Sadefan Barbie

Broad shoulders stretch against his black tee, tattoos snaking up his thick arms, all the way to his neck where a small cross rests just under his left eye like some kind of divine warning label. His Cane Corso trots beside him on a heavily chained leash—a beast just as intimidating as its owner—tongue lolling between sharp teeth as it pants eagerly at something unseen down the block.   

Kimora’s wine glass freezes halfway to her lips.

“Oh?” 

Lola blinks like she’s trying to reboot reality itself, and Ruya? Her mouth drops. Her jaw literally unhinges so hard you hear it creak, she whisper’s, “Who the hell is that?”

His skin glows under the streetlamp, deep brown and smooth like aged whiskey, stretched taut over thick muscle that flexes as he adjusts his grip on the leash. The cross tattooed just beneath his left eye winks when he turns his head slightly—dark eyes scanning lazily ahead while those full lips press into a hard line. The rest of him is a canvas—black ink crawling up corded forearms, disappearing under rolled-up sleeves, only to resurface along the column of his neck where veins sit prominent against artful chaos.  

And then there’s his hair—tight cornrows braided straight back from a sharp widow’s peak, each plait gleaming like polished onyx before disappearing at his crown; neat enough for church, but dangerous enough to make you wonder what those hands could do if they weren’t occupied with pounds of pure canine muscle beside him.

Intimidating? Undoubtedly. 

Your throat goes dry. 

Ruya peeks over the balcony, “Damn. That’s the type of nigga your husband would get mad at you for just lookin’ at.”

“That’s the type of nigga you have an affair with,” Kimora blinks, leaning towards her friend as she also watches him.

“Y’all shut up,” Lola whispers, “Girl—do you know him?”

"Girl….that’s the neighbor I told y'all about," you murmur, voice lower like he might somehow hear, “He moved in a month ago. I see him walking that monster of a dog sometimes when I'm leaving for work."  

Ruya's eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly disappear into her hairline.  

"Wait—this is the new neighbor that’s kinda cute?!” Her whisper is practically a screech at this point, hands flying to grip the balcony rail like she might vault over it if given enough incentive, “Oh my god. You lied!” 

Kimora chokes on her wine mid sip, coughing into her hand before wheezing out—“Hollon’—You never said he looked like that!” 

“I didn’t think it mattered!” you hiss back defensively, still keeping your voice low. 

Lola just shakes her head slowly, disappointed but not surprised by this critical omission of detail. The four of you crouch like naughty children as you and your friends peer over the edge of the balcony—staring. 

He mumbles something low to the dog, voice seemingly deep even from afar. But that’s when it happens—he pauses when the animal suddenly sits and lets out a low warning bark, ears pulled back as its eyes narrow—its gaze fixed on the unit you lived in. 

The man follows the dog's gaze. And then? They lock right with yours.

Ruya, Kimora, and Lola immediately drop to their hands and knees, flattening against the ground as they hide like their lives depend on it. Your eyes go wide as you look down at them, “Don’t be weird—get up!”

“No, now you have to go say something! He caught us!”

“Me?!” you whisper yell, “I wasn’t the one stalking!”

Ruya grabs your ankle and yanks—suddenly you're on your knees beside them, wine glass clutched like a lifeline as all four of you huddle like spies behind the railing. 

Kimora peeks through the gaps, her whisper frantic—“Oh my fuckin’ hell, he’s still looking.” 

And oh god, he is. One thick eyebrow arches slowly over those hooded eyes, the dog letting out another chuff, tail thumping against pavement while its owner’s lips twitch. 

Ruya pinches your thigh under the table, “Go!” 

Lola shoves you inside the house, “You’re the one that lives here!”

“I don’t even have clothes on!—“

Sometimes? You hated your friends. Now, you were scurrying down to the ground level of your apartment, the squeak of your bunny slippers patting along the concrete—you can already feel your nerves getting the best of you as you get closer to that broad frame of his, the dog immediately turning to recognize your presence first. 

“Excuse me?”

Those dark, hooded eyes drag from the sidewalk up your frame. And God, standing this close? You realize just how huge he is—towering over you with shoulders that block out the streetlights behind him, tattoos peeking from beneath his rolled sleeves as thick fingers flex around the dog’s leash.  

The animal sniffs toward your bunny slippers first, wet nose bumping against fuzzy pink fabric, then letting out a low huff of approval.  

But unlike the dog? His gaze doesn’t stop at your feet.  

It lingers on your hips barely hidden beneath those sweatpants, traveling up past the curve of your waist where caramel skin disappears under a long sleeve white tee. The outline of full breasts were impossible to ignore as his eyes flicker there for half a second too long—freckled cheeks dusted in brown tones and lips painted deep pink by nature alone; glasses catching moonlight when you nervously adjust them atop flushed cheekbones, dotted with brown constellations across smooth skin.

His nostrils flare subtly at bergamot laced vanilla curling off heated flesh. Finally, he meets your almond-shaped eyes blinking back at him through round frames, onyx curls draping all around your face and body as you tilt your head. 

Looking at him closer, your brain short circuits.

So you say—

“Does your dog bite?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. 

That one little movement makes your stomach flip. The way that small shift in expression cuts through all that heavy stoicism makes you realize he’s got a dimple on one side.  

A single, deadly dimple.

The dog huffs again, licking its jowls as it sits obediently at his side—still eyeing your slippers with vague interest.  

His voice comes out deep; gravel scraping velvet, “Depends.” 

One thick brow arches higher as he lets the word hang between you two, “You plannin’ on pissin’ him off?”

Your mouth parts a bit. Then, movement catches above you. Three heads pop up from behind porch rails only to dip back down immediately when noticed again—your friends are literally spectating this train wreck instead of helping steer this conversation away from disaster. 

Traitors, all of them.

“No! I—um,” you try to think of words to say, but you could only think about the way this man could probably see your nipples through the fabric of your top. You then manage to get out, “I just—I thought your dog was pretty, ‘wanted to know what breed it was. I have a dog—I mean, no I dont—I want a dog.”

That dimple deepens—just for a split second—before his face smooths back into that unreadable mask. The dog, sensing your nerves, lets out a soft whine and nudges your hand with its massive head.  

His eyes flicker to the porch where your friends are now failing spectacularly at pretending they’re not eavesdropping—Kimora’s shoe is visibly sticking out from behind the railing—Then back to you.  

“Cane Corso,” he says finally, voice low like it’s some kind of secret just for you, “Italian mastiff.”

“Oh,” you nod, “Right. He’s um—he’s a cutie,” you smile a bit, “Can I pet him?”

“Gon’ head, been tryna’ teach him to be more polite around strangers.”

Your fingers smooth over the tip of his head, rubbing both palms against the side of the animal's face—you lean in, “People are scared of you, hm? But you’re a sweetie bean.” 

Why was it easier talking to a dog than a man?

You realize this as you scratch under its chin—you clear your throat to ask, “What’s his name?”

"Bully."  

That one word rumbles out of him like thunder cracking over the bayou—low, inevitable, and somehow amused beneath all that stoicism. Bully immediately flops onto its back at your feet—exposing a belly speckled with pink scars and thick muscle, it kicks its legs in the air like some overgrown puppy begging for rubs.  

You blink down at the beast currently acting like a glorified teddy bear before slowly dragging your gaze back up to his owner’s face—his goatee wafts a fruity scent, seemingly oil, you assume. 

“Why’d you name him Bully?”

“‘Nigga got an attitude most of the time.”

The seriousness in his voice somehow makes you a bit amused—it garners a real giggle from your lips, your fingers splaying over Bully’s stomach to pat rubs onto it—you then murmur, “Well, I’d hope your owners name isn’t as scary as yours, hm?”

His chest shakes with a silent chuckle. A deep, barely-there vibration that makes your fingertips tingle where they're buried in Bully's fur.  

"Onyankopon.”

Your nose scrunches before you can stop it, “That’s long." 

The corner of his mouth twitches again—dimple warning, “Call me Ony, then."  

Bully chooses that exact moment to roll onto his side and nearly crush your bunny slippers under pure muscle, tail thumping against the pavement as if approving this entire interaction.

You catch his eyes as you stand, the invitation of his name somehow making you more nervous. You tug a curl of your hair, adjusting your glasses reflexively as your cheeks flush—you nod, “It’s nice to meet you. You um—live here?” 

Girl.

“I mean—you live in this unit? Did you just move here? Oh god, I sound like a stalker—I just meant, do you like it?”

That dimple breaks free again, before his face smooths back into something unreadable.  

“Moved in ‘bout a month ago,” he confirms. His thumb flicks toward the unit across from yours, “Quiet over there. 'Cept for Fridays.”  

His eyes cut pointedly up to your balcony, three pairs of hands clearly gripping the railing as they eavesdrop. Kimora’s wine glass nearly tips over—ice clinking violently as she jerks back out of sight again with an audible “Shit!” 

Onyankopon doesn’t even blink, “Y’all do this every week?” 

You bury your face in your hands, caught in your entire plan. Your freckles practically go pink as you nod, “Yeah, we do.” 

Bully whines sympathetically, licking your ankle through one bunny slipper.

Onyankopon hums like he’s filing that information away somewhere. Something about him scares you. He’s quiet, observant.

You sigh, “I’m sorry. My friends are the most annoying people on the planet, we weren’t trying to seem creepy. They…thought I should introduce myself,” you briefly explain, “I really thought your dog was cute though, I don’t have enough time to get one of my own.”

He studies you for a long moment. Those hooded eyes trace the nervous way your fingers twist together before landing back on your face.  

“You work nights,” he says suddenly—not a question, an observation. 

Your brows knit together, “How did you—”

“I be hearin’ yo’ lil’ ass sneakin’ through the gate ‘round three in the mornin’.”  

That single sentence lands between you two with all the subtlety of a grenade, his voice casual while your mouth drops open slightly. It takes everything in you not to whip around and glare up at your friends who are definitely losing their minds listening to this right now.

“I, um—Yeah,” you admit, voice dropping an octave like you’re sharing classified intel, “I work at the funeral home on Chartres—‘Embalming right now, but finishing up my Mortician license soon.”  

You brace for that familiar flicker of discomfort in people’s eyes when they hear about your job. Or worse—invasive questions about corpses like you’re some walking encyclopedia on decomposition.  

But Onyankopon? He just nods. 

He glances down to his dog before muttering, “Mortician, huh? That’s why I ain’t never smell no food cookin’ when I walk by?”

That gets another small smile from you. 

You pull a curl behind your ear, “I’m not the best cook,” you admit, “Definitely not the first thing I tell on a date. But um—since you see me coming in from work, I’ve seen you leave for work a couple of times—either you’re a secret agent, or you’re the first person I’ve met to also be an Embalmer.” 

His chest rumbles with a quiet laugh—just once, sharp and deep.  

“Firefighter,” he corrects, jerking his chin toward the faded emblem on his left pec where NOLA FD sits half-hidden beneath taut fabric, “Station 7.”  

Bully huffs like even he’s judging your terrible cooking confession, flopping onto his side again to expose more belly as if trying to derail this entire conversation back into petting him instead.  

Onyankopon watches you chew your bottom lip. He then asks, “So what you be sayin’ on dates, then? ‘Sides the fact that you can’t cook.”

Another dumb giggle bubbles up—partly from the wine, partly from the way his eyes haven’t left your face since you walked up. You adjust your glasses again, a nervous habit.  

“Well,” you sigh, “I don’t lead with how I spend my days elbow deep in formaldehyde.”  

That gets another rumble of laughter out of him—richer this time, vibrating through his chest like distant thunder. Bully’s tail thumps approvingly against the pavement between you two.  

“What? That ain’t romantic enough for ‘em?”

You muse, “I’ve literally had men ask if my hands smell like embalming fluid on a regular basis. You can say it scares people off.” 

“Ain’t never met nobody who could scare off weak niggas just by tellin’ ‘em what they do for a living,” that dimple flickers again—brief but deadly, “Shit sounds efficient.”

It takes everything in you not to visibly swoon at the compliment. The combination of his voice doing that gravelly rumble thing and his unapologetic honesty? It's intoxicating in a way you can't explain. Of course, now that you’re over the shock of him not completely recoiling in horror over your profession, you really start to notice how ridiculously attractive he is.   

Those tattoos on his arms, that sharp jaw and those perfect teeth behind his plush lips—

“I—I mean yeah! Yeah, it um—” a nervous laugh slips out as you straighten up too fast, nearly tripping over Bully’s sprawled legs, “Definitely filters out the losers.” 

Somewhere above you comes Kimora’s muffled “Oh my god!”, followed by Ruya violently shushing her. 

Onyankopon’s gaze flickers down to where your fingers play with your hair, lingering on the curve of your bottom lip for a second too long.  

“Might wanna tell yo’ friends they ain’t slick.”

You glance back up, before looking back to him. 

“I might need the fire department after I’m done with all three of them.”

He snorts—a quiet, barely there sound that makes you realize you've actually managed to catch him off guard. But then, he does that thing again where his expression goes back to carefully blank. It's somehow even more dangerous because of the intensity of his eyes—dark and focused as they watch you fidget like a cornered animal. 

“Well, I’m gonna go. Yeah, I um—need to—do something.”

Onyankopon doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink, just lets you drown in your own flustered words while Bully whines pitifully at your feet, like even the dog knows this escape attempt is pathetic.  

“Do somethin’,” he repeats slowly, voice dropping to that rough timbre again. 

A beat passes. Two. Then—  

“Aight.”  

That single word shouldn’t feel like a challenge, but it does. Especially when paired with the way he steps back just enough to let you flee—knowing full well you’re gonna have to walk past all six-foot-whatever of him to get away while your friends silently cheer from the balcony above.

You give Bully one last scratch behind his ears—“Bye, Bully,” you coo, voice an octave higher than normal. Then, turning to Onyankopon with what you hope is a casual smile—but probably looks more like a grimace—“Nice meeting you.”  

“Nice meetin’ you too.”

You pivot on your heel—immediately tripping over absolutely nothing, catching yourself before face-planting into the pavement. You don’t dare look back to see if Onyankopon’s dimple made another appearance at your expense.

You just scurry forward, locking your eyes back towards your terrace as your friends freak out, in which you yell from below, “Oh my god, that was horrible. Imma’ kill y’all!”

And that dimple? Did in fact reappear. 

The next week of your life hadn’t changed by much. If anything, it was a little more interesting. Ever since you’d had that conversation with Onyankopon, you were finding yourself running into him, seeing him, stumbling over your words each time you talked to him. It wasn’t your friends to blame now, you were just—shy.

That first time you passed him was in the hallway on your way to work, his uniform stretched taut over those broad shoulders, NOLA FD emblem gleaming under the fluorescent lights as he adjusted his duffel bag. He’d paused when he saw you, dark eyes dragging from your freckled face down to the textbook clutched against your chest like armor. You’d offered a shy little wave—all fingers wiggling awkwardly before tucking a curl behind your ear.  

And Onyankopon? Smirked. That dimple carved into his cheek for half a second before he nodded back and kept walking—leaving you standing there feeling like you’d just been branded by that look alone.

Then came the gym incident.

You hadn't meant to spy, but when you glanced out your kitchen window while washing dishes one evening, there he was across the courtyard; shirtless and glistening 

as he worked through reps with weights that should've been illegal in size. Every muscle in his back flexed with movement—tattoos rippled over sweat slick skin, cornrows perfectly intact despite exertion.

You'd dropped an entire plate into soapy water loud enough for him to freeze, head tilting slightly toward where the sound came from—

Your curtains snapped shut so fast they nearly tore off their rod.

But worst of all? The patio debacle. 

 After another grueling embalming session where formaldehyde clung stubbornly beneath fingernails, you stepped onto the balcony hoping fresh air would clear that lingering chemical scent—you froze when you saw him.

There he was, framed within his own apartment window tugging a black tee over an ink-streaked torso, defined abs leading down to a deep v-line, hips disappearing into low-slung sweatpants hanging dangerously loose. And from the thin material? It’s big, girthy, long.

Was this man orchestrating your downfall? 

It didn’t help that friends won't shut up about him either— Just give Big Daddy your number already! 

Giving him your number might’ve solved all the issues of your short circuiting each time you saw him, but you just didn’t want to make a fool of yourself if he wasn’t interested. So, you played it cool. 

Well, not cool enough.

The universe was absolutely conspiring against you.  

Three days after your last humiliating encounter with Onyankopon, you’d decided—against all better judgment—to attempt cooking real food for once. No more microwave meals, no more takeout. You were going to make jambalaya like a proper New Orleans girl if it killed you.  

Which apparently, it nearly did.  

You had your laptop propped up on the counter, an instructional video playing at full volume—“Now add the holy trinity—bell peppers, onions, celery—” while your Mortuary Science textbook sat open beside it, chapter on arterial embalming glaring up at you in stark black and white. Between frantically stirring what was slowly becoming charcoal in your pot and trying to memorize which vessels required the most pressure during fluid injection? Disaster was inevitable.

One second you’re squinting at a diagram of the brachial artery—

The next? Flames. 

Not just a little kitchen mishap either; orange tongues licked hungrily up toward your cabinets as oil spattered violently from an overheating pan of sausage links. In true dramatic fashion, your brain short circuited into full-blown panic mode. 

"FIRE! FIRE! OH MY GOD. I'M GONNA DIE LIKE THIS?”  

Between sobbing into your hands and desperately fanning smoke toward open windows with anatomy flashcards, the fire went out, leaving behind mildly charred cabinets. But oh—the blaring smoke detector overhead now screeched like a banshee straight from hell itself, warning the entire complex about the crime you’d just committed.

Peeking through the blinds, your stomach drops like a stone. The entire apartment complex is outside—neighbors in robes, pajamas, even one lady clutching her cat carrier like she’s prepared for Armageddon. The flashing red lights of the fire truck paint everyone’s faces in alternating pulses of panic as your manager scurries around with a clipboard, visibly doing headcounts.  

Then you see him. 

Onyankopon steps out of the truck—fully geared up in his NOLA FD uniform; thick suspenders strapped over broad shoulders as he speaks into his radio. His partner—a shorter but equally serious-looking guy with salt and pepper hair—nods toward your building just as the apartment manager throws her hands up mid-count.

You duck away from blinds so fast they rattle—but that knock comes exactly three minutes later, firm enough to shake the doorframe.

You consider pretending death for half a second. 

And there they stand—Salt and Pepper looks mildly concerned, while Onyankopon wears an expression of sheer disbelief once he gets a full view of the disaster zone behind you. Smoke curls the ceiling lazily around that still screaming detector; charred remained jambalaya clinging to the pot pathetically, your textbook splayed graphic images of embalming diagrams right beside your laptop currently blaring— “And that’s how you make the perfect Roux!” 

“Ma’am,” Salt and Pepper starts gently, “We had reports of smoke coming from this unit—”

“‘Manager says you were the only tenant unaccounted for,” Onyankopon cuts smoothly, “What happened in here?”

You're standing there in oversized sweats with a headful of messy curls, soot smudged cheeks and an expression like a puppy that's gotten into trouble—hell, you're pretty sure your nose is even twitching from holding back tears. But instead of cackling like the universe seemed intent on making you endure? Onyankopon's face remains perfectly impassive—just quietly studying the mess around you like he's trying to make sense of the situation.

You nearly sob then and there.

"I was just—I was cooking! I was trying to cook and study and—I—I didn't mean to—"

To your surprise, Onyankopon's voice softens. 

 "Hey, Mama. Breathe. You know you can talk to me, stop allat’.”

“You know her?” Salt and Pepper questions.

Onyankopon doesn’t even glance at his partner, eyes locked on you as he steps forward—just enough to block the full view of your disaster kitchen from Salt and Pepper’s prying gaze. 

His voice drops lower, rough but steady like he’s talking someone off a ledge—which, given the way your bottom lip is trembling? Might actually be necessary.  

“Ain’t nobody hurt,” he mutters, “Building still standin’. You put it out yo’self?”  

You nod frantically, wiping at your face with the back of your hand only to realize it’s covered in flour and something suspiciously sticky, “I used baking soda, learned that in one of my classes.”

For one second, Onyankopon's expression does something complicated—like he's fighting six different reactions at once.

“Good.” 

That single word shouldn't feel like absolution—but it does. Especially when paired with the way his thumb brushes over your wrist when he hands you his handkerchief, “C’mon, let us do our job so we can clear this alarm.”

Still trembling a little, you clutch the handkerchief in your hands and look up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.  

"Did I actually almost burn down the building?" you ask weakly, your voice barely above a whisper, “Because it really felt like I did."  

Onyankopon exhales through his nose—almost like he's holding back a laugh but doesn't want to set you off again. He tilts his head just slightly, and that damn dimple makes an appearance as he murmurs, “Nah. But if it'd been worse? ‘Coulda carried you out over my shoulder,” a beat, “Dramatically.”

The unexpected humor catches you so off guard that a giggle bubbles up before you can stop it—which only makes him smirk harder.

Salt and Pepper looks between the two of you like he’s witnessing some kind of code red workplace violation. He clears his throat pointedly, motioning towards the smoke detector still wailing overhead, “We should probably—”

“Right,” Onyankopon cuts smoothly without breaking eye contact with you, “But next time? Maybe stick to orderin’ takeout.”

You press the handkerchief to your face in mortified defeat as they finally step inside—leaving Salt and Pepper to handle technicalities while Onyankopon lingers just close enough— and, for his low chuckle to ghost over your ear when he adds—

“Or call me.”

The next few days were painful. 

After your apartment manager gave you a strongly worded lecture about fire safety—complete with pamphlets and an emergency evacuation plan shoved into your hands—you went full hermit mode. Only leaving for work and coming straight home, avoiding eye contact with every neighbor who may or may not have witnessed the Great Jambalaya Incident.  

You had an exam coming up, so burying yourself in embalming fluid ratios and cranial sutures was a decent enough distraction—except when your mind would inevitably wander back to him. 

Today was also Sunday. Saints game day, football being your one true love outside of mortuary science. Your two-piece set clung in all the right places, gold and black Saints logo stamped across shorts that barely covered the curve of your ass, long sleeved top hugging every dip of your waist before plunging just low enough to tease your full cleavage. Your curls were pulled back by a headband while still cascading past your hips; lashes thick from extensions, catching sunlight as your freckles glowed against caramel skin. 

You're bent over checking the mail when his shadow falls across yours—

“Headin’ out?” 

You jump, mail scattering as you spin around to find Onyankopon standing there. He also wears a long sleeve—football logo large on the material—molding around his muscular frame like it was painted on him, durag and cargo pants making him attractively relaxed. 

“Uh—” You scramble for words while gathering fallen envelopes, “I was. But Ruya has food poisoning, Lola got caught up with her husband, and Kimora just ghosted. So—I’m just gonna’ watch upstairs, do some studying too.” 

His gaze flicks pointedly towards your textbook sat atop of the mailboxes, Embalming & Restorative Techniques Vol 2.

Onyankopon tilts his head, dark eyes scanning over your figure with a slow—almost lazy—appreciation that makes you feel seen in a way that's unfamiliar. 

"’Saints’ colors look good on you," before his gaze drifts pointedly to your shorts, "Even got allat’ ass pokin' out.”

Your breath catches, cheeks flooding with heat as you straighten up—too fast, nearly dropping the mail again. His smirk deepens at your fluster, that damn dimple making another appearance.  

“You um—watching the game too?” You blurt out, desperate to deflect from how his words just made your brain go blank. 

Onyankopon hums in affirmation.

 He then questions, “You got’ a headache?” 

You blink up at him like a deer in headlights. You then remember you had been rubbing your temples before he walked over, “Oh—Yeah, probably from studying too much. I’m always squinting, even with my glasses on.”

"Nah," he murmurs, "’Headache probably came from suckin' allat’ smoke in." 

You swallow as his gaze lingers on you for a beat longer. Then, he nods towards the stairs, "You said you finna’ watch the game?”

Onyankopon doesn’t wait for your answer—just adjusts the strap of his durag with one hand, while the other gestures toward the stairwell like this is a foregone conclusion.  

“You can study at mine,” he says simply, “‘TV loud enough that you can watch from the couch while I cook.”  

The offer hangs between you two—heavy and loaded despite how casual he makes it sound. His eyes flick down to where your teeth worry at your bottom lip, voice rough around the edges, “Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout burnin’ my place down either.”

“Funny, but—I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

Onyankopon doesn’t budge—just arches a brow, stepping closer until his shadow swallows yours whole.  

"You ain't askin'," he corrects smoothly, plucking your  book right out of your grip, “I'm tellin'."

His apartment was immaculate—modern, open, almost minimalist. The kind of space you'd find in an interior decorating magazine, but with a distinctly masculine feel. Dark wood, black and brown furnishings. Art pieces and family photos adorn the walls. The only spots of color come from the vibrant pillows and blankets strewn across the sectional, Saints jersey hung in a frame next to a mini bar that looks stocked to the gills with top shelf liquor. The TV plays the pregame, volume low. 

You're too busy staring around the place to notice Bully bounding up until he all but knocks you over—you giggle as you nearly stumble back.

Onyankopon scolds the dog with an amused shake of his head, "Bully, goddamn,” as he reaches down to scratch behind the dog's ears, “You can't just jump on a woman like that, boy. You gon' hurt her."

“It’s okay,” your murmur softly. You place your other textbook on the table, tugging him down to lay on his stomach—“You missed me, sweetie bean? I missed you too.”

Bully rolls onto his back like he's never seen better days, tail thumping against the floor in ecstasy. He whines, tongue lolling like he's smiling. His tail thwacks the floor. 

“Don’t be givin’ that nigga too much attention, he already spoiled.”

“‘That right? Papa spoils you, hm?” You coo, “That’s okay. You deserve all the love and kisses.”

Onyankopon stands there watching you, eyes darkly amused as he murmurs, "I'm startin' to think you only came over for the dog."

“Don’t listen to him,” you murmur, “He’s just jealous.” 

You grin up at him without thinking, sunshine-bright and unguarded, before realizing how close he is. How domestic this all feels. Your smile falters slightly as heat creeps up your neck.

Onyankopon notices immediately. That smirk returns full force as he pushes off the door, “Sit down ‘fore you start petting him like y’all married or some shit.”  

Bully whimpers when you stop scratching him, trotting after you like a shadow while Onyankopon moves to the fridge.  

“‘You drink?” 

“Did you forget I’m tryna’ study? I can’t be giggling over my textbook.”

You take a second to think though, “Unless you have Stella Rose in there.”

His chuckle is low as he pulls out a chilled bottle of Stella Rose: Black, “You’ in luck,” he murmurs, pouring with practiced ease, coming over to hand you the glass from where you sit. The deep red liquid swirls as he taps his glass against yours, “‘To not burnin’ shit down this time.” 

“Funny.”  

You can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips, Bully immediately plopping his heavy head onto your lap like he owns you now.  

“Game starts in’ ten,” Onyankopon gestures towards your textbook, “Better hurry up with allat’ studyin’. Saints don’t wait for nobody.”

He settles into the sectional beside you—all casual, spread legs, one arm stretched across the back of the couch, body angled toward yours like he's got all the time in the world. Even Bully gives up his spot on your lap to circle around you and collapse on top of his owner's feet, huffing contentedly when his big hand starts scratching under the dog's chin without looking away from you. 

You sigh, “It’d speed up the process if you were a genius—you know anything about Pathology?” you slide your textbook along your lap, tucking your legs on the left side of your body.

“Depends,” he rumbles, “You talkin’ forensic pathology or just general shit?”  

Your eyebrows shoot up, “Smart man.”

“Firefighter EMT certification had us studyin’ some wild shit,” Then, quieter, “Plus, my lil’ sister a’ pre-med.”  

“Seems like the whole family wants to save the world. You’re like Superman,” you hum, “What part of New Orleans are y’all from?”

He chuckles at that—low and deep, “9th Ward,” He nods, watching your eyes go slightly wide. 

He adds, “What, you thought a nigga was gon’ say Uptown?” 

“No, I just—“ 

He cuts you off with a shake of his head—not mad, “Relax,” he mutters, leaning back slightly, “Ain’t shit wrong with being from Uptown if that’s where you at,” His thumb brushes against the fabric of the couch near your shoulder, like he's resisting touching you outright.  

“We moved out when I was ‘bout sixteen after Katrina fucked up everythin’,” The way he says it is has no pity expected—before shifting gears smoothly, “But yo’ turn now. Where’ you from before this apartment tried killin' you?"

You shake your head, swirling the deep red in your glass before taking a sip, “Born and raised Uptown—whole family’s still here.”  

“Explains why you walk around like you own everythin’ but can’t boil water.”  

“Rude!” 

“Just sayin’.”

You both look at Bully who's now flopped between both of your legs, paws up like roadkill, “He agrees with me." 

The dog yawns. Traitorous animal.

Before either of y'all can retort though—the game starts blaring from TV speakers loud enough to make you jump, the crowds roar filling the apartment as the Saints run onto the field.

You try hard to focus on your notes, highlighting key terms, murmuring definitions under your breath—but it's impossible not to peek up every time Onyankopon leans forward, cussing at the TV like the players can actually hear him.  

"Man, what kinda bullshit call was that? That’s a flag! Throw it, blind ass nigga!” 

Bully barks in agreement like he understands every word, pacing before plopping down dramatically when a play resumes.  

Somehow though? The chaos is weirdly comforting. You find yourself smiling into your textbook whenever he gets particularly animated; his deep voice growling obscenities one second, then booming with celebration next as Saints score their first couple of touchdowns.

Halfway through the second quarter—and three glasses of Stella later—you've given up pretending to study entirely, leaning back against cushions while watching the game from over Onyankopon’s broad shoulder.

“‘Thought this nigga ‘boutta graduate,” he mutters without turning around, “Now she watchin’ the game instead.”

“This class is kicking my ass,” you stressfully admit, “Imma’ just stay an Embalmer at this point.” 

“Aight.”

 He reaches for the remote, lowering the volume slightly before twisting fully toward where your legs tuck; he notions, “Tell me what ain't stickin'.”

You hesitate for half a second before sighing, flipping open your notebook to the most confusing section, “Okay, so—putrefaction. The stages keep tripping me up.”  

“Aight. Think of it like this—” His finger taps against your notes as Bully rests his head on your thigh again for moral support, “Stage one? That’s when shit first start lookin’ wrong but ain't smellin' yet. Them’ gases build up, and the body gon’ look like a microwaved balloon.” 

You giggle a bit, “Sounds extremely gross when you put it that way.”

“Stage two? Now we get stank,” He gestures loosely with his free hand, "Skin slippage, blistering—like when you leave chicken out too long and it turns green. Except this chicken used to be yo’ uncle."  

“Onyankopon!” 

“What?” 

His grin is unrepentant, “I’m teachin’, ain't I?”

“You are, Professor. Continue.”

“By stage three? Everything meltin’. Liquefaction got fluids leakin' everywhere—” 

“Okay! I got it now,” you giggle once more, “Thank you.”

“Thank me in yo’ valedictorian speech,” he stands from the sofa, “You hungry now?”

“After you compared spoiled chicken to a decomposing body? Sure,” you muse, “What are you making, chef? Since I’m apparently the worst cook on the planet.”

He shrugs off the playful insult like it's nothing, already stalking toward the kitchen with Bully following behind, “Not just a chef. Culinary King, baby.”  

He then says, “Gumbo. Real gumbo,” he tosses over his shoulder, "Ain't gon’ need no YouTube video for this either." 

You watch from the couch as he moves around the kitchen, graceful for a man his size. His tatted arms flex as he chops vegetables with quick precision, sleeves rolled up to reveal more ink along his forearms; bold black lines weaving stories you can only guess at.  

One tattoo in particular catches your eye—a small, intricate design near his temple. 

“That’ one mean something?” 

His hand pauses briefly on the pot. 

“Yeah.”  

A beat passes where the only sound is sizzling roux. Finally, “Got jumped in at fourteen,” he murmurs, “Took my face tat’ the same night.”  

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“It’s good, shawty. You jus’ wanna know.”

He then continues, “Lost my lil’ brother not too long after,” The words come out rough-edged, “Wrong place, wrong time type shit. Made me realize ain't no glory in that street shit either way.”

The confession hangs heavy between the both of you. 

“‘Moved Uptown right after," His voice gentles, “I finished school, got into the fire academy straight out. ‘Wanted do somethin' that mattered more than colors onna’ block."

You exhale, absorbing the weight of his answer. 

A few beats pass before you venture, “I think you matter. Firefighter sounds much more cool than some nigga inna’ gang anyway.”  

He huffs out a soft chuckle at that, “You think I don’t know I’m cool?” 

You roll your eyes, a grin tugging at your lips, “No, mister humble. You really don’t know just how cool you are.”

You expect a retort—maybe that cocky smirk you've come to find weirdly endearing—but he surprises you with a genuine expression instead. It's softer, less guarded than his usual demeanor; the kind that makes you realize he isn't used to taking compliments.  

Something about that makes your heart skip a beat, but he recovers quick enough—that smirk is back in full force as he murmurs, “You know what is more important than allat’? Food. This gumbo ‘boutta be straight fire, too.”

“Lawd, here he go’. I’m judging like Gordon Ramsay.” 

“That’s cool. We gon’ see.”

The fourth glass of Stella has definitely done its job—loosening your limbs, flushing your skin, making every thought move slower.  

Your textbook lays forgotten on the coffee table as you lounge against Bully like a makeshift pillow, fingers lazily stroking his fur while your gaze lingers on Onyankopon with newfound boldness.

Onyankopon checks on you as you’re silent—he turns to see your low eyes, thick lashes locking onto him from across the kitchen island. 

“Yo’ headache gone?”

You swallow hard around sudden dryness in your throat, managing a weak nod followed by mumbled agreement, “Mhm.” 

You don’t realize, but you’re smiling a bit.

"Uh huh," he rumbles, “You definitely feelin' that wine."

He wipes his hands on a towel before rounding the island toward you—each step deliberate, unhurried—until he’s towering over where you’re slumped against Bully.  

"You good?" his thumb brushes your chin to tilt your face up toward him, "Or I need to cut you off?"

"I'm fine," You murmur—a little too breathless for someone who's supposed to be studying, “I thought you were feedin’ me?” you mindlessly pout in his palm, not realizing how you look beneath him.

He tuts softly, thumb tracing just under your chin, "Now why’ you lookin’ at me like that?" 

"Like what?"

Onyankopon exhales through his nose—half amusement, half something far more dangerous as he leans in, “You gone, shawty. Imma’ get you some water.” 

There’s a sharp, unwelcome pang in your chest when he pulls away—one that sobers you up faster than any water ever could. You straighten yourself out quietly, adjusting your top and clearing your throat as if that could erase the way his touch lingered. 

Bully whines when Onyankopon snaps his fingers twice toward the hall—“Go on,” The dog obeys instantly, throwing you one last glance before trotting off toward his play room. 

He returns with two steaming bowls of gumbo, perfectly dark roux, plump shrimp glistening on top. His large frame settles beside you with far more distance than before. Now you really felt rejected.

You take a few bites of that gumbo and have to resist a reaction. It's perfection—thick, rich, brimming with spices as it slides down your tongue. You can't help but hum in utter satisfaction, eyes nearly drifting shut as you murmur, "Hate to say how good this actually is.” 

Onyankopon chuckles softly at the sight, a low rumble that resonates through the space between you two.

“Told you it was gon' be fire."

You roll your eyes, taking another bite. Your head's spinning from the alcohol, but it's nothing compared to the dizzying rush you feel under his gaze whenever you look over at him. You swallow thickly.

"Listen, I'm sorry if I’m a little too tipsy," You apologize, “It’s been a while since I drank without eating.”

He shakes his head, watching you with that same quiet intensity as he leans back against the couch.  

"You ain't gotta apologize for nothin’," he says simply, voice low, “I wasn’t tryna’ make you feel bad. ‘Long as you’ good? That’s all that matters to me.” 

His words settle over you like a blanket—warm, reassuring. 

After a beat of comfortable silence between bites and faint commentary from the game still playing, Onyankopon tilts his head toward your abandoned textbook on the coffee table, “So why embalmin'?" 

He asks this casually—like it's normal dinner conversation, “Ain’t many people wake up one day thinkin’ they wanna drain bodies for a livin’.” 

The question catches you off guard enough that laughter bubbles out. You compose yourself again, “It sounds bad when you put like that,” You admit with a slight shake of your head.

Your fingers trace the rim of the bowl while gathering your thoughts. You then sigh, “I’ve always been fascinated by death. Not in a morbid way, but—“ you search for the right words—“More about how we treat it? Honor it? My grandmother used to tell me stories growing up about how they’d wash the dead themselves before burial, and sit with them the whole night so the spirits weren't alone.”

Then quieter, you almost become shy about the subject matter. 

“I wanted to do work that meant something even if nobody ever thanked me for it.”

You pause mid rambling, a shy giggle releasing your lips. Onyankopon encourages your words with a quiet, “Keep goin’.” 

He is so goddamn attractive like this—focused on you completely while his food goes ignored, “I'll listen all night."

The warmth of alcohol and his attention makes you soften. You lean your head against the couch, studying him with a lazy, appreciative smile.  

"Sweet," you murmur, "Even though you look like you could break me in half."  

Onyankopon's smirk is instant—sharp and knowing as he leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees again. But he doesn’t deny it; just lets that statement linger between you like a challenge. 

"When was the last time somebody had all this?" Your fingers gesture vaguely at his whole existence, "Don't lie either."

He blinks, expression unchanging for a beat before shrugging—almost too nonchalant, “Couple months." 

You raise a skeptical brow, "Couple months,” you echo mockingly, "That’s all?" 

"Why?" He returns, "You got a nigga or sum’?"

Your expression deadpans, “Don’t be funny, nigga. Why would I be here if I did?”

"Ain't tryna’ be funny. Just askin'."

When he speaks again, his voice is much rougher than before. 

"When was the last time you been’ with somebody, then?"

You exhale slowly, swirling the last of your wine before finishing it off. The admission feels heavier now that it’s out in the open—floating between you two like something tangible.  

"A year," you admit with a slight shrug, "Not for any big reason. Just felt like breakin’ the streak wasn’t worth it.” 

Your fingers trace the rim of your empty glass absently before adding quieter, "Especially not when I got school and this career to focus on."  

His gaze remains steady on yours; a silent, almost dangerous intensity as he murmurs, "Ain’t nobody had you inna’ year?”

You swallow hard, thighs clenching involuntarily as you force yourself to keep your composure. But as you go to part your lips—the game roars within the room, catching your attention and cutting the tension you’d felt before.

You giggle a little awkwardly, suddenly needing to do something—anything to shake off the lingering heat between you two. Washing dishes sounded pretty excusable. 

“I got these.”

Onyankopon watches you for a beat as you make your way to the kitchen, only a beat. He then pushes off the couch with a quiet chuckle, following you into the kitchen anyway. You feel him before you see him—his broad frame crowds behind you, reaching around to rinse his own bowl under the sink water. 

“Thought I was doin’ those?” You question halfheartedly—eyes flicking over your shoulder to eye him, “I told you I had it.”

He doesn’t answer right away—just turns off the faucet and places his dishes aside without breaking contact with your body once. It happens so subtly—strong arms snake around waist from behind, pulling you gently against him in one slow motion until there is no space left between.

 His chin rests atop of your shoulder that it makes you giggle, the sound breathless as you let your head tilt back against him. He rests atop your curls while the both of you sway gently—like there's some slow song playing only the two of you can hear.  

"’Thought you were supposed to be watching the game, Ony.” 

"Game borin’.” 

Then? 

"Been tryna' be good all night,” He admits gruffly into your skin—his fingers tighten their grip ever so slightly at your hips when he feels the way they tremble, "Ain't workin’.”

Your breath hitches when his lips press against your neck—warm, soft, teasing. You can’t help but hum nervously, squirming slightly in his hold. 

“Ony.” 

You giggle playfully, but it comes out more like a whine when he drags another slow kiss just below your ear.

His hands rub soothing circles against your waist like he’s trying to calm you down, even as he continues trailing those maddeningly light kisses along the column of your throat.  

"Stop actin' scared,” He murmurs, “Ain’t gotta’ run from me.”

You lean back fully against him, tilting your head up just enough for your nose to brush against his. Another giggle, met with a low chuckle both filled with heat. Onyankopon’s breath fans over your lips—warm—before you close that tiny distance yourself, pulling him down into a slow, deep kiss.  

His grip tightens on your waist as soon as your lips meet, the sound of soft sucking filling the kitchen between shaky exhales. You can feel his tongue slide against yours in lazy strokes—no rush, just pure indulgence—each press of his mouth making the heat coil tighter in your stomach until you’re panting between kisses.  

Your heads tilt opposite ways naturally every time he pulls back slightly before diving back in; noses bumping playfully, locking together again even deeper than before. That’s when you stick your tongue out, fully stroking it with his. 

Onyankopon breaks the kiss just long enough to murmur, "Goddamn,” before he grabs your face and yanks you back up against him with a hungry grunt—tongue licking into your mouth immediately.  

He’s sucking your bottom lip, tugging it between teeth before slipping between your open mouth again; that’s when you feel a smack on your ass—you squeak breathlessly, giggling as you tug your mouth away—“Bully’s barking, Ony.” 

Onyankopon doesn’t even flinch at the sound of Bully’s distant barking. He just slides one hand up to cradle the back of your neck, tilting your face back toward his with a low, throaty growl.  

“Fuckin’ hell, Bully.” 

His mouth crashes into yours again—hotter this time, hungrier, tongue sweeping past your lips before you can even process the curse. You finally manage to think, pulling away long enough to murmur, “You gotta—“ you swallow hard when the words come out in a hoarse exhale, “‘Gotta feed him.” 

It takes a beat for his breathing to even out—a rough exhale as he leans forward, chasing your mouth for a second kiss that you manage to evade with a breathless laugh. He exhales roughly, “You’ tryna’ kill a nigga.”

“You can show me to your room first,” you hum, “Carry me?”

Onyankopon doesn't hesitate—his hands slide under your thighs in one smooth motion, hoisting you up effortlessly as you wrap your legs around his waist.  

"Greedy.”

He’s stealing another kiss, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours as he walks backward through the apartment without looking away from you once.  

His bedroom is exactly what you’d expect—dimly lit sunset LED strips running along the ceiling, casting shadows over sleek black furniture. The walls are adorned with bold, striking paintings; splashes of color against dark canvases that look like they cost a fortune. A massive king-sized bed dominates the space, neatly made black satin sheets practically gleaming under the glow of those lights.

Onyankopon carries you straight to it without breaking stride—barely managing to kick his door shut behind him before dumping you unceremoniously onto that sea of silk. You bounce once before he’s crawling over you with slow precision; one hand already tugging at your waistband while his mouth finds yours again in a kiss so filthy it should be illegal. He’s dropping his tongue in your mouth, snarling against your lips like he’s hungry for you. 

“This whatchu’ wanted?” 

You stifle kisses through giggles, fingers tracing along his sharp jawline. He groans into your mouth—low and guttural, before you break the kiss to teasingly murmur, "Go feed Bully," against swollen, reddened, lips. 

Onyankopon exhales heavily, "You can’t keep playin’ wit’ me.” 

Your tongue runs across his mouth, “I’ll be here,” sucking on his lips, making that your promise.

Another groan, this time even darker than the previous one. He reluctantly pushes himself off the bed, eyes flashing dangerous when he looks down at you.   

"Behave, girl.” 

You hear him murmuring to Bully in the other room—low, affectionate growls of “Yeah, yeah—eat,” The sound of kibble hitting a bowl follows as you glance around his space again, eyes catching on the small tray tucked neatly on his nightstand. A half-rolled blunt rests atop it alongside a lighter and some rolling papers.  

Before you can investigate further, the door creaks open again—Onyankopon leans against the frame with eyes only on you.

“Nosy.” 

You’re like something out of his fantasy. Your freckles dance beneath the lights of the room, curls draping around your curvy frame at the position you sit along the bed. You sit along your knees as you lean forward, “‘Missed me?”

He’s tongue in cheek—big hands already working at the buckle of his belt, expressing pure hunger as he locks onto where you’re sprawled across his sheets. 

"I did. I’m done playin' nice with yo’ ass too.”

Your lips curl into a slow, teasing smile as your eyes rake over him—tatted arms flexing as he undoes that belt, that hungry glare in his gaze fixated. 

“So…Firefighter Onyankopon,” you purr, “They don’t drug test you?”  

His smirk deepens as he stalks closer, knees pressing into the mattress where you lounge. One hand grips your ankle to drag you firmly towards him, “Nah,” then, “You tryna smoke?”  

You bite down on your lower lip, “Mhm.” 

Onyankopon stands at the edge of the bed, blunt already rolled and sealed between his lips as he flicks the lighter. The flame hisses to life, illuminating the sharp planes of his face for just a second—cheeks hollowing as he takes that first deep pull. Smoke swirls around him when he exhales slowly, eyes locked onto you like prey through low lids. He holds it out between two fingers—taunting as he curls his fingers towards himself.

“Come get it,” His voice is rough with smoke and something darker; command laced beneath amusement.

And at his words? You crawl.

Knees pressed into satin sheets, your hips sway with each deliberate movement until you’re close enough to smell that rich, earthy sweetness clinging to him. His free hand grips your chin at the last second—holding you back from taking it, leaning down so his next exhale coats your parted lips in hazy warmth.

“‘Thought I told yo’ ass not to tease no more,” he grunts, letting go, “Open.” 

You lean back just enough to take a deep pull from the blunt, holding the smoke in your lungs before exhaling slowly—right into his face with a wicked grin on your full lips.

Onyankopon doesn’t flinch. Just watching, those dark eyes tracking every shift of your mouth—every taunting breath out. He finds a grip on your throat, fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver.

"Told you,” he murmurs lowly, voice roughened by smoke, “Play too fuckin’ much.” 

You slide your palm beneath his shirt, rubbing the sculpt of his tatted abdomen. 

He grunts, “‘Gon' learn today.” 

Your teeth dip into the plush of your lip, tugging your hands along the hem of his pants—your lashes flutter, “Lemme’ put it in my mouth, Ony.”

His grip on your neck tightens. Onyankopon’s head tilts slightly, eyes going dark enough to match the room, those muscles jumping against your skin in anticipation.  

“Gon’ head.”

The moment you tug his tip from beneath his briefs? It nearly smacks you in the face, bigger than you imagined it to be. It’s veiny under your tiny palm, and the size of it makes you horny. You drag your tongue against the entire length of him, wrapping your lips along the tip as you immediately begin sucking.

“Fuck,” he groans—low and rough—you’re so crossfaded that you’re already stroking him up and down with your hand and tongue together before pulling up—sloppy as saliva drools from your lips, dragging until he falls free. You look up at him through your own reddened eyes, pupils blown wide, just a moment before he grabs onto your hair, guiding you back down.  

 “Look at me wit’ them muhfuckin’ eyes.” 

You do, mouth open and tongue out. He grunts, smoke spilling from between his own lips.

The sight of your mouth wrapped so perfectly around him was like a dream, poking through your cheek from his size. Even the taste of him is dark and rich, mixed with the sweet burn of the blunt—that scent and smoke swirling in the air as he takes another pull.

You move faster to make him moan, sucking him deep. He drops the blunt somewhere to grab your head with his free hand—thick fingers digging into your curls in ways that make you whine as he guides you against him. You’re taking him as deep as you can—throating him, your mouth tugging back as you whimper, “‘Dick so pretty, baby.”

The air fills with the sounds of your moans and his deep grunts, the scent of weed and smoke still lingering. He’s using your mouth like it was made for him, like your mouth was made to take him, “Mouth so fuckin’ soft, Mama. You suckin’ this dick.” 

You try to respond between wet, rough sucks— all you can manage are slurred whimpers that somehow make him fuller in your mouth. You pull back once more, “Spit on it.”

He obliges, of course.

Onyankopon lowered his mouth, dropping spit on his own dick. It’s dirty, sloppy. But seeing you like this? Mindless, pliant— was like no other. You grip the base in your fist and drool onto him, coating those veined ridges with your own mess before swallowing him again.   

You don’t stop—you stick your pink, slippery tongue out, drooling down the length of him—slicking it up good. He makes a sound in his chest that’s almost animal, thick fingers holding you still while he strokes it against your tongue—you just moaned. 

 It’s rough and delicious as you slurp and drool, taking him down while sliding your hands up and down over what you can’t reach—your eyes nearly flutter shut as you slur out, "Taste sogood, baby.” 

He’s all you can taste.

Your pretty eyes are a haze, curls draping through his fingers like sable oceans. You’re lazily stroking him now as you pull your mouth back—you run your tongue along your lips as you whimper, “So big, Ony. Not gonna’ fit in me.”

His smirk is cocky as you salivate on him, eyes half-lidded but laser-focused on the way your mouth moves along his shaft. He’s too big to take, and he knows it.

“Nah, ain’t gon’ fit you,” he agrees, voice gruff, “Gon’ make you fit me.”   

You give him that dazed look again, eyes muddled—drunk off his smell, his taste— your hands grip him again and start stroking him back and forth. His hand cups the back of your neck once more—firm but careful, holding you still as he strokes himself into your mouth over, over and over again. 

Maybe pleasuring him was distracting your own thoughts of having to take him—but it seems you’ve been caught, as Onyankopon yanks you by your curls, tugging you back in a way to lock your lips with his own. You’re both greedy as you push your head deeper when you kiss one another, tongue sliding against his like you’d never kiss him again.

It’s as if you didn’t just have him bulging within your mouth. The moment his fingers slide down your stomach, dipping beneath your shorts as your legs spread open beneath him—your body tenses, dragging your fingers along the back of his neck as you kiss him shyly.

The sight of your pussy was mesmerizing—already soaked, flushed pink and twitching beneath your shorts. 

“Yo’ shit prettier than a muhfucka’," Onyankopon murmurs—half to himself, half a rough compliment aimed at the way you shudder when his thumb drags through your slick folds. You tremble, hips jerking up off the mattress with a small gasp—your grip on his neck tightens all at once, all while those thick fingers begin working slow circles over your clit.

It’s no words, just a high pitched whimper escaping your swollen lips.

You pout along his mouth, spreading your legs just a bit more—your voice is so soft, begging as you mewl, “Put em’ in me.” 

He grunts, “Imma’ slide them in slow.”

You nod, shuddering. That’s exactly how you want it. 

Onyankopon’s thumb stills at your clit—the roughness of his fingers drags down, sinking inside so slow—he presses forward, burying nearly to the knuckle with a single push.  

You don’t expect the reaction you give—but a year of no sexual activity in fact leaves you tight, two fingers nearly being the death of you in this moment. It feels so good, you’re creaming on his fingers, tears glistening within your eyes as you sob in pleasure, “Oh my god, Ony.”

“Why’ this shit so fuckin’ wet already?” He grumbles through his own parted mouth—his palm grinds over your clit, dropping his fingers in, listening to your folds squelch in return. It doesn’t help that Onyankopon’s grunting into your mouth every time his fingers sink in. 

You tug your mouth inches from his—you mindlessly pant, “I needed that so bad,” it’s soft, breathy as he adds another finger in even slower. 

“Keep talkin’ to me.”

“They’re so big,” you softly whimper, “Stretchin’ me.” 

When his fingers curl, you gasp—your mouth pulls back from his, palm reaching for his fingers to tug them out—you feel his other hand grip you by the throat, yanking your mouth back onto his. 

“Ion’ do that runnin’ shit,” he grunts, “You gon’ take me.”

His fingers slide right back in, spreading you wide as he sinks down to the knuckle once more. It’s hard to catch your balance when he’s rocking you onto his fingers like this—your hands find his wide shoulders to grip onto, head spinning at this point. 

You’re shaking—trembling beneath him as he growls into your kiss, those big hands clenching harder against your neck before sliding down. He licks your lips, “Goodbaby. Watch my fingers just goin’ in.” 

And you do. In and out, they’re just going. 

Maybe he was just good with his hands—in seconds, your shorts are removed, back fully hitting the soft comforter—your clit is being stroked by his tongue, all while his fingers still plummet in and out of you.

He’s so rough—hungry as his mouth feasts on you, eating you out like a man starved of oxygen. Your moans get lost in the sheets, every sensation sending you into a spiral as you’re trapped beneath him, fingers still stretching you out just right. And the noises, they’re getting wetter and messier each minute. 

You’re panting, “Fuck, baby.” 

“This bitch drippin’,” he murmured against your clit, another lick as you mewled helplessly, hands clenching the sheets beneath your fingers, writhing against his mouth that was eating you messily. Your legs are shaking, thighs attempting to close around his head.

“Hold ‘em back.” 

He’s reaching for your thighs in that warning voice. His tongue flattens over your clit, sucking. 

That’s when your vision starts to fade, head spinning as you desperately try to stay present with him. You nod your compliance though, pouting as you hold your thighs open by the tips of your nails, spreading your pussy open. 

You mewl to him, “Wanna’ watch your tongue go in me, baby.”

His tongue plunges in with a grunt of, “That’s a gooood fuckin’ girl.” 

Your back arches off the bed, head tilting all the way back. It’s just too much, being filled like this—every nerve lighting hot and sensitive with so much of him all at once. 

“You’ so wet.” 

He sounds lost—voice disappearing between strokes of his tongue, “You. So. Fuckin’. Wet,” sinking inside—his fingers take over again, pumping thick and slow, “You taste good everywhere, girl. Goddamn.”  

He’s eating you faster, moaning as his mouth works at your clit again—his tongue slips in between your spread folds, lapping like a canine. You’re shaking beneath him, head in the clouds with nothing but gasps to give. 

Your hand reaches down to grip the back of his head—and he doesn’t resist, just allows you to guide his mouth right where you need him most. Your legs shake on either side of his head as he buries his face into your clit, “I’m goin’ all in, baby. Keep droppin’ yo’ shit on my tongue.” 

You were gonna blackout if you let him keep going. You pull him up by the coil of his goatee, sliding your tongue into his mouth with a moan. Hands grip your waist under your shirt as you both share another messy, nasty kiss. You feel his hands pushing your top up, freeing your huge, heavy tits—and then, his mouth is on them. 

Something about your nipples being sucked always made you infinitely more horny—you breathily giggle as you whimper, “Ooh, baby. I love that.”

His mouth was insistent—taking turns with your stiff nipples in his mouth, suckling and licking as they hardened more. He was rough as he grunted, “Pretty ass fuckin’ titties,” tongue circling them in the best way, teeth tugging just right. 

You ramble, “Imma’ take your dick so good, Daddy.” 

Onyankopom grunts at the name. Your grip on his durag tightens when he slides two fingers back through your folds—just to test you—just to make you whimper. 

You don’t run.

Your legs are spread open wide for him as he holds you, “You gon’ let me fuck you?”

“Promise, baby.”

“Yeah? Gon’ let me take this pussy how I wanna take it?”

You’re nodding, begging, essentially—but that might’ve been stupid on your part. Because when he lays the both of you on your side, yet somehow trapping your legs over his shoulders in a missionary position? You’d never been put like this before. 

One arm rests over your knees, the other sliding along the back of your neck in a way that traps you. Your body tenses the moment you feel his tip slapping amongst your soaked folds, your doe eyes peering through his low ones, needy, vulnerable.

As he sinks in, your folds spread apart slowly. Even with how wet you are, the uncomfortable stretch of pleasure burns your stomach like fire, every inch sinking deeper by the second. 

“You look so small like this, like you breakin’.” 

You try to respond—anything to sound like you have any semblance of control—but your mouth only parts open, eyes rolling at the whiplash of pleasure and discomfort.

“You know you ain’t runnin’, huh?” 

You nod, eyes glazed over as he sinks further inside, “Ughn, shit.”

He’s not even halfway in by the time your legs are shaking around his head, hands fisting sheets in a white knuckle grip as he stretches you out, spreading you wide. You’re moaning so helplessly as he slides in another inch. Your hands reach for his—finding his thick, rough ones so you could squeeze them for dear life. 

His voice is a low groan in your ear, “You takin’ it so good.” 

He’s smacking your ass, spanking again at how good you feel. 

You’d never been filled like this before—not this deep or this girthy. You’re trembling in his arms, eyes glassy as he leans forward, forcing your legs wider by the backs of your thighs, “I told you— keep them’ eyes onna’ nigga.” 

You tuck your face within the pillow as you feel the first stroke—he’s still not even fully in, your face pouting as the first expression you give him.

The second stroke, your whole body clenches, fingers fisting the sheets so hard, eyes rolling at one slow roll of his hips.  

“Ooooohh, my god.”  

Another stroke, deep—“Ughh, fuuuck.” 

“You sound too pretty, girl.” 

You’re whining as he strokes a slow, deep rhythm inside of you, your head tossing between the pillow and his face. Your arms throw around his shoulders, fingernails digging into the back of his neck with a vice grip like you’re trying to keep yourself grounded—anything to make sense of the intensity of it all, curls spreading all across your cheek and pillow. 

He’s still pressing you down onto his lap, holding you in place as he just keeps rolling his hips with a grunt, “Ooh, fuck.” 

You nod so fast, whimpering at that feeling of him in so deep, stroking you open. He’s holding your bottom left thigh up in the air, spreading you in a way that made you ache at how much he was giving you, “You hearin’ us?” This shit sloppy as fuck.”

The air was a chorus of mixed breaths, grunts, your guttural moans and sloppy wet sounds from his strokes splitting you apart. Onaynkopon’s hips move slower than he’d ever thought possible—you were just too tight for anything too hard. 

Squish. Squish.Squish. He’s slow stroking—which means he’s pounding into you—his balls are slapping at the cheeks of your ass, his tip bouncing at your cervix in the meanest way. You lock your mouth around his arm, groaning deeply as your eyes roll back. 

“Ughh… Ughhh… Oh, my god… Ugh.”

It happens—you drench his tip as you squirt on him, the groan sinking into a squeal as your thighs tremble dangerously. You tuck your mouth back onto his arm to calm yourself, moaning helplessly through his flesh.

“That’s so good, Mama. Good lil’ bitch, squirt all on me,” Onyankopon’s voice is an octave deeper when he growls onto your lips, “Make a mess on my fuckin’ dick.” 

He snaps his hips forward roughly, almost punishing that spot he’d found for this reaction. Your gasp is prolonged, a broken cry grunting from your lips—you’re singing, “Ohhhh my god!” 

Your whining was delicious as it spilled onto his arm, his mouth hot on your ear that he began mumbling nasty things into. You feel one hand slide up to grip a fistful of hair at the back of your head, moaning into his chest. Your whole spine was shaking because of that roughness, your legs were shaking—his hips still bouncing brutally between your legs. But his last sentence left you pulverized.

“You think I’m done with you?”

In fact, he wasn’t. 

Your sanity was being held by your fingers weakly pressing against the headboard for leverage—you’re now ass up, face down into the comforter as Onyankopon’s palms grip you by both arms, tugging you onto his dick. Your eyes are rolled back, moaning to him chaotically.

You’d never looked this pretty—this fucked.

You can’t even see the expression on his face behind you, not when your eyes keep watering, or rolling back. All you could feel was the brutal snaps of his hips, that grip he has holding you spread so wide for him. Your ass docks on his skin with every thck, thck, thck of his strokes. Your face is smothered between the sheets as you moan into the space, too lost to even speak, let alone think of anything else.

“Fuck me back,” he grunts, “Lemme’ see this bitch bounce.” 

Your body responds by instinct, fingers fisting the sheets in a white knuckle grip as your ass bounces to that pace he’d set. You can feel the wetness between your cheeks as he slides in over, over, over…

You managed to pull yourself partially up the bed, hands gripping the pillow as your voice cried toward him. 

You clench when you hear him groan behind you—his hands spread your folds to keep you open for him, so far forward that you’re on your elbows as he’s pounding against your spot. Your breath hitches when he groans, “Ooooh, girl. Fuck.” 

Your ass jiggled against his hips, those wet sounds echoing between your legs as he stretched you open with every stroke. The sound of your ass clapping against him was downright pornographic. He’s gripping you by your lower waist to make your pussy grind against him even more, taking you roughly. 

“Bounce on this big dick.” 

You turn to find his eyes, reaching your hand up against his lower abdomen—you’re dropping your ass down to his abdomen, your eyes rolling as you mewl, “‘Balls hitting my pussy, baby. Go slow,” you whimper, “Just pound me.”

His grip was practically bruising against your hips, guiding you into that bouncing pace he’d set. Your body was trembling with it—those slow, punishing strokes leaving your head spinning. Your face was smeared down against the sheets again. 

You’re catatonic at this point. 

His hips were still going—thicker strokes that left you shouting every time he pushed back in. His face was still expressionless, the darkness in his eyes still so intense like the first time you’d met him. You’re barely even coherent at this point, just a mess of moans and words that didn’t make sense.

“You finna’ tap out, huh?”

You can only grunt, too busy trying to hold yourself together as your face pushes further into the mattress.

You were too gone—too gone to even form words right now. You barely had enough control over your body either, your thighs and knees were trembling with every stroke he gave. You felt him in your stomach, your spine, every nerve—he was all you thought about as you moaned into the sheets. He was turning your brain into white noise—your vision was almost blurry. 

That’s when you give a whine—it’s loud, so loud that it drags, squirting all on him once more—you’re messily rubbing your clit, bouncing yourself back through your overstimulating pleasure. You’re a whimpering mess to him, “I love this dick, baby. Fuck me, just fuck me…”  

His eyes darkened as your back arched, spine curling forward as that dazed expression danced across that pretty face. You’d squirted all over him again—his hands pulled away as he sat back, looking down at the way your body was squirming, hips still bouncing against the mattress. 

You’re looking back at him from under your heavy eyes, mouth moving to try and speak but all that came out was another whine,, “Ughh… uh, uh.”  

“You’re so fucked out, huh?” He murmured, hand spanking your ass harder than he’d done before, smoothing it over as he heard you sniffle. 

“Lemme’ give you them’ slow strokes.” 

He gently places you on your back, dragging you under his looming frame to place your legs back along his shoulders. The moment he slides back in, Onyankopon presses his nose to yours, nuzzling it as you did to him earlier in the night. The feeling makes you emotional in a way you hadn’t expected—tears glisten in your eyes, your arms wrapping around his neck as you just take him. 

His head buried itself in the crook of your neck as he murmured, “You’re so beautiful,” sliding out, back in, all the way out, “You good, baby? I ain’t hurt you, huh?”

Your hands slide up to his hair, tugging at his durag as you finally manage to breathe, “Need you, Ony.” 

His face is the closest it’s been to smiling in the night. His hand slides down to grip your knee, holding your thigh in place against him. 

“Need you too, girl.” 

You’re giving him small, broken cries. His face is within your neck as your mouth is by his ear, whining softly as your body trembles like you’d been tased. His mouth kept pressing against the top of your head between his rough murmurs, the words too quiet and jumbled for you to really understand. 

“I’m cumming, Ony…”

“I know, baby.” 

His voice was hushed against your neck, hands pressing your hips down into his to keep you still. Your nails dug into his back, teeth biting down on a shoulder to try and muffle your moans. 

“Ughh…Oh. Oh my god. Fuugghhh. Fuck.” 

Your arms were wrapped around his neck in a death grip, holding him to you as you moaned and mewled through your orgasm. You shiver, sniffling as you nuzzle his nose once more—you hear a low chuckle, a soft kiss being snatched against your lips.

You were crazy, but it was in the moment.

“Cum in me, baby. Fill me up,” you tremble, “Please.” 

And that’s when you hear it—a real moan from Onyankopon.

You didn’t even realize how quiet he’d been in contrast to your moans and pants. But the moment he moaned against your neck, it’s all you could focus on. You hold him tighter as you feel the warmth within your folds, Onyankopon grinding into you, moaning into your ear. 

You felt his face in your neck again when he finally collapsed against you—still connected to you, his full weight falling flat against your chest as his arms locked around your waist. You stroked his hair, his durag ending up somewhere away from the bed—his forehead pressed into your neck as he inhaled deep. 

Almost ten minutes of silence went by. 

“You’re heavy.”

You had murmured this, your fingers running down the ridges on his back, feeling the curve of his mouth pull into a grin. His hands roamed your sides, squeezing at the flesh just under your ribs as he murmured back, “‘Feel good, Mama. I’m sorry.”

Now it was your turn to blush, the words being a sweet surprise—your hands slid up to his cheeks, fingers stroking that dark beard as you giggled once more. 

“You don’t gotta be sorry, Onyankopon.” 

You ran the pad of your thumb over the ridge of his mouth, tracing over the roughness of his lips, “You’re good.” 

You gave a small grin, “You were good.”

“Damn right I was.” 

You huffed a laugh that was more like another giggle, hands sliding up once more to run through his hair. His arms wound back around your waist, his mouth sliding up to suckle a new hickey onto your neck. You shivered as he continued, “You got a cute lil’ laugh, you know that?”

“And somehow you have a boner,” you flick his nose, “Unhand me!”

“Not my fault you’ fine as hell.” 

But he did release you, rolling off of you with some effort. 

Onyankapon watched you closely, able to see the wince on your face from the soreness you began to feel.

“You okay, Mama?”

That’s when you shake your head—you throw yourself back onto his body, wanting his warmth and comfort, “No. ‘Think you scraped my insides worse than a Pap smear,” you murmur, “Cuddle me.”

“Just say you’ clingy, girl.”

He chuckled, arms wrapping back around your waist—this time, pulling you on top of him. Your head rested on his chest, your body splayed out in a tangle of limbs. 

You find yourself reaching up for his earlobe, rubbing comfortingly at the flesh. You then ask, “Is clingy bad for you?”

“Nah.” 

His voice held an honesty that you weren’t sure you were expecting. His hands smoothed over your back, fingers spreading across that soft expanse of skin.

He then confirmed, “I like clingy.”

“Even if I’m a bad cook? You’ll still like me?”

“Especially if you’ a bad cook.” 

You felt the roughness of his beard graze against the crown of your head, “You gon’ be a mess in my kitchen.” 

His voice held a gruffness, but there was an underlying affection underneath it that you hadn’t quite heard from him much tonight—but you liked it, and so did he.

The both of you begin to doze off, his fingers captured in a coil of your curls, your fingers tucked within his chest. But that’s when you hear it—a phone buzzing, loud enough to hear, but quiet enough to ignore.

A second call. This one makes him exhale sharply through his nose, and by the third, he’s growling under his breath as he reaches blindly for the nightstand.  

“Yeah…Yeah…Now?” 

A pause. 

Then a grunt, “Aight. Gimme’ twenty.”  

He hangs up without another word and sits up abruptly, scrubbing a hand over his face— turning back towards you, an apologetic frown was already forming on his lips. 

"I gotta go, shawty. Niggas got me on a distress call.” 

That’s all he says at first—but you must have made some kind of face, because he’s suddenly hovering above you, one hand planted next to your head while the other cups your chin firmly.

"Ain't kickin' you out," he murmurs, pressing a hard kiss onto your forehead like a punctuation mark between sentences, "Get yo' ass under them covers."

You heard him, but you were sensitive—he obviously didn’t know that. You tug the covers close to your chest as your eyes watch him go back and forth, a small pout along your face regardless of his words.

He could see the way you curled in on yourself—protecting yourself, even—and it left a strange emotion burning in his chest. That’s when he sighed heavily, running a hand over his face once more as he padded toward the bed, sitting himself on the edge.

"C'mere, baby."

You feel dramatic.

“I didn’t mean to—“

"Nuh-Uh,” he cuts you off, grabbing your wrist to tug you into his lap in one swift movement, legs on either side of his hips. He pulls the blankets tight around the two of you—your head buried into his chest as he keeps you tucked against him. 

"Look at me, pretty girl.” 

You were pouting still, eyes averted from his gaze as you stubbornly kept your lips pursed. That is, until he forced your stubborn eyes to meet his once more.

"I ain't tryin' to kick you out, aight? I just gotta go take care of business.” 

You’re still frowning. 

He leans down to press a firm kiss against your forehead, arms tightening their hold on your waist to keep you against him. 

"C'mon, don't be mad at me now."

Onyankopon's voice drops to that deep, rumbling register—the one he uses to get your attention—you’ve picked up on that. 

"You really gon’ sit here poutin’ while I gotta go handle this?" His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, tugging it down playfully, “Ain't even said you gon’ miss me."  

Then—before you can protest—his mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss that’s all tongue, teeth, and promise. It’s messy enough to make your toes curl, his hand sliding from your chin to the back of your neck to keep you locked in place. It’s to let you know that he wanted you, and everything that came with that.

"Stay right here. Keep my shit warm,” a pause, “Or I could bend yo' ass over this mattress one more time

 ‘fore I leave—your choice."

That finally got you to squirm and grumble in his lap—your fingers dig into the meat of his back in a futile attempt to escape him. 

"I was playin',” he grunted, nipping your bottom lip as if to prove a point, "Goddamn, girl. I was playin'.“ 

“Bye, Onyankopon.”

“What kinda ‘bye’, huh? Like you gon’ sneak off once I leave?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. But of course—you smile. 

“Call Bully in here so I can cuddle with my actual man.”

"Forreal?" Onyankopon repeats, looking down at you with one brow raised in disbelief. 

You can tell he's trying to hold back the grin that's threatening to lift at his lips—those dark eyes of his narrowing with mock-offense, "That's what you call yo’ forreal’ nigga? That raggedy ass mutt?" 

You giggled, “Go, Superman. Save the world.”

He gives you one last look, a boyish grin you could find yourself getting used to.

“Imma’ be back, shawty.”

A scream tore from his chest. The kind that didn’t sound human.

He sat bolt upright, breath ragged, vision swimming. The shadow was gone. But the smell lingered like hot iron and smoke. Like burnt offerings. Outside, there was a loud crack of thunder as the sky began to pour. The world had moved on. But Onyakopon didn’t.

Not yet.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and stared down at the callouses in his palms.

The tremble in them betrayed him. That was the third one this week. And in every single one, there was always a shadow. Eyes like smoldering coals. A voice that wore his father’s face like a mask. No matter how many scriptures he recited before bed. No matter how often he sang himself hoarse in praise. It kept coming back. Stronger and stronger. And every time he woke, he felt like something had been peeled off of him in the night. Something soft. Something sacred.

He refused to speak on it. Refused to write it down. Didn’t dare let it live outside his own chest.

Not yet.

Not running. Not crying. Just sitting there heavy on his heart. Another crack of thunder rumbled the sky as heavy rain pelted on his family homes roof. He rose from his bed pulling his rosary off his night stand bringing it to his lips as he said a silent prayer.

Lord… have mercy on me. I been seein’ things. Eyes in the corner, whispers in the dark, faces that don’t belong to no man. I don’t know if it’s You, or the Devil, or somethin’ in between. But I’m scared. I’m tired. I’m tryin’.

Send me peace. Send me clarity. Send me somethin’ steady, somethin’ real. A light, Lord. Just a light to carry me through. Even if I don’t understand it yet.

As he said his Amens and laid back in his bed, Onyakopon had felt for the first time think that He wasn't listening.

By Sunday morning, the dreams still hadn’t left him. They clung to his shoulders like wet cotton.

But church folk didn’t care about dreams, especially not from a man like him. broad-shouldered and Bible-raised man, with a voice like honey on fire. The kind of voice that made pews sway and Deaconess Grant shout with both hands in the air.

Onyakopon stood at the front of the little white church he'd grown up in fingers wrapped around the wooden pulpit like every Sunday, his deep waves still damp from a basin rinse. Sunlight filtered in through stained glass panes, splashing color over the choir robes and sweating faces. The fans were flapping, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus but the heat was still wrapping necks like a noose.

“There's a leak in this old building... and my soul...” His voice filled the rafters, warm and booming.

Eyes closed. He let the song carry him. He tried to lose himself in it. But then

He saw it.

It wasn’t a flash. Not a trick of the light. It was there, really there, on the third pew from the front, sitting where Sister McGee always sat, legs crossed and grinning wide like it was proud to be seen. A thing with a stretched-out face and black gums, skin that shimmered like chicken grease thrown in water. Its eyes were hollow, but it always found him.

Mocking.

Ony’s throat caught on the next word.

“...This old building—keeps o' sinkin' and my... soul”

His voice had cracked like he was sixteen again singing for the congregation for the first time, he winced. Blinked. Shook his head.

Someone from the amen corner called out, calm and easy: “Take your time, brother.”

The thing was gone.

Just a trick of the heat, he told himself. Just his mind. The back doors of the church creaked open. Slow. Dust in the light. And there she was. Tall for a woman and wide-hipped, dark-skinned kissed by Gods given sun, like the earth after heavy rain, wearing a faded rose dress with puffed sleeves and lace at the hem. Her black cat trotted beside her like it belonged there. She held a woven basket over one arm and wore a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with dried lavender.

Every voice in the room caught in their throats.

Folks didn’t speak her name. Didn’t meet her eye. The bastard daughter of sin and prophecy. The daughter of a witch. But she just walked, quietly, deliberately, like the whole town wasn't against her and took her seat on the far back pew. Sitting there there like she always had a right to.

And while the choir tried to pick up the next verse, she began to knit. Small, neat stitches. Humming the melody under her breath in a voice soft as velvet.

Onyakopon stared too long.

He wasn't the only one.

Service ended with a shaky benediction and more side-eyes than hallelujahs.

Folks filed out quickly, muttering about the heat, about the hymnbook pages sticking together, about anything but the girl and her cat in the back pew. Onyakopon pretended to help fold chairs in the fellowship hall just long enough for everyone to disappear down the gravel road.

He stepped out the side door into the sunlight, breathing like he’d been underwater. But even outside, the church still felt-strange. Like it held its breath after she walked in.

She was still in the last pew. Alone now. Knitting the same deep thread with slow, sure hands. Her cat sat curled beside her like a guardian made of fur shadows. The rest of the sanctuary had emptied out like they feared catching something just by breathing her air.

Onyakopon stood at the door a moment, one boot scuffing the floor.

She didn’t look up. Just said, soft and almost teasing , delicate voice bouncing off the empty decaying walls.

“You feel it too.”

His spine stiffened as he straightens himself up, removing his cap from his head, deep

frown lines growing between his eyebrows.

"Ma'am?"

She tugged the thread once, looped it, pulled it through. Her fingers never paused.

“What don’t belong in the Lord’s house.”

His lips parted, but he said nothing.

Then she looked up. Wide, round, doll-like eyes — so dark they shimmered. She looked at him like a mirror. Like she saw every dream he tried to forget, every shadow that clung to the edges of his soul.

Onyakopon’s stomach twisted. A chill moved up his spine slow as molasses. He hadn’t told nobody about the thing that visited him in sleep or what he'd seen — not his mother, his father or brother. This was something just between him and God. He felt his fists clench, not in threat but in defense. That kind of knowing… it wasn’t natural.

He took a step in, boots creaking on the old wood. “You been watchin’ me?” he asked, voice low and rough like split wet oak.

“No,” she said, still sweet, still calm. “You came lookin’ for me. Even if you ain’t know it yet.

He frowned deeper, throat dry. “You don't know what you're talkin' about ma'am..”

“Mm.” She glanced down. “And yet, here you are, tryin' to defend yourself to a stranger who don't know what she talkin' bout."

The black cat stretched from its place at her feet and wound around his leg, tail brushing his calf like a whisper. Onyakopon looked down, startled, as it rubbed against his dress shoes, purring deep like a hymn. He tensed, stepping forward, and his shadow stretched over her like a giant. Despite their size difference, he felt a sudden weight in the air. Her presence loomed, even sitting, somehow bigger than him. Ony was always the biggest man in any room — 6’7, broad and built like a pillar. But this woman, in a worn rose dress and knitted calm, made him feel small.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He swallowed.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice softer now, but no less honest.

She smiled just slightly. “You already know.”

“I don’t.” She hummed again, “Your dreams are becoming louder brother,” she murmured, threading her yarn again. “Woke the sky last night, Woke the dirt.”

He blinked, unsettled. He didn’t want know how to fight it. Didn’t know how to turn off the uncomfortable truth in her voice. Her fingers moved again. The yarn wound tighter. She added, without looking

It’s this town. Folks plant their evil here, water it, pray over it like it’s corn and wheat. And it grows.”

Ony’s jaw tensed. The cat flicked its tail once like punctuation. She tied off the thread, tucked the yarn into her basket like she was sealing something sacred or dangerous.

“When you start to see the truth,” she said, standing now, her basket in hand, “you’ll know where to find me.”

She lingered in the doorway, eyes on him like she already knew what he’d choose.

“May the Lord keep you, Onyakopon. Even when the ones close to you can’t.”

Then she vanished into the rain.

The church doors creaked as he stepped out, the rain had stopped sunlight dull and sour under a heavy sky. No birds singing. Just the wind dragging itself down the road like a dying hymn.

The woods swallowed her up quick, the church just a shadow behind her. Leaves brushed her shoulders, pine needles crunching beneath her bare feet. She didn’t look back once. Mama trotted at her side, tail high, silent as breath.

“He don’t even know what he is yet,” she whispered, mostly to herself, but also to the cat.

Mama meowed low, like a scoff.

“I know, I know. You don’t like him. Sayin’ I oughta let him stay lost.”

She paused by a fallen log, placing her basket on it carefully. Sat down, drawing her shawl tighter across her shoulders.

“But he’s dreamin’ the way I used to. That means somethin’. Ain’t many left who can see past the veil.”

Mama leapt up beside her, staring off into the trees like she was waiting for somethin, or someone.

The girl smiled faintly. “You always was overprotective.”

Mama blinked slow.

“I ain’t lettin’ him close, not yet. Just watchin’.”

She turned her eyes to the sky, where clouds pressed low and the wind smelled like storm.

“When he’s ready to see the truth,” she murmured, “he’ll know where to find me.”

Mama curled against her side, purring soft and wary.

And the forest, for now, held its breath.

Monday morning came like it always did — quiet, slow, and too bright.

The sky was washed pale like a bedsheet left too long in the sun, and the town lay still beneath it. No rain left, just the memory of it in puddles and soft mud tracks. Ony didn't dream at all last night, just darkness and cold.

Onyakopon stood by the porch steps, box of his mama’s peach pies tucked under one arm, the other gripping a thermos of chicory coffee. Caleb his older brother was already loading up the truck, hands moving fast and efficient, like always.

“Quit draggin’ your feet,” Caleb muttered. “These folks ain’t gonna wait forever.”

Ony grunted, climbing in beside him.

They rode through the back roads in silence for a while, gravel popping under the tires, air sticky with heat. Every house they passed had a porch, and every porch had eyes. Folks rocking slowly in creaking chairs, faces turned their way but not smiling. At the first stop, Miss Irene met them on her porch with a crooked grin and two dollars folded tight in her hand.

“Your mama’s a blessin’, she know that?” she said, voice thin as brittle paper. “Tell her I’m prayin’ for her.”

She didn’t look at Ony when she said it.

By the third house, he noticed it, the way people didn’t laugh the same. Didn’t talk the same. Brother Johnny Al who always joked with him just nodded and shut the screen door with a quick and nasty slam. He saw the elderly man peeking from the blinds as they drove away, he should have worn his glasses today because he swore his eyes flash completely dark.

Another one of their regulars wouldn't meet his eyes during prayer, just muttered “Amen” too fast and wiped sweat off his brow that wasn’t there.

The last stop was by the church, where Sister Myra handed Caleb her tithe and asked them to “keep an extra prayer for the sinful.” She smiled at his brother when she said it, but Ony felt it cut anyway when it dropped as she looked at him duly

By noon, Ony’s chest felt tight. Not like fear like being studied. Like his skin was a page someone was reading line by line. He wondered if this is his Jesus felt when they read his commandments though Caleb didn’t notice, or pretended not to. He was good at that.

Caleb was humming to himself on the drive back, fingers tapping the wheel in rhythm, until Ony finally spoke.

“Something’s off,” Ony said, quiet.

Caleb didn’t look at him when he responded, just snorted dismissively. “It’s Monday. That’s what’s off.”

“I’m serious.” Ony’s voice was low, almost unsure. “Like somethin’ shifted. Like the world ain’t sittin’ right on its bones no more.”

“Somethin’ off,” he said again, quieter now, letting the words hang in the cab.

His long legs stretched out in the passenger seat, feet braced like he was expecting a turn that never came.

Caleb finally glanced at him, just a flick of the eye, jaw tight. Then laughed, short and sharp.

“Boy, you feel off ‘cause you always by yourself, hidin’ in your own head like some daydreamin’ woman. You need to study more. With me and With Pa. Need to find you a wife. Get you right.”

“...A wife?”

The word stuck in Ony’s throat, and just like that she was there. Not in body but in that sudden, dangerous way dreams slide into daylight. She wasn’t doing anything grand just sitting on a porch, elbows on her knees, eyes half-lidded like she knew every secret he ever kept. Humming low. Thread slipping through her fingers like it had a mind of its own. Like he did.

Ony blinked slow, like the words took a second to land again he repeated "A wife.."

Caleb went on, voice firmer now. “You feel off ‘cause you always stuck in your damn head, day dreamin’. Walkin’ around like you waitin’ on signs and visions instead of doin’ what men do.”

Ony turned to him, slow. “And what’s that?”

“Work. Worship. Wife. Provide. That’s the order. That’s how Pa did it. That’s how I do it. You think I didn’t feel strange too before I married Leah? Thought the whole world was wrong. Now look, she carryin’ my child, and I sleep just fine.”

Ony shook his head, jaw tightening. “So you think I’m crazy ‘cause I ain’t found nobody to lay up under yet?”

“I think you lonely,” Caleb snapped. “And lonely men start believin’ in all kinds of foolishness.”

They pulled into the driveway and sat in silence, the weight of everything pressing down like the summer heat.

Caleb finally broke it, voice low and hard. “I think somethin’ needs to fix you. You been strange for weeks. Folks see it. You don’t even try no more—don’t talk, don’t help with the sermons, barely speak to Ma. And now you sittin’ here talkin’ like the sky’s fallin’.”

Ony turned his head to the window, jaw tight. “You don’t see what I see.”

“No, I don’t. And that’s the damn problem. You always talkin’ in riddles. Bein’ quiet ain’t the same as bein’ deep.” Caleb’s voice was sharp. “You need to come back to earth, Ony. You ain’t no damn prophet. You just lost.”

Ony’s voice was cold, clipped. “Maybe you’re the lost one if you think a woman and a baby in this rotting town gonna fix anything.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “So you disrespectin’ the Bible teachings, boy?”

Ony didn’t look at him. Just said quietly,

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return.”

Caleb turned to face him, brow furrowed. Ony finally met his brother’s eyes. “That don’t sound like disrespect,” Ony said, voice flat. “That sound like a man knows this world don’t owe him nothin’. Not comfort. Not clarity. Not no wife or baby to fix what’s broke inside.”

Ony opened the door and stepped out, boots hitting the dirt like punctuation. The screen door creaked faintly in the distance, wind brushing against the trees. Caleb stayed in the truck for a second longer, jaw flexing, breath shallow. Then he shoved the door open.

“You always pullin’ them verses like a blade,” Caleb snapped, rounding the truck

“Think that makes you more holy? Makes you a better God-fearing man than me?”

Ony didn’t answer, just walked slow toward the porch, hands in his pockets like nothing touched him. Caleb caught up fast, grabbing his arm. " I’m talkin’ to you.”

Ony yanked back. “And I heard you. You mad ‘cause I know what I’m talkin’ about, and it don’t line up with your little box of how a man supposed to be.”

Caleb shoved him then, not hard, but hard enough.

“You think knowin’ scripture make you better than me? You think starin’ off into space and spittin’ riddles make you more of a man?”

Ony pushed him back, this time with force.

“I think pretendin’ like a wife and a baby make the rot go away is a lie. I think that makes you the fool.”

They were close now, breath hot, shoulders squared. From the porch came a soft creak the screen door opening slow.

Their mother stepped down from the porch, robe tied tight at the waist, her expression unreadable — but her eyes sharp as ever. Leah hovered behind her, one hand on her stomach, eyes wide.

“That’s enough out here,” she said again, sterner now. “I don’t care who’s feelin’ what you don’t raise your voices like that on this land.”

Caleb’s chest was still heaving, fists balled at his sides, but he dropped his eyes. Ony, jaw locked, He looked at her, really looked at her and something in him softened.

“I’ll be back ‘fore supper,” he said quietly.

Then he leaned in, pressed a quick, reverent kiss to her forehead.

“Love you, Mama.”

She nodded, the way only a mother could like she saw through him but loved him anyway.

As Ony stepped off the porch, he brushed past Caleb, shoulder knocking into his brother’s like punctuation. Deliberate. Firm.

Caleb turned after him, lips parted like he had more to say, but whatever it was, he swallowed it.

Leah reached for his hand from the porch.

“Let him go,” she said gently.

“He don’t need to wander,” Caleb muttered. Their mother didn’t look at him when she answered.

“Maybe he do.”

Onyakopon walked with no aim, boots kicking up dust as the cicadas screamed louder than the thoughts in his head. The town stretched out around him, crooked and quiet all heatwaves and peeling paint and eyes he couldn’t see but felt. His hands were in his pockets, his jaw still clenched.

He didn’t know where he was going, Nowhere, really but it felt like somewhere

Like something was pulling.

The sun hung thick and low, dripping gold between the trees, and for a second everything felt too still like the world had paused to hear his steps. Then he saw it.

A black cat, perched on a crumbling stone fence just ahead. Its fur looked wet, almost shining. It didn’t move when he approached.

Just stared, eyes like glass marbles catching the light. He slowed and the cat didn’t blink, didn't flinch. Just waited.

Ony felt a chill crawl up his neck despite the heat.

“You lost?” he murmured, barely louder than the wind. The cat tilted its head, eyes squinting like his question offended it, then turned. Leaping down, slipping into the brush like it had somewhere to be and maybe, just maybe, he was supposed to follow. So, he'd stand there for a while listening, waiting - for what exactly? He wasn't so sure himself.

Staring at the place where the cat had vanished. His breath slowed, the tension in his shoulders settling into something heavier. He didn’t move, just listened to the buzz of the heat, the rustle of leaves.

Thinking about turning around. About going home. Sitting down with his family at dinner telling them he was ready to look for a wife, asking his father to mentor him. Mold him to be just like him and Caleb. About pretending he hadn’t felt something shift deep in his gut the second he saw that cat.

Maybe Caleb was right.

Maybe he was strange.

Maybe he was just lonely.

A sharp, irritated meow snapped him from the thought. There it was again — the black cat, now sitting neatly a few paces behind him, tail curled tight, ears pointing upward, eyes narrowed like it was waiting on a child dragging their feet. It meowed again, louder this time, then stood and turned. Walked ahead slowly, stopping every few feet like it was checking to see if he’d catch on. Ony swallowed. Then, without a word, he followed.

The cat cut through a thicket like it had somewhere to be, glancing back only once before Ony followed. Trees arched above him like ribs, the woods swallowing sound until all he heard was his breath and the soft thud of his boots on earth. It didn’t feel like he was walking anymore. More like being led. They came to a clearing a patch of light cracked open like an eye between the trees, and there she was. She sat on an old quilt, colors faded like memory, her back to him. Her clothes clung loose and thin in the heat nothing like what women wore outside the house. Nothing a preacher’s son had any business looking at. But he did.

She was knitting again. Hands moving fast, like she was trying to exorcise something with every twist of thread. Her dark coils slipped loose, brushing her cheeks as she muttered to herself, angry and fast. The cat trotted over to her and curled up like it had been expected.

Without looking up, she said, “Thought you didn’t like him, Mama.”

Ony took a careful step forward, brow furrowed. “Your mutt don’t like me?”

The girl turned sharp, like she’d been waiting on that line. Her hands froze mid-stitch, and her head snapped over one shoulder. That chubby, soft face from church? It scrunched up like a storm cloud now, eyes suddenly sharp cutting.

“Only mutt here is you.”

Even the cat hissed, low and warning, tail flicking once like a whip before settling back down beside her with a satisfied grunt.

Ony stiffened.

She wasn’t sweet like she was in the Lord’s house. Not quiet and warm like the girl humming behind the pews. Her energy was strange now. Bristled. Her lips were dry, chapped pink from too much sun, and her voice carried something jagged underneath it.

“You always follow stray things?” she asked, threading again quick and harsh like the yarn had done her wrong.

He didn’t answer at first.

Didn’t know how.

Didn’t know why his feet brought him here at all. “You was knittin’ in church,” he said finally, more to himself than her.

“I was.”

“You knittin’ now.”

“Got hands, don’t I?”

He squinted at her, frustrated and fascinated all at once. “You always talk like this?” She shrugged, didn’t look up. “Only when men ask me stupid things.”

Ony winced, rubbing the back of his neck. His boot scuffed at the dirt, slow and awkward. He didn’t have much practice with women, his world was made up of his mother, elder ladies at church, and Leah when she needed something fetched from the pantry.

“Apologies, ma’am,” he mumbled, voice low and careful.

The girl paused. Her fingers stilled against the needles, eyes flicking up to study him for the first time without all that steel in them.

“No need to apologize,” she said, gentler now. “The day hasn’t been the kindest to me.”

She yanked at her project something half-made and angry with color, thread coiled tight like it was holding its breath. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. If anything, I should be used to it by now.” She huffed, more to the yarn than to him, jaw clenching like there was more she wanted to say but didn’t trust the space between them enough yet.

Ony shifted his weight, thumb hooking in his belt loop. His voice came quiet, almost a whisper. “Day ain’t been kind to me neither.”

That made her pause again. Just long enough for the cat to flick its tail against her hip, like it was waiting too.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next, just patted the empty space beside her blanket, fingers brushing away twigs and grass. “Well… you can sit if you want. You look like you been walking without knowin’ where to land.”

Ony hesitated. His eyes flicked down, he hadn’t really looked before, not properly. But now the way the fabric clung to her arms, the soft rise of her chest as she breathed, the bare skin of her calves peeking beneath the hem, it struck him all at once.

It wasn’t scandalous in the way church folks used the word. But it was… intimate. Delicate. Dressed like that, back home, she’d be in her own bedroom or padding barefoot through the kitchen fetching tea for her mother. Not out here in the woods with a stranger.

His throat worked as he swallowed. “You sure?”

She gave a half-smile without looking at him. “I wouldn’t’ve asked if I wasn’t.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again, cheeks burning as he eased himself down beside her careful to leave a respectful distance, hands resting flat against his thighs like he was trying not to touch anything at all. The cat stretched between them like it was measuring the space.

They sat in silence.

Not the kind that crawled under your skin like Sunday tension or lingered like unsaid prayers, but something softer. Still. Ony sat with his hands folded, shoulders loose for once. The weight he always carried in his spine, the pressure to square his chest, to be something righteous and loud — eased without permission.

The girl kept knitting. Her fingers moved fast, urgent almost, like she was working through a thought with each loop and pull. The cat yawned, curling into a perfect comma between them.

Then, without looking at him, she said it low:

“Your head’s loud again. Makin’ the wind brush by a lil too fast. Gettin chilly. ”

Ony blinked, brows pulling together.

“Just breathe,” she added.

He did. And it wasn’t a deep breath or a proud one, but something real. It slid out of him slow, quiet. A breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

The wind slowed. The trees settled.

So did he.

The silence between them didn’t ache like it did at home. It stretched warm, quiet—not something to fix, just something to feel. Ony let his eyes drift to her hands, how fast they moved, like they had somewhere to be.

“You always knit this fast?” he asked, voice low.

She gave a soft shrug, not looking up. “Only when I’m tryin’ not to cuss or cry. It helps. Pullin’ somethin’ ugly outta me and making it useful.”

Ony nodded slowly, watching the rhythm of her fingers. The thread danced between her knuckles like it knew a secret language.

“You… think you could show me how?”

That made her pause. She looked at him for a beat, then down at her lap, like she was weighing it. Finally, she held up a half-finished square of fabric — dark, tight with frustration.

“You sure?” she asked. “Most men too proud to sit still with something this soft.”

“I’m not most men,” Ony murmured, not meeting her eyes.

She smiled, not wide but real, and shifted a little to the side. " I’ll show you.”

He shifted closer, slow like the earth might split if he moved too fast. She handed him the needles, warm from her fingers, and the yarn, coarse but strangely comforting.

“Keep your hands steady,” she said, voice softer now. “Let it pass through like water. Don’t grab it so tight.”

Ony tried, fumbling at first. She reached over, guiding his fingers without making a big deal out of it. Her hands were smaller than his, but surer—she shaped him like she did the thread, gentle but firm. “You’re teachin’ me to do women’s work,” he muttered, half teasing.

She snorted. “I’m teachin’ you to keep your mind from rot. Don’t matter what shape the work come in.”

That made him smile without thinking.

“You always talk like that?” he asked. he asked, glancing at her from beneath his lashes. “Like you halfway know what God whisperin’ before He even say it?” She didn’t answer right away. Just tilted her head, lips twitching like she was deciding how much to give away.

“You asked me that before,” she said finally.

He blinked. “Did I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Well…” He scratched the back of his neck. “You talk like my granny, but you don’t look eighty-six.”

That made her laugh—real and full, spilling out of her like light. She leaned back a little, grinning at him. “Your granny must’ve been sharp.”

“She was,” Ony said, quiet now, surprised at the warmth threading through his chest. He let the silence sit between them again, but it didn’t feel empty — it felt close. And when their eyes met for just a second too long, something shifted.

Not loud. Not sudden. Just… true.

Then nip.

“Agh—damn!” Ony yelped, jerking slightly as Mama, the cat, sunk her teeth gently into his thigh like she’d had enough of the moment.

The girl rolled her eyes. “Mama don’t like when people get too comfortable.”

“She got good timing,” Ony muttered, rubbing his leg and glaring at the cat, who looked smug and settled right back down beside her. “Guess she figured you needed some grounding.”

They both laughed, the weightlifting again, but not gone. Just resting for now. Ony glanced down at the cat, still lounging like she owned the blanket and the girl both. He reached out a slow hand—Mama narrowed her eyes but didn’t move.

“How long you had her?” he asked, voice lower now, thoughtful.

The girl’s fingers slowed around the yarn. “Seven years,” she said, quiet.

He looked up. “That long?”

“She showed up a few hours after my mama passed.” Her voice was steady, but there was something buried in it—like a scar covered by a silk scarf. “Just… appeared on the porch. Sat right at the door like she was waitin’. Like she knew.”

Ony said nothing, only watched her face.

“I like to think she is my mama. In some way,” she went on, threading the needle through the yarn faster now. “Mama always said she’d come back as a black cat. Said it’d suit her. Misunderstood. Proud. Particular. Protective.”

Her lips curved faintly. “And she was all three.” Mama let out a slow purr, as if in agreement.

“I believe that,” Ony murmured.

She looked over at him, brows lifted slightly.

“Why?”

He shrugged, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Just feels true. Like the way certain songs make you cry even if you don’t understand the words.”

She smiled at that, soft, almost grateful.

“You always talk like that?” she teased.

He grinned. “Guess we even now.”

Their laughter faded into the breeze, the knitting needles tapping steady again. Somewhere in all of it, Ony realized — he hadn’t thought about the tightness in his chest for minutes now. Minutes that felt like something more than time.

The wind shifted, sharp and sudden, cutting through the thick afternoon air like a knife dipped in river water. It brushed against Ony’s arms and made the fine hairs on his skin rise. But it wasn’t the cold that made him stiffen.

It was the girl.

She froze. Fingers gone still, the thread limp in her lap. Her body locked up like a porch swing caught mid-sway. Even Mama, curled smug and sleepy just moments ago, lifted her head, ears flicking forward, eyes narrowed at something just beyond the trees.

“You alright?” Ony asked, leaning a little closer, voice hushed like he didn’t want to disturb whatever had just walked through them. She didn’t answer right away. Just blinked like she was trying to remember how. Then nodded slowly, though it didn’t quite reach her shoulders.

“Sometimes the wind don’t come to cool,” she murmured, barely audible. “Sometimes it’s just passin’ through, carryin’ somethin’ behind it.” Ony glanced around, suddenly more aware of how quiet it had gotten. No birds. No rustle of leaves. Just wind and the low hum of something beneath it.

“What’s it carryin’?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know yet. But Mama felt it too.”

The cat was on her feet now, tail low, pressed against the girl's side like she might need to bolt — or block. “You should get home soon,” the girl said gently, but her eyes didn’t meet his. They were somewhere else. “Sun’s not as strong as it looks.”

Ony didn’t move.

“I’ll walk you,” he offered, his voice surer than he felt.

But she just gave a tiny smile, one that didn’t match the new edge in the air. “I’ve walked through worse.”

They stood at the edge of the clearing now, where the trees swallowed the sun in long shadows. Ony hadn’t realized how far they’d wandered — or maybe how far she’d led him. The cat weaved between their ankles, brushing its side against Ony’s boot one last time before settling back by her feet.

He took a step back, not wanting to go, but knowing the air had changed again. “You gon’ tell me your name?”

She paused, gathering up her needles and thread. The question hung in the air like smoke before she finally spoke, voice light but low, like a secret.

“You already know it.”

“I don’t.”

She looked up, lips curving into something half-playful, half-knowing. “Well, that’s what makes it fun.”

He gave her a look, amused and a little flustered. “Alright then… I’m Onyakopon.”

“I know,” she said softly, the smile not leaving her face. He blinked, surprised, then chuckled. “’Course you do.”

Their hands met then — a shake at first, but it lingered. Her hand was soft but firm, warmer than the wind that had just passed.

They didn’t speak as they held it. Just let it stretch, like maybe neither of them was quite ready to leave. Then her fingers curled, just slightly. “Be mindful,” she said, voice almost too quiet for the air. “Of what you carry. Of whom you follow. Everything that feels wrong right now. It's not all in your head.”

Ony’s brows drew together. He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but she was already turning away, Mama trotting ahead like she knew the way. He stood there watching, rooted in place, as the girl moved between the trees, slipping into them like smoke. Her nightgown caught the last bit of light, white and fluttering like wings.

Then she was gone.

Like something holy. Or something beautifully haunting.

By the time Ony reached the porch, the sun was kissing the edge of the horizon, everything soaked in that strange amber glow that made shadows long and soft. His boots thudded against the wooden steps, and the familiar creak under the third board welcomed him home like it always did. Inside, the house was warm and humming with domestic rhythm. Dishes clinked softly, the smell of stewed okra and baked bread thick in the air. His mother stood at the head of the table, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, humming a hymn under her breath as she laid out silverware. Leah was beside her, placing the cornbread down with careful hands over a dishcloth.

They both looked up when he stepped in.

His mother’s eyes lingered. “Told you I’d be back before supper,” Ony said, brushing a hand over his neck, suddenly conscious of how the wind still clung to his shirt, like he’d brought the outside in with him.

"Mm make sure you wash them hands before sittin' at my table." She didn’t say more and went back to setting forks.

Leah’s eyes flickered between the two brothers as Caleb appeared from the back hall, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Ony tensed instinctively, but Caleb didn’t say anything just stared at him for a second too long. The air in the room wasn’t hostile. But it wasn’t settled either. Ony felt it swirl around him, curious and careful, like everyone was waiting for something to crack.

He moved toward the sink to wash his hands, nodding toward his mother as he passed. “Smells good in here, Ma.”

She nodded again, this time more gently, then glanced toward Caleb like she was measuring something unsaid between them.

No one asked where he’d gone.

And he didn’t offer it.

But as he dried his hands and found his usual seat, he thought of her—bare feet in the grass, humming low, thread dancing between her fingers like it had a mind of its own.

The clink of forks against ceramic was the loudest sound at the table. Ma had made stew, rich and spiced, but it tasted like sawdust in Onyakopon’s mouth.

“Had a little heat between you two earlier,” Pa said without looking up, spoon cutting through his bowl. “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.”

Ony didn’t look at Caleb, though he felt the verse land like a stone between them. Psalm 1:33, yeah — but it had the weight of Cain and Abel behind it, and they all knew it.

Caleb just scoffed under his breath.

“Yesterday’s service ended early,” Caleb said casually, like a man mentioning the weather. “Soon as that girl came 'long Whole congregation cleared out like they caught the plague.

Ma sneered without missing a beat. “Never met such an unlady-like woman. Wandering about with a devil’s pet, whisperin’ to trees like they whisper back. But Lord knows she can stitch. Shame every thread feel like a curse.”

Ony’s grip tightened around his spoon. He stared down into his stew, letting the broth steam up his face like fog. He didn’t say anything — not about her hands, not about her voice, not about the way she said his name like she’d always known it.

Ony felt a strange ache twist inside him at her words, a pull toward the woman Ma so openly despised. He kept his jaw tight, the silence settling even heavier around the table.

Leah shifted uneasily, but no one else spoke. The candle flickered low, and the weight of unspoken things hung thick between them.

“Boy,” Pa said suddenly, voice firm. “You best get out your head. A man’s got no business sittin’ at his father’s table starin’ off into the dark.”

Ony blinked slowly, but didn’t answer.

“You think you grown? Then act like it. Ain’t no room in this house for cloudy minds and foolish obsessions. You wanna be a man, be one. Handle your kin. Get your head on straight. Get your spirit right.”

Still, Ony didn’t speak — not to him. His eyes stayed low, locked on the chipped edge of his plate. Then, like something creeping up from his chest without permission, his voice slid out low, almost like it didn’t belong to him

“What makes her a bad person for lovin’ trees a lil bit?”

The room froze.

Ma’s hand stilled halfway to her cup. Leah’s fork clinked quietly against her plate. Caleb leaned back slow in his chair, face unreadable. Pa narrowed his eyes. “What you just say?”

“I just mean…” Ony muttered, spearing a piece of fried okra with his fork, “she’s a woman with a pet cat? That knits.” He shrugged like it was nothing, then stuffed the food in his mouth, chewing slow, like he hadn’t just cracked the air in two.

Ma’s eyes narrowed. “That thing ain’t no pet. Strays like that don’t belong in the house of the Lord — or round decent folk like the ones in our community.”

Caleb scoffed under his breath, reaching for his cup. “Ain’t about the cat. It’s the way she carries herself. Like she knowin’ things she ain’t supposed to.”

“That woman ain’t right, Ony,” Pa said, voice low and warning. “Mark my words. Ain’t no good ever come from women who walk like they float and talk like they pray to the moon.”

Ony didn’t respond. Just kept chewing, like maybe the weight of the room couldn’t touch him if he didn’t let it. But his ears were hot, and his throat ached in a way that food couldn’t soothe.

Leah, quiet all this time, finally spoke, voice soft as usual. “She knitted my apron. The one with the sunflowers. It’s… pretty.”

Ma turned sharply. “And you best not wear it again. We don’t know what spirits she stitched into that thread.”

Ony’s silverware scraped the plate a little too loud when he's told up.

“I’ll go wash up,” he mumbled, though his plate wasn’t empty. “Y’all keep on eatin’. Thank you for the dinner mama"

He didn’t wait for permission. Just turned and walked toward the back, the screen door creaking open as he stepped onto the porch, letting the night air slap him clean.

Behind him, the candle flickered.

The back porch creaked under his weight, old wood sighing like it remembered too much. No one came out here anymore — not since Granny passed. Her wicker chair still sat in the corner, covered in a thin film of dust and memories. Ony didn’t sit there. He chose the steps instead, letting the night press in close, heavy and still.

Crickets sang. The wind tugged gently at the trees, and for the first time all day, nobody asked him to be anything. He let his shoulders drop. Let his jaw unclench.

Then came the sound — soft, slow, deliberate.

The screen door moaned open behind him.

He didn’t turn, not at first, until he heard the light step on the porch — and then a bottle clink. He glanced over his shoulder.

Leah stood there, caught like a deer in her round belly stretching the front of her dress. In one hand, a dusty wine bottle; in the other, just shame.

“It won’t hurt the baby,” she said quickly, blinking like she might cry or laugh or both.

Ony raised his eyebrows and looked back out at the dark yard. “I get why you need it,” he said flatly. “Dealin’ with this family’ll make you wanna drink holy water straight from the font.”

That earned him a quiet laugh — small and bitter.

Leah walked over and sat beside him with a sigh, the bottle tucked between her knees. “I ain’t drinkin’ for real. Just wanted to hold it. Make it feel like I had a choice, even if I don’t.”

Ony hummed, a low sound in his throat.

“You and me both.”

They sat in silence for a beat, the air between them not tense, just… lived in.

“You ever think ‘bout just leavin’?” she asked, voice soft, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of trees.

“All the time.”

She nodded like she expected that. “Caleb says I should be grateful. That I’m safe here. That the Lord provided. But safe don’t feel like freedom, does it?”

Ony didn’t answer.

Not out loud and the silence stretched on the kind that didn’t beg to be filled. Just two people watching the dark, pretending the quiet didn’t know all their secrets.

Leah leaned back on her hands, her fingers curling around the edge of the step. “That girl from service yesterday…” she started, voice light but lined with something sharper, “she the reason you were gone all afternoon?”

Ony didn’t look at her. Just let the question hang there in the air between them, weightless and heavy all at once.

Leah smiled to herself, not unkind. “She’s... different. Not like folks around here.”

“She’s just a girl,” Ony said finally, though it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to him.

“A girl with a black cat and a stare like she’s already seen how the world ends,” Leah murmured, like she was thinking more than speaking. “She got the whole town feelin’ itchy and lookin’ for salt.”

Ony gave a faint snort. “You 'fraid of her too?”

“No,” Leah said simply. “But I think you are.”

That made him look at her. Really look.

She met his eyes, steady, too old for her years. “Not ‘cause she’s strange. But ‘cause she see somethin’ in you been tryin’ to bury.”

Ony didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. His throat felt tight.

“She’s not evil. You’re right bout that part. Just a girl with a heavy hurt, a cat, and a different sense of faith. This town… it’s so close-minded, full of fear. The moment someone different comes along, folks scream ‘Satan’ or worse.”

“We used to be friends,” she said after a pause, like weighing whether to share too much. “Before her pa got caught up in some things. Before he disappeared. She was always so strange. Picking up bugs, talking to the ground, like she’d been here a thousand years instead of thirteen.”

She laughed, a soft, distant sound. “I used to joke she was a grandma reincarnated.”

Ony huffed out a soft laugh but then her smile faded, shadowed by memories. “When her daddy vanished, she was… calm. Like the universe does things for a reason. Said everything done in the dark will come to light.”

Her eyes darkened further. “Her mother got real sick after that. Took her own life.” She flicked squeeze the dusty wine bottle, then leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Your daddy… I think he’s got

something to do with it all.”

Ony’s heart tightened. "How so?"

“She told me once, before her dad disappeared, he was there. And minutes after he left, her mother… she was found splattered all over her bed.” She made a finger-gun motion, sharp and cutting through the heavy air.

Silence fell again, heavy and still.

Then Leah sniffled — barely — and blinked fast. Her voice wavered, thinner now. “You know… she’s the one who told me I was pregnant before I even knew? I really hope this conversation stays between us.”

She paused, swallowing thickly. “Couple months back, when I was real sick and you and Caleb were out runnin’ errands… she came by. Her and that damn cat. I hadn’t seen her since we were fifteen. Daddy forbid me from ever seein’ her again. Said she was a witch. Imagine my shock when she showed up at my doorstep eleven years later — all grown, and God help me, even more beautiful than when we were kids.”

She let out a shaky breath and laughed weakly, rubbing her stomach.

“She put her hands on my belly like she already knew me. Told me I’d be the most wonderful mother. Like she saw it, clear as day.” Her voice cracked. “Knitted me a little hat… and an apron to fit my belly. Softest thing I ever touched. But then she said somethin’ strange. Told me this wasn’t the place to raise a child. Said I should leave.”

Leah’s eyes lifted to his, wet but steady now.

Leah stayed quiet for a moment, her shoulders hunched and small despite the swell of her belly. The bottle hung loosely in her grip, the wine sloshing quietly like it too was listening.

Then, almost like an afterthought—but heavier than anything she’d said before—she murmured, “Something’s eatin’ your Ma, your Pa… even Caleb. They ain’t the same no more, Ony. I can feel it in my bones.”

She stood carefully, steadying herself with the porch railing. Her eyes met his one last time.

“You take care of yourself, Onyakopon. Don’t let ‘em make you blind to what’s right in front of you.”

She handed him the wine bottle, fingers lingering for a moment on his, then let go. Her silhouette disappeared into the dark hallway behind her, door creaking shut behind her like a breath held too long.

The next morning, Ony woke to a scream that didn’t belong to him for once.

It came from the guest room.

Leah had miscarried.

The house felt like it was holding its breath, heavy and suffocating. Caleb paced the worn floorboards, muttering under his breath, his footsteps sharp and uneven. Leah sat still in the corner, her eyes hollow, the light that had shone there just the night before completely gone.

Onyakopon watched them both, the weight of silence pressing down on him. His Ma and Pa were nowhere to be found — the house was emptier than usual, shadows gathering in every corner like unwelcome guests.

Caleb’s voice cracked as he whispered to no one in particular, “This ain’t right… none of it.”

Leah’s fingers trembled in her lap, her breath shallow, as if the air itself had turned to stone.

Onyakopon stepped closer to Leah, voice low but steady.

“I’m sorry, Leah. For everything.”

She gave a weak nod, eyes shimmering with tears but empty of hope. "You got time Ony. Leave before it touches you too"

Caleb’s pacing stopped abruptly, his shoulders stiffening like a coil about to snap. He glared at Ony, voice rough and sudden.

The house felt like it was holding its breath, thick with tension that clung to the walls like humidity before a storm. Caleb paced the floor in crooked lines, muttering beneath his breath, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Leah sat on the edge of the couch like her soul had drained out in her sleep, her eyes puffy and distant. She hadn’t spoken more than a whisper since the scream.

Onyakopon stood in the doorway, watching. His parents were nowhere in sight. The house was too still. Wrong.

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to start a fire,” Ony said gently, “but you need to sit, Caleb. You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor.”

Caleb’s steps stopped abruptly. He turned slow, like a puppet pulled too tight on its strings.

“Oh, now you care?” he said, voice dry and full of heat. “Now you got concern?”

Ony blinked. “I’ve always cared.”

“No, you don’t. You stand around lookin’ like you see through everybody, like none of this is real to you. Like we’re fools for tryin’ to build a damn life here.”

Ony’s jaw tightened. “That ain’t fair.”

“Oh, but it’s true,” Caleb spat. “You think I forgot what you said a while back? ‘A wife and baby won’t fix nothin’? You said that. You looked me dead in the eye and said that. Like all this… like Leah—”

His voice cracked. “—like the baby didn’t matter.”

Ony’s voice was low. “I never said they didn’t matter. I said it won’t fix what’s wrong with this place. This town. You know that better than anyone, Caleb.”

“No. What I know is, you mocked me. You sat at that table with your silence and your damn half-smiles and judged me. You think you’re better than me.”

“I don’t—”

Caleb stepped forward, eyes wide, glassy, something off inside them now. “You don’t? Say it with your tongue then. Look me in the face and tell me I’m not a fool for wantin’ more.”

Leah stirred, voice soft. “Caleb—”

“Don’t,” Caleb snapped without looking at her.

Ony held his ground. “You ain’t a fool, Caleb. But you’re acting like one now. You’re hurt, and I get it. But don’t come at me like I put that pain in you.”

“You put the doubt in me!” Caleb roared.

“You were the voice in the back of my head every damn day since she told me she was pregnant. And now look! Gone. Just like everything else in this cursed house.”

There was a beat — the kind of silence that comes before something breaks.

Then Caleb lunged.

The scuffle was quick but violent — desperation making up for lack of form. Ony tried to hold him off, but Caleb fought like he wanted to draw blood, like if he hurt someone else maybe the ache inside him would let up.

Leah shouted, trying to reach them, tears running down her face. “Stop it! Stop!”

Ony finally shoved Caleb back, hard enough to knock him into the wall. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Caleb’s chest heaved. His eyes were wrong not just angry, but dark, as if something else had stepped into him. Something watching through his face.

“You mocked me,” he said again, quieter now. “You cursed me with your mouth. You always did.”

Ony stepped back, heart pounding. “I ain’t cursed you. This place did.”

Leah stood between them, shaking, one hand stretched out like she was trying to keep them both from falling off a cliff.

“Please, Ony,” she whispered. “Just go."

He didn’t want to. He wanted to fix it — to fix him. But he saw the look in her eyes. That pleading. That fear.

So he turned and walked out the front door.

And behind him, the house groaned.

The air outside slapped his skin like cold judgment. Onyakopon didn’t know when his feet hit the porch or when the front gate swung open — he only remembered the crunch of gravel under his boots and the warm sting of blood trailing down from his eyebrow. His lip was split, throbbing with each breath. The fight with Caleb replayed in flashes behind his eyes, quick and jagged like broken glass.

He kept running.

Not because he was afraid of Caleb, but because he was afraid of what he saw in Caleb.

The sky above had gone dull and gray, not quite evening but no longer day. Birds had gone quiet. The cicadas, too. All that remained was the pounding in his ears and the sharp inhale-exhale of lungs trying to keep up.

He didn’t even realize where he was until his knees buckled beneath him, and he hit the soft grass with a grunt. Hands splayed wide, he pressed his back to the earth, letting the air wrap around him. He was in the clearing.

The tall reeds swayed around him like ghosts with no mouths, whispering only through movement. And the sky above looked... too wide. Too still.

He lay there, panting. Sweat mixed with blood. His chest rose and fell like he’d outrun death itself.

And maybe he had.

Or maybe he’d run straight into it.

His chest rose and fell like a storm settling into silence. The sky above blurred, hazy from tears he didn’t know he’d let fall. Grass pressed cool and damp against the back of his neck. His lip stung, and his brow pulsed where Caleb’s fist had landed. Blood still crusted warm at the corner of his mouth.

He closed his eyes. Just for a second.

When he opened them—

She was there.

Standing over him like a painting left out in the rain. Skirt brushing the wild grass, curls coiled like shadows catching sunlight, eyes so ancient and wide they swallowed the sky behind her. Her face was soft, full of moonlight and mourning. The kind of beautiful that didn’t beg to be noticed — it just was, like wind or thunder. There was dirt on her hem, leaves tangled in her sleeves like she’d risen straight from the woods, or maybe the earth itself. Her cat, that little ghost pressed against her ankles, then padded forward, tail flicking, and nipped at Ony’s fingers with a quiet warning.

He flinched and blinked like he might still be dreaming.

“You,” he whispered.

“I always come when the house sends you away,” she said simply.

She knelt beside him, hand grazing the grass just beside his temple, never touching just near enough to feel the air between them hum.

“You’re hurt again, physically this time”

“Didn’t come here on purpose.”

“I know,” she said. “But your blood always finds its way back to me.”

The cat settled between them, purring low, eyes unblinking like it knew all the secrets neither of them could say. Onyakopon studied her — the way her presence dulled the pain just by existing, the way her eyes never flickered with fear. He wanted to say something. Apologize for the world. Ask how she knew so much. Ask how she still smiled like hope hadn’t died with the rest of this town’s soul.

Instead, he asked, “You always show up like this?”

She shrugged, curls bouncing lightly.

“Maybe I’m your guardian angel,” she said, and for a second, he thought she might mean it.

Then, her voice dropped to something softer, sadder.

“Or maybe I just know what it’s like to get pushed out by people who pretend they love you.”

She stood again without a word, brushing dirt from her skirt like it was nothing new, like she’d done this a hundred times before. The cat circled his shoulder once, then darted ahead into the trees.

“You comin’?” she asked over her shoulder, already turning.

Onyakopon hesitated. He should’ve gone back home. Should’ve checked on Leah. Should’ve tried, one more time, to reach the brother that looked at him like a stranger now.

But instead, he pushed himself off the ground, every bruise and scrape a sharp reminder of what waiting there would cost.

He followed her.

They moved through the woods like ghosts her steps barely stirring the leaves, him limping just behind. The path wasn’t marked, but she never second-guessed her turns. Like the forest knew her. Or she knew it.

A weather-worn cottage appeared just beyond a thick grove of oaks, roof sagging under moss and time. Wind chimes made of bones and rusted spoons tinkled faintly from the porch. A line of herbs dried beneath the windows, and a narrow chimney puffed with gentle smoke.

“Don’t mind the mess,” she murmured, holding the door open.

Inside, it smelled of lavender, ash, and something green not rot, not decay, but age. Lived-in. Safe.

He stepped in, and the warmth hit him like a balm. The fire crackled. The cat disappeared somewhere deeper in the house. She gestured toward an old kitchen chair.

“Sit.”

He obeyed.

She moved through the space like she belonged in every shadow of it. Wet a cloth, brought over an old metal tin, crouched before him like he was something precious.

She wiped his lip first, gentle, patient. Then his brow.

“You bruise easy,” she said, voice nearly teasing.

“You always nurse people back to life in the woods?”

“Just you.”

He didn’t ask why. He just watched her, close now the fine lines in her expression, the way she focused like this mattered, like he mattered. Her touch was warm, but her eyes. . . her eyes were still carrying something ancient.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

She didn’t respond right away. Just dabbed at the last of the blood, then looked up at him, expression unreadable.

“Next time,” she said softly, “don’t wait ‘til the world breaks your face to come find me again. Too handsome for all these and bruises."

Her fingers lingered on his chin, gentle, almost tender. He caught the faint scent of lavender and honey on her skin and felt heat rise in his cheeks. His eyes flickered down to his lap, suddenly shy under her steady gaze.

For a long moment, they just stayed like that close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s breath, the unspoken words hanging in the air. The cat nipped playfully at his fingers, breaking the spell, but even then, her smile held a softness that made his heart tighten.

"You hungry?"

He smiled softly meeting her eyes again, " I could eat."

She chuckled, the sound light and unexpected in the heavy silence. “Good. I don’t do fancy, but I can fix you something real.”

She stood and moved toward the small kitchen, the cat padding behind her like a loyal shadow. Ony followed slowly, still feeling the strange comfort of her presence like the world had shifted just enough to let a little light in.

The morning started off well. You ran your face beneath the warm water of the shower, grinning the moment you felt his broad body step in with you, his low grunt suffocating the flush of your throat as he sucked at it.

Your affection for each other might’ve…distracted from his work on the farm. It was four acres far out from the city—cows, pigs, horses, chickens— a domesticated life that you enjoyed as a wife, coming to live within the countryside of Mississippi the moment you eloped.

Back to the point of how Onyankopon’s attitude came to fruition—it was still the day before, your French tips pouring soybeans into the bucket of your piglets Love and Bug’s tin for their lunch. The deep ginger of your curls drape along your shoulder as you bend forward, your hand raising over your freckled face to block the sun as you look across the field. Horse shoes gallop from across the field as he tugs at its reins—you were always watching him.

Riding bareback, the horse beneath him continued to gallop—the cowboy hat atop of his head blocked him from the sun, cornrows tight along his scalp, white tee he wore clinging to his tatted figure. The sun beamed against his shown skin, and you can nearly hear the whistles he makes as he guides the cows back into their barn.

The halter romper you wear compliments your caramel complexion, the picnic plaid of it hugging your body in ways it shouldn’t have—the mound of your hips, the fat of your ass—you dig your boots into the sediments of the ground, giving him a soft wave. 

“Mornin’, baby.”

His voice is deep, full of grit. It makes your body warm.

His boots fall onto the ground the moment his feet dismount the horse, sizing you up with each step that brings himself closer. Onyankopon’s eyes are on your form—drinking in every inch, your hips, your waist, the full of your ass against the tight fabric of your romper, your blush. 

“You know I’m a lil’ dirty, babydoll. My fault.”  

His hands go to grip your face regardless, pulling you into his body. His musk surrounds you, all man.

“That’s okay,” your voice is as soft as your wave, “You okay? MooMoo fightin’ you instead of going back to the barn?”

His lips drop onto yours the moment he holds your face, his kiss full of an aggression that makes your thighs clench.

“Mm,” he pulls away a bit, mouth still brushing against yours as his hand strokes your waist, “She mad ‘cause I ain’t give her ass an apple like everybody else. Should’ve been listenin’ when I said take yo’ ass to the barn.”

You giggle, rubbing your cheek into his palm, “She’s stubborn— Gets it from her Daddy.”

“‘Cept my ass still know how to listen,” his hand grips at your ass, “She get’ that sassy shit from you.”

Your eyes flick back to the field, seeing the cow standing within the same spot as all the others had crowded back into the shed. You peck at his chin, “Don’t be talkin’ ‘bout me ‘cause you can’t get your children in check, farmer.”

“I gets’ shit in check—I be havin’ yo’ ass listenin’ pretty good, don’t I?” 

“Negative.” 

He chuckles at that. 

“Go start dinner,” He exhales along your mouth, “I’ll get done with MooMoo and we can finish watchin’ that show from last night. I’ll rub yo’ feet, give you a lil’ massage.” 

“‘Kay’,” you pucker your lips, “You’ love me?“

“Yo’ ass cuttin’ up,” Onyankopon grunts, his hand smacking at your ass once more, pecking your lips in return, “You know a nigga love you. Gon’ back in the house.”

And you did—you’d showered, slipped into the soft silk of your nightgown, glasses tipping at your nose as your curls hung beneath your claw clip—you’d prepared brunch for dinner, shrimp ‘n grits with beignets for dessert, your giggles traveling all along the house as he kissed the sugar off your lips. Your fingers played with the coils of his beard, Princess cut diamond ring shining beneath the lights of your home as you watched TV with him—You were in love. 

It wasn’t until the end of the night that things changed. He held you as you slept, tattooed fingers splayed along your stomach as he cuddled you to his chest. The fan peacefully strummed a comforting tune into the room—but it was being overshadowed at the moment—a distressed mooing was sounding through the windows, as the only cow that was out of the barn had still been MooMoo. 

She enjoyed stargazing, so Onyankopon allowed her to stay outside for this one time, planning to put her up the next morning. She was more of the silent animal, and you knew that only meant two things—that she was actually in distress, or someone had put her in distress. To make matters worse, the motion detectors around your house were going off outside. 

Your heart stuttered within your chest as you’d both woken up at the same time, your body turning towards him, clinging to his arm as your first response of fear. But you knew your husband—he was already slipping out of the bed, the darkness only allowing you to hear the click sound of him loading his shotgun. 

Your hands cling onto his back as you whimper, “Ony, don’t leave me—“ 

“I’ll be back,” he presses his mouth against yours, “Lemme’ just go check on my girl, see if all this fuss is over a dog or sum’. Don’t get out of bed, aight? Forreal’.”

He kisses you firmly once more—safe, warm, making your heart slow just a bit. 

“Imma’ be back, I promise.”

You could only nod in return. 

It could’ve been five minutes, it might’ve even been thirty. But your body tensed the moment you heard the front door slam shut, heavy boots thumping up the stairs before the door opened. Your body relaxed the moment his silhouette came into frame—but just by his energy, you could feel his irritation. 

“Baby?” you call, “You okay?”

You could hear the thump of his gun being dropped onto the ground, “I’m good. I just put MooMoo back up—she was layin’ on her side.”

The grunt in his voice makes you frown, “What?” 

“Dumbass niggas was prolly’ passin’ through and seen the farm—thought it was funny to be tippin’ cows like some fuckin’ kids.” 

You watched as his tattooed figure moved into the bathroom, his fingers lifting to turn on the light as he began to wash his hands. 

“Muhfucka’s lucky I ain’t catch they ass—“

“You wouldn’t have shot them, Ony.” 

You can feel his eyes narrow at that. 

“They was’ on our property, girl. You thought I wasn’t gon’ shoot on sight if I seen’ them?”

You sigh, “Baby—“

“‘Baby,’ nothin’,” he rubs at his face, “Why you actin’ like you okay wit’ some niggas jumpin’ our property like somebody else out here? Where’ you think we at, girl? California?—ain’t no law out here unless it’s me.” 

You could see the anger in his eyes, the way his jaw flexes as he stares down at you.

“I don’t wanna talk about this.” 

“Aight, well I do.”  

“Onyankopon.” 

“I ain’t askin’ you to be wit’ me ‘on what I said, but I am askin’ you to understand. ‘Can’t be tellin’ me not to do what needa’ be done when it’s for us. For you.” 

“Baby, it’s nearly four in the morning,” you reminded, “You’re making yourself upset—can you come lay down? Please?” 

He stares at you for a moment, his lips tight before he inhales, jaw working as he nods. 

“Aight,” he exhales, looking up to the ceiling, “Aight, baby. You’ right.” 

He slowly eased himself into bed, his arms immediately holding your figure. You can feel the heat of his chest—the thump of his heart. He was worked up. 

So here you were now the next morning—Onyankopon was still on ten, and he wasn’t the best at hiding it. You were back outside feeding the pigs, your eyes narrowing beneath the sun as the gallop of his horse rumbled the ground, his deep voice commanding the cows to move in the direction he needed them to.

“Move,” he shouts, clicking at his horse as he rounds them all up, “Y’all know where yo’ asses s’pose to be! Ain’t no apples today!” 

Even hours later, he was no better. Agitation was the only word you could think of as you stood in the kitchen, eyes squinted as you watched him from the front door— his large body leaned into the hood of his truck, attempting to fix whatever was wrong with it. He’d just bought the vehicle a couple of months ago, and when a gas station worker made the stupid mistake of pumping it with diesel, it’d been acting strange ever since.

And while you know he’s upset, his irritation is something that he keeps in, something that he tries to hide from your eye with a silence, or a short conversation— but you two had been together five years now, and you knew him inside and out. 

“I thought you were gonna’ take it to the shop?” you questioned from inside, raising your voice a bit for him to hear. 

“Nah,” he grunts back, “Ain’t about to spend another eight hours at that place bein’ told the same thing I ‘been hearin’ for a week—Nigga said he fixed the leak in the lining and I’m still hearin’ it. Swear to god if I need a new muhfuckin’ truck imma’ kill that nigga.” 

Okay—there was something you wanted to admit to yourself, although you shouldn’t have. 

Seeing him like this made you kind of—warm?

Okay, fine. It made you hot. Something about the way his muscles flexed to fix the truck—eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his arms—it wasn’t the fact that he was angry—not even that, but instead the deep scowl on his face, grills shining at the flash of his teeth, hefty belt buckle and boots rumbling the ground as he shifted under the hood. 

“Don’t overheat yourself out there, baby!”

His shirt comes off his body, and you can see it tossed aside on the ground by his truck, his pants hanging low along his waist from the heat of the day. 

“Heard you.” 

He doesn’t really bother with looking your way, but he does hear you.

It made you more soft at your core as his tone is gentle. There was no denying the attraction you held for the man—he was your husband after all, and he knew to never focus his energy onto you, especially if he was upset. 

A couple of hours had gone by—you now stood within the doorframe, his deep voice calling from within the hood, “You need somethin’, girl?” 

You slowly make your way closer, the soft click, clack of your brown boots tapping against the driveway until you finally stand next to him, “I just came out here to check on you.”

Your glasses perch at your nose, curls coiled around the flush of your cheeks as the air of outside brushes against your clothing—the white material only clasped shut by thin strings at the dip of your breasts, able to see the curve of your stomach, matching shorts clinging to the poke of your ass.

Your voice is soft, “Baby?”

“Wassup’, Mama?”

 When he replies, his eyes briefly glance at you—then, he’s back into the car, “You lookin’ pretty.” 

“Thank you, baby—um, you wanna come inside for a little?” You suggest, “I made lemonade for you.”

Onyankopon sighs—his palm runs along the back of his neck, muscles flexing, sweat cascading down his body. 

“Lemme just—finish this first, aight? Imma’ keep fixatin’ on it if I don’t.”

“Hey. You can fixate on it later, yeah?” 

Your voice is gentle, hands reaching out and pulling him out of the open hood—his chest is warm. 

“You’re just as hot as the sun right now. Come with me, please? Just come sit by the fan in the living room for a couple minutes while I make you a glass?”

He’s silent—but he listens. When you pull him by his wrist, he follows with no fight. His footsteps are heavy, his frame tall— You knew that he wanted to keep going—but he also knew not to disagree when you asked something of him. 

Onyankopon now sits in the living room, body leaned back into the sofa, eyes closed while air blows through his face and against his chest. The cartoons you had on play a comforting tune next to the box fan blowing from across the room, instantly beginning to cool his body.

“‘Think you should just take another try at takin’ it down to the shop in Tupelo,” you hum, standing on your toes as you reach for a tall glass, moving around the kitchen to grab your heart shaped ice cubes.

He grunts, arm crossing over his face as he exhales,“I might have to, or imma’ head back in Jackson—Just gotta wait it out, see what the rest of the week lookin’ like.” 

You make his glass, the condensation sticking to your fingers—your eyes look towards him now and then as you do so, taking note of how his head leans back along the cushion, eyes closed and mind elsewhere. You can tell that he’s trying to relax, but it’s a hard feat to accomplish after the events of last night. 

“You know,” you gently place the lemonade on the table besides the sofa—you then lightly plop down onto his lap, the scent of you instantly hitting his nose as you wrap your body into him, “We had a lil’ scare last night—but you did a good job of takin’ care of me, baby.”

His eyes open the moment he feels your body press into him, his arms instantly beginning to wrap around your figure. 

“I had to do sum’,” he grunts, “I ain’t mean’ to make you scared—You know I’d never let anything happen to you, right?” 

His palm slides beneath your shorts, holding the flesh of your ass in his hands.

“I know.”

Your voice is even softer than before, body shifting upon his lap as the warmth of your skin pressed further into his. Your fingers slide along his beard, caressing his jaw before you finally leaned forward—your lips suck at his, a giggle masking your whimper as you feel yourself grind along his lap.

Onyankopon’s jaw works, his hand gently gripping at your cheek to hold your face to his—your whimper makes his lips drop open in another grunt—his tongue moving into your mouth, along your teeth, deeper.

“Been missin’ you, Ony. ‘Been so distant,” you tug at the weight of his belt, leaning forward as you suck at his lips again.

“I ‘been thinkin’ ‘bout you too, girl. Don’t get it twisted, aight?” His voice is a husky rasp, breath heavy. 

“I know you were still frustrated from last night,” you remind, “But so was I—Could’ve kept you in bed with me, you know? You were so busy bein’ be tough—my tough man. My protector.” 

His eyes follow your form as you lower down onto your knees, “Yeah?” 

He’s gripping at your neck, his thumb rubbing circles on your jaw at your soft voice—you knew exactly what you were doing. 

“This what you wanted?” 

His nose practically brushes along yours as you nod—your eyes lower as you suck his bottom lip into your mouth again, dragging it against your teeth, all while your hands slide up the material of his jeans, reaching your hand under the band. 

“Look at you,” he rasps, “Already on yo’ fuckin’ knees.”

His fingers are tight under the thick curls of your hair, and it’s as if each tug pulls at your senses. You’re parting your mouth onto his, lightly dragging it against his tongue, the feeling making your thighs clench. You breathily pant.

He’d never seen you like this—so needy, it couldn’t have been from watching him all day, could it? 

It’s as if his cologne tickles your stomach, you’re breathless as you give a horny sigh, pulling your mouth back a bit as you whimper in a repeat of, “Missed you, Ony.”

“My baby just wanted this dick, huh?”  

He’s nasty.

Onyankopon’s voice is full of grit as his palm slowly slides down your face, his thumb caressing at the soft of your bottom lip. He watches you—a brief flash passes through his eyes of love before they turn hungry, “Show a nigga how much you missed him. Need you throatin’ my shit.” 

The sight of him—the gold of his grills melting within your eyes, attractive features and jaw clenching at you from below—you’re tugging his dick from his jeans, tip fat as you wrap your lips around him, flattening your tongue along the flesh as you moan. 

“You’re so pretty, Papa.”

He tilts his chin a bit, eyes narrowing. 

“You callin’ me Papa now? Huh?” His voice was thick, pulling your hair back even more, “That’s how bad you miss me?”

Your cat eyes taunt him, nodding as you beg, “Spit on it,” lolling your tongue out your mouth, waiting for him. 

And he does—he tilts your head back more, dropping saliva into your mouth, groaning at the pure arousal along your face. You spit back onto his tip, wrapping your fingers along the base as you slide him to the back of your throat—when you pull back, a string of saliva connects your lips back to his dick, your tongue sticking out as you giggle at the sight.  

Onyankopon glares, his fingers finding your curls as he snatches your head back—his palm slaps your face, “Why you so fuckin’ nasty, girl?” 

He’s holding your cheeks with both palms, fucking your mouth, the schluck, schluck of your throat echoing into the ceiling—the whites of your eyes are shown as they rolled back with each movement, enjoying the groans he gave you in return. 

You climb back onto his lap more impatiently this time, latching your lips onto the skin of his neck and jaw—your hand is guiding his palm to your shorts as you whimper,  “Pull,” still kissing feveredly at his throat.  

Onyankopon’s fingers slide along the back of your thigh as he finds a hold of your shorts, pulling, pulling the material to one side of your ass, your glistening folds exposed to the cool air—your body tenses the moment he’s slapping his dick against your pussy, allowing your arousal to coat his tip. 

It’s hot—the weight of his tip is being engulfed by your folds all at once—you’re sinking down, back arching as you breathily moan against his face, “You’ need me?” 

 There’s a growl that leaves his throat, “Fuck. You know I do.”

Your curls drape in front of your face as your vision locks below, rotating your hips down, too distracted by your own actions—your moans are more soft and whiny this time, face slowly turning to a deep pout as your palms reach at the top of the sofa. 

“Lift up,”  he grunts hoarsely, “Lift up, babydoll.”

You lift up, dropping back down, the feeling making you gasp. Your thighs tremble as you slow down—you take one of Onyankopon’s hands, placing it along the side of your neck, swaying your hips, hair cascading all around your body in a circular flow of curls. 

“Look at you,” He grunts, squeezing your throat, “Already goin’ crazy.”

Your face flushes as you can imagine how you look—feet planted along each side of him, dragging yourself up and down—You’re needy.

You move his palm along your breasts as you plead, “Touch me.” 

He does as told, moving the other along your waist, along your hips. It was like he was worshipping you, hands wandering along your soft curves, squeezing your hips, back, stomach, ass, thighs, everywhere. 

”Pretty ass lil’ bitch.”

It’s like your mouth won't shut. Your aroused haze has you swirling your hips above him, nearly hyperventilating in a high pitched whine, “You feel so good, Ony.”

“You’ so fuckin’ sloppy with this shit,” He grunts through gritted teeth, clutching your throat even tighter, making you look at him, “You’ gettin’ drunk off me, ain’t you?”

Maybe you were—and you loved every second of it. You wanted to blow your curls out your face, but you’re too gone, nearly hitting a sense of delirium. You’re bouncing on his dick, lightly squealing as the skin to skin resounds in claps. 

Your eyes roll back as you groan, “Ughn, Yeah…” 

It gets worse, your mouth trembling out a prolonged moan of, “Onyyy…” 

His head knocks back as he digs his nails into your skin, each sloppy slap of your ass connecting with his abdomen making his jaw clench, feeling the secretion of your folds smearing his thighs. 

“Look at them’ muhfuckin’ eyes,” he mutters, squeezing your waist, “You feel that good, huh?”

You’re frowning that it feels so good. You feel his hand slide back to the nape of your neck, leaning your body a bit closer to his, your forehead’s connected as you whimper, “Ohmygodbaby.” 

“You gone,” he grunts, “Ain’t even hearin’ me.”

You hear him, but your brain is muffled.

His eyes roam the way sweat glistens along the soft mounds of your chest, how the vein along your throat pulsates a little bit quicker, and the way your walls clenched him for dear life. You looked like you craved him, and only him.

His hand tugs more at your neck, tilting you down to his face. 

“You think you miss me?”

“Miss you now,” you whimper in reply, placing your arms behind your back as you beg, “Hold them.”

His fingers are rough, the tips of them digging into your skin as he holds your arms—the veins on his hand are a dark blue, a mixture of his blood pumping with the tattoo of your first initials along his pinkie, symbolizing how much you meant to him, even in these moments. 

Onyankopon’s grunt is muffled by the way his hand smacks your ass, the leverage of your arms allowing him to hold you in place—your thighs are plop, plop, continuously plopping onto his abdomen.

Your mouth is directly leaned into his ear as you shake, “S’good, baby—“ but it’s until you can really hear your skin echoing against his, that your eyes roll as you groan.

“You think ion’ miss you too?” He snarls, “I’ll kill a muhfucka’ behind yo’ pussy.” 

You don’t do a good job at all in responding—you’re loud. His hold on you is tight, moving you up and down in a rough motion, “Oh my goddd, Ony—fuck,” it’s as if you’re irritated with him, your voice had you practically singing.

Your scent is so feminine that he can almost taste it—brown sugar, amber—the way your pussy squelches,  you were the personification of a drug, and he was your junkie. 

His voice is deeper, lower, meaner, “C’mere,” he spanks your ass, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he grunts, “Goddamn, baby. She talkin’ right now.”

You were just lucky that all the land around the two of you was your own property—the cows, chicken, farm—and the door was wide open. He slapped your ass even rougher, your whimper muffling his own grunts of, “You got a nigga lost in this shit.”

“Ony—oohshittt, baby.”

You’re both a mess—your curls are a bit wild, your mouth swollen and wet, the softness of your skin against his hands, his neck, lips.

“You gon’ cum on it?” 

He’s asking a question, but you can’t necessarily answer—cause you are—you’re painting his dick with coats of cream, the sop of it traveling back to his ears. Onyankopon chuckles arrogantly the moment you sniffle through your pouts, trembling whiny cries as you squirt so messily, so prettily. 

“Fuck,” he moans, “That’s my muhfuckin’ baby. You gon’ gimme another one?”

Your little sob is enough to answer—you’re drenching his balls, body shaking atop of his as he’s continuously bouncing you onto his dick that’s still hard as before—it’s when you press your together that he groans, holding you close as a warmth fills your walls, his moan dragging a bit to meet the sounds of yours.

Your face buries into the crook of his neck, your lower body spasming a bit to ground yourself. But that’s when you stop—your eyes flicker to the side of the table, your palm coming along your flushed face as you whimper, “Your lemonade, Ony…”  

He’s snorting.

“I was busy,”  he jokes, kissing at the edge of your shoulder blade, “I’m sorry, aight? Imma’ go grab me another glass.”

When he goes to move, you don’t. 

“You gon’ let me go, or you gon’ hold a nigga hostage?”

He chuckles this time, placing his hands along your sides as he pats you, “Lemme’ up, girl. Can’t even move.” 

“No,” you huff, “I don’t wanna let go.” 

“Aight— lemme’ hold you for a lil’, let you get yo’ mind right before you make dinner.”

Your eyes peek open, “Did I say I was makin’ dinner, or you tryna’ gaslight me into saying that’s what you want?”

“Chill,” He grins, “Lemme’ get another chance—Baby, you gon’ make dinner for me?”

“You knew the answer already,” you kissed his bicep, “You never had to ask.” 

“‘Cause you love me?”

“I always love you.”

“How much?”

You giggle, “More than a country boy loves his farm.”

He’s grinning. His hand is at the soft of your stomach, pulling you against him as his lips find your ears, murmuring, “I can do you better than that,” His nose is now against your skin, “More than a fat kid loves cake.”  

“You’re so lame.”  

“Huh? You ain’t like that?”

“…Maybe.”