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caelestifer

✦ ✦ ✦ The Kiss

Klimt practice.

ayesopod

something terrible. echoes of past intrusions. barely discernible

owwllly

gambling date with kirara

arinavah

haircut

lolli-apop

Weak - Varang x Reader x Quaritch // NSFW

Synopsis- You are Varang's quiet and sweet mate. When Miles Quaritch comes taking her attention, you develop a distaste for the demon—that is until it becomes glaringly clear they're in competition for you.

Warnings-Smut, dirty old perv Quaritch, toxic!Varang, dubious consent, power-imbalance

A/n- MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! I managed to (barely) make it... At least for my time zone hehe! This was my first time writing smut and omg... I have so much respect for Smut authors... It was so hard???? Anyway, as always, I hope you enjoy!

Varang knew exactly what kept her breathing.

Spite.

It sat in her lungs like soot and settled behind her ribs like a coal that refused to die. Every memory she carried tasted of burned soil—blood soaking into blackened ground, screams rising like smoke. Hers. Her clan’s.

“Please, great Mother. Eywa, save us.”

It left her mouth in a whisper. Not a prayer, never a prayer.

She bent over a grove of saplings—young, thin things, barely taller than her waist. Infants compared to the old thunks that once crowned the forest. Their green made her stomach turn.

“Please, great Mother, balance of all. Eywa,” she crooned.

Her hand closed around a thin trunk, green where wood would grow. She drove it into the earth until it snapped with a soft, wet gasp.

She paused.

Do they pray? Did they beg Eywa when the sky-people burned the forest? Did they learn what refusal felt like, too?

“Tsahik.”

The voice came from behind her. Yepa stepped around a bushel of leaves, stripes still damp from the paint he had earned only days ago. A boy-turned-hunter, proud and awkward in the same breath.

Varang turned just enough to meet his eyes. Smiled. “Yes?”

He read the violence in her stance, the splintered tree at her feet, and managed a small, careful grin. “It’s Y/n. She asks for your presence.”

Ah.

Y/n.

Varang’s breath softened, just barely. Yes—spite kept her alive. Spite moved her hands, her teeth, her every step through the burned forest.

But there was something else that pulled herfrom the ruins. Something gentler. Warmer. More dangerous than any hatred she’d survived.

“If she asks for me,” Varang murmured, straightening. “it is only natural I answer.”

She stepped forward, leaving the crushed sapling behind her.

Y/n.

Her name throbbed in Varang’s chest like a second heartbeat.

“Y/n.”

You were crouched beneath a leaning pillar of old wood, shoulders tight, attention fixed on something beyond Varang’s first glance. When she stepped forward, she saw it. Him. Sapok.

myrthena

Varang draw im rather pleased with

alasion-art

Fire is catching 🔥

ccwpidsblog

White Dress Black Cat 𖣁 | ONYAKOPON

Summary: They said she was a witch.

She said they were all damned. Onyakopon didn’t believe in hauntings until he heard his own voice tremble at the pulpit. Now every hymn echoes wrong, and she’s waiting for him by the well, knitting as if the world ain’t falling apart. He just wanted to serve God. Now they’re standing hand in hand, watching the damned burn.

Themes / Warnings: Heavy religious trauma & themes, family dysfunction, mentions of suicide and miscarriage, mental health struggles, implied supernatural violence, derogatory religious language, psychological horror, dark themes and atmosphere, small-town prejudice, abandonment, slow burn. tall Black female reader, plus-size reader, preacher’s son!Ony,

Word count: 5.5k

Authors note: This story has been very hard for me to write. The themes in its faith, silence, family, harm, and the things people refuse to name — are heavy, and they hit close to home. Chapter One was written back in May, and it’s taken me a long time to come back to this world. Not because I abandoned it, but because I needed space to approach it honestly and with care. It’s almost Christmas as I’m posting this, which feels strange, but also right in a way. Some stories don’t move on our schedule—they wait until we’re ready to tell the truth inside them.

Taglist: @2neaky @pynkb @megtheehottie @twistedsistas-stuff @fixtionalpromises @ri-rian @nuetralcolorsenthusiast @wettbaby @gardenolives @jjovin3221 @lovingayla @sakuracream

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

The dream was warm at first.

She stood in a field of golden light, wearing that same white dress, the one that never wrinkled, never stained, like it belonged to something divine. Her bare feet touched the grass like she’d been born from the sun itself. Arms cradling something wrapped in linen. She rocked it slowly, humming, the kind of tune that made your bones ache without knowing why.

Mama brushed against his legs, purring like thunder rumbling beneath the dirt. Even the cat seemed calm. Like the world had finally stilled. She turned toward him, smiling soft like honey sliding off the comb. Her eyes said, This was always meant to be.

“Don’t just stand there now,” she said. “Come hold our baby boy.”

His body obeyed before his mind could question it. The grass cracked beneath him as he stepped forward. Dry. Too dry. And sharp, like old wheat just before burning. She didn’t flinch when he reached her. Just placed the bundle into his arms like it had always belonged there.

It was warm. Heavy. Breathing.

He rocked it the way he’d been taught. Careful. Correct.

The bundle didn’t cry.

That should have scared him more than it did.

The weight shifted — not sudden, not violent — just settling deeper into his arms. He adjusted his grip. His elbows burned. His shoulders ached.

He kept rocking.

The linen loosened on its own, unraveling like it had grown tired of pretending. What stared back at him wasn’t a baby the way people meant it. Its skin was darkened and stretched thin, like bark pulled too tight over a tree that had stopped growing. Its mouth opened, closed. No sound came. Just breath — slow, patient.

Waiting.

“This is how it goes,” it said.

The voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cruel. It sounded practiced.

Like something said many times before.

“You carry what you’re given.”

Its eye rolled toward him — cloudy, knowing.

“You don’t ask where it came from.”

The weight pressed harder. His arms trembled.

“You don’t set it down just because it hurts.”

Her hand settled on his shoulder.

Warm. Familiar.

“Men like you been doing this a long time,” she said softly. “Holding things that ain’t meant to live. Calling it duty.”

The thing in his arms leaned closer, heavier now, pulling the breath from his chest.

“This is purpose,” it murmured. “This is service.” “This is love.”

His arms screamed.

“You don’t cry,” it continued. “You don’t shout. You don’t make a mess of it.”

Her fingers tightened — not angry. Correcting.

“Everybody survives better when you stay quiet.”

The baby did not thrash. Did not rage. Did not bare teeth.

It simply refused to be put down.

“You’ll carry this until it breaks you,” it said gently. “And you’ll thank God for the strength.”

His knees buckled.

“And when you’re empty,” it added, “they’ll say you did good.”

The field dimmed at the edges, polite as a closing door.

Her hand slid from his shoulder to his throat — not choking, just reminding.

“You open your eyes,” she whispered, almost kind, “and you won’t belong anywhere anymore.”

The weight crushed down.

And then—

Light cut across the ceiling like a blade, his chest heaved, sweat soaked the sheets, and standing over him, calm and still and quiet, was his mother.

She looked whole. She looked like Sunday morning. But her eyes were dull, like someone had washed them too many times and hung them out to dry.

“Get up,” she said. “Breakfast’s on the table.”

And then she walked away.

And Onyakopon just stared at the ceiling, waiting for the feeling in his chest to settle.

It didn’t.

The smell hit him first.

Not the kind of smell that meant breakfast was ready — no butter, no grease, no syrup warmed in the pan. No. This was something else. A burn in the air, thick and bitter, crawling down his throat like smoke from an old sermon fire.

Onyakopon moved slow. The hallway stretched longer than usual, floorboards groaning under his bare feet. He heard Leah somewhere behind the walls — feet dragging, sobbing, doors creaking. Caleb’s boots, heavier, pacing from the back porch to the front, back again. But no voices. Just movement.

And humming.

Low, drawn-out, slow like molasses, the same tune from the dream.

It was coming from the kitchen.

He rounded the corner and stopped in the doorway.

Ma stood at the stove, hips squared like always, apron tied crooked over her faded house dress. She was barefoot. Humming, back to him. The same melody. The same bones-deep, aching hum that pulled tears without words. Her hair was undone, falling in frizzy waves around her shoulders like she hadn’t touched a brush in days.

He cleared his throat.

She didn’t turn.

The skillet hissed.

She was burning something.

No.

Everything.

The hiss turned to crackle as she scraped something blackened from the pan, then scooped it onto a plate. Her arm jerked with the motion, stiff and too fast. The plate clattered down in front of him with a jarring slam.

He blinked down at it.

Burnt toast. Black as coal.

Bacon shriveled and twisted like dried worms.

Eggs are still runny, slick and yellow like infection.

He stared.

Ma sat down across from him with her own plate, identical, and tucked her napkin into her collar. Still humming. Still smiling. She took a forkful of those eggs and slid them into her mouth like it was Sunday best. Chewed. Swallowed. Hummed.

Ony’s lip curled.

“Mama… what is this?” His voice came low, cautious. “You know you don’t cook like this.”

She didn’t look up. Just took another bite.

The eggs made a wet squelch.

He pushed his plate back slowly, fork untouched.

“Ma.”

She stopped chewing. The humming halted like a record scratched.

Her head tilted.

Then, slow and slurred, her voice spilled out like wine gone sour:

“Take, eat. This is my body, broken for thee.”

His skin prickled.

Ma’s eyes finally lifted. They were too wide. Too still. Clouded, like something was looking through her, not out of her.

“...Mama?” he whispered.

Her smile never faltered.

She picked up the bacon next. Crunch. Crack. Chewed like bone.

He stood, chair scraping against the floor.

“I ain’t hungry,” he said, voice sharper now.

Ma’s head tilted the other way.

“Course you are,” she said, words sticking together like wet pages.

“The hungry shall be filled. The poor in spirit shall inherit.”

She reached out, fingers twitching like she meant to bless him.

He stepped back.

A door slammed down the hall. Caleb.

Leah’s soft hum floated out next, off-key and broken, echoing through the house like wind through a cracked window.

Onyakopon stared at his mother, still chewing, still humming.

Still smiling.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Onyakopon stood there for a moment, hand still on the knob like it might vanish if he let go. His breath came shallow, chest still tight from the humming, from Ma’s too-still eyes, from Caleb’s hollow stare in the hall.

He locked the door.

Then sank to the floor, back pressed against it.

The silence pressed harder than any noise.

What the fuck is going on?

He rubbed his hands over his face, fingers dragging down slowly. The scent of burnt toast still clung to his nose. Something rotten in the air. He could still hear Ma’s voice. “Take, eat. This is my body…” Words he’d heard his whole life. It was just scripture until they were said with a smile full of raw yolk.

A breath caught in his throat.

Then came her voice. Not Ma’s. Hers.

The girl’s.

He was at her cottage again. The room was dim, golden with firelight, shadows dancing up the wooden beams. It smelled like dried lavender, smoke, and something sweet, maybe honey steeped too long. She sat across from him on a low stool, legs tucked beneath her, her yarn basket at her side. Mama, the black cat, was curled at her bare feet like a shadow taking a nap. Her tail flicked now and then, slow, like she was listening with her body. The girl’s dress hung loose at her collarbones. Her hair was pulled back in soft twists, half-unraveled from the heat. She looked… soft. Not harmless, but untouched by fear. She was beautiful, yes, but in a way that made you feel like you’d met her before. Or maybe dreamed of her first. She spoke slowly, like the truth took time. And it does. “Evil don’t always stomp in loud,” she murmured, threading a length of dark yarn between her fingers. “Sometimes it prays first. Sometimes it blesses your supper. Kisses your forehead after.” Onyakopon sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, nodding like he understood. He didn’t. Not fully. But he liked the way she talked. He liked her voice. Soft, thick like a syrupy song. Even when the words didn’t land all the way, he liked listening. “This land was fed by sin,” she went on, not looking at him. “Not just blood. Sin. The kind passed down like good china. The kind folks learn to call holy if it keeps their hands clean and their pockets full.” He frowned. “You mean curses?” That made her glance at him, lips twitching. “I mean truths folks were too scared to name.” Mama the cat lifted her head, blinked, then rested it on the girl’s ankle again like punctuation. “See, people don’t hate evil when it benefits them,” she said, looping her yarn “They only hate it when it stops working. When it starts rotting from the inside out.” She glanced up again, this time catching him staring. He looked away, cheeks hot. “You talk real pretty” he said under his breath. She smiled. “You think I’m full of it.” “No.” he said too fast. “Maybe a little. But not in a bad way.” That made her laugh deep and warm, the kind of laugh that made him feel seen in a way he didn’t know he wanted. The way her eyes softened when she did it… he could still see it, clear as day.

But now, in the present, as he sat against his bedroom door, her words rang different. They were just strange then. Now, they were true.

His stomach twisted.

Her voice echoed in his memory.

“This town ain’t gonna rot quietly, Ony. It’s gonna scream. It’s gonna bleed. And it’s gonna blame you for openin’ your eyes.”

He swallowed, throat dry.

“They don’t hate me ‘cause I’m wicked.

They hate me ‘cause I see.

You start seein’ too?”

“They gon’ come for you too.”

He pushed up to his feet. Steady now. Focused.

She was right.

All of it.

And he needed answers.

Real ones.

He stood slowly; legs stiff like they remembered something his mind didn’t. Walked to the cracked mirror above the dresser. Stared. His reflection looked tired. Older than it should’ve. Shadows under his eyes like bruises.

The demon’s voice from his dream echoed:

“Everybody survives better when you stay quiet.”

“You’ll carry this until it breaks you,” it said gently. “And you’ll thank God for the strength.”

“And when you’re empty,” “they’ll say you did good.”

He closed his eyes. But the memories didn’t stop.

His grandmother, voice soft as flour dust, used to press her hand to his chest and say: “You here for more than sermons, baby. The Lord don’t waste time makin’ sons like you unless He got plans.”

She was the only one who ever made him feel like he wasn’t wrong.

And she died too early. Just collapsed one day in the garden like the earth had taken her back in silence. He remembered them saying it was her time. But she hadn’t even had gray hair yet.

She saw it, he thought. She saw what this house really was.

And maybe they saw she saw it. That’s why they took her.

That’s why…

His breath hitched.

He turned away from the mirror, heart pounding now. There was only one place in the house with answers.

He had to go to the office.

Ony slipped out of the room quiet as breath, stepping over the creaky floorboard near the baseboard. Caleb’s footsteps had moved to the back of the house. Ma’s humming had shifted—now distant, like it floated through a different century.

He made his way down the hall. Pa’s study sat at the end. Door always shut. Never locked. It didn’t need to be.

When he was eight, he’d pushed it open once. Just out of curiosity. Inside, his father had been sitting behind the desk, face shadowed. And another man—tall, dark-skinned, worn-down—stood on the other side. Their voices were sharp. Urgent. The man had said something about “protection running thin” and “she’s asking too many questions.” When Ony peeked in, his father’s face twisted with fury. He’d been dragged out by the collar and whipped that night.

He never asked again.

But now?

He pressed his hand to the doorknob. Cold.

Turned it.

The door creaked open.

The door should’ve opened into shadow. Instead, Ony was standing in the field.

The sun beat down, hot and bright, the grass tall and gold like it had never known rot. Wind rolled through it in waves, bending everything low and slow like prayer. She sat where she always did, knees drawn in, white dress catching the light like it had been sewn from it. Mama the cat lounged at her side, belly up, lazy as sin.

Ony didn’t walk so much as burst forward.

“What did you do to me?” he shouted.

She looked up. No surprise. Just… tired.

“I didn’t do anything to you,” she said gently.

“That’s a lie,” he snapped, chest heaving. “Ever since you started talkin’, ever since you started puttin’ words to things—” His hands shook. “My house ain’t right no more. My head ain’t right. My mama—”

He swallowed hard.

“My mama look at me like I’m already gone.”

That made her flinch. Just barely.

“You asked questions,” she said. “I answered.”

“You poisoned me,” he said, stepping closer. The grass crunched sharp beneath his feet. “You made me see things I was better off not knowin’.”

She stood then, slow, brushing grass from her dress. Mama rose too, tail flicking.

“Better for who?” she asked.

“For me,” Ony snapped. “For my family. For—” His voice broke. “For order.”

Her mouth twisted. Not smiling. Not laughing.

“There it is,” she said softly.

He laughed then — sharp, humorless. “You sit out here in the sun, talkin’ like you know everything. Like you ain’t the one who started this.”

Her eyes hardened. “This started long before me.”

“You don’t know that,” he shot back.

“I do,” she said.

That quiet certainty made something in him snap.

“You a witch,” he spat. Then quieter — meaner — “Or whatever they call women like you. Lilith. Jezebel. Somethin’ they warn men about.”

The wind dragged through the field. Mama hissed low in her throat.

The girl didn’t move. Just looked at him, long and steady, like she was deciding how much truth he could take.

“That name only scares people who benefit from obedience.”

Ony stiffened.

“They always give women a name when silence stops workin’.”

She stepped closer now. Not touching him, but near enough he could smell honey and smoke on her skin.

“Lilith ain’t a demon,” she said. “She’s a refusal.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“And you ain’t a man,” she added quietly. “You a scared boy barkin’ loud ‘cause he don’t know where his master is.”

She tilted her head, almost sad.

“Still lookin’ for permission.”

Ony’s jaw clenched. “You meddle. You whisper. You sit in folks’ heads and let ‘em rot.”

“Boy,” she said, voice low, sharp with something like grief, “your land been rottin’ a long time. I just stopped pretendin’ it smelled like roses.”

He shook his head. “You don’t get it. You don’t know what this’ll cost me.”

Her eyes flashed then — real anger, finally breaking through.

“Oh, I know,” she said. “I know exactly what it costs to see.”

The wind picked up. The grass bowed.

“You think I wanted this?” she went on. “You think I wanted to be the one folks cross the street to avoid? The one they blame when the ground starts talkin’ back?”

His breath came shallow.

“You could’ve stayed quiet,” he said. “Like everybody else.”

Her voice dropped.

“And look how well that’s worked.”

Silence fell between them, thick as heat.

Ony looked at her then — really looked — and saw something beneath the calm. Not cruelty. Not evil.

Grief. Old. Settled. Carried.

“You broke somethin’ in me,” he said hoarsely.

She nodded. “They already broke it,” she said. “I just showed you the cracks.”

Mama rubbed against her ankle.

The field hummed. Alive. Watching.

“You don’t get to walk away now,” she said quietly. “Once you see, the land remembers you.”

Ony staggered back like he’d been struck.

“You made me a target,” he whispered.

“No,” she said. “You were born one.”

The church was empty when Ony pushed the door open.

No choir. No amens. No hands reaching to steady him. Just the long wooden hush of a place that had learned how to wait. Sunlight cut through the stained glass in soft, colored slants, pooling on the floor like something holy had spilled and stayed.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

The sound echoed too loud.

He walked down the aisle slow, every step measured, like he was approaching something that might break if he moved wrong. The pews stared back at him — smooth, scarred, faithful. He slid into one near the front and sat with his hands clasped so tight his knuckles ached.

For a long moment, he couldn’t speak.

Not because he didn’t have words — but because he had too many, and none of them were safe.

Finally, he bowed his head.

“God,” he whispered.

The word came out raw. Not polished. Not practiced.

“I don’t know how to do this right.”

His throat burned. He swallowed.

“I been taught You like things quiet. Neat. In order.” His fingers dug into his palms. “I been told You bless obedience. That You keep Your hands clean.”

He laughed once — small, bitter.

“But somethin’ ain’t clean, Lord. And it ain’t just me.”

The air felt heavier then. Not threatening. Listening.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“I had a dream,” he said. “And I woke up with my eyes open. And I don’t know how to close ‘em again.”

His voice shook.

“I don’t want to be brave. I don’t want to be chosen. I don’t want to tear nothin’ down.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I just want to sleep without feelin’ like the ground under me got a mouth.”

Silence answered him.

Not empty. Full.

So he kept going.

“Bless my mama,” he whispered. “She tired. She don’t say it, but I see it.” “Bless my daddy,” he added — slower. “Or… show him mercy. Or show me the truth. I don’t know which one You do first.”

His chest tightened.

“Bless this land,” he said, and the words surprised him with how heavy they felt. “Whatever been buried here — whatever been fed and called tradition — don’t let it keep eatin’ us.”

His breath hitched.

“Bless the girls,” he said quietly. “The ones who got names after they stopped bein’ believed. The ones they warned us about instead of listenin’ to.”

His hands trembled now.

“And if I’m wrong,” he said. “If I’m seein’ ghosts where there ain’t none — take this from me. Please. I don’t want it.”

The church creaked.

Not loud. Just enough.

The sunlight shifted, crawling further up the altar like something alive.

Ony lifted his head.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “But if faith is real — if You real — then don’t let me use You as a cover. Don’t let me preach quiet just to stay safe.”

He pressed his forehead to the pew in front of him.

“Teach me how to stay good without stayin’ blind.”

The silence deepened.

And beneath it — not a voice, not words — Ony felt it.

The land knew him now.

Not as a son. Not as a preacher’s boy. Not as someone passing through.

But as someone who had spoken to God without flinching.

When he stood, his legs shook.

Nothing dramatic happened. No thunder. No angels. No answers wrapped neat and shining.

Just this:

The church no longer felt like a hiding place.

It felt like a witness.

And Ony understood — with a clarity that scared him worse than any dream —

Faith wasn’t going to save him from what came next.

But it would not let him lie his way through it either.

blkkizzat

YAKUZA!TOJI X MILF!READER —aka toji on some joe goldberg bullshit

🎞️ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟑:

⟢ rating: mdni 18+ stalking, yuji is yakuza!sukuna x reader child, toji is still delulu af, breast milk kink, size-kink, milf kink, breeding kink, voyeurism, dilf!toji, minor smut, mentions of cheating, dissociative fantasies, sukuna is an asshole, it gets steamer in this chapter, cat and mouse dynamics, killing fantasies, obsessive tendencies, heavy manipulation, brooding, yandere fluff, cute kid megumi and yuji, family dynamics.

⟢ episode run time: 𝟏𝟓.𝟕𝐤 ⟢ episode list: m.list ⟢ subscriber access: please comment on m.list to be tagged, rather than individual episodes as its easier for me to track. ⟢ director's note: e3 is finally here!! sorry it's literally been a whole ass year lol. i hope it's worth the wait as it's more words than p1+p2 combined lol. lots of things happening in this chapter and it gets pretty steamy ;)

"FUCK YOU AND FUCK THIS RING!"

The wide glass pane rattles in its frame as you slam the balcony door open.

Across the gap, Toji retreats into the shadows. Dropping his cigarette low by his hip to remain unnoticed.

Although, he probably didn’t need to move at all—seeing as how the fury fueled determination etched across your beautiful features has you looking like a woman on a mission.

With a small cry, you hurl a tiny gold object Toji can only assume is an engagement ring over the edge—the jeweled metal glinting in the moonlight a brief second before vanishing into the darkness.

Atta girl, mamas.

Toji knew you wouldn’t go through with it.

Marrying Sukuna—you couldn’t.

Proof that the seeds of doubt Toji planted in your heart were sprouting rather nicely.

And if Toji got his way, he’d soon plant his seeds in other places inside of you too.

tonycries

THUNDER!

Synopsis. First time manhandIing you = his first time going wild.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, manhandIing, pússydrúnk men, STRONG JJK men, rough s, choking, bending, pulling, spítting, getting tied up, matíng presses, true form Sukuna, dp, tummy buIges, cervíx kíssing, GOJO’S POWERS, cursed energy, they go FÉRAL, dúmbifícation, running from it, creampíes, slight cúmplay, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. Have a little surprise for you babygirls at the end~

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - P*ssy KiIler!

“Oh, Toji—ngh! Toji-”

“Whaaaat?” Toji himself can’t help but roll his verdant eyes, smushin’ those cute cheeks of yours together as you squeal. “Got somethin’ to say to me, mama?”

And the only thing you can do is whine- each n’ every babbling word being pushed out of your lungs by his furious hips. He was grinding you into the mattress with his reddened tip, like he was trying to leave you spellbound.

Like he was trying to make you gape, eyes snapping open at the wad of saliva that glues to the side of your lips. Toji’s spitting between your puffy mouth and thumbing it messily all over, snickering. “Maybe this’ll help ya say it straight, heh…”

“I-I want-” Almost proving his point, you’re clawing at the roughened hand that keeps a firm grip on your face. Hiccuping, “I want you to…manhandle me, Toji.”

fayesarchive-deactivated2025101

— °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･CRAVE

summary: you’re ovulating, you dont wanna ask onyankapon for what you want but he doesn’t play that beat around the bush shit.

wc: 3.4k

cw: onyankapon x black!fem reader, smut (mdni) dom!ony, established relationship, raw sex (use protection), PIV, oral sex, use of papa & daddy (whats new), slight brat taming, light restraint, edging, teasing, ony ate it through your panties, reader is ovulatingggg, ᥫ᭡ = y/n

Onyankapon was stretched across your bed, black t-shirt riding up just enough to show his happy trail and a sliver of his toned stomach. He had a fresh taper fade, that small silver stud in his nose and his diamond earrings catching the light when he turned his head. He had one arm behind his head and the other lazily scrolling his phone, looking like he was way too comfortable.

Your body still felt like it was buzzing from earlier, the way he had pressed against you while you forced him to watch the new ‘Wednesday’ episode that just came out, leaving heat pooling low between your thighs. You were ovulating, and every brush of his hand against you had left your skin tingling, a sharp ache curling deep inside. He was rubbing up on you just enough to make you think something might happen, especially because you were wearing nothing but a skims sleep wear tank top and a pink lace thong that clung to your curve of your hips.

He just slid back onto his phone after the episode like none of it mattered. Even now, lying sideways across him, every stretch, every shift, made you painfully aware of the way he fit against you, too close to ignore, and how badly you wanted more.

“Ony,” you called after staring at him for at least 10 seconds, you grew irritated as he didn’t even look at you once.

“Hmm?” He hummed, eyes not leaving the screen.

“You came over just to ignore me?” you asked, your voice carrying that edge of attitude only he got from you. You were lying sideways across him, your curly flip-over spilling over his chest, but he barely looked up.

A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Don’t start. I’m right here. Ain’t I?”

“Yeah, you here but not paying attention to me,” you shot back, reaching up to snatch his phone out his hand and laid it beside you. He let you take it, didn’t even fight you for it—just watched with that lazy, unreadable look in his eyes like he was two steps ahead of you already.

“Then what you want, mama?” His voice was low and steady, chest vibrating under your ear as he spoke.

You shifted, climbing up so you were half on top of him, your thigh brushing against his waist. “Want you to take a nap with me. Like a real nap. Stop scrolling.”

He tilted his head, brown eyes flicking over your face. “You tryna babysit me now?”

You rolled your eyes, settling your cheek on his chest anyway. “Boy, hush. Just shut up and sleep. Only 30 minutes.”

Ony sighed through his nose, but his arm came around you anyway, hand resting heavy on your waist. You lay there for a moment before reaching down and played with the waistband of his basketball shorts, he raised his eyebrows and watched your hand toying with his shorts. For a while he just let you do it, it was quiet—the hum of your fan, and your guys’ breathing syncing up. You almost believed he’d actually go to sleep and not take the hint until you heard your name break the silence as soon as you started toying with the band of his boxers too.

“ ᥫ᭡.” he murmured, letting his hand linger just a little against your side. He looked at your finger run just under the waistband.

“What?” you said, shifting to look at his face, a little caught off guard.

His expression still unreadable, but the way his eyes glinted told you he wanted you to tell him what you wanted. No, what you needed. “You gon’ tell me what you want for real, or just actin’ like I’m supposed to read your mind?”

Your stomach twisted, heat pooling low as his words sank in, thick and teasing. You swallowed, fingers still grazing the edge of his boxers, every glance from him made it impossible to act casual. He noticed the hesitation and the flicker of attitude on your face—the way he would always make you say out loud always had you embarrassed every single time.

“I taught you to speak your mind didn’t I? You don’t get anything if you don’t tell me what you want. Y’know better. Don’t start with your attitude either, jus’ tell me what you want.” He wasn’t moving yet, just leaning back, brown eyes locked on yours, waiting patiently.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, sat up a little, letting your body press fully against his chest. “I—didn’t actually wanna take a nap, I want dick.” you murmured, voice low, almost teasing yourself as much as him.

Ony’s smirk widened, that lazy, cocky confidence radiating off him as he let his hand drift from your waist down to your hip, fingers brushing just enough to make your pulse spike. “Mmm, thought so.”

His palm slid down over the dip of your ass, squeezing once before dragging his fingers back up to your waist, slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. That smirk on his face made your stomach flip, because he wasn’t rushing—he never did.

“You could’ve said that five minutes ago instead of playin’ with me,” he drawled, voice deep, carrying that sharp edge of authority. He shifted under you, his length pressing against your thigh now, proof he’d been waiting on you. “But nah, you wanna sit here actin’ like I’m s’posed to read your mind. Open your mouth and say it again. Proper this time. What you want, mama?”

Your breath hitched, heat flooding your cheeks. The demand in his tone had your stomach tightening, thighs pressing closer together.

“I want you, Ony,” you whispered, almost a whine.

He clicked his tongue, and shook his head. “Nah. You want dick, don’t you? Say it.”

Your stomach dropped, feeling both embarrassment and arousal together until you could barely think straight. “I want your dick,” you breathed, louder this time.

Ony’s grin widened, satisfied, like he’d just wrung the truth out of you. His hand sliding down to palm your ass harder, pulling you flush against him. “See how easy that was? Don’t make me force it out of you next time. You know you only gotta ask, ma.”

“I shouldn’t need to ask for shit.” you mumbled under your breath, the embarrassment and annoyance still tingling in the back of your head. You thought you said it low enough he couldn’t hear you, but Ony heard you though, loud and clear.

His head is between your legs before you could even blink, big hand spread across your stomach to keep you down. You’re whining, tugging at the band of his shorts, but he just smirks down at you. The room was almost pitch black, the only light source was the ‘Wednesday’ title screen on Netflix from the TV.

“Nah,” he mutters, eyes heavy but sharp. “You think you just gon’ pout n’ get what you want? Where your manners at? You don’t even know how to ask.”

You huff, back arching when his hand drags slow over your thigh, stopping right at the hem of thong. “daddy, please—” you whine, thinking you can sweet talk him into giving you what you need.

“That don’t sound like you apologizin’” His voice is low, lazy, teasing but firm.

Before you can argue, he’s pulling your panties to sit snug against your folds. You bite your lip, heat shooting through you as he kisses up your thigh, not moving the fabric at all.

“Mmhm,” he hums against the cotton, hot breath making it worse. “You gon’ learn. You don’t ask… this all you get.”

Then his tongue presses against the damp spot forming, slow and teasing, licking through the fabric like he’s savoring it. The barrier between you and his tongue makes every movement feel ten times sharper, his teeth grazing, nose nudging against your clit while you squirm.

You let out a frustrated moan, trying to push his head closer, but his hand’s already pinning your hips down. “Uh-uhn’,” he mumbles against you, voice muffled through the fabric. “Take it how I give it.”

Every flick of his tongue has you trembling, whining his name, but he still doesn’t move the panties — not until he hears the exact words he wants.

Your thighs were trembling around his head, toes curling into the sheets as you whimpered, back arching up off the bed. The lace was soaked through, sticking to your folds, clit throbbing every time Ony's tongue dragged slow and rough against it through the barrier. "Papa— please," you whined, voice breaking.

Ony smirked against the damp lace, tongue pressing firmer into your clit just to make you cry out louder. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you wide open while he hummed low in his chest, the vibrations making your hips jerk.

"Please what?" he asked, finally lifting his head just enough to look at you. His lips were shiny with your slick soaking through your panties, jaw flexing as he held himself back. "Use your words."

You squirmed, frustrated tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. "Want you to take 'em off," you whispered, hips rocking against his face, chasing friction.

Ony raised a brow, unimpressed. "That's beggin'? That sound like you serious?" His hand slid down your stomach, fingers pressing over your clit through the lace, rubbing slow circles that had you gasping. "C'mon. Don't play wit' me. You wanted dick so bad, now you scared to use your mouth?"

Your head fell back, a shaky cry spilling from your lips as his fingers kept circling, circling, pressing down just enough to have your thighs trembling. You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Ony—” your voice cracked, desperate. “Please… take ‘em off. Eat my pussy. Please, I’m sorry for being disrespectful and not askin’ you.”

That was all he needed. A sharp grin spread across his face as he hooked his fingers into the sides of your soaked panties and tugged to the side.

“See? Wasn’t so hard, was it?” he muttered before diving right back in.

The first wet swipe of his tongue against your bare folds had you gasping, toes curling into the sheets. He licked deep and slow, savoring you for only a moment before sucking your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking quick and rough until your back arched clean off the bed.

“Mmm… I’m… I’m gonna… ohhh, fuckkk…” you slurred out, almost like you were drunk on his mouth.

He didn’t drag it out—just enough to get you shaking, dripping all over his mouth, thighs quivering around his head while he devoured you like he’d been waiting all night. But just as the knot in your stomach started to tighten, his mouth pulled away with a wet smack.

Your whole body jerked when he pulled away, the cool air of the room hitting your slick folds, clit still pulsing from his mouth.

"Onya!" you cried out, voice sharp with frustration.

He just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lips glistening, that same smug grin pulling at his face. "Relax, baby. Didn't I give you what you begged for? Thought you was bouta cum on my tongue in two more seconds."

You whimpered, hips grinding up helplessly, but Ony's already climbing over you, his body covering yours in one smooth motion. His hand pinned your wrists above your head, pressing them into the sheets like they belonged there, while the other tugged his shorts and boxers down just far enough to free his length.

The heavy weight of him slapped against your thigh, hot and leaking, dragging against your soaked folds and resting heavy on your stomach. Your breath caught once you felt it.

He leaned down just enough for his lips to brush your ear, “You gon’ take this shit like you grown.” He pushed in, thick head stretching you open, your walls clenching around him instantly.

Both of you groaned, his breath stuttering as he sank deeper, inch by inch, until he bottomed out and pressed flush against your hips.

Your nails clawed at his trapped hand, the stretch burning so good it made tears blur your vision. "Fuuuck, you feel so big-"

Ony cut you off with a sharp roll of his hips, the sudden friction making you choke on a moan. He smirked down at you, watching your face twist, eyes rolling back as he set a pace-deep, deliberate strokes that made your body sing.

"You wanted dick, right? Wanted me to fuck the shit out of you?" His voice was steady even as his thrusts grew rougher, each one punching the breath out of you. "Say that it again. Louder."

"I-" you cried out, his hips snapping harder against you, the slap of skin filling the dark room. "I wanted it, Pa! Wanted your dick-ahhh, fuckkk—wanted it so bad!"

Ony’s smirk widened, teeth flashing in the dim light, as he tightened his grip on your hips and slammed into you harder, making the bed creak beneath you, you almost thought it was gonna break. “There she is,” he growled, voice low and rough.

“Say thank you, baby. We just talked about your manners.” He grinned, eyes locked on your face like he was trying to memorize every expression.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou,” you chanted.

He was fucking you like he was mad at you, and it was exactly what your body needed—every month, when you were ovulating, it screamed for him.

Your head fell back, moaning his name as he began picking up the pace, hips snapping eep and unrelenting, every thrust stretching you wide, filling you completely. His free hand slid from your wrist to grip your neck gently but firmly, tilting your head just enough so he could watch your face contort with pleasure.

“Ohhh, Ony… fuckkk, harder!” you cried, body trembling under him, slick coating both of you as your walls clenched around his thick cock. Your nails dragged down his back, 100% leaving evidence for anyone he took his shirt off around.

He leaned down, lips brushing your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin. “You gon’ cum for me, ma? You gon’ let me hear my pretty little pussy scream?”

“Yes! Oh god, yes!” you screamed, thighs shaking as his thrusts hit every sensitive spot. Your chest rose and fell violently, heart hammering against your ribs.

Ony chuckled low, growling as he slammed into you again and again, each one rougher than the last. “That’s it… take it, take all of it,” he panted, watching your face twist in pure ecstasy, “cum on my cock, ma. Make it messy.”

Your walls clenched, heat snapping through you like electricity, mouth open in a loud, shaky moan as your body convulsed around him. He held you tight, driving through your orgasm until you were shivering beneath him, legs trembling and clinging to him like your life depended on it.

Ony’s hips starting thrusting harder, more sloppy. Every clench of your walls making his eyes start to roll back. “Shit… fuck,” he groaned, gripping your hips tight.

His thrusts snapped harder, ragged moans spilling out as he came deep inside you, warm and pulsing, face buried near your shoulder, milking his orgasm as much as possible. You shuddered under him, still trembling from your orgasm, slick coating both of you.

You could barely even talk, body melting under his weight, heart racing, still buzzing from the pleasure of him filling you completely. He stayed there, holding you close, letting both of you come down from the high together.

He pressed his forehead to yours, voice softer now. “Aight… we can take that nap for real now.”

You let out a relieved breath, curling closer. “Mhmm… don’t move.”

“I wont,” he murmured, hand settling heavy on your waist. “We nap together, just like you “wanted”.”

otakufilms

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

baby makin’. onyankopon.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 6.7K, original!blackfemreader, husband!onyankopon, mechanic!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, southernwife!femreader, shy!femreader, jealous!onyankopon, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, breeding kink!, floor sex, doggy style, pet names, dirty talk, aggressive pet names, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, pussy eating, dick sucking, overstimulation, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— couldn’t even tell you where this one came from, had a lot on my mind. but it’s nasty, real southern, real black, real cutesy. enjoy, teehee.

ビジュアル。ビジュアル。

ASKING YOUR HUSBAND FOR ANOTHER BABY WASN’T ON THE AGENDA TODAY. It happened in the exact way it had the first time—your body trembling and writhing, brainless as you released those three words to him. However, you couldn’t lie to yourself. This was kinda your fault.

It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, either. Being fucked so good your mind went blank sounded like a treat, but it wasn’t all in the matter of how you got there, but more so why.

You’d been with Onyankopon for about three years now, still reeling from the excitement of newlywed bliss each time you stared down at your ring. You had also welcomed your baby boy into the world, Asaan, motherhood bringing you a sense of peace and patience you’d never had your entire life.

It was perfect, really. You had a modern farmhouse in Arabi, Louisiana. Wrapped in crisp white siding with black trim, surrounded by sprawling land where the sunsets painted the sky in hues of gold and lavender every evening. Close enough to New Orleans for convenience, but far enough to feel like you had your own private paradise. The open concept living space always smelled like vanilla and clean linen from the candles you burned while cleaning—floors so shiny you could see your reflection as you chased after little five month old Asaan crawling around.

And Onyankopon? God. Even after a long day at his auto shop in the city—grease under his nails, muscles aching from lifting engines all day—he never failed to make sure you felt cherished. He’d walk through that door, drop his bag by the stairs, and immediately scoop up Asaan with one arm while pulling you into his chest with the other.

His deep voice rumbled against your ear, “Missed y'all like hell.”

No matter how tired he was, he’d sit at that kitchen island just to watch you move around cooking dinner—his heavy lidded eyes traced every sway of your hips as if he hadn’t memorized them already.

Even when work drained him dry—Never cold. Never dismissive. Just a kiss pressed to your temple before bed, or calloused fingers grazing over yours when he thought you needed reassurance more than he needed rest—because loving y’all came easy for him, even when life didn't always match up that way.

But today.

Today had been a little—different.

likesuperpretty

now & forever

hi! pwinkprincess here ! a year later & im ready to return. i had to bring back the beloved ony fic! both part 1 and part 2 is included. enjoy ;).

15k. words

you and onyankopon rarely argue. you’re his good girl, you never had a remark or debated with anything he said. he would never tell you anything to hurt you or put you in harm's way which is why you allowed him to be the provider and the thinker of the relationship while you just had to be pretty and spend his money. it’s a dynamic that the both of you liked and preferred. another reason why the dynamic works so well is because onyankopon is naturally dominant, he tends to take over situations without even trying. that goes for both his personal and business life.

you hated when those moments of tranquility between the two of you got interrupted from emotions and overthinking. both you and onyankopon are very secure people, there’s no qualms about attractiveness and if your personalities matched up. but, at the end of day you’re human. and with onyankopon being your first ever serious boyfriend, you sometimes doubted yourself and even worse; him and the relationship. you couldn’t help it! you really couldn’t, you tried to remind yourself that onyankopon has never given you a reason to doubt him but your overthinking didn’t care.

your bottom lip pokes out as your glossy eyes reread the map. onyankopon’s location is nowhere to be found and your man always shares his location with you. most of the time, the roles were reversed and he was very stern about you sharing your location with him 24/7. you couldn’t understand why he’d suddenly stop sharing it with you. your heart thumps heavily in your chest as you instantly start thinking about the worst.

“when’s the last time y’all talked?” zinnia asks. she sits beside you, a look of irritation is etched onto her face.

fayesarchive-deactivated2025101

thinking about onyankapon playing with collegestudent!reader’s pussy while driving her home from the club…hmmmm..

cw: onyankapon x fem!black reader, smut (mdni), p!link included, established relationship, clit play, fingering while driving, dom!ony, reader is drunk, mention of liquor, lowk just foreplay, use of papa, not proofread (ignore typos)

visual

Ony was really planning on lecturing the whole ride home when you called him to come pick you up because you’d been slacking lately. He sighed when he answered the phone, your voice slurring but still understandable enough for him to hear you the first time.

He was quiet at first, but that silence wasn’t peace—it was tense. One hand on the wheel, the other resting heavy on your thigh almost immediately after you stumbled in the car like it belonged there, his thumb tapping like he was counting down before he snapped.

The second you slid into the passenger seat, the smell of liquor clinging to your skin, you leaned across the console with a sloppy grin. “Hiii, papa,” you dragged it out, plump lips puckered as you tried to press a kiss to his lips. Your words were all syrupy and sweet, but your body was clumsy, damn near falling into his lap. Onyankapon caught you with one hand on your shoulder, jaw tight. “Sit back.” His voice was flat, firm, as he guided you into the seat like you were a child who couldn’t stay still. You back hit the cold leather as you looked at him, “Why you dont wan’ kiss m—“

“You not actin’ right.” he cut you off, shifting gears and putting his foot on the gas. You didn’t even question it, the corners of your glossed lips dipped into a frown as you turned your head to look out the window. That look he always caught you making when he wasn’t kissing your ass.

He looked over at you real quick before putting his eyes back on the road. “You out here actin’ like you grown, but can’t handle your responsibilities. Think everything a joke till it’s not. Skipping class, not pickin’ up when I call, drinkin’ like you ain’t got shit to do tomorrow…you think that’s responsible? That’s childish, mama. I ain’t raise no little girl, I got a woman sittin’ next to me, right?”

You and Onyankapon had only been dating for four -ish years, and he always said that to you when you needed to be checked—even though he’s just a few years older than you. Still, he loved reminding you how disorganized and all over the place you were before him, like he took pride in being the one who steadied you.

As much as you shouldn’t, you always got turned on when he talked to you like this. When you were sober, you usually would hide it and let him have lecture you but since you’re not you weren’t hiding it as well (the fact that you were already thinking about him while you were out wasn’t helping at all.)

You slouched in the passenger seat, hiccuping softly, braids falling across your face. “Mmm… you always so serious,” you murmured, tilting your head just enough to lock eyes with him. Your voice was thick with the shots you took before you left.

Without warning, you shifted in the seat, turning your body toward him. Your hand reached to drag slow across his chest, down his torso, fingers pressing into him like you needed something to hold onto. He always looked good but he looks extra good tonight for some reason, you just wanted to be in his skin.

“…you don’t wanna love on me?” you slurred, lips curling into a drunk grin. “You look s’good right now. I was thinkin’ ’bout you the whooole time… look.”

You fully turned to him so your back was to the door, spread your legs, slid your dress up over your thighs, bare pussy on display, slick already glistening, dripping down your entrance.

Ony’s grip on the wheel twitched when he seen you just spread yourself open without a second thought while he was driving. He was a little taken-aback because you didn’t even hesitate to expose yourself to him in a public space, which was unlike you. It was also a late Saturday night so it’s not like there was nobody on the road, you just didn’t give a fuck.

“You—” he mumbled as he stared at your drooling pussy, visibly pulsing like it was begging for him before he even touched you. His hand dragging down his face before it landed heavy on your inner thigh, palm caressing your skin, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth as you watched his hand moving dangerously close to where you need him. “You sittin’ here wet as fuck while i’m tryna talk to you.”

But instead of pulling away, his thumb pressed down, lazily circling your clit. The wheel stayed steady in his other hand, but his voice dropped lower, teeth gritted. “Got me riskin’ our life ‘cause you don’t know how to behave.” The sudden stimulation you’ve been waiting for all night made you let out a soft moan, close your eyes and your head loll back, hitting the tinted window behind you.

Ony’s thumb dipped lower, brushing against the wetness pooling at your entrance, then slid back up in a slow, calculated stroke. Soft, breathy moans spilling from your lips, louder this time, messy and unrestrained.

“You wasn’t paying attention to shit I said when you sat your ass in here. You need to listen to me,” he demanded, voice firm, even while his thumb worked your clit slow, steady, making your thigh tremble uncontrollably. Your nails dug into the leather seat, your pussy clenching around nothing.

“…I am papa,” you breathed, voice breaking into a whine, head tipping back against the window, eyes glassy and unfocused, your mind hazy with nothing but him.

Onyankapon’s lips curved into the smallest smirk, like he had heard something funny. “Mhm…you always say that when I’m makin’ you feel good. You not listenin’.”

You weren’t, you could only look down at his finger as gradually sped up, shivering, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

“Y-yeaahhh I ammm… ohhh fffuck…” you moaned, your back arching off the door behind you.

The streetlights flashed past the windshield, casting sharp shadows over his face as he drove like it was nothing, smooth and steady, yet his pace never faltered.

His thumb pressed tighter, sliding down again to gather more of your slick before dragging it back up, spreading it slow over your swollen clit. He started shaking his head, eyes locked on the road, knuckles flexing on the wheel.

Your body jolted at the sharper stroke, thighs twitching, a high-pitched whimper slipping out before you could bite it back. “P-please, I am, I’m listenin’, I swear—”

“No,” he cut you off, voice steady but edged with heat. “You hearin’ me, but you not takin’ it in. Always gotta have shit my way before you learn.” His words were calm, but the pressure of his thumb contradicted every ounce of patience in his tone, circling faster, harder, dragging sounds out of you that filled the car louder than the engine.

Your hands flying to his forearm, clinging like you needed him to slow down, but your hips betrayed you—grinding, chasing more of what he gave. Your voice cracked around a moan, incoherent.

Ony’s had a look in his eyes like he was contemplating stopping the car in the middle of the street and just fucking you right there as you were moaning his name like its all you knew. Your slick dripping down his seat, moans spilling out with no rhythm or restraint. He tried to keep it light to keep his focus on the road, but the sound of you, the heat rolling off your body, the way you were damn near crying for him—it pushed him over that line.

“Man, fuck this…” he growled under his breath, his hand left the wheel for half a second, snapping your thighs open wider before two of his thick fingers slid inside you without warning. The wet squelch filled the car, your gasp ripping through the air, sharp and needy.

Your body jerked, nails clawing deeper at the leather, eyes rolling back as your walls clenched tight around him. “Ohnnnyyy—ahhh! Ohmygod—”

Ony started dragging it out, fucking you on his fingers slow, thumb barely grazing your clit just enough to keep you twitching but not enough to push you over. Your little whines and the way your hips chased his hand had him twitching in his pants, but he kept that same steady pace—until he felt your walls start to grip down around him. That’s when he switched it up.

“Mhm, greedy ass pussy—tryna milk my fingers like it’s dick.” his tone covered in heat, almost a growl as his fingers drove into you harder, faster, curling with every pump, thumb pressing into your clit in rough, tight circles. The sloppy sounds of your pussy filled the car, wetness spilling down his knuckles, making the leather under you damp. The sudden pace had you crying out, body jumping, thighs clamping around his wrist as cream started coating his fingers thick. “Waitwaitwait!… I’m… I’m gonna… ohhh, shiiittt…!” you cried as your eyebrows furrowed, eyes rolling back.

“Yeah, there you go,” he grunted, never slowing down while you gushed around him, messy and loud, your release dripping down to his palm. Your head fell back, mouth open on a broken moan, body jerking helplessly as he worked you through it, thumb grinding mercilessly into your clit until you were damn near sobbing, shaking under his hand.

Ony’s smirk tuned into a lazy smile as he looked at the way your legs still twitched after he slowed. He eased his fingers out slow, coated in creamy release, before suddenly shoving them in your mouth while you were try to catch your breath.

His fingers stayed in your mouth, heavy on your tongue while you sucked them clean, eyes hazy and cheeks hollowing around his knuckles. The taste of yourself coated your tongue, making your thighs press tight together as he drove like nothing was happening.

The car slowed to a stop at a red light. Ony finally dragged his fingers from between your lips, slick glistening in the passing glow of the streetlamps.

“Sit up,” he ordered, voice low and rough. His hand curled in a lazy ‘come here’ motion.

You obeyed instantly, chest rising fast as you pushed yourself off the window. He wrapped his fingers around your throat, his still-wet fingers cold against your skin.

The pressure made your breath hitch, but before you could melt all the way into it, Ony leaned in, catching your mouth in a deep kiss. His tongue slid past your lips, tasting the sweetness of your slick still lingering on your tongue, swallowing the soft whimper that left your throat.

The glow turned green, and he pulled back, dragging a thumb slow over your spit slicked plump bottom lip. “Messy ass girl. Keep it together till we get home,” he uttered, the tone in his voice let you know that he wasn’t just gonna let you doze off until the morning.

(a/n): this was supposed to be a drabble but i always get carried away LMFAOOO & im too lazy to add visuals its 2am. spare me.

mistrmoon

🍎🌿

my favorite brothers

kirsssche

apple trend

ibuprofein-deactivated20250831

F2L! Connie x Reader

↳ ❝ {It’s time to go back home and start fresh. New job, new apartment, but the only thing that isn’t new is your feelings for Connie. It’s time to take the risks you were afraid to take when you were here. Let’s watch the chemistry unfold between the two best friends with unspoken tension! } ¡! ❞

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Your suitcase wheels click over the sidewalk as you stare up at the little tan duplex. It’s smaller than you remember, but everything feels smaller when you come back grown.

You turn off your car, nerves fluttering in your chest like they used to before middle school presentations. But this isn’t middle school. This is your place now—your own apartment, your own lease, your own name stamped on a beauty business people actually book weeks out.

You did that.

And still… the first person you texted when the keys hit your palm was Connie Springer.

You hadn’t even unpacked when he texted you back.

you rlly back for good?? 👀

come to my spot tonight. everyone’s pulling up.

they all lowkey been asking bout you.

You grinned at that. Of course they were.

When Connie opens the door later that evening, his chain glints against his chest and his fade was cut so clean it was just enough to make you pause. He’s taller than you remember and he has way more muscle too. Not in a gym-head way, but in a man-who’s-filled-out kind of way.

He leans against the doorframe, just… grinning.

“Damn,” he says, eyes running over you like he didn’t expect you to actually look this good. “You really came back.”

“I really did.” You smirk. “You gon make me stand out here like I’m selling girl scout cookies or…?” He laughs, stepping aside. “You still talk shit the same.”

“And you still got that big ass head.”

He shuts the door behind you with a laugh and pulls you into a hug that melts something in your chest. It’s warm. But it hits different now. Your hips brush. His hand slips a little lower than you expect. And neither of you say anything about it.

“You smell good,” he mumbles into your neck. “Connie,” you warn, playful but breathless. “Just sayin’.” He pulls back with that boyish smile that used to get him out of every detention. “C’mon. They’re in the living room.”

You walk through his house—low music playing, smells like pizza and hookah. The second you step into the room, it’s like a wave.

“YO—” Jean is the first to jump up, arms flailing like you were just announced on a game show. “IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS?!”

“Look at her!” Sasha yells from the couch, already reaching for a slice mid-hug. “You’re grown grown now, huh?”

You laugh, hugging each of them as they take turns talking over each other—Armin smiling sweetly, Eren pulling you into a bone-crushing hug, Onyankopon giving you a smirk and saying, “The city got you lookin’ real nice,” like the damn flirt he is.

Even Ymir, who used to tease you endlessly in middle school, throws you a look and a low, “Took you long enough to come back.”

You settle into the couch between Sasha and Connie, your thigh pressed up against his. His cologne lingers near your shoulder. He doesn’t move away.

“You still doing lashes?” Armin asks politely. “Yeah,” you nod. “I got my own studio now.” Connie turns his head toward you, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Boss lady.”

“Always have been,” you say, not missing the way his eyes lower just a little.

The night continues with old stories—Connie telling everyone how you used to make him eat glittery mud pies when you were five, Sasha reminding you of the time you beat a boy up in third grade for trying to cut Connie’s hair with safety scissors.

“You always had my back,” Connie murmurs once the noise quiets a little. You look at him, your head tilted slightly. “You had mine too.”

He leans in closer—low enough that only you hear. “Still do.” Your heart stutters. This was different. Not childhood-friends different. Not just playful jokes and snaps. Not even those flirtatious DMs you used to exchange when you missed him too much at night.

This was him looking at you like a grown man who just realized the girl he used to share a tub with… is the same woman he might not want to let slip again. He watches your lips for a second too long, then looks up with a lazy smile. “You tryna ride with me after this? I wanna take you somewhere.” You blink at him, heartbeat thudding. “Take me where?”

“Not tellin’,” he shrugs. “Just trust me.”

You say your goodbyes with hugs and promises to catch up again soon, but Connie lingers by the car door with his keys already in hand, glancing at you like he’s waiting to be told yes.

You give him a look and nod toward his car. “I’m ready.”

He doesn’t grin too wide, doesn’t say anything cocky—just opens the passenger door for you and lets the moment breathe. You slip inside, the familiar scent of black ice air freshener and something distinctly him wrapping around you instantly.

As he pulls out of the driveway, the quiet settles in easy. He turns the music low, something bassy and smooth playing beneath the hum of the tires. “Where are we going?” you ask, arms folded lightly, relaxed.

“You’ll see.”

You glance at him. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His eyes are focused on the road but flick toward you with that slow, side-smirk. The streetlights hit his jawline just right, and it makes your stomach twist unexpectedly.

You’d seen that face a hundred times. But tonight it felt like a new version of it.

Eventually, he pulls up to an empty park—one you both used to ride your bikes through as kids. The playground’s still here. The same wooden swings. The old metal slide that burned like hell in the summer.

“I used to think this park was huge,” you murmur, stepping out. “You were, like, three feet tall,” he grins, shutting the car door behind him. “Everything felt huge back then.”

You both stand in the grass, the air warm and quiet. Just cicadas, the low hum of a far off car, and your own breath catching slightly as he looks at you. He points to the swings. “Sit with me?”

You nod, walking with him across the grass, your shoulder brushing his for just a second too long. You sit, your thighs touching the worn wood. He sways side to side. “You remember when you cried ’cause I wouldn’t let you push me?”

“You told me I was too weak!” you gasp, laughing. “You were!” You bump his swing with your foot, and he pushes back gently, a lazy smile on his face.

“You haven’t changed,” you murmur.

He glances at you.

“Still big-headed. Still annoying. Still Connie.”

But the way you say his name—soft and low—makes his smile fade into something a little more serious. You’re both quiet for a second. The kind of quiet that means something.

He leans back, letting his swing rock, then looks over at you again, eyes darker now. “You remember when you left?” Your throat tightens slightly. “Of course.”

“I didn’t really tell anyone,” he says. “But… that shit sucked.” You glance down. “I was gonna tell you something after graduation. And then you told me you were actually moving, and I just—couldn’t.”

“What were you gonna tell me?”

He turns toward you slowly, swing creaking. His voice drops a little lower. “That I wanted you to stay for me.” The air in your lungs goes still.

“But now,” he says, standing up and walking in front of you. “You’re back. And I don’t wanna mess this up rushing it or saying the wrong thing.” Your eyes search his.

“So just let me do one thing,” he murmurs. “Just one.” You nod—barely, breath caught somewhere between your chest and lips. And then his hand cups your cheek. And your lips meet. It’s not clumsy or rushed. It’s slow—like he’s savoring the moment, like he’s been waiting years to make sure it was real.

His lips are soft. Warm. He kisses you like he already knows what he’s been missing.

And when he pulls back, his forehead leans into yours. His thumb grazes your jaw. “Damn,” he breathes, voice low. “I knew it’d feel like that.” You smile, heart racing.

“I should get you back,” he whispers, even though neither of you move.

He drives with the windows down. The night air hits his face, but it doesn’t cool him down at all. Your kiss is still on his lips. Still. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, then runs one hand down his face.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, grinning like an idiot. He’s kissed girls before. Hookups, parties, flings—but that?

That was the kind of kiss that comes with childhood memories. With birthday parties and school field trips. With FaceTimes and missed chances and quiet prayers that one day you’d find your way back.

He wanted to turn around. Drive back to you. Knock on your door just to ask for another but he lets the night hold it for now. He knows there’ll be more.

There has to be. Because this time? You weren’t leaving. And neither was he.

The faint scent of eyelash glue and rosewater clings to the air in your studio, your playlist drifting lazily through the bluetooth speaker as you wipe down your lash bed. Your last client left not even fifteen minutes ago, and you’d just unclipped your apron when a knock taps twice on the glass door.

You glance up and your breath catches. Connie. Standing there in sweats, white tee hugging his chest, and a brown paper bag in hand. Brows furrowed slightly like he’s annoyed by how good you look behind that counter—or maybe annoyed at himself for still thinking about that kiss two nights ago.

You grin and unlock the door. “You stalking me already?” you tease, holding it open. He shrugs, walking in like he’s been here a million times before. “Maybe,” he says, lips twitching. “Or maybe I just figured you didn’t eat yet, and I brought your dramatic ass lunch.”

You roll your eyes but the smile’s already spreading across your lips. “Where’s it from?”

“That one dominican spot off Monroe. You like chicharrón and tostones, right?”

You blink. “Connie…”

“What?” he grins. “You think I forgot how you used to beg my mom for fried plantains on the way home from school?”

You bite your lip, turning away so he won’t see your face heating up. “You remembered.”

“Course I did.” His voice drops a little. “I remember everything about you.”

You pause, facing the counter again and unbagging the food, your fingers fidgety all of a sudden. You feel him move behind you—close, not quite touching, but near enough that the heat of his body finds your skin through the cropped tank you’re wearing.

He leans a little closer, voice soft. “Studio’s nice, by the way.” You glance at him over your shoulder. “You haven’t even seen all of it yet.”

“I’ve seen enough.” His eyes drag down your back, stopping right where your waistband dips.

Your breath skips. He’s not even trying to be slick. You slide the food onto the counter, needing to do something with your hands, but Connie reaches forward slowly, catching your wrist before you pull away.

His thumb brushes over the top of your hand. “I been thinkin’ about that kiss,” he says quietly. You look up at him.

He’s watching you with a crease between his brows—that frown he gets when he’s focused, a little too intense, like he’s caught in his own head. It’s always been attractive, even when you were teens. But now?

Now it makes your knees weak. You reach up without thinking, smoothing your fingers over the furrow between his eyebrows.

“I love when you do that.” His lips twitch. “Do what?”

“That little frown. Like you’re mad at how bad you wanna kiss me again.”

That gets him. He moves fast—but still gentle—crowding you against the counter. One arm slips around your waist. The other cups the side of your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek like he’s trying to memorize it.

“I am mad,” he murmurs, lips inches from yours. “Mad it took this long.” Your lips part just as he closes the space, and this kiss is deeper. Slower. Like he’s been holding back and finally lets go.

You hum against his mouth, tilting your head just enough to deepen it, your fingers sliding under his shirt. He groans softly—low in his chest—and pulls your hips flush to his.

When he pulls away, it’s only a breath between you. His thumb traces your lower lip. “You free tonight?” You nod, dazed. “Yeah.”

“Come over.”

“What if I say no?” you tease, breathless.

He smirks, that damn frown still lingering in his brow. “You won’t.”

Your heart stutters. “What should I bring?”

“Just you,” he murmurs, dropping another kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Bring that mouth too. You talk a lot of shit. Might have to shut you up.”

You blink at him, heat pooling low in your stomach. “Connie Springer,” you whisper, “are you flirting with me in my place of business?” He grins like sin. “Girl, I’m tryna do more than flirt.”

You almost second-guessed the outfit.

Thin top—the white one with that’s damn near see through, so tight it clung to you like a second skin. Pajama pants hugged your hips and dipped into the curve of your waist just enough to tempt. No bra, of course—you were home-bound, relaxed, real. And the cool cotton brushed just right over the subtle barbell studs beneath your shirt. But Connie told you to come comfortable.

So you did.

When he opens the door and sees you standing there, barefoot in slides, curls piled on top of your head with a few loose pieces framing your face, the look he gives you could stop time.

His eyes start at your eyes, then drift down slowly—painfully slow—to your chest. Then to your hips. Then back up to your mouth. “Yo…” he breathes. “You tryna kill me or…?”

You smirk, stepping past him like you own the place. “You said comfy.”

“I said comfy, not fine-as-hell-in-pajamas-with-your-nipples-pokin’ through,” he mutters, shutting the door behind you, gaze glued to your back as you saunter into his living room. “I can change,” you tease, turning your head just enough to glance at him.

“Nah. Don’t even play like that.”

He’s already pulling out his rolling tray, settling onto the couch with the same lazy confidence that drove girls crazy back in high school—but now it hits different. You’re the one he’s looking at like that. Like he might bend you over the coffee table if you ask sweet enough.

You sit beside him, folding your legs underneath you, watching the way his fingers move—grinding, stuffing, sealing. “You always roll this slow?” you ask, voice dipped in sugar.

“I roll perfect,” he smirks, licking the edge of the paper slow. His eyes flick up to catch yours watching. “You always stare this much?”

“I’m nosy.”

“Nah,” he chuckles, lighting it. “You’re obsessed.” He takes the first hit, then passes it to you between two fingers, fingertips brushing yours a little longer than necessary. You inhale, exhale. Let the smoke smooth the tension blooming low in your belly.

A few hits in, you’re both sunk into the couch. Closer now. Your thigh against his. Music humming low in the background—some old Brent Faiyaz track with a beat that feels like sin. Connie shifts, arm stretching along the back of the couch, fingertips grazing your shoulder. “You miss this?” he asks suddenly, voice low.

You turn to him. “This?”

“Us. Being close like this. Being… us.” Your breath hitches. “Yeah,” you admit. “I missed you more than I wanted to.”

“Same.” His eyes flick to your mouth. “And I can’t lie. Seeing you like this now… it’s different.” You blink up at him. “How different?” He leans in, close enough for his breath to ghost across your lips.

“You’re not my childhood best friend in my head anymore,” he says. “You’re the girl I can’t stop thinking about fucking.” Your heart skips. He watches your reaction—eyes heavy-lidded, frown deepening just a little, like he’s torn between saying more or doing more.

You don’t speak. You just tilt your chin up slightly. An invitation. And that’s all he needs. He kisses you. It’s heat and tongue and tension that’s been burning beneath the surface for years.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb dragging over your cheek like he’s grounding himself. Your fingers tangle in his tee, pulling him closer until you’re in his lap, thighs straddling him, hips shifting before you can stop them.

You feel him—hard through his sweats. And the groan he lets out when you move just right? Dangerous. He breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing heavy.

“You keep grinding on me like that, and we’re not making it to the bedroom,” he says, voice raw.

Your lips curl. “Who said I wanted to make it there?” He groans again, hands gripping your hips, but this time he stands—lifts you with him.

You yelp and laugh, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you upstairs. Bedroom door shuts behind him with a soft thud.

He doesn’t turn on the overhead light. Just the warm, amber glow of the lamp on his nightstand. Soft shadows play across the curve of your face as he lays you on his bed like you’re something he’s dreamed about for years—and maybe he has. He kneels between your legs, eyes trailing over your body.

“That shirt’s gotta go,” he mutters, voice hoarse.“Why?” you tease, stretching just enough to let your nipples press through the thin fabric again. His jaw clenches. That same damn frown.

“’Cause if I keep seeing those piercings through it, I’m not gonna be gentle.” And that’s exactly what you wanted to hear.

Connie’s eyes drop to the tight swell of your chest again. His voice is low, a gravel-soft rumble that sends heat crawling down your spine. “You’re really out here… with no bra. With these cute fuckin’ pajamas.” He chuckles darkly, sliding his palms along your thighs as he kneels between your legs. “What were you tryna do to me tonight, huh?” You smirk, already breathless. “Didn’t know I had to try.” That frown deepens. Fuck, he looks so sexy especially when he’s frowning.

His hands glide up—under your shirt now, rough fingers finding soft skin and stopping just below your chest. He hesitates for a second, eyes flicking up to yours. One last chance to slow this down. You don’t blink. So he pushes. Fabrics lift and pool somewhere above your head, leaving you bare beneath him—nipples hardened under the soft chill of the air, silver barbells glinting under the low lamp light.

“Fuck,” he exhales, finally seeing you. “I knew these would be pretty, but damn.” He leans in, mouth latching onto one nipple with slow, greedy intent. His tongue flicks, swirls. Teeth graze lightly. And the moan you let out shoots straight to his dick.

He switches sides, giving the other nipple the same attention—wet, warm, possessive. You arch under him, thighs squeezing around his waist, your hands tugging at his curls now as your hips roll against his bulge. “You feel that?” he growls against your skin. “That’s what you do to me.” You nod, panting. “Been thinkin’ about it.”

“Oh yeah?” he teases, pulling back just enough to slide your pajama pants down your legs. He kisses the inside of your knee, slow and teasing, before working his way higher. “Thinkin’ about what, baby?”

“How you’d touch me,” you whisper. “How good it would feel.” His hands slide up your thighs and part them slowly, kissing the crease between your hip and thigh while his fingers press to your soaked panties. He hums, low and mean.

“Damn, you’re wet through these. That wet for me?” Your whine answers for you, hips canting upward for more. He doesn’t rush. He slides your panties off like they’re silk, tossing them somewhere over his shoulder before lowering his mouth right between your thighs.

“Connie—oh fuck—”

He eats like he’s starved. Like this is something he’s craved. His tongue moves in slow, deep circles—taking his time, building you up. One arm wraps under your thigh to keep you open for him while the other hand spreads your lips just enough for him to tongue your clit with firm, focused pressure.

Every lick makes your legs twitch. Every moan makes his dick throb in his sweats. “Shit, baby,” he mutters against your pussy. “You taste so fucking good.”

He slips two fingers inside you while sucking your clit, and the rhythm he finds? Devastating. You’re grinding against his face now, both hands gripping the sheets as your climax builds and builds, thighs trembling on either side of his head.

“Connie—I’m gonna—f-fuck—”

He doesn’t stop. Not when your back arches. Not when you cry out and ride his face through your orgasm. He stays right there, holding you open, lips latched on your clit until your body shakes and your voice cracks. You’re breathless and completely wrecked. And then he’s pulling away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling deviously. “You ready for more?” he asks, climbing over you, tugging off his tee and sweats.

He’s thick, hard, and already leaking from the tip. He gives himself a few lazy strokes, eyes drinking you in. “Look at you,” he growls. “Laid out in my bed. Pretty little piercings, pussy still twitchin’. You wanted this so bad, didn’t you?” You nod, too gone to pretend.

He doesn’t even tease. He slides in with one deep, slow thrust—and fuck, he fills you out perfectly. You cry out, nails digging into his back, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

“God—Connie—”

“Yeah, baby,” he grits through clenched teeth. “You feel that? That’s what you been missin’. All these years… and now I’m finally in this pussy.”

He fucks you slow and deep at first. Each thrust dragging his length across that perfect spot inside you, his hips grinding down to make sure you feel every inch.

Your eyes flutter shut—he catches your chin. “Nah, don’t look away. You wanted this? You watch me fuck you.” You whimper, eyes locking with his. And what you see in his? Lust, yes—but something more. Want. Like he’s been waiting his whole life for this.

It builds fast. Your second orgasm has your legs shaking again, breath ragged and mouth falling open as you cry out his name. He doesn’t stop. Not even when you’re sensitive. Not even when your body’s too weak to hold on.

“Think you can give me one more?” he whispers, breath hot against your neck. “I don’t know—”

“You can,” he says, fucking you faster now. “You will. Gonna fuck you til you can’t say nothin’ but my name.” And you do.

He works that last one out of you with your legs shaking around his waist, pussy clenching tight around him as he fucks you right through it. His thrusts get rougher, sloppier—he’s close now, groaning against your neck, body tense with the need to finish. “You want me to cum inside you?” he pants. “Want me to fill you up, baby?”

“Yes,” you cry, “yes—please—”

And that’s all it takes. He buries himself deep with a grunt, holding you still as he spills into you, body shaking from the force of it. The room goes quiet. Just your breathing. Your hearts. His weight over yours.

He kisses you again—slow this time. Sweet. Like something shifted. Like this was more than just need. You smile up at him, still dazed. “So…”

He smirks. “So I definitely wasn’t overthinking that kiss.”

The sun’s barely made it over the rooftops when you slip into your slides and grab your overnight bag from beside Connie’s bed. Your body’s still humming from last night—hips sore, throat a little scratchy from moaning his name one too many times.

You try to move quietly, but Connie stirs anyway, groaning low as he turns toward you. His chain is twisted against his chest, curls messy, voice still heavy with sleep.

“Where you goin’?”

“Home,” you whisper, leaning down to kiss him quick. “I got a client at ten. I need to shower, eat, function.” He smirks, eyes half-lidded. “You functioned fine last night.”

“Connie—” you warn, laughing as you shoulder your bag.

Outside, the air’s still crisp from the night. You slide into the driver’s seat, but before you can close the door, Connie’s there—shirtless, sweatpants hanging low, one hand resting on the roof of your car.

The sight of him like that in daylight?

Made your thighs clench and pussy pulse.

“You could shower here, y’know,” he says casually. “I’ll even make breakfast.”

“I don’t have my stuff here.”

“You have me here.”

You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “I told you, I have a client.” He leans in, forearms braced against the frame of your door, so close you catch the faint scent of his skin and whatever soap clings to him from last night.

“One more kiss before you go.” You laugh but oblige, leaning up to press your lips to his. It’s meant to be quick—polite almost—but Connie tilts his head, catching your lower lip between his for just a second too long.

And suddenly your hand’s on the rim of his sweatpants again, his thumb stroking the side of your jaw, the kiss deepening in lazy, sleepy waves.

When he finally pulls back, you’re breathless. “Connie…”

“Yeah?” he says, smirk tugging at his lips.

“Close my door.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Nah.” You groan. “You’re wasting my time.”

“I’m spending it.” You can’t help but laugh, leaning back in your seat. “Please. Let me go get ready.”

“Say you’ll come over tonight.” You blink up at him. “I just left.”

“Say it,” he insists, frown pulling between his brows in that way you’ve learned means he’s not budging. You sigh dramatically. “Fine. I’ll come over tonight.” The grin he gives you could power the whole block. “Good. Now you can go.”

Finally, he steps back, but not before dragging his hand slowly along the top of your car door, fingertips brushing yours on the handle. You close it and start the engine, his figure still in your side mirror as you back out.

You know damn well he’s gonna be on your mind the entire drive home.

Your studio smells faintly of coconut oil and the floral scent of a burning candle, the early sunlight spilling across your work table. You’ve got your playlist on low, tools neatly laid out, and your first client of the day reclined in your lash chair.

You should be in the zone. Isolating each lash, dipping, placing. Perfect retention. But your mind? Not here.

Your hands are steady, but every time you blink, you see Connie—half-awake, voice rough, arm still heavy across your waist before you slid out of bed this morning. The way he leaned into your car door shirtless, the way that “one more kiss” turned into three.

You exhale slowly through your nose, refocusing on the lash in your tweezer… when your phone buzzes on the counter.

You glance at the screen.

U still thinking about me?

You bite your lip, look back at your client’s face.

Buzz.

cause i’m thinking about you

specifically… how u sounded last night

You press your lips together, tucking the phone face-down. Professional. Focus.

Buzz.

You sigh, pick it up under the guise of checking the time.

and how good u looked ridin me. might need a repeat performance tonight

Your stomach twists. Your hands—miraculously—are still steady as you isolate the next lash.

Buzz.

wear that shirt again too. the one that shows them tatas. yk I love suckin on them.

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second.“Everything okay?” your client asks, eyes still closed. “Mhm,” you hum, too quickly. “Just… business stuff.”

Buzz.

You can’t help it—you check again.

bet u already wet thinkin about it.

Your breath hitches audibly. You set your tweezers down carefully, shake out your shoulders, and will yourself to focus on the last few fans. Your client has no idea how hard you’re fighting not to squirm in your chair.

By the time you finish the set and walk her to the mirror, you’ve practically memorized every word he sent. She’s grinning at her reflection. “You ate it up again, girl.”

“Thanks,” you manage, smiling like you’re not one text away from sprinting to his place right now. As soon as she’s out the door, you pick up your phone.

you’re gonna make me mess up my clients.

then come over n i’ll mess u up instead.

You didn’t even stop to grab food. Didn’t even change. The moment your last client walked out, you swept your station with shaking hands, tossed your tools in the sanitizer, and grabbed your keys like muscle memory.

Every red light on the way over felt like Connie’s fault. By the time you’re on his street, your thighs are pressed together so tight it’s uncomfortable. You park halfway crooked in his driveway and barely knock before the door swings open.

Connie stands there, basketball shorts hanging low on his hips, his tee shirt hanging off one shoulder showing off his tattoos that trails to his fingertips, face glowing he’d just stepped out of the shower.

His smirk is slow, knowing. “You couldn’t wait, huh?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, brushing past him.

He doesn’t let you get far—hand catching your wrist, spinning you so your back hits the closed door. You gasp, your bag sliding off your shoulder to the floor. “Straight from work?” he murmurs, eyes dragging down your black scrub top, the drawstring pants, and back up to your flushed face. “Didn’t even change for me?”

You roll your eyes. “I told you, I was—” Whatever excuse you were about to make gets swallowed when he cups your jaw and kisses you—hard. You stumble forward into him, his other hand sliding down your side until he fists the waistband of your scrubs, tugging you closer.

“You’re full of shit,” he mutters against your lips. “You came here for this.” Your fingers hook into the elastic of his shorts. “And what if I did?” His smirk deepens. “Then I’m not wasting a second.”

He kisses you again—slower this time, but deeper, tongue teasing yours until your knees go weak. You barely realize he’s walking you backward until the backs of your legs hit the couch. He sits first, yanking you down into his lap, your scrubs bunched up around your thighs.

The heat of him under you makes your head spin. He’s already half-hard, and the drag of him through his shorts has you grinding down before you can stop yourself.

“Yeah,” he groans, hands gripping your hips hard. “Just like that, mama.”

You can’t hold back the small moan that slips out, your forehead pressing to his as your fingers slip under the waistband of his shorts.

It’s messy from there—scrub top pulled over your head, bra tugged down, his mouth closing around one nipple slightly bitting the barbell that sits there while his hand works between your legs. By the time your pants are gone, you’re straddling him fully, skin to skin, his cock sliding into you slow enough to make you shiver.

You cling to his shoulders, biting your lip, and his voice is low in your ear—filthy praise and half-muttered Spanish you’re too far gone to fully process.

The first round doesn’t make it past the couch.

The second is slower, in his bed, the room dim except for the streetlight glow through the blinds. He’s on top this time, one arm hooked under your knee, kissing you through every slow thrust until you’re gasping his name.

When you finally collapse into the pillows together, sweat cooling on your skin, it’s quiet except for your breathing. His arm is heavy around your waist, his other hand lazily tracing your spine.

“You know I always had a thing for you, right?” he murmurs, voice soft now, almost shy. You glance up at him, still catching your breath. “Since when?”

His smile is small but genuine. “Since forever. Back in first grade I told my mom I was gonna marry you one day. Just… never thought I’d get the chance after you moved.”

Your chest tightens, and you press your face into his neck. “You could’ve told me.”

“Yeah, and what if you didn’t feel the same? I wasn’t losing my best friend over some crush. But now…” He tilts your chin up so you’re looking at him. “Now I’m not holding back.”

You study his face for a long moment—messy curls, flushed cheeks, the warmth in his eyes—and lean in to kiss him slow. “Okay,” you whisper against his lips.

His smile is pure trouble. “That mean you’re staying the night?” You laugh softly, curling into him. “Looks like I already am.”

It’s been a week since you and Connie finally crossed the line.

One week of him not just being your best friend, but your man.

And somehow… it still feels like you two.

You’re curled up on his couch, legs tucked under you, phone in hand. He’s in the corner seat, arm hooked lazily on the back cushion, one knee bent, the other stretched out. You can feel him looking at you before you even lift your eyes.

“Why you looking at me like that?” you ask. He smirks. “Like what?”

“Like you’re up to something.”

“I am,” he says, patting his thigh. “Plotting on how to get you right here.” You give him a mock-suspicious look but climb into his lap anyway, swinging your leg over him. He settles back, hands warm on your sides, thumbs brushing under the edge of your tank top.

“That’s better,” he hums. “You know,” you say, looping your arms around his neck, “we really stressed over nothing.”

“You mean about dating?”

“Yeah. About ruining the friendship. Being awkward.” He smirks, tugging you closer so your chest presses to his. “Still feels the same to me. You’re still talking too much.” You gasp, playfully smacking his shoulder. “Wow. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Mmhm.” He leans in, lips ghosting over yours. “Prove it.”

The kiss starts slow, lips molding together lazily like neither of you’s in a rush. His hand slides up your back, the other gripping your hip, pulling you just a little closer. You tilt your head, deepening it, your fingers threading into the front of his shirt.

He hums against your mouth, and that sound alone makes you press in harder, your hips shifting in his lap without even thinking about it.

“Mm,” he murmurs between kisses, “you keep doing that…”

“…what?” you whisper against his lips. He grins, brushing another kiss over your mouth. “You know exactly what.”

You bite your lip, smiling, before pulling him into another one—this time messy, open-mouthed, your breathing picking up as his hands roam your sides and your nails graze his neck.

Your fingers grasp onto Connie’s neck when his hand slips under the hem of your tank top, palm hot against your bare waist. He hums at the contact, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your stomach twist.

It’s ridiculous how fast your breathing changes. How quick his grip on your hip turns firmer.

“You tryna kill me, ma?” he murmurs between kisses, his voice already lower, rougher. “Not my fault you’re—” your words cut off into a gasp when his hands slip lower, cupping you through your pajama pants and squeezing just enough to make you press into him instinctively.

The heat between you spikes instantly. His breath hitches, and his hands grip tighter like he’s trying to ground himself. You can feel him through his sweats, hard and twitching under you, and you know the second he realizes you’re rocking against him without even thinking about it.

“Yo…” he warns softly, but he’s still kissing you, still holding you there. You kiss him harder, chasing the taste of him, both of you breaking for air only to dive right back in. His fingers curl into the fabric of your top, almost tugging it up, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to the swell of your chest.

You’re dizzy—half from the lack of oxygen, half from the way he’s looking at you when you pull back just an inch. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, lips pink and swollen. “Connie…” you breathe, your forehead pressed to his.

He swallows hard, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw. “We keep going like this, I’m not stopping.” The words hang between you. He’s not bluffing, and you’re not sure you’d want him to anyway. But you know once you start, you won’t stop—you both do.

You let out a shaky laugh, leaning in to kiss him once more, softer this time. “Then we should probably stop.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, pecking your lips again like he’s trying to memorize them. “We should.”

Neither of you moves for a good thirty seconds. His hands are still on your hips, yours still around his neck, and you’re still sitting in his lap feeling everything.

Finally, he exhales through a grin. “First week as my bebe and you already testing my patience.”

You smirk, brushing your nose against his. “Guess I’m just making sure you really like me.”He chuckles, kissing you one more time before letting you slide off his lap. “Oh, I like you. Too much.”

And you can still feel that truth humming in your body long after you move away.

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