written by angels

24 black/puerto rican

[prairiedeath]

[ruesdeluxe]

[wildnickk]

[princessofnecro-deactivated2025]

my tail wags when i give head btw

[pinkmirth]

i will slurp him right the fuck up like a hot bowl of buldak don’t even play with me rn

[m0ney]

PinkPantheress ‧₊˚𖦹𓂃౨ৎ˚

[bimbokutos]

well who fw 9muses! anyone

[pawghter]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──── 33 . 2k wrdz , black fem reader , dominican connie [ he says da n word a couple times ] , music artists connie & reader , strangers to smthn to loverz , reader’z 23 connie’z 25 , slight miscommunication , kinda shy reader + she has a prominent birthmark on her face , lotsaaaaa feelings , pining , controlling connie , mentions of anxiety , website translated spanish [ sawriiii . ] , fingering , daddy kink ! ! , slight dubcon moment , oral sex [ r -> c ] , squirting . typical yuckiness .

𝜗ϱ 𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 𝑜𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝑒 . . . my longest fic 2 date , gulp . if u make it to the end , kudos 2 u . m givin you all of my kissies . back wif a bang i guess . have fun . Minors Do Not Interact !

“La, la, la, la, la, la, la . . .”

You hum a gentle scale into the head of your microphone while restlessly twirling the drawstring of your sweatpants around your index finger. Your voice is returned back to you through the in-ears, balanced and familiar. around you, shining down on you, are lights . . big and bright, like stars that have been dragged too close.

“La, la, la, la, la, la, la . . .” Mindlessly, you drag your feet across the two hundred and twenty foot wide stage, walking from one end to the other. Beneath your hums is the soft chatter of the stage crew as they set up mics, run cables, and check for speaker delays. Your manager’s somewhere in the mix, probably on the phone scheduling that magazine interview with allure she’s been fighting to work into a time slot in your never ending docket of events for about a month now. You draw in a deep, slow inhale, look out towards the sea of empty seats . . . then immediately pull your sight away. You try not to linger on it — the fear, that is — you keep your focus on the stage floor instead.

“B-Betty Botter bought some butter and a proper copper coffee pot. Betty Botter bought some butter and a proper copper co—“

“—꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱!”

The sound of your name being called sparks a sharp current that travels down your spine. You spin on your heels to watch Annie wave you closer towards her position at the east wing of the stage and without thinking, you rush on over.

“Conference meeting in five.” She takes your microphone and hands it over to one of the crew members without sparing them a glance. It’s natural for you to quickly pull out your in-ears and hand them over, too. “You okay like this?” She motions to your outfit — wide legged sweatpants in powder pink, long sleeved leotard nearly the same shade, and Ugg boots. “Because I don’t think we have time to change. This is still kind of last minute.”

You give a soft smile that doesn’t quiet meet your eyes, “ ‘m okay, Annie.”

Your fingers don’t match your words, always the tell tale in revealing your never still, always bubbling anxiety. You twist at the rings that cover nearly each one, continuously ‘round and ‘round, rub and squeeze at your knuckles — all a rhythm to somehow keep your thoughts in one order. Every tiny movement is an anchor as the abhorrent conference meeting you’ve all but known about since last week approaches.

”I know it’s not ideal but the guy is more busy than I expected. I thought the two of you could maybe have a one on one some time last month to become better acquainted but, no hope. You’ll probably meet him at the stadium’s conference meeting in a few days.”

That’s all the warning Annie had given you and for six days, you were left on edge, dreading it, anticipating it, itching for it. You’ve heard his name more times than you’ve heard your own these past couple of months, seen his face in passing on billboards, press photos, and on a walking stranger’s t shirt. One glance around the conference room and the thought is rapid — there’s no hiding from him here.

It’s smaller than you expected. Fluorescents are harsh against the pale walls and dark wood of the large, oval shaped table that twelve, cushioned rolling chairs surround, though only two remain empty. The surface of the table is scattered in paper, diagrams of the stage, laptops, coffee cups, and walkie talkies. About ten others are peppered here and there, leaned against the wall while taking a phone call, shooting a text, or even hovering over the table to point at a paper and discuss something with another. Seeing the familiar faces of the rest of your team calms your racing heart.

You say your gentle hellos and go to take a seat beside your security lead, Reiner. His presence is stabilizing, a familiar tether in the midst of this somewhat controlled chaos. The empty seat beside you feels daunting in a way. You know who it’s for, you know that the meeting between you both is inevitable yet you can’t stop bouncing your leg underneath the table. “He’s late,” Reiner leans over and murmurs close to your ear.

“Oh,” your eyes grow wide and instinctually, you reach for the thin chain you wear that dangles the first initial of your name. “Am I—“

“You are. But there’s a hell of a difference between five minutes and ten.”

Your eyes travel across nearly each face within the room. Most appear unbothered by it, Annie rolls her eyes, the stage manager rubs at the wrinkles in his forehead . . more so out of stress about whatever a production coordinator is quietly mumbling to him than the fact that the tour’s headliner is eleven minutes late to the meeting. You try to focus on what you can, the diagrams and messily scribbled versions of the setlist mostly, however can’t stop your eyes from continuously darting towards the double doors where you hear approaching footsteps.

One of them quickly opens without a knock and you catch eye of a man, about six feet tall, blue eyed, wearing a suit pressed without a wrinkle or line in sight first. He steps in to hold the door open for him, Connie Springer, who’s followed by two more people that you don’t really recognize. He walks with an easy confidence, dressed in a pair of dark washed jeans, stitched with a subtle, swirling pattern all over them and matching hoodless jacket with a clean, white tee underneath. He wears glinting gold jewelry — handful of chains, some rings, and a blue faced watch that all wink hello underneath the artificial, white lighting of the room and your eyes catch on the new design that’s dyed almost all over his token buzzed and bleached head — cheetah print.

The room somehow feels smaller. Your tongue moves against the roof of your mouth, or at least tries to, nonetheless, it’s gone completely dry. He’s there . . he’s here, in all of his disgustingly handsome, six foot four glory and you can barely even move.

You watch him smile faintly at everyone. His manager’s apologizing for their tardiness yet you can barely hear him over the monotonous, loud thuds of your heart. your chest feels tight. instincts scream at you to look away, and you do, however your eyes can’t stop slowly traveling back up to him. He takes his time working throughout the room, shakes a few hands, quietly introduces himself to most of your team until he’s finally a couple steps away from you. Closer, you notice that his eyes are hazel — you see his face almost everywhere but, the intensity of them in person is something else entirely. Every movement he makes feels natural though measured, every glance is purposeful and lands with a quiet command that makes spines straighten.

His attention settles on you.

“Connie, this is—“

“—I know who she is.”

Your acrylic nails dig so far deep into the meat of your palms, you’re sure that they’re a hair away from bursting an artery.

His voice is calm. Brooklyn is woven through his words and you catch the faint inflections in the way he pronounces each one. The chair beside you is pulled back and angled slightly sideways to give himself more breathing room when he settles into his seat. His cologne hits a second later — dark and smooth, like leather, and smoked vanilla — a kind of scent that envelops a person’s senses in only the sweetest way possible. His eyes are scanning the table again, assessing everything and everyone as he leans back, loosely interlocks his fingers on top of his abdomen, and gets comfortable. Then his gaze is back on you, composed yet inquisitive. The air feels heavy.

Your lips are parting in readiness of an introduction.

Not less than a second later, Connie’s tour manager claps her hands and he parts his attention towards her. “Let’s get started!”

The meeting moves quick — transitions, security checkpoints, stage positionings and timing are discussed. efficient. Straightforward. Both Connie and you listen quietly. You, with your hands politely folded in your lap, connie, with his head lowered, posture slouched, and ease written into nearly every line of him. When all is said and done, chairs roll against the floors as people break off into smaller clusters, already mid sentence in discussing lighting cues and load times. Your pr agent and choreographer, Anthony, stand, give you goodbyes and assurance that they’re only a phone call away and Reiner lets you know that he’ll be standing outside the door.

The room eventually only leaves you, Annie, the two people connie entered the room with, him, and his manager. The silence feels different. only slightly less tensed, less crowded.

“You good?”

He’s talking to you.

The volume of his voice is somehow even lower than when he first walked in. You don’t strain your ears to listen but it does force you to look at him and give your attention. His focus is settled entirely on you now. He no longer scans the room but you, in his own particular way without even having to break his eyes from your own.

“ ‘m fine.”

His chin dips the slightest bit lower then they squint a bit, not in suspicion but evaluation. “Fine . .” he weighs the word on his own tongue. “. . You been on stages this size before?”

“A few.” You don’t have to hesitate on your answer because it’s the truth. Therefore, again, you say, “I’m fine. I’ll be okay.”

The corner of his mouth pulls upward — deliberate and slow. You can’t help glancing down a few times at it, at his teeth. Not veneers, you’d guess that he maybe wore braces in his teen hood because they’re flawless. Barely a gap nor a single chip, and a pearly white. You watch his eyes flick down then back up, it’s quick but not crude . . he’s assessing you like, you assume, he does almost everything else in his life. “Good, good,” a careful nod. “Just makin’ sure my opener ain’t gon’ pass out underneath those lights.”

Something in your tummy flips. His words hang between you both, weighty. My opener. You straighten your posture, squeeze your hands tighter together, “. . You worried about me or your show?”

A pause. you feel Annie shift where she stands a couple feet behind you. Connie’s manager pretends to check his phone.

Your question forces him to suddenly lean forward, forearms on knees which brings him a little closer to you though not entirely within your bubble. The color of his eyes lean more towards the grayish scale of hazel — a ring of dark clouds with specks of mahogany and sage caught near the iris. They don't just look at you, they render you almost completely immobile. “Mm, difference?” He gives a small shrug and faint purse of his lips.

There.

A test.

You fight to hold his gaze, and the thing is, you successfully do. And although your eyes are on his, you still think he hears the faintest warble in your voice when you respond with, “I don’t need babysitting.”

Quietly, he studies you for a long second, eyes searching yours for something, then nods once. “Good. I don’t like carryin’ people.”

His words should feel insulting, maybe even dismissive yet they don’t. Instead, they feel like a request. When he stands, you do, too. He’s adjusting the clip of his watch and the expensive cologne you had a whiff of melts into the air around you both. “Can’t wait to see what you do with that thirty, ma.”

He takes the air you breathe when he exits out of the room with his team flanked behind him. Your chest rises and falls in a tremble as you remain silently staring at the now closed door, listening to Annie scoff, “A prick, isn’t he?”

You immediately shake your head, never tearing your eyes away from the knob. The anticipation of it twisting again bubbles beneath your skin. Maybe he left something? Maybe he simply wants to have a longer conversation. “No, no,” your voice is quiet, faraway. “. . He seems nice.”

ׅ ❤︎

The hours leading up to a show have always put a strain on your nervous system.

You told Connie the truth about that — that you’ve performed on stages this size before because you have. Clips of your VMA performance last year still goes viral once a month but, you suppose you lied a little too. You’ve never performed for more than forty thousand people in a stadium, and this one houses sixty.

“Mmm,” you pace back and forth in your dressing room, head bowed and eyes closed as your knuckles massage the bridge of your nose. You hear the murmurings of about fifty thousand conversations outside your door as everyone settles into their seats and the thumping bass of Connie’s artist approved pre show playlist — not too loud, but just enough to keep the room on edge. Ten minutes before a performance, you always request your dressing room to yourself. Ring lights dimmed, door locked, and room quiet, you inhale deep breaths as you slowly walk back and forth, wall to wall, to keep your nerves from jittering too much.

The flowing, dramatic sleeves of your stage fit kisses your skin as you move. Chains suspended along your abdomen, dangling from your custom designed top shimmer beneath the low lighting. You think your heart beats louder than the bass out there.

Suddenly, you stop.

You turn to look at your reflection within a full length mirror, at the glowing undertone of your warm, brown skin that illuminates beneath a thin veil of body oil. An abstract bloom of pigment, slightly lighter than your skin tone, stretches across the full planes of your cheeks and settles over the bridge of your nose. It's not neat, not aesthetic as one would say, but it's you. Took you nearly eight years to stop trying to erase it. Eight years of pressing full coveraged powders into your skin and carefully layering blush over it to better conceal. You blurred yourself into something flat. Dull. Now at age twenty three, you let it breathe most times underneath sheer foundations.

Leaning closer into the bulb framed mirror lets your eyes catch onto the tiny, heart shaped rhinestones that dot the outer corner of your eyes. Gloss gleams across the plushness of your lips and a forty five inched, kinky curly sew in flows down to your knees — one side slick and tucked behind your ear to expose one of your in ear’s with its milky, opalescent surface shifting from a delicate lavender to icy blue like moonlight caught behind glass.

You look pretty.

You feel like someone who’s deserving of being here right now.

A shaky breath puffs out your cheeks then you’re smoothing your hands down your stomach. Your heart still gallops but it’s different now . . you can bear it. “You’re okay,” you whisper to your reflection. “You’ll be perfect.”

Outside your dressing room door, you hear the volume of the playlist lowering and a slower more swelling baseline. One of your first cues.

Then, a knock at your door. “꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, you’re on in five!”

“Okay!”

You straighten your back prior to leaning and grabbing your microphone from off of the vanity. It’s chrome base is cool against your fingers — solid and grounding even, with the body coated in a fine veil of white, crystal shimmer that scatters light similar to a pocketful of stars each time you tilt it. It’s not loud, it sparkles. Purposeful. Custom made exactly how you wanted it. It’s weight is balanced perfectly, the grip sized to your small palm. You even made sure the finish was glossed to its touch to keep the crystals from scraping against your rings. A microphone has always felt right in your hand, albeit your hairbrush, mop stick, or television remote, the feeling’s never changed. Holding it now feels less like picking something up and more like being returned something that’s always belonged to you.

Therefore, after one last breath, you’re turning, unlocking your door, and quickly pulling it open to let Annie, Reiner, and more of the tech coordinators shuffle you into the back seat of a golf cart to drive you towards the stage.

In the far left wing of the stadium’s custom towering, smiley faced designed stage — his distorted, neon lit trademark — Connie stands. He shouldn’t be here, he knows that. Never has he watched sets from the wings. If his name is on it, he’s either performing or already in an escalade on the way back to his hotel. Standing still while another commands the room has never felt right to him. Intrusive, even.

But when told that you’re up . . . he had to leave his dressing room from his pre-set work out to come see this. To see you.

As the beat of your opening song swells deeper and deeper, low, dreamy, and patient, he folds his arms, shifts his weight, and clears his throat. He hears the crowd getting louder. The ground of the stage is beginning to sheathe with a thin fog. He tells himself it’s out of simple curiosity. Industry respect, too. Then the spotlights shift from white to a pearlescent pink . .

You walk out and Connie’s brain quiets for what feels like the first time in over a decade.

He’s known about you for a while.

Longer than what most people would suspect maybe. You started off posting covers on Soundcloud seven years ago when you were sixteen. You were anonymous then. Tagging each one underneath the name ‘solstice.’ Connie didn’t hear about you until you were nineteen, but come that first play of your first hit single on the radio about a year and a half ago, he knew.

Your voice alone is flawless, but it wasn’t just that that garnered his attention. You seem to carry a certain type of magnetism that sticks to a person — hovers over them through the shittiest boom box speakers or high end headphones. The way even the smallest notes you produced invoked something in him let Connie know that he needed to protect it, hold it close, make sure the world didn’t swallow it before he got his turn.

That’s why he wasted no time making you the opener of his first stadium tour without even knowing what you looked like.

Barefoot, iridescent make up, highlight high on your cheeks, and brown skin glowing beneath the long, fluidic, liquid white draping of your stage costume, Connie finds himself standing with his fist nearly covering his mouth. His index and thumb loosely curl around his lips as he watches, eyes focused on you flowing through sweetly seductive choreography with his eyebrows lowered.

Your music has always sat between sensual and melancholic. There’s something almost casual in the way you move. There’s not a lot of force or power. You aren’t trying to be sexy, you just are.

Connie takes the chance at looking up at one, out of six, large, led screens above your head. The camera catches at your eyes — though brown, they’ve still managed to darken beneath the lighting. They’re beautiful . . you’re dangerous. He notices how the crowd screams your lyrics back to you, desperate to be heard. Strangers in the front row grabbing onto each other’s arms out of excitement when you glide closer to the edge of the stage, bodies jittering almost frantically. Applause grows more thunderous the more you stay up there.

He exhales a slow breath through his nose . . . quietly nods.

Yeah.

You’re a star.

Not the fragile kind or one that burns out underneath too much pressure. No, you’re here to stay. right before those lights dim and your last note fades into a reverb, instinctively, you’re turning your head towards the left wing in search of Annie, Anthony, something or someone solid. Nevertheless, your eyes are drawn to where the halo of your spotlight dissolves into shadow — and there he stands just before it, arms folded, as if he'd been rooted there all night.

Was he?

Did he stand there during the entire thirty of your set? For a split second . . you look at him.

He returns your stare with his own and your pulse skips.

There’s a slow, deliberate shift of his jaw and just as briskly, you force your eyes to snap away.

The lights fade back into a warm gold and breathlessly, you’re giving your shy and sweet thanks into your microphone. You don’t look left again. You don’t think that you can. Instead, you bow, turn, and follow your twelve background dancers that usher you behind one of the led towers backstage where he’d been standing.

Subconsciously, you find your eyes darting from here to there as you try to search for him. He’s gone. Your microphone and in ears are taken, then a cold water bottle and towel are shoved in your hands. Where did he go? Faint shreds of disappointment manage to work their way into your previous sphere of proudness. He was here, you know he was . . but he isn’t anymore.

It’s a little upsetting and you aren’t sure as to why. You’ve never needed anyone’s approval before, although Connie’s attention . . his praise, you saw it glowing beneath the storm of his eyes, felt nice. Better than anything you’ve felt before. If you’re honest with yourself, it somehow even felt better than words could describe. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek and preparing to shuffle off towards your dressing room when you hear—

"Good set, ma.”

Low and close.

He’s behind you. You turn but he’s already quickly walking past while adjusting his in ears. your nose catches onto the notes of his cologne again — this one’s more fresh . . clean. You tip your chin higher to look up at him, but his expression gives you nothing back. It's calm and composed, as a stylist adjusts the swaying, white gold, cuban link chain on top of his chest while another blots his forehead free of any excess oil or sweat before the shine even forms. He doesn't break eye contact you for a second through it all. "You held the silence good,” he continues softer, eyes half lidded when he stares down into your own. Not lazy, not tired . . . focused.“Most people rush it.”

And that’s all. Before you can give a timid thanks or even question him of his time spent watching you, he’s moving towards a ramp downstairs that will lead him below one of the stages where a platform waits to rise him up on within the center of the warped, neon lit face. The skin at the back of your neck prickles with goosebumps. There’s that feeling again . . . of pure, unadulterated elation at the confirmation of him watching. Of him subtly letting you know that he did. you want to scream. You want to turn on your heels, head back to your dressing room, and let the rest of the night blissfully pass. But, you can’t. The soles of your still bare feet remain planted against the smooth flooring beneath you as the entire stadium suddenly goes black.

Everyone knows what that means. The crowd erupts into almost animalistic screams.

There’s a spark of light when a single bass note drops — deep and heavy.

That’s all there is for a a few seconds, silence broken by roars of excitement. Energy pulses throughout the stadium as a square shaped platform rises from beneath the stage, right in the center of the smiley face’s warbled grin. It’s as though come the second his silhouette becomes recognizable, the yells surge louder. You nibble upon the skin of your bottom lip when the platform locks into place with a heavy, metallic thud. Behind him on the screen is glitching surveillance style footage . . . black and white, grainy, and distorted. Staticy lines like old cctv footage snag across the shouting faces of fans packed tight standing within the ‘face’ of the smiley — the pit, as they reach up towards him.

He doesn’t rush.

A camera watches him lift his head and you stare, nearly breathless, as he turns and takes a few slow steps to his right with his chin up to assess people in the high rised seats. He lifts his mic up to his mouth, “Mhmm.”

The beat of his first song of the night plunges.

You feel it in your ribs . . his hunger, his control of it. He moves along the circular edge of the stage now, black timberlands heavy against the floor that glows beneath each step he takes. A black muscle tank beneath a tactical vest clings almost hungrily to the wide, beefy span of his abdomen, dampening with sweat when five minutes hit twenty. The cuban link around his neck catches at every strobe of light and the camera soaks in the glints of dazzling rainbows shining against honeyed skin. Dark tattoos, only a few colored at the wide slope of his biceps and forearms, shift and flex without them even meaning to.

Everything he does is meticulous.

Eyes of grayish hazel scan the pit slowly as he keeps the head of his mic pressed against his lips. They assess . . sometimes selects a person who’s rapping along to each bar for a fierce challenge. Every one of them always ends up exploding, screaming his name, scrambling at the barriers. He never gives a full smile, only ever a knowing smirk or bites one down over his bottom lip.

You swallow.

It’s the restraint, you find. Connie doesn’t chase their screams, he has command over them. For a moment, he appears less like a performer and more like something carved out of the stage itself — industrial, illuminating, untouchable. What begins to settle in your chest, it’s not only commendation . . it’s some wariness, too. He stood here in this very spot and watched you like this. Calculated, quiet, soaking you in the same way you are soaking him in.

Suddenly, the memory of his slow, deliberate jaw shift feels different now. You realize you’ve been watching him this entire time with your arms hugged around yourself, fingers restlessly rubbing at the hip of your flowing skirt.

You inhale a deep breath.

It’s hard to pinpoint what these exact feelings are, but they make you hyper aware. Of everything . . . your posture, your voice, the blood pumping through your veins. Because if he performs like this . . . you’re aware that touring with him won’t just be background noise. You had expectations of you politely opening each concert and slipping off backstage with that much more exposure than the night before. A win-win. However, this isn’t going to be that.

This is going to be pressure, late nights, shared green rooms, close proximity.

Another inhale — this one shakier. You know yourself well enough to understand one thing: getting too close to Connie holds a lot of risk and won’t have you walking away from him unchanged. This tour . . and the undeniably charged current that flows between the two of you is either going to make you into something bigger than you’ve ever been . . or split you completely in half.

ׅ ❤︎

The official tour announcement drops two days later.

An eight second teaser video of the two of you in your own respective studio sessions — flashes of your frames in a booth, fingers on the sound panel, voices quiet and layered beneath each other’s is posted onto both of your respective’s Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok’s and is viral within ten minutes. Clips of both of your performances circulate, edits pair your songs together, ship you together, you make sure to limit your screen time to a measly two hours a day come stumbling across an account dedicated to only posting said edits.

You don’t need them getting in your head.

Rehearsals are immediate — everyday, between nine am and two pm. The stadium is empty during these hours. No exhilarated screams or constellation of phone flashes shining at you. Just you and your evocative echo. The first one you share with Connie, you keep your distance. It’s easy to. You make sure to get there about an hour early with Annie, Reiner, Anthony, and your vocal coach and start scales before the light bulbs even warm. Your voice stretched smoothly up into the rafters while stage crews began setting up for another night of spectacle. By the time Connie walks onto the stage — perpetually dressed in oversized sweats, fitted cap, and zip up hoodie thrown over it as if he rolled out of bed and accidentally became famous — you’re already grounded. Already somewhere steady. Somewhere mentally where his intimidation slides off you clean.

It’s always professional.

He stands a few feet away during your run through, fists shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he lifts his chin to watch the monitors. Or pretending to. You never look at him long enough to confirm. when passing each other’s crossing marks, it’s a brief orbit of two bodies aware of gravity but scarily mindful of refusing collision. That first show in Los Angeles was hot. Three nights at one stadium means there’s no time to romanticize it, though. Night two is sharper . . cleaner. You know what to expect, what to perfect. You begin to familiarize yourself with the stage underneath your feet which culminates into night three being all about control.

You let yourself sit in a note for a split second longer, take in the applause that crests louder and louder.

Connie had watched your set silently from the wings on all three nights — never smiling, never frowning . . just observing. With his arms folded, shoulders swole, and eyes seemingly stuck on the line of your body and contours of your face. Between these nights, you learn the rhythm of ice baths, vocal steams, and quick debriefs with Annie and the rest of your team in dim, busy hallways. Connie becomes only someone you see in passing.

During the wee hours of the morning, you’d sometimes spot him standing within the middle of a parking lot your two tour buses would claim overnight with a hand shoved down the front of his sweats to keep it warm while the other held a chubby blunt between his fingers. Underneath the rising sun the plush, pink pillows of his lips would pull a long hit from it and smoke’d curl out lazily from them whenever he exhales. he never paces, never strolls. Merely just . . stands there, staring out at the horizon as though he were waiting for something. He’s an early bird — you learn that. By the time you and your team, as well as his, drag yourselves out towards catering tents or food trucks for breakfast, he’s already showered, new hoodie, cap pulled low over his bleached head.

Coincidentally, sometimes you find the both of you next to each other in line while waiting to grab some food. There’s never any real conversation. You give a soft though tight lipped smile, he always nods subtly back in return. When you pass each other in narrow backstage corridors, it’s a simple glance. brief. Quickly analyzing. Never invasive or rude, solely . . aware.

In between the two days from Los Angeles to San Francisco with no shows planned, Annie mentions a campaign shoot. “Full visual rollout. You and Connie,” she says while pencilling schedules into her calendar on the digital screen of her iPad. “Warehouse downtown.” You don’t ask why it can’t be separate because you know the answer. The morning before San Francisco night one, your black escalade pulls up to a stretch of industrial buildings that appear abandoned on first glance. Loading docks are rusted at the hinges and bricks darkened with age are covered in moss.

Having been glammed up in your hotel suite, the brittle crunch of gravel beneath the thin high heels you wear makes you feel slightly out of place. Each one of your steps are careful and slow as Annie and Reiner follow closely behind you around a production truck where cables weave out through its opened doors. While walking by, you glance up within its interior, noting the lighting rigs and coiled cords stacked like metal intestines. Inside the warehouse, the dull scents of dust and electricity waft about. Nervously, you rub your lips together as your eyes naturally roll up to scan the almost scarily high ceilings.

Within the center of the room is a lone, steel chair. Around it, long translucent panels drape from the iron beams up above and flow to the floor. They're all sheer and gauzy, some a light cream, others pearly white, suspended at fluctuating angles to create depth. A gentle breeze caused from hidden fans keep them all in light motion, never flat. Some of the bones of the industrial building remain exposed, brick and iron, a sharp edge in the softness. A warm glow from the late morning sun filters in through the skylight. It all feels like something perfectly crossed between mechanical and empyreal.

You swallow, eyes locked on the chair. Senselessly, it intimidates you. Or maybe, it's the air around it that does. One chair that is somehow designed to hold two figures. One floating, one grounded.

You’d been told that the aesthetic for the shoot was 'soft brutalism' — quoted directly from Annie. "Soft lighting in a steel warehouse. Flowing but still." Now, while standing before the entire set design, you can’t help butterflies from swarming your gut at how intimate this all feels.

You take another look around the room — this time, you really look. Just beyond the sweep of fabric, standing near a dome camera tucked off to the side is Connie. He's in a wine red button down, material not glossy or silk, but a high quality cotton that holds structure at his arms though drapes down to stop just barely after his knuckles. Black tailored trousers fall straight down his long legs and right over a pair of wheat colored timbs pulled straight out of a box.

Soft but still . . . sharp. He looks less like a performer today and more like a figure pulled straight from an editorial spread of Harper's Bazaar.

“We’re going to need some touch ups,” Annie’s mumbling while swiveling her head on her shoulders, likely looking for the make up team. “You can head on over there, babe. Just give me a minute.”

You falter but force your legs to begin to carry you closer to that chair. He isn't looking at you . . . not yet at least. His focus is on watching a staff member adjust one of those hanging panels as he stands back, not saying a word.

Suddenly, one of the layers billows out due to a particular harsh wind of a fan which blurs Connie's outline into nothing but a tall, indistinctive blob for a second. When it settles back into place, he's looking directly at you — not scanning the room, not past you, but at you. The beat of your heart begins to thud that much quicker. You pretend not to notice as the director cuts through your path to begin a brisk but polite introduction. "Hey, great, perfect timing," he smiles while offering a hand. "We're keeping this really minimal. Lots of negative space. We want the focus to just be on you both."

Even while offering a gentle smile and affirming nods, you still feel it. His stare. It pierces through you and renders you keenly aware of your own body. Of the way your shoulders sit, the rise and fall of your chest, warmth gathering underneath your skin. Suddenly, every movement you make simply feels exposed. You wonder if you're holding your hands weird, if his attention has found the birthmark that extends across your nose to your cheeks. One glance back towards him and it's confirmed . . . he isn't looking away.

"Alright, I need you and Connie center."

Warm light catches on his button down, deepening the color as he begins to walk fully onto the set. He's wearing two gold chains, thin and delicate, that glints flashes of amber when he moves. On his index finger sits a chunky ring, a warm shine against the warmth of his skin. He doesn't rush his steps. Each is measured — timberlands thudding upon the concrete with every one of them. You inhale a breath through your nose as the hum of the warehouse fades into a barely there buzz when he stops a few feet in front of you.

Not close enough to really touch but close enough to where you feel a subtle shift in the air. Upon gathering enough courage, you finally look directly up into his eyes. "First one's simple," the director's saying though you don't really catch the tail-end of it because you notice Connie's eyes drifting.

Slowly. Deliberately. Not crude or in a rush.

From your eyes, to the bridge of your nose . . . lingering for a bit at the marble of your birthmark. Then lower, tracing the line of your jaw, hollow of your collarbones, then they slip down to the bodice of your dress. You're sure he sees the way the muscles beneath the skin of your abdomen tense because, due to the style of it, half of it is exposed.

"I want you standing. Connie, sit."

His attention is snatched away and without a beat missed, he lowers down onto the steel chair without much hassle and leans back against it as you fall into place beside him, letting the director instruct you on what to do with your arms and hands. "Perfect," the director soon mumbles before he's quickly walking away to grab his camera. You watch how Connie's legs naturally fall open, grounded and unbothered. His left hand rests upon his upper thigh, leaving his elbow jutted outward which creates a strong line throughout his frame. To top it off, his head angles just slightly downwards as he fixes a gaze of almost impassiveness towards the lens.

You, at his right side, are more graceful. Your body curves where his straightens — hand upon the back of the chair he sits in. The subtle angle of your stature creates a long, cultivated sweep from your shoulder down to your hip. The contrast between you both is immediate . . it's electrifying.

"Hold it."

No eye contact between you is exchanged but the space where your bodies part feels impossibly deliberate — like a line drawn in chalk neither of you are allowed to step over. From the outside looking in, the pose reads as cool and unperturbed. From the inside, it feels like a line of pressure being stretched taut between two fixed points. You blow out a quiet breath, the sound softer than you expected it to be, after what feels like a dozen shots are captured and you both are able to move again.

Quickly, both of your own separate make up artists rush in. As yours go to dab on a fresher coat of gloss, one adjusts Connie's sleeves and blots at his forehead. His gaze is shifting again, towards you. He barely reacts to the bodies buzzing around you both, barely even blinks. Your make up artists tilts your chin up a higher fraction with her pinkie, "Look up for me." You do, and in doing so, you feign close interest at the skylight up above, admiring the wispy specks of clouds extended over a sky of blue like stretched cotton.

Seconds tick off into long minutes, eventually twenty. Within those twenty minutes, you and Connie are instructed into four more different poses. Between each one, you look over by the monitors where Annie stands. Her eyes jerk back and forth among several computer screens and she sometimes nod at whatever a tech crew tells her. Although stone faced, you've known Annie long enough to recognize that she's ecstatic. The pictures must be coming out better than you think. She can hardly keep still — pacing slightly from left to right, stopping only to listen closer to whatever someone's telling her or point at a screen with a remark.

"Lets close up the space a little," the director says while silently apprising someone to remove the chair from the shot. "Connie, hand at ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱'s waist. Not grabbing, just a light touch."

Your stomach curls into knots immediately.

Carefully, you step into position beside him. You turn lightly towards him when asked and feel the swaying pleats of your asymmetrical, floor length gown brush against his trousers as you do.

"Ready?"

With a manicured finger, you brush a curl from your high, bun updo out of your vision behind your ear before nodding.

His hand finds your waist — not too sudden but surely not hesitant neither. It's a firm, steady placement against the bare curve of your dress remains open which leaves his warm, shockingly soft palm against your own skin. His hand nearly spans from one side of your hip to the other which causes you to become acutely aware of how little space now exists between both of your bodies.

Unfortunately, your body reacts before you can train your brain to ignore it.

Your shoulders tighten, breath catches. The easy pose you were holding quickly hardens.

"Cut," the director softly says. "Loosen up your top half."

With a quick mumble of an apology, you straighten your posture and give a nod. One more time. Again. Connie's hand is back at your waist, this time, his thumb settles closer to your hip where, subconsciously, he rubs a small circle onto. You try to breathe, nevertheless, you fail. Your spine stiffens. "Relax, babe," Annie's voice cuts through some murmur as the director gives a quick suck to his teeth.

Another nod. You feel Connie's hand shift, not tighter, just more decisive. It reads almost as if he were making sure to ground you in place to steady you up against him. From your peripheral, you watch his face lean in slightly closer against your ear. "Tranquila," he utters, low and quiet. your hair lifts on its ends at the back of your neck. "I got you."

The words aren't flirtatious. They're said as if it was a simple fact.

Swallowing, you struggle with letting your shoulders fall to trust the stable press of his hand.

The director hums, "Alright, lets do it."

You manage only two shutters of the lens capturing you both before your hip awkwardly juts out wrong. Embarrassment begins to flood through almost every inch of your body. You feel stupid, you feel stupid. You’re wasting time. Why cant you get it together? Closing your eyes, you press your index fingers lightly against your inner eye corners, "I'm sorry," you whisper quickly. "Sorry, everyone."

There's a soft exhale near your ear — sounds almost like a puff of amusement however, it's not mocking. ". . You nervous?"

Opening your eyes, you only manage to glance quickly up into connie's before shaking your head. "No."

A second passes. Connie soon then sniffs, "Yeah, aight."

When he tries again, when you decide to finally allow his touch to simply settle, your body, bizarrely, molds instead of braces within it. You soften into something natural. You feel his fingers flex at your hip when you do. You take it as a muted form of his approval.

"Threee she is. There we go, you two."

The camera shutters.

Once, twice, thrice.

"Beautiful. Cut. That's a wrap everyone."

The word wrap nestles a weird feeling in your chest. You feel Connie's fingers part from the skin of your waist. One second they're there, the next, they're gone. Though it'd maybe only been a few minutes of his touch being there, the absence of it registers immediately. It feels wrong, almost. You swallow while watching crew members flood in around you both to begin unclipping fabric from the rafters that fall onto the floor in soft waves. Dome cameras go dark, one by one, as your stylist walks over with a comfortable, shin length robe to help you shrug on. The belt is tied with quick fingers as your eyes shift. Connie's already gone. He's on the far side of the warehouse, tossing a hoodie over his red button up, shielding gold beneath the fabric.

You don't want to look. you refuse to.

But, you do anyway.

He's looking at you again, eyes focused while pulling his hood over his freshly bleached head. the dark fabric frames his face, making him appear all the more forbiddingly handsome. The world around you blurs . . . almost as if someone has smeared their thumb across wet paint. Noises fade into deadened mumbles, someone laughs over by the monitors while wrapping a long cord around their palm, your stylist says something to you that you can't quite catch.

Neither of you wave. Neither of you even nod.

The rolling door behind Connie opens, leaving golden sunlight to spill into the warehouse. He looks away, turns, steps outside of it, and not a second later does the door slam back shut . . leaving the world around you to sharpen again. Sound rushes back into your ears as someone drops something with a small curse. Your stylist gives a small nudge to your side, eyebrows shooting up her forehead in slight concern, "Hey, you okay?"

Innately, you nod, even if your mind feels elsewhere. "Yeah."

Something has shifted on its axis, that, you know. You tell yourself that it's just work . . that it will always be just work. But, whatever that's been newly strung between you and Connie feels too taut to blatantly ignore.

ׅ ❤︎

San Francisco is much colder than LA.

Fog rolls low over the city in thick clouds, the air is sharp and tinged with notes of salt. Shows are back to back. Thursday, Friday, then Saturday. Annie has informed you that between these seventy two hours are scheduled soundchecks, team meetings, and magazine interviews. All enough to keep your mind busy . . off of him, until she catches you the night after the first concert, in the lobby of the hotel before the both of you are going to part ways for the night. "Look, I know it's kind of sudden but, the label would like a teaser clip of some studio footage to post by tomorrow," her eyes flitter down to where an apple watch wraps snuggly around her wrist. "Connie already said he's free—"

Your eyes widen, your voice rises an octave from the nervousness beginning to bubble within the pit of your stomach at only the mention of his name, "—Wait, wait. Right now? Are you serious, Annie?—"

"—I'm sorry, i'm sorry. But, you two are supposed to have this single released in three weeks time. We have to squeeze it in somewhere—"

"—The night after a show? I want a bubble bath."

She's grabbing you by the hips to spin you back in the direction of which you came which would be the hotel's rotating doors. "Bubble bath after this session, okay? Just an hour and a half max. You can do that for me, right?"

You want to tell her no. You want to dig your heels into the buffed marble of the lobby's floor and refuse to move a single inch, but you don't. Annie's the best. Yhe label you signed to two years ago upon first gaining mainstream traction is a small one — Harborlight House. It'd been Annie that you had clicked with the most out of the dozens of other managers who entered your dms with offers and promises that made your brain spin and stomach queazy. Annie has shown you genuine protection from the start. She flew out on her own dime after you accepted her meeting request and sat with you at a duck pond with her Ipad and pencil in hand instead of a contract thicker than your head. She asked you about what you wanted to accomplish, didn't flinch when you told her such, what success meant to you, what you didn't want to lose.

You signed with Harborlight House only about a month later.

Not because of the numbers, but for her. She'd been the one to push back when a bigger imprint wanted to rush your EP. She'd also been the one that made sure your masters stayed yours and yours alone.

Therefore, you try to do what she asks of you. Because Annie would never purposely lead you into harm's way. Prime example, after listening to you heave a big, bratty sigh, she puts you in the back of an escalade right beside reiner and tells him, "You don't leave her side for a single second. Wherever she goes, you go, too."

As the car weaves through downtown traffic, your reflection stares at you through tinted glass — gloss still fresh, new lash set fluffy, stage costume set long gone and instead replaced by a white I Am Gia set printed with pink polka dots. You look okay. You don't completely feel okay, though.

Connie already said he's free.

Annie's words surprise you. You start to twist and pull at your fingers, reminding yourself that this is work. Only work. And it will always be.

The studio connie's label rented is tucked within a more quieter part of the city — completed with industrial brick, dark, caged windows, and only three floors. You and Reiner have to enter up a narrow staircase that smells like warm dust and coffee to make it up to the second floor where you already hear the thumping bass of a smooth tempo track nearly twelve feet from from the door it's coming from at the end of the hall that's only cracked slightly ajar.

The closer you walk towards it, the slower your steps become.

You've performed in front of thousands and walked red carpets. You've had interviewers try to corner you about your love life, other celeb drama, and politics all in one and yet . . . that nervousness doesn't compare to how you currently feel. You hear Reiner mumble from behind you, "You good?"

" 'm good."

You push open the door.

Warmth hits you first.

Inside, the fairly large room is pleasantly lit with tall, standing lamps, as well as a few Himalayan salt ones, that have been deliberately placed around the perimeter of it. The glow reflects against the smooth, exposed brick of the walls. A huge vocal booth sits at the far end of the room, topped with two, wide spanned monitors that display layered tracks in neon lines and glass slabs seals it off from a control panel that spans from almost one side of the room to the other, completed with mixing boards, sliders, and illuminating buttons that brighten then slowly dim as if they'd been breathing.

A dark, leather couch has been pushed against one wall and a low table stands in front of it, covered in cables, water bottles, a laptop, and chinese take out containers.

Connie sits in a rolling chair . . dressed in a pair of oversized, black track pants and a mustard yellow hoodie with the word supreme printed on the back. He had his head bowed and elbows on his knees with his hands interlocked between his legs as he listens closely to the track playing. Though, when you enter the room, he lifts it to look up at you.

He fixes his eyes on you and doesn't look away as the other two producers, both men — one with long locs and another with wavy, blond hair turn to face you. "Aye, right on time," the one with locs gives a smile. "We've been gettin' ready for you."

"Hi," a manicured hand is held up for an apprehensive wave as you step further inside. There's no visible reaction from connie, no grin or smirk or faux reaction of surprise. Akin to yesterday morning at the photoshoot, he simply watches you.

As Reiner settles in to stand beside the door against a wall, routinely inspecting with just his eyes and minimal words, you set your bag down upon a couch cushion when Connie eventually speaks, "You made it."

"Yeah," you pretend to dust lint off of your thighs so you don't have to look at him. "Uhm, there was just some traffic."

"Mm," is all he gives. You suspect that he knows that you're lying. You're grateful he doesn't continue to push. When he stands up from the chair, measured and unhurried, instinctively you straighten your spine. You watch him cross the room in two, long strides to stand almost diagonally from you, almost near the couch as well. "You good?" That familiar question makes you feel like you're going crazy.

Loosely, you cross your arms over your chest in efforts to somewhat regulate your heart rate, "I'm fine. Why?"

His eyes, greyish and dark, quickly study the features of your face. It takes him only half a second. He hums softly again, " 'm jus' askin'."

You hear the track loop back into the beginning as your lips part . . . though, you say nothing. ". . Uhm," quickly, you turn away and walk towards the booth. The more space, the better. "Should we start?"

The blond haired producer nods. "Lets begin with the hook."

ׅ ❤︎

An hour passes by quickly. You record the hook perfectly after four takes and half of your verse. You'd been told, through the glass panel by one of the producers, that Connie has completed his. He now only has to finish the bridge, but everyone's decided that it can happen another day.

Throughout your time in the booth, Connie sits on the couch behind the two men, leaned comfortably back into the cushions with his fists shoved in his hoodie's pockets. You try not to focus too much on him, nonetheless, he makes it difficult. During the repeated takes of the hook, you couldn't help but notice the minuscule reactions he gave when disliking or approving of something. When you cut a word shorter than he'd like, you supposed, you could see it in the faintest shift of his lips. Never a full frown but just a slight tighten at the corner of them, as though he tasted something not quite right.

When you drifted off into a melodic run, his leg bounced. Once. Approval.

He never says anything. He barely moves, never interrupts. Just listens . . . intently.

You tell yourself to simply focus on you. But, he makes it hard.

"Again," one of the producers says through the speakers of your chunky, over ear headphones. "More air on the front line this time."

You nod. Your voice is smaller when you utter, "Okay," into the microphone after clearing your throat.

With his instructions, you try the harmony once more.

Something in the air shifts. You feel it. It doesn't sound . . . right. On the next run, you gather in a deeper breath to open up your diaphragm. Then arrives a long silence after it. Through the glass, you watch the blond nod his head. The dreadhead leans closer into the board to fiddle with a slider switch. Behind them . . . Connie still lounges, back against the cushion, hands in his pockets, albeit, his jaw has tightened. Not noticeably, but, just barely. You swallow.

"More bigger."

"Smaller run."

"Make it tighter."

By the fifth take, Connie stands. Midway through a note, you quiet and take a step back as though you were preparing for him to storm into the booth and snatch the microphone away from your lips. You're thankful one of the producers has his finger still on the button so that you're able to hear what's going on. "Nah, nah, nah," Connie's shaking his head and walking closer to the mixing board.

One of them chuckles, "It's alright, man. we're just molding it."

"Mold it without makin' her disappear."

Another silence lugs on, tensed and prickling. ". . It's just direction."

Connie's tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, once. He looks up over at you without lifting his head, ". . . You like how that sound, ma?"

You're hesitant. Truth be told, you don't. You've managed to perfect the art of your sound and their direction is wiping it away, note by note. ". . 's fine."

"It ain't fine," he snatches one of his hands out of his pocket to rub at the soft, dark hairs that dust his chin. "Sing it how you did the first time."

You shift, "U-uhm—"

"—Connie, man, this isn't your session—"

His attention doesn't part from yours when he roughly clips, "—Do it."

It's firm and leaves no room for another word. So, you do. It's sweet . . soft though warmly textured . . akin to velvet dragging across the warmth of one's skin. The room quiets after the track suddenly pauses. Connie gives a small nod, jaw shifting. "That." It's quiet. No need for overdone praise. He says it like he knew you had it in you the entire time. Looking down at the producers, his voice is low and edged with something raw when he states, "Now mix it."

You watch as he turns to grab his water bottle and then walks out of the door.

It shuts behind him with a soft click. No slam or any dramatics. He's just . . gone. For a second, no one moves. Eyes shift, but bodies don't. The room feels simultaneously bigger yet tighter now that he's no longer here. The dreadhead clears his throat and fiddles with another slider, as if nothing even happened. "Alright," he mumbles, hoping to lighten the mood. "That take was great."

You remain standing in the booth, blood feeling as though its too hot for your body.

He never raised his voice, he never looked away from you. He told you to do it and you did . . . and it felt . . . so good. You listen to the producers replay the same melodies you just gave. No further direction is given. Eventually, after being waved out of the booth, you walk out noting that the air outside of it feels denser than what it once was. His warmth still resides within the cushions of the couch when you replace his spot. You tell yourself that the quiet ache that throbs in your chest is just relief, nothing more.

A lie.

Your personal phone soon pings from within the confines of your bag with a new message. Sighing, you grab it to fish through tubes of lip gloss, travel sized perfumes, and a lone pair of clean panties to find it buried at the bottom. Annie is expected . . but, instead, it's from an unknown number.

Your heart drops into your ass. No name or contact photo attached, only two simple words.

You stare at it for longer than you'd like to admit. He has your number. How does he have—

Your lips part with the sudden realization of three weeks of touring, rehearsals, and interviews. Of course, he'd been able to get it when he wanted to. But he's using it . . . and now. Another ping.

Your breath catches before you can try to regulate it. The hair on your body stands straight as your head snaps up, thinking that he may be inside the room. You can try to ignore it, pretend that you're busy, but, for some reason, doing that doesn't feel right. He's not asking, not begging, however, he's waiting. Looking at the producers, you watch them softly talk to one another about equilibrium adjustments, barely paying any attention to you, so you stand.

"Uhm, 'm . . g-gonna step out for a minute."

"Alright, no worries."

You watch Reiner's gaze sharpen on you as you move closer to the door. " 's okay," you mutter with a soft hand to his forearm. "I'll be back in a few. You have my location still."

There's some hesitance but he eventually nods, so, slowly, you walk out and down the hall you previously came from. It's just work, you repeat to yourself. Just work. It's only work. Even so, your hands can't stop trembling. You expected him to be outside, as he said, but when you open the door to the stairwell, he's standing halfway down them, arms folded and back leaned against the wall. When he hears the door, he looks up. His face is unreadable. There's no anger or annoyance . . . but something you can't quite pinpoint.

With your hand on the banister, you let the door close behind you with a final slam, leaving you both enclosed within the narrow spine of a room of steps. Silence is loud. The soles of your Uggs press down onto specs of dust and tiny, barely there pebbles as you slowly descend down until you're two steps above him . . close enough to see the small shards of warm green that swim within the grey and brown of his eyes. "You got my number," is what you eventually say, trying to keep your voice from shaking. Is he upset with you?

"Mhm." No apology or explanation given. "You scared of that room?"

No bullshitting around.

Automatically, you shake your head.

"Then why you ain't say nothin'."

He's not asking a question, he's wanting an answer. You look away from him and bend your finger back and forth on the wood of the banister. ". . I didn't wanna make it harder."

He's tilting his head. Not in a puppy-ish way but in a way that feels surgical — as though he's adjusting himself to get a better look at you. "For who."

You're quiet. You keep your eyes on your finger, feeling the pad of it curve into the natural indents of the wood. "For the session."

"Mm, nah, that ain't what I asked."

Your lips roll tightly into your mouth as you suddenly snatch your arms up to fold them across your chest. A sharp exhale through your nose, "For them, I guess."

He's wearing a beanie underneath his hood tonight. His eyebrows are slightly thick. They lift up on his forehead in a bogus manner of incredulity. "For them."

The words drift between you both as if he were tasting the weight of them on his own tongue. ". . And you?" he soon asks.

You tense. You hate that — when he keeps pulling focus back on you. ". . 's nothin' I can't handle."

Connie nods, slowly. "Mm." Then takes one step higher up towards you. It leaves you both nearly eye to eye for the first time. Something in the air shifts. You keep your focus on him to keep him from noticing your breaths quivering now. "You ain't answer me in there," he says with a soft squint of his eyes.

"I did."

"You said it was fine."

You don't respond because the two of you know that wasn't the question. Yhe hum of the city fills the silence this time around — a few car honks as some whizz by and a faint helicopter.

"You scared of that room?" his first question is repeated.

You shake your head slower this time. ". . . No."

When you lower your chin, he's inclining his neck slightly lower too to find your eyes once more, "Then why you ain't say nothing."

"Connie—" You stop yourself then lift them up towards the ceiling as if the words you want to say are written there. In the end, when you can't find them, you release another sharp breath and meet his eye contact. He's waiting . . patiently. "I didn't wanna make it harder."

He studies you for a longer second. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, "you let them fold you. You let them niggas cut you down smaller every time they asked. Even when you knew you wasn't fuckin' wit' it."

You shift on your feet. "You noticed?"

There's no hesitation when he answers, "Yeah."

"That's weird."

He shrugs, eyes part from yours for the first time though not out of nervousness. It's to make a point when he says, "You in a room. I'm aware." Then they're back on you, steady and unblinking. There's no flirtation . . . for the second time within forty eight hours, he says something that makes your heart skip as if he were citing a traffic rule. You stare at him this time, trying to read him the way he obviously can read you but, you find it difficult. His face gives little away. It makes you feel exposed, like you're underneath a spotlight. Therefore, you part your glossed covered lips to softly question, "You think i can't handle this stuff?" It isn't defensive . . your voice is quiet. It reads closer to vulnerability.

"I think you can."

"Then what?"

He licks his lips. For a moment, they glisten with his saliva — thick, pink, and smooth with a thin, neatly trimmed mustache right above them. God. "I think you don't like friction, ma."

" 'm not scared of friction."

"Hazme caso, not callin' you scared," He inhales through his nose as his gaze drifts up at the stairs behind you for a brief moment. "When shit rubs you wrong . . you swallow it."

You make a move to deny, "That's not—"

"—It is."

It's firm, but oddly not as harsh as it would've sounded coming from someone else. Looking away again, you can't help the pout that's starting to push at your lips, no matter how hard you try to reel it back in. "You don't get to psychoanalyze me, Connie." More lies beneath your tone than just pettishness. There's a hint of a plea. Why are you looking so hard? Don't name it.

"I'm not." A pause. "I'm jus' watchin'."

The word settles heavily over the conversation. ". . . You think you got me figured out after only three weeks of knowing me?"

"No."

The answer throws a curveball. You expected him to say yes — be cocky about it, because somehow, deep down, you have a feeling that if he doesn't already, he will soon. "I jus' don't like watchin' you bend like that."

Stubbornly, you grumble out, "Wasn't bending."

His honesty unsettles you in almost the sweetest of ways. You're aware of how close the two of you now, only a step separating your bodies. He smells like smoky vanilla again . . . The same scent he wore when you both were introduced to each other, only tonight, tinges of marijuana burn at the edges of it. It clings to the edges of his hoodie and to his fingers when he lifts his hand to adjust his beanie lower over his forehead. "You was. You ain't gotta make shit easy for nobody, especially not in a room where they supposed to be workin' for you."

Your gaze grows sharp, "You would've just argued with them all night, then?"

"Yeah."

"And make it awkward."

"So?"

He doesn't look angry. If anything, he appears resolved. You can't understand him. You don't think you have enough energy in you tonight to even try. ". . Why do you care so much?" The words tumble from your lips before you can try to stop them.

For the first time tonight, his expression shifts prior to him wanting it to. His jaw works once then twice as if he were grinding down the words between his teeth to decide how honest he wants to be. Eventually, he replies, "I don't like seein' you dull yourself."

Unable to help it, you deflect, "You think I'm dull?"

He huffs a quiet breath, nearly amused. His voice is a tinge rougher when he drags his thumb up to his closed eye to rub slowly at the inner corner, "Man, you like twistin' shit, hm."

" 'm not—"

"—You know that ain't what I said."

You watch him lift his hand. He rests it upon the banister, gripping at it, directly next to your hip. He isn't touching you, but he might as well be. "Next time," his voice is gentle and he makes sure to wait until you meet his eye again before continuing. "Don't say it's fine if it ain't."

You bite down on the gummy inside of your cheek, working it back and forth while studying him through your lashes, ". . You always this invested in other people's studio sessions?"

The ghost of a smirk pulls at his lips. It softens him in way you've never seen before. "Nah, ma."

Just yours, goes unsaid.

ׅ ❤︎

Week four on the road doesn't arrive loudly, it simply settles.

Somewhere after you and connie's late night conversation on the stairwell in San Francisco — after vanilla scented air scorched with weed and Brooklyn accented mutters — the dynamic of you two shift without either of you naming it. It isn't softer, but . . heavier, and somehow steadier, too. you're in Seattle next for two nights. The first is loud, big. He continues to watch your performances from the wings, arms folded and his head angled down as if he were examining you like architecture. "You owned that shit," he mumbles when you and your dancers shuffle past as the crowd screams for an encore. You pant and smile, with your lungs burning and sweat cooling against your spine, and try not to let yourself grow too shy in front of him because his approval has slowly been becoming something you've been chasing.

You hate that you are, however, can't reel yourself in close enough to stop doing it.

He'll utter things like, "Don't fold." "You know what to do." Close to your temple before shows when everyone's hurrying you to the stage and the stage manager is counting down from thirty — always low, always only meant for you, and you listen. You adjust the way you shine within the spotlight because of him, hold a note longer because you know that he's listening for when you could possibly retreat. His attention is your anchor and accelerator . . what keeps you steady yet lights a match beneath your ribs.

It's after Seattle and Phoenix, in Vegas, when both of your manager's tell the two of you that it's crunch time.

The single scheduled to be released next week featuring you both is only eighty percent done. After the show, when everyone's packing up, crowds are bustling towards the exits in efforts to be the first ones out and the projector screen is rolling credits of the stage crews' names in glitching, vhs style — Connie's typical aesthetic — you're carrying a large, puffy tote on your shoulder, dressed in a pair of flared leggings and thin, tight camisole. You walk beside Annie and Anthony, a few of your dancers and Reiner behind you as all of your footsteps tap against cemented stairs to head for the underground parking garage where eight, glossy black escalades wait — some for your team, others for Connie's.

There's a lot of mutter . . . some laughs, some hugs shared as you all part ways for the night.

Your arms are wrapped tight around the hips of one of your closest dancers as you smooch a big kiss to her cheek, "Get some rest, okay?" you tell her. "Take a bubble bath and add some epsom salt in there, seriously!"

"But it's Vegas — you don't wanna come out with us for a little bit?"

Before you can answer, there's a voice behind you cutting through, "Nah. She gotta work tonight."

It isn't loud. It never has to be. Connie's voice carries differently after a show — lower and more gruff after commanding a stadium of fifty thousand people with that same Brooklyn edge that makes everything sound finalized. The small circle around you instantly shifts as he emerges from the same hall you all came from with his own team. He's wearing an all black fit . . . fitted tee, baggy jeans, and 'black cat' jordan fours with an opened, oversized jacket covering his tatted arms. His bleached head has been re-dyed tonight with jagged, electric blue lightning bolts cutting through the fade all over. The diamonds within the chains he wears glisten underneath the fluorescents in quick glints.

At the sight of him, you grip the shoulder strap of your tote tighter.

Anthony claps his hands once. "Aye, and that's our cue. Don't be up all night. my crew, let's roll."

A few more hugs are exchanged, promises to text, and some laughter as car doors open then close. You say your goodbyes to Annie last, telling her that you'll keep her updated and see her in the morning, bright and early. It's when most of your teams are already in the cars, leaving you, Connie, Reiner, and two of Connie's own personal guards standing beside the rumbling trucks when you turn to face him with your arms folded. ". . . Not even a drink?"

His slitted eyebrow twitches, "You was thinkin' about goin' for real."

You look away, pouting only slightly. "Only for like, an hour."

You feel it before you see it — his gaze drops. You've taken off all of your make up so you're sure that your birthmark is a little more blatant than usual. His eyes trace the irregular shape of it, akin to an uneven splatter of pale color thrown carelessly over the bridge of your nose, not confusedly or even in curiosity. His eyes map over it it like he's trying to memorize it, before he drags his stare back into yours again. "You tired?"

". . Yeah."

"You wired?"

"Mhm."

"Now imagine you off a drink or two on top of this."

You bristle, unable to help huffing when he opens a back door to one of the trucks. "I was gonna ride by m'self—" He's shaking his head, not even looking at you when he braces a hand against the roof so you won't hit your head and says, "—You ridin' wit' me. C'mon." There's no room for banter or a negotiation. It's already been decided. You pause and look around the emptying parking garage. Reiner leans against a wall, simply watching, while Connie's guards stand beside their own truck.

You try to sound annoyed when you utter, "Seriously?" But your tone betrays you. Comes out a little more meek than wanted.

He's slightly smirking now. "Seriously."

You sigh as you climb in and settle in the seat behind the driver's. Reiner takes the passenger and connie slides in behind it then slams the door shut beside him. It's almost deafeningly quiet inside the car after he does, silence only broken by a sports broadcasting channel that hums along through the speakers with commentators droning on about stats and positions. Vegas nights are warm this time of year. You slide down your window a bit when he does as the truck starts to move, letting the air waft across your bare collarbones. "Are you always so . . . bossy?"

Connie sits with his legs spread and arm thrown over the back of the seat you sit in. He doesn't falter when he replies, "What you think?"

Turns out, he's staying in an airbnb, nestled near the outskirts and rolling hills of Vegas that dulls the busy city noise within its openness. Houses are spaced far enough to feel completely private, gated and secluded with the lights of the strip only a faint gleam in the distance. When the SUV rolls to a smooth stop at the bottom of a wide, arched staircase that leads to a large pivot door made of steel and glass, elegant and sharp, Connie's already pushing his door open and stepping out as if he's been here a million times before — no pause or glance around, just smooth certainty. While he rounds the backside of the car, you take notice of the headlights of another escalade where you assume his security occupy, pulling in behind you all.

"I'll take my post outside the front door right here," Reiner says from over his shoulder with the tilt of his chin to motion to it. "You need something, you call me."

Nodding, you softly retort an "Okay."

Before you can even reach for your door handle, it's opened by Connie. He stands there, warm, bronzy skin painted almost ethereal beneath the silver moonlight. The subtle diamonds in his ear sparkle as he turns his head to motion something to his security before leaning in slightly closer to offer you his palm. "C'mon, ma."

His hand completely dwarfs yours as you lean into his help to jump from the high risen truck. It's warm . . somehow strong . . grounding. "Studio's in the basement," he utters while leading you up the staircase. He doesn't let it go. "Fucked around with it earlier before rehearsals. Shit's nice." You find yourself glancing between the side of his face, to the faint tension settled in the hard line of his jaw and the tiny spider inked right beneath the corner of his left eye, and his hand that still engulfs yours the entire walk up. Your pulse sounds louder within the quiet of the night.

You don't say anything about it. He holds it like it's second nature — to have you tethered to him, that is. It feels like second nature. Your stride adjusts to his longer ones without much hassle and your fingers fit delicately into his palm. You try to swallow your disappointment when he eventually has to let it go though to key in a code to unlock the door and push it open.

Inside is nice. Abstract decor with black marble floors glisten bright enough under recessed lighting to reflect your face back up at you when you look down at it, completed with high ceilings which stretch into clean architectural designs. Somewhere deeper inside, the kitchen you think, gleams soft, ambient lighting that makes you feel warm. You let connie lead you down a wide staircase that spirals out into the lower half of the house as both your footsteps echo. He moves like he’s already memorized the layout of the entire home — as if this were just another temporary kingdom he’s occupying for the night. You pass a home theater, two laned bowling alley, and lounge before a glass door opens into the home’s studio. It’s all very indulgent and excessive . . very Vegas. The lighting within the studio is lower, warmer which makes it feel all the more intimate. Connie seems to already have his laptop in here with the track settled over the monitors and ready to go. Everything’s positioned exactly how he wants it, like he knew you’d been walking in here tonight.

“You wanna start?” he asks with a casual shrug off of his jacket. Ink coils across his skin — down his arms, a few on his hands, curling up his neck — mostly black, only a couple red . . one near his forearm, the other on his bicep as if it were intentionally tucked away.

You swallow and shake your head come his question. His eyebrows lift slowly, not in offense but slight curiosity. He seems to wait for a beat, expecting you to change your mind however when you don’t, he doesn’t press or tease you about it, he pivots. “Aight, mama,” he mutters while grabbing the set of headphones off of the mixing board. “I’ll lay mine first.”

Your tote falls onto the empty center table as he pushes the booth’s door open with his shoulder to step inside. Quickly, you realize this will be your first time seeing him record. You've experienced seeing him perform, you've seen him rehearse, but never record. Electricity hums beneath your veins. He looks unworldly, standing within the center of it with his chin lowered as he scrolls through his phone to presumedly memorize his lyrics. You’re staring — letting your eyes drag across the broad span of his shoulders and biceps, down to the taper of his hips. He’s . . . handsome, but the word falls flat honestly. There’s a reason why his face goes viral every other day, clips of him performing, mid interview, smiling, staring, frowning. He’s conventionally attractive of course, but it’s almost something unreal about him. Up close? It’s something else entirely. He’s a rare case, you think. Like he was carved with precise intention . . by someone who made sure to take their time.

It’s stillness before he starts. He doesn’t pace or fidget, doesn’t rehearse out loud or even mumble to himself. He just stands there, reads it once, twice, maybe three times to lock it in then he powers his phone off, shoves it back into his pocket then looks over at you. No gesture needed, you seem to understand his stare without him having to say a word. You hit a button on the mixing board to let the track smoothly play in.

There’s a strong bass line. The melody floats in a few seconds after, light and almost playful. It’s fun but there’s weight to it. You think the producer did well with encapsulating you and connie’s vibes within it.

You watch his lips part.

Fuck.

His voice slides in smooth, almost lazy, like he’s talking his shit to a homeboy on the sidewalks of Brooklyn instead of recording something that’ll be streamed worldwide. But, it works. His tone carries on the beat instead of chasing it. Your nails dig into the meat of your palms as you stand there behind the chair in front of the mixing board, entirely transfixed.

And an hour and a half passes like that.

With connie buried in the booth and you curled up within a large, padded spinning chair in front of the sound panel, consistently replaying the track when he wants. You both fall into a rhythm. He's tweaks a word here, switches up his flow there. He ends up recording the bridge three times, trying to decide which one sounds better and it's as you're sitting with a piece of a spicy crab sushi roll held between chopsticks, nearly halfway up to your mouth, courtesy drop off by Connie's security, and listening to him record another line when he cuts himself off mid-bar.

The beat is still playing when he heaves a tired sigh from his nose and pulls off his headphones.

"Fuck, man."

Your eyes are wide and you're midchew when scrambling up to stop the music. The room drops into a silence so thick that it makes it hard for you to swallow. He's irritated. He's not dramatic with it, nonetheless, it's obvious. Maybe only to you. "Somethin's off," he utters. You watch him pull open the booth door and quickly brush out of it as if it's offended him personally. He brushes his hand over his scalp before taking the other chair beside you. "Anda. Go. Do your part."

You cover your mouth to swallow. "Right now?"

"Yeah," his tone is sharp when he replies. He doesn't seem impatient with you, moreso this song and himself. "I wanna hear it with you on there."

Hesitating, you soon give a small nod prior to settling your chopsticks down on a napkin then standing. You smooth out the wrinkles in your flared leggings and tug at your camisole when noticing that it's ridden up above your navel piercing before stepping inside the booth. You feel his stare as you settle the headphones over the dark curls of your flip over sew in, making sure that they aren't pressing down too hard on them or your ears. The mic still sits at his height, so you have to reach up with nimble fingers to adjust it down to your own.

When you inhale a big breath to steady yourself, you catch the familiar traces of his cologne dancing within the enclosed space of the booth. It makes something in your tummy flip. “ ‘m ready.”

You watch him press play. You’re required to only layer some harmonies beneath the bridge he’s working on. Your first ones are clean, supporting, and gentle. Air beneath his gravel. When doing a second layer, you part your mouth open just the tiniest bit wider to fill in some opened space.

Connie leans back in his chair, slow and deliberate, and folds his arms over his chest while watching.

He’s never been able to indulge in staring at you. Not properly. When he watches your performances, he’s mostly just listening. In the rare moments he lets his eyes drift, it's always quite professional — keeping an eye out for a wardrobe malfunction or if one of your dancers is too close within your center light. When he passes by you in the halls, while on the way to your hotels or tour buses, it's never enough time _to_ get a real, good look at you. That doesn't mean he hasn't tried. the photoshoot you both did was half an exception, as well as that first, shared studio session, but this time . . there's no one else in the room. No stylists, sound engineers, or managers. Just you both. so he lets himself look.

You keep your lashes done — full and fluffy with wisps in between that soften your stare. They dust across your cheeks as you keep your eyes closed to really hone in on a note. Your curls spill down your back akin to a halo, resting only an inch away from the curve of your waist. The camisole you wear is thin enough to reveal the intricate lacing of your white bra underneath. Lower, his eyes fall down to the fullness of your hips, thickness of your thighs. God, you really are something.

He knows what you entail.

Letting himself give into you brings a lot of eyes, headlines, and even more questions. He hates all that shit. He's always been about his music, just his music. Sure, yeah, he's entertained the usual, stereotypical distraction people of his profession commonly go for. The occasional instagram model flown out for a weekend here, a single mom he met at an after party who understood discretion there — no strings, no complications, just something to release his stress when the days blur together and the cameras, the fans, the pressure, and the numbers all become too much.

You're like gravity, though. since the start of this tour, Connie's been finding himself thinking about you, on flights, the backseat after a show, in the shower . . . more than he's thought about another person in a long, long time.

Swallowing once, he rubs a hand down his jaw as if he's trying to physically reset himself. he's never been the type to try to fight it though. He'll hold off on whatever his heart, mind, or soul tells him for a while, stall it, test it, tell himself to just wait a bit, but never will he run from it. Because the way he sees it — anything that pulls at him like this deserves to be closely examined, not avoided. When the music settles and you're opening your eyes while pulling off the headphones, eyes wide and plump lips parted, obviously searching for his approval, something in his blood rushes into static. He thinks he may like you . . . a lot.

"Did you like it?" is the first thing you ask when out of the booth.

"Adored it. Shit was perfect." His eyes are focused on the sound waves of the track as he replays it with his own.

You can't help but notice how his jaw moves when listening to himself, though. It grinds slowly, back and forth, revealing his dissatisfaction with it. You step a little bit closer to him. ". . What's wrong?" You hum. "With yours, i mean. what do you hear?"

He doesn't answer immediately. He lets you listen for yourself.

Your harmonies opened up something you didn't hear before. "You're dragging the word at the end on the sixth bar," you soon say. "Sounds really good but a little crowded. If you clip it, the melodies can fill up the space instead."

He stares at you for a beat longer than usual, then he rewinds, plays it again, and envisions your input.

". . Damn."

You watch him bite down on a slow, pretty smile. "That's perfect, mama."

"Really?" Your shoulders lift to your ears as you brighten up with a wide grin. You watch him nod and stand, already making his way for the booth.

"You got plans in the morning?"

"Just . . rehearsals, I think."

He's shaking his head with his hand on the booth's door. "Cancel it. I wanna run this again after you sleep on it. Fresh ears matter." A second passes. He licks his lips. "I want you to have breakfast with me, too."

There it is. An opening.

Your eyes go a little wide and you shift on your feet, looking up into the same stormy, hazel eyes that never seem to blink first. ". . . O-oh. Okay."

Something unreadable flickers across his face — something that appears crossed between contentment and contemplation. "I'll pick you up around ten."

ׅ ❤︎

Connie rides with you, his driver, and Reiner again back to your hotel at three in the morning. Vegas' lights still twinkle bright and people walk the strip, dressed in mini skirts and half button ups with drinks in their hands and laughter on their lips. He doesn't appear as tired as you as he sits beside you, arm thrown over the back of your headrest again. His eyes remain sharp, staring out of the tinted windows at the bustling city. It makes you wonder how many long nights he's pulled like this. How many hours has he stayed up before his body has collapsed from exhaustion. He doesn't seem to mind walking you up to your suite. He stands beside you on the entire elevator ride up, quiet and intense, as always.

"Uhm," you stop in front of the double doors with a keycard in hand and turn to face him. He forgot his jacket. He's still donned in his all black fit, electric blue swimming through warm blond upon his head. "So . ."

"I'll send the track over to the labels around six," he says, not giving the awkwardness time to grow. ". . . I want you to sleep. Cut your phone off."

He says it like an instruction . . . as if your rest has already been accounted for in a plan that you don't know of. Your head tilts, eyes grow softer than usual. Connie's jaw flexes. "You're not gonna sleep, too?"

He shrugs, "I will." When he reads the uncertainty radiating off of you, a slight smirk pulls at his lips. "No te preocupes. I been doin' this for a long time."

You give a sigh, "You should, Connie." His statement doesn't answer for your concerns but you don't think he cares, therefore, you turn to swipe your keycard and push open the door a crack when the machine flashes green. There's something suspended in the air between you two. Not awkward, not particularly dramatic. Just . . . loaded.

"Ten," is the last thing he says. "Get some sleep, for real."

"You'll be able to tell if i don't?" It's a small tease. A little push back against him but you notice his eyes squint. Not in annoyance but assessment.

"Yeah."

"Mm, how?"

He takes one step closer and your pulse skips. The small smile you wore gently fades. "I'll hear it," he replies, voice low. "In your voice."

He doesn't grin when he says it. It's matter of fact, spoken like it's obvious. You try to search his face for exaggeration but there isn't any. You swallow, "Okay." Ten. You keep that little, three lettered word in mind as you finally give him a little wave before stepping inside your room.

Connie watches your door slowly close. He makes sure he hears the latch click into place before he turns and strides back down the hall without looking back. His mind feels like a live wire — buzzing, sparking, and refusing to power off.

Ten.

ׅ ❤︎

Annie's suspicious when you call her at nine am. "Why . . . are you calling me before rehearsals?" she asks. You hear the doubt in her tone and it makes you feel like you're five all over again with your parents asking you if you put glitter all over your pomeranian.

Your cheeks burn as you toe at your suitcase that sits, flopped open in the middle of your hotel room's living area, dressed in only a robe with your bonnet on. " 'm having breakfast . . with Connie . . ."

"Breakfast," she repeats, tone dry. "With connie . . ."

". . . Mhm . . ."

"What the hell happened in that studio last night, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱? Let me do damage control while I can—"

Your eyes are squeezing closed and your body tenses as you squeak out, "—Nothing! I swear, I swear! Oh my god, Annie!"

"You do not cancel rehearsals over a casual breakfast, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱."

Without thinking, you blurt, "But it's not casual!"

The minute the words leave your mouth, you melt onto the floor on your knees beside your suitcase and drop your forehead into your palm. Stupid. You are so stupid. Annie's quiet . . . in a way that shows that she's slowly processing. "Ah," she soon mutters. "So, it's not casual."

"That's . . n-not what I meant, Annie."

"Then what did you mean."

You groan, "Nothing happened last night. We worked on the song, it was nice. We just, talked a little bit, finished, he dropped me off at the hotel, walked me to my door then left."

"Is he picking you up?"

While fiddling with the tie of your robe, you softly shrug as if she can see you, "I think his security is."

"You're letting his security pick you up."

"He told me it's just to go upstairs to the restaurant. It's private."

She echos a, "Oh, it's private."

"Annie."

You hear her breathe out a sharp sigh. You can already see her in the same position as you. Dressed to the nines in an all black, perfectly tailored pantsuit. Make up already done, blond bob perfectly straightened with her forehead in her palm. You're her proudest achievement and biggest headache sometimes. ". . . You like him," she soon says.

Her words make you still.

. . . Do you?

You haven't really . . thought about it like that. ". . I dunno."

"꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, please don't lie to me."

You're pouting now, "He jus' . . makes me nervous."

"That is not the same thing and you know it."

A silence stretches on. You keep your mouth shut, afraid of saying the wrong thing at this point. You hear Annie inhale a breath this time. "Okay, you get two hours. Rehearsals aren't canceled, they're postponed. I'll let Anthony and the dancers know. No disappearing, no leaving anywhere without security. Say you understand."

"I understand," a weight feels like it's been removed off of your chest. ". . I think he just wants to talk."

"Men like that don't ever just want to talk."

She makes you swear that you won't do anything career altering before you've had some type of caffeine in your system and after you hang up, you're left to stare at your reflection within the dark tv screen across the room while a big, slow smile subconsciously spreads across your lips and you're left to squeal into a throw pillow as you kick your feet.

ׅ ❤︎

The outfit you choose to wear is something crossed between soft glam and streetwear. A baby blue micro skirt works as your statement piece and an oversized, fleecy, grey hoodie with a sky blue, air brushed background softens it all up. A pair of white, Isabel Marant sneakers maintains that edge you're going for and after doing your own make up and accessorizing with a bag and cute, silver jewelry, you feel ready to go.

Connie's security are two men of very few words. One of them knocks on the door, asks if you're ready, then the both of them keep you sandwiched between them, one in front, one behind, at all times the entire walk to the car. Your stomach is fluttering with butterflies the entire ride over to the restaurant. you wonder which he chose, if he's already ordering, what he'll order.

"Upstairs," the hostess tells you with a nod when you arrive.

More security is waiting at the top of the stairs when a red velvet rope is unhooked to allow you entry. They mutter soft, respectful "Good morning"s before parting to let you walk further in. You already see him, with his back against a wall, seated in a chair with dark sunglasses rested on the table beside a clean, empty plate.

You find the restaurant to be quite beautiful. Exposed brick makes it feel homely while large, tall windows maintain a quiet feel of luxury. Connie's standing when you close the distance between you both. He's wearing a tailored, burgundy quarter zip over black pants and new, wheat timbs. the blue in his hair has been washed out, leaving it only blond. He looks . . . yummy. "G'mornin'," you softly smile, letting him pull out your chair so that you're able to take a seat.

"Mornin', ma." you watch him take his. He flicks his fingers towards himself a few times then says, "So . . . lemme hear it."

"Hear what?"

"Your voice. I wanna hear it."

You can't help it. A soft, squeaking giggle bursts out of you before you can help it. "Connie, 'm literally talking right now."

He shakes his head once, "Mm-mm. That was a laugh."

Slyly, you roll your eyes, "What am i supposed to say?"

"Anything."

Your fingers fidget with the binded leather of the menu as you try to find a word, ". . . Hi."

"That all you got?"

"You're weird."

He smirks. It makes you blush. "There it is." Just by that, he can tell you slept. You find yourself to be a little scared to ask how, so you don't. But you wonder.

Thankfully, a waiter approaches to fill your glasses with water and ask for orders before a silence stretches on for too long. You listen to Connie's deep, raspy voice reply, "Mangú con los tres golpes. Eggs fried hard, please," and almost as if it were an afterthought he adds, "And a black coffee."

Connie watches the waiter nod, jot it all down, then turn his head towards you. "Uhm, do you have chocolate chip waffles?. . Seriously? Okay, yay, that please? With a side of breakfast potatoes and . . . a peach lemonade."

When told that your orders will be out shortly, then being left alone, Connie reaches for his glass of water. "Chocolate chips?"

He watches your spine straighten. You feel judged. "Yes."

"In the morning."

"Mhm."

After a sip of his water, he sets it back down on its coaster like he has all the time in the world. "That's bold."

"It's breakfast." You're starting to pout. It's cute.

"You always order what you actually want?"

Your head tilts. "What do you mean?"

"Most people order what they think sound grown," he leans back, folds his arms over his chest then lightly shrugs. "Egg whites, dry toast, green juice. Shit like that."

"I order what I like," you respond with another head tilt. He's sure you don't know how cute you look when you do them. ". . So what's mangú?"

He lifts his eyebrows, "¿No lo sabes?" It slips out of him, calm yet measured. It isn't like you haven't heard him speak spanish before . . however, all of those other times were usually instances of him saying something quickly, as though he simply couldn't help it. And, in other cases, while performing. This time feels different. Maybe it's because this time feels slightly more intentional and his question is directed at you.

You've been around enough spanish speakers though to somewhat translate what he asks. Shyly, you shake your head.

He studies you for a second longer then unfolds his arms. "It's basically jus' mashed, green plantains," he says. His voice is lower now, less guarded. "Some people use butter . . some oil. Red onions. Los tres golpes means three hits. Eggs, fried cheese, salami, that's all."

Your tummy growls. A slow smile spreads across his lips as your face burns hot. "That sounds really yummy."

"It is."

"Is it like, a special occasion thing?"

He shakes his head, leaned a little bit more towards you. You've realized you're doing it, too. "Nah, that's regular. That's home."

Home. You imagine a younger Connie, walking the streets of Brooklyn with headphones over his ears and a backpack hanging off of his shoulder. You can see him sitting somewhere loud yet warm with a plate of that in front of him. Your voice is gentle when you ask, "Do you miss it?"

He seems to think about your question. You appreciate that — he never answers anything without reflecting for a second. It's refreshing. "Sometimes."

"Mm," you find that now that you've gotten the both of you in this space right here, you can finally also ask, "Is Connie your real name?"

His eyes are more brown than grey or green today. They're dark and assessing as they search yours as if to decide how much of him you get today. "Why?"

You slightly lift a shoulder then let it drop, "It sounds like it could be, but also like . . it's not."

"It ain't." He's still staring. You hold it for the longest you ever have with him. "It's Constance."

You blink. The room feels quieter now. The both of you are speaking quietly and you aren't sure of when that happened. "Constance?"

He nods. Once. "Yeah."

He watches you study him, like you're trying to fit it on him. ". . . That's pretty."

The sudden compliment makes the both of you still. You, from shock of having said it out loud, Connie, because no one's ever really said that to him without some irony attached to it. His jaw shifts. You watch him slowly lean back while exhaling through his nose, "You real comfortable right now," he says with no real bite.

Another head tilt. You smile real big until your eyes form crescents, "Am I?"

He tries hard not to, but he ends up smirking anyway. His blink is slow when he hums, "Mhm."

Both of your plates arrive not too long after. Yours is set down in front of you first — waffles stacked high with pockets of chocolate melted within the batter and powdered sugar dusted over top with your breakfast potatoes settled on their own separate plate. Cheese still melts over top of them with bacon and chives sprinkled all over.

Connie's is next. His plate is heavy enough to fall onto the table with a thunk. Steam spirals from the mound of mangú, whipped smooth between two fried hard eggs. Salami glimmers with crisped edges and thick, golden slices of queso frito sit along the side of them. His savory versus your sweet.

"You lookin' at mine like you regret somethin'," he mumbles.

"Leave me alone."

Connie watches you carefully pour syrup all over your waffles, gather your knife and fork, then begin to cut them. Come your first bite, you're melting with a happy sigh out through your nose yet your eyes can't help drifting to his plate.

He cuts into his eggs, mixes the golden yolk with the pale mangú with slow, practiced movements then bites.

For a moment, you both are quiet.

". . Can I try?"

Connie's not surprised. He doesn't tease, doesn't mock. "Hm." He pushes his plate a little bit closer to yours with no hesitation. He eyes how your fork moves. You do the same thing he does — plantain with egg, mix them, then you push it past your lips.

Rich warmth coats every inch of your tastebuds. "Oh." With a hand over your mouth to cover it as you chew, your eyebrows furrow in. "Oh my gosh."

Connie doesn't know how to take it, "You like it?"

You're nodding, "It tastes like a dream."

He can't help exhaling a soft laugh. "Fuck. A dream?"

"Mhm . . like . . like something someone makes when they love you." When it's all swallowed down, you're spearing a piece of waffle on your fork then holding it towards him. "Your turn."

For a moment, he simply looks at it then back at you. He never says anything. You expected him to take the fork and slide the piece onto his plate, however it's surprising when he only lowers his head and takes the bite directly from it. Your breath catches. You watch the way his jaw moves, how syrup glistens upon his lips, how he watches you as he chews.

Eventually, he mutters, "It's sweet."

"Yeah?" Your voice is breathy. You're still reeling.

"Yeah."

He swallows as you try to regain your ground. ". . . You really don't like sugar?"

"Not unless I need it."

You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Underneath the table, your foot unwittingly nudges against his, but what's weird is . . . he doesn't move it away. He keeps it there as if he wants you to do it again. The air surrounding the table sparks with electricity — this doesn't feel like just breakfast anymore and you have an inkling that you both know that whatever is unfolding between you isn't just harmless curiosity, but also mutual and deliberate. It's impossible to now pretend that neither of you feel it.

ׅ ❤︎

A week passes by quickly.

And after Vegas is Houston. The city known for its widely diverse culinary and culture brings lots of interviews which means you end up staying for a week. Monday is full of radio interviews. You hop from station to station to promote the new single featuring Connie that's already been hitting ten million streams per day after last friday's release. You answer questions about the tour ("I don't think i've ever had this much fun in my life"), how life is on the road ("It's . . a lot. but, I love it"), and how it's been sharing the stage with someone as big as Connie Springer. Your answer to that one consistently remains the same — "He's someone that I truly do admire. His work ethic is one of a kind and he's taught me a lot. I really do appreciate him for making me apart of something as special as this."

Tuesday becomes your one and only day where no one asks anything of you — no press runs, shoots, or recordings. Just . . . quiet. You sleep it away as though you've been drugged, phone completely powered off, curtains drawn over your hotel room's large windows, and do not disturb sign hung from your doorknob. Your parents call near the night and while facetiming on your Macbook, you watch the two of them make dinner while babbling about the sights you've been seeing, your favorite tour nights so far, and filling them in on your next stops to go. You leave certain details out . . . ones including stormy, hazel eyes and an aura so brooding that it makes anyone near him want to choke on their own tongue. Wednesday marks nothing but rehearsals. Anthony has you practicing new choreography with sharper footwork and faster transitions.

He makes you drill the same section over and over again until your lungs feel like they're on fire and sweat trickles down into crevices of your body that you didn't even know was possible. You lose yourself in it though, happily, might you add, because ever since breakfast in Vegas, you've been avoiding him.

You make sure your rehearsal slots are no longer matched up. If his team blocks out the stage from one to three, you suddenly prefer mornings. If a double booked studio session occurs, you're feeding Annie some excuse about how your voice needs rest.

The first day feels like coincidence.

By the second, it's deliberate.

By the third, it's routine.

It all becomes a quiet and careful choreography of its own — enter here, exit there, arrive after he leaves, leave after he arrives. Because truth be told, after that breakfast, after the foot nudge underneath the table, you two talked for three more hours.

The both of you got so lost in conversation, in each other, that by the time one of you realized, both of your teams had been blowing your phones up, wondering what the hell was going on. It was during these conversations that he asked about your life, what made you upload those first couple songs on Soundcloud all those years ago, why you kept going even when nobody was listening yet.

You told him things you don't usually say out loud.

About recording covers underneath the covers in your childhood bedroom because you've always been so painfully shy. About saving money from house cleaning jobs to afford a decent microphone. About how the first time one of your songs cracked twenty thousand plays, you stayed up all night refreshing it just to make sure the numbers weren't a glitch. You even told him how sometimes, it still feels a little bit strange listening to tens of thousands of people screaming your lyrics back to you nearly every night.

And he listened.

Intensely — with his body leaned in close to yours, hands interlocked between his knees underneath the table, dark gaze steady as he sometimes asked a question that proved he was truly listening.

You learned more about him too.

About the songs his mother used to play around the house when he was a boy, all the fights he got into until he hit the age of fifteen, and how he first got signed when he turned twenty. ever so often did spanish slip into his sentences, fast and natural, and nearly every time did you have to timidly pause him to translate.

He'd halt mid sentence, blink once like he forgot you didn't speak it, then do so softly.

Something about the way he spoke — half spanish, half english — voice calm and low like it was the most natural rhythm in the world, kept your attention completely hooked on him even when you tried to force yourself to look away.

At one point in time, while reaching for your glass of lemonade, your hand bumped his. His arm'd been outstretched, hand lazing on the table. He didn't flinch away, same thing with his foot. And for some reason, you decided to let your finger keep put too, and for almost an hour, you both spoke like that — pinkies only sometimes grazing each other's as if you'd been star-crossed lovers at some point in time, destined for each other in some other life. Your heartbeat had started to pick up a strange pattern. Not fast enough to panic, though not slow enough to be calm neither. You were hyperaware of his hand, his leg brushing against yours every now and again, the way his gaze lingered on your birthmark, how he barely smirked when you laughed.

When you finally walked away from that breakfast, phone buzzing with a dozen missed calls and a weak feeling in your knees, what was once contentment slowly darkened into dread. Because up until that morning, connie had been just a collaborator. A collaborator that made you nervous sometimes, sure, but after . . . he just . . wasn't that anymore.

Which is exactly why you've been dodging him for so many days now.

You're exhausted by Thursday, sure, but exhaustion helps. It keeps your mind busy and off of him. you told yourself distance will get your mind back right too. No contact, no touching, no words, you'll be fine.

But, then Thursday night happens. You're lying in your hotel bed with an episode of severance playing on the television screen and popping peanut m&ms into your mouth one by one, all of them sorted by color. The reds, greens, oranges, then brown. You save the blues for last because they look prettier.

Suddenly, your phone buzzes. It's a text from Annie.

She sends you a link and right below that is her text — a simple '?'

Instantly, you click on it without reading the preview. The page loads for a while before a tweet is suddenly covering the breadth of your phone screen. It's short . . . blunt. It makes your heart drop as you stare at it for two seconds longer. His fans are in speculation mode. lots of 'who????' 'album bout to go crazy' and 'pls go live's. It's as you’re scrolling through the other thousands of them when another pops up on his feed.

Neither tweet has a name to it but his tone reads sharp to anyone with working sight.

Your stomach feels like it's in a knot. Everything is pointing to them being about you, even when you try to talk yourself out of it that they're not. you quickly lock your phone, shove it underneath your pillow, and breathe out a shaky exhale while trying to focus back on the show. You don't reply to Annie. You don't make a subtweet back. Tomorrow's rehearsals start early in preparation for the show. deep down, you're now aware your little dance around Connie isn't going to last that much longer.

ׅ ❤︎

When morning comes, a nauseating feeling of unease sits within the pit of your gut akin to a dumbbell dropped into wet cement.

At three am, you went ahead and scrolled through Connie's twitter account to assess if he does that often — subtweets. And he doesn't. His feed is clean . . an occasional fan retweet praising his music . . or one from his label promoting a single or album. Sometimes he shares a link to a song he seems to have on repeat (about a year ago, one of them was yours, you tried not to freak out too much about it) or to a cause he donates to. Never does he post anything in reference to what's going on in his personal life which makes his last two more impactful.

He's past the point of patience, you realize. He's noticed your little game and he doesn't like it.

You keep moving anyway.

You rehearse like usual with Anthony and your dancers. Muscle memory takes over while your brain floats on an entirely different realm. Annie works in a wardrobe fitting. You focus on yourself, even while realizing Connie's team starting to pour in one by one, you disregard them. Hours past like that until four o clock ticks off into five — three hours before the show. The stadium starts to empty out, slowly as everyone parts for their routine before it does.

You're grabbing your insulated water bottle and phone from off of the stage floor and zipping up your defined jacket over its matching sports bra you wear while walking through the wings, on your way towards an exit ramp.

Your body is tired, but, in a rare, satisfying way. You're prepared for tonight. Until . .

"Yo."

You completely freeze. You smell him before you see him. Blunt smoke and vanilla. Tentatively, you turn on the heels of your Chanel sneakers to see him standing near the bottom of the stage stairs, leaning against them like he's been there for a while. It's darker down there. He's dressed in a red hoodie with its hood thrown over his head, baggy black jeans, and distressed sneakers with a blunt pinched between his fingers. Its ember glows within the low light he’s enshrouded in.

Smoke lazily curls from the end of it as he motions with his chin, "C'mere."

His eyes, glossy and red, watch you closely. Your own seem to tremble as you go to shake your head.

You hesitate, ". . . I'm good—"

His voice cuts through the nearly empty stadium, calm but edged, "—Stop fuckin' playin' wit' me, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱." His words seem to echo, even though he smoothly pushes them out and your chest tightens.

Slowly, reluctantly, you walk down the stairs to meet him at the bottom. The smell of weed is more potent now. Nonetheless, you still think it mixes well with his cologne. Up close, only three steps away from each other, tension is rolling off of him in waves. It makes a knot of stress form within the base of your neck, almost immediately.

Smoke leaves his mouth in a slow stream as he carefully studies your face, "Look at me."

You chew on the inside of your cheek, wavering, before blinking up to stare at him from beneath your lashes.

"How long you gon' do this."

Your throat tightens, "Do what?"

His tone is dry when he replies, "You been duckin' and dodgin’ me all week . . . and now you gon' stand here and act like you don't know what I'm talkin' about."

"I haven't been doing anything—"

"—Lie better."

His bluntness hits you with the force of a slap.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Look away. Then sigh. "Connie—"

"—Don't," his voice cuts through as his eyes barely squint. "Don't do that soft shit."

"I've just been busy."

You watch him blink slow, deeply inhale, run a hand down his jaw, then slowly blow it out. "You think I'm stupid?. . ." When you remain quiet, he continues. "Nah, I'm for real. Tell me."

Your heart is starting to beat faster when you respond, "No."

"Then why you actin' like I am?"

" 'm not actin' like anything . . I jus' . . . needed space."

He'd been going to take another hit from his blunt however when you finish your sentence, his hand pauses halfway up towards his mouth and he quietly repeats the word in disbelief, "Space . ." Slowly, he begins to nod. While looking away, he takes the hit, holds it in for a second, then lazily lets the smoke pour from his mouth once more. His eyes are back on you when he resumes speaking, "You've always had space."

"That space was different."

"¿Cómo diferente?"

Your head tilts. His eyes are lazy, almost bored when he slowly bites out,

"How . . . was it . . . different."

Your throat feels tight. You don't know why you have a sudden urge to cry. He’s never been so curt with you. "It's . . . a lot."

"Mm."

"This," you find yourself gesturing between the both of you. "You. You're a lot, Connie."

His gaze suddenly grows sharp, "You scared?"

The question catches you completely off guard. You wouldn't particularly use that word. Rubbing your glossy lips together, you pause, ". . . You're intense."

It shocks you when he suddenly huffs out a short laugh. "Intense."

"It's scary . . you're like," you take in a deep breath and rub your fingers over your eyebrows. "You're getting in my head. I dunno know what to do."

" 's been a week, a whole week of you treatin' me like I'm some fuckin' random," his eyebrows furrow in deep when he asks, "You think I'm takin' you somewhere you don't wanna go?"

You're aware of how immature you may seem now. Spoiled, ungrateful, childish, because from what you’ve heard, Connie hand picked you out of the thousands of other alt-r&b and indie pop artists out there to open his first stadium tour, not someone else. You're almost shrinking back when you mewl, "That's not what I—"

"—You think I want a version of you that ain't real? Playin’ these stupid ass games? You think I'm playin' with you?"

"What? No." You shake your head quickly as his questions hit you with the force of a thunderclap.

'"Then what?"

"I don't . . 'm not . ." you clamp your mouth shut and look down at your feet. " 've never felt like this before. It's scary."

The confession hangs between you both for a moment. You're terrified of looking back up at his face in fear of what you might find — confusion, disgust, or even amusement. Your voice grows even quieter, borderline a whimper when you say, "You make me feel steady . . it's weird."

His stare is penetrating. You fight to ignore it as you continue with the main thing that’s been plaguing your brain all day.

". . . Then you called me irritating."

For the first time tonight, Connie's mouth twitches with a smirk. He doesn't try to hide it when you eventually look up at him. He simply brings his blunt to his lips again while murmuring, "You saw that, hm?"

"Everybody saw it."

"Good."

Silence takes room again. Connie runs his eyes across you. From the new, tiny ginger boho braids that hang from your scalp down to your knees, your pretty face full of dejection, tits sitting up sweet and full in your bra, to the shoes at your feet. ". . You done runnin'?" he blows the smoke out. " 'Cause i don't chase for long. Tell me you'on want this and I'll back off."

Something in you grows absolutely petrified, because you know he's telling the truth. He will back off and you don’t know if you can handle not having the part of connie that obviously isn’t shown to majority of the world. Some other part of you, more smaller, delights in it. Because, "I do, but if you leave . . ." you rub at your eyebrows again, feeling something in you absolutely shatter. it’s as if a small pin has been shot into glass and something in your chest collapses as your voice grows soft again when you whimper out a watery, "Fuck." You hate this feeling. This is why you've been avoiding him for so long.

Connie doesn't make a move to comfort you. Not yet. "You think I'm somebody that's temporary?"

You don't answer. You remain rubbing at your forehead with your head down, pressing at it as if you can somehow work out your anxiety, and that's when Connie finally moves. He drops his blunt, crushes it beneath his shoe, then pulls you in by the waist to force your head up. Oh. You're pretty when you cry. All watery eyed, pouty lipped, and weak. "Hm." He wipes your tears away with his thumb, watching you sniffle. "Don't ice me out like that again. Ion play that shit."

There's no yelling. No threat. Just a dark, bolded lined boundary.

You believe him. Completely. Your breathing is shaky when you softly murmur, ". . Okay," with your voice softer than what it's been in what feels like years. Connie takes heed, instantly. Something dark yet sweetly warm settles beneath his eyes. His hand slides a little bit higher up your side, steadying you when you sniffle again. "Look at you, ma," he utters. He watches your eyebrows faintly knit as his thumb catches on the wetness smeared under your bottom lashes. "Whole week you been runnin'," his opposite hand finds a soft grip at the hem of your leggings. "And now you right here."

Before you can let yourself think for long . . .

You stand on your tip toes, curl your arms around the back of his neck, and tug him down to your lips.

For a split second, he doesn't move. Your stomach drops instantly. You think that maybe the move was too much, too fast but then . . his hand at your cheek, slides down to your throat, and suddenly, he's kissing you back. It isn't soft nor hesitant. It's deep . . and possessive. Entirely consuming.

The force of it, pushes you back a step as you gasp, feeling his lips pursue yours.

His mouth moves against yours as though he's been holding it back for days. You quickly lose yourself — hiccuping between the slick sounds of your lips meeting then separating. Your fingers clutch at his hood as your head spins, feeling the web of his hand force your chin up higher in order for his tongue to slowly swathe against the roof of your mouth.

He tastes like weed . . . and dark roast coffee. It's dizzying.

"C-con . . nie."

"Mmm." He pulls away . . slowly, as if he's trying to commit your taste to memory before he does. Your vision feels blurred. You blink once, then twice, before it focuses again. But then he's back and your eyes are fluttering closed once more. His lips are soft and full, tapping at your own for slow pecks as though he's unable to get enough. The press of his body is solid, broad, and warm and you feel it — the quiet demand that you don't pull away. So, you don't. You give in, letting him guide, letting him claim the space he's always wanted you in.

Between warm breaths he murmurs, "You mine now?"

You're in a daze when you mewl back "Mhm," while nodding.

"You gon' let me treat you right?" His voice is gruff though he's almost teasing with something darker lying underneath.

You nod again, "Yeah . ." The admission feels a lot like surrender. He hums low and the sound seems to vibrate through your entire body, settling in your chest and pooling warm within your tummy. Giving into him softens the tension you've been holding onto for weeks. There's no need for anymore words. The confirmation of this not being casual nor fleeting makes everything feels heavy . . and real. You're sleepy, you realize. Your mind hasn't gone this quiet in a long time so you let your arms fall around his abdomen, lean closer into him, and press the side of your face against his stomach.

"See." He holds his hand at your back. "That wasn't so hard."

You're still sniffling and slightly pouting when you whisper back, "It was terrifying."

"I could tell."

". . . What happens now?"

You feel him lean his back against the railing and widen his stance to somehow bring you into him even closer, "You stop actin' like i'm temporary."

Your heartbeat skips. "And you . ." you hum and pause for a second, ". . stop tweeting mean stuff about me."

A chuckle is exhaled through his nose. ". . I ain't mean nothin' by that shit."

"Still mean."

In all fairness, you were irritating him but Connie decides to let you win this one. His hand, the one at your waist, softly squeezes it as a silent give in. He'll chill . . as long as you don't pull away like that ever again.

ׅ ❤︎

Life goes on mostly the same after that.

Or at least, from the outside it does. That same night, you perform with something new buzzing beneath your skin. The stage lights are blinding, the crowd's loud as ever, and you can feel him, still . . . his stare. He watches from the wings, as always, eyes focused, arms folded over his chest and hand cupped over his mouth. You catch his gaze a few times — it almost trips you up but you gather yourself quickly before a camera even notices.

Everything's the same, but . . . different.

When you're off stage, he's there . . most times now, parting from you with a subtle kiss to your temple that a nearby onlooker can almost miss before his set. It makes you giddy all the while. You watch him perform too. Eyes wide and transfixed on the large screens that track his every move and expression.

When shows are over, he's the first one there at the door of your dressing room, leaning against the wall with that same quiet patience he always carries as he waits alongside Reiner for you to gather your belongings. Then he's tossing an arm over your shoulders, pulling you into his side and directing you out into the private parking garage to help you climb into an escalade with him in tow.

Both of your teams notice . . . no one says anything.

You guess part of the reason why is because Connie's always been a private guy. Not a single soul has ever approached him with a direct question about his personal life, aside from a rare, bold blogger. You like it. Yoo many questions would mess up you guys' pace, you think. Because truth is — he's never spent a single night with you. Each show it's the same routine, he drives with you to your hotel with his thumb drawing idle circles into the back of your hand as the cities whizz by through tinted windows. Walks you through the lobby, to the elevator where the both of you stand quietly, letting the machine carry you up to the suite. He always swipes your keycard for you when you make it to your door, pushes it open, steps inside and is only in there for about two minutes time.

Within those two minutes, he never really says much because after a low "C'mere" he's always kissing you . . . slow at first, like he's reminding himself to take it easy, then all devouring. His height and weight usually ends up boxing you within a corner, without him seeming to try because one step forward for him is two steps back for you, leaving you surrounded with just him. Hotel hallways have cameras — and Connie knows what you two look like when this happens . . . the soft sounds that can't help slipping out of your mouth when it goes on for too long, your tongues swirling against one another's. The shit he does to you would have you both front page on every blog site within ten minutes of him leaving to his own room. So, he always pulls away first. "Shower. Phone off. Sleep," he consistently murmurs after he steps back towards the door. It always sounds like something he forces himself to say. Like it physically costs him something to stop.

Sometimes you smile to yourself when he leaves. Sometimes you pout.

Because Connie's never been the one to linger nor does he stand around talking. He gives you, only you, those two minutes and you begin to cherish them.

It's in Miami, a couple weeks after Houston, when the masks slip.

There's an album release party one of your industry friends, Mikasa, throws. Connie happens to also know her. It's on the rooftop of a sky high building. You socialize as needed, sticking with Annie and Kennedy, one of your dancers who's been growing into a close friend. Your dress is tiny, fitted, and red . . entirely backless which shows off the pretty dip of your spine and plush butt sitting up high within it. You feel pretty.

You catch Connie's eye occasionally. He nurses a glass of something dark with two ice cubes in it. whenever he takes a sip, his eyes are searching over the slope of it through the dozens of people For yours. You can't help teasing a bit . . you let your gaze linger on his before you're looking away to refocus on something someone's saying. When someone has to shuffle by to squeeze past you, you smooth your hands down the sides of your dress afterward — pressing out invisible wrinkles, palms tracing your waist slow, to an onlooker, absentmindedly all while knowing your back is in his direct line of sight. Connie's never been one to not be composed, though, even given your little games. Not until the night grows dim. He keeps an eye on you for nearly the entirety, glancing at you giggle, chat with friends, have a shot.

Then suddenly, you're gone.

Everyone's winding down — taking seats on the lounge couches as the music grows softer and alcohol settles into bloodstreams. You'd been standing near the railing with Kennedy, he saw, but now Kennedy's alone and Annie's taking a phone call in the corner. Connie's jaw ticks. What the fuck? Never the type to announce his departure, he simply eases off from a conversation about streaming numbers and touring logistics to head inside the building.

Briskly, his eyes sweep the hall as he walks. Elevator, unmoving. Women taking pictures of themselves in a mirrored panel. He inhales a sharper breath than his last while easing to the restrooms. He takes his chance with the women's by carefully nudging it open just enough to look inside . . . and there you are – sitting on the marble counter with your head bowed, shoulders slumped, and phone held loosely in your hand as a ten second clip constantly replays.

"Aye . ." Connie's moving before he can stop himself.

Your head snaps up.

You've been crying. Your make up isn't completely fucked but the dark shadow that'd been thinly buffed beneath your glossy eyes is smudged now. He goes still when he's standing in front of you, "What happened."

For a moment, you don't answer. Though his face doesn't show it, Connie's stumped. You'd just been laughing and enjoying yourself. What happened? Eventually, after swallowing the knot in your throat, you nudge your phone into his hands. A tiktok video is paused on the face of some music critic — white guy, glasses, and scrawny. When connie presses play, he hears it, "She's pretty, don't get me wrong. Dreamy. A gorgeous girl. Music's," his lip twists while his shoulder lifts. "nice. But can she carry a stadium tour alone? I don't think so."

The video sits with two million views and three hundred thousand likes.

Something hard settles beneath Connie's stare. He listens to you sniff as he powers your phone off and places it face down on the counter beside your thigh. " 's so stupid, I know," you hiccup.

The bathroom is quiet aside from your breathing.

" 's . . . it's trending everywhere." You've never been the type to care about stuff like this. However, you can't help but notice that something feels different about it this time around. "It k-keeps popping up on my feeds like it's . . the funniest thing anyone's ever said."

You look away, letting his words bounce around your skull, "Pretty," you bite out weakly. ". . dreamy. I . . . d-dunno if 'm built for this, Connie."

For a moment, Connie takes you in.

Really takes you in. A girl in a red dress, teary eyed, and hurt over a fucking loser making videos in his friend's attic. "Wipe your face, ma," he says it but he's already doing it himself. Grabs you by the chin and dabs your tears away with careful presses of his thumbs. "Why the fuck you lettin' somebody like that get into yo' ear about what you can and can't carry?"

You look away, sad and huffy. ". . Because people listen to him."

"People listen to all types of shit, that don't hold no weight." He doesn't like this . . this feeling of knowing that he can't shut the whole thing down for you. He's unable to reach into the internet and bury the words into a black hole before they get to you. It makes him feel incompetent. Eventually, he sighs through his nose. "You sold out three nights in LA . . two in Seattle . . two in Houston . . Chicago broke the fuckin' ticket site for a minute. Every crowd knows every lyric you wrote." Your lashes flutter as you look down at his chest where a pair of platinum dogtags hang on a chain. ". . . Pretty," he ultimately sucks his teeth then gives a small squeeze to your thigh. "Yeah . . you are. But that ain't why people show up."

"Mmm." His words feel good.

Slowly, as if shy, you drop your head onto his shoulder. Immediately, Connie's hand is at the back of your neck, grounding you back calm. His voice is quieter when he says, "You don't ever break down in front of the internet. Fuck that shit. You break down here." A kiss to your temple and you mewl. "You cry. I fix it."

His words invoke you to breathe out a small giggle, “. . You make it sound easy.”

His thumb drags slow strokes up and down your nape, inattentively but steady, similar to the way a person would pet a small, shaken kitten until it calms. “It can be.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” His hand slowly lowers until it’s settled within the arch of your spine. His touch against your bare skin makes your nerves feel like they’ve been lit on fire. He presses into it to get you to open up your legs the slightest bit wider so that he can stand closer between them. “You need to forget that internet shit. And remember you got me watchin’ you.”

When your head lifts to look up at him, you take in his expression. It remains the same — always focused, stare always intense, but you watch his gaze drop to your lips for a split second before it flicks back up to your own. “You think I ain’t seen that lil shit you was pullin’ out there?”

“. . Huh?” your lips part as you feign innocence, “What stuff?”

“Mhm. Okay.”

Connie’d let his attention slip. Usually he’s better at keeping an eye peeled out on his surroundings, but you’ve got him in a trance. The bathroom door is suddenly pushed open by a woman, clearly not prepared to see a buff, six foot four man tatted and dark eyed talking to a girl seated on the counter. On instinct, she jumps where she stands which makes you jolt within Connie’s arms. He doesn’t apologize for the scare. “C’mon.” With an arm around your waist, he pulls you down until your heels hit the floor. He’s aware that your relationship has now been the slightest bit compromised but when the two of you are back at the party with your phone powered off in his pocket as he watches you giggle at something Kennedy says from across a crowd of people’s heads, he doesn’t have it in him to truly give a fuck.

ׅ ❤︎

Leg one of Connie's stadium tour ends in New York — as expected.

Madison Square Garden is booked for three nights, an entire weekend, and his famous, smiley faced emblem is displayed at the peak of the Empire State Building and beams out across the skyline as if the city itself is welcoming him home as soon as you all touch down. You recognize the change in Connie immediately. Somehow, he becomes even more quiet, retreats more inward, like a coil pulled into itself.

It's not nerves. Connie's nothing if not scarily calm at all times of the day but there resides something . . heavier about him. You see it when he first climbs the steps to the stage of night one's rehearsals. His hands rest idly at his sides, shoulders relaxed as his eyes dart across the entire span of the stadium, seemingly trying to catalogue each seat into his brain. When it's your turn to practice, he's not too far away, slowly pacing while watching how you execute each note, each step, each everything. As much as his presence has became something almost grounding to you, you think you'll always be just the slightest bit intimidated by him.

You say so when it's just the two of you standing there, on the little taped X's of your marks while the stage crew continues to bustle around the coliseum . . . "You're makin' me nervous."

His face doesn't change much — eyebrows only lift up a bit as he takes your words in. "How?"

"I dunno." Truthfully, you don't. ". . I think . .” Connie watches you look down at your feet which you shuffle from left to right on as your lips twist while you try to find the right words. Everything you do is somehow becoming more and more precious to him, he can’t help but wait patiently as you soon sigh. “I jus' . . wanna be good for you . . . for your city."

For the first time in a while, Connie smiles. It works its way across his lips slow, revealing nearly all of his perfect teeth. It's rare enough that it makes something in you grow tight and warm when you see it. “For my city, huh?” It’s there for a while before it melts off again — always serious, always intense. “You’on gotta worry about that. You always perfect." As your stomach flutters with new butterflies, you go to respond before you're cut off.

"Connie! Run it again from the first drop?"

He doesn't immediately look away from you. He remains staring at your face, examining your current expression before nodding towards the tech crew. "Yeah, let's do it."

A squeeze at your waist, then he's turning you towards the wings, "Go," he mumbles. "I ordered you some lunch. Eat."

You pout, not wanting to part so soon. This past week has been relentless. Both of your schedules have been jam packed, the only times you have been seeing him is during rehearsals, the show, and when he walks you up to your hotel suites. "But 'm not—"

Shaking his head, he's already pushing in his in-ears while clicking his tongue once, "—Didn't ask. I said go eat, ma." There's no edge in his tone but there's no room for arguing either.

He appreciates it when you simply give a nod after a few seconds. He reads it off of you — the restlessness, the nerves. You keep fidgeting with the rings on your fingers and chewing on the inside of your cheek. You need fuel and a nap. So you go.

ׅ ❤︎

The rest of the afternoon is a blur.

A plate of soul food from a spot Connie's frequented since he was a child is delivered to your dressing room, then vocal warm ups, followed by a short nap curled on the couch while the muffled sound of his setlist echoing throughout the stadium lulls you in and out of sleep. It's all well needed after one of your glam girls wakes you up about an hour and a half later with a gentle shake to your hip, "Hey, babe. Sorry. We gotta start gettin' you ready." You feel better than you have in days.

With a big stretch and yawn, you climb off of the couch and immediately into the chair in front of your vanity whose surface is already swimming with cosmetics and hair utensils. "What are we thinkin' for hair today?" She asks while gently fluffing it.

Softly, you blink at her through the mirror then go to touch your forty inch bundles that have been sewed in and dyed a pretty burgundy. "Mm, deep crimps today, please." You want to be at your absolute prettiest, reason obvious.

And as light foundation is buffed into your skin, shadow is pat on your eyelids, and your hair is crimped, you wonder about Connie. You think about the first time you performed at a big show in your hometown, remembering that minutes before you went on stage, you had felt like you wanted to cry. And for the strangest reason too — it'd just been different. Being in your city surrounded by faces that've possibly gone to the same schools or grocery stores as you, that knew pieces of you felt both strengthening and nerve wracking. Connie's presence lingers within the back of your mind similar to a thick fog. You picture him in his own dressing room, head in his arms, as he tries to ground himself before going on, because even if he doesn't show it, you know that he's nervous.

A strange mix of fear and excitement swirls around you, nevertheless. He's been able to make the most ordinary of things feel electrified and you both are performing at Madison Square Garden. You can hear the buzz, the screams, you feel the anticipation. You know that he's going to kill it and you just hope that he doesn't feel the same pressure that you do.

But once those lights go up and the music swells, everything feels like it's been put in a matrix.

You don't remember seeing Connie at the wings, you barely even remember holding your mic up to your mouth, however, once you're off stage, you're immediately squeezed within a group hug so big that your lungs nearly collapse. "You did so good!" "Oh my fucking God!"

Connie's performance is nearly a streak in the haze, too. You guess it's because of all the adrenaline. Your focus is pinned on just a few things.

Him.

In a black varsity jacket made of wool with cream leather sleeves with his emblem stitched on the back in chenile. The stage lights kept catching on the open faced, diamond grillz that framed the bottom row of his teeth each time he smirked at the crowd and you distantly remember that same moment when he slowly peeled off his jacket, dropped it in the face of the pit, and listened to the crowd scream until nearly all of them were blue in the face.

He'd been slow . . controlled . . intense.

Songs blended together, screams became white noise, lights, fog, sweat, bone rattling bass, then suddenly . . it's all over. There'd been no dramatic goodbye from Connie once it all ended. He had only stood there with beads of sweat dripping down his temples to the swirling ink tatted across his nose. The applause sounded like crash of waves against shore.

With his hands pressed together, he bowed at the waist, mouthing his thank yous.

And just like that, he's lowered beneath the stage and Madison Square Garden night one is completed.

ׅ ❤︎

You're dressed in a pair of fold over micro shorts, a fitted crew neck that's been cut into a crop top with a pair of kitchen shears, slouchy socks, and nike cortezs when Connie finally sees you again for what feels like the first time in hours.

He doesn't shout your name or say anything — you simply open your dressing room door while checking your phone for the time, look up, and he's leaning against the wall as if he'd been there for a while.

"O-Oh."

His jacket is gone now. He wears just a white, distressed tee that stretches over the span of his broad shoulders, a diamond chain, black cargos, and a pair of clean air forces. "C'mere," when said by him, you have a front row peek at the diamonds that also still glisten within his mouth. You let him pull you closer, however, are unable to help trying to peek over his shoulder for the rest of his teem. "Aren't you gonna celebrate with them?"

"Niggas poured champagne all over me," he mumbles with a small kiss to your forehead. "They got their celebration. Ima get mine too."

Giggling, you lean in closer to get a whiff. Yeah. He smells like it. "Did they give you a sip at least?"

"Fuck no."

Connie watches you laugh. Your cheeks go fat at the apples and you smile so big, your eyes get squinty. He smirks. ". . Hm." You watch his reach up towards his neck. You think he's simply going to adjust the chain he wears, albeit, he's taking it completely off to then drape over your own neck. It's heavier than it looks. You immediately look down at the pendent of where platinum dog tags reflect back at you with engravings of his initials, C.S.

". . . Connie—"

"–Leave it. C'mon."

His voice is quiet and firm in a way that makes you clamp your lips shut and let him intertwine his fingers within the spaces of yours to lead you towards the exit ramp for the garage. Your face feels ten degrees warmer than usual as you go to touch the chain, still warm from his own skin. "W-Why are you lettin' me wear it?"

He keeps his eyes forward when he responds, "I'm lettin' you keep it. 's yours now, mama."

Cool, New York air hits your skin as soon as he pushes the door open. And for a moment, everything feels mostly normal until you hear them, until you see them . . . camera flashes.

"Connie! Connie, over here!" "꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, say hi!" "Look this way!"

You freeze. Connie's security, who you hadn't even known been tailing you both, are quick to step in front of you and him, acting as a barricade against the small cluster of paparazzi that have managed to slip through the blockade separating the garage from the buzzing street. Your first instinct is to step away, turn, and go back to where which you came, however Connie's hand is at your waist, gently pushing you into the opened door of a sprinter as he uses his opposite arm to keep the flashes from completely blinding you as you step up and inside.

You barely have time as the door slams when you, him, and both his security are in your seats and the SUV is instantly pulling off.

For a second, the only thing heard are your uneven breaths. You think about Annie, your parents, your career. "O-Oh my god."

"꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱."

Your hands are shaking when you press them to your temples and lower your forehead to your knees, "They got p-pictures, oh my god." The words come out thin and strained as if someone had been physically squeezing them from your chest.

Connie's palm is firm against the back of your neck. Heavy. Stabilizing. It makes your shoulders relax only the tiniest bit as your phone is already begins to buzz where it's held between the hemline of your shorts up against your skin. You can already see the headlines, the comments, the threats, the new intrusion into something that had only existed between you and Connie up until five minutes ago.

"You good," Connie's muttering. His voice is low . . measured. "You gotta breathe, ma."

You whimper, "T-This is bad, Connie."

"It ain't."

You lift your head and your fingers are immediately grabbing your phone. Notifications are already beginning to stack.

"Yo, give me that."

The device keeps vibrating. Two hundred jumps to eight hundred, then a thousand, then fifteen hundred. You don't want it. You don't want to see what they're already saying. With shaking fingers you push it into Connie's awaiting hand, watching him slip his own out from his pocket. He shuts yours off, completely, barely glances at his before doing the same, then shoves them back in. "Mami, you gotta calm down. Seriously."

You're suddenly aware of the city lights zipping by in long ribbons of red, gold, and white, and your anxiety only flares higher. "Where are we going?"

He's pulling at you . . dragging you actually, by the thigh, like he's already decided you need this, until you're seated sideways upon his lap. "Somewhere where you can chill the fuck out." His voice stays calm — almost bored, even. Like the situation happening outside of the car is the least of his worries.

Your breathing slows underneath his touch. Just barely. You don't have it in you to ask another question, so you don't. You let your body fall sideways until your face is tucked against his shoulder. With your new comfort, Connie lets his head fall back upon the seat and for a few minutes, neither of you say anything. You can hear his security's thumbs tap away as they send messages and scroll through feeds on their phones, likely scoping the damage of the new release of pictures.

Connie's hand begins to stroke up and down your back. Slow. Comforting.

Your voice is tiny when you mewl, ". . They're gonna tear me apart." You want to cry. "J-Just for bein' with you."

The words feel strange to say aloud, nonetheless, they're the truth. A man like Connie, with fans all over the globe, with three hundred million Instagram followers and counting, you know you've just stepped into some deep shit. "Pictures ain't the end of the world."

You look down at your shoes. "It feels like it."

Connie nods, "I know. But it ain't."

He sounds so calm, so . . at ease. It confuses you. With a frown, you lift your chin to look up at him, "You're not worried?"

He glances down at you then back out the tinted windows. "I knew this shit was gon' happen eventually."

"You did?"

"Mm." He's quiet for a second longer. " 's not like I was gon' keep you a secret forever anyway."

The sprinter turns off a main road into a gated one after the driver punches in a code on a keypad with his thumb. You're surrounded by tall, brick buildings of old warehouses with glass fronts near the water that have been converted into luxury lofts. The car doesn't stop until it's in front of the largest one with the skyline of New York painted behind it. "C'mon." Connie's pulling open the door and patting your thigh to get you to hop down. You don't have to ask where you are because it's somehow obvious. ". . . Is this . ."

No hesitation. With his arm around your waist, he's steering you into the direction of the glass door entrance, "Yeah. This my place."

The lobby is more of a gallery. Concrete floors are buffed smooth and dark, steel beams stretch across the high ceiling. A long slab of polished, black marble acts as the reception desk where only one woman works with her braids pulled into a high bun and glasses on as she takes a call.

You clutch the strap of your little handbag tighter, watching the doorman greet Connie with a simple head nod.

No conversation. Barely even a pause. Connie nods back and is leading you towards the elevator near the back of a hall. He jams his thumb into a button, they open immediately with a quiet, metallic whisper and it's after you both step inside when he produces a key fob from his back pocket, presses it up against a sensor panel, and the doors close. You barely feel anything when the elevator starts to rise.

You feel like you've drunken four nitro espressos back to back.

When you slowly glance up at him to take him in, you see him simply standing there with his hands in his pockets, face handsome and devoid of any type of expression as he gazes forward. You suppose your stare must have been hard because he suddenly glances back down at you too, "What?"

You shift your eyes back forward, "Nothing."

The elevator slows.

You expected a hallway, or maybe even another lobby, but when the doors open, you've both been transported right within his loft.

You step off first then quickly stop.

The space is gigantic. It stretches across the entire top floor of the building with exposed, dark brown brick running across the length of the room, only sometimes broken by a wall of floor to ceiling windows. He has a view from nearly every angle of the loft. East, West, South, and North.

Dark walnut flooring stretch beneath your feet with a large, abstract rug in cream or charcoal spotted here and there, the pattern similar to brush strokes painted on a canvas. The living area acts as the center piece . . . dipped low away from everything else with a dark, leather sectional — the kind you sink into — facing a wall mounted television screen about as large as a movie theater's. Even the lighting fits in with everything – golden yet dim, painting the space in a vibe that makes your breathing slow.

". . Oh my . . god, Connie."

Your voice echos against the high ceilings.

You hear him drop a set of keys in a shallow, concrete bowl as he walks over to the kitchen, casual yet slow, to open a matte black, fridge door. You continue on your own little tour, finding the space to be too grand to not want to explore. Walking closer to the windows, you spot a balcony that stretches out for what looks like half a mile, wrapping around the exterior of the loft as his own private deck where an infinity pool runs along the edge . . sleek, long, and narrow. You remember his words, 'Somewhere where you can chill the fuck out.' Yeah. One deep inhale and look out at the city, and you find yourself to be almost entirely relaxed.

Here, the world feels quiet.

Like everything and everybody exists somewhere on an entirely different plane.

"You good?"

You turn around to face him. He's taken a seat on the sectional with his shoes off and legs outstretched in front of him. It's the most relaxed you've ever seen him. You watch him lean to grab a blunt and lighter out of an ash tray, shaped in a 'C' and only after lighting it, taking a drag, and realizing you haven't said anything else yet, does Connie simply watch you for a long second before saying, "C'mere."

He watches you slowly walk over and descend the small staircase. Before sitting down, you drop your purse on the center table then take a seat upon a cushion, a few inches away from him. You smell like cherries. Cherries and almonds. And for a while, he lets his eyes take you in. You're pretty, always fucking pretty, but you look especially pretty tonight with your hair still crimped, make up still bringing out the sharp line of your eyes, and your lips glossed. His chain still hangs from your neck. It's so long on you that the dog tags sway against your stomach. "So."

You look away from him, shy as always. ". . So . ."

He lifts his head to blow a stream of smoke out towards the ceiling, "You calm now?"

". . . Yeah."

"You wanna talk?"

"About what?"

"About these pictures circling the 'net now."

Seeing his place for the first time must've completely pulled you out of that headspace because once he brings it up, he watches your shoulders tense and eyes snap closed. The inhale through your nose is sharp. Connie's shaking his head. "Yo . . breathe."

" 'm trying." You sound exhausted when you toe off your shoes to lie entirely back against the other couch cushions with your arms thrown over your face. It leaves your feet in Connie's direction which he grabs with both his hands to pull your legs properly over his thighs while holding his blunt between his lips. ". . What are we gonna do?"

He's quiet for a while.

You almost think he didn't hear you until you drop your arms from your face to look at him to see him staring intensely at the chain that has now came to rest on the mounds of your tits. His stare isn't one of lust, just . . . focus. The intensity swimming within the dark clouds of his hazel eyes makes the hair on your skin stand upright. "If we do this," he utters quietly. "we do it right."

Your voice is gentle when you hum, "Hm?"

He licks his lips, looks away for a second, then takes another hit of his blunt. "I mean, I don't play that embarrassin' each other shit." His voice is quiet but hard. "If you mine, you mine. Simple as that."

Your stomach flutters. You remain silent for a while, before lifting up on your elbows. Your voice sounds almost meek when you mutter back, "So, if I'm yours then . ."

He blows out the smoke. "Then I'm yours, too."

"Oh."

Your little, quiet reply is so small yet so genuine that Connie's eyes can't help promptly flicking back to your face to study it. But, it appears his attention is much too much and abrupt for you because you end up dropping back flat against the cushion to cover your slowly widening smile like you're trying to hide from the moment entirely.

Connie only stares for a while before a breath is exhaled through his nose . . something close to laughter.

"Man, look at you . . ." One of his hands is pulling at your wrist. "Why you hidin' for?"

" 'm not."

He waits until you drop your hands. Only then does he get a better look at your face. He can tell you're blushing, regardless of the brown of your skin hiding it. Something in his chest tightens as he smirks and leans back while beginning to circle his thumb slowly over the smooth, soft skin of your shin. "You fuckin' precious."

"Connie, stop it."

He's chuckling, "Nah, for real. We doin' this shit so that means I gotta know some shit."

You're humming again, sweet and soft as your head tilts, "Know what?"

He leans forward to ash his blunt as his voice grows more gruff when he says, "What you like, what you don't like . . . shit you expect from me."

You gently blink, "Oh . . ." Honestly, you're stuck. Your fingers start to fiddle with his — your — chain as you try to think while Connie eyes you the entire time, quiet and patient, with the slow stroke of his thumb never halting. He watches how you go to say something, part your lips, then snap them back closed like you're indecisive. A small smirk pulls up his lips. "You'on know?"

Cutely, your nose wrinkles. "I do know . . . 's just weird sayin' it."

His head shakes, "Ain't weird." Another hit of his blunt. "You just shy."

When you go to melt away again, he's back pulling at your legs to keep you exactly where you are. " 'm askin' this 'cause I actually give a fuck. I don't want you guessin' and assumin' shit . . . I don't wanna be guessin' and assumin' shit."

Everybody's different. And Connie wants this. He wants you more than he's ever wanted another person in his life.

". . Okay," your voice is delicate as you start to thumb with your fingers on your stomach. "I guess . . . I just like when someone's honest. And . . I don't like feelin' like 'm bothering you."

Impossible, he thinks, but he nods slowly while letting you continue.

Your eyes drift towards one of the windows when you mumble, "I like . . attention. I don't wanna feel like . . 'm too much . . . or too little for you."

"You ain't gotta worry about that wit' me."

You watch him outstretch his arm along the backrest of the couch. "Why not?"

His gaze settles on you, slow and steady. " 'Cause if I didn't wanna deal wit' you, you wouldn't be in my house right now." The blunt is back at his lips.

His answer, his stare, invokes something warm within the pit of your stomach. You've had a front row seat in watching Connie move and you know he's telling the truth. Being someone special, only his exception makes you feel good, you won't lie to yourself. "Okay . ." you're back smiling again and looking away. "Just be consistent with me . . . and sweet to me . . and I'll be okay."

"You easy to please, you know that?"

Your eyes widen in slight surprise, "Really?" You think any other guy would have already been rebutting some stuff and you've barely even said anything.

"Mm," he's rubbing at your shin again, a little higher this time, near your knee. "I jus' want you to get used to talkin' to me."

You bottom lip juts out a little before you can help it, "What do you mean?"

"Means," his eyes flick down to where his thumb rubs before they're back on yours, "you'on hold eye contact with me for too long, I don't like it."

Of course he's noticed. " . . 'm sorry." Your tone softens again.

His smirk deepens as he keeps his stare steady, "Ain't nothin' to apologize for . ." He leans forward to ash his blunt again before pulling it back to his lips. "Jus' . . work on it for me."

"Okay."

Higher, his thumb rubs. It's an inch above your knee now, near the inside where your skin gets softer and dimples with faint cellulite. You swallow, fight to ignore it, and go to ask, "Your turn now. What else?"

"I don't fuck with that silent treatment shit," his attention is on the window. The city lights swim within his eyes that appear more murky green tonight. You know that the both of you are thinking about Houston . . you dodging him, avoiding him. You look back at your fingers and rub at the pretty, pink gems studded all over your extra long, jelly white acrylics. "If you mad, tell me. You sad, tell me." He waits until you nod before he resumes, voice hushed but hard. "Ain't gon' be seein' you entertaining nobody else. Smilin' in niggas faces, lettin' em touch you." He takes a longer pull of his blunt while shaking his head. It's as if the thought alone is enough to piss him off.

You shake your head slowly, batting your lashes as your brows furrow, ". . I won't, Connie."

"I know." It's firm, final. No need to get too deep into it because that line's been drawn clear. "And I know you expect the same from me. You don't gotta trip over me doin' shit like that. I like loyalty."

Another nod from you and he does the same.

"You just gotta talk to me, ma," higher, his thumb climbs. It's near the middle of the inside of your thigh now so you break your streak of faux nonchalance to look down at his hand. He continues to talk as if he doesn't realize but you feel it . . . in his stare. He knows what he's doing. "Talk to me . . . 's only so much I can read off you. Lemme in your head . . lemme hear that pretty voice and we'll be all good."

"O . . kay." You breathe and close your eyes, willing the stirring in your gut calm. Your pussy is starting to warm as more of your blood rushes south, straight down to your clit.

Then the room grows really quiet. So quiet to where you can hear the faint splash of the river wading below and hear how the leather beneath his back shifts as Connie leans deeper against the cushion behind him. When you open them, he's staring at you . . . not outside the windows, at the skyline, at your chest, but at your face, like he's analyzing each minuscule expression you make.

His thumb creeps higher.

You inhale again and tighten your fingers around the pillow beneath you. He notices the way he notices everything else but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't quicken his movement, nor does he slow, he just . . watches.

Another quiet pass of his thumb, and it's right there, right at the edge of where your little micro shorts stop above your thigh. Only inches away from your pussy that thumps with the matching beat of your heart. You watch the corner of his mouth lift, just barely. "You think too loud."

You feel it then.

His thumb on your clit, through your shorts and panties and the singular touch is enough for your eyes to flutter close as the slightest, tiniest whimper pushes out your nose. "Mmph."

" 's okay," he mumbles, rolling it 'round and 'round in slow circles. He takes another hit of his blunt, snapping his eyes from your face to his hand to watch your thick thighs slowly begin to part the slightest bit more opened. "Wit' me, you'on gotta worry about me neglectin' this either."

A deep inhale, a shaky exhale. You suddenly clamp your thighs around his wrist which makes him hold his blunt between his tightly folded lips to push one of them back open. Around the joint, he murmurs, "Nah, we don't do that shit over here."

"C-Connie." Your voice breaks around his name.

His thumb is working steady now. Smooth, perfect circles that has your hole clenching around the thin cotton of your panties as if it were trying to pull them inside for some sort of penetration.

"Tranquila," promptly, he pulls his blunt away. "You good, mama. Jus' feel it."

He's watching . . . reading . . . studying. Your breathing, the little furrow in your brows, how you bite at your bottom lip to keep from making too many sounds. You don't masturbate often, it's obvious. You're tightly strung, like your whole body's a knot. Connie wants to work you lax. "Take these off."

His hand is gone.

You bat your eyes open with your chest rising and falling shakily to watch him stub his blunt out. Then he's back. He hooks his hands within the fabric of your shorts and underwear to slowly peel them down your thighs off of your legs. " 'm nervous." It slips past your lips before you can reel it back in, however Connie's already shaking his head before the word fully leaves them.

"Nah, you don't gotta be. You jus' gotta lay here. Let me do what I do."

Still mewling, you let him part your legs open for him to get a good look at what lies in between. Your pussy's pretty — fat and brown and waxed smooth with your lips thick enough to hide your hole away but not your clit. It peeks out from in between them, puffy and slick, begging Connie to keep going, to treat her sweetly. "You so pretty, mama."

A sound seems like it's wrenched out of you when his bare thumb is on it now, doing the same thing he was just doing just seconds ago through your shorts. You're so sensitive. Eyes of stormy hazel watch as you turn your face into your arm you throw up beside your head. He watches you bite down on your bicep as his thumb dips low to tease the puckered entrance of your pussy — working the tip of it just barely in and out to feel you gush around it before it's back at your clit, this time more slick than it was before.

"Told you I was gon' celebrate, ain't I?"

You didn't think he meant this.

"C-Connie," you hiccup and dare yourself to glance down.

His thumb swirling on your bud, his tatted arm, his bicep, up to his shoulder. God, he's a dream. He's _your_ dream. You feel his body lower. His lips find your cheek for a soft peck before he's forcing your head out of your arm to push a wet, sloppy kiss on your lips. "Nah," he mumbles into the cavern of your panting mouth. "You can say Daddy . . . or you can call me Papa. I'll let you choose."

Another strangled whimper when his thumb suddenly slides nice and deep inside your pussy til it bottoms out with a nasty squelch. "Mm, both . ." you sniffle back while lifting your hips into his hand. "Wan' both."

He's smiling again. His rare one. The one that shows all his teeth — only tonight, the bottom sparkles with an open faced frame of diamonds. "Puedes tener ambos, mama. Ion judge."

"F-Fuck."

He's pulling his thumb out to trade it for his middle finger. The both of you watch it push in, the glide nice and smooth. Your pussy pushes out a small splatter of wetness that splashes onto his wrist where a black, calfskin strapped, phillipe watch is wrapped around. He doesn't give you time to adjust to it before he's pushing his ring finger along side it. Your eyes roll back into your skull. "U-Unh—"

Connie has never been so honed in yet foggy brained on something, on _someone_, until now. His lips are parted, forehead pressed against yours as he starts to push his fingers in and out . . sweet and deep, muscles firm. The desire that's slowly been building inside of him for you over the course of these past couple months feels like it's gnawing at all of his patience now, chewing away the part of him that's normally more composed. He thinks about you on stage, at rehearsals, in a booth — pretty and doe eyed. All the times he's felt you staring at him however, each time he'd look back, you'd dart your eyes away . . nervous, like he caught you doing something you weren't supposed to.

"Always so fuckin' shy, huh?" He's pinning your arms up above your head to keep you from hiding your face inside them.

It used to make him smirk to himself.

Now it just makes him want to see how long you can hold his stare before you crack.

"Look at me . . open y'fuckin' eyes . . watch me make this pussy mine."

He rocks his palm up into the swollen bead of your clit, watching you squeak and go to try to snap your legs closed. But, he's between them. You can only lock your thighs around the span of his hips as you hiccup, "—nie . . Connie, p-please."

His forehead is back, pressing up against yours as he inhales your wet, shuddery breaths into his lungs, "I know," he's kissing you – holds your face between his fingers that he squeezes in to make your lips pucker out. "Oh, I know, mami. I know."

That feeling is already creeping in close. Right between your pelvis that makes the soft, pulpy walls of your cunt clench around his fingers and your heart drop. Your pussy is gurgling so loud now that if anyone were to suddenly come up the elevator, just one step inside and they'd know immediately what the sound was. You're so wet. Thick, transparent liquid, texture like syrup, trickles down the crack of your ass to the leather below. It smears against your cheeks, makes Connie's hand dirty.

Another moan — this one weak, broken. You cry like Connie's hurting you but the way your hips jerk . . . one would be confused as to what's truly going on. "Daddy," you whine for him. You squirm beneath the hold his singular hand has both your wrists in as your voice grows weary. "Daddy, please."

"You good," Connie's mumbling, face focused as he tilts his head to get a better look at your walls dragging against his knuckles. "You good, baby," He says it like he swears it. "You just gotta cum."

"Okay," you nod quickly, words going breathy as if you were simply just pleading with him to _not_ make you do that. "Okay, okay . . O . . . kay—"

He twists his fingers in, pulls them out, twists them back in, and buries them til the hilt to massage the pads right into the doughy blob of your gspot.

"Hng." Your back arches up into his chest as your toes curl and cum washes out around his fingers. It gushes down his palm, down to his wrist and in between the cheeks of your ass to the couch. Connie growls out a short, gruff 'Hmm' sound, watching strings of the thick, pearly liquid play between his digits like spider webs each time he pulls them out and stretches them apart. His hand is glossy, from finger to wrist.

"There you go . . There you fuckin' go, ma."

You're shaking . . . hiccuping and twitching, letting him plunge them back inside your little, messy cunt for another thrust, pull them out, plunge them back in, and keep up the rhythm until you're pleading with him, " 's a l-lot . . T-Too much . . Daddy, wait—"

Connie backs off. One last plunge then pull out and he's smacking wet, little slaps against your clit. "Voy a gozar con ella," you hear him mumble. "Messy as fuck. I didn't think you'd get like this."

He pinches your folds together, just to watch your clit bulge at him. It's as though your pussy is a drug. Regardless of him simply staring at it, touching it, tasting it, or playing with it, he can't get enough.

You're teary eyed and brainless, watching him stand, reach behind his neck then peel off his shirt within one fluid motion. Beneath the moonlight, his abs are carved deep within his abdomen, each line catching the light like they were sculpted there by hand. Black ink moves across his skin in hypnotizing swirls, curling over his pecs and sliding down his obliques to disappear beneath his cargos. You can only admire — still foggy brained, thoughts still tangled, watching him press his tongue into his cheek for a moment while staring at you as if he were trying to decide just what to do with you before he's leaning in, sliding his strong arms beneath your back, and pulling you up into him while standing.

Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, arms around his neck, feeling his hands find the plush globes of your ass to hold as he walks you both through the house, pass what feels like a thousand windows, down a long hall, to a set of double doors.

While he opens them, you take the chance to rub your hand down his hair.

It's been growing out a bit, just barely. Tiny, blond curls and roots of black. You like it. It fits him. You listen to him inhale as you scratch your nails down his the back of his neck.

"Mm," he hums, kicking the door shut. Your lips find the arch of it where his shoulder almost begins as he walks. You kiss first, soft and sweet before suckling gently, feeling his muscles ripple beneath your fingers. "Shit feels good."

He tips you backwards until you fall against his plush, pillow top california king mattress that slightly swallows you when you land. "Said you was gon' be mine, right?" He remains standing at your feet. His room has only one wall of windows and it leaves just enough light to trace the outline of his body. "I want you to eat this dick up, then."

At just the mention of it, you're already curling onto your hands and knees to meet him at the edge. "I know it's a lil unfair . ." He eyes your lips as he mumbles, low and dawdling. "But Daddy promises . . . I'll make you cum on my tongue later on tonight, okay?" You're nodding, eyes big and brown when you pull at his zipper. You don't care. For so many nights you've thought about him . . about his hands, his voice, his smile, his eyes. So many lonely hotel nights where you'd punish yourself about it. No touching, no shower head, no pillow humps.

You've thought about what it'd look like.

Fat and short, long and skinny, no veins, lots of them. You didn't know, it drove you fucking crazy. Seeing him the next day always made you feel like a creep.

One push of his hand to the hem of his Tom Ford briefs and it bounces out over the elastic.

For a split moment, you don't even realize you stopped breathing. You can feel heat rushing to your face, your chest, your cunt. Everywhere. Because it's beautiful.

"Mm." A sound leaves him. Not quite a laugh but not . . not one either. "You can touch it, mami."

He watches your lips part. It's as though once given permission, you go ahead and do so — grab him by the base, feeling the weight of it settle in your palm like a dumbbell. You're amazed, almost. Eight inches long, perfect girth with a handful of veins that branch out across his shaft like bolts of lightning to pump blood up to his fat, leaky tip that is the same delicious pink shade of his lips. His balls are heavy when you cup them too . . swollen with so much cum that you think should hurt. But he only breathes, soft and calm at your sweet touches, holding his hands behind his back to let you take your precious time.

"Think it's gon' fit?"

You look up at him while holding his shaft right up against your face.

Connie's eyes grow so dark, you think they're black. Beneath his breath, he whispers, "Oh my fuckin' . ."

He watches you slowly begin to nod. "Yeah," you whisper back. Cute and sweet. "We can make it fit, Daddy."

Oh my fucking God.

A soft kiss to his tip.

Connie watches your plump lips push out in order for you to properly wrap them completely around it so that you're able to suckle out his leaking pre as if his dick was a straw. His eyes grow heavy. You hear his voice in your head, 'Ain't nothin' to apologize for . . Jus' work on it for me.' You keep your gaze locked steadfast on his as you slowly push an inch deeper inside your mouth.

No sounds from him yet. No words. Just . . a scarily intense amount of focus. He slowly brings his bottom lip beneath his teeth, watching you add in another and another.

When you hit six is when he sees it.

Your eyebrows furrow in, nose wrinkles, and your back caves in as you suddenly cough then pull back. "Mmmm . . almost." He's smirking while suddenly palming the back of your head to pull you right back. "Casi, mama. Casi. One more time."

He slowly feeds his cock right back inside your mouth. He hears you whimper around it as he keeps his hand at your head, pushing you lower and lower. When you gag again, he's right there, keeping you down while wrapping his hand around your throat. "Hazme sentir orgulloso," he's mumbling as if he's straining himself to push in deeper. "Lemme see it . . lemme watch my baby swallow my shit, huh?"

You cough, Connie disregards it. He pulls you only halfway off before both his hands, the one at your head and the one at your throat, are pulling you back in. "Yeah . ." He makes a nice rhythm, pulling and pushing, listening to you gag as his jaw falls open at the feel of your warm, little mouth. Your tongue works at the underside, obscenely swirling and slurping as you try your best to keep your cheeks sucked in tight. Spit begins to pool within the corners of your lips. It trickles down your chin as he plants his feet flat to really dig himself in deep. "Fuck, relax your throat . . Y-Yeah . . There you go. Qué niña tan inteligente, hm?"

His tone, dark and heavy, teeters the line of sweet condescension. It makes your pussy pulse and work out a glob of slick that runs straight down your clit to drip between your legs upon his sheets.

It's so good. Letting him stroke his dick in and out of your throat, even while occasionally choking on it, feels so good. Your spit thickens into strings of foam once he lets you go, grabs your hand and makes you wrap it around his base. He doesn't have to say it because you can feel it radiating off of him, Show me what you can do. You're not the most experienced, but what you lack in it is made up entirely in your effort.

Connie watches you pull him out and smack his dripping wet shaft on your lips while panting. He loves that shit. He loves it even more when you loll your tongue out to bounce his tip off of it, over and over. Your eyes are heavy as you stare up at him. You're high off the musk of him. His taste is potent enough to linger at the back of your throat, minutes after having swallowed his precum into your stomach. When you start to stroke him, you use both hands, circling them in opposite directions while focusing on the tip — just the tip. you dig your tongue into the little hole of it while massaging it against the bumpy roof of your mouth.

One of Connie's eyes squint closed as he slowly breathes out a shaky breath, ". . S-Shit . ." His voice is strained thin yet deep. "Just like that, baby. Just like that."

Saliva squishes beneath the spaces of your fingers. You feel them, his balls, gently swaying as you tug at his cock, needy for his cum to be swallowed into your throat. You pop him out of your mouth with a cute sniffle and gasp to get your tongue on them. They're fat enough to only fit in your mouth, one by one so it leaves the left one to receive your care first. You tongue and kiss at it if it were Connie's lips, sweet and messy, feeling his hand at the back of your head to keep you there. "Keep strokin' . . keep pumpin' that fuckin' fist."

You swirl it up and down his length, feeling his hand wrap around yours to coach you through it. He shows you how he likes it — grip tight, extra love at the tip from your thumb. When you switch over to the right, he tells you so, "Love that shit," he utters, words panted out. "Y . . Your tongue, mama. Love it right there."

You purr out a darling sound of happiness.

His eyes drag over your face slow. Taking in what he can see which is only really your nose and eyes. Your pupils are blown wide, you stare back up at him like you love it, too. His balls in your mouth, his dick in your hand, dripping pre down your pretty nails. ". . Ungh, shit." His eyes roll back as his head falls rearward. He's about to cum. You're about to make him cum. Fuck. He thinks about this being regular . . . your pussy wrapped around his fingers, his dick in your throat. Winding down after a show, before a show. He thinks about the soft cheeks of your ass gripped between his fingers, your skin under his teeth, tongue in his mouth . . You both in Greece somewhere, island hopping in Santorini, feeding you strawberries, pumping your stomach full of load after load in a bungalow surrounded by the ocean.

He's pulling you back forward to feed his dick back inside yours.

"S-Stay still," he mumbles quickly. He pumps his fist up and down his shaft, feeling your lips wrap around his tip and you sit there . . waiting for it. "Qué buena tú ere," he huffs. "So good. You so fuckin' good, mama, fuck."

His dick throbs when he cums. It pumps out . . . glob after glob into the warm hollow of your mouth, forcing you to swallow in fear of letting a single drip trickle past your lips. And the face he makes . . .

Every single feature of his goes entirely lax as he groans out a slow, slurred curse that mixes with the syllables of your name. He watches you slowly swallow it before you pull off with an adorable popping sound of your lips. You watch his dick bob in the air, heavy and still hard, rushing with blood at knowing what lies between your thighs. It's while you're blushing and shyly smiling, staring at it as if you've been struck by an arrow from cupid when you squeeze it before murmuring, "I wanna do it again."

Hell no.

Connie's bending at his waist, grabbing you by the face and pushing his tongue inside your mouth. "Nah, nah, nah." He's smiling as your tongue traces over the diamonds sparkling in his mouth while pushing you back until you fall back onto the bed. "We'll worry about that another time, pretty."

"But—"

He's shaking his head, leaning over you with his hands pressed upon the mattress on either side of your head. The moonlight cuts across the bulging slopes of his shoulder muscles as he hovers there, close enough so that you can feel the warmth of his skin radiating onto your own. He makes sure you're listening when he quietly says, "—When I tell you some'n, you need to listen, alright?"

You're looking away again, pouting, as you poke your fingers into his skin like you almost want to say no. Connie's waiting for it, anticipating it actually because he's always been able to tell that underneath your timidity reads a wretched, little pup that just wants to test how far she can stretch her leash.

His mouth twitches.

"See. There you go."

You blink up to gaze at him beneath your dark and fluffy lashes, " 'm not doin' anything."

"Mm." With the tip of his cock, he runs it along your soft, fat folds. He watches your mouth fall the slightest bit open as he nudges at your clit with it, swirling it around like he did with his finger. "You get quiet sometimes . . start lookin' away . . try to talk back. I seen you do it to your manager, too."

You whimper when he nudges at your entrance. The crown of his dick is fat enough to already stretch you open and he's barely even given you an inch. You anticipate the rest, needy for it as you bite your lip and look down at his hand that holds his base steady. "It's cute," he mumbles, forcing your eyes back up to his. ". . . But you still need to listen . . You understand me?"

Thoughtlessly, you're nodding while tossing your arms over his shoulders. You just want it. You need him.

"Okay," your legs are moving. "Yeah."

Connie reads straight through it. As much as he doesn't want to, he keeps his dick away from even touching your drippy, little cunt when he says, "Yeah what?"

There it is.

You breathe out a long, wounded whine, throw your head back into the sheets, eyebrows furrow in tight — God, the dramatics. "Yes, I u-understand."

The words come out of you as if they'd been dragged reluctantly from the depths of your pretty soul. Connie's jaw clicks. You may actually be worse than he thought. No need to worry though. The blood rushing beneath both of your veins is hot. He's aching for you, you're aching for him. He'll give you a pass this time. But after muttering, "Yeah, we gon' work on fixin' yo' attitude another day, too," beneath his breath, he's pushing his cock within the welcoming walls of your pussy.

You hiccup on your next inhale — sounds like the wind's literally been knocked out of you as he works himself in slow, inch by inch, with his forearms beneath your head, acting as a makeshift pillow to keep you comfortable and lift your face closer to his so that his eyes can drink in your face morphing into one of slight plain.

He's smirking when he whispers, "Tá grande, eh?"

You nod as if you understand, hand flat against his abdomen. You don't push at him but the mere action is enough to piss him off. Patiently, he moves your arm away, not needing the obtrusion from keeping him pushing deep inside or blocking the view of your warm, soft walls literally sucking him in. But, then you're back and you're weakly pushing at him this time, weakly babbling, "C-Connie . . 's e-enough. N-No more, okay?"

He looks down to gauge your progress. Five inches.

"Nah, you got a little more ways to go, mami."

Impossible. It feels like he's already in your tummy. You shake your head, pushing at him again. "Connie, noo—"

Grabbing you by that same arm, he lifts one of his hands, with your wrist inside of it, to gather your other and pin them both against your stomach. "Lo hacemos caber, 's what you said. So we gon' make it fit." He doesn't need the whining and crying and pleads. One more thrust in and he's buried so deep inside you that he feels something inside absolutely gush out the minute he does. You squeak and he blows out a slow, deep breath while looking down at the picture of your folds split so wide apart that your clit is poking out now, hard and blatant. "Mhmmm."

He watches your eyes grow heavy. He must have hit a button inside you to make your brain shut off because now, you're quiet . . only hiccuping, sucking in shaky breaths, and mewling his name. "You okay," he mumbles with a kiss to your lips. "Shhh . . tranquila, there you go."

He works you open with slow, careful strokes — pulling his hips back then pushing them back forward as if he has all the time in the world. Each push inside has his dick only pulling out more wet than before. You feel so . . . fucking . . good. Connie wouldn't have thought you would — not like this. Words are unable to describe how truly heavenly it feels to have the tight, grooved confines of your pussy working at his dick like this. Molding, kneading, and gripping at it.

"O-Ohh, shit," you quiveringly whimper. You hear it — the faint sounds of your juices trickling out around his shaft as he faithfully begins to thrust. He still has your wrists in his hands though they're unmoving. You feel as though you've been rendered immobile from the sudden onslaught of pleasure that's taken your brain in capture. "Con— . . Fuck . . . Mhmmmm."

When you begin to nod, Connie does too. He lets your wrists go to slip his arms back beneath your head, "Mhmmm," he mimics softly. "What I say?"

Your clit rubs against the faint, coarse mat of his pubes in only the most delicious way. You feel like your head is spinning. You can't respond.

"Lemme stretch this shit out," he mumbles, pulling further back to add more weight within the next thrust. "Jus' lay here and take it. Lemme make this pussy mine, mm?"

Your eyes tightly close as you listen to your skin begin to smack. You want him to. You need him to, you just can't say it because your tongue somehow feels too big for your mouth. Thankfully, Connie seems to understand your nonsensical babbles because after another kiss, this one upon the bridge of your nose where your birthmark stretches across, he lifts himself up on the flats of his palms to start to beat your pussy sore. You fight to keep your legs open, fight to keep from squirting too much of your slick on him, but it's proven one of the most challenging instances of your life when he bends one of them further back into your shoulder to dig in deep.

Tears gloss over your eyes.

You'd have think he was stirring your gspot into battered mush. It's overstimulating in the most weirdest way — you're at a threshold of so much pain and pleasure that you don't know what to do.

A dollop of his spit is cool against your clit once he lets it drip past his lips and onto it which he then uses to rub with his thumb, "You gotta lemme make you feel good, mama," he utters beneath your pitiful sobs and blubbering. "The only way me and you gon' work . . . gotta let me do this."

"O-Okay," you're hiccuping against, sounding absolutely precious as you grip at the sheets beneath you. " 's j-jus' so . . deep, Daddy."

He nods as though he understands, eyebrows pinched in sympathy, "I know, baby . . You takin' it so fuckin' good, though."

It's so loud . . . the skin smacking, the build up of your cream as he churns your slick into goo, you keening out his name. Connie could give less of a fuck about the world outside of you both. Nothing but you matter. Nothing but you and this perfect fucking pussy you have between your legs matter. He pushes his chain out of the way to shove your shirt up and grab a handful of your plump, bouncing tit.

"Hngg — God — Fuck . . please."

Each drag of his dick inside the weeping walls of your pussy is relentless. Pleasure sparks at every nerve of your body as you dig your nails into the skin at his sides, feeling the muscle beneath his skin crest. Everything about him is dizzyingly attractive. "S-So han'some," you slur, unable to help rubbing your hand down the side of his face. You watch his eyes grow sharper as he turns it into your palm to press a kiss against your wrist.

"Mmm, thank you, mama," he groans, burying your scent within his nose. "Y-You so sweet. S-So fuckin' sexy, too."

He refuses to pull out when he wants to change positions. He lowers down, rolls over onto his back and pulls you on top to grab you by the soft, fleshy skin of your ass cheeks to force you to rock your pussy up and down the length of his cock. Oh. He likes this view. You're unable to hide your face away as you keep your hands on his pecs for balance as you let him bounce you as if you weighed nothing but a mere pound.

The skin at the bottom of your thighs tremble with each slap of them against the tops of his own. You feel your ass ricochetting off of his pelvis as your chain swings against his chest. "Pussy's so fuckin' good," Connie growls, lifting you high to slam you back down until you're cutely squeaking with every one. "Look at you . . creamin' on my shit, ma."

You're dangerous. Connie doesn't think you know what you've just done . . . just what you've unleashed inside of him. A man so entirely enraptured with you, that when the thought creeps in, quiet and unwelcomed, of this not working out, he doesn't think he'll be able to go back to normal. His jaw tightens at the mere idea of it. Because Connie's always been good at control – at keeping people within the respectful boundaries of his life, close or far, forgettable and not.

But you . . . you've somehow slipped past his usual lines.

Slow at first. Some glances here, a small smile there, maybe even a wave if you were feeling bold that day.

And now you're here, teary faced and doe eyed, getting your pussy plowed from the bottom by him as you look down at him like he's hung the exact moon tonight in the sky, like he's something bigger than what the world already sees him as, looking at him like he matters so fucking much to you.

How easily you can break him if you choose to . . . and you don't even know it.

His jaw clenches again. His balls draw up tight. He feels you. " 'm cumming, Daddy," you mewl. God, he hopes this is forever.

"Córrete, por favor," he grunts, feeling himself creep closer to that edge for the second time tonight. He needs you to cum. "Please, mami. Do it. Squirt on this shit."

Cream is packed at his base. It sticks to your pussy in thick webs as he forces you to rise and fall on his length until you're there — you're squirting out a sweet, messy stream of liquid that leaves your body with an audible hiss. Connie's not far off when he sees it. Your body shaking on top of his, mouth opened, mind gone. He lets you fall down on his dick with a loud plop as he forces you to keep still when he starts to pump thick, white ropes of his cum deep past the tiny hole of your cervix. "Hng, shit," he groans, forcing you back up . . only to slam you back down again. "Fuck, mama." Again. And again.

You press your hand against his forearm, silently telling him that you've reached your limit.

Your cunt feels like it's been beaten sore. Your make up is completely fucked and you're mentally exhausted. You collapse on top of him and bury your face into his neck with a weepy hiccup. "N-No more."

Connie's catching his breath, feeling the mess of cum beginning to slowly dry between the both of your legs. He doesn't think he have it in him to move you or even move himself. "Okay," he whispers with a kiss to your cheek. "Alright . . . try to close your eyes."

You do. With enough slow rubs to your back and kisses on your shoulder, you slowly fade off into a world of dreams, content within his arms.

ׅ ❤︎

It's in the morning, near eleven am when the both of you power back on your phones.

You nibble at your thumbnail, dressed in one of his hoodies with sleep still swollen in your eyes and standing within the middle of his living area as you scroll through the thousands of notifications that have piled upon your screen. DMs, comments, likes, and shares. You're surprised to open up the comment section on a four pic grid of the infamous paparazzi pictures, climbing with nearly one million likes to see 'fork found in kitchen' 'hope they have 36 babies on you losers' 'somebody hack his icloud and leak the tape.'

There's a few bad ones sure, claiming you slept your way up to the top to be at this point in your career and now hand in hand with Connie Springer . . . but it's easy for you to ignore upon looking up to see the same stormy hazel eyes already staring at you from the kitchen, waiting for you to power it back off, drop it in his hand, and fall into his embrace.

i’ve managed to write another character && fall absolutely head over heels for him . yay .

[bimbokutos]

Cousin you changed your layout, I didn’t realize it was you ☠️☠️😭😭😭

LMFAOO yes it was overdue for a change

[tteokdoroki]

remember when u talked about yuuji taking pet play so far that he gets puppy pee pads? i think izu does the same thing. I ALSO! would like to think that he purposely fills you up with all types of drinks all day, playing it as he jus wants you to be hydrated, and making you wait til you’re at home to pee. BUT you can only pee when you finally put on the collar he got for you at home and (although it embarrasses you) makes you go on the puppy pad

i jus woke up lmk if this makes sense

🏁 eighteen plus only ! ⋆  minors don’t interact ⋆ smut ⋆ piss play and piss kink ⋆ puppy play ⋆ squirting ⋆ dom izuku midoriya & fem reader

ILL DIE ILL DIE

no because izuku will fill you up with water n drinks under the guise of keeping you healthy and making sure you’re hydrated but he has much more sinister plans. it’ll be a double date night or you’ll be out with your friends for dinner and every so often his hand will leave your thigh to pour you another glass of water from the pitcher — never easing up ok the conversation he’s invested in. if you try to say no to another drink he’ll look at you with disappointed jade eyes and guilt trip you into having more ;-;

then when you’re squirming and desperate to go to the bathroom — tugging on his sleeve because you always feel like you need to ask for his permission, izuku tuts and shakes his head and leans down to whisper firmly into your ear. “can’t you be a good puppy and hold it for me? i’m in the middle of a conversation, sweetheart.”

and you know he’s not asking, but telling. so you bounce anxiously and wait and wait whilst izuku drags the night on — eager to hear you beg and see you squirm and cry about how you need to go later on once you’re home. he toys with you through your panties just to make it worse during the drive back, testing how good you can be for him, holding back the orgasm and pleasure and the need to pee as he fingers you with one hand. the other on the steering wheel.

he’ll tease you the whole way too, grin wide as it splits across his freckled face. “you gonna cum or piss, puppy? which one is it, huh?”

you whine and wail the whole time, try so hard to hold it and you even make it home — where izuku can humiliate you in private. lock that pretty throat up in the custom collar that spells out his name, hook the leash on for good measure. he loves how your skin burns from embarrassment, you love how it turns him on and makes him want to fuck you.

now theres a puppy pad on the bed, spread out underneath your ass while izuku teases you with the tip of his cock — quick flashes of his hips pushing it deep into you, before he pulls out, in and out always nudging at your g-spot. “maybe you’ll squirt for me, maybe you’ll piss. what do you think, puppy?” he says all airy and teasing, laughing at you whining and crying — hips raising from the bed to chase him every time he pulls out. “can feel you gushing, wonder what it is. you’re such a filthy mess but you’ve done so well, holding it for me. now let’s see, what will you soak the sheets with?”

end. - reblogs and comments are always appreciated! just liking doesn't do much so pls motivate this writer if you'd like to see

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © TTEOKDOROKI 2020-26. all fanfics & layouts belong to me. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai, or recommend elsewhere.

[otakufilms]

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

killshot. toji + suguru.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 6.4K word count. poly relationship, boyfriend toji x suguru!, southern coded toji x suguru!, bratty!reader, bubblyfem!reader, black!femreader, southern coded!fem reader, mean toji x mean suguru, slightly sweet suguru?, threesome, vaginal penetration, angry sex, rough sex, lil bit of sweet talkin’, hair pulling, squirting, creaming, oral [f] [m], choking, face slapping, cowgirl, doggy, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, a lil degrading, condomless sex, kissing, cream pie, spanking, minors aren’t welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— in honor of jjk coming back, i was missin’ my boyfriends real bad. enjoy.

YOU WERE THE EPITOME OF TROUBLE. Even in the worst scenario—like now—the scent of cigarettes wafting from inches away didn’t bother you, your black pleasers swinging back and forth inches above the metal floor, cold and trailing with the history of footsteps before yours.

The booking cell was cold. The metal bench beneath you leeched warmth from your skin as you sat, shifting slightly in discomfort—the cuffs around your wrists had left angry red marks, the metal biting in just a little too tight before they finally unlatched them. You flexed your fingers, blowing a curl out of your face—your full lips pursed in annoyance as you recalled the flash of the mugshot camera, the way they’d made you hold up that stupid placard with your name and booking number like some kind of trophy.  

Your tall, black heels dangled lazily, the sharp tips barely grazing the grimy floor. The leather straps hugging your calves felt tighter than usual—probably from swelling after the scuffle—but you weren’t about to let discomfort show, your silver anklet shuffling as you continued swinging your legs.  

Your outfit wasn’t any better for the occasion. A tight black leather jacket clinging to every curve, barely containing the weight of your heavy tits—it was made for attention, not jail cells. The cropped cut showed off your curvy midriff, the dim lighting catching the faint sheen of sweat along your dark brown skin. Below, leather shorts hugged your wide hips and ass, riding up just enough to give a show to the wrong eyes.

Your full heart-shaped lips puffed out a frustrated breath, sending a few loose midnight curls fluttering away from your face as you slumped forward on the hard metal bench. The dark brown freckles dusting your nose and cheeks stood out even in the harsh fluorescent lights, making you look softer than you felt.  

Another sigh slipped past your lips.  

Annoyed. Bored. 

This wasn’t your first time in bookings—probably wouldn’t be your last—but damn if it wasn’t inconvenient. 

The cell was suffocating. No clock on the wall, no windows, just the relentless hum of fluorescent lights bleaching everything into a dull, static gray. Your patience was thinning faster than the last shred of goodwill you had left tonight.  

You pushed off the bench, hips swaying as you sauntered toward the bars, your back arching naturally—habitual, effortless. The cop stationed near the door barely glanced your way, his bored expression barely flickering as you tilted your head, letting your dark curls cascade over one shoulder.  

"’Got a cigarette?" 

The cop didn’t even look up from his clipboard. 

“‘Not with the way you acted tonight."

Your lips twitched.  

A flash of memory—your own fists, sharp acrylics catching skin, the way you’d moved like something feral when that bitch had tried to grab your hair. You weren’t proud. But you weren’t sorry either.  

“…I learned my lesson,” you hummed smoothly, your tone syrup thick with innocence.  

Silence.  

The cop kept writing.  

Your brow arched, nails tapping against the cold metal bar.

“Hello?" 

Nothing.  

A muscle in your jaw ticked. 

“Don’t worry about it then, motherfuc—" 

The door at the end of the hall swung open, cutting you off. Another cop stepped in, keys jangling. 

“You’re being released."

You blinked—and that’s when the smallest grin spread, already knowing who it was before you even peeked your head out.  

And there they were.  

Toji. 

Midnight black hair styled within a wolf cut, towering frame blocking half the hallway light, tattoos crawling up his neck like shadows. His deep gray eyes pinned you in place—cold, unreadable, pissed. That scar across his lips only made his expression sharper. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just looked at you like he was debating whether to drag you out or leave you here to rot.  

And then, Suguru. 

Long, dark hair tied half-up, eyebrow piercing glinting under the harsh lights. His hazel eyes flickered over you—checking for bruises, probably. His broad chest rose with a heavy sigh, arms crossed over his shirt. Exasperated? Sure. But probably more relieved to see you than the man standing next to him.

“Guess it’s my lucky day, huh?” 

The cop didn’t dignify that with words—just a hardened glare, jaw clenched tight. You blew him a kiss anyway, the brown gloss on your lips glinting under the harsh station lights.  

Then—instinct. You knew better than to approach Toji first.  

You launched yourself at Suguru with a playful squeak, legs wrapping around his waist as he caught you effortlessly—one hand gripping your ass through the tight leather shorts, the other securing the small of your back. His deep chuckle vibrated against your chest as you buried your face in his neck, inhaling the scent of leather and cigarettes.  

“Troublemaker," he murmured, voice thick as he squeezed your thigh—“What are you doin’ here, huh?" 

You pulled back just enough to flash him those wide, doe eyes—all innocence, no guilt.  

”Just had a little fun." 

His hazel gaze darkened, lips hovering so close to yours you could taste the mint on his breath—but then, you felt it.  

That heat. 

Your lashes fluttered toward Toji who hadn’t moved an inch—just stood there like a storm barely contained, veins in his forearms popping with every breath. So you did what you did best.  

Slender eyes rounding, lips parting in that perfect smile—the one that always made him cave.  

“Hi, Daddy.”   

His scar twitched.  

“‘They hurt you?" 

The question was low, lethal—like he was already calculating which of these cops he’d break first. You shook your head fast. 

Toji didn’t wait for another word. Just turned on his heel, the heavy clack of his boots echoing as he stalked toward the exit.  

“Let’s go." 

Of course this is how it always went—Suguru with his soft hands and easy forgiveness, Toji with his ironclad discipline and zero tolerance for your antics. And right now, pressed into the buttery leather backseat of Toji’s sleek black Corvette, you knew exactly where to seek refuge.  

Suguru slid into the passenger seat, long dark hair spilling over the headrest as he tipped his head back, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. The sharp scent of tobacco mixed with his cologne made him effortlessly attractive, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he took another drag, tattoos peeking from beneath his rolled-up sleeves. Meanwhile, Toji gripped the steering wheel like he wanted to snap it in half, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he peeled out of the parking lot with a growl of the engine.  

Silence.  

Then—  

“Omae wa itsumo anta ni amaeru kara, sonna koto shiteru no sa." 

You let her be cute with you. That’s why she thinks this shit is funny. 

You didn’t need a translator to know he was talking about you.  

Suguru flicked ash out the window, unfazed.  

“Futari de okotte mo shikata nai darou? Dame na ko da." 

Both of us bein’ mad at her isn’t gonna’ fix anything.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest.  

“You know I can’t understand what you’re saying." 

Toji’s grey eyes flashed in the rearview mirror—dark, dangerous.  

“I don’t wanna hear all that whinin’ right now," he snapped, voice dropping to a rough timbre that curled your toes—“I’m close to reachin’ in that backseat and tearin’ your ass up." 

You rolled your eyes dramatically, turning to stare out the window—but not fast enough to miss the way his brow arched in the reflection, that unspoken try me written all over his face.  

Suguru just chuckled, taking another drag.  

The tension in the car was thick enough to choke on, the only sound being the low hum of the engine and Suguru exhaling smoke out the cracked window. You couldn’t take it anymore—your stomach growled loudly, betraying you before you could even open your mouth.  

“I’m hungry." 

Toji’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. 

“‘You thought about that when you were makin’ dumbass decisions?"

Your lips twisted in defiance—“I didn’t even get to say what happened!" 

His jaw clenched, “‘Had to talk a cop outta’ pressin’ charges after you swung on him. You think I’m a fuckin’ idiot?" 

You bit the inside of your cheek, refusing to cave—instead, you leaned forward, pressing yourself against the passenger seat, your chest pressing into Suguru’s shoulder as you peered up at him through your lashes.  

“‘Guru…” Your voice dripped in a needy way, wanting his rescue. 

Suguru released a breath. He tilted his head just enough to meet your gaze, hazel eyes softening despite himself.  

“‘'We get you somethin’, and you tell us what happened—yeah?" 

You nodded quickly, already victorious.  

Toji muttered something under his breath, but the car slowed, pulling into the neon-lit parking lot of a 24-hour diner.  

“Move fast," he cut the engine, “Before I change my goddamn mind."

The second your Pleasers hit the pavement outside the diner, a little giggle escaped you—relief flooding your veins as you tugged on Suguru’s arm while he was only halfway out of the car. You caught the tail end of whatever he muttered to Toji in Japanese, his deep voice laced with something between exasperation and amusement before he shut the door and let you pull him toward the diner’s flickering neon sign.  

Even softened for you, Suguru was intimidating. 

Standing beside him in line, you couldn’t help but sneak glances at his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the eyebrow piercing glinting under the fluorescent lights. His build was pure power—broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black long sleeve, thick arms corded with muscle, tattoos peeking from beneath his sleeves. His natural scowl had the couple in front of you shifting uncomfortably, but you just leaned into his side, playing with the hem of his shirt.  

Then—  

He leaned down, catching your lips in a rough kiss that stole your breath, his free hand gripping your waist possessively. You giggled against his mouth, squirming when he murmured, “Behave,” against your lips before pulling away.  

Your curls tumbled over your shoulders as you leaned against the counter, your ass poking out deliberately while you ordered in that sweet, innocent voice you reserved for moments like this. The cashier’s eyes flickered down—lingering a second too long on the swell of your heavy tits beneath the tight leather jacket—before Suguru’s hand suddenly hooked into the waistband of your shorts and yanked you back against him.  

You barely had time to pout before he was tossing a wad of cash onto the counter, his gaze locked onto the cashier with a silent sneer that had the man scrambling to hand back his change with shaky hands. 

The greasy paper bag crinkled in your lap as you tore into your burger like a starving little creature, cheeks puffing out adorably with each oversized bite. Suguru watched you, shaking his head slightly as he passed his cigarette to Toji—who sat with one boot propped outside the open car door, smoke curling from his lips as he stared straight ahead, silent as a tomb.   

Usually, Toji’s anger was loud—sharp Japanese curses spat, deep voice raised just enough to make you squirm. But tonight? Nothing. Just the occasional drag of his cigarette, grey eyes cold and distant even as you swallowed your food with a tiny sigh and finally launched into your explanation.  

“Okay—so," you started, wiping a bit of ketchup from the corner of your lip, “It wasn’t even my fault—some drunk bitch kept stepping on my damn shoes, and when I told her to watch it, she tried to swing on me." 

Toji’s eyebrow twitched in the rearview.

You kept going, waving a fry for emphasis. 

“And then her dude tried to jump in—so I grabbed a bottle. That’s when the cop tried to grab me like I started it—so yeah, I might’ve... y’know. Elbowed him.” 

Suguru snorted, rubbing his temples like he was fighting off a headache. 

“Goddamn, baby."

Toji took a slow drag from the cigarette, his grey eyes cutting through the rearview like a blade.  

"Lie again."  

You huffed, tossing your half-eaten burger back into the bag—"Okay, fine—I hit him. But only because he tried to grab me first!"  

“‘You think that was smart?" 

You folded your arms across your chest. 

“It wasn’t my intention to be smart, Fushiguro. Otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten arrested." 

A muscle in Toji’s temple jumped.  

“Watch your fuckin’ tone.” 

“I wasn’t trying to get in trouble," you then muttered, dropping your gaze.  

Suguru sighed, running a hand through his dark hair—“Why didn’t you call me, huh? Or Fushiguro?" 

You shot him a look.

“‘And have him mad at me because he had to fight someone at the bar?" 

That’s when Toji’s voice snapped like a whip—  

“'You think I wouldn’t protect you?" 

The air in the car went still, his eyes burning into yours through the mirror.  

“I’d kill for you. Don’t fuckin’ play like I wouldn’t." 

You curled your fingers into your palms, suddenly feeling small.  

"...I know." 

Toji’s nostrils flared. Then, without another word, he flicked his cigarette out the window and started the car.  

And just like that—the conversation was over. 

You couldn’t help but imagine Toji standing in that precinct, stone-faced and seething, having to negotiate—apologize—for your reckless hands. He wasn’t the type to bow his head for anything. Not for money, not for pride, and definitely not for some cop who probably pissed him off just by breathing wrong.  

But he did it for you. 

Suguru’s patience was softer, easier—even he wasn’t letting you off the hook. The way his thumb brushed your knuckles wasn’t just comfort—it was a silent, you fucked up. 

The car rolled to a stop outside their sleek, modern condo—all sharp black architecture, floor-to-ceiling windows, and dark furniture accented with deep reds that reminded you of blood and wine. Toji stepped out first, boots heavy against the pavement as he stalked toward the entrance without looking back.  

"I need a shower," he muttered, voice gruff—more to himself than anyone else.  

You scrambled out after him, almost tripping over your own feet in your hurry.  

“Let me come clean you," you offered, half-teasing, half-desperate for the forgiveness you knew wasn’t coming easy.  

“Nah." 

Your lips nearly formed a pout before you caught yourself.  

And just like that, the night's consequences finally settled in.

The shower steam curled around you and Suguru in thick, fragrant clouds—vanilla and sandalwood from his body wash mixing with the citrus of yours. Your giggles were honey sweet, bouncing off the marble tiles as he cupped water in his large hands to rinse the suds from your shoulders. His touch was methodical as he worked the soap into your skin, his fingers tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips.  

Your lashes fluttered when you caught his reflection in the fogged up glass—his torso a canvas of ink, muscles flexing as he reached for the shampoo. His dark hair was slicked back, water sluicing down the sharp planes of his face, that eyebrow piercing glinting even in the low light. Handsome. So fucking pretty it made your chest ache.  

You toweled off together, tugging on one of Toji’s oversized black long sleeves—the fabric swallowing you whole but still clinging to the swell of your hips, the shadow of your bare thighs peeking beneath. Your curls were a wild, damp halo around your face, freckles darker against your freshly scrubbed skin.  

Now, kneeling on the massive silk bed—black as midnight, cool against your knees—you watched Suguru lean against the headboard, shirtless, smoke curling from his lips. His hair was pulled into a loose bun, a few damp strands escaping to frame his face. The TV flickered silently, some late-night infomercial playing as he mindlessly flipped channels.  

"You hate me too?" you whispered, voice too small for your own liking.  

Suguru’s eyes didn’t leave the screen.  

“You know goddamn well I don’t hate you," he said, exhaling smoke—“Don’t start all that dramatic shit." 

The words should’ve comforted you. Instead, they made you curl inward, arms wrapping around yourself.  

“Where’s Toji?" 

“Probably in the office or library part of the house," he muttered, his free hand idly tracing circles on your bare thigh where the shirt rode up—“Tryna’ get his mind right." 

You frowned, worrying your lip between your teeth as your fingers fidgeted.

“…He’s never this mad at me," you admitted softly, a little crease forming between your brows.  

Suguru’s thumb paused its lazy pattern on your skin, and you felt the shift in his energy—the way his chest rose with a deeper inhale before he spoke again.

“He should be. Anythin’ could’ve happened to you gettin’ arrested by yourself.”

His voice was low, a rough edge to it that sent a shiver down your spine—“You know he’d fuck up an entire city behind you." 

A little giggle bubbled up in your chest at the image—Toji, massive frame clad in black, storming through the streets like some avenging god—and before you could stop yourself, you were pressing smushing kisses into the column of Suguru’s throat, your lips warm against his tattooed skin.  

He grunted but didn’t push you away—just let you nuzzle there, your curls tickling his jaw as you inhaled the familiar scent of him—cigarettes, expensive cologne, and something inherently Suguru. 

“You smell good," you mumbled against his pulse, your earlier guilt momentarily forgotten in the comfort of his presence.  

“Yeah, yeah," he drawled, but you could hear the affection beneath the gruffness—“Quit’ tryna’ seduce me, woman.”

Your fingertips glide along the intricate ink of the serpent coiled around Suguru’s abdomen, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch. You hesitate for just a second before your fingers hook into the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging gently—your voice soft, laced with soft remorse.  

“Just wanna show how sorry I am," you murmur, eyes flickering up to meet Suguru’s dark gaze—“…I know you’re mad at me too."

Then—  

A presence at the doorway.  

You freeze, your gaze snapping toward the shadowed figure leaning against the frame. Toji stands there, massive shoulders filling the entrance, grey eyes locked onto you like a predator tracking prey. Shirtless, tattoos sprawling across every inch of his sculpted torso, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips—he’s a vision of raw, barely contained power.  

Your lip finds its way between your teeth as you slowly crawl toward the edge of the bed, hips swaying just slightly with each shift of your knees.  

"’Missed you,” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper.  

“I’m knowin’," he rumbles, deep voice vibrating through the room. Then, after a beat—  

“What’d you say earlier? ‘Bout how you wanted to show how sorry you were?" 

Your eyes search his face for any sign of softening—but Toji’s expression remains steel.  

You reach for him, fingers trembling as they brush the fabric of his sweats—but before you can get any further, his hand snaps up, gripping your chin with bruising force. 

“So go show him how fuckin’ sorry you are," he growls, “I didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout you touchin’ me." 

His grip loosens just enough to shove you back toward Suguru—who watches the exchange with dark eyes, cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers. 

The sting of rejection burns hot behind your ribs, your bottom lip trembling before you can stop it—fat, glistening tears welling in your lashes as you drag your gaze back to Suguru.  

He sees it. Of course he does.  

Those hazel eyes of his—sharp, knowing—trace the wobble of your pout, the way your fingers hesitate before curling into the fabric of his sweatpants again. But Suguru’s never been one to bend for tears—not when he knows they’re your weapon of choice, not when he’s spent years learning the difference between your real cries and the ones you wield like a blade.  

“Nuh-uh," he tsks, grasping at your jaw—“You know I don’t do all that poutin’. Swallow my shit like you fuckin’ mean it."  

Your breath hitches—but you don’t argue.  

Instead, your fingers hook into his waistband, tugging impatiently until his cock springs free—thick, already swollen at the tip, a bead of pre-cum glistening against flushed skin.  

You whimper but you don’t hesitate, dragging your tongue over the head, lapping up the bitter salt of him before sinking down, down, down— 

His groan is sharp above you, fingers tangling in your curls as your throat flutters around him, greedy and desperate. It’s a struggle—his size stretching your lips, your jaw aching—but you take it, tears spilling over as you hollow your cheeks, swallowing around him like you’re starving.  

“There you fuckin’ go," he rasps out.

Your mouth works over Suguru’s cock with a needy desperation, lips stretched obscenely around his girth as saliva drips down your chin in messy, glistening strands. His deep pink lips curl into a sneer above you, that silver eyebrow piercing catching the dim light as he watches you through half-lidded eyes—hazel darkening with every filthy, wet sound your mouth makes around him.  

Your whimpers spill out unbidden, high and muffled around the thick weight on your tongue, your hips rocking involuntarily against the air, the fabric of Toji’s stolen shirt riding up to expose the plush, pink folds of your cunt—already slick, already aching.  

Then—  

A stinging spank against your ass sends your entire body jolting forward, a choked mewl leaving you as your hands instinctively fly to grip Suguru’s thighs for balance.  

But Suguru tsks again, fingers tightening in your hair as he yanks you back just enough to glare down at you.  

“Did I say you could use your hands?” His voice is a dark, mocking purr—“Put ‘em back.” 

Before you can even think to obey, Toji’s rough palms are already catching your wrists, wrenching them behind your back with effortless strength. 

“It’s never a fuckin’ option,” he growls—“Never a choice. That’s your problem now, don’t fuckin’ listen.” 

The angle is awkward, your knees weak and head spinning with the lack of air, and you can barely focus on anything but the way your jaw aches—your tongue running frantically over the side of Suguru’s length like an apology. Without the use of your hands, you can't properly steady yourself—Suguru's thick cock fully slips from your lips with an obscene wet sound as you frantically drag your tongue along the veined underside, desperate to keep contact. A bead of pre-cum smears across your cheek as you struggle, drawing a low, arrogant chuckle from Suguru's lips.  

“Mmm, ‘you ain't too fuckin' sorry,"  he rumbles, voice dripping with amusement as his fingers tighten in your hair.  

Behind you, Toji's breath ghosts over the arch of your back—dark, mocking.  

“‘She never was." 

Your head twists toward him, lips parted around a breathy mewl—“I am," you whimper, voice breaking.  

“Why's my cock so fuckin' hard then?" Suguru challenges, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip—“Should've milked me by now."

“…’S too big, baby," you tremble, lashes fluttering—but Suguru sees right through it.  

And that's when Toji growls, "There she goes. All that fuckin' whinin'. ‘Go ‘head, give her a reason to keep that shit up." 

Suguru's grip shifts, his other hand coming down to palm roughly at your clit through the soaked fabric of Toji's shirt still clinging to your hips.  

“‘Come sink down on my shit," he orders, voice dropping to something lethal—“Hurry the fuck up."

Your limbs tremble as you drag yourself onto Suguru’s lap, every movement shaky and uncoordinated—the tears aren’t an act anymore, fat and hot as they spill down your cheeks.  

“‘Want Toji,” you whimper, voice thick with pouty desperation, your fingers clutching at Suguru’s shoulders like you’re torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer, “Suguru...please.”

“Sink down on it,” he growls, voice rough with restraint—“Shut all that shit up.” 

And then—  

His tip drags against your folds, blunt and unrelenting, spreading you open in one brutal glide until you’re forced to take him, your body yielding with a wet, filthy sound as he bottoms out inside you. Your pussy pffts around the stretch, the obscene noise drowned out by your own guttural whimper—half-pain, half-relief—as your walls flutter violently around him, gushing slick that drips down his thighs.  

You already know the drill, unfortunately.  

Your feet plant against the bed, thighs trembling as you bounce yourself on his cock, each desperate little grind forcing another broken noise from your lips. Your pout deepens, your mouth hanging open as your eyes roll back—helpless, overwhelmed, ruined—while Suguru watches you with dark amusement, his hands resting heavy on your hips, letting you do all the work.  

“Look at that,” Toji growls, “All that cryin’, and she’s still fuckin’ drippin’ for it.” 

Suguru grunts in agreement, his thumb swiping through the mess between your legs before bringing it to your lips—“Taste that shit,” he orders, smearing your own slick across your tongue, “That’s how sorry you really are.” 

And you—  

You can’t do anything but take it. 

"She’s creamin’ already," he then growls, voice rough with amusement—"Can’t even fuckin’ handle me." 

Behind you, Toji’s hand cracks down on your ass again—stinging—his fingers tangling in the nape of your neck to keep your head bowed, preventing you from twisting to look at him.  

“Eyes forward," he orders, his voice a rough rumble against your spine—“‘Ain’t no lookin’ back at me." 

Your pussy spurts around Suguru’s cock with every desperate bounce—obscene, wet—and the sensation wrings a broken squeak from your lips—“Fuuuckkkk, ‘m sorry, baby—"

Suguru arches a brow beneath you, hips stilling completely. 

“Who’re you apologizin’ to?"

You whimper, bouncing harder—frantic now—as you sob out, “Y—you!" 

A slow, knowing grin curls Suguru’s lips as he finally—finally—thrusts up, grinding his cock deep inside you in a brutal, deliberate roll.  

“Me, huh?”

You’re trembling, eyes rolling back as another gush of cream spills out around him—his grunt of approval vibrating through your core before you choke out a silent, breathless squeak—  

“…Y—you, baby." 

The sound of your own ass clapping against Suguru’s thighs echoes in your ears—loud, obscene, embarrassing—as you struggle to keep rhythm, thighs burning from exertion. Your pout deepens, lips swollen and parted around pathetic little whimpers, your eyes glazed over with a mix of pleasure and desperation. Suguru watches you with dark amusement, his grip bruising on your hips as he lets you fuck yourself stupid.  

“You doin’ all this for me?" he murmurs, voice dripping with mocking sweetness—“Bouncin’ stupid on my cock ‘cause you’re sorry?” 

You whine, nodding frantically, your words dissolving into a stuttering mess, “Ye—ye-y—yes—" 

Suguru clicks his tongue, tilting his head as he watches you struggle.  

“Nah," he decides, voice dropping lower—“You ain’t worried ‘bout me. You’re puttin’ on a show for him.” 

Behind you, Toji exhales a slow, rough breath—hot against your shoulder as he rasps, “She ain’t gettin’ me. ‘Might as well finish you off." 

Your tears return in an instant—thick, hot, real—spilling down your cheeks as you silently bounce on Suguru’s cock, your movements losing coordination as the weight of your punishment sinks in. His grip shifts suddenly—one hand sliding up to cradle your throat, his thumb brushing gently over your trembling lips—soothing you even as his hips snap up, fucking into you with brutal precision. 

“Love you so much, ‘Guru…”

It slips out, weak and trembling, muffled against his skin—and just like always, Suguru softens.  

His grip on your hips gentles just slightly, his rhythm losing some of its brutality as he curses under his breath and tugs you down into a searing kiss. Your whimpers melt into his mouth, your tongue lapping against his in desperate, sweet little strokes—like you’re trying to apologize with every flick, every needy press of your lips.  

“‘She’s always gettin’ her way with you,” Toji growls—“Come suck me off ‘fore I change my mind.”

Your body trembles—from exhaustion, from overstimulation—but the moment Suguru releases you, you’re scrambling toward Toji, your hands shaking as you reach for him.  

You missed him.  

Missed the sharp cut of his glare, the way his jaw ticks when he’s pissed, the way his dominance settles over you like a heavy blanket—unshakable, inescapable.  

You tug his sweats down with clumsy fingers, your breath catching as his cock springs free—large, long, dangerous—thick and heavy in your palms.  

Toji watches you through hooded eyes, “‘’Better do a good fuckin’ job, too. I’m watchin’.” 

And you try. 

God, you try.  

Where you were needy with Suguru, you’re desperate with Toji—your lips stretching obscenely around his girth, your hands working in tandem to stroke what you can’t take. You’re messy—saliva dripping down your chin, your nose pressing into his pelvis as you choke around him—but you don’t stop. 

“That’s all you got?”  he rasps—“‘Thought you was sorry, huh?” 

His hand cracks against your cheek—stinging—drawing a deep, shuddering whimper from your throat as your eyes water.  

Toji’s gaze flicks over your head to Suguru, his voice dropping to a growl—  

“‘Come eat her. Need her loose enough to sink every fuckin’ inch of me in so I can pound her shit out.” 

Suguru’s broad palms spread your thighs wider from behind, his tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe over your swollen clit. The pleasure is blinding, your back arching, your moan vibrating around Toji’s cock—and suddenly, your attempts to suck him off grow even messier, your rhythm faltering as Suguru’s mouth works you open with ruthless precision.  

“Focus,” Toji orders, gripping your hair tighter—“‘Ain’t done with you yet.” 

His jaw tightens when you force yourself deeper, taking him down your throat until your nose presses flush against his pelvis, until your vision blurs with tears, until your gag reflex burns—before you drag yourself off with a wet, gasping choke.  

“‘Ass up,” he roughly orders—“‘That’s how you wanna feel me?”  

You nod—pouty, eager—turning away from him, pressing your face into the sheets as you arch your back, presenting yourself to him. Your thighs tremble, your cunt dripping, already clenching around nothing as you hear the soft click of Suguru leaning back against the bedframe, his hand lazily stroking himself as he watches.  

And then—  

Toji enters you.  

The stretch is brutal—splitting you open in a way that borders on too much, his cock carving into your tight heat with punishing precision. Your breath catches, your fingers twisting into the sheets as you mewl—high and broken—arching your back even further as you try to sink down onto him. 

“‘You want the whole thing already, huh?” His voice is a dark rasp—“‘Fuck me.” 

You throw yourself back onto him, but your strength is gone, your thighs shaking too violently to do more than bounce weakly against only the tip of him. Your lip catches between your teeth, a strangled whimper slipping free as you feel it—the stretch, the ache, the way your body struggles to accommodate him.  

Suguru’s voice is low in front of you as his fingers trail up your spine, “‘Needin’ help, baby?” 

Your cheek presses deeper into the sheets as you nod, curls spilling wildly around your face—Suguru’s palm lands heavy between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying possessively before he pushes, forcing you down onto Toji’s cock in one merciless thrust. The stretch punches a low, throaty moan from you, guttural and filthy, as your walls flutter violently around him.  

“Fuhhhhck—!”

The sound rips from you, ragged and broken, as Toji lets out a growl. 

“You feel that?” His voice is a rough purr, thumbs circling the dip of your waist—“I’m in your shit, huh?”

You whimper, nodding desperately, your voice climbing into a squeal—  

“So f—fucking deep, Daddy…”

Toji’s glare turns lethal. 

“Say ‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’” 

You don’t hesitate—your voice spills out dumb, loud and stupidly obedient—  

“’M sorrryyy—!”

The moment the word leaves your lips, he moves—snapping his hips up in brutal, unforgiving strokes, driving into you with a rhythm that steals your breath. His voice stays level, controlled—“Sorry for what?”

“Makin’ s—stuff harder for you…!” You hiccup, twisting the sheets in your fists—”D—Don’t be mad at me…!” 

Your entire body shudders beneath Toji’s relentless pace—his cock pistoning into you with such raw, possessive fury that your thighs tremble, your back arching deeper into the sheets as you sob uncontrollably. Suguru watches from the bedframe, his fist working harsh, deliberate strokes over his own length, his dark eyes glinting with something between amusement and hunger.  

“Lil’ problem,” he huffs, voice thick with desire—“Even now.” 

Toji leans over you, his thrusts grow heavier, each snap of his hips punctuated by a deep, guttural grunt. His voice drops to a rough, almost broken rasp—  

“You know what I would’ve done if somethin’ happened to you, huh?” 

You whimper, your cries muffled against the mattress, your fingers clutching uselessly at the sheets.  

He doesn’t wait for an answer.  

“I’d fuckin’ kill for you.” 

Suguru’s chuckle is dark, his grip tightening around his cock as he echoes—  

“We’d fuckin’ kill for you.” 

You’re gone.

A trembling, tearful mess beneath Toji—tears streaming down your cheeks, your pussy clenching around him in desperate, rhythmic pulses as if begging for more—yet your tears say otherwise. 

“Stop cryin’, baby—“ he murmurs, “Just open m’ pussy up for me. Keep feedin’ my dick.” 

Your back arches impossibly further, letting him take everything he wants. Your cries soften into breathless, shuddering moans as you melt around him, your body yielding completely—  

“…M’ g—gonna cum!” 

Toji doesn’t pause.  

With a rough grunt, his hands lock around your waist, tugging you back and forth onto his cock with effortless strength—treating you like nothing more than a toy, something to be used, something that weighs nothing to him.  

"’Better do more than that," he rasps, “Give me a fuckin’ show ‘fore I fuck you ‘til you break." 

Your orgasm hits you like a truck.  

A high pitched squeak tears from your throat as you squirt violently around him—so hard you actually push him out, gushing slick all over his thighs and the sheets beneath you. Your face presses embarrassingly into the mattress, shoulders trembling as Suguru’s fingers dig into your curls possessively, his groan rough with approval.  

“That’s my fuckin’ girl.” 

Suguru’s thumb rubs slow circles into your skin, murmuring—“Good fuckin’ job, baby."

All you can do is whimper—now exhausted, fucked-out, ruined. Exactly how they wanted you.

Toji’s rough fingers grip your chin, tilting your face toward him as he murmurs in low, husky Japanese—  

“Anata ni awa sete kudasai.”

Let me see you.

He studies your face—your freckled cheeks flushed deep, your wide, glossy eyes blinking up at him, lips parted in tired satisfaction. His thumb swipes across your bottom lip, pressing down slightly before he shoves your face away with a gruff grunt. 

“Yeah, she’s fuckin’ sorry.” 

You whimper, collapsing onto your elbows as you watch them both—and god, they’re breathtaking.  

Suguru’s tattooed frame gleams under the dim light as he lazily lights a cigarette between his lips before passing it to Toji. Their skin is still slick with sweat, their powerful bodies marked with ink and scars—yours, in every way that matters.  

You shift onto your knees, your aching thighs trembling as your gaze flicks between them. 

Your voice was soft, “…Did I do good?” 

Suguru exhales a slow stream of smoke, his dark eyes raking over you before he murmurs—  

“Amazin’, baby.” 

Toji clicks his tongue, muttering in Japanese—  

“Mata hajimatta yo, kanojo o chōshi ni nora seru yōna koto o itte.”

There you go again, hypin’ her head up.

You don’t understand the words—but you know his tone. It makes your eyes well up all over again, tears spilling as you sniffle and wipe at them pathetically—  

“‘’M really sorry, Fushiguro…”

Toji watches you—his expression unreadable for a long moment before something softens in his gaze, despite the frustration still lingering there.  

He grunts—  

“C’mere.”

You crawl toward him on shaky limbs, your tear streaked face pressing into the hard plane of his chest as you quickly swipe at your damp cheeks with the back of your hand. Your sniffles quiet, but your breathing is still uneven—little hiccups of emotion trapped in your throat.  

“Stop cryin’.”

“….You’ve never been mad at me like this before,” you whisper, voice trembling, “And I don’t know how to fix it.” 

Suguru’s touch ghosts over your thigh from where he lounges beside you, his fingers rubbing slow, soothing circles into your skin—gentle, reassuring.  

“I love you so goddamn much. You know that?” 

You blink rapidly, fresh tears clinging to your lashes as you nod frantically, your breath hitching.  

But Toji shakes his head, lips twisting into a scowl—  

“Nah, gotta hear you say it.” 

Your lower lip quivers, ”You… you love me…” 

And then—  

He kisses you. 

Not soft. Not sweet.  

But hard, possessive—smushing rough, impatient kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth—everywhere but your lips, as if punishing you just a little longer. 

A faint giggle bubbles up from your chest, escaping through your sniffles—  

And that’s when you see it.  

The faintest twitch at the corner of Toji’s lips.  

His rough palms cradle your face as his dark eyes lock onto yours, “Don’t put me in a situation like that again."

His thumbs swipe under your lashes, wiping away lingering tears. 

“I’d lose my goddamn mind if anythin’ happened to you.” 

You knew how much you meant to him, and you couldn’t argue with that.  

“I love you, Toji.” 

And then—  

He kisses you again.  

Really kisses you.   

His lips move over yours like he’s memorizing the shape of them, like he needs to taste your promise. His hands slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he deepens the kiss, pouring every ounce of frustration, fear and love into it until your toes curl against the sheets.  

When he pulls back, you giggle once more—soft, breathless, so full of love. 

“So…’can we be a big happy family again?"

Toji doesn’t even look at Suguru, grunting as he flips the lamp off, plunging the room into darkness. 

“Shut the fuck up. We’re all goin’ to bed."

You don’t hesitate—curling instantly into Toji’s side, your leg hooking over his hip, your face nuzzling into the crook of his neck like you’ve done a thousand times before. His arm locks around your waist, dragging you tighter against him with a possessive grunt.  

The room settles into silence—warm, safe, finally feeling like home. Until Suguru sighs dramatically, flipping onto his side toward you both—  

“No goodnight kiss for me?"

A pause. 

“Goddamn, I’m really the third wheel."

And in perfect unison—muffled, half-asleep, you both mutter—

“Hush, Suguru."

[bimbokutos]

i love love love my fiancé

[shawtuzi]

before i speak: if you feel attacked by this then idk what to tell you, but i’m genuinely so tired of seeing recycled discourse about things yall DONT like about black writers in the black reader tags. like do yall not get tired of bumping your gums about the same thing every 5-7 business days??? and it don’t even be constructive criticism yall be mean as hell shitting on these girls as if they’re not spending their PERSONAL FREE TIME to write a fic for yall!! idk who is making my husband eren say nigga in them weird fics yall be finding, but don’t group me, or any of my other mutuals in w that mess bc that ain’t got nothing to do with us—put an @ on it or keep that shit on the playground don’t just say “black writers”

[5191999]

monaleo’s pink wedding!!! i’m obsessed!!! 🎀🏹

[pwncez]

𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒜𝒲𝐵 𝑀𝐼𝐿𝒦 𝒫𝐼𝒞𝒯𝒰𝑅𝐸𝒮 presents an onyankopon ﾉ fem reader production . . . ᝰ .ᐟ

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──── 7.5kay wrdz , black fem reader , kingpin ony , aave usage , daddy kink , established relationship , ass smacking , lotsa spit , oral sex ꒰ o -> r ꒱ ꒰ r -> o ꒱ , dirty talk ! ! , reader wears glasses , pet name usage , slight size kink , overstimulation , cutesie feelings , throat fucking , squirting , cum swallowing , facial , slight degradation , ony callz himself dada cuz he luvz her , s cute && i wanted him to !

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . slowly gettin back in2 m ony , eren , armin luvr girl bag && i dunno how 2 feel abt it omgie . minors + ageless blogs do not interact ! ! ! ! ! ! !

the sound of a shrill, monotonous alarm buzzing makes your spine pull straight.

it’s a bit funny, you think. how you’ve waited one year, six months, and four days to hear this exact sound, how for months you’ve dreamed about this day, physically counted down to it actually, marking off each square on the paper calendar you have pinned against a wall at home, right beside your bulb framed vanity mirror. your jaw works tighter — teeth gnawing down on the small piece of spearmint gum that’d previously laid placid against your tongue harder, faster, while watching an eight foot tall, brass iron gate start to slowly pull to its left with a tired groan.

energy bubbles within your chest akin to soda fizzing over the rim of a glass, impossible to contain. your fingers are trembling you realize and in efforts to calm down, you squeeze them into little fists before clasping them in front of your body.

the late morning air is crisp, fresh. and there he is . . .

shoulders broad and straining against a faded blue state issued shirt, carrying the weight of eighteen months you’ve only heard through static lined calls. his hair has grown out — remarkably even. it‘s all a thick, long, and untamed crown, seemingly combed out and left to its own devices. he steps through the gate as if the day were made for him, slow and certain, like he’d never been locked up at all.

you’ve realized you stopped chewing your gum.

he doesn’t look like the man you’ve been waiting for . . . he looks like even more. like he’s been remade by the exact seasons you’ve counted through. fallen leaves, red, yellow, and brown, swirl about the fuzzy fur of your calf length, caramel colored boots and with the wind’s direction, they soon dart away to fly straight to him. his stature only grows bigger, taller the closer he gets.

your chin tips higher and higher until he’s standing before you, looking down, with a soft warmth wading within the deep brown of his eyes. they pull you in, quiet but compelling, like the first sip of something sweet after going too long without.

“look at chu.”

the words melt over you slow, so simple yet a big smile can’t help spreading across the canvas of your glossed lips as you timidly cover your face with a hand in bashful defense. “yannie . .”

you both reach for one another at the same moment as the metaphorical tether between your bodies finally snaps taut — you rise on your toes to reach and curl your arms around the back of his neck while he lowers down to completely enfold you within his embrace. “mm,” he slowly presses you into a firm squeeze while peppering soft kisses against your temple. his arms cage you in, strong and immovable, but it feels so good. “missed you. missed my fuckin’ baby, man.”

your pout pushes against his shirt as you mumble into him, voice small and quiet, “ ‘m missed you more.”

it takes a lot of effort to pull away for the two of you. his arms linger within the dip of your waist while you take your time letting your own fall down his strong chest. faintly, you think you don’t hold enough trust within the world to not steal him away again if you let go too fast. you feel his hands trace down your arms, down to your wrists, fingers dragging as if this little distance feels wrong.

you glance up at him again. he looks like he owns all of it — the sky, the sun, the asphalt beneath you both, everything. “uhm, the car’s back that way.” you can’t stop blushing you realize. your entire face feels like someone poured heat into your skin and you press a hand against your jaw, trying to soothe yourself before he notices as you both begin to walk back towards the lot but of course, he already does.

his eyes trail across the features of your face, calm and knowing, and your heart pounds faster inside of your chest.

leaves crunch underneath both your sets of shoes as you tug him gently in the direction of your truck. he follows in that familiar lazy, powerful stride, shoulders relaxed, free hand held at the crotch of his sweats just enough to hitch the fabric up — a confident, subconscious gesture that commands attention without him needing to say a word. a quiet signature of a man who is comfortable in his skin and knows exactly how he’s seen.

parked a bit down is your g wagon — his gift to you, gleaming bright within the golden, autumn sun. the outside is entirely black, rims included. the sight of it makes your gut give a twist. he hasn’t seen it on the road yet, but he bought it for you like he planned this exact moment.

“you got her lookin’ good,” he mumbles, eyes sliding over the vehicle with a slight smirk.

“ ‘course i do. you bought her for me.”

you do your best to take care of everything he’s ever given you — the dead flower petals pressed against the pages of your journal back at home, remnants of every bouquet he’s ever handed you, shows that

he watches you, eyes unmoving, even after he climbs into the passenger and you behind the wheel. all the little ways you honor him without ever saying a word, he thinks about them carefully.

inside your truck tells a different story than the exterior. pink heart patterned floor mats, soft blush leather hugs the seating, a tiny dream catcher hangs from the rear view mirror alongside a picture of you both inside a heart shaped frame. onyankopon studies it for a moment while the ignition roars to life. it’s the two of you at the beach — he remembers the day. his hair was braided then with a crisp fade, you had a curly flip over and wore a soft, muted yellow bikini. you pout at the camera held by both your hands above you as the two of you lie upon your backs on a blanket while he softly kissed your temple. it’s precious.

onyankopon leans back into the leather, arm thrown behind your headrest and eyes half lidded as he soaks it all in while you drive and try not to let your voice shake so much as you begin to fill him in on what he’s missed. “your mom’s stopped by once a week to see me since you’ve been gone,” you start, tone soft. “she sometimes cooks for me, too. and, uhm . . eren, connie, and armin have been keeping things steady, i heard. they check in, too.”

his gaze slides over to you, patient, almost fatherly. “told ‘em what to do,” he utters. “keep you safe above every fuckin’ thing else.”

you feel your chest tighten as that familiar feeling of comfort and something sharper settles over it, “they did. you didn’t have to worry, yannie.”

there’s a breath he releases — deep and slow. through your peripheral, you watch his legs open a bit wider as he lifts his hand to scratch at his temple with a thumb, “dumbass fuckin’ deal, man.” it weighs on him. he’s been the talk of the federal bureau for years and when they finally get him, it’s for a petty drug charge. the fuckers tried to get him locked up longer, however, when clear that they couldn’t, they did the other best thing possible — threw him in solitary for a month as soon as he was sentenced and allowed no visitation during his entire time spent in that prison.

through a quick glimpse at him, you take heed of the slow anger beginning to radiate off of him like sun rays on hot pavement. his jaw is tight as his thumb keeps rubbing at his temple, almost as if he were trying to massage away the frustration that’s been building during this entire year and a half.

you reach over to press your hand against his abdomen, a soothing touch, “you’re good, baby,” you softly say. “you’re here and i’m here—“

“—they try to question you again?”

you shake your head, “they couldn’t touch me. connie, eren, and ‘min, they made sure i was okay. you made sure i was okay.”

you think that’s when onyankopon relaxes again. he sighs again, this one quieter as he closes his eyes and tilts his head back. you don’t want to remind him of it all. the way you see it, it’s over and done with and it’ll never happen again. he won’t go back. therefore, you change the subject, “i made cinnamon rolls for you back at home, and ooh, i forgot to mention on our last phone call, my art show went super well. i sold all of my pieces, can you believe it?”

you’re grinning again, big and wide.

onyankopon lets a slow smirk pull at the corner of his lips. pretty ass. “mhm.” his attention is pulled towards your outfit — a thick, red cardigan over a plain white camisole, little black jean skirt, white thermal leggings, and boots. your french curled braids are small, neat, and long, the color of them a dark ginger that brings out the gold of your jewelry.

quietly, you chat away as a soothing playlist drifts beneath your words the entire drive back, however onyankopon keeps looking, keeps staring at the moles dotted all over your face, your black, wide, square framed prescription glasses, all of it. every small detail about you anchors him and renders him almost completely still.

almost an hour later, tires soon crunch over a long, winding driveway, salt air thick around the truck as you turn the final bend. up ahead is your shared beach house. it sits just above the shoreline, cream washed walls and floor to ceiling windows catching the sun while also reflecting the sea. from the outside looking in, it’s sleek and minimalist, every line clean, every material expensive. onyankopon lets his eyes drift lower, right to the garages. three cars sit parked in front of them, polished and waiting: an all black escalade sport, lighting grey mclaren, and candy red 1970 plymouth barracuda.

home.

when stepping out of your truck, he takes a moment to let his eyes catch every detail — the cars, the house, the horizon. the weight he’s carried, months of absence and tension, it all slowly begins to fade.

you notice the subtle change the minute you both enter the house and a small sense of relief blooms across your chest. him happy is all you want, all you’ll probably ever need.

“i wonder if they’re still warm,” you’re murmuring as you scamper through the foyer to round the corner and disappear within the kitchen. minimalist furniture cements the space throughout the stretched living room, it smells like cinnamon and chocolate chips, you have stuffed pumpkin displays decorated here and there, candles delicately flickering on the shelves.

onyankopon fucking loves it. he needs this.

while you warm his cinnamon rolls in the oven for a couple minutes, he listens to the playlist you’d been playing while driving get bluetoothed to the architectural speakers throughout the house. he toes off his shoes, combs his hair back with his fingers and slowly walks inside the kitchen to watch you grab a plate, knife, and fork to sit on the island counter.

“i just want them a little bit gooier,” you huff while padding towards a cabinet to open, reach up high, grab a glass, then walk back towards the fridge.

the scent of cinnamon grows stronger, sweet and buttery, and envelops his senses. onyankopon leans back against the counter, eyes tracing the small movements you make — flick some braids off of your shoulder, push your glasses higher up your nose, rub your lips together. your hips sway with each step you take.

“careful,” he soon mumbles, voice tender yet firm. “don’t burn yourself.”

you bite upon your shy smile as you cut along the seam of two, fat rolls after taking the pan out of the oven. “ ‘m not a baby, yannie.” there’s a sweetness in your tone that makes him hum.

“you my baby, there’s a difference.”

there’s a quiet intensity in his stance that showcases him trying to memorize every detail of this specific scene. quiet melodies of seventies, r&b oldies weave throughout the kitchen as you hand him his plate carefully. you both still stand, him leaned against the counter, you close in front of him with your hands behind your back, “i added some heavy cream in the pan,” you gently tell him with your eyes focused on his hands as he picks up the fork. “makes them more soft. i hope you like it.”

he tilts his head as he takes that first bite. he’s drawn into your presence, can’t help pulling you closer by the waist as he chews, “oh, shit,” he mumbles, dropping the fork to instead pick the pastry up with his fingers to get a bigger bite. “shit’s fire, mama.”

you squeak and hug your hands to your chest, eyes twinkling behind your lenses, “yeah? you like it?”

“mhm,” he licks his lips. “how many you make?”

“six.”

“mmm,” he gives a quick suckle to his canine tooth and tilts his head again. “ima need like six more.”

“seriously?”

“as a fuckin’ heart attack.” prison food is bland, textures are nonexistent, onyankopon guesses he can eat an entire table full of every meal he’s loved and not feel full at all at the moment.

giggling, you retort, “okay, i’ll make more later on tonight.” his hair captures your attention again, full and wild, framed around his face like a mane. you reach out to touch his ends, they’re dry of course. brittle, even. “it’s gotten so long again.”

he’s already halfway done with the second as he gives a bland shrug, “you know ion trust nobody with this shit but you. all i did in’ere was comb it out, maybe brush it but . . nah. can’t let nobody else play in my head.”

you lean in closer and push your hands through his roots at his nape. you watch him lose his eyes for a moment while emitting a deep hum. “want me to braid it for you, baby?”

“yeah,” he mumbles. the cinnamon rolls are now gone. he sits the plate on the counter behind him and pulls you in close with an arm.

your heart’s beating fast again as you watch his eyes flick down to your lips. “w-what style do you want?” you ask, deciding to focus all your attention on it. “zigzags, straight backs, maybe some—“

your voice catches when he pulls you tighter, holding you close enough that your tits are basically smashed against his abs. the world blurs at the edges as you glance up into his eyes again. he’s not paying attention to your question at all, they linger at your lips, heavy and unhurried. you swallow as the back of your neck prickles while your hands still rub at the base of his own, feeling the new growth. “onyankopon . .” you try, but it comes out more meek that you intended, almost pleading.

he doesn’t answer you, simply keeps studying your face, lids half lowered, expression unreadable aside from the lurking hunger that’s beginning to settle beneath it. his thumb starts to rub slow circles against your waist and it only makes your knees feel like jelly.

you try again, voice trembling, “o-okay, so which one? zigzags—“

“—shh,” he rumbles, low and easy. he’s smirking now, stare still anchored at your lips. “don’t matter right now. gimmie a fuckin’ kiss.”

and when he leans down to close the last bit of space between you both, the smell of sugar and buttercream clings to his breath mixes with the salty air drifting in past the windows and you inhale a small gasp at the first touch of his lips on yours. they’re thick, soft, and warm. he hums low in his chest as you tenderly curl your arms tighter around his neck. it’s a deep enough sound for it to almost vibrate through your body as the kiss only deepens. there’s no rush in his movements, just deliberate pressure while his tongue traces the cushion of your bottom lip to coax you to open up.

it feels like surrender, like giving into something you’ve been holding in since you first locked eyes again.

when he pulls back, it’s only by a fraction — just enough for the both of your breath to fan over each other’s lips as one of his hands drift lower past your skirt. a lot’s unsaid, but then he’s back . . this time hungrier as his fingers find the fat, round cheek of your ass to tightly squeeze over your leggings. it’s messier, this time. your lipgloss sticks to the scruff of his facial hair while he gets a firm grip around your throat to suckle your tongue into his mouth. it’s deep and all consuming, like he wants every bit of you at once.

you force yourself to pull away, “your hair. i gotta . .” you’re panting slightly while slipping from his arms. “gotta d-do your hair.”

his eyes are dark as he wipes the corner of his lips, “alright,” he utters, not before forcing you to turn towards the kitchen’s exit with a mean slap to your ass. “hurry up. go.”

he lingers in the kitchen for a moment after you quickly scamper away. his chest rises and falls heavily. the taste of your gloss is still sweet on his tongue, sticky at the corner of his lips, and he licks it away like he doesn’t want to lose it. his palm tingles where it gripped the meat of your ass, the memory of your breathless pull away plays on loop in his brain.

jaw flexing, he leans back against the counter and lets these thoughts slip past the guarded places he usually keeps locked up. god, what do you do to him? it all sits there, a low ache in his chest. he already craves you back in his arms, he yearns for you down to the smallest of ways — scent of your braids when you lean in real close, the way your glasses slip further down the slope of your nose when you focus, the sound of your laughter bubbling up out of your chest when you fight to keep it down. he doesn’t just want you, he needs you in a way that makes every day he’s spent without you feel like a lifetime stolen.

by the time he follows you into the living room, you’re all set up. comb, oil, scissors, grease, rubber bands. your boots are off.

you use a little remote to let the blinds slowly retreat down over the windows and instead set the lighting for something more moody yet bright. you pat the space between your legs, “sit, papa.”

onyankopon lowers himself down until his broad back is set against you. long legs outstretch comfortably before him as he reaches behind his neck to tug off his shirt, leaving him in a clean, fitted wife beater. afterwards, he exhales, nice and long as your fingers push through the coils at his roots, gentle but sure, tugging firm enough to wake up his scalp.

“mm,” he grunts quietly as his head tips forward. “missed this.”

you part his hair into clean lines, smoothing in a bit of oil while feeling him melt underneath your care. each tug feels grounding, intimate, like a language only the two of you share. the rhythm of your hands and hum of soft melodies from the speakers weave within one another and onyankopon lets himself drift into relaxation when you start to massage his scalp, nice and slow.

you have magic hands, growing hands, too. before meeting you, his hair had always been a pain in his ass. short yet horribly thick, impossible to tame. then you came — and only the universe knows what you did because his length currently hits his mid back and now acts right when a comb rakes through it. you part his hair into sections, clipping them all away to only leave the piece you’re going to braid free. with easy precision, your greased fingers move, pulling under and over, firm but not harsh, carefully watching the braid beginning to take shape.

onyankopon leans back into your touch, eyes shutting completely to bask in it.

it doesn’t take long. soon, a perfect, tight zigzagged braid lays against his scalp. you band the end, pulling at it to show him where it ends on his back with your pretty voice full of amazement, “look at how long, yannie.”

“mhm,” his voice is thick with comfort.

you move on to the next, unfastening another clip, carefully combing the hair out. onyankopon’s always been quiet, but you’ve always been able to tell when he’s too quiet. “thinkin’?” you question quietly.

“ ‘bout you,” he answers with little hesitation. his eyes remain close as his lips quirk with a smile. “how the fuck you always got me feelin’ like this. like i ain’t ever been touched right til you.”

“stop it,” you mewl while feeling your face burn hot once more. piece by piece, row by row, his hair is cultivated within your touch. each time you lean closer, thighs bracketing his shoulders, he notices. each time your breath ghosts over the crown of his head, he notices. each time you hum when you hit a little snag, he notices. he soaks it all in, memorizes it, loves you through it without saying the words out loud. ten braids form a pattern, zigzagged across his head like a crown when you’re all done. by the time it’s over, his thumb is stroking absentminded circles against your calf through the fabric of your leggings while you smooth mousse all over it.

“yay,” you smile, big and wide. “all done.”

slowly, you watch him tip his head back until his eyes find yours. they’re dark and heavy with something deeper than just relief. he looks at you like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“you know what’s bouta happen now, right.”

his words hang there, weighty and sure, your stomach can’t help but flip at the way he says it. like, it’s not a question at all, just a simple truth. your throat tightens, breath catches. you try to giggle it off and roll your eyes, but his gaze doesn’t waver. his thumb remains rubbing at your calf, grounding you, however the look in his eyes makes you want to bolt.

“wha . .” you huff a little laugh. “what do you mean?” heat pools within the core of your tummy.

a slow smile spreads across his lips — handsome, white, and bright. “don’t play fuckin’ dumb, mama. you know what i want,” his eyes unfocus, almost as if he were looking through you or maybe past you. he’s seemingly caught somewhere between the weight of now and the year and a half he’s spent starved of you. “question is . .” there’s a glaze to them, a boiling heat that makes the smirk he wears falter for a second. his face becomes calmly serene when he asks nice and quiet, “you gon’ give it? or you want me to take it?”

your lips part . . .

but, you don’t answer fast enough. “yannie—“ onyankopon’s already moving, turning, pressing his hands down into the couch cushions beside your thighs to cage you in and lean back in for another kiss.

he hums, low and unbothered as you squeak then gets a grip at the back of your knees, pulling you forward to make you lie further down upon the settee while pushing them up to open your legs wider to accommodate his build. “couldn’t had thought you was gon’ get through the day without givin’ me my pussy.”

you’re already keening as you feel his hands hooking inside the waistband of your legs and panties underneath your skirt to peel them down within one, fluid motion. his stare is entirely locked on yours as he leans back to get them from off of your feet which he then grabs to sweetly kiss, one by one. you’re nervous for a lot of reasons. it’s been so long, months of empty space where his touch should have been, months of only imagining him home again, only hearing his voice on your phone twice a week for fifteen minutes at a time. now that he’s here, in the flesh, you suppose it’s all overwhelming.

he doesn’t look away, doesn’t let you hide after unzipping your skirt and tossing it away too. it feels like you’re letting him see you for the first time again. the neediness you’ve been trying to smother, the same one you actually succeeded in doing is clawing up out of you, all too fast.

and beneath it all sits the biggest fear. you know that once this starts, onyankopon’s not letting up. he won’t. he’s a man starved. he’s always had a way of consuming you entirely — making you cum until you’re crying and forcibly pushing him off of you has happened more times than you think you can count. you can already feel yourself slipping towards him, giving him all of you, piece by piece until you’re nothing but what he makes you out to be.

you surrender, entirely.

you let him carelessly push your legs open until your pussy’s eye to eye with him. she’s waxed smooth, fat and wet. the hard, pink pearl of your clit thumps underneath his attention as his thumbs peel apart your lips so that his tongue can pull it into his mouth with a hungry suck.

your gasp is loud — slick heat of his mouth making you jump.

you squeeze a lone, throw pillow between your arms and tightly force your eyes shut. “a . . a-awe — o-o-ohhh my god.”

another hum he gives. he keeps your legs up and out of his way by holding onto the back of your knees while his suckles are hard, unrelenting — tongue is mean as he bullies your clit with it, flicking against the hard bud with wet, firm strokes like he’s starved. your thighs twitch, unconsciously fighting to close but his grip is iron. thumbs dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, keeping you spread wide as he digs his tongue deep inside the spasming pit of your pussy, wanting to feel your walls clench on it.

“yes,” you’re whimpering, reaching down for his head to simply hold on. “y-yes, daddy . . mmm’mygod.”

the sounds are obscene. your pussy’s similar to a ripe peach — juicy and soft. addictive. he sucks your clit so hard that it makes your hips back up against his face. “yannie—“ you choke on his name, watching him part his mouth open wider so that his tongue can force its way in deep inside before sliding back up to latch on that throbbing, pink bead again. your whole body has been pulled taut. you tremble as your stomach dips, nerves spark beneath your skin like live wires in water underneath his overstimulating attention.

he’s everywhere, lips, tongue, fingers. and it isn’t like the more you cry out, the more he shows mercy. each hiccup, each whine, each cry, they’re only batteries in his back. the room spins when you look down to find his dark eyes already staring up into yours from between your thighs. you take in how far the lips of your cunt have to spread to lodge his thick tongue and it only makes another wave of slick pour from your hole which he casually drinks with a loud gulp.

“y’so dirty,” you pout while curling your toes above his head.

another hum, “pussy’s so sweet t’me,” he mumbles within the folds of it. you lick your lips, prior to biting the bottom as you watch him pull away. thick strings of his spit and your slick play between your cunt like messy webs. you reach down to your pound, pulling your clitoral hood up to make him get a good look at it while your slit stretches thin.

“m’pussy’s missed you,” you sniffle, voice quiet and sweet. “missed daddy bad.”

he groans and leans in to smack some soft kisses on it. “i know, i know,” he tosses an arm over your stomach to pin your hips down. “lemme make her cum. make this shit cream, mm?”

thoughtlessly you’re nodding, pretty, glossed lips popped open around a breathy moan, “ uh huh. yes, please?”

he dives back in for another taste.

your chest rises and falls within shallow gasps as you keep your chin pointed to the ceiling. your acrylic nails dig into the couch cushions while you force yourself to keep your legs open and take all that he gives. shaking his head slowly from side to side, letting the hairs of his mustache and faint beard give your clit some sort of stimulation as his tongue fucks into your hole — never pulling out, constantly pushing in deeper and deeper.

his strength is absolute. each time you try to move, he’s there . . dragging you back, shoving your legs opened wider, jostling your little body to keep you still.

big, rough, tatted hands soon push up underneath your cardigan and cami, reaching for your tits that he squeezes within his fingers before pinching your nipples between the calloused pads of his fingers. your hands reach up to hold onto the back of his as the pit of your stomach clenches with a familiar warning. “ ‘m gonna . . c-cum,” you mewl and sniffle. there’s no space to breathe or escape. just the wet sounds of him devouring you completely as the sharp slap of his tongue gets acquainted with your little clit.

your voice cracks, high and whiny, “y-yannie, really.”

eventually your body seizes. your thighs clamp shut around his head while your back arches and that feeble thread in your core finally snaps. you’re cumming hard, wetter than you’ve ever felt. cream spills out, hot and thick on onyankopon’s tongue, but he never flinches, doesn’t even slow down. he drags it through each wave, firm and thorough with heavy breaths — even pulls you closer, flattening the muscle against your slit to scoop out every last drop.

tears burn at the corner of your eyes as you push your glasses up to rub them clear. your body’s spasming — relaxing for a few seconds only to begin to suddenly twitch and tremble before you’re relaxing again. “mmmhm,” he’s pulling back to lick his lips, admiring your cunt for a moment before swatting a few, firm smacks upon your clit. “good pussy.”

you barely have time to catch your breath before his tongue is back in it, plunging into swollen walls like he’s trying to swallow another taste directly from the source. you yelp and twist your body to the right, successfully rolling onto your stomach, however he only pushes your left leg up high to get his mouth right back on it. your clit’s too sensitive for this. you push at his head, cries feeble. “g-get . . off.”

cum and spit, it trickles into the seam of your ass and now down your thigh. onyankopon’s slurps seem to be even louder as he shakes his head in it, “daddy,” you’re desperate — voice broken. “mooove.”

“mm-mm.”

he grabs your hips, forcing you to rock back and forth from his mouth down to his chin. the pressure’s already building again, too fast, too high. your body fights to curl into itself. “ ‘m cum— hic —min’ . . fuck.”

the coil snaps again. harder.

slick gushes out, dampening his mouth, chin, chest, and the couch. you loosely bite onto your hand, brain foggy as you let him suck what feels like your entire pussy into his mouth. he gets hold of your clit again and pulls his head back with it in his mouth until it pops back out into place. only when you’re uncontrollably quivering is when he huffs a small chuckle, “hmph.”

you feel him completely pull away and stand up.

you’re sniffling, reaching a timid hand down between your legs to feel the damage, unsurprised to jerk a wet hand back up to your body at the raging sensitivity that now throbs between your thighs. he’s so mean, you find. a huge mean ass.

you feel him turn you back over, you watch him kneel over your torso, only to walk them until they sit above your shoulders and his crotch is leveled with your eyes. his thumbs tug his sweats down and pull his dick out — it falls out right before it touches your nose . . heavy, dark, long, and thick. “mmm,” he hums, bites his bottom lip and gives it a few, slow strokes. your eye cross each time you watch his thumb circle around the tip, nice and firm. “ain’t had this throat in a year and a half. need you to eat this dick up.”

you reach for it, pretty little hand wraps around his base as you give a sweet sniffle and nod before your opening up and letting him push his leaking tip in past your lips.

you watch his eyes close. his head tilts back.

“. . oh fuck,” he soon breathes to the ceiling, pushing himself in deeper until you suddenly gag around the intrusion of it sliding past the ring of your throat.

he slides out then and there, nice and slow, tipping his head back downward to watch a few tears slip past your eyes, down to your temples. “missed this shit?” he mumbles when he slowly eases his way back inside your mouth. “missed me? missed my dick?”

you’re nodding, even as you gag a sharp, “hnkkk . .!”

“you good,” he smacks a few, firm slaps on your cheek as he keeps pushing in more and more. “gimmie that shit . . give me that fuckin’ throat, mama.”

a new batch of tears boils against the surface of your eyes as you make the mistake of inhaling too fast and too hard which suddenly has onyankopon pulling out to allow you to breathe. thick, sticky tendrils of spit drip off of his crown as you cough and drag your wrist across your lips even as you sniffle. he smacks his cock across your pretty face all the while, smearing the mess against your fogged glasses and pretty lips. no coo’ing, no breaks. when you’ve gathered yourself, he’s back inside, “breathe out ya nose.”

it’s all the warning he gives.

he lifts you by the sides of your head, forcing your mouth to swallow three fourths of him time and time again. he makes his own pace — steady and deep, gazing down at you the entire time with his face relaxed and lips parted. “yeah,” he groans, soft and quiet as your messy slurping echos throughout the living room. “ohhh fuuuck, baby, yeah . . eat that shit. eat it right the fuck up.”

your glasses are useless. you can barely see a thing, but you hear him . . you know he feels good. his dick feels good, too. warm, hard, and pulsing with veins, stroking in and out of the warmth of your mouth. you hold onto his thighs, letting him pull your head in closer which only forces his cock deeper into your throat.

onyankopon tilts his head back once more. oh, it’s good. it’s better than fucking good. looking back down with his eyebrows furrowed and face now grimaced over with too much pleasure, he takes in your lips sliding up and down the thick, dark brown rod of his dick, how it glistens with your spit, how as you fight to breathe again, bubbles of your saliva only start to inflate and pop around your mouth which then starts to drip off your chin. “blowin’ bubbles on my shit,” he mutters, lust dripping off of his voice, dark and quiet. “my baby jus’ swallowin this shit, huh?”

he lets your head fall back flat against the cushion beneath you.

afterwards, he reaches back for his muscle tee, tosses it away, then leans forward with his fists gripping the cushion above your head to then let his hips start to rock back and forth. he starts to use your mouth as if it were nothing but another warm, sloppy hole.

“lemme dada hit the back of that fuckin’ throat,” he hisses while getting a grip around it to feel his dick push inside with each thrust. “there you go. there you fuckin’ go.”

you whimper around him, lifting your hand up to his swinging balls to softly rub. onyankopon’s eyes roll back into his skull as he forces more power behind each slug. you obviously want him to cum. he’ll give it to you then. his pace picks up second by second until he’s blatantly fucking your mouth — just dropping his dick in and out of it, uncaring of your splutters, chokes, and gags. he breathes quiet and rasped, keeping you still until he feels it . . until that first rope of cum is shot from his tip and inside your esophagus. he pushes himself in nice and deep, shifts his hips left and right for a bit as he groans low and quiet before suddenly pulling out to shoot the rest of your face and painting your glasses white.

“swallow it,” he demands as his fist strokes and squeezes the final, white droplets out. “oooh shit.”

you’re sniffling mucus back into your nose, panting, swallowing, letting him pull your glasses off to get a better look at your face. “pretty ass bitch,” he mumbles, pulling you up to turn you over, force an arch in your spine and rub his wet cock up and down your slit. “bouta dig this shit out.”

you whine, loud and high in your throat when he slowly begins to press inside. you feel him drip a cool dollop of his spit onto your entrance to add somewhat more lubricant. “daddy,” your voice is raspy. it’s cute, actually. onyankopon can’t help smiling as he keeps on pushing. “ ‘s s-so big.”

“ain’t nothin’ you ain’t never took before, mama.”

it’s true. but you haven’t taken anything bigger than your pathetic, five inch, tentacle dildo in eighteen months. this is a lot. you groan out a long sound of slight discomfort as your back slowly rises. you aren’t surprised to suddenly feel his hand pressing back down on it, hard and firm. “arch.”

“i can’t—“

“—you whinin’ too much for me.”

therefore, onyankopon licks his lips, gets a grip across the pretty dip of your waist, lifts a leg up, presses his foot flat and concocts a nice, deep rhythm. you squeak, hand gravitating behind you to press against his v line. it’s deep. too deep. too fucking deep. he only grabs that same arm to hold it at the base of your spine, right between the two, glimmering piercings of your back dimples as his hips slap against your ass — stiff and loud.

“oh god,” you’re hiccuping and squeezing at a cushion with your free hand, feeling him pull you back halfway into each blitz of his hips as he keeps going. as he keeps fucking you weak. “oh m’god . . y-yan’— . . hnggg.”

onyankopon looks down at the view of your pussy’s muscles squeezing on him. with each pull out, they drag against his cock as if it never wants to let him go. “feel good?”

it does. with each passing moment, you only relax more which has your cunt blossoming around him, no longer squeezing to push him out but fighting to swallow him down to his balls. you gurgle around a pool of spit that sits on your tongue, “s-so fuckin’ . . good, daddy.”

“mhm,” he grabs onto your hand that he has pinned behind your back. “you feel good, too, pretty girl.” good as a bitch, actually.

he swats a hard smack against your ass. it’s loud. he watches the skin bounce and tremble with each slam of his hips against it as he keeps moving. it’s hypnotic. your little puckered hole seems to beckon him hello between each one as your ass claps open then closed, too. “my fuckin’ god,” a shiver runs up his spine once you start to cream. it starts off small — just little streaks of white painting his dick until it all starts to thicken at the rim of your hole. “dada baby looks so good. you so good, mama.”

you mewl underneath his praise, pushing back closer to him. “m’pussy feels s-so good, daddy.”

there’s no other phrase to really describe it. it’s been so long since you’ve seen him, so long since you’ve been fucked like this by him. you almost want to sob. “c’mere,” you feel him haul you up by the fabric of your sweater so that you stand on your knees. he snatches it up and off of your arms, followed by your camisole, so that his chest presses flushed against the warmth of your back when he fucks you like that.

you moan, soft and needy, letting him hold your bouncing tits in his hands, kiss along your neck, suckle a love bite into the line of your jaw.

cream trickles down your thighs and his balls. and he’s rough yet patient all the while, guiding you, pressing you into him, letting you feel the weight of him and that year and a half absence simply melt away. you cries are full of relief and hunger when he murmurs your name low and gruff in your ear, when he tells you he’d rather kill everybody in his path than leave you alone again, when he tells you your pussy is fucking heaven. you’re dizzy with too much pleasure. your hand reaches back, letting your nails scrape along the nape of his new braids as he groans and reaches down to rub your clit.

“listen to me,” his voice is breathless, teetering on the tone of amazement. “diggin’ that shit out . . — listen to you takin’ this dick, baby girl.”

it’s messy. slurps and squelches. your cunt squeezes around the occasional pocket of air that slips inside and all the sound does is makes onyankopon’s cock throb harder. “bouta nut. and you gon’ take it.”

you nod, letting him push you back down into that deep arch — only this time, both his feet end up flat behind you as he holds onto your waist, dropping his dick in and out of your wet, chubby pussy. “pull it outta me,” he groans, balls swelling. “pull that nut up outta dada, baby.”

your walls clamp down on him, nice and hard. in doing so, you seem to only drag in onyankopon’s cock the deepest you’ve felt which makes your cunt reply in sudden spurts of thin, translucent liquid. “p-please, hmph—“ it’s gushing. just never ending with each thrust of his dick inside. the sight of it all only pushes onyankopon straight for that edge. he gets a firm grasp at the back of your neck when he suddenly slams deep inside to let it all pump out, “ohhhh m-my fuckin’—“

he suddenly clenches his jaw, forces himself through overstimulation to pull out and bully his way back in. over and over and over.

your squeaks are muffled each time by the cushions while your thighs tremble. “d-daddy, okay . . okay.” his grunt is shaky and thin as he keeps himself there for a moment, basking in the feel. you feel his fingers against your back soon, languid and soft, then him slowly pull out so that he can flop on his ass behind you then bring you upon his lap. your body curls against his chest on instinct. neither of you say anything for what feels like a long while.

onyankopon kisses the crown of your head while stroking the apple of your cheek as you blink wetly and stare off into the distance, mind completely fucked out of you. “give me y’hand,” he utters quietly into your head while reaching beneath you for your right hand. with his own, he presses them right up against each other, palm to palm, finger to finger.

“you remember this, hm? . . wiggle your index if you good — aight, there you go. always so fuckin’ smart, huh.” he kisses you again as you slowly wrap your finger around his much larger one. it was a system the both of you made — for stuff like this. when your mind’s much too broken to say much other than about four words. you wiggle your index finger against his to let him know that you’re okay, rub your palm against his to tell him you’re not, wrap your finger against his to tell him . . .

“you want this dick again?”

when you feel him slowly begin to smile against your head, you’re covering your face, burying it in his chest and giving a small nod. “yeah, that ain’t no problem,” his arm raises up high so that he can let a thick smack fall on the left cheek of your ass. “i got all night f’you.”

[todosdream]

spoiled rotten | ony

16k wrds. fem black reader. angst. fluff. plot with smut. MDNI.

warnings: cursing, use of the n word, alcohol, weed, romantic shit, servicedom!ony, sub!reader, pet names, daddy kink, unprotected sex (BE SAFE), pussydrunk!ony, ony’s a talker, ass eating, praise, toe sucking, foot kissing, overstim, pictures during sex (with permission), filthy just how I like ittt, ony really just dotes on you like a lot, aka sluts you out

moodboard

a/n: little late, but I’m feelin pretty good about this one 🤭 buckle up, she’s long. enjoy! <3

as of late, ony’s been busy. 

like, I’ll call you later and not call until well into the night, busy. 

I have to stay at work late tonight, I need to finish this project, busy. 

I’m sorry, baby, can we postpone date night? busy. 

fidelity isn’t something you worry about in such a secure relationship, so that’s no issue. you know he’s just working hard to further his career. 

regardless, it’s irritating. you miss your man.

his hands, his voice, his laugh. the two of you are very big on quality time and physical touch, and when he gets like this, it’s always an adjustment. you just want to be up under him, snuggled in bed or on the couch and enjoying the little things. his hands rubbing your ass softly, his kisses on your shoulder and neck, the way it feels to lie on his chest as he laughs at something stupid on the tv. 

you miss his presence and he knows it– he knows his lady misses him. it wrenches his heart because he hates disappointing you. he can hear the upset in your voice when he postpones something and it just makes him wish he could keep you in his pocket all day long. 

he, too, misses your touch. he misses hearing your little satisfied sighs after finally finding a comfortable cuddling position, your sweet face tucked in his neck when you’re feeling particularly clingy, and he especially misses your soothing caresses and kisses.

the feeling of taking care of you, of connecting with you, revitalizes him like no other. going from having that everyday to connecting less and less is haunting his thoughts.

but ony’s very business minded. his work is important to him. 

he’s not only focused on career advancement and financial security, he’s focused on financial freedom too. he’s always been the type to provide, the type to work hard and play later. meetings, projects, and late nights at the computer are all very familiar to him. he’s working hard for his future, a future he hopes you’ll both be enjoying together. 

because at the end of the day, he wants to come home to you. he wants you to have the ring and wedding of your dreams so you can feel like the princess that you are, the beautiful house that will home so many happy memories, and anything you fucking want. he’s willing to put all this work in for his career and you.

lately, though, ony can tell it’s taking an even heavier toll on you. that’s the opposite of what he wants. he wants you to feel at ease and free and peaceful. supported, loved, spoiled, and so on. it’s only right his baby feels on top of the world.

not neglected or alone, having to ask your friends to go with you to events because the tickets were already purchased but he had some deadline to meet. not being home alone so much, missing your man and his embrace.

and definitely not touching yourself every night because your man hasn’t had the energy and time to indulge in the way you both are used to.

it’s a big thing and he knows that.

his touch is like a balm to you, soothing the inner aches that seem so impossible for others to reach. he knows your body, and mind, and heart, and it shows every time he loves you in that king sized bed.

and the couch.

and the kitchen counter.

and anywhere else.

you’ve always had a healthy sex life, especially with the dynamic that you have, but the well is running dry because of the distance. there’s no connection, no outlet, no bonding. you miss his touch and touching him, and he the same for you. you hate to feel like a star crossed lover, but it’s getting to a point.

you know you have to try to talk to him. and really talk so he can’t just brush you off for work again. 

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

ony’s been doing a lot of research for a really big project. he’s interviewed people, read a thousand articles, made too many charts and graphs to count. it’s maybe the most important task he’s had to work on in a while since working with this company, so he’s using every last drop of energy to make sure everything’s perfect for the upcoming presentation.

you can see it in the way he barely has the energy to sip at his coffee. 

“baby…” you start softly, reaching across the dinner table to hold his hand. it’s one of those nights where he’s attached to his computer, but still near you, wanting to enjoy your presence at the very least. 

he immediately knows where this is going. he can hear it in the softness of your voice, the careful way you approach. if he could avoid talking about it, avoid seeing the concern in your eyes without feeling like a damn chump, he would.

“I know, babygirl,” he murmurs tiredly. knowingly. he gives your hand a soft squeeze before retracting his touch, his focus still on his laptop. “I know. but my boss needs this asap for the presentation. I can’t let her down. you know how important it is I get this promotion.”

you can’t help but let out a weary sigh. your hardworking, sweetheart of a man is putting himself through the damn wringer and his boss better appreciate that shit. “it’s important, I know. but everything’s been important. this project, the one before that, the one before that... when are you gonna take a break?”

“I take breaks,” he mumbles. he doesn’t mean to be stubborn. really, he doesn’t. he’s just had this goal in mind for so long, and now he feels like it’s finally in reach and… he can’t give up. he won’t.

“three minute power naps are not breaks. you know that,” you say sternly. “baby, this job is draining you. do they not already see how dedicated you are? if you haven’t earned that promotion by now, I don’t even know if you should work there anymore.”

that catches his attention. if anything, it triggers him, mind worn thin from countless hours of research. “are you kiddin’?” he asks, gaze snapping up to yours. “ain’t no way. all this shit I’m doin’ and you want me to go somewhere else?”

it’d be easy to get frustrated with his tone, but you push through. you’re coming from a place of concern and you want him to know that.

“that’s the point I’m trying to make, ony,” you press. “you’ve earned that position. you earned it months ago. hell, they should’ve given it to you in the first place. do you really wanna work like this for the next– however many years? you don’t think you’ll burn out?”

ony’s eyes close as he lets out a deep breath. knowing he needs to calm down before he releases his tired frustrations out on you, he sits back in his seat and drags his hands down his face. “this job can set me– set us up for life, baby. whether I stay with the company or not.”

you go to speak, but he cuts you off.

“I’m sorry, ᥫ᭡,” he says. his voice is weary, cracks of vulnerability showing in his exhaustion. “I am. I know you miss me and I miss you too. but I gotta do this. I can’t miss this opportunity. I’m doing what I have to for our family, baby. I’m doing all of this for us.”

“that’s the problem right there, ony,” you say, your voice firm but soft. “you think my concern is based on your presence and our time together when I’m concerned about your health. you’re withering away in front of me, and you expect me to think about our future? there won’t be a future if you keep at it like this.”

you can see the immediate reaction in his eyes, the concern filling them makes you want to pull him into bed to sleep for weeks.

“baby, what– what you talkin’ bout?”

“relax, papa,” you murmur, rising from your seat to walk over to his side. you close his laptop and slide into his lap to cradle his face. “I don’t mean it like that. we’re locked in forever, you ain’t gettin’ rid of me.

“I just need you to realize that nothing is more important than your health. not money, not our future, not any of that shit. I want you happy and healthy more than I want a diamond ring too heavy to wear,” you laugh softly. 

ony’s eyes shut as he leans into your touch, soothed by your reassurance and concern. he hears you. but the beast that is ambition and anxiety mixed together is too heavy to let go of so easily. he’s so close...

“I’m serious,” you continue tenderly, as if you can read his mind. “this has to stop, ony. please. life’s too short to be neglecting yourself for a future that could change at any moment.”

his chocolate eyes open to meet yours, seeing the full range of your emotions in the pools he loves to get lost in. he wishes he could dive into you, get lost in your healing waters as he just rests. but thoughts of the future come flowing back in, and he can’t push them away.

he has to do more. his work has to be enough, he isn’t enough. 

“maybe after this project, baby. they really need me for this one,” he responds.

of course.

the sigh you let out is weighted. your hands drop from his face before you stand from his lap.

“okay, onyankopon,” you murmur, defeat in your voice. he reaches out to stop you, mouth opening to give some empty reassurance you’ve probably already heard, but you’re out of the room before he can say anything. 

he wants to groan, fuss, chase after you… but he only has so much energy left and several more spreadsheets to make and check over. so instead, he sighs the deepest sigh he can muster before opening his laptop again.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

another day. wednesday. 

ony’s big presentation is today and he’s been spending all week pacing the house as he runs over the numbers repeatedly. he’s got this. he knows the information like the back of his hand and he knows he can give this presentation with full confidence. he’ll prove his value to the company, no doubt about it. 

tired from staying up, he pours a strong ass cup of coffee before heading to the conference room.

“good morning, everyone,” he nods to the room. he sees executives and people in the high places he’s trying to reach and he hums lowly to himself as he makes his way to the computer. this is his chance and he’s not going to mess it up. 

contrary to his previous anxious thoughts, the computer pulls up his presentation with no difficulties. the remote works fine, laser pointer in function, and speaker notes easy to access. he makes small talk with the people in attendance for the last few minutes before the scheduled start time.

his boss enters then, smiling as she greets everyone before taking her usual seat. she’s the picture of professionalism, and ony can feel the shift in the room as everyone adjusts their posture.

“alright, everyone, lets get started. onyankopon’s one of my best researchers, and I know we’re all excited about this project. he’s been doing amazing work, as always. the floor’s yours,” she says with a wave of her hand. the recognition is encouraging and he gives a small smile and nod. 

“thank you, mrs. green. and thanks to everyone for your attention,” he starts. “I’ve prepared an in depth outline for our plan moving forward. please hold questions until the end, your concerns will more than likely be addressed in the following slide.”

he goes on to start the presentation, feeling more than confident. also tired as hell, but you wouldn’t guess it from the outside looking in. it’s engaging and he takes mental note of how focused everyone is. impressed glances, nods of rapt attention, amused smiles at ony’s creative thinking.

everything is going perfectly until the executive assistant enters in a rush.

ony pauses immediately, losing his flow. he can’t help but question the interruption. he takes notice of how the man scrambles over to his boss and talks quietly in her ear. the woman’s face drops in concern, her eyebrows furrowing as she nods along. the bumbling assistant quickly makes his exit.

mrs. green stands with a sigh and straightens her blazer. “I’m so sorry to do this. I know you’ve put in a lot of work, but I have to leave for the day. my child is severely sick and I need to get to them. we’ll reschedule this presentation for a later date, but really amazing work, onyankopon.”

ony’s stomach drops. 

did he just hear that correctly? he feels like he has whiplash. 

there’s no way he just did all of that preparing for her to just cancel when he’s almost halfway through. he’s having so many thoughts that he can’t even keep up with his own mind. 

“um– yeah, of course,” ony nods stiffly. he figures there’s nothing he can do. “sometime this week?”

the woman shakes her head as she grabs her belongings. “my schedule’s too tight. I’ll ask my assistant when works best. again, I’m sorry, but you understand. family’s too important.”

with that, she leaves. 

and ony’s stumped.

with his assumptions about the work culture of the company, he fully expected her to ask for a nanny, a babysitter, a someone to help.

but no. 

no hesitations, no questions. ony can’t even blame her, but this is a jarring surprise. he’d expected pause or some consideration, but she moved on instinct. and no one’s even reacting, it’s like business as usual. granted, she’s the big boss, but… 

ony’s still standing by the presentation screen.

he watches as everyone packs up their stuff and chats casually, speaking of well wishes to their boss as they make their way back to their respective offices. it’s all so relaxed. like ony hasn’t been preparing all week for that damn presentation.

it’s making him reevaluate everything.

after the meeting, he spends the rest of his day asking how his coworkers feel about it. he asks if people ever called out last minute or took extra time off, what the response was, the treatment after, how it affected their job… and he’s surprised that his perspective of his job was so wrong.

work-life balance is encouraged. it’s seen as a right. people have had the freedom to handle family emergencies and such with no affect to their job or how they’re viewed. people have taken mental health days with no problems. they’ve still raised in the ranks, been seen as star employees, gotten raises…

ony had never even considered leaving the office on time, let alone leaving in the middle of the day. he thought he had to hustle, to fight for recognition like most do with other companies. he feels stupid after everything he’s put himself and you through. 

fuck. ony can feel his shoulders getting heavier with every realization.

you.

his babygirl, his love, his heart…

he’s driven himself crazy, trying to do everything in his power for the future he hopes to share with you. late nights, early mornings, working weekends… you’ve tried to ground him time after time, tried to get him to rest and relax and focus on the present, but he didn’t listen. he just kept pushing himself, trying to reach a goal that was of his own mental making.

just how much has he missed out on due to his own misunderstandings?

ᥫ᭡

that night, ony comes home only an hour after his scheduled time. he usually stays a few hours past, but he comes home, showers, and crashes right in the bed. you think he’s just exhausted or drained, actually catching up on rest before getting back to the grind, so you say nothing. you caress his back as you fall asleep next to him. 

the days after are the same, though. 

and the following saturday is a shock.

he’d unsurprisingly been working on the weekends too, sometimes going into the office and others working from home. you expect to hear his alarm ring bright and early, but it never does. he stays right beside you, arms holding you tight.

when you wake up, you think you’re dreaming.

”ony?” you ask groggily as you rub the sleep from your eyes. you‘re resting on his chest, his arms securely wrapped around your waist. he only grumbles incoherently in response and turns his head.

“nigga, I know you hear me,” you huff. “did you turn off your alarm? it’s almost twelve, we overslept. you overslept.”

“ain’t my name and ion care. c’mere and stop allat movin’,” he grumbles as his hand slides just below your butt, pulling you closer. he doesn’t even open his eyes, which shocks the hell out of you. you thought he’d give a bigger reaction.

“hello? did you hear me? you’re late, pa,” you try again, reaching to lightly tug his eyelid up with your finger. his pupil lazily shifts to look at you, an almost disturbing sight, before he reaches up to pull your hand away. 

“heard you. I’m stayin’ in today.”

you blink. then you blink again. he just presses a soft kiss to your hand before he closes his eyes again.

“are you sick?” you ask, dumbfounded.

“no,” he grumbles. “baby, go back to sleep.”

“oh my God, you’re sick, aren’t you?” you question as you sit up in bed. “I need to check your temperature. it’s summer, but I can make you some soup. maybe I can make it cold? there are cold soups aren’t the—“

“ᥫ᭡,” he stops you, hand lazily sliding to your back. “I’m not sick, I promise. this project been stressful and I’m exhausted, so can we please go back to sleep?”

you stare at him for a moment, his slightly irritated expression almost making you want to say something slick. your shock should be understandable with the stark difference in his behavior.

but you can see the how weathered he looks. he really is drained and he can probably use all the sleep he can get. you’ll spare him. plus, if you can crawl back up into his side and cuddle the day away after such a long time of being distanced, you’ll jump at the chance.

“…okay. let me go use the bathroom first.”

you almost thought it would be a joke of some kind, but ony stays in bed all day. he goes in and out of sleep, clinging to you and grumbling if either of you have to move for any reason. it’s refreshing. extremely so.

you can’t even find it in you to complain for fear he’ll up and get on the clock again. the two of you just hold each other, basking in the embrace of your lover and soaking up the much needed affection. kisses, caresses, whispers of ”I been missin’ you.” it’s like a dam broke and you’re getting bathed in love and attention. 

he’s still so quiet though. you can tell he’s thinking about something by the way he stares off into the distance. the way his brows pull together slightly, the ghost of a frown on his lips... you want to ask about it but don’t want to push. you just fall asleep in his arms again.

sunday comes and it’s the same.

ony stays in bed, going so far as to bring his rolling tray in from the living room to roll a blunt in bed.

when you return from the kitchen with your snack and see what he’s doing, you pause and purse your lips. “okay, what’s up with you? staying in two days in a row? rollin’ in the bedroom? what happened to ‘no smoking in the room’?”

he doesn’t really react. his gaze meets yours as he seals the blunt with a lick, expertly pearling it. the sight alone makes you want to jump his bones, but you’re too focused on figuring out what’s going on.

“come ‘ere, baby,” he mumbles quietly.

your eyebrows furrow, but you walk over to settle at his side. you wipe some lint from his face and caress his cheek, giving him your full attention. “what’s been on your mind, ony? was the presentation okay? you’ve been acting different.”

ony sighs as he lets himself relax at your touch. you’re just so… everything. you’re everything to him and he feels like he’s failed you. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. his voice is full of remorse as he looks down to the blunt in his hands, fiddling. he looks truly sad. the normal confidence and sureness in himself gone. you notice it in the way he won’t even meet your gaze. it’s unlike him.

“pa…” you start tenderly, hand still softly caressing his cheek. “what’s going on?”

his eyes meet yours then, emotions and turmoil apparent in the dark brown irises. “you deserve so much more than what I’ve been giving you the past few months. I haven’t been there for my baby like I promised I would.”

you’re shaking your head before he even finishes his sentence. “no, ony, don’t do that.”

“let me finish, princess. I need to say this. please?” he asks, signaling to you the severity of his feelings. “this ain’t a pity party. it’s a man admitting he fucked up.”

you don’t really have a choice when he uses that tone. you nod silently, choosing instead to rub his knee as a quiet show of support.

“I didn’t get to give my full presentation,” he mumbles with a lazy shrug. “the executive left for a family emergency; didn’t even think about it. she just left. all that work, all that draining myself, just to realize everyone around me don’t even make the same sacrifices. they ain’t got to. they all have balance and are thriving at home and at work. you know I hate comparin’ myself, but damn. knowin’ I’ve been doin’ all this shit, neglectin’ my home life and my love, my heart... it hurt and I needed time to process that.”

your eyebrows raise as you take in the information. you knew something had happened. the sound of regret in his voice, the way you can tell the guilt is weighing him down… it hurts to hear.

“I promised I’d take care of you, and you know I don’t take that lightly. but I’ve been… closed-minded. tunnelvisioned. you were right, baby,” he continues. his hand is now reverently rubbing your thigh, gripping it from time to time to help ground himself. “you tried to get me out of it, and I’m ashamed it had to come to that for me to really open my eyes.

“I let my thoughts of the future fuck with how I meet you now, and I’m ashamed of that. I hid my fear of not being enough, not providing enough, behind my ambition,” he shakes his head remorsefully. ”I wanna be a good man for you, baby. the best man. and sometimes the pressure of that gets to me, no matter how strong I am.

“so I mean it when I say I’m sorry. and thank you for being here, always. I don’t take that shit for granted, ᥫ᭡,” he presses, eyes locked on yours. it’s raw and honest and it’s easy to see he really needed to get it all off of his chest.

before you can even think to say anything, your arms are pulling him close. you feel him return the embrace tight, like he found something he’d lost. “oh, baby,” you murmur.

“you’re always tryin’ to carry the world by yourself, papa. you don’t have to do that. we’re partners,” you reassure him. “I see you, ony. I know you’re working hard for us. but I’m not just dead weight, you know? I ain’t just here to look pretty.”

“but you’re mine,” he murmurs, pulling back to look at you. there’s that stubborn frown again. you just want to massage it away. “I take care of what’s mine. you know that. I’m doing everything I do for us—“

“and you’re mine. or did you forget that part?” you tilt your head. “I say the things I say to you for you, which is ultimately for us. just because you’re my man doesn’t mean you’re running this show alone. I’m honestly starting to feel a bit insulted.”

“…insulted?”

“yes, insulted,” you state. “the fact that you think I’d let the love of my life carry all of our problems and run himself dry is crazy to me. I ain’t goin’ for it anymore. we are a team and I’m always gonna call you on your shit. that’s not just when you’re ‘wrong’ but it’s when you’re not takin’ care of yourself either.

“you said you’re ashamed that it came this far, well, so am I. I should’ve flicked you upside your big ass head when I first saw you headed in this direction. it was hard on all fronts, but the worst was watching you fight by yourself.”

you grab his face with your hands, gently but firm enough to slightly squish his cheeks. “I love you. we are a team. stop being so damn stubborn. shit,” you huff.

he blinks at you, lips puckered with the way you’re holding him. he swears in that moment he’s never wanted to marry you more. you’re a dream but also a beautiful reality, a merging of so much love and perfection that ony still can’t believe you’re his.

“you’re a man, I get it. you want to be this picture perfect image of a man that does all the hard stuff, does everything with no help. but this ain’t that,” you shake your head. “you’re human, papa. you’re not a superhero. you will burn out if you keep holding onto the thought that you’re pullin’ the wagon on your own.

“it’s me and you. this is what I expect from you. partnership. I might be your babygirl, and you might take the lead, but I’m not a trophy wife. I have my own job that I love, and I adore taking care of you just as much as you do me. I need you to understand that, onyankopon.”

ony could cry. he’s starting to see it now.

somewhere along the way, he took up the mantle of being everything. not because you asked him to, not even because he wanted to. 

he’s afraid.

he’s afraid of losing you, of not being enough. he began to equate your love for him with how much he can provide. he began to equate his worth with how much he can be of service to others. he never thought that would be his driving force, but he sees now that anxiety can penetrate even the most fortified minds.

but you… you’re his fresh air. you’re as strong as you are beautiful. just because you let him lead, doesn’t mean you’re some damsel waiting in a tower. he always knew that, but it’s a jarring reality when your head’s been stuck up your own ass for several months.

“now. you’re gonna smoke that whole damn blunt by yourself. I’m gonna go cook a shit ton of food and you better eat till you physically can’t anymore. I’m taking care of you now. if you leave this bed, you’ll be fightin’ me. heard me?” you question.

he blinks again. and then nods.

“good. what do you want for dinner?”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

things have been slowly moving in the right direction since that conversation. 

ony’s been coming home at normal times, catching up on rest during the weekends, and making sure he shows love to you every chance he gets. he’s starting to look like himself again, energy levels raising more and more.

you’ve helped him tremendously. cooking his favorite filling meals, uplifting him when he gets those prickly thoughts of not doing enough, reminding him that you’ll always be there. he feels… doted on. it’s different from the usual dynamic between the two of you, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t adore it. 

he’s used to being the attentive one. the one that carries the load, the man. but this whole situation has reminded him how intentional you are as a partner. it’s shown him that he can let go and not be perfect, that you’ll have his back when he can’t give the 110% he’s used to. he can depend on you the same way you can with him.

partnership.

that word has been ringing in his head ever since you said it. it fills him with a sense of belonging. relief. happiness. it makes him feel seen. home feels like home again. life isn’t so heavy.

and it looks good on you. you’re happy and looking at him with so much affection that he fights the urge to scoop you into his arms by the hour. you’ve been balanced and steadfast with your support, carrying the extra weight like it’s nothing. you pour from your heart, not from a place of expectation.

he should be recovering from his burn out, focusing on balance and new habits. and he is. but he’s constantly thinking about how much he loves you. how much he appreciates you. how much of an idiot he was to forget who you are.

he thinks about how he’s been through the wringer the past few months, and then smacked with realization after realization. you’ve been there through it all, since day one. he’s always focused on being the best man he can be, and he’s realized that he can only be his best with you. you’ve been there in his corner in ways he can’t let go of. 

ever.

though to you, he’s still acting different than what you’re used to. you can tell he’s still in his head. you wonder if it’s because he’s still shaking the last traces of anxiety or if there’s something else on his mind. it’s a reflective state, so you’re giving him a chance to work it out himself before you drag him by his ear back to bed to chill the fuck out.

so when he brings up the idea of a lil weekend trip, just a chance for the both of you to get away after everything that’s happened and spend some quality time together, you jump at the opportunity. he needs it, you need it, everybody needs it. it’ll be a great opportunity to help him fully relax, and maybe you can figure out what’s got him in his head.

he chooses the airbnb and plans the trip, once again not letting you do a single thing. he doesn’t even let you pack. you go to chastise him for it, but he uses the excuse that he’s treating you for the past few weeks you’ve supported him a little extra.

ᥫ᭡

you immediately stretch when you exit the car, limbs reaching for the sky as a small squeak escapes your lips. “ugh, my ass hurts. did you really have to choose one so far away?” you ask brattily.

ony just hands you your purse with a small chuckle, not even mentioning the fact that you were either asleep or just no help the entire ride while he drove. “yeah, baby. I wanted to find a cabin for us. I think you’ll really like it,” he says warmly.

he knows you best, so you trust that this will be a great fucking trip. the smirk that crawls onto your face spells nothing but inappropriate intentions. “yeah? let me go check this shit out. see everything before the damage we’re about to do,” you smirk, making him laugh.

before you can turn to head towards the door, he stops you, voice calling out firmly. “nuh uh, bring that ass back. you know I gotta do my walk through. lemme get these bags first.”

you try not to rush him; he did just drive all the way and he’s being such a gentleman. it’s just hard when you know your vacation’s just on the other side of the door. you look around, already liking the looks of the location he chose. you ask about a cabin trip every time it’s time for a trip, and he chose a nice one.

“grab this for me, love,” he murmurs softly, handing you one of the lighter bags. you take it from his hand and he smiles at you before grabbing your shared suitcase and extra bags. “ready to go see the inside?”

“hell yeah,” you grin. you follow him, eyes scanning the front room as he sets the bags down. he begins his walkthrough, diligently checking every corner and room for a possible person or hidden camera. you follow behind him as he takes his time, admiring how focused he is and the cozy feel of the cabin. “this is perfect, pa. it’s so cozy and cute. hope we don’t get murdered or anything.”

ony lets out a loud laugh at that, always amused by you. “it’s safe here, baby, I promise. you know I brought my gun anyway,” he reassures with a smile. “everything’s good, we can get settled. wanna hear the plan?”

“there’s a plan?” you ask as you flop onto the bed. it’s so cozy, the blankets feather soft. you feel small in the king sized bed and you’re already thinking of the debauchery that’ll happen on it soon. maybe even in the next few minutes. “you’re always plannin’ shit. I thought we came here to relax. especially you.”

ony snorts as he sits next to you, easily tugging your form into his lap. you’re now sitting perpendicular to him, your legs resting over his thick thighs. he murmurs, “I plan so my girl ain’t gotta worry,” before he presses soft kisses to your cheek. you shiver at the tickle of his beard and turn your head so his lips meet yours.

“my man. always going above and beyond.” your voice is tender, your hand raising to softly tug at the hair on his chin. he just looks so good, so tempting. you can feel his hand start to trail up and down your thigh as he chuckles lowly.

his kisses follow the line of your neck until he gently pulls your earlobe between his teeth. you tilt your head with a sigh as he mumbles, “mhm, always for you. wanted to treat you. show my appreciation.

“I was gonna take you shoppin’, but not if you keep bein’ so damn touchable. I’ll put you through this mattress before we can fuckin’ unpack.”

his touch tingles in all the right ways, reminding you of how much you missed the depth of intimacy that used to be a usual routine. his words cause I jump in your gut. before you can fully melt at his touch, you’re quickly distracted. “shopping?” you perk up. “shopping where?”

“mmm, interested in the plan now, huh?” he teases, playfully nipping at your cheek. you lightly shove his face away as you laugh, feeling his arms wrap snugly around your waist. “we’re not far from the strip. figured we can grab somethin’ to eat, check out a couple shops… stretch our legs after that ride.”

“that sounds perfect. damn, you’re always on it, huh?” you smile. arms wrapping around his shoulders, you pull him close, enjoying the relaxing feel. “I’m definitely feeling stir crazy after all of that. let me shower and change and I’m all yours.”

he chuckles before giving you the gentle reminder, “you’re all mine anyway.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

it isn’t long before you’re fresh and clean, dressed in one of the pretty numbers that ony packed for you. he’s donned a coordinating outfit, always wanting to leave no room for doubt about who he belongs to. the two of you stroll hand in hand down the street, feeling rejuvenated already.

the weather is beautiful and warm and the sun is shining brightly. the shopping strip is alive with tourists and music and more shops than you would've guessed. homemade candles that fill the room with beautiful aromas, intricately carved crystals and handmade jewelry, a wide variety of restaurants to choose from… and you stick to your man’s side the whole time.

ony’s hand fimly grasps yours as he makes sure you stay on the inside of the sidewalk, away from the street. you both dance as you walk past bands playing live, your man making sure to twirl you around like the princess you are. you try so many different types of food, feeding each other and giggling goofily when the other makes a scrunched face of displeasure.

art galleries, antique shops, clothing stores. you put on fashion shows to show off the clothes for his input, and he the same for you. you both take probably a thousand pictures of everything that catches your eye. it’s everything the two of you need and a great first day of the trip. it feels more than amazing to spend this quality time together.

you feel like the battery for your relationship is charging, and it feels good.

by the time you get to the wine bar, your last stop for the day, ony’s arms are full of shopping bags. you feel bad but the sight of his veins and muscles from the slight strain make your mouth water.

“maybe we should just head back, pa,” you say softly. you rub his back as you gaze up at him, eyes warm but tired. “that’s too much to try to carry around, and I’m getting pretty tired too.”

he hums and bends to press his lips to your cheek. he can tell by your tone that you’re going to sleep good as hell tonight. “okay, pretty, we can come back tomorrow. it’s a bit of a walk back to the car, can you make it?”

“mhm,” you nod as he continues to kiss on you. the intimacy between you two is back on one hundred, and words can’t explain how good it feels. “which way is it?”

“this way,” he murmurs, jutting his head to the right. he guides you in whatever direction, your arm wrapping around his bicep. something catches your attention when you walk past the wine bar.

“is that a spa? shit, I’d love to go there,” you murmur, craning your neck to look inside as you both continue to walk. “look— they have natural springs!”

ony chuckles quietly to himself. hm. “it’s hot springs, baby, that’s kind of their thing. and we already have an appointment for tomorrow.”

“we do?” you beam, turning to look at him. he just knows you so well, it’s almost scary sometimes, but always incredibly endearing. he’s a good man and your man— simple as that.

he once again guides you to his side, away from the street. you grab a couple of the bags on his arms despite his quiet protest. “mhm, it’s set for tomorrow night. imma get your nails done and everything. full treatment for my princess.”

“oh, you must want the freakiest freak outta me that you can get. you really did your big one with this trip, huh? maybe you really did get your shit together.” you tease, lightly bumping his hip with yours. well, best you can with the height difference.

“oh, I want more than a freak, baby,” smirks softly. “but knowing you and everything we did today, you’ll be too tired. don’t even get my hopes up.”

you gasp at that and look at him with your jaw dropped. “don’t do me like that! I take care of you and that big ass d—“

“husshhh, girl,” he laughs, his voice cutting yours short. “we in public, chill. you right, you take care of me.”

you snicker at that. “damn right. don’t play with me like I ain’t got that.”

“oh, I know you got that. but don’t play like I ain’t got it either,” he smirks, raising his eyebrow. “or do you need a reminder real quick? won’t be able to walk tomorrow, though.”

you kiss your teeth and jokingly roll your eyes. “whatever, ony. always gotta make shit about you.” the laugh he lets out is diabolical.

the two of you continue to walk, the only sounds being your steps and the occasional swish or crumple of one of the bags. the sun’s setting in the distance and it’s a beautiful sight, pinks and purples painting the sky.

“I really appreciate all of this, baby,” you speak gently. “I’m glad we can have this time together. everything’s been amazing, but all I really need is you, you know? I missed you even though you were right there.”

his heart clutches in his chest. even as he consistently shows that he’s dedicated to being better with his changed actions, looking back on that time is still a sore spot. he was so misguided. but both the situation and you showed him what he really needed to see.

“I know, sweetheart. I hope you know how important that is to me too,” he expresses. “it’s everything. I didn’t show it in the way I should’ve and I let my fear get to me. but this… this right here is my world.”

him and his words, tugging at your heartstrings and shit. you squeeze his arm tighter and sigh, positively overwhelmed with the day. it feels like a dream. “I love you,” you murmur softly.

“I love you. and I mean that with everything.”

ᥫ᭡

soft silk. skin on skin. gentle, whispered words.

it’s a bubble. a safe haven of warmth and security. ease and peace. it surrounds you in all the best ways, consumes you but doesn’t inspire fear.

it’s just so warm.

and soft.

and it…

smells like bacon?

“wakey, wakey, baby,” ony murmurs, his touch following shortly. with a gentle caress of your cheek, he rouses you from your rest. you groan softly as your eyes flutter open. you’re met with ony’s warm gaze, the man still clad in your matching pajamas from the night before.

“noooo, we’re on vacation, we’re supposed to sleep in,” you mumble before nuzzling your face into your pillow. it’s just so soft you could sink into it, you wonder if the host will tell you what kind they are.

ony lets out an amused snort and turns to the side table. demanding thing you are. “it’s past twelve, baby. I ordered brunch,” he murmurs simply. he lifts a platter and carries it to the bed, placing it on your lap, and your mouth waters at the sight of the food.

“oh,” you murmur, not realizing the time. you guess you had to get up eventually, but you were having a good ass dream. you look at all the food then, taking in the several options before you. “you got me all this? I know I like being spoiled and all but…”

“it’s for both of us, don’t piss me off,” he pinches your cheek. “we did too much fuckin’ walkin’ yesterday. when I get in this bed, I’m stayin’.” you laugh at his words as he slides back into the spot next to you, careful not to jostle the bed too much.

“yeah, whatever. as long as I get to try some of everything,” you say back, bumping your shoulder with his. he bumps you back, but you’re more focused on picking your fork up to try a bite or seven.

just as expected, the food is amazing. you both immediately hum at the taste, nodding in approval. the next few moments are quiet as you both stuff your faces, chewing and crunching in tandem.

“damn…” ony pipes up, a smirk on his slightly greasy face. “know shit good when it get quiet.”

“don’t make me choke on my food,” you laugh as you cover your mouth. he’s right though. the people that live in this town are lucky that they get to eat at whatever restaurant the damn feast is from.

your man chuckles warmly as you reach to wipe his face, turning to ask you, “we got a few hours before we need to head to the spa, and we can go to that wine bar right after. we’ll pack some clothes to change into. anything you wanna do before then or you just wanna chill?”

“hm,” you hum in thought. honestly, you’re still beat from the day before. so many stores, so much walking that your feet are still sore. a spa trip is all that’s on your mind. “nah. do you wanna do anything? I feel like it’s been more about me since we got here.”

ony pauses at that, looking straight at you. you’re serious?

“well, yeah,” he deadpans. it’s almost like that’s the whole point. he can’t help but tease you a bit for what he considers to be a silly thought. “I brought you here to spoil the fuck outta you. issue?”

“okay, don’t get smart. here I am tryna be considerate and shit. I take it back.”

“that ain’t really somethin’ you can take back…”

“well, I’m takin’ it back.”

“no refunds, lady.”

“ony!” you laugh, lightly smacking his arm. “I’m serious! this is about us. quality time and all that. this trip isn’t just for me, it’s for you too. now, speak up. I know there’s somethin’ you wanna do.”

ony laughs, amused by your stubbornness. it’s one of the reasons he loves you so. “okay, okay. uhhh. I’m still tired, to be honest. I just wanna chill with my girl.”

you respond with a satisfied humph and a nod of your head. “then that’s what we’ll do. get cozy, or else.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

the next several hours are spent in bed, cuddling in each others arms. it’s a wonderful feeling just to be wrapped up in him, and you can’t help but sit in appreciation for everything. he really planned the trip so perfectly, you have only praises.

ony puts some random show on that captures you both, but only for a while. soon the sound of your voices covers the low volume of the tv as conversation blooms.

you talk about any and everything. from the day you first met, to your favorite childhood memories, to updates in the friend group that you hadn’t talked about in depth yet. you remain wrapped up in each other, touches soft and reverent, as you just enjoy the calming presence of one another.

eventually, you migrate from the bed to the living room, having a quick lunch before getting ready for your joint spa appointment. the thought of a soothing massage, a fresh nail set, and a trip to the wine bar has you damn near bouncing off the walls. your excitement is more than obvious, and ony has to hold back a laugh several times as he packs a bag with fancy clothes for the wine tour.

when you arrive at the spa, it’s much fancier than it seemed from the outside, which is saying a lot. the two of you are immediately and pleasantly greeted and guided to a luxurious room in the back to prepare.

soft robes, slippers, and refreshing water secured, you both meet eyes and playfully grin. it’s not your first couple’s massage, but it’s been a while, so you’re both excited as hell.

everything’s going so smoothly…

until ony’s damn phone rings.

you squint, watching him turn to go back to his locker. you stand in the doorway while he digs in his bag, and notice a nervous change in his face when he sees the screen.

“shit. I’m sorry, baby, I gotta take this. it’s the office,” he murmurs, eyebrows pulling together.

it’s a trigger, almost. not to such an extreme, but you feel a familiar disappointment starting to tug at you. “ony, are you serious? we’re just about to get started,” you frown.

“I know, I know, but it’s urgent,” he presses. “they wouldn’t call if it wasn’t. not after I've made my boundaries clear.”

“ony. you are not leaving to go take a work call,” you fuss, trying to keep your voice down. you watch as he gives a sad frown, almost like he’s holding back. but then his phone rings again and he holds up a finger, walking into the hallway.

“ony. onyankopon,” you whisper yell after him. when the door closes, leaving you alone, you huff a sigh and sit.

this is absolutely ridiculous. everything was literally going so damn perfectly, but here he goes on bullshit again. and only minutes before your spa appointment!

when the door opens and ony slides back into the room, the look you give him is lethal. he can only let out a deep sigh. “I need to go back the the cabin,” he says quietly.

“oh. oh, wow,” you scoff, crossing your arms. “you’re on vacation, ony. what the fuck happened to work/life balance? after everything? I’m not doing this shit with you again—“

“hey, hey,” he says softly, walking over to you. he reaches to cup your cheek with one hand and wraps his other arm around your waist. “I’m not going back to where I was, okay? this is temporary.”

he looks like he wants to say more, but stops himself short. “you’ll see. haven’t I been showing you that I’m dedicated to doing better? than you can trust me to be mindful?”

he’s met with a frown and the crossing of your arms.

“relax, baby, I swear this is it for the whole trip. I don’t use that word lightly. you know that,” he reassures, caressing your cheek soothingly. “I really am sorry, love. I’ll be as quick as I can. how about you stay here, yeah? I’ll get you when I finish up.”

he sees the frustration in your eyes, and he leans to press his lips against your forehead. he feels awful for making you feel this way, regardless of the situation. but it’s necessary. “trust me. I promise you’ll have all of me after this, okay? all of my attention, all of my love, all of my time. I swear.”

you sigh and look to the side, fighting the frustration you feel. you take a moment to mentally acknowledge and appreciate the fact that he really has been stepping back from work like he promised. not staying late, no work on the weekends, taking proper care to do better than the past.

he means what he says, you know that. his actions prove his intentions, that’s just the type of man he is. he just needs to finish something up, and then the vacation can resume like planned. it’s annoying as absolute fuck, and upsetting no matter how mature you try to be, but the main thing is that it’s temporary.

“fine,” you mumble. your gaze turns to meet his, firm and steady. “but you’re making this up to me as soon as we get back to the spot. I mean it.”

he smiles in a way that’s so sure. “I was already planning to. don’t let me stress you out. these cucumber slices cost too damn much for you to be worried about me.” the small smile he gets in return smooths over any anxiety of you being upset, despite the fact that you try to hide it.

”take this time for you, okay? just have some time to yourself. rest, recharge, all that without me breathin’ down your neck. you deserve it.” he presses his lips against yours in a loving kiss. “I love you,” he murmurs warmly. “and I appreciate your understanding. I won’t take it for granted.”

“yeah, yeah, whatever,” you mumble before you pull him into another brief kiss. “go handle business. then you can handle me.”

he laughs at that, the sound a deep reverberance from his chest. “and I will. believe that. text me when you finish up, and don’t forget to get all dolled up for me so we can go to the wine bar. call me if you need me, okay?”

ᥫ᭡

the spa appointment was definitely what you needed. your muscles feel loose and relaxed, your skin extra smooth and moisturized from head to toe, and your nails look a bit too good for a nail tech you’ll probably never see again.

it’s hard not to be a bit bitter, just wanting your man by your side. this was supposed to be for you both. but honestly, you have spent a lot of time right up under each other the past couple of days. and there’s always the hot tub back at the cabin.

and even though he left and couldn’t do the spa treatment, you’re still looking forward to this wine bar. you get dressed in yet another pick by ony, and no surprise, it’s gorgeous. the look paired with the way you feel after some quality self care is almost unbeatable.

as you exit the backrooms and pull your phone out to call ony, a voice calls after you, slightly rushed. you’d packed your stuff up so fast, ready to go, and she’d been trying to catch you. “ma’am? ma’am, just a second, please.”

you turn at the sound of her voice and give her your attention. “yeah? did I leave something?” you ask politely.

“no ma’am, I— um, I forgot to offer you some complimentary champagne for your visit. would you like me to pour you a glass?”

your eyebrow raises at that. normally you wouldn’t say no to some bubbly, but the thought of the wine bar is pressing. a fancy space, some time with your man, and some highly rated food and drinks? you’ll pass. “um, I wasn’t aware that was a thing. I think I’ll pass, thank you.”

“are you sure?” she presses. “it’s extremely quality, and you can sit and enjoy it in our lounge. why don’t you come take a look?”

hm. pushy lady. she must get paid well.

“yeah, no thank you,” you repeat. “I appreciate it, I just have plans. thank you for your hospitality, though.”

she falters at your reply, looking as though she wants to say something else. your attention is redirected to your phone as you press ony’s contact.

“pa, I’m done at the spa,” you say when he answers. “come get meee. I wanna go to the wine bar.”

ony almost crashes out, but he keeps himself in line. “shit, already? I didn’t think you’d be done for another half hour. I can’t come get you, baby.” he’s already flinching at just the thought of your response.

the face you make would be funny if the situation wasn’t what it is. “the fuck you can. what’s so damn important that you can’t pause to come get me?” you frown, dropping your bag on one of the lobby seats. you can excuse earlier, but this is too much. he just reassured you that his priorities are in order.

“just— I’m sending a lyft for you, okay? I have to wrap something up.”

“ony—”

“trust me, baby. just let me call a car for you.”

you scoff. it’s actually getting to be a bit much, especially since you just spent all of that time relaxing and letting go. ”this is fuckin’ ridiculous. we didn’t come all this way for your attention to still be on work.”

“baby—“

“just send the damn car, ony. and you better keep an eye on my location,” you huff before hanging up. you turn to the speak to the masseuse, who quickly looks away as she pretends to not be listening. “actually, I would like a glass of champagne, thank you. a bottle if you can spare it.”

you definitely plan to be a brat in the lounge until you see just how nice it is. calming music, a beautiful fountain, a bottle of champagne waiting for you… it’s really hard to be mad when you’re sipping on expensive drinks after your man paid for every single thing, including your dress and nails and hair. you want to pout. if only here were here.

it’s not long before you’re in the uber back to the cabin. you use the ride time to properly gather your words so you can explain to your man everything he did to piss you off in such a short amount of time. this was supposed to be a trip for both of you to relax, and he’s once again letting work get the better of him.

ᥫ᭡

arriving at the cabin, you take a breath. clear communication is the goal. you don’t want to make him feel bad, but you need to express yourself after what just happened. you walk to the front door with a little extra speed in your steps, mumbling under your breath. “nigga better be ready to hear this mouth. done left me at the place by my damn self. on vacation. after everything. damn shame.”

you open the door, fully prepared to call out to him so you can fuss, but stop short when you see a trail of rose petals starting at the doorway. it’s like your brain empties all coherent thoughts. you just freeze in place, looking down at how the petals smush under your feet.

there’s music playing, you notice in your frozen state. it’s you and ony’s song, alex isley’s “love again.” you can hear quiet snaps here and there, and you look up to see a smiling photographer taking picture after picture.

your heart is racing and your brain’s still not working.

“ᥫ᭡,” you hear a voice call from the other side of the room. your gaze slowly follows the flowers below you until they meet ony’s shoes. you look up and up and up and… there he is. standing in the living room, furniture cleared with a pool of rose petals scattered everywhere.

he’s dressed up, looking mouth watering-ly handsome as he holds a big bouquet of red and pink flowers. he’s watching you with eyes filled with a love you can feel from way too many feet away.

love… and nervousness.

what the fuck.

no, what in the actual hell.

“close the door, pretty,” he says warmly, his voice tender and so damn soft. you follow his instruction mindlessly, the cabin door closing behind you. you continue to stare at him with wide eyes, swallowing as realization starts to dawn on you.

your voice is thick with emotion when you speak. “ony…”

he just smiles warmly as he adjusts the flowers in his hand. with all this planning, he tried to keep everything as inconspicuous as he could. redirecting your thoughts of what the trip was really about, pretending to book a couples spa when it was really just for you, roping the spa workers into his plan…

it all worked. he hated lying, it actually made his chest hurt to see the disappointment on your face and hear the frustration in your voice when he “bailed” on you for work, but it worked.

he got you.

“come here,” he says softly, holding a hand out to you.

your heart is still beating, beating, beating in your chest, and you have to force yourself to take a deep breath. “ony…” you repeat, your voice shaky. you’re still frozen in place.

he just continues to smile, endeared as he takes in your surprised demeanor. the taller man takes slow steps towards you without breaking eye contact. the flowers are tight in his nervous grip, but he tries not to show how he’s feeling.

you let out another breath when he reaches you, and he carefully removes your bag from your arm. he sets it down gently before he turns back to you. his arm extends, presenting the giant bouquet to you.

“you gone leave me hangin’?” he asks softly.

“no,” you choke out as your eyes fill with tears. “I—… ony…”

“c’mere, baby.”

you feel yourself being tugged into his arms and you hug him tight as tears start to fall. “I’m sorry I lied to you,” he mumbles softly. “I won’t again, I promise. you’re just too intuitive, you know? I wanted to surprise you but yo ass always catchin’ me before I can, so…”

he lets out a breath as he squeezes you tighter in his arms. “walk with me. I got you,” he says softly. he pulls back to see his pretty girl’s face, taking in how you look up at him with so much love. he gently wipes your fallen tears and reaches for your hand. “ready?” he asks quietly. you nod, sniffling softly.

he walks you down the path of petals, keeping you close to him. the music continues to fill the room and you can smell the candles that you picked out from the small business you both went to the day before. your heart’s racing in your chest and your emotions are overflowing.

he really did get you.

he leads you to the center of the room, hand never leaving yours. you both take a deep breath when you reach a stopping point, looking at each other. he goes to speak, but realizes he still has the flowers in his hand.

“hold on,” he murmurs as he searches for somewhere to set them. you can hear the nerves in his voice and see how he fumbles slightly. it’s cute. heart-warming. eventually he just decides to set them on the kitchen counter.

when he gets back, he takes both of your hands in his. you smile at him, reassuring him as your thumbs caress his hands. it’s a gesture he appreciates, something small to help ease his nerves. he takes another breath to settle himself before he speaks.

“ᥫ᭡,” he starts warmly. his eyes are deep pools of genuine reverence. “the love I have for you can’t really be put into words. it’s why I show you every chance I get. it’s why I do everything that I do. because you deserve to know just how adored you are by me, every second of every day.

“ever since that day you first walked into my life, you’ve had me. it didn’t take me time at all to realize that you’re the only woman I could ever want. you’re the woman I’ve dreamed of, the woman I prayed for. your heart and soul are golden, especially in a word like ours. I see you for who you are. caring, kind, vulnerable… funny, attentive, dedicated, and real. I’ve seen you grow. I’ve seen you love. I’ve seen you cry, and I’ve seen you succeed.

“you’re everything,” his voice cracks. “you’re my sun and stars, my moon and galaxy. you’re a warm hug and an oasis of peace. you’re my laughter, you’re my joy, and you’re my future. you inspire me. you turn everything you touch into gold, baby.

“with you in my life, I feel like I’m being rewarded for something I’m not even aware of. I can’t believe that someone like you could ever exist, let alone want me the way you do. I’ve never felt so seen and I’ve never felt like I fit with a partner so effortlessly. we listen to each other, we communicate, we stick through the tough times, but we have fun through everything.

“I lost sight of that earlier this year, and I can admit that. I forgot that I never have to perform for you, that I don’t have to be on a constant working wheel. I never wanted to neglect you, I’ve just always wanted to give you the absolute best that I can offer because you deserve no less. but you reminded me, love. you reminded me about our foundation of partnership, how I’m not in this alone. and you supported me when I needed to readjust myself. I can never thank you enough for that.

“I can’t explain how at home I feel with you. I feel most myself with my babygirl by my side, and I love how you can be your most genuine, open self with me too. I love being your safe space, your man, and whatever else you want me to be. I want to be all of that for you and more, always. I want to be your shoulder to cry on. I want to carry you through the dark times. and I want to lean on you too.

“I wanna be your husband, baby,” he says softly. “I wanna be yours forever. you’re too good to let go of, and I never intend to do so.”

you’re a mess of tears. you can barely even make out his face as he gets on one knee, hand sliding into his pocket. “oh, ony,” you say softly, one hand raising to land on your beating chest.

“I love you, ᥫ᭡. I want nothing more than to call you my wife,” he says warmly. he opens the box, revealing a gorgeous ring. “will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

you don’t even hesitate.

“yes!” you nod frantically, immediately holding your hand out to him. “God, ony, there was never a doubt in my mind. yes!”

you’re a puddle of sobs as he slides the ring onto your hand. it’s a perfect fit, and you don’t even allow time to wonder how. you just immediately wrap your arms around his shoulders in a hug.

he lifts you into his arms as he stands, holding you close to his heart. “thank you, baby. I promise I’ll love you with everything in me,” he murmurs deeply, voice wavering from the emotions of it all.

“you already do,” you sniffle, pulling back to look at him. he’s still holding you off the ground, tight in his embrace, as you reach to cradle his face. you press your lips to his and pour all of your feelings into it the kiss. he returns it with just as much fervor.

you pull back to look at him adoringly, caressing his cheek. “the love we have is something I’ll never seek to replace. I’m yours, ony,” you whisper softly.

he grins then, his own eyes wet with tears. his arms remain tight around you as he twirls your form around, making you squeal and laugh.

he gently sets you back onto your feet, smiling down at you. “my lady,” he says warmly. after all of this time connecting, learning each other, loving each other, he can finally call you his forever. he leans to press another kiss to your lips as he wraps his arms around your waist.

when you hear the door close, your eyes blink open, turning to look over your shoulder. “s’just the photographer, baby,” he explains, hand rubbing up and down your back.

you hum and turn back to look up at him, smiling as you both enjoy being on cloud 9. he reaches to wipe your remaining tears with a gentle touch. “I can’t believe you actually fucking got me,” you laugh softly.

“shit was hard. know you wanted to beat my ass for leaving you up there,” he snorts. just thinking of your tone when you were talking to him on the phone has him cringing. “but it’s all okay now. I’ve got my fianceé and I don’t really give a shit about anything else.”

“I know that’s right,” you giggle, kissing him softly. “I was gonna come in here and chew you out, but I’m so happy I didn’t have to. I’m so blessed to have you, my ony.”

ony’s heart flutters in his chest. your ony. that’s right. yours and only yours.

“you’re still taking me to the wine bar, though, right?” you ask with a raised brow. he laughs at that, head tilting back, but you’re seriously still thinking about that place. have been since you saw it.

“yes, baby, we have a reservation for tomorrow. I just wanted to spend tonight with just you. that okay?”

you smile, but you’re lowkey irritated. of course he already booked a reservation. he really planned everything to a t and you had not a clue. “‘course it is. I still can’t believe you fuckin’ got me, big head.”

he snickers and pinches your side teasingly. “yeah, I did that shit. got you cryin’ like a baby.”

“alright, that’s enough of that,” you squint up at him. “you cried too.”

“yeah, yeah, whatever,” he chuckles. “c’mon, I know you hungry. I have dinner for us.”

ᥫ᭡

visual. visual. visual.

it’s unreal.

the candles on the table create an intimate vibe, the petals are scattered everywhere, and your man is right across from you, holding your hand as you talk and eat.

it’s beyond intimate. you’ve never felt this way before. the level of dedication between the two of you has deepened in a heavily serious way, and it’s a sensation that‘s so unfamiliar.

you’re engaged.

you have to let that settle. it’s not something you’ve come to terms with. every time you lift your left hand or move it in any way, you feel the weight of the ring. it’s a reminder, a symbol that you get to wear not only for yourself, but for your fiancé. your future husband.*

the love of your life, the man that will hopefully be the father of your kids, the partner you always prayed for but doubted the existence of. it’s heavy, but it’s a weight you carry with pure happiness, adoration, and intention.

ony’s not on cloud nine, he’s in heaven. his lady, his future wife, his world is on the same page as him. partnership. marriage. dedication. he’s so lucky— so blessed to have someone that sees all of him, understands, and is still dedicated beyond belief to loving him forever.

he can’t wait to share this with the world. he’s so excited to marry you. he can’t believe that there were times that he doubted you’d say yes, but your agreement is a testament to where both of you are planning for your future.

the both of you are giddy.

your emotions hit you like a wave over and over as you’re repeatedly overwhelmed with gratitude. this man, the love of your life, is yours. he wants to be yours, not just for now, but for forever.

“baby, don’t cry,” he murmurs warmly, reaching across the table to wipe your tears once again. “my love’s feeling a lot right now, hm?”

you sniffle and nod, leaning into his touch. “I’m just… really happy, pa. that’s all.”

ony hums softly, caressing your cheek. his sweet girl. he’s so grateful that everything went as planned. “you deserve all of this and more. I’m dedicated to loving you like this forever, ᥫ᭡.”

“if you’re trying to stop my crying, you’re doing a bad job,” you laugh through your tears, reaching to softly clear them. he smiles and pulls back to step around the table and slide into the spot next to you. wordlessly, he pulls you to him.

your arms wrap around ony as you rest your head on his shoulder. as your eyes close, you feel him softly rub your back. the silence is soft and welcome, and you could stay like that forever. just being held by your fiancé.

moments later, a kiss is pressed to your forehead. “I’m gonna clean up, baby. why don’t you head to the bedroom and wait for me?”

your breath hitches softly. the mention of the bedroom after the high of the trip, the proposal, the wine, the overwhelming amount of love you feel… your eyes meet his as you pull back, finger softly trailing down his chest. “I can help,” you say softly. ”or you can just… leave it.”

his gaze is low lidded. the corner of his lip tugs upwards just slightly. “we’re in the woods surrounded by all types of wildlife that love leftovers. you stay here and I’m taking you on this counter. not very romantic, hm?”

giggling softly, you feel your face warm. with a shake of your head, you lean to kiss the man tenderly. “I wouldn’t mind,” you say softly. your breath tickles his skin and you can feel how his hand squeezes you just a bit tighter.

“go, princess,” he murmurs lowly, voice slightly quieter. “I won’t say it again. be ready for me.”

your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth and you nod before giving him another simple kiss. you go to pull away, but his hand slides up into the curls at your nape, cradling the back of your head as he deepens the gesture momentarily.

you whimper in surprise as he takes control, tilting your head and taking your breath away. it’s overpowering and raw and sexy. it’s making your stomach swirl with deep arousal.

he pulls back from the kiss, but tugs your bottom lip with his teeth as if he was jealous you did it on your own. you moan and arch into him as he gently sucks until he releases it with a pop.

fuck.

you look to him with labored breathing and he looks at you as if you hung the moon, pleased with how dazed you are.

“go.”

you don’t hesitate to follow instructions. you purse your lips, silent from the kiss, and pull back from him. he watches you closely, like he’s just drinking up your form. you don’t feel his eyes leave you until you’re in the bedroom and out of sight.

“shit,” you mumble to yourself. you can tell where your future is headed, not just for the years coming, but for the night as well.

he’s about to absolutely ruin you, and you’re about to let him. shit, you’ll probably beg him.

you take a deep and begin to undress, revealing the black lace set you are tremendously grateful you wore with the dress. it’s snug and sexy and you know ony’s going to love it.

you sit on the rose petal cover bed and back up to rest in the middle. your heart’s racing— and you can feel your other pulse throbbing between your thighs. you can only imagine how intimate it’s going to be to make love to your fiancé for the first time.

footsteps approach sooner than you thought. you can only guess that it’s the shared anticipation of the night fueling you both.

when you hear the door open, your gaze lifts to meet you lovers. his eyes are dark in the low lighting, and the way they sweep over your form so reverently makes you want to speed things up.

but it’s obvious in the slow way that he approaches— he’s going to take his time tonight. few complaints on your end. the slower he moves, the more your fire burns.

”you’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he rasps when he comes to the foot of the bed. it’s like you’re being given to him on a silver platter, his own personal angel.

no, not an angel.

because the things he’s going to do to you tonight… he can never utter them for fear of tainting another’s soul.

he breathes out as he begins to undress, dazed and captivated by you beyond belief. “just… stay there. let me look at you,” he says breathlessly. your face warms in response and you can’t help but look away. he stops you before you can.

“look at me. please,” he murmurs. his desperation is only for your ears, and he wants to see you, see all of you and your reactions when you have each other tonight. he doesn’t want you to look away. you can’t look away.

your gazes meet once more and he crawls onto the bed in his bare state. contrary to your belief, your heart can beat faster. you notice as the distance closes between your bodies.

when your eyes meet his, he has a physical reaction. even with only the touch of your gaze, he feels himself jump. “just like that,” he murmurs lowly. “don’t look away.”

he continues to crawl up the bed until he’s right up against you. he manipulates your body until you’re lying on your back, straddling his waist as he leans his arm on the headboard above you.

“so beautiful,” he whispers, one hand descending to slowly caress from your knee up your thigh. he lets out a soft breath as he presses his pelvis against yours, your underwear separating you from the proximity you really want.

”all mine,” he mumbles. “let me show how grateful I am, yeah?”

you can’t respond because he bends to press his lips to yours. this brings you closer, his chest pressing against yours and his hips pressing harder. the sensation makes you gasp as your hands find purchase on his shoulders.

but when you feel his hips start to wind against yours? you can’t help but moan, your eyebrows pulling together. he’s hard, and you can feel the pressure of it through the thin material of your panties. he tries a few different motions of his hips, searching through the channels of your body until he finds the ones that make you have the biggest reactions.

softer, faster, harder, slower. you can feel the fabric of your bottoms getting wetter and wetter as he teases you. he leans to take your lips, tongue sneaking into your mouth to dance for an intimate moment before he pulls back. he has the audacity to mumble, “look at me.”

a short moan escapes you as your eyes gaze into his, his hips still a constant wave against yours. the look on his face is something you hope to remember for years to come. he already looks so gone. focused on your body so much that it’s all he can think about. all he can feel is you.

“you think I can make you come like this?” he asks huskily. there’s a sound slowly becoming more and more audible, the slickness between the two of you building. “I should. you deserve to come as many times as your body wants to. imma give you that.”

your arms wrap around his shoulders as he continues to grind into you, responding to every breath and moan like he understands a language that only you speak.

“m’talkin’ to you, love,” he breathes, pressing a hand against your back to encourage you to arch against him. “you don’t wanna talk to daddy? m’not doin’ enough? tell me.”

you whine then, your pussy throbbing against him as his words continue to stimulate you. “fuck- just… ah, keep going,” you breathe out, pulling him closer. his lips meet yours briefly before his hand slides to your hip, pressing you against him more.

“whatever you say, mama,” he mumbles, hips slowly moving to keep himself in a constant press against your clit. he moves to have one arm around your neck and the other up your back. his hand finds home in your nape again, holding you to his chest.

“just feel it,” he breathes. “just feel me. you do this to me, baby. no one else. this is yours. I’m yours.”

you take in his words, your eyes fluttering shut. “shit,” you murmur, your legs wrapping around his waist. he’s just so perfect and he knows how to hit all of your spots. the way he talks, the way he feels, everything is just right.

but it’s not enough. it’s not getting you where you need it to reach. “please, I- more. I want more, ony.”

“you want me to eat her? hm?” he asks lowly, hips deepening their waves against you. “wanna put that pretty pussy on my face?” you exhale as he moves against you, nodding quickly.

“come feed her to me then,” he mumbles, using his position to lift you in his arms as he sits back on the bed. the look in his eye is a mix of desire and a subtle determination. ”c’mon, baby. put that ass in my face.”

your breath catches, but you move nonetheless. he leans back to rest against the bed, dark brown eyes staring intently into yours until you move to face away from him, completely bare as you carefully straddle his face. “don’t piss me off,” he mumbles gruffly, moving you by your thighs to bring you close.

“s’my shit,” he mumbles. he brings you to smush against him, tongue instantly searching for your bundle of nerves. the tip of his tongue swirls against your clit slowly, an agonizing tease to get your attention.

ah, fuck. you have to prepare yourself. if there’s one thing this man knows how to do, it’s eat some pussy. “ony,” you press, rocking your hips back in a request for more.

“relax,” he mumbles, using his hands to spread your cheeks apart. “take deep breaths and relax your body, baby. let me eat her right.” he flicks a quick few licks against your clit before puckering a kiss against it. you release a deep, long moan as he sucks gently before releasing it with a pop. “slow breathing, princess.”

you force yourself to take deep breaths as you clutch the sheets on either side of you. his hands caress and squeeze your thighs and ass as he pulls you closer and closer against his face. he shakes his head in a quick motion before he gets to work.

the moan that escapes you is more of a squeal as he goes to town, lapping and sucking at your heat like it’s his last meal. he tongue moves in different motions— flicks and circles, as he slurps and spits. it’s sloppy, it’s wet, and your keening above him as he makes your toes curl.

“fuck, papa, you eatin’ me so good,” you pant, starting to rock your hips back and forth. his arms hook under your thighs and wrap around your waist, pressing you even closer as he groans. the vibrations make you squeak, and you lurch forward and away, only to be brought right back.

ony just can’t get enough. he’s sure his eyes are rolled back as he continues to dive in, your juices dripping down the sides of his mouth as he demands more. it’s what he needs, he needs you to give everything to him. he needs to pleasure your body as much as he can, more than he ever has.

your moans are drawn longer and longer as you get closer to the edge. “fuuuck, ony,” you cry out. his hand comes down and slaps against your ass, an action that makes your pussy jump as he continues to eat you up. your hips grind and grind as he slurps and groans.

when he pulls back and licks a stripe from your clit to your ass, you body freezes as your toes curl. he spreads your ass and dives into giving it the same treatment, fingers shifting to circle your clit.

“mmshit—“ you choke, hands moving to grasp his legs below you. “daddy, that’s… haaa, fuck. s’too much! that’s— ngh!”

when your orgasm crashes over you, he drinks it all up as he squeezes your ass, holding you to him as you moan and cry out. “fuck, fuck, fuck,” you ramble, your hand reaching back to press against the back of his head. “ohhhh, my God, ony!”

he shakes his head again, wringing as much pleasure out of you as possible. you pant as your eyes roll back, hips jumping in overstimulation as you fall forward. you’re left bare to him. letting him pull every drop of pleasure from your both with just his mouth and hands.

as you try to catch your breath and your sanity, his hands move over your body, massaging and caressing everywhere he can reach. “fuck,” he rasps. “taste so damn good. I’m damn near addicted to you, baby.”

all you can do is pant, your leg twitching slightly in the aftermath. it’s insane how you feel, so weak-limbed and short of breath and he hasn’t even taken you yet.

he shifts your body again, his touch gentle as he moves with awareness of your sensitive state. he places you on your back and rests between your thighs. he then starts to softly massage your body, hands caressing your arms and hands and thighs. they slide down your legs and to your feet, reaching back to work out the tenseness from your clenching of them.

he holds your body with so much love and care, and as you lay back in the soft comforter and mattress, you feel yourself begin to slip into that sweet feel of submission, of releasing control into the hands you trust the most… it washes over you in waves and it’s like ony can feel it.

“my baby,” he speaks, just barely above a whisper. you limbs are starting to relax more and more and he heightens the strength of his massaging. “keep breathing, love. keep relaxing. just feel.”

you swallow slightly, eyes blinking open to meet his. he smiles down at you and continues to soothe you with his touch. “I love you,” he whispers softly,

“I love you too,” you whisper back, voice just slightly strained. he leans again to press his lips to yours, tongue intimately twirling with yours. he shifts then, and you can feel his length rest between your thighs, reaching to your belly button. it makes your clit jump against him, and he has to breathe out at the sensation.

he reaches down between the both of you, hand lightly tracing down your stomach and to your clit, lightly spanking once, then twice. you hips jump just slightly in response, and then he presses a singular finger between your folds.

he keeps eye contact with you, watching as your lashes flutter in response to his touch. he presses into you then, eyes flicking to catch how you pull your lip between your teeth. he begins to move his finger back and forth, adding another when you’re ready.

one becomes two, and soon your weak, overstimulated whimpers become full blown moans as he brings your arousal back to life. he’s taking his time because he knows your body, and the benefits are showing. he curves his fingers deep, watching as you spread your legs and rock your hips.

the scrunch of your face, the furrow of your brow, the way you call his name, it’s all driving him deeper and deeper into that need to service you, to make you reach your limits of pleasure in unprecedented ways.

and just like that, his fingers are gone. the whimper you let out is shamelessly pathetic, and you blink up at him with wide, questioning eyes. but when he flicks his wrist and lightly plaps his heavy dick against you, your legs can’t help but spread instinctively.

the sight is gold for him, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “good girl,” he drawls, eyes raking over your body. “muscle memory just for papa. you ready for me, baby? ready for me to give you what you need?”

“please,” you murmur. your breathing is labored, skin prickling with desire and anticipation. “I need you.”

he wastes no time then. he presses himself against you, reaching to cup your jaw so that you can keep your eyes locked on his. you drag out a moan as he slips into you, taking advantage of your earlier wetness.

“yeah, that feel good, don’t it?” he grunts out, he himself having to take a breath at the squeeze of your pussy. “mmm, fuck, baby,” he damn near slurs. his eyes are glazed as he starts to rock his hips. “how can I forget how wet you get for me?”

he leans forward to rest his arms on the either side of your head, chest resting against yours as he grinds into you. you feel so full, the way he thrusts slowly pushing air out of you. “oh, fuck,” you whine, arms wrapping around his back. “s’too much,” you pant. “fuck, onyyyy.”

you can’t help but let out deep, pressing breaths and moans as he buries his fat dick into you. “take it, baby. it’s yours,” he pants. if he thought he was in heaven before, he was surely wrong. this is heaven, knee deep in your waters with your whines and moans right next to his ear. it’s a dream.

“you deserve it,” he huffs, leaning to press open mouthed kisses up the column of your neck. he continues to encourage you, staving off his own orgasm even though the grip you have around him has him ready to bust. “every inch, every kiss, everything. you deserve it. drown in it, baby. it’s yours to get lost in.”

he pulls back to rest his weight on his arms, hips rocking deeper and deeper as you open up more for him. your moans are deep, and you’re really trying to keep eye contact despite the fact that every thrust makes your eyes roll.

“pretty ass,” he murmurs softly, watching you closely. he tilts your chin up, pressing kisses to your cheeks, forehead, nose, all while you pant and whine.

“fuck, princess,” he groans throatily, reaching to grip your waist. “grippin’ me so perfectly. we fit like we made for each other, yeah? cause we are. you’re gonna be my wife, baby. my forever. are you happy? tell daddy.”

“I’m happy, ony,” you croak, eyes filling with tears from the pleasure and emotion. “I’m over the moon. fuuuuck, I’m so… so happy.” you’re still panting, trying to breathe deep, when he reaches down to play with your clit.

“good,” he grunts, hips diving deeper and making you cry out. “promise I’ll keep you that way.” it’s heavenly. a perfect view of his handsome face, the look in his eyes, they way he moves against you… it’s a true experience that you wish you could hold onto forever.

“let me see it,” he murmurs breathlessly, hips meeting yours again and again and again. you look up at him, confused in your blissed out state as he continues to ravish you past the point of clarity.

you can’t think about anything but the way grinds into you, a mess forming where you meet.

“your ring, baby,” he explains with a pleasured groan. “grab those pretty titties and let daddy see your ring.”

right. the ring.

just the thought makes you flutter around him, and he groans at the feel as you reach up to follow his direction. “fuck, yeah, mama. wish I could take a picture. I’d frame it and keep it just for me. so fuckin’ perfect.”

you don’t know why it makes you even wetter, the thought of him doing exactly that. having a picture just for him, showing off the ring he worked so hard to get. reminding him of the proposal he worked so hard on, and the fact that you said yes.

“do it,” you rasp.

his hips stutter slightly, and he’s broken out of his daze just a bit to look at you through the haze. “huh?” he asks.

“do it.”

he licks his lips as he blinks. did he hear that right? did you just tell him to—

“do it, papa,” you moan, your legs wrapping tighter around him.

fuck, there’s no way he can deny you when you moan like that, or himself from being able to see you in this position anytime he wants. he pulls back to blindly reach for his phone on the nightstand, and when he grabs it, he holds the camera up to have you in frame.

the look you give him past the camera, the way your ring glistens in the candle light as you grab your chest… it makes ony’s heart stutter. he’s so damn in love with you, it’s almost fucking scary. “God, I love you,” he grunts, tossing the phone away to press kisses up your neck to your lips.

he starts to buck into you again, hips moving expertly, and you feel his fingers at your clit. you can only whine in response as you kick your feet up. you’re at his mercy and there’s nothing you can do but take the loads of pleasure he brings your body. you pant and pant until another orgasm washes over you, small spurts of liquid squirting out of you.

“ohhh, yeah, princess,” he huffs, hips still meeting yours in rhythm. “give it to me. give it to me, just like that.” you can only curl your toes as your eyes roll back, hips jerking. you have to breathe manually after such an intense orgasm.

his hips slow, but don’t stop. he leans back and grabs your leg, shifting to lay on his side with your leg over his arm. he reaches to wrap his hand around your neck as he slowly meets your hips with his over and over.

“one more,” he moans. you can’t tell if it’s an encouragement or a request. “come on, princess, give me one more. make it good.”

ony leans his head down to your ankle, tongue trailing lazily up before he plants kisses to the top of your foot. his hand hooks under your thigh and he presses it up into your chest. he stares down at you with heavy lidded eyes, bottom lip pulling between his deep as his hips rock deeper.

the stretch is almost too much. he’s so deep, touching your heart damn near, and you moan deep as you reach up to grab a pillow tight. “oh my fuck,” you cry out, toes curling as he dives into you.

“uh-uh, open up for me, baby. relax,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your leg. you whimper as you try to breathe, watching him as he presses kisses down your foot and to your toes. “just one more, princess. I need it. c’mon,” he murmurs. he presses another kiss to your toe before pulling it into his mouth.

the moan you let out is sinful, as the sensation in combination with his thrusts is all consuming. “fuck, fuck, fuck. onyyy!”

he hums around your toe, moving to play with your clit again. tears build in your eyes at the sensation and ony can tell by the grip you have on him that you’re close. he pulls back to look at you, your debauched state only bringing him closer to the edge.

“mmm, I love how pretty you look on my dick, baby,” he rasps. “vision ‘a beauty. daddy’s favorite. daddy’s only. I hope you feel that shit in yo soul.”

“I feel it, ony,” you whine, head tilting back. “fuck, papa, I’m gonna make a mess.”

it’s music to his ears. his hips start to move fast at the thought, movements less smooth. he chases his own orgasm as he feels yours wash over you and him, your wetness painting you both. you cry out, reaching out to hold him tight to ground you as wave after wave of sensation hit.

the both of you pant, limbs dropping lazily as you catch your breath. he pulls you close, your back to his chest, and just holds you there. it’s silent except for your breathing and your eyes fall shut as you bask in the after glow.

“holy… fuck…” you say between huffs, your heart starting to slow bit by bit.

“yeah?” ony grunts, eyes peeling open to look at you.

you nod, reaching to lightly smack at him. “yeah. if that’s the sex fiancés have, we’re should’ve gotten engaged a while ago.” he chuckles tiredly and catches your hand, pressing lazy kisses to the skin there. “we should’ve. I had to pay for this trip somehow, though.”

“don’t start that. could’ve proposed with a pizza and I’d still cry,” you snort.

“I ain’t proposin’ to you with no fuckin’ pizza. hell wrong witchu.”

“it’s just an expression.”

“well, stop expressin’ it.”

“do you need that? like are you good?”

“do you need that? cause I can go another round now if you really bout it.”

“…whatever, ony. always makin’ stuff about you.”

he snorts at that, pinching your side, and you both laugh until you fall quiet.

“I love you, ony. so much,” you say softly. he caresses your side and presses a kiss to your head, heart fluttering at your expression.

“I love you too, ᥫ᭡.”

you both stay there a while, just relaxing in each other’s arms as you get your energy back. it’s like old times, but better. the love was always the same, only deeper and more intentional. it’s on a different level now, and neither of you could be happier.

a/n: this was supposed to be short, a lil sum to get me back writing so I can finish the next crys + ony fic… and it took on a life of its own. hope you like! as always, feedback welcome and wanted <3

[todosdream]

spoiled rotten | ony

16k wrds. fem black reader. angst. fluff. plot with smut. MDNI.

warnings: cursing, use of the n word, alcohol, weed, romantic shit, servicedom!ony, sub!reader, pet names, daddy kink, unprotected sex (BE SAFE), pussydrunk!ony, ony’s a talker, ass eating, praise, toe sucking, foot kissing, overstim, pictures during sex (with permission), filthy just how I like ittt, ony really just dotes on you like a lot, aka sluts you out

moodboard

a/n: little late, but I’m feelin pretty good about this one 🤭 buckle up, she’s long. enjoy! <3

as of late, ony’s been busy. 

like, I’ll call you later and not call until well into the night, busy. 

I have to stay at work late tonight, I need to finish this project, busy. 

I’m sorry, baby, can we postpone date night? busy. 

fidelity isn’t something you worry about in such a secure relationship, so that’s no issue. you know he’s just working hard to further his career. 

regardless, it’s irritating. you miss your man.

his hands, his voice, his laugh. the two of you are very big on quality time and physical touch, and when he gets like this, it’s always an adjustment. you just want to be up under him, snuggled in bed or on the couch and enjoying the little things. his hands rubbing your ass softly, his kisses on your shoulder and neck, the way it feels to lie on his chest as he laughs at something stupid on the tv. 

you miss his presence and he knows it– he knows his lady misses him. it wrenches his heart because he hates disappointing you. he can hear the upset in your voice when he postpones something and it just makes him wish he could keep you in his pocket all day long. 

he, too, misses your touch. he misses hearing your little satisfied sighs after finally finding a comfortable cuddling position, your sweet face tucked in his neck when you’re feeling particularly clingy, and he especially misses your soothing caresses and kisses.

the feeling of taking care of you, of connecting with you, revitalizes him like no other. going from having that everyday to connecting less and less is haunting his thoughts.

but ony’s very business minded. his work is important to him. 

he’s not only focused on career advancement and financial security, he’s focused on financial freedom too. he’s always been the type to provide, the type to work hard and play later. meetings, projects, and late nights at the computer are all very familiar to him. he’s working hard for his future, a future he hopes you’ll both be enjoying together. 

because at the end of the day, he wants to come home to you. he wants you to have the ring and wedding of your dreams so you can feel like the princess that you are, the beautiful house that will home so many happy memories, and anything you fucking want. he’s willing to put all this work in for his career and you.

lately, though, ony can tell it’s taking an even heavier toll on you. that’s the opposite of what he wants. he wants you to feel at ease and free and peaceful. supported, loved, spoiled, and so on. it’s only right his baby feels on top of the world.

not neglected or alone, having to ask your friends to go with you to events because the tickets were already purchased but he had some deadline to meet. not being home alone so much, missing your man and his embrace.

and definitely not touching yourself every night because your man hasn’t had the energy and time to indulge in the way you both are used to.

it’s a big thing and he knows that.

his touch is like a balm to you, soothing the inner aches that seem so impossible for others to reach. he knows your body, and mind, and heart, and it shows every time he loves you in that king sized bed.

and the couch.

and the kitchen counter.

and anywhere else.

you’ve always had a healthy sex life, especially with the dynamic that you have, but the well is running dry because of the distance. there’s no connection, no outlet, no bonding. you miss his touch and touching him, and he the same for you. you hate to feel like a star crossed lover, but it’s getting to a point.

you know you have to try to talk to him. and really talk so he can’t just brush you off for work again. 

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

ony’s been doing a lot of research for a really big project. he’s interviewed people, read a thousand articles, made too many charts and graphs to count. it’s maybe the most important task he’s had to work on in a while since working with this company, so he’s using every last drop of energy to make sure everything’s perfect for the upcoming presentation.

you can see it in the way he barely has the energy to sip at his coffee. 

“baby…” you start softly, reaching across the dinner table to hold his hand. it’s one of those nights where he’s attached to his computer, but still near you, wanting to enjoy your presence at the very least. 

he immediately knows where this is going. he can hear it in the softness of your voice, the careful way you approach. if he could avoid talking about it, avoid seeing the concern in your eyes without feeling like a damn chump, he would.

“I know, babygirl,” he murmurs tiredly. knowingly. he gives your hand a soft squeeze before retracting his touch, his focus still on his laptop. “I know. but my boss needs this asap for the presentation. I can’t let her down. you know how important it is I get this promotion.”

you can’t help but let out a weary sigh. your hardworking, sweetheart of a man is putting himself through the damn wringer and his boss better appreciate that shit. “it’s important, I know. but everything’s been important. this project, the one before that, the one before that... when are you gonna take a break?”

“I take breaks,” he mumbles. he doesn’t mean to be stubborn. really, he doesn’t. he’s just had this goal in mind for so long, and now he feels like it’s finally in reach and… he can’t give up. he won’t.

“three minute power naps are not breaks. you know that,” you say sternly. “baby, this job is draining you. do they not already see how dedicated you are? if you haven’t earned that promotion by now, I don’t even know if you should work there anymore.”

that catches his attention. if anything, it triggers him, mind worn thin from countless hours of research. “are you kiddin’?” he asks, gaze snapping up to yours. “ain’t no way. all this shit I’m doin’ and you want me to go somewhere else?”

it’d be easy to get frustrated with his tone, but you push through. you’re coming from a place of concern and you want him to know that.

“that’s the point I’m trying to make, ony,” you press. “you’ve earned that position. you earned it months ago. hell, they should’ve given it to you in the first place. do you really wanna work like this for the next– however many years? you don’t think you’ll burn out?”

ony’s eyes close as he lets out a deep breath. knowing he needs to calm down before he releases his tired frustrations out on you, he sits back in his seat and drags his hands down his face. “this job can set me– set us up for life, baby. whether I stay with the company or not.”

you go to speak, but he cuts you off.

“I’m sorry, ᥫ᭡,” he says. his voice is weary, cracks of vulnerability showing in his exhaustion. “I am. I know you miss me and I miss you too. but I gotta do this. I can’t miss this opportunity. I’m doing what I have to for our family, baby. I’m doing all of this for us.”

“that’s the problem right there, ony,” you say, your voice firm but soft. “you think my concern is based on your presence and our time together when I’m concerned about your health. you’re withering away in front of me, and you expect me to think about our future? there won’t be a future if you keep at it like this.”

you can see the immediate reaction in his eyes, the concern filling them makes you want to pull him into bed to sleep for weeks.

“baby, what– what you talkin’ bout?”

“relax, papa,” you murmur, rising from your seat to walk over to his side. you close his laptop and slide into his lap to cradle his face. “I don’t mean it like that. we’re locked in forever, you ain’t gettin’ rid of me.

“I just need you to realize that nothing is more important than your health. not money, not our future, not any of that shit. I want you happy and healthy more than I want a diamond ring too heavy to wear,” you laugh softly. 

ony’s eyes shut as he leans into your touch, soothed by your reassurance and concern. he hears you. but the beast that is ambition and anxiety mixed together is too heavy to let go of so easily. he’s so close...

“I’m serious,” you continue tenderly, as if you can read his mind. “this has to stop, ony. please. life’s too short to be neglecting yourself for a future that could change at any moment.”

his chocolate eyes open to meet yours, seeing the full range of your emotions in the pools he loves to get lost in. he wishes he could dive into you, get lost in your healing waters as he just rests. but thoughts of the future come flowing back in, and he can’t push them away.

he has to do more. his work has to be enough, he isn’t enough. 

“maybe after this project, baby. they really need me for this one,” he responds.

of course.

the sigh you let out is weighted. your hands drop from his face before you stand from his lap.

“okay, onyankopon,” you murmur, defeat in your voice. he reaches out to stop you, mouth opening to give some empty reassurance you’ve probably already heard, but you’re out of the room before he can say anything. 

he wants to groan, fuss, chase after you… but he only has so much energy left and several more spreadsheets to make and check over. so instead, he sighs the deepest sigh he can muster before opening his laptop again.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

another day. wednesday. 

ony’s big presentation is today and he’s been spending all week pacing the house as he runs over the numbers repeatedly. he’s got this. he knows the information like the back of his hand and he knows he can give this presentation with full confidence. he’ll prove his value to the company, no doubt about it. 

tired from staying up, he pours a strong ass cup of coffee before heading to the conference room.

“good morning, everyone,” he nods to the room. he sees executives and people in the high places he’s trying to reach and he hums lowly to himself as he makes his way to the computer. this is his chance and he’s not going to mess it up. 

contrary to his previous anxious thoughts, the computer pulls up his presentation with no difficulties. the remote works fine, laser pointer in function, and speaker notes easy to access. he makes small talk with the people in attendance for the last few minutes before the scheduled start time.

his boss enters then, smiling as she greets everyone before taking her usual seat. she’s the picture of professionalism, and ony can feel the shift in the room as everyone adjusts their posture.

“alright, everyone, lets get started. onyankopon’s one of my best researchers, and I know we’re all excited about this project. he’s been doing amazing work, as always. the floor’s yours,” she says with a wave of her hand. the recognition is encouraging and he gives a small smile and nod. 

“thank you, mrs. green. and thanks to everyone for your attention,” he starts. “I’ve prepared an in depth outline for our plan moving forward. please hold questions until the end, your concerns will more than likely be addressed in the following slide.”

he goes on to start the presentation, feeling more than confident. also tired as hell, but you wouldn’t guess it from the outside looking in. it’s engaging and he takes mental note of how focused everyone is. impressed glances, nods of rapt attention, amused smiles at ony’s creative thinking.

everything is going perfectly until the executive assistant enters in a rush.

ony pauses immediately, losing his flow. he can’t help but question the interruption. he takes notice of how the man scrambles over to his boss and talks quietly in her ear. the woman’s face drops in concern, her eyebrows furrowing as she nods along. the bumbling assistant quickly makes his exit.

mrs. green stands with a sigh and straightens her blazer. “I’m so sorry to do this. I know you’ve put in a lot of work, but I have to leave for the day. my child is severely sick and I need to get to them. we’ll reschedule this presentation for a later date, but really amazing work, onyankopon.”

ony’s stomach drops. 

did he just hear that correctly? he feels like he has whiplash. 

there’s no way he just did all of that preparing for her to just cancel when he’s almost halfway through. he’s having so many thoughts that he can’t even keep up with his own mind. 

“um– yeah, of course,” ony nods stiffly. he figures there’s nothing he can do. “sometime this week?”

the woman shakes her head as she grabs her belongings. “my schedule’s too tight. I’ll ask my assistant when works best. again, I’m sorry, but you understand. family’s too important.”

with that, she leaves. 

and ony’s stumped.

with his assumptions about the work culture of the company, he fully expected her to ask for a nanny, a babysitter, a someone to help.

but no. 

no hesitations, no questions. ony can’t even blame her, but this is a jarring surprise. he’d expected pause or some consideration, but she moved on instinct. and no one’s even reacting, it’s like business as usual. granted, she’s the big boss, but… 

ony’s still standing by the presentation screen.

he watches as everyone packs up their stuff and chats casually, speaking of well wishes to their boss as they make their way back to their respective offices. it’s all so relaxed. like ony hasn’t been preparing all week for that damn presentation.

it’s making him reevaluate everything.

after the meeting, he spends the rest of his day asking how his coworkers feel about it. he asks if people ever called out last minute or took extra time off, what the response was, the treatment after, how it affected their job… and he’s surprised that his perspective of his job was so wrong.

work-life balance is encouraged. it’s seen as a right. people have had the freedom to handle family emergencies and such with no affect to their job or how they’re viewed. people have taken mental health days with no problems. they’ve still raised in the ranks, been seen as star employees, gotten raises…

ony had never even considered leaving the office on time, let alone leaving in the middle of the day. he thought he had to hustle, to fight for recognition like most do with other companies. he feels stupid after everything he’s put himself and you through. 

fuck. ony can feel his shoulders getting heavier with every realization.

you.

his babygirl, his love, his heart…

he’s driven himself crazy, trying to do everything in his power for the future he hopes to share with you. late nights, early mornings, working weekends… you’ve tried to ground him time after time, tried to get him to rest and relax and focus on the present, but he didn’t listen. he just kept pushing himself, trying to reach a goal that was of his own mental making.

just how much has he missed out on due to his own misunderstandings?

ᥫ᭡

that night, ony comes home only an hour after his scheduled time. he usually stays a few hours past, but he comes home, showers, and crashes right in the bed. you think he’s just exhausted or drained, actually catching up on rest before getting back to the grind, so you say nothing. you caress his back as you fall asleep next to him. 

the days after are the same, though. 

and the following saturday is a shock.

he’d unsurprisingly been working on the weekends too, sometimes going into the office and others working from home. you expect to hear his alarm ring bright and early, but it never does. he stays right beside you, arms holding you tight.

when you wake up, you think you’re dreaming.

”ony?” you ask groggily as you rub the sleep from your eyes. you‘re resting on his chest, his arms securely wrapped around your waist. he only grumbles incoherently in response and turns his head.

“nigga, I know you hear me,” you huff. “did you turn off your alarm? it’s almost twelve, we overslept. you overslept.”

“ain’t my name and ion care. c’mere and stop allat movin’,” he grumbles as his hand slides just below your butt, pulling you closer. he doesn’t even open his eyes, which shocks the hell out of you. you thought he’d give a bigger reaction.

“hello? did you hear me? you’re late, pa,” you try again, reaching to lightly tug his eyelid up with your finger. his pupil lazily shifts to look at you, an almost disturbing sight, before he reaches up to pull your hand away. 

“heard you. I’m stayin’ in today.”

you blink. then you blink again. he just presses a soft kiss to your hand before he closes his eyes again.

“are you sick?” you ask, dumbfounded.

“no,” he grumbles. “baby, go back to sleep.”

“oh my God, you’re sick, aren’t you?” you question as you sit up in bed. “I need to check your temperature. it’s summer, but I can make you some soup. maybe I can make it cold? there are cold soups aren’t the—“

“ᥫ᭡,” he stops you, hand lazily sliding to your back. “I’m not sick, I promise. this project been stressful and I’m exhausted, so can we please go back to sleep?”

you stare at him for a moment, his slightly irritated expression almost making you want to say something slick. your shock should be understandable with the stark difference in his behavior.

but you can see the how weathered he looks. he really is drained and he can probably use all the sleep he can get. you’ll spare him. plus, if you can crawl back up into his side and cuddle the day away after such a long time of being distanced, you’ll jump at the chance.

“…okay. let me go use the bathroom first.”

you almost thought it would be a joke of some kind, but ony stays in bed all day. he goes in and out of sleep, clinging to you and grumbling if either of you have to move for any reason. it’s refreshing. extremely so.

you can’t even find it in you to complain for fear he’ll up and get on the clock again. the two of you just hold each other, basking in the embrace of your lover and soaking up the much needed affection. kisses, caresses, whispers of ”I been missin’ you.” it’s like a dam broke and you’re getting bathed in love and attention. 

he’s still so quiet though. you can tell he’s thinking about something by the way he stares off into the distance. the way his brows pull together slightly, the ghost of a frown on his lips... you want to ask about it but don’t want to push. you just fall asleep in his arms again.

sunday comes and it’s the same.

ony stays in bed, going so far as to bring his rolling tray in from the living room to roll a blunt in bed.

when you return from the kitchen with your snack and see what he’s doing, you pause and purse your lips. “okay, what’s up with you? staying in two days in a row? rollin’ in the bedroom? what happened to ‘no smoking in the room’?”

he doesn’t really react. his gaze meets yours as he seals the blunt with a lick, expertly pearling it. the sight alone makes you want to jump his bones, but you’re too focused on figuring out what’s going on.

“come ‘ere, baby,” he mumbles quietly.

your eyebrows furrow, but you walk over to settle at his side. you wipe some lint from his face and caress his cheek, giving him your full attention. “what’s been on your mind, ony? was the presentation okay? you’ve been acting different.”

ony sighs as he lets himself relax at your touch. you’re just so… everything. you’re everything to him and he feels like he’s failed you. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. his voice is full of remorse as he looks down to the blunt in his hands, fiddling. he looks truly sad. the normal confidence and sureness in himself gone. you notice it in the way he won’t even meet your gaze. it’s unlike him.

“pa…” you start tenderly, hand still softly caressing his cheek. “what’s going on?”

his eyes meet yours then, emotions and turmoil apparent in the dark brown irises. “you deserve so much more than what I’ve been giving you the past few months. I haven’t been there for my baby like I promised I would.”

you’re shaking your head before he even finishes his sentence. “no, ony, don’t do that.”

“let me finish, princess. I need to say this. please?” he asks, signaling to you the severity of his feelings. “this ain’t a pity party. it’s a man admitting he fucked up.”

you don’t really have a choice when he uses that tone. you nod silently, choosing instead to rub his knee as a quiet show of support.

“I didn’t get to give my full presentation,” he mumbles with a lazy shrug. “the executive left for a family emergency; didn’t even think about it. she just left. all that work, all that draining myself, just to realize everyone around me don’t even make the same sacrifices. they ain’t got to. they all have balance and are thriving at home and at work. you know I hate comparin’ myself, but damn. knowin’ I’ve been doin’ all this shit, neglectin’ my home life and my love, my heart... it hurt and I needed time to process that.”

your eyebrows raise as you take in the information. you knew something had happened. the sound of regret in his voice, the way you can tell the guilt is weighing him down… it hurts to hear.

“I promised I’d take care of you, and you know I don’t take that lightly. but I’ve been… closed-minded. tunnelvisioned. you were right, baby,” he continues. his hand is now reverently rubbing your thigh, gripping it from time to time to help ground himself. “you tried to get me out of it, and I’m ashamed it had to come to that for me to really open my eyes.

“I let my thoughts of the future fuck with how I meet you now, and I’m ashamed of that. I hid my fear of not being enough, not providing enough, behind my ambition,” he shakes his head remorsefully. ”I wanna be a good man for you, baby. the best man. and sometimes the pressure of that gets to me, no matter how strong I am.

“so I mean it when I say I’m sorry. and thank you for being here, always. I don’t take that shit for granted, ᥫ᭡,” he presses, eyes locked on yours. it’s raw and honest and it’s easy to see he really needed to get it all off of his chest.

before you can even think to say anything, your arms are pulling him close. you feel him return the embrace tight, like he found something he’d lost. “oh, baby,” you murmur.

“you’re always tryin’ to carry the world by yourself, papa. you don’t have to do that. we’re partners,” you reassure him. “I see you, ony. I know you’re working hard for us. but I’m not just dead weight, you know? I ain’t just here to look pretty.”

“but you’re mine,” he murmurs, pulling back to look at you. there’s that stubborn frown again. you just want to massage it away. “I take care of what’s mine. you know that. I’m doing everything I do for us—“

“and you’re mine. or did you forget that part?” you tilt your head. “I say the things I say to you for you, which is ultimately for us. just because you’re my man doesn’t mean you’re running this show alone. I’m honestly starting to feel a bit insulted.”

“…insulted?”

“yes, insulted,” you state. “the fact that you think I’d let the love of my life carry all of our problems and run himself dry is crazy to me. I ain’t goin’ for it anymore. we are a team and I’m always gonna call you on your shit. that’s not just when you’re ‘wrong’ but it’s when you’re not takin’ care of yourself either.

“you said you’re ashamed that it came this far, well, so am I. I should’ve flicked you upside your big ass head when I first saw you headed in this direction. it was hard on all fronts, but the worst was watching you fight by yourself.”

you grab his face with your hands, gently but firm enough to slightly squish his cheeks. “I love you. we are a team. stop being so damn stubborn. shit,” you huff.

he blinks at you, lips puckered with the way you’re holding him. he swears in that moment he’s never wanted to marry you more. you’re a dream but also a beautiful reality, a merging of so much love and perfection that ony still can’t believe you’re his.

“you’re a man, I get it. you want to be this picture perfect image of a man that does all the hard stuff, does everything with no help. but this ain’t that,” you shake your head. “you’re human, papa. you’re not a superhero. you will burn out if you keep holding onto the thought that you’re pullin’ the wagon on your own.

“it’s me and you. this is what I expect from you. partnership. I might be your babygirl, and you might take the lead, but I’m not a trophy wife. I have my own job that I love, and I adore taking care of you just as much as you do me. I need you to understand that, onyankopon.”

ony could cry. he’s starting to see it now.

somewhere along the way, he took up the mantle of being everything. not because you asked him to, not even because he wanted to. 

he’s afraid.

he’s afraid of losing you, of not being enough. he began to equate your love for him with how much he can provide. he began to equate his worth with how much he can be of service to others. he never thought that would be his driving force, but he sees now that anxiety can penetrate even the most fortified minds.

but you… you’re his fresh air. you’re as strong as you are beautiful. just because you let him lead, doesn’t mean you’re some damsel waiting in a tower. he always knew that, but it’s a jarring reality when your head’s been stuck up your own ass for several months.

“now. you’re gonna smoke that whole damn blunt by yourself. I’m gonna go cook a shit ton of food and you better eat till you physically can’t anymore. I’m taking care of you now. if you leave this bed, you’ll be fightin’ me. heard me?” you question.

he blinks again. and then nods.

“good. what do you want for dinner?”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

things have been slowly moving in the right direction since that conversation. 

ony’s been coming home at normal times, catching up on rest during the weekends, and making sure he shows love to you every chance he gets. he’s starting to look like himself again, energy levels raising more and more.

you’ve helped him tremendously. cooking his favorite filling meals, uplifting him when he gets those prickly thoughts of not doing enough, reminding him that you’ll always be there. he feels… doted on. it’s different from the usual dynamic between the two of you, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t adore it. 

he’s used to being the attentive one. the one that carries the load, the man. but this whole situation has reminded him how intentional you are as a partner. it’s shown him that he can let go and not be perfect, that you’ll have his back when he can’t give the 110% he’s used to. he can depend on you the same way you can with him.

partnership.

that word has been ringing in his head ever since you said it. it fills him with a sense of belonging. relief. happiness. it makes him feel seen. home feels like home again. life isn’t so heavy.

and it looks good on you. you’re happy and looking at him with so much affection that he fights the urge to scoop you into his arms by the hour. you’ve been balanced and steadfast with your support, carrying the extra weight like it’s nothing. you pour from your heart, not from a place of expectation.

he should be recovering from his burn out, focusing on balance and new habits. and he is. but he’s constantly thinking about how much he loves you. how much he appreciates you. how much of an idiot he was to forget who you are.

he thinks about how he’s been through the wringer the past few months, and then smacked with realization after realization. you’ve been there through it all, since day one. he’s always focused on being the best man he can be, and he’s realized that he can only be his best with you. you’ve been there in his corner in ways he can’t let go of. 

ever.

though to you, he’s still acting different than what you’re used to. you can tell he’s still in his head. you wonder if it’s because he’s still shaking the last traces of anxiety or if there’s something else on his mind. it’s a reflective state, so you’re giving him a chance to work it out himself before you drag him by his ear back to bed to chill the fuck out.

so when he brings up the idea of a lil weekend trip, just a chance for the both of you to get away after everything that’s happened and spend some quality time together, you jump at the opportunity. he needs it, you need it, everybody needs it. it’ll be a great opportunity to help him fully relax, and maybe you can figure out what’s got him in his head.

he chooses the airbnb and plans the trip, once again not letting you do a single thing. he doesn’t even let you pack. you go to chastise him for it, but he uses the excuse that he’s treating you for the past few weeks you’ve supported him a little extra.

ᥫ᭡

you immediately stretch when you exit the car, limbs reaching for the sky as a small squeak escapes your lips. “ugh, my ass hurts. did you really have to choose one so far away?” you ask brattily.

ony just hands you your purse with a small chuckle, not even mentioning the fact that you were either asleep or just no help the entire ride while he drove. “yeah, baby. I wanted to find a cabin for us. I think you’ll really like it,” he says warmly.

he knows you best, so you trust that this will be a great fucking trip. the smirk that crawls onto your face spells nothing but inappropriate intentions. “yeah? let me go check this shit out. see everything before the damage we’re about to do,” you smirk, making him laugh.

before you can turn to head towards the door, he stops you, voice calling out firmly. “nuh uh, bring that ass back. you know I gotta do my walk through. lemme get these bags first.”

you try not to rush him; he did just drive all the way and he’s being such a gentleman. it’s just hard when you know your vacation’s just on the other side of the door. you look around, already liking the looks of the location he chose. you ask about a cabin trip every time it’s time for a trip, and he chose a nice one.

“grab this for me, love,” he murmurs softly, handing you one of the lighter bags. you take it from his hand and he smiles at you before grabbing your shared suitcase and extra bags. “ready to go see the inside?”

“hell yeah,” you grin. you follow him, eyes scanning the front room as he sets the bags down. he begins his walkthrough, diligently checking every corner and room for a possible person or hidden camera. you follow behind him as he takes his time, admiring how focused he is and the cozy feel of the cabin. “this is perfect, pa. it’s so cozy and cute. hope we don’t get murdered or anything.”

ony lets out a loud laugh at that, always amused by you. “it’s safe here, baby, I promise. you know I brought my gun anyway,” he reassures with a smile. “everything’s good, we can get settled. wanna hear the plan?”

“there’s a plan?” you ask as you flop onto the bed. it’s so cozy, the blankets feather soft. you feel small in the king sized bed and you’re already thinking of the debauchery that’ll happen on it soon. maybe even in the next few minutes. “you’re always plannin’ shit. I thought we came here to relax. especially you.”

ony snorts as he sits next to you, easily tugging your form into his lap. you’re now sitting perpendicular to him, your legs resting over his thick thighs. he murmurs, “I plan so my girl ain’t gotta worry,” before he presses soft kisses to your cheek. you shiver at the tickle of his beard and turn your head so his lips meet yours.

“my man. always going above and beyond.” your voice is tender, your hand raising to softly tug at the hair on his chin. he just looks so good, so tempting. you can feel his hand start to trail up and down your thigh as he chuckles lowly.

his kisses follow the line of your neck until he gently pulls your earlobe between his teeth. you tilt your head with a sigh as he mumbles, “mhm, always for you. wanted to treat you. show my appreciation.

“I was gonna take you shoppin’, but not if you keep bein’ so damn touchable. I’ll put you through this mattress before we can fuckin’ unpack.”

his touch tingles in all the right ways, reminding you of how much you missed the depth of intimacy that used to be a usual routine. his words cause I jump in your gut. before you can fully melt at his touch, you’re quickly distracted. “shopping?” you perk up. “shopping where?”

“mmm, interested in the plan now, huh?” he teases, playfully nipping at your cheek. you lightly shove his face away as you laugh, feeling his arms wrap snugly around your waist. “we’re not far from the strip. figured we can grab somethin’ to eat, check out a couple shops… stretch our legs after that ride.”

“that sounds perfect. damn, you’re always on it, huh?” you smile. arms wrapping around his shoulders, you pull him close, enjoying the relaxing feel. “I’m definitely feeling stir crazy after all of that. let me shower and change and I’m all yours.”

he chuckles before giving you the gentle reminder, “you’re all mine anyway.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

it isn’t long before you’re fresh and clean, dressed in one of the pretty numbers that ony packed for you. he’s donned a coordinating outfit, always wanting to leave no room for doubt about who he belongs to. the two of you stroll hand in hand down the street, feeling rejuvenated already.

the weather is beautiful and warm and the sun is shining brightly. the shopping strip is alive with tourists and music and more shops than you would've guessed. homemade candles that fill the room with beautiful aromas, intricately carved crystals and handmade jewelry, a wide variety of restaurants to choose from… and you stick to your man’s side the whole time.

ony’s hand fimly grasps yours as he makes sure you stay on the inside of the sidewalk, away from the street. you both dance as you walk past bands playing live, your man making sure to twirl you around like the princess you are. you try so many different types of food, feeding each other and giggling goofily when the other makes a scrunched face of displeasure.

art galleries, antique shops, clothing stores. you put on fashion shows to show off the clothes for his input, and he the same for you. you both take probably a thousand pictures of everything that catches your eye. it’s everything the two of you need and a great first day of the trip. it feels more than amazing to spend this quality time together.

you feel like the battery for your relationship is charging, and it feels good.

by the time you get to the wine bar, your last stop for the day, ony’s arms are full of shopping bags. you feel bad but the sight of his veins and muscles from the slight strain make your mouth water.

“maybe we should just head back, pa,” you say softly. you rub his back as you gaze up at him, eyes warm but tired. “that’s too much to try to carry around, and I’m getting pretty tired too.”

he hums and bends to press his lips to your cheek. he can tell by your tone that you’re going to sleep good as hell tonight. “okay, pretty, we can come back tomorrow. it’s a bit of a walk back to the car, can you make it?”

“mhm,” you nod as he continues to kiss on you. the intimacy between you two is back on one hundred, and words can’t explain how good it feels. “which way is it?”

“this way,” he murmurs, jutting his head to the right. he guides you in whatever direction, your arm wrapping around his bicep. something catches your attention when you walk past the wine bar.

“is that a spa? shit, I’d love to go there,” you murmur, craning your neck to look inside as you both continue to walk. “look— they have natural springs!”

ony chuckles quietly to himself. hm. “it’s hot springs, baby, that’s kind of their thing. and we already have an appointment for tomorrow.”

“we do?” you beam, turning to look at him. he just knows you so well, it’s almost scary sometimes, but always incredibly endearing. he’s a good man and your man— simple as that.

he once again guides you to his side, away from the street. you grab a couple of the bags on his arms despite his quiet protest. “mhm, it’s set for tomorrow night. imma get your nails done and everything. full treatment for my princess.”

“oh, you must want the freakiest freak outta me that you can get. you really did your big one with this trip, huh? maybe you really did get your shit together.” you tease, lightly bumping his hip with yours. well, best you can with the height difference.

“oh, I want more than a freak, baby,” smirks softly. “but knowing you and everything we did today, you’ll be too tired. don’t even get my hopes up.”

you gasp at that and look at him with your jaw dropped. “don’t do me like that! I take care of you and that big ass d—“

“husshhh, girl,” he laughs, his voice cutting yours short. “we in public, chill. you right, you take care of me.”

you snicker at that. “damn right. don’t play with me like I ain’t got that.”

“oh, I know you got that. but don’t play like I ain’t got it either,” he smirks, raising his eyebrow. “or do you need a reminder real quick? won’t be able to walk tomorrow, though.”

you kiss your teeth and jokingly roll your eyes. “whatever, ony. always gotta make shit about you.” the laugh he lets out is diabolical.

the two of you continue to walk, the only sounds being your steps and the occasional swish or crumple of one of the bags. the sun’s setting in the distance and it’s a beautiful sight, pinks and purples painting the sky.

“I really appreciate all of this, baby,” you speak gently. “I’m glad we can have this time together. everything’s been amazing, but all I really need is you, you know? I missed you even though you were right there.”

his heart clutches in his chest. even as he consistently shows that he’s dedicated to being better with his changed actions, looking back on that time is still a sore spot. he was so misguided. but both the situation and you showed him what he really needed to see.

“I know, sweetheart. I hope you know how important that is to me too,” he expresses. “it’s everything. I didn’t show it in the way I should’ve and I let my fear get to me. but this… this right here is my world.”

him and his words, tugging at your heartstrings and shit. you squeeze his arm tighter and sigh, positively overwhelmed with the day. it feels like a dream. “I love you,” you murmur softly.

“I love you. and I mean that with everything.”

ᥫ᭡

soft silk. skin on skin. gentle, whispered words.

it’s a bubble. a safe haven of warmth and security. ease and peace. it surrounds you in all the best ways, consumes you but doesn’t inspire fear.

it’s just so warm.

and soft.

and it…

smells like bacon?

“wakey, wakey, baby,” ony murmurs, his touch following shortly. with a gentle caress of your cheek, he rouses you from your rest. you groan softly as your eyes flutter open. you’re met with ony’s warm gaze, the man still clad in your matching pajamas from the night before.

“noooo, we’re on vacation, we’re supposed to sleep in,” you mumble before nuzzling your face into your pillow. it’s just so soft you could sink into it, you wonder if the host will tell you what kind they are.

ony lets out an amused snort and turns to the side table. demanding thing you are. “it’s past twelve, baby. I ordered brunch,” he murmurs simply. he lifts a platter and carries it to the bed, placing it on your lap, and your mouth waters at the sight of the food.

“oh,” you murmur, not realizing the time. you guess you had to get up eventually, but you were having a good ass dream. you look at all the food then, taking in the several options before you. “you got me all this? I know I like being spoiled and all but…”

“it’s for both of us, don’t piss me off,” he pinches your cheek. “we did too much fuckin’ walkin’ yesterday. when I get in this bed, I’m stayin’.” you laugh at his words as he slides back into the spot next to you, careful not to jostle the bed too much.

“yeah, whatever. as long as I get to try some of everything,” you say back, bumping your shoulder with his. he bumps you back, but you’re more focused on picking your fork up to try a bite or seven.

just as expected, the food is amazing. you both immediately hum at the taste, nodding in approval. the next few moments are quiet as you both stuff your faces, chewing and crunching in tandem.

“damn…” ony pipes up, a smirk on his slightly greasy face. “know shit good when it get quiet.”

“don’t make me choke on my food,” you laugh as you cover your mouth. he’s right though. the people that live in this town are lucky that they get to eat at whatever restaurant the damn feast is from.

your man chuckles warmly as you reach to wipe his face, turning to ask you, “we got a few hours before we need to head to the spa, and we can go to that wine bar right after. we’ll pack some clothes to change into. anything you wanna do before then or you just wanna chill?”

“hm,” you hum in thought. honestly, you’re still beat from the day before. so many stores, so much walking that your feet are still sore. a spa trip is all that’s on your mind. “nah. do you wanna do anything? I feel like it’s been more about me since we got here.”

ony pauses at that, looking straight at you. you’re serious?

“well, yeah,” he deadpans. it’s almost like that’s the whole point. he can’t help but tease you a bit for what he considers to be a silly thought. “I brought you here to spoil the fuck outta you. issue?”

“okay, don’t get smart. here I am tryna be considerate and shit. I take it back.”

“that ain’t really somethin’ you can take back…”

“well, I’m takin’ it back.”

“no refunds, lady.”

“ony!” you laugh, lightly smacking his arm. “I’m serious! this is about us. quality time and all that. this trip isn’t just for me, it’s for you too. now, speak up. I know there’s somethin’ you wanna do.”

ony laughs, amused by your stubbornness. it’s one of the reasons he loves you so. “okay, okay. uhhh. I’m still tired, to be honest. I just wanna chill with my girl.”

you respond with a satisfied humph and a nod of your head. “then that’s what we’ll do. get cozy, or else.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

the next several hours are spent in bed, cuddling in each others arms. it’s a wonderful feeling just to be wrapped up in him, and you can’t help but sit in appreciation for everything. he really planned the trip so perfectly, you have only praises.

ony puts some random show on that captures you both, but only for a while. soon the sound of your voices covers the low volume of the tv as conversation blooms.

you talk about any and everything. from the day you first met, to your favorite childhood memories, to updates in the friend group that you hadn’t talked about in depth yet. you remain wrapped up in each other, touches soft and reverent, as you just enjoy the calming presence of one another.

eventually, you migrate from the bed to the living room, having a quick lunch before getting ready for your joint spa appointment. the thought of a soothing massage, a fresh nail set, and a trip to the wine bar has you damn near bouncing off the walls. your excitement is more than obvious, and ony has to hold back a laugh several times as he packs a bag with fancy clothes for the wine tour.

when you arrive at the spa, it’s much fancier than it seemed from the outside, which is saying a lot. the two of you are immediately and pleasantly greeted and guided to a luxurious room in the back to prepare.

soft robes, slippers, and refreshing water secured, you both meet eyes and playfully grin. it’s not your first couple’s massage, but it’s been a while, so you’re both excited as hell.

everything’s going so smoothly…

until ony’s damn phone rings.

you squint, watching him turn to go back to his locker. you stand in the doorway while he digs in his bag, and notice a nervous change in his face when he sees the screen.

“shit. I’m sorry, baby, I gotta take this. it’s the office,” he murmurs, eyebrows pulling together.

it’s a trigger, almost. not to such an extreme, but you feel a familiar disappointment starting to tug at you. “ony, are you serious? we’re just about to get started,” you frown.

“I know, I know, but it’s urgent,” he presses. “they wouldn’t call if it wasn’t. not after I've made my boundaries clear.”

“ony. you are not leaving to go take a work call,” you fuss, trying to keep your voice down. you watch as he gives a sad frown, almost like he’s holding back. but then his phone rings again and he holds up a finger, walking into the hallway.

“ony. onyankopon,” you whisper yell after him. when the door closes, leaving you alone, you huff a sigh and sit.

this is absolutely ridiculous. everything was literally going so damn perfectly, but here he goes on bullshit again. and only minutes before your spa appointment!

when the door opens and ony slides back into the room, the look you give him is lethal. he can only let out a deep sigh. “I need to go back the the cabin,” he says quietly.

“oh. oh, wow,” you scoff, crossing your arms. “you’re on vacation, ony. what the fuck happened to work/life balance? after everything? I’m not doing this shit with you again—“

“hey, hey,” he says softly, walking over to you. he reaches to cup your cheek with one hand and wraps his other arm around your waist. “I’m not going back to where I was, okay? this is temporary.”

he looks like he wants to say more, but stops himself short. “you’ll see. haven’t I been showing you that I’m dedicated to doing better? than you can trust me to be mindful?”

he’s met with a frown and the crossing of your arms.

“relax, baby, I swear this is it for the whole trip. I don’t use that word lightly. you know that,” he reassures, caressing your cheek soothingly. “I really am sorry, love. I’ll be as quick as I can. how about you stay here, yeah? I’ll get you when I finish up.”

he sees the frustration in your eyes, and he leans to press his lips against your forehead. he feels awful for making you feel this way, regardless of the situation. but it’s necessary. “trust me. I promise you’ll have all of me after this, okay? all of my attention, all of my love, all of my time. I swear.”

you sigh and look to the side, fighting the frustration you feel. you take a moment to mentally acknowledge and appreciate the fact that he really has been stepping back from work like he promised. not staying late, no work on the weekends, taking proper care to do better than the past.

he means what he says, you know that. his actions prove his intentions, that’s just the type of man he is. he just needs to finish something up, and then the vacation can resume like planned. it’s annoying as absolute fuck, and upsetting no matter how mature you try to be, but the main thing is that it’s temporary.

“fine,” you mumble. your gaze turns to meet his, firm and steady. “but you’re making this up to me as soon as we get back to the spot. I mean it.”

he smiles in a way that’s so sure. “I was already planning to. don’t let me stress you out. these cucumber slices cost too damn much for you to be worried about me.” the small smile he gets in return smooths over any anxiety of you being upset, despite the fact that you try to hide it.

”take this time for you, okay? just have some time to yourself. rest, recharge, all that without me breathin’ down your neck. you deserve it.” he presses his lips against yours in a loving kiss. “I love you,” he murmurs warmly. “and I appreciate your understanding. I won’t take it for granted.”

“yeah, yeah, whatever,” you mumble before you pull him into another brief kiss. “go handle business. then you can handle me.”

he laughs at that, the sound a deep reverberance from his chest. “and I will. believe that. text me when you finish up, and don’t forget to get all dolled up for me so we can go to the wine bar. call me if you need me, okay?”

ᥫ᭡

the spa appointment was definitely what you needed. your muscles feel loose and relaxed, your skin extra smooth and moisturized from head to toe, and your nails look a bit too good for a nail tech you’ll probably never see again.

it’s hard not to be a bit bitter, just wanting your man by your side. this was supposed to be for you both. but honestly, you have spent a lot of time right up under each other the past couple of days. and there’s always the hot tub back at the cabin.

and even though he left and couldn’t do the spa treatment, you’re still looking forward to this wine bar. you get dressed in yet another pick by ony, and no surprise, it’s gorgeous. the look paired with the way you feel after some quality self care is almost unbeatable.

as you exit the backrooms and pull your phone out to call ony, a voice calls after you, slightly rushed. you’d packed your stuff up so fast, ready to go, and she’d been trying to catch you. “ma’am? ma’am, just a second, please.”

you turn at the sound of her voice and give her your attention. “yeah? did I leave something?” you ask politely.

“no ma’am, I— um, I forgot to offer you some complimentary champagne for your visit. would you like me to pour you a glass?”

your eyebrow raises at that. normally you wouldn’t say no to some bubbly, but the thought of the wine bar is pressing. a fancy space, some time with your man, and some highly rated food and drinks? you’ll pass. “um, I wasn’t aware that was a thing. I think I’ll pass, thank you.”

“are you sure?” she presses. “it’s extremely quality, and you can sit and enjoy it in our lounge. why don’t you come take a look?”

hm. pushy lady. she must get paid well.

“yeah, no thank you,” you repeat. “I appreciate it, I just have plans. thank you for your hospitality, though.”

she falters at your reply, looking as though she wants to say something else. your attention is redirected to your phone as you press ony’s contact.

“pa, I’m done at the spa,” you say when he answers. “come get meee. I wanna go to the wine bar.”

ony almost crashes out, but he keeps himself in line. “shit, already? I didn’t think you’d be done for another half hour. I can’t come get you, baby.” he’s already flinching at just the thought of your response.

the face you make would be funny if the situation wasn’t what it is. “the fuck you can. what’s so damn important that you can’t pause to come get me?” you frown, dropping your bag on one of the lobby seats. you can excuse earlier, but this is too much. he just reassured you that his priorities are in order.

“just— I’m sending a lyft for you, okay? I have to wrap something up.”

“ony—”

“trust me, baby. just let me call a car for you.”

you scoff. it’s actually getting to be a bit much, especially since you just spent all of that time relaxing and letting go. ”this is fuckin’ ridiculous. we didn’t come all this way for your attention to still be on work.”

“baby—“

“just send the damn car, ony. and you better keep an eye on my location,” you huff before hanging up. you turn to the speak to the masseuse, who quickly looks away as she pretends to not be listening. “actually, I would like a glass of champagne, thank you. a bottle if you can spare it.”

you definitely plan to be a brat in the lounge until you see just how nice it is. calming music, a beautiful fountain, a bottle of champagne waiting for you… it’s really hard to be mad when you’re sipping on expensive drinks after your man paid for every single thing, including your dress and nails and hair. you want to pout. if only here were here.

it’s not long before you’re in the uber back to the cabin. you use the ride time to properly gather your words so you can explain to your man everything he did to piss you off in such a short amount of time. this was supposed to be a trip for both of you to relax, and he’s once again letting work get the better of him.

ᥫ᭡

arriving at the cabin, you take a breath. clear communication is the goal. you don’t want to make him feel bad, but you need to express yourself after what just happened. you walk to the front door with a little extra speed in your steps, mumbling under your breath. “nigga better be ready to hear this mouth. done left me at the place by my damn self. on vacation. after everything. damn shame.”

you open the door, fully prepared to call out to him so you can fuss, but stop short when you see a trail of rose petals starting at the doorway. it’s like your brain empties all coherent thoughts. you just freeze in place, looking down at how the petals smush under your feet.

there’s music playing, you notice in your frozen state. it’s you and ony’s song, alex isley’s “love again.” you can hear quiet snaps here and there, and you look up to see a smiling photographer taking picture after picture.

your heart is racing and your brain’s still not working.

“ᥫ᭡,” you hear a voice call from the other side of the room. your gaze slowly follows the flowers below you until they meet ony’s shoes. you look up and up and up and… there he is. standing in the living room, furniture cleared with a pool of rose petals scattered everywhere.

he’s dressed up, looking mouth watering-ly handsome as he holds a big bouquet of red and pink flowers. he’s watching you with eyes filled with a love you can feel from way too many feet away.

love… and nervousness.

what the fuck.

no, what in the actual hell.

“close the door, pretty,” he says warmly, his voice tender and so damn soft. you follow his instruction mindlessly, the cabin door closing behind you. you continue to stare at him with wide eyes, swallowing as realization starts to dawn on you.

your voice is thick with emotion when you speak. “ony…”

he just smiles warmly as he adjusts the flowers in his hand. with all this planning, he tried to keep everything as inconspicuous as he could. redirecting your thoughts of what the trip was really about, pretending to book a couples spa when it was really just for you, roping the spa workers into his plan…

it all worked. he hated lying, it actually made his chest hurt to see the disappointment on your face and hear the frustration in your voice when he “bailed” on you for work, but it worked.

he got you.

“come here,” he says softly, holding a hand out to you.

your heart is still beating, beating, beating in your chest, and you have to force yourself to take a deep breath. “ony…” you repeat, your voice shaky. you’re still frozen in place.

he just continues to smile, endeared as he takes in your surprised demeanor. the taller man takes slow steps towards you without breaking eye contact. the flowers are tight in his nervous grip, but he tries not to show how he’s feeling.

you let out another breath when he reaches you, and he carefully removes your bag from your arm. he sets it down gently before he turns back to you. his arm extends, presenting the giant bouquet to you.

“you gone leave me hangin’?” he asks softly.

“no,” you choke out as your eyes fill with tears. “I—… ony…”

“c’mere, baby.”

you feel yourself being tugged into his arms and you hug him tight as tears start to fall. “I’m sorry I lied to you,” he mumbles softly. “I won’t again, I promise. you’re just too intuitive, you know? I wanted to surprise you but yo ass always catchin’ me before I can, so…”

he lets out a breath as he squeezes you tighter in his arms. “walk with me. I got you,” he says softly. he pulls back to see his pretty girl’s face, taking in how you look up at him with so much love. he gently wipes your fallen tears and reaches for your hand. “ready?” he asks quietly. you nod, sniffling softly.

he walks you down the path of petals, keeping you close to him. the music continues to fill the room and you can smell the candles that you picked out from the small business you both went to the day before. your heart’s racing in your chest and your emotions are overflowing.

he really did get you.

he leads you to the center of the room, hand never leaving yours. you both take a deep breath when you reach a stopping point, looking at each other. he goes to speak, but realizes he still has the flowers in his hand.

“hold on,” he murmurs as he searches for somewhere to set them. you can hear the nerves in his voice and see how he fumbles slightly. it’s cute. heart-warming. eventually he just decides to set them on the kitchen counter.

when he gets back, he takes both of your hands in his. you smile at him, reassuring him as your thumbs caress his hands. it’s a gesture he appreciates, something small to help ease his nerves. he takes another breath to settle himself before he speaks.

“ᥫ᭡,” he starts warmly. his eyes are deep pools of genuine reverence. “the love I have for you can’t really be put into words. it’s why I show you every chance I get. it’s why I do everything that I do. because you deserve to know just how adored you are by me, every second of every day.

“ever since that day you first walked into my life, you’ve had me. it didn’t take me time at all to realize that you’re the only woman I could ever want. you’re the woman I’ve dreamed of, the woman I prayed for. your heart and soul are golden, especially in a word like ours. I see you for who you are. caring, kind, vulnerable… funny, attentive, dedicated, and real. I’ve seen you grow. I’ve seen you love. I’ve seen you cry, and I’ve seen you succeed.

“you’re everything,” his voice cracks. “you’re my sun and stars, my moon and galaxy. you’re a warm hug and an oasis of peace. you’re my laughter, you’re my joy, and you’re my future. you inspire me. you turn everything you touch into gold, baby.

“with you in my life, I feel like I’m being rewarded for something I’m not even aware of. I can’t believe that someone like you could ever exist, let alone want me the way you do. I’ve never felt so seen and I’ve never felt like I fit with a partner so effortlessly. we listen to each other, we communicate, we stick through the tough times, but we have fun through everything.

“I lost sight of that earlier this year, and I can admit that. I forgot that I never have to perform for you, that I don’t have to be on a constant working wheel. I never wanted to neglect you, I’ve just always wanted to give you the absolute best that I can offer because you deserve no less. but you reminded me, love. you reminded me about our foundation of partnership, how I’m not in this alone. and you supported me when I needed to readjust myself. I can never thank you enough for that.

“I can’t explain how at home I feel with you. I feel most myself with my babygirl by my side, and I love how you can be your most genuine, open self with me too. I love being your safe space, your man, and whatever else you want me to be. I want to be all of that for you and more, always. I want to be your shoulder to cry on. I want to carry you through the dark times. and I want to lean on you too.

“I wanna be your husband, baby,” he says softly. “I wanna be yours forever. you’re too good to let go of, and I never intend to do so.”

you’re a mess of tears. you can barely even make out his face as he gets on one knee, hand sliding into his pocket. “oh, ony,” you say softly, one hand raising to land on your beating chest.

“I love you, ᥫ᭡. I want nothing more than to call you my wife,” he says warmly. he opens the box, revealing a gorgeous ring. “will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

you don’t even hesitate.

“yes!” you nod frantically, immediately holding your hand out to him. “God, ony, there was never a doubt in my mind. yes!”

you’re a puddle of sobs as he slides the ring onto your hand. it’s a perfect fit, and you don’t even allow time to wonder how. you just immediately wrap your arms around his shoulders in a hug.

he lifts you into his arms as he stands, holding you close to his heart. “thank you, baby. I promise I’ll love you with everything in me,” he murmurs deeply, voice wavering from the emotions of it all.

“you already do,” you sniffle, pulling back to look at him. he’s still holding you off the ground, tight in his embrace, as you reach to cradle his face. you press your lips to his and pour all of your feelings into it the kiss. he returns it with just as much fervor.

you pull back to look at him adoringly, caressing his cheek. “the love we have is something I’ll never seek to replace. I’m yours, ony,” you whisper softly.

he grins then, his own eyes wet with tears. his arms remain tight around you as he twirls your form around, making you squeal and laugh.

he gently sets you back onto your feet, smiling down at you. “my lady,” he says warmly. after all of this time connecting, learning each other, loving each other, he can finally call you his forever. he leans to press another kiss to your lips as he wraps his arms around your waist.

when you hear the door close, your eyes blink open, turning to look over your shoulder. “s’just the photographer, baby,” he explains, hand rubbing up and down your back.

you hum and turn back to look up at him, smiling as you both enjoy being on cloud 9. he reaches to wipe your remaining tears with a gentle touch. “I can’t believe you actually fucking got me,” you laugh softly.

“shit was hard. know you wanted to beat my ass for leaving you up there,” he snorts. just thinking of your tone when you were talking to him on the phone has him cringing. “but it’s all okay now. I’ve got my fianceé and I don’t really give a shit about anything else.”

“I know that’s right,” you giggle, kissing him softly. “I was gonna come in here and chew you out, but I’m so happy I didn’t have to. I’m so blessed to have you, my ony.”

ony’s heart flutters in his chest. your ony. that’s right. yours and only yours.

“you’re still taking me to the wine bar, though, right?” you ask with a raised brow. he laughs at that, head tilting back, but you’re seriously still thinking about that place. have been since you saw it.

“yes, baby, we have a reservation for tomorrow. I just wanted to spend tonight with just you. that okay?”

you smile, but you’re lowkey irritated. of course he already booked a reservation. he really planned everything to a t and you had not a clue. “‘course it is. I still can’t believe you fuckin’ got me, big head.”

he snickers and pinches your side teasingly. “yeah, I did that shit. got you cryin’ like a baby.”

“alright, that’s enough of that,” you squint up at him. “you cried too.”

“yeah, yeah, whatever,” he chuckles. “c’mon, I know you hungry. I have dinner for us.”

ᥫ᭡

visual. visual. visual.

it’s unreal.

the candles on the table create an intimate vibe, the petals are scattered everywhere, and your man is right across from you, holding your hand as you talk and eat.

it’s beyond intimate. you’ve never felt this way before. the level of dedication between the two of you has deepened in a heavily serious way, and it’s a sensation that‘s so unfamiliar.

you’re engaged.

you have to let that settle. it’s not something you’ve come to terms with. every time you lift your left hand or move it in any way, you feel the weight of the ring. it’s a reminder, a symbol that you get to wear not only for yourself, but for your fiancé. your future husband.*

the love of your life, the man that will hopefully be the father of your kids, the partner you always prayed for but doubted the existence of. it’s heavy, but it’s a weight you carry with pure happiness, adoration, and intention.

ony’s not on cloud nine, he’s in heaven. his lady, his future wife, his world is on the same page as him. partnership. marriage. dedication. he’s so lucky— so blessed to have someone that sees all of him, understands, and is still dedicated beyond belief to loving him forever.

he can’t wait to share this with the world. he’s so excited to marry you. he can’t believe that there were times that he doubted you’d say yes, but your agreement is a testament to where both of you are planning for your future.

the both of you are giddy.

your emotions hit you like a wave over and over as you’re repeatedly overwhelmed with gratitude. this man, the love of your life, is yours. he wants to be yours, not just for now, but for forever.

“baby, don’t cry,” he murmurs warmly, reaching across the table to wipe your tears once again. “my love’s feeling a lot right now, hm?”

you sniffle and nod, leaning into his touch. “I’m just… really happy, pa. that’s all.”

ony hums softly, caressing your cheek. his sweet girl. he’s so grateful that everything went as planned. “you deserve all of this and more. I’m dedicated to loving you like this forever, ᥫ᭡.”

“if you’re trying to stop my crying, you’re doing a bad job,” you laugh through your tears, reaching to softly clear them. he smiles and pulls back to step around the table and slide into the spot next to you. wordlessly, he pulls you to him.

your arms wrap around ony as you rest your head on his shoulder. as your eyes close, you feel him softly rub your back. the silence is soft and welcome, and you could stay like that forever. just being held by your fiancé.

moments later, a kiss is pressed to your forehead. “I’m gonna clean up, baby. why don’t you head to the bedroom and wait for me?”

your breath hitches softly. the mention of the bedroom after the high of the trip, the proposal, the wine, the overwhelming amount of love you feel… your eyes meet his as you pull back, finger softly trailing down his chest. “I can help,” you say softly. ”or you can just… leave it.”

his gaze is low lidded. the corner of his lip tugs upwards just slightly. “we’re in the woods surrounded by all types of wildlife that love leftovers. you stay here and I’m taking you on this counter. not very romantic, hm?”

giggling softly, you feel your face warm. with a shake of your head, you lean to kiss the man tenderly. “I wouldn’t mind,” you say softly. your breath tickles his skin and you can feel how his hand squeezes you just a bit tighter.

“go, princess,” he murmurs lowly, voice slightly quieter. “I won’t say it again. be ready for me.”

your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth and you nod before giving him another simple kiss. you go to pull away, but his hand slides up into the curls at your nape, cradling the back of your head as he deepens the gesture momentarily.

you whimper in surprise as he takes control, tilting your head and taking your breath away. it’s overpowering and raw and sexy. it’s making your stomach swirl with deep arousal.

he pulls back from the kiss, but tugs your bottom lip with his teeth as if he was jealous you did it on your own. you moan and arch into him as he gently sucks until he releases it with a pop.

fuck.

you look to him with labored breathing and he looks at you as if you hung the moon, pleased with how dazed you are.

“go.”

you don’t hesitate to follow instructions. you purse your lips, silent from the kiss, and pull back from him. he watches you closely, like he’s just drinking up your form. you don’t feel his eyes leave you until you’re in the bedroom and out of sight.

“shit,” you mumble to yourself. you can tell where your future is headed, not just for the years coming, but for the night as well.

he’s about to absolutely ruin you, and you’re about to let him. shit, you’ll probably beg him.

you take a deep and begin to undress, revealing the black lace set you are tremendously grateful you wore with the dress. it’s snug and sexy and you know ony’s going to love it.

you sit on the rose petal cover bed and back up to rest in the middle. your heart’s racing— and you can feel your other pulse throbbing between your thighs. you can only imagine how intimate it’s going to be to make love to your fiancé for the first time.

footsteps approach sooner than you thought. you can only guess that it’s the shared anticipation of the night fueling you both.

when you hear the door open, your gaze lifts to meet you lovers. his eyes are dark in the low lighting, and the way they sweep over your form so reverently makes you want to speed things up.

but it’s obvious in the slow way that he approaches— he’s going to take his time tonight. few complaints on your end. the slower he moves, the more your fire burns.

”you’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he rasps when he comes to the foot of the bed. it’s like you’re being given to him on a silver platter, his own personal angel.

no, not an angel.

because the things he’s going to do to you tonight… he can never utter them for fear of tainting another’s soul.

he breathes out as he begins to undress, dazed and captivated by you beyond belief. “just… stay there. let me look at you,” he says breathlessly. your face warms in response and you can’t help but look away. he stops you before you can.

“look at me. please,” he murmurs. his desperation is only for your ears, and he wants to see you, see all of you and your reactions when you have each other tonight. he doesn’t want you to look away. you can’t look away.

your gazes meet once more and he crawls onto the bed in his bare state. contrary to your belief, your heart can beat faster. you notice as the distance closes between your bodies.

when your eyes meet his, he has a physical reaction. even with only the touch of your gaze, he feels himself jump. “just like that,” he murmurs lowly. “don’t look away.”

he continues to crawl up the bed until he’s right up against you. he manipulates your body until you’re lying on your back, straddling his waist as he leans his arm on the headboard above you.

“so beautiful,” he whispers, one hand descending to slowly caress from your knee up your thigh. he lets out a soft breath as he presses his pelvis against yours, your underwear separating you from the proximity you really want.

”all mine,” he mumbles. “let me show how grateful I am, yeah?”

you can’t respond because he bends to press his lips to yours. this brings you closer, his chest pressing against yours and his hips pressing harder. the sensation makes you gasp as your hands find purchase on his shoulders.

but when you feel his hips start to wind against yours? you can’t help but moan, your eyebrows pulling together. he’s hard, and you can feel the pressure of it through the thin material of your panties. he tries a few different motions of his hips, searching through the channels of your body until he finds the ones that make you have the biggest reactions.

softer, faster, harder, slower. you can feel the fabric of your bottoms getting wetter and wetter as he teases you. he leans to take your lips, tongue sneaking into your mouth to dance for an intimate moment before he pulls back. he has the audacity to mumble, “look at me.”

a short moan escapes you as your eyes gaze into his, his hips still a constant wave against yours. the look on his face is something you hope to remember for years to come. he already looks so gone. focused on your body so much that it’s all he can think about. all he can feel is you.

“you think I can make you come like this?” he asks huskily. there’s a sound slowly becoming more and more audible, the slickness between the two of you building. “I should. you deserve to come as many times as your body wants to. imma give you that.”

your arms wrap around his shoulders as he continues to grind into you, responding to every breath and moan like he understands a language that only you speak.

“m’talkin’ to you, love,” he breathes, pressing a hand against your back to encourage you to arch against him. “you don’t wanna talk to daddy? m’not doin’ enough? tell me.”

you whine then, your pussy throbbing against him as his words continue to stimulate you. “fuck- just… ah, keep going,” you breathe out, pulling him closer. his lips meet yours briefly before his hand slides to your hip, pressing you against him more.

“whatever you say, mama,” he mumbles, hips slowly moving to keep himself in a constant press against your clit. he moves to have one arm around your neck and the other up your back. his hand finds home in your nape again, holding you to his chest.

“just feel it,” he breathes. “just feel me. you do this to me, baby. no one else. this is yours. I’m yours.”

you take in his words, your eyes fluttering shut. “shit,” you murmur, your legs wrapping around his waist. he’s just so perfect and he knows how to hit all of your spots. the way he talks, the way he feels, everything is just right.

but it’s not enough. it’s not getting you where you need it to reach. “please, I- more. I want more, ony.”

“you want me to eat her? hm?” he asks lowly, hips deepening their waves against you. “wanna put that pretty pussy on my face?” you exhale as he moves against you, nodding quickly.

“come feed her to me then,” he mumbles, using his position to lift you in his arms as he sits back on the bed. the look in his eye is a mix of desire and a subtle determination. ”c’mon, baby. put that ass in my face.”

your breath catches, but you move nonetheless. he leans back to rest against the bed, dark brown eyes staring intently into yours until you move to face away from him, completely bare as you carefully straddle his face. “don’t piss me off,” he mumbles gruffly, moving you by your thighs to bring you close.

“s’my shit,” he mumbles. he brings you to smush against him, tongue instantly searching for your bundle of nerves. the tip of his tongue swirls against your clit slowly, an agonizing tease to get your attention.

ah, fuck. you have to prepare yourself. if there’s one thing this man knows how to do, it’s eat some pussy. “ony,” you press, rocking your hips back in a request for more.

“relax,” he mumbles, using his hands to spread your cheeks apart. “take deep breaths and relax your body, baby. let me eat her right.” he flicks a quick few licks against your clit before puckering a kiss against it. you release a deep, long moan as he sucks gently before releasing it with a pop. “slow breathing, princess.”

you force yourself to take deep breaths as you clutch the sheets on either side of you. his hands caress and squeeze your thighs and ass as he pulls you closer and closer against his face. he shakes his head in a quick motion before he gets to work.

the moan that escapes you is more of a squeal as he goes to town, lapping and sucking at your heat like it’s his last meal. he tongue moves in different motions— flicks and circles, as he slurps and spits. it’s sloppy, it’s wet, and your keening above him as he makes your toes curl.

“fuck, papa, you eatin’ me so good,” you pant, starting to rock your hips back and forth. his arms hook under your thighs and wrap around your waist, pressing you even closer as he groans. the vibrations make you squeak, and you lurch forward and away, only to be brought right back.

ony just can’t get enough. he’s sure his eyes are rolled back as he continues to dive in, your juices dripping down the sides of his mouth as he demands more. it’s what he needs, he needs you to give everything to him. he needs to pleasure your body as much as he can, more than he ever has.

your moans are drawn longer and longer as you get closer to the edge. “fuuuck, ony,” you cry out. his hand comes down and slaps against your ass, an action that makes your pussy jump as he continues to eat you up. your hips grind and grind as he slurps and groans.

when he pulls back and licks a stripe from your clit to your ass, you body freezes as your toes curl. he spreads your ass and dives into giving it the same treatment, fingers shifting to circle your clit.

“mmshit—“ you choke, hands moving to grasp his legs below you. “daddy, that’s… haaa, fuck. s’too much! that’s— ngh!”

when your orgasm crashes over you, he drinks it all up as he squeezes your ass, holding you to him as you moan and cry out. “fuck, fuck, fuck,” you ramble, your hand reaching back to press against the back of his head. “ohhhh, my God, ony!”

he shakes his head again, wringing as much pleasure out of you as possible. you pant as your eyes roll back, hips jumping in overstimulation as you fall forward. you’re left bare to him. letting him pull every drop of pleasure from your both with just his mouth and hands.

as you try to catch your breath and your sanity, his hands move over your body, massaging and caressing everywhere he can reach. “fuck,” he rasps. “taste so damn good. I’m damn near addicted to you, baby.”

all you can do is pant, your leg twitching slightly in the aftermath. it’s insane how you feel, so weak-limbed and short of breath and he hasn’t even taken you yet.

he shifts your body again, his touch gentle as he moves with awareness of your sensitive state. he places you on your back and rests between your thighs. he then starts to softly massage your body, hands caressing your arms and hands and thighs. they slide down your legs and to your feet, reaching back to work out the tenseness from your clenching of them.

he holds your body with so much love and care, and as you lay back in the soft comforter and mattress, you feel yourself begin to slip into that sweet feel of submission, of releasing control into the hands you trust the most… it washes over you in waves and it’s like ony can feel it.

“my baby,” he speaks, just barely above a whisper. you limbs are starting to relax more and more and he heightens the strength of his massaging. “keep breathing, love. keep relaxing. just feel.”

you swallow slightly, eyes blinking open to meet his. he smiles down at you and continues to soothe you with his touch. “I love you,” he whispers softly,

“I love you too,” you whisper back, voice just slightly strained. he leans again to press his lips to yours, tongue intimately twirling with yours. he shifts then, and you can feel his length rest between your thighs, reaching to your belly button. it makes your clit jump against him, and he has to breathe out at the sensation.

he reaches down between the both of you, hand lightly tracing down your stomach and to your clit, lightly spanking once, then twice. you hips jump just slightly in response, and then he presses a singular finger between your folds.

he keeps eye contact with you, watching as your lashes flutter in response to his touch. he presses into you then, eyes flicking to catch how you pull your lip between your teeth. he begins to move his finger back and forth, adding another when you’re ready.

one becomes two, and soon your weak, overstimulated whimpers become full blown moans as he brings your arousal back to life. he’s taking his time because he knows your body, and the benefits are showing. he curves his fingers deep, watching as you spread your legs and rock your hips.

the scrunch of your face, the furrow of your brow, the way you call his name, it’s all driving him deeper and deeper into that need to service you, to make you reach your limits of pleasure in unprecedented ways.

and just like that, his fingers are gone. the whimper you let out is shamelessly pathetic, and you blink up at him with wide, questioning eyes. but when he flicks his wrist and lightly plaps his heavy dick against you, your legs can’t help but spread instinctively.

the sight is gold for him, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “good girl,” he drawls, eyes raking over your body. “muscle memory *just* for papa. you ready for me, baby? ready for me to give you what you need?”

“please,” you murmur. your breathing is labored, skin prickling with desire and anticipation. “I need you.”

he wastes no time then. he presses himself against you, reaching to cup your jaw so that you can keep your eyes locked on his. you drag out a moan as he slips into you, taking advantage of your earlier wetness.

“yeah, that feel good, don’t it?” he grunts out, he himself having to take a breath at the squeeze of your pussy. “mmm, fuck, baby,” he damn near slurs. his eyes are glazed as he starts to rock his hips. “how can I forget how wet you get for me?”

he leans forward to rest his arms on the either side of your head, chest resting against yours as he grinds into you. you feel so full, the way he thrusts slowly pushing air out of you. “oh, fuck,” you whine, arms wrapping around his back. “s’too much,” you pant. “fuck, onyyyy.”

you can’t help but let out deep, pressing breaths and moans as he buries his fat dick into you. “take it, baby. it’s yours,” he pants. if he thought he was in heaven before, he was surely wrong. this is heaven, knee deep in your waters with your whines and moans right next to his ear. it’s a dream.

“you deserve it,” he huffs, leaning to press open mouthed kisses up the column of your neck. he continues to encourage you, staving off his own orgasm even though the grip you have around him has him ready to bust. “every inch, every kiss, everything. you deserve it. drown in it, baby. it’s yours to get lost in.”

he pulls back to rest his weight on his arms, hips rocking deeper and deeper as you open up more for him. your moans are deep, and you’re really trying to keep eye contact despite the fact that every thrust makes your eyes roll.

“pretty ass,” he murmurs softly, watching you closely. he tilts your chin up, pressing kisses to your cheeks, forehead, nose, all while you pant and whine.

“fuck, princess,” he groans throatily, reaching to grip your waist. “grippin’ me so perfectly. we fit like we made for each other, yeah? cause we are. you’re gonna be my wife, baby. my forever. are you happy? tell daddy.”

“I’m happy, ony,” you croak, eyes filling with tears from the pleasure and emotion. “I’m over the moon. fuuuuck, I’m so… so happy.” you’re still panting, trying to breathe deep, when he reaches down to play with your clit.

“good,” he grunts, hips diving deeper and making you cry out. “promise I’ll keep you that way.” it’s heavenly. a perfect view of his handsome face, the look in his eyes, they way he moves against you… it’s a true experience that you wish you could hold onto forever.

“let me see it,” he murmurs breathlessly, hips meeting yours again and again and again. you look up at him, confused in your blissed out state as he continues to ravish you past the point of clarity.

you can’t think about anything but the way grinds into you, a mess forming where you meet.

“your ring, baby,” he explains with a pleasured groan. “grab those pretty titties and let daddy see your ring.”

right. the ring.

just the thought makes you flutter around him, and he groans at the feel as you reach up to follow his direction. “fuck, yeah, mama. wish I could take a picture. I’d frame it and keep it just for me. so fuckin’ perfect.”

you don’t know why it makes you even wetter, the thought of him doing exactly that. having a picture just for him, showing off the ring he worked so hard to get. reminding him of the proposal he worked so hard on, and the fact that you said yes.

“do it,” you rasp.

his hips stutter slightly, and he’s broken out of his daze just a bit to look at you through the haze. “huh?” he asks.

“do it.”

he licks his lips as he blinks. did he hear that right? did you just tell him to—

“do it, papa,” you moan, your legs wrapping tighter around him.

fuck, there’s no way he can deny you when you moan like that, or himself from being able to see you in this position anytime he wants. he pulls back to blindly reach for his phone on the nightstand, and when he grabs it, he holds the camera up to have you in frame.

the look you give him past the camera, the way your ring glistens in the candle light as you grab your chest… it makes ony’s heart stutter. he’s so damn in love with you, it’s almost fucking scary. “God, I love you,” he grunts, tossing the phone away to press kisses up your neck to your lips.

he starts to buck into you again, hips moving expertly, and you feel his fingers at your clit. you can only whine in response as you kick your feet up. you’re at his mercy and there’s nothing you can do but take the loads of pleasure he brings your body. you pant and pant until another orgasm washes over you, small spurts of liquid squirting out of you.

“ohhh, yeah, princess,” he huffs, hips still meeting yours in rhythm. “give it to me. give it to me, just like that.” you can only curl your toes as your eyes roll back, hips jerking. you have to breathe manually after such an intense orgasm.

his hips slow, but don’t stop. he leans back and grabs your leg, shifting to lay on his side with your leg over his arm. he reaches to wrap his hand around your neck as he slowly meets your hips with his over and over.

“one more,” he moans. you can’t tell if it’s an encouragement or a request. “come on, princess, give me one more. make it good.”

ony leans his head down to your ankle, tongue trailing lazily up before he plants kisses to the top of your foot. his hand hooks under your thigh and he presses it up into your chest. he stares down at you with heavy lidded eyes, bottom lip pulling between his deep as his hips rock deeper.

the stretch is almost too much. he’s so deep, touching your heart damn near, and you moan deep as you reach up to grab a pillow tight. “oh my fuck,” you cry out, toes curling as he dives into you.

“uh-uh, open up for me, baby. relax,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your leg. you whimper as you try to breathe, watching him as he presses kisses down your foot and to your toes. “just one more, princess. I need it. c’mon,” he murmurs. he presses another kiss to your toe before pulling it into his mouth.

the moan you let out is sinful, as the sensation in combination with his thrusts is all consuming. “fuck, fuck, fuck. onyyy!”

he hums around your toe, moving to play with your clit again. tears build in your eyes at the sensation and ony can tell by the grip you have on him that you’re close. he pulls back to look at you, your debauched state only bringing him closer to the edge.

“mmm, I love how pretty you look on my dick, baby,” he rasps. “vision ‘a beauty. daddy’s favorite. daddy’s only. I hope you feel that shit in yo soul.”

“I feel it, ony,” you whine, head tilting back. “fuck, papa, I’m gonna make a mess.”

it’s music to his ears. his hips start to move fast at the thought, movements less smooth. he chases his own orgasm as he feels yours wash over you and him, your wetness painting you both. you cry out, reaching out to hold him tight to ground you as wave after wave of sensation hit.

the both of you pant, limbs dropping lazily as you catch your breath. he pulls you close, your back to his chest, and just holds you there. it’s silent except for your breathing and your eyes fall shut as you bask in the after glow.

“holy… fuck…” you say between huffs, your heart starting to slow bit by bit.

“yeah?” ony grunts, eyes peeling open to look at you.

you nod, reaching to lightly smack at him. “yeah. if that’s the sex fiancés have, we’re should’ve gotten engaged a while ago.” he chuckles tiredly and catches your hand, pressing lazy kisses to the skin there. “we should’ve. I had to pay for this trip somehow, though.”

“don’t start that. could’ve proposed with a pizza and I’d still cry,” you snort.

“I ain’t proposin’ to you with no fuckin’ pizza. hell wrong witchu.”

“it’s just an expression.”

“well, stop expressin’ it.”

“do you need that? like are you good?”

“do you need that? cause I can go another round now if you really bout it.”

“…whatever, ony. always makin’ stuff about you.”

he snorts at that, pinching your side, and you both laugh until you fall quiet.

“I love you, ony. so much,” you say softly. he caresses your side and presses a kiss to your head, heart fluttering at your expression.

“I love you too, ᥫ᭡.”

you both stay there a while, just relaxing in each other’s arms as you get your energy back. it’s like old times, but better. the love was always the same, only deeper and more intentional. it’s on a different level now, and neither of you could be happier.

a/n: this was supposed to be short, a lil sum to get me back writing so I can finish the next crys + ony fic… and it took on a life of its own. hope you like! as always, feedback welcome and wanted <3