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marrdgaf · 3 days ago

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

hot to go! onyankopon.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 14.9K, original!blackfemreader, neighbor!onyankopon, firefighter!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, shy!femreader, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, tipsy!sex, high!sex!, pet names, dirty talk, aggressive pet names, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, pussy eating, dick sucking, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— listen, i wasn’t supposed to even be writing a new fic, so idk how we got here? LMAO. but that doesn’t matter, we got it! + i actually really like this one. it’s cute, hot, funny, sexy. i had fun writing it. i hope y’all enjoy it too, teehee. love y’all, glad to be back.

ビジュアル。ビジュアル。

DOMINANT NOTES OF BLACK CHERRY SLIDE ACROSS YOUR TONGUE, STELLA ROSE ALWAYS BEING A FAVORITE WITHIN YOUR WINERY COLLECTION.

It was your favorite day of the week—Friday to be exact, the weekend right around the corner as you looked forward to girl’s night. Always hosted at your apartment, taking place on the porch if it wasn’t too hot. But it wasn’t—the weather was perfect tonight.

“I’m tellin’ you girl, Stella Rose: Red, is good too!”

“I’m not really into plum notes. What about the Moscato version?”

The porch was adorned with an abundance of foliage—large spider plants, devil’s ivy, pothos—the leaves all different shades of green. There were also white lights hanging across the bars, the soft glow basking your group in a warm, yellow glow.

As each of your friends guzzle down the sweet liquid, the sound of their laughter floats through the air. Your wine glasses clink together as the bottles rest on the table. Charcuterie is set out—dried fruits, crackers, cheese—everything was set up for a good night.

Pen scurrying across your journal, your glasses tip at your nose as you flick your round eyes briefly towards your closed textbook. You weren’t supposed to be thinking about homework, but you couldn’t help but ponder over the last question you’d gotten wrong on your previous assignment.

“Lawd—There she go’ with her nose in that textbook.”

Your lashes peer upward.

“Sorry. Did you try the Peach one?”

Three girls are sitting on the porch with you. They’re all different from one another—with two wearing oversized sweaters and a pair of leggings, while your one friend, Ruya, wears a form fitting dress, black strappy sandals on her feet.

Ruya, who is a nurse, sighs at you.

“It’s girl’s night, girl. Not study night.”

“I know, I know,” you mutter back, “It’s just—why can’t you help me study again? Didn’t you have Anatomy in nursing school?”

The other two girls shake their heads—Lola, who’s an attorney and Kimora, who runs a local restaurant, both of their gazes flicker between you and Ruya.

”That was freshman year,” Ruya reminds, “Besides—I barely passed with a B.”

“B?” Lola quirked an eyebrow at her friend, “You got a C. You called us sayin’ you were gonna beat up your professor, remember? The nigga nearly flunked you out of school.”

“So nobody wants to help is what I’m hearing,” you murmur, dropping your pen.

“We can tell you whether or not blue cheese is a good palette cleanser with your favorite wine,” Kimora hums, “We should be having girl talk right now!”

You sigh, realizing she was right.

Closing your textbook with an exhale, your french tips reach for your wine glass—you take a gentle sip as you tilt your head, “So, how ‘bout you tell us how you and the hubby are doing? You’ve been so hard to reach since he moved y’all up in that big house in the Garden District.”

Kimora chuckles, arms crossing over her chest. Her gold bangles clink when she moves, fingers grasping her glass with slender fingers decorated with rings.

“It’s been great. Just as great as we thought it’d be, you know?” Her lashes flutter, a soft smile pulling at her plump lips, “He’s so busy with work sometimes, the lack of sex can make me a bit fussy—but he makes up for it with every Birkin bag.”

“God, don’t even bring up the word sex. Me and my fiancè haven’t slept together in like—three days!” Lola groans, “I think I’m losing hearing in my left ear.”

Everyone laughs at Lola’s expense, her pout growing.

“I’m being serious!” She declares.

“At least you don’t have a doctor like Kimora,” Ruya shakes her head, “I don’t think I could handle the schedule. Me and my man have agreed that he cut down hours at the car shop, so he can spend time with me and the baby, y’know? She’s only three months old, but I don’t want her to feel unattached from her father. What if babies can feel abandoned?”

“Like dogs?” Kimora questions.

“Babies aren’t dogs, Kim. Geez. I’m just saying.”

You chuckle, “Dogs, really?” you question Kimora, who shrugs.

”I read somewhere that dogs are actually very intelligent.”

“I agree,” you hum, fingers toying with the stem of your wine glass, “God—I want a dog so bad, but my schedule’s too tight.”

“Oh hell. Please don’t get a dog,” Ruya interjects, “You barely have enough time for yourself as it is. I’m honestly shocked you can make space for girl’s night every Friday—speaking of sex, when do you even have time to rub on your own clit?”

“Jesus, Ruya!”

You shake your head, “I’m fine, okay? I’m just—having a little self journey involving preservation. I haven’t looked at my own vagina unless I’m showering or getting it waxed.”

“Here we go,” Lola shakes her head.

Ruya rolls her eyes, but laughs, “No, but seriously—You don’t even have time to cook, yet you think you’ll have time to take care of a pet?”

You pout.

“I’d name it Oreo.”

“Oreo would lick his own balls for self preservation, so what’s wrong with a little DJ’ing downstairs?”

Her words make everyone scoff—Lola and Kimora burst out laughing.

“Please never refer to masturbation as DJ’ing again!” Lola begs, head shaking.

Ruya holds up her hands, “All I’m saying is you need a little fun in your life instead of studying all the time—A.K.A? You need some dick, girl.”

“God,” Kimora sighs, “You’re filthy, Ruya.”

You groan, shaking your head—this has been a discussion between you and your friends for forever.

“Sorry that I’m not tryna’ flash my pussy to all of the Westbank. Maybe my education is more important, Mrs. Wife and Kid.”

Ruya glares at you, pointing a finger in your direction, “Don’t bring my baby into this, girl.”

Her warning makes you roll your eyes.

“Sorry, sorry—my bad. I’m just saying. It’s not that simple for me, okay? You know how difficult my parents are? The last thing I need is a man.”

“Not all men are going to try and control you, girl,” Lola counters, “Not everyone is like your helicopter parents.”

“That’s what this is about?” Ruya questions, “That’s why you wouldn’t go out with my fiancè’s friend?”

Your eyes flicker to Ruya, your back straight as your fingers fidget with your necklace.

”I didn’t even see what he looked like, Ruya,” you retorted, “There’s no way in hell I’m going out with some random dude I don’t even know—look, I appreciate the gesture, okay? I appreciate everyone’s take on my sad, single life. I’m content, alright? Can we stop? Please?”

The girls all share looks, each of them wearing a sympathetic frown.

They mean well—truly, they do—they care. They’re just worried about you. Especially since you’re almost thirty, and you’re more focused on work than a love life.

“I’m sorry, boo.”

Ruya’s the first to apologize, “We’re not here to tear you down about being single. It’s just—we have this love and family for ourselves, we wanna see you have that, with an amazing career— you know? You’re sexy and big brained, any man would be lucky to have you.”

“You just deserve a good time,” Kimora adds.

“We’re not tryna be mean. We just love you, okay?”

You sigh, feeling the guilt weigh you down—you love these women like sisters, they only wanted what was best for you.

“I know you’re not trying to be mean,” you nod, “‘Sorry for getting defensive.”

Everyone smiles reassuringly at you in unison, “It’s okay, girl.”

Kimora then exhales—she takes an unopened bottle of Stella Rose: Blueberry, “Let’s pop open this bad boy, huh? I’m not feelin’ wine drunk yet!”

“Hell yeah!”

“This’ll be my last glass,” Lola comments, reaching for the unopened bottle, plucking the top off with a corkscrew, “I gotta work in the morning.”

“God—you’re such an adult,” Ruya deadpans.

“Shut up.”

You smile, as they always made you do.

The warm glow of the string lights dances across flushed cheeks as the girls giggle, now pleasantly tipsy—glasses half empty, voices a little louder, limbs loose with laughter. Kimora sways slightly in her seat as she dramatically recounts her latest restaurant drama, while Lola rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smirk. Ruya leans back in her chair, fanning herself with one hand and swirling her wine with the other.

Then, a bark interrupts the silent night.

A deep canine sound cuts through their chatter like a gunshot. All four heads swivel toward the street below your terrace, railing like synchronized puppets.

And there it is—a man.

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

Kimora’s wine glass freezes halfway to her lips.

“Oh?”

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

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

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

Intimidating? Undoubtedly.

Your throat goes dry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t even have clothes on!—“

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

“Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

Looking at him closer, your brain short circuits.

So you say—

“Does your dog bite?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely.

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

A single, deadly dimple.

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

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

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

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

Traitors, all of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bully."

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

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

“Why’d you name him Bully?”

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

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

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

"Onyankopon.”

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

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

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

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

Girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brows knit together, “How did you—”

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

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

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

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

But Onyankopon? He just nods.

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

That gets another small smile from you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance back up, before looking back to him.

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

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

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

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

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

A beat passes. Two. Then—

“Aight.”

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

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

“Nice meetin’ you too.”

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

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

And that dimple? Did in fact reappear.

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

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

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

Then came the gym incident.

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

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

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

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

But worst of all? The patio debacle.

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

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

Was this man orchestrating your downfall?

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

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

Well, not cool enough.

The universe was absolutely conspiring against you.

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

Which apparently, it nearly did.

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

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

The next? Flames.

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

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

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

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

Then you see him.

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

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

You consider pretending death for half a second.

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

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

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

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

You nearly sob then and there.

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

To your surprise, Onyankopon's voice softens.

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

“You know her?” Salt and Pepper questions.

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or call me.”

The next few days were painful.

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

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

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

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

“Headin’ out?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Onyankopon hums in affirmation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘You drink?”

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

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

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

“Funny.”

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyebrows shoot up, “Smart man.”

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

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

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

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

“No, I just—“

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

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

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

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

“Rude!”

“Just sayin’.”

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

The dog yawns. Traitorous animal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aight.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Onyankopon!”

“What?”

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

“You are, Professor. Continue.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’ one mean something?”

His hand pauses briefly on the pot.

“Yeah.”

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

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

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

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

The confession hangs heavy between the both of you.

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

You exhale, absorbing the weight of his answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s cool. We gon’ see.”

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

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

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

“Yo’ headache gone?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Told you it was gon' be fire."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ain't tryna’ be funny. Just askin'."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I got these.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Game borin’.”

Then?

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

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

“Ony.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ hell, Bully.”

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

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

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

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

"Greedy.”

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

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

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

“This whatchu’ wanted?”

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

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

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

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

"Behave, girl.”

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

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

“Nosy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And at his words? You crawl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grunts, “‘Gon' learn today.”

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

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

“Gon’ head.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He obliges, of course.

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

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

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

He’s all you can taste.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep talkin’ to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re panting, “Fuck, baby.”

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

“Hold ‘em back.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ so wet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t run.

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

“Promise, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know you ain’t runnin’, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ooooohh, my god.”

Another stroke, deep—“Ughh, fuuuck.”

“You sound too pretty, girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ughh… Ughhh… Oh, my god… Ugh.”

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

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

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

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

“You think I’m done with you?”

In fact, he wasn’t.

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

You’d never looked this pretty—this fucked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bounce on this big dick.”

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

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

You’re catatonic at this point.

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

“You finna’ tap out, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lemme’ give you them’ slow strokes.”

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

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

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

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

“Need you too, girl.”

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

“I’m cumming, Ony…”

“I know, baby.”

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

“Ughh…Oh. Oh my god. Fuugghhh. Fuck.”

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

You were crazy, but it was in the moment.

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

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

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

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

Almost ten minutes of silence went by.

“You’re heavy.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn right I was.”

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

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

“Not my fault you’ fine as hell.”

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

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

“You okay, Mama?”

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

“Just say you’ clingy, girl.”

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

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

“Nah.”

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

He then confirmed, “I like clingy.”

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

“Especially if you’ a bad cook.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah…Yeah…Now?”

A pause.

Then a grunt, “Aight. Gimme’ twenty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"C'mere, baby."

You feel dramatic.

“I didn’t mean to—“

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

"Look at me, pretty girl.”

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

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

You’re still frowning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘fore I leave—your choice."

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

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

“Bye, Onyankopon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Imma’ be back, shawty.”

You smiled once more, “I’ll be here.”

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