I’d keep my hand steady on her waist, grounding her while my voice stayed low and controlled. “That’s it… breathe for me. You don’t have to think right now, just feel. Let me stroke the stress from your work day out of you.”
Watching the tension slowly melt from her body would be my favorite part — the way her eyes soften when she realizes she can let go. “Good girl… there you are. Knew you were holding all this in.”
I’d brush my fingers along her skin just enough to keep her attention locked on me. “Stay with me. Every little sound, every shiver, every main, every stroke… I want it. Don’t hide from it.”
Then quieter, closer to her ear:
“You don’t have to be strong every second of the day. Right here, with me? You can unravel a little. I’ve got you.”
Ony was really planning on lecturing the whole ride home when you called him to come pick you up—not just because you were drunk, it’s becsuse you’d been slacking lately. He sighed when he answered the phone, your voice slurring but still understandable enough for him to hear you the first time.
He was quiet at first, but that silence wasn’t peace—it was tense. One hand on the wheel, the other resting heavy on your thigh almost immediately after you stumbled in the car like it belonged there, his thumb tapping like he was counting down before he snapped.
The second you slid into the passenger seat, the strong smell of liquor clinging to your skin, you leaned across the console with a sloppy grin. “Hiii, papa,” you dragged the syllable out, plump lips puckered as you tried to press a kiss to his lips. Your words were all syrupy and sweet, but your body was clumsy, damn near falling into his lap. Onyankopon caught you with one hand on your shoulder, jaw tight. “Sit back.” His voice was flat, firm, as he guided you into the seat like you were a child who couldn’t stay still. You back hit the cold leather as you looked at him, “Why you dont wan’ kiss m—“
“You not actin’ right.” he cut you off, shifting gears and putting his foot on the gas. You didn’t even question it, the corners of your glossed lips dipped into a frown as you turned your head to look out the window. That look he always caught you making when he wasn’t kissing your ass.
He looked over at you real quick before putting his eyes back on the road. “You out here actin’ like you grown, but can’t handle your responsibilities. Think everything a joke till it’s not. Skipping class, not pickin’ up when I call, drinkin’ like you ain’t got shit to do tomorrow…you think that’s responsible? That’s childish, mama. I ain’t raise no little ass girl, I got a woman sittin’ next to me, right?”
You and Ony had only been dating for four-ish years, and he always said that to you when you needed to be checked—even though he’s just a few years older than you. Still, he loved reminding you how disorganized and all over the place you were before him, like he took pride in being the one who steadied you.
As much as you shouldn’t, you always got turned on when he talked to you like this. When you were sober, you usually would hide it and let him lecture you but since you’re not—you weren’t hiding it as well. The fact that you were already thinking about him while you were out wasn’t helping at all.
You slouched in the passenger seat, hiccuping softly, braids falling across your face. “Mmm… you alwaaays so serious,” you murmured, tilting your head just enough to lock eyes with him. Your voice was thick with the shots you took before you left.
Without warning, you shifted in the seat, turning your body toward him. Your hand reached to drag slow across his chest, down his torso, fingers pressing into him like you needed something to hold onto. He always looked good but he looks extra good tonight for some reason, you just wanted to be in his skin.
“…you don’t wanna love on me?” you slurred, lips curling into a drunk grin. “You look s’good right now. I was thinkin’ ’bout you the whooole time… look.”
You fully turned to him so your back was to the door, spread your legs, slid your dress up over your thighs, bare pussy on display, slick already glistening, dripping down your entrance.
Ony’s grip on the wheel twitched when he seen you just spread yourself open without a second thought while he was driving. He was a little taken-aback because you didn’t even hesitate to expose yourself to him in a public space, which was unlike you. It was also a late Saturday night so it’s not like there was nobody on the road, you just didn’t give a fuck.
“You—” he mumbled as he stared at your drooling pussy, visibly pulsing like it was begging for him before he even touched you. His hand dragging down his face before it landed heavy on your inner thigh, palm caressing your skin, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth as you watched his hand moving dangerously close to where you need him. “You sittin’ here wet as fuck while i’m tryna talk to you.”
But instead of pulling away, his thumb pressed down, lazily circling your clit. The wheel stayed steady in his other hand, but his voice dropped lower, teeth gritted. “Got me riskin’ our life ‘cause you don’t know how to behave.” The sudden stimulation you’ve been waiting for all night made you let out a soft moan, close your eyes and your head loll back, hitting the tinted window behind you.
Ony’s thumb dipped lower, brushing against the wetness pooling at your entrance, then slid back up in a slow, calculated stroke. Soft, breathy moans spilling from your lips, louder this time, messy and unrestrained.
“You wasn’t paying attention to shit I said when you sat your ass in here. You need to listen to me,” he demanded, voice firm, even while his thumb worked your clit slow, steady, making your thigh tremble uncontrollably. Your nails dug into the leather seat, your pussy clenching around nothing.
“…I ammm papa,” you breathed, voice breaking into a whine, head tipping back against the window, eyes glassy and unfocused, your mind hazy with nothing but him.
Ony’s lips curved into the smallest smirk, like he had heard something funny. “Mhm…you always say that when I’m makin’ you feel good. You not listenin’.”
You weren’t, you could only look down at his fingers as gradually sped up, shivering, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.
“Y-yeaahhh I ammm… ohhh fffuck…” you moaned, your back arching off the door behind you.
The streetlights flashed past the windshield, casting sharp shadows over his face as he drove like it was nothing, smooth and steady, yet his pace never faltered.
His thumb pressed tighter, sliding down again to gather more of your slick before dragging it back up, spreading it slow over your swollen clit. He started shaking his head, eyes locked on the road, knuckles flexing on the wheel.
Your body jolted at the sharper stroke, thighs twitching, a high-pitched whimper slipping out before you could bite it back. “P-please, I am, I’m listenin’, I swear—”
“No,” he cut you off, voice steady but edged with heat. “You hearin’ me, but you not takin’ it in. Always gotta have shit my way before you learn.” His words were calm, but the pressure of his thumb contradicted every ounce of patience in his tone, circling faster, harder, dragging sounds out of you that filled the car louder than the engine.
Your hands flying to his forearm, clinging like you needed him to slow down, but your hips betrayed you—grinding, chasing more of what he gave. Your voice cracked around a moan, incoherent.
Ony’s had a look in his eyes like he was contemplating stopping the car in the middle of the street and just fucking you right there as you were moaning his name like it’s all you knew. Your fluids dripping down his seat, moans spilling out with no rhythm or restraint. He tried to keep it light to keep his focus on the road, but the sound of you, the heat rolling off your body, the way you were damn near crying for him—it pushed him over that line.
“Man, fuck this…” he growled under his breath, his hand left the wheel for half a second, snapping your thighs open wider before two of his thick fingers slid inside you without warning. The wet squelch filled the car, your gasp ripping through the air, sharp and needy.
Your body jerked, nails clawing deeper at the leather, eyes rolling back as your walls clenched tight around him. “Ohnnnyyy—ahhh! Ohmygod—”
Ony started dragging it out, fucking you on his fingers slow, thumb barely grazing your clit just enough to keep you twitching but not enough to push you over. Your little whines and the way your hips chased his hand had him twitching in his pants, but he kept that same steady pace—until he felt your walls start to grip down around him. That’s when he switched it up.
“Mhm, greedy ass pussy—tryna milk my fingers like it’s dick.” his tone covered in heat, almost a growl as his fingers drove into you harder, faster, curling with every pump, thumb pressing into your clit in rough, tight circles. The sloppy sounds of your pussy filled the car, wetness spilling down his knuckles, making the leather under you damp. The sudden pace had you crying out, body jumping, thighs clamping around his wrist as cream started coating his fingers thick. “Waitwaitwait!… I’m… I’m gonna… ohhh, shiiittt…!” you cried as your eyebrows furrowed, eyes rolling back.
“Yeah, there you go,” he grunted, never slowing down while you gushed around him, messy and loud, your release dripping down to his palm. Your head fell back, mouth open on a broken moan, body jerking helplessly as he worked you through it, thumb grinding mercilessly into your clit until you were damn near sobbing, shaking under his hand.
Ony’s smirk tuned into a lazy smile as he looked at the way your legs still twitched after he slowed. He eased his fingers out slow, coated in creamy release, before suddenly shoving them in your mouth while you were try to catch your breath.
His fingers stayed in your mouth, heavy on your tongue while you sucked them clean, eyes hazy and cheeks hollowing around his knuckles. The taste of yourself coated your tongue, making your thighs press tight together as he drove like nothing was happening.
The car slowed to a stop at a red light. Ony finally dragged his fingers from between your lips, slick glistening in the passing glow of the streetlamps.
“Sit up,” he ordered, voice low and rough. His hand curled in a lazy ‘come here’ motion.
You obeyed instantly, chest rising fast as you pushed yourself off the window. He wrapped his fingers around your throat, his still-wet fingers cold against your skin.
The pressure made your breath hitch, but before you could melt all the way into it, Ony leaned in, catching your mouth in a deep kiss. His tongue slid past your lips, tasting the sweetness of your slick still lingering on your tongue, swallowing the soft whimper that left your throat.
The glow turned green, and he pulled back, dragging a thumb slow over your spit slicked plump bottom lip. “Messy ass girl. Keep it together till we get home,” he uttered, the tone in his voice let you know that he wasn’t just gonna let you doze off until the morning.
the breakup wasn’t loud. no slammed doors, no ugly words thrown across a room. it was quiet, the kind of ending where both of you knew it was coming long before you said it out loud. he loved you and you loved him but football demanded more than either of you could give. so one night after practice, sitting in his car outside your apartment with the smell of his cologne heavy in the air, you told him you couldn’t keep doing this. he gripped the steering wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead and finally nodded.
“i know,” he said, voice low and steady even though you could see the shine in his eyes. “i don’t want to lose you but i can’t half love you either. game takin everything outta me right now.”
you sat there in silence while your fingers twisted in your lap until you whispered, “then we let it go.”
and that was it. no fight, no begging, just the quiet pain of two people pulling away.
but letting go didn’t mean cutting ties.
months later, your phone buzzed at two in the morning. you were half asleep and lying in bed with the tv still playing some rerun you weren’t paying attention to. the name flashing on your screen made your chest tighten. ony.
you answered anyway. his voice came through low and warm like it always did. “yo, you up?”
you laughed a little while rolling onto your back and staring at the ceiling. “yeah, what you want ony?”
“nothin’ for real, just checkin on you.” he said it like it was casual but you could hear the way his tone softened like he was trying not to sound too eager.
you shook your head even though he couldn’t see you. “boy, you always checkin on me late at night.”
he chuckled. “that’s when i miss you the most.”
conversations like that came and went and they scattered across months, always unexpected. a song dropped and he’d text you a link while saying it reminded him of you. you’d send him a dumb meme that only the two of you would find funny and he’d call you just to hear you laugh. it was never consistent and never planned but it was always there.
your birthday came around the next year and you were sure he’d finally forget. he didn’t. instead, a delivery guy showed up at your door holding a bouquet so massive you had to drag it inside sideways. you stared at the arrangement, stunned, before snatching up your phone and calling him.
when he picked up you didn’t even bother with hello. “onyankopon, why the hell i just get a thousand dollar flower arrangement at my door?”
he laughed that deep sound that still hit you right in the chest. “’cause it’s your birthday, ma. what else imma do?”
“normal people send texts,” you shot back while pacing your kitchen and staring at the ridiculous roses like they held all the answers.
“and normal dudes don’t love you the way i do. stop playin.” his voice was teasing but you could tell he meant every word.
you tried to stay annoyed but the smile creeping across your face betrayed you.
over the years you saw him with other women. instagram models, influencers, and pretty girls who always seemed perfectly styled. sometimes they popped up on his story or sometimes in pictures after a game. it never surprised you. he was onyankopon and the nfl made him bigger than life but it never touched you the way it probably should’ve. because even when they were around, he was still calling you, still checking in, still making sure you knew your place in his life was untouchable.
one night, after seeing him post another girl, you couldn’t resist. “she cute,” you teased while you leaned back on your couch with your phone pressed to your ear.
“don’t do that,” he muttered like he was annoyed but really just didn’t want to play.
“what? i’m just sayin.”
his tone dropped lower and more serious now. “stop actin like you don’t know ain’t nobody you.”
the words stuck with you. they were heavy and sweet all at once.
and then there were the late night conversations— the ones that slipped past the boundaries y’all swore you kept. one night, when you were curled under your blanket, lights off, voice hushed so no one else could hear, he asked softly, “what you doin.”
“layin down…bout to sleep,” you whispered.
he paused for a beat then asked, “you thinkin bout me?”
you smiled into the dark. “nah.”
he let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “you lyin.”
“…maybe.”
his reply was quiet but firm and the kind of thing that settled deep in your chest. “ion care how long it’s been. you still mine.”
and the worst part—the best part—was that you couldn’t even argue.
no matter the years, no matter how much distance stretched between you, ony never stopped being the same man who held you down from the beginning. a gentleman through and through. and even with time and fame pulling him higher he never let you forget that you were his number one.
your phone buzzed while you were in the middle of untangling christmas lights. you glanced down and saw onyankopon’s name lighting up the screen. for a second you just stared at it. you hadn’t talked to him in a couple weeks—nothing unusual for y’all—but something about the timing made your chest tighten.
you picked up anyway, thumb swiping across the screen. his face filled your screen now with his hoodie pulled low and chain glinting against his chest. he was in the car with the city lights flashing behind him.
“yo,” his voice came through smooth and almost too casual.
“what’s up,” you said, trying to sound flat even though your pulse was jumping.
he leaned back in his seat, lips tugging into a small smile. “so… your moms hit me.”
you paused, blinking. “my momma?”
“yeah. invited me to y’all christmas party,” he said while rubbing his chin like he was trying to gauge your reaction. “i ain’t wanna just pop up so i figured i should call you first.”
you snorted while shaking your head. “of course she did. she act like you her second son.”
he grinned at that while his teeth flashed a pearly white. “you know she love me.”
“she love you too much,” you muttered while sitting back on your couch and twirling the cord of the lights around your finger.
his tone softened. “so..you want me to come or not?”
you hesitated but your lips parting like you had something smart to say but nothing came. finally you mumbled, “it’s whatever.”
ony laughed low while tilting his head. “nah, it ain’t whatever. you know if you don’t want me there, i won’t pull up. simple as that.”
you rolled your eyes but the way he said it so gently and serious like he meant it down to the bone made your throat feel tight. “you already know my momma gon drag you in even if i say no.”
“still,” he said while leaning forward now and filling the screen. “i ain’t tryna disrespect you. so i’m askin.”
the silence stretched as christmas lights blinked across your lap. you looked at him through the phone, at the man who was somehow still the same even with nfl money and fame stamped across his name.
“do what you want, ony,” you whispered, trying not to let him hear the slip in your voice.
his gaze lingered before he smirked like he knew you better than you knew yourself. “aight then. front door or side?”
you bit back a laugh while shaking your head. “front door. act normal.”
“say less,” he said, grin widening. “oh and don’t be mad when i stunt on everybody.”
“boy, you sound real confident.”
“when it come to impressing you? always.”
he hung up before you could clap back, leaving you staring at your reflection in the black screen.
the days leading up to christmas, your family worked your nerves. your mom was the worst just casually dropping ony’s name into every conversation.
“ony say he stopped by the store for me. carried all them bags to the car like it was nothin. such a gentleman.”
you shot her a look over the kitchen counter. “he nfl ma. he pick up trucks for a living.”
“still,” she said with a little smile like she knew exactly what she was doing.
then your aunt chimed in when she came over to help wrap presents. “girl, that boy fine. i seen him on tv last week. you lucky you had him once. if it was me—”
“please stop right there,” you cut in, slapping tape on the wrapping paper.
your cousins were worse, whispering and giggling about how “uncle ony” was gonna look when he walked through the door.
by christmas eve, the whole house felt like it was waiting for something. your mom humming louder than usual, your aunties sneaking looks at you whenever his name came up and you pretending not to care while secretly counting down the hours.
the truth was, you couldn’t stop thinking about that facetime call. the way he asked first, the way his voice dipped when he said he ain’t want to disrespect you, the way he smirked at the end like he already knew how this would play out.
you told yourself it was nothing. you told yourself you were over it. but deep down you knew the second he stepped into that house the air was gonna shift.
and everybody would notice.
the smell of cinnamon and baked ham filled the house while holiday music was humming low under the chatter of relatives already piling in. laughter bounced off the walls, kids ran through the hallways with toy cars and dolls, and every so often someone yelled over the noise to ask if the macaroni was ready.
you were upstairs standing in front of the mirror for the fifth time that evening while tugging at the rim of your red strapless mini dress. the white fluff trimming the top and bottom gave it a playful holiday look but paired with your heels that had a matching fluffy accent, it was giving way more than “family christmas.” your hair was done in a curly flip over that framed your face perfectly, lashes fluffed to full drama, lips lined and glossed just right.
you looked like fine as fuck and you knew it.
but instead of confidence, nerves ran wild through you.
you dabbed powder on your nose even though it didn’t need it and reapplied gloss that hadn’t faded while you fluffed your curls again just to keep your hands busy. the truth was, you weren’t really fussing over your reflection. you were listening. straining for the sound of a car pulling up outside, waiting for your phone to buzz with a message, checking the time every other minute.
your stomach twisted with equal parts excitement and dread. because tonight wasn’t just family—it was onyankopon.
a knock came at your door followed by your mom’s voice. “baby you ready? folks already askin’ where you at.”
you grabbed your phone pretending to look busy before opening the door. your mom’s eyes swept over you, widening with a proud smile. “mmhmm. now that’s how you dress when my son coming.”
you nearly choked. “ma.”
“what?” she said, raising her hands like she was innocent. “ain’t like the whole house don’t know he on the way.”
before you could argue, your cousin popped up behind her with a grin. “so what you gon do when he walk in here fine as hell, huh?”
you rolled your eyes while brushing past them. “y’all annoying.”
downstairs, the living room was loud with voices, cousins and aunties piled on the couches while uncles argued over a football game on tv. the second you stepped down the noise shifted. heads turned, whistles rose, and someone clapped.
“oooh, miss santa,” your uncle teased. “your boyfriend gon lose his mind when he see you.”
“uncle jr please,” you muttered but your cheeks burned.
still, your eyes kept darting to the window and your ears tuned for the crunch of tires in the driveway. every time a car slowed outside, your heart skipped, only to fall when it wasn’t him. you found yourself checking your phone obsessively, swiping down on the screen for a notification that never came.
at one point, your aunt leaned over while passing you a plate of cookies. “you nervous, huh? keep starin’ at that window like you waiting on santa himself.”
you shot her a look but your throat was dry. because she wasn’t wrong.
and when your little cousin shouted, “he here!” from the front room before you even heard the doorbell ring, your heart nearly stopped.
the doorbell rang once before the house fell into that strange hush that only happens when everyone’s waiting on the same thing. your little cousin darted to the front door, yanking it open before your mom could even get there.
and there he was.
ony filled the doorway like he owned it. broad shoulders framed by a black designer coat and the collar trimmed in fur. he had a clean fade, sharp enough to slice, the line of his subtle beard just as crisp. diamonds hit the light when he smiled—those grillz flashing like he’d brought the city right into your momma’s living room. his neck and wrists glinted with icy jewelry, watches and chains layered in a way that said rich without him having to say a word.
tattoos peeked from under the sleeve of his coat, winding down his hands and fingers as he reached to dap up the uncle closest to him. “wassup, unc,” he said smooth, his voice dropping low and easy like he’d never left.
the room erupted.
your aunties fawned, your uncles slapped his back, cousins swarmed him like he was a celebrity—which he was—but here, he was still just ony.
“look at you,” your mom said, stepping up with her proud smile and hugging him tight like he was her own son. “so handsome, lawd.”
“appreciate you, ma,” he answered while leaning down to kiss her cheek, grillz catching the christmas lights again.
you stood at the bottom of the stairs, clutching the rail without realizing, trying to breathe steady as the family crowded around him. he laughed easy, that familiar sound, dapping hands, hugging shoulders, every move smooth like he’d rehearsed it.
but even with all the noise and all the love aimed at him, his eyes found you quick. across the room, past the cousins and the kids tugging at his chain, he saw you. the way his gaze dragged down your body slow made your skin heat like nobody else was in that house.
his smile shifted then. still warm and still polite but softer and more private. the kind of smile he never gave anyone but you.
your uncle clapped him on the back pulling his attention for a second but you already knew—you were next.
you were still at the bottom of the stairs when the crowd around ony finally loosened, your cousins trailing off to brag about him, your uncles attempting to drag him into football talk, your mom fussing about fixing him a plate. he kept nodding, answering easy, but his eyes… his eyes didn’t leave you.
when he finally started moving your way it felt like the whole room stretched out, each step dragging in slow motion. his chain caught the light, his grillz glinted when he smiled, but it wasn’t the show he was putting on for everybody else. this was for you.
“damn,” he murmured when he stopped in front of you, voice dropping low, only for your ears. he let his eyes sweep you one more time from the curls flipped over your shoulder to the white fluff trimming your dress, before locking back on your face. “you really had to show out like this?”
your lips parted but your throat was dry. all you could do was tilt your head trying not to let him see how shaky you felt. “you the one who walked in here lookin’ like a someone’s life savings. don’t start wit me.”
his laugh rumbled, soft, the kind that made your chest ache with old memories. he leaned in just enough that the scent of his cologne hit you. “nah, f’real though. i missed this… missed you.”
your pulse skipped and you fought to keep your voice steady. “you ain’t even been here ten minutes and you already startin trouble.”
“ain’t no trouble,” he said, shaking his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “just bein’ honest.”
ony’s eyes lingered like he was cataloguing every detail about you to keep later. the crowd was still buzzing behind him but his body shifted just enough that it blocked most of them out. it was deliberate—the same way he used to do back in high school when he wanted you to feel like the only person in the room.
“you look good, mama,” he said lowly and his tone smooth but weighted like the words carried more than just a compliment. “real good.”
your chest tightened and you rolled your eyes just to break the tension. “i know.”
he smirked a flash of diamonds when he leaned a little closer while lowering his voice until it brushed over you. “still cocky as ever.”
“still flirtin like you ain’t been gone,” you shot back but your voice came out softer than you meant it to.
his eyes narrowed slightly like he caught it. like he caught everything.
“gone don’t mean i let you go,” he said plain and easy, no hesitation.
your lips parted but the words caught in your throat. because the way he said it wasn’t some slick line. it was real and it rattled you more than the grillz, more than the chains, and more than the nfl shine.
“ony…” you started but he tilted his head while cutting you off before you could even find the right words.
“nah, don’t ‘ony’ me,” he murmured, his tone low and steady, his eyes locked on yours. “you know what it is. you been knew.”
your heartbeat stuttered. you wanted to move, to look away, to say something that would put space back where it belonged. but you didn’t. you couldn’t.
the sound of your name being called from across the room snapped at the edges of the bubble but ony didn’t move. his gaze stayed fixed like he was daring you to look away first.
and you didn’t.
not until his phone buzzed in his pocket and he finally leaned back while licking his lips slow before giving you one last look. “we gon talk,” he said, almost like a promise. “don’t try to duck me tonight.”
your stomach flipped and your grip tightening on the rail behind you as he finally turned letting the noise of the party swallow him up again.
the moment ony slipped back into the crowd, the noise of the house rushed in again. your aunt’s voice cut through first. “mmm, i saw that,” she sang while grinning at you from across the living room with her wine glass raised.
you blinked at her trying to play dumb. “saw what?”
“don’t play,” she laughed while shaking her head. “boy ain’t take his eyes off you since he walked in.”
your cousins, already bold with soda and sugar, started chiming in. “they gon get back together,” one of them said loud enough to make the uncles laugh. “watch.”
you ducked into the kitchen to avoid the stares while pretending to check on the desserts. but even there you weren’t safe. your mom slid up beside you with a knowing look.
“he still love you,” she said simply while handing you a tray of cookies like that wasn’t the heaviest thing she could’ve dropped on you.
you huffed, grabbing the tray. “momma, please.”
“what? i’m just sayin’,” she replied, smiling as she wiped her hands on a towel. “any fool with eyes can see it.”
back in the living room, ony had made himself at home on the couch, coat off now, tattoos bold against his skin. kids piled on him like he was still the big cousin from back in the day and not some nfl star. he laughed and let one of your nephews tug at his chain, even leaned back to let your uncle grill him about the last game he played.
and yet, through it all, you felt it. his eyes finding you every chance they could. a glance over the rim of his drink. a pause in his laugh when you passed through the room. a small smirk tugging at his lips when you caught him looking and tried to act unbothered.
later, while you were passing out plates, you brushed too close, your hand grazing his shoulder as you set one down beside him. it was a simple touch, nothing anyone else would notice but the way his head turned quick, eyes catching yours—it froze you in place.
“thanks, mama,” he said low and voice pitched just for you.
you swallowed hard while forcing a casual smile before moving away, your heart pounding like you’d just done something forbidden.
every little thing felt like that. charged. the brush of his hand when he handed you a cup, his laugh rumbling behind you when one of your cousins joked too loud, the heat of his presence filling the space even when you weren’t standing close.
by the time the music turned up and folks started dancing in the living room, you were too aware of him. every step, every glance, every word. and when he finally leaned back in his seat, arm stretched over the couch, eyes tracking you across the room like he had all night—your stomach twisted.
because you knew. he wasn’t just here for christmas dinner.
he was here for you.
you slipped into the kitchen again, needing a breather. too much laughter, too many stares, and way too much of ony’s eyes on you. the room was quiet compared to the chaos in the living room, the hum of the fridge and the faint clatter of dishes the only sounds. you leaned against the counter, taking a long sip of water, trying to slow your heartbeat.
but then the door creaked and you knew before you even looked.
onyankopon.
he slid in with that same ease he carried everywhere, closing the door halfway behind him. no announcement, no words at first—just that heavy presence filling the room.
“you hidin’ from me?” he asked finally, voice low, almost teasing as he leaned against the doorframe.
you set your cup down carefully, refusing to look rattled. “i’m takin a break. everybody loud as hell out there.”
“mm,” he hummed while pushing off the frame and strolling closer, his chains glinting under the kitchen light. “sound like an excuse.”
your eyes cut up at him, ready to clap back but he was already there, close enough that the warmth of his body touched yours. he looked down at you, head tilted, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.
“you gon keep runnin’ from me all night?” he asked, softer now.
your throat went dry. you forced a shrug, though your pulse betrayed you. “ain’t nobody runnin’. i just—”
before you could finish, his hand brushed the counter beside your hip, leaning in just enough that your space wasn’t yours anymore. not touching, not yet, but near enough that every nerve in your body screamed at the closeness.
“stop playin wit me,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “you know i came here for you.”
your breath hitched. you wanted to push him off, wanted to tell him he was too much but the truth was written all over your face. and he saw it. he always did.
“ony,” you whispered but it didn’t come out like a warning. it came out like a confession.
he leaned in, close enough for his cologne to curl around you again, rich and warm, that same scent from years ago mixed with something sharper, grown. “say the word, i’ll back off,” he said, his voice so soft you almost missed it under the laughter spilling faint from the other room. “but i ain’t tryna act like this don’t exist no more.”
for a long moment, neither of you moved. just the sound of your breathing, just the weight of his words hanging in the space between you.
and then footsteps echoed down the hall, voices approaching. ony’s jaw flexed but he didn’t move until the last second, pulling back slow, his eyes still burning into you.
“we gon finish this later,” he said quietly, almost like a promise, before slipping out of the kitchen just as your cousin pushed in, asking if there were more drinks.
you gripped the counter hard while trying to steady yourself and your heart still racing like he was right there beside you.
wrapping paper littered the floor, kids squealed over toys, and your uncles argued about who was cheating in spades at the dining table. the house was still buzzing but it wasn’t the same heavy buzz from earlier. it was softer now, warm and winding down.
you were curled up on the arm of the couch, sipping on cocoa, doing your best to stay invisible. ony sat a few feet away, lounging back with his legs spread, coat off, tattoos on full display. he laughed when your little cousin shoved a toy at him and helped him put batteries in i while leaning down to listen to whatever story the kid rambled.
but even while playing big cousin, his eyes flicked to you. again and again.
and every time, your chest tightened.
finally, when the noise turned up again around the tree, he pushed up from the couch, brushed past you with the faintest graze of his hand on your thigh, and nodded toward the hallway. it was quick and subtle—something only you would notice.
your stomach flipped but you followed.
the hallway was dim, just the glow of christmas lights from the living room spilling in. you leaned against the wall near the coat closet, heart hammering in your chest. ony stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the sparkle of his grillz when he smirked.
“been waitin’ on this all night,” he said, low, his voice rougher now, like he was holding it in too long.
you crossed your arms, trying to keep steady. “what, cornerin’ me like i’m one of your plays?”
he chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped closer, his chain brushing against your shoulder. “nah. i don’t play when it come to you.”
your breath caught. his hand came up, fingers brushing lightly against your arm and even that small touch set your skin on fire.
“ony—” you started, but he cut you off, his eyes steady on yours.
“don’t do that,” he murmured. “don’t act like you don’t feel this. been years and it’s still the same.”
you swallowed hard, your back pressing into the wall as his presence caged you in. the noise of your family opening gifts, laughing, tearing paper—it was still there but muffled like the world had slipped out of focus.
“you drive me crazy,” you whispered, your voice breaking more than you wanted.
he smiled then, soft and deep, his thumb grazing your jaw. “good. ‘cause you been drivin’ me crazy since i left.”
before you could think, before you could second-guess, he leaned down, closing the space. his lips brushed yours once, testing, and when you didn’t pull back, he kissed you full—slow and deep like he had all the time in the world to remind you what you’d been missing.
the taste of him was familiar and new all at once, sweet with a hint of liquor. your hands found his chest, then his coat, clutching tight as if to anchor yourself. he kissed you like he’d been starving, but careful too, like he wasn’t gonna let anyone ruin this moment.
when he finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, both of you breathing hard. his voice dropped to a whisper.
“told you we was gon finish this.”
your lips parted, but no words came, just the quick rise and fall of your chest.
and he grinned, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip, stealing one more kiss before the sound of someone calling your name down the hall snapped the moment in half.
he leaned back slow, licking his lips, eyes still locked on you. “go on,” he murmured. “we’ll talk.”
and just like that, he slid back toward the noise of the living room, leaving you pressed against the wall, dizzy, your heart pounding harder than it had all night.
the party had finally started to wind down. wrapping paper was trampled across the floor, empty cups stacked in the kitchen sink, and kids were finally corralled upstairs by your mom. you were sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, still feeling the heat of ony’s lips against yours, your mind replaying the moment like it had been a dream.
your phone buzzed, screen lighting up. his name. your heart skipped a beat, and you snatched it up before checking the message.
outside. you good?
you smiled, typing back quickly.
yeah… still sittin here tryna breathe.
a minute later, another buzz.
good. look, i don’t want this to end tonight. meet me outside for a sec?
you bit your lip, hesitating. part of you wanted to ignore it—keep it casual and keep it safe—but the pull in your chest said otherwise.
…alright. five minutes.
you slipped on your heels, careful not to mess up your dress or your hair, and padded out the front door. the crisp night air hit your face, cool against your flushed skin and you saw him leaning against his car at the edge of the driveway. the lights of the house behind you made him glow, the icy chains glinting, his clean fade sharp under the porch light.
“you came,” he said, smirk tugging at his lips, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
“yeah, couldn’t resist,” you murmured, stepping closer. the sound of the wind and distant laughter from inside made it feel like you were the only two people alive.
ony tilted his head, letting his eyes roam over you slow. “still fine as hell,” he said low, his voice vibrating in the quiet. “ain’t changed a bit.”
your stomach flipped. “you gon say that every time you see me?”
“every time,” he said, taking a step closer. the air between you thickened, the pull almost magnetic.
your hand brushed his arm lightly and he caught it, thumb stroking over your skin. “you know i ain’t playin’. all these years, all this time, i been wantin this… wantin you.”
you swallowed hard, letting yourself absorb the weight of the words, the way he said them so matter of fact, like nothing else mattered. “ony…”
he leaned in, capturing your lips again, slower this time, tasting you, claiming what he’d been holding back all these years. your hands found his chest, clutching, pulling him closer, needing the contact, needing him to be real and here.
when he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes dark and intense, he whispered, “we ain’t done. you hear me? not tonight, not ever.”
your heart thumped, your breath coming faster than it should and all you could manage was a shaky nod.
he smiled, brushing his thumb over your cheek, before pulling back toward the car. “you comin with me tonight?” he teased but his eyes promised the night wasn’t over.
you watched him with wide eyes, chest still racing, mind buzzing, already counting the moments until you could be alone with him again.
“yeah…”
you slipped back into the house just long enough to grab your purse and mumble something about “stepping out real quick.” no one paid too much attention—everyone was half asleep or arguing over who left wrapping paper on the floor.
ony’s car was idling at the curb, sleek and black under the streetlights. you hurried across the lawn, heart pounding and slid into the passenger seat. the door shut, shutting out the noise of outside , and suddenly it was just the low hum of the engine and ony’s cologne wrapping around you.
“mm,” he hummed, glancing over with that slow smile. “thought you was gon play me and stay inside.”
you scoffed, crossing your arms like you hadn’t been counting down the seconds to get out here. “please. don’t flatter yourself.”
ony chuckled, deep and warm, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. “mhmm. crazy how you talkin’ like that after you damn near melted in my mouth earlier.”
your face heated instantly. “boy, shut the hell up.”
he laughed harder, tilting his head to look at you. “look at you gettin’ all shy now. that lil front you put on around everybody? where my real girl at?”
you rolled your eyes but your voice betrayed you coming out softer than you meant it to be. “ain’t no ‘front.’ i just… wasn’t tryna give nobody a show.”
“so what you call this?” he teased, eyes flicking down to your lips before turning back to the road. “cuz the way you kissing and the way you lookin’ at me right now… don’t feel like no fake act.”
you shifted in your seat, chewing your lip, your tough girl act slipping more with every mile. “maybe i missed you,” you muttered barely above a whisper.
that made him grin wide and the pave stones in his grill caught the glow of the dash lights. “ohh, there she go. finally said it. you missed me.”
you groaned while shoving his shoulder. “don’t start.”
he caught your wrist, holding it against his chest, his voice dropping low. “nah, for real. you don’t even gotta say it again. i felt it soon as you kissed me back.”
you tried to look out the window, but the corners of your lips were betraying you with the tiniest smile.
“see?” he teased, squeezing your hand before letting it go. “get an attitude all you want but you mine. been mine.”
“i ain’t nobody’s,” you fired back but your tone was softer than it should’ve been, more playful than defiant.
he smirked while leaning back in his seat like he’d already won. “we gon see.”
the car filled with the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward at all—just heavy, charged, every glance and brush of air between you saying the things neither of you dared yet.
eventually, the car slowed under the buzzing yellow lights of the corner store, the one you both had been coming to since high school. the sign flickered like always, half the bulbs burnt out, the parking lot cracked and uneven. ony eased his suv into a space and killed the engine.
“you want somethin?” he asked, already unbuckling, that same calm tone like he’d been asking you this every night for years.
you hesitated with your arms crossed over your fluffy trimmed dress. “depends. you even remember what i like?”
he smirked, grill catching under the lights, the chain on his neck glinting as he leaned over closer. “ma, stop playin’. gimme five minutes.”
then he was gone, stepping out like he owned the whole damn block—tattoos peeking out from his coat sleeves, jewelry catching every bit of light. the fade clean, the shoulders broad, the walk heavier now.
nfl player, onyankopon.
the world knew him different but you couldn’t help seeing the same boy who used to drive you around in a beat up impala while talking about his dreams.
you leaned back in his seat, letting out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. that’s when you really noticed the car. the leather so soft you sunk into it, the huge digital dash glowing like something out of a spaceship. the faint smell of newness mixed with his cologne.
your eyes roamed over everything until his phone lit up on the console. the lock screen was him. sweaty after a game, helmet under his arm, head tilted down with that same serious expression that used to drive you crazy. arms cut, tattoos flexed, chain dangling in the middle of his chest.
“of course,” you whispered while shaking your head with a smile. “nigga got himself as his wallpaper.”
you looked down at your own hands—new set of nails glinting with charms, the tattoos on your wrist catching under the car light. you had changed too. maybe not in the same spotlight way but you weren’t the same girl he left behind either.
just as the thought settled, the door opened and cold air rushed in. ony dropped two bags on your lap with a grin. “what i tell you? hot fries, peach arizona, and them lil’ sour straws you fiend for.”
you blinked at the bag then up at him. “you really remembered?”
he shot you that look, the one that always meant ‘don’t insult me.’
“mama, i don’t forget nothin ‘bout you.”
your chest tightened, something sweet and heavy pressing right under your ribs. you tried to hide it, digging into the fries instead, mumbling around a bite, “boy, whatever.”
ony laughed low, putting the car in gear again. “see, actin all hard. but i got you smilin right now. go ‘head, keep frontin”
and you hated how right he was—because sitting there in his car, chewing on fries he remembered you loved, you were smiling so hard it hurt.
the hum of the engine filled the silence again as ony pulled out of the lot, the city lights streaking across the windshield. you had your legs crossed, bag of hot fries balanced in your lap, sipping on your arizona like it wasn’t the middle of december.
he glanced at you quick, grin tugging at his lips. “ain’t changed a bit. still sittin there with them fries like it’s gourmet.”
you side-eyed him, licking the red dust off your finger. “and? still hittin.”
“ain’t say it wasn’t.” his voice dropped into that playful drawl, smooth and teasing. “just funny to me. i could put you in any steakhouse in the world, you still gon want this lil’ corner store meal.”
you snorted, shifting in the seat. “better than whatever them lil’ insta girls be cooking you.”
he turned his head, brows lifting, grill flashing as he smirked. “ah so you been keepin tabs?”
your stomach flipped. “boy, don’t flatter yourself. everybody see you with them.”
ony chuckled, one hand on the wheel and the other drumming slow on his thigh. “mhmm. soundin a lil’ jealous to me.”
you sucked your teeth, looking out the window so he couldn’t see your face. “ain’t nobody jealous. i just… know your type. always been pretty faces you can show off.”
he laughed again, but softer this time, shaking his head. “nah, don’t do that. you know damn well none of ‘em touch you. that shit ain’t never been deep. i had fun, whatever. but they wasn’t you.”
you went quiet, chewing slow, the weight of his words sitting between you. finally, you muttered, “you still could’ve fooled me.”
ony’s hand slid off his thigh, resting across the console, fingers brushing close enough that you could feel the warmth. “i ain’t never fooled you. i always made sure you knew where you stood.”
your throat tightened because he was right. the late night texts, the gifts, the way he never let you slip too far out of orbit—he always kept you tethered.
you sighed, soft. “you ever think about us? like… for real. not in a memory. but like… what it would be now?”
his jaw flexed while his eyes fixed on the road. “all the time. don’t mean it’s easy, though. i be movin’ city to city, cameras everywhere. you know how messy that shit get.”
you stared at him, at the side of his face under the passing lights. “so what, you saying it wouldn’t work?”
“nah, i’m sayin’ we gotta figure it out,” he answered with a steady tone. “ain’t no girl i want on my arm more than you. it just mean we gotta move different. be ready for the noise.”
you bit your lip, your attitude slipping again, the softness creeping back in. “i don’t like sharin’. you know that.”
ony finally turned his head, catching your eyes, his own dark and sure. “good. ‘cause i ain’t givin you nobody to share with.”
the way he said it—like it was a fact, not a promise—made your chest ache. you tried to mask it with a laugh while shaking your head. “boy, you think you slick.”
he smirked while pulling into a quieter street, houses spaced out wide, his neighborhood. “nah, i just know what i want and you know it too.”
you sat there, fries forgotten, arizona sweating in your hand, heart pounding at the thought that maybe—just maybe—this was the start of something again.
the suv purred up a long driveway, lined with soft lights that glowed against the winter dark. when the house came into view, your lips parted before you even realized. glass walls, clean modern lines, the whole front lit like it had been pulled out of a magazine.
“ony,” you whispered, half laughing, half stunned. “this all you?”
he smirked, shutting the engine off. “who else it belong to?”
you shook your head, still staring. “nigga, i remember when you was beggin me for gas money. now you livin’ like this?”
he leaned across the console, his cologne filling the small space, voice low. “don’t act surprised. told you back then i was gon’ make it.”
you rolled your eyes but your chest warmed. “yeah, yeah. nfl star. whatever.”
the front door opened to more of the same—wide ceilings, polished marble, art on the walls. everything smelled new, like money. you kicked your heels off at the door without even thinking, toes curling into the soft rug.
“this shit don’t even feel real,” you murmured, glancing around as he locked the door behind you.
“get used to it,” he said simply, tossing his keys on the counter and motioning for you to follow.
you trailed after him through the open living room, until he slid a glass door open and the cold night air hit your skin. the backyard opened up into a wide deck, string lights hanging loose above. the pool stretched long and clear, steam curling off it into the night. and just beyond—the city, lights scattered like stars below.
your breath caught. “oh my god. it’s like a damn postcard.”
ony looked at you instead of the view, arms folded across his chest. “i ain’t even really use it like that. be on the road too much. but felt like you should see it.”
you glanced at him, then back at the pool. the water glowed a deep blue, steam rolling off the surface. “it’s heated?”
“of course.”
a silence settled and you tugged lightly at the hem of your fluffy trimmed dress, biting back a smile. “you ain’t tell me we was swimmin. i ain’t bring no suit.”
he smirked, stepping closer, voice dipping. “who said you need one?”
your head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “boy—”
“what?” he interrupted, grin wide now. “you scared?”
you scoffed, heart racing. “i ain’t scared of nothin’.”
“so jump in.”
the dare in his tone pulled at something in you.
you stood there at the edge, arms folded like you were weighing your options. ony leaned back against the railing, watching you with that half smirk, half dare expression.
“what’s the hold up?” he teased, voice low. “water warm. i already told you that.”
you gave him a look over your shoulder, lips twitching. “you real bold for somebody who don’t know if i’ma actually do it.”
“ma, please.” he laughed under his breath, his eyes dragging slow down your figure. “you ain’t never been the type to back down. go ‘head.”
your pulse quickened while your cheeks warmed but you slipped your heels off anyway, the soft tap of them hitting the deck echoing under the string lights. fingers found the hem of your dress, tugging slow. you let it fall in one motion, pooling at your feet, leaving nothing underneath but skin catching the glow of the pool lights.
ony’s smirk broke, his jaw tightening as his eyes lingered. his voice dropped even lower. “damn.”
you tilted your head, playing it off with a coy little shrug, though your heart was racing. “what? you told me i ain’t need a suit.”
he bit down on a smile, shaking his head, chains glinting as he shifted. “nah, you right. i just wasn’t ready.”
you giggled soft, stepping down the first rung of the pool ladder, dipping your toes in before sliding in fully. the warm water hugged you instantly, smoothing against your skin, making your shoulders relax. you moved slow, letting the water rise up to your chest, curls sticking to your damp shoulders as you glanced back at him.
“you comin’?” your tone was light, playful, even though you knew damn well what you looked like standing there in nothing.
ony didn’t answer right away. he peeled his coat off, tossed it aside, then pulled his shirt over his head in one clean motion. his tattoos stretched over his chest and arms, the ink dark against his skin. then he dropped his pants, climbing in the pool with the kind of confidence that made your stomach twist.
the water rippled as ony moved toward you, slow, his shoulders breaking through the steam like he had all the time in the world. you floated back a little, just enough space to tease him, your hand gliding across the surface.
“why you starin’?” you asked, voice soft but edged with a smile.
his eyes didn’t leave you. “’cause i can. been waitin to.”
you let out a quiet laugh, turning your face away like it might hide the way your stomach flipped. “boy, shut up.”
“nah, for real,” he said, closing the gap, his voice lower now, smoother, like the words were slipping straight into your skin. “you know how long it’s been since i seen you like this? no crowd, no cameras. just us.”
the water lapped against your chest as you stopped backing away, letting him come close enough that the steam wrapped around both of you. his hand skimmed under the water, brushing along your thigh so lightly you almost thought you imagined it.
“ony…” your tone held that warning but it came out softer than you wanted, almost a sigh.
he leaned in, water dripping from his head onto your shoulder, his lips so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. “what?” he asked, low and teasing. “you gon tell me you don’t want this?”
your chest rose, heart racing. “i ain’t say that.”
he chuckled, low and deep, before finally closing the space. his mouth caught yours in a kiss that was slow, almost reverent at first, like he was savoring it. then his hand slid up your back, pulling you closer and the kiss deepened, heat curling tight in your stomach.
you melted into him before you even realized, fingers tangling at the back of his neck, nails brushing damp skin. he tasted so familiar and new at the same time, enough to make your knees weaken under the water.
when he finally pulled back, lips brushing your cheek, his forehead rested against yours. “see? still mine.”
you laughed breathlessly, trying to cover the way your body trembled, the way your heart thudded. “you swear you own me or somethin’.”
“don’t gotta swear,” he murmured, his hand tracing the curve of your hip beneath the water. “you here. that’s all i need.”
the kiss lingered, stretching into another and another—his lips tugging at yours like he’d been starving for it. his hand slid lower, cupping the back of your thigh under the water, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.
“ony,” you whispered against his mouth, half warning, half wanting.
he pulled back just enough to look at you, water beading down his skin, grill glinting faintly in the pool lights. “what?” he asked, voice rougher now. “you gon tell me stop?”
you swallowed, nails dragging lightly over his shoulder. “i should.”
“but you not.” his smirk was sharp, confident, and too right. his hand slipped higher, guiding your leg around his waist. the water moved with you, rippling as you clung tighter to him.
the heat that had been simmering between you all night finally broke open. your body pressed flush against his, his mouth claiming yours again, hungrier this time. you felt the hardness of him beneath the water, pressing into your hip and your stomach fluttered with that mix of nerves and want you hadn’t felt in forever.
“fuck,” you breathed, pulling back enough to look at him, your lips swollen. “we really doin’ this?”
he grinned, leaning close until his teeth grazed your jaw. “been waitin’ too long not to.”
he guided you backward through the water until the edge of the pool stairs hit behind your calves. he sat back, pulling you with him, settling you on his lap in the shallow end where the water barely covered your waist.
you gasped at the shift, the thick press of him against you and his hand tightened on your ass. “yeah,” he murmured, low and sure. “just like that. sit down on it.”
you hesitated, eyes darting to the back deck, the wide open city. “ony, we outside.”
“ain’t nobody lookin’,” he said, voice dark with amusement. then he leaned, pulling his phone off the pool deck where he’d tossed his pants. with one hand he unlocked it, screen glowing. “matter fact—” he lifted it, angling the camera toward you as his other hand gripped your waist. “lemme see how bad you missed me.”
your pulse spiked, heat rushing to your face. “you not serious.”
“dead serious.” his eyes held yours, sharp and steady. “gon keep it just for me. swear. now show me.”
the dare in his tone, the weight of his gaze, the way his body felt under you—your resolve snapped. you slid down onto him slowly, water rippling around you as he filled you, a gasp tearing from your throat. his hand tightened at your hip, phone lifted to catch the arch of your back, the water dripping down your skin, the way your mouth fell open.
“fuckkk,” ony groaned, his voice thick. “look at you. ridin’ me already. missed me that much, huh?”
your nails dug into his shoulders, your body moving on instinct, grinding down slow as he stretched you. “shut up,” you moaned but the words broke into a whimper when he shifted his hips.
the water slapped against the pool walls with every slow roll of your hips, the sound mixing with your soft, broken moans. ony’s phone gleamed in his hand, angled low so it caught everything—the curve of your body glistening under the pool lights, the way your breasts bounced as you rode him, his chains catching the glow as they dipped into the water.
“look at you,” he gritted, voice rough, almost a growl. “ain’t even shy no more. takin’ me like you was waitin on this.”
your head fell back, lips parted, a sharp moan ripping from your chest as he shifted his hips up into you. “f-fuck, ony…”
he groaned deep, holding the camera steady with one hand while the other gripped your waist so hard it’d leave marks. “say that shit louder. lemme hear how good i’m fuckin’ you.”
your nails clawed down his shoulders, water splashing as you bounced harder, chasing the heat curling low in your stomach. every wet clap echoed in the quiet night, mixing with your gasps and his ragged breathing.
“yeahhh,” he rasped, tilting the phone so the screen framed your face. “eyes rollin’, mouth open—fuck, ma, you sooo pretty like this.”
your lashes were wet, cheeks flushed, lip gloss long gone, and you couldn’t stop the way your voice shook when you cried out his name again. “ony… i can’t—”
“yes you can,” he cut you off, snapping his hips up so hard you almost screamed. “you gon give me that nut. right here. while i’m recordin’. let everybody know who you really belong to.”
the water rocked around you, splashing over the steps, your thighs trembling as the heat inside you snapped. you clenched around him, back arching, nails digging into his skin while your moans spilled out raw, unfiltered.
“fuckkk,” ony groaned, teeth flashing in the glow of his grill as his own body stiffened beneath you. his hips jerked up, hard and deep, a guttural curse slipping from his chest. his free hand yanked you down tight, burying himself as he spilled into you, the phone still locked on your face while you came apart on top of him.
the sounds filled the night—the slap of water, your gasps, his heavy groans—until it slowed into messy, wet stillness. ony let the phone drop to the deck, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, both of you trembling and breathless in the steam.
“told you,” he panted against your skin, voice hoarse but smug. “still mine.”
and all you could do was cling to him, chest heaving, knowing deep down you didn’t even want to argue.
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.
“‘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!”
Oh, my baby!
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?!”
Really, in public?
“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.
it’s been eight month since you and your husband made the decision to start your family. eight months since he swore to you in the bathtub the you’d never have to have another issue at work because he’d be there to take care of you. and for all those eight months he’s been doing just that. he’s been there through the first trimester morning sickness, which you’d like to point out it last way longer than just the morning; the mood swings, the tears, the doctors appointments, the bodily changes, all of it. in just five more weeks the two of you would be expecting a health baby girl.
…in five weeks, five.
it’s not like the two of you have been fucking around the entirety of your pregnancy, it’s just that there had been different priorities at the time. ones that did not include nursery set up. all her items where tossed into the spare room closed off from the rest of the condo behind a solid white door. the thought of going in there and tackling the hanging of her teeny tiny outfits and assembling the furniture really stressed you out for a long time. so naturally you put it off. onyankopon would try and do what he could, but when his woman calls he always comes.
today he unfortunately couldn’t stay home, something something property site, plumbing, needed a supervisor? whatever he said last night. moral of the story is he’s not here to start the process again. you got out of bed right after he left and started cleaning. but not the baby’s room, no something in your brain told you that before you could start anything in there you had to clean the toaster oven, reorganize all of the cabinets, purge the refrigerator, and change all the lights in the kitchen. he’d kill you if he ever found out you climbed up the ladder with nobody home, but what he don’t know won’t hurt him.
and finally three o’clock shines on the stove in green numbers when you finish. with a sigh of relief you make your way to babygirl’s room taking in the messy scene. diapers staked high in the corner, wooden chunks that were supposed to be her crib lay scattered across the floor, pink and frilly outfits, and bibs from the baby shower still in their gift bags, and so much more you don’t even know where to start!
easy task first you suppose, you drag the ladder from the kitchen to her closet and shove all diapers on the very top shelves that line the walls. all organize by how many months she’d be. you think the blue of the boxes ruins the vibe of the closet but you’ll deal with that later. next is all the tiny baby clothes. you spent 45 minutes ripping off tags alone before you spent another hanging them up sorting them by the month and the shades. you find yourself getting teary eyed when you think about her. so small and sweet. you hold her little knitted booties up and the tears fall leaving you a sniveling mess.
but you must suck it up, this crib won’t build itself! it’s a pretty simple piece to do. most parts are premade you just have to stick them together and make sure that are as safe as can be. it takes no more than 30 uninterrupted minutes to complete. it’s so cute you gush at the thought of her little sleepy self balled up on the cushion. the rug is heavier than you’d like to admit but you’ll deal. it’s large and mostly cream with some accents of the light pink that matches the curtains you’re supposed to be hanging up. you roll it out, shifting the fabric under the crib was quite difficult but if you had left it your spirit would be bothered and nothing else would get done.
the room was coming together but it was missing something. you gasp when the image of the cream colored reclining chair from the living room pops in your head. it’s perfect! it’ll fit right next to the window and you can nurse seated comfortably! you mentally praise yourself for being so smart. time slips away from you though and you don’t seem to notice the lack of energy in the house too focused on the task at hand. you’re mid shuffle with the chair when the door unlocks, leaving you frozen in place.
your husband looks at you looking at him. and then he looks down at the swell of your belly peaking out from the low hanging sweat pants on your waist and the tight wife beater you wear. and then he looks at how you stand there with sweat on your brow line and the recliner halfway across the living room.
“the hell are you doing?” he asks cocking a brow at you. i mean he can clearly see what you’re doing but he wonders what you’ll say.
“hey baby, welcome home! i’m just— you know! i just think this chair would go great in her room and you weren’t home so i, ya know?” you tell him a whole bunch of nothing basically, but the way he drops his keys into the tray on the small table you can tell he’s pissed.
he steps towards you with heavy footsteps watching you like a hawk. he stands there sizing you up before turning his head to the kitchen notice the lights are warmer. he looks back to you and in a low voice he ask.
“did you change the lights?”
you frown knowing he won’t be please with your answer so you do what anybody guilty would do, deflect!
“oh so you get to come home and question me without a greeting? no ‘hey mama how was your day,’” you mock the depth of his voice, “or a hello kiss? nothing?”
his hard expression falters for a moment, he sighs and leans down grabbing your cheeks in one hand and placing a nice sweet kiss on your slightly chapped lips.
“sorry, mama how was your day? did you change the lights?” he asked again. fuck, it didn’t work. you nod in his hand lowering your gaze. he stares at you blankly unsure of how to word whatever he says next.
“i’m assuming you got on that ladder after i told you not to?”
you nod, he takes a deep breath letting your face go.
he doesn’t say a word, just kind of moves you out the way and lifts up the chair without so much as a grunt and taking it to her room. you trail behind him feeling real anxious because you know for a fact that you left the ladder and all other tools out in the open for him to see. you don’t enter the room with him, you hear the chair thud against the ground and his footsteps approaching.
he grabs you by the hands and pulls you to the seat in the corner making you plop down in it.
“you like it here or should i move it?” he ask.
“are you mad at me?”
“do you like the chair here, or should i move it?” he ignores your question asking you again. you can see he is trying to remain calm and patient while he awaits your answer.
“it perfect here, just where i wanted it, thank you.” you mutter looking down at your lap. you’re upset that he ignored your question, you feel the pressure behind your eyes and you try not to cry but you can’t help the tears that slip out onto the fabric of your beater.
“(❤︎︎), stop.” he crouches down infront of you his tone firm.“don’t cry, i ain’t mad at you. i’m just— worried that’s all. i told you i don’t want you on that ladder because you’re very pregnant and it’s not safe. i don’t even let my guys on one without a spot, because i know what could happen, and god forbid it happens to you.” he tells you grabbing your hands in his. “i don’t want to sound harsh but people die, baby. i need you to listen and understand when i tell you these things, seriously.” he stands bringing you up with him.
he has your face in his hands again giving you a soft delicate kiss moving his other hand over the swell of your tummy. “you got my girl in here and i’d raise hell if something happened to any of you.” warm fingers wipe away your tears so gently, the guilt you felt dwindled at his words. he won’t even bother mentioning how you didn’t let him help decorate, that’s for another time.
the two of you call it a night after you calm down. you couldn’t even begin to explain how exhausted you were going the whole day with a nap to distracted by all the task you were stuck on doing.
a warm shower with your husband and simple quality time unwinding was all you needed. your night gown a pretty shade of pink left nothing to the imagination. it clung to every swell, dip, and curve on you. your tummy held up your breast so well that if you moves too much he’d catch a slip of your areola. not the point.
onyankopan sets the bed just how you like it. two pillows acting as a crib on the edge of the bed and the flattest on for your head. his arm was usually used at the cushion anyways and a fat pillow would make it too high giving your a neck ache by morning.
you waddle back to him slowly body feeling so heavy you can’t wait for your body to hit the sheets. and when it does you can’t help but sigh in content. you ask him his thoughts about the nursery in a slow sleepy tone trying to make conversation before bed given you hadn’t really seen him all day. he praises your work, and he’s glad that you’re pleased, but he can hear the tired in your voice. “you ready to sleep, beautiful? we can talk more about it the tomorrow okay? i’ll buy whatever’s left, we can make a list.” his tone so soft and his touch too . and hand holds your belly gently rubbing and running his hands around the circumference. you cup his face tiredly giving him a goodnight kiss whispering hushed ‘i love yous’ and before you know you’re out like a light.
you wake suddenly in a cold sweat. a firm hand still placed on your stomach reminds you where you are. it’s not a bad dream that’s got you choked up. unfortunately, it was worse, a wet one. you found yourself dreaming about the night you had gotten pregnant. dreams of his dirty words in your ear. the ways he touched you. the way his ring felt cold against you skin when he bounced you like a bunny up and down in your bathtub.
fuck. you couldn’t help yourself. your husband laid there behind you so sexy and muscular. tattoos out on display and face so calm and comfortable. his breath hot on your neck and the way he held you— so secure in his arms, you can help but push back against him. but the rolling of you hips wasn’t enough. god, you wish you weren’t so huge you could just turn around with ease and rub your cunt along his length like you use to. not to mention all your energy had been killed earlier doing all the stuff you weren’t supposed to be doing you found it extra difficult to move around. you’d really hate to wake him up over something so stupid, especially after he was at work all day, your poor boy probably really needed his rest. it’s okay, you can fix this. you move slowly trying not to move his hand that lays over your belly and you part your legs just enough you can squeeze your hands between them.
your nighty is short, thank god. you only had to shuffle it up a little before your fingers find your sticky clit. you whimper slightly from the sensation, you feel onyankopan’s breathing pattern change but only for a second before falling back to normal. you continue on, rubbing quick tight circles on your clit. you feel yourself gushing but you can’t quite get your fingers where they need to be. you mewl softly that sensation. a tightness in your throat tells you the waterworks are about to start. you pull your hand away trying to recuperate and definitely trying not to cry.
but ugh! why was this so hard? you’re beyond frustrated and so uncomfortable. you can’t even please yourself properly without feeling pathetic? the tears come before you could stop them and you accidentally let out a broken sob. this has ony snapping his eyes open frantically. he ripped his body away from yours to turn on the dim nightlight before he’s back on you in an instant.
“(❤︎︎), are you okay? what happened baby talk to me.” he panics sitting up and easily turning your body towards him supporting you and the baby. unfortunately this has you crying even harder. “ughhh im s—sorry!” you wail bring your hands to your face “i d—didn’t mean to wake yewwww! i’m just so! i’m so frustrated with myself!” another watery cry. this is so embarrassing you want to curl up in a ball and die.
“okay okay okay, calm down mama,” he soothes you softly. “it’s okay baby, take your time. i just need to know if you’re hurt or in pain, ok? nod yes, shake no.” he’s beyond relieved when you shake your head, letting out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. he waits for you to calm down rubbing your hips and legs which works but at the same time— it’s makes it worse.
you stop your crying after ten minutes. still breathing heavy he sits you up you so you aren’t laying flat on your back. he gets up to grabs tissue from the far side night stand cleaning you up gently. he sits on the edge of the bed so you can look at you. he grabs your left hand silently kissing your wrist up to your ring finger then holding your palm on his face.
“so,” he begins. “you gonna tell me what happened? i don’t like to see my wife upset, gets me real angry. i’d hate to have to fuck someone up bout my baby.” he teases.
clearing your throat you softly begin explaining what had happened. starting from your dirty dream, to trying to touch yourself, and telling him how quickly you became frustrated how pathetic you feel and so forth. he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t interrupt, he doesn’t laugh. he just listen and massages your hand waiting for you to finish.
“and uh yeah.. that’s all really. i’m real sorry for waking you onya, but im better now i promise.” you give him a weak smile.
he doesn’t like the sound of that. and now he talks. “none of that. it sounds to me like i’ve been neglecting my poor poor baby, huh?” he lean in to kiss your puffy lips, distracting you from the shuffling going on around you. he’s adjusted the pillows you gather once you break away from the kiss. “let daddy make it up to you. wish you would’ve woke a nigga up earlier, sweetness.” he move to place kisses on whatever skin he can get his lips on. your neck, the top of your tits, all the way down to the inside of your thighs. he mindfully has your pillows stacked in way why that you can lean back comfortably while still giving his tongue access to you aching core.
already dribbling cream he sticks his tongue right where you need him. he slurps and he sucks his mouthing at your entire cunt drinking you like he’s never had water before.
every slurp has you hazy eyed, and your poor cunny throbbing from stimulation. his head bobs slow literally fucking you with his tongue. you shake and whither away from his mouth pushing him off but also pulling him closer. he loves the sounds you make, how you scratch his scalp under the durug. he’s hard now, his tip pressing hard against the fabric of his pajama pants. you nearly scream if you didn’t slap a hand over your mouth when he takes those thick fingers and pushes them in roughly.
immediately he finds your g-spot give you the twist and suck of a lifetime. you want to see his face. you know his eyes roll back when he eats it nearly drunk off you. your babygirl is in the way, blocking you from your husband. it’s really pissin you off.
he pops your outer thighs bringing you back down to earth as a silent command to focus on cumming in his mouth. it doesn’t take long, he lays his tongue flats moving his head in a circle and bends his fingers just right to have you tensing up around his digits. you squeak when you cum, basically vibrating on the bed.
he won’t speak, he only listens to your ragged breath while he presses soft kitten licks to your most sensitive areas.
he decides that you’ve been leaning back for too long and it’s lowkey giving him anxiety. (he’ll have to eat it when you stand new time). he flips you over to the side, making sure you’re still nice and supported by the pillows. he’s tingling with sensitivity wanting nothing more than to find home inside of you.
he pulls his pants down to rest under where they won’t get in the way, tosses your one leg over his shoulder and rubs the head along your slit. he’s pissin you off too. all you want him to do if fuck you silly and he out here teasing. he see the pout forming on your face turning your head to kiss you while sliding himself in. “mmmh!” you moan into his mouth.
“shh, i know it feels good baby but you have to stay, —fuck you’re squeezing me— quiet.” he says hushed. as much as he wants to fold you up and fuck your lights out he knows that if any of the neighbors heard they’d be giving him specifically dirty looks.
“you only cummin’ if you’re quiet pretty, don’t make me have to stop.” his tone is stern but still light trying his best not to sound to mean. a slow drag had him pulling all the way out before shoving back in roughly. the sound gets caught in your throat it’s almost like you can’t breath. he drops your leg having your thighs pressed together while he fucks you from the side.
he’s starry eyed watching every ripple of your skin ricochet with every bruising snap of his hips on your ass. it’s embarrassing how when you are right now. sticky white strings connecting the two of you in a sloppy mess. “mmm- you real creamy on my shit, mama.” he tugs his plump lip between his teeth. “who got you creamin’ like that, huh? what’s my name?” he’s thrust never falter as he questions you to entrance by the way he’s stretching you out.
he leans down forehead resting on your temple the sudden change in angle has you reaching to grab his wrist sinking your nails into the skin. “you! yan —oh my god you— you’re makin’ me like thissuhh!” you’re whispering between your pants you can’t afford to have him stop he feels so so good.
the straps of your night gown slip down your shoulders exposing you slightly but he wants to see more. his hand grab at the dampened fabric to yank it down right under you chest. the way he has you twisted has them bouncing up and down up and down he’s almost hypnotized. dark full nipples hardened into stiff peaks has his mouth watering. little white dribbles squirt out with every push he can’t help but latch on to the skin. “MMMH!” you squirm at the sensation, it’s not like he’s never sucked them before but now it’s a whole different feeling. sensitive and tender as they can be his mouth has you clenching down unbearably hard.
“baby— daddy— wait! i gotta pee!” he only grins when you push him away pounding into your pussy making sure each thrust reaches deep. “let it out gorgeous, it’s not pee it’ll feel so fuckin good i promise. let me have that shit!” he groans against your tits. who are you to deny him? you’re eyes scroll back and your mouth drops open but no sound leaves your lips. clear streams gush and gush each time he reels his hips back. it creates a lewd PLAP PLAP PLAP every hit.
“ look at that, you squirtin’ on me. never done that before im fucking up you good.” he gloats at the mess he(you) made. you say nothing the ungodly sounds leaving your throat is enough of a reaction. it won’t stop either, continuous streams leave your poor cunny you cant help but bring an open palm pushing at his abdomen.
it’s too weak to stop anything he’s unrelenting in the way he fucks you. you’re withering. the way you were soaking him and the sheets had him leaning back down and grunting in your ear. “gon’nut all in this pretty ass pussy. if i ain’t knock you up already i’d give you another one swear to god—” he babbles on, spewing nasty nonsense as his stomach caves and he pushed in deep. hot sticky cum spurts out in thick ribbon, he rotates his hips into yours not wasting a drop.
hes hot above you basking in the aftershock of his orgasm and on the regular you’d be content with the feeling of his skin on yours, but you’re uncomfortably warm. tapping his bicep, he rolls over on his back keeping a hand on your stomach.
he cranes his neck to the side watching as your eyes flutter shut into a peaceful sleep.
i’m so ass at writing endings but this been in my drafts since have your babies dropped
“stuck in my head it’s making me crazy, i swear i could have your babies!”
wc: 2.7k
after coming home from a long day at work your husband is truly your saving grace: husband!onyankopon, breeding, bathtub sex, nothing crazy, he’s a real man!
coming home after a long day was your favorite part of the evening. correction, coming home and falling into the arms of your beloved husband was your favorite part of the evening.
sadly for you, today had been extra shitty, you couldn’t pinpoint when your day got so bad, but it was probably between getting scolded for something out of your power or watching the bitch that caused the problem get away unpunished.
on the elevator up to your shared condo you had already started winding down. taking your braids out of their uniform pulled back style and popping the first two buttons of your stuffy starched button up. you sigh in relief when you finally reach the floor of your home sweet home.
hearing that key jingle in the door was definitely onyankopon’s favorite part of the day. it’s not that he didn’t work, his job just allowed him very flexible hours. meaning that every day he’d be home a good two hours prior allowing him to straighten up around the house, prepare dinner, and set up a little something for his poor sweet wife.
“honey, i’m homeee.” you made it a routine; no matter how tired or how cringy it may be you must sing your little jingle everyday after work. onyankopon could hear the exhaustion in voice, so he cuts off the burner and rushes to meet you in the middle.
with open arms your husband lets touch fall into him, the two of you practically melting into each other. the silence filled with the sounds of some sappy romcom is drowned out by the simple fact that he was here, holding you and breathing you in.
“missed you,” he mutters leaning back and lifting you slightly off the ground. “you hungry? i made dinner.” he rubs down your waist to untuck your blouse.
you just hum in response not having enough energy to give him a reply. he takes that as a yes, leading you to the dining room table where he has a nice tall glass of wine waiting for you on the table.
he leaves for the kitchen and when he comes back he has two heaping servings of steamy hot chicken pasta. you want to cry. he so sweet and you could feel the love in all his actions.
dinner is quiet, comfortable. he doesn’t want to you to talk during your meal knowing all the frustration from a rant would ruin your appetite. after dinner he takes your plates and discards them in the dishwasher. within an instant he’s back by your side leading you to your master bedroom’s bathroom.
“what’s this..? you question at the white rose petals leading you to your destination. he only smiles, opening the door to reveal a freshly cleaned candle lit bathroom, another bottle of your favorite wine, and a nice warm bubble bath.
“you’ve been working so hard, i just wanted to do something special for you.” he murmurs, almost timidly awaiting your reaction.
you’re definitely crying now, he panics trying to figure out where he went wrong, he’s on you instantly clenching and unclenching his fist trying to figure out if he should touch you or not.
“i’m sorry mama, you don’t like it? we can just take a shower. there’s no need to cry.” onyankonpon says firm placing strong hands on your shoulders tugging you close.
“no baby, i love it i swear!” you wail between your tears. “i’m s—so happy, i promise! thank you!” you snivel like an idiot over his sweet kind gestures and he is basically gleaming from your praise.
he strips you down slow, popping the rest of the buttons open carefully, making sure your skirt is properly unzipped, and your stockings come off without causing runs through the fabric. he steps out to hang up your work clothes, leaving you in your underwear garments while you wash away all the smeared makeup from your face. when he returns, stripped of everything but his boxers, he checks the temperature of the water and turns the jacuzzi bubbles to a soft rumble. he grabs his phone connected to the bathroom speaker to play some light background music.
it’s perfect.
he stands behind you, hands running down your sides soothingly. he simply watching you take care of your skin through the mirror. you can’t fathom what he is thinking when he looks at you, your underwear isn’t necessarily cute or sexy and your eyes are puffy from your slight emotional outburst. to you, you look a mess, but to him you’re the prettiest girl in the world.
his fingertips trace up your spine to the clips of your bra letting it fall open with a small snap before they trail down to the waistband of your underwear. dragging them down past your thighs and letting them fall around you ankles before you step out and then dropping his to do the same.
he guides to to the tub allowing you both to settle down on opposite sides in the warm water. his eyes watch closely seeing how you visibly relax leaning back and stretching your legs so your feet rest on his abdomen. he takes the bottle and a glass pouring you a generous amount taking a sip and before handing it over to you.
“so you gon’ tell your man what’s got you so worked up or am i gonna have to go up there and handle it myself?” he ask you breaking the silence, warm hands grabbing at your feet as he begins to massage them. you chuckle at the idea of your 6’3 husband going toe to toe with your short fat boss. your laughter interrupted when you hiss at him digging into the center before kneading. you relax sinking lower thinking of where to begin.
“handle it?” you giggle again, “it’s really not a big deal baby. i swear— i just, i feel like i’m working myself to the bone and for what? i go in on time, and then im the last to leave. everyone has kids so when something has to be done after hours, it’s like i’m the default fall guy, ya know i got in trouble over task that weren’t even mine?” you ask but he knows you’re not asking really because after he hmm a response you start again. “and i do understand kids are a lot, they need their parents but everyone acts like i am beneath them because i haven’t started a family! like duh i want to, but at the same time i worked so hard to be in the position im in. there’s other companies i can look into but starting from the bottom and working up again is hard. i use to look forward to going in but now it’s like unbearable dread. i do really love what i do but sometimes i just feel it’s all too much.” you say with a big fat sigh, watching your wine swirl around in the glass before taking another sip.
it’s quiet. you look to him and you can see his mind running at a thousand miles per minute still rubbing your feet. it’s low and if you weren’t already paying attention to him you definitely would’ve missed it. “so quit.” he mutters.
“pardon?”
“quit your job.” he speaks up dropping you foot to rest back on his stomach. you look at him as if he’s lost his mind, and shit maybe he has? “quit my job? why would i do that!” you question him readjusting yourself to sit up higher, but this causes your body to leave his. he frowns at the loss of connect before he continues. “no job should come to the point where you feel dread going there.” he begins. “and as your husband, it is my job to ensure that you are always well and always happy. when you come home everyday and you have all these feelings bottled up, it makes me sick knowing that i can prevent that.” there’s another pause like he has an idea but is unsure on how to put it into words.
“let me— i can take care of us and you know that. i have more than enough to have us set for atleast five years just on what im making now, and it’s only up from here. i’m not gon force you to quit. if working is something you absolutely want to do, i support you 100%. im just throwing the idea out there.”
your lip quivers as you set down your glass. the water swishes around moving as you move coming up to straddle his hips. your hands trace up his neck to his jawline before you place a sweet kiss on plump lips. “you’d really have me quit my job if it makes me happy?”
you mumble placing your forehead against his. he just nods closing his eyes at your touch. “i’d move mountains if it would make you happy, girl.” he declares softly pecking you again.
his hands find home on your hips once more, thumbing smooth circle on the flesh. you can tell he has more to say but he’s holding back. “tell me what you’re thinking baby.” you demand holding his face forcing him to look you in the eye. why is he being so — shy?
he drops his gaze again, muttering something but you didn’t catch it this time. when asked to repeat he looks back up at you with lidded eyes before he speaks again. “you could have my babies. start a family.”
with that you gasp. you can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. you’ve been married for a little over two years, so it wouldn’t be too soon to have kids. you’ve talked about it before aswell but it was always casual stuff like ‘when we have kids.’ or ‘aww that would be cute in a baby’s room!’ but you never took the steps. hell you’ve only done it raw the night of your wedding and maybe four times after that.
“yan, are you serious?” you squint questioning him. but he only nod eagerly. you’re too caught up in the shock to realize him growing against your thigh. “i’ve never been more serious in my life angel.” he tells you biting his lip. “quit your job and i’ll put my babies in you. you never have to worry again, i promise you that.” with a quick shift of his hips he ruts his cock along your slit nice and easy.
leaning forward he captures you in a deep kiss swallowing you’re soft sounds. you match his pace dragging your clit back and forth catching his tip in your entrance with every rock. his tongue explores the dips of yours twirling and sucking, the only thing louder than the bubbles is you and him. one mistake and you catch him in your entrance again but this time you find yourself sinking down slow.
the noise he makes is deep and low. a full on rumble leaves his chest when you sit all the way down. his balls ache but he won’t dare get his before you get yours. he holds you still, tipping his head back to rest on the edge of the tub. you follow mewling into him, placing gentle kisses in the junction of his neck and shoulder. “mmm.” you breathe out feeling him so deep he might as well be in your throat.
“s’big daddy f—uckk.” you mummer between your kisses. he brings a hand over your back letting it rest on at the base of your skull holding you in place when he begins his thrust. hard, heavy, and deep are the only words to describe how he’s fucking you.
the jets shut off by now but the water moves aggressively still. each clap of your thighs on his is almost loud enough to block the noise of the your moans. it’s disgusting the way he has you riding his balls changing the motion from bouncing you up and down to rocking you back and forth like a doll.
you sob when his free hand cracks down on your ass repeatedly. he whacks and whacks but then soothes over the spots completely contradicting his actions. “tell me how it feel baby. who’s fuckin that pussy like this hm? let a nigga know.” he groans adjusting his grip to grab at your face and slam his lips onto yours.
“awe shiittt, it’s y—you you’re fuckin me— soo good!” you bawl against his lips, the tear flowing freely. it hurts so good- the pressure of his fat tip hitting your womb again and again and again has you on cloud 9.
“mhm, that’s right. this my pussy ain’t it mama? keep talking to me.” he barks biting your bottom lip tugging and sucking like it’s a piece of candy. he slaps your ass again but this time he doesn’t soothe, instead he moves inward to your right winking hole and rubs soft circle there.
the gesture has you jerking again. just cussing and carrying on but never responding to his question. onyankopon didn’t like that one bit. just as soon as you felt your sweet sweet release build up, he stops. you pull back looking at him so glossy eyed and pathetic. lips swollen and quivering and face dewy about to question why he stopped in that pitiful whiny voice. but soon as your lips part, he grabs you by the throat and pulls your face right back to his. he looks up and grins a wicked grin pecking you once, twice, three times. before he pulls out to just the tip.
“i asked you a question pretty girl, why you not answering me?” he’s playing with you and it’s pissing you off. you try to sink down again but no, his grip on your hip too tight.
“nah, cut that shit,” he chuckles at your pouty deadpan. it’s crazy how quick he can go from doting husband to a brand new man in the matter of minutes. “im gon ask you again, maybe i fucked you too dumb. must ain’t hear me the first time.”
but faster than you can respond he’s back in you almost deeper than before. “who’s,” THRUST. “pussy,” THRUST. “is,” THRUST. “this?”
“agh— it’s yours baby! fuc—k me harder! it’s yours!” keening into his neck you shudder and clench on his dick. he feels it, he knows your body well you don’t need to tell him when you’re gonna cum. his pace is steady watching as your face contorts. both hands hold your head up like it’s a trophy to precious to be broken all the while destroying your cunt.
“mmh! baby— baby fuck!” your eyes clench as you feel it. he smirks that sinister smirk, pounding into you still, hands remaining on your neck he pulls you impossibly closer.
“uh-huh, whatchu gon do on this dick, mama? gotta hear you say it.” he hissed his release not far behind yours. “oo-oh! i’m finna cum on this dick, daddy!” you squeal bearing down on him.
“yeah? you promise? c’mon on then, let me have that nut gorgeous.” he whispered to you, bouncing you while fucking you through the tight resistance. you cum hard, mouth wide open with no care once so ever for your volume. your lashes flutter when he lets go of your neck and his hands find purchase on the dip of your waist.
he lets you fall back into his neck holding you tight as he still with a grunt pushing as deep as he can go. your repetition of“ah ah ah!” has his ball tense with his shallow thrust. when he finally cums
“fuck, that’s a lot babe.” you sigh in his ear rocking forth and back savoring the warmth that floods you. he twitches at your motion, impossible sensitive right now and yet he’s still rock hard.
“s’gonna stick this time yknow. i’m ovulating.. there’s no going back.” you kiss him gently.
“i didn’t plan on changing my mind. i’m serious, there’s nothing more i’d like than for us to have some babies.” he smiles. “hell we can even go build a house, i have some plots i was looking at today and-“
“okay baby, slow your roll!” you laugh. “let’s just focus on right now.. i wanna go again.”
Especially after your son was born, keeping yourself mentally healthy wasn’t a choice anymore—it was a responsibility. You’d made a home out of it—making sure everything felt alive. Soft R&B playing while you watered your plants that have your surrounding some color, eucalyptus in the shower, lavender oil on your wrists before bed, affirmations, staying connected with people you love. Little routines that reminded you that you were still yourself somewhere beneath the endless responsibilities.
But this week had been eating away at all that calm. You hadn’t felt this stressed in months, not following any of your routine. Your toddler was deep in the terrible twos, a lot of emotions in a tiny body that refused naps and at the same time was only upset because he was tired. Most days felt like you were running all over the place: your head throbbed, sleep deprived, felt like you were dissociating every second.
The weekend couldn’t come any slower but you’re so glad it did. Two whole days where you didn’t have to juggle schedules and deadlines. Just two days you weren’t responsible for keeping anyone alive but yourself.
Dropping your son off at Ony’s mom’s house was ritual, it never lost that comfortable feeling. You stepped inside her house after taking him out of the car seat, gave her a quick hug and a soft, “How are you?” while your child darted off to play. Ony was in the kitchen grabbing a bottle of water, just ‘coincidentally’ there to help his mom rearrange the living room. His eyes lingered on you like he couldn’t help himself—opening his big arms for a hug after you and his mom were done eachother’s ears off. The moment he opened his arms to you, you didn’t hesitate—stepped up and wrapped your arms around his neck, heels of your feet slightly off the ground. He pulled you in for a tight hug, letting you melt into him for a second. As you held him—both of you swaying side to side in sync—you launched into a brief vent about how stressed you’d been lately, how badly you needed a break, and he just attentively listened, letting you exhale. He whispered in your ear something reminding you how important it is to take care of yourself.
As soon as you got home and shut your front door, you never slid into a bathtub so fast in your life—lights dim, candles lit, finally getting to journal in your notebook that was basically collecting dust. It all felt like a breath of fresh air, your shoulders finally dropping after what feels like years while the steaming warm water surrounded your body.
As soon as you stepped out of the bath, your skin glistening and scented with your too expensive body wash, you massaged oil into your body, your braids catching the light from the freshly applied jojoba oil. And even though you’d tackled everything on your little to-do list—went to the gym for the first time in a while, took a long bath, shaved, cleaned all of kids toys all over your living room floor, folded the laundry that had been piling up, rewatched a season of your guilty pleasure reality tv show, and even organized your snack drawer that you devoured during your last cycle—you still felt something missing. All the self-care in the world had eased most of your stress, calmed your blood pressure, but there was a low, insistent voice that you something else in the back of your head you couldn’t ignore.
You put your through blanket over your body. The TV playing low, a half-empty home-made matcha on the coffee table, your phone somewhere under a throw pillow, no child screaming, quiet—the peace you were craving.
Still, something wasn’t fully satisfied. You were supposed to feel content by now. But your mind kept wandering, eyes flicking to your phone like it owed you something.
It would be so much better if you had some dick.
You hated that thought, but it sat unmoving, like it wouldn’t stop until you had some. There was no fighting it even though this was supposed to be your alone time. And obviously, your brain skipped straight to Ony.
You bit your lip, smiling before you even realized you were doing it.
He probably still over there helping his mama move furniture, you told yourself, scrolling aimlessly now, pretending you weren’t checking to see if he’d called you.
Right on cue, your phone buzzed.
“You home?”
You blinked at the screen for a second before typing back, thumbs hesitating like you weren’t already grinning.
“yeah, why?”
He took a second before replying. Watching the three dots disappear and pop back up twice.
“Left my jacket in your trunk last time. You already laying down?”
There was no jacket in your trunk. You’d just been in there grabbing your son’s overnight bag—you knew that. But you also knew what that text really meant.
“no, come get it.”
inspo inspo inspo
The reality show you couldn’t care less about right now played in the back while you were bouncing on his dick like it owed you something, one hand braced against his stomach to steady yourself. He’d told you “take all you want, mama”— and you took it serious. A week without Ony had you moving like a completely different person, riding is your least favorite but from the outside looking in—you would’ve thought it was your favorite position. Rounds worth of strings of cum connecting the two of you every time you pulled up and sank back down, toes curling into the soft cushion.
That little rose toy he swore he didn’t like you using on your own was now pressed between you, buzzing right on your puffy clit in little, perfect circle. The hum syncing up with the rhythm you set, every slurred whisper of his name dragging from your lips. Pussy squeezing him tight like she wanted to be full with his big girthy cock forever.
“Hollon, you makin’ me—” Ony suddenly dug his fingers into the fat of your hips, stopping you for the third time but your body kept trying to bounce anyways.
“P-pa, stop running and let me—cummm—pleasepleaseplease mhhphh! let me give you this pussy,” you whined in fustration while you grind your hips, desperate for any type of friction. You would’ve been so embarrassed if you seen yourself from Ony’s point of view—a mess. Twisted face half covered with your hair but not covered enough to hide the tears rolling down your face.
“You gettin’ greedy,” Ony growled, letting go of your hips with a slap on your bouncing ass. Couldn’t even be bother to say one singular word because he knows your brain wasn’t in anything but how he was so deep in your stomach. “Horny ass girl,” he mumbled before assisting you to bounce your ass on him faster. The plap, plap, plap sounds your sticky pussy was making filling the air again “missed daddy inside me so—f-fuckin’—bad—“ you breathed, more to yourself than him.
You were almost collapsing at this point but refused to let up, free hand gripping the arm of the couch behind Ony’s head making your soft, bouncy mounds exactly eye level. Him putting one of your sensitive brown nipples in his warm mouth made you cum immediately—hard. It felt like an out of body experience, chills running down your spine as whole body let go—body seizing on top of him, gasping for air you feel all of that left-over stress leaving you.
Before you could come down from the high, Ony flipped you onto your back like you it was nothing, his hand wrapping around your throat just enough to hold you still while he folded you into the couch. The couch creaked under both of you.
“Y’got one more nut in you?” he asked even though he already knew the answer.
You nodded fast, breathless—more out of instinct than control. “Y-yeah,” you managed, the word tumbling out on a shaky whimper. Your body was limp, trembling from the last orgasm, but your mind betrayed it—craving more of how he filled every inch of you. You couldn’t move, couldn’t think past the heat pooling low in your stomach, and still, your legs spread as wide as they can.
bigboy!ony’s got a bit of an accent, a country twang that’s just oh so appetizing. his voice is quieter than you’d think, a lil raspy, and when he chuckles you feel it in your tummy.
bigboy!ony looks like he could quite literally throw you. his arms and thighs are thick with the type of muscle you just wanna bite into. it doesn’t help that he’s so damn tall.
bigboy!ony is really just a big teddy bear. sure, he could smash a melon between his thighs, but he always handles you so delicately. calls you his pretty lady because that’s what you are, carries all your stuff, and even if he knows you’re capable, doesn’t let you get your hands dirty.
bigboy!ony is just like his father, and his father’s father. he was raised to be a handyman. need someone to look at that leaky faucet? he’s got you. need someone to mount that tv? easy work.
need someone to pick you up and fuck you? you don’t even have to ask.
“c’mon, luh baby, drop that ass on me,” he huffs. one of his calloused hands is gripping your hair, using it as leverage to pull your head back. his other is gripping your side, tugging you down to meet his hips as they thrust up and up and up, a never ending rhythm.
“can’t,” you whine. he’s too damn much. his touch, his smell, his dick. it’s too hard to keep up with the sheer power of his hips. honestly, you don’t even know why he’s asking you to do anything.
“don’t do that,” he groans at your fucked out face. he loves seeing that beautiful face of yours all fucked out. he loves seeing how he can absolutely rock your shit. “don’t make me nut before I can make you cry.”
his grip on your curls tightens just so, the tingle of the pull only adding to your fucked out state. “fuck,” you moan, feeling yourself clench around him. it reminds you just how much space he’s taking up inside you. makes you feel full.
he huffs and hooks his arms under your legs, standing and lifting you with ease. “gimme my shit, baby. quit playin’ wit me.”
the swing of his hips has your eyes bucking wide, your hands gripping his shoulders as he brings you down again and again.
“mmm, yeah, that’s it, huh? I’m fuckin’ you right, baby? tell me,” he coos, his voice slightly labored and amused. you can only moan, your head tilting back.
you feel light as a feather, regardless of your size. you’re on cloud fucking nine, nothing but a puddle of pleasure. you know you won’t fall. if anything, you’re about to experience the best orgasm of your damn life.
“yeah, thas right. just let me fuck you like you deserve. hold on tight, baby.”
heyyy… been a long time, huh… 🫣
don’t mind me, just going back to my hidey hole! hope you like <3
Simon who yearns for his pregnant wife. (MDNI 18+)
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Simon Riley wasn’t sure what the hell he was listening to.
Or more accurately… what kind of nonsense these sergeants were going on about.
"Fuckin' hell.” one of them, Ramirez, muttered over his mug. "Wife's knocked up with number two, and it's like tryin' to hump a bloody beach ball. No positions work, she's always knackered, and half the time she just wants to sleep. Sex? More like a chore I gotta check off the list."
The others chuckled, nodding like it was the gospel. "Tell me about it.” another chimed in. "Mine's the same. Gained a ton already, and the hormones? Christ, one minute she's all over me, the next she's cryin' over a stupid animal shelter Ad. Wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."
Simon didn't move, didn't breathe a word. His gloved hands tightened around the edge of his tac vest, but not from anger. No, it was something hotter, sharper, coiling low in his gut.
They were wrong.
So bloody wrong.
He thought of you—his wife, his everything—curled up in their bedroom back home, that soft swell of your belly just starting to show under his old shirts you loved to steal. Five months along, and you were glowing, all curves and fire, your body a map he couldn't stop exploring.
He shifted, feeling an erection growing under his gear. Just the thought of you did that to him now. The way your breasts were fuller, heavier, straining against the lace he bought you the last time he was on leave.
How your hips swayed a little wider when you walked, teasing him without even trying. Sex wasn't a chore—no—it was a privilege.
Last night, you'd been on your side, his hand splayed over the bump where their little one kicked, and he'd slid into you slow, deep, your gasps mixing with his growls. "Simon..” you'd moaned, arching back against him, your skin fever-hot and slick. He'd cum faster than a fucking virgin, all because of how beautiful you were, swollen with his child.
The sergeants droned on, oblivious. Simon pushed off the wall, a ghost in the dim light, heading home.
He needed you now—needed to feel that life you'd made together, to bury himself in the woman who turned his world from shadows to something worth fighting for.
As he stepped into the your home, the door clicked shut behind him, he found you on the couch, feet up, reading one of those baby guidebooks with a smirk.
"Miss me, Lieutenant?" you teased, eyes sparkling.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he knelt before you, hands gentle on your thighs, trailing up slow as his gaze darkened. "Every fuckin' second, lovie. Especially now."
His voice was rough, laced with that hunger only you ignited. And as he leaned in, lips brushing the curve of your belly before he found his way between your thighs, he knew this was heaven, not hell.
SYNOPSIS: After a brutal twelve-hour shift, Smoke finally drags himself home, tie loose, shoulders wrecked, just needing his wife’s arms to make the day disappear. The house is dark, and she’s already out cold, curled up in that nightie he can never resist. One tired smile later, exhaustion takes a back seat—he’s waking her up, because some nights the only thing that fixes everything is her.
Requested by @dashhoney25
—————————————————————
The house was quiet when Smoke stepped inside, the late hour pressing down on him like the weight of his suit jacket. He loosened his tie with one hand, the other dragging his briefcase across the floor. The clock on the wall glowed 10:30, reminding him how long the day had stretched.
But the moment he pushed open the bedroom door, the heaviness shifted.
She was sprawled across the bed, tangled in the sheets, wearing one of his favorite nighties—the short one that always made his chest tighten just a little. The soft fabric clung to her in all the right places, her hair spilling across the pillow like she’d been waiting for him until sleep finally won.
His eyes softened, his lips curved into a smile that was equal parts admiration and relief.
“Damn,” he whispered to himself. “My pretty baby… knocked out waiting up for me all night.”
He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, not wanting to wake her just yet. For a long moment, he simply admired her—the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the faint crease between her brows that always appeared when she was dreaming. He reached out, brushing his fingers gently through her hair, letting the strands slip between his knuckles. Then he leaned down, pressing a tender kiss against her temple.
Reluctantly, he stood, peeling off his suit piece by piece until it lay in a neat pile on the chair. The hot shower washed away the stress of the day, steam curling around him as he thought about her waiting for him, even in sleep.
When he returned, the room was dim, the only light spilling from the hallway. A towel hung low around his waist, droplets of water still clinging to his skin. He paused at the doorway, watching her again, before a mischievous grin spread across his face.
“Alright,” he said softly, his voice carrying a playful edge now. “I let you sleep long enough.”
He climbed onto the bed carefully, the mattress dipping under his weight. Leaning close, he let his lips hover near her ear.
“Baby…” he whispered, his voice deep and teasing.
She stirred, shifting slightly, but didn’t open her eyes. He grinned, pressing a trail of kisses down the curve of her neck slowly.
She fussed, half-asleep, her voice muffled against the pillow. “Mmm… it’s late… quit bothering me.”
But he only chuckled, brushing his lips against her skin again, savoring the way she wriggled in protest.
“You know I can’t help it,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “Been gone all day… missed you too much.”
She groaned softly, pulling the blanket higher, still refusing to look at the clock. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, though the faint smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.
The last time he leaned in, his kisses lingered—peppering her neck, her shoulder, until she finally turned toward him with sleepy eyes.
“Elijah…” she sighed, half-annoyed, half-amused.
Smoke grinned, sliding his hand gently through her hair. “I know, baby. Long day. But I’m here now… and I’m not letting you sleep through me being home.”
He caught her hand with tenderness, guiding it to his mouth. His lips brushed her palm in a lingering kiss, eyes glued to her. Then, that wicked half-smile flickered across his face as he drew her fingers lower, slipping them beneath the loosely knotted towel at his hips. The heat of his skin met her first, then the rigid length of his dick, thick and pulsing against her touch, already straining for her.
Her sleepy eyes fluttered open, confusion mixing with amusement as she glanced down, then back up at him.
He leaned in, his voice playful, almost a whisper. “See? He missed you too.”
She pulled her hand back quickly, fussing at him with a groan. “Elijah… you’re impossible. It’s late.”
But the faint curve of her lips betrayed her. She liked it—she just wouldn’t admit it.
Smoke caught the look, his grin widening as he leaned closer, peppering kisses along her neck. “Mmm, I see that smile,” he teased. “You can fuss all you want, baby, but I know you missed me too.”
He continued, “C’mere.”
In one swift motion, Smoke caught her and turned her gently onto her back, the sheets rustling beneath them.
“Elijah, bab-”
The word fractured against his mouth as he kissed her, swallowing the rest of her protest. Heat flooded her in a single, dizzying rush. A helpless moan slipped free before she could cage it, and her arms moved on instinct, curling around his neck, fingers caressing his head as she dragged him closer. She melted into him, every thought of resistance dissolving in the slow, hungry press of his lips and the solid weight of his body against hers.
He rolled his hips forward, pinning her to the bed so she could feel every thick, rigid inch of him straining against her through the thin barrier of fabric. A low sound caught in her throat as his mouth drifted from hers, lips grazing the frantic pulse at her neck, teeth scraping just hard enough to make her shiver.
She didn’t think; her thighs parted and rose on their own, ankles locking at the small of his back, heels digging in as she dragged him down harder, closer, until his dick settled heavy and perfect right where she ached most.
Smoke pulled back just enough to give a small smirk. “You want me to stop?”
Her fingers tightened around his arms, pulling him closer as her voice came out in a hushed, breathless whisper. “No… keep going.”
Smoke kissed her slow and filthy, tongue sliding against hers like he had all night and intended to use every second. Each time their mouths parted, just enough for a ragged breath, he let the words fall against her swollen lips, one by one:
“You.” Kiss. “Don’t.” Deeper kiss. “Want.” A soft bite to her lower lip. “To go.” His teeth grazed her jaw. “Back.” Another slow, claiming press of his mouth. “To sleep?”
The question mark was barely there, more growl than inquiry, as if he already knew the answer and was only waiting for her body to admit it.
Her voice was a whisper, half‑fussing, half‑surrendering. “Not anymore… I need you.”
His voice dropped into a husky whisper as he teased between kisses, “How bad do you need it?”
Her voice trembled with urgency as she clung to him. “I need you so bad… please.”
The words made his dick twitch as he leaned closer, eyes dark with desire. “Say that shit again,” he murmured, each word dripping with challenge.
She met his gaze, breathless, and whispered once more, softer but even more certain. “I need you.”
“Mmm, lift your arms up for me, baby.”
She obeyed, raising her arms slowly, her breath catching as his hands slid upward. With care, Smoke lifted her shirt, revealing her inch by inch, his eyes never leaving hers.
His gaze carried an intensity that made her shiver. He pressed a kiss just below her collarbone, lingering there before whispering against her skin, “Beautiful.”
He kissed his way down, lips skimming the line of her collarbone, then lower, until his mouth settled in the warm space just above her left breast. He paused there, breathing slow against her skin.
His eyes stayed on hers, steady and half-lidded, as he lowered his mouth to her breast. The moment his warm lips closed around her nipple, a small, startled “ah” slipped out of her. Her back arched just enough for her shoulders to lift off the bed as the wetness of his tongue sent a sharp jolt through her chest.
She felt it everywhere at once, the softness of his mouth, the faint scrape of stubble against sensitive skin, the way her breath hitched and trembled when he sucked a little harder. Her fingers tightened around his arms without thinking, holding him there, a quiet, shaky exhale telling him exactly how good it felt.
“Eyes on me, baby,” he commanded softly, as he moved to the other breast.
She obeyed, her eyes wide and shimmering as his lips moved, teasing her with every touch.
Her breath caught, and she whispered softly, almost pleading, “Mm‑mm, don’t you stop… I need more, baby.”
Instead of answering, Smoke just let his lips wander lower, trailing down her stomach in slow kisses. Each one made her squirm a little, her breath catching like she couldn’t help it. The way he moved had her whole body buzzing, the anticipation building with every touch.
“No panties, huh? You really are my good girl… aren’t you, baby?”
She whispered, voice trembling as she held his gaze. “Yes… I’m your good girl. Always.”
He eased her thighs apart spreading her open until she was completely exposed to him. Her pussy was already slick and swollen, glistening under the low light, pretty pink folds parted and dripping with want. The sight of her so wet, so ready, just for him, pulled a low groan from his chest as he drank her in.
He let out a slow breath, eyes darkening as he stared, transfixed.
“Jesus, baby… look at you,” he rasped, voice laced with hunger. His thumbs traced the crease where her thighs met her hips, holding her open wider, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Soaked already. Fuckin’ drippin’ down your pretty little pussy just for me.”
He dragged one slow finger through her slick folds, gathering her wetness and spreading it up to circle her clit, watching her hips jerk at the contact.
He didn’t wait for another plea. He spread her open wider with his thumbs, holding her steady, and dragged his tongue up the length of her in one long, filthy lick, slow enough that she felt every ridge of it. When he reached her clit he sealed his mouth over it and sucked, gentle at first, then harder, flicking the tip of his tongue in quick circles.
Her back arched off the bed with a broken cry.
He pulled off just long enough to growl against her, voice muffled, “Taste so fucking good when you’re this desperate, baby… been dying to get my mouth on this pretty pussy.”
Then he dove back in tongue plunging inside her, curling, fucking her with it while his thumb took over on her clit, rubbing circles. He groaned into her like he was the one getting eaten alive, the vibration making her thighs clamp around his head.
Every time she tried to squirm away from how intense it was, he just pinned her hips down and doubled his efforts, licking and sucking until her moans turned into breathless, babbling sobs of his name.
He pulled off with a wet sound, breathing hard, eyes locked on hers.
“Keep looking at me,” he said. “Don’t you dare close your eyes.”
She nodded, shaky, staring down at him.
He dragged his thumb up once more, peeling the hood all the way back until her clit was completely exposed. She sucked in a breath at how intense it already felt.
“Now you hold it,” he stated. “Take your fingers, yeah, like that, and keep this little hood pulled up for me. Don’t let it slide back down. I want it bare the whole time I’m licking you.”
Her face burned, but her hand moved on autopilot, two fingers pinching the thin skin and holding it firmly in place, keeping herself wide open and raw for him.
He groaned, like the sight alone almost undid him. Then he dropped his head and sealed his mouth over her exposed clit again, tongue flicking hard and steady right on the naked tip, no barrier, no mercy, while she trembled and held herself open exactly like he’d told her to.
Her back arched hard, a sharp, “oh—” tore out of her throat, climbing into a trembling “oh god, oh god—” every time his tongue flicked the oversensitive head.
She couldn’t keep quiet. Every slow circle dragged a new sound from her. Soft, stunned little gasps, then louder, desperate moans that cracked in the middle when he sucked harder. Her thighs shook on either side of his ears, her free hand fisted the sheets while the other stayed obediently in place, holding herself open for him.
He groaned against her the vibration ripping another helpless “please—” from her lips as he doubled down, tongue lashing the exposed clit.
His mouth was relentless, tongue flicking and circling that swollen, aching bud until her thighs shook around his head. She was so close, teetering right on the edge, every muscle pulled tight. Another broken moan tore out of her when he sucked her clit between his lips, hard, the wetness of his mouth sending sparks exploding behind her eyes.
He pulled back just enough to speak, breath ghosting hot over her slick, sensitive flesh.
“Do you want to cum?” His voice was edged with dark satisfaction as he watched her. Two thick fingers pushed deep inside her without warning, curling hard against that spot that made her back arch clean off the bed. “Tell me, baby. Beg for it.”
She couldn’t even form words at first, just a whine as her hips bucked against his hand. He slowed the thrust of his fingers to a maddening tease, thumb brushing feather-light over her clit, keeping her dangling right there.
“Please—” she finally gasped, voice cracking, “please, let me cum. I need it. I need you—”
A dark growl rumbled from his chest. “That’s it. Good girl.”
Then his mouth crashed back down, tongue lashing her clit while his fingers fucked into her hard and fast, the wet sounds filling the quiet room. Her whole body seized, a sharp cry ripping from her throat as the orgasm slammed into her like a wave, crashing over and over, drowning her in white while he kept devouring her through every pulsing aftershock until she was shaking and begging him in broken whispers to stop.
He didn’t give her time to come down.
Her body was still twitching, thighs trembling from the force of the first orgasm, when he locked his arms around her hips and dragged her back to his mouth like he was starving for her. The flat of his tongue dragged slow and heavy up her soaked center, lapping up every drop of her release, and she jolted with a broken cry, oversensitive and overwhelmed.
“No—no, wait, I can’t—” she sobbed, fingers scrabbling at the sheets, at his hair, not sure if she was trying to pull him closer or push him away.
“You can,” he growled against her, the words vibrating straight through her clit. “You will.”
Then he buried his face again, no mercy this time. His tongue speared inside her, fucking in and out alongside the two fingers he shoved back in, stretching her open while his lips sealed around her clit and sucked, hard.
She shattered almost instantly.
A loud scream tore from her throat as the second orgasm ripped through her even stronger than the first, her back bowing so violently she nearly levitated off the bed. Her walls clamped down around his fingers in brutal pulses, flooding his tongue again and again while he kept licking, sucking, devouring every shudder and cry like he was trying to wring her soul out through her pussy.
When it finally ended, she collapsed, limp and gasping, tears streaking her temples into her hair. He didn’t stop until the very last aftershock faded, gentling his tongue only to soothe, lapping lazily at her swollen folds until she whimpered from the overstimulation.
Only then did he lift his head, lips shiny and red, eyes black with hunger.
He pressed a filthy kiss to her throbbing clit, then looked up at her trembling body, lips swollen, eyes feral.
“Good fucking girl,” he rasped. “Told you I’d drag another one out of you.”
Smoke stood up, the towel still knotted loosely around his hips, damp from the shower and now clinging to the hard line of his erection. He hooked his thumbs under the edge, yanked the knot free in one smooth tug, and let the towel drop to the floor.
The sudden cool air hit his skin, but he barely felt it. All his heat was already throbbing between his legs aching for her. He palmed himself once, slow, giving her a second to look and see exactly what she does to him. His dick was thick, flushed, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip.
He rolled her gently onto her side, her body still trembling from the orgasms he just pulled out of her with his tongue. Smoke slid in behind her, chest pressed to her back, one arm hooking under her knee to lift her leg just enough. The head of his dick found her slick entrance without needing to look, she was soaked, open, ready. He pushed in slow, letting her feel every inch as he sunk deep, a low groan rumbling against the nape of her neck.
He kept her leg hooked high over his forearm, opening her completely, sliding in slow and so deep she can feel him in her throat. The room was thick with the wet sound of him filling her again and again, the steady creak of the bed, her own ragged breathing.
“Easy, baby… just breathe,” he whispered against her ear. “Feel how deep I am? That’s all for you. Every inch. You take it so good.”
She lets out a broken little “ah—Elijah—” when he rolls his hips in a slow circle, grinding right against that spot.
“Mmm, right there, huh?” his lips brushed the shell of her ear, smiling into her neck as she nodded frantically. He pulled almost all the way out, just the tip stretching her, and then sunk back in, one long, possessive stroke that punched the air from her lungs and dragged a high, trembling “ohhh—” from her throat.
“Fuck, listen to you…” he growled. “Those pretty sounds you make when I’m buried all the way inside this tight pussy.”
He set a constant rhythm which consisted of long, slow drags out until she whimpered at the emptiness, then hard thrusts back in that made her whole body jolt. Every single stroke ripped another moan from her throat.
“Nnh—oh god—Elijah”
“Yeah, say my name just like that,” he praised, hand sliding down the curve of her belly, fingers finding her swollen clit and circling fast. “Let me hear you, baby. Don’t you dare hold those moans back. I wanna hear every one.”
She can’t. They tumble out of her, needy and broken.
“Ah—ah—please—right there—don’t stop—fuck—”
“Never stoppin’,” he promised, voice cracking with restraint. He drove in harder, the slap of skin loud now, her moans climbing higher with every thrust. “Love knowin’ I’m the one makin’ you sound this good.”
Her whole body starts shaking, thighs quivering against his arm. The sounds she’s making are wild now, high-pitched little “eee—!”s that melt into guttural “unh—unh—unh—” every time he bottoms out.
“Elijah—baby—I’m—”
“I know, sweetheart, I feel it,” he soothes, lips brushing her ear even as his hips snap forward relentlessly. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight I can barely move. Come on, let it go. Moan my name while you cum all over me.”
A desperate,“ Elijah—fuck!” tears out of her as the first wave hit, her walls clenched hard around him.
“That’s my girl,” he groaned, riding her through it, fingers still working her clit in tight circles. “Keep moanin’ for me—just like that—fuck!.”
She was still crying out, high and helpless—“ah—ah—oh god—yes—!” her voice cracked on every thrust that kept her climax rolling. Her back arched hard, toes curled, fingers clawed at the sheets while broken little sobs and whimpers spilled from her lips.
He didn’t let up. Kept that same rhythm, drawing it out until she was trembling.
Smoke buried his face in her neck, breath ragged against her skin, cursing under his breath as her body kept clenching around him. His hips stuttered once, twice, but he locked his jaw and forced himself to hold on.
“Not yet,” he stated. “Not done with you. Wanna hear you beg for another one before I let go.”
Smoke eased out slow, letting her feel the drag. She was still catching her breath when he leaned back on his heels, watching her sink into the mattress like she was ready to tap out.
He let out an amused laugh. “Oh, you thought we were done because you were ‘sleepy’ earlier?” He grabs her hips and flips her onto her stomach, dragging her up to her knees in one smooth pull. “Nah, baby. You tried to close these legs on me like this pussy ain’t on call 24/7. That’s cute.”
She whimpered, already arching, but he didn’t give her time to think. He lined up and slammed in one hard thrust, burying himself so deep her breath caught on a sharp, startled “Elijah!”
“Yeah, that’s the sound I wanted,” he growled, setting a fast, punishing rhythm right from the start. “All that ‘I’m tired’ shit went out the window real quick, didn’t it?”
He leaned over her back, one hand sliding up to grip her throat lightly, the other pinning her hip exactly where he wanted it.
“Look at you. Actin’ all shy and sleepy a minute ago, now you’re drippin’ down my balls. Greedy little thing can’t even pretend she doesn’t want this dick.”
Every thrust knocked another moan out of her.
First one was a shocked little “ohh fuck—”
Then they rolled out of her in a broken stream, “unh… unh… Elijah… please…”
He drove in deeper and she gasped, voice cracking into a breathy “ahh god, baby—”
Another hard snap of his hips and she was moaning louder, needy, “yes… yes… right there—”
He didn’t let up, just fucked her.
“Thought you could hold out on me?” He nipped her shoulder, and smirked when she shuddered. “This pretty pussy doesn’t get to make decisions. It gets fucked when I say, how I say. Remember that.”
His fingers slipped down to her clit, rubbing fast circles that made her whole body jerk.
Her moans turned frantic, “Elijah … oh shit… I can’t… fuck…”
He circled harder and she choked out, “baby please… I’m gonna—”
“Come on, brat,” he stated. “Show me how sorry you are for even trying to keep this from me.”
She breaks almost instantly back bowing, walls fluttering hard around him, a broken cry of his name spilling out as she came. “Elijah … fuck… yes… oh god—”
He kept moving, riding her through it, hips never slowing, breath hot against her neck.
“Good girl,” he praised. “That’s one. We’re just getting started on that apology.”
He was still buried deep, hips rolling slow through the aftershocks of her orgasm, when he decides he’s done with her hiding her face in the pillow.
“Nah, I need to see you.”
One strong arm slid under her waist, the other gripped her thigh. In one smooth move he flipped her onto her back, never pulling out. Her legs fell open around his hips, knees hooked over his forearms as he spread her wide and sinks back in.
Her breath hitched on a shaky “ohhh—” when he filled her again, the new angle letting him hit deeper, straighter, right against that spot that makes her eyes roll.
Smoke braced himself above her, forearms caging her head, eyes locked on hers. “There she is,” he growled, pulling out slow just to watch her lips part on a needy whimper, then slid back in deep. “Look at me, baby.”
He started moving again, slower now, deeper, every stroke measured so she feels all of him. Their mouths brushed, then the soft kisses turned hungry. He kissed her like he’s been starving for it, tongue sliding against hers, swallowing every little sound she makes.
“Tell me you missed me,” he whispered between kisses, forehead pressed to hers, hips never stopping their steady grind.
“I missed you,” she breathed. “Missed you so bad, Elijah.
A broken sound left his throat. He kissed her harder, one hand cupping her face, thumb stroking her cheek while the other kept her leg hooked high. “I love you,” he rasped against her lip. “Love you so fuckin’ much.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down until their chests are flush. “I love you too… don’t stop… please—”
He couldn’t if he tried.
The pace built gradually, deep rolls turning into long thrusts that dragged a moan from her with every stroke. He kissed her through it, lips on her mouth, her jaw, the corner of her eye, tasting the salt of her tears and sweat.
“Love you,” he said again, voice cracking as he buried his face in her neck, kissing the pulse there, the area beneath her ear. “Love you, love you—”
She clung tighter, heels digging into his back, breath hitching on every thrust. “Elijah… baby… I’m close again—”
“Cum with me,” he groaned, hips losing rhythm, driving deeper, faster now.
He kissed her one last time, swallowing her cry as his climax hit. He buried himself and came with a long, shuddering groan against her lips, pulsing hot inside her in thick waves, hips jerking with every spurt.
She followed right behind, walls clenching hard around him, a soft, broken “I love you—” spilling from her as she shakes apart beneath him.
He stayed inside her, riding the aftershocks with slow, gentle rolls, kissing her softly now, lips brushing her cheeks, her eyelids, the tip of her nose.
When they finally still, he didn’t move away. Just lowered himself carefully, keeping his weight on his forearms, face tucked into her neck, pressing kisses to her skin while their breathing slowed together.
They stay wrapped up like that, tangled and breathless, hearts hammering in sync, his lips never far from hers.
———————————————————-
He was still inside her, breathing hard against her neck, lips brushing lazy kisses over the damp skin there. The room smelled like sex and them, and the sheets were a lost cause.
After a long minute he lifted his head, pressed one soft kiss to her mouth, then rested his forehead against hers.
“Been thinkin’ about comin’ home to you the whole damn twelve hours I was gone,” he stated. “One quick trip, and all I could picture was you waitin’ in this bed, ready to wreck me the second I walked through the door.”
She made a small, sleepy sound and tightened her arms around his neck. He felt her shiver.
He eased out gently, both of them hissing at the loss, then rolled to the side so he can look at her properly. His thumb stroked her cheek, wiping away a stray tear of overstimulation.
“Hold on, baby,” he says softly. “Lemme take care of you.”
Before she could answer, he slid out of bed, scooped her up, and cradled her against his chest. She curled into him automatically, legs dangling, face tucked under his jaw.
“Smoke…” she mumbled drowsy.
“Shh. I got you.”
He carried her through the suite and out onto the private balcony where the hot tub’s been running since he turned it on earlier that morning.
Steam rose into the cool night air, city lights glittering far below. The jets were already bubbling, the water glowing soft blue.
He stepped down into it without letting her go, sinking slowly until the heat envelops them both. She sighed the second the water hits her sore muscles. He settled onto the molded seat and arranged her so she’s straddling his lap, chest to chest, her head resting on his shoulder.
“Fuck, that feels good,” he groaned, rolling his neck. “Been countin’ down the minutes since I left this morning.”
She pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat. “Missed you,” she whispered against his skin. “Twelve hours was too long.”
He tightened his arms around her, one big hand stroking up and down her spine under the water. “I’m here now, baby. Not leavin’ this bed, or this tub, for the rest of the night.”
The jets pulsed against their bodies, the only sounds were the low hum of the motor, the soft splash of water, and their breathing finally slowing into the same rhythm.
He tipped her chin up, kissed her slow, tasting both of them on her tongue. When he pulled back, his eyes are soft.
“Love you,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest truth he’s ever known.
She smiled, sleepy and wrecked and utterly his. “Love you more.”
He chuckled and reached for the waterproof remote on the ledge. The jets kicked up a notch, massaging every ache they both earned tonight.
The water was warm around them, her body completely melted against his chest, eyes half-closed, breath slow. She was floating in that soft, fucked-out haze when Smoke shifted behind her, sliding one arm low across her belly, the other guiding her hips until she’s sitting reverse in his lap.
His lips found the shell of her ear.
“One more, baby,” he whispered. “Let the jet finish you off.”
She let out a weak laugh and tries to burrow deeper into his shoulder.
“Elijah… no. I’m dead. You already murdered me three separate times. My soul left my body twenty minutes ago.”
He chuckled, but doesn’t let her sink back down. His hands slide to her ass, spreading her gently, thumbs tracing slow, soothing circles on the inside of each cheek.
“I know I wrecked you,” he said, kissing the spot behind her ear that always makes her shiver. “That’s why you don’t gotta do a thing. Just stand right here and let the water do it.”
She shook her head, a tiny, stubborn movement.
“Baby… I’m serious. I’m too sensitive. One touch and I’ll actually cry.”
He hummed, patient, lips brushing her neck.
“You’re not gonna cry. You’re gonna cum so hard you forget your own name. I’ll hold you the whole time.”
She whined, long and exhausted, hips already trembling just from the suggestion.
“Elijah… please… I can’t take any more.”
He kissed her shoulder.
“You can. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”
Another kiss, lower.
“Been thinkin’ about watchin’ you fall apart on that jet since I turned it on this morning. Just picturin’ how pretty you’d look shakin’ in my arms…”
She made a broken little sound, half protest, half surrender.
He guided her forward an inch, until the low hum of the strongest jet vibrates against her thighs. She jolted, thighs clamping instinctively.
“No—no—no, wait—” she gasped, fingers digging into his forearms. “It’s too strong, I swear it’s gonna hurt—”
“Shh.” He locked one arm around her waist like steel, the other still spreading her open. “Breathe for me. Step up on my feet… there you go.”
She rose on wobbling legs, toes curling over his for balance, whole body already trembling.
“Elijah, I’m scared it’s too much—”
“I’ve got you,” he promised, lips against her ear. “If it’s too much I’ll pull you off, swear to God. But I know my baby. I know you’ve got one more in you.”
She was breathing fast now, shaky little inhales, eyes squeezed shut.
“I can’t… I really can’t…”
He kissed the side of her neck.
“Just part yourself for me. One finger. That’s all. Let me see how pretty you look takin’ it.”
A long, trembling pause.
She whimpered… then, with a broken, defeated sound, her shaky fingers slide down and spread her swollen lips.
The jet hits her clit like a gunshot.
Her entire body seized, a sharp, desperate cry ripping out of her before she can stop it.
“Fuck—Elijah—oh god—”
He held her tight, mouth hot on her ear.
“There it is. Fuck, feel that? Just let it take you, baby. I’ve got you.”
She was already sobbing, hips jerking, trying to escape and chase it at the same time.
“It’s too much—it’s too much—please—”
“No it’s not,” he growls softly, licking up her neck, gripping her ass harder to keep her open to the stream. “You’re takin’ it so fuckin’ good. Look at you shakin’. Come on, sweetheart. Let it wreck you.”
The orgasm crashed into her like a tidal wave, no warning, no build, just instant, violent release. Her knees buckle completely, a broken scream tearing from her throat as she cums harder than she has all night, whole body convulsing in his arms.
He holds her through every brutal pulse, murmuring filth and praise directly into her ear.
“That’s my girl… fuck yes… keep comin’… don’t fight it, just let it take you… I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you…”
When it finally released her, she collapsed, limp and gasping, tears on her cheeks. He turned to her gently and pulled her trembling body back down into his lap, cradling her close while the water swirls softly around them.
She buried her face in his neck, voice wrecked and laughing through the aftershocks.
“I hate you.”
He kissed her temple, arms locked tight, smug and tender all at once.
“Yeah… but you came so hard you saw stars, so I’ll take it.”
———————————————————
He carried her upstairs like she was made of glass, her limp body draped over his arms, head lolling against his chest. The hot tub did its job too well. She was still twitching every few seconds with tiny aftershocks that make her breath hitch.
In the bathroom he sat her gently on the thick bathmat, grabbed the fluffiest towel, and wrapped her up like a burrito.
“Stay right here, baby. Don’t move. I’m drawin’ us a real bath.”
She just hummed, eyes already half-closed, and curled onto her side on the heated floor while the tub fills. The sound of running water and the faint scent of that lavender-eucalyptus oil he knows she loves lulls her into a daze.
Ten minutes later he’s back.
“C’mon, pretty girl.”
He scooped her up and stepped into the deep soaking tub. The water was perfect, hot, scented, topped with a thin layer of bubbles. He settled back against the sloped side and arranged her so she was lying on top of him, chest to chest, her head tucked under his chin. One big arm stretched across her back, the other hand slid under the water to cradle her ass and hips, literally holding her lower half up so she doesn’t have to use a single muscle.
She melts instantly.
“Oh my god,” she sighs. “I feel like I’m floating… like I don’t even have legs anymore.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into hers.
“That’s ‘cause I’m holdin’ you up, baby. You’re still havin’ those little aftershocks, huh?”
She nodded against his neck, thighs twitching again. “Every time the water moves it hits me again. I’m so sensitive it’s stupid.”
He pressed a kiss to her damp hair, fingers gently kneading her lower back. “You’re good, though? Satisfied? My girl got enough D for one day?”
She laughed nuzzling closer. “I’m beyond satisfied. You treated me to a whole dick-filled welcome-home special. I’m set until next week.”
He snorted, splashing a little water over her shoulder. “That’s cute you think I’m done. Twelve hours without you and I still got a whole list, baby.”
She groaned dramatically, but there’s a smile in it. “You’re actually insane.”
“Insanely in love with you,” he corrects, kissing her temple. “But yeah, I’ll let you breathe… for now.”
They soaked like that for a long while—quiet, soft kisses, murmured nonsense, his hands never stopping their soothing strokes.
Eventually the water started to cool. He stands with her still in his arms, stepped out, and sat her on her feet long enough to flip the shower on. Hot water rained down as he pulled her under it with him, washing her gently—hair, body, between her legs with the softest touch because she was still so sensitive that she kept shivering and giggling into his chest.
They stepped out of the shower in a cloud of steam, skin warm.
He wrapped her in one of the big, fluffy towels first, rubbing her arms dry, then quickly towels himself off and slings his low around his hips. She was still giggling at something he whispered when he scooped her up bridal-style, carrying her straight from the bathroom into the bedroom like she weighed nothing.
The lights were low, the bed already turned down from earlier.
He sat her gently on the edge of the mattress, kissed her forehead, and whispered , “Hold on, baby.”
She watches him cross the room, pull open her drawer, and come back with the soft pink silk nightie she loves. He kneels in front of her, gathers the fabric, and helps her slip it over her head, smoothing it down her body. When it’s settled against her skin, he crawled onto the bed, pulled her down beside him, and tucked her into his side, her head on his chest, his arms locked around her like he’ll never let go.
The room was quiet except for their breathing and the faint hum of the city far below.
He lifted her left hand, kissed the spot right above her wedding band, and kept her fingers pressed to his lips.
“I love you, Simone,” he said.
She tried to smile, but he was not done.
“I’d die for you, baby. You know that, right?”
His voice dropped. “There’s nobody on this planet that matters more than you. If anything ever happened to me, you’re taken care of forever. And I’d kill for you. Anybody ever even thought about hurting you, they wouldn’t make it to sunrise.”
She started to protest but he just kissed her palm and kept going.
“You want a bigger house? Five kids tearing up the backyard? I’ll work every single day until my hands bleed to give you that life. Your needs don’t go unmet—never at night, never in life. I never want you looking at another man, never want you feeling like you’re missing one damn thing. You’re my rib, Simone. The piece God took out of me and made perfect.”
He guided her hand to the left side of his ribs, smooth skin except for one spot. Fresh ink, still slightly raised, done in secret two weeks ago. In elegant, flowing script: Simone, right over his heart, the only tattoo he’ll ever have.
She gasps, fingertips tracing the letters like she’s reading braille.
“You… you got my name tattooed?” Her voice cracks. “Elijah, you swore you’d never—”
“Never needed ink,” he stated, eyes locked on hers. “Then I married you. Only thing worth putting on me forever.”
She leaned down, and pressed soft kisses over her name, then looked up at him with that playful fire he loves.
“Listen,” she said, poking his chest. “I’ll beat up every female on earth for you, no hesitation. And if you ever did time? I’m not touching another man. I’d get a custom mold of this—” she slides her hand down and squeezes him through the sheet, “—and one of that criminal tongue. I’d be sending you contraband nudes you gotta hide under the mattress. I’m riding for you ‘til they bury me, baby. I’m yours for life. Only yours.”
He groaned and flipped her gently onto her back, hovering over her, eyes shining.
“That’s my wife,” he whispered, “My missing rib. My whole damn world.”
He kissed her slow like they’re saying vows all over again and then pulled her tight against his chest. She tucked her face into his neck, fingers still tracing her name on his skin.
They fall asleep just like that. Tangled, promised, and claimed forever.
summary: i heard pregnant coochie is real good and smoke been #needing that everyday of the month.
warnings: explicit sexual content, breeding, pregnancy kink, voyeurism, exhibitionism, degradation (light), impact play (light). MDNI!!!!
authors note: i do have a very unhealthy obsession with both pregnancy and breeding so i had too much fun writing this aaaand, yes, we’re adding the smokestack twins to our rolodex. 🙂↕️
Pregnancy had done a number on you. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Your village, your husband, and everyone who loved you made sure that you were cared for and tended to at all times. It felt so good most days that, even though you were swollen and waddling, you found your mind wandering to when you would be pregnant next. Your belly had grown round and heavy, stretching you in ways that made every mirror stop you in your tracks. There was never one you passed that didn’t demand your attention⸻you couldn’t help but admire the new curves, thickened thighs, and full, soft shape that begged to be touched. You understood why he loved watching you walk away from him; you looked like you were “smuggling midgets” in everything you wore, as he would say. And it didn’t matter what it was, your mommy body filled everything out perfectly. Infamously, he’d begun calling you “Big Mama.” Depending on the setting, it made you blush but other times, you’d hear it leave his lips and you swore it was the same slick tongue that the Devil tempted Eve with.
Nesting had become one of your favorite pastimes. Ever since you’d found out that you were carrying his little boy, the both of you were delighted. His room was already painted. The walls a warm cream with powder blue trim, his name in big bold slate letters above his crib. It had become your favorite place in the house as you impatiently awaited his arrival. At the moment, you sat on the edge of the chair folding up another batch of brand new clothes that had been washed and dried, a handful of which had been previously hung in his closet. You ran your fingers over the soft cotton of each article of clothing, straightening tiny onesies, unintentionally counting little socks as you paired them up and put them in his dresser. A soft sigh escaped your lips as you ran a hand over your belly.
“Baby?” The sound of his father’s voice caught you off guard but sent baby boy into a sudden burst of energy, unleashing an array of kicks to you. “Oh god,” you groaned as you carefully stood to your feet. “Come get your son, he seems to think my ribs are the best place to be,” you huffed softly as you tottered out of his bedroom, shutting the door behind you as you followed Smoke's loud laugh until you found him in the living room. “I told you he wasn’t gon’ play no game wit’ you, but you ain’t wanna listen. What was it you said to me again?” Your brows furrowed deep, confusion settling on your bare profile as you waited for him to answer his own question because you genuinely had no clue. “Nut in this pussy, papa…” He mocked, but his words sent a shiver down your spine, your legs quivered. Yet, your jaw dropped, as if you were appalled that he would ever suggest you’d say such a thing. It was the honest truth though. Talking each other through your orgasms was exactly what got you here; you never knew when to shut up. You teetered on the balls of your feet before wobbling to him.
He laughed lightly as he watched you, shaking his head in all amusement. “You like my baby and my lil’ circus act all in one.” You swatted at him playfully. Even without looking up at him, you could feel his eyes on you. Drinking in the sight of your curves, the sway of your hips, and swollen breasts as you walked to him in your mumu. He caught your wrist before you could swat at him again and pulled you the rest of the way until your were between his legs then he pulled you down into his lap, a soft huff leaving his pair as he settled down under your weight comfortably. “You know you can’t be sittin’ on me like this, I be wantin’ to touch on you.” He said jokingly, though you knew he was telling you the absolute truth. There wasn’t a day that had passed that you didn’t end up panting his name.
Your brows furrowed deeply. “Who’s stopping you?” Your bottom lip wedged between your teeth. “She’s been waiting on you all day. I almost took care of her myself.” You taunted. Elijah’s hand collided with your ass. “Now you know you woulda been upset ‘cause you needed me to finish you, for you. Stop allat playin’.” He laughed. It was true. You couldn’t seem to cum without him and that was even before pregnancy. It was like your pussy only responded to him, fuck what you thought and how it was supposed to go. “You can have it anyway you want it, as long as you come find me.” You smirked, raising up from his lap and wandering off in another direction of the house. Since moving into the house, there was one place you hadn’t touched so you took your time waddling there and patiently waited until you heard his steps. You turned to face him with a mischievous smile. Outside, bent over the balcony while you overlooked the city and came? Sounded like heaven. The crisp evening air kissed your skin. “You just a horny freaky fuck,” Smoke laughed while he unbuttoned his pants. You grabbed at the bottom of your dress, lifting it up and bunching it at your waist as you leaned over the balcony, legs spread and ass poked out toward him. You glanced over your shoulder and locked eyes with him, seduction laced in your tone and lust in your eyes. “Mhm, and you love it. So come handle it.”
He didn’t play when it came to being back inside you, the shit was a drug for him. Something so sweet, so addicting. “She ready for me?” The question was rhetorical, your pussy watered like a mouth would at the sight of him. You were currently standing in a pool of cream. He sank into you with a low, deep breath. A shiver ran down your spine just as he kissed the back of your neck. His hand found its place right around it, just as it always did and he began fucking you slow. There was nowhere to be other than right here, right now. Your toes curled against the pavement, breathy moans left your lips, your fingers gripping the railing as you laid your head back against his shoulder and he rested the side of his face against your head. “It feels so good to have you back home,” you cooed. Your eyes rolling shut as you inhaled a deep breath and reached one hand back to grip his thigh. “It feels good to be right… back… home…” A deeper stroke for each of the last three words. The last causing a downpour of your honey to come rushing out as you gushed, a muffled whimper spilling past your lips like you needed to be quiet.
“Wave to the neighbors, pretty girl.” Your eyes shot open after a few seconds delay, a smile on his profile as he raised a hand to point in the direction of your neighbors who weren’t too far off watching you get fucked on your balcony, fully immersed and enjoying the scenery. “Wave, don’t be rude.” He dropped one hand and smacked your ass roughly. “Augh, fuck!” You raised your hand, waving it in their direction but also not, cause you didn’t give a fuck who was watching, just as long as he didn’t move, they could see everything they wanted to. “Stay right there, dada. You feel soso good.” He listened, always did. Elijah was the quietly slick at the mouth type, but it was in a such direct way that if you didn’t know him, you didn’t catch the underlying intent. He was that attentive. “Mm..mhm. That’s that spot ain’t it? Stay right ‘chea?” He beckoned, pulling his hips back slowly before puncturing through your walls so that the head of his fat dick kissed it, over and over and over again until you let out a high-pitched squeal. You stood on the tips of your toes, legs spreading more as you opened up further for him to dig in you. “Let that shit out, let them white folks see yo’ pretty ass cum on this dick.” His fingers went to your clit, rubbing it in skilled circles which made you tense up. He knew your body like it was the back of his own hand so you did, your body obeying his command without pause, all while he strummed your clit like the strings of his guitar that often lulled you to sleep.
But he wasn’t done with you yet, not by a long shot. Grabbing the back of your mumu, he pulled out, grumbling as the cool air hit his wood and made it twitch. He guided you to one of the chairs, pushed it up against the concrete wall and directed you to put your hands on it, so that you could use it to stay balanced and not tip over⸻as if he would’ve actually let that happen. “Hold up that dress so I can see this pretty ass pussy I’m diggin’ out.” Beautifully submissive. Shit like this is exactly why you ended up pregnant. You pulled it up over your stomach, and took a deep breath because you knew when he slid in you wouldn’t be able to breathe properly.
Smoke slapped his dick against your slippery folds, making you jump slightly, you shook your round ass from side to side, making it clap while you teased him and patiently awaited his reentry. You could see and feel the eyes of your neighbors on you still, even with the soft hustle and bustle of the night, you swore you could hear their whispers and gasps and it made a devious smile spread across your face. Smoke’s hand pressed against your lower back then trailed up your spine, you arched as much as you could and as he filled you up again, you unintentionally moved forward, the pleasure and pressure of him too much to take all at once. You heard him grunt as he repositioned himself and planted his feet firmly on the ground. “Pull’at knee up. I don’t know what you runnin’ fa’, but you know better.” He pulled you back to him, ass flush against his pelvis as you began throwing your ass back at him. You clasped around him, walls clamoring as you began dancing on his dick and he just stood there, taking it all in while you fucked him like you owned him, because you did. You rolled, gyrated, and popped, his hands slamming against your ass as a silent praise to the fact that he loved the way you were doing him. “Mm… my sweet, sweet boy. It feels like you’re about to burst.” You purred, you slowed hips rolling as you listened to the sound of your pussy talking back while she got played in. He gritted his teeth and sent another smack to your ass that was so hard it echoed off the concrete wall. “I’m finna, keep throwing that shit back just like that.” He loved watching your walls suction around him, loved seeing him come out covered in all white as you painted your masterpiece. Your belly bounced against your thighs, sweat beading on your back making the fabric that clung to your body heavier as he bent over you, chest pressed against you while he swung his hips back to pick up speed again.
“Look at you,” Smoke rasped against your ear, one hand back around your throat as he held your head steady so you could look out at the lowering sun as it set. “Big belly, fat ass, greedy pussy. I’d put another baby in this good shit right now if I could. You know I love this shit?” Your mouth gaped, walls clenching around him as an answer because you couldn’t. The chair scraped the ground with every thrust, threatening to slide but his weight kept you steady. His free hand slid over your stomach, resting just at the bottom so he could press against it and feel himself pushing from the inside. You gasped, eyes rolling.
“Eli—,” you whined, your voice high and cracking. “I can’t,”
“Yes you can,” he cut you off, his bucking harder, not letting up as he pressed into you. The last thrust was the one that broke the dam, you flooded his pole and you heard him shudder in your ear. “Milk this dick, baby. That’s right, Big Mama. Gon’ take all this nut, lemme hear you leaking when you walk back in the house.” One last, deep stroke and he was letting out his heavy load with a low moan. “Fuuuuck, this pussy so good to me.” He pulled out, watching his nut spill out of you before taking his fingers, and scooping it up before he shoved it right back inside, making you jolt. His dick followed immediately after, stroking his seed back. “Keep that, that’s all mine.”
You whimpered weakly as he leaned forward and kissed the side of your neck. He took your hand into his, carefully helping you up and resting his hand on the small of your back so he could walk you back in the house. “Good girl,” He didn’t bother fixing himself, just looked up and waved to the peeping neighbors once again with a satisfied smirk as you walked ahead of him. The sound of your love smacked between your thighs as soon as you crossed the threshold and he let out a chuckle. “Mhm. That’s what I like to hear. You need some more?”
Most days, he carried himself like nothing could shake him—quiet, steady, the type of man who didn’t waste words because he didn’t have to. People listened anyway.
She usually did too.
Usually.
But tonight, something in her just wouldn’t sit still. Maybe it was the way he’d been brushing her off earlier, barely reacting to her running your mouth. Maybe she just wanted attention. Either way… she pushed.
And pushed.
And pushed.
“You act like you ain’t hear me,” she muttered, leaning against the wall with her arms folded.
“I heard you,” he said calmly from across the room, not even looking up at first.
That made it worse.
“Then why you acting like it don’t matter?”
That’s when his eyes lifted.
Slowly.
And there it was—that shift.
Not loud. Just… different.
“You just don’t know when to stop, do you?” His voice stayed even, but it carried weight now.
She rolled your eyes, like that didn’t do anything to her. Like her stomach didn’t just tighten a little.
“I said what I said.”
Silence.
Then he stood up.
The air changed.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t storm over. Just walked toward you with that same steady pace, and somehow that made it worse. Made your heartbeat pick up in a way you refused to acknowledge.
“Say it again,” he said, stopping right in front of you.
Her chin tilted up, stubborn. “You heard me the first—”
Her words cut off when his hand gripped her chin.
Not rough.
But firm enough that it meant something.
“Smoke—”
“Come on.”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a shout.
But it wasn’t a suggestion either.
Before she could decide if she was going to fight it, he was already guiding her back toward the couch. Each step felt slower than it should’ve, like her body was suddenly too aware of everything—his grip, his presence, the way he wasn’t letting go.
“Still got something to say?” he asked, sitting down and pulling her with him in one smooth motion.
She barely had time to react before she was on his lap, her knees on either side of him, her hands instinctively landing on his shoulders to steady herself.
The position alone knocked the edge off her attitude.
“You real bold over there,” he murmured, his hands settling on your hips like they belonged there. “But now you quiet.”
“I’m not quiet,” she shot back, even though her voice didn’t sound the same.
His thumbs pressed lightly into her hips, just enough pressure to ground her—just enough to remind her exactly where you were.
“Yeah?” His head tilted slightly. “Then why you breathing like that?”
she hadn’t even noticed.
Now she couldn’t ignore it.
“I’m not—” she started, but her words faltered when his grip tightened just a little, pulling her down more firmly against him.
her breath hitched.
There it was.
That reaction she didn’t want to give him.
His eyes darkened just slightly, catching it.
“That’s what I thought,” he said quietly.
She tried to push back, to hold onto whatever attitude she had left. “You doing too much.”
“Or you just not used to a nigga checking you?” he countered, calm as ever.
Her hands tightened on his shoulders, fingers curling into his shirt. She hated how steady he was. How in control he stayed while she felt like she was slipping just a little.
“I don’t need you to check me,” she muttered.
His hand slid up her side, slow, deliberate, before settling on her lower back.
“You sure about that?” he asked, leaning in just enough that his voice dropped lower, closer.
The warmth of his breath brushed her skin, and her body reacted before her pride could catch up.
She shifted slightly—just trying to get comfortable, she told herself.
His hand immediately adjusted, holding you in place.
“Don’t start moving now,” he warned softly. “You weren't moving like that a minute ago.”
Her lips pressed together.
He noticed everything.
“That mouth get real quiet when I get you like this,” he added, almost like he was thinking out loud.
“I’m not quiet,” she repeated, weaker this time.
“Then say something smart.”
She opened her mouth—
Nothing came out.
Because now all she could focus on was the way his hands were moving again. Not rushed. Not grabbing. Just slow, controlled, like he had all the time in the world to let this build.
Her breathing gave her away before she could say anything else.
“Yeah,” he murmured, watching your face closely. “That’s what I thought.”
She looked at him, really looked this time, and there was no teasing in his expression. No rush either. Just that same quiet control that made everything feel heavier than it should’ve.
“You like acting up,” he said, voice low. “But you know exactly what you doing.”
She swallowed, her fingers tightening slightly against his shoulders.
“And you know exactly how this ends,” he added.
Her attitude had slipped somewhere along the way, replaced with something softer. Something quieter.
But not weak.
Just… aware.
“I wasn’t even doing that much,” she muttered, though it barely sounded convincing now.
One of his brows lifted slightly.
“No?” His grip tightened just enough to make her breath catch again. “So this don’t got nothing to do with me?”
She didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because now the tension sitting between them wasn’t just about the argument anymore. It was something else entirely—something heavier, slower, pulling tighter the longer she stayed right there on his lap.
His gaze dropped to her lips for a second, then back to her eyes.
“You done?” he asked quietly.
Her voice came out softer than before.
“…yeah.”
A pause.
Then his hand slid up her back again, slower this time, less about holding her in place and more about keeping you there.
“Good,” he said.
But he didn’t move her.
Didn’t let her go.
Just kept her right there, like he wasn’t in any rush to end it either.
"All fuckin' day, you've been pushin' buttons, mama," he says, his voice gravelly and low, laced with the edge of a man who's on his last nerve . He steps in front of her, his footsteps quiet on the carpet, closing the distance in three long steps. Before she can say something disrespectful, his rough hand wraps around her wrist, yanking her up. He bends her over his lap, her belly pressing into his thighs. Her short skirt comes up immediately, bunching around her waist and showing him her lace panties.
She twists, trying to wriggle free, but his other arm comes across her lower back , pinning her in place. He grunts as he slides you up a bit. "Think you can mouth off to me? Acting like a nigga won´t put you in your place?" He says, making her feel hot all over. He rubs her ass , taunting her or getting her ready, then his hand comes down, smacking her on her ass. It stings, making her yelp, her fingers digging into the couch cushion.
He doesn't give her time to recover. Another slap lands on the left, harder, the impact making her ass turn red. "That's for the attitude at breakfast," he says, each word coming with a smack—smack, smack—alternating sides. Her thighs press together instinctively, but the growing ache between them betrays her, a slick warmth starting to pool between her thighs. She bites her lip, stifling a whimper, but he hears it anyway "you like that, hm? Ms nasty gettin' wet from a spankin'?"
By the fifth hit, her ass is red, each new slap burns her eyes watering. She buck against him, half protest, half plea, but he just tightens his grip on her hip, holding her steady as he delivers two—smack, smack—right where her thighs meet her ass. The pain twists into something hotter, needier, her pussy clenching around nothing as she soaks through her lace panties. "Pa, please—" she whimpers, voice cracking, but he silences her with a firmer swat, his fingers splaying wide to cover more area, his hands rough against her tender skin.
"Please what? You gon apologize for bein' a bad girl hm?" He asks, tilting his head, his hand rubbing slow, circles over her red ass, kneading the soreness in a way that makes her arch into it despite yourself. But mercy's not his style tonight. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pulls them down her legs, the lace catching her knees before coming down to her ankles. She's fully exposed, her wet pussy glistening in the low light, ass cheeks marked with his handprints.
He exhales a low curse, his fingers tracing the evidence of his work before dipping lower. "Fuck, look at this pussy. Drippin' for big pa." His fingers part her lips, sliding through her wetness to circle her swollen clit with agonizing slowness. She whines,her ass pushing back against his hamd for more, but he pulls away just as she starts to grind against his hand. He slapped her inner thigh. Making her yelp "Not yet, baby. You gotta earn it." He manhandles her then, flipping her onto her back, her head on the arm of the couch. Her legs spread open as he kneels between them on the floor, shoving her skirt higher until it's out his way. His hands grip her thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he forces them apart, exposing her pussy to his hungry gaze. His grills showing as he smirks,he leaning close enough for her to feel his nose on her clit.
"Beg for it. Tell me you're sorry for runnin' that mouth." His tongue licks her clit, flat and broad, licking a long stripe from her slit to her clit to her hole. His tongue makes her hips buck,but he pins her hips down with his large hand. "Words, mama'. Don't make pa ask twice."
"I'm sorry, pa," she whimpered, the words tumbling out as his tongue flicks again, his lips sealing around her clit and sucking with just enough pressure to make her toes curl. Pleasure coils tight in her belly, but he nibbles at her sensitive clit, a sharp reminder of his control, before flicking his tongue inside her. He fucks her with it, curling it to the right angle, his free hand squeezed her ass.
She rides his face, her hands holding his head, gripping tightly as she moans his name. He growls against her pussy, the vibration humming on her pussy, he adds a finger—then two—stretching her walls as he sucks at her clit. She can feel the tightness in her belly, her breaths coming in ragged pants. "Fuck, pa... please, I need—"
He pulls away quickly, licking his lips, his eyes filled with lust and anger. "You need to remember who owns this pussy," he says, his voice rough as he unties his sweatpants. The sweats drop, and he shoves his boxers to his knees, his dick hitting his stomach —thick, veined, the head already leaking pre-cum. He wraps a fist around it, stroking once, twice, watching her squirm. "Spread wider. Show me how bad you want pa dick."
She listened, hooking her knees over the couch cushions, baring herself completely. He rubbed his fat head against her hole, teasing her clit with slow rubs before pushing into her slowly. He stretches her, her pussy clenching around his fat dick as he bottoms out, balls pressed against her ass. "That's it—take it like the good girl you can be," he grunts, pulling back only to thrust in again, harder, the couch moving slightly due to his thrust.
He sets a fast pace, his hips snapping forward as he plunges himself in her. Each thrust hits deep, his dick dragging against her walls, his fat tip hitting that perfect spot inside. she cries out, her nails digging in his back, leaving red welts on his chocolate,inked skin. He holds her face with his hand, looking into her eyes as he fuck her, his weight pressing her into the leather. "Say it—tell me this pussy mine. No more actin' up."
"Yours! I'm yours, Pa—oh my goodness" She silently screams as he angles his hips, pounding harder, his free hand sliding between their bodies rubbing her swollen clit. Sweat slicks her skin where they connect, the wet sounds of him fucking her filling the room alongside his groans and her moans. He lets her face go to grab herthroat—not choking, just holding, thumb stroking your pulse as he watches her face twist every time he thrust into her .
The pressure builds, her orgasm comes hard, her pussy fluttering and squeezing him in rhythmic pulses. She screams his name, back arching off the couch as her eyes roll back. He doesn't stop, pushing her through it, his thrusts turning erratic as he chases his own nut. "Gonna fill you up—mark my pussy so you know who it is," he snarls, bottoming out inside her deep one last time. His dick throbs, hot cum flooding her pussy spilling out of him as he grinds against her oversensitive pussy.
Finally done, he lays on top of her his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing heavily. He pulls out slowly, watching his nut drip from her pussy with a satisfied smirk, then pulls her against his chest. His arms wrap around her, one hand gently massaging the lingering ache in your ass while he presses a kiss to her neck. "That's my girl. No more bullshit tomorrow, hm?" His voice softens just a bit, the edge of dominance giving way to that rare tenderness he saves for you.
But as she is on him, the throb between her legs whispers a promise: next time she pushes, it'll be even rougher. And deep down, she knows she'll crave it just the same.
