Hiiii can I get Plug!Ony x Black!Reader?🫶🏼
Title: “Good MF’N Gas Only”
Pairing: Plug!Onyankopon × Black!Reader
Setting: Modern AU — Ony runs a low-key, high-quality weed business
Word count : 1020
(Sand asks I’m all open)
@babykilo @5starsativa
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The knock came just after sunset—two taps, pause, one more. Ony’s code.
You sighed, tossing your bonnet off and checking the mirror before opening the door. He was already leaning on the frame, hoodie up, that slow grin tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Evenin’, Ms girl,” he said, voice smooth like smoke itself. “Got what you texted me for.”
You crossed your arms, trying not to stare at how the gold chain on his neck caught the hallway light. “You always say that like it’s a secret mission.”
“It kinda is.” He lifted the black backpack slightly. “Can’t have folks knowing where the good gas comes from.”
You rolled your eyes and stepped aside to let him in. Ony never came empty-handed; your living room always smelled like pine and citrus for hours after he left. You swore half your neighbors thought you ran a plant shop.
He kicked his sneakers off at the door, moving through your place like he owned it. “You cleaned up?” he teased, eyeing the freshly vacuumed carpet. “You expecting company?”
“Yeah—my dealer,” you shot back.
He chuckled, low and warm. “Mhm. Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll start taxin’ extra.”
You laughed, but your stomach fluttered. You hated how he did that—said something casual that made your pulse skip. He started unpacking: glass jars with neat little labels—Lemon Cherry Gelato, Zkittles, Gary Payton. Every time he opened one, a new wave of aroma filled the room.
You whistled. “You moving product or curating art?”
Ony smirked, cracking open another jar. “It’s both. See, this one—” he held it out, and you leaned in, catching the rich, fruity scent “—this my favorite. Smooth high, no crash. Perfect if you got stress.”
You raised a brow. “You say that about all of ’em.”
He grinned wider. “Nah. This one reminds me of you.”
That made you freeze for a second, heat crawling up your neck. You hid it by reaching for the jar. “So I’m fruity and potent?”
He leaned in closer, eyes dropping to your lips for half a beat. “Nah. I said smooth and hard to forget.”
You blinked at him, biting back a smile. “Boy, you tryin’ to flirt or make a sale?”
He laughed, deep and genuine, setting the jar on the table. “Can’t I do both?”
You tried to focus on rolling instead of his voice. He watched you work—his gaze steady, the faint trace of admiration he never said out loud. When you finished, he took the blunt, inspecting your handiwork like it was part of his job.
“Clean,” he said, nodding. “You been practicin’.”
You shrugged. “Can’t have you thinkin’ I’m an amateur. Besides you not always gon be around if I’m gonna smoke I gotta learn to roll kinda pitiful to always have to rely on someone to roll for me ”
“You said it, I didn’t” He lit it, took a slow pull, then passed it back. The smoke curled between you, soft and hazy, mixing with the sound of lo-fi beats from your speaker. For a while, you just sat in silence, passing it back and forth, watching the city lights blink through the window.
“You ever think about quittin’?” you asked quietly. “The hustle?”
Ony exhaled slowly, the smoke leaving his lips in a steady stream. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But folks gotta eat. And I don’t sell to just anybody—only people I trust. Keep it clean, no drama.”
You nodded, understanding. The streets had changed, but the game was still the same—everybody trying to survive however they could.
“You ever think about leavin’ all this?” he asked, tilting his head toward you.
“Yeah,” you said, a little too fast. “But every time I say I will, I end up textin’ you again.”
He smirked. “So you hooked.”
“On your product,” you corrected, though your grin gave you away.
“Mhm.” He shifted closer, his leg brushing yours. “And maybe a little on me too.”
You scoffed but didn’t move away. “You wish.”
“Maybe.” His tone softened. “But I like that you keep callin’. Most people just buy their ounce and dip. You actually talk.”
“That’s ‘cause you got therapist energy,” you joked. “Low-key weed counselor.”
He laughed again. “Ain’t nobody ever called me that before.”
“Take it as a compliment. You calm, Ony. It’s like… even when the world’s loud, you don’t let it touch you.”
He looked at you then—really looked. “That’s ‘cause I found peace in the small things,” he said quietly. “Good people. Good smoke. Good vibes.”
You felt your chest tighten a little at that. You wanted to say something back, but the words got lost in the haze. Instead, you leaned forward, reaching for the lighter again. His hand brushed yours—slow, deliberate. Neither of you pulled away.
“You good?” he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.
You nodded, though your heart was racing. “Yeah… I’m good.”
The moment hung there, suspended in smoke and silence, until he took the blunt from your fingers and placed it back between your lips, eyes locked on yours.
“Then hit that,” he murmured. “You stressin’ too much.”
You exhaled with a laugh, trying to hide your nerves. “You always tryna fix me.”
“Maybe I just like seein’ you relaxed,” he said, leaning back. “You light up better than any strain I got.”
You groaned playfully, tossing a pillow at him. “That’s corny. You corny.”
“Corny gets results,” he said, dodging easily. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
You couldn’t. You didn’t want to.
The smoke, the music, the warmth—it all blended into one slow, perfect blur. You didn’t notice when you started leaning against his shoulder, or when his arm settled around you like it belonged there.
By the time the blunt was nothing but ash, the room smelled like laughter and lavender and peace. Ony looked down at you, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“You fallin’ asleep on me?”
“Maybe,” you mumbled, eyes heavy. “You comfortable.”
He chuckled softly. “That’s ‘cause you in good hands.”
And just before you drifted off, you heard him add, low and almost tender—
“Good gas, good company. That’s all I need.”
