Pairings: Dracula Au (Jacob Anderson) X Blk Afab! OC
Warnings: Cursing, $quirting, 0verstim(slightly), bl00d, biting, bl00dplay (slightly), p@in kink (slightly), the mention of various subst@nces. Cliffhanger
Disclaimer: Accompanied music for Dracula is available via Pandora App which is free. The links will be available throughout the chapter. Be sure to download it to get the full reading/listening experience.
Vlad's Lakehouse was insane. A resort and a half, with two kitchens, a theatre, some crazy garage, detached guest quarters for his in-home staff, and way more. I make a joke about him having two kitchens when he doesn't eat. Apparently, he occasionally hosts his business partner buddies and their families once in a blue moon. White and black were consistent themes throughout the house, and I couldn't help but laugh because of the irony. Of course, his house would match his wardrobe. I unfortunately didn't explore much of it because of my mild hangover. The breakfast he made me was delicious, but I needed something greasier, meatier, and cheesier. The only person who could see me destroy a deep-fried breakfast sandwich was the girl I potty-trained with. I cover the fast-healing bite on my neck and have Dimitri drive me home.
When I get home, we pig out with a corner store breakfast plate and the soft blare of Real Housewives in the background. I tell her everything, minus the vampire details for now. Her eyes grow wider and wider with each detail. She asks a bunch of questions. She swoons when I swoon and giggles when I giggle. Her ultimate question being:
"So, did you fuck him?"
And I sadly..sadly shake my head no. She counters it with how it's a good thing. And how he has self-control. I agree. He had self-control. He had amazing self-control for somebody who drinks other people's blood. He could have sucked me dry, but he didn't. He just wanted to sit and watch me fall apart for his amusement. The very thought sends shivers down my spine. My body reacts to the fact that I'll feel that again soon. I tingle with arousal, and my heartbeat quickens. Nya had no idea just how right she was. Me, on the other hand, after that date, after that bite, I'm not sure I have any left.
I show her the pictures I took at Jazz Bar, and she pauses for a moment, eyes bouncing between my face and Vlad's. "God…look how he's staring at you", she says with a flustered chuckle. I look down, puzzled. I'd completely missed it.
"I didn't even notice", I snort.
"Girl… he is obsessed. I know that look. That's how my dad looks at my mom", she gushed.
I stare at the photo. I'm sitting beside him. I'm leaning slightly into him. His arm is around my waist. He's beside me, of course, looking at me instead of the camera. This look wasn't sharp like when we played cards on the yacht. No, this was softer…sweeter even. He's smiling at me, not the camera. I chuckle. The second and third pictures show him staring at my lips.
"Well, when is he coming over for dinner? "Nya joked.
"Oh, I'm not sure we're there quite yet", I laugh nervously.
"It won't be long, I'm sure", she insists.
"When have you ever been excited to meet any of the guys I'm dating?" I scoff.
Nya shrugs. "This one is different. And he can take care of you, and that's a huge thing for pops. I'm sure he'll win him over with that alone. How old is he ?" she quips.
"Uh…35? Let's give it a few more weeks", I suggest.
Nya rolls her eyes playfully. "Whatever you say. Just know I won't go easy on him no matter how impressed I already am", she sings.
"I believe you", I counter.
The fairytale that was our Saturday night date came to an end. I spent Sunday recharging, but I still ended my night with a 2-hour phone call with Vlad.
Monday morning, I'm back to work on the bar shift of all things. Vlad had put me in such a good mood that I didn't even blink when Mr.Landry broke the news. I return well-rested and ready to get the week under my belt. I step behind the bar right before lunch hour. The scent of Citrus rinds, last night's beer, and a faint waft of fried shrimp greet me like old friends. The polished oak counter gleams back at me when I wipe it down with sanitizing wipes.
I'm humming as I dry glasses. Because every time I close my eyes, I'm biting into patrovian caviar, or feeling the buzz of hands on my feet, or tasting remnants of a 4 thousand dollar wine on my tongue. I hear the murmurs of awe in his voice as he shows me that gorgeous gallery. It all felt like a distant dream.
"Hola!," Natalie, a regular, calls out as she plops onto her usual stool. She was a 58-year-old Italian woman from New Jersey who moved to New Orleans 4 years ago for her retirement. Her hair is always in roller set curls, her lipstick always flawless. She came in on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for a cocktail at 1pm. "Well, look at you. You're practically glowing. Who put that smile on your face?"
"Just a good weekend," I smile, fighting the urge to grin harder.
"Uh-huh." Natalie sips her whiskey sour. "If 'good weekend' tastes like that, I'll have two."
I get a few more regulars and then the occasional weirdos. I take it all in stride and put on my best customer service face. Fighting hard against the disassociation. Replaying memories of his lips on my neck and the way I writhed against that carpet.
Two customers got into an argument at happy hour, so I pushed my lunch break back by an hour as I tried to de-escalate the situation. Older men over 60 were among the worst customers, especially when wealthy or retired. I helped sweep up some glass and took my lunch break in my car at 6pm.
Vlad calls me on my lunch break. We talk about his job and his plans for the day. I talk about some of my customers and the ridiculous fight between the older men at the bar that resulted in broken glass and spilled drinks. It's casual and a nice break from asking "How's your day going?" 50 thousand times a day. Midway through my turkey sandwich, Vlad asks me what I'm having.
"I'm having a turkey sandwich”, I say mid bite.
"That doesn't sound very good", he murmurs.
I snort, "The only thing that sounds good to you is blood. This is fine for me."
A dark chuckle leaves his throat. "I am missing the way you taste. It does sound good right about now", he teases.
"Well, I'm happy to provide more if you need it", I suggest. And I try my best to sound nonchalant, but my body was already reacting to the idea again. The response is damn near pavlovian. Is this how people got hooked on substances?
His tone is quietly surprised, "You want me to bite you again?" he asks.
"What do you think ?" I tease. A nervous chuckle leaves me as I quietly finish my sandwich. A beat of silence passes.
A quiet "Hmm" is all he says to that. And I don't know what it means, but I have to wait for a wave of arousal to pass before I finish my lunch.
He clears his throat and moves on. "I have a Charity Gala to attend in LA next Saturday. I can have you back home by Sunday afternoon, around 7pm. Is that okay?" he asks.
My brows raise in shock at the surprise of it. I didn't expect this for a second date. "Oh! Um… yeah… that should be fine. Is there anything I need to bring? I've never flown before", I stutter.
"No, I fly private, but we'll work on expediting your passport soon. You'll only need an ID and your luggage, obviously", he reassures.
"Good to know. Maybe on there I'll get something better than a turkey sandwich since this isn't to your standards and whatnot", I joke.
"How long is your lunch break?" he says in a sneaky tone. I squint my eyes in suspicion.
"30 minutes…..why??", I murmur.
Vlad brushes me off, and we move on to another topic. I finish off my shift late at night and call him on the drive home.
But, Tuesday…Tuesday tests me. The lunch rush is something out of a horror movie. People were pushy and impatient. I'm exhausted —sore feet, sticky hair, a faint lemon-peel smell clinging to my clothes.
My mind wanders to the pair of red bottoms sitting in my closet, and it's enough to get me through the last hour before my own lunch break. The bar feels like older men shouting, coworkers hustling, music too loud. Finally, a tattooed guy leans over the bar and says, "You look like someone having flashbacks to a very good Saturday night."
I chuckle insincerely. "Something like that."
He whistles, impressed. "Must've been real good."
I ignore him and take another person's order. I walk to my car, and to my surprise, Vlad surprises me with lunch. A gourmet sandwich from some expensive restaurant downtown. It's everything I need and more, and he sits and watches me eat it. He liked to watch me eat. I make a sly comment about it, making my blood taste better. He finds that funny, but he doesn't amuse me with banter. Instead, he just asks about my shift. The words "I missed you" slip out, but I don't shy away from them. I just moved on like I never said it, but he says it back.
Of course, he's back again on Wednesday and then again on Thursday. I insist that he doesn't have to bring me lunch every day, and he says, "Is this not what people do when they court—or date?"
I don't protest. I wasn't joking when I said we were together. We are. That comes with a different territory. A deeper intimacy than before. I twirl my truffle pasta in deep thought. "Would you like…to see one of my paintings that I've been working on?" I ask shyly.
He happily agrees, and I dig my phone from my pocket and scroll until I get to the painting. I pull the photo up and hand the phone to Vlad. His brows raised inquisitively. "This is the hallway right before our bedroom. How long ago did you start this?" he asks.
"1 month before we met", I sigh shyly.
"Impressive. I can tell which time period you saw this in. It was in the 1400s because I hadn't updated anything yet. The bedding is made from bear fur. There are no light switches. You painted through the eyes of your first life", he smiled. Genuinely smiled with his entire face. As if the painting brought him back to a special time.
"I—I have more. I keep them in my dad's shed. The shed is temperature-controlled to avoid messing with the oils. Maybe one of our date ideas can be me hosting you at my place. Then you'll be able to see them. I keep the older ones around the house in storage", I explain.
"I would love that", he insists.
My break ends, and I finish out my shift strong.
Friday was nothing short of a nightmare. Drunk men, counters that kept getting sticky, and pushy customers. I could cry when I see Vlad bring me a soul food plate from a local restaurant I happened to frequent. It was just what I needed to get me through the rest of that shift. He already knew what I liked to eat. It wasn't something we discussed; he just knew. He had a habit of just knowing quite a bit. I don't question it anymore.
The rest of my shift whoops my ass, unfortunately. When I get home, I collapse on the couch and wake up in my work clothes.
I shower and eat breakfast. Nya FaceTimes me, and we catch up on our latest shows. We agree to go to the club tonight. I spend a few hours painting in the shed, then start getting ready.
Tonight we agree on something casual. No mini skirts or push-up bras. I just wanted to drink, eat, and catch up with my friend. Jeans and a crop top did the job.
Frenchmen Street was already alive when we arrived. There was brass echoing off brick walls, locals gathered around curbside performers, lovers weaving between art vendors' tables, and the soft scent of pralines drifting through the Saturday night breeze.
We decided on the spotted cat for a starter drink. We crossed into the bar, greeted by a wave of warm air, chatter, and live jazz. The bartender, James, recognized us. We were locals, as was he. "Same as always?"
"French 75s," Nya declared. "We're celebrating her being outside again." She jutted her thumb toward me.
I playfully rolled my eyes. "I've been outside."
"You been outside?" Nya snorted. "Or you been in a Mercedes getting fiddled?"
My lips twitched. "I didn't get fiddled, we made out. You actin' like I've been gone for a month", I chuckle.
Nya shakes her head. "He's about to sweep you away, I can see it now. It happened to Malika right before her and Joshua locked in. He asked her to marry him a year later", she sighs. Malika was a college friend of Nya's whom we've hung out with quite a bit. She was a sweet girl who planned her wedding as a child. We were very happy for her.
"He can sweep me away when I agree to it. I'm not gonna' hole up and act brand new. You're my sister. If he wants to take me away forever, then you're coming", I urge. Vlad could pretend to eat for all I care. There would never be a lifetime where my Nya wasn't in it with me.
She grinned at that. "You need to be swept away. You need a "mymanmyman" moment because you deserve it. Come out of that shell a little. After all those fuckin' frogs and duds over the years.. If Vlad is as grand as he sounds, then I'm all for you getting cracked and fried in the name of love. Secure the bag", she shrugged.
I nearly spit out my drink. "Nya!"
"What?", she blurts.
"We're trying to take things slow, I guess. But we pretty much made it official on the boat", I test.
"Do not let him put a baby in you", she warns.
I scoff. "I have no business taking care of a plant, let alone a baby, Nya."
"I'm just making sure", she squints.
"What about you? Didn't you say you matched with that radiologist a few weeks ago? Andre?", I ask.
She gasps. "Girl, yes. We've been texting, but our first date is next weekend. He's taking me to dinner and a movie", she sings.
"What are you guys gonna' see?" I grin.
"Whatever movie he likes the least", she snorts. "Come on. I need to dance", she urges.
And just like that, they were back in the street—the noise erupting around us, the night air rising from the pavement as the city breathed. Brass band kids blasted rhythms near the art market, lights stretching golden across the pavement.
We bounced off to a little dive off Franklin, the kind with peeling paint and a jukebox that had seen decades of fingerprints. Nya instantly found the center of the room, dancing with people she had half-knew, half-met five seconds ago. I leaned against the bar, sipping slowly, smiling at her. This was our rhythm: Nya blazing bright, me orbiting steady.
"You need to loosen up," Nya said breathlessly, grabbing my hand. "Come dance."
I'm being dragged into the crowd. Warm bodies, old-school bounce music, the floor trembling—it was all too familiar. We used to raise hell in our early 20s.
My phone buzzed.
Vlad: Any plans tonight?
Amina: I'm out with Nya tonight. I'll text u when I get home ?
Vlad: Of course. Talk then. If you need anything let me know.
We danced until we sweat, but the night was young. We left for another spot—a cozy lounge tucked between a corner store and an old shotgun house, locals only, laughter spilling onto the sidewalk. We talked about life, about old teachers we hated, and local gossip. The whole nine.
We find an actual club a few streets over. It's reggaeton night, which we don't mind. We get in reasonably quickly. I order us a round of shots, and we find the dance floor.
We dance for hours. The cutest male couple bought us another round of drinks, and we talked them up for a few minutes. We met the sweetest friend group in the bathroom. One of the girls had a breakdown, and Nya gave her a 15-minute pep talk. Drunk hugs are exchanged between the two, and they exchange numbers. They'd never call each other, but it's the thought that counts.
We head to uptown. Club Magnolia is tucked on a busy corner. The marquee flickers hot pink above us, casting a halo over us like a beacon of hope.
Inside, the place is alive—a storm of color, sweat, perfume, and pulsing rhythm. LED vines climb the walls. The DJ, perched on a high platform, blends bounce with glossy pop and a little 90s R&B, setting the mood.
We glide to the bar—a glowing slab of crystal that looks like it was cut from an ice cave. The bartender, a woman with a shaved head and silver eyeliner, leans over and takes our drink order. We head to the dance floor with our drinks. The floor vibrates under us. Light strobes through the haze, cutting through every swing of our hips. Sweat glows across our foreheads under the shifting lights. I couldn't care less about sweating my hair out or ruining my liner.
A guy sidles up—tall, trying too hard, smelling like Axe and gum. “Hey, beautiful, you wanna dance?" he asks me.
I don't break rhythm, and neither does Nya. "Already dancing," I say without even looking at him. It was best to be quick and indifferent in these scenarios. He respectfully leaves as soon as I mutter the words.
Minutes later, another man—this one with a too-wide grin—leans toward Nya. He's handsome for sure, and definitely her type, look-wise.
"You two look like trouble," he purrs.
Aaaandd…he ruins it.
"I'm married", Nya flashes a ring. I gawk at it. The bitch was wearing her grandmother's wedding ring to the club. All to avoid men. I have to actively hold in a laugh. The guy's face folds in defeat as he drifts away. I shake my head at her. She shrugs and downs the rest of her drink mid-cha-cha. The DJ plays a few more hits. We scream the lyrics, off-key but passionate, sloshing our drinks without a care.
A couple of drinks later and another bar later, I look at my phone to realize it's 2am. Nya is slightly drunk, and I've been rationing out my drinks and timing it with water and bites of bar food to keep me afloat. I escort her back to my car, and I take her home.
Nya and I shuffle to her front door, and I open it for her. "Night, Mimi. Love you", she kisses my cheek and lazily shuffles to her bathroom. I lock her door and get in my car to head home.
When I get home, I head straight for the shower. I finish the rest of my self-care, leaving the toothbrushing for last.
I shoot Vlad a text that I'm home safely before I forget. I pull on a long night shirt and hop into bed with a bottle of water and my iPad. I plan to scroll through Pinterest all night until I fall asleep. For about an hour, it goes to plan, until I remember what's in my nightstand.
My mind wanders off to Vlad as I turn the vibration up on my little device. I close my eyes and let the feeling take over. Except, I can't seem to get there. I can't focus long enough to enjoy it. I want to call him.
I cave and put my vibrator on the nightstand. The heavy rain draws my attention. I head to my balcony door and open it, letting some fresh air into my bedroom. I love the smell of rain. I click on his contact, and the phone doesn't ring once. He answers immediately. "Amina", he purs.
"Hey. Are you busy?" I ask carefully.
"For you, I am not. Did you enjoy your night out with your friend?" he asks sweetly.
"Vlad?" I call out.
"Yes?"
"Where are you?" I ask.
"I'm in Romania right now", he counters.
"Can you come here? Like, to my house?" I test.
He pauses for a moment. I call his name again, thinking he hung up.
“One moment", he says. He hangs up. I stare at my phone and then walk out to my concrete patio with my house slippers. The privacy trees sway, letting in a fresh scent of pine. I cross my arms, looking at how heavy the rain was coming down.
I walk back inside, sitting on the edge of my bed, waiting. I'm assuming he'll call me back when he's at my front door. I'll let him inside, and we'll have a drink. The relief of his presence should be enough to get me to fall asleep. Or so thought.
Like some creature of myth, he levitates inches from my balcony. Floating weightless, arms dangling at his side, stance straight. I gawk at the shock of his sudden arrival.
He hovers over the railing and gently floats down until his feet touch the concrete of my balcony. Steam emits off his skin from the cold rain. There's not a single sound that announces him. It's as if he's a feather in the wind.
He takes one step onto my carpet, then another, fully stepping inside. I stand slowly, taking in his form. Dress pants, a loose button down, no shoes. I rush past him and close my balcony door. I turn to face him, admiring the way his shirt clung to every rippling muscle on his body. The way his chest rises and falls, trapped within the barrier of the wet cloth.
For a moment, I'm speechless. He stares at me, completely unmoving. Then he looks past me and at my nightstand. A twinkle of amusement in his gaze as his eyes roll back to me. I feel the heat of embarrassment rise, but I pretend not to feel it. Instead, I look at the half-unbuttoned shirt on his torso.
"You're drenched. I need to get you out of these wet clothes. It's not good for you", I insist. I close the gap between us and begin to unbutton his shirt, shaking. He allows it, no protests.
"I don't feel the cold", he says in that dangerously quiet tone.
"…Still, you're my guest", I say in a shaky tone. Struggling with the last button. When it’s finally released, I can see the expanse of his chest and his abs. He pulls his shirt off the rest of the way and hands it to me. I put it into my empty clothing hamper. Next, I go for the belt.
"I can hear your heartbeat. 190 beats per minute. It's thumping in my eardrum. Please say whatever you're thinking out loud. It would be better for both of us", he tempts. His accent is thick and syrupy. Rolling and heavy on his tongue.
"I just want to get you dry", I murmur shyly, evading his gaze.
In a split second, his wet arms grab me so quickly I squeal. He leans down and brushes the tip of my mouth with his own, until he slowly melts onto my mouth. I taste the sweetness of a cigar on the tip of his tongue. I moan against it when I feel his hands on my body. When he pulls away, it's enough to make the truth spill out. “I don't want a gentleman right now..", I blurt. I can see the faintest teeniest tiniest smirk on his face. I continue. "I want you to bite me …"
His eyes darken with that, in the most literal sense. The darkness of his pupil is eating up the remaining color in his eye. I start to undo his belt, slowly pulling it from the loops until it thwacks onto the floor. My fingers head for the button on his slack. I slip the button from the loop and then step back. Waiting. Waiting to see what he'll do. I hadn't gotten permission to do any of this. I have no idea where his head is.
He carefully steps out of his trousers, and I'm looking at his erection immediately. It's the loudest thing in the room. The darkness of his black boxers does little to conceal the bulge. I find my voice again, though it's weaker than I'd like. More unsure sounding than I intend. "I want to make you feel the way I did…" I confess.
"There lies our dilemma. I want to please you, and you want to please me", he smirks. The glint of his fangs was prevalent even in the dark. His fists clench and unclench at his sides. Centuries worth of self control were built up in those hands. The veins that run from his palms up his forearms are profound, moving in time with his movements.
His eyes circle around the room in a faux deep thought. Just taunting me. Just working me up for the hell of it. "How about…I bite you first, and then you can do whatever you want? That sounds like a perfectly good compromise", he purrs.
I think for a moment, looking between his erection, his fang, and his eyes. "When you bit me, it knocked me on my ass. Why bite me now? Why not wait until all this is over?" I ask.
He chuckles. "I like to watch you squirm. In pleasure, not pain. But the first bite always feels overwhelming. Where I bite you can determine the sensation. This time, I'll bite you somewhere else. Use less venom. Where should it be?" he taunts. His hands wrap around my waist.
A single finger presses against the corner of my lips and then trails down to my chin, my neck, my clavicle, chest, and stomach. I can see the wheels turning in his head. His hand finds mine, and then he grabs my wrist, bringing it up to his mouth and kissing it. "Here?" he asks playfully.
"What will it feel like there ?" I ask quietly. My heart is still pounding, but the excitement of knowing he'll let me have this feeling again is riveting.
"You'll have to find out for yourself, won't you?", he taunts.
I nod, waiting patiently for him to puncture my skin. He kisses the thin skin of my wrist, smelling the front and back of it, skimming his mouth over different areas. Likely choosing where he'll strike.
He settles for the area where my palm meets my wrist and licks it gently. I feel his teeth line up with the flesh and watch a faux snarl grace his features as his thin canine teeth pierce my skin. I gasp at the brightness of the pain. He holds my wrist firmly so that I don't jerk away, causing him to rip the skin.
"ahhhh…", I moan in pain. It burns here. One of my ankles twists around itself, and my other palm clenches as I push through the sharp discomfort. He looks up at me through his lashes, sucking and drinking.
I can feel the exact moment his venom begins to trickle into my bloodstream. It’s cold. The sharpness of that pain dulls after about 30 seconds, turning into an ache. A fuzzy feeling begins to prick my fingertips, rolling up my arm, and then my entire body. I watch his nostrils flare as he drinks.
A bite from on my wrist feels like I took something. Different from last time, which was more expansive, more encompassing. It felt like various forms of pleasure combining all at once. My wrist is entirely different.
He continues to drink, and my moan of pain turns into a moan of bliss. My hearing becomes distorted, and so does my sight. He gently pulls away and begins to lick at the puncture wounds he left until it bleeding stops.
I slowly fall to my knees. My nipples prick the inside of my shirt. I can feel the slip of my arousal on the upper part of my thigh. The more time passes, the more concentrated this feeling becomes. I try to control my breathing as I hold onto his legs for support.
Even through the intensity of this moment, my mind is set on one thing. My hand weakly climbs up his legs and tugs at his boxers.
"What do you want?" he taunts.
"T-take your..your….fuck…", I squeak. I rest my head on his knee, squeezing my thighs together. I’m grasping for a semblance of composure.
He chuckles darkly at my struggle. "I can always always tuck you in?" he teases.
“ No! No…”, I spat. But I really could let this feeling take me down. I could close my eyes and fall asleep right here, but that would be such a waste.
"Sit up straight and open your mouth", he says firmly. It's not a mean tone, no. Though I felt the privilege of getting him off would be taken away had I not done what he asked. The night was too young to lose to myself to pleasure so soon.
I pull myself upright, hands still attached to his thigh. I nod, signaling for him to continue. Even though my eyes are rolling in the back of my head, I dug my nails into the tops of my knees.
He pulls his boxers down to his muscular thighs. I can feel my mouth water and my core contract. He's perfect. Absolutely perfect. Better than what I had seen in that vision. He's maybe 8 or 9inches. Just the right amount of girth. Groomed but not hairless. And the tip is curved.
I should have known every single part of him…Down to the most minute details were built for pleasure. That's all I've known since I met him. Pleasure. It was purposeful. A facet of his condition.
"Open your mouth", he rasps. I straightened up again and unhinged my jaw. I feel him slide into my mouth, and a hiss leaves him. But it's not the kind of hiss that leaves a human man. It’s animalistic... A reminder of his otherworldliness. A reminder of what he is. I was in his domaine of hedonism. He ruled this territory better than I ever could because he was made for it.
I sink him further into my mouth, groaning around the stretch of him. I wrap my lips around his head and watch him through my lashes. He's biting himself. Fangs deep into his own wrist. Breathing just a step above irregular. I playfully lick the tip of him, enjoying getting a rise out of him. Another wave of pleasure nearly knocks me off balance. I fall face-first into his thigh, finishing right there on the floor, kneeling at his legs. Pathetically.
If they called underperforming men "Minute men"…then I was a minute woman through and through. "Holdmyhair-", I pant. Still shaking from my own release.
"Are you sure?", he grunts. I nod.
He holds my hair, and I wrap my hand around his base. I'm pushing him deeply into my mouth until I nearly gag. An audible moan spills from him as I feel him tickle the sides of my throat.
Now, I've sucked a dick or three. And some may say that I did it pretty well. But Vlad has disarmed me. Entirely. Purposefully. My tonsils had to redeem me.
My fingers find my aching clit. I'm drooling around him, eyes watering the deeper I push him. I pull him out; giving myself room to breathe. He takes his thumb and wipes the tears on my face with it before sinking his digit into my mouth.
I stroke the length of him in my hand, coating every inch of him. I go to wipe the drool from my chin, and he stops me, quietly shaking his head.
Slowly, I line him up with my mouth and wrap my lips around him, sucking firmly. His knees twitch with imbalance before he catches himself. I smirk in victory, only to be unsettled by another large wave of pleasure. My fingers between my legs speed up as I bob up and down his shaft, tongue cupping the underside of him.
"Are you touching yourself?" he asks with a sharp edge. I almost feel like I'm in trouble when he lifts my t-shirt to expose my naked body. I'm not wearing a stitch of undergarments, not even panties. His eyes widen in surprise as I pull away, just on the edge of another climax. I can't sit still as I grab onto his thigh, steadying myself. Taking a brief pause to catch my breath.
"Was I not supposed to?" I whine. Lust wraps itself around every vowel that leaves my mouth. I don't sound like me at all. He pulls my hand away to inspect my wet fingers, then drops my hand down as if it were made of fire.
He pauses for a moment before he abruptly picks me up as if I weigh nothing, with just one arm. One arm. I stifle my gasp as he walks me over to the bed. His eyes don't leave mine, not once. Even when he tips onto me until we're both flat on my bed, him on top of me.
I grab his face in a frenzy, pulling his mouth down to mine. The kiss is hungry. His rough and warm hands trail up my thighs and then along my stomach and breasts. I'm throbbing with need. My hands roam the planes of his back, nails scratching against his skin, back bending into him. My body tries to find a way closer, as if he wasn't practically glued against me, chest to foot.
Pleasure lights up like scar tissue when his tongue sweeps across my neck. A reminder of what happened 7 days ago to the date. Another release washes over me, and I can't control my volume. He stifles my shout with his mouth, swallowing it all down. I reach between us to feel him, and he pins both of my hands to the bed, raising them above my head. He uses one of his hands to hold both my wrists in place as he makes a feast of my breast. His tongue prods my nipple, and then he sucks. My heart races against the barrier of my chest, and I think maybe it might actually float away.
His hands move down to my waist. "Vlad….", I moan. He groans against my skin, lapping against the birthmark on my stomach. His fingers trace it. He leaves short pecks down my stomach until he buries his face between my legs. I gasp when I feel his tongue swipe along the wetness of my skin, picking up every drop of arousal that had accumulated there since he arrived.
He groans at the taste, pulling back and spreading me wide to look down at my folds. Eyes glowing like two embers in the dark, they disappear when he buries his tongue inside of me. That's when I realize He's not going to wait until his bite wears off. He's going to do this while I'm losing my mind. Over and over. All odds were stacked against me.
I wail out when his tongue laps over my clit, in odd circles. I grab his hair, and he wraps his arms tightly around my legs, a warning not to try to pull away. The skill of his tongue is disorienting. It's as if he'd already memorized my anatomy, and in a way, he had. He'd been here before. He doesn't have to find it. He knew.
He sucks my clit and my hands rush to the tops of his shoulders, pushing down. "fuckfuckfuckfuck!", I gasp. My head is spinning. My vision is blurring. A wave of pleasure collides with the feel of his mouth against me. I choke on the sensation, unable to even get out a sound.
He flicks and sucks over and over again, occasionally lapping up the mess just to start all over. A strong arm bands itself over my stomach. Anchoring me down as he swirled his tongue against me. "Shit!!!", I squeal, hips bucking against his strength. Failing miserably to gain any reprieve. He's suctioned to me, tormenting my clit.
I hold the back of his head as he flushes his mouth airtight against my clit, suckling and flicking until my face twists up and my eyes roll. He rewards each twitch of my body with a hum of appreciation. He narrows the tip of his tongue to a precision and then sucks and laps. A maddening combination.
I'm on the precipice of my climax. Even though I feel that I've cum had dozens now. His venom is so physically demanding of my body, and yet he’s only just started to touch me. Not even five minutes, and I'm bracing myself for a release.
He doesn't make me wait for it. He doesn't make me ask permission like all the others. No feeble attempt at making the whole ordeal seem darker and sexier than it was. No, instead, he just shoots daggers at me as I come apart. I pull the covers over my face as I scream into my orgasm. Body sputtering, shaking, and twitching with a long-awaited physical release. A tangible one.
My throat is raw when he pulls away. I lay there shaking, trying to catch my breath. But his venom hadn't worn off. I was still clenching around nothing. Pleasure held me hostage, and I had nowhere to run.
There's no time to think. Like a rag doll, I'm pulled to sit between his legs. He notches my legs wide with his foot, pushing my ankle apart. He meticulously rests both of his calves on the tops of feet. Weighing my legs down purposely.
With my back to his chest, my head perfectly falls back onto him. He plants his hand on my forehead, keeping the back of my head pressed against his shoulder. Avoiding any potential whiplash.
He snakes his hand down the front of my body and his hand land between my legs. He wets his fingers in my release before slowly notching his middle and ring fingers into me. He glides in without a lick of resistance, purposely hooking his fingers directly onto my G-spot. His accuracy is almost clinical, as though his fingertips had echolocation. My jaw unhinges as he begins to press them inside of me, pulling his fingers towards himself rather than outwards, bucking up against my G-spot in a gentle but firm manner.
My hands are searching for something to grasp. They settle for his thighs, and my nails sink in. He doesn't flinch once. Just continues his pursuit. I close my eyes and cross them, sputtering out words not even I understand.
"F—Vlad. Wait", I groan as he sped his fingers up. He pauses in place for a brief moment, kissing my neck. I'm panting again, my vision tunneling.
"What is it…?", he purrs against my ear, kissing behind it. I don't know what I want. I don't know what I need. My wires are crossed. A strange pressure forms deep in my core. "You want this to stop?", he asks quietly. Carefully. It's not a threat. It's an inquiry. I shake my head no sharply. No. Hell no. But god, surely he knew I'd never felt this way before. Surely.
He starts again...but slower. I'm so aroused I can actually hear myself. The squelch of skin on skin, a reminder that until now, I'd never been so aroused in my life. I moan without abandon, biting my lip when I get too loud. But then he does something indescribable. Something unphathonable. Something had moved inside of me. I think back to the boat. The way his body moved and yet stayed in place, like a hummingbird trapped in human skin.
I can't get the sound to come out of my throat when he starts. I gasp and gasp and gasp until I can't get in any more air. My legs begin to kick under the weight of his own. Meticulous. Sneaky bastard.
I grab his thick wrist, digging my nails into it. My eyes are rolling back so hard they hurt. I'm clawing at his skin. His fingers buzz against my G-spot with a precision that feels nearly fatal. "Move your hand", he says gently. He says it sweetly. Like I'm some bumbling idiot. In this moment, I could be. I move my hand away to my dismay.
I'm writhing against him, panting, whining. I let out the ugliest fucking screech. "Oh my fucking god, you fucking evil bastard!", I cry. My lips curl and tremble. I can feel the tears brimming in my waterline. I try to hold them at bay. I could do without the embarrassment of them.
"Insults? I'll bite you again...Careful", he warns playfully. A dark chuckle leaves him. I shake my head in fear. Another bite would end me. surely.
He rocks his fingers, intensifying the vibration. My tears spill onto my cheeks. I was surprised I lasted this long. I'm bucking and kicking again. His kisses pepper my clavicle while I lose my mind. My hands find his wrist again.
"Aht…aht..", he quietly reprimands me. My back bends and twists, but I'm planted to him. My nails draw blood.
"OHMYGOD!!…FUCK!!", I cry. He chuckles in my ear as I brace myself for the impact of my release. No amount of squeezing or scratching could undo any of this. I’m already there and it’s too late to turn back around.
The pressure was back and spreading. I kicked my legs free from underneath him, lifting myself from my seated position. I feel myself tip over the edge of my climax again, and I scream so loud I startle myself. Something warm spouts from between my legs, and I actually become lightheaded.
I'm squirting. Something I've never been able to do. Not with a vibrator, a hand, or some piece of shit guy I let fuck. No luck until him. I'm in disbelief.
He keeps going until I'm literally twisting myself away from him so fiercely that I nearly stand up in the bed. He pulls me back down with a firm hand, revealing dripping wet fingers in front of my face. I can feel him stroke himself with his wethand behind me, and he finishes on my back seconds later.
I'm done. I'm spent. I'm panting like a bitch in heat. I'm sweaty. My bed is drenched to hell...
"Where are your towels, Amina?" he asks in the most polite voice. As if he didn't nearly fucking kill me just now.
"Hallway. First door to your left. Hand towels and clean wash rags are on the bottom shelf", I rasp. My voice is shot. I sound like Marg Simpson.
He walks out the bedroom door, dick swinging in the wind like a baton. He comes back, walks into the bathroom connected to my bedroom, and wets a towel with warm water. He cleans me up.
"Vlad, this bed is done for. I can't sleep in my wet spot, I'm sorry", I whine.
"I'll get more towels next time. I'll take the wet spot", he insists.
I lazily scoot over as he climbs back onto the bed. I can barely lift my head. He crawls onto me, resting his head on my stomach. I throw my arms over his shoulder blades. The last of his venom had diminished down to a warm feeling. My high was fading and turning into a post orgasmic bliss.
My mind had never been so quiet. In all my years. In all my nights. All I hear is the sound of my breathing lining up with his. A few minutes pass, and the rumbling of fabric catches my attention. A pair of pants floats to the end of the bed, just within Vlad's reach. He grabs them and pulls out a pack of cigs.
"Can I smoke here?", he asks in the quiet dark.
"You may", I yawn.
He lights his cigarette with the end of his finger. I nearly forgot he had that kind of power.
"How come you didn't do that in the restaurant? I see my lighter was pointless", I ask.
"Draws too much attention. Must blend in", he says.
"You always cover up your accent too..", I drawl. My hand draws lazy circles on his back. He seems to like it.
"People will ask where I'm from if I don't. Humans can be nosy at times", he assessed.
"You could say humans should all be annihilated right now, and I wouldn't give a fuck”, I slur. Sleep was near. I've never been so relaxed in my life. I hear a quiet chuckle from him.
"I wonder…if people ever get addicted to that feeling", I mumble. Eyes closed and already halfway asleep.
"The bite?", he asks. I hum in confirmation.
"Few vampires carry the trait of a pleasurable bite. But I'm sure there has been a mortal or two who liked the feeling of a bite, especially on their way out. It's a sweet way to go…", he grins.
"You have to know when to cut me off. That shit ain't normal", I snort.
"Noted", he says with a peck to my stomach.
But he had a problem saying no to me. I could already tell. The thought makes me smile as I run my fingers through his scalp. It puts me to sleep.
Vlad is there when I wake up in the morning. We shower together, something I swore to never do again. But it was a little different when a man insisted on washing you from head to toe. He washed my hair, then my entire body, and somehow it trickled into us, making out, just wasting hot water. The steam does nothing for my voice, which is entirely gone by breakfast.
He cooks for me in a white bath towel, smoking between every flip of my pancakes. I couldn't ask for a better view. I sip my coffee, watching the ripple of the muscles in his back. He hands me my plate, but I have to pay a "kiss tax" to get my fork. I make no fuss of it all.
We spend a lazy Sunday morning together in the kitchen. I watch him wash the pans he dirtied up as he tells me about some of his new real estate ventures. The morning was off to a cohesive start, and I started to wonder why I hadn't invited him over sooner. He floats around the home as if he belongs in it, and I loved it. Midway through our talk, I decided we needed some music.
I get up from my seat and begin to walk to the living room. I stop in my tracks when I notice something dart behind the wall separating the kitchen and the living room. I drop my phone in fear, and the clatter startles Vlad, who whips around, pan in hand.
"Somebody is watching us", I warn quietly. Vlad walks behind me quietly, his stance protective.
"Hello…..", I call out.
I feel crazy. I'm sure the two of us look silly staring into the living room like a pair of weirdos. For a moment, I think I might have imagined the whole ordeal. Until curls and eyes peek from behind the wall. A boy, about six, and a carbon copy of Vlad, stands at the entrance of the kitchen. I gasp when I see him, not expecting him to show himself in such a bold way. Vlad drops the frying pan on the floor, frozen in place. The sound is so loud it frightens the child.
The boy runs away, dissolving into nothingness the same way he came. Here one moment and gone the next, disappearing into the wall. I whip my head around to check on Vlad…only to see him frozen in terror.
I'm here!! It was funny seeing Vlad be apart of the curren couple staple...selfies. Reading him not even focusing on the camera instead, it was OC🥹. I'm obsessed with how you display his never ending love..its so romantic😮💨❤️. In so many version we're always told about his great love but, we're never shown. Side note: Would love to see Vlad interacting with people on OC's life more. I feel the dynamic would be awkward and hilarious😂. I'm convinced that Vlad is just waiting around or reading minds, how does he just..know everything?🧐.
The biting kink is interesting as well. I just it's pain as pleasure thing. Could it also be considered a pain kink? I wonder how Vlad feels about it? Do you think they'd become addicted? The steam in bedroom was..chef's kiss 😘 I knew Vlad had some meat on him😂. He gives submissive vibes🤷🏽♀️. I know he tries to dominate but, i think he love giving up control for her . I cannot get over him playing downstairs Dj on OC 😮💨. Lastly, that has to be their dead child's ghost. That very scary and maybe their children will appear as they're love gets stronger. Or it can be a warning sign OC death is near 🤷🏽♀️. Overall 10/10 and I'll be waiting🙋🏾♀️
(I'm adding random tags so it'll get more traction)
Summary: In the thick Mississippi heat of the 1920s, identical twins Elijah “Smoke” Moore and Elias “Stack” Moore return home from war—ragged, restless, and searching for something steady. Promised opportunities have dried up, and the only offer worth taking comes from August Langston, a wealthy Black ranch owner and old friend of their father’s. August gives the boys work and a place to sleep on his sprawling land just outside Clarksdale.
Just the sound of his breath—deep and guttural—as he rose to full height.
Delphine blinked, still heaving, still pulsing between her thighs, body weak from the orgasm Stack had just wrung out of her. Her lips were parted. Her skin was glowing. Her eyes found Smoke, and something shifted in the air.
He was stroking himself now.
Slow. Silent. Purposeful.
That thick, curved dick glistened at the tip, heavy in his grip, veiny and flushed. The way it bent slightly to the left…Jesus.
It looked like it was made to ruin. Made to jump on.
Delphine’s mouth opened wider—a breath, a whimper— but she didn’t speak.
She didn’t have to.
Smoke walked toward her, steps steady, thighs flexing with each one. His jaw was tight. His eyes locked on hers until she couldn’t look anymore. She looked down. Then back up. And when he reached her—still on her knees, still dazed—he moved her.
Gently, but with force. Like she belonged to him.
“Turn around,” he spoke, voice low like thunder in the bones.
She obeyed.
Hands on the floor, knees wide. She arched for him without thinking—deep. Like her hips knew what he needed. Her back curved until her spine sang. Her ass raised high, thighs parted, her pussy swollen and soaked, glistening in the lamplight. Behind her, Smoke exhaled like he’d been holding it for days. He dropped to his knees. Gripped both her cheeks in those twitchy, work-worn hands. Spread her apart just to look. Just to stare.
“Ain’t never seen nothin’ like this,” he whispered, “It’s too much. And I need every inch of it.”
His voice broke a little at the end.
Then—slowly—he pressed in.
It was thick.
Too thick.
That curved head stretched her open inch by inch, teasing the rim of her soaked entrance before sliding in slow. The stretch was a burn and a pulse—a deep, aching slide that pulled a strangled moan from her chest.
“Mmmmhhhnnn—oh fuuuuck—” she cried, nails scraping the floor.
The curve dragged against her front wall—just under her belly—lighting her up like a struck match. Every nerve ending screamed.
“It’s that curve,” she gasped, “Oh my fucking goddness—lawd—it’s hittin’—it’s hittin’ everythin’—”
Smoke didn’t say a word. Just grunted low—that quiet, dangerous sound—and slid in deeper.
Until his hips pressed flush against her ass.
She was hot. Tight. Wet.
He felt her clench around him the second he pushed in—her body trying to keep him out and in at the same time. He almost came right then.
“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead dropping to her back for one breath, “You feel like heaven, Delphine. Shit, woman…”
He gripped her hips like a young man about to lose control—thumbs digging into the dimples of her back, forearms flexing as he pulled out slow…then thrust back in hard.
The ripple of her ass broke him.
He watched it bounce with every stroke. Watched his thick ass dick disappear into her and come out dripping.
“I swear to God,” he muttered, “this pussy gon’ break me.”
Stack hadn’t moved. He was standing to the side now, hand wrapped around his dick, eyes locked on to Delphine’s creamy pussy.
“Look at you,” he said, voice thick with lust, “Pussy eatin’ him up already. You archin’ like it’s the only way to breathe.”
He stepped closer, watching Delphine’s pussy take every inch of his brother.
“You feel that, sugar?” he said, “This your fault. Bent up like a bitch in heat. Mouth open, droolin’, takin’ dick.”
Delphine moaned so loud it echoed.
Smoke’s thrusts got harder. Not faster. Just deeper. Meaner. Each stroke pulled a sob from her throat—not pain, but pleasure too deep to hold in. Her breasts bounced beneath her, sweat pooling between them. Her pussy was a mess—lips swollen, slick spilling down her thighs, creamy and loud.
“Keep talkin’, Stack,” she whimpered, “Make it nastier. I need to feel how filthy I look.”
“You a nasty bitch,” Stack growled, “couldn’t wait to have dick in your holes, huh?”
Smoke slapped her ass once, hard, the sound cracked through the room. Then he gripped it again and fucked her through it.
Delphine screamed.
Smoke’s grip on her hips tightened, his dick buried to the hilt. The stretch had her trembling, gasping, eyes fluttering. But then, he paused.
Just for a breath.
She felt his hand slide up her back—slow—until he took hold of her shoulder. His other hand stayed low, spread across her hip like it belonged there. Possessive. Controlling. Holding her open.
“Look at me,” he growled.
Delphine turned her head, her curls wild, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, and locked eyes with him over her shoulder.
His face was twisted in restraint. Sweat on his brow. Lips parted, chest rising like a man struggling to hold back the flood.
“You feelin’ what you made me do?” he whispered, “You feel this pussy tryin’ to keep me in?”
Before she could answer, Stack stepped in front of her.
His dick was thick, hard, long—still wet from her hand, glistening with precum. He stroked it slow and leaned down, brushing it against her lips.
“Mmm,” he smirked, “Feed that filthy mouth, baby.”
Delphine moaned, a hungry, grateful sound, and wrapped her lips around him. Smoke was still behind her, deep and pulsing. Stack in front, groaning as her mouth wrapped around his tip. Delphine? In the middle, owned, open, and completely alive. Smoke’s hand clutched her shoulder harder, and he started to move—slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out, then thrusting back in with a grunt.
“You gon’ make me lose it,” he growled, “Gon’ fuck you so good, you forget your fuckin’ name. Forget how to bake them cobblers.”
Delphine moaned around Stack’s dick, drool slipping from the corners of her mouth. She reached up, stroked him while she sucked, then pulled off with a wet pop, eyes blazing.
“Elijah…” she gasped, voice slurred with lust, “You feel that? That curve hittin’ my walls? Gon’ make me squirt all over your goddamn balls.”
Smoke’s eyes darkened. His thrusts grew harder.
“Yeah? You wanna soak me, baby?” he hissed.
“Uh huh,” she whined, still stroking Stack’s dick with one hand while her other braced the floor, “You keep fuckin’ me like that and I’ma lose it. You want that? Wanna see this pussy leak for you?”
Smoke leaned forward, his chest brushing her back, “Don’t threaten me with a good time now.”
She whimpered—the angle was too much, the pressure unbearable. Stack ran his thumb along her bottom lip and chuckled.
“She tryna talk shit with her mouth full of dick,” he muttered, watching the tears bead in her lashes.
“I love this nasty pussy,” Smoke growled against her ear, fucking her through it, “I own this pussy.”
Delphine locked eyes with him again. Nothing but want. Nothing but filth, “Then take it,” she begged, “Take it ‘til I drown you.”
Smoke did just that. Pounding her back in.
And then, she came.
Her body seized, thighs shaking violently as she squirted with a cry that rattled the walls. Her pussy clenched around Smoke so tight he groaned loud, hips stuttering.
“Fuck—Delphine—”
He barely held it back.
Stack moaned, stroking himself faster, watching her fall apart between them. Smoke had just pulled out, his curved dick dripping, his chest rising hard. Delphine lay there on all fours, twitching, gasping, her thighs slick and shining. Her mouth was still parted, eyes glassy, pussy clenching around nothing as her orgasm echoed in the air.
And Stack?
Stack was starving.
“Fuck this.”
He moved in fast, scooping her up like she weighed nothing. Her body went limp in his arms, all jelly and heat and wrecked nerve endings. But when he laid her down on the mattress—her hair spread out, tits bouncing, thighs still glistening—she looked up at him and smirked.
That did it.
Stack climbed over her, grabbing her legs and spreading them wide—so wide her knees nearly hit her shoulders. He pinned her down with both hands behind her thighs, leaned in close with sweat shining down his chest, and lined himself up.
“Been waitin’ on this pussy,” he growled, “Too fuckin’ long.”
He pushed in.
The second his tip breached her, he saw stars.
“Fuuuuuuuck.”
It was hot.
Hotter than he imagined.
Wet like nothing he’d ever felt—that perfect glide, that velvet grip, that clench that pulled him in deeper than he thought was possible.
“You kiddin’ me?” he gasped, jaw tight, eyes rolling back, “This pussy got a heartbeat.”
He bottomed out slow, groaning so loud it shook the bedframe. Her walls fluttered around him, like her body didn’t know whether to take him or push him out.
“Goddamn, Miss lady…You just tight on this dick, huh?”
He didn’t give her time to speak.
Didn’t give her time to think.
He started pounding.
Rough. Deep. Rhythm locked like thunder in a storm. He drove into her like he’d been starving for her since the day they met—his hands locked behind her thighs, pressing her legs back until her knees framed her ears.
The mattress squealed.
Her ass bounced with every thrust.
His dick slapped wet into her like it belonged.
She couldn’t breathe.
The stretch was different this time—longer, deeper. Like his dick touched the very bottom of her stomach and stayed there. Her eyes flew open, back arching, breath punched right out her chest.
“STACK—! Oh my God—”
He was pounding her open like he had a point to prove— and he did.
That he could fuck her better.
That he could own her.
That this pussy would remember him.
She felt every vein, every drag, every merciless slam of his hips. And her walls? Already soaked from Elijah, they clung to Stack’s dick like they didn’t want him to leave.
“Shit, shit, shit—baby you feel too good!” she cried, nails digging into his arms.
He leaned over her, still pounding, gritting his teeth through a grin, “Yeah? This what you wanted, huh? This what you need? Been playin’ ‘round to get it like this huh?”
He slapped her ass from underneath and rolled his hips just right—a grind and thrust combo that had her screaming.
“You think Elijah filled you up?” he taunted, sweat dripping onto her tits, “I’ma leave you ruined.”
Her legs folded back, her breasts bouncing, her belly trembling. His hands on the backs of her thighs, holding her open like a man obsessed. Stack was cussing under his breath now, voice dropping into something filthy.
“Pussy grippin’ me like it’s begging me to keep fuckin’. You tryna milk my nut, baby? That it?”
Delphine could barely form words, “I—*oh God—*you hittin’ my—uhhhn!”
Her hands clawed at the sheets, mouth open, hips lifting to meet every thrust.
And Stack? He leaned down and whispered filth in her ear between gritted teeth.
“I’m gon’ nut so deep, you taste me when you swallow.”
Stack had her folded, laid flat on her back with her legs pushed damn near to her shoulders. His grip never wavered, hands locked behind her thighs like he was mounting a prize, using every muscle in his body to drive her through the mattress. He was deep—so fucking deep—that each thrust made her stomach jump, her moans hitched and breathless.
“You still takin’ it?” he muttered through gritted teeth, “Still lettin’ me ruin this pussy?”
Delphine couldn’t even speak. Just gasped, whined, clutched at the sheets. That’s when he looked up. Eyes catching the mirror at the side of the bed.
And goddamn…
Her legs were wide, her stomach trembling, her pussy stretched around every inch of his dick.
Tits bouncing. Lips parted.
His own reflection grinning down at her— sweaty, wild, completely unhinged.
“Look,” he panted, “Look at that.”
Delphine turned her head, and when she saw what he saw, she gasped.
Eyes wide. Lips parted in disbelief.
She looked back at Stack, then down at where they were joined, that long, veiny dick still pounding her like it hadn’t even started trying yet.
“I can’t believe you got that much dick,” she moaned, “Shit—how the fuck you fit all that in me?”
Stack grinned, sweat dripping off his brow, “You took it, sugar. Every inch. And you still squeezin’ me like you want more. Like a greedy bitch.”
He slammed in deep—all the way to the hilt—hips grinding for that extra pressure.
“You want more?”
“Y-yeah—fuck—”
“Then say it.”
“Make me cum on that long dick, baby. Do it.”
Stack growled. That’s all he needed. He shifted his angle, pushed her thighs back further, and slammed into her like he had a mission. His hips snapped against hers fast, heavy, relentless, the sound of it echoing. Her pussy squelched around him, dripping down the curve of his balls.
“That’s it. Gimme that cum, baby. Fuckin’ gimme it.”
Delphine’s body arched, hands flying to his back, nails digging deep. Her mouth fell open—a scream caught in her throat.
“I’m c-cumming—oh my GOD—”
And then it happened.
Her back lifted clean off the bed, toes curling, thighs locked around him as her pussy clenched and pulsed— soaking his dick in another hot, messy release.
She screamed his name.
“Elias! Oh fuck—Elias, I’m fuckin’—”
He didn’t stop. Rode her through it like he was born in her body. Felt her squeeze and flutter and drip, and grinned down at her like a man possessed.
“Look at you,” he groaned, hips grinding, “Grown ass woman cummin’ like a virgin. Dick too much for you, huh?”
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Just laid there wrecked—chest heaving, mouth slack, eyes hazy. Delphine was laid out, legs open, body soaked and twitching. Her pussy still pulsed from the orgasm Stack had just pounded out of her—slick and shining, clenching around nothing now but aching for more. Stack pulled out slow, dick glistening with her cream, chest heaving like he’d just run through a battlefield.
And Smoke was standing at the foot of the bed.
Dick. Just. Throbbing.
Hung low but bouncing with tension—that slow, deep curve twitching, thick veins pulsing down the side. His balls were heavy and drawn close, his jaw tight, breath ragged like he couldn’t hold back much longer.
Delphine’s eyes dropped to it and moaned, barely able to lift her hand but she reached. Smoke climbed onto the bed without a word, moved between her thighs, and lined himself up again.
He pushed in slow.
Real slow.
Just to feel her again.
And God…she clenched the second his head slipped in.
Like her body recognized him.
Welcomed him back.
“Mmmf—” Smoke groaned, eyes fluttering shut, “She still tight…still warm…” He slid deeper, hands gripping her hips, “She still fuckin’ squeezin’ me like she ain’t just been filled.”
Each slow stroke pulled a fresh wet sound from between her thighs—her walls sucking him in, wetter now than ever, like her body was thanking him for coming back.From the side, Stack chuckled darkly, still standing at the edge of the bed, wiping sweat from his neck.
“Pussy good, ain’t it?” he said, voice slick with pride, “Like diggin’ for gold. Every stroke hit somethin’ precious.”
Smoke didn’t crack a smile, just nodded, slow and grim, still thrusting deep and steady.
“It’s dangerous,” he muttered, “This pussy… make you lose your mind.”
Delphine moaned, head rolling on the pillow, “Y’all talkin’ like I’m not even here,” she slurred, smiling lazy, “But I am. And I love the way y’all talk about me.”
Stack moved closer, rubbing his cock slowly, still thick and twitching, “Course you do. You nasty,” he grinned, “You need to hear how good you been fuckin’ us.”
Delphine’s eyes locked on Smoke’s face.
He was trembling now—arms tight, eyes dark, thrusts shallower.
She reached up, cupped the back of his neck, and whispered, “You close, baby? You gon’ cum for me? Gon’ keep slow-fucking my pussy with that fat dick?”
He didn’t answer, just groaned, rhythm faltering.
Stack stepped up, still stroking, “Hop out,” he said, voice low but urgent, “I need to feel her again. While she’s still warm and wrecked.”
Smoke hesitated—then pulled out slow, dick wet and twitching, already drooling at the tip. Stack climbed back in fast, turning Delphine to her stomach, lifting her hips.
Back arched. Ass up. Pussy still leaking.
He pushed in deep from behind and groaned loud—loud enough to echo.
“Shit…she feel even better now,” he hissed, “You fucked her open for me.”
He started to stroke—deep and dirty—while Delphine moaned into the sheets, her ass bouncing, her body surrendering again.
“Goddamn, baby,” he muttered, biting his lip, “Pussy missed me.”
Delphine turned her head, hair wild, and grinned back at him, “It did, baby…it missed both y’all. But I want it now.”
They paused.
“What you want, sugar?” Stack asked, breathing hard.
She pushed up on her elbows, turned her head to look at both of them.
Eyes dark. Smile filthy.
“Stand up,” she said, “Both of you. I wanna see you stroke it. Want all that cum on me. My tits, my belly, my mouth—don’t care where. Just give it to me.”
Smoke moved first.
Stack followed.
They stood on either side of the bed, dicks wet and heavy in their fists, pumping hard, fast—desperate now. Delphine sat up on her knees, tits bouncing, mouth open, tongue out.
“Mmm. Lemme see what y’all been holdin’ back.”
They didn’t last long.
Smoke groaned deep—the sound he only made when he couldn’t fight it anymore—and his strokes got sloppy.
“Ohhh fuck—fuck—Delphine—”
Stack cursed, jaw tight, hand flying fast over his shaft.
“Here it come—shit—look at her, she want it—”
And then—
They both exploded.
Smoke first—thick spurts painting her chest, her shoulder, her collarbone.
Stack followed—long, hot ropes of cum across her tits, her stomach, the curve of her throat.
Delphine moaned, eyes fluttering, body jerking at the heat.
She rubbed it in.
Everywhere.
“Y’all done now?” she whispered, licking a drop from her bottom lip, “Or y’all still hungry?”
The room was thick with sweat and sex, the scent of cum still clinging to the sheets when Delphine stood up—slow and aching—her body glistening with everything they’d left on her.
Smoke reached for her waist.
Stack, for her arm.
But she shrugged them off gently, already sauntering toward the bathroom, hips swaying, thighs still trembling. She didn’t even glance back.
“Come on,” she said, “Y’all made the mess. You gone clean it.”
They followed.
The bathroom was dim—golden lamp light, warm tile underfoot. A clawfoot tub with old brass knobs. She turned it on herself, water sputtering to a soft, steady warmth.
“Get my soap,” she said, nodding toward the shelf, “The good one. Wrapped in gold foil. Smell like honey and cardamom.”
Smoke peeled it open. Stack reached for the matching oil. Both men moved like she’d cast a spell. Delphine stepped into the bath and exhaled, head tilted back, arms hanging limp at her sides.
“Neck first,” she said, “Use both hands.”
They obeyed.
Smoke’s hands cupped her shoulders, warm and wide, dragging slow suds down her collarbones. Stack pressed behind her, rubbing the lather into the nape of her neck, down to the slope of her spine.
She purred, “Mmm…just like that. Use your thumbs, baby. Don’t be scared of her.”
They worked down—arms, breasts, belly—slow, careful, delicate. Stack cupped her tits while Smoke rubbed circles into her hips. She lifted one leg and let Stack hold it up, foot braced on the edge of the tub while he lathered her calf, her thigh, the soft behind of her knee.
Then came the center of her.
Smoke knelt in front of her—that curved dick softening now but still heavy between his thighs—and cleaned her pussy like he’d never seen one before.
Gentle. Thorough. Respectful but filthy.
“Mmm,” she moaned, “That’s it, baby. Right between my lips. Clean all that mess y’all made.”
He ran the soap up her slit with two fingers, then rinsed it with his palm, massaging soft until her legs quivered again.
“Don’t forget between my cheeks,” she added, shifting slightly, “That’s my favorite part. So tender.”
Stack slid behind her and reached down, his big fingers spreading her open while Smoke stayed low, watching her pussy twitch under the heat.
“Delicate, now,” she whispered, “That spot too sensitive after a good fuckin’.”
They took their time. She let them. And when it was done, when the soap suds slithered down her curves, she grabbed Smoke by the chin and kissed him slow.
Deep. Wet. Dirty.
Then Stack, grabbing his jaw, tasting herself on his tongue. She dropped to her knees between them as the water dripped off her curves, arms stretched wide, mouth slightly parted.
“Rinse me.”
They took a bucket perched on the floor by the tub, slow and careful, and let the water cascade over her—her breasts, her thighs, her belly. She closed her eyes and let it fall, hips rocking gently under the spray, body glowing under their hands.
They were quiet for a long moment, just the sound of the water and their breathing.
Then Stack spoke, voice lower now, more serious, “Why he don’t fuck you like he should, Delphine?”
She didn’t look up. Just smoothed water over her thigh and answered softly, “He used to,” she said, “Used to love it. Every inch of me. Couldn’t keep his hands to himself.” She chuckled—bitter, fond, “Used to eat me on the porch swing. In the pantry. Said I tasted like sugar and sin.”
Stack’s brows raised. Smoke’s hands paused.
“But that changed,” she said, finally looking up, “Suddenly I was too much. Too hungry. Too wet. Too loud. Called me a Jezebel for wantin’ to suck his dick. Said no wife of his should ever touch herself.” She sat back on her heels, palms on her thighs, still glowing, “So I stopped askin’. Started waitin’. And when he gone…I feel most alive.” She smiled, slow and filthy, “Roamin’ the house with nothin’ on. Sippin’ peach liqueur. Blowin’ smoke through the kitchen window. Playin’ with my pussy ‘til I can’t walk straight…then doin’ it all over again.”
Stack groaned, head tipping back, “Lord have mercy…”
“She gon’ be the end of us,” Smoke muttered, voice husky.
Stack steppped forward, dick hard again, still wet, “You hear what she just said? She playin’ in it like it’s a damn pastime,” he smirked, “Talkin’ ‘bout strollin’ the ranch naked, fingers deep, legs shakin’. Goddamn, woman.” He knelt, brushing her curls back, “You a whole miracle. You know that?”
Delphine looked at him, then at Smoke—who hadn’t said much, but was staring.
Eyes slow, lips parted, jaw tense.
He dragged his eyes over every inch of her.
“Say it,” she whispered.
He licked his lip, voice soft but raw, “You from another world.”
Smoke’s words still lingered in the air.
“You from another world.”
And for a moment, everything went still. Then Delphine laughed—soft, low, like velvet sliding over heat.
Not mocking.
Knowing.
She rose from her knees in one fluid motion, water still dripping from her thighs, her hips swaying as she stood tall between them.
One hand planted on her wet hip.
Her eyes? Heavy-lidded, hungry, sultry as sin itself.
“Mm-mm. Look at y’all.”
She let her gaze travel down—from Smoke’s chest to his thighs, to where his dick still stood half-hard and glistening, twitching from the weight of her. She stepped forward, stood in front of him, chest nearly brushing his, lips parted just so. Then—slow as honey—she dragged a single finger down his chest.
From collarbone to navel.
Smoke’s abs clenched.
His dick jumped.
“Mmm,” she purred, “I like that you don’t talk much.” She looked up at him through thick lashes, voice syrupy and soaked in heat, “’Cause your dick do most of the talkin’ for you. And baby…I heard every word.” She stepped closer—licked her lips, slow and filthy— and let her voice drop to a whisper, “Can’t wait to feel that curve in my belly again. Rub my clit while you stretch me out and watch me squirt all over you.”
Smoke grunted. Couldn’t help it. His hand came down heavy on her ass. A full, greedy palm grabbing a handful of wet flesh.
“Shit,” he muttered, low and breathless.
But Delphine was already turning. One slow pivot. One sway of her hips. And she was facing Stack now who stood back against the sink, arms crossed, dick twitching again, that damn smirk tugging at his lips.
She stepped in close and ran her finger down his mouth.
“You talk big,” she whispered, “And you can back it up.” She leaned in, lips brushing his jaw, “But I plan on changin’ that.”
He chuckled—bold, amused, arrogant to the bone.
“You do, huh?”
Delphine just arched a brow. Then slid two fingers past his lips.
Slow. Deep.
“Suck.”
Stack froze. That smirk faltered.
For a second, just a breath, he hesitated, and that was all she needed to see.
Her smile bloomed like a sin.
Stack locked eyes with her, then wrapped his lips around her fingers—warm, obedient, tongue flicking over her knuckles. Delphine’s eyes sparked. Her laugh was low, delighted, dangerous.
“Mmm. That’s better.”
She pulled her fingers out, slick with spit. Turned and walked away from both of them—naked, dripping, radiant. Left them both standing there hard and humbled, watching her hips roll as she vanished down the hall like a storm that promised to come again.
Steam still lingered in the bathroom, clinging to the mirror and curling into the corners. The air smelled like cardamom, slick bodies and sex, all of it settling heavy in their lungs as silence stretched between the men.
Smoke moved first.
He grabbed a fresh towel off the rack and wrapped it around his waist—slow, methodical, like his bones had forgotten how to move. His skin glistened, dotted with trails of water and the ghost of her touch. He kept his eyes low as he tucked the towel in place, jaw locked, lips pressed tight.
Stack sucked his teeth, low and drawn-out, like something hot was still sitting on his tongue. He reached for a towel too, wrapping it around his waist. He didn’t move for a while, just stood there with his hands braced on the counter, staring down at the sink like he was waiting to see her reflection in the water.
Neither of them said a word. Not until Stack finally straightened and looked at his brother. His face was flushed. His lip still had the faintest shimmer from her fingers. He tapped the counter once with his knuckle, then let the question roll out slow.
“We in trouble?”
Smoke didn’t answer.
He looked at him, sure—just lifted those dark eyes, still thick with whatever storm was swirling inside—but said nothing. Not even a blink. Stack let out a dry breath, scrubbed a hand down his face, and shook his head hard like he was trying to knock the taste of her out of his mouth. He stepped toward the bathroom door, then cracked it open just enough to peek into the hall. She wasn’t there. But the scent of her still was. And somewhere down the hallway—muffled but unmistakable—he could hear her humming.
That sound slid right down his spine.
“Shit,” he whispered, glancing back at Smoke, “I don’t know how I’m ‘pose to keep tame when August get back.” He paused. Wet his lips. His voice was quieter now, more exposed, “She got me sprung.” He leaned against the doorframe and let the truth tumble loose, “Ain’t never had nothin’ like that. Pussy too good. Too wet. And she take it, man. Don’t flinch. Don’t run. Just look you dead in the eye while you fuck the breath out her.” He shook his head again, softer this time, “Gon’ have a good time on the Langston ranch.”
Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared. That look—blank and unreadable on the surface—masked something deeper. A slow boil. Something primal curling under the skin. He wasn’t as loud as his brother. Not as smooth or easy in the way he carried himself. But when he looked at Stack now, it was like he was trying to bury a growl behind his tongue.
He knew.
They both knew.
This wouldn’t be the last time.
Not with Delphine walking that house like she owned it. Not with her humming like that all carefree and half-naked in a room full of August’s clothes, wearing that dangerous smile behind closed doors.
Smoke didn’t just want her. He needed her.
He’d never tasted anything like her before. The way she came apart under him loud and soaked and arching into his mouth like she was born for it. He loved the way she rode the edge and fell off hard, the way her pussy gripped him like she wasn’t ready to let go. He could still feel it—that squeeze, that flutter, that slick mess she left all over his dick and his face. He didn’t even know a woman could cum like that. Could gush like that, shake like that, kiss like she was biting into something ripe and forbidden.
And the way she sucked him…
He swallowed hard, throat working slow.
She’d knelt in front of him like she had a point to prove. Hands steady, lips wet, tongue wrapping around his dick like it was the last thing she’d ever taste. Sucked him like it fed her. Like he was sweet and thick and worth the jaw ache. He’d felt her tongue talk to it. Swirling, flattening, pulling, lips sealing tight. He’d damn near blacked out. Stack was still muttering something, but Smoke wasn’t hearing it anymore.
His fingers flexed at his sides.
He turned without a word and walked out, the towel knotted low on his hips, leaving damp prints on the hardwood behind him.
The hallway was dim, but her room was lit. A crack of gold beneath her door. And there it was—her hum.
Low. Sweet. Aimless.
The kind of sound you made when you were soft with yourself and sore in all the right places. That sound made his dick twitch again. Hard. Slow. Demanding. He exhaled, jaw tight. Somewhere behind him, Stack laughed to himself. A quiet, breathy thing that sounded part curse, part praise as the bathroom door clicked shut.
Smoke didn’t laugh.
He stood there for a long second, pulse thudding behind his dick, that ache crawling up the back of his neck.
He didn’t knock.
Didn’t say her name.
Just closed his eyes and listened.
The clink of a pot lid settling into place was the only sound for a moment, until the needle dropped on the old blues record spinning in the corner. That low warble of guitar and heartbreak slid through the kitchen like a lazy tongue—thick, slow, and a little nasty. Delphine adjusted the stove flame, then leaned back, hip cocked, and took a long pull from the slim cigarillo pinched between her fingers.
The smoke curled up soft as silk.
Dinner was easy tonight, just warming up the stewed chicken and rice from yesterday, plus a mess of buttered string beans in the skillet. She wasn’t really hungry for food. Not yet. Something else had her stirred up. She swayed a little in front of the stove, letting the heat touch her thighs. She was barefoot. Skin dewy. A fresh layer of oil slicking her calves and the backs of her knees. She’d just bathed. Let those boys rinse her down like she was their damn dessert. And now?
Now she felt like the house itself was humming in time with her.
She wore nothing under the robe.
Apricot satin, tied tight just beneath her breasts, the fabric tugged against the outline of her body, clinging to her hips, showing the soft swell of her ass every time she turned. Her breasts jiggled with every step. Every sway. And sway she did—hips rocking in rhythm to the scratchy croon of the record, her body dancing without her even meaning to. She’d pinned her hair up in loose curls, soft tendrils falling near her temples. The lipstick was unnecessary. It was a deep, wet red, bright against her skin but she’d applied it anyway. For herself. For how it made her feel. She lit another match, sparked her smoke again, and smiled as the flame caught. The back door was cracked open, letting the country night air whisper through the screen. It was muggy and still, but the breeze touched her thighs like a lover. Cicadas sang in the dark, their hum mingling with the blues and the scent of simmering garlic and herb.
And she? She was glowing.
She twirled once in the middle of the kitchen, ass bouncing beneath the robe, tits moving soft and full, cigarillo balanced between her lips like something sacred.
“Mmm,” she purred to herself, dragging a hand down the front of her robe, pausing just beneath her breast, “Ain’t felt like this in a long damn time.”
She was prepping for her girls’ lunch the next day, jars of peach liquor she’d been experimenting with lined up on the sideboard, each tinted with something different. Hibiscus in one. Mint in another. A touch of cinnamon bark in the last. All of it smelled sweet and dangerous, like her. They’d come by noon tomorrow. The girls. The real ones. The ones she trusted enough to drink and gossip with. Not the bitter hens from town who clutched their pearls and whispered behind fans. No, these were women who knew how to laugh with their mouths open and didn’t flinch at the word “dick.” Women who liked their food seasoned and their men obedient.
Delphine dipped her finger in one of the jars, tasted it off her tongue, and grinned. It wasn’t just the drink. Wasn’t just the music or the breeze or the way her skin still tingled.
It was them.
The twins.
“Mmm…”
She turned slow, hips still moving, and leaned back against the counter.
She could still feel them.
Smoke, quiet and serious, fucking her like her body had instructions etched beneath the skin. That thick curve dragging against her belly, those rough hands pulling her apart just to look at her. The way he grunted low when she squeezed him just right. The way he went still when she sucked his dick like he was floating outside of time.
And Stack…
Lord.
The way he talked while he fucked her, lips right by her ear, saying things she wasn’t supposed to like but damn sure did. The way he filled her—all the way—and laughed when she gasped. How he held her legs back and fucked her deep like he had all the time in the world and not a drop of mercy to give.
She had sucked them both like she’d been starved. Let them use her mouth. Let them use her everywhere.
And the part that really did it?
The sneaking.
The thrill of August not knowing. The rush of knowing he’d never touched her like that. Never made her squirt. Never made her laugh while she came. Never had her creamin’ like that, wrung out and grinning with her legs in the air.
But these two young bucks?
They had her lit.
She could fuck.
She could suck.
She could get her pussy ate until she forgot her name.
And best of all?
She could do it again.
Whenever she wanted.
“Mmm…lawd have mercy,” she whispered, dragging a hand down her breast, rubbing slow.
She bit her lip, smiling at the feel of her own fingers, thighs clenching beneath the satin. She rolled her hips against the counter, eyes half-closed. The cigarillo sat between her fingers, burning slow. Behind her, the pot hissed as it came to a soft boil. And in the living room, the record spun on. A woman’s voice howling about men who leave and come back
just to taste the same sweetness twice.
The satin robe hugged her deep and soft, cinched at the waist, still clinging damp to her thighs in places she hadn’t bothered to pat dry.
She didn’t have to say it twice.
“Boys! Come on down. Supper’s ready.”
She heard movement upstairs, slow footsteps, the creak of floorboards, low voices and laughter that she’d bet had something to do with her. She smiled into the pot, then turned and walked toward the table, smoke trailing behind her like perfume. They appeared a moment later, both shirtless, both in soft cotton sleep pants that hung low on their hips. Skin still flushed from their wash. Muscles relaxed but ready. Eyes heavy, slow-moving. Stack wore a lazy grin; Smoke didn’t grin at all, just let his gaze slide over her before taking the seat she pointed to with a flick of her wrist.
“Clothes from the bunkhouse still hangin’ on the line,” she said casually, walking past them, “Y’all sleepin’ in the guest rooms again tonight. Try not to snore.”
That made Stack smirk again. Smoke just nodded. She busied herself at the counter, slicing cornbread, plating the warm leftovers, pouring two tall glasses of her new peach blend over ice. It wasn’t strong enough to knock a man over, but it’d keep him honest. Just sweet enough to make his mouth water for more. She carried it all to the table.
“Eat,” she said, voice low and syrupy, “And help yourselves to some of that rolled-up herb by the jar. I don’t mind.”
They did.
Smoke leaned back first, striking a match and lighting up slow, drawing from the hand-rolled joint with his eyes half-closed. Stack followed, puffing with ease, the room filling quick with the earthy scent. Delphine sat across from them. Not eating. Just watching.One leg crossed over the other. One arm draped over the chair. Her robe had shifted just enough to hint at what she wasn’t wearing underneath. She smoked and watched them chew, slow, appreciative bites, like men who’d been fed twice in one night.
“Y’all eatin’ like I ain’t just had you both between my thighs less than two hours ago.”
Stack grinned wide, mouth full, “Worked up a second appetite.”
Delphine took another drag and let the smoke roll from her lips, “I got a question.”
Both men looked up.
She met their eyes, one at a time, voice low and deliberate.
“Where y’all learn to eat pussy like that?”
Stack chuckled, didn’t miss a beat, “Girl back in Pine Bluff used to pull me behind the juke on Saturdays. She’d let me play in it but said I couldn’t fuck ‘til I learned how to treat it with my mouth first.” He puffed his joint and shrugged, “I listened. Practiced. Learned what made her shake. Started likin’ the taste. Got good at it.”
Delphine raised her brows, impressed, “Mmm. I believe it. You eat pussy like you tryna ruin it.”
Stack smirked, “That’s the goal.”
Then her eyes drifted to Smoke. He’d gone quiet again. Drawing slow from the smoke. Elbow resting on the table, jaw tight like he was weighing whether to speak.
She waited.
“What about you, baby?” she asked, a curl in her voice, “Where you learn to use that tongue?”
He blinked once. Dragged from his smoke. Then, “Only tried once,” he said, “Back in Chicago. Years ago.”
Stack raised a brow.
Delphine tilted her head, “And?”
Smoke exhaled through his nose, “Didn’t like it.”
Delphine’s lips curled, teasing, “You? With that mouth?”
“She ain’t taste right,” he said simply, “Ain’t smell right either.”
That made Stack bark a laugh. Delphine laughed too—a deep, sexy little sound—her head tipping back.
“Ooh, you nasty.”
Smoke didn’t laugh. He looked at her, eyes low, the joint resting between his fingers.
“You different.”
Her smile softened just a little.
“Yeah?”
“You made me want it,” he said, voice quiet but tight, “Made me need it.” His eyes stayed on hers. Fixed. Steady, “I wanted to taste you so bad it ached.”
Everything stopped.
The air. The music. The sound of chewing. Even the smoke seemed to hang mid-air. Delphine’s fingers froze on her glass. Her breath caught, sharp in her throat, and for a moment she swore her heart skipped just a little.
She didn’t blink.
Just stared at him, lips slightly parted, thighs twitching under the table. Stack looked between them both, a slow grin forming like he felt the shift in the room.
But Smoke just kept looking at her like he already knew what she was thinking.
Delphine leaned forward in her chair, letting the robe part just enough to tease the swell of her cleavage. She set her elbow on the table, her wrist dangling, the cigarillo glowing between her fingers.
Her voice dropped low, “Y’all know I stay busy around this ranch, right?”
Stack looked up, curious. Smoke didn’t move, just watched her, eyes heavy, jaw tight, dick already twitching beneath the table again.
“I’m always doin’ somethin’,” she said, slow and syrupy, “In the garden. Out with the chickens. Cleanin’ this big old house up. Sweepin’ the veranda, hangin’ sheets to dry. Cookin’ hot meals. Bakin’ all kinds of shit for them church women that don’t even like me.” She took a slow drag, eyes locked on Smoke, her lips barely parting as she exhaled, “Sometimes I brush the horses. Sometimes I milk the cows.” She smiled. Not sweet — but slick. Dangerous, “And baby, I get to sweatin’.”
Stack leaned back, already smirking. Smoke’s lips parted just enough to breathe.
“Sweat just poolin’ down my back,” she drawled, “Drippin’ right between my titties…”
She reached up with her free hand and dragged a finger slowly between the soft mounds of her breasts, trailing it all the way down to the tie of her robe.
“Down the back of my thighs. Curlin’ behind my knees.” She tilted her head and her smile got filthier, “And you know where else it drip to?” She spread her legs a little under the table — not wide, just enough to send a signal, “Right on the pussy.”
Stack let out a low whistle, sat back in his chair, and shook his head. But Delphine was watching Smoke. He hadn’t blinked. Not once. His tongue peeked out, wetting his bottom lip slow like it moved on its own. His mouth looked fuller. Like the words she just poured out had filled him. Like she’d already fed him again without ever lifting a fork.
“Hot like this in the Delta?” she continued, voice dropping another notch, “It gets sticky. Mucky. I be walkin’ round this house with a wet spot in my drawers and ain’t nobody to eat it.” She paused, flicking ash from her cigarillo, “So tell me, baby.” Her eyes didn’t move from his face.Her voice went quiet. Real quiet. But still thick, “What you think I taste like then?”
Smoke shifted. Unconsciously. His thighs tensed beneath the table, and his hands curled into fists like he didn’t know what else to do with them. His lips parted, tongue sliding along the inside like he was trying to chase the idea.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Delphine just chuckled low, “That gal you had in Chicago must’ve had one of them city rats crawl up and die in her. But down here?” She leaned in further—right up on him—her voice close enough to lick, “Down in the dirty Delta…this pussy got the right amount of funk to make your dick salute.”
And with that, she stroked his thigh under the table—just once—with her nails light and slow.
Smoke grunted.
Stack choked on his drink, laughing, eyes wide, “Goddamn, woman…”
But Delphine was already rising.
She took her time standing, smoothing her robe over her hips, twisting the knot a little tighter just to tease. She walked back to the kitchen, hips rolling, the sway enough to make a man’s jaw ache.
Over her shoulder, she spoke without looking, “I’ll be up late. Gotta prep for my girls’ lunch tomorrow.” She opened a cupboard, pulled down another glass, casually rinsed it, “I’ll need y’all’s help servin’. Be on your best behavior.” She glanced back, lips parted in a wicked little grin, “So get some rest. And dream about it.”
Then she turned the faucet off, lit another match, and disappeared into the pantry like nothing had just happened.
Later, the guest room was dark except for the faint silver of moonlight spilling through the thin curtains. Smoke lay on his back, one arm under his head, the other draped over his stomach. The sheets were twisted around his legs, sticky with heat, and no matter how many times he shifted, he couldn’t get comfortable.
Sleep wouldn’t come.
His body was restless. His mind louder than the cicadas outside.
Delphine’s laugh.
Delphine’s mouth.
Delphine’s taste.
Every time he shut his eyes, he was back between her thighs, his tongue deep, her thighs shaking around his ears while she told him exactly what he was doing to her. He groaned under his breath and flipped onto his side.
Still nothing.
The house creaked softly. It was late, damn near two in the morning, and everything should’ve been still.
But then he heard it. A soft shuffle of bare feet in the hallway. Smoke sat up slow, listening. The sound was gentle, almost playful. Low voices. A woman’s breathy laugh—restrained, but still warm.
Delphine.
He moved without thinking. Silent. Careful. He cracked the door open just an inch. Enough to see the two figures at the end of the hall standing near her room, shadows cast by the dim lamp near the stairs. Stack had one hand braced on the wall above her, the other lightly touching her waist as he leaned in close. Whispering something that made Delphine tilt her head back a little, her smile soft and wicked in the low light.
She touched his shoulder.
Stack dipped his head, whispering more, his mouth damn near touching her ear. She laughed, that low, gorgeous laugh she only let out when she was in her element, then took him by the hand. And together, quiet as thieves, they disappeared into her room.
Smoke’s jaw clenched. His chest tightened in a way he didn’t want to name. He shut his door. Harder than he meant to. He leaned on it, eyes closed, breathing slow but the ache didn’t leave. It didn’t settle. It only got heavier, spreading down his stomach, tightening in his groin.
Her words from dinner swarmed him.
“Sweat drippin’ right between my titties…down my back…right on the pussy.”
His breath caught.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. His dick was already hard, stiff and throbbing like a man knocking against a locked door. He tried to think about something else. Anything else. But all he could see was Delphine on her back, thighs open, that pretty curl of her smile right before she told him she wanted to feel his curve in her belly again. All he could smell was her—that humid, sweet funk of a woman who works outside under the Delta sun and sweats in secret places.
God…
He wanted that smell.
Needed it.
More than he needed sugar. More than he needed breathing space. If he could live with his face between her legs, he would. Happily. Quietly. Forever. His fingers curled in the sheets. Now he needed something.
A fix.
A hit.
Something to hold onto. Something to bury his face in so he wouldn’t go insane hearing Stack in her room.
Her drawers.
Just the thought of them made him shudder. Would they be damp at the gusset after a long day? Would the fabric cling to her? Cotton, probably. Or silk. Something soft. Something that held sweat real well. Would they smell like peaches and salt and the heat under her folds? Would the crotch be dried creamy some days? Sticky others?
He swallowed hard.
His dick throbbed.
He imagined holding them in his fist, the fabric cool at first, then warm, imagined lifting them to his face and inhaling until his eyes rolled back. He imagined sucking the crotch. Letting it sit on his tongue like something sweet and forbidden, just to get a taste when she wasn’t near. He hissed through his teeth, lifting one knee, trying to ease the pressure but making it worse. He was harder than a baseball bat now.
He wanted to get up.
Wanted to go down that hall and pick up any piece of clothing she’d left behind.
Wanted to—
No.
He forced himself back down onto the bed, lying flat, staring at the ceiling. He dragged a hard breath in through his nose and exhaled slow, trying to settle the pulse between his legs.
It didn’t help.
But exhaustion was creeping up around the edges, heavy and grinding. Eventually, after a long stretch of listening to his own ragged breathing, he shut his eyes. Sleep took him rough and sudden. And even then, Delphine was still there. In every corner of his dreams.
Every breath.
Every ache.
The weather broke just enough to be merciful.
The Delta sun had been ruthless all week, but by late morning the breeze picked up—soft and warm, rustling through the wide leaves of the magnolia trees and stirring the scent of honeysuckle from the edges of the garden. The sky was open and high, that pale blue that promised heat but held back the worst of it. Delphine had set the table beneath a shaded stretch of her backyard, an open space framed by the curve of the veranda on one side and the garden rows on the other. The cloth was linen, pressed clean. The dishes were mismatched on purpose, chipped florals and gold-rimmed heirlooms that made it look effortless, not fussy. She’d arranged vases of peach blossoms and rosemary. She knew the scent would carry. She wanted it to. There were pitchers of her special peach liquor chilling in carved glass, sweating gently in the heat.
And Delphine looked like the day had been made for her.
She wore a fitted sundress the color of a pale citrus peel—soft and golden, like the moment right before dusk. The neckline dipped just enough to tempt and tease, the bodice cinched her waist tight, and the hem flirted with the tops of her knees when she moved. Over it she tied a half-apron, crisp and white, trimmed with embroidery. Her diamond studs sparkled at her ears. A thin gold chain glinted at her neck. Her lipstick—candy-apple red, wet and intentional—matched the shine on her fingernails. Her hair was pinned up in swooping curls, not a single one out of place, even in the heat.
And those heels? Nude patent leather. Low enough to stay elegant. High enough to make her ass sit up like a promise.
She was, in short, a vision.
All smiles, all Southern belle—all magnolia and menace.
They came one by one, like the beginning of a slow-moving storm—each woman sharp in her own way, eyes shaded beneath hats or lashes, smelling faintly of powder and purpose.
Mrs. Josephine Clay arrived first, as she always did, fan already in motion, hat wide, perfume thick with gardenia. She was slim-shouldered and tall, with dark skin and a high voice that stretched vowels like molasses. Her dresses were always silk, always floral, and always clinging somewhere they shouldn’t. She ran the best millinery shop in town and knew everything worth knowing. But when Delphine spoke, Josephine only nodded, fanned slow, and filed it away.
Birdie Franklin followed next, hobbling a bit, but fast with her mouth. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight knot and wrapped in a pink scarf. She wore a navy dress with her measuring tape draped like a stole and shoes she’d worn for decades. Her fingers were long and knotted, but strong enough to whip fabric into miracles. Birdie had known Delphine back when she was Delphine from Mobile, and not just Mrs. Langston. That meant something.
Eunice Carter came last, quiet as ever. The town librarian wore lavender linen and thin-rimmed spectacles. She carried a lemon pie in one hand and a novel tucked under the other, hidden in the folds of her clutch. Her eyes missed nothing. Her voice rarely rose. But when she leaned in to whisper, the whole table listened. Delphine trusted her more than most.
They hugged Delphine. Complimented her dress. Made soft remarks about the roses, the liquor, the color of the linens.
And then the men arrived.
Elijah and Elias were in uniform.
Delphine had pulled them aside that morning before the sun had fully risen.
“I want you pressed and clean,” she said, “No foolin’. Best slacks. Button-down shirts. No undershirts showin’. And I’m givin’ you these.”
She’d dug through August’s old things.
Found two bow ties.
Red for Elias.
Blue for Elijah.
She tied them herself.
“You here, you my men. You represent me,” she said, “You help. Act like it.”
And they had.
Now they stood just off to the side, fresh-faced and proper, sleeves rolled, shirt collars stiff, bow ties neat. Stack—Elias—grinned like he couldn’t help himself, even while holding a tray. Smoke—Elijah—stood quieter, eyes scanning, body loose but ready. He held a pitcher of liquor like he was guarding something precious.
Delphine clapped her hands once.
“Ladies, these are the Moore boys. Elijah and Elias. They’ll be helpin’ serve this afternoon. Ain’t they handsome?”
The women turned in unison. Eyes dragged down both men.
Birdie’s brow lifted, “Mm. Which one’s which?”
Delphine smirked, taking a long sip from her glass, “Can’t you tell?”
Josephine chuckled behind her fan, “I can now.”
Eunice glanced once, twice, then smiled without showing her teeth. “Their father, Adam, was a fine man too. Troubled…but fine.”
The meal was light, summer fare. Smoked catfish salad. Pickled okra. Delphine’s pimento cheese deviled eggs. Peach cobbler baked that morning, already cut and cooling on the sideboard. The women sipped. The liquor was warm and strong, and the conversation flowed. Smoke and Stack moved between them, pouring drinks, fetching napkins, leaning in close when asked.
They stayed quiet—but they listened.
They caught names of women in town who’d spoken ill of Delphine. Heard whispers about who was still bitter from last year’s contest. And when they had a chance, they murmured it low in her ear:
“Mrs. Addison said you bought your prize cake last year.”
“Fanny Jenkins still mad about the chess pie. Said the judges must’ve been drunk.”
Delphine just smiled.
“Let her be mad,” she said, licking her fork slow, “I’d be mad too if I came in fourth place with a dry-ass sponge cake.”
The women turned the talk toward this year’s Delta Sweet Tooth Jubilee.
“You enterin’, Delphine?” Eunice asked softly.
Delphine raised her brows, took a long sip of her drink, “Might.”
Josephine leaned in, “We all know you gon’ win.”
“Unless I decide not to.”
They knew she would.
She always did—except the one time she “accidentally” submitted the wrong cake.
Her specialties were legend:
Brown butter praline cake with crackled sugar edges.
Blackberry jam layer cake with whipped bourbon cream.
Sweet potato chess pie with a caramel swirl so rich, one judge proposed marriage.
But while all this was happening…
Delphine made a show of picking up forks slow. Bending low across the table to pass dishes. Swaying her hips just enough when walking back to the kitchen. She’d lock eyes with Smoke across the yard, tongue flicking out to taste a bit of cobbler with a hum. She’d press a hand to Stack’s forearm when passing a glass, her thumb stroking just once before letting go.
They were serving but she was feasting.
And they knew it.
The sun had dipped just enough to cast long, warm shadows across the back lawn. The last of the peach liquor glimmered in half-empty glasses, and the ladies’ laughter had softened to lazy murmurs as they readied themselves to leave. In the kitchen, the twins worked silently, their sleeves rolled, fingers rinsing fine china in sudsy water while the radio hummed low from the corner. The screen door creaked open and shut as dishes were passed in, the scent of cobbler and heat still lingering in the air.
Stack leaned against the counter, towel in hand, his bow tie slightly loosened but still knotted. He looked easy. Content.
Stack turned his head, wiping a dish dry, “You didn’t.”
“But what if I did?”
Stack shrugged, casual, “Then you’d have seen what I seen.” He set the plate down and looked Smoke full in the face, grin pulling at the corner of his mouth, “She couldn’t sleep. Neither could I. So she sucked my dick to help me settle down.” He said it smooth, like he was telling him about a nice dream. Like it wasn’t real. Like it didn’t matter, “Mouth soft, slow…Had me knockin’ out like a baby soon as I got back to bed.”
Smoke didn’t respond. Just stood there, stiff, arms flexed at his sides.Then he turned, not saying a word, and walked out the back door.
Out front, the women were gathering their fans and clutch bags, straightening hats and offering soft thank-yous. Delphine glided down the porch steps like it was a stage, one hand on her hip, her heels barely making a sound in the gravel.
The twins stepped out to see them off, Elijah still tight, Elias still smiling.
“Thank you, Elijah,” Eunice said, with a knowing little nod.
“And you too, Elias,” Josephine added, eyes not-so-subtly dipping to Stack’s forearms. “Ya’lls mama did something right.”
Birdie leaned in close to Delphine, “Lord, if I was twenty years younger, I’d snatch one of them up and not look back.”
Delphine laughed, kissed her on the cheek, “Girl, if I was ten years older, I’d still keep ‘em both.”
The women howled. Then slowly, finally, they loaded into the car, the engine coughing to life as they rolled down the gravel path, still laughing, waving through the open windows.
When the car turned out of sight, Delphine turned on her heel. Walked slow. Hips moving just a touch more than necessary. She stepped right up to them, lips still red and glistening, eyes low.
No words.
Just hands.
She reached down and stroked each of them—one hand on Smoke, the other on Stack—right through the fabric of their slacks. Soft. Firm. Claiming. Her touch was discreet, but the pressure was not.
Stack bit his lip, eyes fluttering. He looked down at her hand like it was a miracle.
Smoke closed his eyes. Grunted. Low and quiet.
Delphine’s smile widened, slow and satisfied, “Y’all served just right.”
She pulled back, smoothed her dress, and was already turning away when—
They heard it.
A car.
Another engine.
Slower. Closer. Familiar.
Delphine paused. Her smile dropped. The silk of her posture went still. She stepped toward the road, eyes narrowing through the shade trees. A black touring car. Dust curling up behind it. It rolled into view, slow and deliberate.
Delphine stood at the edge of the yard, hand on her hip, eyes fixed on the curve in the road.
She felt it before she saw it.
A soft hum at first. Then a slow roll of dust. Then the black touring car, steady and deliberate, pulling up the long gravel drive like it had every right to. Smoke and Stack were just inside the screen door, towels thrown over their shoulders, sleeves rolled up from clearing the table.
They froze when they saw it too.
Delphine didn’t flinch.
August’s car.
He was home.
Early.
She just smoothed the front of her dress, straightened her apron, and waited.
“Shit,” Stack muttered, already tugging his red bow tie loose, “Ain’t he early?”
“Take it off,” Smoke said, low.
They both yanked their bow ties off quick, stuffing them into their pockets.
The car came to a stop. The engine cut. And the door opened.
August Langston stepped out.
He unfolded from the driver’s seat like the whole car had been built around him—tall, heavy in the shoulders, sun-browned, wearing a work shirt rolled at the elbows, suspenders stretched tight over his frame, dark trousers dusted at the hem. His boots hit the gravel with a solid thud. Shined. Heavy. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his brow, but not his stare.
That stare lingered. On the twins. August squinted a little, eyes sharp beneath the brim.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked.
Stack gave a small nod, “Afternoon, Mr. Langston.”
Smoke echoed it, “Sir.”
August’s gaze didn’t shift.
Then he nodded once, quiet.
Delphine moved toward him, that soft, polished smile stretched across her lips, “You back early.”
“Had business in Greenwood cut short.”
She leaned up, arms lightly grazing his shoulders, lips puckered for a kiss. But his hand came up. Thumb pressing against her mouth. Wiping. When he pulled back, it was streaked red.
He frowned, “What you doin’ wearin’ the shade of a street walker?”
Delphine blinked. Pulled back just slightly, “August, it’s just lipstick.”
His eyes drifted down.
Saw the red nails. The matching toes peeking out of her heels.
His voice stayed low, “And the polish too?”
She rolled her eyes, smiling again but not soft this time, “It’s paint, baby. I ain’t settin’ no traps with it. It’s just hot, and I felt like bein’ pretty.”
He looked past her for a second, toward the garden, toward the porch.
Toward the twins.
“How things been around here?”
“Just fine,” she said, “The boys been helpin’ out. Keepin’ things sharp.”
Stack smirked, couldn’t help himself, “Oh we been helpin’ alright.”
Smoke nudged him hard in the ribs.
August looked at them again. Longer this time. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. That silence sat heavy. Suspicious or not, it lingered.
Then he turned.
Walked up the steps, past them, boots echoing on the wood. Delphine stayed at the bottom, eyes flicking between her husband’s back and the two men who’d just served her friends tea and dessert with bow ties around their necks and her hands on their thighs.
Inside, they heard the tap of glass against the sink.
Water running.
August’s voice carried, “I’m headin’ into town. Need to pick up some feed and get the oil checked on the truck.” A pause. Then, “Y’all come with me.”
Smoke and Stack glanced at each other.
Delphine didn’t say a word.
She just tilted her head slightly and let the screen door slam softly shut behind her.
The sun sat like a brand over Clarksdale, pressing down hard on the rooftops and wooden porches of the town, making the dirt roads hiss with heat. It was the kind of afternoon where sweat clung beneath collars, where shirts stuck to backs like second skin, and even the flies moved slower, drunk off the Delta humidity.
The town was split clear down the middle, as most Southern towns were under Jim Crow. One end boasted white storefronts with polished windows, red-white-and-blue bunting strung up like pride banners, and wide walkways the patrolmen liked to stroll two at a time. Suits and parasols crowded the sidewalks there. White women fanned themselves while white men smoked cigars and talked politics, banking, or cotton futures.
But the other side—the Black side—was alive.
It was tighter, louder, dustier. Wooden storefronts lined the road, some sagging with age but full of heart. Signs painted by hand, creaking ceiling fans above doorways, and the sharp perfume of hot grease, tamales, and smoked meat drifting from the food stands near the corner of Jefferson and Willow. Babies hollered. Radios buzzed out scratchy blues songs. Someone was always laughing or hollering down the street, and somebody else always watching, making sure nothing got out of hand. Even joy had to be watched under white law.
That was where August Langston’s old black Ford rolled in, the engine coughing through the heat like it needed a drink. Smoke sat shotgun, long legs stretched and arms folded. Stack was in the back, one boot propped up, fingers drumming on his knee. August drove like he always did, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, jaw set, eyes half-squinting against the glare.
“I’m gon’ get the oil checked over at Pete’s,” August said as he pulled over, “You two handle the feed over at Chow’s. Tell Bo I need three sacks of the sweet grain and one cracked corn.”
“Yes, sir,” Stack answered, swinging the door open before the truck even settled.
Smoke just nodded, hopping out the other side, the heel of his boot crunching into sunbaked gravel. They crossed the street, cutting through the bustle and dust of Clarksdale’s Black quarter. The air was thick with sweat and smoke, church gossip and bootleg liquor, catfish bones and collard greens. A woman near the corner was selling homemade hot tamales from a tin cart, wrapped in corn husks and stacked in cloth-lined boxes. They steamed in the heat, spicy and rich, one of the few meals folks could buy cheap and fill their belly with.
“Damn,” Stack muttered, licking his lips, “Ain’t nothin’ like Clarksdale tamales.”
A group of white officers passed at the edge of the road, swinging their clubs a little too loose, looking at everything like it belonged to them. The Black folks quieted slightly—just long enough for the men to pass—then picked up again, the rhythm only slightly disturbed. That was the way of things. Keep your head down when they walked by, then lift it back up once they gone.
Bo Chow’s store sat halfway down the block, shaded by an overhang strung with bells and wind chimes that jingled softly in the breeze. The sign above the door read: CHOW’S FAMILY MARKET–Established 1901—the paint faded but proud. Inside, it smelled like spices, oiled wood, and fresh produce. Bo Chow stood behind the counter, laughing with Cornbread, who leaned against a stack of flour sacks, his massive arms folded, grinning wide like he ain’t had a worry in weeks.
Bo looked up first.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said with a grin, stepping out from behind the counter, “Look who finally crawled back from the sticks.”
Smoke smiled and stepped in for a handshake, “Bo.”
“Smoke,” Bo nodded, then looked at Stack, “You still ugly, Elias.”
Stack laughed, “Still prettier than you, Chow.”
Cornbread let out a wheeze of laughter, slapping his knee, “These boys done brought trouble with ‘em, I can smell it.”
Bo clasped Smoke’s hand tight. He was shorter than the twins by a few inches, with glossy black hair slicked back, and a fitted vest over his rolled sleeves. His jaw was sharp, eyes steady, the kind of calm man folks came to trust with both their groceries and their secrets.
“You know, my mama still talk about y’all,” Bo said, moving around the counter to grab the order, “Always askin’ if you two been eatin’ enough.”
“We been eatin’ alright,” Stack said, smirking.
Cornbread’s brow ticked up, “You sure about that?”
Bo chuckled again, tossing the last sack onto a dolly, “Especially if they stayin’ at the Langston place.”
“The Langston Ranch?” Cornbread asked, “August got y’all workin’ hard?”
“Somethin’ like that,” Smoke replied, voice low.
That’s when Cornbread leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper, “Where that hot piece of ass Delphine Langston live?”
Stack’s mouth opened, ready to brag, but Smoke stepped in quick with a hand to his chest.
“Chill,” Smoke said under his breath, eyes cutting, “Ain’t everybody need to know.”
Stack clicked his tongue, backing off. “I was just sayin’—”
“Don’t.”
Bo glanced between them, something knowing in his smirk, “Uh huh.”
At the far end of the store, a young man moved in and out of the backroom, helping unload crates of catfish from a delivery truck. He moved quiet, efficient. A little too quiet.
“Who’s that?” Stack asked, nodding toward the boy.
“That’s Noah,” Bo said, “Noah Batiste. Been workin’ here a couple months now. Real quiet, church-boy type. Came back to town right before the storm broke.”
They watched Noah work for a moment. He was young—couldn’t be more than twenty—but carried himself with a stillness that made him seem older. He didn’t look up once, just kept stacking boxes, moving catfish from ice to crate, hands swift and sure. His skin was smooth and deep brown, his curls cropped tight, face locked in some quiet rhythm that only he could hear.
Bo handed them a receipt and nodded toward the door.
“Tell August he still owe me for that wrench set he never picked up.”
“Will do,” Smoke said, grabbing one end of the dolly.
As they pushed the sacks of feed out the door, Cornbread hollered after them, “Y’all better come by the house next week! Mama said she gon’ fry some green tomatoes and make that cane syrup bread y’all used to beg for.”
Stack grinned wide, “Say less. We’ll be there.”
The sun hit them again like a hammer as they walked back down the street, wagon creaking beneath the weight of grain. Behind them, the music picked up from the tamale cart—some old blues tune humming soft—and the town breathed around them like a thing alive. Smoke didn’t say much, but his thoughts were already back at the ranch. Back with Delphine. Back with her scent still living under his nails.
Stack nudged him once, voice low, “You think August know?”
Smoke didn’t answer.
He just kept walking.
August Langston had returned, truck engine rumbling low as he stepped out in his usual clean but rugged style. The grain sacks hit the bed of the truck with thick, dusty thuds. Smoke and Stack worked in sync—shoulders flexing under rolled sleeves, boots planted firm on the hot gravel. August didn’t say much. Just circled the truck once, inspecting the feed like he was checking cattle, hands behind his back, slow steps, eyes sharp.
“Sweet grain?” he asked.
“Three sacks,” Stack confirmed, wiping his brow.
“Cracked corn?”
“Right there,” Smoke said, giving a chin nod.
August gave a grunt of approval and reached into his pocket to light a cigarette. Just as he struck the match, a soft ripple of voices floated across the street.
Three women in summer dresses and lace gloves were approaching the doors of Chow’s, parasols cocked just so. Their stockings shimmered faintly in the sunlight, heels clicking light across the dusty wooden sidewalk. All of them had that particular look Clarksdale women wore when they were about to say something they knew was wicked—but were gonna say it anyway.
“Did you hear?” one of them whispered, fanning herself slow.
“Girl, I heard. Sunday’s the one,” another replied, “Said the new Delta Darling comin’ out hot.”
The third woman shushed her, eyes darting toward the street, “Hush now. Don’t be speakin’ that out loud.”
The first one just smiled with a wicked glint in her eyes, “You scared it’s gon’ be your name in bold this time?”
They disappeared into Chow’s with a tinkle of the doorbell and the lingering scent of lilac talcum and rumors. Stack leaned an elbow against the truck bed, cocked his head. And just like that, the moment passed. The women disappeared into the shade of the shop, parasols folding like secrets. August lit a cigarette, climbed into the cab, and turned the key. The truck sputtered to life, smoke curling up into the air like a warning.
The ride back to the ranch rolled out quiet. Dust rose behind them in pale gusts, curling at the edges of the road like old paper. The land stretched wide and sun-stained. Fields divided by race and memory. Tamales wrapped in waxed paper. Grease-slick cornbread. Collards cooked down with vinegar and fatback. August kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the windowsill. When he finally spoke, it was like something he’d been holding for a while.
“You boys gon’ pay a visit to your uncle while you back?”
Stack stretched his legs out, resting a boot on the dashboard, “Hadn’t planned on it.”
Smoke didn’t look up, “Ain’t much to say.”
“Mm.” August exhaled, smoke curling out the side of his mouth, “He been travelin’ lately. I ride with him time to time. Revival tents, rural churches. Pine Bluff, down to Monroe…sometimes farther. Folks say he got a callin’ on him.”
Smoke’s eyes shifted, just slightly, “He always said he had a callin’ on our daddy too.”
“He tried,” August said, voice a little softer now, “Tried to pull him out that street life. When he passed…Jedidiah took it hard.”
They rode a moment in silence. Wind through the windows. The sound of tires over gravel.
“Hope he doin’ right by lil’ Sammie.” Smoke asked.
August nodded, “Yeah. Good boy, that one. Quiet. Smart. Walks with his head up. Jedidiah said he got his eye on college. Plays guitar too.”
That stirred something.
Stack sat up straighter, “He playin’ on that beat-up one?”
August gave a dry chuckle, “Sho’ is. Still got ya’ll daddy guitar or ya’ll sold it?”
Smoke’s voice came low and flat, “We still got it.”
August cut his eyes at them, slow, “You do?”
“Wrapped in old cloth, up in the bunkhouse,” Stack said, “Been carryin’ it since we left from Chicago.”
August gave a humorless grunt, “That thing cursed, you ask me. Full of songs that broke men’s hearts and got ‘em shot in alleyways.”
“No such thing as a cursed guitar,” Stack said.
August flicked ash out the window, “Then you ain’t heard your daddy play it in the dark.”
Nobody said anything after that.
It had been three long days since August Langston returned to the ranch. Three long, hot, church-quiet days where everything ran smoother than molasses, but something just beneath the surface felt taut and waiting. August had the place humming like a mission camp. Horses were brushed down daily. Fence posts realigned. Smokehouse swept, water troughs scrubbed. He was up before the rooster, sleeves already rolled, barking orders with a calmness that didn’t quite match the heat in his eyes. He worked the twins hard, but fair. That’s what made it worse, they couldn’t even call it cruelty. Just efficiency. Measured. Unblinking.
And he was always there.
Watching.
Not just watching like a man checking labor but like a man memorizing. Smoke noticed it first. The way August’s gaze would linger just a half-beat too long when Stack pulled his shirt off in the sun. The way his eyes trailed down the line of Smoke’s spine when he bent to wrench something loose from a fence post.
Not hungry exactly. Not lecherous. Just…haunted. And locked tight behind a jaw that didn’t move unless it had to. August didn’t speak much unless he was giving direction. Didn’t ask questions. But his silences were weighted, full of unsaid scripture and things a man probably couldn’t say out loud. Not in this part of Mississippi. Not even to himself.
In the stillness between tasks, with the barn half-shadowed and the cicadas whirring like a heartbeat, Stack was dragging a hay bale when August came up behind him.
“Need a hand?” August asked.
Stack wiped his brow with the back of his arm, “Got it.”
August didn’t walk off. Instead, he stayed nearby, thumb hooked into one suspender strap, eyes tracking the movement of Stack’s hands. He nodded at the muscles shifting in his arms—slow, appreciative, but not obvious enough to call out.
“Mama used to say,” August spoke, “a man who works the land with his own hands sleeps best. You boys sleepin’ alright?”
Stack gave him a wary side glance, “Fine.”
August’s eyes didn’t waver, “Mmm,” he said, “That’s good.”
Meanwhile, back near the house, Smoke was losing his goddamn mind.
Three days without Delphine had crawled across his skin like ants. He hadn’t tasted her, hadn’t touched her, hadn’t even smelled that sweet-cake heat between her thighs. She moved past him like nothing had ever happened. A knowing smile here, a gentle sway of hips there. All silk and sin wrapped up in a housewife’s robe. And it was fucking killing him. So when he slipped inside to use the washroom and passed the laundry basket sitting full in the hallway…
He didn’t hesitate.
Delphine’s things were piled high, slips, stockings, the faintest smell of powder and woman clinging to the cotton. He dug until he found it: a balled-up pair of white drawers, damp at the crotch from the heat of the day. Not soaked. Not delicate. Just…lived in. The kind of damp that came from walking, swaying, sweating. A woman’s heat sealed in cloth.
Smoke closed his eyes and brought them to his face.
The scent hit him like a blow—ripe, musky, sweet. Like molasses cooked down with skin and sweat. His knees damn near buckled. He shoved the drawers into his back pocket and made his way out the side door, headed for the bunkhouse before anybody could catch him.
He needed a moment.
Just one.
Out on the field, Stack and August were loading fence posts into the back of the wagon when Delphine appeared from the house with a pitcher and glasses balanced on a tray. Sunlight caught her red toenails, made her robe cling to the curve of her ass. Her hair was pinned up loose, a few stray curls licking the back of her neck. Her skin glowed with sweat and summertime gold.
“Figured y’all could use somethin’ cold,” she called, soft and syrupy.
August took the tray without speaking, nodding once in thanks. He poured himself a glass, drank deep, then returned to his place by the wagon.
Stack took his glass slow.
Delphine let her fingers brush his as she handed it over, lingering longer than needed. Then—bold as Smoke was sniffing in the bunkhouse—she turned her back to August and slipped a titty clean out her robe.
Just for Stack.
Quick flash. Round, dark, soft.
Then gone again under silk as she adjusted her sash and turned to walk away. Stack nearly dropped his damn lemonade. August didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he was looking the other way. Or maybe…maybe he’d never been looking at her at all. Stack licked his lips slow, eyes trailing her hips as she disappeared back toward the house.
“You alright?” August asked, lifting another post into the wagon.
Stack blinked once, “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
Stack didn’t answer right away. He just drank the lemonade down to the bottom and let the glass hang from his fingertips, the pulp clinging to the rim like spit on lips.
Back in the bunkhouse, Smoke sat on the edge of his cot with Delphine’s drawers pressed to his face. Breathing hard. Dick stiff. Heart louder than a drum.
He didn’t even stroke himself.
Didn’t need to.
The scent was enough.
Enough to make him mad. Enough to make him crave. Enough to make him wonder what the hell was wrong with him that he could feel this sick with hunger for a married woman and still not give a damn. He tucked the drawers under his mattress. And sat there breathing, like a man in mourning.
The sun was starting to slip low behind the treeline when August stepped into the parlor, wiping his hands with a rag. His shirt was damp at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, skin smudged with sweat and earth. Delphine was dusting the mantle, hips swaying slow in a house dress the color of ripe plums. The radio was murmuring low in the background, some gospel song crackling through static. August didn’t look at her right away. Just cleared his throat.
“Elias and me gon’ run back into town,” he said, voice flat like always, “Bo said some new tools came in. Meant to pick up a few things earlier, but I forgot.”
Delphine glanced over her shoulder, one brow raised, “This late?”
“Won’t be long.” He folded the rag, tucked it in his back pocket, “You need anything?”
She shook her head, turning back to the mantle, “I’m fixin’ to take a bath. Long one. My feet been barkin’ all day.”
August nodded once, already heading for the door, “Lock the front when it gets dark.”
“I always do,” she said without looking.
He paused at the threshold, eyes lingering for a second too long. Not on her hips. Not on her neckline. Just on the way the room looked with her standing in it—warm, easy, too full of something he couldn’t name.
Then he was gone.
And Delphine, all alone now, exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for hours. She set the rag down, untied her apron, and headed down the hallway, the sound of her bare feet against the floor soft and certain as thunderclouds rolling in.
The bathwater was already running.
The screen door creaked shut behind August’s boots. Smoke didn’t move until he heard the truck engine fade down the gravel path—headed toward town. Smoke stood there in the stillness of the house. Shirt off. Chest rising slow. Eyes fixed up the stairs where soft steam still curled from beneath the bathroom door.
Delphine.
She hadn’t come out yet, but he could smell her—God, he could smell her. Honeyed soap and something thicker, deeper. Her. His mouth watered. His hands flexed. It’d been four long days since he’d tasted her—really tasted her—and the ache had settled so deep in his belly he felt sick with it. Sick and starving.
The doorknob clicked.
And there she was.
Delphine stepped into the hall wrapped in a towel barely clinging to her curves. Her legs were slick and glistening, thighs thick and soft, calves strong. Her skin still dewy from the bath, steaming in the leftover heat. Her hair was twisted and pinned high, exposing her whole neck, her collarbones, her pulse.
Smoke didn’t say a word. He moved.
She hadn’t even made it to her bedroom door before he caught her from behind, pulling her flush against him with a low, desperate sound in his throat.
“Mm—Elijah…” she breathed, startled only for a moment before the towel shifted beneath his fingers and she felt his lips on her shoulder, his mouth hot and trembling as he kissed along her neck, down to the slope of her back.
“You smell so damn good,” he muttered into her skin, “You don’t even know…”
“Lord, what’s got into you?” she teased, turning to face him, her towel slipping lower as she arched a brow.
He looked wrecked. Eyes dark. Jaw tight. His chest was rising like he’d run from the barn.
“I been waitin’ for this. Waitin’ for you,” he rasped.
Delphine’s lips curled slow, indulgent, “What you want, baby?”
Smoke didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. Just spoke, “Wanna taste it. I wanna taste you.”
Her eyes glinted like honey in sunlight.
“Well then,” she said, walking backwards toward the chaise by the open window, “you best get on your knees.”
She dropped the towel as she sat—not shy, not this woman—and leaned back like a goddess called to worship. Her legs opened smooth and wide, her pussy soft and warm and still damp from her bath, pink and glistening in the dusky light.
Smoke dropped down like a man at church.
He didn’t rush.
He pressed one hand to the inside of her thigh, steadying her. The other cradled under her ass, pulling her forward just enough.
Then he kissed her.
Slow at first. Full lips parting as he molded his mouth to her. French kissed her—yes, kissed—his tongue sliding along her folds in a wet, devout stroke. He moaned low into her cunt, letting the sound vibrate against her clit before licking again, mouth wide, tongue flat and patient.
Delphine hissed through her teeth, hips jerking, “Mmm… you missed this pussy, huh?”
Smoke didn’t answer.
He sucked her lips into his mouth, tongue circling the sensitive flesh, then flattened it again and licked her like he meant to memorize her. Again and again, in slow deliberate swirls. When his tongue reached her clit, he kissed it. He kissed it—full-lipped, wet, slow—before curling his tongue around it and sucking, soft at first, then deeper. Like he was drinking her.
Delphine’s head dropped back. Her thighs started to tremble. He looked up at her once, eyes heavy, lips slick. He didn’t speak, but the hunger in his eyes said everything. She rolled her hips forward, hands gripping the edges of the chaise. Her voice dropped to a needy whisper.
“Don’t stop, baby…that’s it. Just like that.”
Smoke moaned against her, pressing deeper. His tongue moved in slow circles, his lips sealing over her clit like he was making love to it, savoring her. One hand reached up, fingers spreading her wide so he could go lower, kissing all of her—every fold, every inch, every drop. Wet sounds filled the room, slick and filthy beneath her soft whimpers.
“Oohhh—you gon’ make me squirt, Elijah,” she warned, breath hitching, “I mean it. You gon’ get flooded.”
He groaned again, mouth still working, not backing down.
Delphine’s thighs clamped around his head as her whole body seized, and sure enough—
She gushed for him. Warm, sweet, pulsing over his mouth.
Smoke took it. All of it.
Didn’t even flinch.
Just kept licking slow, proud, messy.
When she finally stopped trembling, when she slumped back with her chest rising like a storm just passed, Smoke pulled back—face glistening, lips wet, jaw clenched.
“Goddamn,” he whispered, staring up at her with that wild look again.
Delphine smirked, eyes still half-lidded, voice syrupy and smug, “You taste what you needed?”
Smoke shock his head, slow. Then climbed up between her legs again.
“Nah,” he said, voice hoarse, “I ain’t done.”
Delphine hadn’t even caught her breath when she felt him again, Smoke easing her legs apart with his large, work-rough hands. His palms were warm against her slick thighs, thumbs spreading her gently but deliberately.
“Still twitchin’,” he muttered, more to himself than her, “Still wet for me…”
Delphine blinked slow, lazy from release, but then she heard it, a bird outside. A rustle. A wagon wheel creaking far down the road.
Her eyes flicked toward the window.
“Elijah—”
“I know,” he rasped, “Ain’t gon’ get caught.”
He pressed her knees wider, kept her open with one firm hand while the other guided her hips forward on the chaise. She shifted, just a little, leaned toward the window, legs parted and bent at the edge, her elbow bracing behind her, one hand reaching out to the sill so she could keep watch through the gauzy curtain. Sunlight hit her brown skin just right. Her pussy glistened, open and trembling. Still dripping from the first round.
Smoke didn’t give her a chance to brace.
He buried his face between her thighs like he belonged there. His mouth locked onto her again, wetter, messier, more needy. He licked up every drop she gave him and then some, tongue stroking slow over her entrance, then dragging upward to her clit. His lips parted, and he French kissed her again—lips open, tongue rolling soft and filthy, making little slurping noises with every pass.
Delphine’s breath caught. Her head tipped to the side. She gasped, mouth open but no sound came out—just a hitched breath and a moan that got stuck in her throat.
“Ooooh…” her voice finally broke free, shaky and soft.
Her toes curled against the cushion. Her body shook.
Smoke didn’t slow. He licked her like a man with no shame, no manners—just hunger and devotion. His spit mixed with her slick, dripping steadily down between her ass cheeks and pooling into the velvet of the chaise.
“Goddamn this pussy so good,” he groaned into her folds, pulling back only to talk filth before diving back in, “So fuckin’ pretty…taste like peaches and cream…got me suckin’ like I’m starved.”
Delphine moaned louder, toes curling again. Her hand dropped to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, “You gon’ make me do it again…”
“I want you to,” Smoke growled, licking deep, then curling his tongue right beneath her clit, just where he knew she couldn’t handle it, “You feel that?” he whispered, breathing hard against her slit, “That little twitch right there? Mmm. That’s it, baby…give me that.”
Delphine’s head rolled back. Her thighs tried to close, but he held them open with sheer force—hands gripping her thick thighs like they were his to claim.
“Fuck, you got me losin’ my mind,” Smoke whispered, tongue flattening wide across her folds in slow, wet circles, “Can’t think straight…been dreamin’ ’bout this pussy every night.”
She could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears, the heat building in her again. Her eyes rolled up. Her mouth stayed open. She stared out the window, watching the stillness of the land while inside, her body was a storm.
“Talk to me,” he begged, his voice rasping and full of want, “Tell me how it feel.”
“So good,” she whimpered, “Too good, Elijah…too fuckin’ good—”
He sucked her clit deep into his mouth, holding it there with the flat of his tongue rolling around it while he moaned into her.
Delphine moaned loud this time. Her hand slammed down on his head and held him there. And he took it. All of it. Let her ride his mouth while she arched and cried out, her juices spilling down his chin. When she finally dropped her hand and slumped, thighs trembling and chest heaving, Smoke wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—then sucked her slick from his fingers slow.
He looked up at her, wrecked and smiling.
“Still ain’t done.”
Delphine hadn’t even sat up fully when Smoke stood and grabbed her—one swift, greedy pull, and she was in his arms, breath caught, legs limp from climax.
“Elijah—”
“Shhh,” he whispered, voice like gravel softened by honey, “I told you, I ain’t done.”
He walked her to the vanity, then past it. Delphine blinked, disoriented, lips parted. Then she realized—he was taking her to the edge of the bed. Not to lay her down. But to bend her. Smoke turned her slow, positioned her in front of the bedframe’s footboard, and pressed her down.
“Put your hands there,” he said, voice low, “Arch it.”
She did—chest flush to the bed, ass high, legs just parted. Her towel had long since fallen, hair pins shaken loose. Her thick curls were beginning to tumble down her neck in damp spirals. Skin still warm from the bath. Glistening. He damn near tore his close off his body. Smoke stepped back to admire the sight—his jaw flexing, his dick standing up thick and hard, curving. He reached down, wrapped his hand around the base, and hissed.
“You see what you done did, Mrs. Langston?” he muttered, dragging his tip along the seam of her soaked folds, “Got me hard just from tastin’ you.” He spread her again, thumbs parting her slowly, watching her open for him. Her pussy was flushed and messy—wet from his mouth, slick from her release, twitching with anticipation, “Goddamn, Delphine…” he muttered, stroking himself once. Twice.
Then—slow—he pushed in.
She moaned loud, gasped, tried to lift her head, but he laid a firm palm between her shoulders and eased in deeper.
“Mmh…oohhhh baby…”
He wasn’t rushing.
He rolled his hips into her in long, heavy strokes. Deep. Feel–that–thick–curve–in–your–belly deep. That spot curved good, where he fit just right, where she felt it behind her bellybutton, behind her ribs, where her vision blurred and her mouth fell open.
“Shit, you feel this dick?” he grunted behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other slipping down to grip her ass tight, “You feel me hittin’ that spot?”
Delphine tried to answer, but all she could do was moan—soft, unsteady, and full of pleasure. Her hands clawed at the blanket. Her toes curled. Her body rocked forward with each slow thrust.
Smoke bent down over her back, chest brushing her spine.
“I said…you feel that, Mrs. Langston?” he whispered in her ear, breath hot and thick.
She nodded, desperate, “Y-yes, baby…I feel it…feel all of it…”
“I dream ’bout this pussy,” he rasped, fucking her slow and deep, the sound of his strokes filling the room—wet, thick, heavy, “Every night. Wake up hard and mad and hungry. You ain’t even gotta say nothin’. Just bend like this. Just give it to me…”
Delphine whimpered, pressing her ass back into him, chasing the stroke, “Mmhm,” she moaned, “Right there, baby—don’t let up off this coochie.”
“You like it like that?” he whispered, eyes locked on the place they met, watching her take him over and over, “You like that wood hittin’ the back?”
“Yes, Elijah,” she cried out, “You got me feelin’ full…like I’m gon’ burst.”
Smoke growled. His thrusts deepened—still slow, but harder now. The room filled with the smack of skin, the rich moans from Delphine’s throat, the growled curses he let out with every roll of his hips.
“Bend that back deeper,” he ordered, voice all gravel now, “Gimme that arch.”
Delphine adjusted, arching deeper, hands fisting the blanket. He slammed back into her, right on that curve. Her scream cracked in the back of her throat.
Smoke gritted his teeth and reached around to rub her clit while he stroked.
“Cum on this dick then. I want you to shake, you hear me?”
Delphine’s moans turned high and airy, body jerking, thighs quaking.
“Elijah! I—I’m gon’—”
“Cum then,” he growled, fucking her through it. “Let it go, Delphine…”
She came hard, clutching the blanket, eyes rolled back, mouth open. Smoke followed with a broken groan, grabbing her hips and grinding deep. He almost spilled inside her. His thighs trembled. He stayed there for a long moment, buried deep in her, panting hard.
And still—he didn’t move.
Didn’t pull out.
Delphine was breathless when she climbed off him, thighs trembling. But Smoke didn’t move—just sat back on the chaise, legs wide, chest slick with sweat, his dick still hard and glistening with her.
His hand lazily stroked it, thick fingers dragging up the length, slow and sticky.
“C’mere,” he said, voice low, eyes molten.
She came.
Climbed into his lap like she belonged there—knees sinking into the cushion, thighs spreading wide to straddle him. Her pussy hovered over him, leaking onto his stomach as she reached down and guided him in.
The moan they shared was quiet but deep.
She sank slow, head tilting back, her mouth parting around a silent gasp as he filled her all over again. Her folds swallowed him, inch by inch, until she sat flush against him—no space, no mercy. His hands gripped her ass instantly, wide palms claiming both cheeks, thumbs pressing into her soft skin like he couldn’t believe he was holding her again.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice strained.
Delphine arched over him, back like a bow, breasts high and heavy, nipples brushing his chest. Her hands slid to his shoulders, fingers clinging like she was holding on to the last thing keeping her grounded.
But she wasn’t in control anymore.
Smoke was.
His hips rolled up slow—deep—and stayed there.
Pressed into her like a stretch, like a filling. Then he pulled back. Just to the tip.
And rolled in again.
Delphine’s mouth dropped open. Her breath hitched. She could feel it—that warm drip every time he stayed deep. Her own slick spilling down to the base, wetting his lap.
Her voice trembled, “Elijah…I’m leaking…”
“I know,” he whispered, “Feel it runnin’ down my balls…”
He grinned dark and rocked into her again, deep and wet. She melted, arms wrapping tight around his neck, hips twitching.
The chaise creaked under them. The window breeze stirred her hair. She looked out through half-lidded eyes as he kept up the rhythm—slow stroke, deep hold, wet drip.
Over and over.
Her body trembled every time he held it in.
Her thighs shook.
She was nothing but putty in his grip.
Then—without warning—he bucked up fast, three quick, hard thrusts that made the wet sound of their bodies fill the room, followed by a crack as his hand smacked her ass.
She yelped, head jerking back, eyes rolling shut.
Smoke just smirked and rolled deep again, “You like that?” he asked, low and teasing.
Delphine nodded, lips parted, breathing ragged.
“I know you do,” he said, slapping her again.
Another yelp. Another deep grind. She was leaking down his thighs now. Slick and heat and surrender.
Her voice shook as she spoke, “Elijah…honey…I feel so full…”
“You are,” he growled, holding her still, locking her down on his lap with his hands gripping her ass tight, “You full of me. Look at that drip, baby. You makin’ a mess all over me.”
She whimpered, forehead pressed to his, “I can’t…I can’t take much more…you done wrung me dry.”
“You gon’ take it,” he whispered, kissing her mouth soft, “You gon’ take it all.”
He just kept grinding.
Slow. Deep. Like molasses poured warm over something sinful. His hips circled from below, rolling her forward, lifting her, and then dragging her back down onto him with every thick stroke. But he never pulled out. He just stayed inside, held deep, until Delphine moaned—soft and choked and helpless.
Then he’d do it again.
She was perched on him, legs splayed over his, knees trembling as she tried to hold herself up. Her spine curved like a drawn bow, her hands planted to his chest for balance, head tilted just enough to see out the window—though her eyes weren’t seeing anything.Her mouth hung open. Her breaths came shaky. Every time he rocked in and held it there, she leaked again.
He felt it.
The warmth sliding down his balls. Dripping into the soft cushion beneath them. Her pussy so wet and swollen he could barely move without hearing the messy slip of it.
And Smoke was loving it.
“Look at you…” he whispered, dragging his hips in slow again—circling deep, holding, “Leakin’. All on me. All over my lap.”
Delphine moaned again, voice small, eyes glassy.
“Got that grown woman pussy,” he groaned, eyes locked on her tits swaying with every rock, “Not that lil’ girl shit. This real. This that stretch-me-wide, make-a-man-cry type’a pussy.”
Delphine whimpered. Her body tried to roll forward, but he held her there—hands gripping her ass, one sliding up her back to guide her posture, make her arch more, tilt more, give him more.
“I love this pussy,” he whispered, grinding up again, making her cry out soft, “You feel that, baby? Feel how deep I am?”
“Uh-huh…”
“Don’t lie. Say it.”
“You…deep, baby,” she panted, “So deep…”
He dragged his hips again, but this time slid forward on the chaise just a little—and when he did, her whole body shifted. Her hips tilted higher. Her folds spread wider.
Delphine gasped, “Oh— God…Elijah—”
“That’s it,” he grinned, grinding up right there, “Open like a peach for me. Drippin’. So damn wet.”
Her arms collapsed for a second. She caught herself on his shoulders, nails digging in. Her head dropped forward, curls falling loose around her face.
Smoke just kept rolling.
Deep. Slow. Then hold.
And every time he did, her pussy pulsed and dripped.
“Fuck,” he groaned, eyes glued to the spot where they met. “Makin’ a mess with that grown woman pussy. You feel that stretch? That ache? That sweet, nasty fullness?”
She nodded, tears in her lashes from how overwhelming it was.
“You love when I just hold it there, huh?”
“Y-yes…”
“You like me sittin’ all up in this married pussy like it’s mine. You do.”
Delphine whimpered again, eyes spaced out, lips trembling, “It is yours…” she whispered.
That broke him.
His hands clamped down on her ass and he rocked up hard, burying himself deep and holding it—deep enough to take her breath, deep enough to make her voice catch in her throat.
“You say that again,” he growled in her ear.
She moaned, nearly crying now, “It’s yours…it’s all yours, baby…”
Her head was tipped back now, curls wild and stuck to her skin. Her spine arched like worship, her hands still gripping Smoke’s shoulders, knuckles pale. Her thighs shook with every grind, and her mouth hung open in a silent cry every time he held it deep.
And Smoke was close.
So close.
But he wasn’t rushing. Still grinding, still circling his hips with that perfect pressure. Still holding himself right at the back of her walls—so deep she could feel the curve of him pressing into her from the inside. Filling her. Feeding her.
“You feel that?” he groaned, his voice thick with heat and control, “That pulse right there? That’s me ‘bout to lose it…”
Delphine moaned, biting her lip hard as her pussy clenched again, dripping more.
“Elijah—baby— I…I’m gon’—”
“Yeah?,” he growled, thrusting up deep and hard once—then holding again.
She cried out, head slumping forward, forehead to his. He kissed her, sloppy and open-mouthed, all tongue and breath.
“You gon’ give it to me,” he whispered, “At the same time. You hear me? We gon’ cum together.”
Delphine nodded weakly. “Please…please, I can’t hold—”
“Hold it,” he demanded, his voice gritted now, body shaking, “I feel it. You close. I’m right there. Right fuckin’ there, baby…”
His arms wrapped tight around her waist. His mouth pressed to her ear. And he slammed into her again.
One stroke.
Two.
And then—that third one—he stayed. Buried. He groaned from his gut, body seizing, cock twitching so hard she could feel him shoot. Her name stuttered off his lips in a broken prayer.
“Del… Delphine… fuck—!”
That was it.
Delphine burst around him, her walls milking him, leaking over his thighs, the sound of her release loud and filthy as her hips jerked and her body trembled in his arms.
She didn’t even make a sound at first.
Just clung to him. Wide-eyed. Mouth open. Dripping.
Then the moan came—long, deep, shaking from her throat like it had been buried for years.
“OoohhhGodYESSS—”
He held her through it.
Held her close while his cock twitched deep inside her, still releasing, still stretching her. Held her while her body collapsed in waves, wetness pooling beneath them, her hands fisting his hair as she rode the last tremble.
They breathed together. Panting. Holding on.
Sticky. Sweaty. Silent.
The only sound was the soft creak of the chaise and the Mississippi wind curling lazy through the open window. And when Delphine finally moved—just a little, just enough to look at him—Smoke kissed her again. Not with heat this time, but with something slow. Something sweet.
“You meant that?” he asked, still inside her.
She blinked at him, dazed, “Meant what?”
“That this pussy mine?”
Delphine smiled with her eyes closed, body weak, voice no louder than a hum, “You earned it. For now.”
Delphine was still seated on him, dick buried deep, their skin tacky with sweat and slick, her thighs trembling around his hips. She blinked down at him, curls hanging wild around her face, and arched one of those wicked brows.
“Smoke, baby…you gon’ let me up off this dick?”
His hand came up slow, slid behind her neck and pulled her down into a hot, wet kiss, tongue snaking into her mouth like he owned it. He popped her ass heavy while he kissed her, both hands gripping her cheeks afterward, spreading them wide in his palms.
She gasped into his mouth. Pulled back and gave him that look.
That look.
“You hooked on this grown woman pussy, huh?” she taunted, breathy, “Think you fuck me better than Stack?”
Another smack. Louder. Meaner.
Delphine moaned into a laugh, her lashes fluttering. “Mmm. That hit a nerve. You know I plan to fuck him some more too, right?” she whispered, dragging her fingers through his hair, nails scratching light at his scalp.
Smoke’s nostrils flared. But he stayed calm. Eyes low. Voice thicker than syrup, “I know,” he said, “But I’ma always remind you who fuck better.”
She rolled her hips once, slow and teasing, before finally lifting off him with a wet, obscene slide. His fat pecker slapped back against his stomach, thick and still dripping. Her pussy—pink and fluttering—glimmered between her thighs, leaking down both legs. She turned and arched her back, hands on her knees as she spread herself and looked back at him.
“That what you want, baby? You wanna look at what you did?”
Smoke sat up slow, licking his bottom lip, then gripping her cheeks again to spread her wider. His thumbs slid between her folds.
“Goddamn,” he spoke low and husky, “It’s so pretty.”
Delphine shivered at the praise, biting her lip, “Pretty and messy?” she smirked.
He looked up at her, eyes dark and hungry, “You soaked me,” he growled.
“That dick so damn thick,” she purred back, “Opened me up like I ain’t never been before.”
Smoke stood without warning, grabbing her thighs and lifting her right off the ground. Delphine gasped, legs locking around him. He kissed her again—sloppy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and groans. He backed her up against the wall this time. One of her legs slid down while the other stayed hooked. His cock rubbed against her slick folds again, leaving a trail of wet heat as he rutted between her thighs.
“Mmm…you hard again?” she teased against his lips.
“Still inside you,” he grunted.
He slipped the head back in, just the tip, just enough to feel her squeeze. He didn’t thrust. Not yet. They were too caught up. Too tangled. And too loud.
Which is why they didn’t hear the front door open.
Didn’t hear the heavy boots.
They didn’t hear August’s voice.
Not at first.
Not until it came again—louder this time, cutting through the house like a blade through silk.
“Delphine?”
Silence snapped like a whip.
Delphine froze—still slick, still leaking, legs trembling from aftershocks.
Smoke froze too, his arms still around her thighs, the head of his cock still nudging her soaked entrance like he wasn’t done.
“Delphine!”
His voice echoed up the stairs.
Heavy footsteps followed.
Alone.
Just August.
Delphine’s eyes went wide, “Shit.”
She shoved at Smoke’s chest. “Put me down. Hurry, Elijah!”
Smoke blinked, still dazed, still drunk off her. “What?”
“He’s comin’ up the damn stairs, Elijah!” she hissed, scooping his shirt and trousers off the floor and throwing them at him in a panic. “Tuck your dick and hide!”
She pointed to her closet.
Smoke raised an eyebrow like he might ignore her—like he might just let it all come to light—but the look on her face said don’t you fucking dare.
She was already halfway into her robe, tying it tight around her waist when the first stair creaked.
“Delphine!” August barked again.
Smoke ducked into the closet, clothes half-pulled on, his body still damp with her.
The scent of sex hung thick in the room—syrupy and raw—but Delphine flung open the window, praying the breeze would do its part.
By the time the bedroom door creaked open, she was seated calmly at her vanity, pinning curls like nothing at all was wrong.
August stood there, squinting at her. “You ain’t hear me calling you, woman?”
Delphine didn’t look up, “Was fixin’ my hair.”
August stepped in. Paused. Eyes narrowed as they swept over her skin—still flushed, a little too slick, a little too radiant.
He sniffed once, slow.
Then again.
“What you up here doing?” he asked.
Delphine turned slightly, batting her lashes in the mirror, “Told you. Fixin’ my hair.”
He didn’t buy it.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
“You been up here touchin’ on yourself, Delphine?” he said flatly, “What I tell you about that?”
In the closet, Smoke held his breath, listening, jaw tight.
Delphine didn’t flinch.
She rolled her eyes, voice syrupy and sharp. “Yes, holy husband of mine. Yes, I been up here stuffin’ my fingers in my pussy like a Thanksgiving turkey. Ain’t like you do it no more.”
August’s jaw twitched.
“Don’t play with me, woman.”
“Who playin’? You the one sniffin’ round like you caught me red-handed. Ain’t nothin’ in here but perfume and regrets.”
He stepped closer, “I let you flaunt around here in your little dresses like some whore—the least you can do is respect my wishes.”
Delphine laughed.
That pretty, dangerous kind of laugh.
She turned her head just enough to glance at the closet. Just for a beat.
Then back to August.
“August,” she said sweetly, “You so worried about what I’m doin’ in our home…why don’t you tell me what you been doin’ on all your little church trips?”
That hit the mark.
Hard.
August went quiet.
Still.
Then his hand lifted and jabbed a finger toward her face, teeth clenched, “You my wife. You do what I say. Hear me?”
Delphine stood slowly, hand on her hip, one brow raised.
“Oh, I hear you just fine.”
She leaned in, voice like honey laced with arsenic.
“I’ll do what you say, long as I get to keep cookin’ that food that get you full…and keep my mouth shut. Deal?”
They stared at each other for a long moment. August’s fists balled tight at his sides.
Then he stormed out without another word.
Door slammed behind him.
The floor shook.
The silence that followed was thick as molasses.
Then, from the shadows, the closet door cracked open.
Smoke stepped out—shirt open, pants still unbuttoned, chest rising and falling like he’d held his breath the whole time.
He looked at her.
“What the hell was that about?”
Delphine didn’t answer right away. She walked over, straightening her robe, lips twisted in a sly smile.
“My power,” she said softly, slipping her tongue into his mouth.
The kiss was quick.
Dangerous.
Dripping with everything she wasn’t supposed to say out loud.
Then she pulled back, licking her bottom lip.
“Get dressed, baby,” she whispered, smoothing down his collar, “I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come down.”
She turned and left the room, hips still swaying like she hadn’t just almost been caught fuckin’ the help.
Smoke stayed where he was, watching her disappear.
He tugged his pants the rest of the way up, but his mind was racing.
What the hell did she know about her husband…that August didn’t know about himself?
After you’re done in the bathroom, you quietly move around the room, going to your shared walk-in closet you share with Smoke. For a moment, you stop in the middle of the space to take a breath. Smoke brought this shit before your trip, which really pissed you off. You wouldn’t have minded having a conversation regarding your friends, but you know that he doesn't just want to talk about your friends. You can feel him catching feelings, and it's making you uncomfortable because he's not supposed to. He’s an older man; he’s supposed to know better, but if he knew better, he wouldn’t be dealing with you anyway.
Sitting down on the couch inside the walk-in closet, he arranged it just for you. Placing your hand on your forehead, sighing. Forcing yourself to admit that you’re catching feelings for him, too, you’re too young to get into anything serious. Especially with him, you don’t want to get invested and waste your youth only to get hurt. Your family doesn’t even know Smoke exists; that's how secret this shit is. Your head just hurts thinking about everything, causing you to overthink. On top of that, your friends don’t even like him, which should be reason enough to leave him. But when he looks at you like the only girl, dotes on you 24/7, and puts it down every time… You can’t even think of leaving.
“I’m turning off my brain for a while. I need a break.” After those words leave your lips, the dilemma is put away, for now. For the day, you decided to wear a comfortable outfit to do maintenance and hopefully convince Smoke to take you shopping. Grab your expensive bag along with your phone. You find Smoke watching anime with a mean mug sitting on his beautiful face. “Smoke, do you want to run some errands with me?” you ask, standing beside the flat-screen television. His chest rises then falls for a moment before he answers, “Why would I want to go shopping with you after the way you acted this morning?” shifting his attention from the television to your figure.
By that answer alone, you can tell he wants you to beg and recognize your errors. You fiddle with your fingers. “I’m sorry, Smoke,” you utter, unable to meet his gaze, hoping he’ll get over it and come with you. “Nuh-uh, look at me, baby, and tell me exactly what you're sorry about. I want to make sure you don’t make the same mistake,” he demands from his position on the couch, legs spread, looking yummy. Placing your arms at your sides, you stalk slowly across the couch until you find yourself standing in front of your sugar daddy. Your frame goes down lower to the ground as you present yourself on your knees in front of him. Hands find their way onto his knees as you lean in closer to his chest. “I’m sorry for not seeing your side of things. Song attempting to decide for both of us,” you apologize, holding his stare. His brown eyes stare into your soul, trying to sense any hint of deception, not saying a word.
Smoke’s hand reaches out to grab your throat, pulling you into a kiss. Place your lips onto his pillow, soft lips not letting you go anywhere. He forces your mouth open in a battle to slide his tongue inside. All you can hear is the sound of your wet mouths just moving against each other. After a while, you break apart with a dazed look on your face. “Don’t you ever do that shit again; for you to try making the final decision regarding something that we could’ve discussed was disrespectful. You hear me?” nodding along like a stupid-ass bobblehead. “Say it,” he orders, holding your gaze, tightening a grip on your neck. “I understand, Papa.”
“Good, now give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready.” Softly releasing your neck, he stands up, making his way upstairs to change. Releasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding in, “damn” is all you can say. If you didn’t have to be on the move, the things you would let him do to you.
Smoke is driving in his luxurious car as you sit in the passenger seat, as usual, watching him. “Give me your hand,” you order softly, reaching for his larger hand, pulling it into your lap. He silently intertwines it with yours before lifting it to his luscious lips. “So where are we going, baby?” he asks, looking over at his favorite girl. “I have to go shopping for vacation clothes.” He chuckles at your bad shopping habit. “Baby, all that shit I buy you, and there are no clothes for vacation.” A soft pout makes its home on your face. “But, I want to model for you before anyone else sees.” At that confession, he makes his way to the department store for you. He’ll do anything for her, and that’s scaring him. Because he’s willing to put his hard exterior aside to make you happy. You aren't even his official girlfriend, but he's trying to get there.
Stepping inside the luxurious designer store, you look around, letting go of Elijah’s hand. The nice lighting and sight of beautiful items catch your eye, making you swoon. “Hello, how can I help you today?” The store associate says from behind the counter, breaking your attention. “Go on, baby, I’ll take care of it.” Your sugar daddy encourages rubbing a hand on your ass. Making your heart rate rise a little before you inch off into the store, you plant a kiss on his cheek.
Smoke walks towards the store associate. “I want to shut down the store for my princess while she shops, if that’s all right,” he admits, nodding towards your wandering figure. The store associate looks at you walking around. “Of course, sir.” As the associate makes his way to the door to lock it down, “Close the curtains as well to give us some privacy,” he adds, knowing you love to give him a show.
Twenty minutes later, you have a pile of clothes in your hand and walk towards your sugar daddy. “Are you ready to give me a little fashion show?” Smoke suggested by the size of the pile in the hands. “Yes,” you squeak out. “Well, give me your purse and go get started after dropping the clothes on the bench in the fitting room. You give him your bag off your shoulder, but before you turn around, you place your hand on his cheek, pecking his lips. “I’ll be right back,” promising
The first outfit is a navy blue mini dress that stops right below your ass. Open the door, and you're greeted by the sight of Elijah sitting there looking at you with a look you can only describe as admiration in his eyes. Rubbing your hands over your cleavage, then down your legs, “How do I look?”
“You look so fucking sexy in my color.” He shakes his head, biting his lip, unable to take his eyes off you. “Come here.” Your figure makes its way to stand up to him. His hand reaches out, pulling you impossibly closer, not saying a word, just taking in the beauty that is you. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you joke, trying to ease the look of feeling in Smoke’s eyes. Feeling bare and vulnerable under his gaze. “Because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he admits. Your heart gets louder as you take in the words escaping his lips. Your delicate hand placed itself on his face, feeling his coarse facial hair on his skin, pulling him in for a rushed kiss, backing him further into the seat. His hands grip your hips for dear life, placing you onto his knee. His hands start moving, his hips grinding you on his knees, creating friction.
Your mouths have refused to separate, only trying to find a way to consume more of each other. Smoke separates to catch his breath. “Smoke,” you breathe, continuing to grind onto his knee, your hands removing themselves from your waist. “Keep grinding.” While you grind, he pulls the mini dress down at the cleavage area to expose your breasts to cool air, causing an intake of breath at the sensation. “You’re going to ruin the dress,” you protest. “I can buy you one hundred of those damn dresses; let Daddy play.”
Your breasts are busting out of the dress, and Smoke places one of your nipples in his mouth, making you moan out at the wet sensation of his warm mouth. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer into your breast. “Oh, yes," the praise rushes out as you grind onto his knees, feeling the lacy thong get wetter as your arousal grows. Your other hand scratches down his back; the suckling of his mouth rings in your ear. Your breath falls out of your mouth before he starts to place soft kisses on your collarbone, making their way up your neck. “I can feel you getting wet, baby."
Your core gets wet while your body gets warmer. Smoke releases your nipples from his mouth, replacing them with an index finger rubbing on your nipples. As moans escape your pretty lips at the sensation “You’re going to remember me, you hear?” Your mind is foggy, and your eyes are clearly glossed over. You hold eye contact, fighting for your damn life, and soft moans fill the room instead of words. “While you're out partying with your nosy-ass friends, you’re going to remember who you really want. Nothing else matters but us, baby,” he declares the moment your head tilts back because you're unable to hold eye contact from his jarring declaration. His other hand reaches out to bring you right back to him. “Nuh-uh, none of that hiding shit; I’m not going to let you.”
The sound of fabric ripping steals your attention as cold air engulfs your nether region. “Smoke, what the hell is wrong with you?” This man only wants to get you bare and completely vulnerable, and you’ll unfortunately let him. Your palm is softly placed on his chest for comfort and grip. Smoke quickly lets himself free, wanting you to sit on him. His warm, hard member pressing against the edge of your lips. Panicking, “We can’t smoke here.” The older man laughs at your response, “Yes, we can; that’s why I asked for them to leave so we can do whatever the fuck we want.”
3 days later…
You sit in the back of a black truck while the driver drops you off at the airport. Smoke insisted he provide transportation; he wanted to see you off as well. His larger hand has a firm hold on yours as you look outside the window as miles pass you by. “Smoke this wasn’t necessary,” you insist, turning from the window to stare at him. He looks up from his phone with a deadpan. “You know I’m okay with that Ubering shit,” smacking your lips as you lean towards the ceiling. “You’re never okay with anything. I’m not too good for Uber; I’m in college, it’s normal.”
“I’m taking care of you, so there's no reason,” he retorts, putting away his phone as he notices the arrival to the airport. Moments later you notice the truck coming to a halt. “We’re here,” the driver announces. Immediately you check your phone and realize you're two hours early, but you'd rather be early than late. “Alright, Elijah, I’ll see you later.” Shaking off his hand to get out of the truck, he grabs your hand, pulling your back to kiss you. His large hands pull you closer as he forces your mouth open so he can get some of your tongue. A feeble attempt is made to pull back; it's unsuccessful as he pulls you back in for quick pecks. “Be good.”
You're released from these clutches as you get out of the car to see the driver with your suitcase at the trunk of the car. “Ms. Y/N, here’s your luggage.” A soft smile graces your lips as you reach for the suitcase. "Thank you." He gives you a smile in return along with a salute. "The staff will do our best to distract Mr. Moore from temporary abstinence," he promises. A hundred-dollar bill makes its way into his hands. “That’s all I ask.” Afterwards, you grab your suitcase, making your way into the long process called the airport….
5 hours later….
You, Simone, Riley, and Tracy arrive (I cannot think of a location spot, so you pick) at your Airbnb, a nice six-bedroom tropical mansion with a pool with a nice view. [Palm trees grow in the front and back. Tracy was the first to get out of the cab; she stretched her arms out in dramatic fashion. “Ah, we’ve made it to paradise!” while everyone laughed at her antics. “Now that we’ve made Tracy come get your luggage before paradise takes it,” she cuts in while opening the trunk.
Everyone agreed to find a local home so they can explore the location, even though a resort would have been cheaper. There was a certain experience of vacation that was wanted. As you step out of the cab. You realize how tired you really are from all that flying. So you suggest. Then maybe it's time to take a nap. You tell the girls. ”Hey, I'm going to go upstairs and take a nap. And then we could probably hit the city.” Riley agrees with your settlement, stating, “Uh, that airplane ride was so much, and I hate those terrible ass seats.” After everyone grabs their items out of the trunk. Tracy snaps the lid, closes, and taps on the back of the taxi. And the taxi responds with a honk back in acknowledgment. Then everyone slowly drags themselves up the stairs to their. Six-bedroom Airbnb.
Since you have the key. You opened the door, and everyone quickly followed behind you just to be able to explore their temporary home. As you walk inside of the home, you see traditional and abstract art on the walls. With orange as their backdrop. Then you see colorful twerk coyote lamps and brown leather catches. There's a coffee table with flowers decorated on top and a nice flat-screen TV, and in the back you see a sliding door along with a brown 6-piece kitchen table set. “It looks...quaint,” Simone says, looking around the living room. You gasp, “Quaint; you must be used to a mansion lifestyle.” It causes a small ting of annoyance in Simone. “Not everyone has an older man funding their lifestyle. I just meant it looks as if someone actually lives here; it's not like a museum, she explains, tilting her head. Riley and Tracy, reading the room, jump in, “Alright, let’s calm down, Tokyo Toni; it’s not that serious.” Tracy jokes, and Riley laughs along to break the ice.
All you do is stare at Simone with her attitude, “I'm cool; I just want to enjoy this vacation.” The truth is you just want to spend time with your girls, but you can tell something might go down on this vacation. Simone raises one of her eyebrows. “Don’t you ever call me Tokyo Toni.” Stepping closer to her, rolling your eyes, “Chill, Simone. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Scoffing, she replies, “It's only just a joke to you because you're not the butt of the joke.”
Tracy clocks her tea “Simone.” Don't do that shit. We're not white; you don't have to guilt trip us into feeling bad. If you've gotten your feelings hurt, just say that.” At that Simone quietly orders the friend group and wonders if she can survive this trip without cursing someone out. “Anyways, ladies, let's wait a couple hours, and then we'll go out and hit the clubs and have a good time.”
After everyone disperses to the house, you make your way to your bedroom. And immediately lay down on the bed and happiness to feel something nice and soft and not a hard, stiff *** chair. Goes off at first. You ponder picking it up until you realize that it's smoke. Reluctantly you pick up the phone. “Hello, beautiful,” he greets with softness in his tone. “Why are you calling me? Shouldn't you be working?” The sound of lips smacking fills your ear. “I can’t check on my only girl?” Those words cause you to smile up at the ceiling. He doesn't have to say much, but when he does, you instantly melt. “We just arrived, and everyone is relaxing before we paint the town red.”
“You better be painting it beige,” he orders at the implication of your words, “Whatever, nigga, you knew what this was when you met me.” The laziness of your tone is noticed by him. ”Alright now,” he jokingly replies back. A moment of silence fills the air before you add, “Simone is already on her bullshit.” Even though Smoke isn't one of the girls, you still tell him tea like he is one because he can keep his mouth shut. “I told you to stop talking to her,” is all he says. “I know, baby, but she’s one of the girls.” “That doesn't mean shit if she’s bringing the mood down. In my line of work, if they're causing you so much trouble, you turn them loose.”
3 hours later…
Everyone's in their respective bathrooms getting ready for their night out. As the sun is setting. In the Dark of the Night is coming out to play. Bringing out inhibitions and truths. You're in your bathroom listening to. Rihanna's work as you apply your makeup. “Miss thang, are you almost ready? The taxi will be here in ten.” Tracy shouts from her room, “Yes, big mama.” You reply with a light smile on your face. After you finish your makeup, 10 minutes later the taxi arrives and everyone hops in. The car, with the exception of Simone sitting up front. As soon as the last door closes, the taxi driver asks. Where are you lovely ladies heading tonight? It's immediately met with the response of the best club in town. It's placed in the taxi driver's face as he recalls when he was that young and ready to experience the pleasures of life with his friends. He immediately replies. I'll show you to the best club in town.
As the taxi starts to drive, you look outside of the window at the night sky, and you take in the buildings and the citizens standing outside. Streetcars and streetlights in the ambiance of the beauty that's in the night sky. And you're just reminded of Smoke and how he's not here. It's crazy for you to feel that way considering you're the one going to go on vacation, but you do miss them just a little bit. It's a very dumb thing to feel as a 20-something-year-old to be missing someone who's a lot older than you. Are you OK? Breaks your train of thoughts as one of your girlfriends asks you once they notice you're not talking. It immediately breaks you from your thoughts, and you reply, "Yeah, I'm doing just fine." Just check in; you look a little lost in the sauce. After shaking off you. Elijah Moore sends her thoughts. You're pulled into your current reality.
Wiley rips on her phone and then begins to tell us to pose for pictures. Would you do it easily because you look good tonight? You're not going to cheat or do anything crazy; you just always want to feel them at your best. Simone cuts in, “Hey, what about me?” causing laughs to erupt in the back. “Girl, you're in the front; we’ll get more pictures inside. After. You arrive at the club, and everyone jumps out. Makes their way to the line. When you get a text message from your favorite person
Are you good?
Yeah, we just got to the club; we’re in line.
Alright, be safe and talk to me later.
Riley peeks over your shoulder obnoxiously. “Who are WE texting, wifey?” You pull her closer so she’s pressing against your back. “Oh, you know our rich babydaddy.” Riley and Tracey erupt in laughter. “Get that bread and head then leave. Peace out!”
“Girl, put that phone away. That man is far away; you can leave him at home.” Simone says, "Bursting the joking bubble." Shifting uncomfortably, “Simone, he contacted me first.” You point at yourself. “But, I’ll keep my phone on mute just for you.” Eventually you make your way to the front, and the bouncer asks, “ID?”
Once you make it inside, you're immediately greeted by the sound of good music. In blinding, colorful lights, bathing your bodies as soon as you step into the room. There's also the comfort of seeing so many people on the dance floor having a good time and not taking up the wall or sitting in sections. “Oh my god, I can’t wait to get on the floor and shake my ass!” Tracy confesses with a Kool-Aid smile. “We got to sweat our hair and get funky so you know we’re having a good time,” you add before pulling everyone on the dance floor. Shaking your ass was a success. Everyone also was able to get drunk and have a good time, but by two am everyone was clubbed out and ready to run to the bed.
Outside on the wall of the club, you lean on Riley, wrapping your arm around her waist. “I’m sleepy,” she slurred, leaning onto you. “I know, baby, but we have to get home first.”
After the cab arrives, everyone gets in and silently fills the space. “I can't believe you're with him.” Simone confesses. You look around the cab in confusion to see if maybe she was talking to someone else.But she kept going. else. ”I can't believe that you're with a man like that. And you have the nerve to brag about him.” Licking your lips, you lean forward. “Why are we talking about this right now?” Everyone in the car is sober then. At the potential of there being a possible problem that they need to defuse once they see that Simone isn't backing down. Ignoring your question, she continues to press on. ”You're way too young to be with a man like that. And the way you parade and brag around about him, you sound like an idiot.” Scoffing, you reply, “If you’re referencing earlier, you know damn well we were joking.”
“You’re falling for him like a young, dumb idiot. I bet if he asked you to date him right now, you’d say yes.” Tracey jumps in at your defense, truly knowing your situation. “Simone, that's enough.” Simoen rolls her eyes as Tracey defends, “Why are you sticking up for her? You know it’s true.”
“No, I don't. What I do know is that there are boundaries you're crossing.” You cut in, “You're acting as if I asked for it. Even if I was, is that a crime?” Simone scoffs, “It is a crime because you are prostituting yourself!” she exclaims with a tinge of jealousy. Raising your hand in a stopping motion “Hold up, I know you didn’t just say that!”
Riley is just sitting there feeling overwhelmed and sick from all the negative energy. “It's the truth,” Simone shrugs. Tracey grabs your arm as she feels the anger radiating off your skin. “Don’t meet her there; it isn’t worth it.” Riley raises a singular index finger. “Guys I-” immediately interrupted by a group of “Shut up,, I—” Riley!” making her shrink smaller in her seat. “Simone, tell me how you really feel,” you suggest feeling hurt and betrayedsuggest, at her harsh words.
Author’s Note: I’m tired, but I’m here after 5 MONTHS! I’m sooooo sorry. Let me know your thoughts, and what would you like to see from this story? I don't know where to go from here. I'm a little lost. Until next time!
Synopsis - Smoke is obsessed with his woman. That’s it. That’s all.
Warnings - SMUT, switch Smoke, switch OC, cursing, little bit of angst, healthy obsession.
One shot (maybe)
MINORS DNI
-
They would say that Smoke wasn’t a nice man. He spoke too little, sometimes not at all. And that he never smiled.
The ladies in Miami fawned over him and his brother but Stack payed them no mind and Smoke didn’t even know they existed.
Truth be told, Smoke had forgetting that other woman walked this earth a long time ago when he first met Olivia.
His little Olive.
They met back when he was living in New York. There was a coffee shop right at the corner of his street. One morning he decided to step in, the previous nights events had kept him up and he was feeling sluggish.
“Good Morning sir, how are you on this lovely morning?” She was beautiful and for the first time in a long time, Smoke felt stuck. She had a pixie cut at the time, perfect cinnamon brown swirls surrounded her head. She had on a pink sundress, hugging her body in all the right places. She had a tummy and thick thighs that damn near had Smoke salivating. Her voice was soft and deep, almost sultry without even trying. She smelled of peaches and fresh flowers. It was intoxicating.
“Sir?”
“Yeah. Just plain black coffee, please.”
“No problem.” She smiled at him and he almost forgot how to breathe. His eyes followed her as she prepared his order. Her body moving swiftly and comfortable throughout the little cafe.
She handed him his coffee and a croissant. “I ain’t order this.”
“I know but it’s on the house. You look like you’re a busy man, you can’t go on being busy on an empty stomach.” Her giggle tickled his ears as she rang him up for the coffee. He payed with a $20 bill and told her to keep the change despite her protest.
The next day he was back. Once she spotted him, she flashed him that smile that he couldn’t stop thinking about. “Good Morning sir, are we doing plain black coffee again today?” He nodded, afraid that if he tried to speak he’d stutter or worse, no words would come out.
She gave him his coffee and the croissant.
“Bye bye, busy man.” That’s what she started calling him since he was always in a suit, even on the weekends.
The routine continued and sometimes she’d switch the croissant to something else, like a banana or a danish.
“You give everybody else these pastries? Or I’m just one of the lucky ones?” Olivia blushed, avoiding his piercing stare.
“No sir, just the ones who look like they too caught up with everything else, but themselves.” She slightly gasped. “I mean, no disrespect. I’m sure you take great care of yourself, I just- I don’t know.”
Smoke smirked slightly, finding her flushed face and behavior so endearing. “It’s alright honey. Thank you. Preciate you.” He tipped his head slightly before walking out and Olivia couldn’t help but watch the muscles on his back move underneath the semi tight suit jacket.
He was attractive and she might’ve had a little crush on him. She looked forward to seeing him every morning, not having any idea that he was feeling the same.
Olivia would spend extra time getting ready. Triple checking that her hair was perfect, that she wore that perfume that kept him lingering, that her skin was glowy and moisturized and that she wore pink. He always stared a little harder when she wore pink. Lucky for her, that was her favorite color.
One morning he didn’t show up. Something deep within Olivia stirred.
Worry.
She was worried about a man whose name she didn’t even know. The next morning she was met with more worry, and it stayed with her until the following week. Then, on a random Wednesday at 8 in the morning, he showed up. Slightly bruised upper lip, scar on his cheek and body stiff. Stiffer than it usually is.
“G-good morning sir. Black coffee?” She was trying hard not to ogle at the man, not to ask question, but something was pulling her to him. To hold him and nurse him back to health.
“Yes, please” She nodded and turned her back to him to work on his order. “You ain’t smile today… Something wrong?” Olivia turned around to face him, big brown eyes looking at him. Her cheeks burned from the way he looked at her, like he was actually hurt that she didn’t smile at him.
“I- no, nothings wrong.” Her lips pull up slightly. His eyebrows furrow as he steps closer to the counter, close enough to smell the familiar notes of peaches and flowers and the cocoa butter seeped into her skin. “What is it?”
Olivia played with her fingers, trying her hardest to avoid eye contact. “It’s…stupid. I just- I don’t know. You just hadn’t shown up in a week and I guess … I got worried? It’s so silly… I don’t even know your name.” She speaks in a hushed tone, embarrassed that she even admitted that.
Smoke gently places two of his fingers under her chin, lifting her head so that he could see her. Really see her.
In the few weeks that he had been going to the little coffee shop, Smoke never really payed attention to anyone or anything else in there. The cafe was usually empty, the TV in the back played reruns of ‘The Office’, the coffee machine hummed loudly as it brewed another batch, the lights were soft and comforting and the air smelled of pastries. And yet, Olivia was the only thing Smoke could focus on. She always was. Truth be told, if you’d ask him what color was the building, he wouldn’t have an answer for you. But he could probably tell you that Olivia has a habit of biting the corner of her lip when she’s focusing on something. Or how sometimes she’ll pull her lips into her mouth and a dimple would appear on her left cheek.
“I’m sorry. I ain’t mean to worry you.” Olivias breath hitched not just from the contact but from how low his voice got, like he ain’t use to saying sorry.
“Oh no, you don’t have to apologize. I’m just being silly. You don’t owe me anything.” She let out a nervous giggle but Smoke just shook his head.
“I worried your pretty little head and for that, I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.” Olivia was still floating from his words as he payed for the coffee and grabbed the donut she had taken out for him.
“It’s Elijah.”
“I’m sorry?”
“My name is Elijah.” Olivia smiled, slightly biting her lip.
“Elijah.” She tested it out and a shiver ran down Smokes back. He had to bite his tongue to keep from groaning. She just sounded so…sweet.
“Olivia.” Her voice was too low for him to hear and so with a slight scrunch of his face, he says. “Huh? Olive?”
The laugh that came out of the small woman was loud and straight from the gut. Smoke just watched her in awe. If it was anything he could choose to hear on repeat for the rest of his life, it would be that.
“No, busy man. I said Olivia, but I think Olive is cute too.” He chuckled lightly and nodded his head. Mind still swirling.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Olive.” With that he walked out and the next day brung in flowers, roses to be exact.
And after that, not a day went by where Smoke didn’t make sure that Olivia didn’t worry about him again.
-
Now six years later, the two were married and recently had moved to Miami into a nice big house that Smoke had gotten built for them. It was a four bedroom mansion with a pool and movie theater room. Smoke made sure to add extra closet space for Olivia, as well as a makeup room for to get ready in.
He was so protective of her, gave her anything and everything she wanted without her ever having to ask twice. She rarely ever had to ask once. Smoke just knew her well enough to know what she likes. He’d come home from his business trips with new designer bags, shoes, jewelry and sometimes just stacks of money. All for her. And he never asked for anything in return.
Her favorite gift of all, was him. She loved when he came back home to her. She never cared for the materialistic things, she just wanted to be wrapped around her man.
And god what a man he was. 6 feet of pure muscles and chocolate skin. Thick and strong in all the right places. Deep baritone voice that could make you melt or better yet, kneel.
Since they first started dating, Olivia has never had to lift a finger or pay a bill. He took care of all of it. Not only that, but he’d listen to her talk about nonsense for hours. Watch her favorite reality TV shows with her, read the books she was interested in and even would sit with her during her long hair appointments.
The man was just obsessed with her. He quite literally worshipped the ground she walked on. He’d do anything just as long as it meant he got to be in her presence.
-
Olivia happily danced around the kitchen as she listened to Beyonce’s loudest album (you know the one), while making steak with baked potatoes and asparagus. Smoke was coming home from work soon and she wanted to have dinner ready for him. She was a great cook and loved to use her talent to spoil her man since he loves to eat…
She quickly plated the food just as she heard the garage door open, grabbed a bottle of jack black and poured some in a cup over ice and then grabbed his blunt and gently placed it near his drink.
“Baby?” His rough voice called out to her and she nearly sprinted. She jumped in his arms and he effortlessly picked her up, placing his hands on her ass as her legs found his waist.
“Mmm, hi busy man. I missed you.” She placed her lips on top of his. Groaning into her mouth, Smoke deepened the kiss until the two were tongue tied.
“I made you dinner.” Olivia mumbled as she placed kisses on his face.
A smiled appeared on Smokes face as he walked them to the kitchen, placing her on the dinner table before grabbing the blunt that was waiting for him.
Taking a pull, Smoke then steps back to admire Olivia, he did this every time he came home after a long day. Today she was wearing a long pink robe with feathers on it and he could see the sliver of a silk baby pink nightgown underneath. Her hair was out and curled, framing her face that was covered in light make up.
He hummed in content before leaning in and pressing another kiss to her lips. “Beautiful, baby.” Olivia giggled softly, her cheeks reddening.
She always got shy around him.
Elijah sat down, blunt hanging from his lips as he eyed his plate. “You not eating with me princess?” She gave him a small nod as she sits across from him, her own plate still warm and waiting for her.
She knew that he loved spending as much time with her as he could, which meant breakfast and dinner were always spent together. As they began to eat, Olivia broke down her day to him in as much detail as possible, he needed to know everything, down to the shoes she decided to wear that day. Once she finished Smoke suddenly looked up at Olivia in confusion. “Wait, wasn’t today your book club meeting thing? You didn’t go?”
Olivias body stiffened slightly and he immediately noticed because he notices everything about her. “No, it got cancelled.” Not being able to meet his eyes, she got up and started loading the dishwasher.
“You lying to me Olivia?” Her heart dropped slightly as she heard the scrape of his chair. In just two strides Smoke was behind her, his hand wraps around her jaw, gently bringing her face towards him. “You don’t lie to me. So why you starting now?”
“I- it’s just. I- I don’t-”
“Spit it out, princess.” Sighing deeply, she gets on her tippy toes, placing a kiss to his jaw and then his lips. “The ladies… They didn’t want me in the club… They kicked me out.”
Olivia could practically feel the anger starting to take over his whole body. “And why the fuck would they do that?” He takes a step back, the frown on his face deepening by the second.
She shook her head.“It was nothing papa. They’re all just mean girls who have nothing better to do than to gossip.”
-
Two days ago, Olivia ran in the house squealing like a mad woman. She ran up the stairs and to the master bedroom where Smoke was taking his nap. Not caring that the man was 17 dreams in, she straddled his lap and slapped his chest.
“Shit, Olive.” He groaned, eyes fluttering open as he placed his hands on her hips. “What happened ?”
“I went to the bookstore and there was a flyer for a book club that the neighbors are hosting. I signed up for it and the first meeting is on Friday!”
Smoke smiled as he watched how giddy she was. Since they had moved, Olivia had felt a bit lonely with him being gone most of the day and all her friends and family being back in New York. He knew this was her opportunity to meet people. “I’m happy for you princess. What time is the meeting for?”
“It’s at 3PM and it’s not too far from here. I can wal-”
“Nah. I’ll have someone drop you off.” Olivia rolled her eyes and sighed.
“I’ll be fine papa, it’s like a ten minute walk. We’re not too far.”
“Do you know what could happen in ten minutes?” She leaned down to kiss his chest, a warm smile making its way to her face.
“You’re so dramatic. I’ll be okay. Promise.”
“Better be.” He mumbled tiredly before wrapping his arms around her and moving her body to lay next to his.
Friday had came faster than she anticipated, she woke up early that morning, had breakfast with Smoke and then showered. Olivia took the time to pick out her outfit which consisted of a pink maxi bodycon skirt that hugged all her curves and a white camisole. She did light makeup and prepped and moisturized her brown curls. By the time she was done, it was already 2:45. Grabbing her platform sandals, her LV tote and her phone, she made her way to her neighbors house.
Olivia got there 5 minutes early, nervously chewing on her lip as she waited for the door to open. She was met with a stiff face and a botched BBL that stared at her like Olivia had some nerve showing up at her house.
“Hi. Um, my names Olivia. I just moved here not too long ago, I live down the road. I’m here for the book club.”
A blonde and the lady who opened the door looked her up and down with what could only be described as disgust.
“Sorry but ya can’t join.” Olivia furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. “How come?”
“Listen Olivia, girl. We’ve been hearing some things about you. Well, more so who you lay with at night.” With a tilt of her head, Olivia gripped the straps of her tote to ground herself.
“You mean my husband?”
“Yeah… Him.”
“Okay… and what about my husband have you heard?” Blonde and botched give each other a look before turning their attention back to the woman who was itching to smack the smirks off of their faces.
“It’s really none of our business but we heard that your husband and his little twin brother be doing some shady business... Like they kill people for a living.” Botched responded in a hushed tone.
“Honestly I thought it was just rumors but… I always see them coming back late at night, windows tinted in their cars, sometimes coming back with different clothes than what they left with. It’s real weird.” Blonde shrugs like she just solved the world’s hardest equation.
“You watch everybody else’s husbands like that or just mine?” Olivias body burned in anger.
Botched rolled her eyes. “Listen girl. I’m just saying, the people are talking and it wont be long before the police start digging. We just don’t wanna get caught in the crossfire. We got kids to worry about. You understand, right?”
Olivia nodded slowly before turning on her heel and heading back home. Her eyes burned from embarrassment and anger. Once she got inside, she allowed herself to cry, then quickly fixed her makeup, changed into her robe and started working on dinner.
-
Smoke was quiet as he heard Olivia explain what happened. She bit her lip as she looked at him, his expression stoic. They had moved to the couch where she was straddling him, fingers playing in his beard.
“Want me to kill em?” She laughs loudly as she shakes her head. “No baby. You do enough killing already. Just leave it alone, it’s fine. I don’t care anymore.” Smoke could tell that the interaction was still bothering her and it tugged at his heart.
“You sure you don’t want me to do nun? Could make it look like an accident.” His favorite sound escapes her lips once again.
“No, crazy. Come on, let’s get ready for bed.” Smoke followed her up the stairs and to their shared room. They showered and got ready together before lying down.
The next morning, Smoke had stayed home and though Olivia was very happy about that, something about his energy just wasn’t right. He was always quiet and moved around the house in silence but something just felt off. She kept asking him if he was okay and he always told her that he was fine but she knew her man.
And he definitely wasn’t fine.
They spent the day cuddling, watching TV and eating and by the time the sun had set and the kitchen was cleaned, Olivia just couldn’t hold it anymore.
Smoke was sitting in their backyard, smoking his blunt as soft jazz played from the speakers when Olivia decided to join him. She stood behind him and rubbed her hands down his chest, giving him a kiss on his neck before walking around to face him.
“Elijah.” His eyebrow raised as he blew smoke out of his nose. “Yeah princess?”
She straddles his lap and places a kiss on his lips. “Talk to me, papa. What’s wrong?” Smoke closed his eyes momentarily before opening them up and looking down at Olivias thighs that were currently suffocating his legs.
“I just… I feel … I feel like I fucked your life up.” Olivia frowns as she grabs his face, forcing him to look at her.
“How could you have possibly fucked my life up?”
“I’m a hit man Olivia, I don’t have a normal job that you could brag to your friends about. You can’t tell your family what I do. I moved your whole life here to Miami and you can’t even make friends because of who I am.” He shakes his head, eyes looking anywhere but at her. “I’m sorry.”
Olivia’s eyes water as she watches her man crumble. For the first time since she’s met him, Smoke was actually being vulnerable. “Elijah. Do you know that I love you so much? Baby I don’t care about what you do as long as you come home to me.” She kisses his forehead. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks about you or if no one wants to be my friend. As long as I have you, that’s all that matters to me.”
His eyes were wide but soft. Olivia kissed down his face and towards his neck, lightly sucking on the sensitive skin right below his ear. Smoke groaned and tightened his grip around her ass. “I love you Elijah, I chose you. I chose this life with you and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Her hands slide down his chest and under his shirt. His skin was warm and smooth.
“I love you too.” Olivia knew him more than he knew himself. She felt his chest rising and falling. The way his breathing slightly stuttered as her finger slipped past his nipples.
“Can I show you how much I love you?” Smoke’s eyes spoke volumes, the vulnerability still loud and present. His face showed how tired he was, carrying the weight of his emotions heavy on his shoulders. He slowly nodded, hands tightening around Olivia.
“I need to hear you baby boy.” She whispered into his ear. His body shook, he loved when she called him that.
“Yes… Please.” His voice was rough, vibrating against her lips that were back on his neck. Her hands slowly moved down to top of his sweatpants where she played with the waistband.
“So polite, baby.” Smoke was slowly loosing it, watching as she moves from his lap. She bites her bottom lip as she pushes his sweatpants down to his ankles along with his boxers. His dick already hard and leaking, sprung up, resting on his abdomen.
Olivia moans, mouth salivating at the sight. She leans down to press a kiss to his tip, giggling as his body twitched from the contact. “Olivia” He grunts out as her tongue twirls around the head before she spits on it.
Leaning back, Olivia slowly walked around Smoke, standing behind him. She runs the pads of her fingers up both of his arms feeling the goosebump forming. “Princess.” Smoke was on the verge of breaking. “Stop teasing me.”
“Where are your manners, baby boy? Hm?” She moved closer to him, her hands trailed down his body until they reached his dick that had seemed to get harder.
“Please, mama.” Olivia nearly moaned at the sound of his voice. He sounded so soft. He was begging.
Her hands wrapped around him, slowly stroking up and down, watching in awe as more pre-cum came out of him like he just couldn’t hold himself together.
“Mmm, you’re so needy today, papa. This is what you wanted huh?” Smoke had his eyes shut tight as she continued the slow pace, moans slipping past his lips. “Talk to me. Let mama hear you.”
He whimpered as her hands started moving faster, “Y-yes princess.” His breathing was coming out faster and heavier. Smoke turned his head to burry it in Olivias neck. He panted against her ear as his hips started thrusting upward trying to meet her strokes.
“You’re such a good boy.” Her voice was sultry and Smoke nearly came from hearing it. His entire body was shaking as he gripped the chair handles. Knuckles turning white from how hard he was holding them.
“I-I am?” Olivia sped up, listening to Smoke whine and moan against her neck.
“Yes papa, you’re so good. Look at how good you’re being for me right now.” Smoke bites down on his lip hard, body slowly arching as he felt his orgasm approaching.
“Baby… F-fuck.” He felt like he was in heaven. His eyes kept rolling to the back of his head every time Olivia added a bit more pressure.
“You gonna cum for me? Hm?” Smoke was loud against her neck, he just couldn’t contain himself.
“Y-yes. Can I cum mama?” Olivia kept pumping her hands up and down, watching him slowly crumble. He was so warm against her hands, so big and so thick. She felt a pool forming between her legs, she loved to watch him submit to her. She could watch him for hours and never get tired.
“Please baby. C-can I cum?” Smoke begged at his body tightened. He gritted his teeth, trying his best to hold back until Olivia gave him permission.
“Go ahead papa. Cum for me.” He trembled as streams of his cum squirt out rapidly, landing on Olivia’s hands and down his thighs.
“Fuuuucckkkkk.” He moaned, head still buried in her neck. Olivia giggled before leaning down to press a kiss on his forehead before walking back around. He watched her with narrow eyes, chest rapidly moving up and down, mouth slightly ajar and sweat forming near his eyebrows. Olivia licked his juices from her hands before grabbing a throw pillow from one of the lounge chairs.
She kneels down in front of him and Smoke stiffens as her hands crawl over his thighs. His dick already getting hard again. “Wait Olivia, hold up baby.”
Olivia lowers her head, opening her mouth and fitting as much of him as she could. Smoke growls, his hands moving to grip Olivias hair. She gags against his length causing him to twitch. He was so sensitive, barely getting a second to recover from his orgasm.
Olivia was messy. Sucking, licking and spitting all over him while her eyes remained on him the whole time.
“Look at me papa. I want you to watch me make you cum again.” Smoke felt like he was going crazy. His body wouldn’t stop vibrating, the grip on her hair tightened as he slowly peeled his eyes open. She was being sloppy, taking him deeper every time she went down. Her hands moved to play with his balls and Smoke moaned loudly as his head fell back.
“I’m gonna cum mama.” His voice was barely above a whisper. Olivia continued to treat him like her favorite lollipop, not stopping even when he looked like he could pass out at any second.
“Olivia! Fuck!” Smoke yelled as he shot his cum down her throat. Olivia swallowed every bit of it, moaning at the taste.
“So fucking good daddy.” She pressed another kiss to his tip, watching as he softened up. She stood up and grabbed his face, kissing him deeply. “Stay right here.” She walked back in the house, grabbing a small towel from the guest bathroom before going back to Smoke.
She cleaned him up and pulled his boxers and sweatpants back up, then she grabbed the forgotten blunt, lit it up and took a hit before placing it in between his lips.
I know I was supposed to update a while ago. But, im a full time college student and I work full time. So im tired as fuck. I’ll try to give you something Thursday before Halloween.
| You and Clark Kent work for the Daily Planet and are, at most, cordial with each other. What happens when the both of you become more interested in each other and explore something more? |
DISCLAIMER: PART 2 / 5 - Part 3 uploaded. Read here .
✰ warnings and comments: some fluff, continued-series, coworkers to lovers, exes, mutual pining, clark is sometimes gloomy, it-tech!reader, slow-burn office romance, lots of feelings and introspection, miscommunication, both of them are very awkward at times.
✰ WC: 3.6k
✰ a/n: hey there! this is the second part in my clark kent x reader slow burn office romance series. posting consistently until all parts are up! hope you enjoy!
feel free to leave criticism or comments!
DO NOT COPY, REPRODUCE, USE, OR CLAIM MY WORK AS YOURS ON ANY PLATFORM, SUCH AS BUT NOT LIMITED TO, ANY AI GENERATOR, TUMBLR, AO3, WATTPAD ETC.
Clark and you found yourselves in a strange routine over the next couple of weeks.
You ate lunch together sometimes, even agreeing to do the after-work bar trips to Wingdings with Jimmy, Lana, and some others, and on the nights when you worked late, he would, coincidentally of course, be working late as well.
You even invited him over one night when he wasn’t feeling all that well and made him your famous beef and beet soup!
Some days, Clark would disappear on you and come back with a grey cloud looming over him, and then other times, you would be able to tell that he sought out your company to remove said cloud.
You’d grown an obvious bond in a short time, and you would be lying if you said it didn’t make you feel all giddy inside.
Tonight was one of those nights when he was miraculously working a late shift, same as you.
You spotted him in the hallway near the archives, arms full of printouts and a brow furrowed like he was trying to solve a riddle written in some foreign language.
“Planning to carry those into retirement?” You teased, stepping up beside him.
He looked over in what you thought was the most obvious look ever. Oh whatever, Clark.
He probably thought he was feigning surprise well. But you knew better, because as clumsy as he was, Clark never missed a beat. He had a sharp ear, and sharper instincts. Always catching stuff before they fell, always looking at the door just as someone walked into a room. Always vigilant.
Sometimes it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, how accurate he was. So, you knew he was aware you were there even before you approached.
“Ha, funny.” He heaved with a slouch, pushing his glasses up his face. “I’m trying to compare reports and file away some pieces into my portfolio for Media Week, but everything’s coming out all wrong.”
“Poor wittle’ thing.” You cooed, patting his shoulder and looking up at him mischievously. “Need a distraction?”
“Ahh, depends.” Clark hesitated, looking unsure about what to do with your hand on his shoulder.
You took it off.
He stepped closer.
“How likely am I to implode from this distraction?” He asked, his tone calm but playful, and his eyes searching your face.
Geez.
Despite the burn in your cheeks from the small interaction, you gave him your most innocent look.
“A brownie break with 20 Questions. You in?”
He laughed under his breath, nearly blinding you with those deep dimples and dazzling smile of his, shifting the papers. “For your homemade brownies? Heck yeah—who goes first?”
“Me. I’m a control freak,” you laughed, pulling a chair for him and handing him a small bowl of your homemade brownies, which you might have made specifically for this moment… for him.
Ehem.
“Alright. First question: favorite ice cream flavor.”
He smiled, already amused. “Churro crumble.”
You nodded in appreciation. “Okay, not bad, big guy.” You drawled. “Mine’s fudge brownie. Alright—favorite book?”
“Call of the Wild,” he answered easily.
“Hmm. Good choice. I don’t have a favorite book.” You chuckled. “What about secret talent?”
Clark adjusted his glasses, suddenly a bit shy. “I can juggle.”
Your eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Apples, tennis balls, those little beanbag things. I was really bored growing up.”
You tried to imagine a younger, ganglier Clark Kent dropping fruit in a Kansas field, being chased by Mixie the Pig. It was weirdly endearing.
“Alright,” you said, scooting closer and lowering your voice dramatically, “Are you hiding any deep, world-shattering secrets?”
He froze, barely perceptible. “What?”
You raised both brows. “I’m kidding, CK. You look like I just threatened national security.”
He let out a nervous chuckle, scratching at his forehead a little. “Oh—no. I thought—sorry. Next question, please.”
You eyed him curiously, but moved on. “Okay, your turn. Ask me something.”
He thought a moment. “What’s your dream job?”
You blinked. No one ever asked you that.
“Uh… maybe a systems analyst in a quiet little town with lots of cafes and bakeries. Maybe somewhere near a mountains with a stream closeby.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “That tracks.”
You made a face. “Tracks? What do you know about me, Clark? Are you calling me boring?”
“No,” he said, almost too seriously. “You’re not boring, and even if you were—sometimes boring is just peace in disguise. You’re peaceful.”
You smiled faintly, touched by his comment, but unsure how to react. “Alright, my turn again! What’s something people always get wrong about you?”
Clark’s eyes flicked to the floor, then back to me. “That I’m clueless.”
You tilted your head. “You mean like…?”
Suddenly his jaw was sharper, his ocean-eyes deeper. “Oh, come on—you’ve heard it too, I bet. Maybe even believe it. That I’m too kind, too distracted—too everything but aware. Now, I may be all over the place sometimes, but I promise you, there’s very few things that miss me. I just don’t always… give things energy when they don’t deserve it.”
You stared at him, heart tapping a little faster.
“Yeah,” you mumbled quietly, mesmerised by his sudden shift in energy. “Yeah, I get that.”
The air charged thickly between you with something that sent sparks down your back. Something that felt a little too close to being more than just an attraction or harmless work crush.
You cleared your throat, trying to break the tension. “Alright. Last one. What’s your biggest fear?”
Clark didn’t answer right away.
Then, with a strange gentleness, he responded, “Letting someone down. Especially someone who believes in me.”
You felt it, sharp and sudden.
This man carried more than he let on, and maybe, just maybe, he wanted someone who saw it.
“Good answer, CK,” you said softly.
He gave you a small smile, and this time, it reached all the way to his eyes, and just like that all the tension was gone like it was never there.
Then he bit into a brownie all dramatic, a groan tumbling from his lips. “Oh my goodness, these are perfect. They always are.”
“Thanks!” you squeaked, trying to quell the sudden flames that erupted in your stomach, as the sound of him groaning replayed in your ears like a boundless echo.
Heavens help me.
TWO DAYS LATER
Something was different with Clark today.
As was the ritual at this office, everything was chaotic. The power went out. The breaker chipped because of it, leading to excessive downtime in the server. Now, the entire office was in a frenzy.
Today’s frenzy was different, though. Superman, who’d been very reclusive these days, was seen out with the Justice Gang a night ago. They were fighting some intergalactic imp, and Superman was seen actively arguing with Green Lantern and Mr. Terrific about whether or not to kill the thing.
They all took quite the beating, and in the end, the creature was killed, and you could see Superman blasting away angrily.
Everyone in the office who got hold of the footage was pining to release their version of the story. They were practically foaming at the mouth to get in on the exclusives and release statements.
Meanwhile, Clark looked paler than usual, maybe even physically grey, in a complex mood that you rarely ever saw him in. The only silent person in this entire bustling room.
You wanted to talk to him about it, but you wouldn’t have the time because of all the questions being hurled at you about the stupid server.
Then, of course, a small fire started in the embedded wires. Alarm and panic spread throughout the office as your team and you rushed to the source, following protocol to put out the fires.
Now, with the charred plastic still clinging to your fingers and a headache riding high on your temples, you stared at the melted ends of the Ethernet cables like they might suddenly reassemble themselves if you glared hard enough.
No such luck, though.
Half the server rack was toast, the backup router was fried, and a third of the newsroom was acting like the apocalypse had just landed in the form of burned-out CAT6.
“They torched our connection to the server farm,” muttered one of your techs, voice dry. “I’m amazed we’ve still got power.”
You stood in the center of the chaos, sleeves rolled up, sweat on your brow, trying to stay calm.
“Okay, listen,” you said, raising your voice to your team over the noise. “We reroute the backups manually, and I’ll get into the trunk line if I have to—”
“YOU’LL DO WHAT, EXACTLY?!” barked Perry White from across the room, as he marched toward you like a storm in a necktie. “Because right now, my entire editorial schedule is floating somewhere in the goddamn unknown and there’s a story to chase!”
You winced.
Behind him, several reporters shouted their frustrations: missed deadlines, disconnected drafts, lost interviews.
“This whole thing was avoidable!” one of them snapped. “The wiring’s been faulty for weeks!”
“Why weren’t the failsafes triggered?”
“Where the hell was IT when the power spiked?!”
You raised both hands, voice even but firm. “Okay, I understand the frustration, but unless you know how to solder fiber lines, maybe let the people fixing it do their jobs.”
The shouting continued.
Someone even threw a whiteboard eraser.
Your team had backed off slightly behind you, tired, anxious, outnumbered. And even though you stood your ground, the part of you that always wanted to disappear in moments like this was quietly screaming.
Then, out of nowhere:
“Hey—stop.”
It wasn’t loud, but it cut through the noise like a blade.
Clark.
You hadn’t even realized he was still in the room, but there he was, standing near the center aisle with his hands clenched at his sides and an edge in his voice you’d never heard before.
Everyone turned to look at him.
He seemed taller, yet conflicted… unsure. For half a second, he hesitated, like even he didn’t know why he’d spoken up, but then he took a step forward, glasses slightly askew, inky curls as unruly as ever, eyes sharp.
“You want someone to blame?” he said, looking right at Perry. “Try the system that keeps cutting corners on building maintenance. The team here didn’t start the fire, they’re the ones who fixed it when the rest of you were just screaming about it.”
The silence that followed felt like a held breath.
Clark looked toward you then, and your chest pulled tight.
“She was the first one in that server room,” he continued, voice softer now. “Didn’t even wait for the smoke to clear. You want to know why the fire didn’t spread? It’s because she killed the power before it got worse. So maybe instead of yelling at her, you say thank you.”
Perry stared at him for a long second, jaw tight. Then, with a grumble and a nod, he turned away.
One by one, the reporters quieted. Some muttered apologies. Others just went back to their desks.
Clark looked at you again, a little sheepish now, as if unsure whether he’d crossed a line.
You blinked. Something in you felt disarmed.
No one had ever done that before. No one had ever stepped in.
Clark rubbed the back of his neck, looking worn, walking over to where you stood. “Ahh, sorry if that was too much.”
You gave him a slow shake of your head. “No. You—uh—you didn’t have to do that. Thank you, CK. I mean it.”
“I know,” he said simply. “It was necessary.”
You looked at him then, really looked.
The broad shoulders under that dumb beige blazer that was always too big, the way his tie was always slightly crooked. The kindness that came naturally, but also the conviction underneath, the quiet strength that was so easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.
And something just clicked.
You’d tried to pretend it was nothing. Just some harmless office intrigue, a little spark of curiosity in a crowded place.
But now?
No. This was a tether.
A proper, full-volume, earth-tilting, yearning tether to the sweet, clumsy, infuriatingly decent man who called you a miracle worker one day and then disappeared, only to reappear all gloomy the next, saving you from office hawks.
Damn it.
You cleared your throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the heat on your cheeks. “You’re full of surprises, Clark.”
He gave you a small, crooked smile. “Well, I hope only the good kind.”
You looked down at the burnt cable still clutched in your hand. “Guess I’d better go play hero again.”
“Need a flashlight?” he asked, already reaching into his pocket.
You laughed, a little breathless. “Yeah. I think I do.”
A WEEK LATER
You didn’t usually let the news get to you.
It was all static most days—clickbait headlines, outrage cycles, talking heads with haircuts too expensive to trust. But tonight, everything felt heavier. The footage kept playing over and over: Superman colliding with the tribunal monument like a missile, the stonework cracking under his weight.
Smoke. Chaos. Officials screaming in captions beneath the silent feed.
Metropolis was in freefall, and the world was ready to turn on its favorite savior.
You sat in your usual booth at Wingdings, the kind of dimly lit sports bar where no one asked too many questions. It was your escape. Burgers, wings, decent drinks, and background noise just the way you liked it. But tonight, even that couldn’t drown out the panic crawling across the city’s nerves.
“UNILATERAL ACTION: IS SUPERMAN A THREAT?”
“TRIBUNAL MONUMENT DESTROYED IN ‘UNAUTHORIZED INTERVENTION’”
The anchor spoke like they were narrating a blockbuster trailer, not dissecting a man’s public crucifixion.
You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for Superman as the world railed at him.
Could you imagine being sent to help a whole race as a child, torn from your lineage, your kind erased and forgotten, and these same people that you dedicated your life to serving and saving, now condemning you out of misplaced fear?
After all you’d done for an entire planet, and they wished you dead because they were suddenly made aware of how different you were. It didn’t matter that you looked the same or talked the same; it just mattered that you weren’t the same, and because of that, for lack of a better word, alienated and made the enemy.
You tapped your phone, audio on low, as Superman appeared onscreen, shackled. Hands bound, seated in a sterile grey room with two suited officials leaning in, yelling. He wasn’t looking at them, wasn’t reacting, just staring at the floor with hollow, quiet restraint.
He’d given himself up a couple of days ago for questioning after the recording of his parents leaked. He’d had to face rigorous, degrading interrogations, the good he’d done thrown back in his face, and lies of the worst kind circulating.
The Daily Planet had the lead media coverage on the situation, as usual. Naturally, they sent in Lois to do the talking.
You’d figured since Clark had such a good rapport with the hero, they’d give him the spotlight. But then again, you hadn’t seen him around the office for this entire week, and he wasn’t really returning any texts, so you figured he was either sick or dealing with something personal.
Ignoring the tiny sting of rejection you felt in your stomach, you focused on Lois’s cold questions towards Superman. Despite everything, you adored the woman—her insane work ethic, her confidence, her beauty, but sometimes the way she could cut into someone so clean with words, without remorse, made you wonder if she, too, was inhuman.
Superman looked drained, absolutely sullen beneath his suit. He responded to everything confidently, in that clear-cut, bold timbre of his, yet you could hear the exhaustion—or maybe it was just disappointment.
Wanting more from him, Lois circled him like a predator, her trusty recorder pressed to her chin.
“Superman,” She said.
“Miss Lane.” He spoke without looking up, resignation in his sharp tone.
She asked him questions, poked and prodded, and he cooperated, never moved an inch—not until she asked:
“Who are your parents here on Earth, Kal El? They’re in Kansas, correct?”
His head snapped up. Your breath hitched.
Whoa—what?
If looked could kill, Superman would be a criminal.
“Do you think with all this destruction and secrecy that they would still be proud of you? Have they seen what you’ve become?”
The world seemed to go still as his eyes raked over her face. The repulsion and disgust seemed to become a palpable thing in that room.
It wasn’t a frown, or a tick in the jaw or even a crinkle in his nose. He watched her as though he realised just how impossible humans were in that moment, and it made you reel with its intensity.
It was like something snapped in him.
You couldn’t help but feel as though there was something familiar between them. His silent, but explosive reaction felt intimate.
Superman never responded, though. His gaze stayed on Lois long enough that the powers-that-be grew uncomfortable and removed her from the room, even through her protests.
You turned the sound off and set your phone down, your appetite gone.
Attempting to distract yourself from the heaviness of the news, you took a slow sip of your drink, staring at the flickering bar TV.
Then you saw him.
Off to the side, in one of the darker corners near the bar, hunched over a pint of what was probably nonalcoholic beer, sat Clark Kent.
You swallowed.
He looked awful. Disheveled. Sweatshirt wrinkled like he hadn’t bothered to change it from the day before, his hair curled at the edges, not from gel but from whatever wind or rain he’d walked through on his way here. The glasses still sat square on his nose, but one lens looked smudged.
His eyes were glued to the TV mounted above the bar, showing his favorite baseball team get obliterated in real time. They were losing, hard. Ninth inning, bases loaded—still couldn’t get a run in.
Clark didn’t even flinch.
You stared at him for a moment. He’d been MIA, and though you felt a little wounded about not getting any updates on what he had going on, now he was so close, you wondered where he’d been and why he looked so… destroyed.
You slid out of your booth before your brain could overthink it and walked over, your half-eaten plate of buffalo wings in hand.
“Is this seat taken?” you asked.
Clark looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. You couldn’t tell if it was exhaustion or something worse.
“…No,” he said finally, voice rougher than usual. “Go ahead.”
You slid into the seat beside him, setting your plate down gently. You didn’t say anything right away. Just gave him the silent company he didn’t know he needed.
After a beat, he broke it. “Ahh, sorry I’ve been sorta missing—I’ve been out sick.”
You turned slightly, wanting to read his face. “That’s why you haven’t been in?”
He nodded once. “Didn’t want to bring it to the bullpen.”
You nodded back, careful not to prod.
“You don’t look like you got much rest,” you commented softly.
That got a faint chuckle out of him. “Yeah, it’s been rough.”
You followed his eyes to the TV. “Rough night for the Macaws too, huh?”
“They can’t get out of their own heads,” he said, taking a swig of his drink. “Same stupid mistakes every week.”
You wondered if he was still talking about the game.
The Superman footage looped again on the muted screen across the bar. Clark didn’t look at those. Didn’t acknowledge they were even there.
You knew avoidance when you saw it.
He shifted in his seat and sipped his drink, wincing slightly. “This isn’t as good as I remember.”
“That’s because you’re drinking near-beer,” you said, raising a brow.
He let out a soft laugh and didn’t explain himself. He didn’t need to.
After a few minutes, you asked gently, “How sick were you, really?”
Clark’s jaw flexed. “Sick enough.”
You gave a small nod, absorbing the weight in his voice. Not wanting to push further, even though it burned you to ask why he didn’t just reach out.
You would have helped him willingly with… whatever he had going on.
Sighing internally, you let it go, and you both lapsed into a quiet, easy silence again.
He finally asked, “You been following all the Superman coverage?”
You hesitated, then nodded. “Hard not to. Perry made us set up a Slack channel just for cape scandal alerts.”
Clark huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t last.
“People are scared,” he said after a moment. “They think he’s breaking ranks. Turning against protocol.”
“You think that’s what he’s doing?” You tilted your head.
Clark didn’t answer. He just stared at the foam clinging to the sides of his glass. So you answered for him.
“I think people are too quick to forget who pulled them out of fires. Who stood between them and worse things than fear. Superman’s not the problem. Our expectations are.”
Clark’s head tilted slightly, his attention sharpening.
“Maybe he made the wrong call,” you admitted. “Maybe he panicked. Maybe he trusted the wrong intel or tried to act too fast. But I don’t believe for a second he walked into that tribunal to prove a point. That’s not the guy who catches falling trains with his bare hands so they won’t crush playgrounds.”
He didn’t say anything, but his entire body had stilled.
You picked up your drink again, looking down into the amber light before continuing, your voice quieter now.
“People forget he’s not a god. He just looks like one. That’s the danger, right? We expect miracles. But maybe he’s just a man who can’t afford to break, even when he’s already cracked.”
You glanced at Clark, suddenly aware of how close he was listening.
“I don’t know,” you muttered. “I just think… the world doesn’t need a perfect Superman.” You turned your gaze back to your drink, eyes distant. “It needs a willing one.”
The words hung there. Sharp. Clear. Echoing between you like they meant more than either of you could say. Clark’s breath hitched so subtly you almost missed it.
His voice, when it finally came, was almost reverent. “That’s a hell of a thing to say.”
You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious, with a breathy laugh. “I’ve had two ciders and three wings. Don’t quote me.”
But he was still staring at you like you’d cracked something wide open. Like you’d touched a place no one else dared to look. You weren’t sure what else to say, or whether to say anything at all. So you reached for your wings again, just to do something with your hands.
Clark stood a minute later.
“I should get going,” he said quietly.
You looked up. “Early night?”
He nodded. “Got some writing to do.”
You hesitated. “You sure you’re okay?”
He hesitated, too, but then his expression softened into something real.
“Not really,” he admitted. “But… I’m glad I ran into you.”
Your chest tightened, but you just nodded. “Yeah. Same.”
He turned to leave.
“Hey, CK,” you called after him.
He paused, just barely.
You looked at him, holding his gaze. “Even if the whole world flips on him… I hope Superman knows someone out there still believes he’s good.”
Clark didn’t smile.
But he didn’t need to.
The look in his eyes said everything.
And then he slipped through the door, into the night.
a/n : i cant wait till they have dirty NASTY seX. I write a lot of internal monologue. I enjoy thoughts and things and the dilly dally
warnings : not much, some cussing, Clark repeats 1 cuss word in question because he doesn't know English okay you will be fine i promise, misogyny, someone died, gorillas, clark kent
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Okay so.
Africa wasn’t your first thought.
West Africa, to be exact. In the middle of the forest.
Thats fine.
You did not pack for this, though.
The Jets fans are still flapping in the background as you try to trudge out your jacket. (You have about like 4 dudes around you in protected armor)
Lex Luthor can suck your dick.
“Hey!Hello, girl you guys slightly kidnapped.”
Crickets.
“You clearly can hear me struggling, can you help me out with these pants please.”
One of the guards looks at you incredulously, then shares a glance with the others. The lead one clears his throat, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
"Ma'am, we're under strict orders not to... interact with you in that way. We're just here to escort you safely to the extraction point."
Okay.
Deep breath.
You try.
Interact with you in what way? Does Lex think you’re a whore?
Are you?
“Help me with these pants, please, I’m wearing shorts underneath. Dear God I don’t want to fuck you..”
The guards exchange uncomfortable glances before one of them steps forward hesitantly.
"Right, understood ma'am." He helps you with the pants while maintaining a professional demeanor. You internally thank him for that, but you’re side eyeing him. "I should note, Mr. Luthor was very specific about keeping you... comfortable yet secure." He seems proud of that.
Also.
Ma’am? Did he call you ma’am? You just caught onto that.
You roll your eyes. "I'm sure he was."
You roll your eyes, again. At this point you’re about to see your brain. “Great. Next time he calls, make sure he lets me know we’re going to Africa.”
The pilot didn’t say a word. (You grilled him. He said he only received coordinates.)
Fishy. Shouldn’t pilots like…know specifically where the coordinates will take them?
You’re definitely quiting after this.
Yeah.
“Did Lex like,” You bounce on one foot trying to take your boots off, “Give an itinerary?”
The lead guard pulls out a small tablet, taps a few times, then looks up at you.
"Mr. Luthor only informed us of the extraction coordinates. Something about a 'need-to-know basis' and 'asset security.' But there's supposed to be a facility about two miles northeast of here where you'll be briefed."
Asset security?
“Asset security?”
The guard double takes.
“Is this not like…PR or something? Are we dealing with a person? Im confused.”
The guard shifts uncomfortably, glancing at his colleagues before responding.
Not a good sign.
"Ma'am, I'm just following orders. Mr. Luthor classified this as an 'asset retrieval' operation. Whether that asset is a person, information, or an object wasn't specified to us. We're just the security detail."
You sigh heavily. Of course Lex would keep his hired help in the dark. Standard operating procedure for that paranoid billionaire.
“What a dick.”
You find yourself suppressing a laugh at how ridiculously predictable this all is. Typical Luthor operation. Keep everyone on a need-to-know basis, even when it makes the situation harder and you even more clueless. The guards might be well-trained, but they're as much in the dark as you are.
This will be the day he actually gets you killed.
“Fine. Wheres the asset? Is it some president o- ”I-” Something vibrates on his chest that interrupts him. This is when you decide to take off your thermal because you’re sweating like crazy and you’d rather be freezing to death than burning ali-
“He wants to talk to you.”
The guard passes you a small satellite phone. You take it reluctantly, your fingers still sticky with sweat.
"Hello, Lex," you say, not bothering to hide your irritation. "Lovely trip you've arranged. Next time maybe a heads up about the hemisphere would be nice."
“Did you find him?”
What?
“Find who? I just landed. And who’s the asset G.I. Joe is talking about?”
There's a long silence on the other end of the line.
God.
Finally, Lex's voice returns, measured but with an edge of annoyance.
"I wouldn't have sent you if I didn't think you couldn't handle it. The asset is a person. A scientist who's gone off the grid with some... sensitive LexCorp technology. Find him, secure the tech, bring him back."
You exhale, smacking your lips against your teeth teeth in disbelief.
He can’t be serious.
He was very serious.
“How on Eart-”
“Put on your best PR voice, and work your way around it. Kay? Bye.”
The line goes dead before you can finish your retort. You stare at the phone in disbelief, resisting the urge to throw it into the thick forest surrounding you. Lex Luthor, billionaire, master of sending people into dangerous situations with half the information they need.
You’re quitting.
You forget you’re around people when you crouch down on the dewy grass.
You rub your temples, trying to process the situation. Lex Luthor has essentially dropped you in the middle of West Africa with no information, minimal protection, and expects you to track down a rogue scientist who's stolen company tech.
Whatever that means. Like did he steal an ipad or something? And where are you supposed to find him at?
Your palm vibrates.
Fuck ass satellite phone-
‘Tracker.Coordinates. Quickly.’
He’s got you fucked up.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Well.
The jet left. Great. This is now your life, so you might as well see it out.
Your suitcase is in there still, but thats fine since you literally packed for Antartica. Which is where he sent you last.
You have like, 1 guard next to you, everyone else left. Its great that he can read a location from numbers, though.
It is awkward though.
And also, you’re definitely being followed or watched And you wish it was by a person, truly.
But no, many of infants.
They sound like they’re having a jolly time but you hope to God no parents show up.
No Gorillas, thank god, but you’re treading in a territory that could definitely lead to your death.
And the guard with the huge gun, not helping.
You give him a side-eye as the sound of rustling leaves gets closer.
Curious but cautious. Every time you glance back, you spot little faces peering through the dense foliage.
"So," you start, trying to break the tension, "does Lex typically send his PR team to track down missing scientists in remote jungles, or am I just special?"
“We’re here.” You pause mid step, joke falling on deaf ears.
It’s-you’re still in a forest, not sure what you’re looking for. You don’t see a tracker, but you also don’t know what its even supposed to look like.
“Uh…where?”
The silence is broken by a deep, rumbling sound in front of you. It's like a cross between a growl and a grunt— very primal and, mind you, unsettlingly close. You freeze mid-sentence.
The guard slowly raises his weapon, his posture suddenly tense. "Don't make any sudden movements," he murmurs. You don’t know if its to you or if he’s actually talking to the animal.
Because its for sure an animal.
Another sound—heavier this time.
Branches cracking under significant weight. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up as you feel a presence above you.
You can't even turn around, your heart hammering in your chest, and the best you can do is come face to face (or distant slight eye contact) with an enormous silverback gorilla. The massive creature stands just fifteen feet away, its dark intelligent eyes fixed directly on you, nostrils flaring as it takes in your scent.
You jinxed yourself.
Instinctively, you start to crouch down, hoping to God making yourself look smaller helps.
“Put your gun down and crouch.”You grit through your teeth.
“Hell no,” Guard says, finger on the trigger.
You decide to take control of the situation before someone gets hurt—either you or the gorilla.
You think. You try.
West Africa, Silver backs. Endangered. Would be an awful article from Daily Planet-
"If you shoot, we're both dead," you whisper harshly. "These animals are endangered and protected. And if you miss or just wound it, it'll tear us both apart before you can reload."
The gorilla beats its chest once, a warning rather than an immediate threat. Your instincts kick in to try and de-escalate, communicate non-verbally, show respect. SOMETHING
You lower your gaze slightly, making yourself smaller.
“Don’-”
Before you can even blink, the gorilla charges at him. You can't help but scream. His bones crack as he gets thrown against a tree.
The sight is horrifying. The gorilla's raw strength is on full display as it throws the guard like he weighs nothing at all. You hear the sickening crack of impact, and the guard's body slumps against the tree trunk, his weapon falling uselessly to the forest floor.
Your heart hammers. You’re dying today.
You can barley breath before the silverback turns its attention to you now, nostrils flaring, its massive frame blocking any escape route. You feel frozen in place, heart hammering so hard it might burst from your chest.
His pact is all round, the infants are up in the trees, its dead silent around you.
You have no visible weapons, and you’re whimpering. You try to keep your gaze lower, shaking, but you can’t help but look up.
You at least want to time your death. Because at this rate, he’ll be on you in seconds.
The gorilla takes one step forward, then another. You can feel the ground vibrate beneath his weight. Your mind races through everything you've ever learned about wildlife encounters—no eye contact, make yourself small, don't run.
Its not like you’re not frozen to death so, no running. Yup.
Suddenly, the silverback stops. Or its foot steps halt…at least. You think?
It tilts its massive head, almost curious now rather than aggressive.
You don’t try to reach his eyes, you can just barley scan his neck.
Something behind you has caught its attention. You don't even try to turn around.
You’re already dead.
Like the guard, who doesn’t move again.
It’s…eerily quiet. Theres a slight thumping behind you.
Either Silverbakcs wife or there was another guard who stayed back and you didn’t even fucking realiz-
A low, guttural cry cuts through the tension. It's not from Silverback but from somewhere behind you…? The sound is primal yet strangely melodic – a series of chest-deep hoots and calls that sound almost... human.
You risk a glance over your shoulder and see a figure.
A man, tall and lean, moves with an uncanny grace.
A man?
His skin is deeply tanned, his hair a wild tangle that falls past his shoulders. He wears only what appears to be makeshift clothing of some sort.
Absolutely ripped by the way.
The silverback drops into a crouch and continues making those strange vocalizations. The man beats his chest lightly – not in challenge but in communication – and then extends his arm palm-down in a submissive gesture. You’re not sure if its to you or the Silverback?
The gorilla responds with a grunt, less aggressive than before. The man inches forward, making more of those complex grunts and hoots, occasionally punctuated with what sounds like actual gorilla vocalizations.
Okay the hand is to you.
"No harm. Friends." He points to you and then continues to make elongated eye contact like his like isn’t close to being in danger.
What the fuck is happening.
Incredibly, the massive gorilla begins to back away, still watching you but no longer displaying signs of aggression. The smaller gorillas in the trees chatter excitedly, the leaves from the trees around you falling down over you.
You flinch, looking up.
You have to be dead by now.
The strange man turns to you now. Your hand resits as he tries to lift you up. He lets it go. He stands up over you.
He like… sniffs the air, or at least he tries, but a leaf falls in his eyes. He puts his hand on his waist, blowing it away and sighing.
He whistles. The jostling from the trees stop, still leaves falling down. He looks over at you.
"Why you here?" he asks, his English broken but understandable. You think. "Bad place. Danger place.”
“What.
The fuck?” You gasp, the infants, that were just in the trees crowd behind him. Excited, still curious, cautious.
“...Fuck..?”
He turns his head, double takes back at you as if he doesn’t know…or understand the word you said. You probably shouldn't be teaching him bad words, actually.
He double takes because his eyes lock in on the guard.
He stands a little straighter and you see his bare ass and oh my god your face starts to heat.
“Oh my God.” You were seconds from a whimper.
He crouches, completely ignoring you, hands roaming around the guards chest and neck and wrist.
“Can’t feel.”
Feel..like what? A heart beat?!
“Oh my god is he dead?”
“He does not like guns.”
“Huh?!
“Kerchak.”
“Who?”
“Father.”
Again, before you can blink, he lifts up the guard, groaning. “Putting him in the dirt.”
Your stomach lurches at his words. Did he just say he was putting the guard in the dirt? Like, burying him?
You’re still on the ground, by the way.They’re infants running past you as you try to sit up, trailing behind him.
Theres one, a singular Gorilla who’s ahead. Came out of nowhere, must’ve been watching the entire time. Thats scary.
He whistles again, motioning his head to the infants, they run in front of him, behind the gorilla.
He’s gonna leave you here.
Lex fuckin-
He sniffs the air, pauses and turns around to peer at you.
(In a quiet Mississippi town in ''- 98-early 2000s, Smoke, his wife Annie, and his twin brother Stack share a small house held together by love, tension, and a dream they're all working toward. They split the rent three ways so Annie can save every dime from her bakery job to open the restaurant she's been dreaming about since she was a little girl. Soul food, real recipes, her name on the sign.
Smoke's her rock-steady, loyal, no-questions-asked. Stack? He's always been close. Maybe too close. He never says it, but there's something in the way he looks at Annie, the way his whole mood shifts when she walks in. And Smoke, he sees it. He don't speak on it yet, but it's there.
Still, they keep the peace. They move like a unit. They trust her. They always have.)
slightly dark clark!• devoted christian clark• fem reader (church girl au)• blurb smut• religious guilt• adultery themes• obsession• age-gap (clark early thirties/reader is early twenties)• dark thoughts• clark is not so holy(neither am I fr)•
notes:my gift to you <3 it’s wayyy past my bedtime as I write this out (swear it’s the best time for me when I decide to write )
church is, as usual, crowded. and service has barely started, and already he can’t focus. as usual. his eyes can’t seem to stop flicking over to you in the pew, hands tightening around the hymnal. he swallows thickly, admiring you.
it wasn’t always like this. this obsession started months ago—he remembers when your family first moved into smallville, your parents, two twin brothers, to be away from the ‘toxic city life’ as your mother describes it . neighbors had been buzzing about them for weeks, excited to see new faces. of course, clark and his parents, along with his wife and little jon kent , didn’t hesitate to show some good hospitality. which eventually led to a good wholesome strong friendship. clark had heard your name mentioned plenty of times in conversations with your parents. she’s away at college, studying hard, I’m sure yall will get to meet her soon. he hadn’t given it much thought back then. only thinking just another young woman chasing her future.
until seven months ago.
until the sunday morning you showed up, home again, and taking a break from that college lifestyle,sliding into the pew with a smile so pretty that it’ll even make the devil—himself swoon. it was the first time he’d ever actually saw you. but it was also the last time his thoughts felt clean.
because since then, clark has become restless. watching the way you carry yourself, a quintessential sweetheart, with a radiance so naturally alluring. a woman who is impossible to ignore. always with your family, playing make believe with your brothers, helping your mother with dinner whenever they’d invite them over. his parents adored you and even lois complimented you on your infamous peach pie last week. to which you bashfully gave credit to your father who went out to fetch the ingredients last minute. so unpretentious.
but no matter how wholesome, no matter how much he tried to remind himself of his wife’s hand on his or jon’s giggling in the back of the pew with your twin brothers during service, you had carved yourself in his mind permanently. as if you were a scripture he couldn’t forget.
and still, despite the closeness of your families, despite the eyes of god staring down at him giving him a “what the heck!?” look. he couldn’t stop the way his mind wandered, imagining what it would feel like to have you in many ways, in different positions he has no right to think about.
but it’s not like you make it easy for him not to, like today.
your hair is styled just right, showcasing your pretty features, the faint curve of your lips when you hum along to the choir—sinful, he thinks, so sinful. speaking of—the dress you were wearing almost made him lose any train of thought during service. it’s modest, appropriate for church, and yet it hugged your curves in all the right places. because no matter what you wore, nothing could hide the fullness of your figure, the way your hips showcased beautifully, and the not so subtle shape of your gorgeous ass beneath the fabric.
he clears his throat, lifts his gaze, and began to recite aloud:
“blessed are pure in heart, for they shall see god.”
his words rang accurate for the congregation, but in his mind, pure doesn’t describe him at all. he could feel your soft eyes on him, out of all the gazes from the people in the room your gaze is the only one he wants.
focus, clark. god, please give me the gift of focus .
but he doesn’t. not really anyway. every word he is reciting echoes hollowly in his head, because all he can imagine is you leaning forward, the gentle breezy smiles you flash his way.
“blessed are a meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” he can barely finish the line when a brief thought of what it will feel like having you as his wife, the mother of his children—making those children— crosses his mind and he immediately hates himself for it. his stomach twists with guilt.
prayer. prayer. prayer. I need prayer—along with some holy water. he prays silently, wishing these thoughts would just vanish. wishing he could feel somewhat pure again. but every time he glances in your direction it’s like fuel on fire, with too much desire. he’s a sinner, a married man with a good, loyal wife just waiting a few pews away along with their son , but still his selfishness craves you.
service ends. the hymnals closed, and the congregation headed toward the after-service table. you’re there as always with your infamous, peach pie in hand. chatting quietly with lois and the others. being so sweet, and so good. the guilt is unbearable and thick in his throat as he forces himself to look away as you coo at jon’s messy drawing .
he prays silently, whispering every verse he could think of in that moment, but it’s useless. he’s feigning for something he knows he shouldn’t want. and the thought of his wife and child , should slap him back into reality—but instead it sharpens his ache for you. every sinful thought is getting louder than doing what’s right.
after everything trickles out, and majority of the food had been wiped out, his wife, lois steps over to him, with a small grin and places a chaste kiss on his lips. he wished he could say that he didn’t feel disappointed knowing that it’s not your lips. “another beautiful service, clark.”
he nods absentmindedly, lips moving to thank her, but of course his eyes aren’t on her at all they’re on you, gathering your things, hips swaying slightly his hands tightens around lois’s waist wishing they were yours as she rambles on about her day. clark can’t seem to find his focal point, every fiber of him rebels. every word lois says is background noise, he can’t hear her. he can only focus on his anticipation of you walking up to him like you always do at the end of service, with an extra piece of pie just for him and the smell of something sweet—maybe the pie? or is it just you?
luckily your mother— distracts lois, giving him moments to breathe as they chatted about her plants and the local animals are terrorizing her garden.
then you’re at the pulpit, soft steps echoing slightly against the wood floor, due to your cute kitten heels. your hands hold the pie holder which was empty. “sorry, no extra piece today.” you murmur, disappointedly. you looked so cute with a pout. he steps closer to you just to get a whiff of the faint smell of baked peaches and cinnamon. intoxicating.
“it’s okay,” he breathes out. he wants to say much more,tell you how gorgeous you look, how he couldn’t stop thinking about you since the service began. but the words choke in his throat.
“I can bake another one,” you said softly, voice warm and slightly teasing. “I could bring it later today…just for you.”
clark nods. just for me. he bit back the groans that were threatening to escape. “ill…ill be home all day,” he whispers, barely audible, and heavy with desire. every sinful thought creeps back into his mind, hotter than ever and burning behind his blue eyes.
it finally happens.
a promised pie turns into a knock on his door. lois had errands to run. jon was tucked away in his room with your younger brothers, laughter from their play date spilling faintly through the walls. you were supposed to just drop off the pie and stay a awhile while the boys played . simple and safe.
but now?
..now you are bent over the kent’s kitchen table as it rattles beneath you. the half eaten peach pie slid inch by inch toward the edge, but neither of you cared. especially clark who was gripping your hips so tight his knuckles were bone-white.
his curls were damp, sweat-filled, sticking to his forehead and temples. his glasses were tucked in his breast pocket, leaving his blue eyes bright and wild. He was still fully dressed as were you.
the dress—the same freaking dress you wore to church that morning—was bunched up around your waist. the modest cloth that teased him all morning was now hiked indecently high, giving him everything he’s ever dream about. his eyes couldn’t look away and he’s glad that he didn’t because the hem of your dress, exposed not just the swell of your hips and the arch of your back, but the ink sprawled low across your skin. a flower vine, winding horizontally. a tattoo. a secret. ah, you dirty girl.
“jesus christ.” he whimpers, hips slamming forward harder, deeper and sharp enough to jolt the table. his hand spreads over the tattoo, thumb tracing the curling lines while his cock twitches inside you. “you—fu-fuh—fuck!“
oh jeez, you’ve got him cursing now..
he was utterly wrecked. torn between awe and filth, he was obsessed already but this? just ignites his fire even more.
“got a little mark just for me, huh?” clark rasped, his voice low and deep just like his cock. though he knew you probably couldn’t respond, pretty sure you couldn’t think straight enough to respond. “no one sees this. hiding it underneath those little church dresses. no one but me? I get to see it just like this.”
his curls brushes against your skin as he groans, forehead pressing on your shoulder, teeth gritted as he tries to keep quiet. being somewhat mindful that his son and your brothers are upstairs, and here he was rutting into you like a madman with no shameful sense in his body. every thrust harder than the last.
“cl-clark!” you gasped, your voice high and breathless. his hand immediately shot up, covering your mouth, smothering the sound before it reached beyond the kitchen walls.
“shhh, “ he soothes, voice ragged and hot against your ear. “ don’t—don’t let them hear. don’t you dare, sweetheart.”
even though he enjoyed those little heavenly sounds leaving your lips, the very last thing he wanted is to have three seven year olds walk in on you two like this with one being his son. he’s being a piece of shit right now but he wouldn’t be that kind of piece of shit.
and yet he doesn’t slow down. the table rattles louder and if your moans won’t bring any attention that surely will. too risky. clark stills, chest heaving and you whimper at the sudden stop. his hand trails to your stomach, yanking you upright.
“c’mon,” he hissed in a whisper, dragging you with him as you whine at the loss. he hauls you into his lap on the nearest kitchen chair, your back pressed against to his chest, his thick cock buried back inside from beneath your dress.
you inhale sharply, legs trembling as he spreads them wide, caging you in. with one arm locked across your stomach, the other grips your thigh tight, keeping you still as he drives up into you. the position is utterly filthy, and so are the things he’s whispering, things he’ll never say in the daylight.
“bounce for me, sweetheart,” he says quietly, voice filled with restraint . his hand leaves your thigh, slides up the curve of your waist, and then presses flat against the small of your back. the force causes you to arch your back. his hips tilting just right. . almost immediately you reach forward palms gripping the counter in front of you to lift and drop down on his cock frantically. eager. now the chair is groaning beneath you two, every movement threatening to give away the secret filth of what’s happening.
“quiet now… don’t wake the boys.” his warning is more of a plea, breathing hot against your shoulder as his other hand reaches up to fondle with your breast that was spewing out. massaging them gently. almost apologetically, he’ll make sure to give them extra attention next time.
a silent sob burst out of you anyway—you’re absolutely gone— your mouth open against the back of your hand to stifle it, tears of pleasure running down your pretty cheeks. your hair which was in a neat updo is now tragically unkempt, still you look so beautifully wrecked.
and clark—clark wasn’t any better, he’s pussy drunk. on you specifically, your tiny squeaks and sobs, the deafening sound of your wetness squelching the way you thighs quake and your ass—god that ass— slams on him over and over again. every time you expertly grind and bounce on his cock he thinks he’s in heaven. all while your pretty face is crumpling with pleasure.
but all he could see when he angled his head down over your shoulder, was that damn tattoo. the flowers inked permanently on your skin, blooming every time you snapped your hips down.
“god, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he pants, eyebrows furrows as if he’s in deep concentration, and he was, on his cock finally being in the home where it belonged, which was your beautiful tight cunt. intruding it without mercy. “im never letting you go .”
tags / tw - 18+, MDNI, pining, college fic, tutor!clark kent, fluff, protective clark kent, reader is a lil sensitive, clark is very reassuring, meet cute, slow burn (kind of), eventual smut, body worship, no piv (sorry), oral sex (f!receiving), car sex, plot w/porn,
brief mentions of misogyny and harassment
word count: 9.5k
Summary: In which you have a meltdown in the library, and mild-mannered Clark Kent notice and offers to give you an impromptu study session. Charmed, in a moment of bravery (or sleep deprivation), you ask him out. What starts as a lunch turns into a trip to the museum, and before either of you realize it, it’s a full-day affair. You get to know each other a little too fast, a little too well—and maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
notes - hii, in the honor of this incoming semester i been working on this college fic. i tried to proofread but i do apologize for any errors. also thank y’all for the love on my last post, like wow i wasn’t expecting that. hopefully ya’ll fw this one too, anyways enjoy <3
College made you realize what your strong points were. Writing a fifteen page essay with APA citation, easy. Conducting a presentation in front of a lecture hall, a piece of cake. Managing to not black out from several rounds of beer pong, daunting but doable.
However, the field of study that was calculus remained a fucking mystery to you.
You don't even know why the fuck you'd picked that class. Maybe because statistics, and algebra were already full and you were hellbent on completing your math requirement this semester. You took pre-calc in high school, so you thought the real thing couldn't be that bad.
Wrong.
You were now realizing that you would've been better off waiting until next enrollment period to meet that requirement, because calculus was giving you a run for your money.
Quite literally.
The score you earned on your recent calc exam had put fear in your heart. At the rate you were going, you’d inevitably have to kiss your full ride scholarship bye bye. That thought alone lit a fire in you, you weren't gonna allow that one course to tank your GPA, not without a fight at least.
You were determined to improve your grade. As a result, here you were in the library on a Friday evening with your head in a calculus book while everyone else on campus was out partying. Everyone else, beside you of course, and the one other dude in the library.
As you worked through the practice problems, your determination began to falter. You grew increasingly frustrated with each stroke of your mechanical pencil on the scratch sheet of paper. You got to the fourth equation before tears started to stream down your face. It had taken you nearly forty minutes and you weren’t even halfway through the practice quiz.
Utterly discouraged you held your head in your hands in attempt to stifle your sobs.
Things could be worse, at least the library was pretty much empty. At least no one is here to witness your meltdown, you thought to yourself.
Your thoughts were contradicted with reality seconds after they appeared.
"Hey uh, I don't mean to intrude or anything but… are you okay?” An seemingly well-intentioned deep voice called out to you in a hushed tone.
You brought your head out your hands and used your sleeves to wipe your face.
“I'm sorry, dude, I didn’t mean to interrupt your studying."
You were avoiding looking at the stranger wanting to shield yourself from any further embarrassment, " I was uh—getting ready to pack it up anyway.”
“Hey—I’m not really sure what’s got you so upset but if you need someone to talk to… or if it’s school related I can help or y’know at least try to. I'm a part-time tutor here on campus,” the stranger offered earnestly.
Your gaze lifted from your laptop to meet the stranger’s, and to your surprise you were met with kind eyes and an expression of genuine concern.
The stranger was tall, with black curls and a brawny stature. He’d wore a faded band tee, sweat pants, and a pair of black glasses, something about him disarmingly awkward.
He was cute, which kinda sucked even more in a moment like this.
You cleared your throat. “Are you familiar with calculus by any chance?” You inquired, defeated.
A smile graced his face, revealing his dimples.
“Yes, actually. I can help with calc, do you mind if I sit?” He inquired gesturing to the chair opposite of you.
“No. Please sit,” you urged.
"I’m Clark by the way," he introduced himself reaching out to shake your hand.
You met him half way taking his hand in yours, giving him a firm handshake, as you introduced yourself. You couldn't help but to make a mental note of the size difference.
For the next hour and thirty minutes, you and Clark got well acquainted as he gave you a much needed crash course in calculus. He walked you through the entirety of the practice quiz.
He didn't laugh at you when you got confused nor did he grow irritated, instead he was empathic and patient—enthusiastic even.
He was able to articulate the concepts in such a way that made it easy for you to grasp.
He was also firm, refusing to simply give you the answers but actually guiding your problem solving process. And thank god, he didn't because by the time the impromptu tutoring session came to an end you understood a hell of a lot more than before.
In your eyes the kid was a genius.
“You are a godsend,” you praised. Clark's face turned a light shade of pink.
“I wouldn’t go that far. You knew a good amount of the material already… you just needed a little extra clarification that’s all,” he asserted, giving you a small smile.
'A little clarification'— it was damn near two hours worth.
“That’s such a nice way of putting it,” you scoffed.
He rested his head on his hand, observing you. "You gotta give yourself more credit, you’re putting in the effort to improve. That’s half the battle,” he assured you.
That was nice of him to say.
“I really appreciate you, Clark. Thank you for taking time out of your day to help me. You really didn’t have to but… I'm glad you did,” you admitted.
“It’s not a problem, really," Clark spoke.
He bid you a farewell before getting out of his seat, "It was nice meeting you, good luck with your studies.”
As he began to walk away it dawned on you that you might never see him again—after all it was a huge campus.
Regret began to build as you watched him.
You were charmed, which was rare because a majority of the men on campus repulsed you.
But Clark was different— no ulterior motives, no suggestive comments—he spent nearly two hours of his time helping you out just because he wanted to.
He was pleasant to be around— easygoing and clever. Someone you could picture yourself hanging out with just because.
It would be a waste to just let him walk away.
So you called out to him, voice a little more urgent than intended, “Clark.”
He turned around mid-stride to face you.
Curiosity painted his handsome face. "Hey—everything okay?"
“Yeah," you quickly replied. You exhaled to calm your nerves. "I just… was wondering if you were free tomorrow?”
A smile tugged at his lips, “Another study session?”
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hands brushing at your sides. “No, I think I got it for the most part, at least for now. I just um…" You hesitated, suddenly growing coy.
"I was going to ask if you wanted to hangout with me?” You asked, fighting against your nerves.
Clark blinked, surprised. "Hang out?"
“I mean—maybe I could treat you to some lunch… as a thank you,” you continued sweetening your offer.
Clark laughed softly, almost sheepish. "You're not obligated to repay me. Honestly, I was happy to help."
“I know," you said voice quieter.
"But I was offering not because I felt obligated but because I want to. You seem cool like… you'd be good company." You paused. "But if your busy or don't wan—"
"I'm not," Clark interrupted abruptly. He rubbed at the nape of his neck, which made his bicep flex. "I mean I want to. I have nothing else to do tomorrow. A lunch date with you… would be nice. You seem nice."
The knot in your chest loosened, and was replaced with a warm feeling.
You smiled at Clark. Then you pulled out your phone, unlocked it, and held it out, “Type in your number."
His eyes darted to the screen and then back at you. A dimple broke through as he took your phone, typing in his number. "Bossy," he smirked, playfully.
"Only when it counts," you refuted, feeling the tension between you two melting into something lighter.
The following day, Clark agreed to meet up with you at a quaint student-ran sandwich shop on campus.
You arrived in a flowy blouse, a midi skirt with a slit, and hair out, soft coils framing your face.
You wanted to make a good impression or at least a better one than yesterday.
A tinge of excitement fluttered in your chest, you wanted to see him again.
Luckily you didn’t have to wait long, because once you opened up the door to the café you spotted Clark seated in a booth by a window. His gaze met yours not even a millisecond later.
There he was sunlight pouring over him, as if nature had just decided to give him his own spotlight.
Golden rays caught the edges of his curls, his skin glistened, almost like he was beaming. He was just as handsome as you remembered— maybe even more.
You slide into the seat across from him. As his cerulean eyes scanned over you, you felt your nerves simmering to the surface. You smiled brightly, suppressing them.
“Hey, I'm glad you made it. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
Clark glanced at the menu then back at you. His lips lifted into that familiar easy-going smile. “Your on time I'm just annoyingly early,” he stated.
His eyes flickering over to you for a long second, “You look nice by the way, I like your outfit—and your hair.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, making the corner of your lips tug into a smile.
“Your too sweet, this is how I usually look when I'm not fighting for my life in the library,” you joked.
He scoffed, amused. “You say that like you looked bad last night”.
“‘Bad’ might be a stretch," you laughed, "but that definitely wasn’t one of my finest moments.”
Clark leaned back in the booth, eyes on you. “I’m glad you let me help you. You picked up pretty quick, honestly. But if you ever need a review— or just somebody to chat with— you got my number now."
His tone was casual, but something in his expression lingered—like was offering something more than study sessions.
“I will keep that in mind,” you smiled.
Clark hesitated for a moment, you could see the clogs turning in his brain before he decided to speak. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” you nodded.
He took a beat before speaking. “When I approached you last night, I assumed that you were crying because of academic stuff. Not that it’s not a valid reason to be frustrated … but was that really it? Or was it something else?"
Your smile faltered upon hearing the question. A tinge of embarrassment coursed through you when recalling what had brought you to tears.
"You can tell me if I'm prying— we can talk about something else," Clark backtracked sensing your change in mood.
"It's alright Clark," you flashed him a brief smile.
Here goes nothing.
"I'm the first in my family to ever set foot on a university campus, the only reason why I can even attend here in the first place is because I got a full ride,” you began quietly.
You massaged your temples, soothing the slight ache there.
“But yesterday, I found out I totally bombed my calculus test which completely tanked my grade in the class putting my scholarship at risk. I went to the library to study and… well— I guess I just got overwhelmed, ” you paused.
You glanced up at Clark who had an unreadable expression on his face. You laughed nervously, “I'm dramatic, I know."
He leaned forward, with his hands clasped on the table. “I don't think your dramatic, not in the slightest. In fact, I think that's as of a good reason as any—besides it's not a crime to cry or be overwhelmed," Clark comforted.
A grin began to form on your face, "You're not just saying that?"
Clark didn't back down, his expression more serious this time. "I know it's much easier said than done, but try not to be so hard on yourself," he advised voice softening at the edges.
"You are more than capable of achieving whatever it is you're aiming for. I mean, you did make it this far, right? I'm sure you'll manage to keep your scholarship.” He said, offering a gentle smile.
Suddenly you didn’t feel so embarrassed anymore.
His words didn’t magically fix anything but they did make you feel better. You nodded slowly, eyes flickering to the table for a moment before meeting his again.
Clark made you feel better— that was a pattern you were starting to notice.
“Thanks. I needed to hear that,” you smiled softly.
“Your more than welcome,” he replied.
You silently stared at each other, both taking in the conversation you both just had.
You broke eye contact, deciding to look over the menu, “I think I know what I want. Are you ready to order yet?”
“Sure,” he said stepping out of the booth, walking over to you. He grabbed your hand assisting you with getting out the booth. You definitely didn't need any assistance but Clark helped anyway. That small gesture made you swoon a little.
The café had a relaxed buzz to it— students chatting, espresso machines humming, and music softly playing from the speakers.
You stepped up to the screen to order, scanning the menu on the display one last time before settling on your usual—a chai latte and a club sandwich. Clark glanced over the options, then just decided on getting your same exact order.
"Copy cat," you teased.
Clark laughed off your comment. "I never really eat—when I come here, so I don't really know what to get… but I trust your judgment," Clark spoke, correcting himself.
"In that case, I hope my order doesn't disappoint," you chimed, reaching into your purse.
You fished out your phone, just barely making it to your wallet app to pay before you heard the soft beep of the reader. You looked up to see Clark already withdrawing his hand, his card tucked away in his wallet like it had never even happened.
You gasped, eyes wide.
He looked at you, entirely unfazed, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What?”
“You were suppose to let me pay as a thank you,” you whined.
Clark wasn't moved in the slightest. “I told you last night I didn’t want you to repay me,” he shrugged casually.
What he did was such a small gesture, yet it carried a kind of quiet strength—effortless, precise, and just a little too fast to feel normal. You opened your mouth to protest again but stopped short.
Clark continued. “Besides I thought you wanted to get lunch solely because you enjoyed my company? What happened to that, huh?” he teased.
You hated not being right.
You sighed in defeat, with a pout on your face.
Nothing else to do but just meet his gaze. The way he looked at you was kind and steady, with something unspoken behind his eyes. It made it hard to argue.
He leaned in a little closer. “Your cute—even when annoyed,” he admitted.
You shook your head, biting back a smile, “You’re unbelievable”.
“Order for Clark,” one of the workers shouted placing the trays on the pickup counter.
He picked up the tray of food while you grabbed napkins. You walked back to the booth and immediately got to work on the food you ordered.
You and Clark had spent some of duration of lunch chatting about your upbringings, Bonding over your homesickness, exchanging details about the people, places and things you both missed from your hometowns.
You learned that he grew up on a farm in Kansas, and that he yearned to be back. Mainly because he missed his parents, which he referred to as 'ma' and 'pa.'
You found the way he talked about his parents incredibly endearing, most dudes you met thought they were just too cool to be vulnerable about stuff like that—not Clark, though. You could tell by the stories he shared that he held a lot of love and respect for his family.
The conversation took a natural shift from the past to the present and future. You'd discussed how college had been treating the both of you so far, how you both been adjusting to living in the dorms, and life in Metropolis in general.
You learned that he was a journalism major, which surprised the hell out of you.
You narrowed your eyes at him. "For a journalism major, you sure know a lot about calculus?"
"Back in high school, I took advance calculus," he explained, nonchalantly sipping on his latte.
You let out a sound of disbelief. "Oh yeah, no big deal. Just a math whiz at the tender age of eighteen. Just, y'know, light work," you mocked lightheartedly, taking a sip of your latte.
He laughed, "Gosh, I hope I don't come off that arrogant," pushing his glasses up his nose bridge.
"Not at all. I'm just giving you a hard time, Clark," you chuckled giving his hand that rested on the table a squeeze.
It was a casual gesture you didn't even contemplate touching him, it just happened. But for some reason as soon as your hand touched his, it felt like more than a casual gesture. That little bit of contact, sent a spark through you.
Clark's eyes leered to where your hands touched, which made you snatch your hand away.
Nice, really smooth, you internally face palmed.
"Sorry," you blurted out.
Clark smoothly reached for your hand, the one you pulled away, and interlocked it in his.
"For what?" He asked, looking at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes pretending like nothing ever happened.
Like holding each other's hand was the most normal thing in the world— like you both did it before hundreds of times.
You looked at your hand in his, and smiled. Then you looked back to him, at a loss for words.
Sensing you were speechless he changed the topic of discussion. "You seemed a little surprised when I mentioned I wanted to be a journalist."
“I am, actually,” you admitted, a little amused.
“Initially, I just didn't have pegged you as a journalist. You seem more like a um…. computer scientist.”
Clark scoffed, “Computer science, really?”
You nodded, “Absolutely, you give quiet genius vibe. I assumed you were in the library working on a app or something, before I disrupted you,” you deadpan jokingly.
He let out a warm chuckle.
You tilted your head thoughtfully, eyeing him like you were trying to piece something together.
“But by knowing you a little better, I actually think journalism suits you,” you asserted, your tone softening.
Clark raised a brow, “How so?”
You carefully gathered your words before saying them out loud.
“I mean the point of journalism is to be a watchdog, right? To question those in power, shed light on the truth, and amplify the voices of those who get overlooked …”
Clark nodded in agreement hanging on to every word.
“From what I gathered from knowing you in this very short amount of time is that you're selfless. You help people just for the hell of it, without expecting anything in return."
"You're also observant and a good listener. I would think those would be good traits for a journalist to have," you continued.
“I could be totally off base,” you added quickly, trying not to overstep. You shrug, “but that’s the impression I get.”
Clark’s smile was softer now, less amused and more sincere.
He leaned back a little, “You’re not off base,” he said after a beat. “Not at all," he spoke softly caressing his thumb over the back of your hand.
The hum of the café filling the brief silence between you. You knew that this lunch date was coming to a natural conclusion, both of you had finished your sandwiches and lattes—but you weren’t ready to part with him yet.
“I have a proposition for you,” you spoke breaking the silence.
“I'm listening.”
You leaned forward, delicately removing your hand from Clark's so that you could clasp your hands together on the table, showing you meant business.
Tone measured but casual you continued, “You are completely free to decline this offer, no pressure, seriously, but like hear me out.”
Clark nodded clearly amused.
You glanced out the window toward the sidewalk, sunlight filtering through the trees outside. “So, we’re currently within walking distance of the bus stop, like, five minutes tops. I know for a fact that route 45 comes pretty regularly, every five minutes or so. It heads straight to the museum district.”
Clark tilted his head, intrigued now.
“There’s an exhibit I’ve been meaning to check out,” you continued and today’s the last day it’s going to be there. It’s free before five, and it’s already”—you checked your phone—“almost three. So if we leave soon, we’ll catch it.”
You paused briefly, watching his expression. “I'm gonna go either way. But… if you’re not busy, and you want to go… I'd really like the company.”
You kept your tone light, almost playful not wanting to scare him off. You weren’t quite ready to say goodbye to him yet and you’d hope he feel the same.
His lips tugged into a thoughtful smile while pretending to think on it . “A free art exhibit with a beautiful tour guide and efficient public transportation. I don’t think I'd forgive myself if I said no,” he answered.
He could see you light up with excitement the moment he accepted your request. His heart fluttered knowing that he brought you some sort of joy.
It was in that moment he realized he’d do anything to keep you happy.
“Alright, let’s go see some art then,” you beamed.
The warmth of the afternoon sun greeted you both.
You were both hand in hand, but you led the way. You walked a little bit in front of him, which he didn't mind it at all.
He was just happy to be there— taking in the view of your silhouette from behind. You strutting around, your hair soaking up the sunlight, the effortless sway of your hips in that midi-skirt, he had no complaints.
The walk to the bus stop was brief, the two of you talked in quiet spurts, the kind of conversation that didn’t need to fill every silence.
By the time the bus arrived, the air had grown crisper, thick with the lazy hum of a autumn afternoon. You both boarded, sat near the back, and shared the row. You pointed out things you saw out the window— graffiti and murals that caught your eye, a bookstore you’d meant to check out, and a bakery you wanted to try.
Clark listened with interest, occasionally asking questions or making dry, clever remarks to make you laugh. The ride to the museum district was short: it lasted maybe ten, fifteen minutes.
When you arrived, the district was alive with the chaotic energy of a weekend crowd.
Couples strolled hand-in-hand, much like what you and Clark were doing now. Families clustered anywhere with shade. Somewhere nearby, someone strummed an acoustic played beneath a bus stop awning.
The museum itself stood tall, its white columns gleaming in the afternoon sun.
When you stepped inside you were met with the glorious feeling of AC. The exhibit was tucked on the second floor. The both of you received free entry and stepped through the threshold into a dimmer space.
It was almost silent, except for the occasional creak of shoes on the polished floor and the low murmur of other guests.
It was a mixed-media exhibit that utilized a variety of mediums— paintings, short film reels, suspended installations, etc. Each piece seemed to demand attention and required reflection.
You noticed that Clark took his precious time looking at each piece of art, he never skipped a plaque wanting to absorb everything that it had to offer. You were the same way.
It was sort of healing going to a place like this with someone who had no intention of rushing you out, but instead is just as enthusiastic.
At some points you’d caught him admiring you from afar as if you were a part of the exhibit and vice versa.
You both had a habit of drifting apart within the exhibit to do some solo exploration but without fail, you’d find your way back to one another—standing side by side, quietly asking, “what did you think of this one?”
Sometimes you’d agree, sometimes not, but the rhythm of separating and reuniting became its own quiet ritual.
It wasn’t long before you two had viewed and commented on every piece within the exhibit.
The rest of the spectators had thinned out, you guys being two of the only people left.
You both lingered for a moment on a bench, shoulder and thighs touching, a charged silence between you two.
“Thank you… for inviting me,” Clark said turning towards you his voice soft and certain.
You gave him a small smile. "I'm glad I did. I wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”
“I don’t think I could say no to you,” he admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Your heart skipped a beat and your face started to warm up.
Your eyes and hands honed in on the fabric of your skirt.
“I really like you, Clark,” you murmured, barely above a whisper, unsure if you could face him just yet.
Clark on the other hand couldn’t keep his eyes off you.
“You can't just say things like that and not look at me,” he said quietly leaning in.
“How else am I supposed to know you mean it?”
You briefly glance up at him hoping to see a teasing grin on his face but instead, his expression was vulnerable and wanting.
You could feel desire forming in the pit of your stomach.
Then, moving at a speed slower than molasses he reached out and tilted your chin up with two fingers so that your gaze was directed on him. The soft pressure of his touch made your breath hitch.
“Could you say it again?” He pleaded softly, voice low and raspy.
You swallowed, you were full of nerves.
“I really like you, Clark,” you said again, this time, clearer, steadier, locking eyes with him as the words left your lips.
His whole face softened, like he’d been holding his breath and finally let it go.
“I really like you too,” he said, smiling reverently.
A quiet beat passed. His fingers remained gently curled beneath your chin, and his eyes hadn’t moved from yours.
In that moment, with the late afternoon light spilling through the tall windows and the murmurs of the gallery fading around you, you were sure he’d lean in.
But he didn’t.
He just held you there in his gaze, like the moment itself was enough—for now. He removed his fingers from your chin and you both broke eye-contact.
You were all for a slow-burn and tension, but you so badly want him to just leaned in and kiss you.
Then you recall all of the whirlwind romances you've been in, the ones that moved too fast and ended too quickly.
You could be patient if it meant forging something long lasting, at least that’s what you told yourself to make you feel better.
“You ready to head out,” Clark inquired.
You nodded. “I think so,” you said still in a daze.
He stood up first, offering you his hand to help you get up. You two walked side by side through the corridors, passing the final stretch of exhibits with slower steps, like neither of you were quite ready to leave this bubble and return to the outside world.
As you stepped outside, the city buzzed around you—cars humming by, the faint sound of laughter down the street, and the sound of the acoustic guitar near the corner of the steps.
You two made it to the bus stop and stood there waiting for the next bus.
A breeze tugged at the hem of your skirt, and slightly moved your coils out of place.
Clark took the initiative to gently move a strand that was sticking up back to its original spot.
You mouthed a quiet “thank you,” before you heard buzzing in your purse.
You fished out your phone to see a call from your big sister back home.
“Gimme one sec, my sister's calling,” you said. You watched him nod before walking a few feet away and turning your back for some privacy.
You answered the phone a little panicked, “Hey is everything okay.”
“Yeah girl, everything is fine. I'm just bored to pieces right now,” she groaned.
This could've been a text.
“Okay well I'm busy,” you rolled your eyes.
You could hear her scoff, “You better be in them books or on a hot date blowing me off like this.”
You glanced back at Clark from where you were at, exchanging smiles, before turning back around.
“It’s kinda of the second option,” you admitted.
“Ugh you bitch, call me back when your done and share your location with me, encase he’s an axe-murderer or something.” she yapped.
You sighed.
“Okay whatever I'll do it, I gotta go bye,” you said quickly hanging up.
Not even a second after hanging up the phone you heard an unfamiliar voice called out, sharp and crude: “Damn, you look good as fuck.”
You barely reacted, no way that was directed at you. You focused on your phone continuing to share your location with your sister. There was no way in hell someone could be speaking to you like that—right?
Unfortunately, they were.
“I know you hear me talking to you, you don’t have to be a bitch and ignore me.”
Your head snapped up.
Standing a few feet in front of you was the saddest excuse of a man you ever laid eyes on. His leering grin twisted into a sneer when you didn’t respond.
Before you could so much as move your feet to walk away or form any type of response you felt Clark’s presence behind you.
He stepped in front of you and approached the man, calm but cold. You couldn’t even see his face but his body language was unmistakable.
He stood up straight, stiff as a board with his hands folded together in front of him trying his hardest to compose himself.
“Clark,” you said gently, brushing your hand against his back in an attempt to ground him.
“It’s okay, babe, let’s just go.” Your attempt was null and void he didn’t budge or even acknowledge you.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” Clark snapped, the fury in his tone was palpable. “She’s not interested”.
You were gagged— to say the least, having never seen this side of Clark before.
Granted it's hasn’t been long since you guys met, still though, you never even heard him swear, let alone seen him angry.
Everyone nearby seemed to freeze. People paused mid-step, glancing over to see what was happening. some kept walking uninterested, while others slowed, curious or concerned.
Though a small, shameful part of you found this version of Clark—protective, assertive to be wildly attractive, all you really wanted was for it to be over.
You heard the rumble of the bus engine was growing louder in the background.
The man sucked his teeth and scoffed as he backed off.
“You lucky I'm not in the mood today,” he muttered barely loud enough to catch. Then, more to himself, “the broad isn't even all that.”
The man turned to walk away, but Clark didn’t. If anything, he leaned forward slightly, like a dog straining against a leash, ready to beat that man to a pulp.
You saw his jaw tense and just knew he was about to follow.
“No,” you said quickly, reaching up to grab his shoulder. “He’s not worth it, Clark. please. Let’s just go, we’re gonna miss the bus.”
Clark hesitated, shoulders still tight, breathing heavy through his nose. then, finally, he turned to face you. his anger was still visible, simmering just beneath the surface, but he nodded once.
Without saying a word, he reached for your hand and interlaced your fingers with his. together, you walked to the approaching bus.
The bus doors hissed open, and Clark stepped on first, guiding you ahead of him with a gentle tug of your joined hands. He scanned the seats and ushered you toward the back.
You slid into the window seat while he took one beside you. His knee bounced restlessly, jaw clenched as he stared straight ahead. You both left the confrontation behind but not its weight.
You glanced at him, his profile sharp in the fading daylight. “Hey,” you said softly looking at him.
No answer.
“Clark,” you tried once again placing you hand on his knee to still it.
He didn’t even look at you.
Your heart sank. “So your ignoring me now, cool,” you said turning your head to the window and removing your hand from his.
Not even five seconds later he folded.
He swallowed harshly, before turning to you, calling out your namey.
“I’m sorry. I didn't mean to ignore you… I was frustrated and I just didn’t want to say the wrong thing,” he explained.
You still wouldn’t meet his gaze but he was determined.
You shared such a great day with each other before this. He couldn't—wouldn't let this day end like this.
"It wasn't right for me to ignore you back at the station either. You're not the source of my anger. Please, forgive me if I made it seem that way.” he brought your hand up to his lips, planting a kiss on your knuckle.
You wanted to stay mad but listening to him you knew he was genuine.
You turned to him, and were met with pleading eyes.
His eyes shift from you then off into space, ruminating on the whole ordeal.
He muttered, “I wish you’d let me handle him, though,” he quipped saying his thoughts out loud.
You rolled your eyes upon hearing that.
And to think he was doing so well before he said that, too.
“Thank you for 'defending my honor' or whatever," you said, using air quotes, half-sarcastic.
"But you should've just left with me when I asked you the first time. You can’t go around fighting every guy who says something dumb to me,” you snapped.
His brows furrowed, his expression torn between frustration and something softer. “Why can’t I though?"
His jaw started to tense again. "That guy was a tool. The way he spoke to you? It was disgusting. I can't just stand by and watch someone disrespect you like that… or anybody for that matter."
You crossed your arms together.
"I agree, Clark. That dude was fucking creep, but that whole confrontation gave me the worst anxiety. You had me so worried that you were going to do something reckless. " You expressed.
You pinched the bridge of your nose, “You're too smart to not consider the possibility he might've had a weapon. A gun? A knife? Then what, Clark?”
He leaned back in his seat, posture too relaxed for your liking. It was as if the danger wasn't registering in his head.
Your head tilted, eyes narrowing as you looked up at him incredulously. “Okay so you think you're invincible and nothing bad can happen to you.”
Clark let out a dry laugh, “I didn’t say that.”
You didn't back down. “Okay, let’s choose another scenario, I let you beat him to a pulp, he presses charges, you get a record and maybe even expelled. And for what? Me— a girl you just met less than a day ago?"
You shook your head slightly, "It's not worth it."
His eyes didn't waver from yours. "You're worth it," he asserted—voice low and sure.
Your heart skipped a beat, a charged silence emerged.
You turned to face the window with a scoff, in an attempt to shake off the rising heat in your chest.
"I can't with you—you're ridiculous," you muttered, shaking your head.
Clark's tone had softened. “You're right… I just hate that this even happened,” he continued.
“Me too,” you murmured.
He rubbed a hand over his face. "And now I feel like a total jerk—here I am sitting here sulking when you're the one who got disrespected."
You felt the tension melt a little bit as he reached over, resting a gentle hand on your knee. His voice was quieter more tentative, "How are you feeling about all this?”
“I’m okay,” you shrugged.
Clark was attentive. Watching your body language, he could tell you were holding back.
“You can be honest.”
You exhaled. "I am okay... I mean it doesn't feel good being ogled at or talked down to. Things like this happen way too often."
You glanced down at your skirt, "It’s not a problem that’s unique to me, it unfortunately comes with the territory of just existing as a woman in society. I'm just sort of numb to it now."
Clark looked at you with a pained expression, lips pressed into a hard line and eyes gloomy.
You reached up and idly toyed with a loose curl near his forehead, your touch anchoring him.
"I am glad you were there, though."
You rested your head on his shoulder before finishing your thought.
“This kind of thing usually occurs when I'm by myself, which is always terrifying. But today, I didn't feel scared — not with you there. I mean you had me nervous you were going to do something rash but for the most part I felt… protected. "
You could feel the tension in his shoulders melt away. "I'm glad you felt safe with me," he murmured.
"I'll take on that role anytime—protector, defender, whatever it is you need. And I will do a better job at listening to you."
You hummed contently.
A comfortable silence fell between the two of you.
Rain began to fall— soft at first. The delicate pattering of the rain blended in with the hushed conversations taking place on the bus.
You closed your eyes, taking in the white noise. The sounds lulled you to sleep, exhaustion taking over.
Clark noticed the slow movement of your chest rising and falling, how your body relaxed as sleep took over. He didn't say a word—just watched over you as the scenery passed by through the windows.
He avoided waking you up until the last possible moment, by then the rain had began pouring more urgently. Neither of you were dressed for the rain.
With a quiet sigh, he shrugged off his button-up, left in his white undershirt. He folded it carefully, with the intention of giving it to you.
Gently he prodded at your shoulder, “Wake up sleepy girl, this is our stop."
You stirred, eyes fluttering open in confusion for a beat—until your surroundings came back into focus.
The rain. The bus. Clark.
He was standing now, shirt in one hand, the other extended toward you. You blinked at him, then at the shirt, puzzled.
Wordlessly, you took his hand and let him guide you down the aisle.
You both thanked the driver and stepped off the bus, huddling under the narrow awning at the stop across from the café—the very place where the day had started.
The rain poured steadily now, soaking the pavement. You wrapped your arms around yourself instinctively.
Clark held out the shirt. “It’s for you—to shield yourself from the rain. It’s not much, but... better than nothing.”
“That’s sweet of you,” you said, hesitating. “But are you sure? I don’t want you to get sick.”
He shook his head, brushing off your concern. “I’ll be fine.”
His eyes flicked downward, noting your sandals—cute, but not ideal for weather like this. His brows pinched.
“You can’t walk in those,” he said flatly. “Your feet are gonna get soaked—probably end up covered in mud.”
You looked down. He was right.
“I’ll carry you,” he added, already stepping closer.
“What?”
He didn’t repeat himself—just slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. Before you could protest, you were lifted effortlessly off the ground.
You let out a breath of disbelief, clutching his broad shoulder for balance.
He draped his shirt over your head, shielding you from the rain, the fabric still warm from his body.
“Where did you park?” he asked, starting toward the lot.
You sighed, regretful. “I walked here, actually.”
He glanced down at you with a lopsided smile. “Guess I’m driving you to your dorm, then.”
You nodded, tucking your face closer to his chest, the rain thudding softly against his shirt as he carried you across the lot.
You heard the soft jingle of metal—Clark was fumbling in his pocket. A second later, the quiet chirp of an unlocking vehicle broke the silence, followed by the muted creak of a car door being opened.
Clark gently helped you into the passenger seat, cradling you as though you were something fragile.
You tugged his shirt off your head, the fabric soaked from the rain. As your vision cleared, you glanced around, taking in your surroundings. A pickup truck—of course. Sturdy, reliable, and unpretentious. Very Clark.
The interior was surprisingly spotless. No fast food wrappers crumpled in the on the floor, no empty coffee cups rolling under the seats. Not even a stray crumb on the dashboard. The faint scent of cedar and laundry detergent lingered in the air.
Only thing you spotted were a neat stack of textbooks and some worn paper-backs.
You couldn’t help but be impressed.
"It's tidy in here," you noted, your voice still a little groggy.
Clark chuckled softly as he closed your door with a quiet thunk and walked around to the driver’s side. As he slid into the seat beside you, you noticed the wet curls that stuck to his forehead, and his undershirt that was soaked—basically transparent.
Rainwater clung to his skin, but he seemed unfazed, showing no signs of discomfort.
"I try," he said, a shy smile playing on his lips. He brought the edge of his shirt to his glasses, wiping away some droplets from his frames, unintentionally revealing his chiseled stomach in the process.
You stared at him, just for a second too long. His shirt stuck to his chest, his muscles shifting slightly as he adjusted in his seat. He looked like a dream.
You had to force yourself to look somewhere else—anywhere else. So you choose the window, watching as the rain falls relentlessly.
"Geez, it's pouring out there," you muttered more to yourself than to him.
"Tell me about it," he mused, pushing a damp curl out of his face.
A shiver ran down your spine. You weren’t as drenched as Clark, but the chill still got to you. Your clothes were damp, your skin cool, your hands tucked under your arms.
“I have a blanket,” he offered, reaching into the back without hesitation.
He pulled forward a thick flannel throw. You accepted it with a quiet thanks, wrapping it around your shoulders. It smelled like him—woodsy and clean.
You looked over at him again. He was staring out the windshield, watching the rain slide down the glass. The only sound was the soft drumming of water on the roof, which acted as a backdrop to the growing tension in the car.
Then his eyes flicked to yours.
“What?” he asked, voice quiet but curious.
You shrugged, but your lips quirked. “You’re soaked.”
Clark raised a brow. “I’ve had worse.”
You laughed under your breath, pulling the blanket tighter. “I guess nothing gets to Clark Kent," you joked.
Clark’s smile faded—not in a bad way, he wore the same expression that he had earlier on that museum bench. Intense and wanting.
“Except you,” he said. “You get to me.”
The words hit you like a rush of warmth, melting through the chill. Your breath caught in your throat, in that moment, you couldn’t do anything but stare at him.
“Clark…”
He reached across the console, fingertips grazing your cheek, brushing a damp coil behind your ear. His touch lingered.
“I mean it,” he said, lower now. “You… undo me.”
His eyes dropped to your lips and then—back up to you. He leaned in and you followed suit, connecting your lips to his.
The kiss was inevitable. You both had been building up to it all day— the hand holding, the coy smiles, the mini confessions. It was only a matter of time.
The warmth of his lips sent a current through your body. Initially, the kiss was gentle and patient, merely testing the waters.
Then it deepened, fast. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as your mouths moved together with increasing urgency. Making you squirm in your seat.
The blanket slipped from your shoulders.
The console between you was frustrating, intrusive. Clark pulled back for just a second, breath heavy.
“Back seat?” he asked, already pushing his seatbelt off.
You didn’t answer—you were already climbing over, navigating between the front seats with a mix of restlessness and excitement.
He followed, quick, and suddenly you were in the back, half-collapsed against a pile of books and that same flannel blanket.
He pulled you into him, lips crashing into yours again.
One hand was tangled in his damp hair, while the other was gripping the edge of his shirt, pulling it up—off. He let it go without hesitation, tossing it somewhere out of sight.
He brought you on his lap effortlessly, his hand stroking the curls at the nape of your neck.
Both of you kissed like you were starved and desperate. Bodies moved together with the kind of hunger that only comes after too much waiting.
Rain drummed against the truck roof like a heartbeat.
He moved his lips off of yours, peppering kisses down your neck, making you tremble. His hands slid underneath your blouse, gripping your waist.
He removed his lips off of your neck to peer up at you. He wore a fond expression on his face, as he stroked the sides of your waist.
You grew shy under his gaze.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" You inquired, running your hands over his biceps.
"Cause you're mesmerizing, and I enjoy looking at you," he confessed, a dopey grin spreading across his face.
He leaned in closer, lips slightly brushing against your ear. "Especially, when you're like this," he cooed softly. His voice sent a shiver down your spine, and caused an ache in between your thighs.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" You inquired, a mischievous glint in your eyes.
You knew damn well what he meant but you enjoyed the tension of it all.
Clark was a gentleman so he wouldn't out right say that he liked seeing you turned on.
He wouldn't taunt you with the details.
That he could see it in the way your nipples poked through your blouse. That he could feel your warmth pulsating against his thigh. Or that he could smell the arousal pooling from your core.
Instead he pulled you closer, so that you sat directly on his bulge. Big and firm underneath you. His hands caressing your thighs.
"What I mean is that you're worked up because of me. And I take great pride and pleasure in witnessing it," he husked. His tone was laced with smugness.
The cockiness of that statement simultaneously made you chuckle and turned you on even more, "I'm glad you cleared that up."
He chuckled slightly at your comment before his lips found their way to the other side of your neck, nibbling on the delicate flesh there.
The sensation made you writhe in his lap, grinding into him. Clark moaned, moving his hands to the swell of your butt, gently giving it a squeeze. Which in turn made you moan.
It wasn't long before Clark found himself rutting up into you, matching your rhythm, in a desperate attempt to try to create more friction.
As good as it felt you needed more. And Clark could sense it.
He ceased his movements, cupping your face with both hands, directing your gaze on him.
"I wanna taste you, angel. Will you let me?" Clark asked, making your breath hitch.
How the fuck could I say no to that?
Not when he asked you so nicely, looking up at you with those glistening blue eyes like you were the prettiest thing he ever laid eyes on.
Speechless, you nodded.
A wicked smile spread across his face as he kneaded the supple flesh of your thighs.
He leaned back in the seat, "I want you to say it, sweetheart."
"Yes, Clark," you huffed.
"Yes, what," he smirked cockily.
You playfully hit his chest, "Don't make me say it," you spoke sheepishly.
Clark laughed, adjusting his glasses.
"Why not, baby? It's just us here… if it makes you feel better, you can whisper it," he reasoned, saying the last part real low.
He was driving you crazy. You never thought you'd be into something like this— the subtle power dynamic of it all. Though your body was telling you otherwise.
You peered down at him and spoke—quiet but confident, "I want you to taste me, Clark."
He threw his head back in bliss, before shifting you off his lap. He swiftly, cleared off the seat, placing his stack of books on the floor to allow the both of you more space.
He covered the leather seats with the flannel blanket, before guiding you on your back.
He scanned over your body, making a mental note of it.
Clark thought you looked ethereal—soft coils splayed all over the blanket, the curves of your body, the longing in your gaze.
He reached down littering your clavicle with kisses. Traveling down to the swell of your breast. His hands traveled underneath your blouse, his big hands feeling you up. Fondling the soft tissue, running his fingers over your firm nipples, tracing circles.
Then his eyes flickered to your navel, specifically the shiny stud that sat on top of it.
Now how did I miss this? He thought to himself.
His digits slowly traced the skin around the jewelry, making you squirm.
He toyed with it slightly, making his cock twitch in his denim jeans.
Clark shook it off, trying his best to focus on the task at hand.
He trailed kisses, from your navel to where your skirt began. Then he stroked the exposed skin from the slit in your skirt, before pulling up your skirt, exposing your underwear.
He delved in-between your legs and pushed your panties to the side, marveling at your anatomy. Lips agonizingly close to your mound, he whispered, "Such a pretty pussy, you got.
You didn't even have time to react. By the time you could even register the vulgarity of his words, his tongue was inside of you.
Probing at your slit, lapping up your wetness. You were already reeling, panting as he undid you.
Your breaths only got more frantic as he started focusing on your clit. Using his wet muscle to draw circles and deliver sloppy licks to your nub.
You couldn't handle it, shock waves coursed through you.
Clark could sense your thighs getting ready to close. Being proactive he gripped your trembling limbs, keeping them apart, careful not to grip too tight.
He looked up at you, glasses foggy. "Not done yet, sweetheart. Tug on my hair if you have to," he spoke briefly before diving back in.
You whined at the low drawl of his voice. You took his advice and carded your fingers through his soft curls.
He kept repeating the same movements—consistent but with increased pressure, it made your toes curl. The sight and the sounds of him drinking from you is really what did it though.
His eyes leered towards you every so often, studying you. Half the time your eyes were closed shut reveling in the pleasure. The other half, your eyes met each other gaze, making him grin slightly.
He made the most lewd noises. Moaning into your cunt, the vibrations reverberating all through your body. Smacking— like he was eating his first meal in weeks.
"Clark, you feel so good… I'm gonna cum," you moaned.
That was music to his ears.
"Cum on my tongue, give it to me, baby," he coaxed.
He went right back to work.
He could feel you convulsing on his tongue. He didn't stop his movements nor did he switch them up. He continued what he was doing, repeating it until he was sure you were seeing stars.
Your eyes rolled back, hips bucked up, and your hands pushed Clark's head further into you, as you rode the final waves of your orgasm.
Clark gave you a few final licks to your swollen cunt, happily cleaning up the aftermath of your climax.
Carefully he pulled your panties back to their original spot, and readjusted your skirt and blouse.
The rain started to lighten up.
He licked his lips, still a bit drunk off you.
He helped you up, "How was it for you?"
You didn't answer, you just enveloped him in a hug, clutching on to him for dear life—like he'd evaporate if you didn't.
"I really enjoyed myself Clark," you spoke in the crook of his neck, voice cracking a little. Hot tears spilled down your face, before you could stop them. The weight of many emotions— some sweet, some sharp— sat heavy in your chest.
Clark drew back from the hug instinctively, sensing something was off. His heart clinched at the sight of you in cheers.
"Hey—" his voice wavered, laced with panic. "Tell me what I did wrong, please."
You shook your head quickly, wiping your tears away. "No, no, it's not you, you were amazing, really. I couldn't have asked for a better experience today or a better person to do this with."
Relief flickered across his face, but worry was still etched in his brow. His hand settled on your knee grounding you.
"Then what's the matter?"
You let out a dry laugh, wiping your tears.
"You must think I'm such a crybaby. This is like the second time you had to console me in the last twenty-four hours… I'm sorry."
"You know I don't think that. Never apologize for your emotions, not to me, or to anybody." You nodded, letting his advice seep in.
"Talk to me," he pleaded, voice gentle.
You paused wanting to find the right words.
"I like you a lot, Clark."
His lips quipped into the faintest smile. "I do too—I mean I really like you too," he corrected himself, and you could practically feel the little internal cringe behind his eyes.
A laugh bubbled up in you despite the tension, but it quickly faded. “It’s just that… I’ve noticed this pattern in my dating life. Whenever I move too fast with someone, it usually falls apart."
"‘Too fast’ as in… intimacy?” he asked carefully, testing the word like it was fragile glass.
You nodded, your throat tightening.
“And I don’t want to jinx anything,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
“I just—this is the fastest I’ve ever moved. We only met yesterday, and already it feels like we’ve been swept into something bigger than me, bigger than us. I-I'm scared".
He looked at you, gaze heavy. "Do you regret it, what we did just now? Anything about our entire day together?"
"No, not at all."
His shoulders loosened at your response, the tension in him softening.
He enveloped you in a hug, his chin resting on your bed of curls as you curled into his chest.
"I understand, we don't have to force anything—today felt natural. And I— I want to continue that… I want to be with you in whatever way you allow me. Whatever pace you wanna go at, I'll gladly follow your lead."
Your heart swelled at his words. You undid yourself from his embrace to look up at him, eyes searching his face for any signs of insincerity— you couldn't find any.
Your lips parted, thinking of a response, but he wasn't finished
He leaned forward slightly with a steady gaze, his voice filled with a quiet conviction.
"I don't do flings and I don't know who you dealt with in the past, or how they treated you—but I need you to know I have every intention of building on this. With you. I wouldn't be here with you right now if I didn't."
The weight of his words lingered in the space between you, warm and heavy, like a promise.
That reassurance meant more to you than he'd ever know.
thank you sm for reading, as always i would love to hear your thoughts. have a fabulous day/night. xoxo
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