‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰…‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀
soldier. onyankopon.
𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 9.3K, original!blackfemreader, boyfriend!onyankopon, plug!onyankopon, fresh out the pen!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, femreader, shy!femreader, giggly!femreader, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, car sex, doggy style, missionary, pet names, dirty talk, aggressive pet names, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, pussy eating, dick sucking, overstimulation, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི
メモ。— inspired by the destiny’s child song. i just live for a wattpad hood love story, so here’s mine. love y’all.
YOU HADN’T BEEN THIS NERVOUS IN A WHILE. You wanted to gnaw at your heart shaped pendant sunken between heavy tits, deep plum gloss outlining your full lips that you’d chewed to a swell just minutes before. This moment didn’t feel real—and yet, it was. He was coming home.
Thick Louisiana heat presses against your skin like a lover’s embrace, sprawled across the king sized bed in the heart of the 7th Ward—a place where shotgun houses and Creole cottages line the streets like old friends. The walls of your shared home hum with memories, the scent of cayenne and slow cooked roux lingering in the air from last night’s gumbo. The bedroom is a sanctuary—mahogany furniture polished to a shine, silk sheets the color of midnight draped over the mattress, and gold framed photos of y’all’s happiest moments catching the dim glow of the sunset through half closed blinds.
But something’s missing.
You bury your face into his pillow, inhaling deeply—or trying to. His scent, that intoxicating mix of sandalwood and blunt smoke, has faded to a ghost of what it once was. Three months without him sleeping beside you, without his deep voice grumbling nonsense in your ear as he pulls you closer. The emptiness is heavy.
Your massive pitbull, Bear, stretches across the bed like a living shadow, his muscular frame pressed against your thigh as if sensing your longing.
You run your fingers through his coarse fur, murmuring, “You ready for Papa to come home?”
Bear’s ears twitch at the mention of him, dark eyes flickering with something like understanding. Even the house feels quieter without his presence—no bass rattling the windows, no deep laugh shaking the walls, no rough hands tugging you into his lap just because.
Onyankopon.
Deep brown skin kissed by the Louisiana sun, glowing like polished syrup under the streetlights. His cornrows are always fresh, laid to perfection, trailing down to the nape of his neck with a crisp lineup sharp enough to cut glass. That mouth of his—shiny grills flashing when he smirks, a warning disguised as charm. His beard-goatee combo is always kept tight, framing full lips that can curse a man into the ground or praise you so sweetly it makes your knees weak.
And his body. Lord. Broad shoulders, thick arms wrapped in ink—every tattoo telling a story. The fleur-de-lis stamped near his left temple, a silent declaration of loyalty to the soil that raised him. More Louisiana love etched into his skin— oak trees, 504 in bold script. His knuckles say NO LOVE, but you know better—know the way those same hands cradle your face like you’re the air he breathes.
You’ve seen him in business mode. Jaw clenched, voice dropping to something low and lethal, a Glock tucked in the back of his waistband like a second shadow. He didn’t play—not when it came to money, not when it came to respect.
But you know the truth.
That same man who’ll put a bullet in somebody’s kneecaps over disrespect is the one slipping Mrs.LeBlanc a stack of bills every month so her lights stay on—the one who refuses to sell to fiends nodding out on the corner. The one who bought the whole block Thanksgiving turkeys last year just because.
A good man with rough edges. Yours.
Your heart aches with the knowing—the kind that lives in the quiet spaces between his laughter and the way his eyes get distant sometimes, staring out at the horizon like he’s searching for something just out of reach.
You’ve seen the flicker in his gaze when y’all pass a college campus, when he watches old men playing chess in the park with no worries weighing them down. You know he dreams of something else—legitimate money, a life where he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder every five seconds. But survival mode is a beast he can’t shake, not when the streets raised him harsher than any parent ever did.
Your mind flashes back to that night—the night.
The way his face twisted in fury as the cops swarmed, their boots kicking up gravel as they yanked his arms behind his back too rough, too eager. You remember screaming his name, lunging forward only for his voice to cut through the chaos like a blade—Go back in the fuckin’ house!—and the way your legs shook as you obeyed, tears blurring your vision until all you saw were flashing red and blue lights swallowing him whole.
Three months.
Three months of letters tucked into envelopes smelling like your perfume, of collect calls where his voice was gruff but his words were soft—“How you holdin’ up, baby?"
Three months of praying the charges wouldn’t stick, of begging your parents to understand why you couldn’t—wouldn’t—walk away.
You think God would approve of this, child? Running with a man who feeds poison to his own people?
Their words stung, but not as much as the truth burning in your chest—you loved him anyway. Loved him when he came home smelling like gunpowder and regret, loved him when he held you so tight it felt like an apology.
But still, there’s a part of you that dreams too—of lazy Sunday mornings without fear, of a future where his hands are stained with paint instead of blood. A future where he chooses differently.
You sigh, pressing your face into Bear’s fur as if he can absorb the weight of your thoughts.
Soon.
Your dark curls lay across the pillow like spilled ink as you sink deeper into Bear’s warmth, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath your fingertips lulling you into a false sense of calm.
Then—movement.
Bear tenses beneath you, his massive body going rigid before he suddenly hikes up with a deep, rumbling growl—not the dangerous kind, but the kind that vibrates with recognition. In an instant, he’s off the bed, paws thudding against hardwood as he bolts toward the living room.
Then—the creak of the front door.
You left it unlocked. You knew.
Before you can even sit up fully, you hear Bear’s excited whines, the frantic scratch of his claws against the floor as he launches himself at someone—at him. Your pulse thunders in your ears as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor before you even realize you’re moving.
And there he is.
Standing in the doorway like a storm, shoulders bigger than you remember, muscles straining against the thin fabric of his white muscle tee like he outgrew it in just three months. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, the same pair he’d left in before they took him, but now they cling to thighs that look harder, more defined.
His cornrows are freshly done, edges sharp enough to draw blood, that damn fleur-de-lis tattoo peeking out from beneath the slant of his brow. But it’s his eyes that grip you—dark, calculating, hungry—as they rake over you like he’s memorizing every inch.
“The fuck you leave the door unlocked for?”
Your lips part—but the second his voice hits you, really hits you, something inside cracks wide open.
“…I—I knew it was you,” you whimper, voice trembling like a leaf in the wind.
Onyankopon knows you.
‘Knows the way your bottom lip trembles right before the tears fall. ‘Knows how your voice gets small and shaky when you’re trying—and failing—to hold it together. ‘Knows that no matter how spicy your mouth gets, that tender heart of yours spills over first.
And right now?
His dark eyes drink you in all of you.
Your caramel skin glows under the dim lights, bare except for the tiniest rebellion inked along your ribs—his name, etched in delicate script, hidden beneath the swell of your tits like a secret only he’s allowed to touch.
Those freckles—god, those freckles—dusting your cheeks and the bridge of your nose like constellations. Your round face flushed, slender eyes shimmering with tears, long dark curls tumbling wildly over your shoulders as you try to hide the way your body shakes.
Hips fuller, ass heavier, waist somehow even smaller than he remembered, all wrapped up in that deep plum babydoll dress that barely covers your thighs. His gaze drags lower—no bra, just the thin lace of your panties peeking beneath the hem, your brown nipples stiff and visible through the fabric.
And then—
“You left me.”
Your tits bounce heavily as you hiccup, hands flying up to cover your face in that adorably flustered way you do when you’re overwhelmed.
“Aight, Mama—lemme’ hold you," he murmurs, voice thick with that gravelly warmth that usually melts you right where you stand. But not today.
You shake your head hard, curls whipping against your cheeks, suddenly furious—at him, at the streets, at the damn system that keeps snatching him away from you.
“No," you snap, voice wobbling despite yourself.
This is your routine.
The one where you unleash every pent up ache—where you sob about how Mrs. LeBlanc asked about him at the store last Tuesday, how you burned the first pot of gumbo because he wasn’t there to taste test it, how Bear whined at the door every night for a week after they took him.
“You missed—you missed everything—"
Onyankopon exhales through his nose, patience wearing thin. He reaches for you again, fingers brushing your waist, but you smack his hand away—or try to. Your tiny slap barely fazes him, and the way his jaw tightens tells you his sympathy’s run out.
One large hand fists into the back of your dress, yanking you against him so hard your breath whooshes out of you. His other arm bands around your waist, locking you in place as your tits press flush against his chest.
“Ony—!"
“Nah," he growls, “You done?"
And just like that—you crack.
Your fingers claw into his shirt as you bury your face into his neck, inhaling that familiar scent—jailhouse soap, and him. A choked sob escapes you as he grunts, adjusting his grip to cradle you tighter.
“Yeah," he mutters, lips brushing your temple—“That’s what I thought.”
His nose drags along the curve of your neck—inhaling deep—like he’s trying to drown himself in you. Vanilla. Spiced cinnamon. Caramel. Your scent clings to his senses, and a rough groan vibrates against your skin before he cups your face in his big, calloused hands.
Then—his mouth crashes into yours.
Not soft. Not sweet.
Claiming.
His tongue strokes against yours, hot and demanding, before he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth—sharp, just how you like it. The sound of his grunts fills the space between kisses—“Goddamn, you smell so good—” his palm smacks against your ass with a sharp CLAP!, making the flesh quiver beneath his grip as he kneads it possessively.
“Why you doin’ allat’, huh?” His voice is gruff but softer now, forehead pressed to yours—“A nigga was gon’ find his way back to you.”
“Your lawyer said…” your voice cracks, fingers tightening in his shirt—“‘Said they coulda’ gave you more time…”
His jaw ticks—once, twice—before he exhales hard through his nose.
“Look at me.”
When you do, his eyes burn with something fierce.
“Ain’t no cage gon’ keep me from you.”
And just like that—his mouth is on yours again, swallowing your whimpers, his grip tightening like he’s determined to erase every second of those three months apart.
Your whimper melts into something hotter, needier—tongue sliding bold and filthy against his, dragging slowly before plunging back in, tasting the mint on his breath mixed with something darker, smokier. Onyankopon growls against your lips, tongue stroking yours with a rhythm that makes your thighs clench.
“Greedy ass," he rumbles, voice thick with amusement—"Threw that lil’ tongue at me like you ain’t just been cryin’."
“‘Want you, Papa…" you pant this, rocking your hips against the hard ridge of him, shameless.
His hands tighten on your face—rough but reverent—as he pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, his gaze burning through you.
“Three months, baby. Three months ‘I been dreamin’ ‘bout my pussy," he grits out—“But nah, we gon’ do this right."
Your brows knit—confused, frustrated—until his thumb swipes over your bottom lip, smug as hell.
“A nigga got a whole garden in the Hummer for you," he admits lowly, "Tulips, roses, shit you like—whole backseat covered."
That freckled smile of yours spreads slowly across your face, until you realize something.
“Wait—you got your car back?"
His smirk doesn’t falter, but something shifts behind his gaze—hooded, calculated.
“Handled it."
You blink once. Twice. Then deadpan, “I won’t even ask."
“You already knowin’," he chuckles, swiping his thumb over your bottom lip one last time like he’s erasing the question altogether.
“Go ‘head, start gettin’ yo’self pretty. Imma’ run some plays by these niggas, handle some business ‘fore we head out."
Your stomach knots. Already?
Three months gone, and the streets demand his presence before the sheets even lose your warmth. You bite your protest back regardless, swallowing it down with a soft “Okay," that barely fills the space between you.
Onyankopon studies you for half a breath—like he sees it, the tension in your jaw—before gruffly adding, “Aight? I’m happy to be home."
And just like that he’s turning away, crouching to ruffle Bear’s ears as the dog practically vibrates with joy. You watch them—the way his tattooed hands roughhouse with the beast who missed him just as much as you did—and exhale.
“Yeah," you murmur, touching the heart pendant at your throat.
“…Me too."
The afternoon light slants through sheer curtains as the scene shifts to another familiar rhythm—Onyankopon planted on the bedroom bench like a king holding court. His muscular thighs spread wide, fresh out of the shower but already dressed in that effortless urban elegance—crisp black tee straining across his chest, black Amiri cargos, icy AP watch glinting at his wrist. Cuban links drip down his neck as he barks into his phone, voice sandpaper rough—“Nah, that product ‘move different now. ‘Tell them lil’ niggas to tighten up or get got."
Meanwhile, you exist in your own world mere feet away—naked as the day you were born, lost in the ritual of getting ready.
Your reflection in the vanity mirror is sinful—that waist cutting in like an hourglass before flaring out into heavy hips and that ass he can’t stop smacking. Oversized tits sway as you lean forward to dab blush over freckled cheeks, brown nipples stiff from the breeze drifting through the window. Between your thighs—pretty pink folds glistening with arousal, still tender from the thought of him earlier.
You’re so engrossed in blending highlighter along your collarbones that you don’t notice his approach—until thick fingers suddenly part you from behind.
“Papa—!”
Your giggle bubbles up as his calloused thumb swipes through slick heat, inspecting you with a low hum of approval.
"Fuck you laughin’ for?" he grunts, still half distracted by his phone conversation—“‘Just checkin’ my property."
The juxtaposition is ridiculous—him murmuring “Two keys max,” into the receiver while his other hand teases your clit—until you slap his wrist away, cheeks burning.
"Stop it!”
“‘You the one bent over lookin’ like dessert."
Sigh. Business and pleasure, always intertwined.
Now fully dressed, you feel every bit the masterpiece you’ve crafted—your curls styled in a voluminous flip over cascading like spilled ink down your back. Dark, feathery lashes make your almond shaped eyes look bigger, doe like, while deep brown lips—blended with a hint of plum—give your mouth a sultry, kissable pout.
The outfit is pure temptation—tall, strappy heels that add inches to your shorter frame, black capris clinging to every curve of your full hips and round ass like they were painted on. The lace trimmed camisole is sinful, its sweetheart neckline framing the swell of your breasts, the sheer fabric teasing glimpses of skin beneath. Your small Coach purse twinkles with playful keychains dangling from it, a hint of softness against the fierce femininity of your look.
You do a slow, deliberate spin for him—hips swaying, lashes fluttering—before rolling your eyes dramatically when he barely glances up, his big hand absently rubbing the side of your hip as he continues growling into the phone, “Nah, lil’ bruh, that’s not how we move.”
Frustration flickers.
With a huff, you drop onto his lap without warning, your weight forcing his thighs to adjust beneath you. His free arm instinctively wraps around your waist as you play with the coarse strands of his beard, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw while he keeps talking.
You murmur against his ear, “I got all pretty for you, y’know.”
“Aight, Imma’ see you in twenty.”
You blink.
“Twenty minutes? Where?"
“Across the Westbank," he replies smoothly, fingers trailing up the curve of your thigh where the capris hug tightest—“‘Told you I had business to handle."
Your arms cross over your chest, “This was supposed to be our time."
“Youn’ think I know that? I got shit to do."
“Yeah, ‘cause a drug dealer has way less free time than the average working man."
The words hang in the air—sharp, but edged with truth. His brows lift, a silent challenge, and you bite your lip before melting back against him with a soft “Sorry…”
Your voice dropped to a whisper, “I just want you to myself today."
Onyankopon exhales through his nose, the tension in his shoulders loosening as his hands slide up your back.
“You got me," he murmurs, lips brushing the slope of your bare shoulder.
“But I got a whole neighborhood to take care of—including buyin’ everythin’ yo’ greedy lil’ ass wanna see under the sun."
His mouth trails up your neck, each kiss a quiet apology, a silent promise. You sigh, tilting your head to give him more access, your resolve crumbling beneath his touch.
“Fine," you concede, “But hurry, please?”
“Ain’t gon’ be long enough for you to miss me."
And just like that, he had you under his spell.
The first time you rode shotgun on one of his business runs, your pulse had thrummed with something illicit—the thrill of danger, the heat of rebellion licking at your skin like a forbidden flame. Back then, watching him command respect with just the tilt of his chin felt electric, his dominance a live wire beneath your fingertips.
Now?
Now you slump in the passenger seat of his freshly detailed Hummer, fingers drumming against the leather as you stare determinedly out the window. His employees—lean, hungry looking young men with eyes too old for their faces—nod at you with careful respect, like you’re some kind of queen they’re afraid to glance at too long. You offer weak smiles in return, teeth digging into your plum stained bottom lip.
Onyankopon moves like a storm—methodical, unhurried—handing off product wrapped in crisp bills, exchanging terse words with buyers who swear they can handle weight they clearly can’t. Every so often his palm lands heavy on your thigh—reassuring, possessive—but your skin feels too tight today.
Your gaze flicks to the Glock tucked between his seat and the console, the .45 holstered at his ankle, the AR barely hidden beneath the flower blankets in the back. The arsenal used to make you feel safe. Now it just makes your stomach twist.
“Can we go?"
He pauses mid sentence, dark eyes cutting to you—reading the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers twist the rings on your hands.
“Five minutes," he grunts.
Onyankopon’s jaw ticks as he leans out the driver’s side window, his deep voice dropping to a lethal calm—
“Nigga, you movin’ like you want problems.”
The young boy couldn’t be older than nineteen—puffs his chest out, fingers twitching near his waistband like he’s itching to prove something.
“I ain’t scared—”
“That’s yo’ first fuckin’ problem.”
Before the kid can retort, Onyankopon shoves the car door open and steps out, looming over him like a shadow. Even from the passenger seat, you can see the moment the boy realizes his mistake—how his shoulders tense, how his eyes dart sideways for backup that ain’t coming.
“You gon’ get smoked actin’ like this,” Onyankopon growls, jabbing a finger into the boy’s chest—“Get yo’ shit together ‘fore I help you.”
“Aight, Onyo’. Damn. My bad—”
“Get the fuck on.”
He dismisses him before sliding back into the driver’s seat, his energy crackling like live wire. You don’t say a word—just shift in your seat, crossing your legs tight, lips pressed together.
The engine roars as he peels off, tires biting pavement. At the first red light, his hand cups the back of your neck, dragging you into a kiss so filthy your toes curl in your heels.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against your lips, “Appreciate you holdin’ me down.”
You nod, still quiet, but your fingers tighten on his wrist—Where are we going?
“Yo’ lil’ candy ass arcade on Canal.”
Your frown melts instantly—the one with the vintage Pac-Man machine and strawberry mochi. A grin tugs at your lips despite yourself.
“…’Kay.”
Once again? Under his spell.
The neon glow of Canal Street buzzed around you as you stepped into the old-timey arcade, its retro facade hiding a freshly renovated interior that smelled faintly of buttered popcorn and digital nostalgia. The weekend crowd pulsed around you—laughing teenagers, couples locked in competitive banter, families chasing kids hyped up on sugar—all seeking the same escape from reality. Your fingers tightened around Onyankopon’s large hand as you tugged him inside, watching his sharp gaze flick over the space—new LED lights where flickering fluorescents once hung, sleek game consoles replacing the creaky ones he remembered.
“Ain’t been gone that long,” he muttered, but there was no real irritation in it, just the low rumble of a man recalibrating.
“Three months can feel like a sentence, Papa.”
He thinks on your words for a moment.
“‘C’mon, then. I’m tryna put ‘belt to ass in Mortal Kombat.”
“In your dreams!”
You darted away with a giggle, weaving through the crowd as his deep chuckle chased you. The sound was rare enough to make your chest ache—he was letting his guard down.
And when he did?
It was like the sun breaking through a storm.
At the game station, he was ferocious—button mashing with the precision of a man who took everything seriously, even play. His victorious howls shook your ribs where you stood pressed against him, his arm slung around your waist as he crowed about flawless victories. But then—your turn. His competitive edge melted into something softer, his hands guiding yours over the controls when you pouted about losing.
“Like this, mama—time it right.”
It was a quiet parallel to his life—his instinct to protect, to guide, even in something as trivial as a game.
Later at a secluded lounge area tucked in the back of the arcade, you both shared strawberry mochi and sweet wine. The other couples around you laughed easily—holding hands, stealing kisses without glancing over their shoulders first. Your fingers traced the rim of your glass as the thought settled heavy—Did they have regular lives? Were they happier?
Onyankopon’s voice cut through the haze.
“You been thinkin’ on somethin’ since we left the house."
His voice is low, steady—a statement, not a question.
“Hm?”
“Hm?” he repeats, “Yeah, you."
You swirl the sweet wine in your glass, avoiding his gaze for just a beat too long before answering, “I’m just happy to have you home."
He leans back in his chair, arms folding across his broad chest.
“‘You want me to believe that?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
A beat passes. Then another. His expression doesn’t change—just that same quiet intensity, like he’s reading every flicker of hesitation in your body language.
He stands, the chair scraping against the floor.
“We gon’ talk over dinner," he confirms, “It’s aight."
And just like that, the conversation is postponed—but not forgotten. You exhale softly, nodding as you rise to grab his hand, the unspoken weight of your thoughts lingering between you like an extra shadow.
The restaurant hums with the soul of New Orleans—exposed brick walls draped in vintage jazz posters, flickering candlelight glinting off brass fixtures, the rich scent of gumbo and buttery cornbread hanging thick in the air. Live piano notes drift from the corner, smooth and lazy like the Mississippi at dusk.
You sit across from him, legs crossed just so, your lace camisole dipping to frame the heavy swell of your breasts. Small dimples flash as you press your lips together, watching him watch you with that quiet, unnerving focus of his—like he’s peeling back every layer you’ve carefully stacked since this morning.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” you murmur, fingers tracing the rim of your water glass.
His response is a low rumble—“Ain’t gotta thank me for doin’ shit a nigga supposed to do."
Silence stretches between you. You know that look—chin tilted down, thick brows slightly furrowed—he’s turning something over in his mind.
Then, out of nowhere—“How yo’ mama doin’?"
You smile, soft and genuine.
“Still prayin’ for you."
His lips quirk—“‘Wouldn’t want it any other way. She give a nigga ‘travelin’ grace."
You tug a curl behind your ear, exhaling softly.
“Well…" You reach for your purse, heart skipping—“I got you somethin’."
Your fingers tremble slightly as you pull out the blue velvet box—small, unassuming, but holding all the hope you've tucked away.
His lips quirk before he even opens it, that deep voice laced with mischief—“Lemme’ guess—is it you, butt ass naked on top of a second Hummer? ‘Cause I was already plannin’ on makin’ that happen."
You roll your eyes, “No, boy."
He flips the lid open, thick fingers pausing as he pulls out the sleek, leather bound planner—matte black with silver detailing, masculine but refined. The attached pen glints under the soft restaurant lighting.
“i got you a planner!" you squeak, suddenly nervous.
His brow arches, thumb tracing the edge of the booklet before he meets your eyes—“That’s sweet, baby. But why?"
You fidget, twisting a curl around your finger—“Well…I thought maybe it could be a new bonding experience for us?"
Your voice is softer now—"You know…we could journal on Sundays during online sermons, make grocery lists, plan things together…"
Your next words come out in a rush—“I thought…maybe even show your parole officer that you do want more in life, you know?"
The air between you shifts.
His expression hardens, “Youn’ think I want more in life?"
"I didn’t mean it like that, I just—"
“So what you sayin’?"
His voice is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it—the kind that makes your pulse stutter. You swallow, choosing your next words carefully.
"I just…want you to try something new, On’."
Your gaze lifts, meeting his—“There are these moments where you talk about your future—goin’ to trade school, gettin’ off the streets, somethin’…practical. You’re just too smart for that to go to waste."
A beat passes. Then his lips curl—not quite a smile—“You think bein’ pragmatic gon’ pay the bills?"
"Ony—"
“Niggas out here with degrees still hustlin’ backwards. You think a planner gon’ change the fact that this city don’t give a fuck about no trade school paperwork?"
His voice drops low, gravel rough with conviction—“I got half a fuckin’ city to feed, ion’ do this shit ‘cause I like tellin’ niggas what to do. The side of town we stay on? You still there ‘cause you refuse to leave yo’ family, and I respect that."
His jaw flexes, thumb brushing over the planner still in his hand—“But I should get the same in return."
He’s right. He’s always talked about putting you up somewhere better—somewhere with gates and quiet streets, or even leaving New Orleans altogether—but he’s never pushed you. Never made you choose when you never agreed to that.
And now here you are, handing him a planner like it’s an ultimatum, like paper could fix the jagged edges of the life he’s built.
You blink hard, swallowing the lump forming—“I’m sorry…”
Fingers trembling, you reach to take the planner back, but his hand closes gently over yours before you can.
“Don’t do allat’," he murmurs, voice softer now. The planner stays in his grip—not rejected, not dismissed—just held.
“‘This the shit that’s been weighin’ on yo’ heart all day?”
The question hangs between you, raw and exposed.
“…I talked to your parole officer,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper—““Before your release.”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“He said if you get caught again…it’s twenty-five to life, Onyankopon. No parole.”
A single tear escapes before you can stop it, sliding hot down your cheek. You swipe at it fast, but the damage is done—your face is warm, your lips trembling as you whisper, “I can’t lose you again.”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
His voice is gruff, thick with something that makes your chest ache. He doesn’t promise miracles. Doesn’t swear he’ll change overnight. But the look in his eyes—the vow in them—says more than words ever could.
“You have to be here, y’know?”
His thumb swipes under your eye, rough but tender.
“I’m knowin’, baby.”
But you can’t stop now—the words spill out like a confession, shaky and raw—
“When we have our first lil’ Papa…when we get married…when you finally graduate…”
Your breath hitches, lips quivering as you grip his wrist, needing him to hear this, to feel it like you do.
“You can’t leave me like that again.”
The words break on the last syllable, “You just can’t.”
That’s all it takes.
In one swift movement, he’s out of his seat, leaning across the table, his big hands cradling your face—not gentle, not this time—commanding your attention.
“Stop that fuckin’ cryin’,” he growls, “I’m never leavin’ you again.”
You whimper—half protest, half relief—but before you can speak, his mouth crashes into yours, stealing your breath along with the last of your tears. It’s not a sweet kiss—it’s desperate, possessive, a promise sealed in salt and heat.
The waitress approaches with a tray piled high with steaming Creole dishes—crispy fried catfish, creamy shrimp étouffée, golden cornbread muffins—but freezes mid step when she catches sight of you two, your faces still inches apart.
Her voice squeaks out, “I’ll—uh—‘come back!”
Onyankopon doesn’t even flinch, just leans back slightly, his deep voice smooth as molasses—“Nah, you good, love. We ain’t mean to stop what you gotta do.”
You quickly wipe your face with the back of your hand, giggling apologetically at her, your earlier tears replaced by a warm, flustered grin.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” you murmur as she carefully sets the plates down.
“Is there anything else y’all need?” she asks, glancing between you two like she’s half-expecting another emotional hurricane.
Onyankopon settles into his seat, stretching his long legs out before casually dropping the bomb—“Can you box her up as a to-go entrée?”
Your mouth falls open before you snatch a fry off his plate and flick it at him. He catches it between his teeth, smirk victorious as he chews.
“Damn. Nevermind then,” he murmurs, low and playful, making the waitress bite back a laugh before she scurries off.
The rest of the night feels good—normal in a way that makes your chest ache with gratitude. Before leaving, you drag him into the restaurant’s vintage black and white photo booth, cramming yourselves into the tiny space. He grumbles “This shit for teenagers,” but still lets you pose him—gruff, sexy glares mixed with moments where he suddenly pulls you in, his lips at your neck, his hands possessive on your hips while the flash captures it all.
And when you climb back into the Hummer later, the LED lights inside now glow a soft violet—you can’t help but watch him with quiet fascination.
He’s on the phone with one of his men, voice a low, authoritative rumble—“Nah, don’t move ‘til I say so”—while his free hand rolls a blunt with effortless precision, his thick fingers crimping the paper just right.
The Hummer idles softly outside your apartment building, the engine a quiet purr beneath the hum of the city at night. The LED glow from the dashboard paints his sharp features in an otherworldly hue—high cheekbones catching the light, the flicker of his chains as he moves.
You sit curled in the passenger seat, cradling the bouquet of flowers he’d surprised you with earlier—roses, peonies, all lush and fragrant. You press your nose into the petals, inhaling deeply as your lashes flutter shut for just a second. Sweet. Just like him when he wanted to be.
Across from you, Onyankopon flicks his lighter—the flame casting brief, dancing shadows across his deep brown skin, his tattoos momentarily illuminated like ancient script. He takes a long pull from the blunt, smoke curling from his nostrils in smooth, practiced streams.
“Non, fais pas ça—Nah, don’t do that. Li pa bon pou biznis.”
You watch as he takes another hit, the ember glowing bright before he exhales again, smoke filling the space between you.
“Mwen pral rele ou pli ta,” he murmurs into the phone before ending the call.
Silence settles, but it’s comfortable—heavy with the scent of weed and flowers, the quiet understanding between you two thicker than the smoke.
You reach over, brushing a thumb over his knuckles.
“Teach me,” you murmur.
He arches a brow.
“Creole?”
You nod.
His lips curl into that half smirk that always makes your stomach flutter as he nudges the blunt between his fingers and murmurs, "Say ‘Mwen renmen w’."
I love you.
You bite your lip to suppress the grin threatening to take over your face—you know what it means—but you play along anyway, voice lilting sweetly, “Mwen renmen w."
His eyes darken, the low purple light catching the flecks of gold in them as he exhales smoke and leans closer, rough palm cradling your jaw.
“I love you so much fuckin’ more, girl."
You only took two hits, but it’s enough—your body melts against his side, pliant and warm, your cheek pressing into the firm curve of his shoulder as he scrolls through his phone with one hand, the other absently tracing circles on your thigh.
Messages light up the screen—coordinates, confirmations, the usual—but you’re too busy nuzzling into the scruff along his jaw, breathing in the mix of his cologne and weed. You press a feather light kiss there, right where his beard meets his cheekbone.
“Thank you, mama," he murmurs, voice gravel rough but tender.
You go in for another, but this time he turns his head just enough to meet you halfway—a quick peck at first, teasing. But when you chase his lips, he hums low in his throat and suddenly it’s not quick anymore.
His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, demanding entry, and you part for him with a breathy sigh. The kiss deepens—slow, filthy, calculated—until you’re squirming in your seat, your fingers tangled in his chains.
“Aight," he growls against your mouth, one hand already on the door handle—“"We takin’ this shit upstairs."
The kiss is molten, unhurried but heavy with intent—your foreheads bump together, lips slanting clumsily as you whimper into his mouth, needier than usual. Your heel slides up over the center console, legs spreading just enough in that shy, wordless way of yours—can’t wait, don’t make me wait.
Then—there—the rough pad of his middle finger swiping over your clothed folds, and fuck, the fabric is already damp, sticking to your skin. Your tongue stutters against his, a broken huff catching in your throat as your head falls back against the seat.
“….Ain’t even touched yo’ ass yet,” he murmurs, but his finger circles again, mimicking the lazy thrust of his tongue—slow, then slower—until you’re squirming, your hips canting up into his touch.
“Mwen renmen w,” you mewl, and his fingers curl, gripping your thigh as he licks into your mouth like he’s trying to taste the words.
“‘Fuckin’ right you do.”
The air in the Hummer is thick—hot with the weight of desperate breaths and the slick, sinful sound of his fingers teasing you through damp fabric. Your hands fist gently in his beard, the coarse strands scraping against your palms, sending a shiver down your spine. You can’t help it—you nuzzle against the roughness, craving the friction, the burn of it against your skin before dragging him down into another filthy, open mouthed kiss.
Your legs spread wider—so fucking wide—knees falling slack against the leather seats, silently begging.
His fingers then hook into the waistband of your capris, dipping just beneath. He doesn’t even push inside yet, just swipes slow along your soaked folds, gathering the slick there before dragging back up. Your hips jerk, but he pins you with a glare, forehead pressed hard against yours as his breath fans over your parted lips.
“M’gonna cum if you put ‘em in,” you whimper, voice trembling, weak.
You squirm, biting your lip—“Ony…I’m so wet.”
His nostrils flare, eyes narrowing as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear—“I’mma put ‘em in. You ‘bet not fuckin’ cum.”
The moment his thick fingers slide inside you, deep, your body betrays you in the most obscene way—your pussy clenches around him with a wet, shuddering pfft as his knuckles sink into your swollen folds.
A weak, desperate sob tears from your throat, your voice breaking high and needy like you haven’t been touched in years, like his fingers are the only thing keeping you sane. Worse? You gush around him instantly, soaking his hand in a humiliating rush of slick, your hips jerking helplessly.
“Fuck,” he growls, dragging the word out low and rough as your eyes roll back. He’s fucking you with his fingers, slow and deep, curling them just right to make your back arch off the seat.
“Ughn—ohmygod—“ you slur, voice wrecked, your mouth falling slack as he pistons his fingers in and out, your wetness squelching around them with every thrust.
He leans in, his breath hot against your ear—“Soundin’ like a fuckin’ baby.”
And you do—whimpering, gasping, your pussy clenching around his fingers like it’s trying to milk them for more.
“Ain’t even fucked you yet,” he murmurs, cruel, twisting his fingers just to hear you sob again.
A desperate whimper claws its way up your throat as you crash your mouth against his in a messy, open mouthed kiss—tongue sliding filthy against his, lips smearing wet and frantic. Your brows knit together, a tight little frown creasing your forehead as his fingers bury themselves even deeper, stretching you with that perfect, brutal coil that makes your toes curl.
“Onyo’—fuhh—!"
The words dissolve into a senseless slur, your voice cracking as your legs hike higher, knees pressing into your chest, showing him—begging him—just how badly you need it.
Your mind hazes, drifting back to those long nights alone—phone pressed to your ear, his voice rough through the receiver as he talked you through it, murmuring filthy promises while you rubbed your clit with trembling fingers, tears streaking your cheeks.
And now? You can’t even handle the real thing.
His fingers withdraw with a wet pop, leaving you empty and whimpering—until his rough grip tangles in your hair, yanking your face toward his lap with a throaty command.
“Gon’ eat this dick up," he grunts, voice dripping with dominance—“Actin’ like you can’t even take my fingers."
You surge forward, pressing a sloppy, desperate kiss against his lips—“M’sorry—"
“Ion’ wanna hear allat’,” he growls, "On yo’ knees."
He shoves the console back with one hand, his other hand still fisted in your curls, guiding you down. The sight of you beneath him is obscenely perfect—your large, teary eyes peering up through your lashes, lips parted and puffy, freckled cheeks flushed.
With trembling hands, you tug his sweats down just enough to free him—his dick springs out, thick and angry, the tip already glistening. It’s bigger than your face, heavy in your small hands, veins prominent under your fingertips.
"Fuck," you whimper—you can’t help yourself, smacking the swollen head against your tongue before licking a kittenish stripe up his shaft.
His rough palm cups the side of your face, calloused fingers pressing into your soft skin before delivering a dominant smack—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you whimper and redden under his touch.
“How much you missed this dick?" He growls, watching with hooded eyes as you bob your head messily, spit and pre-cum slicking your lips.
Your answer comes in slurred, desperate sucks—“Mmmhh—mmph!"—the vibration of your whimpers traveling up his length. You've always struggled to take him fully, but you try so hard, your throat fluttering around the head as you choke back tears.
He chuckles darkly, reaching for the blunt still smoldering in the ashtray. Onyankopon takes a slow drag, exhaling smoke through his nose like some kind of arrogant god watching his worshipper struggle.
“Pull them pretty ass titties out," he commands, "You know what a nigga like."
With shaky hands, you tug your top down, letting your heavy breasts spill free. Your nipples are already peaked and sensitive, and when your fingers brush over them, you jolt with a breathy gasp.
“Ah—!"
“Keep goin'," he rumbles, sinking deeper into his seat, blunt dangling between his fingers as he watches you with lazy hunger.
“‘Ain't tell you to stop."
You press your tits together around his thick length, the head of his dick peeking out between the softness of your cleavage. You begin rocking your body, fucking him with your tits in slow, worshipful strokes—
"Mwen renmen w," you mewl again, voice weak and trembling, your swollen lips forming the words between gasps.
“Say that shit again.”
“Mwen renmen w!" you mewl even deeper, your hips jerking uselessly as your arousal drips down your thighs.
He grunts, finally tossing the blunt aside—“Fuck it. A nigga need yo’ pussy now."
Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, pulling him down as your back hits the leather seat—his massive frame hovers over you, swallowing you in shadow except for the violet glow of the LED lights streaking across his sweat-slicked skin. Your lips find him again in a weak, sloppy kiss, your mind too fogged with lust to form coherent thoughts—just need, just heat, just him.
“Show a nigga what he been missin’.”
Your thighs tremble as you slowly spread your legs wider beneath him, presenting your soaked folds—puffy and glistening under the dim light.
“Been waitin’ for you," you whimper, voice cracking with desperation.
The words hit him like a match to gasoline.
He crashes his mouth back onto yours in a searing kiss before trailing his lips down—lower—licking a hot stripe down your neck, sucking bruises into your throat, teeth scraping over your collarbone. Your back arches when his tongue swirls around one taut nipple, then the other, pulling whines from your chest as pleasure spikes through you.
But he doesn’t stop there.
Strong hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider as he licks his lips—"Fuck, look at you."
And then he dives in.
His tongue drags slow and filthy up your slit, savoring you before he buries his face between your legs, nose nudging your clit as he devours—deep, hungry strokes of his tongue, curling just right inside you.
Your hands fly to his braids, gripping tight as your hips jerk—
"Fuck, baby.”
His response? A low, vibrating growl against your pussy, his fingers digging into your thighs to hold you still as he feasts.
Onyankopon’s mouth is filthy—so loud, messy and wet, lips sealing around your clit with a suck that makes your whole body jerk. Saliva and arousal mix in obscene, sloppy sounds, his tongue working you open with rough, languid strokes like he's savoring every damn second.
You tuck your chin shyly, peeking down at him through fluttering lashes—his face buried between your thighs, eyes hooded with satisfaction as he eats you like his last meal. Your fingers tangle in his braids, twisting gently, playing with the silky strands as a soft pout forms on your lips.
“…Missed playin’ in your hair," you whimper, voice thick with emotion—almost fragile, like admitting it out loud makes it more real.
“Ain’t gotta miss it,” he rasps, his tongue plunging deep—"Keep playin’ in my shit. Gon’ let you braid me up again after you make a fuckin’ mess on me."
Your breath hitches, fingers tightening in his hair as you nod frantically, spreading your legs even wider—"Uh-huh—y-yeah—!"
Your words dissolve into stupid, slurred nonsense—"Ony—fuhh—I’mgonnac—“ as your pussy gushes against his mouth, the lewd squelch of his tongue working you over drowning out your weak cries. Your cheeks burn hot, embarrassment and pleasure twisting together as you feel everything—his nose grinding against your clit, his lips sucking your folds, his tongue fucking into you in slow, filthy circles.
“Taste so fuckin’ good," he growls against your skin, the vibration making you squeal peevishly.
“Mwen renmen w..."
And just like that? Switch flipped.
His grip tightens, lifting your legs effortlessly over his broad shoulders, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the arches of your feet like he’s savoring the feel of you.
“Keep tellin’ a nigga you love him,” he grunts, voice low and rough—"Let’s have a conversation."
You whimper, arms looping around his neck, pulling him closer until his forehead presses against yours—breaths mingling, hearts pounding.
“Mwen renmen w," you whisper again, barely audible, lips brushing his with each syllable.
And then—oh God—you feel him. His thick length slaps against your soaked folds, the blunt head nudging at your entrance, already making your body tense in anticipation.
“Yeah, huh? Talk to me."
You nod frantically, pliant eyes struggling to focus as he starts to sink in—slow, so damn slow—stretching you in a way you haven’t felt in too long.
Your face twists—lips parting around a shaky gasp—as the fullness steals your breath. And then? Emotion hits you like a tidal wave.
Tears prick at your eyes, your chest swelling with something so big it hurts. You feel connected—like his soul is pressing into yours with every inch.
“Mwen renmen w," you sob—weakest yet, voice cracking—as he finally bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.
His groan is guttural, hands tightening on your thighs—“Fuck, mama—I know."
And then he moves.
His strokes are borderline punishing—each thrust forcing a choked gasp from your throat, the stretch of him bordering on too much, too deep, too everything. Yet your body clings to him greedily, walls fluttering around his length like it’s been starved—rewarding him for every inch he takes, every brutal snap of his hips that leaves you whimpering.
Your toes curl, thighs trembling where they’re hooked over his shoulders. One large hand fists at the nape of your hair, yanking your face close to his until your foreheads knock together—your head jerks back with each rough thrust, lips parted in a shaky pout, tears spilling over your flushed cheeks.
Weak little sobs hitch in your chest with every drive of his hips, your nails digging crescent moons into the sweat-slick muscles of his back. Between broken moans, your voice cracks—soft, vulnerable—
“Hurts—seein’ you leave," you sniffle, brows knitting together, “D—don’t…wanna do that again…”
His glare darkens, jaw tightening as he rams into you harder—deeper—a grunt tearing from his chest as his breath fans hot over your face.
“Then don’t," he snarls, voice raw with possessiveness, "Ain’t goin’ nowhere if you keep takin’ dick like this.”
Your next cry is swallowed by his mouth—his kiss bruising, tongue forcing its way past your lips as if to silence your doubts. And god help you, you let him—melting into the pain, the pleasure, the promise in every snap of his hips.
You’re silent now—past words, past whimpers—just taking him, your body trembling under the sheer weight of his dominance. The only sound is the obscene squelch of your pussy creaming around him, gushing embarrassingly with every withdrawal of his thick length.
“That’s it—take this shit. Ain’t no runnin’ now,” he growls, watching your teary eyes roll back as your walls clench around him.
A surrendering little sob escapes you once more—weak, broken—your hands limply gripping his shoulders as he fucks you through it, his pace never faltering.
“Fuck, girl—you drippin’ all on me."
And you are—soaking his thighs, the leather seats, everything. Your orgasm wrings you out in slow, torturous waves as he uses you, claims you, ruins you.
His touch softens just enough to soothe—calloused fingers brushing away your tears as he kisses you through your cries, lips lingering against yours in a rare moment of tenderness.
“M’sorry,” he just grunts, voice rough with sincerity.
“Ain’t leavin’ you again."
Your nods and whimpers dissolve into another aching climax, your pussy pulsing around him as you drown in the love, the passion, the need. It’s a moment that could last forever.
But just like that? The mood shifts.
His grip tightens, flipping you effortlessly onto your knees, face pressed into the leather as he drags you back onto his lap—ass up, his dick buried to the hilt inside you. Your feet tuck atop his thighs, heels digging in as you let out a tiny, shuddering “O—Ooh—!"
You start slow. Rolling your hips back tentatively, but he then growls, “Take yo’ time. ‘This dick ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
The command is clear.
You listen, setting a rhythm—slow, deliberate—skin slapping together in a steady, filthy clap that fills the heavy silence. Your thighs tremble, face smushed into the seat as your whimpers grow louder—"O—O-ooh—!"
Onyankopon’s hand cracks down on your ass, “‘There she go’. My lil’ nasty ass bitch."
Your fingers slip between your lips, stifling your moans as you rock back onto him, ass quaking with each bounce.
“I ain’t movin’," he warns, "Give me a fuckin’ show.”
You press a shaky hand against his abdomen for leverage, sitting up just enough to feel him deeper—too deep—hitting a spot so painfully good your body locks up.
His grip tightens around your waist as you whimper—"Ooh, shit!” before desperately bouncing your ass back onto him, the sound of skin slapping skin deafening in the enclosed space.
And then? Your pussy farts around him for the thousandth time, wet and obscene, the vibration dragging a trembling groan from your throat—“Ooooh, mygod—Papa—!"
You were never loud like this.
Your moans drag out—whiny, high-pitched, annoyed with yourself because you can’t stop them, each thrust pulling another pathetic sound from your lips.
Onyankopon’s hand slips around your torso, calloused fingers cupping beneath your breasts where his name brands into your skin—it’s effortless. He’s bouncing you down onto his dick like you weigh nothing, your legs kicking weakly as your cream paints his length.
“You gon’ keep takin’ this muhfucka’ like you missed it.”
And you do—each bounce, each squelch, each fatty noise your pussy makes proving it.
"That’s my muhfuckin’ girl."
Your head falls back against his shoulder, mouth drooling, eyes rolling, body melting. He owns you.
His thick forearm presses against your throat, the pressure just enough to make your vision blur at the edges as he fucks into you with even more brutal, punishing strokes. His jaw rests heavy atop your head, your weak panting the only sound you can manage past the tightness in your windpipe—your body submitting under his dominance.
“Mmmf—hot," you mewl, sweat slicked skin sticking to his, the air in the car suffocating.
Without breaking rhythm, Onyankopon reaches over and rolls the window down, the sudden rush of night air hitting your overheated skin—
Oh God.
Your noises—those pathetic, whimpering, creaming sounds—are now free to echo into the quiet neighborhood.
Panicked, you reach a shaky hand toward the window switch—but his grip tightens around your throat, cutting off your air as he rams up into you, all while tugging you down onto his dick even harder.
“Nngh—!" you choke, humiliation burning through you as you clench around him.
“You whinin’ like a bitch,” he grunts directly into your ear, the vibration shooting straight to your core.
Then, with a final rough tug, he forces your face toward the open window—forcing you to see the dimly lit houses, the quiet streets—his people, his city.
“Let everybody know I’m back home.”
And you scream. His name ripping from your throat, raw and unhinged.
“Mwen renmen w,” he growls between thrusts, the Creole rolling off his tongue like honey mixed with gravel—your words, your love, thrown back at you with the same raw intensity you’d given him all night.
Your body jerks as he nuts—deep, so deep—his release flooding you in thick, pulsing waves that make your thighs quiver.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing—his chest rising and falling against your back, your own breath hitching in your throat as aftershocks ripple through you.
Then, weakly, you tilt your head up, catching his lips in one last, tender kiss—your little cries soft against his mouth, voice trembling with everything—relief, exhaustion, love.
Your body melts back against his chest, muscles lax and satisfied as you peer out through the cracked window at the quiet streets of the 7th Ward. The humid night air carries the distant hum of cicadas and the faint bassline of someone’s music drifting from a porch down the block. His warmth presses into your back, steadying, as you tilt your head to murmur against his skin—
“Where would we go... if we left?"
For a beat, he stills—his breath huffing against your damp shoulder before he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin there.
“Wherever you wanna be, girl. ‘Long as it’s got a bed that can take how I fuck you."
A weak giggle bubbles from your throat—but then you say it, the words slipping out before you can second-guess them.
“‘M serious, Papa. I think it’s time to get out the 7th.”
You feel his surprise, the way his grip tightens reflexively around your waist.
“Where ‘this comin’ from?”
You swallow, suddenly shy.
"Been thinkin’... ’bout quiet. ‘Bout space. ‘Bout you—us—somewhere ain’t nobody knockin’ on the door.”
His fingers trace idle patterns on your hip as he murmurs, “A crib up in the Art District ‘don’t sound bad."
“Gives more space for Bear to run around."
“Yeah," he agrees, "A nigga could look into some trade schools ‘round there too."
Wait.
You turn slightly in his arms, searching his face.
“You’re serious?"
He nods. Then he says it—words heavy with the weight of a future he’s choosing.
“‘Wanna give you a ring. A child. ‘Can’t do allat’ bein’ on the streets.”
Your heart swells.
You clutch his face as you say, “It doesn’t matter who you are to everybody else. You got me. I love you more than life itself, Onyankopon.”
He grunts low in his throat—then crashes his lips against yours in a kiss so deep, so emotional, it makes you giggle against his mouth, cheeks burning.
“We finna’ go get a ring right fuckin’ now.”
You giggle once more, pressing a hand to his chest.
"Let’s make it into the house first, yeah? We need a shower."
"Aight. Imma’ fuck you again in there."
You squeak as he hoists you up, your half naked body tucked tight against his chest as he steps out into the humid night. A few voices call out from porches down the block—“Aye, Ony back home!"—cheery, thick with that Southern lilt.
You nestle your face against the sweat damp skin of his collarbone before murmuring, “…The 7th ain’t so bad with you here."
When you peer up, his gaze is already locked on you—dark, heavy, full of something that makes your stomach flip.
“A nigga couldn’t ask for anythin’ more than yo’ love.”
Before you can respond—scratch scratch scratch—Bear’s massive paws hit the front door, his excited whines vibrating through the wood.
Onyankopon just chuckles, adjusting you in his arms as he kicks the door open. And the last thing the neighborhood hears before it slams shut? Your giggles, his grunt as Bear tackles him, and the thud of all three of you entering inside with a heap.
Home. It feels like home again.
THIS IS TOOOOOOOOOOO GOOD 🍽️
