ibuprofein

[ibuprofein]

⭒˚‧ ︵‿⭒ 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ⭒‿︵ ‧˚⭒

𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐱 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐥. 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢—𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞.

𝐜𝐰: 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝, 𝐝𝐨𝐦/𝐬𝐮𝐛 𝐝𝐲𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐜, 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤

{ 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟓’ - 𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐱/ 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐱 }

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

the pink palace was bigger than you thought it would be, towering against the cloudy sky with its salmon painted walls and crooked balconies. it looked like something out of a children’s story. beautiful but a little solemn, with vines crawling along the porch rails and wildflowers pushing up where a lawn used to be.

“place looks like a dollhouse. ya sure you want this, doll?” toji muttered, hefting a box out of the car.

you smiled, hugging a smaller box to your chest. “it’s charming. you’ll see.”

“mm. haunted charming, maybe,” he said, side eyeing the pointed roofs. “swear, doll, if this place caves in on us—”

the front door creaked open, and a tall man stepped out, neat beige coat, pressed slacks, glasses glinting in the gray light. his face was calm in that way that was almost too calm.

“mr. and mrs. fushiguro,” he said. “nanami. your landlord.”

he handed you a ring of brass keys, heavy and worn smooth with age. when you caught them, they clinked in your palm like coins.

“unit two. second floor.” nanami explained. “the house is old. respect it, and it will respect you. don’t leave food out, don’t track mud in, and don’t go looking where you don’t belong. some doors are better left closed.”

toji adjusted his grip on the box, unimpressed. “yeah, yeah. as long as the water runs and i don’t fall through the goddamn floor.”

nanami’s mouth twitched into what you thought was maybe a frown, maybe nothing at all. “enjoy your stay.”

inside the apartment, the floors creaked like they were sighing under every step. wallpaper curled at the edges, painted in a rose pink that made your eyes ache if you stared too long. you ran your hand along the molding, charmed despite the dust.

“it’s got character,” you murmured.

“it’s got termites,” toji said, dropping a box on the couch with a thump.

you were unpacking when you found it—tucked into the living room wall, a small square door outline with a chipped key hole. odd, out of place. you pulled at it, but it wouldn’t budge.

“doll,” toji called from the couch, already sprawled like he owned the place. “don’t tell me you’re tryin to crawl into the walls.”

“just wondering what it’s for,” you said, crouching down. “it’s tiny. what could even fit in there?”

“rats. goblins. gremlins. nothin good.” he reached over to tug your ponytail. “leave it shut.”

a knock came just as you were stacking dishes in the cabinets. when you opened the door, chaos rushed in—two puppies, tails wagging wildly, paws scrambling over the floorboards.

“wait! get back here!” a boy with messy pink hair stumbled after them, nearly tripping over his own shoes.

behind him came a taller figure with dark hair tied back, eyes half lidded like he hadn’t slept in days. he strolled in holding another leash, completely unbothered.

“new neighbors,” choso said flatly.

“hi! sorry about them, they get excited,” the pink haired one named yuuji grinned, scooping one puppy into his arms. “we brought tea! and, uh… the puppies brought themselves.”

you crouched to scratch the gray pup’s ears, laughing. “they’re adorable.”

“they bite,” choso said.

“they don’t bite,” yuuji protested, hugging the pup like proof. “they’re just curious.”

toji leaned against the counter, smirking as the black puppy pawed at his shin. “looks like we moved into a damn petting zoo, doll.”

“better than silence,” you said softly, smiling back.

your neighbor upstairs you met later, on the stairwell sitting by himself. he was your age, maybe a little older, dark hair brushing his shoulders, dressed in a frayed jacket. he stopped when he saw you balancing a box, and the corners of his mouth lifted.

“so… you’re the new ones,” geto said, voice light but curious.

“that’s us,” you said, shifting the box. “just moved in.”

his gaze flicked to the ring on your finger, then back to your face. “married, huh? brave. this house eats people alive.”

before you could laugh it off, he added, “but i guess you’ve got the kind of shine it likes.”

something about the way he said it made your skin prickle. still, you nodded politely. “thanks. i think.”

toji brushed past him, carrying another box. “you’re weird, kid.”

geto only smiled wider. “yeah. i get that a lot.”

the odd man in the garden…your other neighbor, gojo.

he was out in the yard, balancing on the fence post in a striped sweater, arms stretched like a circus act. when he spotted you, he grinned ear to ear and hopped down with a dramatic bow.

“welcome, welcome! the palace has a new princess!���

“she’s a doll,” toji called from the porch.

“ahh, doll, princess, beauty—she’ll be all of it. but you”—gojo pointed at toji, while his eyes sparkled mischievously “you look like a man who doesn’t believe in ghosts.”

toji snorted. “i don’t.”

“then you’ll fit right in,” gojo sang, turning back to his garden of strange, wilting flowers.

that night when the house finally quieted, you padded through the rooms, bare feet on the creaking wood. toji was taking a nap on the couch, one arm slung over his face, soft snores filling the dark.

the little door caught your eye again. it seemed darker around the edges, like the shadows bent differently there.

you thought of the ring of keys nanami gave you crossed your mind. one with ornate teeth, a shape of a button that looked like it might just fit in the hole.

your fingers hovered at the keyhole.

behind you, toji’s voice rasped low, thick with sleep. “doll, if you open that thing and something crawls out, you’re dealin with that shit.”

you smiled faintly, whispering back, “let’s go to bed, scaredy giant.” but your eyes stayed on the door.

the next morning, light bled through the warped blinds and painted lines across the floorboards. the apartment smelled faintly of dust and old wood, mixed with the faintest trace of tea from the thermos yuuji had left yesterday.

toji was already awake, shirtless in the kitchen, fiddling with the cheap drip coffeemaker you bought in a panic while moving. his hair stuck up in the back, and he scratched at his jaw with a frown.

“thing takes forever,” he muttered when he noticed you leaning on the doorframe. “we had it easier with the shop around the corner.”

you padded over, still in your sleep shirt, tugging at his arm. “we moved here for peace, remember? no corner shops in the middle of nowhere.”

“peace,” he repeated, chuckling under his breath. “house moanin’ all night, floor tryin to eat me alive. real peaceful, doll.”

you rolled your eyes, reaching around him to grab two mugs from the half unpacked cabinet. “you complain too much.”

“yeah, but you like me like this.” he smirked down at you, brushing a hand over your hip in that casual, possessive way.

you swatted his hand off, half laughing. “i like you when you’re not impossible.”

he leaned in close, voice dropping low. “so never, then?”

the coffeemaker sputtered loudly, cutting the moment short. you poured for both of you, handing him a mug. he kissed the top of your head in thanks, and for a moment it was ordinary.

but then you caught yourself staring at him as he sipped, messy and unbothered, already checking his phone for messages he’d probably ignore anyway. you thought of nanami’s warning, of geto’s strange words, of the locked door and how it seemed to hum against the wall.

toji noticed your stare. “what?”

you shook your head. “nothing.”

“hm.” he leaned back against the counter, mug dangling from his fingers. “don’t start daydreamin too hard in this place, doll. feels like the walls are watchin.”

you laughed, but it came out softer than you meant. “you don’t believe that.”

“nah,” he said easily, grinning at you. “but you do.”

“you’re starin again,” he teased, voice low, rough with sleep.

“you’re imagining things,” you murmured, but your free hand was already traveling towards his chest, warm skin under your palm.

he smirked, leaning down to kiss you. it started soft but it turned greedy fast, his tongue sweeping past your lips, his hand sliding up your thigh.

“toji—” you whispered against his mouth, glancing at the blinds.

“what? neighbors ain’t watchin,” he rasped, lips brushing down your jaw to your neck. “and even if they were…” he nipped your skin lightly, grinning when you shivered. “let ‘em.”

he tugged your sleep shirt up and you let it bunch at your ribs, his mouth trailing lower as he set both of the mugs down and guided you onto the table. the wood was cool against your back, his palms hot as they smoothed up your sides.

“look at you,” he said, pulling back just enough to admire. “early morning, no makeup, still the prettiest damn thing i’ve ever seen.”

your breath hitched as he slid inside you already knowing how wet you get in the morning, steady and deep, making the table legs groan beneath the rhythm he set. his forehead dropped to yours, his words breaking into quiet curses and praise between rough kisses.

“doll… fuck, you take me so good.”

your nails dug into his shoulders, dragging him closer until there was no space left. he kept his pace unhurried, almost lazy, like he wanted to savor every second before the day pulled him away.

“don’t stop,” you breathed, clutching him tighter.

“never,” he promised, hips pressing deeper, his hand slipping down to lace with yours on the table.

“look at me, doll,” he whispered, kissing your nose, your cheek, your lips again. “want your pretty eyes on me.”

you met his gaze, and it undid you—the softness there, the quiet devotion buried under his usual gruffness. he kissed the corner of your mouth when you whimpered, murmuring praise against your skin.

“perfect… always so perfect for me.”

the table creaked, the blinds let in fractured morning light, but none of it mattered compared to how he held you through it, like you were the only thing anchoring him. when you came apart beneath him, he followed with a shudder, his name tangled in your breaths, his lips never leaving your skin.

after, he didn’t pull away right away. he just stayed there, heavy but gentle, kissing your shoulder while his thumb rubbed soothing circles on your hand.

“gonna make me late,” he mumbled, smiling into your skin.

you laughed softly, tucking your face into his neck. “worth it.”

he helped you down carefully, steadying you when your knees wobbled, pressing another kiss to your forehead before reaching for his mug again.

“coffee, shower, work,” he muttered like a mantra as he walked off to get ready for the rest of his day.

the morning slipped into a quiet afternoon after toji left for work. he’d kissed you at the door, tugged at your waist like he didn’t really want to go, and muttered, “don’t go pokin around, doll. unpack a box or two, i’ll be back for dinner.”

you watched him disappear down the steps, the front door clicking shut behind him, and just like that the pink palace seemed… too big. too empty.

you tried filling the silence with small things like folding laundry and stacking books on the coffee table but the house had a way of making you notice it. the wallpaper’s patterns seemed to ripple when you weren’t looking, floorboards groaned even though no one walked on them, and once or twice you swore you felt a cold draft slide across your ankles, though every window was shut tight.

a bark echoed faintly from downstairs, shaking you out of your thoughts.

geto was on the porch when you stepped out, crouched over his motorcycle, fiddling with it. his jacket looked patched up, his hands smudged with grease. he glanced up when he heard you.

“oh, hey. first night treating you alright?” he asked, voice casual but something unreadable in his eyes.

“it was fine,” you said, tucking your arms around yourself. “the house creaks a lot.”

he smirked softly, as though he knew something you didn’t. “yeah. the palace gets louder when it likes someone.”

you blinked, not sure if it was a joke or not. he shrugged and went back to his bike. “if you get bored, i can show you some of the old trails behind the house. just… watch your step. place has a way of pulling you where it wants you.”

you didn’t linger long after that comment figuring it was best to shrug it off. downstairs, the puppies barreled toward the door before you even knocked, tails wagging furiously.

“they like you,” yuuji grinned, wrestling one into his arms as he opened the door.

“they like everyone,” choso muttered, scratching another behind the ears. then, almost absently: “they bark at things that aren’t there sometimes. don’t worry about it.”

“they do not,” yuuji shot back, rolling his eyes. “don’t listen to him. he’s just mad they keep chewing on his boots.”

their bickering was easy to smile at, but choso’s words lingered.

heading back upstairs, you found gojo outside, precariously balancing on the porch railing while fussing with flowerpots. he wore sunglasses even though the sun had slipped behind the trees, and his grin was wide when he spotted you.

“there’s the new missus!” he called, arms stretched like he might topple right off. “settling in alright, doll?”

“trying to,” you laughed nervously. “house is… interesting.”

“oh, it’s a charmer,” he said, hopping down. then, tilting his head, his grin sharpening, “but you haven’t found the door yet, have you?”

your breath caught. “…door?”

he wagged a finger, sing song, “the palace has a little door it doesn’t want opened. don’t you go lookin’, doll.”

you stared at him. “how do you even—”

but he just pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, winked, and went back to muttering at his flowers like you weren’t there.

you couldn’t help it after listening to gojo’s comment. the moment you got back upstairs, your eyes went straight to the small, odd door in the living room.

gojo’s warning rang in your ears, but curiosity itched worse.

after a few minutes of digging through drawers, you found the ring of old keys—heavy, tarnished, each one stranger than the last. you went through them one by one until, finally, the button key.

one slide into the lock and a turn was all it took to reveal behind it… bricks. cold and gray, sealed up tight.

you stared for a moment, the air cooler near the little door, smelling faintly of damp stone.

with a sigh, you shut it again, shaking your head at yourself.

silly.

by the time you started chopping vegetables for dinner, you’d almost managed to push the thought away. but gojo’s words clung to you, quiet in the back of your mind:

the palace has a little door it doesn’t want opened.

toji came home to the smell of garlic and ginger. he slipped behind you at the stove, arms circling your waist. “smells good,” he murmured, kissing your cheek. “i’ll get ready for dinner” he says against your cheek before pulling away from you and walking upstairs towards the bedroom.

“i found something today,” you told him over dinner. “a little door in the living room. it’s bricked up.”

he raised an eyebrow, then chuckled. “old house. probably patched during some remodel. don’t lose sleep over it, doll.”

“gojo said—”

“there’s your mistake. don’t listen to that batshit crazy freak.”

you let it go with a sigh , letting the night slide into something softer. after dinner, after warm skin pressed to warm skin again in the dark, his breathing evened out beside you. but sleep didn’t come. instead, the pull returned, curling around your ribs like invisible thread.

you slipped out of bed, bare feet silent against the cool floorboards. it felt like the little door waited and called for you the moment your husband fell asleep. with trembling hands, you grab the fitted key and and sat in front of the door.

hesitation flowed off of you as you lifted your shaky hand and inserted the key into the chipped keyhole while turning and the bricks were gone.

a tunnel stretched out, fabric glowing faint blues and purples, pulsing like a heartbeat. the air smelled of rain as you crawled in and the passage seemed endless and alive beneath your palms.

until you finally feel a pull from the passage and see another door with a faint yellow hue glowing from it.

pushing it open, the wallpaper gleamed fresh, the furniture looked brand new, and a soft glow filled the space that looks exactly like your home. the air was warmer, sweeter, carrying the smell of your favorite meal. and there he was.

same sharp jaw, same messy black hair, same huge frame. but his eyes were black buttons, glossy and sewn into his skin, catching the light in a way that made your stomach twist. his grin softened the moment his buttons met your eyes.

“there you are, wife,” he said, voice deep and certain. “been waiting on you.”

toji — no, your husband, but not quite — rose from the couch. his smile was slower, steadier than the one you were used to, the sharp edges dulled into something almost tender.

“hungry?” he asked, and his voice seemed to resonate deeper, tugging at something low in your stomach.

you nodded without meaning to as he reached out a hand to help you off the floor while guiding you to the kitchen.

the table was already set, a spread of dishes steaming gently of your favorites, all of them. the plates gleamed white porcelain, the silverware polished, the food arranged in a way that was almost artistic. he pulled out a chair for you, bowing his head slightly as if you were something to be honored.

“go on, wife,” he coaxed, his hand brushing over your shoulder as you sat. “you deserve it.”

the first bite melted on your tongue, so rich and perfect you had to close your eyes. when you opened them, his gaze was already on you, watching and drinking in your every reaction like it was worth more than the food itself.

“better than what you had tonight?” he asked, smirking, but softer than the teasing grin you knew.

“it’s…” you hesitated. “perfect.”

his hand came to rest on the table, palm up. waiting. when you set your own hand there, he closed over it, thumb stroking over your knuckles in lazy circles.

“i told you i’ve been waiting,” he murmured. “you think i’d let you come home to anything less?”

your chest tightened.

home.

he leaned back in his chair, relaxed, but every inch of him was tuned to you — the way you ate, the way your shoulders eased, the way your eyes roamed over the world that felt like it had been made for you.

outside, through the window, the night sky glittered impossibly bright, stars pricked across velvet black like diamonds. the moon seemed closer and larger.

“you like it here?” he asked.

“it doesn’t feel real,” you admitted, voice small.

his smile deepened, though it didn’t quite reach his button eyes. “doesn’t have to feel real. it just has to feel like it’s yours.”

he stood again, coming to your side. with one hand he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, with the other he tilted your chin toward him.

“everything here’s for you, wife,” he whispered. “and i’ll make sure you never want for anything again.”

his thumb lingered at your jaw, gentle, but something about the way he held you there and the way his buttons shined in the warm glow that made a shiver run down your spine.

after dinner, the plates disappeared as if they’d never been touched, the table gleaming again, unmarred. you blinked, wondering if you’d only imagined eating at all but the taste of it lingered on your tongue, rich and comforting.

“c’mon,” toji said, his hand finding yours, warm and certain. “i’ll show you around.”

you let him lead you through the apartment. every room was brighter, cleaner, more alive than your real home. the wallpaper wasn’t peeling but freshly printed, its patterns moving subtly like rippling silk. the floorboards didn’t creak; they purred, humming underfoot like they were pleased with each step you took.

the bedroom was transformed too — your side of the bed already made, sheets silk and white as clouds, a vase of your favorite flowers blooming on the nightstand and a picture of you and what seems to be the other toji on your wedding day.

“you see, wife?” he said softly, leaning close to your ear. “everything here wants to take care of you.” he kissed your temple, and before you could answer, he was tugging you outside.

the garden was the first thing you noticed. where before there had only been scraggly, half dead flowerbeds, now stretched rows upon rows of blooms — roses in impossible shades, lilies that glowed faintly in the moonlight, twisting vines heavy with blossoms that moved as if breathing. the air was thick with perfume, heady and sweet.

and there was gojo.

not the loud, careless man from upstairs, but someone else entirely. he was still tall but now graceful, his pale hair tucked neatly, his hands steady as he clipped blossoms and rearranged pots. his garden didn’t just look alive; it thrived, spilling over with growth, stretching far wider than the little plot outside the pink palace ever could.

he turned when he heard you, and his grin was dazzling but not mocking, not sharp. it was warm. genuine.

“ah, so you’re finally here,” he said, spreading his arms like he’d been expecting you. his buttons the bright color of a sky blue. “i’ve been saving the best blooms for you.”

he plucked a flower — a pale, glowing thing you didn’t recognize — and handed it over. “for our new lady of the palace.”

the petals were soft as silk under your fingertips. “thank you,” you breathed, a little overwhelmed.

toji’s hand settled on the small of your back. “told you the neighbors here would be better, didn’t i?” and he was right because choso and yuuji appeared then too, stepping out from the gate. they weren’t bickering, weren’t sharp at the edges. yuuji with button eyes as pink as his hair had both puppies at his side, their fur gleaming, their buttons looked bright, and choso with dark violet buttons smiled faintly — truly smiled — as he scratched behind their ears.

“they listen here,” he said simply, and his tone wasn’t bitter. it was calm, almost proud.

“you’ll love it here,” yuuji added, beaming. “nobody’s ever lonely.”

their words wrapped around you, soft as the night air. and when you looked up, the stars above burned brighter than you’d ever seen, so close you swore you could reach out and pluck one from the sky.

you tightened your hand in toji’s, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss against your hair.

“see, wife?” he murmured. “this is how it should’ve always been.”

you could’ve stayed in the garden forever. the air was soft and sweet, the stars hung low enough to kiss, and the neighbors — once odd and jagged in their own ways — now welcomed you like a picture perfect family.

but toji wasn’t done showing you more.

his hand fit perfectly around yours as he led you down the winding path that geto mentioned showing you before, through a gate that had never been there before. the houses seemed to stretch out in strange symmetry, glowing warm through their windows, the whole world arranged like a picture you’d never want to step out of.

“c’mon, wife,” he coaxed, giving your hand a squeeze. “just one more place to see.”

you followed him toward the far end of the garden, where a boy sat hunched over his bike.

at first glance, it was geto. his long hair fell over his shoulder as he worked, fingers moving quick over the chain. but he didn’t look up, didn’t offer you the easy smirk you’d half expected. instead, he kept his head down, shoulders curling in as though he didn’t want to be seen at all.

you opened your mouth — maybe to greet him, maybe to ask if he needed help but before you could, toji spoke for him.

“ah, don’t bother with him,” he said smoothly, his voice almost too casual. “he’s just the weird kid. keeps to himself. doesn’t talk much.”

geto’s hands stilled for the briefest moment and your chest tightened. something about the quickness of toji’s answer — how it came before you’d even finished drawing a breath — felt… off.

but when you looked back at him, his smile was easy and it held so much confidence. his arm sliding comfortably around your shoulders. “don’t worry about it, wife. not everyone’s worth your time.”

his tone was protective and reassuring. it should’ve soothed you. and yet, the image of geto’s hands tightening on the bike chain, the faint tremor in his posture, lingered like a shadow in the back of your mind.

still, when toji leaned down and kissed the top of your head, murmuring, “let’s actually get you home, it’s getting late.” the unease melted back into the warmth of his voice.

so you let him guide you away, the sound of the garden’s flowers rustling like applause following behind you.

the house glowed golden as he led you back inside, every shadow softened, every corner warm. the bedroom door was already open, the sheets turned down like someone had been expecting you all along.

toji guided you in gently, his hand steady at the small of your back.

“look at you, wife,” he murmured, pulling you closer. “first night here, and already the place feels like it’s yours.”

he brushed your hair back, his button eyes softer than the man you left behind in your own world. with surprising tenderness, he lifted you into bed, tucking the blanket around your legs like it was a ritual.

“see, wife?” he murmured. “everything here is just for you.”

his hand lingered, brushing down your arm, over your waist, and under the blanket to squeeze your thigh. the warmth in his buttons eyes looked like they had shifted, turning sharper.

“but i’ve been waiting all this time,” he added, voice dropping low. “you think i’m just gonna let you sleep?”

you opened your mouth to answer, but he was already sliding onto the bed, pressing you flat against the pillows. his kiss was deeper, more demanding than anything you’d known, his tongue parting your lips while his hand held your chin steady.

his other hand trailed lower, slow and deliberate, teasing at the waistband of your nightdress before pushing it up.

“fuck, look at you,” he rasped, fingers brushing against your lips, making you jolt. “already wet for me. knew you’d be a good girl for your husband.”

the word should’ve felt comforting, familiar. but the way he said it felt so…heavy and claiming that it made your stomach twist.

he toyed with you for long minutes, never giving you more than a stroke, a press, a flick of his thumb. each time you shifted, whining for more, his smirk widened.

“patience, wife,” he whispered, biting your jaw. “you don’t get to come until i say so.”

it was the first time you’d heard those words in that voice. your real toji teased, sure but never like this. never with that iron weight of command, never with that glint in his non button eyes that promised no softness until he’d had his fill.

and still, your body responded, hips tilting into his touch as his pace turned ruthless, pushing you right to the edge before pulling back.

when he finally pushed your legs wider and settled himself between your thighs you expected carefulness from his previous loving words and actions. the moment he slid inside you, it wasn’t gentle, wasn’t careful, it was rough. he drove deep on the first thrust, holding you down with his weight, swallowing your gasp with a growl.

“that’s it,” he groaned, rutting into you harder, rougher than your toji ever had. “take it, doll. take all of me.”

the bed rocked beneath you, your legs spread wide under the press of his hands, your body giving in to his pace even as your mind caught on the difference — the sheer hunger in him, the way he used you like you were made for nothing else.

“gonna fill this pussy,” he snarled, slamming deeper, his words spilling hot against your ear. “make you round with me. keep you here, fucked full, so you can’t even think about goin anywhere else.”

you shuddered, clinging to him as heat pooled low and sharp in your belly. “tell me you want it,” he demanded. “tell me you’ll give me everything.”

hesitation brewed at the bottom of your stomach but pleasure took over as he continued to fuck relentlessly. “i want it…fuck— i want it so baddd.” the words tumbled out of you, breathless and desperate but something in you told you not repeat the second part.

his grin curved against your skin. “good fucking girl.”

he fucked you through it, rough and unrelenting, until your body shook, breaking apart under him. he groaned, grinding in deep, filling you to the hilt as if sealing a promise.

and then — as though nothing had happened — he kissed your temple, tugged the blanket up again, and pulled you against his chest.

“see, wife?” he murmured softly, almost tender again. “i’ll take care of you. always.”

but as you lay there trembling, your body aching from his claim, one thought pressed sharp in your chest:

your husband had never touched you like that. never spoken to you like that. and he never would.

for the first time, the perfect world didn’t feel seamless.

you woke to pale sunlight filtering through the blinds, dust motes drifting in the air.

the sheets weren’t silk anymore. they were rough cotton, tangled around your legs, cool against your skin. the flowers on the nightstand were gone. the golden glow, gone.

only the pink palace remained with its faint creaks, its draft slipping under the window, and the walls carrying that musty, lived in smell.

beside you, toji snored quietly, one arm flung across his face, mouth slack. he looked softer here, less sharp, more human.

your body still hummed, though. sore between your thighs, heat lingering where his hands — no, not his — where the other him’s hands had gripped.

your real husband had never touched you like that. never spoken those words.

“good girl.”

“patience, wife.”

“gonna fill this pussy.”

the memory pulsed hot in your chest, confusing in a way that made you shift under the sheets. part of you flushed with shame, part with something else entirely.

you glanced at toji. still asleep, his chest rising and falling slow, steady. he would never call you those things. he would never pin you down and fuck you like you were made to take it.

he was careful. always careful. teasing, yes, but tender. he knew your rhythms, your moods, your limits. and you loved him for it.

so why did your body ache for the ghost of the other one?

you pressed your palms to your face, swallowing hard. the creak of the house sounded sharper this morning, the shadows longer.

“it was just a dream.”

you whispered it to yourself, over and over.

but when you rolled over, you swore for half a heartbeat you caught the faintest scent of sweet perfume and the memory of silk sheets clung to your skin.

the morning dragged in quiet fragments.

toji had left early, muttering something about a long day at work, pressing a lazy kiss to your forehead before he disappeared out the door. the apartment settled back into silence, the kind that carried every creak of the pink palace’s old structure.

you shuffled into the kitchen, still hazy from sleep. your thighs ached in that too familiar way, and you tried not to think about why. tried not to compare.

the kettle whistled, sharp in the stillness. you poured the tea, sat at the little table. your eyes drifted like they always did toward the living room, toward that door. shut tight. brick wall behind it. or at least… there had been.

you shook your head, forcing your gaze back down. it was too early for that. too early for dreams that clung like cobwebs. then you noticed it.

a flower.

sitting neatly on the counter, right beside the kettle you knew you hadn’t touched last night.

its stem was long, delicate, curling in ways that didn’t seem quite natural. and the bloom—soft, pale petals that glowed faintly, like they held their own trapped light. not bright enough to be glaring, just enough to catch the corner of your eye every time you looked away.

you froze.

last night’s memory rushed back unbidden: gojo’s lush garden, the way he had leaned in and plucked a glowing blossom to tuck behind your ear.

but that was impossible.

you hadn’t brought anything back. you couldn’t have.

you reached out slowly, fingertips brushing the petal. warm. not like a cut flower, not dead. alive. breathing under your touch.

your chest tightened. you looked toward the door again.

the kettle clicked as it cooled. the walls creaked. the flower pulsed faintly with light, like a heart beating just for you.

it followed me.

you didn’t say it aloud. you didn’t need to. the thought rang through you like a bell.

the flower weighed heavy in your pocket, wrapped hastily in a napkin. you couldn’t leave it sitting on the counter where toji might notice. you weren’t even sure why you cared but only that it felt wrong to let him see it.

the stairs creaked under your feet as you made your way outside to the bottom floor. you could already hear the laughter before you knocked — the low rumble of choso’s voice, yuuji’s bright chatter, the sound of tiny claws scrabbling across wood.

when you stepped inside, the puppies bounded toward you, tails wagging, little bodies tumbling over each other.

“hey, doll,” gojo greeted with that sideways grin, as if he already knew something was on your mind. “you look like a woman with a secret.”

your laugh came out thinner than you meant. “maybe just… a weird dream.”

they ushered you inside without question, like they’d been expecting you. the kettle was already steaming, the cups already waiting. choso took it upon himself to pour while yuuji tried to wrestle a pup off his lap.

you sat with your tea between your hands, the steam curling up in lazy ribbons. “it was strange,” you said carefully, choosing your words. “i dreamt i saw a garden. too beautiful to be real. and someone gave me a flower. but when i woke up—” you hesitated, pressing your lips together. “—it was still there.”

gojo’s smile flickered. “ah,” he said softly. “dreams that leave footprints.”

you frowned. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“let’s find out,” he said, gesturing to your cup. “finish the tea.”

you obeyed, swallowing the last bitter mouthfuls. gojo leaned close, taking the cup from your hands and turning it slow, his white lashes low over his eyes.

the leaves swirled, clumped, then stilled.

yuuji leaned in first. “woah. that looks like—”

“a hand,” choso interrupted flatly, staring down into the cup.

and he was right. the pattern of the leaves had curled unmistakably into fingers, long and reaching.

you shivered, throat dry. “a hand doing what?”

gojo tilted his head, studying the shape. “pulling. reaching through. depends on who’s looking, doll.” his gaze flicked up, sharp behind the lazy smile. “depends on what door you’ve been knocking on.”

the room went very still after that, only the sound of the puppies pawing at the floor breaking the silence.

you left not long after, their strange words following you up the creaking stairs.

outside, the sun had begun to set, throwing long shadows across the porch. that’s when you saw him — geto, leaning against the fence, hands stuffed in his pockets.

but he wasn’t alone.

a cat sat curled on the railing beside him. sleek black fur, eyes too green to look real. they glowed faintly in the dim light, unblinking as they followed you.

geto lifted a hand in lazy greeting. “new tenant,” he said, nodding toward the cat. “followed me home. guess he likes it here.”

the cat blinked at you. slow. deliberate.

for a heartbeat, you thought of the hand in the tea leaves. of the flower still glowing faintly in your pocket.

and suddenly, you weren’t so sure if you were the one doing the dreaming anymore.

by the time your real husband arrived home, you heard toji’s key scrape the lock, the sun had dropped, leaving the house in its familiar shadows. the cat outside was gone. only the memory of its green eyes lingered.

“there you are, doll,” he drawled the moment he spotted you on the couch, shoulders sinking into the cushions. his hair was mussed, shirt clinging faint with sweat. “been waiting to see you.”

he leaned down to kiss your temple, the press warm, grounding.

“long day?” you asked, trying for normal.

“mm. dragged,” he admitted, sinking down beside you, stretching out with a groan. “missed you, doll.”

your throat felt tight around the words you wanted to say. “i saw a flower that shouldn’t exist.” or “gojo read my fortune in tea leaves.” maybe even, “geto has a cat with eyes like glass.”

instead, you pressed your cheek against his shoulder and murmured, “just… had a weird day.”

he hummed, not pushing. that was the thing about toji — he let you keep your corners if you needed them.

the night slipped into routine. the two of you made a lazy dinner together, toji stealing bites from the pan and making you laugh when he nearly burned his tongue. later, he showered while you folded the laundry, and the rhythm of it — the ordinary — soothed some of the static in your chest.

in bed, he pulled you against him, arm heavy around your waist. his breathing evened quick, soft snores filling the dark. you lay awake longer.

the flower was still hidden in the drawer by the bed. the image of the tea leaves still sharp behind your eyes. the cat’s gaze still burned at the back of your mind.

and beneath all that, the pull — low and constant.

toward the living room.

toward the little door.

you swallowed hard, staring into the dark. tonight, you told yourself.

just one more look.

[ibuprofein]

{ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖 }

⭒˚‧ ︵‿⭒ 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ⭒‿︵ ‧˚⭒

𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐱 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐥. 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢—𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞.

𝐜𝐰: 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝, 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐝𝐨𝐦/𝐬𝐮𝐛 𝐝𝐲𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐜, 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤

{ 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 ! }

the move into the pink palace felt anticlimactic. dusty rose walls, creaky wooden floors, and that faint, sweet-sour smell of old wood and older paint. your toji had been half grumbling, half laughing as he hauled in boxes with one arm, “place looks like a dollhouse. ya sure you want this, doll?”

you’d shushed him with a smile, tucking your arm around his thick waist, “it’s charming. it’ll grow on you.”

the first few days went smoothly—unpacking, setting up your bedroom, listening to toji curse every time he stubbed his toe on a box. then, one quiet afternoon while he was out running errands, you noticed the tiny door in the parlor wall.

painted the same color as the room, almost hidden behind the wallpaper pattern. a small chipped keyhole waiting to be used.

the key you found tucked away in the kitchen drawer slid in too easily. the lock clicked.

the little door creaked open, revealing a tunnel lined in soft fabric with hues of blue and purple, like the inside of a flower.

curiosity won.

crawling through felt endless, the tunnel tugging you forward until you tumbled into… your living room? except it wasn’t quite.

the walls glowed warmer, the furniture softer, the smell richer. and there he was sitting on the couch, legs spread, waiting for you with a grin.

toji. or… something that looked like him.

same sharp jaw, same messy black hair, same huge frame. but his eyes were black buttons, glossy and sewn into his skin, catching the light in a way that made your stomach twist.

“there you are, wife,” other toji drawled, voice a touch silkier than your husband’s, his grin just a little too wide. “been waiting on you.”

he opened his arms, and everything in you screamed both danger and temptation.

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 09/06!

[ibuprofein]

situationship!ony x sorority sister!reader

↳ ❝ [the gym is my safe place rn but imagining ony being jealous of other guys looking at you in the gym is an even safer place 😔] ¡! ❞

↳ 𝑰

You adjust your cat-eye lash extensions in the mirror, checking your lip gloss one last time before grabbing your water bottle. Ony’s already waiting in the car, leaned back in the driver’s seat, gold chain glinting in the sunlight like he was born dipped in it.

You hop in and he gives you a slow once-over, tongue running over his teeth before he smirks.

“Gym lookin’ different today,” he says, eyes sliding to your jet black leggings that framed your sculpted legs so well.

“You invited me,” you shoot back, smug. “This is me showing up.”

“Showing up tryna impress somebody, huh?” he says looking you up and down with hunger in his eyes.

“Maybe, maybe not” you say while lightly smirking at him, ready to jump his bones.

“Oh we’ll see about that” Ony says while lightly laughing and driving off.

The gym is packed. Ony daps up a few trainers and some dudes you recognize from campus. A couple nod at you too. You feel it—the quiet kind of attention that sticks to the curve of your waist and the way your gloss catches the light.

He hands you a towel, his fingers brushing yours. “You stretch yet?”

You shake your head, already heading toward the turf. You know what you’re here for: glutes. And you know exactly how you look doing them. Your stance is wide, back straight, form perfect as you move into your first set of hip thrusts. You don’t need to look up to know eyes are on you.

But one pair burns more than the rest.

Ony’s mid set, pushing weights like it’s personal, but his eyes keep dragging back to you—every pause between reps, every time some dude walks a little too slow past your bench. One even tries to strike up a convo while you’re adjusting your barbell.

“You good?” Ony’s voice cuts through the air, cool but with a slight edge.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s standing behind you now, arms crossed over his chest, sweat glistening along his jawline. The guy near you mutters something and walks off.

“He was just asking if I needed a spot,” you shrug.

“Yeah? You got me for that,” he says, stepping in close. His cologne’s soft but sharp—something expensive that clings to your senses.

“Didn’t know we were exclusive at the gym,” you tease, but your heart’s already thudding.

He leans down, real close to your ear. “We not,” he says, low. “But I’m still not playin’ about you.”

Your breath catches. He pulls back just enough to give you that lazy smirk again, the one that makes it hard to tell if he’s joking or serious.

“You tryna impress someone today, huh?”

“Maybe,” you say, standing and brushing past him, letting your shoulder graze his chest. “You.”

[ibuprofein]

tattoo artist! choso x reader x rockstar! geto

↳ ❝ [i am giving the girlies what they been asking for - point, blank,period. part 2 just straight smut] ¡! ❞

↳ 𝑰

You don’t even remember what you sounded like when you came.

Just that Choso’s mouth was still on you when it happened—his tongue relentless, his grip locked around your thighs, your slick all over his chin, his lashes low like he was focused on nothing but your ruin.

And now?

You’re limp. Barely able to sit up. Your thighs still trembling. Hairline damp from heat and overstimulation. Chest rising in shallow, desperate gasps beneath your barely-there crop top.

Choso rises slowly, licking your taste off his bottom lip, tattooed hand swiping over his jaw as he glances toward Geto for the first time since this started.

“Still want to watch?” he asks, voice dark. Rough.

Geto pushes off the wall.

But he doesn’t answer. Not with words.

He stalks over with that smooth, confidence that’s gotten him in more trouble than talent ever has. His rings glint under the studio lights as he drags his thumb along your parted lips, watching the way your tongue instinctively peeks out to taste him.

“You let him make a mess of you already?” he murmurs, fingers trailing down your throat, over your sticky chest, down your stomach. “You that needy, baby?”

You nod slowly, but your voice cracks. “Mhm…”

Choso’s behind you now—fully clothed still, but heavy with intent. One palm settles on your lower back, the other sliding over your hip.

Geto grabs your jaw, makes you look up at him.

“Think you can take both of us?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want it.

But because you already feel wrecked.

Geto grins. “She can.”

“Not asking you,” Choso mutters behind you, pressing the thick bulge in his sweats against your ass. “I want her to say it.”

You swallow hard. Voice barely a breath.

“…I can take it.”

They move in tandem.

Geto strips his hoodie first, dragging his shirt off underneath—tattoos stretching across his chest and arms, black ink sprawled like the thoughts behind his eyes. His belt comes undone next. You don’t even blink when he frees his cock—thick, heavy, already hard and angry with need.

Choso lifts your arms, peels off your top and tosses it somewhere over his shoulder. You’re fully naked now—tattoo fresh and glistening between your thighs, belly chain still resting pretty around your waist.

Choso leans in, voice low against your ear. “He’s gonna use your mouth.”

You whimper.

��I’m gonna take what’s mine.”

Geto slides into your mouth first, fingers threading into your hair, eyes half-lidded as you wrap your lips around the tip and suck him slow. His hips rock forward, gently at first, but quickly building—because he’s used to you, used to how easy it is to fuck your mouth deep and filthy and hear those messy gags he loves so much.

“You missed this, huh?” he groans, fucking slow into your throat. “This mouth was made for me.”

Choso grips your hips tight, kneeling behind you. His hand guides his cock through your slick folds, teasing your soaked entrance. He drags the head over your sensitive hole, watching your back arch at the sensation.

“You’re shaking,” he mutters. “But you said you could take it.”

And then—

He sinks in.

All of him. No warning.

One long, slow thrust that has you choking on Geto’s cock as your eyes roll back.

“F-fuck!” you sob around Geto, muffled and overstimulated and already clenching hard around Choso, your fingers digging into Geto’s thighs for balance.

“Goddamn,” Geto growls, voice thick as he strokes your jaw. “She’s tight.”

They move together.

Choso’s strokes are deep and deliberate, hitting the spot over and over until your legs tremble again, your hips jerking forward and forcing Geto deeper into your throat. Every thrust between your thighs makes your mouth messier, wetter, louder.

Spit dripping down your chin.

Slick running down your legs.

The new tattoo on your belly rocking with every thrust.

You can’t speak.

You can’t think.

You can only take it.

And they both watch you fall apart all over again.

Your mouth is sloppy now.

Drool mixed with precum, streaking your chin, your lips stretched red around Geto’s cock as he starts to fuck your face harder—rougher now that your eyes are glossy and your throat’s gone slack. His hand stays in your hair, holding you steady as he groans through gritted teeth.

“God, your mouth gets better every fucking time.”

Behind you, Choso’s buried deep in your cunt, one hand gripping your hip with bruising force, the other sliding up your back, pinning you in place. His thrusts are harder now—darker, deliberate and punishing, his pelvis slapping against your ass as your slick squelches loud and filthy between your thighs.

“You hear her?” he growls. “Fucking soaked.”

Geto chuckles darkly, his voice hoarse. “She loves it. Look at her—taking both like a good girl.”

And Lord—you are.

You don’t even know how you’re still upright. Your body’s barely functioning, your throat fucked raw, your pussy clenching hard around Choso with every sharp thrust. The studio spins around you in flashes—inked walls, sterile lights, their tattoos, their voices—

Your orgasm’s building again.

Fast.

Choso must feel it—his voice lowers into a snarl, hips snapping harder.

“You gonna cum again while you’re full in both holes?”

You can’t answer. Not with Geto fucking your throat.

So you just sob—pathetically—around Geto’s cock, gagging as your eyes flutter and your thighs shake uncontrollably.

Choso slaps your ass hard.

“Cum, then.”

You do.

Hard.

Your vision whites out. You cum with a loud, broken cry—cock still in your mouth, cunt spasming tight around Choso as you nearly collapse. Your hands go limp against Geto’s thighs. Your walls flutter around Choso’s cock, sucking him deeper as your entire body trembles.

“Shit—she’s milking me—” Choso hisses, thrusts faltering.

Geto grins, pulling you off his cock by your hair, your lips swollen and wet, tears on your cheeks, spit all down your chest.

“She always does,” he says.

And then?

Choso cums.

He groans deep in his chest, gripping your hips like he’s trying not to lose control—but fails. He pumps you full, hips jerking as he buries himself to the hilt, hot ropes of cum spilling inside you until it leaks past your pussy lips and down your thighs.

You’re still gasping when Geto strokes himself once—twice—eyes locked on your ruined face.

“You look too pretty like this.”

He paints your lips and tongue with it—thick, hot, messy—and your mouth opens on instinct, letting it drip down your chin, smearing over your flushed skin.

“Swallow it,” he murmurs, thumbing your throat.

You do.

All of it.

When it’s over?

You’re on your back. Still trembling.

Choso crouched at your side, wiping between your thighs with a warm cloth.

Geto lighting a cigarette, shirtless and still watching you with a lazy smirk.

And neither of them speak for a moment.

Then—

Choso looks at Geto.

“She’s not just yours anymore.”

Geto exhales a cloud of smoke, glancing down at you—smeared with sweat and cum and nothing but a sleepy, blissed-out smile on your lips.

He shrugs.

“We’ll see.”

tags: @christinabae , @zeyasworld , @meganwiththetea , @divinetones

[ibuprofein]

boyfriend! ony x reader

↳ ❝ { Onyankopon and you share more than just an apartment—you’re building a life. Between sleepy mornings, shared showers, and dates that end in a quiet night wrapped in each other, you’re watching how love grows daily. } ¡! ❞

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Onyankopon never thought he’d care about throw pillows. Or the way candlelight could make a whole place feel softer, slower, sacred. But now? Now he came home to it—her—and he never wanted anything less.

Their new loft sat at the top of an old building downtown, exposed brick walls and big windows that soaked in the afternoon sun. It had character. Empty, it had potential. But you… you gave it a soul.

Greenery hung from every corner—vines draping like soft curtains, tiny succulents in mismatched pots sitting proud on shelves. Little statues you picked out one by one, some modern, some spiritual, some just “cute” as you’d say with a grin, kept watch over your shared space. And the pictures—damn—he didn’t even realize how many moments you’d captured. His arm around your shoulder at the beach, you kissing his cheek at a party, the blurry selfie from move-in day when you both looked sweaty and happy and completely in love.

The couch was layered in pillows he was pretty sure weren’t meant to be used but always ended up under his head anyway. A snuggly blanket stayed folded on the corner until movie nights when you’d pull it over the both of you, always managing to sneak your cold toes against his thighs.

The kitchen had your pink utensils in the drawers. Bright and bold and so you. He used them without hesitation—flipping pancakes with your pastel spatula, stirring tea with a heart-shaped spoon—because that’s what home felt like now. A soft glow from the scented candles you loved, or that sweet vanilla incense that wrapped around him the second he opened the front door. It made the loft feel like he’d stepped straight into you.

But it wasn’t just the way the apartment looked. It was what you did here.

You cooked. Every night if you could help it. You’d glance over your shoulder with that flirty smile and say, “Pa, come sit. Food’s hot and so are you—pick which one you wanna eat first.”

He’d groan in amusement, dropping his bag and coming to you, placing a kiss to your temple while muttering something low and cocky just to hear you laugh.

After the gym, when he was sore and shirtless and dripping sweat, you didn’t care. You’d pull him to the couch, straddle his lap or kneel beside him and rub him down slow, fingers firm and warm over his back, shoulders, and biceps. You’d trace every tattoo like it told you a story, press soft kisses to the curves of ink, and whisper, “You worked hard, Pa… Let me take care of you.”

Your hands always found his fade. You had this habit—this need—to run your fingers over his scalp. Gentle and a little possessive, like you just liked reminding yourself he was yours. He never said it out loud, but he liked that part. He kept his cut fresh for you. Not a single bad hair day on record since y’all moved in.

Onyankopon would sit back some nights, plate in his lap, candles flickering, your playlist humming low in the background—and he’d just watch you. Moving through your space. Laughing, dancing a little while wiping the counter, sliding him a second helping before he could ask. You always said “our” apartment, but he knew better.

This was your world.

The restaurant was warm and low-lit, all moody shadows and soft jazz, the kind of place that felt made for lovers. You sat across from Onyankopon in a booth tucked into the corner—your favorite kind, where he could stretch his long legs out under the table and brush your ankles with his foot like it was a secret.

You’d gotten dressed up for him tonight, slipping into your baby blue dress that cinched at your waist and flowed like water over your thighs. The color looked like it was made to sit against your skin, especially with the sheen of your gloss and the way your curls framed your face just right. And Ony? He noticed everything.

He leaned back in the booth, white tee stretching over his chest, his fresh fade and trimmed beard carved too perfectly for a casual dinner date. The glimmer of his patek watch caught the candlelight every time he lifted his glass or adjusted his watch like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Damn, ma…” His voice dipped, warm like honey and a little hoarse from the smirk tugging at his mouth. “You really came out here looking like my wife already.”

You smiled behind your glass. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” he laughed, tipping his head. “I’m just sayin’. That dress?” He gave you that look—eyebrows raised, jaw flexed, full of nothing but admiration and just a hint of trouble. “Hugs you like it’s proud to be on you.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were blushing. “And you’re not even gonna let me eat in peace, huh?”

“Nah,” he grinned, leaning in slightly across the table, fingers playing with the edge of his napkin. “Gotta remind you you’re the best thing in the room. Ain’t no way I’m sittin’ across from you like this and staying quiet.”

You bit back a smile just as the appetizers came. And without even asking, Ony pulled the plate closer to you first.

“Here, taste this one. I know you said you didn’t want it but I could see it in your face.” He carefully spooned a bit onto a small plate for you. “Don’t act like you weren’t lookin’ at it like it had potential.”

You giggled, accepting the plate. “You know me too well.”

“I study you,” he teased, resting his chin in his hand while watching you take the first bite. “Like a full-time job. No breaks.”

You gave him a playful side-eye as you chewed. “Mmm… that’s bombbb. Better than mine, lowkey.”

Ony perked up instantly. “See? I knew it. That’s why I told you to get both.”

You leaned over, stealing a bite straight from his fork with a little smirk. “You love feeding me.”

“I do,” he said easily, eyes flickering down to your lips. “You be makin’ it look cute. Like your tastebuds are on a whole journey.”

You laughed, leaning into the booth, full and glowing under the dim lights. He watched you like he always did—like you were something rare, like nothing else in the world mattered when you smiled.

Then softly, quieter this time, he reached out and brushed his thumb against your wrist. “You happy, baby?”

You looked up at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “With you? Always Pa, you know that.”

He smiled slow. “Good. ‘Cause I swear—this right here?” He nodded around the table. “Feeding you, watchin’ you light up over food, sittin’ across from you while you look like a dream… This my favorite part of the day.”

Your heart melted just a little more.

You slipped your hand into his, lacing your fingers together under the table. “Then I’ll let you feed me forever.”

He chuckled low. “You ain’t even gotta ask. You can have mine. Always.”

The drive home was slow, soft R&B humming through the speakers, the kind of playlist Ony only ever put on when he felt extra in his feelings—and tonight? He was full of them.

You had kicked your heels off in the passenger seat and had your legs tucked up under you, dress gathered loosely at your thighs. The streetlights flashed golden across your skin every few seconds, painting your pretty profile like something divine. Onyankopon had one hand on the wheel and the other resting palm-up in your lap, fingers laced loosely with yours.

“You full?” he asked, voice low, still warm from the wine and your laugh.

You nodded with a soft smile, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Full of food. Full of you.”

He smirked, glancing over at you briefly. “Mm. Say that again.”

You cracked an eye open. “Why?”

“‘Cause it sounds good when you say it like that. Full of me…”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you love it.”

By the time you got home, your lashes were heavy and your arms stretched above your head in that lazy, satisfied kind of way. Ony walked in behind you, locking the door and tossing his watch onto the console tray. You started peeling out of your dress as you walked toward the bedroom, leaving a soft trail of blue silk in the hallway.

He followed you slowly, licking his lips. “You know I love when you leave clothes like breadcrumbs.”

You looked back at him with a sleepy smirk. “You wanna help me with the rest, or just stare?”

“Oh, I’m helpin’.”

The bathroom steamed up fast. Onyankopon stood behind you at the vanity, pulling your hair into a loose bun with one of your satin scrunchies. His fingers lingered at your nape, pressing a kiss just beneath your hairline as he whispered, “There she go…”

You turned in his arms, bare chest pressed against his still-clothed one, and worked on peeling his white tee off slowly. He raised his arms with ease, letting you reveal the firm, inked muscles beneath. You ran your hands over his tattoos like you always did, tracing the lines like they were braille only you could read.

“Shower with me?” you asked softly, fingertips brushing his waistband.

Ony smiled, eyes heavy. “You already know I’m in.”

The water was hot, steam curling around your bodies as you pressed together under the flow. Ony stood behind you, hands gliding over your soapy skin, massaging your shoulders, your arms, down to your waist where his grip lingered.

“You always take care of me,” he murmured into your ear, lips brushing your temple. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

You leaned back against him, sighing as his hand drifted lower, between your thighs, the pace patient and unhurried. The bathroom echoed with the soft sound of your breath, the roll of the water, and his name whispered like a promise.

“Just like that, Pa…” you whined gently, hips pressing back into him.

“You feel good, baby,” he whispered into your neck, voice thick and sweet, like he was savoring you. “So soft… so mine.”

Your hand reached back to stroke over him, hard and heavy against your palm.

“Can’t help it,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut. “You do this to me. Look at you… wet for me in every way.”

He didn’t take you in the shower. Ony preferred to carry you out, towel wrapped around your body, your legs hooked around his waist. He laid you gently on the bed, slow and attentive, as if your body was a temple he was sworn to worship.

And when he entered you—slow, deep, intimate—he didn’t rush. Didn’t chase. He gave. Whispered praises in your ear, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

“You always feel like home,” he breathed. “Every time. Every single time.”

You held him tight, gasping his name in the quiet dark, breathy and broken, as you fell apart beneath him—his name the only thing on your lips.

After, you lay tangled in the sheets, skin still damp with sweat and love. Onyankopon pulled you close, your leg tossed over his waist, your cheek pressed to his chest. He was warm and heavy-limbed, arms wrapped tight around you like he never wanted to let go.

“You good?” he whispered against your hair.

“Mmhmm,” you murmured, smiling sleepily. “I’m full again.”

He chuckled low, stroking your back with slow circles. “Full of me?”

“Mm… in every way.”

Onyankopon kissed your forehead and whispered against your skin, soft as a breath:

“Then rest, baby. I got you. I’ll always got you.”

The sun filtered in soft through the sheer curtains, laying warm stripes across the sheets where you and Onyankopon had spent the night tangled in each other. His side of the bed was already empty—still warm—sheets rumpled and faintly smelling like him. You stretched out with a quiet groan, body humming from the night before, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips.

His deep voice drifted from down the hall, faint over the sound of running water. He was in the bathroom, probably trimming up his beard or brushing waves into that perfect fade of his.

You tossed on one of his old tees—faded black with a tiny hole at the bottom—and padded out into the kitchen barefoot. The floor was cool against your skin, the loft still quiet and filled with that early-morning stillness you loved.

You got to work automatically, flipping on the stove, music low on your phone while you moved through your routine. Bacon sizzled, eggs cracked into the pan, and the scent of an incense drifted from the stick you’d lit on the counter.

By the time Onyankopon appeared, fully dressed for work in a fresh tee, gray sweats slung low on his hips and a clean chain resting against his collarbone, you had two plates on the counter and fresh coffee poured.

He stepped up behind you without a word, hands sliding around your waist as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“Mmm,” he hummed, voice still thick with sleep. “Smells too damn good in here.”

You smiled as he kissed your shoulder lazily. “Morning, Pa.”

He kissed you again, this time lower, closer to the dip of your collarbone. “You tryna seduce me before work?”

“I’m tryna feed you,” you giggled, turning in his arms and brushing a hand over his freshly lined fade, fingers running over the waves. “But you always end up distracted.”

He smirked, pulling you in by the hips. “You walkin’ around in my shit—my shit—with no shorts on, making me breakfast, and lighting your little candles like I ain’t supposed to lose my mind.”

You leaned up and kissed him, soft and slow. “Sit down, Pa. You’re gonna be late.”

Ony obeyed with a low groan, pulling his stool out at the island while you set his plate down in front of him. You moved around the kitchen so naturally—bare legs, sleep-soft skin, your lips glossy from that vanilla balm he swore made your kisses taste sweeter.

Between bites, he watched you like he didn’t want to blink. When you leaned in to swipe a crumb from his lip, he caught your wrist and kissed your fingers.

“You always take care of me like this,” he murmured. “Like I don’t deserve all this love.”

You tilted your head, voice gentle. “You do deserve it. Every bit.”

He stood, brushing his hands off on a napkin before pulling you into him again, lips soft and warm against yours in a kiss that lingered just long enough to make your toes curl.

“I’m gonna be thinkin’ ‘bout this all day,” he mumbled against your mouth.

You grinned. “I packed you a to-go cup. Extra cream.”

He chuckled, grabbing his coffee. “See? Wife energy.”

As he headed toward the door, you followed behind, arms wrapping around his waist from the back.

“Have a good day, baby,” you whispered, kissing the center of his back. “Text me when you’re on break.”

Ony turned, leaned down for one last kiss—deeper this time, like he didn’t want to go.

“I’ll be countin’ the hours, ma. You makin’ home too damn hard to leave.”

And with that, he walked out, your love lingering in the air just as strong as the scent of vanilla and fresh bacon.

You were curled up on the couch in the middle of the evening when you heard the door unlock—blanket wrapped around your legs, candles lit, and the TV playing something light just to fill the quiet. The days had started feeling a little slower lately. Onyankopon worked long hours, and though you loved your home and everything in it, sometimes it felt like the walls were just too quiet without him.

You looked up as he walked in—white tee stretched across his chest, gray sweats sitting low on his hips, and a little smirk on his face like he was hiding something behind his back.

“Hey, Pa,” you called, sitting up a little straighter. “You’re home early.”

He stepped inside with slow, purposeful steps, then gently brought his hands forward, cradling something impossibly small and fluffy.

“Had to come home early,” he said, voice soft. “Somebody’s been needing a little more company.”

You blinked, stunned. In his large, careful hands sat a tiny white kitten, soft as snow, with the bluest, roundest eyes you’d ever seen. Her nose was a soft pink, just like her tiny paw pads, and she blinked up at you with sleepy curiosity.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, scrambling off the couch. “Ony—you didn’t!”

He grinned, already walking over to place her gently in your hands. “I did.”

You clutched the little ball of fluff against your chest, your face already melting into the softest expression. The kitten nestled into your warmth immediately, purring so faintly it tickled.

“She’s perfect,” you whispered, eyes glossy. “What’s her name?”

“Whatever you want it to be, baby. She’s all yours.”

You looked up at him, completely smitten—both by the kitten and the man who’d brought her home just because he’d felt you missing something. “Why’d you get her?”

Ony stepped closer, slipping his arms around your waist, eyes soft as he looked down at you.

“’Cause I know bein’ home by yourself gets lonely sometimes. I wanted you to have something soft to keep you company. Someone to keep you warm when I’m out there grindin’.”

You smiled, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “You’re the softest thing in this house.”

He chuckled low, rubbing his hand along your back. “Nah. That title goes to her now. I’ll take second place mama.”

The kitten mewed quietly in your arms, already starting to doze off again.

You whispered to her, “Your daddy’s the sweetest man alive, huh?”

Ony leaned in, kissing your temple and murmuring into your hair, “She’s gonna be just like you. Spoiled, pretty, and always in my lap.”

You giggled, and together, you curled up on the couch—kitten in your lap, Onyankopon’s arms wrapped around both of you, his chin resting on your shoulder like he’d just completed a mission of the heart.

“She’s gonna need a little pink collar,” you mumbled.

“I already bought one,” he replied with a proud grin. “It’s in the bag with her food, her bed, and her toys. You think I half-step?”

You turned to him slowly, eyes narrowed with a teasing smile. “You tryna make me fall in love with you again?”

He smirked and pulled you closer, whispering against your lips:

“Every single day, ma.”

The photography studio was bright and cozy, with whitewashed walls and huge windows that poured sunlight over every corner of the room. The vibe was relaxed—natural lighting, soft throws, and potted plants that reminded you of home.

You sat on a cream couch with Onyankopon beside you, your kitten purring softly in your lap. She was a tiny ball of soft white fur with tiny paws and an attitude already twice her size. You’d named her Mochi—after the way she slept curled up like a little dumpling.

“She’s camera-ready already,” you giggled, scratching under her chin. “Look at her… little diva.”

“She get it from her mama,” Ony said with a crooked grin, nudging you with his shoulder. He was dressed in a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, gold chain peeking just slightly from the collar. Simple. Effortless. Perfect. His watch glimmered faintly every time he adjusted the kitten’s position or reached for your waist to pull you closer.

You wore a soft, linen dress in a pale yellow that kissed your skin with every movement. Your curls framed your face like a halo, and the moment Ony had seen you walk into the studio, he didn’t stop complimenting you once.

“You look like a whole mother,” he murmured against your temple while the photographer changed lenses. “Wife, too.”

You’d only smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “Manifest it, Pa.”

The photo session was nothing but laughter and warm looks. Ony kept making you laugh—whispering jokes in your ear, brushing your curls behind your ear just so the camera could see your smile better. He held you gently in every shot, his hands on your waist, your thighs, your back—anchoring you, reminding you silently: I got you.

Mochi eventually dozed off in your lap halfway through, belly up, and the photographer captured it perfectly—her little body nestled between you both like she belonged there all along.

A few days later, you picked up the prints from the studio, and when you got home, you already knew where you wanted them.

One frame went on the wall by the entryway—first thing you see when you walk in. Another got placed right in the hallway, just under the thermostat, and a smaller one in a rose gold frame sat on Ony’s nightstand. But the centerpiece? That went in the living room. A wide, matted frame with three photos side by side: one of you kissing Ony’s cheek while he held the kitten, one of you both smiling down at her while she napped in your lap, and one where Ony was kissing your forehead while you laughed.

You stepped back, wiping your hands, admiring your little gallery wall—and Ony came up behind you, arms circling your waist, his chin on your shoulder.

He was quiet for a moment, eyes on the photos.

“Look at us,” he finally said, voice low. “We really built all this.”

You smiled, covering his hands with yours. “Our little family.”

“The loft. The vibe. Mochi. You waking me up with breakfast. Me tryna keep my hands off you long enough to leave the house…” he chuckled, voice almost reverent. “It’s real.”

You turned in his arms, smiling up at him. “You deserve real, Pa.”

“So do you, mama.”

He kissed you slow, one hand on the back of your neck and the other sliding low on your waist, like he needed to hold you tighter in that moment.

And as Mochi curled up again on the windowsill nearby, the incense burning, and the soft glow of your framed memories casting shadows on the walls—you both stood there in the middle of your home, your life, knowing one thing for certain:

Love lived here. And it always would.

[ibuprofein]

dominican!connie x reader

↳ ❝ [shoutout to my fellow dominicanasss! 🇩🇴 in my delusions, connie is most definitely a dominican at heart 😔] ¡! ❞

tags: cookout, petty mcpetty reader, uber boyfriend connie, shots & ass shaking!

The music was blasting—old-school bachata melting into Afrobeats while smoke curled through the air from the grill. Laughter everywhere. The boys playing dominoes at a card table on the patio, loud as hell. Plates stacked. Blunts passed. Bottles open.

And you?

Turning heads.

The fit was disrespectful. A black backless halter with deep side cutouts, hugging your chest like it was made just for you. Paired with those low-rise jeans—the ones that framed that dumptruck perfectly, with the slightest lil V-dip in the front.

Your kitten heels clicked over the concrete when you walked past and every dude not attached to a girl tried not to break his neck looking. But Connie?

Sitting back in his chair, legs wide, blunt in hand—he was just watching. Chin tilted, chain resting on his chest, dark eyes locked on the sway of your hips like he already knew what time it was.

“Damn,” Ony muttered next to him. “She really wore that here?”

Connie smirked. “You surprised?”

Ony just laughed. “Nah. Just know it’s gon’ be a long night for you, bro.”

It was over the moment your girls arrived.

Squeals. Screams. “Bitch you look GOOD!”

Hugs flying. Flashing phones. Ass shaking by the drink table.

You were a blur of glitter and perfume, draped over your girls, screaming lyrics to every song, sipping way too fast, forgetting how to act—until Connie had to remind y’all.

He pulled you over mid-turn-up, lit blunt in one hand, firm grip on your hip with the other. You were giggling, gloss-sticky and tipsy already.

“Ayo. Sit down and eat before y’all end up passed out in the grass somewhere.”

“But babyyyy—”

He leaned in, right at your ear, voice low and deep:

“Don’t make me sit you down, mama.”

You sat so fast.

The girls fake gasped, fanned you. “Oooh, she in trouble.”

You just grinned and dug into your plate, legs crossed, bouncing to the music while Connie sat beside you, shaking his head with that smug little smirk.

You got too comfortable. Too drunk. Too damn cute.

Your hair still looked good—silky and sleek—but your lashes were hanging on by hope, and your words were slurred as you crawled into Connie’s lap mid-convo like he wasn’t talking about sports with Ony and Eren.

“Baaabyyy,” you whined, nuzzling into his neck, arms around him like a koala. “I want a drank.”

“You already had four,” he said calmly, holding the blunt away so you didn’t burn yourself. “And that last one was mine.”

You pouted.

“Don’t care.”

Then—you grabbed his cup and finished the rest without asking, making the boys howl in the background.

“Damn, she wildin’,” Eren laughed.

Connie rubbed a tattooed hand down his face. “Y’all see what I deal with?”

But still—he had you. Arms around your waist. Holding you up while your limbs got too heavy, while your head lulled against his chest, while your girls tumbled giggling into each other like pretty drunks in a perfume ad.

You couldn’t even walk by the end of it.

“Where my shoe go?” you asked, voice small and confused as Connie helped you to the car.

“You don’t need it,” he said, picking you up bridal style, ignoring your drunken mumbling.

He rounded up the rest of the girls too, directing traffic like the most patient Uber driver on earth. “Come on, let’s go. Y’all embarrassing yourselves.”

“Sorry Connieee,” one of them giggled, tripping over her own sandal.

The car ride was mostly vibes at first.

You were half asleep in Connie’s passenger seat—face warm from too much Casamigos, your hair a little wild now, but still curled up like his personal accessory. Your hand sat in his lap, possessively resting on his thigh while he drove one-handed, still calm, still in control like always.

The girls were laughing in the back. Shouting about chicken wings. Fighting over aux. One of them was drunkenly fake crying to SZA. Another was on FaceTime with nobody, just herself in the camera like it was a photo shoot.

But then—

One of your homegirls leaned forward, elbow resting on Connie’s console, chest pressed a little too close to the back of his seat.

“You’re such a good boyfriend,” she said with a flirty lil drunk smile, tapping his shoulder with her nails. “You always take care of us. You like, the man of the year.”

Her lashes fluttered.

You blinked. Sat up.

Reality sobered fast.

You turned your head real slow, like your drunk brain needed to process what you just saw.

“…Excuse me?”

She giggled. “I was just sayin—”

“No, say it again,” you snapped, sitting all the way up now, flipping your hair over your shoulder like a war move. “Say it a-fucking-gain.”

The girls in the back went feral.

“Wait, wait wait—babe—”

“Nuh uh—don’t start—”

“She didn’t mean it like that!!”

Meanwhile Connie?

He kept driving. Calm. Eyes on the road, lips pressed together in that tight “here we go” line.

“You’re drunk,” one girl whispered, trying to gently pull you back into the seat.

“And she’s too friendly.” You pointed straight at her, finger wobbling slightly from the buzz. “Back up off my man.”

“She was joking!!”

“No the fuck she wasn’t!” you barked, trying to climb into the back seat like a beautiful, violent cat.

And that’s when Connie hit the brakes. Pulled over with one smooth swerve, like God himself had tapped him on the shoulder and said “fix it, king.”

The girls squealed.

“OHHHHH SHIT—”

He shifted into park, exhaled real deep through his nose, and turned the music off.

Silence. Grave silence.

Then he turned toward all of you.

“EVERYBODY. Chill the fuck out.”

Even drunk, the way his voice cut through the air?

“Y/N, sit your pretty ass back,” he said, tapping your thigh firmly. “You too fine to be actin’ like that.”

You blinked at him, still heated. “But Connie—”

“She drunk,” he cut you off calmly. “And you drunker. Stop fighting for a man who already told you he yours ten times tonight.”

That should’ve calmed you. But he leaned in closer, fingers under your chin, tilting your head just enough to make your breath catch.

“Act like it, baby.”

You finally sat back, arms crossed, lips pursed—quiet now but still glaring daggers at the girl behind you.

The backseat was silent.

Then one girl muttered, “…Can we get McDonald’s?”

Connie dragged a hand down his face and started driving again, muttering in Spanish under his breath like a man being tested by every known element.

The girls were still buzzed and reeling from the whole parking lot showdown when Connie finally merged back onto the street, windows cracked, music back on low.

And then—

“Connieee,” one of the girls pouted from the backseat. “Can we pleaaaase stop at McDonald’s?”

“Y’all just almost boxed in the car and now y’all want Happy Meals?” he said with a laugh, glancing at you out the corner of his eye.

“Yes! I want a McFlurry!”

You huffed beside him. Still mad. Still arms crossed, still not talking to the girl who’d dared get too friendly with your man earlier. You were petty and passionate, and that was a dangerous mix—especially with Casamigos in your veins.

But Connie?

Still relaxed. Still driving with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh. Calm like always, as if the car hadn’t turned into Real Housewives meets Fast & Furious fifteen minutes ago.

He hit the drive-thru like nothing happened.

“Lemme get two McFlurries, a ten piece, two fries, a strawberry milkshake, and—” he looked over at you, “…you want somethin’ else?”

You didn’t answer. Just sucked your teeth, chin turned toward the window like the softest storm cloud alive.

The girl in question tried to giggle again from the back.

And you?

You shot her a look so sharp one of the girls literally said, “Whew.”

“Y/N.” Connie said your name low.

You turned with the fakest smile alive. “What?”

He just shook his head, tapping your thigh. “You bein’ extra.”

“Good.”

And still—when he passed you the strawberry milkshake through the bag, you took it with a lil attitude, straw already going to your lips. Two sips in, and the corner of your mouth was twitching like you wanted to smile but couldn’t let go of the pettiness just yet.

Connie rolled his eyes, pulled up to the next window, and put the car in park.

Brrrrr. Brrrrr.

His phone buzzed. Group call from the boys.

“Yo,” he answered, smirking.

You stared straight ahead, sipping slow and petty.

“Tell me why these drunk ass girls almost turned my backseat into UFC.” He was laughing now, retelling the story while holding your hand. “Nah, Y/N tried to crawl over the seat. Talking bout ‘say it again.’ Bro, she was ready to fight in heels.”

You glanced over, mouth full of fries. “You really on the phone gossiping like a bitch right now?”

He just chuckled, leaned over, kissed your shoulder. “You lucky you cute.”

By the time you hit the last girl’s apartment, the car was full of trash, empty fry boxes, one lost heel, and the smell of perfume and nugget grease. The girls were giggling and waving out the window.

“Byeee Connie! Love youuuu!”

“Thanks Uber daddy!”

You gave that one a side-eye that could melt plastic.

“Stop looking at her like that,” Connie murmured, finally turning onto your street. “You got your lil milkshake and now you wanna keep beefin’?”

“I’m just sayin’—”

“Mami.” His voice cut smooth, deep, and calm. “You mine. That’s it. She could’ve bat her lashes ‘til they flew off, I wouldn’t even blink.”

You blinked. “…You sure?”

He pulled into the driveway, engine still running, leaned over to cup your jaw with one hand.

“You really need me to say it again?” he asked, eyes soft but serious. “You my girl. You’re the only one I want all up on me. You actin’ like I don’t show you that every day.”

Your bottom lip popped out in a pout, milkshake still cold in your lap. “Okay… I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

He kissed the tip of your nose.

Upstairs, you were barely walking straight—both from the drinks and from how sore you still were from earlier. You plopped down in bed while Connie pulled off your heels for you.

Then he helped you out of your jeans, wiped the corner of your mouth with a warm towel from the bathroom, took your lashes off like a pro, and rubbed lotion into your legs slow and quiet.

He finally tucked you in, shirtless, chain glinting as he leaned down and kissed your forehead.

“Next time?” he whispered. “No more jealous tantrums.”

“But—”

“Just let me handle it, aight? You my baby. Ain’t nobody else even in the running.”

You nodded into the pillow, heart melty, lashes heavy, already drifting.

“Say it again,” you mumbled sleepily.

He smiled, fingers brushing down your arm.

“You. My. Girl.”

Another kiss.

“Now go to sleep, dramática.”

Your brain was mush.

Mouth dry.

Body achy in that why did I drink like I didn’t have a man who punishes me for acting up kind of way.

You blinked awake slowly, lashes fluttering against a warm pillow that definitely smelled like him — woodsy and clean with a hint of weed smoke. You weren’t even sure when or how you got into bed last night.

And from the kitchen?

Aventura.

“Obsesión” echoing through the apartment like it was 2004 and your man was about to dramatically spin you into a kiss mid-mangu stir.

The smell of fried salami and onions pulled you further from death.

You sat up slowly, wincing a little—legs sore, feet more sore, pride the sorest of all.

Your voice cracked when you called, “Connieee…”

“You up?” he yelled back, over Romeo Santos’ high notes. “Bout damn time!”

You shuffled to the doorway, squinting into the bright kitchen like a raccoon in daylight.

There he was.

Shirtless, of course.

Basketball shorts riding low on his hips.

Chain swaying while he flipped bacon in the skillet and stirred a steaming bowl of mangú with a wooden spoon.

Tattooed arm resting casually on the counter as he tasted it with his finger, nodded in approval, then spotted you.

“Well, well, well…” he grinned, voice all teasing and smooth. “If it ain’t Miss Don’t Look At My Man.”

You groaned, flopping onto the counter stool. “Don’t start.”

He slid a cup of cold water in front of you. “You already started last night.”

You sipped it like a guilty gremlin. “She was flirting.”

“She was drunk.”

“I was drunker, and I wasn’t flirting!”

Connie chuckled, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “Exactly why you sittin’ here in my tee lookin’ like last night’s problem.”

You squinted up at him. “You still mad?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Nah. I thought it was cute. You was tryna fight with fries in your lap.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled a little.

He came around the island and stood between your legs, hands resting on your thighs. You wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your face in his stomach like a brat seeking forgiveness.

“I love you,” you mumbled.

“I know you do, mami. You just dramatic when you drunk.” He kissed your cheek. “But don’t ever doubt who I want. Aight?”

You nodded into his skin.

“Now eat this food before you pass out again.”

He placed a plate in front of you stacked with mangú, fried cheese, salami, bacon, and pickled onions. A hangover miracle.

You looked up at him, smug now. “You’re obsessed with me.”

He leaned down, kissed your lips slow.

“Mami, I made you breakfast to the soundtrack of Aventura. That shoulda told you everything.”

[ibuprofein]

F2L! Connie x Reader

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

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

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

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

You did that.

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

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

you rlly back for good?? 👀

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

they all lowkey been asking bout you.

You grinned at that. Of course they were.

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

He leans against the doorframe, just… grinning.

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

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

“And you still got that big ass head.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You haven’t changed,” you murmur.

He glances at you.

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

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

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

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

“What were you gonna tell me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Connie…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come over.”

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

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

Your heart stutters. “What should I bring?”

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

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

You almost second-guessed the outfit.

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

So you did. 

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

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

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

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

“Nah. Don’t even play like that.”

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

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

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

“I’m nosy.”

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

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

You turn to him. “This?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Connie—oh fuck—”

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

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

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

“Connie—I’m gonna—f-fuck—”

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

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

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

“God—Connie—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you cry, “yes—please—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Where you goin’?”

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

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

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

The sight of him like that in daylight? 

Made your thighs clench and pussy pulse.

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

“I don’t have my stuff here.”

“You have me here.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Close my door.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at the screen.

U still thinking about me?

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

Buzz.

cause i’m thinking about you

specifically… how u sounded last night

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

Buzz.

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

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

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

Buzz.

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

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

Buzz.

You can’t help it—you check again.

bet u already wet thinkin about it.

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

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

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

you’re gonna make me mess up my clients.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And somehow… it still feels like you two.

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

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

“Like you’re up to something.”

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

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

“You mean about dating?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ibuprofein]

pleaseeeeee i beg of you the song feel good by clara la san, i need a fic with connie or ony (HELL DO BOTH) with that vibe make it angsty slutty and smutty. thank youuuu🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

sneaky links! ony & connie x reader

↳ ❝ { Connie doesn’t seem to take you serious no matter how many hints you throw his way. His “homeboy” on the other hand is most definitely interested in you and he makes it very well known. } ¡! ❞

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You’d stopped checking for Connie a while ago.

All the subtle hints, the late-night “wyd?” texts, the way you’d let your fingers linger on his arm like you were trying to tell him something without saying it… he’d never picked up on it. Or maybe he just didn’t care to. Either way, you were done.

You were scrolling through Instagram when you saw Connie’s story—laughing, posted up with a tall, deep warm brown skinned guy you’d never seen before. The mutual tag said Onyankopon. Your thumb hovered for a second before tapping.

His page was… yeah. He had that quiet confidence in every picture—tattoos peeking from his sleeves, clean fade, rings catching the light, the stones from his grillz flashing in a couple posts where he wasn’t even trying to smile. And something about the way he looked into the camera… like he knew people were looking and didn’t mind.

You hit follow. It’s not like you and Connie were together anyways. It took less than ten minutes for him to follow back and slide into your DMs.

u friends with con?

 something like that.

mhm. u cute tho. im tryna see you in real life, not just on the feed.

already?

already. I’m a quick learner.

The street was quiet when he pulled up, bass low and steady under the hum of his engine. His car looked just as clean as he did—black on black, the shine catching the glow of the streetlights. He leaned over to push the door open for you.

You slid in, the faint smell of cologne and bud wrapping around you instantly. He was in a fitted black tee, gold rings glinting as he passed you the blunt like he’d been waiting to.

“First hit’s yours ma” he said, his voice smooth enough to make your fingers pause mid-reach.

You took it, inhaling slow, trying not to stare but… he was already looking at you. That heavy, unbothered gaze that made you want to look anywhere but his eyes—and made you want to keep looking at the same time.

“So…” he leaned back in the seat, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping his ring against his thigh. “You and conman a thing?” You exhaled, watching the smoke curl toward the roof. “Not really.”

His mouth quirked, grillz catching the dim light. “Not really,” he repeated, like he didn’t believe you but wasn’t about to press it. “Good.”

The silence after that wasn’t awkward—it was charged. You passed the blunt back, and his fingers brushed yours just long enough to make your pulse jump.

“You shy?” he asked suddenly, eyes on you in a way that made your stomach tighten. “I’m not shy.”

“Mhm.” He smirked, bringing the blunt to his lips, taking a slow drag without looking away. “You just ain’t used to somebody actually lookin’ at you like they want you.” You swallowed, biting back a smile. “And you do?”

He chuckled low, leaning in just slightly, his cologne hitting you again. “Ma, I pulled up, didn’t I?”

The song playing in the background shifted into something softer, the bass melting into the air between you. You looked away first, cheeks warm, pretending to focus on the street outside while he watched you like he had all night.

The blunt burned down to a roach, and Ony flicked it neatly out the window before glancing at you again. “Wanna ride with me for a bit?” You shrugged, casual. “Where we goin’?”

He grinned, turning the key just enough for the engine’s rumble to deepen. “Wherever I feel like drivin’.”

As he drove, the city slid by in streaks of gold and red from the streetlights. One hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the console between you, he drove like he owned the night—slow, deliberate turns, bass low enough to feel in your chest.

Every so often, his pinky brushed your thigh when he shifted his hand. At first, you thought it was an accident. The third time, you weren’t so sure. “You look good in this light,” he said suddenly, eyes still on the road but voice dropping low.

You smirked, half-turning toward him. “What light?” 

“This one,” he nodded toward the glow spilling in through the windshield. “The one that’s hittin’ your skin right now. Got me feelin’ like I should pull over just to keep lookin’.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were glad the streetlight shadows hid the way your lips curved.

When you glanced over, his jaw was tight, the fade clean enough to catch the light when he turned his head. His rings glinted every time he flexed his fingers on the wheel. You couldn’t tell if it was the weed or him, but your stomach felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

By the time he pulled into the underground garage, your heart was already pacing ahead of you. He parked, cut the engine, and just sat there for a second—looking at you again, that same unhurried stare that made it feel like he was reading something you hadn’t said out loud.

“You comin’ up?” he asked, like he already knew the answer.

The elevator ride was quiet, except for the soft hum of the cables and the sound of your own pulse.

His place smelled faintly of sage and the same cologne he wore. He didn’t bother turning on the bright lights, just let the glow from the kitchen spill across the open space.

You barely had time to take in the view before he stepped closer, his hand sliding under your chin to tilt your face up. “You been actin’ shy all night,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Still shy now?”

You didn’t answer, not in words. His lips brushed yours once, slow, then again with more weight—his hand cupping the side of your neck, thumb grazing just under your jaw. You tasted the faint trace of smoke on him, felt the cool press of his rings against your skin as the kiss deepened.

Somewhere between the couch and the hallway, your back met the wall, his body leaning into yours just enough to make your breath hitch. His grillz caught on your bottom lip for half a second before his mouth covered yours again, hungrier this time.

The air between you felt thick, like any wrong move could push you over the edge. But after a long pause, foreheads resting together, he stepped back just enough to let you breathe.

“Stay tonight,” he said. Not a question.

You ended up tangled in his sheets, the low city hum in the background.

Your phone lit up on the nightstand. A message from Connie popping up on your home screen.

you up?

You stared at it for a second, then flipped it face-down without opening it. Ony was already pulling you closer, his arm heavy around your waist.

The first thing you felt wasn’t the sunlight—it was the faint brush of lips against your shoulder.

You cracked one eye open to find Ony propped on one elbow beside you, waves still catching the light in soft ripples.

“Mornin’, pretty,” he murmured, voice rough in that just woke up way. You groaned and pulled the covers higher. “Too early.”

“It’s not,” he chuckled, pressing another kiss—this time to your cheek, slow and warm. “Gotta get up, I got errands to run. But I’m takin’ you home first.”

“Mmm, five more minutes.”

He shook his head, smiling like you were cute but impossible. “I bet five more minutes will turn into thirty with you. C’mon… I’ll make it worth it.” He kissed the side of your neck, lingering just long enough to pull another soft sound out of you.

You finally peeked out from the covers, squinting at him. “You always this nice in the morning?”

“Nah,” he smirked, tucking a curl behind your ear. “Just with girls I like.”

That earned him a small smile from you, even as you reluctantly sat up. He watched you slide out of bed like you were worth memorizing, then grabbed his keys while you pulled on your shoes.

The morning air was cooler than you expected, and you tugged his hoodie tighter around you as you climbed into his passenger seat again. His hand automatically found your thigh, thumb brushing absently as he drove.

“You sleep good?” he asked, glancing over briefly. “Yeah,” you admitted. “Better than I have in a while.” He grinned, eyes flicking back to the road. “Good. I’m doin’ my job.” 

The ride back to your place was easy—low music, your head leaning back against the seat while his fingers tapped out the beat on the steering wheel. When he pulled up in front of your building, he put the car in park but didn’t let you reach for the handle right away.

Instead, he leaned over, his hand catching your jaw gently. “Lemme see somethin’,” he said softly, before pressing his lips to yours.

The kiss was unhurried—warm, familiar even though it was still new. When he pulled back, his thumb grazed the corner of your mouth. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

You nodded. “Promise?”

He smirked, leaning in for one more quick kiss. “Promise.”

You climbed out, glancing back once to see him still watching you from the driver’s seat. Only when you’d walked up the stairs out of his sight did he finally pull off, the hum of his engine fading down the street.

You were halfway to unlocking your building when a voice cut in behind you.

“Yo.”

You turned, heartbeat skipping.

Connie was posted up against the side railing, hoodie pulled low, hands stuffed in his pockets like he’d been there a while.

“You just get home?” he asked, pushing off the rail.

“Yeah.” His eyes dragged down your frame, catching on the oversized black hoodie swallowing your shape—Ony’s hoodie. His gaze narrowed for a second before smoothing over. “That new?”

“Mhm.” You didn’t give him more than that, fumbling for your keys.

Instead of letting you slip inside, he followed you up the short steps, leaning against the doorframe. “Damn, can’t even get a good morning? Been a minute, you know. I missed you.” The words rolled off his tongue in that casual, confident way he always used, but they didn’t hit the same.

“You good?” he asked when you didn’t answer right away, tilting his head. “Yeah, just tired,” you said, eyes flicking away from him.

He smirked, stepping closer, his hands finding your waist like it was muscle memory. “Tired, huh? Let me fix that.” He leaned in, catching your mouth in a quick kiss.

But it felt different—lighter, emptier. His lips were warm, familiar, but there was no pull, no slow-burn spark crawling up your spine like there had been with Ony just minutes ago. When he pulled back, he grinned like nothing was off. “See? Better already.”

You forced a little smile, even though your mind was replaying the way Ony’s thumb had rested under your jaw, the way he’d looked at you like he had all the time in the world.

Connie stayed in your space, brushing his thumb along your hip. “We should chill later. I’ll come by, bring some food, maybe watch somethin’.”

You hummed noncommittally, unlocking the door. “I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t leave me hangin’,” he teased, dropping one more quick kiss to your cheek before stepping back.

Inside, the door shut between you, you leaned against it for a second, taking a deep breath and breathing in the cologne still clinging to his hoodie.

You stayed leaning against the door for a moment after Connie’s footsteps faded down the hall, fingers twisting at the hem of the hoodie. His scent still in your nose, warm and grounding, and it made the kiss you’d just gotten feel even more hollow.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

u make it inside okay?

You bit your lip, already typing back.

yeah, just got in

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

good. was thinkin bout you already.

You stared at the screen, your stomach flipping in a way it never did with Connie.

already?

already. don’t act surprised, ma.

You couldn’t help the small smile that crept across your face as you read it, thumb brushing over the fabric of his hoodie.

u smell like me right now, huh?

Your heart skipped.

maybe.

ain’t no maybe. you was all up on me last night.

Connie’s kiss was already fading from your mind, replaced by the heat in Ony’s words and the memory of his hand on your jaw.

You didn’t reply right away—you just let his last message sit there, knowing you’d be thinking about it all day.

You were curled up on your bed when the vibration of your phone lit the screen.

outside.

You slid on your house shoes, tugged your sweats lower on your hips just enough to be comfortable, and smoothed your fitted white ribbed wife beater. The cool air met your skin as you stepped out the front door, and there he was—leaned against the hood of his car, hoodie up, one hand in his pocket, the other twirling his keys.

His gaze traveled down and back up at a pace that made you want to look away. “Look at you,” he said, lips tugging into a slow grin. “Tryna distract me before we even get in the car.”

You smirked, walking past him toward the passenger side. “Or maybe I just dress like this at home.”

“Mhm.” He opened the door for you, his eyes following the way you climbed in before shutting it.

The hum of the engine and the low bass from the speakers filled the silence at first. Ony drove with one hand, his other resting on the console, close enough that the back of his fingers brushed your thigh when he shifted gears.

He glanced over briefly. “So… Con still around?”

You raised a brow. “What makes you ask that?”

He kept his eyes on the road, but his jaw flexed slightly. “Just seen his car parked this morning when I was leaving.”

You exhaled, looking out the window. “He popped up right after you dropped me off. Didn’t ask questions, though.”

Ony’s hand finally settled fully on your thigh, his thumb tracing small, lazy circles. “Good. Don’t want him thinkin’ he still got a lane.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “You sound a little possessive for someone I’ve known… what? Two days?”

He smiled without looking at you. “Maybe. Or maybe I just know when I want somethin’.”

The way he said it—low, unbothered—made your stomach tighten. You didn’t answer, just let the music and the steady weight of his hand fill the space between you until he pulled into his garage.

His apartment smelled faintly of sage as always and fresh laundry. He dropped his keys on the counter, then nodded toward the sliding doors. “C’mon. Better view out here.”

The night air was cooler on the balcony, the city lights stretching out in every direction. Ony lit the blunt that you didn’t even notice sat behind his ear, the flame briefly casting gold over the sharp lines of his jaw before he passed it to you.

You took a drag, exhaling into the dark. “Told you—Connie’s been around. But it’s… different now.”

Ony’s arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer until your hip rested against his. “Different’s good. Means I don’t gotta worry about him in my way.”

You tilted your head to look up at him, smoke curling between you. “In your way for what?”

His grillz caught the faint glow from the city. “You already know.”

The smoke had thinned into the night air, the city hum low beneath the apartment building. You were curled against Ony’s side in his chair, your legs draped over his lap, hoodie hood up against the faint chill, but the warmth radiating off him made the breeze irrelevant.

You were mid-laugh at something he’d just said, lips parting to reply—when his hand slid up the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate, calloused fingers brushing over the thin cotton of your sweats.

Your voice caught. “Ony…”

“Mhm?” His tone was lazy, but his eyes were locked on you, hooded and steady. The faint glow from the apartment cast his waves in shadowed ripples, the white glint of his grill catching as he smirked.

“You know people can see out here, right?” you murmured, glancing to the street far below.

He leaned in until you could smell the faint smoke on his breath, the heavy note of his cologne wrapping around you. “Ain’t nobody lookin’ this high up,” he said, low and certain. “And even if they were…” His fingers tugged at your waistband, letting it snap back gently. “You mine right now.”

It had been two days. You should’ve laughed it off. Instead, heat curled low in your stomach.

Before you could answer, his lips were on yours—warm, insistent, tasting faintly of sweet smoke. His rings were cold against your skin as he cupped your jaw, thumb stroking along your cheekbone. The other hand slid further up, under the hem of your wife beater, palm flattening against your ribs until his thumb brushed the underside of your breast.

You broke the kiss on a shaky breath. “We—”

“Shhh.” He was already easing your sweats down your hips, his mouth dragging along your neck, sucking lightly just below your ear. The cool night air hit your bare skin, and you bit your lip, casting one more glance toward the street.

Your protest dissolved when his fingers found you through your panties, rubbing slow, teasing circles until your hips moved without thinking.

He chuckled against your skin. “That’s it, mama.”

By the time he pushed the fabric aside, you were trembling, your fingers curling into his hoodie as the quiet city noise became background to your own shallow breathing. His touch was firm, sure, until you were gasping into his shoulder.

“C’mon, sit on me,” he said, voice rough. You blinked at him, but he was already pulling you up, settling you astride his lap. His sweatpants were low, his cock hard and hot against you through the thin barrier of your underwear.

Your heart pounded—half from adrenaline, half from him. “Ony…”

“I got you.” He kept his eyes on yours while pulling your panties to the side and guiding himself into you, the stretch pulling a soft moan from your throat. His grip on your hips tightened, holding you still for a moment so you could adjust, then rolling his own hips upward in a slow grind.

The breeze lifted your hair, the city still sprawled out in front of you, but all you could feel was him—deep, steady, filling you. You clung to his shoulders, burying your face in his neck when he hit that spot that made your thighs shake.

“Look at me,” he murmured, and when you obeyed, his gaze burned hotter than the night air. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about you since yesterday. Connie ain’t do this to you.”

Your breath stuttered, his name slipping from your lips with every movement. He pulled you closer, the sound of skin against skin muffled by the night, his pace picking up just enough to have you biting your lip to keep quiet.

“You gonna keep runnin’ to me now?” he asked, almost a growl, and you could only nod, the knot in your stomach tightening until it snapped, pleasure flooding through you as you came against him.

He followed a heartbeat later, pulling you tight against him, his breath warm in your ear as he muttered, “Good girl mamas…stay right here with me.”

The two of you stayed like that, tangled and breathless, the city below still moving on, completely unaware.

Once you went inside, the door clicked softly behind you as Ony guided you around, arms wrapped steady around your waist. The chill from the balcony vanished beneath the warmth pooling in your chest—and in his steady, protective hold.

He didn’t rush to get the moment over with. Instead, he slid off your sweats with gentle fingers, his touch slow like he was memorizing every curve and line. You felt his breath hitch when he traced the marks your skin left on his palms.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmured, leading you to the bathroom. The water was warm and soothing, running over your skin as he washed away the night’s heat with tender hands and soft kisses to your neck and collarbone.

Back in the bedroom, he slipped out of his clothes while you pulled on one of his oversized tees, the fabric soft and smelling like him. You crawled into bed beside him, and he pulled you close, fingers tangling in your hair.

“Sleeping is so peaceful with you,” he whispered, voice thick with tiredness.

You traced lazy circles on his chest, your eyes heavy but your heart wide awake. “You’re the peace.”

He kissed the top of your head, his warmth folding around you like a shield. Inch by inch, your breathing synchronized until his lips parted in soft, even breaths against your skin.

Buzz

Your phone lit up on the nightstand. The screen showed Connie’s name, and your heart tightened despite yourself.

You picked it up, thumb hovering over the green answer button.

After a breath, you declined the call.

why you been ignore me?

not ignoring.… not ready to talk.

u with him, huh?

it’s not like that

then what? i just seen you on his story. what am I supposed to think?

i’m done trying to make something out of nothing with you.

ur making it something now. imma come over tomorrow. need to talk. no running.

You stared at the screen, the weight of his words settling over you like a storm you couldn’t quite avoid.

The afternoon sun spilled through your windows, casting long shadows across the living room. You were curled on the couch in comfy clothes, mind still tangled in last night’s chaos, when a sharp knock echoed through the apartment.

Your heart sank before you even looked—because you knew exactly who it was.

You opened the door, and there he was—Connie. Hoodie up, eyes intense, a hard edge to his smile that said he wasn’t here to play nice.

“Hey,” he said, stepping inside without waiting. “We need to talk.”

You crossed your arms, blocking the doorway. “About what?”

His gaze flicked to the hoodie you were wearing—Ony’s hoodie again. “Don’t play dumb. I know you’re with him.”

You bit your lip. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated ain’t good enough.” He took a step closer, voice low. “I’m the one who knows how to make you feel good. Better than Ony ever could.”

You swallowed, the heat from his words and presence twisting inside you in a way you hadn’t felt since the night before.

Connie reached out, fingers brushing your jaw softly—almost tender, but with a claim that left no room for argument.

“You wanna prove me wrong?” he asked, voice thick with challenge.

Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours—urgent, fierce. Your defenses crumbled in the warmth of the kiss, his hands sliding down your sides, pulling you flush against him.

His lips moved over yours with desperate need, and you found yourself matching his intensity, the complicated ache of the moment washing over you.

His hands roamed beneath your shirt, fingers tracing patterns that set your skin on fire, making your breath hitch.

For a few stolen minutes, the world outside your apartment disappeared—there was only the heat between you and him, the unspoken challenge, and the undeniable pull you couldn’t resist.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, Connie’s eyes searched yours.

“You sure about this?”

You nodded slowly, heart pounding.

“Good,” he said with a smirk, capturing your lips again—this time slower, softer, but no less electric.

The moment his lips pressed against yours, your mind screamed don’t, but your body betrayed you, melting into the heat of the kiss like it was the only thing that mattered.

Connie’s hands were everywhere—sliding under your shirt, skimming over skin that still tingled from Ony’s touch, sending a confusing jolt through you.

A small voice in your head whispered that this was wrong, that last night with Ony still burned fresh beneath your skin.

But then Connie’s mouth trailed down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, and the tension that had been knotting your stomach twisted into something almost unbearable.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer even as your heart clenched with the weight of betrayal.

“You like that?” His voice was rough, teasing, but underneath it was something softer—wanting, maybe even regret.

You swallowed hard, biting your lip to keep from crying out. “…yes.”

He smiled against your skin, lips warm and demanding. “You gonna let me make you feel better? Show you what you’re missin’?”

The shame flickered sharp, but so did the desperate craving.

As his hands slid lower, tracing the curve of your hips, the breath caught in your throat wasn’t just from pleasure—it was from the overwhelming flood of everything tangled up inside you.

You closed your eyes, surrendering to the moment even as a part of you screamed for more—more honesty, more clarity, more something real.

But right now, there was only Connie, and the complicated way he was making you feel alive in the dark.

The moment the door clicked softly behind Connie, the apartment suddenly feeling colder, emptier.

You sank down onto the couch, fingers trembling as you pulled Ony’s hoodie tighter around yourself. The scent clung to the fabric, a sharp contrast to the lingering warmth inside your skin—the heat you still felt from Connie’s touch.

Your heart raced, but it wasn’t just from desire. It was confusion, guilt twisting around the pleasure like a knot you couldn’t undo.

Why did I let it happen?

Your mind replayed the moments—the way Connie’s hands had moved, how his lips had felt on yours, the desperate edge beneath his teasing voice. You hadn’t meant for it to go this far.

But now, as the quiet settled in, the weight of it all pressed down.

You closed your eyes, trying to separate the memories—Ony’s soft and possessive care versus Connie’s chaotic pull.

Your breath hitched as your fingers traced over the hoodie’s fabric, remembering Ony’s promise, the way he’d looked at you like you were something rare, something worth holding onto.

And yet, here you were, caught between two worlds, neither one giving you the peace you craved.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes—not because you regretted the pleasure, but because you didn’t know how to choose, didn’t know how to stop the pull that both of them had on your heart.

You buried your face in your hands, the silence stretching out, heavy and endless.

[ibuprofein]

i am reblogging all of my old fics that i find so if you happen to have one i have not reposted that would be amazing if you guys could let me know ! 😩🫶🏽 I will tag all those reblogs with #old fics !

[ibuprofein]

rebel! choso x neighbor! reader

↳ ❝ {You cannot stand your neighbor who lacks basic neighbor etiquette. After so many nights of putting up with Choso’s late night rowdiness, you decide to knock on his door. Choso opening his door not only opens up a newfound attraction but opens a door to a late night rendezvous. } ¡! ❞

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Your hallway always smelled like him.

Well, technically, it smelled like weed — strong, skunky, and a little sweet at the end — but you’d been living next to Choso Kamo long enough to know he was the source. It clung to the air late at night, seeping through the thin crack under your front door, wrapping itself around your bedtime routine like a stubborn fog.

You weren’t sure when you’d first noticed him — maybe the week you moved in, dragging your boxes past his door just as he came strolling out with a hood over his head, cigarette in one hand and heavy-lidded eyes that flicked lazily in your direction before moving on.

You weren’t his type. You knew that from the jump.

Your lace-trimmed pajama shorts and neatly braided hair were nothing like the girls who leaned against his doorway — highlighter on their cheeks, short skirts, acrylic nails drumming against their phones while they waited for him to let them in.

And then there were the nights.

Like tonight.

It was past midnight and you’d been trying to focus on your book, a clean candle burning beside you to combat the smell wafting in from the vent. You told yourself you weren’t listening, you weren’t, but the faint creak of his bed frame had already started. The steady rhythm against your shared wall. The low, muffled laugh that wasn’t his. The breathy sound of a woman’s voice that made heat crawl up your neck, shame and curiosity twisting in your stomach until you rolled over and stuffed your pillow against your head.

You didn’t hate him — you barely knew him — but every late-night reminder of what was happening on the other side of your wall made your heart race in ways you didn’t want to admit.

The first time you ran into him like that was two months ago. You’d just gotten home from a long shift at the bookstore, juggling your bag and a paper cup of tea when his door opened. A girl stepped out first, tugging her too-short dress into place, lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth. She barely glanced at you as she brushed past.

Then he followed.

Hair loose around his face, black sweatpants riding low, a plain hoodie unzipped just enough for you to catch the lines of ink on his chest. He smelled like smoke and cologne, his gaze lazily sweeping you up and down before his mouth tilted in the faintest smirk.

“Hey, neighbor.”

His voice was low, scratchy, the kind that made you feel like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

You mumbled a hello and ducked into your apartment before your pulse could embarrass you.

The thing was — it kept happening.

Different girls, same lazy smirk, same smoky scent. And every time you told yourself you didn’t care, that you were the kind of girl who minded her own business, not the kind who lingered in her kitchen pretending to look for tea just to catch the sound of his door opening.

But lately, you weren’t so sure you believed yourself.

It was 1:43 AM the next morning, and you had officially hit your breaking point.

The bassy thump of his headboard had been going for ten solid minutes, occasionally punctuated by a muffled laugh or a sharp gasp from the other side of your wall. You had tried your pillow. You had tried white noise on your phone. You had even tried sheer denial.

But when the bedframe slammed again, hard enough that the picture frame above your desk rattled, you snapped.

You didn’t even change out of your tank top and sleep shorts — you just shoved your feet into slippers and stomped out into the hallway.

When you knocked, the smell of smoke and something heady and sweet rolled from his apartment. The music was low, but you could hear the faint giggle of whoever was inside with him.

The door swung open, and there he was.

Choso leaned lazily against the frame, hair loose and messy around his face, pants hanging off his hips, a glint of silver at his ear catching the dim hallway light. His eyes moved slowly — from your flushed cheeks down to your bare legs, back up again — before a crooked smirk tugged at his lips.

“Hey, neighbor,” he drawled, voice rough with that post-smoke rasp. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You crossed your arms tight over your chest. “Not when it sounds like you’re trying to break my damn wall down.”

His brows lifted a fraction, clearly not expecting the bite in your tone.

“You know,” you added, tilting your head, “most people go to hotels for… that. Especially when their beds have the stability of a dollar store lawn chair.”

That got him. The smirk faltered into something closer to surprise before his mouth twitched again, like he was fighting a laugh.

“You got some attitude tonight,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing just a little, like he was reassessing you. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Yeah, well,” you shot back, already stepping away, “I’m full of surprises. Now keep it down before I call the landlord.”

You didn’t wait for his answer, just turned and headed back toward your apartment, heart thudding for reasons you didn’t want to unpack.

You could still feel his gaze on you, heavy and lingering, all the way until your door clicked shut.

And that night — for the first time in weeks — the wall stayed quiet.

The next day, you told yourself you weren’t going to think about it.

You had coffee in one hand, tote bag on your shoulder, and your braids put into a ponytail with a few framing your face. Fresh lip gloss, cardigan halfway buttoned, heels clicking steadily against the hallway floor — you were the picture of composure.

Until you heard his door open.

You didn’t even look at first, just kept walking, praying he’d be too groggy to notice you. But Choso didn’t do groggy the way normal people did. He was leaning in his doorway like he had all the time in the world, white wife beater and hair still messy from sleep.

“Morning, neighbor,” he said, voice low and husky in that just-woke-up way that made your stomach flip.

You gave a polite little nod. “Morning.”

You should’ve kept going.

But then he straightened, stepping fully into the hall, and the smirk was back.

“Quiet night, huh?” His tone was deliberately slow, dragging over the words like he wanted you to hear every syllable. “Guess I should thank you for… keeping me in check.”

Your step faltered. “I wasn’t—”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “You were cute, though. Marching over here in those little shorts. All worked up.” He let out a low chuckle, the sound curling warm and mocking at the edges. “Didn’t think you could talk to me like that.”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “I was tired.”

“Mm,” he hummed, leaning one shoulder against the wall, blocking part of the hallway just enough to make you slow down. “If you wanted my attention, you could’ve just knocked during the day.”

You tried to brush past, but his voice followed you, deeper now, almost under his breath:

“Careful, princess. If you keep knocking like that… one of these nights, I might just invite you in instead.”

Your coffee suddenly felt way too hot in your hand. You didn’t look back, didn’t trust yourself to. But you could feel him watching you until the elevator doors closed — and the worst part was, you weren’t entirely sure if you were hoping he was joking.

Saturday afternoon was supposed to be simple. Just a quick run to the corner store for oat milk and snacks. You hadn’t bothered to dress up — a white baby tee that clung to your chest, cotton shorts that barely touched the bottom of your cheeks, bunny slippers padding against the hall carpet. Your boho braids and curls framed your face messily, a few strands brushing your glossed lips as you tugged your tote over your shoulder.

It wasn’t supposed to matter. Nobody important ever saw you like this. Until you turned the corner and nearly ran right into him.

Choso was leaning against the wall by the elevator, a dark tee and sweatpants low on his hips. A beanie slouched over his long hair, but a few strands had fallen out, framing his face. He looked up at the sound of your slippers shuffling, and the lazy smirk spread instantly.

“Well, well.” His eyes swept over you, deliberately slow, lingering on your bare legs before climbing back up. “Didn’t know my neighbor dressed like that when she isn’t busy scolding me.”

You crossed your arms quickly over your chest, shifting the tote higher on your shoulder. “I wasn’t— this is just— I’m running errands.”

“In bunny slippers?” His voice dropped, teasing and low. “Cute.”

You tried to roll your eyes, pressing the elevator button without meeting his gaze. The doors slid open, and you slipped inside quickly, but of course, he followed.

The elevator jerked once, began its slow descent — then suddenly groaned to a stop between floors, lights flickering overhead.

Your stomach dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Choso’s chuckle filled the small space. “Guess it’s just you and me, princess.”

You tried the emergency button, continuously tapping it like it would magically fix things, but the only result was the soft creak of the elevator walls. Finally, you exhaled, leaning back against the rail.

“Great,” you muttered. “Stuck in an elevator dressed like this.”

Choso’s gaze slid over you again, darker this time, more assessing than mocking. “Could be worse. I’m not complaining.”

You shot him a glare, heat crawling up your neck. “You’re impossible.”

He pushed off the wall, closing some of the distance in the cramped space. Not enough to touch, but enough that you felt him — the faint smoke still clinging to his shirt, the warmth radiating off his skin.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you’re kinda funny when you get mad at me. All that attitude in your little baby tee.” His lips quirked. “Bet you practice what you’re gonna say before you knock on my door.”

Your mouth opened, closed. “I— I don’t—”

“Relax,” he drawled, leaning back again, though his eyes didn’t leave you. “I’m teasing.” A beat passed, then softer, “But I like it. Means you’re not afraid of me.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten. You fiddled with the hem of your shorts, then looked away. “You’re just… loud. That’s all.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head, considering you. “And yet you’re still standing here talking to me instead of hiding in your apartment.”

The elevator jolted suddenly, then hummed back to life, resuming its descent. Your heart thudded faster than the machine. As the doors dinged open at the lobby, you stepped forward quickly, but before you could walk out, his voice caught you.

“Hey.”

You turned, and Choso was watching you with that lazy-lidded focus that felt way too heavy for casual. He held his phone out, screen unlocked, contacts open.

“Since you’re so worried about the noise,” he said, lips twitching into a crooked smile, “maybe you should just text me next time instead of marching over in your slippers.”

Your first instinct was to refuse, to keep your distance. But then you saw the glint in his eyes — not mocking, not dismissive just curious and waiting.

You sighed, took the phone, and quickly typed your number in before shoving it back at him.

“Only for emergencies,” you said firmly.

“Sure,” he murmured, pocketing the phone with a smirk that told you he didn’t believe you for a second. “We’ll see.”

And as you finally walked out into the hall, cheeks hot, you realized you’d made a mistake — because for the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop wondering if he was going to use it.

The moment you settled in at home, your phone sat face-up on the couch cushion beside you like it was mocking you.

No texts. No missed calls. Nothing.

And yet your stomach twisted every time the screen lit up with a random notification, your pulse jumping as if it might be him.

You pulled your blanket tighter around your shoulders, trying to focus on the open book in your lap, but the words blurred together. All you could think about was the look in his eyes when you typed your number into his phone — heavy, unreadable, the kind of look that made your chest feel too tight.

You hadn’t meant to give it to him. Really, you hadn’t. You were supposed to be the responsible one, the quiet neighbor who minded her own business, not the girl handing out her number to the guy who reeked of weed and brought home a different girl every other night.

“What were you thinking?” you muttered, flipping the same page for the third time without actually reading it.

You weren’t sure if you were hoping he’d use it or praying he’d forget it existed. Because if he didn’t text, maybe it meant he didn’t think much of you — just another tease, just a joke. That would sting, but at least it would be safe.

But if he did text… then what?

The memory of his voice in the hall curled back in your head. Careful, princess. If you keep knocking like that… one of these nights, I might just invite you in instead.

Your thighs pressed together beneath the blanket before you could stop yourself.

You shut your book with a frustrated sigh and buried your face in your hands.

Giving him your number had been a mistake. A reckless, stupid, dangerous mistake.

It was just after midnight when your phone buzzed.

You’d been dozing, the TV playing reruns, blanket tucked under your chin. The vibration jolted you awake, and your heart lurched as you saw the screen:

U still up, princess?

You stared at it for too long, debating. You should’ve ignored it. You knew you should’ve. But your thumbs were already moving.

Don’t call me that.

A few seconds later, another bubble popped up.

Cute when u try to sound tough. Bet you’re smiling rn.

Your lips twitched in spite of yourself. You quickly typed back:

No, I’m not. Some of us actually try to sleep at night.

The typing dots flickered. Then your phone lit up again — this time with an incoming call.

Your breath caught. For a second, you hovered over Decline. But your thumb slipped to Accept before your brain could stop you.

“Hello?” you whispered.

His voice came through low, rough, like smoke over gravel. “Knew you’d pick up.”

You shifted under your blanket, heart hammering. “What do you want?”

“To hear your voice,” he said simply. There was a lazy pause, the sound of him exhaling faintly through the speaker. “Figured you’d sound cute when you’re mad. Guess I was right.”

Your throat tightened. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm,” he hummed, deep and amused. “If I’m so ridiculous, why’d you give me your number?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then shot back, “So I wouldn’t have to listen to your bedframe slamming against my wall at two in the morning.”

He chuckled, low and slow, the sound sliding right through your chest. “You sure that’s the only reason? ’Cause you could’ve just blocked the noise out… but instead, you came knocking. In those little shorts.”

Heat bloomed across your face. “That was a coincidence.”

“Yeah?” His tone dipped, soft and taunting. “Or maybe you just wanted me to notice you.”

You swallowed hard, pressing the phone tighter to your ear. “Goodnight, Choso.”

“Goodnight, princess,” he said, dragging the word out, making it sound less like a joke and more like a promise. “Sweet dreams. Don’t think about me too much.”

You hung up before he could say more, but your pulse refused to calm. And when you finally fell back against your pillows, your phone still warm in your hand, the problem wasn’t that you’d answered his call.

The problem was that he was right — you would be thinking about him all night.

You told yourself it wouldn’t be awkward.

You told yourself you’d just get dressed, grab your coffee, and pretend like you hadn’t answered his call at midnight with your heart racing the entire time.

But the universe wasn’t that kind.

The second you stepped into the hallway, locking your door behind you, his door opened too. Choso stepped out, a plain tee, hair pulled into a loose bun with a few strands falling around his face. He looked infuriatingly casual, like he hadn’t kept you awake with his voice curling into your ear hours ago.

“Morning, princess.” His tone was smooth, just the right amount of lazy drawl to make the word sit heavy between you.

You tightened your grip on your travel mug. “Don’t call me that.”

His mouth curved, slow and knowing. “Funny. Didn’t sound like you hated it last night.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly, and you turned toward the elevator without another word, heels clicking fast against the floor. But of course, his steps followed, steady and unhurried, until he was right behind you.

The elevator doors slid open, and you both stepped inside. Too close. The faint scent of smoke and cologne clung to him, settling around you like a trap.

You stared stubbornly at the glowing floor numbers. “You shouldn’t be texting people that late. Some of us actually work.”

He leaned a shoulder against the wall, watching you openly. “Worked out, though, didn’t it? Got you talking to me.”

Your pulse skipped, but you refused to look at him. “Only because you’re annoying.”

“Mm.” He let the sound drag, eyes glinting. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”

The elevator dinged at the lobby, doors sliding open, but neither of you moved for a second. His gaze held yours, steady and unreadable, until you finally broke it and stepped out.

As you adjusted your bag on your shoulder and hurried toward the glass doors, his voice followed you — low, meant only for you:

“Don’t worry, princess. I’ll let you call me annoying… for now.”

Your hand hesitated on the door handle, heat pooling deep in your stomach. You hated how much you were already waiting to see him again.

The bookstore was quiet, the way you liked it. You’d been tucked behind the circulation desk all afternoon, sorting new returns and sipping on your second coffee. It was your safe place — the one part of your life untouched by Choso’s lazy smirks, his smoke, his late-night noises.

At least, until your phone buzzed against the desk.

You glanced down, half-expecting it to be a coworker. But it wasn’t.

U at work?

You hesitated, thumb hovering. You shouldn’t encourage him. You shouldn’t even answer. But the memory of his voice last night in the elevator — don’t call me that… funny, didn’t sound like you hated it— had been gnawing at you all day.

Yeah. Why?

The typing dots appeared, disappeared, then came back.

Got some new shit rolled. Thought you might wanna try it with me. Chill for a bit.

You bit your lip. He was teasing. He had to be teasing. You’d never smoked in your life. You were the good girl neighbor who scolded him about noise, not the type he invited over.

I don’t smoke.

Didn’t say u had to. Just come over. We can talk. Or… not talk. Up to u.

You swallowed, staring at the glowing screen. Your pulse quickened. You shouldn’t. You had a stack of books waiting to be shelved, you had errands after your shift.

But your fingers moved before you could stop them.

I’ll think about it.

Don’t think too long, princess. Door’s open tonight. That offer could be taken.

You locked your phone quickly, shoving it face-down on the desk as if that could erase the heat curling in your stomach.

For the rest of your shift, every time you tried to focus on your work, your mind drifted back to him. His half-lidded gaze. The sound of his voice curling through your speaker last night. The image of his door cracked open, waiting.

And by the time you were walking home with your tote bag bouncing against your hip, you already knew. You could tell yourself it was a bad idea, that you’d regret it — but your feet slowed in front of his door anyway, heartbeat thudding in your ears.

You told yourself you were just going home.

Just going home to unwind after your shift, change into something comfortable, maybe read until you fell asleep.

But the second you stepped into your apartment and set your tote down, your eyes drifted toward the wall you shared with him. Toward the faint outline of his door through your peephole. Toward your phone, still sitting on the counter, echoing his last text in your head.

Don’t think too long, princess. Door’s open tonight. That offer could be taken.

Your stomach flipped. Reckless. That’s what this was. Completely reckless. You’d never done anything like this — walking willingly into the orbit of a man like him.

And yet, before you knew it, you were in your bedroom pulling open drawers.

You lingered over your clothes, nerves buzzing in your chest. You didn’t want to look like you were trying too hard, but you couldn’t walk in looking like you hadn’t thought about it either. Finally, you slipped on a cropped tank that hugged your body, paired with shorts that showed off your legs just enough. A thin hoodie, half-zipped, kept it casual. Sandals instead of your cute bunny slippers. A touch of gloss, your braids and curls framing your face just right.

You checked yourself in the mirror one last time. Your pulse was quick, your palms clammy, but beneath the nerves was something steadier. Confidence.

Because for once, you weren’t just the girl who hid behind her door, pretending not to hear him. You were the one choosing to cross the line.

You grabbed your phone, shoved it into your pocket before you could second-guess yourself, and stepped into the hallway. Every step toward his apartment was louder in your ears than it should’ve been — the beat of your heart, the slide of your sandals against the carpet, the knowledge that this was it.

When you finally stopped in front of his door, your hand hovered just shy of knocking. A deep breath. Then your knuckles tapped twice against the wood.

The door opened slower than you expected, smoke curling out before you even saw him. The air smelled warm and heavy, like weed mixed with faint cologne.

And there he was.

Choso leaned lazily against the frame, hoodie hanging open over a dark muscle shirt, sweatpants slung low. His hair was half-tied, a few strands falling loose around his face. His eyes slid over you in one long, unhurried sweep, and his mouth curved into that crooked smirk you’d been seeing in your head all day.

“Knew you’d come,” he said, voice low and scratchy, like gravel under smoke.

You shifted under his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin your shorts left bare. “Don’t get cocky,” you muttered, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted it to be.

He chuckled, stepping aside to let you in. “Too late.”

You crossed the threshold, and for the first time you saw his space. The apartment was dim, blinds half-drawn, lit mostly by the flicker of a TV screen and the amber glow of a lamp in the corner. The air was thick with smoke, curling lazy trails through the room. A low coffee table cluttered with rolling papers, a lighter, and half-full glasses sat in front of a sagging couch draped with a dark blanket.

It wasn’t tidy, but it was lived-in. And somehow, it felt like him — dark, careless, magnetic in a way you couldn’t ignore.

You slipped off your sandals, your pulse still unsteady, trying to keep your expression calm. “So this is where all the noise comes from.”

Choso closed the door behind you, slow, deliberate, that smirk still tugging at his mouth.

The door clicking shut behind you, a sound that made your shoulders tense before you forced them to relax. You weren’t trapped — you could leave whenever you wanted. That’s what you told yourself, even as the smoky warmth of his apartment wrapped around you and made the air feel thicker than it was.

“Sit,” Choso said casually, nodding toward the couch as he passed by you. He dropped onto it with that same loose-limbed confidence he wore everywhere, leaning back against the cushions like he owned the whole room.

You hesitated for only a second before perching at the far end of the couch, tugging your hoodie around you as if it could shield you from his eyes.

He reached for the coffee table, pulling a pack of rolling papers closer. “Want a drink?”

You shook your head quickly. “I’m fine.”

His smirk tugged wider, like he’d expected that answer. “Suit yourself.” He picked up a half-full glass, took a slow sip, then set it back down with a soft clink.

For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of the TV in the background, some late-night rerun casting shifting shadows across the room. Then his gaze cut back to you, steady and unblinking.

“So,” he said slowly, dragging the word out, “did you come here to complain about the noise again, or…?”

Your throat tightened. “I— I just came to… talk.”

“Talk,” he repeated, lips quirking. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the distance between you shrinking without him even moving closer on the couch. “About what?”

You scrambled for something safe, anything, but his eyes held you in place, heavy and knowing. The smoky air felt even thicker now, your breath shallow.

“You— you texted me,” you said finally, hating how weak it sounded.

His chuckle was low, rough. “Yeah, and you came.”

You shifted, crossing your legs tightly, your skin prickling under the weight of his gaze. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re nervous,” he countered easily, leaning back again but never looking away. His voice dipped, teasing but softer than before. “Didn’t have to say yes, princess. Could’ve stayed safe in your little apartment. But here you are.”

Your pulse thudded in your ears. You knew he was right. You’d crossed this line all on your own — he hadn’t dragged you here.

And now that you were sitting across from him, the edge of it sharp beneath your feet, you weren’t sure if you wanted to step back… or fall.

He reached for his lighter, flicked it once, the tiny flame dancing briefly in the dim room. His voice curled low through the smoke as he exhaled:

“So… what are you really looking for tonight?”

The question hung between you, heavy and dangerous, daring you to answer.

You stayed perched on the edge of the couch, hoodie tugged tighter around you as if it could be a shield against him. Every time you thought about moving closer or even letting your eyes linger on him, your pulse throbbed too fast, reminding you of exactly how dangerous “being here” felt.

Choso leaned back, arms draped over the back of the couch, legs stretched out casually. He wasn’t rushing you. He didn’t need to. Every glance he gave you, every slow smirk tugging at his lips, was enough to make your stomach twist.

The smoke hung in the air between you, curling around his frame and drifting toward you. The TV murmured in the background, but you could barely hear it over the low hum of your own heartbeat and the faint scrape of his movements across the floor.

“So…” he said, voice soft but teasing, “you just came over to sit there and stare at me? Or are you going to say something?”

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the edge of your hoodie. “I… didn’t really plan to say anything.”

“Mm,” he hummed, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, that lazy smirk never leaving. “I see. That’s your strategy, huh? Just stare until I make the first move?

You tried not to flinch. Tried not to bite back the small, nervous laugh that rose in your chest. “I—maybe I’m just… figuring you out.”

Choso tilted his head, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, scanning your face like he was reading you piece by piece. “Careful. Could be dangerous trying to figure me out, princess.”

The tension had been simmering for too long. Every glance, every inhale of the smoky apartment air, every teasing smirk between you had built to this moment. You shifted closer on the couch, your fingers brushing the fabric as if grounding yourself, every nerve alive with anticipation.

Choso leaned back casually, eyes locked on you, that crooked smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re… different up close,” he murmured, low and rough, and your pulse skipped.

“Different?” you asked, heart hammering.

“Way too tempting for someone who pretends to be the good girl next door.” His gaze roamed deliberately over your body, slow and unapologetic.

Your breath hitched, and before you knew it, he closed the gap, brushing his lips softly against yours. You froze for a heartbeat before tilting your head, deepening the kiss, feeling the heat of his mouth and the weight of his presence pressing you into the cushions.

His hands slid to your waist, tugging you closer, and the moment your body pressed fully against his, he groaned low in satisfaction. “Damn, you taste so good,” he whispered against your lips, thumbs brushing over the soft curve of your hips.

You shivered, fingers tangling in his messy hair as his mouth trailed down your neck, teeth grazing lightly, leaving a fire in their wake. “Choso…” you gasped, chest rising and falling faster, heart hammering.

He smirked against your skin. “That’s right… say my name. Let me hear you.” His hands slid under your tank, tracing your sides, cupping and squeezing, thumbs brushing over the swell of your breasts through your bra. Every touch, every deliberate stroke sent shivers through you, heat pooling lower with each second.

“You’re so… perfect for this,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes dark as he leaned closer. “So responsive… god, you like this, don’t you?”

You bit your lip, nodding slightly, voice trembling. “Yes… I—I didn’t know… I didn’t know I’d like it.”

He grinned, dark and slow, pressing firmly against you, squeezing just hard enough to make you arch into him. “Yeah, I can tell. That’s good… I like that about you.”

Choso’s hands became bolder, sliding under your shorts, brushing over your panties and pulling them to the side. Every stroke, every press of his fingers made you gasp, your hips responding instinctively. He leaned back to watch you squirm, smirk tugging his lips, voice low and teasing: “Look at you… so tight, so wet.”

You moaned softly as he shifted you slightly, one hand gripping your hip while the other moved with precision, building the fire until you were trembling. His fingers were rougher now, demanding, and yet every stroke was paired with praise, his voice low and gravelly, “That’s it… so perfect…You like this, don’t you, princess?”

You shivered, nodding, breath hitching. “Yes… more… please…”

He responded immediately, fingering you at a faster pace, rougher now, his mouth capturing yours in a demanding kiss. Every movement was intense, teasing, and intoxicating. His lips, hands, and body everywhere at once, pulling you into the rough intimacy, making you realize how much you craved it. The way he praised you, combined with the firm, commanding touch, sent a thrill through your entire body.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growled, ripping off your shorts and panties in one take. He flips you onto your hands and knees so quick you don’t even realize he’s already tugged his underwear down while you try to gain your composure. Unexpectedly but carefully thrusting into you, Chosos hands gripping your waist and thighs firmly, sending shivers and gasps spilling from you. “So responsive… god, you take it so well.”

You moaned out at the unexpected stretch, hips moving slightly against his, back pressing against his chest every brush, every press, every deliberate, rough stroke drove waves of heat through you. “I… I didn’t know I’d like this,” you gasped again, realization curling through your chest. “I—love it.”

He pressed further, the mix of praise and rough intimacy consuming you, lips grazing your jaw, hands roaming confidently, every sensation heightened. “I knew you would. That’s why I’ve been waiting for this. So good… so fucking good for me.”

You arched into him, every nerve alight, every sound spilling from your lips as he continued, guiding, pushing, praising — the intensity building until you were trembling against him, lost to the raw, delicious fire between you.

Finally, when the heat peaked and your body shuddered in release, he held you close, low grunts of satisfaction vibrating through your chest, lips brushing your lower back. “See? Told you… you’re perfect for this,” he murmured, voice rough but gentle now. 

You gasped, breath ragged, skin still tingling, and buried your face in his couch cushion, heart pounding.

The room was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the TV and your own ragged breaths. You lay half sprawled across Choso’s chest, still trembling from the intensity of what had just happened. His arms wrapped around you firmly, but not tightly enough to feel restrictive — just enough to make you melt into him.

“You okay, princess?” he murmured, voice low and soft, brushing a braid from your face.

You nodded, fingers brushing over his chest, still feeling the warmth of him beneath your touch. “Yeah… I think so,” you admitted, cheeks flushed, body still humming from the fire between you.

He smirked, one hand moving to stroke your hair gently, the other tracing lazy circles along your back. “Damn, you look good like this. Messy, flushed… mine.”

You laughed softly, a little breathless, pressing closer. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, voice teasing but protective. He dipped his head to brush his lips over yours in a soft, lingering kiss. “But I mean it. Don’t go anywhere.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly, still caught in the haze of desire and comfort. “I don’t think you’d let me… even if I wanted to.”

He chuckled, voice rumbling through you as he pulled you closer. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not letting you go anytime soon. You belong right here. Got that?”

“Yes…” you whispered, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, the smell of smoke and him wrapping around you like a cocoon.

He laughed softly at your surrender, low and warm, then lifted his head just enough to glance at your flushed face. “But don’t think you’re off the hook, princess. I’m still gonna tease you… keep you on edge… make sure you remember exactly who you belong to.”

Your breath caught, heart racing again, and a shiver ran down your spine at his words. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, half-laughing, half-gasping.

“And you love it,” he countered immediately, eyes gleaming with that familiar, dangerous spark. “Every part of you loves it.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his chest in reply, still curled into him, a small laugh escaping. The teasing was dangerous, intoxicating — but so was the way he held you, protective and warm, grounding you after the storm of passion.

“I think… I like it,” you admitted softly, voice barely above a whisper, heart still fluttering.

Choso smirked, pressing his lips to the top of your head, hand carding through your braids. “I know you do. And I’ll make sure you remember it. Every time.”

You shivered, not from chill, but from the thrill of it — the delicious mix of teasing, protection, and possessive warmth. And for the first time, you realized: being in his world, with all its reckless intensity and soft, grounding moments, was exactly where you wanted to be.

And you knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning.

It had only been a few days, but the air between you and Choso had already changed. You couldn’t walk past his door without feeling that sharp pull in your chest, the memory of his hands, his lips, his teasing gaze lingering like a burn you didn’t mind at all.

You were at the library, shelving books, when your phone buzzed. You glanced down to see his name, and your stomach twisted deliciously.

Stop pretending you don’t think about me.

You rolled your eyes, smirking, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Pretending? Me?

I’m working.

Mm, sure. But if I showed up right now, I bet you’d drop those books and follow me anyway.

You felt heat rise in your cheeks and typed back slowly, savoring the tiny thrill:

You wish.

The reply came almost instantly:

Oh, I know I do.

You chuckled softly, trying to focus on the books, but your pulse refused to calm. That night, the teasing didn’t stop. Texts, low-voiced calls, sometimes just the vibration of your phone reminding you that he was thinking of you, pulling you into the orbit of him even when you weren’t at his apartment.

A few days later, you found yourself in the hallway, on your way out with your tote, when he stepped out of his door. Hoodie half-zipped, hair messy, that same crooked smirk tugging at his lips.

“Morning, princess,” he murmured, voice low and intimate.

You tried to keep your composure. “Don’t call me that.”

He grinned, leaning lazily against the wall near the elevator. “Sure, sure… but you like it. Don’t pretend.”

You felt the heat crawl up your neck, and despite yourself, you glanced at him. “Maybe I do.”

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes narrowing playfully. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not letting you forget it. Not today. Not tomorrow.”

The elevator arrived, and you stepped in first, heels clicking softly. He followed, close enough that you could smell him — that mix of smoke, cologne, and something uniquely him — teasing the edges of your composure.

“You’re staring,” he said quietly, just as the doors slid closed.

“Am not,” you lied, voice tighter than you expected.

“You are,” he whispered, smirk tugging. “And I like it. Makes it easier to remind you who you belong to.”

Your chest fluttered, knees weak, and you had to fight the urge to lean closer. He wasn’t being aggressive, not exactly — just… claiming. Quiet, unspoken, his presence daring you to respond.

That weekend, he showed up unexpectedly while you were lounging at home, the memory of that first elevator encounter making your pulse spike. “You’re predictable,” he teased as he leaned against your doorway, arms crossed, smirk tugging at his lips.

“Maybe I like being predictable,” you shot back, trying to sound cool despite the heat crawling up your body.

“Mm, I like that too,” he murmured, stepping closer, brushing his hand just lightly against your shoulder as he passed. “But you’re still mine, right?”

The words weren’t loud, weren’t demanding, but the intent was clear. And you realized, with a little thrill of fear and delight, that you liked it. Liked the subtle claiming, the teasing, the way he made every glance, every touch, feel deliberate and full of promise.

By the end of the week, you knew — this wasn’t just desire. This was a slow, steady fire he’d started between you, and you couldn’t imagine wanting it any other way.

[ibuprofein]

skater! jabber x fwb! reader

❝ {Jabber is most definitely a boy from LA who works in a skate shop and wears baggy clothes like it’s a tradition! I haven’t seen many Jabber fics so im most definitely providing for the Jabber girlies! } ¡! ❞

⤷ tags: nsfw mentioned, phone sex, public sex, masturbation, fwb relationship, pda

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You and Jabber were always “nothing serious.” Just friends. Just messing around. Just sneaky little nights where you swore no one would ever know.

Except… people started noticing.

It wasn’t subtle. Not when he walked back into the shop after disappearing on his lunch break with you, locs half-frizzed from your hands, collar a little too loose, and a faint, round bruise blooming on the edge of his throat.

“Jabber…” Zodyl had been the first to notice. Pointing, grinning. “Who’s out here biting you like that?”

Jabber rolled his eyes, pulling his hoodie higher like that would hide it. “Chill, it’s nothin’.”

But then Bundus caught sight of his lockscreen a couple days later—your legs slung across Jabber’s lap, one of your manicured hands squishing his cheeks together while he puckered up like a fish. Cute. Too cute for a dude who always claimed he “wasn’t cuffed.”

“Yo, Jabber, who that on your phone?”

“Nobody.”

“That’s a somebody,” Cthoni laughed as she leaned over the counter. “Ain’t no way you makin’ that face for nobody.”

He brushed them off, smirking but not denying anything, because Jabber never denied you. He just liked keeping you tucked behind the curtain of his business.

Except when the store was empty. When the door was locked and the streets quiet, Jabber would lean all the way back in his chair, locs flowing down his back, sneakers crossed on the counter while he had his phone pressed against his jaw. Voice low, laugh louder than it should’ve been.

“Man, stop playin’ with me. You know I miss you,” he’d mumble, twirling a loose loc around his finger. “Yeah, I’m at work—so? Ain’t nobody in here. Talk to me.”

His friends walked in once after grabbing tacos, and there he was—grinning at his screen, dimples showing, flirting without a care in the world.

“Damn,” Momoa muttered, “he’s sprung.”

And when you did come through the shop, it wasn’t any better. You never stayed behind the counter, never sat still. Your hands always found their way into his hair, twisting one thick loc around your fingers like a toy while you leaned over the counter, pretending to listen to whatever he was talking about.

“Don’t you got customers?” Bundus teased once, walking past.

Jabber didn’t even look up from the board he was fixing. “Don’t you got somethin’ else to do?”

They didn’t know about the way his lips always found yours the second you stepped outside. Or the nights that started with drinks and ended with you both pressed too close in the backseat of his car, breathless, pretending the world wouldn’t notice.

But his friends weren’t stupid. They saw the way he let you tug his locs without flinching, the way his eyes always tracked you out the door. The way he walked back into work after “lunch with a homie” with his mouth a little swollen, hoodie strings pulled tight.

They didn’t have to know.

They already knew.

The store was dead. Not a soul since lunch rush. Boards lined up neatly on the wall, wheels stacked, stickers scattered on the counter. Nothing to distract him.

Which meant Jabber was bored.

And when Jabber was bored… he called you.

Your phone buzzed, and before you even got a hello out, his voice was already slipping through the line—low, smooth, like a secret.

“Where you at?” he asked, lazy. You could hear the creak of the shop chair as he leaned back, feet no doubt kicked up on the counter like he owned the place.

“Home,” you answered. “Why?”

“‘Cause I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ about you.” He let out a small laugh, deep enough you felt it in your stomach. “And this shop empty as hell. Got me itchin’ to hear your voice.”

You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see it. “You’re supposed to be working.”

“I am,” he drawled. “Working my nerves tryna picture what you got on right now.”

Your silence gave you away, and Jabber knew it. He hummed, low and taunting.

“Mmh, you quiet. Bet it’s somethin’ tight. Or nothin’ at all.”

“Jabber—” you warned, heat prickling up your neck.

“What? Ain’t nobody here. Door locked, street quiet.” His tone dropped lower, that teasing edge curling every word. “I could sit here and talk nasty to you for an hour, and nobody would ever know. Except you. Drippin’ on the other end of the phone.”

You let out a shaky laugh as your hands trailed to the inside of your panties, and he grinned into the phone. You could hear it.

“Don’t play with me,” you muttered as you started rubbing two fingers in between your folds.

“I’m not,” he said, soft this time. “I miss you touchin’ on me. Miss them hands in my locs, tuggin’ like you know they yours. Miss that mouth too.”

You bit your lip attempting to hold back a moan. “What if someone walks in?”

“Then they gon’ hear me tellin’ you what I’ma do when I see you,” he shot back, no hesitation. “I don’t care. Let ‘em.”

“Ha,” Jabber chuckled, “You touchin’ yourself now, huh? Rub that clit real slow for me, baby. Pretend it’s my fingers.”

“Jabber…”

“Say it softer,” he coaxed. “Moan my name. I’m sittin’ here with my dick hard against my thigh, thinkin’ about your pretty little pussy squeezin’ around me. Don’t make me beg for it.”

Your hand moved the way his voice told you to, slow circles turning sloppy as you pressed the phone closer, shaky breaths spilling out.

“That’s it,” he praised, his tone softening, almost tender. “Good girl. Keep goin’ like that. Think about how I’d bend you over the counter right here, pull your panties to the side, make you scream with the door unlocked. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed, arching into your own touch.

“Mmh, I know. You so nasty for me.” His voice went lower, faster. “Slide two fingers in that pretty pussy. Stretch yourself out like I’m watchin’.”

You whimpered, obeying, and he groaned in response like he could feel it too.

“Fuck… you squeezin’ ‘em already? Baby, you gon’ cum for me on the phone? In your bed while I’m stuck here at this counter?”

Your head dropped back, thighs trembling, breath catching as his voice wrapped around you like a hand at your throat.

“Let go for me,” he urged, almost a growl. “Cum, baby. Let me hear it. Right now.”

And you did—choking his name into the speaker, hand shaking, body curling in on itself while he sat there in the middle of an empty shop, grinning like the devil.

“Good girl,” he murmured once you came down, voice smug but soft. “Next time, you’re doin’ that on my dick instead. Don’t make me wait too long.”

Then, as if he hadn’t just wrecked you through the phone, he hung up.

By the time you showed up, the shop lights were dimmed and the metal grate was already pulled halfway down. He must’ve been waiting, because Jabber was leaning against the counter like a king on his throne, hoodie loose, locs brushing his chest, grin wide the second he saw you.

“Took your sweet ass time,” he muttered, pushing off the counter. His eyes dragged over you slow, hot, like he already knew what was underneath your clothes. “Come here.”

You barely had the door shut before his hands were on you, pulling you in, backing you up against the same counter he’d threatened you over the phone with hours ago. His mouth met yours—rough, hungry, tasting like mint gum and heat.

“Been thinkin’ about this all damn day,” he growled against your lips, big hands sliding down to grab your ass, lift you easy. You yelped, legs wrapping around his hips as he set you right on the counter.

The boards and stickers rattled beside you when he shoved them out of the way. His palms spread your thighs wide, his grin wicked.

“Look at you,” he murmured, thumb stroking the inside of your knee. “Already wet, ain’t you? Couldn’t wait for me to touch you properly.”

You tried to hide your face, but he caught your chin in his hand, forcing your eyes up to his.

“Nah, don’t get shy now. Take them shorts off for me.”

Your shaky hands obeyed, tugging them down your legs. The way his gaze darkened made your stomach flip.

“That’s my girl,” he said softly, pulling your panties aside with deliberate slowness. His fingers brushed through slick folds, and his groan went straight to your core. “Fuck… you still soaked from that phone call. You that needy for me?”

“Y-yeah—”

“Say it clearly,” he ordered, voice like gravel. His middle finger slipped inside, easy, and you gasped.

“I’m needy for you, Jabber,” you admitted, almost whining.

“That’s right.” His mouth curved into a smirk, leaning in so close you could feel his breath against your ear. “Keep that shit honest, or I’ll stop.”

He didn’t stop. He curled his fingers just right, pace deliberate, coaxing whimpers out of you until your nails were clawing at his hoodie.

Then he pulled out. Just like that. Left you aching, desperate.

“Don’t pout,” he teased, unzipping his jeans. “I told you earlier—I wanted this counter.”

Your breath hitched when he freed himself, thick and heavy against your thigh, already dripping. He stroked once, slow, eyes locked on your face.

“You ready to cum for me like you did on the phone?”

“Please,” you whispered, and he laughed, dark and low.

“That’s all I needed.”

The stretch stole your voice, head dropping back as he pushed into you deep, filling you until your thighs trembled. He gave you no time to adjust, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in with a pace that made the counter creak.

“Fuck—Jabber!”

“Louder,” he demanded, hand gripping your throat just enough to tilt your head back. “Let the street hear who’s fuckin’ you this good.”

You tried to hold it in, but the sounds ripped out of you anyway, echoing through the empty shop. His locs swung around his face as he leaned over you, lips brushing yours between gritted curses.

“You mine, you hear me? All this—” his hips snapped harder, making you cry out, “—all this pussy mine.”

Your body gave in, walls clenching tight around him, the orgasm tearing through you hot and sudden.

“Shit, that’s it,” Jabber groaned, rutting deeper, chasing his own release as you shook beneath him. “Squeezin’ me so good—fuck—”

He buried himself to the hilt, low moan vibrating against your neck as he spilled inside you, holding you tight while you both came undone on the counter.

The shop was silent again, save for your ragged breaths and the faint rattle of boards settling on the shelves.

Jabber finally leaned back, smirking, brushing a kiss against your lips like he hadn’t just wrecked you in public.

“Told you,” he said, smug. “I always make good on my promises.”

[ibuprofein]

gomez! gojo x morticia! reader

❝ { welcome to your life as (y/n) gojo, where elegance drips from your every movement and the moonlit garden blooms at your touch. at your side is satoru—wildly devoted and always ready to turn even the strangest moment into a declaration of love. you both rule a home where darkness is beauty, chaos is joy, and your family is the heartbeat of it all.} ¡! ❞

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟓’

The manor slept in silence, its old wood creaking softly as if aware of what transpired behind the locked door upstairs. Your bedroom remained heavy with velvet shadow, the air thick, stifled, intimate.

You woke beneath his touch—long fingers already curling possessively over your thigh, pushing the hem of your nightgown higher. Gojo was awake, watching you like a starving man, his grin sharp, eyes glittering.

“Good morning, my eternal curse,” he whispered, voice hoarse with need. His thumb stroked your inner thigh, pausing just shy of your heat. “Have you any idea how badly I ache to ruin you before the children stir?”

You turned toward him, smile cool, indulgent, your nails trailing down his bare chest. “Then ruin me, beloved. Before Nanami tolls the bell for breakfast.”

His laugh was low. He crashed his mouth to yours, messy and desperate, tongue forcing its way past your lips as if he could swallow your breath. The kiss turned feral, his hand shooting up to your throat, fingers curling tight until your moan strangled into silence.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his grip flexing, forcing your eyes wide as he rutted against your hip. “So beautiful. So untouchable. And yet you let me defile you every damn time.”

He shoved your nightgown to your waist, dragged your legs open, and lined himself up. With one sharp thrust, he was inside, burying himself to the hilt. Your back arched violently, a strangled gasp escaping from the sudden sensation as his hand tightened at your throat.

“That’s it,” he growled, pace brutal from the start, cock pounding into you with wet, obscene sounds filling the air. “Take it. Take every inch of me like the perfect little ruin you are.”

The bed groaned, headboard rattling against the wall, though neither of you cared. His hips snapped hard and unrelenting, his free hand bruising into your thigh to hold you open for him. Each thrust hit deep enough to make your vision blur, your nails sinking into his back until crescent moons welled blood.

Gojo only groaned at the sting. “Mark me, darling. Scar me. You know I crave the pain.”

Your moan broke free, his hand squeezing your throat harder, cutting off air until your head swam. He bent low, lips grazing your ear, his voice feverish.

“I’m going to cum in you, sweetheart. Fill you until you’re dripping for me all day. Imagine sitting at the dining table, knowing my seed is still inside you.”

Your body clenched around him at the words, drawing a feral sound from his chest. He fucked you harder, rutting with single-minded hunger, chasing the vision of you round bellied, ruined, and utterly his.

“You want it, don’t you?” His teeth sank into your shoulder hard enough to bruise, his voice ragged. “Say it.”

“Y-yess,” you gasped, lips trembling, eyes half-lidded from the lack of air. “Cum in me—fill me, Satoru—”

He snapped. With a broken groan, he drove himself deep, grinding his hips against you as he spilled inside, hot and heavy, his cock twitching as he painted your walls. His grip on your throat only loosened enough for you to gasp, your orgasm ripping through you violently as your body milked him for every drop.

For a moment, the room was nothing but gasps, your pulse pounding in your ears, his body trembling as he kept himself buried deep. His hand finally slid from your throat, smoothing tenderly over the marks he’d left, kissing them reverently.

“Perfect,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours. “My ruin. My grave. My womb. I’ll keep you like this forever.”

When he finally pulled out, his cum spilled in a thick trail down your thigh. His eyes followed it with unholy satisfaction before dragging his gaze back up to yours, a wolfish smile tugging at his lips.

“Now,” he said, kissing your knuckles as if he hadn’t just fucked you raw, “I can face the day. Starved. Sated. And certain I’ll fuck you again tonight.”

You rose from the bed with your signature poise, smoothing your nightgown back down, your body still trembling with him. “Come, my love,” you purred. “The children await.”

And Gojo, sprawled on the bed like a man already undone, only sighed dreamily. “The luckiest corpse alive.”

The long dining table stretched beneath the chandelier, draped in black lace and lined with silver candelabras burning even in daylight. A spread of peculiar dishes sat steaming—something that looked like grilled frog legs, a tureen of inky soup, and a plate of pancakes that Thing had stabbed with a fork and dragged halfway down the table already.

You entered on Gojo’s arm, freshly showered with your gown flowing behind you like a train of midnight smoke. His grin was sharp, adoring, as he pulled your chair out with dramatic flair.

“Ah, my dark jewel, sit. The queen must always take her throne first.”

You inclined your head, settling elegantly into your seat. Across from you, Nobara twirled a knife idly, her braid neat, her expression sharper still. Beside her, Megumi shoveled food into his mouth without looking up, one eye fixed on the small contraption in his lap that looked suspiciously like it might explode.

“You’ll be late for school if you keep tinkering,” you reminded calmly, stirring your tea, which was as black as ink.

“It’s a new prototype,” Megumi muttered. “If it works, it’ll cut detention time in half.”

Nobara rolled her eyes, voice dry. “Or cut your hand in half. Honestly, you should’ve tested it on the neighbor’s son instead.”

Gojo choked back a laugh, reaching across the table to kiss your knuckles with his syrup-sticky mouth. “Aren’t they marvelous? I’ve never seen such promise in potential felonies.”

Nanami loomed at the side of the table, tall and rigid, serving coffee with the patience of a saint condemned to hell. “The carriage will leave in twenty minutes. Finish your breakfast.”

Uncle Geto breezed in then, hair unkempt, dark robes trailing dust as though he’d crawled out of a crypt. He flopped into a chair beside Gojo, snagging a piece of toast that was already charred black. “Morning, darlings. I dreamed of fire again. I think it was prophetic.”

“Lovely,” you said serenely. “Perhaps it means the greenhouse needs burning down. The roses have grown far too tame.”

“Speaking of,” Gojo cut in with a grin, his hand sliding to your thigh beneath the table where no one could see, “my darling wife has plans today. Important ones.”

You sipped your tea, unbothered by his wandering hand. “I’ll be trimming the thorns back in the garden. They’ve grown hungry. And after, Nanami has graciously agreed to knit with me.”

Nanami’s sigh was long-suffering. “I was not given a choice.”

“Participation is its own choice,” you replied with a faint smile.

Nobara leaned on her elbows. “What about you two?” She flicked her gaze between Gojo and Geto. “You always disappear on Fridays.”

Gojo lit up, gesturing grandly with his fork. “Ah! My brother-in-chaos and I are making a trip into town. We need more skull polish, embalming salts, and perhaps—if fortune smiles—a new saber for the mantelpiece.”

“Don’t forget the goat,” Geto added, chewing his toast. “The children’s science fair is coming up. We want to be supportive.”

Megumi finally looked up, eyes sparking faint interest. “Can we dissect it?”

“Of course, darling,” you said smoothly, laying a hand over Gojo’s. “After dinner.”

The family ate in peace—or at least, their version of it—while crows tapped at the windows and the soup in the tureen occasionally hissed.

The clock in the hall tolled with a hollow clang, and Nanami cleared the plates with the grim determination of a man carrying his own cross. Nobara and Megumi gathered their bags—Nobara’s covered in pins shaped like tiny guillotines, Megumi’s weighed down by suspiciously clinking metal.

You kissed Nobara on the forehead, brushing back her braid, and adjusted Megumi’s crooked collar before he could squirm away.

“Do try not to decapitate anyone before lunch,” you told them warmly.

“No promises,” Nobara replied, smirking.

Nanami herded them toward the carriage, his tone as flat as stone: “If your contraptions explode in transit again, I’m leaving you on the roadside.”

From the doorway, you and Gojo waved, standing like a portrait of perfect—if somewhat sinister—parenthood. Thing perched on the banister, tapping impatiently until the carriage finally rattled away.

Once the children had gone, you drifted into the garden, your gown trailing across black earth. The roses loomed high, monstrous in their bloom, their thorns glistening with dew that looked suspiciously like blood. You plucked your shears from their rusted hook.

“Now, my darlings,” you crooned to the roses, “we mustn’t grow greedy. Save your appetite for the rabbits.”

The moment Nanami arrived back home, he reluctantly carried a basket of knitting supplies. He sat on the stone bench with the poise of a condemned man, while you knelt by the roses, still trimming thorns that hissed faintly when touched.

“You hold the yarn like you’re strangling it,” you murmured, glancing at Nanami’s stiff hands as he tried to knit.

“That’s because I wish I were strangling someone,” he deadpanned, glaring at the tangled mess.

You hummed approvingly. “An admirable instinct. Keep practicing.”

Meanwhile, Gojo and Geto made their way into town, black coats flaring dramatically despite the lack of wind. They strolled the cobblestones like kings of misrule, Gojo humming merrily while Geto surveyed every shop like a battlefield.

Their first stop was the apothecary, where Gojo bought three jars of embalming salts—“for the stew,” he explained cheerfully, though the horrified shopkeep wasn’t sure if he was joking. They unfortunately had no goats he could kidnap nor any in the area. Geto settled for goat’s blood, insisting on “the freshest, still-warm if possible,” and walked out with two sloshing vials tucked under his arm.

They spent twenty minutes in the antique shop next, where Gojo swung an old saber around until the owner threatened to call the police. Geto slipped a skull from the shelf into his coat pocket, patting it like a pet.

“Today is a good day,” Gojo declared, throwing an arm around Geto as they sauntered back toward the carriage. “The wife will be pleased. And if she’s pleased…” His grin turned downright sinful. “…then I’m pleased.”

Geto snorted, lighting a cigarette. “You two are disgusting. But strangely inspiring.”

By the time the children returned from school, the manor was alive again. Nobara stormed in triumphantly, announcing she’d won a spelling bee by “frightening the competition into tears.” Megumi presented a singed metal box that had once been his prototype, muttering about “improvements needed.”

You listened serenely, knitting in your lap while the roses outside pressed hungrily against the windowpanes. Gojo swept into the parlor with dramatic flair, brandishing the new saber, dropping a bleeding bag from the butcher’s on the table with a wink.

“For dinner!” he declared.

Thing gave a thumbs up approvingly on the mantel, while Geto leaned against the doorframe, swirling goat’s blood in a glass as if it were wine.

You looked around at the chaos—your husband grinning like a madman, your children bickering about whether Megumi’s invention would explode again, Nanami stoically untangling yarn, Geto humming darkly to himself—and smiled.

“Another perfect day.”

Gojo was already kissing your hand, his voice low and adoring. “Every day with you, my love, is perfect. A little morbid, perhaps, but perfect all the same.”

The dining hall glowed under candelabras that dripped wax like stalactites. The long table groaned with strange dishes: roasted pig head, a cauldron of thick, bubbling stew, and vegetables so blackened they seemed pulled from the underworld itself. The bloody parcel Gojo had brought home lay at the center, now carved into delicate slices by Nanami, who wielded the knife with surgeon-like precision.

Nobara stabbed a slab of meat and chewed triumphantly. “Someone fainted when I brought the rabbit skeleton for show-and-tell. Pathetic.”

Megumi hunched over his plate, poking his stew with his fork. “My invention still doesn’t detonate on cue.” He glanced up at you, voice serious. “Can I test it in the greenhouse tomorrow?”

“Only if you bury the remains afterward,” you replied with perfect calm, sipping your wine.

Geto swirled his goblet of wine, smirking. “The children have ambition. Unlike their father, who’s been waving that sword around all afternoon.”

Gojo brandished the saber dramatically. “I’m practicing! For the day I must defend my wife’s honor in mortal combat!” He threw you a dazzling grin.

You rested your chin on your hand, gaze velvety dark. “Anyone foolish enough to threaten me would already be buried.”

The chandelier trembled as Thing swung from it with a gleeful skitter. Candles flickered. Everyone ate as though this chaos was ordinary.

By the end of dinner, the children traded barbs, Geto and Gojo bickered about who was more charming in town, and Nanami carried off the dishes with the sigh of a martyr. You simply leaned back, content, watching the scene unfold with a serene smile.

By bedtime, the house groaned as the wind rattled through its bones. You made your way to the children’s rooms, trailing your shadow like a cloak.

In Nobara’s chamber, you paused at the threshold. She was brushing her hair with a silver comb sharp enough to cut. “Sleep well, my raven,” you murmured.

She shrugged, pretending indifference but glancing back with a secret smile. “Goodnight.”

Megumi’s room was cluttered with blueprints, wires, and a faint ticking from a box on his desk. You adjusted his blanket, pressing a cool kiss to his temple. He didn’t resist. “Don’t blow up your bed,” you whispered.

“I’ll try,” he muttered sleepily.

Further down the hall, Geto was sprawled on a divan, reading grimoires by candlelight. “Goodnight, Uncle,” you said smoothly.

He lifted a hand in a lazy wave, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. “May your dreams be… catastrophic.”

Nanami passed silently with folded linens, nodding curtly at you before vanishing into his own chambers.

At last, the halls went still.

Your room was dark save for the moonlight pooling through parted drapes. You sat brushing out your long hair, nightgown draped like ink over your frame. The silence was thick, almost sacred.

Then the door creaked open. Gojo slipped inside barefoot, his saber in one hand, grinning like a mischievous ghost. “Darling…”

You arched an eyebrow. “I thought you intended to train with that sword until dawn.”

“I did,” he whispered, setting it aside. “But then I remembered you’re far more dangerous.”

He crossed the room in swift strides, sinking to his knees before you, his head pressing into your lap with shameless devotion. His voice was muffled against your thigh. “I couldn’t stay away. Not when your absence feels like death.”

You set the brush aside, fingers threading into his white hair. “You are insatiable.”

His laugh was low, almost unhinged. “Only for you.”

Without waiting for permission, he scooped you up, carrying you to bed with a fervor that rattled the headboard when he laid you down. His kisses were urgent, hungry, worship edged with desperation. The world beyond your locked chamber—Nanami’s vigilance, the children’s sharp ears, the creaking bones of the house—faded to nothing.

“You looked too perfect,” he whispered, kissing your throat, biting down hard enough to bruise. “Like you were waiting for me.”

“I wasn’t.” Your tone was velvet, teasing, though your thighs parted when he pressed against you.

He growled low in his chest, grinding into you through the thin layers of fabric. His hands roamed greedily, sliding your nightgown up, exposing skin inch by inch until the cool air kissed your body. His fingers left trails of fire as they dug into your hips, nails sharp enough to sting.

“Mine,” he muttered, voice breaking. “Always mine.”

When he finally sank into you, it was rough, almost punishing—his pace urgent, desperate, like he needed to bury himself so deep you’d never breathe without him again. The bed creaked, sheets tangled, his hand sliding up to grip your throat, squeezing just enough to make your eyes flutter.

Your nails raked down his back, leaving red tracks in pale skin. He hissed at the pain, hips snapping harder, chasing that dark edge between pleasure and ruin.

“Take it,” he panted against your mouth, sweat dripping from his temple. “Take all of me—give me everything back.”

“Greedy,” you whispered, smirking even as your voice broke.

“Always,” he choked, thrusts growing erratic. His free hand gripped your thigh, pinning you open as he drove into you like a man possessed. “Gonna fill you up—fuck, gonna keep you so full of me you’ll never want anyone else.”

The words tore from him with raw devotion, with something almost feral. His teeth scraped your jaw as he groaned through release, burying himself deep, staying there, holding you down with trembling hands until the aftershocks eased.

For a long moment, the room was nothing but ragged breaths and the creak of the bed.

Finally, he collapsed against your chest, face pressed to your skin, hair damp. His voice was hoarse but reverent.

“Forever yours,” he whispered, still inside you, clinging like a worshiper at an altar. “In darkness. In death. Always.”

You stroked his hair, serene as a queen with her king kneeling at her feet. “Then rest. Tomorrow, you’ll be insatiable again.”

He laughed weakly, kissed your breast, and drifted into sleep wrapped around you like a shackle.

The house groaned around you, roses scratching the windows. And you smiled, dark and satisfied, as another perfect night closed over the family.

taglist:

@softscripta, @farragamaolo , @n-naye , @hiddenleah2x

[ibuprofein]

connie x reader x eren

↳ ❝ [reader is messy boots and has her side piece eren and her man connie. eren is down bad and accepts being the second option 😫 connie is so arrogant but it’s sexy] ¡! ❞

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Connie’s the luxury lifestyle.

Bentleys with cooled seats, iced-out APs, and the sun reflecting off his diamond earrings.

He pulls up fresh out the shower, buzz cut clean with a new design, smellin’ like Baccarat and shea butter. Always shirtless in the house so you can see the tattoos running down his brown chest, Dominican accent lacing his sentences when he’s frustrated or flirting.

“You hungry, mami? Let’s go somewhere nice.”

You don’t even gotta blink—he already got a reservation.

Michelin stars and martinis with gold flakes. You sit pretty in the passenger seat of his matte black Benz, lashes curled to the sky and lips glossed. Heart-shaped cheek dermal sparkling in the light.

And his hand? Always on your thigh. Or your arm, tracing your red ink flower sleeve like he helped tattoo it himself. And when you walk ahead, that koi fish tattoo on your back? He’ll always touch it. His fingers slide down to graze the dermals there.

Connie doesn’t ask where you were last night.

He knows. He just don’t care.

“Let them boys play in the dark. You the one that shine when you with me.”

He’s the one you post.

The one you tag in stories.

The one your homegirls know about.

And baby, he spoils you—bags, bikinis, Bali. You pack light ‘cause he already bought out the shopping district.

And when y’all alone?

Nothing but liplocking on marble countertops, legs wrapped around his waist on silk sheets, hands under your skirt in the back of his Escalade—windows tinted, but he’d still do it if they weren’t.

But when the sun sets?

You text Connie you’re tired, probably gonna sleep early.

But Eren’s already FaceTiming you shirtless, sleepy eyes, beanie low, grinning.

“You want me to come through? I’ll stop for snacks… what you want, baby?”

He always brings the good stuff—hot fries, Arizona teas, pink Starburst. Rolls up perfect joints, backwood tight. You in his passenger seat in bunny slippers and one of his tees, legs folded up, nails tapping on your phone as the smoke clouds dance between you.

He leans over, palm on your thigh, his voice low.

“Wanna go to the studio?”

The studio is his favorite place to hear you moan.

Not just from his mouth, his hands, his stroke.

But recorded.

“Sing for me,” he teases, lips brushing your neck as the mic picks up the breathy sounds of him making you fall apart. “Or just… make some noise.”

And oh—you do.

He’ll light a blunt with your back arched, legs shaking over his mixing board, red light blinking as the sound of your moans gets layered in like a sample.

He doesn’t post you.

He doesn’t ask where you were earlier.

But he always watches your stories. And when he sees Connie in the background?

He texts you anyway.

You still mine tonight, right?

And you always say yes.

Because with Eren, it’s no pressure.

No obligation.

Just you, his music, and the backseat adventures of his midnight world.

He lets you be bratty, lets you tease him, lets you run games.

But he also knows:

Every time Connie drops you off in that blacked-out car, you still end up under his covers later.

The studio’s dim, red light humming overhead like always.

The air is thick with smoke and the lazy swirl of whatever beat Eren had looping since you walked in. You’re curled up in his lap, legs across his, one of his oversized hoodies drowning your frame, your gloss long worn off. His hand rubs lazy circles on your thigh while he exhales, green eyes half-lidded but watching you.

You look too good like this.

Too his.

And that’s the problem.

“You comfortable?” he mumbles, a little grin playing at his lips, brushing a hand up your bare thigh. “You look comfortable as fuck.”

You nod, head on his shoulder. “Mhm. Cozy.”

He kisses your cheek, slow. “I like when you come like this… no makeup, no extra. Just me and you.”

You smirk softly, eyes on your phone screen even as you let him kiss your jaw.

Your phone buzzes again.

Connie 💸

Eren clocks it.

He’s seen the name a few times.

You subtly angle the screen down and open the messages.

Connie 💸

Wear that white dress I like tmrw.

Brunch at 10. Spa after. Pack a swimsuit too in case we go to the pool after.

I’ll bring that gold anklet you said you wanted.

Don’t flake on me, mami.

You try not to smile.

But you do.

Eren sees it. His hand stills on your thigh. He stares at your face, noticing how your eyes light up even as you pretend to be distracted.

“…Can I ask you something?” he says suddenly, voice quieter than usual.

You look up at him. “Yeah?”

He exhales slow, like he’s been sitting on it. “Why you never post me?”

You blink.

“…Huh?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean,” he says, not mad, just real. “You post your food, your nails, your legs up in somebody else’s car… but you never post me.”

He taps his chest lightly. “This? Us? We don’t exist anywhere, unless it’s three in the morning and your phone’s on DND.”

You open your mouth—but you pause.

Because it’s true.

You don’t post Eren. You don’t tag him. You don’t even let him sneak into a background reflection.

And it’s not because you’re embarrassed.

It’s because Connie’s page is public, and half your friends follow him.

It’s because Connie’s tagged in pics of you in Turks, in five-star lobbies, holding his hand with those stupid matching Cartier rings.

You look away for a second, voice soft. “It’s not like that…”

Eren scoffs a little. “Then what’s it like?”

You fidget with the drawstrings of the hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie—and he notices. That’s what gets him tight. That you’re repping him behind the scenes like a dirty little secret.

“You let me record you moaning but you won’t post me with your damn face in the frame?”

Your phone buzzes again. You glance at it without thinking.

Eren notices your eyes drift.

He notices how quick your fingers move when you lock your phone.

He laughs under his breath.

“No wonder.”

You swallow.

“Eren—”

He shakes his head. “Nah, it’s cool. I get it. I’m the night shift.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

His jaw tightens, tongue in his cheek as he looks off toward the studio wall, jaw clenching just enough that you feel the shift.

“You know I fuck with you different, right?” he says finally. “Like, I don’t just hit you up to fuck or chill. I bring you here. Let you in my space. My process. I show you shit nobody else sees.”

You nod slowly, guilt creeping in. “I know, Ren.”

“I post you in my Close Friends. I even posted your nails last week.”

You can’t help the tiniest smile.

“You post my nails, Eren?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, annoyed. “Because that’s all you give me.”

A silence settles between you. Not angry. Just… honest.

You look down at your lap. You do like Eren. You do feel something. But not in the same way. Not in the gold anklets and public brunch kind of way.

Just then, your phone buzzes again.

Connie 💸

Bring sunscreen. I wanna massage it in myself.

You tilt your screen away and close your eyes.

Eren leans his head back and exhales.

“…Don’t worry about it,” he says finally. “Just forget I said anything.”

But you can tell he’s hurt. Even if he doesn’t say it again, even if he still kisses you after, still fucks you gentle in the studio that night… there’s something quieter in his energy now.

The kind of quiet that comes when a man realizes he’s falling for someone who’s already claimed.

The studio’s quiet now.

The track Eren was mixing is still looping low in the background, bass soft like a heartbeat.

Your clothes are half on, half stuffed in your purse. Hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Hair slightly messy, neck a little sore from how he kept you close all night.

It’s early—too early. The kind of early where the sky is still that dusty blue and the streets are quiet.

You’re slipping on your slides near the door, whispering, trying not to wake the moment that had just passed.

But Eren’s still on the couch.

Shirtless, toned torso rising slow with his breath.

Hair tied back, sleepy eyes watching you from under his lashes.

One hand behind his head, the other resting on the spot where your body laid just minutes ago.

You think he’s asleep.

Until you hear it:

“You really leaving right now?”

You pause mid-step, hoodie half-zipped.

You turn to look at him. He’s not even trying to hide the disappointment on his face.

“Yeah,” you say gently, like that’ll soften the blow. “I gotta go home and get ready.”

He already knows why.

Because you always get dressed up for him.

Not Eren. Connie.

You bite your lip, fiddling with your phone. You’ve already got texts lined up waiting for you from Connie:

Connie 💸

I’m picking you up by 9:30. Don’t play and be late.

Connie 💸

I can’t wait to see your pretty face and that pretty dress.

And you are gonna wear that dress.

Because Connie’s got a brunch spot overlooking the hills. He’s got spa reservations, a chauffeur, and a Dior gift box already sitting in his backseat.

But Eren?

Eren’s just got you.

And right now, he doesn’t even have that.

You try to keep your voice sweet. “I told you last night I had plans.”

Eren scoffs quietly, running a hand down his face.

“Yeah,” he mutters, “but I didn’t think you were really gonna dip right after.”

You blink. “Eren…”

He sits up now, forearms on his thighs, tattooed fingers laced together. His chain swings forward when he leans in, eyes sharp in the red-tinted studio glow.

“You let me fuck you on this couch, record your moans in my mic, sleep in my arms like it meant something—then you gonna slide out for him?”

His voice is calm. But his eyes? They burn.

You don’t know what to say. Because he’s not wrong.

You do feel something for Eren. But Connie is the one the world gets to see.

Connie is convenience, luxury, consistency.

Eren is your secret.

And secrets don’t get brunch reservations.

You sigh, soft. “Don’t make this harder.”

He laughs once. It’s bitter. “Harder for who? You already got him waiting.”

“I’m just getting dressed—”

“For him.”

He cuts you off now, standing up. Voice low. “You getting dressed for him, baby. Not me. You ain’t never wore no dress for me.”

Your heart stutters.

He walks up to you, bare chest just inches from yours. His fingers brush the side of your face, but the touch feels more like goodbye than anything else.

“You gon’ let him kiss that dermal before I even got to taste it in the daylight?”

You flinch.

Because Connie always kisses your heart-shaped cheek dermal before brunch. It’s his little ritual. And Eren? He’s only ever seen it under low light, through half-lidded eyes and smoke.

“…Don’t do that,” you murmur.

“Do what?” His voice breaks a little. “Act like I don’t see what this is?”

He tilts your chin up. His mouth barely brushes yours. And for a second, you consider staying.

Eren steps back.

Silence.

You zip your bag.

“I’ll text you later,” you say quietly.

Eren just nods once. “Yeah… you always do.”

And as the door shuts behind you, he exhales hard, standing alone in a room that still smells like your perfume—but feels a little colder now.

The bedroom is glowing gold.

Soft lighting. Massive windows cracked open to let the warm summer breeze kiss your bare legs. Connie’s bed is draped in plush, expensive linen—his scent all over it. That rich, clean musk that only comes from men who’ve never bought anything under four digits.

You’re in his shirt.

Some silk pajama shorts you changed into after he peeled off your brunch outfit earlier.

And his chain is still around your neck from when he clipped it on you in the car, said, “You mine, yeah?” before kissing your cheek dermal like he always does.

You should feel spoiled.

You are spoiled.

But you’re also scrolling back through Eren’s thread.

No new texts.

Not since you left his studio yesterday morning.

You chew your lip, glancing toward the en suite bathroom. The shower’s still running. You can hear Connie humming, probably rubbing that rose-scented body wash all over his chest. He’s taking his time—he always does.

You look back at your phone.

Your thumb hovers.

And then—

You still mad?

Delivered.

You wait.

Nothing.

So you tap again. You shouldn’t—but you do.

I didn’t mean to hurt you.

Delivered.

Your heart thumps.

You flip your phone face-down, suddenly anxious. Because if he replies, you know it’ll gut you. And if he doesn’t? You’ll sit here feeling dumb, with another man’s chain wrapped around your neck.

The water cuts off.

You straighten your posture, pretending you weren’t just pouring your guilt into a man you left behind. Connie steps out a few moments later, towel slung low on his hips, tattoos glistening, buzzcut freshly lined up from this morning’s appointment. He’s humming, watching you scroll through TikTok like your head wasn’t somewhere else.

“Mami,” he smirks, climbing into bed behind you, “Why you up here all quiet? You tired already?”

You fake a little smile, closing your phone screen quick. “Just chillin.”

He kisses your bare shoulder, arms sliding around your waist. “Lemme relax you then.”

You melt back into him, letting him wrap you up.

But your eyes flick to the phone on the nightstand.

Still no text.

And god, it’s worse now.

Because even wrapped up in Connie’s warmth, your mind’s with the boy who asked, “Don’t you wanna post me too?”

The room is quiet.

AC humming low.

Sheets soft as sin against your skin.

Connie’s breath ghosts along your shoulder, warm, slow—he’s deep in sleep, one arm lazily hooked around your waist, his chest pressed to your back.

His chain still dangles between your breasts.

His cologne lingers in your hair.

You’re wrapped in him.

But your phone lights up.

Twice.

The first notification is from your close friends story—some girl replied “Y’all cute 😍” under the video you posted earlier. Connie feeding you a bite of dessert on a rooftop, flexing his Rolex and his smile like it’s nothing.

The second?

Eren.

Your stomach twists.

You wait.

You don’t move too fast. You can feel Connie’s heartbeat on your spine.

You slowly reach, careful not to shift the mattress too much.

You grab the phone.

Open the thread.

Eren

You only text me when you’re in his bed.

Read 2:12 AM

Eren

That say a lot.

Delivered 2:13 AM

You stare at the screen, heart sinking.

Because he’s right.

You do this when you’re wrapped up in silk and someone else’s love. When the guilt starts to stick to your ribs and you can’t sleep. When you need to feel like you’re not heartless.

You don’t even know what to say.

But your fingers move anyway.

I miss you.

A pause.

Nothing.

Your breath catches when you see three little dots pop up.

Then disappear.

Then come back.

Then—

Eren

Nah. You miss how I see you. He see your ass in white dresses. I see you when you cry on my dick in the dark.

Delivered 2:15 AM

You inhale sharply, legs tensing under the sheet.

Eren

You ever think maybe I got someone now too?

Delivered 2:15 AM

That one stings.

It shouldn’t, but it does. The thought of Eren making another girl moan into that same studio mic? Her wearing his hoodie? Sitting on that couch where you spilled your heart in fragments?

Your thumb hovers.

You check over your shoulder.

Connie hasn’t moved. Still sound asleep. Chest rising, chain glinting against the moonlight slipping through the blinds.

You slip out from under his arm.

Slow. Careful.

And you slide off the bed. Bare feet on cool marble. Your phone still glowing in your hand.

You step into the bathroom and shut the door quietly behind you.

Then you finally reply.

I don’t want anyone else to have you.

The moment you hit send, you stare at yourself in the mirror.

Silk tank top clinging to your chest. Connie’s chain still on your neck. Your lip quivers for a second—and then your phone buzzes.

Eren

Then stop fucking running.

The sky’s bruised purple and black. The city’s asleep.

You pull up outside Eren’s studio, headlights cutting through the quiet like guilt.

It’s not your car.

It’s Connie’s.

He let you “borrow it” for a late-night drive to clear your head, kissed your forehead and said, “Call me when you get back, baby.”

You told him, “I will.”

But instead of driving in circles like you claimed, you pulled up to a part of the city Connie never goes.

Where the pavement’s cracked and the music never sleeps.

Eren’s waiting.

He buzzes you in the second you text “here.”

The studio door swings open before you can even knock.

And there he is—

White tank top, sweats low on his hips, bandana still tied. Eyes locked on you like he’s been staring at the door since your last text.

“Where’s your car?” he asks immediately.

You hesitate.

Then say the truth:

“…It’s Connie’s.”

His jaw tenses. “Of course.”

You step in. Smell the mix of weed and candles. That same dark red glow you always sink into when you’re with him.

Eren closes the door behind you.

Leans on it.

Arms crossed.

“You here to finally pick me?” he asks. Voice low, almost bitter. “Or you just bored again?”

You chew your lip. Step closer.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit. “I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

He breathes hard through his nose. “Then why do you still leave every time?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

“But you keep doing it anyway,” he cuts in, stepping forward. “You text me from his bed. You cry in my arms. You fuck me like I’m yours. But when the sun comes up?”

He points toward the window, to where Connie’s sleek black car waits on the street like a damn shadow.

“You run back to him. Every time.”

You don’t have the words.

Because he’s right.

And still… you reach for him.

Your fingers brush his chest, eyes pleading. “I don’t wanna lose you.”

“You don’t have me,” he snaps, voice cracking. “You never let yourself have me. ‘Cause you’re too scared to leave a man who only loves the version of you he built.”

That stings.

But you still kiss him.

And when he kisses back, it’s desperate—like he knows this is all he’ll get. You taste like guilt. Like silk and sweat and someone else’s love. His hands tremble against your waist as he presses you to the wall, forehead to yours.

“You came here in his car,” he whispers against your lips, “just to leave me again?”

Your breath hitches.

Because even if you stay the night—even if—you know damn well what comes next.

You always go back to Connie.

Because Connie never makes you choose.

Connie never questions your loyalty.

Connie always treats you like you’re already his.

And Eren?

Eren wants a piece of your soul you’re just not ready to give.

You slip back into the mansion like nothing happened.

Connie’s already up, making coffee shirtless in his kitchen, diamond earrings glinting in the light.

He looks up and grins when he sees you.

“There she go,” he hums. “You sleep better now?”

You nod, curling into his chest like it’s instinct. Like home.

He kisses your temple. Smells your skin.

“You smell like my Baccarat.” he says with a slight laugh. “That’s good. Stay close today.”

And just like that—

You’re his again.

Like Eren never even existed.

It starts with a scroll.

You’re lounging in Connie’s bed again.

Bare legs tangled in thousand-thread count sheets, face bare, gold anklet twinkling on your ankle. He just stepped into the shower, humming something soft under his breath. You pick up your phone to kill time.

Open Instagram.

Eren’s story is first.

You almost don’t tap it. But your thumb moves before your heart can say no.

Click.

It’s the studio.

Lit red, hazy. Familiar.

You used to be in those stories.

Then the next one hits:

A girl.

She’s got almond-shaped nails—your length.

One hand is on Eren’s thigh. She’s got a silver ring just like the one he used to play with when you’d sit in his lap.

She’s wearing your hoodie. The grey one with the hole on the wrist from when you dropped the cherry from the blunt on it that one night.

And the way she looks at him?

It’s your look.

Playful. Possessive. Like she thinks she’s the only girl he’d ever let hear unreleased tracks and moan into his mic.

You freeze.

Because it’s not just the fact that he moved on.

It’s the fact that he cloned the experience you thought was special.

He replaced you—perfectly.

You don’t even realize Connie’s stepped out until you hear the towel hit the floor and his voice hum:

“You good, baby?”

You swallow. Lock your phone. “Mhm.”

He walks over, drops a kiss on your cheek dermal, then throws on some sweatpants. You sit there, quiet, teeth gnawing your lip. He notices.

Connie always notices.

“You been acting different since we came back from Cabo,” he says, rubbing lotion into his hands. “You tryna tell me something?”

You hesitate.

And then…

You do.

You tell him.

Not everything.

But enough.

That Eren wasn’t just a friend. That you were seeing him behind Connie’s back. That you stayed over once or twice. That it’s over now, but…

“…I just felt like I had to be honest,” you murmur, barely looking up.

And Connie?

He doesn’t yell.

Doesn’t raise his voice.

Doesn’t flinch.

He just… laughs. A single breath of air through his nose. Then he walks over, lifts your chin with two fingers, and looks you dead in the eye.

“Ma, you think I ain’t know?”

Your heart stops.

“I got eyes everywhere,” he says softly. “You think I don’t know who drives whose car at 3 AM? You think I ain’t seen that hoodie in my security footage when you walked back in?”

Your lips part. You can’t speak.

He leans in. Kisses your cheek—right where Eren never got to in the daylight.

“I let you play,” he says. “Let you get whatever that was out your system.”

You whisper, “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” he chuckles. “Why the fuck would I be mad?”

He sits beside you, legs wide, chain swinging against his chest as he leans forward on his knees.

“I’m him. Always been. Still am. And that lil’ studio boy?” He shrugs. “Let him have his copy of you. I got the original.”

You blink fast, trying not to tear up.

“But I broke your trust—”

“Nah. You broke your own,” he says, turning his head just slightly. “You think I was out here wondering who you belong to? Baby, you the one that had to choose.”

He pulls you into his lap now, effortlessly.

“You back here, ain’t you?”

You nod.

He kisses your shoulder.

“Then act like it. Don’t ever let me catch you sad over a man that would trade you for a replica.”

You bury your face in his neck, trying to breathe.

Because the thing about Connie?

He don’t beg.

He don’t chase.

He knows his worth—and he reminds you of yours.

It’s a rooftop party in the city.

A friend of a friend’s birthday, the kind of scene where everybody’s dressed to be seen. Designer sunglasses even though it’s past sunset, champagne towers glistening under the mood lights, and the DJ spinning tracks that shake your ribs.

You look stupid good.

Slick ponytail, caramel skin glowing, red ink flower sleeve on full display under a backless strapless mini. Your dermals catching the light. Connie’s gold anklet on your ankle and his diamond chain around your neck.

He’s beside you, of course.

Buzzcut clean. Cuban link heavy. His hand on the small of your back like a claim, not a suggestion. You sip your drink, laugh at his joke, take pictures of him when he’s not looking.

It’s one of those nights that makes you forget everything that came before it.

Until you see him.

Eren.

Across the rooftop, leaned up near the bar. He’s in a fitted tee, cargo pants, messy bun. Silver rings and chunky silver chain. Arms crossed. But he’s not alone.

She’s with him.

The girl from the story.

And in person?

The similarities make your stomach twist.

Same almond-shaped nails.

Same lashes.

Same glossy lip

It’s eerie.

Like watching someone else play you on screen.

You watch as she leans into him. Whispers something.

He doesn’t smile.

You can see it now—how forced it is.

The way he holds her waist but doesn’t grab it.

The way his eyes drift—like he’s still looking for you in crowds.

You turn away. Sip your drink.

“You good?” Connie murmurs beside you.

You nod. “Yeah.”

But Connie sees him. He clocked Eren the second y’all stepped in.

He’s known. And he’s just been waiting.

Because later, when the moment’s right?

When Eren walks past to hit the bar again—alone—Connie meets him shoulder to shoulder.

No tension. No scene.

Just a smooth, quiet flex.

He leans in. Low enough that only Eren hears it.

“I’d be hurt too if I lost her.”

And then he walks away.

Back to you, hand on your lower back, kissing your temple as you laugh at whatever he just whispered.

Eren doesn’t look back.

He can’t.

Not when Connie’s got everything he couldn’t hold onto.

And that girl?

She still doesn’t know she’s the second version of something that was already perfect the first time.

The rooftop crowd has thinned a little.

Music’s mellowed, most people draped on velvet couches, leaning over dessert plates and half-drunk champagne glasses.

You’re at the railing, looking out over the city. Hair blowing gently in the breeze. Your mini dress hugging every curve. Fingers toying with the stem of your drink.

That’s when you feel it.

A presence behind you. Familiar.

You turn—

Eren.

No girl in sight now.

Just him. Hands in his pockets. Tired eyes. That chain you used to tug on when you were wrapped around him.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks, voice soft.

Not aggressive. Not messy.

Just tired.

You hesitate.

“…Eren, I don’t think—”

“Just five minutes.”

Your breath catches. You look around.

Connie’s a few feet away, chatting with someone near the bar, cool as ever.

But you know he sees this. He always sees.

Still… you nod.

Because you owe Eren five minutes. Maybe more.

You follow him to a quiet corner near the stairs. City lights behind you. Music far enough to sound like a memory.

Eren turns to you, jaw clenched. His voice low.

“I ain’t even mad at you anymore,” he says. “I just… I needed to see you.”

You stare at him.

“I see how he look at you,” he continues. “Like you gold. Like you made of air and fire. And I get it now—why you never let me post you, never let me have you. It was always him.”

You start to speak, but he shakes his head.

“I was angry. I wanted to replace you. But that girl? She not you. She don’t laugh the same. Don’t kiss me like she mean it. I hold her and still feel you.”

Your throat tightens.

“You said you missed me,” he says, voice breaking a little. “So why’d you stop fighting for it?”

You whisper, “Because I didn’t know how to love you without breaking someone.”

His eyes drop.

“You never broke him though,” he mutters.

And that’s when you feel it.

That warm hand on the curve of your waist.

The quietest flex.

Connie.

He’s behind you now. Calm. Collected. Not interrupting—just arriving.

You feel him lean in, voice brushing your ear.

“Everything cool here, mami?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. We were just—”

“Done?” he finishes for you. Voice low but firm.

His eyes meet Eren’s.

No tension. No ego.

Just a silent warning.

Eren nods once. A slow, reluctant acceptance.

“Take care of her,” he says.

Connie doesn’t blink. Just tightens his grip on your waist.

“Always do.”

And with that, Eren walks away.

No tears.

No scenes.

Just the quiet sting of a man who knows he lost something real—and saw her get claimed right in front of him.

Connie turns you gently to face him.

“You good?” he asks, fingers brushing your cheek dermal.

You nod.

And he just kisses you. Slow. Full. Like punctuation. Like he’s sealing the ending himself.

Because he won.

Not because he tried harder.

But because you never had to question it with him

[ibuprofein]

my heart dropped to my ass when i was tryna find your blog,, i went to read your producer eren and connie series js to find you were gone😭😭 thank god i found ur new blog, hope to see your writing again 💞

omggggg i actually love you for reblogging it too 😭 i might do the same and reblog all the old fics i can find so that way people can still read them 🤣 i most definitely did miss all the love and appreciation, i couldn’t wait to be back 😩🫶🏽

[ibuprofein]

⭒˚‧ ︵‿⭒ཐིཋྀ 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐨 ཐིཋྀ⭒‿︵ ‧˚⭒

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐨, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐨𝐧.

𝐜𝐰: 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝, 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐣𝐮𝐚𝐧𝐚, 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐬𝐞𝐱 𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞, 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

you’re just moving around the house, moomoo swaying near your french tip toes, fabric soft and light with every step. you’re tidying up, straightening the living room, then heading into the kitchen to check on what’s cooking. the stove is warm, a pot bubbling while you stir.

you don’t even notice it at first, but connie’s been staring. from his spot on the couch, tv on but long forgotten, his eyes never leave the way your moomoo hugs you when you bend over. it flows loose and easy until you stand back up, then it clings in between your ass for just a second, enough to make him bite his lip.

every trip you make past him, his gaze follows. the sound of the tv doesn’t matter. what matters is the way your hips sway, the little drag of fabric on the floor, the soft flash of your skin when the hem shifts too high.

you glance over once, catching him. “connie, you not even watchin your show no more.”

he leans back against the couch, grinning like he’s got nothing to hide. “can you blame me, mama? moomoo doin god’s work right now.”

you roll your eyes, trying to keep your focus, turning back to stir the pot. but you can feel his stare drilling into your back, heavy, greedy.

“you gon burn my dinner if you don’t quit distractin’ me,” you warn, shaking your head.

connie laughs low, stretching out, arm hanging over the back of the couch. “girl, forget the food… i’m tryna be full off you.”

you sigh, pretending to ignore him, when you suddenly feel him move. his footsteps shuffle across the hardwood, and before you can protest, his arms are around your waist, pulling you into him from behind.

“connie…” you mutter, trying to sound stern, but his voice is already brushing against your ear.

“i ain’t startin, ma,” he murmurs, lips ghosting your jaw. “i’m finishing.”

his hands tug at the fabric of your moomoo, hands sliding up the back of your thighs. you grab his wrist quickly, giving him a sharp look over your shoulder. “don’t be nasty in my kitchen.”

he only smirks, kissing your cheek, his palm cupping your ass through the thin fabric. “kitchen already hot, might as well let me turn it up.”

before you can swat at him again, he’s lifting you clean off your feet, the spoon clattering against the stove as you squeal.

“connie!”

he throws you over his shoulder, laughing when you kick lightly at his chest. “dinner can wait,” he says as he moves the pot off the burning eye and starts walking you straight to the couch. “i can’t.”

he drops you onto your feet near the couch, moomoo in a messy flutter. you barely catch your breath before he’s dropping onto his back into the couch, eyes dark, hands reaching for your thighs.

“connie, i swear—”

“shhh,” he cuts you off, dragging his hand under the moomoo up to your hips, kissing every inch of skin he has access to on the way. “sit down, ma. stop playin.”

before you can protest, he’s pulling you onto him by your hips and wrapping his arms around your thighs while you settle onto his face. with no hesitation his mouth is on you, tongue working like he’s been starving. your gasp breaks sharp, head falling back, your moomoo slipping off one shoulder while his hands hold your ass down on his face.

“papa—oh my god—” your voice cracks, nails digging into the cushions.

he groans into you, the sound vibrating against your clit, making your whole body jolt. the wet and messy sounds echo in the room, filling it with nothing but your moans and the obscene rhythm of him devouring you.

“slow down, i can’t—” you beg, but he doesn’t stop. if anything, he pulls you harder onto his face, refusing to let you escape.

the pressure builds fast, your thighs shaking, stomach tightening, and then you’re gone. orgasm crashing through you, loud and messy, hips grinding helplessly against his mouth as you cry out his name.

he holds you down through every wave, licking and sucking until your body goes limp, and moomoo clinging damply to your sides. when you finally look down, dazed, he’s grinning up at you with his chin glistening.

before you can catch your breath, he leans back against the couch arm, dick hard and straining against his sweats. he pats his lap, smirk lazy. “c’mon, ma. hop on.”

your legs are still shaky, but the hunger in his eyes drags you forward. you climb onto him and turn your back to him, moomoo bunched high at your waist again, and sink down onto his dick with a shuddering gasp.

“fuck,” connie groans, head tipping back. “that’s it. ride me just like that.”

you brace your hands on his thighs, bouncing slow at first, hips grinding. the couch creaks under the rhythm, your moans spilling louder.

then you hear it—the click of his phone unlocking. you glance back over your shoulder, wide eyed. “connie…”

he’s already holding it up, camera angled perfectly. your ass bouncing, his dick disappearing inside you, the moomoo clinging around your waist. “don’t look at me like that,” he pants. “you know i gotta save this.”

heat burns through you at the thought, making your pace quicken. the thrill of being recorded has your walls clenching tight around him, juices running down his thighs.

“that’s right,” he groans, free hand gripping your hip while the other films. “show out for me. show me how bad you need it.”

each bounce is louder than the last, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the air. the moomoo keeps fluttering around you, but all the camera sees is your ass working him like you’re made for it.

“goddamn, ma,” he hisses, biting his lip. “look at you—riding like you tryna kill me.”

you feel your orgasm building again, body trembling, and he knows it. he drops the phone low enough to keep the shot steady while his hand smacks down hard on your ass.

“cum for me baby,” he growls, voice breaking. “right fuckin now.”

you fall apart with a sharp cry, body seizing, cunt tightening around him as your orgasm drags you under. connie snarls, hips snapping up into you, the camera catching every second of your collapse.

“shit, i’m boutta cum—” he chokes, eyes glued to the screen as his own orgasm hits. “fuck, take it, ma, take all this nut.”

he holds you down hard, pumping into you until he’s spilling deep and messy. his thrusts grow sloppy, and he groans loud, phone tilted just enough to catch the creamy drip when he pulls back, showing it off like a prize.

he smacks your ass again, softer now, rubbing the sting out as he laughs breathlessly. “look at you. messy as hell and still the prettiest thing i ever seen. whole movie star in this moomoo, swear to god.”

the video ends with your moans and his laugh tangled together.

later, when you both regain your breath, he picks you up and carries you to the bathroom. he cleans you carefully with a warm rag, whispering soft praise as he goes. “my mamas. did so good for me. took it all like a pro.”

you slip back into your moomoo, the fabric flowing around you again like none of it happened.

back in the kitchen, you finish cooking the forgotten food, still flushed but steady now. connie leans against the island, breaking down weed, his fingers quick and practiced as he rolls.

he watches you for a beat, grin spreading across his face. “crazy how that moomoo had me riskin dinner like that. shit should come with a warning label.”

you look over your shoulder, laughing. “you so dumb.”

he licks the blunt closed, sparking it up. “dumb for you, though. can’t even front.”

the kitchen fills with smoke and the smell of food, the sound of your quiet humming mixing with the faint crackle of his blunt. connie exhales, lazy grin back on his face as his eyes wander down to the way your moomoo sways around your toes again.

“yeah,” he mutters, smirk tugging at his lips. “dinner and dessert, all in one night.”

you set the table simple, bowls and glasses clinking against the wood while connie takes his last hits. the food’s hot, steam curling up from the pot, and you plate it while he leans back in the island chair, blunt dangling lazy between his fingers.

“smell good, ma,” he says, eyes half lidded as he exhales a cloud toward the ceiling. “you really gon spoil me—feed me, fuck me, and tuck me in after?”

you shake your head, laughing as you slide his plate in front of him. “you act like you deserve all that.”

he grins, pointing at himself with the blunt. “i do though. i’m constance, baby.”

you roll your eyes but sit across from him, and for a while it’s just the sound of forks against plates and connie humming approval between bites. he leans back when he’s done, belly full, blunt relit, the smoke curling soft around the two of you.

after dinner, you rinse the dishes quick, moomoo swaying around your ankles, before he tugs at your nightgown. “c’mon. couch. show’s still playin.”

he flops down first, spreading out like he owns the whole thing, and you settle against him. his arm goes over your shoulder, blunt in his other hand as he scrolls back to whatever episode he pretended to watch earlier.

“see, i missed half of this ‘cause of you,” he teases, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “moomoo came through and ruined my concentration.”

“you ruined your own concentration,” you mutter, curling into his side.

he chuckles, passing you the blunt, eyes flicking between the screen and you. “yeah… worth it, though.”

the room glows dim from the tv, soft smoke in the air, your belly warm from dinner and body still humming from earlier. connie’s laughter bubbles up now and then at the show, his chest shaking under your cheek. his fingers drum lazy circles on your arm, like he can’t stop touching you even when he’s focused on the screen.

at some point, your eyes get heavy, the soft rhythm of his breathing and the low murmur of the tv pulling you under. he notices, glancing down with a small smile.

“sleepy already?” he whispers, brushing a hand down your side.

you mumble something that sounds like “mmm,” and he laughs quietly, kissing the top of your head.

“sleep tight, ma. i’ll finish the episode for both of us.”

and he does—smoking slow, eyes on the screen, you tucked under his arm in your moomoo, until the credits roll and the night feels complete.

[ibuprofein]

HEYYY!!! omg im so glad u’re back 🥹 i tried goin back to reread ur jabber fic and YOU WERE GONE!!!! my heart dropped and everything! but i just wanted to say i enjoy your writing so much and im glad i found you again!!

stopppp my jabber fics were gemssss! i will most definitely be writing for my boy cause he is my favorite 😩 we were destined to be meet again bae 😌💗

[ibuprofein]

Girl wth happened to you one day you post and POOF you deactivated 😭

baby im not even sure myself…i was logged out and i tried to log back in to see i had to make a whole new account under my email! praying it was tumblr deactivating me and not me being hacked 🤣🥲