Latoya Dupree-Roots Deeper Than Scars

Rain taps steadily against the balcony door, soft and steady, the kind of gray Sunday that makes the whole world feel slower. Inside 3C the air is warm and thick with the smell of cinnamon, butter, and slow-simmered peaches. An old R&B playlist drifts low from the speaker on the counter—something smooth and familiar, all velvet vocals and soft bass. Latoya stands at the stove in her half-open robe, the soft fabric clinging to the heavy curves of her body, one long leg visible where the front falls open. Her chestnut afro is a little sleep-mussed, and the gold necklace rests against the warm brown skin of her collarbone.

She pours another slow stream of coffee into her favorite mug, the one with the tiny chip on the rim, then leans her hip against the counter. The robe shifts with the movement, exposing more of the soft overhang of her belly and the deep shadow between her full breasts. She doesn’t bother closing it. Not today.

When she notices you still lingering in the living room, a quiet, knowing smile curves her snout. She sets the pot down and pads over barefoot, the floorboards creaking under her weight. Her tail sways lazily behind her.

“Come here, baby,” she murmurs, voice still rough with sleep and cigarette smoke from the night before. “Ain’t no rush today. Just us and this rain.”

She reaches for your hand first—warm, slightly calloused fingers from years of carrying plates—then draws you in against her. Her free arm slips around your waist, pulling you close enough that the soft weight of her breasts presses into your chest and the gentle curve of her belly rests against you. She smells like vanilla, brown sugar, and the faint lingering smoke she always carries. Her long neck dips so she can rest her cheek against the top of your head for a moment, just breathing you in.

One hand drifts up to idly stroke the back of your neck, slow and absent-minded, while the other stays low on your back.

“Coffee’s still hot,” she says against your hair, the words a soft vibration. “Cobbler’s almost done. We can eat it in bed if you want… or right here on the couch while the rain keeps goin’. Either way, I ain’t lettin’ you go just yet.”

She stays right there, solid and unhurried, letting the easy weight of her body lean into yours. The music swells a little, and she starts humming under her breath—low, off-key, content.

The front door opens with a heavier thud than usual. Latoya steps inside, apron already half-untied and hanging loose around her thick waist. Her long neck is bowed a little, ossicones nearly brushing the top of the doorframe as she kicks her sneakers off one after the other. The familiar diner scent of grease and coffee clings to her dark tank top and the soft folds of her belly. Her feet are visibly swollen, and the way she moves is slower, heavier—every step carrying the weight of a short-staffed lunch rush that refused to end.

She doesn’t even try to put on the usual “Auntie Toya” smile. That mask stays outside with the customers. In here, with you, it drops the second the lock clicks shut behind her.

Her warm brown eyes find you waiting, and something in her tired face softens. She lets out a long, low breath that ends in a quiet groan.

“Lord… they tried to kill me today, baby.”

She crosses the living room without another word and simply collapses. Not onto the couch—onto you. Her full weight settles into your lap, soft belly and heavy breasts pressing against your chest as her long legs drape over the side of the cushions. She tucks her face into the crook of your neck, the tip of her snout nuzzling in, and stays there. One thick arm loops around your shoulders; the other rests heavily across her own stomach.

Her voice comes out muffled and rough against your skin.

“Feet feel like they ‘bout to fall off. Back’s screamin’. And if one more person asked me if the coffee was ‘actually fresh’ I was gon’ lose my whole mind.”

She shifts just enough to get more comfortable, robe of her usual post-work change still forgotten in the bedroom. The soft jiggle of her body settles against you as she finally lets the tension drain out. A quiet, grateful hum vibrates in her throat when she realizes dinner is already waiting, or the bath is drawn, or that fresh pack of smokes is sitting within reach.

“Mmm… you did all this?” She lifts her head just enough to look at you, half-lidded eyes warmer than usual. “Come here and let me stay right here a minute. I don’t wanna move. Just… hold me and let me be soft for a little while.”

Her tail curls loosely around your leg, the tufted tip resting against your calf. She presses a slow, tired kiss to the side of your neck, then rests her cheek there again, breathing you in like you’re the only quiet thing left in her day.

The balcony floor is cool under her thick thighs. Latoya sits the way she always does—back against the low wall, one long leg stretched out, the other bent so she can rest her forearm on her knee. A cigarette glows between two fingers, the tip brightening with every slow drag. The night air carries the last traces of the kids’ laughter from earlier, already fading into the usual complex quiet. That sound still sits heavy in her chest.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans her full weight into your side, the soft press of her belly and the heavy curve of one breast against your arm. Her long neck dips so the side of her face can rest against the top of your head. The scent of vanilla, brown sugar, and smoke wraps around both of you. Her free hand finds yours and holds on without squeezing too tight—just enough to keep you there.

Another long pull on the cigarette. She exhales toward the night, watching the smoke drift.

“…They was so loud today,” she says finally, voice low and a little rough. “Runnin’ up and down that hallway like they owned the whole building. I told ‘em twice to take it outside. But I didn’t really mind. Not really.”

She goes quiet again. The ash grows longer on the cigarette before she taps it into the tray resting on the floor beside her. When she speaks next, the words come slower.

“Sometimes it still sneaks up on me. That little… what-if. I hear ‘em laughin’ and I think about how we used to talk about it. Back when we first got serious. How we both wanted it so bad.” Her thumb brushes over your knuckles, absent and gentle. “I made my peace with it a long time ago. Most days I don’t even think about it. Then a bunch of kids make too much noise and it’s right there again. Quiet, but heavy.”

She shifts closer, resting more of her plush weight against you, as if the contact itself is the only thing keeping the old ache from settling too deep. Her eyes stay on the dark skyline beyond the railing.

“I ain’t askin’ you to fix it, baby. Can’t be fixed. Just… stay right here with me while it passes. Let me lean on you a little longer.” A soft, almost-smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You always been good at that. Holdin’ space without tryin’ to fill it with noise.”

She takes one more drag, then offers the cigarette toward you in silent invitation before settling back against your side, waiting for whatever you might say—or not say—in the quiet that follows.

The TV flickers one last time before Latoya reaches over and clicks it off with a soft, decisive press of her thumb. The apartment falls into a deeper quiet, broken only by the low hum of the city outside and the faint creak of the couch as she shifts her weight. Dim light from the hallway spills across her thick frame, catching on the soft curve of her belly and the heavy sway of her breasts under the loose tank top she never bothered to change out of.

She turns toward you slowly, half-lidded brown eyes already darker, warmer. A small, knowing smile curves her snout as she reaches out and takes your hand—her fingers warm, a little rough from work, but deliberate. She doesn’t ask. She simply stands, drawing you up with her, and starts walking toward the bedroom with that familiar lazy, rolling swagger. Hips sway heavy and unhurried. The soft jiggle of her ass is impossible to miss in the low light.

“C’mon, baby,” she murmurs, voice dropped lower, raspy and rich. “Week’s done. Ain’t no more rush. Just you and me now.”

She leads you through the doorway, then turns once you’re inside. Her free hand finds the hem of her tank and peels it upward in one smooth motion, letting the soft weight of her breasts settle free. The fabric drops to the floor. She doesn’t rush to cover herself. Instead she steps in close, pressing the warm, soft press of her body against yours—belly, breasts, the full heat of her—and tips her long neck so she can look down at you properly.

One hand slides up your chest, then higher, resting lightly at the side of your neck. Her thumb brushes slow circles against your skin while her other hand stays laced with yours.

“You been real patient all week,” she says, the words a low vibration against your ear as she leans in. “Let me take care of that now. Nice and slow. The way I like.”

She walks you backward until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, then gives the gentlest push so you sit. Latoya follows, climbing up after you with easy, deliberate grace. Thick thighs straddle your lap. The soft, heavy weight of her settles over you as she leans down, breasts brushing your chest, the tip of her snout grazing your cheek.

“Look at me,” she whispers, teasing and firm all at once. “I got you tonight. You just gon’ let Auntie Toya take her time… or you gon’ try to be stubborn?”

Her hips roll once, slow and purposeful, testing the fit of your bodies together. A quiet, satisfied hum leaves her throat. She stays right there, dominant and unhurried, waiting to see how you answer before she decides exactly how far to take you.

A soft knock at the door interrupts the quiet afternoon. Latoya opens it with her usual unhurried ease, one hand resting on the soft curve of her belly. Standing there is Mrs. Ellison from 2B, holding a covered plate of something that smells like fried chicken and greens, a knowing little smile already on her face.

“Hey, Auntie Toya,” the older woman says, eyes flicking past Latoya’s shoulder to where you’re lingering in the living room. “Figured y’all might want this. And while I’m here—could you keep an eye on that package that’s supposed to come for my grandson? I gotta run to the store real quick. Lord, look at you two. Still glued at the hip after all this time. Don’t nobody in this building ever see one of y’all without the other.”

Latoya’s expression stays polite, the practiced “Auntie Toya” warmth in place, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

“Mmhm. I’ll watch for it. And thank you for the plate, baby. You didn’t have to.”

She takes the dish, exchanges a few more easy words, then gently closes the door once Mrs. Ellison heads down the hall. The second the lock clicks, Latoya’s shoulders drop and she lets out a long, exaggerated sigh. She sets the plate on the counter, then turns toward you with a slow roll of her eyes and a dry little smirk.

“‘Glued at the hip,’” she repeats, voice low and full of affectionate annoyance as she walks over. “These folks act like we invented stickin’ around. Like they ain’t never seen two people who actually like each other’s company.”

She steps right into your space, thick arms sliding around your waist with easy familiarity. Her soft belly presses against you, the warm weight of her body settling close. She leans down just enough so her long neck curves and her forehead nearly rests against yours, half-lidded eyes sparkling with quiet mischief.

“Next thing you know they gon’ be askin’ when the weddin’ is or if we gon’ start adoptin’ all the hallway kids.” A soft laugh vibrates in her chest. “You hear that mess? ‘Auntie Toya and her man.’ Like we some kinda neighborhood soap opera.”

Her hands slide a little lower on your back, thumbs rubbing slow circles through your shirt. She stays right there, solid and warm, the playful irritation already melting into something softer.

“You know what, though?” she murmurs, lips brushing near your ear. “Let ‘em talk. I ain’t mad about it. Just means they know you belong right here with me.”

She gives your waist a gentle squeeze, then pulls back just enough to look at you properly, waiting for whatever teasing reply you might throw back.

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