Drunk In Love ( Studio PT.2 )
꒰ 🍒 ꒱Flau’jae Johnson x reader ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ MASTERLIST, ALL PARTS
⭑ pairing: Flau’jae Johnson x reader (fem!reader)
⭑ summary: It’s the off-season, and the studio is still home. You’re high off your ass, touchy, teasing, and all over Flau’jae while she’s trying to work. She’s used to your antics—but this time, it’s different. But she’s not stopping you. Not when she’s already yours.
⭑ genre: Smutty slow-burn / Flirty chaos / Off-season intimacy
⭑ warnings: Weed usage, heavy kissing, lap sitting, neck grabbing, teasing, light dom energy, livestream chaos, one-sided clothing adjustments, pothead reader, language
She was already live when you pulled up. Her hoodie was off, white tank hugging her frame, 30-inch bust down parted clean and laid to perfection like she was born camera-ready. You didn’t even bother texting—you knew the code to the back door, knew how the floor creaked near the second stool, knew that her engineer always left the green room cracked open. So you walked in like it was your name on the lease, Chick-fil-A in one hand, your vape in the other, Jordans heavy on hardwood.
The chat was already lit up:
"FLAU YOU GOT A GUEST 👀",
"that better be who i think it is 😭"
She looked up from her phone when the door clicked shut behind you, lips pulling into that slow grin she only gave you. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. Just nodded once at the food bag and muttered into the mic, “That’s mine.”
Your grin curved sharp. “Damn right it is.”
You slid into the spot beside her, tossing the bag between you like a peace offering you had no intention of sharing. She was still focused on the live, mumbling half-bars and replying to comments while you leaned back, pulled your vape, and let the smoke trail past your glossed lips. Her chain was around your neck—on purpose. Her sweatshirt too, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. You weren’t slick. And you weren’t trying to be.
Ten minutes passed and you barely touched your food. Too busy watching her. She kept talking to the live like you weren’t there, but her body language was loud. Leaning in. Knee brushing yours. Smirk tugging at her cheek every time your hand rested on her thigh, casual like you weren’t craving her with every slow blink.
“Y’all see what I deal with?” she asked the chat, laughing low as she covered the camera with her hand. “She don’t know how to act.”
You leaned closer. “I ain’t even started yet.”
She flicked her eyes toward you. Dangerous. Curious. Daring. You fed off it. High as hell, but sharp where it mattered. Your fingers found her jaw, soft pressure tilting her face your way as you leaned in and kissed her mid-sentence. Full. Slow. Like you were tasting her name.
The chat froze. Flau’jae froze too—for a second. Then she gripped your hip like a reflex and kissed you back, all heat and tongue, no camera in the world important enough to stop it.
She broke first, breath warm against your lips as she laughed, voice low and slightly hoarse from hours in the booth. “You high as hell.”
“And you sexy as fuck,” you muttered, kissing her again. This one deeper. Messier. Like you were tryna make her forget her verse, her fans, her career. You slid into her lap without thinking, thighs snug against hers, and bit your lip when she let her head fall back and sighed.
The camera stayed muted. The chat went wild.
She tried to keep talking. You didn’t let her. Every time she opened her mouth to say something—anything—you kissed her again. Chin, cheek, corner of her lips. Your hands roaming her sides, her thighs, your nails dragging soft down her back while she tried to pretend she was focused. You weren’t making it easy.
“Okay,” she finally said, voice cracking with laughter, pulling the mic away. “Okay, get off me.”
“Shhh,” you said, nuzzling into her neck. “Just lemme be on you for a second.”
“You actin’ different today.”
You looked up, eyes hooded. “You look different today.”
She narrowed her gaze, fake annoyed. “I look the same.”
“Nah,” you whispered. “You look like mine.”
The pause after that wasn’t silence—it was tension. The kind that made her shift under you, made her hands settle at your waist like she didn’t know what else to do. You didn’t move. Just traced her jaw with your thumb and leaned in again, slower this time, letting your lips part just enough to taste her breath before you kissed her again.
This kiss? It was grown. Messy. Wet. Like a confession. You kissed her like you needed her, like she was oxygen and you’d been starved. You kissed her like you wanted her to forget she was ever live.
When you pulled back, dazed and glossy, she blinked at you and mumbled, “You tryna kill me or somethin’?”
You grinned. “You’ll come back.”
She tried to speak again, but you leaned forward, hand curling around her neck lightly, pressing your lips to the side of her face, then whispered, “You know what you do to me?”
She shivered. Didn’t answer. Just sat there, swallowing hard while your fingers danced under the hem of her tank top, your legs tangled with hers. You weren’t even pretending anymore. You were fiendin’. And she felt it.
She finally reached for her phone and ended the live with a muttered, “Aight y’all, I’ll catch y’all later. I got… business.”
“Damn,” you said, amused. “That what we call it now?”
She didn’t answer. Just pulled you closer, this time by the collar of her own hoodie you were wearing, and kissed you like it was her turn to forget the world.
