Black Fem! Reader x Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore & Elias ‘Stack’ Moore. (modern-day)
▶︎▶︎Part 1/2.◀︎◀︎
Summary: Your next-door neighbors, Stack & Smoke were your best friend’s twin brothers. Elias was drawn to what was forbidden, & Elijah had his eye on you. After one fantasy of the twins, you needed to get them out of your system.
A/N: My apologies for my absence, been busy with work but here’s Smoke & Stack! Enjoy! 🤭
Warnings: threesome with twins, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, cumshots, choking, fingers in mouth, biting, dumbification, overstimulation, praise, AU where Stack & Smoke are in the modern-day world, cocky!Stack, best friend's brothers trope, thigh riding, face fucking, mean!Smoke, cum play, teasing, fingering, rough sex, jealousy, head, sneaking around, use of n-word, mean!Stack, aftercare, manhandling?
Stack was nothing more than merely your best friend’s annoying ass twin brother. Far too cocky for your liking, and far too fine to let yourself get caught up. Reckless, smooth talker who would chase after the young women, or sneak in older women who wanted a personal taste for Ladies Night.
While Elijah was more quiet than Elias, taciturn, and took his time to speak with women than his fast-moving younger brother.
However, women often eyeing Smoke discreetly, they were drawn to his quiet nature, his strapping physique, and the women he kept.
Smoke never had a problem with women, and they loved the strong, silent type of men.
Women often calling them Devils In Twos and quoting that comes in many forms, even in midnight blue, not just crimson red.
At first, you didn't know that Eliana had two twin half-brothers…well, as she would explain it, two twin brothers. Their mother would say, “God didn't make half of anythin’ you hear? You are family,” and they took it to heart.
Their baby sister, Eliana with her breathtaking beauty, is a spitting image of their mom. She has brown skin, a button nose, dimples, plump lips, with bouncing curls down her back, and an hourglass body. Same traits as her big brothers, with a softer side.
Her nickname was Sage, which emphasizes her calmness that she brings to the sibling dynamic. The yin to their yang, and the créme de la créme.
The men? Either hunted down, beaten to death, or killed to be televised on the morning news for disrespect, breaking her heart, or looking her way, without any consequences to the brothers.
Overprotective as hell? Yes.
Stubborn as hell? Yes.
Soft spots for their sister? Yes.
You meet their sister in the neighborhood, where she moved into on the first day, casual talks about your jobs, movies, TV shows, dating, and music, various topics. You, and Eliana shared similar interests, views, and she could talk shit about her brothers frequently.
The Moore brothers had various business ventures, as proved by the papers on permanent ink. Stack worked on his popular club. While Smoke operated in the management, production, and high-end beverage business of his own, importing all over the world.
Smoke is investing in his own bar, Smokey’s Hub, right across from the strip club, which Stack owns for himself. Smoke objected to the idea, but Stack insisted on making more money, and Sage worked in the bar with Smoke, bartending to patrons.
Eliana felt safe, and comfortable around you. She had a real friend, not just someone who wanted to be around her brothers, or fuck them.
Who wouldn't?
It was pleasant to see that their little Sage was happy, smiling, and out of her comfort zone around you. Initially, you found her brothers attractive, but your interest was in getting to know her.
You had a strong friendship with Smoke, but Stack was occasionally a friend as well.
Stack had his moments, but your affection for the twins was evident, and they were aware of it too.
Sage and Smoke were vigilant of their brother’s mischief, including yourself. Who knows how many fake friends went after Stack, and left Sage in the dark, alone, in tears. Unforgiving of her brother.
They were either in their house or following behind his baby sister into yours, arm over her shoulder with that stupid grin across his face.
Stack would say that his television was broken, or needed to borrow some sugar, making various excuses just to see his sister, and you. He would try flirting, and sweet talk, while you hurl insults or bite back at him While Smoke followed behind him, smacking him upside his head.
His sister wasn't buying it. Sage replied by saying “You see me every day, go on and play with your little hoes,” as if he were a pimp from back in the day.
Sage was onto his game with you, and her. She warned you so many times about Stack, and you listened diligently to her, and Smoke.
However, one Friday night, you invited the twins over to your house for dinner, while you were cooking late at night, the men stood between you, carefully helping you prepare the meals, as they did.
You accidentally bumped into both of them, they stood before you, their eyes settled on you. Seductive. You didn’t say a word, and they only apologized for getting in your way.
Your mind created a nasty fantasy of you in between Stack & Smoke, you were on all fours, mouth full of Stack while Smoke fucked you from behind as he hated you, a man that deprived, in desperate need of your touch. Tears falling down your face, mascara running, twisting in pleasure.
Smoke & Stack had you in multiple positions, their big hands all over you, leaving no place untouched. Claiming you as theirs, kissing you, biting you into your skin.
The dream seemed so vivid that you attempted to fall asleep that same night. You couldn't sleep. Your fingers slipped beneath your panties, moving against your pulsating clit, and your fingers deep inside your pussy. Finger fucking yourself until you come over and over, leaving a mess over your sheets, yourself included.
You changed the sheets and took a shower. Despite that, the wet dream remained engraved in your memory. And you wanted to make it happen, and you've had a little crush on them.
Obviously, you didn't tell Sage that, when she would only jump to conclusions, and make accusations. Admit that you've never been a real friend to her at all.
Stack & Smoke was your next-door neighbors in the neighborhood, with its prestigious reputation nestled in a grand location where they paid extra for security, camera surveillance, privacy, and were squeaky clean in every way.
Still, Sage was becoming suspicious of you, and Stack together. The longing glances, flirting from him mostly, and you flirting back.
She trusted Smoke wouldn't do the same, and you were discreetly looking his way without her noticing, mainly because he was quiet and didn’t talk much.
Though Smoke was silent, it doesn't mean he’s not sneaking around or out-going like Stack. Hell, Smoke might even be fucking a woman or two, turning her whichever way she pleases.
People often underestimate the quiet ones, expecting little of them.
Eliana lay sprawled across the large pink couch, eyelids closed gently, a pink woolen blanket draped over her body. Softly snoring, as your eyes flickered toward her, and then back to the television screen, showing an episode of Living Single.
You lay slouched across the second couch on the right side of the spacious living room. Relaxed, relishing in the silence for a moment.
She was getting some rest after a hectic night at Smoke’s bar, and either he or Stack would usually ensure she got home safely on his days off since they lived in the same neighborhood as you.
She frequently came by to chat all day and could sleep through anything, yawning softly, blinking twice before rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Refreshed, yet still slightly fatigued.
“Y/n?” Sage mumbled, her voice soft yet raspy from sleep.
You hummed in response, smiling softly. “Hey, sleepy head,” you whispered playfully, waving at her.
“Girl, work has been so stressful with Eli lately. The bar was packed,'cause Elias brought in half naked bottle girls from his damn club,” Eliana spoke unsettled, half asleep, half-awake. Her southern accent spilling from her speech.
Your brows creased at her sleepy speech, as the image you created in your mind appeared like magic. Your hand smacked over your mouth, stifling a laugh.
The vibration of your laugh tickles your palm, with one hand over your stomach. The pain inside crept through. “He’s so crazy, I can see him doing that,” You added, clearing your throat.
Eliana chuckled coyly, with a slight grin. “Smoke almost blew a fuse at him but it brought in more business for us. They asked about you," She says halfheartedly, rolling her eyes.
You blinked twice. “They did? How are they?”
“Unfortunately, yes. They are always asking about you, and wonder how you're doing. I don't like it. You like them?” Sage asked casually as if it took away the unease.
“Sage, you’re barking up the wrong tree here, ask them, yourself,” You shot back, your voice held an edge that barely concealed your frustration with this tangled situation.
Sage waved you off, with a defensive nod, before you caught that eye roll from her. You squinted at your friend and you scoffed coyly.
“You think every girl you're friends with is gonna fuck your brothers, even me?” You asked, accusing her, your voice in a strict tone.
Sage rose from her spot on the couch and snatched her blanket as if to cover herself from shame. Trust issues, fear of facing the same cycle again. She knew she shouldn't have said that to you, but you knew Sage was thinking it. Ruthless.
“You’re thinking it, but you won't say it.” You snapped, your head shook gently.
“Y/N…please. I'm sorry,” Sage whined softly, her lip poking out.
Spoiled rotten. Always used to get what she wanted, but that didn't include friends.
“No, you’re not.” You snapped in a calm tone, eyeing her up, and down.
Sage didn't say a word, speechless. Her face softening, with guilt, anxiety, and lament. Her lips fell into a frown, her shoulders slumped faintly. You could see it in her.
“Okay. I know you, and you're my friend. I don't want to lose you like this. I'm so fucking sorry!” Sage exclaimed worrily, her arms wrapped around you, her face buried in your neck. Overly clingy.
You didn't cave in, able to resist her. Pushing her away. Her face turned sour, while your face remained neutral. “Don’t you have a home to get to?” You shot back rudely, your hand gestures to the front door.
That cute shit isn't going to work on you, not now. Sage sighed in defeat, nodding in agreement. “I need to go home, I need to clear my head anyway.” Sage mumbled, her lip fell into a frown.
Sage says farewell to you. She stepped out with quickness and closed the door firmly. Hours later, you heard footsteps thudding against the concerte, fading away.
Your phone vibrated on the coffee table, your eyes flickered toward it, just after grabbing it. Your eyes focused on the screen, it was your best friend, Jaelyn. With a press of your thumb, you held the phone to your ear.
“Hey, Jaelyn. How's your evening going?”
“Hey, girl! It's going good, how about you?”
You sucked in a shallow breath, before your fingers tugged at the tussels of your pillows. Your lips fell into a tight line, frustration with your current feelings, and your choice.
There was no time to be adamant about your feelings, and you knew what you wanted.
“You remember Eliana’s twin brothers, Smoke & Stack? The same ones I've introduced you to a couple of weeks ago?” You mentioned knowingly, gesturing to them as if they were in the room.
“Yeah? The two fine twins? And their bratty sister?” Jaelyn drawled, blinking twice, unaware of what you were asking.
You knew that Jaelyn wouldn't judge you, or make a mockery of your feelings. She's been through similar experiences as you. Best friend since elementary school.
“Yup, those two. So I had a freaky dream about them a couple of nights ago…” You dragged along, your eyes glued to the ceiling.
“Ouuuuu! You did?! Girl, did they have you in a threesome? Did you suck their dicks? Doggystyle? Missionary? From the side? Cowgirl? Reverse?” Jaelyn exclaimed, her voice seductive, almost frantic.
“Yesss that, and they did! Every single one! It felt real to me, too.”
Jaelyn gasped softly, her hand over her chest. Her mouth parted slightly as if she moaned from the image. “Let me guess you want to fuck them?” she teased, grinning.
Your fingers dug deep into the fabric of the pillow, bringing your knees to your chest. Your lip poked out, “You know I do,”
“Then what's stopping you? Sage? You?" Jaelyn asked boldly, her head tilting.
“Nobody?” You drawled, biting your lip.
“Exactly! Why do you care for Sage’s opinion, or her thoughts? She'll have to deal with it or leave, somehow. Everyone wants to fuck her brothers,” London says, shrugging it off.
You sighed in relief, chuckling softly. “Preaching to the choir, boo!”
“We both know you don't want to be friends with those niggas. I'm 100% sure they like you. I see how they look at you, like they’re ready to tear that ass up! Simultaneously!" Jaelyn exclaimed, laughing on the other end of the line.
“Simultaneously is crazy!” You cackled loudly, eyes snapped shut.
You, and Jaelyn burst into laughter, you hand over your stomach, the sound echoing through the house. Head thrashing across the pillow, your palm hitting the cushion, thudding softly.
“Shit..I would fuck the brothers too, and I wouldn't give a single fuck, you hear me?” Jaelyn added, exhaling to stop herself from laughing.
“I hear you. I appreciate this shit so much, Jae!”
“Of course, girl! I'm here for you, just like you're here for me. All shade but I'm your real friend!”
“Girl, I love you but you're making my stomach hurt—”
You almost flinched at the sound of a sudden knock, pondering on the identity of the visitor. “Shit!” you mumbled, your eyes flickered toward the door in caution. "What's wrong, are you okay?” Jaelyn asked in concern.
“Yeah, but someone is at my door,” You say, carefully rising from the couch.
Silently wishing that it wasn't Sage. Swiftly checking your phone, you caught a glance of your Ring Camera live feed.
Stack & Smoke appeared on the screen, with Smoke acknowledging you with a chin raise and Stack displaying a self-satisfied smile.
“Girl! It's Smoke & Stack!”
“Ouuu! You’d better go fuck them! You got this!” Jaylen encouraged, winking at you.
You chuckled at your bestie’s nasty encouragement, and winked playfully at her. “Thanks, boo! I'll give you the details later!”
“Anytime, and yes, please! I can’t wait for the tea!” Jaelyn quiqqed, smirking with mischief.
With a push of your thumb, you laughed it off, and ended the phone call.
Your face lit up, until you swung the screen door and door, open. Revealing Elias in a grey oversized hoodie, and matching sweatpants, crisp, white Air Force Ones, on his feet. While Elijah opted for a black hoodie, and sweatpants. For the biting chill of fall, your favorite season.
You chuckled lightly, before letting them inside your house, stepping aside. “Hi Elijah, Hi Elias, Why are y’all here?” You asked, pushing the doors closed, locking them shut.
The men scraped their shoes outside and gently kicked them off into the shoe basket beside the door.
The twins loomed over you as Stack leaned in, with your hand pressing against his chiseled abs. Warmth spread through you, as your hand glided over his abdomen, pushing him back a few. Stack stumbled back, grinning, while you rolled your eyes.
“We can't see you, now? Hm?” Stack hummed, his hands mushed your face, gently shaking your head from side to side.
“Stack, stop playing..” You snapped, squinting. Your palm swatted at his arm, Stack hissing with a smirk.
“But it's cute you act all fuckin’ tough,” Stack winced, his voice playful.
“Nigga, you play too much,” Smoke gritted, cutting his eyes at him.
“Nigga, you just jealous,” Stack tutted, matching his death glare.
You strode off toward the couch that faced the television, and gently plopped down, as the twins followed behind you. Smoke sat beside you on the right while Stack sat on the left side. Sandwiched between them, just like the dream. Their cologne is spicy, woody, possibly a hint of dark cherry, and cinnamon. Fuck, they smelled really good.
Your body shifted, thighs pressed together. Stack & Smoke sat manspread, his knees brushing against yours on purpose yet Smoke’s arm rested over the couch. Stack’s death glare cut at Smoke, yet his big brother smirked impishly. Panties pooling from the closeness, the rush of heat flowed through you.
“I've finally had a day today, and another couple of days off tomorrow, which is good. I need a damn break,” You say with a sigh, your head falling back on the pillow.
“Folks ‘round there stressin’ you out too much?” Smoke asked gently, the rasp crept in.
“Yes, I've been there for 3 years now, and I don't plan to stay long. Being an assistant to a corporate boss in the office is not what I thought I was.” You complained, shrugging.
Ideas floated through their minds, hoping to provide a solution to your problem, an escape for you.
“If you don't want to keep workin’ over there, then would you be open to workin’ in a bar? I've got security, good music, decent folks in their right mind, and good food,” Smoke spoke, sincerity in his tone.
“Or would you work in a strip club? Bartendin’ if you want,” Stack chimed in, careful with his time.
Thankfully, you’ve already had a bartending license, and on-the-job training. You knew how everything occurred from start to finish.
How could you say no to good music, and good food? Decent folks in their right mind? Sold. Yet, bars, and strip clubs always attract weirdos. Smoke would be there 24/7, Stack would be there too.
“Honestly, I do need a new job, and I'm so fucking exhausted of my current one. My boss is such a bratty bitch,” You grumbled, rolling your eyes.
Humming lightly, your head snapped in the direction of Smoke. “I'll work in the bar then, Smokey Bear!” You exclaimed with a grin, batting your eyelashes at him.
Smoke’s lips curled into a big smile, lips still closed shut. His heart skipped a beat at the nickname.
“Good to hear,” Smoke whispered.
Stack snickered at the nickname you've called Smoke. His hand over his mouth. You laughed but stopped yourself immediately, you thought it was cute for Elijah. He offered an incredible bear hug, reminiscent of a bear…cautious, caring, and powerful.
“Smokey Bear? Y/n, you tellin’ me only this nigga can prevent wild fires?” Stack asked, still belting out hysterical laugh.
“The fuck you laughin’ for Stacky-wacky?” Smoke cooed, dragging along a snicker.
Stack’s lips tightened in a line, faintly twitching at the nickname from Smoke. Scoffed it off.
“The fuck that mean?” Stack asked rudely, squiting hard at his brother.
A laugh spilling out of your lips, as Stack cut his eyes at you, but your lips went into a tight line. “Ok, it was a little funny, Stack!” You chimed in, shrugging.
“Guys, I have to tell you something. So I had trouble sleeping a couple of nights ago,” You confessed, your eyes darting between the men.
You swallowed hard, clearing your thoart. “N-no. It was a sex dream about you, and Stack. I was between the two of you, and it felt real.”
“A sex dream?” Smoke & Stack say in unison, intrigued yet bewildered.
A rush of heat flooded your face, embarrassment couldn't creep in. You weren't feeling like that anymore, the release was needed. Rose from the couch, your eyes darting between the twins. Your face softened, with something unreadable.
“Yes, and honestly, I want it to come true for me and I should get y'all out of my system,” You drawled softly, your hand resting over the nape of your neck.
Smoke & Stack exchanged longing gazes, fighting off a slow bite of their lips. Their faces softening with love, something deeper was brimming inside of them. A war
“You should get us out of yo’ system, Y/n? You sure ‘bout that sweetheart?” Stack spoke up first, his voice dangerously gravelly, and raspy.
You blinked twice. “Yeah, why?”
You wouldn't be surprised if the women they fucked separately, or together the women wouldn't be able to get Elijah, or Elias out of their system, or forget about them.
Smoke & Stack rose their positions from the couch, their posture straightened, and still. The twins stepped forward, yet flanked you on either side of you simultaneously.
Smoke leaned in, his lips inches away from your ear. Heat sank in your body, breath hitching. Caught in your thoart. His gaze on you, possessive, and salacious.
“Once we fuck you. Y/n, you’re our girl. You know how we feel about you, baby?” Smoke drawled, his voice deepened with his accent. His warm minty breath tickles your skin.
“Ya'll know how Sage is,” You say, nervousness in your tone.
Stack’s head tilted slightly, glancing at you, as if he was ready to take you down. His finger slides under your chin and his thumb rests under your lips, forcing your gaze to his.
Heat spreads through your body as you meet his gaze softly, trying to hold it as if it could prevent yourself from melting.
Despite this, you involuntarily moaned, your pulse pounding loudly in your ears. Pointless. Your panties were already wet enough, even before any touch by either of them.
You liked this, you inhaled sharply. “Are y'all clean?
Smoke & Stack nodded in reassurance. “Yeah, we’re clean. We get checked every day, and wear condoms..”
You wanted to feel them instead, entirely. “T-that’s good. But can I feel y'all this time..”
“All you have to do is say it, and we'll fuck you how you want. Just like that lil dream of yours and I know. Even better than that dream, baby.” Smoke whispered in your ear, watching your shiver in front of them.
One twin in your ear, and the other twin in front of you.
It was the classic trope of a devil and angel on your shoulders, but this time there were two devils. One wore the blue hour, while the other was dressed in crimson red.
“You grown, ain't you? What’chu worryin’ ‘bout her for?” Stack asked, controlled, and inviting.
You leaned forward, arching your back instinctively. Your thighs clenched together, catching the eyes of both Stack and Smoke, whose lips curled into mischievous smiles in perfect unison.
“Just fuck me already,”
—————
You lie flat on your stomach, with your chin resting on your arms, folded. Naked, as your eyes flickered toward the twins who stood bare at the edge of your bed, their dicks were thick, deep brown, swinging near their thighs. The weight of their dicks was heavy. Yet you waited for them, desperately.
Damn. Now, you saw why.
“You can touch me..” You whispered, audible enough for the men to hear.
Smoke kneeled on the bed, sliding toward you with a small smirk of mischief, his movement, forward and dangerously deliberate. His palm pressed against your stomach, fingers splayed possessively. Gently pushing you down on the soft violet bedding, your legs spreading wide for him. Elijah wanted to taste you first, his tongue gliding over his lip.
“Fuckk,” Smoke groaned raspily, as he wrapped his lips around your clit, your mouth fell into a silent gasp once his tongue traced teasing, slow shapes over your clit. He was in sync with every tiny heartbeat, your hands shot out, fingers gripped the bedspread and the heels of your feet dug into the mattress. “Oh—-fuckk!!” you moaned again, and again.
Smoke’s hands slipped under your knees, gripped, and lifted, resting over his shoulders. Your voice spilling out in a plethora of loud choked moans, cuss words. “OhmyfuckingggGodddd!” you mewled, nails clawing at his back, almost drawing blood. Smoke growled raspily across your clit, and your lip poked out, whimpering softly. His tongue lowered to your brown folds, tongue kisses your folds deep as if they were your lips. “You sayin the wrong name..” Stack grunted lowly, lapping your cum in his mouth. Slurping, swallowing, as his lips opened, closed simultaneously.
Your body squirmed, shook, in his tight grip. Your hand over his head, Smoke swayed his head from side to side over your folds crazily, your back arching over the wet sheets. He made a mess of you, everywhere.
“Nah, baby, you pray to us,” Smoke rasped, the pad of his thumb flattened over clit. His fingers nudged your folds open, curling into your G-spot. “Elijahhh!” You lost your mind, begging him. Smoke added suction, the sounds of your pussy swallowing his fingers, and your moans brought a simmering anger in Stack. Finger fucking you like a madman. He could make you cum like that, twice as fast. “You get wetter when I do this?” he cooed, smirking devilishly. Your cum splattered all over his palm, creating a bigger pool. “Yesss!”
Stack stood there, arms crossed. Eyes rolled. Unfazed. He kneeled, and slid behind you, his gaze darting to you, and Smoke. His palm rested over his dick, closing his fist. Raspily groaned from his own touch, lifting his dick, in his hand. His hand mashed your face, yet you were unable to speak. “Open,” Stack admonishes, his moan spilled out, his head leaned over you, and your mouth parted wide. “That’s our girl..” he praised, before crashing his lips into yours, shoving his tongue in, as your tongue tangled with his, swallowing your feeble moans.
Your fucked yourself into Smoke’s fingers, your moans vibrating against Stack’s mouth. Stack broke the kiss, as he pushed his dick inside your mouth. You took him in as best you could, the weight of his dick was heavy, but your cheeks were hollowing around him. “Suck harder…” Stack hummed lowly, his eyes snapped shut and you did. Elicit raspy groans from the twins. The vibration from your mouth due to Smoke devouring you drove him insane. Jaw aching. “This mouth made for sucking dick..” You were already so sensitive, as you jerked away, his nose tickled your clit, Smoke didn't give you mercy. Are these men trying to kill you through pleasure? Yeah, they were.
Smoke’s hand & Stack’s hand reached out, fingers gently gripped at your titties, kissing each swell of your breasts. Stack teased your left nipple between his teeth, while Smoke copied him on the right, sharply rolling the areola between their canines, while Stack’s finger pinched your clit. “Pussy made for this..” Smoke says, sliding in one more finger. Your thighs clenched against Smoke’s temples. You whined loudly, “P-please—-Elijah!! Elias!!!” you moan muffled on his dick. Your hand stroked what you couldn't fit in your mouth. “Nah. Go on and suck..slut..” Stack grunted, groaned, and moaned against you, your cheeks hollowing.
He tapped the fat head of his dick against your uvula, spurting spit, beads of precum. Stack moaned lowly. You made muffled choking sounds entirely, your hand pumping him still. Stack moved your hand. “I said suck my dick..no strokin’ baby..” Stack teased. Such a bully.
Stack’s hand latched around your thoart, his palm felt your neck muscles clenching, and unclenching, the steadfast movement of his dick going in and out. “Lemme feel that mouth…” Stack tsking through a moan. Sweat clung to your bodies, half of your face covered by a halo of curls. “Mhmm!” Your body twisted, shaking. Meeting Stack’s lovesick gaze, radiating your lust for them. His dick jumping, twitching inside your mouth.
Smoke pushed Stack a few feet away, he almost thrashed into the headboard but his palm on the wall. Before he could cum for you, by your command. Stack fisting his own dick, grunting loudly. “Here’s a reward, baby..shit..” You poked your tongue, mouth parted wide. Stack’s tip spurted thick spurts of cum white, landing on your titties, stomach, in your mouth. You swallowed, moaned devilishly. “Gonna..cummm!” you cried hopelessly, your breathing grew frantic, still breathing through your nose.
Their mouths released your breasts, yet your hips shoving into Smoke’s fingers, almost knuckle deep. Twisting, and curling his fingers into a ‘come here’ motion. “Eli—pleaseee!” but your choked moans fell on deaf ears, he only wanted you to feel it. His fingers slid out teasingly, he grinned at you with a heated gaze. “I ain't done eatin’ baby,” His tongue darted endlessly, tongue fucking you like you were the last meal. “This lil pussy suckin me in.." Smoke teased, scissoring his fingers over your G-spot. You twitched, and opened with every flick and suck, constantly oozing white cum.
Abruptly, you released, drenching Smoke's face, on his tongue, gulping, devouring your pussy completely as if he could engulf it all in his mouth entirely, "Elijahhhhh!!" your body arched over the mattress, maintaining that. “Can't stop cummin’ sweetheart? Make a mess on me.." he teased, the pad of his thumb tracing the outer shape of your folds, squelching noises. Of course, you couldn't. He was the cause and effect of your climaxes. His tongue flickered across your tight asshole, gliding a wet stripe. “Aahhh! Ughh!” You cried helplessly, nails dug deep into his neck.
You shrieked uncontrollably, stifled groaning, your eyes rolled back, Elijah thought he glimpsed white, while you witnessed stars flickering behind your closed eyelids, vivid colors exploding, whispering his name, sanity slipping away, body quivering, your pussy still emitting white droplets of cum, squirting again. Your body collapsed, chest falling, and rising. “Like how you taste?” Elijah groaned, low, and mean.
Smoke leaned forward, his hand gripped your thoart. Crashing his lips into yours, your mouth parted wide for a dragged-out wild moan, as Smoke shoved his tongue in, tongue wrestling with yours, swapping spit, and your white cum. Before you swallowed, slurping his tongue clean. But Stack’s hand gripped the back of your neck, yanking you away. Stack tongue kissed you deeply, tasting you. “Taste better…real sweet..” Stack praised, his tongue glides across his lip.
The Moore twins ruined you, did more than ravish you. These men were walking catastrophes. You were theirs.
Stack leaned into the headboard, his back cradled by the pillows. His hands held onto your waist, hoisting you up straight. Resting his chin on your shoulder, as you straddle him. “Make a mess on me..” He whispered, his voice deepened. Your pussy slides back, and forth against his thigh. Head fell back, dragging a raspy moan.
Your essence trickles all over his thigh. “You somethin’ else..shit..” Stack groaned raspily, he watched you fucked yourself on his thigh in awe. “Elias..” His teeth sank into his lips, moaning quietly. His thumb circling your clit, pooling his finger with your essence. His digit traced a trail of your essence around your nipples, you shivered. “Fuckkk..need youuuu!”
Stack lifted you, angling his dick at your wet pussy, as he lowered you onto him, you gasped loudly for oxygen once his tip pushing past your swollen folds, fitting every inch in push by push. “All the way down on it..” Stack hissing through it, the curve of his dick hits a certain spot that made you cry helplessly in pleasure. “E—Elias!!! Elias!” His hand latched around your thoart once he was fully inside and forced you to face him, veins pulsating against your slick, soft walls. “I'm fittin’ you right in..” he says, voice raspy, and mean. Your fingers gripped the sheets, for dear life. “Ain’t you tryna get us out yo’ system? Just talkin’ plain ol’ shit..” he taunted once more, and he felt your walls grip him tight.
“Ride this dick..the right way.…” Stack admonishes, your walls clenched around him instantly, as if it were a muscle memory.
By his command, you bounced fast, and ruthlessly. “You like this?” You whispered, tongue trailing along his neck, biting him deep. His eyelids closed shut. Your ass clapped against him, fucking him back as he said yet he smacked your ass again, disapproving. “Harder..” he commands, you bounced harder than you could. Overstimulated. “I—Elias..” your voice desperate. He shook his head, his hands latched around your waist. Your hips rolling, feeling a new sensation, your body buzzing with warmth. “Not enough moanin…” He whispered softly.
Smoke’s fingers pinching your clit mercilessly, you panted, crying softly. Tears falling down your face, your lip poked out. The twins paid that no mind, you were adorable to them. Your essence dampened his fingers entirely, white over brown skin. Rubbing your cum around your ecret brown nipples, you shook uncontrollably. “Elijahhh…Eliass! Ahh!” and Smoke wrapped his mouth around your nipple, licking it clean, tasting you, and fingers twisting your nipple. He moaned in appreciation, sucking it roughly, he gave the left nipple the same treatment..sucking, pinching, playing with them.
Stack opted to push upward, violently. You moaned desperately. “Takin’ too long to ride..” Stack gritted. Smoke’s hands fondle your breasts in teasing circles, and Stack was fucking you like he was molding his dick size in your pussy. Sexually frustrated. Your thighs burned in exhaustion yet you kept going, as his pace sped up, his hips slamming violently. “And I'm doing the fuckin’ for yo’ lil ass..” Stack teased, eyes rolling back. The chokehold of your pussy around his dick made him work for it, drilling into you, grunting your name, beating his climax.
Smoke resumed to play with your boobs, and flicked your throbbing, bruised clit. “Is it that good? You screamin’ like you ain't had dick like this” Stack asks, his hand gripping your jaw, facing him. Smoke let out a loud, wet pop, biting your nipples. “So fuckin good! So good!” These men were fucking the life out of you. Your feral screams rippling from your thoart. Back arched. Pussy bruised. Swollen. Sweaty. Asscheeks covered in their handprints.
You were out fucked by them. “This pussy got magic in it…only takin’ what we give you..” Stack taunted raspily, his hand moved Smoke’s hand out of the way. His digits pinched your nipples. “We wanna hear you say it..” Stack grunted, yet you bounced and he let a groan. Heat pooling through your stomach, you grew tighter, tighter, wetter, desperate. He was still fucking you deep and fast, as if he hated you.
“Say it…”
“Ahh—fuck! I'm yours! Y-you and Elijah!”
You panted out of breath, as Stack gave you long, deep thrusts, fucking you like a beast untamed. Bouncing on him grew useless, when he gave it to you, watching you squirm, cry like a deprived woman of pleasure. “And you gon’ know it every time we around, fuck what folks say..” Stack mumbled, meaning their sister as well. At this point, you didn't give a good goddamn if their sister found out or not. You were theirs, and theirs alone.
Knots in your stomach grew tighter, and tighter, threatening to unravel. Beckoning for a release, your voice, raspy, and low. You could barely scream, but there was still volume. “Ain’t done with’chu..” Stack was still fucking you unforgivingly, while Smoke played with your body, your hands shot out, and gripped Smoke’s shoulders. Stack’s hands slipped under your knees, and bounced you himself. “Ahh! Ahh! Elias!!! Elijah!! I’m gon—!” You begged them, yet those smirks across their faces knew you were close.
“Make a mess..”
You creamed, squirted everywhere all over Stack’s dick, leaving a huge mess on the sheets, while Stack drilled into you fast, fucking you through your climax, while he growled, grunted, and groaned in your ear. “I’m gon fuckin’ ruin you…”Smoke tongue kissed you messily, swapping spit. You moaned through each thrust, bouncing after every time Stack pushed his hips upward. “Already ruined that pussy…” Stack says, caught a pool of cum in his lap, nails marks on his brown skin. Your head fell back against his buff chest, first one to break the kiss. They already ruined you, turned you out, fucked you every which way, and fucked you loose.
Stack shoots his fat load of cum inside you, gritting his teeth, snapping his eyelids shut, seeing stars bursting. “Ahhh! Shittt!” Your mouth parted wide, but no sound came out. The impact of the climax, and rough fucking knocked the wind out of both of you. Stack pulled out fast, yet your mouth opened, as he came onto your tongue. You moaned devilishly, and swallowed quickly. Stack fell over the bed, and panting raspy, heaving, chest falling, and rising.
While you collapsed on the mattress, chest falling, and burned out, blinking away tears.
Smoke’s leaned in, facing you forward. His brows rose in concern, and his hand cradled your face. “One more round for me, baby?” Smoke cooed, his hand latched on your jaw.
You weakly nodded, giggling. He pulled in for a passionate kiss, deep, and slow. Now, it was Smoke’s turn.
His hands held on tight to your waist, flipped you on all fours before sliding his dick in fully. You moaned greedily, wildly as if you were a dying woman. Almost gut-wrenching but in immense pleasure. “Elijahhh!” With that, his hips rolling, deep and slow thrusts, dragging every stroke just to feel the constant twitch, grip of your pussy. “Ain’t enough?” Smoke rasped, gravelly grunting through his teeth, fucking you harder, shoving you across the mattress toward Stack. “I-it’s enough!!! Fuckk!!!” You shrieked, your hands thrashed into the mattress, softly thudding. Smoke’s palm slapped across your ass harshly, the sound echoed in the room and you moaned ferally.
You spoke some sort of gibberish in a slut like moan, softer. Your mouth drooling, eyes half lidded. Stack’s hand gripped your jaw, grinning down at you taunting like a bully. “Look at that face…” he says, in amusement. His thumb traced over your lips, your mouth parted wide, just after he shoved his thumb inside. “Thought you could handle all that..you can’t handle us..” Stack bullied, his smirk menacing. You whimpered patethically “Fuckk..” Your tongue twirled around his thumb, sucking it while your back was blown out by Smoke, he held you down by your waist to keep you still.
“Don’t give much lip when you take dick?” Smoke teased, his voice gravelly. Rutting against you, hitting a spot that Stack couldn't reach. You whimpered in response, and the brothers chuckled darkly. “Definitely don't…” Stack mumbled, a smirk etched on his face. All you could do was let out feral moans, cuss, or say their names in between, and take Smoke’s dick which you knew you could do. Your hair was a mess, mascara running down your face. A beautiful sight to them.
You clawed at Elijah's arm, yet he moved your hand out of the way, pushing his dick in deeper as if it couldn't fit. Your mouth fell open, jaw aching, body still buzzing in heat. You couldn't make noise anymore, lowly moaning. The Moore twins wore you out, until Smoke pulled out immediately.
You interjected, your voice came out in sharp bursts of air, raspy still. Your hand gripped his arm, pulling him back toward you. “N-nooo! Put it back in…” you whined loudly, your lip poked out but Elijah smacked your ass disapprovally.
Smoke turned you on your side, lifting your left leg, hooked tight under his buff arm just after sliding himself back inside, and, you immediately came just from Smoke enetering you alone. Embarrassing. Smoke didn't laugh, only his half hooded gaze down at you. Heat rising in his chest, pushing forward hard, yet slow, and long thrusts. "So fuckin’ greedy..” he says, as if he didn’t have enough your essence on his dick alone. Smoke was a dangerous one, he knew how to talk to a woman in the bedroom. Your head fell back against the pillows, moaning loudly again, clutching at his arm. “Elijahhhh..”
You didn’t want him to stop, but the pleasure he provided drove you to your limit. You felt lightheaded, your vision clouded with tears as your pussy clenching around Smoke’s dick repeatedly with loud, wet noises, the thick white ring around him expanding with each thrust. "You and this lil pussy gon' be the death of us.." Smoke gritted, biting back a rough moan.
He pumped into you unexpectedly, hitting G-spot made you scream crazier, your hans tightening around him in a vice-like grip, wetter than before, your back arching for him, his tip hitting a new spot that Stack couldn't, as the intensity increased to sweet torture yet relentless.
Stack's hand shot out, his fingers rubbed your clit in fast, teasing circles. Your hips undulating, bucking into his fingers while you took Smoke's dick, your eyes snapped shut, stars twinkling, virbant colors brusts. You sighed blissfully at the overstimulation from them, chasing the pleasure, trying to halt your climax. Stack's free hand reaching over, palming your breast, moaning at the pleasure he was giving you, you cried hopelessly. "Ahh! Ahh! E-Elias!!! Elijah!! Fuckk!" Your voice dragged out in soft pleas for more, but how much more could you take? It was driving you insane. Your climax closer than you expected.
"There you go, just cum already. You know you want it.." Stack cooed, taking his fingers from your mouth before biting his thumb. He smirked salaciously at you, and you already bottomed out, body still chasing the sweet relief of the release. “S-so…c-closee!! Ah shit! Right there!!” You wanted to. Desperately. You whined loudly for them, begging for them to keep up. Your jaw dropped, Stack crashed his lips into yours again, and swallowed your moans. You broke the kiss with a gasp for air, eyes shot out at the overwhelming sensation.
“Go on, and cum. You wrapped around my dick like this when you tryin’ so hard not to cum…” Smoke coaxed you on, fully enamored. That voice of his alone made you cum already, he knew what he was doing. His dick jumping, twitching inside you, your walls soft enough for him to slip, and slide easily. You whimpered for dear life, any source of something.
You screamed feral in hopeless pleasure rippling from your thoart, tears falling down your face, losing your voice again. Smoke watches as your pussy clings to him, gushing around his dick. He pumped into you until a guttural moan rippling from his thoart, just after spilling his thick load of cum inside you, fucking through your orgasm.
His hips slowed, halted instantly, pulling out, his cum trailing down your thighs. Smoke groans lowly as he watches. His eyes flickered toward you, his hand cradling your face, loving, careful, and you moan softly at his touch. Your body shaking, twitching. Passionately kissing your lips, peppered soft kisses along your neck, and suction on you collarbone, giving hickeys.
“You good over there, baby?” Stack asked in concern.
“Y-yeah. I just can't move…” You says raspily, chuckling softly.
Smoke & Stack rose up, while pulling up their sweatpants, Smoke lifted you in his arms, and carried you bridal style before he left Stack kissed your temple. “T-thanks, but we have to figure a way to tell your sister.” You says, voice almost nervous.
Stack waved it off. “She’ll be a’ight,” as if it wasn't a major issue.
Honestly, she would have to deal with it, somehow.
“You know she won't be. We fucked her friend.” Smoke chimed in, his voice controlled, and strict.
“Her friend fucked us back, remember? She’s our girl, man. This relationship is genuine.” Stack bragged with a shrug.
Smoke & Stack exchanged concerning looks, before nodding in agreement. “We'll be in the room wit’chu to tell her. Like Stack say, you’re our girl. We gon’ be right there.” Smoke says, his voice held an southren edge.
Smoke prepared a comforting bath for you to relax in while you cleaned up.
The twins swapped out the sheets for fresh ones and requested to use the other two bathrooms for showers, to which you granted permission.
Afterwards, the men took charge of cooking dinner as you moisturized your skin. You shared a meal with them, then readied yourself for sleep.
It was clear that the twins stayed over, a decision you made as you weren't ready for them to leave just yet.
All you had to do was prepare yourself for their baby sister.
Summary: The adventures of Smoke and his wild and carefree, younger girlfriend.
Warning(s): SMUT (18+, MDNI), unprotected sex (m/f), dirty talk, use of sex toys, overstimulation, spanking, bondage, mentions of creampie, harassment, misogyny (not Smoke though).
Lovergirlnote: This came out way longer than I expected y’all lol, but honestly I was having so much fun writing it. To all my fellow young hoes, this one is for y’all. Let me know what you think!🥹♥️
From the book of young hoe: Thou shan’t wear a coat if it doesn’t match the fit.
When most people met Smoke, they automatically assumed that they knew what type of woman he would gravitate towards. When they envisioned Smoke’s significant other, they pictured a woman who was modest, quiet, and poised. What they weren’t expecting was you.
Now, no one would ever step to Smoke and openly say anything unkind about you. Not unless they wanted to be packed up like a can of sardines. Because one thing Smoke didn’t play about was you.
Smoke meets you at the gas station of all places. He notices you almost immediately. It’s really hard not to notice you in your short dress that clings to your curves like it’s painted on, or the loud clacking from your heels that are definitely a safety hazard.
Or maybe it’s the warm and sweet vanilla perfume that wafts past his nose and lingers in the aisle as you pick up snacks. Smoke assumes that you must be coming back from a night out based on how you look. Your movements are a bit sluggish, but still graceful as you pick up a bag of Hot Cheetos.
You seemingly don’t pay attention to any of the patrons inside the gas station, whose eyes follow you like bugs to a porch light. You blow large bubbles with the gum in your mouth before popping it to repeat the cycle.
Smoke hates the way that his body instantly reacts to feeling your presence behind him. Your scent overwhelms his senses like you’re imprinting yourself into every atom of his being.
He spares a glance at you once he pays for his things. He finds that you’re already staring at him with a pretty smile and mischievous eyes. You wave your pretty manicured hand at him before stepping up to the counter. Smoke chuckles lowly before waving back to you and heading outside to pump his gas.
You slide the snacks across the counter as you smile flirtatiously at the associate, “Azim, how you doing, baby?”
Azim blushes under your gaze, “I’m doing good, my darling. Was it a good night out?”
“It was amazing, my girls and I danced all night. Free drinks too,” you reply, blowing another bubble.
Azim starts bagging up your items before peeking back up at you, “I’m glad to hear you had such a good time. Anything else you need, my dear?”
“Let me get $20 on pump five.”
Azim types the amount in the register before giving you your total, “That’ll be $21.00, my love.”
You smile at him, “Azim, I know you’re undercharging me.”
Azim waves you off with a soft chuckle, “You know you’re one of my favorite customers. I have to take care of you. Family discount.”
You tap your card on the reader before smiling and blowing a kiss to Azim, “You’re the best, Azim. Let me know when your wife is making some more of that baklava, so I can come through.”
“I’ll have her make you a special batch. Come by on Sunday,” Azim calls out to you. You reply with a quick ‘thank you’ before walking out to your car. You spot Smoke standing at his car, pumping gas, along with a few other guys who are crowded around one car.
Truthfully, Smoke could’ve been done pumping his gas, but he chose to pump slower in hopes of catching you coming out of the store.
You open the door to your car to throw the snack bag on the seat before moving to start pumping your gas. It’s not lost on Smoke how cold it is outside, and you, in your tiny dress, don’t even seem to be phased by it.
In fact, you keep pumping your gas and blowing bubbles like everything is copacetic.
Unfortunately, Smoke’s not the only one who notices how pretty you look tonight. The guys surrounding the car all wolf-whistle and make noise as they catch you passing by. Smoke can see the predatory look in their eyes as they drink in your appearance.
His body immediately goes into protector mode. Feeling bold, one of the guys starts to yell out in your direction, “Aye ma! Aye ma! Lemme holla’ at you!”
You roll your eyes and keep pumping your gas. You chose to ignore the ignorant man, who clearly doesn’t have any home training.
It appears that audacity is on sale as the man yells out to you again, “Aye, girl! I know you hear me talking to you!”
Still, no response from you.
“Well, fuck you too then, you stuck up bitch!”
Smoke doesn’t know whose head snaps over quicker—his or yours. He can see the anger filling your pretty face as you finally stop chewing your gum.
“Boy, if you don’t get the fuck out of my face with them cheap ass clothes and that fake-ass Cuban link. Wanna-be-rap-ass nigga,” you yell back. Smoke and all of the other men are stunned momentarily by the ruthlessness of your words.
The wanna be who you just insulted doesn’t take the lashing well. Smoke catches the ugly expression that overtakes the man’s face as he moves around the car to start making his way to you. His homeboys have enough sense to try to stop him, but he roughly shrugs them off.
Just as he’s about to make his way to you, Smoke stands directly in his path. The older man squares his shoulders and glares down at the younger man. The height difference, combined with Smoke’s quiet disposition, creates a sense of unease in the young man’s demeanor.
“Nah, don’t get shy now. Whatchu’ was planning on doing, young buck? You thought you were about to put your hands on her?” Smoke questions, stepping up to crowd the boy’s space.
The man in question opens his mouth to start stuttering. Smoke frowns, “Nah, don’t start stuttering on me now, boy. Tell me whatchu’ was planning. You wanna act bad in front of your boys, so let’s talk man to man. You wanna press her? Nah, you press me now, nigga.”
The man swallows harshly as Smoke can see the tremors racking through his body as he finally starts to recognize Smoke.
He holds his hands up, “S-Smoke, I ain’t meant nothin’ by it, man.”
“You ain’t mean nothing by it? Seems like you had your mind set before I stepped in front of you. You wanted to be a man when you were about to put your hands on her, but you ain’t a man now that I’m in front of you.” Smoke steps forward so the only thing that the young man can feel is his presence.
He lowers his voice, “You listen to me, and I want you to listen real good because I don’t repeat myself. You ever talk to a woman like that or approach her like that again, ima beat yo’ ass as yo daddy should’ve. If I see you planning on pressin’ another woman, I’ll break every bone in your fuckin’ body and have you sippin’ on yogurt for the rest of your life. Don’t get yourself put on a t-shirt, boy. I’m sure Ms. Coretta ain’t prepared to put you in a casket. We clear?”
The young man is now openly shaking as he sees the darkness in Smoke’s eyes. It’s like he’s looking at something inhuman. He nods his head, “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Smoke,” He responds, fear lacing the edge of his tone.
Smoke nods, “Now, I believe you owe her an apology.”
The boy looks in your direction, “I’m sorry, Miss. It won’t happen again.”
Smoke looks at him again, “Now, get the fuck out of here.” The young man scurries away with his homeboys in tow. Anyone in town knows that the Smokestack twins are the last men that you want to have beef with.
Smoke turns to you before walking over. You blow a bubble before popping it, “Thank you, you didn’t have to do that.”
Smoke smirks, “Yes, I did. What were you planning on doing if I hadn’t stepped in or been around?”
You shrug, “I was planning on getting him with this bear mace.”
Smoke lifts his eyebrows, “You know that’s illegal.”
You blow another bubble. Pop! “So is harassment, but these niggas act like the First Amendment entitles them to a response from me.” Smoke chuckles in response.
You look at him, “So it’s Smoke, I reckon?”
He nods, “S’just a nickname. My real name is Elijah.” You hum while still chewing on your gum. You’d vaguely heard of the Smokestack twins. Anybody this side of the Delta had heard about the two men, but you rarely paid attention when people would go into detail about them.
You only cared for gossip when it was something that intrigued you. Two men who put fear in the hearts of men in the South didn’t intrigue you. Yet, with Smoke standing in front of you, smelling like a grown man, you were now thoroughly intrigued. It didn’t help the fact that he was fine in a way that gave 90s.
Smoke catches your hand on the gas pump, “Let me finish pumping your gas for you. It’s freezing out here.”
You step to the side and let Smoke take over. Who were you to deny the services of a man being courteous to you? Smoke takes a moment to look at you up close.
You smile before leaning on your car, “You wanted to pump my gas so you could stare at me?”
“M’just wondering where your jacket is,” Smoke comments.
“At home, it didn’t go with my outfit,” you respond as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“So catching pneumonia in the ass is worth the fit?”
“Yep, you haven’t ever heard the saying ‘fashion is sacrifice’?”
Smoke chuckles, “Can’t say I have. Now, would you pretty please go sit in the car while I finish pumping your gas?”
You roll your eyes before smacking your glossed lips, “Fine, since you’re so worried that I’ll turn into a popsicle.” You open your door before sliding into the seat. From his view, Smoke can see you typing on your phone. He finishes pumping your gas and places the gas pump back on the handle.
He closes the cap as you turn on your car. You roll down the window just as Smoke steps closer to lean down. You flash another pretty smile at him, “Thank you again for your help, Mr. Smoke.”
“Just Smoke for you, sugar. Or Elijah. Whichever you prefer.”
“Hmm..I guess I’ll call you, Elijah, then,” You said, still chewing on your gum. There’s a beat of silence that’s filled with your soft chewing and music from your radio.
You lean closer to him, “Are you going to ask for my number now?”
“You know I’m too old for you, right?”
You blow another big bubble and pop it, “So? I like my men a little seasoned. Just hand me your phone.” Smoke slides his phone from his pocket and unlocks it. You start typing your number in before calling yourself. You save his contact and slide his phone back into his hand.
“Do you always give your number away at the gas station?” Smoke questions.
“I give my fake number out all the time. You should feel lucky that you have my real number,” You respond, flashing another cute smile at him. Smoke admires the way that the light dances across your skin and the faint glitter that he assumes is from some lotion.
“Consider me honored. Drive safely and let me know when you make it home,” Smoke states, looking you straight in the eye.
You smack your lips, “You checking for me already, old man?”
“I’d just feel a lot better knowing that you got home safely.”
“I’ll text you then, Elijah.” With that, you smile before rolling your window up. You drive out of the parking lot with Smoke watching your car.
He enters his own car and sets off to go home.
Later in the night, when he makes it home and showers, he’s lying in bed, and he hates to admit that he’s waiting for the text from you. Finally, his phone vibrates in his hand, and he sees your name appear on the screen.
You
*image attached*
I made it home safely
Smoke eyes the picture for far longer than he’ll ever admit. His gaze scans across your baby blue pajamas and the matching bonnet. A cute smile graces your lips as you snap the picture.
Elijah
Let me take you out tomorrow for brunch.
You
Straight to the point, I like you.
I guess I can clear some time in my very busy schedule for you😉
Elijah
I promise it’ll be worth it.
You
It better be. I’m not afraid to leave you at the table by yourself.
From that moment, you became Smoke’s old lady, and everybody knew not to cross you unless they wanted him on their necks.
From the book of young hoe: Thou shalt take the clothes from the dryer and put it in a pile; you’ll get to it later
The age difference between you and Smoke takes a little bit to get used to on both of your ends, but honestly, it’s not that big of a deal. In fact, you keep Smoke on his toes every day that you’re together. It’s within the second month of your relationship that he learns that you’re a “young ho” as you had so affectionately put it.
“Why you calling yourself a hoe?” He asked, a frown covering his handsome face.
You roll your eyes, “It’s not like that, Elijah. It’s more of a reclamation of a word for a positive cause.”
“What I tell you about rolling your eyes?”
You resisted the urge to do it again. The last time that you’d rolled your eyes at Smoke, he’d turnt you every way but loose in the bedroom.
He chose not to elaborate on your new self-proclaimed title. He learned very early in your relationship that you were a real stubborn brat when you wanted to be. He liked to play the part of annoyed, but inwardly, he loved how much you tested his patience.
Smoke was one of those guys who had a real strict program, and that program was applied to you, but he often let you off scot free most of the time. Stack would even fuss at him because of how spoiled Smoke had you.
The next day, Stack and Smoke are sitting at the kitchen table together while you’re vacuuming in the living room. You cut the vacuum off, and Smoke expects you to walk up to the wall to take the cord out.
But you don’t. Because young hoes don’t do that. Instead, you grip the cord and rip it out of the socket before dragging the piece over to you.
Smoke and Stack both watch you.
“Aye, why didn’t you just go pull it out?” Stack asks.
You smack your lips, “Why would I make all of those unnecessary steps when I can just do it my way?” You wrap the cord up and hook it onto the vacuum before leaving the living room.
Stack turns to Smoke, “You would end up with a young hoe.”
“So you know about it too?”
“Yeah, it’s this new thing on Twitter and TikTok. Girls talking about stuff that young hoes typically do. Her ripping that cord out of the wall was a prime example.”
Smoke does typically watch you. It’s a habit, really, but now, he watches you closer for your young hoe habits.
He comes over to your house on a Sunday and finds that you’re finishing up your laundry. You grab the warm clothes from the dryer in one big swoop and deposit them on the chair in the corner of your room. Smoke watches as you walk away without folding the clothes.
“Baby, you just gone leave them right there?” He questions, looking between you and the pile.
“Yes, Papa Bear, I’ll fold them later,” you respond. He wants to give you the benefit of the doubt and trust that you’ll fold them, but he has to keep an eye on you.
Turns out, he should’ve let the doubt win.
When he comes back over the following day, the clothes are still sitting in the chair. Wordlessly, he goes over to the pile to start folding the clothes into neat sections for you. He even goes the extra mile to place them in their appropriate places.
You give him a surprised look when you come into the room, “Aww, Papa Bear, you didn’t have to do that.” You press a big kiss against his lips, your lip gloss staining his lips, but quite frankly, he loves the sensation.
“You’re welcome, baby.”
Smoke is able to catch more of your young hoe antics when it comes to clothing. You volunteer to put his clothes in the washer because you love taking care of your old man.
To his honest defense, Smoke believed that you could handle the task, and truthfully, you could, but just in your own way. He stands up from the couch to go grab a water from the fridge. Once inside the kitchen, he catches sight of you in the laundry room with his dirty basket of clothes.
Now, Smoke is a man of habit. There’s a precise way that he likes to have things done. Which is why he’s honestly gobsmacked when he watches you load the clothes into the washer without separating any of them by color.
To top it off, you grab his expensive laundry detergent and pour way more than what’s required into the washing machine. You turn the machine on, step back with your hands on your hips, and have the nerve to look proud.
You turn and catch sight of him staring at you in the kitchen. He fixes his mouth to comment, but chooses not to when he sees the bright smile on your face.
You point at the washer, “Look, I got you all fixed up.”
Smoke can’t find it in his heart to take this moment from you, so he just smiles in response before walking over to press a long kiss against your lips.
“Thank you, baby.”
Now, Smoke is old, but he didn’t think he was that old. But by the way that you’re looking at him and the ironing board, the nigga starts to feel like Morgan Freeman.
“You don’t know what an ironing board is?”
“Nigga, I’m not daft, I know what an ironing board is. I’m just trying to figure out why you would need one. Just iron on the bed.”
Smoke cuts his eyes in your direction, “No, the creases won’t hit the same.”
“Anyways. So what do you need this disinfectant spray for?” You ask, holding up the white bottle.
“Baby, that’s starch.”
You frown and turn the bottle in your direction before reading it. You try to hide the embarrassed look that crosses your face before you hand the bottle back to him. You walk over to the ironing board that is still folded and fumble with it.
You look genuinely perplexed by the fact that it won’t stand up. Anyone else would be annoyed, but Smoke finds it cute. You look at him with that whiny pout on your face, “Your ironing board is broken. Probably because it’s from the 90s.”
Smoke chuckles before taking the ironing board from your hand and standing it up correctly. You look at each other in silence before you nod, “I got it loosened up for you. You’re welcome.”
With that, you walk out of the room, and Smoke figures it’s best to just let you have the win.
Besides, his baby girl gets whatever she wants when she’s with him.
From the book of young hoe: Thou shalt use Apple Pay for literally every expense. We don’t use physical cards or cash anymore.
Smoke is old school.
He still carries around a wallet of cash and his debit cards. He only sets up Apple Pay on his phone because you insisted that it was more convenient.
It is, but he won’t admit that to you. For you, you never have to pay for things when you’re with Smoke. In fact, he finds the audacity of you paying for anything outrageous. On the small chance that he isn’t there with you, he makes sure that you have the funds available for your needs.
When he tries to hand you his card, you genuinely look perplexed, “What’s this for?”
He squints, “For you to buy your stuff. No limit.”
“That’s cute, Papa Bear, but I don’t even carry my own card around. I use Apple Pay for everything,” You said.
“Just add my card to your Apple Pay, then baby,” Smoke orders, sliding the card in your hands.
“Okay, thanks, baby,” you said, kissing his lips a few times. In response, Smoke slides your body into his lap and watches as you type the card into your Apple Pay and save it.
This isn’t the only incident involving money with you and Smoke. You’re about to head out for a night with your girls when he stops you.
“Come here before you leave, baby,” He demands from the couch. He and Stack are watching the finals while you go out.
“Sup ugly,” You state, slapping Stack on the neck. He frowns and twists around to pop you back when you step out of the way.
Y’all are about to engage in another childish fight until Smoke glares at you both. Stack smacks his lips, “You better get yo girl before we be outside tussling.”
“Ima mace you too,” You quip, as you walk to Smoke’s side of the couch.
“See, I don’t even wanna play with you because I know you’re serious,” Stack states before turning his attention back to the TV.
Smoke runs his eyes up and down your body in the two-piece set. Your body shines from your rigorous body care routine. He grips your waist, “You look good, babygirl.”
“Thank you, Papa Bear,” you respond, leaning down to kiss him. From behind him, Stack makes gagging noises while you stick your finger up at him.
As you pull away from the kiss, Smoke grabs a couple of bills from his wallet and slides them over to you.
“Uh, I don’t need this,” You said, a faint whine at the end of your tone.
“Yes, you do. Your little Apple Pay can’t cover everything. What if your phone dies? You need to be prepared just in case. Here. Take a few quarters, you might need to call me from a pay phone,” Smoke explains.
All of the argument leaves your body because he’s right and you know it. You slide the bills and change in your purse before leaning down to press your lips against his again. This time, however, you slide your tongue inside of Smoke’s mouth while his hand goes to your neck.
“Man! Y’all gone with all of that,” Stack yells from his end of the couch.
You and Smoke part with a few additional pecks. A honk from outside lets you know that your friends are here. As you go to leave, you peck Smoke’s lips again, “I love you, Papa Bear. I’ll text you updates throughout the night.”
You start walking towards the door until Smoke clears his throat, “Grab that coat on the way out, babygirl.”
You huff and throw your head back, “Elijah..it doesn’t go with my outfit!”
He gives you a hard look, and you stare back. For a solid minute, you both keep the staring contest going as Stack moves his head back and forth between the two of you.
Smoke goes to stand when you hold your hands up, “Chill! Chill! I’m getting it.” You grab the jacket and hold it up as if to say, “See.”
In return, Smoke smiles at you, “Good girl. I love you too. Make sure that you text me.”
Stack laughs, “Aha…my brother got you in check.” He turns and feels like he has the last word. He doesn’t catch you creeping up behind him until you lean down to whisper, “stupid hoe” in his ear and slap the back of his neck again. You’re already out the door by the time that Stack gets off the couch.
He frowns and crosses his arms.
Smoke takes a sip from his drink, “Y’all are some children.”
Later in the night, Smoke periodically gets updates from you about your location and condition. You send him tipsy pictures from the club bathroom. It’s not too long before he gets a notification from your Instagram saying that you’ve posted to your stories.
Smoke chuckles at the picture, but he’s glad to see that you’re having a good time with your girls. Some people assumed that since you liked to go outside, it would be a turn-off for Smoke, but it was quite the opposite.
He liked the fact that you were young, carefree, and enjoying your life. He’d never try to nag or change who you were. In fact, being with you taught Smoke that he needed to let loose a lot more and enjoy the moment.
Hours later, he hears the sound of a car door closing and watches from the porch as you walk back to the house. You pout pathetically upon seeing him, “My feet hurt. Can you carry me, Papa Bear?”
Without hassle, Smoke scoops you up into his arms and carries you into the house. He waves at your friends as he closes the door. Your head lolls to the side as you lie on his shoulder.
Smoke looks down at you, “You still with me, baby?”
“Mhmm.”
He raises an eyebrow, “So you gonna carry me up these stairs?”
“Yeah, I got you, baby,” you grumble back. Smoke laughs to himself at your antics. Even in your tipsy state, you still swore up and down that you were the Incredible Hulk.
Arriving inside the bedroom, Smoke gently sets you down while grabbing a big t-shirt for you.
He helps you with getting out of the heels and your set. “Lift your arms for me, baby.”
You oblige as he slips his t-shirt over your head. He goes to the bathroom to grab some micellar water to help you remove your makeup.
You grumble in sleepiness.
“I know, baby, just a little bit more,” He coos to you gently. Once he’s finished cleaning your face, he tucks you away under the blankets. He slips your bonnet over your hair.
“It’s hot,” you whine from beneath the covers. Smoke walks over to the fan, flicks it on, and turns it in your direction. He’d never heard of someone sleeping with a fan on until he started dating you.
He slips beneath the covers and pulls your body into his side. You cuddle your body more into his hold, “Thank you, Papa Bear. I love you.”
“I love you too, babygirl,” Smoke replies, pressing a kiss to your temple.
As he listens to your steady breath, Smoke rationalizes that there’s nothing better than being here with you.
If Stack were here, he’d clown him real bad, but Smoke doesn’t care. He’d gladly go out and get your name tatted to show how down bad he is for you.
From the book of young hoe: Thou shalt play the music about the guns and drugs, but shalt not participate in said activities
Smoke watches you in amusement as you pretend to shimmy in the living room, as “Off the Leash” by Gucci Mane blasts through the space. When he first met you, he’d assumed that you would like a lot of lover girl music, which you did.
But more often than not, you were listening to music about drugs and guns, even though you were hands down a law-abiding citizen. The song changes to “All There” by Jeezy, and you start hyping yourself up more.
You walk over to Smoke and start rapping the lyrics in his face, while grabbing money from his wallet to spread it down your arm.
“So you’re a dope boy now?” Smoke asks, subtly nodding his head along to the music.
“I’ve been trappin’ out here, Smoke,” You respond. He raises his eyebrows at the change of name, but continues chuckling as you make gun gestures with your hands.
“So that means I should go get you a gun of your own now?”
You ball your face up, “No, thank you. You know I don’t like guns. Plus, I’d just be a menace if these niggas tried me.” You prove your point by making gun noises like you’re shooting
You really weren’t a big fan of guns. Even with the gun that Smoke kept in his house, you always made sure that he had it locked away, far from your sight. You didn’t even like the idea of him being near a gun, and he was a whole trained veteran.
You take your phone out and start typing. You glance back at him, “I have a hair appointment tomorrow, so I may be MIA for a while.”
He nods, “Okay, I’ll send you the money to cover it.”
You lean down to press a kiss against his cheeks, “Thanks, Papa Bear.”
When you mentioned getting your hair done to Smoke, he doesn’t expect you to be gone for that long. He checks your location, which states that you’re still at your braider’s house.
His phone buzzes with a text from you.
Babygirl♥️
Be home soon.
I can’t wait for you to see my braids🙂↔️
He lets out a sigh of relief at the message. One thing that was always true, Smoke could be a bit overprotective, but it was only because he knew how the world operated. He knew how cruel people could be, especially to someone like you.
You were smart and observant, but Smoke just preferred to be around to look out for you. In his mind, you were all bubble gum, sunshine, and sweetness. He’d hate to see someone trying to snuff that light out of you.
Thirty minutes later, Smoke hears your car pulling into the yard. You get out, casually sipping on your Stanley Cup and walking to the house.
He opens the door to greet you. You connect your lips to his while gripping his shirt, “Hey, Papa Bear. I hope you weren’t waiting up for me.”
“I was,” Smoke said, closing the door behind you.
He goes to sit on the couch and crosses his arms, “What took you so long?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes, “It was mostly the braid length. You know I like to get my braids long.” You do a quick turn to show the braids off, and Smoke’s gaze travels down to how long they are. The braids’ length ends just below your butt.
You turn back to him with a wide smile, “Do you like them?”
“Yeah, babygirl, I love them. You look beautiful as always.” He means it. There’s not one moment when Smoke isn’t thinking about how beautiful you are.
Later in the night, he oils your scalp at bedtime. In return, you apply a clay mask to his face as he waits for it to dry.
Quite honestly, Smoke had never been well-versed in skincare. That just wasn’t his thing. Now, he kept himself up and always kept his skin moisturized, but stuff like skincare was more up Stack’s alley.
Since dating you, Smoke has a whole skincare routine that you and he do every night. He’s always had pretty good skin, but since being with you, you've elevated his skin to a new level. You both stand side-by-side at the sink, washing the masks from your faces. Smoke scoops you up to sit on the counter and grips your backside in his hand as you apply his serums and moisturizer for the night.
You peek up at him through your lashes, “You so handsome, Papa Bear.”
You grab his chin in your hand and pull his face down towards yours. Smoke’s lips engulf yours in a passionate kiss as he tongues you down. He slides your body closer to his as he fully steps between your legs. You roll your hips into his as his bulge presses against your wet core. When he steps back slightly, you whine in response while pouting. Smoke chuckles darkly before gripping your thighs to pull you off the counter. He effortlessly carries you from the bathroom to the bedroom and deposits you on the bed.
He leans down on the bed to cover your body with his. He grabs both of your wrists in his hands and pins you to the top of the bed. He frowns when he moves one of his hands and hears a crinkle. Smoke looks up and grabs the item. A bag of Hot Cheetos crunches in his hands.
He looks down at you while you give him an innocent grin. It’s only when he looks up that he notices all of the extra items in the bed like candy, your iPad, both of your chargers, and your Stanley.
He’s about to open his mouth to comment when you stop him, “Before you start with all of that, I need this. These are my essentials. Don’t be trynna reach across me to eat my snacks either.”
He gives you a blank look, “I’m trynna eat you now, but if you want to keep the snacks on the bed…”
You move quickly to put the snacks and other items on the nightstand.
You open your legs with a soft smile, “Okay, I’m ready.”
The only thing Smoke can do is chuckle, but he still gets on his knees regardless. His back may protest, but he’ll never give up the chance to put his mouth on you.
From the book of young hoe: Thou shalt not take any BS.
It didn’t take Smoke a long time to figure out that you were a bit of a hot head. In your honest defense, you just weren’t the type to hold your tongue, especially when something felt like disrespect. Which is why he often found it amusing when you and Stack would argue because you’d match his brother bar for bar with insults.
However, it was all love between you and Stack. You were the younger sister he always craved having, so he’s delighted to have you around more often.
As Smoke’s old lady, as he likes to refer to you as, your invitation to any family functions is automatically secured. You knew your spot was secured when all of Smoke’s aunts and uncles hit him with the famous, “That’s you, nephew?”
You stood in the kitchen with Ardelia, Smoke, and Stack’s mother as you both conversed.
“I’m so happy that you could come today, and you look so pretty,” Ardelia said, nodding her head in appreciation.
“Thank you, Mrs. Moore,” You said, grinning widely.
“Ah, now what I tell you about that. None of that, you can call me mama.”
You smiled even brighter at her comment. Ardelia had been nothing but welcoming to you since Smoke introduced you for the first time. You were nervous that she wouldn’t be accepting of you, especially with the age gap, but she referred to you as her daughter-in-law all over town. Now, a few of Smoke’s other family members weren’t as accepting of you, but they wouldn’t ever say it aloud. But you were well aware of the whispered comments.
‘He’s bringing that lil’ girl all up in here. She still got milk behind her ears.’
“He outta be ashamed. Bringing her around here when he could be back with Annie.’
‘Look at her outfit. Any shorter and them shorts will be some panties.’
’I heard she just with him for the money. Jill from down the street said she got a pattern of jumping from man to man and using them for money.’
‘Lord, that’s a shame!”
You rolled your eyes and took it on the chin. The last thing you were about to do was start an argument with Smoke’s folks, especially in his mama’s house. You knew how a lot of people viewed you, especially with how you carried yourself. There’d been rumors all over the place that you were a relationship hopper, which was far from the truth. You just weren’t the type to stick around in a relationship, especially if it didn’t serve you.
Growing up as a little black girl in the South, you recognized that many black girls weren’t taught how to date. Most girls here felt that if they dated someone, they had to tie themselves down to the person forever. It was often frowned upon if you were dating more than one person or exploring your options.
No, exploring your options was only something that was reserved for men.
The fact that you weren’t the type to stick around in dead situations or entertain men made you stick out like a sore thumb in the community. They couldn’t stand to see a black woman standing strong in her boundaries. They would never catch you apologizing for that.
You walk outside and sit next to Smoke, who is surrounded by a few of his uncles and cousins. It’s at that point in the evening when the conversations shift to more controversial topics, and the new school vs old school duke it out.
You were already rolling your eyes as Marvin, one of Smoke’s cousins, opened his mouth to speak. He was the physical embodiment of red pill alpha male content.
“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t want my Queen out here degrading herself on these apps by posting seductive pictures and doing OnlyFans. I mean, look at the state of female rap, all they talk about is their pussy and what they can get from men.”
A few of the older traditional men hum in agreement.
You frown, “Well, isn’t that a bit contradictory, Marvin? Men rap about pussy all the time. There isn’t one rap song that you can give me that doesn’t consist of some line of a man talking about all of the women that he’s slept with or the degrading acts that he makes her perform. To add onto your point, you’re complaining about the women making content, but you fail to realize that there wouldn’t be a market if men weren’t paying for it. Sounds like smart business women capitalizing on a rising market.”
Marvin cuts his eyes at you. You can see the irritation rising in his eyes, “See, I’d expect you to say that. You’re one of those new school women. You don’t have traditional values. A real woman knows her place in the home. She should be preparing the home for her King to come home to. She shouldn’t be out here selling pussy.” He glances over in Smoke’s direction, “Dang, cuz, you really switched things up with this one. At least Annie was taking care of her man.”
Marvin sits back in the chair, clearly pleased with himself. Beside you, Smoke hardens, and everyone can catch that look of murder in his eye. He’s about to address the situation when you place a hand on his chest.
“It’s okay, baby, I got it. Marvin, I don’t take pseudo-intellectual men like you seriously. You be the same niggas hollering about being an Alpha male and you ain’t even graduated from community college. Last time I looked in the mirror, my breasts and vagina were still there, so I think we got the real woman part covered. You keep trying to take jabs at me about being a low-value woman when, last time I checked, I got two degrees under my name, and I’m well on my way to my third. Let’s not forget the high-paying job, and I own my house. We can go band for band if you want to.”
You pause and snap your fingers, “I forgot, you don’t have a job, so your bands wouldn’t even match mine. What’s your occupation again? Wait…you’re still building your little YouTube with the ten subscribers, all of whom are your homeboys who can’t keep your dick out of their mouths. You keep talking about pussy, but baby boy, you wake up every day and look at a pussy in the mirror.”
You sit back in your chair with a demure smile. The backyard is silent as everyone turns to look at Marvin. He storms from the chair and walks towards the door. You all listen as his car pulls out of the driveway.
“I like this one, nephew,” Tony, Smoke’s uncle, comments as he clinks his cup with yours.
Smoke looks over at you in concern, “Baby, you good?”
“Yeah, ain’t nobody stressin’ over Marvin. I know my worth, and I know what I bring to the table. I’m not about to let anyone feel like they pressin’ me.”
“Good, but I’ma still beat his ass later on for talking to you like that,” Smoke states, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.
“Thanks, Papa Bear.” You lean over to press your lips against his. You resist the urge to deepen the kiss because you still have to be respectful in front of his family.
“Anytime, baby, you know you mean the world to me. Nobody in this world is ever gonna disrespect you while I’m around.”
Before you can comment, Stack leans over to dap you up, “That last line was a bar. Let’s go put that down in the studio.”
From the book of women: Always show respect where respect is due.
Annie Boudreaux. Formely Annie Moore.
You’d met Annie in passing a few times, and you liked her well enough. You both got along, seeing as you were both important women in Smoke’s life. To others, they wondered if it bothered you that Smoke’s ex-wife still came around to family functions, but truthfully, it didn’t.
You understood how important Annie was to Smoke and their shared history. It’d be selfish if you asked him to stay away from her. That didn’t mean that Smoke was taking advantage of the situation and disrespecting you. He’d always be open and let you know that he was going to see Annie. You’d always kiss him and bid him on his way.
Today was the first time that you’ve ever set foot in Annie’s yard.
You walk slowly towards the side of the house where baby Anais Moore’s headstone sits. You note the fresh flowers sitting at the headstone, no doubt from Smoke’s earlier visit in the week. You set down your own bouquet before willing away the tears that follow.
Smoke talks about his and Annie’s little girl from time to time, but only when the moon shines low in the room, and you can’t see his tears falling. He’d laid his head on your chest and whispered all about his daughter, while you remained silent and rubbed at his head.
“She was so beautiful and tiny. I was scared of holding her the first time,” He laments.
Your heart clenches painfully in your chest. You wish that you could take away all of the pain, but you know that nothing ever quite soothes the ache of losing a child.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here today,” Annie comments from her place on the steps. You catch her eyes as they clock the flowers that you placed at the baby’s grave.
“I wanted to come visit you, and I needed to ask for your help with something.”
Annie gives you a long look before ushering you inside the house. She pours you a glass of tea as you sit across from each other on the couch.
“So what brings you by?” Annie questions.
“Can you teach me how to make that gumbo dish that Elijah likes. He mentioned that it’s one of his favorite meals, and I wanted to do something nice for him,” You said, nerves coloring your voice.
Your wide eyes meet Annie’s, and you’re honestly scared that she’ll tell you no. Instead, she chuckles, “You came all this way to ask me how to make a pot of gumbo for Elijah? Come on, silly girl. You must really be in love.”
“I am.”
For another beat, you both look at each other, and Annie runs her eyes across you. Unbeknownst to you, she can see the pink swirls radiating around your body with all of the love that you have for Elijah.
She gestures for you to follow her to the kitchen, where she begins taking out all of the ingredients. She turns to you, “Go pick me some of those bell peppers from the garden.”
You nod before setting out to the garden, where Annie has an assortment of fruit and vegetables. You navigate towards the bell peppers as you pick out the best ones. Inside the house, you hand the peppers to Annie as she washes them off.
“I love your garden. I always wanted to grow one,” You said, leaning against the counter.
“Tell Elijah. He’s good at starting a garden,” Annie responds. She ushers you forward as she grabs the flour and cast-iron skillet.
“Now the roux is the most essential part of the gumbo. You mess up the roux, you might as well throw the whole pot away.”
Together, you and Annie work hand in hand to craft the gumbo the way that Smoke likes it. Annie lets you take over for the most part, while she gently guides you. Soon, you’re both sitting at the table sharing a bowl of gumbo over rice and laughing like old friends.
“Next thing I know, Stack is running out of the house. Yellin’ about some voodoo,” Annie states, to which you laugh loudly.
Your laugh calms after a few minutes when you catch Annie staring at you.
“Thank you,” She states.
She doesn’t have to explain what she’s thanking you for. You already know. You slide a hand across the table as you tangle your fingers together.
“I really appreciate you, Annie.”
“Likewise.”
She doesn’t mention that she can read your palms with your hands touching like this. She chuckles internally. She hopes that you’re ready for some twins in the future.
When Smoke gets home later in the day, he’s surprised at the familiar scent that wafts across his nose. For a minute, he wonders if Annie is inside the house with you. He walks inside the kitchen and takes note of you standing in front of the stove, stirring away at a familiar pot.
You and Smoke are so in tune with each other that you sense him as soon as he enters the house. You turn around, “Hey, Papa Bear, take a seat.”
Smoke sets his work bag down and takes a seat at the table. You fix his bowl of gumbo just the way that Annie mentioned he likes, along with a piece of cornbread on the side and a glass of tea. He takes a second to look between you and the bowl of gumbo. He notes the similarities in the gumbo, “You makin’ gumbo now, babygirl?”
“Mhmm..I had a little help from Annie today. I wanted to get it just the way that you like it,” You said, moving to fix your own bowl.
“You visited Annie today?”
“Yeah, you mentioned that her gumbo was always your favorite, so I went by to ask her how to make it for you.” You shrug at the end of your sentence like it’s no big deal, but to Smoke, it means the world.
Before you can take a bite of your gumbo, he grabs your hand in his.
“Thank you. You know I love you, right?” He said, eyes glistening under the light. It means a lot that you went out of your way to ask Annie how to make his favorite meal.
“I love you, too, Elijah,” You respond before connecting your lips to his.
As you both eat, Smoke eyes your empty ring finger and figures that he may need to change that pretty soon.
After the meal, Smoke offers to wash dishes, but you shoo him away.
“Just sit down, you’ve been working hard all day. It’s just a few dishes,” You said, turning the water on.
Smoke expects you to plug the sink and let it fill up with soap and water, but you do the exact opposite. You keep the water running as you wash each dish one by one under the hot water.
“Baby, you could’ve just filled the sink up,” Smoke comments.
“Ew, I don’t want all of that food touching my hands,” You shoot back.
Smoke decides to drop it and continues watching you wash the dishes. He already knows that he should expect the water bill to be higher this month. From the looks of the empty paper towel roll, he might have to just invest in the big pack from Costco.
From the book of young hoe: Always listen to Papa Bear.
It’s one of those nights when you and your girls are going out again. Smoke opts to stay in, but he’s already made sure that your purse is packed with all of the essentials. He knows how forgetful you can be.
The sound of your heels clicking brings his attention to you as you walk into the bedroom. He hadn’t paid much attention to your outfit. You always did your makeup first before putting on your outfit, and then you’d give him a little show before leaving.
Now, Smoke’s gotten used to some of your more risque clothing choices. Shoot, when he first met you, you were wearing a dress that had him drooling. He isn’t one of those guys who likes to police his woman on what she’s wearing, but he is very possessive of you. Smoke knows that you’re a baddie, so why would he stop you from being that?
However, he has to draw a line with this outfit, if you can even call it that.
Smoke coughs past the smoke and snuffs out the joint that you rolled for him. “What you got on?”
You smile at him through the mirror, “It’s cute, right? I found it the other day!”
You had taken the definition of mini skirt to a whole other level. You’re well endowed in your backside, which hangs out of the skirt. You bend forward to check your makeup, and Smoke almost falls out.
He frowns at you, “Go change. You ain’t leavin’ the house with that on.”
Naturally, the pout crosses your lips, “But why?”
“Baby, I ain’t finna have these niggas out here eyeing my woman, and I’m not around.”
You huff in annoyance, “Elijah, it’s not that deep. It’s not even that short.”
He eyes the skirt again with a glare on his face. If he could set the skirt on fire, he would.
“It’s not up for discussion. Go change into something else.”
“No.”
Smoke’s head whips around so fast that you’re surprised that his neck doesn’t break. That dark look crosses his face, “Babygirl, you sure you wanna cross that bridge with me? Take yo’ pretty ass back in there and get changed.”
The urge to be a brat weighs heavily on you tonight. You square your shoulders and look him dead in the eye, “Nope, I’m wearing this.”
A honk sounds from outside, and you move to grab your purse. Smoke is openly glaring at you and challenging you, “You leave out of this house, I hope you prepared for the consequences later.”
You shrug, “I’ll be back later on. I love you, Papa Bear.”
With that, you walk your pretty self out the door, even though your stomach tingles with anxiety. As you step into the car, your homegirls turn to look at you.
“Girl, Big Daddy Smoke let you out of the house wearing that,” your friend, Leilani, asks.
You smack your lips, “He was making a big deal of it at first. Telling me that I need to go change. He don’t run me.”
Your friend, Omi, smacks her lips, “Sis, he gone tear you up when you get back. You know them old heads don’t play about all that.”
“It’s fine, y’all. He’ll be okay when I get back.”
“He gone kill her when she gets back. I’m puttin’ a sign on you that says ‘Dead lady walking.’ You might as well gone get your coochie ready,” your friend, Keisha, quips.
When you all make it to the club, it’s turnt as usual. You and Stack lock eyes as you pass his section. His eyes flicker down to your skirt before he starts shaking his head. He ushers you over, “You gotta be one of the craziest people that I’ve ever met. Does my brotha’ know you outside like this?”
“Yes, Smoke doesn’t run me. I can wear what I want,” You state, a frown crossing your face.
Stack laughs. Not one of those low laughs, but the loud and annoying types.
“Whew, I’m scared for you, girl. But I’ll keep an eye on you. Have fun now before you get home,” Stack said, continuing to laugh. He lets you and your girls come into the section with him and his boys. You know that it’s so he can carefully watch you.
Whenever you go to get a drink, Stack stops you and goes to the bar himself. You and your friends go to hit the dance floor when Stack holds his hand up.
“Oh my gosh, Stack, move!”
Stack smacks his lips, “I’m just looking out for you. Gone dance, but if I see any nigga gettin’ too friendly with you, I’m on him like white on rice.”
You give him a thumbs-up before following your friends to the middle of the floor. You’re having the time of your life and twerking like you aren’t on borrowed time. Stack keeps his eyes on you at all times like he’s watching a toddler, which he thinks may be true. He takes his phone out to record a video of you to send to Smoke.
Stack
*video attached*
Don’t stress yourself out. I’m keepin’ an eye on her.
But I know you got something planned when she gets home.
*Smoke liked your message*
Stack takes a sip from his whiskey, “Lord, she in danger.”
By the end of the night, you’re all danced out and sweaty, but overall, you consider the night a win. Stack offers to take you home and ushers you into the car. Your friends snicker because they know that Smoke is punishing you tonight. The only one oblivious to the fact is you.
Pulling into the driveway, Stack turns to you with a smirk, “Good luck.”
The lights are all off in the house except the porch light. Smoke stands under the porch light like a serial killer. You turn to Stack with a grim look, “Maybe, we should back out of the driveway really slowly.”
“Nope. You wanted to be grown. Now, you gotta face your actions like a big girl,” Stack said.
“I’m blinking twice for help. I’m telling a trusted adult!”
Stack shrugs, “Too bad I’m not a trusted adult.”
“Trick..” you mutter before opening the door to exit the car. Smoke nods his head at Stack, who reciprocates.
“I’ll see you in a week,” Stack jokes, before backing out of the driveway.
Like a scared deer, you walk unevenly to the porch where Smoke is still standing. As you approach, he blows out a big cloud of smoke before throwing the joint down and stubbing it out. You stand in front of him, “Hey…”
Smoke doesn’t say anything, but simply steps to the side to let you inside the house. You swallow loudly as you walk inside the house. The only sounds are the distinct chirps from the crickets outside, along with the subtle clicks of your heels. You and Smoke make your way to the bedroom. You go to grab your pajamas when Smoke stops you, “Didn’t I tell you to change earlier?”
You turn slowly to face him, “Yes, you did.”
“And I told you that if you left this house, there would be consequences, but you didn’t listen, did you?”
“No….”
“Come here,” Smoke demands, voice soft. He doesn’t have to raise his voice to get his point across.
You stay rooted in the same spot, partially aroused and partially scared. Smoke chuckles darkly, “You still ain’t learned? You know I don’t like to repeat myself.” You scurry over to stand in front of Smoke as you look up at him with wide eyes.
“Stand right there,” Smoke orders. He walks off to rummage through one of the drawers. Your eyes widen as you see him procure one of his good ties. The heat from his body wafts onto yours as you become hyperaware of him standing behind you. Smoke grabs your hands in his and skillfully wraps the tie around your wrists so that your hands are bound behind your back. He tugs at the knot and hums in satisfaction.
You try your hand at seeing if you can move and find that you can’t. Smoke moves to stand in front of you as he glowers down at you. He steps closer to press his chest against yours. For a moment, a soft look crosses his face as he cups your face in his hands. He leans down to connect your lips, and you moan at the taste of whiskey that lingers on his tongue.
Smoke pulls back from the kiss as his eyes run across you. He trails his hands down your form until his cupping your backside in his hands. “You could’ve stayed home and modeled this lil’ skirt for me, but you wanted to go and show off what’s mine.”
You go to open your mouth to protest, but Smoke stops you, “I didn’t say I was done talking. Since you wanted to be a brat, I’ll treat you like one.” You let out a squeak when Smoke grabs you to throw you on the bed. Your body bounces before it settles.
Gripping the corset in his hands, he cleanly tears it down the middle until the material falls away. You gasp in surprise as the cool air hits your nipples. Flipping you onto your stomach, Smoke hikes your hips up and flips the skirt over.
He tugs your head back, “You owe me. You can either take my hand or something else.”
The last time Smoke spanked you, you were left shaking on the bed. It was either his hand or one of those leather belts with his name on it. You were screwed either way.
“Your hand,” You said.
Smoke nods, “Let’s tally up how much you owe me. 10 for the outfit plus 10 because I told you to take it off and you back-talked. Also, an additional 10 because you still left.” Your wide eyes meet his as you turn to face him, “But daddy, that’s thirty.”
Smoke chuckles, “Glad to see you can count, darlin’.”
The first hit sends heat flooding through your body, along with feeling your cheek ripple under his hand. The second hit sends a flood of wetness to your panties. By the tenth hit, the tears are already running down your face. How were you supposed to count through twenty more?
Your entire backside is on fire once Smoke delivers the last hit. You’re fully shaking and hiccuping into the sheets, but you can’t deny how turned on you are. By now, you’ve soaked completely through your panties, which Smoke clocks.
He takes two fingers and runs them up and down the soiled material, “My dirty baby. What am I gonna do with you, baby? You don’t know how to listen now.”
“M’Sorry, Papa. I’ll listen to you next time.”
“I know you will because I’m gonna make sure that you do.” He flips your body around and grips your panties as he tears them clean from your body. Smoke maneuvers your body to the headboard before going to grab another tie. He loops the tie through the bedpost before securing your hands to it.
Smoke walks over to the closet and rifles through it for a few seconds. You lift your head to get a good look, but his shoulders block your view. He walks over with a long metal rod in hand, “Do you know what this is?”
You shake your head. He laughs lowly, “It’s a spreader bar. I’m gonna put your legs in these cuffs, and you won’t be able to move.” Sitting at the edge of the bed, he removes your heels one by one before throwing them carelessly to the floor. He places your ankles in the cuffs and secures them. Smoke moves to stand in front of the bed as he grabs the metal in his hands. He can already see your glistening folds as your slick pools beneath you.
He moves your legs from side to side, “See, this is a special bar, I made it myself. Every time you move babygirl, it’ll spread your legs more.” He jerks the rod, which loudly clicks as your spread apart more. You look at him in surprise.
He grabs the box that he set on the bed and opens it. Your old man is a sex fiend, apparently, as he lifts various forms of vibrators out of the box. Smoke moves to your open legs and dips his fingers inside of you to collect your slick.
He brings his wet fingers up to his mouth to suck your juices from his fingers. He takes one of the vibrators in his hand before the tip across through your wet center. You shiver at the sensation of the tip dipping into your entrance.
“This one is special, babygirl. That special spot that I’m always hitting…well my little friend is made to specifically reach that spot.” He pushes the toy inside of you as you gasp at the fullness of it.
Smoke coos gently at you as your wet eyes meet his, “There we go, baby.” He clicks a button, which brings the vibrator to life inside you. Smoke pushes the toy in and out of you as your walls cling to it.
Your eyes widen when he holds up another toy, “My other friend is for that lil’ pearl up there.” He trails his fingers through the curls that cover young mound until he reaches your clit. Your body arches into his touch as he casually rubs small circles around your clit.
“Please…” you whine into the room.
“Please what, darlin’? I need you to be more specific,” Smoke said condescendingly.
Your mind is venturing into that mushy territory where you don’t know what you’re asking the man for.
He smirks, “You don’t even know what you’re asking me for. That’s alright. Take care of my other friend for me while I get done smoking.”
He attaches the curved toy to your clit and clicks a button, and it buzzes to life. Your first reaction is to move your body. You wither across the mattress, pleasure consuming every inch of you. You go to move your legs, only for the spreader to click and spread your legs further.
You gasp.
Smoke chuckles before moving to sit in the chair in the bedroom. He grabs his early discarded blunt to relight. He inhales the smoke into his lungs as he casually watches you suffer.
Smoke casually taps the button on his phone, which increases the vibrations on your clit and inside of you. Your back arches from the bed as your release climbs higher.
Just as you’re reaching that sweet release, Smoke taps the button and turns the vibrators off. A loud whine leaves your mouth, “Please let me cum, Papa.”
Smoke blows the smoke from his nose, “Since you asked so nicely…”
He eases up the level of the vibrators to the fullest level. A loud screams erupts from your mouth as your walls clasp around the toy and your orgasm consumes your body.
Smoke leans forward, “That’s one. Give me about four more and we’ll call it even.”
You turn your head to him in disbelief. Before you can protest, he turns the vibrators back on.
You’re a mess of cum, sweat, and tears. Exactly how Smoke prefers you.
Your brain is complete mush at this point and you can feel the puddle that had formed beneath you. Somewhere between the second and third orgasm, you’d squirted.
Smoke turns the vibrators off and throws his phone on the chair. He walks over to you and pulls your ruined face to his. Your expression shows how far gone you are. He lightly taps your face, “You still with me, babygirl?”
Your tongue lolls around in your mouth, “Mhmm, Papa.”
“So you can give me one more?”
“Mhmm.”
He unties your hands from the bed. He runs his hand across your wrists and kisses them gently. Smoke pulls the vibrator from your core and observes the cream that forms around the base of the toy. He flicks his tongue out to slurp some in his mouth.
Smoke pulls his shirt over his head before dropping his boxers. You eye his hardened dick and as tired as you are, you still need to feel him inside of you.
Smoke lays down on the bed next to you and pulls your pliant body across his lap. He points his tip at your swollen entrance, “Go slow, baby. Papa will take care of the rest.”
You lower your pussy down onto his dick as you whine into his shoulder. You shudder as you feel his large tip brushing against that spot inside you.
Smoke grabs your hips in his hand as he gently bounces you up and down on his dick. You turn your head to connect his your lips to his. Smoke slides his tongue into your mouth and gently sucks at your tongue.
He gives a particular thrust that sends fresh tears to your eyes. “I know, it’s too much baby, but you’re doing so good for me. Cum for me one more time, babygirl.”
You nod weakly.
Smoke plants his feet on the bed and starts thrusting roughly into your body. Loud, wet noises fill the bedroom as your walls clench around his length.
“M’coming Papa. Right there..”
Smoke feels his own balls tightening as his release nears. He smashes his lips onto yours as your orgasm hits. He swallows your moans into his mouth as his own orgasm starts.
Smoke holds your hips firmly to his as he fills you up.
You shiver at the feeling of his cum splashing against your womb.
For a second, you both breathe in tandem as your heart calms down. Smoke runs a soothing hand up your back, “You good, Princess?”
“Mhmm, m’good Papa. I’m sorry.”
Smoke chuckles, “I forgive you, baby. Let’s get you ready for bed.”
He gently slides from inside of you as you whimper softly. A wave of Smoke’s cum slides from you as it lands on the bed. Scooping you into his arms, Smoke walks into the bathroom and sits you on the toilet.
You’d long since passed the stage of your relationship where you were shy of going to the bathroom in front of him. As wipe and flush the toilet, you raise your arms for Smoke to pick you up.
He grabs a towel and applies warm water to it before wiping at your face and between your legs. Back inside the bedroom, Smoke gives you a pair of his boxers before sliding his shirt over your head. He slides a pair of briefs on before he tucks you into bed.
He grabs a bottle of water before offering it to you. Once you’re done, you flop back on the pillow. Smoke slides in beside you as he pulls your body closer to his.
“I love you, babygirl.”
“I love you too, Papa Bear.”
He presses a kiss to your neck as he closes his eyes.
Mr. Smoke’s & Mr. Stack’s Doll: A Little Bunny Rabbit
Author’s Note: It’s Gemini season! Everyone go say Happy Day Of Birth to my sister @theethighpriestess aka Bunny 🐰
Warnings: +18 | Dom!Smoke | Dom!Stack | Smoke x Stack x OC | Plus Size OC | MFM | Angst (if you squint and do a backflip) | Fluff (if you squint and do three pushups) Oral Sex | Anal Sex | Edging | Coochie Drilled To Smithereens | Overstimulation | Double Penetration | Creampie | Dollification | They… They aren’t mean in this chapter… have I found God?
The room smelled like a cheap pomade and even cheaper whiskey.
Bunny had caught the scent the moment she pushed open the door to room number seven. There was a stale and sour stench lingering in the air that clung to a drunken man that was expected to be her next client. She stood in the doorway for a half second, shoulders squared beneath the ivory negligee she had been assigned for the evening, her red painted toes just crossing the threshold, and she told herself it was nothing. Men came in here smelling like all manner of sin. Whiskey and cheap pomade was the least offensive of them.
The man waiting for her was a heavyset thing. Pale as uncooked dough, with a collar loosened down to his second button and cufflinks that didn't match. His eyes swam when they found her. This wasn’t the ordinary tipsy swim of a man who had had two drinks to get his nerves up before visiting a house like this. No, this was the kind of swim that came from the bottom of a bottle, from a man who had been drinking since before supper and hadn't stopped for reasons that had nothing to do with enjoying the taste.
His mouth curved into something that was meant to be a smile but landed somewhere closer to a sneer. "There she is," he said, his words running together at the edges like watercolors left out in the rain. "Took ya’ long enough."
Bunny let the door shut behind her with a quiet click. She pulled up the smile she had spent years perfecting, the one that reached her eyes just far enough to be convincing without costing her anything real, and she moved toward the vanity to set down her small kit. "Evenin', sir," she replied, voice sweet as honeysuckle draped over a fence post in July. "You get yourself settled alright?"
"Settled?" He laughed, the sound was disgustingly wet and blunt. "I been waitin' damn near twenty minutes."
"I apologize for that, sir." She turned subtly, sizing the client up again in the mirror's reflection while she appeared to be checking her hair. She took notice of the way his body tilted just slightly to the left when he tried to sit straighter. The way his hand reached for the bedpost to steady himself without seeming to realize he had done it. The glassy, navigating-through-fog quality of his stare. Bunny had been in this business long enough to know that a drunk man in a room with a woman he had paid for was a man operating without a leash, and a man without a leash was a dangerous creature.
She angled herself toward the door by a few degrees. Just enough to escape if needed. "Sir," she said, keeping her voice sweet and calm, "I just want to make sure you feelin' alright before we get started. You seem like you might've had yourself a full night already and I wouldn't want—"
The remainder of her sentence was cut off because the drunken man moved without warning. He lurched to his feet, knocking the small side table with his hip and sending its single glass of water spinning off the edge to shatter against the floor. His face had turned a particular shade of red that lived between embarrassment and fury, and his jaw worked like he was chewing something bitter before he could get the words out.
"Useless bitch," he spat. The syllables fell out of him ugly and hard. "Think I paid to have some whore tell me I done had too much to drink? Think I need you lookin' down at me? I'll kill you, you hear me?!? I'll put my hands ‘round ya' neck and I'll—"
His arm swung mid rant, but Bunny was already moving.
She dropped her chin to her chest and turned her body so the arc of his open palm caught nothing but air, and in the same motion her right hand went up to her hair. The blade she kept there was small, barely two inches of steel with a handle thin enough to disappear between two curling papers. It was something she had carried since she was nineteen years old and had learned in the most painful way possible that a pretty face and a small curvy frame were not assets in every room. Her fingers found it without hesitation, but with the calm surety of someone who had practiced the motion until it lived in her muscles instead of her mind.
She drew it in the same breath she stepped to his left side, and when she came back up, she sliced him across the cheekbone in one clean swipe.
The sound he made wasn’t quite a scream and not quite a word. It lived somewhere between the two, high and stunned. The moment he was sliced, his hand flew to his face as the blood welled immediately, vivid and dark, running between his fingers and dripping onto the collar he had loosened two buttons down. He staggered back into the bedpost as his eyes went wide, and suddenly he was brutally sober.
"Help!" The plea tore out of him then, ragged and furious. "HELP! She cut me! This wicked bitch cut my damn FACE!"
Bunny stood quietly like a marble statue with the blade still in her hand. Her chest moved in controlled, shallow breaths as her heartbeat threw itself against her ribs like a prisoner testing the walls, but her face… her face was completely still. Still like a woman who had survived more than enough dangerous rooms, and this was no different. She didn’t bother running or crying, instead she watched the blood run down his cheek and she waited.
Two seconds passed and the door swung open before the echo of his second shout had finished bouncing off the walls.
They filled the frame the way they always filled every frame they walked through, shoulder to shoulder, the both of them constructed from the same Mississippi clay and hardened by the same Jim Crow fire. Stack came through first, his jacket slightly disheveled as if he was in the middle of something… or someone, signature gold tooth catching the lamplight as his coffee brown eyes swept the room in three seconds flat. Smoke followed a half step behind, and his gaze went to the blood first, then to Bunny, then to the blade still loose in her fingers, and in that order he read the whole story without a single word being spoken.
The two of them looked at each other and it lasted less than a millisecond. They shared a sacred twin language, and there was no need to speak out loud when they could discuss everything necessary through a simple glance. There was no need for none of the vowels and consonants that other men required. Stack's chin lifted two degrees. Smoke's jaw shifted once to the right. That was all.
Smoke marched over to the bleeding man and grabbed him by the back of the collar with one hand. The client sputtered, grabbing at Smoke's wrist, voice rising again into something wheedling and enraged all at once, but Smoke wasn't listening. He was already moving, already dragging the man toward the door with that flat, unblinking quiet that was a hundred times more frightening than any raised voice.
Stack waited until the door swung shut behind his brother and then he turned to Bunny. He looked at her the way he looked at a ledger he needed to balance, thorough, patient, and giving nothing away in his expression. His hands found his jacket pockets and he stood with the loose posture of a man who had all the time left in the world. "Tell me what happened," he said.
Bunny's fingers curled tighter around the blade before she caught herself and lowered it. "He was drunk when I walked in," she explained, and her voice came out steadier than she had expected, considering. "Not just a couple of drinks. He was drownin’ in it. I called it out because I wasn't about to start a session with a man who could barely hold his head upright and when I did…" She nodded toward the door. "He called me out my name, said he was gonna kill me, and he swung. I moved… And I cut him."
Stack said nothing for a moment as his tongue rolled against the inside of his cheek. He looked at the blood on the floor where the man had been standing, then at the broken water glass, then at Bunny's face. "You ain't in trouble," he said finally, his Mississippi drawl coating every syllable like a second skin. "But I need you to hear me on this." He pulled one hand from his pocket and pointed a single finger at her. "Next time a client get rowdy, stupid, or liquored past the point of sense, you don't reach for that blade. You call for one of us. That's what we here for. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
He held her gaze a moment longer, making sure the instruction had gone somewhere it would stay, and then he nodded once. "Go on, wash up an get you some rest." He turned for the door, then paused with his hand on the frame, not looking back. "You did real good, not fallin' apart. Just... next time… let us handle the mess."
The door closed again, and Bunny stood alone in the room with the broken glass and the ruined sheets and the small blade still warm from her grip, and she exhaled for what felt like the first time in several minutes.
Out behind the brothel, the alley smelled of ash cans and summer.
Smoke walked the man through the rear exit with the same grip he used to drag him out of the room. He deposited him against the back wall, the man's knees finally gave out forcing him to slide down the brick and land in a graceless heap on the ground, one hand still pressed to his sliced cheek, blood threading between his fingers and dripping off his chin.
Smoke stood over him. His hands went to his jacket, straightening it once, and then settled at his sides. He looked down at the man like he was a disgruntled God figuring out what type of punishment to inflict.
The man looked up at him and found whatever he needed in Smoke's expression to start talking. "She attacked me," his drunkenness slipping out of his voice now that fear had come in to replace it. "That bitch came in there and she just… she had a knife. She cut my face. You need to do somethin’ about that. I paid good money for a civil hour and instead I get—"
"You said… you was gon' kill her."
The man blinked. "I was angry, I didn't—"
"Called her out her name twice in my presence."
The man's mouth opened and closed.
Smoke crouched down until his eyes were level with the man's, and in that position he looked less like a man and more like a demon ready to indulge in his bloodlust. His voice hadn't changed. It never changed. It held that same smooth, unshifted cadence through every conversation regardless of what the conversation was about. "Ion’ know exactly what went on in that room yet," he said. "But I want you to understand somethin'. That part don't fuckin’ matter to me. What matter to me is that you walked into my house, disrespected somethin' that belong to me, an then you done put ya' voice on her in a way that reminded her she needed a blade." He paused, letting that sit. "I don't take kindly to that."
His hand moved to his jacket, fingers parting the lapel, and the grip of his pistol caught the thin light of the alley moon.
The man's eyes went very wide. His injured hand came up, palm out, his whole body pressing back against the brick like he could dissolve into it. "Wait, wait, wait, I'll pay double, I'll pay whatever you—"
The hammer drew back with a soft, final click that cut the man's sentence clean off.
Smoke looked at him with those coal-flat eyes and the man fell silent as a stone thrown into deep water. No more words. Just the ragged labor of his own breathing and the thin, continuous sound of his blood hitting the ground.
Footsteps came down the alley behind Smoke and he didn’t bother turning around because he didn't need to. There was only one set of feet in the world that sounded like that.
Stack came up beside him, his hands loose at his sides, gold tooth catching the moon when he tilted his head down at the man on the ground. He took in the full picture. The gun. The blood. The look on Smoke's face. Then he took in a breath, slow and satisfied, and began to speak.
He told Smoke everything. The condition the man had come in. The things he had said when Bunny called it out. The swing that didn't land. The blade that did. When he finished, Stack was quiet for a moment, and then he reached into the interior pocket of his jacket and produced a knife with a blade four times the size of whatever Bunny had been carrying. He turned it once in his fingers, the steel catching and releasing the light in alternating flashes, and he smiled. It was the crooked smile, the one that reached his eyes and meant he was genuinely pleased about something.
"Lemme’ talk to him first," Stack said. "I ain't had a good conversation in a minute."
Smoke looked at his brother and then he looked at the man on the ground, who was now visibly shaking, tears cutting through the blood on his cheek without any prompting at all. Smoke stood from his crouch, straightened his jacket once more, and stepped to the side. He put his pistol back without a word, folded his hands behind his back, and watched.
Stack crouched in his place, knife resting easy between two fingers, his face open and joyful in the particular way that meant the worst thing imaginable was coming next. "How you doin', friend?" he asked, accent thick as summer mud, voice warm as a lit match. "Tell me somethin'. You ever have somebody look after you real good, put you somewhere soft an warm an safe, an you go an spit in they face for it? You ever do that?"
The man couldn’t answer.
Stack tilted his head and grinned like a Cheshire Cat. "Naw, naw, take ya' time. I got all night."
The alley didn’t hear from that man again after that. Not in any language that would've made sense to a person passing on the street.
A month passed by and it had the audacity to feel like three.
Bunny sat on the edge of her bed in the room the twins had given her and pulled a brush through her texturized hair for the fourth time that evening. She counted the strokes the way she had been taught to count them since childhood, one and two and three and four, because there was nothing else to count and the act of counting kept her hands busy and her hands being busy kept her from acknowledging a particular restlessness that had been living under her skin for the better part of two weeks.
The room she was stationed in was nice. That was the first thing she had thought when Stack walked her to it, one week after the incident, with his hand at the small of her back and a short instruction to make herself comfortable. She had expected a small, utilitarian thing, the kind of space a working doll got assigned on the upper floor with a shared bath down the hall and a window that faced the brick wall of the building next door. What she got was a room with curtains. Actual curtains, silk ones that pooled at the floor and caught the last of the day's light in a way that turned the whole space the color of a candle flame. A vanity with a proper oval mirror. A wardrobe that had been stocked before she arrived with dresses and wrappers and nightgowns of a quality that made her catch her breath the first time she opened its doors, fabrics so fine they slipped through her fingers like water. On the small table beside her bed, a covered dish of food arrived three times a day whether she asked for it or not. Things she hadn't tasted since she was a little girl sitting in her grandmother's kitchen, sweet potato pie with a crust that shattered her taste buds like stained glass, braised oxtail over white rice, pound cake soaked in lemon syrup that left a sweetness on the roof of her mouth for hours.
She was being treated like a woman of some standing… And it was driving her absolutely out of her mind.
Bunny set the hairbrush down and looked at herself in the vanity mirror with an assessing expression she reserved for private moments like these. She was thirty-four years old. She had curves that grown men wrote embarrassing letters about and women studied with something too complicated to be called jealousy and too honest to be called admiration. She had hands that knew how to work, thighs that knew how to hold, a mouth that had never once left a client feeling cheated, and a reputation in three separate cities that had always, always been built by her own effort, her own body, her own particular genius for the kind of pleasure that made a man feel like he was the most important thing in the room. She hadn’t come to this brothel to be kept like a flower in a glass case. She had come because she heard that the Moore twins ran the most lucrative operation north of the Mason Dixon and she wanted in on it. She wanted to work.
The bath she had taken earlier still clung to her skin in the form of the vanilla oil she had worked into her arms and her neck, and the nightgown the wardrobe had produced tonight was deep gold that made her brown skin glow like something lit from within. She looked breathtakingly beautiful, yet she felt like a caged thing in beautiful wrappings.
After looking herself over one more time in the mirror, she stood and made a silent decision as she made her way to the kitchen.
The brothel at midnight had a particular quality to it, a quietness that fell somewhere between a sleeping house and a thinking one. The downstairs jazz had stopped three hours ago. The girls were either asleep or occupied, and the hallways that had been warm and perfumed with commerce earlier in the evening were now cool and dim, lit by the occasional wall sconce that’s wick had been turned down low. Bunny moved through the brothel on her bare feet, the gold nightgown sighing against her legs with every step, and she told herself she was just going for a peach before confronting the twins. There was always a bowl of peaches in the kitchen. She had discovered this on her second day and found it oddly comforting that someone in this house thought fresh fruit was important enough to replenish daily.
She pushed open the kitchen door and the room was drenched in darkness. That was the first thing. The second thing was that it wasn’t empty.
As Bunny's eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, eventually she was able to see there was a woman sitting at the long kitchen table in the dark eating cornbread.
Bunny stood in the doorway with her hand still on the door and looked at the mystery woman as she took her in piece by piece. Height first, even sitting, the woman had somewhat of a long-limbed frame that telegraphed itself. Bunny guessed that she was maybe five foot eight or nine if she stood. Her skin was deep, even brown like good molasses in a jar, paired with hair that fell straight and unadorned down past her shoulders, jet black, the color of ink before it dries. And to finish it off, she had a face that did a thing Bunny had only seen faces do in paintings, not the kind hung in houses like this one, but the kind in old churches where the artists tried to put something holy and something frightening in the same expression at the same time. The mystery woman looked young feature wise as if she hadn’t yet turned twenty-two, but her eyes… her eyes were something else entirely.
Bunny wasn’t a woman who was scared easily. She had lived too much, seen too much, and cut too many men across the face to give fear the kind of real estate it wanted in her mind. But those violet eyes made something ancient crawl up the back of her neck, not unpleasant, just… aware. Like stepping into a room and understanding that whatever was in it had been there since before the house was built.
The woman looked up from her cornbread and regarded Bunny with an expression of complete composure, as though being found eating cold food alone in a dark kitchen of a brothel in the middle of the night was exactly where she was expected to be.
"You Rosalie," the woman said. It wasn't a question.
Bunny blinked. "How'd you—"
"You look like a Rosalie." She broke off another piece of cornbread, unhurried about it. "I'm Josephine. Everybody an they mama call me Josie."
Bunny stepped into the kitchen and let the door drift shut behind her. "I go by Bunny," she said, and then, because she couldn't help herself, "why are you sittin' in the dark?"
Josie ignored the question with such thoroughness that it was almost artful. She tilted her head at Bunny and asked, "They call you Bunny 'cause you can bounce on a dick 'til a man start beggin' for his mama?"
The initial response that leaped to Bunny's lips was something ladylike and deflective. What came out instead was a flustered, sputtering exhale, as her cheeks went warm and her hand raised halfway to her mouth before she caught it. She cleared her throat. "That's… yes," she admitted. "That's… um… exactly why."
The corner of Josie's mouth moved in something that could've been a smile if it committed to itself. She pushed the plate of cornbread forward by an inch, the gesture of a woman sharing without making much of it. "Have some."
Bunny looked at the cornbread. It was ice cold and hard as a rock. She could see the waxy surface on it that cornbread got when it had been sitting awhile. She was fond of cornbread. She was not fond of that. She moved instead to the bowl on the counter and lifted a peach, testing its weight in her palm before biting into it, and she hummed as the juice ran down her chin warm and sweet.
She stood there eating the peach and watching Josie, and Josie let herself be watched for a time, eating her cold cornbread with equanimity, apparently perfectly at peace with the scrutiny. But Bunny was staring and she knew it and the reason she was staring was the thing she couldn't pin down, the thing that sat off-center about this woman the way a picture sits off-center on a wall. She wasn’t dressed like any of the other dolls Bunny had met in the past month. No lace, no slip, nothing that mirrored the nature of this house and its business. She wore a plain white blouse tucked into a flowy dark skirt with her feet bare on the kitchen floor. She looked like a woman who had stepped in from another dimension entirely and simply hadn't gotten around to leaving.
Bunny had met all the other dolls in the house during her first week. She was certain of that. This woman had not been among them.
Josie took another bite of her cornbread and looked at Bunny the way Bunny had been looking at her, with that clear, still assessment that took nothing personally and missed nothing either. "How you likin' it here?" she asked. "Smoke and Stack pretty decent owners, far as that kind of thing go."
The word owners sat in Bunny's mouth for a moment before she swallowed it. "I wouldn't know yet," she reluctantly admitted. "I had one client, one incident, and since then they've had me locked up in a room like I'm made of porcelain and they're afraid I'll chip." She took another bite of peach. "I haven't worked a single real night. I came here to make money. Instead I've been eatin' pie and watchin' the curtains move."
Josie's eyes sharpened the way a fire sharpens when you give it more air. "Which one claimed you?" she quipped.
Bunny frowned her brows in confusion. "I'm sorry?"
"Which twin? Smoke or Stack? Elijah or Elias? Which one claimed you as his doll?"
The frown deepened. "Neither of them," Bunny said slowly, like she was working out whether that was the right answer even as she gave it. "When I arrived they walked me through the rules, explained how the percentages worked, showed me the floor. Neither of them said anything about… claiming."
Now it was Josie’s turn to be confused as she stopped eating and placed her cornbread very gently on the plate in front of her. She looked at Bunny with the full force of those ancient alien lavender eyes and she was quiet for a stretched-out moment that had weight to it. Then she leaned forward and without a word of warning she took Bunny's face between both her hands and squeezed her cheeks together, compressing Bunny's lips into a surprised, rounded 'O'.
"You are thee cutest thing," Josie cooed, with the slightly awed sincerity of someone who had just found a very small, very charming animal in an unexpected location.
Bunny's eyes went wide above her squished cheeks. She made a sound that was supposed to be a protest and emerged as something closer to a muffled quack.
Josie released her with an unrushed giggle and settled back in her chair as though that had been a perfectly reasonable thing to do. "Alright," she said. "Let me explain how this house works."
Bunny smoothed her cheeks with her palms and fixed Josie with a look that she reserved for people who had just done something she didn't have the vocabulary to address properly. Then she sighed, finished the peach, and sat down.
Josie explained the rules of the house with a questionable amount of knowledge that Bunny would inquire about later. When a doll went through something the way Bunny had gone through something, they were taken off the floor. Not longer than a week, typically. No clients, no housework, just time to let the body and the mind settle back into themselves without being asked to perform. After that period, whichever twin had claimed that particular doll would take her through a retraining week. A proper retraining. Not punishment, not because she had done something wrong, but because the mind needed to be walked back through safety the same way the body needed to be walked back through strength after a sickness. The twins were a great many things, Josie explained, and some of those things weren’t things that would be listed in a church bulletin, but they weren’t complete monsters and wouldn't send a shaken woman back to work before she was ready. That wasn’t morality for morality's sake. It was also just bad business, and they were nothing if not precise businessmen.
Bunny absorbed this. Processed it. Turned it over. And then arrived at the part that had been sitting sideways in her chest since the question first got asked.
"It's been a month," she said.
Josie looked at her dumbfounded like she didn’t hear her correctly.
"It's been a month," Bunny said again. "The incident was a month ago. Nobody took me through any retraining. Nobody said anythin’ about when I'd go back to work. And you're telling me that the reason for that is…"
She could see it in Josie's expression before she said it, like she was about to deliver news that amused her to the highest degree.
"Either you one of the special ones," Josie said, the childish grin breaking through now, unconstrained, like a schoolgirl who had been holding it in for the last five minutes, "or you somehow so boring that both of them forgot you exist entirely."
Bunny straightened up in her chair. "I am not boring," she said.
"I didn't say you were."
"You implied it."
"I offered it as a possibility."
"It is not a fuckin’ possibility." Bunny's chin came up and her voice took on the tone of a woman defending something she had built with a considerable effort over many years. Before she had walked through the Moore brothers' doors she had left three separate establishments because she had outgrown them. She had a clientele that wrote letters to find out where she had gone. She had a reputation that didn’t include the word boring in any language. "I done made grown ass men cry," she said. "Not from pain… From gratitude."
Josie held up one hand in a gesture of peace, her playful grin not moving an inch. "Alright, alright. I believe you. I apologize." She folded her hands on the table. "The other explanation, then, is that they both want to claim you and neither one of them know how to go about it without steppin’ on the other's toes."
Bunny's chair scraped back half an inch. "Both of them?"
"It's rare," Josie whispered, as if she was saying too much too soon. "In the whole time this house been runnin’ there've only been two dolls that both of them claimed at once. Just two. The second one is named Buttercup. She handles their books and investments. She’s been both of theirs for many moons." A pause, thoughtful and private. "The first one…" She picked up her cornbread again and looked at it, not at Bunny. "Well..."
The silence that lingered behind that one word forced Bunny to really look at Josie's profile. She took in the serenity of it, the complete and settled comfort with which this woman occupied any space she entered, including dark kitchens in the middle of the night. The way she didn't need to finish the sentence because the sentence was already obvious to anyone paying attention.
"Hypothetically," Bunny said carefully.
Josie's mouth curved with mischief. "Hypothetically..."
"If a woman found herself in that position. Both of them. At once. How would she… manage that?"
Josie was quiet for a moment, chewing her cornbread, looking somewhere past Bunny's shoulder as though consulting a memory that lived in the middle distance. "Hypothetically," she repeated, "such a woman would need to learn how not to get frostbitten by an avalanche of coldness." A pause. "While also not burnin’ up in a lake of uncontrolled fire." Another pause, this one carrying a slightly different weight, the weight of something remembered in the body as much as the mind. "And on top of all that, she would need to learn how to take two men at the same time without tearin’ in half."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"That's… useful information," Bunny said finally.
"I thought you'd think so."
They sat for another minute, the two of them, in the warm dark kitchen with the peach bowl on the counter and the plate of cold cornbread between them, and something passed between them that couldn’t be labeled as friendship yet but was the thing that comes just before it, a recognition, a sense of shared understanding arrived at by different roads.
A few more comforting minutes passed and then Bunny stood. She pulled the gold nightgown straight across her hips and ran one hand through the freshly brushed waterfall of her hair and looked at Josie with the expression of a woman who had made up her mind about something and had no further interest in deliberating. "Hypothetically, if I wanted to speak with them tonight... you know where they are?"
"Their office," Josie said. "End of the hall. Door on the left." She reached for the last piece of frosty cornbread. "Knock four times when you get there. Even count, same rhythm. That's how they know it's a doll behind the door and not somebody they need to put a bullet in."
Bunny's eyes widened slightly. "Good to know."
"One more thing," Josie said, without looking up, the words landing easy as a stone dropped into still water, "whoever open that door? Look him dead in the eye when you tell him what you want. Don't let him take the silence from you first. They'll stand in a quiet room and wait you out 'til you forget what you came for. Don't let him." She broke off a bite of cornbread. "Now go."
The hallway to their office was dim and long as the floorboards under her bare feet held the warmth of the day's heat, soaked up and slowly releasing into the night. She walked it with her chin level and her footsteps quiet, the vanilla oil on her skin mixing with the faint residual perfume that lived in all the walls of this house. At the far end of the hall, beneath the last sconce, a door sat closed and faintly rimmed with the amber line of lamplight from beneath it.
She stopped in front of it. Pressed her palm flat against the wood for one second. Then she knocked. Four times. Even. The same rhythm. Just as Josie had instructed.
On the other side of the door, the office breathed with the quietness of two men working in a comfortable parallel. The desk was spread with ledgers and cash in organized columns, the ashtray on its corner nursed a half-finished cigarette that had gone cold, and the lamp threw a yellow circle of warmth across the arithmetic of their operations. Stack stood at the desk's far edge, jacket off, suspenders down, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, one hand moving down a column of figures with the end of a pencil. Smoke sat on the lounge couch along the near wall, his own jacket folded beside him, a glass of brown liquor balanced on the arm of the cushion, his eyes moving across a folded sheet of paper he had been reading for the third time.
Four knocks came through the door.
Even. Measured.
Both men went still.
Stack's pencil stopped and his eyes lifted from the ledger to find his brother's face across the room. Smoke had already set the paper down. His hand had already moved to the glass, lifting it, not drinking from it, just holding it in the idle way of a man whose other hand needed to be free. His eyes were steady on the door.
The four-count knock meant a doll. Both of them knew that. The problem was that only two dolls in their entire operation knew that particular code, and neither of those two women were supposed to be within three city blocks of this brothel for another three days.
Smoke set the glass down very carefully on the side table before standing and crossing the room to the door. His shoulder holster rode against his undershirt as he pulled his pistol free in one clean motion before turning the knob and pulling the office door open.
Bunny stood in the hallway nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The lamplight from inside the office hit her caramel brown skin from the side and the effect of this wasn't something Smoke had originally budgeted for. She was soft, luminous, small, and entirely the kind of woman that a man had to consciously remind himself to look away from, all of that deep-curved, warm-skinned, doe-eyed beauty arranged in the specific way that made the gold fabric laced over her body look like it had been commissioned for her personally. She blinked up at him. Her eyes were the color of good rum and they caught the light and held it, and for one unguarded half second the hardness in his face did something complicated before it arranged itself back into its usual flat composure.
Smoke held the pistol at his side. His face settled back into the expression of a man who was conducting business regardless of the hour. His eyes moved over her once, the way he surveyed any situation that required assessment before a response. "Why," he said, voice smooth and level as a road built to last, his Mississippi roots dragging slow and warm beneath every word, "is you at my door knockin' four times?"
Bunny didn’t flinch as she looked him in the eye exactly as Josie had instructed and she held the look steady. "Because," she said, "I am tired of being treated like I'm made of glass." She let a breath pass as she remembered who she was speaking to. "... Sir."
Smoke looked at her for a long minute. He ran his mind back, sorting through the preceding month like how a man sorts through a drawer looking for something he put down without thinking. The girl on the floor. The drunk client. The blade. Stack handling her, him handling the client. The decision to move her to the room across from theirs. Then the weeks had continued to happen, the operation had continued to require their attention, and somewhere in the middle of all of that, the particular task of walking her back through had gotten caught in the gap between what he assumed Stack had handled and what Stack apparently assumed he had handled.
He let the exhale come through his nose, small and contained. Then he stepped back from the door and nodded once towards the interior of the room. "Come in."
Bunny wasn’t a woman that needed to be instructed twice as she came in.
Smoke shut the door behind her and walked back to the couch, settling into it with the glass of liquor retrieved from the side table. His eyes stayed on her as she took in the office, the desk and its columns, Stack still standing at the far edge of it now with his arms folded. Smoke's gaze moved from her face to his brother's and he said, with the absolute calm of a man stating a mathematical fact, "You done forgot to recommission ya' doll."
Stack's expression moved toward as expression of confusion that was also slightly offended at the framing. "Fuck you mean my doll?" he quipped. "Thought she was yours."
"I moved her to the room 'cross the hall," Smoke said. "I was leavin' the rest to you."
"Nobody told me that."
"I ain't gotta tell you everythin’, Elias. Use ya' brain."
Stack unfolded his arms and planted both hands flat on the desk. "My brain was operatin' under the assumption that the woman sittin' over in that room with the good curtains was your doll that you was handlin' in ya' own time, Elijah. Had I known she was mine to recommission I would've had her back on the floor four weeks ago."
"She been over there four an a half weeks."
"Four an a half weeks then. My point stands, muthafucka."
"Ya' point is that you wasn't payin' attention—"
"My point is that you could've opened ya' mouth like a grown ass man an said the words 'Elias, go handle Bunny' an I would've gone an handled Bunny, but instead you sittin’ over there on that couch drinkin' ya' liquor an assumin' I was gon' read ya' mind—"
"I don't need you readin' my mind, I need you payin' attention to what's happenin' in this house—"
"Stupid bitch, I pay more attention to what happens in this house than you do, I just ain't also expected to be a fuckin' mind reader on top of everythin’ else—"
"Language, Elias.” Smoke said.
"Now I need to read ya' mind an watch my mouth?"
"We got a doll present. Tighten up." Smoke's eyes cut to Bunny for one brief moment that carried the tiniest edge of an apology.
Bunny had been watching this exchange with the expression of a woman who was simultaneously relieved that Josie was right and also annoyed that Josie was right. She looked at the ceiling for one moment, gathering something, and then she looked at Stack directly.
"I didn't come here to listen to y'all argue about whose doll I am," she cut in. The words came out clean and direct, and beneath them ran a current of something real, something stored up across four weeks in a pretty room with silk curtains and three meals a day that she hadn’t earned. "I came here because I am a woman who been working since I was old enough to understand that money you make yourself is the only kind that belongs to you in full." She let that settle for a moment.
Before she had walked through their door she had left three establishments because she outgrew them. Before that, back when she was Rosalie and not Bunny, she hadn't been permitted to own so much as the dress on her back. That life was behind her and it would stay behind her as long as she had a body to work with and the sense God gave her to use it. "I appreciate the food," she said. "I appreciate the nightgowns and the curtains and the sweetness. I do. But I am not a woman who takes without giving back, and I am not going to sit in that room one more week eating indulging in things I ain't earn. I want to work."
The office held the sound of that for a brief second.
Stack analyzed her from top to bottom. The annoyance from the argument with his twin had drained off his face entirely, replaced by something more attentive and interesting. He possessed the look of a man who had been watching something he wanted for some time and had just been reminded of it. His gaze moved down the gold nightgown with the focused assessment of a man reviewing an investment he had forgotten to manage and was now reconsidering with renewed and comprehensive interest.
He came around the desk, crossed the office floor, and closed the distance between them until his chest was close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him. His hands came up. His fingers settled first at the hollow of her throat, light and acquainting themselves with the shape of her, feeling the small flutter there she couldn't suppress, feeling the way she swallowed. Then they traveled with thorough patience across her collarbones, over the generous swell of her chest through the nightgown's thin fabric. She was built lavishly, heavy and warm everywhere in a way that made his hands slow down and pay attention, and he let them linger there, cataloguing her, until her breathing changed and she tried to hide the change but couldn't.
His hands continued their inventory, moving down the soft plush landscape of her stomach, the deep inward curve of her waist, spreading wide across the full round geography of her hips. He took his time with her hips. He spent what felt like an extended amount of time mapping them, as though committing their particular architecture to some private record he intended to revisit at a later date. Then one hand swept low and around, and he brought his palm down hard and flat across the full magnificent curve of her backside with a crack that split the quiet of the office like a starting pistol.
The sound rang off the walls, the bookcase, the glass in the lamp, everything. Bunny's gasp tore out of her before she had the opportunity to make any decisions about it, sharp and bright, her body moving without consulting her brain, tilting forward into the impact and then backward away from it, settling finally against Stack's chest in a way that was involuntary enough to be entirely honest.
Stack felt her melt against him and his exhale came out long and satisfied. His arm wrapped around her from behind, pulling her flush against the front of him, and he bent his mouth to the curve of her ear. "I'm gon’ be the one runnin' ya' retrainin' tonight." He pressed his mouth closer to her ear, words dropping to a rough near-whisper. "An dependin' on how that go… I might need to keep you locked away from everybody else for another month… Really take my time so ya' body don't ever forget who it belong to."
The sound Bunny made was small, strangled, and entirely against her will.
He reached for the thin strap at her shoulder and slid it down. The other strap followed. He peeled the gold nightgown from her slowly, letting it whisper down her curves until it pooled at her feet in a gilded ring, and what was left standing in the middle of their office was every generous, luminous, full inch of Bunny without a single layer between her skin and the lamplight. The lamp threw amber across the swell of her hips, the deep curve of her waist, the heavy softness of her breasts, the deep brown warmth of her, and the office became immediately a different kind of room.
Stack stepped back and bit down on his bottom lip as he took in her goddess figure. Then, with the easy authority of a man in his own house, he waltzed over to the couch where Smoke sat and dropped down beside his brother. He plucked the liquor glass from Smoke's hand, drained what remained, and reached for the refill trolley at the couch's edge. Smoke didn’t argue with his twin. He simply shifted his weight to accommodate Stack’s presence and locked his eyes on Bunny.
Two men on the same couch. Side by side. Undershirts and slacks, loafers, the warm lamplight running along the defined lines of their arms where the fabric ended, the undeniable press of their interest visible in the material of their trousers. Stack poured a fresh glass and settled into the cushion. Smoke took Bunny in from head to foot with that flat, complete attention that gave nothing away and missed nothing. The air in the room had changed and pressed heavily on all their shoulders.
Stack leaned forward, elbows to his knees, glass hanging loose in his fingers. "Show me," he said, "why you worth the trouble of retrainin' when you already cost me a dead white man, two dry cleaning bills, a shovel we had to replace after breakin' it diggin' that peckerwoods grave, plus four an a half weeks of room an board an meals that even my top earners don't see on a regular Tuesday." He settled back into the cushion. "All that, an you ain't brought us a single dollar. So show me what you got, Bunny."
Bunny stood naked in the center of their office and looked at both of them. She took one breath. Then she walked to Smoke.
She came to stand directly before him and held his gaze and placed one knee on the cushion beside his thigh and then the other, straddling his lap with the practiced ease of a woman who had made herself at home in more difficult situations than this. She could feel him beneath her already, the dense, insistent hardness of him through his slacks, and the discovery sent something bold climbing up her spine and into her shoulders. She rolled her hips, one slow and complete rotation, felt him twitch beneath her, and did it again. She leaned forward and put her mouth to the side of his neck, the warm brown skin above his collar, and kissed him there. Felt his jaw tighten. Kissed across his collarbone, the gap where his undershirt opened at the throat. She found his earlobe with her teeth, caught it just barely, and felt the exhale that came out of him, contained and controlled, the only version of a sound he was willing to give her yet.
She pulled back and looked at Stack over her shoulder. "I can't promise I won't cause more trouble with your clients," she said, her hips still moving against Smoke's in that slow, measured grind. "That ain’t a promise I can keep. But I am an investment." She felt Smoke's hand settle on her hip, heavy and certain, the grip of a man who was claiming something without announcing he's done it. "And you'd be foolish men to let me go."
Then she climbed off Smoke's lap and moved to Stack.
She settled herself across his thighs before he had quite finished processing the intention, and his hands came up instinctively, finding her hips, and she moved against him the way she had moved against his brother, with that same frank, unhurried competence, rolling her hips in grinding rolls that had him fully hard inside his slacks under a minute. She kissed along his jaw, the corner of his mouth, found his throat and bit softly at it and felt him grip her harder. She turned her mouth to his ear. "Well?" she said quietly.
Stack's answer was both hands sliding down to fill themselves with the full, heavy weight of her backside, squeezing with the proprietary thoroughness of a man claiming something he had decided belongs to him and only him.
From the other side of couch, Smoke reached forward and caught the back of her hair in his fist. Not rough, not gentle, just completely unambiguous, pulling her head back until she was looking up at him from Stack's lap with her neck at a stretched and exposed angle. Smoke looked down at her, his eyes never leaving her face. "Who," he said, each word its own complete and unhurried thing, "taught you that knock?"
"Josie," Bunny replied quickly.
The quality of the silence that followed was specific. She felt Stack go still beneath her. She saw something shift in Smoke's expression, not much, just a recalibration of a single degree. "Josie," he repeated. Flat.
"She was in the kitchen," Bunny continued. "Just now. I spoke with her before I came down here."
Smoke's eyes moved to Stack's face. Stack's eyes moved back. That language again, the one that needed no words. Whatever moved between them in that half second was mutual and resolved by the time it was done.
Smoke released her hair. He stood, adjusted the set of his shoulder holster with one practiced motion, and looked at Bunny. "Come," he said.
Stack stood from the couch with Bunny still in his arms, lifting her from his lap without any apparent effort, her weight absorbed into his frame as a matter of course. He carried her out of the office. Smoke walked ahead through the dim corridor, his footsteps quiet on the floorboards, and they moved as a unit through the darkness of the second floor until they reached the kitchen.
Smoke pushed the door open.
Bunny looked into the kitchen from over Stack's shoulder.
The room was empty.
The room wasn't just vacant as if someone had just stepped out, the room was suddenly empty in a way that was wrong. Profoundly, specifically wrong. The chair at the table sat at the exact angle it had been in when she first sat down across from Josie, as though no one had adjusted it at all, as though no one had ever pulled it out to sit in it. The plate of cornbread was gone without a trace, not in the washtub, not on the counter, not anywhere. Simply absent from the room as if it was never there. The peach bowl sat exactly where it always sat. The lamplight came through the window at its usual angle and landed on a kitchen that offered no evidence whatsoever that a woman with ancient eyes had been sitting in it not even twenty minutes ago.
Bunny stared. The hair on her arms rose.
"She was right there," she said, and her voice had climbed half a register before she noticed. "She was sittin' right there at that table. She had cornbread on a plate, cold cornbread, she had it on a plate right there in front that chair, she offered some to me and I took a peach instead. She squeezed my cheeks." Bunny's hand rose and touched her own face at the memory of it, the very real and physical memory of Josie's palms pressing her cheeks together. "She was a real person who was in this room. She had feet. I heard her feet on the floor when she shifted her chair. That ain't somethin' I imagined." She heard her own voice rising once more and made herself stop. Swallowed down her confusion and looked from the empty table, to the empty chair, to the empty counter where a plate had been sitting less than a few minutes ago. The wrongness of the empty kitchen pressed against her like a cold hand.
"Where'd she go," she whispered, and this time her voice came out quieter, stripped of its former certainty, with something underneath it that was very close to fear. "The hallway is one hallway. I walked the whole length of it to get to your office. I would have seen her. I would have passed her. Where'd she—"
"I believe you."
Smoke's voice arrived quietly and cut through everything else like a lamp lit in a dark room. He stepped next to Stack and reached out, taking her chin between his fingers, tilting her face toward him with a gentleness that wasn’t his usual mode and was therefore more effective than almost anything else he could’ve done. His eyes moved across her face, reading whatever he found there with that same thorough attention, and then he said it again without elaboration or apology. "I believe you. You saw her. You spoke to her. It's 'ight." He held her gaze until the climbing quality went out of her breathing, until her eyes settled from startled back to present. His thumb moved once along her jaw, the lightest possible contact, and then he released her chin and looked at Stack over her head.
The look between them lasted one second and carried something private in it, something that had history in it, some understanding of Josie that they shared between themselves and weren’t presently sharing with Bunny. "Need to put a leash on that woman," Smoke grumbled, with the flat certainty of someone adding an item to a list.
"You an me both, nigga," Stack said, quietly.
Smoke turned from the kitchen. He didn’t go back towards their office, instead he went the other direction, toward the room at the far end of the hall, and Stack followed with Bunny still in his arms, carrying her away from the empty kitchen and the empty chair and the cold and inexplicable absence of a woman who had been sitting in it minutes ago eating cold cornbread like she owned the place.
The room at the end of the hall was broad and purposeful. A wide bed sat at its center on a dark mahogany frame, the headboard tall and unadorned. White linens, clean. A single lamp burning low in the corner, its flame turned down until the light came out warm and intimate. This was a simple room designed for one thing and one thing only, retraining a doll that didn’t need to be disciplined.
Stack deposited Bunny in the center of the bed with more chivalry than intended. He straightened up and looked at her sprawled across the white linens, her moisturized brown skin drinking the lamplight the way it was built to, every curve of her catching and holding the warmth of it. He let out a small satisfied grunt before rolling his shoulders once and then bending down to kiss the inside of her knee.
The sound Bunny made started in her throat and got halfway out before she caught it, her thigh twitching under his mouth. Stack felt the twitch and registered it with the calmness of a man who had spent a considerable amount of time studying the language of women's bodies, then he returned and pressed his lips to her inner knee again.
One kiss… two kiss… three kiss… four… Stack continued his playful worship before moving lower, or rather higher towards Bunny’s inner thigh. He was greeted with the soft warm skin there as his mouth opened against it, tongue dragging along the crease where her thigh met nothing and then meeting the next crease. He was learning the deep inner geography of her, building the path inward with a patience that was intentionally designed to make her lose her mind before he arrived at his final destination.
Her scent hit him before his mouth did and he let out a low sound against her skin that was pure appreciation. "Four an a half weeks," he said, lips moving against her inner thigh, his breath warming the space he hadn't touched yet. "You been sittin' in that pretty room unfucked all this time, huh, lil’ bunny rabbit?"
Bunny responded vocally with something that was technically a word, or at least she thought she did.
Stack chuckled to himself and then his mouth immediately found her aching bundle of nerves. He worked her the way a classically trained musician works an instrument he knows intimately. He didn’t rush his performance but instead attended to the specific truth of her responses with the kind of focused and intelligent attention that made up the difference between a man who was present and a man who was going through the motions. He learned her in the first thirty seconds, learned the particular way her hips moved when he pressed the flat of his tongue against her center, the way her thighs tried to close around his head and then caught themselves and spread wider, the way the sound she made climbed an entire octave when he tended to her clit and circled it with skilled precision.
He effortlessly brought her to the edge in under four minutes.
He knew when she was there. He had been watching for it, feeling for it in the tightening of her thighs and the change in her breathing, the way her hands had found the back of his head and were pressing down with that desperate and gnawing pressure that meant she was right there, right on the rim of it, one more motion and she would go over. He could feel her gathering herself, the coil of it pulling tight in her body and her hips tilting up to meet him.
But, because Stack was Stack, he couldn’t help himself as he pulled back and denied Bunny instant relief. She wasn’t a doll that needed to be punished, but she was still a doll under control of her master. He didn’t pull away far, just enough for his mouth to leave her core and rest against the inside of her thigh instead. He looked utterly composed as he breathed against her soaked, twitching heat while she fell apart beneath him in a different way than she had intended.
"Stack," she breathlessly whined, the word arriving with a thicker desperation than she had planned.
"Mm," he said, mouth still against her thigh.
"Please… Don't do that."
"Do what? " he asked pleasantly.
She made a frustrated sound and whined again before Stack returned to his honeysuckle feast.
He took his time getting there, moving up through the wet of her with his tongue like he was reading something he found interesting, and then he was back at her clit and the sounds coming out of her rebuilt themselves immediately, climbing again, her hips rolling, her fingers curling into the sheets. He gave her forty-five seconds this time before the edge showed up again in the ragged pacing of her breathing, and he pulled back once more. Pressed his mouth to her inner thigh. Breathed. And let her curse at him out.
"You raggedy ass nigga," she managed.
His laugh came out against her skin, warm and genuinely amused. "I done been called worse, babydoll."
At the head of the bed the mattress dipped. Bunny's eyes reopened, head turning, and Smoke leaned above her, and the sight of him was enough to make every other thought in her head exit quickly. He had shedded everything. His undershirt, slacks, holster, all of it was gone, and what was left was all of him, broad and carved and rich dark brown skin. His body looked like the map of a man who had moved through the world with physical force for a long time and had the evidence of that written in muscle and old scars. He was hard, entirely and obviously, and looking at her with those flat obsidian eyes that gave nothing away.
Smoke said nothing as he reached for the small table at the bed's edge and a cigarette appeared between his fingers, a match scratched against the bedframe with a brief bright leap of flame before it found its target. He took the first pull, held it, let the clouds of tobacco climb toward the ceiling in a long and perfectly controlled column. And then he looked down at her, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, his eyes traveling across her face with the calm, weighing assessment of a man reviewing something he may or may not be satisfied with.
"Who," he said, voice low and quiet and warm as the smoking end of something burning, "you think you talkin’ to like that in my house?"
Between her thighs, Stack's mouth had found the soft heat of her again, and the sound that tried to escape Bunny's throat was intercepted by her own determination not to give Smoke the satisfaction of an incoherent answer before she had the chance to give him a real one. "I-I didn’t mean none by it… I-I wasn’t givin’ orders," she managed.
"Mm." Smoke's eyes dropped from her face to the space just below them, where his erection jumped and throbbed directly above her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, and then his eyes came back up to hers. "You came to my office," he continued as he lazily gripped his manhood before taking another puff. "Told me what you was tired of. Told me what you wanted. Got yaself’ naked in front my brother an I, then sat in both our laps like you had the right." He exhaled smoke from the side of his mouth, away from her face. "That sound like a doll who know her place to you?"
Before she could respond, Stack's tongue distracted her by circling her clit with renewed and specific intention, as one finger pressed into her slowly, testing the heat of her… the tight grip of her. She was utterly soaked and already shaking in a finely controlled way, like how a bow shakes just before the arrow is released.
Smoke watched her face with the careful attention of a man reading a weather report. "A doll," he said, voice quieter, the edge in it sharpening enough to send shivers down her spine, "asks. She don't tell. She don't march down a hallway an knock on my door like she owed somethin'. She asks her owner. She say please. She waits." His thumb brushed her jaw, the touch light and intentional, as his eyes dropped to her mouth and then came back up. "You still ain’t proved you worth the trouble."
It didn't take much for Bunny to read between the lines as her right hand moved from the sheet and gripped Smoke’s precum dripping length. She felt the substantial weight of him against her palm and heard the slight controlled catch of his inhale as she felt him twitch against her hand. He filled her hand, dense and hot, and she stroked him from base to crown once with a grip that was firm.
She angled her head against the pillow, opened her mouth, and drew him in.
His size settled against her tongue, thick and dense, and she worked her lips around him with the exploring attention of a woman who had been told her whole career that her mouth was something extraordinary and had spent years proving it right. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked on him with an unhurried suction, her tongue mapping the underside of him on each pull, tracing the swollen vein that ran along his length, lapping at the crown when she came up before gobbling him back down again. Her free hand wrapped around his base and worked in a measured counterpoint. The combination of hand and mouth coordinated with the easy confidence of someone who had been doing this long enough that it lived in her body the way playing an instrument lives in a musician's hands had Smoke internally losing his mind.
Smoke's own hand found her hair, fingers settling among her now sweated out tresses without pressing, without directing, just resting there with a weight that communicated his full attention. The quality of his breathing changed almost immediately, each exhale coming a degree longer than it should have, each inhale a degree more controlled than usual. He brought the cigarette to his lips with his free hand and took a pull, held it, let the tobacco clouds go from the side of his mouth. The image of him above her doing that while she worked him below was the most Elijah “Smoke” Moore thing she could imagine, controlling himself with a lit cigarette while she did her damnedest to remove that control from him entirely.
For a long minute, Bunny genuinely believed she was finally in control, but then, the devious twin still situated between her thick thighs added a second finger inside her and she gasped. It only lasted a split second as her eyes almost rolled to the back of her head while she momentarily let the pleasure consume her, but that was short lived with a slight tug to her hair.
"Look at me," Smoke demanded.
She didn’t need to be told twice as she retrained her eyes back onto the owner that was in front of her.
"Mmm… good… you capable of suckin’ dick an followin’ instructions," he said softly, in a voice that had dropped below the level where it was meant to sound gentle and instead sounded much more intimate and a whole lot more dangerous. "You got somethin' to say?"
Bunny, whose mouth was still full of raw meat, slightly shook her head ‘no’ and continued servicing Smoke’s dick. Her tongue continued working the underside of him in the way that she had been complimented on in cities that were miles away from this one. She went down until the back of her throat met him and held there, breathing through her nose, feeling his fingers tighten in her hair by one degree, and then she came back up and did it again.
Smoke's exhale was long and relaxed. "Mm," he said, and it was the most honest amount of praise he had given Bunny all night.
Stack had brought her to the edge twice more in the interim, each time withdrawing with the particular cruelty of a man who is enjoying the architecture of her desperation more than he would enjoy its resolution, and she was by now a tightly wounded and thoroughly soaked little doll. Her body was operating at a level of need that had begun to make her cry a little. Not from pain or unhappiness, just from the relentless accumulation of pleasure with nowhere to go.
"Stack… Sir…" she managed, pulling off Smoke for a breath.
"Still here," Stack said, against her thigh.
"Please." The word came out stripped of all pretense. Just the word. Just the need in it, raw and uncomplicated.
Stack looked up at her along the length of her body. His mouth was wet, his eyes were bright, and he looked like a man who had been given an exceptional gift that was in no hurry to unwrap it fully. "Please what?" he asked rhetorically already knowing the answer to the question.
"Please… l-let me finish."
"Let you finish?" His voice carried genuine amusement. "Babydoll, I barley scratched the surface."
Smoke looked at the tears streaming from Bunny’s eyes. Something moved across his face, an emotion too foreign for anyone to decipher. He pulled free of her mouth with a soft sound and moved, climbing off the mattress and coming around the foot of the bed, and the sight of him moving toward Stack's position made Stack lift his head.
Smoke looked at his brother. Then he looked at the place between Bunny's thighs, the glistening, swollen, and desperately twitching evidence of the last fifteen minutes, and he looked back at Stack with an expression that was entirely final.
"Move," he said.
Stack sat up and squinted his eyes in disbelief. "S’cuse you, nigga?"
"Move," Smoke said again.
Stack's eyes narrowed. "She's my doll, Elijah."
"Yeah… well… she’s also mine," Smoke said. "I just decided."
Stack stared at him. The look on his face was the look of a mannish boy who didn’t like having to share his toys. "You can't just decide that," he complained. "That ain't how this works. You can't crawl over here in the middle of my session an claim a whole woman like you can’t go pick another damn doll—"
"Elias."
"What?!”
"I been watchin' her for a month," Smoke said, with the patience of someone explaining something obvious. "She in the room ‘cross the hall from ours. I been the one who had her moved there. I been the one who made sure her meals was right. Made sure her room was right an made sure nobody bothered her." A pause. "She mine. She also yours. Move."
Stack's jaw tightened. He looked at Bunny. Bunny looked back at him from the mattress with wide eyes, her lips still swollen, her thighs still trembling, and her expression carrying the cocky confusion of a woman who had just been claimed by two men simultaneously while lying naked in their bed and was still in the early stages of processing this information. Stack pointed at Smoke. "You owe me," he said. "You owe me big time, nigga."
"Mhm. Add it to the list," Smoke said.
Stack moved, climbing up toward the headboard with a muttered stream of commentary, and Smoke took his place between Bunny's thighs before lowering his head. He wasted no time as his mouth found her center without preamble, his tongue worked her with the focused of a man who went through life either doing something well or not at all. The sound Bunny made was enormous and immediate, her hands flying out to grip the sheets.
Smoke was vastly different from Stack in how he devoured Bunny’s pussy. Stack built her pleasure up as if he was an architect with a boundless amount of patience. Whereas Smoke treated her pleasure like a man reading a language only he knew. Every response she gave him, he immediately incorporated it into what he did next, adjusting, refining, arriving at the exact pressure and rhythm that made her thighs lock around his head and her back clear off the mattress as every coherent thought she had exited the premises.
He didn’t bother edging her since he had already clearly read what the edging had done to her. He could read the accumulated tension in every line of her body. Instead, he drove her straight to the finish line without stopping. The orgasm that finally rippled through her felt spiritual as if her soul was raptured out of her body. Her voice tore out of her open and honest, her hips grinding against his mouth as he worked her through every wave of it, his hands locked on her hips to keep her from pitching away from him.
Stack sat at the headboard watching all of this with his arms folded like a sulking child. When Smoke finally lifted his head, Stack uncrossed his arms and pointed at his brother with one finger. "My turn," he said.
"She sensitive," Smoke said, sitting back on his heels.
"I know she sensitive. That's the point."
Smoke moved aside without any urgency, and Stack replaced him between Bunny's thighs with the eagerness of a man who had been waiting for his turn at something exceptional. He looked at the convulsing center of her for a beat with something purely acquisitive in his expression, and then he put his skilled mouth back on her.
Bunny's entire body jerked backwards. The sound she made this time was considerably more desperate than the last, her hips trying to back away from the overstimulation and Stack's hands locking around them before she got anywhere.
"Stay," he murmured against her, voice vibrating right against her hypersensitive clit.
"Stack I can't, it's too much—"
"You can," he growled, and meant it, and went back to work.
Smoke let his twin have his fun as he situated himself on Bunny’s left side, and his mouth found her breast. His lips closed around her nipple and sucked on the coco nub with an intensity that sent a euphoric sensation shooting directly down her spine. His other hand flattened on her ribs, feeling the heave of her breathing, the rapid and helpless rise and fall of her chest. He worked across to her other breast with the same thorough attention, his teeth grazing just lightly enough to make her gasp, and then moan, and then grip the back of his head.
Meanwhile, Stack feasted like a starving madman. His tongue worked her pulsing and overstimulated pussy with an almost vindictive thoroughness, licking into her and circling her clit with alternating attention, building the sensation higher than it had any right to go given that she had just come apart under his brother's mouth not two minutes ago. He watched her face when he could, watched the progression of it, the way her mouth fell open, how her brows drew together, and when the tears started again fresh from the corners of her eyes, overstimulation and pleasure braided together until she couldn't separate one from the other.
When she came the second time it was different in character, wilder, less controlled, her body arching and convulsing with a force that had nothing of restraint left in it, and the flood of her against Stack's mouth was audible in the quiet room. He drank her juices down with a delighted groan while his jaw still worked her through every aftershock, refusing to stop until her thighs had gone from locked to trembling to limp and her voice had dropped from cries to the soft and utterly wrecked sound of a woman who has nothing left to give.
Thirty seconds of blissful torture occurred until Stack finally sat back. He looked at the evidence of what he had done to her with profound satisfaction, wiping his jaw with the back of his hand. He looked at Smoke. "She ready," he said.
"She definitely ready," Smoke agreed.
Smoke laid down on his back on the mattress beside Bunny, his nine inches pointing toward the ceiling. He turned his head and looked at her where she lay against the linens, trembling and thoroughly undone. His voice, when it came, was dominate and certain. "Show me," he said, "how you got ya' name, bunny rabbit. Show me why you worth the trouble."
The second Bunny heard Smoke’s request, she sat up on trembling arms. She looked at him stretched out beside her, at the full dark length of him, at the patient flatness of his expression, at the way he was simply waiting with the absolute confidence of a man who knew what was coming and secretly couldn’t wait.
She was still a little loopy from her prior orgasms but gathered up enough strength and swung her leg over him. She positioned herself above him and reached down to guide him to her entrance before sinking onto him with a long, controlled descent that pulled a sound from the back of her throat and a sound from the back of his. Both of them couldn’t help themselves responding to the stretch, the heat, and the fullness of her pussy wrapping around his length as she settled herself completely onto him. She stayed there for a second, adjusting, letting her body accommodate the considerable size of him and feeling him everywhere at once before beginning to move.
It only took three bounces for Bunny to prove to Smoke why she had earned her name. She wasn’t just a lady of the night who knew how to ride a dick until sunrise. No. She had spent years refining a specific combination of bouncing, grinding, and rolling that made men weep, beg, and reach for her like she was the only water in a desert. She worked him with her hips, rising and falling in the deep rolling motion that used every muscle she had, the sound of their bodies meeting building in the lamp-warm room, her succulent breasts moving with every stroke, her hands braced on his chest for leverage, her thighs flexing and releasing with each downward drive.
Smoke looked up at her and something happened in his face, some arrangement of his features that wasn’t quite expressionless in the way he usually was, instead something behind his eyes showed a genuine side of him that wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. His hands came to rest on her thighs, not to direct or control the pace, just to hold her, to feel what she was doing from the closest possible position.
He let her have it. He laid there beneath her and he absorbed every stroke with the stillness of a man receiving something with his full attention. His only movements were the tightening of his hands on her thighs, the slight flare of his nostrils, and the slight clenching of his jaw that betrayed how thoroughly he was feeling everything she was giving him. "That's it," he groaned, voice rough and lower than usual. "Keep goin'. Show me everythin’."
And indeed she showed him everything. She rolled her hips in her signature deep figure-eight that made her thighs burn and made men forget what city they were in. She let out a needy whine when she felt him twitch hard inside her, felt his fingers dig into her thighs and felt the sound he made rumble up from somewhere below the place where he usually kept his inner desires.
"Goddamn," Stack praised from somewhere behind her.
Bunny had nearly forgotten, in the consuming present-tense occupation of riding Smoke, that Stack was still in the room with them. She remembered now. She remembered specifically when she felt his hand press warm and flat against the small of her back, pushing her forward just slightly, changing the angle, and she felt the presence of him settling in behind her, the specific warmth of a second body entering the space, and something in her belly turned over at the knowing of what was coming next.
"Don't stop movin'," Smoke growled below her, his voice steady and laced with something that wasn’t quite command and not quite warning, something between the two that communicated that her motion was the thing keeping him from losing his composure. "Keep ya pretty eyes right here."
It was difficult, but she kept her eyes on him. She kept moving, slower now, the rhythm becoming something more rocking and less bouncing as Stack's hand remained at the small of her back and his other hand reached for something on the side table. The sound of a bottle. The sensation of something cool worked at the back entrance she hadn't been using, Stack's fingers pressed and circled with a careful, methodical preparation of a man who knew exactly how to stretch a doll without tearing her. He worked her chocolate starfish open with practiced patience, each circle and press accompanied by Smoke's hands on her hips maintaining their slow rhythm and his voice occasional and low.
"Breathe," Smoke said, one hand traveling from her hip to her stomach, palm flat and warm against her skin. "Stay with me. Just breathe."
She breathed. She kept her eyes on his and kept rolling her hips over him and breathed through Stack's fingers working behind her, opening her gradually, each moment of it accompanied by Smoke's voice and Smoke's hands and Smoke's eyes holding her in place in every sense.
After a minute of probing and preparing, Stack withdrew his fingers. The blunt pressure that replaced them was broader, and it pressed forward with the slow and inexorable patience of a man who had done this enough times to know that patience here was not optional. Bunny's motion over Smoke stuttered as the pressure built and Stack worked his way inside her. He knew better than to rush or force his way inside, instead he continued steadily forward until the stretch had gone from too much, to full, to something that rewired every nerve ending she had at the same moment and left her gripping Smoke's chest with both hands and pressing her face into his shoulder.
"There it is," Stack said from behind her, voice strained as he relished in the tightness of her asshole. "You got all of it, babydoll. You got it."
This wasn’t the first time Bunny participated in anal sex, but it was the first time she had both of her holes filled to the brim. She took both of them, fully, completely, in the most total sense of that word, and the feeling of it wasn’t something she could’ve prepared herself for no matter how plainly Josie had described it. Her body had become an instrument of pure sensation, attended to from both directions at once, filled past the point where she could distinguish between the fullness and herself.
"Move with me," Smoke ordered, and began to rock his hips upward in a slow, careful rhythm.
Stack matched it from behind, withdrawing just barely and pressing back in on the same count, the two of them falling into sync with the ease of people who have shared a frequency their entire lives. Bunny gripped Smoke's chest and held on.
Smoke's hands ran up from her hips to her waist to the curve of her sides, mapping her as she moved, grounding her with the weight and warmth of his hands when the sensation from everywhere else threatened to become too much. "Look at me," he said.
She looked at him.
"You ours," he continued. Not a question, just a statement of something that had apparently been decided and was now being confirmed. "You understand that."
"Yes," she breathed.
"Say it."
"I-I-I'm yours," she whined, and her voice cracked on the last word because Stack had adjusted behind her and found the angle that turned her thoughts entirely to static.
"Fuck," Stack hissed through his teeth. "Keep squeezin’ me like you finna cum an I'm gon' embarrass myself."
Smoke's jaw ticked. He drove his hips up sharper than he had been, once, and her forehead dropped to his chest. "Hold it," he said, one hand traveling up her spine, settling between her shoulder blades. "Don't finish yet."
Like a good little doll, Bunny obeyed even if withholding her orgasm was one of the hardest things for her to do. She held it through the next several minutes of the two of them working her from both sides with building and competing intensity. Stack's hips found a rhythm behind her that grew less restrained with each stroke, his hands gripping her waist with the force of a man holding onto something he didn’t intend to lose. Meanwhile, Smoke drove up into her pussy with a calculated and precise force that hit the same place every time and built the pressure in her body to a pitch that had no precedent in her experience.
She held back her orgasm with her fingernails deep in Smoke's bare chest and tears running freely down her face from the sheer accumulated pressure of pleasure with nowhere to go. Her body shook uncontrollably between them in continuous tremors.
"Hold it," Smoke said again, quieter this time, his hand moving from between her shoulder blades to the back of her neck, his thumb pressing at the base of her skull with a firmness that was grounding. "Hold it for me. Just a little longer."
She felt like an overfilled waterballoon on the verge of popping but she held it a little longer.
"Now," he said.
The second Smoke gave the command, Bunny let go. This orgasm made her entire body convulse between them, and the viper grip of her fluttering holes around both of them became violent and involuntary, her voice tearing out in a sound that came from a place so primal and ancient it didn’t have a name. Stack grunted hard behind her, the sound losing its edges, his rhythm breaking apart, his hips pressing deep and going still as her body worked around him without any input from her at all. Smoke's hands locked on her hips and held her through every spasm, his breath coming in controlled pulls through his nose, his jaw set, his eyes on her face.
She was still a shaking mess when they moved her.
Stack withdrew and the absence of him was its own overwhelming sensation as they repositioned her between them with fluid and efficient coordination, guiding her body into the new arrangement before she could fully process that things were changing. Her hands and knees were positioned on the mattress with Smoke now behind her. Stack was in front of her, already at the edge of the bed, his hand finding her hair, his thumb tilting her chin upward.
"Open," Stack said, his voice dragged rough by the effort of the last several minutes.
She opened. He slid into her mouth and she wrapped her thick lips around him and worked him with the full attention of a woman who had made sucking dick into an art form, her tongue pressing along his length, her cheeks hollowing with each pull. Behind her Smoke gripped her hips with both hands and pressed into her pussy from behind with a force that had nothing of restraint left in it, each thrust was deep and drove her forward into Stack so that the two of them worked her from both ends in a rhythm that had its own crude, overwhelming music.
Smoke's hand came down on the curve of her backside, a sharp slap that made Stack look over her head at his brother with raised brows.
Smoke looked back at him with an expression that communicated absolutely nothing except his full awareness of what he had just done. "She a doll. She our whore," he said casually between thrusts.
Stack's grin broke across his face, gold tooth and all. "Mm hm." His hand joined Smoke's sentiment, fisting tighter in her curls, working himself into her mouth with an authority that matched his brother's behind her. "Take it," he said, "just like that. All of it."
She took it. She took all of it, from both of them, from behind and in front. Her tears ran freely down her face again, dripped off her chin, and ran down Stack's length where he fucked into her throat. She felt another climax building from somewhere deeper than the previous ones had come from, further down, more structural, and her body told her it was coming whether she was ready or not.
Stack felt it in the change of her mouth around him. Smoke felt it in the change of her hypersensitive pussy around him. Both of them drove harder at the same time as Smoke's hand came to her hip and gripped it with the force of a man who wanted to feel the final round tightness squeeze around him. "Give it," Smoke said, rough against her.
Bunny’s body clenched and released in a rolling sequence that started at her core and moved outward, her voice was muffled around Stack’s twitching length and her thighs shook against Smoke's grip. Everything in her narrowed down to the specific and enormous fact of coming apart between these two men who had decided, right then and there, that she was theirs. Stack's hips completely lost their rhythm entirely and he groaned from deep in his chest, his hot sticky release filling her throat in long, heavy pulses, his hand in her hair tightening as he worked through every second of it. Behind her Smoke thrusted into her through the spasms of her climax with a final series of strokes that cost him the last of his control as his hips pressed flush against hers and stayed there while he finished inside her, the sound that came out of him brief and real.
The room after was silent except for breathing.
Three people in various states of collapse across the ruined white linens, the lamp still burning in the corner, the amber light still doing its only job. Bunny was laying face down in the center of the bed with no intention of moving for the foreseeable future. Stack was somewhere to her left, his hand resting on the mattress near her shoulder. Smoke stood after a moment, crossed to the washstand, and returned with a warm cloth. He cleaned her with that same focused efficiency she had heard other dolls gossip about but never experienced, his hands moved over her with the attention of a man who considered this part of the task just as important as any other.
It was Stack’s turn to move from his spot on the bed, as he waltzed over to a nearby drink cart and poured himself a fresh glass of whiskey glass, took a long sip, and exhaled with the deep satisfaction of a man at genuine peace with every decision he had made in the last several hours. He looked at Bunny where she laid against the linens, a beautiful and thoroughly claimed wreck of a woman. Then he turned to look at his brother across the room.
"She can't go back on the floor," he said.
Smoke wrung the cloth out over the basin. "Mm?"
"I'm serious, Eli. Her talent is undeniable. That thang she did with them hips is somethin' I intend to study at length for the next several weeks of my life." He took another sip. "But her control? Her control is nonexistent. She finished too many damn times in one session. You put her in a room with a payin' client who came here expectin' an hour an she gon' be done in two minutes. That man gon' feel robbed an robbed men talk… an talkin' men bad for business." He set the glass down and crossed his arms over his chest like a man presenting a logical conclusion. "Two more weeks. Minimum. We retrain her every night ‘til she can hold back a nut the way a real doll ‘posed to."
Smoke stayed quiet as he came back to the bed, sat at its edge and looked at his twin with the knowing expression he wore when Stack was making an argument he wanted to put an immediate end to. "Elias," he said.
Stack looked at him.
"Drink ya' whiskey an shut the fuck up."
Stack sucked his teeth but he kept his eyes on Bunny.
Bunny turned her face against the pillow and looked at both of them from the comfortable horizontal vantage point of a woman who had been thoroughly wrecked. Smoke, quiet at the bed's edge, let his hand come to rest at her ankle. Stack, whiskey back in hand and gold tooth gleaming was already building his next argument with the enthusiasm of a man who was looking forward to the next two weeks considerably more than he is letting on.
"Two weeks," she mumbled underneath her breath, to the ceiling.
Stack pointed at her with excitement. "See! She gets it. That’s a good lil’ bunny rabbit."
"But the food stays the same," she added.
The room went quiet for a moment.
Then Stack started laughing, full and genuine, the sound rolling through the room and finding all the corners. This time he pointed at Smoke with the glass. "Eli," he said, "I like her."
"I know," Smoke replied as he kept his hand on her ankle. “I know…”
.
.
.
.
.
Author’s Note: Wowzers! See I ammmmm capable of writing the twins as civilized deviants… *cough* So… um… how about that Josie?? 😏
summary. how maddy and bishop would connect after the final episode; a set of headcanon.
ft. madeline "maddy" perez x bishop
: a/n. i knew they were buzzy from the very beginning.
⊱ MADDY would be quick to notice that bishop harbored some kind of feelings/attraction toward her ever since he drove kitty & her back to cassie’s house after the alamo incident.
⊱ BISHOP knows that she knows, but he’d just continue staring blankly at her as maddy sized him up– her mind working quickly in assessing this new bit of information. plotting, marking, connecting. bishop lets her.
❧ —— “wait,” she’d say, stopping bishop from pulling away from cassie’s driveway that night. “where will you go?”
“i have a place. not too far out from here.”
“okay,” maddy nodded, carefully storing away cryptic pieces of the former right-hand man’s life. “but how would i reach you?”
bishop would stare right into her dark eyes. lifeless to her intense pair. they’ll have these staring matches often in the near future, though right now, bishop opted to give an answer instead of his usual silence.
“i’ll reach you,” he’d say.
“well, that’s not fair,” she quickly countered. “i need to know how to reach you too.”
“why?”
kitty– still cold and shocked– would mutely watch their interaction from the side, pressing down the needy urge to flee inside for comfort after everything she went through that night, but she couldn't exactly sprint without her boss in tow.
thankfully, maddy just cocked her head to the side, shrugging at the man in the car. “just because.” —— ☙
⊱ they ended up becoming business partners of some sort. MADDY would text him first, asking for a meet-up to discuss finances since their worlds are heavily intertwined and always would be, anyway.
⊱ MADDY would ask for these “strategic meet-ups” a lot and BISHOP would be in his car before he could even text her back with a short “Alright.”
⊱ people genuinely think BISHOP is maddy’s bodyguard with the way he would always be glued to her like a second shadow.
⊱ would ask him to come over for “advice” because … her business affects his business and vice versa, obviously.
⊱ “the metal strap-on is definitely more eye-catching. bee, what d’you think?”
she’d earn an immediate “yeah.” from him, even though he wouldn’t spare a glance at the barely clothed models sprawled over cassie’s bed.
⊱ MADDY would shove two different gag balls in front of his face & he’d just stare at her smirking face all unimpressed, knowing she was trying (failing) to tick him off.
❧ —— “which one, bee?”
“neither.”
she’d snort. “you’re no fun.” —— ☙
⊱ deep down, BISHOP never minded that maddy “drags”– as Q’s disrespectful ass would say– him around because the other option would entail him just coming over unannounced like a fool to a house brimming with women. worse: he’d be a fucking creep.
❧ —— “i think snowflake misses you.”
maddy would glance up from her phone, eyebrows raised in curiosity. “yeah?”
“yeah,” he’d confirm. so unaffected.
“did he say that he misses ‘the pretty lady with the designer fits and great hair’?”
he’d hum. the edge of his mouth quirking up the tiniest bit and maddy would smile at his reaction.
“word by word,” he’d say. —— ☙
⊱ would call BISHOP for pretty much everything.
⊱ need a new toy for the girls’ content? bishop. forgot the bikini set she'd order three weeks ago? bishop, since he’s heading this way anyway. lunch for the entire house? bishop knows a great place where they went once & she’ll tell him order it from them.
⊱ drunk out of her mind? god have mercy, BISHOP’s her speed dial.
⊱ MADDY would wake up up in bishop’s neat bed more times than she’ll ever admit. an advil, water, and a sandwich already perched on the side table.
⊱ BISHOP wouldn’t be there.
⊱ he’d hang with snowflake in his living room as MADDY makes her way to the massive couch, toppling down beside him.
⊱ BISHOP would look away from the TV. ten seconds later, he'd still be watching maddy– disheveled with mascara running down her eyes, perplexingly gorgeous– trying to massage out her headache.
❧ —— “you good?” he’d ask.
she’d hum back in response, and he’d slowly return to his TV, LOST blaring over the wide flat screen, as she watched him in return.
“you’re never there when i wake up,” she’d point out. blunt, matter-of-factly.
he’d slowly swivel his head back toward her. his left hand still mindlessly combing through snowflake’s impeccable fur. it would prove contagious, and soon maddy would be busy petting the poodle’s round head.
“i never sleep in my bedroom when you’re here,” he’d simply answer.
maddy’s eyebrows would furrow as she continue scratching snowflake behind the ears. “why?”
“that’d be inappropriate.” he’d gaze right at her. “impudent.”
“well, you should,” she’d tell him. “it’s fucking freezing at night in a bed that big.”
his dull eyes would track over her face in earnest. “i can turn the heater up.”
maddy would grin, eyes now on snowflake who had began yelling out his excited little barks.
“that’s stupid,” she’d comment. “i prefer human warmth. i might get hypothermia, you know.”
“you won’t.” and there’d be a note of fondness threaded through his monotone voice. “but alright, maddy perez.” —— ☙
Summary: Rule #1 on Zoom, always turn your mic off!😏
After hearing Michael’s quick little moan in that video, I had to write something. Also based on this request.
“How long are these interviews supposed to take again?” You ask Michael, as you sit across from him on the couch in his office.
With the recent release of Sinners, the interviews for press were constant. Luckily for you and Michael, today was one of those rare interview days when he could do them from home in the comfort of his office.
You had the day off and you missed your man, so you opted to sit in his office while he worked. This wasn’t an unusual routine for either of you. You and Michael often worked together in his office. The simultaneous clacking of your keyboards, along with just being in each other’s presence was comforting.
Today, however, you’d have to wait for Michael to complete his interviews before you could truly spend time together. Also unfortunately, today was just one of those days when you were really horny.
It also doesn’t help that Michael is dressed in that black t-shirt that contours to every muscle on his body. He don a pair of sweatpants to keep himself comfortable during the interview.
It’s not helping the wetness between your legs because you know that he’s free balling beneath the sweatpants. You’re practically hypnotized watching his print through the pants.
“This is the last one. It’ll be about thirty minutes,” Michael responds, leaning back in the chair as he casually tosses up the fidget toy.
He subtly eyes his Naruto hoodie that adorns your frame, along with the shorts that hug your thighs. He clears his throat and adjusts himself discreetly.
The last thing he needs is to be hard during this interview.
“And then we’ll spend time together?”
Michael catches the needy look on your face, “Yeah, baby. I’m all yours once this interview is over. We can do whatever you want.”
“Okay baby!” You chirp before settling back on the couch. You slide your book over to you and lay back to start reading it. Michael eyes lock on your bare legs. He clocks the anklet dangling from your anklet with his initials on it.
For a moment, he allows himself to imagine the sight of the anklet as it dangles from his shoulder. He thinks back to a few nights when he had your legs over his shoulders as he feasted on you. He can still remember the chill from the anklet and the feel of your hands in his hair.
His phone dinging from the desk reminds him of the upcoming interview. He clicks on the interview link before sitting up in his chair. Michael turns the camera on as he waits for the interview to start.
Soon, the interview starts as Ryan, Wumni, Miles, Jayme, and Delroy also appear on the screen. Michael chuckles to himself because he can tell that they all had the same idea for keeping it casual.
“Hey everyone, it’s nice to have you all here today. Thank you so much for your time,” the interviewer greets with much enthusiasm.
Michael dons a wide smile as he waits for the interview to begin her questions. He peeks off the side to look at you, only to notice that you’ve changed positions while reading.
You now lay on your front, casually moving your feet in the air. Michael’s eyes zero in on your backside, specifically where he can see that your shorts have hiked up.
He swallows before directing his attention back to the screen.
“Question for you Michael, how would say that all of your roles before this have prepared you to play twins?”
“I would say that all of my previous roles have taught me discipline and made me lean into creativity a lot more. I think that playing twins on screen, you kind of want to tweak them to make them their own separate entities. Like with Creed, it was the first time that I had to transform my body, so I think with playing Smoke and Stack, it helped to inform my choices on how I wanted to shape my body and move around as those characters.”
The interviewer hums.
The interview continues to go on with additional questions being asked to different cast members.
It turns out that you picked the wrong book to read. You were in your romance era of reading, so you’d trusted your homegirls in your book club with their next choice of book. Your friend had mentioned that the book was spicy, but you weren’t expecting it to heat up this early.
You clench your thighs as your clit throbs from reading the steamy scene. To Michael, it looks like you’re adjusting your position, but actually, your shorts have pressed against your center and you have to control the moan from the stimulation that the fabric is giving you.
You get to a specific part where the female lead is giving a blowjob to the male lead in the bathroom. You think back to having Michael’s dick in your mouth. Your mouth waters when you think of the heavy weight against your tongue and the taste of his cum hitting your taste buds.
The idea hits your brain immediately. There might as well be a light bulb shining brightly above your head. You close the book before you can abandon the idea.
You stand from the couch before dropping to your knees. You start crawling across the floor until you reach Michael’s desk. He’s so engrossed in the interview that he doesn’t notice you until you brush against his leg. He jumps before disguising the action like he’s adjusting in the chair.
You move between his legs until you’re sitting pretty between them. With the height of the desk, it hides the fact that you’re sitting there.
Michael tenses as you move forward and lay your head on his thigh. He tries to stop your hand as you grip him through the sweats. You smile mischievously at him as you fully stick your hand in the sweats to take his dick out.
“So pretty,” you whisper to yourself.
Michael’s mushroom tip is already leaking the pearlescent liquid that contrasts against his brown skin. You spit in your hand before moving it to wrap around Michael’s length again. You move your hand up until you’re firmly grasping the tip.
Michael tries to control his breath as his pleasure starts to spike. For a few minutes, you casually jerk him off like you’re playing with a toy.
But you are. He’s your favorite toy, and fortunately for you, you are allowed to put this one in your mouth.
Michael covers up a moan with a cough as your lips fully envelope him. You pull back to lap at his tip like it’s a lollipop. You allow a large glob of spit to leave your mouth as it trails over Michael’s length. You slurp the spit back into your mouth before repeating the process.
You’re killing Michael. He tries to keep his cool as he answers questions dutifully. When he looks down again, you’re tapping his dick against your tongue while looking up at him.
“Yeah..like I was saying….um..I’m sorry, what was the question again?” Michael asks, his mind foggy with lust.
Everyone chuckles, but they’re completely oblivious to you taking the man apart under the desk. It’s at that moment that you choose to fully submerge your mouth on Michael’s dick. Your nose presses against his pubic hairs as you breathe him in.
There’s faint sounds of your throat catch on the microphone, but everyone’s professional enough not to comment. Michael still yours head as he holds you flush to him. You breathe through your nose as you relax at the feel of him in your throat.
Spit collects in your mouth and begins to leak out of sides as Michael continues answering the question. He keeps his voice calm, but wavers at the end when you swallow around him.
He turns the mic off as the interviewer asks Delroy the next question. He releases you as you move back up to breathe. A long, thin line of salive connects your lips to him.
He briefly glances down at his phone as it buzzes.
Coog
You good?
Michael
I’m straight..
Coog
So what was that noise?🙂
….Y’all nasty af man💀
You choose that exact moment to pull his balls out of the sweatpants to start mouthing at them. You suck on them as you jerk him off.
Your tongue slides up until you fully envelope him down your throat again. Michael checks the mic to ensure that it’s muted as you fully start sucking him. You hallow your cheeks and moan lowly.
He can feel the rising of his orgasm in the pitt of his stomach. He glances down at you and you’re honestly lost in your own world as you throat him. It only takes one more gag before he’s exploding into your throat.
Michael’s abs and thighs clench as pleasure radiates through his body. He feels the orgasm in his toes. He closes his eyes briefly before opening them again.
Spurts of his cum hit your tongue and the back of your throat. It makes you wetter because it’s one of your favorite treats. Michael feels like he could cry as you swish his cum around in your mouth with his length still there. You lick the remnants of his cum from him as you release him with a soft pop.
“And that was our last question. Thank you all so much for being here today. It’s truly been an honor. Congratulations on the success of the movie!”
Michael unmutes the microphone as he thanks the interviewer before he leaves the meeting.
Immediately, he slides the chair back to look at you in surprise.
You shrug your shoulders, “What? I needed something in my mouth.”
Summary: In the wake of the Dynasty Ball, Kayla is no longer just a captive but an initiate, learning to wield submission as a strategic weapon. As she forges a fragile friendship with Anya and endures Simone's growing rivalry, the competition between the twins and their cousins ignites. A visit from the patriarch, Bakari, changes everything, declaring that their "Princess" is a queen in the making who needs a kingdom. The hunt for the perfect estate begins, a high-stakes endeavor that will solidify Kayla's power and test the very bonds of their union.
Warnings: polyamorous relationships (M/F/M), BDSM themes, D/s dynamics, power exchange, praise kink, and breeding kink. It also features depictions of psychological manipulation, intense familial rivalry, and emotional conflict. The story explores themes of power, legacy, and identity within a wealthy, influential Black family.
Tangled | Tangled — Part II: The Legacy Gala
The afternoon light in the loft was different. It wasn't the harsh, interrogating light of morning or the soft, romantic haze of evening. It was a clear, steady, golden light that streamed through the vast windows, illuminating the dust bunnies dancing in the air like tiny, scattered diamonds. The atmosphere had shifted, too. The charged, nervous energy of training had given way to a quiet, focused intensity, a sense of purpose that was almost academic.
Kayla was curled up on the plush, cream-colored chaise lounge, a throw blanket draped over her legs. But she wasn't reading a textbook on international finance or market trends. The heavy, leather-bound Moore legacy book was open on her lap, its pages filled with elegant, calligraphic script and faded, sepia-toned photographs. She looked like a student in a grand, old library, her brow furrowed in concentration, her finger tracing the lines of a passage about a formidable woman named Genevieve Moore.
Elijah sat opposite her, in a high-backed leather chair that looked like a throne. He wasn't reading to her; he was observing her, a silent, patient tutor waiting for his pupil to formulate the right question. He had a glass of amber liquid in his hand, but he hadn't touched it. His entire focus was on her, on the way her mind was working, on the way she was beginning to see the world not as a series of terrifying events, but as a complex, strategic game.
She looked up, her dark eyes clear and direct. "This part, about Genevieve," she said, her voice a soft, thoughtful murmur. "It says she 'neutralized a threat' from a rival shipping company in 1958 by 'securing the allegiance' of their CEO. It says she spent a weekend with him in the Hamptons." She paused, her finger still on the page. "It says she 'chose her method of persuasion.'"
She met his gaze, a flicker of the old fear in her eyes, but it was overshadowed by a genuine, burning curiosity. "Did she... want to? Or was she told to?"
Elijah leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, the glass of whiskey forgotten on the table beside him. A slow, appreciative smile touched his lips. It was the first time she had asked a question that went beyond the 'what' and delved into the 'why'.
"That is the most important question you could ask," he said, his voice a low, smooth rumble. "She was told to secure the deal. The objective was clear. The rival company was becoming a threat to our expansion in the Caribbean. Her husband, my great-uncle, needed it to disappear. He gave her the mission."
He paused, his eyes holding hers, a look of profound respect in their depths. "How she achieved that objective was her choice. She could have tried to bribe him. She could have tried to find blackmail material. But she studied him. She learned his weaknesses, his desires. She learned that he was a man who valued beauty, who was susceptible to a certain kind of charm. So, she chose her weapon. Her body. Her mind. Her wit. She spent a weekend convincing him that his allegiance to her was more valuable than his loyalty to his own company."
He leaned back, his expression a mixture of pride and solemnity. "That is the difference between a possession and a partner. A possession is a tool used for a single purpose. A partner is an ally who understands the objective and uses her unique skills to achieve it. She was not a victim that weekend, Kayla. She was a strategist. A general in a war fought with silk and champagne instead of swords and guns."
He looked at her, his gaze intense, a fire burning in their dark eyes. "Your mind is a weapon, Princess. So is your body. So is your spirit. You have been taught to obey, to submit. That is the foundation. But now, you must learn to wield it. You must learn to choose your weapon. You must learn how to fight."
Just as his words were sinking in, a new presence entered the room. Elias, fresh from a workout, his body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, his muscles bulging under the thin fabric of his tank top, strode in with a tray. He was carrying three cups of coffee, the rich, dark aroma a welcome distraction from the heavy, intoxicating weight of Elijah's lesson.
He wasn't interested in the history lesson or the talk of war. His focus was entirely on her. He saw her curled up on the chaise, her brow furrowed in thought, and a slow, playful grin spread across his face.
"Don't fill her head with too much war talk, Eli," he said, his voice a low, teasing rumble as he set the tray down. "We're building a dynasty, not starting one. There's a difference, you know." He handed her a cup, his fingers brushing against hers, a warm, deliberate touch that sent a jolt of electricity through her.
He leaned down, his face close to hers, his scent an intoxicating mix of clean sweat and cologne. "He forgets that the best part of building a dynasty is the celebration afterwards," he whispered, his voice a seductive purr. He kissed her then, a deep, possessive kiss that was a stark, grounding reminder of the physical reality of their bond.
It was a kiss that claimed her, that reminded her that beneath the talk of strategy and legacy, she was theirs, body and soul. It was a kiss that said, You can be a general in his war, but you are my queen in our bed.
When Elias finally pulled away, Kayla was breathless, her lips swollen, her mind awhirl with the conflicting currents of strategy and sensuality. She looked from Elias's playful, possessive grin to Elijah's calm, observing gaze, seeing them not just as her owners but as two halves of a whole.
Elijah watched them, his expression unreadable, but a fire had been lit in his dark eyes. It wasn't the fire of jealousy, but of something else. Something deeper. He placed his glass on the table with a soft, decisive click and held out a hand to her.
"Come here," he commanded, his voice a low, resonant rumble that vibrated through the quiet room.
Without hesitation, Kayla went to him. He took her hand and pulled her down onto his lap, settling her sideways against his chest. His arm wrapped around her waist, a band of solid muscle that was both comforting and possessive. He smelled of clean linen and a trace of the whiskey he'd been nursing. He turned her face to his, his thumb stroking her jawline, his gaze intense and searching.
"The way your mind works," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate growl that was more arousing than Elias's kiss had been. "The questions you ask. It's... intoxicating." He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "To see you take the lessons of the book and not just accept them, but analyze them... It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Elias, who had been leaning against the chaise lounge, watching them with a fond, amused expression, pushed off and came over. He crouched down in front of them, his eyes level with hers, his playful demeanor replaced by a rare, serious focus. "He's right," he said, his voice a low, sincere murmur. "It's one thing to have a beautiful body, Princess. But a beautiful mind? That's a whole other kind of treasure."
They both looked at her, their expressions a mirror of her own conflicting desires: Elijah's intense, cerebral hunger and Elias's warm, possessive affection. It was time for the check-in.
"It's been a week since the gala," Elijah began, his voice a low, steady rumble. "We need to know how you're feeling. About your role. About what happened with the patriarch, with our cousins."
Elias picked up the thread, his voice softer. "You were a star that night, Kayla. But that was a performance. We need to know how you feel about the day-to-day reality of it. About being seen as... one of us. One of the Moore women."
Kayla took a deep breath, the weight of their gazes a comforting, grounding pressure. This was her moment. This was her chance to choose her weapon.
"I've been thinking about it a lot," she began, her voice quiet but steady. "About what you said, Elijah. About being a partner, not just a possession. And about what the patriarch said." She looked from one to the other, her gaze unwavering. "I don't want to be just another submissive outside of these walls. I don't want to be just a pretty thing on your arm, a silent doll for people to admire."
She paused, gathering her thoughts, the words flowing from a place of newfound clarity. "I've been reading the book, and I see these women. Genevieve, Isadora... they were more than just wives. They were strategists. They were advisors. They were the power behind the throne." She leaned into Elijah's embrace, drawing strength from his solid presence. "I want my 'weapon' to be my mind. I want to be the person you come to when you need a problem solved, when you need a different perspective. I want to be... indispensable."
Elias's eyebrows shot up, a slow, impressed grin spreading across his face. "Indispensable," he repeated, testing the word. "I like that."
Kayla looked at them both, a flicker of her old, ambitious self shining through her newfound submission. "You know the show Scandal?" she asked. They both nodded, their expressions curious. "I want to be your Olivia Pope. I want to be the fixer. The person who handles the things you can't. The person who knows all the secrets and how to use them. I want to be the one who wears the white coat and walks into the room and makes everyone nervous, not because I'm your submissive, but because they know I'm the one who really runs things."
The silence that followed her declaration was thick with a new, electrifying energy. Elijah's arm tightened around her, his eyes burning with a fierce, possessive pride. He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, not as a captive he had broken, but as a queen he had crowned.
"Olivia Pope," he murmured, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "Our own personal gladiator in a white coat. I like it." He leaned in, his lips claiming hers in a kiss that was not possessive, but proprietary. A seal of approval. A pact.
When he pulled away, Elias was still kneeling in front of her, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and admiration. "Damn, Princess," he breathed, his voice a low, reverent whisper. "You really are the most dangerous woman in the world, aren't you?"
Kayla smiled, a true, genuine smile that reached her eyes. She was no longer just a student of their rules. She was a student of the game. And she had just chosen her opening move.
The days following her "Olivia Pope" declaration settled into a new, fascinating rhythm. The loft felt less like a gilded cage and more like a war room, and Kayla was its chief strategist. She spent her mornings devouring the Moore legacy book, her afternoons cross-referencing its lessons with global market reports, and her evenings presenting her findings to Elijah. She was no longer just reading history; she was analyzing it, looking for patterns, for strategies she could repurpose for the modern battlefield of high finance.
Elijah was captivated, plain and simple. He watched her with a new, almost reverent awe, like a man who'd just stumbled upon a hidden spring in the middle of a drought. He’d sit with her for hours on end, not as a teacher, but as an eager student, listenin' to her break down the psychological tactics of some 19th-century Moore matriarch and then turn right around and apply 'em to a potential hostile takeover in the shipping lanes down in New Orleans.
He found her intellect to be the most potent aphrodisiac he had ever encountered, more than the finest whiskey, more compelling than the sweetest blues tune driftin' out of a juke joint. He would touch her with a new kind of reverence, his long, calloused fingers tracing the delicate curve of her collarbone or the smooth skin of her thigh as she explained a complex theory about market manipulation. His eyes would get dark, real dark, with a hunger that was as much for her mind as it was for her body, a deep, yearning need to possess every part of her.
"You're brilliant, chéri," he'd murmur against the warm, fragrant skin of her neck, his voice a low, thick Delta drawl that seemed to wrap around her, holding her close. The word, a soft, Cajun-French term of endearment, felt more intimate, more real than any 'Princess' ever could. "Absolutely brilliant."
The sound of it made Kayla still. It wasn't the polished, clipped, Ivy League-educated baritone he used on the phone with investors or the cold, commanding tone he used to give his orders. This was different. This was the rumble of deep water and slow-moving rivers, the sound of Spanish moss hanging from ancient oaks. It was an unpolished, honeyed thing, thick with the history of a place she'd only read about.
Elijah, she was learning, was a master of code-switching. He could sound like a Fortune 500 CEO in a boardroom, a street-smart operator in a backroom deal, and a king holding court in his own home. But this voice... this was something else entirely. It was a secret he had kept, a piece of himself ( and Elias ) he had never revealed, not even in their most intimate moments. He had always been in control, his speech as measured and precise as his actions. But now, as he praised her intellect, his carefully constructed facade had cracked, and the raw, unvarnished man from the Delta had spilled through.
He felt her tense, the subtle shift in her breathing against his lips. He pulled back slightly, his dark eyes searching hers, a flicker of vulnerability in their depths. He knew what she was hearing. He knew he had just given her a piece of him he had never given to anyone, not even his own brother, who had learned to speak like a New Yorker the moment they’d left Mississippi behind.
"My real voice," he said, his voice still thick with that slow, southern cadence, as if he couldn't quite put it back in its box. "I don't... I don't let it out much. Got to sound a certain way for certain people, you know? Gotta sound like I belong in their world, not mine."
He looked away for a moment, a flicker of an old, familiar shame in his eyes. The shame of a poor boy from the Delta who had clawed his way into a world of old money and Ivy League pedigrees, a world that would never truly see him as one of their own. He had spent a lifetime perfecting his camouflage, his voice a key part of the armor he wore to protect himself from the judgment of a world that saw his accent as a mark of his inferiority.
"But with you..." he said, his gaze returning to hers, his voice softening, the drawl becoming more pronounced, more intentional. "With you, I don't have to pretend. You see me. All of me. The good, the bad, the brilliant, and the... broken." He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm against her lips. "You're the first person I've ever wanted to give my real voice to. The first person I've ever trusted enough to hear it."
It was a confession, a declaration, a gift more precious than any diamond, any estate, any legacy. It was the key to the kingdom he had built around himself, and he had just handed it to her, no questions asked. And in that moment, she knew that her plan to be his Olivia Pope wasn't just a strategy. It was her destiny. She was the keeper of his secrets, the protector of his vulnerabilities, the one person in the world who knew the sound of his true voice.
Elias, on the other hand, was a whole different kind of captivated. Where Elijah saw a brilliant mind to be revered, Elias saw a wild, beautiful spirit to be cherished. He adored the fire her newfound confidence had ignited, the way her wit would flash like lightning in a summer storm, the way she could be a stubborn, sarcastic little brat one moment, givin' him that look that dared him to put her in her place, and then melt into a pliant, submissive puddle of desire in his arms the next. He loved her soul, her whole complicated, contradictory, magnificent self.
He was her champion, her cheerleader, the one who would bring her a cup of chamomile tea just the way she liked it and kiss her forehead, tellin' her, "You're gonna be the most feared and most loved woman in this family, Princess. Just you wait."
But his praise, like his brother's, had a secret voice. It usually came out in a smooth, city-slicker charm, a New Yorker's easy confidence that was as much a part of his armor as Elijah's CEO-speak. It was the voice he used to win over investors, to charm secretaries, to get exactly what he wanted without ever breaking a sweat.
One evening, after she had spent hours on a conference call assisting Elijah, calmly and brilliantly talking a European banker down from a hostile position, she hung up the phone, exhausted but exhilarated. She collapsed onto the sofa, her mind buzzing.
Elias was there in an instant, a bottle of water in his hand. He sat down beside her, pulling her feet into his lap and massaging them with his strong, knowing hands. "You were somethin' else in there, baby," he said, his voice dropping, the smooth edges of his city accent melting away like sugar in hot tea. It became a richer, deeper thing, a voice full of magnolia trees and front-porch swings, a voice that promised long, slow kisses and even slower nights.
"I swear, listenin' to you handle that man... had me thinkin' all sorts of things," he continued, his drawl getting thicker as he leaned in closer, his voice a low, intimate rumble just for her. "Had me thinkin' 'bout how I'd love to see you use that sharp tongue of yours on me later. See if you can talk me down the way you did him." His hands slid higher, up her calves, his touch a slow, possessive burn. "Or maybe you won't wanna talk me down at all. Maybe you'll wanna rile me up, see what happens when you push a country boy too far."
He loved her complexity, and he loved the way her body could accommodate both Elijah and him, a perfect, physical manifestation of their union. But more than that, he loved this—this moment when the real him came out to play. The unpolished, hungry man from the south, who saw her fire not as a threat, but as a challenge. A challenge he was more than willing to meet head-on.
"You got that city-smart brain, chéri," he murmured, his voice a thick, sweet caress, using the same intimate term of endearment as his brother, but making it his own—less reverent, more possessive. "But you got a down-home soul. I see it. And I'm gonna be the one to make it sing."
It was in this new atmosphere of intellectual and emotional blossoming that Kayla felt the strange, insistent pull towards Anya. She saw the other girl at a family dinner a week after the gala, a quiet, tense affair where the rivalry between the cousins, cold current under the surface of forced pleasantries. Anya was frail and silent, her eyes downcast, her hands trembling so badly she could barely hold her fork. She looked like a ghost, and seeing her, Kayla felt a pang of empathy so sharp it was almost painful.
Later that night, curled up between the twins in bed, she made her move. "Elias," she began, her voice a soft, hesitant murmur. "Do you think... could you get Anya's number for me?"
Elias, who was tracing lazy circles on her stomach, chuckled. "Anya? Marcus's little mouse? What do you want with her?"
"I just... I think I could use some 'girl talk," she said, framing it in a way she knew he would understand. "Another perspective. From someone who... gets it."
Elias, always eager to please her and intrigued by the idea of her allying, however small, agreed instantly. He had the number for her in minutes.
The next day, they met at a discreet, high-end café tucked away on a quiet side street. The tension was high the moment Kayla walked in. Anya was already there, seated at a small table in the corner, looking like a frightened deer. She was jumpy, her eyes darting towards the door every time it opened, terrified of being seen, terrified of what Marcus would do if he found out.
Kayla, channeling her newfound inner Olivia Pope, was the picture of calm. She didn't ask about Marcus or the gala or the suffocating pressure of their new lives. She simply sat down, smiled a reassuring smile, and asked, "Is the coffee good? I've heard they have the best lattes in the city."
The small talk was a lifeline. It was a normal, mundane conversation in a world that had become anything but. It gave Anya a moment to breathe, to remember what it felt like to be a normal person having a normal coffee with a friend.
The confession, the raw, honest vulnerability of it, was the key that unlocked Anya's defenses. A genuine, fragile bond was forming between them, a shared understanding of the unique, terrifying reality of their lives. Anya’s small, shaky breath hitched, and she looked at Kayla with wide, glistening eyes, seeing not a rival, but a reflection.
"It's... it's nice to hear you say that," Anya whispered, her fingers twisting the napkin on the table into a tight, shredded mess. "Marcus... he says I'm too soft. That I need to be stronger." She let out a hollow, bitter little laugh. "He and Dante, they look at me like I'm a puppy they found in the rain. And Simone... God, Simone looks at me like I'm something she'd scrape off her shoe."
The venom in Simone's name was a surprise, a flash of steel in a voice that had been nothing but fluff and fear. Kayla leaned in, encouraging her. "What do you mean? What does she say?"
"She doesn't have to say anything," Anya said, her gaze dropping to her coffee cup. "It's how she is with Dante. They're like a... a sadist couple, you know? A little performance for everyone else. Dante will say something cutting, and Simone will laugh, this high, sharp sound, and then she'll say something even worse. They feed off it. They feed off making other people feel small. Marcus thinks it's 'strategic.' He thinks Dante keeps Simone 'sharp' and Simone keeps Dante 'focused.' I think they just enjoy being cruel."
She took a shaky sip of her latte, her hand trembling so much the cup rattled in the saucer. "And they make me feel... weak. For not being like that. For not wanting to be like that. Marcus chose me because he said he was tired of all the... the fire. He said he wanted something sweet, something gentle. He charmed me, Kayla. He really did."
Anya's voice grew distant, her eyes taking on a faraway look as she drifted back to the beginning. "We met at an art gallery downtown. The one in the Design District. I was there with a friend from school, just looking, you know? And he was just... there. He wasn't with Dante; he was alone. He looked so out of place, but in a good way. Like a poem in a room full of shouting."
A small, sad smile touched her lips. "He started talking to me about the art. Not about the artist or the price, but about the colors. He asked me which painting made me feel 'peaceful.' It was so... different. He was so gentle. He asked me about my studies, about my family. He listened. Really listened. He made me feel like I was the only person in the room."
She looked down at her hands, her fingers now still. "He told me he came from this... intense family. That his cousin was all fire and ambition, and that he was looking for something real. Something quiet. He said my softness was my strength. That my gentleness was a refuge. He pursued me for two months. Flowers, sweet texts, surprise visits to my campus. He made me feel... cherished. Like I was precious."
She finally looked up at Kayla, her eyes filled with the pain of a thousand betrayals. "The first time I met Dante and Simone, I saw the real him. He changed. The gentle poet disappeared, and this... this cold, hard man took his place. And when I asked him about it later, he just laughed. He said, 'Baby, that was just the preview. This is the main event.' He tricked me, Kayla. He sold me a dream and then locked me in the nightmare."
Tears finally spilled over, tracing silent paths down her cheeks. Kayla's heart ached for her. She reached across the table again, her hand covering Anya's, her touch firm and steady.
"He's a monster," Kayla said, her voice low and fierce. "But you're not weak, Anya. You're not. He didn't choose you because you were weak; he chose you because you're strong enough to endure his darkness without letting it consume you. He chose you because your light is a contrast to his shadow. He just doesn't know how to appreciate it."
She squeezed Anya's hand. "And Simone? She's not strong. She's just loud. Loudness isn't strength. It's fear. Fear that someone will see how empty she is inside. You and I... we're not empty. We're full. And that's why they're so threatened by us."
A new kind of tears welled in Anya's eyes, but these were different. They were tears of relief, of gratitude. "You really think so?" she whispered.
"I know so," Kayla said, her voice firm with a conviction she was just starting to feel herself. "We're in this now. And we're not alone. We have each other."
They sat in silence for a long moment, a silent pact passing between them in the quiet hum of the café. It was more than just a conversation; it was an alliance. A lifeline thrown across the dark, turbulent waters of their new lives. Anya had found a confidant, a sister-in-arms. And Kayla, in helping Anya, had found a new sense of purpose, a new reason to fight. She wasn't just going to survive this world; she was going to change it, one frightened, beautiful girl at a time.
Just as they were finding common ground, the café door chimed, and Simone walked in. She was a vision in a form-fitting, fire-engine red dress, her curves on full display, her head held high. She spotted them immediately, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her full lips.
She didn't approach their table. That would have been too direct, too crude. Instead, she made her presence known with a loud, confident air. She strode to the counter, her heels clicking on the polished concrete floor, and ordered her coffee in a voice that was just a little too loud, just a little too cheerful. Her eyes, dark and sharp, flicked between them, a look of undisguised contempt in their depths. She was sending a message, loud and clear: I see you. I'm watching you. And this is my territory.
As soon as Simone left, the fragile bubble of confidence they had built around themselves shattered. Anya was visibly shaken, her hands trembling again, her eyes wide with fear.
Kayla put her hand over Anya's, her touch firm, her voice a low, steady anchor in the storm of her fear. "It's okay," she said. "We're not enemies."
The invitation to the private art viewing arrived on thick, cream-colored cardstock, the gallery's logo embossed in elegant, silver foil. It was for an emerging artist whose work, Elijah explained, was a blend of modern minimalism and classical forms, a potential investment for the Moore family's ever-expanding portfolio. Elias, upon hearing the words "art gallery," had groaned dramatically. "Baby, you know I love you," he'd said, kissing her forehead, "but if I have to stand around and listen to people talk about brushstrokes and negative space for two hours, I'm gonna need a IV drip of pure coffee just to stay awake. You and Eli go. Do your thing. I'll be here, holdin' down the fort."
And so, it was just the two of them. Elijah, in a perfectly tailored midnight black and blue trim suit that seemed to absorb the light, and Kayla, in a simple but stunning sheath dress, the color of a stormy sea. He had chosen it for her, his fingers lingering on the fabric as he'd told her, "This color makes your skin look like liquid gold. It's a weapon. Use it."
As they entered the cavernous, white-walled gallery, the air buzzing with the low hum of quiet conversation and the clinking of champagne flutes, Kayla felt a familiar thrill of nerves. This was a test. He was testing her, seeing if the "Olivia Pope" persona she had crafted could hold up under pressure.
And then she saw them. Dante and Simone, standing near the center of the room, a living, breathing work of art in their own right. Dante was in a deep burgundy suit, his arm wrapped around Simone's waist. Simone was a vision in a form-fitting, matching burgundy gown that hugged her generous curves, her hair swept up into an elegant, complicated twist. She was laughing at something the gallery owner, a distinguished-looking man with a silver ponytail, was saying, her head thrown back. It was clearly a setup. They had known they would be here.
Simone spotted them the moment they entered. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto them, and her signature predatory smile spread across her full lips. She excused herself from the gallery owner and glided over, her movements fluid and confident, a shark patrolling its territory.
"Kayla, darling," she cooed, her voice a syrupy-sweet poison. "It's so good to see you outside of a... formal setting." Her eyes raked over Kayla's dress, a dismissive flicker that was meant to be an insult. "And Elijah," she purred, turning her full attention to him, completely ignoring Kayla as if she were a piece of furniture. "I was just telling Charles how the artist's minimalist approach reminds me of your grandfather's early business strategies. So brutal. So effective."
It was a perfectly executed attack. She was using language and knowledge she assumed Kayla didn't have, trying to make her feel like an ignorant child, a pretty ornament who had no business in a conversation about art or strategy.
But Simone had made a critical mistake. She had underestimated her.
Kayla didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. She just smiled, a slow, serene smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "That's an interesting comparison, Simone," she said, her voice calm and even. "But I think you're missing the point. The artist isn't being minimalist. He's being reductive. He's stripping away the classical forms to their bare essentials, not to create something new, but to expose the flaws, the inherent instability of the old structures."
She took a step closer, her gaze meeting Simone's, a silent, unspoken challenge passing between them. "It's not a tribute to the grandfather's strategies. It's a critique of them. The artist is saying that the brutal, effective methods of the past are built on a foundation that's destined to crack. It's a warning, not an homage."
She paused, letting her words sink in, the air around them crackling with a new, electric tension. "Of course," she continued, her voice dropping to a more intimate, conspiratorial tone, "someone with a more... nuanced understanding of art history might see that. It's the same kind of nuanced thinking that separates the Gothic masters from the Renaissance copyists. It's the difference between building something that lasts and something that just looks impressive for a little while."
The blow was surgical. It was precise, intelligent, and devastating. She had not only defended herself but had turned Simone's attack on its head, using her own words to paint her as a shallow, uneducated wannabe.
Elijah listened patiently, his expression unreadable, but Kayla could feel the pride radiating from him, a silent, powerful wave of approval. When she was finished, he turned his gaze to Simone, his eyes turning cold, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Simone," he said, his voice a low, cutting rumble. "You are Dante's woman. It is unbecoming to flirt with me, especially in front of my own. And to do it so poorly... It's an embarrassment to him and to the Moore name. Your performance is weak."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The public dismissal was brutal, a verbal slap that left a red, stinging mark on Simone's pride. Her face froze, her confident mask shattering into a million pieces. She looked like a fish out of water, her mouth opening and closing, but no sound coming out. From across the room, Dante, who had been watching the exchange, looked furious, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with a cold, dangerous fire.
Elijah took Kayla's arm, his touch a firm, grounding pressure. "Let's go," he murmured, leading her away from the wreckage. "Never let them see you flinch," he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur just for her. "Never let them think they know more than you do. Even if they do."
As they walked away, Kayla felt a surge of pride, a heady, intoxicating rush of victory. But beneath it, there was a chilling understanding of the battlefield she was on. This was not just a game of strategy and intellect. It was a war. And she had just fired her first shot.
The intrusion happened without warning. One moment, the loft was its usual sanctuary of quiet intensity; the next, the elevator chimed with a different, more authoritative tone, and the doors slid open to reveal a figure that instantly changed the energy of the room. It was Bakari, the patriarch. He was a man in his late seventies, but he carried his age like a crown. His hair was a crisp, white that contrasted sharply with his deep, dark brown skin, and his eyes, though framed by wrinkles, were as sharp and clear as a winter morning. He was dressed in a simple but impeccably tailored charcoal suit, a pocket square the color of deep blood, adding a touch of regal flair.
For the first time since Kayla had known them, the twins looked nervous. Elijah, who was usually a statue of unshakeable control, straightened his posture, his hands clasping behind his back. Elias, the eternal charmer, lost his easy smile, his expression becoming serious and respectful. They stood at attention as Bakari walked in, his gaze sweeping over the loft before immediately finding and locking onto Kayla.
"Boys," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate from the very floor. He didn't look at them. His eyes were on her.
"Bakari," Elijah and Elias said in unison, their voices a low, respectful chorus.
Bakari waved a dismissive hand, a gesture of absolute authority. "Leave us," he commanded. "I wish to speak to your 'Princess' alone." The way he said the word, "Princess," was a joke, a dry, teasing rumble that held a world of meaning.
They hesitated for a fraction of a second, a shared, worried glance passing between them. But they obeyed, moving to stand just outside the glass walls of the living room, their silhouettes tense and watchful. They were close enough to be called, but far enough away to give the illusion of privacy.
Bakari moved with a slow, deliberate grace, sitting down in the leather chair Elijah usually occupied. He gestured for Kayla to sit on the chaise lounge opposite him. As he sat, his entire demeanor softened, the hard lines of his face relaxing, the patriarch giving way to the man.
"You handled yourself well at the gallery," he said, his voice a low, thoughtful murmur. "Simone is a proud girl, and you pricked that pride without drawing blood. It's a skill. A rare one."
He leaned forward, his eyes holding hers, a flicker of a distant memory in their depths. "My wife, your namesake, was a master of it. Her name was also Kayla. She was a woman from a small town in Georgia, with no money and no family name. When I brought her into this world, they ate her alive. They saw her as a country girl I'd dragged into the city, a pretty trinket to be discarded."
He paused, his gaze distant, as if seeing a ghost in the room. "But she had a spine of steel. She learned their language, their customs, their secrets. She learned that a Moore man is the sword. We are the ones who go into battle, who make the hard decisions, who shed the blood. But a Moore woman... she is the hand that wields it. She is the target, the distraction, and the ultimate prize. She is everything."
He looked at Kayla, and she saw it then. He saw his wife in her. He saw the same quiet strength, the same fierce intelligence, the same potential to be more than just a possession. "I see the same fire in you, child. A fire that can warm a house for generations. That's why I want you to listen to me, and I want them to listen to me. They see you as their 'Princess,' a beautiful thing to be kept in a tower. That's their mistake. You are not a princess. You are a queen. And a queen needs a kingdom."
He stood, his command of the room absolute, and called the twins back in. They entered, their expressions a mixture of apprehension and respect.
"You have done well in finding her," Bakari said, his voice regaining its full, authoritative weight. "But a loft is no place for a princess. A princess needs a kingdom." He looked from Elijah to Elias, his gaze a sharp, critical blade. "You have the jewel; now you must build the setting. A woman like this, one who can command a room with her silence, who can dissect a rival with a few well-chosen words, is the foundation of the next generation. To house her in a starter apartment is an insult to her, to you, and to the legacy itself."
The decree hung in the air, a public chastisement and a direct order. It was a challenge, a test of their ability to provide for the woman they claimed to own.
Bakari walked to the elevator, but before he stepped inside, he turned and gave Kayla a slow, deliberate wink, a look of adoration and pride in his eyes. The doors closed, and he was gone.
The twins were silent, stewing in a mix of pride and humiliation. They had been praised for their choice, but scolded for their execution. They had been given a direct order, a challenge they could not refuse.
Elijah looked at Kayla, a new, determined fire burning in his eyes. "He's right," he said, his voice a low, resolute rumble. "It's time."
The next few weeks became a whirlwind of private jets and luxury SUVs, a blur of architectural blueprints and sprawling landscapes. The search for a "kingdom" had begun, and it was a spectacle of wealth and power that made the gala seem like a casual backyard barbecue. These were not houses; they were compounds, each one more breathtaking and imposing than the last.
They toured a sprawling plantation-style estate in Virginia, a place steeped in history, its manicured grounds and stately, white-columned mansion a testament to the old-money legacy Elijah so revered. He walked the grounds with a focused intensity, pointing out the strategic advantages of the rolling hills, the natural barriers created by the dense forests, and the historical significance of the land itself. "This is where we come from," he said, his voice a low, reverent murmur. "This is the foundation."
Elias, on the other hand, was more interested in the infinity pool that overlooked the valley and the state-of-the-art chef's kitchen with its two walk-in pantries. "You could host a party for a hundred people and never run out of space," he whispered in Kayla's ear, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "And this closet," he said, opening a door to reveal a room the size of her entire old apartment, complete with a central island, built-in shelving, and a plush chaise lounge. "You'll have a walk-in closet bigger than your whole old apartment, Princess."
Next was a modern architectural marvel in Louisiana, a glass and steel structure that seemed to float on the edge of the Bayou. It was all sharp angles and clean lines, a testament to the new-money innovation Elias craved. He was in his element, pointing out the smart-home technology, the automated lighting, the subterranean garage with enough space for a fleet of luxury cars. "This is the future," he said, his voice a confident, boastful rumble. "This is what we're building."
Elijah was less impressed. "It's a fishbowl," he said, his voice a low, critical grumble. "No privacy. No soul. It's all glass and no substance."
It was during the viewing of a beach fortress in Malibu, a stark, brutalist structure of concrete and glass perched on a cliff overlooking the Pacific, that they "coincidentally" ran into Dante and Simone. They were also looking at properties; their presence was a blatant, provocative declaration of their ongoing rivalry.
Simone was cold and silent, her humiliation from the art gallery still a fresh, raw wound. She refused to make eye contact, her gaze fixed on the ocean, her posture rigid with a forced indifference.
Dante, however, was smug, his smile a confident, predatory grin. "Well, well, well," he said, his voice a low, taunting rumble. "Looking for a little love nest? Good. A little stability might do you two good. Can't have your 'Queen' living in a starter apartment forever." He deliberately used the new title, his tone mocking and dismissive.
Elijah's jaw tightened, his entire posture radiating a cold, dismissive calm. He didn't take the bait, not directly. He just let a slow, knowing smile touch his lips, a look that was far more infuriating than any angry retort. "We're building a legacy, Dante," he said, his voice a low, cool rumble that cut through the salty air. "Not just buying a house. There's a difference."
Dante's smirk faltered for a second, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. He wasn't getting the rise he wanted. "We'll see about that," he retorted, his voice a low, challenging growl. "The race is on, cousin. May the best man win."
"Oh, I think we already have," Elijah said, his voice dropping to a more intimate, conspiratorial murmur, a verbal dagger aimed directly at Dante's ego. "Bakari paid us a visit the other day. Unannounced."
The mention of the patriarch's name instantly shifted the dynamic. Dante's confident posture stiffened, his expression hardening. Simone, who had been pointedly ignoring them, flinched, her head turning just slightly, her interest piqued.
"He seems to have taken a real liking to our Kayla," Elijah continued, his voice a smooth, silken taunt. He reached out and placed a hand on Kayla's back, a gesture that was both a claim and a shield. "Sat down with her for nearly an hour. Just the two of them. Had some very... interesting things to say about the future of this family. About the kind of woman who will be leading it beside her men."
He let the words hang in the air, a direct, brutal shot. Bakari never gave private audiences. It was an unprecedented sign of favor.
Dante's face was a mask of barely suppressed fury. He opened his mouth to retort, but Elijah cut him off, his voice turning even colder, sharper.
"Which brings me to another point," Elijah said, his gaze shifting from Dante to Simone, who was now staring at them, her face a pale, tight mask. "You might want to teach your woman some manners. Or at the very least, teach her to stay on her leash. It's one thing to be ambitious, Simone. It's another thing entirely to be throwing yourself at another man at a public function. Especially in front of his own."
The verbal blow was so direct, so public, that Simone let out a small, audible gasp. A deep, furious blush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks a blotchy, unflattering red. She looked from Elijah to Dante, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and humiliation.
Dante's face twisted with rage. He took a step forward, his hands clenching into fists, his body a coiled spring of violent intent. "You watch your mouth, cousin," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
Elijah didn't even flinch. He just stood there, a picture of calm, unshakeable authority, his hand still resting on Kayla's back. "I'm just looking out for the family's reputation," he said, his voice a low, dismissive rumble. "Can't have our women wandering off, sniffing around other men's territory. It gives the impression that their own men aren't keeping them satisfied. Or... in control."
The final shot was a masterstroke of psychological warfare. He had not only insulted Simone's character but had implied, in no uncertain terms, that Dante was a failure as a man, unable to control his own woman.
Dante was practically vibrating with fury, but he was trapped. To escalate further would be to confirm Elijah's assessment. To back down would be to lose face completely. He just stood there, his eyes burning with a cold, impotent hatred, his rivalry with Elijah no longer a game, but a blood feud.
Elijah, having delivered the final, devastating blow, turned his back on them, his attention returning to Kayla as if they were nothing more than a minor annoyance. "Shall we continue the tour, my Queen?" he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble, the honorific a final, triumphant declaration of his victory.
Finally, they arrived at the last property on their list. It was in the heart of the Virginia countryside, a historic, renovated manor on dozens of acres, surrounded by a high, stone wall and a dense, ancient forest. It was the perfect blend of old and new, a place with a soul and a future.
As they walked through the grand foyer, with its sweeping staircase and gleaming marble floors, Kayla could feel it. This was the one. It had the history Elijah craved, the original stonework and hand-carved woodwork that spoke of a legacy that had stood the test of time. And it had the luxury Elias demanded, the newly renovated chef's kitchen, the home theater, the spa-like bathrooms with their soaking tubs and rain showers.
They walked out onto the grand balcony, a sprawling expanse of stone that overlooked a manicured garden and the rolling hills beyond. The air was clean and crisp, the silence a welcome relief from the noise and tension of the city.
The twins flanked her, their presence a solid, reassuring weight. Elijah put his hand on her shoulder, his touch a warm, possessive claim. "This could be yours," he said, his voice a low, resolute rumble.
Elias wrapped his arms around her from behind, his chin resting on her head, his body a warm, protective shield. "Our kingdom, for our Queen," he whispered in her ear. He purposefully changed her nickname, the word a deliberate, meaningful shift. He and Elijah both understood what Bakari had meant. She was more than a princess, more than a submissive. She was their partner, their equal, their queen.
Kayla didn't answer. She just looked out at the vast expanse of land, at the kingdom that would be built around her. The thought of escape was a distant memory, a foolish, childish dream from a life that no longer felt like her own. The only thought was: What happens next?
A/n - Um sooo this little ‘side project’ was supposed to be out weeks ago buttt moving was chaotic, my mood been up and down, and I almost deleted this whole page all together actually 😬 lmaooo. Anyways, we’re here now 🥳. Um I tried my best with this, PLEASE REFER TO THE NOT A WRITER DISCLAIMER IN MY BIO 😒, Im about to post and throw my phone 🌚 Enjoy 🫶🏾 or don’t 😬 (yikes).
C/w : Language, mean!Smoke, mean!Stack, brat!Annie, they are rough with her and she likes it 👐🏾, smut (degradation / praise, rough handling, use of ‘daddy’, spanking, a lil objectification, oral (m receiving), Annie is literally in heat or something idk, lazy smut
Keep playing with fire…eventually you get burned.
The flame lit up on a random Saturday. Burning slow one second and engulfing her whole the next.
It was still early — after breakfast, before lunch, that sweet spot where heat hadn’t settled too thick and the wind still cared enough to throw a nice breeze. The sun was currently playing peek-a-boo, ducking behind clouds and then rising high, not taking its job serious at all. Giving a little grace, before it actually clocked in for the day.
The typical noises that usually drifted around the neighborhood — screen doors banging shut, loud phone conversations held on porches, cars beeping as they were locked and unlocked — all ceased to exist at the moment. Slean street was quiet right now. Calm. A result of half its residents being at work, while the other half remained in bed sleep.
Annie took full advantage of it; the weather and the stillness. She was curled up in her egg chair on the porch, smoothie on her left, pen dragging across the page in front of her, and mind far from the present — mind focused instead on yesterday morning, when Smoke had been cutting her grass.
He walk like it’s heavy.
I mean…they both do.
Smoke though…shit.
Annie glanced towards her yard, like he was still out there, strong arms flexing as he pushed the mower across her lawn. Smoke walked with a wide stance, gait steady and just a little uneven, like there was something thick hanging between his legs that got in the way. Annie’s teeth sunk into her glossed lip as she thought about it. Gaze flicked back to her page.
He walk like…whatever he got swinging, he know how to use. Walk like he rearrange souls. He could rearrange mine, just for one night.
Cutting her grass was a chore Annie’d never asked him to take on — she shared a long porch with the brothers, but technically she had her own yard, and she’d been tending to it, or paying someone else to do so, long before she’d known the Moore’s existed. Smoke had put an end to that almost immediately after the twins moved in though. They took over the left unit of the duplex, while Annie remained on the right, and Smoke cut her grass whenever he cut his and Stack’s now. She’d fought him on it, a couple times, and then let him have his way because well…why would she stop him when he looked so fucking good doing it?
She’d been throughly entertained yesterday — seated on the porch like she was now, except she’d had shades perched on top of her head then and a book in her lap she hadn’t bothered to read a word of. Her attention had been on him instead. He’d been dressed for the weather; grey cotton shorts, black t-shirt, durag covering the waves Annie knew were brushed deep into his hair. It made her shift right then and there — just thinking of the way his wide chest had stretched that cotton, the grey shorts that’d left nothing to imagination.
Yeah, it’s heavy. Probably got a curve too, one that can hit every spot I have without trying. He could’ve proved my theory yesterday if he wanted to. Could’ve fucked me right here on this porch.
Annie sounded like music as she moved. Literally. Had Citrine and Black Tourmaline wrapped around her wrists, along with stacked copper bell bracelets that jingled in the quiet every time her pen glided across the page. Finally working out some of energy she had pent up.
That’s probably what he need. Some pussy to help ease that tension he always carrying around.
She’d spent yesterday drinking him in like water from her spot on the porch. Studying him. Smoke’s eyes would cut in her direction occasionally, like he felt her shifting, and clenching, and watching — and Annie never bothered to look away. Had held his stare instead. Smiling too sweet, like she was daring him to do something.
He hadn’t though.
He’d just pinned her in place with his eyes instead, let his hands flex around the handle of the lawn mower like he’d rather be grabbing something else, and then got back to work. It’d happened more than once; the staring, the silent tension, the building of anticipation. Had left Annie just that much wetter every time.
Whatever he got pent up? He can take that all out on me. Swear I’d be so good for Smoke. As soon as I got done being bad.
I wonder who fuck better, him or Stack? Wonder who thicker? Who longer? Who meaner? Stack probably nastier. Gotta be. I know that mouth is.
Annie shifted again. Continued writing.
That fuckin’ mouth. I wonder what else it’s good for besides talking shit.
Stack had been gone for most of the time her and Smoke were outside yesterday. Had arrived back home loud; music blasting, engine roaring, turning the corner fast for no reason. It’d made Smoke shake his head. Had made Annie smack her lips together. And her stomach tighten slow.
Despite the driveway they shared, the younger Moore always parked by the curb — like he wanted to be able to leave without delay, whenever he felt like it. Today was no different. He parked on the street smooth, killed his engine, and hopped out like he hadn’t just interrupted all the peace in the neighborhood.
“Damn nigga,” Stack’s lips were curved up, voice carrying across the yard, chain around his neck glinting dangerously as it caught the sun. He had his head turned towards Smoke, even as his legs brought him to Annie. “You still out here cutting grass? Yo’ ass tryna put on a show, you ain’t slick.”
“Fuck up,” Smoke turned the lawn mower off, head following his brother. “You get the papers?”
“Told you I wouldn’t forget. When I ever say I’m gone do somethin’ and not do it?”
Smoke squinted, top lip jumping up like ‘nigga please’.
Stack’s smirk didn’t drop. Matter fact, it only grew as he finally turned his head towards her, climbing the three steps to the porch.
Annie had her lips around the rim of her glass. Was shaking her head because he was so ridiculous — and so damn fine.
Bronze skin, dark eyes, dimples that caved so deep he didn’t even have to smile for them to pop. Stack moved like water — easy, unbothered, unassuming. It worked for him. Was how he pulled people in, before they realized what really lay under all that…easy.
“You wearin’ this for me?” His eyes were already sweeping over her; the fresh island twists she had pulled in a bun on top of her head; the pink tank she wore — with straps thick enough to support, and push up, her full chest; the denim shorts that hugged her tight — distressed at the bottom and cutting off mid-thigh. His stare stopped at her feet, at her pretty toes that were painted a soft green, pushed comfortably into her favorite pair of slides.
Annie let her home made lemonade slide down her throat before she answered, “That’s all it take to get you started? Some shorts?”
“Ain’t about the shorts. It’s ‘bout how you wearin’ ‘em.”
“And how am I wearing them, Stack?” Her anklet shimmered as her foot swung lazily — back and forth and back and forth.
“Like you tryna start some shit you ain’t prepared to finish.”
The hum that left her throat was low. Too sensual to be mistaken for amusement. Annie shifted, let her foot keep swinging, let the heat that was Elias settle over her.
“You ain’t even said good morning to me. You need to learn how to greet people.”
“You like how I greet you jus’ fine.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Stack stepped in then, pushing into her space like he owned it. “What you drinking on?” His eyes jumped from her lips, to the glass in her hand, to the identical one she had sitting on the small table next to her. “This one mines?”
He was already reaching before she answered and Annie didn’t hesitate to smack his greedy ass hand away.
“That’s not for you, that’s Smoke’s.”
There was a shift in the air between them then. Stack pausing, Annie’s head cocking boldly. Both breathing a little deeper for different reasons.
“We hittin’ now?” His lips were still curved. Just with an edge.
Annie’s foot swung faster.
“Stop tryna touch stuff that don’t belong to you,” She kept her gaze locked with his. Kept a smirk on her face. “You not the one out here cutting my grass, he is.”
“Niggas get rewards for walking back and forth across yo’ grass?” Stack’s dimples caved, gold flashed. “What I get for playing errand boy ‘den?”
He held up the two bags he carried in his hand. Full of items she’d texted him to get when she found out he was stopping by the store.
“Thank you for playing errand boy Stack.” She brought her glass back to her mouth. “My thanks is the reward.”
“Man–” He reached again, for her glass this time. Wrapping his hand around it and pulling it directly from her lips.
Annie’s mouth dropped, fingers sliding from the glass, body coming forward like she was being dragged out the seat.
Stack’s eyes stayed locked with hers. Playful. Dark. Two things that shouldn’t even mix.
He rotated the glass deliberately, placed his thick lips directly over where hers were just resting, and then sipped slow.
Until he had his fill. ‘Till Annie’s own mouth felt dry – in a way that had nothing to do with needing something to drink.
He never broke their stare. Not while he swallowed and not when he finally pulled the glass down.
His lips were wet, tongue came out to clean them and Annie’s eyes followed the movement until Stack spoke, accent as thick as whatever was brewing between them, “Dat’s jus’ as sweet as you, baby. What I gotta do to get some more?”
Annie tightened the grip on her pen, blue ink blossoming across the page as she continued writing.
I feel like I’m going crazy. I almost backtracked last night and texted Ra, just to give me some relief. I don’t want Rashad though. I don’t want lazy strokes and decent head. I want my soul touched. Wonna be done so nasty, I can’t even look at myself in the mirror the next day. Wonna be dropped on some dick long enough to touch the bottom. Don’t wonna be able to even move when it’s all done.
Annie’s hand glided effortlessly, tongue sliding across the sweet gloss coating her lips.
I want Smoke. I want Stack. And I don’t know why they actin’ scared. Smoke always glaring, like he ready to punish something, but then don’t ever do shit. Stack always barking, running his mouth like he get paid for it, but then don’t ever bite. Let me find out the SmokeStack twins can’t handle nothing, outside of cutting some grass and talking some shit. That’d be…sad.
Annie snickered to herself, bell bracelets singing as her wrist dragged.
Almost like they were warning her to proceed with caution.
Let me find out Smoke can’t stroke. Let me find out a joke is the only thing Stack know how to crack.
More snickering. More singing from her bracelets.
The same warning.
I played in my pussy again this morning. Feel like that’s all I do, since I met them. I wander if they ever hear me…moaning out they names while I fuck myself. Imagining Stack’s mouth. Smoke’s eyes. I swear he can see right through me.
“I’m ‘bout done wit’ the front. Gone get the edges and then move to the back.”
Stack had stepped inside the house, leaving Annie to her view. One that was now coming up the stairs slow, rag thrown over his shoulder, face serious as ever.
“You know I can get Gerald to do the back right?”
She didn’t mention the 20something year old who cut grass for the neighborhood because she actually wanted him in her backyard. She mentioned Gerald, because it would get on Smoke’s nerves. Because it would make them eyes narrow. Make that nose flare a little in the way it did whenever he got aggravated. Whenever she was playing and he didn’t allow himself to do something about it. “He just told me last week he keeps my spot open for the day I decide to start back being his client.” Annie’s voice was sugar. Warm, pointed, and petty.
Smoke didn’t speak immediately. Took a second. Let the bees buzz and the wind whistle and the heat from the sun press down heavier.
“You was showing off for dat nigga the way you do for me — I bet he did say that.” His eyes pierced hers. Voice rough in way that made her center heat.
“Showing off?” She tilted her head, as if she didn’t know what he was talking about. As if her lips weren’t already quirking up.
“Dats’ why you out here, ain’t it?” His gaze didn’t waver. “To be watched. To give me somethin’ to look at while I’m out here cuttin’ yo grass.”
His words weren’t teasing. Weren’t playful.
They were blunt. Matter of fact. It was almost mean the way he said it. Carried an edge. One that stemmed from desire and restraint.
One that didn’t bother Annie at all.
She didn’t need playful from Smoke. Didn’t need teasing.
She wanted Smoke exactly the way he was.
“I’m sittin’ on my porch, reading my book.” Her lips were still curled up. Voice a little….breathy in a way she couldn’t, or didn’t, try to hide. “That’s not my problem if you’re distracted, Elijah.”
Elijah.
She said it like she was tasting it.
And Stack always let that shit slide. But Smoke? His eyes narrowed. Sharpened.
‘Cause Annie wasn’t ready for what came with Elijah. For what came with sitting pretty on the porch, showing off skin, and being a fuckin’ tease while she dropped his government like she had the right.
“Why you lookin’ like that?” Annie blinked up at him from where she sat. “I can’t say your name? Don’t be mean, Lijah.”
The sound that left Smoke’s mouth wasn’t really a laugh. Couldn’t be, because his lips didn’t even twitch.
That jaw did though.
Them hands did too.
And when he spoke, it was in that same blunt tone. Words weighted with that same rough edge.
“It’s Smoke. You ain’t earned Elijah. And you ain’t seen mean.”
Annie didn’t even realize how deep she was breathing. How hard her hand gripped her pen. How her thighs pressed together even harder.
I want them to ruin me.
One night. All night. Wherever they want me. However they want me. For as long as they can go. I wonna be able to play in my pussy and remember what they did to me. Remember how they broke me in properly.
And I want it sooner rather than later.
-AP ❤︎
The sound of her journal closing was nearly non-existent. Her sigh though? That was louder. Impatient. Wanting. Coated with attitude.
Playing with the twins — finding reasons to knock on their door, going back and forth with Stack, pissing Smoke off just cause she could — it was all…fun.
Having fun wasn’t getting fucked though.
And that’s what she needed. What her body needed.
Annie reached for her smoothie, settling back into her egg chair, eyes roaming around the quiet street.
“Sooner rather than later….” She echoed the words she’d just written on paper. “Before I actually lose my damn mind.”
The only response she got was the wind. Blowing in the same easy way it had been all morning.
The calm, before the storm.
—
Sooner came later on that day.
After her key broke off in the lock of her front door to be specific.
One second she was turning it and the next —
“— it just broke in half. I called Leon, but you know his ‘I’ll be out that way in a hour’ really means he gon’ take four.”
Annie stood in front of Stack, island twist hanging free and long, canvas bag she’d been using at the farmers market on one shoulder, while her purse sat on the other. It was yellow, matched the sandals on her feet, and made the little white sundress she was wrapped in pop. The same dress that looked perfect on her dark skin and brushed her thighs every time she spoke, in a way that’d make anyone look twice.
In a way that Stack was taking his time looking at right now.
“You must want me come over and play handy man, huh?” He was leaned against the door jam — arms crossed, voice teasing, eyes dragging up her slow.
Annie let him take his time — shifted casually, so her dress brush her thighs again and make him look longer.
“I want you to be a good neighbor and let me wait over here.”
Stack’s basket ball shorts sat low and extra on his hips. White wife beater covered nothing. Cuban link glinted like it was calling for her to pull on it.
Or maybe that was just the heart beat between her legs talking.
“That’s you askin’ nicely?” He had that smirk on his face — the one she always pictured when she was three fingers deep in her pussy. “Where them manners you always sayin’ I don’t got?” Stack settled deeper into the door jam like he could do this all day. “Ain’t you ‘sposed to say please or somethin’?”
“Now you worried about manners? Stack you gon’ let me in whether I say please or not.” Annie sounded completely unbothered.
Was so bothered though, that her gaze wouldn’t stop drifting. From his eyes, to his thick lips, to them arms that looked big enough to raise her in the air and keep her there.
She liked that about the twins. How solid they were. How both of their bodies came with broad shoulders, and strong arms, and hard abs. Stack was a little slimmer than Smoke — but the point stood — they looked like they could do damage. Like they could handle her. And that’s what Annie needed.
What’d she’d convinced herself she could handle with no problem.
“Is ‘dat right?” The low sound that left Stack’s throat was amused. A lil dangerous too. “You prolly ain’t wrong. Can get whatever you want when you wearin’ this lil ass dress for me,” His eyes hit her body pointedly again; legs, hips, titties sitting so high they were damn near in his face. “Betta’ be careful wit’ that shit. Walkin’ ‘round lookin’ like trouble.”
Annie’s head cocked, “Is that not your favorite thing to get into?”
Attitude and honey. That’s what her words were coated in.
And they gave Stack pause. Left them both standing in silence for a second — silence that went just as fast as it came. Like it always did with them.
“You swear you funny,” His smirk sharpened. Whole body leaned in closer to her. “What chu’ gone do when its my turn to laugh?”
Her shoulders rose then dropped, “Laugh wit’ you I guess.” And then she crossed her arms, pushing her chest up further. “Now are you gon’ let me in?”
He let her in. Feet moving one step to the side, creating space but not so much that she could get past without brushing against him.
“Thank you, Elias,” She threw the words over her shoulder, arm grazing his chest, legs carrying her into the lions den with ease. Like she belonged there.
She didn’t wait to be led. Didn’t glance back when he mumbled something slick under his breath. Didn’t pause to see if he was following either. Cause she already knew he would be.
There was noise coming from the living room and Annie let that be the guide to her strolling. Let it take her deeper into the unit, sandals clacking on hardwood, the same bell bracelets from this morning announcing her presence like she was a special guest.
She saw Smoke as soon as soon as she reached the entry way. Sitting on the couch — black t-shirt, grey sweats, attention directed towards the game playing on tv. Not that it stayed there for long.
She had all of 3 seconds to take him in before he sensed her presence. Before he turned his head in her direction and then kept it turned. He didn’t look surprised to see her. Didn’t look confused either. He looked like he always did — like he was examining her. Like she belonged to him and he was making sure everything on his property was still intact. Like he was making sure his property hadn’t gotten in no trouble while she was out of his sight.
It was sick. The way that ache between her legs was already starting and she hadn’t even been in their presence for five minutes.
Smoke sat up slow, placing elbows on knees, as he started taking stock of Annie; her dangerous brown eyes and glossed lips, the purse that sat on one shoulder and the canvas bag on the other, the small “A” pendant of her necklace currently burying itself between her cleavage, the short ass dress that flared out around her waist but hugged her chest too fuckin’ tight up top.
He was done with his examination in seconds.
“Where you get ‘dat dress? And where you comin’ from?”
It was expected. Smoke never warmed up to anything. Didn’t mince words. Didn’t bother with niceties. Didn’t see anything wrong with questioning her like that. And even though it probably shouldn’t — wouldn’t if it were anyone else — his questioning always made something twist in her belly. Something more hot than warm. A feeling completely contradicted by the way Annie playfully shook her head. “Yes, I’m doing good. Thanks for asking. How are you?”
Nothing.
No response, no laughter, not even a twitch of his cheek. He let silence sit instead. Let it stretch. Used it like his own personal weapon. His own personal warning.
One that Annie savored.
That look he was giving her — it made her throat dry and her mouth water all at once. Made a smile break out and a light airy laugh leave her mouth as she looked him dead in his face.
“I’ve had this dress since before I even met you. It’s pretty, ain’t it?” She tugged on her hemline. Made her deep cleavage that was on display, bounce. “And I was at the farmers market.” She adjusted how the canvas bag sat on her shoulder. “My key just broke and I’m locked out, so y’all are keeping me company until Leon gets here.”
“It’s short,” That’s what he gave her back. But he thought the dress was pretty too. She could tell, because his eyes wouldn’t stop dragging over her. Jaw jumping a little harder than before with every pass. That was the only thing that gave him away as his stare met hers again. “And Leon gone take all day. Me or Stack’ll have yo’ door open in five minutes.”
“Told her I’d get it open,” Stack came into the room behind her, feet keeping him there for longer than necessary. “Think she jus’ missed us forreal.”
“And that’s where you’d be wrong,” Annie pulled her eyes away from Smoke, to glance over her shoulder. “Y’all are not damaging my door tryna break into my house. Playin’ host for a couple hours won’t kill y’all.”
“Ain’t nobody say we had a problem wit’ it, baby.” That lazy drawl hugged her ears as Stack finally passed her, heading towards the left end of the couch and sinking down into the cushions. His legs spread wide first, arm got thrown over the back, attention stayed on Annie as one of her hands landed on her hip. She did it real extra and she looked real fine.
“Why do I gotta keep reminding you that’s not my name?”
Stack’s head dropped to the side lazily. “That is yo’ name. You daddy’s baby. You ‘ont want me sayin’ it, put somethin’ in my mouth that’s gone shut me up.”
The image flashed in her mind out of nowhere — her standing over him, thighs encasing his head, hips grinding her pussy against his tongue, cumming all over that gold he kept in his mouth. He would talk while he let her drown him. Say some shit like, Daddy eating that pussy good, baby? Giving you what the fuck you been wantin’? Yo’ ass need to say thank you. And she’d respond. Sliding her pussy over his face. Panting loud. Thank you daddy. Thank you so much daddy — shit Stack.
Annie blinked. A couple times. Until her vision came back into focus and she was no longer standing over Stack but looking at him. And the slow grin stretching across his face that said he knew exactly what he was doing to her.
Daddy’s baby.
“You ight over there? You breathin’ a lil’ fast.”
“And you listening a little hard.” Annie smacked her lips, sound as loud as the pulse that was thumping in her ears. “You need a filter.”
Her words weren’t as playful as usual. Weren’t as light. Not because she was mad or offended, more so because she was caught off guard.
Annie was a grown woman. Experienced. Knew exactly what she liked and what she didn’t. Knew how much control she was willing to give and how much she wasn’t.
Daddy’s baby.
And for a second them two little words had her feeling like she wanted to give it all over. Had her feeling raw in a way she loved and hated?
This was her game. Her rules. She was in control. She wanted to be ruined, yes. Wanted them to do whatever they wanted, however they wanted — on her terms.
The way that ache between her thighs grew though? Like being daddy’s baby was everything she needed no matter how much control she’d have to give up?
It gave Annie pause. And she needed to recalibrate.
She forced her eyes away from Stack — and immediately got trapped in Smoke’s gaze. He was still leaned up, face blank as ever, dark orbs studying her. Closely. Clocking reactions and filing them away.
He could probably sense it — the way her clit was thumping.
“Yes, Smoke?” Her twists swung as she inclined her head. As she made her voice light.
The older Moore tracked the movement of her hair, fingers twitching where they hung between his legs, before his eyes found hers again. He didn’t rush to respond. Took his time. Almost like he was making her wait on purpose. Like he was letting her know this wasn’t her game actually. Not really.
Annie shifted, impatient, wet, still slightly on edge. And then Smoke opened his mouth. As if that was his que.
“You gon’ wait for Leon all day, standin’,” His head just barely tilted. “Or you gon’ sit and catch yo’ breath?”
“Nobody is out of breath.”
Her neck moved as she spoke, pretty eyes so busy rolling she missed how the brothers glanced at each other; Stack smirking, Smoke very pointedly not, and silent understanding passing between them regardless.
“I will sit down though.” Annie continued speaking as she finally moved from the entryway — dress swaying, hair swinging, hips switching in a way that didn’t do too much, but still caught eyes regardless. Four eyes to be specific.
She floated around the living room, re-gaining her footing with every step she took. It was the familiar prickle settling over her skin that helped, the one that came from both twins cataloguing her every move. Annie had always liked when they stared, when they couldn’t help but stare, and today was no different.
She bypassed the wood coffee table and the couch with ease. Didn’t even glance at the entertainment system or the mounted flat screen on the wall. She headed directly for the arm chair in the corner instead and when she reached it, she did what she intended, sliding her canvas bag down off her arm and placing it in the seat. And then she was turning right back around and heading for her real destination.
Annie’s lips turned up in the corner, eyes jumping from Smoke to Stack and back again as she came closer.
“‘Scuse me,” She came from the left, stepping over Stack’s legs and right into the space between the couch and the coffee table. Her voice was breezy, movements unhurried as she gave them her back — setting her purse down on the wood in front of them, brushing her long twists over one shoulder, sliding her sandals off before taking a small step backwards.
And then sinking, right into the middle cushion of the couch.
Stack had to move his leg suddenly, Smoke had to shift his whole body over, and Annie? Didn’t care. Planted herself in that small spot between them anyways, wiggling like she was getting comfortable, thick thighs expanding like dough as her dress rose up a little.
It encompassed her immediately; the dark scent of cedar and danger, the heat both of their bodies gave out, the tension that settled over the three of them — real thick and real delicious.
“You a trip.” That was Stack — side eyeing her, mirth in his voice.
“Don’t be stingy with the couch,” Annie’s head turned in his direction. “Sharing is caring.”
She blinked innocently when she said it, but she wasn’t fooling nobody. Not when that smile still sat on her face. Or when that teasing tone mixed in perfectly with her Nola accent.
Sharing is caring.
For a second, nobody even reacted to the words. Felt like time itself stilled as both brothers zeroed in on her — in a way that was real twin-like.
It probably should have unnerved her. The attention. The quiet. The way the temperature in the room felt like it went from zero to a hundred.
All it really did though was make her fight a bigger smile. Make her feel more in control than she had a few moments ago.
And then Stack broke the silence — laughing low. Amused — but not really.
“You heard ‘dat Smoke?” He didn’t pull his eyes away from hers when he started speaking to his brother. “Sharin’ carin’ now.”
There was another beat of silence before eleven words disrupted all of that.
“It’s carin’ tell it got her ass stretched wide and cryin’.”
Annie blinked and if you listened close enough you could almost hear the audible scratch of a record.
“Excuse me?” Her head whipped from left to right. From an edged smirk to a narrowed gaze — one that said she better tread lightly. She couldn’t even clarify what’d she just heard before Stack was speaking again, grabbing her attention and making her turn back towards the left.
“You droppin’ one liners like it’s a comedy show and you ain’t even prepared for what’s gon’ happen when the curtains close.”
“Think she ready, but she ain’t.” Smoke again. His words were short. Clipped. Nothing loud. Nothing extra. Just stating facts.
“It’s that sweet shit between her legs that got her talkin’ bold like that.” Stack’s eyes dropped down to her thighs. “Pussy been crying out for months. Hurtin’. Hungry.”
“Too bad we can’t feed ha.” Smoke stayed focused on Annie’s face. “Not ‘till her mama learn how to fuckin’ act.”
The reasonable response would have been to back track. Leave. De-escalate the situation.
Annie though… Annie just let out an airy sigh that was supposed to be a laugh and then shook her head. “This how y’all talk to guests?” She tsked like she was disappointed. Like she didn’t know what she was doing, or who she was playing with, or the fire she was feeding. Like they didn’t all know exactly where she would eventually end up — between Smoke and Stack, holes fucked, pussy punished, body used until both Moores’ were sated.
“The next time I see mama Moore, ima let her know how y’all be actin’.”
She did her best to watch her breathing. To look unaffected, but they caught it anyways. Stack saw them thighs pressing, heard that catch in her voice. Smoke saw the uneven rising of her chest — that break in rhythm that occurred whenever she had tension building. He saw them big eyes darken too. Saw ‘em start to glaze over, even as her mouth ran like she wasn’t feeling nothing.
“Girl –”
Annie didn’t let Stack get his words out, cutting him off and leaning forward to reach for her purse before she lost the upper hand she’d just barely gotten back. “If y’all are done discussing me — and what y’all never gone get anyways — I’m tryna mind my business.”
Her words settled over them as she did just that — digging around in her purse, applying a fresh coat of gloss, pulling out her journal and then feeling around for a pen next. She moved as if there wasn’t an insistent throbbing between her thighs. And she only bothered to spare them a glance after she’d settled back into the couch.
“Weren’t y’all watching a game or somethin’?” She raised a brow, looking from left to right.
Smoke didn’t respond. Not verbally. But that jaw clenched just right. Made her want to act up and behave at the same time.
Stack shook his head, chuckled under his breath, “Think a nigga worried about a game, when you talkin’ slick and flashing them thighs every otha’ minute.”
Annie almost laughed, ‘cause it sounded like the little brother was being pushed to his limit. And that was just a little too bad.
She repositioned herself, just to flash her thighs again. Didn’t look back at Smoke. Didn’t bother supplying Stack with a response. And for the next 10 minutes, everybody acted like they had some sense.
Smoke remained on her right, eyes on the tv, jaw still held a little too tight for anyone to believe he was thinking about basketball.
Stack remained on her left. Leaned back, arm laid out behind her, gaze jumping from Annie to the game and back again — in a way he didn’t even try to hide.
And Annie, herself? Remained in the middle, leg sliding against one brothers, arm sliding against the others, fake paying attention to the tv right along with them.
It was….calm.
If calm meant heavy and still — like the air itself had stopped flowing to see what would happen next.
The game continued and when number 13 missed another free throw, Annie sighed, messed with the hem of her dress, and decided to occupy her time another way. With her journal.
The pen she’d grabbed from her purse clicked, attention drifting down to the worn yellow book that held her thoughts, and dreams, and desires.
She opened the journal to where she’d left off this morning, didn’t bother with a new page, because it wasn’t a new day. She opted to position her pen a couple lines down instead and then let the ink talk.
I’m so wet I can feel it.
“She ain’t prepared for what’s gone happen when the curtain close.”
“She think she ready but she ain’t.”
Yeah, okay.
They swear somebody scared of them. All that barking. All that glaring.
I wander if Smoke know my clit jump every time he start talking reckless? Every time he call himself asking questions like he somebody daddy.
I wonna play in my pussy right here. Spread my legs and make them see what they do to me. Make them clean all this mess I’m making up.
I want Stack’s tongue. Want his mouth sealed to me while Smoke buries his face between my titties.
They feel so heavy right now. I need him to hold them up and feed. Need him to make me feel it. To leave a mark. And then I want them to switch.
As Annie wrote, her lashes fluttered. Bell bracelets sang out. Breath increased just barely.
Smoke probably take his time eating pussy. Probably take that just as serious as he does everything else.
I want him to put his whole face in it. To make me cum ‘till I forget how to breathe. And then I want him to fuck me so good that I’m not even worried about breathing.
It wasn’t her lashes or her bracelets or the way her chest rose and fell a little faster that got her in trouble though. It was her hips that did that. She kept moving. Small shifts, to the left or the right. Thighs squeezing together. Then separating. Then squeezing together again. And every time she combined both actions at once, a small shift of her hips and a flex of her thighs? It made her grip on the pen tighten. Put pressure on that spot between her legs. Felt so good, she just….didn’t stop. Brushing against Stack when she shifted left. Then Smoke when she went right. Then Stack again. Stimulating her clit the best way she could, damn near playing with her pussy, right in front of them.
And they noticed. Because of course they did.
“What chu’ over there doing?”
Smoke’s voice was harsh, cutting through the haze she’d fallen into and causing her pen to stop moving immediately.
“Fuck is you doing actually?” Stack’s head was already turned in her direction, gaze jumping over her — from the side of her face to the bottom of her dress — like he could already see the dripping pussy that sat underneath it.
Annie wasn’t as quick with her response as she usually was and that didn’t go unnoticed. Or unchecked.
“You ‘ont hear me talkin’ to you?” Smoke’s words were typically wrapped in an even unyielding tone. One that drove Annie crazy when she first met the older Moore, because he never sounded affected by anything. Regardless of what was going on or what she was doing to get under his skin. There’d been some cracks lately though; the other day when she borrowed sugar or when he came over last week to mount her new tv. Or right now, this very second.
Nothing about his tone was even at the moment. He sounded impatient actually. Voice was rough. Heated. Disbelieving in way that was more pissed off than shocked. Like even though he’d asked what she was doing, he already knew. Like he’d felt her brush him the first time. And the second. And the third. Like he’d listened as her breath increased and then watched out the corner of his eye as she dragged that pussy back and forth against his couch.
“You deaf now?” Stack sat up completely, closed in from the left, while Smoke came from the right. “My brotha’ talkin’ to you. What you over there looking at?”
Annie was still frozen — thighs no longer clenched, pen pressing down on paper in one spot, head angled towards her journal but when Stack’s head angled, trying to read what had her attention, she snapped out of all of that. Damn near slammed her journal before looking up and meeting two sets of molten eyes.
She blinked. Tried to sound as nonchalant as she always did when she finally managed to answer, “I’m minding my business. Didn’t we just disc—”
“You humping yo’ pussy against my 3,000 dollar couch,” Smoke cut her off. “You done lost yo’ mind?”
Annie inhaled sharply, already denying, trying to play coy in a way that wasn’t going to work right now. “I was not—”
“You humping yo’ pussy against my 3,000 dollar couch,” He stressed every word as he repeated himself, brows furrowing like he was still wrapping his head around it — how bold she was.“You sitting between me and brotha’, ‘bout to nut on yoself, like you ain’t got no fuckin’ home training.”
“Well, we know she ain’t got no training.” Stack’s voice sounded like danger wrapped in velvet when he cut in. Look on his face said he wasn’t mad. More like…darkly amused. “She come over here, flauntin’ that pretty ass body like she can’t help herself, damn near erryday. It ain’t really surprising she don’t know how to control that pussy.”
Annie couldn’t even move they had her boxed in so tight. Staring dead at her while her brain scrambled to put together words. She’d have something witty to say in a minute, but she really was caught off guard, because she hadn’t realized what’d she been doing. Her body just moved without thinking around them. It was really their fault.
The gold in Stack’s mouth flashed mean when she remained quiet.
“You got all that mouth any otha’ day and still actin’ like you can’t talk?” His eyes didn’t let up from her face. “This why you ‘ont wanna be my baby, huh? Cause you over here actin’ like a slut instead?”
Annie’s stomach twisted so wrong it felt right. And she physically couldn’t help it — how her entire center pulsed even as her mouth opened to bark back.
“Elias who are you—”
“You get wet on my leather, Annie?” Smoke cut through their back and forth before it could even start, drawl lined with something sharper than she’d ever heard it. “If that pussy done leaked on my leather, you gon’ clean that shit up wit’ yo’ tongue.”
Her mouth parted, like she was surprised. Stack laughed, like he wasn’t.
“Ohhh, you in trouble, baby.” His head cocked. “You know what me and my brotha’ do to sluts like you, right? To ones who can’t control they pussy?”
Shit was going from 0 to 100 again. And it was moving so fast, she didn’t have time to intercept. Didn’t have time to pull them back from the edge she’d just pushed them over.
“I must be talkin’ to myself.” Smoke was shifting in a way that wasn’t like him. In a way that said he was tired of talking and not being answered.
“Must be brudda.” Stack’s eyes dropped. “She too busy holding on to that fuckin’ book. I still wonna see what she was writin’. What got that pussy so wet we can smell it.”
And then he was reaching. Swift, quick, bold as always. And when he moved, Annie moved with him.
“This is my journal — Stack move,” Annie tightened her grip on the journal, holding it up and away from him. He leaned in, she leaned back, and Smoke? Let her.
Annie didn’t even realize her mistake, until it was too late.
Because when Stack followed her, lifting off the couch, hand clasping around the journal and yanking it out her hand, there were already fingers around her throat stopping her from lurching forward and getting it back.
Her hands went up on instinct, a little gasp born from surprise more than anything leaving her mouth, “Smo—”
“Don’t say my name. You ain’t have nun to say five seconds ago, so you gon’ sit yo’ ass still and let my brother read what got you actin’ like a bitch in heat.” The hand around her neck flexed, hold not tight enough to hurt, but not so loose that she mistook this for playing. Because Smoke wasn’t playing. Had never been playing actually. “That ain’t yo’ journal no more. That’s me and my brothas’. We own everything in this fuckin’ house.” His lips grazed her ear, chest rose and fell against her back, tight grip on control slipping. Just a little.
‘Cause she needed to be punished. Corrected. Needed to be bent over, tied down — and then she needed that ass spanked. Raw.
And Smoke was fuckin’ itching to do it.
Annie was pressed against solid muscle, dress fanned out and twisted up from the 2 second tussle with Stack. Her heavy breasts were damn near spilling out the stop, red lace of her panties peeking from under the awry hemline, pulse in her neck beating against the fingers wrapped around her throat.
She could’ve put her foot down. Fixed her dress, told them they were doing too much. Taking it too far.
But she didn’t.
“Let me see what’s making them big ass thighs press together. What got that pussy actin’ up.” The curve of Stack’s lips cut deep into his face as he took her in. As he felt the familiar weight of his dick gettin’ heavy.
When he opened the journal, it was right to her last page, like the Universe itself was guiding him.
He didn’t even look down at first. Just kept staring, that same fire that was always brewing between them? Catching alight.
“I like you like ‘dis,” That deep ass grin of his stretched. “Mouth shut, titties damn near out, pussy tryna’ say hi to a nigga. You like it too, don’t you baby?”
Annie’s skin was burning hot. Body sprawled across the couch at an angle, pussy so wet she could feel it on her thighs now. Her big eyes blinked like she was saying ‘yes daddy’. But her mouth remained shut ‘cause she was stubborn, even with one brothers hand at her neck and the other looking crazy enough to help him squeeze.
That stubbornness made Stack laugh low.
Smoke on the other hand, ain’t really get the joke.
“Read the shit, nigga,” The older Moore’s voice cut through the silence, made Stack chuckle again.
“My bad.” He blinked at her. “You ready, baby?”
And then he was reading — to himself at first.
Random words jumped out, from her morning session and the one that’d just been interrupted, like they were begging to be read.
Stack, Smoke, wet, nasty, same time, want them to switch, want them to ruin me, played in my pussy again, wander if they ever hear me, wonna play in it right now, don’t know why they actin’ scared, Smoke can’t stroke, a joke is the only thing Stack know how to crack, almost backtracked last night, break me in properly, make them clean all this mess up, for as long as they can go, wonder who fuck better, wonder who nastier, wonna fuck Stack’s mouth —
Annie probably felt it before both of them. The air going from thick to suffocating, as that smirk on Stack’s face dropped. Completely.
“You writin’ ‘bout me?” His head snapped back up towards her. “Bout my brother?”
“What?” Smoke’s voice was sharp.
“She writin’ ‘bout us,” He was talking to Smoke. And didn’t look away from her once . “Bout playin’ in her pussy. How she think about fuckin’ us while she do it.”
The fingers around Annie’s throat flexed as Stack continued. Summarizing her words at first —
“She say she want us break her in. Want us at the same time. She been wondering who fuck better. Who get nastier. Say she wonna play in her pussy right now cause she so wet thinkin’ ‘bout it.”
And then reading them verbatim.
“Listen to dis’ shit.” Stack’s eyes jumped from hers back to the journal. Southern accent getting thicker the more he spoke. The more worked up he got. ‘I want ‘dem ruin me. One night. All night. Whereva’ they want me. Howeva’ they want me. For as long as ‘dey can go.’”
White hot embarrassment rushed over Annie. It started in her cheeks and made her overheated skin grow hotter. Traveled down to her stomach and made it tighten with what felt like shame and arousal twisted together. And then ended at her pussy, made her hips flex, pushed her back further into Smoke.
Stack’s stare met hers again. “She want us take turns on her ass. Pass her back and forth ‘till we ain’t got no more nut to give. Till she can’t move. Say she want me slurping on that pussy, while you suck them big ass titties she got, and then she want us switch. ‘Dis what she was writing, while she slid that pussy all over the couch.”
Annie whimpered as the hand at her neck tightened. As Smoke’s voice hit her ears, deep and dead calm. So calm, that it wasn’t.
“Is ‘dat right?”
“Mhm,” A smirk was crawling back across Stack’s face. Sharp and messy. “She got jokes too —” He still sat on the edge of the couch, whole body facing her, tensed up, like he was ready to lunge. “Said we scared of the pussy. Said we can’t handle shit but cuttin’ grass and talkin’ shit. What you write in here, baby?” He asked a question he already knew the answer to. “Smoke can’t stroke? A joke the only thing Stack know how to crack?”
The words sounded childish when he said them. And they were, because her journaling session this morning was nothing but venting born from sexual frustration. Venting that took place in the privacy of her own journal. Whatever shit she’d talked, wasn’t even something to really be mad about.
The breath hitting her ear? Was deeper than before though. And the laugh Stack just let out? Well — the only word Annie had to describe it was unhinged.
“She think we some bitches. Said she almost hit some other nigga to come through and fuck ha’ since we too pussy to handle the job.” That is not what Annie had written. But that’s exactly what Stack had read. The younger Moore suddenly closed the journal, tossing it on the coffee table, letting that same low crazy ass laugh ring out. “Imagine ‘dat—” he leaned in towards her, eyes flashing, “—you givin’ anotha’ nigga some pussy that’s been dripping for me since I met you.”
And then he moved. Upper body suddenly coming forward, two hands claiming a spot on her thighs, fingers sinking in rough as he forced them open. As he forced them to spread as wide as they could in her current position. It made Annie completely sink into the hard body behind her, left one of her legs on the ground and the other folded at the knee in Stack’s lap. Put that slick mess that’d been building between her legs, all out on display.
Her panties stretched over her center obscenely — fat lips barely covered by the delicate material. She was drenched — wet coating her thighs, a big sticky spot right in the center of her lace, panties clinging to her pussy as it contracted around nothing.
Her voice was breathy. Thick. “Stack—”
“Look at ‘dis shit,” His eyes were focused between her legs, hands flexing around the fat of her thighs, head cocked like he was studying art. “It’s dripping for me right now. This fat, wet, bad pussy.”
He shook his head. And then out of nowhere —
Smack.
One of his hands came up and raised back down, right between her legs.
His palm was heavy. Hard. Unforgiving.
“Pussy needa learn how to act. Rememba’ who make it get like this.”
Annie’s mouth fell open in a quiet gasp, hips pulling back instinctively, legs trying to close as a sweet stinging sensation traveled through her and stopped directly at her clit. It wasn’t nothing but a lil love tap, and her body was already trying to cave in.
There was nowhere for her to go though. Stack was already back to keeping her legs held open, making her feel what’d he’d just done.
“Stack—”
“Shut that shit up,” Smoke cut her off. “I ont’ wonna hear no whining. And ain’t gone be no running. Look at me.” His fingers moved to her jaw, making her neck crane awkwardly to the side as he brought his face forward until their eyes met. “You walk in here, bouncing around in this dress, smellin’ sweet, smilin’ innocent, just to sit between me and my brother and write about bein’ used like a whore.” His voice was smoke, sinking into her skin, burying its way so deep, she’d never forget it.
“You worryin’ ‘bout what you think I can’t do. Sittin’ next to me tryna figure out who dick bigger, when you ain’t ready to take either.” His face was hard, nostrils flaring, something thick and long growing in his sweats and pressing right into Annie. “But you wonna be used right? Want yo’ holes fucked so bad you was ‘bout to nut on my couch just thinkin’ ‘bout it?” His fingers pressed deeper into her jaw. “If you want it, you gone take what come wit’ it, and I don’t wonna hear shit out yo’ mouth but ‘thank you daddy.’”
His words dropped like a weight. And they brooked no room for argument. Or negotiation. She’d take it all — whatever him and Stack had to give — and this was the last out he was granting her. The last time he was letting her slide.
Annie’s breath mixed with Smoke’s as she panted soft. As she remained pressed against him, thighs still spread, pussy drenched, heart beating faster than what was probably healthy.
She didn’t really stop to think about the repercussions — what this would start, what it could change, what they were about to do to her.
All she could focus on was the pulse between her legs. How close she was to finally getting what she wanted. And she let that ache, that yearning, talk for her. Let it put the final nail in her coffin.
“I hear what you sayin’,” Annie licked her lips, spoke like she wasn’t already spread wide and hemmed up by the throat. “But why would I tell my daddies thank you, when they still aren’t doing shit???”
Nothing happened at first.
Nobody moved.
Nobody blinked.
Felt like breathing flat out stopped for all three of them. And it stayed like that.
Up until everything unpaused at once.
Stack let her thighs go, stood up from the couch. Smoke slid his hand back to her throat, practically barked out his next words, “Stand yo’ ass up!”
Annie didn’t really get the chance to move herself, before she was being moved. Smoke was rising and she had no choice but to rise with him, legs scrambling, both feet just planting themselves on carpet before he let her neck go and spun her around.
“Think you like pushin’ cause ain’t no nigga eva’ pushed back,” His hand was already reaching for her again, fingers re-wrapping around her neck, pulling her in until her breasts pressed firmly against his chest. He was breathing deep, eyes so dark they didn’t look brown anymore. “By the time me and my brotha’ done wit’ you? All ‘dat brat shit? Gone be out the window. You gone be takin’ dick, swallowin’ nut, and talkin’ polite, like a real good girl.”
She couldn’t think of a response before his mouth swallowed hers.
The kiss didn’t start off gentle. Or slow. But it wasn’t sloppy either. It was demanding. Thorough. Entitled. His tongue stroked into her mouth like it belonged there, like he was claiming her. Like she was already claimed.
He didn’t wait for them to create a rhythm, he set it instead. Head tilting, lips forming a seal with hers until she had no choice but to breathe in him and nothing else. They weren’t really kissing so much as she was being kissed — with such nasty precision she felt it in her pussy. It made Annie moan — a sound that was swallowed before it could even be heard. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, wet sounds ringing out louder than the bracelets on her wrists every time the two parted and came back together. Every time his tongue fucked into her mouth with purpose. Annie moaned louder. All she smelled, all she felt, all she could think of was Smoke. Heat bloomed in her stomach, nipples growing hard and achy, tongue seeking out more of him, now that his mean ass had finally cracked. Her pulse thudded hard against the hand still locked around her throat —
And then a hand wrapped around her twists, the same ones swinging long and free, and pulled.
The hand at her neck dropped as Annie’s head was yanked back, the sharp sting making her eyes fly open, vision immediately filled with the sight of Stack smirking down at her.
“You forget about yo’ favorite twin?”
He closed in immediately — grip around her hair firm, angling her head until it turned to the side and then kissing her from where he stood behind her. Extra, wet, and nasty. She couldn’t even catch her breath, before it was taken again.
Because that’s what the brothers did — took, possessed, and consumed.
That’s what they were going to do to her.
Stack kissed rough. Slick. And he tasted like sin. Sweet, dark, and addicting. The music their lips made was loud — greedy smacking sounds born from the way his mouth moved against hers. From how he used her hair to pull her mouth deeper into his one second and then to yank her away the next.
“That mouth so sweet —” His stare was like lava when he pulled back, the same gold in his mouth flashing like a warning she’d already decided not to heed. “‘Dis how the fuck I want you greet me from now on. Straight tongue, none of ‘dat smart mouth shit.”
He pulled her back in quick, like he was feigning for more already. Whimpers climbed out of Annie’s throat as their mouths moved together. As their saliva mixed, Stack kissing her deeply and then sucking on her tongue, as if he wanted to bottle her taste. It felt like he was trying to fuck her mind rather than her mouth. And it was working. Annie was dizzy. Was craning her neck for more when he finally pulled away, a long strand of spit keeping them connected before it broke off.
Her mouth was kiss swollen, lips and chin wet, body leaned back into Stack’s like she was unsteady on her feet.
“Yeah, my mouth good for something else besides talking shit, huh?” Stack echoed the words he’d read in her journal, kissing her rough one last time before he let her hair go.
And as if they’d practiced the transition, Smoke stepped right back in.
“Get ‘dat dress off.” No please. No hesitation. Just direction. Direction she should have been quick to follow, considering this was all she’d been wanting.
Annie never did what was expected though. Wasn’t known for making things easy.
Instead of complying, she let her heated eyes wander, from Smoke’s piercing stare, down to them lips she’d just felt for the first time. And then further, past his stiff shoulders and wide chest and big arms. She let her gaze drag all the way, right to them grey sweats. To the cotton that was stretched, soft fabric molded around something that looked lethal. That looked so lengthy and fat she felt her throat constrict.
Smoke hadn’t touched himself. Hadn’t readjusted nothing. Hadn’t grabbed. Hadn’t stroked. And his dick was demanding attention. Sat heavy in a way he couldn’t hide. In a way that caught Annie’s attention. And then kept it.
Stack was still behind her, all up on her, body hot and tone instigating. “Look at ha’. Ain’t even got her breath back and she still focused on the wrong shit. She so fuckin dick hungry.”
“I ‘ont care what she is. She betta’ get that dress off, for it get ripped in half.”
That got her attention. Made her eyes jump right up to Smoke’s face. Made her lip sink into her teeth. Because she could feel that he was on the edge of showing her exactly what she thought she wanted.
“He mean that too, baby.” Stack’s breath hit her ear. “And if he ont’ do the honors, I will.” It was crazy encouraging crazy.
And as she stood between all that crazy, breathless and wet, she only grew wetter. Only had a stronger urge to keep pushing. To keep taunting.
So, what exactly did that make her?
“I can’t get the dress off if y’all don’t give me space to move,” She attempted her usual tone — defiant, sarcastic, unbothered — but her voice came out too wrecked for that.
And she didn’t get the chance for a redo.
One second her dress was sitting pretty on her frame and the next — Smoke moved like a solider executing an order. No hesitation and no remorse as his arm shot out, hand clasping the front of her dress and then yanking — pulling the thin material down in one strong controlled movement.
Annie gasped as the straps of her dress were forced off her shoulders, burning her arms as her breasts bounced free — full, heavy, sitting up on her chest with just the perfect amount of hang. And then came her soft stomach, her prominent hips, that fat lace covered mound that sat perfect between her thighs. Every inch of her dark ebony skin was exposed in seconds as white fabric pooled around her feet.
She blinked, like she was surprised or something.
“Done repeatin’ myself to yo’ hard headed ass.” Smoke met her wide stare unflinchingly. “You gon’ learn how to listen.”
“And we gon’ have fun teachin’ you. You see ha’, Smoke?”
Stack couldn’t have gotten a full look at anything yet.
And he still sounded like he was starving.
Acted like he was too.
The palm against her ass came out of nowhere — landing on the side of one of her full cheeks with so much force Annie damn near lost balance.
“Stack —” She said his name loud. High. Hand flying back on instinct as heat spread across her skin.
“You know what me and my brotha’ ‘bout to do to this ass?” Stack’s fingers locked with hers, his hands grabbing the one that’d flown back, not to comfort, but to move her out his way.
SMACK.
His palm rained down again. In the same spot. Harder than before, like he couldn’t help himself.
“What chu’ even got panties on for? They not covering shit. Lace ain’t doin’ nothin’ but gettin’ swallowed by this big ass.”
He moved a step back, got a better angle.
SMACK.
Everything on Annie jiggled when his hand made contact with her again — thighs, ass, stomach, them full breasts Smoke was currently fixated on.
“Stack —” The sound that left her throat wasn’t really a cry this time. It was a moan, followed by Annie taking a half step forward — like she didn’t know what to do with the pleasure and pain twisting together inside her body — before she was promptly pulled back.
SMACK.
Stack’s hand came from the left, bottom lip sucked into his mouth as he watched that ass jump. Deep voice washing over Annie in a way that drove her crazy.
“Don’t run baby. You know a nigga like me, like to chase.” His palm rained down again, the loud thwack of skin against skin echoing throughout the living room.
“‘Dis the same ass you was bending over the otha’ day right?”
SMACK.
“Now you ‘ont wonna show it off? My lil slut actin’ shy now??”
SMACK.
Annie’s throat was dry. Mouth wide open. Things happening inside of her body that didn’t even make sense. She was overheated everywhere. Overstimulated and not stimulated enough. Pussy clenching around nothing. Mind blanking as she was forced to feel that sting wash over her repeatedly. As a bow formed in her back, only serving to push her ass out further.
Meanwhile, something was shifting inside Stack’s chest every time his hand connected with her. Something dark and primal.
“You was ‘bout to give anotha’ nigga this pussy?” His dimples caved in as he spoke. “Let him see this perfect ass bent over, when you know daddy right next door ready to give you what you want?”
His palm cracked down sharp.
“Stack -”
“You gon’ make that shit up to me, Annie. Gon’ stand on all that shit you be talkin’.”
The bow in her back deepened, titties sitting high in the air as loud pretty moans fell from her mouth.
SMACK.
SMACK.
SMACK.
Left cheek. Right cheek. Left cheek again.
He wasn’t giving her time to warm up. Didn’t take baby steps. Didn’t pause in between hits and let her get adjusted. He just kept going, hand cracking down, eyes glittering like he was hungry. To feed. To fuck. To punish.
And Smoke?
Just watched.
Roamed his eyes over every dip and curve she had, studied the way her face twisted up when his brothers hand landed, the way she panted, the way them big ass titties bounced — hard chocolate nipples pointing straight at him like they was begging to be sucked.
He eyed her soft tummy, how it moved in time with everything else on her. Took in her prominent hips next, them big thighs and long legs, that fat dripping pussy.
Annie was moaning like it hurt. Puttin’ on a real good show. But that shine coating her thighs? The way they keep squeezing and rubbing together?
Told a different story.
SMACK.
“Look at ‘dat shit move. Fuck Annie.”
Stack’s palm rained down again. And again. And again. Like she was his toy and he was entertaining himself.
“Stack — shit! Okay, daddy! Mmmm — baby, okay!” Her voice was thick, pleading. For him to keep going. For him to stop. For him to leave her ass alone and give some attention to the ache between her thighs. She went from a bow in her back to leaning forward — and that only gave him better access. Only allowed him to grip her forearm now and really lock in.
“Awe now you daddy’s baby?” He laughed at her. Dick jumped, angry and thick. Hand came crashing down again.
“Oh my God. It feel so — !” Annie didn’t think it was possible to cum from this, but every time his hand connected with her full cheeks, the pain spread, everywhere at first and then directly to her clit.
Stack would’ve kept going. Would’ve let her see just how possible it was.
But Smoke put a stop to all that. On purpose.
“Give ha’ to me.” He didn’t wait for her to be handed over. Was already reaching when Stack laid a parting smack to her ass, that loud clap mixing with Annie’s moans.
“You gon’ drive me fuckin’ crazy girl,” Stack’s voice was guttural. He hadn’t slid inside her yet, hadn’t even tasted her, and still — he felt it. That greedy possessive feeling creeping down his spine.
He pulled her up so she was standing straight, stepped back just as Smoke’s hands wrapped around her waist, moving in sync with his brother like they’d done this 100 times before.
Annie was breathing like she’d ran a marathon. Skin achy, head spinning, legs unsteady.
Smoke pulled her into him like he was ‘bout comfort her — had her titties pressed to his chest, his dick firm against her stomach, her forehead resting on his shoulder. He let her be for all of three seconds. And then he did what’d he been itching to do since she stepped into his living room.
Her eyes flew open, a sharp hiss leaving her mouth when Smoke wrapped them twists around his hand and pulled till her head was upright where he wanted. He gripped her hair tighter than his brother had. Didn’t want her to be able to move unless he was directing it.
He looked her dead in the face, voice hotter than a summer day in Mississippi, “You think you ready for us and you can’t even stand straight right now?”
Annie was so busy trying to breathe, that she couldn’t answer. Smoke continued.
“Stack playin’ wit’ you — nigga ain’t even got serious yet. I ain’t even started. And you already shakin’. Pussy damn near leaking on my floor. You ain’t ready for me lil girl.”
It was borderline condescending.
Annie’s hips jerked anyways. Tongue came out to wet her lips. Big brown eyes glazed over, with so much want, so much need, that it made Smoke’s fingers flex. Made his grip on her hair tighten.
“And you ‘ont give a fuck. Don’t ‘een care what we do to you — long as we tend to that pussy, huh?”
He said it like it pissed him off. Like it — she — was testing his control. And winning.
“If you know that, stop making me wait.” Her words were drenched in lust and impatience.
Because she’d never felt like this before. So small. So desired. So desperate.
Annie was blessed with height that’d been intimidating people all her life. Had thick everything that only served to amplify her tall frame — soft arms, stomach, thighs, breasts. Had a mouth she let run. A stubborn streak that got on her own damn nerves. And while some men could handle it, most couldn’t. Not really.
Stack though? Smoke? Did it with ease. Handled her mouth. Her attitude. Her body. All without breaking a sweat. And it made her mouth water. Made her continue talking, as she held Smoke’s glare.
“Y’all supposed to be fucking me right now.”
Stack started, low and amused — “Pussy still got you talkin’ reckless.”
And Smoke finished, eyes so dark she was damn near sinking into them. “Dat’s an order?“
The words came out so sharp they almost felt like a threat.
And the obvious answer was to give no answer at all.
“It can be,” Annie went a different route. Like she didn’t have a sore ass and Smoke’s hand tangled in her hair. Like her chest wasn’t still rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm. “If that ‘s what’ll finally get you to listen Elijah.”
Smoke’s eyes narrowed immediately and Stack let out something that sounded like a laugh behind her, “I know you tryna’ let her make it brudda’ but you gon’ have to show her somethin’. She beggin’ for it.”
She was. And she was about to get everything she was asking for.
Smoke’s arm flexed as he used her hair to tug her face closer. As he spoke over the low moan Annie let out.
“You think ‘dis a game. Think this ‘bout to turn into whateva’ nasty shit you been writin’ in that book.”
Her lashes fluttered, brain going fuzzy from the sharp sting traveling through her scalp. From the feeling of Smoke washing over her.
“‘Dis ain’t no fantasy, Annie.” He remained unblinking as he catalogued every one of her responses. “ And you don’t run shit wit’ me.”
She was moving. Or rather, she was being moved. Went from leaning into Smoke, body frozen in one spot to being walked, forward first and then around the coffee table.
“Smoke —”
“You that desperate for ‘dis dick?” He ignored her saying his name. Kept her body pressed to his. Kept stepping. Kept her braids wrapped his fist. “You gon’ learn how to ask for it. Can be Stack’s slut all you want, but you gon’ be a good girl for me. A good nasty lil bitch.”
The younger Moore liked the slick shit — the attitude, the mouth, the playing hard to get. It got his blood up. Had him damn near obsessed with Annie.
Smoke though…Smoke liked obedience. Liked manners. Respect. And Annie was gon’ give him all that. Wasn’t gon’ have no armor with him. Wasn’t gon’ show no resistance.
The two moved, Annie’s legs working to keep up with Smoke’s, a sharp groan leaving her mouth at his unrelenting grip.
He didn’t let go until they reached the center of the room. Only let go because unbeknownst to her, Annie was about to be on her —
“Knees.”
He didn’t have to yell for the one word to sound like exactly what it was — a command.
Annie’s big eyes opened slowly. Skin buzzing. Scalp tingling. Pussy so wet she felt like she was one shift away from cumming.
Stack had just bent her over and spanked her. And Smoke had just dragged her around this room. Like it wasn’t nothing.
“Fix yo’ face.” She had the audacity to look shocked. To look even more turned on than she had a second ago. “I let you walk wit’ me jus’ now. You gon’ be crawling by the end of the day. Now get on yo knees Annie, for I put you on them.”
She listened. For what was probably the first time today. It could’ve been the shock that made her act right. Could’ve been the look Smoke was giving her. Could’ve just been her pussy controlling her actions. But either way, she listened. And she didn’t look away from him once. Not as her legs started to fold. Not as her breasts bounced softly in time with her movement. Not as her knees finally hit carpet. She kept her pretty eyes locked with his. Moving graceful but with an edge. Blinking slow up at him like she was asking ‘this what you want daddy?’.
6ft, clean fade, mean eyes, permanent frown — that’s what she was looking up at. That was the view Smoke provided as he looked down on her, hands at his sides, jaw jumping.
Jaw always jumping in her presence.
“Ain’t got no business lookin’ like ‘dat. Sweet ass face wit’ all ‘dis fuckin’ body. You see what you do to me?”
What she did to him couldn’t be missed.
“It look so big.”
Big. Lethal. Dangerous.
His sweats hid nothing. She could see how wide he was. How long. How hard. And just like earlier, she was damn near entranced.
Smoke licked his lips slow. An action he wasn’t even aware of. “You ‘bout to take all ‘dat. Gon’ keep every inch in yo’ mouth ‘till I decide you can breathe. Gon’ swallow my nut like the pretty lil bitch you is. And then you gon’ thank me.” It all flashed in his head, every time she’d bounced over here smirking like she couldn’t be touched, every time she’d pushed, every smart ass remark that’d left her mouth. “Dis’ what chu’ been wantin’ from me ain’t it? What chu’ been waitin’ on?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t hesitate to respond. Because it had been what she waiting on. Because she felt like she deserved the dick. Because regardless of how she’d gotten to this point, she was here now and this is all she’d been wanting. As far as Annie was concerned — some hair pulling, some spanking, was worth it, as long as she was getting her twins.
And that was her second mistake of the day. Thinking it’d gotten as…rough as it could get.
Smoke scoffed, like he still couldn’t wrap his head around it. How fuckin’ needy she was. “Don’t nothin’ else tame ‘dat mouth, but you get some dick in front of you and know how to act? Shit not gon’ save you Annie. Don’t make up for nothin’.”
Annie…was getting her bearings back. Wasn’t being touched or dragged. Was able to think now. To play.
“I’m sorry, daddy,” She looked back up at him. Almost sounded like she meant what she was saying too. Woulda’ been convincing, if not for the smirk on her lips. “You gon’ let me keep tryin’?”
Her hands moved on their own, smirk still on her face, fingers gripping the waist band of grey sweats and black briefs and then pulling slow.
The dick popped out fast though. Had of mind of its own. Every single inch of it.
Annie’s head moved back on instinct. Smirk dropped so fast it wasn’t even funny. Throat worked to swallow spit. Spit that she’d need in a second.
The dick didn’t curve to the left or the right. Didn’t change shades half way down the shaft. Didn’t look like any part of it would be easer to take than the other. It was consistent — like its owner. Stood straight out. Had a wide mushroom head and an even wider base. Was thick. Heavy. Just like she’d predicted. And the tip was leaking already.
Annie just…stared.
“Ain’t never seen her dis’ quiet, Smoke.” Stack’s voice rung out. Lazy and dark.
“Don’t need words for what she ‘bout to be doing.” Smoke. Studying her as she studied him. “Dis’ what chu’ been beggin’ for Annie. What you so sure you can take.” The older Moore laughed then. Short. Quiet. Layered with something thick and mean. “Shoulda’ jus’ stuck to playin’ in yo’ pussy lil girl.”
-
Annie had dick in her throat. Spit running down her chin. Tears in her eyes. And Smoke didn’t even seem close to finishing.
“Swallow dat’ shit Annie — swallow that fuckin’ dick — there you go. That’s my good fuckin’ girl.”
Annie whimpered, peering up at him, lips wrapped tight around his shaft. It was obscene. How wide her mouth stretched. How her titties bounced freely. How every wet slurp was accompanied by a drawn out moan and some variant of, “It taste so good, daddy”, “Thank you, daddy” “This what I needed, Elijah” “I love this dick so much, Elijah.”
He’d cracked something in her. And it was written all over her face.
When she’d started, she’d been in control — because Smoke allowed it. Had let her kiss the head, stroke him slow, work every inch inside her mouth little by little. And she’d worked it. Had been alternating between swallowing his length whole, sucking him in deep one second and then playing with just the tip the next. Running her tongue over that big mushroom head, testing his sensitivity, and catching every drop of precum while her hands twisted around his base.
She’d been making love to the dick — wet sloppy kisses, tight sucks, controlled swallows of her throat.
Smoke had almost forgotten that he was supposed to be teaching her something. Had gotten caught up in them big eyes and that mouth that felt like velvet. Had been swallowing down sounds, gritting his teeth, getting more and more worked up every time he thought about where she’d learned this shit. Every time she’d moaned around him, sending vibrations traveling up and down his dick.
And Annie had been watching. Saw the way his lids started to close. They way his throat worked to swallow down a groan. It’d made her blood rush. Made her cocky. And she gotten just a little ahead of herself. Had slid her mouth off him with a loud pop, lids low, face wet, full lips splitting into a smile. And then she’d started talking.
“Why you keep this dick from me again? Cause I can’t handle you? Or cause you can’t handle me?”
That was all it’d taken.
Smoke had gotten back in his body. Went from letting her suck him, to fucking her throat like it belonged to him. And he hadn’t slowed down since.
“This throat feel like home. Think I’m gon’ keep you like dis’. On yo’ knees, hands behind yo’ back, mouth open, waitin’ for me to use everyday.”
Smoke held her head still. Grunting as her throat squeezed around him. As she took it like her breathing didn’t even matter to her no more.
Because it really didn’t. Not when it felt so good to have Smoke carving out space in her throat. Not when she got to see his lashes flutter every time her tongue brushed one of them thick prominent veins he had running down his shaft.
Annie’s body felt like it was on fire. And she kept her mouth wide and let Smoke continue to stroke the flame.
He didn’t play with her. Wasn’t pulling his dick out and smacking the head against her tongue. Wasn’t making her chase it around. He was focused. Sliding every inch into her mouth, over and over and over again. With long, deep, thrusts.
Annie gagged, a filthy helpless sound, and the hands around her wrists tightened.
“Lil slut would prolly like ‘dat. Wouldn’t you baby?” Stack’s voice fell over her and amplified everything she was feeling. Made her whine around the dick in her mouth.
The younger Moore was behind her. Bent a little at the waist, one big hand locked around both of her wrists. Pulling her arms back and away from her body.
It left her feeling helpless. Completely out of control. And it was her fault.
She’d tried to touch her pussy once. Had slid a hand between her parted thighs while Smoke used her mouth like a fuckin’ flashlight. Had just barely grazed her center when Stack came out of nowhere, snatching her wrists up and talking low.
“Nah, baby. Only thing you focus on right now is my brotha’. Get yo’ hands off that greedy ass pussy. That’s mine.”
He hadn’t let her wrists go since. And she’d been left with her mouth and only her mouth doing the work.
“Answer my brotha’.” Smoke glared down at her. Almost mad at how good she was taking this shit. How good she felt. “You’d like that shit wouldn’t you?”
He pulled out of her mouth, a loud wet sound filling the living room, long strands of spit stretching from the head of his dick to her now glossless lips.
Annie was panting. Chest just as wet as her chin. Thighs squeezing together. Every ounce of attitude in her body seemingly non-existent now.
“Yes, daddy.”
“Who you talkin’ to?” Stack sounded like he was smirking. “Me or him?”
“Both of y’all.”
She was staring straight at Smoke as she spoke. Watching the way his head dropped to the side. Listening to how he grunted low.
“Be careful what you wish for. I’ll make that shit happen for my good girl.”
Her entire center throbbed. A high needy sound climbing out of her throat. Neck stretching as she leaned forward to suck him right back up.
She didn’t know what they’d done to her — what Smoke had done to her — but all she could think about was earning that nut. Tasting it. Tasting half of the SmokeStack twins. She wasn’t even fixated on the ache between her legs anymore. Not entirely. Because all she could focus on was pleasing them.
It was something she’d have to unpack later. When she could think clearly.
Right now, she let her brain turn off. Let her body lead and really — it was doing that already anyways.
Annie dragged her mouth up and down his length. Tonguing his shaft. Swallowing every time Smoke’s head hit the back of her throat. She made it sloppy — made it nasty, hands free and all. And Smoke…Smoke was damn near ready to say fuck being neighbors and move her in forreal. Was ready to bust and give her what she was working so hard for.
The twins started talking to her then, right over all that noise she was making. All that mess.
“Yo’ mouth made for dis’.” Smoke.
“Mouth made for suckin’ and body made for fuckin’. She need ‘dis shit.” Stack.
“You gon’ be my stress relief from now on,” Every time Smoke opened his mouth, he fucked into her mouth rougher. Controlled, mean movements. Her lips were kissing his pelvis every other second, as his nuts drew up tight. “You gon’ calm me down every time you piss me off. Gon’ do it just like this.”
“Takin’ me and my brudda’s nut. That’s yo’ job now, baby.” Stack’s thumb rubbed one of her wrist softly. Like his grip wasn’t the complete opposite of soft. Like her throat wasn’t being worked like a toy. The contrast made her see stars. “I think we gon’ keep you, Annie.”
“She already kept.”
The words were final. So final, they should have worried her. But her brain was clouded with Smoke. With Stack. And her mouth was busy, jaw aching, pussy so wet it felt like she could cum from this alone.
Annie had spent the last few months wanting to be fucked. This wasn’t that.
This was ownership. Possession. A reworking of her soul. And she wasn’t even really aware of it yet.
“You think you deserve this nut?” Smoke watched her blink hazily, keeping all nine inches down her throat for one long beat and then forcing himself to pull out completely. The sound that left Annie’s mouth as he took his dick away, as he gripped the base of his shaft to hold that nut back, was one of pure displeasure.
It made Stack smirk. Had Smoke that much closer to painting her throat. Had his hand sliding up and down his length in quick short movements before he could stop himself.
If Annie was able to move forward and swallow him again she would have. Instead, she moaned out a long, pretty sounding, “Yess, Elijah.”
“You don’t.” His rebuttal was quick. Sharp. Harsh. But his eyes were heated. And his voice was tight. And his hand was still moving, stroking his member, something like a tingle starting at the base of his spine. “But you look so fuckin’ hungry for it ima give it to you. And if you spill a fuckin drop —” He shook his head, hand stopping right at the tip and twisting. “Fuck.”
He was close. Shoulders tense. Brows furrowed. Breath heavy. And something about seeing him like that — so close to losing control — woke up that impatience in Annie. The same impatience that’d gotten her in this shit in the first place.
“I’m not gon’ spill it, Elijah. Give it to me.”
It wasn’t a request. Wasn’t a plea. It was more of a demand than anything.
She was talking to him like she was in charge.
Talking to him like she still hadn’t learned.
Smoke’s hand froze abruptly. With his chest heaving, and nuts drawn up tight, and dick throbbing angrily. He still stopped. Because even when he was on the verge of losing control, he still had it.
Annie frowned and behind her, Stack shook his head. Dropped her wrists. Mumbled something that sounded like, “Damn, baby. This ‘bout to be a long day for you.”
In front of her? Smoke had completely let his dick go, left it standing straight out, head leaking, shaft damn near pulsing. And then he stared at her for a second. Flexed his jaw and …smiled?
“Stack,” He took his eyes off of Annie, to look at his brother. “Get the fuckin’ rope.”
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A/n - If you made it to the end I hope you enjoyed 😬😬😬. I couldn’t call this a drabble cause the shit 14.3k words butttt sorry if it feels a little jumpy and inconsistent? I do notttt have the capacity to write really fleshed out stuff right now. I feel like grief permanently altered my brain and I hate it so badddd y’all because I don’t be having the stamina no more (hence me getting sooo lazy in the second half 😭😭😭) Anyways, I may spin the block on this little world in the future when I can write normally again cause this was a little fun or w/e lmao, for nowww feedback is appreciated, Thank’s for rocking w/ me even when I when I fall off the face of the earth and Happy (late) Wednesday - Lil Bitt out 🫡🫶🏾
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Visionaries (not tagging my Smoke and Annie girlies b/c Stack all in the mix) - @lizbehave @thebumblebeesworld @shereeluvssinners @miss-spiders-sunny-patch @bananajoeclone @aellesa @atpeaceinthestars @underated345-blog @hotebonynearby @hdfen2474 @chromexbarbie @honeytoffee @mmbee675
Pairing: G (Marshawn’s character from Euphoria) x Ocean Robinson (OC)
Summary: Ocean Robinson has spent her entire adult life doing everything right. She’s a beloved preschool teacher, the woman everybody trusts with their children, the loyal girlfriend holding down one of Oakland’s most feared kingpins. Then she meets G.
G is everything Ocean should stay away from: dangerous, ruthless, emotionally unhinged, and the longtime enemy of her boyfriend, Dre. Their names have been tied to bloodshed, territory wars, and years of street politics that turned former best friends into bitter rivals. What starts as a chance encounter inside her preschool classroom quickly turns into stolen conversations, dangerous chemistry, and a connection neither of them can ignore. While Dre grows increasingly possessive and careless with the woman waiting for him at home, G becomes the one asking the questions nobody else ever does: Is Ocean happy? Who takes care of her? What would happen if she chose herself for once?
Warnings: rival kingpins, emotional infidelity, possessive behavior, toxic relationship dynamics, cheating themes, violence, gun violence, manipulation, obsessive attraction, “good girl x street kingpin” trope, enemies-to-lovers undertones, love triangle elements, and emotionally messy relationships.
The classroom smelled of crayon wax and disinfectant, a chaotic symphony of primary colors painted across every surface. Ocean moved through the noise with the grace of a queen surveying her kingdom, her long box braids swinging against the conservative dress that did little to hide the generous curves beneath. She knelt, bringing herself eye-level with a screaming four-year-old whose face was blotchy with tears.
"Jamal," she said, her voice a low, melodic balm that cut through the tantrum like a knife through butter. "I know you're angry that Kelsey took your blue crayon, but screaming won't make it come back. What will?"
The child hiccupped, his small chest heaving. "Tell her to give it back."
Ocean nodded, her dark eyes softening. "That's using your words. Good job." She stood and extended a hand. "Let's go talk to Kelsey together."
That's when the classroom door swung open without warning, casting a shadow across the colorful alphabet rug. The man filling the doorway didn't belong here—didn't belong anywhere near children's laughter and finger paintings. He was built like a brick shithouse, all thick muscle and simmering energy barely contained by an oversized black hoodie. His locs were pulled back from a face that had seen too much, eyes that missed nothing.
Principal Miller scurried behind him, wringing her hands. "Sir, I really must insist—"
G ignored her, his gaze fixed on Ocean as she guided the sniffling child toward another little girl clutching the coveted blue crayon. He watched how she knelt again, how she mediated the dispute with a patience that seemed supernatural in a world as rushed as theirs.
Ocean felt his eyes on her before she looked up. When she finally met his gaze across the room, something electric passed between them, an undeniable current that made the hairs on her arms stand up despite the stuffy classroom heat.
"Excuse me," she said to the children, rising slowly. She crossed the room with deliberate steps, her hips swaying with a rhythm that seemed to command attention. "Can I help you?"
G's eyes traveled from her face down her body and back again, a slow perusal that felt more intimate than a touch. "Just handling some business with the principal." He gestured with his chin toward the nervous woman behind him. "Didn't expect to find magic in here."
Ocean's brow arched. "This is a school, not a place for whatever 'business' you're handling."
He stepped closer, invading her personal space until she could smell the faint scent of weed. "Little niggas in here learning their ABCs while big niggas outside learning their R.I.P.s. You think that's fair, Ms. Ocean?" His voice dropped, a low rumble that vibrated through her bones. "Or you just got that magic pussy that makes problems disappear?"
Despite herself, Ocean gasp. No one had ever spoken to her like that, certainly not in her classroom, her sanctuary. But beneath the crude words, she heard something else. Pain. A raw honesty that disarmed her as much as his audacity.
She didn't retreat. Instead, she tilted her head, studying him with the same calm assessment she used with difficult children. "My name is Ms. Robinson. And in this classroom, we use respectful language. Something you apparently need a lesson in."
A slow grin spread across G's face, transforming it from hardened to handsome in a heartbeat. "She got claws. I like that." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But I bet they only come out when necessary."
Ocean's heart hammered against her ribs, a traitorous response to the danger radiating from this man. "I think you should leave now."
G nodded, but instead of backing away, he stepped even closer until their bodies were nearly touching. He lowered his head, his lips brushing against her ear as he spoke. "I bet you taste like heaven and sin all mixed together. And I'm a sinner who's been starving."
Then he was gone, as suddenly as he'd appeared, leaving Ocean standing in the middle of her classroom with her heart racing and her body responding in ways that felt both dangerous and delicious.
Principal Miller rushed to her side. "I'm so sorry, Ocean. That was G. He's... connected to some unsavory people."
Ocean nodded absently, her fingers touching the spot where his breath had warmed her skin. "I noticed."
The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hummed overhead, a monotonous buzz that did nothing to quiet the storm in Ocean's mind. For seven days, she'd been replaying their encounter, his audacity, the storm behind his eyes, the way her body had responded despite her mind screaming danger. She squeezed a lemon, testing its ripeness, her fingers pressing into the firm flesh with a little too much force.
"You been thinking about me, teacher?"
The voice was a low rumble directly behind her, close enough that she could feel his body heat through her thin cardigan. Ocean jumped, the lemon slipping from her grasp and rolling across the linoleum. G was already moving, his thick frame bending to retrieve it. When he straightened, he held it out to her, his fingers brushing hers in a deliberate caress.
"I can tell by how you keep squeezing them lemons like they got a dick."
Ocean's cheeks flushed hot. "You have a knack for showing up uninvited."
G grinned, that same slow, dangerous smile that had haunted her dreams. "And you have a knack for pretending you don't want me here." He stepped closer, his presence consuming the space around them. "How's that little nigga Jamal? Still stealing crayons?"
"He's learning to use his words instead of his hands," Ocean replied, turning to select another lemon. "Something you could benefit from."
G chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated through her bones. "Oh, I use my hands real well, Ms. Ocean. Real well."
From across the produce section, a man in business casual watched them openly, his gaze lingering on Ocean's curves with blatant appreciation. G's eyes narrowed his entire demeanor shifting from playful to predatory in a heartbeat.
"That nigga looking at you like he's never seen Black beauty before," G said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "He don't know you're the whole damn art gallery."
Despite herself, Ocean laughed. "You say the wildest shit like it's normal conversation."
"Normal ain't never got nobody what they really want," G responded, his eyes never leaving hers. "You want normal, Ocean? Or you want what gets you wet in the middle of the night when you're all alone?"
Her eyes rolled at his directness. "I want you to leave me alone."
"Liar." G reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw.
Ocean swallowed hard, her body betraying her with a rush of heat between her thighs. "You're insane."
"Maybe." G stepped back, giving her space but keeping his eyes locked on hers. "But I'm honest. Can't say the same for your man."
Ocean's eyes widened. "What do you know about Dre?"
"I know he's been sniffing around that new waitress at the strip club on Third Street," G said casually, examining a mango like he was discussing the weather. "I know he thinks you don't know. I know he thinks loyalty means not getting caught."
Ocean's carefully constructed world tilted on its axis. Dre had been distant lately, but she'd chalked it up to stress from his "business." Not this. Not another woman.
"How would you know that?" she demanded, her voice trembling slightly.
G's smile was all teeth. "Ain't much happens in this city that I don't know about." He tossed the mango in his hand. "Question is, what you gonna do about it?"
Ocean stood frozen, her mind racing. Dre's possible betrayal warred with her undeniable attraction to the dangerous man before her. She grabbed her grocery bag and turned toward the checkout, needing to escape.
"Let me help you with that," G said, falling into step beside her. He carried her groceries to her car, his presence a constant reminder of the choice she didn't know she was making.
At her car, Ocean fumbled for her keys, her hands shaking slightly. G pressed his body against hers from behind, just enough to make her pulse race without trapping her. His warmth seeped through her clothes, his breath hot against her neck.
"Every time I see you, I forget why I'm supposed to hate your man," he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear. "That's a problem for him, not me."
Ocean closed her eyes, leaning back against him for just a moment before catching herself. "I should go."
G stepped back, his expression unreadable. "You should. But you won't." He nodded toward the store entrance. "That business casual motherfucker still watching you, wondering what a man like me is doing with a woman like you."
Ocean glanced over to see the man from the produce section indeed watching them, his expression a mixture of curiosity and envy.
"Let him wonder," Ocean said, surprised by the defiance in her own voice.
G's grin returned, wider this time. "There she is. The woman beneath the teacher." He opened her car door for her, a gesture at odds with his rough exterior. "Next time I see you, you better have made up your mind what you really want."
Ocean slid into the driver's seat, her body humming with a dangerous energy she hadn't felt in years. As she drove away, she glanced in the rearview mirror to see G still watching, his figure growing smaller until he disappeared from view.
She knew she should drive straight home and forget about him. But instead, she found herself taking the long way, her mind racing with possibilities she knew she shouldn't entertain.
The apartment door clicked shut behind Ocean, but the sense of G's presence followed her inside like a ghost. She leaned against the door, her heart still racing from the grocery store encounter. The air in the apartment felt heavy, thick with the familiar scent of Dre's cologne.
"Where you been?" Dre's voice cut through the darkness from the living room. He emerged from the shadows, his muscular frame outlined by the city lights through the window. "You smell different."
Ocean straightened, her teacher persona melting away to reveal the woman who'd grown up on these same streets. "I stopped at the grocery store. Ran into an old friend." She kept her voice deliberately casual, moving past him to place her bag on the kitchen counter.
Dre followed, his eyes narrowed. "What friend?" He stepped closer, invading her space, his hand reaching out to grip her chin. "You been fucking around, Ocean?"
She slapped his hand away, her movements sharp and defiant. "Don't put your hands on me." She turned to face him fully, her eyes blazing with a fire he rarely saw. "And if you're so concerned about who I'm fucking, maybe you should explain why you've been spending so much time at the strip club on Third Street."
Dre's face hardened, but Ocean didn't back down. "Yeah, I know about the waitress. Don't look so surprised."
For a moment, Dre was silent, his expression unreadable. Then he laughed, a harsh sound that held no humor. "So you heard about that, huh? And who told you? That nigga G been sniffing around you?"
Ocean's jaw tightened at the mention of G's name. "Yeah, he's the one who told me about your side piece, if you must know. But this isn't about him. This is about you acting as if you own me while you're out there sticking your dick in everything that moves."
"I'll put him in the ground before I let him touch what's mine," Dre snarled, his hand shooting out to wrap around her throat. "You belong to me, Ocean. Always have."
"I'm not yours to own, Dre," she choked out, her hands coming up to pry at his fingers. "And you're not exactly faithful yourself, so don't act like you care about my honor."
Dre released her suddenly, stepping back as if burned. "You don't know what you're talking about. Me and G got history you can't even imagine."
"Then enlighten me," Ocean challenged, rubbing her throat. "Or are you scared I'll see you for the hypocrite you are?"
Dre's face twisted with a mixture of anger and pain. "We grew up together. We was supposed to build this empire together, side by side. Then he fucked me over on a deal that cost me three years of my life and half my territory." He paced the living room, his movements restless and agitated. "He betrayed me, Ocean. Betrayal is the only sin in this world that can't be forgiven."
"And yet here you are, betraying me," she countered, her voice soft but firm. "How's that different?"
Dre stopped pacing, turning to face her with a look of disbelief. "That ain't the same and you know it. What I do with other bitches don't mean nothing. But you... You're everything. And he knows that. That's why he's coming at you sideways."
Ocean shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "You're unbelievable. You want to fuck whoever you want, but I'm supposed to remain untouched? That's not how this works, Dre. Not anymore."
Dre's eyes darkened with dangerous intent. "I'll kill him before I let him have you."
Standing her ground despite the fear coiling in her stomach. "I'm not some prize to be won between two men who can't keep their dicks in their pants."
The next day, G pulled up to one of Dre's trap spots in a black SUV that screamed money and menace. The neighborhood crackheads scattered like roaches when they saw him, sensing the violence that radiated from him like heat from pavement in August.
Dre was holding court on the corner, flanked by his crew, when G emerged from a blacked-out hellcat. He was dressed in a pair of all-black Dickie pants, a fresh white T, and his favorite beanie. He carried himself like a king coming to collect tribute. In his hand, he held a switch—thin, flexible, and menacing.
"What the fuck you doing here, G?" Dre demanded, his hand instinctively going to the weapon tucked into his waistband.
G ignored the question, his eyes fixed on Dre as he approached with a predator's grace. "Heard you had a little chat with Ocean last night. Heard you put your hands on her. One of my lil homies saw some bruises on her when he dropped his son off at school this morning."
Dre's crew shifted nervously, sensing trouble. "That's between me and my woman. Stay out of it."
"She ain't your woman no more if you touching her like that," G said, his voice dangerously calm. He moved faster than anyone expected, closing the distance between them before Dre could react.
The first crack of the switch against Dre's back echoed through the street. Dre howled, more from shock than pain, stumbling forward like his legs had forgotten how to work. Before his crew could properly react, G struck again, the switch whistling through the air with terrifying precision.
"Next time you talk to my future wife like she's property," G said, his voice dropping to a low growl as he brought the switch down again, "I'ma use this switch on your face instead of your back."
From the periphery, a choked snort escaped one of Dre's younger soldiers. He quickly clapped a hand over his mouth, but the damage was done. Another one, a lanky dude named Rico, just shook his head, a grin spreading across his face.
"Damn, boss," Rico muttered under his breath, just loud enough for G to hear. "He whooping that ass. Fight back nigga, damn."
G's lips twitched as he landed another sharp strike. "This what happen when you don't listen," he said, punctuating his words with the switch. "I tried to talk to you like a grown man, but you wanna act like a little boy." WHACK! "So I'ma treat you like one." WHACK!
Dre was bent over now, trying to protect himself with his hands, but G was too quick, too precise. He danced around him like a boxer, landing stinging blows to his thighs, his calves, his ass.
"Y'all niggas just gonna stand there and let this happen?" Dre grunted, his face flushed with embarrassment and rage.
His crew shifted uncomfortably, a few of them openly smirking. "I mean, you did put hands on Ms. Ocean," one of them offered. "And G did say she was his future wife. That's some complicated shit, boss."
G paused, leaning down to get in Dre's face. "See? Even your own crew got more sense than you. They understand. A woman like Ocean ain't meant for a little boy who still think with his dick instead of his brain."
He straightened up, tapping the switch against his leg. "You know, my grandmama used to whoop my ass with one of these. Said it builds character. Looking at you now, I think she might've been right. You ain't got no character."
Dre tried to stand up straight, but G was faster, landing a final, sharp blow to his ass that made him yelp like a kicked dog.
"Stay down," G commanded, tossing the switch aside. "And think about what you did. Think about Ocean, and how she felt when you put your hands on her. Think about how you're gonna explain these stripes to the next bitch you try to fuck."
He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at Dre's crew. "Y'all make sure he gets home safe. And somebody remind him that pride ain't worth losing a queen over."
As G walked back to his car, the sounds of muffled laughter followed him. He knew this wasn't just a beating—it was a message, a public humiliation that would ripple through the streets like wildfire. And as he drove away, he couldn't help but smile, knowing that he'd just claimed his territory without firing a single shot.
The bass thumped through the floor of 'Red Room,' a high-end club where the city's elite came to pretend they weren't connected to the streets Dre and G ruled. Ocean felt naked in the dress Dre had picked out, a scrap of red fabric that clung to her curves like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. Every time she shifted, she felt the cool air kiss skin that was usually covered.
"You look good enough to eat," Dre whispered in her ear, his hand possessively resting on her thigh. He'd been touching her all night, marking his territory like a dog pissing on a fire hydrant. "Everybody in here knows who you belong to."
Ocean forced a smile, her mind replaying the story she'd heard about G and the switch. Part of her was furious at Dre for his infidelity, but another part, darker, more dangerous, was intrigued by the man who'd dared to humiliate him so publicly.
Dre was conducting business, his voice low as he discussed shipments and territories with men who looked more like Wall Street executives than street hustlers. Ocean sat beside him, a beautiful accessory in a dangerous game, her mind miles away.
That's when the energy in the room changed. Conversations died, eyes darted toward the entrance. G entered like he owned the place, which, in a way, he did. He was dressed in black jeans and a designer hoodie that probably cost more than Dre's entire outfit; his locs hung loose around his face.
His crew fanned out behind him, moving in formation. They didn't rush to tables or flag down servers; they simply found strategic positions throughout the club, their presence a silent threat that rippled through the room.
G ignored everyone, his eyes finding Ocean immediately. He crossed the room with deliberate steps, his gaze never leaving hers. Dre noticed him too, his posture stiffening, his hand tightening on Ocean's thigh.
"What the fuck is he doing here?" Dre muttered, already reaching for the weapon tucked into his waistband.
G stopped at their table, completely ignoring Dre as he spoke directly to Ocean. "You look too good to be sitting next to a man who's thinking about his next move instead of looking at you."
Ocean's pulse quickened, her body responding to his presence despite her mind's protests. "G," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Ocean," he replied, his lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile. "Always a pleasure."
Dre stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "You got some fucking nerve showing up here after what you pulled."
G's crew moved closer, their hands resting casually on weapons hidden beneath expensive jackets. The club's security team watched nervously, clearly unsure how to handle a situation that could erupt into violence at any moment.
"I got nerve for days," G said, his eyes still locked on Ocean. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that only she could hear. "I'd kill every motherfucker in this room just to taste what's between your legs right now. Don't make me prove it."
Ocean's breath hitched, a rush of heat pooling between her thighs despite the public setting. She could feel Dre's anger radiating off him, could see the violence brewing in his eyes.
"This ain't the time or place," Dre said through gritted teeth, his hand still hovering near his weapon.
G straightened up, his expression unreadable. "You right. It ain't." He nodded toward Ocean. "But she deserves better than this. Better than you."
Before Dre could respond, the club's security team finally found their courage, moving to intervene. "Gentlemen, we're going to have to ask you to take this elsewhere."
G held up his hands in mock surrender, but as he backed away, he brushed past Ocean, his fingers trailing along her arm. Something small and cool slipped into her hand—his number and address on a piece of paper, and a key.
"When you ready to stop playing house with that boy," he whispered, his lips close enough to her ear that she could feel his breath, "come home to a man."
Then he was gone, his crew melting away as quickly as they'd appeared, leaving Dre fuming and Ocean clutching the key like it was both a lifeline and a death sentence.
The club slowly returned to normal, but the energy had shifted permanently. Ocean could feel eyes on her, could hear the whispers that followed her like shadows. She looked at Dre, at the anger and humiliation warring in his expression, and knew that everything had changed.
"What did he give you?" Dre demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
Ocean closed her fingers around the key, hiding it from view. "Nothing," she lied, her heart pounding against her ribs. "Just his number."
Dre's eyes narrowed, but before he could press further, his attention was diverted by one of his associates. Ocean took the opportunity to slip away, heading toward the restroom with the key clutched in her hand like a secret she wasn't ready to share.
In the privacy of the ladies' room, she examined the key—a simple brass key. She didn't recognize the address, but she knew exactly what it represented. An invitation. A choice. A dangerous path that led away from the life she'd built with Dre.
As she stood there, the key growing warm in her palm, Ocean realized that she was standing at a crossroads, and the decision she would have to make would change everything.
The apartment was silent, but Ocean's mind was screaming. Dre had fallen asleep hours ago, his breathing heavy and even beside her, but sleep remained elusive. She lay in the darkness, the key G had given her clutched in her hand like a prayer. The metal had grown warm from her touch, almost alive, a physical reminder of the choice she didn't know she was making.
At 2:17 AM, she could bear it no longer. Slipping from the bed, she padded into the living room, her bare feet silent on the cool hardwood floors. She sank onto the sofa, the city lights painting patterns across her skin as she stared at the number scribbled on the paper beside the key.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. This was wrong, so wrong. But the pull was undeniable, a magnetic force that drew her in despite the danger.
Finally, she pressed dial. The phone rang once. Twice. Then, a voice, low, rough, and impossibly awake.
"I knew you'd call. A woman like you can't resist a man who knows what he wants."
Ocean giggled. "How did you know it was me?"
"Nobody else calls me this late unless they're dying or they owe me money," G said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "And I don't think you owe me money. Yet."
Despite herself, Ocean smiled. "Cocky bastard."
"Confident," he corrected. "There's a difference. You holding that key right now?"
Ocean glanced down at the brass object in her hand. "Maybe."
" Been waiting for you to call," he said.
Ocean's pulse quickened. "How long have you had this key, G?"
"Long enough to know that I want you to use it," he replied, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated through the phone. "Long enough to know that you deserve better than what you've been settling for."
They fell into a conversation that flowed as naturally as a river, G revealing pieces of himself with a candor that surprised her. He spoke of his childhood in Oakland, of a mother who worked three jobs to keep him fed, of a father he barely remembered.
"I had a dog once," he said, his voice softer than she'd heard it yet. "Pitbull named Ghost. Loved that motherfucker more than people. Got shot in a drive-by right in front of me. That's when I learned loving something just means you got something to lose."
Ocean's heart ached for the little boy who'd lost his dog, for the man who'd built walls around himself to keep from getting hurt again. "I'm sorry, G."
"Don't be," he replied. "Made me who I am. But I'd risk it all for you."
The admission hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Ocean felt a rush of emotion, fear, desire, something deeper she couldn't name.
"G," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "I don't know what to do."
“I do,” G said, his voice dropping lower, rough around the edges like gravel mixed with honey. “You gon’ take that key. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, you gon’ pull up. And when you do, all that acting tough shit you do? Gone.”
Ocean laughed under her breath, the sound barely disturbing the quiet of the apartment. She could feel the ghost of his touch on her skin from the club, the way his fingers had deliberately brushed against hers.
“Boy, please.”
“Nah, for real,” G continued, and she could hear him shifting, the faint rustle of fabric suggesting he was settling in for the long haul. “You keep looking at that key for a reason. Turning it over and over in your hand like it’s some kinda puzzle you gotta solve.”
Ocean shook her head, even though he couldn’t see her, the motion a useless protest against his perception. “You talk real reckless for a nigga who got embarrassed by my ex.”
G barked out a laugh, a short, sharp sound of genuine amusement that echoed slightly, as if he were in a large, empty room. “Embarrassed?”
“That’s what happened, ain’t it?”
“Nah.” He leaned back wherever he was, the creak of leather audible through the phone. He sounded entirely too pleased with himself. “What happened was I corrected his behavior. Big difference.”
“With a switch?”
“With whatever lesson he needed that day,” G said, his voice unapologetic. “Sometimes a conversation ain’t enough. Sometimes a nigga need a visual aid to understand the message.”
Ocean snorted, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound. “You sound ridiculous.”
“You still on the phone though.”
That shut her up for half a second. The undeniable truth of it landed like a stone in the quiet room.
G caught it immediately, his voice dropping into that low, knowing register. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Ocean rolled her eyes, a pointless gesture he couldn’t see but made her feel better anyway. “Your ego is insane.”
“My ego ain’t the problem.”
“No?”
“Nah. My problem is every time I see you, I hate that nigga even more.”
The words landed heavier than she expected, stripping away the playful veneer and leaving something raw and honest beneath. Ocean felt a familiar warmth spread through her chest, a dangerous feeling she’d been trying to ignore since their first meeting.
Before she could formulate a response, G kept talking, his voice flowing like dark honey. “You know what your problem is?”
“Oh Lord, here we go.”
“You keep trying to convince yourself you don’t like me.”
Ocean laughed, a real laugh this time, full and rich. “Who said I liked you?”
“Your face.”
“You can’t see my face.”
“Don’t need to,” G replied, and the sheer confidence in his voice was infuriating and undeniably attractive. “I can hear it. The way your breath catches when I say something real. The little pause before you try to come back with something smart. That’s your face telling me the truth.”
“You always this full of yourself?”
“Nah. Just when I’m right.”
Ocean sank deeper into the couch cushions, the fabric cool against her suddenly heated skin. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet…” G said softly, the word hanging between them like a challenge. “Here you are.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Not awkward. Dangerous. The kind that made her stare at the ceiling and trace the patterns of light the streetlamps cast across it, thinking too much.
G broke it first, his voice gentler now. “Lemme ask you something.”
“What?”
“When’s the last time somebody checked on you? Not ‘where you at’ or ‘when you coming home’, but really checked on you. Asked how your day was and actually waited for the answer.”
Ocean frowned, the question catching her off guard. “What kind of question is that?”
“A real one.”
She opened her mouth to dismiss it, to tell him it wasn’t his business, but then closed it. Because suddenly she didn’t have an answer. Dre asked about her day, but it was always perfunctory, a prelude to talking about his own. Her mother called, but it was always with a list of needs or complaints.
G noticed her silence. “Exactly.”
The smugness was gone now. His voice sounded different. Quieter. More serious than she’d ever heard it. “Everybody always asking what you doing for everybody else. Who checking on Ocean? Who making sure you ate? Who asking if you’re happy, not just if you’re taken care of?”
She swallowed, the lump in her throat unexpected. “That’s not your business.”
“Maybe.”
“But?”
“But I still wanna know.”
For a second, she forgot they were supposed to be enemies. Forgot who he was in the streets. Forgot who she was dating. Forgot every reason this conversation shouldn’t be happening. In that moment, he was just a man asking a question no one else had bothered to.
Then G sighed, a sound heavy with exhaustion. “You know what’s crazy?”
“What now?”
“The streets got me painted like some monster. Like I’m some soulless devil just collecting bodies and stacking paper.”
Ocean smiled faintly. “You kinda are.”
“Nah. I’m serious,” G insisted, and the vulnerability in his voice was disarming. “Dre thinks he knows me. Everybody think they know me. Nobody actually do. They see the cars, the clothes, the reputation. They don’t see the nigga sitting up at 3 AM staring at the ceiling wondering how the fuck he got here.”
The admission surprised her. Because men like G weren’t supposed to sound vulnerable, they were supposed to sound dangerous. Untouchable. Not human.
“Then who are you?” she asked quietly, the question feeling more intimate than any touch.
A long pause stretched between them, filled with unspoken words. Then:
“A nigga that’s tired.”
The honesty in it hit harder than any pickup line ever could. Tired of what, she didn’t know, but she felt it in her bones, a weariness that went deeper than the body, straight to the soul.
For the first time all night, neither of them joked. Neither of them flirted. Neither of them hid. Just two people sitting in the dark, listening to each other breathe across the phone lines.
Finally, G spoke again, his voice soft but certain. “I don’t need you to love me, Ocean.”
Her chest tightened at the unexpected shift.
“I don’t even need you to pick me.”
“Then what do you want?”
He didn’t answer right away. When he finally did, his voice was almost a whisper, raw with emotion. “I want you to stop settling.”
Ocean stared at the key sitting on her coffee table, the brass glinting in the dim light. It suddenly looked less like an invitation and more like a lifeline.
G continued, his words painting a picture of a life she hadn’t even realized she was living. “I want you to stop accepting half-assed love because it’s familiar. I want you to stop shrinking yourself to fit in somebody else’s box. I want you to choose yourself for once.”
A pause.
Then:
“And if you ever do…” His voice dropped lower, intimate and knowing. “I think you’ll end up choosing me anyway.”
Ocean's heart swelled with emotion, tears pricking at her eyes. "G, I—"
"Shh," he interrupted gently. "Don't say anything you're not ready to mean. Just think about it. The key opens my front door. And my heart. If you want them."
With that, he ended the call, leaving Ocean alone in the darkness with nothing but a key, a choice, and the undeniable truth that she was standing at a crossroads, and the path she chose would change everything.
The silence in Ocean's apartment had become a living thing, growing thicker with each passing day after her midnight call to G. Dre moved through the space like a ghost, his presence a constant reminder of the chasm that had opened between them. He looked at her differently now, with suspicion and hurt, his pride wounded more deeply than G's switch had ever marked his back.
"You been distant," Dre said one evening, his voice rough with accusation. "Mind somewhere else?"
Ocean didn't look up from the lesson plans she was grading. "Just tired."
"Tired or thinking about another nigga?"
Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing with anger. "Don't start this shit again, Dre."
"Then stop giving me a reason to," he shot back, his hand slamming down on the table. "I saw how you looked at him at the club. I know you been talking to him."
Ocean stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. "And what about you, Dre? What about the waitress at the strip club? What about all the other bitches you been fucking while I've been home playing the loyal girlfriend?"
Dre's face darkened, but he didn't deny it. "That's different. That don't mean nothing."
"Then neither does this," she retorted, her voice cold. "If you can fuck around, then I can talk to whoever I want."
The argument ended there, as it always did, with Dre storming out and Ocean left alone with her thoughts and the key that still sat in her nightstand, a constant temptation she hadn't yet given in to.
Two days later, Dre returned with a dangerous energy that set Ocean's teeth on edge. "I got a meeting tonight," he announced, his voice tight with excitement. "Gonna handle this G problem once and for all."
Ocean's stomach clenched. "What are you talking about?"
"Made a deal with Raheem's crew," Dre said, missing the warning in her expression. "They hate G as much as we do."
"Dre, no," Ocean said, shaking her head. "That's a bad idea. Raheem's crew is unpredictable."
"Sometimes you gotta take risks," Dre replied, his eyes gleaming with the recklessness that had always drawn her in and now terrified her. "Besides, they're meeting us on neutral ground. Warehouse district. It's all good."
He dragged her along an hour later, dressed in a tight black dress that made her feel like an accessory rather than a partner. "You need to be there to represent," he'd said, but she knew the real reason: he wanted to show her off, to prove to himself and everyone else that he still had control.
The warehouse district was deserted, the buildings looming like tombstones in the moonlight. Dre parked his car in the shadow of a particularly derelict-looking structure, cutting the engine but leaving the lights on.
"Wait here," he commanded, his hand already on the door handle. "This won't take long."
Ocean watched him walk away, his silhouette growing smaller against the vast emptiness of the industrial park. Something felt wrong, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach that she couldn't ignore.
That's when she heard it: muffled voices from behind a nearby dumpster. Two men, their conversation barely audible but clear enough to make her blood run cold.
"He's walking right into it," one voice said. "Heem got shotters on the roof. Soon as he's in position, they're lighting his ass up."
"Good," the other voice replied. "Dre's been running this shit too long. Time for new management."
Ocean's heart hammered against her ribs, panic rising like bile in her throat. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers shaking so badly she could barely type. Dre first, she thought, then immediately reconsidered. His ego wouldn't let him listen to reason. He'd see it as weakness, as her taking G's side over his.
In a moment of clarity that would change everything, she found G's number in her call history and pressed dial before she could second-guess herself.
The phone rang once. Twice. Then:
"If you calling me to save your man, I'm hanging up."
Ocean's breath caught in her throat. "They're gonna kill him," she managed, her voice trembling. "Warehouse district. Building C. It's a trap."
"Stay in the car," G said, taking a deep breath because the last thing he wanted to do was save Dre’s ass. "Lock the doors. Don't get out for anyone but me."
The line went dead, leaving Ocean alone with the sound of her own ragged breathing. She watched as Dre entered the warehouse, completely unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows above.
Minutes passed like hours, each one stretching into an eternity of fear. Then, the night exploded with violence, the sharp crack of gunfire echoing through the empty streets. Ocean screamed, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound.
That's when she saw it: headlights cutting through the darkness, approaching at a speed that defied the potholed roads of the warehouse district. G's truck skidded to a halt beside her, his door already open before the vehicle had fully stopped.
"Stay here," he commanded again, his voice leaving no room for argument. He moved with a predator's grace, his gun already in hand as he disappeared into the same warehouse Dre had entered moments before.
More gunfire erupted, then screams, then silence. Ocean waited, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst from her chest. She couldn't stay in the car, not knowing what was happening, not knowing if Dre was alive or dead.
Slipping from the car, she moved toward the warehouse, her footsteps silent on the cracked pavement. The door hung open, splintered from what looked like a forced entry. Inside, the scene was chaos, bodies strewn across the concrete floor, the air thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood.
She found them in the center of the room, Dre cornered and bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, G standing over him like a guardian angel of death. But G's eyes weren't on Dre; they were searching the shadows, scanning the room until they found her.
When their eyes met across the carnage, something passed between them, an acknowledgment, an understanding that went beyond words. G crossed the room to her, his expression unreadable.
"I'd let him die for you," he said, his voice low and rough with emotion. "But I know you'd never forgive me. Or yourself."
With that, he turned back to Dre, extending a hand that Dre hesitantly accepted. "Let's get you out of here," G said, his voice all business again. "We got a lot to talk about."
Ocean watched them, two men who had been enemies moments ago, now united by circumstance and her intervention. And as they emerged from the warehouse into the pre-dawn light.
G's safe house was the last place Ocean expected to find herself, an impeccably clean, minimalist apartment that looked more like a high-end showroom than a criminal's hideout. The floors were polished concrete, the furniture expensive but sparse, and the windows offered a panoramic view of the city they'd just barely survived.
"This is your place?" Ocean asked, her voice tight with disbelief as she helped a bleeding Dre onto the leather sofa. "I thought you'd be holed up in some trap house with bullet holes in the walls."
G shrugged as he locked the door behind them. "Even monsters need a peaceful place to rest." He turned to face her, his eyes dark and intense. "And you need to stop asking questions and start helping me save his life."
The next hour passed in a blur of activity, Ocean's teacher training forgotten as she worked alongside G to clean and dress Dre's wounds. The bullet had gone straight through his shoulder, missing the bone but leaving a messy, bleeding hole that needed immediate attention.
"You know what you're doing," G observed, his voice low and rough as he watched Ocean work with a calm efficiency that surprised him.
"First aid certification," she replied, her focus entirely on Dre. "Required for the job."
G watched her hands, steady and sure as they cleaned the wound, her touch gentle despite the gore. He could see the pulse beating in her neck, the slight furrow of her brow as she concentrated. He wanted to taste that pulse, to feel her hands on him the way they were on Dre.
Once Dre was stabilized and passed out from the painkillers G had administered, the apartment fell into a charged silence. Ocean cleaned up the medical supplies, as she avoided G's gaze.
"He'll be okay," G said, his voice breaking the silence. "For now."
Ocean nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She could feel his eyes on her, burning with an intensity that made her skin tingle and her stomach clench with a mixture of fear and desire.
"You saved him," she said finally, turning to face him. "Why?"
G stepped closer, invading her personal space until she could feel his body heat. "I saved him for you. Now you owe me. And I always collect my debts."
Ocean's breath hitched, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I don't owe you anything."
"Don't you?" G countered, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin in a gesture that was both tender and possessive. "You called me. Not him. You chose me when it mattered, Ocean."
Before she could protest, his lips were on hers, punishing and passionate all at once. It was a kiss that demanded, that took without asking. Ocean resisted for a moment, her hands pushing against his chest, but then something inside her broke, a dam of pent-up desire she hadn't even realized was holding back a flood.
She melted into him, her body betraying her mind as her hands moved from his chest to wrap around his thick neck, pulling him closer. G deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth with a thoroughness that left her breathless and trembling.
This was wrong, so wrong. Dre was passed out on the sofa just feet away, and she was kissing his enemy, his rival, the man who had humiliated him in public and now saved his life. But it felt right, more right than anything had in a long time.
A groan from the sofa broke them apart. Ocean pulled back, her lips swollen, her eyes wide with panic as she looked toward Dre. But he wasn't waking up; it was just the painkillers wearing off enough to make him restless.
G didn't release her, his grip on her waist tightening as he looked down at her, his eyes burning with a hunger that both terrified and thrilled her. "He can wake up," he said, his voice low and rough. "I don't give a fuck."
He pulled her into another kiss, deeper this time. Ocean's mind screamed at her to stop, but her body refused to listen, arching against him as his hands roamed her body, claiming what she hadn't even realized she was offering.
That's when Dre's eyes fluttered open, his vision blurry from pain and medication. He saw them—Ocean in G's arms, their lips locked in a passionate embrace that left no room for misinterpretation.
His face contorted with rage and betrayal, his hand instinctively going for the weapon he no longer carried. "Ocean," he choked out, his voice rough with disbelief and pain.
G didn't even break the kiss. He just opened his eyes, looking directly at Dre as he deepened it, his tongue exploring Ocean's mouth with a deliberate possessiveness that was as much a message to Dre as it was a claim on her.
Ocean's eyes flew open when she heard Dre's voice, panic flooding her system. She tried to pull away, but G held her firm, his eyes locked with Dre's in a silent challenge that spoke volumes.
Finally, G released her, turning to face Dre with a smirk that was all teeth and danger. "Looks like you're awake," he said, his voice casual as if he hadn't just been caught kissing the man's girlfriend. "Good. We need to talk."
The morning light hit G's spot like a snitch, cutting through the expensive blinds and laying bare all the bullshit from the night before. Dre was folded up on the leather sofa, his face ashy with pain, but his eyes still burning with that same hate from when he'd woken up and seen Ocean tongue-deep in a kiss that wasn't his.
Ocean moved through the kitchen like a ghost, all tight movements and avoiding eye contact. She hadn't slept a wink, just kept feeling G's mouth on hers, the way he'd taken it like it was his, and the pure murder in Dre's eyes when he'd come to.
"You always been a selfish motherfucker, G," Dre rasped, his voice shot through with pain and pure hate. "But this? This some new low shit, even for you."
G pushed off the counter where he'd been watching Ocean like she was the last plate of food at a family cookout. "Selfish? I dragged your stupid ass out of a warehouse last night 'fore they turned you into Swiss cheese. Or that part of the story slip your mind while you was busy feeling sorry for yourself?"
"You saved me so you could steal my girl!" Dre shot back, trying to sit up and hissing like a deflated tire when the movement pulled at his fresh bandage.
"Your girl?" G laughed, but it was all sharp edges and no joy. "Nigga, you don't have a girl. You got property. And like most dumb motherfuckers who can't tell the difference, you don't give a fuck about what's yours until somebody else comes along ready to treat it right."
Dre's face twisted up. "We was supposed to be brothers, G. Before this game fucked us up. You really gonna throw all that away over some pussy?"
G's whole vibe changed, the amusement gone and replaced with something cold enough to give you frostbite. "She ain't pussy. She's peace. And you been at war so long you forgot what the fuck that even looks like." He stepped closer to the sofa, moving like a predator. "I ain't fighting you for her no more. I'm fighting for her."
The air got thick, heavy with the kind of tension that comes right before guns get drawn. Two men who'd bled together, now ready to bleed over the woman standing between them.
Before they could start some dumb shit, Ocean stepped right in the middle of it, her hands up like she was stopping traffic. "Both of y'all in here talking 'bout love, but ain't neither one of you motherfuckers bothered to ask what I want."
Dre's face softened up, trying to pull that same sorry-ass routine he always did when he got caught. "Baby, you know I love you. I just... I fucked up. But I can fix it."
G didn't say shit, just kept his eyes on Ocean, waiting.
Ocean shook her head, her spine turning to steel right in front of them. "Nah. You don't get to fuck up whenever you feel like it and then think saying 'sorry' fixes it. You don't get to stick your dick in every bitch with a pulse and then act like I'm the one in the wrong when somebody else notices I'm alive. You don't get to treat me like I'm something you own and then call that shit love."
She turned to G, her face a mask. "And you. You don't get to pull some hero shit and think that gives you the right to me. You don't get to decide what's best for me like I'm a child. You don't get to kiss me like that and then stand there grinning like you just won the fucking lottery."
Both of them just stood there, stupid-faced, struck silent by the fire coming off her.
"I ain't choosing between two men who look at me like I'm a piece of territory to be won," Ocean said, her voice cutting through the quiet apartment. "If either of you niggas really want me, earn me. Prove you can be more than just some trigger-happy motherfuckers running around playing king."
She looked from one to the other, her eyes daring them to challenge her. "Prove you can be the kind of man I actually deserve. Then maybe—just maybe—I'll think about letting either of you back in my life."
With that, she spun around and walked to the door, her steps sure and steady. Didn't hesitate, didn't look back. Just clicked the door shut behind her.
G watched her go, a slow-ass grin spreading across his face. "She just made us both better men," he said, his voice low but impressed. "Question is, which one of us gon' actually become that man for her?"
Dre didn't say nothing back, just kept his eyes locked on the door Ocean had walked through, his face a mix of shock and regret.
For the first time in a long time, the end of their war wasn't up to them. It was up to her. And standing there in the quiet, both of them knew the rules of the game had changed for good.
UP THE PRICE (MY LADY)
michael b. jordan x wunmi m.
PART ONE
next masterlist
cw: sexual content, spanking, jealous!michael
summary: a year after the unfortunate leak, rumors are still flooding around about who michael has locked down. to the public it’s still a mystery that they want to solve, and behind closed doors things are moving exactly how he wanted them to.
notes: i haven't updated in a while. so sorry y'all. i got a new job at the beginning of may and i've been trying to get used to this schedule. i've just been busy a lot more, but enjoy.
October 2026
Wunmi's house looked like a storm had completely wrecked it. Drawers were pulled open, clothes spread all over the place, shoes were kicked off in random directions, and couch cushions had been tossed aside. Even the kitchen had things out of place, which never happened.
Wunmi stood in the middle of the living room with her phone pressed between her ear and shoulder while she dug through yet another bag for what felt like the hundredth time.
“I don’t understand,” she muttered tightly. “I don’t lose things like this.”
On the other end, Michael was quiet for a second, listening to the sound of things shifting and falling in the background.
“Hey, slow down,” he said, calmer than she felt. "You’re tearing the whole place up.”
She let out a sharp exhale, dropping the bag onto the floor before moving to the next thing.
“I already did tear the whole place up,” she shot back, her accent heavily slipping through. “It’s gone, Michael. I’ve looked everywhere.”
He leaned back in his chair on set, phone pressed to his ear, eyes tracking the movement around him. He ignored the faint sound of someone calling for him to be ready in a few minutes.
“It’s not gone, you just misplaced it, baby,” he said steadily.
Wunmi laughed, but there was no humor in it. She yanked open a drawer, rifling through it quickly.
“The one time I take it off and it goes missing,” she said, her voice starting to crack.
Michael’s jaw tightened slightly at that.
“When did you take it off?”
She paused, thinking, her movements slowing for a second.
“The night I washed my hair. I didn’t want it slipping off or getting caught, so I put it—” She stopped, her brows pulling together. “I put it on the counter I think.”
Her hands moved faster again, more frantic now that she was second-guessing herself.
“Wunmi, stop moving for second,” he said firmly.
She didn’t.
“I can’t stop,” she snapped, moving into the living room and dropping to her knees to check under the couch again. “It’s not here.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to stay patient.
“Aye, listen to me,” he called. "It's fine we'll find it and if we don't—"
Her movements slowed just a little.
“I don’t want another one,” she cut in quickly, sitting back on her heels, her chest rising and falling. “You paid too much money for this one, Michael.”
He shook his head, a small frown forming.
“I don’t care about that.”
“Well, I do,” she said immediately, pushing herself up and started to pace. “And it’s not even just that. You—you really thought about it and took the time to pick it out.”
He rubbed his hand over his mouth, leaning forward slightly.
“And I’ll easily do it again,” he said.
She huffed under her breath, shaking her head like he just wasn’t getting it.
“That’s not the point,” she murmured.
On his end, someone tapped his shoulder lightly. He nodded without looking at them, waving them off for a second.
“Give me a minute.”
He turned his attention fully back to her.
“Alright, listen. You probably left it at my place,” he said.
Wunmi stopped pacing immediately.
“…No, I didn’t.”
“You might’ve,” he pressed. “Think about it. Last time you were here—”
“That was a week ago,” she cut in, frustration creeping back in. “And I didn’t take it off there.”
He paused, tilting his head slightly.
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “Why would I take it off there and not put it back on?”
He shrugged even though she couldn’t see it.
“I don’t know. You do a lot when you’re over here.”
That earned him a small, irritated huff.
“Michael,” she warned.
He let out a quiet breath, easing back a little.
“Alright, alright. All I’m saying is it’s somewhere. It didn’t just disappear.”
She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she turned slowly, looking over the mess of her home again. The reality of it hit her and her eyes started to burn.
“I don't like not having it on,” she admitted softly.
“Hey, don't do that,” Michael said gently.
She pressed her lips together, blinking a few times as she crouched down again, picking up a pillow just to check under it as if she hadn’t already done that ten times before.
“I just—” she started, her voice wobbling slightly. “You were so thoughtful with it. And now I’ve just lost it and you're being far too calm.”
“Because you're doing enough panicking for the both of us, baby. I'm not going to say it again but you didn't lose it, you just misplaced it." he said.
She didn’t argue, but she didn’t agree either.
“Michael—”
“I’m serious,” he cut in. “You don’t need to stress yourself out like this. It’s not worth it.”
She let out a long breath, some of the tension leaving her shoulders, but not all of it.
On his end, someone called out for him again. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.
“I gotta go,” he told her.
Wunmi nodded even though he couldn’t see it, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of a blanket.
“…Okay.”
He didn’t hang up right away.
“You good?” he asked.
She hesitated.
“…I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t fully believe that.
“Stop tearing your house up and take a break. I'll look for it when I get back. And if we can't find it then I'll get you another one,” he spoke lightly.
“Okay,” she said finally, even though it wasn’t fully okay.
“Alright,” he replied.
“…Be careful. I love you,” she added quietly.
“I love you too.”
The call ended and wunmi stood there in the middle of the mess. Her eyes drifted back down to her bare finger. It just felt so wrong.
She swallowed, pressing her lips together before letting out a slow breath. Her gaze moved around the room one more time, then she shook her head slightly, stepping over a pile of clothes as she moved toward the couch. She sank down into it, exhaustion finally catching up to her.
Wunmi sat there for a while, staring at nothing. Her mind tried to retrace every step she’d taken over the last few days. She pressed her lips together, then pushed herself up from the couch with a quiet exhale.
If she wasn’t going to find it right now, then she at least wasn’t going to keep living in the middle of a disaster. So she started with the living room. She picked things up and put them back into place. Every now and then her eyes would flick down to her hand out of habit, but each time it annoyed her.
She cleaned the kitchen next. Then moved to her bedroom. She was haflway through folding her thrown around clothes when her phone rang from somewhere behind her. She paused, listening for a second before turning and spotting it on the bed. She was able to that it was her good friend Danielle Brooks calling her.
Wunmi blinked, then walked over, picking it up and answering as she sat down on the edge of the mattress.
“Hello?”
“Wunmi!” Danielle’s voice came through bright and warm, full of energy. “Girl, where have you been?”
A small smile pulled at Wunmi’s mouth instantly.
“I’ve been around. You're the one that's been busy,” she said lightly, tucking one leg under herself.
“Okay, that’s fair,” Danielle laughed. “But still. I feel like I haven’t seen you seen you in forever.”
“Same,” Wunmi admitted, her voice softening just a little.
“So what you doing today?” Danielle asked.
Wunmi glanced around her half-clean room
“Nothing, really. Just at home,” she said.
“Perfect. That means you can come out to lunch with me,” Danielle replied immediately.
Wunmi huffed out a quiet laugh.
“You didn't even ask me!”
“Why would I? And I'm not taking no for an answer, so don't say it,” Danielle said.
Wunmi shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I wasn’t going to say no.”
“Good, because I already have the reservations made,” Danielle said. “So you're definitely coming?”
Wunmi hesitated for half a second, her thumb brushed lightly over her ring finger without thinking.
“I’ll come,” she said.
“I'll send you the address because I’m already on the way there, so don’t take forever.”
Wunmi laughed softly. “I won’t.”
“Alright, I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Okay.”
The call ended and Wunmi immediately got to work.
She stood in front of her closet for a minute, scanning her options before deciding on something simple. Once she was dressed, she moved to the mirror, smoothing her hands over her outfit, adjusting small things here and there.
Her gaze lifted to her reflection then dropped. Her bare hand came up slightly.
“…It’s fine,” she murmured to herself.
She reached for her shades, sliding them on before grabbing her purse. The sun hit her with a warmth as soon as she stepped outside. She locked her door, adjusted her bag on her shoulder, then headed to her car.
During the entire drive, Wunmi had the music on low playing softly in the background with er fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel.
Eventually she pulled up to the restauraunt. She parked, grabbed her purse, and stepped out, adjusting her shades slightly as she made her way inside. The place was lively but not overwhelming. Soft chatter filled the air, the clink of glasses and silverware blending into the background. She approached the host stand, offering a small smile.
“Hello.”
“Hi,” the hostess greeted warmly. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes. I believe it's under Danielle Brooks?”
The hostess nodded immediately, grabbing a menu. “Right this way.”
Wunmi followed her through the restaurant, weaving past tables and people until they reached the patio doors. Danielle sat at one of the tables, sunglasses perched on the top of her face, her posture relaxed as she scrolled through her phone. She looked up just in time, her expression breaking into a wide smile as she stood up.
“Wunmi!”
They closed the distance quickly, wrapping each other in a warm hug.
“Hey,” Wunmi laughed softly against her shoulder.
“Hey, stranger,” Danielle teased, squeezing her a little tighter before pulling back to look at her.
They both took a second, really taking each other in.
“It’s been too long,” Danielle said.
“It has,” Wunmi agreed.
Danielle shook her head, smiling. “You look good.”
“So do you,” Wunmi replied easily.
They both laughed, that easy, familiar energy settling right back into place like no time had passed at all.
“Come on,” Danielle said, gesturing toward the table as they sat back down.
Wunmi slid into her seat, setting her purse down beside her, her shades still on as she leaned back slightly.
Their server approached not too long after they sat down, a polite smile on her face as she glanced between them.
“Hi, ladies. Can I start you off with something to drink?”
Danielle didn’t even look at the menu.
“Yeah, I’ll do a margarita,” she said easily, handing it back.
The server nodded, then turned to Wunmi.
“And for you?”
Wunmi glanced down briefly, then back up. “I’ll have a French 75.”
“Perfect. I’ll be right back with those.”
They both murmured a quick thank you before the server stepped away. The second she was out of earshot, Danielle leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table.
“Okay, now talk to me. What's been going on with you?,” she said, eyes narrowing playfully.
Wunmi smiled, shaking her head a little as she settled back in her chair.
“Just work and life like always,” she said.
Danielle hummed like she halfway believed her, her gaze drifting casually as she listened. Her eyes dropped right to Wunmi’s hands that were resting on the table.
Wunmi didn’t even realize what Danielle was looking at until she felt her reach across the table.
Danielle grabbed her hand, lifting it, her face twisting in confusion.
“Wait, where's your ring?”
Wunmi’s stomach dropped. She let out a slow sigh, her shoulders sinking just a little.
“I lost it.”
Danielle’s head snapped up.
“Already?!” she gasped.
Wunmi let out another breath, this one heavier, her lips pressing together as she looked down at their hands.
“I’ve been looking for it for days, and I don't know where it is,” she admitted, sounding almost hurt.
“Oh, baby…” she murmured, still holding her hand.
“I turned my whole house upside down to look for it. I don't understand how I lost it…” she trailed off.
Danielle squeezed her hand gently.
“What did Michael say?”
Wunmi let out a small, humorless huff.
“He told me to calm down and we'd find it,” she said. “Or he’d just get me another one if we couldn’t.”
Danielle’s brows lifted slightly. “And you didn’t like that.”
“No,” Wunmi said immediately, shaking her head. “I don’t want another one.”
Danielle nodded slowly, understanding settling in her expression.
“Mm, I get it,” she said gently. “I lost mine before.”
Wunmi blinked, looking up at her.
“You did?”
“Mhm,” Danielle nodded. “Thought I was about to pass out when I realized it too. Tore my whole house up just like you.”
Wunmi let out a small breath, something easing in her chest just a little. “Did you find it?”
Danielle smiled. “I did. It was in the most random place too. You're gonna find it, so don't stress yourself out too much.”
Right then, their server returned with their drinks, carefully placing them down in front of them.
“Margarita for you, and a French 75 for you ,” she said, setting Wunmi’s glass down gently. “Are you ladies ready to order?”
Danielle picked up her drink, taking a quick sip before nodding.
“Yes please."
They both grabbed their menus again, scanning over them briefly as they placed their orders. Danielle confidently went first, while Wunmi took a second longer. The server nodded, jotting everything down. Once she walked away again, Danielle leaned back in her chair, lifting her glass slightly.
They clinked their glasses together and fell right back into conversation. They talked about everything. From work to people to random stories. Danielle filled her in on things she had missed, little industry gossip here and there that made Wunmi laugh and shake her head. Wunmi shared her own updates of things she hadn’t realized she needed to talk about until she was saying them out loud.
Time moved quickly and they hardly even noticed. Their food came and went, plates slowly clearing as they kept talking.
Danielle tilted her head slightly, a knowing look on her face.
“So,” she started, dragging the word out just a little. “How’s wedding planning going?”
Wunmi let out a soft laugh immediately, shaking her head as she set her fork down.
"It’s…a lot.”
“I know it is,” Danielle grinned.
“It’s not even the planning itself, it's the timing,” Wunmi continued.
She reached for her glass, taking a small sip before continuing.
“Michael’s been filming, so everything has to work around his schedule. And when he does have time, it’s like we have to squeeze in ten different things at once. It’s just a lot of back and forth. All of the calls and meetings. where we have to make decisions so quick because we don't know when the next free window is,” Wunmi said.
“So do y’all have a date yet?”
Wunmi picked up her glass and took a small sip.
“Not officially, but we've been looking at spring time or maybe early summer,” she said. “But we’ve been looking at spring. Maybe early summer. I really want May, but that's only if everything lines up properly.”
Danielle raised a brow. “Oh, that's soon soon.”
Wunmi gave a small nod, setting her glass back down. her fingers brushed along the stem of her glass. All of it felt too real.
Wunmi smiled faintly, her fingers brushing along the stem of her glass. The idea of it felt real when she said it out loud like that.
Danielle studied her for a second, then asked, “Are y’all planning to go public before then?”
Wunmi shrugged, her expression easy.
“I don’t really care about that right now. It's not at the top of my list,” she said. “Michael said he’d rather wait until after we get married.”
Danielle hummed, like she was considering that, then a small smirk crept onto her face.
“Mm. Maybe he’s just trying to get his last little bit of fun in ebfore everybody really backs off,” she said casually.
Wunmi didn’t even hesitate to say, “I’m not worried about that.”
“Not even a little bit?”
Wunmi shook her head, leaning back into her seat.
“He's already learned his lesson,” she said simply.
That made Danielle laugh.
“Okay, I hear you,” she said, holding her hands up.
Wunmi just gave a small unbothered smile.
They stayed for a little longer just talking. Eventually their plates were cleared and their dreams were long finisehed.
Danielle glanced around, then back at Wunmi.
“You ready?”
Wunmi nodded. “Yeah.”
Danielle lifted her hand slightly, catching their server’s attention as she passed by.
“Whenever you get a chance, can we get the check?”
The server nodded with a polite smile.
“Of course.”
She disappeared for a moment, and Wunmi reached for her purse. It didn't take long for the server to come back. She didn't set anything on the table. Instead she gave the two women a careful look.
“Actually, your check has already been taken care of,” she said.
Wunmi frowned slightly. “By who?”
The server gave a small, knowing smile, then subtly angled her head toward the inside of the restaurant.
“The gentleman over there.”
Both Wunmi and Danielle turned, their gazes following the direction she’d indicated.
Inside, a small group of men sat at a table not too far from the patio doors. It took a second to even figure out which one she meant until they watched as one of the men leaned back slightly, his attention already on them.
His face wasn’t fully clear from where they were. The lighting inside hit at an angle, shadowing part of it, and he had on a hat that didn’t help. Wunmi narrowed her eyes just a little, trying to place him.
They both turned back toward the server.
“Well…tell him thank you,” Danielle said, still sounding unsure.
“Of course,” the server replied before she walked away.
Wunmi and Danielle exchanged a look. Then they both glanced back toward the table, but the moment had already shifted. The man wasn’t as clearly visible anymore, someone else moving in front of him briefly, the angle changing just enough to make it harder to get a good look.
Danielle leaned closer.
“Do you know him?”
“I don’t—” Wunmi started, then stopped, her eyes narrowing again slightly. “I mean, I can’t see him properly.”
They sat there for another moment, trying to piece it together, but neither of them could land on anything. And then the patio door opened. The man from inside stepped out into the sunlight, moving with an easy confidence. As he got closer, the shadows fell away from his face and Wunmi's breath caught.
Her eyes widened almost immediately in recognition. She quickly turned her head toward Danielle, surprise flickering across her face.
“What? Who is that?” Danielle asked under her breath.
Wunmi didn’t answer. She just looked back at the man as he closed the distance to their table.
“Ladies,” he greeted smoothly as he reached the table.
Danielle straightened slightly, already smiling out of politeness.
“Hi,” she said. “Thank you for paying for us. You didn’t have to do that.”
He waved it off with a small shrug.
“It’s nothing. I figured I'd use it as an excuse to come say hello. Hope you don't mind,” he said.
Danielle glanced at Wunmi briefly before looking back at him.
“No, not at all. That was relaly nice of you,” she said.
Wunmi hadn’t said a word. She kept her posture composed, but her gaze had shifted off to the side for a moment, like she needed a second to collect herself before fully engaging. Because standing in front of her was someone she hadn't seen in literal years. And wasn't expecting to see again.
Tyree Lawson had been someone she had been seeing before Michael even came into the picture. They hadn’t ended badly. They just ended. The distance, timing, and their careers pulled them in opposite directions. He got traded, she picked up a new acting job, and their lives moved on.
But she remembered him. And judging by the way he was looking at her now, he remembered her just as well.
His attention shifted fully to her, a slow smile pulling at his mouth.
“Hi.”
Wunmi cleared her throat softly, finally looking at him.
“Hello.”
The formality of it made his brows lift immediately. A small, amused crease formed between them as he tilted his head.
“Why you acting like you don’t know me?”
Danielle’s eyes flicked between them instantly.
Wunmi exhaled quietly, then extended her hand out.
“Hi,” she said a little less stiff.
He reached out and took it, his grip warm. His thumb brushed lightly across the back of her hand.
“How you been?” he asked.
Wunmi gave him a sharp look and he caught the meaning of it immediately. He smirked.
“I’ve been fine,” she said while pulling her hand back. “Very busy, but fine.”
“I see that. You been everywhere lately,” he nodded, leaning back slightly so he could take her in properly. “I didn’t get to tell you before, but I saw Sinners.”
Wunmi’s expression shifted just a little.
“And?” she asked.
“I liked it a lot. You did your thing in that,” he said. "I'm proud of you."
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I appreciate that.”
There was a brief pause before she shifted the focus.
“What are you doing out here? Didn't the season start?” she asked.
He nodded once. “Yeah, it did. I’ve just got some business to handle out here before I head back.”
Wunmi’s brows lifted slightly. “What business?”
“I started a winery.” A small smile tugged at his mouth.
“Congratulations. That's big,” her tone was more warm and animated now.
“Thank you. The grand opening's coming up soon,” he paused. "You should come."
Wunmi looked at him, and for a split second she let whatever was in the air sink into her. She became a little too soft and a little too open.
“I would have to see, but I think it should be fine,” she said.
Danielle sat back in her chair, watching the exchange unfold with quiet interest. Her gaze moved between them. It wasn’t hard to read the situation. There was clearly history there and it hadn't fully gone away.
He was satisfied with that answer.
“I’ll send you the details.”
“Okay,” Wunmi said.
There was another small pause before he glanced between them, stepping back just slightly.
“I won’t hold you any longer,” he added. “Just wanted to say hello.”
Wunmi nodded, pushing her chair back as she stood.
“Yeah, of course.”
She stepped around the table, closing the small distance between them. And they hugged.
This time their contact wasn't awkward. In fact it was easy and familiar. His arms wrapped around her firmly, pulling her in. They slid a little lower than they probably should have.
Wunmi inhaled softly at the contact, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. He’d always been built strong and solid. Her hands rested against him briefly, her fingers pressing lightly against his back. She let out a quiet hum without meaning to.
He dipped his head slightly, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before pulling back, his hands lingering at her waist for just a second longer.
“Good seeing you,” he murmured.
“You too,” she replied.
He gave Danielle a quick nod before turning and heading back inside.
Nobody noticed the the camera lens across the street taking pictures of them.
Wunmi sat back down, adjusting her bag at her side, and Danielle was staring at her hard. Wunmi didn’t meet her eyes right away. She just reached for her shades instead and slid them back up.
“What?” she casually asked.
Danielle leaned back, crossing her arms loosely.
“You might not be worried about Michael with other women, but he should probably be a little worried about you,” she said pointedly.
Wunmi let out a quiet hum, not denying it, but not feeding into it either. She grabbed her purse, standing up.
“You ready?” she asked simply.
Danielle stared at her for a second longer, then shook her head with a small laugh as she stood too.
“Yeah, I'm ready,” she said.
A few days had passed, and the ring still hadn’t turned up.
Wunmi had stopped tearing her house apart, but the absence hadn’t gotten any easier. If anything, it got worse. Every time she reached for things or rested her hand on her lap she was reminded of it not being there.
She was leisurely stretched out across her couch when Michael called, one leg tucked under her, and her sketchbook open beside her with loose pages scattered around it.
“Hey,” she answered, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder as she absentmindedly flipped through one of the pages.
“Hey baby,” Michael’s voice came through low and tired. “You find it yet?”
She let out a small sigh. “…No.”
There was a brief pause on his end.
“It's fine.”
Wunmi frowned slightly, her fingers coming up to rub over her bare ring finger.
“It doesn’t feel fine,” she muttered. “My finger feels weird without it.”
That earned a quiet exhale from him, something close to a soft chuckle.
“You'll be okay. It's not permanent,” he said.
She hummed under breath, shifting a little on the couch.
“So how are you feeling about everything?” sheasked while glancing down at her sketchbook.
“About what?” he asked.
“The wedding,” she said.
There was a small pause.
“I’m good,” he answered. “Why? You not?”
“I am,” she said quickly. “It's just that there’s a lot to keep up with.”
Her hand moved across the page, tracing over one of the rough designs she’d started.
“And don’t forget we have that meeting next week with the planner coming up,” she added.
“Yeah, I remember,” he said.
She sat up a bit to reach for a pencil.
“I’ve been trying to get a head start on my dress too,” she continued. “I started sketching some ideas, but I don't know how I feel about any of them.”
On the other end, Michael was half-listening when his phone buzzed. He pulled it away from his ear just enough to glance down at the notification to see that it was a text from his publicist.
How do you want to handle this?
A twitter link followed.
His brows pulled together as he tapped it. The page loaded and his eyes instantly went to the caption.
Academy nominee Wunmi Mosaku and Dallas Cowboys defensive lineman Tyree Lawson seen pretty close at lunch.
Michael blinked once. Then he looked down at the photos. There were multiple pictures of Wunmi and Tyree hugging. His arms wrapped low around her waist and his cheek pressed against hers. There was even a picture where his lips were pressed against her cheek.
Michael was utterly confused and tense all at once.
“Aye, what is this?”
His voice cut her off mid-sentence.
“What are you talking about?”
Instead of answering, he sent the link to her. And at the exact same time, her phone buzzed against her ear. She pulled it away to see that it was a text from her own publicist.
We need to get in front of this.
Her stomach dropped. And as soon as the tweet loaded she felt her whole breath evaporate.
“Oh my God.”
Her eyes widened as she scrolled through the photos, her chest tightening.
On the other end, Michael said nothing he just waited. His silence made her pulse stutter.
“Okay, wait. When I went out with Danielle the other day someone paid for our meal. It was him,” she said quickly. "Then he came over to our table."
“Y’all look pretty close.”
The way he said it was too controlled.
Wunmi exhaled, already feeling that dangerous shift in him.
“Do you remember the guy I told you about that came before you?” she asked.
There was a beat. Then Michael hummed.
She swallowed. “That’s him.”
He remembered the conversation and the way she described how serious it could've been and how much she liked him before things fell apart. And now he was looking at pictures of that same man with his hands on her like that.
“So then what,” Michael said slowly.
Wunmi shifted on the couch, her fingers tightening slightly around her phone.
“It wasn’t like that, baby,” she said. “He just paid for our food and came to say hi. That’s it.”
Michael let out a quiet breath through his nose.
“That don’t look like just saying hi.”
Wunmi frowned, her chest tightening.
“I didn’t know what to do. It caught me off guard,” she said.
He shook his head, even though she couldn’t see it.
“You didn’t know what to do?” he echoed.
She heard the edge in his voice.
“I mean—no,” she said, her tone softening. “I wasn’t expecting to see him. And he just came up—”
“And you hugging him like that?” Michael cut in.
Her lips parted, then pressed together again.
“He did all of that,” she said, quieter now.
“That don’t change what it look like.”
Wunmi exhaled, her shoulders sinking slightly.
“It wasn’t anything. You're making it more than it was,” she insisted.
Michael didn’t respond right away because then he realized something that made this all that much worse.
“And you ain’t have your ring on. Did you at least tell him you were engaged?”
Wunmi froze. She didn't answer right away which made Michael grunt in frustration.
"Oluwunmi…"
“…No,” she admitted softly. Her voice had dropped to a whisper.
Michael let out another low, frustrated grunt, dragging a hand down his face.
“Aight,” he said. "It's cool."
Wunmi sat up straight.
“It’s not—Michael, listen—”
“I said it’s cool,” he repeated.
But it didn’t sound like it was at all.
“I’ll see you later.”
Her brows pulled together immediately. And she went to ask him what he meant by that, but the line had already gone dead. She pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at the screen for a second, confusion settling in just as fast as the panic. He wasn’t supposed to be back for another two days. So really what did he mean?
The rest of the day blurred together.
Her phone stayed in her hand. If she wasn’t on a call, she was answering a text. If she wasn’t answering a text, she was reading something she wished she hadn’t.
Her publicist called her once. Then again. Then a third time, looping her into another call but this time with Michael’s publicist.
Wunmi pressed her lips together, pacing slowly through her living room as she listened, her free hand resting against her forehead.
“It wasn’t like that,” she said for what felt like the tenth time. “He came up to us and I didn’t even know he was there until—”
“We understand that, but perception matters far more than intent right now,” her publicist cut in gently.
Wunmi closed her eyes as she took that statement in because of course it did.
They talked through options of what to do. If she wanted to make a statement and the timing of it, or if she would want to stay silent. By the time that call ended, her head was pounding. And of course, it didn’t stop there.
Danielle called her as well.
“Girl, are you okay?” she asked immediately.
“I’m fine,” Wunmi said, even though she wasn’t.
Danielle sighed. “I didn’t even notice anybody out there taking pictures like that.”
“Me either,” Wunmi muttered, dropping down onto her couch again.
“You talked to Michael?”
“I did and let's just say it didn't go too well. He hung up on me.”
“Okay, well, that's not ideal,” she said slowly.
Wunmi huffed a small, humorless breath. “No, it’s not.”
After that the calls just kept coming. From close friends to family. And they were all asking questions that she didn't really feel like answering. The only person who hadn't was Michael. And not for lack of trying on her part either.
Every time she tried to call him, it went unanswered. Every text was stuck on delivered. She even checked his location at one point, but it was off.
When evening came, her energy was completely drained.
She sat curled up on her couch, her phone resting in her lap as she stared at the screen. The tweet was still circulating, but with more comments and opinions. More people were inserting themselves into something they didn’t understand.
Her thumb hovered over Michael’s name for the fiftieth time that day. She still had nothing from him. Her chest tightened, and she swallowed hard, blinking a few times as that familiar pressure started building behind her eyes. All of this was getting to her.
She slowly moved through her nighttime routine. The house fell still the moment she turned the lights off ready to curl up and hide from the world.
She grabbed her phone one last time, glancing at it, and still nothing. Wunmi let out a quiet breath and set it down on the table. She had started to head to her bedroom when there was a knock on her door.
It was far too late for anyone to just be showing up. So she stood still for second to listen. But then another louder and more insistent knock came.
Her heart picked up slightly as she walked toward the door with cautious steps.
“Who is it?” she called out.
No verbal answer, only another knock.
She hesitated for half a second before unlocking the door and pulling it open. And her breath caught when she saw Michael standing there with a hood pulled over his head and hands tucked into his pockets.
“Michael—” she gasped in relief. “Baby, I am so—”
“Come on,” he cut in firmly. He left no room for disagreeament.
When she didn't move, Michael stared at her harder.
“Let's go,” he repeated, stepping slightly to the side and holding the door open wider.
Her breath hitched. It was something about the look in her eye that made her really not want to argue with him. She simply turned and went to grab her phone and purse off of the table. She walked past him, his presence heavy as she went by.
He stepped out right after her, pulling the door shut and locking it without a word. Wunmi looked back slightly to watch him. He slipped by her to lead the way.
Once he got to the car, Michael pulled the passenger door open for her to get into. She climbed in with her heart beating faster than normal. The door shut and a second later, he was in the driver’s seat, starting the engine.
The silence inside the car was thick during the drive.
Wunmi glanced at him. His hands were tight on the wheel and eyes forward. She opened her mouth then closed it. Whatever she was about to say didn’t feel like it would go right, so she stayed quiet.
The drive only lasted about fifteen minutes, but it felt much longer.
As soon as they pulled into his driveway, he was out of the car almost immediately, coming around to her side and opening her door before she could even reach for it.
She stepped out, watching him carefully. He led the way inside, unlocking the front door and holding it open for her. She stepped into the house, instantly being met with a comfortable familiarity. He closed the door behind them, locking it again before moving past her.
“Where were you when you took it off?” he asked roughly.
Wunmi blinked, trying to keep up.
“I was washing my hair, but that was back at my—”
She could hardly answer before he turned and headed straight for the stairs. Wunmi followed quickly behind him.
“Michael—” She called for him as they swiftly moved up the stairs.
She knew she hadn’t taken her ring off here, so she didn’t argue. At this point, she didn’t have the energy to push back on anything. Not after the day she’d had. So she just followed him into the bathroom and watched him as he immediately got to work.
He moved around the space like a man on a mission, opening drawers, shifting bottles, checking along the edges of the counter and behind things that hadn’t been touched in days. His movements were completely focused yet annoyed.
Wunmi stood in the doorway for a second before stepping in, her arms folding loosely over her chest as she watched him.
“Michael…” she started softly.
He didn’t even look at her. Instead, he crouched down instead, checking along the base of the cabinets, his fingers running along the small spaces.
Wunmi swallowed. Then slowly, she moved further in, kneeling down on the opposite side, her movements much more hesitant. She checked places she knew didn’t make sense. Behind containers and inside small trays and corners that didn’t hold anything. She wasn’t really expecting to find it, but she helped anyway.
The only sounds in the room were the soft shifting of items and Michael’s quiet, frustrated exhales every few minutes. He was getting irritated and she could not only hear it but see it as well. His shoulders were tight and his jaw flexed every time he searched and came up empty-handed.
Enough time passed for the silence between them to stretch and fill the room.
Michael was crouched low near the side of the counter, his fingers reaching into a narrow gap between the cabinet and the wall. His face was scrunched together when he pulled his hand back. And there it was in his fingers. The ring.
Wunmi let out a relieved exhale, “Oh thank God.”
Michael stood up, holding it between his fingers as he wiped it off against the side of his shirt, inspecting it briefly. Then he looked at her.
“Come here.” His voice was steady.
Wunmi carefully pushed herself up and walked over to him. He held his hand out. She reached for it, her fingers slipping into his automatically. He lifted the ring slightly between them, his gaze flicking from it to her.
“You better not lose it again.”
Wunmi’s lips parted slightly, and she nodded, her voice soft, “I won’t.”
He slid it back onto her finger, the cool metal settling into place.
Wunmi exhaled shakily, her shoulders dropping just a little as she looked down at it. Relief flooded her instantly.
Michael’s expression softened as he took her hand again, bringing it up and pressing a kiss to it. Then he stepped closer and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her into him. He pushed his lips onto hers and she melted into the kiss almost immediately. Her hands came up to rest agaisnt his chest before sliding up around his neck.
The tension from earlier simmered.
She pulled back just a little, her forehead brushing against his as she looked at him.
“I’m sorry for not really telling you,” she said softly.
“It’s alright. I get it,” he said after a second. “I guess this is my payback.”
Wunmi frowned faintly.
“Payback? For what?”
He looked at her, something protective settling back into his expression.
“I don’t like nobody thinking they can come up and be that comfortable with you,” he said. “Especially not somebody you had something with.”
Her breath caught slightly.
“I didn’t—”
“I know. But I'm saying,” he said firmly. "I'm protective over what's mine."
His hand pressed lightly against her waist.
“And I don’t want you going out without your ring so we don't have this problem again,” he added.
Wunmi nodded slowly, her fingers tightening slightly against him.
“Okay.”
He leaned in again, kissing her slower this time.
Her arms wrapped around him fully now, holding him close as she lifted her hand slightly behind his head. The ring caught the light. She smiled softly against his lips.
“I really did miss it,” she murmured.
Michael let out a quiet breath against her skin, his lips trailing from her jaw down to her neck, pressing a few soft kisses there.
Her eyes fluttered closed, her grip tightening just a little. After a moment, she pulled back slightly, catching her breath.
“What are you doing back already? I thought you weren't coming back for two more days,” she asked.
Michael looked at her for a second, then shrugged lightly.
“I had to come handle my business.”
Wunmi bit her lip, her gaze dropping for a second.
“I really am sorry, Michael,” she said again.
He shook his head, stepping back just enough to look at her fully.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m tired.”
He moved past her, already pulling his hoodie off as he headed toward the bedroom.
Wunmi followed, watching him as he stripped down to his boxers.
They both slipped into bed without much more conversation. Wunmi settled in beside him, her hand resting against his chest, her thumb brushing lightly over the ring.
December 2026
Michael had finally wrapped filming for Miami Vice, which meant he was home more, but somehow, that hadn’t made life any less hectic. Now they had wedding stress and awards and press season.
Wunmi had already picked up several nominations. Her name was floating in conversations again. All of the hype was starting to stack on top of everything else.
The wedding planning had been intense. They officially had their date, the venue was picked, and invitations had been sent. That should've made things easier, but it didn't.
Now it was all about the details. They still had to lock a lot of things in while coordinating their schedules around two careers that clearly weren't slowing down. It was a lot.
And Michael had been on her more than usual. He was always touching her or near her. Especially after the whole Tyree thing. Even though they had moved past it, something about it had stuck with him.
They were on the couch with the TV playing something neither of them was fully paying attention to.
Wunmi sat sideways, her legs draped across Michael’s lap and her back resting against the arm of the couch. Her phone was in her hand, thumbs moving as she typed.
Michael’s hand rested on her calf, absentmindedly sliding down to her ankle before coming back up again. His other hand lifted her foot slightly, thumb pressing into the arch, working it gently.
Wunmi exhaled softly at the pressure, not even looking up from her phone.
“Mm,” she hummed.
Michael glanced at her.
“Who you texting?”
“I'm just updating the bridesmaids,” she said while typing.
“About what?”
“The dates that we agreed on for our trips. And the fittings."
Michael shook his head slightly, a quiet breath leaving him.
“This is still so crazy to me,” he muttered.
Wunmi glanced at him briefly, a small smile pulling at her lips.
“What is?”
“The fact that we're getting married.”
“I’m excited,” Wunmi's smile softened.
Michael smiled back at her, then went back to rubbing her foot.
She returned her attention to her phone. And just then a new text came in from an unknown number. Her brows pulled together in confusion as she opened it.
The first message was a picture of an invitation. Then there was a text right under it.
Can’t wait to see you.
Wunmi was utterly confused, until she scrolled up slightly, looked at the number again, then back at the image. That was when it all clicked.
“Oh.”
Michael’s hand paused slightly against her foot.
“What?”
Wunmi’s lips pressed together as she read it again.
“I just got an invitation,” she said.
“To what?”
She hesitated for a second.
“Tyree’s winery opening.”
Michael’s hand stilled completely.
“No.”
It was an immediate rejection that took Wunmi aback.
“You didn’t even let me explain.”
“Didn't have to,” he said as he leaned back against the couch.
Wunmi let out a small breath, sitting up a little.
“He just sent it to me and I don't even have his number,” she added.
“I don’t care. You're not going,” Michael said. His hand dropped from her foot, resting on her leg instead, his fingers tapping once against her skin.
Wunmi frowned, “Baby—”
“You're not going,” he repeated.
She shifted, pulling one of her legs in so she could turn toward him more.
“But I kind of want to go.”
Michael’s eyes snapped to her. “Why?”
Wunmi blinked at his tone, then exhaled.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It just doesn't feel like a big deal. It's a grand opening, so we'll be in public. And it's not like I'm sneaking off somewhere with him.”
Michael stared at her completely unmoved.
“That’s not the point, baby.”
"Then what is the point?" Wunmi tilted her head slightly.
“I don’t trust him.”
Wunmi’s brows lifted slightly.
“It sounds like you don’t trust me?”
“That's not what I said. I trust you,” he said immediately.
“Then—”
“I don’t trust him,” he repeated, slower this time. “And I don’t like the idea of you going somewhere he invited you to like that.”
Wunmi sighed softly, her shoulders dropping a little.
“It’s not like I have feelings for him. Whatever was there is gone,” she said.
Michael’s gaze stayed on her.
“That doesn’t mean it’s gone for him. Especially after how them pictures looked. Now he's inviting you out. I don't like that,” he said.
“I’d be wearing my ring,” she said quietly.
Michael let out a short breath, shaking his head, “That don’t stop nothing if somebody don’t care.”
Wunmi studied him for a second.
“So what? I just don't go?” she asked softly.
“Not unless I’m there,” he said.
Wunmi leaned back against the couch again, thinking.
“I don’t even know if you can go. You might have press,” she said.
“Then you not going,” he replied without hesitation.
She let out a quiet huff, somewhere between frustration and understanding.
“Michael…”
He reached for her leg again, pulling it back across his lap, his hand sliding up her thigh before settling there.
“I’m serious. I'm not about to have a repeat of that,” he said.
Wunmi looked at him, really looked at him this time, and she saw the tension still in his body. So she decided to concede.
“Okay,” she said after a second.
Michael’s shoulders relaxed a bit, his thumb moving against her leg.
The following weekend came quicker than Wunmi was honestly ready for. Between wedding meetings, awards conversations, and Michael attached to her to her body every second, the days just blurred together. Yet she still found time to get ready for unplanned events.
Music was playing lowly from downstairs while Michael moved around the room getting dressed.
Wunmi sat at her vanity in their bedroom, one leg crossed over the other as she leaned closer to the mirror. She had gotten her hair done a few days ago. It was in soft, full curls that fell around her shoulders. Her makeup was simple, especially since she didn't feel like going through her glam team.
She dabbed lightly beneath one eye when she heard Michael’s footsteps getting closer. A second later, he appeared in the mirror behind her with a hoodie on and cologne loud. He glanced at her reflection immediately.
“I’m about to head out,” he said.
Wunmi hummed softly. “Okay.”
But then his eyes narrowed, because she was clearly getting ready too.
“Where you going?”
Wunmi kept her expression neutral as she reached for her gloss.
“Out.”
Michael leaned one shoulder against the doorway, "Out where?"
"Just out," she shrugged.
His eyes stayed on her through the mirror for another second longer than necessary. He was clearly suspicious and she could feel it. But after a moment, he pushed off the doorway and walked over behind her instead. His hands settled warmly onto her shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly into the muscles there.
Wunmi relaxed under the touch.
“You look pretty,” he murmured.
A small smile pulled at her lips, “Thank you.”
His hands slid down slowly before he leaned down toward her face.
“Wait—” she laughed softly, turning her head slightly. “You’re gonna mess up my lip gloss.”
“I don’t care.”
Before she could protest again, his hand tilted her chin toward him and he kissed her anyway. It was only a soft quick one, but it was annoyingly affectionate.
When they pulled apart, Michael looked entirely too satisfied with himself. His hands lingered on her shoulders a second longer before he straightened back up.
“You got my card?”
“Why would I need your card?”
“Just in case.”
“I’m not going to need it.”
Michael reached over and picked up her purse from the vanity chair anyway, unzipping it and slipping the black card inside.
Wunmi rolled her eyes softly but didn’t argue.
He leaned down one more time, brushing his lips briefly against the top of her head this time.
“Text me when you get where you going.”
“Okay.”
He squeezed her shoulder once before finally heading out of the room.
Wunmi waited until she heard the front door downstairs close, then she exhaled. She walked over to her closet to get her dress for the evening. The dress was all-black, but it hugged her body absolutely perfectly.
She stepped into it carefully, pulling it up slowly, and adjusting it into place. Then she turned toward the mirror to look at herself. And honestly she looked a little too good.
She knew that Michael would hate to see her looking this good and going there. Which was exactly why she hadn't told him where she was going. She knew how her man would react, but she also knew that if she didn't go Tyree would only push harder. He was the kind of man that liked the chase. He only got more interested when someone pulled away.
Wunmi slipped on her heels, then sprayed perfume lightly along her neck and wrists. She grabbed her purse and headed downstairs.
When she made it outside the air was cooler than it had been earlier in the week. Her heels clicked softly against the driveway as she walked toward her car. Once inside, she checked herself quickly in the mirror, then started the engine.
The drive was long enough to give her time to think. Streetlights blurred past as her fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel.
Her thoughts swirled with a mix of Michael and Tyree. All she could really think about is if they got caught again just like how they got caught at the restaraunt. Her hand tightened on the wheel and her ring caught the passing lights immediately. She was just glad that she had it on this time.
The venue was on the other side of town, so she ran into some thick traffic. By the time she finally pulled up it was packed. A line of cars stretched down the block. Dozens of blacked-out vehicles rolled forward one after another as valet attendants moved quickly to get them in and out.
Wunmi slowed as she pulled up, immediately spotting the entrance ahead glowing warm against the night. The building itself was gorgeous with modern architecture, dark wood accents, and huge windows revealing pieces of the event happening inside.
Before she could even fully put the car in park, a valet attendant was already stepping forward and opening her door.
“Good evening, ma’am.”
Wunmi gave him a polite smile as she grabbed her purse and phone.
“Thank you.”
The cool evening air brushing against her skin as she stepped out carefully in her heels. A few heads turned as she straightened up fully, smoothing a hand lightly over her dress before handing over her keys.
“Enjoy your evening,” the valet said.
Wunmi nodded softly before making her way toward the entrance.
As soon as she entered into the venue, the more impressed she became because it was beautiful. The lighting was dim with warm gold tones bouncing off dark interiors and polished surfaces. Music floated through the air low enough for conversation, and the entire place smelled faintly of wood and wine.
Before she could get too lost in the beauty of her surroundings, she remembered something important that she was supposed to do. Wunmi reached into her purse and pulled her phone out knowing she needed to say something before he found out another way.
Her fingers moved quickly over the screen.
I know you’re going to be mad but I’m at Tyree’s event. I’m going to let him know that I’m engaged.
She stared at the message for a quick second, then turned her phone completely off. Beccause she knew the second that he saw it, he was going to call her and she honestly didn't feel like dealing with that right now.
She slipped the phone back into her purse and exhaled slowly, squaring her shoulders before continuing further inside.
A server approached her with a tray of wine glasses.
“Would you like one?”
Wunmi glanced down briefly before taking one carefully by the stem.
“Thank you.”
She took a small sip, eyes moving around the room. A few familiar faces caught her attention here and there. Some even greeted her once they noticed her.
She smiled politely through all of the exchanges, stopping for quick conversations here and there and accepting compliments. She was also being very aware of her surroundings, because if she wasn't things could very well become a problem.
She lifted the wine glass to her lips again, taking another small sip as she continued walking through the venue. She took her time moving through the different rooms.
Every section flowed into the next seamlessly. There were private tasting areas, lounge spaces, and long wooden tables filled with bottles and small plates. The lighting stayed dim and warm throughout the entire building, giving everything this intimate feel.
She found herself near one of the display areas where rows of massive wine barrels lined the wall with engraved plaques beneath them. Wunmi lifted her glass for another sip, leaning slightly to read one of the plaques when a hand slid around her waist. Her body instantly tensed up.
She turned quickly, only to come face to face with Tyree. And he was smiling down at her.
“I’m glad you made it,” he said.
His voice was smooth and easy over the music.
Wunmi recovered quickly, giving him a small smile back.
“This place is gorgeous,” she admitted honestly, glancing around again briefly. “Like really gorgeous.”
Tyree chuckled softly, “Appreciate it.”
She lifted her glass slightly, “And the wine’s good too.”
That made him grin wider.
“Alright now, don’t gas me too much.”
Wunmi laughed softly. But then she remembered his hand that was still resting against her waist. Her eyes flicked downward briefly before she subtly stepped sideways out of his hold. The movement was smooth enough not to make a scene, but still he noticed.
Tyree’s brows pulled together as his eyes moved over her slowly.
“You look real good tonight,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He stepped toward her even more. He lifted his arm like he was about to settle it around her waist once more, but Wunmi moved before he could.
“Watch yourself,” she said lightly.
Tyree paused. Confused amusement spread across his face.
“What? Why you acting like this?” he laughed.
Wunmi didn’t verbally answer. Instead, she lifted her left hand up between them. The ring caught the warm lighting, sparkling beautifully against her skin.
Tyree’s eyes dropped to it and he looked genuinely surprised. But his expression smoothed back over.
“When that happen?” he asked.
Wunmi took another sip of her wine before answering casually, “He proposed in August.”
His brows shot up again.
“August, huh?”
She nodded.
“You ain’t have that on at lunch.”
“I lost it and got in so much trouble because of what happened,” she admitted and pointed lightly at him with her glass. “I should’ve told you then that I was happily engaged. Maybe pictures of us wouldn't have ended up all over the internet,” she said.
He briefly glanced away like he was thinking. Then he looked back at her with a dangerously confident smirk on his face.
“I guess I gotta try harder to get you to come over to the best side," he said.
Irritation immediately flashed across Wunmi's face. It was so fast Tyree almost missed it.
“I’m already on the best side,” she said plainly. “And it can’t get any better than my man.”
Tyree sucked his teeth, unconvinced.
“Yeah okay,” he muttered.
Wunmi stared at him for another second before taking another sip from her glass.
Tyree looked at her ring one more time before nodding once.
“You enjoy yourself." he said. Then his mouth curved up. “I’ll be talking to you soon.”
Wunmi narrowed her eyes at that, but she didn’t respond. She just nodded once and watched him walk away through the crowd.
The second he disappeared, she exhaled quietly.
“…Jesus Christ.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the stem of the glass. Now she understood exactly why Michael didn’t want her there. Tyree wasn’t outright disrespectful, but he also clearly wasn’t backing down just because she had a ring on.
After that exchange, she stayed there for about another hour or so. She mingled with people and sampled more wine. But the longer she stayed, the more aware she became of the pit forming in her stomach. Eventually she had to go home where she knew Michael was waiting for her.
She handed off her empty wine glass and headed toward the exit, she already knew she was in a whole lot of trouble.
After an entire drive of Wunmi's stomach twisting knots, she finally pulled into Michael's garage. When she parked the car she noticed that Michael's car wasn't there. She hadn't seen it out front either. Relief washed over her.
She grabbed her purse and stepped out of the car, her heels echoing softly through the garage before she headed inside.
The house was completely dark. A little too dark.
Wunmi paused just inside the doorway, listening carefully. A small breath escaped her. The tension in her shoulders loosened.
She locked the door behind her and kept the lights off, moving quietly through the house before heading upstairs. The bedroom was dark too. That eased her nerves even more because it meant he hadn't even stepped foot in the home.
She set her purse down carefully and headed toward the closet, ready to get out of the dress and wash the night off her.
The closet light was dim as she slipped her heels off first with a relieved sigh. Then her jewelry. Then her dress. She wrapped her robe tight around her body and tied it securely at the waist. Her hair fell softly around her shoulders as she pushed the closet door back open and stepped into the bedroom. She casually reached toward the wall and flipped the light on.
Her breath stopped.
Michael was sitting in the corner chair near the window. Legs spread, body leaned back, arms resting on the arm of the chair, and face blank. The light caught him good, and he was just watching her.
Wunmi physically jumped, her hand flying to her chest.
“Oh my God,” she gasped. “You scared me.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she stared at him.
There had been absolutely no sign he was home. His car wasn't around, he made no sound, there was absolutely nothing.
Michael didn’t answer. He just looked at her, giving her a completely unreadable look. His silence somehow made her even more nervous.
Wunmi swallowed hard, trying to recover.
“Hi,” she said softly, attempting a small smile as she bit lightly at her lip.
Still nothing.
The room suddenly felt very warm, very quiet.
Wunmi shifted her weight under his stare.
Slowly, Michael lifted two fingers and crooked them toward himself. He had no words for her, only the simple gesture.
Wunmi’s breath hitched and her stomach tightened, but she obeyed. Her bare feet slowly moved across the carpet until she stood directly in front of him between his spread legs.
Michael leaned back in the chair, his hands settling on her thighs, fingers gripping the thick flesh through the soft fabric of her robe.
“Anything you wanna say?” he finally asked calmly.
Wunmi swallowed. Her fingers twisted lightly together at her sides.
“I’d be lying if I said I was sorry,” she admitted quietly.
Michael’s face tightened and he gave a stiff nod.
The room stayed silent for another long second.
“Get on the bed.”
Wunmi’s eyes widened and her stomach dropped. She knew exactly what kind of mood he was in. And there had only been maybe three times where she had gotten herself in enough trouble to see this side of him.
Wunmi's pulse blared in her ears as she turned toward the bed. She climbed onto the mattress slowly, knees first, then hands, positioning herself on all fours with her back arched just enough to present herself to him.
Michael rose from the chair without a sound. His footsteps were heavy as he approached the bed. He placed one hand between her shoulder blades and pressed down firmly, forcing her upper body to lay flat against the cool sheets. Her cheek pressed into the fabric, arms stretching out in front of her.
"Stay down," he commanded, voice low.
A soft whimper escaped her lips, her body trembling under the weight of his palm. She was completely at his mercy.
"You're gonna count each one," Michael said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And I'm not telling you when it stops."
Wunmi braced herself, fingers curling into the sheets, muscles tensing as she waited for the first hit.
He gathered the hem of her robe and pushed it up over her lower back, exposing her completely. His fingers hooked into the thin straps of her panties next, tugging them up hard and wedging the fabric tight between her cheeks like a makeshift thong. The pull made her gasp, the material pinching her skin, leaving her bare and framed for him.
She had no idea what was going to happen. Her nerves were all over the place.
Then it came. A sharp smack landed on her left cheek. The hit stung like fire and jolted her entire body. It caught her so off guard that her mind blanked, and no words came out of her mouth.
Michael grunted disapprovingly. His hands clamped onto both large cheeks, gripping hard enough to make her wince.
"Count."
"One," she whispered shakily.
The next hit came down harder than the first, the force snapping her hips forward an inch across the bed.
"Two," she managed, sucking in a breath.
"Why'd you go when I told you not to?" he demanded, one hand kneading her flesh roughly.
Wunmi drew a shaky breath, her voice soft against the mattress. "I needed to. If I didn't he'd be all over me."
Michael's eyes narrowed as he processed her words. Without warning, he delivered two quick hits— one on each cheek—the slaps echoing through the room.
She whimpered, body jerking with the double sting, heat spreading fast.
"Three...four," she counted while clinging to the sheets.
"You're in so much trouble," Michael growled, his palm hovering for a beat before delivering the fifth smack, firmly across the center of her right cheek. The heat built, layering over the previous stings.
"Five," she counted, hips twitching involuntarily.
"And you're gonna make it up to Daddy," he added, his voice dropping as the sixth hit landed on the left cheek.
Another groan came from her and her thighs pressed together against the growing ache. "Six."
He didn't pause. The seventh hit was quick and the eighth followed just as quickly. Then the ninth and tenth were all rapid-fire, alternating cheeks. Each one made her skin tingle. The sensations twisted into a mix of pain and pleasure that had her toes curling and breath hitching.
She winced with the seventh, whimpered through the eighth, gasped on the ninth, and let out a shaky whine on the tenth. Her entire backside was throbbing and aching, but somehow that made it more intoxicating.
"You had enough?" Michael's hand rested on her warm skin, rubbing slow circles.
Wunmi nodded frantically, her cheek still pressed to the bed, tears at the corners of her eyes from the intensity.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice breaking softly.
He hummed a low, skeptical sound rumbling from his chest as he shook his head.
"Nah. I don't think you are yet." His fingers tightened on her hip. "Don't move."
Wunmi stayed where she was with her forehead pressed to the sheets and ass raised high as the door to the closet clicked shut behind him. Her mind raced, trying to figure out what he was grabbing. Her breath came in shallow pants and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Then she heard the low hum starting up from somewhere behind her.
Her eyes flew open and a whimper slipped out, "Michael..."
She felt the cool, buzzing head of the vibrator wand press directly against her clit through the wedged fabric of her panties. Her whole body jumped forward on the bed, a startled yelp escaping her as pleasure shot through her like lightning.
"Hold it," he ordered.
Wunmi reached back with one trembling hand, fingers wrapping around the handle. She held it lightly, the vibrations teased her. Still it was too much.
Without giving her a warning, Michael covered her hand with his and pressed down hard. The wand felt intense against her clit. A deep moan tore from her throat, hips pushed back involuntarily.
His free hand landed a hard smack on her already tender cheeks. He kept going, each sharp spank jiggling her body and mixing with the pleasure of the wand.
She moaned loudly, head dropping to the mattress. She could feel herself dripping wet, slickness coating her inner thighs from earlier and now. The wand hummed against her clit, every pulse matching perfectly with the hits of his palm on her ass.
Wunmi felt herself starting to reach that edge quickly. Her body tensed up, mouth dropping open in a silent gasp. Her free hand clutched the sheets in a death grip while her legs trembled. She clenched and pulsed around nothing.
Michael noticed it right away, his rhythm never faltering.
"You better not come," he warned her.
She shook her head, biting her lip hard to fight it. She knew he wanted her to give him the excuse for more punishment, but holding back felt impossible. The pressure was getting worse with every second.
Her body moved on it's own, and her hand pressed wand harder against her clit.Consistent needy moans fell from her lip as she started to grind against the vibrations. She could feel herself right there, she was so close.
Michale snatched the wand from her grip, the sudden absence making a frustrated sound fall from her lips.
"You don't get to come," he stated flatly, tossing it aside.
Wunmi whimpered as every nerve in her body was screaming for release.
Michael gave her two final smacks to each cheek. Then his palms rubbed slow, drawing a soft sigh from her. Then he grabbed her hips and yanked her back toward him, pulling until her lower body pressed against his.
Wunmi felt his straining through his pants, making her throb even more. She couldn't help but to rub against him in a silent plea to be filled.
"I'm not fucking you tonight," he said firmly as his hand cracked down once more on her ass. He stepped away, leaving her empty and wanting.
Wunmi whimpered, fully collapsing onto the bed. She shifted onto her side.
A while later, Michael slid into bed behind her. He held her close, draping one arm possessively over her waist.
For the next three days, Wunmi was denied orgasm after orgasm by Michael. Every time Tyree called or texted, it put her further into trouble.
The first morning, Michael had her on top of the kitchen counter, vibrator pressed against her clit. She was gasping, thighs shaking, and so close her vision blurred. That was until her phone lit up with a "good morning" text from Tyree. Michael instantly snatched the vibrator away, leaving her desperate whining.
One afternoon, after doing some errands for the wedding, Tyree called her as they were getting intside of the car. She ignored it, but Michael noticed.
He slid his hand between her legs, and pushed his fingers so deep into her. He curled them just right and stroked her so good. She rocked against his palm, moans filling the car as she worked her way up. Then he pulled away. He built her back up, only to deny her again. And again for a third time. Each denial left her more wrrecked than the last.
And after three days of torture, Michael finally decided she'd earned a reward.
They were in bed. Him sat up against the headboard, legs spread wide with kneeling between them. Her lips were wrapped around his thick length as she took him deep down her throat.
Michael groaned as his hand gripped the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair to guide her further down, hold there, then back up.
She moaned around him, the vibrations pulling more groans from him.
They were so lost in the moment. Her tongue eagerly swirled around him as she sucked him up. And his eyes couldn't move away from the beautiful sight in front of him. That was until her phone broke the moment by ringing so loud on the nightstand.
Almost instinctively, Wunmi tried to lift her head to check, but Michael's grip tightened. He pushed her head firmly back down onto his dick, keeping her mouth full.
He snatched the phone with his free hand, glancing at the screen. Tyree's name flashed across the screen. Instantly, Michael was annoyed. The ringing stopped only to start up again seconds later.
Wunmi took Michael's brief distraction as opportunity, so she slid him out of her mouth with a soft pop and peered at the screen. She was just as frustrated as her fiancé was and couldn't help but to release the most aggravated sound along with a quick roll of her eyes.
"Just decline it," she urged.
He met her eyes. "Nah. Talk to your little boyfriend."
Before she could protest, he swiped to answer and held the phone out to her.
Wunmi's eyes went wide, panic flickering as she stared at him, trying to understand the challenge in his eyes.
"Michael—" she started, but Tyree's voice cut through.
"Wunmi?"
Michael raised an eyebrow expectantly.
She grabbed the phone with shaky fingers, putting it on speaker.
"Hello?" she said timidly, heart pounding as she knelt between his legs.
Tyree's voice came through the phone, "Hey, gorgeous. What you doing?"
Wunmi shot a quick glance at Michael, biting her lip hard.
"Um...just laying in bed," she murmured.
"Cool. I, uh, just wanted to give you a call so we could talk. It's been a while," Tyree easily replied.
"Mhm, it has," she managed, her free hand fidgeted against Michael's thigh.
Tyree started talking about how the football season was going for him, but Michael took that as his chance. He practically manhandled her. His hands gripped her hips and spun her around to face the end of the bed. He shoved her body down so that her face was buried in the sheets and her ass was in the air.
She gasped at the sudden shift in positions.
"You okay?" Tyree asked.
"I'm fine…" Wunmi swallowed. Her voice shaky as she steadied herself. "
Michael gave her ass a light smack. Wunmi bit her lip hard to stifle the gasp.
He gripped her big, round cheeks in both hands, kneading the soft flesh, spreading her wide. One finger slowly trailed through her dripping wetness, parting her folds, and she let out a breathy sigh.
Tyree kept talking through the speaker, "…I really been thinking about a lot lately and I just gotta say…"
But Wunmi barely registered it. She could only focus on the man behind her and his heated touch. Michael's fingers had found her clit, circling it with teasing pressure, then dipped low to her soaked entrance, sliding a little inside before pulling back out.
She fought to stay quiet, body tensing up, but Tyree pressed on, obliviously.
"You still there? Tell me what you up to this weekend?" It was clear he was expecting a response.
Wunmi opened her mouth to answer Tyree's question, but Michael chose that exact moment to slide deep inside her, filling her completely in one smooth thrust. She clamped down around him, stunned to silence.
He pressed one hand firm between her shoulder blades, pinning her chest flush to the bed, and leaned forward until his lips brushed her ear.
"Answer him," he whispered sending shivers down her spine.
"Uh... n-nothing really," she managed to get out.
Michael gave her a few quick love taps to her inner thigh before pulling back up onto his knees. His gaze dropped to where their bodies joined, watching intently as he slid out slowly, then thrust back in deep.
A quiet, breathy moan escaped her lips. Wunmi moved the phone away from her mouth for a second, sucking in air.
Michael started with a few slow strokes to ease them both into the rhythm, letting her feel every thick inch stretching her. He built it gradually until his pace turned consistent, her ass bouncing softly against his pelvis.
Wunmi put the phone on mute just in time to release her moans. With each bounce a needy cry spilled out.
"You should come out this way soon. When are you free?" Tyree's voice came through the speaker.
She barely processed it. Her mind was wiped blank by Michael fucking her so good, hitting that spot over and over. Nothing existed but her man. All she could think about was the grip of his hands on her hips.
Wunmi took the phone off mute just long enough to gasp out, "I don't know when," before putting it right back on as another loud moan tore free.
"...we could hit this spot I know downtown, grab drinks, see where the night goes..."
Michael smacked her ass hard then, the hit echoing.
She blurted out, "Oh baby," followed by a deep, throaty moan that she couldn't hold back.
He kept one hand planted firm on her jiggling cheek to control the pace.
When he drove especially deep, she moaned out a shaky "Okay". Her free hand shot back, grabbing his forearm tight as he kept fucking her.
Michael ramped up the speed and depth, pounding into her harder, chasing that release for both of them.
Wunmi tried to take it all—she really did—arching back to meet him, but it really overwhelmed her.
"Okay, Michael, okay," she gasped as he went a little deeper than necessary, nailing that spot right next to her cervix.
"What you keep saying okay for?" He smacked her ass , growling, "Like, come on."
He pushed his hips forward, bouncing her roughly on him, urging her to move on her own. She did, but only just enough, rolling her hips back hesitantly.
"You want me to stop?" he demanded.
"No," she moaned out desperately. At this point she'd completely forgotten about the phone in her hand.
Just then Tyree's voice came through loud and clear. "...whoever that fiance of yours is ain't watching you right. Imma come get you for real."
Michael's face twisted up into a scowl, annoyance built up in him. He leaned down over her back, roughly thrusting in in deeper.
"Michael—Michael—fuck," Wunmi moaned his name over and over.
"Looks like Daddy's gonna have to put a baby in you so they know this pussy's mine," he growled against her ear.
"It's yours. I promise."
"Take it off mute so he can hear how good i'm fucking you," he ordered.
Her hand shook as she obeyed, pressing the button on the screen.
The second the phone came off mute, Michael picked up his thrusts. Driving into her so quick and rough it made her ass bounce loud off of his pelvis. The sound of her soaked pussy filled the room.
Wunmi moaned into the sheets, her cries muffled against the fabric, but Michael wasn't having it. He gripped her hair tight, yanking her head up until her back arched deeper.
"Who this pussy get wet for?" he demanded.
"You, Daddy," she gasped.
Tyree's voice came out sounding confused. "Wunmi? What the—?"
Both of them ignored him completely.
Michael smacked her ass again. Then snatched the phone from her weakened grip and held it so Tyree could hear every moan and every slick sound of her taking him.
"Tell him not to call you anymore," Michael said, pressing the phone right to her mouth.
She moaned through the words. "Don't call me anymore."
Michael hung up then tossed the phone across the bed to thud against the pillows.
"Good girl," Michael murmured, palm rubbing soothing circles over her tender ass. "You wanna come?"
"Yes, Daddy," she whimpered. Her body was already right there. She needed this.
"You did so good with your punishment," he praised, grinding against her walls.
Wunmi felt herself clenching hard as her stomach tightened. "Can I come? Please?"
"Yeah, come for me," one of his hands slid around to rub her clit.
She crumbled almost immediately. Her orgasm crashed through her. She cried out his name as her walls pulsed around him and she soaked the sheets.
Michael kept going, chasing his own release now, groans turning guttural as pleasure tightened in his gut.
"You gonna let me put a baby in you?" his voice was rough as he thrusted harder.
Wunmi moaned, nodding into the bed.
They'd had plenty of conversations about babies. They agreed to wait until at least after the wedding, but it was clear that tonight his possessiveness had him acting different. And she melted under it.
Michael thrusted a few more times before he finally released inside her. He held there, pushing deep, feeling her pulse around him. He pulled out slowly.
Wunmi collapsed forward, breathing heavy, chest heaving as aftershocks rippled through her.
"Don't go near that man again," he said firmly, hand stroking her back. "Block him."
Wunmi nodded weakly, turning her head to meet his eyes. "Okay, baby. I'm sorry."
Late January 2027
Now, into the new year, their lives were completely overtaken. Every day belonged to somebody else. There was barely any room left for themselves in between it all.
Michael had officially started press for The Thomas Crown Affair, and his schedule had exploded. Interviews, photoshoots, appearances, magazine covers. It felt endless. Most of it was alongside Adria Arjona, which only fueled certain online conversations even more.
Meanwhile, Wunmi was deep in awards season.
The Social Reckoning had become a big conversation piece of the year, and her performance had the people talking. Every week brought another event, another panel, and another rumor about if she would end up nominated again or not.
And through all of that, they were less than four months away from getting married. May was practically right around the corner.
Earlier in the month they had finally sat down with both of their publicists to figure out how exactly they were going to reveal the relationship publicly without it becoming a circus before the wedding. The final decision had been simple. Michael would handle most of it.
Strategically, it made the most sense.
Wunmi’s team wanted all attention during awards season to stay centered on her work, not her relationship. So Michael had agreed to slowly start opening the door publicly while still keeping things vague enough to maintain some control.
He actually preferred it that way. Mostly because he was tired of hiding her.
After over a year of rumors, especially after the leaked audio, Michael was exhausted from pretending. And since she was his fiancée now, he wanted to share that with the world.
Still timing mattered…a lot. Everything had to be controlled carefully. And unfortunately, control was the one thing their schedules weren’t allowing them to have right now.
Most days they weren’t even in the same city.
There had been recent stretches where they only saw each other through FaceTime screens and blurry airport selfies. Sometimes one of them was waking up while the other was heading to sleep.
It irritated both of them more than they admitted. Especially Michael. He had been so clingy with her, and now he barely even got the chance to breathe in her direction.
Their conversations had slowly become reduced to logistics. Things like wedding updates and travel plans. They hardly talked about things of substance. It wasn't intentional though. It was just all they had time for.
One night, Wunmi was sitting in her London hotel suite while Michael was back in New York finishing another round of press. She had kicked her heels off and was curled sideways across the bed, exhaustion written all over her face as she held her phone up during their FaceTime call.
Michael was sitting in the backseat of an SUV, chain sitting against a black thermal shirt, one hand rubbing tiredly over his jaw while traffic lights flashed outside the window behind him.
“You look tired,” Wunmi murmured softly.
Michael looked at her through the screen.
“I am tired.”
She smiled faintly, “Poor baby.”
“I’m serious,” he muttered. “I done answered the same damn questions all day. I’m over it. ‘How was it working together?’ ‘Did y’all have chemistry?’”
"Well, did you?" Wunmi grinned.
"Don't start," Michael gave her a flat look through the screen.
She giggled softly, resting her cheek against the pillow, “I was just asking.”
Michael shook his head, but his expression softened while looking at her. God, he missed her. He always had this thought during the day, along with the constant irritation that she wasn't there..
“When do I see you again?” he asked suddenly.
Wunmi sighed dramatically.
“Um…” She reached for her planner nearby. “I think…after the BAFTAS?” she started slowly, flipping through pages.
Michael stared at her.
“That’s not for another week, babe.”
“I know.”
“A whole week?”
Wunmi laughed softly at his expression.
“You’ll survive.”
Michael looked unconvinced.
“You say that now,” he said. “Then you gon’ start crying the longer we're apart.”
“I do not cry.”
“You absolutely do.”
Wunmi sucked her teeth softly, “Whatever.”
Michael smiled for the first time during the call, the tiredness easing slightly from his face.
The conversation naturally shifted to the wedding. And despite how exhausted they both were, those conversations kept them intertwined.
Everywhere Michael went there were cameras waiting for him. Going form film festival to awards gala to museum benefit to private dinners. Tonight wasn't any different.
The carpet outside the event was packed shoulder to shoulder with photographers and journalists.
Michael stepped out of the SUV with his black suit perfectly tailored to his body. Confidence radiated off of him without him even trying.
He adjusted the cuff of his jacket before looking up with a calm and controlled expression.
His publicist walked beside him briefly while fixing the front of his jacket.
“She approved it,” she murmured quietly.
Michael glanced at her.
“Yeah?”
She nodded.
His mouth twitched slightly.
“Aight,” he nodded.
He moved down the carpet, stopping for photos, greeting people, and shaking hands. As he approached the press line, he relaxed himself.
Interview after interview rolled by. They asked him the typical questions about directing, balancing acting and filmmaking. Michael answered each question like he had prepped for it.
Then he reached one platform in particular.
A Black woman stood there holding the microphone, smiling brightly as he approached.
“Michael B. Jordan!” she grinned. “You look good tonight.”
Michael laughed, “Thank you.”
“Everybody's talking about your film already. But what was it like stepping into directing mode again?” she started.
“It was challenging,” he admitted. “But I think I’m at a point now where I trust myself more creatively. I know how I wanna tell stories now. And honestly, I learned a lot from the last few years. Working with different directors, producing more, it changed how I look at filmmaking.”
The interviewer nodded along.
“And you can tell,” she said. “Especially after the year you had last year. Mr. Oscar winner. How has life changed since then? Because it feels like the world has not stopped talking about you.”
Michael laughed softly.
“It's definitely gotten more chaotic,” he admitted. “But I try to stay grounded and keep moving forward.”
The interviewer tilted her head slightly.
“So what does moving forward look like for you now? More directing? Less acting?”
Michael paused for a second.
“Well…” he started slowly, “where I’m at now in my life and career I'm focused on celebrating my wins. And I got some pretty big ones that I need to make room for.”
A tiny smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"As you should," The interviewer smiled.
“I wanna spend more time focused on my family. So there’s definitely a chance I slow down a little," he said honestly. "My fiancée and I have both been incredibly busy with all that's going on in our careers and now wedding planning. But I've been trying to figure out how to even get to the point of slowing down."
The interviewer looked stunned.
“Wow, um…when—”
Michael stepped back with the biggest smirk trying to break across his face.
“You have good one,” he laughed.
“Michael!”
He pointed at her playfully, “Appreciate you though.”
Then before she could ask another question, he walked off down the carpet looking satisfied with himself. He made his way inside, barely even slowing down as he reached for his phone that was in his pocket. There was only one person he wanted to talk to right now.
He tapped Wunmi’s contact immediately. The phone rang a few times before she answered.
“Hello?”
Her voice was thick with sleep.
Michael’s face melted.
“Hey baby.”
There was rustling on the other end followed by a small sleepy hum.
“What time is it?” she murmured.
Michael smiled to himself as he ducked into a quieter hallway away from the crowd.
He leaned back against the wall, listening to her breathing through the phone.
“I can’t wait for all this to be over,” she admitted sleepily.
Michael chuckled under his breath, “Me too.”
There was a quiet pause before Wunmi spoke again.
“Did you do it?”
Michael’s grin spread, “Yeah.”
He could practically hear her smiling through the phone even though she barely made a sound. Just a quiet little hum.
Michael shook his head fondly.
“That’s it?” he laughed quietly. “That’s all I get?”
“You woke me up,” she mumbled.
“You're supposed to be excited.”
“I am excited. I'm just sleepy, Mike,” she said.
Michael could picture her perfectly. She was probably curled up in a hotel robe, hair wrapped up, and half asleep with the phone pressed against her face. He missed her so much.
“You gon’ be at the honoring next week?” he asked after a moment.
There was a pause. Then Wunmi sighed.
“…Baby. It's next week with the BAFTAs and my team scheduled a bunch of press here,” she reminded him.
“Damn," He briefly closed his eyes. "So when will I see you again?”
“A week and a half maybe,” she said quietly.
Michael dragged a hand over his face dramatically.
“That's so long”
Wunmi laughed tiredly.
“You’ll survive.”
“That’s what you keep saying.”
“Because you will.”
Michael shook his head with a smile.
“Barely.”
There was another comfortable silence between them.
“Imma let you sleep.”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“And I miss you so much.”
Wunmi exhaled softly through the phone.
“I miss you too,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come.”
Michael’s expression softened even more.
“Don’t apologize. I’m just being needy.”
That earned another sleepy laugh from her.
“Very needy.”
“Mhm.”
“I still love you though.”
“You better.”
Wunmi smiled against her pillow.
“Goodnight, Michael.”
“Goodnight, baby.”
end notes: so this was actually a looottt longer, but because tumblr has a limit on how many blocks you can do, i have to break it up into more parts than i was planning. so the next update will be sooner than expected, it'll just be after my american dream update.
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taglist: @lilbitt @lizbehave @andtheniws @tonichildsdaughterduh @cinnamonsonnyangel @shamansha @caramelplug @bananajoeclone
@rolemodelshit @brownskincheyenne @mmbee675 @xeebop@adultinginheels @tlt731
Annie, an 18-year-old from New Orleans, moves to Clarksdale with dreams of building a life all her own. There she meets Smoke, a 21-year-old war veteran with a dangerous reputation. What grows between them is sweet, sticky, and Southern— a smoldering love set against a world of bootlegging, Hoodoo, and blues.
Chapter 7
Contains: Explicit language, slow-burn/build romance, mentions of Hoodoo
Word Count: 9.9k
📝 This chapter really turned me every way but loose because it went a completely different direction than I originally planned, but it's necessary in kickstarting things between the two of them. Please let me know what you think in the comments! & Sidenote: The Harvest Party is coming up soon!
Masterlist
The hands of the grandfather clock ticked quietly in the front room of the boarding house, but to Annie it sounded like gunshots.
It was late.
The house had fallen into its nighttime rhythm— mostly quiet except for the random sounds of boarders stirring in their rooms. A cough from behind a closed door. The creak of a bed frame. The slow pouring of water into a basin. The smells of supper still lingered like they always did this time of night, settling into the walls like a layer of time. The fragrant aroma of clove hung over top of everything, bursting through the air every time Aunt Della parted her lips. She chewed on it slowly. Methodically. Watching Annie as her fingertips smoothed gently over the leather of the sketchbook cover.
Annie sat on the couch across from her. Her eyes looked full of possibility as she flipped through the paper, the corners of the pages sitting crisp beneath her thumb.
Something was on Aunt Della’s mind.
Annie could feel the warm flush of her skin cooling under the quiet intensity of her gaze.
Her voice broke through the silence. “He been comin’ ‘round a lot lately.”
There it was.
Annie looked up.
Aunt Della stirred her drink in her hand, ice cubes clinking against the sides of the mug. “How you feel ‘bout that?” she asked. Then she took a sip.
Annie’s head lowered. Her first instinct was to not respond. Her second was to deflect. Her third was to ask why.
“Baby,” Aunt Della probed. “I been alive too long. I know what it means for a man to stand around tryin’ to make himself useful.” She crossed one leg over the other, her ankle bouncing with anticipation like she knew this was going to take a while.
Annie’s mouth curved despite herself. She turned a page in her sketchbook, smoothing the spine down harder than necessary with her palm.
“You like him?”
Annie still couldn’t look up. It was like her words got stuck in her throat. The more Aunt Della talked, the more Annie felt caught off guard.
“Annie Royal, I ain’t talkin’ to myself,” she said sternly.
Annie’s head snapped up. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “I don’t know,” she said finally, in a hushed tone.
Aunt Della rolled her eyes. She let the words sit between them long enough for Annie to hear how untrue they sounded.
“Yes you do,” she answered back.
Annie looked down again, her throat tightening with something she didn’t have the name for. Aunt Della watched her for a moment, admiring how softly the lamp light curved around the edge of her face. It was smooth. Innocent. There was a vulnerability in her that she wanted to protect. But as much as she wanted to shield her, she knew she needed to be ready for the day the world came knocking.
But she was so young. Barely 18.
She remembered herself at that age. She remembered how quickly she got swept up in her husband’s kind words and gentle eyes like it was yesterday.
It happened so quickly. Marriage. Mississippi. A son.
She thought about the day her husband came back from town hall with the deed to their house. He painted the outside a rich buttery yellow and whitewashed the shutters with a puffed up chest. Dug out the underground storage with his bare hands, a shovel, and a strength that could only be explained by a feeling he’d never experienced before in his lifetime. Pride. Ownership.
The boarding house became a sanctuary without a steeple. They took in anybody who needed a hot meal and a place to lay their heads. Musicians, preachers, teachers, people trying to get up North. And two little boys trying to escape their father’s fists.
Elijah and Elias.
She met them young. Back when their father, Adam Moore, went door-to-door in town, strumming his guitar and sipping hooch straight from the bottle while his young sons walked around hungry.
She knew them before they went by Smoke and Stack. Then she watched them earn those nicknames in blood, gunpowder, and grit. And now Smoke was coming around her sister’s granddaughter. Her only great-niece.
She watched Annie nervously brush her thumb against the edge of the sketchbook and sighed. “I ain’t tryna fuss at you,” she clarified. “I just wanna know where your head’s at, and how you feel when he’s around.”
A moment passed. Then two.
Aware.
That’s how Annie felt when he was around.
Aware of herself. Aware of him. Aware of the space between one breath and the next. Like something inside her had started listening before she knew that there was sound.
Loose.
Not in the way men and women meant when they whispered about such things.
But in a way that words just came out of her mouth before she could stop them. She couldn’t carry on with him like she could with Aunt Della right now—taking the hard parts and making them sound just right so she didn’t reveal too much too soon. He got the truth before she could dress it up. And she hadn’t taken the time to figure out why quite yet. And that scared her. But it made her feel something else, too.
Seen.
She was holding back. Aunt Della could see that with her eyes closed. She could see the wheels turning in Annie’s head like she never got a chance to sit with her feelings long enough to name them. But she already had her answer. It was in the way she held the sketchbook to her chest before remembering she wasn’t alone.
She tried a different angle. “He good to you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Annie could reply quickly when she could answer without thinking too hard.
“Respectful?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He pressure you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I feel like—” Annie paused, embarrassed by the honesty that sat right on the tip of her tongue. She was fighting to keep it to herself. Not because she didn’t want to be honest, but she felt like words couldn’t do her thoughts justice. And she felt foolish that she felt any kind of way to begin with. “He makes me feel….”
Aunt Della let out a sigh. “You ain’t gotta explain it yet. Sometimes when the feeling’s good, you can’t explain it right away. You gon’ find the right words when you ready.”
Annie nodded once. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You intact?”
“Yes ma’am.” Heat climbed up her neck as she held the sketchbook to her chest.
“Don’t let him take it, if that’s not what you want.”
“Yes ma’am.”
A quiet beat passed. “If it is—” Her breath hitched when she cut herself off.
It felt like the room held its breath. Annie, too.
“Nevermind.” Aunt Della shook her head like she regretted saying anything.
Annie frowned, her lips poking out. “What is it?” She asked. Her voice was cautious, but not in the way it had been earlier. It was more braced than anxious.
Aunt Della looked at Annie with a fierce protectiveness. “What you think about him?” she asked quietly.
Annie twisted her lips, searching for something that wouldn’t feel foolish the second it came out of her mouth. “At first I just thought he was quiet,” she said finally. “Not empty quiet, but the type of quiet that’s always holdin’ somethin’ back.”
Aunt Della’s eyes stayed on her.
“But when he’s with me, when he look at me…” Annie’s voice softened despite herself. “It feels like…the rest of the world disappears. And it’s just us. Just me and him. And he can let go.”
Aunt Della didn’t answer immediately, and her face didn’t change. The silence felt worse than being questioned. “And how you think he feels about you?”
“Ummm….” Her eyes flitted around the room nervously.
“The truth do just fine.”
Aunt Della set her mug down on the coffee table with a soft thump. Then she sat back and crossed her legs again, twirling that ankle in the air in slow, deliberate circles.
“Truth is…” Annie started. “I think he’s taken a shine to me. He got me this.” She rubbed the cover of the sketchbook, her cheeks warm flushed with warmth and a hint of embarrassment trying to explain herself. “He comes around, he sits with me, he listens–really listens–to what I say. And he don’t forget,” she said, remembering the note he left her, and the conversation that sparked the words he left.
“What’s all this?” Smoke asked, gesturing to the drawings sprawled across her quilt under the magnolia tree.
“Drawings,” she replied sarcastically.
Smoke sucked his teeth. “I know that,” he tutted. “What they for?”
“Helps my memory. Drawin’ things. Writin’ them down.”
“So you remember what they look like?”
“Kinda. So I remember what they for.”
Annie glanced over, bracing for laughter, amusement, or even teasing. She got none of it. When she found Aunt Della’s eyes she wasn’t smiling. She didn’t laugh. She almost looked sad, but not in a way Annie fully understood.
She simply crossed her arms across her chest and arched a brow in challenge. “So you think that means…what?”
The bluntness felt like a physical thing. It cut sharply through the room like a knife slicing through a thick fog.
Annie blinked. “Ma’am?”
“You think every man who buys you a little somethin’ or listens to you talk, means to do right by you?”
Annie blinked twice this time.
All of a sudden, she felt every bit of eighteen.
Not a child anymore, but not grown in the ways the world seemed to demand all at once.
Smoke wasn’t the first to come around. She had a few who called on her back in New Orleans. Always respectfully, always in the proper way.
She had a freedom up here that she didn’t have living under the roof of her very protective family, and that freedom allowed her to get to know Smoke in a way that would have been damn near impossible back home.
But he was always respectful. Never pushed. Always made sure she felt comfortable. That meant something to her. Time. Energy. Intention.
She kept getting four when she added two and two together.
But maybe Aunt Della was trying to tell her she wasn’t too good at math.
“I’ve known the twins since they were real young. Seen ‘em grow into bright young men. Good-lookin’ young men that every woman in this town want a piece of.” She paused. “And men like Smoke…they can make a girl feel like the whole world done gone quiet around her. But that don’t mean the world ain’t there no more.”
Annie’s ears had already perked up at the mention of his name. But now she listened even more intently.
Aunt Della’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t assume nothin’ based on a man’s silence. You’ll get yourself in trouble fillin’ in blanks that ain’t yours.”
The flame of the oil lamp shifted behind its glass, throwing a soft tremble across the wall. “You got dreams. Hopes. You want your own shop right?”
Annie’s chin lifted with a defiant certainty. “Yes ma’am.”
“Good. Don’t you put that on hold for him, or any man. If he really likes you, he won’t keep you from it.” Her voice got lower, like she wanted to say something hard but make it sound sweet. “Smoke ain’t a man who say much unless he mean it. But if a man really wants you, he’s gonna spell it out plainly.”
The words moved through Annie slowly, crawling up her spine and down her chest where her heart thumped a little faster. She traced her thumb along the back cover, feeling the grain of the leather beneath her fingertip.
The ceiling creaked softly above them. Another lodger, maybe. Or just the house settling into itself. Crickets chirped low in the grass while the night wrapped around them, fully aware of what truth hid behind her silence. It chose not to soften it.
“I understand,” she finally said, quietly.
“Now gone’ to bed. I know you tired.”
Aunt Della stood. Annie did, too. Aunt Della turned towards the kitchen, then thought better of it and turned to grab Annie’s forearm before she got too far. She grabbed her face gently, staring at Annie with warm brown eyes. “I ain’t sayin’ all this to scare you. I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I love you.”
The tightness in her chest eased a bit. “What were you gonna say, when you stopped yourself?”
Aunt Della’s eyes softened. “It’s not for me to say,” she said softly. “But you’ll find out soon enough.”
She pulled her into a hug then released her. Annie moved slowly towards the staircase, purse slung tightly over her shoulder, sketchbook secured underneath the crook of her arm.
“Goodnight Aunt Della,” she called out.
“Goodnight, Annie.”
Annie started up the stairs. Halfway up she paused, her fingers tightening their grip on the banister. She looked back toward Aunt Della who was halfway to the kitchen.
“Thank you,” she said, just loud enough so she could hear it.
The night was dark and tonight that darkness felt loaded. The sky was bare. No stars, just an endless stretch of shadow that pressed against the windows, barely softened by the faint glow of the waning moon.
Annie laid in her bed just staring. First she counted the cracks in the ceiling. Then she traced the lines on the walls with her eyes.
The words of Aunt Della replayed in her head. That and the feeling that something laid quietly underneath their conversation. Something Aunt Della knew and refused to say.
Two questions came to mind.
What was Aunt Della holding back from telling her?
What made her change her mind?
It took a while for Annie’s eyes to get heavy while her thoughts refused to shut off. Something settled in her bones at that moment.
Somewhere beyond the boarding house, Smoke—Elijah—had come and gone and left something behind. Something more than just a pretty sketchbook and a thoughtful note.
Morning light came soft through the windows, a pale gold that stretched across the floorboards, taking on the pattern of the lace curtains. Annie stood at her dresser with her nightgown hanging off one shoulder, a satin scarf sliding slowly down her braids.
She counted under her breath, the silver coins plunking against the thin metal of the container where she kept her money. It was a tea tin, a small one that smelled like mint no matter how many times she tried to air it out. The last coin clinked against the others in the tin. She closed the top of it, taking a moment to write the total on the back cover of her sketchbook. She kept a running tally there, one that she copied over from a piece of scrap paper she used to keep track of her earnings before last night.
Annie set Smoke’s note on her dresser. She traced her fingers over the words, brushing her hand over his name on the paper. The ink pooled thickest where he dotted his “i,” and when she touched it, it stained the part where flesh met fingernail. Aunt Della’s words from last night crossed her mind as she watched the ink bloom and spread across her fingertip before slowly sinking into the skin.
Crossing the room, she knelt near the loose floorboard in the corner that lifted without a creak. She tucked the tin into the hollow space and started to fit the wood back into place. Then she hesitated. Not because she doubted herself, but because she wanted to imagine what it would be like for a spell. Her own shop. A modest house with blue paint. She’d sell and barter healing herbs and medicines that ward off sickness and bad spirits, the shelves lined top to bottom with jars, vials and bottles of them. A long table, polished smooth by her own hands, would stretch proudly across the front room where she’d serve meals to sharecroppers and passing workers. Dried roots tied in bundles would hang from the rafters in a shed off to the side. People would come to fill their bellies and stay for something more.
That was hers.
Annie left New Orleans before dawn, dust kicking up from the soles of her shoes and darkening the hem of her dress. She kept her money folded small, eyes cast down the way she was told to when she was traveling alone. A few things she held close to her chest— her great-grandmother’s bible, some knick-knacks, and a few letters. A burlap sack hung from her shoulder, holding some other possessions she held dear. An old trunk held the rest.
The Mississippi River laid before her, wide and brown. She boarded a boat with other people heading upriver, women with their satchels, men with their hats pulled low to keep the mosquitos away. Annie hung onto the railings, watching the trees dip their roots in the water, their branches swinging heavily in the wind like they’d seen too much. The depot was next. When she boarded the train, she closed her eyes and said a prayer underneath her breath— one for the journey, one for the destination.
She spent the night in a Colored waiting room with families piled on top of each other and solo travelers with tired eyes wearing all their possessions.
The next day was another train. Cotton fields stretched wide beyond the thick glass of the windows, the grim landscape broken only by oak trees and tiny shacks lined up in a row. They passed by another stretch of land mostly hidden behind the treeline, but she could feel it— water, soil, roots, foundation.
An elderly man, skin the color of pralines, sat on his porch watching the train go by. Striped overalls with the clasps unbuckled, white shirt with the sleeves rolled, straw hat, heavy work boots— but what caught her attention was his eyes. One was completely covered in cataracts. The other one looked sharp enough to hold the sight of four people. The man sucked on a stick of sugarcane while a hound dog sat by his side, tongue out, panting hard under the burn of the Mississippi sun.
Then he was gone.
All that remained were the muted shades of nature as the train trekked through the countryside. No house. No dog. No sugarcane. But Annie could remember every detail, even the dusty blue denim of the man’s overalls. And the expectant look in his eye.
She woke up with a jolt, spine snapping straight where she was slumped over in her seat.
The train cabin was quiet. Most people were asleep, some lingering in the corners, some just starting to wake up. Nighttime was on the horizon. Shades of orange and pink swallowing what was leftover from the day.
“How long I been out?” she asked the woman next to her.
The woman thought for a moment. “Since we got on, I reckon.”
“I been sleep this whole time?”
“Mhmm,” she confirmed. “Must’ve had you a long day…”
“Must’ve…” Annie frowned, rubbing the sleep from her drowsy eyes. She looked out at the land through the thick, cloudy windows of the train cabin, and the land looked back.
Time passed and she still remembered it all. The land. The house. The way the sun slanted just right through the trees. The man. How he looked like he was waiting for something. How real he felt, even after she realized she was dreaming. When she finally pressed the floorboard back into place the room became itself again. A bed. A dresser. An altar. And a young woman kneeling on the floor daydreaming about possibilities.
One state over, the road began to flatten towards Memphis. It was bad in places, rutted deep from wagons, farming equipment, and animal hooves. Dust rose up behind the truck in low brown puffs, sparkling in the light before disappearing up into the trees.
Smoke drove with both hands steady on the wheel. Stack rode beside him, one arm hanging lazily out the window, hat tipped low against the glare.
“So you gon’ tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
Stack sucked his teeth. “Don’t do that.”
Smoke kept driving. Stack waited him out. That was the thing with twins, when one soul splits into two. Silence didn’t work on somebody who already felt it on the inside.
“Annie,” Stack blurted after a while.
Her name shifted something in the cab. Stack could tell by the way Smoke’s eyes narrowed slightly, his hands tightening around the wheel all of a sudden, the leather groaning under the force of his grip.
“What about her?”
Stack barked out a laugh. “So, it’s like that?”
The road curved just ahead of them, pecan trees crowding close to the edge on either side of the road like they were trying to listen in on their conversation.
“I talked to Della,” Smoke admitted. He looked over to Stack, whose smile eased a bit where he sat.
“About?”
Smoke didn’t reply.
Stack sat up fully. Back straight, slouch gone. “For real?”
Smoke shot him a look.
Stack leaned back slightly, studying the side of Smoke’s face. “Damn,” he trailed off. “What she say?”
It was the day before they were set to head to Memphis, and the early evening sun poured molten gold through the back windows, warming the floorboards of Della’s kitchen. Smoke stood in front of the counter watching her slice a batch of onions. Della stood on the other side, her arm moving like the wheels of a locomotive, the movement slow, methodical, and sharp because she’d done this a thousand times.
“I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’,” he said, voice steady.
Della kept her pace, she didn’t slow or stop. “That right?”
“That’s right.”
“This ‘bout my girl?”
“It is.”
Della stopped what she was doing. She wiped the knife off on a kitchen towel, then set it down on the counter.
“I was hopin’ I could court Annie,” Smoke said firmly. “Proper like.”
“What you know about courtin’ a woman proper?” Della asked. She crossed her arms.
Smoke took his lick. He didn’t flinch.
“She ain’t just anybody,” Della said before he could respond.
“I know,” Smoke replied. Something in him leaned forward before his body did. “I wanna do it right. If she’ll have me.”
Della looked over Smoke carefully. For the lie in his eyes. For the joke tugging at the corner of his mouth. For the doubt in his posture. “You talk to her ‘bout this already?”
“Not yet.”
“You need to.”
“I will. Wanted to ask you first.”
She eased her weight off one hip, and put it on the other. “She ain't built for no half steppin’.”
“I don’t do half.”
Della’s eyes narrowed for a second, then relaxed. “That girl want somethin’ of her own,” she said. “Don’t know if she told you that yet.”
“She did.”
“Well.” Her voice came out soft but sharp. “She got powerful hands. Hands that ain’t meant to be locked up under some man’s roof waitin’ for permission. If you wanna court her, you better not try to shrink her.”
“I won’t,” Smoke replied.
Della picked up her knife again. She sliced into an onion slowly, the thin, methodical rhythm of metal hitting wood echoed in the otherwise quiet room.
Lodgers started to walk in from their work shifts, heading to their rooms or back out to the porch where a few of them were squatting over a dice game. A few of them poked their heads into the kitchen to ask about supper.
Smoke hadn’t moved an inch. He waited quietly, letting the silence sit between them, more for him than her.
“You like her,” she said. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t even need to ask. She could see it. Feel it, even.
“Yes ma’am.”
“How much?”
“I care about her. Wanna see her more. Respectfully.”
Della’s nose wrinkled. “You serious?”
“I am,” he said with finality.
Something passed through Della’s eyes as she looked him over carefully, from head to toe. It didn’t feel like judgment. It was something Smoke didn’t have a name for. He raised a brow, a silent question.
“Still seein’ other women?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Ain’t what I heard.”
Confusion. It spread slowly across his face like the petals of a night-blooming flower before turning into something darker. Smoke flexed his hands at his sides before clasping them firmly in front of himself. “What you heard?” he asked, inclining his head.
“Little here, little there,” she admitted. She tilted her head. “May not be loud, but I can hear whispers just fine.”
Smoke’s jaw worked. He shook his head once, firmly. “It ain’t true.”
“It ain’t?”
“I ain’t lyin’,” he stated simply. “Since I started spendin’ more time with Annie, I’ve only been seein’ her.”
“Then why they still talkin’?”
Smoke sighed, running a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he shrugged.
Della sucked her teeth. She looked away, then looked back. “That don’t answer my question.”
Her eyes got a little sharper, then. Defensive. She folded her arms across her chest, pushing back.
Smoke looked like he was racking his brain for the answer. When it clicked, let out a ragged, frustrated breath through his nose. “I guess, I ain’t really end it the way I should,” he confessed.
Della’s voice went up a whole octave. “You guess?” she asked incredulously.
“How you tryna court Annie, when you can’t even end somethin’ proper? What happened?”
“I stopped reachin’ out,” he explained. “Ain’t seen ‘em, none of that.” He sighed into his words. His voice tight, but firm. “Thought that was it. I moved on, figured they did, too.”
“You figured wrong,” she corrected. “You leave one woman guessin’, don’t come over here askin’ me for permission to leave another one guessin’.”
Smoke nodded, the muscle in his jaw fluttering. “I won't. I’ma clear it up. Before I bring anything to Annie.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Della started.
“Miss Della—” he started.
She searched his eyes. “Elijah,” she said, in a tone that sounded like a warning.
Smoke’s gaze didn’t waver. He looked at her firm, steady, unblinking. “I mean to do right by her. I wouldn’t be askin’ you if I didn’t.”
Della sighed. “Alright.”
Smoke’s face relaxed.
“There’s rules.”
“Okay.”
“Handle that business, first.”
“Trust me, I will,” Smoke said, nodding once.
Della picked her knife back up, turning it sideways so she could start dicing the onions. “Y’all been kissin’?”
He wasn’t about to lie. He didn’t lie anyways, not when it mattered, but especially not to a woman who could put a root on him with one hand, and chop an onion clean down the middle with the other—at the same time. “Yes ma’am,” he admitted.
She didn’t flinch. “That it?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Mhmm,” she muttered. “No funny business in my house,” she warned, pointing the tip of the knife towards him.
“You ain’t gotta worry about that.”
“I know,” she said warmly. “Not with you.”
“Can I leave this for her?”
Smoke held up a thin, black leather covered book.
“What is it?”
His jaw worked. “It's for her drawings,” he said simply. “So she can keep 'em all in one place.”
“I will,” she said. She could feel the tenderness in his words, even though he tried to hide it.
Smoke let out the breath he’d been holding since he walked up the steps of her porch with a gift and a question. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, sweeping the diced onions into a bowl with the edge of her blade. “That girl’s heart is her own. She gotta say yes, first.”
“Smoke.” Stack’s voice came out quiet.
Smoke slowed without thinking. He cursed under his breath, sitting fully forward in his seat.
Up ahead, the road dipped towards a narrow wooden bridge that laid over a stretch of shallow, muddy water. Off to the side, something rose from behind the cotton fields.
Dust. It came from the far side of the bridge, lifting faintly through the trees along with the sound of a mule dragging something through dirt.
Smoke eased the car to a stop beneath the shade just before the bridge. Stack moved from the passenger seat and stalked towards the edge of the field, his body loose in the way men looked when they were prepared not to be. He looked for what didn’t belong while Smoke stayed behind the wheel listening for it.
Wind rustled through the leaves, a dry, papery sound that blew through the acres of cotton plants. Sharecroppers that sang hymns and blues songs as they moved down the line. They picked cotton with tired, calloused hands, the cost of their labor paid in bright red splotches of blood that dripped from their fingers, staining the stark whiteness of the cotton bolls. A vulture circled overhead, then found its prey. It swooped down, its wings spreading menacingly slow as its talons gripped the rung of abandoned machinery.
Stack walked back to the truck with the cautious confidence he carried no matter how many times they’d taken this route. His face didn’t show it, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Just some nigga on a wagon,” he said, waving it off.
Smoke looked back, looked towards his brother, looked towards the bridge, flexed his hands on the wheel, then steadied.
Memphis appeared thirty minutes later.
The city smelled like hot grease and opportunity. The sound of brass instruments hung heavy in the air, cutting through all the cigar smoke and pipe exhaust. A band played on the street once they turned the corner, a crowd of people gathered around them tossing money, dancing, and singing. Vendors lined the streets selling all kinds of treats, both savory and sweet, shouting their prices above all the noise.
There was a lightness here.
But Stack hadn’t spoken since they crossed that bridge.
“Just say it,” Smoke muttered.
“Say what?” He spoke with his usual slick tone, toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t.
“Whatever it is.”
Stack grinned. He rolled the toothpick around his mouth. Cleared his throat. “I’m just thinkin’.”
Smoke waited.
He rubbed a hand over his freshly lined up goatee. Smiled again, wider this time, his gold fronts shining in the late afternoon. “You ain’t seen…you know?”
Smoke didn’t even let the question linger in the air. “No.”
Stack didn’t back down. “Last I heard…”
Smoke’s brows pulled together. “It ain’t true,” he said flatly.
“I knew she was full of shit.” He shook his head in disgust. “She gon’ be pissed, though.”
“Who, Annie?”
Stack looked over. “Nah.” He shrugged. “I mean, maybe…” He shook his head again. “I mean...”
“Nigga.”
Beale Street pulsed around them. A saxophone blared loudly on the sidewalk. The sultry voice of a woman floated out from the open door of a juke they passed by.
“Look at my nigga tryna be serious,” Stack teased, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “I mean you was born serious but…”
“Aight….” Smoke mumbled.
“For real," he continued. Voice lighter now, but not unserious. “I’m happy for you brotha.”
Smoke didn’t answer.
Stack leaned back in his seat, arms folded behind his head as the truck slowed in front of The Monarch. The juke joint was already breathing through the walls. Music, laughter, and the smell of fried food spilled out into the street.
“You know she good for you, right?”
Smoke’s eyes cut over.
Stack lifted a hand. “I’m bein’ serious,” he said with a grin.
“I ain’t ask you for all that,” Smoke grumbled. He pulled the brake and cut the engine. “I just need you to be serious ‘bout this business we ‘bout to handle.”
Stack smoothed out his suit jacket before climbing out first. “Nigga, I’m always serious ‘bout—” He cut himself off. His grin widened. “Oh, you really like her huh.”
Smoke stepped out after him, shutting the truck door harder than necessary. “Shut up, Stack.”
Stack only laughed as he headed towards the door of the joint. Smoke followed behind him, both brothers disappearing into the smoky mouth of the juke.
They waited until the boarding house was empty. Breakfast was long over, the kitchen back to the way it looked before the lodgers ran through it in the morning. The floors were swept, shelves dusted, dishes washed, dried, and stacked neatly in the cupboard. Flour dust hid between the cracks of the table no matter how many times it was wiped down, a chipped blue bowl full of onions and garlic hiding most of that. A heavy cast iron pan hung over the stove with something in it that would cook low and slow until supper.
Annie stood in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled past her elbows, wiping down the edge of the table. Aunt Della watched her from across the kitchen, tending an arrangement of calla lilies in a slender glass jar. “Ready?”
Annie looked up from wiping a stubborn corner of the table. “Yes.”
“Nervous?”
Annie rung the rag out, twisting it once and dropping it in the wash basin. “A little.”
The kettle hissed softly behind them, steam reaching up towards the ceiling in white, pillowy puffs. A burst of bright, mid-morning light flooded the room through the curtains, catching the edge of a jar of dried bay leaves that sat near the windowsill and the fur of Felix who was curled up with his paws tucked under him like he was waiting on this exact moment. He purred gently, the sound a sharp contrast to the kettle whose whistle was now piercing the air.
“Come on,” Aunt Della said, leading her towards the lean-to in the backyard.
The space was narrow and dark even though the sun was high, only slivers of light peeking through the cracks in the siding. The shelves held various grooming items needed for a house full of men. Lye soap, oils and tonics, shampoos and aftershave. A galvanized tub sat in the middle of it all. Aunt Della moved two small crates aside in the corner of the room. Annie looked down, her mouth dropping open when she caught the glint of the iron ring hidden between the floorboards.
“Don’t just stand around catching flies,” Aunt Della threw over her shoulder. She was already bending over as quickly as she could for her age, hooking two fingers into the ring and pulling up.
“What’s down there?” She bent down to help her.
“You ‘bout to find out.”
The wood lifted from the floor with a low groan and a whistle of trapped air that escaped like the room was letting out a breath. The smell of something earthy and dark—roots, clay, old wood, and something more sharp—hit them with the first whiff that rose from beneath the ground. Aunt Della lowered herself carefully onto the first step then looked back, a lit oil lamp secure in her hands. “Mind your skirt,” she told Annie. “And close the door behind you.”
Annie gathered the length of her skirt, wrapping it twice around her hand. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, each one more narrow and steep the deeper she moved below the boarding house. The hum of the street disappeared first. Then the sounds of the backyard—chickens, birds, bees and the breeze.
Then the daylight.
Annie paused at the bottom to take in all that she could see from the stretch of Aunt Della’s oil lamp. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with everything from bottles to tins to roots dark and twisted that reached into the soil like fingers.
Aunt Della led her to a door. They had to be underneath the front porch of the house, Annie thought to herself. She unlocked the room, a heavy oak door fitted with two heavy padlocks, and guided them inside.
More shelves.
Glass jars caught the flickering flame of the lamp in dull flashes. They were lined up along the walls, filled with graveyard dust, mandrake, cinquefoil, High John, and camphor. A stack of bones too small for Annie to name. A brown bag of black mustard seeds, blue glass beads, river stones smooth as polished teeth, and an assortment of other things.
Aunt Della set the lamp on a low table in the middle marked with knife nicks and stains like old wounds. On it sat a mortar and pestle, a ledger book with a cracked spine, a fountain pen, three small bowls, and a white candle burned low in its dish.
“This where we gon’ start.”
Annie looked around, wrapping her arms around herself. “This all yours?”
“It’s all mine,” Aunt Della confirmed. “Take a seat.” She gestured for Annie to sit on one of two cushions around the table and moved to one of the shelves. She glanced at a bundle of dried leaves, touching them lightly with two fingers before bringing it back to the table. “Some of this belonged to my mama. Some of it from women I met along the way. Women whose names don’t get spoken much anymore.”
She opened the ledger to a blank page, then pushed it to the corner of the table. “First thing you learn ain’t gon’ be what does what, it’s gon’ be what not to touch.”
Annie’s eyes narrowed.
“There’s stuff that heals and stuff that calls. Calling is where it gets tricky. You can call luck, love, happiness. You can call something darker. Something that settles. Something that unsettles. The thing that gives you mercy can be the same one you beg for mercy. It all depends on which hand holds it.”
Annie absorbed as much as she could while her gaze drifted around the room. This room felt smaller, not because of its size, but because of what it held. Most things felt familiar, a few things did not. It was the few things that didn’t, that unsettled her.
She thought of her grandmother. Of the stool in her apothecary. Sometimes she’d sit there all day, just watching. Reaching for things out of curiosity and being told ‘not yet’ so often that it became part of her rearing.
Aunt Della must have seen something cross her face, because her voice softened. “You know more than you think,” she said.
“Then why do I feel like I don’t know anything…all of a sudden?”
She paused. And then— “Lemme show you.” Aunt Della reached for a jar of something dried and fragrant hidden under a strip of blue fabric. She set it on the table. “Name it.”
Annie tried to peer through the glass. The leaves were green, obviously. Smooth, and curled at the edges, from what she could see. She opened the jar carefully and sniffed the fragrance that wafted through her nose. The smell was earthy. Sharp. “Sage?” she asked.
Aunt Della gave her a look.
“Not sage,” Annie winced.
Aunt Della paused a moment. “You know that ain’t no damn sage.”
Annie brought the jar to her nose again. She took a deeper whiff. It smelled different this time, something warmer and sweeter. Familiar, but not from the kitchen. “Boneset?” she guessed.
“You askin’ or tellin’?”
“Tellin’,” she said, twisting the lid closed and setting the jar down.
Aunt Della waited a moment for Annie to second guess herself. She didn’t. “There she is.”
Annie smiled despite herself.
“What’s it for?”
“Fevers and aches,” Annie began. “Unless you take too much.”
Aunt Della hummed as she shuffled through the jars, vials, and pouches littered on the shelves. “Every living thing got a spirit,” she started. “It had a spirit ‘fore it had a name.” She continued on. “Its smell will tell you its name. But its spirit, that’ll tell you what it wants.” She looked at Annie closely, eyes narrowing. “This,” she tapped her temple, “is how you learn the spirit of a thing.”
She reached behind her without looking, pulled another jar down, and set it on the table in front of Annie. “Name it.”
They went on like that for a while, one jar after another. Some Annie knew right away, some she hesitated on, and some that made her feel straight foolish when Aunt Della corrected her.
“Don’t just guess ‘cause you wanna be right.”
“I wasn’t!”
“You was.”
Annie huffed softly, frustrated.
“You gotta learn how to trust yourself, baby. Like when you close your eyes to draw.”
Aunt Della turned her back to the shelf, her eyes sweeping over her collection until she landed on a small bundle wrapped in red thread. She placed it on the table without a word.
“Gon’ head. Pick it up,” she insisted.
Annie hesitated at first. Her fingers wrapped around it gently, something tightening low in her belly once it touched her palm. Whatever was inside the cloth was hidden, but she could feel the weight of what she held in her hands.
“What?” Aunt Della challenged her. “Tell me how it feels.”
Annie rubbed her thumb along the fabric. “This one feels…like it wanna be left alone,” she said breathily.
The flame of the oil lamp that sat on the low table shifted, flickering once then standing still—but it wasn’t from any wind.
There was no wind down here.
Just darkness, soil, and walls that held their breath like lungs.
Aunt Della watched her for a moment, then reached out and took it from her. Annie’s hands felt lighter instantly.
“What was that?” Annie’s eyes lifted, following the bundle.
“Not today.”
“Really?”
“I said,” Della repeated. “Not today.” She sat back down. “Lesson number two. Curiosity don’t mean permission.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Power ain’t always in what you can hold. Sometimes it lies in what you know to leave alone when you ain’t ready. When it ain’t ready.”
She looked up to the ceiling. “They know?”
Aunt Della snorted. “Men don’t notice half of what’s goin’ on.”
Annie laughed and Aunt Della smiled back, pulling the ledger towards the edge of the table. The pages were filled with names, dates, ingredients, measurements, and notes. Some in Aunt Della’s hand, others in foreign script. Most of the entries were normal: fever, toothache, bad blood, sleeplessness. Others were less common: keep someone away, restore peace to a home, stop a tongue from speaking ill, return what was sent. Annie traced a line without touching it. Her pulse felt different as her finger hovered over the script. Slower, heavier, like something had reached up and guided her hand.
Aunt Della flipped to the next page of the ledger, tapping a blank line on the page once with her finger. “When you open a door with your name on it, you better know what you sellin’. You ain’t just sellin’ an herb. Ain’t just sellin’ a bottle. You sellin’ a promise.”
“A promise?”
“When a woman’s hurt and she comes to you for help…she ain’t just lookin’ to buy a root. She’s lookin’ to buy trust. Silence. The hope that somebody knows what to do with what she can’t carry alone anymore.”
Annie thought about the women slipping through her grandmother’s door. Their faces covered with veils, hands holding tight onto coins, voices just above a whisper. She drew them sometimes while she sat in the corner on that stool—not just their faces, but the changes. How they came and how they left.
Aunt Della pushed the pen, ink, and the ledger on the table right in front of Annie. “Write today’s date.”
le 31 octobre 1919
Annie wrote it in her best script. When she put the pen down she felt different somehow, like she had crossed a threshold she didn’t even know was there.
Aunt Della moved the ledger away to let the ink dry and the moment settle. Then she stood, took down another jar from the shelves, popped off the lid, and set it in front of her.
“Name it.”
Annie lifted the jar to her nose, but this time she didn’t rush.
She smelled first.
Looked second.
And listened to whatever quiet thing inside her answered third.
It took Smoke three attempts to light his cigarette.
It was later that same evening. He stood on the second-floor balcony of the Greenwood House. It sat on the corner of Hernando and Beale; the place he and Stack stayed every time they came down to Memphis. The clink of utensils and the hearty smell of andouille sausage and gumbo drifted out the open windows of the porch and floated upward to where he stood outside, making his stomach twist with hunger.
An older woman named Mrs. Johnson owned the place and knew them well, often turning a blind eye to whatever they (Stack) got up to when they came down for business.
“This ain’t no whorehouse! You want a whorehouse, there's plenty of them down the street! Tryna soil my good furniture. The sheets is one thing, but I catch one of them hussies on one of my couches, I’ll put you out on ya ass in the middle of the night with just ya draws on!”
Smoke held a lighter in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other, rolled up tight with the special New Orleans blend of tobacco laced with a little grass that he got from Bo every other week.
His thumb slipped on the spark wheel on his first try.
His hand shook suddenly on the second.
He gripped the base harder, clenching his teeth on the third try. An eruption of flint and fuel sparked a flame that burned bright and angry against the setting Memphis sun and the backdrop of Beale Street.
Smoke brought the cigarette to his mouth, its red ember heating the inside of the palm.
He exhaled with relief.
It felt like a betrayal. That a white man’s war was the reason his hands had a mind of their own sometimes. The lack of control that had him shook. Angry.
He took another drag to calm his nerves, his thoughts searching for somewhere soft to land.
Annie.
He’d seen her walk into some shop on Issaquena a few weeks back. Long blue dress with buttons down the middle. Curved just right over her hips and thighs. Like it was painted on.
Smoke took another hit, blood sparking heavy with desire. He let the smoke filter through his nostrils when he exhaled. He inhaled it back through his nose, letting the fumes settle deep and spicy in his chest.
He had to think about something safer.
Like lips or eyes.
But Annie’s lips? And Annie’s eyes?
Her lips were dangerous. Soft, fluffy, inviting. Sweet.
He thought about how his name slipped out of them like it was the best thing she ever tasted.
“Smoke,” she’d drawl. It melted on the tip of her tongue like a scoop of her favorite ice cream from downtown, her Louisiana lilt drawing out the o, making her lips form a perfect circle like she was—
“You good?”
The sound of familiar steps made him turn his head to the side.
It was Stack.
“Yeah,” Smoke said, flexing his hands at his sides. “Food ready yet?”
”Just about. She puttin’ dishes out and shit.” Stack turned to walk away. Then he paused. Turned back. “She made sweet potato pie, too.”
Smoke snuffed out his cigarette and hurried his ass downstairs.
One Week Later…
It was lunch hour. The dining area at Blackbird was packed full of hungry customers, unbridled laughter, and the smell of frying oil. Annie weaved expertly through the tables and around the booths like she belonged there. Since she started working there, she’d already found her own rhythm even though she only worked a few times a week. She was keeping up with the seasoned waitresses, the ones who didn’t write orders down and could balance two serving trays and a pot of coffee with one hand. She was doing so well that even Mr. Hightower was impressed with how she held her own, even with the sudden increase of diners from out of town.
Especially people’s relatives from up north.
There wasn’t a family in Clarksdale who didn’t have somebody who went north for better opportunities, higher wages, and more or less, more freedom. Annie heard the stories. Walk off a train, walk into a stockroom or a shipyard and find work that pays four times what you’d earn in the fields or as a domestic down south.
And now she was looking at them sitting in the booths, laughing with their friends and family while showing off their fancy cars, shiny shoes, and new clothing.
That ‘Northern’ polish.
Stack had that type of polish. Always kept a waistcoat. Always wore real gold—chains, pocket watch, gold fronts. Shoes always shined like they were polished by the sun.
Smoke didn’t dress like his brother, but he had a way about him too. His clothes weren’t flashy, but they were clean. Neat. He kept a wristwatch instead of a pocket one. One with a black leather strap, smooth bezel, and a nice engraving carved on the back. But he still had a ruggedness about him that she liked...a lot.
She wondered if their “travels” ever took them up north. Pittsburgh, Detroit, Chicago. She knew they’d been to New York. Smoke told her that. Spent some time in Harlem staying with Aunt Della’s son before they shipped off to war.
Annie didn’t know exactly what they got up to when they went out of town, but she wasn’t wet behind the ears. She didn’t need all the details to know the shape of danger. The town knew what the SmokeStack twins were; they earned those names here. Even if the town knew to not go into detail about what they did to earn them. But there were rumors.
Especially about the women they dealt with.
Stack was the womanizer. Annie knew that the minute she first met him at the train station. He had a mouth so slick, he could make a woman apologize to him for breaking her own heart. Smoke was a little different. Quieter about his, at least. But quieter didn't mean it ain’t exist. Where Stack left noise, Smoke left silence. The type of silence that was hard to measure sometimes. And with silence came people trying to fill that empty space with their own version of the truth. So they whispered.
“So-and-so said…but you ain’t heard it from me.”
“He don’t talk as much as Stack, but he ain’t no saint.”
Aunt Della’s words came to mind. About things being spelled out plain and not assuming attention meant intention. But Annie wasn’t so sure if it was a warning, or just plain words of wisdom.
Was she just another woman in a line of quiet whispers?
“Annie!” It was Mr. Hightower.
She looked up.
“You been wipin’ the same spot for a minute, now.”
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head a little, plopping the rag in the bucket.
“I need you to dump the coffee in the back please,” he requested, walking off.
Annie sighed. “Yes, sir.”
She made her way to the back, coffee pots in one hand and a bucket of hot, soapy water in the other. She set the bucket by the back door and walked outside.
The back alley smelled like cigarettes and old food.
Annie’s nose wrinkled as she walked over to the trash receptacles before getting startled by a raccoon that darted out from under one of the trash bags. She managed to dump the coffee out without splashing it all over her shoes. The cool, brown liquid pooled on the ground for a minute before seeping into the dirt, the coffee grounds scattering across the wet surface like ash.
Fourth Street was alive. Wagons, voices, music, smoke drifting up from cigarettes and woodstoves. Smoke had finished one last piece of business near Fourth Street. He stepped out of the back room of a building and onto the street, money folded tight in his pocket, hat sitting low on his head. He stepped off the curb and crossed the street, slowing right in front of Blackbird Cafe. He stopped. Looked through the windows casually, trying to be subtle. He wasn’t. The writing and the glare from the sun made it hard to see, but he found her instantly.
Annie was behind the counter, but her head turned towards the kitchen. Probably listening to one of the cooks talking shit from the back like they always did. He saw her shoulders shake and her head dip forward like she was laughing at something one of them said. But when she turned back around, the smile on her face broke the room open.
Something struck him low in the chest. A possessive tightening pull on his ribs. Annie’s eyes shifted. She looked around the restaurant. Through the other waitresses that darted around her, through the people in the dining area. They kept on moving until they finally found him.
Her face went blank for a second and he thought his chest would cave in. Then it softened, then the corner of her mouth lifted slowly. Just for him. That was enough for him to walk inside before he even realized what he was doing.
The cafe got quieter when he walked in. Conversations lulled, laughter turned into low chuckles that turned into throats clearing. Men nodded to him. Either out of respect, fear, or something else. Smoke took a seat at the counter and watched as Annie made her way over with a coffee pot in her hand.
“Afternoon,” she said softly.
“Afternoon.”
“You hungry?”
“Coffee’s fine.”
She took a mug from the shelf behind the counter, placed it in front of him, and started pouring. The coffee spilled into the cup dark and hot, steam rising off the top before dissolving into the air like the things left unspoken between them.
Smoke wrapped his hands around the mug and took a sip. Warmth settled into his palms and spread throughout his chest. And it wasn’t from the coffee. “Thank you,” he said, voice low.
“My pleasure,” Annie giggled. “How was your trip?”
“Long.”
“That it?”
“Mostly.”
Annie didn’t push. She studied him for a second, topping off his coffee and wiping down the countertop while the diners went back to their own conversations and meals. She thought about saying more. She decided not to. It was too quiet now. Too many ears perked up. She reached behind the counter again, this time to pull out a clean napkin.
“Thank you,” she said as she set the napkin down next to his mug.
“For what?” His eyebrows pulled together.
“The sketchbook,” Annie said incredulously, head cocked to the side.
Smoke’s mouth twitched. “You welcome.”
“Mhmm.” She rolled her eyes playfully.
“You been good?” His voice was rough when he asked that question.
She tapped her fingers slowly on the counter as he set his mug down. Annie leaned forward on her hands. Smoke leaned forward on his arms. Annie looked at Smoke. Smoke looked at Annie.
“Been great,” she said finally. Her lips were pursed in that playful way he liked. “You?”
Smoke’s eyes moved over what he could see of her from his seat at the counter. Slowly.
“Better now.”
She raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”
“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” he said casually. He kept his eyes on hers.
Her mouth dropped open, whatever she was fixing to say right on the tip of her tongue when Sheila’s voice from the kitchen made it snap shut.
“Table six, order up!” Followed by two dings.
Annie turned around, quickly sliding the plates of hot food from the pass-through window onto her serving tray. She moved from behind the counter to a table with hot food and a smile brighter than the sun reflecting off the windows. Smoke watched her working, stealing glances over the rim of his mug. Every so often while she was taking an order, or refilling a coffee, she’d look over at him like she could feel his eyes on her, then quickly look away. When it started to get busier and she couldn’t steal a look at him, he felt something. Like a dull ache.
He stood as Annie finally circled back to where he was sitting, stretching his arms above his head.
“You leavin’?”
Smoke nodded. “Got some business to handle.”
He put his money on the counter, their hands meeting when she reached for it before he had pulled his hand back. The contact made them both still. Their index fingers brushed against each other where they touched for a second before pulling away completely. Their eyes met again.
“I’ll see you,” Smoke said.
“Okay,” she replied. It was just above a whisper.
He wasn’t finished. “Soon.”
Their eyes held, the contact lingering for a moment like they both had something they wanted to say but knew it wasn’t the moment.
Smoke slipped away, steps light even though he carried weight. Annie watched the door swing shut behind him, letting in a flash of air and street noise before locking it out again. She stood behind the counter still, fingers resting on the money he’d left on the table, feeling the ghost of where his finger rubbed the side of hers. She stood there for a second, letting it sink in. Two seconds went by, then three. Then she snapped out of it, pulling herself back into what she was there for— the money.
“Felicia!” Annie called for her as she carried a tray over her shoulder. “Table four said they want two more sodas!”
“Got it,” Felicia huffed.
The bell above the door rang again. Annie moved quickly, sat the diners at a table, pulled out her pen and pad. She gave recommendations, talked up the specials. She even took on an extra table—a party of six that started off with a round of drinks.
She kept herself busy. There was no such thing as a quiet moment during a lunch rush. But every time she looked out into the street, she thought of him. Coming through like he owned the place. Leaving something behind every time he walked out.
—
Smoke was far enough away that he couldn’t see her clearly through the window anymore. Just movement and light and the shape of her passing between the tables. Blackbird stayed loud and alive behind him. Annie’s world now. Part of it, anyway. The more Smoke saw her, the more he wanted to be that other part. Not keep her waiting. Not tuck her away.
Della was right. Just wanting her wasn’t enough. Other men wanted her, too. He saw the way their gaze would follow her around as she moved around the cafe…until they saw him. He heard about the one at the theater. And the preacher. But he knew she needed to hear it from him soon.
When they stared at each other before he left Blackbird, the look in her eyes held a question. One he didn’t have to ask to know. He knew one thing, he was gonna set shit straight before she was left guessing what kind of man had walked into her life.
Synopsis: 10 Months after meeting the woman his mother introduced him to, Michael ended up getting attached faster than he expected. He never expected his days to shine a little differently.
A.N: Hi! Here is part 2! Enjoy. (Part 1)
Tag: @slut4michaelbakari
From the forced introduction in the Photo Booth to late night calls on the phone during press tours. Michael made well on his promise to his mama to at least court Y/n.
Michael was nervous at the beginning. Not because things were awkward or bad. Quite the opposite actually.
The man was catching feelings. Fast. Everyone noticed it— his crew, colleagues, and especially his family.
It was little things. How his smiled lingered on his face whenever he got off the phone with you. The extra attention and time he spent when planning his schedule for the months.
He was a busy man. Always on the go, but he learned from last relationships that making time is necessary. Even if it’s a few text messages, or short Face Time call.
It was even better when you told him you understood his work life. That he can’t be there all the time. That messages would stay on delivered. He’s an Award winning actor, so it’s obvious he’s in demand for films and television shows.
That’s why Sundays were a special day. Both of you are free and can wind down together.
“Baby, what do you want for breakfast?!” You shout from the kitchen. Your voice carrying across the rented mid-luxury townhome. The place you call home since moving to LA.
“Cook whatever! You know I’ll eat anything you make,” Michael replies back. That deep, raspy morning voice echoed from the back bathroom.
Opening up the fridge, you look inside searching what to throw together. After being with him for a few months, you come to realize how much that man can eat. It’s the fifth time this month you’ve went grocery shopping and had groceries delivered just to keep the fridge stocked.
You even went out to purchase a deep freezer, just to keep extra food in. Pantry stays full too.
Light footsteps sound in the hallway. Michael makes his way into the kitchen, humming a random tune as he slides into a stool at the kitchen island.
“So, what’s on the menu today chef?” He teases. Those dark eyes tracing over every inch of your frame in the multi-colored muumuu. Not in a creepy, perverted way.
The man always looked at you in adoration. Admiring the beautiful woman he calls his. He especially loved when you dressed comfortably. Whether it’s one of his shirts, a nightgown or even basketball shorts with a tank top. He always thought you were fine. Bonnet and all.
“I was thinking high protein french toast with fried eggs, bacon and croissants with jam. What do you think?” You ask while still looking in the refrigerator.
It’s silent for a few seconds. Scrunching your face, you turn around. “Babe, did you hear me- mm!”
Michael silences you with a quick kiss. It catches you off guard. He tilts his head down a bit, studying your reaction again before pressing another kiss to your lips.
This one slow, reverent, and attentive. Pulling back a few centimeters, he lets out a small breath. “Wewe ni mrembo..” he exclaims while wrapping his toned arms around your waist.
You practically melt into his arms when he speaks Swahili to you. A shy grin appears on your face as a giggle slips out.
“Asante, mpenzi wangu.” You reply back, eyes tracing over his features.
“Someone’s been practicing, huh?” He asks with that famous grin. His dimples showing a bit.
“Well, I do have a great teacher.”
“Damn right. Sounds good coming out your mouth, too.” He presses his face into your neck, kissing softly.
“Mm, baby..don’t be starting that..” your voice goes up an octave slightly.
“Aight, fine. I know you still tired from the past two days,” Michael pulls back with a mocking laugh. “You usually able to keep with me, baby. Whats got you feeling like this?”
“Maybe because my man can’t keep his hands off of me.”
“I will never, ever, keep my hands off you. You will always be mine.”
“Always? How you know that for sure?” You tease with a slight raised eyebrow.
“Don’t play with me. You ain’t going nowhere. For several reasons,” he counters while moving around the kitchen.
“Please enlighten me on these reasons since you seem so sure.” You had over to the cabinet near the sink, bending down to grab the large mixing bowl.
“For one, my mama loves you. So that’s locked in. Since day one.” His says proudly as he stands a couple of feet behind you. “Two, you practically live with me and I’m always here with you. Third, I really don’t feel like returning this.”
You scrunch your face in confusion. “Returning what baby?” You ask as you stand back up holding the glass bowl. Turning around, you find Michael down on one knee.
A red velvet box in hand.
The top of it open. Revealing the clean, shiny gold resting inside. The rainbow reflection of the radiant cut diamond resting inside.
It stared back at you in all of its expensive glory. You study it and look back to him and then the ring. The back again at him.
“Michael-“
“I know.”
“You serious?”
“Yes. Very serious.”
“That’s like 3 carats.”
“5. It’s 5 carats. An ideal diamond. VVS1, Color D, radiant cut. Has that vintage and nature look you love.”
“Michael..” your voice lowers a little. Your hands holding the glass bowl firmer.
“Baby, I love you. Everything about you. Since the day I saw you at the Golden Globes, I knew there was something about you that I couldn’t understand. Then you came to my moms house. And I just knew God was telling me something,” he takes a shaky breath. You can tell he’s nervous by the way he’s looking at you.
“These months with you, have changed me in ways I never thought possible. You are mine. Not just in the physical sense, but I feel that spiritual connection with you. One that I’ve never got with anybody. So, I’m asking you, right here, right now..”
Your breath stills. The atmosphere becoming raw and intimate.
“Will you marry me?”
Excitement crawls up your spine, but you can’t resist to tease him.
“You asking me to be the Chi Chi to your Goku, Michael?” The anime reference slipping out your mouth. He snorts out a laugh.
“Girl, yes. I’m asking for that. Please be my Chi Chi. Goku couldn’t survive without her and I can’t survive without you.”
“Yes. I’ll marry you baby. A hundred times yes.” You laugh as you bend over and place both hands on his face, kissing him.
He slides the back of his hand to the nape of your neck, his fingers gripping the back of your hair gently as he deepens it. The overwhelming emotion flowing out of you both.
“If you don’t like the ring, we can get it changed-“
“No. I love it. You did amazing. Don’t change a thing.”
“Yeah? Cmere so I can put it on.” He takes your hand and slide it over your ring finger.
“Who all knows about this?”
“My parents. Yours. They were all over the moon about it. Especially our mamas. They both mentioned grand babies.” He laughs at the memory. You roll your eyes playfully.
“Of course they did.”
He reaches into his right pocket and pulls out his phone. He opens Instagram and swipes over to the camera.
“Uhn Uhn baby, I look ugly right now-“
“You look like mine. Don’t disrespect what’s mine.”
That took you by surprise and you look at him. He smiles at the camera as he records. “She said yes! And yes, we’re together for everyone who didn’t know..”
“Everyone didn’t know, baby.” You chuckle gently. Raising up your left hand, the ring flashes the screen. He kisses your neck while cheesing hard.
He ends the recording and rewatches it. Without hesitation, he posts it.
“I gotta prep myself for these DMs from your fans and random strangers now.”
“As long as no niggas get bold.”
“Oh my goodness, Michael-“
“Nah, nah. You know who I’m talking about.”
“For the last time, Daniel is not into me.”
“Please. I’m not blind. Nigga was standing too close to you when we were at that pool party. Even touched your face.”
“He was removing a spider web.”
“Nigga think he spider-man..tryna remove spider webs and shit-“
Summary: Zariah Saint-James is everywhere. Runways. Campaigns. Magazine covers. Private dinners packed with people rich enough to hide their intentions behind polished smiles and designer tailoring. The world knows her face before they know her voice, and lately her career is moving faster than she can keep up with.
Smoke lives in a different kind of world.
Warnings: Smoke x BRATTY OC SMUT. Spoiled, rich dark skin baddie x Daddy Dom/Strict!Smoke. Heavy dirty talk. Very descriptive smut. Spanking. Discipline.
[I didn’t tag since I am currently working on a new taglist. Apologies in advance. Wanted to give you guys something while I work on these updates!]
The car drops her a half step past the entrance like the driver doesn’t want to block the curb too long. Zariah steps out into a slice of low overhead light and the door shuts behind her with an expensive thud. The building doesn’t announce itself. There was no line, no loud music spilling out. Just a matte black door and a man who looks like he’s part of the wall until you meet his eyes.
Zariah gives her name. The man checks if once, then again without looking like he’s checking anything at all, and opens the door.
Inside, things felt warmer. Thicker. Not quite music, more like a pulse under everything. Velvet seatings. Dark wood. People who speak in half-voices and don’t repeat themselves.
Zariah pauses just inside, long enough to take it in. It was just a breath, nothing obvious. Her shoulders settle into their usual line, chin level, eyes forward. Zariah belongs in rooms. That part is muscle memory.
A hand touches her elbow lightly, her spine goes rigid.
“Saint-James.”
Zariah turns. Malik. He’s familiar enough to ease the first second of it. Zariah’s seen him at fittings, at a campaign wrap, once backstage where he talked too smoothly to be anyone’s assistant. Tonight, he looked sharper, but same smile though. Same confidence that assumes a yes before it’s given.
“You made it,” he says.
“Mm.” A small nod. “For a minute.”
Malik steps in beside her, hazel eyes boring into hers, not blocking, just aligning.
“Come on. I’ll show you around.”
Zariah lets him guide the direction not the movement. There’s a difference. He knows people here. That’s useful. He speaks in low tones as they move, greeting without stopping, names traded like small coins. When he introduces Zariah, his hand rests at the small of her back for a second too long, then lifts.
“This is Zariah. Saint-James.”
Heads turn. Not many. Enough.
She offers the version of a smile that doesn’t invite questions.
“Hi.”
A woman in a silk slip dress made by some foreign designer studies her, then softens, “I know your face.”
Zariah dips her chin once. “That happens.”
A glass appears in her hand without her asking. She doesn’t drink it yet. She holds it, lets the cool settle into her palm. Malik leans in to say something near her ear. His breath brushes too close. Zariah tilts her head just enough to hear without giving him the rest of the space.
“Good room,” he says. “Keep your face around.”
“Mm.” She takes a small step forward, easing the distance. “I’m not staying long, Malik.”
They drift to a cluster near the bar. Four men, maybe five. Conversation tight. Phrases that loop around meaning instead of landing on it. Numbers, but not spoken like numbers. Zariah listens without looking like she’s listening. That’s a skill she learned early. One of them glances at her, then at Malik. A beat. A question that never becomes a question.
Malik answers it anyway.
“She’s good,” he says, easy. “She with me.”
One of the men drags their eyes over Zariah.
“This you, Malik? Whatever happened to that French model you had on your arm during fashion week?”
“You know that was all business,” Malik leans into Zariah, placing his hand on her lower back. “This is Zariah Saint James. She’s gonna be the new face taking over the fashion industry. Ain’t that right, baby?”
Hums of approval circulated.
Zariah stills. Not a freeze. A correction. She turns her head, just enough to catch his eye. Her voice stays light, even.
“I came by myself, actually.”
It lands clean. No edge. No apology.
A couple of the men look away first. Malik’s smile doesn’t falter, but it tightens at the corners.
“Yeah,” he says, like he meant it that way. “For a minute.”
“For a minute,” she repeats, and lifts the glass to her lips without drinking.
Zariah notices the details in the room now. How people stand angles instead of square. How no one laughs too loud. How eyes track movement without turning heads. This isn’t a creative room. Not really. It wears the shape as a disguise but the weight under it is something else.
Malik introduces her again, this time to a man in a dark suit with a watch that probably costs more than what Zariah is worth. Older. White. The man’s gaze rests on her a fraction longer than it needs to.
“Pleasure,” he says.
Zariah meets it, steady. “Mm.”
He smiles like that answer told him something.
Malik’s hand returns to her waist, guiding her half a step closer to the circle as if to anchor the introduction. She lets it sit there for a second, then shifts her weight, a small turn of her hips that leaves his hand with nowhere natural to land. It falls away.
“I’m gonna grab something,” she says, already moving.
Stay,” Malik whispers, soft enough that it could pass for a suggestion.
Zariah doesn’t stop.
“I’ll be right back.”
At the bar, she can breath better. She sets the glass down untouched and rests her fingertips on the smooth marble of the bar top. Her reflection glides along the surface, broken by light. Zariah smoothes the line of her dress at her hip, more to ground herself than to adjust anything.
Her phone buzzed once. Zariah glanced at it. A text from a stylist about a call time tomorrow. She types back a quick answer, then locks the screen. Behind her, the private lounge continues like it didn’t notice her stepping away.
Malik returns, closer than before. Zariah stiffens.
“You good?”
“I’m fine.” Zariah keeps her gaze on the bar, then turns to Malik. “I’m heading out in a second.”
“Already?” Malik smiles, but there’s something under it now. “You just got here.”
“I said a minute.”
Malik leans in again, voice low. “Don’t do that, Zariah. It’s a good look for you to be seen here. I called some connects. Got you on the list…”
Zariah holds his gaze.
“I’ve been seen.”
There was a pause. Malik’s eyes search her face like he’s trying to decide how far to push. It was making Zariah feel uncomfortable.
“Come meet one more person,” he says. “Then you can go.”
Zariah considers it. Quick. The room presses at the edges of her awareness.
“One,” she says.
Malik nods like he won something. They cross the floor again. This time, the path feels longer. Or maybe she’s more aware of it. The man Malik wants her to meet stands near a corner where the ambiance is softer. He looks up as they approach, already informed.
“Saint James,” Malik says. Like he’s placing a piece on a board. “Told you.”
The man’s eyes take her in without apology. Dark. Unreadable. A face so chiseled it could only be described as a plastic surgeon’s work.
“I’ve seen you. That shoot with Alberto Rodriguez. Stunning. Versace.”
“Thank you.” Her tone stays even.
“I’m Westley.” He smiles. “You’re in the right room.”
Zariah meets that without returning it, “I’m in the room I walked into.”
Malik laughs under his breath like she said something charming. The man doesn’t laugh.
For a second, no one speaks.
“…well. It’s nice to finally meet you, Saint James. Hopefully the next time we meet, It’s us working together.”
Zariah lets it sit. Then, she inclines her head, gives Westley a faint smile, small and final.
“I’m heading out.”
Malik’s hand ghosts at her back again, then stops when she doesn’t slow. “I’ll walk you.”
“No, you’re good.” Zariah turns slightly, enough to keep it polite, not enough to invite him to follow. “I got it.”
Zadiah moves toward the door with the same pace she walked in with. Composed. The man at the door opens it before she reaches for the handle.
Outside, Zariah exhales, a real one this time, and steps onto the curb. For a second, she stands there, looking back at the black door like it might explain itself if she gave it long enough.
It doesn’t.
Zariah pulls her phone out to call her driver, thumb hovering over the screen. Then, she stills.
A small thought crosses her mind.
I should’ve said something.
The ride back felt longer than it should have. Zariah sits angled toward the window, city lights dragging across the glass in streaks of gold and white. Her phone sat in her lap, the screen dark. She picked it up once, unlocked it, then locked it again without doing anything. Her reflection stared back at her faintly in the window. Same face. Same poise. But there was something tighter around her eyes now.
She exhales and leans back.
By the time the car pulls up, most of the lights in the surrounding units are off. Her driver tells her goodnight. Zariah answers without thinking and steps out, her heels landing soft against pavement. Inside, the elevator ride was short. Too short. She watches the LED numbers climb, arms folded loosely, thumb brushing over her wrist. Not nervous. Just…aware.
The elevator doors open. The hallway leading into the hall of her apartment building is dim, lined with soft recess lighting along the ceiling. Her steps are steady and cloaked by the hand-tuffted carpet runner in dark green as she walks to her door. Zariah reaches into her bag, pulls out her keys, and unlocks it.
The door opens with a hiss.
And the first thing she notices is the light. It’s already on. It wasn’t every light, but enough. The living room. The kitchen.
He’s here.
Smoke is sitting on one end of her sectional, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. No TV. No phone. Just him. And that was enough to make her pause.
He looked up when she stepped in. Zariah pauses just past the foyer for half a second. Then, she sits her bag down on the coffee table.
“When did you get here?” She asked, proceeding to take off her heels like everything is normal.
Smoke doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay locked on her.
Then—
“Where you come from?”
Flat. No extra weight in the words. That’s what makes it land hard. Zariah slips her other shoe off, placing them beneath the coffee table.
“Out.”
A beat
“With who?”
Zariah straightens, smoothing her dress down at her hips before turning to face him.
“Some people from work.”
Smoke’s gaze doesn’t break.
“What people?”
Zariah tilts her head slightly, studying him now.
“Why you askin’ like that?”
Smoke leans back just enough to rest against the sectional, but his eyes remained glued to her like he was seeing past the guard she was trying to obtain.
“Answer the question.”
Zariah’s jaw sets for a second.
“I told you. Work people.”
Silence. It stretched just enough to be felt.
Then—
“You was at that lounge on Mercer.”
It wasn’t a question. Zariah’s eyes flicker once. She wasn’t surprised. Just confirmation that she knew he would be keeping an eye on her location.
She folds her arms loosely.
“…Yeah.”
“Who took you there?”
“My driver dropped me off. I went by myself.”
Smoke’s gaze sharpens just a fraction.
“Don’t do that.”
Zariah’s brows pull together. “I just told you—”
“Who brought you in?”
His voice doesn’t rise. It just tightens. Zariah exhales through her nose.
“A creative I know. Malik was there.”
Smoke leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees again.
“Malik.”
Smoke repeats it like he’s placing it somewhere. Then, he looks back at Zariah.
“And you thought that was somewhere you should be.”
There was no question in it. Zariah shifts her weight onto one leg.
“I’ve been in places like that before.”
“No,” Smoke says, cutting through it. “You haven’t.”
That hit. Zariah’s arms drop from where they were closed. Her posture straightens.
“You don’t know every place I’ve been,” Zariah replies, voice firmer now.
“I know that one.”
Zariah studies him, eyes narrowing slightly. “You actin’ like I walked into something crazy, Smoke.”
He holds her gaze. “You did.”
Zariah’s lips press together. For a second, she looks like she might push back harder.
“I was fine,” she says instead.
Smoke’s expression doesn’t change. “No, Z. You wasn’t.”
Short. Final.
Zariah’s breath catches slightly, more from the certainty than the words themselves. She looks away for a second, then back at him.
“I handled myself. Like I always do.”
The corner of Smoke’s mouth twitched. Enough to part his full lips and reveal silver slugs. He watched her with a slight squint of his eyes. Because he knew. He always knew.
“I’m sure you think you did, baby.”
That stung more than anything else he’d said.
Her chin lifts just a touch, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Silence again. This time more overbearing. Smoke leans forward more, closing some of the space between them without standing.
“Look at me.”
Zariah’s eyes snap back to his. She holds it.
“I am.”
Then, Smoke asks, calm and direct. “He put his hands on you?”
Zariah stills. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides.
“It wasn’t like that.”
That’s not an answer.
Smoke’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“Did he touch you.”
Zariah exhales. “…Yeah.”
Another pause.
“Where.”
Her jaw tightens.
“At my back. My waist. He was just—guiding me.”
Smoke nods once, slow. “Guiding you.”
He repeats it, but it wasn’t like he agrees.
Zariah shifts her weight again. “I moved. I corrected it.”
“I know you did.”
That catches her off guard. Her brows lift slightly.
“You know?”
“I know how you move.” His tone hasn’t changed, but something underneath it has. “And you still stayed.”
There it is.
Zariah’s shoulders drop just a fraction.
“I was trying to leave without making it a thing.”
Smoke sits back again, dragging a hand over his face once before letting it fall.
“You already was a thing the second you walked in there.”
Zariah’s gaze softens, just a little. She looks at him for a long second, then speaks quieter.
“I didn’t know it was like that. That he…that it was more than making connections. Helping my career.”
Smoke watches her. And for the first time, something shifts in his expression. Edged with something else. A softness rarely seen.
“I know you didn’t, Z. That’s the problem.”
Zariah exhales, slow. Her shoulders ease. She steps a little closer now, enough to close some of the distance.
“I hear you.”
It’s quieter than anything she’s said so far. Real. Smoke holds her gaze a moment longer. Then, he leans back against the sofa, one hand resting on his jaw.
“Next time,” he says, voice steady, “you tell me where you goin’.”
Zariah nods once. “…Okay.”
She means it, but she looks away right after she says it, eyes drifting toward the kitchen like the conversation might loosen if she doesn’t hold it.
It doesn’t.
The sofa creaks as Smoke Stands. He steps toward her, closing the space she left between them. Zariah’s shoulders tighten just a fraction as he stops in front of her.
“Don’t look away.”
Smoke’s voice stays low and firm. Her eyes lift back to his, slow and steady. Smoke studies her for a second. Then, his hand comes up, fingers settling under her chin, thumb along the side of her jaw.
“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.”
Zariah’s breath shifts. She doesn’t pull away.
“Mkay,” she replies with a soft voice.
“You walked into a space where nobody in there is who they say they are,” he says. “Not to you.”
Zariah watches him, listening.
“…That wasn’t no industry lounge,” Smoke continues. “That’s a place people use to meet when they don’t want nothin’ traced back to ‘em. Deals get made in there that don’t got nothin’ to do with clothes or cameras.”
Zariah’s brows pull together slightly. “I didn’t hear anything like that.”
“You wasn’t supposed to,” he answers, just as even. “That’s the point.”
Zariah’s lips part, then press together again. Smoke’s thumb shifts against her jaw, grounding her attention back to him.
“And that nigga, Malik?” Smoke goes on. “He ain’t no creative you just ‘know’. He move with people who use faces like yours to get in rooms easier. To make things look clean.”
Zariah’s posture straightens. She exhales.
“He didn’t do anything to me. I wouldn’t have let it get that far, Smoke. I had it under control,” she says, a little firmer. “And I didn’t even expect to see him tonight. A friend of mine put in a word. I…I just…I figured it was just some exclusive party for A listers and I could—I could walk in there and—”
“I didn’t say he did anything.” Smoke cut her off. “I said he put you somewhere you shouldn’t have been. And that friend? I wouldn’t be surprised if they a part of it. So you need to cut them off.”
Zariah’s gaze flickers, then steadies again.
Smoke leans in just slightly, enough to make sure she’s locked in with him.
“I’m in this enough to know how that goes,” he says. “I seen how fast it turns. You walk in thinkin’ it’s one thing, and next thing you know you tied to somethin’ you don’t even understand yet.”
Zariah swallows lightly. Smoke’s eyes stay on hers.
“And I don’t play about what’s mine.”
There’s no rise to his voice. No dramatics. Just fact. Zariah feels that one’s it sits heavy on her chest. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides, but she doesn’t break eye contact. Smoke lets that hang for a second before continuing.
“So listen to me,” he says. His hand drops from her chin, but his presence doesn’t pull back. “When you go somewhere, you let me know first.”
Clear.
“You don’t just show up anywhere off impulse. I don’t care who invited you.”
Zariah nods, lips scrunched up. “Okay.”
“If you walk into a spot and somethin’ feel off,” he continues, “you don’t stand there tryin’ to figure it out. You leave.”
Zariah’s lips part slight like she’s about to speak but she lets him finish.
“You call me,” he says. “I’ll come get you. I don’t care where you at.”
Certainty.
“And if somebody put their hands on you,” Smoke adds, voice still low, “or make you feel any type of way…”
He paused, enough to let Zariah know he’s dead ass serious.
“You tell me. And I’ll handle it. My way.”
Zariah’s breath slows. “I will.”
Smoke studies her, making sure.
“Say it again.”
Zariah’s eyes stay on his. “I’ll tell you.”
Smoke hums, then he nods his head before leaning down to kiss her forehead, then her cheek, and ending with her lips. A soft peck that stirs her. Zariah breaks the kiss, exhales, then she looks at him.
“I didn’t know—”
“I know, baby girl. Just…listen to me, okay? You know this shit triggers me when you go off doin’ shit that make me worried. I’m serious, Z. Don’t do this shit again.”
She purses her lips, but ultimately gives him another kiss, falling into his big embrace that swallows her.
Correction.
Weeks pass. At first, Zariah tells herself Smoke is just being attentive. Protective. Present.
After the lounge incident, Smoke starts rearranging his life around hers in ways that don’t announce themselves immediately. It begins small enough to almost feel thoughtful. He starts picking her up from late shoots instead of sending a driver. He waits outside fittings in black SUVs with the engine running while she changes out of couture and campaign makeup under bright studio lights. When she lands in another city for a show, he’s already there before she reaches baggage claim, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, eyes scanning the terminal before they settle on her.
Smoke never makes a scene. Never acts possessive in public. That’s what makes it harder to argue with. To everyone around her, Smoke looks dependable. Solid. The type of man women brag about having.production assistants smile when he takes garment bags from their hands. Publicists relax when he quietly checks exits and entrances before an event. Designers greet him like they trust him instinctively, even when they don’t know why.
And Zariah hates that part a little because he’s so good at it. Too good at it.
Her world keeps moving at full speed while his begins orbiting around it with frightening precision. Editorial spreads in Paris. Beauty campaigns in New York. Fashion week dinners packed with actors, athletes, stylists, investors, people who speak in air kisses and coded conversations. Zariah is everywhere lately. Her face is in windows three stories high. Magazine covers. Digital campaigns looping across giant screens downtown. And somehow, Smoke is always there now too.
Not beside her. Near her. Outside the room. At the car.
Watching.
Waiting.
The first few times, Zariah lets it go. She tells herself it’s temporary. That he’s going to go back to work doing what he does that’s so top secret and get bored of all the glitz and glam. That he’s trying to make a point after what happened with Malik and the lounge. But the weeks stretch and instead of easing up, Smoke becomes more involved.
More structured.
He starts asking for schedules in advance. What event. Which hotel. Who invited her. Who’s attending. What time she expects to leave.
Not interrogations.
Expectations.
And that’s what starts irritating her. Because Zariah has spent her entire adult life moving independently through spaces exactly like these. She built her career on instincts, timing, reading energy, staying graceful under pressure. Men in fashion flirt. Men in entertainment hover. Wealthy people invite you places with hidden motives attached to every smile. She learned how to survive that years ago. So when Smoke starts appearing downstairs before she even calls for a car, something in her begins pushing back automatically.
She stops texting updates as quickly. Leaves details out. Answers questions vaguely.
“Just work.”
“A dinner.”
“Somewhere in SoHo.”
Nothing technically disrespectful. But it was enough for Smoke to notice she’s testing the edges of what he said in that apartment weeks ago. And Smoke noticed everything. Especially patterns. Especially when someone starts moving different on purpose.
The irritation builds on both sides slowly, layered beneath long workdays and late nights. And the worst part is she can’t tell where protection ends and control begins anymore.
Zariah’s up early, wrapped in a robe, hair slicked back into a bun, glass skin and fuzzy Louis Vuitton slippers on her pedicured feet. She’s standing at the kitchen counter with her phone propped against a glass of hot water with lemon and ginger. A call time gets pushed. A fitting added. A dinner penciled in. Her voice stays even, professional, the version of her that never slips.
“Yeah, I can make that,” she says. “Send me the address.”
She doesn’t mention it to Smoke. Not when she hangs up. Not when she toasts her sourdough bread to add slices avocado and sliced smoked salmon. Not when she walks past the living room where Smoke is sitting, reading.
He glances up when she crosses. Zariah doesn’t stop.
“I got a dinner tonight,” she says like it’s an afterthought. “Brand people.”
Smoke nods, “what time?”
“Eight.”
“Where.”
Zariah takes a sip of her water.
“I’ll text it.”
Smoke studies her for a second longer than usual. Then, nods again.
“Aight.”
And Zariah doesn’t text it. Not at eight. Not at nine. She’s already dressed and out the door by the time the reminder crosses her mind, heels clicking down the hallway, phone buzzing in her hand with another message that isn’t his.
When she comes back, Smoke’s in the same spot. That’s the first thing she notices. Not the fact that he’s there. The fact that he hasn’t moved much.
Zariah steps in, sets her bag down, slips her heels off.
“You been sittin’ there all day?” Zariah asks, light, like she’s asking about the weather.
Smoke’s eyes lift to her. “Where you just come from, Zariah.”
Zariah walks past him, heading toward the kitchen. That little fancy plate of French food wasn’t enough to settle her hunger. She considers ordering in some Pho from her favorite Vietnamese restaurant.
“I told you,” she says. “Dinner.”
“With who.”
Zariah opens the fridge, bends over, little cocktail dress rising up, almost revealing no panties. She scans it like she’s actually looking for something.
“People from the brand.”
Smoke doesn’t say anything right away. But his jaw ticks. Zariah pulls out a bottle of water, shuts the fridge, leans against the counter.
“You ask a lot of questions,” she says, taking a sip.
There’s a small edge to it. A sassy little tone that reeks of an attitude that needs to be checked.
Smoke watches her unblinking.
“I asked you where, Zariah.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “It was in the city.”
That’s it. That’s all she gives him. And she knows it. Something stills in Smoke. He’s locked. Smoke sets his phone down on the table beside him. Slow. Then, he stands. Zariah watches him this time. She doesn’t look away. Smoke walks toward her, closing space like an imposing shadow. Zariah straightens a little as he stops in front of her. She braces her hand on the counter behind her. Smoke’s eyes narrow slightly, orbs darkened with frustration.
“You ain’t text me nothin’.”
Zariah takes a sip of her water, avoiding his eyes as if the vase across from her on the dining room table was more interesting.
“I was busy.”
Smoke tilts his head. “I told you, Z. You go somewhere, you let me know.”
Zariah lifts her gaze, chin lifting slightly. Defiantly.
“And I heard you.”
There it is. That fucking tone.
Dismissal.
Smoke’s gaze tightens just a fraction. “But you ain’t do it.”
Zariah shrugs, “I got there, everything was fine. It wasn’t a big deal.”
Smoke stepped in closer to where she was nearly pressed between his solid frame and the countertop behind her. Her breathing shifted but she checked it as best as she could.
“It was to me.”
Zariah rolls her eyes. She pushes off the counter, standing fully now.
“You can’t expect me to check in every time I step outside, Smoke,” she argues. “That’s not how I move and you know that.”
More edge now. More bite. Zariah knows she’s pushing. Smoke watches her for a long second. Then, he exhales once through his nose.
“You think that’s what it is.”
It wasn’t a question.
Zariah folds her arms. “I think you’re doing too much.”
The silence was heavy.
Then. “Say that again.”
Zariah holds his gaze. Doesn’t flinch.
“I said you’re doing too much.”
Smoke’s haha comes up, firm fingers gripping her jaw, turning her face just enough so she can’t angle away.
“Don’t do that.” Smoke said, low. Controlled yet deep.
“I’m just sayin—”
“NO,” Smoke cuts in, sharper. “You talkin’ like what I said don’t matter. And that’s a problem for me.”
Zariah’s eyes flash. “That’s not what I—”
“That’s exactly what you doin’.” Smoke’s grip tightens. “You hear me them weeks ago. Loud and clear.”
Zariah’s chest rises and falls a little quicker now.
“I did.”
“But you moved like you didn’t.”
There’s no way around that. Zariah looks at him, really looks this time. There’s something building in her too. It wasn’t fear. It was friction.
“I’m not one of your operations,” she says. “You don’t get to run me like that.”
Smoke scuffs. “Aight.”
He releases her jaw. Steps back half a step, and that almost feels worse.
“You right,” Smoke says. And it’s too calm. “I don’t run you.”
Zariah’s shoulders ease slightly. But only for a second.
“Which means,” Smoke continued, “you make your own decisions.”
Zariah watches Smoks cautiously now.
“And you deal with whatever come with ‘em. You don’t call me. You don’t tell me where you at. You don’t move how I told you to move—”
Smoke pauses. Not long.
“You on your own with that.”
Zariah’s brows pull together. “That’s not what I—”
“You wanted independence,” he says, cutting in, still calm. “I’m givin’ it to you.”
Zariah studies him.
This isn’t him trick to control her. This is him stepping back. And that doesn’t feel how she thought it would.
“You serious?” She asks.
Smoke nods. “I don’t chase grown decisions, ma. But don’t stand in my face and act like what I said ain’t carry weight.”
Zariah exhales. She folds her arms and juts that hip out. Lip poked. She looks at Smoke for a long second. Then, softer, but still holding onto herself:
“That’s not what I was tryin’ to do.”
Smoke cuts his eyes at her. Then, he walks off. Leaving Zariah fuming.
Zariah spends the rest of the evening like she lives alone. That’s the first thing that gets under Smoke’s skin.
Just…dismissal.
She moved through the luxury apartment with that polished calm of hers, never quite looking at him, never quite acknowledging the weight sitting in the space between them. She replies to texts on the sofa with one knee tucked under her, laughing softly at something on her screen, walks past him like he’s furniture.
Smoke says her name once.
Zariah hears it. He knows she hears it because her shoulders tighten for half a second. But, she keeps on walking. That does more than attitude ever could because now she’s choosing it. And one trigger of Smoke’s, one thing that really ticks him off—being ignored. He watched her enter her bedroom. Smoke sits there another few seconds, jaw working once.
Then, he stands. No rush to it. He rolls his shoulders once, loosening the tension sitting there. Smoke reaches for the watch on his wrist and sets it on the side table. Neatly. That alone would tell her everything if she saw it. Smoke never tosses things. When he starts setting items aside with care, he’s making room for discipline. He walks to the kitchen, pours a glass of water, drinks half, sets it down. Runs both palms over his face, then drags one hand across the back of his neck.
Collecting himself. Not cooling off. Centering.
By the time he reaches the bedroom, the bathroom door is cracked open from the steam, he pushes the door open wider and steps inside. Zariah is standing in front of her vanity, fingers hooking the thin straps of her sleek black cocktail dress. She tugs one strap down her shoulder, exposing smooth dark skin inch by inch, the fabric whispering at her elbows while she twists to face the mirror, grabbing her hair to pile it high, pinning it loose but secure with a claw clip.
Smoke leans against the frame, hoody heavy against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chest, fitted black tee stretching across his pecs. His eyes track every peel of fabric like he owns the view. Tension crackles thick from the kitchen standoff earlier, her defiance still simmering hot under her skin.
She sees him in the mirror, and now she’s taking off her strapless lace bra and matching thong. Completely naked and glowing like her body was slathered in liquid gold. That little performance almost makes him smile.
Almost.
“You done?” Smoke asks.
Her voice stays light. “With what?”
“With this act you tryna put on to piss me off.”
Zariah grabs a plum-colored silk robe from a wall mounted hook, hiding that beautiful body.
“I’m getting ready to shower. Then I’m going to bed. I have a busy schedule tomorrow, Smoke.”
Smoke closes the bedroom door. The click of the latch is small but it lands. Zariah’s fingers pause over the tie of her robe. Only for a second. Then, she resumes, adjusting the front of her robe like nothing changed. Smoke walks up until he’s directly behind her, watching her reflection instead of her directly.
“You been real busy not seein’ me tonight.”
Zariah shrugs one shoulder.
“I’ve been minding my business.”
“That so.”
“You got something to say,” she says, voice even, “say it.”
“I did.” His tone is lower now. “You ignored it.”
Her chin lifts a little in the mirror.
“Maybe I was tired of hearing it.”
Smoke’s hand comes to the robe knot at her waist, fingers brushing the bow but not pulling it loose. Zariah finally turns them, eyes lifting to meet his.
There’s a challenge there. Smoke matches that, boring his eyes into hers like he was asking her telepathically ‘you really wanna take it there, baby girl?’. His gaze dropped briefly to the robe that barely hugged her frame, the one she loved to put on after her showers. The one she wore whenever her skin was slicked with body oil so it could mold to her body in ways that had Smoke dickin’ her down to put her to bed properly.
“You been pokin’ at me all night.”
Zariah folds her arms over her chest.
“Maybe you’re easy to poke.”
That earns a quiet breath through his nose. And he wasn’t amused.
He steps closer until there’s no way for her to forget he’s there. The heat of him reaches her before contact does. Her spine straightens automatically. Smoke notices. His hand slides to her jaw, thumb settling near her chin, guiding her face up.
“Wrong answer.”
Zariah’s lips part.
She means to say something slick. He sees it forming.
But the words stall when his other hand reaches down, tugs the robe knot loose in one pull, then lets it fall open on its own. He takes a small step back, eyes downcast to admire her. Take in the view like she was modeling nudity for his eyes only. Robe parted wide and framing that long, elegant frame without hiding a damn thing. 5’10 of slim-thick lines hit different up close. Her long torso stretched down to a waist he could circle with both hands and still have room, dipping into hips that curved fuller from the side, that rich brown skin glowing warm.
Her chest rose steady with each breath, full and natural, nipples tightening just from the air or maybe his stare, elegant shape softening the sharp edges of her shoulders and collarbones. He clocked the subtle give in her stomach, toned thighs long from runway miles pressed together slight, calves flexing strong as she held runway poise even now.
Smoke’s eyes never leave hers.
“That attitude you got,” he says quietly. “I’m ‘bout done with it.”
“You ain’t my bodyguard no more, Smoke,” Zariah snaps, voice laced brat-sharp. “Stop actin’ like you run shit. I do what I want.”
Smoke chuckles low, rumble deep from his chest rolling out gravel-thick, his hand shoots out to snag her wrist before she grabs the front of her robe, pulling her half-turn into him, cedar scent faint mixing with her floral perfume.
“Yeah, but who you come runnin’ to when you needed help? Who handled things to make shit easier for you? Roughed niggas up that got too close? Would kill anybody that so much as try you?” Smoke drawls slow, southern thick, free hand palming the front of his joggers where his thick bulge thickens obvious. “Yeah, but you was feenin’ for this dick. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you beggin’ me to fuck you in that dressing room. Remember? Or you forgot just like you forgot who the fuck I am. And when I say somethin’, you do as you told.”
Smoke’s eyes never left yer face, unblinking and coal-dark, jaw set under stubble.
Zariah yanks her wrist free, twisting away but stays close, turning full to shove her palm flat against his chest, pushing half-hearted, his pecs unyielding under her spore as fingers. Zariah leans in, chin high, lips curling into a smirk.
“And wasn’t you the one that couldn’t wait to fuck me?” She fires back, hip cocked. “Ain’t never had a bitch like me in yo’ life. Soon as you got a taste, you obsessed, right? That’s why you still actin’ like a good little soldier. Now who’s in control now, big bad Smoke?” Her voice pitches taunt, one hand sliding down to trail the ridge of his abs where his tee clings, nails scraping light to test the flex.
Zariah walks off, brushing past him. Smoke snorts breath.
“Control? Lil’ girl, you testin’ ropes right now.” Smoke growls. His large Pam clamps her hip, yanking her flush from behind, his hard dick against her ass. His beard grazes her cheek as his head dips. “That dressin’ room…you hiked that dress, spread your legs wide, pussy was drippin’ and beggin’ for my tongue first. Then you rode this dick cryin’ daddy til you squirted all on this dick. Obsessed? Yeah…I ain’t got a reason to deny shit. But you hooked, baby girl. Chasin’ this nut every night since.” Smoke’s fingers trail up the arch of her spine, his other hand cupping her ass cheek.
Zariah gasps sharp, twisting her hips, bucking against him, but eventually she breaks the hold.
“Hooked? Please. You stalkin’ my every move like a lost puppy.” She spits, laughing brittle, backing toward the bathroom door. “Body guard days over, but you still guarding this pussy like it’s yours. And I’m glad you know exactly how obsessed you are.” Her eyes flash, lips parting to rest her tongue at the corner of her mouth.
Smoke steps forward, hands shooting out to brace the doorframe over her head, caving her without touch.
“Mine? Damn right. Till you prove otherwise.” He rumbles. “Go ‘head, shower off that dinner, but don’t think slamming doors gon’ end this talk.” His eyes rake over her body, dick tenting the front of his joggers. Zariah places her palm flat against his chest before giving him a final shove to the ripple of muscle, the door swinging hard bang latch catching. The shower turned on beyond the door and as much as Smoke wanted to open that door, he waited. Waited until he heard that shower shut off.
Zariah is standing at the vanity in nothing but a towel, lotion bottle in hand, acting deeply interested in the label. She bends to reach for her toner in the cabinet beneath the sink. The bathroom door opens, the humidity in the bathroom turning the air chill. The fog on the glass began to disappear. The way she knows exactly where he is behind her without turning around. She just wants him to know she can ignore it.
Zariah rises slowly, and sets her toner on the sink with careful precision.
Still won’t turn.
Zariah swallows. Her arms start to cross over herself instinctive. Smoke catches both her wrists and lowers them back at her sides.
“No.”
Zariah looks at him now, fully. Some of the bravado thinning at the edges. Because she knows this version of him. The one who gets calmer the more serious he is. He releases her wrists only after they stay where he put them. Then, he steps back half a pace and gestures toward the counter.
Smoke steps behind her, broad hand spreading over the back of her neck for one steady second, claiming her attention.
"Good," he says.
The steam from her shower clings to the air, thick and warm, fogging the mirror above the sink in faint swirls. Zariah stands there naked, skin dewy, water droplets tracing slow paths down her shoulders and the curve of her back. The towel lies discarded on the floor by her feet, leaving her fully exposed. Smoke’s hand lingers at her neck a beat longer, thumb pressing firm against her pulse, anchoring her in place. The heat of his palm seeps into her, carrying that familiar cedar scent that always seems to cut through everything else. Smoke's chest brushes her back as he closes the space. Zariah can feel the expansion of his black tee against her shoulder blades when he draws a controlled breath.
"Hands on the sink," he tells her, voice low and even.
Zariah does not move right away. Her chin lifts a fraction, eyes flicking to his reflection in the mirror, holding his gaze there. Bold still, testing.
“For what?” she asks, tone carrying that edge she knows gets under his skin, words clipped.
Smoke doesn’t rise to it. His free hand slides down her side, large fingers splaying over her hip, gripping just enough. The veins in his forearm stand out as his muscles flex.
“You know why,” he says. “All that mouth. Ignoring calls. Acting like rules don’t stick. Time to fix it.”
Zariah exhales through parted lips, a subtle shift, but her hands stay at her sides. Her posture remains upright, feet planted on the cool tile. Inside, she feels the pull, the way his presence makes the steam feel heavier, but she pushes back one more time.
“I was busy. You act like I owe you every second.”
Smoke's grip tightens on her hip, thumb digging into the soft flesh there. He leans in closer, lips near her ear, breath warm against the damp shell.
“Busy playin' games. Poking. Now I’ma show you. But that’s what you wanted, right?” His other hand lifts from her neck, trails down her spine, ending at the swell of her ass. He cups one cheek fully, squeezing hard enough to make her shift her weight.
"Hands. Sink. Now."
This time, her body responds before her mouth does. Palms flat on the cool porcelain edge, fingers splaying wide. She arches her back slightly without meaning to, ass pushing out toward him, skin prickling under the humid air. Her eyes stay on his in the mirror, defiant spark still there, but her breathing picks up, chest rising faster.
“That's better. So, you do as you told then?” he says, stepping fully behind her now. His feet plant wide on the tile, knees bracketing her legs as he positions himself. One hand stays on her hip, holding her steady. The other rears back, large palm open, veins bulging along his wrist.
The first smack lands solid across her right cheek, skin meeting skin with a sharp crack that echoes off the tiled walls. Her ass jiggles from the impact, flesh purpling instantly under his handprint. Zariah's fingers curl against the sink, a hiss escaping her teeth, but she bites down on anything louder.
“That all?” she throws back, voice tight, trying to keep the bold front.
Smoke sees it. The way her thighs tense, pussy lips glistening between her legs from more than just the shower. He knows she’s wet, knows the defiance is her last push before she settles. His dick barely had room to grow in his joggers, that thick length pressing against the seam as he watched her in the mirror.
“Keep talkin',” he warns, hand coming down again, harder this time, left cheek taking the full weight of his swing. The slap rings out wet in the steam, her ass bouncing, a fresh mark blooming dark against her skin.
Zariah gasps, knees buckling a touch, but his grip on her hip keeps her upright. Heat spreads across her backside, stinging deep.
“Fuck,” she breathes, eyes narrowing at him in the glass. “You mad at me daddy?”
Smoke doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he delivers three quick spanks in succession, alternating cheeks, each one heavier than the last. Palm cracks against flesh, her ass rippling with every strike, turning hot and swollen under his assault. Her pussy clenches visibly, slickness dripping down her inner thigh, betraying how much she needs this correction. Smoke's free hand slides between her thighs from behind, thick fingers parting her folds roughly, middle finger plunging into her soaked pussy without warning.
“This what you wanted?” Smoke growls low, pumping in and out once, twice, feeling her walls grip him tight. She moans despite herself, hips bucking back. But he pulls out just as quick, smearing her juices over her ass before landing another brutal smack right where her cheek meets thigh.
Zariah's head drops forward a second, elbows locking on the sink, but she lifts it back up, meeting his eyes again.
“Keep goin' then,” she challenges, voice breathier now, the bold cracking at the edges.
Smoke's chest rumbles with a low sound, approval mixed with hunger. That big dick throbs, straining as he tugs his joggers down with one hand, freeing the curved shaft and wide tip. Pre-cum beads at his slit, heavy length slapping against her bruised ass. But he ain’t done punishing her yet. Smoke grabs a fistful of her wet hair, pulling her head back gently but firm, forcing her to arch deeper.
“Count 'em,” he orders.
His hand cracks down again, full force, the loudest yet. Her ass quivers, marked deep purple, heat radiating.
“One,” she grits out, pussy aching empty.
Another on the other side, palm stinging his own skin from the velocity. “Two.”
Smoke spreads her cheeks with his thumbs, exposing her tight asshole and dripping slit, then spanks right across both, the impact jarring her whole body.
“Three,” she moans, thighs shaking. Teeth chattering.
Smoke leans over her, his dense midsection pressing into her back, shirt damp from the steam and her skin. His beard scraping her shoulder as he bites down lightly there, marking her while his hand rains down five more measured strikes, each one pushing her closer to breaking that last wall. Her counts come faster, voice turning needy, ass on fire, pussy clenching around nothing as viscous arousal slicks her legs. By the tenth, she is panting, body trembling in his hold, bold facade shattered into raw want.
P-Please,” Zariah whispers finally, not begging wildly but settling, hands gripping the sink.
Smoke pauses, rubbing his palm over the abused flesh, soothing the burn while his tip nudges her entrance, thick head parting her lips.
“Good girl,” he says, voice thick with possession.
Then he thrusts in deep, stretching her pussy wide around his girth, filling her completely. His hips snap forward once, deep and punishing, fat dick buried to the hilt in her dripping pussy, stretching her walls tight around his thickness.
When he eased that fat length inside her it opened her pussy with a slow burn, the girth demanding space as it sank deep. The curve to the right caught along her slick walls, dragging firm pressure against the sensitive ridge there with each inch that followed. Long and solid, bottoming out steady, filling her to the limit while her body adjusted around the thickness pulsing hot and full. Every shift would send that curve nudging the same spot over and over, building a tight coil low in her belly that made her thighs tremble without her meaning to. Zariah's breath catches sharp, body jolting against the sink, but Smoke pulls out slow, leaving her clenching empty, creamy slick coating his shaft. Not done yet. Her ass still needs more work, cheeks blazing hot under his palm prints.
Smoke's hand cracks down again, heavy and mean, right across both bruised globes. The slap echoes wet in the bathroom, her flesh rippling, thighs quivering from the sting. Zariah whimpers low, knees buckling inward, but his grip on her hip locks her straight.
“I don’t know why the fuck you act like you tough, baby,” Smoke growls, voice thick with that Mississippi drawl, low and gravel-rough, breath hot on her neck. His free hand fists her wet hair tighter, yanking her head back so her eyes lock on his in the fogged mirror. Dark brown gaze bores into hers, heavy-lidded and unblinking. “Why the fuck you keep actin’ up? Huh?”
Another smack lands harder, palm flattening her left cheek, sending fire blooming deep. Zariah’s legs shake harder, pussy leaking fresh wetness down her inner thighs, mixing with shower droplets on the tile. Zariah bites her full lip, trying to hold the sound, but a needy whine slips out anyway, body arching despite the burn.
“Why? Answer the fuckin’ question,” Smoke demands, leaning his solid chest heavier against her back, tee clinging damp to his thick torso. The weight of him pins her forward, broad shoulders eclipsing her reflection. His cream-coated dickthrobs hot against her thigh, pre-cum smearing her skin, but he holds off, rubbing her sore ass roughly with his rough palm, veins popping along his forearm whenever he would grip the flesh with his fingers.
Zariah exhales shaky through parted lips, fingers digging into the sink edge, porcelain cool under her palms. That bold edge frays, but she pushes one last time, voice breathy and tight. “I heard you...just didn’t think…”
Crack. His hand swings full force, spanking the spot where ass meets thigh, jolting her whole frame. Her pussy clenches hard, clit twitching, inner lips trembling from the impact, visible drip falling to the floor. Her legs trembled bad now, barely holding her up.
“Didn’t think what? That I mean what I say?” Smoke presses closer, beard scraping her shoulder as he leans in to kiss the spot where his teeth was minutes ago, soothing it. He spanks again, rapid fire—three in a row, alternating sides, each crack louder, her ass swelling fuller, hot to the touch.
“You went out there actin’ like my words ain’t shit. Ignorin’ calls. Playin’ like you run this. Nah, baby. That stops now.”
Zariah’s whimper turns into a gasp, body softening under the onslaught, shoulders dropping a fraction. She feels his control sink in deep, the dense gravity of his frame making the steam thicker, her vanilla-musk scent mixing with his cedar smoke.
“Y-Yeah... I hear you,” she admits quieter, chin lifting less defiant, eyes holding his with that flicker—irritation yielding to the weight.
Smoke pauses, large hand soothing over the fiery flesh, squeezing possessive. But his voice stays mean, drawl dragging slow.
“Too late for that hearin’ shit. You gonna learn tonight.” That dick nudges her slit again, thick head parting her soaked folds, teasing that creamy entry without giving it what it wants. One more spank, brutal across the fullest part of her right cheek, making her cry out soft, hips bucking back involuntary.
“Count the rest. And don’t make me ask twice.”
Her voice comes steady now, reined in, body present under him. “E-Eleven.”
Smoke’s hand lifts off her throbbing ass cheek, fingers digging into the heated flesh one last time before shoving her shoulders down firm. Enough with the slaps. Time to shut that mouth up proper. Her knees hit the wet tile with a soft smack, water slick under her shins. Zariah’s dark eyes lift to his, breath still ragged from the burn, but she don't hesitate. Her body shifts smoothly, settling low, full tits swaying as she balances on her heels.
Smoke steps up close, black tee clinging to his broad chest, sweat and shower mist beading on his deep brown skin. One thick hand wraps the base of his dick, pulling it free from where it hung thick and heavy between his muscular thighs. Almost as thick as her forearm, easy nine inches stretching out straight at first, then curving wicked at the tip like it know exactly where to hit deep. Girth thick around, veins bulging ropey along the dark shaft, skin a rich chocolate shade fading near the fat, flared head that's glossy with pre-cum leaking steady. Heavy balls swing low underneath, plump and full, hanging loose in that wrinkled sac, dark and musky from the heat. Whole thing pulses alive in his grip, smelling of clean soap mixed with his natural cedar-earth scent up close.
“See this dick right here, baby? You wanna talk back, runnin’ yo’ mouth like you run shit? Get this dick in that throat,” Smoke growls low, drawl dragging thick and mean, free hand tangling rough in her wet curls. He yanks her face forward, smearing the leaking head across her plump lips, leaving a shiny trail. “Suck big daddy’s dick. Put that mouth to work since you actin’ all tough. Throat it deep, show me you learned somethin’ tonight.”
Zariah parts her lips wide, tongue flicking out to lap the salty bead from his slit before she stretches her jaw open. Head disappears first, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks hard around the ridge, pulling him in inch by girthy inch. Those full Saliva spills quick, dripping down her chin. She trained for this, months of him working her down slow at first, gagging her till she took every curve without choking. Now she slides forward steady, throat relaxing open, feeling that bend nudge the back of her mouth then slip past her tonsils smooth.
The soft flesh of her lips stretches wide and presses flush against his shaft as she sinks lower, creating a tight seal that drags with each slow pull. Wet suction fills the quiet with each bob of her head, the sound thick and wet as her mouth works to take more. Heat and pressure builds around Smoke from the way her lips clamp and slide, her tongue pushing up from below while her throat opens to pull him deeper with every descent.
Zariah’s face pulls tight around that thick girth filling her mouth, her cheeks drawing inward in deep hollows that frame the shaft with sharp definition as she sinks lower. She maintains a steady rhythm of long, controlled pulls, her tongue pressing firm and flat underneath while her throat opens to swallow more with each descent, creating a constant wet drag and suction that tightens on the upstroke. Her jaw works visibly with the effort, lips sealed flush and sliding in a smooth, milking motion that builds pressure without pause.
Smoke groans deep in his chest, hips bucking shallow to feed her more. “Yeah, that's it, fuckin' swallow this big dick. You know how I like it, don't play. Deeper, baby, choke on it if you gotta, but don’t stop.” His voice rumbles harsh, hand guiding her head, thick fingers pressing her nose toward his trimmed pubes. His fat nuts slap light against her chin as she bobs, throat bulging visible with his length buried fully. Zariah gags once soft, eyes watering, but pushes through, humming low around him, tongue pressing flat underneath to stroke the bulging vein.
Smoke watches her work in the mirror, heavy-lidded eyes narrowing mean. “Look at you, all that fire earlier, now you slurpin' dick like a good lil’ girl. Shoulda did this from jump, keep that ass in line and yo’ throat full. Mmm, suck harder, baby. Drain these nuts dry.” His grip tightens in her hair, fucking her face, pulling out to the tip with a wet pop before slamming back in, curve hitting her gag reflex perfect every thrust. Her hands brace his thick thighs, nails digging into the dense muscle, feeling him flex under her palms as drool strings from her stretched lips.
Zariah’s pussy aches empty between her spread knees, thighs slick with her own drip mixing on the floor, but she focuses, hollowing her cheeks tighter, swallowing around his girth to milk him. Her nose buries in his coarse hairs finally, balls snug against her chin, holding him deep till her lungs burn. She pulls off gasping, strings of spit connecting her mouth to his shining shaft, then dives back, faster, head twisting side to side for friction.
“That’s my girl, train that throat right. You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I bust down yo’ neck,” Smoke grunts, free hand cupping her jaw rough, thumb smearing spit back in. His heavy balls draw up tight, dick twitching hard in her sucking mouth, but he holds off, drawing it out mean. “Keep goin’. Earn that forgiveness, baby.”
Zariah’s right hand wraps around the base of his thick dick, fingers barely meeting around the girth as she strokes up slow, twisting at the swollen head slick with her spit. She sucks deeper on the pull back, lips sealed tight around his veiny shaft, tongue swirling under the curve that presses her cheek out. Her left hand steadies on his heavy thigh, nails scraping light into the dense muscle as she bobs faster, throat opening wide to take him balls-deep again, humming vibrations along his length.
Smoke's eyes narrow sharp, watching her work from above. His big palm cracks down quick on her stroking hand, slapping it off his dick with a wet smack.
“Nah, baby. Hands where I can see ‘em. Up behind yo head or on them thighs. This mouth mine now.”' He grabs a fistful of her wet curls tighter, yanking her head back just enough to pop his dick free, strings of saliva stretching long before snapping. Then he thrusts forward, burying every curving inch straight down her throat in one push, balls smacking her chin heavy.
Zariah gasps around the invasion, eyes watering, but puts her hands in her lap. Her throat bulges with his girth, the bend lodging deep, cutting off her air till black spots dance. He don't let up—hips snap forward, fucking her face, pulling out to the flared head where she gasps ragged, then slamming back in, pubes grinding her nose.
“Fuckin’ tired of yo games, Zariah. All this bullshit you pullin’,” he growls low, thick and gravelly, voice echoing off the tile. Smoke picks up meaner, dick pistoning her mouth, heavy balls swinging to slap her jaw each thrust. “Back when I was yo’ bodyguard, dealin' with yo’ spoiled, uptight, prissy ass barkin' orders left and right. Actin’ like you own the world, snappin’ at me like I'm one of yo’ lil' errand boys. Had to bite my tongue, watchin' you strut ‘round thinkin’ you untouchable.”
Zariah’s knees spread wider on the slick floor, thighs quivering as drool pours down her chin, soaking her tits glossy. She gags hard on a deep plunge, throat convulsing around his pulsing shaft, but holds the position, hands laced tight in her lap, fingers twitching to grip something. That wet ass pussy throbbed neglected, juices trailing down to puddle under her.
Smoke grunts deep, free hand bracing the sink edge, muscles flexing in his thick arm as he rams harder, curve dragging her tonsils raw. “And now? Now you on this dick, slurpin’ like you starved, and still think you run shit? Nah, baby girl. I run it. Always did. Just lettin’ you play pretend till I remind this lil’ ass who in charge.” He yanks her hair sharper, holding her nose-deep, balls snug on her chin, grinding slow circles to stretch her throat wider. “Feel that? Feel daddy ownin' this mouth? You gon’ take every inch till I say stop. No more actin’ brand new.”
Zariah’s chest heaves desperate around the blockage, tears streaking her cheeks mixing with spit, but her eyes stay locked up at him, defiant spark fading to raw submission. She swallows around his girth, milking the veiny underside, tongue pressing frantic when he pulls back for air. Her hands stay put, obedient, elbows trembling from the strain as he resumes pounding, wet gurgles filling the humid air, his heavy balls tightening with each brutal thrust.
Smoke abruptly snaps his hips back, dick leaving her throat. Zariah sucked in a lung full of air, sniffling, teary eyes cloudy as she looked up at her daddy with a bite of her bottom lip. She’d sucked a few dicks in her twenty-nine years of living but she would have never thought a nine inch, veiny monster would fit down her throat. Normally, she would pat herself on the back, but right now, Smoke was pissed off. Her reward would come later. Right now, she’s a throat to fuck and nothing more. Her eyes went hazy from staring at his hard dick bobbing and twitching in her face, glossy and dripping with saliva. She knew he was close because his tip was a deep purple and it flared so wide it left the corners of lips raw. The map of veins along his shaft bulged in size, and his nut sack sat full and loaded with cum.
“Open up.” Smoke commands.
Zariah does as she’s told, eager for more. That big dick slid in smooth and full, making her eyes roll.
Smoke's hips jackhammer faster now, thick dick plunging her throat raw brutal snaps, the curve battering her tonsils. His balls draw up tight, slapping her chin wet and relentless, his breath turning into ragged grunts as the pressure coils low in his gut. Sweat beads down his solid chest, tee clinging damp to the full slabs of pecs heaving with each drive. He feels her throat spasm greedy around his girth, milking him closer to the edge.
“Eyes up here, Zariah. Look at me while I feed this throat,” he snarls, free hand clamping her jaw firm, thumb digging into the hinge to force her gaze up. Watery brown eyes meet his dark, heavy-lidded stare, hers wide and pleading, his burning with ownership. “Hands in yo’ lap. Fingers laced. Don't move ‘em.”
Zariah shifts quickly on her knees, pulling her elbows in to drop her hands to her thighs, palms up and fingers interlocking obediently in her lap like a proper slut. Her thighs quake wider apart on the tile, pussy clenching empty and dripping strings of arousal to the floor. Her jaw slackens under his grip, relaxing loose as he demands, lips stretched obscene around his pistoning shaft, drool bubbling out the corners to sheet down her neck and pool between her heaving tits.
“Good girl. There you go, relax that jaw. Let daddy bust,” Smoke growls deep, gravel scraping rough, pace turning erratic, hips stuttering as his dick swells thicker in her gullet. His balls contract hard, and he slams balls-deep one final time, grinding his pubes flush to her nose, holding as ropes of hot cum erupt straight down her throat. Pulse after thick pulse floods her, warm, slightly salty jets coating her esophagus, forcing her to gulp convulsively around the buried length.
He don't budge an inch, big hand locked on her curls, the other on her jaw, keeping her pinned nose-deep while she swallows every drop—no spill, no waste. Her throat works visible under the skin, bulging swallows pulling his load down greedy, chest fluttering desperate for air around the blockage. Her eyes remain locked on his, tears carving clean tracks through the spit mask on her face, but that defiant spark's gone fully, replaced with raw, owned surrender shining back.
Smoke holds till the last twitch fades, dick softening just enough in the wet heat, then eases out slow, dragging the sensitive underside over her lolling tongue. Strings of cum-mixed saliva cling thick, snapping as the flared head pops free. She coughs hoarse, sucking air in big whoops, hands twitching in her lap but staying put, lips puffy and glossy. He strokes her cheek with his thumb, smearing the mess, voice dropping low and satisfied.
“Every drop. That's how you take what’s yours. Don’t forget who run this shit.”
Smoke’s thick fingers loosen from her curls, sliding down to hook under her arms with that unyielding grip, hauling her up off the tile slow and steady. Her knees wobble jelly-soft, thighs slick from her own dripping need, but he steadies her full against his sweat-damp shirt, broad chest rising firm under her cheek. His big hand cups her elbow, the other spans low on her back, guiding her bare feet over the bathmat and out the steamy bathroom door.
He snags a clean washcloth from the sink edge first, soaking it under hot tap water till steam curls off, then presses it gentle but thorough to her chin, wiping away the glossy streaks of spit and tears. His thumb traces her swollen lips, the cloth dragging over puffy cheeks and her jaw, leaving her skin flushed warm and bare.
“There. Clean slate, baby girl,” he rumbles low, voice that quiet thunder rolling deep from his chest.
The king bed dominated the dim space, sheets rumpled from earlier. He sinks onto the edge, thighs spreading wide like tree trunks, then tugs her forward to drape her naked body across his lap face-down. Ass up high, cheeks still blooming hot from the spanking, pussy lips peeking swollen and slick between spread thighs. His weight shifts the mattress deep, one massive palm flattening broad on her lower back to anchor her still, the other dipping into the jar of balm on the nightstand. A cool, thick shea and aloe mix he keeps stocked for nights like this.
His fingers dig in generously, spreading the cream in firm circles over her left cheek first, kneading the stinging heat away, thumb pressing into the tender underside where it meets thigh. Smoke switches to the right after a while, palms gliding slick, parting the globes slightly to smooth the balm down the cleft, grazing her puckered hole and dipping low enough to tease her soaked folds without mercy.
“You know why that ass got lit up, Zariah,” he starts, tone even, dangerously calm wrapping each word like barbed wire, dragging vowels long and weighted. “Pushin’ me like that, testin' boundaries when I done told you how it's gone be. Mouth runnin’ reckless, darin’ me to snap. I spank you again and again if you keep triggerin’ this fire. Don’t make me prove it twice more tonight.”
His hand keeps working, the balm sinking in as her skin drinks it greedy, cooling the fire to a throb. Smoke’s palm cups one cheek full, squeezing soft, then leans down to press open-mouth kisses along the curve—lips dragging hot and wet, tongue flicking out to taste the salted balm on fevered flesh. Peck after peck trails inward, nipping the fullest swell before soothing with flat laps.
“Mmm,” he draws back, biting his bottom lip, her slick sticking to his goatee, “pussy puffy from me popping that ass,” Smoke takes two fingers, tapping her pussy lips, labia peeking through like petals. “I know you love it when daddy turns you out like a fuck doll…pussy leakin’ for it. But safety first, always. Top of my list. You play brat, defy what I say to keep you whole, that shit upsets me deep. I’d kill anybody—end ‘em slow—who so much as touches a hair on your head. Bleed ‘em dry for less.”
Smoke’s voice stays level, no rise, just that steel edge slicing through, breath ghosting her skin between kisses, one hand landing square on the sit-spot welt. Smoke pauses, hand stilling to pat her ass possessive, waiting till her breath evens soft against the sheets.
“Now, you know what I want you to do. Say it clear.”
Zariah shifts slightly across his lap, thighs clenching, posture holding upright even prone, spine straight, hands smoothing the bedspread once to ground herself. Her voice comes soft, that self-possessed edge threading through.
“…I’ll listen to what daddy says.”
“Good girl, keep goin’.”
Smoke’s palm resumes stroking the balm in, fingers parting her cheeks wider for a deep kiss right above where her puckered hole sat, his tongue circling lazy.
“…I—I’ll stop being m–mean to daddy…and understand t–that he’s trying to protect m–me, not control me,” her full lips press thin a beat, exhale parting them tense, brown eyes flicking back over her shoulder to hold his gaze steady. Even though her body couldn’t stop shaking.
“Mm. That’s my girl,” another peck lower, between the under cuff of her ass where her thighs met, “finish it.”
“H–He wants me to continue t–to be independent…but understand that m–my man w–wants and needs to step up. To provide, protect, a–and spoil me. To create a life for me w–where I can continue to be t–the phenomenal women that I am. The beautiful woman t–that I am. The sexy woman that I am.”
Her words came out even in some ways and shaky in others. No plea. Only quiet dominance and echoing his, her body relaxing fuller into his lap as the balm soaked deep. Smoke nods once, satisfaction etching his heavy-lidded stare. He gave his girl a final kiss planted firm on her tailbone, one large, calloused hand sliding up her slick spine to tangle light in her hair, tugging her head back gently for more eye contact.
“That’s my girl. Good job. Now…rest that ass here while daddy thinks up how to spoil you next.”
Smoke positions Zariah on her stomach across their bed. He spreads her thighs wide from behind and lifts her hips into the right tilt. Smoke dips his head and admires her pussy lips sitting in the shape of a heart below her ass that glistened from the balm. His tongue moves in slow strokes from the base of her pussy upward, gathering every bit of wetness. He seals his lips around the folds and sucks them clean with steady pulls before pressing soft kisses along the slick skin. His tongue dips inside to lick deeper then returns to lap and suck without rushing, working through the mess until only his mouth leaves her glistening.
Zariah’s body rocks with small shifts under his hold. “Yes daddy." Her voice comes thick. “Thank you daddy.” She pushes back a fraction as his suction holds on her clit. “I love it when you eat my pussy.”
Smoke keeps his pace while his voice rumbles low against her. “Stay open for me. Let daddy clean every drop. You taste so good when I take my time like this.” He kisses her tender entrance then sucks again, tongue circling slow. “That’s it. Give it all to me.”
Zariah shifts her hips back in a slow roll, pressing her soaked folds against Smoke's mouth. He meets each motion by sealing his lips around her clit and sucking with firm, steady pressure, drawing the swollen bud between his lips in a gentle pull before releasing. Her thighs tremble under his grip as she rocks again, grinding back for more contact.
"Oooo," she breathes out, the sound stretching long. “Fuck. Yes.” The words slip free between moans while her body keeps moving, seeking that same suction each time she pushes her pussy toward him.
Smoke's tongue works in skillful laps, flattening broad against her entrance before dragging upward to circle her clit again. His voice stays low and even, vibrating right against her skin.
“That’s right, keep bringing it back like that. Let me suck on this pretty pussy. You feel how wet you stay for me?” Smoke proves her opening with the tip of his tongue to catch some of that wetness. “I can taste every bit of it, so sweet and thick on my tongue. Gon’ fuck you so deep after this, stretch you open slow with every inch until you can't think straight. This pussy gon' take it all, and I'ma give it to you proper.”
Snoke sucks with more pressure on her clit as she rocks back once more, holding the pull for a beat longer before easing off to lick through her folds. “Tastes so damn good, baby. Can't get enough of how you drip down my chin.”
Zariah’s voice comes out husky between her moans. “You love this pussy, baby?”
Smoke answers without lifting his mouth, the words rumbling straight into her. “Daddy love this pussy. Best fuckin’ pussy I ever had.”
Zariah’s voice lifts soft and questioning as she rocks back once more. “Daddy?”
Smoke answers with a low hum that vibrates against her folds, the sound deep and steady while his tongue continues its work.
Zariah pushes again, her words coming clearer now. “Daddy I wanna watch you eat my pussy.”
In one smooth motion Smoke flips her onto her back, his hands guiding her body with controlled strength. He pulls the black tee over his head and drops it aside, leaving him fully naked as he settles between her open thighs. Zariah spreads wider for him, and he eases down to keep his mouth on her, licking and sucking with focused attention. She grinds her pussy into his mouth, hips rolling to meet each pull of his lips. Smoke gently pushes her thighs open further, holding them apart so he can slurp directly on her clit with wet, smacking sounds. He stays right there, working that spot alone because it builds her up fast. Her body tenses and then releases in a sudden rush as she squirts, the warm fluid spilling over his tongue and chin while he keeps sucking through every pulse.
Smoke stays locked between her thighs, refusing to ease up. His tongue drags in long, wet strokes that feel heavy and thick against her folds, each one landing with pressure that makes her hips twitch. Zariah’s pussy quivers under the attention, the sensitive skin pulsing and tightening as he circles her clit again and again. He holds her legs open wider with firm hands, keeping her spread so nothing interrupts the steady motion of his mouth. The wet sounds grow louder with every lick, and he focuses right there, building the heat until her body starts to tighten once more. She grinds down into him, chasing the sensation as the pressure coils deep inside. His tongue works without pause, thick and insistent, pushing her straight toward the edge until she breaks again, fluid spilling over his lips while he keeps sucking through the pulses.
Smoke stays locked in place, his mouth sealed over her pussy as he sucks deeper, pulling her swollen clit between his lips with steady pressure. His tongue follows in thick, wet drags that lap up every fresh trickle of her arousal, working in firm circles that make her thighs shake in the air. Zariah keeps her legs spread wide, knees bent and feet towards the ceiling, giving him full access while her hips roll in small, desperate circles against his face.
Her body reacts in waves. The muscles in her lower belly tighten and release with each pull of his mouth, sending ripples across her frame. Her rich brown skin glistens with sweat, the soft curve of her waist flexing as her back arches off the bed. Her breasts rise and fall faster, nipples tight and dark against the air. Inside, her walls pulse and flutter around nothing, clenching with every lick that drags from her entrance up to her clit. More slick heat spills out, coating his tongue and dripping down his chin as he swallows it down without pause.
“Uhuh, yeah baby.” Smoke rumbles against her, voice low and thick with command. “Keep those legs open. Let me feel you gettin' close. I want every drop this time. Right in my fucking mouth. Feed me.” His words vibrate through her core, pushing the tension higher. Smoke sucks again, lips sealed tight while his tongue flicks quick and firm right on that sensitive spot, building the pressure until her moans turn ragged.
Zariah’s hands fist the sheets. Her pussy quivers harder now, the inner walls squeezing in quick spasms that grow stronger with each pass of his tongue. The heat coils low in her belly, spreading outward until her toes curl and her breath hitches in short gasps. "Haah—Fuck," a sharp inhale caught in her throat, then she breathes out, the word breaking on a moan as another rush of wetness floods his mouth. Her hips jerk upward, chasing the sensation while her thighs tremble around his shoulders.
Smoke doesn't let up. He slides two fingers inside her, curling them against that spongy spot while his mouth keeps working her clit in wet, insistent pulls. “I know you feel it buildin’. Don't hold back on me. You gon’ give it all, you hear me?” His free hand presses her thigh wider, keeping her open as her body winds tighter. Her stomach flutters visibly, the muscles jumping under her skin. Her pussy clenches around his fingers, gripping and releasing in a steady climb toward the edge.
"I'll be your good girl—” Zariah gasps, voice cracking as the pressure peaks. Her whole frame locks up for a beat, then shatters. A hot rush pours from her, squirting in pulsing waves straight into his mouth. Smoke groans low and drinks it down, tongue still moving through the contractions that ripple through her walls. Her orgasm rolls on, body shaking as fresh slick spills over his lips and chin, her moans filling the room while he holds her through every last spasm.
Smoke lingers between her thighs after the last tremors fade, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses against her slick folds. Each one lands soft, his lips brushing over the swollen heat while his tongue gives the lightest flick to catch the lingering taste.
“That’s a good girl," he whispers low against her, the words vibrating through her sensitive skin. “Took every bit of it just like I said. Look at you, still shakin’ for me.” His praise comes steady and warm, laced with that deep southern drawl that settles right into her bones.
Zariah’s breath hitches in the aftermath, her body still sprawled open on the sheets. Her rich brown skin gleams from the vanilla oil, a fine sheen of sweat tracing the narrow dip of her waist and the soft flare of her hips. Her breasts rise and fall in quick, shallow pulls, nipples drawn tight from the rush that just tore through her. Inside, her walls continue to flutter in small, involuntary pulses, the aftershocks making her thighs twitch around his shoulders even as she keeps them parted for him.
Smoke trails those kisses upward, dragging his mouth across the smooth plane of her lower belly. Each press of his lips leaves a ticklish, wet mark that cools against her heated skin, moving higher with unhurried purpose. His hands slide along her sides, palms broad as they frame her ribcage. When he reaches her chest, he pauses at one peaked nipple, drawing it between his lips with a firm, wet pull. His tongue circles the tight bud then strokes while he sucks, the pressure sending fresh sparks straight down to her still-throbbing core.
Zariah arches into the contact, a broken moan slipping free as her fingers thread into the sheets again. The pull at her nipple feels sharper now, heightened by how raw everything still feels below. Her other breast settles against his cheek when he shifts to give it the same attention, sucking deep while his tongue works in lazy, insistent laps.
“So damn responsive,” Smoke rumbles between pulls, voice thick with approval. “Every part of you knows who it belong to.”
Zariah’s legs ease wider on instinct, the earlier tension melting into a loose, pliant sprawl. The muscles along her stomach quiver visibly under his path, and her hips give a small, involuntary roll upward as if chasing more of the contact even though he's moved on. Smoke keeps his mouth latched, alternating between gentle suction and firmer draws that make her back bow off the bed, her full lips parting around another shaky exhale.
Smoke stays latched on her nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth with sucks that make her whole chest tighten. His tongue works in firm circles, pressing and flicking against the stiff peak while his teeth graze just enough to send sharp little jolts straight through her. Zariah’s rich brown skin flushes darker across her breasts, the full weight of them rising and falling with every breath as he switches sides, sucking the other nipple just as hard, his broad hand cupping the first one to keep the wet heat from fading.
Her pussy responds fast, slick folds parting on their own as fresh wetness slips out in a steady drip that trails down toward the sheets. The sensation builds low and insistent, her clit twitching in time with each strong suck, the tiny bud swelling and pulsing without any direct touch. Her slim-thick thighs part wider on the bed, hips rolling in small, helpless circles as the throbbing between her legs grows heavier, matching the pull of his mouth.
Zariah’s long legs tremble as another rush of heat floods her core. She can feel it clearly now, the way her pussy clenches around nothing, dripping steadily while her clit jumps and aches for friction. Smoke doesn’t let up, his lips sealed tight around her nipple, sucking with that deep, focused technique hat leaves her gasping. His free hand slides down her side, palm broad against the curve of her waist, holding her steady as her back arches higher off the mattress.
“Look at that,” he says low, voice rough against her skin between pulls. “Your body tellin’ on you. Drippin’ all over just from this.” He drags his tongue across the sensitive tip one more time, then seals his mouth around it again, sucking harder until her clit twitches visibly with the next wave of wetness sliding free.
Zariah’s breath comes in short, shaky pulls, her full lips parted, eyes half-lidded as the pressure builds. Every strong draw from his mouth sends fresh heat straight down, making her pussy clench and release, more slick gathering and spilling out in warm trails. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, the empty ache growing sharper with each passing second. She rolls her hips again, seeking something, anything, but Smoke keeps her pinned with his weight and his mouth, focused entirely on working her nipples until the dripping and twitching leaves her shaking.
When he could see that pussy weeping the way he needed it to, Smoke releases her nipple with a slow drag of his lips, the wet pull leaving a shiny trail across her deep brown areolas. He rises over her, his thick frame blotting out the light above the bed as he lowers his mouth to hers. The kiss lands heavy and unhurried, his tongue pushing past her parted lips to stroke deep, carrying the taste of her own sex. Zariah meets him without hesitation, her full lips pressing back while her breath hitches against his. Her hands slide up his arms, fingers curling around the dense muscle there as the kiss stretches on, turning hotter with each slow pass of his tongue.
Her body stays open beneath him, thighs spread wide on the sheets. The steady drip from her pussy continues, warm slick sliding down the curve of her ass and soaking into the sheets right along with the puddle she made from squirting. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, each pulse sending fresh heat through her core. Zariah rolls her hips upward, seeking the press of his weight, the hard length of him brushing her inner thigh as he settles closer. Smoke's hand moves to cradle the back of her neck, holding her still while the kiss turns rougher, his teeth catching her bottom lip for a brief tug before his tongue claims her mouth again.
His hand lingers tangled in her curls, thumb stroking the nape of her neck in lazy circles
“Spoil you proper now,” Smoke rumbles that reminder, voice vibrating through her bones. His big palms slide down her sides, gripping her hips firm to flip her upright in one smooth hoist, straddling his thighs now, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. That heavy and rigid, curved dick all thick-veined and standing tall from those low-hanging balls, say wedged between her pussy lips, tip glossy from pre-cum beading thick.
Zariah braces her hands on his full chest, fingers splaying over his pecs, feeling the dense muscle shift under her palms as he breathes deep. Glossy brown eyes lock on his heavy-lidded stare, lips parting on a soft exhale, posture straight even perched like this, thighs flexing to lift her hips. Zariah sinks down slowly, pussy lips parting wide around his girth, swallowing the flared head first with a wet stretch, inner walls clenching greedily as inches disappear inside. Halfway down, she pauses, breath hitching, hands smoothing over his pecs to steady herself.
Smoke’s arms snake around her, one thick forearm banding her lower back, the other spanning shoulder blades, yanking her flush against him. Chest mashes to chest, her nipples dragging hard points over his skin, his beard scraping her jaw as he nuzzles close. “
“Ride daddy, baby girl,” Smoke growls low in her ear, hips snapping up suddenly, thrust punching deep, balls slapping her ass with a meaty smack. Zariah gasps, spine arching but Smoke holds her locked, pumping from below relentlessly now. Each buck rolls his pelvis up hard, curved dick spearing her g-spot dead-on, grinding the base against her swollen clit with every bury.
Thighs like steel pistons flex under her, driving up fast then slow, varying the rhythm to make her chase it, his arms crushing her closer, one hand fisting her ass cheek to spread her wider, fingers teasing her hole while he rails her pussy. Sweat slicks their skin, her juices coat his shaft glossy, dripping down to soak his balls.
“Feel that? Daddy fillin’ you full, protectin’ this pussy ‘cus it's mine. Phenomenal woman takin’ every inch.” His voice stays that dangerous calm, breath tickling her neck between grunts, lips sucking marks along her collarbone.
Zariah rocks with him, hips circling intentional, walls fluttering tight around his length. Her voice was soft, edged with that self-possession.
“Yes, daddy...feels so good.” No begging, just owning the ride, thighs quivering as tension builds. He ramps it harder, arms vise-tight, fucking up into her like a machine, wet slaps echoing loud, her ass bouncing on his thighs, pussy creaming thick down his dick.
Zariah’s moans spill out breathy at first, soft exhales pitching higher with each deep punch,,starting as hushed mmh's from deep in her throat, lips parting wider to let ahh's drag long and throaty, vibrating against where her mouth presses open near his collarbone. Tension coils her core tighter, breaths coming measured but ragged now, moans layering into nngh-ahh-mmh, each one punched out precisely by his upward drives, voice never cracking loud but husky-thick with need, edges fraying just enough to feel raw.
“Yes, daddy,” Zariah breathes into his neck, her hips working bolder, starting to throw it down now, lifting high to slam her ass back onto his thighs with snaps and deep grinds, pussy gripping his girth on every drop. “You fuck me so good. Fuck this pussy. Fuck me with that big dick.” Her thighs flex hard, bucking wilder to meet his thrusts, wet hole sucking him deeper, creamy froth building at the base where her pussy lips stretch taut around his veined curve. “Fuck, I love this big dick.” Her voice stays in that self-possessed tone, edged needy, no shrieks or pleas because she was owning every word as she grinds down, clit dragging his pelvis, walls pulsing greedy.
Smoke’s grip tightens, one forearm locked across her lower back to mash her tits flush to his chest, the other palm cupping her ass full, fingers digging into the balm-slick cheek to yank her harder onto each buck. His toned hips piston up relentless, thick thighs bulging under her weight, curved length spearing her depths over and over. Those heavy balls swinging up to tap her perineum with heavy thwacks.
“Fuck yes, baby girl, throw that pussy on daddy's dick like you ownin’ it, good girl, get your dick,” Smoke rumbles low in her ear, thick and commanding. “Look at you ridin’ this big Mississippi meat, creamin’ all over my balls. Feel how deep I'm feedin’ this wet hole? Huh? Stretchin’ you wide, hittin’ that spot ain’t I’m?” Smoke thrusts up and holds, tapping Zariah on the rump as she shakes all over. “All that boss shit disappear when I give you dick. You safe wit’ me, act like it.”
Smoke rolls his pelvis on the upthrusts, grinding the fat base against her clit, varying the pace from slow deep grinds to three fast snaps, making her chase the friction. Sweat beads on his chest, his beard rasping her jaw as he turns her face to capture her lips in a messy suck, tongue thrusting in time with his hips. “Keep talkin’ to me, bad girl. Tell daddy how this dick rearrangin’ that tight pussy. You takin’ it perfect.” Smoke’s thumb teases her back entrance light, pressing the puckered ring while he rails her pussy, arms crushing her immobile against him, and Zariah was owning it even as she bucks wild.
Her pace picks up frantic, hips slamming down to swallow him balls-deep every time, pussy squelching loud around his girth, juices dripping warm down his sack to soak the sheets. Her moans turn into throaty-soft pleas now.
“Ahh-nngh-yes!” blending with his grunts, body trembling. Smoke feels her tighten vise-like, knows she's close, but holds back his own load, hips snapping sharper to drag it out.
Zariah’s walls clamp down vise-tight around his thick length, that deep coil snapping loose as the orgasm rips through her, body seizing rigid in his iron hold, thighs locking hard against his hips, back arching sharp but pinned flush by his forearm across her back. Her pussy floods him in hot gushes, creamy release squirting thick around his pistoning shaft, soaking his heavy balls and dripping messy down to the sheets below. Zariah can’t buck anymore, stuck impaled balls-deep on his curved girth, every ridge dragging her fluttering walls as Smoke keeps snapping up relentless, his hips rolling precisely to grind that swollen spot inside her over and over, forcing wave after wave to crash harder.
Moans pour from her throat uncontrolled, delicate but fractured, starting as a long, drawn out ‘ahhhh’ vibrating deep in her chest, pitching into sharp ‘nngh-nngh’ gasps punched out by each thrust, lips trembling open against his neck where her face buries hot and slick with sweat. They layer ragged, breathy exhales fraying at the edges ‘mmh-ahh-mmh’ blending into a throaty hum that shakes her frame, her voice husky-thick and edged raw, never shrill but owning the depth of it, body quaking helpless as she creams all over his big dick.
Smoke doesn't let up, thick arms crushing her immobile against him, his biceps bulging under her sliding palms, one hand palming her ass cheek deep to spread her wider, fingers splayed to feel her hole pulse and leak around him. His pelvis snaps up in deep strokes, curved head battering that g-spot without mercy, balls wet against her perineum through her flood. That thick length gleamed with her juices and he just kept fucking her pussy straight through the peak. Smoke turns her face to lock eyes with him, his heavy-lidded gaze burning steady into hers, full lips parting on a low grunt.
“Yeah, cum on this dick, baby girl, keep cummin’ on this dick.” Smoke growls thick in her ear. “Pretty pussy grippin’ me so tight, squirtin’ all over daddy’s balls. Stuck right here takin’ every inch while I hit that spot. Keep cummin’ for me, baby, flood this big dick, bad girl. You own this nut, pussy milkin’ me deep.” He varies the drives—three short punches to her depths, then a slow grind circling her clit with his base, drawing out the spasms, her walls sucking greedily even as she trembles locked.
Zariah’s body jerks in aftershocks, pussy clenching around him, more cream bubbling out to coat his veined length shiny, her thighs quivering helpless. All Zariah can do is moan throaty into his collarbone, ‘ahh-nngh-yes’ spilling fractured as he rails her sensitive hole. He feels his own sack tighten heavy, but holds it back, hips powering through her mess to chase every drop from her. He’d continue to edge himself as long as he gives his bad bitch plenty of orgasms.
Smoke eases out of her spasming pussy with a wet pop, Zariah’s cream clinging thick in strings to his veined shaft, glossy from tip to base where her squirt and cream mixed in slick trails down his heavy balls. Smoke wastes no time and flips her over rough but steady, large hands gripping her hips to yank her ass high at the bed's edge, face pressed flat into the rumpled sheets, knees spread wide under his direction. One palm presses firm between her shoulder blades, forcing that deep arch in her spine until her spine hollows out perfectly, ass cheeks parting naturally from the stretch, lower back dipping sharp.
Her pussy blooms open in that position, lips puffy and flushed dark from the pounding, inner folds glistening raw and swollen, stuck slightly agape from his girth, unable to close full after the stretch. Cream leaks steady from that stretched, creamy hole, thick white rivulets bubbling out slow to trail down her inner thighs, mixing with squirt sheen that soaks the sheets beneath her knees. Above it, her pretty asshole winks in the cool air, the tight ring pulsing faint with each aftershock clench from her pussy below, pink-brown rim flexing open a fraction before snapping shut, begging subtle under the exposure.
Smoke stands planted at the edge, bare feet firm on the floor, thick thighs framing her as he lines up, messy dick heavy in his fist, curved length slapping once against her leaking slit to smear her own juices back over her clit. Then, he sinks in, crown breaching her folds with a squelch, inch after girthy inch parting her walls until his pelvis meets her ass full, balls nestling heavy against her clit. Slow strokes start, pulling back to the tip so her pussy lips drag reluctant along his ridges, then driving deep again, his hips rolling weighted to bottom out each time, grinding her depths before he withdraws again.
“Zari…you daddy’s little bratty girl, huh?” Smoke rumbles low, thick and edged mean, one hand sinking deep into her left ass cheek, fingers digging to spread her wider. He watched his curved dick emerge shiny-coated in fresh cream, veins pulsing as her hole grips and tugs. “You piss me off just so I can fuck you like this? Bend you over and drill this good pussy deep?” Smoke popped her ass. “See how sweet you get when you finally let go?”
“Yes, daddy,” Zariah gasps throaty into the mattress, voice husky-fractured from the stretch, ass pushing back instinctively to meet his plunge, her walls fluttering around the slow invasion. “Yes, sir, I do—want this dick so bad.”
Smoke grunts his approval, other hand claiming a full handful of her right cheek—palms rough and veined, overflowing with soft flesh, kneading hard as he pulls her onto him deeper, pace still controlled but forceful, balls tapping her clit wet on each burial. Her leaky mess coated him fresh, pussy slurping audible around the drag.
“That’s right. Act up so daddy give you some dick, stretch this bratty hole wide. Piss me off on purpose, gettin’ that arch just right for me too. You love bein’ face down, ass up, leakin’ all over my balls while I stroke it slow like this? Huh?”
“Mmm-yes sir,” Zariah moans soft-edged, body rocking forward with each deep seat, tits dragging along the sheets, back holding that arch under his palm's pressure, thighs quaking faint as the slow grind builds the pressure anew.
“Love it daddy, love pissin’ you off for this—fuck me deep, please sir.”
Smoke’s grip tightens on her ass, spreading her cheeks farther to stare down at the sight, thick dick disappearing into her gripping pussy, lips hugging tight on the outstroke, cream frothing at the base where her hole milks him greedy. He picks up a fraction, strokes still deep but adding a twist at the end to nudge her g-spot, heavy balls swinging to smack her clit. Sweat beads his sculpted chest, biceps flexing as he holds her steady, heavy-lidded eyes tracing the messy union.
Each withdraw dragged her puffy lips outward, clinging to his veined length before he fed it back in full, pelvis slapping her ass cheeks with a meaty thud that echoed off the walls. His large hands overflow with her flesh, thumbs digging into the crease where thigh meets cheek to pry her wider, exposing the way her hole stretches taut around his girth, inner walls visible in flashes of pink and slick as cream bubbles fresh at the seam. Her asshole keeps up its subtle pulse above, ring contracting in time with her pussy's greedy squeezes, a faint sheen of her own leak trickling down to gloss it further.
Zariah twists her neck, cheek lifting off the damp sheets, eyes glassy and desperate locking onto his over her shoulder, those lips he loved so much parted on heavy breaths, kinky hair spilling wild across her back.
“Daddy–yyy,” she pleads raw, voice cracking high as one of her hands snakes down between her spread thighs, thumb finding her swollen clit to rub frantic circles, chasing the building coil. “Please sir, harder—gimme more dick, I need it deep.” Her hips buck back insistent against his controlled pace, ass jiggling faint in his grip, pussy slurping louder on the next plunge as her walls clamp down fluttering.
“Not yet, brat,” he growls thick, voice rolling low, free hand sliding up her spine to press her chest flatter, keeping that arch locked while his hips roll weighted, grinding the curve of his dick against her front wall on every bury. “You gon’ beg pretty for daddy first. Tell me how bad this pussy want it—how you act up just to get stretched like this, leakin’ all over me, nasty girl.” He watches her fingers blur faster on her clit, the way her thighs start quaking harder. “You feel how hard you holdin’ onto me? That stress been sittin’ in your body all damn week. Use me then, go ‘head.”
“Daddy, yes, I'm your bratty girl, piss you off for this dick every time,” Zariah whines, head turning full to hold his gaze, eyes pleading wide while her fingers grind her clit ruthlessly, body rocking violently now between his strokes and her own touch. Her eyes go cross eyed as she gushes fresh around him, walls rippling wild as the pressure crests, her back bowing deeper under his palm, ass pressing back to take him to the hilt. “Daddy, daddy—I'm squirting, oh fuck sir, it's comin’—don't stop, talk me through it please!”
Smoke leans forward slightly, chest brushing her back as one hand releases her cheek to tangle in her hair, yanking her head back gently but firm to keep those eyes on him, the other palm smacking her ass once sharp to jolt her higher. His strokes stay slow but deepen, twisting at the base to nudge her g-spot while her fingers strum.
“Good girl, there you do, baby girl, let it go for daddy. Feel that pussy squeezin’ me tight? You squirtin’ all over this dick, you can't help it. Push back on it, rub that clit harder—gimme that mess. You like bein’ handled, huh?”
“Yes—”
“That’s my baby right there.”
His voice stays gravel-rough, guiding her edge with words as her body seizes, thighs locking, toes curling into the mattress, a sharp cry ripping from her throat.
Her squirt hits explosive, clear jets pulsing out around his buried length to spray his pelvis and thighs, puddling hot on the sheets below as her pussy convulses violently, clenching him in waves that force more cream to froth at the base. She stares back at him wild-eyed, mouth slack on gasps, fingers slowing sloppy through the aftershocks while he holds steady inside her, hips grinding minimal to prolong the clench, watching her leak mix with the spray in rivulets down her legs.
“Good girl, just like that—daddy got you, keep cummin’ good tonight. There you go, let all that pressure out. Ain’t nobody gon’ take care of you like me. Daddy got you. Been a mean bitch for so long ain’t nobody fuck you stupid til I cam around,” Smoke pops her on the left cheek. “Quit actin’ tough and come get this comfort. Say, yes sir.”
“Y–yes, sir.”
“Now we gettin’ to the good part. I’ma move when you ready, but when I do, you gon’ feel every stroke. You with me? Say it.”
Zariah exhales, “I’m with you, daddy.” She grips the sheets.
“Talk to me, Zari. Words. You ready or daddy gotta give you a break?”
Zariah sucks in air and lets it out meditating slow.
“I’m ready, sir.”
Smoke's grip shifts lightning-quick from her hair to her shoulders, thick fingers clamping down over the knobs of bone there, palms splaying wide across her upper back to yank her torso up off the soaked sheets, forcing that spine into a brutal arch. Her head snaps upright, chin tucking toward her chest while her eyes glaze over fucked-out, pupils blown wide staring dead ahead at the headboard, mouth hanging slack on drooling whimpers, tongue lolling faint as spit beads at the corner. The new angle spears his dick straight down into her core, her ass cheeks spreading obscene on his pelvis with every hilt, pussy lips puffing out bloated and raw around the veined stretch, cream and squirt foaming thick at the root to splatter his heavy balls on the upstroke.
Smoke rears back tall behind her, knees digging wider into the mattress for leverage, broad shoulders rolling fluid as his dense core tightens, abs flexing solid under sweat-slick brown skin that gleams. Those rounded delts bunch heavy, veins popping along his forearms as he hauls her back onto him harder, his hips snapping forward with punishing force now, no more tease, full throttle wrecking. Each thrust lands weighted and final, his pelvis crashing her ass with claps that ripple flesh outward in waves, her cheeks clapping back against his thighs while her entire frame jolts forward violently, tits swinging beneath her to smack her ribs. The bed frame groans protest under the onslaught, pure power uncoiling from that grounded stance, thighs thick and corded pumping relentlessly.
Zariah’s body's a live wire in the pound, pussy walls seizing erratic around his plunging length, clenching desperate to hold him but fluttering loose on the withdraw, gushing fresh squirt in erratic sprays that arc down her quaking thighs to puddle wider on the sheets. Every bury shoves her forward an inch before his shoulder grip reels her back, her ass meat compressing flat against him then bouncing rebound, ripples traveling up her spine to make her curls lash wild. Her thighs attempt to lock rigid then spasm open, toes scrabbling, curling into the mattress as her belly sucks in hollow, ribs heaving under sweat-sheened skin, fucked-out stare fixed unblinking ahead, lashes fluttering half-mast while tears streak silent from the corners, jaw slack wider on guttural cries that pitch higher with each rip through her depths.
“That little mean streak disappear fast when I touch you right. You been wantin’ this all day. Nah, stay right there I wanna watch you take it—look at my girl—take this dick tearin’ you open,” he rasps, drawl thickening hot over the wet slaps, one hand sliding from shoulder to tangle back in her hair—yanking her head higher to deepen the arch while the other digs into her shoulder, pinning her steady for the ram. His chest heaves, heavy breaths fanning her neck as he leans over partial, hips pistoning machine-like, balls swinging to batter her clit, smearing her mess back up her folds.
“Feel daddy rearrangin’ your guts? You soaked the whole damn bed beggin’ for it—now wet this dick up again while I pound you stupid. Arch that back deeper, push this ass on me—gimme that grip, baby. You gon’ relax for me or keep fightin’ me, baby?”
Zariah chokes out a keen, body betraying full surrender—hips grinding back frantic despite the overwhelm, pussy convulsing in fresh spasms that squeeze him vise-tight, walls undulating a massage along every vein as another squirt builds from the core. Her arms buckle, elbows to the sheets, fingers clawing fabric while her tits drag heavy across the damp cotton, nipples scraping raw. Her entire frame shudders electric with the force, ass lifting instinctively to meet his slams even as her vision blurs white-hot ahead. Sweat rivers down her cleavage, pooling in her navel before dripping off to mix with the flood below, thighs slick and trembling spread wide around his pistoning thighs.
Smoke grunts approval low, pace ratcheting inhuman, thrusts blurring to a frenzy that shakes her teeth, his solid midsection slapping her ass endless while those large hands anchor her, veins throbbing prominent down his forearms from the haul. Sweat beads thick on his brow, trickling into the heavy stubble framing his jaw that’s set hard, dark eyes locked on the destruction between her legs, watching her hole gape briefly on pulls before swallowing him balls-deep again.
“FUCK, just like that—pussy talkin’ back to daddy, on every stroke.” His voice coaches steady through the chaos, drawl wrapping command around her haze as her body hurtles toward shatter again, the room thick with their slap-echo and her broken pleas. “Breathe through it. You can handle it. This what happen when you act like you don't need me tellin' you what to do. Next time you think about steppin’ out of line, you remember how this dick feel stretchin’ you open and makin’ you cum so hard you can't even talk.”
Smoke yanks free with a wet pop that leaves her hole gaping, pink inner walls fluttering visible, clenching air desperate around nothing while thick strands of her cream stretch and snap between his retreating length and her wrecked folds. Frothy white coats his dick heavy from root to tip, balls glossy-slick swinging low and heavy beneath, veins pulsing prominent along his curved shaft.
“Flip over, clean this dick spotless, baby,” Smoke orders, cutting sharp through her haze as one large hand strokes himself base-up lazy, smearing her mess while the other pats her ass firm to roll her.
Zariah twists compliant on trembling limbs, spine sinking into the drenched mattress as she sprawls supine, hair fanning wild across the pillow, belly quivering faint under the aftershocks. Her thighs splay wide, knees bending hooks toward her shoulders to bare everything, pussy on full display. Lips swollen fat and parted like it wanted to stay just like that from now on, flushed deep around the edges from the tear-up, inner pink glistening obscene under a sheen of her own squirt that drips lazy from her stretched entrance. Her clit hood peeled back partial, pearl throbbing exposed and raw, folds puffy-ridged from friction with cream beading fresh in the creases, entire slit pulsing like a heartbeat begging refill.
Smoke kneels up tall between her legs, knees bracketing her hips as he feeds his dick forward, tip bumping her lips expectant. Zariah cranes her neck, tongue darting out to lap broad from balls upward, tracing the heavy seam salty with her tang before sucking one orb full into her mouth, cheeks hollowing while her hand cups the other, rolling it. Up the shaft next, flat laps cleaning veins groove by groove, swirling the flared head to hollow her cheeks around it vacuum-tight, sucking her cream off audible with slurps that echo wet, spit mixing fresh to dribble down her chin as she moans low vibrations against him. His free hand dives between her thighs unhurried, palm cupping her mound full before thick fingers part those bloated lips wider, middle and ring sliding through the slick valley, parting her petals to expose that clenching core.
Feels like firework sparks when he rubs. Thick fingers coarse-knuckled dragging pressure perfect over her clit first, circling the hood lazy to make it twitch and swell fatter under the pad of his thumb joining in, then dipping lower to trace entrance rim where her walls suck greedy at the intrusion. That sweet pussy yields butter-soft inside, hot velvet clamping instant on the shallow probes, gushing syrupy response that coats his digits knuckle-deep. Each pass through her folds sends jolts electric up her spine. Zariah’s thighs jerked, spread while her hips buck faint to chase. Her outer lips drag sensitive along his palm skin, inner ridges fluttering as he massaged with his fingertips that scoop cream back up to smear her clit renewed, building that coil tight again with every glide.
Zariah polishes him thoroughly, tongue polishing the underside ridge before popping off clean with a gasp. Her hand wrapped around the base firm now to stroke with a upward twist, the skin gliding smooth over the cleaned glans while her gaze locks with his from below. Sultry heat simmers there, lids heavy-lidded fuck-drunk but sharp with desire, full lips curving wicked as teeth catch the bottom one, dragging slowly, holding his stare unblinking, challenge wrapped in surrender. Smoke groans deep, torso folding forward lean as his mouth crashes hers hungry—tongue thrusting his claim deep to tangle hers messy, tasting her own flavor shared while fingers keep working her pussy, two now plunging knuckle-deep to curl and hook against that front wall.
The kiss breaks on her whine, his beard rasping her chin, then his lips trail fire down her throat, nipping her collarbone before his palms scoop under her breasts heavy, thumbs flicking her chocolate nipples side-to-side to make them diamond-hard. Smoke kneads them, fingers sinking deep into the yielding flesh to shape and bounce them palm-to-palm, mouth latching hot over one peak to suck with a vacuum pull while his teeth graze faintly. His tongue lashes flat on her areolas before nibbling gently. Her strokes quicken on his dick, thumb swiping pre cum at his slit.
Smoke releases her nipple with a wet smack, lips glossy from the pull as his gaze lifts heavy to lock hers, dark eyes boring deep, one thumb still circling the slick peak lazy while the other hand squeezes her other titty, flesh spilling between fingers.
“Good girl, Zariah,” Smoke rumbles faintly, voice dipping low like thunder. “Daddy proud of you…takin’ this dick so deep, stretchin’ that pussy perfect. Handlin’ yo’ punishment like a champ too, ass sore but you stayed right there, took every lick without runnin’.That's my baby.”
Zariah gasps sharp, hand tightening its stroke on his girthy dick, twisting from base to tip with precum and spit slicking the glide. Her eyes fluttered half-shut before snapping back to him.
“Yes,” she breathes out needy, hips rolling faint into his stalled fingers still buried knuckle-deep in her folds.
Smoke chuckles low, free hand sliding up her thigh to anchor as he pulls his fingers free with a squelch, strings of her arousal snapping clear.
“Mmm, yeah…and that's why daddy spoil you rotten. Fuck you good whenever you crave it, eat that sweet pussy till you flood my face. You mine to treat right.” His mouth brushes her earlobe feather-light, beard scraping her chin.
“Yes, baby, you always know what I need,” Zariah moans velvety, arching her back to press her titties fuller into his palm, legs parting wider. “I love how you treat me. I'm your princess.” Her lips part on a whine, gaze sultry, locked.
Smoke nods slow approval, torso unfolding tall as he nudges her knees wider, settling heavy between her thighs, dick bobbing thick upright against her mound, tip nudging her clit. Zariah’s body's pliant now, limbs loose-jointed from the haze, so he hooks his elbows under her knees easy, folding her double with her thighs pinned to her chest, calves framing his shoulders tight. That pussy blooms upward obscenely, outer lips mashed flat from how spread open she is, inner folds splayed wide and quivering, entrance winking creamy-pink around the void, clit mashed prominent and pulsing under the weight of his dick resting heavy along her slit. Cream pools fresh in the crease, dripping backward to lube her puckered hole.
Smoke notches his tip at her entrance, eyes never breaking hers, heavy-lidded stare pinning her soul-deep and thrusts in one long stroke, dick disappearing inch-by-thick-inch till his balls nestle snugly against her upturned ass, stretch burning visible in the way her walls bulge around all that girth.
“Damn, princess, pussy grippin' daddy tight like I ain’t fucked you open,” Smoke praises, drawl stretching vowels lazy as his hips draw back on a slow drag, veins dragging friction along the inner ridges of her walls before snapping forward to bury fully again, pelvis slapping her ass with an audible wet sound. His Stroke pulls half-out next, her inner lips clinging reluctant to the retreat, then he plunges renewed, hitting that bottom with a grind that mashes her clit under his pubic bone. “You know who this belong to. Don't you? Say it for me.”
“Daddy’s pussy…daddy’s pussy.” Zariah whines.
“I see you. See how you holdin'm’ on. How you lettin’ me own this. You doin’ so good for me, Zari. Real good, baby.”
Zariah’s folded frame shudders, tits squished between her thighs as her walls clamp on the invasion, sparks exploding core-deep from the deep hits that kiss her cervix. Each thrust sends ripples through her puffy, pussy lips, cream frothing white at the seal where he bottoms out, her breaths punching out on the reentries while her eyes stay fused to his, wide and glassy with the lock, lips mouthing silent pleas.
“All this dick, baby, take it all—daddy got you,” Smoke coos, pace building like a piston now, balls swinging tap-tap against her tailbone with every deep drive, his gaze unwavering intensely as he watches every twitch, every flutter, every jerk, every silent scream, every shake.
Smoke's stare sharpen like a predator, jaw clenching, eyes narrowing to slits while his hands clamp on the backs of her thighs, thumbs digging meaty divots to pin her folded frame immobile. He snaps his hips downward piston-hard, big dick plummeting into her splayed pussy with a wet schlap that echoes off the walls, balls slapping her ass crack heavy before the recoil yanks him half-out only to hammer back in, burying full.
No words now, just breath hissing through his teeth, chest heaving as he tunnels, each drop stroke burying to the hilt, dick dragging brutal against her clamping walls that suck reluctantly at the retreat. His pace ratchets machine-steady, bedframe groaning under and the mattress dipping deep where his toes anchored. Sweat beads his temple and trails down, dripping onto her upturned tits that jiggle chaotic with every impact, nipples peaked tight from the frenzy.
Zariah's moans rip free raw, high-pitched keens fracturing into throaty wails that bounce off the ceiling, back arching futile against the fold as her thighs quake trapped in his hold. Her manicured acrylic nails rake fire-trails down his bulging biceps, carving pink welts into the sweat-slick skin that flexes corded under the gouge. Her calves locked rigid around his shoulders while her toes splay then curl tight, soles cramping from the building blaze. That battered pussy convulses wildly around his invading girth, cream gushing frothier at the seal with every plunge, inner muscles fluttering desperately to milk on those veins pulsing hot inside her. That curve hitting spots that make her dizzy. That tip kissing the back of her pussy, making her stomach clench.
Tension coils her belly taut, breaths punching erratic as sparks ignite white-hot, walls seizing brutally on the next drop that kisses her spot, and she shatters. Squirt erupts forceful, clear jets arcing from her spasming slit to splatter his abs, soaking the shaft still lodged halfway as her pussy clamps and ejects, flooding the crease between her ass cheeks in hot rivulets that puddle onto the sheets, dampening it dark beneath her. Zariah’s body bucks helplessly in Smoke’s fold, eyes rolling on a scream that shreds hoarse while her nails dig crescent moons into his forearms.
Smoke grunts low once, chest rumbling the sound, before yanking free with an obscene squelch, dick springing upright glossy and throbbing, veins livid against the slick sheen of her release coating every inch from balls to tip. He unfolds her legs, thighs blooming wide as gravity settles her limp, then shoulders between them rough—head dipping low to seal his full lips hot over her quivering pussy. That thick tongue plunges flat and broad through her splayed folds, lapping the gush pooled in her entrance like a glutton, tongue flicking up to swirl her clit hood and those lips start sucking the pulsing nub vacuum-tight. Smoke smacked his lips wet, devouring every drop. His thick fingers splay her lips wider, exposing the pink inner clench still fluttering post-squirt, and he tongues deep inside to scoop the cream hollowing her out, beard scraping thighs raw as nose buries into her mound drag her scent full lungs.
Zariah stared down at him dumbfounded. She didn’t have the capacity to form words. He was eating her pussy up and even her twitching didn’t stop him from overstimulating her.
Her vision blurred as aftershocks ripple through her, body slack against the soaked sheets, chest rising and falling shallow while her pussy throbs exposed, folds. Moans spill lazy from her throat, fracturing into his name drawn long and needy
“Smoke...Smoke…” her hips canting, rolling her slick pussy against his locked mouth, grinding her clit over his probing tongue that flicks non-stop like a propeller. Her thighs clamp his ears, heels digging into his back to pull him tighter into her drenched heat, cream smearing into his beard thick as she chases the friction through the daze, palming the top of his low cut ceasar with the deep waves.
Smoke’s growl vibrates low against her pussy before he lifts, his face slick-shined, eyes burning dark into hers, jaw set granite
“Gon’ nut so deep in this pussy, lock it down tight.” No pause, Smoke surges up fluid, knees bracketing her hips, one hand fisting the base of his dick slick-heavy to notch his tip bluntly at her fluttering hole, then he slams home in a single thrust, burying balls-deep with a meaty thwack that jolts her tits.
Silence is only broken by skin-slaps wet, his powerful hips snapping, pulling that dick to drag slow, veins bulging against her pussy grip before dropping to grind deep with a roll of his hips. His pace builds, thighs flexing like steel under sweat rivers carving paths down his obliques, abs clenching ridge-defined with every plunge that stretches her walls around that curved dick invading her pussy. The headboard thumped the wall with dull thuds while his heavy balls swung to slap her ass cheeks spread wide, drawing creamy froth at the seal to drip down her crack.
Zariah’s moans pitch frantically while her hands claw his shoulders, gouging fresh welts into the flexing traps. Her Legs hook his waist and she locks her ankles to pull him deeper, pussy clenching, ridges pulsing hot inside, and her words tumbled desperate to coach him through.
“This yo’ pussy, Smoke—cum in yo’ pussy, big daddy...fill this pussy up, give it all...show me who this pussy belong to. Tear it up, big daddy…stretch me out…ahhh–nnghhh–big ass dick…oh…big dick—yes, right there, right there, don’t stop, stroke it—yessss.” Her voice cracks husky, hips bucking in a counter-rhythm.
Smoke’s groan shreds guttural, throat raw cords straining as his eyes bore into hers unblinking, heavy-lidded slits flaring wide with the lock. His muscles are cable-tight across his shoulders, biceps ballooning veins livid under her rake, traps bunching while his quads quake to brace the final drives. That big dick swells thicker mid-thrust, tip flaring to kiss her depths, and he erupts—balls drawing up tight, contracting, pulsing thick-hot ropes to flood her clenching channel and paint her walls white. His thrusts stutter shallow, grinding his thick seed deeper, damn near churning it to froth with her cream, that veiny beast jerking erratic against the flutter, that pussy milking every drop while an overflow seeps slow down her ass. His groan drags endless, chest heaving bellows against her neck, forehead dropping to hers sweat-slick as the last pulse fades, his body a heavy drape over her pinned frame.
Smoke eases his thick, curved dick out of Zariah's soaked pussy inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge and stretch as he pulls free. The wet slide leaves her entrance fluttering, slick with their mixed fluids. He stays close, one broad hand resting on the curve of her hip while he watches her body settle.
“You took all that dick so good for me, baby. Real good. My pretty girl handled every inch. See? Ain’t gotta fight me all the time. C’mere, pretty girl.”
Smoke leans down and presses his lips to her forehead, then again just above her brow, then once more near her hairline. Three kisses that linger each time.
“Stay right there. Don’t move.”
Smoke stands, his heavy frame casting a shadow over her sprawled form. Zariah lies on her side like a goddess, long legs slightly parted, rich brown skin glowing with sweat and satisfaction, full lips curved in a lazy smile from being fucked so thoroughly. Her narrow waist and soft hips look even more inviting in the afterglow. Smoke steps away toward the bathroom first, turning on the jacuzzi tub so warm water starts filling with steady jets. The sound of bubbles fills the space. He then leaves the room entirely to head for the kitchen.
On his way out. He glances back at her again.
“Stay right there. I'll be back to get you in a minute.”
About ten minutes goes by and Zariah’s phone rings while she’s still sprawled on the bed, freshly fucked and glowing. She reaches for it lazily, answering with that professional tone she keeps for work.
“Hey, it’s Z. Ellie…hey. Yeah, I’m here. What’s going on?”
Ellie, her publicist starts rattling off a packed schedule—more shoots, events, back-to-back bookings for the next month. Zariah listens, nodding along even though no one can see her, her voice calm and composed.
Smoke walks back into the room carrying the tray with her herbal tea and water. He sets it down, eyes locking on her. That look says everything without a word. He steps closer, takes the phone right out of her hand, and brings it to his ear.
“Ellie, right? Listen, she gon’ need a week off. Clear the next seven days—yes, a week. Y’all can make it happen.” His voice is final. He hangs up before the publicist can reply.
Zariah sits up a little, mouth opening to protest. “Smoke—”
He leans in and kisses her, slow and with tongue, cutting off whatever she was about to say. When he pulls back, his hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing her full lower lip.
“You gon’ need some rest and relaxation. I plan to fuck you and eat that pussy in every room of this place. You hear me?”
Zariah stares at him, that familiar tension flickering between them—her independence brushing up against his weight. Smoke doesn’t move. He just waits, eyes steady on hers. Slowly, she melts, no need to fight him when truthfully she could use a little break. And seven full days of back-to-back sex with her big, bad, man? Hell yeah.
“Say it. Yes, daddy.”
Zariah exhales, shoulders softening the way they do when she chooses to meet him. Her voice comes out quiet but clear.
Summary: You love horror movies. Michael does not. But as your boyfriend, he has to suck it up and deal with it.
Lovergirlnote: As a horror movie girlie, I’ve had this idea in mind for the longest. I thought it would so funny bc Mike has said in a lot of interviews how he doesn’t like scary movies, so I thought what would happen if he had a horror fanatic girlfriend. This one goes out to all of my black horror girlies. I hope you all enjoy!
When you and Michael started dating, he knew that it’d be an interesting experience. Interesting being the fact that you were completely obsessed with horror movies, while he was too terrified to watch them.
It was actually how you guys met.
You did a lot of film reviews online as your side job. You were a known film nerd, but you were especially popular in the horror movie space. It was refreshing for women of color to see a woman who looked like them sharing her love of horror movies.
You know a lot about movies. From the production to the cinematography to the screenplay. You always paid attention to those details. When Sinners was first announced, you were so hyped, especially when you found out that it was going to be a horror movie.
You popped up on Ryan’s radar as a fellow film nerd, so he and Zinzi made the decision to invite you to an exclusive screening of Sinners with a few other film nerds and the cast.
When you stepped into the room, Michael couldn’t take his eyes off you. From your big curly hair to the bright smile on your face. You had dressed in a Texas Chainsaw Massacre tee with a pair of jeans, and a stack of necklaces complementing the fit. Michael loved how you could make something so casual seem so unique.
A few people who recognized you from your social media flocked to you to gush over being there. You were a radiant beacon of energy and Michael couldn’t help but gravitate to you.
Even when Ryan stood in front to introduce the film, you kept your eyes on him. Your gaze didn’t flicker to Michael once. When the lights dimmed for the screening to begin, you chose to sit in the middle to watch the screen. It surprised Michael because he knew that everyone else would be practically salivating to sit near the cast.
He saw an empty seat next to you and took his chance while no one else was looking. He slid in the seat and settled just as the room went completely dark.
He turned his head to the side and flashed a smile at you. You gave him a polite smile in return, but kept your gaze on the screen in front of you. He thinks that made him fall deeper for you. You didn’t care about him being here, you were genuinely here for your love of film.
As much as Michael hated watching himself on screen, it helped to be sitting next to you. From the corner of his eye, he watched you intensely to gauge your reactions to the movie. When the “I Lied to You” montage started, he clocked the way your breath hitched and the light that illuminated in your eyes.
Mentally, he clocked all of your reactions to each scene in the movie. The small laughs you would let out at certain lines. The way you cheered when Smoke killed the Klan members. It was fascinating to see you experience this movie.
At the end of the movie, you clapped along with everyone else, and soon, Michael was being called back up front to do a Q & A with everyone. You didn’t ask questions, but you simply listened to everyone’s questions and answers.
After the event ended, a few people lingered hoping to get pictures with the cast. Michael watched you from the corner of his eyes, hoping to get the chance to talk to you. He smiled dutifully for a few pictures.
When he looked over next, you and Ryan were engrossed in a deep conversation. Whatever you had said had Ryan practically howling with laughter. Michael took the chance to slide over in yours and Ryan’s direction.
Ryan noticed him first, “Oh hey Mike, I gotta introduce to somebody, man. I’m a fan of her work, she’s amazing.” Ryan said your name to Michael and internally, Michael rolled the syllables of your name around in his mouth.
He really liked the sound of your name.
You held your hand out to Michael and he gladly shook your hand. Seeing as though, Ryan knew Michael like the back of his hand, he could tell that he was interested in you.
“It was really good seeing you. I appreciate you coming out,” Ryan said, hugging you one last time. He smirked at Michael and nodded his head at him.
Michael turned back to you, “Did you like the movie?”
Your eyes glimmered in excitement, “Yeah, it was transcending. I don’t think I’ve felt like that in a movie for a while. You were amazing by the way. Was that intentional with the different voice inflections for Smoke and Stack?”
Michael’s eyes widened. He was surprised that you had picked up on the subtle differences that he had crafted for the characters.
“Yeah! Um, I actually worked a vocal coach to pull some archival footage of a people speaking from the 30s,” Michael explained.
“That’s so cool. I could tell that you put a lot of work into showing the differences between the twins. It’s really good work. Congratulations.” Michael was about to say more when you looked past him. You gave him one of those polite smiles that signaled the end of a conversation.
“Looks like a lot of people are waiting to meet you. It was nice meeting you, Michael. Congratulations again.” You said, turning to leave.
“Wait, don’t you want a picture?” He quickly corrected himself, “For your video?”
You pondered the suggestion over in your mind, “Sure.” You pulled your phone out of your pocket and opened the camera app. Michael grabbed the phone and noted the horror movie case adorning the phone.
He held your phone out and snapped way more pictures than you needed. He pulled your body closer to his as you both smiled into the camera. He was tempted to ask for your number when he handed your phone back. You thanked him once last time before leaving.
The next day, Michael was stalking all of your social media pages. You had recently uploaded your official review of Sinners. At the end of the video, you had clipped in one of the pictures you and Michael.
Your phone buzzed on the counter. You flipped it upside down to see the new notification.
@michaelbjordan is now following you..
@michaelbjordan liked your video.
You saw that your video was blowing up even more because of Michael commenting and sharing it to his story.
@michaelbjordan: It was nice meeting you the other day. I’m glad you liked the movie♥️
You liked his comment and replied with a simple “♥️♥️.” You weren’t going to make it a big deal. Sure, you thought Michael was fine. Who didn’t? Those dimples were enough to send any woman or man spiraling.
But you weren’t about to bet all of your cards that he was checking for you.
However, Michael was 100% checking for you. He was always liking your videos and DM’ing you on the side. He was getting bolder and bolder with his messages, trying to toe the line between implication and directly saying it.
He wanted you bad.
After a few weeks of DM’ing, he had worked his way up to asking for your number. The conversation between you both is constant. You and Michael nerd out about anything from movies to music to food. It’s refreshing to have a conversation with someone, who doesn’t care that he’s Michael B. Jordan.
Once Sinners is released, it’s a hit. You’re not surprised in the least. You already knew that the film would be on a generational run. Despite his busy press schedule, Michael still keeps in contact with you. Your texts upgrade to phone calls and FaceTimes.
Michael is hyped when Ryan mentions that his production company, Proximity Media, is getting you to do one of the interviews with him and Ryan. He feels like it’s first time having a crush with how excited he gets to see you.
The following day, you enter with room in a casual fit. Ryan had made it clear that he wanted this to be an informal conversation with three nerds. You were wearing a custom Sinners tee that both Ryan and Michael clocked.
Michael pulls your frame to his. “I’m happy you’re here,” He whispers in your ear.
You smile back, “Happy to be here.” You both stare at each other for a few seconds with Ryan in the corner with Zinzi sipping on his espresso.
“You planned this, didn’t you?” Zinzi questions, a smirk covering her own face.
“I mean it’s a win for us both. I wanted somebody that I know has a passion for the movie just as much as I do, and I can tell he really likes her.” Ryan explains.
They both turn their gazes back to you and Michael. You’re explaining something and they don’t even know if Michael fully even registers what you’re talking about. The man in question is looking at you like you hung the stars. It’s literally giving the embodiment of “blah blah blah proper name backstory stuff.”
Zinzi and Ryan both laugh at how down bad Michael is for you.
The interview starts with you introducing yourself before introducing Ryan and Michael. You didn’t let the fact that you had a personal connection to Michael dilute the interview. You were the perfect balance between funny, professional, casual, and thoughtful.
“Okay question for you Michael. When it comes to playing characters like Smoke and Stack, I know that I’ve heard actors say that they resonate with pieces of the characters that they play. Which twin would you say you’re more like?”
Michael laughs slightly, “Stack for sure.”
“So reckless and irresponsible?”
Michael and Ryan both start laughing loudly. Michael shakes his head, “No, no. A little reckless sometimes, but mostly I mean that I’m goofy like Stack, I love to play around.”
Ryan looks at you, “Who do you prefer more out of Stack and Smoke?”
You smirk, “I mean is both an option?” Ryan starts cracking up, while Michael smiles in your direction. “To be honest, younger me would be drawn to Stack. But me now, I’d pick Smoke for sure. He looks like he runs a strict program.”
The three of you laugh in response of your question. Michael can’t take his eyes off you the entire time which the camera picks up on. By the end of the interview, you’re all making jokes like you’ve known each other for years.
When the interview drops, your numbers jump up tremendously. Everybody comments on how chill Ryan and Michael look around you. They specifically pick up on Michael’s demeanor around you.
@teammbj: okay but am I crazy or is the chemistry between them really good?
@mbjfanpage: Mike didn’t take his eyes off my good sis not one time
@smokestack: did yall see how he was looking when she said she wanted Smoke and Stack.
@whimsyblackgirl: I love the fact that we all peeped Michael looking at her, but can we talk about how good she did at this interview. The questions really showed how much of a film geek that she is. I could see them hiring her for more interviews
Michael shares the interview on his story. He pulls up your contact. He’s done beating around the bush, he figures now is a good time to make a move.
You pick up on the first ring, “Wow a phone call in the middle of the day. I’m starting to think you may be obsessed with me.”
“Maybe I just like you a lot. Let me take you out on Friday.”
The line goes silent for a while, “Sure, let’s do it.”
Michael picks you up on Friday. He takes you to a fancy restaurant with names of food that you won’t pretend to pronounce.
He sips from his glass, “So what started your love for movies?”
“Horror movies actually. My uncle used to buy all of these bootleg DVDs from this guy in our neighborhood. He’d always let me sit and watch them with him. I think my earliest memory of a horror movie was Night of The Living Dead with Duane Jones. I remember the scene where he got killed and my uncle paused it to talk about the significance of it all. He always told me to remember that all horror is political and to always look for the meaning,” You find yourself blushing at the end of your speech.
“Sorry, I just really love horror movies,” You said, sipping from your own drink.
“No, don’t apologize for that. It’s refreshing to see someone be passionate like that,” Michael replied.
As he paid and you left the restaurant, he held your hand as you both walked to the car. He turned to you, “I’m not ready for the night to end yet. I have one last surprise if you’re down for it.”
You smiled at the boyish look on his face. You nodded in response as he held the car door open for you. Butterflies fluttered through your stomach as you clocked that he was still holding your hand while he drove.
Your smile widened when Michael pulled up to one of the local movie theaters.
“You’re taking me to watch a movie?” You asked.
“Actually, I’m taking you to watch your favorite movie. They’re playing The Thing tonight. I remember you mentioning in one of your videos that it was one of your top 4,” He explained casually. Your eyes widened a bit.
“You watch my videos?”
He nodded, “Yeah, they’re really good. It’s refreshing to hear you talk about movies and explain the mechanics behind the production and themes. I like to play them while I’m working out or lounging. You should start a podcast.”
A soft laugh left your lips. You started to wonder if you were dreaming or not. Michael was pleasantly surprised when you pulled his face down to yours and connected your lips. His hand found the side of your face as he deepened the kiss.
He continue to litter soft pecks against your lips as he pulled back. You both stood there smiling at each other. You entered the theater hand in hand.
You both chose to share a pack of sweet tart ropes along with cherry coke slushies. Fortunately, there weren’t any people in the auditorium which meant that you and Michael had the entire place to yourselves.
As the movie began, you became engrossed almost immediately. Michael was watching but his eyes flickered to you and your reactions. You gently explained facts about the movie to him during certain scenes.
Michael had left out one detail to you. He was absolutely terrified of horror movies. Even the process of filming Sinners was a bit squeamish to him. He found himself tensing and jumping in the seat at certain parts.
When the part came with them trying to do CPR on one of the crew members and the person’s chest opened up, Michael shrank in his chair.
“Are you okay?” You asked, turning your head to him.
“Huh? Oh yeah. I’m just not really a horror movie person. I’m actually kind of squeamish about gore.”
“Oh no, I didn’t know. Do you wanna leave?” You questioned, your face showing obvious concern.
Michael shook his head, “No, I’ll be fine. I want us to stay.”
He continued to sit through the movie, but he was doing a terrible job at not acting scared. From the corner of his eye, you looked completely unphased by the gore. You could sense that Michael was scared, so you intertwined your fingers together. You laid your head on his shoulders.
In response, Michael wrapped his arm around you. This way it gave him semblance of comfort and feeling like he was the one protecting you.
From that moment, it changed the trajectory of your relationship with Michael. You were now officially his nerdy horro fanatic girlfriend and he was your scarredy cat boyfriend.
It clicked well.
_______________________
Four months later, you and Michael were still going strong. Your career in the movie space was flourishing. More production companies were calling you to come review their movies and interview their casts.
You respected the art of journalism. In a world of social media journalists, you set yourself apart by ensuring that you did your research and developed engaging questions for the cast. What people loved more about your content was how you would interview members of the production crew to talk about the technicality of their jobs.
Naturally, you were in the spotlight more for being Michael’s girlfriend, but you were clear to not make being his girlfriend your brand. In fact, diehard fans had even started referring to Michael as your boyfriend as if he wasn’t the big movie star.
It was the weekend, which meant that it was movie weekend for you and Michael. Each week when you both were free, you would alternate picking movies for each other. You always tried to pick horror movies that you felt like Michael could handle. On the few separate times when you picked hardcore horror, he almost fainted.
Tonight, you had picked The Exorcist. Michael had assured you that he felt confident enough to handle the movie.
A couple of minutes in, he was already spooked. He pulled your body closer under the guise of wanting to cuddle, but actually he was scared.
“You okay, baby?” You asked looking up at Michael.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He answered, placing a kiss on your lips. You deepened the kiss and slid your tongue in his mouth. In response, Michael let out a low groan.
Soon, you were straddling his hips while his hands wandered up your shorts.
Pulling back, Michael placed kisses down the column of your throat. He sucked gently at that sensitive spot while he continued grinding your hips down on his.
“You know this is usually the part in the scary movie when the couple gets chopped up into tiny pieces,” you said, breath uneven.
“Good thing we aren’t in a horror movie. But don’t worry baby, I’d protect you.” He said connecting your lips back together.
You both continued to make out on the couch until you pulled back. “I gotta go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back, baby.” You slid off Michael’s lap and walked to the bathroom.
Michael’s gaze settled back to the tv where The Exorcist was still playing. He was half tempted to pause the movie. Six minutes passed and you still weren’t back.
“Baby, you good?” He called out, but received no response.
He bit his lip as the anxiety started rising in his chest. Michael stood from the couch and went to the bathroom. He gently knocked on the door and waited to hear you respond. When you didn’t, he gently opened the door and found it empty.
The fear started to spike in his chest.
He jumped when his phone started ringing. Your contact popped up on the phone.
Sliding the answer button over, he placed the phone up to this ear, “Baby, where you at?”
“Hello Michael,” a raspy voice answered back. Michael quickly pulled the phone back to confirm it was your number.
“Who is this?” He asked.
The voice laughed, “That’s not important. But I do have one question for you. What’s your favorite scary movie, Michael?”
“Baby, this isn’t funny. You know I don’t like scary movies.”
“Cute of you to assume I’m your girlfriend. She’s rather tied up at the moment,” the voice snickered.
Michael started moving quickly through each room, but still no sign of you. “What’s wrong, Michael? You scared?”
“Aye, I ain’t got time for this! If you did something to my girl, it’s gone be me and you,” Michael said roughly into the phone. Truthfully, he was scared out of his mind.
“Let’s play a game first, Michael. You answer my questions and I’ll let your girlfriend go. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“First question, who was the killer in Nightmare on Elm Street?”
“Freddy Krueger!”
“Good! You might just win. In Jeepers Creepers, how many years until he comes back?”
Michael ponders on the question and tries to remember. “Ummm…23 years?”
“Correct again, Michael! In the People under the Stairs, what’s the name of the couple’s daughter?”
Michael’s eyes widen. He hadn’t watched that movie with you yet. He remembered you talking about it, but he hadn’t seen it.
“Sarah?”
The voice chuckles on the other end of the line. “Wrong answer, Michael. Guess your girlfriend won’t make it to the sequel.”
The call ends. Your loud scream radiates through the house before the lights pop out. The house is in complete darkness. Michael quickly turns his flash light on. His hand is shaking the entire time. Somewhere in the house, a door slams.
Michael is silently praying the entire time.
“Baby,” he calls out softly, hoping to catch sight of you.
He quietly creeps up the stairs.
He looks around the bedroom for you. Internally, his gut is telling him to high tail it from the house, but honestly, it would be a douche move to leave you in the house alone.
As he turns, the hair rises on his arms. “Michael,” a voice whispers.
Michael’s eyes go toward the closet which is slightly open.
“Nope,” Michael says before turning and running down the stairs.
Glancing behind him, he almost faints at seeing a shadow at the top of the stairs.
He runs in the direction of the kitchen and is about to go to the door. He can hear the front door slamming in response.
He’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, heart beating erratically out of his chest. He bumps into the counter and drops his phone on the floor. When he leans down to pick it up, he quickly stands again.
His eyes frantically search around in the dark to make out some semblance of an exit. A hand touches his shoulder and a voice whispers, “Found you.”
Michael does the only normal thing his body can think of, he starts screaming and swinging erratically. The lights turn back on and Michael is still screaming and swinging.
He finally stops and opens his eyes. You’re standing in the middle of the room, trying to hold your laughter in.
Michael has his arm still mid swing when you finally start laughing loudly. You actually start clutching your stomach while tears are streaming down your face.
“Oh my god, baby, you were so scared!” You wheezed out.
Michael lets out a deep breath, “GIRL! You scared me! What’s wrong with you?” He leans against the counter and starts to calm his heart down.
You move to stand in front of him. Your hands come up to cradle his face, “I’m sorry baby. That was mean.” You say this with a pout on your face and start placing gentle kisses on his lips.
Michael’s body melts into yours. He finally starts laughing, “I don’t think anyone’s ever pranked me like that before. That was good. I mean you turned the lights off and you really got me good upstairs.”
At this, you start frowning, “What are you talking about?”
“Upstairs. You know hiding in the closet and whispering my name. Standing at the top of the stairs almost had me peeing on myself,” Michael answers.
You pause and your frown deepens, “Michael, I didn’t go into the bedroom. I’ve been downstairs in the kitchen the whole time.”
Michael stops laughing. He expects you to say that you’re joking and that it was you, but you don’t fix your mouth to correct it.
“Wait, but how did you close the front door?” Both of your heads turn to the front door.
“Baby, I promise, I’ve been in the kitchen this entire time.” You say, moving to stand closer to Michael.
Instead of doing the typical thing of questioning it, you and Michael both look at each other.
“Nope,” you both say before making your way outside to his car.
Summary: After a mission goes wrong and your husband is declared legally dead, you’re surprised to find him standing at your doorstep eight months later in seemingly perfect health. You’re happy to have him back, but the man in your home isn’t the same man who left you months ago. Who is this stranger….and why isn’t he acting like the man that you love?
(Lovergirlnote: Whew, I've been working on this for weeks! I'm so excited for you all to read. It's definitely one of my new favs. If you like spooky and sci-fi, then this will definitely be the story for you.)
Warning(s): cosmic horror, sci-fi, smut (18+ mdni), violence, murder, extraterrestrial horror, tentacle horror, angst, grief, mentions of death
Assimilation (noun): the process of becoming similar to something.
June 4th, 2025 (Present Day)
You moved through the kitchen with practiced ease. You had been living in your home for over three years, so it was only natural that you were familiar with all the nooks and crannies of the home that you and your husband had purchased.
You opened the stove to observe the appearance of the baked gravy pork chops. Once you were satisfied with the progress, you closed the stove and moved on to making your mashed potatoes. You gently carved at the browned skins of the vegetables until you were satisfied with the amount. You placed the shaved potatoes in a pot of water on the stove and turned it on.
You gently hummed a familiar tune, A Song for You, by Donny Hathaway. It was a favorite of you and your husband. He often liked to sing the song to you in bed, even though it sounded terrible coming from his mouth. You laughed every time and sang it with him to save him the embarrassment.
Now, the song only serves as a painful reminder of the loss of your beloved husband.
You quickly pushed the thoughts from your mind before they ventured into dangerous territory. A knock sounded throughout the house, and you quickly moved from the kitchen to your front door. The flow of your dress twisted and flared at your sides as you moved gracefully to the door.
Grasping the knob between your hand and pulling the door open, you started to speak, “Dave, I wasn’t expecting you here so early. The food isn’t nearly do–”
You stopped short in your sentence as the air in your chest started to become constricted. Dave wasn’t the one standing at the door as you expected.
No, your husband was standing on the other side of the door.
Your dead husband.
Your husband, who had been declared legally dead eight months ago.
You watched the man with your husband’s face scan his eyes down your frame as if refamiliarizing himself with your features again. His eyes locked on yours again.
“Hi, rabbit.”
At hearing his voice, that same deep cadence that you had grown to love the sound of, you did the only reasonable thing that a woman in your situation would do.
You fainted.
__________________
August 19th, 2023 (Two years ago–first meeting)
Sergeant Michael B. Jordan has been through a lot. Survived basic camp training. Two tours in different countries. Flew planes at speeds that no other person in the world would ever get the privilege of doing. He had survived being shot at behind enemy lines.
But the scariest thing by far had to be the concept of having to approach you.
It started in the grocery store. An Aldi’s that he liked to come to because the groceries were more affordable. Michael spotted you first. You were tracing the lines of a watermelon and gently tapping your fingers across the skin of the fruit. He subtly stared at you from the corner of his eye as his fingers danced across the lemons.
You were, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen. Even in a pair of biker shorts and an oversized graphic tee, he found himself drawn to you. He had been subconsciously working up the nerve to talk to you, but he talked himself down each time.
Surely, someone as beautiful as you had someone waiting for you at home?
But he thought to himself–he’d be a fool not to shoot his shot at you. He lightly walked over to you and stood by you. He pretended to be looking at the watermelons as well, but frankly, he had been allergic to watermelon since he was six years old.
“How can you tell if it’s a good watermelon?” He asked.
You jumped slightly, as if you had just realized that the man was standing next to you. Your eyes tracked up and down his face, and you smiled lightly, “You see that yellow spot on the lower side?” Michael nodded as you pointed to the spot. “Yellow usually tells you that it’s a lot more ripe. But also if you tap it, and it sounds deep and hollow, that usually means that it’s ripe.”
You tested the theory by tapping on one of the watermelons. To Michael, it sounded like a regular watermelon, but then you urged him to come closer as you tapped on another watermelon. He heard the distinct sounds between the two watermelons and looked up at you in wonder.
“If you’re thinking of buying one, you should get that one,” You said, pointing to the watermelon that you initially tapped.
Michael smiled sheepishly, “Umm..actually, I’m allergic to watermelon. I actually just came over here because I wanted to talk to you.”
You laughed and smiled at him again. Seeing your smile up close made Michael feel like the entire world had stopped. He wanted to see more of that beautiful smile.
“I’m Michael,” he said, holding his hand out to yours.
You connected your hands with his and gave him your name.
From that point, the two of you were connected.
___________________________
June 4th, 2025 (Present Day)
You awoke with a sharp pain threading through the front of your head. You blinked in confusion as you noted that you were lying across the couch.
“You should go slow. You fainted and almost hit your head before I caught you.”
Your head snapped in the direction of the voice. Your husband’s voice. For a moment, there was a stretch of silence as you looked in Michael’s general direction. You ran your eyes up and down his frame numerous times. It was as if you were looking for any differences in his appearance, or you were actually trying to convince yourself that he was actually here. Fear and confusion ran through the core of your being. He looked just like himself. He looked the same as when he left you for that godforsaken mission.
You stood and crossed the room with hesitation. Your movements resembled those of a frightened animal. When you made it to Michael, you kneeled in front of him. Michael could see the myriad of emotions as they played throughout your face. You reached your hand out, the one that held your wedding ring, and placed it upon his face. Soon, your other hand joined, and you moved your fingers across the expanse of his face. One of your fingers found the scar at the top of his eyebrow from a childhood accident.
Michael reached up and placed his hands over yours. He gripped your hands that held his face. As if struck by some kind of lightning, your lip began to quiver as tears flooded your eyes. You threw your body into Michael as you wrapped your arms around his body. Sharp sobs radiated through your body as you held him close. You placed your nose in the crook of his neck and inhaled. He even smelled the same.
In return, Michael wrapped his arms around you and squeezed tightly. He kissed the crown of your head and cooed gently.
“It’s okay, baby. I’m home now.”
An hour passed by, and you had made Michael a plate of the food that you had cooked. You sat across from him and watched as he ate. It was still so foreign to see him here when you had watched that chair stay empty for eight months.
Michael felt your gaze, and he looked back at you, “Where did you go?”
He frowned, “I don’t know.”
“That doesn’t make sense. What do you mean that you don’t know?” You questioned, leaning forward in your chair.
“I just don’t remember. One minute, I was on the ship with my crew, and the next, everything went bright. Then I just woke up one day and knew I needed to get back to you.” He explained. You bit at your lip, a nasty habit that you had developed since childhood, “Do you know how long you’ve been gone, Michael?”
He shook his head. “Eight months. They declared you and your entire team dead seven months ago.”
Another frown overtook Michael’s face. Eight months. Eight months missing. Eight months of being declared dead. Eight months of not being with you.
He reached across the table, “I’m sorry.”
You took his hand between yours and intertwined your fingers. “It’s okay. The only thing that matters is that you’re back.” You looked down for a second before looking up again, “Does anyone else know that you’re back? Your superiors? Did anyone from your team survive?”
“No one knows I’m here except you. I don’t….I don’t think my team made it. All I know is that I needed to get to you.”
You nodded. You brought your combined hands up and kissed the back of his hand.
Later, when the night fell and the skies darkened, you and Michael had prepared for bed. You picked out a pair of clothes for him and handed them to him. Normally, you and Michael would shower together, but you figured that it was best to give him space to adjust to being home first. When he stepped out of the shower, you looked over at him from the mirror as he toweled off and started to slide the briefs over his hips.
You frowned upon seeing the giant scar radiating down the middle of his chest to the top of his stomach. You walked and stood in front of him as you observed the scar. You ran your finger down the length of it and looked up, “Is this from the accident?”
He only nodded. You moved forward and placed a gentle kiss on the scar. You soon left the room to take a shower. Ten minutes later, you were back in the room in an oversized T-shirt that belonged to Michael. The two of you moved the blankets back and got into the bed. It was obvious to Michael that you wanted to embrace him, but you were choosing to respect his boundaries. He moved closer and pulled your body into his hold. He laid your head upon his chest and relaxed. You missed being held like this.
You woke up hours later to find that Michael wasn’t in the bed with you anymore. You looked over to the clock that read 3:00 AM. You moved to get out of bed in search of Michael. A part of you feared that you had simply gone crazy and imagined the entire interaction with your husband. Sharp, violent coughs radiated echoes from the bathroom. You rushed to the bathroom and saw Michael kneeling over the ceramic bowl.
“Kari,” You called out softly, approaching him quietly.
However, when he turned his face to you, you gasped in surprise at seeing the blood coating his lips. You dropped to your knees and scrambled to his side. Michael’s body continued to lurch forward as he sputtered blood across your t-shirt. You stared in horror as his body began to convulse and white foam radiated from his mouth. You rushed to the bedroom and immediately dialed 911.
Within minutes, the paramedics were ushering your husband into the ambulance as you sat beside him and held his hands.
One of the EMTs began to speak, “We have an African-American male. 6’0 ft. Apparent seizures and blood loss. No determined cause.”
You continued to hold Michael’s hands as tears swept along your face. You prayed. You prayed just as hard as when his superiors came to your door to tell you that they had lost contact with Michael’s ship and couldn’t determine their location. You couldn’t lose him. Not after you had just gotten him back mere hours ago.
Arriving at the hospital, the EMTS immediately rushed Michael’s body from the ambulance on the gurney. You saw the doctors and nurses rushing to his side as you all ran down the hallway. One of the doctors frowned as she pressed on Michael’s wrist, “Heart rate is declining. Take him for surgery right now!”
Your heart dropped upon hearing the words, and you were confused when one of the nurses stopped you from going back. The nurse stared at you and noted the heartbroken and fearful look in your eye, “Listen, sweetie, I know you wanna go back there, but we can’t allow you to go back there. I promise your husband is in good hands; we just need you to trust us.”
It was as if the words and the severity of the situation finally settled on you, and sobs tore through your body. Your body crumbled to the floor as sharp sobs rattled throughout the hallway. The nurse moved to join you on the floor and pulled your body into her arms. She rocked you back and forth and cooed at you.
She ushered you to a private waiting room and brought you a blanket and a cup of tea.
“Do you have anyone to call? I don’t think it’s good for you to be alone right now.”
You went through your brain and tried to think, “I can call my mother and my in-laws.”
The nurse nodded her head in sympathy, “Would you like me to call them, or would you prefer to be the one to do it?”
“You should call them,” You whispered. In your distressed state, you weren’t in your right mind to have to talk to your parents and Michael’s and let them know that he was back, along with the fact that he was now in the hospital, and you weren’t even sure that he was going to make it through the night. It was all just too much right now. You unlocked your iPhone and handed it over to the nurse, who dialed your parents’ numbers and calmly explained the situation to them.
Within the next 45 minutes, your mother and father, along with Michael’s mother and father, burst into the waiting room. A fresh batch of tears entered your eyes before you started to cry again. Your mother and Donna rushed to your side and immediately started to console you. Seeing you in a pair of sweatpants in a bloody t-shirt with tears running down your face wasn’t the most pleasant sight. Their heart broke at seeing you like this.
They hadn’t seen you this torn up since Michael’s superiors came to your door to announce that he and his team were now declared legally dead. ___________________________________________
September 13th, 2024 (3 Weeks Before the Mission)
Two bodies are entangled with each other. Coiled in an intimacy that doesn’t need to be named aloud. You sigh at feeling Michael’s body connecting with yours. You clutch harder at his shoulders as his thrusts deepen into your body. Michael moves his head so he can look into your eyes. He always told you that your eyes were one of his favorite features. He loved how expressive you would get when it came to your emotions, and your eyes were always a key indicator of what you were feeling.
He moves closer so that he can connect his lips to yours. For a few seconds, you both continued to kiss and pass moans between each other. At the precipice of your combined pleasure, you brought Michael’s body closer to yours so that he lay his weight completely on you. You loved to feel his body pressing on yours when you orgasmed because you felt like it connected your souls.
Your chests moved against each other as you caught your breath. Michael moved to lie on his side and pulled you to lie on his chest. You casually played with his chain on his neck.
“Now explain to me again, what’s this special secret mission that you’re going on?” You asked, tracing the tattoo on his chest. He had gotten your name tattooed on his chest as a wedding gift. Some cheesy line about “always keeping you close to his heart,” to which you laughed, but ultimately, you loved it.
Michael placed a kiss on your forehead, “We got a signal on one of the satellites about a possibly new planet. Baby, this could be really big for us in terms of new information and discovering if there are new habitable planets out there. Think of all of the new possibilities.”
You smiled at his excitement. Michael had always been passionate about his job and space. Michael’s love for space first started when his father took him to the local astronomy museum. He fell in love with the stars, the planets, and the thought of what was out there in place. His young mind went through all of the possibilities of what was in space that we didn’t know about, or even possible life out there that we hadn’t discovered.
From that point on, he made it his mission to be a part of NASA. His parents had catered to his dreams by getting him a telescope and numerous books that were about space. By the time that Michael was 10-years-old, he could recount any fact to you about any planet in our galaxy. It also helped that he was a genius when it came to science and math. Naturally, he enrolled in the military to be able to afford school. The path from there led him straight to being called one of NASA’s lead astronauts and scientists.
He was curious. He wanted to make a difference in the world and discover something that hadn’t been found before.
You pouted slightly, “A month in space. What am I going to do all of that time without you?” Michael chuckled slightly. You and he had never gone for extensive periods of time without each other. Sure, you still did things independently of each other, but you really just enjoyed being in each other’s company.
“I’ll be back before you know it, baby. I’ll record videos for each day so that you never get lonely without me.” He said, running his fingers down your spine. You shivered and moved closer to him. You both sat in silence and enjoyed the feel of your bodies together.
“I wanna have a baby.”
You froze and sat up slightly to stare at Michael. The conversation of babies had come up early in your relationship, but once you got married, you both opted to wait a couple of years to enjoy your time together before introducing a child.
“Really, Kari?” You asked, excitement filling your body.
Even though you hadn’t mentioned it to him, you had that feeling in your body that you were ready for a baby. That was the weird thing about you and Michael. You both were always just naturally in tune with each other. You both anticipated each other’s needs without having to say it aloud. Most people found it weird when they would go out to dinner with you and Michael, and you’d wordlessly hand each other things without speaking. Even with just being married for a year, it was like you both had known each other for life.
Michael leaned up to connect his lips to yours. His hand found the back of your head where he absentmindedly played with your curls, “Of course. I’m ready to start our family. But if you’re not ready, then of course we can wait, baby.”
You shook your head quickly, “No, I’m ready. I want this.”
You both smiled at each other, and Michael started to place kisses all over your face while you laughed. He grabbed your face in his hands and smiled, “We’re gonna have a baby!”
___________________________
Friday, October 4th, 2024 (The Before)
“Okay, everybody, no homework this weekend, but please practice your reading, okay?” You said gently to your first-grade students.
“Yes, Mrs. Jordan,” Small voices replied. You smiled in response before ushering your students out to their respective parents or buses.
You had always wanted to be a teacher. You enjoyed being around kids and knowing that you were stimulating their minds with new knowledge. Most of your students loved coming to your class. You had always kept things fun and unique, and you made it easy for students to learn, no matter what impairment they may have had.
Getting in your car, you made the drive home. You hadn’t heard from Michael in weeks. You would typically get a little transmission from the ship letting you know that he and his team were okay. But you figured that their ship had possibly lost a signal, being that they were so far in space.
You frowned when you pulled into your street and noted the increase in cars there. You frowned even more when you recognized one of the cars as Michael’s superiors. Once you got out of the car, Admiral Shane Bennington met you as you entered your yard.
“Admiral Shane, I wasn’t expecting to see you today. Is everything okay?” You question, staring at the older man.
He sighed, and you felt your stomach begin to get queasy. “Why don’t we go inside so that we can talk?”
You led the man into your house, but your stomach ached the entire time. Once inside, you set out to make you both a cup of coffee. Setting Admiral Shane’s cup in front of him, you were still standing by the coffee machine when he looked at you. “Please sit.”
You sat at the table across from him and picked at your nails. “You’re starting to worry me, Admiral. Is everything okay with my husband and his team?”
Admiral Shane let out a deep sigh, then leaned closer, “Mrs. Jordan, I know that what I’m about to say isn’t easy, but I want to assure you that we’re doing everything in our power to rectify the situation. A few days ago, during one of our scheduled calls with your husband and his team, we lost connection. We haven’t been able to make contact yet.”
You frowned, “You haven’t spoken to any of them in days, and you’re just now telling me this?!”
“I apologize, but we figured that it was typical satellite interference, and we expected to get them back online quickly. But so far, our technicians are struggling to receive a signal.” Admiral Shane explained.
You felt your heart beating roughly against your rib cage, and your breath started to shorten. Sensing your impending panic attack, Admiral Shane quickly crossed the table and knelt before you. “Mrs. Jordan, I can assure you that we’re not going to stop until we find your husband and his team.
You want to believe him, but that aching in your stomach tells you otherwise.
_________________________________
You try to return to normal, but those words feel wrong and foreign. How could you go back to pretending that things were normal when your husband was lost in space? What was normal about that situation?
At your job, you try not to let your personal life bleed into your teaching, but you can’t help it. The other teachers think that they’re being discreet when they whisper about how sickly you look since your husband went missing. They all give you sympathetic stares and check in too frequently when you’re in your planning period. You don’t need their sympathy or prayers.
You need your husband back.
Some of the other wives and partners of your husband’s team reach out to you. You can tell from the call that they’re expecting to hear any information from you about the search, but you’re just as lost as they are. You can also sense that they’re waiting on you to give some grand speech about this being the time to come together and stay strong for each other, but you don’t want to do that.
You don’t want to have to say strong. You want to feel everything.
You want your husband back.
The other wives and partners all form a sort of pseudo support group chat, and they add you to it. You got tired of reading into the sad messages as if your husband and his team were dead. You just weren’t ready to accept that as a possible reality. You reach out to Admiral Shane every day to see if there are any updates, but you always get a, “We’re sorry, Mrs. Jordan, there are no new updates yet.”
It makes you angry.
Your mother and in-laws step up to support you during this time. Donna Jordan, your mother-in-law, frequently visits you. You both support each other during this time, and you can tell that she’s trying to be strong for you. No mother should ever have to wonder if there child is alive or not. Michael’s brother and sister come by a few times to try to take your mind off of everything that’s happening, but you struggle.
One day, when you get home, you notice the cars that are littering the front of your yard. Your heart rate picks up against your chest, and you rush inside your home. You hope to see your husband sitting on the couch, smiling at you with those deep-set dimples. Instead, you only find your mother, father, Michael’s parents, his siblings, Dave, his best friend, and Admiral Shane sitting in your living room.
You feel the frown overtaking your face.
However, your eye catches something sitting neatly on Donna’s lap. Dried tear stains are adorning her face, and you can feel the room losing oxygen as your mind deciphers what’s on her lap.
A flag.
Folded neatly in your mother-in-law’s lap. It’s a flag that no wife of any soldier wants to see. A flag that’s supposed to represent honor and gratitude for service, yet it’s only marked by death.
“Get out.” You hear yourself saying.
Your father rises first and starts to take steps towards you. Tears began to blur your vision, but the anger took over the sadness. You push your father’s hand away that reaches out to you, “I said everybody get out of my house.”
“Hey, it’s okay, baby, we’re all here for you,” Your father states.
You turn your gaze to Admiral Shane, “Where’s my husband? What happened?”
Admiral Shane’s empathetic gaze finds yours, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jordan. We couldn’t find them. Our team ran multiple tests, and there is still no sign of your husband and his team. It’s our best assumption to conclude that they are no longer with us.”
The anger flares inside of you, “Your best assumptions? So a guess?! You can’t even confirm if my husband is dead. I want you out of my house.”
Something strikes inside of you. It all feels like the entire world is falling at this moment.
Dead.
Dead.
Your husband is dead.
Your breathing starts to quicken, and you start clutching at your chest as the tears finally start to fall from your eyes. They feel like lava as they trail down your cheeks. Multiple “no’s” fall from your lips, and you feel your feet moving. It’s the pair of arms that set you off, and you can hear yourself screaming. You don’t even know what you’re screaming about. It’s like you’re out of your body and watching this all play out.
Your mother and father surround your body and pull you closer. You continue screaming and thrashing in their hold.
“No, mama! No! We’re supposed to be having a baby! He’s coming back so we can have the baby!”
________________________________
After your husband and his team are declared dead, you change.
You become a shell.
You don’t talk. You don’t eat.
You just sit on the couch, staring off into space.
You don’t even remember going to the funeral. Michael’s parents and siblings plan it all because you aren’t physically or mentally stable enough to do it yourself. Your job allows you a leave of absence to process the grief.
Your mother and Donna come over every day to take care of you. They help you to bathe and eat things such as soup and crackers. Sometimes, your father or Michael’s siblings will come over to watch you. You aren’t stupid. You know that they’re all scared that you’re going to do something to hurt yourself.
You get multiple visits from friends, co-workers, family, and casual acquaintances of yours and Michael’s. They all fix you multiple dishes and give their condolences.
Whispered confessions of prayers.
But you don’t want their prayers. You don’t want their sympathy. You don’t want their sweet potato pies or casseroles.
You want your husband back.
______________________________
June 5th, 2025 (Present Day)
You’re sitting in the waiting room the next morning when the doctor finally enters the room. You all perk up immediately.
The doctor looks at you, “Hi, Mrs. Jordan, I’m Dr. Holloway. I know that you’ve been in quite a state of distress, but I can assure you that your husband is going to be fine. The seizures appear to have been caused by his body trying to stabilize to being back here within our atmosphere. He’s in stable condition, but we’d like to continue to monitor him for a few days.”
A collective sigh rings out through the room. You stare at Dr. Holloway, “Can we go see him?”
Dr. Holloway nods, “Of course. He’s actually up now, and he’s been asking for you specifically.”
All of you leave the room and follow behind Dr. Holloway as he leads you to Michael’s room. When you enter, Michael is sitting in the hospital bed, looking as if nothing had ever happened. Your eyes scan over his body and note that he looks surprisingly perfect.
His eyes finally meet yours, “Hey, rabbit.”
His arms open, and you find yourself moving forward to enter them. Your hands find his face, and you can’t help but start caressing his cheeks, “I was so scared that you weren’t coming back to me.”
Michael shakes his head, “I’m not leaving you again, baby.”
His eyes peer past you at his and your parents standing in the doorframe. You move to the side so that his parents can embrace him. You know the pain that this has caused them and part of you feels guilty for not considering their grief in all of this.
You push it all to the side because all that matters is that your husband is here and that he’s going to be okay.
You’re going to be okay.
______________________________
June 26th, 2025 (3 Weeks Later)
After Michael’s hospital visit, he was discharged with literally no signs of his previous seizures. It was an anomaly to the doctors there how someone could go from having seizures that severe to being in seemingly perfect health. Alas, they decided to discharge him into your care.
At home, you and Michael try to form some semblance of a routine together. Michael can feel you tiptoeing around him, not wanting to overwhelm him with anything. When you’re thinking of giving him subtle hints at his old routine, he surprises you by performing it down to a T.
The intimacy between the two of you is still strained. You haven’t tried to pursue any close sexual contact with Michael despite how much your body begins to react to having him around. At night, when he holds you, you can feel the muscular planes of his body molding to your soft shape. The rough feel of his hands wrapped around your body lights a new fire in you that you hadn’t felt in ages. But you remain respectful.
You had just gotten your husband back. The rest of it could wait until later.
However, you failed to notice the same desire that Michael held for you. He watched you like you were one of those beautiful planets that he focused his research on. He was detailing every single aspect of your body into his mind and storing it for later use.
Currently, you’re standing in the shower, lathering your body with your chosen body wash. Through the steam of the bathroom, Michael could still see your prominent figure through the glass. His eyes raked down your form. He analyzed all of the subtle marks, such as the stretch marks that colored your thighs. He imagined himself tracing each stretch mark one by one. Your back was turned to the shower, and it allowed him to see the small bunny tattoo that you had on your left shoulder. It was a delicate and small piece, which you couldn’t necessarily see unless you wore a piece of clothing that revealed it.
You jumped in surprise when you saw Michael standing on the other side of the shower. You open the shower door slightly, “Hey, baby, did you need something?”
You pretended not to be casually ogling his bare chest and his lack of underwear under the grey sweatpants. Michael stepped closer to the shower and placed his hand on your cheek. You subconsciously leaned into his touch. He presses his lips to yours and tastes the small droplets of water from your lips. Soft whimpers leave your mouth as he moves to pull your wet body to his. Your nipples brush against his chest, and you moan at the sensation. You step back as you watch Michael start to take off his sweatpants. Once undressed, he steps fully into the shower with you.
You both stand in the shower, staring at each other. It had been eight months since you both had been connected like this. As if he senses the nerves present, Michael steps forward and traces his hands up the curves of your body. He turns you so that your back is against his chest. You shiver at the feeling of his arms wrapping around your waist.
Pleasure radiates through you as Michael begins to kiss your neck. You missed the feeling of his beard and mustache subtly scraping at your skin. Michael’s hand is wrapped around your throat, and he moves your head to meet his lips once again. This time, his tongue engulfs your mouth as you can only match his intensity.
Turning your body to meet his again, Michael backs you up until you're directly against the wall. Small goosebumps cover the expanse of your skin from the coldness of the wall. Hoisting you up against the wall, your eyes connect to Michael’s, and you can tell that he’s waiting to receive some form of consent from you. You nod, and you both moan deeply as his tip finally breaches your entrance.
The entire situation is unexplainable. Your bodies slot together like there hasn’t been an eight-month delay between them. Your pleasure and Michael’s naturally sync together. The shower fogs, and you don’t know if it's because of the water or your lovemaking. Your nails dig roughly into Michael’s skin, but he doesn’t let the pain deter him. In fact, it only seems to fuel his desire for you.
When your orgasm hits, your entire body reacts. Michael delivers a few more thrusts before he’s releasing inside of you with a low groan. You don’t even realize that you’re crying until you see Michael’s concerned face.
“Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head. You can’t explain the reasonings for your sudden tears, but you know that it’s because you had missed Michael in all aspects of your being. When you both exit the shower, Michael is gentle with you as he wipes your body down. You both get into bed together, and he immediately pulls your body closer to his.
“Michael?”
“Hmm?”
You pause, “Promise me, you won’t leave me again.”
“I promise, baby.” He murmurs against the crown of your head. You finally allow yourself to rest and close your eyes.
_____________________________________
July 4th, 2025 (1 Month Later–Present Day)
“Baby, can you zip my dress up?” You call out to Michael, who’s in your shared closet getting his shoes.
He suddenly appears and zips the back of your dress before placing a gentle kiss on your shoulder. You move to clasp the diamond necklace around your neck, then put your heels on.
Tonight was the honorary ball for Michael’s return, which his superiors had decided to host in his honor. He was being awarded a medal for his bravery and resilience during the mission. He had yet to return to work due to his superiors deeming that he needed time to reacclimate to being back home. He had only been to the base a handful of times to be asked follow-up questions about the mission and what he remembered. When he returned home, he’d never reveal any of what was discussed. He was a soldier through and through, and you understood his duty to the national security of this country.
You were only happy to have him home. You were wearing a midnight blue gown to complement his dress blues. Standing behind you in the mirror, Michael placed a kiss on the side of your neck, “You look beautiful, baby.”
You turned in his hold, “You look pretty handsome, too. Did I ever tell you that I love a man in uniform?”
Michael laughed softly, “Yeah, I think you may have mentioned it a few times.”
You grabbed your small purse while Michael grabbed the keys to the car. He held your hand the entire way to the gala. As far as you knew, it would be Michael’s parents, his siblings, his co-workers, and their significant others, along with his superiors at the gala.
Arriving at the gala, Michael parked the car before coming around the side to open the door for you. You placed your hand in his, and you both were walking inside the venue.
When you walk in, all eyes immediately turn to you and Michael. You can read the shock that’s present on everyone's face. Michael was literally the man who walked from his grave. As far as any of his coworkers knew, Michael and his crew had all died on the ship eight months ago. So, to see him physically walking among them… it was eerie. What was even more scary to them all was that he was the sole survivor, and they all had yet to find out how he had made it back.
But with their respective jobs in the military, they knew that discretion was valued above all. If Michael had been cleared by their superiors, then there was nothing left for them to question. You could sense the hesitation in everyone’s body language. They were practically itching to crowd around Michael. Finally, one of Michael’s co-workers, Terry, stepped up and dapped Michael up with a huge grin on his face.
His fiancée, Evelyn, stood next to him and smiled at you.
Soon, many others were surrounding Michael with their own words or gratitude. Michael took it all in stride, but he kept you by his side through it all. You sensed that it was the nerves, and he didn’t want to have to answer any uncomfortable questions about his crew or the mission.
One of the wives that you recognized as Gina grabbed your hand and ushered you to a corner where the other wives and partners were. You looked back at Michael, who gave you a small smile and nod.
“Hey girl, we missed seeing you so much at these things!” Kylie, one of the other wives, gushed.
You smiled politely, “I’m just happy to be here.”
Gina took a sip from her champagne, “Oh, honey, you don’t have to play demure with us. We know these events can be a bore, but we’re just happy to have you and Michael back.”
The conversation continued naturally, but you could sense that they were all itching to ask you questions about Michael. You subtly maneuvered your way around answering questions without giving away any details of anything. You didn’t have to do much because, frankly, you still didn’t know what happened.
The talk ended once the food was announced to be done. You and Michael were sitting at a table in the middle with a few more guests. Michael’s fingers found yours under the table. All eyes turned once you noticed Admiral Shane walking to the stage with a glass in hand.
“First, I’d like to thank you all for taking the time out to be here tonight. Tonight, we’re honoring a brilliant young man. I first met Sergeant Jordan when he was a fresh-faced 19-year-old. He was quiet, but brave. I could tell that he didn’t need to announce his attributes–he only let the actions speak for themselves. Then, imagine my surprise when he goes on talking about space and discovering all the ways that we haven’t explored space. I thought, ‘This kid is crazy,’ but I’m not too prideful to admit that he was right. Due to Sergeant Jordan’s work, we’ve discovered more about the future parts of the solar system than we previously knew. As you’re all aware, he went missing eight months ago, but we’re blessed to have him back in our arms. Which is why tonight, we’re honored to present Sergeant Jordan with The Medal of Honor.” Applause radiates through the venue as Michael stands to walk to the stage. He places a quick kiss on your lips before leaving.
You admire his form as he walks. He’s always been a man whose presence is commanding without being domineering. He’s one of those men whom people can’t help but stare at and desire. You had witnessed firsthand how men and women would pounce to have Michael’s attention on them.
Michael takes the stage, and Admiral Shane pins the pin to his jacket, along with handing him the box that contained his medal. A few of Michael’s coworkers started to cheer and demanded a speech. Michael laughed shyly before taking the stage, “Hi, first I’d like to say that I appreciate you all for being here tonight. I’m aware that some of you have children, so the fact that you’d make time to be here means more than you know. Thank you to Admiral Shane and my superiors who’ve awarded me this honor. It means the world to be considered for this. I want to issue a special thanks to my wife. Baby, thank you for staying strong during all of these months and not giving up on me. I love you with every atom in my body. Also, thank you to everyone who supported my wife during this time. I know it couldn’t have been easy for her, so I appreciate you all. Thank you.” He finishes and leaves the stage. Michael makes his way back to the table and takes his seat next to you.
You turn to him, “That was beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you,” Michael states, leaning over to kiss your shoulder.
You giggle slightly before telling him that you’re going to the bathroom. Once in the bathroom, you conduct your business and move to the sink to wash your hands. You leave the bathroom, and you’re walking down the hallway when a figure suddenly appears in front of you. You jump slightly, but calm once you notice that it’s Alina Rodriguez, the wife of Cass Rodriguez, Michael’s co-captain on the ship.
Your eyes scan over the young woman’s form, and you note how disheveled she looks. “Hi Alina, it’s nice to see you.”
Alina stares at you for a moment. There’s complete silence between the two of you. You step closer to her, “Are you okay?”
Alina snaps out of her apparent trance, and her eyes darken. You can see the angry tears beginning to fill her eyes as she stares at you. “What did you do? What deal did you make with them?”
‘I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” You ask, confusion coloring your face.
“Why does your husband come back, and mine doesn't? Huh?! Did you know that Cass came back, too? Then, he was gone again. They took him!” Alina rambles. Your brows furrow more, and your mind immediately goes to the fact that she may be experiencing some sort of mental crisis.
You step closer to Alina, “Hey..Alina, I’m so sorry about Cass. It’s all going to be okay.”
Your words seem to anger the woman further as she shakes her head. “It’s not going to be okay! My husband is gone! But you! You get to keep your husband. I bet you don’t even know what he is! He’s not your husband.” In your confusion and Alina’s breakdown, you fail to notice the woman taking a knife out of her pocket. Your heart beats heavily against your chest as you finally see it.
“Is everything okay here?” A voice calls out. Your body relaxes slightly as you recognize it as Michael’s voice. Michael clocks the scene between you and Alina. He steps forward hesitantly once he notices the knife in Alina’s hand.
He moves around the woman and comes to stand in front of you. Your hands find his arm as you stare at Alina in concern.
“No! It’s not okay! What did you do to my husband, huh? What did you turn him into?” Alina demands, pointing the knife in your and Michael’s direction. Her shouting gets the attention of the other guests in the venue, and they all crowd to see the commotion. Gasps ring out, and you can see the men moving their partners back and assessing the best way to de-escalate the situation.
Admiral Shane steps forward, “Alina, I know you’re upset about Cass, but this isn’t the way. Put the knife down, and we can all work through this together.” Alina cries more, and she stares back at Admiral Shane, “None of this is okay. It’ll never be okay. Cass isn’t coming back.”
She looks back at Michael, “He’s not what he says that he is!”
Michael steps forward in an attempt to grab the knife from Alina. You can see a flash of fear that radiates across her face before she starts screaming and swinging the knife at Michael. Michael pushes you back as he tries to defend himself from the blows. Your entire body is filled with fear when you see the knife strike Michael on his hand. He manages to grab the knife as Alina continues to scream and thrash against him. The other men rush forward and firmly grab hold of Alina. You can see Terry holding her body to his and whispering to her. Warm, thick tears continue to roll down her face as she sobs violently.
You don’t even realize that you’re crying until you feel Michael’s hands on your face. His concerned eyes meet yours, “Hey, it’s okay, baby. Shh...we’re safe now.” He pulls your trembling body into his chest. You pull back suddenly and grab his hand in yours.
Your body freezes when you notice that his hand is perfectly fine. No cuts. No blood.
“I saw her cut you,” You say.
Michael shakes his head, “No, you must’ve thought you saw it. I’m fine. See? No blood.”
You decide to drop it, but your stomach still feels queasy.
Because in your mind and heart, you know that you saw it.
_______________________
September 16th, 2025 (2 Months Later, Present Day)
Today’s the annual family bar-b-que.
Your combined families had all come together to celebrate Michael’s return home. Your father and Michael’s father are both manning the grill with their respective towels thrown over their shoulders. You’re in the kitchen with your mothers, aunts, and cousins helping with making the sides.
Well, more like, you’re watching and laughing at all of the gossip.
Michael’s aunt, Ruth, speaks up, “How’s Kari adjusting to being back?”
You take a sip from your drink, “He’s doing good. He’s still off from work, but he’s expected to return next month to start his research again.” Everyone hums before Ruth speaks again, “He isn’t planning any more of those lil’ missions any time soon, right?”
You tense at the mention of the missions. You and Michael hadn’t explicitly discussed whether he would be going on any new space missions. Truthfully, you still didn’t like to think about the mission that took him from you all that time. You’d be content knowing that he never went on another mission, but you knew that wasn’t realistic. You knew how much Michael loved space, and you’d never ask him to give up on his dreams. But you wouldn’t survive another incident if he didn’t come back.
“No ma’am. No more missions for a while.”
All of your eyes snap to Michael, who is standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He crosses the kitchen to stand by you and presses a kiss to your hair. You feel yourself relaxing in his hold.
The cookout continues with everyone eating and having fun. You’re sitting next to Michael, sipping on your tea, when you freeze. Michael follows your eyes and sees you staring at Dave, Michael’s best friend, who also appears to be meeting your gaze. Dave snaps out of it and smiles at Michael.
Michael stands, and both men dap each other up. Dave hadn’t been around much since Michael’s return, but he claimed that it was due to being away for work. You stand and go to enter the kitchen to get a slice of pie. You’re in the process of putting the pie up when you turn and jump at seeing Dave standing there.
______________________
Michael notices that you’ve been gone for a little while. He moves from the table and goes into the house to find you. He’s about to enter the kitchen when he hears you and Dave talking. He notes the aggressive tone of your voice.
“You haven’t been returning my calls,” Dave states.
You look over at him, “What reason would I have to answer your calls, Dave?”
Dave shakes his head, “I don’t get why you’re treating me like this. Like I’m nothing to you. I’m not chill with just acting as if nothing happened between us. I love you. You know that.”
You slam the plate on the counter and lean closer to Dave, “What happened between us, Dave? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You know that I love Michael, and I would never jeopardize my marriage. The fact that you’re coming to me with this of all times is pretty stupid! My husband, your best friend, is back! What did you think was going to happen? What? I’d leave him for you? You’re even stupider than you look.”
With that, you leave the kitchen through the patio door. Michael can see Dave’s shoulder slump in disappointment. He watches Dave pick up the fork that you just ate a piece of your pie from and put it in his mouth. He frowns, and his stomach turns in disgust.
A range of emotions radiates through his body. Anger. Confusion. But most of all, possession. You were his, and you always would be. He moves quietly back outside and takes his seat next to you. You turn your head, and he pulls you closer so that he can connect his lips to yours.
“I love you, rabbit,” He whispers against your lips.
“I love you too, Kari.” You whisper back.
______________________________________________
October 16th, 2025 (1 month later, Present Day)
Michael doesn’t bring the Dave situation up to you, but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t leave his mind. He still invites Dave around, but mostly to observe his behavior around you. When Dave comes around the house, you make yourself scarce, only stopping by to give them more snacks.
Michael clocks the way that Dave’s eyes rake over your figure, and the longing in his eyes. You, however, don’t show any reaction to Dave. You don’t give off any signals that would suggest any mutual attraction.
It’s one night when Michael is over at Dave’s crib. They’re both playing 2K together and casually lounging on the couch. Michael texts you that he’s going to be home soon. He can see Dave’s eyes trying to catch a glimpse of your message.
“You getting back to the wife soon?” Dave asks, trying to appear unbothered.
Michael nods and continues pressing the keys on the PS5 controller. Dave looks at him from the corner of his eye, “I mean, I bet with you being back, the sex must be out of this world. I bet she’s practically giving it to you every night.” Michael’s expression drops, and he fully turns his body to look at Dave.
“You sure got a lot of questions about my wife tonight. You checkin’ for her or something?” Michael questions, expression dark.
Dave quickly shakes his head, “Nah, man! It’s not like that. My bad.”
The two men sit in silence for a few seconds. The tension rises with each passing second. Michael is still looking at Dave.
“I heard your conversation with my wife in the kitchen the other month. You told her you loved her and you wanted her to leave me.” He states, plainly.
Dave begins to stutter before he sighs and looks down, “Look, man, I’m sorry. But I do love her. We got close when you went missing.” Michael doesn’t miss the emphasis that Dave puts on the close. His mind flashes with images of you and Dave… together. Rage begins to build in his chest.
“So, you fucked my wife?!” Michael yells, standing from the couch.
“Nah, man! It wasn’t like that. I kissed her!” Dave doesn’t get to finish his sentence when a blow knocks him off his feet. He stares at Michael in surprise. Anger fills his own body, and soon the two men are trading blows with each other. However, the more that Dave attacks Michael, the less it seems to be hurting him. If anything, Dave’s hits only fuel Michael to rain his punches down harder on Dave. Soon, Michael is straddling Dave and throwing punches at his face.
Dave’s face is bloody and already beginning to swell. Michael grabs his cheeks in his hand and moves his face closer. Dave is expecting Michael to hit him again, but he watches in horror as Michael opens his mouth and moves it over his. A slimy black tentacle flows from his mouth and into Dave’s own open mouth.
Dave pushes at Michael’s chest and tries to scream. The tentacle slithers down the expanse of his throat, and he sputters as his air begins to drop. He can only look up in terror as Michael’s eyes change to a milky white color. He’s helpless as the tentacle reaches the inside of his chest cavity. Spit and blood sputter from his mouth as his body convulses. Not long after, Dave’s body stops moving, but his eyes remain open in terror.
The tentacle slithers from his mouth, and Michael stands back to his normal self. He wipes his mouth and turns to leave Dave’s apartment. He’s not worried about anyone suspecting him of hurting Dave because, in one to two days, Dave’s body will have disintegrated into mush.
Back at the house, Michael finds you eating popcorn and watching The Thing. He laughs to himself at the irony.
“Hey, baby,” You say, patting the cushion next to him.
“Hey, you still up this late?” He asks, throwing a few popcorn kernels in his mouth.
You nod, “Yeah, I figured I’d wait until you got back home. But then I started watching TV, and you know, The Thing is one of my favorite movies.”
Michael hums as he continues to eat popcorn and watch the movie with you. He looks down at you, “You know something interesting happened tonight?”
“What’s that, babe?”
Michael throws another piece of popcorn into his mouth. “Dave said that he kissed you.”
You cough on the popcorn in your mouth and quickly grab the water in front of you. You stare at Michael in shock, “What?”
“Mhm, I thought the same. But I would’ve just taken it as him lying, but I heard the conversation in the kitchen the other month. So I guess, I want to ask, was there anything going on with you and him?’
You sigh and shake your head as tears fill your eyes, “I promise it’s not what you think it is. I didn’t sleep with him or anything like that. It was about six months after you went missing. I wasn’t in the best headspace. I wasn’t eating or sleeping. Everybody kept coming around to baby me, but I didn’t want that. I wanted you. I wanted to feel some semblance of normalcy. That’s when Dave started to come around. It’d be small visits initially. Just him coming to sit and keep me company, but then he’d help me go outside. It felt good to feel like a person again. But then something shifted…” You trail off before looking at Michael again.
He nods for you to continue. “I noticed that he started to act differently around me. More affectionate. I brushed it off initially. I didn’t want to see it that way. But then he came over one night, and we were drinking and talking about all of our favorite memories with you. Then….he just kissed me. I won’t lie to you, I kissed him back, but it was only for a second, and I pushed him away. He started going on and on about how he’s loved me for a long time, and he wants to make it work, but I told him that I didn’t see him in that way. I wasn’t going to leave you because a part of me still hoped that you were out there alive. I had been avoiding him for a while after that. That day that you came home, he was supposed to come over, so that I could tell him that I didn’t want to hang out anymore. I wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t able to break my vows to you. I promise that’s all that happened.”
Michael ponders your words, and he can see the worry on your body. He stares into your eyes and nods his head. He knows that you’re telling the truth. You had never been a great liar. His lips find yours, and he deepens the kiss, “I believe you.”
___________________________
October 31st, 2025 (2 weeks later, Present Day)
You and Michael put the Dave situation behind you. None of that matters because you love each other.
However, you start to notice more things about Michael. Weird behaviors. How you’d wake up in the middle of the night to find him staring into the sky. His appetite seemed bigger than usual. Even his craving for sex with you seemed to increase.
You would even catch him moving funny at times. Like he was trying to adjust to being in his body and moving the limbs. You never brought any of this to his attention, but you noted it down silently.
You looked at the calendar, “Kari, don’t forget you’re scheduled for your physical exams and blood work with Dr. Bailey.”
Before Michael could come back, his superiors had requested that he submit labs showing that he was in peak health. A few days after Michael’s appointment, you were standing in the kitchen eating a piece of toast when your phone started to ring.
You saw Dr. Bailey’s name on the phone and answered, “Hi, Dr. Bailey. What can I do for you?”
“Hi, Mrs. Jordan, I was trying to get in contact with your husband, but I couldn’t reach his cell. This is about his lab report.” Dr. Bailey states, and you can hear the wavering in her voice.
“Is everything okay?” You question, leaning forward.
“Yes, ma’am, just a few abnormalities that we want to follow up on.” She replies. You can tell that she’s intentionally keeping her answers vague with you.
“Well..okay, I’ll have Michael call you back.” You say before hanging up the phone.
Soon, Michael enters the kitchen and places a kiss on your head. He takes a bite out of the toast that you’re eating. “Who were you on the phone with?”
“Dr. Bailey. She said that she tried to call you. Something about some abnormalities with your lab reports. I told her that I’d tell you to give her a call back.” Michael hums before moving to grab fruit. You watch closely as he picks up a piece of watermelon and plops it into his mouth. You freeze and wait for a reaction–only for nothing to happen.
Michael’s been allergic to watermelon since he was a kid. Deathly allergic. So how is it possible for him to be eating watermelon now?
______________________________
November 16th, 2025 (Present Day)
You’re staring at the news in shock.
Dr. Bailey is dead. Dead in a freak fire accident. That’s what the news is calling it.
Michael passes by as you’re watching the news. You stare back at him in shock, “Baby, did you see this?” He looks up at the TV and frowns, “No, this is the first time that I’m hearing anything. This is crazy.”
You side-eye him at how casually he says it. Like, there’s not a trace of empathy inside his body.
Later in the day, you’re moving around in your bedroom and cleaning. You’re vacuuming the rug, and when you’re finished, you move to unplug it from the wall. You stop when you feel one of the wood panels lifted beneath your feet. You frown and lean down to examine it. When you press your fingers on the panel, it shifts beneath your touch. You dig one of your nails into the panel and find that it lifts fairly easily.
Inside the hole in the floor, there’s a manila envelope and a small box. You grab both items in your hands. You open the manila envelope first. Inside, there are lab reports with Michael’s name at the top. All of the information seems normal at first, but when you get to the notes section, you frown.
‘PT’s vitals all appear normal. PT’s blood and hemoglobin appear to show abnormalities.’
You place down the folder and go to open the small box. Inside the box, there are small blood vials labeled with Michael’s name and birth date. The blood inside the vial appears normal, but when you move it closer to your gaze, the blood inside jumps.
You let out a yelp and drop the vial, which collapses on the floor and shatters.
“You weren’t supposed to find that,” A voice announces.
You look up in horror as Michael enters the room. He stares at the scene in front of him. The manila folder, the splattered blood, you. You almost faint when he reaches his hand out, and the blood on the floor suddenly travels in his direction. The liquid makes its way across the floor and slithers up Michael’s leg before traveling to his arm. Michael slides a nail across his skin, and the blood enters the wound.
The entire room is ringing for you. Michael steps closer, and you move back quickly. He continues to cross the room, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’d never hurt you.”
Tears sting in your eyes, “You aren’t my husband, are you?”
Michael’s brows furrow, “Of course I am.”
“No. You’re not him. What are you?” You question, tears finally rushing down your face.
Michael keeps his firm eye contact with you, “I just am. It’s hard to explain. But I’ll be completely transparent with you. I am your husband, but I’m also not. Your husband and his crew did make it to their assigned destination, but their ship was damaged in the process. Half of his crew died upon impact. I found him and one last survivor on the brink of death on my planet.”
More tears flow down your face at the thought of Michael alone and dying. You sink into the floor, and Michael kneels in front of you. “I tried my best to nurse him back to health, but there wasn’t much that I could do. I…I liked your husband. I could tell that he was a brave and honest man. He talked about you the entire time. You were on his mind in his final moments. He was the only one out of himself who fought to live and get back. I found it to be very noble that he wanted to get back to you.”
Soft sobs rake through your body, “Where’s his body?”
“Still on my planet. I gave him a proper burial.” Michael answers.
“But why are you here?” You question, still trying to wrap your mind around it all.
“Because you needed me. Sergeant Jordan stated that he wished that he could come back home to you. He didn’t want you to have to live without him.”
Your sobs intensify, and Michael’s expression softens. “I’m sorry for upsetting you with this information. But I felt it was obligatory to uphold Sergeant Jordan’s wishes. I do admit that a part of me was curious about you. The way that he spoke about you. The love. The devotion. I wanted to see it for myself. On my planet, we’ve yet to experience such sensations as you all do.”
You stare at its face. How is it possible for this thing to look like your husband?
“How do you look like him?” You ask, hands trailing across his face.
Michael leans into your touch, “I spent an adequate amount of time collecting samples of Sergeant Jordan’s DNA to replicate myself in his image perfectly. It’s what your people would call assimilation. Obviously, there were slight defects that I couldn’t have depicted, such as the allergies. You saw me eat it and didn’t have a reaction. My species doesn’t allow me to assume any of your sicknesses or genetic defects, such as allergies.”
You think back to the first night when he came home. “Is that why you had that seizure when you got here?”
The Thing nods. “Yes. This form had not yet been regulated to your planet’s atmosphere or oxygen levels. Similarly, when you fed me, my form’s organs had not yet acclimated to your food. We eat differently on my planet.”
You move back to place distance between yourself and the Thing. “You keep saying your form. How do you actually look?”
The Thing shakes its head at you. “I can’t reveal that to you. Your mind isn’t ready to fully comprehend what I actually look like. If I were to show you, it could drive you mad.”
You can feel your mind racing to conjure up any image of what it could actually look like. Was he some sort of blobby tentacle monster? Was he the classic alien that the media loved to use?
The Thing steps forward, and your fearful eyes meet his again. One of his hands goes to your waist while the other stops on your face. You can’t help the fact that your body naturally melts into yours. It looks like your husband. It smells like your husband. It feels like your husband.
“I can see the conflict on your face, but I can assure you that I mean you no harm. I love you. I know it may not seem like it, but I’m still your husband. Every part of me is him. Every memory that I have of his life and you is him. This doesn’t have to change. We don’t have to change. I’ll still take care of and love you just as he did. I just want to make you happy. But if you don’t want me here, then I understand. I’ll leave, and you’ll never see me again.”
Something feels tight in your chest at the thought of not seeing him again. Not seeing your husband again after you just got him back. Your eyes meet Michael’s again. You can see the desperation and devotion written on his face.
“Stay.” You say softly.
Truthfully, you weren’t ready to lose your husband again. You wouldn’t survive it. But this was your chance to be happy.
Summary: You pull your Michael, who’s been your celebrity crush for years. Only one problem—you’ve been writing fanfiction for years for the man, and now you have to find a way to keep your worlds separate. However, what happens when Michael finds out about your smutty little blog?
Warning(s): SMUT (18+, MDNI), smut writing, dirty talk, fingering, unprotected sex (m/f), deepthroating, spitting, cum swapping, daddy kink, backshots (if I missed something, don’t beat me up lol) I hope you guys enjoy. Let me know what you think!
You’d always found solace in fanfiction.
There was something so special about all of the stories that you’d read throughout the years about your favorite celebrities or your TV crushes. Your first introduction to fanfiction was Wattpad. Your friends had let you in on the coveted website and suggested it to you.
The first fanfic that your friend suggested just so happened to be a Mindless Behavior fanfic about Princeton. You were hooked. How had this world–this fandom–been escaping you for the past years?
Naturally, your relationship with the site continued to progress as you read more stories. You’d stay up till 2 AM just to read a story written by someone who was no doubt the same age as you.
Next, there was fanfiction.net.
You’d spent countless hours scouring through all of the Vampire Diaries fanfiction that you could get your hands on. You can’t recall the exact moment that you landed on Tumblr, but you knew that it just all clicked together for you.
The ‘x reader’ tag became your home.
You thoroughly enjoyed reading all of the stories about your crush on Zayn from 1D. With Tumblr, there seemed to be this brand new world of possibilities for you to read. However, there’s something that you’d noticed in your many hours of scrolling through Tumblr.
There weren’t many ‘x black!reader’s stories for you to indulge in. There was a handful of writers who’d become your solace when you looked to be shipped with a certain character or celebrity, but there weren’t many. You’d long grown tired of clicking on an interesting story only to have the reader be described as having long, flowy blonde or brunette locks that the male character could run his hands through. Similarly, you’d grown tired of reading smut where the reader was clearly described as having pale skin and pink nipples.
That wasn’t your story. As a black woman, you weren’t able to visualize yourself in these spaces or stories because they weren’t written with women like you in mind. To make matters worse, it seemed like fandoms were intent on erasing black women, who look like you, from the lexicon of the content.
It was all so draining and so very degrading.
Growing up, you’d always envisioned yourself as a writer. You loved stories, and reading was your way of escape. On sites like Wattpad and Tumblr, you could be transported to worlds and stories where you were the center of the story. There’d been many times when you opened up a Word document and started to type a story, only to never finish it.
For you, you compared yourself to other writers and their ability to write a compelling story. When you looked back at your own words on the paper, it felt like child’s play. So, you stopped writing. You subjected yourself to the role of an avid but silent reader who admires her favorite writers.
That was your role for a few years.
You’d silently heart the stories, but you were never brave enough to comment.
There were so many different stories in your head that you wanted to see on the platform. Silently, you wished that your favorite writers would somehow read your mind and bring the story to life without you asking. However, as the saying goes, “a closed mouth doesn’t get fed.”
The turning point for you was Black Panther.
You were there as the explosion of fanfics arose for Erik Killmonger, T’Challa, and M’Baku. What a time to be alive when all of your favorite writers were putting out work that should’ve been receiving some type of literary award. One night, after an hour of constantly reading about Erik Killmonger putting the reader through the mattress, you made your move.
You wrote and published your first-ever Tumblr fic.
As soon as you pushed the publish button, you immediately closed your laptop like it was an explosive waiting to detonate. You couldn’t bring yourself to go back and check to see what the reviews were.
What if they thought it was trash? What if your grammar was terrible? What if you didn’t capture the essence of the characters? What if no one read it all? For the sake of your mental health, you didn’t go back to check how your story was doing until two days later.
At the two-day mark, you found yourself logging back into Tumblr. You’d worked up the courage to see if there was any feedback. To your absolute shock and delight, people loved your story.
The hearts and comments overflowed as people asked for more. Thus, stargirlwriteswas born. Through your blog, not only did you give room for yourself to grow and see yourself be represented, but you made space for other black women to feel like they were being seen and heard. In your stories, the black women were always being loved on, worshipped, and cherished.
You’d grown a following and support system so big that you couldn’t imagine a future where you weren’t writing on Tumblr.
Honestly, you don’t know what to call what happened.
Fate. Coincidence. God.
You honestly have no clue, but this is the story of how you met your celebrity crush and bagged him. It started at the library–naturally. You liked the library. You liked coming to the library to work on your stories and your books. You’d recently been picked up by a publishing company to release your new Southern Gothic thriller. Between writing for your books and working on screenplays, you still found the time to work on writing on Tumblr.
There was no way you were letting your community down. Not after all of the support and love that they’d given you up to this point. In the library, you liked to sit at the back table that was conveniently away from everyone, but still, there was a giant window that allowed you to see outside.
It was the perfect spot.
No one had dared to venture into your self-proclaimed territory. Not until today.
You heard the light footsteps as they approached the back table and saw the man from the corner of your eye. He had a cap on his head, and from his body language, you could tell that he didn’t want to be seen. He was craving privacy just as you were.
The man looks over at you before clearing his throat, “Hey, I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you, but do you mind if I sit here? It’s just, I kind of want privacy, and this spot just seems like fewer people come here.”
There was a distinct nagging in your head that let you know that you knew his voice from somewhere, yet you brushed it off. Truthfully, you could’ve told the man no, but there was something inside you that begged you not to.
Plus, the table was huge, so it’d look a little weird if you were hoarding it for yourself.
“Yeah, of course.” You slide some of your scattered papers down towards yourself as the man takes a seat. After a few seconds, you and the man both begin working simultaneously on your projects. You can see him glancing over at you a few times, but you choose to ignore it.
From the corner of your eye, you see him take the hat off his head. He takes a tentative glance at you, but you still don’t entertain the notion of looking at him. For the next twenty minutes, the only sounds are you and the man typing on your computers and then writing down notes on your respective journals.
You finally look up and happen to glance in his direction and freeze.
You now understand why he was so adamant about hiding his face. You try not to freak out as you finally clock the fact that Michael B. Jordan is sitting across from you. The man whom you’ve had a crush on for years. And also the same man whom you’ve been writing the filthiest smut for. Talk about an embarrassing predicament.
Yet, you decide to play it cool. The last thing you want is for the man to think you’re fangirling over him when he’s trying to work.
Michael looks in your direction, “Hey, sorry to bother you again, but do you know where they keep the printers?”
You nod, “Yeah, they’re just around the corner. You can just click print, and it’ll ask for your name so that they don’t mix it up with anyone else’s papers.”
Michael nods at your instructions before giving you a sheepish smile, “Would you mind coming with me and helping? I just know I’ll forget everything at the printer.” He gives you a tight-lipped smile before quickly adding, “That’s if you’re free. I wouldn’t want to take you away from your work.”
“Sure. I got you,” You said, laughing a little before standing from your chair. Michael slides the cap over his head again before falling in step beside you. As expected, the printer is exactly where you said it would be. Michael leans over your shoulder to get a look at what you’re doing. A chill travels up the length of your spine at the feel of his body against yours. You can feel the heat from his body seeping into yours.
You bite your lip softly while peering up at him. Michael seems to notice the close distance and steps back. An embarrassed look crosses his face, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to all up in your space.”
“It’s fine.”
You click the file that has his name on it, and the papers start flowing from the printer. You grab them and hand the stack to Michael. The tips of his fingers brush against yours as he grabs the papers. You try to ignore the tingle that rushes up your skin at the feel of his skin. He gives you a quiet “thank you” before you both venture back to your corner of the library.
You take your seats at the same time.
Michael reaches across the table with his hand outstretched, “I’m Michael, by the way.”
You give him your name as you connect your hand with his. Internally, you’re freaking out at the fact that out of all days, you’re sitting across from your celebrity crush and practically holding his hand. The delusional part of you is telling you that he’s down bad for you, and this is the start of something beautiful. The writer part of you is mentally tracking all of the subtle movements that Michael makes with the full intent of incorporating them in your writing.
However, you quickly push those thoughts to the side because it feels a bit parasocial in a way.
You and Michael fall back into your rhythm of working on your projects. He looks up at you as you scribble down notes on your notepad. “What are you working on?”
You lift your eyebrows in surprise, “Just a play.”
“That’s neat. What’s it about?” Michael seems genuinely interested in your work as he leans further on the table.
“It’s a Southern gothic play about a young woman returning home to face her past trauma.”
Michael nods, “That sounds really dope. You planning to put it on Broadway?”
“Yeah, my agent and I have been working to get everything in motion.”
“Good luck. I’d like to come see it when you get it off the ground,” Michael said, sparing another dazzling smile in your direction.
You smile in response, “Definitely. What are you working on?”
Michael gives you a shy smile, deep dimples popping out of both cheeks, “I’m working on a romance, actually. It’s a story of two people who are married, trying to make it work, but somewhere along the line, their communication becomes lost. The only way that they know how to reach each other is by speaking through this new technology system.”
“That sounds like an amazing concept. You’re working on the script now?”
“Yeah, I’m just getting stuck on a few things, especially with my main woman lead. I’m struggling to get her voice just right, especially in the scene where they’re confronting each other,” Michael states, leaning back in his chair.
You bite your lip nervously, “I could read it if you wanted me to. I mean, I have experience writing romance, and I’m also an avid reader, so maybe I could give you a few pointers.” You’ll definitely leave out the part where you write avid romance and smut stories with him as the male lead.
“If you don’t mind, that’d be great. I’d hate to take you from your thing, though,” Michael responds.
You quickly shake your head, “No, I promise it’s fine. Plus, we writers have to stick together.”
Michael slides his laptop over in your direction before strolling to the part that he wants you to read. He unintentionally starts to watch you and your facial expressions as you’re taking in the work. Your eyes quickly skim across the work, and you make mental notes along the way until you stop at the point where Michael stopped typing.
He looks at you expectantly once you stop reading. “It’s good. The storyline that you’ve crafted so far in this scene is good. I like the tone, but I’m only getting one side of the argument. I’m hearing your male protagonist’s voice very clearly in this argument, but what about the female lead? What does she ultimately want to express in this argument?”
Michael takes a second, “She wants to feel heard. She wants him to understand that she hasn’t felt seen by him in a while in their relationship.”
“Good. You know your theme and intentions, but it’s not coming through in the scene. All I hear is his voice. Even the lines that you have for her, they’re still in line with his wants. Put yourself in her shoes and react. If you have a partner who hasn’t been meeting your needs, how would you respond as a woman?”
Michael goes through his brain for the answer. On some level, he knows how he wants it to go, but he’s still stuck. He gives you a helpless look, which makes you chuckle.
“How about this? You rewrite it again, and I’ll give you my critique.”
Michael nods before sliding the computer back towards himself. He takes your words into account and begins typing on the document again. He peers over the top of the computer as you continue scribbling in your notebook. You don’t catch the way that his eyes zoom in on the way that your teeth bite at the end of the pencil. He’s fascinated by you. You don’t even react to the fact that you clearly know who he is.
Little does Michael know, you’re having a full-blown panic attack on the inside.
After a solid twenty minutes pass, he stands and leaves the table. You expect to see that he’s packing up his things, but once you clock that all of his stuff is still here, you shrug. Maybe he had to go to the bathroom. A few minutes later, Michael plops into the seat with a handful of snacks.
Wordlessly, he slides a pack of Hi-Chews and chips in your direction. You stop writing and give him a questioning look. Michael shrugs, “To say thank you for your help.”
“What if I didn’t like Hi-Chews?”
“There’s a wrapper sticking out of your bag,” Michael points out, nodding his head towards your open laptop bag. You glance at the bag, and sure enough, a brightly-colored wrapper sticks out.
You can’t stop the laugh as it bursts from your lips, but you cover your mouth. Soon, Michael joins you in laughing.
“Let me take you out for a coffee after this.”
That’s the story of how you pulled your celebrity crush.
Your relationship with Michael surprises you each day. It really blows your mind that the man that you’ve been writing about for years is finally your boyfriend. Initially, you slow down on writing fics for Michael on Tumblr. It all feels a bit parasocial, especially when you’re with him most of the time.
But that still doesn’t stop the writer in you.
The more you fall for Michael, the more ideas pop into your head for possible stories. However, you channel the energy into working on writing your own novels. You really try to fight the urge to write on Tumblr. But the Tumblr app on your phone calls to you like the green goblin mask.
It only takes one specific kiss from Michael, with him pressing you against an elevator wall, to run to Tumblr. The community that you had built over the past years all express how happy they are to have you back, and you fall back into posting naturally.
Most of the people reading your writing would never suspect that you’re Michael’s new beau.
‘@donwrites: ugh sis, you write Michael so good! It’s like you know him personally.’
If only they knew that you had been kissing the man seven days out of the week and cuddling in his bed.
You keep the writing from Michael. If you’re typing at his house, you’ll play it off as working on a new novel or screenplay. He’s none the wiser to the fact that his girlfriend is writing the most downright filthy smut involving him.
It’s a random Thursday when Michael gets suspicious.
He’d invited you over under the guise of working together. You both found that you were a lot more productive when you worked across from each other. You slide the glasses up the bridge of your nose as you type quickly on the computer. You’re honestly in a flow state with the current story that you’re writing about Michael. You’d had the idea to write a story about him dominating the reader after a recent miscommunication.
You move to exit the bedroom. Sharp tears sting at your eyes as the heat builds in your chest. You sniffle loudly and wipe furiously at your eyes. The ache in your chest increases with each step that you take towards the door. You’re so close to the door when Michael grabs your arm. You try in vain to tug your arm from his grip, but he tightens his hold on you.
“Michael, let go of me,” You mutter, your chest heaving up and down.
“No, you don’t get to walk away. I don’t know about any of them other niggas you’ve been dealing with, but we talk things out around here. Go sit down,” He states, a hard edge to his voice.
You shoot him a hard look, defiance swirling through your irises. Michael matches your stance and squares his shoulder as he stares down at you, “You think I’m playing?”
He takes a step closer, his eyes growing darker. He moves until he’s standing chest-to-chest with you. Michael moves a hand up to your face and smushes your cheeks between his fingers. Your wide eyes meet his as he brings his face closer to you.
“Does it look like I’m playing with you?”
You give him a surp––
“What you working on over there, baby?” Michael questions from his side of the office.
You give him an awkward smile. How does one say, “Oh, nothing, babe, just writing out some nasty smut involving you for some equally freaked out women to read?”
Instead, you just respond, “Oh, nothing. Just some romance stuff.”
It’s not a lie, but it’s not the complete truth either. Michael doesn’t push the issue. He’s asked to read some of your writing before. You’ve obliged and let him read the things that aren’t fanfiction. Though he suspects that you may be writing something else that you don’t want him to see.
Michael’s not dense. He’s well aware of the rise of smut and spicy scenes in the book community. He figures that you may be writing something along that vein, but he respects you too much to pry. Though he secretly wonders what freaky stuff you could be writing.
The sex between you and Michael was good. Real good. However, there were certain aspects that you and Michael had explored. For example, he didn’t know about your desire to be dominated by him. He didn’t know about all of the nasty and explicit things that you imagined him doing to him. With Michael, he was very sensual and emotional in the act of sex, which you loved.
But you also yearned for him to turn you every way but loose.
For the next ten minutes, you type more for the story, including starting on the smut scene. You’re genuinely reaching flow state when your phone vibrates on the couch.
“I’ll be back, my agent is calling,” You said to Michael. He nods before looking down at his own computer. You minimize the Tumblr tab before exiting the room.
Once you leave the room, Michael can’t help the way that his eyes gravitate over to your laptop. The MacBook Pro is practically calling him to take a look. Maybe just a quick peek. He tiptoes across the room and lifts the top of the laptop. He peeks through your folders, including the one labelled “stories.” There’s nothing out of the ordinary there. It’s all the stories and screenplays that you’ve let him read.
He suspects he was overthinking and is about to close your computer when he notices your web browser is still open. Michael slides the mouse over to the open tab and quickly clicks on it.
Tumblr.
Now what’s this? His curiosity gets the better of him, and he browses through the website. He’s surprised when he sees stories popping up about himself. He clicks on the “Michael B. Jordan x black!reader” tag and feels like the world shifts for him. There’s a myriad of things here. Some sweet stories, but his intrigue goes up when he sees the NSFW stories.
Michael looks off to the side where there’s clearly a profile and clicks “view blog.”
dollhousewrites.
Is this you? He clicks on the post labelled Masterlist and finds that you have an extensive body of work. Michael clicks on the post labelled with his name and realizes that there are a lot of stories about him. He clicks on the most recent post from two weeks ago called “Terms and Conditions.”
Just as he’s about to start reading, he hears your footsteps approaching. He quickly airdrops the link to himself before closing your laptop and sitting at his desk.
He’s the picture of perfect innocence as you enter the room. He smiles at you, “Hey, is everything okay?”
“Yeah, she just wanted to let me know that my publishers want to talk about my next book release for the fall,” You respond, giving him a wide smile.
“That’s great, baby. I’ll take you out tomorrow so we can celebrate,” Michael said, and he meant it. Even when you were both still forming a friendship, he watched how hard you worked on your books and screenplays. You were careful with which details you ingrained in your characters. He’d forever be talking about how you’re his favorite writer, and how he has one of the world’s greatest writers as his girlfriend.
Still, he yearns to know more about you, and that starts with delving into your Tumblr stories.
That night, while you’re sleeping next to him in bed with your back turned, Michael pulls up the Tumblr link on his phone. He strolls through the stories again and starts from the beginning of what he learned is called “a masterlist.” Your initial stories are centered more around Erik Stevenson. You truly capture the essence of what makes the character tic. The recklessness and die-hard mentality for his cause. Michael thinks that you may understand Erik better than he does.
As he progresses through your masterlist, he clocks the different eras of his career that you write for. Hell, you’d even written about Vince Howard from a college perspective. He notices the shift once he enters his Sinners era. The works are a lot more mature and erotic. It’s during this part that he reaches the stories that you’ve personally written about him.
He clicks on Terms and Conditions once again. He’s sucked into a world where you’ve characterized him down to the tee. You’ve incorporated some of the subtle mannerisms that you’ve noticed him doing from your time of dating him.
He even catches a few of the phrases that he commonly says in the story. It’s when he makes it to the smut portion of the story that things shift for him. Michael feels the heat rising within his chest and traveling further down.
Michael removes his head from between your legs, your juices shining all over his mouth. He presses one last lingering kiss to your pulsing clit. You whimper at how sensitive you are. He gives you a dark smile, hunger swirling beneath his brown irises, “You taste so good, baby.”
“Please, Michael,” You beg, doe-eyes desperately begging for more.
Michael brings his hand up to encircle your pretty neck, “What do you need from me, baby? Just tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”
“I want you to fuck me, daddy.”
He groans at the sound of your desperate words and gently lays you back on the counter. Chills run through your body at the cool marble pressing against your heated skin. Michael takes the moment to look at you, naked and vulnerable, in his hands. Love bites litter the expanse of your skin from where he got greedy earlier. He takes both of your thick thighs in his hands and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter.
He crudely slaps his dick across your pearl as you flinch from the pleasure.
“You don’t want me to be nice to you tonight,” He inquires. You shake your head. You always liked him when he toed the line between cruel and permissive. Michael gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip down on your pussy. He slides his dicks through the mess, combining it with the slick that he’s oozing from you.
He takes the tip of his dick and notches it in your––
You shift in the bed and turn on your side to face him. Michael all but jumps out of his skin as he quickly locks his phone and glances to see if you’ve caught him. Peering closer, he lets out a deep sigh of relief once he concludes that you’re still sleeping.
He takes a second to just breathe. He’s never felt so overwhelmed by reading something. Is this what you wanted him to do to you? He’s dabbled here and there with some rough play and kinks in his sexual life, but he can’t recall a specific moment where he’s allowed himself to fully lose control and just give in. He spares you another glance and fully looks at the content expression on your face. His sweet girlfriend has been writing all this filthy stuff right under his nose.
By the way that his dick is straining against his brief, he concludes that he likes it just as much as you and your readers do.
Michael’s being weird, and that’s putting it lightly because he’s naturally kind of weird at home. No, this is different from his usual weird behavior. He’s been a lot more clingy, which you definitely don’t mind. But he’s been crowding your space more and seemingly more horny for you, which again you aren’t complaining, but you wonder where the shift came from.
Even now, as you both leave the after-party of an event that he was invited to, he’d been all over you. Throughout the night, he kept his grip tight on your waist and would frequently press kisses to the side of your neck.
Now, inside the car, he reaches across to rest his hand on your thigh, which isn’t unusual for him. However, you clock the way that his hand slides up the apex of your thighs, where your dress has shifted. Michael grips your thigh as he keeps his eyes on the road.
“Are you okay?” You ask, which makes him jump in surprise.
Michael looks down and clocks where his hand is. He goes to remove his hand until you place yours over his to keep it there.
“I’m sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?” Michael asks, worry filling his eyes. You always admired that about Michael. He was a gentleman through and through, and consent was always key with him.
“You’re not making me uncomfortable. I’m just asking if you’re okay. You’ve been crowding me all week. At the party, you were all over me. Now, I’m not complaining, but I could swear you’re ovulating,” You said, smiling widely at him.
Michael shrugs, “I can’t help it. You just look so sexy.”
He chooses the moment to venture further up where his fingers brush against your panties, which are growing wetter by the second. He peeks over at you, “Take them off for me.”
You give him a surprised look, to which he smirks, “Just humor me, babygirl.”
You slide your hands under your dress and tug your panties down your legs. Michael opens his hand to you and gestures with his eyes for you to put the panties in his hand. You oblige, and your jaw drops when you see him bring the wet material up to his nose.
“Open your legs,” He orders.
You spread your legs, but try to scooch down so that you’re not dripping down on his leather seats. Michael smacks his lips, “Baby, don’t worry about making a mess. That’s the whole point. I wanna smell your pussy on my seat the next time that I get in here.”
You’re clutching at your invisible pearls. Michael guides his hand back to your wet center and trails his fingertips up and down to gather your wetness on his fingertips. He slides two fingers across your clit and rubs circles across the throbbing pearl. Your pretty lips form a pout as the whimpers drop from your mouth. Moving down, Michael’s fingers dip in and out of your entrance as you roll your hips to meet his touch.
Michael bites his lip at how needy you are. It’s turning him on more knowing that he can’t fully watch you how he wants, but he has to rely on his touch and hearing. “Spread your legs wider for me, baby.”
You open your legs, and truthfully, you can’t pretend to be shy with your pussy out in his car. Michael plunges two fingers inside your dripping hole. Loud wet noises fill the car as he curls his fingers in and out of you. He presses the palm of his hand into your clit. You throw your head back against the seat as you loudly moan. You clutch at his hand, and Michael’s even more turned on; he clocks you humping against his hand.
The driveway to his house appears, and he turns to you briefly, “Go ahead and cum for me, babygirl.” He curls his fingers across your spot, and soon, your walls tighten as your release consumes you. Michael pulls into the driveway and has the pleasure of watching as you ride your release out. His eyes wander over your form as your breasts press against the dress. As you come down, your eyes meet his. He gently pulls his fingers from you, which are drenched with your release. Michael slides his fingers up to his mouth and sucks your juices from his fingers.
He makes a big display of it by closing his eyes and moaning. Once he opens his eyes, he catches your lustful stare. “Come on, we’re not done yet.”
Inside the house, you and Michael are all over each other. Hands messily groping at each other as he slams you against the wall. You can see the brief moment that he pauses, afraid that he’s hurt you, but you smile widely at him. He leans closer until his breath ghosts over your lips, “You don’t want me to be nice to you tonight.”
You freeze. Your confused eyes meet Michael’s as he smirks at you.
“Pause,” You state, pushing gently at his chest. He sets you down on your feet before you move to create distance between yourselves.
You rack your brain at how he could know that sentence. That sentence of all the possibilities of things that he could’ve said to you. Michael waits patiently on the other side of the room for you to make the connection.
You groan loudly, “You read my story, didn’t you?”
Michael looks like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He tries in vain to appear aloof, but he fails miserably. “Yeah, that night your agent called. I was just curious about what you were writing. I didn’t mean to disrespect your boundaries. I’m sorry.”
You bite your nails, a nervous habit of yours that Michael had been helping you break.
“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I mean, this is so embarrassing. You literally found out that I’ve been writing fanfics about you, and I’m dating you!” You exclaim. You begin pacing back and forth in the room until you move to walk towards the door.
Michael frowns and quickly crosses the space to stop you, “Why are you leaving?”
He frowns even more when he sees the tears in your eyes. Guilt courses through his body. He steps in front of you and grasps your face in his hands, “Baby, I’m really sorry. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you or anything like that. This is on me, I shouldn’t have been snooping through your stuff. But I just wanted you to know how much I liked it and to incorporate some of it.”
You sniffle and frown at him, “What? You liked reading my story?”
“Yeah, you know I always like reading whatever you write. If anything, I was flattered that you put that much work into writing for me and my characters. The way you write me, baby, I’ve never seen myself that way. It turned me on, to be honest.”
“Really?”
“Mhmm. I keep going back to read all of your stories over.” He pauses to laugh, “I even created an account to start liking your stories.”
You think back to your recent follows and laugh loudly, “Boy, are you bakari87?”
Michael laughs before nodding, “Yeah, mbjlover was already taken.”
There’s a moment of silence before you both break into laughter. Michael looks at you before pressing his lips to yours. “I mean it when I say that I really liked it, babygirl. I was kind of hoping that we could recreate some of the moments from your Terms and Conditions story.”
“You really liked that one?”
“Yeah, the part about me spitting on the reader’s pussy really did it for me.” He slides his hand down to close around your throat. Your eyes move to meet his as the heat floods throughout your body.
Michael keeps his hand around your throat as he carefully navigates you toward the couch. He gestures for you to take off your heels, which you do. With the heels off, it adds to the height difference between the two of you. He navigates behind you to toy with the zipper of your dress. The sound of the zipper fills the room as you can feel the excitement building in your core.
The dress falls to your feet as you stand naked before Michael. He runs his across your figure, taking in all the details that he’d committed to memory. Once he’s in front of you, he roughly grabs your face in his hands and smushes your cheeks together.
“This is the part where you have fucking the reader’s throat. Let’s start there,” He orders gently. You nod obediently and sit on the couch. You go to button his pants when he stops you, “You can’t remember your own story, babygirl? You open my pants with your mouth.”
Your mouth waters as you remember the plot point. Moving forward, you run your face across his bulge. You mouth at the button and move your head to the side to pop it open. You look up at Michael through your lashes as you grasp the zipper between your teeth and move down. Michael is nice enough to remove his pants for you.
He grabs the back of your head and presses your face into his covered dick. You mouth at his covered dick, your spit staining the front of his briefs. Kissing upwards, you lick at the happy trail of hair leading down into his briefs. Grasping the fabric between your teeth, you pull the briefs down until Michael’s dick is finally exposed to the air.
“Let me feel your throat, baby,” Michael mutters. You shudder at the realization that he’s quoting directly from your story. You don’t even need directions for your next actions. You lick along the underside of his dick right along the pretty vein that runs through it.
Your lips close around the tip of Michael’s dick, where his precum covers your taste buds. You suck at his sensitive tip as he groans and throws his head back. You move your mouth down to begin bobbing up and down on his dick. Your hand follows to cover the base where your mouth doesn’t reach.
Michael curls his hand through your hair and pulls you back, “Stick your tongue out.”
You do, and he leans down to release a trail of spit into your waiting mouth. Your eyes flutter as you moan at the filthiness of the act. Michael guides you back to his dick, but this time it’s different. You cross your arms behind your back just as you had written in your story. Michael looks down at you for consent, and you gladly give it.
The first push of his dick makes you gag a little. He pauses to let you adjust. You nod in his hold, and he resumes thrusting. You breathe through your nose as he enters your throat. Spit from your mouth drips onto your breasts and the floor. Tears fill your eyes as your mascara begins to run. Michael looks down and moans loudly, “You look so beautiful, Princess. You’re doing so good for Daddy.”
Pleasure sparks through Michael’s body at the whole scenario. It turns him on even more with how much you trust him to use you like this. Feeling bold, he pushes your face down so that your nose is engulfed in his pubes. You breathe through your nose and moan around his dick as it settles in your throat. Michael shudders at the feel of your warm throat. After a few seconds, he pulls out of your mouth completely.
He looks down at you again as you give him a wide smile. Tear, spit, and mascara streak across your face, but to Michael, you’ve never looked more beautiful.
He helps you to stand as he lifts you in his arms. You see him walking to the counter, and your pussy clenches in anticipation. Gently, he lays you across the marble counter. He quickly discards his shirt before moving between your legs.
“Please, Michael,” you beg, wide eyes meeting his.
“What do you need from me, baby? Just tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”
“I want you to fuck me, daddy.”
He pulls you closer to the edge of the counter. He takes both of your thick thighs in his hands and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter. Just like the story, Michael gathers the spit in his mouth and deposits it crudely on your wet center. He slaps his dick across your clit where the spit landed and rubs the mess in with your combined slick.
Only this time, he won’t be getting interrupted.
He guides his tip to your entrance, and you both watch as he slips inside your warm walls. Your combined moans fill the empty kitchen as Michael’s thigh touches the back of yours. He pulls back and watches as pussy clings to him. His dark eyes find yours, “You see that? Pretty pussy is begging to keep me in.”
A deep breath leaves your mouth as he thrusts back in. Michael covers your body with his as he thrusts in and out of you.
“Michael..” you whine, once he lifts one of your legs to hang over his shoulder.
“I know, baby. You’re doing so good for me,” He responds, connecting his lips to yours. You whimper as he pulls out of you. You can feel your walls clenching in response to the loss.
Michael maneuvers your body from the counter and bends you over. You shiver as your nipples brush against the cool surface. You look back as Michael lines his tip up with your opening again, “I wanna see that pretty ass bounce on me.” You arch your back in the way that you know he likes, which makes him groan.
Michael slides inside you as he watches your backside ripple under his thrusts. You look back at him as you start thrusting back against him. Michael’s gaze is focused on the motion of your ass and the ring of cream that’s coating the base of his dick.
“You’re so deep, baby,” You whimper.
Michael can feel his own release building inside of him. He grabs your hips to start thrusting again. He reaches under you to start stroking your clit. He leans over to your open mouth, and you stick your tongue out again. A string of spit leaves his mouth and falls into your waiting mouth. A loud cry leaves your mouth as your orgasm hits. You shake in Michael’s hold as tears trail down the side of your face. He kisses your tears and continues to thrust inside of you.
With one last stroke, Michael moans loudly at this own orgasm consumes him. His own body shakes against your own as he pulls you flush against him. You and Michael moan at the mutual feeling of his cum shooting against your womb. When he pulls out, his cum trails down your thighs.
You surprise him by dropping to your knees and taking his cum-stained dick into your mouth.
“Baby, wait..”Michael pleads, still sensitive from his own orgasm. You ignore him and keep bobbing your head while fondling his balls. Michael practically screams as he cums again, his white release painting your tongue.
You stand up, and Michael clocks that you haven’t swallowed yet. You gesture for him to open his mouth. Your own hand comes to close around his throat as you spit his cum back into his mouth. You don’t waste any time sliding your tongue into his mouth as you both swap the cum back and forth until it’s gone.
You both pull back as you give him a demure smirk.
“I hope you write that into the next story for all of your freaky followers,” Michael comments.
“Oh, I most definitely will. I’m sure that they’ll love to hear that their Oscar Winner loves the taste of his own cum,” You mutter against his lips.
Michael laughs, “I like it when it’s coming from you. But I’m not done with you yet. There are a few other stories that I wanna recreate, starting with your Sinner story.”
Let’s just say, the girls were treated to a lot more Michael content, approved by the man himself.
