Synopsis. He’s a monster, he’s a m-monster (in bed, too.)
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, monsters, Venom!Toji, aIpha!Nanami, Red Hood!Geto, Choso in héat, íncubus!Sukuna, Ghostface!Ino, clan leader!Gojo, vampire!Higuruma, rough s, manhandIing, matíng presses, spítting, headIocks, overstím, marathons, true form Sukuna, dp, slight bréeding, matíng marks, breaking beds, pet names, swéaring.
A/N. Venom inspired by this post by the lovely @/screampied
♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - VENOM
“T-Toji what’s…” Your jaw drops, holding onto Toji for dear life while he drilled into you like a madman.
And while that wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary for your husband, you can’t help but feel that he’d been much rougher since the start of the night, much more…primal.
“Primal?”
You’re snapping out of your hazy lil’ reverie immediately, jaw dropping at the deep voice that seemed to come out of neither you nor Toji. “Wh-who was that?”
“Ah, well-” Toji winces. Still unstopping. “Now - don’t get mad, doll - but in the lab today I may or may not have done some snooping where I shouldn’t have.” He watches for your reaction. “And I may or may not have kinda…sorta…procured a…parasite.”
You shriek, “A parasite?”
He gulps—and before you can get out another word, what looms before you isn’t your husband anymore - it’s something humanoid but monstrous, with stark white eyes, jet-black, molasses-like skin. And the longest tongue…
“We…are Venom.”
He was so incredibly huge.
Down there, too.
And you’re instantly feeling the sheer stretch of him burrowing his thick, bulbous cocktip against your cervix. This…Venom swipes his split-ended shaft all the way against the front of your womb, easily reaching there without even trying-
“Tch, ‘course I don’t have to try.” It seems that Venom(?) Toji(?) was cooing down at you. Hammering out push after push of his hot, vein-decorated cock. Not only was he long - he was just so damn girthy as well, and you’d barely gotten used to Toji’s sheer size.
So this was drivin’ you positively wild with the way he stuck his textured shaft into each of your crevices, his velvety cock mazing back in n’ out at a blurred pace. So hard that Venom had to pin your squirming hips down with one of his overlarge hands. Keeping you from fucking escaping. “D’you want me to?”
Your eyes nearly pop out of your skull at what he was asking, “Wh-what?”
His eerie grin wides, splitting damn near half his face. Venom then leans in so close that his gusting breath wafts over your drippin’ wet cunt. “D’you want me to try?”
Hitting a thorough thud! against your g-spot.
“Y-yes–!”
And then he’s slithering two of his Stygian tendrils out almost like tentacles - one grabbing your throat and pulling you towards him after the bouncing recoil of his furious bucks, the other slidin’ sensually between your pussylips.
Finding your clit.
You’re whining out, and just as you do, Venom quivers from above you. He’s growling, he’s muttering something angrily underneath his breath- before the face of your husband surfaces where Venom’s face once was.
So his entire body was still the massive, extra-muscular figure driving ruthlessly into you.
“Enjoying yer time without your husband, are you?” His handsome face - oh, how you missed him - peers down at you with a sleazy smile. “Did you get that cockdrunk ‘nough to forget me, mama? I’m hurt.”
You’re squealing as his scarred lips pull down into a dramatic pout, and with it- his hips are only slamming into yours even harder. The honed tip of his cock pryin’ apart your plush walls and finding himself lodged into your cervix with one thrust after the other.
Since he was still maddeningly long now, you found yourself only growing stupider by the second. Your pupils swirling inside the whites of yours eyes, mouth flooding with saliva- “N-no, promise I’m not- ngh-”
“Uh uhhh, promise?” Toji mockingly questions, stirrin’ your gooey insides with his flared ridge. He’s using it as his very own spotlight, mazing through the tight channel of your pussy to find your most delicate spots.
And Toji’s tempo was much better than Venom’s, you have to admit. Because he could filthily wad out the volumes of his precum right where your hidden nooks were. “S’that why you’re drooling this much?” And that tendril he’d conjured prior still glides between your pussylips, snaggin’ against your tender orifice and pressing on your clit like a button. “S’that why you’re like a damn water park, doll?”
“C-can’t help it-” You’re huffing out with your brows knitted, you buck your hips up into his incredible cadence and find yourself getting utterly dizzy with need. “S’like you want me to get this wet.”
“Oh, how’d you know?”
“Shut it, it’s my turn now-” Toji talks, seemingly to himself but you knew it must be towards Venom. And then he’s boring his half-lidded green eyes down at you, “Of course, I wan’ you to get wet- and s’all for- hah, me- right, mama?”
“Ngh- fuck, all for you.”
And just as his plump lips start to twist into a grin- “Lies.”
You’re gaping, and Toji rolls his eyes. “Hah? As if.” Without any warning, he’s ramming one of his free hands between your jittery legs and feeling all your slick wetness.
Letting his fat fingerpads drench in all your flooded syrup, he then takes them up to his mouth and sucks them clean. Murmuring, “See? Even that damn pretty pussy of yours says she’s all wet f’me.” As if to prove his point, he’s sticking his globular cockhead against the doorway to your womb and knock-knock-knocking - your cunt answers keenly in raw squelches. “Even tastes like it.”
“The only reason she feels good is because of me.”
“Oh you fuckin’ wish.” Toji grumbles, meaty thighs sticking against yours with a clammy film of sweat. He’s hiking his lower half up further, slouched over you and pressing into your helpless cunt with both his weight and his sagging cock. “Let’s see who can make her- fuck, cum first then. Deal?”
Your heart stutters as you register his words through your buzzing eardrums. “Wh-what do you mean you’re competing-”
“Deal.”
Oh, fuck.
And you were the prize.
They’re both setting their sights on you at once- Venom attempting to fight against Toji for ownership of his body whilst he stuffed his prolonged cock into you. And Toji fervently battles just so he doesn’t lose even a second of feeling.
Of the way your quiverin’ pussy was clenching around him. Gushing. Twitching with every white-hot spark of pleasure that runs up your spine.
“Sh-shit, m’not gonna last long.” Whimpering out, tears bead at the corners of your eyes as he speeds up his vicious pumps. “If you keep going like that I won’t- hah!” Probe after bulging probe, you swear you could feel him stretch out spots you didn’t even know you had. And not only was he tunneling in with his swollen length, he was using that hold he had on your clit to squeeeeeeeze as well, ticklin’ your perky nub.
Toji grins as you start bucking wildly- Venom might be larger, but he sure couldn’t read your pretty body like your husband could. “Mmm, not too long now- huh?”
“Oho?”
“Cum f’me, then, mama.” He’s ignoring that damned parasite. “All for me- like a good girl, won’t you?” Pap after pap of clammy skin-on-skin, Toji rovers his bulging cockhead deep against your cervix. Breath hitching, “Cum—please?”
And with only a few more of his vicious strokes, you do.
Your voice cracks with so many moans, head throwing back- perfect for Toji to surge his mouth forwards and sink his teeth into your throat. Biting down. Pounding his vulgar cock into your cunt as he hits and hits your puckered g-spot.
“Yeah- all for me, all for- hah, me.” You’re holding onto his sculptured shoulders and he snickers. “See that? The way she’s holdin’ onto me- heh.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
It’s as much of an admission of defeat from Venom as he’d ever get- and even then, Venom still finds a way to slither out. Because just after your high melts away into nothing but a few zaps, he takes over- hah, how easy it was when Toji was just enamoured with how pretty you looked creaming all over his cock.
Venom looms over you, large and needy, letting his looooong slobbering tongue flop out.
“My turn now.”
♡ NANAMI KENTO - Mr. Alpha
“Fuck, I’m sorry-” Nanami rasps through the slight cracks between his teeth, and you notice the way his rough baritone seems to shake as if it was on the verge of shattering.
And your poor husband shakes like he was about to.
Holding onto your cryin’, quivering body with his headlock around you, chiselled abs pressing in from behind, his bulging cockhead probing deep into your cervix. And you’re practically putty in his hands as he draaaags you back into his body, manhandling you. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- hah! sorry.”
And he said he was - he whined he was.
Nanami just couldn’t control it, this damn rut of his left him in a frenzy. His body heat ten times hotter than it usually was, he’s folding you stupidly onto all floors. “Fuck, ngh, does- does it at least feel a little- hngh, better, Kento?”
“Yes—” He’s seething, until a few more thrusts make your gummy walls clench onto him like adhesive. “N-no…fuck, I don’t think m’ever gonna stop feeling this- hah, fever.”
“Shit, m’not gonna make it out alive-”
“Honey-” Nanami jerks your head slightly upwards to face his handsome features, and he’s spitting into your open mouth with no regrets, no apologies. “-I’m not gonna make it out alive.”
He’s been like this ever since he’d come back home from the office. He’s been like this ever since he had just enough time to explain that he’d stumbled across his rut during work. That he’d been rushed home and he can’t even remember how he got here but oh- now that he was…
Nanami drilled his thick, thumping cock into you furiously. His palm pressing you down into the kitchen counter right where he’d found you, “Fuck- fuck, fuck, fuck ngh- you’re just insatiable-”
“Oh, my love, m’not just insatiable—” His knobbly fingerpads dig into either side of your hips, hard enough that the neat crescents of his fingernails indent in there. “-I th-think m’gonna fucking- die- if I don’t- ngh, fuck this pretty pussy.”
You’re grasping at the marble platform, “Shit- y-you’re going so hard, Ken.”
“And do you not wish for-” His ringed left hand slips between your legs and swirls over your outer cunt, letting out the most lecherous sounds. “-more, darling?”
You’re gasping as his rude headlock tightens, his beefy biceps clenchin’ around your throat. “Is that so—?” Spittle flows down the side of his veiny forearm, and he’s nudging his muscles even closer. “Then tell me if it gets to- hah…rough, my love. You can bite down aaaaany time you want.”
“A-any time.” You babble away, too cockdrunk to even formulate coherent responses.
Showing absolutely no mercy.
Nanami has his powerful body hunched over, his pointed chin pushed into the crook of your neck. The slamming impacts of his hips so fucking hard that your feet dangle off of the floor, being pushed higher and higher upwards.
Your husband’s enlarged cockhead shoving against your plush walls and swabbin’ its way all around. He’s letting his veiny shaft stick to the roof of your cunt, your teeth chattering at the sheer thumps of his thrusts. “And you better bite, my love- because m’not gonna stop until-”
“Until wh-what?” You’re prattling out in a whiny tone, looking over your shoulder at what’d just left your stoic, sensible husband speechless.
Only to find that he was staring straight at your pussy with molten eyes, half-lidded and greedy. Licking his plump lips as he stares at the glistening entrance of your cunt, and Nanami was just so big - just so thick with neediness that he could nearly see himself from the outside.
Such a cute lil’ tummy bulge that he rovers his hand over, the other tuggin’ your tight hole aside so that Nanami could start to fit his swollen bulge inside. “Until I can fuck you pregnant, my love.”
Oh. Your knees weakened.
His knot.
As an alpha it was no surprise that he’d form a thick knot at his base- but this was incredible. The round circumference of his base sweetly kissin’ your pussy, “Until you can take, ngh, this-” Pushing and pushing - harder with each of his pressurized rams. “And then- even after that m’gonna- hah- fuck…fuck another one into ya.”
“Sh-shit, I’ve never heard you speak like this, Kento.” You’re whining out, your head falling behind and hitting his sharp collarbone.
He nuzzles you softly, his vanilla-like pheromones seeping out and leaving your head all dizzy. Nanami’s puffy lips drag down your throat, nipping at the side of your scent glands that made him salivate just to be near. “Mmm, s’all because you make me this way.” Push after push of his knotted hilt that tries to fit inside. Half-rutting. “Can never go back now- never. Y-you aren’t walking out of this bedroom not pregnant, darlin’.”
Gasping, “W-we’re not even in the bedroom, Kento.”
“Huh- oh.” Nanami blinks his heavy lids just a bit, so pussydrunk that he doesn’t even realize. And the moment he looks down from his surroundings and back down at you- his sweet scent flares even more. “My apologies for not- hngh, doing it right.”
Usually he’d take it slow. Take it sensual, but right now he’s fucking his furious, creaming tip into like he was crazed. “No- don’t- don’t apologies, mm, you’re in rut-”
“But I still hafta do it properly.” He’s insisting, and before you can get out another word- you’re feeling his panted hot breath distance itself just a little. As if he was pulling back. As if he was gearing up for something.
Gearing up for a few sultry seconds to bite you - straight into your cute, quivering scent glands. His honed canines puncturing through and melding your two pheromones.
“There-” He pants out between his pearly whites. “There- finally did something properly, and now…”
You’re whimpering, already knowing what’s in store for you by the way his creamy white precum floods the base of your pussy.
“Now for the fun part, my love.”
♡ GETO SUGURU - Red Hood
“Oh, giiiiirl—” Red Hood - or should you say, Geto Suguru - tips back his crimson mask to take a good, long look at you. His pretty lips curving up into a smirk, “A petty thief like you- you didn’t think you’d get away so easily, did ya?”
You pretend to bat your lashes, all the while struggling with the way he straddling your waist with his thick, sculpted thighs. “A pretty thief you said? Why thank you.”
“Petty.” Geto emphasizes, and it was only with the way you two had run into each other multiple times prior that he smiles- anyone else and you’d be in cuffs and on your way to Gotham Penitentiary by now. “Though, the other one works well, too.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Almost.”
Faux-gasping, “Almost?”
“Gorgeous.” Geto bites out, starting to ache in his pants with just how much you’d been squirming and fighting to free yourself - as if he’d let you go that easily. “You’re gorgeous, petty thief.”
Oh?
Just a few minutes later and a tough fight with skin-tight suits later found you and Geto grappling on top of his king-sized bed. Fighting for purchase of each other. Pushing the other down. A power struggle to seat yourself on top of his rock-hard cock and pin him down.
You fight the temptation to throw your head back in pleasure as his plump, mushroom tip starts to stretch you wide open. His curvaceous globe pokin’ its way inside, “Mmm, fuck- it feels s-so good.”
“S-s-so good, huh?” Geto mocks you, in a high falsetto that was much too dramatic. Even though- fuck, he could barely keep his own self together. Could barely even stop his brows from knitting, mouth falling agape, eyes falling half-shut.
And of course, you’re noticing.
A sultry smirk winding its way ‘round your lips whilst you buck your hips forward and clench. Letting your velvety-soft walls swallow up his thickened inches, “Yeah? Doesn’t it feel good for hngh, you, baby?”
“Oh, f-fuck–” Geto pants out, his toned chest rising and falling. “Now tha’s just fucking unfair, you know what that does t’me.”
Pretending to think, “Oh, do I? And here I thought I was just some…” Bouncing down even harder, you could feel each needy thump of his veins pulsing against your walls. “-petty thief?”
“No- no no no, you’re not.” And fuck- fuck, this was the Red Hood? Especially raised and trained by none other than the Dark Knight himself. Oh, his mentor would positively faint if he saw this version of Geto.
With his pink lower lip trembling pathetically, and his mouth sagging further open at the feeling of your treacly cunt. One of his hands come up to hold onto the side of your waist without him even realizing it- and he’s bucking, pumping his lengthy inches into the deepest depths of your pussy. “Fuuuuck, you’re- ngh, you might just be h-heaven itself.”
“Oh? And how does it make you feel?” You’re urging him further, the backs of your ass cheeks striking his toned pelvis until his skin turns red.
His breath hitches just as you angle your hips so that his vein-decorated shaft reaches in for a tight cranny at the very back of your pussy. He wasn’t even bottomed-out, and yet he was stretching you out so maddeningly. “Makes me feel- ngh, like-”
“Yes?”
He flits his eyes up n’ down from the glossy lips of your cunt, and then back up to your face. Cheeks slowly flushing a pretty pink, “Like, hah- fuck…”
“Mhmm—?”
“Like I’m gonna-” Geto’s strangling out primally from the back of his throat, and then you’re clenching once more and his head throws back. “Like I’m gonna f-fuck you until you can’t walk, gorgeous.”
Your brows raise at his hefty order, “Oh? And you really think you’ll be able to do that when you’re so- oh, fuck!”
He’s flipping the two of you over in mere split-seconds. With his sculptured lower half pressing against your own, his cock throbbing all the way against your cervix, and his hand on your throat to keep you from squirming.
To keep you from running.
You arch your back and attempt to move yourself away at the sheer girth of him, his wide circumference bulging against your walls incredibly. “Fuck, at least give a girl a w-war- mm.” Only to find that he won’t let you move a single centimeter-
Squeezing those long, flexible digits of his against the sides of your neck and drag-drag-dragging you back in. Even closer to him than you had been before, Geto’s plastering the backs of your thighs against his waist. His curly black happy trail scraping your sensitive clit- “A warning? So you want a warning, gorgeous?”
Geto’s heaving. He’s seething.
He’s fucking you deep into his luxurious bed like he was addicted to the soft, sensual feeling of your cunt. Squeezing him so tight, running him dry of his dollops of precum.
“Oh, I’ll give ya a fucking warning-” He’s grumbling underneath his breath, and just then the curved, wettened tip of his cock meets your womb in a thorough bash. “-how about this to not walk ‘round doing crimes, hm?” And then his dominant hand slides down your front, teasingly thumbing between your bloated pussylips for a few seconds before he presses down on your swollen clit like a button. “And thiiis to maybe keep your hands to yourself instead of- ngh, on precious things they shouldn’t be on.”
“Shit- right there-” You’re starting to claw at his bulky deltoids and Geto loves it. Oh, you could feel him growing harder inside of you at the mere feeling, the flared ridge of his slit swelling up, turning even redder.
“Oh? Catty, are ya?” And before you know it, Geto’s reaching over to his bedside table in a flash.
Slightly confused, you blink away the hazy lust in your eyes- and find that Geto had grabbed his infamous red mask of all things. And was using the flexible material to wrap your restless wrists together, all at his mercy.
“And this…” He’s chuckling, dark. “This’ll teach you to do something, mmm, better with your night- heh, like this. With me.”
♡ CHOSO KAMO - H.E.A.T.
“Oh-” Choso’s rasping into the clammy crook of your neck, his spittle pouring out like rain and staining the side of your neck.
And every time he’s dragging his red, overstimulated cock in n’ out with a squeeeelch- you can feel his mouth water. More and more, even with the tiniest ruts and shoves of his achin’ hot tip he’s grunting out. Gasping. “Oh, fuck- I can go once more- h-haaaaah, fuck! I promise I can go once more, baby.”
“Choso—ngh, oh my god-” You’re whining yourself. And you don’t know which one of you is more in heat, him or you.
Well, him - most certainly.
Choso was blushing red-hot, he was practically burning up. Like a fever he’s fucking his tired hips into you, uncaring just how many times he’d bruising the sides of his pelvis with slamming impact. “Yeah?” Choso speaks out wetly, and something in his tone sounds breathy. Sounds…crazed. “Yeah- is that a ‘yes’, baby? Gonna- h-hck! gonna let me fill this pretty pussy up once more, baby?”
Practically sobbing at the raw way his puffy veins scrape your walls, the same mapped-out pattern that makes you see stars. “Shit, Choso I don’t even know if you can-”
“Of course I can.”
And Choso Kamo is never the type of boyfriend to cut you off. Never the type of boyfriend to shut down your thoughts without even hearing you out.
But, fuck, you have to forgive him this one time - and he will apologize, later. And it was all the fault of his damned half-curse nature, all the fault of that seasonal heat that made him somewhat…animalistic.
Fucking his drivelling orifice into you in quick, rapid thrusts- he strikes the spongy end of your pussy with his globular tip, pressuring in deep. Like he wanted to pound you way past your cervix n’ that was the only thing stopping him.
“See?” He’s snapping you slightly out of your reverie. You follow the greedy line of Choso’s sight to where he was stuffing you with all his thick inches, right where he’d been fucking a cute lil’ bulge on your tummy.
Just that big that he could be seen, the channel of your cunt slightly inflated with his sheer ivory wads of cum from hours prior. “See, look at me- hngh, look at me, look at me- m’fucking you already, aren’t I?”
“Y-yes but-” You’re gurgling out, your eyes darting to where his prominent v-line was damn near the point of bruising. Where his doey eyes were watery, his muscles rippling with the strain of being flexed for so long.
“Oh? What is it, baby?” Choso babbles out, only after the few vulgar strokes that it takes for him to actually register your words. “D-did you want something- anything-”
And before you can get out a word, he’s hazily moving over one of his ringed hands to slide down your tummy. Pressing down on where you could feel his plump, cylindrical outline pushin’ against your g-spot. “Did you want it to be harder- hngh.” Hard.
You’re both throwing your head back, and that action makes your head fuzz up with more of his sweet, chocolate-smelling pheromones.
Mouth watering at the smell- and his did, too. Just from watching your cute reactions like this, Choso leans in and nuzzles the side of your neck, “Or did you want me to go…faster?”
Faster.
Oh—your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull at just how fervently he’s then thud-thud-thudding his curvaceous tip against your cervix. Again and again, it makes you sob– “Al-hngh! already going so- hngh, fuck keep going, Cho—”
“Oh? S’not it?” And his handsome face crinkles in concern, eyes travelling all across your pretty body. Every single inch of it. Before he finally reaches the place between your trembly legs- where your cunt was absolutely soaked in so many wadded layers of slick n’ cum, drooling out lecherously.
And Choso’s watery eyes seem to light up with an idea. “Ohhhh—I get it. D-don’t worry, my baby, I already know…”
Furrowing your brows, “What do you already- fuck!”
Though your confusion doesn’t last for too long.
Because Choso Kamo’s already taking care of what he believed you wanted fixed. He’s slithering down a hand to cup his bulky hilt, and you swear you feel both his body and yours hum with the vibrations of cursed energy.
Of his blood manipulation technique.
Flowing all throughout his erect cock and swellin’ himself up even further - he was already big enough, but with his technique going out-of-control like this…
“What- too big- oh.” Choso’s glossy, pink lips fall open as you babble way cockdrunkenly without even realizing. His other hand presses down even further to feel his hardening tip scour your every hidden nook, “But you’re t-taking it so well, baby. Are you sure s’too big?”
“Yes- no- fuck, I don’t even know.” You cry out. Your feet loop even tighter around his slender waist and use the leverage to bounce back into his thrusts- and you’re unsure whether you wanted to run away or push yourself back into him.
For more. For the roughest kisses his pinkish tip was leaving on your cervix.
Choso coos down at your lack of a coherent answer and cups his large palm against your face. “Awww, my poor baby. Can’t think, can you?”
At this, he’s gently shaking your head with his own hand. Giggling out prettily at your pliable body- “Even though, h-hah, I’m the one in heat- ngh, oh, you’re so cute.” And before you know it, he’s snakin’ that same hand down to roll over your throbbing clit. “But don’t you worry, baby, I’ll take care of it all.”
“Fuck- yes-” You babble away, your spine arching off the bed as he increases his roverin’ pace. His plump cockhead poking into your g-spot, “Yes please-” Into your womb- “Take care of it, Cho.”
Oh, fuck.
Fuck.
Without even thinking, Choso bullies his cock all the way near the back of your cunt. Pumping out steady strings of cum that floods your cervix with so many layers, his blushin’ tip twitching just a few times.
And then his hips reel back, back, back to fuck those cobwebbed wads inwards. He rasps, “Oh, m’gonna take care of it alright, baby.”
♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - “I-incubus?!”
Your jaw drops- and you can’t help but look from that dusty ol’ book you’d borrowed on a whim from the library, to the…the absolute hunk that stood in the middle of your humble bedroom.
He was so tall that he was forced to hunch ever-so-slightly, muscular, swirling black tattoos decorating most of his muscular frame. A devilish tail and two tiny, red horns stuck up from underneath his pinkish hair.
Ryomen Sukuna, he’d said his name was.
Incubus.
And only a few minutes later, he had you moaning it non-stop. Like a broken record-player that cracked occasionally, you’re throwing your head back and letting off a particularly loud whine of it once he pushes in the second of his slimy, reddened tip.
It’s fatness bulging out the entrance to your walls, “Oh my god- fuck, not only do you have two but they’re both so—” You’re trailing off, feeling his slick, veiny shafts slip against your walls and each other. “-so big.”
“Hah- flattery won’t save yer pretty pussy from me, mama. Try harder.” He’s spitting out into your widely-agape mouth.
Crimson eyes narrowed down at you- the way your human body somehow seems to take it when he’s pounding into you with the full impacting force of his incubi body. Folded into the meanest mating press possible, Sukuna laces two of his overlarge hands on top of your scalp and puuuuulls you into his driving hips.
And the only thing you can do at this point is hold onto him for dear life.
Never having been fucked like this before, his matching twin cocks were stacked against your roof and the tender underside of your chanel. Stretching you open like never before—“H-how m’I supposed to flatter an- ngh, incubus then?”
“Chatty.” He gruffs out- and you swear the monstrous mouth that was slashed across his stomach smiles, too. Salivating. Slobbering.
The curly tip of his second tongue then flops out. So long that he’s managing to snake it easily up the middle of your body, slathering down to leave a bright sheen of saliva- before he’s teasing his honed edge between the crevice of your pussylips and licking.
“Oh my god- th-that’s unfair-” You’re blurting out, your hips desperately bouncing back into his dual stimulation. He was both pumping into your deepest depths and letting his ridged tastebuds steal a good taste of your candied pussy. “-and you didn’t answer my question…”
“Heh, oh- but I did.” Sukuna snickers out meanly. Every time he’s speaking, he lets the tendril of his muscle flick outwards.
Up and down, up and down. Sticking, probing, gluing himself to the sweet outer part of your cunt just as much as he was to the inner part with his throbbing length. “Can’t you hear, mama?” And then his roverin’ tongue slips over your clit, rolling over in sultry gyrations. Slurp after sluuuurp of your pussy. “Hear her? This is how you truly flatter the King of Incubi, heh.”
“Wh-what do you…” Your eyes widen- and so do both his sleazy smirks.
Ryomen Sukuna was talking about the way your cunt was squelching. Like his favorite human song, he’s letting it resound out every time his tongue glues between your folds.
The thrashing of his ravenous cocks makes you gush out in more glistening slick for him to lick up.
“You’re s-so filthy.” You’ve never had anyone eat you out like this. You’re absent-mindedly slipping your hand between your legs, almost as if in an attempt to make him slow down his loud, hot kisses.
But Sukuna’s second mouth only unfastens even wider to let them dip inside, sucking. He gruffs out, “Greedy for ‘er, huh?” But not at you - no, not at your honeyed pussy, either. Rather as his gleeful cursed mouth that lapped happy between your legs, plastering himself even deeper. “Oh- can’t blame you- she’s addicting, huh?”
And then, almost as if realizing what he’d just admitted - almost as if realizing he’d just paid a compliment to a human of all things - Sukuna bumps both of his fattened tips against your cervix.
So hard that you’re sure it bruises, his wide circumferences let out two dull thuds as he bottoms out savagely. “You- you didn’t hear that.” He rudely spits out, now starting to tease the tendril of his tongue against your first ring of muscle. As if he was threatening to snake his textured way inside- “Fuck, m-maybe this pretty pussy is too good at flattery. A…dangerous lil’ thing.”
“Or maybe you’re just weak.” There was no breathing or non-breathing being in this world who’d dare talk back to the king like so.
And yet, with the rhythmic way your cutely-shaped insides were clenching ‘round him- fuck, he might just be at your mercy. Oh, how the creatures of the underworld would faint if they saw this. “Caaaaareful, brat.” Sukuna growls. “They don’t worship me for nothing.”
“W-worship?” You really needed to read more descriptions of books before you accidentally summoned an incubi king - though, you really weren’t complaining.
“Mhmmm—”
Lecherous strokes speeding up. Swabbing, sticking his red-tipped shafts against your tiniest orifices.
He lets you sheath his cocks all the way down to the circular tattoos that decorate his bases. Drenched all over with a sheen of your slick- one that Sukuna’s cursed mouth laps up happily. He’s feeling the cloying taste on his own tongue, and it’s so hypnotic that it makes him throw his clammy head back with a groan. “But- right now-”
Words blurting out before he can control them. Before he can even register them.
He’s probin’ a few more slashes against your wettened cervix, and it’s enough to make you damn near sob. He was almost glad for how stupid were becoming on his cock - it’d stop you from noticing the way that Sukuna’s mouth salivated, the way his eyes widened.
The way his nostrils flared at the sweetened pheromones that were emanating into the air.
Right before you’re arching yourself right up into him and cumming.
Your toes curling, heart almost thumping out of your chest at the pleasure. A wave of bliss so strong passes over you that you start to wonder whether any other orgasm you’ve had before was even an orgasm.
A high that leaves you blabbering, and your eardrums nearly too fuzzy to hear-
The way that Sukuna seems to lean down close and whimper- “But…fuck, r-right now, it seems like I’m the one worshipping you, mama.”
♡ INO TAKUMA - Ghostface/ Pretty face
“Sh-shit.” From underneath his ghoulish mask, you’re spying a lil’ sliver of Ino’s pretty face- flushed cheeks, pouty lips wobbling.
He was the one that broke into your house.
He was the one supposed to scare you silly, the infamous Ghostface.
And yet…Ino found him at your mercy the very second you’d gotten your hands on him.
The wet crevice of his maw drops open as you sensually clench ‘round his cock, “Oh my g-god-” And his lanky body shivers as he fights not to let his head drop back, looking up at you through his mask as you ride him lecherously. Stirrin’ and probing his spearheading cock inside you, “You’re k-killing me with this pussy, sweetness, ngh.”
“Mhm—?” It was just too cute how pussydrunk he was already, and you’re letting your velvety walls slurp him all up. Sticking his geysering orifice into every one of your nooks n’ crannies, “And here I thought you were supposed to be the serial killer here?”
“I can’t even compare to her-” Breath hitching, his dominant hand slips down to place a heavy spank on your glittery pussy.
Wadded with so much of his creamy pre, it’s dribbling all down your legs and creating a glistening sheen on Ino’s abs. It helps you slip and slide. It helps you fuck him stupid with your grinds.
You’re dragging your pussy forwards some more down his veiny shaft, and you swear you catch the way his toes curl. Letting out a husky, groaned noise that you wish you could see him make-
“Aw, c’mon then—” You’re tipping your fingers underneath Ino’s infamous ‘Ghostface’ mask, “Maybe I should be the one, mmm, wearing this then. Take it off f’me?”
His lungs rip with a primal whimper, bucking up into you as you swivel your hips in a dizzying figure eight. And fuck- Ino swears the way your softened cervix takes his thrashing hits is enough to make his pupils circle comically. Babbling without even thinking, “Y-yes, pretty-” His hand goes to take his mask off-
Before he’s realizing with a sudden gasp-
“N-no, wait…” Stroking his glistening, drenched cock up into your pussy wildly. He’s bottoming-out to scrape his split-ended tip against your womb with a dull thud! “Who’s supposed to be the criminal here?”
You’re batting your lashes, slightly teary with all the oversensitivity of him stretching you out so good. And your pussy takes each thrust with a grateful slurp, “Hmmm, is it you?”
“D-damn right-” Ino grits his pearly whites from underneath his mask, and you can sense that he’s fighting to keep his tone even. “And who’s the one f-fucking you?”
“M- oh, you.” He manages to somehow fuck the exact answer he wanted out of you- with one of his hands plastering onto the side of your hips, roverin’ you in slight circles. With him holding onto you like this, the zig-zagged veins upon either side of his shaft graze gently against your sweetest spots. “Fuck, s’you, Taku.”
“M-my real name-” He’s huffing out, core tensing and flexing incredibly once he’s starting to fuck up a steady pace into your cunt.
And you don’t know whether it’s because of the way he’s hittin’ every spot precisely or because of the pure heavenly sight- but you find yourself drooling. Something that makes him snicker meanly, “And who’s in charge?”
“Ngh- oh, fuck!” You’re arching your back after a particularly hard hammering thrust that glissades wetly all the way from your g-spot to the back of your pussy.
A sensation so blissful that it makes your gooey walls cling onto him like gum, something that makes the ‘one in charge’…break. And your eardrums already catch the slew of swears he lets out after your clench, something that makes you tilt your head down with a cockdrunken smile. “Is it…me?”
“You-” Ino’s strangling out, before he drills up into you like a madman. You didn’t know which one of you was more gone by now- him. Definitely him. Thump after thump. “Fuck fuck fuck, yes- it’s you.”
He gasps.
He pants.
He whimpers—the slick, flooding divot right in the middle of his shaft mazing through every inch inside of you. Ino can’t help but let your poor bedsprings creak as he drags his patterned length along your walls, “How was I ever s’pposed to compete?” Rolling over your clit with the fatness of his thumb. “You make me s-so dizzy, this pussy…she’s like magic.”
“Dizzy, huh?” You’re smirking out, bashing the globes of your ass back into his pelvis. “If you’re getting dizzy then maybe you should, ngh- take that mask off, Taku?”
“Yes- no, fuck fuck fuck yes- wait-” It’s gotten to the point that his skin ‘round that area was starting to redden with impact, and yet Ino didn’t even care.
Only shoving up harder, gluing his crowned shaft to your cervix. He stirs his aching, pulsing tip there for a few seconds, just feeling you. “Only if you- oh, do that thing again.” Ino asks, his voice thick with tears. “That thing with your s-soft pussy walls? Please?”
And you couldn’t see it right now, but you got the distinct feeling that he was batting his lashes up at you. But oh, how could you say no to him?
So with your hips bouncing even harder, you’re barely even letting your cadence falter as you clench around his reddened cock even more. Just feeling his swollen size, his swollen veins- and it makes Ino throw his head back with a sensitive cry.
“F-fuck yes, pretty—” Ino lets his voice break. And with it- the fastened strings of his mask, slowly it starts to fall. But you’re the one to properly pull off his Ghostface mask, revealing…
Oh.
He’s just too pretty.
With the softest brown eyes all glistening with tears at how good your syrupy-soft pussy felt, his cheeks flushed with fever, sweating like he was in the depths of a fever - a fever for you. Ino’s heavy lids partially close at the feeling of your starting to increase your bounces, and his Adam’s apple bobs when he feels his ravenous girth wad out a thick splatter of precum.
Your shocked face making Ino gnaw down cutely on the plushness of his bottom lip, stuttering. “S-stop staring and fuck me stupid, sweetness.”
♡ GOJO SATORU - Clan leader Gojo
The elders had never seen their stoic, strong clan leader storm through the Gojo Estate like this - nearly upturning every piece of furniture, nearly steamrolling every resident of the household.
The elder had simply never seen him so…impatient.
Practically more beast than man by now, he’s throwing open his grand bedroom door, slamming it shut so hard that a few of them glimpse the hinges start to crack. But only you manage to catch what happens after.
Inside. With his face blanched, his blue eyes widened, breaths coming out in pants. Gojo sounds as though he’d just run halfway across the world to be here with you - and he’d do it all over again just for another minute with you.
Gojo’s looking up- and then he’s on you in a second.
Pushing you against the bed, tearing up your comfy shorts—getting to those wet, flimsy panties of yours and ripping them straight off your hips to bring up to his nose and smell.
“Fuck…” He lets out, underneath his breath. “You’re wet already, my wife.” And as Gojo leans in, you can’t help but stare into his crazed, hazy eyes - something about them drunk already. He grins. Voice breathy. “Did you know I was coming to beg to put a baby in you?”
“O-oh.” Your mouth gapes, “Oh, fuck.”
You were fucked.
And that was hours ago—days, perhaps. You’d easily lost track of time with Gojo’s swollen, reddened cock being shoved inside you without any hesitation- he’d been so damn hard that you could practically count every time he throbbed.
Thumping n’ thumping his soaked, ruby-red tip against the ends of your pussy- he’s reaching his beefy arm over your neck and holding you against his moving body in a headlock. Keeping you still on all fours as he empties out yet another creamy load of cum, “Take it- take it take it take it, sweetheart, and g-get pregnant.”
“Fuck—I think I might be already, Toru- ngh.” You’re gasping for air, your spittle drivelling all over the mounds of his biceps. Just so chiselled.
Fuck, it felt good to have you be manhandled like this. And the strongest was, inevitably, strong enough to push you into any pliable position he wanted. So his meaty knees nudge your shaky legs just apart from behind- a stream of syrupy cum pour out of you with a sluuuurp!
“Mmm, I think not.” Gojo pouts mockingly from behind, he stuffs his face into the crook of your neck and breathes you in. And as he does so, you swear you feel his skin bzzzz–! with the low humming of cursed energy.
Flaring up once Gojo activates his Six Eyes to look straight through your body, into the glazed depths of your goopy pussy. He’s letting out a little puff of breath as he does, “Not yet, at least.”
“Oh, ngh- f-fuck!” You’re squealing as he latches onto your perked clit with one of his vibration-tipped hands. Squeezing that nub where you were so sensitive, he’s then roverin’ his glazed shaft into you wildly - as if he wasn’t already before.
The creaky frame of your bed was sagging on one end, splintering after every one of his hard thrusts and yet he still wasn’t slowing down. The fattened, bludgeoning end of his girth scraping your dewy cervix, drawing out a stripe of precum. “So y-you have to take it again, right, sweetheart?” He’s grunting against the heated shell of your ear, “Gonna take it again and again, until we finally make an heir, m’kay? I’m thinkingggg—a daughter, maybe? What do you, ngh, think?”
“Fuck- Satoru, I don’t know if I even can think.” Begging, you’re fisting your dampened sheets for dear life, your entire body sagging into it.
To which your husband can’t bear to let you move apart from him even mere inches—and he’s sliding a hand underneath your tummy, hoisting you up into him with a grinning ‘upsy daisy.’ Gojo keeps his palm splayed open where his cylindrical cock was pushin’ from inside, pressing down.
“S’okay—-you don’t have to think, my wife.” And then the knobbly ends of his fingertips squeeze your clit, tugging. “You just hafta- hah–” Right in the same rhythm of his pumping, probing cock. “-take- it-”
Your teeth clench, saliva sizzling on the top of your tastebuds every time he bashes his plump cockhead in. Just so puckered that his flared slit knocks against your g-spot without even trying- or maybe he was trying, maybe he was looking through your body and straight at your tender spot with his Six Eyes.
You didn’t even know at this point. You couldn’t even compute.
“Please- p-please-” Just babbling away every time he’s pressing his ripped abs against your backs, toned pelvis hitting yours with slamming impacts.
“Please?” His honed canines nip your own lips, “Please?” His v-line reddening, the curly white hairs of his base drenching in all your slick n’ his cum. “Mmm, no need to beggg, sweetheart. M’gonna fill this pretty pussy up, don’t you worry. I won’t- hah—”
Reaching so deep inside. Scouring. Bashing. He’s wadding up the entrance to your womb in all his milky precum, like he’d go even deeper if he could.
And it takes Gojo a few more vulgar strokes to catch his breath, as gone as he was. “-won’t leave you hanging. Ever.” And as his voice cracks, so do a few bolts of his cursed energy- jolting on your pretty clit and making your legs shake, eyes tear up. “G-gonna fill you up with my, ngh, kid.”
“Oh- Toru, fuck!” Your head throws back, and with his position it lands perfectly on his bulky shoulder. The perfect opportunity for him to lean in and bite your cute throat as you cum with a whine.
A few more solid thrusts to drag you through each zap of your high, you feel him locate your most fragile hidden spots with his cum-glazed tip. Thrashing. Pokin’ in. Gojo presses on your g-spot like a button - straight in - as you quiver and fuck back through your wave of bliss. “M’c-cumming…”
“I already know, my wife.” Something about him just sounds so crazed- as if, with his powers, he could see every peak of your orgasm.
He counts them underneath his breath, stroking your sweetest spots just in time with it. And the very moment he’s reaching about six lecherous pushes of his vein-covered cock- you’re finding that Gojo’s cumming, as well.
Not because he says so. Not even because he realizes.
But because eventually as the haze of your high fades, you feel something wet splatter onto the side of your shoulder. And at first, you think that it was his sloppy, pussydrunken drool- only to turn your head and find out that Gojo was crying.
The strongest was crying.
“F-fuck!” Then you’re registering the hot liquid spraying out into your cunt, a few heavy dewdrops that speckle your deepest insides. He’s pushing them in so deep that you swear you can taste the salty flavor on your tongue, “Did it t-take now, Toru?”
“Huh? Oh…” Gojo finally - finally - looks down and catches sight of the ivory wetness dripping out of your pussy. Forming the filthiest lil’ ring around his smearing base.
He crinkles his nose at the pleasure, mazing his swabbing tip even deeper with a groan. “Fuck, I th-think—” Prattling away, he hits the front of your womb with a thump! “I think it did- oh.”
Just the mere notion is enough to make him fall into his high all over again - to pump out gluey wads of cum, to fuck each one into you, to cream himself dry on your pussy.
Teary all over again- “And we’re gonna hafta fuck at least twice more to make sure it- heh, takes.”
Oh.
♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Vamp-eater
“Ngh- ngh, please.” Your hips quiver sensitively as they glide down the ridges n’ features of Higuruma’s handsome face.
Sloppily riding, your legs straddling his head on his damn office desk.
Controlled all by him, of course- he glues a hand to the side of your hips like adhesive, rovering your treacly cunt for a particularly long time over the bridge of his sexy nose. Letting your bloated pussylips pry apart, his tongue then reaches for every sensitive spot. “Please, Hiro- oh fuck!”
Just then, he’s letting his elongated fangs prick the innards of your thighs and bite teasingly.
See, that’s the thing about accidentally stumbling upon the fact that your boss was a vampire, during late night overtime with just the two of you in his office - he just couldn’t let you go.
Literally - he’s plastering your cunt onto his spit-slicked maw with only a fraction of his inhuman strength. Barely even trying, barely even realizing the indented bruises he’s sure to leave behind with his hold. “Mmmm, yeah, you clench ‘round my tongue every time you whine- did you know that, angel?”
“N-no…” You babble out, looking down through your lashes at the glistening upper half of his face. All drenched with sweat and the clingy wads of your slick, “But, mmm, Hiromi I want something more.”
His dark brows raise in anticipation, “More?”
And you can only nod and nod your confirmation blearily- “Want something more like-” Your eyes shyly stray downwards, where they latch onto the thick, throbbing outline of his erection through his dark formal pants. “-your cock, please.”
“Awww, sugar, you don’t need to say ‘please’ w’me.” Higuruma coos up at you, something glistening in his deep eyes. And then he’s giving the side of your ass cheek a good smack, “A thousand years waitin’ for my beautiful mate, and I’d wait a thousand more if it meant I got to have just a little taste of this—” One bite, his fangs sinking in the side of your thighs - just beside your outer pussy - and he seems to groan.
And then there was that.
The fact that all he’d taken was one sniff of your syrupy-sweet scent. One step inside your personal space. One sudden kiss to confirm what he’d been suspecting ever since the very first day you’d walked inside this company building - you were his fated soul. The only one he loved. The only one he ever wanted to love.
He seems to let his power simmer- like the click! of his fingers.
Before suddenly you’re finding yourself underneath him - your back against the cold desk, your thighs on top of his muscular deltoids, your cunt startin’ to be spread wiiiide open by his red, bulging tip. Higuruma huffs n’ puffs as he sinks his way inside your hot cunt, barely even seeming to have realized that he’d just fucking teleported.
“O-oh, fuck- yeah, just a little taste.” Higuruma’s licking his pale lips, and he’s sure that if his icy, undead heart could beat then it’d be thundering by now. “Mmm, would fucking- kill-”
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit-” You’re fighting to regain your breath, every slight half-thrust of his feels like he’s scouring all the way damn to your lungs.
The vein-covered length of his shaft dragging down your walls, and he’s just so big that his girth stretches you out wiiiidely. “R-right here, angel. You’ve got me right here.” And you swear the circles ‘round his dilated pupils glow as he taps his hand somewhere midway down your tummy, “Good luck getting me out…heh.”
Your mouth drops into the very same ‘o’ that he was fucking into your cunt, “Never f-felt it go in so deep before, Hiromi.”
“Good, sugar- I’ve gotta stake my claim after so long somehow.” Just pouring out webbed wads of precum that stripe the end of your cervix. He sure was marking you out as his, occasionally pushing his face into the clammy crook of your neck to breathe in your pheromones - the way your honeyed scent mingled perfectly with his.
“Fuck- fuck, ya really are made f’me.” Higuruma groans out in ecstasy after the way your soft walls would clench n’ cling onto him with each thrust. After the way your arms wrapped around his sculpted shoulders and fitted his toned front to you so perfectly.
After the way he shoved his plump, puckered tip up against your cervix and you’re gobbling him down like you wanted even more of him.
Without even fully registering it, he’s letting his primal fangs extend. Gently pricking the side of your neck before the first tang of iron makes Higuruma pull back- and instead he’s teasing his canines along your lips. Watching as you cutely squirm and whimper, “No- no don’t stop, Hiromi.”
“Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, angel.” He’s soothing out, voice husky with need. He increases the pace of his roughened thrusts to thud-thud-thud your sopping wet cervix. “M’never gonna stop- n-never, not when this cute pussy begs me not to.”
And as if on cue, your drippin’ wet core lets a few sticky slurps out into the air.
A sound that you’re following after with your whiny shrills, “Yes- yes yes yes, just like that.” Without warning, you loop your hands ‘round his short, jet-black hair and forcefully bring his mouth close to your neck. “But I also want th-that, too.”
Oh.
Oh.
In your distant hearing, something cracks - and only hours and hours later will you realize that Higuruma had gripped the side of his mahogany desk so hard that it’d broken. His strength then being channeled into the bashing strikes against your pussy.
Oh, he’d gone easy before.
Because he’s scrapin’ every crevice of your inside, he’s letting his glazed tip map out every inch, he’s hitting your g-spot dead-on in one, two, perhaps tens more strikes that you’re suddenly too dumbified to recognize.
Again and again and again before you’re hurtling into your high.
Toes curling, your back arching off the frigid surface and straight into his tensed core. White-hot sparks of pleasure are bursting behind your eyelids before Higuruma slightly angles his nose into the air and sniffs. “F-fuck.”
His eyes droop drunkenly, jaw dropping open.
Higuruma edges his handsome face nearer, and you’re feeling the warmth of his breath. The slight slimy graze of his tongue- before his fangs sink straight into your neck.
“Oh my g-god-” Maybe it’s your high, maybe it’s the feeling of being bitten by him like this - but you find that your orgasm has never been greater. Pure euphoria running through your veins and dripping out from the two puncture wounds on the side of your throat.
It just feels so different. As if your entire body is engulfed in ice water, and the main source of heat from your body came from between your legs where you were still zapped with your high. And from the bite mark. “-am I like you now, Hiromi?”
“Are you ‘like me’, sugar? Oh, you’re more than that- s-so much more.” Higuruma breathes out, nearly choked with emotion.
You feel his jackhammerin’ thrusts get even sloppier, wetter. The red end of his shaft twitching dangerously like he’s about to cum- before he says, “You’re mine, angel.”
A/N. Mwahaha second post of Kinktober how are we feeling babygirls??
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
you get caught between the campus' valedictorian and hearthrob, completely unaware that they're actually twins and not just one annoying person. what happens when your heart gets caught up in the messy drama between rivaling twins?
♡ ₊˚‧ in today's episode. satoru wants to erase satoshi's memory from your body.
♡ ₊˚‧ cw. college au :: lots of smut :: angst :: messy dynamics :: named twin :: jealousy/possessiveness :: messy reader :: semi public sex :: parties :: nerd/delinquent trope :: academic rivals :: fuckboy!bikerjo :: rival!nerdjo
꒰ episode 03 :: masterlist :: episode 05 ꒱
Satoru had never eaten a girl out before.
Never had the time to fantasise about it. The only thing he wanted on his tongue was strawberry pocky or the chewy mochi from his favourite cafe.
Now? He's drooling over a different sweet treat. Wrapped in lace he's been dreaming of all semester. Fuck. Your panties looked even prettier on you. All he's had was that crumpled up pair he'd been fisting his cock with more than he'd like to admit.
Couldn't help it. The fabric dragged so good on his sensitive tip. Looked even better drenched in his cum rather than that— that.
Bastard's.
Right. Satoshi had you first.
It's something seared into his memory even when you're beneath him now. On your wrinkled sheets in your dim room. With the moonlight peeking through your blinds and kissing your soft skin. He's jealous of that too.
Jealous of the moonlight that caressed you. Jealous of the sheets that you held onto you as he slotted himself between your thighs. Jealous of his bitch of a brother who dared to get his filthy hands on you first.
"Satoru. . ."
Your soft voice snapped him from green's clutches as he stared down at your body splayed out for him. You touch drew him back to reality. The sweet reality that he was here, sat between your legs, your hands up his cardigan.
His name on your lips.
Your lips on his.
"Sorry," he huffed, glasses falling back over his face as hot, open-mouthed kisses pressed down your neck. Over your shirt, to your tummy. He'd long since ripped his brother's leather jacket off of you and flung it to some corner of the room.
Note to self, burn it in the morning.
Because how dare it touch your skin, too? How dare his scent have rubbed onto you? How dare—
Your hand raked through his fluffy white hair. Short-circuited him. Trembled his knees into your sheets and made his palms itch for your thighs. They clamped. Hard. Savouring the squish and hoping he could press his name into the very fat of it, if it meant staking his claim over you in ways Satoshi hadn't.
"Just can't stop thinking about it. How you let that guy touch you." Satoru's grunts rumbled into your skin. He hoped it vibrated heat into your core. Made your thighs quake and those lacy panties soaked.
Such a pretty pair. Did you wear that for his brother too?
Fuck. Stop thinking about that.
He couldn't help it. Not when your thighs quivered in his palms as he nudged them open. When he felt your stare. Was he doing this right? Or making a fool of himself?
He was too angry to care. Too frustrated to give a damn when your sweet musk hit his nostrils and his face almost limped into your soft tummy. He bit back a groan— or was it a whine?
You ruined him. More than any equation or exam. Pricked at his braincells with those pretty nails and picked him apart. Into some fumbling, flustered fool.
Maybe that's why he didn't mind his words when it came to you.
"Y'know how many girls he's fucked? You're just another name in his whore catalogue." His lips pressed atop your panties. Heart stuttered when you tensed.
Why were you tensing? Why were you— was he doing it wrong?
Fuck.
Stop.
Thinking like that.
"Or maybe," he breathed, heavy. Fogging up his glasses as he looked over the rim at you. At your flushed face and lined lips. "Maybe you're my whore, huh?"
Blue eyes sharpened. Cold with his question. Analysing you as if you were another specimen under his lab microscope. Could he pry you apart and get to your heart? Cut it out for himself?
Would you stop looking at Satoshi if he did?
"Satoru," you whispered, like it was all you knew how to say. His stupid girl, right? Always so shaky and stuttery when he got his hands on you. Even when he hadn't the slightest idea of what he was doing.
"Please."
But you still begged fo him.
Begged.
For him.
His nerves crept back up his spine. Made his palms grow cold even when they cradled your warmth. And suddenly, he rounded back to his first thought.
He didn't know how to eat a girl out. Never had. Thought he never would.
So as he sat here, between your thighs, your panties drenched and your doe eyes pleading. What. . . What the fuck was he gonna do?
What if you laughed at him when he tried?
Worse. What if you preferred Satoshi?
Satoshi.
Fucking. Satoshi.
The name permeating his mind was enough to spur that frustration again. Enough to surge him into just acting instead of thinking for once.
He didn't blink as he lips sealed over a damp spot on your panties. Sucking filthy and wet on the smear of your cunt. Until it soaked on his tongue. Finally giving him the taste he'd been fantasising for weeks.
Satoru's eyes rolled back. White flashes fluttering. Breathing stuttered.
All because he sucked your slick off of your panties and wedged his nose in the crook of your folds. Inhaled deep. Shaky. Fuck— he couldn't bite his whine this time.
"So. . . fucking wet. For me? My whore after all?" He muffled into your panties. Index curled with impatience on the hem of the fabric. Dragged it down just barely. Just enough to give him access. Before his lips latched to your slit.
Clumsy. Uncoordinated. But oh, so committed.
He dredged his spit all over your folds. Soaked your slit and smeared it up to your clit without even realising. He was kissing, sucking, suckling— panting on your cunt like he was breathless and your musk was the only thing that'd save him.
His tongue grazed something. A bump. He felt you shiver and squirm beneath him. Heard your sweet little noise and groaned at the tug to his hair.
That's your clit, right? He remembered the female anatomy unit from his HUMAN BIOLOGY 203 class.
"The clitoris is the vulva's most erogenous area and generally the primary anatomical source of female sexual pleasure." He's muttering into the bud before he could stop himself. Instinct. Comfort.
"The visible glans are estimated to have—" his tongue swiped. Tentative, tender. Tracing the tip of your nub until you arched into him. Tossed your head back with a whine he'd been dying to hear from you.
"— over ten thousand nerve endings. Hah."
His sharp breath through his nose fanned over your clit. Made the pretty bud twitch. Like she was begging for more. So his thumb pressed down. Rubbed side-to-side because that felt right— because it got you to buck.
Hazy blues dilated. Was he doing it right? Did your face twist like that because he was actually—
"Satoru, more." You whimpered. Soft and sweet. Rutting up into his thumb and chasing his callouses earned from hours hunched over textbooks or gripping a controller.
More?
His throat ran dry. Stomach pitted. How could he give you more?
His tongue pressed back to your slit. Swirled on the wetness and lathered you in another round of his saliva. Sucked a fold between his lips and tried to keep up with his thumb while his mouth was occupied. Fuck— he was slipping. He was clumsy.
"So sweet," he whined. No bother holding it back. Not when he was panting, groaning, slurring into your pussy and struggling to maintain his hand-mouth coordination. "So sweet. So slutty. Mngh. How could you ever whore this out?"
His withdrew. Dazed stare fixated on your glistening cunt drenched in slick and bubbled with his spit. You were twitching. Terribly, tight. Your fingers latched on the sheets and your hand slipping down to yank your panties lower. Nudged your thighs wider.
"toru please," you whined. "I wanna cum. Need to cum."
And that's when he froze.
Your pussy stained on his tongue tasted like a fucking conviction.
Cum. You wanted him to make you cum. Wanted him to make you cum on his mouth.
And he didn't know how to do that.
His eyes flickered. To your throbbing cunt. Your pulsing clit. To the wrinkled sheets in your trembling fingers. Your tensing stomach and stuttering chest. But not your eyes. No. He couldn't look at you. Not when he didn't. . .
"I—" his pride bled through his clenched teeth. "I don't. . ."
Why did your eyes soften like that?
Pity? Was that pity?
"You haven't done this before?" You asked, and oh, he nearly flinched at the gentleness. He was ready for laughter, for taunts and teases.
Not that. Not tenderness.
Satoru couldn't bring himself to answer you. If he dignified his own inexperience with verbal confirmation and solidified it as real, he might just have to strangle himself. So instead he shook his head. Stiff. Small. Eyes fixed to some corner of your room because now he couldn't even bear to look at you.
He spotted his brother's jacket lumped on the floor. Taunting him. He'd probably know what to do. Wouldn't freeze up like this between a pretty girl's legs.
What a fucking joke, right? He's here between your legs. You're wet for him. So, incredibly, wet for him. And he didn't even know what to with it.
As the frustration sobered up into something smaller, dwindling, that familiar prickle of insecurity— he debated getting up. Leaving. Running because that's all he was good for when it came to you, apparently.
But then, he felt a softness to the back of his head. Warmth cupping his hair and guiding his stiff neck back between your achingly soft thighs.
"That's okay," you spoke. Soft, softer than any girl had ever bothered being with a loser like him. Your dewy eyes looking at him through the slivers of moonlight.
"Just. . . kiss around a bit. You can use your tongue too. Make patterns and stuff, y'know?"
His heart stuttered. Were you.
Teaching him?
Your fingers played with the back of his hair. Tracing comfort on his undercut. "You know where my clit is, yeah?"
"Mhhm." He hated how soft he was.
"Put focus there every now and then. It'll get me there."
"I. . . thanks."
He sat there for a second. Awkward. Embarrassment whisped into every flutter of his lashes and pressed into the frown on his lips. Hot on his face. Fogged on his glasses.
Your hand nudged. Encouraging. And he couldn't help but follow. Eyes locked on yours as his mouth slowly seated back onto your warm cunt. Still throbbing. Still needy. For him?
God, he hoped for him.
Your words guided his lips. Eased mellow kisses onto your twitching folds. His tongue came next. Dragging on your slick. Slowly up your slit. Patterns, you said.
His eyes fixed on you over the rim of his glasses. Eyeing your every reaction as he flicked his tongue. Left, then right, then manifested into some kind of pattern. Clumsy, but oh so committed.
Your lips parted. Pussy pulsed.
There.
He's doing it right.
He repeated the motion. Kisses, licks, strokes and patterns— and then threw in a few sucks. You liked it when he sucked on your folds. Especially right there—
"Satoru!" Your gasped.
He stilled.
He hadn't even realised that it was your trembling clit he'd sucked between his lips.
His stare fixed on you. Dilated and sharp. Your breath stuttered. Throat bobbed. Fingers latched onto his hair and curled.
Oh.
Oh.
At last, he closed his eyes. Focused on the bud throbbing hot on his tongue, and sucked. Slow, achingly slow. Savouring its twitches as his mouth pressed firmer. Lips locked tighter.
You squealed. Two hands in his hair now. Bucking into his face, now.
He pressed closer. Increased the suction. Added his tongue. You're whining— you're whining. Squirming and shuddering. Was that his name? Fuck. It sounded so pretty when you stuttered it like that.
Sounded like something that belonged to you.
"S-Satoru— yeah, just like that. Right there."
Bangs framed over his smudged glasses. Hands tethered to your thighs. Pants pouring into your pussy. He dragged you closer. Rubbed his face and ground his chin into your cunt. The same was his hips starts rutting into the mattress.
Couldn't help it. He couldn't. Not with those sounds you were making. With the way you were gushing—
Wait. Gushing?
It was like a switch. His mouth sucked harder. Ground firmer. Even his fingers moved on instinct so that his thumb wedged on your slit and stroked until the slick poured out faster.
You were quivering. No. Spasming. Whimpering his name with a soft, "cumming— cumming. 'm cumming toru—"
Satoru wasn't a religious man. Science had proven most 'acts of god' were simply the universe with extensive research and theories.
But fuck. If he didn't see heaven when your head tossed back and your thighs clamped around his face. If he wasn't ready for you to drag him down to the depths of hell when you gasped his name and gushed all over his mouth.
He whimpered. Weak and wrecked as he nuzzled into your cunt. Dragging your slick all over it. Messing him. He didn't care. Didn't fucking care when you were riding his face and clenching round his tongue.
He did it. He.
He made a girl cum. On his mouth. Spasming on his tongue and drenching his lips.
He almost didn't want to pull away. He wanted to go again. Wanted to see how many times he could pitch your whines like that while trying to ride his face.
He wouldn't freeze up again. Not this time. Not when your slick glistening his face spurring him into an adrenaline rush.
He swiped the back of his hand over his face. Smearing off what he could and wiping the rest with his cardigan. Would it be too filthy to say this was his new favourite? Your sweetness was drenched around the collar now. Soaked into the threads like a sin he'd never forget. Never wanted to.
Shuffling back onto his knees, Satoru practically scrambled over you. Not caring if he looked desperate. Let him. Let him look needy. He didn't need his pride when it came to your pussy.
"Yeah?" He rasped, hands already fumbling with his belt. "Need me to fuck you? You really are my whore, huh?"
His.
Not Satoshi's.
His.
You proved it to him. With his name on your lips. With his saliva on your cunt. With your hands on his belt, helping his shaky fingers undo the clasp and pull down his zip. His bulge swelled through the gap. Heavy and hot. Begging for attention from something other than his own touch.
Your nails dragged on it. Palm flushed on the curve. And he, oh, he whimpered.
"Have you done this before?" You asked.
His heart stuttered into his throat. "I. . . no. But I can—"
"That's okay."
You smiled.
He stilled.
"We can take it slow. Just do what feels good, hm?" You popped open the button and dragged his pants down. Cupped his bulge and smoothed your palm over it until a whine trembled from the back of his throat.
"Y-. . . Yeah. Slow." He nodded, nudged your thighs open to distract himself as you curled your fingers into the hem of his pants and brief.
His breath hitched.
He almost stopped. Almost. Nerves pooling in his gut again as you peeled his layers off to reveal his cock. It sprung back, tip slapping into his cardigan and smearing on the threads.
Shit. He was already leaking? No. For all he knew he'd probably cum in his pants just from eating you out. He was pathetic like that. Pathetic when it came to you.
Satoru almost couldn't look at you. Almost. But curiosity got the better of him. He was a scientist, after all. So he gouged your reaction from the corner of his eye. Glasses slipped far down the bridge of his nose, dangling.
You weren't laughing. Weren't teasing or taunting.
You were blushing.
Wait. Really?
His face mirrored yours. Hot as your fingers curled around his dick. Pressing your warmth into his sensitive inches and pumping your hand. Once. Twice. Until his eyes fluttered and his head tilted back. Till he whimpered.
"So pretty, 'toru," you crooned. Bunching your palm around his pink, pulsing cockhead and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing his very soul out of him.
"H-Hah—" he croaked, bucking his hips into your touch. Chewing on his sticky lip with his frazzled eyes darting all over. To your hand. To his dick. To that sneaky little smile on your lips.
"Who'd have thought my rival could get so needy for me?" Your coo ticked something for him.
His hand snatched your wrist. Glossy eyes narrowed. "Don't tease me."
"Why? You're so cute."
"Cute?"
He shoved. Pinned your hand to the mattress even when his cock ached for it. Staggered over you so his other hand could bunch on the pillow beside your head. Topple closer until his face invaded yours. White strands tickling your forehead. Huff brushing your mouth.
"I think I'm gonna fuck that bratty smile right off your face, sweet girl. See if you call me 'cute', then." He huffed.
You giggled. It wrecked him.
"Mhhm?" Your hands slipped up. Holding the back of his neck and daring him to press closer. Rest his heavy cock over your slick cunt. "I'd like to see you try."
You were beauty. Grace. With the most infuriatingly pretty face.
His jaw ticked. He hated challenges. Never had to deal with them. But fuck, he loved them when they glinted in your eyes. Sweet, sinister and oh so fucking seething.
And then, you dared to soften. Your stare melted into a dewy gaze, thoughtful, as your oddly comforting touch slipped to his cheek. Why did you stroke on his face? Like you cared. Like he was something you could care for.
"It's your first time," you said, considerate. "I'm gonna take your virginity."
It wasn't a statement. Not a gloat. But a reminder.
That this was sentimental.
Satoru never cared for sentiment. Never quite got it.
He pushed himself up to get a better look at you. Lips pressed together and his brows pinched at the centre. You looked attentive. Like you were giving him an opening to back out. To decide whether he was ready or not.
"Yeah. I know." He muttered.
Pale hips weighed down onto yours. His cock pressed on your folds. Slotted between them and twitched into your slick pulses.
He was ready for it from the moment you snapped at him in class. Challenged him on an assignment. Batted your pretty eyes at him down the hallway.
From the moment you chose Satoshi over him.
His hands bundled your thighs. Dragged you forward amidst your yelp. Trapped you beneath his arms. Beneath his hips. His cock. As his stare fixed on yours. Slipping into your very soul.
"But I'm gonna make it feel like I'm taking yours."
Who knew what demon possessed him that moment. Laplace's? All he knew was the burning, possessive need in his gut.
All he knew was that you were flustered for him.
Blinking up at his statement and chewing on your lip as his cockhead pressed to your slit. Rubbing between your folds and soaking in your slick.
He didn't wait. Couldn't. Not when your heat was seeping into his inches and pooling deep in his core.
So with one hand on your hip and the other braced beside your head. With his eyes locked onto yours from over his dangling glasses. With his heart laid bare in your audacious little hands.
He pushed in.
Breath hitched. Spine shivered. Your heat devoured him through the first ring of resistance. Dizzied him on the second. Devastated him on the third.
"Fuck—" he gasped. Jaw unhinging. Hips flinching. "So tight— so warm— so, fuck."
You were sucking him in. Thrumming. Throbbing. Each pulse weaving away at his sanity and smarts. Crumbling it until he was nothing but a twitching cock and a trembling tongue.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck. Fuck."
Why the hell was he loud? He had to shut up. Get a hold of himself. So his face burrowed into your neck and his scrawny arms looped around your waist. Dragged you closer. Impossibly so. He wanted to merge your skins. Mix your bloods. Crawl into your heart and cling because fuck, it felt. So. Good.
He's gulping down groans. Biting back whimpers. Heaving as your hands rake through his hair. Nails scratching on his scalp, then tracing down his shoulderblades. Holding him there. Stroking— no— don't do that.
He whimpered.
Soft, shattered. He was splintering from the inside out for you, and you had the nerve to stroke on his spine and shudder to his ear.
"It's okay. . . mm. It's okay 'toru. Doing so well."
"Shut up. Shut up— please."
He croaked. Eyes squeezed shut. Hips wrung tight. He couldn't do this.
Couldn't do it.
Not when you were so soft.
And warm.
And kind.
He was gonna pull out. He had to pull out. Had to run away and hide because it felt so good, felt so good and he was gonna fuck you so hard cause he didn't know how else to. He didn't deserve it, didn't know how to even treat a girl, didn't—
"Hey."
Your whisper was soft. Achingly so. Lips a petal on his ear and tongue the sweetest nectar to his mind. Halting the frantic spinning and easing the sting in his eyes.
"You're okay. . . Feel so good. Do you feel good too?"
"M-. . . Mhhm."
"Then you're doing good."
He hated you for how tender your hand was when it cupped his face. How gentle your eyes were as they looked up at him. As you reached and pushed his glasses into his hair. Exposed his glossy gaze to you.
His voice quaked, breath thin. "I'm trying so hard to be good."
You?
You just. Smiled.
Then whispered. Just as breathless. Just as glossy-eyed.
"Don't."
And something deep, dark and dangerous broke in his chest.
It's your fault.
Your fault that he snatched your hips. Your fault that his blunt nails dug into your thighs. That his hips snapped! forward. Uncoordinated. Undignified. But committed. Dedicated. To you. To your pleasure. To the sight of your eyes rolling back the same way they did when he tongued your pussy.
Wet, filthy slaps clamoured through the room. Echoing off of the walls. Reverberating through your folds mercilessly smacked raw by his heavy balls.
He didn't know how he was moving his hips. Didn't care about a rhythm. He just held you down. Just fucked you. Like he'd been dreaming to all semester.
Whines, gasps, groans— they poured into your pulse. Snarled into your veins as his shaky fingers slipped around your hips. Dug into your ass that he chased ripples into with his blurring hips.
"So good— so," his cock drove into your plush walls. Slid into a crook and rubbed on it with every rough rut. "So tight. So tight 'm gonna lose my fucking mind."
He was whining now. Unashamed. Teeth drawing on your throat and fingers squishing your softness between them. Trapping you to the onslaught of thrusts that shook your rigidity dorm bed frame. That slammed the headboard to the wall. Bounced your smaller body across the mattress until you were squealing.
"S-Satoru! Toru— wait, fuck."
You must not have expected it. Probably thought he'd go slow. Thought he'd stutter and fumble like he did with everything else.
But there were a lot of things that Gojo Satoru didn't know how to be. And one of them was gentle.
"Wait?" He huffed, arms locking tighter. Teeth threatening deeper. Dug into your shoulder. Latched tight as his hips slammed! forward. Shallowed his thrusts without even realising. As he ground, and rutted and rubbed on a spot that curved your back into him.
"Wait for what? Huh?" He sneered on your ear. Fisting on your thigh and yanking it. Trying to guide it around his waist— he needed to go deeper. Needed to fuck you harder.
"Wait for Satoshi, sweetheart?"
He told you he wouldn't be good. He warned you.
Because now that he was feeling your velvet walls spasming for him. Felt every pulse on his underside vein. Felt your slick smearing all over his balls and dripping down his thighs— he couldn't shake the fact.
That Satoshi had this first.
You choked out a cry as his cockhead shoved into a spot. He felt it. The tenderness. The way you shattered when he rubbed on it. Did Satoshi fuck right there, too?
His hand reached around. Trapped your clit and flicked it. Did Satoshi play with that too? Did he? While he pummelled your sweet pussy to creams and cries?
His mouth dragged up your throat. Panted on your jaw. Devoured your lips. Tongue pressing in clumsily. Moans pouring in as his thrusts turned carnal.
Did Satoshi fuck you like this?
Did he have your nails scratching up his back? Have your tongue struggling under his? Your cunt squeezing and gushing all over him?
Did he?
"toru— toru, oh fuck."
He certainly didn't have that.
He's not even sure how hard he's sucking on your tongue. How feral he's pummelling your poor pussy. How hard he's fucking his tip into that one, devastating, spot, until your toes curl and you're slurring into his mouth.
His mouth. His.
The loser nerd. The bookworm. The guy who everyone thought got off on equations and hard on exams.
You're squirting for him now.
"Sluttiest little pussy," he rambled. Pressing hot kisses back down your jaw. To your throat. Groaning as your legs hooked round his waist and shoved your heels into his back. Forcing him deeper, deeper, deeper— till he was seeing stars.
"Squeezing me like she wants my cum. Yeah? That what she want? Another twin's cum?"
"Please!"
"Fucking filthy."
His hips were probably bruising yours. His balls stinging your folds. His pubic bone grinding on your clit. He didn't care. Didn't want to. Not with the way you're gushing around him. Not with how you're trembling his name.
"Please Satoru— please 'toru. Cum. Cum inside, please, please I wanna feel it."
Guess he wasn't the only one with the ramble mouth. With your eyes blissed-out and your tongue drooling, you still begged for him. Pleading for him to stuff you full. To fill you up like you haven't been taking his twin's dick for weeks.
And fuck, he couldn't deny you.
"Yeah?" He huffed. Eyes frazzled. Hips frantic. His hands clamped back to your ass and wrenched you under him. Curving over so he trapped you beneath his tall, lankly body. Not once did his thrusts falter. Clumsy and uncoordinated. But fucking stars into your crossing eyes.
"Want me to cum? Make this pussy even more slutty? Fuck—"
He whimpered. Wrecked and raw as you squeezed tight on his base. Suctioning so sinfully that he could barely pull out. Leaving him rutting on what he assumed was your cervix. Hot and heavy. Fucking feral.
"That what you want, sweet girl?" He forced his face above yours. Through the tears pricking at his eyes and your mixing pants. "Gotta cum for me first, okay? Please."
His hips stuttered. Chest tightened. Begging. He was begging for you. Begging to feel those slutty squeezes round his cock the same way you did his tongue. Begging to cream all over his thighs. Make a mess of him. Ruin him. Like he was ruining you.
The bed creaked. The mattress bounced. Your body clung and your nails dug. Wrenching him in. Suffocating him. As his thrusts turned sloppy. Hard— but even more flimsy.
"Ah," he whined. Pitched on your pulse as your pussy clenched. Strangling him round the base. "Not gonna last. Not gonna—" his throat bobbed. Tears fells. Mind a mess.
"Can't— can't, can't, can't, please cum I cannn'tt."
Slamming and stuttering. Grinding and groping. Latching onto whatever he could. With his teeth. His hands. His hips crushing yours into the sheets. As he grappled for reality. Staggered to make you cum first. To feel you first.
A desperate hand snapped between your bodies. Rubbing on your clit with a jerky thumb as his thrusts grew ragged. His breath thin. Tears spilling.
Clenching. You were clenching. Squeezing. Wringing out his very soul with every nasty squelch and then—
He felt it.
Fervid, filthy and fracturing.
Your cunt clamped tight round his cock. Heat bursting into one final, devastating stream of messy slick. Squirting, splashing, squelching all over him. Smearing his balls. Dripping down his thighs.
And oh, Satoru thought he must have died.
His body collapsed. Shoulders knocking into yours. Arms limp. Grip clinging onto whatever he possibly could as his hips rocked into a frenzied fervour. Needy, and clumsy and so fucking pathetic as the knot in his tummy snapped.
White, hot pleasure blinded him. Surged up his spine and shivered his hips into a pitiful quiver. His cock throbbed hard at the tip and ached at the base as he burst. Shooting thick ropes into that darling little crevice that had you whining his name so prettily.
Cumming.
He was cumming.
He was fucking. Cumming. Inside of you.
Blue eyes looped back in his skull. Jaw slack on your throat. His hips mindlessly humping on your still-spilling cunt as you clung to him. As he hung onto you. Desperately, brokenly, in every way he feared he would.
"Oh my god," he choked. Tears streaming down his face as he tucked into the crook of your neck. Fingers trembling on your spine. "Feels s'good. So good. So good, feels so sooo gooood."
His whine broke from his chest. Shaky and raw. His deep voice pitching as he slumped into you. Flopping his weight onto your twitching body.
His cock kept pumping. More than he'd anticipated. His still-rolling hips sloshed up your insides and squeezed the messy mix of bubbled cum out onto the sheets. Good. Stain them. Let him stain every part of you.
"Wanna keep going," he whimpered, teething on your ear as he tiredly rocked into you. "Wanna keep going. Wanna. Need'ta—"
"Toru," you rasped. "Mm, aren't you tired? You just came."
"Wanna cum again. Wanna make you cum again. Wanna fuck. . . fuck you. Till I can't. Please."
You didn't protest as he nudged you over. He felt your breath stutter. Felt your back shiver against his chest as he tipped you onto your side. Dragging your hips back onto his. Cock half-hard and still stuffing you to the brim.
The filthy mess pooling between your thighs hardly swayed him. If anything, it encouraged him. Lanky arms scooping your closer and flushed to your waist. Mouth drooling on your shoulder as he humped on the squish of your ass.
"Please baby. Please." He sniffed.
And you let him. Let him hold your hips and fuck himself stupid on you. Let him cream your cunt until it was gushing filthy white. Let him hold you.
Let him claim you.
As his. Finally. Fucking his.
Satoshi had never bought a girl flowers before.
Never had the chance to. All girls were interested in was how good his tongue piercing felt between their thighs and how deep his dick could go.
Now? He's at a florist. Helmet tucked under his arm and blue eyes fixed to the bouquets. Smiling big and bright. Even if he hadn't the slightest idea of what he was doing.
Girls liked flowers, right? That's what he saw in the movies. Roses?
Wait, what were your favourite flowers?
He frowned, raking a pale hand through his hair and catching it in the shimmering morning sun. He knew your favourite sex position. Knew your favourite way to cum ( on his face, by the way ), but he never knew your favourite flower.
Maybe roses would be the safer option? But what if you were one of those girls who hated roses? Even worse— what if you were allergic them?
Damnit.
"Can I help you?"
The florist smiled from behind him. A sweet old lady with a warm look in her eye. Satoshi almost felt bad for bothering her.
"Uh," he cleared his throat. "What would you. . . get a girl after the first date?"
He sounded stupid. Really stupid. But really, when did he not?
The florist's face face never faltered. She rounded the counter and stepped to a section. As if she's seen young love a hundred times.
He found himself following after her. Like a big puppy with blue eyes peering intently at all the flowers she picked.
"Roses for passion."
"Peonies for good fortune."
"And of course, lilacs for first love."
He found himself smiling as she tucked the flowers into wrapping paper. Arranged and snipped and prettied them up for you. Like you deserved.
Then he paused.
"Wait, first love? How did you—"
"I can tell."
Her smile never left as she presented him with the bouquet. The flowers bloomed in his face and reminded him of your eyes. Your smile. The way both dazzled on that ferris wheel last night.
His heart ached. It ached for you. In a way it hadn't for anyone else.
No wonder the florist saw right through him. He was an open book when it came to you.
He sighed, fond. Gleam returning as he stuffed his hand in his pocket for his wallet. "Well, you'd be right." He shook his head.
"How much?"
He almost winced at the price.
Right. Flowers were a flourishing business. But fucking hell, why'd they need to be more expensive than a meal?
Satoshi's lips pressed together as he stared at his open wallet. He's surprised he didn't see a tumbleweed rolling around in there.
He was low on cash. Dreadfully so. The fair took him out a bit. And payday wasn't until two weeks. So he was quite literally strung between the decision: bouquet for you or decent meals for the week?
Maybe his credit card?
Nope. He needed to settle that.
And he wasn't fortunate enough to have a monthly allowance waiting for him in his savings like Satoru did.
What's it gonna be?
Bouquet?
Food?
". . . Have a nice day."
The bell chimed above him as he stuffed his wallet back into his pocket. He walked back out to his bike with his helmet tucked under his right arm and a bundle of flowers in his left.
It would be all worth the smile on your face. He could already picture your pretty, flustered look as he stood on your doorstep and presented you with the bouquet.
You were worth it all, he told himself as he set on his way back to the college dorms.
You were worth it, he thought, as he trekked his way up the stairs.
You were worth it.
Every single penny.
He firmed as he stood at your doorstep.
Knocked his knuckles on your door. Awaited the face he'd been missing since he had to love and leave you yesterday. Something he felt stupid for now considering he'd raced all the way to his brother's dorm only to get a text that, everything was fine and sorted.
Whatever. He's here now. Gonna see you again. See yours smile. Maybe get a kiss?
Well, if you opened the door, at least.
Another knock. "Babydoll?"
Were you awake yet? He hoped so. You have a class, don't you?
His faltering smile brightened when he heard footsteps from the other side. There you were. His arm nudged the bouquet into his hands. His chest stuttered.
Breathe.
It's just giving a girl flowers.
Simple enough, right? You can give her orgasms but you're all nervous over giving her roses? Get a grip.
Oh, he was gripping.
Gripping the cellophane. Crinkling it.
When the door opened and instead of your pretty face—
Blue eyes stared back at him.
Blue eyes. Glasses. Tousled hair.
Blue eyes.
Smug eyes.
"Satoru?"
His voice came out softer than he intended. Hesitant. As if saying it too loud would solidify the reality that Satoru, his twin, the guy who you called for when he was inside of you— was standing in your doorway.
Cardigan rustled. Eyes squinted with sleep. Hair a mess.
Perfume.
Was that your perfume?
He hadn't realised he was staring until the patter of water caught his ears. Water. Shower? His gaze instinctively snapped into the dorm. To your bathroom door. Cracked open with steam slithering out. Like a snake. Like it was taunting him.
You know what else he saw? The crumpled bedsheets.
The strewn clothes.
His leather jacket.
In the corner. On the floor. Slumped in a pitiful pile. Abandoned.
"She's in the shower."
Satoru spoke, leaning against the doorway. Eyes dragging over Satoshi who stood there. Frozen. Aimless.
He felt his hand twitch. Felt the stare pricking into his fingers that trembled around the bouquet. The bouquet he got for you.
For you.
"That for her?" Satoru asked.
Satoshi brought his gaze back to his brother. Shoulders slumped. Jaw slack. He hadn't even realised that he wasn't breathing.
"You. . ." He trailed off.
Couldn't finish.
"Yeah." Satoru shrugged.
He didn't need to.
Twins had a way of knowing one another. Knowing what the other needed. When the other hurt.
How to hurt them.
Satoshi was good at running.
He'd done it all his life. Ran away from his parents. Ran away from home. Ran away from the comparisons and the expectation and the insecurity.
No.
Not the insecurity.
Never the insecurity.
The hallway was a blur. The stairs were a slur. Nothing registered in his frazzled eyes as he stormed out of the dorm building with fire on his heels. Nothing but the sight of his brother. Smug. The sight of his jacket. Abandoned.
He surged for his bike. Gripped the bouquet so tight it almost snapped in his ring-riddled hand.
Showering. You were showering.
After your night with Satoru. After your date with him. After he placed the heart he never knew he had into your hands.
And you squashed it.
For what— for Satoru?
Did you also prefer Satoru?
Why bother with him then?
His shattered heart scoured for answers. And his mind offered them. Cold and uncomfortable. But true. Thorny to swallow and treacherous to internalise.
Was it.
Was it because he looked like him?
Did you fucking want him because he was Satoru's twin?
The bouquet burned his palm as his boots glued to concrete. The thought sinking into his mind. Creeping into his veins. Pumping with his blood. Hot, hotter— blistering.
He crammed the bouquet into a nearby bin.
Broke the stems. Squashed the flowers. Suffocated them.
Roses for passion.
Peonies for good fortune.
Lilacs for first love.
First love.
First love.
What a fucking joke.
Shoving himself for his bike, his hand clawed into his pocket. Jutting his empty wallet aside and grabbing a box. A lighter. He needed a cigarette. Needed a smoke. Needed a way to calm the hell down before that familiar, violent anger wrung into every nerve and made him do something stupid.
He didn't have the money for a speeding ticket.
And he definitely didn't have any for bail.
He needed to punch something.
Needed to punch something.
Needed to.
Flick of a lighter. Strike of the cigarette. He shoved it between his lips. Leaned on his bike. Shut his eyes. Focused on the smoke.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale
In—
Damnit.
Nicotine choked his lungs. Smoke squeezed his throat. He coughed and shoved his hand back into is pocket. Wrenched out his phone and ignored the wallpaper he'd set last night. Of you, and him, and that stupid fair you were probably imagining going to Satoru with instead.
Through the harsh glare of the sun, he managed to swipe through his contacts. Jab his thumb onto Sukuna's number and wrest the phone up to his ear.
One ring. Two. Satoshi chewed on the bud. Meshing it between his teeth.
Three rings.
Four.
For fuck's sake—
The line picked up."Yeah?"
Satoshi exhaled. Sharp and smokey as he spat out the bitten-bits of cigarette. His hip leaned on his bike as he glanced up at the sky. Glared at it.
"Hey. You still on for tonight?"
A beat of silence. Like Sukuna was hesitating.
"Thought you said you didn't want anything to do with it anymore?"
"Need extra cash."
More like a distraction. A sweet, sharp, bite of pain to drown out the burn in his heart.
Another pause. Satoshi shut his eyes. Tried to ignore the hundred questions pressed in the silence over the line.
". . . you good?" Sukuna asked.
He didn't blame him. Satoshi was adamant about leaving that place behind back then.
Another exhale from his lungs. Another tremor of his hands. He dared to cast the bin a glance and saw the stems poking out of it.
I love the anticipation of waiting for an update, imagining so many scenarios from what I’ve last read and theorizing with other readers and the writer. I love gradually watching the writer’s storytelling and style get better. I love kudoing/liking and commenting on my favorite parts I’ve read, even more when the writer responds with more added lore and sometimes even reveal that my support is the reason they’re still updating. That they’ve returned to continue writing it because of it. I genuinely don’t mind how long it takes for a writer to update their fics bc as one too, I understand the work put into something that’s literally for free and filled with passion for one’s favorite fandom. I understand we all have lives. And if it’s my favorite fic, I’ll wait as long as needed.
Even if the fic is suddenly abandoned, I don’t ever regret reading it bc I enjoyed the journey. I have no problem imagining the ending with what I was left with. I sometimes purposely read abandoned fics when it seems interesting bc I’d rather experience the journey rather than wonder and wait around for nothing. I still wish the writer well and hope they’ll eventually return, but I’ve become okay with it if they don’t. I move on and check on it every once in a while.
It’s valid to prefer completed fics, but a completed fic has to start from somewhere. It’s the reason why we have completed fics in the first place. How a community is built in the first place—when we stop treating writers like fast-fashion robots to consume rather than engage. Please support ongoing fics and new writers bc waiting around for completed fics doesn’t happen without engagement, and will never become completed if you’re too scared to read them.
cw: 18+ mdni, dark content/deaddove, (it’s fluff at the end), heavy fauxcest (Price referred to as Pa, Dad), fíngering, Older!Price.
Oldman!Price is emotionally constipated (shocker?)
will have finished giving you the meanest whooping of your life, your behind raw and bruised and he’s sure he’s have to rub ointment on it, when he realizes you didn’t actually try to run away.
The old worn tire swing he knows you like so much is just at the edge of his property, he meant to move it since you’d caught wind of the tired thing on a hike but he’d forgotten about it. So when he saw caught you after realizing you hadn’t been in his peripheral for at least ten minutes, he raised hell. 
You’re hiccups and sobs are muffled into the cushion, he’s pressed your head into. He finally let’s go, hand going around the back of your neck to rub his thumb at your nape. The damage is done, it’s his mistake— if he gave the illness, he’ll provide the cure. His reddened hand goes over the swell of your ass, making you flinch and whimper in pain.
“Easy buttercup,” he mutters, straightening you over his lap, his thumb dipping low, pushing your pussy lips open. You suck in a shuddering breath, dazed and tired.
Your lips purse at the feel of his running his thumb through your folds, circling around your clit and back down. You clench his jeans with your fingers, “P-pa—”
“—I know honey, I know, all tired yeah?” He coos gently, rubbing you till he feels arousal coat his thumb, “Gotta relax lovie, just one finger, can take it f’me. So good doll.”
You let out a soft keen, his words melting your brain, body relaxing as he inserts a digit inside you. John takes his time, slow thrusts of his finger in your drenched hole, nudging that sweet spot that makes your hips wiggle in delight, sharp breathes and sweat moans.
Price feels the way your walls flutter, pumping them faster through your spongey walls, making sure your heads still down, cheek to the sofa kitchen. You don’t have to think, you don’t have to move, just feel. And you do, the way the older man curls his finger inside you, finger fucking you just the way you need after wearing you out. Your face screwed up in pleasure.
“You got it buttercup, let it go for me— shit— let Dad feel it.”
You tremble, mewling as your hips buck against his hand, cumming around his digit. He sits you up in his lap, fucking your through your high, whispering just how good you’ve been for him. “Took it so well lovie,” and “my good girl. So prefect.” Planting a kiss on your temple.
He grunts out, knees getting old on him as he lifts you in his arms, your legs wrapped around his torso as he pats your back, your sniffles being heard as Price makes his way up the steps. He mumbles against your neck, rubbing your back, “Such a good kid for me, too good for an old man like me, huh?”
A day or so later, when your butts mostly healed. Price’s gotten you a new tire swing, just a little ways out that he can hear your soft singing in the distance, telling you and the baby to give it a go while he smokes a cigar a fair distance away.
It’s never an apology with words, just had to show you he’ll be more careful next time.
a/n: older!John would never apologize properly, an avid gift giver though. Hes so Dad. lol play Nothings Gonna Hurt You Baby by cigarettes after sèx☠️☠️
you and sukuna have been dating for two months know. it’s going well. no complaints. he’s someone you see yourself staying with. potentially forever. but it’s still early. and because it’s early, you’re trying to not have sex with him just quite yet. it’s hard but you’ve been strong. but come ovulation week, you’re singing a different tune. he sent you a snap of him after a workout. sweaty. buff. sweatpants dangerously low. bulge poking. he’s delicious and you had to give in. you enticed him to come over. he’s more than willing to help with your ailments. but when you send him the directions he gets a little nervous.
you: when u get here u just gotta watch out for the bodyguard lol
sukuna: wym?
you never responded. his heart began to race a little bit. what bodyguard? not that he couldn’t handle it but was this a princess in the tower type of shit? defeat the dragon to get pussy? as he approached your place, there was no bodyguard. he walked up to your door, still nothing. were you just joking? and when he knocks, he hears some weird noises coming from the other side. but he shrugs it off. you open the door for him, so perfect and glittery. he greets you with a kiss when something runs across his leg. he looks down. a big fat cat. not your big fat cat. a big fat white ragdoll cat with a nasty scowl. “oh…”
“this is apple!” you cheerfully say , hoisting her up in your arms. apple hisses at him and swats her little fluffy paw at him before cuddling into you. he sees her pink princess collar with a cute bow and jingle bell.
this is the bodyguard.
he’s not a fan.
you set apple down and she stays beside your feet, glaring at him. he clears his throat. sukuna wastes no time to scoop you up and take you to your bedroom. and before he fully goes in, he notices apple following. he scoffs and shoos her away, closing the door behind him. you click your tongue at him, shaming him for bullying her.
“i’m about to bully another cat.” he says which makes you laugh as he tosses you in the bed. sukuna recks you. his dick is huge and feels so amazing, even with a condom. he knew just what to do to make you cum over and over again. the number of times couldn’t be measured. it was marathon sex. he loved the way you felt around him. he loved the way you moaned his name. he loved the way you accidentally said i love you. and you loved the way he accidentally said it back. was it too soon for that, yeah sure. but #yonitoogood.
sukuna started coming over a lot. your relationship was really moving. he’s a good boyfriend to you, no doubts about it. there’s only one thing in the way.
apple.
she hated him.
he hated her.
one day you went out of town to visit your friend for the weekend and you asked your beloved boyfriend to watch your cat. you evil fluffy cat. he hesitated. but he figured he might as well try to get along with the stupid cat. because sukuna bought an engagement ring. he knew it was crazy. he knew that. but like….a man wants what he wants! a man always knows if he wants to be with you and sukuna knew. he wanted you and only you forever. so yeah. he’ll watch apple. and he’s gonna make her love him, so help him God.
when he got to your apartment, apple laid her eyes on him and let out a yowl. that’s what he heard the first time he came over. she is really is a bodyguard. or maybe a guard dog. sukuna drops his bag on the floor and approaches her. she hisses at him and scurries away. he groans and stomps after here.
“c’mere cat! we’re gonna be besties!” he shouts. he follows her into the living room but she’s not there when he gets there. sukuna scans the room, eyes squinted and face in a scowl. after a few minutes, he assumes she’s hiding under the couch. He goes and plops down on the couch, letting out a sigh. suddenly, two white fluffy paws reach out from under the couch and hook their claws into sukuna’s ankles. he shouts tries to grab her paws but she ducks back under the couch. he grumbles and gets down on the floor to peer under the couch. he sees her, her little green eyes reflecting the light and she looks surprised at him. she huffs at him.
“get out from under there!” he reaches his hand under the couch and she swats at him and hisses. in the midst of her swatting, he grabs her paws and drags her out. she lets a surprised yet pitiful meow. sukuna holds onto her and she tries to escape.
“knock it off!!” he presses her into his body so she can’t move. her eyes widen and she meows. “you want a treat? mommy left you some treats.” he says, trying to appease her, slightly out of breath. she hisses and chomps down on his arm. luckily it doesn’t hurt. he groans and flips her around so they look face to face.
“you need to get yourself together! and learn to love me! you know why? cuz i’m gonna be your new daddy.” he says the last part in a sinister voice.
apple gags.
he groans and drops his head. she starts swatting and smacking his head, trying to get loose from his grip. he takes a deep breath and raises his head back up, letting her hit his face.
“you will love me.” he mumbles and she presses her paw over his mouth. almost like she wants him to shut up. he stands up and takes her to the kitchen him while she still wiggles to freedom. he then pulls out her bag of treats.
“you want daddy to give you a treat? look, a fishy!” he holds the treat in front of her face and she smacks it away. he sighs and tries again with another treat. the process repeats. the rest of the weekend was difficult. apple peed on his clothes, scratched up his ankles, bit him, smacked him and refused to eat when he served her. sukuna just took it, but after a while, he didn’t even want her to like him anymore. a resentment had built up against her.
but sunday night, he hears some weird noises coming from your room. he tiptoes down the hall and slowly pushes ur door further open. there’s sad meowing, almost like crying, coming from under the covers. sukuna walks into your room, seeing a fluffy tail peaking out from the blanket.
“apple?” he questions. the crying stops. sukuna lifts the blanket and sees apple, curled in a ball with your dirty shirt. suddenly all the resentment he’d built went away in a second.
so cute, so sad, so relatable.
“where’d you get that?” she nuzzles her face deep into your shirt and he pouts his lips. “you miss mommy?” he gently raises his hand and hovers it over her. and then he puts his hand down on her to pet her. she doesn’t hiss, or smack, or run. she just lets him pet her. sukuna lets out a victory cheer in his head, closing his eyes with a smile. he opens them back up, noticing apple is staring up at him. he clears his throat and removes his hand. she fake hisses at him, pretending to be bothered by she’s not. he chuckles. he goes to pick her up and she seats at him but with less ferocity and anger.
“oh you like me now huh? you like daddy now?” she hiccups. “finally. sukuna - triumphant.” he says dramatically. he pulls out his phone and smushes apple into his neck, like they’re hugging. she tries to push herself away from him, meowing loudly.
“hush, it’s for mommy.” he snaps a picture and sends it to you.
sukuna : lady killer >3•
you : kitty killer *
when you came home monday night, you found sukuna laid on the couch, knocked out watching some cooking show. and you found apple snuggled in his shirt.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──── 33 . 2k wrdz , black fem reader , afro dominican connie ꒰ he says da n word a couple times ꒱ , music artists connie & reader , strangers to smthn to loverz , reader’z 23 connie’z 25 , slight miscommunication , kinda shy reader + she has a prominent birthmark on her face , lotsaaaaa feelings , pining , controlling connie , pet name usage ꒰ ma , mama , mami , baby , pretty ꒱ , mentions of anxiety , website translated spanish ꒰ sawriiii . ꒱ , fingering , daddy kink ! ! , dirty talk , slight dubcon moment , oral sex ꒰ r -> c ꒱ , squirting . typical yuckiness .
𝜗ϱ 𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 𝑜𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝑒 . . . my longest fic 2 date , gulp . if u make it to the end , kudos 2 u . m givin you all of my kissies . back wif a bang i guess . have fun . Minors Do Not Interact !
“La, la, la, la, la, la, la . . .”
You hum a gentle scale into the head of your microphone while restlessly twirling the drawstring of your sweatpants around your index finger. Your voice is returned back to you through the in-ears, balanced and familiar. Around you, shining down on you, are lights . . big and bright, like stars that have been dragged too close.
“La, la, la, la, la, la, la . . .” Mindlessly, you drag your feet across the two hundred and twenty foot wide stage, walking from one end to the other. Beneath your hums is the soft chatter of the stage crew as they set up mics, run cables, and check for speaker delays. Your manager’s somewhere in the mix, probably on the phone scheduling that magazine interview with allure she’s been fighting to work into a time slot in your never ending docket of events for about a month now. You draw in a deep, slow inhale, look out towards the sea of empty seats . . . then immediately pull your sight away. You try not to linger on it — the fear, that is — you keep your focus on the stage floor instead.
“B-Betty Botter bought some butter and a proper copper coffee pot. Betty Botter bought some butter and a proper copper co—“
“—꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱!”
The sound of your name being called sparks a sharp current that travels down your spine. You spin on your heels to watch Annie wave you closer towards her position at the east wing of the stage and without thinking, you rush on over.
“Conference meeting in five.” She takes your microphone and hands it over to one of the crew members without sparing them a glance. It’s natural for you to quickly pull out your in-ears and hand them over, too. “You okay like this?” She motions to your outfit — wide legged sweatpants in powder pink, long sleeved leotard nearly the same shade, and Ugg boots. “Because I don’t think we have time to change. This is still kind of last minute.”
You give a soft smile that doesn’t quiet meet your eyes, “ ‘m okay, Annie.”
Your fingers don’t match your words, always the tell tale in revealing your never still, always bubbling anxiety. You twist at the rings that cover nearly each one, continuously ‘round and ‘round, rub and squeeze at your knuckles — all a rhythm to somehow keep your thoughts in one order. Every tiny movement is an anchor as the abhorrent conference meeting you’ve all but known about since last week approaches.
”I know it’s not ideal but the guy is more busy than I expected. I thought the two of you could maybe have a one on one some time last month to become better acquainted but, no hope. You’ll probably meet him at the stadium’s conference meeting in a few days.”
That’s all the warning Annie had given you and for six days, you were left on edge, dreading it, anticipating it, itching for it. You’ve heard his name more times than you’ve heard your own these past couple of months, seen his face in passing on billboards, press photos, and on a walking stranger’s t shirt. One glance around the conference room and the thought is rapid — there’s no hiding from him here.
It’s smaller than you expected. Fluorescents are harsh against the pale walls and dark wood of the large, oval shaped table that twelve, cushioned rolling chairs surround, though only two remain empty. The surface of the table is scattered in paper, diagrams of the stage, laptops, coffee cups, and walkie talkies. About ten others are peppered here and there, leaned against the wall while taking a phone call, shooting a text, or even hovering over the table to point at a paper and discuss something with another. Seeing the familiar faces of the rest of your team calms your racing heart.
You say your gentle hellos and go to take a seat beside your security lead, Reiner. His presence is stabilizing, a familiar tether in the midst of this somewhat controlled chaos. The empty seat beside you feels daunting in a way. You know who it’s for, you know that the meeting between you both is inevitable yet you can’t stop bouncing your leg underneath the table. “He’s late,” Reiner leans over and murmurs close to your ear.
“Oh,” your eyes grow wide and instinctually, you reach for the thin chain you wear that dangles the first initial of your name. “Am I—“
“You are. But there’s a hell of a difference between five minutes and ten.”
Your eyes travel across nearly each face within the room. Most appear unbothered by it, Annie rolls her eyes, the stage manager rubs at the wrinkles in his forehead . . more so out of stress about whatever a production coordinator is quietly mumbling to him than the fact that the tour’s headliner is eleven minutes late to the meeting. You try to focus on what you can, the diagrams and messily scribbled versions of the setlist mostly, however can’t stop your eyes from continuously darting towards the double doors where you hear approaching footsteps.
One of them quickly opens without a knock and you catch eye of a man, about six feet tall, blue eyed, wearing a suit pressed without a wrinkle or line in sight first. He steps in to hold the door open for him, Connie Springer, who’s followed by two more people that you don’t really recognize. He walks with an easy confidence, dressed in a pair of dark washed jeans, stitched with a subtle, swirling pattern all over them and matching hoodless jacket with a clean, white tee underneath. He wears glinting gold jewelry — handful of chains, some rings, and a blue faced watch that all wink hello underneath the artificial, white lighting of the room and your eyes catch on the new design that’s dyed almost all over his token buzzed and bleached head — cheetah print.
The room somehow feels smaller. Your tongue moves against the roof of your mouth, or at least tries to, nonetheless, it’s gone completely dry. He’s there . . he’s here, in all of his disgustingly handsome, six foot four glory and you can barely even move.
You watch him smile faintly at everyone. His manager’s apologizing for their tardiness yet you can barely hear him over the monotonous, loud thuds of your heart. your chest feels tight. instincts scream at you to look away, and you do, however your eyes can’t stop slowly traveling back up to him. He takes his time working throughout the room, shakes a few hands, quietly introduces himself to most of your team until he’s finally a couple steps away from you. Closer, you notice that his eyes are hazel — you see his face almost everywhere but, the intensity of them in person is something else entirely. Every movement he makes feels natural though measured, every glance is purposeful and lands with a quiet command that makes spines straighten.
His attention settles on you.
“Connie, this is—“
“—I know who she is.”
Your acrylic nails dig so far deep into the meat of your palms, you’re sure that they’re a hair away from bursting an artery.
His voice is calm. Brooklyn is woven through his words and you catch the faint inflections in the way he pronounces each one. The chair beside you is pulled back and angled slightly sideways to give himself more breathing room when he settles into his seat. His cologne hits a second later — dark and smooth, like leather, and smoked vanilla — a kind of scent that envelops a person’s senses in only the sweetest way possible. His eyes are scanning the table again, assessing everything and everyone as he leans back, loosely interlocks his fingers on top of his abdomen, and gets comfortable. Then his gaze is back on you, composed yet inquisitive. The air feels heavy.
Your lips are parting in readiness of an introduction.
Not less than a second later, Connie’s tour manager claps her hands and he parts his attention towards her. “Let’s get started!”
The meeting moves quick — transitions, security checkpoints, stage positionings and timing are discussed. Efficient. Straightforward. Both Connie and you listen quietly. You, with your hands politely folded in your lap, Connie, with his head lowered, posture slouched, and ease written into nearly every line of him. When all is said and done, chairs roll against the floors as people break off into smaller clusters, already mid sentence in discussing lighting cues and load times. Your pr agent and choreographer, Anthony, stand, give you goodbyes and assurance that they’re only a phone call away and Reiner lets you know that he’ll be standing outside the door.
The room eventually only leaves you, Annie, the two people connie entered the room with, him, and his manager. The silence feels different. only slightly less tensed, less crowded.
“You good?”
He’s talking to you.
The volume of his voice is somehow even lower than when he first walked in. You don’t strain your ears to listen but it does force you to look at him and give your attention. His focus is settled entirely on you now. He no longer scans the room but you, in his own particular way without even having to break his eyes from your own.
“ ‘m fine.”
His chin dips the slightest bit lower then they squint a bit, not in suspicion but evaluation. “Fine . .” he weighs the word on his own tongue. “. . You been on stages this size before?”
“A few.” You don’t have to hesitate on your answer because it’s the truth. Therefore, again, you say, “I’m fine. I’ll be okay.”
The corner of his mouth pulls upward — deliberate and slow. You can’t help glancing down a few times at it, at his teeth. Not veneers, you’d guess that he maybe wore braces in his teen hood because they’re flawless. Barely a gap nor a single chip, and a pearly white. You watch his eyes flick down then back up, it’s quick but not crude . . he’s assessing you like, you assume, he does almost everything else in his life. “Good, good,” a careful nod. “Just makin’ sure my opener ain’t gon’ pass out underneath those lights.”
Something in your tummy flips. His words hang between you both, weighty. My opener. You straighten your posture, squeeze your hands tighter together, “. . You worried about me or your show?”
A pause. You feel Annie shift where she stands a couple feet behind you. Connie’s manager pretends to check his phone.
Your question forces him to suddenly lean forward, forearms on knees which brings him a little closer to you though not entirely within your bubble. The color of his eyes lean more towards the grayish scale of hazel — a ring of dark storm clouds with specks of mahogany and sage caught near the iris. They don't just look at you, they render you almost completely immobile. “Mm, difference?” He gives a small shrug and faint purse of his lips.
There.
A test.
You fight to hold his gaze, and the thing is, you successfully do. And although your eyes are on his, you still think he hears the faintest warble in your voice when you respond with, “I don’t need babysitting.”
Quietly, he studies you for a long second, eyes searching yours for something, then nods once. “Good. I don’t like carryin’ people.”
His words should feel insulting, maybe even dismissive yet they don’t. Instead, they feel like a request. When he stands, you do, too. He’s adjusting the clip of his watch and the expensive cologne you had a whiff of melts into the air around you both. “Can’t wait to see what you do with that thirty, ma.”
He takes the air you breathe when he exits out of the room with his team flanked behind him. Your chest rises and falls in a tremble as you remain silently staring at the now closed door, listening to Annie scoff, “A prick, isn’t he?”
You immediately shake your head, never tearing your eyes away from the knob. The anticipation of it twisting again bubbles beneath your skin. Maybe he left something? Maybe he simply wants to have a longer conversation. “No, no,” your voice is quiet, faraway. “. . He seems nice.”
ׅ ❤︎
The hours leading up to a show have always put a strain on your nervous system.
You told Connie the truth about that — that you’ve performed on stages this size before because you have. Clips of your VMA performance last year still goes viral once a month but, you suppose you lied a little too. You’ve never performed for more than forty thousand people in a stadium, and this one houses sixty.
“Mmm,” you pace back and forth in your dressing room, head bowed and eyes closed as your knuckles massage the bridge of your nose. You hear the murmurings of about fifty thousand conversations outside your door as everyone settles into their seats and the thumping bass of Connie’s artist approved pre show playlist — not too loud, but just enough to keep the room on edge. Ten minutes before a performance, you always request your dressing room to yourself. Ring lights dimmed, door locked, and room quiet, you inhale deep breaths as you slowly walk back and forth, wall to wall, to keep your nerves from jittering too much.
The flowing, dramatic sleeves of your stage fit kisses your skin as you move. Chains suspended along your abdomen, dangling from your custom designed top shimmer beneath the low lighting. You think your heart beats louder than the bass out there.
Suddenly, you stop.
You turn to look at your reflection within a full length mirror, at the glowing undertone of your warm, brown skin that illuminates beneath a thin veil of body oil. An abstract bloom of pigment, slightly lighter than your skin tone, stretches across the full planes of your cheeks and settles over the bridge of your nose. It's not neat, not aesthetic as one would say, but it's you. Took you nearly eight years to stop trying to erase it. Eight years of pressing full coveraged powders into your skin and carefully layering blush over it to better conceal. You blurred yourself into something flat. Dull. Now at age twenty three, you let it breathe most times underneath sheer foundations.
Leaning closer into the bulb framed mirror lets your eyes catch onto the tiny, heart shaped rhinestones that dot the outer corner of your eyes. Gloss gleams across the plushness of your lips and a forty five inched, kinky curly sew in flows down to your knees — one side slick and tucked behind your ear to expose one of your in ear’s with its milky, opalescent surface shifting from a delicate lavender to icy blue like moonlight caught behind glass.
You look pretty.
You feel like someone who’s deserving of being here right now.
A shaky breath puffs out your cheeks then you’re smoothing your hands down your stomach. Your heart still gallops but it’s different now . . you can bear it. “You’re okay,” you whisper to your reflection. “You’ll be perfect.”
Outside your dressing room door, you hear the volume of the playlist lowering and a slower more swelling baseline. One of your first cues.
Then, a knock at your door. “꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, you’re on in five!”
“Okay!”
You straighten your back prior to leaning and grabbing your microphone from off of the vanity. It’s chrome base is cool against your fingers — solid and grounding even, with the body coated in a fine veil of white, crystal shimmer that scatters light similar to a pocketful of stars each time you tilt it. It’s not loud, it sparkles. Purposeful. Custom made exactly how you wanted it. It’s weight is balanced perfectly with the grip sized to your small palm. You even made sure the finish was glossed to its touch to keep the crystals from scraping against your rings.
A microphone has always felt right in your hand, albeit your hairbrush, mop stick, or television remote, the feeling’s never changed. Holding it now feels less like picking something up and more like being returned something that’s always belonged to you.
Therefore, after one last breath, you’re turning, unlocking your door, and quickly pulling it open to let Annie, Reiner, and more of the tech coordinators shuffle you into the back seat of a golf cart to drive you towards the stage.
In the far left wing of the stadium’s custom towering, smiley faced designed stage — his distorted, neon lit trademark — Connie stands. He shouldn’t be here, he knows that. Never has he watched sets from the wings. If his name is on it, he’s either performing or already in an Escalade on the way back to his hotel. Standing still while another commands the room has never felt right to him. Intrusive, even.
But when told that you’re up . . . he had to leave his dressing room from his pre-set work out to come see this. To see you.
As the beat of your opening song swells deeper and deeper, low, dreamy, and patient, he folds his arms, shifts his weight, and clears his throat. He hears the crowd getting louder. The ground of the stage is beginning to sheathe with a thin fog. He tells himself it’s out of simple curiosity. Industry respect, too. Then the spotlights shift from white to a pearlescent pink . .
You walk out and Connie’s brain quiets for what feels like the first time in over a decade.
He’s known about you for a while.
Longer than what most people would suspect maybe. You started off posting covers on Soundcloud seven years ago when you were sixteen. You were anonymous then. Tagging each one underneath the name ‘solstice.’ Connie didn’t hear about you until you were nineteen, but come that first play of your first hit single on the radio about a year and a half ago, he knew.
Your voice alone is flawless, but it wasn’t just that that garnered his attention. You seem to carry a certain type of magnetism that sticks to a person — hovers over them through the shittiest boom box speakers or high end headphones. The way even the smallest notes you produced invoked something in him let Connie know that he needed to protect it, hold it close, make sure the world didn’t swallow it before he got his turn.
That’s why he wasted no time making you the opener of his first stadium tour without even knowing what you looked like.
Barefoot, iridescent make up, highlight high on your cheeks, and brown skin glowing beneath the long, fluidic, liquid white draping of your stage costume, Connie finds himself standing with his fist nearly covering his mouth. His index and thumb loosely curl around his lips as he watches, eyes focused on you flowing through sweetly seductive choreography with his eyebrows lowered.
Your music has always sat between sensual and melancholic. There’s something almost casual in the way you move. There’s not a lot of force or power. You aren’t trying to be sexy, you just are.
Connie takes the chance at looking up at one, out of six, large, led screens above your head. The camera catches at your eyes — though brown, they’ve still managed to darken beneath the lighting. They’re beautiful . . you’re dangerous. He notices how the crowd screams your lyrics back to you, desperate to be heard. Strangers in the front row grabbing onto each other’s arms out of excitement when you glide closer to the edge of the stage, bodies jittering almost frantically. Applause grows more thunderous the more you stay up there.
He exhales a slow breath through his nose . . . quietly nods.
Yeah.
You’re a star.
Not the fragile kind or one that burns out underneath too much pressure. No, you’re here to stay. Right before those lights dim and your last note fades into a reverb, instinctively, you’re turning your head towards the left wing in search of Annie, Anthony, something or someone solid. Nevertheless, your eyes are drawn to where the halo of your spotlight dissolves into shadow — and there he stands just before it, arms folded, as if he'd been rooted there all night.
Was he?
Did he stand there during the entire thirty of your set? For a split second . . you look at him.
He returns your stare with his own and your pulse skips.
There’s a slow, deliberate shift of his jaw and just as briskly, you force your eyes to snap away.
The lights fade back into a warm gold and breathlessly, you’re giving your shy and sweet thanks into your microphone. You don’t look left again. You don’t think that you can. Instead, you bow, turn, and follow your twelve background dancers that usher you behind one of the led towers backstage where he’d been standing.
Subconsciously, you find your eyes darting from here to there as you try to search for him. He’s gone. Your microphone and in ears are taken, then a cold water bottle and towel are shoved in your hands. Where did he go? Faint shreds of disappointment manage to work their way into your previous sphere of proudness. He was here, you know he was . . but he isn’t anymore.
It’s a little upsetting and you aren’t sure as to why. You’ve never needed anyone’s approval before, although Connie’s attention . . his praise, you saw it glowing beneath the storm of his eyes, felt nice. Better than anything you’ve felt before. If you’re honest with yourself, it somehow even felt better than words could describe. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek and preparing to shuffle off towards your dressing room when you hear—
"Good set, ma.”
Low and close.
He’s behind you. You turn but he’s already quickly walking past while adjusting his in ears. Your nose catches onto the notes of his cologne again — this one’s more fresh . . clean. You tip your chin higher to look up at him, but his expression gives you nothing back. It's calm and composed, as a stylist adjusts the swaying, white gold, cuban link chain on top of his chest while another blots his forehead free of any excess oil or sweat before the shine even forms. He doesn't break eye contact you for a second through it all. "You held the silence good,” he continues softer, eyes half lidded when he stares down into your own. Not lazy, not tired . . . focused. “Most people rush it.”
And that’s all. Before you can give a timid thanks or even question him of his time spent watching you, he’s moving towards a ramp downstairs that will lead him below one of the stages where a platform waits to rise him up on within the center of the warped, neon lit face. The skin at the back of your neck prickles with goosebumps. There’s that feeling again . . . of pure, unadulterated elation at the confirmation of him watching. Of him subtly letting you know that he did. You want to scream. You want to turn on your heels, head back to your dressing room, and let the rest of the night blissfully pass. But, you can’t. The soles of your still bare feet remain planted against the smooth flooring beneath you as the entire stadium suddenly goes black.
Everyone knows what that means. The crowd erupts into almost animalistic screams.
There’s a spark of light when a single bass note drops — deep and heavy.
That’s all there is for a a few seconds, silence broken by roars of excitement. Energy pulses throughout the stadium as a square shaped platform rises from beneath the stage, right in the center of the smiley face’s warbled grin. It’s as though come the second his silhouette becomes recognizable, the yells surge louder. You nibble upon the skin of your bottom lip when the platform locks into place with a heavy, metallic thud. Behind him on the screen is glitching surveillance style footage . . . black and white, grainy, and distorted. Staticy lines like old cctv footage snag across the shouting faces of fans packed tight standing within the ‘face’ of the smiley — the pit, as they reach up towards him.
He doesn’t rush.
A camera watches him lift his head and you stare, nearly breathless, as he turns and takes a few slow steps to his right with his chin up to assess people in the high rised seats. He lifts his mic up to his mouth, “Mhmm.”
The beat of his first song of the night plunges.
You feel it in your ribs . . his hunger, his control of it. He moves along the circular edge of the stage now, black timberlands heavy against the floor that glows beneath each step he takes. A black muscle tank beneath a tactical vest clings almost hungrily to the wide, beefy span of his abdomen, dampening with sweat when five minutes hit twenty. The cuban link around his neck catches at every strobe of light and the camera soaks in the glints of dazzling rainbows shining against honeyed skin. Dark tattoos, only a few colored at the wide slope of his biceps and forearms, shift and flex without them even meaning to.
Everything he does is meticulous.
Eyes of grayish hazel scan the pit slowly as he keeps the head of his mic pressed against his lips. They assess . . sometimes selects a person who’s rapping along to each bar for a fierce challenge. Every one of them always ends up exploding, screaming his name, scrambling at the barriers. He never gives a full smile, only ever a knowing smirk or bites one down over his bottom lip.
You swallow.
It’s the restraint, you find. Connie doesn’t chase their screams, he has command over them. For a moment, he appears less like a performer and more like something carved out of the stage itself — industrial, illuminating, untouchable. What begins to settle in your chest, it’s not only commendation . . it’s some wariness, too. He stood here in this very spot and watched you like this. Calculated, quiet, soaking you in the same way you are soaking him in.
Suddenly, the memory of his slow, deliberate jaw shift feels different now. You realize you’ve been watching him this entire time with your arms hugged around yourself, fingers restlessly rubbing at the hip of your flowing skirt.
You inhale a deep breath.
It’s hard to pinpoint what these exact feelings are, but they make you hyper aware. Of everything . . . your posture, your voice, the blood pumping through your veins. Because if he performs like this . . . you’re aware that touring with him won’t just be background noise. You had expectations of you politely opening each concert and slipping off backstage with that much more exposure than the night before. A win-win. However, this isn’t going to be that.
This is going to be pressure, late nights, shared green rooms, and close proximity.
Another inhale — this one shakier. You know yourself well enough to understand one thing: getting too close to Connie holds a lot of risk and won’t have you walking away from him unchanged. This tour . . and the undeniably charged current that flows between the two of you is either going to make you into something bigger than you’ve ever been . . or split you completely in half.
ׅ ❤︎
The official tour announcement drops two days later.
An eight second teaser video of the two of you in your own respective studio sessions — flashes of your frames in a booth, fingers on the sound panel, voices quiet and layered beneath each other’s is posted onto both of your respective’s Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok’s and is viral within ten minutes. Clips of both of your performances circulate, edits pair your songs together, ship you together, you make sure to limit your screen time to a measly two hours a day come stumbling across an account dedicated to only posting said edits.
You don’t need them getting in your head.
Rehearsals are immediate — everyday, between nine am and two pm. The stadium is empty during these hours. No exhilarated screams or constellation of phone flashes shining at you. Just you and your evocative echo. The first one you share with Connie, you keep your distance. It’s easy to.
You make sure to get there about an hour early with Annie, Reiner, Anthony, and your vocal coach and start scales before the light bulbs even warm. Your voice stretched smoothly up into the rafters while stage crews began setting up for another night of spectacle that by the time Connie walks onto the stage — perpetually dressed in oversized sweats, fitted cap, and zip up hoodie thrown over it as if he rolled out of bed and accidentally became famous — you’re already grounded. Already somewhere steady. Somewhere mentally where his intimidation slides off you clean.
It’s always professional.
He stands a few feet away during your run through, fists shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he lifts his chin to watch the monitors. Or pretending to. You never look at him long enough to confirm. When passing each other’s crossing marks, it’s a brief orbit of two bodies aware of gravity but scarily mindful of refusing collision. That first show in Los Angeles was hot. Three nights at one stadium means there’s no time to romanticize it, though. Night two is sharper . . cleaner. You know what to expect, what to perfect. You begin to familiarize yourself with the stage underneath your feet which culminates into night three being all about control.
You let yourself sit in a note for a split second longer, take in the applause that crests louder and louder.
Connie had watched your set silently from the wings on all three nights — never smiling, never frowning . . just observing. With his arms folded, shoulders swole, and eyes seemingly stuck on the line of your body and contours of your face. Between these nights, you learn the rhythm of ice baths, vocal steams, and quick debriefs with Annie and the rest of your team in dim, busy hallways. Connie becomes only someone you see in passing.
During the wee hours of the morning, you’d sometimes spot him standing within the middle of a parking lot your two tour buses would claim overnight with a hand shoved down the front of his sweats to keep it warm while the other held a chubby blunt between his fingers. Underneath the rising sun the plush, pink pillows of his lips would pull a long hit from it and smoke’d curl out lazily from them whenever he exhaled. He never paces, never strolls. Merely just . . stands there, staring out at the horizon as though he were waiting for something. He’s an early bird — you learn that. By the time you and your team, as well as his, drag yourselves out towards catering tents or food trucks for breakfast, he’s already showered, new hoodie, cap pulled low over his bleached head.
Coincidentally, sometimes you find the both of you next to each other in line while waiting to grab some food. There’s never any real conversation. You give a soft though tight lipped smile, he always nods subtly back in return. When you pass each other in narrow backstage corridors, it’s a simple glance. brief. Quickly analyzing. Never invasive or rude, solely . . aware.
In between the two days from Los Angeles to San Francisco with no shows planned, Annie mentions a campaign shoot. “Full visual rollout. You and Connie,” she says while pencilling schedules into her calendar on the digital screen of her iPad. “Warehouse downtown.” You don’t ask why it can’t be separate because you know the answer. The morning before San Francisco night one, your black Escalade pulls up to a stretch of industrial buildings that appear abandoned on first glance. Loading docks are rusted at the hinges and bricks darkened with age are covered in moss.
Having been glammed up in your hotel suite, the brittle crunch of gravel beneath the thin high heels you wear makes you feel slightly out of place. Each one of your steps are careful and slow as Annie and Reiner follow closely behind you around a production truck where cables weave out through its opened doors. While walking by, you glance up within its interior, noting the lighting rigs and coiled cords stacked like metal intestines. Inside the warehouse, the dull scents of dust and electricity waft about. Nervously, you rub your lips together as your eyes naturally roll up to scan the almost scarily high ceilings.
Within the center of the room is a lone, steel chair. Around it, long translucent panels drape from the iron beams up above and flow to the floor. They're all sheer and gauzy, some a light cream, others pearly white, suspended at fluctuating angles to create depth. A gentle breeze caused from hidden fans keep them all in light motion, never flat. Some of the bones of the industrial building remain exposed, brick and iron, a sharp edge in the softness. A warm glow from the late morning sun filters in through the skylight. It all feels like something perfectly crossed between mechanical and empyreal.
You swallow, eyes locked on the chair. Senselessly, it intimidates you. Or maybe, it's the air around it that does. One chair that is somehow designed to hold two figures. One floating, one grounded.
You’d been told that the aesthetic for the shoot was 'soft brutalism' — quoted directly from Annie. "Soft lighting in a steel warehouse. Flowing but still." Now, while standing before the entire set design, you can’t help butterflies from swarming your gut at how intimate this all feels.
You take another look around the room — this time, you really look. Just beyond the sweep of fabric, standing near a dome camera tucked off to the side is Connie. He's in a wine red button down, material not glossy or silk, but a high quality cotton that holds structure at his arms though drapes down to stop just barely after his knuckles. Black tailored trousers fall straight down his long legs and right over a pair of wheat colored timbs pulled straight out of a box.
Soft but still . . . sharp. He looks less like a performer today and more like a figure pulled straight from an editorial spread of Harper's Bazaar.
“We’re going to need some touch ups,” Annie’s mumbling while swiveling her head on her shoulders, likely looking for the make up team. “You can head on over there, babe. Just give me a minute.”
You falter but force your legs to begin to carry you closer to that chair. He isn't looking at you . . . not yet at least. His focus is on watching a staff member adjust one of those hanging panels as he stands back, not saying a word.
Suddenly, one of the layers billows out due to a particular harsh wind of a fan which blurs Connie's outline into nothing but a tall, indistinctive blob for a second. When it settles back into place, he's looking directly at you — not scanning the room, not past you, but at you. The beat of your heart begins to thud that much quicker. You pretend not to notice as the director cuts through your path to begin a brisk but polite introduction. "Hey, great, perfect timing," he smiles while offering a hand. "We're keeping this really minimal. Lots of negative space. We want the focus to just be on you both."
Even while offering a gentle smile and affirming nods, you still feel it. His stare. It pierces through you and renders you keenly aware of your own body. Of the way your shoulders sit, the rise and fall of your chest, warmth gathering underneath your skin. Suddenly, every movement you make simply feels exposed. You wonder if you're holding your hands weird, if his attention has found the birthmark that extends across your nose to your cheeks. One glance back towards him and it's confirmed . . . he isn't looking away.
"Alright, I need you and Connie center."
Warm light catches on his button down, deepening the color as he begins to walk fully onto the set. He's wearing two gold chains, thin and delicate, that glint flashes of amber when he moves. On his index finger sits a chunky ring, a warm shine against the olive undertone of his skin. He doesn't rush his steps. Each is measured — timberlands thudding upon the concrete with every one of them. You inhale a breath through your nose as the hum of the warehouse fades into a barely there buzz when he stops a few feet in front of you.
Not close enough to really touch but close enough to where you feel a subtle shift in the air. Upon gathering enough courage, you finally look directly up into his eyes. "First one's simple," the director's saying though you don't really catch the tail-end of it because you notice Connie's eyes drifting.
Slowly. Deliberately. Not crude or in a rush.
From your eyes, to the bridge of your nose . . . lingering for a bit at the marble of your birthmark. Then lower, tracing the line of your jaw, hollow of your collarbones, then they slip down to the bodice of your dress. You're sure he sees the way the muscles beneath the skin of your abdomen tense because, due to the style of it, half of it is exposed.
"I want you standing. Connie, sit."
His attention is snatched away and without a beat missed, he lowers down onto the steel chair without much hassle and leans back against it as you fall into place beside him, letting the director instruct you on what to do with your arms and hands. "Perfect," the director soon mumbles before he's quickly walking away to grab his camera. You watch how Connie's legs naturally fall open, grounded and unbothered. His left hand rests upon his upper thigh, leaving his elbow jutted outward which creates a strong line throughout his frame. To top it off, his head angles just slightly downwards as he fixes a gaze of almost impassiveness towards the lens.
You, at his right side, are more graceful. Your body curves where his straightens — hand upon the back of the chair he sits in. The subtle angle of your stature creates a long, cultivated sweep from your shoulder down to your hip. The contrast between you both is immediate . . it's electrifying.
"Hold it."
No eye contact between you is exchanged but the space where your bodies part feels impossibly deliberate — like a line drawn in chalk neither of you are allowed to step over. From the outside looking in, the pose reads as cool and unperturbed. From the inside, it feels like a line of pressure being stretched taut between two fixed points. You blow out a quiet breath, the sound softer than you expected it to be, after what feels like a dozen shots are captured and you both are able to move again.
Quickly, both of your own separate make up artists rush in. As yours go to dab on a fresher coat of gloss, one adjusts Connie's sleeves and blots at his forehead. His gaze is shifting again, towards you. He barely reacts to the bodies buzzing around you both, barely even blinks. Your make up artists tilts your chin up a higher fraction with her pinkie, "Look up for me." You do, and in doing so, you feign close interest at the skylight up above, admiring the wispy specks of clouds extended over a sky of blue like stretched cotton.
Seconds tick off into long minutes, eventually twenty. Within those twenty minutes, you and Connie are instructed into four more different poses. Between each one, you look over by the monitors where Annie stands. Her eyes jerk back and forth among several computer screens and she sometimes nod at whatever a tech crew tells her. Although stone faced, you've known Annie long enough to recognize that she's ecstatic. The pictures must be coming out better than you think. She can hardly keep still — pacing slightly from left to right, stopping only to listen closer to whatever someone's telling her or point at a screen with a remark.
"Lets close up the space a little," the director says while silently apprising someone to remove the chair from the shot. "Connie, hand at ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱'s waist. Not grabbing, just a light touch."
Your stomach curls into knots immediately.
Carefully, you step into position beside him. You turn lightly towards him when asked and feel the swaying pleats of your asymmetrical, floor length gown brush against his trousers as you do.
"Ready?"
With a manicured finger, you brush a curl from your high, bun updo out of your vision behind your ear before nodding.
His hand finds your waist — not too sudden but surely not hesitant neither. It's a firm, steady placement against your bare back where the curve of your dress remains open which leaves his warm, shockingly soft palm against your own skin. His hand nearly spans from one side of your hip to the other which causes you to become acutely aware of how little space now exists between both of your bodies.
Unfortunately, your body reacts before you can train your brain to ignore it.
Your shoulders tighten, breath catches. The easy pose you were holding quickly hardens.
"Cut," the director softly says. "Loosen up your top half."
With a quick mumble of an apology, you straighten your posture and give a nod. One more time. Again. Connie's hand is at your waist this time. His thumb settles closer to your hip where, subconsciously, he rubs a small circle onto. You try to breathe, nevertheless, you fail. Your spine stiffens. "Relax, babe," Annie's voice cuts through some murmur as the director gives a quick suck to his teeth.
Another nod. You feel Connie's hand shift, not tighter, just more decisive. It reads almost as if he were making sure to ground you in place to steady you up against him. From your peripheral, you watch his face lean in slightly closer against your ear. "Tranquila," he utters, low and quiet. Your hair lifts on its ends at the back of your neck. "I got you."
The words aren't flirtatious. They're said as if it was a simple fact.
Swallowing, you struggle with letting your shoulders fall to trust the stable press of his hand.
The director hums, "Alright, lets do it."
You manage only two shutters of the lens capturing you both before your hip awkwardly juts out wrong. Embarrassment begins to flood through almost every inch of your body. You feel stupid, you feel stupid. You’re wasting time. Why cant you get it together? Closing your eyes, you press your index fingers lightly against your inner eye corners, "I'm sorry," you whisper quickly. "Sorry, everyone."
There's a soft exhale near your ear — sounds almost like a puff of amusement however, it's not mocking. ". . You nervous?"
Opening your eyes, you only manage to glance quickly up into Connie's before shaking your head. "No."
A second passes. Connie soon then sniffs, "Yeah, aight."
When he tries again, when you decide to finally allow his touch to simply settle, your body, bizarrely, molds instead of braces within it. You soften into something natural. You feel his fingers flex at your hip when you do. You take it as a muted form of his approval.
"Threee she is. There we go, you two."
The camera shutters.
Once, twice, thrice.
"Beautiful. Cut. That's a wrap everyone."
The word wrap nestles a weird feeling in your chest. You feel Connie's fingers part from the skin of your waist. One second they're there, the next, they're gone. Though it'd maybe only been a few minutes of his touch being there, the absence of it registers immediately. It feels wrong, almost. You swallow while watching crew members flood in around you both to begin unclipping fabric from the rafters that fall onto the floor in soft waves. Dome cameras go dark, one by one, as your stylist walks over with a comfortable, shin length robe to help you shrug on. The belt is tied with quick fingers as your eyes shift. Connie's already gone. He's on the far side of the warehouse, tossing a hoodie over his red button up, shielding gold beneath the fabric.
You don't want to look. you refuse to.
But, you do anyway.
He's looking at you again, eyes focused while pulling his hood over his freshly bleached head. The dark fabric frames his face, making him appear all the more forbiddingly handsome. The world around you blurs . . . almost as if someone has smeared their thumb across wet paint as noises fade into deadened mumbles — someone laughs over by the monitors while wrapping a long cord around their palm, your stylist says something to you that you can't quite catch.
Neither of you wave. Neither of you even nod.
The rolling door behind Connie opens, leaving golden sunlight to spill into the warehouse. He looks away, turns, steps outside of it, and not a second later does the door slam back shut . . leaving the world around you to sharpen again. Sound rushes back into your ears as someone drops something with a small curse. Your stylist gives a small nudge to your side, eyebrows shooting up her forehead in slight concern, "Hey, you okay?"
Innately, you nod, even if your mind feels elsewhere. "Yeah."
Something has shifted on its axis, that, you know. You tell yourself that it's just work . . that it will always be just work. But, whatever that's been newly strung between you and Connie feels too taut to blatantly ignore.
ׅ ❤︎
San Francisco is much colder than LA.
Fog rolls low over the city in thick clouds, the air is sharp and tinged with notes of salt. Shows are back to back. Thursday, Friday, then Saturday. Annie has informed you that between these seventy two hours are scheduled soundchecks, team meetings, and magazine interviews. All enough to keep your mind busy . . off of him, until she catches you the night after the first concert, in the lobby of the hotel before the both of you are going to part ways for the night. "Look, I know it's kind of sudden but, the label would like a teaser clip of some studio footage to post by tomorrow," her eyes flitter down to where an Apple watch wraps snuggly around her wrist. "Connie already said he's free—"
Your eyes widen and your voice rises an octave from the nervousness beginning to bubble within the pit of your stomach at only the mention of his name, "—Wait, wait. Right now? Are you serious, Annie?—"
"—I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But, you two are supposed to have this single released in three weeks time. We have to squeeze it in somewhere—"
"—The night after a show? I want a bubble bath."
She's grabbing you by the hips to spin you back in the direction of which you came which would be the hotel's rotating doors. "Bubble bath after this session, okay? Just an hour and a half max. You can do that for me, right?"
You want to tell her no. You want to dig your heels into the buffed marble of the lobby's floor and refuse to move a single inch, but you don't. Annie's the best. The label you signed to two years ago upon first gaining mainstream traction is a small one — Harborlight House.
It'd been Annie that you had clicked with the most out of the dozens of other managers who entered your dms with offers and promises that made your brain spin and stomach queazy. Annie has shown you genuine protection from the start. She flew out on her own dime after you accepted her meeting request and sat with you at a duck pond with her Ipad and pencil in hand instead of a contract thicker than your head. She asked you about what you wanted to accomplish, didn't flinch when you told her such, what success meant to you, what you didn't want to lose.
You signed with Harborlight House only about a month later.
Not because of the numbers, but for her. She'd been the one to push back when a bigger imprint wanted to rush your EP. She'd also been the one that made sure your masters stayed yours and yours alone.
Therefore, you try to do what she asks of you. Because Annie would never purposely lead you into harm's way. Prime example, after listening to you heave a big, bratty sigh, she puts you in the back of an escalade right beside Reiner and tells him, "You don't leave her side for a single second. Wherever she goes, you go, too."
As the car weaves through downtown traffic, your reflection stares at you through tinted glass — gloss still fresh, new lash set fluffy, stage costume set long gone and instead replaced by a white I Am Gia set printed with pink polka dots. You look okay. You don't completely feel okay, though.
Connie already said he's free.
Annie's words surprise you. You start to twist and pull at your fingers, reminding yourself that this is work. Only work. And it will always be.
The studio Connie's label rented is tucked within a more quieter part of the city — completed with industrial brick, dark, caged windows, and only three floors. You and Reiner have to enter up a narrow staircase that smells like warm dust and coffee to make it up to the second floor where you already hear the thumping bass of a smooth tempo track nearly twelve feet from from the door it's coming from at the end of the hall that's only cracked slightly ajar.
The closer you walk towards it, the slower your steps become.
You've performed in front of thousands and walked red carpets. You've had interviewers try to corner you about your love life, other celeb drama, and politics all in one and yet . . . that nervousness doesn't compare to how you currently feel. You hear Reiner mumble from behind you, "You good?"
" 'm good."
You push open the door.
Warmth hits you first.
Inside, the fairly large room is pleasantly lit with tall, standing lamps, as well as a few Himalayan salt ones that have been deliberately placed around the perimeter of it. The glow reflects against the smooth, exposed brick of the walls. A huge vocal booth sits at the far end of the room, topped with two, wide spanned monitors that display layered tracks in neon lines and glass slabs seals it off from a control panel that spans from almost one side of the room to the other, completed with mixing boards, sliders, and illuminating buttons that brighten then slowly dim as if they'd been breathing.
A dark, leather couch has been pushed against one wall and a low table stands in front of it, covered in cables, water bottles, a laptop, and chinese take out containers.
Connie sits in a rolling chair . . dressed in a pair of oversized, black track pants and a mustard yellow hoodie with the word supreme printed on the back. He had his head bowed and elbows on his knees with his hands interlocked between his legs as he listens closely to the track playing. Though, when you enter the room, he lifts it to look up at you.
He fixes his eyes on you and doesn't look away as the other two producers, both men — one with long locs and another with wavy, blond hair turn to face you. "Aye, right on time," the one with locs gives a smile. "We've been gettin' ready for you."
"Hi," a manicured hand is held up for an apprehensive wave as you step further inside. There's no visible reaction from Connie, no grin or smirk or faux reaction of surprise. Akin to yesterday morning at the photoshoot, he simply just watches you.
As Reiner settles in to stand beside the door against a wall, routinely inspecting with just his eyes and minimal words, you set your bag down upon a couch cushion when Connie eventually speaks, "You made it."
"Yeah," you pretend to dust lint off of your thighs so you don't have to look at him. "Uhm, there was just some traffic."
"Mm," is all he gives. You suspect that he knows that you're lying. You're grateful he doesn't continue to push though. When he stands up from the chair, measured and unhurried, instinctively you straighten your spine. You watch him cross the room in two, long strides to stand diagonally from you, almost near the couch as well. "You good?" That familiar question makes you feel like you're going crazy.
Loosely, you cross your arms over your chest in efforts to somewhat regulate your heart rate, "I'm fine. Why?"
His eyes, greyish and dark, quickly study the features of your face. It takes him only half a second. He hums softly again, " 'm jus' askin'."
You hear the track loop back into the beginning as your lips part . . . though, you say nothing. ". . Uhm," quickly, you turn away and walk towards the booth. The more space, the better. "Should we start?"
The blond haired producer nods. "Lets begin with the hook."
ׅ ❤︎
An hour passes by quickly. You record the hook perfectly after four takes and half of your verse. You'd been told, through the glass panel by one of the producers, that Connie has completed his. He now only has to finish the bridge, but everyone's decided that it can happen another day.
Throughout your time in the booth, Connie sits on the couch behind the two men, leaned comfortably back into the cushions with his fists shoved in his hoodie's pockets. You try not to focus too much on him, nonetheless, he makes it difficult. During the repeated takes of the hook, you couldn't help but notice the minuscule reactions he gave when disliking or approving of something. When you cut a word shorter than he'd like, you supposed, you could see it in the faintest shift of his lips. Never a full frown but just a slight tighten at the corner of them, as though he tasted something not quite right.
When you drifted off into a melodic run, his leg bounced. Once. Approval.
He never says anything. He barely moves, never interrupts. Just listens . . . intently.
You tell yourself to simply focus on you. But, he makes it hard.
"Again," one of the producers says through the speakers of your chunky, over ear headphones. "More air on the front line this time."
You nod. Your voice is smaller when you utter, "Okay," into the microphone after clearing your throat.
With his instructions, you try the harmony once more.
Something in the air shifts. You feel it. It doesn't sound . . . right. On the next run, you gather in a deeper breath to open up your diaphragm. Then arrives a long silence after it. Through the glass, you watch the blond nod his head. The dreadhead leans closer into the board to fiddle with a slider switch. Behind them . . . Connie still lounges, back against the cushion, hands in his pockets, albeit, his jaw has tightened. Not noticeably, but, just barely. You swallow.
"More bigger."
"Smaller run."
"Make it tighter."
By the fifth take, Connie stands. Midway through a note, you quiet and take a step back as though you were preparing for him to storm into the booth and snatch the microphone away from your lips. You're thankful one of the producers has his finger still on the button so that you're able to hear what's going on when his mouth opens. "Nah, nah, nah," Connie's shaking his head and walking closer to the mixing board.
One of them chuckles, "It's alright, man. We're just molding it."
"Mold it without makin' her disappear."
Another silence lugs on, tensed and prickling. ". . It's just direction."
Connie's tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, once. He looks up over at you without lifting his head, ". . . You like how that sound, ma?"
You're hesitant. Truth be told, you don't. You've managed to perfect the art of your sound and their direction is wiping it away, note by note. ". . 's fine."
"It ain't fine," he snatches one of his hands out of his pocket to rub at the soft, dark hairs that dust his chin. "Sing it how you did the first time."
You shift, "U-uhm—"
"—Connie, man, this isn't your session—"
His attention doesn't part from yours when he roughly clips, "—Do it."
It's firm and leaves no room for another word. So, you do. It's sweet . . soft though warmly textured . . akin to velvet dragging across the warmth of one's skin. The room quiets after the track suddenly pauses. Connie gives a small nod, jaw shifting. "That." It's quiet. No need for overdone praise. He says it like he knew you had it in you the entire time. Looking down at the producers, his voice is low and edged with something raw when he states, "Now mix it."
You watch as he turns to grab his water bottle and then walks out of the door.
It shuts behind him with a soft click. No slam or any dramatics. He's just . . gone. For a second, no one moves. Eyes shift, but bodies don't. The room feels simultaneously bigger yet tighter now that he's no longer here. The dreadhead clears his throat and fiddles with another slider, as if nothing even happened. "Alright," he mumbles, hoping to lighten the mood. "That take was great."
You remain standing in the booth, blood feeling as though its too hot for your body.
He never raised his voice, he never looked away from you. He told you to do it and you did . . . and it felt . . . so good. You listen to the producers replay the same melodies you just gave. No further direction is given. Eventually, after being waved out of the booth, you walk out noting that the air outside of it feels denser than what it once was. His warmth still resides within the cushions of the couch when you replace his spot. You tell yourself that the quiet ache that throbs in your chest is just relief, nothing more.
A lie.
Your personal phone soon pings from within the confines of your bag with a new message. Sighing, you grab it to fish through tubes of lip gloss, travel sized perfumes, and a lone pair of clean panties to find it buried at the bottom. Annie is expected . . but, instead, it's from an unknown number.
Your heart drops into your ass. No name or contact photo attached, only two simple words.
You stare at it for longer than you'd like to admit. He has your number. How does he have—
Your lips part with the sudden realization of three weeks of touring, rehearsals, and interviews. Of course, he'd been able to get it when he wanted to. But he's using it . . . and now. Another ping.
Your breath catches before you can try to regulate it. The hair on your body stands straight as your head snaps up, thinking that he may be inside the room. You can try to ignore it, pretend that you're busy, but, for some reason, doing that doesn't feel right. He's not asking, not begging, however, he's waiting. Looking at the producers, you watch them softly talk to one another about equilibrium adjustments, barely paying any attention to you, so you stand.
"Uhm, 'm . . g-gonna step out for a minute."
"Alright, no worries."
You watch Reiner's gaze sharpen on you as you move closer to the door. " 's okay," you mutter with a soft hand to his forearm. "I'll be back in a few. You have my location still."
There's some hesitance but he eventually nods, so, slowly, you walk out and down the hall you previously came from. It's just work, you repeat to yourself. Just work. It's only work. Even so, your hands can't stop trembling. You expected him to be outside, as he said, but when you open the door to the stairwell, he's standing halfway down them, arms folded and back leaned against the wall. When he hears the door, he looks up. His face is unreadable. There's no anger or annoyance . . . but something you can't quite pinpoint.
With your hand on the banister, you let the door close behind you with a final slam, leaving you both enclosed within the narrow spine of a room of steps. Silence is loud. The soles of your Uggs press down onto specs of dust and tiny, barely there pebbles as you slowly descend down until you're two steps above him . . close enough to see the small shards of warm green that swim within the grey and brown of his eyes. "You got my number," is what you eventually say, trying to keep your voice from shaking. Is he upset with you?
"Mhm." No apology or explanation given. "You scared of that room?"
No bullshitting around.
Automatically, you shake your head.
"Then why you ain't say nothin'."
He's not asking a question, he's wanting an answer. You look away from him and bend your finger back and forth on the wood of the banister. ". . I didn't wanna make it harder."
He's tilting his head. Not in a puppy-ish way but in a way that feels surgical — as though he's adjusting himself to get a better look at you. "For who."
You're quiet. You keep your eyes on your finger, feeling the pad of it curve into the natural indents of the wood. "For the session."
"Mm, nah, that ain't what I asked."
Your lips roll tightly into your mouth as you suddenly snatch your arms up to fold them across your chest. A sharp exhale through your nose, "For them, I guess."
He's wearing a beanie underneath his hood tonight. His eyebrows are slightly thick. They lift up on his forehead in a bogus manner of incredulity. "For them."
The words drift between you both as if he were tasting the weight of them on his own tongue. ". . And you?" he soon asks.
You tense. You hate that — when he keeps pulling focus back on you. ". . 's nothin' I can't handle."
Connie nods, slowly. "Mm." Then takes one step higher up towards you. It leaves you both nearly eye to eye for the first time. Something in the air shifts. You keep your focus on him to keep him from noticing your breaths quivering now. "You ain't answer me in there," he says with a soft squint of his eyes.
"I did."
"You said it was fine."
You don't respond because the two of you know that wasn't the question. The hum of the city fills the silence this time around — a few car honks as some whizz by and a faint helicopter.
"You scared of that room?" his first question is repeated.
You shake your head slower this time. ". . . No."
When you lower your chin, he's inclining his neck slightly lower too to find your eyes once more, "Then why you ain't say nothing."
"Connie—" You stop yourself then lift them up towards the ceiling as if the words you want to say are written there. In the end, when you can't find them, you release another sharp breath and meet his eye contact. He's waiting . . patiently. "I didn't wanna make it harder."
He studies you for a longer second. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, "You let them fold you. You let them niggas cut you down smaller every time they asked. Even when you knew you wasn't fuckin' wit' it."
You shift on your feet. "You noticed?"
There's no hesitation when he answers, "Yeah."
"That's weird."
He shrugs, eyes part from yours for the first time though not out of nervousness. It's to make a point when he says, "You in a room. I'm aware." Then they're back on you, steady and unblinking. There's no flirtation . . . for the second time within forty eight hours, he says something that makes your heart skip as if he were citing a traffic rule.
You stare at him this time, trying to read him the way he obviously can read you but, you find it difficult. His face gives little away. It makes you feel exposed, like you're underneath a spotlight. Therefore, you part your glossed covered lips to softly question, "You think I can't handle this stuff?" It isn't defensive . . your voice is quiet. It reads closer to vulnerability. You ask it as if you really want to know.
"I think you can."
"Then what?"
He licks his lips. For a moment, they glisten with his saliva — thick, pink, and smooth with a thin, neatly trimmed mustache right above them. God. "I think you don't like friction, ma."
" 'm not scared of friction."
"Hazme caso, not callin' you scared," He inhales through his nose as his gaze drifts up at the stairs behind you for a brief moment. "When shit rubs you wrong . . you swallow it."
You make a move to deny, "That's not—"
"—It is."
It's firm, but oddly not as harsh as it would've sounded coming from someone else. Looking away again, you can't help the pout that's starting to push at your lips, no matter how hard you try to reel it back in. "You don't get to psychoanalyze me, Connie." More lies beneath your tone than just pettishness. There's a hint of a plea. Why are you looking so hard? Don't name it.
"I'm not." A pause. "I'm jus' watchin'."
The word settles heavily over the conversation. ". . . You think you got me figured out after only three weeks of knowing me?"
"No."
The answer throws a curveball. You expected him to say yes — be cocky about it, because somehow, deep down, you have a feeling that if he doesn't already, he will soon. "I jus' don't like watchin' you bend like that."
Stubbornly, you grumble out, "Wasn't bending."
His honesty unsettles you in almost the sweetest of ways. You're aware of how close the two of you now, only a step separating your bodies. He smells like smoky vanilla again . . . The same scent he wore when you both were introduced to each other, only tonight, tinges of marijuana burn at the edges of it. It clings to the edges of his hoodie and to his fingers when he lifts his hand to adjust his beanie lower over his forehead. "You was. You ain't gotta make shit easy for nobody, especially not in a room where they supposed to be workin' for you."
Your gaze grows sharp, "You would've just argued with them all night, then?"
"Yeah."
"And make it awkward."
"So?"
He doesn't look angry. If anything, he appears resolved. You can't understand him. You don't think you have enough energy in you tonight to even try. ". . Why do you care so much?" The words tumble from your lips before you can try to stop them.
For the first time tonight, his expression shifts prior to him wanting it to. His jaw works once then twice as if he were grinding down the words between his teeth to decide how honest he wants to be. Eventually, he replies, "I don't like seein' you dull yourself."
Unable to help it, you deflect, "You think I'm dull?"
He huffs a quiet breath, nearly amused. His voice is a tinge rougher when he drags his thumb up to his closed eye to rub slowly at the inner corner, "Man, you like twistin' shit, hm."
" 'm not—"
"—You know that ain't what I said."
You watch him lift his hand. He rests it upon the banister, gripping at it, directly next to your hip. He isn't touching you, but he might as well be. "Next time," his voice is gentle and he makes sure to wait until you meet his eye again before continuing. "Don't say it's fine if it ain't."
You bite down on the gummy inside of your cheek, working it back and forth while studying him through your lashes, ". . You always this invested in other people's studio sessions?"
The ghost of a smirk pulls at his lips. It softens him in way you've never seen before. "Nah, ma."
Just yours, goes unsaid.
ׅ ❤︎
Week four on the road doesn't arrive loudly, it simply settles.
Somewhere after you and connie's late night conversation on the stairwell in San Francisco — after vanilla scented air scorched with weed and Brooklyn accented mutters — the dynamic of you two shift without either of you naming it. It isn't softer, but . . heavier, and somehow steadier, too. You're in Seattle next for two nights. The first is loud, big. He continues to watch your performances from the wings, arms folded and his head angled down as if he were examining you like architecture. "You owned that shit," he mumbles when you and your dancers shuffle past as the crowd screams for an encore. You pant and smile, with your lungs burning and sweat cooling against your spine, and try not to let yourself grow too shy in front of him because his approval has slowly been becoming something you've been chasing.
You hate that you are, however, can't reel yourself in close enough to stop doing it.
He'll utter things like, "Don't fold." "You know what to do." Close to your temple before shows when everyone's hurrying you to the stage and the stage manager is counting down from thirty — always low, always only meant for you, and you listen. You adjust the way you shine within the spotlight because of him, hold a note longer because you know that he's listening for when you could possibly retreat. His attention is your anchor and accelerator . . what keeps you steady yet lights a match beneath your ribs.
It's after Seattle and Phoenix, in Vegas, when both of your managers tell the two of you that it's crunch time.
The single scheduled to be released next week featuring you both is only eighty percent done. After the show, when everyone's packing up, crowds are bustling towards the exits in efforts to be the first ones out and the projector screen is rolling credits of the stage crews' names in glitching, vhs style — Connie's typical aesthetic — you're carrying a large, puffy tote on your shoulder, dressed in a pair of flared leggings and thin, tight camisole. You walk beside Annie and Anthony, a few of your dancers and Reiner behind you as all of your footsteps tap against cemented stairs to head for the underground parking garage where eight, glossy black Escalades wait — some for your team, others for Connie's.
There's a lot of mutter . . . some laughs, some hugs shared as you all part ways for the night.
Your arms are wrapped tight around the hips of one of your closest dancers as you smooch a big kiss to her cheek, "Get some rest, okay?" you tell her. "Take a bubble bath and add some epsom salt in there, seriously!"
"But it's Vegas — you don't wanna come out with us for a little bit?"
Before you can answer, there's a voice behind you cutting through, "Nah. She gotta work tonight."
It isn't loud. It never has to be. Connie's voice carries differently after a show — lower and more gruff after commanding a stadium of fifty thousand people with that same Brooklyn edge that makes everything sound finalized. The small circle around you instantly shifts as he emerges from the same hall you all came from with his own team.
He's wearing an all black fit . . . fitted tee, baggy jeans, and 'black cat' jordan fours with an opened, oversized jacket covering his tatted arms. His bleached head has been re-dyed tonight with jagged, electric blue lightning bolts cutting through the fade all over. The diamonds within the chains he wears glisten underneath the fluorescents in quick glints.
At the sight of him, you grip the shoulder strap of your tote tighter.
Anthony claps his hands once. "Aye, and that's our cue. Don't be up all night. My crew, let's roll."
A few more hugs are exchanged, promises to text, and some laughter as car doors open then close. You say your goodbyes to Annie last, telling her that you'll keep her updated and see her in the morning, bright and early. It's when most of your teams are already in the cars, leaving you, Connie, Reiner, and two of Connie's own personal guards standing beside the rumbling trucks when you turn to face him with your arms folded. ". . . Not even a drink?"
His slitted eyebrow twitches, "You was thinkin' about goin' for real."
You look away, pouting only slightly. "Only for like, an hour."
You feel it before you see it — his gaze drops. You've taken off all of your make up so you're sure that your birthmark is a little more blatant than usual. His eyes trace the irregular shape of it, akin to an uneven splatter of pale color thrown carelessly over the bridge of your nose, not confusedly or even in curiosity. His eyes map over it it like he's trying to memorize it, before he drags his stare back into yours again. "You tired?"
". . Yeah."
"You wired?"
"Mhm."
"Now imagine you off a drink or two on top of this."
You bristle, unable to help huffing when he opens a back door to one of the trucks. "I was gonna ride by m'self—" He's shaking his head, not even looking at you when he braces a hand against the roof so you won't hit your head and says, "—You ridin' wit' me. C'mon." There's no room for banter or a negotiation. It's already been decided. You pause and look around the emptying parking garage. Reiner leans against a wall, simply watching, while Connie's guards stand beside their own truck.
You try to sound annoyed when you utter, "Seriously?" But your tone betrays you. Comes out a little more meek than wanted.
He's slightly smirking now. "Seriously."
You sigh as you climb in and settle in the seat behind the driver's. Reiner takes the passenger and connie slides in behind it then slams the door shut beside him. It's almost deafeningly quiet inside the car after he does, silence only broken by a sports broadcasting channel that hums along through the speakers with commentators droning on about stats and positions. Vegas nights are warm this time of year. You slide down your window a bit when he does as the truck starts to move, letting the air waft across your bare collarbones. "Are you always so . . . bossy?"
Connie sits with his legs spread and arm thrown over the back of the seat you sit in. He doesn't falter when he replies, "What you think?"
Turns out, he's staying in an airbnb, nestled near the outskirts and rolling hills of Vegas that dulls the busy city noise within its openness. Houses are spaced far enough to feel completely private, gated and secluded with the lights of the strip only a faint gleam in the distance. When the SUV rolls to a smooth stop at the bottom of a wide, arched staircase that leads to a large pivot door made of steel and glass, elegant and sharp, Connie's already pushing his door open and stepping out as if he's been here a million times before — no pause or glance around, just smooth certainty. While he rounds the backside of the car, you take notice of the headlights of another escalade where you assume his security occupy, pulling in behind you all.
"I'll take my post outside the front door right here," Reiner says from over his shoulder with the tilt of his chin to motion to it. "You need something, you call me."
Nodding, you softly retort an "Okay."
Before you can even reach for your door handle, it's opened by Connie. He stands there, warm, bronzy skin painted almost ethereal beneath the silver moonlight. The subtle diamonds in his ear sparkle as he turns his head to motion something to his security before leaning in slightly closer to offer you his palm. "C'mon, ma."
His hand completely dwarfs yours as you lean into his help to jump from the high risen truck. It's warm . . somehow strong . . grounding. "Studio's in the basement," he utters while leading you up the staircase. He doesn't let it go. "Fucked around with it earlier before rehearsals. Shit's nice." You find yourself glancing between the side of his face, to the faint tension settled in the hard line of his jaw and the tiny spider inked right beneath the corner of his left eye, and his hand that still engulfs yours the entire walk up. Your pulse sounds louder within the quiet of the night.
You don't say anything about it. He holds it like it's second nature — to have you tethered to him, that is. It feels like second nature. Your stride adjusts to his longer ones without much hassle and your fingers fit delicately into his palm. You try to swallow your disappointment when he eventually has to let it go though to key in a code to unlock the door and push it open.
Inside is nice. Abstract decor with black marble floors glisten bright enough under recessed lighting to reflect your face back up at you when you look down at it, completed with high ceilings which stretch into clean architectural designs. Somewhere deeper inside, the kitchen you think, gleams soft, ambient lighting that makes you feel warm.
You let Connie lead you down a wide staircase that spirals out into the lower half of the house as both your footsteps echo. He moves like he’s already memorized the layout of the entire home — as if this were just another temporary kingdom he’s occupying for the night. You pass a home theater, two laned bowling alley, and lounge before a glass door opens into the home’s studio. It’s all very indulgent and excessive . . very Vegas. The lighting within the studio is lower, warmer which makes it feel all the more intimate. Connie seems to already have his laptop in here with the track settled over the monitors and ready to go. Everything’s positioned exactly how he wants it, like he knew you’d been walking in here tonight.
“You wanna start?” he asks with a casual shrug off of his jacket. Ink coils across his skin — down his arms, a few on his hands, curling up his neck — mostly black, only a couple red . . one near his forearm, the other on his bicep as if it were intentionally tucked away.
You swallow and shake your head come his question. His eyebrows lift slowly, not in offense but slight curiosity. He seems to wait for a beat, expecting you to change your mind however when you don’t, he doesn’t press or tease you about it, he pivots. “Aight, mama,” he mutters while grabbing the set of headphones off of the mixing board. “I’ll lay mine first.”
Your tote falls onto the empty center table as he pushes the booth’s door open with his shoulder to step inside. Quickly, you realize this will be your first time seeing him record. You've experienced seeing him perform, you've seen him rehearse, but never record. Electricity hums beneath your veins.
He looks unworldly, standing within the center of it with his chin lowered as he scrolls through his phone to presumedly memorize his lyrics. You’re staring — letting your eyes drag across the broad span of his shoulders and biceps, down to the taper of his hips. He’s . . . handsome, but the word falls flat honestly. There’s a reason why his face goes viral every other day, clips of him performing, mid interview, smiling, staring, frowning. He’s conventionally attractive of course, but it’s almost something unreal about him. Up close? It’s something else entirely. He’s a rare case, you think. Like he was carved with precise intention . . by someone who made sure to take their time.
It’s stillness before he starts. He doesn’t pace or fidget, doesn’t rehearse out loud or even mumble to himself. He just stands there, reads it once, twice, maybe three times to lock it in then he powers his phone off, shoves it back into his pocket then looks over at you. No gesture needed, you seem to understand his stare without him having to say a word. You hit a button on the mixing board to let the track smoothly play in.
There’s a strong bass line. The melody floats in a few seconds after, light and almost playful. It’s fun but there’s weight to it. You think the producer did well with encapsulating you and connie’s vibes within it.
You watch his lips part.
Fuck.
His voice slides in smooth, almost lazy, like he’s talking his shit to a homeboy on the sidewalks of Brooklyn instead of recording something that’ll be streamed worldwide. But, it works. His tone carries on the beat instead of chasing it. Your nails dig into the meat of your palms as you stand there behind the chair in front of the mixing board, entirely transfixed.
And an hour and a half passes like that.
With Connie buried in the booth and you curled up within a large, padded spinning chair in front of the sound panel, consistently replaying the track when he wants. You both fall into a rhythm. He's tweaks a word here, switches up his flow there. He ends up recording the bridge three times, trying to decide which one sounds better and it's as you're sitting with a piece of a spicy crab sushi roll held between chopsticks, nearly halfway up to your mouth, courtesy drop off by Connie's security, and listening to him record another line when he cuts himself off mid-bar.
The beat is still playing when he heaves a tired sigh from his nose and pulls off his headphones.
"Fuck, man."
Your eyes are wide and you're midchew when scrambling up to stop the music. The room drops into a silence so thick that it makes it hard for you to swallow. He's irritated. He's not dramatic with it, nonetheless, it's obvious. Maybe only to you. "Somethin's off," he utters. You watch him pull open the booth door and quickly brush out of it as if it's offended him personally. He brushes his hand over his scalp before taking the other chair beside you. "Anda. Go. Do your part."
You cover your mouth to swallow. "Right now?"
"Yeah," his tone is sharp when he replies. He doesn't seem impatient with you, moreso this song and himself. "I wanna hear it with you on there."
Hesitating, you soon give a small nod prior to settling your chopsticks down on a napkin then standing. You smooth out the wrinkles in your flared leggings and tug at your camisole when noticing that it's ridden up above your navel piercing before stepping inside the booth. You feel his stare as you settle the headphones over the dark curls of your flip over sew in, making sure that they aren't pressing down too hard on them or your ears. The mic still sits at his height, so you have to reach up with nimble fingers to adjust it down to your own.
When you inhale a big breath to steady yourself, you catch the familiar traces of his cologne dancing within the enclosed space of the booth. It makes something in your tummy flip. “ ‘m ready.”
You watch him press play. You’re required to only layer some harmonies beneath the bridge he’s working on. Your first ones are clean, supporting, and gentle. Air beneath his gravel. When doing a second layer, you part your mouth open just the tiniest bit wider to fill in some opened space.
Connie leans back in his chair, slow and deliberate, and folds his arms over his chest while watching.
He’s never been able to indulge in staring at you. Not properly. When he watches your performances, he’s mostly just listening. In the rare moments he lets his eyes drift, it's always quite professional — keeping an eye out for a wardrobe malfunction or if one of your dancers is too close within your center light. When he passes by you in the halls, while on the way to your hotels or tour buses, it's never enough time to get a real, good look at you.
That doesn't mean he hasn't tried. The photoshoot you both did was half an exception, as well as that first, shared studio session, but this time . . there's no one else in the room. No stylists, sound engineers, or managers. Just you both. so he lets himself look.
You keep your lashes done — full and fluffy with wisps in between that soften your stare. They dust across your cheeks as you keep your eyes closed to really hone in on a note. Your curls spill down your back akin to a halo, resting only an inch away from the curve of your waist. The camisole you wear is thin enough to reveal the intricate lacing of your white bra underneath. Lower, his eyes fall down to the fullness of your hips, thickness of your thighs. God, you really are something.
He knows what you entail.
Letting himself give into you brings a lot of eyes, headlines, and even more questions. He hates all that shit. He's always been about his music, just his music. Sure, yeah, he's entertained the usual, stereotypical distraction people of his profession commonly go for. The occasional instagram model flown out for a weekend here, a single mom he met at an after party who understood discretion there — no strings, no complications, just something to release his stress when the days blur together and the cameras, the fans, the pressure, and the numbers all become too much.
You're like gravity, though. since the start of this tour, Connie's been finding himself thinking about you, on flights, the backseat after a show, in the shower . . . more than he's thought about another person in a long, long time.
Swallowing once, he rubs a hand down his jaw as if he's trying to physically reset himself. He's never been the type to try to fight it though. He'll hold off on whatever his heart, mind, or soul tells him for a while, stall it, test it, tell himself to just wait a bit, but never will he run from it. Because the way he sees it — anything that pulls at him like this deserves to be closely examined, not avoided. When the music settles and you're opening your eyes while pulling off the headphones, eyes wide and plump lips parted, obviously searching for his approval, something in his blood rushes into static. He thinks he may like you . . . a lot.
"Did you like it?" is the first thing you ask when out of the booth.
"Adored it. Shit was perfect." His eyes are focused on the sound waves of the track as he replays it with his own.
You can't help but notice how his jaw moves when listening to himself, though. It grinds slowly, back and forth, revealing his dissatisfaction with it. You step a little bit closer to him. ". . What's wrong?" You hum. "With yours, I mean. What do you hear?"
He doesn't answer immediately. He lets you listen for yourself.
Your harmonies opened up something you didn't hear before. "You're dragging the word at the end on the sixth bar," you soon say. "Sounds really good but a little crowded. If you clip it, the melodies can fill up the space instead."
He stares at you for a beat longer than usual, then he rewinds, plays it again, and envisions your input.
". . Damn."
You watch him bite down on a slow, pretty smile. "That's perfect, mama."
"Really?" Your shoulders lift to your ears as you brighten up with a wide grin. You watch him nod and stand, already making his way for the booth.
"You got plans in the morning?"
"Just . . rehearsals, I think."
He's shaking his head with his hand on the booth's door. "Cancel it. I wanna run this again after you sleep on it. Fresh ears matter." A second passes. He licks his lips. "I want you to have breakfast with me, too."
There it is. An opening.
Your eyes go a little wide and you shift on your feet, looking up into the same stormy, hazel eyes that never seem to blink first. ". . . O-oh. Okay."
Something unreadable flickers across his face — something that appears crossed between contentment and contemplation. "I'll pick you up around ten."
ׅ ❤︎
Connie rides with you, his driver, and Reiner again back to your hotel at three in the morning. Vegas' lights still twinkle bright and people walk the strip, dressed in mini skirts and half button ups with drinks in their hands and laughter on their lips. He doesn't appear as tired as you as he sits beside you, arm thrown over the back of your headrest again. His eyes remain sharp, staring out of the tinted windows at the bustling city. It makes you wonder how many long nights he's pulled like this. How many hours has he stayed up before his body has collapsed from exhaustion. He doesn't seem to mind walking you up to your suite. He stands beside you on the entire elevator ride up, quiet and intense, as always.
"Uhm," you stop in front of the double doors with a keycard in hand and turn to face him. He forgot his jacket. He's still donned in his all black fit, electric blue swimming through warm blond upon his head. "So . ."
"I'll send the track over to the labels around six," he says, not giving the awkwardness time to grow. ". . . I want you to sleep. Cut your phone off."
He says it like an instruction . . . as if your rest has already been accounted for in a plan that you don't know of. Your head tilts, eyes grow softer than usual. Connie's jaw flexes. "You're not gonna sleep, too?"
He shrugs, "I will." When he reads the uncertainty radiating off of you, a slight smirk pulls at his lips. "No te preocupes. I been doin' this for a long time."
You give a sigh, "You should, Connie." His statement doesn't answer for your concerns but you don't think he cares, therefore, you turn to swipe your keycard and push open the door a crack when the machine flashes green. There's something suspended in the air between you two. Not awkward, not particularly dramatic. Just . . . loaded.
"Ten," is the last thing he says. "Get some sleep, for real."
"You'll be able to tell if I don't?" It's a small tease. A little push back against him but you notice his eyes squint. Not in annoyance but assessment.
"Yeah."
"Mm, how?"
He takes one step closer and your pulse skips. The small smile you wore gently fades. "I'll hear it," he replies, voice low. "In your voice."
He doesn't grin when he says it. It's matter of fact, spoken like it's obvious. You try to search his face for exaggeration but there isn't any. You swallow, "Okay." Ten. You keep that little, three lettered word in mind as you finally give him a little wave before stepping inside your room.
Connie watches your door slowly close. He makes sure he hears the latch click into place before he turns and strides back down the hall without looking back. His mind feels like a live wire — buzzing, sparking, and refusing to power off.
Ten.
ׅ ❤︎
Annie's suspicious when you call her at nine am. "Why . . . are you calling me before rehearsals?" she asks. You hear the doubt in her tone and it makes you feel like you're five all over again with your parents asking you if you put glitter all over your pomeranian.
Your cheeks burn as you toe at your suitcase that sits, flopped open in the middle of your hotel room's living area, dressed in only a robe with your bonnet on. " 'm having breakfast . . with Connie . . ."
"Breakfast," she repeats, tone dry. "With Connie . . ."
". . . Mhm . . ."
"What the hell happened in that studio last night, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱? Let me do damage control while I can—"
Your eyes are squeezing closed and your body tenses as you squeak out, "—Nothing! I swear, I swear! Oh my god, Annie!"
"You do not cancel rehearsals over a casual breakfast, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱."
Without thinking, you blurt, "But it's not casual!"
The minute the words leave your mouth, you melt onto the floor on your knees beside your suitcase and drop your forehead into your palm. Stupid. You are so stupid.
Annie's quiet . . . in a way that shows that she's slowly processing. "Ah," she soon mutters. "So, it's not casual."
"That's . . n-not what I meant, Annie."
"Then what did you mean."
You groan, "Nothing happened last night. We worked on the song, it was nice. We just, talked a little bit, finished, he dropped me off at the hotel, walked me to my door then left."
"Is he picking you up?"
While fiddling with the tie of your robe, you softly shrug as if she can see you, "I think his security is."
"You're letting his security pick you up."
"He told me it's just to go upstairs to the restaurant. It's private."
She echos a, "Oh, it's private."
"Annie."
You hear her breathe out a sharp sigh. You can already see her in the same position as you. Dressed to the nines in an all black, perfectly tailored pantsuit. Make up already done, blond bob perfectly straightened with her forehead in her palm. You're her proudest achievement and biggest headache sometimes.
". . . You like him," she soon says.
Her words make you still.
. . . Do you?
You haven't really . . thought about it like that. ". . I dunno."
"꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, please don't lie to me."
You're pouting now, "He jus' . . makes me nervous."
"That is not the same thing and you know it."
A silence stretches on. You keep your mouth shut, afraid of saying the wrong thing at this point. You hear Annie inhale a breath this time. "Okay, you get two hours. Rehearsals aren't canceled, they're postponed. I'll let Anthony and the dancers know. No disappearing, no leaving anywhere without security. Say you understand."
"I understand," a weight feels like it's been removed off of your chest. ". . I think he just wants to talk."
"Men like that don't ever just want to talk."
She makes you swear that you won't do anything career altering before you've had some type of caffeine in your system and after you hang up, you're left to stare at your reflection within the dark tv screen across the room while a big, slow smile subconsciously spreads across your lips and you're left to squeal into a throw pillow as you kick your feet.
ׅ ❤︎
The outfit you choose to wear is something crossed between soft glam and streetwear. A baby blue micro skirt works as your statement piece and an oversized, fleecy, grey hoodie with a sky blue, air brushed background softens it all up. A pair of white, Isabel Marant sneakers maintains that edge you're going for and after doing your own make up and accessorizing with a bag and cute, silver jewelry, you feel ready to go.
Connie's security are two men of very few words. One of them knocks on the door, asks if you're ready, then the both of them keep you sandwiched between them, one in front, one behind, at all times the entire walk to the car. Your stomach is fluttering with butterflies the entire ride over to the restaurant. you wonder which he chose, if he's already ordering, what he'll order.
"Upstairs," the hostess tells you with a nod when you arrive.
More security is waiting at the top of the stairs when a red velvet rope is unhooked to allow you entry. They mutter soft, respectful "Good morning"s before parting to let you walk further in. You already see him, with his back against a wall, seated in a chair with dark sunglasses rested on the table beside a clean, empty plate.
You find the restaurant to be quite beautiful. Exposed brick makes it feel homely while large, tall windows maintain a quiet feel of luxury. Connie's standing when you close the distance between you both. He's wearing a tailored, burgundy quarter zip over black pants and new, wheat timbs. The blue in his hair has been washed out, leaving it only blond. He looks . . . yummy.
"G'mornin'," you softly smile, letting him pull out your chair so that you're able to take a seat.
"Mornin', ma." you watch him take his. He flicks his fingers towards himself a few times then says, "So . . . lemme hear it."
"Hear what?"
"Your voice. I wanna hear it."
You can't help it. A soft, squeaking giggle bursts out of you before you can help it. "Connie, 'm literally talking right now."
He shakes his head once, "Mm-mm. That was a laugh."
Slyly, you roll your eyes, "What am i supposed to say?"
"Anything."
Your fingers fidget with the binded leather of the menu as you try to find a word, ". . . Hi."
"That all you got?"
"You're weird."
He smirks. It makes you blush. "There it is." Just by that, he can tell you slept. You find yourself to be a little scared to ask how, so you don't. But you wonder.
Thankfully, a waiter approaches to fill your glasses with water and ask for orders before a silence stretches on for too long. You listen to Connie's deep, raspy voice reply, "Mangú con los tres golpes. Eggs fried hard, please," and almost as if it were an afterthought he adds, "And a black coffee."
Connie watches the waiter nod, jot it all down, then turn his head towards you. "Uhm, do you have chocolate chip waffles?. . Seriously? Okay, yay, that please? With a side of breakfast potatoes and . . . a peach lemonade."
When told that your orders will be out shortly, then being left alone, Connie reaches for his glass of water. "Chocolate chips?"
He watches your spine straighten. You feel judged. "Yes."
"In the morning."
"Mhm."
After a sip of his water, he sets it back down on its coaster like he has all the time in the world. "That's bold."
"It's breakfast." You're starting to pout. It's cute.
"You always order what you actually want?"
Your head tilts. "What do you mean?"
"Most people order what they think sound grown," he leans back, folds his arms over his chest then lightly shrugs. "Egg whites, dry toast, green juice. Shit like that."
"I order what I like," you respond with another head tilt. He's sure you don't know how cute you look when you do them. ". . So what's mangú?"
He lifts his eyebrows, "¿No lo sabes?" It slips out of him, calm yet measured. It isn't like you haven't heard him speak spanish before . . however, all of those other times were usually instances of him saying something quickly, as though he simply couldn't help it. And, in other cases, while performing. This time feels different. Maybe it's because this time feels slightly more intentional and his question is directed at you.
You've been around enough spanish speakers though to somewhat translate what he asks. Shyly, you shake your head.
He studies you for a second longer then unfolds his arms. "It's basically jus' mashed, green plantains," he says. His voice is lower now, less guarded. "Some people use butter . . some oil. Red onions. Los tres golpes means three hits. Eggs, fried cheese, salami, that's all."
Your tummy growls. A slow smile spreads across his lips as your face burns hot. "That sounds really yummy."
"It is."
"Is it like, a special occasion thing?"
He shakes his head, leaned a little bit more towards you. You've realized you're doing it, too. "Nah, that's regular. That's home."
Home. You imagine a younger Connie, walking the streets of Brooklyn with headphones over his ears and a backpack hanging off of his shoulder. You can see him sitting somewhere loud yet warm with a plate of that in front of him. Your voice is gentle when you ask, "Do you miss it?"
He seems to think about your question. You appreciate that — he never answers anything without reflecting for a second. It's refreshing. "Sometimes."
"Mm," you find that now that you've gotten the both of you in this space right here, you can finally also ask, "Is Connie your real name?"
His eyes are more brown than grey or green today. They're dark and assessing as they search yours as if to decide how much of him you get today. "Why?"
You slightly lift a shoulder then let it drop, "It sounds like it could be, but also like . . it's not."
"It ain't." He's still staring. You hold it for the longest you ever have with him. "It's Constance."
You blink. The room feels quieter now. The both of you are speaking quietly and you aren't sure of when that happened. "Constance?"
He nods. Once. "Yeah."
He watches you study him, like you're trying to fit it on him. ". . . That's pretty."
The sudden compliment makes the both of you still. You, from shock of having said it out loud, Connie, because no one's ever really said that to him without some irony attached to it. His jaw shifts. You watch him slowly lean back while exhaling through his nose, "You real comfortable right now," he says with no real bite.
Another head tilt. You smile real big until your eyes form crescents, "Am I?"
He tries hard not to, but he ends up smirking anyway. His blink is slow when he hums, "Mhm."
Both of your plates arrive not too long after. Yours is set down in front of you first — waffles stacked high with pockets of chocolate melted within the batter and powdered sugar dusted over top with your breakfast potatoes settled on their own separate plate. Cheese still melts over top of them with bacon and chives sprinkled all over.
Connie's is next. His plate is heavy enough to fall onto the table with a thunk. Steam spirals from the mound of mangú, whipped smooth between two fried hard eggs. Salami glimmers with crisped edges and thick, golden slices of queso frito sit along the side of them. His savory versus your sweet.
"You lookin' at mine like you regret somethin'," he mumbles.
"Leave me alone."
Connie watches you carefully pour syrup all over your waffles, gather your knife and fork, then begin to cut them. Come your first bite, you're melting with a happy sigh out through your nose yet your eyes can't help drifting to his plate.
He cuts into his eggs, mixes the golden yolk with the pale mangú with slow, practiced movements then bites.
For a moment, you both are quiet.
". . Can I try?"
Connie's not surprised. He doesn't tease, doesn't mock. "Hm." He pushes his plate a little bit closer to yours with no hesitation. He eyes how your fork moves. You do the same thing he does — plantain with egg, mix them, then you push it past your lips.
Rich warmth coats every inch of your tastebuds. "Oh." With a hand over your mouth to cover it as you chew, your eyebrows furrow in. "Oh my gosh."
Connie doesn't know how to take it, "You like it?"
You're nodding, "It tastes like a dream."
He can't help exhaling a soft laugh. "Fuck. A dream?"
"Mhm . . like . . like something someone makes when they love you." When it's all swallowed down, you're spearing a piece of waffle on your fork then holding it towards him. "Your turn."
For a moment, he simply looks at it then back at you. He never says anything. You expected him to take the fork and slide the piece onto his plate, however it's surprising when he only lowers his head and takes the bite directly from it. Your breath catches. You watch the way his jaw moves, how syrup glistens upon his lips, how he watches you as he chews.
Eventually, he mutters, "It's sweet."
"Yeah?" Your voice is breathy. You're still reeling.
"Yeah."
He swallows as you try to regain your ground. ". . . You really don't like sugar?"
"Not unless I need it."
You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Underneath the table, your foot unwittingly nudges against his, but what's weird is . . . he doesn't move it away. He keeps it there as if he wants you to do it again. The air surrounding the table sparks with electricity — this doesn't feel like just breakfast anymore and you have an inkling that you both know that whatever is unfolding between you isn't just harmless curiosity, but also mutual and deliberate. It's impossible to now pretend that neither of you feel it.
ׅ ❤︎
A week passes by quickly.
And after Vegas is Houston. The city known for its widely diverse culinary and culture brings lots of interviews which means you end up staying for a week. Monday is full of radio interviews. You hop from station to station to promote the new single featuring Connie that's already been hitting ten million streams per day after last friday's release. You answer questions about the tour ("I don't think i've ever had this much fun in my life"), how life is on the road ("It's . . a lot. but, I love it"), and how it's been sharing the stage with someone as big as Connie Springer. Your answer to that one consistently remains the same — "He's someone that I truly do admire. His work ethic is one of a kind and he's taught me a lot. I really do appreciate him for making me apart of something as special as this."
Tuesday becomes your one and only day where no one asks anything of you — no press runs, shoots, or recordings. Just . . . quiet. You sleep it away as though you've been drugged, phone completely powered off, curtains drawn over your hotel room's large windows, and do not disturb sign hung from your doorknob. Your parents call near the night and while facetiming on your Macbook, you watch the two of them make dinner while babbling about the sights you've been seeing, your favorite tour nights so far, and filling them in on your next stops to go.
You leave certain details out . . . ones including stormy, hazel eyes and an aura so brooding that it makes anyone near him want to choke on their own tongue.
Wednesday marks nothing but rehearsals. Anthony has you practicing new choreography with sharper footwork and faster transitions.
He makes you drill the same section over and over again until your lungs feel like they're on fire and sweat trickles down into crevices of your body that you didn't even know was possible. You lose yourself in it though, happily, might you add, because ever since breakfast in Vegas, you've been avoiding him.
You make sure your rehearsal slots are no longer matched up. If his team blocks out the stage from one to three, you suddenly prefer mornings. If a double booked studio session occurs, you're feeding Annie some excuse about how your voice needs rest.
The first day feels like coincidence.
By the second, it's deliberate.
By the third, it's routine.
It all becomes a quiet and careful choreography of its own — enter here, exit there, arrive after he leaves, leave after he arrives. Because truth be told, after that breakfast, after the foot nudge underneath the table, you two talked for three more hours.
The both of you got so lost in conversation, in each other, that by the time one of you realized, both of your teams had been blowing your phones up, wondering what the hell was going on. It was during these conversations that he asked about your life, what made you upload those first couple songs on Soundcloud all those years ago, why you kept going even when nobody was listening yet.
You told him things you don't usually say out loud.
About recording covers underneath the covers in your childhood bedroom because you've always been so painfully shy. About saving money from house cleaning jobs to afford a decent microphone. About how the first time one of your songs cracked twenty thousand plays, you stayed up all night refreshing it just to make sure the numbers weren't a glitch. You even told him how sometimes, it still feels a little bit strange listening to tens of thousands of people screaming your lyrics back to you nearly every night.
And he listened.
Intensely — with his body leaned in close to yours, hands interlocked between his knees underneath the table, dark gaze steady as he sometimes asked a question that proved he was truly listening.
You learned more about him too.
About the songs his mother used to play around the house when he was a boy, all the fights he got into until he hit the age of fifteen, and how he first got signed when he turned twenty. ever so often did spanish slip into his sentences, fast and natural, and nearly every time did you have to timidly pause him to translate.
He'd halt mid sentence, blink once like he forgot you didn't speak it, then do so softly.
Something about the way he spoke — half spanish, half english — voice calm and low like it was the most natural rhythm in the world, kept your attention completely hooked on him even when you tried to force yourself to look away.
At one point in time, while reaching for your glass of lemonade, your hand bumped his. His arm'd been outstretched, hand lazing on the table. He didn't flinch away, same thing with his foot. And for some reason, you decided to let your finger keep put too, and for almost an hour, you both spoke like that — pinkies only sometimes grazing each other's as if you'd been star-crossed lovers at some point in time, destined for each other in some other life.
Your heartbeat had started to pick up a strange pattern. Not fast enough to panic, though not slow enough to be calm neither. You were hyperaware of his hand, his leg brushing against yours every now and again, the way his gaze lingered on your birthmark, how he barely smirked when you laughed.
When you finally walked away from that breakfast, phone buzzing with a dozen missed calls and a weak feeling in your knees, what was once contentment slowly darkened into dread. Because up until that morning, Connie had been just a collaborator. A collaborator that made you nervous sometimes, sure, but after . . . he just . . wasn't that anymore.
Which is exactly why you've been dodging him for so many days now.
You're exhausted by Thursday, sure, but exhaustion helps. It keeps your mind busy and off of him. you told yourself distance will get your mind back right too. No contact, no touching, no words, you'll be fine.
But, then Thursday night happens. You're lying in your hotel bed with an episode of severance playing on the television screen and popping peanut m&ms into your mouth one by one, all of them sorted by color. The reds, greens, oranges, then brown. You save the blues for last because they look prettier.
Suddenly, your phone buzzes. It's a text from Annie.
She sends you a link and right below that is her text — a simple '?'
Instantly, you click on it without reading the preview. The page loads for a while before a tweet is suddenly covering the breadth of your phone screen. It's short . . . blunt. It makes your heart drop as you stare at it for two seconds longer. His fans are in speculation mode. lots of 'who????' 'album bout to go crazy' and 'pls go live's. It's as you’re scrolling through the other thousands of them when another pops up on his feed.
Neither tweet has a name to it but his tone reads sharp to anyone with working sight.
Your stomach feels like it's in a knot. Everything is pointing to them being about you, even when you try to talk yourself out of it that they're not. you quickly lock your phone, shove it underneath your pillow, and breathe out a shaky exhale while trying to focus back on the show. You don't reply to Annie. You don't make a subtweet back. Tomorrow's rehearsals start early in preparation for the show. deep down, you're now aware your little dance around Connie isn't going to last that much longer.
ׅ ❤︎
When morning comes, a nauseating feeling of unease sits within the pit of your gut akin to a dumbbell dropped into wet cement.
At three am, you went ahead and scrolled through Connie's twitter account to assess if he does that often — subtweets. And he doesn't. His feed is clean . . an occasional fan retweet praising his music . . or one from his label promoting a single or album. Sometimes he shares a link to a song he seems to have on repeat (about a year ago, one of them was yours, you tried not to freak out too much about it) or to a cause he donates to. Never does he post anything in reference to what's going on in his personal life which makes his last two more impactful.
He's past the point of patience, you realize. He's noticed your little game and he doesn't like it.
You keep moving anyway.
You rehearse like usual with Anthony and your dancers. Muscle memory takes over while your brain floats on an entirely different realm. Annie works in a wardrobe fitting. You focus on yourself, even while realizing Connie's team starting to pour in one by one, you disregard them. Hours past like that until four o clock ticks off into five — three hours before the show. The stadium starts to empty out, slowly as everyone parts for their routine before it does.
You're grabbing your insulated water bottle and phone from off of the stage floor and zipping up your defined jacket over its matching sports bra you wear while walking through the wings, on your way towards an exit ramp.
Your body is tired, but, in a rare, satisfying way. You're prepared for tonight. Until . .
"Yo."
You completely freeze. You smell him before you see him. Blunt smoke and vanilla. Tentatively, you turn on the heels of your Chanel sneakers to see him standing near the bottom of the stage stairs, leaning against them like he's been there for a while. It's darker down there. He's dressed in a red hoodie with its hood thrown over his head, baggy black jeans, and distressed sneakers with a blunt pinched between his fingers. Its ember glows within the low light he’s enshrouded in.
Smoke lazily curls from the end of it as he motions with his chin, "C'mere."
His eyes, glossy and red, watch you closely. Your own seem to tremble as you go to shake your head.
You hesitate, ". . . I'm good—"
His voice cuts through the nearly empty stadium, calm but edged, "—Stop fuckin' playin' wit' me, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱." His words seem to echo, even though he smoothly pushes them out and your chest tightens.
Slowly, reluctantly, you walk down the stairs to meet him at the bottom. The smell of weed is more potent now. Nonetheless, you still think it mixes well with his cologne. Up close, only three steps away from each other, tension is rolling off of him in waves. It makes a knot of stress form within the base of your neck, almost immediately.
Smoke leaves his mouth in a slow stream as he carefully studies your face, "Look at me."
You chew on the inside of your cheek, wavering, before blinking up to stare at him from beneath your lashes.
"How long you gon' do this."
Your throat tightens, "Do what?"
His tone is dry when he replies, "You been duckin' and dodgin’ me all week . . . and now you gon' stand here and act like you don't know what I'm talkin' about."
"I haven't been doing anything—"
"—Lie better."
His bluntness hits you with the force of a slap.
You open your mouth. Close it again. Look away. Then sigh. "Connie—"
"—Don't," his voice cuts through as his eyes barely squint. "Don't do that soft shit."
"I've just been busy."
You watch him blink slow, deeply inhale, run a hand down his jaw, then slowly blow it out. "You think I'm stupid?. . ." When you remain quiet, he continues. "Nah, I'm for real. Tell me."
Your heart is starting to beat faster when you respond, "No."
"Then why you actin' like I am?"
" 'm not actin' like anything . . I jus' . . . needed space."
He'd been going to take another hit from his blunt however when you finish your sentence, his hand pauses halfway up towards his mouth and he quietly repeats the word in disbelief, "Space . ." Slowly, he begins to nod. While looking away, he takes the hit, holds it in for a second, then lazily lets the smoke pour from his mouth once more. His eyes are back on you when he resumes speaking, "You've always had space."
"That space was different."
"¿Cómo diferente?"
Your head tilts. His eyes are lazy, almost bored when he slowly bites out,
"How . . . was it . . . different."
Your throat feels tight. You don't know why you have a sudden urge to cry. He’s never been so curt with you. "It's . . . a lot."
"Mm."
"This," you find yourself gesturing between the both of you. "You. You're a lot, Connie."
His gaze suddenly grows sharp, "You scared?"
The question catches you completely off guard. You wouldn't particularly use that word. Rubbing your glossy lips together, you pause, ". . . You're intense."
It shocks you when he suddenly huffs out a short laugh. "Intense."
"It's scary . . you're like," you take in a deep breath and rub your fingers over your eyebrows. "You're getting in my head. I dunno know what to do."
" 's been a week, a whole week of you treatin' me like I'm some fuckin' random," his eyebrows furrow in deep when he asks, "You think I'm takin' you somewhere you don't wanna go?"
You're aware of how immature you may seem now. Spoiled, ungrateful, childish, because from what you’ve heard, Connie hand picked you out of the thousands of other alt-r&b and indie pop artists out there to open his first stadium tour, not anyone else. You're almost shrinking back when you mewl, "That's not what I—"
"—You think I want a version of you that ain't real? Playin’ these stupid ass games? You think I'm playin' with you?"
"What? No." You shake your head quickly as his questions hit you with the force of a thunderclap.
'"Then what?"
"I don't . . 'm not . ." you clamp your mouth shut and look down at your feet. " 've never felt like this before. It's scary."
The confession hangs between you both for a moment. You're terrified of looking back up at his face in fear of what you might find — confusion, disgust, or even amusement. Your voice grows even quieter, borderline a whimper when you say, "You make me feel steady . . it's weird."
His stare is penetrating. You fight to ignore it as you continue with the main thing that’s been plaguing your brain all day.
". . . Then you called me irritating."
For the first time tonight, Connie's mouth twitches with a smirk. He doesn't try to hide it when you eventually look up at him. He simply brings his blunt to his lips again while murmuring, "You saw that, hm?"
"Everybody saw it."
"Good."
Silence takes room again. Connie runs his eyes across you. From the new, tiny ginger boho braids that hang from your scalp down to your knees, your pretty face full of dejection, tits sitting up sweet and full in your bra, to the shoes at your feet. ". . You done runnin'?" he blows the smoke out. " 'Cause i don't chase for long. Tell me you'on want this and I'll back off."
Something in you grows absolutely petrified, because you know he's telling the truth. He will back off and you don’t know if you can handle not having the part of connie that obviously isn’t shown to majority of the world. Some other part of you, more smaller, delights in it. Because, "I do, but if you leave . . ." you rub at your eyebrows again, feeling something in you absolutely shatter. it’s as if a small pin has been shot into glass and something in your chest collapses as your voice grows soft again when you whimper out a watery, "Fuck." You hate this feeling. This is why you've been avoiding him for so long.
Connie doesn't make a move to comfort you. Not yet. "You think I'm somebody that's temporary?"
You don't answer. You remain rubbing at your forehead with your head down, pressing at it as if you can somehow work out your anxiety, and that's when Connie finally moves. He drops his blunt, crushes it beneath his shoe, then pulls you in by the waist to force your head up. Oh. You're pretty when you cry. All watery eyed, pouty lipped, and weak.
"Hm." He wipes your tears away with his thumb, watching you sniffle. "Don't ice me out like that again. Ion play that shit."
There's no yelling. No threat. Just a dark, bolded lined boundary.
You believe him. Completely. Your breathing is shaky when you softly murmur, ". . Okay," with your voice softer than what it's been in what feels like years. Connie takes heed, instantly. Something dark yet sweetly warm settles beneath his eyes. His hand slides a little bit higher up your side, steadying you when you sniffle again. "Look at you, ma," he utters. He watches your eyebrows faintly knit as his thumb catches on the wetness smeared under your bottom lashes. "Whole week you been runnin'," his opposite hand finds a soft grip at the hem of your leggings. "And now you right here."
Before you can let yourself think for long . . .
You stand on your tip toes, curl your arms around the back of his neck, and tug him down to your lips.
For a split second, he doesn't move. Your stomach drops instantly. You think that maybe the move was too much, too fast but then . . his hand at your cheek, slides down to your throat, and suddenly, he's kissing you back. It isn't soft nor hesitant. It's deep . . and possessive. Entirely consuming.
The force of it, pushes you back a step as you gasp, feeling his lips in pursuance of yours.
His mouth moves against yours as though he's been holding it back for days. You quickly lose yourself — hiccuping between the slick sounds of your lips meeting then separating. Your fingers clutch at his hood as your head spins, feeling the web of his hand force your chin up higher in order for his tongue to slowly swathe against the roof of your mouth.
He tastes like weed . . . and dark roast coffee. It's dizzying.
"C-con . . nie."
"Mmm." He pulls away . . slowly, as if he's trying to commit your taste to memory before he does. Your vision feels blurred. You blink once, then twice, before it focuses again. But then he's back and your eyes are fluttering closed once more. His lips are soft and full, tapping at your own for slow pecks as though he's unable to get enough. The press of his body is solid, broad, and warm and you feel it — the quiet demand that you don't pull away. So, you don't. You give in, letting him guide, letting him claim the space he's always wanted you in.
Between warm breaths he murmurs, "You mine now?"
You're in a daze when you mewl back "Mhm," while nodding.
"You gon' let me treat you right?" His voice is gruff though he's almost teasing with something darker lying underneath.
You nod again, "Yeah . ." The admission feels a lot like surrender. He hums low and the sound seems to vibrate through your entire body, settling in your chest and pooling warm within your tummy. Giving into him softens the tension you've been holding onto for weeks. There's no need for anymore words. The confirmation of this not being casual nor fleeting makes everything feels heavy . . and real. You're sleepy, you realize. Your mind hasn't gone this quiet in a long time so you let your arms fall around his abdomen, lean closer into him, and press the side of your face against his stomach.
"See." He holds his hand at your back. "That wasn't so hard."
You're still sniffling and slightly pouting when you whisper back, "It was terrifying."
"I could tell."
". . . What happens now?"
You feel him lean his back against the railing and widen his stance to somehow bring you into him even closer, "You stop actin' like i'm temporary."
Your heartbeat skips. "And you . ." you hum and pause for a second, ". . stop tweeting mean stuff about me."
A chuckle is exhaled through his nose. ". . I ain't mean nothin' by that shit."
"Still mean."
In all fairness, you were irritating him but Connie decides to let you win this one. His hand, the one at your waist, softly squeezes it as a silent give in. He'll chill . . as long as you don't pull away like that ever again.
ׅ ❤︎
Life goes on mostly the same after that.
Or at least, from the outside it does. That same night, you perform with something new buzzing beneath your skin. The stage lights are blinding, the crowd's loud as ever, and you can feel him, still . . . his stare. He watches from the wings, as always, eyes focused, arms folded over his chest and hand cupped over his mouth. You catch his gaze a few times — it almost trips you up but you gather yourself quickly before a camera even notices.
Everything's the same, but . . . different.
When you're off stage, he's there . . most times now, parting from you with a subtle kiss to your temple that a nearby onlooker can almost miss before his set. It makes you giddy all the while. You watch him perform too. Eyes wide and transfixed on the large screens that track his every move and expression.
When shows are over, he's the first one there at the door of your dressing room, leaning against the wall with that same quiet patience he always carries as he waits alongside Reiner for you to gather your belongings. Then he's tossing an arm over your shoulders, pulling you into his side and directing you out into the private parking garage to help you climb into an escalade with him in tow.
Both of your teams notice . . . no one says anything.
You guess part of the reason why is because Connie's always been a private guy. Not a single soul has ever approached him with a direct question about his personal life, aside from a rare, bold blogger. You like it. Too many questions would mess up you guys' pace, you think. Because truth is — he's never spent a single night with you. Each show it's the same routine, he drives with you to your hotel with his thumb drawing idle circles into the back of your hand as the cities whizz by through tinted windows. Walks you through the lobby, to the elevator where the both of you stand quietly, letting the machine carry you up to the suite. He always swipes your keycard for you when you make it to your door, pushes it open, steps inside and is only in there for about two minutes time.
Within those two minutes, he never really says much because after a low "C'mere" he's always kissing you . . . slow at first, like he's reminding himself to take it easy, then all devouring. His height and weight usually ends up boxing you within a corner, without him seeming to try because one step forward for him is two steps back for you, leaving you surrounded with just him. Hotel hallways have cameras — and Connie knows what you two look like when this happens . . . the soft sounds that can't help slipping out of your mouth when it goes on for too long, your tongues swirling against one another's.
The shit he does to you would have you both front page on every blog site within ten minutes of him leaving to his own room. So, he always pulls away first. "Shower. Phone off. Sleep," he consistently murmurs after he steps back towards the door. It always sounds like something he forces himself to say. Like it physically costs him something to stop.
Sometimes you smile to yourself when he leaves. Sometimes you pout.
Because Connie's never been the one to linger nor does he stand around talking. He gives you, only you, those two minutes and you begin to cherish them.
It's in Miami, a couple weeks after Houston, when the masks slip.
There's an album release party one of your industry friends, Mikasa, throws. Connie happens to also know her. It's on the rooftop of a sky high building. You socialize as needed, sticking with Annie and Kennedy, one of your dancers who's been growing into a close friend. Your dress is tiny, fitted, and red . . entirely backless which shows off the pretty dip of your spine and plush butt sitting up high within it. You feel pretty.
You catch Connie's eye occasionally. He nurses a glass of something dark with two ice cubes in it. whenever he takes a sip, his eyes are searching over the slope of it through the dozens of people For yours. You can't help teasing a bit . . you let your gaze linger on his before you're looking away to refocus on something someone's saying. When someone has to shuffle by to squeeze past you, you smooth your hands down the sides of your dress afterward — pressing out invisible wrinkles, palms tracing your waist slow, to an onlooker, absentmindedly all while knowing your back is in his direct line of sight. Connie's never been one to not be composed, though, even given your little games. Not until the night grows dim. He keeps an eye on you for nearly the entirety, glancing at you giggle, chat with friends, have a shot.
Then suddenly, you're gone.
Everyone's winding down — taking seats on the lounge couches as the music grows softer and alcohol settles into bloodstreams. You'd been standing near the railing with Kennedy, he saw, but now Kennedy's alone and Annie's taking a phone call in the corner. Connie's jaw ticks. What the fuck? Never the type to announce his departure, he simply eases off from a conversation about streaming numbers and touring logistics to head inside the building.
Briskly, his eyes sweep the hall as he walks. Elevator, unmoving. Women taking pictures of themselves in a mirrored panel. He inhales a sharper breath than his last while easing to the restrooms. He takes his chance with the women's by carefully nudging it open just enough to look inside . . . and there you are – sitting on the marble counter with your head bowed, shoulders slumped, and phone held loosely in your hand as a ten second clip constantly replays.
"Aye . ." Connie's moving before he can stop himself.
Your head snaps up.
You've been crying. Your make up isn't completely fucked but the dark shadow that'd been thinly buffed beneath your glossy eyes is smudged now. He goes still when he's standing in front of you, "What happened."
For a moment, you don't answer. Though his face doesn't show it, Connie's stumped. You'd just been laughing and enjoying yourself. He’s at a lost.
Eventually, after swallowing the knot in your throat, you nudge your phone into his hands. A tiktok video is paused on the face of some music critic — white guy, glasses, and scrawny. When connie presses play, he hears it, "She's pretty, don't get me wrong. Dreamy. A gorgeous girl. Music's," his lip twists while his shoulder lifts. "nice. But can she carry a stadium tour alone? I don't think so."
The video sits with two million views and three hundred thousand likes.
Something hard settles beneath Connie's stare. He listens to you sniff as he powers your phone off and places it face down on the counter beside your thigh. " 's so stupid, I know," you hiccup.
The bathroom is quiet aside from your breathing.
" 's . . . it's trending everywhere." You've never been the type to care about stuff like this. However, you can't help but notice that something feels different about it this time around. "It k-keeps popping up on my feeds like it's . . the funniest thing anyone's ever said."
You look away, letting his words bounce around your skull, "Pretty," you bite out weakly. ". . dreamy. I . . . d-dunno if 'm built for this, Connie."
For a moment, Connie takes you in.
Really takes you in. A girl in a red dress, teary eyed, and hurt over a fucking loser making videos in his friend's attic. "Wipe your face, ma," he says it but he's already doing it himself. Grabs you by the chin and dabs your tears away with careful presses of his thumbs. "Why the fuck you lettin' somebody like that get into yo' ear about what you can and can't carry?"
You look away, sad and huffy. ". . Because people listen to him."
"People listen to all types of shit, that don't hold no weight." He doesn't like this . . this feeling of knowing that he can't shut the whole thing down for you. He's unable to reach into the internet and bury the words into a black hole before they get to you. It makes him feel incompetent. Eventually, he sighs through his nose.
"You sold out three nights in LA . . two in Seattle . . two in Houston . . Chicago broke the fuckin' ticket site for a minute. Every crowd knows every lyric you wrote." Your lashes flutter as you look down at his chest where a pair of platinum dogtags hang on a chain. ". . . Pretty," he ultimately sucks his teeth then gives a small squeeze to your thigh. "Yeah . . you are. But that ain't why people show up."
"Mmm." His words feel good.
Slowly, as if shy, you drop your head onto his shoulder. Immediately, Connie's hand is at the back of your neck, grounding you back calm. His voice is quieter when he says, "You don't ever break down in front of the internet. Fuck that shit. You break down here." A kiss to your temple and you mewl. "You cry. I fix it."
His words invoke you to breathe out a small giggle, “. . You make it sound easy.”
His thumb drags slow strokes up and down your nape, inattentively but steady, similar to the way a person would pet a small, shaken kitten until it calms. “It can be.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” His hand slowly lowers until it’s settled within the arch of your spine. His touch against your bare skin makes your nerves feel like they’ve been lit on fire. He presses into it to get you to open up your legs the slightest bit wider so that he can stand closer between them. “You need to forget that internet shit. And remember you got me watchin’ you.”
When your head lifts to look up at him, you take in his expression. It remains the same — always focused, stare always intense, but you watch his gaze drop to your lips for a split second before it flicks back up to your own. “You think I ain’t seen that lil shit you was pullin’ out there?”
“. . Huh?” your lips part as you feign innocence, “What stuff?”
“Mhm. Okay.”
Connie’d let his attention slip. Usually he’s better at keeping an eye peeled out on his surroundings, but you’ve got him in a trance. The bathroom door is suddenly pushed open by a woman, clearly not prepared to see a buff, six foot four man tatted and dark eyed talking to a girl seated on the counter. On instinct, she jumps where she stands which makes you jolt within Connie’s arms. He doesn’t apologize for the scare. “C’mon.” With an arm around your waist, he pulls you down until your heels hit the floor. He’s aware that your relationship has now been the slightest bit compromised but when the two of you are back at the party with your phone powered off in his pocket as he watches you giggle at something Kennedy says from across a crowd of people’s heads, he doesn’t have it in him to truly give a fuck.
ׅ ❤︎
Leg one of Connie's stadium tour ends in New York — as expected.
Madison Square Garden is booked for three nights, an entire weekend, and his famous, smiley faced emblem is displayed at the peak of the Empire State Building and beams out across the skyline as if the city itself is welcoming him home as soon as you all touch down. You recognize the change in Connie immediately. Somehow, he becomes even more quiet, retreats more inward, like a coil pulled into itself.
It's not nerves. Connie's nothing if not scarily calm at all times of the day but there resides something . . heavier about him. You see it when he first climbs the steps to the stage of night one's rehearsals. His hands rest idly at his sides, shoulders relaxed as his eyes dart across the entire span of the stadium, seemingly trying to catalogue each seat into his brain. When it's your turn to practice, he's not too far away, slowly pacing while watching how you execute each note, each step, each everything. As much as his presence has became something almost grounding to you, you think you'll always be just the slightest bit intimidated by him.
You say so when it's just the two of you standing there, on the little taped X's of your marks while the stage crew continues to bustle around the coliseum . . . "You're makin' me nervous."
His face doesn't change much — eyebrows only lift up a bit as he takes your words in. "How?"
"I dunno." Truthfully, you don't. ". . I think . .” Connie watches you look down at your feet which you shuffle from left to right on as your lips twist while you try to find the right words. Everything you do is somehow becoming more and more precious to him, he can’t help but wait patiently as you soon sigh. “I jus' . . wanna be good for you . . . for your city."
For the first time in a while, Connie smiles. It works its way across his lips slow, revealing nearly all of his perfect teeth. It's rare enough that it makes something in you grow tight and warm when you see it. “For my city, huh?” It’s there for a while before it melts off again — always serious, always intense. “You’on gotta worry about that. You always perfect." As your stomach flutters with new butterflies, you go to respond before you're cut off.
"Connie! Run it again from the first drop?"
He doesn't immediately look away from you. He remains staring at your face, examining your current expression before nodding towards the tech crew. "Yeah, let's do it."
A squeeze at your waist, then he's turning you towards the wings, "Go," he mumbles. "I ordered you some lunch. Eat."
You pout, not wanting to part so soon. This past week has been relentless. Both of your schedules have been jam packed, the only times you have been seeing him is during rehearsals, the show, and when he walks you up to your hotel suites. "But 'm not—"
Shaking his head, he's already pushing in his in-ears while clicking his tongue once, "—Didn't ask. I said go eat, ma." There's no edge in his tone but there's no room for arguing either.
He appreciates it when you simply give a nod after a few seconds. He reads it off of you — the restlessness, the nerves. You keep fidgeting with the rings on your fingers and chewing on the inside of your cheek. You need fuel and a nap. So you go.
ׅ ❤︎
The rest of the afternoon is a blur.
A plate of soul food from a spot Connie's frequented since he was a child is delivered to your dressing room, then vocal warm ups, followed by a short nap curled on the couch while the muffled sound of his setlist echoing throughout the stadium lulls you in and out of sleep. It's all well needed after one of your glam girls wakes you up about an hour and a half later with a gentle shake to your hip, "Hey, babe. Sorry. We gotta start gettin' you ready." You feel better than you have in days.
With a big stretch and yawn, you climb off of the couch and immediately into the chair in front of your vanity whose surface is already swimming with cosmetics and hair utensils. "What are we thinkin' for hair today?" She asks while gently fluffing it.
Softly, you blink at her through the mirror then go to touch your forty inch bundles that have been sewed in and dyed a pretty burgundy. "Mm, deep crimps today, please." You want to be at your absolute prettiest, reason obvious.
And as light foundation is buffed into your skin, shadow is pat on your eyelids, and your hair is crimped, you wonder about Connie. You think about the first time you performed at a big show in your hometown, remembering that minutes before you went on stage, you had felt like you wanted to cry. And for the strangest reason too — it'd just been different.
Being in your city surrounded by faces that've possibly gone to the same schools or grocery stores as you, that knew pieces of you felt both strengthening and nerve wracking. Connie's presence lingers within the back of your mind similar to a thick fog. You picture him in his own dressing room, head in his arms, as he tries to ground himself before going on, because even if he doesn't show it, you know that he's nervous.
A strange mix of fear and excitement swirls around you, nevertheless. He's been able to make the most ordinary of things feel electrified and you both are performing at Madison Square Garden. You can hear the buzz, the screams, you feel the anticipation. You know that he's going to kill it and you just hope that he doesn't feel the same pressure that you do.
But once those lights go up and the music swells, everything feels like it's been put in a matrix.
You don't remember seeing Connie at the wings, you barely even remember holding your mic up to your mouth, however, once you're off stage, you're immediately squeezed within a group hug so big that your lungs nearly collapse. "You did so good!" "Oh my fucking God!"
Connie's performance is nearly a streak in the haze, too. You guess it's because of all the adrenaline. Your focus is pinned on just a few things.
Him.
In a black varsity jacket made of wool with cream leather sleeves with his emblem stitched on the back in chenile. The stage lights kept catching on the open faced, diamond grillz that framed the bottom row of his teeth each time he smirked at the crowd and you distantly remember that same moment when he slowly peeled off his jacket, dropped it in the face of the pit, and listened to the crowd scream until nearly all of them were blue in the face.
He'd been slow . . controlled . . intense.
Songs blended together, screams became white noise, lights, fog, sweat, bone rattling bass, then suddenly . . it's all over. There'd been no dramatic goodbye from Connie once it all ended. He had only stood there with beads of sweat dripping down his temples to the swirling ink tatted across his neck. The applause sounded like crash of waves against shore.
With his hands pressed together, he bowed at the waist, mouthing his thank yous.
And just like that, he's lowered beneath the stage and Madison Square Garden night one is completed.
ׅ ❤︎
You're dressed in a pair of fold over micro shorts, a fitted crew neck that's been cut into a crop top with a pair of kitchen shears, slouchy socks, and nike cortezs when Connie finally sees you again for what feels like the first time in hours.
He doesn't shout your name or say anything — you simply open your dressing room door while checking your phone for the time, look up, and he's leaning against the wall as if he'd been there for a while.
"O-Oh."
His jacket is gone now. He wears just a white, distressed tee that stretches over the span of his broad shoulders, a diamond chain, black cargos, and a pair of clean air forces. "C'mere," when said by him, you have a front row peek at the diamonds that also still glisten within his mouth. You let him pull you closer, however, are unable to help trying to peek over his shoulder for the rest of his teem. "Aren't you gonna celebrate with them?"
"Niggas poured champagne all over me," he mumbles with a small kiss to your forehead. "They got their celebration. Ima get mine too."
Giggling, you lean in closer to get a whiff. Yeah. He smells like it. "Did they give you a sip at least?"
"Fuck no."
Connie watches you laugh. Your cheeks go fat at the apples and you smile so big, your eyes get squinty. He smirks. ". . Hm." You watch his reach up towards his neck. You think he's simply going to adjust the chain he wears, albeit, he's taking it completely off to then drape over your own neck. It's heavier than it looks. You immediately look down at the pendent of where platinum dog tags reflect back at you with engravings of his initials, C.S.
". . . Connie—"
"–Leave it. C'mon."
His voice is quiet and firm in a way that makes you clamp your lips shut and let him intertwine his fingers within the spaces of yours to lead you towards the exit ramp for the garage. Your face feels ten degrees warmer than usual as you go to touch the chain, still warm from his own skin. "W-Why are you lettin' me wear it?"
He keeps his eyes forward when he responds, "I'm lettin' you keep it. 's yours now, mama."
Cool, New York air hits your skin as soon as he pushes the door open. And for a moment, everything feels mostly normal until you hear them, until you see them . . . camera flashes.
"Connie! Connie, over here!"
"꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, say hi!"
"Look this way!"
You freeze. Connie's security, who you hadn't even known been tailing you both, are quick to step in front of you and him, acting as a barricade against the small cluster of paparazzi that have managed to slip through the blockade separating the garage from the buzzing street. Your first instinct is to step away, turn, and go back to where which you came, however Connie's hand is at your waist, gently pushing you into the opened door of a sprinter as he uses his opposite arm to keep the flashes from completely blinding you as you step up and inside.
You barely have time to even blink before the door slams when you, him, and both his security are in your seats and the SUV is instantly pulling off.
For a second, the only thing heard are your uneven breaths. You think about Annie, your parents, your career. "O-Oh my god."
"꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱."
Your hands are shaking when you press them to your temples and lower your forehead to your knees, "They got p-pictures, oh my God." The words come out thin and strained as if someone had been physically squeezing them from your chest.
Connie's palm is firm against the back of your neck. Heavy. Stabilizing. It makes your shoulders relax only the tiniest bit as your phone is already begins to buzz where it's held between the hemline of your shorts up against your skin. You can already see the headlines, the comments, the threats, the new intrusion into something that had only existed between you and Connie up until five minutes ago.
"You good," Connie's muttering. His voice is low . . measured. "You gotta breathe, ma."
You whimper, "T-This is bad, Connie."
"It ain't."
You lift your head and your fingers are immediately grabbing your phone. Notifications are already beginning to stack.
"Yo, give me that."
The device keeps vibrating. Two hundred jumps to eight hundred, then a thousand, then fifteen hundred. You don't want it. You don't want to see what they're already saying. With shaking fingers you push it into Connie's awaiting hand, watching him slip his own out from his pocket. He shuts yours off, completely, barely glances at his before doing the same, then shoves them back in. "Mami, you gotta calm down. Seriously."
You're suddenly aware of the city lights zipping by in long ribbons of red, gold, and white, and your anxiety only flares higher. "Where are we going?"
He's pulling at you . . dragging you actually, by the thigh, like he's already decided you need this, until you're seated sideways upon his lap. "Somewhere where you can chill the fuck out." His voice stays calm — almost bored, even. Like the situation happening outside of the car is the least of his worries.
Your breathing slows underneath his touch. Just barely. You don't have it in you to ask another question, so you don't. You let your body fall sideways until your face is tucked against his shoulder. With your new comfort, Connie lets his head fall back upon the seat and for a few minutes, neither of you say anything. You can hear his security's thumbs tap away as they send messages and scroll through feeds on their phones, likely scoping the damage of the new release of pictures.
Connie's hand begins to stroke up and down your back. Slow. Comforting.
Your voice is tiny when you mewl, ". . They're gonna tear me apart." You want to cry. "J-Just for bein' with you."
The words feel strange to say aloud, nonetheless, they're the truth. A man like Connie, with fans all over the globe, with three hundred million Instagram followers and counting, you know you've just stepped into some deep shit. "Pictures ain't the end of the world."
You look down at your shoes. "It feels like it."
Connie nods, "I know. But it ain't."
He sounds so calm, so . . at ease. It confuses you. With a frown, you lift your chin to look up at him, "You're not worried?"
He glances down at you then back out the tinted windows. "I knew this shit was gon' happen eventually."
"You did?"
"Mm." He's quiet for a second longer. " 's not like I was gon' keep you a secret forever anyway."
The sprinter turns off a main road into a gated one after the driver punches in a code on a keypad with his thumb. You're surrounded by tall, brick buildings of old warehouses with glass fronts near the water that have been converted into luxury lofts. The car doesn't stop until it's in front of the largest one with the skyline of New York painted behind it. "C'mon." Connie's pulling open the door and patting your thigh to get you to hop down. You don't have to ask where you are because it's somehow obvious. ". . . Is this . ."
No hesitation. With his arm around your waist, he's steering you into the direction of the glass door entrance, "Yeah. This my place."
The lobby is more of a gallery. Concrete floors are buffed smooth and dark, steel beams stretch across the high ceiling. A long slab of polished, black marble acts as the reception desk where only one woman works with her braids pulled into a high bun and glasses on as she takes a call.
You clutch the strap of your little handbag tighter, watching the doorman greet Connie with a simple head nod.
No conversation. Barely even a pause. Connie nods back and is leading you towards the elevator near the back of a hall. He jams his thumb into a button, they open immediately with a quiet, metallic whisper and it's after you both step inside when he produces a key fob from his back pocket, presses it up against a sensor panel, and the doors close. You barely feel anything when the elevator starts to rise.
You feel like you've drunken four nitro espressos back to back.
When you slowly glance up at him to take him in, you see him simply standing there with his hands in his pockets, face handsome and devoid of any type of expression as he gazes forward. You suppose your stare must have been hard because he suddenly glances back down at you too, "What?"
You shift your eyes back forward, "Nothing."
The elevator slows.
You expected a hallway, or maybe even another lobby, but when the doors open, you've both been transported right within his loft.
You step off first then quickly stop.
The space is gigantic. It stretches across the entire top floor of the building with exposed, dark brown brick running across the length of the room, only sometimes broken by a wall of floor to ceiling windows. He has a view from nearly every angle of the loft. East, West, South, and North.
Dark walnut flooring stretch beneath your feet with a large, abstract rug in cream or charcoal spotted here and there, the pattern similar to brush strokes painted on a canvas. The living area acts as the center piece . . . dipped low away from everything else with a dark, leather sectional — the kind you sink into — facing a wall mounted television screen about as large as a movie theater's. Even the lighting fits in with everything – golden yet dim, painting the space in a vibe that makes your breathing slow.
". . Oh my . . god, Connie."
Your voice echos against the high ceilings.
You hear him drop a set of keys in a shallow, concrete bowl as he walks over to the kitchen, casual yet slow, to open a matte black, fridge door. You continue on your own little tour, finding the space to be too grand to not want to explore. Walking closer to the windows, you spot a balcony that stretches out for what looks like half a mile, wrapping around the exterior of the loft as his own private deck where an infinity pool runs along the edge . . sleek, long, and narrow. You remember his words, 'Somewhere where you can chill the fuck out.' Yeah. One deep inhale and look out at the city, and you find yourself to be almost entirely relaxed.
Here, the world feels quiet.
Like everything and everybody exists somewhere on an entirely different plane.
"You good?"
You turn around to face him. He's taken a seat on the sectional with his shoes off and legs outstretched in front of him. It's the most relaxed you've ever seen him. You watch him lean to grab a blunt and lighter out of an ash tray, shaped in a 'C' and only after lighting it, taking a drag, and realizing you haven't said anything else yet, does Connie simply watch you for a long second before saying, "C'mere."
He watches you slowly walk over and descend the small staircase. Before sitting down, you drop your purse on the center table then take a seat upon a cushion, a few inches away from him. You smell like cherries. Cherries and almonds. And for a while, he lets his eyes take you in. You're pretty, always fucking pretty, but you look especially pretty tonight with your hair still crimped, make up still bringing out the sharp line of your eyes, and your lips glossed. His chain still hangs from your neck. It's so long on you that the dog tags sway against your stomach. "So."
You look away from him, shy as always. ". . So . ."
He lifts his head to blow a stream of smoke out towards the ceiling, "You calm now?"
". . . Yeah."
"You wanna talk?"
"About what?"
"About these pictures circling the 'net now."
Seeing his place for the first time must've completely pulled you out of that headspace because once he brings it up, he watches your shoulders tense and eyes snap closed. The inhale through your nose is sharp. Connie's shaking his head. "Yo . . breathe."
" 'm trying." You sound exhausted when you toe off your shoes to lie entirely back against the other couch cushions with your arms thrown over your face. It leaves your feet in Connie's direction which he grabs with both his hands to pull your legs properly over his thighs while holding his blunt between his lips. ". . What are we gonna do?"
He's quiet for a while.
You almost think he didn't hear you until you drop your arms from your face to look at him to see him staring intensely at the chain that has now came to rest on the mounds of your tits. His stare isn't one of lust, just . . . focus. The intensity swimming within the dark clouds of his hazel eyes makes the hair on your skin stand upright. "If we do this," he utters quietly. "we do it right."
Your voice is gentle when you hum, "Hm?"
He licks his lips, looks away for a second, then takes another hit of his blunt. "I mean, I don't play that embarrassin' each other shit." His voice is quiet but hard. "If you mine, you mine. Simple as that."
Your stomach flutters. You remain silent for a while, before lifting up on your elbows. Your voice sounds almost meek when you mutter back, "So, if I'm yours then . ."
He blows out the smoke. "Then I'm yours, too."
"Oh."
Your little, quiet reply is so small yet so genuine that Connie's eyes can't help promptly flicking back to your face to study it. But, it appears his attention is much too much and abrupt for you because you end up dropping back flat against the cushion to cover your slowly widening smile like you're trying to hide from the moment entirely.
Connie only stares for a while before a breath is exhaled through his nose . . something close to laughter.
"Man, look at you . . ." One of his hands is pulling at your wrist. "Why you hidin' for?"
" 'm not."
He waits until you drop your hands. Only then does he get a better look at your face. He can tell you're blushing, regardless of the brown of your skin hiding it. Something in his chest tightens as he smirks and leans back while beginning to circle his thumb slowly over the smooth, soft skin of your shin. "You fuckin' precious."
"Connie, stop it."
He's chuckling, "Nah, for real. We doin' this shit so that means I gotta know some shit."
You're humming again, sweet and soft as your head tilts, "Know what?"
He leans forward to ash his blunt as his voice grows more gruff when he says, "What you like, what you don't like . . . shit you expect from me."
You gently blink, "Oh . . ." Honestly, you're stuck. Your fingers start to fiddle with his — your — chain as you try to think while Connie eyes you the entire time, quiet and patient, with the slow stroke of his thumb never halting. He watches how you go to say something, part your lips, then snap them back closed like you're indecisive. A small smirk pulls up his lips. "You'on know?"
Cutely, your nose wrinkles. "I do know . . . 's just weird sayin' it."
His head shakes, "Ain't weird." Another hit of his blunt. "You just shy."
When you go to melt away again, he's back pulling at your legs to keep you exactly where you are. " 'm askin' this 'cause I actually give a fuck. I don't want you guessin' and assumin' shit . . . I don't wanna be guessin' and assumin' shit."
Everybody's different. And Connie wants this. He wants you more than he's ever wanted another person in his life.
". . Okay," your voice is delicate as you start to thumb with your fingers on your stomach. "I guess . . . I just like when someone's honest. And . . I don't like feelin' like 'm bothering you."
Impossible, he thinks, but he nods slowly while letting you continue.
Your eyes drift towards one of the windows when you mumble, "I like . . attention. I don't wanna feel like . . 'm too much . . . or too little for you."
"You ain't gotta worry about that wit' me."
You watch him outstretch his arm along the backrest of the couch. "Why not?"
His gaze settles on you, slow and steady. " 'Cause if I didn't wanna deal wit' you, you wouldn't be in my house right now." The blunt is back at his lips.
His answer, his stare, invokes something warm within the pit of your stomach. You've had a front row seat in watching Connie move and you know he's telling the truth. Being someone special, only his exception makes you feel good, you won't lie to yourself. "Okay . ." you're back smiling again and looking away. "Just be consistent with me . . . and sweet to me . . and I'll be okay."
"You easy to please, you know that?"
Your eyes widen in slight surprise, "Really?" You think any other guy would have already been rebutting some stuff and you've barely even said anything.
"Mm," he's rubbing at your shin again, a little higher this time, near your knee. "I jus' want you to get used to talkin' to me."
You bottom lip juts out a little before you can help it, "What do you mean?"
"Means," his eyes flick down to where his thumb rubs before they're back on yours, "you'on ever hold eye contact with me for too long. I don't like it."
Of course he's noticed. " . . 'm sorry." Your tone softens again.
His smirk deepens as he keeps his stare steady, "Ain't nothin' to apologize for . ." He leans forward to ash his blunt again before pulling it back to his lips. "Jus' . . work on it for me."
"Okay."
Higher, his thumb rubs. It's an inch above your knee now, near the inside where your skin gets softer and dimples with faint cellulite. You swallow, fight to ignore it, and go to ask, "Your turn now. What else?"
"I don't fuck with that silent treatment shit," his attention is on the window. The city lights swim within his eyes that appear more murky green tonight. You know that the both of you are thinking about Houston . . you dodging him, avoiding him. You look back at your fingers and rub at the pretty, pink gems studded all over your extra long, jelly white acrylics. "If you mad, tell me. You sad, tell me." He waits until you nod before he resumes, voice hushed but hard. "Ain't gon' be seein' you entertaining nobody else. Smilin' in niggas faces, lettin' em touch you." He takes a longer pull of his blunt while shaking his head. It's as if the thought alone is enough to piss him off.
You shake your head slowly, batting your lashes as your brows furrow, ". . I won't, Connie."
"I know." It's firm, final. No need to get too deep into it because that line's been drawn clear. "And I know you expect the same from me. You don't gotta trip over me doin' shit like that. I like loyalty."
Another nod from you and he does the same.
"You just gotta talk to me, ma," higher, his thumb climbs. It's near the middle of the inside of your thigh now so you break your streak of faux nonchalance to look down at his hand. He continues to talk as if he doesn't realize but you feel it . . . in his stare. He knows what he's doing. "Talk to me . . . 's only so much I can read off you. Lemme in your head . . lemme hear that pretty voice and we'll be all good."
"O . . kay." You breathe and close your eyes, willing the stirring in your gut calm. Your pussy is starting to warm as more of your blood rushes south, straight down to your clit.
Then the room grows really quiet. So quiet to where you can hear the faint splash of the river wading below and hear how the leather beneath his back shifts as Connie leans deeper against the cushion behind him. When you open them, he's staring at you . . . not outside the windows, at the skyline, at your chest, but at your face, like he's analyzing each minuscule expression you make.
His thumb creeps higher.
You inhale again and tighten your fingers around the pillow beneath you. He notices the way he notices everything else but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't quicken his movement, nor does he slow, he just . . watches.
Another quiet pass of his thumb, and it's right there, right at the edge of where your little micro shorts stop above your thigh. Only inches away from your pussy that thumps with the matching beat of your heart. You watch the corner of his mouth lift, just barely. "You think too loud."
You feel it then.
His thumb on your clit, through your shorts and panties and the singular touch is enough for your eyes to flutter close as the slightest, tiniest whimper pushes out your nose. "Mmph."
" 's okay," he mumbles, rolling it 'round and 'round in slow circles. He takes another hit of his blunt, snapping his eyes from your face to his hand to watch your thick thighs slowly begin to part the slightest bit more opened. "Wit' me, you'on gotta worry about me neglectin' this either."
A deep inhale, a shaky exhale. You suddenly clamp your thighs around his wrist which makes him hold his blunt between his tightly folded lips to push one of them back open. Around the joint, he murmurs, "Nah, we don't do that shit over here."
"C-Connie." Your voice breaks around his name.
His thumb is working steady now. Smooth, perfect circles that has your hole clenching around the thin cotton of your panties as if it were trying to pull them inside for some sort of penetration.
"Tranquila," promptly, he pulls his blunt away. "You good, mama. Jus' feel it."
He's watching . . . reading . . . studying. Your breathing, the little furrow in your brows, how you bite at your bottom lip to keep from making too many sounds. You don't masturbate often, it's obvious. You're tightly strung, like your whole body's a knot. Connie wants to work you lax. "Take these off."
His hand is gone.
You bat your eyes open with your chest rising and falling shakily to watch him stub his blunt out. Then he's back. He hooks his hands within the fabric of your shorts and underwear to slowly peel them down your thighs off of your legs. " 'm nervous." It slips past your lips before you can reel it back in, however Connie's already shaking his head before the word fully leaves them.
"Nah, you don't gotta be. You jus' gotta lay here. Let me do what I do."
Still mewling, you let him part your legs open for him to get a good look at what lies in between. Your pussy's pretty — fat and brown and waxed smooth with your lips thick enough to hide your hole away but not your clit. It peeks out from in between them, puffy and slick, begging Connie to keep going, to treat her sweetly. "You so pretty, mama."
A sound seems like it's wrenched out of you when his bare thumb is on it now, doing the same thing he was just doing just seconds ago through your shorts. You're so sensitive. Eyes of stormy hazel watch as you turn your face into your arm you throw up beside your head. He watches you bite down on your bicep as his thumb dips low to tease the puckered entrance of your pussy — working the tip of it just barely in and out to feel you gush around it before it's back at your clit, this time more slick than it was before.
"Told you I was gon' celebrate, ain't I?"
You didn't think he meant this.
"C-Connie," you hiccup and dare yourself to glance down.
His thumb swirling on your bud, his tatted arm, his bicep, up to his shoulder. God, he's a dream. He's your dream. You feel his body lower. His lips find your cheek for a soft peck before he's forcing your head out of your arm to push a wet, sloppy kiss on your lips. "Nah," he mumbles into the cavern of your panting mouth. "You can say Daddy . . . or you can call me Papa. I'll let you choose."
Another strangled whimper when his thumb suddenly slides nice and deep inside your pussy til it bottoms out with a nasty squelch. "Mm, both . ." you sniffle back while lifting your hips into his hand. "Wan' both."
He's smiling again. His rare one. The one that shows all his teeth — only tonight, the bottom sparkles with an open faced frame of diamonds. "Puedes tener ambos, mama. Ion judge."
"F-Fuck."
He's pulling his thumb out to trade it for his middle finger. The both of you watch it push in, the glide nice and smooth. Your pussy pushes out a small splatter of wetness that splashes onto his wrist where a black, calfskin strapped, phillipe watch is wrapped around. He doesn't give you time to adjust to it before he's pushing his ring finger along side it. Your eyes roll back into your skull. "U-Unh—"
Connie has never been so honed in yet foggy brained on something, on someone, until now. His lips are parted, forehead pressed against yours as he starts to push his fingers in and out . . sweet and deep, muscles firm. The desire that's slowly been building inside of him for you over the course of these past couple months feels like it's gnawing at all of his patience now, chewing away the part of him that's normally more composed. He thinks about you on stage, at rehearsals, in a booth — pretty and doe eyed. All the times he's felt you staring at him however, each time he'd look back, you'd dart your eyes away . . nervous, like he caught you doing something you weren't supposed to.
"Always so fuckin' shy, huh?" He's pinning your arms up above your head to keep you from hiding your face inside them.
It used to make him smirk to himself.
Now it just makes him want to see how long you can hold his stare before you crack.
"Look at me . . open y'fuckin' eyes . . watch me make this pussy mine."
He rocks his palm up into the swollen bead of your clit, watching you squeak and go to try to snap your legs closed. But, he's between them. You can only lock your thighs around the span of his hips as you hiccup, "—nie . . Connie, p-please."
His forehead is back, pressing up against yours as he inhales your wet, shuddery breaths into his lungs, "I know," he's kissing you – holds your face between his fingers that he squeezes in to make your lips pucker out. "Oh, I know, mami. I know."
That feeling is already creeping in close. Right between your pelvis that makes the soft, pulpy walls of your cunt clench around his fingers and your heart drop. Your pussy is gurgling so loud now that if anyone were to suddenly come up the elevator, just one step inside and they'd know immediately what the sound was. You're so wet. Thick, transparent liquid, texture like syrup, trickles down the crack of your ass to the leather below. It smears against your cheeks, makes Connie's hand dirty.
Another moan — this one weak, broken. You cry like Connie's hurting you but the way your hips jerk . . . one would be confused as to what's truly going on. "Daddy," you whine for him. You squirm beneath the hold his singular hand has both your wrists in as your voice grows weary. "Daddy, please."
"You good," Connie's mumbling, face focused as he tilts his head to get a better look at your walls dragging against his knuckles. "You good, baby," He says it like he swears it. "You just gotta cum."
"Okay," you nod quickly, words going breathy as if you were simply just pleading with him to not make you do that. "Okay, okay . . O . . . kay—"
He twists his fingers in, pulls them out, twists them back in, and buries them til the hilt to massage the pads right into the doughy blob of your gspot.
"Hng." Your back arches up into his chest as your toes curl and cum washes out around his fingers. It gushes down his palm, down to his wrist and in between the cheeks of your ass to the couch. Connie growls out a short, gruff 'Hmm' sound, watching strings of the thick, pearly liquid play between his digits like spider webs each time he pulls them out and stretches them apart. His hand is glossy, from finger to wrist.
"There you go . . There you fuckin' go, ma."
You're shaking . . . hiccuping and twitching, letting him plunge them back inside your little, messy cunt for another thrust, pull them out, plunge them back in, and keep up the rhythm until you're pleading with him, " 's a l-lot . . T-Too much . . Daddy, wait—"
Connie backs off. One last plunge then pull out and he's smacking wet, little slaps against your clit. "Voy a gozar con ella," you hear him mumble. "Messy as fuck. I didn't think you'd get like this."
He pinches your folds together, just to watch your clit bulge at him. It's as though your pussy is a drug. Regardless of him simply staring at it, touching it, tasting it, or playing with it, he can't get enough.
You're teary eyed and brainless, watching him stand, reach behind his neck then peel off his shirt within one fluid motion. Beneath the moonlight, his abs are carved deep within his abdomen, each line catching the light like they were sculpted there by hand. Black ink moves across his skin in hypnotizing swirls, curling over his pecs and sliding down his obliques to disappear beneath his cargos. You can only admire — still foggy brained, thoughts still tangled, watching him press his tongue into his cheek for a moment while staring at you as if he were trying to decide just what to do with you before he's leaning in, sliding his strong arms beneath your back, and pulling you up into him while standing.
Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, arms around his neck, feeling his hands find the plush globes of your ass to hold as he walks you both through the house, pass what feels like a thousand windows, down a long hall, to a set of double doors.
While he opens them, you take the chance to rub your hand down his hair.
It's been growing out a bit, just barely. Tiny, blond curls and roots of black. You like it. It fits him. You listen to him inhale as you scratch your nails down his the back of his neck.
"Mm," he hums, kicking the door shut. Your lips find the arch of it where his shoulder almost begins as he walks. You kiss first, soft and sweet before suckling gently, feeling his muscles ripple beneath your fingers. "Shit feels good."
He tips you backwards until you fall against his plush, pillow top california king mattress that slightly swallows you when you land. "Said you was gon' be mine, right?" He remains standing at your feet. His room has only one wall of windows and it leaves just enough light to trace the outline of his body. "I want you to eat this dick up, then."
At just the mention of it, you're already curling onto your hands and knees to meet him at the edge. "I know it's a lil unfair . ." He eyes your lips as he mumbles, low and dawdling. "But Daddy promises . . . I'll make you cum on my tongue later on tonight, okay?" You're nodding, eyes big and brown when you pull at his zipper. You don't care. For so many nights you've thought about him . . about his hands, his voice, his smile, his eyes. So many lonely hotel nights where you'd punish yourself about it. No touching, no shower head, no pillow humps.
You've thought about what it'd look like.
Fat and short, long and skinny, no veins, lots of them. You didn't know, it drove you fucking crazy. Seeing him the next day always made you feel like a creep.
One push of his hand to the hem of his Tom Ford briefs and it bounces out over the elastic.
For a split moment, you don't even realize you stopped breathing. You can feel heat rushing to your face, your chest, your cunt. Everywhere. Because it's beautiful.
"Mm." A sound leaves him. Not quite a laugh but not . . not one either. "You can touch it, mami."
He watches your lips part. It's as though once given permission, you go ahead and do so — grab him by the base, feeling the weight of it settle in your palm like a dumbbell. You're amazed, almost. Eight inches long, perfect girth with a handful of veins that branch out across his shaft like bolts of lightning to pump blood up to his fat, leaky tip that is the same delicious pink shade of his lips. His balls are heavy when you cup them too . . swollen with so much cum that you think should hurt. But he only breathes, soft and calm at your sweet touches, holding his hands behind his back to let you take your precious time.
"Think it's gon' fit?"
You look up at him while holding his shaft right up against your face.
Connie's eyes grow so dark, you think they're black. Beneath his breath, he whispers, "Oh my fuckin' . ."
He watches you slowly begin to nod. "Yeah," you whisper back. Cute and sweet. "We can make it fit, Daddy."
Oh my fucking God.
A soft kiss to his tip.
Connie watches your plump lips push out in order for you to properly wrap them completely around it so that you're able to suckle out his leaking pre as if his dick was a straw. His eyes grow heavy. You hear his voice in your head, 'Ain't nothin' to apologize for . . Jus' work on it for me.' You keep your gaze locked steadfast on his as you slowly push an inch deeper inside your mouth.
No sounds from him yet. No words. Just . . a scarily intense amount of focus. He slowly brings his bottom lip beneath his teeth, watching you add in another and another.
When you hit six is when he sees it.
Your eyebrows furrow in, nose wrinkles, and your back caves in as you suddenly cough then pull back. "Mmmm . . almost." He's smirking while suddenly palming the back of your head to pull you right back. "Casi, mama. Casi. One more time."
He slowly feeds his cock right back inside your mouth. He hears you whimper around it as he keeps his hand at your head, pushing you lower and lower. When you gag again, he's right there, keeping you down while wrapping his hand around your throat. "Hazme sentir orgulloso," he's mumbling as if he's straining himself to push in deeper. "Lemme see it . . lemme watch my baby swallow my shit, huh?"
You cough, Connie disregards it. He pulls you only halfway off before both his hands, the one at your head and the one at your throat, are pulling you back in. "Yeah . ." He makes a nice rhythm, pulling and pushing, listening to you gag as his jaw falls open at the feel of your warm, little mouth. Your tongue works at the underside, obscenely swirling and slurping as you try your best to keep your cheeks sucked in tight. Spit begins to pool within the corners of your lips. It trickles down your chin as he plants his feet flat to really dig himself in deep. "Fuck, relax your throat . . Y-Yeah . . There you go. Qué niña tan inteligente, hm?"
His tone, dark and heavy, teeters the line of sweet condescension. It makes your pussy pulse and work out a glob of slick that runs straight down your clit to drip between your legs upon his sheets.
It's so good. Letting him stroke his dick in and out of your throat, even while occasionally choking on it, feels so good. Your spit thickens into strings of foam once he lets you go, grabs your hand and makes you wrap it around his base. He doesn't have to say it because you can feel it radiating off of him, Show me what you can do. You're not the most experienced, but what you lack in it is made up entirely in your effort.
Connie watches you pull him out and smack his dripping wet shaft on your lips while panting. He loves that shit. He loves it even more when you loll your tongue out to bounce his tip off of it, over and over. Your eyes are heavy as you stare up at him. You're high off the musk of him. His taste is potent enough to linger at the back of your throat, minutes after having swallowed his precum into your stomach. When you start to stroke him, you use both hands, circling them in opposite directions while focusing on the tip — just the tip. you dig your tongue into the little hole of it while massaging it against the bumpy roof of your mouth.
One of Connie's eyes squint closed as he slowly breathes out a shaky breath, ". . S-Shit . ." His voice is strained thin yet deep. "Just like that, baby. Just like that."
Saliva squishes beneath the spaces of your fingers. You feel them, his balls, gently swaying as you tug at his cock, needy for his cum to be swallowed into your throat. You pop him out of your mouth with a cute sniffle and gasp to get your tongue on them. They're fat enough to only fit in your mouth, one by one so it leaves the left one to receive your care first. You tongue and kiss at it if it were Connie's lips, sweet and messy, feeling his hand at the back of your head to keep you there. "Keep strokin' . . keep pumpin' that fuckin' fist."
You swirl it up and down his length, feeling his hand wrap around yours to coach you through it. He shows you how he likes it — grip tight, extra love at the tip from your thumb. When you switch over to the right, he tells you so, "Love that shit," he utters, words panted out. "Y . . Your tongue, mama. Love it right there."
You purr out a darling sound of happiness.
His eyes drag over your face slow. Taking in what he can see which is only really your nose and eyes. Your pupils are blown wide, you stare back up at him like you love it, too. His balls in your mouth, his dick in your hand, dripping pre down your pretty nails. ". . Ungh, shit." His eyes roll back as his head falls rearward. He's about to cum. You're about to make him cum. Fuck. He thinks about this being regular . . . your pussy wrapped around his fingers, his dick in your throat. Winding down after a show, before a show. He thinks about the soft cheeks of your ass gripped between his fingers, your skin under his teeth, tongue in his mouth . . You both in Greece somewhere, island hopping in Santorini, feeding you strawberries, pumping your stomach full of load after load in a bungalow surrounded by the ocean.
He's pulling you back forward to feed his dick back inside yours.
"S-Stay still," he mumbles quickly. He pumps his fist up and down his shaft, feeling your lips wrap around his tip and you sit there . . waiting for it. "Qué buena tú ere," he huffs. "So good. You so fuckin' good, mama, fuck."
His dick throbs when he cums. It pumps out . . . glob after glob into the warm hollow of your mouth, forcing you to swallow in fear of letting a single drip trickle past your lips. And the face he makes . . .
Every single feature of his goes entirely lax as he groans out a slow, slurred curse that mixes with the syllables of your name. He watches you slowly swallow it before you pull off with an adorable popping sound of your lips. You watch his dick bob in the air, heavy and still hard, rushing with blood at knowing what lies between your thighs. It's while you're blushing and shyly smiling, staring at it as if you've been struck by an arrow from cupid when you squeeze it before murmuring, "I wanna do it again."
Hell no.
Connie's bending at his waist, grabbing you by the face and pushing his tongue inside your mouth. "Nah, nah, nah." He's smiling as your tongue traces over the diamonds sparkling in his mouth while pushing you back until you fall back onto the bed. "We'll worry about that another time, pretty."
"But—"
He's shaking his head, leaning over you with his hands pressed upon the mattress on either side of your head. The moonlight cuts across the bulging slopes of his shoulder muscles as he hovers there, close enough so that you can feel the warmth of his skin radiating onto your own. He makes sure you're listening when he quietly says, "—When I tell you some'n, you need to listen, alright?"
You're looking away again, pouting, as you poke your fingers into his skin like you almost want to say no. Connie's waiting for it, anticipating it actually because he's always been able to tell that underneath your timidity reads a wretched, little pup that just wants to test how far she can stretch her leash.
His mouth twitches.
"See. There you go."
You blink up to gaze at him beneath your dark and fluffy lashes, " 'm not doin' anything."
"Mm." With the tip of his cock, he runs it along your soft, fat folds. He watches your mouth fall the slightest bit open as he nudges at your clit with it, swirling it around like he did with his finger. "You get quiet sometimes . . start lookin' away . . try to talk back. I seen you do it to your manager, too."
You whimper when he nudges at your entrance. The crown of his dick is fat enough to already stretch you open and he's barely even given you an inch. You anticipate the rest, needy for it as you bite your lip and look down at his hand that holds his base steady. "It's cute," he mumbles, forcing your eyes back up to his. ". . . But you still need to listen . . You understand me?"
Thoughtlessly, you're nodding while tossing your arms over his shoulders. You just want it. You need him.
"Okay," your legs are moving to wrap around and pull him in closer. "Yeah."
Connie reads straight through it. As much as he doesn't want to, he keeps his dick away from even touching your drippy, little cunt when he says, "Yeah what?"
There it is.
You breathe out a long, wounded whine, throw your head back into the sheets, eyebrows furrow in tight — God, the dramatics. "Yes, I u-understand."
The words come out of you as if they'd been reluctantly dragged from the depths of your pretty soul. Connie's jaw clicks.
You may actually be worse than he thought.
No need to worry though. The blood rushing beneath both of your veins is hot. He's aching for you, you're aching for him. He'll give you a pass this time. But after muttering, "Yeah, we gon' work on fixin' yo' attitude another day, too," beneath his breath, he's pushing his cock within the welcoming walls of your pussy.
You hiccup on your next inhale — sounds like the wind's literally been knocked out of you as he works himself in slow, inch by inch, with his forearms beneath your head, acting as a makeshift pillow to keep you comfortable and lift your face closer to his so that his eyes can drink in your face morphing into one of slight plain.
He's smirking when he whispers, "Tá grande, eh?"
You nod as if you understand, hand flat against his abdomen. You don't push at him but the mere action is enough to piss him off. Patiently, he moves your arm away, not needing the obtrusion from keeping him pushing deep inside or blocking the view of your warm, soft walls literally sucking him in. But, then you're back and you're weakly shoving at him this time and tenderly babbling, "C-Connie . . 's e-enough. N-No more, okay?"
He looks down to gauge your progress. Five inches.
"Nah, you got a little more ways to go, mami."
Impossible. It feels like he's already in your tummy. You shake your head, pushing at him again. "Connie, noo—"
Grabbing you by that same arm, he lifts one of his hands, with your wrist inside of it, to gather your other and pin them both against your stomach. "Lo hacemos caber, 's what you said. So we gon' make it fit." He doesn't need the whining and crying and pleads. One more thrust in and he's buried so deep inside you that he feels something inside absolutely gush out the minute he does. You squeak and he blows out a slow, deep breath while looking down at the picture of your folds split so wide apart that your clit is poking out now, hard and blatant. "Mhmmm."
He watches your eyes grow heavy. He must have hit a button inside you to make your brain shut off because now, you're quiet . . only hiccuping, sucking in shaky breaths, and mewling his name. "You okay," he mumbles with a kiss to your lips. "Shhh . . tranquila, there you go."
He works you open with slow, careful strokes — pulling his hips back then pushing them back forward as if he has all the time in the world. Each push inside has his dick only pulling out more wet than before. You feel so . . . fucking . . good. Connie wouldn't have thought you would — not like this. Words are unable to describe how truly heavenly it feels to have the tight, grooved confines of your pussy working at his dick like this. Molding, kneading, and gripping at it.
"O-Ohh, shit," you quiveringly whimper. You hear it — the faint sounds of your juices trickling out around his shaft as he faithfully begins to thrust. He still has your wrists in his hands though they're unmoving. You feel as though you've been rendered immobile from the sudden onslaught of pleasure that's taken your brain in capture. "Con— . . Fuck . . . Mhmmmm."
When you begin to nod, Connie does too. He lets your wrists go to slip his arms back beneath your head, "Mhmmm," he mimics softly. "What I say?"
Your clit rubs against the faint, coarse mat of his pubes in only the most delicious way. You feel like your head is spinning. You can't respond.
"Lemme stretch this shit out," he mumbles, pulling further back to add more weight within the next thrust. "Jus' lay here and take it. Lemme make this pussy mine, mm?"
Your eyes tightly close as you listen to your skin begin to smack. You want him to. You need him to, you just can't say it because your tongue somehow feels too big for your mouth. Thankfully, Connie seems to understand your nonsensical babbles because after another kiss, this one upon the bridge of your nose where your birthmark stretches across, he lifts himself up on the flats of his palms to start to beat your pussy sore. You fight to keep your legs open, fight to keep from squirting too much of your slick on him, but it's proven one of the most challenging instances of your life when he bends one of them further back into your shoulder to dig in deep.
Tears gloss over your eyes.
You'd have think he was stirring your gspot into battered mush. It's overstimulating in the most weirdest way — you're at a threshold of so much pain and pleasure that you don't know what to do.
A dollop of his spit is cool against your clit once he lets it drip past his lips and onto it which he then uses to rub with his thumb, "You gotta lemme make you feel good, mama," he utters beneath your pitiful sobs and blubbering. "The only way me and you gon' work . . . gotta let me do this."
"O-Okay," you're hiccuping against, sounding absolutely precious as you grip at the sheets beneath you. " 's j-jus' so . . deep, Daddy."
He nods as though he understands, eyebrows pinched in sympathy, "I know, baby . . You takin' it so fuckin' good, though."
It's so loud . . . the skin smacking, the build up of your cream as he churns your slick into goo, you keening out his name. Connie could give less of a fuck about the world outside of you both. Nothing but you matter. Nothing but you and this perfect fucking pussy you have between your legs matter. He pushes his chain out of the way to shove your shirt up and grab a handful of your plump, bouncing tit.
"Hngg — God — Fuck . . please."
Each drag of his dick inside the weeping walls of your pussy is relentless. Pleasure sparks at every nerve of your body as you dig your nails into the skin at his sides, feeling the muscle beneath his skin crest. Everything about him is dizzyingly attractive. "S-So han'some," you slur, unable to help rubbing your hand down the side of his face. You watch his eyes grow sharper as he turns it into your palm to press a kiss against your wrist.
"Mmm, thank you, mama," he groans, burying your scent within his nose. "Y-You so sweet. S-So fuckin' sexy, too."
He refuses to pull out when he wants to change positions. He lowers down, rolls over onto his back and pulls you on top to grab you by the soft, fleshy skin of your ass cheeks to force you to rock your pussy up and down the length of his cock. Oh. He likes this view. You're unable to hide your face away as you keep your hands on his pecs for balance as you let him bounce you as if you weighed nothing but a mere pound.
The skin at the bottom of your thighs tremble with each slap of them against the tops of his own. You feel your ass ricochetting off of his pelvis as your chain swings against his chest. "Pussy's so fuckin' good," Connie growls, lifting you high to slam you back down until you're cutely squeaking with every one. "Look at you . . creamin' on my shit, ma."
You're dangerous. Connie doesn't think you know what you've just done . . . just what you've unleashed inside of him. A man so entirely enraptured with you, that when the thought creeps in, quiet and unwelcomed, of this not working out, he doesn't think he'll be able to go back to normal. His jaw tightens at the mere idea of it. Because Connie's always been good at control – at keeping people within the respectful boundaries of his life, close or far, forgettable and not.
But you . . . you've somehow slipped past his usual lines.
Slow at first. Some glances here, a small smile there, maybe even a wave if you were feeling bold that day.
And now you're here, teary faced and doe eyed, getting your pussy plowed from the bottom by him as you look down at him like he's hung the exact moon tonight in the sky, like he's something bigger than what the world already sees him as, looking at him like he matters so fucking much to you.
How easily you can break him if you choose to . . . and you don't even know it.
His jaw clenches again. His balls draw up tight. He feels you. " 'm cumming, Daddy," you mewl. God, he hopes this is forever.
"Córrete, por favor," he grunts, feeling himself creep closer to that edge for the second time tonight. He needs you to cum. "Please, mami. Do it. Squirt on this shit."
Cream is packed at his base. It sticks to your pussy in thick webs as he forces you to rise and fall on his length until you're there — you're squirting out a sweet, messy stream of liquid that leaves your body with an audible hiss. Connie's not far off when he sees it. Your body shaking on top of his, mouth opened, mind gone. He lets you fall down on his dick with a loud plop as he forces you to keep still when he starts to pump thick, white ropes of his cum deep past the tiny hole of your cervix. "Hng, shit," he groans, forcing you back up . . only to slam you back down again. "Fuck, mama." Again. And again.
You press your hand against his forearm, silently telling him that you've reached your limit.
Your cunt feels like it's been beaten sore. Your make up is completely fucked and you're mentally exhausted. You collapse on top of him and bury your face into his neck with a weepy hiccup. "N-No more."
Connie's catching his breath, feeling the mess of cum beginning to slowly dry between the both of your legs. He doesn't think he have it in him to move you or even move himself. "Okay," he whispers with a kiss to your cheek. "Alright . . . try to close your eyes."
You do. With enough slow rubs to your back and kisses on your shoulder, you slowly fade off into a world of dreams, content within his arms.
ׅ ❤︎
It's in the morning, near eleven am when the both of you power back on your phones.
You nibble at your thumbnail, dressed in one of his hoodies with sleep still swollen in your eyes and standing within the middle of his living area as you scroll through the thousands of notifications that have piled upon your screen. DMs, comments, likes, and shares. You're surprised to open up the comment section on a four pic grid of the infamous paparazzi pictures, climbing with nearly one million likes to see 'fork found in kitchen' 'hope they have 36 babies on you losers' 'somebody hack his icloud and leak the tape.'
There's a few bad ones sure, claiming you slept your way up to the top to be at this point in your career and now hand in hand with Connie Springer . . . but it's easy for you to ignore upon looking up to see a familiar set of stormy hazel eyes already staring at you from the kitchen, waiting for you to power it back off, drop it in his hand, and fall into his embrace.
i’ve managed to write another character && fall absolutely head over heels for him . yay .
Idk sometimes I imagine ony as a que dog or like in some kind of fraternity
𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐆 𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐍*𝐆𝐆𝐀
𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑏𝑜𝑦.ᐟ𝑂𝑛𝑦 𝑥 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑓𝑒𝑚 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟
You always said you’d never touch a frat boy. Especially not no Que Dog “I’m not with that bark-bark, strolling while oiled-up mess,” you’d swear to your friends every time they’d ogle over Ony. “And I’m definitely not touching everybody‘s man Onyankopon of all people” you lied right through your grills.
Cuz Ony didn’t walk around campus like a boy desperate for attention. He was your age but he gave grown, manly: wide shoulders, thick biceps,perfect smile, timberlands loud during step practice, that deep-ass baritone laugh you could hear halfway across the yard.
And it damn sure didn’t help that he always caught you looking,making him grin when you’s snap your head away. Didn’t help that he made it his personal mission to see how long you’d hold eye contact before folding. And folding you very much did.
Your eyes stayed shut tight, your teeth catching your bottom lip as you held onto Ony’s firm thighs, trying to steady your breath to stop your moans from escaping. He licked his lips, a smug little smile pulling at them as he gently took your face in his hand “Cmon, ma” he murmured against your ear “open those eyes”
Slowly, you let them lift, adjusting to the bold, intimate scene reflected back at you in the full-length mirror. Ony held your legs open, your back against his tattooed chest and his chin resting on your shoulder, admiring your slutty exposed reflection “how pretty hm?” He grinned, lifting you up before lowering you down on his cock, squelching sound of your pussy resonating in the bedroom “Fuck-Ony!” You breathed out at the sudden movement, legs threatening to close but he easily held them open. You watch through teary eyes his ridiculously thick dick disappear inside your dripping, the sight so fucking nasty it only made you wetter and it didn’t help that Ony was staring at you so intensely with a grin plastered on his face.
“Hmm-fell so fuckin’ good” he groaned when you tightened around him, acrylics tracing the branding on his shoulder in a desperate attempt to steady yourself “you like gettin fucked by a frat boy?” He questioned, speeding up the pace, knowing he could get you to say whatever when you were this cock drunk.
“Yes! Yes Ony-fuck!”you cried, too fucked out to care about the stupid point he was trying to prove right now.
gojo stared intently through the glass panes encasing your office like you were some obscure painting with meaning only a scholar could understand. manilla file crumpling under freshly bitten nails. sure he’d been to art exhibits, in depth explanations about the mona lisa in the louvre but nothing made zero sense yet was so clear like you.
your father owned a publication company and often had you featured on shoots. eventually you’d fallen in love with his magazine branch, creating layouts that would entice readers helping stylists and seamstresses create what belonged on the centre page.
fortunately for gojo his father wanted to expand whatever business he had towards the fashion space. originally he wanted someone that was actually interested in fashion to be a part of his small operation but satoru was just too eager to go. and why wouldn’t dear old dad listen to his golden child’s wants— and giving his own employees a break from the white haired terrorist.
sukuna approaches with the same smirk always present when he catches his oh so nervous friend on his way to your office. he never understood why, i mean somehow the ‘king of the frat’ persona disintegrated whenever your name was breathed or he caught the slightest glimpse of you.
what he didn’t know that gojo became the very weirdo that the two of them hated. a higuruma or a nanami. a nerd.
no he wasn’t reading fashion books so he could have something to relate to you with. it was like he was fifteen again except he was a grown ass man with a horrible infatuation.
the first time gojo heard of you he searched everywhere for any shoots your face was on and ripped out the page hiding his collection in some scared shoe box. learned the names and faces of all your ex’s and swore he’d make sure they never neared you again.
scribbling their pictures out like it actually affected them but it made him feel like he did something. like he was saving you. in reality he looked crazy muttering things that could pass for incantations as he ripped up the blonde standing next to you.
when his father miraculously had ties with you and your father he couldn’t let you go.
getting the job was easy because nepotism?
but keeping it was taking effort he’d never used before. you didn’t drink coffee so there was no runs to a cafe across the street. he’d have to walk to some specific ass place with your specific ass order and get back all within some timeframe that only you were privy to.
if he came in the middle of a meeting you’d get angry and not speak to him for the rest of the day last time that happened he refused to leave your side whether you spared him a glance or not.
he sat across from you making jokes that were so unfunny they forced you to crack a smile. he stood next to you nudging your side until you stepped away from him or the very rare occasion that you followed suit.
in short gojo became the most persistent person you knew, but weirdly the most encouraging?
—
the first time he was convinced he wasn’t a parasocial loser is when you had some fancy dinner with your father and investors. he sat before you as he always did picking up and playing with everything he could no matter the material or the price tag.
his eyes tracked you standing in front of the gold rimmed mirror your hands readjusting everywhere you could, the hem and straps the sides that didn’t move no matter how much you picked at them.
your skin glowed against the warm lights above the lip gloss you had on catching it. “stress gives you wrinkles.” he chimes pen twisting between his fingers. your eyes shift from the mirror to him in a stupidly nice looking suit and a tie that somehow matched his eyes; he leaned back in the chair watching your mouth open to speak but only a deep sigh comes out.
“can’t take a joke?”
“no i can’t mess this up.”
“well your the smartest person i know” he pauses lips curving upwards, “which is saying something because i’m like a child genius.” he rushes out bracing himself for something physical or verbal to hit him. “your need to make everything about you always ruins every moment.”
“so this was a moment?” he teases finally dropping the pen and resting his head on his palm.
“you wish.”
but when he saw you getting stressed at the dinner his pinky met yours underneath the table. and in the car back but who’s counting.
—
“sure she’s a pretty piece of ass but i just don’t get why you’re so worked up over her.” gojo has to tear his eyes off you to respond. “she’s not a piece of ass don't say that. she’s.. amazing.” sukuna stares at the love stuck man with mix of pity and disgust.
“can’t tell if you’re the campus’s favourite alcoholic suddenly reformed or if you’re some weird sensitive ass clone.”
“fuck are you talking about?” gojo questions eyes narrowing at his friend.
“look around bro, there’s models everywhere. no point begging to score with the one that only cares about the job.”
“bro i—”
“and you of all people becoming all feminist? all ‘don’t call her that’ do you hear yourself? you’re not a changed man because you stepped into a suit and tie. remember that.”
“i—”
sukuna give him one last pat on the back before sauntering away.
and you sat oblivious to the worry outside your eyes stay glued to the monitor reading another email along the lines of a models complaint of another stealing a dressing room. “satoru.” you call and that stops him from starting another childish fight with sukuna and disturbing the whole office. he walks quickly to the transparent door accidently dropping his folder trying to grab the handle. you turn your face and smooth your hair trying not to make him more embarrassed than he was.
“stella and kasey.” you start his voice is small when he returns a “yes?” hesitating before stepping closer to your desk. “im sure you’ve been acquainted with them. it’d be good if you could fix whatever issues they have between them.
“i can, i will.” he breathes. “good.” you pause.
you weren’t supposed to be interested in where he came from and you didn’t care. but it'd be a lie if him being a millionaires child set up for life then coming to work for a fashion magazine when he barely knew anything about fashion— you were pretty sure a girlfriend maybe even his mother was dressing him— didn’t peak your interest “i’m curious as to why you wanted this job? i highly doubt your into fashion or magazine in general.” you pause, “what is it that you want satoru?”
the first thing that came to mind to say was you but he obviously couldn't say that he saw you on one of the covers and that night and did the most research he's ever done on anything before. he’d probably be fired from the magazine for being a creep, meaning away from you and he didn’t even want to think off the bullshit his dad would have for him.
“wanted to venture into a new space.” that was a lie; he couldn’t care less about fashion hell all he knew was polo shorts and kaki’s because clothes had nothing to do with status, money had the final say. which meant he had to adjust heavily to the glamour that was the first stage of acceptance in the company. “don’t believe you but i don't care, file.”
“r-right, the models not available for the new years shoot.” he hands the file over brief contact sending adrenaline throughout him. “stop staring into the distance this is half my call sheet.” he scans your frame as if the answers lie within the stiches. plus looking at you wouldn’t hurt. “god gojo have you ever been given a job?” his brows furrow your tone a stark contrast to the praise he was used to receiving from peers as well as adults back home. he looks as if he’s barely registering what you’ve said and your voice raises. “have you ever done it well?”
he blinks caught off guard by the straightforward questions. were they rhetorical? would you scream at him if he answered?— would you scream at him if he didn’t?
“and there’s no reasons how can i approve absences with no reasons— nevermind i’ll get a different assistant because mine clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing.” he stands straighter hands darting out as if that’s any consolation blurting, “no!.. i mean i’ll stay back its my job.”
“you? stay back?” your eyes were practically puncturing into his. “i wanna do good for you— my job. and you..” he clears his throat now looking at everything but you.
just kill me already
“you can uh.. go now.”
later that evening you saw him sat at his desk office phone in hand and what looked like multiple calls left “gojo.” you hummed stopping beside his chair. his eyes dart up only to fall back on the sheets in front of him. “do you want help?” you offer lightly moving the papers for a clearer view. he shakes his head quickly thinking if he takes to hard path you'll like him more. “its not a test i’m offering.”
after you give him a small genuine smile he finally agrees, only planning to stay a small while you sit on the edge of the desk. he doesn’t move at the action but you hear the slowing of his breaths, could see his hand holding the phone tighter. that continues through out the whole interaction, you’d ask something and he’d just give short incoherent responses or him refusing to look at you but if he did he wouldn't stop.
“what is it.” you sigh voice soft and in his mind inviting. satoru stays silent internally weighing his chances of getting fired for what he’s about to do. regardless he leans up to press hesitant but somehow rushed kiss to your lips. your eyes instinctively fall and you try to force them open anything to stop yourself from melting into the stupid kiss, into him.
when you reluctantly break away he looks up at you with familiar nervousness in his eyes—which didn't even share a fraction of the panic he housed—the same nervousness you caught when he stared into your side profile thinking you weren’t watching. the nervousness that followed every word he spoke to you making him second guess everything even though he knew it to be true.
you didn’t say anything even though he waited for what felt like hours no spoken saviour came to shield him from the embarrassment. he whispers a small “fuck.” before crushing all the papers into his bag and rushing to the exit.
“satoru,” you call voice no longer carrying the light tone it once had. instead something craving and breathy.
he stops. he didn't want to but who was he if not yours. he didn't look back not yet what if he saw pity in your eyes.
he's satoru gojo no one has or will pity him. fuck he was meant to be ontop of things, maybe coming here was stupid an—
“come back.” he follows your as soon as the honeyed words fall from your lips, not taking anytime to drop the bag and make his way back. his eyes become shielded as your perfume invades his sense making every little action surreal.
your fingertips lightly guide a timid gojo's face to yours. he takes deep unbelieving breaths every time your lips meet. now leaning closer—pushing closer with sheer desperation and dropping each hand to your sides as an act of protection.
god he was going to die.
that was the start of side glances gojo couldn’t explain to anyone and late night finishing touches happening more often. his heart hammered each time but he couldn’t help wanting more so that he didn't feel like a kid with a hallway crush.
—
in five minutes anthony beaumont became gojo’s sworn enemy. the way he stared at you like he had a chance. well he didn’t because your picked the guy with pretty blue eyes right. right?
“mr beaumont lovely to see you.” you smiled, practiced, because you’d done this a million times before. so the small tilt of your head that came when he asked a question meant nothing. as did the sound of playful laughter you directed into your palm when he leant in to say whatever bullshit he had in mind.
it all meant nothing. but why was that nothing building in gojo’s chest and worsening his self doubt. why did it discourage him from walking over there and making a scene like he usually did.
he couldn’t handle it but tearing his eyes from you was impossible let alone forcing his body to turn away from a conversation he wasn’t even a part of. so he stood. silent. angry.
glaring.
he whispers a half assed joke into your hair, one that shouldn’t have got the response it did. that shy laugh that becomes a downturned smile. it was his meant to be reserved for satoru only and there it went presented to an undeserving asshole. you didn’t even look at him refusing to stop networking, no wordless reassurance like a small smile or even mouthing a small hi and waving.
he stalks over, regardless of age still taller than you and beaumont. “toru.” you smile holding his fore arm and bringing him closer. maybe the alcohol made you forget about all the secrecy but he wasn’t complaining. the anger that carried him over was slowly fleeting at the warm touches but the scowl on his face was still present.
“the assistant right?” he questions. the dismissive words pool in his head. is that what you’d called him? is that all he was? “fuck is that supposed to mean.” his fists were already clenching ready to meet that ‘perfect’ face. you roll your eyes at the outburst setting down the champagne flute and pressing a soft hand to his chest. “excuse us anthony, apparently he doesn’t know his job title.”
the two of you walk into your office; you barely make it over the armrest legs dangling over the side. “are you kidding me?!” satoru shouts standing over you all while making sure you’re sitting properly and the glass was on privacy mode. his features wrung with anger.
“please toru im pretty sure the room is like spinning.” he dismisses your words volume still increased. “secret doesn’t mean you can’t tell him to fuck off!”
“and lose my dad’s investors yeah right.” letting out accidental snort he watches you laugh at your own actions.
“he’s not even funny,” he sighs dragging a hand down his face veins becoming distinct with each flex. “all my dog jumped in the pool, no one even cares about his stupid dog!”
“hey i like dogs.” you whine, wide smile on your face oblivious to the torment on his.
“no you like me!” he thundered. his distorted and pleading voice takes you out of your dizzy state. he took a liking the deceitfulness of the relationship, sneaking into the store rooms then planning your separate escapes, memorising your face every time the two of you indulged in each other then acting like he didn’t even remember the colour of your shirt— it was pink something you'd picked out with him on facetime but i digress.
but at the same time he’s filled with disgust every time he sees you having anything to do with another guy. because they didn’t get how you practically tired your self out when you spoke about things with passion or your weird love for extinct animals he’d never even heard of. but he got it. you.
sure he was jealous guy but he trusted you. and now every conflicting feeling was pushing him to his limits.
without his consent one tear then another trickles down his face, it doesn’t help that you look at him with those big eyes filled with pity. “aw toru.” you coo the sight bringing a small pout to your face. your tone ran cloying melting the wall he was trying to build between the two of you.
he steps back as you stand hiding his face in his elbow as if it’ll stop the overwhelming feeling. you take his hands in yours swinging them as you wait for him to finally look at you. “‘m not a baby stop it.” he sniffles staring down at your manicured fingers in his.. well not so taken care of hands. “thought you were my baby.” you sing peering through his shelter.
he can't help the boyish grin adorning his face before he quickly squints it into an attempt at an expressionless one.
muffled music and laughter thrums at the door but the two of you stay swaying to no beat in the office space. “me having conversations with people is always going to happen. doesn't mean that my feelings suddenly disappear.” a frown flickers on his face as his thumbs rub small circles on your hands. he gives a lacklustre mhm.
“plus, you were right he is so boring compared to you.” you add giving him a lopsided grin of your own cocking your head slightly, and as he returns the gesture with a dimpled smile the two of you burst out in laughter. “im just always right what can i say.”
Bruce lifted you effortlessly, his strength undeniable as he deposited you onto the cool sheets of the bed. Clark was there immediately, hovering over you while Bruce stripped off the rest of your clothes with efficient, hungry movements. When you were finally bare before them, the intensity in their eyes was enough to burn.
Bruce settled between your thighs, pushing them open with a firm grip. He didn't give you a moment to adjust before he lowered his head, his tongue dragging through your wet folds in a long, slow stripe. You cried out, your back arching off the mattress, your hands fisting in the sheets.
Clark moved up the bed, framing your face with his large body. He captured your wrists gently, pinning them above your head against the pillows.
"Let him taste you," Clark commanded, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with power. "Just relax and feel it."
Bruce groaned against your core, the sound vibrating through you as he devoured you. His tongue circled your clit with precision, alternating between soft flicks and hard suction that had your toes curling. He pushed two thick fingers inside you, curling them expertly to find that spot that made you see stars.
"You taste incredible," Bruce rasped, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in, fucking you with his fingers in deep, rhythmic thrusts that matched the pace of his tongue.
The coil of tension in your stomach tightened rapidly, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Clark watched you with dark eyes, leaning down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as Bruce brought you closer and closer to the edge.
"That's it," Clark murmured against your mouth. "Let go for him."
With a harsh cry, your body seized as the orgasm tore through you, waves of pleasure crashing over you. Bruce didn't stop, working you through it until you were trembling and oversensitive.
Before you could fully catch your breath, Bruce moved up your body, shedding his own clothes in seconds. His skin was hot against yours, his cock hard and heavy as he lined himself up with your entrance. He pushed in with a guttural groan, stretching you open inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt.
"God, you're tight," Bruce ground out, his forehead resting against yours. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size, before he began to move.
He set a punishing pace, driving into you with deep, powerful thrusts that rocked the entire bed. Every snap of his hips punched a gasp from your lungs, the friction overwhelming.
Clark watched for a moment, his hand stroking his own length as he observed Bruce taking you apart. Then, he shifted closer to your head. "Turn your head," he ordered softly.
You turned, eyes bleary with pleasure, and Clark guided the head of his cock to your lips. You opened eagerly, taking him into your mouth. He groaned, his hips shifting forward to slide deeper, hitting the back of your throat.
The dual sensation was overwhelming—Bruce pounding into you with ruthless precision while Clark filled your mouth, his hand tangling in your hair to guide your movements. The room filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin and muffled moans.
Bruce reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again and rubbing tight circles. The added stimulation sent you spiraling toward the edge again. Your eyes rolled back, your body clamping down around Bruce as another orgasm built, fast and intense.
"I'm close," Bruce grunted, his rhythm faltering slightly as he chased his own release. "Come with me, y/n."
Clark pulled back slightly to let you breathe, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Let go," he urged.
With a final, deep thrust, Bruce buried himself inside you, his body going taut as he spilled into you. The feeling pushed you over the edge, your vision whiting out as you clenched around him, riding out the waves of your climax. Bruce collapsed against you, his chest heaving, pressing you into the mattress.
Clark moved beside you, stroking your hair as you came down, his eyes heavy with desire but patient. "Good girl," he whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to your sweating forehead. "We're not done with you yet."
Idk sometimes I imagine ony as a que dog or like in some kind of fraternity
𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐆 𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐍*𝐆𝐆𝐀
𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑏𝑜𝑦.ᐟ𝑂𝑛𝑦 𝑥 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑓𝑒𝑚 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟
You always said you’d never touch a frat boy. Especially not no Que Dog “I’m not with that bark-bark, strolling while oiled-up mess,” you’d swear to your friends every time they’d ogle over Ony. “And I’m definitely not touching everybody‘s man Onyankopon of all people” you lied right through your grills.
Cuz Ony didn’t walk around campus like a boy desperate for attention. He was your age but he gave grown, manly: wide shoulders, thick biceps,perfect smile, timberlands loud during step practice, that deep-ass baritone laugh you could hear halfway across the yard.
And it damn sure didn’t help that he always caught you looking,making him grin when you’s snap your head away. Didn’t help that he made it his personal mission to see how long you’d hold eye contact before folding. And folding you very much did.
Your eyes stayed shut tight, your teeth catching your bottom lip as you held onto Ony’s firm thighs, trying to steady your breath to stop your moans from escaping. He licked his lips, a smug little smile pulling at them as he gently took your face in his hand “Cmon, ma” he murmured against your ear “open those eyes”
Slowly, you let them lift, adjusting to the bold, intimate scene reflected back at you in the full-length mirror. Ony held your legs open, your back against his tattooed chest and his chin resting on your shoulder, admiring your slutty exposed reflection “how pretty hm?” He grinned, lifting you up before lowering you down on his cock, squelching sound of your pussy resonating in the bedroom “Fuck-Ony!” You breathed out at the sudden movement, legs threatening to close but he easily held them open. You watch through teary eyes his ridiculously thick dick disappear inside your dripping, the sight so fucking nasty it only made you wetter and it didn’t help that Ony was staring at you so intensely with a grin plastered on his face.
“Hmm-fell so fuckin’ good” he groaned when you tightened around him, acrylics tracing the branding on his shoulder in a desperate attempt to steady yourself “you like gettin fucked by a frat boy?” He questioned, speeding up the pace, knowing he could get you to say whatever when you were this cock drunk.
“Yes! Yes Ony-fuck!”you cried, too fucked out to care about the stupid point he was trying to prove right now.
˖ ࣪૮₍ 𝓝.𝐄𝐑𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 & 𝓑.𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𓂃 ⭒ are twins that you're fucking. . . and you're embarrassed that you thought they were the same person
⤿ ꒰ after fucking satoshi, you realise that you've been awful to satoru for no reason and try to apologise :: college au :: smut :: named twin :: m.masturbation :: f.masturbation :: fingering :: dumbification :: semi-public sex :: jealousy/possessiveness ꒱
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ has never wanted to break his brother's jaw more. the second he saw the cum-stained panties and heard that blasted engine— he knew what laid in his bed was the evidence that his brother had fucked a girl he'd started feeling something for. again. damnit. why was he even feeling anything for you? you were just his rival. just a stupid girl who wanted to challenge him all the time. who was so fucking rude just because he asked you for a pen.
he shouldn't want you. he shouldn't be feeling like this. shouldn't be scrubbing cum off of your panties until his hands were raw and drying it in his bathroom. shouldn't be tucking it away in his drawer and jerking off with it when his frustration burst. staining your panties in his cum. as if it'd fix the fact that satoshi got his dirty hands on you. as if it'd change. the brutal. fact. that his twin who always got all the girl creamed these first.
whatever. satoru would cream them more. again and again and again until he was whimpering into his pillow and limp in his sheets. and before his fluttering eyes— all he saw was you. his jaw set tight. his heart hammering. damnit.
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ on the other hand was feeling sky high. the girl he's been after all semester finally let him hit. he's never been better. it felt good to work for something for a change. especially when that something was as pretty as you. he'd taken your number that night. expecting you to text the day after. but when nothing came, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little disappointed. but he gave you a break. you were pretty embarrassed after all. . .
until one day became two and two days became four, and by the end of the week— he'd wondered if you forgot about him? about how he made you feel. how you called his name so prettily and came all over his sheets.
he noticed you were avoiding him too. keeping to yourself in class. not responding to his flirts with your adorable, angry eye rolls and the little nose curls. nothing. not even a single huff. what was he? chopped liver? he had kissed your cervix for crying out loud.
he tried to tell himself he shouldn't care. he usually didn't. he'd fuck a girl and forget about it by the next evening. but you were different. he wanted more. he thought he had you. but as he pulled up beside you, revving his bike and jerking his head to flip his visor up— grinning with a smooth, “hey stranger. give me some company?” as he patted the seat in front of him. . . you ignored him.
well, satoshi's grin widened. seemed he had to work for you even more. fuck, he hated this. and loved it even more.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ hated that you weren't talking to him anymore. you barely looked at him in class. last monday he'd known for a fact that you scored higher than him in the recent test— but you didn't even look his way. let alone shove it in his face like he was hoping you would. what? was he nothing to you now that you fucked his brother? he couldn't make sense of it. even moreso, he couldn't understand why it upset him. he missed your rivalry. missed how you made class and academics fun again. most of all, he missed how you didn't back down to his belittling. you dished it back. made him want you. and now you were just. . . gone. all because of his fuckass twin.
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ had gotten a bit tired of your games and the way you blatantly avoided him, so he made sure to utilise his greatest collection. . . videos. that he took of you when you so carelessly decided to go back to his dorm. featuring a fucked-out, glossy-eyed you taking his cock and whining on it. satoshi always did this. took videos of the girls he was with. but he rarely kept them. either forgetting about or deleting them later. yours though? he couldn't stop looking back on them. couldn't stop fisting his cock to them and remembering how your sweet cunt took him better than anyone ever did. head limped back on his couch and breathing shaky as he spurted all over his trembling fingers.
he sent one of the videos to you. with a cheeky little caption.
“ignoring me when I made you feel like this babydoll? c'mon. missing you. know you're missing me too.”
your reply was a heated voice note. telling him to delete your number. calling him a creep. but he could hear the fluster. it had him grinning. he sent one back, voice all velvet and rasped. “don't think I will. don't think my favourite girl wants me to.”
because whether he knew it or not— he was right. despite your shame, you hadn't stopped thinking about it. how good he felt inside of you. how he's the best fuck you'd ever had. the things he said to you swirled your mind on the daily.
you touched yourself to him some nights. rubbing your clit in a desperate attempt to replicate the callouses on his thumb. and you fucking hated it. because he was just some player. just some guy.
and not the guy you thought you were actually falling for.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ was in the library when you finally approached him. it's been two weeks. no banter, no jabs, not even eye contact. so he did well with keeping his stare in his book. how'd you even find him here? no one came to this corner of the library and yet, here you were. maybe if he ignored your presence enough, you'd go away.
“so. . .” you started, he could feel you fiddling. then you sighed. shoulders sagged. “look, I just wanted to apologise for being such a bitch at start semester.”
his heart fluttered.
“the day before that your brother flirted and I didn't appreciate it. the next day I saw you in class and well. . .”
then sunk.
your face flushed. “it's stupid I know, but— I thought you were both the same person. I'm sorry. I should have figured it out.”
satoru's mind was spinning. he'd spent years creating his own identity separate from his twin brother. how the fuck did you think he and that thing were the same person?
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ didn't care about how you flinched when he abruptly stood, the chair skidding behind him. with his eyes sharp and venom stuck to his tongue. he snapped.
“so what, fucking my brother put you in a good mood or something?” why was he acting like this? he wasn't sure. he didn't know why he was so angry.
actually, he did. he just didn't want to admit it.
and you, he's not sure what he expected other than your eyes growing just as cold. you were the same girl who butted heads with him in every academic suite after all. a part of him felt glad that you didn't take his shit. this felt nice. felt normal.
“what the hell, satoru? I'm just being honest. and how the hell do you even know that?”
“that's gojo to you.”
he corrected in a hiss. little did he know how familiar you were with the name. how you moaned it in pure bliss rather than his brother's.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ really shouldn't have been surprised with the banter that went on between the both of you. it was natural. your souls were like two negative poles. theory of repulsion. repulsed. he was repulsed by you. by the fact that you compared him to his brother. by the fact that you fucked that same. idiot. brother.
he's not even sure where the argument was going. only that it was pissing him off and that he almost didn't want it to stop.
he couldn't stop picking on the fact that you did it. that you actually went ahead fucked satoshi. he could see how flustered you got. how you didn't even try to deny the accusation but got all the more defensive.
but then you just had to go and say that.
“you know, since it pisses you off so bad maybe I'll just go fuck satoshi again.”
and that's. when he finally snapped.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ had more strength than people gave him credit for. you learnt that today. not because of how he gripped your jaw or shoved you into the bookshelf, knocking off a few books— but because of how his mouth crashed onto yours.
pure, unadulterated strength and even more roughness. with the way his mouth greedy clamped on yours. how your teeth meshed and your tongues tangled. the hard grip of his large hands. one firm on your waist and the other squishing your face.
if anything, he was rougher than satoshi.
wrestling your tongue and swallowing your whines. kissing you like he was trying to consume your very soul. maybe then you'd be his. his. all his. not fucking satoshi's.
you're not sure how many times he kissed you. every time he parted, it'd be for just a second before he was back at it again. swapping spit and strangling your hiccups. all you know was that when he did pull away, you were quivering. mouths webbed in stringy saliva and eyes hazed on one another.
that's when you felt it. hard and thrumming heavy on your thigh. your hips instinctively bucked up.
he grunted, squeezed your jaw tighter and pressed your head back into the shelf. “you serious right now?” he sneered. “your rival kisses you and you just what? get all soft and submissive? already tryna hump me like a bunny?”
fuck. the way that your eyes glossed over. . . he just couldn't help himself.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ can't believe he had you here now. pinned to the bookshelf with one hand clamped tight over your mouth and the other buried beneath your skirt. panties drenched and twisted to the side while two fingers messily fucked you raw. curling, and twisting, and pumping your squeezing walls.
he didn't care about making you cum. not really. all he cared about was fucking you stupid since you wanted to act like a dumb whore.
but he still did. staining your hand in his slick and forcing himself to pump faster. harder. just to see the way your knees shook and feel your slutty moans against his palm.
he was rough. clumsy. not as experienced as satoshi and it showed in the way his fingers pummelled your poor pussy into a creamy mess.
he might not have been experienced but he sure as hell studied female anatomy enough to know that his thumb was on your clit. rubbing shaky and sharp circles on the nub to send you spasming more.
satoru sneered into your face. jaw tight and eyes cold. “can't believe you're just another college slut. just like every other fuckin' girl in this place.”
his fingers sped up. wrist flicking. he curled just right on your sweet spot and rubbed the little spongy bundle of nerves into a merciless spasm.
he loved the way your eyes rolled back. how you bucked into his hand and whined. for him. this was for him. you were whining his name all muffled and moaned into his palm.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ drew his hand back to observe the sticky mess between his fingers. pulling his hand up to see the stringy cum all over his hand. webbed and musked. fuck. he was throbbing. glasses all fogged from his heavy breaths.
“the fuck is this, huh?” he grunts, hold his fingers for you to see. he slipped the hand on your mouth around your jaw again. pressed his messy middle and index fingers flat against your tongue and rubbed your cum on it.
his voice was a hissed grumble to your ear. “a few fingers and you shut right up? not so smart after all huh, sweetheart?“
and then he was burying them back into your flooding pussy all over again. he didn't care if you were shaking like a leaf. if you were overstimulated. he didn't even know what that meant.
all he cared about was making those pretty eyes flutter back. making you cum around his fingers cause he was addicted to feeling those velvety rings clench around his knuckles.
but most all? all he cared about was that it was him doing this to you.
even if he hardly knew what he was doing. that puddle between your legs? the trembling in your thighs? your pussy pulsing and sobbing all over his palm?
that was because of him. gojo fucking satoru.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ was panting himself by the time he was done. his arm was jittering and his wrist ached. but he still dragged his tongue and licked your trickling sweetness off of wrist and the back of his hand as he drew it to his mouth.
you were more than a mess. whimpering and weeping. limp on the shelves as you clung to his arms.
he felt something akin to pride.
but then you started grinding that slick, creamy cunt on his crotch. right over his bulge. hot and wet and smearing it all over his throbbing erection. his breath hitched.
your eyes were sweet and fluttery. but your whines were sweeter. you tried to humping on him. catching your clit on the curve of his hard-on to bring yourself friction. greedy girl. hadn't he finger-fucked you enough?
“please,” you whimpered. “please please please satoru, I'm sorry. just please. I need more. please fuck me.”
his breathing was thin. here you were. the girl he was obsessing over for months. begging him to fuck you in some corner of the library.
and the worst part was?
he was gonna deny you.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ felt his heart ache as you looked on the verge of tears when he pulled away with nothing but a grunt. he fixed your skirt and swiped off his stained hand on your inner thigh. “we've got studying.” he mumbled. he didn't know why he was doing this. didn't know why he was running away.
but every time you pawed at him. every time he saw that desperate look in your eye. that plea to just fuck you— he couldn't. no.
his mind starting spurring with what ifs. berates and insecurities and embarrassment because he just did that. he just fingered you in a public setting. uncoordinated and probably hopelessly clumsy.
his face was red. glasses fogged. but he wouldn't let you see that as he denied each of your advances and shuffled out of the library.
he needed a cold shower. forget that all of this happened.
forget the voice in his head telling him he'd fuck everything up if he even tried to fuck you.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ felt horrible, but now it was his turn to avoid you. he stopped talking, stopped looking, stopped interacting. and all of a sudden? you were trying to get back to normal. but for other reasons. he heard those little comments. knew that fucking beat inside of you was trying to make him snap. he couldn't take it. he almost did.
but he denied every advance you made. ignored the eyes you were giving him. the comments, the innuendos, everything.
he couldn't. he wouldn't embarrass himself like that. and you were getting frustrated.
because the guy you thought was one person. the personality you'd been falling in love with— you finally had a taste of him. you dreamt of that day in the library. how he held you. how he kissed you. how he spoke to you.
you wanted more. needed more. and when he didn't give it to you? well. . .
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ was quite surprised when he opened his dorm door one night to be greeted by your lips. greedy and hasty as your hands snatched his collar. he stumbled back, grunting and wide eyed. but his body fell into rhythm. hands gripping your waist, heel kicking the door shut.
he scooped you up by the backs of your thighs, groaned loud and wrecked into your mouth. “fuck yeah babydoll. attagirl. knew you missed me.”
as he tumbled you both into his couch. hands roaming every inch he'd been dreaming of for three weeks straight. mouth worshipping your skin in a way he never did for any other girl.
completely unaware that as his head ducked between your thighs, as his tongue lathered all over and your hands gripped tuffs of his white hair in them—
you were imagining a pair of glasses perched atop it instead.
