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

sugar talkin’. onyankopon.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 8.9K, original!blackfemreader, pouty!blackfemreader, domestic!countrylifecoded, husband!onyankopon, father!onyankopon, mechanic!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, southernwife!femreader, jealous!onyankopon, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, car sex! reverse cowgirl!, cow girl!, pet names! dirty talk! , aggressive pet names!, big titty kink,titty sucking, titty fuck, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, pussy eating, dick sucking, overstimulation, talks of pregnancy termination, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— just really been into cute, sexy, domesticated southern marriages lately. anyways, this part 2 to baby makin’, you already know what you in for. enjoy.

ビジュアル。ビジュアル。ビジュアル。

WHY WERE YOU CRYING?

You asked yourself this for the thousandth time today, swiping the French tip of your nails beneath your glistening freckled cheek as you tried to pull yourself together. Maybe it was the constant scent of rice milk lingering in your nostrils from your toddler, or the musk mixtures of bourbon vanilla base notes of your husband’s cologne—either way? You were a wreck.

It was nearly seven in the evening, close to the time your husband would be home with Asaan—therefore, you had to get it together. Crying over frivolous things had to be a routine of yours, but none of these issues were so frivolous to you. Your husband never made you feel bad for the tears that dropped from your eyes more than the baby you’d carried for nine months, but that didn’t make you any less dramatic.

6:47PM.

The burmese curl of your cinnamon tresses draped around your face, matching the hue of your full eyebrows that you’d constantly re-dyed as your natural color soaked up the chemicals. Your caramel skin blushed from the reoccurring tears, to which you padded your cheeks beneath your lash extensions, blowing a puff of air from your full lips as a way to ground yourself. With that, you rushed back to the kitchen, preparing the rest of dinner with five more minutes to spare.

You’d been making your signature dish—red beans and rice, paired with beignets for dessert—they were your husband’s favorite, a born and raised New Orleans’ man like no other. You needed the distraction of finishing off dinner as he walked into the door, just hoping he wouldn’t catch your pouting.

The door swings open, and there he is—your husband in all his imposing, magnetic glory. Onyankopon’s black long sleeve clings to every defined ridge of his muscular frame, the fabric straining slightly over broad shoulders as he moves with that effortless charm of his.

The ink on his neck peeks above the collar—intricate patterns that tell stories you’ve traced with your fingertips more times than you can count—and that small cross tattooed near his temple? A quiet reminder of faith etched into brown skin like a prayer.

His cornrows are freshly done, tight against his scalp and trailing toward the back where they lay perfectly against his nape. The low cut beard framing full lips only add to that rugged aura as he steps inside, balancing Asaan effortlessly on his shoulders like it’s nothing.

And your son—oh god, one year old and already mirroring him in miniature form—curly dark hair wild from the wind outside, those big brown eyes wide with excitement as he clutches a tiny football in tinier hands. He’s drowning in an oversized black tee tucked into little cargos, matching Papa down to the last detail, kicking his legs gleefully against Onyankopon’s chest when he spots you by the stove.

Onyankopon doesn't even wait for you to scold before leaning down to press a firm kiss against your lips—“Missed yo' ass,” murmured low enough just for you. He ignores how your hands immediately fly up to steady Asaan's back anyway, as if either of them needed help.

Your hands immediately find your hips as you level a look —“You know not to be carryin’ my baby like that. ‘He coulda' fell and cracked his head open, Onyankopon.”

You’re scolding, but your protest is immediately undercut when Asaan beams down at you, tiny fingers gripping his football tighter as he waves excitedly.

"Hi, Mommy!”

His voice is sweet but still baby slurred—halfway between a toddler’s coo and a real sentence. It melts you instantly.

Your stern facade cracks into an adoring smile as you reach up to smooth his wild curls, "Hi, pretty boy. How was your day?"

Asaan kicks his legs again with pure enthusiasm, “Payed baa-ball wif’ Papa!”

The words tumble out in that adorable, clumsy way of his—still getting the hang of forming full sentences but so proud of himself anyway.

"That’s great, baby. Did my boys have fun today?"

Onyankopon smirks at how easily you softened—already knowing he’d won this round.

“‘Course we did," he rumbles proudly, "This lil' nigga got hands like Odell Beckham Jr. Swear to god. ‘Had that ball sailing from across the damn park like pewwww. Yo’ son? Cool as hell, one hand catches like it was nothin’.”

Your smile lingers as you watch the two of them, heart swelling with affection—until Onyankopon grins that mischievous smile of his, suddenly flipping Asaan upside down mid air, tiny legs kicking as your son erupts into giggles.

“Onyankopon!”

Your voice jumps in exasperation, arms outstretched like you’re about to snatch him back—but then comes the sharp smack of his palm against your ass, cutting off your protest before it even fully leaves your lips.

“Quit allat’,” he rumbles lowly—all amusement and authority wrapped into one word while gently righting Asaan onto his feet, “Boy ain’t scared.”

Asaan wobbles for half a second before sprinting off toward the living room, still clutching his football like nothing happened—proof enough that Daddy was right, as usual.

"Smellin’ good as hell in here, girl. But why yo' face look like somebody stole yo' last dollar?”

Did he know everything? Of course he did.

"Who makin’ my wife cry?”

His voice drops dangerously soft now, a seriousness now within his tone.

Your hands lift to cup his face, thumbs brushing along the sharp line of his jaw in a deliberate distraction.

"Dinner's ready,” you murmur, tilting your head toward the stove like that would be enough to shift his focus—but Onyankopon’s gaze doesn't waver. Instead, it flicks past you, landing on the open textbook sprawled across the opposite counter.

Nursing Neonatal Care: 5th Edition.

His brow quirks up instantly—that knowing look settling into his features as he exhales through his nose.

“Aight,” he starts slowly, "So we gon’ act like yo’ studies ain't got nothin’ to do with it?”

You sigh, shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of both exhaustion and frustration.

"It's just—a lot right now."

Your gesture vaguely at your notes—pages upon pages highlighting neonatal resuscitation protocols and IV calculations, scribbled in margins looking more chaotic than helpful lately.

"Pharmacology's kicking my ass this semester,” you admit quietly, “And sometimes I think maybe I'm not cut out to finish school—”

"Nuh-Uh. ‘Knock that bullshit off."

"Mwen jis gen bagay nan tèt mwen, renmen…”

Your words are already tumbling out in protest; a rapid fire string of defiant Creole that Onyankopon just looks at you dully through.

“Talkin’ to me in a different language ain't gon’ make me change my mind."

You sigh again, voice smaller this time.

“Maybe I should just stay home with Asaan, Papa.”

“Baby. The whole reason we ain't go for that second kid kid is ‘cause yo' ass got dreams outside this house. You remember that?”

His gaze softens, “Mechanic shop boomin’. You finna be out here savin' lil’ babies like some kinda superhero—” He shrugs like it's already decided—because to him? It is.

But then comes the real truth.

"You nervous ‘bout Asaan bein' in nursery school,” he knows, “‘Scared somebody ain't gon' love on him right when you ain't lookin’. Ain't that it?"

And there it was, laid bare between steaming pots and abandoned textbooks where all fears lived lately.

"It's—scary," you admit quietly, “He's never been away from me like that before. What if—“

“What if nothin’,” Onyankopon interrupts gently but firmly, “That boy got my blood in him—he gon’ be aight. And so are you."

You rub your arms, trying to soothe the lingering anxiety as you roll your eyes and turn away—but Onyankopon catches you instantly, his large hand hooking around your waist to yank you back against him with a playful grunt.

"You done talkin’, huh?”

His palm cracks against your ass twice in quick succession—sharp enough to startle a giggle from you despite yourself. When he does it again? You’re full on laughing, arms looping around his neck as he holds you close.

“Papa.”

You finally relax into the warmth of his skin, fingers idly tracing the ink along his nape, “You really think Asaan’s ready for nursery school? They’ll have him in an older class, you know.”

“Girl. That boy smarter than half my mechanics already,” he chuckles, “And if them lil' bad ass two year olds wanna try him? I’ll shut that whole fuckin' school down ‘fore lunchtime.”

The threat is ridiculous.

But so comforting anyway.

Onyankopon's gaze lingers, tracing over you like he’s memorizing every detail all over again—your freckled cheeks, warm under the golden kitchen light. That cinnamon brown mane of Burmese curls cascades down your back and around the soft curve of your face, framing those slanted eyes and thick lashes that always make his chest tighten.

His hands slide up beneath the oversized tee you wear—fingers brushing against skin that still carries the faintest traces of change from carrying his son. Milk heavy tits, nipples pebbling against fabric no matter how loose it is; full hips that sway even when you’re just standing still, a fat ass so plush it makes his mouth water just looking at it. And that scent? Rice milk clinging to your skin like a second layer—something sweetly nostalgic, reminding him of late nights with his swollen bellied wife curled against him in bed.

"’A nigga love you like no other, girl.”

Then comes the command—low and graveled, “Come gimme’ that mouth.”

You stick out your tongue between baby pink lips before he crashes his mouth to yours, swallowing every giggle as he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth just to hear you whimper.

The kiss deepens until Asaan comes barreling back in with excited squeals—football held high like some tiny trophy as he wedges himself right between both parents effortlessly.

“Ball go zooom’!”

Onyankopon scoops Asaan up effortlessly, tossing him high into the air just to hear those infectious baby giggles burst free like tiny fireworks. You roll your eyes—again—but the sound of their laughter pulls a matching one from your lips anyway, soft and endeared.

Dinner is warm and loud—spoons clinking against plates as red beans and rice disappear bite by bite, followed by powdered sugar beignets that leave Asaan’s cheeks dusted white. The one year old smears his tiny hands in the food before attempting to share bites with Onyankopon—only for your husband to dramatically pretend to swallow the boy’s whole fist instead, making him shriek with giggles even more.

Later, Onyankopon sits cross legged on the floor with Asaan between his knees, gently working through his tender headed curls to mimic his own cornrows—his thick fingers knead carefully through tight coils, all while Asaan whines teary eyed against his stuffed Batman plushie from sensitivity.

"Shhh, Papa.”

Onyankopon murmurs comforting sounds as he parts his hair into sections, detangling gently before weaving cornrows like tiny rivers down his scalp, “I’m almost done, aight?”

You lean against Onyankopon's shoulder as cartoons flicker across the screen—watching until Asaan's cries finally ease into sleepy blinks against cotton fur. Only then does your voice drift softly over their heads—

“...’You ever regret it? Not havin’ our second baby?”

Onyankopon doesn't pause detangling the last braid before answering plainly, “Nah.”

His fingers gently maneuver as he confirms, “Hell nah. ‘Want you livin' yo' life too, girl. Not stuck home waitin' on me if that ain't whatchu’ want."

You sigh softly, leaning into him a little more.

"I just don't want any regrets between us. That’s all."

Onyankopon’s hands still to cup the back of your head—pulling you close enough for his lips to press against your temple in silent reassurance before murmuring, "Ain't nothin' in this house but love. Regret? Don’t live here."

Asaan whines between you both, tiny fists rubbing at his damp lashes—slurring a barely coherent, “S'eepy…”

Onyankopon chuckles while securing the last braid with a small rubber band, "Yeah? ‘Coulda sworn you was just cryin’ ‘cause yo' scalp tender."

The baby just blinks slowly up at him, then flopping backward dramatically onto his thigh like it's all too much. Your smile was soft.

"...Think I might be havin’ prolonged postpartum or somethin’,” you sigh, “My nipples still leak when he cries sometimes.”

That makes Onyankopon pause mid scoop of lifting Asaan into his arms—eyebrow quirking as amusement twitches at the corner of his mouth.

"’You real smart, huh?"

His eyes drop towards your nipples, “You learn that in class?”

Your hand flies up instantly—forefinger flicking sharply against his forehead with an indignant scoff.

“Shut up, I’m serious.”

Onyankopon carefully shifts Asaan against his shoulder, the baby’s damp lashes fluttering as he nestles into the crook of his father’s neck—tiny thumb slipping past his lips in that familiar self soothing rhythm. Onyankopon adjusts the plushie under his arm, securing it so it doesn’t fall before murmuring to you—

"M'sorry, Mama," he says softly—not mocking now, just steady, “You ain't trippin’. You just ain't ready for him to grow up yet. Nothin’ wrong wit’ that.”

You exhale slowly, your fingers tracing absent patterns along Asaan's back while he drifts off.

"...Some women can't produce milk at all," you say quietly, “And preemies? Their stomachs are so small they can barely take enough in even if their mamas can feed 'em."

Your confession feels guilty, “Learning things like that makes me realize how lucky I am to have had a healthy pregnancy. But then I feel bad for not wanting another one right now—or terminating our second baby…just makes me feel like a bad mommy.”

Your husband listens without interruption until you finish—his silence heavy with understanding before shifting Asaan higher up onto his shoulder again when the baby stirs.

"Aight. Listen,” He leans closer to you,“Every time yo’ ass start feelin’ guilty ‘bout that? Remember one thing.”

His free hand finds yours where it rests near Asaan’s back, weaving fingers through yours tightly—“Nobody else livin' yo' life but you. Ain't no rulebook sayin’ happiness gotta look one way only—we made a decision for our family, and you made a decision for yourself. You’re the perfect Mommy, no nigga needa’ tell you that.”

You press a soft kiss against Onyankopon’s shoulder, leaning into him with a playful mimic of your son’s sleepy whimper—“S'eepy…”—which earns you a deep chuckle rumbling from his chest. His arm wraps around your waist, tugging you onto his lap as you both melt into the quiet comfort of the moment.

“You still leakin’, huh?”

He grins when your fingers immediately flick his thigh in warning, “I’m just sayin’, if Asaan ain't drinkin’ it—“

Another flick. Harder this time.

The next morning comes with the slow glow of dawn creeping through the curtains—Onyankopon already awake beside you, rough palms smoothing over your bare hip in gentle strokes as he murmurs a low prayer between kisses pressed to your forehead, “…Cover her and my son while I'm gone. Keep my family safe…”

He lets you doze longer before slipping out of bed to start his routine—clippers buzzing along sharp edges of his lineup before stepping under steaming shower spray. By the time he steps out and dresses in his mechanic's uniform—a white muscle tee clinging to every ridge of his muscles beneath an unbuttoned navy blue shirt embroidered with Orleans Auto & Customs across the back—brown skin glowing where tattoos flex along his biceps with every move.

Then comes Asaan’s turn. His tiny limbs wiggle impatiently as Onyankopon wrestles him into a Batman tee paired with tiny shorts and black Nike dunks, socks stamped with bat symbols on each side for good measure. The backpack completes it all—same logo stitched proudly onto black fabric filled only with extra clothes today since anxiety already had you packing emergency outfits the night before.

“Aight lil’ man.”

He surveys his work critically, “Lookin’ like money, boy! Let’s go show momma to see if she approves.”

He scoops him up under an arm effortlessly despite protests—“Papa! No upsiiide!"”—the sleepy giggles filling the hallway in your direction, always.

Asaan plops onto the bed like a tiny hurricane, wiggling his way toward you until his little hands pat your cheeks—"Mama! Waaake!”

You stir with a sleepy smile, blinking up at him as sunlight catches on his Batman clad outfit.

"Look at my handsome boy," you coo, smoothing the shirt over his tummy before glancing up at Onyankopon leaning in the doorway—arms crossed like he’s waiting for praise.

"You clean too, Daddy.”

His smirk widens as he taps his temple, “A nigga already knowin’.”

He steps closer to brush knuckles against your cheek where morning warmth still lingers on your skin, “‘You sleep aight?"

His thumb swipes beneath your eye where lashes fan dark against caramel freckles—no need for makeup when nature blessed you this good already.

After kissing your forehead as you nod, he scoops Asaan back up under one arm while calling behind him, “Imma’ start breakfast so yo' ass can shower in peace.”

When you finally make it downstairs after getting ready—your Burmese curls twirl in a soft bounce that frames your face—cinnamon lashes fan over those almond shaped eyes as golden hoops and minimal jewelry glint against caramel skin. Sandals adorn manicured toes while brown glasses rest atop freshly moisturized freckles—your mottled sundress clings just right, accentuating the curve of heavy breasts and full hips swaying as you walk toward the kitchen.

“That’s whatchu wearin’ out?"

Blinking, you glide past your husband as you place a quick kiss atop Asaan's head while grabbing pomegranates from the fridge— “I got class after drop off, remember?”

All he can do is shake head, chuckling darkly beneath his breath.

“Mhm.”

You’re half way through a pomegranate—juicy pulp staining your lips a blushing red that matches the plump flesh of your mouth. His gaze flickered down the slope of your body, lingering on how your sun kissed skin stretched over curves that had changed since pregnancy—heavy breasts and fuller hips heavily enhanced by the dress you had on. His gaze flits to how your tits jiggle beneath the fabric when you lean over to feed Asaan.

"What, Ony?"

His chuckle is deep as he watches you pick up another piece of fruit, Asaan continuously dropping it onto his eating mat with tiny giggles.

“Nothin’,” He murmurs, “‘Ain’t say shit, pretty girl.”

Breakfast passes with soft chatter—Asaan babbling excitedly while smashing blueberries between sticky fingers. But then? Comes the inevitable moment when reality hits you again like a freight train.

“Wait—” Your hands suddenly grip the table's edge like you're bracing yourself, “Did we pack extra clothes? What if he gets hungry? Should I put more snacks in his bag? And what if they don't let him keep Batman—”

"Breathe, girl. Damn.”

You huff, crossing your arms under the weight of your chest—sending them pushing up even more against the dress’s fabric.

“Mwen respire, wi!”

“Aight then,” he counters smoothly, “Since breathin’s all handled—what ‘bout yo’ school stuff? You pack yo' lunch? Hell—” His gaze drags over you pointedly, “You even thought ‘bout yo'self once today?”

Before you can even pout out a defense—he cuts you off with a shrug and drops the ultimate bomb, “Don’t even worry ‘bout it. Packed yo' bag. Notebook, pencils, lunchbox with them lil seasoned shrimp & rice cakes—”

Your face melts instantly into that giddy smile he loves so much—the one that makes dimples peek at him like hidden treasures.

“You’re the best husband, baby.”

You giggle loud enough to make Asaan clap from his high chair like it's entertainment—chest bouncing in ways that absolutely did not help Onyankopon’s focus.

“Let’s gon’ head and make it out the door. ‘Fore I change my mind and keep yo’ ass home.”

Onyankopon’s lifted RAM 1500 rumbles beneath you—jet black with tinted windows and a gleaming wax job that catches the New Orleans sun just right. The interior smells like peppermint oil and faint traces of Asaan’s toddler shampoo.

You twist in the passenger seat, freckled hand reaching back to squeeze Asaan’s tiny knee strapped securely into his car seat.

“Listen baby,” Your voice is warm but firm—mama mode fully activated, “Remember what we talked about? Nobody takes your stuff, okay? Say please and thank you, even if they don't. And—” Your voice softens at the end as your thumb brushes his cheek, “…Be mommy’s little superstar, yeah?”

Asaan blinks up at you with those big doe eyes—half processing, half distracted by the way sunlight dances through leaves outside his window, oak trees lining the streets within the Garden District.

“He gon’ be straight, Mama.”

The school looks straight out of a postcard.

Baby blue stucco building adorned with rainbow painted handprints trailing along its front steps like confetti—from parents guiding toddlers inside while some kids skip ahead eagerly, others clinging tight onto stuffed animals the same way yours clings to his Batman plushie.

You all walk past the bustling classrooms, each door revealing a different scene—some rooms filled with older children tumbling around like energetic puppies, others with kids clinging to their parents’ legs as if they might vanish.

Then you reach Asaan's assigned room—the “Little Lambs,” class for two year olds or younger. Inside, it's pure chaos in the most adorable way—one child wails into their mother’s shoulder like it’s the end of the world, another sitting stiffly in tiny Nikes, staring at nothing but looking ready to bolt if given half a chance. A few brave souls are already running wild across an alphabet patterned carpet while a frazzled but cheerful teacher claps her hands—“Okay friends! Who’s ready for morning story time?”

Before your anxiety can kick back in full force, a warm faced woman with honey brown braids bounces over immediately—her smile bright and hands outstretched towards Asaan as if he were already her favorite student.

Onyankopon shakes her hand first—introductions smooth as always, “Onyankopon. This is my lil' man.”

He nudges Asaan forward slightly, which has you step out of your daze instantly.

“Good morning!" You beam nervously while guiding Asaan closer by his little shoulders—he immediately buries half his face into Batman’s cape—“This is Asaan. He loves superheroes, obviously."

You’re nervous giggling, which you hated.

The teacher crouches down instantly, tapping the Batman plushie playfully between its pointy ears—

“I see we got ourselves Gotham City royalty up in here! It’s nice to meet you.”

And just like that? Your baby peeks out from behind his stuffed hero—tiny lips twitching upward despite himself, murmuring against fabric, “…Batman…my toy.”

The teacher grins wider, “He absolutely is! And we’re gonna’ make sure he protects you in class all day long.”

Your fingers twist together as you lean in a little too close, voice brimming with anxious energy.

"So, um—what exactly will they be doing today? Like—activity wise? And how often do you potty train or—“

Onyankopon’s deep chuckle cuts through your spiral as he drapes an arm over your shoulders, “My wife a lil’ nervous,” he explains to the teacher, like it isn't already obvious from how tightly you're clutching Asaan’s backpack strap.

The teacher just giggles warmly and launches into reassurance mode—“Oh honey, we got a whole schedule posted right here! They start with circle time for songs and stories, then sensory play stations after snacks—we do potty breaks every hour for the littles still training…”

You bite your lip before blurting out another worry, “He can be kinda shy at first around new—”

And just then?

Asaan's brown eyes lock onto something across the room—another toddler gripping a Superman plushie like his life depends on it. Without warning, your baby suddenly wiggles free from where he'd been half hiding behind Onyankopon's leg and bolts straight toward the boy with zero hesitation.

By some miracle of childhood social codes incomprehensible to adults everywhere? They immediately connect.

Within seconds? Both boys are babbling nonsense at each other while aggressively smacking their action figures together in what can only be described as an epic crossover battle between Gotham and Metropolis right there on the classroom rug.

Your eyes go wide as Asaan completely shatters your expectations—no tears, no clinging, just pure toddler confidence as he dives headfirst into playtime. It melts your heart so much that you almost forget to be embarrassed for bombarding the poor teacher with questions.

“Thank you so much for explaining everything. I’m sorry if I was being annoying,” you admit with a guilty smile.

The teacher just waves you off warmly—“I was the same way with my little. We get nervous mommas every single day—you’re completely fine.”

Onyankopon murmurs, "Aight nah’—let’s let our baby be somebody."

“Wait—” You look up at him pleadingly until he exhales dramatically through his nose, nodding anyway in defeat—already knowing how this will go down.

You now crouch low near the rug where Asaan is fully immersed in smacking Batman against Superman's chest like it's an MMA fight, while his new little friend squeals happily beside him.

“Mama has to leave now—” Your voice wobbles slightly even though you're smiling wide enough for dimples to appear under freckles—“But I'm coming right back after school gets out, okay?”

Asaan casually turns halfway toward where Onyankopon stands behind watching silently too, before puckering tiny lips loudly—

MWAH!

A dramatic kiss blown directly at both parents followed by arms outstretched, briefly squeezing each neck tightly before mumbling against skin, “Bye—bye…see you laaater.”

He immediately flops backwards onto carpet again, resuming superhero battle like absolutely nothing happened.

Your teary giggles escape like bubbles through syrup—sweet and wobbly as you try to compose yourself, wiping at damp lashes with the back of your hand. Onyankopon just watches you with that mix of amusement and softness only he can pull off, rubbing your back in slow circles until your breathing evens out again.

Just when you’re finally pulling it together, he curses under his breath—“Fuck. Left his damn lunchbox in the truck.”

You wave him off weakly as he jogs out to grab it, still sniffling but smiling now—until a deep voice cuts through the classroom chatter beside you.

“First day drop off?”

You turn to find a tall man in well fitted jeans leaning against a cubby shelf—a smile too practiced as his gaze lingers on yours just a beat longer than necessary. Oblivious, you nod brightly while tucking a curl behind one ear.

“Yeah! My baby’s usually so shy but—” Your hands gesture toward Asaan, currently body slamming Batman into Superman’s face mid playfight “—Look at him go!”

The stranger chuckles lowly before opening his mouth again—but whatever flirty remark that was brewing dies instantly when heavy footsteps approach from behind.

Onyankopon reappears like storm clouds rolling over sunshine—lunchbox dangling without breaking stride or blinking once. His presence alone sends that lingering male eye snap away abruptly, looking at alphabet posters or shape charts lining the walls instead. Somewhere much, much safer.

You notice the storm brewing in Onyankopon’s expression the second you turn back toward him—that deep, dangerous set of his jaw that only appears when his possessive streak kicks in. With a soft sigh and an even softer smile, you glide your palm up to cup his face, thumb brushing lightly over the rigid line of his clenched jaw.

"Relax, baby," you murmur sweetly—so close your breath fans warm against his ear, “He was just askin’ about Asaan. No harm in that.”

The kiss you press to the corner of his mouth seems to dissolve some of that tension—especially when he catches sight of how plush your ass jiggles as you walk toward Asaan's cubby with lunchbox in hand—filling out that sundress like it was personally tailored for temptation alone.

"Baby?"

God, you were too good. You slip a hand gently around bicep muscles flexing subtly under touch, blinking up at him all doe eyed happiness—“Nou ka ale jwenn beignets anvan klas mwen an kòmanse, wi?”

“Fuck wrong wit’ niggas…”

His dark gaze flickers down at you—half exasperated, half helpless against your charms—before responding in a gruff Creole murmur of his own, “Wi. N’ap ale pran beignets.”

You beam up at him like he just promised the world, throwing one last cheerful wave toward Asaan's teacher before looping delicate fingers around Onyankopon's massive wrist to tug him along. Except—he doesn't budge immediately. Instead, he plants himself firmly for another few seconds, letting his glare do all the talking as it sweeps across the man one last time. If looks could kill, he’d be dead.

“Papa…Ou vle swiv mwen oswa non?”

Onyankopon finally huffs out something between chuckle and growl—long legs closing distance fast enough to have you squealing, fingertips grazing your waist from behind just outside the classroom door, “Gon’ head, girl. ‘Fore I get yo’ ass.”

The RAM's engine rumbles beneath you as you cruise back through the Garden District, Spanish moss dripping from ancient oaks lining streets like nature’s own chandeliers. Onyankopon taps rhythm against the steering wheel—WASTELAND by Brent Faiyaz humming low through speakers—before grunting suddenly, “A nigga head all over the place. Forgot my fuckin' tools at home."

His free hand reaches back to pat the empty space where Asaan’s car seat usually sits—now left at school for pickup later.

You hum, “That was nice though, right? Teacher seems sooo sweet with them babies—”

“Mhm.”

Your voice lilts higher as excitement bubbles up all over again—“And did you see how fast Asaan made a friend? Like —no crying or nothing! Just boom, best friends!”

“Mhm.”

Cheeks flushed from pure joy now instead of nerves, fingers reach across console to squeeze Onyankopon’s bicep while leaning close enough that vanilla perfume drifts his way—“I love when our baby surprises us like that—”

Then comes a confession whispered against his tattooed shoulder —“...Love you more than air sometimes.”

“Love you too, girl.”

Your fingers trail down his arm with slow admiration—fingertips tracing ink and muscle like a prayer.

“You’re such a good daddy,” you sigh dreamily, “Handled everything so perfectly today.”

His brow quirks before he cuts a sideways glance at you—that knowing smirk already forming because oh, he recognizes this tune. Your voice might be innocent right now but your energy? Yeah—it was no fooling him.

“You better keep them eyes off me ‘fore I pull this truck over.”

Your pout is instant—lashes batting dramatically before withdrawing hands to fold primly in your lap, “I was just saying thank you—”

“Uh huh.”

His chuckle rumbles deep beneath music crooning through speakers—“Tell that shit to somebody who ‘don't know yo' freaky ass get amped off good dad moments.”

“Me?”

Your gasp would've been convincing if your thighs weren’t pressing together, “I’m fine!”

Onyankopon just shakes his head, that deep chuckle vibrating in his chest as he watches you squirm in the passenger seat. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, those sensitive nipples already begging for attention beneath the thin fabric of your sundress, aching with every shift of your body against the seat.

The truck rumbles to a stop in front of the garage, and before he can even cut the engine completely, you’re hopping out of your seat with playful urgency—flinging open the back door like there’s some desperate need to search for something buried under jackets or forgotten toys.

You bend all the way into those plush leather seats—hips cocked just right while you pretend to search around.

Onyankopon doesn't even hesitate.

A heavy palm lands square on that ass with a sharp, smack!, loud enough it echoes against nearby parked cars—making you yelp, then giggle instantly as heat floods your caramel face.

“Papa! Tout moun kapab wè ou la!” You gasp between laughter, despite arching back into his touch shamelessly.

“Then why yo’ ass bendin’ over like we ain't got neighbors?”

You seize fistfuls of his work shirt, dragging him down into the backseat leather with zero warning—mouth crashing messily against his before either can breathe properly in return. Between hungry, wet kisses, Onyankopon grunts against your lips, his deep voice rough with restraint—

“‘Thought you wanted them beignets.”

His hands grip the curve of your waist tight as you whimper into his mouth—tongue sliding slow and filthy against his like a promise. He tilts his head back just enough to break the kiss with a sharp inhale when your teeth tug at his bottom lip in retaliation. But before he can even think about pulling away completely, you're dragging him right back in—your soft whines vibrating between tangled breaths as heat pulses between your thighs.

That’s when you finally pull back just enough to yank the top of your sundress down with trembling fingers—heavy tits spilling free as they bounce from sudden release.

"They feel too heavy, baby.”

Onyankopon's groan is dark and ragged—eyes flickering down before locking onto yours again with possessive hunger burning behind them. His thumb swipes roughly over one aching peak while snatching you back into a kiss, the schmack of your lips obscenely loud within the car doors.

His large palms engulf your heavy tits completely—fingers pressing deep into plush flesh as he kneads them roughly, his tongue still tangled with yours in a slow, filthy dance. Every firm squeeze has you whimpering into his mouth—your back arching off the seat as your nipples stiffen beneath his touch.

“Love these mothafuckin’ tiddies,” he rasps, “You lookin’ for a nigga mouth, huh?”

You nod fast, so fast.

“Yeah?”

And god help as you’re already a mess, hips grinding down on nothing as you whimper out—“Suck ‘em, baby. Yo bezwen ou tèlman mal.”

Onyankopon’s mouth latches onto one swollen nipple with a wet shlurp, tongue swirling tight circles before sucking hard enough to pull your whole body forward. Your gasp shudders through the car—head falling back against the seat, then snapping right back down just to watch him devour you.

His lips tug at each peak greedily—one hand gripping your waist while the other kneads the neglected tit possessively, making them bounce obscenely between his rough palms and hungry mouth.

"All for you, baby.”

Your fingers rush through his braids desperately, "Nobody else gets to taste em’ but you, Papa…mmph.”

His response is nothing but low grunts vibrating against your tits as he sucks harder in approval—eyes flickering up once just to see yours roll back from pleasure.

Then? You slide your dress down to your hips shamelessly, “Gonna’ ride until I milk you, baby. Just need you to lay back an’ let me take care of you, yeah?”

“You better fuckin’ mean that shit.”

Your giggles melt into hungry moans as you lean in to kiss him again, fingers already working at his belt and yanking his work pants down just enough to free him.

The moment his heavy tip springs free against your lips, you don’t hesitate—mouth sinking down on him with messy enthusiasm, slurping obscenely over the thick head before bobbing eagerly, movements quickly turning sloppy and desperate.

Shhlurp, Schmack. Every wet noise competes with Brent Faiyaz’ sultry melody of PRICE OF FAME vibrating through the truck speakers. Onyankopon growls low in his throat—one hand still tangled in your hair while he reaches back blindly to slam the seats flat behind you both for more space.

“Good lil’ bitch,” he grunts, “Just like that, baby. You doin’ good as fuck.”

With a wet pop, you pull off just enough to whimper breathlessly against his shaft—

“Tastes so good, Papa…”

Before dragging your tongue down slow and sloppy, you lap at the throbbing veins along the way until you reach his heavy sac—letting out a soft moan as you suck one ball into your mouth while twisting him expertly between your fingers. The way Onyankopon's abdomen twitches tells you everything—his gruff curses spilling ragged above sultry crooning through the speakers.

Then? You lift up just enough to let a thick string of spit drip straight from tongue to tip with filthy precision—watching it land before smearing it with slow rolls of those plush tits against him. Your giggles vibrate over flushed skin when he jerks slightly at sensation—“‘Feels good, baby?”

His response? A sharp slap on that already bouncing ass cheek while he grips the back of your neck possessively—“You know it feel good. Quit playin’.”

Onyankopon’s grip tightens at the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your curls as he tugs you down deeper—each messy gulp sending vibrations straight through his dick. Your throat flutters around him, whimpering every time that thick tip hits the back, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes yet you don’t pull away.

"That’s it,” he grunts between heavy breaths, “Gon’ lay back an' let chu’ do all the work…bounce that fat lil' ass on me ‘til I drain.”

Your moan is muffled around him—your fingers digging into his thighs before finally pulling off with a wet gasp, spit lips swollen and glistening as you pant up at him with hooded eyes.

"Promise, baby.”

The way Onyankopon's jaw clenches says everything before words even leave his mouth—“Nigga bet’ not hear one complaint when yo legs start shakin’. Move.”

You drag your tongue up the hard ridges of his abdomen, tracing each tattoo with worshipful strokes before settling into his lap—his unbuttoned work shirt barely hangs onto those broad shoulders as you feast at the sight of him. The uniform, the ink, that rough masculine energy rolling off him in waves—it makes your thighs tremble before you’ve even taken him inside.

Onyankopon leans back against the truck door with a dark stare, one arm draped lazily over the seat while those heavy lidded eyes rake like he owns every inch of your body. His free hand grips your hip possessively as you rock forward—smacking that thick tip teasingly against your slick folds until he groans low in his chest.

Then? You sink down onto him slowly—so slowly it burns. A whimper claws its way out from between clenched teeth at how full he makes you feel, stretch so deep and perfect it nearly whites out your vision for a second.

Before sanity can catch up? His hand snakes around to fist in your hair again—yanking you into a filthy kiss mid descent just so he can growl hot against swollen lips, “Ain’t no half steppin’. Take all this dick.”

And when you finally sit—the sound you make together could’ve woken up saints from eternal rest.

Your deep, shuddering breath fills the air as your hair cascades around your shoulders like a wild, curly halo. The moment his full length stretches you to the hilt, a broken moan tears from your throat—long, deep, and utterly shameless as your hips already begin rolling in slow, filthy circles against him.

Onyankopon doesn’t move—doesn’t need to. He just watches with that dark, predatory gaze while you grind down on him like he’s all you’ve ever craved—your head lolls back briefly, snapping forward again with another high pitched whine as his girth hits that perfect spot inside.

"Fuck.”

Smack!

His heavy palm lands sharp against your ass, the sound cracking through the truck like a gunshot—forcing a mewl from your lips before rolling into a moan.

"Ride this dick like you mad at it.”

His voice is continuously gruff, “I ain’t movin’ ‘til I feel you creamin’.”

And oh—you listen. Hips bucking in greedy circles, thighs trembling as you work yourself up and down his thick length—each bounce making your tits jiggle shamelessly while you whimper in that sweet mix of pleasure and overwhelming stretch.

You gasp when he bottoms out deep inside again—toes curling against leather seats, tears prickling at your eyes from how good it hurts.

“Fat ass dick, baby.”

“Yeah? That’s why you droppin’ down on me like that?”

You tuck your feet against his thick thighs for leverage, lifting yourself up only to slam back down—each bounce making that clap, clap, clap of skin echoing through the truck like a filthy metronome. Your moans pitch higher with every desperate drop, body trembling as pleasure coils tighter and tighter inside you.

Onyankopon watches with a lustful glare—the moment he sees your cream glistening around where he disappears inside you? His grip on your hips tightens like steel traps, forcing you down harder onto him while growling against your lips, “Open my muhfuckin’ pussy. You know I’m not askin’ twice.”

His mouth hovers just barely over yours—your mewls and whimpers ghosting between shared breaths as you squirm in his lap. Every tremble of your body draws another rough grunt from him until finally?

Your fingers clutch at his shoulders—words barely escaping in a shuddering whisper, “Mwen renmen ou…Renmen ou anpil…”

Onyankopon lands another sharp smack to your ass, watching with dark amusement as your mouth trembles against his—every whimper swallowed by his rough chuckle.

"Love you too, Mama. Missin’ yo’ pussy on my tongue.”

His hands slide under your thighs before you even catch your breath—lifting you like you weigh nothing before laying you back on the flattened seats. Your legs instinctively fall open, thighs quivering as he wastes zero time diving between them—mouth sealing over your slick with a wet schlorp.

The first swipe of his tongue makes your back arch off the seat like lightning struck straight through your core—“F—Fuck, baby.”

“Relax, you been too muhfuckin’ good to start actin’ up.”

His nose drags through swollen folds with a deep inhale—your scent flooding his senses—thick, sweet and so familiar. The memory of how you smelled when you carried Asaan hits him all over again—headier, richer—and it makes him groan into your pussy before burying his face even deeper. His tongue lashes slow then flicks fast against that throbbing bud until your whimpers pitch higher, thighs twitching under the force of holding back from clamping around his head.

The way he shakes his lips further between your legs, tattooed fingers digging bruises into supple flesh? Yeah, there was no stopping him.

Your moans mingle with panting—voice all high pitched and breathy, eyes fluttering at the way his braids slip through your fingers like cool ribbon against your heated skin, “Nng…you’re so sweet. ‘So handsome, baby.”

“I’m sweet, huh? Gon’ head and milk this dick, then. Bring yo’ ass back up here.”

In one swift motion, he flips your position—your thighs now straddle him in reverse against the middle back seat, hands braced on the console between the front seats for balance. The second you sink down onto him again—spreading yourself open just to take every inch deeper—your head falls forward with a breathy moan, eyes rolling shut at the overwhelming stretch.

His palm cracks against your ass again.

“Whatchu’ doin’ allat’ for?”

He grunts behind you, “You finna’ take this shit like a pro, huh? Like a nigga taught you?”

Your pout is downright precious—lips quivering slightly as you nod, fingers intertwining with his from behind before shifting your weight to begin a slow, deliberate grind. From Onyankopon’s angle, the silhouette of your curvy frame is nothing short of breathtaking—your dress bunched up around your waist, that luscious ass jiggling with every teasing roll of your hips while strands of wild curls cascade down your back like silk over smooth caramel skin.

Then? The slow torture turns into something hungrier. Your hips bounce eagerly now—each drop forcing a gasp from your swollen lips as he bottoms out inside you at just the right angle.

“Fuck!, Ony—”

You mewl between staggered breaths, peering back over your shoulder at him with hooded eyes while gripping the console for leverage.

"Mmm. I’m knowin’. Look at you.”

Your praise spills between breathless whimpers, “You’re such a good Daddy…”

Onyankopon doesn't need words—his heavy lidded glare says it all, those dark eyes drinking in every reaction in your body. His hums are low and taunting, vibrating through the air like he’s enjoying unraveling you bit by bit.

Then his fingers dig into the plush flesh of your ass—lazily gripping, yet with enough power to yank you down hard onto him.

Clap, clap, clap.

The sound of skin fills the truck as his thrust meets your drop perfectly—knocking the breath right outta you in a silent gasp before pleasure crashes over you so hard, all that comes out is a weak squeal.

Your thighs tremble wildly as that familiar coil snaps tight inside you—hips stuttering uncontrollably while cream spills around his thick length, “Ughn, Fuckkk.”

“Mhm,” He grunts from behind, watching those tits jiggle like crazy between staggered gasps, “You creamin’. ‘Knew you was finna’ paint my shit with all that poutin’.”

Your mind short circuits—pleasure so intense it turns your thoughts into static, words tumbling from your lips in a breathless, rambling mess.

“O—Ony…God, I love you so fucking much—mmph! Always m—miss you when you’re gone.”

But Onyankopon doesn't need convincing. His grip tightens on your hips, tugging your body down in slow but punishingly deep bounces now—the fat flesh of his dick pounding your pussy at this point.

Your voice hitches on a weak sob as tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, legs shaking uncontrollably while he works his way deeper inside with each measured drop.

"Yes...yes!” You whimper brokenly between gasps, head falling back onto his shoulder, crying within his ear.

Onyankopon reaches around to your stomach, sliding down to find your clit—he works his fingers in tight circles, hips beginning to snap up roughly into you.

His other hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding—the rough pads of his fingertips pressing into delicate skin as he grunts against the shell of your ear, “Clenchin’ like you scared to fuckin’ drown me.”

The dark chuckle that rumbles from his chest is pure sin—tongue dragging a hot stripe up the side of your neck before murmuring in finality, “Gon’ head, Mama. You know I ain't mad if you make a mess.”

Then? He fucks into you harder—harsh strokes that somehow still carry tenderness in their brutality until finally? A tiny whimper escapes past your swollen lips. And just like that—his encouragement cracks you open completely; pleasure erupting in waves so intense it leaves no room for anything but total surrender beneath him, drenching his thighs as you squirt on him.

"Ooh, girl. That shit pretty’ than’ a bitch.”

His praise is thick with approval as he feels every last tremor wrack through your body—“Mmmhhh,” the way Onyankopon hums against damp skin says everything words couldn't, holding your shuddering body against his.

Your body quakes violently in his arms—little tremors rippling through like aftershocks, each one drawing a soft, whimpering gasp from your puffy lips. Onyankopon has to brace both palms against your hips just to keep you steady as you collapse backward—eyes fluttering shut with wet lashes clinging together.

“Goddamn.”

He buries himself inside you completely with a shuddering growl that vibrates through your back, spilling so deep inside that your toes curl at the heat flooding you up—he’s spilling everything he had left in him with a final thrust, tugging out entirely while placing another kiss on your lips.

The heated moment dissolves into something softer as your whimpers melt into breathless giggles—lips still pressed messily against Onyankopon’s while he pulls back just enough to raise a thick, skeptical brow.

"Laughin'? ‘The ‘hell so funny?”

You bite your lower lip sheepishly before murmuring—cheeks warm from more than just exertion—"We... were s’posed to get beignets, Ony.”

Onyankopon stares at you for a solid beat before bursting into rough chuckles himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Disrespectful. I make yo' pussy sing an' you worried ‘bout some fuckin’ sugar bread.”

“Why you’ gotta be mean, hm?” You pout lightly, dragging yourself off of his lap to adjust your dress—you giggle as he yanks you closer to him by your hips, “Leave me alone, Ony!”

Onyankopon smirks, his grip tightening just enough to keep you from pulling away completely—that cocky glint in his eyes flashing as he drags a slow, teasing palm up your thigh.

“Leave you alone? After allat’?” he smacks his lips, “Nah. You owe a nigga some beignets after fuckin’ me inna’ backseat when we both got shit to do today.”

He nips playfully at your earlobe before finally releasing you with a lazy pat to your hip—watching with smug satisfaction as you fuss with your dress like it wasn’t him who ruined it in the first place.

“Quit poutin’. I’ll buy yo’ crybaby ass two boxes.”

That makes you pout even more, “I’m not a crybaby,” tugging the spaghetti straps of the flecked dress upward—you pause, “Baby? Are my boobs really that big—you think that’s why that guy was tryna’ talk to me?”

“Hell yeah they’ big. You walk around lookin’ like this—” His thick palm smacks lightly against one plush tit, making it vibrate slightly beneath the fabric, “If I wasn’t yo’ husband, I’d stare too. Shoulda’ let me break that nigga fuckin’ jaw, though.”

You roll your eyes—especially when he leans in to nip at your collarbone with a grumble.

“Tch. My tiddies.”

“Wanna’ suck em’ one more time?” You release your straps, letting them fall freely once more, “Just for good luck, of course.”

Onyankopon groans—half exasperated, half amused—as you let the straps of your dress fall again.

“You ain't playin' fair," he mutters, but he's already leaning in, his warm mouth latching onto one peaked nipple with a filthy suction sound that makes your breath hitch.

"Mmmh! O—Ony!" You giggle between little gasps as his teeth graze lightly over sensitive skin—his large hands kneading and squeezing both breasts possessively while he growls against them.

"These mine?”

His voice is muffled against your flesh as he sucks another dark mark into the swell of your tit, slurping up your nipple loudly.

Your whimper comes out shaky with laughter as you nod frantically—fingers tangled in his braids to tug him closer for emphasis—“Y—Yes… all yours, baby.”

But just when his grip tightens like he’s about to get real serious again? You press a hand to his chest and push back gently, “C’mon, Ony.”

His scoff is dramatic—and entirely unconvincing—before releasing you reluctantly, “Nigga just doin’ what you said…” He grumbles under breath while readjusting himself, knowing full well you’d been stalled here longer than necessary between beignet cravings and impromptu titty worship sessions.

You smooth the wrinkles from your dress and adjust your glasses, fingers fluttering self-consciously as you reach over to button Onyankopon’s shirt with practiced ease—your voice quieter now, more vulnerable than playful.

"You just—always... keep me together," you murmur, tucking a loose curl behind your ear, “Even when I'm spiraling about stupid stuff."

The confession lingers between you two for a beat before you exhale sharply, the real worry now slipping out.

“It’s just… Asaan’s in school now. The shop is thriving. You got new contracts coming in every other week,” your fingers pause on his collar before dropping away weakly, “And I’m still here, stuck in coursework while everything else is...”

A vague gesture of frustration comes, half formed before dissolving into silence.

Onyankopon studies your face for a moment—his usual cockiness softening into something steadier as he catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing those watery eyes to meet his own unshaken gaze.

“Ain't no race, Mama."

A calloused palm taps lightly, “You really my wife, man. Smart, pretty ass woman trippin’ ‘bout time when she already got everythin’ handled? Nah."

A small, grateful smile tugs at your lips as his words settle deep in your chest—that unwavering love and support only he can give. You shift closer, climbing back onto his lap with a quiet sigh, your fingers tracing the tattoos along his collarbone before murmuring against his skin.

“I love you so much…’Can’t wait ‘til we got a whole basketball team runnin’ around,” The thought makes you giggle softly—already picturing more tiny versions of him wreaking havoc in your home.

Onyankopon feels something tighten in his chest at that—your dreams wrapping around him just as tightly as he wraps himself around you. He tilts your chin up, capturing those sweet lips in a slow kiss that lingers until you whimper into it with needy impatience—sucking at his bottom lip this time like you're the one starving for more.

“Mmh,” He hums darkly, “You a fuckin’ problem.”

But despite how easy it would be to lose another hour right here between heated kisses and promises of future babies? Reality taps at the window like an impatient creditor.

"You got class in forty five minutes," he reminds, “And I gotta go put some niggas on payroll before they start callin’ me 'bout lunch breaks."

You let out a little whine against his lips, “You just make me so horny, Ugh. You’re annoying!”

You’re being dramatic, you know that.

“Fine. But we’re gettin’ those beignets and people watching until you have to leave me.”

Onyankopon does what a husband is supposed to, which is just listen. Before he can even respond properly, you squeak and scramble back into the passenger seat—adjusting your dress with a smile as if you hadn't just been devouring each other minutes ago.

“Today’s been so sweet,” You beam,“I miss Asaan though, Papa. ‘Can’t wait to see that lil' face later.”

Then comes the playful glint—the one that always gets you in trouble—as you tease lightly while buckling up, “‘Might even see that cute dad at pick up again—”

Onyankopon cuts you off with a sharp glare through the rearview mirror.

“You tryna’ get yo’ ass tore up in this backseat again?”

You huff immediately, cheeks flushing—“No!”

“Aight’, that’s what I thought. Let’s go get yo’ lil beignets now.”

#don’t mind me #just saving this for later <333 #onyankopon x black y/n #onyankopon fluff #onyankopon x black reader smut #onyankopon x reader #aot onyankopon #onyankapon #onyankopon smut #cherry’s recs 🍒✨

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