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‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰…‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀

greedy. onyankopon.

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.

“You feel that? That’s control. ‘You nervous, ‘that gun know.”

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."

“Aight, Aight,” Asaud groaned, “Y’all weird. Monster trucks next—before y’start kissin’ or sum’."

And just like that? You were onto the next.

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.

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