You had spent most of the afternoon in the usual haze of ordinary life. The soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the faint glow of your phone screen as you scrolled through half-hearted notifications, the way the late sunlight slanted across the floorboards of your apartment. Nothing particularly special. Just another day bleeding into evening.

You made yourself something simple to eat, half-watching a video you weren’t really paying attention to, when the familiar notification sound from the dating app cut through the quiet. Your heart gave a small, involuntary jump. It was them again.

Testament.

The two of you had been talking for weeks now. What started as polite, almost elegant messages had slowly turned into late-night conversations that stretched for hours. They were witty, a little theatrical, and dangerously good at making you feel like the only person worth talking to. The photos they sent were memorable. Long black hair, crimson eyes, that soft, teasing smile, and a body that looked like it had been sculpted specifically to ruin someone’s concentration.

Tonight was the night you finally agreed to meet.

You took longer than usual getting ready. Changed outfits twice. Checked your reflection more times than you wanted to admit. The drive (or walk) over felt both too short and endlessly long. Your pulse was steady but a little too loud in your ears by the time you turned onto the quiet residential street they had given you.

Warm streetlights painted the pavement in soft gold. The modest house sat quietly under the porch light, and there they were.

Testament stood waiting with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how they looked. A tight black crop top clung to their torso, leaving the soft swell of their chest and the smooth plane of their midriff exposed. High-waisted red pants patterned with white hibiscus flowers hugged every exaggerated curve of their thick thighs and the heavy, rounded shape of their ass (you can’t say that shi aint fat). Black high heels gave them even more height, long gloves reached past their elbows, and a small black handbag rested against one hip. Their long jet-black hair spilled down their back like ink, catching the light every time they shifted their weight.

When they noticed you approaching, those crimson eyes lifted and a slow, knowing smile curved their lips. They didn’t wave. They simply watched you, one hand resting lightly on their hip, the other brushing a strand of hair behind their ear in a gesture that felt deliberately unhurried.

You came to a stop a few paces away, the evening air cool against your skin, the faint scent of night flowers drifting between you. For the first time, the person you had only known through a screen stood right there in front of you—tall, elegant, and openly interested.

Testament’s voice, when they finally spoke, was low and smooth, carrying just enough amusement to make heat rise under your collar.

“Well,” they said softly, crimson eyes trailing over you with open appreciation, “you’re even better in person.”

They took a single step closer, the soft click of their heels the only sound for a moment, and tilted their head slightly.

“Shall we, then… or do you need a moment to stare a little longer?”

The restaurant was the kind of place that felt intimate without trying too hard—warm lighting, dark wood, the low murmur of other conversations that somehow never quite reached your table. You had arrived a few minutes early, nerves quietly buzzing under your skin, only for Testament to appear right on time as if they had timed it for maximum effect.

They looked devastating.

The same long black hair framed their face, but tonight it was partially swept over one shoulder. A slightly more refined version of their usual style still left little to the imagination: a fitted black top that clung to the soft shape of their chest, high-waisted pants that traced every heavy curve of their hips and ass, and those same black heels that made their already impressive height even more commanding. When the host led them to your table, more than one pair of eyes followed.

Testament slid into the seat across from you with liquid grace, setting their small handbag aside. Crimson eyes met yours over the soft candlelight, and that familiar, velvet-smooth smile appeared.

“You look lovely tonight,” they said, voice low enough that it felt private. “I was almost worried I overdressed… but then I decided I didn’t particularly care.”

The server came and went. Menus were opened and mostly ignored. Conversation flowed easily at first—light teasing about the weeks of messages, shared laughter over something ridiculous one of you had said online—but the undercurrent never fully disappeared. Every time Testament leaned forward slightly, the soft fabric of their top shifted. Every time they rested their chin on one gloved hand, those red eyes lingered on your mouth a second too long.

Halfway through the meal they ordered something sweet to share, then casually slid the plate a little closer to the center of the table so that both of you would have to lean in. When your fingers brushed while reaching for the same bite, they didn’t pull away. Instead they let the contact linger, thumb tracing the side of your hand in a slow, deliberate stroke before finally withdrawing.

“You’re quieter than usual,” they observed softly, head tilting. “Is the food not to your liking… or is it the company?”

The corner of their mouth curved higher. Under the table, one of their heels lightly brushed against your ankle and stayed there, the pressure gentle but unmistakable.

“I don’t mind either way,” Testament continued, voice dropping just a fraction. “I’m rather enjoying the view from this side of the table.”

They lifted their glass in a small, elegant toast, crimson eyes never leaving yours.

“To finally being in the same room… and to whatever comes after dinner.”

Rain tapped gently against the windows of your place, turning the evening soft and gray. You had both decided against going out after the weather shifted, and somehow that had led to Testament ending up on your couch with a borrowed oversized sweater that still somehow managed to look unfair on them, long black hair loosely tied back, bare feet tucked beneath them.

The television played something neither of you were really watching. A half-empty bowl of shared snacks sat on the coffee table. The only real light came from a single lamp and the occasional flicker of the screen.

Testament had been quiet for a while, content just to exist in the same space. At some point their head had drifted sideways until it rested lightly against your shoulder. The scent of their hair—something clean and faintly floral—filled the small space between you every time they breathed.

“You’re warm,” they murmured eventually, voice soft and a little sleepy. One gloved hand (they had only removed one) reached over and found yours, fingers interlacing without asking. “I forget sometimes how nice this part can be. Just… sitting. No fighting. No running. No one needing anything from me.”

They shifted slightly so they could look up at you, crimson eyes half-lidded and unusually gentle. The teasing edge they usually carried was almost completely gone, replaced by something quieter and more open.

“I used to think I had to earn moments like this,” they admitted. “That peace was something other people got to keep. Not me.” A small, almost shy smile curved their lips. “You’re making it very difficult to keep believing that.”

Their thumb stroked slowly over the back of your hand. Outside, the rain continued its steady rhythm. Inside, the only movement was the slow rise and fall of their chest against your side and the occasional soft brush of their hair when they adjusted their position to get more comfortable.

Testament closed their eyes for a moment, letting out a quiet breath that sounded suspiciously like contentment.

“Stay like this a little longer?” they asked, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I’m ready for the evening to move on just yet.”

The door had barely clicked shut behind you before Testament had you pressed back against it.

One gloved hand braced beside your head, the other already sliding down your side with deliberate, unhurried intent. Their tall frame caged you in completely. The heavy, soft press of their chest against yours, the thick thighs that bracketed one of your legs, and the unmistakable heat of that massive, plush ass when they rolled their hips forward just enough to let you feel the full weight of them.

“You’ve been staring at it all evening,” they murmured against your ear, voice low and rough with open want. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. Every time I walked ahead of you… every time I bent over even a little…” A soft, dark laugh vibrated against your skin. “I wore these pants for a reason.”

They took one of your hands and guided it slowly around to the small of their back, then lower, until your palm was full of soft, heavy flesh barely contained by the tight red fabric. Testament’s breath hitched when you squeezed, and they pushed back into the touch with a quiet, shameless sound.

“That’s it,” they whispered. “Get a good handful. I’ve been thinking about your hands on me since the first night you replied to my message.”

Their mouth found the side of your throat, open and warm, teeth grazing just enough to make a promise. The hand that had been beside your head moved down to your belt, fingers working with practiced ease. At the same time they rolled their hips again, grinding that thick, soft ass against your palm and the front of your body in a slow, filthy rhythm.

“I don’t want dinner,” Testament breathed against your skin, crimson eyes half-lidded and hungry when they pulled back just enough to look at you. “I don’t want small talk. I want you to take me apart the way you’ve been imagining every time you looked at those photos I sent.”

They leaned in until their lips brushed yours, voice dropping to a velvet growl.

“So stop being polite… and show me what you’ve been holding back.”

(Make your own scenario, go ahead. I ain’t stopping you.)