Latest Posts by azuljoie95 - Page 7

I’m old school I only like women

in honor of black history month 2025, i’ve put together a list of books written by black sapphic authors for you to read in the month of february

non-fiction essays/memoirs:

all about love: new visions by bell hooks

black lesbian in white america by anita cornwell

sister outsider: essays and speeches by audre lorde

mouths of rain: an anthology of black lesbian thought by briona simone jones

blues legacies and black feminism by angela davis

does your mama know?: an anthology of black lesbian coming out stories by lisa c. moore

fiction:

the color purple by alice walker

loving her by ann allen shockley

the gilda stories by jewelle gomez

in another place, not here by dionne brand

pomegranate by helen elaine lee

the summer we got free by mia mckenzie

these letters end in tears by musih tedji xaviere

dead in long beach, california by venita blackburn

young adult:

escaping mr. rochester by l.l. mckinney

this ravenous fate by hayley dennings

faebound by saraa el-arifa

so let them burn by kamilah cole

where sleeping girls lie by faridah àbíké-íyímídé

adult:

honey girl by morgan rogers

the deep by rivers solomon

sweet vengeance by viano oniomoh

come back (love concealed) by terri ronald

house of hunger by alexis henderson

short stories:

girl, woman, other by bernadine evaristo

the secret lives of church ladies by deesha philyaw

additional info:

-> “why wasn’t this book listed?” probably because it wasn’t black sapphic-centric, the author isn’t a black sapphic themself, or i just simply haven’t heard of it! so feel free to add on if it meets those two criteria

many of these books require trigger warnings, especially some of the older ones that are more likely to feature racial struggles of the time. please do your due diligence and search for tws if you want to read them!

please feel free to add onto this list in the rbs or comments! happy black history month

Solange for Harper’s Bazaar Italia, lensed by Szilveszter Makó

Photographs taken in Washington D.C. by Darrell C. Crain Jr. between (1963-1968). The photographs are part of the DC Public Library Digital Collection.

esperança rising • eduardo camavinga - part i

SYNOPSIS: She's blunt, can cut hair like nobody's business, tattooed, a fellow glasses-wearing dork, just a tad bit older than him, and he's enamored. But the only issue is that she's the newest barber at Camavinga House....and he's the investor.

PAIRINGS: Eduardo Camavinga x Esperança Dos Santos

WORD COUNT: 5,580

WARNINGS: cursing, falling in love type stuff, depictions/mentions of sex, boyfriend/dork!cama, workplace romance/close proximity (18+ only) MINORS DNI

TAGLIST: @judesvirtual , @yeea-nah , @leilaxaliel , @jessnotwiththemess @bbgkoo @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @sucredreamer @whoevenisthiz @thepointlessideas @oombrophilousss, @snowseasonmademe @dexastres @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @kj77

A/N: This is set in the Football Baes Universe. Read Hey There, Delilah, Fouled By Fate, and In Between The Lines to catch up. Please let me know if you wish to be added/removed from the taglist. Also this story is set in March 2025.

Eduardo Camavinga winced slightly as he stepped out of his Audi in front of Camavinga House. The hamstring was still giving him trouble, though he'd never admit it to anyone besides the team physios. One week with Les Bleus had been incredible as always, but the injury during training had sidelined him for the second leg against Croatia. Now back in Madrid, he was supposed to be resting, but cabin fever had set in after just one day at home.

"Just a quick check-in," he muttered to himself, adjusting his glasses and pulling a Real Madrid cap low over his eyes. He caught sight of his reflection in the shop window and couldn't help but grin. His friends always teased him about being unable to stay serious for more than five minutes. It was true—even injured, even tired, a smile was never far from his face.

He'd spent the morning playing chess against himself while icing his hamstring, then gotten bored and started looking over investment projections for the barbershop chain. Being an investor at 22 still felt surreal sometimes, but he loved having something substantial outside of football. His economics teacher back in school would be proud—he'd always had a knack for numbers that surprised people who only saw the perpetually laughing footballer.

The usual chorus of greetings met him — "¡Edu!" "¡Cama Baby!" — but he immediately noticed something different. The shop had a new energy, and it wasn't just the playlist, which had shifted from Sebastião's usual Afrobeats to something more eclectic—was that Rico Nasty?

He ran a hand through his shoulder-length micro dreads, the sides of his head shaved down in an almost mohawk style that had become his signature look. The protective style had been perfect during international duty, requiring minimal maintenance while he focused on recovery. He'd have to find someone here to maintain it properly. Maybe Sebastião had finally hired somebody who could handle it without him having to explain exactly what he wanted for the millionth time.

He patted his pocket, making sure his travel chess set was there—a nervous habit when entering new situations. He'd gotten into the game during COVID lockdowns, and now he was constantly challenging teammates to matches during travel. Most of them refused after the third or fourth crushing defeat. He had a habit of just saying whatever popped into his head during games, trash-talking in the most cheerful way possible, which his opponents found even more annoying than his strategic skill.

And then he saw her.

At the furthest station, a woman with the most intricate braiding technique he'd ever witnessed was working on a client. Her movements were precise, almost like watching someone play chess, each motion calculated and confident. Brown skin glowed under the barber lights, and as she turned slightly, he caught the glint of her double nose piercing and the flash of ear gauges. The sleeve tattoo on her right arm was a swirling masterpiece of what looked like Angolan and Spanish imagery blended together.

What struck him most was her complete focus. While other barbers chatted animatedly, she worked in near silence, her face set in what his teammates would definitely call "resting bitch face." But there was something about her concentration that spoke of passion rather than coldness. She reminded him of himself during a match—totally in the zone, aware of everything but focused on one goal.

"That's the weird new hire," Sebastião materialized beside him, speaking low in English. "Esperança. Found her working at some underground spot in Lavapiés. Bit odd, doesn't talk much, but look at her station."

Cama looked. There was a line of people waiting—more than for any other barber.

"She's brought in half of Madrid's Afro-Spanish community," Sebastião continued. "And a bunch of football players from Atlético." He said this last part with mock disgust. "Competitors on our turf."

Cama laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Smart business move then."

"The smartest. Just... prepare yourself if you talk to her. She's... direct. Says whatever pops into her head. No filter whatsoever."

Cama's interest only grew. After years of people walking on eggshells around him, carefully measuring their words because of who he was, someone direct sounded refreshing. He'd grown up in a household where his parents never sugarcoated anything—maybe that's why he'd developed such a persistently positive outlook in the first place.

Sebastião was called away to handle something at the register, leaving Cama to observe Esperança more closely. Her outfit was unlike anything he'd seen in Madrid—oversized colorful layers that somehow worked perfectly together, platform boots despite the heat, and a tiny coquettish bow in her hair that contrasted with her otherwise edgy appearance. The combination of harajuku and street style with that single coquette touch was striking—it was like she'd invented her own fashion category.

And her face—she wore an expression of intense concentration that bordered on severity. If he hadn't been watching her for several minutes, he might have thought she was angry at her client. But there was something fascinating about someone so completely immersed in their craft, someone who clearly didn't care what anyone else thought of her.

That's what happens when you hang around footballers all day, he thought with amusement. Anyone with a different personality becomes instantly intriguing.

Curiosity piqued, Cama made his way toward her station, trying not to favor his good leg too obviously. He'd almost reached her when she turned suddenly, adjusting her glasses, and then—

"Shit!" She'd knocked a spray bottle off her station, and it rolled directly into Cama's path. He bent to pick it up, wincing again as his hamstring protested.

"Thanks," she said, her voice low, melodic, and accented, taking it from him without really looking up. Then, as an afterthought: "Your fade needs a touch-up. Two weeks growth, right? Take a seat if you want, I'm finishing up with Jorge."

Cama blinked in surprise. She didn't recognize him. In Madrid, that was rare enough to be refreshing. Either she truly didn't know who he was—highly unlikely given she worked in his brother's shop—or she simply didn't care. Both options were equally appealing to someone who'd been in the spotlight since he was sixteen.

"I—sure, thank you," he found himself saying, settling into the waiting chair beside her station. He watched as she finished Jorge's hair with meticulous attention to detail, chatting minimally but pleasantly. The way she worked reminded him of his own approach to judo—something else few people knew he practiced, a disciplined focus where nothing else mattered.

As Jorge paid and left with effusive thanks, Esperança finally turned her full attention to Cama. She squinted slightly before gesturing to the barber chair.

"Glasses or contacts? Your favorite?" she asked as he settled in.

"Glasses," he replied, removing them and setting them on her counter. The world immediately blurred around the edges.

"Same," she said, tapping her own frames. "Blind as a bat without them."

Cama grinned at that. Another thing they had in common. His teammates always teased him about how dorky he looked in his glasses, but he preferred them to contacts during his off time. There was something about the slight barrier they created between him and the world that he found comforting.

She draped the cape around him with practiced efficiency, then paused, her hands gently touching his micro dreads, assessing their health and the precision of the fade on his shaved sides. For the first time, she really looked at his face.

"Wait. You're not a regular."

Cama smiled, the warm, natural expression that had earned him countless endorsement deals and the affection of fans worldwide. "Not here, no. But I'm familiar with the establishment."

Something clicked behind her eyes. "You're... shit. You're Eduardo. The Eduardo Camavinga. The owner's brother." Her expression didn't change much, but a slight widening of her eyes betrayed her surprise.

The fact that she cursed so casually in front of him made his smile widen. Most people treated him like he was made of glass, especially women who recognized him. It was exhausting.

"Just Cama is fine," he offered, charmed by her reaction—or lack thereof.

"Huh," was all she said, before reaching for her clippers. "Your locs look good, but the fade needs touching up. Your barber in France doesn't quite get the texture right on the sides."

Straight to business, he thought with appreciation. No asking for a selfie, no subtle attempts to get his number, no questions about the team or his famous teammates.

And then, without waiting for a response, she switched on the clippers and got to work, her fingers occasionally brushing against his scalp as she navigated around his micro dreads with expert precision.

Cama found himself relaxing under her touch. There was something oddly comforting about being treated like any other client, about the confident way she tilted his head exactly where she needed it without excessive talking or fawning.

"Hamstring?" she asked abruptly, noticing him shift in the chair to find a more comfortable position.

"How did you—"

"You're favoring your right leg. Plus I saw the Croatia game. Or, well, saw you not in it. Deschamps looked pissed."

Cama laughed. "He always looks pissed."

"True." She worked in silence for a moment, then added, "My friend tore his hamstring playing football when we were kids. Recovery is a bitch."

Her bluntness was oddly comforting. No empty reassurances, no "You'll be back better than ever!" Just acknowledgment that recovery sucked, which was exactly what he needed to hear right now.

"It's getting there," Cama said, surprised to be discussing his injury so casually. "Team doctors say another week before full training." What he didn't add was how the forced rest was driving him crazy, how much he missed the daily rhythm of practice, the camaraderie, the purpose.

She nodded, focused on her work again. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable, just calm. Different from the constant chatter he was used to.

"So," he ventured after a while, "how are you liking Camavinga House?"

"It's clean. Good equipment. Your brother doesn't micromanage. The clients are nice." She paused. "The music was terrible until I fixed it."

Cama burst out laughing, a genuine belly laugh that he couldn't contain. It felt good to laugh like that, without worrying about cameras or social media.

"Don't let Sebastião hear you say that."

"Already did. Yesterday. He said, and I quote, 'Your taste is bizarre but the clients seem into it, so whatever.'" She shrugged. "I took it as a compliment."

Cama stole a glance at her in the mirror. There was something fascinatingly contradictory about her—the stern expression alongside these flashes of unfiltered honesty, the precise technical skill with the spontaneous playlist that now featured some underground artist he couldn't identify. Most people he met were so one-dimensional, so easy to read, but she was...different.

Somehow, in that moment, with clippers buzzing and the frank way she spoke, Cama felt more at ease than he had in weeks. The constant pressure of recovery, of getting back to peak performance, of living up to everyone's expectations—it all receded slightly. There was just this moment, this conversation, this person who seemed to see him as just another guy who needed a haircut.

"You're good at this," he said simply.

"I know," she replied, without a trace of false modesty. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled—a quick, bright flash that transformed her severe expression completely. The change was so dramatic it almost startled him. It was like watching a cloudy day suddenly break into brilliant sunshine. "And you're good at sitting still. Most footballers fidget."

That made him laugh again. Most people praised him for his skill, his technique, his potential. No one had ever complimented him on sitting still before. He wondered what she was like outside of work—if she played chess or even knew how, if she had the same laser focus when watching football matches, if that smile made rare but regular appearances in her daily life.

As she finished up his fade, applying a light oil to his locs and adjusting a few of them to frame his face perfectly, Cama realized he was already thinking about when he could come back. For the haircut, of course. Nothing to do with the intriguing woman with the RBF and surprisingly gentle hands. Nothing at all to do with the way her playlist had somehow matched his exact mood, or how she talked about football like someone who actually understood the game, or how she'd made him laugh more in thirty minutes than he had in the past two weeks of rehab.

"All set," she said, handing him his glasses and spinning the chair so he could see the mirror. "Better than your French barber, right?"

Cama put his glasses back on and examined her work. It was perfect—exactly how he liked it, but somehow even better. The contrast between his shoulder-length locs and the clean fade on the sides was sharp and precise.

"Way better," he agreed, standing up carefully. "I think I've found my new regular."

She gave him that flash of a smile again. "Good, because your hair grows fast. Come back in two weeks." Then, almost as an afterthought: "And ice that hamstring. Twenty minutes on, twenty off. The team doctors probably told you that, but still."

Her matter-of-fact concern, devoid of the usual cloying sympathy he received, was oddly touching. She wasn't treating him like how everyone else did. She was treating him like any other athlete with an injury she knew something about.

As Cama paid (leaving a generous tip), he found himself already counting the days until his next haircut, his next conversation with Esperança. For the first time in months, something besides football had captured his full attention.

And for someone nicknamed "Cama Baby" because of his perpetual smile, that was saying something.

He wondered briefly if she knew about his other interests—the chess, the judo, his business ventures. Probably not, and that was refreshing too. A clean slate. Someone who might get to know the real Eduardo, not just the footballer, the investor, the public persona that had been carefully cultivated since he was a teenager.

As he pushed open the door to leave, he glanced back and caught her watching him go, that serious expression back in place as she prepared for her next client. But for just a moment, he thought he saw something curious in her gaze—like she was trying to figure him out, too.

His hamstring still ached, but somehow, it didn't seem to matter quite as much anymore.

______________________________________________

Cama laughed, dropping into the empty chair. "Physio says I can train tomorrow. Light session, but still."

"About time," Jude said, pushing a plate of chicken and vegetables toward Cama. "Team's not the same without you, bruv. Though Arda's been filling in decent."

"Decent?" Aurélien raised an eyebrow. "That's a lie though. He’s good but he isn’t Cama."

Jude's entire personality was like an exclamation point—loud, expressive, always moving. Even sitting down, he was in constant motion, gesturing with his fork, tapping his feet, his expressions changing rapidly. In contrast, Aurélien maintained a cool, composed exterior, his movements economical, his face rarely betraying emotion except for the occasional smirk or raised eyebrow. The contrast between them had fascinated Madrid fans from the beginning.

"How's Lila?" Cama asked Jude, digging into his food. He was always starving after physio.

Jude's face lit up at the mention of his girlfriend, Lewis Hamilton's sister. "She's amazing, mate. Coming to the match next weekend. Been busy with that new Versace campaign." He pulled out his phone, scrolling to a photo of them together at a recent Versace event. "Still can't believe she still puts up with me."

"None of us can," Aurélien deadpanned, but there was affection in his voice.

"And Zuri?" Cama turned to Aurélien, curious about his teammate's unconventional relationship situation.

Aurélien actually smiled—a rare sight. "She's good. She’s been busy too with going off to events and brand trips." Everyone in the team had knew the story—Aurélien's traditional family had essentially arranged his marriage to Zuri, the daughter of family friends. Against all odds, the arranged situation had blossomed into something real. "Having dinner with her tonight. She's baking dessert."

"Better than her last attempt?" Jude teased. "When she set off all them smoke alarms?"

"Watch it," Aurélien warned, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "She's taking lessons. And yeah, it's gonna be fire. Literally and figuratively."

Cama grinned at their banter. This was what he'd missed most during his injury—not just playing, but these moments with his teammates who'd become like brothers.

"What about you, lover boy?" Jude swiveled to Cama, eyes gleaming with mischief. "I see that fade. Looking extra fresh. Who you trying to impress?"

Cama felt an unexpected warmth creep into his cheeks. "Just went to the shop. They got a new barber."

Something in his tone must have given him away because Jude immediately leaned forward, all attention. "Oh yeah? New barber, huh? And?"

"And nothing," Cama said, focusing intently on his food. "She's good with hair."

"She?" Aurélien's eyebrows shot up, his cool exterior momentarily cracked. "Now we getting somewhere."

"Cama's got a crush on his barber!" Jude announced, loud enough that several teammates at nearby tables turned to look. "Look at his face! Man's blushing!"

"I am not," Cama protested, though he could feel his cheeks growing warmer. "She's just...different."

"Different how?" Aurélien asked, suddenly interested, setting his phone down.

Cama struggled to explain. "She didn't even really react when she recognized me. And she just...says whatever she's thinking. No filter. It's nice."

"Ah, the rare girl who doesn't care about the fame," Aurélien nodded sagely. "Those the dangerous ones, my guy."

"Proper fit though, innit?" Jude pressed, grinning like a shark that smelled blood. "Go on, you can tell us."

Cama hesitated. "She's...yeah. She's beautiful. But in this unconventional way. She's got this full sleeve tattoo, and piercings, and this style that's like street fashion mixed with something else I can't even describe. And she just has this focus when she works. Like nothing else exists."

"Mans is SMITTEN," Jude declared, slapping the table. "Listen to him! 'She has this focus,'" he mimicked in a dreamy voice. "Next you'll be writing poetry about her eyebrows or some shit."

"Shut up," Cama laughed, throwing a napkin at his friend.

"For real though," Aurélien said, leaning forward slightly, "you should ask her out."

"I just met her," Cama protested. "And she works for my brother."

"So? Your brother would be hyped if you found someone who wasn't just after your money and fame." Aurélien shrugged. "At least get her number when you go back for your next cut."

"I haven't even decided if I'm going back to her yet," Cama lied.

"Yeah, right," Jude scoffed. "That's why you got that dopey smile every time you mention her. You've probably already circled the date on your calendar, bruv."

Cama hadn't actually circled the date, but he had set a reminder on his phone, something he didn't feel the need to share with his already insufferable friends.

"Anyway," he said, desperate to change the subject, "tell me what I've missed. Tactical changes? Drills? Anything I need to know before tomorrow?"

"Ancelotti's been testing a new midfield formation," Aurélien said, mercifully allowing the subject change. "More fluid transitions. You'll see tomorrow."

"And you know how Vini's been a right pain in the arse without you to calm him down," Jude added. "Had a proper go at the ref last match. Nearly got himself suspended."

They fell into shop talk, discussing the team's performance and what Cama needed to prepare for. But every few minutes, Jude would waggle his eyebrows suggestively or make a scissors motion with his fingers, mouthing "barber girl" when Aurélien wasn't looking.

After lunch, as they headed toward the locker rooms, Aurélien fell into step beside Cama, letting Jude walk ahead with Vinicius who'd joined them.

"For real though," he said quietly, "I get it."

"Get what?" Cama asked.

"Meeting someone who sees past all this." He gestured vaguely at their surroundings—the state-of-the-art training facility, the luxury cars in the parking lot, the security guards. "That's rare. Zuri was like that. Looked at me like I was just some regular dude she was being forced to marry." A smile played at his lips. "It's why I fell for her. Well, that and she’s so sweet and amazing."

Cama laughed, remembering when he first met Zuri and how the two of them were now inseparable.

"I'm not saying I like her like that," Cama clarified. "I just met her. But yeah, it was... nice. To just be a guy getting a haircut."

Aurélien nodded, understanding without needing more explanation. "That barber shop chain of yours doing well?" he asked, changing topics seamlessly.

"Yeah, really well. Sebastião wants to open a fourth location soon, maybe in London. Jude's been pushing for Birmingham, but..." Cama grinned.

"Nobody want to go to Birmingham, man. Not even for a fresh cut." Aurélien shook his head, the hint of a smile playing at his lips. "London's smart though. Lot of high-profile potential clients."

They reached the locker room, where Jude was already engaged in what appeared to be an impromptu dance battle with Rodrygo, music blasting from a portable speaker.

"Look at this clown," Aurélien said fondly, watching Jude attempt some complicated move that resulted in him nearly falling into a locker.

"You love it really," Cama said.

"It's trash," Aurélien replied, but he was smiling now—an actual genuine smile. "But yeah, wouldn't trade these fools for anything."

Cama glanced around the locker room, watching with a smile on his face as his teammates danced and had a good time after another day of a good training.

Yeah, I wouldn’t trade this in for anything.

Outside, the evening air was cooling, the sky turning a deeper blue. Esperança put on her headphones—Mariah The Scientist's latest album, the music immediately creating a barrier between her and the crowded Madrid streets—and headed for the metro. Her mind slipped into its familiar evening routine, calculating timing and logistics. Thirty minutes on the metro. Five minute walk to Señora Vega's. Then the walk home with Luisa, who always moved at half the necessary speed, distracted by everything.

She'd need to throw together dinner, something quick but healthy. Then homework. Then Luisa's bath. Then maybe, if she was lucky, an hour to herself before sleep and doing it all again tomorrow. The mental load never ended, not since her mother had died three years ago from lung cancer, leaving Esperança, then just 21, with custody of her little sister.

Their fathers weren't in the picture—different men, both long gone. Her own had disappeared when she was four, her sister's had never been more than a brief presence in their mother's life. Sometimes Esperança felt like she'd been born responsible, born with this weight on her shoulders, though in reality it had developed gradually, taking care of her mother during the illness, then becoming Luisa's legal guardian afterward.

The metro was crowded, as always at this hour. Esperança kept her headphones on, her expression neutral, avoiding eye contact. People rarely bothered her, which suited her fine. The RBF, as her friends called it, was both a burden and a shield.

Her mind drifted to the footballer again. Eduardo Camavinga. His easy smile, the way he'd asked questions and actually seemed interested in her answers. The way he'd laughed without restraint when she'd mentioned fixing the shop's playlist. Most people found her too blunt, too intense, too "weird." Her lack of filter had cost her jobs before. But this one—this one she couldn't afford to lose.

Camavinga House was the best gig she'd ever landed. Good pay, flexible hours that allowed her to drop Luisa at school in the mornings, and a boss who didn't seem bothered by her directness. She'd bounced between barbershops for years, building a client base but always eventually running into issues with management who wanted her to be more "friendly," more "approachable." As if her skill with clippers and scissors wasn't enough.

But Sebastião had hired her based purely on her portfolio and a ten-minute cutting demonstration. "Your work speaks for itself," he'd said. "The rest is just noise."

She couldn't mess this up, not when it was finally providing some stability for her and Luisa. The apartment they shared in a working-class neighborhood wasn't fancy, but it was clean and safe, with two small bedrooms and big windows that let in plenty of light. Luisa deserved stability after all the upheaval of their mother's illness and death.

The metro announcement for her stop jerked her back to the present. She navigated through the crowd, emerged onto the street, and walked the familiar route to Señora Vega's building. The elderly neighbor had become a lifeline, watching Luisa after school for a modest fee. Without her, Esperança couldn't have managed the barbershop's hours.

"Espe!" Luisa's excited voice greeted her as soon as the door opened. Her sister barreled into her, all gangly limbs and boundless energy. At ten, Luisa was her opposite in many ways—outgoing, talkative, always moving, always expressing. Sometimes Esperança wondered how they could share the same DNA.

"Hola, mono," she said, giving Luisa a tight hug. "¿Cómo estuvo la escuela?" (Hey, monkey. How was school?)

"Muy bueno!" Luisa launched into a detailed account of her day, complete with dramatic reenactments, while Esperança exchanged glances with Señora Vega.

"Deberes?" she asked quietly. (Homework?)

"Matemáticas," the older woman replied. "Ella luchó un poco." (She struggled a bit.)

Esperança nodded, making a mental note to spend extra time on it tonight. Math had never been Luisa's strong suit, but she helped where she could. When the work became too advanced, they'd have to find a tutor, something that made her stomach clench with financial anxiety.

"Gracias," she said, handing over the weekly payment. "¿A la misma hora mañana?" (Same time tomorrow?)

"Por supuesto, querida. Ella es una delicia." Señora Vega smiled warmly at Luisa, who was now attempting to demonstrate some complicated playground game involving jumping and clapping.

The walk home took twice as long as it should have, with Luisa stopping to examine interesting rocks, point out dogs, and share more elaborate stories from her day. Esperança found herself constantly trying to hurry them along, then forcing herself to slow down, to be present. Her therapist—whom she saw monthly on a sliding scale fee—had emphasized the importance of this, of not letting the responsibility rob her of the joy of her sister.

"¿Podemos comer pasta esta noche?" Luisa asked, skipping alongside her. (Can we have pasta tonight?)

"Ayer comimos pasta," Esperança reminded her. "¿Qué tal arroz y frijoles con un poco de pollo?" (We had pasta last night. How about some rice and beans with chicken?)

Luisa made a face but didn't argue. She knew the financial constraints they operated under, even at her young age. Sometimes that awareness broke Esperança's heart—children should be children, not miniature adults worried about grocery budgets.

At their apartment, the evening routine unfolded: Luisa changed out of her school uniform while Esperança started dinner, then they sat at their small kitchen table, Luisa chattering between bites while Esperança helped with the math homework. After dinner, Luisa had her bath, and then they spent a precious half hour reading together, currently making their way through a fantasy novel that had Luisa completely enraptured.

"¿Solo un capítulo más?" Luisa pleaded when Esperança closed the book.

"Mañana," she promised, kissing her sister's forehead. "Ya ha pasado tu hora de dormir." (It’s already past your bedtime.)

Once Luisa was finally settled, Esperança retreated to the living room, collapsing onto the couch. The silence was sudden and complete. She closed her eyes, letting the day's social interactions fade away. Being "on" all day—with clients, with Sebastião, with Luisa's boundless energy—drained her in a way that physical work never could.

The diagnosis had come when she was twelve: high-functioning autism spectrum disorder. It had explained so much—her difficulty with social cues, her intense focus on specific interests, her sensory sensitivities, the way she'd always felt slightly out of step with the world around her. The lack of filter between her brain and mouth that had gotten her into trouble so many times.

But the diagnosis hadn't made life easier, just more understandable. She still had to mask her natural tendencies in most social situations, still had to work twice as hard to interpret what others found intuitive. Most days she managed. Some days she didn't. But since becoming Luisa's guardian, failure wasn't an option.

She pulled out her phone, checking the calendar for tomorrow. Work from 10 to 6. Luisa had a school field trip, which meant picking her up from a different location. She'd need to leave work by 5:30 at the latest to make it. Sebastião was usually understanding about these things, but she hated asking for special treatment.

Her thoughts drifted again to Eduardo Camavinga. There had been something different about him, something that had made their interaction less exhausting than most. He hadn't seemed bothered by her direct manner, hadn't pushed for unnecessary small talk, had actually laughed at her bluntness rather than being offended.

And he'd noticed her playlist change immediately. Most people failed to notice things like that—the details that stood out so glaringly to her. His observation skills were surprisingly sharp for a celebrity. She'd expected someone more... self-absorbed.

Plus, she'd had to admit, he was attractive in a warm, genuine way. Those smiling eyes behind his glasses had caught her off guard. And his locs had been perfectly maintained, showing he actually cared about his appearance beyond just the performative aspect of being a public figure.

"Stop it," she muttered to herself in English, standing up abruptly. Thinking about a client this way was unprofessional, especially one connected to her boss. And besides, men like Eduardo Camavinga didn't date women like her—single mother figures with severe RBF, unconventional style, and a tendency to say exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time.

She headed to the bathroom to wash her face and prepare for bed. In the mirror, she examined her reflection critically. The double nose piercing that had scandalized her mother but that she'd gotten anyway at eighteen. The small gauges in her ears. The sleeve tattoo that had taken years to complete, a visual narrative of her Angolan and Spanish heritage intertwined.

Her appearance had always been the one area where she felt completely confident, where she could express herself without words. The avant-garde clothes that mixed streetwear with harajuku influences, the occasional coquette accessories that seemed to surprise people—they were all deliberate choices, her visual language in a world where verbal communication often failed her.

But these same choices made her an outsider in many spaces. She'd been turned away from job interviews before the interviewer had even spoken to her, judged solely on her appearance. The barbering world had been more accepting, but even there, she'd encountered pushback. Too edgy. Too alternative. Too much.

"At least I'm not boring," she told her reflection, a phrase her mother used to say when others criticized their family's unconventional choices.

Her phone buzzed with a message: her kickboxing instructor confirming tomorrow's session had been moved earlier. Another scheduling puzzle to solve. She'd have to skip lunch at work to make it happen, but the physical outlet was necessary for her mental health. The rhythmic patterns of training, the pure physical exertion—it cleared her mind in a way nothing else could.

She set her alarm for 6 AM, giving herself time for a run before Luisa woke up. Every minute of her day was accounted for, optimized, a careful balancing act that left little room for error or spontaneity.

As she climbed into bed, she allowed herself one more thought about Eduardo Camavinga. About how his eyes had crinkled when he laughed. About how he hadn't tried to fill the comfortable silences with pointless chatter. About how he'd noticed an attention to detail she rarely encountered.

"Two weeks," she murmured, remembering what she'd told him about coming back for another cut. The timeline made sense for his hair growth, but part of her wondered if he actually would return. Celebrities were notoriously fickle, and there were plenty of high-end barbers in Madrid who would gladly clear their schedules for a Real Madrid star.

Well, if he did return, she'd give him another perfect fade. And that would be that. No point fantasizing about anything else. She had enough on her plate without adding impossible daydreams.

With that thought firmly in place, Esperança set her phone aside and closed her eyes, letting the day's accumulated tension slowly release. Tomorrow would be another carefully choreographed day of responsibilities, another test of her endurance and resourcefulness. Another day of making it work, because she had to.

For Luisa. For herself. For the promise she'd made to her mother in those final days.

I'm doing it, Mamá, she thought as sleep began to claim her. It's hard, but I'm doing it.

TO BE CONTINUED......

Many are familiar with Ruby Bridges’ courageous act of desegregating an all-white school in the South. Did you know that three other students did the same on this day just a few blocks away?

On November 14, 1960, Leona Tate, Gail Etienne, Tessie Prevost, and Ruby Bridges made history as the first Black children to attend formerly all-white schools in the South, following a federal judge’s order to desegregate New Orleans schools.

Due to angry parents and officials protesting the girls’ admissions, federal marshals escorted them on campus throughout the school year.

At only six-years-old, these girls became symbols of the civil rights movement. Today, and every day, we honor them for their bravery. ✊🏾

new week : begin again. stay positive. set intentions. leave last weeks negativity behind. be kind to your mind and body. drink your water. don’t skip meals. meditate. move your body. make time to do things that makes you happy. be productive ✨🌸🕯️

album covers colors series [5/8]

Brown is a natural color that evokes a sense of strength and reliability. It’s often seen as solid, much like the earth, and it’s a color often associated with resilience, dependability, security, and safety. Brown can also create feelings of loneliness, sadness, and isolation.

The Man in the Chair

Pairing: Dhan Rana x Zeke Wallace Word Count: 1.2K Tags: Phobias, Disassociation, Trauma (All mild), Subtle Emotional Infidelity (if you squint?) Summary: Dhan likes talking to Zeke. And he hates that he likes it so much. But he'd never tell Zeke that. A/N: Just a slice of conversation between a grumpy vet and a ray of sunshine techie. You could read this as romantic or platonic tbh.

(Source)

--

"Okay, Dhan, you did it. You survived. It's fine."

He took a deep breath, leaning over the sink and staring into his own eyes in the streaky, fogged up mirror.

He knew the door was quadruple locked. He checked once, twice, three times both before and after he got out the shower. And though the silence in the apartment unnerved him, it was better than the alternative. Once he felt semi-safe enough to relax, he played some low meditation music that Margaret recommended for him.

Typically, Dhan had a specific way of doing things: Lay clothes out, iron them, shower, hair maintenance, put on clothes, make the bed, head out. Muscle memory made his routine second nature. In his husband's absence, however, everything just felt...off. Like everything in his apartment had been moved two inches to the left when he wasn't looking, and he'd forgotten how to function.

He'd been trying to spend as little time in the confines of his shared home as possible.

As if summoned telepathically, his music was interrupted by an incoming FaceTime call from The Man in the Chair. He involuntarily felt the corner of his mouth twitch and he mentally kicked himself, schooling his features before accepting the call.

"What's going on?" Dhan said after clearing his throat, "Any updates on the text transcripts?"

Zeke quirked a brow at him, "I mean yeah, but why do you look so...wet?"

Dhan glanced at the smaller version of himself on the screen in confusion. His dark, damp hair flopped over his brows and droplets of water rolled down his face, staining his shirt. The one time chose to wear something other than black.

He did, in fact, look like he'd just survived a drowning attempt. Dhan sighed in deep exhaustion at the prospect of putting in effort to dry his hair, after already using so much energy to just get up and get dressed.

"I just showered, sorry for...this," he motioned to himself tiredly, "I'll get around to it. Eventually."

Zeke let out a good natured chuckle, rapidly typing something on his desktop keyboard as he spoke, "Hey, I'm not judging you! I just figured you were going for a new look. I think we all had an emo phase once, right? Who's to say you can't have another one at like...what? Thirty--?"

"--Ok, I get it, I look like shit." Dhan couldn't help the snort that escaped from him at Zeke's ribbing, "We can't always look neat and polished like you, rich boy."

Zeke's eyes flickered to Dhan's face on the screen for a moment and he laughed, "I was born with the natural ability to look good. Money has nothing to do with it, bro."

...Bro?

Dhan felt something in his brain twitch. Like the disappointment a child might feel when a parent denies them their favorite candy. He brushed it off. Or maybe he filed it away for later. He couldn't really be honest with himself about whether it was worth exploring further.

"The transcripts?" Dhan continued, rolling his eyes semi-jokingly, "What's going on with them?"

Zeke said nothing, but Dhan heard the telltale *ding* of a new message on his phone.

"I've just dropped the file into the shared drive, and I sent you the keycode for it." Zeke finally stopped typing to face the screen directly, "It's about 238 pages of text, but I've highlighted the important parts between July 3rd and September 22nd. Hopefully that makes it a little easier to skim."

"Thanks, buddy."

Buddy? The word felt like battery acid in his mouth.

"Buddy?" Zeke grinned, "Now I know you're feeling a bit off, today." When his gaze suddenly softened in sympathy, Dhan had to look away to feign interest in towel drying his hair. The younger man's kindness was disarming sometimes. Most times. It took a while for Dhan to get comfortable with it.

He didn't understand what Zeke got out of this other than an occasional gaming partner and someone to bounce bad jokes off of. Sometimes Zeke looked at Dhan with so much genuine care that it made him want to scream.

Stop looking at me like that! Stop fucking pitying me! I'm not a pitiful person. I've been at this for longer than you. Stop making me want to spill my guts.

Stop looking at me like I mean something to you.

"I still feel weird. Like, uh...Like my brain and my body are on different hemispheres, you know?" He confessed, intentionally avoiding eye contact.

Zeke hummed, "I've been there. Sometimes I feel like I'm trying to lasso my brain back into its rightful place, and it just won't budge. Other times I feel like I'm scattered everywhere like little particles of dust while my body stays stuck in this chair. I almost wish that were true. Maybe then this space wouldn't feel so suffocating sometimes."

There was an amicable silence between the two men as Dhan absentmindedly dried his hair.

Finally, he broke the silence and started to ask, "Have you, you know, tried going outside again since the--"

"No." Zeke flatly responded, instinctively pressing his hand to the scar on his forehead, "It's just...I'm not ready yet."

It was understandable. If Dhan's first time facing his fears in ages resulted in an injury that required a concussion check up, he'd be hesitant to try it again, too. Draping the towel over his shoulders, Dhan rubbed the back of his neck.

"It was impressive taking the chance even though you were afraid, by the way. I don't know if I ever, like, said that. To you. About that."

Zeke offered a weak smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. It didn't look right on him. Dhan awkwardly rushed to add, "And, hey, you're gonna have to check out my gaming setup sometime. You can only do that if you visit. You can't get jealous when you see it, though."

He grinned at Dhan. A wide, toothy grin that made his stomach swoop, “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that. But, seriously, don’t get too cocky. You’ve already seen mine and I’m still adding to it.”

At this, Dhan couldn’t help but smile back at his enthusiasm, even if it wasn’t as big and bright as Zeke’s. Though, could anyone’s smile match his? He allowed his mind to wander for a moment, indulging in the idea that he could never find another person who smiles at him like he does. It was nice to forget the complications of his existence for a while.

“I’m gonna, um, work on these…these files,” Dhan said, coming back into focus to find Zeke working on something off screen. “Thanks for sending them over.”

Zeke offered a casual salute in response, “Anytime, Rana. Call me if you need anything!”

He knew that, to Zeke, that last sentence meant multiple things. And Dhan had to wonder if he knew the effect he had on people.

Did he have this effect on people? Or did he just have this effect on him?

Dhan leaned against the sink again as the call ended and took a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He ran his fingers through his damp hair.

Suddenly—for reasons that were completely unrelated to the previous conversation—he found the motivation to get himself together for the day.

⋆ ambessa headcanons but it's a modern au & she's a ruthless business mogul.

business mogul!ambessa x wife!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: what it says on the tin.

cw: implied age difference! explicit sexual content below the cut!

notes: i need her. i am going to lose it. the theme of this marriage is definitely cherry by lana del rey ( listen here. ) and bordersz by zayn ( listen here. )

getting together

one night, a little tipsy and feeling bold, you post a video to social media. you don’t care about the controversy, you declare—you need ambessa so badly.

despite the chaos that follows, your words are so heartfelt, so sweet, that the video practically goes triple platinum overnight.

later, at a restaurant opening, you both happen to be there. she spots you sitting in a corner, all soft warmth and radiant energy.

you look lovely, your wide smile lighting up the room. she notices how your nose scrunches when you laugh and how your dress—loaned as a favor to a designer you adore—dips elegantly at your hips.

with a little... maneuvering, ambessa secures the seat next to you and strikes up a conversation.

you’re so vivacious, so intelligent, and for the first time in a long time, she meets someone who doesn’t greet her with judgment or disapproval.

when you speak, you lean in, your hand occasionally brushing her arm. you’re so intentional, and it utterly endears her to you.

after the event, she goes home haunted by your perfume and the sound of your laughter.

the next morning, her PA reaches out with a dinner invitation to one of your dream restaurants. ambessa had spent the night scrolling through your socials, watching videos over and over.

the married life.

you’ve become a media darling—everyone adores you.

sometimes, ambessa can’t handle sharing you with the world, so she’s left her mark: photos of you often feature dark hickeys blooming across your neck like wildflowers.

your ring is massive, but she insisted you pick it out yourself—she wanted to make sure it was exactly what you wanted.

you call her “bessa,” and she alternates between “my love,” “baby,” or “sweet girl” when speaking to you.

when you leave for trips, whether for work or to visit family, she secretly diffuses perfume oils that mimic your scent throughout the house.

the playlist you share is ridiculously long—so long, in fact, it almost crashed your phone once, but neither of you care.

her desk is cluttered with framed photos of you, and your house has a photo wall that stretches up the staircase.

even when she’s annoyed or upset, she’s impossibly soft with you.

she gets genuinely upset if you don’t use her card to make purchases. like pissed.

“you will want for nothing” was one of the first promises she made to you.

you have to sneak birthday and christmas gifts for her because she always checks to make sure you’re spending her money “as the Lord intended.”

“i didn’t add this card to your apple wallet for decoration.”

she’s deeply affectionate, both in public and private.

she adores nonsexual intimacy—massaging your feet as you tell her about your day, pulling you into her lap while she works, and just sitting quietly together.

when you cup her face during conversations to focus her, it often leads to... wonderful outcomes.

if she catches you pouting, she pinches your lips into a duckbill and laughs. you let it slide because her laughter is so full-bodied, so infectious, you can’t help but love it.

her humor is so dry and witty it takes you a minute to register sometimes, but when you do, you’re in stitches.

she’s always close—sharing water, joining you in baths and showers. you’re rarely apart.

ambessa loves to provide for you. she’s your dictionary, bank account, calculator, calendar, dild—

her gift-giving is unmatched. she remembers things you mentioned wanting years ago, down to the minute you said it. it could've been mentioned 6 years, 2 months, 3 days, 1 hour, 6 minutes, and 23 seconds ago. she still remembers.

she keeps a lawyer on retainer because you’re fiercely protective of her. she acts exasperated but secretly loves it.

if you get sick, she’s terrifying—she’ll track down whoever got you sick and sue them into the ground. when you had pneumonia once, she nearly had a breakdown. it is now referred to as the crashout of the century in your household.

she’s serious about keeping you healthy, even if it drives you crazy. workouts with her are intense.

“just a little more, my love.” “you said that two rounds ago!"

her countdowns are the worst. she swears there’s ten seconds left, but it feels like eternity.

speaking of households, you don’t play when it comes to your family.

you’re fiercely protective and, let’s be honest, a little conniving when necessary.

the pta? you run it like the navy. everyone falls in line when you walk in the room.

once, a kid at mel’s school thought it was a good idea to bully her. you pulled up, found the kid, and made sure they’d never even think about messing with her again.

after that, everyone was a little afraid of mel and kino’s stepmom. you never heard another peep of bullying.

when it's good—it usually is—it's wonderful. but there were compliated moments in the beginning.

ambessa’s rise to the top wasn’t exactly clean. there were deals in shadows, strategies that left her enemies ruined. you should’ve felt more conflicted, but you found it difficult to care.

but then she announced she was running for office, and everything changed. you hated what she was doing to win—how ruthless she was, how far she was willing to go.

it led to the biggest fight you’d ever had. you left, heartbroken, and stayed with your parents for weeks.

mel had never seen her mother so undone. ambessa was quiet, distracted, a shadow of herself.

mel flew out to see you, desperate to fix things. when you saw her, the grief on her face mirrored your own, and it shattered you.

you forgave ambessa immediately—not because she was blameless, but because you hated what it had done to both of you.

she will always choose you and the kids above anything.

the marriage bed.

it's a workout in here, too.

she gon’ put that baby inside of you.

you are a bit of a perfectionist and stressed about doing it wrong and she literally could not have cared less.

she loves to lace your hands together when you fuck.

the first couple times you sleep together she treats your body like a land she needs to learn, to map.

she prefers to be dominant but sometimes you just need it and she allows you to take control.

you adore her strength and you are not slick about it because your favorite positions reflect it: mating press and amazon press, specifically.

she’s a munch and she likes humiliating you so that usually entails spreading the lips of your pussy to watch it drool for her, spiting into your cunt, pushing your legs out or up so that it’s completely bare to her.

you're enamored with her breasts. 

even outside of sex sometimes you just squeeze or hold them.

she says you’re being ridiculous but then will take off her top and reveal the most insanely tight sports bra. her tits are practically spilling into your mouth all on their own.

you can no longer go to the gym with her bc it will get crazy.

impact play. 

straps you down. you are not walking for at least two days.

once she begins, she will be finishing. no breaks. so don't tease unless you can commit.

will most definitely keep fucking you even she gets a work call + sometimes if you try to be quiet she’ll loop a hand under the thin fabric of your g-string and bounce you fast and hard on her cock until you’re moaning shamlessly.

you love kissing her so she’ll make out with you until your lips are so swollen and your words are slurred.

the best sex you had was in the bathtub one evening.

you were slipping and sliding but a swat team couldn’t have pulled her out of you.

you held onto her tightly, felt her back ripple, and to this day you swear you saw the gates of heaven. you knew if you came to be before them without her, you'd hold the gates to let her in.

she’s always telling you to take it and forces you to look at the ring you’re making around her cock.

when you’re ass up she’ll consume you until you’re shaking.

she loves making you squirt; it’s like a challenge for her.

when it happens she’ll drop her mouth open and moan so loudly it makes you flush.

she then begins to finger you and the overstimulation really works you up.

she loves to put you on your side with a leg raised so she can snap her hips hard against your ass and hear the squelch.

you love when she does this because her tits are against your back and she’s just so fucking big and warm. you feel safe.

you’re usually so sweet but during these moments you curse like a sailor.

“fuck fuck fuuuuuck. holy shit, bessa.” “such a dirty girl.” 

one thing about her fingers? they’re going in your mouth and you’re gonna gag on them.

super thoughtful with aftercare.

massages every part of your body and intersperses the pressure with tender kisses.

you always fall asleep to affirmations of how beautiful and loved you are.

you are her angel, fallen and found by her hands.

© hcneymooners.

Brittney Griner fluff/smut: play-wrestling together but reader ends up getting horny

word count : 542

warnings : cussing, smut, straight up filth

summary : what went from playing around in your bed ended up with you both naked and sweaty

you held the 6’8 giant in a playful head lock as she flips you on to your back as she lays in between your legs as her lower half grinds on you as her hands find there way to your waist as accidental moan slips away from your mouth.

you hide your face in the crook of brittney’s neck over your embarrassed as laughs leave her mouth “what was that” she teases as you mumble a ‘nothing’ as she plays with the waistband of your sweats.

“stopp” you whine as her hand begins to find its way to your ass cheek and the other messing with your bra strap unhooking it with her hand as she slips it off of you leaving you bare under her while she places kisses on your sensitive nipples.

“B hurry up, please” you whine out but your desperate pleas where cut short when 2 of her long thick fingers entered in to your soaking core as you walls tighten around them as you both moan at the feeling. “thats it baby take my fingers sweet girl”

she coos in your ear cutting off your moans arching your back at the tension in the room with you both so desperate for each other. her purposely moaning in your ear turned you on even more for her opening your legs wider for her as they began to shake from the overwhelming pleasure she sent through your sopping core

“such a good girl, wanna give you my baby so bad” she was fond of talking dirty to you during your intimacy always worshiping your every movement. she licked a stripe from your collarbone to your chin “so fucking pretty, tell me how good you feel mama”

she kisses the bottom of your ear as the noises coming from your wet pussy embarrassingly grew louder making you whimper from her fast movements. “feels so good brittney, so fucking good” you cry out as your hands grip the satin sheets as she laughs at your actions when her other hand presses against your throat gripping it barely, just enough for pleasure from the action.

the aching knot grew in your stomach as your walls tightened around brittney’s long harsh fingers that has once touched every party of your body. “daddy im, fuck- im gonna cum” you sobbed out as your hands lingered to her back as your fingers were now digging in to her soft watery skin leaving a long streak of marks.

“thats it baby, cum on daddys fingers” her whispers in your ear turned to nothing as her fingers curled up in your core hitting the perfect spot pushing the knot to its breaking point as your liquids coated brittneys fingers as she pulled them out in to her mouth sucking every bit of your cum off as her fingers come out leaving a popping noise.

“your nasty” she rolls her eyes at your comment knowing you both have done worse with each other, many things could be named. “so you will let me spit in your mouth but when i lick your cum off of MY fingers its nasty?” your shrug your arms weakly and lazily laughing at her being offended by your comment “i said what i said b”

Britney with a short gf ( maybe 5’2-4 bc BG is tall asf 6’9 ) anyways like imagine her going thru something and need comfort and Britney just holds her and hugs her then it leads to comfort smut yk

word count : 350

warnings : filth, smut, fingering

summary : your sick and brittney takes care of you

song : Anxious by Ginuwine || Play Dat Shit !

you lay in bed as sick as one can be with a stuffy nose unable to breathe as brittney try’s her best to make you feel comfortable.

her begins rubbing your back along with turning the air conditioning to the lowest setting as you lay naked on your stomach drenched in a pool of sweat.

“i know what will make you feel better?” you hum in response willing to do anything to get your mind of the pain of your sickness.

“just sit still baby and let me make you feel good” she says making her way down to your warm folds running her thick finger through your wet slick.

you let out a hum rewarding her action as her head dives down to give soft kitten licks running through your tender folds making you whine.

“i got you princess, just keep that pretty mouth moving” she says waiting for your moans to continue.

your whines remain praising brittney’s actions as her own wetness pools in her panties turning her on more than ever.

her skilled fingers continue to pump in and out of your entrance as your stomach twisted and turned making your breath hitch with each thrust.

her free hand resting on the side of your butt cheek holding you still as her coated fingers continue there pleasure making you turn into putty in her grasp.

“mmm- fuck b” you cry out as your walls clench around her fingers while she works you up to finish your orgasm.

“go on princess, i know you wanna cum” she coos placing soft kisses on your inner thighs speeding up her movements.

your liquids coat her gentle fingers that where stuffed inside of you working you up as her soft screams leave your mouth shoving yourself back down on her fingers.

she rubs your lower butt cheek before placing a smack on the same spot before exiting her fingers from your sopping cunt placing a kiss on your forehead.

“my beautiful princess” she coos holding you on her lanky arms now turning on your guys favorite movies to binge watch together.

⋆ down and out, you got me beggin' for thread.

milf!landlord!ambessa x oblivious!f!reader. men & minors dni. synopsis: in your defense, you just thought she was being an attentive landlord. and then the dinner happened. cw: landlord!ambessa, milf!ambessa, oblivious!reader, age difference, older woman/younger woman, domination, dom/sub, dom!ambessa, sub!reader, ambessa puts you in your place i fear, sweet!reader, oral sex, cunnilingus (ambessa!receiving), bessa has a clit hood piercing whoops, face riding, vaginal fingering (r!receiving), overstimulation, strength kink, praise kink, rough body play, reader is large-chested, cfnf (clothed female, naked female), crawling, kneeling, hair pulling, dirty talk, flirting, seduction, ambessa clocking your shit, she ain't new to this but she's true to this & she's gonna wear you out. notes: i have nothing to say for myself.

in your defense, you just thought she was committed to being a really lovely landlord.

you’d been somewhat isolated from the rest of your neighbors in the condominium, having moved in late and missed all the arranged social activities. they regarded you as a strange little creature—thick hair in an unruly shock, a mouth so full it seemed perpetually pouting. work kept you coming home late most nights, shoes in hand as you climbed the wooden stairs quietly, mindful of the many elderly residents whose comfort you took care not to disturb.

you lived alone, a choice that often worried your family but one you adored. walking through your door to complete silence, greeted by the heavy coffee-and-baby-powder smoke of your newest candle, made it easier to disassociate from whatever unhappiness followed you in from the world outside.

you’d made no effort to distinguish yourself among the residents. even moving in had been a seamless affair—a blur of efficiency as six absurdly lanky movers wrestled your antique french pieces (all dark wood) through the narrow doorway, your winces punctuating every scrape against the walls.

the flat was small but sweetened undeniably by your touch. the floor plan alone had elicited a stifled gasp of horror from your father when you’d sent it to him during a call—confirmation, if you needed it, that you’d made the right choice. your bedroom, however, was the crown jewel.

it was your favorite indulgence, an unapologetic display of your heart & taste, and just a touch of impracticality. the mirrored wall behind the bed was its most divisive feature, reflecting the soft, amber glow of the lamps into endless repetitions of warmth. your father would have grimaced if he saw it, muttering something about "too much light bouncing around," but to you, it felt decadent.

the bed, wide and heavy, was dressed in pale linens with a subtle fringe that seemed to collect light like dew. it was the kind of bed that swallowed you whole, that made you linger in the mornings even when you couldn’t afford to. you’d agonized over the exact shade when choosing the bedding—anything too dark would have clashed with the mirrored nightstands, which were precariously balanced between timeless and ostentatious.

the carpeting was thick enough to mute every footstep, though the faded champagne hue had long since been out of fashion. still, you loved it, the way it dulled the room’s sharper edges. a chandelier hung overhead, small but undeniably glamorous, its crystals catching the light like a handful of stolen stars.

t wasn’t a large room by any means, but it didn’t need to be. it was yours, unmistakably so, and that was enough.

so, of course, it would be the first thing to fall prey to maintenance.

the first drip was forgivable. pipes groaned in older buildings, after all, and you were nothing if not patient. the second drip came faster, followed by the slow, insidious spread of water along the grout of your ensuite floor. you pressed your palm to your forehead, sighed, and stared at the mirror, still smudged from a half-hearted cleaning spree earlier in the week. the bathroom had charm—aged brass fixtures, a vintage vanity—but that charm was waning fast as the puddle grew.

it was past midnight, but you decided you had no choice. wrapping your robe tighter around your waist, you picked up your phone and dialed the number your landlord’s assistant—did they all have assistants?— had given you at move-in, cringing as it rang.

“do you know what time it is?” ambessa’s voice came through, low and sharp, cutting through your groggy apology before you could finish.

“yes, and i’m so sorry, ms. medarda,” you rushed out, cradling the phone against your ear as you stepped around the puddle. “it’s just—there’s a leak, and it’s spreading. i didn’t want to call maintenance without your permission, but honestly, i think the bathroom could use some updating while we’re at it—”

“where’s the leak?” she interrupted.

“in the ensuite. just off the bedroom.”

a pause, long enough to make you nervous. “i’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

you blinked. “oh, no, that’s not—”

the line clicked dead.

true to her word, ambessa arrived twenty minutes later, sharp knocks echoing through your quiet flat. you’d changed into your cotton pajamas by then—a soft rosy brown set with little embroidered daisies, complete with a matching sleep mask pushed up into your hair. billie holiday crooned softly from your record player as you opened the door, clutching your robe around you and smiling sheepishly.

ambessa was the kind of beautiful that made you forget yourself. she filled your doorway as if she belonged there, her broad shoulders wrapped in a perfectly tailored coat that hung just so, framing her with an air of command. the silver threading her tight, thick cornrows caught the dim light, lending her a sharpness that bordered on regal, and her eyes—dark, unyielding—pinned you in place without even trying.

you noticed the subtle tension in her jaw, the way her gloves creaked faintly as she pulled them off with deliberate care, and for a moment, you felt ridiculous in your thin pajamas and mask pushed askew on your forehead.

she was all clean lines and control, the kind of presence that demanded your full attention, and you were too overwhelmed to do anything but offer her a stammered “hello” as if she hadn’t just marched into your space and stolen all the air.

“thank you for coming, ms. medarda,” you said, stepping around her to close the door. “god, you must be freezing. would you like some tea? or something else that’s warm?”

ambessa’s eyes swept over you briefly—taking in the retro pajamas, the faint scent of your cucumber tea steeping on the stove—before she stepped inside, her boots clicking against the hardwood.

“let’s see the damage first. and just ambessa is fine.”

she was taller than you’d thought, filling the space of your small flat with an effortless command. you trailed behind her as she followed the faint sound of dripping into the ensuite.

“it’s outdated,” you offered nervously, watching her crouch to inspect the base of the sink. “i mean, charming, but maybe too charming? i wasn’t sure if you’d be okay with renovations, so i didn’t want to call anyone until i asked you first.”

ambessa straightened, the corners of her mouth tugging upward just slightly.

“that’s sweet of you. do what you'd like.”

you blinked at her. “oh. okay! that’s—so nice of you. i didn’t expect you to be so—” you caught yourself. “i mean, i really appreciate it.” she gave you a long look, something unreadable in her expression, before brushing past you back into the kitchen.

“you don’t have groceries,” she noted, her gaze falling on the empty fridge as you scrambled to tidy up.

“i have emergency pasta,” you said quickly, pulling out a box of whole-wheat spaghetti. “and cucumber tea. if you’re hungry, i can make something—it’s the least i can do.”

ambessa didn’t argue, though the arch of her brow suggested she wasn’t accustomed to being offered emergency pasta at one in the morning. you served her a steaming bowl and poured her tea into your favorite ceramic mug, rambling nervously about how you’d heard through maddie of 44b that her daughter was an artist.

she stayed just long enough to finish the tea, her presence heavy and warm in the quiet of your kitchen, before nodding once and heading out.

“call if it gets worse before the workers get here,” she said gruffly, her hand on the doorknob.

the next evening, you came home to several paper bags of groceries neatly stacked by your door, the scent of fresh pink peonies wafting up as you picked them up. you smiled, setting the flowers on the counter next to the dying ones your mum had sent last week.

this place is so lovely, you thought, unpacking the groceries. the tenants are so well taken care of.

your coworkers didn’t believe a word of it when you told them about ambessa the next day.

“she's sweet on you,” one of them said, shaking their head.

“no, she’s just attentive,” you insisted. “maternal, even. she told me all about her daughter!”

they exchanged knowing looks, and you laughed it off, already planning to send ambessa a thank-you card for the flowers.

❅

you’d gone overboard, but what else were you to do? gratitude came naturally to you, maybe too much so, but how else could you thank someone who had quietly made your life so much easier?

the cookies sat cooling on the counter, golden and soft with just the right crisp at the edges. their sweetness filled the air, blending with the candle you’d chosen—rich sandalwood and rose. it was warm and grounding, just like her. you couldn’t explain why it reminded you of ambessa, only that it did.

maybe it was the way the scent lingered, heavy and grounding. stronger than you. your toes curled as you imagined her voice rumbling low, praising your thoughtfulness.

the basket had become a small labor of love. you’d lined it with a cream linen napkin embroidered with tiny vines, each stitch as deliberate as your careful arrangement of the contents. the cookies rested in one corner, their warm scent still faintly clinging to the fabric, and the candle nestled beside them, a handwritten note tucked just so: “thank you for everything. your kindness means the world.”

you’d agonized over the wording for longer than you cared to admit, erasing, rewriting, and second-guessing every line before deciding it was small enough to be safe, heartfelt enough to feel honest.

your phone buzzed where it leaned precariously against a jar of flour, the screen alight with your sisters’ faces. their voices were lively and full of mischief, the kind that made you want to laugh and groan all at once.

“wait, wait, wait,” one of them said, holding up a dramatic hand to cut through the chatter. “groceries, flowers, a new faucet, and she expedited your laundry machine?”

“and called you sweet,” another chimed in, her eyebrows wiggling in mockery.

“and showed up herself in the middle of the night,” your mother added from the background, folding laundry with a knowing smile.

“again,” your father said dryly, his voice carrying a weight of exaggerated patience.

“it’s not like that,” you protested, though your cheeks flushed. you fiddled with the bow on the basket, unable to meet their eyes. “she’s just… thoughtful. i’m sure she does this for all her tenants.”

your eldest sister laughed, the sound of sharp disbelief that made you want to sink into the floor. “baby, she’s courting you.”

“she is not!” you exclaimed, though the wobble in your voice betrayed you.

“oh, please,” another sister cut in, leaning so close to the camera you could see the shimmer of her eyeshadow. “and you’re wearing that outfit to ‘just thank her’?”

you glanced down, your lips tugging between your teeth. the dress wasn’t exactly subtle. it was black with a scatter of delicate flowers, vintage couture that hugged your waist before flaring just slightly. the neckline dipped low, displaying your cleavage warmed by a healthy amount of body oil, and framed by playful ruffles and slim straps that skimmed your shoulders. it was bolder than you’d usually wear, but you’d told yourself it wasn’t intentional. not really.

your jewelry was simple: a thin gold chain, just enough to catch the light, and small hoops that didn’t overpower the dress. your hair was loose, soft, and shiny in a way you tried not to fuss over, though you’d tucked one side behind your ear so many times it had become a nervous habit.

“god help me,” your father muttered in the background, shaking his head with exaggerated weariness.

you stuck your tongue out at him before signing off, their teasing still echoing in your ears as you slipped out the door.

❅

the basket was warm in your hands, the evening air crisp against your skin as you made your way to ambessa’s flat.

when she opened the door, her expression softened in a way that sent your pulse skittering. she looked… comfortable in a v-neck sweater and soft sweatpants, yet undeniably commanding. her gaze flicked to the basket, then back to you, a smile tugging at her lips.

“i brought this to thank you,” you said, holding out the basket. “for the groceries and the flowers and everything. you’ve been so kind in taking care of me, and i didn’t want to let that go unnoticed.”

ambessa’s lips curved, just barely, and she stepped aside to let you in.

“you didn’t have to do that,” she said, her voice low and steady, but there was something in her tone—something soft beneath the steel. almost affectionate. “lord knows this has to be your eighth one.”

her flat was not what you expected.

it was spacious, sleek, and surprisingly modern, yet somehow still warm. the scent of cedar lingered in the air, layered with something citrusy and clean. dark leather furniture anchored the space, and bookshelves lined one wall. there were other hints of personality tucked in the corners: a golden tray brimming with jewelry, a small tray of perfumes that looked antique, and a faint scent of something savory wafting from the kitchen.

“you’ve been keeping them,” you said, surprised, your gaze landing on the basket you’d left earlier in the week.

“i like them,” she replied simply, pouring you a glass of wine. “you have good taste.”

you laughed softly, smoothing your hands over your dress.

“i found it at a farmers’ market. i miss going so much.”

“there’s one in the next town over,” she said, her tone so casual you almost missed the implication. “we could go this weekend.”

your lips parted in surprise, a laugh bubbling up. “it’s three hours away.”

“and?” she countered, one brow arching in amusement.

she motioned toward the dining table, where two plates were already set.

“i hope you’re hungry.”

❅

ambessa had made a hearty stew, rich and flavorful, served with warm bread that you couldn’t stop tearing into. you’d expected something simple and utilitarian, but the care she’d put into the meal surprised you. the food was rich and delicious, her hands moving with practiced ease as she served you.

“this is incredible,” you said, closing your eyes as you took another bite. “i don’t even want to know how long it took you to make this. it’s perfect.”

ambessa watched you, her gaze slightly hungry, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

“i’m glad you like it.”

you talked easily as you ate, though you couldn’t shake the way her attention lingered on you—penetrating but not unwelcome like she was studying you. the conversation drifted into quieter territory as the night went on. you’d almost forgotten what your family had said earlier—almost. but then, as the wine warmed your cheeks, the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“my family,” you said, voice light with embarrassment, “they were saying you were courting me. that you have designs to snatch me up.”

her gaze didn’t waver. “and if i do?”

your heart stumbled, and you choked. the air felt charged, the quiet hum of the flat suddenly deafening. you met her gaze, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt.

“i was…” you swallowed hard, your voice softer now. “i was only joking.”

ambessa’s smile was slow, deliberate, and devastating.

“i don’t think you were. i mean you came here all dressed up for me,” she said, standing with a fluid grace that left you breathless. “tits practically begging for my mouth. so, joking? no. teasing? yes.”

when she crossed the space between you, there was no hesitation. her hand brushed your cheek, and she gripped your jaw tightly.

“all night,” she said lowly, “you’ve been moaning over your food. i wonder, do you make the same noises in bed?”

you flushed, skin warm and tingling.

“i—”

“and,” she cut you off, “do you eat the same way?”

she thumbed over your bottom lip, pinching it and then releasing it to watch the blood pool.

“you seem so hungry.”

your legs squeezed together beneath the table, your neck straining as you looked up at her. her eyes narrowed as she tilted your head back, idly bringing up her other hand to feel you swallow. seemingly satisfied she stepped back, freeing you as she moved back toward where she was sitting.

struggling to calm your breathing, you watched as she dragged the char back to where you sat and arranged it several inches away from you. casually, as if you weren’t dripping across from her, she lowered herself and spread her legs open. your gaze focused on the space between them, imagining yourself fitting perfectly within.

“[name],” she murmured. “look at me.”

you did.

“are you full?” you shook your head, hands clutching at your thighs. “mmm. would you like a taste, sweet girl?”

you shuddered and closed your eyes, biting the inside of your cheek to remain composed.

“yes. please.”

“come here.”

you rose, anxious to please, but she stopped you with a raised brow.

“no. crawl.”

you balked, warmth spreading down your neck and into your stomach. she shifted in irritation.

“i’m not going to ask you again.”

carefully, you lowered yourself to your hands and knees making sure to arch your back so that your ass rose behind you like some erotic phase of the moon. ambessa watched as you began to slink forward, two fingers coming together to further push down the band of her sweatpants. by the time you made it to her feet, she’d done away with them altogether.

her cunt sat pretty and fat, lips winking in arousal beneath the soft thicket of black and silver curls. it was veiled by a gorgeous triangle of deep purple lace, the fabric darkened further by her wetness. she was so beautiful, so delicious that your mouth began to water.

you shuffled forward, placing a hand on her calf to steady yourself as you nosed at her inner thigh. she smelled thick and musky here, her clit gleaming at you as if a pearl in an oyster. it was a little large, but you didn’t mind. you found it as perfect as the rest of her.

tucking your legs beneath you, you settled down and laid your head on one of her open legs. silently you asked permission, your eyes wide and pleading—a bit puppyish. she curled a hand underneath your chin and leaned forward, coaxing a kiss from your lips.

you mewled and clung to her, pressing into her hold as you returned the kiss. she laughed meanly into your mouth and pulled back, slouching so that you had more space to conduct your task. you leaned forward, eager, only to be stopped yet again.

“please,” you whispered and she made a noncommittal noise, giving you a considering look.

“just a moment, little one.”

you furrowed your brow as she leaned forward again, this time with lower. with a rough, hard tug she yanked your neckline down so that your tits spilled full and plush into her palm. with a satisfied groan, she groped them, thumbing at your nipples till they strained into the pads of her fingertips. then, she pulled back and reassumed her position.

“leave them out.”

you grew hotter at the command, nodding quickly. finally, she nodded and you let out a little moan of excitement. you should’ve gone slower and taken your time, but god you were starved.

almost immediately, you tugged the fabric of her panties aside and licked a wide stripe up her pussy. she tasted ripe, sweet then slightly bitter, like a grapefruit, and you moaned into her.

“oh, fuck,” ambessa sighed and you nuzzled further into her.

the flat echoed with the wet sounds of your consumption of her, your mouth suctioning around her pussy to apply pressure. to your surprise the hood of her clit was pierced, a small ruby nestled comfortably atop it.

after a moment, you abandoned your initial plan to move further down, tongue gliding between her fat folds where the slick current of her arousal glittered like a jewel. you pointed your tongue and wedged it deep inside her, lifting a hand to drift along her defined stomach.

“mmmhmm,” she said, voice thin as she canted her hips. “just like that. you’re doing so well, sweet girl.”

the praise lit you up from the inside out, and you lapped at her with renewed energy. her hips bucked harder and a strong hand came to root itself in your hair. in response, you lowered both hands to the floor to steady yourself as you allowed her to control your movements.

“such a good girl. so eager to eat this cunt. so eager to please me, hmm?”

“uh huh,” you answered, the words muffled by her sopping pussy.

the vibration made ambessa suck in a breath and she suddenly yanked you forward, rocking into your tongue slowly before speeding up. eventually, she was riding your face as you stuck out your tongue, your tits exposed and bouncing as you met her in eagerness.

you strained to sink further inside her, whimpering as her thighs closed harshly around your head. she could’ve snapped your neck, and you would only have seen it as benediction. an early arrival to paradise.

“oh shit,” she whispered. “fuck. yes. yes. yeaaah.”

both of her hands were on the side of your head as she bent backward, squealing sharply as she began to cum. the sound was high and girlish, and you wanted to hear it again and again. her pleasure broke over her like a rising dawn and you closed your eyes, sucking at her clit until her legs began to tremble with overstimulation. still, you didn’t stop. instead, you swallowed the honey that dribbled from the apex of her cunt and brought two of your fingers up to rub tight circles against yourself.

with a rough moan, ambessa dropped her thighs from your face and tugged you up and into her lap. she huffed in displeasure and struck your hand away from your cunt, slipping two of her thick fingers deep into the cavern of your slick heat.

“no one touches you here except for me. not even you.”

you let out a startled gasp, mouth dropping in a perfect ‘o’ as she stroked and fucked your spongy walls. you began to follow her movements, bouncing faster to chase the syrupy warmth rising into your chest. the world flickered and your eyes caught on hers as she observed the way your body contorted and flexed the more she pushed you.

“that’s it, sweet girl. work for it,” she said, her lips curving cruelly as you gripped her shoulders to better slam yourself down. “come here. let me taste.”

you kissed her, wet and messy, and she licked along your teeth; sucked the remnants of her cunt from inside you. you felt a flash of irrational anger at the action. you wanted her within you forever, staining your tongue.

ambessa slipped a third finger into you and you wailed, spine snapping straight as you felt the stretch spread through your hips. a fourth drifted lazily through your soaked folds, languishing till it was gleaming, but then it soon disappeared. carefully, she nudged you closer to her, tucking your face into her neck as she trailed her other hand down the crack of your ass.

before you could fully process what she meant to do, she inserted the wet tip of her finger into the tight ring of your asshole and pressed.

your orgasm pulsed through you. from where you lay against her neck, you bit down.

for a moment she allowed you to rest, turning her head to press a warm kiss to your temple. her fingers began to re-curl along your walls. then,

“again.”

it was a direction. you followed.

© hcneymooners.