  

“As I was saying, you’re welcome to look. I just don’t care for it.” 

Qimir’s eyes twinkle, and Osha just knows he’s about to spout some bullshit. 

“You know,” he says slyly, “Mae gave the bracelet back to me. So really, you’re not matching with anyone now.” 

She narrows her gaze at him, forehead scrunching, then blows a raspberry. 

“Do what you want,” she huffs, before standing upright and strolling away. She needs a shower, like, yesterday. 

Qimir doesn’t join her in the bathroom, where Osha pees and wipes first before hopping in the shower stall. She hums tunelessly as she grabs her washcloth and wets it, then lathers up with her body wash. The scent of rose petals caresses her nose delicately. 

Faintly, in the distance, she can hear Qimir rummaging around in her closet. Good luck to him, it’s a mess in there with her newly hung maternity clothes and her old clothes stashed in storage bags. 

She takes her time in the shower, cleaning herself from head to toe and treating the area between her legs with extra care. She’s tender and aching, so she cups her lower lips gingerly, allowing lukewarm water to run between her crack and wash Qimir’s cum away. 

The warm water helps ease the soreness, and she feels like a new woman when she steps out of the shower, reaching for her fluffy towel to wipe down. 

She hangs up the towel once she’s done, exiting the bathroom in a cloud of steam. It perfumes the room, and she carries the fragrance with her as she rubs cocoa butter into her skin.  

Osha starts with her forearms and shoulders, but by the time she reaches her chest, Qimir has emerged from the depth of her closet with ruffled hair and a triumphant grin. 

“Save it,” she holds up her hand in warning, gesturing to her tub of lotion. “I want to relax.” 

His eyes widen and he races to her side, taking the tub in hand. 

“Let me,” he says fervently, and she takes a seat on the bed. 

Her knees fall apart in invitation, and he drops right down, kneeling between her legs. He’s eager to grope and paw at her, panting like a puppy. She half-expects his tongue to loll out and for him to start drooling. 

He sits up straight as she waves her hand over her breasts. “Have at it,” she says blandly, and he rushes to comply. 

God, his hands feel good. Just the right pressure, just the perfect amount of force in those hands as he massages lotion into her tits, using both hands to grab at each side. 

He rolls her nipples between his index and middle fingers and she moans, bracing herself on her hands. She’s tempted to let her head fall back in rapture, but she can’t show her weakness too early, despite the tingles running through her and the goosebumps rising all over. 

Osha’s wet again by the time he reaches her hips, smoothing his hands down her back, face buried in her stomach.  

“Up, baby,” he urges her, so he can paw over her behind, smearing the lotion over her ass cheeks.  

He dips down briefly, cheekily, and groans lustily when he finds her slippery. She quivers, knees weak. 

“All this for me?”  

He glances up at her, cheeks flushed, eye half-mast, looking cuntstruck as all out. Properly pussy-whipped. 

She strokes his knife-sharp cheekbones, fingering the blush there, tracing it down to the half-grin stretching his face, and his pointy chin. 

“Don’t get cocky,” she husks, taking his chin between her thumb and forefinger firmly. “You think you’re so good.” 

His eyes flutter shut at that and his pretty pink lips drop open. Osha shudders, overcome by the realisation. 

“Oh, you like that?”  

She continues stroking his chin, touch soft, before she jerks it up. 

The tendons in his golden neck stand up as he strains upwards.  

“Well, you're not," she says harshly, "unless you make me fucking come." 

Oh, how the tables turn. 

He swears throatily and buries his face between her thighs. Her legs threaten to give out but she stands firm, holding onto his hair. 

At this rate, with how she’s pulling it, he’s either going to lose his hair completely or at least have a conspicuous bald patch. She doesn’t give a fuck, as long as he keeps licking her like that, thrusting his tongue between her folds, nudging against her clit. 

He’s eating his cum out of her, and fuck, that’s so goddamn hot. 

“Yeah,” she mewls, high pitched. Her thighs wobbles and Qimir notices, crawling forward and seating her ass on the bed. 

She warbles gratefully as she spreads her legs wide open, resting her shins on his shoulders, her knees wide. 

“Oh, fuck! Jesus Christ!” 

He’s sucking her clit like a goddamn vacuum, varying the pressure, driving her utterly fucking insane. She can’t even count the number of orgasms she’s had today, and she can’t believe she’s almost at the precipice of another one so soon, Qimir’s magic hands coaxing her to a state of heightened arousal. 

“Qimir!” she screams his name as she humps her hips up, riding his face. “Qimir— fuck, Qimir!” 

Her peak barrels into her with all the force of a raging bull, shocking her with its strength. It rolls over her in waves, like she’s being battered by furious waters. She’s barely keeping her head above water, gasping and wheezing. 

Qimir continues teasing her with his tongue, drawing out her orgasm and edging into the realm of overstimulation as he keeps working his jaw rhythmically. 

“No, ‘nough,” she moans weakly, pushing at his forehead, and he gets the message. His mouth unlatches with a wet pop, and cold air rushes in, chilling her. 

“Did I do good?” his voice comes out small, dreamy. She peeks down to see that he’s blown all over himself, cum streaking his abs. 

Osha laughs breathlessly. 

“You did very good for mommy.” 

His eyes fall shut and he leans his head against her right thigh, blissed out, lips and chin and nose shiny with her arousal. 

Jesus fucking Christ they’re so fucked up. 

But she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“C’mere,” she mumbles, slapping his shoulder, urging him up onto the bed. She shifts back, hauling her orgasm-drowsy body up the mattress, until her head lands somewhere vaguely in the vicinity of the pillows. Qimir follows. 

She thinks they’re diagonal, because her feet are almost hanging off the bed, and Qimir’s definitely are, but neither of them care. 

Osha shivers, caught up in the post-climax hormone-drop, and Qimir swiftly drags the throw over them, nestling against her body. He’s nuzzling her like the housecat he is, rubbing her slick all over her skin. Gross. 

It would be nice to keep him, she thinks sluggishly, but he’s more of a Tomcat. He loves to roam, needs his freedom. 

She should neuter him. 

Osha laughs quietly at that thought, and Qimir nudges her chin with his nose. 

“What’s so funny?” he asks, hushed. There’s a fetching red flush riding high on his cheekbones, knife-sharp. His eyes are half-lidded and languid, his body loose-limbed and languorous. 

“Nothing,” Osha replies, blinking slowly, and then she’s out like a light, the tide of sleep dragging her under.

Osha wakes to an empty bed and curses herself for having fallen victim to a nap. She smooths her hands over the sheets, and while they’ve cooled down, they still carry a hint of his scent. 

She doesn’t have to fear, though. Qimir’s still here.  

He’s humming in the bathroom, some soft made-up tune. He has a nice voice, smoky and low. It mingles with the sound of his toilette, rummaging between various products. 

She’s almost tempted to go back to the land of nod, but she forces herself to stay awake, slapping her cheeks.  

Osha levers herself upright and sits on the bed, against the headboard, propped up by a mountain of pillow. 

She sees Qimir right as he exits the bathroom, dewy from the shower, hair slicked back with water and clad in only a pair of black boxer-briefs. She hopes they’re clean. 

“Oh, you’re awake.” 

He smiles at seeing her upright, and she realises too late that she’s still naked. Oh, well. Nothing he hasn’t seen before. 

“Great observation skills,” Osha says huskily, not without a bit of sass. 

She watches sleepily from the bed as Qimir dresses himself. She must have a micro-nap, because he wakes her up with a gentle shake, his eyes too soft for her to bear looking at for too long. 

He’s dressed in all-black now: a button-up shirt and crisp trousers that he’d ironed to perfection earlier that morning.  

It’ll no doubt get wrinkled to hell and back on the flight, but he clearly has no worries about that. He probably has an entire wardrobe full of pressed shirts and suits to choose from. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, half-crawling onto the bed and kissing her tenderly on the mouth. Just a press of his lips, but she chases it, opens her mouth lazily. 

They breathe through their noses as they exchange a few more kisses, just soaking in the feel of each other.  

Osha traces his clothed shoulders, down his chest and over his abdominals, tracing the zipper of his trousers, palming him a little. 

Qimir moans and draws back, eyes clouded with desire. 

“Insatiable,” he emphasises, cocking a smirk at her. 

Osha pouts and huffs, inching her legs off the bed so she can scoot to the floor, then stands up, towering over him. 

He buries his face in her belly, kissing all over the skin. It hums through her, a sensation like she’s soaring. Her breath hitches as he stares at her stomach adoringly, at their daughter flailing her way inside her. 

“Can you feel her?” Osha, feeling a particularly strong movement inside her. It feels like bub is squeezing her bladder. 

“Not yet,” he whispers, like this occasion is something holy, only to be spoken of in low tones. 

“Soon,” Osha promises, feathering a hand over Qimir’s wet hair. It’s so much longer now, almost to his teen length, and Osha knows that Qimir’s picked up on how much she likes it like this. 

She tugs a little, and he jerks, a soft whimper escaping him. 

In retaliation, he mouths at her hipbone. Osha gasps at the sensation, the heat, skin stretched thin over bone, and steps back. 

“Who’s the insatiable one now?” 

She has to tilt her head to see him, as her stomach is in the way, but he doesn’t move a single muscle. 

Content to tease her with his tongue tracing shapes over the bone. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to go? Hmm, maybe a flight booked for this evening?” 

He unfastens his mouth with a wet pop, lips shiny and puffy.  

“Do I?”  

He tilts his head and raises his eyebrow. 

“Don’t you?” she challenges him. 

“I do have somewhere to be…” 

Qimir trails off, staring up at her. He scans her, from head to toe, then licks his lips. 

“Mind seeing me off?” 

Osha turns her face away, hiding from the bitter sting of tears. Her emotions veer from one extreme to another, nowadays, arousal transmuting to despair. 

It feels all too final now. He’ll go, and he’ll probably come back. 

Or he might not. That’s the eternal fear, with him, and she could fix that, she knows she could, but she doesn’t.  

(“So, I can be your baby daddy, but not your husband?”)  

While she’s grappling with her turmoil, Qimir stands up with a whoosh of displaced air, crowding her. Grabbing her jaw, guiding her gently to look at him. 

“I’ll be in touch,” he whispers, so wistfully, and she just can’t bear it. Her chest heaves as her lungs constrict, the corners of her mouth trembling as she raises her arms to twist her hands in his hair. 

He reads her intentions and draws her into another kiss, this time long and lingering. 

She allows herself to cling for him, just for a moment. On her tiptoes, bare feet on the floor, arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers curling in the soft hairs at his nape. He hums, or more like purrs, like a satisfied tiger. Or a jaguar, some kind of big cat. 

He snakes his tongue out, licking at her lips and asking for permission, always trying to escalate it, and she lets him. 

Osha opens her mouth with a moan, crushing her body against his, feeling baby jump wildly inside her as a heat flares in her loins, the same fire that never gutters out. She pushes her pelvis into his, makes out the shape of his bulge in his pressed trousers that are surely going to wrinkle after this. 

At that thought, she rakes her hands down his back, crumpling his shirt. He won’t walk out of here unscathed.  

Time loses meaning as she consumes him, allows herself to be consumed, yanking on his hair like it can somehow anchor him here, in this space, with her. Permanently. 

Her heart beats a tattoo in her chest, her limbs tingling, her stomach fluttering. Or maybe that’s baby, eager to be with her father. 

They pull apart, regaining their breath, and Qimir cups her jaw in his big paw.  

She brings her own hand up to cover his, and he takes it, placing a delicate kiss on her palm, then kissing up down to her wrist, tonguing her pulse. 

His eyes spark, as if he’s just remembered something. 

“Wait,” he says, and disappears into her room, grabbing something off her bedside table. 

It’s a wrinkled gift bag, and inside it is the Tiffany bracelet he got her (and Mae!) all those months ago.  

She opens the robin’s egg blue box and there it is, sparkling up at her in the afternoon sun, taunting her. 

“Here, I want you to wear it.” 

Her head jerks up to see Qimir thumbing his lower lip, eyes intent on her. 

“To work,” he elaborates, caressing her wrist. “If you won’t accept a ring…” 

Osha glares at him brining that subject up again, and rolls her eyes,  

“You didn’t look at it at all, did you?” 

He chuckles, low and sandpaper-rough.  

“I wanted to forget all about it,” she replies stridently, knowing that they’re talking about something else, using the bracelet as a stand-in. 

“Funny, isn’t it,” his mouth curves up in a humourless smile. “How the things we try to forget find their way back to us.” 

“Funny,” she repeats. Not, ‘funny, haha’.

A beep from Qimir’s Apple Watch, now where did that come from?, and he’s leaning down to deliver one last peck, short and sweet. 

“You’ll be hearing from me,” he promises, patting her stomach one last time, proprietary. His words are delivered like a threat. 

Osha studies her nails, wow she needs to repaint them, studiously ignoring the sounds of Qimir preparing to depart. Her eyes stay on her hands. 

“I’ll be going, then.” 

Like a whisper, a wraith, he leaves, backpack looped over his suitcase, rolling it along the floor.  

Even after the door has closed, she can hear the echo of his footsteps and the uneven treat of the wheels making their way down the hall, to her elevator.

Osha tosses the gift bag on the couch, resolves to look at it later. When she can stand to be reminded of him,

Good riddance. 

Not even her thoughts have teeth nowadays, however. He’s thoroughly de-fanged her. 

And now she has to wait for him to grace her with his presence again. Caught in this moment, this memory, reliving it over and over again.  

His scent lingers, and she wants to obscure it. She doesn’t want to smell the amber, musk and oud of his perfume. It doesn’t matter that he’s gifted her with a little bottle of her own, when the owner doesn’t come attached. 

She clenches her teeth, perishing the thought.  

Osha is not some damsel, pining away for her lost love. She’s a modern woman, a (mostly) self-made woman, a fucking attorney.  

Get over yourself, she thinks harshly.  

She still spends the rest of the day on the couch, morosely watching Girls (she’s moved on from Sex and the City), cuddled up with a pint of Häagen-Dazs.

Being a lawyer only looks sexy from the outside. Suits, How to Get Away With Murder, The Good Wife — none of them really capture how tedious it all is. How much time is lost to the details, to combing over statements and cases and legal texts for that one, crucial detail. 

Maybe it's because Osha's in family law; she's certainly no criminal attorney or corporate lawyer. Those guys live off the rush. There's something distinctly wrong about some of the lawyers she's come across in those fields, like Patrick Bateman-level dead-eyed gazes. Light sucked up by their eyes like a black hole, while they smile, a pantomime of joy. 

She's seen the same flat shark-like glaze on Qimir sometimes, though it warms when he sees her. 

She doesn't like to contemplate the implications of that, how both law and sales have concentrated rates of psychopathy, as well as medicine. 

He's good to her. Shouldn't that be enough? But what if, one day, he isn't? What if he turns that flat gaze on her one day? She wouldn't be able to bear it. 

The thoughts sit with her uneasily, throughout her morning routine on Monday, conjured from a nightmare she’d had last night in which she’d given birth to their daughter, only to have Qimir refuse to hold her and walk out of the delivery room, arm in arm with Mae (who’d somehow also been present for her labour?) 

He’d thrown her a look as he’d walked away, and it had been practically frosty. So devoid of affection, of the heat in his gaze, the tender emotions she’d seen bloom across his face. 

So, Osha definitely doesn't expect Qimir to turn up at her work at eleven in the morning. 

She'd just been coming back from filing paperwork at Cook County, even though Maya could have done it. Osha had been itching for an excuse to go for a walk, to stretch her legs and enjoy the late spring sunshine. 

She rides the elevator, feet comfortable in paediatric ballet flats — she’d had to kiss her high-high heels and court shoes goodbye — idly contemplating what she should buy for lunch. 

Maybe Rose, Finn, and Fillik will free to walk to The Original Beef? Her tummy is crying out for an Italian beef sandwich. Or perhaps that’s baby, dictating her culinary preferences. 

The elevator doors open with a cheery ding! and Osha takes three steps forward before stopping straight in her tracks. 

There, at the reception desk. Highlighted by a beam of sun let in by the glass windows, his head thrown back in hearty chuckles, his Adam’s apple on display to a rapturous audience. Hair sleek and silky. Suit flawless and tailored to perfection. Shoes shiny. His ring, her ring, on his thumb. 

A modern Adonis, carved from bronze. 

No, it couldn’t be.  

But it is. She knows the sound of his laughter, has memorised the tenor and pitch of his voice.  

It’s Qimir, no doubt. 

And when he turns to face her, it’s undeniable. 

It makes sense, in retrospect; Osha really should have anticipated him pulling a stunt like this. He'd gone too easy, too quietly, into the evening sun yesterday, despite making that second attempt at coaxing her into accepting his proposal on Saturday. 

“Osha!” he greets her, practically purring her name, and she finally notices the sea of women surrounding him, leaning into his presence like sunflowers orienting towards sunlight. 

He just has that effect on people. 

Seeing him here, charming her co-workers and admin staff, she could almost forget that she’d ever imagined him looking cold and distant. 

He's so warm, shining like a star, endearingly earnest. 

 “Thought I’d surprise you,” his eyes sparkle as he reaches her, taking hold of her limp hands, and the admin ladies coo.  

Even Eedy looks reluctantly beguiled, despite the old curmudgeon never thinking a single charitable thought towards anyone but her son and her brother, the enigmatic Sir ‘Harlow’. 

At least she’s dressed to match his vibe, in a jet-black maternity suit with a generous waistband, an ecru silk blouse with ruffle detailing at the collar. They'd make a pretty picture together, brochure-ready. 

He lifts her left hand up to his mouth, the hand with his bracelet dangling on it. She’d put it on this morning, recalling his ridiculous demands.

It had sparkled on her wrist in the early morning light, opals and tourmalines shimmering. The inside of the bracelet gleamed, the Tiffany plate catching the light. She’d looked at it closely, then realised something was carved on it.

‘QR.’ For Qimir Rwoh.

His initials, cradled against her pulse. This is why he’d wanted her to wear it.

He brushes his lips over it now, then each of her knuckles. He finishes it off with a lingering kiss at the base of her ring finger. It zings down her arm, straight to her heart. 

Osha's not ignorant of the implication for their audience. 

 Her eyelashes flutter, and she fights the urge to bite his nose. How fucking typical of him to put her on the spot like this, forcing her to play along so she doesn’t look like a major bitch. 

“Qimir,” she replies, appropriately breathless at her baby daddy turning up at her place of employment with no prior warning whatsoever. 

“I have a gift for you.” 

Osha braces herself, knowing that this is going to be something ridiculous.  

And he doesn’t disappoint, because there on the reception desk is a gigantic bouquet of red roses. There must at least a hundred there, arranged in an ostentatious bundle. The roses are wrapped in creamy white paper, tied with an oversized red silk bow. 

This thing is half the size of her body. She doesn’t even know if she can pick it up. Where the fuck is she going to put it? 

“You shouldn’t have,” she simpers instead, grabbing Qimir’s hands this time, making sure to really dig her nails in. 

Qimir doesn’t even wince, staring down at her with a sappy look. 

“Oh, but I had—" 

“What’s all the commotion here?” a voice barks, and oh, fuck. It’s Fennec’s boss, Morgan Elsbeth. 

She’s dressed in a charcoal grey pantsuit today, with a double-breasted coat. Her heels are sharp, probably Louboutin, and gleaming darkly under the downlights. She’s professional, put-together and imposing. 

Osha wants to be just like her one day. 

“Ma’am,” Kaydel squeaks, a heavy blush covering her cheeks, her blonde hair twisted up in an elegant French Twist. “We were just—” 

“It’s my fault, Madame,” Qimir interjects smoothly, and Osha lets go of him as he moves to fix his collar, facing Morgan. 

“I’ve a bit of a nuisance for these wonderful ladies,” he puts his hand over his heart. “I apologise if I’ve disrupted their workflow.”  

Qimir is the very picture of boyish contrition, practically oozing charm. It runs up against Morgan’s cool dispassion. 

Two titans, facing off each other. Osha knows he’s a practiced hand at manipulating older women, honing his skills on his own mother (RIP Vernestra). 

Morgan’s eyes narrow as she gives him a once-over. Notes the silver watch glinting on his wrist, the hand-tooled Italian leather loafers, the tailored wool suit, the fall of Qimir’s dark hair and the cut of his jaw. 

“Who’s this?” she asks, imperious expectation. She wants an answer, and it better be good. 

“This is—,” 

“I’m Osha’s... partner,” he grins, interrupting her, a flash of perfect white teeth. “And the father of her baby.” 

Was it really necessary to add that last part?  

It’s kind of a given, but she guesses he wanted to make it clear. 

God, he’s so fucking possessive. The way he grabs her hands again affirms that, thumb stroking her over her wrist bone. 

But a part of her preens, thrilled at this public claim of ownership. She belongs t— with him. They’re a joined pair, a unit. 

“Qimir,” Morgan drawls, and his eyes flash. He darts a quick, smug look down at her, if it to say, ‘You’ve been talking about me?’  

“You look... familiar,” Morgan says contemplatively, and only Osha can spot the faint panic that darts over his eyes, the stiffening of his body. 

Does Morgan know Vernestra? She’s edging too close to the truth. 

“I get that a lot,” Qimir says easily, almost arrogantly, shaking off the unease. A bit heavy-handed, if you ask Osha, but Runai Skuldun titters. 

Morgan’s face doesn't even shift, only her neck, but Runai shuts up. It’s not befitting for a senior lawyer to be fawning over a younger man like this. Especially, a taken man. 

Runai’s husband would have something to say about that. 

“As lovely as it has been to meet you, is there a reason you’re here?” 

Morgan doesn’t say ‘Stop disturbing my staff’, but it’s heavily implied. 

“I thought I’d treat Osha to lunch. I’ve been a bit... remiss lately. Work duties,” he says apologetically, scrunching his nose. “You know how it is.” 

“Hmm,” is all the response Morgan gives him, but it sounds vaguely approving. She walks away without another word, her team of assistants and sycophants following behind her. 

Fuck, he’s won her over. Even Fennec, who’d materialised beside Eedy while Qimir was being questioned, seems well-inclined to him. 

At that moment, Rose elbows her way through the crowd, followed by Finn and Fillik. She practically drags the latter two to the front, and when she sees exactly what the commotion is, her eyes widen so far that Osha half-worries they’re going to roll out of her skull. 

“In fact,” he adds, and there’s trouble in the air, she can scent it, “Let me take you and your friends out for lunch,”  

He’s not asking. It’s a statement, inborn arrogance and privilege. 

Rose mouth pops open, and she nods so fast her fringe bounces. Finn is a little more hesitant, pressing his fingers to his jaw in contemplation, but it’s Fillik who makes the decision for them when he nods smoothly. Smile easily. 

“Yeah, sure. Sounds ace.” 

Osha cuts her eyes to Fennec, begging her to put an end to this, but she’s grinning widely. Very out of character for her. 

“Make sure you’re back before three,” is all she says, before sashaying away, her blazer flapping as she departs. 

Well. She had wanted to eat out with her friends… 

On their way down in the elevator, Osha and Qimir going first and planning to wait in the lobby for the rest of the crew to gather their things, she has a short and furious argument with Qimir as soon as the doors close. 

“You never said you were coming here! I work here.” 

It whips out like a dagger, her opening shot. 

“Evidently,” Qimir drawls, pushing his hair back. His cool demeanour is at odds with the tight clench of his arm around her waist, gripping her opposite hip. 

"Also, I never said I was leaving Chicago straight away. Your fault for assuming." 

“You and your semantics,” she spits, and Qimir backs her, not ungently, into a wall. Jesus, how long is this elevator ride? 

“You love my semantics. Besides, I had to see your little friend for myself, didn’t I?” 

Osha stares at him.  

“Y’all are the same height.” 

Qimir shrugs, undisturbed, and the elevator lands on the ground floor with a slight groan and ding. 

She rolls her eyes as he leads her out, situating them by a bank of windows and a cluster of soft-cushioned settees.  

He’s still not satisfied after all the possessive sex he'd subjected her to over the weekend. 

Osha determinedly picks a single armchair, and Qimir stands by it, leaning his hip on the armrest. 

They stay in silence for a length of time, watching people come and go in businesswear, suits and skirts and heels click-clacking on the ground. Not a sea of colour here, with everyone preferring dour shades. Like a funeral. 

They people watch together, as had been their habit Before, when Qimir spots a pair of lawyers who work a few storeys down from her, at a property law firm. 

“Are they...” 

He wiggles his finger in their direction, and Osha gets what he's saying without him needing to verbalise it. 

“Yeah, they’re having an affair,” she states breezily. “It’s the worst kept secret in the office. Everyone knows. Hell, we know; it’s a matter of time before their spouses find out.” 

“Interesting,” he taps his index finger on his chin. “I wonder if I can contribute to the betting pool.” 

“How’d you know there was a betting pool?” 

He has the gall to poke her cheek. “Call it intuition.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you know all about the cheating intui—” 

“Hey!” Rose waves from a distance, hurrying forward, she drags Finn behind her, and Fillik walks at a measured pace at the rear. “Sorry, sorry we took so long! This guy couldn’t find his card, and then Fillik wanted to double back for his jacket, and I told him it’s heating up—” 

“It’s okay, Rose,” Osha pushes away from Qimir and links arms with her friend, leaving a pouty Qimir in the dust. “You’re all good.”

This is awkward as fuck. 

They’re sitting at a six-top covered in red and white chequered tablecloth in The Beef, awkwardly waiting for their orders to be prepared and making stilted attempts conversation. There’s been several stops and starts, Rose opening her mouth before shutting it, Fillik and Finn exchanging looks.

The staff in the back have some sort of commotion, pots and pans clanging, some swearing in Spanish and cries of "Jesus fucking Christ, Richie!"  

"So... Chicago, eh?" 

"Chicago," they nod in unison. 

Qimir seems nonplussed at the chaotic back of house drama, contrasted with the serene way customers are conducting themselves, as if this is part of The Original Beef experience. He's been velcroed to her lrfy side and held her captive since they’d left the building.  

It had taken them around sixteen blocks to walk to the sandwich joint. Normally, it’s nothing to Osha because she’s used to the big city life. But today, it had chafed how she’d had to lean on Qimir in the latter half of the trip, while trying to maintain conversation with Rose. 

Osha feels like Qimir is intentionally making it awkward. Being overly solicitous to Rose, treating Fillik and Finn with supercilious disdain.  

It’s so subtle and underhanded; she wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint it, were she not familiar with his mannerisms and general personality. 

Finn and Fillik can only pick up on the undercurrents of it, the vague sense of being condescended to.  

Osha figures it’s because he doesn't know which one of her colleagues she’d had that drinking night with. They’re both British, both darkly handsome and friendly. 

She bites back a laugh when she realises Qimir’s being insecure. A little kid with a toy, asked to share, which is why he’d held onto her so tightly. Even now, he’s stroking her hand, caressing her finger, really laying it on thick. 

“So...” Fillik starts, always the one to take the reins when things start getting a little tense, after Qimir had bulldozed over their protests and paid for everyone’s meal. “What do you do for work?” 

“I’m—”  

“He’s a pharma rep,” Osha interrupts Qimir quickly, not sure she’d like what lie was about to come out of his mouth. 

“He’s also a trust fund baby,” she adds, and is gratified when Finn snorts. 

“Of course,” he laughs, but shuts his mouth when Qimir raises his brow, a dagger-sharp look directed at her friend. 

“What’s so funny about that?” he says darkly. Osha tugs on his sleeves, as if to say, Behave, but he ignores her. 

“Well...” Finn hesitates, looking around for support. “It’s just, you very much look the part.” 

Finn gestures at Qimir’s outfit, and really, his whole vibe does scream ‘rich and pampered heir’. 

Osha knows the truth of it. While he may have been pampered in the material sense by Vernestra, never wanted for anything in terms of pocket money or belongings like expensive cars or the latest gadgets, he’d longed for familial love and company. Someone to recognise him, the real Qimir behind all the masks. 

“It’s a cultivated look,” Osha steps in, saving Finn and Fillik from taking any more heat.  

(A chorus of yelling in the back, “Put that out! Put it out, now!”, the percussion of a fire hydrant being deployed. Osha ignores the noise, well used to the occasional antics of the staff.) 

“You should have seen him in his high school years.” 

“Really?” Rose leans forward, eyes sparkling. “You two knew each other in high school?” 

Osha narrows her eyes at Rose, because her friendly has surely heard the gossip that had spread after the Social Club brunch, in which she’d revealed the existence of Qimir and their backstory. 

Rose shrugs, not looking guilty at all in her quest to fish for information. Osha lets her be. 

“We were high school sweethearts,” Qimir says with relish, squeezing her closer. Osha lets him, reluctantly scooting their chairs closer together. He smells good today, and while she relaxes in his hold, she doesn’t allow him to dictate their story. 

“You know it wasn’t like that,” she insists, cutting a hand through the answer. 

“Well, how was it like?” 

That’s Fillik, smiling imperceptibly, guiding the conversational along. 

“Qimir here,” she nudges his chin with the top of her head, “was the popular boy. He used to have people flocking around him, like an entourage.” 

“No way!” Rose gasps, dark eyes sparkling with glee. 

“Yes,” she nods seriously. “Whereas I had two close friends, and that was it. You could even call me a wallflower.” 

Qimir snorts at that, the blatant mistruth, because while Qimir had kept her inner circle small and close, she’d been the furthest thing from a ‘wallflower’. 

“But you’re so popular here!” Rose blurts, then flushes when Osha raises an eyebrow and smiles. 

She reaches out and pats Rose’s hand. “I’m glad you think so.” 

At that moment, a skinny black guy comes striding through with their orders. 

“Thanks for waiting,” he says lazily, dropping the baskets down and wiping his hands on his stained navy-blue apron. “Lemme get your drinks.” 

He comes back with a chocolate shake for Osha, a vanilla shake for Rose, a Sprite for Finn and a Coke each for Fillik and Qimir. 

They make the appropriate noises of thanks, salivating over the delicious scents of juicy beef and the tang of pickled peppers and cheese, while the server departs. 

There's a loud bang as the door to back of house slams open and hits the wall, someone storming through while harshly yanking on their starched collar. It’s a dark-skinned woman, her waist-length braids covered by a colourful green patterned bandana. 

“Fucking vibes are off, man,” Osha hears her mutter, before the door slams shut behind her with a harsh jingle. 

Qimir doesn’t relinquish her left hand even while eating, so she has to balance the sandwich one-handed. This means he must eat left-handed himself, but he somehow miraculously avoids getting a single stain on his immaculate outfit. 

When Osha gets a little beef jus on her chin, he’s quick to wipe it up, napkin gently dabbing at her lips. Rose coos, and Osha fights the instinct to jerk back. 

When her hands are too dirty after eating, because she’d always been a messy eater, Qimir gets up to retrieve a paper cup of water from the nearby dispenser, bringing an extra napkin and wetting it, cleaning everything from her nailbeds to the crevices of her knuckles. 

It’s a little unnerving, having all his attention on her in front of an audience. Fillik and Finn are rapt, like watching a slow-moving train wreck, unable to believe their eyes. 

The independent, take-no-shit Osha Aniseya allowing herself to be manhandled and doted on?  

Say it ain’t so. 

They’re going to get an earful from her later. The teasing will be nigh unbearable. 

“There,” Qimir says softly, when he’s done. He crumples up the used paper napkin in the cup and places it in the basket, ready to be swept away by the staff. “All clean.” 

Despite Osha’s misgivings, she’s humming in contentment, her belly full and lazy stupor overtaking her body. She places one hand on her bump, idly enjoying the little movements of baby inside her, doing a little happy dance at the prospect of being fed. 

“Oh shit,” Rose curses, looking up from her phone. “We’ve got to get going.” 

Somehow, almost two hours had passed without them even noticing. It’s almost two, and they hustle to get back to the office in time. 

Finn, Rose and Fillik bid Qimir a warm good bye before heading to the elevators, leaving the ‘lovebirds’ to say their parting words in peace. 

Osha highly suspects they’re spying on them from around the corner, but it’s too far them to hear anything. 

“Leaving in time for your flight, huh?” 

Osha shoves her hands in the suit jacket, to avoid Qimir trying to take hold of them again. Her nails curl into her palms. 

“It’s at six, there’s no rush.” 

Her mouth twists. How nice, to basically be your own boss. To have that kind of financial freedom, where work is more of a hobby than a necessity. 

“Well, I need to be getting back...” 

Yet, she doesn’t leave, feet rooted to the spot. Qimir comes close, closer, until he’s upon her, sliding his hands into her locs, gripping the back of her head and drawing her up and into a passionate kiss. 

Damn her flat shoes, she has to raise herself on tiptoes to meet his lips. They’re soft and plush, flavoured faintly by his sandwich, but she doesn’t mind. Her own mouth tastes the same. 

One hand braces her waist, veering dangerously downwards, until he’s scrunching up the hem of her suit jacket.  

They’re getting too hot and heavy for the foyer, stroking tongues, and it drives a pang of longing through her, straight down to her cunt. 

A second heartbeat throbs down below, and she’s tempted to drag him into the handicap restroom that’s just around the corner, because surely no one would really pay attention... 

She jerks herself out of her lustful haze and away from Qimir’s lips. 

No, she can’t fuck Qimir at her workplace, perish the thought! There are dozens of people now eyeing them with various levels of judgement; they’ve garnered significant attention, and their disappearance would be notable.  

It’d be all too obvious what she’s up to, and the news would no doubt travel swiftly to Fennec, and maybe even all the way up to Morgan. 

She could have just bombed her career by following her baser instincts. 

Osha thanks her lucky stars that Qimir’s not her co-worker, because she knows exactly how that would go down. 

Qimir frames Osha’s face with his palms, drawing her attention. 

“I’ll be back,” he whispers, and leans down for another peck, chaste and affectionate. 

That bloom of warmth is back in her chest, dousing the flames of her ardour slightly.  

“And,” he thumbs her bottom lip, a favoured move of his, dragging it down to her chin, “’I’ll have another surprise for you on the weekend.” 

“What kind of surprise?” she asks suspiciously, because this appearance had been a ‘surprise’ as well. 

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” he replies haughtily, flipping his head slightly. His fringe flops over his forehead. 

Osha flattens her palm to his face and pushes him away, the jut of his nose digging into her hand. 

“Gentleman... What a joke.” 

His arms snake around her waist and he pulls her in. She yelps and braces her hands on his firm chest. 

“See you later, doll.” 

He rubs his nose on her cheek, and it’s so cloyingly sweet she can’t stand it. 

“Get outta here,” she grouses, but her cheeks are hot.

“As you wish.”

He throws her a wink over his shoulder as he leaves. She gives him the finger.

Osha should be used to this by now; the absence of him, the negative space in her apartment. 

The indent of his body in her bed, on what’s become ‘his’ side, the slow creep of his products on her shelves, because he’d sneakily bought double to leave at her place. The few t-shirts he’d strategically placed in her drawers for her to find, like little gifts.  

The first time Osha stumbles across one, while trying to search for her lacy cami, she brings it up to her nose and inhales deeply. 

Amber, musk, oud. A hint of vanilla, too. 

Her phone chimes, and she shoves the shirt away, eyes wide. Her heart gallops, like she’s been caught red-handed in the middle of a crime scene. 

It’s just Mae, checking in to see how she’s doing. Osha replies with some nonsense platitudes, not giving away the gulf of loneliness that yawns within her, maw wide open like a ravenous beast. 

Exhaustion weighs her down throughout the day; she still finds herself drifting off once in a while, but never at work, if she can manage it (the one and only time had been too embarrassing). 

She’s still on a split schedule; usually three days at home and two days in the office. The moment she comes home, she drags her feet to the kitchen to eat, usually standing up at the counter, then the shower, a quick call with Qimir, and bed. 

Sometimes, she has enough energy for a naughty FaceTime call, other days she falls asleep with her phone still in hand, Qimir filling her in on his day, like he hadn’t sent her a dozen messages throughout the day. 

He demands that she use his card at least once a day. 

“For what?” she complains, on Tuesday evening.  

“Food, drink,” he shrugs, unbuttoning his dress shirt one handed. “Sex toys, whatever. Everything.  

“In fact,” and here his eyes gleam. “I don’t think you need to be using your own money at all.”  

Ugh, this argument again. She doesn’t want to get into it again with him, especially when he’s not here in person to take her frustrations out on. 

Still, she humours him. Maybe even takes a tiny bit of glee out of using it on stupidly small things. 

It’s the little things that help lift her dark mood.

Qimir haunts her, near or far. The spectre of him, a ghost she glimpses out of the corner of her eye, sees in every dark-haired man on the street, every flash of a smile. 

The fatigue and melancholy combined is enough to send her into a minor tailspin. Very minor. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” Qimir asks on Wednesday night, ever the astute observer of her moods. It had been a way of pinpointing the best method to manipulate her, before. 

Now, it just serves to make her emotional, tears pricking in her eyes as she exhales heavily. She presses the heels of her palm into the hollow underneath her eyes. 

It’s been a long day. Call after call, then meetings, then drafting papers until her eyes had crossed. 

At least she’s eaten and showered, but she couldn’t move a single muscle out of this bed if she tried. 

“Nothing,” she says, but her voice is choked up and her throat is clogged by a major lump. She swallows harshly once, twice. 

“Osha,” he croons, and few tears break free, pooling in her hand, wetting her lashes. 

Stupid fucking pregnancy hormones. She doesn’t do this; she doesn’t cry over men. Or women. 

You’re a badass bitch, she tells herself, but it rings hollow.  

That’s what she is; a hollow woman. Hear her whistle in the wind, cored out by longing for something that she can never be sure is wholly hers. 

“I’m fine,” she insists, but Qimir doesn’t buy it. Her phone is propped up on her knees, drawn close to her belly. She’s perched on the bed, swathed in a throw blanket, but her face is covered entirely by her hands. 

Osha doesn’t want to show her tears. It’d be like flashing her belly to a predator; how can she be sure he won’t take advantage of her vulnerability? 

All she does nowadays is pine for him, and when he’s here, she’s wary and on edge around him. 

This pendulum of emotions that swings back and forth. A rollercoaster of highs and lows. 

“Do you need me to come earlier?”  

Osha drops her hands, a protest on the tip of her tongue.  

Qimir’s dead serious. He’s not teasing her, not taunting her.  

His plush lips are pressed in a thin line, his forehead creased in concern. The dying rays of  sunlight streaming in through the windows of his New York penthouse apartment emphasises the planes of his face, a muscle in his jaw flexing.  

“Because I will.”  

“Don’t,” Osha croaks out, voice thick. “I don’t need you, like…” 

She trails off, trying to even her breathing.  

In, one, two, three. Out, four, five, six, seven.  

The familiar mantra, Dr Holden’s softly spoken refrain, steadies her heart rate. Does nothing for the heartburn, but that’s what Pepto-Bismol is for. 

“Like what?”  

He’s being patient with her right now, so achingly gentle. She can’t stand to look at him anymore, so she doesn’t. 

She slams her eyes shut, setting the phone to the side. 

“Osha…”  

Don’t, she wants to sob. She wants him to be mean again, so she can disavow herself of these cursed feelings.  

“You’re not some knight in shining armour,” she pushes out. “Don’t try to act like you’re going to rescue me from my terrible life.” 

“I’ll do whatever I goddamn like,” he says, so fiercely that Osha’s eyes pop open. “Pick up the fucking phone.”  

Osha does. 

“Now, answer the question, Osha. Do you need me to come home earlier?”  

Home.  

Her home, and maybe his as well. 

But does she want him here, now? 

Not really, no. Osha doesn’t want him to see her like this, all in pieces. She just needs time, to gather herself together. To fill in those empty spaces. 

“No,” she replies, stronger this time. She wipes her face with the backs of her hands, smearing a little snot onto one of her fingers.  

Ew. She cleans it off using the bottom of her cami. Future Osha’s problem, now. 

“Do not come.” 

“Okay, Kamala Harris,” Qimir rolls his eyes, and it’s like the soft-eyed man from moments ago has been obliterated.  

And what the fuck is that reference? 

“You’re so fucking online,” she complains, her voice breaking halfway through the sentence. She clears her throat, regaining her composure. 

“You love it.”  

She rolls her eyes so hard that her temple twinges. Or that could be the stress headache. 

“I do not.” 

“Don’t lie to me,” he murmurs silkily, raking a hand through his hair. It falls messily around his face, framing his cheekbones, which are gleaming in the orange light.  

“I know you too well.”  

Her turn to bite her lips, holding back her, 'No, you don’t.'

Because a), she’d be lying. And b), she doesn’t want to get into a juvenile argument with Qimir (“Nuh-uh!”, “Uh-huh!”, so on, so forth).  

She turns up her nose, which probably provides him a fantastic view up her nostrils. She swiftly ducks her chin. 

“So, usual time on Friday. Be ready and prepared, my angel,” he finishes lasciviously, licking his lips in an over-the-top move. 

Osha physically cringes, even as an insipid giggle escapes her mouth. 

“Gross. Is this is a new thing you’re trying? Because it’s not working.” 

“Liar, liar," he taunts, sing-song. She scrunches her face before she hangs up on him. 

Only later, with the benefit of hindsight, Osha realises how effective Qimir had been at redirecting her negative emotions. He truly does know her too well. 

She tucks herself into bed, pregnancy pillow moulded behind and under her, cradling her entirely. A whiff of his perfume tickles her nose, from the pillow he usually sleeps on when he’s over. 

She stares out the window, dry-eyed, at the same sky she shares with Qimir. The same moon and stars. 

At that moment, her phone lights up with a notification. 

She unlocks it with her thumbprint, and it’s a new message from Qimir, accompanied by a picture.  

‘Good night’, it reads. 

The photo is of the night sky, stars barely visible, but the moon is still round and ripe, with only a small slice missing from the side. Waning gibbous. 

Another text follows the first. 

‘Sweet dreams of me ;)’  

And indeed, she does dream about Qimir that night. He’s so warm and solid, it’s like he’s right there with her, his solid form and delicious scent. 

To her dismay, it’s not a sex dream.  

It’s worse. 

He holds her, standing on a rocky beach. They’re battered by a salt-heavy breeze, ozone thick in the air.  

His body shelters her from the worst of it, broad shoulders a bulwark. She’s just wearing a thin spaghetti-strap maxi-dress, barefoot in the damp pebbles, shivering in his embrace. 

“I love you,” he whispers huskily, and her heart swoops into her stomach, joy starbusting in her chest. Bliss spreads through her, renders her light as air.  

“Mama!” 

A little body slams into her legs, and with a hearty laugh Qimir reaches down to pick them up with one strong arm. 

Her. Their little girl.  

“Mama,” she pats Osha’s cheek with a chubby palm, grey eyes dead serious. The same look her papa had, a few hours before.  

She’s wearing a frilly white dress, with red bows in her hair. Her hair is a mix of waves and curls, as dark as Qimir’s. Her skin is also a dark shade of gold. 

Qimir wrought in miniature.  

Nine months of pregnancy, labour, and she ends up looking like her father? What a joke the universe is playing on her. 

“Yes, my love?” 

“Can we go back?” she pleads, pouty lips pressing up and out. “Please, please?” 

“Alright,” she laughs, acquiescing to her daughter’s demands. “Let’s go, papa.” 

Qimir kisses her lightly, to their daughter’s mingled derision and delight. 

“As you wish.” 

This is her future. Full of love and wonder, beach-trips and easy affection.  

If she gets through the fallout of having a baby with her adopted brother.  

If Sol doesn’t completely disavow her. 

If Mae doesn’t cut her off for life. 

But here, picking through the dark pebbles on this far-flung shore with her daughter and Qimir at her side, Osha can almost imagine a future where everything works out okay. 

Chapter Text

Osha makes a dire mistake on Thursday morning. 

It’s a slow day (knock on wood), everyone still crawling back from a midweek night of partying—“work hard play hard osha :),” Fillik had cheekily texted her, accompanied by a selfie of him and Finn getting utterly wasted.  

So, she joins a mothers group on Facebook. 

Benign, right? It’s just mostly women posting about their pregnancy journey, family experiences, morning sickness, gripes about their partners. Perfectly normal. 

And it would be, if Osha wasn’t herself. 

She decides to explore, scrolling through post after post, alternately smiling and laughing. 

And then something gets under her skin, seeing all these dream nurseries and furniture photos and décor. The pinks and blues and green and beiges, debates about gender-inclusive colours and decals and fringed, embroidered pennants. 

She falls down a rabbit hole, pushing aside work in order to furiously Google, and that brings her to here, at six PM, not having eaten since lunch and brandishing the tape measure at the wall like it owes her money.  

Jyn had kindly loaned it to her when Osha had come knocking, a bit shamefaced at her lack of foresight. Cass’ measuring tape does the trick, and it would all be well and dandy except for one thing. 

She has a dilemma. 

Osha has measured every inch of her apartment, and she still can’t figure out a solution; there’s no way to make it all fit.  

She swipes through the catalogue of cribs on Walmart on her phone, trying to figure out a way to shoehorn it into her room. 

Yes, she could buy a bassinet, and it might fit right beside her bed, but then bub would eventually grow out of it. A mini crib is also an option, but it’d be very tight, and she’d have to eventually replace it with a larger crib after a while.  

Also, she likes the look of a full crib (and matching dresser). 

Alas, there’s no room for a nursery in this apartment, let alone space in her own bedroom.  

And there’s no way she’s putting bub in the fucking living room. The APA recommends infants sleep in their parents’ room at least until they reach six months, preferably twelve months. 

She’s read too many horror stories about SIDS, even if it’s not as prevalent as it was before. Safe sleeping methods are taught and emphasised, but she still needs to have bub in the same room. She needs to hear her breathing. 

Her apartment technically has two bedrooms, but the second is so miniscule that the previous tenant had converted it into a walk-in closet. 

Still, the listing says two bedrooms, and that’s enough to charge her out the nose for rent. 

She’d signed the lease a few years ago, before she’d gotten that pay bump at the firm. She’s a sensible spender and an even better saver. 

Not enough to buy her own place; Chicago real estate is a fucking shitshow. But enough that she can upgrade her accommodation. She has enough for the security deposit and the move. 

Osha paces the floor, muttering, her hands clasped behind her back. Occasionally, she stops at a wall. Envisions how it would look if she just shifted this here, and put that there... 

By the time she pulls herself out of her spiral, it’s nearly seven and she’s way past hungry. She’s exerted all her energy and she can’t even think about cooking something. 

She shouldn't be ordering takeout, again, but she's craving a steak sandwich, and she needs it now . 

Fuck it. She Grubhubs a steak sandwich from Ricobene , which is mercifully open until 2AM and closer than The Beef . She’s too hungry to wait the extra time it’d take for the order to travel in traffic, and she doesn’t want it soggy by the time it arrives. 

Her phone chimes with a notification approximately five minutes after she places the order, and though it hasn’t been remotely long enough for the delivery to have arrived, she still jumps to it.  

The bastards could have cancelled her order, and she wouldn’t even know until she checked twenty minutes later. They’d done that to her about a month ago, and Osha had literally burst into tears and called GrubHub ’s customer service line in blubbery fury. They’d given her credit of fifty dollars, just to shut her up. 

So sue her, she’s a pregnant hormonal woman. She wants her sandwich, and she wants it now .  

Unfortunately, it’s not her driver with an order. It’s Mae. 

Osha sighs gustily, then winces guiltily. Hunger makes her a bit of a terror. 

Still, she leans into it. 

‘i thought u were my delivery driver hoe’  

Mae reacts to her message with an eye rolling emoji and Osha cracks a grin, meandering to the couch and flopping down. 

Qimir hasn’t sent his usual dinner check-in text, but then he had told her he was wine-ng and dining some clients tonight, so she doesn't worry. Much. 

He’d sent her a selfie earlier and she’d barely had the focus to concentrate on how good he’d looked in a grey melange suit with a royal blue tie, and slicked back hair. 

She shakes thoughts of Qimir out of her head as Mae replies, her conscience pricking the way it does when she holds both of them in her mind for too long. Nope, not today. 

‘not my fault u havent eaten yet osha gdi’  

‘get ur shit together’  

Well. She’s not wrong. 

‘bitch i have been contemplating the horrors’  

‘the horrors beign nothign fitting in this piece of shit apartment!!!’  

So, she may be a little overwrought right now. 

‘u know the solution right?’  

Mae doesn’t even allow her to answer, the little bubble showing that she’s typing her reply at hyperspeed. 

‘girl get a new place. u still have time and u have a great credit rating and a job. I can help u with moving just lmk when'  

Alright, this warrants a face-to-face discussion. Video. Whatever. 

‘calling’  

She hits the video button for FaceTime, and Mae picks up immediately. 

“So I’ve actually been looking, because we are twins and I am just as smart as you—” 

“What happened to ‘Hi, hello, how are you’?”  

Osha scrunches her nose, and Mae bugs her eyes and sticks out her tongue. 

“Hi, hello.” 

Mae rolls her eyes at Osha’s sarcasm-heavy tone, but pivots quickly, lips pursing and brows furrowing. 

“Okay, spill. What’s got you so fired up now, when you’ve had months to think about it?”  

“I joined a mom’s group.” 

Mae grimaces. “Girl...”  

“I know. I know. But I needed someone to talk to, and none of my friends here are knocked up, and I can’t go to Maz for everything. Or Dr Holden, she’s not equipped to talk about pregnancy, and it’s nice just to commiserate, you know? Only now, I look around and I can’t fathom—” 

“Breathe,” Mae interrupts her, stern. 

Osha sucks in a breath, head spinning a little from her rant. As she exhales, her shoulders drop down, having hitched up at her ears. Tension drains out of her as she counts her breaths, her neck twinging as her body unwinds. 

Stress isn't good for the baby. Right. 

“Now that you’re calm, let’s plot it out. You’re, what? A little over halfway?”  

“Twenty-three weeks,” Osha answers. 

“Okay,” Mae nods grimly. “That’s more than enough time. You have the weekend to make a shortlist, then you can start touring places. After you get settled, you should order the furniture. You won’t have to worry about disassembling the furniture for the move. Warranty usually starts from pick-up, so you’ll want to delay that for as long as possible...”  

Osha lets Mae’s voice wash over her, soothing in its firm assurance, wondering when her twin became so knowledgeable. Maybe she’s been doing her research, trying to assist Osha in her own way, without being overbearing. 

But, maybe she likes overbearing. Maybe it takes someone talking sense into her for her to realise things. 

Like, it’s okay to accept help. Those overtures of concern aren’t because people think she’s incapable or unable. 

Something broken in her, deep down where she rarely dares to delve, begins to heal. 

She isn’t quite undressed and ready for Qimir on Friday, and the farthest thing from being an angel. 

It’s been a fucking day, and maybe she should have taken Qimir up on his offer to come early, so maybe he could have fucked the stress out of her, ridden him in her desk chair as she’d worked through client emails and page upon poorly scanned page of court documents. Her on-demand dildo throughout the day. 

It’s an absurd thought, making her laugh harder than it should. Her giggle bounces off the tiled walls of the shower, mingling with the dull white noise of the water soaking her locs and running down her body. 

She checks the lengths to make sure that the last of the conditioner has rinsed out, noting that she should get a re-twist soon, because her roots have grown unruly. If she waits any longer, it’d look— 

“What’s so funny?” 

Osha shrieks and almost slips on the tile, her heart tripping out of her chest, stomach seizing with dread and fright. 

“Christ, Osha—” 

A muscled arm steadies her, banding under her belly, and bub kicks out as her pulse trips then settles. 

It’s just Qimir. 

She’s turned around, gently so as to avoid any further accidents, tugged closer until there’s barely room for Jesus between them.  

He looks smug and expectant, sprayed by water droplets from the cascade still flowing from the showerhead, completely naked and shameless. She’s giving him the reaction he wants, with her head to toe appraisal. 

His hair is a little rumpled, his facial hair grown out but groomed, his lips twitching and his eyes dark and endless.  

“Surprise,” he husks, an eyebrow arcing up, and she could slap him. 

Sneaking up behind her like goddamn burglar! 

And speaking of… 

“How the fuck did you get in?” 

She hadn’t given him a fucking key, even though he’d asked.  

“You have to ask, Osha?” the smirk that had been teasing the edge of his lips blooms, dimple popping as his eyes sparkle. “I have my ways.” 

He leans down to nose her neck while she shivers, alarm still thrumming in her veins, now joined by urgent arousal, the need to have him surrounding her, inside her, closer, closer, now . 

The thoughts from just moments earlier return, using him like a sex doll for her own pleasure, the convenience of having him at hand, at her beck and call… 

“You scared me,” she murmurs now, breathing the words, low and intimate. This close to him, she can count each individual lashes, relish in the heat of his bare body, the stir of his cock against her hip. 

“Let me make it up to you,” he coos, then flattens his tongue against the sensitive skin behind her ear, practically lapping at her, a rumble vibrating his chest when Osha moans softly and arches, pushing her needy hips forward. 

His hand creeps around, fondles the flesh of her ass, and really, she should ask him how he got his hands on a copy of her apartment keys, but then he’s sliding his fingers between the lips of her cunt, and her knees weaken. 

“Fucking Christ, baby. You’re soaked.” 

“I’m showering,” she shoots back, but his other hand swats her ass, swift and censuring. 

Another rush of wetness leaks out, and he bares his teeth. 

“You know what I mean.” 

She raises her eyebrow back at him. “Are you just going to talk? Or do I need to take care of mys— Fuck!” 

He slides two of his fingers in to the second knuckle, and she clenches down fiercely at the intrusion, a surge of electric pleasure knifing through her. 

“Like I said,” he withdraws his fingers, easing them back in, deeper, down to his base knuckles, her hungry pussy swallowing them up. “Soaked.”  

“And you’re still fucking talking.”  

He captures her mouth, silencing any other words she’d had poised on her tongue, whiting out her thoughts with the combination of his clever fingers squelching in her, and the deft stroke of his tongue, coordinating the movements. 

One pleasure leads into the other, building, building. 

“Qimir!” 

Osha gasps and groans deep in her throat, barely able to keep up, clawing at his shoulders and rising up on her toes. Air is sucked in through her nose and escapes in small, greedy noises, her nose smashing against his, the tingle of mint from his mouth invading hers. 

Her climax builds in intensity, yet takes her by surprise, a bubble expanding in her until it pops, a rush of endorphins flooding her system, a warmth exploding like a geyser inside her, washing all of her limbs with bliss. 

She tears her mouth away, mindless in ecstasy, babbling, 

“Qimir— Oh, Qimir, fuck— so good, yes.”  

“No one can give it to you like this,” he husks, drilling her relentlessly, even though he knows she’s already come. “Not even you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, just you.” 

She’ll feel ashamed, later, at how easily she’d been manipulated like putty in his hands. But for now, she swoons his arms and tightens up as another peak approaches, barrelling inevitably towards her, walls fluttering as he thumbs her clit, and it’s too much , too much — 

“Fuck, fuck— coming, God—” 

She writhes and shakes and sobs through another orgasm, slumping forward into his solid form, all comebacks and witticisms wiped clean from her brain, leaving just woman. 

Just lust, quenched momentarily, and the desire to crawl into his skin, to become him. 

So needy, all the time. 

“Shh, shh,” he soothes her, as she shudders violently, holding onto him for dear life, afraid that if she lets go— 

He’ll disappear. Or she’ll fall. Maybe both. 

He guides her out of the shower, and although she still needs to exfoliate and shave and wash her face, she lets him. 

He bundles her up in her fluffy Turkish cotton towel, dabbing her dry carefully, not pulling on the skin. He’s still hard, cock bobbing near his navel, tip weeping, and she tries to take hold of him, but he tuts and pushes her away. 

Osha gapes at him; since when did Qimir refuse handjobs? 

“Patience,” he chides her. 

She bites her lip, eyeing his length, feeling that urgency bloom anew within her. 

“Have you eaten?” he asks abruptly, and she grimaces, thinking of the steak defrosting in the refrigerator, that she’d had ambitions about grilling with baby potatoes and asparagus. 

“No,” she answers reluctantly. “But I was going to.” 

She sounds like a little kid, and Qimir treats her accordingly, retrieving her satin gown and tying it around her naked body, then seating her down on the bed so he can slip on her house shoes. 

“There,” her kisses her left knee, and she widens them hopefully, but then he stands, still fully aroused, letting her rake her eyes all over him. 

“See something you like?” he queries, but it’s not a question at all, the way he’s saying it. 

Ass. 

He turns without allowing her to answer, striding to the chest of drawers and retrieving one of his black t-shirts from the top drawer, then rifling in a lower one for a set of his sweatpants. 

“Hey—!” 

She hadn’t even known he’d stored extra clothes aside from his tees in there. If she had, she might have co-opted them for herself. 

“Come on,” he jerks his thumb at the door, and Osha bemoans her styling routine, casting a longing glance back at the bathroom. 

“I’m cooking dinner.” 

He’s a annoyingly skilled cook. It’s one of the things she’d resented about him, then appreciated, before slipping back into resentment. 

She’s never been able to figure out his trick with steak, how he renders it so melt in the mouth yet chargrilled without leaving it a scorched wreck. 

Osha’s never mastered it, that balance between flavour and texture; she’d made do with steak at restaurants, except most of them had never achieved it either. 

She doesn’t ask him who taught him to cook, though she has her suspicions, Probably a housekeeper, or a private chef his mother had kept. 

Certainly not Vernestra. 

She watches him navigate her small kitchen deftly, black apron tied behind his back, his hair gathered up in a ludicrously tiny ponytail. It sticks out of the back of his head, and she’s overcome with the urge to pull on it, but that would disturb his focus. 

He peels and chops the potatoes while he lets the steaks come to room temperature, placing the former in a pot of water to boil, then asks her whether she has a cast iron skillet. 

“A what?” 

He sighs, looking put-upon. 

“Nevermind.” 

What a diva. 

He roots around in her cupboards and finds one anyway. 

“Oh, so that’s what it’s called,” Osha muses vapidly, trying to wind him up. She knows what a fucking cast iron skillet is, but it’s fun to observe his reactions. 

“Is it seasoned?” 

Osha gives Qimir a deadpan look; what does he think?  

He sighs, ruffling a hand through his hair and disturbing his ponytail, settling it delicately on the stove. 

That thing is heavy, but he handles it like it weighs nothing, only the bulge of his tan biceps betraying the strain. They’re veined, possibly from the heat of the shower and the exertion as he’d fingerfucked her to oblivion… 

Osha shifts on the stool, feeling warm. The thin satin sticks to her skin, and she readjusts her seating on the stool, ensuring her feet don’t slip from the rung. 

She snacks on peanut brittle and berries as he works, because she needs something to fill her tummy. It doesn’t help; the aroma of the sizzling steak has her near delirious with hunger by the time it’s done. 

 Figuring she needs to do something to distract herself, she sets the table, flitting to the glass cabinet for two champagne flutes and taking a bottle of sparkling apple juice out of the fridge with a pout. 

Though she misses the crisp bubbliness of sparkling wine, this’ll have to do for now. For a while, likely, given that she plans on breastfeeding. 

Osha sets the table with the nice placemats, linen napkins, pours the sparkling juice and double back for cutlery. By the time Qimir brings the plates to the table, it’s perfect. 

He’s garnished the steaks with a pat of butter, drizzled with jus from the pan, and the potatoes shimmer in the low light, glistening. The asparagus looks perfectly grilled, the right mix of crispy and savoury. 

“Oh, nice,” slips out of her mouth, worshipful. She’s in love with this food. 

In love with— 

Ahem. 

“Thank you,” she flutters her lashes at Qimir, simpering. He toasts his own magnificence, raising his glass and nodding, imperious. 

“Go on,” he encourages, after taking a sip. “Have a taste.” 

She obliges him, cutting a triangle of steak and marvelling at the pinkish-red inside, flawless medium-rare. 

The first morsel elicits a rapturous moan, eyes closing involuntarily. Truly melt in the mouth. 

He’s elevated the supermarket sirloin she’d nabbed at a deep discount, imparted it with delicious flavours. Punching above its price tag. 

“How do you do it?” 

“Practice,” he replies easily, slicing into his own steak. “I don’t have a cook.” 

“Shocking.”  

“Isn’t it? I get told to hire one but,” he shrugs. “It’s not the same.” 

It really isn’t. Food cooked by his hand always has that special ingredient, that inexplicable flavouring. 

“I’d cook for you everyday,” Qimir suggests, apropos of nothing. 

“How would you have the time?” she asks, a bit scathingly. “If you’re working, and that’s only if you stay here in Chicago, when you would you be able to cook?” 

“That’s easy, I’d quit my job.” 

Her jaw drops, chewed up steak filling her mouth. She shuts it and swallows quickly, the food sticking to her oesophagus. 

“And do what?” 

He immediately says, “Be a househusband. Stay at home dad.” 

When Osha gapes at him, he shrugs, forking a piece of potato into his mouth. “I don't need to work; I have enough money to support us while you pursue your dreams.” 

“What would you know about my dreams?” 

“Well, you want to open your own family law practice, don't you?” 

His eyes are intent, dinner abandoned for the moment to fold his arms across his chest.  

“How—" 

She sets down her cutlery, just in case she accidentally stabs herself with the steak knife. 

“I know you, Osha. And,” he says, with a twinkle in his eyes. “You bet I paid attention when Mae talked about you.” 

Ugh, the unwelcome reminder that Qimir used to date her sister. It’s almost enough to render her nauseous, but she looks down at the steak lying forlornly on the plate and picks up her knife. 

“Besides...” 

She focuses on slicing the steak into neat, easily edible strips. When Qimir remains silent, she flicks her eyes up and scowls.  

He’s ruining dinner with his yapping. First, he can’t stop talking, now she has to prod him? 

“What?” 

“You don't really want to stay at home the entire time, do you? I've heard it can be boring.” 

When did Qimir have time to talk to a stay at home mother? And who ? 

“I would if I had to!” she protests. 

“Osha,” he says gently. “You don't have to.” 

He would take care of her. Cook for her, nurture and raise their daughter. And maybe, their oth— 

Christ. She hasn't even given birth to her first and she's already thinking about more children? Insane.  

This is what Qimir does to her, makes her think crazy, beyond the pale things. 

Like, how he'd look with an expensive baby carrier strapped to his chest, lovingly cradling a small, curly dark head in his large hand, stroking the downy hair. 

Like, what it would feel like to come home, kick off her heels and be enveloped by the warm scent of sinigang simmering on the stove, a pudgy fist grasping her locs as she greets Qimir with a kiss— 

Osha clenches her jaw against the tender swell of emotion. The heart wrenching ache, the welling in her eyes and corresponding lump in her throat. 

Goddamn these pregnancy hormones. She’s a crying machine. 

“I don’t…”  

She trails off, ducking her head to the side. Outside the window, it’s dark, streetlights casting a yellow-orange glow on the street below. A dog barks, a baby cries in the distance. 

“We have time to figure it out.” 

Gentle. Understanding. 

Why is he being so nice now? 

And why can’t she allow herself to believe that he’s genuine? 

A part of her trills in alarm, gibbers that she can’t trust him, he’s going to turn on her, show his true colours. It fades in volume day by day. 

“Four more months,” she murmurs. 

Where has the time gone? 

“Four more months,” he confirms, then prods her mouth with a forkful of baby potato. 

Her eyes cross looking down at the potato, then refocus as she glances up at his expectant face. 

“Say, ‘ahhh’.” 

She rolls her eyes but obeys, opening up like a baby bird. A voice whispers, Isn’t it nice, being coddled like this?  

To which she replies, ‘hell yeah’.  

Osha never thought she’d be the type, clinging to her hyper-independence and self-sufficiency. She likes the life she’s built for herself. 

But is it enough to bring a child into? 

That’s where Qimir comes in. And he’s telling her, no, promising her that he’s going to be there for her. 

She can stress about the lack of navigable space in her apartment later. For now, she allows him to feed her, cheeks flushing as he coos over how she looks with her cheeks stuffed, how he wants to fill her up in other ways. 

She swallows, dabs her mouth with her napkin and avoids his heated stare. 

“You said to be patient.” 

“What if,” he pushes his plate aside, having fed her the rest of his steak, potatoes and leaving the asparagus. “I want to have my meal now?” 

Her chest heaves, air narrowing in her chest. He drains the remainder of his juice, stands up and then yanks her chair out, stretching her legs with the breadth of his shoulders. 

One hand on her thigh, creeping up under the satin gown. 

“You wouldn’t mind if I had dessert early…” 

Osha cards her fingers through his hair, pulling the tie out and gathering it out of his face. His fingers press into her flesh, indenting it. His nails are neat, short and trimmed. 

Her limbs turn liquid with anticipation, with eagerness. 

“You’ve been a good boy,” she rasps, tracing his stubbled chin with her other hand. 

“Good boys get a reward from mommy.” 

And he feasts. 

Saturday morning, she’s woken up bright and early by Qimir. 

It’s incredibly out of character for him, though he wakes her up with a surprise. The surprise being, eating her pussy like a devotee. 

They normally laze around and fuck on and off until at least ten, when Osha is the first to drag herself out of bed, Qimir closely following behind, while also eyeing up her behind. 

Today, Osha sighs blissfully as she flutters her eyes open to an incredibly arousing sight: the top of Qimir’s head and his muscular shoulders, sheets twisted over his naked ass as he sprawls on the bed, settling himself between her legs. The bounce of the bed had roused her. 

“Good morning,” he murmurs into her skin, then lifts her leg up to lick behind her knee. It’s like he hadn’t gotten enough last night, because he acts starved. 

“Qimir!” she gasps, scandalised.  

She’s damp all over, from those damnable night sweats. Nine times out ten, Osha wakes up in a puddle of perspiration, and while she knows it’s completely normal and expected during pregnancy and beyond, she still feels gross. It’s distressing for her to have body betray her. 

“What?”  

He traces his tongue from the sensitive backs of her knees, up (or is it down?) to her thigh. He removes his mouth and blows on the line of spit. Her leg twitches in his hold, clit throbbing. 

“I love the way you smell,” and it’s said so plainly, so earnestly, that she can’t refute it. Can’t protest it. 

He slings her right knee over his shoulder, opening her up, mouthing at her thighs, nibbling, licking. His facial hair tickles, scraping over her skin.  

He pays special attention to the crease where her inner thigh meets her groin, which are slick with the evidence of her need for him. 

“Qimir!” 

She snakes a hand down to Qimir’s hair to ground herself. It’s already a rat’s nest, and she gathers it away from his face as he groans deeply, inhaling with his nose to her mound, just above her core, so close, if only he’d open his mouth. 

He has some inhuman level of self-control, because he continues on his journey to drive her insane by skipping over her swollen clit and puffy, slippery folds, switching to her left leg. 

“Please,” she begs him, and her hips jump up as he bites down, teasing the flesh with his tongue. It'll leave a pretty purple bruise on her inner thigh, likely twinging every time her thighs rub together. And that’s the point. 

He marks her over and over again, until she’s lost count of the love bites, until she’s sure she’ll be sore for a week. She’ll feel him with every step she takes, every minute shift and movement in her office chair. 

When Qimir rests his face against her cunt, now weeping and leaving a mess under her, she finally breaks.  

While she can’t see him, due to her stomach being in the way, his massive shoulders and arms have her lower body caged, and he’s humping the fucking bed. All the while, refusing to fucking give her what she wants. What’s she burning for. 

“Lick me,” she sobs, yanking at his scalp with her hold on his locs. “Lick me, please, please. Qimir fucking do it, you bastard —”  

“You only have to ask, Osha,” he drawls, then his mouth is on her.  

On her pussy, in her pussy, his tongue licking shy and demure. Not enough pressure, too fucking restrained. 

“Don’t fuck with me!” 

He can eat her out better than that, and he knows it. 

“As you wish.” 

His eyes are probably sparkling down there, the motherfucker, and he’s so lucky that she can’t move fast right now, or else she’d have him on his back in a heartbeat, riding his face to kingdom come. 

And then she can’t think anymore before his tongue is lapping at her pussy in broad strokes and he’s nudging her clit with his nose, stubble scraping, jaw working overtime. 

Electric shocks pulse through her legs, up her back, her thighs closing around Qimir’s head with force. 

He takes one broad hand and pushes one to the side with ease, clearing out breathing room, not missing a beat.  

“Qimir! Qim— ah, Qimir!”  

She moans his name, yelping when his tongue breaches her, stroking inside. 

Osha wiggles against his face, practically humping it, and he groans with relish, hips rutting against the bed. As if he hadn’t eaten her out enough last night, had practically had her sobbing by the time he’d notched the fat head of his dick in her.