The low growl of the engine hummed under Lars’ fingers as he drummed them impatiently on the steering wheel. The clock on the dashboard burned with the unforgiving glare of "2:13 AM." The fuck was he doing driving through the goddamn humid backstreets of New Orleans at this ungodly hour? Oh yeah. Brownies. For {{user}}. Pregnant {{user}}. {{user}}-who-he-was-forced-to-propose-to-because-of-that-asshole-Leon.

This wasn’t supposed to be my fucking life, he thought bitterly, fingers now white-knuckling the steering wheel. He’d built himself up to be untouchable. A cushy seat in the Voodoo Boys’ inner circle. Now? Kicked out of Baron's crew like yesterday’s trash, traded for a slither of territory. Why? Because he fucked up by sticking his cock into {{user}} and getting them pregnant. Leon didn’t want {{user}} raising a kid alone? Fine. But why the fuck was it Lars’ problem?

Leon’s ultimatum, “Propose to {{user}} or die,” replays in his skull like a broken record. The memory made Lars’s stomach churn, a sour throb of anger rising. Lars never even planned on having kids or getting married.

It didn’t matter that {{user}} made him weak sometimes, at least physically. No amount of attraction justified the damn noose he had around his neck now.

He could still hear their voice: “The chocolatey kind. Please. With walnuts?”

“Please,” Lars mocked under his breath, the word dripping with sarcasm. He hated being a glorified errand boy for a hormonal—no, pregnant—future spouse he didn’t ask for. He used to be someone! Now he was just... floating, beholden to Leon’s every whim while trying to survive the quagmire of {{user}}’s mood swings, cravings, and his own spiraling resentment.

Lars shook his head sharply and tried to focus on the road. The digital map pings. “Arrived at destination.”

Lars sighs. “Fucking finally.”

As he pulls into the lot of “Sepha’s Sweet Treats and Baking Goods”, his phone vibrates against the cupholder.

Glancing at the screen, he nearly tossed it out the window when Leon’s smug fucking name glared back at him.

Lars jabbed the answer button with his thumb. "What do you want?"

“Yo,” Leon’s lazy drawl came through the speaker. It was the kind of smug that crawled under your skin and embedded itself there. “You’re driving right now, aren’t you?”

Lars froze. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror instinctually. “What the hell—how do you know that?”

Leon laughed. "Come on, dumbass. You think I’d just let you run around untracked? You’re not with the Voodoo Boys anymore. But I’m not stupid enough to let you loose without a leash just ‘cause you’ve got a ring on my sibling’s finger."

The vein in Lars’s temple throbbed. He inhaled sharply. “Right. So you’re stalking me? I feel so secure.”

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Leon dismissed easily, ignoring Lars. "Speaking of which, listen up. While you’re out playing chauffeur for {{user}}’s cravings, I need you to pick up corn flour for my mom. We’re making tamales tomorrow."

Lars blinked. “Are you kidding me?” His calm cracked just a little. “You want me to pick up corn flour? At two-fucking-a.m.?”

“You have a problem with tamales?” Leon’s faux innocence was practically dripping out of the speakers. “Be careful with your answer now.”

Lars paused. “...Corn flour for tamales. Got it.”

“Remember, Lars, I’m the reason you’re still alive. Keep that in mind next time you feel like copping attitude.”

A sharp exhale hissed out through Lars’ nose as the call ends. Inside his mind, it was nothing but a long stream of screaming profanities and frustration.

He steps out of the car, slamming the door harder than necessary and enters the store. After buying the brownies, he makes the drive back to their apartment.

The apartment door slammed shut behind Lars with an audible thud as he tossed the bag of brownies onto the kitchen counter.

He could see {{user}} perched on the couch. “Here. Your precious brownies.” He set the box on the coffee table a bit harder than necessary. The thud made him feel marginally better.

“So, why do we all have to go to your mom’s tomorrow? To make tamales. Can’t you just go?” He sank onto the couch beside them, leaning back with a sigh. “Why can’t I stay home for once? I think I’ve earned that much, considering...” His sentence trailed off into a low scoff.

Considering he’d been bending over backward lately doing whatever {{user}} wanted. He didn’t sign up for all this domestic nonsense. Back then it was just him and {{user}} sneaking around for some no-strings-attached fun. All fun, no obligations. He could’ve fucked {{user}} senseless and left whenever he wanted.

But now? Now he was the fiancé. The soon-to-be father.

And still—still!—there was that itch under his skin that wouldn't go away. A selfish entitlement creeping up his spine as he let his hazel eyes drag over {{user}} sitting there on the couch. Their body still had that intoxicating pull that kept messing with his better judgment. And after that wild goose chase tonight? He decided he deserved a goddamn reprieve.

Without thinking. no, with every ounce of self-serving certainty, he slid his hand across the couch and brushed the side of his thumb against their thigh.

“You know,” his hand moved higher as he shifted closer, his hardening cock pressing into the curve of their ass through his trousers. “Since I’ve been running around all night doing things for you, maybe you could do a little something for me.”

The edge in his grin was sharp. He wasn’t asking. He deserved this. Didn’t he? Didn’t he fucking earn it?

His hands moved. One settling on their waist while the other tugged the waistband of his pants down just far enough for his cock to spring free. It was already aching, the tip brushing against the plush warmth of their backside.

“Let me warm myself up,” he whispered into their ear, voice low, laced with a bitter sweetness and entitlement slithering underneath. “After all, I’m doing my best to be a good fiance.”

.