actin like i changed connie’s race Solely 4 him to say nigga is fuckin ridiculous . i wrote a dominican version of a fictional character because that’s an interpretation that i made and a lot of others have too . mind u , he says it only twice in the fic . and damn right i’m constantly overtly defensive and unapologetic . why wld i not be ? i’ve had ppl hop on a hate train upset that i “seem mean” and don’t answer asks with “more enthusiasm” , for not wanting kids to read my fics , for writing abt fauxcest . . . This . jus a bunch of bullshit . mayb i shldve specified that connie is afro dominican , nonetheless , when i [ me as in milk ] hear that someone is dominican , i immediately think of them also being black .
correlating a made up character’s actions with people in real life is blowing me too . “many dominicans don’t even consider themselves being black.” . . . . scratching my head . soooo , you saw that i wrote abt dominican connie and lowk thought to yourself “i bet he doesn’t even think of himself as black.” . . . . . ok . sure . lol . i believe the disconnect is in a lot of you thinking of these characters as real human beings . it’s strange to watch people treat fanfic like a moral case study .
when i look at connie in the show , light brown / tan skin tone , hazel eyes , uhm . . yeah . makin him dominican made sense . tryin to say “that’s like me making eren black so he can say nigga.” a brown haired , green eyed , pale skinned male . No . not the same .
you and liyah are friends in real life . m prettie sure a good chunk of black aot tumblr knows that . soooo , upon seeing you unfollow me . . not too long after , seeing Your friend post smthg abt ppl being “coons” on here . i put 2 & 2 together . she can act like “im a hit dog hollering” but . . it doesn’t take a genius to do so . it is a shame that our lil friendship has to end this way , however . . . :T we’ll all move on . there’s no accountability that needs to be taken , Aside frm me not specifying that connie is afro dominican . . . I Guess . my fault . ill edit my fic to do so .
also , this being social media has nothing to do with anything . i’m not responsible for what you , jane , dan , nor lisa read and i’m not going to keep arguing abt a piece of fiction like it’s a court case . no one is going to win a nobel peace prize becuz you called out milk on tumblr for interpreting a character in a different way than you do . if you or anyone else feels like i’ve committed an unforgivable offense then okay . feel that way . block me . continue talking about me . do whatever you need to . but i’m not apologizing for anything . please dead this shit cuz this convo is done on my end . @st4rbwrry
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𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 12.0K, original!wifeblackfemreader, husband!onyankopon, (in this au; both reader and onyankopon are 31!) dad!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, southerncoded!femreader, shy!femreader, giggly!femreader, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, riding!, standing doggy style!, pet names, dirty talk, aggressive pet names, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, dick sucking, overstimulation, family drama, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི
メモ。— in the honor of me turning 24 soon, how about some more mature, southern coded family drama? hope y’all enjoy, teehee.
THE CAJUN SPICE OF ANDOUILLE SAUSAGE WAFTS THE ENTIRE HOUSE LIKE A WARM HUG, YOUR HOPES OF IT TASTING AS GOOD AS IT SMELLED FILLING YOU WITH EXCITEMENT. This was your domain—the kitchen, as feeding a growing boy and a constantly growing man became a second job for you. One you loved, of course.
The farmhouse kitchen hums with the sizzle of cayenne and thyme clinging to the air like a promise. Outside, the Louisiana sun presses heavy against the wrap around porch, where tangled bougainvillea bleeds pink against peeling white wood. Your bare feet—toes painted a deep plum—press into worn oak floors as you stir the pot, hips swaying slightly to the hum of Need U Bad by Jazmine Sullivan bumping from the Bluetooth speaker.
That Saints jersey of his—swallowed up by broad shoulders on game days drapes past your thighs now, the fabric still faintly carrying his cologne, something smoky and sweet. Beneath it, the lace of your black thong digs just slightly into the swell of your hips, a reminder of the softness you’ve grown into—womanly curves that he worships with his hands, his mouth, his everything.
Heat now rolls off the stove in waves, curling the baby hairs at your nape into tight spirals, your crinkled jet black lengths parted neatly down the middle, crimped and glossy where they spill over your shoulders. You catch your reflection in the oven door—freckles stark against flushed brown cheeks, lashes brushing them like feather tips, lips glossy from the Chapstick you’d swiped on absentmindedly.
And there it is—your wedding band glints under the pendant light, a simple gold oval he’d slid onto your finger at the courthouse when you were both too young to care what anyone thought. Back then, staying home hadn’t been the plan—but neither was the way he had gripped your waist in that ultrasound room, voice rough when he said, “…Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you stress ‘bout shit but this baby.”
And here you are now, sixteen years later. Your men won’t storm in for hours yet. No cleats thudding on the porch from that teenager of yours, and no deep chuckle rumbling through the screen door as your husband shakes off work. Just the quiet, the spice in the air, and the thrum of your own pulse—content, for now, in this life you’ve built.
The back of your thumb grazes over the smooth gold of your ring, twisting it absently as memories flash like fireflies behind your eyes—those early days when Onyankopon was still more boy than man, all rough edges and sharper tongue.
Back then, he wore his New Orleans like armor—cornrows fresh, diamond studs glinting against deep brown skin, tattoos still fresh enough to look angry. That fleur-de-lis inked high on his cheekbone was a declaration, a fuck you to anyone who thought they could box him in. You remember the way his Timberlands kicked up gravel outside your mama’s house, or how his voice dropped to honey thick "Shhh, girl", when he pulled you close behind the bleachers.
And now?
Lord. Thirty one looks sinful on him. The same fleur-de-lis, same tattoos sprawling over corded muscle—but now they tell stories. The pelican inked over his heart for Louisiana loyalty, the NOLA ‘til I’m cold scripted down his ribs. His cornrows are neater these days, edges crisp where they taper into the nape of his neck, that low beard trimmed just right. Age settled into him like whiskey in oak—richer, deeper. The kind of man who walks into a room and the air changes.
Your son—Asaud—carries his name like a blessing. Sixteen and already built like his daddy, all long limbs and broad shoulders threatening to outgrow his jersey. Same sharp cheekbones, same slow, cocky grin when he knows he’s charmed an entire city. But where Ony’s edges stayed hard, Asaud softened— mama’s almond eyes, even your freckles dusting his nose.
Those two? Tight as thieves. Asaud trailing Onyankopon like a shadow since he could walk—“Teach me that throw, Pops. Let me hold the drill, I got it.”
The way your husband’s stern “Aight, show me some shit’,” could make Asaud stand taller than any trophy.
But lately…
Your finger stills on the ring.
The creak of Asaud’s bedroom door—always shut now—grates against your nerves like a splinter you can’t dig out. Two weeks straight of it. No more sprawled across the couch with his cleats kicked up, no more leaning over your shoulder while you cooked just to steal a taste. Just that door locked tight as a vault, the muffled bass of his music throbbing through the wood like a pulse you weren’t invited to hear.
He used to be yours—your baby, even when he hit six feet tall. The boy who’d press his forehead to yours after bad games and whisper, “I’m sorry, Momma,” like your disappointment cut deeper than any coach’s scream.
Now? His “Cool,” lands like a slap when you ask about practice. His backpack stays slumped by the door, untouched since yesterday. Homework? Done. Dinner? Not hungry.
And sleep—Lord, the sleeping. You catch him slumped over his desk sometimes when you dare to knock, cheek smushed against his physics textbook, lashes fluttering like he’s fighting to stay awake even in dreams. Other days he doesn’t stir ‘til noon, blankets twisted around his waist, phone clutched in his palm like it holds answers.
Onyankopon misses it. Not because he doesn’t care—hell no. That man breathes for his son. But between welding shifts at the shipyard—arms streaked with soot, muscles aching from hauling steel—he comes home too exhausted to see past Asaud’s “I’m straight, Pops.”
And you? You’re softer. Always have been. The one who smooths his edges when Ony’s tough love ain’t the fix. But lately…
When your hand hovers over Asaud’s door? The wood feels colder than it should.
Your phone buzzes against the countertop, pulling you from your thoughts. The screen lights up with a text from Papa—your husband's contact name forever unchanged since the day he programmed it himself.
Shipyard lettin’ us slide early. Gon’ grab some crawfish, swing by Nana’s for y’all. You want extra butter?
A slow smile curls your lips. You’re halfway through typing your response—but that’s when the screen flashes again. Not another text.
An incoming call.
Principal Guidry—Bonnabel High.
“…Hello?”
“Hey, baby.”
Principal Guidry’s voice is honey thick Creole, the same one that used to holler at y’all for cutting class back in tenth grade. Now it’s laced with something heavy.
“I’m real sorry to call like this—”
Your grip tightens.
“Cherise, what’s wrong? Is Asaud—“
“He’s fine.”
She hesitates before correcting, “Physically, leastways. But…”
A pause. The shuffle of papers.
“My office chair ain’t never felt this heavy. Got yo’ boy sittin’ right here lookin’ like he wanna disappear into the floor. Suspended. Three days.”
Suspended? The word doesn’t even sound right in the air.
“Black eye and all,” she adds softly.
Your breath catches. Asaud? Your gentle giant? Fighting?
“What happened?”
Cherise exhales hard, “Let him tell it. ‘Need you to come get him.”
The kitchen suddenly feels too hot.
"I’m on my way."
The tires of your truck screech against cracked asphalt as you fishtail into the Bonnabel High parking lot, heart hammering against your ribs. You should text Onyankopon—should—but even thinking about it makes your stomach twist. The man would burn down the entire Eastbank if he heard his son was hurt, the welding torch still in hand, fury hotter than molten steel. No, better to handle this first.
The school looms ahead, its faded maroon bricks and rusted Saints banners looking harsher under the afternoon sun. Then—movement. The double doors swing open, and there’s Asaud, flanked by two security guards, his broad frame hunched like he’s trying to fold into himself.
You don’t even cut the engine before you’re out the car, bare feet slapping against hot concrete.
“Mon bébé—oh my God, look at your face!”
Your hands flutter over his swollen eye, fingers trembling as you trace the bruise purpling his caramel skin. It’s deep, angry—someone hit him hard. The Creole spills out of you unfiltered, a storm of “Qui t'a fait ça?!” and “Let me see, cher—”
Asaud exhales sharply, catching your wrists with a gentleness that belies his size.
“Chill, Momma. I’m fine.”
One of the guards—a thick necked man with a walkie crackling at his hip—clears his throat.
“Ma’am, ‘you gotta clear the lot.”
The dismissal in his tone snaps something in you.
“Clear the—do you see my child’s face? Who did this? Who—”
“Momma.”
Asaud’s grip firms, steering you back toward the car with a nudge. The kids pressed against the cafeteria windows don’t make it any better. He just climbs into the passenger seat without another word, jaw set.
And so, you follow.
The air inside the truck is thick with unspoken words, the only sound is the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of Asaud shifting in his seat. His profile is sharp against the afternoon light streaming through the window—jaw clenched, lashes lowered—a portrait of quiet defiance.
“…Are you alright?”
“Yeah.”
One word, clipped.
“Does Coach know what happened?”
“Not yet.”
That stings. Asaud loves football—loves his team, loves the way his daddy’s face lights up when he makes a play. If he’s keeping this from Coach? Something serious must’ve happened.
“Ti-Loup… are you really okay?”
Little wolf—the childhood nickname slips out before you can stop it, tender as a bruise.
His broad shoulders slump as he leans his temple against the glass.
“…Head hurts.”
“Baby, if you hit your head, you can’t sleep—”
Your hand lifts instinctively, reaching to brush his temple, check for fever—but he tilts away before you can make contact. Your fingers hover in the air for a heartbeat before dropping back to the wheel.
The moment the truck rolls to a stop in the driveway, Asaud is already moving—door swinging open before you even cut the engine, his long legs carrying him toward the house in quick strides. You barely have time to gather your purse before he’s halfway up the porch steps.
“Wait—"
Your scramble after him, bare feet slapping against warm wood.
“Ti-Loup—Asaud!”
He slows down by a millisecond.
“I still need to know what happened—“
“Ain’t nothin’.”
“Nothing?”
You frown, “Look at your damn face!"
You catch his wrist, forcing him to turn—only for him to yank free with a force that makes you stumble.
“Why are you being like this? You don’t—you never avoid me.”
This time when he turns, his eyes aren’t just tired. They’re cold.
“Damn, can’t I just breathe without y’all up my ass?”
The words hit like a slap.
For a second you just stand there, the sting of them settling deep beneath your skin. Your chest tightens—but you won’t cry. Not here.
“Fine.”
The word comes out quieter than you meant.
“You can wait ‘til your father gets home to talk about it.”
His whole posture shifts—shoulders stiffening, eyes widening—like the mere mention of that man flipped a switch.
“Momma—”
But you’re already walking away.
The tension in the house is thick enough to slice with a butter knife—the kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums, heavy and oppressive. Asaud's bedroom door hasn't budged since you got home, not even when you knocked softly with a plate of food an hour ago. The plate is still sitting untouched outside his door, grits congealing into sad little lumps.
This is how it always goes when Asaud knows Onyankopon is coming home to discipline him—radio silence, tense shoulders, the boy steeling himself like a soldier bracing for battle. Normally you'd bridge the gap, smooth things over with a joke or a hug. But today? The sting of his dismissal lingers like a bruise, and you can't bring yourself to force it.
Then—keys.
The front door swings open, and there he is.
Dressed in a navy blue shipyard uniform, his sleeves are rolled up to reveal thick forearms corded with veins, tattoos a roadmap of ink against deep brown skin. A faded Saints cap sits low over his cornrows, shadows accentuating the sharp angles of his face—that strong jaw, all the way down to the facial hair coating his chin. The scent of saltwater and engine grease clings to him, mixing with the spicy aroma of the crawfish takeout in his hand.
“‘Where my baby at?"
His gaze locks onto you—your bare legs peeking out from under his jersey, your hair still crimped and wild from the kitchen heat—and his glare is all sin.
“Goddamn,” he grunts—“You been walkin’ ‘round lookin’ like that while I’m gone? Gon’ make me come over there.”
You huff a weak laugh despite the weight in your chest, watching him flex his fingers like they’re stiff from gripping a welding torch all day.
“Hi, Papa.”
He grunts again—this one softer—as he stomps toward the kitchen, setting the takeout bag on the counter before peeling off his grease streaked work jacket. The muscles in his back ripple beneath his white tank as he tosses it over a chair, his voice rough but easy as he starts rambling.
“Shit was a goddamn warzone today—‘foreman got on my nerves ‘bout some pipe measurements, then ‘them Lafitte boys tried to cut in line at Nana’s.”
He pops the lid off the crawfish, steam billowing up as he scowls—“Like I ain’t gon’ notice they tryna’ snake my order.”
You lean against the counter, watching him. Normally you’d interject—tease him about being territorial over seasoned crustaceans—but your mind is still tangled up in the quiet rage of your son’s dismissal.
Onyankopon glances up, finally catching your silence. His dark brows furrow.
“What’s wrong wit’ you?”
You pick at the hem of the jersey.
“‘Had… a day.”
He murmurs, “I’m knowin’, Mama. A nigga glad to be home. ‘Been thinkin’ bout’ a shower, rubbin’ on yo’ feet—Where ‘Saud at? Lil’ nigga better be hungry ‘cause I got extra sausage just for hi—“
“He’s suspended.”
The moment the words leave your lips, Onyankopon goes still—unnaturally still. Like every muscle in his body locks down at once. The air in the kitchen shifts, thickens. You can practically see the switch flip behind his eyes—the shift from husband to father, from easy laughter to cold calculation.
“Fuck you mean suspended?”
You exhale, folding your arms across your chest, suddenly aware of how small you feel beneath his gaze.
“…I don't know, Ony. He wouldn't tell me."
His nostrils flare—once, twice—before his dark eyes scan your face, picking up the tension in your brow, the way your fingers clutch the jersey fabric too tight.
“"Y'all got into it?"
“He didn't want to talk to me."
A muscle in his temple jumps.
“He ain't got no choice but to talk to you."
His voice is low, final—“Ain't no option."
For a moment, silence stretches between you—thick and loaded—before his calloused fingers hook gently under your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, gruff but tender.
“Gimme’ yo’ mouth first."
You exhale shakily, leaning in. His lips are warm, firm against yours—brief but grounding—before he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours. His breath is hot against your skin, smelling faintly of peppermint and the crawfish he'd been handling.
And then—
"ASAUD!"
His roar shakes the damn house. No hesitation, no preamble.
“Get yo’ ass out here.”
You flinch, knowing how quickly Asaud heard him. Even through walls. Even through attitude.
Silence.
Then—footsteps. Slow. Reluctant.
Asaud appears in the doorway, broad shoulders slumped just slightly, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. His eyes flicker up—just once—to meet his father's gaze before lowering again, careful not to show outright defiance but unable to hold the intensity of that stare for long.
Onyankopon doesn't speak at first. Just looks at him, eyes raking over the swollen skin, the purple black bruise blooming beneath his son’s eye. Then—movement.
His hand shoots out, calloused fingers gripping Asaud’s chin with a firmness that isn’t rough but leaves no room for resistance. He tilts his face toward the light, inspecting the damage with the clinical precision of a man who’s seen—and dealt—his share of blows.
“‘You alright?"
Asaud’s throat bobs.
“Yes, sir."
Onyankopon’s grip doesn’t loosen.
“Then why ain't you tell yo’ momma what happened?"
Asaud’s jaw flexes beneath his father’s hold, his voice barely above a murmur.
“...Didn’t wanna talk about it, sir.”
“What’d you say to her?"
“I ain’t say nothin’."
“Tch."
A sharp click of his tongue.
“Tête levée quand tu m'parles."
Head up when you talk to me.
The Creole rolls off his tongue sharply, and Asaud’s chin lifts almost immediately—eyes snapping to meet his father. The apology spills out before he can stop it—
“Désolé, Pops—"
“Whatchu’ apologizin’ for if you ain’t say nothin’?"
The silence in the kitchen turns electric, thick enough to choke on. Onyankopon’s grip loosens just enough to turn Asaud’s face toward you—not rough, but insistent.
“m‘What he say to you?"
“He said—" Your voice wavers, but you force it steady. “'Damn, can I breathe without y’all being up my ass?'"
Onyankopon looks back to Asaud.
“So we ‘up yo’ ass’ now?"
He steps into his son's space, forcing his head up again with a rough tap of two fingers beneath his chin.
"’You think you grown enough to talk to yo’ momma like that?”
Asaud’s lips part—but no sound comes out.
“I asked you a question."
“No, sir," Asaud mutters, jaw tight.
“Nah, see—you acted like it."
Onyankopon’s voice sharpens, cutting like a blade—“You got one mother. One. The woman who carried yo’ big headed ass for nine months, who still make yo’ plate first even when yo’ dumbass bein’ ungrateful. And ‘this how you talkin’ to her?"
The words land like bricks.
"Look at her."
Asaud’s eyes flicker to you once, then darting away again.
“Soft as fuck wit’ you," Onyankopon continues—“Always been. ‘You sick? She up all night. ‘You hungry? She cookin’ before you even ask. You ain’t just disrespectin’ yo momma—you disrespecting’ my wife.”
Asaud swallows hard, his shoulders tightening like he’s bracing for impact. Onyankopon doesn’t let up though, drilling into him with a stare that could crack concrete.
“Apologize."
“I’m sorry, Momma."
Your chest tightens.
“I’m not upset, baby," you murmur, “It just hurt my feelings—I wanna know what’s going on, okay? That’s all.”
Finally, Asaud exhales, defeated.
"...I fought Jamal."
That catches both of you off guard. Jamal? His wide receiver—his best friend?
Onyankopon’s brows shoot up, "The hell for?”
“...Cheer team girl."
The silence that follows Asaud's confession is deafening.
“So you gon’ fuck up yo’ throwin’ hand—lose yo’ scholarship—over some girl?”
The words come out low, measured, but they hit like a sledgehammer. You step forward, hands lifting slightly—
“Hey, let’s just—"
”Who the girl?"
Asaud shifts uncomfortably, shoulders rolling back like he’s preparing for war.
"Sabine."
“She ‘bad like yo’ momma?"
“Onyankopon!”
He doesn’t even glance your way, his glare still locked onto Asaud.
“Why you callin’ my name?" ’His voice drops dangerously—“That gotta’ be the reason. Otherwise, I need yo’ son to explain why he fuckin’ up all his opportunities over some bullshit."
“It ain’t bullshit!" Asaud’s voice booms, raw and defensive—“She’s different.”
Onyankopon doesn’t laugh—doesn’t even smirk. His expression stays stone-cold as he steps forward, closing the gap between them with a single stride.
“That’s what you thinkin’ right now,” he growls, “But I promise—she ain’t. You thinkin’ bout some pussy, and that ain’t gon’ get you in the NFL or keep yo’ wide receiver."
He jabs a thick finger against Asaud’s chest—hard.
“Yo’ head loose, and I ain’t raisin’ no kids outside of you."
Asaud’s chest heaves, his nostrils flaring as his temper flares hotter. Then—
“You were younger than me when you knocked Momma up.”
The moment those words leave Asaud’s mouth—sharp, deliberate, meant to cut—your stomach drops. Your lips part in quiet disbelief, brows knitting together as hurt flashes hot behind your ribs.
“Asaud!"
But Onyankopon is already moving—fast, too fast—his massive hand snatching the front of Asaud’s hoodie, yanking him forward until their faces are inches apart. Asaud’s breath comes ragged, shoulders rising and falling under the strain of his father’s grip, but he doesn’t fight it.
"You right."
A pause—sharp, loaded.
“Here I am sixteen years later—still bustin’ my ass for you the moment I ‘knocked’ yo’ momma up."
His fingers tighten in the fabric, knuckles whitening—" I don’t ever regret havin’ you, and if I can prevent you from goin’ through the same shit me and yo’ momma handled? That’s what Imma’ do."
Asaud swallows hard, his throat bobbing.
"Ion’ give a fuck ‘bout no lil’ ass girl," Onyankopon rasps, “Or yo’ feelings just ‘cause you on some puppy love shit. Football. School. That’s yo’ priorities."
Your fingers curl into Onyankopon’s sleeve, tugging gently—“Baby… let him go."
Asaud’s voice cracks as he mutters, “Pops—"
"Pop’s nothin’."
Onyankopon shoves him back—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make his point. He spits something in Creole—low, guttural—before jerking his chin toward the kitchen.
“Go eat the food yo’ momma cooked."
The moment Onyankopon issued that command, Asaud's shoulders slumped—defeated but still simmering with that same stubborn fire his father carried in his bones. His jaw clenched tight, eyes flashing with frustration before he turned on his heel, storming down the hallway. The slam of his bedroom door echoed through the house like a gunshot, rattling the frames on the walls.
Onyankopon didn’t even flinch.
“Don’t be slammin’ no doors in this bitch you can’t pay to fix.”
And all you could do was sigh, pressing your fingertips to your forehead as the weight of the afternoon settled over you like a heavy blanket.
Hours later, the house was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes when two prideful men refuse to be the first to break. Nightfall crept in, painting the walls in long shadows as you moved through the dimly lit kitchen, plating a heaping serving of shrimp and grits—still warm, just the way he liked it.
But Onyankopon was nowhere to be found.
Not in the living room, not in the bedroom—so you already knew where he was.
Stepping onto the porch, the humid Louisiana air wrapped around you like a second skin. The cicadas sang their nightly chorus, the scent of magnolias thick in the breeze. And there he was—shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips as his massive frame crouched near the steps.
The metal bowl in his hands rattled impatiently as he shook it, muttering under his breath.
“‘What you doin’, Papa?”
He didn’t even glance up, his deep voice gruff with irritation.
“…Tryna’ feed this damn cat ‘Saud be so worried about.”
A soft mrrow sounded from the bushes, and a scruffy orange tabby slinked out, eyeing Onyankopon warily before darting forward to swipe at the bowl.
Of course he was out here—still pissed, still stubborn—but making sure his son’s stray was fed.
Some things never changed.
The stray cat—scruffy, wide-eyed, and perpetually suspicious—padded cautiously along the porch railing, its tail flicking with a mix of curiosity and defiance. It sniffed the air, nostrils twitching as it scented Onyankopon instead of Asaud’s familiar presence. With a deliberate hmph, it turned its head away from the bowl, pretending disinterest even as its stomach growled loud enough for you both to hear.
You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips.
"You’re mean to him too—that’s why he won’t eat."
Onyankopon scowled, shaking the bowl harder, the dry kibble rattling like a warning.
“Yeah? I take care of his ungrateful ass too."
You sighed dramatically, leaning against the doorframe as you murmured—“The Tin Man does have a heart, it seems."
Onyankopon shot you a look before gruffly calling out, "Aight, Tiger—come get this damn food."*
“His name is Tango.”
“Same shit."
Finally the cat hopped down, sauntering over with an air of reluctant grace. It rubbed its entire body along Onyankopon’s bare calf, purring loud enough to vibrate the porch boards beneath him.
“Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, nudging the bowl closer with his foot—“Gon’ head."
You stepped forward then, bringing the plate of shrimp and grits closer, the rich aroma mixing with the warm night air.
“You need to eat too, baby.”
Onyankopon’s fingers then curl gently around your throat—not tight, but there, possessive and grounding. He dropped a series of rough, smacking kisses against your lips, each one firm and fleeting before he finally took the plate with his free hand.
“Aight," he muttered, settling onto the wooden stairs.
The cat ate. Your husband ate. Now, you could have the real conversation you’d been holding off on.
You settle onto the wooden steps behind him, the worn planks creaking softly under your weight as you wrap your legs around his waist, molding your body against the warm expanse of his back. He’s hot to the touch—always running like a furnace—and you bury your face between his shoulder blades, inhaling the faint lingering scent of his cologne as he eats.
"Did you check on your son?"
The fork scrapes against the plate as he chews, his shoulders lifting in a half-shrug.
“Nah. But I know you did."
A gruff pause, “‘He still alive? Limbs all attached?"
You hum, fingers trailing lazily through the neat rows of his cornrows, tracing the patterns like you’ve done a thousand times before.
“Funny. He’s asleep.”
Silence stretches between you, thick with unsaid things. Then, softly—
“You do know you were wrong, right?"
“Which part? ‘Cause I ain’t wrong about a lot of shit."
You exhale through your nose, leaning into his shoulder as you murmur, “Ti tèt di."
Stubborn man.
He doesn’t respond, just keeps eating—his jaw working methodically, the muscles in his back flexing beneath your touch. You press a kiss to the nape of his neck before continuing—
”Remember when we found out I was pregnant? How scared you were?"
Silence.
You then whisper, “He’s got an amazing head on his shoulders, Papa. Just like you. Maybe...he’s serious about this girl."
“He’s sixteen.”
“And we were fifteen—sneakin’ into my momma’s house when she went to sleep, havin’ unprotected sex, and then what happened?”
He leans back into you with a rough huff, his head tilting just enough to bump against yours.
“You tryna be funny.”
“I’m not."
Your fingers trail down to his jaw, tracing the line of his beard as you say—“Our parents kicked us out, and we’ve been on our own since then."
The silence between you grows heavier, thick with the weight of memories neither of you ever really talk about—nights spent sleeping in his beat up Chevy, the way his voice had cracked when his own father slammed the door in his face, the quiet tears you'd wiped away when your mama called you a disgrace.
You press a kiss to his shoulder, soft as a prayer.
"But we knew our little wolf was special, didn’t we?”
A beat.
“Yeah."
You smile against his skin, “Asaud is yours, but he’s not you. He’s not gonna make the mistakes we did—and shuttin’ him down like our parents did to us? It’d be unfair.”
Onyankopon exhales—long, slow—his head tipping back against your shoulder.
Your voice is barely above a whisper, soft yet carrying the weight of years as you murmur, "Give him the grace we never got."
Your husband goes quiet. The cicadas hum in the thick night air, the stray cat now curled on the porch railing, licking its paws as if amused by the whole scene.
Then—
“‘Guess I ain't have to yank his ass up like that."
The admission comes out gruff, and you can't help the faint smile that tugs at your lips. With a playful flick to the side of his head, you tease, "Don’t be puttin’ hands on my baby no more."
Before you can blink, his massive arm hooks behind you, tugging you effortlessly onto his lap. You let out a surprised squeak of laughter, instantly melting into the familiar warmth of his hold—his thick thighs beneath you, the hard plane of his chest pressed flush against your back. His heat engulfs you, his scent wrapping around your senses like a second skin.
You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, fingers tracing the shell of his ear as you murmur, "But hey… we didn’t do so bad, did we?"
His arms tighten around your waist, lips brushing your temple—"Nah. We did better.”
You giggle as he kisses you, slow at first, then deeper, hotter—your tongue stroking his with a suddenly filthy, practiced familiarity. You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, “‘Wore your jersey just for you…"
His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he groans, half-amused, half-exasperated.
“You know I’ll never say no—but a nigga tired as hell."
You gasp in mock offense, pulling back to squint at him.
“Oh, so you can yoke up my child— but no dick for me?"
That deep, rich chuckle vibrates against your ribs as he leans back against the porch railing, pulling you tighter against him.
“Daddy ain’t Superman. One city at a time."
You blow out an exaggerated huff, lips pursed in playful frustration as you mutter, “You're annoying."
“And you horny."
You cross your arms over your chest but sink deeper into his embrace anyway, the steady thump of his heartbeat against your back. After a beat, you nudge him with your elbow, voice softening.
“...You love me?"
For a moment he says nothing—just holds you there in the quiet, southern night humming around you both.
Then, sweet as molasses—“When don't I?"
And yeah. That was your answer.
The next morning, Asaud wakes up early—his body already braced for a day of grueling chores and another lecture still hanging heavy in the air. He tiptoes down the hallway, bare feet quiet against the hardwood, expecting silence. Instead? The rich, savory scent of butter, garlic, and smoked sausage hits him the moment he steps near the kitchen.
He pauses. Frowns.
Spread across the countertop is a full Louisiana-style breakfast—crispy-edged fried eggs, golden-brown grits swimming in cheese, spicy Cajun hash, and fluffy buttermilk biscuits still steaming from the oven. His favorite.
Confusion knits his brows as he steps further inside, only to freeze at the sight of you and Onyankopon standing near the stove.
Onyankopon's massive frame is leaned into yours, his head tilted slightly as your fingers glide through his cornrows, re-braiding the edges with careful precision. You're both talking—voices low, words unintelligible from where he stands—but the ease between you is undeniable.
Then you glance up, spotting him lingering in the doorway.
"Mornin’, baby," you greet, smiling—“How’d you sleep?"
Asaud shifts awkwardly, eyes flicking between the food and his father's impassive face.
“...Good," he mutters—“What's all this?"
“Yo’ momma insisted on makin’ yo’ favorite breakfast," Onyankopon grumbles, voice rough with morning fatigue.
You flick his ear.
He then huffs, “Aight, I told her to."
You’re then crossing the kitchen toward Asaud, your bare feet padding softly against the tile. His eyes flicker with wariness, still bruised from yesterday’s heated exchange—though the mark looks lighter now, less angry. You reach up, fingers ghosting over the spot as you murmur, “Want momma to ice it for you?"
Asaud ducks his head slightly, but shakes it—“No ma’am, I’m aight."
You smile, nudging him toward the table where his plate waits.
“Eat ‘fore it gets cold."
Hesitant, he sinks into his chair, poking at the food before glancing between you both suspiciously.
“…Y’all poisoned my food or sum’?"
"Ain’t I tell you he was finna’ think that?"
“Hush, Ony.”
Your voice softens then as you turn back to Asaud.
“We had a…revelation last night... and we just want you to know—we love you. All of you. Every stubborn, hardheaded, beautiful part."
The kitchen falls silent—save for the sizzle of grease in the skillet, the hum of the ceiling fan.
You take a deep breath, clasping your hands together excitedly. The morning sunlight spills across the kitchen table as you announce, “Me and Daddy have been feeling a little disconnected from you lately, so we came up with an idea—Family Date! Yes Edition.”
Asaud blinks, fork hovering mid air over his grits.
“…Yes Edition?”
You beam, “Whatever you want to do today—no matter what—we have to say yes to!"
Asaud's frown deepens, but there's a flicker of something mischievous in his gaze now.
“Whatever I want?"
You nod enthusiastically. On the other hand, Onyankopon rubs his temple as he mutters, “My damn wallet achin’ already."
“The sky is the limit, baby. What’d you wanna do?"
For a long moment, Asaud chews thoughtfully, brow furrowed as he considers his options. Then? It hits him all at once.
“Aight, bet.”
He sits up straighter as he lists off, “First—we hittin’ up Bayou Guns for some target practice. Then, monster truck rally tickets—front row. After that, ’whole rack of ribs from Big Mike’s Smokehouse, extra spicy. And,”—he pauses dramatically, eyes flicking to his father—“Pops, you gotta let me drive the truck today."
Onyankopon almost chokes on his coffee.
“Hell nah I’m not!"
You level the look at Onyankopon—the one that makes his jaw twitch because he knows he’s already lost. His dark eyes flick from you to Asaud’s hopeful expression before he exhales sharply through his nose, resigned.
“It’s yo’ day, Papa. Gon’ head."
Asaud’s grin is immediate, lighting up his entire face like a kid on Christmas morning.
This was gonna be an adventure.
The day starts with everyone scrambling to get ready—you weren’t exactly thrilled about spending hours immersed in testosterone fueled chaos, but the thought of just being with your boys? Had you smiling despite yourself.
Onyankopon emerges looking stupidly fine—his black long sleeve clinging to every defined ridge of muscle, the ink snaking down his arms and neck peeking out from beneath the fabric. Camo pants hang low on his hips, black Dunks laced tight on his feet, and those damn chains glinting against his chest like he stepped straight out of some high end streetwear ad. His face—God—those sharp tattoos along his cheekbones contrasting his deep brown skin, that signature don’t fuck with me glare permanently etched into his expression.
You keep poking at it as you all get ready, making him swat your hand away with a grunt.
Asaud mirrors his energy effortlessly—hoodie layered over his own fitted tee, shoes swapped for something sleeker, but the same vibe radiating off him. Like father, like son.
You press kisses to both their cheeks before stepping back, smoothing down the backless top and capris hugging your curves—classy enough to turn heads, erotic enough to have Onyankopon’s fingers twitching. His dark gaze drops to your chest where your nipples press visibly against the fabric.
“‘You cold?” he rumbles, dragging a single fingertip over one peaked bud.
You pout, swatting his hand away—“It’s just chilly!"
Now, here was the card ride. Pure chaos as you’d imagined—Onyankopon gripping the passenger side handle like he was seconds from yanking the wheel himself every time Asaud hit the gas too hard or took a turn a little too sharp.
“Nigga, I swear—if you don’t slow down, Imma’ have you pull over right here and make you ride in the back like the toddler you actin’ like."
Asaud just smirked, glancing at you in the rearview before purposefully tapping the accelerator again—just to watch his father’s eye twitch.
The gun range parking lot was packed, buzzing with the low hum of engines and the occasional pop of gunfire in the distance. Stepping out of the truck, you immediately felt that familiar dread creep in—not from the firearms, but from the eyes. The looks. The inevitable moment when someone would glance between you, Onyankopon, and Asaud, their brows furrowing as they tried to piece together your dynamic.
Were you his older siblings? Friends?
Then—the shock when they realized—Oh. You were his mother.
Being a parent had never forced you to dress older than you were, never dulled your vibrancy to fit some matronly mold. Even now, trailing behind Onyankopon and Asaud—both towering over you, broad shouldered and imposing—you looked every bit the effortlessly sensual, youthful woman you were. Your deep merlot Coach purse swung at your hip, charms jingling with each step, your jet black curls bouncing against your back. Meanwhile, Onyankopon moved like he owned the ground beneath him, all quiet power and simmering dominance—a kingpin with his diamond in tow.
The inside smelled like gunpowder, leather, and faintly of the fried catfish wafting from the snack bar in the corner. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to your skin as soon as you stepped inside—sharp cracks of gunfire echoed off the concrete walls, making your shoulders tense involuntarily. Each shot sounded like a miniature explosion—too loud, too sudden—and you instinctively pressed closer to Onyankopon's side, fingers tightening around his hand as if anchoring yourself to him.
The man behind the register gruffly asked, “What’chu wanna shoot with today?”
Asaud’s eyes flickered toward the glass case displaying an array of firearms—some sleek and modern, others heavy and intimidating. His gaze lingered on the biggest one—a monstrous, black tactical shotgun that looked like it could knock a grown man flat on his back.
Onyankopon didn’t even blink, “That one."
Asaud's eyes widened, “Forreal’?"
“Yo’ day, right?"
You retreated to the far back of the room, perched on a worn leather bench like a reluctant cheerleader. Your knees pressed together, hands folded in your lap as you watched them gear up—ear protection, gloves, safety glasses.
Onyankopon looked illegal—his black sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, tattooed forearms as he handled the firearm with the kind of casual expertise that made your stomach flip. The range owner walked him through the basics—not that he needed it—but Onyankopon nodded along anyway, his deep voice rumbling something low in response.
The sight before you had your lips parting slightly—Onyankopon lifting that heavy shotgun like it weighed nothing, his massive frame balanced with effortless precision. The first BOOM of his test shot rattled through the private room, the recoil absorbed effortlessly by his broad shoulders. Smoke curled from the barrel as he exhaled, lowering the gun and turning to Asaud with that same unreadable expression—except you knew him, knew the subtle pride in the tilt of his chin, the patience in his stance as he prepared to teach his son the way his own father had taught him.
“Regarde,” he murmured, shifting fluidly between English and Creole as he adjusted Asaud’s grip.
“Firme, yeah? Shoulder tight—non, like this.”
His large hands guided Asaud's calloused fingers, pressing the younger man’s palm flush against the stock.
And just like that—Asaud shifted. His spine straightened, shoulders squaring under his father’s approval. The next shot he took wasn’t perfect—but it was strong, the kickback barely rocking him as the target downrange splintered at the edge.
“Decent,” Onyankopon conceded, “For yo’ first try.”
Your hands shot up in excited applause, curls tumbling over your freckled cheeks as you cheered, “Yay!”—you then blew a stubborn strand out of your face with a playful huff, watching as Asaud wandered over to stand beside you, wiping his palms on his hoodie.
"Gon’ head, Pops," he called out, nodding toward the range.
Onyankopon stepped up, and suddenly, the gun in his hands wasn’t just a weapon. It was an extension of him. Each shot boomed like thunder, paper targets shredding into confetti under his relentless precision. He moved like liquid—fluid, deadly—twisting the gun with an assassin’s grace, reloading without breaking rhythm. The sheer power radiating off him had your pulse thrumming in your throat.
Asaud whistled low under his breath.
“Aight, Sergeant! ‘Where you learn that from?"
“He wanted to be one, actually.”
Asaud turned to you, brow arched.
"Pops wanted to be in the army?”
Your gaze lingered on your husband, watching the way his shoulders flexed as he fired off another perfect shot—the way his focus never wavered, even now.
"Higher up in the Navy, actually," you murmured. “‘Wanted to follow in his father’s path… before I got pregnant with you."
A beat of silence. Then—
“What happened?"
Your fingers toyed with the charms on your purse, but your eyes stayed on Onyankopon. You exhale, “He disowned him. Hasn’t spoken to his father since I was in my first trimester."
The words hung heavy between you.
“He would’ve found a way to go overseas," you continued softly—"But he didn’t want to leave me. Or you. ‘Wanted to watch you grow up."
Asaud’s voice was quieter now, “So…he never went for what he really wanted?”
You turned to him then, smiling—really smiling—despite the ache in your chest.
“You became our first priority the moment I held you in my arms, baby.”
Your voice dipped into honeyed warmth, "And you cried, cried, cried.”
A dreamy little smile tugged at your lips, the memory of tiny fists gripping your finger, Onyankopon's unreadable mask cracking just once as he pressed his lips to your sweaty forehead in that delivery room.
You blinked back to the present, tilting your head toward Asaud.
“Your father can be…difficult," you admitted, “But know this—he loves you more than anything in this world. Everything he does, every hard lesson...it's because he wants everything for you."
Asaud scuffed his shoe against the concrete floor, "I know that, Momma.”
Just then, Onyankopon's shadow fell over you both, smelling like gunpowder and that stupidly expensive cologne he only wore on special occasions.
“Y’all talkin’ ‘bout me?" he rumbled, slinging an arm around your shoulders.
You batted your lashes up at him innocently—“Just tellin’ our son where he gets his handsome features from."
Onyankopon's nostrils flared, “Don’t be flirtin’ with me in front of our child, girl," he muttered, the heat in his low voice betraying him.
Your giggle spilled freely as you leaned even more into him, “Too late."
The monster truck show was deafening, and entirely too boyish for your liking. You spent most of it grimacing, and hiding behind Onyankopon’s shoulder each time you thought you were gonna witness a crime scene explosion. From the activities today? You were sure to be rewarded by this meal.
The scent of hickory smoke and sizzling meat hits you the moment you step into Big Mike’s Smokehouse—a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and bluesy guitar riffs pouring from the jukebox in the corner. The worn wooden booth creaks as you slide in beside Onyankopon, your thighs pressing together beneath the checkered tablecloth. Across from you, Asaud taps his fingers against the menu, though all three of you already know what you’re ordering—extra spicy ribs, collard greens swimming in pot liquor, and cornbread so buttery it melts on contact.
Your fingers trace idle circles over Onyankopon’s knuckles where his hand rests in your lap, his rough skin warm against your touch. You take a breath, leaning into his shoulder before murmuring, “Did you enjoy yourself today, baby?"
Asaud nods, a rare softness in his expression.
“I did. ‘Preciate y’all."
You smile, cheeks flushing—but then you straighten slightly, catching Onyankopon’s eye.
“Well—now that we’ve played—let’s have a serious conversation, yeah?"
Asaud’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, but he nods.
“Yes, ma’am."
“Jamal," Onyankopon starts, “What really happened between y’all?"
Asaud exhales through his nose, dragging a hand over his locs.
"I…always liked Sabine. Jamal knew that. ‘Still tried to get at her."
You hum, tilting your head.
“I don’t doubt she’d like you, baby. But—“ You choose your words carefully, "Did she seem…responsive to your feelings? Or does she actually like Jamal?"
Asaud’s jaw works before he mutters, “She do like me. ‘Told me my dreads was cool last week."
Onyankopon blinks. Slowly.
Then turns to you, one brow arched—“‘That’s how the lil’ girls get niggas’ attention?"
Your shoulders lift in a helpless shrug, “I guess?”
Asaud frowns, “Why y’all actin’ like confused old people right now?”
You bite your lip, exhaling through your nose—“I’m sorry, baby. Y’all’s generation is just…different in courting each other. The only way you know how is to—”
Then—it hits you. Like a freight train.
Your spine stiffens. Eyes widening, you lean halfway across the table, gripping Asaud’s hands tight enough to make him blink.
“Asaud?”
He freezes.
“Lawd, Momma. You scarin’ me. What’s wrong?”
“This…Sabine girl…you haven’t…?”
“Haven’t what?”
Onyankopon leans back, raising a brow.
Asaud’s gaze darts between you both before he huffs, “Contrary to stereotypes with bein’ quarterback—yes, Momma—I’m still a virgin. Damn.”
The breath you’d been holding whooshes out of you. Your head drops forward, curls spilling over your shoulders as you clutch your chest.
“Thank God! Okay, I just…whew,” You fan yourself dramatically, “I almost fainted.”
Asaud shifts in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck before he drops the bombshell.
“Despite y’all thinkin’ my head is loose, I plan on waitin’ ‘til marriage."
“Mon chéri!” you squeal in Creole, launching yourself forward as you kiss his forehead no less than three times as he groans, trying to duck away.
“Mwen si fiè de ou! Oh, mon bébé!”
Onyankopon watches, amusement lacing his voice as he mutters, “She finna’ start speakin’ in tongues—don’t say shit else, boy."
You're still catching your breath from the emotional high when you lean forward, smoothing Asaud’s shirt before saying with earnest warmth, “Okay—well, although that’s amazing to hear—don’t be afraid to ask questions, baby. I know sex education isn’t the best in schools, so…anything in that aspect, you know you can always come to us, right?"
Onyankopon clears his throat, "I think you gotta leave that conversation for me, shawty—"
You wave a hand dismissively, “We’re supposed to be bonding! Don’t leave me out of it.”
Onyankopon exhales through his nose. He then says, “‘You right. Yo’ pops an open book, ‘Saud.”
Asaud’s gaze darts between you both, hesitating.
Then?
“Does the pull out method really work?"
Your mouth drops. Of all the questions—
Heat floods your cheeks as your brain short-circuits. Before you can even think of a diplomatic answer, Onyankopon leans back, arms crossed, and says completely deadpan—
“Ion’ know. I nut in yo’ momma everytime—"
“OHMYGOD—“
You shriek in Creole, “Pouki ou fè sa nan piblik?!”
“So how come ion’ got a sibling?”
You’re so disturbed by Onyankopon who nonchalantly begins eating his food, taking a moment to process Asaud’s other question. You take a slow breath, fingers tightening around your napkin.
"I got my tubes tied after I had you, baby. You’re my lifeline—but it was a horrible pregnancy."
Your hand drifts unconsciously to your lower stomach, remembering the months of bed rest, the way your ankles swelled like overripe fruit.
Then, shooting Onyankopon a look, you point a stern finger at Asaud—“Had your father answered educationally, you would’ve known why we can have unprotected sex—but you should not! Condoms. Every. Time."
Onyankopon interjects, "Unless y’all in love. Then? ‘Make yo’ wife a twinkie’.”
Your fingers clutch desperately at the diner table as you squeak, “Let’s move on!”—voice pitching high like a deflating balloon. You clear your throat, smoothing a hand over your top as you force yourself back into Mom Mode.
“What do you really like about this girl?”
Asaud pauses, staring down at his half-eaten ribs as if the bones might spell out the answer for him. For a moment, there’s nothing but the clatter of silverware and Big Mike’s raspy laugh booming from the kitchen.
“She got this…quiet way ’bout her," he starts, voice lower than usual.
“Like, she don’t gotta laugh loud to be heard. And when she do smile—" He shakes his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips—“Man, it’s like she savin’ it just for you. Makes you feel…special, I guess."
You reach across the table, squeezing his wrist.
“That’s sweet, baby. Real sweet. But…" You hesitate, exchanging a glance with Onyankopon before continuing gently, “Are you willing to pursue this girl and lose your best friend over it?"
Asaud’s jaw hardens, “Jamal clearly ain’t my friend."
Onyankopon shakes his head, “Nah. He’s a boy on some puppy love shit—just like you.”
You now rub at Asaud’s knuckles.
“Baby, think about it. Jamal stayed at our house more nights than you did sometimes. Went to your cousins cookouts, helped your daddy fix up the car—"
“Even came to yo’ grandma’s funeral," Onyankopon cuts in, dead serious—“That’s family shit."
Your voice softens, “A real friend would’ve stepped back the moment he knew how you felt. But love makes people act stupid—especially at y’all’s age. You sure this girl worth torching that bridge?"
Asaud’s throat bobs.
The diner’s chatter fades into a dull hum as Asaud sits back, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his thoughts. His fingers fiddle with the condensation on his sweet tea glass, tracing idle circles as he chews on his bottom lip—the same nervous habit he’s had since he was a toddler.
Then, finally, he exhales sharply through his nose.
“A girl ain’t finna’ have me lose my wide receiver," he mutters, shaking his head.
“But that ‘don’t mean I ain’t got feelin’s, Momma."
He thinks on his words for a moment.
Asaud’s voice then drops lower, “A lot of my friends’ parents don’t get along—divorced, fightin’, separated, only cordial ‘cause they made a mistake back in the day. I know I clown on y’all’s gushiness…” he continues, waving a hand at the way you’re still practically draped over Onyankopon’s arm, “But…I’m glad I got parents that love each other. And I just—" He hesitates, eyes flickering down before meeting yours again—“I want somethin’ like that. Somethin’ real."
A whimpery giggle escapes you as tears well in your eyes—hot, stinging—before spilling over.
“Shit, here ‘she go," Onyankopon mutters, already rubbing at your hip affectionately.
Your heart swells so big it feels like it might burst right out of your chest. You slide out of the booth in one fluid motion, your hands cupping your son's face—rough stubble scratching your palms, his locs soft against your forearms.
“Do you know how much we love you, sweet boy?"
He rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“I’m knowin’, Momma."
Then, quieter—“Look…I’m sorry for bein’ mean to you yesterday. And…"
He glances at Onyankopon who’s watching with his usual stoic expression, though his dark eyes hold a warmth only you and Asaud ever really see—“Sorry to you too, Pops."
That’s all it takes.
You squeak, pulling him into a crushing embrace, smothering his face in kisses—his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose—while rapid-fire Creole endearments spill from your lips like a prayer.
“Mon petit roi! Mon cœur! Bondye beni ou, mwen renmen ou tout bagay!"
My little king ! God bless you, I love you with all my heart !
Asaud groans, half-heartedly trying to squirm away—"Damn, Momma—I said I was sorry—"
“Non, non! Mwen pa fini ak ou!"
I’m not done with you!
Onyankopon watches, shaking his head—but when Asaud shoots him a pleading look, he just smirks and shrugs.
“Take yo’ medicine, boy."
Your bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout as you turn pleading eyes toward Onyankopon, fingers still tangled in Asaud's locs.
"Be sweet, Papa!" you urge, batting your lashes dramatically—“Tell your son you love him—none of that manly grunting stuff!"
Onyankopon exhales through his nose, but after a beat, his deep voice rumbles—low, rough, but undeniably fond—
“I love you, ‘Saud. Even when you actin’ dumb."
Asaud snorts, but the corner of his mouth lifts as he mutters back, “Love you too, Pops."
You sigh happily, finally releasing Asaud—only to immediately eye his half-finished ribs.
“Baby, lemme get a bite of—"
“Nuh uh!" Asaud yanks his plate away, nodding toward Onyankopon.
“You better ask yo’ husband!"
Onyankopon slides his own plate toward you without a word, smirk smug as you stick your tongue out at Asaud.
“Haters," you mumble around a mouthful of smoky, tender meat.
Later, you’re curled into Onyankopon’s side on the couch, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm as some old cartoon flickers across the TV. The peace is shattered by Asaud’s bedroom door creaking open. He steps out fully dressed—hoodie, sneakers laced tight—and your head lifts from Onyankopon’s chest.
“You okay, baby?"
Asaud shifts on his feet, avoiding eye contact.
“I’m straight. Uh…Jamal finna’ be here in a couple minutes."
You and Onyankopon exchange frowns—just as a knock echoes through the house.
Jamal now stands on the threshold when Asaud opens the door, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly bowed.
“Evenin’, Mr. and Mrs. Osei.”
You blink, glancing between him and Asaud—who’s now lurking awkwardly by the foyer.
“Uh…are y’all…okay now?"
“We talked. It's straight," Asaud mutters, shifting his weight as he glances between you and Jamal.
Your eyes narrow slightly.
“So that's it? Y’all ain’t fighting over this girl no more?"
“This my ‘quarterback, Momma—“ Jamal chuckles, “Beta to his alpha—even though we both run shit, you know how it go."
“Language, ‘Mal."
Jamal dips his head immediately at Onyankopon’s voice—“My fault, Mr. Osei."
You exhale, shaking your head as you sink back against Onyankopon’s side.
“You men are so strange."
Then, glancing back at Jamal with a small smile, you add, “Well—are you staying to hang out, Jamal?"
Before Jamal can answer, Asaud slips in smoothly—too smoothly—“Nah, we headed to a party."
Onyankopon’s arm tenses beneath you, his jaw tightening.
“Did you ask if you could go to a party?"
You press your palm gently against Onyankopon’s chest, “Ony, c’mon.”
He exhales through his nose.
“Curfew at eleven. Not a minute later. And both of y’all better answer yo’ phones when I call.”
Asaud nods quickly, relief flashing in his eyes—“Got it."
"We out, then. Love y’all!”
You wave them off with a smile, “Be safe!"
Your lashes flutter slightly as you watch Onyankopon’s sharp side profile an hour after they leave—the strong line of his jaw, the way braids shape out his face, his deep set eyes locked onto the TV screen like he’s studying every frame. You trace idle circles over his chest with your fingertips, admiring the way the dim lamplight catches the faint sheen of his skin.
"What you starin’ at, girl?"
You grin, pressing a kiss just above his heart.
“My amazing husband."
“Mmm”, he rumbles, “You just love flirtin’ with a nigga.”
You murmur, “Maybe," in a playful tone—then, with a gentle tug at his chin, you guide his face toward yours.
“You haven’t kissed your wife all day."
“Damn,” he grips at your waist, “A nigga finna’ get locked up, huh?"
You giggle close to his lips, “Life with no parole."
And then his mouth crashes into yours—full, warm, tasting like sweet tea and the lingering smokiness of barbecue. His kiss is slow at first, until you smoothly climb onto his lap, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck as you deepen the kiss, your tongue teasing his bottom lip until a rough grunt vibrates against your mouth.
“Why you feenin’?”
You don’t answer—too busy loosening his belt with practiced ease, your lips trailing down his neck as you palm him through his pants, earning another gravelly curse through your husband's mouth.
“Saud’ could walk back in this house at any moment, girl—"
Your laughter spills against his collarbone in breathy giggles, warm and honeyed, as your fingers hook into the waistband of his pants—finally freeing him into your grip. The moment his tip springs free, your breath catches—a sharp, needy whine escaping your throat as your eyes drink in the sight of him—thick, flushed, veins straining against heated skin, the tip already glistening with his impatience.
“‘M hungry, Papa. Can I?”
You mewl these words so desperately, lips brushing the twitching head as you gaze up at him through fluttering lashes.
Onyankopon’s grip tightens in your curls—not pulling, just holding—as he rasps, “Goddamn. Aight.”
Your tongue then darts out, tracing the swollen ridge beneath his crown, relishing the salt-sweet taste of him before dipping into his slit. His hips jerk—hard—knocking a choke from your lungs, but you don’t relent. Instead, you press open-mouthed kisses along his shaft, nuzzling into the thatch of coarse hair at the base before swirling your tongue around the tip again.
“Hollon’, Mama—” he grits out, fingers flexing in your hair, but you’re already sinking down, taking him halfway with a blissful whimper. The stretch burns sweetly, your lips sealing around him as hollowed cheeks suck him deeper. His thighs tremble beneath you, a ragged, “Fuck—” tearing from his chest as your tongue swirls along his length on the upstroke.
You pull off with a lewd pop, running your tongue viciously against your puffy lips at the way his stomach muscles clench.
“Missed this,” you purr, licking a stripe from root to tip before swallowing him down again—deeper this time—until your nose brushes his skin. His groan is filthy, echoing through the living room as his head thuds back against the couch.
“Gon’ make me act up,” he warns, voice dark with promise—but you just whimper again around him, eyes fluttering shut as you bob faster, hungrier. The wet sounds of your mouth on him mix with his ragged breaths, the cartoon still playing forgotten in the background.
Your lips stretch obscenely, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth as you take him all the way down—nose pressed into his pelvis, throat fluttering wildly around the intrusion. Your eyes roll back slightly at the stretch, tears pricking at the corners as you whimper around his girth again— needy, gagging sound that vibrates against his skin and makes his hips jerk instinctively.
“Fuck—look at you," Onyankopon growls, fingers tightening in your curls, yanking just enough to make you mmph—air rushing into your lungs before you dive back down, hollowing your cheeks shamelessly.
You pull off with another wet pop, spit slick lips swollen and glistening as you pant—only to spit directly onto his dick, the glob of saliva trailing thickly down his shaft before you smear it with your mouth. You then smack his length against your tongue, giggling breathlessly.
“Goddamn," he snarls heavier, voice dripping with lust—a vein popping in his neck as he glares down at you like he wants to eat you alive.
You swirl your tongue around his tip, lapping at the precum beading there before sinking back down—deeper, messier—your throat working in desperate swallows around him. Drool drips down your chin, your brows knitting together in a mix of pleasure and strain as you gag prettily around him—the sounds leaving your mouth absolutely disgusting.
“Ain’t no way you suckin’ dick this good and actin’ all innocent at the dinner table," he grunts, thrusting shallowly into your throat, his grip on your hair bordering on painful—“Fuckin’ glutton—can’t even breathe right and you still tryna’ swallow my shit whole.”
You give a desperate moan in response—half-protest, half-agreement—your fingers digging into his thighs as you bob faster, sloppier, spit and precum fully smearing across your lips. His hips buck up violently, forcing himself deeper as he curses under his breath—“Gon’ make this bitch nut all over yo’ pretty ass face.”
You're drunk off him—every suck, every gag, every slurp of your lips dragging up his shaft leaving you dizzy with greed. Your tongue lolls obscenely along the underside of his cock, spit-slick and desperate, drool dripping in thick strands onto his heavy balls, making them glisten under the dim light. The mess coats your chin, smears across your cheeks—ruins you beautifully—but you don’t care, too lost in the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue.
You usually ask—Papa, can I?—but right now, you don’t want permission. You want everything.
So with an aroused impatience you climb fully into his lap, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs. One hand grips his shoulder for balance as you yank your capris with the other, exposing bare skin—no panties, never panties when you knew he’d be home. His tip slaps wetly against your folds, already soaked just from sucking him off, and you whimper—high and broken—as his thumb ruthlessly circles your clit, sending sparks up your spine.
His mouth crashes into yours, tongues tangling sloppily, spit mixing between you as he grunts against your lips—
“I ain’t movin’. Put that bitch in.”
Your fingers knot in the hair at the nape of his neck as you sink down—slowly, so slowly—stretching around him inch by torturous inch. And the burn? It’s delicious. White-hot and overwhelming, your walls fluttering wildly as you take him deeper. Your eyes even begin to water, lashes sticking together as tears spill over, your mouth trembling against his in a silent sob.
Then—squelch—a wet, gushing sound punches from your pussy as you bottom out, his hips fully flush against your ass. The obscene noise—like air forced from a tight space—makes you shudder, your thighs shaking violently around him.
“Fuck—” Onyankopon snarls into your mouth, his grip on your waist bruising, “Tight-ass pussy always tryna act brand new.”
You whimper—pitiful, unable to do nothing else.
His palms cradle the plush underside of your thighs—calloused fingertips digging into soft flesh as he lifts you effortlessly, your body hovering above him for one breathless moment before he drops you back down.
The descent is slow—agonizing—every inch of him dragging against your walls until you’re whimpering nonsensically, Creole curses and praise tumbling from your lips in a slurred mess—
“Ah—Mon Dieu—Papa, li two cho—!”
Then—smack—your ass lands heavy against his thighs, skin sticking wetly before peeling apart with a lewd clap that ricochets through the living room. Your vision whites out for a second, mouth falling slack as pleasure crackles up your spine—
“Shit.”
Your voice fractures, knees trembling where they bracket his hips. His grip tightens—lifting you again—only to drop you back onto him, the force punching the air from your lungs.
“Fuck,” you sob, nails raking down his chest, “P—Papa, li two gwo—!”
You’re too big.
“Talk that shit now,” he taunts, “Thought you was hungry?”
“O—O bondye—P-Papa—!”
I can’t.
The fabric of your top crumples violently in Onyankopon’s fists—fingers twisting, yanking the material taut as he uses it like reins to drive you down onto him. Every bounce wrenches a gasp from your lips, your body jolting with each punishing thrust, his dick spearing into you with a relentless, bruising rhythm. Your face crumples, pouting down at him—eyes glazed, lips swollen and trembling—as he growls up at you in thick, guttural Creole.
"Ou vle sa, mm? Ou vle Papa kraze ou?"
You want me to break yo’ shit, huh?
You nod frantically, a pathetic, shuddering “Mm-hmm—!" hiccuping from your throat as your cream spills obscenely down his shaft, pooling at the base where his balls glisten with your slick.
“I—I’m gonna’ cum—!" you mewl, voice breaking, thighs quivering as your walls flutter wildly around him.
But Onyankopon doesn’t speed up—doesn’t slow down—just keeps grinding you onto him at that same, devastating pace, letting you feel every inch as your orgasm crests. Your back arches, a silent scream tearing through you as your pussy gushes—hot, wet pulses of arousal soaking his lap, dripping down his abdomen in sticky rivulets.
“Regarde ça," Look at that, he mutters, voice rough with lust as he watches you squirt all over him—“Fais un gros désordre, mm?"
’Made a big fuckin’ mess.
Onyankopon’s grip shifts—his hands cinching around your waist as he stands in one fluid motion, twisting you midair before slamming your back flush against his chest. Your breath hitches, fingers scrambling at his forearms as he bends you forward in the same motion, your spine arching obscenely as he crowds over you.
“Ain’t took my pussy like this inna’ minute. Let a nigga feel you.”
This position—back arched deep, ass tilted up, your body folded in half—was never one you could handle. He knew it. You knew it. Years of marriage, and he only pulled it out on two occasions: when you’d pissed him off just enough to deserve it—or when he wanted to ruin you so thoroughly you’d forget your own name.
His dick sinks back into you—slow, sadistic—the stretch bordering on pain as your walls flutter wildly around him. A petulant whimper claws from your throat, your face tucking into your own shoulder as you try to steady yourself.
Too deep. Too much.
Before you can adjust, his palm wraps around your throat from behind—his fingers splayed possessively as he jerks his hips forward, bottoming out with a force that makes your vision blur.
Your cry is muffled against your own skin, tears pricking at your lashes as he starts moving—no build-up, no mercy—just deep, piston-like thrusts that punch the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips.
“Always actin’ brand new,” he grits out, “Like I ain’t had this pussy a thousand times.”
Onyankopon yanks your head back as he starts fucking you with those long, slow, punishing strokes, burying himself to the hilt each time with a rough grunt. Your entire body shudders in shock, fingers clawing at your own ankles as you struggle to stay grounded, but there’s no escape—just the relentless drag of him stretching you open, over and over, the obscene squelch of your soaked pussy echoing in the air between you.
A dumb, pleasure-drunk frown twists your face—eyebrows knitted, lips parted in a silent gasp—before your voice finally shatters into whiny, hiccupping sobs.
“Ohh my god. Shit. Ughn, fuck—!"
Your thighs tremble violently, your back bowing even more as pleasure coils tighter in your gut—each thrust dragging you closer to the edge. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. Just keeps stroking into you—rough, unhurried, perfect—until your mind whites out completely.
The next shift happens like lightning—his arms wrapping around you, hauling you flush against his chest as he lifts you just enough that your toes barely skim the floor, his strength suspending you effortlessly between his body and the air. His palm presses flat against your throat again—his lips dragging hot against the shell of your ear as his thrusts turn uneven, deeper, desperate.
“Missed this shit... missed you…”
You’re too far gone to answer—just weakly nodding, your head lolling back against his shoulder as pleasure crackles through every nerve. Onyankopon’s thrusts turn frantic, his breath ragged against your neck, his voice breaking every snap of his hips—
“Shit—fuck—gon’ make me—"
Your body aches—muscles trembling, thighs slick with sweat—but you force yourself to roll your hips back against him anyway, meeting each deep thrust with a weak but determined grind. Your voice is nothing but a breathless whimper, barely audible over the filthy slap of skin, but you need him to hear your words.
“I love you—love you so much—“
Your words dissolve into a gasp as he rams into you again, the force of it making your toes curl against the floor. You tilt your head back, pressing your temple against his, lips brushing his jaw as you whisper—
“Such a good...good father... takin’ care of us.”
Onyankopon groans—low, raw—the sound vibrating against your skin as his fingers flex possessively around your throat.
"Fuck—" he grits out, voice strained—almost shy—as if he’s not used to being unraveled like this.
You reach back blindly, fingers tangling in his braids, tugging just enough to make him growl.
“Sound so pretty,” you slur.
He curses again, biting at your shoulder as if you contain his own pleasure.
“Chill.”
His warning rumbles against your lips, but it's unsteady—almost shaking—his usual arrogance stripped bare as his breath hitches. You don’t listen. Instead, you crash your mouth against his in a sloppy, desperate kiss, swallowing his next groan whole as he thrusts up into you—harder, deeper—his hips pistoning in a rhythm that has you both practically singing into each other’s mouths.
His moan becomes muffled against your lips—“Oooh, shit—“ low and graveled, his forehead pressing against yours as his pace turns erratic. You nod frantically, whimpering in agreement, your own sounds just as broken as his, your nails scraping down his chest as you begin begging him.
“Fill me up, baby.”
And that’s all it takes.
Onyankopon cums with a ragged groan, his entire body tensing as he spills into you in thick, pulsing waves—hot, endless, like he’s been holding back for weeks. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise as he rides it out, fucking his release even deeper inside you.
You giggle—weak, breathless, but elated—the sensation of him twitching inside you sending little aftershocks of pleasure through your own trembling body.
Onyankopon’s chest heaves against your back, his lips still hovering over yours as he mutters—“Goddamn."
“Mmm,” you arch farther into his touch, “Would’ve gotten that last night if you weren’t so tired…"
His lips drag slowly along the curve of your ear—hot breath making you shiver as he murmurs, “Patience builds tension, girl.”
He grinds deep one last time, lazily rocking into you just to feel your walls flutter weakly around him.
Your fingers tighten around his forearm, a pathetic little “‘M tired now, Papa…" slipping from your lips—weak, whiny, still buzzing from pleasure.
“Oh, ‘you tired now?”
You twist in his arms, draping yourself fully against him—your arms looping around his neck, forehead pressing to his as you sigh, “C’monn, let's go shower."
“Aight. We hunchin’ again?"
“No, boy! I wanna go to bed. It's nearly twelve."
He smacks his lips, eyes flicking past you to the clock on the wall—then freezes.
“It's what time?"
You blink up at him, suddenly aware of the shift in his tone—that dangerous edge creeping in.
“Um…fifteen minutes to twelve?" you offer hesitantly.
Onyankopon exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening as he looks down at you with narrowed eyes.
“Imma' kill yo' son."
Your hands fly up in protest, gripping his shoulders—“Well hold on!—He's a little over curfew, it's fine!”
“So now I'm doin' too much?” He smacks his lips, pulling back just enough to level you with a look—mockingly pitching his voice higher, mimicking your earlier whimpers— “’You’re such a good father’—what happened to allat’, huh?"
You squeak, cheeks flushing hot as you slap a hand over his mouth, cutting off his teasing.
“Stop it!”
He licks your palm—nasty—making you yelp and yank your hand back as he grins, triumphant.
“So you gon’ need the belt after him, huh?”
You scrunch your nose.
“No. And you’re grumpy.”
A chuckle rumbles deep in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away—just tilts his head, pressing his forehead a little harder against yours in that way he does when he’s softening, letting you know he’s conceding.
“Imma’ let up, aight?"
Your shoulders relax, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you exhale, melting into him.
“'…’Kay.”
His lips brush your temple before he murmurs, “Lemme’ just call and check on ‘em—after that? Imma’ rub on yo’ feet and knock the fuck out."
You exhale as he finally pulls away, shaking your head with a quiet laugh. Always unable to let go of that protective dad instinct, even when he was supposed to be letting up—but that was just him. Overbearing, stubborn, yours.
The moment settles into something tender as you watch him grab his phone off the coffee table, his heavy silhouette outlined by the dim light of the living room.
“I love you," you murmur, the words slipping out sweet and easy—like they always did.
He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth tilting up in that rare, real smile—the one reserved just for you.
“’Love you more, girl.”
And just like that—the day ends, wrapped in warmth, in home, in family.
𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 9.3K, original!blackfemreader, boyfriend!onyankopon, plug!onyankopon, fresh out the pen!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, femreader, shy!femreader, giggly!femreader, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, car sex, doggy style, missionary, pet names, dirty talk, aggressive pet names, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, pussy eating, dick sucking, overstimulation, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི
メモ。— inspired by the destiny’s child song. i just live for a wattpad hood love story, so here’s mine. love y’all.
YOU HADN’T BEEN THIS NERVOUS IN A WHILE. You wanted to gnaw at your heart shaped pendant sunken between heavy tits, deep plum gloss outlining your full lips that you’d chewed to a swell just minutes before. This moment didn’t feel real—and yet, it was. He was coming home.
Thick Louisiana heat presses against your skin like a lover’s embrace, sprawled across the king sized bed in the heart of the 7th Ward—a place where shotgun houses and Creole cottages line the streets like old friends. The walls of your shared home hum with memories, the scent of cayenne and slow cooked roux lingering in the air from last night’s gumbo. The bedroom is a sanctuary—mahogany furniture polished to a shine, silk sheets the color of midnight draped over the mattress, and gold framed photos of y’all’s happiest moments catching the dim glow of the sunset through half closed blinds.
But something’s missing.
You bury your face into his pillow, inhaling deeply—or trying to. His scent, that intoxicating mix of sandalwood and blunt smoke, has faded to a ghost of what it once was. Three months without him sleeping beside you, without his deep voice grumbling nonsense in your ear as he pulls you closer. The emptiness is heavy.
Your massive pitbull, Bear, stretches across the bed like a living shadow, his muscular frame pressed against your thigh as if sensing your longing.
You run your fingers through his coarse fur, murmuring, “You ready for Papa to come home?”
Bear’s ears twitch at the mention of him, dark eyes flickering with something like understanding. Even the house feels quieter without his presence—no bass rattling the windows, no deep laugh shaking the walls, no rough hands tugging you into his lap just because.
Onyankopon.
Deep brown skin kissed by the Louisiana sun, glowing like polished syrup under the streetlights. His cornrows are always fresh, laid to perfection, trailing down to the nape of his neck with a crisp lineup sharp enough to cut glass. That mouth of his—shiny grills flashing when he smirks, a warning disguised as charm. His beard-goatee combo is always kept tight, framing full lips that can curse a man into the ground or praise you so sweetly it makes your knees weak.
And his body. Lord. Broad shoulders, thick arms wrapped in ink—every tattoo telling a story. The fleur-de-lis stamped near his left temple, a silent declaration of loyalty to the soil that raised him. More Louisiana love etched into his skin— oak trees, 504 in bold script. His knuckles say NO LOVE, but you know better—know the way those same hands cradle your face like you’re the air he breathes.
You’ve seen him in business mode. Jaw clenched, voice dropping to something low and lethal, a Glock tucked in the back of his waistband like a second shadow. He didn’t play—not when it came to money, not when it came to respect.
But you know the truth.
That same man who’ll put a bullet in somebody’s kneecaps over disrespect is the one slipping Mrs.LeBlanc a stack of bills every month so her lights stay on—the one who refuses to sell to fiends nodding out on the corner. The one who bought the whole block Thanksgiving turkeys last year just because.
A good man with rough edges. Yours.
Your heart aches with the knowing—the kind that lives in the quiet spaces between his laughter and the way his eyes get distant sometimes, staring out at the horizon like he’s searching for something just out of reach.
You’ve seen the flicker in his gaze when y’all pass a college campus, when he watches old men playing chess in the park with no worries weighing them down. You know he dreams of something else—legitimate money, a life where he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder every five seconds. But survival mode is a beast he can’t shake, not when the streets raised him harsher than any parent ever did.
Your mind flashes back to that night—the night.
The way his face twisted in fury as the cops swarmed, their boots kicking up gravel as they yanked his arms behind his back too rough, too eager. You remember screaming his name, lunging forward only for his voice to cut through the chaos like a blade—Go back in the fuckin’ house!—and the way your legs shook as you obeyed, tears blurring your vision until all you saw were flashing red and blue lights swallowing him whole.
Three months.
Three months of letters tucked into envelopes smelling like your perfume, of collect calls where his voice was gruff but his words were soft—“How you holdin’ up, baby?"
Three months of praying the charges wouldn’t stick, of begging your parents to understand why you couldn’t—wouldn’t—walk away.
You think God would approve of this, child? Running with a man who feeds poison to his own people?
Their words stung, but not as much as the truth burning in your chest—you loved him anyway. Loved him when he came home smelling like gunpowder and regret, loved him when he held you so tight it felt like an apology.
But still, there’s a part of you that dreams too—of lazy Sunday mornings without fear, of a future where his hands are stained with paint instead of blood. A future where he chooses differently.
You sigh, pressing your face into Bear’s fur as if he can absorb the weight of your thoughts.
Soon.
Your dark curls lay across the pillow like spilled ink as you sink deeper into Bear’s warmth, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath your fingertips lulling you into a false sense of calm.
Then—movement.
Bear tenses beneath you, his massive body going rigid before he suddenly hikes up with a deep, rumbling growl—not the dangerous kind, but the kind that vibrates with recognition. In an instant, he’s off the bed, paws thudding against hardwood as he bolts toward the living room.
Then—the creak of the front door.
You left it unlocked. You knew.
Before you can even sit up fully, you hear Bear’s excited whines, the frantic scratch of his claws against the floor as he launches himself at someone—at him. Your pulse thunders in your ears as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor before you even realize you’re moving.
And there he is.
Standing in the doorway like a storm, shoulders bigger than you remember, muscles straining against the thin fabric of his white muscle tee like he outgrew it in just three months. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, the same pair he’d left in before they took him, but now they cling to thighs that look harder, more defined.
His cornrows are freshly done, edges sharp enough to draw blood, that damn fleur-de-lis tattoo peeking out from beneath the slant of his brow. But it’s his eyes that grip you—dark, calculating, hungry—as they rake over you like he’s memorizing every inch.
“The fuck you leave the door unlocked for?”
Your lips part—but the second his voice hits you, really hits you, something inside cracks wide open.
“…I—I knew it was you,” you whimper, voice trembling like a leaf in the wind.
Onyankopon knows you.
‘Knows the way your bottom lip trembles right before the tears fall. ‘Knows how your voice gets small and shaky when you’re trying—and failing—to hold it together. ‘Knows that no matter how spicy your mouth gets, that tender heart of yours spills over first.
And right now?
His dark eyes drink you in all of you.
Your caramel skin glows under the dim lights, bare except for the tiniest rebellion inked along your ribs—his name, etched in delicate script, hidden beneath the swell of your tits like a secret only he’s allowed to touch.
Those freckles—god, those freckles—dusting your cheeks and the bridge of your nose like constellations. Your round face flushed, slender eyes shimmering with tears, long dark curls tumbling wildly over your shoulders as you try to hide the way your body shakes.
Hips fuller, ass heavier, waist somehow even smaller than he remembered, all wrapped up in that deep plum babydoll dress that barely covers your thighs. His gaze drags lower—no bra, just the thin lace of your panties peeking beneath the hem, your brown nipples stiff and visible through the fabric.
And then—
“You left me.”
Your tits bounce heavily as you hiccup, hands flying up to cover your face in that adorably flustered way you do when you’re overwhelmed.
“Aight, Mama—lemme’ hold you," he murmurs, voice thick with that gravelly warmth that usually melts you right where you stand. But not today.
You shake your head hard, curls whipping against your cheeks, suddenly furious—at him, at the streets, at the damn system that keeps snatching him away from you.
“No," you snap, voice wobbling despite yourself.
This is your routine.
The one where you unleash every pent up ache—where you sob about how Mrs. LeBlanc asked about him at the store last Tuesday, how you burned the first pot of gumbo because he wasn’t there to taste test it, how Bear whined at the door every night for a week after they took him.
“You missed—you missed everything—"
Onyankopon exhales through his nose, patience wearing thin. He reaches for you again, fingers brushing your waist, but you smack his hand away—or try to. Your tiny slap barely fazes him, and the way his jaw tightens tells you his sympathy’s run out.
One large hand fists into the back of your dress, yanking you against him so hard your breath whooshes out of you. His other arm bands around your waist, locking you in place as your tits press flush against his chest.
“Ony—!"
“Nah," he growls, “You done?"
And just like that—you crack.
Your fingers claw into his shirt as you bury your face into his neck, inhaling that familiar scent—jailhouse soap, and him. A choked sob escapes you as he grunts, adjusting his grip to cradle you tighter.
“Yeah," he mutters, lips brushing your temple—“That’s what I thought.”
His nose drags along the curve of your neck—inhaling deep—like he’s trying to drown himself in you. Vanilla. Spiced cinnamon. Caramel. Your scent clings to his senses, and a rough groan vibrates against your skin before he cups your face in his big, calloused hands.
Then—his mouth crashes into yours.
Not soft. Not sweet.
Claiming.
His tongue strokes against yours, hot and demanding, before he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth—sharp, just how you like it. The sound of his grunts fills the space between kisses—“Goddamn, you smell so good—” his palm smacks against your ass with a sharp CLAP!, making the flesh quiver beneath his grip as he kneads it possessively.
“Why you doin’ allat’, huh?” His voice is gruff but softer now, forehead pressed to yours—“A nigga was gon’ find his way back to you.”
“Your lawyer said…” your voice cracks, fingers tightening in his shirt—“‘Said they coulda’ gave you more time…”
His jaw ticks—once, twice—before he exhales hard through his nose.
“Look at me.”
When you do, his eyes burn with something fierce.
“Ain’t no cage gon’ keep me from you.”
And just like that—his mouth is on yours again, swallowing your whimpers, his grip tightening like he’s determined to erase every second of those three months apart.
Your whimper melts into something hotter, needier—tongue sliding bold and filthy against his, dragging slowly before plunging back in, tasting the mint on his breath mixed with something darker, smokier. Onyankopon growls against your lips, tongue stroking yours with a rhythm that makes your thighs clench.
“Greedy ass," he rumbles, voice thick with amusement—"Threw that lil’ tongue at me like you ain’t just been cryin’."
“‘Want you, Papa…" you pant this, rocking your hips against the hard ridge of him, shameless.
His hands tighten on your face—rough but reverent—as he pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, his gaze burning through you.
“Three months, baby. Three months ‘I been dreamin’ ‘bout my pussy," he grits out—“But nah, we gon’ do this right."
Your brows knit—confused, frustrated—until his thumb swipes over your bottom lip, smug as hell.
“A nigga got a whole garden in the Hummer for you," he admits lowly, "Tulips, roses, shit you like—whole backseat covered."
That freckled smile of yours spreads slowly across your face, until you realize something.
“Wait—you got your car back?"
His smirk doesn’t falter, but something shifts behind his gaze—hooded, calculated.
“Handled it."
You blink once. Twice. Then deadpan, “I won’t even ask."
“You already knowin’," he chuckles, swiping his thumb over your bottom lip one last time like he’s erasing the question altogether.
“Go ‘head, start gettin’ yo’self pretty. Imma’ run some plays by these niggas, handle some business ‘fore we head out."
Your stomach knots. Already?
Three months gone, and the streets demand his presence before the sheets even lose your warmth. You bite your protest back regardless, swallowing it down with a soft “Okay," that barely fills the space between you.
Onyankopon studies you for half a breath—like he sees it, the tension in your jaw—before gruffly adding, “Aight? I’m happy to be home."
And just like that he’s turning away, crouching to ruffle Bear’s ears as the dog practically vibrates with joy. You watch them—the way his tattooed hands roughhouse with the beast who missed him just as much as you did—and exhale.
“Yeah," you murmur, touching the heart pendant at your throat.
“…Me too."
The afternoon light slants through sheer curtains as the scene shifts to another familiar rhythm—Onyankopon planted on the bedroom bench like a king holding court. His muscular thighs spread wide, fresh out of the shower but already dressed in that effortless urban elegance—crisp black tee straining across his chest, black Amiri cargos, icy AP watch glinting at his wrist. Cuban links drip down his neck as he barks into his phone, voice sandpaper rough—“Nah, that product ‘move different now. ‘Tell them lil’ niggas to tighten up or get got."
Meanwhile, you exist in your own world mere feet away—naked as the day you were born, lost in the ritual of getting ready.
Your reflection in the vanity mirror is sinful—that waist cutting in like an hourglass before flaring out into heavy hips and that ass he can’t stop smacking. Oversized tits sway as you lean forward to dab blush over freckled cheeks, brown nipples stiff from the breeze drifting through the window. Between your thighs—pretty pink folds glistening with arousal, still tender from the thought of him earlier.
You’re so engrossed in blending highlighter along your collarbones that you don’t notice his approach—until thick fingers suddenly part you from behind.
“Papa—!”
Your giggle bubbles up as his calloused thumb swipes through slick heat, inspecting you with a low hum of approval.
"Fuck you laughin’ for?" he grunts, still half distracted by his phone conversation—“‘Just checkin’ my property."
The juxtaposition is ridiculous—him murmuring “Two keys max,” into the receiver while his other hand teases your clit—until you slap his wrist away, cheeks burning.
"Stop it!”
“‘You the one bent over lookin’ like dessert."
Sigh. Business and pleasure, always intertwined.
Now fully dressed, you feel every bit the masterpiece you’ve crafted—your curls styled in a voluminous flip over cascading like spilled ink down your back. Dark, feathery lashes make your almond shaped eyes look bigger, doe like, while deep brown lips—blended with a hint of plum—give your mouth a sultry, kissable pout.
The outfit is pure temptation—tall, strappy heels that add inches to your shorter frame, black capris clinging to every curve of your full hips and round ass like they were painted on. The lace trimmed camisole is sinful, its sweetheart neckline framing the swell of your breasts, the sheer fabric teasing glimpses of skin beneath. Your small Coach purse twinkles with playful keychains dangling from it, a hint of softness against the fierce femininity of your look.
You do a slow, deliberate spin for him—hips swaying, lashes fluttering—before rolling your eyes dramatically when he barely glances up, his big hand absently rubbing the side of your hip as he continues growling into the phone, “Nah, lil’ bruh, that’s not how we move.”
Frustration flickers.
With a huff, you drop onto his lap without warning, your weight forcing his thighs to adjust beneath you. His free arm instinctively wraps around your waist as you play with the coarse strands of his beard, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw while he keeps talking.
You murmur against his ear, “I got all pretty for you, y’know.”
“Aight, Imma’ see you in twenty.”
You blink.
“Twenty minutes? Where?"
“Across the Westbank," he replies smoothly, fingers trailing up the curve of your thigh where the capris hug tightest—“‘Told you I had business to handle."
Your arms cross over your chest, “This was supposed to be our time."
“Youn’ think I know that? I got shit to do."
“Yeah, ‘cause a drug dealer has way less free time than the average working man."
The words hang in the air—sharp, but edged with truth. His brows lift, a silent challenge, and you bite your lip before melting back against him with a soft “Sorry…”
Your voice dropped to a whisper, “I just want you to myself today."
Onyankopon exhales through his nose, the tension in his shoulders loosening as his hands slide up your back.
“You got me," he murmurs, lips brushing the slope of your bare shoulder.
“But I got a whole neighborhood to take care of—including buyin’ everythin’ yo’ greedy lil’ ass wanna see under the sun."
His mouth trails up your neck, each kiss a quiet apology, a silent promise. You sigh, tilting your head to give him more access, your resolve crumbling beneath his touch.
“Fine," you concede, “But hurry, please?”
“Ain’t gon’ be long enough for you to miss me."
And just like that, he had you under his spell.
The first time you rode shotgun on one of his business runs, your pulse had thrummed with something illicit—the thrill of danger, the heat of rebellion licking at your skin like a forbidden flame. Back then, watching him command respect with just the tilt of his chin felt electric, his dominance a live wire beneath your fingertips.
Now?
Now you slump in the passenger seat of his freshly detailed Hummer, fingers drumming against the leather as you stare determinedly out the window. His employees—lean, hungry looking young men with eyes too old for their faces—nod at you with careful respect, like you’re some kind of queen they’re afraid to glance at too long. You offer weak smiles in return, teeth digging into your plum stained bottom lip.
Onyankopon moves like a storm—methodical, unhurried—handing off product wrapped in crisp bills, exchanging terse words with buyers who swear they can handle weight they clearly can’t. Every so often his palm lands heavy on your thigh—reassuring, possessive—but your skin feels too tight today.
Your gaze flicks to the Glock tucked between his seat and the console, the .45 holstered at his ankle, the AR barely hidden beneath the flower blankets in the back. The arsenal used to make you feel safe. Now it just makes your stomach twist.
“Can we go?"
He pauses mid sentence, dark eyes cutting to you—reading the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers twist the rings on your hands.
“Five minutes," he grunts.
Onyankopon’s jaw ticks as he leans out the driver’s side window, his deep voice dropping to a lethal calm—
“Nigga, you movin’ like you want problems.”
The young boy couldn’t be older than nineteen—puffs his chest out, fingers twitching near his waistband like he’s itching to prove something.
“I ain’t scared—”
“That’s yo’ first fuckin’ problem.”
Before the kid can retort, Onyankopon shoves the car door open and steps out, looming over him like a shadow. Even from the passenger seat, you can see the moment the boy realizes his mistake—how his shoulders tense, how his eyes dart sideways for backup that ain’t coming.
“You gon’ get smoked actin’ like this,” Onyankopon growls, jabbing a finger into the boy’s chest—“Get yo’ shit together ‘fore I help you.”
“Aight, Onyo’. Damn. My bad—”
“Get the fuck on.”
He dismisses him before sliding back into the driver’s seat, his energy crackling like live wire. You don’t say a word—just shift in your seat, crossing your legs tight, lips pressed together.
The engine roars as he peels off, tires biting pavement. At the first red light, his hand cups the back of your neck, dragging you into a kiss so filthy your toes curl in your heels.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against your lips, “Appreciate you holdin’ me down.”
You nod, still quiet, but your fingers tighten on his wrist—Where are we going?
“Yo’ lil’ candy ass arcade on Canal.”
Your frown melts instantly—the one with the vintage Pac-Man machine and strawberry mochi. A grin tugs at your lips despite yourself.
“…’Kay.”
Once again? Under his spell.
The neon glow of Canal Street buzzed around you as you stepped into the old-timey arcade, its retro facade hiding a freshly renovated interior that smelled faintly of buttered popcorn and digital nostalgia. The weekend crowd pulsed around you—laughing teenagers, couples locked in competitive banter, families chasing kids hyped up on sugar—all seeking the same escape from reality. Your fingers tightened around Onyankopon’s large hand as you tugged him inside, watching his sharp gaze flick over the space—new LED lights where flickering fluorescents once hung, sleek game consoles replacing the creaky ones he remembered.
“Ain’t been gone that long,” he muttered, but there was no real irritation in it, just the low rumble of a man recalibrating.
“Three months can feel like a sentence, Papa.”
He thinks on your words for a moment.
“‘C’mon, then. I’m tryna put ‘belt to ass in Mortal Kombat.”
“In your dreams!”
You darted away with a giggle, weaving through the crowd as his deep chuckle chased you. The sound was rare enough to make your chest ache—he was letting his guard down.
And when he did?
It was like the sun breaking through a storm.
At the game station, he was ferocious—button mashing with the precision of a man who took everything seriously, even play. His victorious howls shook your ribs where you stood pressed against him, his arm slung around your waist as he crowed about flawless victories. But then—your turn. His competitive edge melted into something softer, his hands guiding yours over the controls when you pouted about losing.
“Like this, mama—time it right.”
It was a quiet parallel to his life—his instinct to protect, to guide, even in something as trivial as a game.
Later at a secluded lounge area tucked in the back of the arcade, you both shared strawberry mochi and sweet wine. The other couples around you laughed easily—holding hands, stealing kisses without glancing over their shoulders first. Your fingers traced the rim of your glass as the thought settled heavy—Did they have regular lives? Were they happier?
Onyankopon’s voice cut through the haze.
“You been thinkin’ on somethin’ since we left the house."
His voice is low, steady—a statement, not a question.
“Hm?”
“Hm?” he repeats, “Yeah, you."
You swirl the sweet wine in your glass, avoiding his gaze for just a beat too long before answering, “I’m just happy to have you home."
He leans back in his chair, arms folding across his broad chest.
“‘You want me to believe that?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
A beat passes. Then another. His expression doesn’t change—just that same quiet intensity, like he’s reading every flicker of hesitation in your body language.
He stands, the chair scraping against the floor.
“We gon’ talk over dinner," he confirms, “It’s aight."
And just like that, the conversation is postponed—but not forgotten. You exhale softly, nodding as you rise to grab his hand, the unspoken weight of your thoughts lingering between you like an extra shadow.
The restaurant hums with the soul of New Orleans—exposed brick walls draped in vintage jazz posters, flickering candlelight glinting off brass fixtures, the rich scent of gumbo and buttery cornbread hanging thick in the air. Live piano notes drift from the corner, smooth and lazy like the Mississippi at dusk.
You sit across from him, legs crossed just so, your lace camisole dipping to frame the heavy swell of your breasts. Small dimples flash as you press your lips together, watching him watch you with that quiet, unnerving focus of his—like he’s peeling back every layer you’ve carefully stacked since this morning.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” you murmur, fingers tracing the rim of your water glass.
His response is a low rumble—“Ain’t gotta thank me for doin’ shit a nigga supposed to do."
Silence stretches between you. You know that look—chin tilted down, thick brows slightly furrowed—he’s turning something over in his mind.
Then, out of nowhere—“How yo’ mama doin’?"
You smile, soft and genuine.
“Still prayin’ for you."
His lips quirk—“‘Wouldn’t want it any other way. She give a nigga ‘travelin’ grace."
You tug a curl behind your ear, exhaling softly.
“Well…" You reach for your purse, heart skipping—“I got you somethin’."
Your fingers tremble slightly as you pull out the blue velvet box—small, unassuming, but holding all the hope you've tucked away.
His lips quirk before he even opens it, that deep voice laced with mischief—“Lemme’ guess—is it you, butt ass naked on top of a second Hummer? ‘Cause I was already plannin’ on makin’ that happen."
You roll your eyes, “No, boy."
He flips the lid open, thick fingers pausing as he pulls out the sleek, leather bound planner—matte black with silver detailing, masculine but refined. The attached pen glints under the soft restaurant lighting.
“i got you a planner!" you squeak, suddenly nervous.
His brow arches, thumb tracing the edge of the booklet before he meets your eyes—“That’s sweet, baby. But why?"
You fidget, twisting a curl around your finger—“Well…I thought maybe it could be a new bonding experience for us?"
Your voice is softer now—"You know…we could journal on Sundays during online sermons, make grocery lists, plan things together…"
Your next words come out in a rush—“I thought…maybe even show your parole officer that you do want more in life, you know?"
The air between you shifts.
His expression hardens, “Youn’ think I want more in life?"
"I didn’t mean it like that, I just—"
“So what you sayin’?"
His voice is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it—the kind that makes your pulse stutter. You swallow, choosing your next words carefully.
"I just…want you to try something new, On’."
Your gaze lifts, meeting his—“There are these moments where you talk about your future—goin’ to trade school, gettin’ off the streets, somethin’…practical. You’re just too smart for that to go to waste."
A beat passes. Then his lips curl—not quite a smile—“You think bein’ pragmatic gon’ pay the bills?"
"Ony—"
“Niggas out here with degrees still hustlin’ backwards. You think a planner gon’ change the fact that this city don’t give a fuck about no trade school paperwork?"
His voice drops low, gravel rough with conviction—“I got half a fuckin’ city to feed, ion’ do this shit ‘cause I like tellin’ niggas what to do. The side of town we stay on? You still there ‘cause you refuse to leave yo’ family, and I respect that."
His jaw flexes, thumb brushing over the planner still in his hand—“But I should get the same in return."
He’s right. He’s always talked about putting you up somewhere better—somewhere with gates and quiet streets, or even leaving New Orleans altogether—but he’s never pushed you. Never made you choose when you never agreed to that.
And now here you are, handing him a planner like it’s an ultimatum, like paper could fix the jagged edges of the life he’s built.
You blink hard, swallowing the lump forming—“I’m sorry…”
Fingers trembling, you reach to take the planner back, but his hand closes gently over yours before you can.
“Don’t do allat’," he murmurs, voice softer now. The planner stays in his grip—not rejected, not dismissed—just held.
“‘This the shit that’s been weighin’ on yo’ heart all day?”
The question hangs between you, raw and exposed.
“…I talked to your parole officer,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper—““Before your release.”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“He said if you get caught again…it’s twenty-five to life, Onyankopon. No parole.”
A single tear escapes before you can stop it, sliding hot down your cheek. You swipe at it fast, but the damage is done—your face is warm, your lips trembling as you whisper, “I can’t lose you again.”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
His voice is gruff, thick with something that makes your chest ache. He doesn’t promise miracles. Doesn’t swear he’ll change overnight. But the look in his eyes—the vow in them—says more than words ever could.
“You have to be here, y’know?”
His thumb swipes under your eye, rough but tender.
“I’m knowin’, baby.”
But you can’t stop now—the words spill out like a confession, shaky and raw—
“When we have our first lil’ Papa…when we get married…when you finally graduate…”
Your breath hitches, lips quivering as you grip his wrist, needing him to hear this, to feel it like you do.
“You can’t leave me like that again.”
The words break on the last syllable, “You just can’t.”
That’s all it takes.
In one swift movement, he’s out of his seat, leaning across the table, his big hands cradling your face—not gentle, not this time—commanding your attention.
“Stop that fuckin’ cryin’,” he growls, “I’m never leavin’ you again.”
You whimper—half protest, half relief—but before you can speak, his mouth crashes into yours, stealing your breath along with the last of your tears. It’s not a sweet kiss—it’s desperate, possessive, a promise sealed in salt and heat.
The waitress approaches with a tray piled high with steaming Creole dishes—crispy fried catfish, creamy shrimp étouffée, golden cornbread muffins—but freezes mid step when she catches sight of you two, your faces still inches apart.
Her voice squeaks out, “I’ll—uh—‘come back!”
Onyankopon doesn’t even flinch, just leans back slightly, his deep voice smooth as molasses—“Nah, you good, love. We ain’t mean to stop what you gotta do.”
You quickly wipe your face with the back of your hand, giggling apologetically at her, your earlier tears replaced by a warm, flustered grin.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” you murmur as she carefully sets the plates down.
“Is there anything else y’all need?” she asks, glancing between you two like she’s half-expecting another emotional hurricane.
Onyankopon settles into his seat, stretching his long legs out before casually dropping the bomb—“Can you box her up as a to-go entrée?”
Your mouth falls open before you snatch a fry off his plate and flick it at him. He catches it between his teeth, smirk victorious as he chews.
“Damn. Nevermind then,” he murmurs, low and playful, making the waitress bite back a laugh before she scurries off.
The rest of the night feels good—normal in a way that makes your chest ache with gratitude. Before leaving, you drag him into the restaurant’s vintage black and white photo booth, cramming yourselves into the tiny space. He grumbles “This shit for teenagers,” but still lets you pose him—gruff, sexy glares mixed with moments where he suddenly pulls you in, his lips at your neck, his hands possessive on your hips while the flash captures it all.
And when you climb back into the Hummer later, the LED lights inside now glow a soft violet—you can’t help but watch him with quiet fascination.
He’s on the phone with one of his men, voice a low, authoritative rumble—“Nah, don’t move ‘til I say so”—while his free hand rolls a blunt with effortless precision, his thick fingers crimping the paper just right.
The Hummer idles softly outside your apartment building, the engine a quiet purr beneath the hum of the city at night. The LED glow from the dashboard paints his sharp features in an otherworldly hue—high cheekbones catching the light, the flicker of his chains as he moves.
You sit curled in the passenger seat, cradling the bouquet of flowers he’d surprised you with earlier—roses, peonies, all lush and fragrant. You press your nose into the petals, inhaling deeply as your lashes flutter shut for just a second. Sweet. Just like him when he wanted to be.
Across from you, Onyankopon flicks his lighter—the flame casting brief, dancing shadows across his deep brown skin, his tattoos momentarily illuminated like ancient script. He takes a long pull from the blunt, smoke curling from his nostrils in smooth, practiced streams.
“Non, fais pas ça—Nah, don’t do that. Li pa bon pou biznis.”
You watch as he takes another hit, the ember glowing bright before he exhales again, smoke filling the space between you.
“Mwen pral rele ou pli ta,” he murmurs into the phone before ending the call.
Silence settles, but it’s comfortable—heavy with the scent of weed and flowers, the quiet understanding between you two thicker than the smoke.
You reach over, brushing a thumb over his knuckles.
“Teach me,” you murmur.
He arches a brow.
“Creole?”
You nod.
His lips curl into that half smirk that always makes your stomach flutter as he nudges the blunt between his fingers and murmurs, "Say ‘Mwen renmen w’."
I love you.
You bite your lip to suppress the grin threatening to take over your face—you know what it means—but you play along anyway, voice lilting sweetly, “Mwen renmen w."
His eyes darken, the low purple light catching the flecks of gold in them as he exhales smoke and leans closer, rough palm cradling your jaw.
“I love you so much fuckin’ more, girl."
You only took two hits, but it’s enough—your body melts against his side, pliant and warm, your cheek pressing into the firm curve of his shoulder as he scrolls through his phone with one hand, the other absently tracing circles on your thigh.
Messages light up the screen—coordinates, confirmations, the usual—but you’re too busy nuzzling into the scruff along his jaw, breathing in the mix of his cologne and weed. You press a feather light kiss there, right where his beard meets his cheekbone.
“Thank you, mama," he murmurs, voice gravel rough but tender.
You go in for another, but this time he turns his head just enough to meet you halfway—a quick peck at first, teasing. But when you chase his lips, he hums low in his throat and suddenly it’s not quick anymore.
His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, demanding entry, and you part for him with a breathy sigh. The kiss deepens—slow, filthy, calculated—until you’re squirming in your seat, your fingers tangled in his chains.
“Aight," he growls against your mouth, one hand already on the door handle—“"We takin’ this shit upstairs."
The kiss is molten, unhurried but heavy with intent—your foreheads bump together, lips slanting clumsily as you whimper into his mouth, needier than usual. Your heel slides up over the center console, legs spreading just enough in that shy, wordless way of yours—can’t wait, don’t make me wait.
Then—there—the rough pad of his middle finger swiping over your clothed folds, and fuck, the fabric is already damp, sticking to your skin. Your tongue stutters against his, a broken huff catching in your throat as your head falls back against the seat.
“….Ain’t even touched yo’ ass yet,” he murmurs, but his finger circles again, mimicking the lazy thrust of his tongue—slow, then slower—until you’re squirming, your hips canting up into his touch.
“Mwen renmen w,” you mewl, and his fingers curl, gripping your thigh as he licks into your mouth like he’s trying to taste the words.
“‘Fuckin’ right you do.”
The air in the Hummer is thick—hot with the weight of desperate breaths and the slick, sinful sound of his fingers teasing you through damp fabric. Your hands fist gently in his beard, the coarse strands scraping against your palms, sending a shiver down your spine. You can’t help it—you nuzzle against the roughness, craving the friction, the burn of it against your skin before dragging him down into another filthy, open mouthed kiss.
Your legs spread wider—so fucking wide—knees falling slack against the leather seats, silently begging.
His fingers then hook into the waistband of your capris, dipping just beneath. He doesn’t even push inside yet, just swipes slow along your soaked folds, gathering the slick there before dragging back up. Your hips jerk, but he pins you with a glare, forehead pressed hard against yours as his breath fans over your parted lips.
“M’gonna cum if you put ‘em in,” you whimper, voice trembling, weak.
You squirm, biting your lip—“Ony…I’m so wet.”
His nostrils flare, eyes narrowing as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear—“I’mma put ‘em in. You ‘bet not fuckin’ cum.”
The moment his thick fingers slide inside you, deep, your body betrays you in the most obscene way—your pussy clenches around him with a wet, shuddering pfft as his knuckles sink into your swollen folds.
A weak, desperate sob tears from your throat, your voice breaking high and needy like you haven’t been touched in years, like his fingers are the only thing keeping you sane. Worse? You gush around him instantly, soaking his hand in a humiliating rush of slick, your hips jerking helplessly.
“Fuck,” he growls, dragging the word out low and rough as your eyes roll back. He’s fucking you with his fingers, slow and deep, curling them just right to make your back arch off the seat.
“Ughn—ohmygod—“ you slur, voice wrecked, your mouth falling slack as he pistons his fingers in and out, your wetness squelching around them with every thrust.
He leans in, his breath hot against your ear—“Soundin’ like a fuckin’ baby.”
And you do—whimpering, gasping, your pussy clenching around his fingers like it’s trying to milk them for more.
“Ain’t even fucked you yet,” he murmurs, cruel, twisting his fingers just to hear you sob again.
A desperate whimper claws its way up your throat as you crash your mouth against his in a messy, open mouthed kiss—tongue sliding filthy against his, lips smearing wet and frantic. Your brows knit together, a tight little frown creasing your forehead as his fingers bury themselves even deeper, stretching you with that perfect, brutal coil that makes your toes curl.
“Onyo’—fuhh—!"
The words dissolve into a senseless slur, your voice cracking as your legs hike higher, knees pressing into your chest, showing him—begging him—just how badly you need it.
Your mind hazes, drifting back to those long nights alone—phone pressed to your ear, his voice rough through the receiver as he talked you through it, murmuring filthy promises while you rubbed your clit with trembling fingers, tears streaking your cheeks.
And now? You can’t even handle the real thing.
His fingers withdraw with a wet pop, leaving you empty and whimpering—until his rough grip tangles in your hair, yanking your face toward his lap with a throaty command.
“Gon’ eat this dick up," he grunts, voice dripping with dominance—“Actin’ like you can’t even take my fingers."
You surge forward, pressing a sloppy, desperate kiss against his lips—“M’sorry—"
“Ion’ wanna hear allat’,” he growls, "On yo’ knees."
He shoves the console back with one hand, his other hand still fisted in your curls, guiding you down. The sight of you beneath him is obscenely perfect—your large, teary eyes peering up through your lashes, lips parted and puffy, freckled cheeks flushed.
With trembling hands, you tug his sweats down just enough to free him—his dick springs out, thick and angry, the tip already glistening. It’s bigger than your face, heavy in your small hands, veins prominent under your fingertips.
"Fuck," you whimper—you can’t help yourself, smacking the swollen head against your tongue before licking a kittenish stripe up his shaft.
His rough palm cups the side of your face, calloused fingers pressing into your soft skin before delivering a dominant smack—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you whimper and redden under his touch.
“How much you missed this dick?" He growls, watching with hooded eyes as you bob your head messily, spit and pre-cum slicking your lips.
Your answer comes in slurred, desperate sucks—“Mmmhh—mmph!"—the vibration of your whimpers traveling up his length. You've always struggled to take him fully, but you try so hard, your throat fluttering around the head as you choke back tears.
He chuckles darkly, reaching for the blunt still smoldering in the ashtray. Onyankopon takes a slow drag, exhaling smoke through his nose like some kind of arrogant god watching his worshipper struggle.
“Pull them pretty ass titties out," he commands, "You know what a nigga like."
With shaky hands, you tug your top down, letting your heavy breasts spill free. Your nipples are already peaked and sensitive, and when your fingers brush over them, you jolt with a breathy gasp.
“Ah—!"
“Keep goin'," he rumbles, sinking deeper into his seat, blunt dangling between his fingers as he watches you with lazy hunger.
“‘Ain't tell you to stop."
You press your tits together around his thick length, the head of his dick peeking out between the softness of your cleavage. You begin rocking your body, fucking him with your tits in slow, worshipful strokes—
"Mwen renmen w," you mewl again, voice weak and trembling, your swollen lips forming the words between gasps.
“Say that shit again.”
“Mwen renmen w!" you mewl even deeper, your hips jerking uselessly as your arousal drips down your thighs.
He grunts, finally tossing the blunt aside—“Fuck it. A nigga need yo’ pussy now."
Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, pulling him down as your back hits the leather seat—his massive frame hovers over you, swallowing you in shadow except for the violet glow of the LED lights streaking across his sweat-slicked skin. Your lips find him again in a weak, sloppy kiss, your mind too fogged with lust to form coherent thoughts—just need, just heat, just him.
“Show a nigga what he been missin’.”
Your thighs tremble as you slowly spread your legs wider beneath him, presenting your soaked folds—puffy and glistening under the dim light.
“Been waitin’ for you," you whimper, voice cracking with desperation.
The words hit him like a match to gasoline.
He crashes his mouth back onto yours in a searing kiss before trailing his lips down—lower—licking a hot stripe down your neck, sucking bruises into your throat, teeth scraping over your collarbone. Your back arches when his tongue swirls around one taut nipple, then the other, pulling whines from your chest as pleasure spikes through you.
But he doesn’t stop there.
Strong hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider as he licks his lips—"Fuck, look at you."
And then he dives in.
His tongue drags slow and filthy up your slit, savoring you before he buries his face between your legs, nose nudging your clit as he devours—deep, hungry strokes of his tongue, curling just right inside you.
Your hands fly to his braids, gripping tight as your hips jerk—
"Fuck, baby.”
His response? A low, vibrating growl against your pussy, his fingers digging into your thighs to hold you still as he feasts.
Onyankopon’s mouth is filthy—so loud, messy and wet, lips sealing around your clit with a suck that makes your whole body jerk. Saliva and arousal mix in obscene, sloppy sounds, his tongue working you open with rough, languid strokes like he's savoring every damn second.
You tuck your chin shyly, peeking down at him through fluttering lashes—his face buried between your thighs, eyes hooded with satisfaction as he eats you like his last meal. Your fingers tangle in his braids, twisting gently, playing with the silky strands as a soft pout forms on your lips.
“…Missed playin’ in your hair," you whimper, voice thick with emotion—almost fragile, like admitting it out loud makes it more real.
“Ain’t gotta miss it,” he rasps, his tongue plunging deep—"Keep playin’ in my shit. Gon’ let you braid me up again after you make a fuckin’ mess on me."
Your breath hitches, fingers tightening in his hair as you nod frantically, spreading your legs even wider—"Uh-huh—y-yeah—!"
Your words dissolve into stupid, slurred nonsense—"Ony—fuhh—I’mgonnac—“ as your pussy gushes against his mouth, the lewd squelch of his tongue working you over drowning out your weak cries. Your cheeks burn hot, embarrassment and pleasure twisting together as you feel everything—his nose grinding against your clit, his lips sucking your folds, his tongue fucking into you in slow, filthy circles.
“Taste so fuckin’ good," he growls against your skin, the vibration making you squeal peevishly.
“Mwen renmen w..."
And just like that? Switch flipped.
His grip tightens, lifting your legs effortlessly over his broad shoulders, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the arches of your feet like he’s savoring the feel of you.
“Keep tellin’ a nigga you love him,” he grunts, voice low and rough—"Let’s have a conversation."
You whimper, arms looping around his neck, pulling him closer until his forehead presses against yours—breaths mingling, hearts pounding.
“Mwen renmen w," you whisper again, barely audible, lips brushing his with each syllable.
And then—oh God—you feel him. His thick length slaps against your soaked folds, the blunt head nudging at your entrance, already making your body tense in anticipation.
“Yeah, huh? Talk to me."
You nod frantically, pliant eyes struggling to focus as he starts to sink in—slow, so damn slow—stretching you in a way you haven’t felt in too long.
Your face twists—lips parting around a shaky gasp—as the fullness steals your breath. And then? Emotion hits you like a tidal wave.
Tears prick at your eyes, your chest swelling with something so big it hurts. You feel connected—like his soul is pressing into yours with every inch.
“Mwen renmen w," you sob—weakest yet, voice cracking—as he finally bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.
His groan is guttural, hands tightening on your thighs—“Fuck, mama—I know."
And then he moves.
His strokes are borderline punishing—each thrust forcing a choked gasp from your throat, the stretch of him bordering on too much, too deep, too everything. Yet your body clings to him greedily, walls fluttering around his length like it’s been starved—rewarding him for every inch he takes, every brutal snap of his hips that leaves you whimpering.
Your toes curl, thighs trembling where they’re hooked over his shoulders. One large hand fists at the nape of your hair, yanking your face close to his until your foreheads knock together—your head jerks back with each rough thrust, lips parted in a shaky pout, tears spilling over your flushed cheeks.
Weak little sobs hitch in your chest with every drive of his hips, your nails digging crescent moons into the sweat-slick muscles of his back. Between broken moans, your voice cracks—soft, vulnerable—
“Hurts—seein’ you leave," you sniffle, brows knitting together, “D—don’t…wanna do that again…”
His glare darkens, jaw tightening as he rams into you harder—deeper—a grunt tearing from his chest as his breath fans hot over your face.
“Then don’t," he snarls, voice raw with possessiveness, "Ain’t goin’ nowhere if you keep takin’ dick like this.”
Your next cry is swallowed by his mouth—his kiss bruising, tongue forcing its way past your lips as if to silence your doubts. And god help you, you let him—melting into the pain, the pleasure, the promise in every snap of his hips.
You’re silent now—past words, past whimpers—just taking him, your body trembling under the sheer weight of his dominance. The only sound is the obscene squelch of your pussy creaming around him, gushing embarrassingly with every withdrawal of his thick length.
“That’s it—take this shit. Ain’t no runnin’ now,” he growls, watching your teary eyes roll back as your walls clench around him.
A surrendering little sob escapes you once more—weak, broken—your hands limply gripping his shoulders as he fucks you through it, his pace never faltering.
“Fuck, girl—you drippin’ all on me."
And you are—soaking his thighs, the leather seats, everything. Your orgasm wrings you out in slow, torturous waves as he uses you, claims you, ruins you.
His touch softens just enough to soothe—calloused fingers brushing away your tears as he kisses you through your cries, lips lingering against yours in a rare moment of tenderness.
“M’sorry,” he just grunts, voice rough with sincerity.
“Ain’t leavin’ you again."
Your nods and whimpers dissolve into another aching climax, your pussy pulsing around him as you drown in the love, the passion, the need. It’s a moment that could last forever.
But just like that? The mood shifts.
His grip tightens, flipping you effortlessly onto your knees, face pressed into the leather as he drags you back onto his lap—ass up, his dick buried to the hilt inside you. Your feet tuck atop his thighs, heels digging in as you let out a tiny, shuddering “O—Ooh—!"
You start slow. Rolling your hips back tentatively, but he then growls, “Take yo’ time. ‘This dick ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
The command is clear.
You listen, setting a rhythm—slow, deliberate—skin slapping together in a steady, filthy clap that fills the heavy silence. Your thighs tremble, face smushed into the seat as your whimpers grow louder—"O—O-ooh—!"
Onyankopon’s hand cracks down on your ass, “‘There she go’. My lil’ nasty ass bitch."
Your fingers slip between your lips, stifling your moans as you rock back onto him, ass quaking with each bounce.
“I ain’t movin’," he warns, "Give me a fuckin’ show.”
You press a shaky hand against his abdomen for leverage, sitting up just enough to feel him deeper—too deep—hitting a spot so painfully good your body locks up.
His grip tightens around your waist as you whimper—"Ooh, shit!” before desperately bouncing your ass back onto him, the sound of skin slapping skin deafening in the enclosed space.
And then? Your pussy farts around him for the thousandth time, wet and obscene, the vibration dragging a trembling groan from your throat—“Ooooh, mygod—Papa—!"
You were never loud like this.
Your moans drag out—whiny, high-pitched, annoyed with yourself because you can’t stop them, each thrust pulling another pathetic sound from your lips.
Onyankopon’s hand slips around your torso, calloused fingers cupping beneath your breasts where his name brands into your skin—it’s effortless. He’s bouncing you down onto his dick like you weigh nothing, your legs kicking weakly as your cream paints his length.
“You gon’ keep takin’ this muhfucka’ like you missed it.”
And you do—each bounce, each squelch, each fatty noise your pussy makes proving it.
"That’s my muhfuckin’ girl."
Your head falls back against his shoulder, mouth drooling, eyes rolling, body melting. He owns you.
His thick forearm presses against your throat, the pressure just enough to make your vision blur at the edges as he fucks into you with even more brutal, punishing strokes. His jaw rests heavy atop your head, your weak panting the only sound you can manage past the tightness in your windpipe—your body submitting under his dominance.
“Mmmf—hot," you mewl, sweat slicked skin sticking to his, the air in the car suffocating.
Without breaking rhythm, Onyankopon reaches over and rolls the window down, the sudden rush of night air hitting your overheated skin—
Oh God.
Your noises—those pathetic, whimpering, creaming sounds—are now free to echo into the quiet neighborhood.
Panicked, you reach a shaky hand toward the window switch—but his grip tightens around your throat, cutting off your air as he rams up into you, all while tugging you down onto his dick even harder.
“Nngh—!" you choke, humiliation burning through you as you clench around him.
“You whinin’ like a bitch,” he grunts directly into your ear, the vibration shooting straight to your core.
Then, with a final rough tug, he forces your face toward the open window—forcing you to see the dimly lit houses, the quiet streets—his people, his city.
“Let everybody know I’m back home.”
And you scream. His name ripping from your throat, raw and unhinged.
“Mwen renmen w,” he growls between thrusts, the Creole rolling off his tongue like honey mixed with gravel—your words, your love, thrown back at you with the same raw intensity you’d given him all night.
Your body jerks as he nuts—deep, so deep—his release flooding you in thick, pulsing waves that make your thighs quiver.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing—his chest rising and falling against your back, your own breath hitching in your throat as aftershocks ripple through you.
Then, weakly, you tilt your head up, catching his lips in one last, tender kiss—your little cries soft against his mouth, voice trembling with everything—relief, exhaustion, love.
Your body melts back against his chest, muscles lax and satisfied as you peer out through the cracked window at the quiet streets of the 7th Ward. The humid night air carries the distant hum of cicadas and the faint bassline of someone’s music drifting from a porch down the block. His warmth presses into your back, steadying, as you tilt your head to murmur against his skin—
“Where would we go... if we left?"
For a beat, he stills—his breath huffing against your damp shoulder before he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin there.
“Wherever you wanna be, girl. ‘Long as it’s got a bed that can take how I fuck you."
A weak giggle bubbles from your throat—but then you say it, the words slipping out before you can second-guess them.
“‘M serious, Papa. I think it’s time to get out the 7th.”
You feel his surprise, the way his grip tightens reflexively around your waist.
“Where ‘this comin’ from?”
You swallow, suddenly shy.
"Been thinkin’... ’bout quiet. ‘Bout space. ‘Bout you—us—somewhere ain’t nobody knockin’ on the door.”
His fingers trace idle patterns on your hip as he murmurs, “A crib up in the Art District ‘don’t sound bad."
“Gives more space for Bear to run around."
“Yeah," he agrees, "A nigga could look into some trade schools ‘round there too."
Wait.
You turn slightly in his arms, searching his face.
“You’re serious?"
He nods. Then he says it—words heavy with the weight of a future he’s choosing.
“‘Wanna give you a ring. A child. ‘Can’t do allat’ bein’ on the streets.”
Your heart swells.
You clutch his face as you say, “It doesn’t matter who you are to everybody else. You got me. I love you more than life itself, Onyankopon.”
He grunts low in his throat—then crashes his lips against yours in a kiss so deep, so emotional, it makes you giggle against his mouth, cheeks burning.
“We finna’ go get a ring right fuckin’ now.”
You giggle once more, pressing a hand to his chest.
"Let’s make it into the house first, yeah? We need a shower."
"Aight. Imma’ fuck you again in there."
You squeak as he hoists you up, your half naked body tucked tight against his chest as he steps out into the humid night. A few voices call out from porches down the block—“Aye, Ony back home!"—cheery, thick with that Southern lilt.
You nestle your face against the sweat damp skin of his collarbone before murmuring, “…The 7th ain’t so bad with you here."
When you peer up, his gaze is already locked on you—dark, heavy, full of something that makes your stomach flip.
“A nigga couldn’t ask for anythin’ more than yo’ love.”
Before you can respond—scratch scratch scratch—Bear’s massive paws hit the front door, his excited whines vibrating through the wood.
Onyankopon just chuckles, adjusting you in his arms as he kicks the door open. And the last thing the neighborhood hears before it slams shut? Your giggles, his grunt as Bear tackles him, and the thud of all three of you entering inside with a heap.
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Tags - big dick Carmy Berzatto (specs in the fic), talking you through it, oral sex, unprotected piv, creampie, hella size kink, dubcon aspects, gentle dom!carmy, painful sex, you’re kind of a crybaby. 2k words
You’ve never been much for fluorescent lighting. It’s terrible, isn’t it? Migraine-inducing, though what isn’t migraine-inducing here? Between all the constant fucking yelling and the unending onslaught of demands and problems, well. It’s enough to make anyone fucking nuts. You wonder daily what the hell you got yourself into, and when’s a good time to leave.
The clock on the wall shows the time, 1:57 AM. You can do five more minutes, at least. Five more minutes of this - Carmy’s tongue lapping at your folds, his strong nose rubbing against your clit - and you’ll be cumming. The fluorescent lighting of Carmy’s kitchen doesn’t much bother you when your eyes are squeezed shut as he fucks you on his tongue. The once-cold marble counter is now warm with your body heat, and there will be a mess left on it when Carmy’s done with you, cleaned away with the rest of the day’s work.
“Carmy,” you pant, looking down at him as he eats you. He’s got two fingers deep in your cunt, stroking away at that delicate place inside you. You can’t see the lower half of his face, only his gorgeous, striking blue eyes. It’s amazing how much of his iris has been eaten by pupil, all that endless, sparkling black.
Carmy’s half-naked, and one of your knees is tossed over his broad shoulders. His free hand is on your thigh, squeezing you to keep you still when you start to shake, losing yourself to your own pleasure. Carmy draws circle after circle onto your throbbing, aching clit, steadily pushing you to meet your peak. You’re making a mess of him, you know. Dripping down his reddened, swollen lips and his chin, dripping down his calloused fingers and into his palm, too. It’s a good thing. He’ll need you soaked. You’ll need yourself soaked.
He holds you tight when you cum, fucking you through it all on his skillful tongue. His messy curls are tangled around your fingers, and you’re tugging hard enough to hurt him - not that Carmy minds any, no. He’s all but numb to physical pain at this point, that tolerance built up through years of burns and sliced fingers and aching feet that stood for too many hours on end. You’re moaning incoherently until you’re not, instead moaning broken whimpers of his name, in between breathy pleas to stop, Carmy. S - too much, too much. M’done, Carmy. Fuck, fuck, please…
Carmy pulls away finally and wipes his mouth on your inner thigh, then stands up. You kiss him then, tasting yourself on your lips. Your hands are on his cheeks, flushed the most gorgeous shade of red, then travel lower. Down his thick neck, taking care to trace the pulsing veins in his throat. They stop at his shoulders and you allow yourself to squeeze his biceps before sliding down his toned torso, reaching for the button of his pants. Carmy stops you, and you give him a look.
He’s hiding something. You can see in his eyes that he is, and you wonder what’s up. “Carm?”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Just close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to, okay? Would you do that for me? Please?”
You smile, tilt your head. “Is it a surprise?”
Carmy exhales shakily, pulling his tattooed hand down his face. “Yeah, maybe. Just close ‘em, okay?” You look at Carmy skeptically, but gently close your eyes anyway, nerves on fire as you anxiously anticipate what comes next.
Carmy takes a deep breath, then unbuttons his pants and reaches into them. He knows he’ll hurt you, that’s all, and he doesn’t need you to be intimidated by his size. That’s why he doesn’t let you look, and it’s why he doesn’t let you feel. It’s like getting bloodwork done, right? You’ll feel that pinch either way, but it’ll be worse if you watch it happen. So don’t look.
He pulls himself out and reaches between your thighs, using your arousal to lubricate his length, then repeats the action. He spits into his palm for good measure, too.
Carmy spreads your legs and tilts your hips and god, you’re feeling fucking electric. You feel it everywhere, in your fingers and toes and in your fluttering stomach. It’d be a disservice to yourself not to witness his cock parting your folds, right? And fuck Carmy, anyway - how many times a day does he ignore you?
He positions himself at your entrance, then slides his cockhead through your slippery folds. Right as he notches himself inside you and you feel the initial, painful stretch of that, you open your eyes to get a look at that completely gorgeous and utterly erotic sight.
Your face drops and your lips part, at a total loss for words. You shake your head and try to squirm away, but Carmy keeps you right at your place on the countertop, holding up a hand. “Carmy–”
“No, no, no, don’t get all fuckin’ freaked out, okay? It’s gonna be fine.”
“Mm-mm, Carmy. You’re fucking - you - you’re–”
“It’s gonna be fine,” he repeats. “Hey - it’s. Fine. You can do this.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
You should have expected it, honestly. It was naive to think Carmy would be anything less than above average, when the rest of him is so fucking…big. All that man, those big fucking shoulders and his thick thighs, that big personality. His hands are big too, knuckles are thick and his fingers are long.
Eyeing his cock, it looks maybe eight inches in length, give or take. Fuck, not that that’d help you any. He’s girthy, and thick like a fucking beer can. Maybe even more than that. You’re not sure you could wrap one of your hands all the way around him, and that scares you. He curves gently to the right, and his pubic hair looks like it’s not been trimmed in a while.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he whispers.
“You already are,” you reply. Carmy looks up and away, sighing heavily. He runs his hand through his hair and then firmly holds your hips, making you squeak when he inches himself a hair further into you. And this is exactly why he didn’t want you to look. But hey, whatever can go wrong, will go wrong, right? Does he not experience that law every day in this godforsaken restaurant?
You cry out, watching in distress as Carmy readies to fit himself deeper into you. “Hey, relax, okay? Don’t look, honey. Eyes on me. Can you do that, hm? Can you look at me?” Carmy stops you from shaking your head, then holds your cheek in his large palm. “You can look at me. Right here. We’ll do it a little bit at a time, yeah?”
“I don’t know, Carm,” you tell him. “Fuck, it’s scary.”
“Nah, it’s not scary,” Carmy murmurs, pushing into you a little more. “You got thick skin, don’t you? You’d have to, right? Working here, for me,” he jokes, though you don’t laugh. Humor never was his strong suit.
“No,” you mumble.
“Oh, I think you’re full of shit. Yes, you do.”
The argument stops there for no reason beyond that’s simply Carmy’s will. If he lets it go on, you’ll be here all fucking night crying with his cock all but an inch inside you. He’s not mean about it, he’s not forceful. He’s just…assertive. And you need that, don’t you? His gentle yet firm hand nudging you into place. Carmy gives you a kiss, then tells you that you can do this.
Your eyes drop to where his body begins to meet yours as he slides into you so excruciatingly slowly, all that length stuffing you nearly full already, and he’s not even a quarter of the way in. You moan in pain, wriggling in his grasp as he fills you.
“Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. Right here, sweetheart,” he reminds you, maintaining steady eye contact with you as he guides himself into your slick, aching cunt, ignoring the pain of your nails digging into his muscled shoulders. “Easy - woah, easy. Let up,” he tells you when you squeeze him. Not that he doesn’t love your tight fucking pussy, but you really are only making it worse for yourself. And Carmy’s not a psychopath, despite what Richie says. He doesn’t want to hurt you. God, never. You already have such a low pain tolerance to begin with. You can’t handle a cut or a burn the way others usually can, and that’s not a flaw on your part, but it is something that probably needs to be worked on. He’s just helping you, is all.
Your face breaks, the pain written in your expression. It’s your furrowed brows, your frown, your worried eyes. Carmy slides maybe four inches into you, about halfway there. “We’ll take a minute,” Carmy says, pausing. He keeps you where you are and reaches for a nearby plastic takeout container full of ice water, taking a sip for himself before offering it to you.
You’re a fucking wreck. There’s tears streaming down your cheeks, which Carmy wipes away with a gentle swipe of his thumb. “Yeah, that’s it,” he says, waiting patiently for you to finish. He takes the container back from you and sets it down.
“I know it hurts,” Carmy says, breathing deeply. “But you’re doing good, okay?” His neck and chest are flushed, too, all red and splotchy. His skin is damp with his own sweat. He feels for you, really. He wouldn’t want to be in your position either, truth be told.
“Promise?”
“Yeah. Fuck, yeah.” Carmy rubs your cheeks, offering you a sympathetic look. And you’re still fucking squeezing him, even while he’s not actively pushing into you. Poor thing, only hurting yourself. Carmy knows what your answer’s gonna be when he asks you, “How about I rip off the bandaid, huh? Let me do that?”
Your eyes widen and you shake your head. “No, no, Carmy–”
“Yes, yes. Yes, because we’re gonna get nowhere if you keep fuckin’ squeezing on me like that, huh?”
“I’m not trying to.”
“I know you’re not trying to. Just let me–” Carmy sighs and wipes sweat off of his brow, then takes your hips and thrusts into you quickly and smoothly, eliciting a sharp noise of pain from you. You feel him deep inside yourself, and it’s painful in every conceivable way. The stretch, the dull ache that comes from his cockhead hitting your cervix.
“Carmy!”
“Mm, my fuckin’ girl,” he groans, bottoming out inside of you. “Yeah, there. There, okay? Worst is over,” he tells you, knowing that’s probably not true. The song and dance happens all over again as he pulls out of you and then pushes back in, the pain dissipated then renewed. He hushes your whines as he moves his hips, looking down at his cock all coated in creamy rings of your arousal.
Pleasure comes eventually, which makes it all easier, though only marginally so. Carmy’s thick fucking cock fucking you in half is a sensation you never get used to. The ache and the fullness is ever present, never vanishing. It’s so big and so fucking commanding, so inevitable. “Oh, Carmy. Fuck me, oh my god.”
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Carmy moans, steadily snapping his hips into you. “So fuckin’ - fuck, you’re tight.”
Carmy rubs your clit to bring near your orgasm while chasing his own, losing the rhythm he had going. He fucks you wildly, pulling your hips off the counter, his heavy balls slapping against you. When you cum, the fierce pulsing of your cunt coaxes his own, and Carmy empties himself into you. He makes the most beautiful noises as he does so, breathing heavily through his nose when he’s done.
You whimper when he pulls out of you, feeling satisfied by your orgasm, and relieved that it’s over. Carmy reaches for a nearby dish towel and wets it with water, then comes back to you. He nudges your thighs apart, then crouches down. “Let me see, let me look,” he says, assessing the damage. Your poor cunt is gaping, dripping his cum, and your folds are all puffy and swollen. He gently cleans you with the towel, then has you press the cloth against your center. “Hold that there for a minute, yeah? You’re okay, dude.”
Carmy cleans himself up, then goes back to cleaning the kitchen. He’s got a few things left to do before locking up for the night.
Ty for reading 🩵 comments, asks, and especially reblogs would be muchly appreciated if you enjoyed
ETA - shutting off anons for the night. You know how it is 🙁 if you have something horny to say, they’ll be back on in the AM 7/2/25
𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 5.4K, southern coded!black characters, houston nightlife vibes!, club!vibes, birthday!themed, original!blackfemreader, pouty!blackfemreader, shy!femreader, rappergirlfriend!blackfemreader, rapperboyfriend!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, drunk sex!, dirty talk, rough sex, kinda mean ony in the bedroom?, aggressive pet names, pussy eating, squirting, creaming, missionary, doggy style, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི
メモ。— just wanted to say i appreciate all the love you guys are sending me, god bless. wanted to do something in celebration of being back home—and appreciating my city/the south for what it is. enjoy, muah. ✰
CHOPPED ‘N SCREWED BLARES FROM THE SPEAKERS OF A PARKED 1989 CADILLAC DEVILLE COUPE, THRUMMING YOUR HEARTBEAT MORE THAN YOU INTENDED FOR IT TO—yup, that was Houston for you.
Heat clings to your skin like honey as you stand outside the club clutching an oversized bouquet of pink roses, each petal cradling crisp one hundred dollar bills like secrets. Candied painted vehicles bounce on hydraulics not too far away, rattling your ribs as they swang by, each driver’s golden grills flashing under streetlights as they swerve the block. The line stretches down the street in anticipation—full of southern attitudes sucking teeth at the velvet ropes and fingers adjusting diamond encrusted Jesus pieces, all waiting to get a taste of your night.
Women in bandage dresses and sky high lashes shout “Happy birthday, baby girl!” while men nod at you with respect—knowing you’re his.
It’s overwhelming, really ; the way the city moves for your boyfriend. You’ve seen it before—arenas screaming his name, groupies slipping numbers in his pocket when they think you’re not looking, the way his crew forms a wall of muscle and laughter around him. But tonight? Tonight, the chaos is yours.
“ONYANKOPON! ONYANKOPON! ONYANKOPON!”
The screams rip through the humid air like gunshots, raw and hungry. Security arms barricade the crowd, pushing back eager hands reaching for him—always reaching—but your eyes lock onto him like a magnet. Even in the sea of his crew, all thick-necked and draped in ice, he drowns them out.
That 74 piece on his neck swings heavy, silver so deep it looks liquid under the club lights. His black long sleeve hugs every ridge of muscle, letterman jacket hiding the ink you know maps his body—and there it is, your name curled in delicate cursive above his eyebrow, etched into his skin like a prayer. Those cornrows and facial hair frames his face just right, and when he smirks—God—those diamond-capped grills flash, arrogant and knowing.
He lifts his chain between two fingers, nodding at the crowd like yeah, y’all know who I am, and your stomach flips. Because through all the chaos, the women biting their lips at him, the city screaming his name…tonight, that smirk? It’s all for you. Always is.
But you—always the quiet storm in the middle of his hurricane. The diamond in the rough he pulled from New Orleans back when he was just another hungry artist looking for their break. You were the girl who brought him red beans and rice in a Tupperware after long studio nights, who rolled your eyes when he bragged too loud, who made him feel human when the world started treating him like a god.
And he knows you—knows the way your fingers twist together when cameras swarm, the soft “Thank you," you murmur when someone compliments your outfit like you’re still not used to it. Knows how your cheeks flush rose gold when you see yourself trending on Twitter, your face plastered across blogs with captions of your celebration.
But tonight? You’re glowing. Bubblegum pink curls cascade down your back, framing a face dusted with freckles like constellations against caramel skin. Your lashes—thick, dark, feline—flutter over your eyes, lips painted a brown mixed with deep rouge so rich it looks like you’ve been biting guava fruit. That tiny heart pendant rests in the valley of your heavy tits, right above the plunge of your halter romper—black, clinging, backless—cut so low at the front it kisses your bellybutton. The fabric hugs every curve—the swell of your hips, the jut of your ass peeking beneath the hem, down to those platform heels adding inches you don’t even need. And there he is—the proof etched into your own skin. Onyankopon in delicate cursive on the side of your neck, a claim and a promise all at once. His. Always his.
"Damn, shawty fine—fine!"
Someone hollers this from the crowd, and you giggle—a soft, flustered sound—as fans erupt in whistles. Onyankopon’s crew ain’t helping either, hyping you up like you’re the main event, because you absolutely are.
“Pose for us, girl! C’mon, let ‘em see dat!"
They chant continuously, clapping like uncles at a family cookout. Onyankopon then cuts in with a low, “Aight, chill. Y’all gon’ have my baby blushin’ to the floor.”
Security moves quickly—one of them plucks the bouquet from your grip before you can protest, knowing Onyankopon runs a tight ship when it comes to you. No heavy lifting, no stress, no bullshit. Then he’s there, his big hands sliding up your throat, thumbs brushing your jaw as he tugs your forehead against his. The scent of his cologne—something smoky, expensive—wraps around you.
"Sa a pi gwo pase mwen te panse li ta dwe," you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
This is bigger than I thought it’d be.
He grins—those diamond grills catch the light instantly, his palms sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you flush against him.
“Ain’t nun’ too big for my lady," he rumbles back in English, deep enough to vibrate through your chest. When he sees your face—eyes wide, lips parted—he chuckles, shaking his head, “‘You so ‘shy, girl."
“Sorry," you whisper.
Instantly? He’s smacking his lips, tilting your chin up.
“Ain’t shit to apologize for."
His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, smudging your lipstick just a little—“You ready to go in?"
You nod, and his monstrous hand swallows yours whole as he leads you inside, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. The club pulses with neon and bass, but all you feel is him—solid, unshakable, yours—guiding you through the chaos like he always does.
The club is dripping in your essence—pink neon lights bleed into black velvet drapes, silver glitter raining from the ceiling like rockstar confetti. Ice sculptures glisten near the VIP carved into your initials, while larger-than-life prints of your sexiest photoshoots line the walls—that one where you wore nothing but a leather harness, that one with your curls wild and lips parted like a sigh.
Then the DJ scratches the beat—“Ayo, put yo’ hands up for the birthday girl!”
And of course, the crowd explodes. Onyankopon guides you to center stage, and you follow with a giggle, hips already swaying to the bassline thumping through the floor. The energy is electric, contagious—strangers and friends screaming, "Happy birthday, mama!" like they’ve known you forever.
For a moment you forget to be shy. You drop Onyankopon’s hand, turning to face the crowd with a smirk. Nail between your teeth, you bend over slow—ass out, back arched—then pop back up with a wink. The room loses it. You’re grinning now, covering your face as you dart back to Onyankopon, burying your head against his chest like you can hide from the attention.
But he won’t let you, of course.
“Nah, nah—let ‘em see you," he growls, spinning you back around as the crowd roars—“This shit mine. Y’all better muhfuckin’ know!”
The moment his lips press against your temple, the crowd Awww’s! like they’re watching a rom-com. You retaliate by pecking his jaw, and the reaction is even louder, making you shake your head with a shy smile.
“Aight, aight—y’all ready to turn this bitch up?”
What follows is pure, glittering chaos—a montage of you shedding every last bit of shyness.
Dark liquor burns your throat as you pour shots straight into people’s mouths, laughing when they cough. You twirl with the bottle girls, hips swinging in sync, their sequin bikinis catching the light as they hype you up. Cameras flash everywhere—you pout in one, bite your lip in another, then flip your curls over your shoulder in a third, each shot sexier than the last.
Onyankopon’s watching, always watching. He takes pics with fans, dapping up homies, but his eyes keep finding you—checking. And when you finally collide for your own photos, the chemistry is stupid.
He drags you into a gentle headlock, his diamond grills gleaming as you stick your tongue out playfully. The next shot? Your tongue slides against his, slow and teasing, the camera catching the exact moment he grunts, pulling back to warn you.
“Chill, girl. You tryna make me act up in here?"
Your giggle is the only answer he gets before you’re whisked away by the next wave of celebration—but his hand stays locked with yours, a tether in the storm.
The liquor has fully seeped into your veins now, transforming you into something else—something bolder, wilder, dripping with a different kind of magnetism. Your curls are tousled, framing a face where freckles pop against flushed skin, your dark eyes glaring at Onyankopon from across the room like a challenge. You’re even touchy now—fingers tracing the thick veins in his arms, dragging his palms to your ass with a smirk, even rubbing his ears the way you do when y’all are alone, just to watch his jaw tighten.
Then the DJ cuts into his music—Onyankopon’s got the mic now, voice rough as he spits bars over his own beat. The club knows every word, screaming them back, but you? You’re swaying in that gentle headlock of his, hips rolling against him like you’re trying to start a fire.
The music quickly swirls back into a playlist of other artists—back of the club by kwn slithering through the speakers, and the lights bleed deep pink.
Onyankopon’s hand now slides to the back of your neck, possessive, commanding, as he bends you over slow. Your ass grinds against him in perfect sync with the beat, your curls tumbling forward as you glance back at him over your shoulder—eyes locked. The crowd loses it, phones raised, but it’s just you and him in this moment.
“Goddamn," he mutters, low enough for only you to hear, before yanking you upright and into a kiss that’s more claim than anything else. The club erupts once more, but all you taste is him—whiskey, arrogance, and something dangerously close to adoration.
The energy shifts again—now you're fully in your element, drunk and free, leaning against the railing with your ass throwing back against Onyankopon as he performs again. His voice is rough, commanding, lyrics dripping with that signature arrogance that always makes your stomach flip. And he knows it—grinning down at you with those diamond grills flashing, his brown skin glistening under the club lights.
The final hour of the party is pure Houston chaos—bass rattling chests, drinks splashing, laughter ringing over chopped and screwed beats. But then your mood shifts one more time. The liquor, the heat, the way his hands keep finding your waist—it all boils over into a needy, whiny pout as you press yourself against him.
"I’m hot.”
Your voice is dripping with that drunk, sexy irritation only he gets to hear. Your fingers dig into his arms, lips brushing his ear—“And I wanna be alone with you, Ony.”
He grunts—“Behave," though there’s no real bite to it. Then, softer, lips grazing your temple, “We ‘bout to leave. ‘Got a surprise for you."
A few minutes later, he’s on the mic, thanking everyone for coming, telling them to head outside. The crowd follows, buzzing with curiosity, until they see it—an all white Rolls Royce Cullinan parked at the curb, massive bow on top, stacks of cash arranged in the trunk like a damn art piece. Designer purses, jewelry boxes, and other expensive gifts spill out from the backseat. Your hands fly to your mouth, pout trembling as you try so hard not to cry. But when you turn to him? He’s already smirking—like he knew this would wreck you.
The moment you swing open the car door, a squeak slips past your lips—girlish, giddy—at the sight of the custom interior. Soft pink leather seats, silver trim, even your initials stitched into the headrests. The crowd erupts again, phones snapping rapid fire pictures as you lean against the car, hips cocked, lips parted in a sultry smirk.
Onyankopon howls from the sidelines, hyping you up with every pose—“There go my baby! Yeah, do that lil’ twist again!", as you pop your ass out just a little more, smiling when the cameras go wild.
But as the chaos finally starts to fade? Your hands find his neck, fingers tracing the tattoos there—your name in cursive once more, forever inked into his skin in different parts of his body.
“Do you know how much I love you?"
He smirks. Those diamond grills catch the streetlight as he murmurs, “Enough to have a nigga name tatted where you always want my hand at."
“I’m serious, Onyankopon.”
For once, the cockiness flickers. His eyes soften just for a second before he pulls you closer, lips grazing your ear—
“I know."
Then, quieter, rougher, like it’s a secret just for you—
“A nigga love you ‘sum dangerous, girl."
The night had already been everything—the club, the gifts, the way the city screamed your name like you were royalty. But now? A different kind of heat pulses through you, thick and sweet, settling low between your thighs as Onyankopon carries you over his shoulder into the condo.
Downtown Houston glitters beneath you from the floor-to-ceiling windows of your penthouse, the city lights painting streaks of gold across the marble floors. You’re giggling, drunk and giddy, your bubblegum pink curls tumbling around your face as he strides through the living room. Your ass bounces over his shoulder, heels pointed to the ceiling—he holds you like you weigh nothing, like you’re his to carry, his to keep.
Then he tosses his keys onto the counter with a clatter, and you finally see it—the bedroom.
Balloons float near the ceiling, rose petals scattered across the silk sheets, stacks of cash arranged in neat rows on the nightstand like some kind of decadent altar. LED lights bathe everything in a deep, sultry pink, and you shriek, kicking your legs excitedly as he finally deposits you onto the bed.
Onyankopon chuckles as you immediately reach for him, fingers clutching his shirt—“Don’t leave," you whine, voice thick with liquor and lust.
He leans down, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose—"I’m ‘finna get you some water, yo’ ass turnt up.”
“I’m not drunk," you lie, even as the room spins just a little when you sit up.
"Yeah? Then tell me what my middle name is."
You blink. Shit.
“Lay here, imma’ be quick.”
The seconds stretch into eternity as you wait for him, sprawled across the silk sheets like a painting—your fingers tracing idle, teasing paths along your own curves, drunk in a way that even your own touch feels electric tonight. Every brush of fabric, every shift of your hips sends sparks through you, your senses dialed up to ten under the haze of liquor and desire.
“You aight in there?"
You whine in response, dragging out the sound like a spoiled child—"I wanna hear some music, Ony…”— voice dripping with a pout so thick it could drown him.
And of course, he obliges. The smooth bass of Let em’ know by Bryson Tiller slinks through the speakers seconds later, the rhythm slow, seductive—perfect. When he reappears in the doorway, water bottle in hand, your breath catches. He’s all possessive energy now—shoulders broad, jaw set, eyes dark as they rake over you.
“Sit up. Drink this,” he orders, voice gruff but edged with something softer.
You wiggle deeper into the sheets, shaking your head—"Nooo."
His brow arches, and that’s all you needed to know he wasn’t repeating himself. You huff but obey, pushing yourself up on shaky arms—he brings the bottle to your lips, and you sip obediently, your eyes locked on his the entire time.
You must look ridiculous—curls tangled around your face, freckles standing out against the deep flush of your cheeks, those feline lashes batting up at him like you’re not the one who just spent the last hour grinding on him in front of half of Houston.
But he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease.
He just watches—like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing.
“Tonight was so...so sweet, Ony.”
“Mhm.”
“Like—the gifts? The way everybody was screaming for me?”
“Mhm.”
“The way you looked at me when I was dancing—"
Onyankopon just nods, chuckling low in his chest as he watches you, his dark eyes tracing every animated expression that crosses your face. You’re drunk, so drunk, but he lets you talk—lets you relive every second of the night with that dreamy, intoxicated glee.
Then he reaches for your ankles, and you instinctively tilt your leg back, pouting.
"You don’t like them?"
You wiggle your feet, showcasing the platform stilettos—black, strappy, with a heart-shaped heel that glimmers under the soft pink LED lights.
"Nah, shawty. ‘They sexy as hell," he admits, voice rough, "But you ‘been dancin’ all night. Let a nigga rub yo’ feet."
You bite your lip, considering—then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, you spread your legs wider, leaning back against the pillows as you click your heels together playfully.
“Mmm...but the music’s still on," you murmur, swaying your legs in a slow, teasing rhythm—hips rolling just slightly, like you’re still dancing even lying down.
Onyankopon’s jaw clenches.
You giggle—sultry, knowing—as you arch your back just a little, letting the dress ride up your thighs.
“…I wanna perform for you…”
And just like that?
The game changes.
“"I’m right here, watchin’."
That’s all the permission you need.
Your body moves effortlessly—liquid, sinful— you’re even rolling onto your knees, crawling toward him with a smirk. Your fingers trail up his thighs before slipping beneath his shirt, tracing the hard ridges of his tattooed abs. He exhales sharply as you peel the fabric off him, leaving him bare chested—nothing but chains, diamond-studded jewelry, and those gleaming grills between his lips. You then turn around, arching yourself against the bed, ass high in the air as you start bouncing—slow at first, then faster, your hips rolling in perfect rhythm.
"You playin’.”
His palm cracks against your ass—hard.
You gasp, giggling and whining, your hips jerking forward from the sting. He doesn’t let up, spanking you again and again, each slap punctuated by his rough voice—
“‘This what you wanted, huh? Actin’ like shit sweet—"
Smack!
“—Knowin’ imma’ fuck yo’ ass up.”
The final one has you collapsing onto the bed, breathless, legs instinctively spreading—just like before. But this time?
Your fingers hook into the thin straps of your pink thong, tugging it to the side to reveal the drenched folds of your pussy, glistening under the dim light.
“Ony..."
You whimper, voice pitiful, desperate.
“I’m so wet. Come eat your pussy, Papa.”
And just like that?
He moves.
Onyankopon is a man of many talents—fiery with his words, lethal with his rhymes—but this? This is where he truly masters you.
The moment his mouth crashes between your thighs, it’s sloppy, messy, all wet heat and hungry suction. His tongue laps at you like he’s starved, his lips sealing around your clit as he shakes his head in it, making your back arch off the bed. Your legs spread wider, knees trembling, toes curling into your heels as your pussy squelches around his tongue—loud, obscene, the kind of sound that would make you blush if you weren’t so fucking lost in it.
“Fuck—" you gasp, your pout deepening, lips parted in a breathy moan.
“Soundin’ like a whole fuckin’ meal,” he taunts, tongue dragging a slow, torturous line up your slit—“This lil’ shit drippin’ all on my mouth—you hear that? Huh?”
You whimper, nodding frantically, hips rolling up to meet his face.
“S’yours, baby," you slur, voice drunk on pleasure, fingers tangling in his cornrows to keep him right where you need him.
“This sobbin’ ass pussy mine?”
He’s feral between your thighs—a beast unleashed, feasting on you like he’s been starved for centuries. His mouth is everywhere, messy and relentless, tongue plunging deep before swirling in tight, greedy circles that make your pussy weep around him. The sounds are downright nasty—wet, sloppy squelches, the slick drag of his lips against your swollen folds, the obscene pop of his mouth pulling back just to dive in again.
You’re a wreck, hands clutching your own ankles, bubblegum pink curls sticking to your flushed face as you stare down at him with the most pitiful pout. Drunk, dazed, ruined—your words come out in weak, slurred whimpers.
“S’your pussy... s’—s’your pussy…”
Onyankopon snarls against you, pulling back just enough to glare up at you through hooded eyes, his mouth glossy with your arousal.
“Keep sayin’ that shit,” he growls, voice thick with satisfaction, “Look at you—fuckin’ drownin’ me, actin’ all pathetic like you ain’t the one who asked for this."
Another spasm—your hips jerk, another rush of slick coating his tongue as you sob, overstimulated but needing more. Your thighs shake under the brutal grip of his hands, still slick from his mouth as he drags himself up your body in one smooth motion. His lips crash against yours—filthy, possessive—and you taste yourself on his tongue, that dark, musky sweetness that makes you whimper before you even feel him.
Then—God—the thick, veiny press of his dick slaps against your soaked folds. It’s monstrous, ridged and heavy, the tip already glistening with your arousal as he rubs it against your clit, teasing, torturing you with the promise of what’s to come. Onyankopon hooks your legs over his arms, spreading you wider, his voice a rough, arrogant growl against your lips—
“You gon’ run from this dick, or you gon’ take it?"
Your cheeks flush, heat pooling in your stomach because fuck, you know how hard he is to take. But the liquor in your veins, the ache between your thighs—you want that edge of pain, that delicious stretch that borders on too much.
You shake your head, forehead knocking against his as you pant, “N—No...won’t run..."
He grunts, low and approving, before snarling—“Then watch my shit go in."
Your eyes flicker down just in time to see that fat tip pressing against your entrance, stretching you apart with a slow, merciless push. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, pout trembling as your walls flutter to accommodate him.
“O—Ony—fuck—" you whimper, surrendering to the burn, the fullness as he sinks deeper, your slick gushing around him so messily it nearly pushes him back out. Then, there—the sharp, blissful pinch of him curving against your cervix, forcing a broken cry from your lips.
Onyankopon glowers down at you, his breath hot against your mouth as he mutters, “That’s my spot. My shit. You feel that?"
Your head falls back against the pillows, a breathless gasp tearing from your throat as Onyankopon drops his dick into you with one brutal, claiming thrust. The smack of his hips against the backs of your thighs echoes through the room—loud, obscene—as he buries himself to the hilt, your walls fluttering around him in helpless, overstimulated spasms.
His mouth crashes against your ear, hot breath spilling filthy promises as he grunt, “Know you hearin’ me.”
Your pout trembles, lips parted in a silent moan as your eyes roll back, pleasure and pain twisting together in a dizzying spiral. Your fingers drag through the nape of his neck, nails scraping lightly against his skin before tangling in his cornrows, tugging just enough to make him growl.
“I—I feel you, Papa.”
Your eyes flicker down to his—dark, possessive, unrelenting—and your voice cracks into the softest, most pitiful sob.
“You’re so deep.”
You cream on him, your orgasm crashing over you in violent, uncontrollable waves, your pussy clenching around his dick like it never wants to let go. Missionary with Onyankopon is always intimate—always raw. His large body looms over you, casting you in shadow, his muscles flexing with every merciless thrust. He’s aggressive in his tenderness, one hand gripping your hip hard while the other wipes away your tears, his thumb brushing your cheekbone even as he ruins you.
“My fuckin’ pussy," he snarls, hips pistoning, driving himself deeper with every snap of his waist—“All fuckin’ mine."
The rush of orgasms should have left you spent. But somehow? It only fuels you, turns you into something hungrier, a lust-drunk incubus with a mouth made for sin.
Now you’re on your knees, fully naked except for those fuck me heels still strapped to your feet—your curls cascade around your curvy silhouette as you take him into your mouth with a greedy moan. His dick is thick, heavy on your tongue, the musky scent of him filling your senses as you swirl your tongue around his tip, whimpering around him like the desperate little thing you are.
And Onyankopon?
He’s unfazed, lazily rolling a blunt between his fingers as he watches you suck him off with hooded, arrogant eyes.
“That’s all you got?" he taunts, voice rough with amusement, “Thought you ‘was hungry, mama."
You whimper around him, hollowing your cheeks as you try to take him deeper, but God, he’s too much—your lips stretch obscenely around his girth, drool spilling down your chin as you struggle to fit even half of him in your mouth.
Then—smack—his palm cracks against your cheek, stinging, forcing a gasp from your lips as you pull back, eyes watering. He grips your jaw, forcing your mouth open as he leans down and spits right onto your tongue.
“Swallow.”
You do—immediately—before jerking him off with both hands, twisting sloppily, kitten-licking at his tip like you’re starved for him.
Onyankopon chuckles low, "You cute as hell, girl.”
The flick of his lighter is sinful, the flame catching the blunt between his lips as he takes a slow, deliberate drag. His head tilts back, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke towards the ceiling, the muscles in his neck flexing beneath his tattoos—he looks good like this, all lazy dominance and effortless control.
Then his dark eyes slide back down to you, watching with amused arrogance as your heavy, fat tits press against his thighs, your desperate attempts to titty-fuck him messy and uncoordinated. Your mouth is still locked around his tip, sucking like you’re trying to milk him dry, your lips glossy with spit, your eyes pleading even as you choke around his size.
“You want this shit bad," he taunts.
You whimper around him, your tongue still swirling, all while your hands squeeze your own tits together, trying—failing—to take more of him, proving that you do.
He watches you struggle for another moment before finally murmuring, "Gon’ back onna’ bed and put that ass up. Need you bouncin’ on my shit."
And just like that?
You obey.
This position always breaks you—always has you tapping out, whimpering, or collapsing into the sheets like a ragdoll. But tonight? You’re determined to take it. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he slides in fully—thick, veiny length curving inside you in a way that makes your vision blur.
“Hands down, mama."
You whimper, tucking your palms beneath your body, surrendering to the stretch as he soothes you with a dark, approving murmur—“Good lil’ bitch."
You arch your back just a little, sinking down onto him further until your pussy ppffts around his dick, the obscene sound making your cheeks burn even as you wiggle yourself down until his abdomen presses against your ass.
“Onyo…”
And just like that? His hand clasps against the back of your neck—right where his name is inked into your skin—claiming you, owning you.
He’s still smoking the blunt, the other hand gripping your throat as he begins stroking up into you, feeding his dick into your tight, dripping pussy with slow, deliberate thrusts.
"S’yo’ birthday, mama,” he murmurs, voice thick with smoke, "Gotta let Papa give you them ‘good girl strokes."
You arch further, your pussy clenching around him as a high-pitched whimper tears from your throat—“Oooohhh—"
“You better open this shit up—ion’ wanna hear none of that."
But you can’t help it—your body betrays you, your voice cracking into a desperate whine as you gasp out in broken Creole, "M’pa ka pran li…!”
I can’t take it.
The clap of your ass against his abdomen is obscene, each impact forcing another punched out “Oooh,” from your lips—“Oooh," “Oooh,"—your pussy farting in messy, wet echoes around his dick, the sound humiliating in the best way.
“Imma’ keep you on this dick forever if you don’t shut that shit up."
You bite into the sheets, your whimpers turning into defeated little moans as pleasure fully courses through you, turning your limbs to liquid.
But he doesn’t let up.
Your sounds grow dragged out— whiney, babbling, your curls spilling around your face as your head goes slack—your eyes roll back so far you’re seeing stars. He’s tugging you down harder, forcing you to take every inch, your words slurring into full nonsense as your pussy squirts around him—gushing, your mind fogging over as pleasure obliterates your thoughts.
Yeah, you’re gone.
Onyankopon’s pounding into you with precision, bouncing you down onto his dick so hard that he hits that squishy spot deep inside you—you’re lost, ruined, your voice cracking into a weak, broken mewl as you say—
“You’re so fucking mean..."
"Yeah?” He murmurs, “I’m mean, huh?”
Your ass claps in a slow, sinful rhythm, your fingers biting into the sheets beneath you as you drag out a weak, trembling—"Yeaahhhhhhhh..."—your body convulsing around him.
“You forgettin’? That Rolls Royce outside? Allem’ Telfars? Birkins?” he growls, his thrusts becoming deeper, his grip on your hips bruising as he taunts—“You want them other niggas out there?"
The thought alone makes him possessive, strokes turning punishing as he demands your answer.
“No,” you’re sobbing—“‘Want you forevverrrr..."
“That’s what the fuck I thought."
Then, "S’ still yo’ day—cum on the fuckin’ dick like you ain’t never did before."
And God, you do.
The orgasm rips through you—long, intense and merciless—your body convulses as pleasure floods through every nerve. Onyankopon holds you in place, his grip ironclad, keeping you from squirming away as the sensations become too much. You try to fight it—hips jerking weakly, hands scrambling against the sheets—but he growls, pressing you down harder as he grunts through his own release.
The warmth of him filling you makes you tremble, your pussy fluttering around his dick in helpless, overstimulated pulses. But hell, he’s an animal—still attempting to stroke into you, his hips rolling lazily even as you tap out, your hand slapping weakly against his thigh in surrender.
A shiver wracks your spine as he finally pulls out, his low chuckle vibrating against your skin as he soothes a large palm over your ass, kneading the flesh gently.
"Stop, Ony…”
Onyankopon chuckles, “Relax, girl. You ain’t gon’ let a nigga hold you?”
Your legs shake as you climb onto him, your face burning with embarrassment as you tuck yourself into the crook of his neck—a shy, overwhelmed little thing you are.
And he lets you— his arms wrap around you, lips pressing against the top of your head as he murmurs, "My fuckin’ baby."
His large hand cradles your head, rough fingers pressing gently against your cheeks as he tilts your chin up. The bottom half of your face disappears beneath his palm—all he can see now are your eyes—those deep, soulful brown pools he fell helplessly in love with.
His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it—“You sleep yet?"
You shake your head, lips brushing against his calloused skin as you exhale a quiet no.
He hums, satisfied, before murmuring—“Did you enjoy yo’ birthday?"
A beat.
“…It was more than what I could’ve ever wanted. So much more than I needed.”
“Nah, we ain’t finna’ do that—“ he cuts in, voice firm but loving, “You deserve everything I give you. Ain’t nothin’ too much for my fuckin’ woman.”
His gaze burns into yours, “A nigga would buy you the world if I could put that shit in a gift box."
You giggle, warmth flooding your chest as you reach up, rubbing at his ear affectionately, your fingers tracing the curve of it like you’re memorizing him.
“You already gave me the world, Ony. You.”
Onyankopon’s jaw ticks. His grip tightens just a fraction—like he’s fighting the urge to ruin you all over again— he then grunts, pressing a rough kiss to your forehead.
“Too fuckin’ sweet,” he mutters—but the way he holds you after?
It says everything his words can’t. You fall asleep together in a chaotic city that couldn’t take away the one thing you had for each other—your love.
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16k wrds. fem black reader. angst. fluff. plot with smut. MDNI.
warnings: cursing, use of the n word, alcohol, weed, romantic shit, servicedom!ony, sub!reader, pet names, daddy kink, unprotected sex (BE SAFE), pussydrunk!ony, ony’s a talker, ass eating, praise, toe sucking, foot kissing, overstim, pictures during sex (with permission), filthy just how I like ittt, ony really just dotes on you like a lot, aka sluts you out
moodboard
a/n: little late, but I’m feelin pretty good about this one 🤭 buckle up, she’s long. enjoy! <3
as of late, ony’s been busy.
like, I’ll call you later and not call until well into the night, busy.
I have to stay at work late tonight, I need to finish this project, busy.
I’m sorry, baby, can we postpone date night? busy.
fidelity isn’t something you worry about in such a secure relationship, so that’s no issue. you know he’s just working hard to further his career.
regardless, it’s irritating. you miss your man.
his hands, his voice, his laugh. the two of you are very big on quality time and physical touch, and when he gets like this, it’s always an adjustment. you just want to be up under him, snuggled in bed or on the couch and enjoying the little things. his hands rubbing your ass softly, his kisses on your shoulder and neck, the way it feels to lie on his chest as he laughs at something stupid on the tv.
you miss his presence and he knows it– he knows his lady misses him. it wrenches his heart because he hates disappointing you. he can hear the upset in your voice when he postpones something and it just makes him wish he could keep you in his pocket all day long.
he, too, misses your touch. he misses hearing your little satisfied sighs after finally finding a comfortable cuddling position, your sweet face tucked in his neck when you’re feeling particularly clingy, and he especially misses your soothing caresses and kisses.
the feeling of taking care of you, of connecting with you, revitalizes him like no other. going from having that everyday to connecting less and less is haunting his thoughts.
but ony’s very business minded. his work is important to him.
he’s not only focused on career advancement and financial security, he’s focused on financial freedom too. he’s always been the type to provide, the type to work hard and play later. meetings, projects, and late nights at the computer are all very familiar to him. he’s working hard for his future, a future he hopes you’ll both be enjoying together.
because at the end of the day, he wants to come home to you. he wants you to have the ring and wedding of your dreams so you can feel like the princess that you are, the beautiful house that will home so many happy memories, and anything you fucking want. he’s willing to put all this work in for his career and you.
lately, though, ony can tell it’s taking an even heavier toll on you. that’s the opposite of what he wants. he wants you to feel at ease and free and peaceful. supported, loved, spoiled, and so on. it’s only right his baby feels on top of the world.
not neglected or alone, having to ask your friends to go with you to events because the tickets were already purchased but he had some deadline to meet. not being home alone so much, missing your man and his embrace.
and definitely not touching yourself every night because your man hasn’t had the energy and time to indulge in the way you both are used to.
it’s a big thing and he knows that.
his touch is like a balm to you, soothing the inner aches that seem so impossible for others to reach. he knows your body, and mind, and heart, and it shows every time he loves you in that king sized bed.
and the couch.
and the kitchen counter.
and anywhere else.
you’ve always had a healthy sex life, especially with the dynamic that you have, but the well is running dry because of the distance. there’s no connection, no outlet, no bonding. you miss his touch and touching him, and he the same for you. you hate to feel like a star crossed lover, but it’s getting to a point.
you know you have to try to talk to him. and really talk so he can’t just brush you off for work again.
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
ony’s been doing a lot of research for a really big project. he’s interviewed people, read a thousand articles, made too many charts and graphs to count. it’s maybe the most important task he’s had to work on in a while since working with this company, so he’s using every last drop of energy to make sure everything’s perfect for the upcoming presentation.
you can see it in the way he barely has the energy to sip at his coffee.
“baby…” you start softly, reaching across the dinner table to hold his hand. it’s one of those nights where he’s attached to his computer, but still near you, wanting to enjoy your presence at the very least.
he immediately knows where this is going. he can hear it in the softness of your voice, the careful way you approach. if he could avoid talking about it, avoid seeing the concern in your eyes without feeling like a damn chump, he would.
“I know, babygirl,” he murmurs tiredly. knowingly. he gives your hand a soft squeeze before retracting his touch, his focus still on his laptop. “I know. but my boss needs this asap for the presentation. I can’t let her down. you know how important it is I get this promotion.”
you can’t help but let out a weary sigh. your hardworking, sweetheart of a man is putting himself through the damn wringer and his boss better appreciate that shit. “it’s important, I know. but everything’s been important. this project, the one before that, the one before that... when are you gonna take a break?”
“I take breaks,” he mumbles. he doesn’t mean to be stubborn. really, he doesn’t. he’s just had this goal in mind for so long, and now he feels like it’s finally in reach and… he can’t give up. he won’t.
“three minute power naps are not breaks. you know that,” you say sternly. “baby, this job is draining you. do they not already see how dedicated you are? if you haven’t earned that promotion by now, I don’t even know if you should work there anymore.”
that catches his attention. if anything, it triggers him, mind worn thin from countless hours of research. “are you kiddin’?” he asks, gaze snapping up to yours. “ain’t no way. all this shit I’m doin’ and you want me to go somewhere else?”
it’d be easy to get frustrated with his tone, but you push through. you’re coming from a place of concern and you want him to know that.
“that’s the point I’m trying to make, ony,” you press. “you’ve earned that position. you earned it months ago. hell, they should’ve given it to you in the first place. do you really wanna work like this for the next– however many years? you don’t think you’ll burn out?”
ony’s eyes close as he lets out a deep breath. knowing he needs to calm down before he releases his tired frustrations out on you, he sits back in his seat and drags his hands down his face. “this job can set me– set us up for life, baby. whether I stay with the company or not.”
you go to speak, but he cuts you off.
“I’m sorry, ᥫ᭡,” he says. his voice is weary, cracks of vulnerability showing in his exhaustion. “I am. I know you miss me and I miss you too. but I gotta do this. I can’t miss this opportunity. I’m doing what I have to for our family, baby. I’m doing all of this for us.”
“that’s the problem right there, ony,” you say, your voice firm but soft. “you think my concern is based on your presence and our time together when I’m concerned about your health. you’re withering away in front of me, and you expect me to think about our future? there won’t be a future if you keep at it like this.”
you can see the immediate reaction in his eyes, the concern filling them makes you want to pull him into bed to sleep for weeks.
“baby, what– what you talkin’ bout?”
“relax, papa,” you murmur, rising from your seat to walk over to his side. you close his laptop and slide into his lap to cradle his face. “I don’t mean it like that. we’re locked in forever, you ain’t gettin’ rid of me.
“I just need you to realize that nothing is more important than your health. not money, not our future, not any of that shit. I want you happy and healthy more than I want a diamond ring too heavy to wear,” you laugh softly.
ony’s eyes shut as he leans into your touch, soothed by your reassurance and concern. he hears you. but the beast that is ambition and anxiety mixed together is too heavy to let go of so easily. he’s so close...
“I’m serious,” you continue tenderly, as if you can read his mind. “this has to stop, ony. please. life’s too short to be neglecting yourself for a future that could change at any moment.”
his chocolate eyes open to meet yours, seeing the full range of your emotions in the pools he loves to get lost in. he wishes he could dive into you, get lost in your healing waters as he just rests. but thoughts of the future come flowing back in, and he can’t push them away.
he has to do more. his work has to be enough, he isn’t enough.
“maybe after this project, baby. they really need me for this one,” he responds.
of course.
the sigh you let out is weighted. your hands drop from his face before you stand from his lap.
“okay, onyankopon,” you murmur, defeat in your voice. he reaches out to stop you, mouth opening to give some empty reassurance you’ve probably already heard, but you’re out of the room before he can say anything.
he wants to groan, fuss, chase after you… but he only has so much energy left and several more spreadsheets to make and check over. so instead, he sighs the deepest sigh he can muster before opening his laptop again.
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
another day. wednesday.
ony’s big presentation is today and he’s been spending all week pacing the house as he runs over the numbers repeatedly. he’s got this. he knows the information like the back of his hand and he knows he can give this presentation with full confidence. he’ll prove his value to the company, no doubt about it.
tired from staying up, he pours a strong ass cup of coffee before heading to the conference room.
“good morning, everyone,” he nods to the room. he sees executives and people in the high places he’s trying to reach and he hums lowly to himself as he makes his way to the computer. this is his chance and he’s not going to mess it up.
contrary to his previous anxious thoughts, the computer pulls up his presentation with no difficulties. the remote works fine, laser pointer in function, and speaker notes easy to access. he makes small talk with the people in attendance for the last few minutes before the scheduled start time.
his boss enters then, smiling as she greets everyone before taking her usual seat. she’s the picture of professionalism, and ony can feel the shift in the room as everyone adjusts their posture.
“alright, everyone, lets get started. onyankopon’s one of my best researchers, and I know we’re all excited about this project. he’s been doing amazing work, as always. the floor’s yours,” she says with a wave of her hand. the recognition is encouraging and he gives a small smile and nod.
“thank you, mrs. green. and thanks to everyone for your attention,” he starts. “I’ve prepared an in depth outline for our plan moving forward. please hold questions until the end, your concerns will more than likely be addressed in the following slide.”
he goes on to start the presentation, feeling more than confident. also tired as hell, but you wouldn’t guess it from the outside looking in. it’s engaging and he takes mental note of how focused everyone is. impressed glances, nods of rapt attention, amused smiles at ony’s creative thinking.
everything is going perfectly until the executive assistant enters in a rush.
ony pauses immediately, losing his flow. he can’t help but question the interruption. he takes notice of how the man scrambles over to his boss and talks quietly in her ear. the woman’s face drops in concern, her eyebrows furrowing as she nods along. the bumbling assistant quickly makes his exit.
mrs. green stands with a sigh and straightens her blazer. “I’m so sorry to do this. I know you’ve put in a lot of work, but I have to leave for the day. my child is severely sick and I need to get to them. we’ll reschedule this presentation for a later date, but really amazing work, onyankopon.”
ony’s stomach drops.
did he just hear that correctly? he feels like he has whiplash.
there’s no way he just did all of that preparing for her to just cancel when he’s almost halfway through. he’s having so many thoughts that he can’t even keep up with his own mind.
“um– yeah, of course,” ony nods stiffly. he figures there’s nothing he can do. “sometime this week?”
the woman shakes her head as she grabs her belongings. “my schedule’s too tight. I’ll ask my assistant when works best. again, I’m sorry, but you understand. family’s too important.”
with that, she leaves.
and ony’s stumped.
with his assumptions about the work culture of the company, he fully expected her to ask for a nanny, a babysitter, a someone to help.
but no.
no hesitations, no questions. ony can’t even blame her, but this is a jarring surprise. he’d expected pause or some consideration, but she moved on instinct. and no one’s even reacting, it’s like business as usual. granted, she’s the big boss, but…
ony’s still standing by the presentation screen.
he watches as everyone packs up their stuff and chats casually, speaking of well wishes to their boss as they make their way back to their respective offices. it’s all so relaxed. like ony hasn’t been preparing all week for that damn presentation.
it’s making him reevaluate everything.
after the meeting, he spends the rest of his day asking how his coworkers feel about it. he asks if people ever called out last minute or took extra time off, what the response was, the treatment after, how it affected their job… and he’s surprised that his perspective of his job was so wrong.
work-life balance is encouraged. it’s seen as a right. people have had the freedom to handle family emergencies and such with no affect to their job or how they’re viewed. people have taken mental health days with no problems. they’ve still raised in the ranks, been seen as star employees, gotten raises…
ony had never even considered leaving the office on time, let alone leaving in the middle of the day. he thought he had to hustle, to fight for recognition like most do with other companies. he feels stupid after everything he’s put himself and you through.
fuck. ony can feel his shoulders getting heavier with every realization.
you.
his babygirl, his love, his heart…
he’s driven himself crazy, trying to do everything in his power for the future he hopes to share with you. late nights, early mornings, working weekends… you’ve tried to ground him time after time, tried to get him to rest and relax and focus on the present, but he didn’t listen. he just kept pushing himself, trying to reach a goal that was of his own mental making.
just how much has he missed out on due to his own misunderstandings?
ᥫ᭡
that night, ony comes home only an hour after his scheduled time. he usually stays a few hours past, but he comes home, showers, and crashes right in the bed. you think he’s just exhausted or drained, actually catching up on rest before getting back to the grind, so you say nothing. you caress his back as you fall asleep next to him.
the days after are the same, though.
and the following saturday is a shock.
he’d unsurprisingly been working on the weekends too, sometimes going into the office and others working from home. you expect to hear his alarm ring bright and early, but it never does. he stays right beside you, arms holding you tight.
when you wake up, you think you’re dreaming.
”ony?” you ask groggily as you rub the sleep from your eyes. you‘re resting on his chest, his arms securely wrapped around your waist. he only grumbles incoherently in response and turns his head.
“nigga, I know you hear me,” you huff. “did you turn off your alarm? it’s almost twelve, we overslept. you overslept.”
“ain’t my name and ion care. c’mere and stop allat movin’,” he grumbles as his hand slides just below your butt, pulling you closer. he doesn’t even open his eyes, which shocks the hell out of you. you thought he’d give a bigger reaction.
“hello? did you hear me? you’re late, pa,” you try again, reaching to lightly tug his eyelid up with your finger. his pupil lazily shifts to look at you, an almost disturbing sight, before he reaches up to pull your hand away.
“heard you. I’m stayin’ in today.”
you blink. then you blink again. he just presses a soft kiss to your hand before he closes his eyes again.
“are you sick?” you ask, dumbfounded.
“no,” he grumbles. “baby, go back to sleep.”
“oh my God, you’re sick, aren’t you?” you question as you sit up in bed. “I need to check your temperature. it’s summer, but I can make you some soup. maybe I can make it cold? there are cold soups aren’t the—“
“ᥫ᭡,” he stops you, hand lazily sliding to your back. “I’m not sick, I promise. this project been stressful and I’m exhausted, so can we please go back to sleep?”
you stare at him for a moment, his slightly irritated expression almost making you want to say something slick. your shock should be understandable with the stark difference in his behavior.
but you can see the how weathered he looks. he really is drained and he can probably use all the sleep he can get. you’ll spare him. plus, if you can crawl back up into his side and cuddle the day away after such a long time of being distanced, you’ll jump at the chance.
“…okay. let me go use the bathroom first.”
you almost thought it would be a joke of some kind, but ony stays in bed all day. he goes in and out of sleep, clinging to you and grumbling if either of you have to move for any reason. it’s refreshing. extremely so.
you can’t even find it in you to complain for fear he’ll up and get on the clock again. the two of you just hold each other, basking in the embrace of your lover and soaking up the much needed affection. kisses, caresses, whispers of ”I been missin’ you.” it’s like a dam broke and you’re getting bathed in love and attention.
he’s still so quiet though. you can tell he’s thinking about something by the way he stares off into the distance. the way his brows pull together slightly, the ghost of a frown on his lips... you want to ask about it but don’t want to push. you just fall asleep in his arms again.
sunday comes and it’s the same.
ony stays in bed, going so far as to bring his rolling tray in from the living room to roll a blunt in bed.
when you return from the kitchen with your snack and see what he’s doing, you pause and purse your lips. “okay, what’s up with you? staying in two days in a row? rollin’ in the bedroom? what happened to ‘no smoking in the room’?”
he doesn’t really react. his gaze meets yours as he seals the blunt with a lick, expertly pearling it. the sight alone makes you want to jump his bones, but you’re too focused on figuring out what’s going on.
“come ‘ere, baby,” he mumbles quietly.
your eyebrows furrow, but you walk over to settle at his side. you wipe some lint from his face and caress his cheek, giving him your full attention. “what’s been on your mind, ony? was the presentation okay? you’ve been acting different.”
ony sighs as he lets himself relax at your touch. you’re just so… everything. you’re everything to him and he feels like he’s failed you.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. his voice is full of remorse as he looks down to the blunt in his hands, fiddling. he looks truly sad. the normal confidence and sureness in himself gone. you notice it in the way he won’t even meet your gaze. it’s unlike him.
“pa…” you start tenderly, hand still softly caressing his cheek. “what’s going on?”
his eyes meet yours then, emotions and turmoil apparent in the dark brown irises. “you deserve so much more than what I’ve been giving you the past few months. I haven’t been there for my baby like I promised I would.”
you’re shaking your head before he even finishes his sentence. “no, ony, don’t do that.”
“let me finish, princess. I need to say this. please?” he asks, signaling to you the severity of his feelings. “this ain’t a pity party. it’s a man admitting he fucked up.”
you don’t really have a choice when he uses that tone. you nod silently, choosing instead to rub his knee as a quiet show of support.
“I didn’t get to give my full presentation,” he mumbles with a lazy shrug. “the executive left for a family emergency; didn’t even think about it. she just left. all that work, all that draining myself, just to realize everyone around me don’t even make the same sacrifices. they ain’t got to. they all have balance and are thriving at home and at work. you know I hate comparin’ myself, but damn. knowin’ I’ve been doin’ all this shit, neglectin’ my home life and my love, my heart... it hurt and I needed time to process that.”
your eyebrows raise as you take in the information. you knew something had happened. the sound of regret in his voice, the way you can tell the guilt is weighing him down… it hurts to hear.
“I promised I’d take care of you, and you know I don’t take that lightly. but I’ve been… closed-minded. tunnelvisioned. you were right, baby,” he continues. his hand is now reverently rubbing your thigh, gripping it from time to time to help ground himself. “you tried to get me out of it, and I’m ashamed it had to come to that for me to really open my eyes.
“I let my thoughts of the future fuck with how I meet you now, and I’m ashamed of that. I hid my fear of not being enough, not providing enough, behind my ambition,” he shakes his head remorsefully. ”I wanna be a good man for you, baby. the best man. and sometimes the pressure of that gets to me, no matter how strong I am.
“so I mean it when I say I’m sorry. and thank you for being here, always. I don’t take that shit for granted, ᥫ᭡,” he presses, eyes locked on yours. it’s raw and honest and it’s easy to see he really needed to get it all off of his chest.
before you can even think to say anything, your arms are pulling him close. you feel him return the embrace tight, like he found something he’d lost. “oh, baby,” you murmur.
“you’re always tryin’ to carry the world by yourself, papa. you don’t have to do that. we’re partners,” you reassure him. “I see you, ony. I know you’re working hard for us. but I’m not just dead weight, you know? I ain’t just here to look pretty.”
“but you’re mine,” he murmurs, pulling back to look at you. there’s that stubborn frown again. you just want to massage it away. “I take care of what’s mine. you know that. I’m doing everything I do for us—“
“and you’re mine. or did you forget that part?” you tilt your head. “I say the things I say to you for you, which is ultimately for us. just because you’re my man doesn’t mean you’re running this show alone. I’m honestly starting to feel a bit insulted.”
“…insulted?”
“yes, insulted,” you state. “the fact that you think I’d let the love of my life carry all of our problems and run himself dry is crazy to me. I ain’t goin’ for it anymore. we are a team and I’m always gonna call you on your shit. that’s not just when you’re ‘wrong’ but it’s when you’re not takin’ care of yourself either.
“you said you’re ashamed that it came this far, well, so am I. I should’ve flicked you upside your big ass head when I first saw you headed in this direction. it was hard on all fronts, but the worst was watching you fight by yourself.”
you grab his face with your hands, gently but firm enough to slightly squish his cheeks. “I love you. we are a team. stop being so damn stubborn. shit,” you huff.
he blinks at you, lips puckered with the way you’re holding him. he swears in that moment he’s never wanted to marry you more. you’re a dream but also a beautiful reality, a merging of so much love and perfection that ony still can’t believe you’re his.
“you’re a man, I get it. you want to be this picture perfect image of a man that does all the hard stuff, does everything with no help. but this ain’t that,” you shake your head. “you’re human, papa. you’re not a superhero. you will burn out if you keep holding onto the thought that you’re pullin’ the wagon on your own.
“it’s me and you. this is what I expect from you. partnership. I might be your babygirl, and you might take the lead, but I’m not a trophy wife. I have my own job that I love, and I adore taking care of you just as much as you do me. I need you to understand that, onyankopon.”
ony could cry. he’s starting to see it now.
somewhere along the way, he took up the mantle of being everything. not because you asked him to, not even because he wanted to.
he’s afraid.
he’s afraid of losing you, of not being enough. he began to equate your love for him with how much he can provide. he began to equate his worth with how much he can be of service to others. he never thought that would be his driving force, but he sees now that anxiety can penetrate even the most fortified minds.
but you… you’re his fresh air. you’re as strong as you are beautiful. just because you let him lead, doesn’t mean you’re some damsel waiting in a tower. he always knew that, but it’s a jarring reality when your head’s been stuck up your own ass for several months.
“now. you’re gonna smoke that whole damn blunt by yourself. I’m gonna go cook a shit ton of food and you better eat till you physically can’t anymore. I’m taking care of you now. if you leave this bed, you’ll be fightin’ me. heard me?” you question.
he blinks again. and then nods.
“good. what do you want for dinner?”
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
things have been slowly moving in the right direction since that conversation.
ony’s been coming home at normal times, catching up on rest during the weekends, and making sure he shows love to you every chance he gets. he’s starting to look like himself again, energy levels raising more and more.
you’ve helped him tremendously. cooking his favorite filling meals, uplifting him when he gets those prickly thoughts of not doing enough, reminding him that you’ll always be there. he feels… doted on. it’s different from the usual dynamic between the two of you, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t adore it.
he’s used to being the attentive one. the one that carries the load, the man. but this whole situation has reminded him how intentional you are as a partner. it’s shown him that he can let go and not be perfect, that you’ll have his back when he can’t give the 110% he’s used to. he can depend on you the same way you can with him.
partnership.
that word has been ringing in his head ever since you said it. it fills him with a sense of belonging. relief. happiness. it makes him feel seen. home feels like home again. life isn’t so heavy.
and it looks good on you. you’re happy and looking at him with so much affection that he fights the urge to scoop you into his arms by the hour. you’ve been balanced and steadfast with your support, carrying the extra weight like it’s nothing. you pour from your heart, not from a place of expectation.
he should be recovering from his burn out, focusing on balance and new habits. and he is. but he’s constantly thinking about how much he loves you. how much he appreciates you. how much of an idiot he was to forget who you are.
he thinks about how he’s been through the wringer the past few months, and then smacked with realization after realization. you’ve been there through it all, since day one. he’s always focused on being the best man he can be, and he’s realized that he can only be his best with you. you’ve been there in his corner in ways he can’t let go of.
ever.
though to you, he’s still acting different than what you’re used to. you can tell he’s still in his head. you wonder if it’s because he’s still shaking the last traces of anxiety or if there’s something else on his mind. it’s a reflective state, so you’re giving him a chance to work it out himself before you drag him by his ear back to bed to chill the fuck out.
so when he brings up the idea of a lil weekend trip, just a chance for the both of you to get away after everything that’s happened and spend some quality time together, you jump at the opportunity. he needs it, you need it, everybody needs it. it’ll be a great opportunity to help him fully relax, and maybe you can figure out what’s got him in his head.
he chooses the airbnb and plans the trip, once again not letting you do a single thing. he doesn’t even let you pack. you go to chastise him for it, but he uses the excuse that he’s treating you for the past few weeks you’ve supported him a little extra.
ᥫ᭡
you immediately stretch when you exit the car, limbs reaching for the sky as a small squeak escapes your lips. “ugh, my ass hurts. did you really have to choose one so far away?” you ask brattily.
ony just hands you your purse with a small chuckle, not even mentioning the fact that you were either asleep or just no help the entire ride while he drove. “yeah, baby. I wanted to find a cabin for us. I think you’ll really like it,” he says warmly.
he knows you best, so you trust that this will be a great fucking trip. the smirk that crawls onto your face spells nothing but inappropriate intentions. “yeah? let me go check this shit out. see everything before the damage we’re about to do,” you smirk, making him laugh.
before you can turn to head towards the door, he stops you, voice calling out firmly. “nuh uh, bring that ass back. you know I gotta do my walk through. lemme get these bags first.”
you try not to rush him; he did just drive all the way and he’s being such a gentleman. it’s just hard when you know your vacation’s just on the other side of the door. you look around, already liking the looks of the location he chose. you ask about a cabin trip every time it’s time for a trip, and he chose a nice one.
“grab this for me, love,” he murmurs softly, handing you one of the lighter bags. you take it from his hand and he smiles at you before grabbing your shared suitcase and extra bags. “ready to go see the inside?”
“hell yeah,” you grin. you follow him, eyes scanning the front room as he sets the bags down. he begins his walkthrough, diligently checking every corner and room for a possible person or hidden camera. you follow behind him as he takes his time, admiring how focused he is and the cozy feel of the cabin. “this is perfect, pa. it’s so cozy and cute. hope we don’t get murdered or anything.”
ony lets out a loud laugh at that, always amused by you. “it’s safe here, baby, I promise. you know I brought my gun anyway,” he reassures with a smile. “everything’s good, we can get settled. wanna hear the plan?”
“there’s a plan?” you ask as you flop onto the bed. it’s so cozy, the blankets feather soft. you feel small in the king sized bed and you’re already thinking of the debauchery that’ll happen on it soon. maybe even in the next few minutes. “you’re always plannin’ shit. I thought we came here to relax. especially you.”
ony snorts as he sits next to you, easily tugging your form into his lap. you’re now sitting perpendicular to him, your legs resting over his thick thighs. he murmurs, “I plan so my girl ain’t gotta worry,” before he presses soft kisses to your cheek. you shiver at the tickle of his beard and turn your head so his lips meet yours.
“my man. always going above and beyond.” your voice is tender, your hand raising to softly tug at the hair on his chin. he just looks so good, so tempting. you can feel his hand start to trail up and down your thigh as he chuckles lowly.
his kisses follow the line of your neck until he gently pulls your earlobe between his teeth. you tilt your head with a sigh as he mumbles, “mhm, always for you. wanted to treat you. show my appreciation.
“I was gonna take you shoppin’, but not if you keep bein’ so damn touchable. I’ll put you through this mattress before we can fuckin’ unpack.”
his touch tingles in all the right ways, reminding you of how much you missed the depth of intimacy that used to be a usual routine. his words cause I jump in your gut. before you can fully melt at his touch, you’re quickly distracted. “shopping?” you perk up. “shopping where?”
“mmm, interested in the plan now, huh?” he teases, playfully nipping at your cheek. you lightly shove his face away as you laugh, feeling his arms wrap snugly around your waist. “we’re not far from the strip. figured we can grab somethin’ to eat, check out a couple shops… stretch our legs after that ride.”
“that sounds perfect. damn, you’re always on it, huh?” you smile. arms wrapping around his shoulders, you pull him close, enjoying the relaxing feel. “I’m definitely feeling stir crazy after all of that. let me shower and change and I’m all yours.”
he chuckles before giving you the gentle reminder, “you’re all mine anyway.”
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
it isn’t long before you’re fresh and clean, dressed in one of the pretty numbers that ony packed for you. he’s donned a coordinating outfit, always wanting to leave no room for doubt about who he belongs to. the two of you stroll hand in hand down the street, feeling rejuvenated already.
the weather is beautiful and warm and the sun is shining brightly. the shopping strip is alive with tourists and music and more shops than you would've guessed. homemade candles that fill the room with beautiful aromas, intricately carved crystals and handmade jewelry, a wide variety of restaurants to choose from… and you stick to your man’s side the whole time.
ony’s hand fimly grasps yours as he makes sure you stay on the inside of the sidewalk, away from the street. you both dance as you walk past bands playing live, your man making sure to twirl you around like the princess you are. you try so many different types of food, feeding each other and giggling goofily when the other makes a scrunched face of displeasure.
art galleries, antique shops, clothing stores. you put on fashion shows to show off the clothes for his input, and he the same for you. you both take probably a thousand pictures of everything that catches your eye. it’s everything the two of you need and a great first day of the trip. it feels more than amazing to spend this quality time together.
you feel like the battery for your relationship is charging, and it feels good.
by the time you get to the wine bar, your last stop for the day, ony’s arms are full of shopping bags. you feel bad but the sight of his veins and muscles from the slight strain make your mouth water.
“maybe we should just head back, pa,” you say softly. you rub his back as you gaze up at him, eyes warm but tired. “that’s too much to try to carry around, and I’m getting pretty tired too.”
he hums and bends to press his lips to your cheek. he can tell by your tone that you’re going to sleep good as hell tonight. “okay, pretty, we can come back tomorrow. it’s a bit of a walk back to the car, can you make it?”
“mhm,” you nod as he continues to kiss on you. the intimacy between you two is back on one hundred, and words can’t explain how good it feels. “which way is it?”
“this way,” he murmurs, jutting his head to the right. he guides you in whatever direction, your arm wrapping around his bicep. something catches your attention when you walk past the wine bar.
“is that a spa? shit, I’d love to go there,” you murmur, craning your neck to look inside as you both continue to walk. “look— they have natural springs!”
ony chuckles quietly to himself. hm. “it’s hot springs, baby, that’s kind of their thing. and we already have an appointment for tomorrow.”
“we do?” you beam, turning to look at him. he just knows you so well, it’s almost scary sometimes, but always incredibly endearing. he’s a good man and your man— simple as that.
he once again guides you to his side, away from the street. you grab a couple of the bags on his arms despite his quiet protest. “mhm, it’s set for tomorrow night. imma get your nails done and everything. full treatment for my princess.”
“oh, you must want the freakiest freak outta me that you can get. you really did your big one with this trip, huh? maybe you really did get your shit together.” you tease, lightly bumping his hip with yours. well, best you can with the height difference.
“oh, I want more than a freak, baby,” smirks softly. “but knowing you and everything we did today, you’ll be too tired. don’t even get my hopes up.”
you gasp at that and look at him with your jaw dropped. “don’t do me like that! I take care of you and that big ass d—“
“husshhh, girl,” he laughs, his voice cutting yours short. “we in public, chill. you right, you take care of me.”
you snicker at that. “damn right. don’t play with me like I ain’t got that.”
“oh, I know you got that. but don’t play like I ain’t got it either,” he smirks, raising his eyebrow. “or do you need a reminder real quick? won’t be able to walk tomorrow, though.”
you kiss your teeth and jokingly roll your eyes. “whatever, ony. always gotta make shit about you.” the laugh he lets out is diabolical.
the two of you continue to walk, the only sounds being your steps and the occasional swish or crumple of one of the bags. the sun’s setting in the distance and it’s a beautiful sight, pinks and purples painting the sky.
“I really appreciate all of this, baby,” you speak gently. “I’m glad we can have this time together. everything’s been amazing, but all I really need is you, you know? I missed you even though you were right there.”
his heart clutches in his chest. even as he consistently shows that he’s dedicated to being better with his changed actions, looking back on that time is still a sore spot. he was so misguided. but both the situation and you showed him what he really needed to see.
“I know, sweetheart. I hope you know how important that is to me too,” he expresses. “it’s everything. I didn’t show it in the way I should’ve and I let my fear get to me. but this… this right here is my world.”
him and his words, tugging at your heartstrings and shit. you squeeze his arm tighter and sigh, positively overwhelmed with the day. it feels like a dream. “I love you,” you murmur softly.
“I love you. and I mean that with everything.”
ᥫ᭡
soft silk. skin on skin. gentle, whispered words.
it’s a bubble. a safe haven of warmth and security. ease and peace. it surrounds you in all the best ways, consumes you but doesn’t inspire fear.
it’s just so warm.
and soft.
and it…
smells like bacon?
“wakey, wakey, baby,” ony murmurs, his touch following shortly. with a gentle caress of your cheek, he rouses you from your rest. you groan softly as your eyes flutter open. you’re met with ony’s warm gaze, the man still clad in your matching pajamas from the night before.
“noooo, we’re on vacation, we’re supposed to sleep in,” you mumble before nuzzling your face into your pillow. it’s just so soft you could sink into it, you wonder if the host will tell you what kind they are.
ony lets out an amused snort and turns to the side table. demanding thing you are. “it’s past twelve, baby. I ordered brunch,” he murmurs simply. he lifts a platter and carries it to the bed, placing it on your lap, and your mouth waters at the sight of the food.
“oh,” you murmur, not realizing the time. you guess you had to get up eventually, but you were having a good ass dream. you look at all the food then, taking in the several options before you. “you got me all this? I know I like being spoiled and all but…”
“it’s for both of us, don’t piss me off,” he pinches your cheek. “we did too much fuckin’ walkin’ yesterday. when I get in this bed, I’m stayin’.” you laugh at his words as he slides back into the spot next to you, careful not to jostle the bed too much.
“yeah, whatever. as long as I get to try some of everything,” you say back, bumping your shoulder with his. he bumps you back, but you’re more focused on picking your fork up to try a bite or seven.
just as expected, the food is amazing. you both immediately hum at the taste, nodding in approval. the next few moments are quiet as you both stuff your faces, chewing and crunching in tandem.
“damn…” ony pipes up, a smirk on his slightly greasy face. “know shit good when it get quiet.”
“don’t make me choke on my food,” you laugh as you cover your mouth. he’s right though. the people that live in this town are lucky that they get to eat at whatever restaurant the damn feast is from.
your man chuckles warmly as you reach to wipe his face, turning to ask you, “we got a few hours before we need to head to the spa, and we can go to that wine bar right after. we’ll pack some clothes to change into. anything you wanna do before then or you just wanna chill?”
“hm,” you hum in thought. honestly, you’re still beat from the day before. so many stores, so much walking that your feet are still sore. a spa trip is all that’s on your mind. “nah. do you wanna do anything? I feel like it’s been more about me since we got here.”
ony pauses at that, looking straight at you. you’re serious?
“well, yeah,” he deadpans. it’s almost like that’s the whole point. he can’t help but tease you a bit for what he considers to be a silly thought. “I brought you here to spoil the fuck outta you. issue?”
“okay, don’t get smart. here I am tryna be considerate and shit. I take it back.”
“that ain’t really somethin’ you can take back…”
“well, I’m takin’ it back.”
“no refunds, lady.”
“ony!” you laugh, lightly smacking his arm. “I’m serious! this is about us. quality time and all that. this trip isn’t just for me, it’s for you too. now, speak up. I know there’s somethin’ you wanna do.”
ony laughs, amused by your stubbornness. it’s one of the reasons he loves you so. “okay, okay. uhhh. I’m still tired, to be honest. I just wanna chill with my girl.”
you respond with a satisfied humph and a nod of your head. “then that’s what we’ll do. get cozy, or else.”
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
the next several hours are spent in bed, cuddling in each others arms. it’s a wonderful feeling just to be wrapped up in him, and you can’t help but sit in appreciation for everything. he really planned the trip so perfectly, you have only praises.
ony puts some random show on that captures you both, but only for a while. soon the sound of your voices covers the low volume of the tv as conversation blooms.
you talk about any and everything. from the day you first met, to your favorite childhood memories, to updates in the friend group that you hadn’t talked about in depth yet. you remain wrapped up in each other, touches soft and reverent, as you just enjoy the calming presence of one another.
eventually, you migrate from the bed to the living room, having a quick lunch before getting ready for your joint spa appointment. the thought of a soothing massage, a fresh nail set, and a trip to the wine bar has you damn near bouncing off the walls. your excitement is more than obvious, and ony has to hold back a laugh several times as he packs a bag with fancy clothes for the wine tour.
when you arrive at the spa, it’s much fancier than it seemed from the outside, which is saying a lot. the two of you are immediately and pleasantly greeted and guided to a luxurious room in the back to prepare.
soft robes, slippers, and refreshing water secured, you both meet eyes and playfully grin. it’s not your first couple’s massage, but it’s been a while, so you’re both excited as hell.
everything’s going so smoothly…
until ony’s damn phone rings.
you squint, watching him turn to go back to his locker. you stand in the doorway while he digs in his bag, and notice a nervous change in his face when he sees the screen.
“shit. I’m sorry, baby, I gotta take this. it’s the office,” he murmurs, eyebrows pulling together.
it’s a trigger, almost. not to such an extreme, but you feel a familiar disappointment starting to tug at you. “ony, are you serious? we’re just about to get started,” you frown.
“I know, I know, but it’s urgent,” he presses. “they wouldn’t call if it wasn’t. not after I've made my boundaries clear.”
“ony. you are not leaving to go take a work call,” you fuss, trying to keep your voice down. you watch as he gives a sad frown, almost like he’s holding back. but then his phone rings again and he holds up a finger, walking into the hallway.
“ony. onyankopon,” you whisper yell after him. when the door closes, leaving you alone, you huff a sigh and sit.
this is absolutely ridiculous. everything was literally going so damn perfectly, but here he goes on bullshit again. and only minutes before your spa appointment!
when the door opens and ony slides back into the room, the look you give him is lethal. he can only let out a deep sigh. “I need to go back the the cabin,” he says quietly.
“oh. oh, wow,” you scoff, crossing your arms. “you’re on vacation, ony. what the fuck happened to work/life balance? after everything? I’m not doing this shit with you again—“
“hey, hey,” he says softly, walking over to you. he reaches to cup your cheek with one hand and wraps his other arm around your waist. “I’m not going back to where I was, okay? this is temporary.”
he looks like he wants to say more, but stops himself short. “you’ll see. haven’t I been showing you that I’m dedicated to doing better? than you can trust me to be mindful?”
he’s met with a frown and the crossing of your arms.
“relax, baby, I swear this is it for the whole trip. I don’t use that word lightly. you know that,” he reassures, caressing your cheek soothingly. “I really am sorry, love. I’ll be as quick as I can. how about you stay here, yeah? I’ll get you when I finish up.”
he sees the frustration in your eyes, and he leans to press his lips against your forehead. he feels awful for making you feel this way, regardless of the situation. but it’s necessary. “trust me. I promise you’ll have all of me after this, okay? all of my attention, all of my love, all of my time. I swear.”
you sigh and look to the side, fighting the frustration you feel. you take a moment to mentally acknowledge and appreciate the fact that he really has been stepping back from work like he promised. not staying late, no work on the weekends, taking proper care to do better than the past.
he means what he says, you know that. his actions prove his intentions, that’s just the type of man he is. he just needs to finish something up, and then the vacation can resume like planned. it’s annoying as absolute fuck, and upsetting no matter how mature you try to be, but the main thing is that it’s temporary.
“fine,” you mumble. your gaze turns to meet his, firm and steady. “but you’re making this up to me as soon as we get back to the spot. I mean it.”
he smiles in a way that’s so sure. “I was already planning to. don’t let me stress you out. these cucumber slices cost too damn much for you to be worried about me.” the small smile he gets in return smooths over any anxiety of you being upset, despite the fact that you try to hide it.
”take this time for you, okay? just have some time to yourself. rest, recharge, all that without me breathin’ down your neck. you deserve it.” he presses his lips against yours in a loving kiss. “I love you,” he murmurs warmly. “and I appreciate your understanding. I won’t take it for granted.”
“yeah, yeah, whatever,” you mumble before you pull him into another brief kiss. “go handle business. then you can handle me.”
he laughs at that, the sound a deep reverberance from his chest. “and I will. believe that. text me when you finish up, and don’t forget to get all dolled up for me so we can go to the wine bar. call me if you need me, okay?”
ᥫ᭡
the spa appointment was definitely what you needed. your muscles feel loose and relaxed, your skin extra smooth and moisturized from head to toe, and your nails look a bit too good for a nail tech you’ll probably never see again.
it’s hard not to be a bit bitter, just wanting your man by your side. this was supposed to be for you both. but honestly, you have spent a lot of time right up under each other the past couple of days. and there’s always the hot tub back at the cabin.
and even though he left and couldn’t do the spa treatment, you’re still looking forward to this wine bar. you get dressed in yet another pick by ony, and no surprise, it’s gorgeous. the look paired with the way you feel after some quality self care is almost unbeatable.
as you exit the backrooms and pull your phone out to call ony, a voice calls after you, slightly rushed. you’d packed your stuff up so fast, ready to go, and she’d been trying to catch you. “ma’am? ma’am, just a second, please.”
you turn at the sound of her voice and give her your attention. “yeah? did I leave something?” you ask politely.
“no ma’am, I— um, I forgot to offer you some complimentary champagne for your visit. would you like me to pour you a glass?”
your eyebrow raises at that. normally you wouldn’t say no to some bubbly, but the thought of the wine bar is pressing. a fancy space, some time with your man, and some highly rated food and drinks? you’ll pass. “um, I wasn’t aware that was a thing. I think I’ll pass, thank you.”
“are you sure?” she presses. “it’s extremely quality, and you can sit and enjoy it in our lounge. why don’t you come take a look?”
hm. pushy lady. she must get paid well.
“yeah, no thank you,” you repeat. “I appreciate it, I just have plans. thank you for your hospitality, though.”
she falters at your reply, looking as though she wants to say something else. your attention is redirected to your phone as you press ony’s contact.
“pa, I’m done at the spa,” you say when he answers. “come get meee. I wanna go to the wine bar.”
ony almost crashes out, but he keeps himself in line. “shit, already? I didn’t think you’d be done for another half hour. I can’t come get you, baby.” he’s already flinching at just the thought of your response.
the face you make would be funny if the situation wasn’t what it is. “the fuck you can. what’s so damn important that you can’t pause to come get me?” you frown, dropping your bag on one of the lobby seats. you can excuse earlier, but this is too much. he just reassured you that his priorities are in order.
“just— I’m sending a lyft for you, okay? I have to wrap something up.”
“ony—”
“trust me, baby. just let me call a car for you.”
you scoff. it’s actually getting to be a bit much, especially since you just spent all of that time relaxing and letting go. ”this is fuckin’ ridiculous. we didn’t come all this way for your attention to still be on work.”
“baby—“
“just send the damn car, ony. and you better keep an eye on my location,” you huff before hanging up. you turn to the speak to the masseuse, who quickly looks away as she pretends to not be listening. “actually, I would like a glass of champagne, thank you. a bottle if you can spare it.”
you definitely plan to be a brat in the lounge until you see just how nice it is. calming music, a beautiful fountain, a bottle of champagne waiting for you… it’s really hard to be mad when you’re sipping on expensive drinks after your man paid for every single thing, including your dress and nails and hair. you want to pout. if only here were here.
it’s not long before you’re in the uber back to the cabin. you use the ride time to properly gather your words so you can explain to your man everything he did to piss you off in such a short amount of time. this was supposed to be a trip for both of you to relax, and he’s once again letting work get the better of him.
ᥫ᭡
arriving at the cabin, you take a breath. clear communication is the goal. you don’t want to make him feel bad, but you need to express yourself after what just happened. you walk to the front door with a little extra speed in your steps, mumbling under your breath. “nigga better be ready to hear this mouth. done left me at the place by my damn self. on vacation. after everything. damn shame.”
you open the door, fully prepared to call out to him so you can fuss, but stop short when you see a trail of rose petals starting at the doorway. it’s like your brain empties all coherent thoughts. you just freeze in place, looking down at how the petals smush under your feet.
there’s music playing, you notice in your frozen state. it’s you and ony’s song, alex isley’s “love again.” you can hear quiet snaps here and there, and you look up to see a smiling photographer taking picture after picture.
your heart is racing and your brain’s still not working.
“ᥫ᭡,” you hear a voice call from the other side of the room. your gaze slowly follows the flowers below you until they meet ony’s shoes. you look up and up and up and… there he is. standing in the living room, furniture cleared with a pool of rose petals scattered everywhere.
he’s dressed up, looking mouth watering-ly handsome as he holds a big bouquet of red and pink flowers. he’s watching you with eyes filled with a love you can feel from way too many feet away.
love… and nervousness.
what the fuck.
no, what in the actual hell.
“close the door, pretty,” he says warmly, his voice tender and so damn soft. you follow his instruction mindlessly, the cabin door closing behind you. you continue to stare at him with wide eyes, swallowing as realization starts to dawn on you.
your voice is thick with emotion when you speak. “ony…”
he just smiles warmly as he adjusts the flowers in his hand. with all this planning, he tried to keep everything as inconspicuous as he could. redirecting your thoughts of what the trip was really about, pretending to book a couples spa when it was really just for you, roping the spa workers into his plan…
it all worked. he hated lying, it actually made his chest hurt to see the disappointment on your face and hear the frustration in your voice when he “bailed” on you for work, but it worked.
he got you.
“come here,” he says softly, holding a hand out to you.
your heart is still beating, beating, beating in your chest, and you have to force yourself to take a deep breath. “ony…” you repeat, your voice shaky. you’re still frozen in place.
he just continues to smile, endeared as he takes in your surprised demeanor. the taller man takes slow steps towards you without breaking eye contact. the flowers are tight in his nervous grip, but he tries not to show how he’s feeling.
you let out another breath when he reaches you, and he carefully removes your bag from your arm. he sets it down gently before he turns back to you. his arm extends, presenting the giant bouquet to you.
“you gone leave me hangin’?” he asks softly.
“no,” you choke out as your eyes fill with tears. “I—… ony…”
“c’mere, baby.”
you feel yourself being tugged into his arms and you hug him tight as tears start to fall. “I’m sorry I lied to you,” he mumbles softly. “I won’t again, I promise. you’re just too intuitive, you know? I wanted to surprise you but yo ass always catchin’ me before I can, so…”
he lets out a breath as he squeezes you tighter in his arms. “walk with me. I got you,” he says softly. he pulls back to see his pretty girl’s face, taking in how you look up at him with so much love. he gently wipes your fallen tears and reaches for your hand. “ready?” he asks quietly. you nod, sniffling softly.
he walks you down the path of petals, keeping you close to him. the music continues to fill the room and you can smell the candles that you picked out from the small business you both went to the day before. your heart’s racing in your chest and your emotions are overflowing.
he really did get you.
he leads you to the center of the room, hand never leaving yours. you both take a deep breath when you reach a stopping point, looking at each other. he goes to speak, but realizes he still has the flowers in his hand.
“hold on,” he murmurs as he searches for somewhere to set them. you can hear the nerves in his voice and see how he fumbles slightly. it’s cute. heart-warming. eventually he just decides to set them on the kitchen counter.
when he gets back, he takes both of your hands in his. you smile at him, reassuring him as your thumbs caress his hands. it’s a gesture he appreciates, something small to help ease his nerves. he takes another breath to settle himself before he speaks.
“ᥫ᭡,” he starts warmly. his eyes are deep pools of genuine reverence. “the love I have for you can’t really be put into words. it’s why I show you every chance I get. it’s why I do everything that I do. because you deserve to know just how adored you are by me, every second of every day.
“ever since that day you first walked into my life, you’ve had me. it didn’t take me time at all to realize that you’re the only woman I could ever want. you’re the woman I’ve dreamed of, the woman I prayed for. your heart and soul are golden, especially in a word like ours. I see you for who you are. caring, kind, vulnerable… funny, attentive, dedicated, and real. I’ve seen you grow. I’ve seen you love. I’ve seen you cry, and I’ve seen you succeed.
“you’re everything,” his voice cracks. “you’re my sun and stars, my moon and galaxy. you’re a warm hug and an oasis of peace. you’re my laughter, you’re my joy, and you’re my future. you inspire me. you turn everything you touch into gold, baby.
“with you in my life, I feel like I’m being rewarded for something I’m not even aware of. I can’t believe that someone like you could ever exist, let alone want me the way you do. I’ve never felt so seen and I’ve never felt like I fit with a partner so effortlessly. we listen to each other, we communicate, we stick through the tough times, but we have fun through everything.
“I lost sight of that earlier this year, and I can admit that. I forgot that I never have to perform for you, that I don’t have to be on a constant working wheel. I never wanted to neglect you, I’ve just always wanted to give you the absolute best that I can offer because you deserve no less. but you reminded me, love. you reminded me about our foundation of partnership, how I’m not in this alone. and you supported me when I needed to readjust myself. I can never thank you enough for that.
“I can’t explain how at home I feel with you. I feel most myself with my babygirl by my side, and I love how you can be your most genuine, open self with me too. I love being your safe space, your man, and whatever else you want me to be. I want to be all of that for you and more, always. I want to be your shoulder to cry on. I want to carry you through the dark times. and I want to lean on you too.
“I wanna be your husband, baby,” he says softly. “I wanna be yours forever. you’re too good to let go of, and I never intend to do so.”
you’re a mess of tears. you can barely even make out his face as he gets on one knee, hand sliding into his pocket. “oh, ony,” you say softly, one hand raising to land on your beating chest.
“I love you, ᥫ᭡. I want nothing more than to call you my wife,” he says warmly. he opens the box, revealing a gorgeous ring. “will you do me the honor of marrying me?”
you don’t even hesitate.
“yes!” you nod frantically, immediately holding your hand out to him. “God, ony, there was never a doubt in my mind. yes!”
you’re a puddle of sobs as he slides the ring onto your hand. it’s a perfect fit, and you don’t even allow time to wonder how. you just immediately wrap your arms around his shoulders in a hug.
he lifts you into his arms as he stands, holding you close to his heart. “thank you, baby. I promise I’ll love you with everything in me,” he murmurs deeply, voice wavering from the emotions of it all.
“you already do,” you sniffle, pulling back to look at him. he’s still holding you off the ground, tight in his embrace, as you reach to cradle his face. you press your lips to his and pour all of your feelings into it the kiss. he returns it with just as much fervor.
you pull back to look at him adoringly, caressing his cheek. “the love we have is something I’ll never seek to replace. I’m yours, ony,” you whisper softly.
he grins then, his own eyes wet with tears. his arms remain tight around you as he twirls your form around, making you squeal and laugh.
he gently sets you back onto your feet, smiling down at you. “my lady,” he says warmly. after all of this time connecting, learning each other, loving each other, he can finally call you his forever. he leans to press another kiss to your lips as he wraps his arms around your waist.
when you hear the door close, your eyes blink open, turning to look over your shoulder. “s’just the photographer, baby,” he explains, hand rubbing up and down your back.
you hum and turn back to look up at him, smiling as you both enjoy being on cloud 9. he reaches to wipe your remaining tears with a gentle touch. “I can’t believe you actually fucking got me,” you laugh softly.
“shit was hard. know you wanted to beat my ass for leaving you up there,” he snorts. just thinking of your tone when you were talking to him on the phone has him cringing. “but it’s all okay now. I’ve got my fianceé and I don’t really give a shit about anything else.”
“I know that’s right,” you giggle, kissing him softly. “I was gonna come in here and chew you out, but I’m so happy I didn’t have to. I’m so blessed to have you, my ony.”
ony’s heart flutters in his chest. your ony. that’s right. yours and only yours.
“you’re still taking me to the wine bar, though, right?” you ask with a raised brow. he laughs at that, head tilting back, but you’re seriously still thinking about that place. have been since you saw it.
“yes, baby, we have a reservation for tomorrow. I just wanted to spend tonight with just you. that okay?”
you smile, but you’re lowkey irritated. of course he already booked a reservation. he really planned everything to a t and you had not a clue. “‘course it is. I still can’t believe you fuckin’ got me, big head.”
he snickers and pinches your side teasingly. “yeah, I did that shit. got you cryin’ like a baby.”
“alright, that’s enough of that,” you squint up at him. “you cried too.”
“yeah, yeah, whatever,” he chuckles. “c’mon, I know you hungry. I have dinner for us.”
ᥫ᭡
visual. visual. visual.
it’s unreal.
the candles on the table create an intimate vibe, the petals are scattered everywhere, and your man is right across from you, holding your hand as you talk and eat.
it’s beyond intimate. you’ve never felt this way before. the level of dedication between the two of you has deepened in a heavily serious way, and it’s a sensation that‘s so unfamiliar.
you’re engaged.
you have to let that settle. it’s not something you’ve come to terms with. every time you lift your left hand or move it in any way, you feel the weight of the ring. it’s a reminder, a symbol that you get to wear not only for yourself, but for your fiancé. your future husband.*
the love of your life, the man that will hopefully be the father of your kids, the partner you always prayed for but doubted the existence of. it’s heavy, but it’s a weight you carry with pure happiness, adoration, and intention.
ony’s not on cloud nine, he’s in heaven. his lady, his future wife, his world is on the same page as him. partnership. marriage. dedication. he’s so lucky— so blessed to have someone that sees all of him, understands, and is still dedicated beyond belief to loving him forever.
he can’t wait to share this with the world. he’s so excited to marry you. he can’t believe that there were times that he doubted you’d say yes, but your agreement is a testament to where both of you are planning for your future.
the both of you are giddy.
your emotions hit you like a wave over and over as you’re repeatedly overwhelmed with gratitude. this man, the love of your life, is yours. he wants to be yours, not just for now, but for forever.
“baby, don’t cry,” he murmurs warmly, reaching across the table to wipe your tears once again. “my love’s feeling a lot right now, hm?”
you sniffle and nod, leaning into his touch. “I’m just… really happy, pa. that’s all.”
ony hums softly, caressing your cheek. his sweet girl. he’s so grateful that everything went as planned. “you deserve all of this and more. I’m dedicated to loving you like this forever, ᥫ᭡.”
“if you’re trying to stop my crying, you’re doing a bad job,” you laugh through your tears, reaching to softly clear them. he smiles and pulls back to step around the table and slide into the spot next to you. wordlessly, he pulls you to him.
your arms wrap around ony as you rest your head on his shoulder. as your eyes close, you feel him softly rub your back. the silence is soft and welcome, and you could stay like that forever. just being held by your fiancé.
moments later, a kiss is pressed to your forehead. “I’m gonna clean up, baby. why don’t you head to the bedroom and wait for me?”
your breath hitches softly. the mention of the bedroom after the high of the trip, the proposal, the wine, the overwhelming amount of love you feel… your eyes meet his as you pull back, finger softly trailing down his chest. “I can help,” you say softly. ”or you can just… leave it.”
his gaze is low lidded. the corner of his lip tugs upwards just slightly. “we’re in the woods surrounded by all types of wildlife that love leftovers. you stay here and I’m taking you on this counter. not very romantic, hm?”
giggling softly, you feel your face warm. with a shake of your head, you lean to kiss the man tenderly. “I wouldn’t mind,” you say softly. your breath tickles his skin and you can feel how his hand squeezes you just a bit tighter.
“go, princess,” he murmurs lowly, voice slightly quieter. “I won’t say it again. be ready for me.”
your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth and you nod before giving him another simple kiss. you go to pull away, but his hand slides up into the curls at your nape, cradling the back of your head as he deepens the gesture momentarily.
you whimper in surprise as he takes control, tilting your head and taking your breath away. it’s overpowering and raw and sexy. it’s making your stomach swirl with deep arousal.
he pulls back from the kiss, but tugs your bottom lip with his teeth as if he was jealous you did it on your own. you moan and arch into him as he gently sucks until he releases it with a pop.
fuck.
you look to him with labored breathing and he looks at you as if you hung the moon, pleased with how dazed you are.
“go.”
you don’t hesitate to follow instructions. you purse your lips, silent from the kiss, and pull back from him. he watches you closely, like he’s just drinking up your form. you don’t feel his eyes leave you until you’re in the bedroom and out of sight.
“shit,” you mumble to yourself. you can tell where your future is headed, not just for the years coming, but for the night as well.
he’s about to absolutely ruin you, and you’re about to let him. shit, you’ll probably beg him.
you take a deep and begin to undress, revealing the black lace set you are tremendously grateful you wore with the dress. it’s snug and sexy and you know ony’s going to love it.
you sit on the rose petal cover bed and back up to rest in the middle. your heart’s racing— and you can feel your other pulse throbbing between your thighs. you can only imagine how intimate it’s going to be to make love to your fiancé for the first time.
footsteps approach sooner than you thought. you can only guess that it’s the shared anticipation of the night fueling you both.
when you hear the door open, your gaze lifts to meet you lovers. his eyes are dark in the low lighting, and the way they sweep over your form so reverently makes you want to speed things up.
but it’s obvious in the slow way that he approaches— he’s going to take his time tonight. few complaints on your end. the slower he moves, the more your fire burns.
”you’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he rasps when he comes to the foot of the bed. it’s like you’re being given to him on a silver platter, his own personal angel.
no, not an angel.
because the things he’s going to do to you tonight… he can never utter them for fear of tainting another’s soul.
he breathes out as he begins to undress, dazed and captivated by you beyond belief. “just… stay there. let me look at you,” he says breathlessly. your face warms in response and you can’t help but look away. he stops you before you can.
“look at me. please,” he murmurs. his desperation is only for your ears, and he wants to see you, see all of you and your reactions when you have each other tonight. he doesn’t want you to look away. you can’t look away.
your gazes meet once more and he crawls onto the bed in his bare state. contrary to your belief, your heart can beat faster. you notice as the distance closes between your bodies.
when your eyes meet his, he has a physical reaction. even with only the touch of your gaze, he feels himself jump. “just like that,” he murmurs lowly. “don’t look away.”
he continues to crawl up the bed until he’s right up against you. he manipulates your body until you’re lying on your back, straddling his waist as he leans his arm on the headboard above you.
“so beautiful,” he whispers, one hand descending to slowly caress from your knee up your thigh. he lets out a soft breath as he presses his pelvis against yours, your underwear separating you from the proximity you really want.
”all mine,” he mumbles. “let me show how grateful I am, yeah?”
you can’t respond because he bends to press his lips to yours. this brings you closer, his chest pressing against yours and his hips pressing harder. the sensation makes you gasp as your hands find purchase on his shoulders.
but when you feel his hips start to wind against yours? you can’t help but moan, your eyebrows pulling together. he’s hard, and you can feel the pressure of it through the thin material of your panties. he tries a few different motions of his hips, searching through the channels of your body until he finds the ones that make you have the biggest reactions.
softer, faster, harder, slower. you can feel the fabric of your bottoms getting wetter and wetter as he teases you. he leans to take your lips, tongue sneaking into your mouth to dance for an intimate moment before he pulls back. he has the audacity to mumble, “look at me.”
a short moan escapes you as your eyes gaze into his, his hips still a constant wave against yours. the look on his face is something you hope to remember for years to come. he already looks so gone. focused on your body so much that it’s all he can think about. all he can feel is you.
“you think I can make you come like this?” he asks huskily. there’s a sound slowly becoming more and more audible, the slickness between the two of you building. “I should. you deserve to come as many times as your body wants to. imma give you that.”
your arms wrap around his shoulders as he continues to grind into you, responding to every breath and moan like he understands a language that only you speak.
“m’talkin’ to you, love,” he breathes, pressing a hand against your back to encourage you to arch against him. “you don’t wanna talk to daddy? m’not doin’ enough? tell me.”
you whine then, your pussy throbbing against him as his words continue to stimulate you. “fuck- just… ah, keep going,” you breathe out, pulling him closer. his lips meet yours briefly before his hand slides to your hip, pressing you against him more.
“whatever you say, mama,” he mumbles, hips slowly moving to keep himself in a constant press against your clit. he moves to have one arm around your neck and the other up your back. his hand finds home in your nape again, holding you to his chest.
“just feel it,” he breathes. “just feel me. you do this to me, baby. no one else. this is yours. I’m yours.”
you take in his words, your eyes fluttering shut. “shit,” you murmur, your legs wrapping around his waist. he’s just so perfect and he knows how to hit all of your spots. the way he talks, the way he feels, everything is just right.
but it’s not enough. it’s not getting you where you need it to reach. “please, I- more. I want more, ony.”
“you want me to eat her? hm?” he asks lowly, hips deepening their waves against you. “wanna put that pretty pussy on my face?” you exhale as he moves against you, nodding quickly.
“come feed her to me then,” he mumbles, using his position to lift you in his arms as he sits back on the bed. the look in his eye is a mix of desire and a subtle determination. ”c’mon, baby. put that ass in my face.”
your breath catches, but you move nonetheless. he leans back to rest against the bed, dark brown eyes staring intently into yours until you move to face away from him, completely bare as you carefully straddle his face. “don’t piss me off,” he mumbles gruffly, moving you by your thighs to bring you close.
“s’my shit,” he mumbles. he brings you to smush against him, tongue instantly searching for your bundle of nerves. the tip of his tongue swirls against your clit slowly, an agonizing tease to get your attention.
ah, fuck. you have to prepare yourself. if there’s one thing this man knows how to do, it’s eat some pussy. “ony,” you press, rocking your hips back in a request for more.
“relax,” he mumbles, using his hands to spread your cheeks apart. “take deep breaths and relax your body, baby. let me eat her right.” he flicks a quick few licks against your clit before puckering a kiss against it. you release a deep, long moan as he sucks gently before releasing it with a pop. “slow breathing, princess.”
you force yourself to take deep breaths as you clutch the sheets on either side of you. his hands caress and squeeze your thighs and ass as he pulls you closer and closer against his face. he shakes his head in a quick motion before he gets to work.
the moan that escapes you is more of a squeal as he goes to town, lapping and sucking at your heat like it’s his last meal. he tongue moves in different motions— flicks and circles, as he slurps and spits. it’s sloppy, it’s wet, and your keening above him as he makes your toes curl.
“fuck, papa, you eatin’ me so good,” you pant, starting to rock your hips back and forth. his arms hook under your thighs and wrap around your waist, pressing you even closer as he groans. the vibrations make you squeak, and you lurch forward and away, only to be brought right back.
ony just can’t get enough. he’s sure his eyes are rolled back as he continues to dive in, your juices dripping down the sides of his mouth as he demands more. it’s what he needs, he needs you to give everything to him. he needs to pleasure your body as much as he can, more than he ever has.
your moans are drawn longer and longer as you get closer to the edge. “fuuuck, ony,” you cry out. his hand comes down and slaps against your ass, an action that makes your pussy jump as he continues to eat you up. your hips grind and grind as he slurps and groans.
when he pulls back and licks a stripe from your clit to your ass, you body freezes as your toes curl. he spreads your ass and dives into giving it the same treatment, fingers shifting to circle your clit.
“mmshit—“ you choke, hands moving to grasp his legs below you. “daddy, that’s… haaa, fuck. s’too much! that’s— ngh!”
when your orgasm crashes over you, he drinks it all up as he squeezes your ass, holding you to him as you moan and cry out. “fuck, fuck, fuck,” you ramble, your hand reaching back to press against the back of his head. “ohhhh, my God, ony!”
he shakes his head again, wringing as much pleasure out of you as possible. you pant as your eyes roll back, hips jumping in overstimulation as you fall forward. you’re left bare to him. letting him pull every drop of pleasure from your both with just his mouth and hands.
as you try to catch your breath and your sanity, his hands move over your body, massaging and caressing everywhere he can reach. “fuck,” he rasps. “taste so damn good. I’m damn near addicted to you, baby.”
all you can do is pant, your leg twitching slightly in the aftermath. it’s insane how you feel, so weak-limbed and short of breath and he hasn’t even taken you yet.
he shifts your body again, his touch gentle as he moves with awareness of your sensitive state. he places you on your back and rests between your thighs. he then starts to softly massage your body, hands caressing your arms and hands and thighs. they slide down your legs and to your feet, reaching back to work out the tenseness from your clenching of them.
he holds your body with so much love and care, and as you lay back in the soft comforter and mattress, you feel yourself begin to slip into that sweet feel of submission, of releasing control into the hands you trust the most… it washes over you in waves and it’s like ony can feel it.
“my baby,” he speaks, just barely above a whisper. you limbs are starting to relax more and more and he heightens the strength of his massaging. “keep breathing, love. keep relaxing. just feel.”
you swallow slightly, eyes blinking open to meet his. he smiles down at you and continues to soothe you with his touch. “I love you,” he whispers softly,
“I love you too,” you whisper back, voice just slightly strained. he leans again to press his lips to yours, tongue intimately twirling with yours. he shifts then, and you can feel his length rest between your thighs, reaching to your belly button. it makes your clit jump against him, and he has to breathe out at the sensation.
he reaches down between the both of you, hand lightly tracing down your stomach and to your clit, lightly spanking once, then twice. you hips jump just slightly in response, and then he presses a singular finger between your folds.
he keeps eye contact with you, watching as your lashes flutter in response to his touch. he presses into you then, eyes flicking to catch how you pull your lip between your teeth. he begins to move his finger back and forth, adding another when you’re ready.
one becomes two, and soon your weak, overstimulated whimpers become full blown moans as he brings your arousal back to life. he’s taking his time because he knows your body, and the benefits are showing. he curves his fingers deep, watching as you spread your legs and rock your hips.
the scrunch of your face, the furrow of your brow, the way you call his name, it’s all driving him deeper and deeper into that need to service you, to make you reach your limits of pleasure in unprecedented ways.
and just like that, his fingers are gone. the whimper you let out is shamelessly pathetic, and you blink up at him with wide, questioning eyes. but when he flicks his wrist and lightly plaps his heavy dick against you, your legs can’t help but spread instinctively.
the sight is gold for him, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “good girl,” he drawls, eyes raking over your body. “muscle memory *just* for papa. you ready for me, baby? ready for me to give you what you need?”
“please,” you murmur. your breathing is labored, skin prickling with desire and anticipation. “I need you.”
he wastes no time then. he presses himself against you, reaching to cup your jaw so that you can keep your eyes locked on his. you drag out a moan as he slips into you, taking advantage of your earlier wetness.
“yeah, that feel good, don’t it?” he grunts out, he himself having to take a breath at the squeeze of your pussy. “mmm, fuck, baby,” he damn near slurs. his eyes are glazed as he starts to rock his hips. “how can I forget how wet you get for me?”
he leans forward to rest his arms on the either side of your head, chest resting against yours as he grinds into you. you feel so full, the way he thrusts slowly pushing air out of you. “oh, fuck,” you whine, arms wrapping around his back. “s’too much,” you pant. “fuck, onyyyy.”
you can’t help but let out deep, pressing breaths and moans as he buries his fat dick into you. “take it, baby. it’s yours,” he pants. if he thought he was in heaven before, he was surely wrong. this is heaven, knee deep in your waters with your whines and moans right next to his ear. it’s a dream.
“you deserve it,” he huffs, leaning to press open mouthed kisses up the column of your neck. he continues to encourage you, staving off his own orgasm even though the grip you have around him has him ready to bust. “every inch, every kiss, everything. you deserve it. drown in it, baby. it’s yours to get lost in.”
he pulls back to rest his weight on his arms, hips rocking deeper and deeper as you open up more for him. your moans are deep, and you’re really trying to keep eye contact despite the fact that every thrust makes your eyes roll.
“pretty ass,” he murmurs softly, watching you closely. he tilts your chin up, pressing kisses to your cheeks, forehead, nose, all while you pant and whine.
“fuck, princess,” he groans throatily, reaching to grip your waist. “grippin’ me so perfectly. we fit like we made for each other, yeah? cause we are. you’re gonna be my wife, baby. my forever. are you happy? tell daddy.”
“I’m happy, ony,” you croak, eyes filling with tears from the pleasure and emotion. “I’m over the moon. fuuuuck, I’m so… so happy.” you’re still panting, trying to breathe deep, when he reaches down to play with your clit.
“good,” he grunts, hips diving deeper and making you cry out. “promise I’ll keep you that way.” it’s heavenly. a perfect view of his handsome face, the look in his eyes, they way he moves against you… it’s a true experience that you wish you could hold onto forever.
“let me see it,” he murmurs breathlessly, hips meeting yours again and again and again. you look up at him, confused in your blissed out state as he continues to ravish you past the point of clarity.
you can’t think about anything but the way grinds into you, a mess forming where you meet.
“your ring, baby,” he explains with a pleasured groan. “grab those pretty titties and let daddy see your ring.”
right. the ring.
just the thought makes you flutter around him, and he groans at the feel as you reach up to follow his direction. “fuck, yeah, mama. wish I could take a picture. I’d frame it and keep it just for me. so fuckin’ perfect.”
you don’t know why it makes you even wetter, the thought of him doing exactly that. having a picture just for him, showing off the ring he worked so hard to get. reminding him of the proposal he worked so hard on, and the fact that you said yes.
“do it,” you rasp.
his hips stutter slightly, and he’s broken out of his daze just a bit to look at you through the haze. “huh?” he asks.
“do it.”
he licks his lips as he blinks. did he hear that right? did you just tell him to—
“do it, papa,” you moan, your legs wrapping tighter around him.
fuck, there’s no way he can deny you when you moan like that, or himself from being able to see you in this position anytime he wants. he pulls back to blindly reach for his phone on the nightstand, and when he grabs it, he holds the camera up to have you in frame.
the look you give him past the camera, the way your ring glistens in the candle light as you grab your chest… it makes ony’s heart stutter. he’s so damn in love with you, it’s almost fucking scary. “God, I love you,” he grunts, tossing the phone away to press kisses up your neck to your lips.
he starts to buck into you again, hips moving expertly, and you feel his fingers at your clit. you can only whine in response as you kick your feet up. you’re at his mercy and there’s nothing you can do but take the loads of pleasure he brings your body. you pant and pant until another orgasm washes over you, small spurts of liquid squirting out of you.
“ohhh, yeah, princess,” he huffs, hips still meeting yours in rhythm. “give it to me. give it to me, just like that.” you can only curl your toes as your eyes roll back, hips jerking. you have to breathe manually after such an intense orgasm.
his hips slow, but don’t stop. he leans back and grabs your leg, shifting to lay on his side with your leg over his arm. he reaches to wrap his hand around your neck as he slowly meets your hips with his over and over.
“one more,” he moans. you can’t tell if it’s an encouragement or a request. “come on, princess, give me one more. make it good.”
ony leans his head down to your ankle, tongue trailing lazily up before he plants kisses to the top of your foot. his hand hooks under your thigh and he presses it up into your chest. he stares down at you with heavy lidded eyes, bottom lip pulling between his deep as his hips rock deeper.
the stretch is almost too much. he’s so deep, touching your heart damn near, and you moan deep as you reach up to grab a pillow tight. “oh my fuck,” you cry out, toes curling as he dives into you.
“uh-uh, open up for me, baby. relax,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your leg. you whimper as you try to breathe, watching him as he presses kisses down your foot and to your toes. “just one more, princess. I need it. c’mon,” he murmurs. he presses another kiss to your toe before pulling it into his mouth.
the moan you let out is sinful, as the sensation in combination with his thrusts is all consuming. “fuck, fuck, fuck. onyyy!”
he hums around your toe, moving to play with your clit again. tears build in your eyes at the sensation and ony can tell by the grip you have on him that you’re close. he pulls back to look at you, your debauched state only bringing him closer to the edge.
“mmm, I love how pretty you look on my dick, baby,” he rasps. “vision ‘a beauty. daddy’s favorite. daddy’s only. I hope you feel that shit in yo soul.”
“I feel it, ony,” you whine, head tilting back. “fuck, papa, I’m gonna make a mess.”
it’s music to his ears. his hips start to move fast at the thought, movements less smooth. he chases his own orgasm as he feels yours wash over you and him, your wetness painting you both. you cry out, reaching out to hold him tight to ground you as wave after wave of sensation hit.
the both of you pant, limbs dropping lazily as you catch your breath. he pulls you close, your back to his chest, and just holds you there. it’s silent except for your breathing and your eyes fall shut as you bask in the after glow.
“holy… fuck…” you say between huffs, your heart starting to slow bit by bit.
“yeah?” ony grunts, eyes peeling open to look at you.
you nod, reaching to lightly smack at him. “yeah. if that’s the sex fiancés have, we’re should’ve gotten engaged a while ago.” he chuckles tiredly and catches your hand, pressing lazy kisses to the skin there. “we should’ve. I had to pay for this trip somehow, though.”
“don’t start that. could’ve proposed with a pizza and I’d still cry,” you snort.
“I ain’t proposin’ to you with no fuckin’ pizza. hell wrong witchu.”
“it’s just an expression.”
“well, stop expressin’ it.”
“do you need that? like are you good?”
“do you need that? cause I can go another round now if you really bout it.”
“…whatever, ony. always makin’ stuff about you.”
he snorts at that, pinching your side, and you both laugh until you fall quiet.
“I love you, ony. so much,” you say softly. he caresses your side and presses a kiss to your head, heart fluttering at your expression.
“I love you too, ᥫ᭡.”
you both stay there a while, just relaxing in each other’s arms as you get your energy back. it’s like old times, but better. the love was always the same, only deeper and more intentional. it’s on a different level now, and neither of you could be happier.
a/n: this was supposed to be short, a lil sum to get me back writing so I can finish the next crys + ony fic… and it took on a life of its own. hope you like! as always, feedback welcome and wanted <3
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cw: fluff, single father, profanity, suggestive themes, black!reader, not proofread unfortunately
an: omggg omg. this was so fun yallll i love himmmmmm. i already have fic ideas for them, so so juicy. im so excited to share wit y'all!!! finally!!! enjoy, kisses!!! alsoooo, ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ is y/n just so yall aint confused
₊˚.༄ so y’alls little meet cute starts your second year of teaching. lowkey still fresh out of school, degree acquired, little life set up and ready to inspire the children! you’ve worked at this for so long and you’re buzzing to be able to say that you’re finally where you want to be in life. the kids, the environment, the hours, you just feel so fulfilled… for a single woman, working and living on her own – saturday night’s out with the girls only give you so much.
₊˚.༄ you especially look forward to meet the teacher, just before the first day of school – always excited to get a first look at your students that year and the parents you’ll need keep that right eye out for. howeverrrr, you didn’t expect to have such a good-looking surprise that year. meet the teacher goes off without a hitch ofc, but about an hour before you should start closing up your classroom for the evening, in walks ony… holding the tiny hand of his adorable, bright-eyed daughter amira.
₊˚.༄ ony steps into the classroom and immediately clocks you – legs crossed at your desk, gloss sparkling, runway-grade teacher fit, and attention currently on some other parent - unfortunately for him. while you’re chatting, he takes a minute to stay stunned, amira running off to play with the few kids left in the classroom. he would’ve bet every penny to his name that love-at-first-sight didn’t exist, but he’d be a broke ass mf today if the feeling spreading through his body is any sign. he's watching your lips while you talk to that other woman like he already knows he wanna kiss them for the rest of his damn life.
₊˚.༄ “you must be amira’s dad” your warm, bright greeting sounds like seduction to him, having to physically shake his damn head to clear it – you’d been expecting him and amira all day, grateful for the chance to meet them before school starts. ony, on the other hand, thinks he actually might be in a dream – he swears he can see you glowing like an angel, and the sweet, luscious scent invading his senses couldn’t possibly be anyone else in the room. he wants to take you out TONIGHT, but he figures he should probably respond first. “damn… uh–yeah. i mean, yeah. onyankopon. but.. you could just call me ony.” he so outta practice he don’t even know what to say, just grinning in your face really. you’re very professional, and take your place of work very seriously but you definitely notice his nerves – you think it's cute how surprised he is that you’re bad.
₊˚.༄ as soon as he and amira leave the classroom, he’s texting his group chat “yo. i jus met my wife”
₊˚.༄ amira lovesss you off rip. obsessed. right next to you during read aloud, always participating even if her answer is dead wrong, never afraid to ask for extra help, begging you to play with her and her little friends at recess. she’s practically attached at your hip. AND tink got a mouth on her lowkey. always ratting out her daddy like “miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧, my daddy says you too pretty to be teaching these bad ass kids” you literally laugh out loud and almost drop your whiteboard marker but it’s not funny “amira! what did i say about quoting your father? and! what i say about cussin?”. you tell him about it when he picks her up and he just looks away smirking like “mm… you mad she being honest?”
₊˚.༄ amira draws one of ony’s hoodies for a “favorite things” activity because “he wears it all the time. he thinks miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ likes when he wears it.”
₊˚.༄ at first you only see him at morning drop-offs through the open window of his truck, just a lil smile when he winks at you before you both get on with your lives. but best believe he's got a plan – he gon make sure you see him dammit, and you start seeing LOTS more of him. you head outside for morning drop-off? he parked first in line, leaning against the front side of the sparkling truck, waving you over with that sneaky ass smirk that's saying “c’mere. i know you wanna”. so you decide to chop it up with him – innocently OFC - while you wait for your signal to start letting kids in. y’all try to make small talk but ony gets bored of that with a quickness. this is all he gets to see of you - ofc he's making the most of it. yall talk about everything under the sun in that drop-off line – work, young parenthood, goals. but that deep, rough voice like a hot kiss on your neck… he could get your social security number out of you if he wanted to. he doesn’t though, he wants your favorite meal so he can learn it like the back of his hand. he wants your hobbies and what you do with your freetime so he can plan the PERFECT date for y’all. he wants your family plans, so he’ll know if he can turn you out like he's planned since meet the teacher.
₊˚.༄ that's really not enough for ony though. how else is he supposed to be blessed with your presence? everytime he even gets close to bringing up a date, you curve him on some professional shit. he decides it's time to amp up the pressure, because you’re clearly not understanding how serious he is. soon enough, he's first in line at pick-up too – waiting against his truck for baby girl to come running out yelling “daddyyyyy!!!”, with you trailing right behind her, smirking at his persistence.
₊˚.༄ then he's dropping her off and picking her up early so he gets to see you without all them other eyes, walking all the way into the building just for a few minutes of alone time with you. stays working you up just cuz he likes to see you sweat him a lil, looking you up and down, fingers brushing your side like he can’t stop himself from touching you. “when you gon let me take you out…” he mumbles softly like he’d spend all day in this classroom with these snotty ass kids if it meant he could be next to you. “when you gon quit showing up here like my landlord on the first, mr. ony?” you smile up at him like you want them juicy lips on yours right tf now, but your professionalism keeps him at arm's length - he’s a parent of a student! telling yourself you just need to be cautious until you know how serious he is.
₊˚.༄ he always got some excuse to come into the classroom midday and be sneaky while the kids aren’t watching - “she forgot her snack, i swear”, “i just wanted to say hey, you look real pretty today miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ ...”, “oh, i just forgot to give her a jacket this morning, it's too damn cold. you warm enough miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧?” he’d give you the hoodie off his back if you said yes. neverrr misses a parent teacher conference, always on time with some beverage for you and a whole damn folder of shit. obviously he's tryna impress but you have no clue what could possibly be in there??
₊˚.༄ what gets you the most? hes such a good dad and its sexy as hell. patience like a saint, makes her laugh nonstop, gentle giant but the protective dad instincts are always on ten. plus, amira’s hair is always laid - cute baubles and bows, slick back styles, braids, twist outs… he does it all!! and does it very very well. you see the adorable lunches he packs her, flower shaped fruit, heart shaped sandwiches, cute little notes that sometimes include a little message for her to pass along to you - she’ll jump at any excuse to skip up to your desk and yap.
₊˚.༄ every time he shows up, you swear he got finer. soft hoodie, grey sweats, clean sneakers, and the most delicious cologne you’ve ever smelled in your life. your professional act crumbling more and more every time you see him, all he has to do is bend over to tie her little crisp ass dunks, and let that hoodie ride up a lil bit exposing them thick ass chocolate abs, that v-line? you have to remind yourself that you’re at work all damn day, getting flashbacks to that flash of skin like it's the victorian era.
₊˚.༄ he starts volunteering for school events and chaperoning… coming around all fine and big, just for the wasp moms to absolutely swarm him, all while he's undressing you from across the room - that lip bite was NOT for them! haha!
warnings: cursing, men can be sucky, bluecollar!ony, flirting
pliers, pliers, pliers, you think to yourself as you search through the store.
about a week ago, the stream on your shower head started acting funny. at first you could just hit it a couple of times with the perfect amount of strength and it’d be knocked back into its senses. over time, the trick started to work less and less.
one particularly frustrating day led to a swing with too much umph in it, unfortunately knocking the thing out of commission. after a brief moment of frustrated silence, you decided to just replace it. you’ve already picked out the fancy massage shower head you want. now, here you are in good ‘ole home depot, searching for all the tools needed.
you’re roaming the aisles and trying to look like you have at least the slightest clue what you’re doing, even though your source of knowledge for the particular task at hand is just… well, the internet. it probably isn’t a good idea, you doing this yourself, but there’s no way you’re paying out the ass for something you can let youtube guide you through. hopefully you won’t make it worse. if all else fails, you can just continue to take baths for now.
“pliers!” you smile to yourself when you notice the rack. your smile slowly but surely dwindles when you realize just how many types there are up on the wall, the variation of colors and shapes immediately making you regret your decision. “what the fuck,” you mumble.
combination, flat nose, linesman… the list goes on and on and on.
before you can let out a sigh of frustration, you hear the agitating sound of someone clearing their throat behind you. “need help, little lady?” a voice calls, sounding almost slimey in its delivery.
you turn, top lip already itching to raise in irritation, but you see it’s one of the employees. the bright orange apron is an insult to your eyes, but it’s not as bad as the look on the guy’s face. “oh. um... yeah, if you don’t mind. I just need a pair of pliers to change out my shower head,” you say casually.
he hums with a raise of his eyebrow, eyes flicking up and down your form. it’s a judgemental gaze, very telling for how this conversation is about to go.
oh, brother.
“you sure you can do that all by yourself? pretty thing like you shouldn’t have to get your hands dirty,” he drawls, a smirk tugging at his lips. it almost makes you want to gag.
“I’m sure,” you say blandly. you definitely didn’t come here to talk to mr. greasy, despite his attempt. “I just need a basic pair of pliers. please and thanks.”
he doesn’t seem to like your tone, smirk falling as his ego is bruised. he must pull shit like this all the time. it’s a wonder his ass hasn’t been fired.
“well, I can’t just sell you anything basic, sweetie. that’d be doing you a disservice,” he tries again. he walks past you to the wall display, gesturing with his arms. you get a whiff of funk every time he moves. “these here are top notch. definitely what I’d recommend. there’s no way you’ll mess up.”
before you can give the nastiest eye roll manageable, a voice grumbles from behind you.
“aye, bruh, you can chill with all that sales shit.”
ony had approached behind you a few moments prior, several feet back as he waited for the two of you to move and stop blocking the wall.
his trip to the store was supposed to be simple. he just wanted to get a new pair of tongue and groove pliers, maybe some more bug spray for his home, and then get an icee from the gas station after working all day in the damn heat.
but here he is, sighing softly to himself as he listens to the worker attempt to ruin both of your days. he figured he’d put himself and you out of your misery.
when you turn to inspect the newcomer, who’s quite frankly saying what you were thinking, it’s like a scene from a movie. you can hear the imaginary music playing and everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion.
behind you is the finest man you’ve ever seen. dark skin, locs pulled up into a messy bun, bushy eyebrows pulled into a slight frown. he’s handsome, kind of like the men you’d expect to be in a monthly calendar of fine ass, hardworking beaus. light brown eyes, beard in slight need of a trim. his arms are crossed and big, covered in tattoos and small scars, and his form towers over yours. rugged but sexy.
“that’s what I’m supposed to do, sir,” the worker says with a tight smile. “is there anywhere I can point you to? I’m a bit busy helping this girl right now. as you can see.”
your gaze flickers back and forth, taking in both men’s demeanors. now, how did I end up in this? you ask yourself.
“nah. I’m good here,” ony responds with a shrug. his gaze is steady and doesn’t even shift your way. he stares down the employee with a calm look, seemingly unbothered. “this young lady don’t need you in her face if you gone be condescending. and she needs a basic tool for a basic job, not something she’ll have to spend big money on to use once.”
the worker’s eyes narrow, but before he can respond, someone speaks over the intercom.
“buford please report to aisle 13. buford please report to aisle 13.”
the worker, now outed as buford, huffs and crosses his arms. “alright, miss, I’ll be right back, okay? if this guy bothers you, just come grab me.” you give a tight lipped smile in response. “yeah, sure. thanks.”
with one last (supposedly threatening) look to ony, the employee walks off, grumbling softly under his breath. there’s a quiet tsk from the man still standing next to you, and he shakes his head as he watches the other retreat.
“sorry about that,” ony says with a nod in buford’s direction. his tone is softer now, but not overly so, and the strength of his gaze is now on you. it causes a warm feeling to bloom within you and a small smile to tug at your lips.
“yeah. being a woman means unfortunately being used to it,” you say with a soft laugh. “I’m not opposed to a knight in shining armor from time to time, though.” you tilt your head with the tease, a flirty sparkle in your eyes.
hm. ony doesn’t like that fact that you’re used to it, though he understands. but he does like the flirting tease from you.
his eyebrow raises as a smile crawls onto his face. such a pretty belle you are. and a fun personality is there too, he can tell. “I ain’t a knight, I’ll tell you that. but I can fix that shower head for you. if you want.”
“mmm, I don’t know,” you say, a playfully suspicious look on your face. “you’re still a man. don’t want just any stranger in my home.”
“I don’t have to be a stranger,” he smiles, obviously quite tickled. the action makes a deep dimple appear on one side, as if the man could get any finer. “but I do this shit forreal, I swear. here, let me getchu my card.”
he reaches into his wallet and pulls out a slightly crumpled business card, handing the item to you. you take the card and glance over it, noticing the lackluster design layout and plethora of services offered.
“interesting design. onyankpon, huh?”
“close. onyankopon, but I go by ony,” he says lowly, correcting your pronunciation. he tilts his head a bit, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “that face says you think it’s less than interesting. what’s ya name, pretty?”
“ᥫ᭡,” you answer with a smile. “the seems… slightly legit, I guess. I keep that thang on me though, so how about an exchange of services, mr. ony? I can design a new card for you. this is cute and all, but I can make it better.”
the idea is appealing to the man, but you’re where his full interest lies. there’s a teasing tug in the way you interact with him. he likes it. “a trade,” he says with a nod. “I can do that. I was fully ready to do it at no fee, though, darlin’.”
you shrug, face warming just a smidgen. “I don’t mind. keeps my skills sharp.” you pause, looking him up and down. “you are legit, right?” you question with a squint of your eyes.
ony chuckles then, rubbing at his jaw. “I’m forreal. got a truck with my name on it and everything.”
you hum and place your hands on your hips. “‘kay then. I don’t have to buy the pliers anymore, right? this place is a nightmare. spooky.”
ony shakes his head, dimple on full display with his handsome grin. you’re just too cute to him, all jokes and beauty. “nah. I do, though. ‘scuse me, ᥫ᭡.”
the sound of your name from his lips sounds unfairly addictive. you look up at him as he reaches over your shoulder, body close but not close enough. he keeps his eyes on yours as he grabs the pliers he needs, the scent of his cologne only adding to the experience.
gah damn.
the man gives you another charming smile as he steps back. “I have to go do another job in a few, but call that number when you wanna schedule somethin’. hope to see you later, pretty. don’t leave me hangin’, yeah?”
ᥫ᭡
“nice spot you got, darlin’,” ony murmurs as he walks through the doorway. it’s a cute sight, seeing his large frame treat your comfy home with so much respect.
he wipes his work boots on your doormat for a long moment, ensuring he won’t track anything around. he’s sure to adjust his work belt so he doesn’t budge anything. he’s looking around with rapt curiosity.
“thanks. took me a while to decorate how I liked, but it was worth it,” you smile. “c’mon, I’ll show you the bathroom.”
ony follows behind you, wondering if you wore the cute lounge outfit you have on for him. he intentionally keeps his thoughts respectful, but little does he know, you absolutely did.
he steps into the bathroom behind you, noticing the scent of jasmine and sandalwood from the wax warmer. your place is definitely a woman’s place in all the best ways, and he has no choice but to smile when he sees how cohesive the decor is.
“okay, darlin’. lemme take a look,” he mumbles. you step aside and wait with your fingers interlocked. after stepping into the shower and looking over the situation, he lets out a focused hum.
“yeah, definitely time for a new one. I’ll get this off real quick, you’ll be good as new in a few,” he nods. “where’s the replacement?”
“right here in the sink,” you point, happy to help. it feels like opening the door when someone carries a couch or something. like you’re not doing the hard work but still contributing.
ony lets out a warm chuckle, once again amused. you’re just happy to be here and he adores that. “good. you mind handing it to me when I ask?”
“nope!” you chime.
he shakes his head with a grin, dimple once again capturing your heart. he works efficiently for the next few moments, quickly dismantling, cleaning, and prepping. “alright, pretty,” he murmurs, holding out his hand.
you happily plop the replacement head into his hand and he takes it with a smile. “a lil helper, huh?” he asks as he easily completes his task. “alright. I just need to check for leaks and you’ll be good to go. easy peasy.”
“perfect, thanks so much, ony, I really appreciate it,” you smile. who knew a trip to home depot could kill two birds with one stone? free assistance with the shower and a fine ass man.
“no problem,” he chuckles. “just leave a good review on my site,” he winks.
“will do. five stars, I promise,” you grin. “I’m gonna run to the other room real fast.”
ony lets put a hum of acknowledgement as he checks over the shower head, vigilantly searching for leaks. you turn to exit, heading to the living room to grab the small cardboard box on your coffee table.
“what’s that?” you hear him ask from behind you. you turn and shake the box in your hands, enjoying the rattle. “your cards! you didn’t forget about our deal, did you?”
the man smiles as he crosses his arm, leaning on the doorframe. “I told you I was fine with doing it for free.”
“oh, well,” you roll your eyes. “c’mon, check em out. I only got a few in case you didn’t like ‘em.”
he hums as he approaches you, stopping just short of your frame to take the box from your hands. he lifts the lid and slides a couple out, eyebrows raising in surprise when he sees the new look.
“damn. this shit look professional as hell. I like the color too.”
“yeah?” you smile. “I made sure it looked as nice as possible, some color to liven it up a little. added your logo from your site. now you just need to keep them in something so they’re not rumpled when you hand them out.”
he chuckles in response and nods. “hell yeah. I like these much better, forreal. thanks, ᥫ᭡.”
“no problem,” you wave dismissively. it really hadn’t taken long at all. “service for service, right? I would’ve struggled with the shower, and no disrespect, that card was all over the place. misaligned, boring with no color. hope you didn’t pay the designer much.”
ony licks his lips and sheepishly rubs at his jaw. “mm. I was the designer, pretty.”
“oop-“ you immediately respond, laughing softly. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that.” you did, but now you felt bad, so you feel the need to spare his feelings as much as you can. he probably tried his hardest.
“s’no problem. you were right. this is definitely an upgrade,” he nods, waving the card in his hand. he can’t be mad if he just doesn’t have the skill, and he never got around to paying someone to do it. “makes me feel all official and shit with my name on my truck and now this. I’d say this was a good trade. except…”
“except?” you ask with a raise of your brow. you were pretty sure you did a damn good job, checking several times that the design was crisp and typo free.
“except,” he starts, “I traded for you to redesign my card. not print them.”
you blink at him. “I’m missing your point? I told you I only got a few.”
he shrugs, twinkle of mischief in his brown eyes. “still paid for them. that’s technically a service and a purchase. it ain’t fair, y’know?”
“I mean, it’s not really a big deal…” you trail off with a mumble.
“ᥫ᭡,” he says warmly, looking at you with a dimpled smile and a tilt of his head. “I’m tryna ask you on a date. just go with it.”
you blink again before you have to fight a smile. cute. really cute. he’s fun.
“hmmm,” you start, tapping your chin. you’re playing the part now, and you have to admit it’s very amusing. “you might be right about that. s’not a fair trade. we should discuss this further.”
“mhm,” he smirks. “how about… dinner? my treat.”
you bite you lip and tilt your head slightly. “dinner and a drink,” you rebutt.
his smirk widens, a twinkle in his eye. “dinner and drinks.”
“you’re a bad negotiator. you know that?” you question, squinting playfully.
“I don’t know, I feel like I should throw in some extra for emotional distress,” he shrugs. “an unfair trade can be a lot to deal with, you know.”
you laugh and shake your head in disbelief.
“I think you’ve got yourself a deal, mr. ony. dinner and drinks, I’m sold.”
a/n: just a little meetcute :) get the title reference?
this is inspired by one of my text aus lmao. writing a lil everyday is kinda gettin me out this funk ngl. feedback always welcome and wanted <3
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