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[lilbitt]

Suite 1508

Smoke X Annie | A modern AU Drabble

Plans go wrong and souls grow weary, but in Suite 1508 Smoke and Annie find the remedy.

A/n—🙃 Chii idk. My brain fixated on what Smoke said in A Sit Down w/ the Moores about Annie being his home and this is what was produced. Enjoy 🫶🏾 or don’t 😬.

C/w — Language, mentions of violence, melancholy Annie, dom(ish) Smoke, sub(ish) Annie, smut (praise kink, use of pet names, use of Daddy, it’s short 😬)

—

It was 5:34AM. 

Not 5:33. Not 5:35. 

It was 5:34AM on the dot. 

Annie knew that with certainty. Didn’t need to open her eyes and check the time for confirmation either. 

Her house was silent. So silent someone else would have found it unnerving. 

There was no humming coming from the furnace. No soft buzzing from the fridge. No odd creaks sounding from the wooden floors. 

No voices in her head. 

It was too early even for that; unexplained noises and demanding spirits. 

Annie’s eyes stayed closed. Breathing remained steady. Body didn’t move from its current position on the bed; she was laid on her back, arms extended straight out, palms flat against her sheets, and her shoulders…not as relaxed as they should have been at this time of day. 

That wasn’t anything new. Relaxation…hadn’t come easy this week.

1 2 3 in

1 2 3 out 

Her chest rose and fell. Eyes flickered behind her closed lids as she inhaled and exhaled. Shoulders stayed tight through it all. 

1 2 3 in 

1 2 3 out

Meditation. Grounding. 

She made time for it every morning, whether she truly felt grounded afterwards or not, because this was apart of her routine. 

Annie didn’t stray from her routine. Ever. Not when it felt like the only thing keeping her sane these days.  

1 2 3 in 

1 2 —

“– 3. It’s three of you big headed mufuckas in here and I feel like all three of you bitches lying.” Stack stood in the middle of the room, smirk on his face falling on the wrong side of too sharp, while the glimmer in his eyes grew brighter, grew more dangerous, by the second. He had a pep to his step; arms swinging, head turning smoothly as he looked from man to man. “And y’all know the only nigga ‘llowed to lie around here is me.” Stack said it like he found something funny. Nobody laughed. And when nobody responded, that curve to his lips dropped. 

“‘Dat mean one of y’all mufuckas better start tellin’ me somethin’ that sound like the truth.” 

The break in silence was instant. Niggas talking all at once, three different voices overlapping, not one of them making more sense than the other. It was nothin’ but noise. Excuses. Bullshit. 

Smoke’s jaw tightened, vision growing sharper from where he watched from the shadows. 

They were in the back room of the club. The one with the sound proof walls and dim lighting. It reeked of money. Sin. Deceit. Currently housed energy that felt…frantic.

Smoke ain’t like it. 

And Stack was taking too long to deal with it. 

His brother stood in the middle of the floor, head cocked, fingers tapping against the side of his leg like he was enjoying this. Like it was funny to him, watching these niggas scramble. 

Smoke’s jaw flexed harder. 

It was 5:34AM. He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t showered. Hadn’t slept. And now he was listening to three grown ass men explain some shit that still didn’t add up. 

Smoke moved through life making sure shit added up. He was the type of man who could break down numbers written on paper with a glance. The type who counted money three times before he trusted the total. The type who tracked every dollar, from the off shore accounts to the safe in his office, down to the cent.

And when something was off — 

His own hand moved then, to the steel he kept tucked, and as his fingers wrapped around the grip, the heat building in his chest cooled. Just a little. The weight of the gun felt familiar. Felt like a resolution — like he was about to get shit back in order. Back in control. 

His voice was flat when he spoke. His words clipped. To the point. 

“What I’m hearin’ is don’t none of you niggas know how ‘dis happened?” 

All that noise that’d been grating on his nerves? Stopped. 

Smoke stepped away from where he’d been posted by the wall playing Stack’s shadow. 

There was another long beat of silence. Then came the excuses. Less hurried, more hesitant, and the same disrespect either way. The same shit Smoke ain’t have patience for. 

He looked each man dead in the eyes. “Either y’all lyin. Or y’all stupid enough to let half a shipment come up missing.” Smoke’s arm started raising smoothly. Like this was muscle memory. “Both bad for business.” 

Pop!

The sound of her candle was low. Low and urgent. The flame danced. The wick burned. And it came again. 

Pop! 

Annie stared. 

It was 6:30AM now. 

She’d finished her meditation. Laid in bed for ten more minutes exactly. Then commenced with the rest of her morning routine; cloth soaked in spring water to wash her face, meticulous brushing of her teeth, shower hot enough to drown out her thoughts.

She’d been moving on auto pilot through it all; nothing but her body present as she moisturized, tamed her hair, and dressed. The black pencil skirt was first, crème blouse second, sling-back heels last. A once over in the mirror confirmed she didn’t look how she felt. That sufficed for now. 

On good days, her home carried a…lighter feel.

Today…Annie kept her curtains drawn and her mouth shut. There were no rays of warmth caressing her skin while she got ready. No low humming to keep her company. Even her steps had been careful as she left her bedroom, like she wanted to be sure not to fall over the edge she was standing on. 

And now she watched. 

Pop! 

Her altar was small. Private. Powerful. 

She tended to it better than she did herself some days.

Right now though…

Pop! 

Somebody wanted to talk. 

And Annie ain’t feel like talkin’.

Breakfast was toast and coffee. Fuel more than food. She stood in front of her kitchen sink, barely tasting as she chewed, eyes fixed on the rain streaking her window. 

It’d been clear skies and bright sun all week and today — it was pouring. 

It continued pouring as she sat in bumper to bumper traffic. 

As she clocked in at work exactly 2 minutes early. 

As she answered call after call with the same, “This is Annie, thank you for calling…”

She didn’t dislike her job. 

But today it was…draining. Every call was too long. Every coworker she accidentally made eye contact with talked too much. Every second on the clock ticked by too slow. 

1 2 3 in 

1 2 3 out 

She didn’t always feel this way. Heavy. Tired. Too small for the world and too big for her own skin. 

Annie’s highs were high. Loud. Warm. Loving. Infectious. 

But her lows…

1 2 3 in 

1 2 3 ou–

“Annie, you alright girl??” 

Annie’s eyes opened, head turning to where Pearline was peeking around her cubicle. 

Her desk neighbor was younger. Sweet. And had entirely too much energy for Annie to process today. Still, she smiled. 

“I’m alright.” 

Pearline raised a brow, “Umhm if you say so, you been real quiet—” she pointed. “Don’t be over here acting fake.” 

Annie managed a laugh that sounded halfway genuine. Pearline believed it, lowered her voice a little and leaned in when she spoke next.  

“If Gary nosy ass come looking for me tell him I’m in the bathroom or somethin’. These damn people getting on my nerves girl, I gotta go —”

“—Smoke. If it’s somethin’ to find, ima find it boss.”

Smoke gritted his teeth. His morning had went from shit to worse. From missing product, three bodies, and too many questions to zero answers, thinning patience, and shaky hands. 

Smoke was the type of man built to handle pressure. He knew how to navigate it and never cracked under it. But he got restless when he didn’t know where to apply it.

Smoke hung up the phone. Sat unmoving in the darkness of his home office, trying to find calm that didn’t come. 

He’d already showered. Eaten. Smoked a pre roll. 

Ain’t even pretend he was going to sleep though. Knew he wouldn’t be able to, not with that feeling unfurling in his chest. It was demanding. Intolerant. Dangerous. Said he needed to handle business. 

Smoke had spent all day tryna do just that. 

He’d been moving around nonstop; tracking and questioning and delegating and reeling back his frustration. 

Now he was sitting in it. Felt nothing but it. 

Smoke wasn’t a man with many coping mechanisms. He coped with action and there wasn’t any action he could take until someone called him back with the information he needed.

So, he remained still, letting the frustration and restlessness and that heat in his chest build. 

And build. 

And build. 

Smoke’s office was as dark as the rest of his house; dim lighting, sleek black and grey furniture, blank walls that reflected exactly what his priority’s were. 

He wasn’t concerned with decorating. With tryna’ turn a house into a home when he was only ever here to catch a few hours of sleep anyways.

He gave his time to what was important and that list was short. It revolved around ensuring he and his brother never ended up in a position where they depended on another man to eat. Revolved around chasing power and respect. Respect he felt was being tested. 

Smoke’s eyes narrowed. Hands flexed where they were clasped on the desk. Like he was trying to physically hold his anger back. His anger and his tremors. 

The key word was trying, ‘cause the pressure he had building didn’t ease any, nor did that feeling of being out of control. The same one that’d been lingering since he’d gotten the call this morning. 

Smoke didn’t do well with that. Feeling like he was two steps behind. Feeling like plans were in motion that he had no say in. It made him want to do more than drop three bodies. And Smoke wasn’t a man who could be talked down once his mind went in that direction. Wasn’t a man who could be reasoned with when respect was on the line. 

That’s why he reached for his phone, hands unlocking suddenly, fingers steady, like he knew exactly what needed to be done. 

Because he did. It was true that Smoke wasn’t a man with many outlets. But when he got like this, he did have one. And he needed it now—needed her. 

So he booked a last minute flight. Then sent the text.

Buzz buzz! 

Annie sat in the parking garage. Head leaned back, hands wrapped around the wheel willing herself to drive.To re-enter traffic and go home to the silence waiting on her. 

Work was done. Everything else persisted; the weariness in her bones, the suffocating arms of life enclosing her in an embrace she hadn’t asked for.  

1 2 3 in 

1 2 3 out 

Around her the world moved, regardless of slick streets and continuous down pour. The rain stopped nothing. Everyone still had places to be, people to see, moves to make. Annie seemed like the only one frozen in the midst of it all. The only one drowning.

Her eyes opened. Her car idled. Her fingers dropped from the wheel completely. 

Then her attention drifted, gaze dragging from the emptying parking garage to the phone in her passenger seat. 

Annie almost left it where it was. Decided to check it anyways since she was just sitting here. 

The screen woke up as soon as the device was in front of her face, stare immediately locking on the message that was waiting. It was an unsaved number she knew by heart. A text that always seemed to come right on time. Like he could sense it; when the voices were getting too loud, when life started feeling too heavy, when her spark went out for no apparent reason at all. 

Annie was a woman with many outlets. Many coping mechanisms. But when none of them worked—when she couldn’t force herself to care enough and make them work—he was always there. 

Annie contemplated the message. Then locked her phone and placed it in her purse. She didn’t have to respond. They had an understanding. 

She re-placed her hands on the wheel then and moved this time, backing out of her designated spot and entering the flow of cars impatient to get home. 

Her shoulders were still tight. Big eyes still uncharacteristically dull. But there was no denying the sudden calm that slithered through her chest and settled in her belly. 

A calm that only suite 1508 could ever bring. 

Pearl white floors. Golden accents. Royal blue seating. The lobby went out of its way to make a statement as soon as guests stepped through the revolving doors. The lighting throughout the open space was layered, low and warm, the desk receptionists’ were smiling and attentive but knew exactly when to direct their attention elsewhere, and the scent of amber and sandalwood lingered on every floor. 

The lobby had a calm feel; there were no family’s checking in, dragging 5 suitcases with 3 kids behind them, no random tourists gazing in awe and snapping pictures left and right, no loud groups of friends conversing and cackling while they waited in line. 

There was no line. No groups of people or tourists standing at the front desk asking about popular sights and deals. Anyone who checked in here didn’t have concerns with the outside world. Anyone who checked in here had business to attend to inside these walls. 

Smoke and Annie were tending to their business right now. In suite 1508. 

—

The air was thick. Heavy with something that had nothing to do with a drop gone wrong or a bad week that felt like it’d never leave. In this room those problems didn’t exist. Didn’t matter. In this room the only thing that mattered were the instructions Smoke gave. And he’d been very clear on them. 

When Annie’d stepped into the suite he’d already been there. Seated on the dark couch in the sitting area, full glass of something dark on the table in front of him, with his eyes trained towards the door. Like he’d been waiting for her. Like he needed her. 

They’d taken stock of each other. Eyes assessing shoulders and hands like they were trying to spot where the tension lay. Like always. 

He’d instructed her to sit down while he ordered room service and then watched her eat. Like always. 

Through it all, they didn’t exchange more than a few words. Like always. 

It was only after her plate was cleared to his liking did the conversation start. 

Like always. 

“How you been?” His dark eyes were locked directly with hers. Gaze didn’t stray to her frame. Or her lips. Or anywhere else.

Annie’s answer was instinct. A reflex. A half-hearted, “I been alright.” 

Smoke didn’t blink. Didn’t narrow his eyes. Didn’t tilt his head. Just waited for her to correct herself. 

Annie didn’t take long. 

“I’ve been…better.” Annie didn’t shift under his gaze because she was nervous. She shifted because vulnerability was not her comfort zone. And she continued speaking anyways because Smoke was. To a certain extent. “My head been loud. Or sometimes it get too quiet. I don’t know. Ain’t really sad or nothing — I just feel like the world spinnin’ and I’m spinnin’ with it. I’m not…grounded right now, Smoke. And at the same time — I feel so heavy. Just. I don’t feel whole right now. Don’ feel right.”

It was the best way she could explain it. She didn’t need to try any harder. Smoke and Annie knew each other well enough at this point. Met at this same hotel, carrying different burdens, repeatedly. Sometimes they saw each other four times in one month. Sometimes they went four months without seeing each other. But when it got to be too much, when life got to be too much, they met here. Worked out everything wrong until it started feeling right again. 

Smoke’s jaw flexed. Not angrily. More like….he was processing her words and the resolution to them at the same time. It soothed a bit of the restlessness in him; being able to take care of something. Take care of her and her problems. 

“I hear you.” When Smoke said that he wasn’t just talking. Wasn’t just throwing words together that sounded nice. He meant them. “We gon’ get you grounded, Annie. When I leave this room, you gon’ be whole again, ‘cause you gon’ give everything ‘dats eating at you to me.”

He wasn’t asking. 

Smoke’s eyes narrowed a little then. Dark gaze growing darker. “I needa’ be rough wit’ you tonight. Need you to be good. To listen. I want all yo’ attention. I want all yo’ obedience. And ima want it for a while, Annie.” 

They didn’t always need hours with each other. 

Tonight they would. 

Annie inclined her head, “Okay.” 

Smoke studied her, like he needed to see the okay in her eyes. Annie let him look.

“What’s yo’ safe word?” 

He knew her safe word. Still asked the question anyways.

Annie met his stare head on. Blinked slowly. Not teasing. Not playing. Just….preparing. For how she was about to be taken apart in the way only Smoke could accomplish.

“Magnolia.” 

Smoke nodded. Once. Repeated it like the word wasn’t already engrained in his memory.

“Magnolia. Aight.” 

Then his shoulders shifted, face smoothing out, stare finally drifting from her eyes on downwards. When he spoke, it was to give his first order of the night. 

“Stand up and strip.” 

—

Annie was panting. Soft gasps, heavy breathing, low greedy moans. She was on her stomach, had a curve in her spine, one that pushed her full breasts out. That made her nipples graze the sheets every time her body moved — another sensation adding to the thirty she was already feeling. 

Smoke was behind her, damn near laid out on top of her, completely encompassing Annie’s frame in his. His hard chest was brushing her back, hand flexing around her throat like he wanted to feel every shaky sound he forced out of her. 

The sheets were tangled underneath them, Egyptian cotton meant for comfortable sleeping half way off the mattress. Pillows were strewn all over the room. Air still thick with the scent of lavender, cologne, and connection.

A continuous wet smacking sound blended with Annie’s moans — the result of Smoke slamming into her again. And again. And again. 

He’d started with bending her over the table she’d eaten at. Had taken her from the table to the couch, from the couch to the floor to ceiling windows, and from the windows to the bed. He was…insatiable. Not fucking her, but breaking her. 

So he could put her back together piece by piece. So he could soothe that voice in his head demanding him to move. To fix. To act.

“Smoke—Sir—Daddy!” Annie’s words were broken. Sweet, submissive sounding, “uh uh uh” noises falling from her lips as she struggled to speak. “Smoke, I can’t—Daddy, I can’t—!” 

“Shhh,” Smoke’s voice was low. Dark. His hips snapped forward, the wide head of his dick tapping against a spot that would have made Annie surge forward if not for his hand around her throat. “You got it. You can take it. You always do.” 

Smoke’s length was long. Thick. Dick so heavy it curved forward instead of to the side. Annie didn’t think it was natural for him to be the size he was. Her pussy didn’t care either way. Her pussy was greedy. Sucking in every inch he fed to her and clamping down tight when he tried to pull out to the head.

“You always do so good for me, mama. Always take this dick exactly how I need to give it. I appreciate ‘dat Annie, you bein’ a good girl for Daddy.” 

Annie’s stomach warmed at his praise, skin prickling with sweat, walls spasming around his length. 

“You my good girl, ain’t you? My perfect girl? Gon’ let me do whatever I want to you?” 

Annie’s eyes rolled back, pussy leaking as Smoke grunted low in her ear.

“Yes, Daddy.” 

Behind her, his brows drew down. Hips snapped forward again. Rougher. Harder. 

“No. Say it. All of it.” 

Annie keened, fingers sliding uselessly against the twisted up sheets. She hadn’t felt good all week. Hadn’t felt perfect or even close to it.

Smoke’s grip tightened around her throat, “C’mon, Annie. Daddy don’t wonna punish you today, but I will. Speak.” 

A command wasn’t meant to be given more than once. Smoke had been kind enough to instruct her twice. Annie knew he wasn’t asking a third time. 

Her pulse kicked up against the fingers around her neck, words came out in a high, Nola coated, groan, “I’m your good girl, Smoke! Your perfect, girl—” Annie shuddered underneath him. “You can do whatever you want to me, Daddy!” 

Smoke grunted. It was approval. Made her clench tighter around him. “Good, baby. Real good. Now you gon’ repeat ‘dat until you believe it.” 

—

Sensitive. Annie was so sensitive. 

She’d been walking around for days feeling nothing. Feeling empty. Feeling low. 

Now all she felt was Smoke. Lips suctioned around her clit, hands sinking into the fat of her hips, pulling her down on his face like a mouth full of her pussy wasn’t enough. 

He ain’t allow hovering. Ain’t allow timidness. Ain’t allow her to shrink herself. He wanted Annie loud. Wanted her to suffocate him while she chased her nut. And if she tried to lift up before he was done eating? Tried to run? He corrected it. 

Smack! 

His palm was heavy against her ass. Mean. Cracked down with such force it made her cry out. 

Smoke didn’t care. 

“Ain’t tell you go nowhere.” His face was soaked, mustache drenched in her essence, narrowed eyes unable to see anything past pussy, titties and tummy. It made him salivate. “Sit—fo’ I get mad.” 

Annie’s thighs quivered. Clit pulsed. 

“You been eating for so long, Daddy—”

“And Daddy ain’t done.” His words were sharp. “You got three seconds to put my pussy where I want it and keep it there.” 

Annie was sitting before he reached number two; fingers gripping the headboard, titties bouncing against her chest with a soft smack, mouth dropping wide open. It was nasty the way he ate her. The way he made her grind against his face. The way his tongue twisted around her clit, like a nigga with a sweet tooth who just discovered his favorite cobbler. 

He fed from Annie. Sucked until she started feeding him. Rolling her hips. Bouncing on his tongue. Chasing the tingly feeling that was building in her stomach again. 

Smoke’s hands were everywhere. Sinking into her thighs, her ass, her hips, her stomach. He was rough. Greedy. Like he needed to ground himself just as much as she did. Like her—Annie’s taste, Annie’s smell, Annie’s submission—eased the built pressure in his chest in a way the blunt never had. In a way it’d never be able to.

—

Annie was flat on her back, both wrists pinned above her head, thick curls fanned out around her shoulders, legs spread wide like an offering. 

She didn’t know how long they’d been here. Didn’t know how many times she’d came. She didn’t lay there trying to figure it out either. Annie didn’t have to think when she was with Smoke. Didn’t have to keep track of anything. Her mind was free to go blank, so she let it.

“How ‘dat feel, Annie? Daddy on that spot?” 

He was. 

Was leaned over her, long stroking in and out of her pussy. Sliding against her walls. Stretching her out. Tryna’ put that dick in her stomach. 

He’d told her to lay there. Told her he ain’t want her running. He ain’t want her fucking back. He ain’t want her trying to take control. He just wanted her to take it. To be good. 

Annie was good. Would do exactly what he told her. 

“Yes, Smoke.” Her big eyes blinked up at him, shining and lust ridden. Words came out sweet and soft. 

It made him grunt. Made his forehead pinch and his jaw flex.  

Annie moaned, “You always hit that spot, Smoke. Always fuck me so good. Always take care of your pussy. I appreciate that, Daddy. So much.” 

She parroted his words from earlier and watched a shudder roll down his spine. Watched his lids flutter. Felt the way he thrusted into her harder. Deeper. 

They both groaned in unison then, room filled with nothing but wet smacking sounds, low moans, and deep grunts. 

Smoke was a man of discipline. Didn’t indulge much. But with Annie — he took everything she had give every single time. He kept them in this room and made her fall apart over and over again. Kept them in this room until she remembered how to breathe without counting. Until he could breathe without it being dangerous for everyone else.

Smoke was at her breasts, sucking and kissing. Then at her neck, licking up her skin slowly. Then at her ear, southern accent thick, voice gravelly in a way she physically felt on her skin. 

“‘Lota’ shit going wrong right now but you —” Smoke grinded into her, kept pressure on that spot in her pussy that made Annie swallow spit. “You always jus’ right. Warm. Soft. Fuckin’. Perfect. You perfect ain’t you, Annie?” 

Annie whimpered, hips arching up to meet his in a way she couldn’t help, “Yes, Smoke. I’m perfect.” 

It wasn’t Annie’s business what was ‘going wrong’ with him. He never expanded and more importantly she never inquired. In this room they didn’t talk about the details of their lives. And outside of the room? Well, this didn’t exist.

In the morning he’d be gone. Doing…whatever it was he did. She’d still be here. Waking up slow for once, visiting the spa on the upper level, resetting her body. She’d stay throughout the weekend, on his dime. And they wouldn’t see one another again until the pressures of life forced them to. Until everything became too much and their only escape was sinking into each other.

“Where yo’ mind at, baby? Stay wit’ me,” Smoke was back to looking down at her. Lids low. Eyes unblinking. “This my time. I don’t share my time. Keep yo’ focus on me.” 

Annie did.

All night long. 

So, Smoke gives me a fawking headache and this is…ehhh but whateverrrr! Hope you enjoyed if you made it to the end, yikes 🌚. Happy Sunday! 🫶🏾 (I be hesitating to tag when I drop drabbles cause they don’t be much of nothing fr lmao so if you don’ttt wonna be tagged in the drabbles let me know 😬🌚)

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Visionaries: @lizbehave @thebumblebeesworld @shereeluvssinners @miss-spiders-sunny-patch @bananajoeclone @aellesa @atpeaceinthestars @underated345-blog @hotebonynearby @hdfen2474 @chromexbarbie @honeytoffee @mmbee675 @waitingtobreatheagain @mikaelsonharem7 @cocochannelmoi

Smoke Visionaries: @brownskincheyenne @meannaim @blue4everrsworld @thedutifulone @ladychzzcake @shamansha @og-goddesstrill @naibaby

[brownlyfe]

UP THE PRICE (MY LADY) michael b. jordan x wunmi m.

PART TWO previous masterlist

cw: sexual content 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: okay i'm slowly getting back on track with everything, so here's this part. i have a good few more parts left to give y'all so hold on. enjoy!

Feburary 2027

Michael was in one of the worst moods he’d been in all month. He was irritated and restless and everybody around him could feel it too.

It wasn't like he was rude or mean, but his team had decided to move as carefully as possible around him. They spent all afternoon double checking everything before they even approached him. Nobody really wanted to be on the receiving end of his attitude. 

And the reason of it all was simple. He missed Wunmi badly. The last time he had physically seen her was over two weeks ago, and at this point he was starting to feel it. Obiviously, the talked everyday, but it was mostly through texts. They would have short phone calls here and there, typically before bed. And now, he was truly feeling every second of those two weeks that they'd been apart. 

Tonight's event was supposed to be a big deal because he was being honored for his career achievements and normally he would be more excited. But right now, he didn't even want to go.

Thecar pulled up to the venue and Michael stayed seated willing himself to want to actually participate in tonight's festivities. After a deep breath, he stepped out to the chaotic sounds of people calling for other celebrities on the carpet.

Normally, he could easily turn his celebrity charm on, but it seemed that otnight it would take a bit more effort. He put on the best fake smile that he could and started making his way down the carpet. He stopped and smiled for pictures, his mind counting down the minutes for it all to be over. He just wanted to be in bed, phone in hand, listening to the sounds of Wunmi breathing as she sleeped. 

After the pictures, he went through interview after interview, answering the same few boring questions. His years of media training helped him thorugh it as his mind went to autopilot mode. He was so distracted in one of the interviews that when a hand lightly touched his back, he practically jumped.

The interviewer gasped, "Well look who's here!"

Michael turned around and it was like everything in his body settled. Wunmi stood a little bit behind him with a smile on her face and she looked absolutely gorgeous. Michael's eyes lit up and his mood lifted. 

Wunmi smiled at the interviewer politely before leaning in to give Michael a hug. Their arms wrapped around each other in a way that looked friendly for the cameras. And though they were supposed to be putting on this show for the public, her lips curved against Michael's cheek as he squeezed her a bit too tight. 

Michael exhaled quietly through his nose, loosening his hold for her to pull back.

“I just came to say hi,” she said.

And before he could say anything, she stepped away.

His eyes tracked her as she walked further down the carpet. He looked as if he was going to ditch the interview and follow after her. The intterviewer was clearly talking to him, but Michael didn't hear truly hear a word that ws being said. He snapped back into reality and put on his best face to finish the interview.

As soon as it was over, he stepped away, eyes immediately scanned the room looking for his fiancée. His team hurried after him trying to keep him in check, but he was going too fast. He kept moving until he found her inside the venue standing near on of the cocktail tables talking to someone. She was looking directly at him with a smile on her face as she talked. 

Michael took in how good she looked. The lighting warmed her skin beautifully and the diamonds around her neck sparkled every time she moved. She looked calm. Meanwhile, he felt like his brain had short-circuited since the second she hugged him.

Wunmi slightly tilted her head at the way he was staring at her, then she winked. Michael let out a quiet huff of a laugh at the move. That woman was so incredibly irritating. 

The longer he stood there, the more Wunmi looked at him. She mouthed, hi, then she motioned with her hand for him to keep moving.

He let out a dramatic puff of air from his but did as he was told. He allowed himself to be walked to his table. He took his seat with his mind reeling about what was happening with him. 

He was starting to realize that he didn't like this. He didn't like being around her in public and not being able to act how he wanted to. He wanted to kiss her and hold her because he hadn't seen her in so long. He was obsessed with her. He needed her in his bones. 

Every now and then his eyes would drift to her and every time she was looking at him. At one point she slowly crossed her legs beneath the table, and Michael had to look away because his mind went somewhere far too inappropriate for where he was. It had been two weeks since he was able to touch her properly and it was driving him insane. 

The ceremony itself moved quickly. There were several honorees that night. There were also a few live performances to break everything up.

After a long while, it was finally his turn. The lights dimmed slightly as the presenter stepped onto the stage. A montage of clips from his films over the years started playing across the screens behind them. There was behind the scenes and directing footage. The room applauded at the end and then the introduction speech started. They talked about his growth, his impact, and his transition from actor to producer to director.

Michael sat back slightly in his chair listening quietly, jaw tight with emotion he was trying not to show too openly.

“Please welcome one of tonight’s honorees, Michael B. Jordan.”

The room erupted into applause as Michael stood up. He pushed his chair back and started to make his way to the stage. When he walked past Wunmi's table, his face softened and his eyes sparkled under the lights. Wunmi smiled wider at the sight of him. 

Michael shook his head while continuing to the stage. He loved her something bad. He reached the stage with a standing ovation going. He hugged the presenter and accepted the award.

“Thank you so much,” he laughed softly. “I'm just so honored. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about growth and change and what it means to evolve. And not just as an artist, but as a man,” he stated. 

Michael continued talking about how much he had matured over the years. How working with different creatives throughout his career had pushed him to become more open.

“There was a point where I thought success just meant working nonstop, constantly chasing the next thing. But now I appreciate leadership differently. Directing and producing changed me a lot. I was responsible for people and building something bigger than myself. That's something I'm still learning in both my career and my personal life every day.”

Wunmi giddily watched him from her table. Because she knew how hard he had worked to become this version of himself. He was more patient, open, and intentional now.

Michael started to thank people, starting with his family, especially his mother. Then he thanked his close frineds, creative partners, and people who helped his career over the years. His eyes moved through the room until they found Wunmi again. She sat still beneath his gaze, looking up at him with a sweet smile. Michael felt warmth spread across his face.

“And lastly, I gotta thank my heart and my love, for being my support these last few years. You've encouraged me to step outside of what people expect from me. You pushed me toward what I actually wanted for myself. You've been the shoulder for me to lean on and you ground me. Thank you so much baby.”

Michael finished off his speech by thanking everybody again. He stepped off the stage and tried to head back to his seat. People kept stopping and congratulating him. He was being pulled in different directions for hugs and pictures. Michael smiled politely the entire time.

Eventually his team managed to get him away from the crowd. They led him to a quiet hallway corner tucked away from everything. He adjusted his watch as he looked around. Then he noticed Wunmi walking toward him. When she got close enough Michael held his arms out for her to walk right into them.

With them being in such a private area they were free to be who they were completely. Wunmi stepped into his arms. She laughed at how tight he was squeezing her.

“I missed you, baby,” he said roughly into her neck.

"I missed you too," she lifted her head a bit to kiss his cheek.

Michael’s hands spread against her back over the fabric of her dress, holding her close. Then he pulled back just enough to look at her face.

“When did you fly in?”

“This afternoon,” she answered patiently. 

“Why you ain’t tell me?”

“Because it was a surprise, baby.”

“You really surprised me.”

“I know.”

He huffed softly through his nose, pulling her closer.

“You looked so happy up there,” she told him quietly. She reached up and smoothed her hand lightly over the front of his jacket.

“I was,” his eyes stayed on her face another second before he asked quietly, “How long you here for?”

“About that…I have to fly back for the BAFTAs,” Wunmi bit her lip.

His face dropped, “When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?” he frustratingly repeated.

Wunmi winced, “I know.”

“Okay then I’m coming with you,” Michael shook his head in disbelief.

“Baby.”

“I’m serious.”

“You need to stay here and finish press.”

“I can do press over there.”

“No you can’t. You already have interviews scheduled,” she said. 

Michael sucked his teeth, clearly irritated. He looked like he wanted to argue about it too. Wunmi saw it forming before he even opened his mouth.

“I fly out in the morning. Not tonight,” she reminded him gently.

“Okay, fine,” he sighed. He clearly hated agreeing though. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“I just need some time with you.” He looked touch-starved. Like these last few weeks had actually been hard on him.

Michael intertwined their fingers starting to lead her. His security team discreetly directed them through the quiet hallway toward a private side exit. When they made it outside, Michael's car was waiting for them.

They spent the whole car ride up under each other. Luckily, the drive home wasn't too long. 

When they got home, they headed upstairs to the bedroom, stripping down from their formal clothes into something more comfortable. They laid in bed together, kissing lazily between conversations. They were catching up on all the things that they never had time to say over facetime.

Michael couldn’t keep his hands off of her. Every time Wunmi shifted even a little bit, his hands followed. He gripped her waist, her thighs, her back, anything he could reach. His fingers rubbed softly against her skin as if he needed the physical reasurance that she was actually there.

At one point Wunmi laughed softly against his lips, “You’re being so clingy.”

"Mhm and I don't care," Michael kissed her again.

The closer they got to the wedding, the more attached he was. The more they started to reveal their relationship, the less careful he seemed to become emotionally. And Wunmi could feel it in everything he did.

The next morning, Michael was in a bad mood again because she had to leave. They were sitting in the back of the SUV with Wunmi trying not to laugh because of how miserable he was acting. 

“You’ll be okay,” Wunmi teased softly.

Michael glanced over at her with a look that said otherwise.

"You'll see me soon," Wunmi shook her head fondly before squeezing his hand.

“Not soon enough.”

They pulled up to the airport entrance where Wunmi's team was standing out front waiting for her. When the car stopped, Michael got out first. He helped her out of the car then while she greeted her team, he went to the trunk to get her bags. They went inside while discussing scheduling and timing of the coming press days.

Michael barely spoke to the group of people as he carried the bags. He maintained close distance to his fiancée, trying to get as much time out of her as he could. 

Eventually they reached the security checkpoint where they had to separate and Michael visibly disliked that. Wunmi stepped into his arms, wrapping hers around his neck. She smiled against his shoulder.

“Michael,” he hummed against her without loosening his hold at all. “I have to go.”

He said nothing. If anything, his arms tightened more.

“Baby.”

Michael grunted quietly and held onto her for another few seconds before pulling back. His face was completely serious.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He kissed her one more time. Then Wunmi tried to step away and Michael grabbed her waist again.

“Michael,” she laughed.

He sighed dramatically before finally letting go for real this time.

“Text me when you land.”

“I will.”

“Don’t disappear all day.”

“Yes sir.”

Finally, she was able to turn and walk towards security with her team. A few steps in, she glanced back over her shoulder to see that Michael was still standing exactly where she left him watching her leave. The second she disappeared fully from sight, the smile faded from his face and he looked exhausted again.

Once he got back outside, his driver opened the SUV door for him. He slid into the backseat with a heavy sigh. As soon as he got settled and the car started to move, his phone rang with a call from his publicist. Michael didn't really want to answer, but he did anyway. 

“What.”

“You’re in a wonderful mood this morning,” she deadpanned.

“What I got today?”

“Not too much today, actually. You have a radio interview first, a magazine interview, and then Fallon tonight.”

Michael leaned back against the seat with a sigh. All he wanted to do now was go back home and get in bed. Instead he had to go smile on television.

He spent the entire day operating on autopilot. Smiling when needed, shaking hands, telling the same stories, and answering the same questions. By the middle of the afternoon he was mentally exhausted and his team could tell. There was a flatness to him whenever the cameras weren't rolling. 

Luckily, when it was time for his Jimmy Fallon interview, he wasn't as bothered as he was before. Maybe it was because he genuinely enjoyed his time on the late night show. The energy was always lighthearted and less stiff than some of the more serious and repetitive interviews he'd been doing lately. And honestly, he needed that tonight.

Out on stage, Jimmy Fallon was gearing up for his arrival.

“Our next guest is an Academy award-winning actor, producer, and director…please welcome Michael B. Jordan!”

The crowd erupted the second Michael walked out. Women in the audience were losing their minds. Michael laughed as he waved and lightly jogged onto the stage.

Jimmy stood laughing beside his desk.

“Look at this!” Fallon shouted over the noise. “Does this ever get old for you?”

Michael sat down in the chair with a grin spreading across his face.

“Nah, not really,” he laughed honestly.

The audience screamed again and Michael shook his laughing.

“Well I think this is all gonna die down soon anyway,” he teased while settling into his own chair.

“I don’t know about that,” he said as he casually leaned back.

“Alright, alright…" Jimmy smiled warmly. “But seriously, congratulations on the engagement.”

A real genuine smile spread across Michael's face as the audience applauded. His body warmed up and he seemed almost shy for a second.

“Thank you,” he said genuinely.

“So when’s the wedding?”

Michael chuckled a bit, "Soon."

“How soon?”

“Very soon.”

"That's not really an answer man," Jimmy narrowed his eyes jokingly.

Michael shrugged, "I'm trying here."

“So how’s wedding planning going?”

Michael groaned which made the audience laugh.

“Man, it's uh, it’s a lot,” he admitted. “I didn’t realize how much goes into it.”

Jimmy nodded knowingly, “Oh yeah.”

“And we both been really busy lately. So honestly a lot of stuff fell into the wedding planner’s hands,” Michael continued.

“Hey man, you gotta be a little careful with that,” Jimmy said.

“Yeah you do, but my fiancée is very particular," Michael laughed before shaking his head.

"And what does that mean?" Jimmy grinned.

“It means she knows exactly what she wants.”

“And you don’t?”

“No. I learned real quick this is not my lane,” he said confidently.

Jimmy laughed a little, “So you just gave up?”

“I ain’t say that,” Michael defended jokingly. “We definitely bumped heads a couple times. But I also learned she’s usually right. So now I just let her have it.”

“That's a smart thing to learn.”

The conversation changed to talking about The Thomas Crown Affair. The rest of the interview flew by. They effortlessly joked back and forth with the audience eating up every little thing Michael said. He laughed more during that interview than he had during other interviews, finally loosening up fully once the conversation stopped feeling so media trained.

When the interview was over, Michael was just ready to go home. He got into the SUV and reached for his phone, opening him and Wunmi's text thread. The ride home was quiet while he scrolled through the pictures she’d sent him earlier that week from fittings and press events.

He got home and the house felt too quiet and too empty. He kicked his shoes off near the entryway, headed upstairs, and pulled his phone back out. He knew she probably wouldn’t be awake yet, but he texted her anyway. He wanted to send her messages of good luck and not to stress herself out.

The BAFTA Awards were a huge deal, and even though Wunmi tried to act calm about things, Michael knew when she was nervous. And she was definitely nervous.

After sending the text, he showered and climbed into bed. The exhaustion hit him quickly.

The next morning, he woke up earlier than he needed to because the BAFTAs were about to start airing and his schedule was jampacked for the day.

When he went downstairs, the house was active. His team had taken over. Somebody was steaming clothes in the corner while another person organized accessories across the kitchen island.

Michael was half awake walking around in a white tank top and black shorts.

“Good morning. We have to start getting you ready in like twenty,” His stylist called out from nearby. 

He nodded while grabbing the remote to turn the tv on. He put the BAFTAs pre-show coverage on. The red carpet hadn’t fully started yet, but reporters were outside talking while footage rolled across the screen. Michael stood there watching quietly for a second before sitting on the edge of the couch.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed with Wunmi's name and face lighting up the screen. He answered almost immediately.

As soon as it connected, Wunmi's smiling face appeared on the other side of the screen. She was in the backseat of a car, London moving behind the windows while soft natural light filtered across her face.

Michael’s breath caught slightly. He couldn’t even fully see her outfit, but from what he did see, she looked beautiful already.

“Jesus, you look good,” he muttered honestly. 

Wunmi smiled nervously at the compliment, “Thank you.”

Michael noticed the tension in her expression. His brows pulled together.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just nervous,” her voice came out quietly.

“Nervous about what?”

"Everything," she sighed softly. “I just…I wish you were here.”

Michael frowned instantly, because he wished the exact same thing.

“Baby, I wish I was there too,” he said softly.

Wunmi smiled weakly.

“You gon’ be fine. This just another stepping stone,” he told her confidently. “You already proved yourself several times over."

A small smile spread across Wunmi’s face. Hearing that from him always meant something to her. He believed in her completely, even more than she believed in herself sometimes.

 “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Someone outside her car opened the door then, voices floating faintly into the background. Wunmi looked toward them before glancing back at Michael.

“I gotta go walk the carpet.”

Michael nodded.

“Aight,” his eyes stayed fixed on her face. “I can’t wait to celebrate you.”

"Okay," Wunmi bit lightly at her lip trying not to smile too hard at that.

“Go handle business.”

Wunmi nodded once, “Bye baby.”

“Bye.”

Michael was staring at his phone after the call ended when his publicist walked past him carrying a clipboard.

“How she feeling?” she asked.

“She's nervous,” Michael said setting the phone down.

“It’s awards season. Everybody's nervous,” she said simply. 

Michael leaned back against the couch cushions with a sigh. He hated not being there with her so he could calm her down, hold her hand, and talk her through it.

Everybody was still moving around him getting things ready. But his eyes stayed fixed on the tv. And he was glad he was looking, because soon Wunmi's face captured the screen.

She loojed so good it honestly irritated him a bit. She wore this sparkling baby blue gown that hugged every curve of her body perfectly as if it was painted on. The fabric shimmered every time the cameras flashed against it. Her patewo braids were pulled beautifully up away from her face. Everything about her looked flawless.

Michael stared hard at the screen as the cameras zoomed in on her face. His stylist was talking to him and he didn’t hear a word. All he could focus on was Wunmi smiling naturally while posing for photos. And she looked so comfortable now too. The nervousness from a few minutes ago was gone. She calmly floated down that carpet, stopping to get captured by different camera angles while photographers shouted her name.

Michael shook his head slowly. His eyes followed her across the screen. He wished he was there to field some of the attention she was sure to be getting. And not just from the photographers. 

Wunmi had a tendency to be too nice and open with people, and he didn't want another Tyree situation to come about. Especially with her being in another country.

Michael exhaled sharply through his nose while watching another camera angle pop up. The camera zoomed in closer while Wunmi turned slightly toward the photographers and Michael spotted the ring sparkling against her hand. A boyish smile spread across his face. He was satisfied now. 

He stayed focused on the screen while Wunmi continued moving down the carpet. Then she finally moved from the photo area toward the interview section. As soon as she got off the screen, Michael stood up, and headed upstairs to clean his body off for the day. 

It didn't take him long to clean up. He went back downstairs dressed in only a robe. His team had everything ready for him now. He sat down while people started to move around to get him dressed and ready.

He came back down at the right time because the ceremony had officially started. Someone had grabbed the remote and turned the volume a little higher.

Michael was locked in on the screen the entire time they got him ready. Even while someone buttoned his shirt cuffs, his eyes never moved from the tv.

The ceremony rolled on for about an hour before the category he was waiting for came up.

Michael immediately stood up from the chair before they could even tell him to stay still. Instinctively, he moved closer to the screen, fully dressed now except for a few final touches. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest while staring.

The nominees started rolling across the screen one by one with their clips playing and their names were announced. The second Wunmi's clip came up, Michael smiled. The clip ended and the presenter opened the card.

“And the BAFTA goes to…”

There was a pause, then-

“…Wunmi Mosaku.”

"LET'S GO!" Michael boomed. He clapped his hands together hard enough to echo through the room. Excitement was written all over his face. “That’s my baby!”

Everybody around him started cheering and laughing at Michael's reaction.

Onscreen, Wunmi looked stunned for half a second before that huge smile spread across her face. She stood up gracefully, hugging her family first, then members of her team nearby.

She officially made history, not once but twice. Last year she made history as the first black British woman to win for best supporting actress in a film. Now she's done it twice, back to back, which hadn't been done before.

Wunmi made her way toward the stage while applause filled the venue. She reached the microphone and took a small breath first. Michael noticed that breath. It was the same one she took when she was trying not to get emotional.

Then she started speaking and just like always she was incredibly graceful, humble, and warm. She thanked her castmates and crew, her team, her family, and her friends. Michael smiled bigger hearing how intentionally she spoke. How she was filled with gratitude with each word.

As soon as her speech ended, Michael was reaching for his phone. He wanted to call her and just tell her how proud of her he was. But his publicist cut in fast.

“We got to go right now. We're late.”

Michael looked up annoyed. He glanced back at the TV reluctantly while Wunmi walked offstage still smiling. 

The next day, Wunmi landed back in Los Angeles a little after two in the afternoon. And she was completely exhausted.

The last few weeks had been nonstop between interviews, fittings, flights, award shows, events, and barely sleeping in between any of it. But underneath all the exhaustion she was happy.

She stepped through the private terminal doors and spotted him waiting there in a hoodie and sunglasses.

The moment she got close enough, he grabbed her face gently and kissed her hard before she could even fully greet him. Wunmi laughed into the kiss from surprise.

“Hi to you too.”

“I missed you,” he muttered against her lips before kissing her again.

Wunmi smiled tiredly, “I can tell.”

Michael took her bags from her team, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and guided her toward the parking area. He opened the passenger door for her once they reached the SUV, helping her inside before loading all of her bags. By the time he climbed into the driver’s seat, Wunmi looked halfway asleep. He leaned across the console and kissed her softly one more time.

Wunmi smiled softly against his lips.

“You happy now?”

“Mhm,” Michael grabbed her hand, kissing the back of it. “How do you feel?” 

He started up the car while Wunmi leaned back into her seat with a tired sigh.

“I'm glad I’m home with you.”

Michael smiled and squeezed her hand. He pulled the car away from the curb and got on the road. As traffic moved slowly, Michael glanced over at her every once in a while to check on her. She still looked beautiful even while she was exhausted.

“I'm so proud of you,” Michael said quietly after a while.

"Thank you, baby," Wunmi looked over sleepily with the tiniest smile on her face. 

"Back to back is crazy," Michael kissed her knuckles again.

Wunmi just laughed softly.

After a moment Michael glanced over again.

“How the dress coming?”

“Good. It's almost done.”

“I really can't believe you making your own wedding dress,” Michael shook his head in disbelief.

"It's what I always wanted to do," Wunmi shrugged tiredly.

A few minutes later, her responses started slowing down, her head leaned heavier against the seat, and eyes blinked slower. Michael noticed, so he lowered the volume of the music and stopped talking altogether so she could sleep. 

But right as the silence settled in the car Wunmi’s sleepy voice mumbled, “You can keep talking. I can still talk and listen.”

Michael glanced over to see her eyes were barely open. He laughed quietly to himself while rubbing his thumb across her hand.

“Go to sleep, babe.”

Wunmi made a soft sound of protest but was drifting off anyway. Within another minute, she was fully asleep in the passenger seat.

The rest of the drive home was quiet. 

He pulled into the garage and turned the car off. He looked over at his fiancée. She hadn’t moved in the last twenty minutes of the drive. Her cheek was pressed against the headrest, lips slightly parted, hand still loosely wrapped around his. 

He carefully slipped his hand from hers and got out of the car. The garage door rumbled shut behind him while he quietly grabbed all of her luggage, carrying everything inside then coming back out for her.

Michael opened the passenger door to see that Wunmi hadn’t moved at all. He leaned in and carefully unbuckled her seatbelt so he wouldn’t wake her. He slid one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back then he lifted her out bridal style.

The movement of it made Wunmi stir a bit. She sleepily threw her arms around his shooulders.

He carried her into the house, making sure not to bump her against anything while kicking the door shut behind him. Then headed upstairs where he laid her down on the bed. He crouched down to pull her shoes off, then started changing her out of her clothes replacing her travel attire with t-shirt and sleep shorts. 

He pulled the throw blankets over her and leaned down to kiss her forehead. After that he decided to leave her alone to rest while he did some things around the house.

For two hours, Michael answered emails, phone calls, and looked at updates from the wedding planner. He even started to make food for later because he knew that Wunmi was going to be hungry when she woke up.

When the two and a half hour mark hit, Michael was sitting at the kitchen island going through wedding documents on his iPad when he heard footsteps moving around. A few seconds later, Wunmi appeared at the top of the staircase.

"What time is it?" She rubbed one eye while walking down the stairs slowly.

Michael checked the clock, “Almost meeting time.”

He laughed as Wunmi groaned. He held his hand out toward her, waiting for her to get closer. She walked into his space, leaning against him while he wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Did you sleep good?” he asked softly.

She nodded against him, "Mhm."

"Good," he kissed her arm.

Wunmi glanced toward the kitchen counter seeing all the wedding folders and notes spread out. She let out a dramatic sigh and reached for his coffee mug to take a sip.

He watched her carefully, “You ready?”

“No,” she answered honestly.

“Well too bad, the meeting starts in five minutes,” Michael grinned.

Wunmi settled into the chair beside him while he adjusted the laptop on the kitchen island. He rested one arm across the back of her chair while they waited for the zoom to connect. A second later their wedding planner popped up onto the screen smiling brightly.

“Hello to my favorite clients!”

“Don't give us the same compliment you give to everyone else,” Wunmi laughed softly.

“I'm not!” the planner said. “Most couples stress me out. You two don't.”

The planner jumped right into business after that, pulling up documents to explain updates.

“Overall everything is moving very smoothly. There’s just one issue.”

Michael’s face went tight, “What's the issue?”

“The venue is still giving us pushback about outside catering. They’re insisting on using their in-house chef team, but considering the type of menu you want and the guest list…” she trailed off knowingly.

Michael leaned back in his chair, "But we already told them in the beginning that we wanted our own people."

“I know,” the planner agreed quickly. “I’m handling it. I just wanted to keep you both updated.”

Wunmi rubbed lightly at her forehead, “That’s so annoying.”

“It’ll get fixed. And it shouldn't take too long. Everything will be situated before final confirmation with the caterer, I promise,”the planner reassured. “But enough about that. Let me show you the updated ceremony mockup.”

The rendering of the ceremony setup filled the laptop screen beautifully. Large white flowers were used as the arch portion, a white runway was the aisle with white flowers running alongside it. Dozens of comfortable white and black circular chairs lined both sides of the aisle. All together everything looked extremely romantic and bright.

"Oh wow," Wunmi gasped quietly the second she saw it.

Michael went completely silent beside her, because suddenly it all felt real. They were actually getting married. In a few months, Wunmi would be walking down that aisle toward him becoming his wife. He swallowed hard unexpectedly while staring at the screen. The planner kept talking excitedly about floral placement and lighting concepts, but Michael barely heard her.

His eyes stayed fixed on the mockup while emotions hit him all at once. The thought of standing there waiting for Wunmi, seeing her in her dress, hearing their vows, and officially starting their life together. It got him bad enough that his eyes started glossing slightly.Michael blinked quickly, cleared his throat, and leaned back. 

The rest of the meeting moved pretty quickly after that. They just finalized a few details like timing, transportation, and rehearsal dinner logistics. After a few final goodbyes, the Zoom call ended and the laptop screen went dark.

Wunmi pushed herself out of her chair standing right in front of him. He automatically spread his legs so she could stand in between them. She leaned down and kissed him softly as her hand found her waist.

“I’m really excited.”

“Yeah?” Michael looked up at her while rubbing her hips.

“Everything looked so good,”she said.

He wrapped both arms fully around her waist and pulled her closer until she was nearly sitting in his lap.

“I’m glad I met my soulmate,” he said quietly.

The sincerity in his voice made Wunmi’s smile soften. She brushed her fingers lightly along the side of his face.

“I’m glad too.”

Michael tilted his head slightly into her touch before kissing her again.

Mid-Feburary 2027

The last few weeks had honestly spoiled Michael because ever since Wunmi had come back from London, they had barely spent any time apart. If he was home, she was there. If she had fittings or meetings, he somehow found a reason to be nearby.

So naturally, when the SAG Awards rolled around, Michael suggested they just get ready together.

Wunmi’s team had practically taken over the entire suite. Garment bags were hung up and makeup and hair products took up most of the table space. Soft music was playing throughout the suite as women talked and moved around the space.

Michael kept abandoning his own glam process to hover around Wunmi on her side of the suite. He had been especially attached lately, but it wasn't like she minded. She was on the last day of her period and had been noticeably emotional and irritated. It wasn't like she was rude, just snappy. And Michael knew not to take any of it personally.

Like earlier that morning when she snapped on him for trying to take her food when he was only reaching over to open her water bottle. She instantly felt bad about it and apologized, but he wasn't phased by her attitude. He just kept going asking her if she needed anything and doing things even when she said she didn't.

It didn't take much longer for the both of them to be ready. Wunmi wore a sparkling burnt orange gown long sleeves and soft draping that hugged her waist. A deep slit ran up her side, exposing her glowing, oiled-up leg. Her hair in a long ponytail with a bang that slightly covered her right eye.

Michael wore a black double-breasted suit with a black button up underneath. He paired with his David Yurman bracelets and chain. He also had on a black band watch she had just gifted him for his birthday.

He walked closer to her, his hands lightly gripping her waist. He leaned down and softly kissed her despite hearing her makeup artist scold him. He ignored her and continued on. 

"You look gorgeous," he said while pulling back.

"Thank you. I love the all-black look on you," Wunmi ran her hand down his arms. "And you're starting to fill out your suits more now."

He hummed feeling her hand go from his arms to his chest. He was becoming a little more solid like he had been during the filming of Sinners. She loved the feeling of the weight of his body on hers.

Someone called that it was time for them to leave. They pulled away from each other. Michael moved to make sure she had everything like her phone and lipgloss. 

Downstairs, their SUVs waited outside the side entrance away from all of the people and potential cameras.

Michael opened Wunmi’s car door, carefully helping her inside so her dress wouldn’t catch on anything. He leaned in briefly to place her bag beside her.

“You comfortable?”

“Yes daddy,” she teased softly.

"Watch yourself," Michael smirked. He gave her one more kiss, brushing his thumb across her cheek.

"I'll see you there, okay? I love you."

"Okay. I love you too," Wunmi nodded softly.

Michael finally closed the car door and stepped back. He tapped the side of the SUV and watched as the car pulled off. He got into his own car once Wunmi's was out of his sight.

It wasn't long before the car pulled up to the venue. His door opened and camera flashes went off like crazy. He stepped out of the car looking good. 

Michael gave a few quick smiles and waves to the screaming people before starting down the carpet at an easy pace. He posed for photos and stopped at different press platforms to answer all of the usual questions. He made his way to his last interview of the night.

“You look very happy tonight.”

“I am.”

“We love to hear it. Now tell me, who are you rooting for tonight?”

“I mean, I know a lot of people here,” he answered honestly. “There's so many people I'm rooting for honestly.A lot of peers, old castmates, friends. Like I just saw that Wunmi was here.”

“She’s having an incredible season.”

“She is,” Michael agreed instantly. “I’m really proud of her.”

They talked a little more about the movie, where he answered the same re-packaged question. But then the conversation made a small shift.

“So, how's the fiancée?” the interviewer said grinning slyly.

Michael’s face changed instantly at the mention of her.

Softer.

Warmer.

“She's good. Very busy and tired, but good,” he answered with a softened smile. 

“Is she here tonight?”

“She’s…” he paused slightly again before smirking, “…around. That’s all y’all getting.”

After finishing the interview, his team guided him inside. The ballroom inside buzzed with conversation as people moving between tables. He followed his team toward his seat. Unfortunately, his table sat on the opposite side of the room from Wunmi’s.

Once he sat down, he pulled out his phone, fingers moving quickly across he screen. 

i'm proud of you no matter what. good luck baby. i love you.

The response was almost immediate as if she had been waiting for him to text her.

Thank you, my love. I love you too.

The show moved along pretty quickly once everyone got seated. Michael surprisingly stayed engaged through most of it too. Usually award shows dragged after a while, especially this deep into the season when everybody was tired and over traveling, but tonight it just flowed.

Every few minutes his eyes wandered across the ballroom to Wunmi's table. Even from that far away he could still spot the bright orange shimmer of her dress instantly. He would smile to miself every time he caught a glimpse of her laughing or talking to someone.

The closer it got to Wunmi's category, Michael started to fidget more. He rubbed his hands together often as presenters walked onto the stage. And when his eyes would scan the room, he noticed Wunmi's body language. Even though she said she wasn't nervous, he could tell that she was. He knew her too well not to know. 

Finally, the category came up. Michael's body went still as the presenter walked on stage. They did the intro speech and clips played across the screen. Each time he saw Wunmi's face on the big screen, he felt pride swell up in his chest.

Then the presenter opened the envelope.

“And the Actor goes to…” there was a pause as the presenter opened the envelope. "…Wunmi Mosaku."

The ballroom exploded in applause and cheers. People stood up clapping and eyeing her. Michael was on his feet before he even knew it. The excitement on his face was undeniable as he clapped and shouted so loudly over the noise.

Across the room, Wunmi looked genuinely stunned. Her hands flew toward her chest while the people around her grabbed onto her to hug and congratulate her. She genuinely looked overwhelmed. Her eyes were glossy and she was shaking her head as she looked at everyone. She slowly started to make her way to the stage.

Michael instinctively started moving forward as if he was going to go up to her. Then he realized how far apart their tables actually were. He was too far away to do something without it looking suspicious. All he could do was stand across the room and watch her with a proud smile on his face. Then he realized how far apart their tables actually were.

Wunmi reached the stage still looking absolutely overwhelmed. She received the award and stood in front of the microphone all while the applause kept going. She took a deep breath trying to get herself together. 

She laughed softly under her breath almost nervously before finally leaning toward the microphone.

“I…did not expect this," and you could hear it in her voice.

Wunmi took another breath before continuing. She thanked her peers for voting for her, theen her castmates, her director, the crew, and everyone who helped to shape her performance. She was genuine and felt incredibly humble at this win, and everyone could tell by the way she breathed between her small stumbles in speech. But that all became slightly steadier and softer as she thanked her family and friends for supporting her. 

And Michael couldn’t stop smiling watching her. On hand briefly rubbed across his mouth to try to rid it of the wide smile he wore. Luckily the cameras weren't in his direction, becaus ehe was sure everything would be given away by his facil expression.

One hand rubbed briefly across his mouth while the people at his table started looking at him knowingly again.

“Thank you for this,” Wunmi said sincerely while lifting the award slightly. 

The room erupted into applause again as she walked offstage looking dazed by the entire ordeal.

Eventually, the show wrapped and people started moving around freely. Michael slipped away from his table and found Wunmi in a quiet area of the large space surrounded by members of her team. Her whole body did a sigh the moment she saw him.

Michael walked straight to her, wrapping both of his arms around her so tightly. He pulled her against him so their chests were pressed together. 

“I can’t believe that just happened,” she said as she melted into him.

“Belive it, baby. It's more to come,” Michael pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands firm around her waist.

Her eyes watered as he kissed one of her cheeks, then the other one.

After seeing his woman, Michael was now in the best of moods and everyone around him could see it. Normally, before an interview he was calm and focused while his team prepped. But today he was actually excited.

He had been trying to get on this podcast for months. He'd seen several celebrities that he knew go on and have the time of their lives. He could see how much they actually trusted the hosts and opened up to them. The hosts had a reputation for getting people comfortable enough to loosen up and let go without being overbearing. 

Part of that came from their background with the Playhouse. The Playhouse was this massive performance platform where dancer and creatives got to build careers and relationships with celebrities. Because of that the hosts interacted with famous people in a way others wouldn't. With their journalism backgrounds and connections to the industry, they knew how to navigate even the messiest of conversations.

Michael had watched enough of their episodes to know what he was walking into and he was actually excited. Maybe that also had something to do with Wunmi coming along. She was sitting next to him in a flowy black black dress not really paying attention to much besides her phone.

After another twenty minutes or so, the car finally pulled up outside the podcast studio. When they went inside, the studio had a warm cozy feeling to it. It didn't feel like the normal minimalist set-ups that most podcast studio had. 

The small production team greeted them with warm smiles and waves. They led them deeper into the studio space where the three hosts were waiting. 

Alexis approached him first. She had light caramel-colored skin, stood around 5'4, with thick curves. Sasha followed behind. She was 5'8, slim build, with deep skin. Malcolm was last with light skin, 6'1 height, and long locs.

They all individually introduced themselves to Michael, greeting him with hugs. He reached his hand back to pull Wunmi up from slightly behind him. She smiled at the group.

“This is my fiancée, Wunmi.”

Sasha and Alexis gasped at Michael's statement.

"Oh my gosh, girl. I love you so much," Alexis's face lit up in absolute excitement.

"Yes, like we've been following you since Lovecraft Country!" A smirk took over Sasha's face. "Now ownder the chemistry was like that in Sinners."

Both Wunmi and Michael chuckled at that. 

"I love this for y'all. Congratulations," Alexis smiled as she spoke.

"Thank you so much," Wunmi replied. 

“Can we see the ring?”

Wunmi nodded her head and held her left hand up for them to see. The diamonds sparkled beautifully under the studio lights. The two women crowded around her hand with impresed expressions on their faces.

“That is gorgeous,” Alexis said seriously.

“You spent some money on that. I know that's right,” Sasha added.

"I did, but she deserves it," Michael said proudly.

They eased into conversation, everyone trying to get comfortable with each other. It didn't take long for the conversation to flow between them. Eventually, production finished setting everything up so everyone moved to the set.

The hosts and Michael sat in the four chairs that were set up in a semi-circle. The microphones were behind the chairs, angling in fornt of the chairs. Wunmi settled onto the couch that was just off-camera.

Michael looked over at her almost as soon as she sat down.

“You good?”

"I'm okay," Wunmi nodded.

A producer started counting down behind the cameras and everybody settled into place. The countdown finished and they jumped right into it.

"Welcome back into the world of the Playhouse. I'm one of your hosts, Alexis."

"Malcolm."

"And I'm Sasha. And today we have a very special and highly requested guest. None other than Academy Award winning, Michael B. Jordan."

“Highly requested?” Michael's eyebrows lifted at that.

“Yes sir. After our interview with Aaron Pierre, everybody's been begging for you." 

“Well I appreciate the love then. I'm grateful to be here for real,” Michael said genuinely while adjusting in his chair. He actually looked pretty relaxed and comfortable sitting there.

“So we like to start by asking our guests how they're really doing," Sasha stated.

Michael exhaled dramatically.

“Busy,” Michael exhaled. "I've just been trying not to stress myself out too much with everything going on."

Everybody laughed instantly.

“That makes sense becuase you're having a crazy year right now,” Alexis said. "I mean we're hearing about project after project that you're either producing or directing, press for this new movie, and wedding planning. That's just too much."

"Yeah, it's a lot, but I'm happy though," Michael rubbed his chin while nodding his head.

"Okay let's get right into it. We like to ask our guests three questions that will let us in a little bit more. We got one for the mind, one for the body, and one for the soul."

"Let's do it," Michael stated enthusiastically.

“A question for the mind,” Sasha looked down at her card. "What's something new you learned this week? It can either be what you learned about yourself or something new you learned in general."

Michael hummed thoughtfully for a second before saying, “That I actually don’t like being away from home this much. I used to be way better at constantly moving around and traveling. But lately, I been wanting to sit still and slow down more.”

"Well, you know that's what comes with getting to that settling down phase in your life."

"And I'm ready for it. Truly."

"On to a question for the soul," Sasha switched to the next question on the card. "What's something you're proud of about yourself this week?"

“Honestly, I'm proud of myself for really locking in and focusing. When I said I learned how to slow down, it was because I did focus on certain things more. I'll have more time to spend with my family coming up soon.”

“A question for the body. This one's gonna get us a good start into the rest of the episode.What's your position of the week?"

"Man, y'all ain't wasting no time, huh?" Michael dropped his head down as he picked at his pants.

“Aye, I'm sure you watched some of our episodes before. We get started early,” Malcolm said.

Michael lifted his head, chuckling while trying to think of an answer. And truthfully, they acually hadn't been having much sex lately. Wunmi had been on her period most of the week, and they'd been too busy and tired before then. But outside of that, his mind went to a place so specific. He loved how Wunmi felt on top of him. The eye contact they would have and the feel of her thick thighs straddling him. He couldn't get enough.

Michael rubbed his jaw trying to compose himself, then he muttered, "Her on top, probably."

“I know that's right! Baby, you better ride that man,” Alexis said dramatically as she glanced over at Wunmi.

Even though he said it, Michael instantly got flustered shaking his head. His eyes slid to Wunmi too and she looked a little flustered as well. She was awkwardly smiling while staring off to the side.

“Be glad, because riding is a lot of work.”

“Yeah, it is,” Wunmi called out from the couch across the room making everybody laugh. The producers knew they would have to make sure her voice would be edited out in the final piece.

"Nah, every time a woman say she wanna ride, two minutes later she tired," Malcolm said looking completely unconvinced.

"That is not true," Alexis looked offended.

"It is true," Malcolm shrugged lazily. "And then as soon as I take over now she all mad talking 'bout 'I was doing fine.' No you wasn't"

Everybody laughed at the way Malcolm had said it.

"But then y'all start doing too much," Alexis countered. 

"She's right," Michael nodded.

"Come on man. How you gone do me like that?" Malcolm looked over at him betrayed.

“Thank you! Men always think harder means better,” Alexis said.

“Not always. But I do agree riding takes a lot of work. Them thighs gotta be strong," Michael leaned back in his chair.

Right then, the bartender appeared behind the setup carrying a tray of shots.

“It's shot o'clock,” she announced.

"What's that?" Michael’s eyebrows lifted.

"We do a few rounds every episode. Of course, you don't have to do all of them, but KJ does a good job at not making them strong," Sasha explained.

"KJ why don't you explain this for us," Alexis stated.

The bartender started placing glasses down one by one in front of everybody, including Wunmi.

"This shot is called the Bartender's Wet Dream. It's supposed to be this sweet and creamy drink. There's grenadine, Irish cream, you could do any coffee liquer but I used Kahlua, and a bit of whip cream on top," The bartender smiled proudly. 

Everybody lifted their glasses and cheersed as they clinked them together. They threw them back and Michael blinked hard at the strong taste of it. 

“It's time for our next segment that we like to call the Kinky Corner. We'll ask you a few rapid fire questions that you have toanswer without thinking too hard of them."

"Let's go," michael rubbed his hands together trying to get himself ready for these sets of questions.

“Lights on or off?”

“On,” Michael answered almost instantly. "I gotta see all that."

“Music or no music?”

“It depends. Sometimes we don’t even got time for music. Just get straight to business.”

“What’s the go to playlist?” Sasha asked as a follow up.

“90s R&B.”

"Exactly. I need smooth and something we can grind to."

"Nah, sometimes that shit be too slow," Malcolm shook his head.

“See Malcolm like that hard nigga shit,” Alexis joked.

"And what? They got something for every moment and don't act like y'all don't like it too."

The questions kept coming. Morning or night. Slow or rough. Favorite place to kiss. And despite the explicit and slightly invasive questions, Michael felt comfortable enough to answer them all while still keeping certain details to himself. He was completely relaxed.

The jokes and conversation toned down to something a little more serious. The conversation had taken a natural turn.

“I actually wanna ask you something real,” Alexis set up.

"What's up?" Michael nodded.

“How does it honestly feel being considered like everybody’s fantasy man?” Michael chuckled under his brethren, but Alexis kept going. “No seriously. Because you’ve been considered attractive basically your whole career, but especially these last few years. It’s become this huge consistent thing. And people are genuinely obsessed with you.”

“Yeah, I see it all,”

“But does that put pressure on you to act a certain way? Or do people expect you to treat women adn relationships a certain way. I know you're getting married now, but has this been a thing for you?" 

Michael seriously thought about the question. He rubbed his hand across his jaw as he thought about it.

“At this point. I'm kind of used to it,” he admitted honestly. "I don't let it affect me personally, but I've had issues in past relationships because of it. And it wasn't because the women I was with were insecure or anything like that. A lot of times it was more about how tht public interacted with me and by extension with them. That's honestly part of why I was so intentional with making sure this relationship was so private. My fiancée was never and is never insecure abit where she stands with me."

“Do you think some of it comes from fans though? Because I’ve seen how parasocial both women and men can get with celebrities they find attractive.”

Michael wanted to gather his thoughts properly on this part. He knew exactly what she was talking about, but he also very clearly didn't want to disrespect his supporters either. Especially since he had so many women who loved him.

“I love my fans and I appreciate all the love they've shown me,” he started honestly, but paused. “But I do think there’s certain lines that shouldn’t be crossed sometimes. And for me those lines get crossed a lot.”

“Like the woman that asked you to sign her birth control?” Sasha asked.

“Yeah, that did happen," Michael dropped his head while shaking it slightly in disbelief. "I ain't even know what to do really."

Across the room, Wunmi tilted her head slightly before subtly rolling her eyes. She remembered Michael telling her when it happened and then seeing the video. Women really did lose their minds over him and her man was far too nice and charming to push them away.

“But I get it though. Women be weird with me too and I barely even post online,” Malcolm stated.

“Nobody asked you Malcolm,” Alexis butted in.

“And Imma still talk,” Malcolm slid in. “But people project fantasies onto you when they attracted to you.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” Michael agreed.

The conversation went on with them talking about how people reduced attractive celebrities down to just being fine, and how easy it was for them to forget that they were actual people. They spoke about social media changing people's access to celebrities and how it made fans feel more entitled to them. Michael admitted that sometimes it did get exhausting to be viewed that way.

“Especially when you're in a serious relationship, because it's not affecting just you,” he added. "It affects the person you love too."

“Well from the outside looking in I will say that I love the direction you've taken with your relationship. Knowing who it is and how y'all move individually, it all makes sense.”

But before they could continue talking, KJ walked over carrying a tray of drinks.

“For this next round I made everyone personalized drinks, so no one has the same," she said while moving to hand each person their drink.

"I know there was just this conversation about being so sexualized in this time, but I had to. For Michael I have a liquid panty dropper," Michael smirked and shook his head as he took the drink. "There's half an ounce of vodka, half an ounce of gin, half an ounce of coconut rum, half an ounce of peach schnapps, a quarter ounce of triple sec, pineapple juice and orange juice."

Michael drank a sip and hummed at the taste. It was actually pretty good and not too fruity like he expected.

Alexis's kinky blow pop drink was an all pink drink with a pink sugar rim, and an actual blow pop inside. Malcolm's dark liquor heavy cocktail was called the booty clap. Sasha's drink was a regular sex on the beach. And even Wunmi got one, a Love Potion Number 69. It had tequila, triple sec, grenadine, pomegranate juice, orange juice, and lime juice.

Then they all settled back into place sipping their drinks and easign right back into conversation.

"Sasha and I were talking about some of you're characters and their relationships, and we realized that a few of them are very toxic with their relationships with women. Like Killmonger, Smoke and Stack," Sasha stated.

"They're not weird toxic though," Alexis stated. "They're just dominant and aggressive. But to me that's mostly for Smoke and Stack because didn't Killmonger kill his girlfriend?"

"Yeah, but it was more to it," Michael responded.

"Sinners really just showed me that women like that kinda shit," Malcolm added.

“Yes, but to a certain extent. Like you can flip me over and choke me a little bit, but you still need to make me breakfast in the morning. Rub my feet, open my doors, and be sweet to me in public. There has to be a balance and that's bare minimum," Alexis added on.

"I think that's why I gravitated to Smoke more," Sasha spoke up. " He was all big man strong man, but when he came down to Annie, he practically melted. He was so soft, yet so rough."

"I will say when filming all of that between Smoke and Annie came out so naturally," Michael said.

"I bet," Sasha smirked as her eyes flicked to Wunmi on the couch. Michael chuckled while Wunmi just smiled.

"And then my question is, I'm sure plenty of people have asked you this, but which twin do you feel you're more connected to?"

"Definitely Smoke. Especially right now in my life. I do try to be softer with my woman, but sometimes she brings that dog outta me," everybody laughed at that.

"Aye I get it, 'cause you got to put that foot down when she being a brat," Malcolm calmly said.

Michael simply nodded his head, but that seemed to set something off. Wunmi let out an offended scoff from her position on the couch. Her legs and arms were crossed as she stared right through him.

"You good?" Michael tilted his head as he recognized the look on his woman's face.

"I'm fine, Michael."

"Yeah, okay," Michael smirked and scoffed as he lifted up his drink to take a sip.

The conversaton continued as they turned to talk about relationships and settling down. What it meant to grow as a person and to allow someone to go on that journey with you. Eventually they somehow ended back on the subject of intimacy and their preferences.

"So how do you feel about women, your woman, calling you daddy?" Alexis asked.

“I mean I don’t necessarily force it but it happens,” Michael shrugged his shoulders. "And I honestly think it depends on the woman. I think for me and mine it's more about trust than the actual word. My fiancée's a very strong, independent, and confident woman. She doesn't need me or any man to survive or take care of her. She's going ot be who she is regardless. And that's one of the things i love about her. So when she calls me that, it's not really about the word itself, it's showing trust and vulnerability. Especially coming from somebody who doesn't give that up so easily, I don't take it lightly."

"I just love how you talk about her and your relationship. It just shows you really love her," Sasha gushed.

"I got to, that's my baby."

They cooed as their eyes went from Michael to Wunmi who was sitting with a flustered adorable smile on her face.

"And it's not like you talk about just your fiancée with respect. You talk that way about women in general and I truly admire that. A lot of men in the industry don't do that even though it's the bare minimum," Alexis added.

"I think being a 'good man' should exist outside of relationships. A woman shouldn't have to teach you basic respect. A lot of men wait until they meet the 'right woman' to become a better man and that's not fair to her. Being considered a good man shouldn't depend on who you're with," Michael cleared his throat. "A woman can inspire growth, sure. She can encourage and support you, but it's not her job to teach you things you should alreayd be working towards on your own. At the end of the day I want our relationship to feel safe for both of us."

The conversation completely shifted away from sex and relationships after that. They started to talk about the usual things he had been discussing during this press run. Like how it felt to direct and act while producing other projects. He talked about producing for young filmmakers, wanting to create more inclusive opportunities with his production company.

“Alright before we wrap this up we have to know. It's been a year since the audio leak, and we know you're engaged now so we're not trying to be disrespectful. But who was it?”

"Was it your fiancée?"

Michael looked at Wunmi who was staring right back at him. She had the straw of her drink in her mouth as they communicated with no words. She gave him a nod as a signal for him to go ahead.

He blushed a little as laughed quietly, "Of course. Who else was it gonna be?"

End of February, 2027

It was premiere day and the house was in absolute chaos. People from both teams were moving around carrying garment bags, makeup palettes, and shoes. It was a nonstop rush of movement.

Michael and Wunmi were somehow supposed to be calm. Even though today was the day they would reveal their relationship to the world. There would be no more hiding or vague wording after tonight.

Wunmi stood in front of the mirror while her hairstylist made sure her braided buns where pinned properly. The white dress hugged her body perfectly, draping around her frame like silk wrapped by hand. One shoulder stayed bare while the fabric gathered and fell dramatically over the other side of her body. It was elegant and sexy. A point was being made with the color and style, showing something bridal without actually being a bridal dress.

Michael stood in the doorway almost completely dressed, watching her through the mirror in silence.

The black suit he wore was tailored to perfection. With a simple dark button down underneath and a black tie, all he needed was his long black jacket that would complete his look. 

There was an intentional contrast between them with Michael wearing all dark colors and Wunmi wearing pure white. And while they looked absolutely amazing separately, they looked sexy as hell together.

"Stop coming in here to stare at me. You're making everybody nervous," Wunmi smiled softly to herself while adjusting one of her bracelets.

“I’m nervous though,” he admitted honestly.

That made her turn around to really look at him.

He slowly walked into the room. His eyes focused in on only her despite the people moving around her. He ignored everyone stopping directly behind her. 

She smiled at him, trying not to move too much as her hairstylist finally finished and stepped away.

Michael's eyes softened the longer he stared at her. He leaned down a placed a gentle kiss to her exposed shoulder. Wunmi's left hand lifted up to rub the side of his head, her ring glistening in the light.

“We both know that I'm nervous, but are you okay?"

"I think so," she nodded slowly.

He let out a relaxed hum just before someone called out that it was time for them to leave. He kissed her forehead, making sure he wouldn't mess up anything. He walked her downstairs with his hand pressed against har back. 

When they got outside, the chaos followed as their teams both crowded the driveway. Michael opened the door to the backseat for her. He gathered the white fabric of her dress in his hands so she could step inside without snagging on anything.

Once she was settled in her seat, Michael leaned down to try to kiss her. She stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“I have lip gloss on,” she reminded quietly.

"I don't car about that damn lip gloss," Michael rolled his eyes a little.

She laughed and grabbed at his tie giving him a quick kiss anyway. He looked at her for an extra second then shut the car door. He watched the car drive away and disappear down the street. Then his own car pulled up. He slipped inside. 

A while later the car pulled up to the premiere and the energy was unbelievable. Fans and press lined up along the carpet screaming and shouting excitedly to see their favorite celebrities. Famous people walked the carpet, stopping to take pictures for the photographers that were frantically calling their names. 

The setup was massive for the premiere. Michael's name was giant lettering across the back wall, along with the title of the movie in white letters. The carpet was black with elegant gold lighting that perfectly matched the film's aesthetic.

As he stepped out of the car, it was like the whole area lost their minds. All he could hear was screaming as he put one foot in front of the other. A big, easy, and confident smile took over his face. He waved at the fans as he properly stepped onto the carpet for pictures. He took his solo pictures, playing into the excitement while still maintaining his professionalism and charm. 

Then when the interviews came, he could barely contain his own happiness. And the interviewers could tell. One interviewer even called him out on it by asking how he was feeling tonight.

"Man…I'm very excited. Tonight's a big night for me."

After his solo press, the cast joined him for group pictures. Adria hugged him tight while photographers yelled for them to pose together. Danai soon joined after and they stood together posing for the camera. Some others from the cast joined them and they all took group pictures, and split off to do a few group interviews. 

Michael tried to stay mostly engaged, but his attention kept drifting. Eventually, after finishing an interview with Adria, he looked to the side where his publicist stood. She caught his eye and gave him a small nod. His face instantly lit up at the confirmation.

Wunmi's car pulled up to the edge of the carpet, and Michael practically floated across the carpet with how smooth and fast he made his way to the other side. He reached the backseat door before security even thought about moving. 

As he opened the door, it seemed that everyone on the carpet was holding their breath. Maybe today would be the day, and they were all excited to see who this mystery woman was.

Wunmi placed her hand in his while flashes went off around them since photographers wanted to capture the moment she stepped out. 

Michael steadied her while she stepped out, making sure the white fabric of her dress didn’t catch underneath her heels. The draped material flowed against her glowing skin. He instinctively shifted his body in front of hers to create a small barrier between her and the chaos of people.

“You ready baby?” He asked lowly enough only she could hear.

"Yes, I'm ready," Wunmi smiled at him.

He held his arm out for her and she wrapped her hand around it. There was a natural ease between them that couldn't be manufactured. 

They slowly started down the carpet together while cameras flashed and people screamed their names. Some people were confused while others were just excitedly screaming. Michael made sure to keep up with her steps, wanting to be as close to her as he could get.

They started posing for pictures , sticking with simple side by side poses withe Michael's arm around her waist. When they heard the voice of one photographer asking to see the ring, they couple smiled at each other. Wunmi rested her left hand against Michael's chest while they posed. The ring sparkled gorgeously under the lights.

Michael looked down at her hand and grinned. Then grabbed the hand and kissed it. Wunmi laughed softly, her cheeks warming a little while he pressed another kiss against her cheek afterward.

After a while Michael stepped aside enough for her to do some solo shots. He stood with his arms folded watching her with a crazy amount of joy on his face while she posed for the cameras.

Eventually they were guided toward the handpicked interview spots. The first interviewer looked genuinely stunned.

“Well, can I just say congratulations to you both! This was genuinely a big surprise for us all,” both of them laughed. Michael rubbed his thumb against Wunmi’s waist absentmindedly while the interviewer tried to regain composure.

"No wonder why the chemistry from Sinners was a little too good."

They smiled at each other before Wunmi decided to respond, “I think as actors it’s our job to create believable chemistry with whoever we’re working with. But I think what surprised both of us was the real connection we built while filming and afterward.”

Michael barely paid very little attention to the interviewer as he stared at her, completely locked in on the way she spoke.

“So when’s the wedding?”

Michael and Wunmi looked at each other briefly before Wunmi said, “Soon.”

“That’s all y’all getting tonight,” Michael laughed.

The interview wrapped and Michael thanked the interviewer before guiding Wunmi away with his hand spread against her back. He leaned down and kissed her cheek again while walking.

“I’m really happy you’re here,” he admitted quietly.

"Where else would I be?"

Once they moved inside the theater, things were far calmer. People were chatting and greeting each as attendants helped others to their seats. Michael led them to the reserved section for the cast and some special guests. Not long after getting settled in their seats, the lights dimmed and the room quieted down.

Wunmi didn't quite know what to expect from the movie, but what she did know was that her man was fine. Every time Michael appeared on screen he looked ridiculously good and dangerous and expensive. Between his confidence and his natural charisma that blared through the screen, she didn't know what made her hotter.

Halfway through the movie, Wunmi's hand ended up resting on his thigh. And at first it was innocent light touches and slow rubs as they watched the movie unfold. But the longer the movie went on, the more her touches became distracted and lingering.

And of course Michael noticed. Especially during one particular scene when her nails started lightly dragging against his thigh. He smirked to himself.

By the time the movie was about to end, Wunmi's hand had moved inward like she was looking for something. He calmly reached down, grabbed her hand, and brought it to his mouth for a kiss.

“You okay?” he whispered.

Wunmi just hummed quietly and kept her eyes forward.

That answer made Michael chuckle under his breath because he knew exactly what that meant. He lowered her hand back onto his thigh, but he kept his own hand wrapped firmly over hers.

The movie ended to loud applause throughout the theater. Michael squeezed Wunmi’s hand once before standing along with the rest of the cast. He hugged a few cast members and basked in the praises.

The cast stood at the front for the Q&A portion. Moderators asked questions about filming, their characters, the action scenes, and inspirations. Michael answered each question proudly and passionately.

The Q&A portion finished and everyone was ready to transition to the afterparty portion of the night.

Michael immediately moved back to Wunmi once the lights came up.

He automatically held his hand out for her. She took it and stood, though she stayed closer to him than before, almost tucked into his side. They walked out with the crowd while security cleared pathways around them.

“You wanna go to the afterparty or do you want to go home?” he asked quietly.

“I’ll go with you to the party.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He studied her face briefly then nodded, “Okay.”

After saying goodbye to several people, they walked outside to Michael's waiting car. He opened the car door for her, like usual. He waited until she was fully settled inside before shutting the door. Then he went to the other side of the car and climbed in beside her.

Wunmi slid close the second Michael settled into the backseat, pressing her body flush against his side. The driver glanced at them through the rearview mirror.

"Ready when you are, sir."

"We're ready." The driver nodded and took off.

Michael started to reach for his phone but caught Wunmi shaking her head out of the corner of his eye. She lightly grabbed his jaw, turning his head toward her. 

“You look really good,” she murmured, eyes darkening as she stared at him.

Michael recognized the look, it had been building in her all night. 

“Thanks baby. You look beautiful,” he replied.

He rubbed her thigh, his large palm sliding over the fabric of her dress. She grabbed his hand and pushed it higher up on her leg. 

“Uh huh, what else?”

“I love you so much,” he said quietly, “and I can’t wait to call you my wife.”

She smiled, then leaned in to kiss him, going right for it. Michael allowed the kiss but noticed how heated it became so quickly. Wunmi moaned into his mouth, making him chuckle low against her lips. She tried to reach for his hand and push it under her long dress, but he pulled away with a firm hand on her side. 

He turned toward the driver.

“We're gonna go home instead,” he called.

Wunmi didn’t care about the driver anymore. She ignored him and kept kissing Michael’s cheek, then his neck, her body pressed impossibly close to him. 

The driver nodded and replied that the route back home with this traffic would be about forty-five minutes to an hour. Michael said it was fine, and requested the driver turn the music up. The driver looked in the rearview to see how close Wunmi was and where she was kissing and he turned the volume higher.

Michael reached forward and pressed the button for the partition. The closed divider rose slowly separating the front and the back. As soon as it was up, Wunmi pulled Michael in for another kiss, grabbing his hand to push it up under her dress.

As they continued kissing, Michael's hand went exploring further up her bare thigh to her panties. His fingers pushed past the thin fabric to start playing with her.

Wunmi breathed heavily into his mouth, whimpering as he toyed with her clit and dragged his fingers up and down along her slit. One of her hands gripped his thigh tight, trying to keep herself steady. 

"Did you miss me?" Michael whispered against her lips.

Wunmi bit her lip and nodded, her body hungry for him.

Michael smirked and slipped a single finger inside her, pushing it deep. Wunmi instantly clenched around him. 

"Damn, baby," Michael groaned.

He started fingering her, fingers circling and stroking through her wetness, while they continued kissing. Wunmi moaned in his mouth and subtly rocked back and forth on his hand. He slowly added another finger, then a third when she got used to those two.

He moved his fingers at a steady rhythm. Luckily, the music was loud enough to swallow her moans. Each thrust of his fingers hit her deep, building her up at a good pace. She pulled back from the kiss, panting, and leaned her head against his shoulder, rocking desperately against his hand.

Michael pulled his fingers out slowly and brought them to his mouth, tasting her on his tongue. 

"Lean back," he instructed commandingly.

Wunmi scooted back until her shoulders met the car door, watching him with low heavy eyes. He pushed her dress up, bunching the fabric around her wais. She helped him by lifting her hips so he could slide the material out of the way. He didn't want to mess up his suit, but he needed to taste her.

Her chest rose and fell, staring at him while he settled between her legs. Before he could lower his head, she grabbed his collar and pulled him in for another kiss.

The kiss was nasty and wet until Michael pulled back, breathing ragged. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, then trailed his lips down her neck, tasting skin and perfume. Wunmi’s hands went to his head, pushing it lower to where she needed him the most.

“Michael please,” she gasped while pushing her hips up to him. "I waited too long."

Michael gave in, lowering his head to her center and parted her folds with his tongue. The first flat stroke made her gasp, her fingers grasping for anything. He ate her out with slow, deliberate intent. He lapped at her clit then sucked gently. His tongue traveled down, searching for something and not stopping until he found it. His tongue moved around her in a way that had her lips lifting off of the seat.

Wunmi moaned, one hand went to the back of his head to holding him there, and the other reached blindly for the seat under her. Michael was relentless in trying to build her up quickly to the point that she could hardly breathe. Every flick, lick, and suck sent shockwaves straight to her core.

It didn’t take long for her to come in his mouth, her release flowed on his tongue. Her thighs trembled as she cried out. He licked her clean, savoring every drop, then gave her clit one last slow, lingering suck before pulling away.

He moved up her body and kissed her, letting her taste herself. She moaned into the kiss while her hands went from fumbling with his pants to pushing his coat off his shoulders. She kept going until his suit jacket was off and his shirt was unbuttoned to reveal some chest. 

She pushed him back so he was sitting properly in the seat, then straddled his lap, rocking slowly against the hard length she could feel straining beneath her. She reached between them to free his long and thick from his boxer briefs. When he was out enough, she wrapped her hand around him and gave him a few slow and gentle strokes that pulled groans from his chest.

She kept stroking him, trying to build him up just as much as he'd built her, but it wasn't going to take long. 

"Stop. Let me put in you," he breathed, voice strained while he gently gripped her wrist.

He gave her a couple soft pecks on the lips. After the last one Wunmi lifted herself up, but her dress started to slid down as she moved to properly straddle him. Michael helped by gathering the material and holding it above her hips. 

She shifted her panties to the side, then gently sank down onto him, taking him inch by thick inch. They both moaned at the perfect feel of the stretch. Wunmi kissed him again as she began to ride him with a teasing rhythm. She lifted and lowered herself with such easy control.

"Stop playing and ride my dick right," Michael smacked her ass, the sound echoing but then drowning from the music.

She leaned in close, whispering against his lips, "I can do what I want." 

And she kept going ever so slowly.

“You better quit playing,” he grunted, smacking his teeth in frustration. His hands gripped her plush ass cheeks, fingers digging into the soft jiggly flesh. “Come on, baby.”

She finally gave in, her hips moving at a steadier, determined pace. They both moaned as she bounced on him with purpose.

Wunmi set one hand against the sliver of his bare chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath her palm. The other hand gripped the back of the seat for leverage as she rode him trying to chase her orgasm.

Michael cursed under his breath as she clenched tight around him. Her walls gripped him perfectly with every bounce. His hands slid to the outside of her thighs, holding her steady as she moaned right into his ear.

"Give me some more bounce, baby," he smacked her ass again, loving the way the thick meat vibrated on his knee.

"I'm t-tryin—Fuck," she gasped, picking up the pace just a little. 

Her head fell onto his shoulder as curses and gasps left her mouth each time she dropped down on him.

"This pussy is so damn good. I love you," he said after groaning. He lifted his hips to meet her drops.

Wunmi felt her legs start to tremble and her stomach tightened. She bit her lip trying to hold herself back, completely determined not to let go yet.

"This your dick, right?"

Wunmi nodded just as a moan spilled out.

Michael hummed in approval. His hands slid over her hips, her waist then to the curve of her heavy breasts. At the feel of his hands, Wunmi slowed her rhythm down, enjoying the stretch he was giving her. But Michael didn't miss it.

"Why you slowing down, huh?" he growled, hands tightening on her hips. 

She gasped when he thrust up giving her a sharp, deep stroke that made her eyes roll back. She took the warning for what it was and picked up her pace again. But when she did, her panties started to slid awkwardly to the side, so she reached back, pulling the thin fabric up on her ass cheek so it didn't restrict her movements.

"There you go, show Daddy you can ride," Michael rubbed her ass, then kissed her cheek. 

Wunmi moaned at the kisses, her stomach coiling tighter. She was rigght there and all she could was bite hard into her lower lip.

He noticed the way her fingers were lightly scratching at his chest. 

"You wanna cum?" he asked, voice low.

She shook her head, biting her lip harder, but a needy moan slipped out anyway.

Michael narrowed his eyes, seeing right through her own denial. So he decided to take matters into his own hands. He gripped her ass with one hand and her waist with the other, pulling her tight against him so her large breasts pressed flush against his chest. He planted his feet on the floor of the car, and began thrusting up into her with strokes that made the leather seat groan beneath them.

Wunmi let out a mix of moans. Her voice breaking as a “Shit,” tumbled out of her mouth. her voice breaking with every impact. He kept thrusting, and she whined out, “You’re going to make me cum.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do,” he said, not slowing down.

Wunmi wrapped her arms tight around his neck, her mouth dropping open as pleasure coiled tighter. She suddenly clenched hard around him, making him cuss again, but he didn’t break rhythm.

Her body tensed up and a sharp cry tearing from her throat as she came on him. He didn’t stop thrusting, helping her ride through it. Wunmi was in such a state of shock. Her mind absolutely turned to mush andbody slightly trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm. 

"Put your ass up for me, baby," Michael pulled out of her slowly, his voice low and commanding.

Without hesitation, Wunmi moved into the doggy position, with one leg bent on the backseat and the other was braced on the floor. She arched her back, putting her ass high in the air.

Michael lined up behind her, smacking her ass cheek as he was trying to get settled. She gasped from the sting. He teasingly ran his tip up and down her slit a few times before sliding inside her in one smooth thrust. He rubbed the round flesh, falling into a trance. His hips moved on their own, sliding even further inside.

Wunmi pushed back against him to meet his slow thrusts. The pace started to pick up steadily. It wasn't too slow or too fast. She whimpered out a "Fuck," as her head fell forward onto the seat. One of her hands tightly gripped the seat.

"It's so big," she gasped out when Michael went a little too deep, hitting a spot that made her vision blur for a second. Her mouth dropped open and a raw moan flowed out.

Wunmi could feel her stomach tightening again. It was approaching faster than the first time. She was going to try her hardest to hold on this time. But even through her own restraint she could feel Michael was holding back, trying to prolong both of their orgasms.

"Give me more, Daddy," she whined while looking over shoulder. Her eyes wereglazed over with need.

"You sure, baby?" He raised an eyebrow. 

"Yes," she moaned out.

He gripped her waist hard and started fucking her with deep, quick, punishing strokes that made her cry out loud. The music in the car wasn’t doing a good job of hiding her moans anymore. With every thrust, they spilled out completely unfiltered. 

"You love this dick?"

"Yes, I love it," Wunmi nodded frantically, gasping, 

He kept thrusting feeling the pressure in his own stomach building fast. He groaned through gritted teeth, "You gon' make me come with all this ass bouncing on my shit."

"I want you to come in me, Daddy. Let me have your baby," she moaned out, pushing her hips back to meet him when she felt his dick pulse in her.

"Fuck, baby. I can't come in you. Remember? You're ovulating, mama," Michael grunted, attempting to hold himself back.

"Get me pregnany, baby," Wunmi whined while trying to milk him on purpose by clenching tight around him.

He groaned feeling himself tip over the edge. At the last second, he pulled out of her, making her whine in frustration. He stroked himself fast, his release right there. 

"Open your mouth," he ordered, voice strained.

Wunmi quickly turned around with her mouth open just in time. His come landed thick and warm on her tongue. He groaned her name as she swallowed every drop. 

Michael moved to tuck himself back into his boxer briefs, but Wunmi grabbed his wrist to stop him. She looked up at him, pouting softly, “Why didn’t you just come in me like I asked?”

He chuckled low, leaning in to kiss her forehead. 

“We agreed to wait, baby,” he said gently, pulling her hand away and finishing tucking himself in. 

They both began fixing their clothes. Once they were settled back into the seats, he continued, “You’d be upset if you got pregnant right now. The wedding’s coming up, and it’s summer. You want to deal with that?”

Wunmi pouted more but didn’t argue, her expression shifting to reluctant acceptance. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. 

“Okay,” she murmured after a moment. “I guess I can wait.”

He kissed the top of her head and wrapped an arm around her. 

Day of the Oscar’s, March 13th, 2027

The entire night was surreal from the second Wunmi opened her eyes to stepping on the carpet. This was her second year in a row going through awards season press, but there was something different in the air with this one.

Now she was sitting in the Dolby Theatre, trying not to look like she was seconds from throwing up. Michael could feel the nerves rolling off of her despite how calm she appeared on the outside. Her posture was perfect, smile composed, and she answered interview questions with grace. Nobody else would be able to tell how hard she'd been squeezing his hand all night.

She looked good with her shimmering gold gown, and Michael spent the entire evening making sure any attention was on her. He had been attached to her hip all night. Whenever interviewers tried shifting the topic to their relationship or his work, he redirected it right back to her career. Even on the carpet during pictures, he made sure she had her solo moments, and for their duo pictures he subtly positioned himself behind her or to the side so the photographers naturally centered her.

Now they sat side by side waiting for the category to come up. Wunmi's mother sat a few seats down from them. Michael's thumb rubbed slowly against the back of Wunmi's hand, which did little to actually calm her nerves, but she appreciated it.

The ceremony moved quickly through the host monologue and a few early categories before finally the Best Supporting Actress category was announced. 

Wunmi's fingers tightened painfully around his hand as the presenter announced the nominees. The clips from everyone played on the giant screen and applause followed each performance. When her name was called and her clip played, the applause that followed was a touch louder than the others. Wunmi smiled adorably when the cameras found her.

When the nominees were finished, genuinely couldn't hear anything anymore. Everything sounded distant and muted like she was underwater as the presenter slowly opened the envelope.

“And the Oscar goes to…” The pause felt endless. 

“…Wunmi Mosaku.”

The room instantly burst into applause and everyone stood up excitement. Michael shot up from his own seat so fast that he practically tilted over.

While everyone was crowding around her, Wunmi sat there frozen trying to process what she'd just heard. Her eyes were wide in shock yet glazed over with tears. Michael leaned down and gently grabbed her face.

“Baby, you won.”

That snapped her back into reality. She laughed in absolute disbelief. She was emotional and overwhelmed as she leaned forward to kiss him. 

“I’m so proud of you,” he said.

Wunmi’s mother reached her, pulling her into a tight hug while people around them clapped and congratulated her nonstop. Her castmates stood around cheering her on as well. 

Michael helped her stand, putting a hand on her waist to keep her steady once she stood on her two feet.

“You gotta go up there,” he said smiling widely.

"Oh my God," she laughed shakily.

“You got it, baby."

She moved around trying to figure out where she was going. Everything in her mind was fuzzy and all over the place. She was too emotional to be certain of what she was doing. Michael softly pushed her forward and out into the aisle where people were reaching out and cheering for her. So many people that she admired were congratulating her and she didn't know what to do with herself.

Michael kept one arm around her to lead her to the stage. His hand stayed firm against the small of her back, grounding her. When they approached the stairs, he held her hand to help her up the stairs, not caring about anything but making sure his woman was okay. 

When they reached the final step, Wunmi squeezed his hand then stepped forward on her own. The applause was still going strong as she accepted the award with trembling hands. She looked down at it as if she couldn't believe that it was real. The stage lights shining on her face made her eyes water. 

She stepped in front of the microphone, her chest rising and falling quickly as she tried to steady herself. The room finally started to quiet down for her speech, but an unmistakeable voice penetrated through the last of the claps.

"That's my girl!" 

The sound of Michael's voice caused several people to laugh, including Wunmi herself. A wet laugh came out as tears slipped from her eyes. She shook her head and leaned closer to the mic.

“Wow…I really was not expecting this. I know everybody says that, but I genuinely mean it,” the audience chuckled.

Wunmi inhaled deeply, trying to compose herself. Even overwhelmed, she still carried herself with a thoughtful grace. She first thanked the academy, her castmates and crew, and Aaron Sorkin for putting her in the role. Then she moved on to her family.

“To my mother and my family…thank you for loving me through every version of myself. Thank you for never making me feel like my dreams were too big. Thank you to my team for carrying me through this season because there were days where I fenuinely thought I couldn't do it anymore."

Michael watched from the audience with his chin resting against his fist, eyes glossy. He couldn’t stop smiling. Every time she looked toward the crowd with that happy, grateful smile, his expression somehow softened even more.

Wunmi blinked away tears before continuing.

Her grip tightened around the Oscar.

“And to Michael…I love you. Thank you for being patient with me. Thank you for supporting me through every breakdown and every moment where I doubted myself. You’ve made these last few years feel safe for me. Thank you for always reminding me that I deserve to take up space.”

Michael’s face tense up with emotion as emotion hit him. He nodded his head once, acknowledging her statement to him.

Wunmi let out one final shaky breath and looked down at the award in disbelief, “This is unbelievable. Thank you so much.”

The room erupted in applause again as she stepped away from the microphone. She walked backstage clutching the Oscar tight to her body. PAs guided her through the backstage area trying to lead her back to her seat.

When she got back to the row, Michael was standing there waiting for her. Luckily it was a commercial break, so she had proper time to attempt to digest things. The second she was close enough, he wrapped both arms around her and pulled her into his chest. Wunmi melted into him, letting herself really cry now. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she laughed breathlessly against him.

Michael kissed the side of her head.

“I’m so proud of you, baby. You deserve every single bit of this," Michael whispered.

Wunmi could only nod against him, overwhelmed beyond words. Eventually she pulled back enough for him to help her sit down. She settled into her seat with her Oscar in her lap, staring ahead and trying to process what had just happened. 

Michael sat beside her, unable to stop looking at her. His fiancée was now an Oscar winner.

“So, you know we gotta celebrate right?” he murmured as he leaned in close to her ear.

Wunmi scoffed through her tears and turned to look at him, "It's not going to go like last time."

He chuckled under his breath and reached over to rub her fabric covered thigh.

“Fine, we don't have to record it.”

end notes: got a little lazy with the social media commentary because i didn't feel like thinking too hard on stuff for people to say. also i'm feeling like this whole thing was just a bunch of nothing, but it's okay, the next parts have some action going on. - - - taglist: @lilbitt @lizbehave @andtheniws @tonichildsdaughterduh @cinnamonsonnyangel @shamansha @caramelplug @bananajoeclone @rolemodelshit @brownskincheyenne @mmbee675 @xeebop @tlt731

[thebumblebeesworld]

WHAT • HAPPENS • IN • MIAMI

modern!au annie x smoke (ft. the gang)

summary: annie's birthday trip doesn't go as she had originally planned. itineraries aren't maintained; and hands do not remain to themselves. but the most important thing, above any of the dysfunction, is her love for her family.

cw: smut, real nastyy, papa!smoke, hot!girl!annie, lil bi!annie, violence, poorly explained gambling, alcohol use, a bunch of nonsense, mary's there, use of the nword

a/n: yall!!! im so excited about thissss. happy belated birthday to wunmii. sorry it took a while, but here it is: eleven thousand words of gold!! this was gonna be short and sweet but i got caught upp

inspired by @sunshinerepublic

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now that she had time to think about it, this was a really bad idea.

The planning of her birthday trip; The aligning of their schedules; The flight down to Miami; The day at the beach; The evening at the casino; The night at the club. It was all one giant bad idea after another, but at this point, there was no turning back.

Months ago, Annie sat down with her friends to pitch this idea: A Dirty Thirty down in Miami. It sounded amazing at the time, and way better than the short drive down to Biloxi. With a trip to Florida, she’d get blue water and sunshine—not whatever land-locked nonsense was happening on the Coast. They’d all agreed—Smoke, Stack and Mary, Pearline and Sammie, Bo and Grace, Cornbread and Therise—and finally the week of the trip was upon them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

day one

“You know this finna be a hot mess, right,” Smoke groaned with one hand on the steering wheel. The other sat comfortably between his wife’s thighs, cushioned by her heat. All he wanted was a good birthday trip for his baby, but with Stack involved, it was going to be anything but.

“It’ll be fine, Smokey,” the woman rolled her eyes. They had all decided to book the same flight from Memphis to Miami, and since her husband refused to be in a car with any of their friends, they were driving from Clarksdale separately. The other group was already way ahead of them, having left earlier in the morning. They'd assured the woman of an early arrival at the airport. “You just gotta stop bein’ so negative,” Annie commented, chuckling at something on her phone. Her fingers moved rapidly, and before Smoke knew it, Annie was turning the camera toward him and snapping a picture.

“What the hell was that,” the man huffed in annoyance.

“Nothing,” the woman feigned, but as a notification pinged on her phone, whatever she read made her cackle louder.

“See,” Smoke groaned with a shake of his head. His grip on the wheel tightened because when he looked over, he saw Annie’s messages. The phone beamed with the name of the girl’s group chat, Top Five, a picture of him dancing amongst letters and crying emojis. “Knew y’all asses was gon’ be on some bullshit.”

“Oh, come on, Papa,” Annie pouted, reaching over to touch his chest. She watched as his eyebrows fluttered from the name, only spurring her on. She didn’t care that he was driving, didn’t care that they’d arrive in Memphis in thirty minutes. She only cared about alleviating a little of his pain. “You promised you’d be in a good mood for my birthday.”

“I know, baby,” Smoke sighed, sinking into the seat as his wife’s hands fluttered down his chest. “I’ll be better,” he promised. “I’ll be better for you.”

Hands making their way inside of his sweats, the woman smiled at how calm his breathing had gotten. Smoke would do whatever Annie asked him to. She knew he wasn’t a people person, knew his idea of a vacation was going to museums and shit. She was asking a lot from him, and she appreciated his effort.

“I know you will,” she purred, grabbing a handful of him. She kissed his neck, right where a bulging vein was nestled, before whispering in his ear. “You mind if I take part of my birthday present now, Papa?”

The man who stepped inside of the airport was not the man from thirty minutes ago, and Annie couldn’t have been more proud of herself.

She had already concluded that this five day trip would consist of day drinking, beach going, casino food eating, and making it up to her man that she had taken him out of his element. But he’d be fine. She walked beside him with confident steps as he handled the baggage. His shoulders were soft now. His scowl was gone. His eyes were bright. And whenever impatience grew in his chest from the long TSA line, Annie bumped his shoulder with hers and he was a blushing mess once again.

“You want a snack or drink or anything before we get on the plane, baby,” the man questioned as he walked them and their carry-ons to their terminal. He was going to treat Annie like VIP this week—not that he didn’t already do that.

But he found the woman typing at her phone vigorously, eyebrows tight in anger.

“Everything okay,” the man questioned as she stopped walking altogether. “Annie,” he questioned when she still hadn’t responded. He touched her jaw lightly, forcing her eyes on him.

“They in traffic,” she whispered as if the volume of her voice could make the situation more dire.

“What,” Smoke asked gruffly, and Annie simply turned the phone in his direction.

“They wanted to see the damn pyramid, and now they in traffic tryna get here from downtown,” she blurted out, huffing at how annoying her friends could be.

“This exactly why I didn’t wanna drive with none of them,” her husband rumbled, marching them through the airport and to their terminal. “You can’t knock sense into them fools, and I just know my brother came up with that stupid idea.” They had promised that they’d be here on time, but when they left hours before him and his wife that morning, he should have known better. Their flight was set to board in fifteen minutes, set to depart in forty five, and with traffic and TSA, they’d be lucky if this didn’t end up just being a baecation.

In his anger, Smoke hadn’t looked at Annie once, but if he had, he’d see the tears building in her eyes. The woman quickly wiped at the tear before he could witness it, stuffing her irritation down.

“You okay, Mama,” Smoke asked gently when they found a seat, because even if he hadn’t known she was crying, he knew this would bring her a kind of sad frustration that could ruin this whole week for her. His hand reached for hers, and she accepted it.

“It’s fine,” Annie replied wetly, refusing to look him in the eyes. Instead, she played with his jewelry—his wedding band and the string of a friendship bracelet their daughter had made him. Thinking of the child back at home with Annie’s mother only made her sadder. “I’ll be okay,” she reasoned. Her shoulders rolled back. Her head leveled itself. “It’s my birthday, and I’m goin’ on a trip that my man paid for.”

Smoke nodded sharply, noticing how she still refused to look his way. He hummed to affirm her words.

“And you gon’ fly First Class,” he whispered in her ear, already anticipating the display of gratitude. He’d been handling all the operations; He’d booked flights and hotel rooms and had handled the tickets up until now. He handed hers over, watching the smile take over her face. “I’m sure they’ll make it in time,” he decided assuredly, “but even if they don’t, we gon’ have a good trip.”

“Put pedal to the medal, nigga,” Cornbread barked from the second row. Traffic had just broke, and Stack had that sprinter van on two wheels trying to get to the airport and parked in time. He had indeed come up with the brilliant idea to see the pyramid. They had two hours until they boarded, and all he wanted to do was get to the very top and look out across downtown Memphis.

When he suggested it, everyone—accept Pearline and Grace—were down for the idea, but now, he had Mary, Sammie, Therise, Cornbread, and Bo yelling in his ear, too.

“You don’ ruined our best friend’s birthday, dumbass,” Pearline roared from the furthest row back.

“Annie my best friend, too,” Stack argued nonsensically. But this wasn’t an issue of who was who to who. The problem was that they were running out of time to get there, and no matter what had happened or who had caused it, they all had a whole lot of making up to do.

First Class boarding was called over the loud speaker, urging Annie and Smoke out of their seats. The man handled their carry-ons once more, and as their tickets were scanned, the sound of loud shuffling and yelling pulled their attention away.

Nearly 100 feet away, their friends were booking it toward the terminal, bags and tickets waving in hand. They looked ridiculous and dysfunctional, and even though Annie was upset with them, she couldn’t fight the laugh tearing from her chest.

“What’s up, bestie,” Stack nearly shouted, walking up to Annie’s seat in First Class. He had waited the unbearable minutes for the seatbelt light to go off, and as soon as it did, he was on the move. He had in his hand a little shot-sized bottle of Hennessy, placing it on Annie’s lap tray.

“Leave me alone, Elias,” Annie growled, eyes remaining on the book in her hands. Across the aisle, her husband huffed out a laugh, knowing his brother was going to get nowhere.

Stack's palm landed on his chest, absolutely appalled.

“Oh, come on, girl,” he choked out. His voice dipped, sad and unbelieving. “You only use my birth name when you mad,” he offered.

“Mhm,” the woman nodded sharply. She flipped the page of her book, and he watched her read vigorously.

“You mad at me,” he questioned wetly.

“Mhm,” she hummed once more.

“Really,” he asked again.

“Yep,” she answered back, popping the last consonant of the word. Stack held his hands up, unsure how to approach the situation. His go to move would be to annoy her, and as long as they’d been friends, he definitely knew how to do that, but she was giving him no energy. He knew he’d fucked up real bad this time.

“Come on, Anna Mae—” He tried once more but was swiftly interrupted.

“Leave my wife alone, boy,” the older twin argued. “You’ve upset her enough.”

Glares were sent across the aisle. A nearby flight attendant bit back a laugh.

“Fine,” the younger twin groaned, exhaling deeply. He turned to Annie with a remorseful gaze. His tone shifted serious before he mustered a soft I’m sorry and returned to his own seat.

The cabin was reinstated to its former quiet, the woman’s book tucked between her palms, her husband fumbling with the music he had saved on his phone. Reaching across the aisle, she grabbed ahold of his hand.

“Thank you,” Annie whispered, tangling their fingers. She calmed at the sound of his soft hum.

The drive from Miami International Airport to the hotel was quiet—eerily so. Smoke had arranged transportation for everyone, and with a sharp look, they all understood to keep their mouths shut. Annie had her sunglasses on and her airpods in, tuning out everyone who wasn’t her husband because she simply wasn’t in the mood.

When the plane landed, she’d seen a message from her mother: She wanted me to show you this, it had read, along with a picture her daughter had drawn of their little family. Smoke. Annie. Their babygirl. Standing in the middle of the prettiest field of flowers she’d ever seen. Showing the drawing to her husband brought tears to his eyes and an equal melancholy to her heart.

This grand idea of a birthday trip has been sparked because as she looked over her thirty years of living, Annie realized she hadn’t done enough for her liking. The past few years had been dedicated to working and wifing and mothering, and although she didn’t regret a thing, she simply wished she’d had more fun. But now, a thousand miles away from home, she missed the comfort she knew.

“We’re gonna have fun,” her husband reached over, comforting her with a hand on her thigh. “Babygirl will be there when we get back. And I’m sure we’ll be gettin’ her a bunch of li’l souvenirs, too.”

The night concluded with a family dinner down in the hotel’s restaurant. It was hearty and delicious and all put on Smoke’s room because he loved his wife and wanted her birthday to be as carefree as he could make it. Their friends sat around the table with terrified gazes, and as dessert was finished, they each prepared their apology.

“We’re sorry, girl,” Pearline started off.

“Yeah, we were bein’ inconsiderate,” Sammie continued.

“We weren’t thinkin’ straight,” Bo informed regretfully.

“You didn’t deserve to have your birthday start out with such a mess,” Therise reasoned, passing the proverbial mic.

“‘Cause we know how important this is even outside of it bein’ a celebration of you,” Cornbread gulped.

“We love you, Anne,” Mary announced. “We’re family.”

“And we promise to act right for the rest of the week, bestie,” Stack acquiesced, turning toward the final person at the table.

Grace rolled her eyes.

“Me and Pearl told y’all asses that we didn’t have time to go to the pyramid,” the woman argued, pulling groans from everyone at the table. Hands flew up in annoyance, heads turned at tables nearby, and Smoke just shook his head at their nonsense. “I ain’t have shit to do with this, but whatever,” Grace huffed. Her eyes flitted over to the woman who was meant to be receiving her apologies. Noticing the quirk of her lip and the way her arms crossed beneath her chest, Grace conceded. “We’ll do whatever it takes to make it better, Annie. We promise.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

day two

The start to the day was enough to convince Annie that the worst was definitely behind her.

She woke up in the Presidential Suite to breakfast in bed and a shirtless Smoke laid out beside her. After each bite of her food, her husband rewarded her with a strikingly deep thrust of his hips. He cited the lack of hours in the day, how he wanted to leave time for other things, how he needed to cater to every one of her needs—starting with this. She fluttered around him as strawberry jam tickled her pallet. The taste of runny egg yolk planted itself in her memory right alongside the image of Smoke cumming deep inside of her.

The day only brightened from there. After showering with her husband, she toweled dry and dressed herself in a devilishly skimpy sundress. All summer she’d been upset because she hadn’t tanned her legs enough, and this week, she grew a renewed commitment to her goal. She’d been surprised by her husband’s acceptance of the attire—thighs out, titties out—but it was her birthday trip, so she could do whatever she wanted.

“Here you go, Mama,” the man extended his arm, a neatly dressed box sitting in his palm. Inside held a pair of David Yurman earrings—18 karat, yellow gold, small hoops with diamonds embossed into the edges. Annie stared at them wide eyed because, in her mind, the trip was her birthday gift. She hadn’t been prepared to receive anything more from her husband than his time, but she was nowhere near surprised. This was the type of man she married—the one who went above and beyond for her happiness.

Annie spread kisses along his jaw, beaming over at him in thanks.

The day only got better from there.

A call home to her daughter. A shopping trip with her girls. A calming afternoon by the pool. A few small smiles and sharp nods when drinks were sent their way by strangers as they sunbathed. It was all perfect—until it wasn’t.

Fifty feet away on the opposite side of the pool, a group of five guys sized the women up. They ranged in stature—tall, short, slim, round, muscular. It was as if they were a far less interesting version of their own men, and that’s why when the five of them walked over, none of the ladies gave them the time of day.

“Y’all lookin’ real pretty over here,” the obviously slick talking one of the group announced. His eyes bounced over the ladies as they spread out across their loungers, looking at them like they were five flavors of ice cream he just couldn’t wait to try. “Y’all enjoy the drinks we sent over here?”

Nestled between her friends, Mary tutted, mouth shut.

They all knew how good they looked: Mary in a red and white polka dot bikini; Pearline in a black one piece with diamonds cut out at her chest and stomach; Grace with a bandana wrapped around her chest and a skirt sitting low on her hips; Therise in a purple tankini and dark washed booty shorts; And Annie in a light blue stringed two piece that left little to the imagination.

They looked good, but they weren’t looking for unwanted attention.

“They were fine,” Pearline crooned in response, eyes closed as she focused on her comfort above all else. The rest of the women did the same: politely responding with no further action.

“You got a nice voice,” the youngest of the group of men spoke, sporting a frail yet overconfident smile that didn’t falter even when Pearline refused to acknowledge him.

Beside her, Annie snorted a laugh, removing her sunglasses to read her book better. The men were blocking the sun, casting shadows across the pages and the sunbathing women.

“Y’all want some company,” the largest of the men questioned, smile far too jovial. Therise rolled her eyes.

“Naw,” she replied indignantly.

“You sure,” another man spoke up. He was slim with an easiness to his posture that felt unnatural.

Grace responded in turn with her own sharp denial.

Annie, with her eyes locked on the pages of her book, could feel another pair of eyes on her. They were low and focused, cutting through her like they could reach inside of her to pull her deepest secrets out. She glanced up to find the fifth and final man staring her down. He’d been quiet this entire time, allowing his friends to talk while he just watched. It reminded her of someone she knew.

“Can I help you with something,” Annie growled. She sat her book to the side, looking up at the man who refused to give her her face back. Conversation halted around them, the rest of the group glancing back and forth to see what would happen next.

“Just admirin’ you, baby,” he exhaled in a gruff manner. His eyes were cool, too empty for her to look at for long.

“Don’t baby me,” the woman argued. “We tryna chill. Y’all can’t read the fuckin’ room.” She waved her hand around at the scene: five women who were previously enjoying a quiet, calm afternoon who were now being inconvenienced.

“We tryna chill, too,” the slick talker squawked. “And y’all sexy asses look like a good ass time to me.”

“Nigga, if y’all don’t move on somewhere,” Annie reared back, on the verge of rising from her lounge chair to admonish them. Before she could do so, however, she saw her husband advancing in their direction, Stack, Sammie, Bo, and Cornbread right beside him.

She settled back into her chair, worked her jaw, fought to calm her body because if Smoke sensed any of her upset, he was sure to bring hell on earth.

“Y’all alright over here, Mama,” the man asked as soon as he was in a good enough distance for his words to be heard. His chest was puffed out, biceps flexing.

“They good,” answered the man who’s demeanor reminded her too much of her husband. They traded glaring expressions, eyes full of hatred and possession and warning.

“Nigga, I ain’t talkin’ to you,” Smoke pointed at his chest, getting up in his face. “I’m talkin’ to my wife.” But the largest man of the opposing group laughed it off.

“We just talkin,” he dismissed.

“Ain’t no harm in that,” the slick talker spilled.

“We say whether harm been done, you fuck ass scrub,” Stack chest bumped the man while Smoke eyed the entire group.

“You aight, Anne,” Smoke questioned heavily. His tone was dense, a sound she knew quite well. Years with the man had taught her how he got just before a storm hit—literally and figuratively. With the way tension settled around them, she knew this was the calm just before.

“We good now, baby,” Annie responded, voice turning sweet to help alleviate her husband’s anxiety. “Just tryna enjoy the sun.” The group of women grunted because the sun that they’d been trying to enjoy was still being blocked—ten bodies in their way now.

“Can y’all step to the side with all that testosterone and hostility, please,” Pearline shooed them away with her hand. She adjusted her sunglasses, pursed her lips, settled into her lounger like the picture perfect example of unbothered.

And if, from there, the altercation shifted as husbands and boyfriends worked to rid the disturbance around their women—and if the altercation advanced to include a few loaded threats and a whole lot of pushing—then it was completely and utterly justified.

Annie nursed her husband’s swollen knuckles, dapping rubbing alcohol into the torn skin.

“Fuck, woman,” Smoke hissed as the sharp chemical did it’s job at disinfecting his wounds. His wife rolled her eyes, grabbing the ice she’d retrieved from down the hall.

“Ain’t my fault that you put yo’ hands on them,” she shrugged. She tended to him harder than she cared to amend. This wasn’t the first time she’d cared for his battle wounds, and this wasn’t the last time he’d be defending her honor. She huffed at the realization of it. “You better be glad they threw the first punch or yo’ ass wouldn’t been tryna get bailed out of Miami-Dade County.”

“Whatever,” he tsked. He exhaled deeply, chest rising with air and emotion. Now he’d gone and done it: ruining Annie’s birthday just when things got on track.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

day three

“That fool need to sit down somewhere before he drown,” Therise chided, looking out toward her husband who was pretending to be washed out to sea. The tide was high today. The sun was bright with few clouds streaking the sky. It was the perfect time for a beach day.

Like any other beach trip the group had taken to Biloxi or Orange Beach, the crew had stopped by the grocery store, grabbing snacks and drinks and things to make sandwiches when they got hungry. A cold sandwich on a hot day near water was better than anything they could get from one of the local shops. Corralled together, the entire group ate while watching Cornbread and Stack act out a scene from some shipwreck movie.

“They look like mermaids out there,” Smoke grumbled, sitting shoulder to shoulder with his wife. He grinned lowly at the cackle she let out—loud and full of life. The water-going pair had gone on to pretend they were in a baptismal pool.

"Ugly ass mermaids," Bo jabbed, nose upturned. The group chortled, bumping into each other as they laughed unabashedly. Sammie nudged the man's shoulder. Grace tossed her head back to laugh. Pearline held her stomach in an attempt to calm herself.

"Don't do my man," Therise chastised.

"Right," Mary concurred. "My Stack is a sexy mermaid."

"If that's what you wanna call it," Annie giggled as she watched Stack put Cornbread in a headlock. He jumped on the man's back, laughing haughtily—arrogant and boisterous. Quickly, the play-fighting became rough, shifting from mermaids to a full on WWE smackdown. Cornbread fell face first into the water as Stack shouted out in victory, only quieting when Cornbread emerged a second later to drag the smaller man under.

The group watched on with annoyed gazes because they'd been this way since they were kids, taking shit too far and eventually hurting each other.

Smoke was on his feet in a second, meeting Bo's eye as a confirmation that they had to break this shit up before it got too serious. Stack was uppercutting the larger man while Cornbread was dodging the hits, picking Stack up and dropping him in the water.

"Aye! Cut that shit out," Smoke shouted, voice rising above the nonsense in his sickly paternal tone. The women—and Sammie—judged the display as Smoke tackled Stack and Bo attempted to tackle Cornbread. It was petty shit, a side of the men that annoyed them all, but they had to put up with it. With as long as they'd been friends—family, even—they'd fought like brothers, so as Smoke and Bo wrangled the other two, they simply shook their heads and looked the other way.

"Testosterone," Pearline groused, voice lilting in disgust.

"We need to take a trip just us girls next time," Mary suggested before turning to her side. "Sorry, Li'l Sammie."

"It's okay," the young man laughed good-naturedly, advancing to the shoreline to help pull a coughing Stack from the water.

The women continued to talk about their hypothetical man-free vacation—and all the sneaky things they could get up to far away from their watchful gazes.

"I can't believe y'all was just gon' let me drown like that," Stack bickered childishly, arms crossed beneath his chest. They'd been hearing his complaining since he made it back from the water, squawking about rights and wrongs and how family is supposed to be there for you no matter what. Even now, as they walked into the brightly lit casino, he prattled on about what had happened at the beach.

"You were fine," Therise mumbled, eyes on a row of slot machines in the far left corner.

Annie bumped her hip against his, throwing him a playful glare.

"Elijah wouldn't have let you die, Stack," she reminded him, enough knowledge of the twins' life together to know that Smoke would sooner die than let his brother meet that same end. The moment turned sentimental as the quiet understanding settled between them. But, as always, it didn't last for long.

"That's what you get for fuckin' wit' me," Cornbread shouted cockily.

"Negro, please," Stack flailed, riled up again. He pointed around the group. His mouth spat fire. "All y'all full of shit! That's why I'm finna be takin’ all y'all money tonight."

"You ain't takin' shit," Bo answered boastfully. Grace humphed beside her husband, tone just as boastfully.

"Especially not if me and my Bo playin'," she declared.

"Damn," Stack clutched his metaphorical pearls. His head practically spun. "It's like that, Grace," he asked the woman, "it's really like that now?"

She shrugged with a teasing smirk, walking away and toward a poker table. Bo followed right behind her. And Stack, of course, ran to make it to the table before either of them could.

“A damn fool,” Smoke grunted. He shook his head, arm circling his wife’s waist. “What table you wanna hit first, Mama,” the man questioned, simply enthralled by how much there was to do. He leaned into her neck, capturing the scent of her. The second birthday gift he’d given her was a newly released Cartier perfume. It was herbal and dark and alluring in a way that suited his wife perfectly. She’d loved the gift enough to wear it tonight, and he loved it so much that he couldn’t get enough of the way it smelled on her skin.

“Maybe Roulette,” she pondered, leaning forward to whisper in her husband’s ear. “But I’m really just ready to get back to the room. You look so good tonight, Papa.”

As much as Smoke hated vacations where he was forced to be around a whole bunch of people with minimal real relaxing, the man was exhibiting a very calm aura. Annie suspected it was because he wanted to make sure her trip went well, so whenever he got upset, he’d school himself into a better mood. Annie felt it deserved some type of reward.

“Well, we can head back whenever you ready, baby,” he responded huskily, scooping her up in his arms. He knew that tone of voice, that look in her eye.

“Later,” she hummed, looking off behind him at their family scattered across the casino now. Cornbread had wound up at the seafood buffet. Bo and Grace were beating Stack out of every bit of his money as Mary watched on in horror. Pearline and Sammie were on their way to a private karaoke room. And Therise had set up shop at the slot machines where she’d probably be sat for the next few hours. Annie kissed her husband’s neck, right behind his ear. “For now,” she whispered lowly, “I got money to win.”

And win money she did.

Annie bet on black and the same two numbers every single round—her daughter’s birthday. Her husband sat back amazed because being the numbers man that he was, he would have never done such a thing. He would have been in his head calculating the best plays and the highest chances of winning, but his Annie could just feel it. He adored and admired how much she trusted herself, and when she finally decided that she’d had enough, she walked away with over three thousand dollars worth of winnings.

“Damn, that was so sexy,” Smoke breathed into her left ear, pulling her deep into his hold. He couldn’t get enough of his woman, and he needed her to know that every second of every day. He looked down at his watch, noticing the hour hand ticking closer and closer to midnight. “Let’s go cash in,” he urged, dragging her behind him. Annie tipped her head back with a laugh because she knew exactly where this renewed spirit was coming from.

“I told yo’ ass we was gon’ ring yo’ birthday in the right way, didn’t I,” Smoke grunted, hoisting the woman into his arms and pressing her back into the door. Annie was fully in the air—legs wrapped around his waist, arms folded around his neck, dress shimmied up her thighs. Her husband, head clouded by delivering her pleasure, yanked the top of her dress down. He buried his face in her chest. “Love these damn titties,” he moaned drunkenly. “These my fuckin’ titties.”

“They yours, baby,” Annie moaned in agreement, holding the back of his head as he ravaged her. She could feel him growing in his starched-straight pants. All she wanted was to be taken care of now. It was almost her birthday for crying out loud. “Lay me down, ‘Lijah,” she slurred. She tugged at the back of his shirt, shook his shoulders, but nothing moved him. He only growled into her flesh, biting down on her left titty because that was his favorite one. “Please, Papa,” Annie whined as she writhed beneath his mouth. “I need to feel that dick in me.”

The declaration was raw as her annoyance ripped right through her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

day four

So, technically, the day began with Smoke fucking his wife against a door because he had promised to start her birthday off right. The clock had struck midnight, but neither of them would be getting rest anytime soon.

“Yeah, give me that pussy,” the man demanded, bouncing Annie up and down the length of him. The woman was dazed. Being pressed between her man’s hard chest and the wood of the door had her body threatening to fall apart. And she was ready to let it happen because she knew he’d be able to keep her together with ease.

She moaned his name into the ceiling, gripping onto his shoulders to stay upright. Each stroke was calculated, firmly determined to make her cum with reckless abandon.

The woman thought back to her original goal for this birthday trip: having fun, experiencing new things, and creating memories. This was surely a moment she’d never forget because as she buried her head in her husband’s neck, allowing her body to fall apart in his hold, the memory became cemented in her mind.

She recovered quickly, renewed and reenergized by the feeling of her husband throbbing against her walls. She tapped his bicep for her to be let down. She padded across the floor to the bed. She removed the remainder of her clothing. And she directed him to lay down, grinning wickedly when he obeyed.

“You so good to me, Papa,” she moaned, rubbing her hands up the length of his legs. She admired the way he’d spread out across the bed, large arms taking up space, shoulders broad, hips narrow, thighs flexed in anticipation. She caressed him there, soothing his rapidly turning mind.

When her tongue swirled around the tip of his dick, they both let out a moan: Smoke from the feeling of his wife—wet and warm; Annie from the taste of her husband—musky and so much like herself. She couldn’t hold back any longer as she eyed the way he fisted the sheets, and when she took him down the back of her throat, he only beared down harder.

Annie was swallowing him in a way she hadn’t in a long time. Her need was insatiable, derived from her desire to make the best of this trip. She wanted them both to remember this. Remember how well she’d taken him. Remember how violently he trembled beneath her. Remember how quickly she made him cum.

He erupted without much warning, holding her head down to the base of him as she continued to bob her head. She liked when the pleasure got too much and turned into something else. She liked having him squirming and crying out for the torture to end.

When he recovered, skin slick with sweat and eyes clouded by lust, he switched their roles with ease. Snatching her up in his arms, Smoke threw Annie onto her back, falling between her open knees.

“You think you run shit,” he mumbled just as his lips found her clit. He didn’t warm her up, didn’t dare attempt to tease; He sucked her clit harshly and ridiculously, pulling the button into his mouth like he was owed the sensation, owed the revenge of his wife shaking on his tongue, too.

The woman lost her mind when the sucking turned sloppy.

Smoke was down at her entrance, slurping and spitting and slobbing all over her pussy so dizzyingly that it had tears forming in her eyes. He’d correctly recognized her attempt at fucking him so good that neither of them could forget it, and he wanted to join in on that game. Who cared if it was probably two in the morning by now? Who cared if they were disturbing anyone else’s sleep? They had things to do and bets to match.

Smoke was two orgasms into eating his wife at this point when his fingers joined the assault. Tongue situated on her hard clit and fingers stroking her walls with practiced ease, the man brought her body to a third climax, drinking every bit of cum he’d facilitated.

The woman above him was spent, body lovingly loosened by the hands and tongue and dick of her husband just because it was her birthday and she’d get whatever she wanted out of him. The man reached down, stroking his length as he watched her come back into her own body. Sweat beaded down her forehead, trickled between her breasts. The sight alone had him on the verge of orgasm, but then she moved to cover herself with a blanket—exhausted.

“I’ll give ya’ ten minutes,” he explained gruffly, breath heavy and face covered in her, “but then I’m gon’ need ya’ to ride this dick, Mama.” He emphasized the message with a smack to her ass. And groaning, Annie watched a butt-naked Smoke walk out of the bedroom to retrieve her a glass of water.

It’s safe to say that Annie and Smoke woke up late as hell, causing them to miss the breakfast reservation he’d made for her at a spot she’d been wanting to try for months. The moment his eyes opened to notice how bright it was in the suite’s living room—where they had inevitably ended up sleeping after winding up fucking on the couch—he knew he’d fucked up.

A pounding at the door shook the remaining sleep from his body, putting him on high alert. He covered a half sleep Annie with a blanket, finding his own boxers and throwing them on.

“What you want, nigga,” the man shouted as he yanked the door open to find his brother with an annoyed expression. Behind him stood the rest of the group, all looking some version of exhausted or hungover or pissed off. But that ain’t have shit to do with him.

“We been callin’ y’all asses,” Stack groaned, pushing his brother to the side and entering the suite. Smoke watched stunned as they all allowed themselves entry, crowding into the living room where a once sleeping Annie was now nowhere to be found.

“We haven’t just been callin,” Mary argued.

“We been callin’, textin’, dmin’,” Therise announced.

“We even tried stalkin’ y’all phone locations but couldn’t get anything,” Pearline grumbled.

“Y’all really gotta charge y’all phones, man,” Sammie shook his head.

But Smoke just simply rolled his eyes, finding his pants from the night before and throwing them on.

“We ain’t gotta do shit,” he grunted. “Y’all ain’t our parents.”

“Y’all went missin’ last night, Smoke,” Grace interrupted in jest.

“And nobody could find you,” Bo concluded.

“And y’all missed breakfast,” Cornbread barked, clearly ready to rub it in his face how good the restaurant was.

Behind him, Smoke could hear the shower running, and all he could think about was his wife. In the shower. Naked.

“Y’all gotta go,” he informed in feigned sadness. In his attempts to usher them out of the door, more arguments sparked, more pointed questions about their whereabouts and why they left in the first place and what they’d been doing until now.

“I mean it’s damn near noon,” Stack erupted, looking at his brother incredulously. His head cocked to the side. His eyes squinted. His head turned with potential reasons before one stuck the landing. “Oh, y’all nasty as hell,” he yelled, jumping up off the couch and looking around the room. Last night clothes littered the floor, Annie’s panties strewn across a lamp shade in the corner. They’d all been too annoyed and exhausted and food coma-ed to recognize the state of the room. But Stack could see it clearly now. “Y’all was fuckin’ on this couch,” he questioned in disgust and disbelief and something close to betrayal. The feeling only worsened as Smoke put his head in his hands and groaned.

“Oh, hell naw,” Cornbread scrambled up from a chair, pulling his wife with him.

“Y’all so damn freaky,” Pearline exhaled, standing primly as the rest of the group moved away from all surfaces with haste.

Smoke didn’t know what was worst: getting woken up but an angry mob of their family or being kept away from his wife who was just a few feet away in the bathroom. He needed them gone, needed her to himself.

Just as he opened his mouth to muster up some bullshit excuse, the bathroom door opened, and Annie stepped out with a robe tied at the waist.

“Can y’all be literally any quieter, please,” she croaked out, throat raw from her—extracurriculars.

“Damn, Smoke,” Grace exasperated while looking at her friend astonished, “did you try to kill our girl last night?”

The whole group recognized the tiredness in the woman’s eyes, how her body sagged in delicious exhaustion, how small marks littered the neckline of her robe. Amusement filled Smoke’s system at the memories from last night: a fucked out Annie splayed across the arm of the couch, holding herself open and demanding to be fucked until she couldn’t even breathe, until she couldn’t think about anything but him.

At the sound of her husband’s firm chuckle, Annie crossed her arms beneath her chest. She settled her weight onto one foot, hip cocked to the side, eyes holding fire. The laugh died in his throat, and the memory flashed in and out behind his eyes.

“I ain’t try to kill nothing,” he mumbled beneath his breath, toying with his bracelet and avoiding her glare.

“Yeah,” Annie responded in warning. “Y’all should have seen what I did to his ass.” Smoke—trembling, writhing, begging, pleading as Annie road him past the point of both of their orgasms. Smoke—hands tied behind him and mouth stuffed with her panties as Annie edged him all night long. Smoke—passed out underneath her as Annie finally got her fill of him just before dawn.

The room feel into a hush: Pearline, Mary, Grace, and Therise smirking at their friend’s wit and Stack, Bo, Sammie, and Cornbread holding back a laugh at Smoke’s stuck expression and how he followed behind the woman like a lost puppy as she entered the bedroom.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he apologized, shutting the door.

“Ain’t nothing to be sorry for,” Annie huffed, attempting to find an outfit to wear. She was bent over the suitcase, refusing to meet his eye, sad and pissed and livid. “I’m just annoyed at myself,” she spoke brokenly. “I really wanted to go to that restaurant.”

Smoke looked at the side of her face, emotion building in his gut from the tears rolling down her face. He’d wanted this trip to be perfect, for her birthday to be memorable and happy and stress free, but it seemed that at every turn, something was going wrong.

“How ‘bout this,” he offered, pulling her away from her suitcase and into his chest. He hugged her at the waist, kissed her neck, then her collarbone, then the top of her left breast. “How ‘bout you, me, and babygirl do our own li’l trip out this way in a few months? She gettin’ old enough to where she’ll remember stuff like this. And I saw some things that would be fun to do with her. And that way you’d get a redo of this trip and all the things we ain’t get to do.”

Today was the last full day of their vacation, and with how far out he had to make the reservation, there was no way in Hell that he’d be able to get a table before they left tomorrow afternoon. His kissed her hairline, squeezing her in his arms when she smiled wetly.

“I’ve had a good time so far, baby,” she whispered into his chest. The silence and look he gave her said enough about how shitty the trip had been, but she continued on. “All things aside,” she laughed goofily, “I’ve had a good few days with you and our family. But I’d love a trip with just us three so much.” She hugged him, breathing in his scent, letting it wrap around her.

“Yeah?” the man threw in question, searching for any reluctance in her tone. Meeting his eye, Annie nodded once, kissing the edge of his mouth.

“Yeah,” she responded, voice full and sure.

After the couple was both ready for the day, Annie’s friends sang her happy birthday and practically threw gifts into her open arms. She’d insisted on nothing too extravagant, and they had all done as she hoped. As she opened each gift, she heart swelled at how well they understood her. Boxes of rare crystal vases for her altar, packages of imported herbs, bags of random rocks and trinkets that reminded them the most of her. She felt special, cared for.

Smoke’s gift to her was also far less expensive than the previous ones, but no less valuable; It was certainly the most dear to her heart. Annie opened the gift box to find a photo album engraved with a heart across the front cover, pictures of younger versions of Annie and Smoke nestled between the pages. As she flipped through the pictures of them on their first date at eighteen years old, them cuddled up somewhere nondescript and forgotten to time, them in coordinating outfits on the way to a party in college, them kissing in front of the car Smoke had bought at twenty one, them with their hands linked at age twenty two while making vows to one another, them holding the keys to their brand new home, them bringing their daughter into that home from the hospital—it brought tears to her eyes. Photos of her and her family showed up, her and her girls, her closet friends, her confidants, her and her grandmother when she was a child, her most important achievements, her favorite adventures.

The pictures stopped midway through the book, plenty of space for more memories to be made.

She made eye contact with her husband, his face stoic, his eyes drenched with emotion.

"I want you to fill the rest of that book with everything important to you," he insisted, voice steady despite how much Annie's tears had him wanting to break. "I want you to do all the things that make you happy. I want you to go on trips and explore the world and enjoy your life because you're more than my wife and the mother to our daughter."

His words were nothing but sincere, breathing with consideration. Smoke strongly believed that he as a man could only be as happy as his wife and daughter were. Their feelings took precedence in his life, and no matter how often Annie told him it probably wasn't healthy to care more about others than he did himself, he couldn't change his ways. All his life, Stack had been the most important person to him, and now he had Annie and their babygirl to add to the mix.

The woman sat with his declaration, weighing its honesty, sorting through her own feelings. She was happy—beyond happy—because she had a good life and a strong family at her side. She felt lucky to have the things that she did, proud that she had worked so hard to get and keep them, thankful for the ways life had ironed itself out.

Every person in the room watched a singular tear fall from her eye as she reached out for her husband's hand.

"I don't know what I did to deserve this," Annie sniffled, looking each of them in the eye. "Y'all all mean so much to me."

"And you mean the world to us, hon," Pearline smiled thoughtfully.

"You know we love ya', bestie," Stack affirmed.

"And I love y'all, too," the woman concluded, squeezing her husband's hand and meeting his eyes. They traded words silently, years of knowing each other adding to their ability to speak without words. They'd had so much life together, had been through so many things, and there were only more memories to be made from here.

Day drinking was not something Annie did often, but it was her birthday and she wanted to spend her day doing reckless shit.

Mimosa after mimosa. Lemon drop after lemon drop. Shot of henny after shot of henny. The woman was beyond fucked up, but she was enjoying her day, so her friends drank alongside her and her husband nursed a sweating beer bottle while keeping an eye out for all of them.

Day drinking turned into a night of club hopping with an outfit change and a nap to reset.

When the idea of a birthday trip was proposed, Stack and Mary culled through their extensive knowledge of Miami nightclubs to ensure Annie had the best experience possible. They’d taken their job seriously, figuring out exactly how the night should start off and where it should end up.

Club number one was the tamest of all the establishments. It was sturdy with a dense base of afro beats and the tantalizing scent of weed smoke and brown liquor. It drew the group in and toward the dance floor like a moth to a flame, lighting their bodies up as they sweated through each song.

Club number two was the least crowded and the most expensive, but the food was everything they needed after a whole day of getting drunk. Annie stood at the bar top, eating her wings while rolling her hips to the music, and Smoke pressed his chest to her back. He held her at the waist and inhaled the gifted perfume off her neck. He was exactly where he wanted to be.

Stack had convinced everyone that club number three was where the night would really take a turn. They bypassed the line wrapped around the block, going straight for the bouncers. The music thumped through Annie’s chest, forcing her hips into a teasing sway because she was still feeling buzzed from her earlier drinks and she could tell that the night was about to get real interesting.

The younger twin had successfully gotten them through the doors with a wad of cash and a nod to the bouncer, and Annie couldn’t help the way her eyes widened upon entry. Tall ceilings. Second floor balconies. LED lit dance floor. Circle bar top. DJ booth. Bottle girls with sparklers. It was perfect, astonishing even, and when Stack informed the group that he’d bought them an entire section, it only got better from there.

Annie was having the time of her life. No responsibilities. No child climbing up her leg. No boss sending her emails. She danced at the roped edge of their section, throwing her body around and causing nearly the whole room to focus on her. That’s when she began getting attention.

“Damn, baby,” a rough yet feminine voice shouted above the music, pulling Annie’s mind away from the song that had her shaking ass with her friends. She leaned forward, ear towards the woman who couldn’t take her eyes off of her. “You sexy as hell, girl,” she groaned, eyeing Annie’s short dress and the way she flaunted her curves. Beside her, her girls giggled, already knowing how this was going to end.

Annie took in the other woman’s appearance: long braids down the length of her back, graphic tee with what she thought was a musician across the front, cargo shorts that stopped just past her knee, a pair of Jordans that had to be newly released. A watch littered her wrist. A chain suffocated her neck. And damn did she look good.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Annie shook her head, dragging her admiring eyes back to the woman’s face, “but I’m married.” Wandering eyes tamed, she continued to dance. As sexy as she was, Annie’s mind had already moved on from the woman before her, the eyes that still moved the length of her body in appreciation. But then, she was pulled back in.

“I ain’t worried ‘bout no ring, Mama,” the woman laughed, voice dripping lowly. Annie’s friends laughed nervously because if she knew who their friend was married to, the woman would be singing a completely different tune. They watched as she stepped closer to the rope separating the dance floor from their section. They watched as her eyes took their fill of their friend. They searched Annie’s posture for a need for interference. They dreaded what could happen next. “I just wanna show you a good time, baby.”

Annie wasn’t no fool, and she wasn’t moved by nobody’s declarations but her own husband’s. She raised an eyebrow, inhaled a substantial breath, recoiled from the woman’s gaze toward her body. She readied herself to turn her down, but then she felt a heavy hand grip her waist, and she relaxed into her husband’s strong hold.

“She good,” Smoke intoned. His voice carried a heft, a seriousness—his cadence slow—and Annie could feel the heat beneath his skin, melting at the way it surrounded her. She knew he’d been watching the whole thing—he’d kept his eyes on her the entire night—and she appreciated that he hadn’t stepped in until now. In his mind, if she told someone once to move along and they didn’t do so, then that was cause enough reason to intervene.

Everyone held their breaths, hoping the evening didn’t devolve into something like day two by the pool, but the woman held up her hands, apologized for overstepping, and wished them a good night before leaving.

Annie, dazed and beyond intoxicated, turned in Smoke’s arms to capture his lips in a greedy kiss. She’d needed him all day—since she woke up on the couch alone with him at the door trying to get rid of their friends. And all day, he’d been doing little things that made her need for him more immediate.

Watching over her as she drank.

Holding her hand to steady her steps.

Whispering praise and happy birthday’s in her ear.

“You so good to me, Papa,” she moaned, kissing the edge of his ear. The man gripped her ass, pulling her pelvis into his and groaning at the contact.

“Cut that shit out,” he demanded distantly, not wanting her to stop but knowing it wouldn’t take much to have him surrender to her in this state. Annie kissed the length of his neck, dancing against his growing arousal. She knew it would be better later if she teased him now, so sending one more kiss to the edge of his mouth and whispering something filthy into the air, she obeyed.

“Fine,” she crooned, sauntering off to where her friends had disappeared off to. She left a dazed and wanting Smoke behind.

By the time the music was starting to bore, they were all beyond drunk. Cornbread and Therise were falling over each other laughing. Bo and Grace were dancing far less gracefully than they were known for. Stack and Mary were arguing about stupid shit from the past. Sammie and Pearline were damn near fucking in the back of the section. And Smoke and Annie had a tension growing that was sure to destroy them both the second they were allowed to be alone.

When one of them recommended the detour from their club hopping journey, everyone was on board. It got lost who’d suggested it first. Probably Stack because this was right up his alley. Probably Grace because she wanted to know if anyone was bold enough to do it. But it really didn’t matter.

They made it to the tattoo and piercing shop, drunk out of their minds and trying their best to hold it together.

Bo went first, eager to prove that he was brave enough to do it. He emerged from the back with an ace of spades tatted on his forearm.

Grace was next, deciding to get a tragus piercing in her left ear.

Then it was Sammie and Pearline. He got his ears pierced while she got a nostril piercing.

Mary went next, but when she emerged from the room, nothing had visibly changed at all. They noticed the way she tried to fix her shirt, shifting how it landed atop her chest, wincing in pain as the thin fabric stretched across what appeared to be two barbells—one on each nipple.

Stack, with wide eyes darting over Mary’s upper body, went in next, and when he emerged, his smile was thick and michevious.

“Guess what I got done,” he urged the room, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Each incorrect guess was turned down with a smile growing on his face. Each ask for him to turn around or lift up his shirt resulted in nothing but the tattoos he already had. Then Annie gasped.

“Oh my God, Elias,” she groaned, looking at him like he’d lost his ever loving mind because he had to have if he’d gotten that done. But she watched, horrored, as he nodded his head profusely, pointing toward his crotch.

“I got my dick pierced,” he exclaimed, pride expanding the size of the room. It had been a running joke between him and his best friend that he was a big enough whore that he should have already gotten the piercing by now, so he decided to make it a reality. Wide eyes stared back at him and mouths hung open before everyone busted out laughing.

“I know you fuckin’ lyin’,” Cornbread guffawed, holding his stomach in pain, slapping his shin and everything.

But everyone knew it was real because Stack Moore was just that crazy, and he may be a liar on occasion, but this was certainly the truth.

Therise was up next, but since she declined to get either tattoo or piercing—and was clowned for being too scared—Cornbread followed suit and stood beside his lady.

And that just left Annie and Smoke.

The couple wanted to go in separately. That annoying tension still lingered between every look and every brush to the small of a back. Trembling, Annie sat in the chair, tattooist in front of her with tired eyes and a professional disposition.

“Everything spelled correctly?” she questioned the woman, looking into Annie’s eyes for clarity because she’d been in this business long enough to know plenty of people regretted their tattoos the next morning. But with a firm nod from the birthday girl, she proceeded, applying careful pressure as she etched the tattoo into her skin.

Annie and Smoke emerged from their respective rooms at the same time, eyes meeting with a heavy need for the other. The man analyzed his wife: the ram rod straight quality to her posture, the red teariness of her eyes.

Nothing stood out too much until he looked toward her chest, a curled letter appearing from beneath the neckline of her dress.

“What’d y’all get,” Sammie wondered aloud, asking what everyone was dying to know.

Annie’s eyes took in her husband’s appearance just the same. He was solid like always, quiet like always, but his aura held a thoughtfulness that surrounded her. Then she saw it.

His ring finger was bare.

“Got our anniversary tatted,” he answered the question that was running through his wife’s head, damn near forgetting anyone else existed. He flashed the finger, roman numerals sprawled up the inside of his ring finger. Eyebrows knitting in emotion, he cleared his throat before lifting his shirt sleeve. “Then I got this.”

Annie was near bawling them. Because on the side of his right bicep was a simple line tattoo of the drawing her mother had sent her a picture of on their very first day away from home. Her daughter’s drawing. Her family. Her. Smoke. Babygirl. And that damn field of flowers.

“That’s real nigga shit right there,” Stack exclaimed, applauding his brother, and Annie concurred because damn. She had married a good ass man.

Then all eyes were on her because anticipation of her tattoo was driving them up a wall. But she looked at her husband, smirk littering her lips, beguiling him.

“I want Smoke to see it first,” she hummed, kissing the edge of his mouth. “In private.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

day five

Annie woke up groggy the next morning, fisting the sheets as she stretched alongside her husband. To her left, Smoke snored violently, and a giggle erupted from the back of her throat at the memory it conjured up.

“I can’t believe you did this,” he growled, biting into the flesh of her chest. He felt like his body was combusting from his need for her, the events of the day compounding. He’d been on edge since they woke up, had needed her all throughout the day when she was teasing him with kisses to the jaw or a hand to his thigh. And now, her tattoo was just making it ten times worse.

His name. His birth name. Embedded into her skin. Right above her heart.

“Fuck, you so sexy, girl,” Annie heard him compliment shakily. His eyes were on every part of her, never staying anywhere for too long because he needed to take all of her in.

“I love you, ‘Lijah,” she purred, hands rubbing his bare chest.

“God,” he exhaled, heaving a broken breath. “Don’t talk like that.”

But Annie giggled because she loved to get him riled up like this. She loved it when he felt out of control. When he felt lost. When he wanted to be conquered but fought it nonetheless. She pushed his chest, forcing him to fall back onto the bed.

Her knees met the floor.

“Let me take care of you, Papa,” she cooed, unbuckling his belt. She admired the way he gasped for air, and she praised him when he allowed her to do as she pleased.

His pants down. Her dress removed. Her bra gone.

The newly erected tattoo shown directly above her left breast—his favorite one. He salivated at the sight, propping himself up on shaky elbows as he watched her work. A tongue darted out to lap up the precum from his tip, and she spat on him, lubricating him the best way she knew how.

“You ready,” she questioned softly, jerking the length of him—up and down, up and down.

The honey to her voice had him nodding his head before he even knew what he should be ready for. And when her titties wrapped around his throbbing dick, a cry escaped his throat.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the tattoo, curling script tingling her skin. And then she looked at his right bicep—the drawing—imagining a larger family than the one that was etched there now, imagining vacations and birthdays and slow afternoons, imagining memories yet to be made.

Her sentimentality began to include the memories from the last few days: the set backs, the bumps in the road, the arguments, the fights—but also the love. It was the final day of their vacation, and in a few short hours they would be on their way to the airport and back home, and no matter how challenging some of the events had been, Annie had enjoyed herself. Alongside her family, she’d had fun and created memories to last a lifetime.

Beside her, the man began to rise from his slumber, hands searching for her.

“I’m right here, ‘Lijah,” she hummed, settling herself into his outstretched arms. She was immediately warmed by his naked body, and his distress was soothed by hers. They both shuddered as their limbs tangled.

"Last night," the man croaked, burying his face in her chest.

"I know," she laughed breathily, shivering at his cooling breath and the recollection of how he’d used it on her last night to push her over the edge. Her husband squeezed her waist, took a deep inhale of her.

"You was tryna turn my ass out, girl," he thundered in disbelief, causing them both to bellow loudly, laughing at the memory of Smoke breaking beneath her.

"I didn't try, Papa," she asserted, rising above his body. She straddled his waist, whining her hips against him. Slow movements lulled them both. Heat and desire made themselves home between them once more as her wet arousal spread across his throbbing length. Smoke became mesmerized as Annie leaned down, whispering in his ear. "I did."

After a lazy morning spent taking care of each other one last good time, the couple showered together before walking down to the beach. They had an hour before check out, an hour to soak up a little more sun before heading to the airport. Holding hands, their feet moved in tandem.

"You enjoy yourself, Mama," Smoke wondered aloud, looking at the side of her face for any inkling that the trip’s mishaps had ruined everything. He never thought the trip would happen without bumps in the road. Matter of fact, the entire time Annie worked out her ideas for it, he was fighting the urge to speak his grievances. Now that everything that could possibly go wrong had gone wrong, he fought back the urge to say I told you so.

Humming and pressing her shoulder into his, Annie pondered her answer thoughtfully.

"I've had the best time," she smiled softly, honestly. She met his gaze, grin spreading wide. She rolled her eyes at his expression. "I know you probably feel different—"

"I don't," he clarified, squeezing her hand. "I had my reservations and some of my predictions came true, but it’s been a good trip."

"It has," she affirmed meditatively.

In the distance, they saw their family where the street met the edge of the sandy beach. They waved their arms, Stack shouting the loudest about needing to get to the airport on time.

"As if his ass can say anything about bein' on time," Smoke grunted. He pulled his wife's hand to direct them both back across the street to check out of their hotel. Annie hid a laugh behind her hand, chuckling because day one of their trip had felt so long ago. Memphis. The airport. The long ass TSA line. The texts from Pearline about traffic. The hope that they'd make it on time. The defeat she felt when boarding was called. The relief she felt when she saw them running to the terminal.

"I can't wait for the next trip," she smiled as they made it to stand beside their friends.

"We can't either, girl," Grace grinned, new piercing shining in the sunlight. Her husband gripped her side, smiling down at her.

"Surprisingly, it wasn't too crazy," Therise deadpanned, pulling laughter from the group.

"Yeah, I was on my very best behavior," Cornbread nodded.

"Yeah right, nigga," Stack huffed, crossing his arms under his chest. "Like attempted murder," he shouted, recalling the play-fighting in the ocean on day three. "No one was on their best behavior. Not Grace and Bo," he admonished—for taking every bit of his money at the casino on night three. "Not Pearline and Sammie," he criticized—for bumping and grinding in the club just last night. "Not Smoke," he howled—for having incited the altercation at the pool on day two. "And for damn sure not Mary," he rolled his eyes—for having said something stupid that brought them to fight on the dance floor of the club.

"Welp," Therise hummed, shrugging her shoulders with a giggle. "I guess me and Annie ain't do nothing wrong."

"Oh, please," Stack scoffed, laughing brightly. “You chose to marry Cornbread, so that’s reason enough,” he shouted. The entire family cackled, Cornbread the loudest, holding his smiling wife close. Stack looked toward Annie, grinning at how happy she looked. “Plus,” he added, “it's my best friend's birthday, so she ain't never in the wrong.”

He moved to Annie's side, circling his arms around her and pulling her into a tight hug. The group all hummed in agreement because they were all here for her and her happiness.

"I love y'all to death," she breathed wetly, wiping tears that streamed down her face, and they all pulled her into a big group hug.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

word count: ~11,200!!!

a/n: ugh i love them so muchhh. this was an absolute bitch to revise, so if there are any typos, don't tell meee :3

taglist: comment HERE to be added!

@brownskincheyenne @bigjh @zer0productions @devonda81 @raysogroovy @terayne-4 @hdfen2474 @mbjswife @iiiheartfayee @nifniffy @nuttyinternetprincess @chrome-edition @my-name-is-h-u-m-a-n @sweetalittleselfish-honey @theegyal @known-only-by-the-insane @nanak0matsux @thugger-wugger @voidlesslove @massiv3tr33p3rsona @thefutureemmywinner @thelifeoflagab @itstayleigh @shamansha @margepimpson @everlucivee @katezy2x @chknnwffls @juniooox @milkywayzard @bbymuthaaa @zunibugsiren @strawberrylemonades-stuff @rkiiives @kitesatforestp @saralance03 @wildcardmelaninfreak @thevelvetwhispers @queenofklonnie22 @wakandamama @numb1smokeanniestan @mayday39 @bl3ssyn @blue4everrsworld

[midnightmemoirsofher]

Ready or Not

Series: Ours to Claim

Pairing: Raven × Elias “Stack” × Elijah “Smoke”

Summary: Raven’s due date is getting closer, the nursery is almost ready, and the house is overflowing with pillows, baby books, snacks, and nervous excitement. Between overprotective rules, name debates, and last-minute nesting chaos, Raven, Stack, and Elijah try to enjoy one more quiet day before everything changes.

Warnings: pregnancy, polyamorous relationship, domestic fluff, nervous new dads, mild panic, strong language, family intimacy, soft chaos, and overwhelming parenthood emotions.

The morning arrived quietly, easing into the house through the thin slivers of sunlight peeking around the heavy curtains. The morning light stretched lazily across the dark hardwood floors, climbing the polished legs of the coffee table before settling over what had once been their living room. Now, it belonged almost entirely to Raven.

The couch had long since become decoration. Somewhere over the last few weeks, Elias and Elijah had quietly surrendered the room to her without ever saying the words aloud. It had happened one extra pillow at a time. Another blanket, another body pillow, another snack basket, another charger stretched across the floor until there was barely any evidence the room had once been arranged differently. The transformation had been so gradual that Raven hadn't fully realized how completely they'd given her the space until she woke up one morning surrounded by her things and realized their belongings had migrated to other rooms.

Right in the middle of it all sat what Stack proudly called Raven's Nest.

It wasn't really a nest anymore.

It was a fortress.

A queen-sized pallet covered nearly the entire center of the room, layered with thick comforters and soft quilts, making it look more like a luxury cloud than a place where a person should reasonably sleep. Seven oversized pillows surrounded her in a loose circle, each serving a different purpose that only Raven seemed capable of remembering. One supported her back, another rested beneath her knees, two more cradled either side of her stomach whenever she rolled over, and the remaining pillows existed simply because Stack insisted she "might need 'em."

Three blankets were scattered across the pallet despite it being warm inside the house. Raven had insisted on keeping them nearby even in July, explaining that her body temperature ran hotter than ever now, but she still got chilled easily. The twins had stopped questioning her peculiar pregnancy requests weeks ago, simply nodding and fulfilling whatever strange craving or comfort measure she requested.

A woven basket overflowed with pregnancy snacks. Granola bars, fruit gummies, dried mango slices, peanut butter crackers, applesauce pouches, and the family-sized bag of spicy chips she'd been obsessed with for the last month were all within arm's reach. The chips were a particular obsession – something about the combination of heat and crunch seemed to satisfy some deep primal craving that had emerged around month six.

Several bottles of water stood like little soldiers beside the pallet, each one opened to a different level because, according to Elijah, hydration was now everyone's full-time job. He'd read somewhere that dehydration could trigger early labor, and now he monitored her water intake with the intensity of a scientist conducting a critical experiment.

Baby name books lay open across the blankets, pages marked with colorful sticky notes sticking out in every direction. Raven had been methodically going through name options for weeks, crossing out possibilities, adding new ones, and occasionally waking up in the middle of the night with a sudden inspiration that had to be written down immediately.

A tablet rested face down beside her, its screen dark but ready to provide distraction during the sleepless nights when pregnancy insomnia kept her awake while the rest of the house slept.

Three phone chargers somehow managed to tangle themselves together despite never moving, a mystery of physics that Raven had given up trying to solve.

Raven lay comfortably in the middle of the organized chaos, one hand resting beneath her head while the other absently rubbed slow circles over the enormous curve of her stomach. Her dark skin seemed to glow in the morning light, stretched tight over the life growing within. At thirty-seven weeks, she was enormous – carrying quadruplets would do that to anyone – but somehow she still found herself beautiful when she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her face was fuller, her breasts heavy and dark, and there was a certain power in knowing she was creating life, four lives, all at once.

Thirty-seven weeks.

She could still hardly believe it.

The babies shifted beneath her skin with sleepy little movements that rippled visibly beneath her oversized T-shirt – one of Stack's that barely covered her stomach now. One tiny foot—or maybe a knee—pressed firmly against her side before disappearing again, earning a quiet smile. The movements had become more deliberate lately, less random fluttering and more purposeful shifting, as if they were getting ready for their grand entrance.

"Good morning to y'all too," she murmured, rubbing the spot affectionately. "No karate practice today, please. Mommy's got enough going on."

Across the room, tucked neatly into the corner nearest the fireplace, sat a large unopened cardboard box with "Birth Pool in a Box" printed across the side in bold blue letters. It had been delivered almost two weeks earlier, and Stack had wanted to inflate it the same day. Elijah had talked him out of it after reminding him they still needed somewhere to walk through the living room. Even so, the unopened box had become a quiet reminder that everything was getting very real.

Every time Raven looked at it, she found herself imagining what the room would look like soon. The birth pool inflated near the windows, soft music playing, the lights turned low, the nursery upstairs waiting, four newborn cries filling the house for the first time. The thought made her chest tighten in the best possible way – equal parts excitement and terror, but mostly excitement.

From somewhere upstairs came the muffled sound of a drill, followed by Stack's voice shouting, "Babe!"

Raven smiled before he even finished the sentence. She knew this routine by heart.

"What?" she called back, her voice carrying easily in the quiet morning.

"Don't move!"

She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, a gesture she knew he couldn't see but felt necessary anyway. "I'm literally laying down."

"Good!"

Another burst of drilling echoed overhead, followed by what sounded like something heavy being dropped.

The nursery had become the twins' latest obsession. For the last week, they'd practically moved upstairs, refusing to let Raven help with anything heavier than folding tiny socks. Every morning started exactly the same – Stack found another project, Elijah quietly fixed whatever Stack accidentally measured wrong, then they both came downstairs every twenty minutes to check on Raven as if she'd somehow forgotten how to exist without supervision.

As if summoned by her thoughts, heavy footsteps thundered down the staircase. Elias rounded the corner carrying an empty cardboard box under one arm, his fresh fade still perfectly crisp despite already working all morning. His T-shirt clung lightly across his broad shoulders, a few flecks of sawdust dusting the front. He stopped the moment he saw Raven beginning to shift against the mountain of pillows, his expression immediately shifting to one of concern.

She planted both hands beside herself, preparing to push up. At this point in her pregnancy, even simple movements required strategic planning and execution.

Pushed once.

Then again.

The second her hips lifted off the pallet—

"Sit down."

She looked up slowly, her eyes meeting his. "Elias."

"What?"

"I'm literally getting water."

"Water can wait."

She stared at him, not breaking eye contact. "No, it can't."

"It absolutely can."

"I'm thirsty."

"I'll survive."

"I'm not talking about you."

Before Stack could answer, Elijah appeared behind him, carrying a small toolbox tucked beneath one arm. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his forearms, revealing muscular arms dusted with sawdust, and a pencil was tucked behind one ear. His expression was calmer than Stack's, but no less concerned.

"I'll get it," he said simply, already moving toward the kitchen.

Raven threw both hands into the air in frustration. "I have two perfectly good legs."

"And four babies," Elijah reminded her, disappearing into the kitchen.

"They're still inside!"

"Exactly!"

She huffed dramatically before easing herself back against the mountain of pillows, the movement requiring more effort than she wanted to admit. "Y'all are treating me like glass."

Stack shook his head immediately, setting down the box and moving closer to her pallet. "No."

He paused just long enough for Raven to narrow her eyes.

"...Like expensive china."

The pillow left Raven's hands before she consciously decided to throw it. It flew through the air with surprising accuracy for someone her size.

Stack caught it cleanly against his chest with a grin that spread from ear to ear, showing off his perfect white teeth against his dark skin. "There she is," he laughed. "Aim's still good."

"Oh, you're hilarious."

"I know."

Elijah returned a moment later with one of the already-opened water bottles, unscrewed the cap for her without saying a word, and placed it gently into her hand. His fingers brushed against hers, warm and calloused from his work.

She accepted it with exaggerated annoyance. "I could've done that."

"I know," Elijah said, smiling as he leaned down to kiss her forehead. His lips were warm against her skin.

Raven looked from Elijah to Stack, then around the living room that no longer looked anything like it had months ago. To the birth pool box waiting patiently in the corner. To the baby books scattered across the blankets. To the tiny pair of newborn socks someone had accidentally left on the coffee table. To the two men who had turned the house upside down, making sure she never had to lift more than a bottle of water.

The nursery upstairs was almost finished. Only a few finishing touches remained. Downstairs, though, surrounded by pillows, laughter, and the quiet certainty that she was deeply loved, Raven realized something that made her smile to herself.

The house wasn't waiting for the babies anymore.

It was already becoming their home.

"Are you hungry?" Stack asked, already moving toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer. "I can make those pancakes you like."

"The ones with blueberries?" Raven called after him.

"And chocolate chips," he confirmed from the kitchen. "And whipped cream. And that maple syrup you like."

Elijah sat down on the edge of her pallet, careful not to disturb her arrangement of pillows. He reached out and placed his hand against her stomach, feeling the babies shift beneath his touch. "How are they today?"

"Active," she said, covering his hand with hers. "They had a party around 3 AM. I don't think I slept more than an hour straight."

"Did you try the music?" Elijah asked, his thumb stroking circles over her skin.

"Yeah, it helped for a little while," she said. "Then they decided the lullabies were boring and started doing gymnastics again."

Stack returned from the kitchen with a plate of pancakes that smelled heavenly, topped with exactly what he'd promised. He set it down on the low table beside her pallet along with a fork and napkin.

"You didn't make any for yourself?" Raven asked, already reaching for a piece.

"I'll eat after you," Stack said, sitting on her other side. "Make sure it's good first."

Raven took a bite and closed her eyes in pleasure. "It's perfect," she said around a mouthful of pancake. "As always."

The three of them sat there for a while, Raven eating while the twins watched her with identical expressions of contentment. Sometimes it still amazed her how two people could be so different in personality yet so similar in their devotion to her. Stack was loud and expressive, his love showing in grand gestures and constant attention. Elijah was quieter, his love manifesting in thoughtful gestures and unwavering support. Together, they created a balance that had become her foundation.

When she finished eating, Stack took the plate without being asked and disappeared into the kitchen again. Elijah stayed, his hand still resting on her stomach.

They continued like that for a while, the three of them laughing and talking about the future, occasionally stopping when one of the babies made a particularly strong movement that could be felt by all of them. Outside, the sun climbed higher in the sky, filling the room with warmth and light. The birth pool box seemed to glow in the corner, a silent promise of the changes to come.

Later that afternoon, when the twins went back upstairs to finish the nursery, Raven lay in her nest, surrounded by the evidence of their love. She closed her eyes and placed both hands on her stomach, feeling the four lives moving within her. The house was quiet now, except for the distant sounds of construction overhead and the soft beating of her own heart.

In a few weeks – maybe less – the living room would be transformed again. The birth pool would be inflated, the pillows rearranged to accommodate not just her but the midwives and doulas who would help her through labor. The snacks would be replaced with healing foods for the postpartum period. The baby name books would be put away, their purpose served.

But for now, Raven rested in the center of her fortress, surrounded by love, and felt gratitude so profound it brought tears to her eyes. She had never expected this life, never imagined she could be so happy, so fulfilled, so completely at peace. The babies shifted inside her, a gentle reminder that everything was about to change again.

And she couldn't wait.

The smell of fresh sawdust lingered throughout the upstairs hallway, a scent that had become the unofficial perfume of their home for the past month. It clung to the walls, mixing with the faint, clean scent of baby detergent drifting from the nursery where freshly washed blankets, swaddles, and impossibly tiny onesies had already found their place inside neatly organized drawers. The rhythmic scrape of wooden drawers opening and closing echoed softly through the room as Elijah checked each one for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.

"Top drawer is diapers," he murmured mostly to himself, his dark fingers tracing the neat stacks. "Second is sleepers. Third is swaddles. Fourth is socks, sorted by color and size."

Stack leaned against one of the finished cribs with his arms folded across his chest, watching Elijah reorganize a drawer that already looked perfect. The crib creaked slightly under his weight, a sound that made them both smile. These cribs, solid as oaks, would hopefully withstand four babies over the next couple of years.

"You've folded them three times," Stack said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "They're not getting any more folded than they already are."

"They weren't right," Elijah replied without looking up, adjusting the sleeve of a tiny blue sleeper. "The seams weren't facing outward."

"They looked right."

"They looked acceptable," Elijah corrected, finally sliding the drawer shut with quiet satisfaction before looking around the nursery one more time.

Stack snorted. "See… this is why I don't let you organize the pantry. We'd have cans facing north-south by the time you were done."

"You don't let me?" Elijah raised an eyebrow, turning to face his twin brother.

"You heard what I said," Stack grinned.

Elijah simply smiled, a gesture that always seemed to soften his features. The nursery was almost finished. The walls, painted a warm cream weeks earlier, glowed beneath the morning sunlight spilling through the large window. Four matching cribs stood proudly along opposite walls, each one already dressed with fitted sheets and waiting for the tiny people they'd soon hold. Above them, wooden shelves displayed children's books, stuffed animals, and framed ultrasound pictures that seemed almost unreal now—four tiny beings floating in black and white space, already so real to them.

The rocking chair sat beside the window with a folded knit blanket draped over one arm, a gift from Raven's mother. A small basket of diapers rested beside it, fully stocked. The changing table was organized with military precision—everything within arm's reach but nothing cluttered. The nightlight had already been tested three separate times because Stack insisted every brightness setting felt "different" and wanted to make sure they had options for late-night diaper changes.

Now only the smallest details remained. A few decorative baskets. The mobiles that would hang above each crib. A picture frame waiting for four newborn footprints. And four names.

The twins looked at each other, a silent understanding passing between them as it so often did. After all these years, they could communicate volumes with just a glance.

Almost simultaneously, they spoke.

"…Let's go ask Mama."

Downstairs, Raven had abandoned the couch entirely. She now sat in the middle of her pallet, surrounded by what looked less like a collection of baby books and more like the aftermath of an academic research project. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose bun. The oversized T-shirt she wore—one of Stack's—was stretched over her enormous belly, the fabric thinning in places as if threatening to give up the ghost entirely.

Name books lay open in every direction, pages marked with colorful sticky notes. Loose notebook paper covered in crossed-out names was scattered around her like autumn leaves. Colored pens, highlighters, and more sticky notes formed a chaotic rainbow around her. At the center of it all sat a yellow legal pad with columns labeled Boy One, Boy Two, Boy Three, and Baby Girl. Half the pages had little hearts beside names she'd liked yesterday and aggressively crossed out sometime during the night when pregnancy insomnia had struck with a vengeance.

Pregnancy had made naming four children feel like negotiating an international peace treaty, with Raven as the exhausted mediator between two very opinionated superpowers.

She looked up just as the twins appeared at the bottom of the stairs, their faces hopeful and expectant. "There y'all are," she said, attempting to shift to a more comfortable position and failing miserably.

Stack looked down at the explosion of paper surrounding her. "…Looks like the IRS came and did an audit on your imagination."

Raven picked up the nearest baby book, brandishing it like a weapon. "I'll throw this."

"You probably should," he nodded seriously. "Might improve your aim."

"I definitely will," she grumbled, though they all knew she wouldn't.

Elijah laughed quietly before lowering himself beside her on the pallet, taking care not to disturb her carefully arranged chaos. "You ready?"

She sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her stomach where one of the babies was currently practicing what felt like martial arts. "As ready as I'll ever be. Which is to say, not ready at all, but we're doing it anyway."

Stack plopped down on the opposite side, immediately grabbing one of the books and flipping through pages with purpose. "Alright," he rubbed his hands together. "Today…" He paused for effect. "…we finish this."

Raven laughed, the sound warm and familiar in their living room. "You've been saying that for three weeks."

"This time I mean it," he insisted, his expression earnest.

"You said that last Tuesday."

"I was emotionally unprepared," Stack explained. "Naming is a sacred responsibility. It requires proper mental preparation."

Elijah reached for the legal pad, reading over the current list. "So…" He uncapped a pen. "What do we have?"

Raven pointed toward the top of the page. "Blaze." She smiled, her fingers tracing the letters. "I still love Blaze."

Stack grinned proudly. "Knew you would. Strong name. Fire element. Can't go wrong with fire."

Elijah nodded. "Blaze stays." He drew a perfect circle around the name, his handwriting neat and precise. "Onyx."

Raven's smile softened. "That one's always felt right."

"It has," Elijah agreed, circling it as well. "Deep. Solid. Beautiful."

Two names.

Two tiny people already had identities waiting for them.

The room fell comfortably quiet for a moment, the weight of their decisions settling around them like a warm blanket.

Then Stack cleared his throat dramatically. "I'd like to formally nominate…"

Raven groaned before he even finished. "No."

"…Storm."

"No."

"…Thunder."

"No."

"…Rain."

"No."

"…Hurricane."

Raven stared.

Elijah blinked once. "…Hurricane?"

"What?" Stack looked between them, confused by their reactions. "You serious?"

"You're brainstorming," Elijah said slowly. "You need to stop."

"They're strong names," Stack insisted. "Powerful. Memorable."

"They're natural disasters," Elijah corrected. "We're naming children, not weather patterns."

"They're memorable," Stack repeated.

"They're evacuation orders," Elijah replied flatly.

Raven laughed so hard she had to hold her stomach, the movement causing the babies to shift inside her. "Oh, my God."

"They're gonna love it," Stack continued, warming to his theme. "Imagine the roll call on the first day of school. 'Blaze, Onyx, Khalil, and Hurricane!' No one's gonna forget them."

"They're gonna resent you," Elijah replied. "And possibly us by association."

Stack pointed toward Blaze. "Tell me Blaze and Storm don't sound hard."

"They sound like an energy drink," Elijah said without missing a beat.

"Blaze and Thunder?"

"A monster truck rally."

"Onyx and Rain?"

"A luxury candle collection."

Raven buried her face in one of the pillows, laughing until tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

Once the laughter finally settled, Elijah reached for another notebook. "Let's actually do this." He drew four neat columns. "No interruptions."

Stack raised one finger. "I object."

"Denied."

"We're voting now?"

"We've always been voting."

"I thought I had executive authority." Stack looked genuinely confused.

"You've never had executive authority," Elijah explained patiently.

Raven watched them bicker back and forth, smiling to herself. This had become their rhythm over the past months. Stack throwing ideas into the air just to see what stuck. Elijah quietly grounding every conversation before it spiraled too far. And her… somewhere in the middle, exactly where she belonged.

For the next hour, names filled the page. Amari. Micah. Noah. Sage. Ezra. Zion. Raine. Kairo. Miles. Julian. One by one they were discussed, circled, questioned, crossed out, rewritten. Every name came with a story. Someone they'd known. Someone they'd admired. A meaning they liked. A sound they didn't. Stack vetoed anything that sounded "too soft," while Elijah rejected names that were "too trendy." Raven served as the tie-breaker, her intuition guiding them toward names that felt right.

Eventually, only one boy's name remained untouched. Khalil.

Raven looked at it, her finger tracing the letters. "So…" She glanced between both men. "I think that's him."

Stack nodded before Elijah even answered. "It feels like him."

Without another word, Raven drew one slow circle around Khalil. Three names. Blaze. Onyx. Khalil. Only one space remained on the page. Baby Girl.

Silence settled over the living room, heavier this time. Naming their daughter felt different—more final somehow.

Stack looked at Raven. "So…" He smiled hopefully. "…Rain?"

Raven threw a sticky note at him. He caught it with reflexes that still surprised her sometimes. "I had to try."

Elijah shook his head, laughing. "You are nothing if not committed."

"I've been committed for months," Stack replied. "Emotionally, mentally, and now financially to these tiny humans."

"You've been delusional for months."

"That's rude."

"It's accurate."

The laughter slowly faded again. Raven lowered her eyes to the blank space beneath Baby Girl. She didn't speak. She simply picked up her pen. The room grew unexpectedly still. Neither twin interrupted. Neither asked what she was thinking. The only sound was the quiet scratch of ink against paper.

Slowly…

Carefully…

She wrote one name.

Shiloh.

She stared at it for several seconds, testing the sound of it in her mind. Then quietly slid the notebook toward them.

Neither man spoke immediately.

Elias looked at the name. Then at Elijah. Elijah looked back at him. Both of them smiled at exactly the same time. Not because they had finally settled the debate. Because something about it felt unmistakable. It didn't need explaining. It didn't need defending. It simply belonged.

Stack reached over and rested his hand on top of Raven's. "I think…" His voice was quieter than it had been all morning. "…that's our little girl."

Elijah nodded, his eyes lingering on the name one last time before drawing a careful circle around it. No arguments. No debate. No vote. Just certainty.

For the first time in months, every space on the page was filled.

Blaze.

Onyx.

Khalil.

Shiloh.

Raven rested both hands over her stomach, smiling as four tiny kicks answered from within, almost as if the babies had been listening all along and approved of their choices.

Stack's eyes widened. "You think they approve?"

Raven laughed softly. "I think they were tired of waiting on us to make up our minds."

Elijah leaned over and kissed her forehead before looking back down at the page. Four names. Four babies. For the first time, they weren't talking about the babies anymore. They were talking about Blaze, Onyx, Khalil, and Shiloh.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the living room, bathing Raven's fortress in a warm, golden light that made everything seem softer, more dreamlike. The smell of pancakes still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of the wood polish Stack had used on the nursery furniture that morning. Three empty plates sat on the coffee table, along with three glasses, each bearing different lip prints from where they'd all been sharing Stack's experimental mango smoothie.

Raven lay propped against her mountain of pillows, her feet elevated on a smaller cushion Stack had insisted she needed for "proper blood circulation." The television played some mindless reality show none of them were actually watching, its colorful characters moving silently across the screen while the three of them talked about nothing and everything at once.

"You know," Stack said, stretching his long legs out on the floor beside her pallet, "if we're having four kids, we're gonna need a bigger car."

"We have an SUV," Elijah replied from his spot on the couch, where he was meticulously folding one of the baby blankets for what had to be the tenth time that day.

"An SUV that's gonna smell like spit-up and have crushed goldfish crackers in every crevice within the first month," Stack countered. "We need like… a van. One of those big ones with the TV screens and the individual climate zones."

Raven laughed, shifting slightly to relieve the pressure on her lower back. "So we went from 'expensive china' to 'a minivan'?"

"You're upgrading from china to crystal, baby," Stack grinned, reaching over to rub her stomach. "Only the best for my queen."

The babies shifted under his touch, a ripple of movement visible through the thin fabric of her T-shirt. "They agree," Stack announced seriously. "I can feel their approval. Especially Blaze. He's already planning his road trip playlist."

"Blaze is going to be two weeks old," Elijah reminded him, setting the perfectly folded blanket aside. "He doesn't need a road trip playlist."

"Never too early to start them on good music," Stack argued. "None of that baby shark nonsense. We're starting them on real hip-hop. Old school. Biggie, Tupac, maybe a little Nas for the more sophisticated moments."

Raven smiled, watching them bicker back and forth. The nursery upstairs was ready. The birth pool still sat waiting in its corner. Their lives were about to change in ways they couldn't fully comprehend, and yet here they were, arguing about whether it was appropriate to play explicit rap music around infants.

As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, one of the babies—Khalil, maybe—pressed firmly against her ribs, a steady pressure that made her catch her breath. She shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position, but it was getting harder these days. At thirty-seven weeks with quadruplets, comfort had become a theoretical concept rather than an achievable reality.

"You okay?" Elijah asked immediately, his attention shifting from the blanket to her face.

"Fine," she reassured him. "Just someone practicing their ninja moves in there."

Stack's hand returned to her stomach, his expression softening as he felt the movements. "They're getting restless," he said quietly. "Getting ready to come out and meet us."

The thought sent a strange mixture of excitement and terror through Raven. For months, she had been counting down to this moment—reading every book, watching every documentary, preparing herself mentally and physically for bringing four children into the world. But now that it was actually getting close, the reality of it was settling in. Four babies. Four tiny humans who would depend on her for everything. Four lives she was responsible for nurturing and protecting.

"Hey," Stack said softly, noticing the shift in her expression. "We've got this. All of us."

Elijah nodded in agreement, moving from the couch to sit beside her pallet. "We're a team. Always have been."

Raven looked between them, at the identical expressions of determination on their faces. They had been her rock throughout this pregnancy—through the morning sickness that had lasted well into the second trimester, through the doctor's appointments where they'd learned they were having not just twins or triplets but quadruplets, through the moments when she'd looked at her expanding body and wondered how she would possibly survive the next few months, let alone the next few years.

And they had been there through it all—Stack with his boundless optimism and constant reassurance that everything would be fine, Elijah with his quiet strength and practical solutions to every problem that arose. They had transformed their entire lives to accommodate her and the babies, rearranging their home, their schedules, their priorities without a single complaint.

"I know," she said, reaching out to take both of their hands. "I just... sometimes it feels so big, you know? Four babies. How are we going to do this?"

"One day at a time," Stack answered immediately. "And with a lot of coffee. And possibly a minivan."

"And help," Elijah added. "Your mom and dad already offered to come stay for the first month. We're not doing this alone."

"Never alone," Stack agreed, squeezing her hand. "You've got us. Always."

The television continued to play in the background, its bright colors flickering across their faces as they sat there in the quiet afternoon, hands joined, hearts connected. Outside, the world went on—cars passing by, neighbors returning home from work, life continuing its steady rhythm. But here in their living room, time seemed to slow, stretching into something precious and fragile.

Raven felt a sudden surge of love for these two men who had become her everything. They hadn't planned this, hadn't expected to become fathers so soon, hadn't anticipated the chaos that was about to descend upon their lives. And yet, here they were, ready and willing to embrace it all because of her, because of the four tiny lives growing inside her.

"Thank you," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion.

"For what?" Stack asked, confused.

"For everything," she replied, her gaze moving between them. "For being you. For being here. For..."

She paused as another sensation rippled through her body—different this time, deeper and more purposeful than the usual movements. It wasn't painful, not exactly, but it demanded her attention in a way that nothing had before.

"What?" Elijah asked immediately, his expression shifting to concern. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she started to say, but then it happened again—a strange internal pop followed by a sudden warmth that spread quickly through her lower body.

She froze.

The television continued to play, the reality show's dramatic music swelling as if on cue. Stack and Elijah watched her, waiting for an explanation she wasn't sure she could provide.

"Raven?" Elijah prompted gently.

She looked down at herself, at the dark fabric of her T-shirt where it stretched over her stomach, then back up at them. Her mind raced, trying to process what had just happened, to connect the sensation with the reality she'd been reading about for months.

"I think…" she began, her voice barely above a whisper.

Beat.

"My water broke."

Silence.

The television seemed to grow louder, the reality show's contestants arguing about something that suddenly seemed utterly trivial. The late afternoon sunlight continued to stream through the windows, casting everything in that same golden glow as if nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

Then—

Absolute chaos.

Stack shot up from the floor so quickly he nearly tripped over his own feet. "Now? Like right now? Are you sure?"

Elijah was already moving, his expression calm but his movements purposeful. "When did it happen? Are you having contractions? How far apart are they?"

"I don't know!" Raven answered, her voice rising with panic. "It just happened! Like five seconds ago!"

"The bag!" Stack shouted, already running toward the kitchen. "Where's the go bag? We packed the go bag, right? Elijah, we packed the go bag?"

"We have four go bags," Elijah replied calmly, already pulling out his phone. "One for each baby, one for Raven, and one for us. They're all in the hall closet."

"The birth pool!" Stack continued, his voice echoing through the house. "We need to inflate the birth pool! Where's the pump? Did we buy a pump?"

"It's in the box with the pool," Elijah said, dialing the midwife. "I'll get it after I call Sarah."

"Sarah!" Stack repeated, running back into the living room. "We need to call Sarah! And your mom! And my mom! And your dad! And—"

"Stack," Elijah said, his voice cutting through the panic. "Breathe."

But Stack couldn't breathe. He was already pacing the length of the living room, his long legs eating up the space as he muttered to himself about towels and heating pads and whether they had enough snacks for the midwives.

Raven watched him, a strange mixture of amusement and terror warring within her. This was it—the moment they'd been preparing for, the moment that would change everything. And somehow, it was both exactly as she'd imagined and completely different.

"Hey," she said, her voice cutting through Stack's frantic pacing. He stopped immediately, turning to face her.

"It's okay," she said, holding out a hand to him. "We're okay."

He crossed the room in three long strides, dropping to his knees beside her pallet and taking her hand. "Are you sure? Are you really sure your water broke? Like, are you positive positive?"

"Pretty positive positive," she replied with a small smile. "I don't usually experience spontaneous warming sensations in that particular area."

Elijah ended his call and rejoined them, his expression calm and reassuring. "Sarah's on her way. She said to try to stay calm, that it could still be a while before things really get going. She wants us to start timing the contractions if they start."

"Contractions," Stack repeated, his eyes widening. "Right. Contractions. We need to time them. Does anyone have a watch? Or a timer? Or—"

"I've got it," Elijah said, already pulling up an app on his phone. "Just breathe, 'Lias. We've got this."

Raven looked between them—at Stack's panicked energy and Elijah's calm determination—and felt a surge of confidence wash over her. They were ready. They had been ready for months, even if it didn't always feel like it. The nursery was finished, the birth pool was waiting, and most importantly, they had each other.

"Okay," she said, taking a deep breath. "Let's do this."

Stack's expression shifted from panic to determination in an instant. "Yeah," he nodded. "Let's do this. Let's inflate that pool. Let's get this show on the road. Blaze, Onyx, Khalil, and Shiloh are about to meet the world."

As if on cue, another sensation rippled through Raven's body—this one stronger, more insistent, undeniably a contraction. She gasped slightly, her fingers tightening around Stack's hand.

"Was that one?" Stack asked, his eyes wide with excitement and fear.

"Timer started," Elijah replied, his gaze fixed on his phone.

Raven nodded, breathing through the sensation as she'd practiced in the birthing classes they'd all attended together. "Yeah," she said, her voice steady despite the intensity building within her. "That was definitely one."

The television continued to play in the background, its colorful characters moving silently across the screen. But the three of them were no longer watching. Their world had narrowed to this room, to this moment, to the journey that was just beginning.

The birth pool waited in the corner, a silent promise of the work ahead. The nursery upstairs stood ready, four empty cribs waiting to be filled. And in the center of it all, Raven lay surrounded by the two men who had become her family, her lovers, her everything, ready to bring four new lives into the world.

It wasn't how she'd imagined it would happen—not this sudden, this chaotic, this real. But as another contraction rippled through her body, she knew with certainty that it was exactly how it was supposed to be.

Their babies were coming.

The moment the word "contractions" left Elijah's mouth, Stack's brain short-circuited.

It wasn't a gradual decline into panic. It was a sudden, catastrophic system failure, like a power line snapping in a storm. One minute he was kneeling beside Raven, holding her hand with the confident swagger of a man who had read all the books and attended all the classes. The next, he was on his feet, his eyes wide with the kind of terror usually reserved for horror movie protagonists.

"Shoes," he announced to the room at large, his voice cracking slightly. "I need shoes. Where are my shoes?"

Raven, who was breathing through another wave of tightening in her belly, managed to crack a smile. "Babe, you're wearing shoes."

Stack looked down at his bare feet, then back up at her, his expression utterly bewildered. "No, not these shoes. My hospital shoes. The comfortable ones. Where are they?"

"They're in the closet," Elijah said calmly, not looking up from his phone where he was already opening the contraction timer app. "With the rest of your shoes."

"The closet!" Stack snapped his fingers, already moving. "Right. Okay. Phone. I need my phone."

Raven watched him pat his pockets frantically, a genuine laugh bubbling up between contractions. "Stack, honey."

"I can't find it," he muttered, already tearing apart the couch cushions. "I had it like five seconds ago. I think I lost it."

"Stack," she tried again, her voice strained as another contraction built. "Look at your hand."

He glanced down, where his phone was clutched in a white-knuckled grip. "Oh. Right. Okay. Good. Phone's accounted for." His eyes darted around the room. "The go bags! We need the go bags! Elijah, did you grab the go bags?"

"I'm on it," Elijah replied, already heading for the hall closet. "You need to stay calm, 'Lias. Panicking isn't going to help."

"I'm not panicking!" Stack shouted, his voice echoing through the house. "I'm being proactive! I'm preparing! Where's the birth playlist? I spent three weeks curating that playlist! It's got the perfect mix of hip-hop and R&B for delivery and some softer stuff for after!"

"It's on your phone," Raven managed, squeezing her eyes shut as the contraction peaked. "The one you're holding."

"Right!" He tapped frantically at the screen. "Okay. Birth playlist... located. Keys! We need the car keys! Where are the keys?"

"On the hook by the door," Elijah called out, emerging with two of the go bags. "Where they always are."

"The hook!" Stack nodded, already moving toward the door. "Right. Okay. Keys, shoes, phone, playlist, bags... what else? What am I forgetting?"

Raven opened her mouth to answer but was cut off by another contraction, this one stronger than the last. "Oh, shit," she breathed, her fingers digging into the pillow beneath her.

That was all it took for Elijah's focus to sharpen. His calm demeanor shifted into something else—laser-focused, precise, the controlled force they all knew him for. "Okay," he said, his voice dropping into that low, steady register that always made everyone listen. "New plan. Stack, breathe. Raven, breathe with me. In through the nose, out through the mouth."

He was already moving, pulling out his phone again. "I'm calling Sarah again," he said, already dialing. "Then I'll call the birth assistant. Stack, I need you to get the towels from the linen closet. The dark blue ones. And then start filling the birth pool."

"On it," Stack nodded, his movements jerky and frantic as he headed for the linen closet.

Raven watched them, a strange mixture of pain and amusement warring within her. Here she was, in active labor, and her life had become a comedy routine.

"Sarah's on her way," Elijah said, ending the call. "She said to try to relax as much as possible between contractions. She wants us to keep timing them and let her know if they get closer than five minutes." He was already moving again, checking the supplies they had laid out weeks ago—gloves, gauze, scissors, bulb syringes, all arranged neatly on a tray beside the birth pool box.

"Pool's filling!" Stack called from the corner, where he was wrestling with the pump hose. "This thing is more complicated than it looks! Why does it have so many attachments?"

"Read the instructions," Elijah replied without missing a beat, already pulling out the diffuser and adding lavender oil. "Raven, do you want some water? You need to stay hydrated."

She nodded, unable to speak as another contraction washed over her. Elijah was there immediately, holding the bottle to her lips, his free hand rubbing her back in slow, steady circles.

"That's it," he murmured. "Just breathe through it. You're doing great."

By the time the contraction subsided, Stack had managed to get the pool partially inflated and was now checking the water temperature with a thermometer he'd found God knows where. "Ninety-eight degrees," he announced proudly. "Perfect for birthing."

"Good," Elijah nodded, already on his next task. "I'm calling the birth assistant. Stack, once the pool is filled, I need you to bring Raven some snacks. Nothing too heavy, maybe some of those dried mango slices she likes."

"On it," Stack saluted in a cringy nervous way, his movements still frantic but somehow more purposeful now. "Mango slices. Got it."

Raven watched them move around the room, a machine of panic and precision. Stack was all nervous energy, his movements sharp and jerky as he bounced between tasks, while Elijah was the calm center of the storm, his actions controlled and on point. Together, they were somehow keeping everything from falling apart.

The doorbell rang twenty minutes later, and both men froze.

"That's Sarah," Elijah said, already moving toward the door. "Stack, stay with Raven. I'll let her in."

Raven looked up as the door opened, revealing a tall, imposing woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense expression. Sarah took in the scene with a single sweeping glance—Raven on the pallet, Stack hovering beside her with a look of pure terror, Elijah moving to greet her with an air of calm efficiency.

"Alright," Sarah said, her voice warm but firm. "Let's see what we've got here." She stepped inside, setting her bag down beside the door. "Who's panicking?"

Stack's hand shot up before he even thought about it.

Sarah's lips twitched with a smile. "Alright, Stack. You're on official panic duty. That means you get to be my special helper. Your first job is to take deep breaths whenever you feel yourself starting to spiral. Can you do that for me?"

He nodded, looking slightly ashamed. "Yeah. I can do that."

"Good," she nodded, already moving toward Raven. "Now let's see how our mama is doing."

Raven smiled up at her, grateful for the steady presence. "I'm okay," she said, just as another contraction began to build. "Or I will be. Eventually."

Sarah knelt beside her, placing a cool hand on her forehead. "That's it," she said softly. "Just breathe through it. You're doing amazing." She glanced over at Elijah, who was already taking notes on his phone. "How far apart are they?"

"About six minutes now," Elijah replied. "They started around fifteen minutes apart, but they've been getting closer."

"Good," Sarah nodded. "That's exactly what we want to see. Stack, how's that pool coming?"

"Almost ready!" he called from the corner, where he was struggling with the final inflation. "Just need to top it off and check the temperature again!"

"Perfect," Sarah smiled. "Elijah, I need you to bring me the birth stool and the kneeling pad. And then I want you to make Raven some tea—raspberry leaf, if we have it. It'll help with uterine tone."

"On it," Elijah nodded, already moving toward the kitchen.

Raven watched them all, her heart swelling with a love so intense it almost hurt.

"You're all crazy," she said, her voice thick with emotion as the contraction subsided.

"We're your crazy," Sarah replied, smoothing back her hair. "And we wouldn't have it any other way."

The doorbell rang again, and Elijah went to let in the birth assistant—a cheerful woman named Maria who immediately took over the task of finishing the pool setup while Sarah continued to assess Raven's progress.

By the time the sun began to set, casting the room in a warm, orange glow, the birth pool was ready, the diffuser was filling the air with calming lavender, and Raven was surrounded by her team—her chaotic, loving, perfectly imperfect team.

Stack had somehow managed to pull himself together, his panic replaced by a fierce determination as he held her hand through each contraction, his voice steady as he coached her breathing. Elijah moved between tasks with quiet efficiency, always seeming to know what was needed before anyone even asked. Sarah and Maria worked together seamlessly, their presence both reassuring and empowering.

"Okay," she said, her voice firm as the contraction peaked. "I think it's time to get in the water."

Sarah nodded, already moving to help her up. "I think you're right."

And as they helped her into the warm, welcoming water of the pool, Raven felt a sense of peace wash over her. The chaos had settled into a rhythm, the panic had transformed into purpose, and the love that had brought them all to this moment was stronger than ever.

The babies were coming.

The water was exactly the temperature Raven had imagined—warm enough to soothe but not so hot as to be uncomfortable. It enveloped her body, supporting her weight in a way that nothing else had for months. Behind her, Elijah's chest was a solid wall of muscle, his arms wrapped securely around her middle, his hands resting on the swell of her belly. In front of her, Stack knelt by the edge of the pool, his fingers laced through hers, his dark eyes never leaving her face.

No rushing. That's what Sarah had said. This was their baby's journey, and they would let it unfold at its own pace.

Hours passed.

The first hour was almost peaceful, the contractions still manageable enough that Raven could talk through them. Stack kept up a steady stream of commentary, pointing out which songs from his carefully curated playlist were coming on, making jokes about how the babies were definitely going to have excellent taste in music thanks to his influence.

"They're gonna come out rapping Biggie," he declared, squeezing her hand as a contraction built. "I can feel it. Blaze is already practicing his flow in there."

Raven laughed, the sound breathless but genuine. "Blaze is going to be a newborn, Stack. He's not going to be rapping anything."

"Never too early to start," he insisted. "We'll have him freestyling by kindergarten. Onyx can be his hype man."

Elijah's chuckle vibrated against her back. "Let's focus on getting them out first before we start planning their entertainment careers."

The second hour brought stronger contractions, waves of intensity that stole Raven's breath and left her clinging to Stack's hand. The music shifted from Stack's hip-hop playlist to something softer, more ambient, the change so natural that Raven didn't even notice until she found herself swaying to the gentle rhythm between contractions.

"Look at you," Elijah murmured against her ear, his hands rubbing slow circles over her lower back. "You're amazing. Just feeling what your body needs to do and letting it happen."

"I'm trying," she gasped as another contraction peaked, her body arching against his chest. "Oh, God, this is intense."

"You're doing great, mama," Stack reassured her, his voice steady as he pressed her hand to his lips. "Just breathe with me. In... and out. That's it. You're so strong, baby. So fucking strong."

The lighting in the room changed as the afternoon sun began to set, Sarah adjusting the lamps until the living room was bathed in a soft, golden glow that made everything feel dreamlike and intimate. The birth pool had become the center of their world, the focal point around which everything else revolved. The nursery waited upstairs, four empty cribs standing ready, but here in the living room, life was being made.

By the third hour, Raven was in another world entirely. The contractions came like tidal waves, building slowly, cresting with an intensity that bordered on pain, then receding just enough for her to catch her breath before the next one began. She was no longer laughing. She was crying sometimes, tears of exhaustion and emotion streaming down her face as she rode out each wave.

"Fuck," she sobbed against Stack's shoulder as a particularly strong contraction gripped her. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"I deserve that," Stack said immediately, his voice gentle as he wiped her tears with his thumb. "I deserve every curse word you've got. Keep 'em coming if it helps."

"So do I," Elijah added from behind her, his hands never ceasing their steady massage. "We put you in this position. You can blame us all you want."

The fourth hour brought darkness outside, the moon rising in the sky as their intimate world inside continued to unfold. The twins never left Raven's side. Ever. One always behind her, supporting her weight, massaging her back, whispering encouragement in her ear. One always in front, holding her hand, helping her breathe, reminding her how strong she was, how loved she was.

Sometimes she was laughing, especially when Stack started making ridiculous faces to distract her during the peaks of contractions. Sometimes she was crying, overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensations and the emotions coursing through her. Sometimes she was cursing both of them, her vocabulary expanding in ways she didn't know was possible as she rode out each wave.

"I hate you," she snarled at Elijah during one particularly intense contraction, her fingers digging into his arm where it wrapped around her middle. "I hate both of you so much right now."

"I know," he replied, his voice calm and steady. "And we love you more than you can imagine. Just a little longer, baby. You're doing so well."

The doula coached everyone from her position by the side of the pool, her voice a quiet presence that guided them through the process. "That's it, Raven. Let your body do what it knows how to do. Don't fight it. Just breathe with it."

Sarah moved around them, checking Raven's progress, adjusting the water temperature, making sure everyone had what they needed. Maria, the birth assistant, was a constant reassuring presence, offering cool cloths, sips of water, quiet words of encouragement.

"You're almost there, baby," Elijah murmured against her ear as another contraction gripped her. "I can feel you changing. Our babies are getting ready to meet us."

Raven nodded, too exhausted to speak, her head resting against his chest as she focused on breathing through the intensity. Stack kissed her hand, his eyes never leaving her face.

"We're right here," he said softly. "We're not going anywhere. We've got you, always."

It was during the fifth hour that Elijah pulled out his phone, his expression thoughtful as he looked at Raven. "I want to call your parents," he said quietly. "I think they should be here for this."

Raven's eyes widened. "Here? As in... here here?"

"Just on FaceTime," he reassured her. "They don't have to see everything if you don't want them to. But I think they should be able to see you bringing their grandchildren into the world."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay," she breathed, just as another contraction began to build. "But don't tell them... you know."

"They're in for a surprise either way," Stack grinned, already adjusting his position to give her more support. "Let's make it a big one."

Elijah dialed, his expression calm as he waited for them to pick up. Raven took a deep breath, trying to prepare herself for this conversation while riding out another wave of intensity.

"Hello?" Her mother's face appeared on the screen, her expression curious. "Elijah? Is everything okay?"

"Everything's more than okay," Elijah replied, turning the phone so Raven's face was visible. "Raven's in labor."

"What?" Her father's face appeared beside her mother's, his eyes wide. "Now? Like right now?"

"Like right now," Raven managed, her voice strained as the contraction peaked. "Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad."

"Oh, baby," her mother breathed, her hands covering her mouth. "Are you okay? How far along are you?"

"Pretty far along," Stack answered for her, his voice gentle. "She's doing amazing. Really strong."

"Can we... can we see?" her father asked, his voice thick with emotion.

Elijah looked at Raven, who nodded slowly. He adjusted the camera, giving them a view of her face and upper body, careful to keep the water level and anything too private out of frame.

"There," Elijah said softly. "Can you see her?"

"Oh, honey," her mother whispered, tears already streaming down her face. "You look so beautiful."

"We're so proud of you," her father added, his voice thick with emotion. "Just breathe, baby. You're doing great."

The next contraction hit hard, and Raven cried out, her body arching against Elijah's chest. "I can't," she sobbed. "I can't do this anymore."

"Yes, you can," Stack said immediately, his voice firm but gentle. "You're doing it right now. Look at you. You're the strongest person I've ever known."

"You're almost there, baby," Elijah murmured against her ear. "Our babies are getting ready to meet us. And their grandparents."

Raven looked at the phone, at her parents' tear-streaked faces watching her with expressions of love and pride. She took a deep breath, letting their strength flow through her, giving her the resolve to keep going.

"Okay," she breathed, as the contraction began to subside. "Okay. I can do this."

The next hour was a blur of intensity and emotion. Raven moved from her side to her hands and knees, leaning against Elijah as Stack rubbed her back, his hands steady and sure. The contractions came one after another now, barely giving her time to catch her breath between them.

"I feel like I need to push," she panted, her body bearing down instinctively. "Oh, God, I need to push."

Sarah was immediately beside her, her voice calm and reassuring. "Listen to your body, Raven. If you need to push, push. But let's do it gently. Let our babies come down in their own time."

Raven nodded, her eyes closing as the next contraction gripped her. She bore down, her body working with a wisdom all its own, opening and releasing in ancient rhythm.

"That's it," Elijah encouraged, his hands supporting her weight. "Just like that. You're doing it. You're bringing our babies into the world."

Stack kissed her shoulder, his lips warm against her skin. On the phone, her parents watched in silence, their faces a mixture of awe and emotion as they witnessed their daughter bringing new life into the world.

"I can see the head!" Sarah announced excitedly. "Raven, you're doing it! Our first baby is almost here!"

Raven cried out, a sound of effort and emotion as she pushed with everything she had. And then, suddenly, there was a release, a moment of emptiness followed by the first cry.

"It's a boy!" Sarah announced, lifting a tiny, wriggling body from the water. "Blaze is here!"

Raven turned, her eyes wide as she saw their first child for the first time—a dark, perfect little being, already crying his indignation at being born into the world.

"Oh, God," she breathed, tears streaming down her face. "He's beautiful. He's so beautiful."

Elijah kissed her forehead, his own eyes wet with emotion. "He's perfect. Just like his mother."

Stack was already reaching for the baby, his hands gentle as he took him from Sarah. "Hey there, little man," he murmured, holding the tiny body close. "Welcome to the world. We've been waiting for you."

On the phone, Raven's parents were crying openly, their faces alight with joy and wonder. "Oh, honey," her mother sobbed. "He's beautiful. Absolutely beautiful."

But there was no time to rest. Already, another contraction was building, Raven's body already working to bring their next child into the world.

"Here we go again," she breathed, leaning back against Elijah's chest. "Okay. I'm ready."

The second baby came more quickly than the first, Raven's body already knowing what to do, opening and releasing with practiced efficiency.

"And another boy!" Sarah announced as the second baby emerged into the water. "Onyx is here!"

Raven laughed through her tears as Stack passed Blaze to Elijah so he could hold their second son. "Two boys," she breathed, her heart overflowing with love and wonder. "We have two boys."

"We have two sons," Elijah corrected, his voice thick with emotion as he held both babies, his expression one of pure awe. "Our sons."

But still, Raven's body wasn't finished. Another contraction gripped her, and she bore down again, her strength already waning but her determination stronger than ever.

"Come on, baby," Stack encouraged, his hand rubbing her back in steady circles. "You've got this. Just one more push."

"One more," she panted, her body working with a will of its own. "One more."

The third baby emerged with a rush of water, another cry joining the chorus as Sarah announced, "Another boy! Khalil is here!"

"Three boys," Raven breathed, her body trembling with exhaustion and emotion. "Oh, God, three boys."

Stack was already reaching for their third son, his hands gentle as he took him from Sarah. "Hey there, little man," he murmured, kissing the tiny forehead. "Welcome to the family. You've got a lot of brothers to keep up with."

On the phone, her parents were speechless, their faces a mixture of shock and joy as they tried to process what they were witnessing. "Three?" her father managed, his voice thick with disbelief. "You're having three?"

Raven started to laugh, but it was cut short by another contraction, stronger than all the others.

"There's another one," she gasped, her eyes wide with surprise. "Oh, God, there's another one."

"What?" her mother shrieked on the phone. "Another one? Raven, what's going on?"

"Surprise," Stack grinned, even as his expression turned serious. "You might want to sit down for this one."

Raven bore down with everything she had left, her body screaming in protest but her spirit pushing forward, determined to meet their final child.

"And a girl!" Sarah announced triumphantly as the fourth baby emerged into the water. "Shiloh is here! You have a daughter!"

Raven cried out, a sound of pure joy and relief as their final child joined their family. "A girl," she breathed, tears streaming down her face. "We have a girl."

Stack was already reaching for their daughter, his hands gentle as he took her from Sarah. "Hey there, princess," he murmured, holding her close. "Welcome to the world. Your brothers have been waiting for you."

On the phone, her parents were completely speechless, their faces a mixture of shock, joy, and disbelief as they tried to process what they were witnessing.

"Four?" her father finally managed, his voice thick with awe. "You're having four babies?"

"Four," Raven confirmed, her body trembling with exhaustion but her heart overflowing with love. "We have four babies."

Elijah carefully passed Blaze and Onyx to Maria, then reached for Khalil and Shiloh, his arms full as he held their two newest children. "We have a family," he breathed, his eyes wet with emotion as he looked at Raven. "We have everything."

Raven leaned over the side of the pool, her body exhausted but her spirit soaring as she looked at the four tiny beings who had changed everything. Four perfect, beautiful babies who had made their family complete.

"We have everything," she agreed, her voice thick with emotion as Stack kissed her, his lips gentle against hers. "We have everything."

 @blyffe @transparentphantomface @daddysmoke @championshipshade @christinabae @og-goddesstrill @writingsbytee @bananajoeclone @psychicafrorainbow @blowmymbackout @storiesbyasl  @bananajoeclone @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @nayys-world @monstaxmomma0 @kimmiedream @hotebonynearby @underated345-blog @xeniaonvenus @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kindofaintrovert @mmbee675 @bestleowoman2exist

[nika324]

🇧🇷 You Stayin.’ 🇧🇷

Part 1 of 2.

Description: In dire need of a break and for a friend’s birthday, twenty six year elementary teacher Anastasie ‘Annie’ Celestine and her girls head to Rio De Janeiro for Carnival. On the connecting flight from Atlanta to Rio, she locks eyes with the strange man in Business Class. After a brief 36 hour tryst, she promises to keep in touch with him. But… she didn’t. And Elijah hated when people broke their promises.

CW: 🔞Mentions of pregnancy loss. Smut. Profanity. Smoke is doing too much too soon. Slight possiveness.

A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87349321

Chapter Word Count: 6,900

Story Notes: It may seem like a lot bc there is a lot of moving parts (which is why I lost some writing steam) but I think it will make sense in the end. Well, i hope. 💀💀💀 Everything and everybody has a role and I’m trying to lay specific groundwork. Also for the purpose of this story, I am spelling Brasil with a Z because that is how most Americans spell it but after visiting, the ppl of Brasil respectfully want us to spell it with an S and they will let you knoooow that lol. As they should.

Inspo/credit: I had the idea and the location/setting is inspired by comments from @brownskincheyenne and @mai4u . Thank you to @lizbehave & @brownskincheyenne for letting me bounce ideas off of them. 💛

A/N: Ola! 🇧🇷 Part 2 (there wasn’t supposed to be a part 2 😭☹️) will be out soon within the week; it is done. I just need to edit grammar. And noooo i’m not lying, friends. lol. Mkay bye. 💛

🏝️🏖️🛫

Jordyn paused her hops around the classroom, her hair beads knocking to a stop. The seven year old was scheduled to be at recess with the rest of her classmates but as usual, she opted to hang with Annie instead. Their relationship wasn’t the standard student- teacher. Jordyn’s mom, Jazmine, and Annie both went to the same middle and high schools.

The busy mom was more than elated when she attended Open House night at the start of the school year to find Jordyn’s name under Annie’s on the pamphlet.

And when Jazmine miscarried her identical twins over Christmas break, Annie had been the one to check in on them daily. Jordyn was a chunky lil thing.

Thick fro, sable brown skin, with a distinctive birthmark. A gray patch of hair along her hairline. “Ms. Celestine?” Her little face was inquisitive.

Annie looked over at the little girl who was still out of breath from her marathon around the classroom.

“Hm?” Annie hummed as she wiped the whiteboard clean of the day’s evidence. From the look of curiosity on Jordyn’s face, the woman anticipated something borderline inappropriate and or slightly offensive. Maybe both.

“When you go-gonna get to get marry and have a baby like my mom?”

She was right. Not appropriate.

The teacher padded over to the young girl. Her black strapless maxi dress moved with her every step while the keys on her braided lanyard bounced rhythmically.

“Jordyn, it’s not nice to ask grown ups this question, baby.” She patted the top of the girl’s head. “And sometimes… some ladies don’t want to get married and that’s okay too.” Annie reasoned.

The child pondered and Annie saw her wheels churning.

“Sorry.” A little pout formed on her two toned lips. “But I think you gonna have a baby soon. A girl! Like me.”

Annie relented. “Come on, recess is almost ova’. “

————————————————————————

Annie’s car keys clattered on the end table. Twenty four hours from now, she’d be on an airplane to Rio and she still wasn’t packed. She didn’t even know where her passport was because she spent most of her time planning the actual itinerary. An incoming facetime came through. Tisha and Kym.

“What time we need to be at the airport?”

Kym was more than Annie’s friend.

The two women had been inseparable since their college days at Tulane University and now they were both teachers. Kym taught eighth grade at a private catholic school, her everyday far different than Annie’s who taught second grade at Langston Hughes Charter School.

She sighed. “Let’s be there for nine in the mornin’ tomorrow.”

Though Kym and Tisha were miles apart from each and both at their respective apartments, they both made the same exact displeased face at the same time.

“Ann, our plane from hea’ to Atlanta don’t take off until 1pm… “

Annie stopped rummaging in her walk in closet for her passport to place her annoyed face into the camera. “And?” Her eyebrow raised.

The two women didn’t push any further seeing as how Annie was in control of their tickets and everything else.

Her doe eyes fixed them with a pointed look. “Ya’ll two betta’ be on time or I’m canceling ya’ll tickets.”

————————————————————————-

📍 Atlanta Airport. 📍

The quick two hour flight from New Orleans to Georgia breezed by for the group of friends. Flight attendants saw them in matching leopard print two piece sets and quickly determined that the three had to be celebrating something.

Once Kym briefly mentioned that it was her birthday, the drinks were in abundance.

Now, tipsy and needing to pee, they each took turns watching all of their purses while they went to the restroom one by one. Annie sat on the dark blue colored chair with her knees under herself as she spoke with her mom and balanced a lemonade from Popeyes in her free hand.

A neutral robotic voice came through the overhead speakers.

“Gooooood evening, ladies and gentleman. It’s your gate agent Seth and I’m here with my lovely colleague Yolanda.

Delta welcomes you to gate C44 for flight 4535 to Rio De Janeiro. Boarding will commence shortly.”

Her mother, Josephine, whom was on the other end of the line and hundreds of miles away heard the loud announcement as well. The fifty year old woman certainly had her reservations about her only child traveling so far away from home but her bones rested in the fact that Annie was never alone. Even if she was the only physical being standing in a room, she’d always have company. Josephine and her mother, Ann-Marie, made sure of that.

But something or someone told her, showed her-that this trip would be good to her daughter in more ways than one.

“You watch yaself out there na’. Pray your protections everyday. You and them girls stick together like ya was born together.

Ya hear me?”

Annie began packing up her carryon and headed towards the trashcan to toss her half eaten meal. “I hear you, mama.”

A couple hundred feet away at an empty gate of a recently departed flight to Amsterdam, Elijah sat, his deep brown pools tracking the Delta app for his boarding status. Being an active entrepreneur afforded him many things such as a last minute $7,000 business class ticket to Rio. As it turns out, car dealerships and gas stations provided well. Real well. His cracked Iphone vibrated in his large palm. Stack.

A janitor stood right in front of him to empty a trashcan. But in his peripheral, he saw her. He saw the way her braids bounced with her every step towards the nearby garbage can on the side of her seat. Smooth dark skin shining under the lights. He was captivated but to anyone walking past the stoic man, they still wouldn’t have known. Stack was still on the line after saying his brother’s name for the third time. “Smoke!”

Elijah tore his eyes from Annie to look out of the window at the massive parked airplane.

“Yeah?” He tried to remain nonchalant.

Elias asked his question for the fourth time. “You need me out there?”

An announcement from a woman over the intercom cut in. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now boarding military personal and Delta One passengers for flight 4535 to Rio De Janeiro.”

Smoke grabbed his carryon and headed towards the gate. “No, ion need you.”

The call was disconnected before Elias could respond. A text quickly followed.

Stack 💸: Fuck you too nigga. Be safe.

Smoke 💨: I will.

Annie and Kym were standing with their bags in hand while Tisha rushed to the restroom last minute. Goosebumps formed on Annie’s forearms but she didn’t know why.

Shortly after, Tisha returned with the entire stock of bathroom napkins in tow as she strolled over to her friends with a grin that usually indicated that she was up to no good.

Tisha placed her bag on the chair in front of her so she could readjust her clothes and apply a bit of carmex to her pouty lips. “Ann! Ol’ boy in the blue sweats been eyeing you for damn near ten hours. You ain’t see it?!” Both Annie and Kym looked at her in confusion and slight annoyance when they saw all of the paper towels in her bag. “Turn around and look to ya left.”

Annie slightly craned her neck before Tisha stopped her. “Wait, girl. Don’t make it obvious because his ass still looking.”

But Annie didn’t care. She never did.

The repeated sound of boarding passes being scanned provided the perfect cover as all three women surveilled all of the passengers at the gate.

Annie took in the surroundings and stopped, only to find Elijah gawking at her unapologetially as he held up the boarding line for the other business class customers.

He gave her one piercing glance over from head to toe and nodded to himself as he if he were answering a question. One of the gate agents stepped in.

“Mr. Moore, if we can please have you head this way down the jet bridge, please.” The worker motioned towards the steel door but as with everything else in his life, Elijah took his sweet time. Kym looked over at Annie who still hadn’t move from her place. “Bittttcchhh. He is eye fucking you. The fuck goin’ on right na’?”

Neither of them said or did anything as they continued to stare at each other mercesilly. Annie broke the contact first so that she could unplug and untangle her charger from the seat. After a solid minute, his grip tightened on the shoulder strap of his carryon before walking through the boarding door.

By hour four of the nine hour flight, all three women started to feel it. They were cramped, hot, and tired. Kym complained of a Charlie horse in her right leg.

Premium Economy certainly wasn’t worth the extra money, especially on their teacher’s salary. The flight crew began the first meal service with several hot food carts being rolled between the aisles.

The male flight attended stopped in the row of them. “Chicken or veggie?”

A young black woman sporting a deep red lip and knotless braids while holding a tray with three wine glasses stopped at Row 17 where the women were sitting. She bent down and began passing out the glasses to each of the women.

This certainly wasn’t the same wine they received about thirty minutes ago so they looked at her in bewilderment, but the flight attendant only smiled because she knew. The final glass was handed to Annie along with a small white card.

“Mr. Moore in seat 7A requested that I bring these over to you all.” She smiled and continued. “He also wants me to give this to you specifically.” Annie was handed a business card as she furrowed her brow.

Elijah Moore. Co-Owner and Operator of Moore Honda Dealership.

Jackson, MS

Ph: 601-276-8324.

Kym’s long nails nearly scratched the back of Annie’s hand when she snatched the card from her grasp. “You better get on him ‘fore I do.”

The flight attendant eased her way back into the Business class cabin, heading straight to Smoke’s seat that was soon to be prepared and switched to a lie flat position for bed. “Mr. Moore, she accepted it.”

📍Annie’s hotel. JW Marriott Rio📍

The three women and their luggage piled into the entryway of the suite made up of connecting rooms. One king bed and two double queen beds welcomed them in along with the scent of ocean water from the slightly ajar window.

“Ann, you can take the main room since you so graciously planned everythin’.”

She didn’t refute because it was needed. Everything hurt.

Tisha raided the minibar and cracked open a bottle of inexpensive wine.

“We made it!! No students, no work, just fun and Annie gettin’ fucked! Cheers!” She smacked Annie’s plump ass.

Kym laughed as she watched the two but Annie wasn’t impressed.

“I need a nap. Bye.” She shut the door and instantly reached for her bag to find Smoke’s card in the front pocket.

📍Hotel Emiliano. Smoke’s Suite 📍

His phone vibrated on the nightstand right next to the stack of Brasilian Real dollars.

An unknown number with a 504 area code appeared.

Annie: Thank you for the drinks. Annie.

That was all she said. No emoji. Nothing.

Annie? She’s from New Orleans? Smoke thought to himself. Only three hours away from his home and more importantly, probably minutes away from one of three gas stations he owned in her city.

Smoke: Welcome. 😊

Another text came through.

Smoke: When can I see u?

Annie fidgeted with the tv remote as she pondered on a response. She was here for a vacation, not for whatever this was. What it could be.

Annie: Ima think about it. I hope you ain’t crazy.

She replied via her iPad before setting it down to walk to her ensuite bathroom.

His response came in before she could even sit on the heated toilet seat.

Smoke: 😊

Three soft knocks sounded off at the door of Elijah’s suite. It was the hotel manager, Manu. The middle aged blonde woman happily greeted Smoke every time he visited and this time was no exception.

A small round cake with a bottle of champagne was given to him commemorate his tenth visit to the property.

———————————————————————-

The three women were squeezed into the backseat of the small suv as the Uber driver carelessly swerved in and out of busy traffic with the car windows down.

Humidity was a killer but that hadn’t stopped the women from taking in the sights and sounds of busy downtown Rio.

They sighed at the sounds of the water waves from nearby Ipanema Beach, which they planned to visit the next morning to watch the sunrise. Tourists painted the city for Carnaval. It was a Monday night but it felt like a weekend … and there’s only one place to be on Monday nights in Rio.

Pedro De Sal. A widely known weekly block party where everyone of all races and ages gathered for food, music, and drinks.

Her phone buzzed as she exited the Uber.

Smoke’s phone number still wasn’t saved yet but she recognized the area code instantly.

Smoke: You be safe tonight wherever you end up.

Annie: Thank you. You too. 💟

One emoji this time. They were getting somewhere.

Tisha and Kym lead the way while Annie slowly padded behind them with her phone in hand. She was wearing a green low v cut top that exposed her titties as they threatened to spill over, paired with a khaki colored mini skirt and gold jewelry to match.

“Get off that phone and let’s get to it.” Kym threw over her shoulder in Annie’s direction. Before they could even enter the chaos, a young woman with braids and sable skin stopped them. Unfamiliar words began tumbling out of her mouth while the ladies smiled at her awkwardly. It was Portuguese. Annie held up her phone near the woman’s mouth so that Siri could translate.

“You are so pretty!” Siri translated relayed. She spoke her reply into the speaker, thanking the woman and paying the compliment back because the woman was in fact gorgeous as well. Tonight was going to be a good night.

Scents of cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, food and sweat permeated the air as the women approached the gravel road.

It felt like home, even more so when the DJ shouted them out on their walk up.

Tisha spun around in a circle, her neck stretched out trying to figure out the source of the savory food in the air.

The spices tickled her nose.

“I’ma need whateva’ smelling fire like this.”

A man rolling a cart walked near them and it clicked that he was responsible.

“Excuse me.” Annie waived to grab his attention and he made his way to the girls with a smile. “Can we have some?”

The man stared at her in confusion but his grin remained. Tisha took out her phone to translate just as Annie did a few minutes ago. They were handed small plastic bowls of MOQUECA BAIANA, a Brazilian fish stew served over a bed of fluffy rice.

Kym tried to hand the man a few Brazilian Real to pay him but he declined then proceeded to roll his cart over to the next group.

An hour went by while the woman danced the warm night away and lost track of time. Annie was swaying back and forth with a drink in hand while Tisha and Kym were trying to clumsily film a Tiktok to a popular Funk song. Her phone buzzed again.

Elijah: You good?

Annie: Yea.

Elijah: Got time for me tonight?

Annie: Maybe…

Elijah: Good. Where are you?

Annie: Some kinda block party…

Smoke visited Brazil quite often so he knew there was only one place that she could be right now. She looked over at her girls who were already staring at her while they watched her practically be face first in her phone.

Kym’s left eyebrow raised. “That’s that man, ain’t it?”

Annie took a sip of her drink but even in the darkness of the evening, the women still noticed her blushing.

Tisha spoke next. “What he want now?”

Kym laughed. “Bitch, ain’t it obvious? He want ha!”

This wasn’t typical Annie. Texting, spending her night on the phone like some teenager, and actually considering meeting up with a man that she barely knew. Though it’s only been less than twenty four hours, they’d never seen her like this. Ever. A local woman squeezed herself in between the women with a smile.

Her English wasn’t the best but she tried.“Dance… wiff me.” And the women happily obliged. DJ Batata’s “Movimento das Maravilhas” took over the crowd and brought everyone to the middle of the street. Annie had her hands on her knees while Tisha and Kym filmed and hyped her up despite all of their phones having a low battery. Forty five minutes later and she still hadn’t responded to him nor had she agreed to anything yet because she was preoccupied with getting her third drink of the night.

Smoke: ?

Smoke: Sending a car your way rn

While standing in line to try Brigadeiros, a Brazilian dessert, she decided to check her phone that was dying and overheated.

Shit. But truthfully? She wanted to go and something deep down guided her to do so.

Maybe it was curiosity or something else that she wasn’t ready to name yet.

Kym walked over to her and handed her a plastic bottle.

“What he sayin’?” Her chin pointed down at Annie’s phone.

She fidgeted. “He wanna see me but ion know about all of that.”

The food vendor handed her a plate of the well loved desserts along with a glass of cold Brazilian Lemonade.

Kym frowned. “And why not? Seems like you wanna go ta’ me. You should.”

“We on a girl’s trip. I ain’t come here for all ‘dat and… I don’t even know him.” Annie sighed.

“Ann, we want you to have fun. You planned everything and been stressed ova’ it for months. Go enjoy.” Kym practically shooed her away.

“Enjoy it safely because I don’t need your mama usin’ her magic to turn me into Chihuahua at three in the mornin’ if something happen to you.” She added on a second thought.

Smoke: The driver pullin’ up

Finally, she responded.

Annie: Okay. Coming.

The three women hugged as they shared their goodbyes for the night. Tisha grabbed Annie’s clutch bag to slip an AirTag inside of it while Kym triple checked that she could see Annie’s location on her phone. Kevin, the chauffeured driver of the SUV stood against the vehicle as he scanned the perimeter for his expected passenger while holding a sign with Annie’s name on it.

———————————————————————

Even the hotel lobby smelled expensive.

Accents of golds and browns adorned the front desk and the nearby sitting area.

The worker at the concierge desk smiled as Annie walked past their desk, her skirt exposing her thick thighs. Hell, everything was exposed and she was starting to feel out of place.

“Annie.” His Southern lilt immediately grabbed her attention. His Mississippi accent surely didn’t line up with her Louisiana one but it surely stuck out like a sore thumb in a lobby filled with only Portuguese speakers. Smoke sauntered over to her as if he was a predator stalking its prey, because he was. His eyes surveyed her partially clothed body and his displeasure at her outfit was evident. Annie’s skirt was too short and he was going to let her know. His eyebrow raised.

“This whatchu’ wore all night out there?”

Annie’s face scrunched up in confusion as a familiar warmth began to pool between her slick sweat thighs. But before she could even reply, he took her hand in his and eased them to the gold elevators.

——————————————————————

When she exited the spacious shower, Elijah had a multitude of brand new toiletries splayed out for her use. The bathroom countertop contained a brand new toothbrush, makeup remover wipes, toothpaste, lotion, and a fresh bathrobe with an E emblem that hung loosely on the nook. She quietly thanked him for the items but… they weren’t usual and she was hesitant to use them.

She left the bathroom to make room for the man even though it wasn’t needed.

Now, she sat on the sofa with her thick legs folded under. Smoke was right, the warm shower that he suggested thirty minutes ago did her well. She was beyond relaxed now.

The extra vodka shot inside of the Caipirinha was hitting.

It was Elijah’s turn to shower now. His dick hardening under the continuous stream warm stream. He grabbed the hand held shower-head and angled it towards his broad back, sighing in content.

He had her right where he wanted. Her smiles from earlier today replaying over and over for him as he closed his eyes.

Annie’s phone buzzed on the couch cushion as Tisha’s contact photo appeared.

“You all good? I don’t need Josephine and your Aunt Carlotta to put a root on me if something happen to you.”

She casually sipped her drink.

“Just fine. Goin to sleep in a few.”

“Oop. I’m sure ya’ll is.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Don’t do that.”

Elijah’s footsteps sounded against the cold floor as he made his way to the fully stocked mini bar. Candy, liquor, crackers and gum stared back at him. He glanced over in the woman’s direction but remained silent. The lighting from the tv warmed Annie’s cheeks or maybe it was him. Or maybe it was the liquor but he didn’t miss it.

“You want somethin’ to drink?” The cork popped.

“Yea.” She whispered it so softly that he would’ve missed it if he still hadn’t been watching her. The conversation continued and flowed naturally. Small talk like how many siblings they each had, their careers, and their parents. What was missing from the conversation was the small but very important fact that Elijah was familiar with New Orleans and that he owned several gas stations there.

“ I still can’t imagine two of you.” She shook her in disbelief before taking a sip of water. The pre rolled cigarette on the coffee table stared back at him. “What you mean? You sayin’ it like it’s a bad thing.

She shrugged. “It might be.”

Elijah shifted the conversation and his body closer to her, his leg rubbing against hers.

“You enjoying ya vacation?” He pried but it was sincere. He truly wanted to know everything, down to what she had for lunch this afternoon back at her hotel.

His back muscles flexed as he reached for the wine glasses to pour them a second round. Annie readjusted herself on the couch, the belt of her robe slightly loosening. “I am. Hope it stay dat’ way.”

“It will.” He promised.

The hotel couch dipped under his weight when he moved impossibly closer to the semi tired but very tipsy woman. Their knees made contact that neither of them shyed away from. Now that he was up close and could smell every layered product on her sable skin, Smoke continued to stare shamelessly. Annie was fidgety, her hands playing with the seams of her robe. He saw it. “You ready for bed?”

Annie nodded in response and before she could make it to her feet, Smoke was in front of her to steady her once again.

“I’m a big girl, Smoke. I can manage.” There was no real force behind the chiding remark, just Annie trying to retain some of her stubourness. But….Smoke was built for it.

“I ain’t say that you couldn’t.” His large palm sat comfortably on her lower back as he guided them through the short hallway to the separate bedroom. The large suite welcomed them in and it sighed in unison with Annie as she climbed into bed and got underneath the large duvet. She would never admit it but Elijah was right- she was tired and it was freezing due to the air conditioner. Smoke circled to Annie’s newfound side of the bed and handed her a plastic bottle and a raised eyebrow.

“You should drink some more water.” It wasn’t a request. The woman sighed and if she hadn’t been so dizzy, she would’ve had a rebuttal. “Smoke, just and come lie down. Please.” Her voice carried a raspiness that wasn’t present earlier. Elijah noted it; he was learning her already.

After double checking that the main door was latched, Smoke walked back into the room and slipped under the covers.

In an instant, Annie is pulled flesh against him, his warm bare chest rested against her back. A large arm snaked up and around the woman’s midsection and settled right under her boobs.

“You soft all ova’, woman.” Elijah grumbled as his chin rested on top of her head.

Annie simply scooted further back into the man, goading a restrained inhale from him.

The hard outline of him rested comfortably against her full cheeks that was barely covered by Elijah’s old stretched out shirt.

A pit in her stomach formed as that familiar tingle started to build. Underneath the tiredness, her body still called out to him. Smoke felt it but he couldn’t have her like this. Not for their first time.

But still, Annie’s palm reached behind her looking for purchase on Smoke’s lower body. Her cool smaller fingers rested against his happy trail and Elijah inhaled. His dick was so hard that it hurts.

He drew circles on her hips.

“I can’t have ya like this.” He murmured.

Her doe eyes immediately shot open into the dark room. Smoke didn’t give her a chance to respond before he continued.

“I can’t take ya like this because I need them pretty eyes and full focus on me when I break ya.”

Annie shivered at the taunt, her thighs rubbing against each other.

“Smoke…” it was a plea, warning, and declaration all at once but Elijah only shushed her.

An almost bratty huff escaped Annie’s lips but he refused to fold. If anything, he was amused.

“You gon’ learn soon enough that ain’t gon’ work on me.” Smoke pressed a kiss right under her ear as Annie sent a mockingly “whateva” over her shoulder.

He needed her. Every stitch of her deep skin but it couldn’t happen like this. Not when she’s tipsy and hadn’t even kissed either of her lips yet. A few mere minutes later, he heard light snores coming from Annie and he shortly followed suit.

5:36am.

Annie stirred awake to find Smoke’s forearm wrapped tightly around her throat in a snug bear hug. Every muscle in her body was taut and tired, the long travel day and liquor finally catching up with her.

And now….she needed to pee.

“Shit.” She tried to kick the duvet off of her body but Elijah caught it. Unbeknownst to her, he had been wide awake for an hour watching her sleep. Annie’s brow furrowed. “Need to use the bathroom, ‘Lijah.”

Reluctantly with a hum, he released her only to observe her every move from the bed to the bathroom.

Her cellphone unlocked to several unseen text messages, mostly from Kym and even one of coworkers from back home.

Kym: 👀

Kym: I know that thing opened and stretched now. Lord.

Kym: Be safe. We love you.

Tisha: We doing brunch at noon. Lmk if you gon make it.

Gigi (Work): I hope you having some funnn. 😁

Annie’s stomach twisted and gurgled on the toilet as a queasy feeling pained her.

She was going to be there for a bit longer than expected because the alcohol and food from the block party was coming out now. The large showerhead began a steady stream above her fingers. It was hot, just as she liked. The hotel’s bodywash was great, some might’ve said one of the best. But still… it wasn’t hers. None of it was. She quickly washed off in the shower and then made her towards the countertop. It only took her two seconds to slip out of the bathroom to grab her sandals near the door and slip right back into the large bathroom. Seconds later, Elijah slid the barnyard style bathroom door open and walked in to a fully nude Annie but neither of them cared. Most women would’ve stepped back or instinctively attempted to hide some part of them but not Annie. Domesticity filled the air.

Smoke stood a few feet away. “You tryna leave or somethin’?”

Annie stared back at him through the mirror. “You don’t miss nothin’, do you?”

He shrugged. “Nah.”

“I gotta go. We goin’ to brunch.”

“You sure?.” He completed a full circle around her before tugging her chin up to his.

The feeling in her belly returned again like a tightly wrapped cord that threatened to snap at any moment. Under low lashes, he sealed their lips together in a kiss and deepened it at the sound of Annie’s small moan. Their tongues wrestling for dominance. His last bit of resolve disappeared and underneath it was the man who patiently laid next to her all night with a stiff dick and a forming obsession.

He gently turned Annie’s body and slowly backed her into the bedroom until they reached the unmade disshelved bed.

A hand dragged to knead one of her breasts as she stood sagged against him then it landed to settle right on top of her fat mound. He already felt her slick but he still needed reassurance. He asked in between kisses to her scented neck. “You sure this whatchu’ want?”

Annie simply widened her thighs in response and eased her neck to the side to grant him better access to both of her most sensitive areas.

With one pause, he hummed as he brought this thumb to his mouth before pressing the woman’s nub. Her hips buckled in response and Elijah flashed that small smile that Annie began to notice that it may only be for her.

He whispered. “Yeah, you gon’ stay here and give it.” That was the only verbal acknowledgement she received before he had her on her back with a pillow under her back, knees wide and legs splayed open for him. Just a few ments ago under the warm lights in the bathroom, her nude body was on full display for him to see and she didn’t mind then but now? It was different. The hunger and glint in Elijah’s eyes was too much to bare.

So she did the first thing that came to mind but Elijah anticipated it. When the woman tried to bring her knees together, Smoke firmly and almost painfully- caught her wrist with an almost inhumane reflex. “Don’t do that.”

“Eli-“ She attempted to thrash in place in defiance but his large unoccupied hand grabbed one of her ankles right under her gold anklet.

He smirked. “I told you last night you not gon’ get your way with me like that.”

The feral look in his eyes showed that he intended to make good on his promise and Annie knew it.

Still, she tried to reason. “Elijah-.”

Soft kisses against her calf shushed her while she stared at his ministrations. Annie’s mouth opened again as if she was going to speak up again but she quickly closed it shut when she fully met his eyes that were boring into her, studying her every move. Again. Just as he’d done all morning as if watching her was his favorite pastime.

When Annie quieted down and opted to simply look at him, he sighed in satisfaction. “You so pretty. You know that?” He whispered in between kisses to her other leg. She brought her free foot to graze along and sit right on top of his dick.

A deep exhale escaped him. “What you tryna do to me, woman?”

Annie feigned innocence. “Nothin’.”

He responded by locking his arms under her thighs to bring her to the edge of the king sized bed. Annie yelped and giggled.

He loved the sound of it. Could get used to it.

“Elijah. Wait.” She struggled to get the feathered pillow back under her and he witnessed it. Smoke grabbed it from her struggled grasp, fluffed it, and slid it back underneath her. Before she could say anything else, he got down on his knees to position himself face first with Annie’s hardened, puffy clit that was trying to hide underneath her fat lips. He was practically salivating.

“Mmm hmm.” He hummed more to himself than her, his thick thumb pressing her button. Her body immediately jolted in response and Smoke took that as his cue to continue. He rubbed her clit in soft rhythmic motions, gauging her responses. When her thighs opened a bit wider affording him better access, a prideful smile decorated his face. His free hand came up to twist her sensitive nipples and soon after, he stuck an entire digit in and paused when she hissed.

“Shiiiieetttt.” The woman gritted through her teeth.

“Just relaxxxx. Lemme in my pussy, mama.” It was barely audible but she heard him.

His? If she wasn’t busy listening to the sounds of her own slick right now, she would’ve told him that it wasn’t his. Yet.

When her pussy opened up for him a little bit more, he eased in another thick finger.

Annie’s light moans filled the air as she began moving her hips in rhythmic sync with his movements to ride his fingers.

“That’s it.” He goaded her on and she welcomed it. She sighed in defeat when she felt the assault of his warm mouth on her. “Ohhh fuck.”

Her smaller hand came up to try to push him away and close her thighs on his head but Smoke grabbed it and interlocked the fingers. “Keep that hand right hea’ and you bet not move it.” He taunted.

Her cream spilled over to the mattress under her and Elijah flattened his tongue and dragged it to lap them up. The woman moaned a little louder when she peered at him under low lashes only to find him looking right back at her with a soaking wet face of her juices.

She was sweet to the taste just as he thought she’d be and he wanted more of her. All of her.

Smoke settled himself in between her thighs then crashed his drenched mouth into hers. His stiff dick settled right on top of her mound, precum mixing with her cream. Annie relaxed into the overpowering kiss and brought her arms to encircle his neck.

Elijah peppered and trailed damp kisses along her jaw all the way down to her neck, stopping at her full breasts to nip and bite. Her deep skin darkened in angry retaliation.

She impatiently tugged at his navy blue sweatpants but he simply and purposely stilled his own movements. His eyes trailed down to where their bodies joined and where her hand rested. Smoke didn’t have to say anything before her hand quickly retreated.

“That’s a good girl.” His praise landed exactly where intended when Annie whined response. She was needy but so was he. The small gasps and moans coming from her cracked him open.

Elijah lifted himself from between her legs and used one arm to reach for the drawer of the nightstand to pretend to grab a condom but he had no intent on wearing it. Annie locked her viscous legs around his waist and brought him back down to her. “Come onnnnnn.”

That’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

He rubbed his thick dick against her swollen clit in circular motions for a few seconds before lining it up with her slippery entrance and pushing it in as a gasp tore from Annie’s throat.

She was tight, almost uncomfortably so. She gripped him too good.

The involuntary spasms of her pelvic floor was already milking him and he wasn’t sure how long he was gonna make it though. He looked down to find Annie’s pupils completely blown out as her titties moved with every stroke. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead though the air conditioner was still on.

“Watch this.” He slipped out of her with a noisy squelch and maneuvered her body to his liking as if she was a ragdoll.

Her white painted toes gripped the hardwood floor and she was bent over the bed on all fours.

“Fuck.” She moaned into the pillow when he easily nuzzled back inside of her.

His kept a steady pace for the first few strokes then he began searching for her soul. Her swollen pussy wrapped around him tightly as the pressure built.

She was close but she tried to fight it and him. Her moans transitioned to gasping cries as her hand reached back for him.

“It’s only gon’ get worse for you if I gotta repeat myself ‘bout that hand.” He warned with a stinging slap to her ass.

That was all she needed.

Her release came out in multiple short repeated squirts. And when she tried to crawl away to the other side of the mattress, Smoke followed her to force them down into collapse doggy.

He couldn’t hold out much longer.

“I need anotha’ one outta you. I earned it.” His large hand reached under both of their bodies in search of her clit. She was still clamping sporadically around him so he knew that with the right touch and pressure, she’d crack again. And that she did. “Elijahhhhh.” Her hot tears spilled into the pillow and Smoke stretched his tongue out to lick them away. The grind of his hips turned into rhythmic pumps and broken grunts left his mouth. She felt him pulsing inside of her.

“Ima fill you up good and make sure you go and tell all your lil’ friends.” He said through gritted teeth.

Annie was so blitzed out that she could only agree.

“I will! Ima tell ‘em.” She nodded. His warm seed spilled inside of her as they both shuttered.

—————————————————————

For an hour, they lay together sated with Annie’s cheek on his chest, while Smoke gripped then soothingly caressed her lower back. She had a glow that had nothing to with the pending sunrise.

Brown pools captured hers.

“You stayin?” He whispered.

She sighed and swung her leg over his and nestled even closer. “Yes…I guess so.”

“Good.” A large hand collided with her ass, forcing Annie to send a mock glare his way though it held no weight. Somehow her cellphone ended up on the floor near the side of the large bed and when it rang, it startled them both. His eyes locked in on her screen.

Mama 👑

The woman immediately sat up against the cool headboard as if her mom could see her now then sighed. She hadn’t even noticed that Elijah had left the bed until the sound of the shower started up. With a click, she answered her mother’s call. Ms. Josephine started to speak and question Annie before she even had the chance to say hello.

“What you and the girls doin’? Ya’ll eat ya’ll some breakfast yet?”

Maybe Tisha and Kym did have breakfast by now. Who knows?

She looked around the large suite hoping to focus on something else and that’s when the room service menu caught her attention. “We did. It was real good too.” Ok… she wasn’t lying technically.

She in fact would be eating some good food as soon as she decided on an entree. The two women talked about the flight experience, the traffic, and whatever other random thought that came to mind.

From the sound of it, Smoke had transitioned from the shower to the sink to brush his teeth. Annie’s phone buzzed in her hand again as soon as her mom hung up. She was a busy woman.

Kym: We missing you. 💔

Annie: Morning. Miss you. 🤎

Elijah treaded back into the suite, shirtless with a pair of black sweatpants on his hips. His slighty hard dick making itself known and he wanted to make sure that she knew it, too. He bent down to plant a kiss on her forehead.

“I’m finna’ go work out. Order whatever you want and don’t be on no shy shit. I’ll be back to ya’ in a bit.”

Another kiss landed on her lips before she could respond and he quickly slipped out of the door. Annie yawned and stretched her legs under the covers as she brought her exhausted body to lay on Smoke’s warm side of the bed.

She did miss her girls, too.

Twenty minutes later, she was tracking her Uber’s arrival and sliding her feet into her sandals with a newly acquired soreness forcing her to move slower than usual.

The elevator dinged open to the eighth floor overlooking CopaCabana beach. He thought this was his favorite view in Brazil but that was before he met her.

The weights clanked when he grabbed them and walked over to the mirror. Little he did he know that the woman whom he thought was still laid out in his bed with shaky legs had actually just left the hotel in an Uber. She texted him from the backseat of the car, her body rocking side to side as the car moved along a steep curve.

Annie: Ima call you later. 💙

🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷🇧🇷

A/N: Thank you for readingggg. 💛

This video is what Monday night Pedra Do Sol is. (Not my vid.)

Well…. 😭😭😭

How we feeling???

[midnightmemoirsofher]

Golden Retriever Boyfriends

Pairing: Elijah “Smoke” Moore x Sierra x Elias “Stack” Moore

Summary: Five soft, chaotic moments where Smoke and Stack prove that beneath all that intensity, they’re just two clingy, overprotective golden retrievers hopelessly devoted to Sierra.

Warnings: Established poly relationship, Black female OC, domestic fluff, sibling banter, possessive but soft boyfriends, explicit language, use of the N-word, overprotective behavior, physical affection

The Grocery Store Incident

Sierra should've known better. That was the first thought that crossed her mind when she looked down at her phone and saw the twenty-third text message in under forty minutes.

Stack: Baby do we need regular eggs or cage free eggs?

Thirty seconds later:

Stack: Actually nvm they all came from cages at some point.

Then:

Smoke: Ignore him. Which tea did you want?

Stack: Why this nigga acting like HE ain't standing here confused too.

Then a picture. Smoke standing in the tea aisle with his reading glasses on. Reading glasses. Sierra nearly dropped her phone laughing.

Three hours earlier, Sierra stood in the kitchen, pointing her finger between the twins. "Don't buy extra shit." Stack had the audacity to look offended. "Why you lookin' at me?" "Because every time I send y'all to the store, you come back with enough groceries to survive a natural disaster." "It be lookin' useful." "It don't be useful, Elias." Smoke sat at the counter sipping coffee. Silent. Which was worse. Because Sierra knew that look. That was the look Elijah got when he was pretending to be reasonable. "You ain't innocent either," she accused. Smoke blinked. Slow. "What I do?" "You enable him." "That's not true." Stack immediately pointed. "That's exactly what he do." Smoke looked over. "Nigga shut up." "See?" Sierra threw her hands in the air. "Tea. Bread. Eggs. Coffee creamer." She held up the list. "That's it." The twins nodded. Serious. Focused. Like soldiers receiving mission orders. "We got it." "Easy." "No extra stuff." Smoke nodded. "Understood." Sierra narrowed her eyes. "I don't trust y'all."

Forty-five minutes later, the mission was already compromised. The grocery store's automatic doors slid open. Stack stopped walking immediately. Smoke sighed. Already. "What?" Stack pointed. Flowers. Big display. Bright yellow sunflowers. The exact kind Sierra liked. Smoke followed his gaze. The two brothers stood there silently. Thinking. Calculating. Failing. Stack looked at him. Smoke looked at Stack. Neither spoke. Then simultaneously—"We should get those." "Damn it."

Twenty minutes later, the cart was already getting ridiculous. Sunflowers. Vanilla candles. Three different snack cakes. Two bags of Sierra's favorite chips. A throw blanket. Tea. The actual groceries. And somehow—a stuffed cow. Smoke stared at it. "Why is there a cow in the cart?" Stack looked genuinely confused. "Cause she said them little TikTok cows cute." "She said that six months ago." "So?" "Nigga." "So?" Smoke rubbed his forehead.

Then they reached the slipper aisle. And that's where things completely fell apart. Stack held up fuzzy brown slippers. Smoke held up cream-colored ones. "She'd wear these." "Nah." "She literally owns this color." "These softer." "You touched both?" "Obviously." They stood there feeling slippers like two old ladies shopping for curtains. An elderly woman pushed her cart past. Watched them. Watched the pile of nonsense in their cart. Then smiled. "Shopping for your wife?" Both brothers answered immediately. "Our." "Our Wife." The woman laughed. "Oh." Then looked at the cart. Then looked back at them. "Y'all are gone." Smoke sighed. "Yeah." Stack nodded. "Bad."

Meanwhile, back home, Sierra was trying very hard not to laugh herself to death. Another text.

Smoke: What's that coffee creamer called?

Sierra: French Vanilla.

Stack: They got seventeen French Vanillas.

Smoke: He's not exaggerating.

Picture attached. An entire refrigerated wall.

Then another text.

Stack: Call me.

She answered. Immediately heard arguing. "That ain't French Vanilla." "Then what the fuck it say?" "It say Vanilla Bean." "That's basically French." "It ain't." "How vanilla got a nationality anyway?" Sierra snorted. "Put Elijah on the phone." "See?" Stack sounded offended. "See how she always ask for you?" "Cause you're difficult." "Nigga I'm delightful."

By the time they finally got home, the sun was setting. Sierra heard the truck before she saw it. Then the front door burst open. Stack appeared first. Holding flowers. Big grin. Proud as hell. Smoke followed, carrying half the grocery store. "Baby!" Sierra crossed her arms immediately. "What did y'all do?" "Nothing." "Nothing." Way too fast. Way too synchronized. Red flag. Huge red flag. The bags started hitting the counter. Then another bag. Then another. Then another. And another. Sierra's eyes widened. "Why are there so many bags?" Nobody answered.

Then she found the cow. She held it up. Slowly. "Explain." Stack looked at Smoke. Smoke looked at Stack. Traitor. "That was your idea." "Fuck you." "It was." "It reminded me of her." Sierra tried to stay mad. Tried. Failed. The stupid cow was actually adorable.

Then she found the blanket. Then the candles. Then the snacks. Then the slippers. Then the flowers. By the time she reached the bottom of the bags, her heart felt embarrassingly full. "Y'all are ridiculous." Stack immediately wrapped his arms around her from behind. "No." "Yes." "No." His chin dropped onto her shoulder. Smoke appeared beside her a second later. Like he physically couldn't resist. One hand sliding around her waist. The other was taking the bags from her hands. "You mentioned wanting a new blanket." "Three months ago." Smoke shrugged. "So?" Sierra stared at him. Then laughed. Because apparently, both brothers suffered from the same disease. Remembering every tiny thing she'd ever said.

The kitchen settled into warm evening noise. Groceries are getting put away. Cabinets opening. Brothers arguing. Sierra is sitting on the counter, watching and being watched right back. Smoke passed by and squeezed her knee. Stack stole a quick kiss from her cheek. Smoke adjusted her sock because it was halfway off. Stack handed her a snack cake because she looked hungry. Nobody even thought about it. It was automatic. Constant. Like breathing. Like touching her was how they navigated the world.

Later that night, the flowers sat in a vase. The blanket covered Sierra's legs. The cow was tucked under her arm. And both twins were stretched out on either side of her on the couch. Stack's head in her lap. Smoke's arm draped over her shoulders. Movie playing. Nobody is paying attention. "You know," Sierra said quietly. "Hm?" Smoke murmured. "I sent y'all for four things." Stack lifted his head. Grinning. "Yeah?" "You spent two hundred dollars." Smoke didn't even look ashamed. "Three hundred and twelve." Sierra stared. Stack nodded proudly. "Worth every penny." Smoke kissed her temple. Stack squeezed her thigh. And somehow, neither one realized they had completely proven her point. Golden retrievers. Both of them.

—

Sick Day Security Detail

Sierra knew she was sick the second she woke up. Her throat felt like somebody had dragged sandpaper across it, raw and burning with every shallow breath she took. Her head was pounding, a deep, rhythmic throb behind her eyes that made the morning light filtering through their bedroom curtains feel like shards of glass. Every joint in her body ached, and the simple act of opening her eyes felt like a personal attack, the weight of her own eyelids suddenly too heavy to bear. She groaned and buried herself deeper beneath the blankets, the fabric cool against her feverish skin. Absolutely not. Whatever this was could wait until tomorrow.

A large hand immediately settled on her forehead, palm warm and calloused against her burning skin. Sierra cracked one eye open. Elijah. Of course. The man had somehow developed a sixth sense specifically for detecting when she wasn't feeling good, his brow furrowed with that concerned intensity that made her stomach flutter even through the misery. "You warm." Sierra groaned, the sound scraping her throat. "I'm fine." "You sound like a ninety-year-old chain smoker." "I'm literally talking normal." "Babe." She pulled the blanket over her face, the darkness a welcome reprieve. "No."

A second later, the blanket disappeared, pulled away with a soft whoosh of displaced air. Stack stood on the other side of the bed staring down at her like she had personally betrayed him, his expression a mixture of horror and accusation. "Oh hell naw." Sierra immediately regretted opening her eyes. Because now she had both of them staring at her, their combined attention making her feel like a specimen under examination. "What's wrong?" Stack demanded, his voice already rising with alarm. "Nothing." "You look sick." "I am sick."

The room went silent. Then Stack whipped around toward Elijah, pointing dramatically. "You got her sick." Elijah blinked, his calm composure unshaken. "What?" "You heard me." "Elias." "You got my girl sick." "OUR girl." "Our girl. Whatever. You brought home that little cough two weeks ago." "It was allergies." "It wasn't allergies." "It was allergies." Stack pointed dramatically, his gesture so exaggerated it almost made her laugh despite the pain. "See? This how diseases spread. Niggas start lying."

Sierra let out a miserable laugh before immediately coughing herself into another coughing fit, each hack rattling her chest and making her head throb worse. Both men snapped their attention back to her, the argument ending instantly. Elijah was already moving, his movements fluid and purposeful as he stood from the bed. "You stay in bed." Stack pointed at her like she was under arrest, his finger wagging with mock seriousness. "Don't move." "I'm literally sick." "Exactly." She stared at him, her eyes narrowed. "You think I was gonna run a marathon?" "You never know." "Baby." "You got attitude. Fever got you delirious." Sierra grabbed a pillow and threw it at his head. He caught it effortlessly, a grin spreading across his face as he threw it right back, the pillow landing softly beside her.

Then Elijah appeared beside the bed holding a thermometer, the silver glinting in the morning light. Sierra sighed dramatically, the sound barely more than a puff of air. "No." "Yes." "I'm grown." "Open your mouth." She narrowed her eyes, trying to summon the strength to resist. Elijah stared right back, his expression unyielding, a battle of wills. She lost after approximately three seconds, her mouth opening reluctantly. The thermometer slid under her tongue, cool and foreign against her fevered flesh. Stack folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the doorframe. "See? Being difficult." Sierra flipped him off, her middle finger raised weakly. He looked delighted, his smile widening.

A few moments later, the thermometer beeped, a shrill sound in the quiet room. Elijah looked at it, his expression immediately shifting from calm to concerned. Stack leaned over, trying to see the digital display. "What?" "Ninety-nine point eight." Stack gasped, like genuinely gasped, his hand flying to his chest in theatrical horror. "Nigga." Elijah rubbed his forehead, already feeling the headache coming on. "It ain't that serious." "She got a fever!" "It's barely a fever." "FEVER IS FEVER." Sierra started laughing, which immediately turned into coughing, which somehow made Stack even more concerned. "Oh my God." "Elias." "She dying." "I have a cold." "Today a cold. Tomorrow pneumonia." Sierra buried her face in her hands, the warmth of her palms soothing against her burning cheeks. "This man is ridiculous."

The next six hours became the most aggressively cared-for she'd ever been in her life. Elijah transformed into a one-man medical staff, his movements precise and methodical as he established a medicine schedule, hydration schedule, soup schedule, and temperature checks. He had reminders set on his phone, written notes on the kitchen counter, and actual charts tracking her symptoms. At one point, Sierra watched him writing down the exact time she'd taken cold medicine, his pen scratching against the paper with intense concentration. "Baby." "Hm?" "You making a chart?" "Yes." "For a cold?" "Yes." She stared, her head feeling fuzzy and disconnected. He stared back, completely serious. "You're insane." "Maybe." Then he handed her water, the glass cool against her feverish hands. "Drink."

Meanwhile, Stack was somehow worse. The man couldn't stop touching her forehead, his palm pressing against her skin every ten minutes, sometimes every five. She'd be sitting on the couch, wrapped in blankets, and suddenly—hand. Forehead. Checking. Again. And again. And again. By the seventh forehead inspection, Sierra slapped his hand away, her movements weak but determined. "Elias." "What?" "You checked thirty seconds ago." "I'm monitoring." "You not monitoring shit." "I am." "You don't even know what you're looking for." "I know hot." She couldn't even argue with that; her forehead indeed felt hot beneath his touch.

Later that afternoon, she found herself curled against Elijah's side on the couch, her head resting on his shoulder as his steady breathing calmed her racing thoughts. Soup balanced on her lap, the steam warming her face as she spooned the broth into her mouth. A mountain of blankets covered her legs, the weight comforting and secure. Elijah sat beside her, reading while absently rubbing circles into her shoulder, his touch grounding and constant. Stack was stretched across the opposite end of the couch with his feet practically in Elijah's lap, his body a long line of tension as he watched her every move. The television played quietly in the background, the sound a distant murmur. For once the house was peaceful.

Then Sierra sneezed, the sound sudden and sharp. Stack sat upright so quickly he nearly fell off the couch. "That's a new symptom." "It is not." "It sound different." "It was a sneeze." Elijah sighed, not even looking up from his book. "Elias." "I'm just saying." "A sneeze ain't evolution." Stack looked genuinely offended, his brow furrowed in wounded disbelief. "Why you always against me?" "Because you dramatic." "I'm passionate." "You dramatic." Sierra laughed weakly into her soup, the broth sloshing slightly in the bowl. The twins immediately looked at her, their expressions softening with concern. And for a moment, the chaos disappeared. Elijah reached over and tucked a blanket more securely around her shoulders, his movements gentle and careful. Stack leaned over the back of the couch just to press a kiss against her forehead, his lips warm against her feverish skin. Neither of them seemed aware they were doing it, the touches happening automatically, like breathing, like instinct, like loving her.

By evening, Sierra was feeling a little better. Not good. But better. The medicine had finally kicked in, the soup had helped, and the constant attention probably helped too, though she'd never admit that out loud. She was half asleep, her mind drifting in and out of consciousness, when she felt Elijah lifting her into his arms, his strength effortless as he cradled her against his chest. "Bed." She mumbled something incoherent, her words slurred with exhaustion. His chest rumbled with a quiet laugh, the vibration soothing against her cheek. Stack followed behind, carrying her water bottle, medicine, charger, blanket, and approximately seventeen other unnecessary items, his arms laden with supplies. "Why you got all that?" Elijah asked, his voice low and calm. "In case she need something." "She ain't gonna need all that." "You don't know that." "She sleeping." "She might wake up." They continued bickering all the way to the bedroom, their familiar argument a comforting backdrop to her misery.

Sierra smiled against Elijah's chest, the effort making her face ache. Even exhausted, even miserable, she felt safe, loved, protected, cocooned in their care. Elijah settled her carefully beneath the blankets, the sheets cool against her feverish skin. Stack immediately checked her forehead again, his palm warm and familiar. Sierra grabbed his wrist, her grip weak but determined. "Elias." "What?" "If you touch my forehead one more time I'm fighting you." His eyes widened in mock horror. Then he looked at Elijah, his expression wounded. "See? She threatening violence." "You been harassing her all day." "I'm showing concern." "You annoying." "I'm loving." "Annoying." "Loving." "Annoying." "Loving." Sierra groaned, the sound barely more than a whisper. "Both y'all shut up."

Silence. The twins exchanged a look over her head, their communication unspoken. Then immediately climbed into bed beside her, Elijah on one side, Stack on the other, like guard dogs assuming their posts. A hand settled on her back, warm and steady. Another tangled with hers beneath the blanket, fingers intertwined. Warm. Steady. Comforting. As sleep finally started pulling her under, she heard Stack's voice in the darkness, soft and serious. "If she cough again, we taking her to urgent care." "It's a cold." "You don't know that." "It's literally a cold." "Still." A pause. Then quieter: "Need her healthy." The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling in the darkness. Sierra squeezed their hands, her fingers weak but determined. And despite the headache, despite the congestion, despite feeling like absolute hell, she drifted off smiling while her two overprotective golden retrievers kept watch, their presence a fortress against the world.

—

Date Night, But They’re Embarrassing

Sierra should've known tonight was going to be a disaster the moment she walked out of the bedroom and found both twins staring at her like they'd collectively forgotten how to breathe. The apartment went dead silent, the soft 90s R&B playing from the speakers suddenly seeming too loud in the stillness. Elijah, who had been adjusting the cuff of his watch, froze mid-motion, the metal glinting in the warm lamplight. Stack, who had been halfway through taking a sip of his whiskey, nearly choked, the liquid catching in his throat as his eyes widened.

Sierra stopped in the hallway, one hand still on the doorframe. "...What?" Nothing. Just two grown-ass men—forty-year-old men, mind you—staring like they'd seen a ghost. She looked down at herself. The dress wasn't even that serious. A fitted black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, gold jewelry that caught the light with every movement, matching heels that added inches to her five-foot-six frame, and her hair straightened with a part down the middle, perfectly framed her face. Simple. Cute. Date night. Nothing dramatic. Apparently, the twins disagreed.

"Goddamn." Stack said it so softly she almost missed it, the word a reverent whisper that seemed to hang in the air. Elijah closed his eyes, like he was praying for strength, his jaw working as he swallowed hard. Sierra immediately started laughing, the sound bright and musical in the quiet apartment. "Oh my God." "Baby." Stack set his glass down carefully, the crystal making a soft click against the coaster. "No, hold on." "Elias—" "Nah." He stood up slowly, ran both hands down his face, then pointed at her like she'd committed a crime. "What possessed you to come out here lookin' like that?"

Sierra burst out laughing, the sound bubbling up from her chest. "What does that even mean?" "It means we supposed to be goin' to dinner." "And?" "You look like temptation." "Oh, brother." Elijah finally pushed himself off the couch, his movements slow and steady despite the tension in his shoulders. His eyes traveled over her once, then again, then immediately snapped back to her face like he was actively trying to behave. "You look beautiful." The sincerity in his voice hit harder than any pickup line ever could, deep and resonant and meant only for her. Her smile softened, the laughter fading into something warmer. "Thank you."

Stack groaned, the sound dramatic and wounded. "See? This why Smoke always win." Elijah frowned, his brow furrowing. "What?" "He be sayin' sweet shit." "You could say sweet shit too." "I did." "You called her temptation." "That's romantic." "It ain't." "It is." "It ain't." Sierra shook her head, amused despite herself. The banter continued all the way to the car, their familiar back-and-forth a comforting soundtrack to the evening.

By the time they arrived at the restaurant, both men were somehow worse. The second Sierra stepped out onto the sidewalk, Elijah appeared beside her, holding out his hand with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Stack was already moving toward the restaurant door, racing—actually racing—a forty-year-old man sprinting across a sidewalk just to open a door. He yanked it open dramatically, then looked incredibly pleased with himself, puffing out his chest slightly as he gestured her inside.

Sierra stared, one eyebrow raised. "You ran." "Had to beat Smoke." "You were competing?" "Absolutely." Elijah sighed, the sound long-suffering. "Childish." "You mad I won?" "Not particularly." "You sound mad." "I'm not." "You sound mad." "I'm not." Stack grinned, triumphant. Elijah looked annoyed, which only made Stack happier. The hostess struggled not to laugh as the twins escorted Sierra inside like she was royalty, their combined presence drawing attention from every corner of the restaurant.

A few moments later, they reached their table. Before Sierra could even touch her chair, both men grabbed it. At the same time. Immediately. The chair stopped moving, caught between their competing efforts. Stack looked at Elijah. Elijah looked at Stack. Neither let go. The hostess quietly disappeared, wisely deciding to leave them to their domestic dispute. Sierra pinched the bridge of her nose, already feeling a headache coming on. "Oh my God." "I got it." "No, I got it." "You always yank it too hard." "You ain't never complained before." "Because I usually beat you to it." "Not tonight."

The staring contest lasted three full seconds, their eyes locked in silent battle. Then Elijah released the chair, his expression unreadable. Stack grinned triumphantly, like he'd just won the Super Bowl. "Thank you." Sierra sat down, smoothing her dress beneath her. Stack practically glowed with victory, his chest puffed out like a proud peacock.

The evening only got worse. Or better. Depending on who you asked. Because the twins couldn't stop complimenting her. Every five minutes. Like clockwork. "Your hair look nice." "Baby, your makeup pretty." "I like that necklace." "That color looks good on you." "You smell good." "Your smile cute." "Your laugh cute." "The way you hold your fork cute."

Sierra finally lowered her menu, her patience wearing thin. "How is my fork cute?" Stack shrugged, completely unbothered. "Just is." Elijah nodded, serious as a heart attack. "Agreed." She stared at both of them, her expression incredulous. Neither appeared embarrassed. At all. Meanwhile, every other woman in the restaurant was looking at Sierra like she'd won the lottery. Which, honestly... maybe she had.

Then came the photos. Lord, have mercy. The photos. Stack wanted one before the appetizers. One after the appetizers. One with drinks. One by the wall. One outside. One because the lighting changed. One because Sierra laughed. One because Elijah was smiling. One because "the vibes felt right." By photo number seventeen, Sierra threatened violence. "Elias." "What?" "Put the damn phone down." "But you look pretty." "You already got seventeen pictures." "Eighteen." "Elias." "Nineteen." Sierra lunged for the phone, her movements quick and determined. Stack cackled, actually cackled, dodging her grasp with the agility of a man half his age. Elijah shook his head, but even he was smiling, his lips curved in a rare, genuine grin.

Then things took a turn. Because Sierra noticed it first. A man. Across the restaurant. Looking. Not unusual. She was used to it. But unfortunately... the twins noticed too. The atmosphere shifted immediately. Subtly. Dangerously. Stack's smile disappeared, his expression hardening as he tracked the man's gaze. Elijah's jaw tightened, the muscles in his face becoming rigid as stone. The poor man had no idea he'd become public enemy number one.

"He been lookin' over here." Stack took a sip of his drink, still smiling. Which somehow made it worse. Elijah didn't even look; his attention was fixed on Sierra. "I know." "You see him?" "I saw him." The man glanced over again. Mistake. Huge mistake. Because both twins looked up simultaneously. Direct eye contact. Immediate. Relentless. The man nearly choked on his drink, then very suddenly became interested in his menu, his eyes fixed on the words as if they contained the secrets to life itself.

Stack looked pleased, his expression smug. Elijah returned to eating, his movements calm and measured as if nothing had happened. Problem solved. Sierra kicked them both under the table, her heel connecting with their shins. "Y'all are ridiculous." "He was starin'." "So?" "So you're my woman." "Our woman." "Our woman." Sierra rolled her eyes, the gesture fond despite her exasperation. Lord. Two giant puppies. Dangerous puppies. But puppies nonetheless.

The rest of the night passed in laughter. Good food. Endless teasing. Stolen kisses. Constant touching. A hand on her thigh. A hand on her back. Fingers tangled together beneath the table. Neither twin seemed capable of going more than thirty seconds without touching her somehow. And honestly? She loved it.

By the time they left the restaurant, the city streets glowed beneath warm golden lights, the pavement slick with the evening's earlier rain. Sierra walked between them, one hand holding Elijah's, the other holding Stack's. The night air was cool, comfortable, perfect. Then Stack showed her another photo he'd secretly taken, his thumb swiping across the screen to reveal the image. Sierra groaned. "Elias." "What?" "Delete that." "Never." "I look goofy." "You look cute." "I look cross-eyed." "You look cute cross-eyed."

She laughed, the sound bright and genuine. Elijah looked down at her, that soft look appearing in his eyes again. The one that always made her heart squeeze, the one reserved only for her. And suddenly, Sierra couldn't help herself. She stopped walking. Both men immediately stopped too, their attention shifting to her instantly. "What?" Stack asked, his brow furrowed with concern. Sierra smiled, then reached up and grabbed their faces, one in each hand. "My babies."

Silence. Instant silence. The effect was immediate. Devastating. Stack completely melted. Gone. Finished. Done. "Oh Lord." Elijah actually looked away, a rare occurrence. His ears turning red. Sierra gasped, delighted. "No way." Stack pointed immediately, his expression triumphant. "He blushin'." "I am not." "You blushin'." "I am not." "Look at this nigga." Sierra started laughing so hard she nearly doubled over, the sound echoing down the street. Because Elijah Moore—the calm one, the composed one, the responsible one—was absolutely blushing. And Stack? Stack looked like she'd personally handed him the moon. "My babies," he repeated quietly, a stupid grin stretched across his face.

Sierra kissed his cheek, then Elijah's. And just like that both men looked ready to fight God for her, their expressions shifting from soft to fiercely protective in an instant. The walk to the car became even worse afterward, because now every few minutes one of them would randomly grin and say: "My babies." Which immediately restarted the teasing. And by the time they got home, Sierra found herself sandwiched between two giant, affectionate "babies" on the couch, listening to them argue over who got more kisses, while secretly smiling to herself. Because for all their size, for all their intimidating presence, for all the growling and glaring and overprotective nonsense, Smoke and Stack were just golden retrievers in expensive clothes—fierce, loyal, and completely devoted to the woman who'd tamed them.

—

Wash Day Worship

The bathroom was warm, steam curling around the mirror in soft wisps as the scent of coconut and peppermint filled the air. Sierra sat on a towel-draped stool, her arms already aching as she worked through the fourth section of her hair, fingers cramping from the precise parting and careful detangling. The shower had been running for twenty minutes, the water cascading down her back as she'd pre-pooed and shampooed, but now—now came the real work. She sighed, rotating her shoulders to ease the tension, the muscles protesting after weeks of neglecting her wash day routine.

"You need help."

Elijah's voice was low and calm from the doorway, his presence filling the small space without overwhelming it. Sierra looked up, catching his reflection in the foggy mirror. He stood there in a simple black t-shirt and sweats, his arms crossed as he watched her with that intense focus he reserved for things that mattered—things like her.

"I'm good," she said, though the strain in her voice betrayed her. "Just got one more section to—"

"Your hands shaking."

Stack appeared behind Elijah, his energy a stark contrast to his brother's quiet intensity. "Baby, you look like you about to arm wrestle the devil and lose. Let us help."

Sierra laughed, the sound tired but genuine. "Y'all don't know what you're doing."

"We know how to follow directions," Elijah countered, already moving into the bathroom. He washed his hands at the sink."Show me what you need."

And just like that, wash day became a team effort.

Elijah took over the sectioning, his brow furrowed with concentration as he carefully parted her hair with the end of a rat-tail comb. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his fingers working with a surgeon's precision as he created four neat sections, twisting each into a loose coil to keep them separate. Sierra watched him in the mirror, amazed at how seriously he took this simple task, his expression as focused as if he were disarming a bomb.

Meanwhile, Stack had propped his phone against the soap dish, a YouTube tutorial playing at full volume as a cheerful influencer explained the importance of proper detangling technique. "See? She say you gotta start from the ends and work your way up. Can't just rip through it like you trying to start a lawnmower."

"I am not ripping through it," Elijah muttered, though he adjusted his grip on the comb, his movements becoming even more deliberate. "I'm being methodical."

"Methodical ain't gonna get the knots out," Stack countered, leaning over Elijah's shoulder to get a better view. "You gotta be firm but gentle. Like with lovemaking. Too much force and you break something. Too little and you ain't making progress."

Sierra snorted. "Did you just compare detangling my hair to sex?"

"It's a valid analogy," Stack said, completely serious. "Both require patience, proper technique, and appreciation for the art form."

Elijah shot his brother a look. "Shut up and hand me the leave-in conditioner."

For the next hour, the bathroom transformed into a makeshift salon. Elijah worked in silence, his movements precise as he applied product to each section, his fingers massaging her scalp with a pressure that made Sierra's eyes roll back in pleasure. Stack, meanwhile, provided running commentary, pausing the tutorial every few minutes to offer advice that was occasionally helpful but mostly entertaining.

"No, no, no—you gotta smooth that down more. Look how she do it. See that technique? That's the secret right there."

"I am smoothing it down."

"You smoothing it like you tryna put out a fire. Be gentle with my girl's hair."

"It's my girl's hair too."

"Our girl's hair."

"Our girl's hair."

Sierra closed her eyes, letting their familiar bicker wash over her as Elijah's strong fingers worked magic on her scalp. She could feel the tension leaving her shoulders, replaced by a warm, contented buzz that had nothing to do with the products they were using.

"Okay, now for the twists," Stack announced, suddenly taking charge. "I watched this tutorial yesterday. I'm prepared."

Elijah raised an eyebrow but stepped aside, allowing his brother to take over. Sierra watched with amusement as Stack positioned himself directly in front of her, his expression serious as he picked up a section of her hair.

"First, you gotta get the right tension," he explained, his fingers fumbling slightly as he tried to separate a smaller strand. "Not too tight, not too loose. Like Goldilocks, but with hair."

"Goldilocks didn't have locs," Elijah pointed out, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.

"It's a metaphor, Elijah. Keep up."

Stack's first attempt was... ambitious. The twist started off promising but quickly became a tangled mess halfway down, the hair wrapping around itself in a way that was definitely not part of the tutorial.

"Hold on, hold on," he muttered, trying to undo the damage. "I think I went the wrong direction."

"You went three directions," Elijah observed dryly. "And one of them was into another dimension."

"Let me fix it," Stack insisted, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I just need to—"

"Stop," Sierra said gently, reaching up to place her hand over his. "It's okay. Let Elijah try."

Stack looked genuinely disappointed, his shoulders slumping as he stepped aside. "I was so close."

"You were so far," Elijah corrected, taking his brother's place. His hands moved with practiced ease, the twist forming smoothly and neatly as he worked his way down the strand. "See? You start at the root, maintain consistent tension, and rotate in the same direction the entire time. It's not complicated."

"It's complicated when you're doing it for the first time," Stack grumbled, though he watched his brother's technique with genuine interest. "You make it look easy."

"Because I'm not overthinking it," Elijah replied, finishing the twist with a neat coil at the end. "I'm just focusing on the hair."

They fell into a rhythm after that—Elijah twisting with methodical precision, Stack handing him products and occasionally attempting a twist of his own (with varying degrees of success). By the time they finished, the sun was setting outside the bathroom window, casting a golden glow through the frosted glass.

"All done," Elijah announced, stepping back to admire his work. "How does it feel?"

Sierra ran her fingers over the neat twists, her scalp tingling with the residual sensation of their touch. "It feels amazing. Thank you."

Stack wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder as he looked at their reflection in the mirror. "See? Teamwork makes the dream work."

Elijah came to stand on her other side, his hand resting possessively on her hip. "You look beautiful."

Sierra looked at their reflection—at the three of them, crowded together in the small bathroom, her hair freshly twisted and styled, their faces illuminated by the warm light. She saw the love in their eyes, the devotion in their touches, the way they looked at her like she was something precious, something to be cherished.

"You're both ridiculous," she said, but her voice was soft, filled with affection.

"We're devoted," Stack corrected, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "There's a difference."

Elijah's fingers traced the line of her jaw, his touch gentle but firm. "Let us help you more often."

"I will," she promised, turning to wrap her arms around both of them. "If you promise to stop comparing hair care to lovemaking."

Stack grinned. "No promises."

Elijah smiled, that rare, genuine smile that always made Sierra's heart skip a beat. "We'll try."

Later that evening, wrapped in a plush robe with her hair still slightly damp from the products, Sierra sat between them on the couch as they watched a movie. But she wasn't really watching—she was too busy basking in their attention, in the way they kept touching her hair, admiring their handiwork with the pride of artists who had created something beautiful.

"You did good," Stack whispered, his fingers gently tracing one of the twists. "Real good."

Elijah's hand rested on her thigh, his thumb stroking her skin in a slow, rhythmic pattern. "Beautiful."

Sierra leaned her head back against the couch, closing her eyes as she let their words wash over her. For all their differences, for all their bickering and competing, when it came to her, they were united in their devotion—two men who had found their person and would do anything to take care of her, even if it meant learning how to twist hair and sit through hours of tutorials.

—

She Falls Asleep First

The living room was cast in the eerie blue glow of the television, shadows dancing across the walls as the opening credits of The Conjuring began to roll. Sierra was sandwiched between the twins on their oversized couch, a fortress of plush cushions and throw blankets arranged just so. Elijah sat rigid on her left, his forearm tensed where it rested along the back of the sofa behind her shoulders. Stack was sprawled on her right, looking entirely too relaxed for a horror movie, his arm thrown casually over her legs, fingers drumming against her thigh in time with the ominous score.

"You sure about this, baby?" Elijah's voice was low, a cautious rumble that vibrated through her side. His dark eyes were fixed on the screen, already narrowed with suspicion as the establishing shots of the haunted house filled the room.

"What? You scared?" Stack grinned, all teeth and mischief, not bothering to lower his voice. "This ain't even the scary part yet, nigga. Wait 'til they start talking about some damn haunted doll."

"I'm not scared," Elijah corrected, though his posture suggested otherwise. "I'm appropriately cautious. Unlike some people who treat demonic possession like a comedy special."

Sierra laughed, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. "It's just a movie, Eli. Remember? You're the one who wanted to watch something 'thrilling' tonight."

"That was before I knew we were watching a documentary about some white family that should've moved the first time a ghost started rearranging their furniture," he muttered, his hand unconsciously tightening on her shoulder.

The movie progressed, the tension building as the Perron family moved into their new home, strange occurrences beginning almost immediately. Each creak of the floorboards, each mysterious draft, had Elijah tensing further beside her, his body becoming a statue of apprehension. Stack, meanwhile, remained infuriatingly calm, occasionally offering loud commentary that made Elijah flinch.

"See? Now why would you go into a basement that smells like death? That's just asking for trouble," Stack announced, his voice booming in the quiet room. Elijah shot him a look that could curdle milk.

"Shut up," he hissed. "You're gonna miss the foreshadowing."

"The only thing I'm 'foreshadowing' is that you're gonna be sleeping with the lights on tonight," Stack shot back, grinning as he reached for the popcorn bowl on Sierra's lap. "Pass the butter, baby."

Sierra passed him the bowl, her fingers brushing against his in the dim light. She could feel the dichotomy between them—Elijah's protective tension, Stack's playful bravado. It was their dynamic in a nutshell, two sides of the same coin, both devoted to her in their own ways.

As the movie progressed to the first truly terrifying sequence—the night where Carolyn is awakened by someone clapping—Elijah jumped so violently he nearly knocked Sierra sideways. His hand flew to her arm, gripping it tightly as his eyes remained locked on the screen, wide with a mixture of fear and fascination.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed, the words barely audible. "Who the hell claps in the middle of the night?"

"A ghost, Elijah. A ghost," Stack whispered loudly, then laughed when Elijah flinched again. "You ain't gonna make it through this movie, Eli."

"I'm fine," Elijah insisted. He gripped the sofa cushion. "It's just... unexpected."

The movie continued, each scare more intense than the last. The scene with the music box playing by itself, the appearance of Annabelle the doll, the supernatural investigators arriving at the house—each moment had Elijah reacting viscerally, his body tensing, his breath catching, his hand occasionally squeezing Sierra's arm as if to ground himself in reality.

Sierra, meanwhile, found herself growing increasingly tired. The day had been long, the combination of work errands and their constant attention wearing her down in the best way possible. Her eyelids grew heavy, the dialogue becoming fuzzy as she drifted somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, cocooned between their warmth.

The next truly terrifying scene—the one where the youngest daughter, Cindy, sleepwalks into the wardrobe and vanishes into a secret passage—had Elijah nearly climbing out of his skin. He jumped so hard he jostled Sierra, who murmured something unintelligible and shifted to rest her head more firmly against his shoulder.

"Shit," he breathed, his heart racing as he glanced down at her. "You okay, baby?"

But she was already gone, her breathing soft and even against his neck, her body lax with sleep.

Stack noticed immediately. "Our girl tapped out."

"Shut up," Elijah whispered, his voice barely audible as he carefully adjusted his position to accommodate her sleeping form. "You'll wake her up."

"Me? You're the one who damn near sent her flying into the end table with your horror movie reflexes," Stack countered, though he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "She looks cute when she's sleeping, though."

Elijah didn't respond; his attention focused on the sleeping woman curled against him. He reached over with his free hand, carefully pulling the throw blanket higher to cover her shoulders, his movements deliberate and gentle. The movie continued to play in the background, but his attention had shifted entirely to Sierra, to the soft rise and fall of her chest, to the way her lashes cast shadows against her cheeks in the flickering light.

"You think she's really asleep?" Stack asked after a moment, his voice still low but filled with mischief. "Or is she just pretending so she can get out of watching the rest?"

"She's asleep," Elijah said with certainty. "She gets like this when she's really tired. All soft and pliant."

"Soft and pliant," Stack repeated, a grin spreading across his face. "I like that. Mind if I..."

"No," Elijah said immediately, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Let her sleep."

"I wasn't gonna do nothing," Stack protested, though his expression suggested otherwise. "I was just gonna... adjust."

"Adjust what?"

"The blanket. It's crooked."

Elijah shot him a look but didn't respond, instead turning his attention back to the movie, though his hand remained resting protectively on Sierra's shoulder. The film continued to unfold on screen, each scare more intense than the last, but Elijah found himself less affected now, his focus divided between the supernatural terror on screen and the very real warmth of the woman sleeping beside him.

As the climax approached—the exorcism sequence where Carolyn is possessed and levitates—Elijah found himself unconsciously pulling Sierra closer, his arm wrapping around her shoulders as if to shield her from the horror on screen. He was so absorbed in both the movie and the woman beside him that he almost didn't notice when Stack shifted positions, his movements careful and deliberate as he slid closer to Sierra on her other side.

"What are you doing?" Elijah whispered, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Getting comfortable," Stack replied, his voice innocent. "This couch is big enough for three."

"It was big enough for three before you started encroaching on her space," Elijah countered, his arm tightening slightly around Sierra's shoulders.

"I'm not encroaching," Stack protested, though he continued to inch closer until his thigh was pressed firmly against Sierra's. "I'm just... optimizing."

"Optimizing what?"

"Our viewing experience," Stack said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "She's in the middle. We're on either side. It's balanced. Symmetrical. Good feng shui."

Elijah stared at him, his expression unreadable. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm strategic," Stack corrected, grinning as he carefully draped his arm over Sierra's legs. "See? Perfect."

The movie reached its terrifying conclusion, the final exorcism scene playing out on screen with all its supernatural horror. But Elijah found himself barely watching, his attention divided between the film and the two people flanking him—Sierra, sleeping peacefully against his shoulder, and Stack, whose presence was a constant, comforting warmth on her other side.

As the credits rolled, the room fell silent except for the sound of Sierra's soft breathing. Stack reached for the remote, lowering the volume until the music was barely audible, then turned to look at his brother.

"So," he whispered, a grin playing at his lips. "Who do you think she cuddled first?"

Elijah sighed, the sound long-suffering but fond. "She fell asleep on my shoulder."

"Technicality," Stack countered, his voice still low but filled with mischief. "She was leaning my way before she conked out. I saw it."

"You saw what you wanted to see," Elijah replied, though there was no real heat in his words. "She was tired. She fell asleep. End of story."

"Not end of story," Stack insisted, his grin widening. "I'm claiming partial custody of this cuddle session. At least forty percent."

"You get forty percent of nothing," Elijah said, though he carefully shifted his position, adjusting Sierra's weight so she rested more comfortably against them both. "She's sleeping. Let her be."

"I am letting her be," Stack protested, though he made no move to shift away. "I'm just... appreciating the moment."

Elijah watched him for a moment, then shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "You're impossible."

"And you're whipped," Stack shot back, his voice soft but teasing. "Now shut up and let me enjoy this before she wakes up and starts complaining about how we let her sleep through the end of the movie."

Elijah didn't respond, just leaned his head back against the couch cushions, his arm still wrapped securely around Sierra's shoulders. The room was quiet now, the television's glow casting soft shadows across their faces, the three of them tangled together in the dim light. For all their bickering and competing, for all their differences and disagreements, moments like these—quiet, domestic, theirs—were what mattered most.

"She's beautiful when she sleeps," Elijah said after a moment, his voice barely audible in the stillness.

Stack's grin softened, his expression turning thoughtful as he looked at the woman between them. "Yeah," he agreed, his voice matching his brother's in volume and intensity. "She is."

And there they stayed, caught between the horror movie they'd barely watched and the woman they'd both fallen for, two golden retrievers guarding their sleeping princess, content to let the night stretch on forever.

 @blyffe @transparentphantomface @daddysmoke @championshipshade @christinabae @og-goddesstrill @writingsbytee @bananajoeclone @psychicafrorainbow @blowmymbackout @storiesbyasl  @bananajoeclone @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @nayys-world @monstaxmomma0 @kimmiedream @hotebonynearby @underated345-blog @xeniaonvenus @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kindofaintrovert @mmbee675 @bestleowoman2exist

[othermotherchild-deactivated202]

|PAPA BEAR| - 5

Bear Hybrid!Smoke x Black oc

Smoke opens up about his brother, and Amara reminds he's not alone anymore

Content warning: Slight Angst, fluff, Smut.

For weeks, Smoke hadn’t let her breathe without him.

Every morning, she woke tangled in his arms, his chest a suffocating weight against her back, his palm spread wide and heavy over her belly. It wasn’t just a touch—it was a possessive claim, an anchor dropped before the day could even begin. If she shifted even an inch, his grip would tighten, pulling her back into the cage of his body.

He shadowed her every move. When she tried to cook, he’d take the spoon right out of her hand, guiding her to a chair with a firm, low growl: “Sit yo ass down. You’re pregnant with my cub—you don’t lift a finger.” When she asked to walk to the porch, he was already at the door before she got there, scooping her into his lap instead. His massive hand splayed over her thigh, his chin buried in her neck, a constant, smothering presence. “Ain’t no reason for you to be out there, Amara. I’ll give you all the air you need right here.”

Even at night, when she turned in her sleep, he followed, wrapping her up like a fear-driven knot, as if he thought she might unravel and disappear if he loosened his grip.

At first, she told herself it was sweet. He loved her. He loved their cub. And he did. But his eyes—God, his eyes. They never stopped scanning the tree line. Never stopped searching the deep, twisting shadows just beyond the cabin’s windows.

Finally, one evening, the tension between them became a living thing, a coiled wire in the silent room. Amara snapped.

“Smoke.” Her voice cracked through the quiet, sharper than a shard of glass. She turned on him, arms crossed so tight her own nails dug into her skin, her swollen belly a painful barrier between them. “Why are you acting like this? Clinging to me, caging me in, looking out the damn windows every two seconds. What aren’t you telling me?”

He froze.

For the first time in weeks, his hands didn’t immediately reach for her. His jaw clenched, a storm flickering behind his dark gaze.

“Amara…” he started, low, a warning note vibrating in the air.

“No,” she cut him off, her voice shaking with a fury she hadn’t known she possessed. “Don’t ‘Amara’ me. I deserve to know. I’m carrying your child, Smoke, and you’re keeping something from me. What the hell is out there?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The air grew thick and heavy. Smoke’s chest rose and fell, every breath a raw, ragged sound. When he finally spoke, his voice was a guttural rasp. “It ain’t about what’s out there. It’s about keepin’ you safe. You and the cub—that’s all that matters.”

But Amara saw it. The flicker of pure, unadulterated fear in his eyes. The truth he was holding captive behind his teeth. And for the first time, she wondered if loving a man with a beast inside him meant there would always be secrets clawing at the edges of their peace.

She stepped forward, her bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor until she was pressed against him. Her hands flattened over his chest, feeling the frantic thunder of his heartbeat beneath her palms, a desperate rhythm that mirrored her own.

“Smoke, baby…” Her voice was a soft whisper, desperate now. “Talk to me. Please. I can’t do this if you keep shutting me out.”

His jaw flexed, a muscle twitching in his cheek, but he didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed locked on the window, on the darkened tree line beyond the glass. The muscles in his shoulders were drawn so tight it felt like he was seconds from snapping.

She pressed harder, rising on her toes, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of whatever has you looking like this. So tell me, what’s out there?”

Finally, Smoke’s gaze dropped to her. The weight of it nearly knocked the air out of her chest. His eyes weren’t just human—they were flickering, glowing faintly like embers caught in the dark. His hands rose, huge and trembling, and framed her face as if she were the most fragile thing he had ever held.

“You think I don’t wanna tell you?” His voice was low, ragged, thick with frustration and fear. “I do. God, Amara, I do. But if I say it out loud, it makes it real. And I ain’t lettin’ anything real touch you. Not you. Not our cub.”

Her throat tightened, tears threatening to spill. She leaned into his touch, searching his face, his pain now a visible thing. “Then let me in. Let me carry it with you. I’m yours, Smoke. Yours. Don’t carry it alone.”

His breath hitched. For a second, the wolf in him snarled against the man—the beast wanted to keep her sheltered, untouched, locked away where nothing could reach her. But the man… the man was breaking under her touch.

“Amara…” He whispered her name like a prayer and a curse all at once. His forehead pressed to hers, his hands sliding down to cradle her belly. “You don’t know what you’re askin’.”

“I know I want you,” she whispered back, her voice steady even as her hands trembled on his chest.

Smoke’s gaze locked on hers, heavy, unreadable. Then his lips parted, his voice hoarse. “I can feel him.”

Her brows knit, a cold confusion flickering. “Who?”

“Stack,” Smoke said. The name ripped out of him, ragged, like it burned his throat. A single tear slipped free, carving a line down his cheek before Amara could even process it.

“Smoke—” she started, but he cut her off with a choked sound, his whole frame shuddering. His hips jerked forward like he was bracing against the weight of something crushing him from the inside. He gulped down a sob, the sound animal, guttural, and so full of grief it tore at her.

“I can feel him, baby,” he rasped, clutching her shoulders, holding her as if she might vanish. His breath came in broken pulls. “My other half.”

And then he broke. Completely. His forehead dropped to her shoulder, his massive frame trembling, the sobs tearing out of him like they had been buried for years, hot and relentless. She felt his tears against her skin, his arms clinging so tight it almost hurt.

The hunter. The beast. The man who split wood with his bare hands and stood between her and the world—on his knees, undone by the ghost of his brother.

Amara swallowed hard, her own tears welling, a profound ache in her chest. Her fingers threaded through his hair, a grounding touch, the only thing she could offer. “Smoke,” she whispered, her heart aching. “It’s okay, I’m right here.”

But deep down she knew nothing about this was okay. Not with Stack’s shadow pressing at the edge of their world.

“It’s been years since I seen my brother. Years. All ‘cause of one silly fight.”

Amara’s hand rose immediately, cupping his face, her thumb brushing away the tear. His skin was hot under her palm, trembling. “Smoke…” she whispered, her own throat tight. “You were kids. Brothers fight. You couldn’t have known.”

He shook his head, a rough and violent movement, eyes glistening like storm clouds about to break. “No. I should’ve fixed it. Should’ve gone back him that night. But my pride—” His voice cracked, thick with a guilt that was a living thing inside him. “My pride cost me my brother.”

“Don’t do that to yourself.” Her thumb moved slow under his eye, catching another tear before it could fall. “You don’t know that.”

His grip on her waist tightened, desperate. “But I feel him now. Out there. Close. Like he’s breathin’ the same damn air as me.” He pulled her flush against him, forehead pressed to hers. “And it’s eatin’ me alive, Amara. I don’t know if he’s comin’ for me… or for us.”

Amara steadied her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look at her. “Then we’ll face it together. You hear me? You’re not alone anymore.”

And for the first time, the bear inside Smoke—the hunter, the protector—gave way to the boy who’d been carrying this ache for too long. His massive frame shook as he clung to her, the beast breaking, trembling in the arms of the only person who could soothe him, the only person who could face the dark with him.

—-------------------------

A couple of hours later, the cabin was quiet again. The fire had burned low, its embers throwing a soft glow across the room. Amara lay on her side, her back pressed firmly into Smoke’s chest. His arms were wrapped around her like iron bands, his hand resting protectively over the swell of her stomach. His face was buried against the curve of her neck, the warmth of his breath feathering over her skin. She could feel the dampness where his tears had dried, and her heart ached.

Neither of them had said much since the breakdown—words had become too small, too clumsy for what hung between them. Instead, they let the silence speak. His steady heartbeat thudded against her spine, heavy and grounding. She reached back, threading her fingers with his where his hand held her belly. “You still awake?” she whispered.

Smoke hummed low in his throat, a sound that was half yes, half weary sigh. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder, lips grazing the skin like he needed the contact to breathe.

“You don’t have to carry all that alone anymore,” Amara murmured, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “I meant what I said—we’ll face it together.”

His grip on her tightened, pulling her impossibly closer. For a long moment he didn’t answer, then his voice rumbled against her skin, quiet but fierce. “I ain’t lettin’ nothin’ touch you. Not him. Not the world. Not nobody.”

Amara shut her eyes, sinking into the weight of him, the heat of him, the raw honesty in his words. She knew he meant every bit of it. And for the first time since she’d come here, she realized—this wasn’t just his fight anymore. It was theirs. Amara shifted in his arms, turning slowly until she was facing him. Smoke’s eyes were red-rimmed, heavy with exhaustion and grief, but still burning with that steady fire that was always just for her.

Her hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing over the scruff lining his jaw. “Smoke…” she whispered, her voice soft, breaking.  Before she could say more, he caught her mouth with his. The kiss was slow, aching, full of all the words he couldn’t force out. His hand slid up her back, holding her tight, like he was afraid she might slip away if he let go.

She leaned into him, her fingers tangling in his hair. For a moment, the world narrowed to the warmth between them, the roughness of his stubble against her palm, the salt-taste of tears neither had shed aloud. Outside, the city’s distant hum felt like another lifetime.

His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of her spine through the thin fabric of her shirt. A low sound escaped her throat—part surrender, part need—as his kiss deepened. The careful restraint he’d shown earlier vanished, replaced by a raw urgency that matched the pulse thrumming against her lips. Her own exhaustion melted into something hotter, sharper.

He pulled back abruptly, breaking the kiss. Amara gasped, her eyes flying open, searching his face. Before she could protest, his mouth found the hollow beneath her ear. A shudder ripped through her. His lips were insistent, tracing a path down the sensitive column of her throat. Each kiss was deliberate, a brand against her skin. She tilted her head back, baring more of herself to him, fingers tightening convulsively in his hair. The scrape of his stubble was electric, a counterpoint to the softness of his lips. He lingered over her pulse point, his breath hot, feeling the frantic flutter beneath his tongue.

His hand, which had been resting possessively on her hip, began to move. Slowly, deliberately, it slid beneath the hem of her simple cotton dress. The calloused pads of his fingers traced a burning path up the outside of her thigh. The fabric whispered against his knuckles as he pushed it higher. Amara froze, a tremor running through her limbs. This wasn't the gentle exploration from moments before. This felt like claiming. His touch was rough, demanding, mapping the soft skin above her stocking top, then higher still, towards the curve of her hip. His thumb pressed into the sensitive dip just below her hipbone, making her arch against him involuntarily. A ragged breath escaped her lips.

"Smoke..." she whined out, the sound high and thin, caught between protest and desperate need. Her fingers clenched in his hair, pulling him closer even as her hips instinctively pressed against the hard ridge of his thigh. The air crackled with the sudden shift, the grief momentarily eclipsed by this raw, consuming hunger.

"I know, baby," he murmured against her damp skin, his voice thick and low, vibrating against her throat. His breath was hot, his lips never leaving her neck as his hand, still beneath her dress, moved with deliberate purpose. "I know." The words were a rough caress, an acknowledgment of the unspoken ache radiating from her core. His fingers found the thin barrier of her cotton panties. With a single, practiced flick of his thumb, he slid the fabric aside, exposing her completely. The cool air hitting her wetness made her gasp, a sharp intake of breath that turned into a moan as his thick fingers dipped into her, sinking deep.

"Oh!" Amara gasped, her head flying back up, eyes wide and startled. Her body instinctively arched, pressing her breast against his chest. Smoke rested his forehead heavily against hers, biting his lip hard enough to whiten the flesh. His eyes, dark pools of need, locked onto hers. 

The raw intensity in his gaze stole her breath. She could feel the tremor running through him, the iron control he was exerting to hold himself back, even as his fingers curled inside her, finding a rhythm that was both punishing and perfect. Her hips rocked helplessly against his hand, seeking more pressure, more friction, chasing the sharp edge of sensation his touch ignited. His other arm tightened around her waist, anchoring her against the relentless movement of his hand.

"That's it, baby," Smoke growled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest, primal and possessive. His breath was hot and ragged against her temple. "Give it to me." His fingers plunged deeper, curling deliberately, rubbing that spot inside her that made white light explode behind her eyelids. His thumb circled her clit with rough, insistent pressure. "All of it." The command was low, harsh, leaving no room for hesitation. He wasn't asking. He was demanding her surrender, her climax, her. The possessiveness in his voice, the sheer dominance of his touch, shattered the last remnants of her control. She felt herself clenching violently around his fingers, a desperate, involuntary response to the overwhelming pressure building inside her.

"Uh huh," he murmured, his lips dragging wetly down her jawline, teeth grazing her pulse point. He felt her inner muscles flutter wildly, tightening like a vise around his knuckles. "That's it... yesss..." His voice dropped to a guttural whisper, thick with approval and raw hunger. His thumb pressed harder, faster, relentless. "Good girl." The praise, delivered in that rough, commanding tone, was the final spark. Amara cried out, a sharp, broken sound swallowed by the humid air. 

Her body arched violently against him, trembling uncontrollably as the orgasm ripped through her, wave after wave of blinding, liquid heat. She pulsed around his fingers, slickness coating his hand, soaking the fabric bunched at her hip. Her fingers clawed at his shoulders, her head thrown back, throat exposed as she rode the crest of sensation he’d ruthlessly wrung from her.

Exhaustion hit her like a physical blow the moment the tremors subsided. Her limbs went liquid, boneless. With a ragged gasp, she slumped backwards, collapsing heavily onto the worn cushions of the couch. Her chest heaved, struggling to draw air into lungs that felt scorched. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes damp against her flushed cheeks. The thin cotton dress was twisted high on her thighs, damp patches clinging to her skin where his hand had been. The cool air of the room prickled against her exposed wetness.

Smoke didn't move. He remained kneeling before her, his gaze fixed on her face. His own breathing was harsh, labored. The front of his trousers strained obscenely tight, a dark, wet patch already blooming at the tip, betraying the sheer intensity of his own arousal. His jaw was clenched tight, tendons standing out like cords in his neck. The hand that had just orchestrated her release hung suspended in the air for a heartbeat, fingers glistening faintly in the low light. Then, slowly, deliberately, he brought them to his lips. His tongue darted out, tasting her essence with a low, primal groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His eyes, dark and burning, never left hers.

He didn't ask. He commanded, his voice a raw scrape of sound that seemed torn from somewhere deep inside. "Can you give me one more?" The plea was thick, desperate, layered with a hunger that bordered on pain. Even as the words left his lips, his hands were already moving, fumbling urgently with the buckle of his belt. The leather hissed free. The button of his trousers popped open with a sharp snap. He shoved the fabric down over his hips with rough, jerky movements, freeing himself completely. His erection sprang free, thick and straining,  already weeping a steady stream of precum that glistened at the tip.

She leaned up, wrapping her arms around his shoulder, pulling him into a kiss. Her lips met his with a softness.  Smoke gasped into her mouth. Her fingers  in his hair, pulling him deeper into  A ragged groan vibrated against her lips.

Smoke shifted his weight, his hands sliding beneath her thighs, lifting her hips effortlessly. The blunt, heated head of his cock pressed against her slick entrance. For a heartbeat, he held there, letting her feel the insistent pressure, the promise of what was to come. Then, with a controlled exhale, he pushed forward. Slowly. Deliberately. An inch, then another, stretching her impossibly wide. Amara whimpered, a high, thin sound muffled against his shoulder as her body yielded, adjusting to the thick intrusion. The sensation was overwhelming – a burning fullness that stole her breath, yet threaded through with an aching rightness. Her nails dug into the hard muscle of his back.

Then he moved. Not tentative, not gentle. A deep, driving thrust that seated him fully inside her, hilt-deep. The impact jolted through her, forcing a choked cry from her throat. He didn't pause. He withdrew almost completely, leaving her clenching around emptiness for a fraction of a second before slamming back in with brutal force. The rhythm was relentless, primal. Each powerful stroke drove the air from her lungs, each withdrawal a sharp, aching loss. The slap of skin against skin, the wet, rhythmic sound of their joining, filled the humid air of the room. Her hips lifted instinctively to meet him, her body arching off the cushions, seeking more of that punishing friction, that deep, bruising contact. Her cries were ragged gasps now, punctuating the rhythm of his hips.

"Fuck," Smoke growled, the word ripped from him, low and guttural. His breath was hot and harsh against her ear, his arms like iron bands locking her hips against his relentless drive. His thrusts grew shorter, harder, deeper, grinding against her core with bruising intensity. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin. "Tight fucking pussy," he groaned into her ear, the words thick with awe and raw, possessive need. "So fucking tight... gripping me... like a goddamn fist." His voice was a ragged scrape, vibrating against her skin. Each word punctuated a deep, grinding thrust that made her see stars. "Mine." It wasn't just a statement; it was a branding, seared into her senses with the heat of his body and the relentless claim of his cock.

Amara could only gasp, her body arching wildly beneath him. Every nerve ending screamed. The friction was exquisite agony, the fullness bordering on pain, yet she craved more, deeper, harder. Her fingers clawed down his sweat-slicked back, leaving faint red trails. Her cries weren't words anymore, just sharp, breathless sounds torn from her throat with each punishing plunge. She felt the coil inside her tightening again, impossibly fast, a wildfire ignited by his brutal rhythm and the possessive growls vibrating against her skin. The pressure built, sharp and urgent, radiating from where he filled her, spreading like molten lava through her limbs.

Smoke’s thrusts grew erratic, losing their brutal precision. They became shorter, harder, almost desperate, his hips jerking against hers with frantic urgency. A low, ragged groan tore from his chest, his control fraying. Sensing it, Amara acted on pure instinct. Her legs, which had been braced against the cushions, snapped up and locked around his waist. Her ankles crossed tightly behind him, her thighs clamping down with surprising strength. She pulled him deeper with every fiber of her being, anchoring him flush against her core. The sudden shift forced him impossibly further inside her, a deep, grinding connection that stole her breath. A choked sob escaped her lips—ecstasy and overwhelming sensation colliding.

Her lips brushed the shell of his ear, her breath hot and trembling. "Give it to me, Elijah," she whispered, raw and needy, using his real name—the name reserved only for moments like this, stripped bare of aliases and armor. "Give it to me."

The sound of his name, spoken like a prayer and a command, shattered the last thread of Smoke’s control. Her thighs clamped like a vise around his hips, pulling him deeper than he’d ever been, forcing every inch of him against the molten core of her. He gasped, a harsh, broken sound, as her inner muscles clenched violently around his cock—not just a pulse, but a relentless, rhythmic milking. It was as if her body was drawing his climax out of him, pulling it from the root, demanding every drop.

He buried his face in the curve of her neck, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat. His hips jerked once, twice—wild, uncontrolled thrusts that ground against her—before he went utterly still. His entire body locked rigid, trembling from the force of the release tearing through him. Heat flooded her, thick and pulsing, filling her with the raw, primal proof of his claim.

For endless seconds,he remained frozen, pinned beneath him, feeling the frantic hammering of his heart against her chest and the hot spill of his seed deep inside her." The possessive rumble vibrated against her skin. "Stay put."

He withdrew slowly, the sudden emptiness making her gasp. Cool air rushed against her damp thighs as he stood, hastily refastening his trousers with trembling hands. Amara lay boneless on the rumpled cushions, the thin cotton dress still bunched around her waist. Her body throbbed, a deep, satisfied ache echoing the fading tremors. She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes as he grabbed a discarded towel from a nearby chair. 

He returned, kneeling beside her. The rough terrycloth was surprisingly gentle as he wiped the slickness from her inner thighs, his touch lingering with a possessiveness that sent a fresh shiver through her. His thumb brushed over the faint red marks his grip had left on her hips.

"If I ain't knowin' any better," she whispered, her voice teasing but breathless, still catching on ragged edges, "you tryin' to make me pregnant with twins." She traced the tense line of his jaw with a fingertip, feeling the grit of stubble. A slow, lazy smile curved her lips despite the exhaustion weighing her limbs down. Her gaze drifted pointedly to the damp patch darkening the front of his hastily fastened trousers.

Smoke froze mid-wipe, the towel still pressed against her inner thigh. His eyes snapped to hers, dark and intense. A low growl rumbled in his chest, possessive and immediate. "Wouldn't be the worst damn thing," he countered, his voice rough velvet. His thumb pressed possessively against the soft skin he'd just cleaned. "Long as you're mine." He leaned down, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that was more claim than comfort. "Always mine."

___________

@mauvecherie-writes @underated345-blog @og-goddesstrill @nayaesworld @transparentphantom10 @notapradagurl7 @honeytoffee @bananajoeclone @solarssins @biancalhurtt

[honeytoffee]

Papa Bear breaking down tugged at my heart 🥺. Amara deserved to know. Stack gave his brother unnecessary hell for a long time, how you pissed he ran away? What do you want sir?!

[othermotherchild-deactivated202]

|PAPA BEAR| - 3

Bear Hybrid!Smoke x black oc

Amara wakes up to the aftermath of last night's events but finds herself held by Teddy, who reveals his real name is Elijah Smoke Moore. He claims their connection is deliberate, not an accident, and reassures her he will protect her.

Content Warning: Dark themes, Murder, and Possessive behavior.

The first sensation was the ache. A deep, pervasive throb radiating from her hips, her thighs, the tender core between her legs. Amara stirred, eyelids fluttering against the grey dawn light filtering through the cabin’s dusty window. Her body felt impossibly heavy, limbs leaden, every muscle protesting. A dull, pleasant fullness bloomed low in her belly, a persistent reminder of Teddy’s violent claiming. She shifted slightly, wincing, and felt the dampness first: her hair, plastered cool against her neck and pillow, smelling faintly of sweat and him.

 Then, the heat. An arm was wrapped around her waist, heavy and solid, pinning her gently to the mattress. Calloused fingers splayed possessively over the soft swell of her lower belly, the pad of his thumb resting just below her navel. His chest pressed warm and broad against her back, his breath a slow, steady rhythm against the damp skin of her shoulder.

"Don’t move too much." His voice was low, still rough from sleep, curling against her ear like smoke. The thumb under her navel pressed in slightly, grounding her. "You’ll only make the ache worse." The pressure wasn't painful; it was firm, anchoring, forcing awareness of the deep-seated soreness radiating outward from her womb. His other arm shifted, sliding beneath her neck, his forearm a hard pillow beneath her head.

 His hand came to rest flat against her sternum, fingers spanning her ribs, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat beneath the skin. He didn’t speak further, just held her there, utterly still, wrapped in the furnace of his body. The silence stretched, thick with the scent of sex and sleep and the faint metallic tang of dried tears. Outside, a lone bird chirped, a sharp, bright sound against the heavy quiet inside.

Amara let out a small sound, half a sigh, half a whimper. "Teddy…"

"Mm." He tightened his arm fractionally, his nose brushing her damp hair. "Still calling me that?" His voice was gravel against her spine, vibrating through her exhaustion. The hand on her sternum slid lower, fingertips tracing the dip between her ribs before settling possessively over her lower belly again. His thumb pressed deeper into the soft flesh below her navel, a deliberate reminder of the fullness within her. 

She smiled faintly, even through the heaviness in her body. “It fits.”

His chest rumbled with a soft chuckle against her back, the vibration travelling through her aching bones. “It does.” His thumb pressed deeper below her navel, a possessive anchor. “But if we’re being honest…” His voice dropped lower, losing some of its sleep-rough edge, gaining a deliberate weight. “…you deserve to know me. All of me.” He lifted his head slightly, the movement shifting the arm beneath her neck. His lips found her temple, pressing a kiss that was startlingly soft against the lingering echoes of brutality. Warm, dry. A brand of a different kind. “Elijah,” he murmured, the name unfamiliar, almost jarring against the image of the man who’d shattered her. “Elijah Smoke Moore. That’s my name.”

Amara lay utterly still. The ache in her body receded momentarily, replaced by a profound stillness.  The name echoed in the silence of the cabin, mingling with the scent of sex and dawn.

 It spoke of roots, of history, of a man who existed before the violence, before the claiming. It felt… intimate. More intimate than anything he’d done to her body. She turned her head slightly on his arm, her cheek brushing against the coarse hair of his forearm. Her lips parted. “Elijah…” she whispered, tasting the weight of it. It felt like a secret shared, a key offered.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pleased, and nuzzled against her hair. His lips pressed against her temple again, lingering this time. The roughness of his stubble scraped her skin, a counterpoint to the unexpected tenderness. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer against the furnace heat of his body. His thumb remained pressed deep below her navel, a constant, grounding reminder of the fullness he’d left inside her.

 He inhaled deeply against her hair, the sound slow and satisfied. “Said it right.” His voice was a low rumble, vibrating through her bones. “Fits better now, doesn’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. His hand slid lower, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of her hip bone, tracing the tender flesh he’d gripped so brutally hours before. “Hurts?”

Amara swallowed, her throat dry. The ache was a deep, persistent thrum, radiating from her core through her thighs. “Yes,” she whispered, the word catching. She felt him shift behind her, his hips pressing subtly forward, pressing the hard line of his softening cock against the swell of her ass. His lips brushed her ear. “Good.” The single word held layers: satisfaction, possession, a dark promise that the ache was a testament. “Means you took it all.” His fingers traced the sensitive skin where her thigh met her hip, a touch that was almost gentle, yet carried the weight of ownership. “Means it’s deep.”

She pressed her cheek harder against his forearm, seeking the solidity of him. The grey light seemed to seep into her bones. “I’ll probably get pregnant,” she murmured, her voice muffled against his skin, chin tucked tight to his chest. The words felt thick, heavy. “Accident-prone me.” 

It wasn’t fear, not entirely. It was a numb acknowledgment, a strange inevitability woven into the exhaustion and the deep, claiming ache he’d left inside her. Like stumbling into fate. His thumb pressed deeper below her navel, a possessive punctuation mark. “Probably?” His chuckle vibrated against her spine, low and resonant. “That wasn’t an accident, .” His hand slid lower, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of her hip, dipping towards the tender junction of her thigh. “That was deliberate. Deep. Right where it belongs.” He paused, letting the implication settle like dust in the quiet cabin. “You feel it settlin’ in?”

Amara closed her eyes. She did feel it. A phantom pressure, a lingering fullness radiating warmth low in her belly, a constant echo of his violent possession. It felt… anchored. Permanent. Her breath hitched. He shifted behind her, his lips finding the sensitive skin beneath her ear. His voice dropped to a gravelly murmur, warm breath stirring her tangled hair. “You want it, Amara?” The question wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t cruel. It was thick with a dark, possessive pride. “You want my cubs?” The word cubs landed between them, primal and startling. It settled into the silence of the cabin, heavy as stone, vibrating deep in her bones. Not pups. Not babies. Cubs. It spoke of wildness, of lineage, of something fierce and untamed taking root inside her. Claimed. Owned. Utterly his.

She blinked up at him, cheeks flushing crimson. The sudden vulnerability felt raw, exposed under the grey dawn light. 

“Maybe,”

 She breathed, the word trembling. Her gaze flickered away, then back to his face, searching the hard lines softened only slightly by sleep. “I mean—part of me thinks it would be… nice.” She swallowed hard, the admission fragile. “Scary, too.” Her thumb rubbed tiny, nervous circles over the place his hand had warmed below her navel, over the phantom ache where she imagined his seed already taking hold.

 The conflicting emotions tangled inside her – a flicker of terrifying warmth battling the icy dread of consequence.

Elijah’s hands tightened, careful and possessive, on the curve of her hips. His thumbs pressed into the yielding flesh just above her hipbones, anchoring her. “Scared is fine,” he said, his voice low but firm, cutting through the fragile quiet. “We will be careful.” His gaze held hers, intense, demanding honesty. “We’ll talk. You will tell me what you want and what you don’t. Communication is non-negotiable.” He tipped her chin up with a fingertip, forcing her eyes to meet his unwavering stare. 

“No hiding. No pretending you don’t mean things.” His thumb brushed her jawline, a stark contrast to the brutal grip of hours before. “We talk. We plan. You never decide alone.”

Amara’s throat bobbed. “I don’t want to make decisions alone,” she admitted, honest as the rain. The vulnerability scraped raw, but the words felt like shedding a weight. She leaned into the solid warmth of his chest, seeking shelter. His arms encircled her, pulling her closer, shielding her from the chill seeping through the cabin walls. The possessive grip softened into an embrace, his chin resting atop her head. Outside, the lone bird chirped again, a bright, sharp sound against the heavy silence inside. Her fingers curled into the coarse hair on his forearm, clinging. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Elijah’s breath warmed her scalp. “Good.” His mouth softened against her temple, a kiss that held tenderness, yet the firmness in his voice remained unyielding. “Because I won’t let you.” He shifted slightly, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. The dawn light caught the molten gold flecks in his eyes, softening the predatory edge. “You are a grown woman who I respect.” His thumb brushed her cheekbone, wiping away a stray tear she hadn’t realized had fallen. “But I also own the part of your life that is mine to protect.” His hand slid down to rest heavily over her lower belly, pressing deep into the ache.

 “That means I carry weight so you don’t have to.” His gaze held hers, fierce and unwavering. “You won’t lift a finger when I say you shouldn’t—” His voice roughened, echoing the command from the night before. “—but you will lift your voice when something’s wrong.” His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on her hip. “You will use your words.”

Amara nodded, a fragile movement against his arm. The exhaustion pulled at her, deeper than the ache in her body. The warmth of him, the solid weight anchoring her to the mattress, the low rumble of his voice… it all blurred into a lulling haze. His thumb continued its slow, rhythmic circles below her navel, a grounding pressure that seemed to seep into her bones, easing the sharp edges of her soreness into a dull, manageable thrum. She felt his chest rise and fall against her back, a steady counterpoint to her own shallow breaths. The scent of him—smoke, sweat, musk—wrapped around her, familiar now, strangely comforting in its intensity. Her eyelids grew impossibly heavy. The grey light filtering through the window softened, losing its sharp edges. The lone bird outside had fallen silent. 

The only sounds were the slow rasp of Elijah’s breathing and the faint rustle of the quilt beneath them. Her fingers, still curled loosely against his forearm, relaxed completely. The tension seeped from her limbs, replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness. She sighed, a soft, surrendering sound that barely stirred the air. Her head nestled deeper into the crook of his arm, her cheek pressed against the rough texture of his skin. The world narrowed to the heat of his body, the possessive weight of his arm across her waist, and the deep, anchoring pressure of his hand low on her belly. Consciousness frayed at the edges, dissolving like mist.

Elijah lay utterly still. He listened to the shift in her breathing, the deepening rhythm that signaled sleep finally claiming her. The frantic flutter beneath his palm on her sternum slowed, steadied. He didn't move his hand from her belly, didn't loosen the arm pinning her gently against him. He simply watched. Watched the slow, deep rise and fall of her chest beneath his forearm. Watched the way a stray lock of damp, dark hair clung to the curve of her cheekbone, stark against her brown skin.

 Watched the faint pulse fluttering in the vulnerable column of her throat, exposed where her head tilted back on his arm. The grey dawn light painted her in soft monochrome, highlighting the delicate arch of her brows, the bruised shadows beneath her closed eyes, the slightly parted lips. The fierce possessiveness that had driven him through the night didn't vanish; it transmuted. It settled into a profound stillness, a watchfulness that felt as ancient as the mountains surrounding the cabin. His thumb remained pressed deep into the yielding flesh below her navel, feeling the faint, steady warmth radiating from within her core. The thought – soft, fierce, inevitable – rolled through him again and again, a tide against the shore of his own exhaustion.

She, carrying his cub

-------------------

The air hung thick with a cold, damp chill that somehow intensified the macabre glow of the emergency lights. Red and blue strobes pulsed erratically, painting the skeletal branches of the tree line in fleeting, garish hues, like a macabre dance. The persistent, crackling hum of police radios wove through the night, punctuated by the sharper, more urgent chatter of officers and the forced, almost theatrical hushed tones of reporters. A formidable line of patrol cars and unmarked sedans hunkered down along the shoulder of the winding road, their high-beam headlights cutting stark, almost violent, tunnels into the oppressive shadows of the ancient woods.

Within this chaotic light show, detectives moved with a grim purpose, gravitating in tight clusters, their hushed conversations punctuated by the occasional flash of a camera. Officers, their faces drawn and serious, meticulously strung up bright yellow tape, a flimsy barrier against the dark unknown it marked off. Beyond the perimeter, news cameras jutted out like hungry mechanical eyes, their lenses relentlessly trying to pierce the veil of secrecy, desperate for a glimpse, or even a hint, of the raw carnage whispered to be hidden just out of sight. The air itself seemed to vibrate with a palpable tension, a blend of professional urgency and morbid fascination.

Then, cutting through the orchestrated chaos like a dark phantom, a sleek, obsidian black sedan, its windows opaque with heavy tint, glided to a near-silent halt at the outermost edge of the yellow tape. It moved with an unhurried, almost insolent confidence that defied the urgency of the scene. The driver’s side door chimed softly as it opened, then swung silently closed, followed moments later by the passenger door. Out stepped a man, a figure of striking contrast against the disarray. He was dressed with an impeccable sharpness that bordered on ostentatious – pressed charcoal slacks, gleaming, polished leather shoes that caught the flashing lights, and a fitted, dark vest visible beneath the tailored cut of his suit jacket.

He didn't stride; he unfolded from the car, his movements fluid and deliberate, like a predator surveying its domain. There was an innate authority in his posture, a kind of casual self-possession that seemed to pull every eye, every anxious glance, toward him even before he parted his lips. He moved as if the very ground beneath his feet was his private property, his swagger radiating an almost gravitational pull.

"Whew," he drawled, the word a soft, almost appreciative sigh that carried just enough to be heard over the distant radio static. His gaze drifted slowly, taking in the frenetic dance of the cameras, the grim faces of the officers, and the unseen horror that was the subject of all their frantic activity. A slow, knowing smile, devoid of humor, played on his lips. "Isn't this something?"

Detective Sergeant Harding, a woman whose uniform seemed less a costume and more an extension of her own steel-backed resolve, felt a flicker of annoyance cut through her professional focus. She squared her shoulders, her stance solid, and strode directly towards him, her boots crunching on the gravel. "Excuse me, sir, who are you?" her voice clipped, carrying the unmistakable tone of someone accustomed to being obeyed. The man tilted his head almost imperceptibly, his smirk deepening as his eyes, dark and unreadable, scanned the woods beyond her, lingering on the deepest shadows.

 "Seems to me these woods are well-protected tonight," he murmured, his voice a smooth, low rumble, like a distant storm. But beneath the velvet drawl, there was an edge, a sharpness, an almost imperceptible glint of something predatory, a hidden threat that made the hairs on Harding’s arms prickle despite herself.

Harding’s jaw tightened. She wasn't one to be put off by cryptic charm. "I'll ask again, sir," she reiterated, her voice now laced with a steely impatience, "Who. Are. You?"

He didn't answer right away. Nah—he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of an immediate response. He took his sweet, deliberate time. His gaze wandered past her once more, over the shimmering heat haze above the squad car engines, past the fluttering crime scene tape that whipped like a frantic signal in the light breeze, and deep into the inky blackness of the tree line where the cops were clustered, whispering like kids who’d seen a bona fide ghost. A muscle in his jaw flexed once, a subtle tic, before that slow, wolfish grin slid across his face, a flash of something ancient and knowing.

“Funny thing ‘bout these woods,” he drawled, his voice dropping even lower, rich with an accent as thick as midnight molasses. It wasn't just talking; it was like a man spinning an old bedtime story meant to scare the living daylights out of you. “You dig deep enough here… you bound to pull up somethin’ you ain’t got no business touchin’. Somethin’ that don’t belong to man at all. Somethin’ from way, way back.”

Harding shifted her weight, her brows pulling tight, a vein in her temple throbbing faintly. Her experience screamed at her that this wasn't some random rubbernecker or a curious local. This man was… something else. "Sir," she insisted, her voice tighter now, "I need an answer. Or you will be escorted off the grounds."

the man finally cut his gaze back to her, sharp and heavy, like he was weighing her very soul, assessing the moral fortitude tucked beneath her badge. He smirked, a slow, almost lazy shake of his head. “Now hold on a minute, darlin’,” he purred, the term laced with a casual condescension that made Harding’s stomach clench. “Don’t go gettin’ your pretty badge all twisted up just yet.”

He slid a hand into the inner pocket of his suit jacket—slow, deliberate, every movement a calculated performance—and pulled out a worn leather wallet. With a flick of his thumb, he flipped it open, holding it up just long enough for the gold gleam of a federal shield to catch the flashing red and blue. The light glinted, reflecting off the polished metal with an undeniable authority.

“Name’s Detective Moore,” he said, the words rolling easily off his tongue. Then that grin widened, a subtle flash of unnatural gold catching the light from inside his mouth, a glint of something unexpected and a little wild. “But you can call me stack."

And the way he said it—it wasn’t just an introduction. It was a declaration, a stake driven into the very heart of their unfolding mystery. It was a promise, perhaps, of involvement they hadn't asked for, a deep, unsettling commitment to whatever dark secrets these woods held. And undeniably, unequivocally, it was a warning.

-------------

@mauvecherie-writes @underated345-blog @og-goddesstrill @nayaesworld @transparentphantom10 @notapradagurl7

[honeytoffee]

Amara you got locked down overnight chile, ain’t going nowhere without Papa Bear. And gon’ somewhere Stack, I don’t trust you. If Smoke is a bear, what are you? 👀…it’s giving big bad wolf vibes 🐺.

[othermotherchild-deactivated202]

Mhmh. You might be on to something👀

[othermotherchild-deactivated202]

|PAPA BEAR| - 4

Bear Hybrid!Smoke x black oc

Amara has found peace with Smoke, who is protective and kind. They are expecting a baby, and she feels she's finally where she belongs. However, this happiness is shadowed by a deep unease, as Amara senses that a danger, tied to Smoke's past, is coming for them.

Content warning: Dark themes, Heavy Smut, and Fluff.

The last thing Stack saw of his twin, Smoke, was a flash of red plaid disappearing between the pines, swallowed by the deepening twilight. The words they’d exchanged, sharp and bitter, still felt like a physical bruising in Stack’s chest. A stupid, petty blow-up, escalating into a shouting match that ended with Smoke’s promise to never look back. Stack watched him go, expecting him to return, as he always did.

He never did.

Months bled into each other, each day a fresh wound. The local sheriff called it a disappearance, but Stack knew it was more. It was his fault. His anger. His cutting words had driven Smoke into the maw of the wilderness. The stress, the guilt, the raw, unyielding anger—it was a corrosive acid on his soul, but it also pushed something dormant deep within him. Something that had been sleeping quietly for twenty-six years.

Stack was losing himself, but not in the way he’d expected. He’d anticipated a slow slide into despair, a dull ache that would eventually numb him. Instead, he was feeling too much.

His body was… shifting. At first, it was subtle. His old flannel shirts, once comfortably loose, now strained across his shoulders. He was taller, or so it seemed, needing to duck under doorframes he once cleared with ease. His muscles, always strong from working his father’s old sawmill, were thickening, coiling under his skin like tightly wound springs. His hands, calloused and broad, felt somehow heavier, stronger.

Then came the senses. He’d wake to the faint scrabbling of a mouse in the walls he’d never heard before, the whisper of wind through distant leaves, not just sound, but a language. The shadows in his home, once a comforting cloak, now held a strange clarity. He could discern the individual needles on a pine across the clearing in the moonless night. His world was suddenly sharper, louder, more vibrant, and terrifyingly, irrevocably, alien.

Even his voice… it had deepened, roughened, carrying a weight he hadn’t known he possessed. When he spoke, it was a rumble in his chest, a low growl barely contained. People at the general store, already wary of the grieving, brooding Stack, flinched when he addressed them.

Every time he caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror above his washstand, it wasn’t just him staring back. His eyes, once a clear hazel, now held a gold fleck he hadn’t noticed before, a predatory gleam. Something darker was watching from behind his own reflection. Something waiting. It pulsed with a terrible heat, an untamed rage, and a hunger that didn’t make any sense. Not for food, not for comfort, but for something wild, something raw that gnawed at his insides.

He started avoiding people, locking himself away.The forest, once a familiar friend, now called to him with an insistent, animalistic pull. He’d caught himself on all fours, sniffing at the ground near the edge of the woods, his nose twitching, before snapping back to himself, horrified.

One night, the shift came.

He’d been pacing, the internal heat radiating from him, making his skin prickle. The hunger was a torment, a burning void in his gut. A full moon, huge and white, hung like a watchful eye in the sky, pouring silver light through his windows. Stack screamed as his bones began to grind, to stretch, to reshape themselves with agonizing slowness. His skin felt like it was tearing, his muscles ripping and reforming. He dropped to his knees, clutching at his head, the pain an inferno, every nerve shrieking. His jaw elongated, teeth sharpening, nails becoming claws. Hair, thick and coarse, erupted from his pores, covering him in a dark pelt.

He thrashed, violent and alone. The last vestiges of Stack’s human mind screamed in terror, watching as his humanity peeled away like shed skin, leaving behind a primal, snarling beast. He felt the floorboards splinter under the weight of his new limbs, heard a guttural growl tear from his throat, a sound both alien and terrifyingly his own.

When it was done, he stood, naked and monstrous, bathed in moonlight. A massive shadow, furred and muscled, with eyes that glowed a hellish gold. The air rushed into his newly enlarged lungs, carrying the scent of pine, damp earth, and distant prey. The rage was still there, but now it was a focused power, a magnificent, terrifying beast unleashed. The hunger, too, was an all-consuming fire, demanding to be sated.

He howled, a long, mournful, triumphant sound that ripped through the quiet night, echoing across the vast, indifferent woods.

Who would have thought? A damn wolf. And in the depths of his transformed mind, a terrifying, new question began to form: What, exactly, had happened to Smoke?

______________

Present…

Cindy broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, turning her head to the side to escape the overwhelming assault. Her lungs burned for air. Sweat-slick strands of hair stuck to her cheek. She stared at the rough grain of the wooden wall, her heart pounding against his palm still resting possessively on her throat. Then, gathering the shattered remnants of her courage, she whispered the words, her voice hoarse but unexpectedly sweet, a fragile bloom in the aftermath of the storm. "Can I ride you?" The question hung in the thick air, trembling with a vulnerability that hadn't been there before.

Stack's low chuckle vibrated against her spine, a rumble of dark amusement. His hand slid from her throat, tracing a possessive path down her sweat-slicked stomach. He didn't speak. Instead, his grip tightened on her hip, a silent command to move. He shifted his weight, rolling onto his back with a heavy grunt, pulling her with him. The thick base of his cock, still nestled deep within her, shifted, pulling a sharp gasp from her lips as he settled against the quilt. He spread his legs, a silent invitation, his dark eyes fixed on her face, watching, waiting. His expression was unreadable, a mask of lazy power.

Cindy gulped, the sound audible in the sudden quiet. She pushed herself up, her muscles trembling violently, every movement sending fresh waves of soreness through her abused core. Cool air kissed her damp skin as she crawled over him, her movements stiff and unsteady. She straddled his hips, her knees sinking into the quilt on either side of his powerful thighs. Her gaze flickered down. His dick lay heavy against his stomach, thick and semi-hard, glistening with a mixture of her wetness and his drying seed. Her own slickness coated her inner thighs, a visceral reminder. Her hands shook as she reached down, fingers brushing the hot, velvety skin.

She wrapped her fingers around the base, the sheer weight and heat of him startling. A low groan rumbled from Stack’s chest, his eyes burning into her with predatory focus. Bracing her free hand against his sweat-slicked abdomen, Cindy lifted herself slightly, aligning the swollen head with her swollen, tender entrance. She hesitated, biting her lip hard enough to taste blood. The stretch had been agony before. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she lowered herself. The thick crown pressed against her fluttering opening, stretching the sensitive ring of muscle impossibly wide. A sharp gasp escaped her as she forced herself down, inch by burning inch, the thick shaft filling her with a deep, familiar ache. Her breath hitched, tears welling anew as her body stretched to accommodate him once more, the friction a raw, bright pain mixed with a treacherous thrum of remembered pleasure.

He was so deep, so impossibly thick. Her inner walls fluttered wildly around the invading girth, a chaotic mix of protest and unwanted welcome. Stack’s hands settled heavily on her trembling hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above her hip bones. He didn’t help; he just watched as she struggled to take him fully. Her thighs shook violently, threatening to buckle. "Fuck," she breathed, the word trembling. "Fuckfuckfuckfuck." The litany spilled out, raw and desperate, as she sank the final inch, her body finally seated fully against his pelvis. The sheer, overwhelming fullness stole her breath. She felt stretched to her absolute limit, every nerve ending screaming. Her head dropped forward, strands of damp hair clinging to her flushed cheeks. "s-stack" she whimpered, her voice cracking, thin and childlike in the charged silence. "So… b-big." The admission was a ragged whisper, torn from her core, a surrender to the sheer, brutal reality of him inside her.

Stack’s low chuckle vibrated beneath her palms, a dark rumble of satisfaction. His grip tightened, fingers biting into her flesh, anchoring her. "Move." The command was soft, lethal. It brooked no argument. Cindy sucked in a sharp breath, bracing her hands flat against the hard planes of his sweat-slicked chest. The muscle beneath her palms felt like corded steel. She pushed herself up, her body screaming in protest.

 The thick shaft dragged against her abused walls, pulling a choked gasp from her lips. She hovered for a moment, trembling, the head of his cock stretching her entrance obscenely wide. Then, gathering every shred of strength, she dropped back down. Hard. The impact jolted through her, forcing the air from her lungs in a sharp cry. Pain and a treacherous spark of pleasure collided deep within her core. "Y-yes," she hissed, more to herself than him, her voice tight with strain. 

She looked devastatingly beautiful like this. Her stomach, usually flat and taut, was visibly rounded, a soft, tender swell beneath her navel where his release sat heavy and hot inside her. It pressed gently against Stack’s abdomen with each desperate bounce. Her pussy was a slick, glistening mess, stretched impossibly wide around his girth, her wetness coating his cock and smearing across her trembling inner thighs with every frantic rise and fall. Her face was a portrait of raw vulnerability – cheeks flushed a deep, blotchy pink, eyes swollen and red-rimmed from the tears she’d shed, lips kiss-bruised and parted on ragged pants. Fat tears still clung to her lashes. And her tits… God, her tits. Heavy and full, they bounced wildly with every punishing descent onto his cock, a hypnotic, obscene rhythm that drew Stack’s hungry gaze. Her small hands splayed wide on his chest, fingers digging in for purchase, knuckles white as she fought to control the brutal pace he demanded.

Her thighs burned. Her core screamed. But she pushed herself up again, trembling violently, her body slick with sweat. This time, she pushed higher, rising onto her toes where they dug into the quilt beside his hips. For a second, she hovered, balanced precariously, the thick head stretching her entrance, her breath catching in a ragged gasp. Stack’s hands, resting possessively on her hips, slid down instantly. His large, calloused fingers wrapped like iron manacles around her delicate ankles, pinning her feet flat against the mattress beside him. The grip was absolute, immobilizing her lower legs, forcing her to take his thrusts solely through the desperate pistoning of her hips and thighs.

 Her ass slammed down onto him with renewed force, the impact sharp, the wet slap echoing louder. Each bounce jiggled her cheeks, the view obscene, the soft flesh rippling with the violence of her movements. The stickiness was everywhere – between her legs, coating his cock, smeared across his lower belly, a thick, viscous string of pearly white cum stretching from her inner thigh to his hip as she lifted herself again, only to break and smear anew when she crashed back down.

Stack observed her body and gripped her ankles, pinning her feet to the mattress. This forced her to rely solely on her hips and thighs, making her ass slam down harder with each thrust.

The brutal rhythm faltered. Her strength, already shattered, finally gave out. Her muscles unlocked, trembling violently. With a choked sob, CIndy collapsed forward, her upper body crashing onto Stack’s broad, sweat-slicked chest. Her face buried itself in the hollow of his throat, her breath coming in hot, ragged pants against his skin. The sudden collapse forced his cock to slide almost completely out of her with a slick, wet pop. Only the swollen, sticky tip remained pressed against her dripping, swollen entrance. Her ass, slick with sweat and the remnants of his seed, lifted high in the air, trembling with exhaustion, the curve exposed and vulnerable.

Stack grunted, a sound of annoyance mixed with dark amusement. His right hand, which had been gripping her hip, slid lazily upwards. His palm, rough and calloused, skated over the sweat-sheened swell of her lower back, tracing the dip of her spine. It moved higher, over the trembling curve of her flank. His fingers fumbled slightly, almost clumsily, against the sheer, overwhelming fatness of her ass cheek. The soft, heavy flesh spilled over his knuckles as he squeezed, kneading the pliant globe possessively.

 He groaned low in his chest, the vibration rumbling against Cindy's forehead pressed into his neck. His other hand released her ankle and snaked down his own body. His thick fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, slick with her wetness and his own drying release. He angled it upwards, rubbing the thick, veiny shaft deliberately against her slick, swollen folds. The blunt head bumped against her sensitive clit, making her whimper into his skin. The friction was electric, a cruel tease against her oversensitive flesh.

Then, without warning, his hand on her ass tightened into a brutal claw. He shoved. Not a lift, but a hard, downward slam, forcing her hips back onto him. Her exhausted body offered no resistance. Her ass cheeks flattened against his pelvis with a heavy, wet smack as he buried himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. Cindy cried out, a ragged sound muffled against his throat, her body arching involuntarily at the sudden, deep invasion. Before she could even gasp, Stack’s hips pistoned upwards. 

A savage, powerful thrust that punched the air from her lungs. He drove deep, grinding his pubic bone hard against her clit, forcing a choked scream from her lips. He didn’t stop. His hips snapped up again, a sharp, demanding jab that made her entire body jolt. "Sit up," he growled, the command rough against her ear. His hand left her ass and clamped onto the back of her neck, fingers digging into the tense muscles, hauling her upper body off his chest. Her head lolled back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. 

Tears streamed freely down her temples, mingling with the sweat. "Ride this dick." His voice was a low, dangerous rasp. His other hand found her hip again, fingers biting deep into the soft flesh. "Finish what you started." He punctuated the command with another sharp upward thrust, jarring her bones. "Fucking move."

Cindy whined, a high-pitched sound of pure exhaustion and overstimulation. Her thighs trembled violently, threatening to buckle. Stack’s grip on her neck tightened, forcing her spine straighter. His other hand slid from her hip to her waist, his large palm spanning almost her entire ribcage, calloused fingers pressing hard into the tender skin just below her breasts. The pressure was grounding, commanding. "Do it," he snarled. His thumb stroked the curve of her lowest rib, a mockery of tenderness.

She sucked in a shuddering breath, tasting salt and him. Her hands, braced on his chest, slid upwards, fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. With a choked sob, she pushed. Her body lifted slowly, agonizingly, the thick shaft dragging against her raw, swollen walls. The friction burned, a bright line of pain that stole her breath. She hovered, trembling, the head stretching her entrance obscenely wide, her wetness dripping onto his lower belly. Then, with a ragged gasp, she dropped. Her ass slapped hard against his pelvis, the impact sharp, forcing a grunt from Stack. The sheer fullness stole her breath, her inner walls fluttering wildly around the invading girth.

She did it again. Push. Tremble. Drop. A wet slap echoed in the room. Push. Tremble. Drop. The rhythm was jerky, uncoordinated, driven by sheer will and the iron grip of his hands anchoring her. Sweat slicked her back, dripping between her shoulder blades. Her tits bounced heavily with each punishing descent, the nipples hard and aching. Stack’s gaze raked over her, fixed on the obscene stretch of her pussy around his cock, the glistening mess smeared across her thighs and his belly. His thumbs dug deeper into the flesh just below her ribs, commanding the pace.

Smack!

Her ass slammed down again, the wet impact sharp against the heavy silence. Sweat dripped from her chin onto Stack's heaving chest. "Uh-huh, that's it, baby," he grunted, his voice a low, guttural rasp vibrating through her palms pressed against his shoulders. His thumbs dug deeper into the soft flesh beneath her ribs, a relentless anchor. "Milk that dick." The crude command hung thick in the air, mingling with the scent of sex and exertion. His gaze never wavered, locked on the obscene junction where her body swallowed him whole with each desperate drop. "Squeeze it outta me." His hips gave a tiny, involuntary upward jerk, grinding his base hard against her clit as she bottomed out, forcing a ragged gasp from her throat.

 His grip shifted. The hand clamped below her ribs slid instantly, brutally, around her waist. His arm became an iron band, crushing her ribs as he hauled her upper body back hard against his chest with a force that knocked the wind from her lungs. Her head snapped back against his shoulder, her spine arched painfully. His other hand released her neck only to clamp onto her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh near her ass. Before she could gasp, his hips pistoned upwards in a savage, brutal thrust that punched a choked scream from her lips. He drove impossibly deep, grinding his pubic bone hard against her swollen clit. The thick shaft stretched her tender walls to their limit, the hot seed inside her churning violently with the pressure.

His hips snapped up again. Sharp. Demanding. Then again. Faster. The wet sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the room—flap, flap, flap—as he took over completely, forcing her limp body to bounce on his cock like a ragdoll. Her exhausted thighs offered no resistance; she was just weight in his hands, a vessel. Her head lolled back on his shoulder, tears streaming freely down her temples.  

With a guttural roar that ripped from his chest, Stack slammed her down one final time, crushing her ass against his pelvis. He buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep, his cock pulsing violently within her. Hot jets of seed erupted, flooding her already filled depths. He held her there, impaled and trembling, his body rigid beneath her, his cock twitching rhythmically as he emptied himself. His groan was long and low, a sound of pure, possessive satisfaction vibrating against her sweat-slicked back. He kept her pinned, grinding shallowly, ensuring every last drop was deposited deep inside her womb. His arms locked around her waist, a steel cage, holding her utterly still for a long, heavy minute. The only sounds were his slowing breaths and her choked, tearful gasps against the thick silence.

Slowly, reluctantly, he released the crushing pressure on her ribs. His softening cock slipped free with a thick, wet schlop, followed by a gush of warm fluid. Strings of pearly cum stretched obscenely between her gaping, swollen entrance and his glistening tip before breaking, splattering messily onto her inner thighs and the rumpled quilt beneath them. Stack shifted, rolling her limp body sideways onto the mattress beside him. She landed with a soft thud, her legs splayed, her body a canvas of sweat, tears, and the viscous evidence of his possession. He propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze raking over her.     

Cindy lay trembling, utterly spent. Her chest heaved, drawing in ragged breaths that hitched with residual sobs. Tears still leaked from her swollen eyes, tracing paths through the sweat and flushed skin of her cheeks. She felt hollowed out, scraped raw inside and out. Yet, beneath the bone-deep exhaustion and the lingering ache, a strange, treacherous ember glowed – a flicker of something perilously close to awe. The sheer, brutal intensity of it… the way he’d owned her, body and soul… it had been terrifying, overwhelming, and undeniably potent. A shaky, breathless laugh escaped her parted, bruised lips. It was a fragile sound, almost disbelieving.

"That…" she whispered, her voice wrecked, hoarse. She swallowed thickly. "That was… amazing." The words felt foreign, dangerous, falling from her lips like a confession. She pushed herself up onto one trembling elbow, ignoring the deep ache radiating through her core, the slick mess cooling between her thighs. Her vision swam slightly. She leaned towards him, drawn by the fading heat radiating from his skin, aiming to brush her bruised lips against his jaw – a fragile gesture in the wreckage.

Stack jerked his head away sharply. The movement was sudden, unexpected, like a startled predator. His eyes flickered past her shoulder towards the nightstand. He didn't look at her. Didn't acknowledge her words or the tentative kiss she hadn't landed. Instead, he pushed himself upright with a grunt, the muscles in his back rippling. The damp quilt clung to his hips as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The mattress springs groaned in protest.

Cindy flinched, the rejection stinging sharper than any bite. Her bruised lips remained parted, hovering in the charged air where his jaw had been. Confusion clouded her tear-swollen eyes, quickly followed by a flush of humiliation creeping up her neck. Amazing? Had she really said that? After… everything? The sheer vulnerability of the admission curdled in her stomach. She watched, frozen, as he snatched his discarded jeans from the floor. He didn't glance back.

"You got what you wanted," she rasped, the words scraping her raw throat. Her voice was barely audible over the frantic pounding of her own heart. "And you're leaving." It wasn't a question. It was a hollow statement, tasting of salt and defeat. She pulled her bare arm tighter across her exposed chest, the single shoulder suddenly unbearably cold.

Stack paused halfway into stepping into his jeans. He didn't turn, didn't flinch. His back muscles tensed briefly beneath sweat-slicked skin. "Sorry… gotta handle some business," he said, his tone casual, almost bored. But the way he stood—shoulders loose, eyes fixed on the darkened hallway beyond the bedroom door—made it clear he didn't give a single damn. The words were a dismissal, thin and flimsy as tissue paper. He zipped his jeans with a sharp, efficient tug, the sound jarringly loud in the thick silence. He didn't bother with a shirt, just scooped his crumpled t-shirt off the floor and shoved it into his back pocket.

Cindy pushed herself up fully, wincing at the deep ache radiating through her pelvis. "Business?" Her voice cracked, still raw from screaming. She hugged her knees to her chest, the motion pulling a fresh sting between her thighs. The cooling mess there felt suddenly filthy. "After… after that?" She gestured weakly at the wrecked bed, the tangled sheets soaked with sweat and sex and tears. "You just—"

Stack turned his head, just slightly. Not enough to meet her eyes. A faint, predatory grin ghosted across his face, sharp and fleeting as a knife blade catching moonlight. It wasn't amusement. It was something colder, older. The air in the small room seemed to tighten around him instantly, thickening heavy, damp, and charged with the unspoken promise of something dangerous. Cindy felt it press against her skin, raising goosebumps despite the lingering heat. Her breath hitched, trapped in her throat.

He didn't speak. Didn't need to. The look alone was a dismissal sharper than any word. He turned fully away from her, towards the bedroom door. His bare feet made no sound on the worn floorboards. He moved with a sudden, unnerving silence, a predator melting into shadow. One moment he was a solid presence radiating heat and menace beside the bed, a dark silhouette against the dim light bleeding in from the hallway. The next, he was simply… dissolving. The doorway swallowed him whole. No lingering glance, no final word. Just the faintest disturbance in the air, a cool draft where his heat had been, carrying the lingering scent of sweat, sex, and something wild, like damp earth and ozone after a storm.

Cindy stared at the empty doorway. The silence roared. It pressed against her eardrums, thick and suffocating, broken only by the frantic hammering of her own heart against her ribs. “Fucking asshole.” The words formed soundlessly on her bruised lips, a bitter echo in the hollow space he’d left behind. She tasted salt – tears or sweat, she couldn't tell. The cooling mess between her thighs felt suddenly viscous, obscene. She slumped back onto the mattress, the springs groaning under her weight like a wounded animal. 

__________________

He was back in the woods. The air hung thick and heavy, a silence that wasn’t empty but alive, pulsing with things that moved and breathed in the dark. Stack stood still for a long moment, letting it wash over him. Every sound. Every shift of the wind. Every heartbeat that wasn’t his.

Then he drew a slow, deliberate breath, and the wolf inside him stirred. His shoulders rolled back, his neck cracking as the scent hit him—pine, smoke, and underneath it all, something softer. Warmer. Her.

His eyes snapped open—ice-grey, sharp as shattered glass. They gleamed in the dark, catching the moonlight like an animal’s. A slow, crooked smile spread across his face, revealing the flash of gold on his teeth, sharp and fang-like. It wasn’t a human smile. It was too still. Too knowing. The kind of smile that promised danger long before it arrived.

“There you are,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous, carrying the edge of a growl. It wasn’t just words—it was possession, a predator savoring the hunt.

Stack stepped forward, boots silent on the earth, the woods bending to make way for him. His wolf prowled just beneath the surface, restless, hungry. Every instinct screamed to close the distance, to claim what his eyes had already marked.

And when the axe cracked against wood in the distance, echoing through the trees, Stack’s grin widened.

Smoke wasn’t alone out here.

Which meant the game was about to get really interesting.

_____________

The scent of simmering herbs and roasted meat filled the air as Amara rocked gently in her chair by the fire. She leaned back, her hand resting on the gentle swell of her belly, watching smoke in the kitchen. Lord, that man. He moved with a quiet, powerful grace, sweat clinging to his skin as he stirred a pot on the stove. His muscles flexed with every movement, tattoos shifting like they were alive under the warm glow of the overhead light. She couldn’t help but smile—he looked like something out of an old story, half-man, half-force of nature.

“Let me help,” she called, half-teasing.

Smoke didn’t even look up. “You’re pregnant with my cub,” he rumbled, his voice deep enough to shake her bones. “Sit your ass down somewhere.”

She laughed, but her heart ached as her gaze drifted to the window, to the long stretch of trees that separated her from the world she’d left behind. Her family. Did they wonder about her? Were they angry? The ache of missing them had been creeping up lately, an itch under her skin.

Her smile dimmed.

Smoke was noticed instantly. He always did. The spoon stilled in his hand, his body going quiet as his sharp eyes cut across the room and landed on her.

“What’s that look for?” he asked, his voice low and pointed.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “I’m fine.”

He set the spoon down slowly, wiping his hands on a dishtowel as he stalked toward her. When he reached the rocking chair, he crouched in front of her, so close she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

“Don’t lie to me, Amara,” he said, his tone firm but careful. “You think on them too hard, you’ll stress yourself out. And I’m not letting anyone—not even your own blood—make my woman hurt. You hear me?” Her throat tightened. He wasn’t angry. He was protective. Fierce. His hand came up, big and warm, resting over hers where it lay on her belly.

“This right here?” he whispered, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles. “This is our family now. You. Me. Cub. Everything else? They’ll come around if they’re meant to. But don’t you dare sit here doubting if you’re enough.” Amara blinked back tears, her chest swelling with a mix of love and relief. She nodded, leaning forward to press her forehead to his.

smoke kissed her softly, then stood and went back to his cooking like he hadn’t just set her whole world right again. Sitting there, rocking by the fire, Amara thought maybe—for the first time in her life—she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Amara leaned back in the rocking chair, her hand smoothing over the curve of her belly in slow, absent circles. Smoke’s words should have settled her heart, but a knot of unease twisted in her stomach. It wasn't smoke—she trusted him with her life. It wasn't the cabin, either; this place was a sanctuary.

No, this was different. Something else pressed at the edges of her chest, heavy and low. A wrongness she couldn’t name. Her thumb brushed across her belly button, tracing the spot where she’d felt a tiny flutter earlier. “Mama’s here,” she whispered under her breath, unsure if she was talking to the cub inside her or trying to soothe herself.

Her gut told her something was coming. Something was waiting beyond the trees, out there in the silence where the cabin’s warmth couldn’t reach. smoke straightened in the kitchen, stirring the pot, but his head tilted just slightly, as if he felt it too. Amara froze, staring at him, her hand still rubbing her belly. Her life was beautiful now. Too beautiful. And deep down, she couldn’t shake the fear that such beauty never lasted long.

Amara’s thumb traced another circle across her stomach, but the ache in her gut only sharpened. It wasn’t nerves, it wasn’t the quiet. It was instinct. The wooden spoon scraped against the side of the pot in the kitchen, a sharp, final sound. smoke looked good like that—broad, solid, sweat catching the firelight—but even with him standing twenty feet away, a chill crawled up her spine.

The woods outside were too still. She shifted, her gaze flickering toward the window, half-expecting to see eyes staring back. Nothing moved—not a squirrel, not a bird. Just silence. Her chest tightened. Something was out there.

“Smoke,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer at first, just turned down the heat, slow and deliberate. But she saw the way his shoulders rolled, the way his jaw flexed. He felt it, too.

“Don’t worry,” he rumbled finally, his voice low, almost dangerous. “Whatever it is, it won’t get near you. Or our cub.”

But Amara couldn’t stop staring at the window. Because deep down, she knew this wasn’t just some animal. This was closer to blood.

Something tied to smoke.

Something that was coming for both of them.

________

-------

So what do we think? whats yall theories

@mauvecherie-writes @underated345-blog @og-goddesstrill @nayaesworld @transparentphantom10 @notapradagurl7 @honeytoffee @bananajoeclone @solarssins @biancalhurtt

[othermotherchild-deactivated202]

|PAPA BEAR| - 6

Bear Hybrid!Smoke x Black oc

Press conference. Fresh body. Old fling. Wolf instincts snapping loose. With Kel at his side, Stack turns a “sit down” into a shootout. The hunt’s only just begun.

Content Warnings: violence, blood, dark humor, feral energy

The engine, now a crumpled mess of smoking metal and shrapnel, gave a final, wheezing cough as the souped-up sedan—Stack’s latest ‘rental’ acquisition, black as midnight and just as subtle—fishtailed violently around a towering stack of precariously balanced shipping containers. Gunshots, sharp and unforgiving, pinged off the reinforced steel, a brutal symphony of impending chaos.

“Stack, I swear to fucking God, you got rocks for brains and a damn jet engine for a conscience!” Kel yelled from the passenger seat, his knuckles white as he gripped the dash like it was the only thing stopping him from being ejected into the concrete. His expensive tie, a silk knot he’d spent ten minutes perfecting that morning, was already askew, a pulsating vein throbbing furiously in his temple. “You scratch this goddamn paint and you’re gonna be buyin’ me a new one, you pussy ass nigga!”

“Y’all need to relax, brother, it’s a rental!” Stack grinned, a flash of gold from his custom-fitted fang piercing the grimace. One hand, steady as a surgeon’s, remained on the wheel, effortlessly compensating for the car’s wild lurching, while the other casually lobbed a smoke grenade out the shattered window. The immediate dock area filled with a sudden, choking white haze, thick as a winter fog, obscuring their pursuers. “Besides, you worry too much. It’s bad for your fur, Kel. You’ll go bald.”

“My fur is just fine, you goddamn fool! What’s bad for my fur, you lunatic, is your ass gettin’ us shot up by a dozen armed thugs in broad daylight, in the middle of a fucking port!” Kel coughed, waving a hand in front of his face, the acrid scent of gunpowder and burning rubber stinging his nostrils. “We had eyes on this operation for a month, you dumb motherfucker! A month of nice and quiet intel, and you had to go in guns blazin’, didn’t you? Didn’t you, you reckless piece of shit?”

“Where’s the fun in quiet, Kel?” Stack laughed, the sound a low, rumbling growl in his chest, utterly unbothered by the escalating gunfire. He spun the wheel hard, the tires screaming in protest as he deliberately drifted the car sideways to block a narrow alleyway where two desperate goons were tryin’ to escape on beat-up dirt bikes. The bikes, unable to stop, slammed into the sedan’s side with a sickening crunch of twisted metal and fiberglass, riders sprawling like discarded dolls, curses echoing in the smoke. “And look at that! Two less fools to worry about. Efficiency, my friend. It’s all about efficiency.”

“That’s what they call collateral damage, you walking disaster! Not efficiency! And what about the meet? The informant? You just blew up our chances of findin’ out who they’re movin’ this crap for, you absolute fucker!”

“Details, details. Always with the details.” Stack, with a flourish, pulled a gleaming chrome pistol from under his custom-tailored jacket, its silver gleam momentarily catching the harsh sunlight slicin’ through the swirling smoke. “We’ll get our answers. Just gotta ask the right questions. And sometimes, my dear Kel, the right questions come with a little… persuasion.”

He kicked open the driver’s side door just as a high-caliber bullet shattered the rear window, sending a shower of safety glass across the backseat. “Alright, big guy! Time to stretch them legs! Don’t want you gettin’ stiff, especially not with all this action!”

Kel let out a frustrated, primal groan, but he was already unbucklin’ his seatbelt, his own weapon—a sturdy, no-nonsense service pistol, well-worn but meticulously maintained—snapping into his hand. “I ain’t the one who needs to stretch, Stack! You’re the one who drives like a damn jackass and still manages to look like he just stepped out of a goddamn GQ spread!”

“A man’s gotta maintain appearances, Kel. Especially when he’s catchin’ bad guys. It’s about settin’ a standard, you know?” Stack gave a quick, disarming wink to a terrified dock worker cowering behind a forklift, then pivoted smoothly, firing two precise shots that dropped a rifle-wieldin’ thug who’d emerged from the smoke, still reeling from the unexpected turn of events.

“Standard? You are the standard for reckless endangerment, you crazy son of a bitch!” Kel dodged behind a stack of industrial-sized crates, returning fire with measured, powerful shots. His movements were more fluid, more grounded than Stack’s flamboyant chaos, but equally devastatingly effective. “You remember that time you chased a perp through the zoo and let all them monkeys loose? All them damn monkeys, Stack! They were flinging shit at us for days!”

“They was gettin’ bored! Needed a change of scenery!” Stack yelled back, vaulting over a conveyor belt with an acrobatic leap, slidin’ on his knees across the grimy concrete, and taking down another two men with a quick double tap. His gold fang glinted with every maniacal grin, a primal flash of exhilaration. “Adds a little spice to their day. Besides, that redneck was fast. Needed a distraction, a real memorable one.”

“A distraction that cost the city fifty thousand in damages and three days to round up all them goddamn primates! And you, you got a commendation for ‘creative problem-solvin’'! You got a medal” Kel emerged from cover, dropping an empty magazine and reloading with practiced, unhurried ease. “I got written up for ‘failure to control partner’! My goddamn captain nearly had an aneurysm!”

“Sounds like a you problem, not a me problem,” Stack said, now perched precariously on top of a giant shipping container, looking like a king on his throne as he surveyed the rapidly dwindlin’ number of armed men below. “Now, are you gonna keep complainin’, or are you gonna help me finish this party and get us some answers?”

Kel just shook his head, a wry, begrudging smile finally breakin’ through his mask of exasperation. “Just try not to get us blown up before lunch, okay, Stack? My stomach’s growlin’ like a damn grizzly, and I’m in no mood for hospital food.”

“No promises, big guy! But I can guarantee it’ll be memorable!” Stack launched himself off the container, landing with cat-like grace in the middle of the remaining goons, his pistol already aimed, a blur of motion and violence. Kel didn’t even bother to sigh. He just kicked off the container’s edge and dropped down after him, landing with a solid thud that rattled the ground, his own weapon rising in a practiced arc. The fight was far from over, but with Stack and Kel, it was always a show, a brutal, chaotic, unforgettable ballet of bullets and banter.

The air in the derelict warehouse suddenly ripped apart with the sound of automatic fire. The thugs, a scattered mess of adrenaline and bad decisions, spun, their cheap handguns and sawed-off shotguns blazing erratically towards Stack. He didn't flinch. A cold, predatory smile stretched across his face, even as sparks flew off the concrete wall beside his head. His own modified Glock coughed fire, a relentless symphony of destruction that echoed the "fuck around and find out" ethos he lived by.

"You pussy-ass niggas wanna dance?" Stack snarled, his voice cutting through the din. He fired, a precise double-tap that sent one of the goons backward, his shoulder exploding in a spray of blood and bone fragments. The man hit the ground, gurgling, his eyes wide with shock and pain. "Too slow, bitch!" Another shot-out, a neat hole appearing between the eyes of a second thug who’d dared to try and flank him. The bastard folded like a cheap suit, his gun clattering uselessly on the greasy floor. The rest kept coming, a pathetic wave of suicidal desperation.

Kel, however, moved with a different, brutal grace. He wasn't about the flashy gunplay; he was a goddamn force of nature. A mountainous brute, easily two hundred pounds of muscle and fear, charged him with a wild, overhand swing, a cheap pipe whistling through the air. Kel dipped under it like water, the pipe whooshing inches above his head. He spun, driving his elbow into the man’s ribs with a sickening crunch before following up with a brutal, piston-like uppercut that snapped the brute’s head back. The man's jaw clicked shut with a sound like a broken padlock, his eyes rolling back as he crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he even landed.

"You could've just shot him, you know, you crazy bastard!" Stack yelled, diving for cover behind a stack of rusted oil drums as a storm of bullets ripped into his previous position, punching clean, hot holes through a nearby forklift. Fuel began to seep, hissing onto the concrete.

"Where's the fun in that, Stack?" Kel retorted, his voice a low, dangerous growl, barely audible over the remaining gunfire. He snagged another dumbass trying to sneak up from his blindside, grabbing him by the hair and slamming his head into a rusted metal crate. CRANG! The sound was sickening, cartoonish, like a bell being rung with a human skull. "Besides, I don't need no stinkin' gun to get a message across. They need to feel it." He dropped the unconscious thug, who slid to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

The last two remaining thugs, wide-eyed and pissing themselves, looked from their fallen comrades – two dead, two potentially paralyzed, all utterly wrecked – to the two men who stood before them. Stack was a picture of immaculate chaos, his designer tie still miraculously straight, a wild, almost delighted grin on his face, a faint wisp of gunsmoke curling from his Glock. Kel, by contrast, was a menacing, coiled predator, his body radiating a primal intensity, his eyes locked on them like a hawk on its prey.

One thug, a skinny kid with tear tracks on his grime-streaked face, lowered his weapon, his hands shaking so hard the gun nearly slipped. "This ain't worth it, man. Fuck this, I'm out!"

Stack chuckled, a low, guttural sound that sent shivers down the kid's spine. "Too late for that, hoss. Should've thought about that before you tried to pull that bullshit."

"Who the hell are y'all?" the other one stammered, his voice cracking, looking from Stack's manic grin to Kel's stony intensity. 

Stack and Kel exchanged a quick, knowing look. It was the same look they always had, a dangerous blend of pure, unadulterated chaos and a reluctant, brotherly bond forged in the fires of a thousand shootouts. Stack holstered his still-smoking gun, the click strangely loud in the sudden silence, and took a step forward, his grin widening. "We're the guys you ain't fixin' to mess with no more, bitch. We're the wake-up call, and your ass just hit snooze."

"Yeah," Kel added, a slow, deliberate nod. "And we're the ones fixin' to put your sorry ass in a cage for a real long time. You wanna be a jailhouse pussy, be our guest."

The two thugs stared at them, then at each other, a silent, panicked conversation passing between them. Then, in a moment of pure, unadulterated desperation born of terror, they both bolted. Not together, not strategically, but in opposite directions, like roaches scattering when the light comes on.

Stack let out a low, disappointed sigh, like a man whose favorite show just got cancelled. "Aw, hell. They split. Fucking amateurs. Looks like we're doin' this the hard way, brother." He rolled his shoulders, stretching out the kinks.

Kel just rolled his eyes, a flicker of exasperation crossing his face. "You say that like we ever do anything the easy way." His gaze was already locked on the faster of the two fleeing figures.

With a burst of surprising speed, Stack was off, a predator unleashed, moving with the terrifying agility of a hunter closing in on its prey. Kel followed his own target, his strides long and powerful, his feet barely making a sound on the grimy concrete as he devoured the distance, a silent, relentless force of nature about to mete out some much-deserved justice. The chase was on..      

The air in the deserted dockyard hung thick with the smell of brine and stale diesel, only to be punctuated by a deafening CRANG! as Stack slammed the unfortunate thug against the corrugated steel wall of a storage unit. The impact rattled the flimsy structure, sending a shower of rust flakes dancing in the moonlight. Stack held the man aloft by the neck of his grimy shirt, his feet scrabbling inches from the ground, a desperate, choking sound escaping his throat.

"Now, listen to me," Stack snarled, his voice a low, gravelly growl that promised pain. His gold tooth flashed menacingly under the single, flickering dock light. "I ain't in the mood to play no fucking games. You're gonna tell me who the fuck y'all work for, and you're gonna tell me right now, before I decide to rearrange your face with my fist. You understand?"

The thug's eyes were saucers of pure terror, wide and bloodshot, fixed on Stack's face. "I-I don't know nothin', man! Just some delivery gig, I swear to God!" His voice was a reedy squeak, barely audible above his frantic gasps for air.

Stack's grin widened, a chilling, predatory display of teeth. "Is that right? 'Cause you sure as hell didn't look like you were deliverin' no fucking groceries. You looked like you were moving product," He leaned in closer, his breath hot against the thug's face, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "I got a real bad temper, and I've been lookin' to work it out. You wanna be my new stress ball? I can guarantee you'll regret not talking." He tightened his grip, the thug's face turning a sickly purple.

Before the guy could even manage a choked stammer, Kel ambled over, his expression a weary, practiced blend of disappointment and profound exhaustion. He placed a hand on Stack's shoulder, firm but with a subtle, calming pressure. "Stack, easy now. Let him breathe, big man. We can't get any answers if he chokes out on us."

Stack let out a frustrated grunt but reluctantly released his grip. The thug crumpled to the ground in a pathetic heap, coughing violently, dragging ragged breaths into his burning lungs. He clutched his throat, his body trembling uncontrollably.

Kel knelt down, offering a hand to the still-gasping thug. His voice was remarkably gentle, almost soothing. "It's alright, son. We're not gonna hurt you. We just wanna talk."

The thug looked up, his gaze darting between Kel's deceptively friendly face and Stack's still-menacing scowl, which promised imminent violence. "Y'all are fucking crazy!" he spluttered, scrambling backward until his back hit the cold steel wall again.

"Just ignore him," Kel said, jerking his thumb dismissively at Stack. "He's all bark and no bite, really. Right, Stack?"

Stack scoffed, crossing his formidable arms, a shadow of a grim smile playing on his lips. "That's what they all say. 'Til they get bit. And when I bite, bitch, I bite hard."

Kel sighed, a long-suffering sound, then turned his full attention back to the thug, his demeanor shifting subtly, the friendly mask slipping just enough to reveal a steely resolve beneath. "See? I told you. Anyway, my name's Kel. This here's my partner, Stack. We just wanna get some information. No need for anyone to get hurt, unless you want to find out just how much bark and bite Stack truly has." His gaze hardened. 

"I'm a simple man. I just wanna go home, have some supper with my wife, and watch a little TV. But I can't do that until this case is solved. You help me out, and I'll make sure you get a nice, comfy jail cell where Stack can't reach you. You don't... well, Stack here, he gets real mean when he's hungry. And believe me, he's hungry for answers."

"I get real mean when I'm hungry," Stack echoed from behind Kel, pulling out a cigarette and flicking his Zippo to life, the flame briefly illuminating his intense eyes.

"Now, son," Kel said, his voice dropping to a smooth, almost hypnotic tone. "Just tell me who runs this operation. Who's the ringleader? We'll handle the rest. You tell us, and you walk away with nothing but a bruised ego and a story to tell. You don't, and Stack here might just make sure you don't walk away at all. You hear me, pussy?"

The thug looked up at Stack, whose eyes were no longer just menacing, but gleaming with a cold, predatory intelligence. He saw the wolf, hungry and patient, waiting for its meal, ready to tear. The thug swallowed hard, a visible gulp in his scrawny neck. "Okay, okay! Fuck! The boss... he ain't from 'round here. Calls himself 'The Broker.' Said if anyone got caught, we were to tell 'em... 'The wolves are watching'."

Stack and Kel's eyes met over the cowering thug's head. Stack's grimace vanished, replaced by a cold, hard stare that wiped away any trace of his earlier aggression. Kel's expression grew instantly grim, the weariness replaced by an alert gravity. "What the hell does that mean?" Kel demanded, his voice sharp now, stripped of its earlier calm.

"I don't know!" the thug cried, shaking his head frantically. "He just said it! Said it was a warning. Said we ain't the only ones out here. Said there was... others. Other packs."

Stack took a long, slow drag on his cigarette, his gaze distant, processing the sinister new information. Kel stood up slowly, never taking his eyes off the terrified thug, the casual interrogation ending with a sudden, chilling twist. They had their answer, but it only brought a fresh wave of unsettling questions.

"Well, now," Kel said, a low, dangerous sound rumbling in his chest. "That's a fucking problem."

Stack tossed his cigarette to the ground, his heavy boot grinding it out with deliberate force, the glowing ember dying under his heel. "A problem," he growled, his voice now flat and laced with a deadly resolve, "we're fixin' to solve. And whoever the fuck 'The Broker' is, he's about to find out exactly what kind of wolves we are."

The stale air of the precinct clung heavy, thick with the scent of cheap coffee, stale donuts, and unspoken dread. Stack looked like he'd just wrestled a goddamn grizzly bear, and lost. His tailored suit jacket was slung over one shoulder, rumpled and stained, his tie a strangled knot around his collar, loose to the point of vulgarity. The usual gold flash in his teeth, his signature smirk, was gone, replaced by a grim, rock-hard set to his jaw that promised nothing but pain. Kel, usually the picture of stoic calm, mirrored his partner's disarray, his face a mask of weary frustration, eyes bloodshot from too many hours chasing ghosts in the concrete jungle.

"This is a goddamn waste of time, a pussy ass excuse for police work!" Stack snarled, shrugging off a wet-behind-the-ears rookie who tried to stop him with a flimsy clipboard. The kid stumbled back, wide-eyed. "We've got a stone-cold killer out there, a real, honest-to-fuck monster, and we're stuck in this bureaucratic hellhole, filing paperwork for some low-level schmucks who stole a few bikes? Are you shitting me?!"

"Paperwork, Stack, is what keeps our asses from gettin' thrown in jail, or worse, puttin' a bullet in your own damn head trying to go rogue," Kel grumbled, running a hand over his face, scrubbing away the exhaustion. "You want to go full-blown vigilante on this murder case? Fine. But we gotta clean up the mess first, or they'll bury us under it."

Stack ignored him, his eyes scanning the faces of his fellow officers. He saw the whispers, the nervous glances, the way they avoided his gaze. They thought he was too close, too connected, off his goddamn rocker. It just made the low growl rumbling in his chest feel that much more justified.

"'The wolves are watching'," he repeated, the words a low, dangerous whisper that only Kel could hear, like the growl of a predator. "What the hell does that even mean? They ain't talkin' about us, Kel. Not in the way we've been watchin' 'em. This ain't about some street-level shit. This is something else."

Kel’s jaw tightened. "Reckon we're about to find out."

Captain Alvarez was waiting outside his office, a storm cloud of a man, his face tighter than a drum. "Stack. Kel. Inside. Now."

Stack didn't even flinch. He just kept walking, his gaze fixed on some invisible point in the distance, a point only he could see, a target. "Right behind you, Cap," he drawled, a false casualness in his tone, a polite sneer that promised not just trouble, but absolute mayhem.

Kel shook his head, a heavy, resigned sigh escaping his lips. "This ain't gonna be pretty, is it?"

"Ain't nothin' pretty about what we do, Kel," Stack said, his eyes finally meeting his partner's. And there it was—the wolf, hungry, coiled, and ready to spring. "Now, let's go get this fucking dog and pony show over with so we can get back to what actually matters."

He pushed open the door to Alvarez's office and stepped inside, the oppressive silence of the room heavier than a coffin lid, leaving Kel to follow.

"There's been another one," Alvarez stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, but the weight of the words crushed the air.

Stack and Kel exchanged a knowing, weary look. The air in the room seemed to thicken, a palpable dread settling in.

"The name is Cindy White."

It was like a fucking bomb went off inside Stack. Every muscle in his body locked up, a sudden, violent stillness that was more terrifying than any outburst. The swagger, the weary sarcasm, the controlled rage—all of it drained, replaced by a stillness colder than a tombstone on a forgotten night. His eyes, fixed on Alvarez, lost all color, becoming as cold, gray, and unforgiving as a winter storm. He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. Just a silent, predatory stare that promised death.

The captain looked at Stack, his expression unreadable, but a flicker of grim recognition crossed his features. "Maybe you should pull from this case, Stack. For your own good."

Kel, oblivious for a fleeting second, looked at Stack, then back at Alvarez, confused. "Who the hell is Cindy White?"

Stack didn't move. He didn't even blink. He just stared through the captain like he wasn't even there, like he was a ghost, an obstruction. Kel took a step forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl, mirroring Stack's suppressed fury. "Stack. Who is she? Talk to me, goddammit!"

Stack finally tore his gaze away from Alvarez, an act of sheer will, and looked at his partner. The gold fang was gone. His face looked older, ravaged, like he'd aged a decade in a single heartbeat. "She was..." He let out a long, slow breath, a shaky release of air that sounded more like a death rattle. The words were barely a whisper, yet they echoed like a gunshot in the confined space. "She was with me, Kel. My Bitch. My woman. My fucking everything."

The words hung in the air, heavy and loaded, each syllable a lead weight. Kel's face went from confused to grim, then to a stark, horrified understanding. He understood. It was a simple statement, but it carried the weight of a hundred unspoken things—a past, a deep, personal connection, a reason to be not just furious, but utterly unhinged.

"I'm tellin' you now, Stack, you are too close," Alvarez said, his voice hard as steel, but a tremor of unease was there. "I'll get another team on it. This is compromised."

Stack's eyes flashed, the animal glint returning with a vengeance, the wolf now fully unleashed. "The hell you will," His voice was low, laced with a dangerous calm that was more terrifying than any scream. "This case is mine. You try to take it from me, you try to put some pencil-pushing motherfucker on it, and you'll find out what a real problem looks like. You'll find out what kind of hell I can bring down on this precinct. Fuck your other team!"

Kel immediately put a hand on Stack's arm, a warning squeeze, trying to pull him back from the brink of open insubordination. "Stack, just... calm down. We can work this out."

Stack shook him off like he was an annoying fly, his gaze locked on the captain, pure, unadulterated rage burning in his eyes. "You want to find the son of a bitch who did this? You want justice for Cindy? You let me do my goddamn job. You get in my way, you try to get in my way, and you'll regret it for the rest of your miserable life. I will tear this city apart, brick by fucking brick, until I find him."

Alvarez just stared back, his face a mask of weary resolve, defeat etched around his eyes. He saw the fire in Stack's eyes, the predatory gleam of the wolf, a primal force that couldn't be reasoned with, couldn't be stopped. He knew Stack well enough to know the man wasn't bluffing.

"Alright, Stack," Alvarez said finally, his voice a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping slightly. "But you're on a short leash. You screw this up, you're not just off the case. You're off the force. For good. You understand me?"

Stack didn't reply. He just pivoted on his heel, a silent, deadly engine of vengeance, and walked out, leaving the door to Alvarez's office to swing open behind him, a gaping maw revealing the chaos he was about to unleash. Kel followed, his eyes on Stack's rigid back, a silent, grim understanding passing between them. They were in for a wild, bloody ride. The hunt was on.

______________

The cameras were a relentless, blinding assault, their strobing flashes searing patterns onto Detective Moore’s retinas. A phalanx of microphones, a bristling, metallic forest, was shoved toward him, a cacophony of demands and accusations that flew faster and more viciously than any aimed projectile. The air crackled with the energy of the press corps, a pack a hungry for a kill, and Moore was their prey.

“Detective Moore—what can you tell us about the killings in the woods?” a reporter with a strained voice shouted, her lens practically kissing his nose.

“Is there a suspect?” another bellowed, the question sharp and insistent.

“Are civilians in danger?” The questions tumbled over each other, a tidal wave of anxiety and speculation.

Detective Stack—he corrected everyone who dared to call him Moore, a small, private rebellion against the encroaching anonymity of his profession—adjusted his tie. The motion was slow, deliberate, a theatrical pause that conveyed a deceptive calm, as if he had an eternity to spare in this frantic circus. The tight, predatory grin that stretched across his face wasn’t for the ravenous lenses pointed at him. It was for something far more primal, something that still clung to his clothes and his senses – the lingering scent that had seeped from the dense woods behind them. It was a potent, complex perfume of damp earth, the coppery tang of blood, the musky odor of wild fur, and an almost tangible undertow of raw, untamed rage.

“Y’all asking the wrong questions,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant hum. It possessed that distinct, almost guttural edge, a remnant of the rougher streets that gave his pronouncements an undeniable, magnetic gravitas. Reporters, despite their professional detachment, instinctively leaned forward, drawn in by the irresistible current of his tone. His ice-grey eyes, sharp and unnervingly focused, glinted like chips of frozen obsidian under the harsh glare of the floodlights, holding a hunter’s keen, predatory intensity.

“What you should be asking…” he let the question hang in the air, a deliberate, tantalizing silence. Then, a quick, almost imperceptible flash of a smile, as if for himself alone, revealed just a hint of something unnatural – a glint of gold that hinted at a canine edge, a suggestion of something not entirely human. “…is how long these woods have been hiding what’s really out here.”

A palpable hush rippled through the seething crowd, a collective intake of breath as the implication sank in. The aggressive energy momentarily faltered, replaced by a stunned, almost fearful silence.

The lead reporter, a seasoned veteran whose face had seen its share of sensational stories, blinked slowly, her professional skepticism warring with a nascent unease. “Are you saying this is an animal attack, Detective?” Her voice was smaller now, tentative.

Stack chuckled, a deep, unsettling sound that held no humor, only a chilling amusement. “Animal? Naw, sweetheart.” He met her gaze directly, his eyes holding hers for a beat too long. “Animals don’t stack bodies like this.” His gaze, however, didn’t linger on her. It cut past the entire assembly, his focus drawn inexorably back to the dark, brooding tree line. The wolf that resided within him, a constant, restless presence, stirred at the scent, its ancient hunger gnawing.

Later, the adrenaline having subsided, leaving a weary ache in his bones, Stack finally slipped away from the press scrum. He found Kel waiting for him just beyond the flickering perimeter of the floodlights, a lean silhouette against the encroaching darkness. The air here was cooler, the oppressive weight of the cameras and microphones gone, replaced by the quiet hum of the night.

Kel’s voice was a low rumble, mirroring the subdued energy of the surroundings. “So what now?”

Stack met his partner’s gaze, the predatory gleam in his eyes softening slightly, replaced by a weary resolve. He ran a hand over his jaw, the rough stubble a testament to his lack of sleep. “I think it’s time,” he said, his voice a low, measured tone, “I pay my brother a visit.”

_______________________

STACK AND KEL "The Werewolf Duo"

[When writing this, maybe I should give Stack his own spin-off]

@mauvecherie-writes @underated345-blog @og-goddesstrill @nayaesworld @transparentphantom10 @notapradagurl7 @honeytoffee @bananajoeclone @solarssins @biancalhurtt

[othermotherchild-deactivated202]

|PAPA BEAR| - 7

Bear Hybrid!Smoke x Black oc

Smoke finally sees his twin stack after years. But Stack, being who he is, trouble followed.

Content warnings: Violence, blood, Angst, Dark Humor.

Smoke was cutting. His boots, sturdy and caked with the dark, fertile soil, were planted firmly, anchoring him to the ground. The worn fabric of his joggers clung to his thick thighs. 

On the sun-drenched porch, Amara observed him, a serene smile gracing her lips as she cradled a glass of her sweet, tart lemonade. On the other hand, her other hand rested protectively over the softly rounded swell of her belly, a subtle testament to the new life burgeoning within her. The sight of Smoke, so powerfully engaged in his task, never failed to stir a deep sense of admiration within her. She could watch him for hours, captivated by his sheer presence.

Setting her lemonade cup down on the weathered railing, Amara gracefully descended the porch steps. She moved with an easy sensuality, slipping her arms around Smoke’s powerful waist from behind, her touch a silken whisper against his sweat-slicked skin. He stilled, the relentless rhythm of his axe faltering for a moment, then ceased entirely. With a deliberate motion, he set the tool aside and turned, his thick arms encircling her in a warm, possessive embrace. He lowered his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against her temple, a gesture of deep affection that sent a shiver of contentment through her.

“Why don’t you come inside?” Amara murmured, tilting her head back to meet his gaze, her voice laced with a playful invitation. “I’ll fix you something to eat.”

Smoke’s lips curved into a slow, sensual grin, his teeth catching momentarily on the corner of his mouth as the unspoken promise in her words ignited his interest. “Mmh. And what’s that, baby?” he rumbled, his voice a low, inviting growl.

“A nice, hearty grilled sandwich,” Amara offered, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she lowered her voice, the words a seductive suggestion. “Some ice-cold lemonade… and dessert.”

“Dessert, huh?” Smoke’s brow arched, his predatory gaze honing in on her, a spark of delicious anticipation igniting in his golden eyes.

Amara smirked, a knowing glint in her gaze. “I’ll leave that up to you to discover.”

She tugged gently at his hand, attempting to lead him towards the inviting sanctuary of the porch. But suddenly, Smoke stopped, his body going rigid, every muscle tensing with an almost instantaneous, primal alertness.

Amara’s smile faltered, a flicker of concern clouding her features. “Smoke? What’s wrong?”

His nostrils flared, a sharp, animalistic reaction. The very air around them seemed to shift, growing heavy with an imperceptible tension, sharp and predator-like. He bent low, a deep, guttural growl rumbling from his chest, a primal warning. “Get inside,” he commanded, his voice stripped of its earlier warmth, now raw and urgent. “Lock the doors.”

Her lips parted to voice her protest, to question his sudden alarm, but the intense, unwavering look he gave her—a look that promised no room for argument—froze the words on her tongue. The gold in his eyes, already beginning to flicker and spread, was a clear and undeniable sign of the animalistic power stirring within him. Without another word, she turned and hurried back inside, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs as she slammed the locks into place, the click of the mechanism a hollow echo in the sudden silence.

Outside, Smoke’s breath grew ragged, his chest heaving. His eyes burned with an intense, blinding gold, the color spreading rapidly, consuming the natural hue. His bear was clawing at the confines of his skin, a furious entity demanding release. His gaze fixed on the dense, whispering tree line, every fiber of his being screaming a silent alarm.

“Come out,” he growled, his voice dropping to a low, menacing rumble that vibrated with barely restrained power. “I know you’re there.”

The shadows among the trees seemed to writhe and shift. Then, as if summoned from the very darkness itself, Stack emerged. He was a stark contrast to the primal energy radiating from Smoke, dressed in a sharp, impeccably tailored suit, a thick gold chain glinting against his dark shirt. A wide, almost unnervingly confident grin stretched across his face, the kind of expression that seemed born from a lifetime of provoking and unsettling others.

“I come in peace,” Stack announced lightly, raising his hands in a gesture of feigned surrender. The infuriating grin remained plastered on his features, and it served only to tighten Smoke’s chest with a surge of pure, unadulterated anger.

Smoke’s gaze swept over his brother, a critical assessment from his rugged boots to the arrogant tilt of his head. His jaw flexed, a silent testament to his barely contained fury. “You’ve grown,” he stated, the words clipped and laced with suspicion.

Stack smirked, a flash of wolf-grey in his eyes as he returned the appraisal. “So have you.”

For a long, charged moment, an almost palpable silence descended between them, thick with unspoken history and the raw animosity that simmered beneath their surface. Brother against brother. Predator against predator.

“So what,” Smoke’s voice rumbled, low and dangerous, a primal growl at its root, “–you’ve come here for revenge?”

Stack tilted his head, the infuriating grin still firmly in place, but his wolf-grey eyes glinted with a dangerous, predatory light in the deepening shadows. “Revenge?” he repeated, his voice smooth and laced with an undeniable mockery. “Brother, if I wanted that, I’d have brought a shovel with me.”

Smoke took a step forward, and the potent force of his bear surged beneath his skin, yearning for a release. Stack, however, didn’t flinch. Instead, he mirrored Smoke’s movement, stepping forward himself, his grin widening as though he welcomed and even craved the inevitable confrontation.

For a fleeting heartbeat, it was a tableau of two apex predators circling each other, fists clenching, hearts pounding a furious, synchronized rhythm, both poised on the precipice of violence, ready to tear into one another with primal ferocity.

And then—Stack laughed. The sound was sharp, sudden, and utterly unexpected, shattering the suffocating tension like a blade slicing through a taut rope.

Before Smoke could even register the change, Stack closed the distance between them in a blur of motion. He lunged forward, grabbing Smoke in a bone-crushing embrace, his arms squeezing with an almost desperate strength. His hand smacked hard against Smoke’s back, the grip tight, laced with an emotion that felt akin to raw, unbridled relief.

“Damn, I missed your ugly ass,” Stack muttered, his voice rougher than he perhaps intended, thick with a sentiment that had been long suppressed.

Smoke froze, his chest heaving with the residual fury and the abrupt shift in emotion. Then, slowly, tentatively, he felt the coiled tension drain out of him. His own arms wrapped around his brother, returning the embrace just as fiercely, his forehead pressing into the strong, familiar plane of Stack’s shoulder.

His voice, when it finally came, cracked with emotion, barely a whisper that seemed to carry the weight of years apart. “Been too long.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the inherent animosity between the bear and the wolf didn't clash. Instead, they held on to each other with a desperate, visceral need, a silent acknowledgment that blood, in that moment, was far stronger than pride or past grievances.

Stack finally pulled back, his grip still firm on Smoke’s shoulders, but that crooked, familiar grin had slid right back into place. He tilted his head, his sharp gaze catching a flicker of movement in the cabin window.

“Look at that,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur.

Smoke turned, following his brother’s gaze, and there she was. Amara, framed by the warm glow of the porch light, her hands resting protectively on her belly, worry etched deeply onto her beautiful face as she stared out at them, her eyes wide with apprehension.

Stack’s grin sharpened, the glint of his gold tooth flashing in the dim light. He lifted a hand in a casual, almost nonchalant wave. “Heeey, sis-in-law.”

Amara’s eyes widened further, her lips parting in a gasp of pure surprise. Smoke, his protective instincts instantly ignited, let out a low growl in his chest, shooting his brother a glare so sharp and potent it could have severed steel.

Stack, however, merely laughed, stepping back with both hands raised in a gesture of mock innocence. “What? A man can’t say hello anymore?”

Amara stood rooted to the spot on the porch, a silent statue caught between two opposing forces. Her mind raced, a frantic butterfly trapped in a jar, unable to decide whether to offer a welcoming smile or to slam the heavy oak door shut, severing the uneasy peace. Smoke’s arm, a formidable band of muscle, tightened around her waist, a silent, visceral warning. His gaze, a molten gold that seemed to smolder even in the fading light, was locked onto his brother, a predator sizing up its prey.

Stack, however, remained utterly unfazed by the palpable hostility radiating from Smoke. A slow, deliberate lick of his teeth, a gesture both predatory and dismissive, preceded his eyes drifting past his brother’s rigid form. They landed back on Amara, and his already wide grin stretched even further, showcasing a glint of something akin to amusement.

“So,” he drawled, his voice a low, smoky rumble that dripped with a lazy, mocking insolence. “Y’all gon’ offer a nigga somethin’ to drink or what?” The question hung in the air, audacious and utterly out of place, as if he were a welcome guest and not a figure cloaked in an aura of barely suppressed danger, standing uninvited on another man’s doorstep.

The tension, already a brittle thread, snapped like a dry twig in the sudden silence. Amara’s breath hitched, a small, involuntary gasp that was swallowed by the charged atmosphere. Smoke’s chest rumbled, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through Amara’s back, and he took a step forward, his body coiled like a spring, as if the urge to physically hurl his brother back into the encroaching woods was a tangible, immediate impulse.

But Stack merely chuckled, a soft, disbelieving sound. He tilted his head, his eyes never leaving Amara, and his hands, casual and nonchalant, slid into the pockets of his worn jeans, projecting an air of unhurried leisure as if he had all the time in the world, and no regard for Smoke’s simmering rage.

Amara’s own breath caught in her throat, a knot of nerves tightening in her stomach. Her hand instinctively rose, settling protectively on her belly, a silent anchor amidst the brewing storm. She could feel the tautness in Smoke’s entire frame behind her, the deep, resonant growl that vibrated through him a constant, unsettling hum.

Yet, despite the fear that prickled her skin and the animosity crackling between the brothers, Amara couldn’t bring herself to cast Stack out into the night. Hesitation warred with a sense of hospitality, a conflict that left her feeling adrift.

Her voice, when it finally emerged, was softer than she intended, a gentle ripple against the sharp edges of the animosity. “Stack… you can come in.”

Smoke’s head snapped towards her, his eyes, illuminated by the dim porch light, blazing with a startling gold. “Amara,” he warned, her name a low, potent command, laced with a plea she couldn't quite decipher.

Amara lifted her chin, a flicker of stubbornness igniting within her, overriding the tremor in her gut. “He’s your brother,” she stated, a simple truth that held a world of unspoken sentiment.

For a long moment, the three of them remained suspended in time. Smoke’s golden gaze held Amara’s, a silent interrogation. Stack watched the exchange with a smug, knowing grin, as if he were thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. Finally, Smoke exhaled through his nose, a sharp, heavy release of pent-up frustration. With a visible effort, he stepped back, his arm sliding away from Amara’s waist, relinquishing his protective stance.

Stack, never one to miss an opportunity, didn’t hesitate. He strolled up the steps with an unnerving ease, as if he were merely returning home after a brief absence. His eyes, sharp and apprizing, swept across the cozy interior of the cabin, a silent inventory of their humble life, before he crossed the threshold. “Mmm,” he hummed, a sound of appreciation, and licked his teeth again. “Smells like home already.”

Amara gently closed the door behind him, the soft thud echoing the frantic rhythm of her own heart. Smoke lingered by the door, his jaw a rigid line, his gaze fixed on his brother with an almost palpable sense of regret, as if he’d already made a grave mistake.

Stack, with an almost theatrical display of casualness, dropped onto the plush cushions of the couch, his legs spreading wide, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. He leaned his head back, his gaze drifting towards the rough-hewn wooden beams of the cabin ceiling before settling back on Smoke, who remained a sentinel by the door.

“Damn,” Stack said, a wide, almost predatory smirk playing on his lips. “So this what happens when you go ghost for five years? You out here playin’ Paul Bunyan—choppin’ wood, makin’ babies.”

Amara’s lips twitched, a reluctant smile threatening to break free. She moved to sit on the arm of Smoke’s worn leather chair, her hand reaching out to grasp his, but his grip was like iron, and his jaw was set even tighter. “Don’t,” Smoke growled, the sound low and menacing.

“What?” Stack cut in, his voice laced with feigned innocence. “I’m just sayin’… you always been the wild one, bro. Didn’t think you had it in you to settle down.” His gaze slid to Amara, a slow, deliberate sweep that made her skin prickle. “Guess I was wrong.”

A blush crept up Amara’s neck under his scrutiny. She glanced down, her hand instinctively going to her belly, before quickly averting her eyes. Smoke’s growl deepened, a resonant hum that seemed to vibrate the very floorboards. “Stack—”

But Amara couldn’t help it. A soft giggle escaped her lips, her hand flying to cover her mouth. “Stop,” she whispered, her voice a soft plea, more to quell Smoke’s rising anger than to silence Stack.

Stack’s grin widened, sharp and wolfish, his gold front tooth flashing in the warm lamplight. “See? Sis-in-law got a sense of humor. Maybe she the one keepin’ you from turnin’ into a full-on grizzly.”

Smoke finally moved, his massive frame unfolding as he stepped forward, his imposing presence looming over his brother. “One more word, Stack—”

Stack leaned back even further, his hands lifted in a gesture of mock surrender, but the mischief in his eyes was undeniable. “Relax, papa bear,” he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. “I’m just tryna catch up with family.”

The growl in Smoke’s chest intensified, a rumbling threat like distant thunder. His entire body was poised, ready to spring. Stack, however, remained an island of calm, his crooked grin a dare, his eyes glittering with an unshakeable confidence.

Before the inevitable explosion could occur, Amara slipped her hand over Smoke’s, her thumb tracing soothing circles over his knuckles. “Baby,” she whispered, tilting her head towards him, a silent appeal. “Don’t.”

His golden eyes flickered to hers, still burning with barely contained fury, but her steady, reassuring gaze seemed to anchor him, pulling him back from the brink.

Amara then turned her attention to Stack, offering a tentative, small smile. “You hungry? I was gonna fix something anyway.”

Stack blinked once, the predatory edge to his grin softening almost imperceptibly. Then he chuckled, a low, appreciative sound. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Sis-in-law lookin’ out.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze direct. “Yeah, I could eat.”

Smoke’s nostrils flared, a silent acknowledgment of the tension, but he didn’t argue. Not when Amara rose and moved towards the kitchen, her hand trailing along his arm in a quiet, reassuring gesture as she passed.

Stack watched her go, his expression unreadable for a fleeting moment before his characteristic smirk returned. He leaned back against the cushions. “You lucked out, bro. She’s sweet.” His eyes, sharp and gleaming, cut back to Smoke. “Almost too sweet for a man like you.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in response, but this time, he remained silent. He sank into the worn leather chair, his massive frame a silent, immovable mountain refusing to be provoked.

From the kitchen, the soft clatter of dishes and the gentle melody of Amara humming filled the heavy quiet. It was a domestic sound, gentle and warm, a stark contrast to the simmering animosity in the living room, a subtle reminder of everything that was at stake.

__________________

Dinner was a taut, suffocating silence, a stark contrast to the usual boisterous camaraderie that filled their small cabin. The only sounds were the almost polite clink of silverware against ceramic plates, each metallic whisper amplified in the heavy air. Amara, caught in the crossfire of unspoken animosity, tried desperately to bridge the chasm with a series of soft, fleeting smiles, her gaze darting between the two men who were supposed to be brothers. But her efforts were futile. Smoke’s eyes, locked onto Stack with an intensity that bordered on predatory, never once wavered. The golden flecks in their depths seemed to burn with a contained fury.

Finally, the fragile peace shattered. Smoke’s fork, abruptly released, struck his plate with a sharp, decisive clink. The sound cut through the stillness like a blade. His voice, when it came, was a low, gravelly rumble, laced with an accusation that had been simmering for years. “Why you really here, Stack?”

Stack, as if he’d been waiting for this moment, leaned back, his chair tipping precariously on two legs. His arms, previously relaxed, were now folded tightly across his chest, a defensive posture that belied the easy grin he’d worn earlier. That grin had evaporated, replaced by something harder, colder, like ice forming on a frozen lake. “What you mean? I came to see my brother.” The words were smooth, practiced, but held no real conviction.

Smoke’s jaw worked, a visible tic betraying his barely suppressed rage. “Don’t lie to me, Stack. Five years. You ain’t looked .Now all of a sudden you pop up out the woods like nothin’ happened? Like we ain’t got history?”

Stack’s eyes narrowed, the easygoing facade cracking to reveal a flash of something wild, untamed, a wolfish glint. “Don’t you play me, Smoke. You the one who walked out. Left me holdin’ everything while you ran off to play Tarzan with your wild side. You think you the only one who had a choice?”

The table vibrated as Smoke’s fist slammed down with a violent bang. The plates jumped, a cascade of nervous clatters, and Amara flinched violently, her breath catching in her throat. Smoke’s chest rose and fell in ragged, heavy heaves, his eyes now glowing with an almost feral intensity, a clear sign of the beast struggling for release. “I didn’t choose this life, Stack! I didn’t ask to be born like this!” His voice was a guttural roar, raw with pain and resentment.

Stack’s chair crashed to the floor as he shot to his feet, mirroring Smoke’s explosive energy. His eyes blazed with an icy grey light, and in the dim cabin, his fangs, unnaturally long and sharp, flashed a warning. “And I didn’t ask to get abandoned by my own blood!” His voice cracked on the last word, a raw, wounded sound that tore from somewhere deep within him.

For a suspended, terrifying moment, the cabin felt impossibly small, the air thick and charged, crackling with primal energy. Two predators, bristling with anger and years of unspoken hurt, were on the precipice of a brutal, physical confrontation, the very walls threatening to buckle under the sheer force of their animosity.

Then, amidst the storm, Amara moved.

She slid between them, a small, determined shield, her hands finding Smoke’s heaving chest, pushing him back gently, while her free hand reached out, a silent plea, towards Stack. “Stop!” Her voice, though trembling, held a steely core. She refused to be a casualty of their war. “Y’all are brothers. You hear me? Brothers. That means something.”

Smoke’s chest continued to heave, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, the golden glow in his eyes flickering. Stack’s jaw worked furiously, his teeth bared in a silent snarl. The tension was a palpable thing, a coiled spring ready to snap.

Amara’s eyes welled with tears, but her voice softened, her plea taking on a different timbre. “I don’t care what happened before. I don’t care about the years lost or the words unspoken. Y’all don’t get to tear each other apart now. Not here. Not in front of me. This is our home, and you will not bring this darkness into it.”

A heavy silence descended, thicker and more suffocating than before. Smoke’s chest slowly stopped heaving, the fierce glow in his eyes receding, replaced by a weary resignation. Stack’s shoulders, tense moments before, dropped slightly, though his expression remained a carefully constructed mask, unreadable and sharp.

The immediate storm had passed, leaving behind a tense, uneasy calm. The air still crackled with the remnants of their fury. Smoke’s chest rose and fell in slow, deep breaths, as if he were fighting the urge to shift, to let the wildness take over. Stack’s jaw remained tight, his posture suggesting he was biting down on something sharp, suppressing a primal urge.

Then, Stack broke the silence. He dragged in a long, shuddering breath through his nose, his head tipping back, his eyes squeezed shut as if to block out a painful memory. When he finally opened them and looked at his brother, the sharp, hard edge was gone. What remained was a raw, almost painful vulnerability.

“The reason I came here…” His voice was rough, lower now, stripped of its earlier bravado. He swallowed, the action visible in his throat. “…was ‘cause I miss ya. Okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Smoke froze, the confession catching him completely off guard. His golden glow dimmed perceptibly, a flicker of surprise warring with the years of anger. Amara, still between them, felt the frantic hammering of Smoke’s heart beneath her palm, a wild, untamed bird trapped in his chest. She looked from one brother to the other, her lips parting in silent awe at the deeply buried emotions finally surfacing in Stack’s voice.

Stack scoffed, a self-deprecating shake of his head, as if he regretted the admission. “Damn, man. Five years, and I ain’t stopped thinkin’ about it. About you. About what went down.” His words hung in the air, sharp and honest, the remnants of his usual swagger unable to mask the profound weight of regret in his eyes.

Smoke stood rooted, his chest still heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. His fists opened and closed, a silent battle raging within him – pride against the sudden, unexpected ache in his chest. Amara’s hand remained on Smoke’s chest, a soft, steady presence, her silent message clear: It’s okay. Go to him.

Finally, Smoke exhaled, a long, ragged sound that seemed to carry the burden of five years of separation. He took a step forward, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight. Stack’s eyes flickered up, instantly wary, bracing himself for a physical blow.

Instead, Smoke’s arms came around Stack, a sudden, crushing embrace that spoke of desperation and years of longing. His voice broke against his brother’s shoulder, choked with emotion. “I’m sorry, man. I’m so damn sorry.”

Stack remained rigid for a half-heartbeat, surprised by the unexpected tenderness. Then, his own arms came up, locking around Smoke’s broad back with an equal intensity. His grin finally slipped back into place, but this time it wasn’t sharp or challenging. It was soft, tinged with pain, a genuine reflection of his relief. “’Bout time, fool.”

Amara watched from the sidelines, tears streaming down her face, her hand covering her mouth. She saw not two warring predators, but two broken halves, finally finding their way back to each other, their fractured souls beginning to mend in the quiet embrace of brotherhood.

Amara, her cheeks still slick with the residue of unshed tears, watched the two brothers, Stack and Smoke, with a burgeoning sense of hope. They were holding onto each other, a silent testament to their bond, and for the first time since she had known them, a fragile peace settled over her. The gnawing anxiety that had been a constant companion began to recede, replaced by a quiet belief that perhaps, just perhaps, everything might finally be okay.

But the fragile calm was shattered by the sudden, jarring intrusion of sound. A low rumble grew, punctuated by the unmistakable crunch of heavy tires on gravel. Then, sharp beams of light sliced through the darkness of the surrounding trees, illuminating the dirt road leading to their secluded cabin. Amara’s breath hitched, her heart plummeting into a chilling abyss of dread as a convoy of black, unmarked trucks rolled into view, their engines roaring before they screeched to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The silence that followed was charged with a terrifying tension. Then, doors slammed open with violent finality. Boots met the ground with heavy, decisive thuds. Dark, imposing figures spilled out of the vehicles, their forms silhouetted against the harsh headlights. The glint of firearms and the unnerving uniformity of their masked faces spoke of a practiced, ruthless efficiency. They moved with a chilling coordination, a predatory swarm descending upon their sanctuary.

Amara’s hand instinctively flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. "Smoke," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rising tide of her own fear, a tremor running through her body.

Both brothers snapped their heads toward her, their senses already on high alert, an primal instinct sparking deep within them. A guttural growl, a low rumble of pure animalistic warning, rose from Smoke’s chest before he even turned to face the intrusion at the window. Stack’s eyes, sharp and wolf-quick, narrowed, locking onto the approaching threat with unnerving speed, his gaze dissecting the scene before the first man even raised his weapon.

"Get down!" Stack’s barked command sliced through the air like a razor, his voice cutting through the rising panic. In a single, fluid motion, his hand darted to his holster, drawing his sidearm with practiced, lethal grace.

A deafening crack announced the arrival of their attackers. The cabin windows imploded inward under the first volley of gunfire, glass exploding into a thousand jagged shards that rained down upon the interior. Smoke, with a surge of protective strength, shoved Amara behind him, even as the primal instincts of his bear began to stir, a fierce urge to break free and defend her rising within him.

Stack moved with an almost supernatural agility, rolling forward and crouching low, his pistol barking a response with a chilling, calm precision. A faint, almost imperceptible crooked grin flickered across his lips, as if he had been anticipating this very moment, thriving in the chaos. “Guess family dinner’s over,” he muttered, his eyes, now glowing with a cold, wild intensity, fixed on the attackers.

Bullets ripped through the flimsy walls of the cabin, sending splinters of wood flying like shrapnel. Amara cried out, a strangled sound of terror, as Smoke dragged her unceremoniously to the floor, curling his massive frame over her. He became a living shield, his body a bulwark against the relentless storm of gunfire.

“Stay down, baby, don’t move!” he growled, his voice deepening, darkening, already taking on a rougher, more primal timbre that hinted at something ancient and not entirely human stirring within him.

Near the shattered window, Stack remained crouched, an unnerving picture of calm amidst the flying bullets. His pistol spoke with a steady, deadly rhythm, each squeeze of the trigger precise, efficient – head, chest, head, chest. A flash of white at his teeth, a snarl, escaped him as he spat, “Amateurs. Can’t even aim straight.”

One of the masked figures, emboldened by the perceived chaos, charged the porch. Stack pivoted with blinding speed, two shots dropped the man before he even reached the warped wooden steps. He glanced back, his eyes now a piercing, wolf-grey gleam. “Yo, Smoke! You plannin’ to just sit there, or you gonna show me what five years in the woods taught you?”

Smoke’s breath came in ragged gasps, his skin radiating an intense heat. His muscles trembled beneath Amara’s touch, a coiled tension building within him. A low, dangerous growl vibrated in his chest, a physical manifestation of the power struggling to break free. His eyes snapped open, no longer human blue, but a molten, feral gold.

“Close your eyes, Amara,” he whispered, his voice rough with the strain of his internal battle.

Before she could register his words, his body contorted violently, bones shifting and cracking with an unnatural sound. A guttural roar, a sound of pure, untamed fury, tore through the cabin as his bear form exploded into existence. The sheer force of the sound seemed to shake the very foundations of the cabin, rattling the glass that had already been spider-webbed by the gunfire.

Amara gasped, scrambling backward against the rough-hewn wall, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe. But her shock was quickly drowned out by the escalating pandemonium. The screams of the masked men, abruptly cut short, blended with the terrifying roar of the bear as he barreled through the shattered doorway, claws tearing through whatever stood in his path, jaws snapping with savage intent.

Stack let out a laugh, dark and sharp, his reloading movements as smooth and practiced as a seasoned dancer’s. He moved with his brother in a deadly, synchronized rhythm – the sharp cracks of gunfire punctuated by the bear’s fierce roars. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about! Welcome back, Smoke!”

Blood painted the ground. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with the acrid smell of gunpowder. Shouts were abruptly silenced. The yard had been transformed into a brutal war zone, and at its chaotic heart stood the Moore brothers – wolf and bear, a terrifying force of nature, tearing through their attackers with relentless fury.

And Amara, trembling uncontrollably against the wall, finally understood what her gut had been screaming at her all along. The fragile peace she had briefly felt was a dangerous illusion. The real fight, the one that truly mattered, had only just begun.

_________________

The ragged staccato of gunfire, once a frantic heartbeat in the night, finally sputtered and died, leaving behind an echoing void. The last, desperate scream, a fragile thread of sound, snapped short somewhere in the dense, indifferent trees. Wisps of acrid smoke, still heavy with the residue of discharge, clung to the shattered remnants of the yard. They rose and fell like spectral lungs, heaving in the wreckage, while Smoke, his form still rippling with the residual power of his transformation, his golden eyes burning with a primal alertness, scanned the desolate scene for any lingering threat. Beside him, Stack, a picture of chilling nonchalance, lowered his weapon with a smirk that stretched his lips into a predatory curve. He flicked a smear of crimson from his sleeve with the practiced ease of a seasoned butcher, as if shaking off a bothersome fly.

The silence that descended was not a balm, but a roaring, suffocating presence. It pressed in on them, a heavier weight than any sound, amplifying the ragged breaths and the thumping of their own blood. The aftermath of violence had carved a new, unnerving quiet into the fabric of the night.

Smoke’s chest heaved, a visceral, drumming rhythm against his ribs, as he commanded his body to shift back. The effort was immense, a wracking struggle that left him trembling, the raw power receding like a tidal wave, leaving him exposed and human once more, though the primal energy still hummed beneath his skin. Without a word, the tension in his posture screaming his urgency, he stumbled towards the splintered remains of the cabin door, ripping it open with a savage force that echoed the ferocity of the battle.

“Amara!” His voice, torn from his throat, was a raw, desperate plea, laced with a frantic terror that clawed at his composure. He dropped to his knees amidst the debris, pulling her into his arms with a ferocity born of pure relief. His hands, still imprinted with the memory of his beastly form, ran frantically over her face, her arms, her trembling body, searching for any sign of injury. “You good, baby? You hurt?”

She shook her head vehemently, tears coursing freely down her cheeks, blurring the image of his soot-stained face. She clung to him, her own small body a testament to the terror she had endured. “I’m okay,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, a fragile affirmation against the lingering echoes of chaos. “I’m okay.”

Before Smoke could even draw a steadying breath, before the relief could fully settle, headlights, impossibly bright and intrusive, sliced through the darkness, casting stark, shifting shadows across the wrecked yard. A battered black SUV, its engine grumbling a low, menacing growl, lurched up the muddy drive, its brakes emitting a tortured screech as it came to an abrupt halt. The driver’s door swung open, and Kel, his own weapon still clutched in a white-knuckled grip, tumbled out. His eyes, wide with a dawning horror, swept across the scene.

Bodies lay scattered like discarded dolls in the blood-soaked dirt. The porch itself was a tableau of carnage, stained a grotesque crimson. Smoke, his arm a protective vise around Amara, stood surveying the devastation, while Stack, leaning casually against a shattered wall, wore that same wolfish grin, as if the past few minutes had been nothing more than a mildly inconvenient Tuesday afternoon.

Kel froze, his breath catching in his throat. The silence, amplified by his arrival, crackled with unspoken questions. His voice, when it finally emerged, was a strained, disbelieving croak.

“…What the fuck.”

Stack let out a short, sharp bark of laughter, a glint of gold flashing as he bared his teeth. “’Bout time you showed up, nigga. We already handled it.”

Kel dragged a trembling hand down his face, his eyes bulging with an almost comical disbelief. “Handled it? There’s like ten dead bodies out here!”

Smoke’s head snapped up, his golden eyes, still holding a faint, ember-like glow, fixed on Kel. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble, a guttural echo of the predator that still lingered within him. “You think I was gon’ let ‘em touch mine?”

Kel could only shake his head, a low, disbelieving murmur escaping his lips. “Man… y’all some damn nightmares.”

Amara tightened her grip on Smoke, burying her face against his chest, seeking solace in his solid presence. The cabin, now that the immediate danger had passed, was thick with the cloying, metallic tang of gunpowder and blood, underscored by a primal, animal heat. And in that moment, breathing in the potent, unsettling miasma, Kel finally and irrevocably understood the true nature of the men he called friends. He was running with monsters.

_________________

Kel's boots, heavy with the grit of the yard, crunched with a sickening finality over the scattered, still forms that littered the ground. Each step was a testament to the violence that had just unfolded, a symphony of crunching gravel and the soft, yielding give of broken bodies. His Sig Sauer, a cold, familiar weight in his hand, remained at the ready, its matte black finish a stark contrast to the rising panic in his chest. But his gaze, sharp and burning with questions, was locked onto Stack. The man leaned with an infuriating casualness against a porch post, the very picture of nonchalance, as if the gruesome tableau surrounding them was just another Tuesday afternoon. This wasn't just a disagreement; this was an ambush, a brutal display of force, and Stack's composure was a slap in the face.

"Alright, Stack—enough games," Kel's voice sliced through the tense air, raw and frayed with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "What the hell's goin' on? Who sent them? And don't you dare say you don't know. Not after this." He gestured with his free hand, a wild sweep encompassing the dead and dying scattered across the uneven terrain.

Stack's lips, adorned with a metallic gleam from his grill, stretched into a slow, insolent smirk. He ran his tongue over the silverwork, a deliberate, almost theatrical gesture before he finally spoke. "Relax, Kel. You act like this the first time bodies dropped." The tremor of his voice was imperceptible, but the implication was a cold, hard knot in Kel's gut.

"I ain't laughin', man!" Kel shot back, the frustration boiling over. His knuckles were white where he gripped his weapon. "This ain't normal. Whoever after y'all—they not playin'. They came here to slaughter." The stark reality of the situation pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating.

Before Stack could offer another maddeningly calm response, his phone, a dark rectangle against the worn denim of his jeans, buzzed insistently. He slid it out with practiced swiftness, that easy, infuriating grin vanishing the instant his eyes registered the caller ID. The casual facade crumbled, replaced by a sudden, taut stillness.

He answered, his voice a low, measured drawl that belied the flicker of unease in his eyes. "Yeah."

A voice, devoid of warmth, distorted and chillingly artificial, hissed through the speaker. It was a voice that spoke of shadows and secrets, each word precisely placed like a surgical strike. "You're diggin' in places you don't belong, Moore. Pull back… or next time, it won't be your enemies who bleed. It'll be your family."

Stack's gaze, sharp and unnervingly focused, flickered involuntarily towards the dimly lit cabin. He saw Smoke, a hulking silhouette, still holding Amara close, a protective shield around the woman he clearly cared for. Stack's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching with barely suppressed rage. "You listen here, bitch—"

He cut himself off, his eyes fixed on the darkened phone screen, the ghost of a curse caught in his throat. His jaw remained tight, that earlier smirk nowhere to be found. Then, with a speed that belied the grimness of the moment, he began punching in another number, his thumbs flying across the keypad with practiced urgency.

Kel, sensing the shift, stepped closer, his own frustration now laced with a growing apprehension. "Who you callin', Stack?" His voice was sharp, demanding an answer that felt increasingly vital.

Stack didn't even look up, his gaze still distant, lost in the rapidly unfolding crisis. The faint, almost primal glow in his wolf-like eyes intensified, a subtle shift that spoke volumes. His voice was flat, low, and carried a new weight, a grim finality. "The pack."

Kel blinked, the statement hitting him like a physical blow. Disbelief warred with his anger. "You serious? You really gonna drag them into this? They don't need to be involved in your damn problems."

Stack finally raised his head, his eyes meeting Kel's. Any trace of playfulness, any hint of the nonchalant demeanor he had worn moments before, was utterly gone. His expression was hard, resolute. "They are already in it, whether they know it or not. We just lettin' 'em know war's at the door." He lifted the phone to his ear again, his mouth curving into something that was neither a smile nor a snarl, but a predatory twist that promised a reckoning.

________________

@mauvecherie-writes @underated345-blog @og-goddesstrill @nayaesworld @transparentphantom10 @notapradagurl7 @honeytoffee @bananajoeclone @dollys-world224 @biancalhurtt @solarssins

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

How do you think each twin would deal with a girl running or putting her hand on his stomach during sex?

If she tries to run from Smoke dick:

Smoke wouldn’t let her get more than an inch. The moment he feels her hips shift or her body try to re oil from the sheer size and thickness of his dick his reaction would be instantaneous and physical. He wouldn’t shout or ask why, he would simply react.

He’d reach out with those large, calloused hands and seize her hips in a vice grip. He would haul her back against him with a brutal, singular motion, pinning her firmly against the mattress or the wall. He’d lean in close, his chest hard against her back because we know this man love to bend you over. Then he would speak in a low gravelly rumble against her ear or her neck.

“Where you think you goin’?”

He would use his weight to anchor her, ensuring she feels every inch of that dick pressing into her. He’d slowly drive that thick dick back in her. Smoke doesn’t do “gentle” when he feels her slipping away or trying to run. He takes control. There is no exit until he’s finished.

He’s keeping that stroke, he wants you crying on the dick.

When she presses her palm against his stomach or chest to push back:

It’s a signal, her saying “daddy, it’s too much.” Or “I can’t take it.” When he’s stretching her past her limit.

Smoke don’t react with hesitation he only gets triggered by her body fighting the girth and length of him. It makes his deepest, most possessive instincts come to life. Smoke ain’t a man of many words, and he isn’t one for gentle reassurance. To him, her resistance isn’t a request to stop it’s a sign that he successfully claimed every single inch of her.

Smoke will lean his full, heavy weight forward, pin her deeper into the mattress or the wall with either his hands on the backs of her thighs/knees. He may even bear hug her while he in it. He catches her wrists in one of his large hands with a steel grip and pin her arm above her head or firmly against his own chest.

Smoke would say little to no words. He’ll grunt, growl, breath heavy through his nose. He’ll look down at her his expression hard and neutral (😩😩😩) though the intensity in his gaze is scorching! He wants her to see that he knows exactly what she’s feeling.

“You mine…take it.”

He would hold her there, frozen and stretched, letting her feel the thickness of him pulsing deep inside her. Then with a slow, brutal efficiency, he would begin to drive back into her, he’d use his hips to grind his dick directly against her most sensitive spots, forcing her body to accommodate his size. Every thrust is a heavy, thudding impact that reminds her exactly who owns her. He won’t stop until her nails start to claw at his shoulders, his chest, his abs.

If she tries to run or pull away from his dick:

Stack wouldn’t react like Smoke. Instead, he’d treat it as a challenge, a playful game of cat and mouse. The moment he feels her recoil from his big dick he wouldn’t just grab her he’d tease her about it.

He might let her slide back just an inch, only to catch her by the waist with a low, melodic chuckle. He’d pull her back toward him with a sliding, sensual friction that makes her skin tingle. He’d lean in, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a smooth, honeyed tone that vibrates through her entire body.

“Now, where you goin’, sugar? We just gettin’ to the best part,” he’d whisper.

Stack uses his charisma to coax her back, kissing her deeply, his tongue dancing with hers to distract her from the intimidation of his size. But once he had her settled, the “pretty gangster” disappears and the predator emerges. He’d grip her thighs, hoisting them higher over his shoulders to open her up completely. He would slide back in her with a slow, agonizing pace, watching her face with a smug, knowing grin. He wants her to feel the stretch to feel the way his dick sits perfectly against her spot.

When she presses her palm against Stack’s stomach, that frantic, trembling push that tells him it’s too much:

That his girth is stretching her to a breaking point. Stack don’t react like Smoke. Instead, he’d react with that chuckle and that smirk. To Stack, her resistance isn’t a signal to stop it’s a compliment. It’s the ultimate validation of his masculinity. He treats her struggle like a game he’s won.

Stack doesn’t pin her down with force he uses his charisma to dismantle her panic. He leans back just a fraction to look in her eyes. He’s got that predatory grin with deep dimples popping as he watches her expression of overwhelming desire. He’ll let her hand stay there for a moment, feeling the heat of her hand against his flexed muscles before slowly wrapping his fingers around her wrist and kissing the inside of it with his eyes still locked. Then he makes his voice sound all smooth and sexy.

“Now, baby…you know you want every single inch of this. Don’t lie to me. I can feel how tight you grippin’ me. You just a little overwhelmed by how big I am, ain’t you?”

Then he’ll guidance her hand down from his stomach, sliding her palm over the hard ridge of his hip and then directly into the base of his dick, forcing her to feel the thick, pulsing vein and the heavy weight of him as he remains buried deep inside her. He wants her to acknowledge the size of him, to feel the way his dick sits deep.

Then he moves, driving that dick at a slow pace. He pulls back until he’s almost out to tease her with the sensation of emptiness then he’s sliding back in with a steady pressure that makes her toes curl. All while watching her face and savoring every reaction.

“Just breath for me…open up for daddy. Take it all. I’m gon’ fill you up so full.”

Now she’s begging him to stop teasing and only then will Stack hammer into her 😩😩😩

[lovergirlcinema]

Young Hoes Run Free

Older!Elijah “Smoke” Moore x young!black!reader

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. 

“Elijah?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Can you turn on the fan?”

He chuckles, “Course I can baby.”

End.

Taglist: @plan3tch1ld @nainai5243

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@shawnytae @tonichildsdaughterduh @blyffe

[lilbitt]

Sweet Tooth

The Extended Version

SmokeStack X Annie

Original drabble is ↪︎ here

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

Series specific - @theogbadbitch

[brownlyfe]

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.

“Not that late. Why you sleep already?”

Wunmi sighed into the phone.

“I’m so tired.”

"You okay, Mama?" Michael’s brows pulled together.

“Mhm,” she hummed quietly.

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. - - - taglist: @lilbitt @lizbehave @andtheniws @tonichildsdaughterduh @cinnamonsonnyangel @shamansha @caramelplug @bananajoeclone @rolemodelshit @brownskincheyenne @mmbee675 @xeebop@adultinginheels @tlt731

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Camera 0ff...

Summary: Watching turns into wanting…and wanting turns into control.

Warnings: Obsession / Voyeurism / Possessive Male / Hood romance grit / Daddy kink / Provider dynamic / Dirty talk + cum fixation / Unprotected, raw, dominant sex / Slow burn tension / Crime Drama + Thiller / Stalking / Urban Erotica

Part Two (re-upload)

The first sound is breathing. Not hers.

Little puffs of air, warm and wet against her shoulder blade, followed by a sticky hand slapping down on her chest like he owns her heartbeat.

“Up, Mama,” Messiah mumbles, voice thick with sleep and snot, “Cartoo?”

Malaya doesn’t open her eyes right away. Her back hurts. Not sharp pain—just that deep, stretched ache that comes from sleeping on her side too long with a toddler pressed to her spine. The kind of ache that says you made it through another day, now do it again.

Messiah shifts beside her, his couls wild, matted, and damp from sweat. His tiny sock is halfway off. He kicks once, like he’s dreaming of something fast, then kicks again on purpose, hard enough to jar her ribs.

“I’m up,” she groans, voice cracked, “Damn, boy.”

She doesn’t curse in front of him often, but it slips sometimes in the early hours, when her bones are heavier than her body and her soul feels like it got folded in the wrong drawer. The bedroom is dim, a single strip of light cutting in through the crooked blinds. Her sheets are half off the mattress, tangled around one of her legs. The baby monitor on the nightstand blinks blue even though Messiah’s already beside her. On the floor by the closet door is a pair of leggings, a half-folded towel, and the old tripod she kicks out of sight with her heel.

They start slow. She sits up with him in her lap, lets him rub his face against her stretched T-shirt like it’s a napkin, lets him drool a little on the neckline. Her T-shirt smells like yesterday. Baby wipes, cocoa butter, and the faintest trace of strawberry lube.

He climbs down with a grunt and waddles toward the bedroom door, “Snack!” he says. A declaration.

Malaya rolls her shoulders, feels the stretch pop down her spine. Her belly—still soft and full under the fabric—shifts slightly with the motion. She tugs down her T-shirt. Doesn’t bother with a bra. She rarely does unless she’s heading to work or logging in.

The hallway outside her room creaks as Messiah darts toward the kitchen, Jurassic Park socks sliding. She follows behind, bare feet padding over the plush carpet that covers the real floors beneath—cheap laminate hiding older scars.

The duplex is quiet, but it’s not still.

The living room has toys everywhere, plastic food in the play kitchen, a blanket crumpled on the couch from when she passed out watching Bluey alone. One of Messiah’s juice cups rolls across the floor when she nudges it with her toe. In the corner, by the window, her plant is dying. The leaves are yellow at the tips. She waters it anyway. Out of habit. Or hope. The kitchen’s narrow, with cabinets painted the wrong shade of white and fake-new appliances that buzz louder than they should. The stove clock is flashing 12:00. She hasn’t fixed it since the last outage. There’s a small pantry beside the fridge, barely enough space for snacks and ramen and the box of wipes she keeps hidden from visitors.

“Cheerios?” she asks, already reaching.

Messiah nods like a king.

She pours a handful into a bowl, no milk. He eats standing up on the couch, balancing one foot on the cushion like a little rebel.

She leans on the counter, arms crossed, eyes on the small strip of sun now widening across the floor. Her stomach growls. She ignores it. Her head hurts. She swallows that too. Outside, the city’s already moving—sirens, tires, the deep rumble of bass from someone’s too-loud car speaker. Inside, it’s just her and him and the weight and the stretch.

Messiah crunches dry Cheerios from the couch while cartoons mumble in the background, and Malaya steps into the narrow hallway, barefoot. Her duplex is small, but it holds her. Two bedrooms, one bath, and a little more space than the rent should allow. Landlord slapped some vinyl flooring in the kitchen and called it “newly remodeled.” The carpet’s fresh too, though she can still feel the unevenness of the floor beneath it. Messiah’s dinosaurs and action figures are lined up along the hallway wall, like they’re guarding something ancient. Her bedroom door sticks a little when she pushes it open.

Inside, it smells like sleep and yesterday’s body oil. The blinds are uneven, casting warped shadows over the dresser where her worn makeup bag sits untouched. Clothes are everywhere. Not messy—just lived in. A hoodie draped over the headboard. Her favorite pair of leggings folded wrong at the foot of the bed. Her work bag slumped against the side of the laundry basket, zipper half-open, badge peeking out like it’s tired too.

She peeks in on Messiah’s room. It’s chaos. Blankets on the floor. Toddler bed messy. A book open to the wrong page. A half-naked stuffed Mickey Mouse wedged under a tiny chair. It smells like powder, juice, and the lavender spray she mists at bedtime. She’ll clean later. Or not. She never pretends for nobody.

“Messiah,” she calls gently, “Potty time. Come on, baby.”

He shuffles down the hall, chubby legs moving fast, and plops onto his training seat in the bathroom like he owns it.

“I poo poo,” he announces. Confident. Serious.

Malaya exhales a soft laugh and steps out of her T-shirt, then peels down her panties. The c-section scar pulls faintly when she bends. Her reflection in the mirror is blurred from the steam already building up. She avoids looking too long.

The shower is fast. Has to be. Water costs and Messiah gets antsy if she’s gone too long. She pins her long Marley twists up into a high, loose bun. Some strands fall free anyway—new growth coils acting as baby hair tight against her damp forehead. She turns the water on hot, tests it with her hand, then steps in slow. A low hiss slips through her teeth as it hits her skin.

Her body isn’t the same as before. Softer now. Heavy in new places. Her stretch marks shimmer like whispers in the steam—silver along her belly and hips. She scrubs her arms in hard, fast circles, suds slipping down to her elbows. Over her inner bicep, she moves slower—right where her ink reads: What doesn’t kill you breaks you soft.

Her hands move down. Across full breasts. Beneath them. Over her soft belly. Down thicker thighs. She cleans between her legs carefully—rinsing, pressing. There’s a deep, dull ache inside. She doesn’t linger on it.

Just something she lives with now.

She turns off the water before she’s ready.

The mirror’s fogged. Her face swims behind it. She wipes the glass with her palm but doesn’t look long. She’s got thirty minutes before they’re late. Messiah’s still babbling to himself on the potty. She dries off fast—body still dripping—pulls on a soft T-shirt with a cracked graphic print and thick socks. Her nipples poke through the fabric, but she doesn’t have time to care. She scoops Messiah up, wipes him down at the bathroom sink, wrangles him into a onesie with dinosaurs on it, then moves like clockwork.

She grabs:

Scrubs (grey today, slightly faded)

Her badge and lanyard (Parkside Outpatient— Midtown Campus)

Messiah’s bag with snacks, wipes, cracked tablet, and extra socks

Her work bag with her charger and the cheap deodorant she keeps forgetting to replace

Messiah’s starting to fuss, arms flailing as she zips his jacket.

“I don like it, mommy.” he whines.

“I know, baby. Just a little longer,” she whispers.

Her hands are full. Her throat feels tight. She presses her forehead against the front door for just one second before unlocking it.

Just one second.

Then she exhales and opens it to the world.

Her car is loyal. Ugly, but loyal.

A dusty gray 2015 Nissan Altima with a dented driver’s side door and a cracked back taillight covered in red tape. The radio only plays two stations without static. The air conditioner groans before it works. She keeps one of Messiah’s pacifiers on the dash like a totem. Dice hanging from the rear view mirror. The inside smells like apple juice and exhaustion—baby wipes, old fries, and whatever Black ice air freshener is losing its grip on the rearview.

The engine clicks when it starts. She waits, then reverses slow. Hollowell Parkway is already alive—school buses, mopeds, folks walking in neon uniforms toward the MARTA stop. Messiah kicks his feet in the backseat, half-asleep again, holding his stuffed Elmo like it might get snatched. The daycare is a small brick building tucked between a rundown convenience store and an old church that’s been boarded up for two years. A colorful sign above the door reads: Bright Futures Learning Center with faded cartoon animals dancing around the letters. The front windows are decorated with construction paper cutouts of autumn leaves.

Miss Tonya opens the door before Malaya can knock. She’s wearing a t-shirt with “Unbothered & Booked” printed across the chest and leopard print leggings. Her locs are pulled up in a pineapple. She’s got that voice that’s soft enough for toddlers and sharp enough for parents who test her.

“Morning, Mama,” she says, holding the door open.

“Morning,” Malaya spoke softly, lifting Messiah from the car seat. He clings to her neck.

Miss Tonya lowers her tone just enough, lYou got that payment?”

Malaya doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches for her wallet with one hand while shifting Messiah’s weight to her hip.

It’s all crumpled bills and quarters—cobbled together from tips, change, a ten from Tamra, and what she was supposed to save for groceries. She pulls out $150 and hands it over.

“That’s the rest from two weeks ago,” Malaya says, her voice quiet, “I’ll have the next one on time.”

Miss Tonya eyes the bills, then nods slowly, “Alright. I know you tryna keep up. But we tight this month, okay?”

“I know. Thank you.”

“You know I love that baby. Just…don’t make me chase you again.”

Malaya nods again, stiff. Swallows hard.

She kisses Messiah’s cheek before handing him off. He doesn’t cry, but he looks back once as Miss Tonya carries him inside. The door closes with a soft chime. Malaya just stands there for a second. Watching the sun rise behind the building like it might burn something clean.

Then she turns and gets back in the car.

Parkside Outpatient Clinic sits just off a busy Midtown intersection, wedged between a Walgreens and a dentist office with busted blinds. The building’s flat beige exterior does nothing to hide the tension inside. The moment Malaya walks through the glass front doors, the smell hits: antiseptic, old carpet, microwave popcorn from the break room, and a little sweat from patients who’ve been waiting too long.

It’s always bright in here. Too bright. Lights that make you look sick, even when you’re not. Reception sits in a U-shaped desk straight ahead. Behind it, the clinic opens into a long hallway with numbered exam rooms on both sides. There’s a small nurse’s station in the back with a fridge for samples and a clock that ticks too loud. Posters on the wall tell people to cough into their elbows and schedule flu shots nobody wants.

Malaya’s station is halfway down the hall, next to a filing cabinet that never shuts right. She has a drawer with her name on it, a chipped plastic label from a label maker that barely stuck. Inside: pens, gloves, a phone charger, and a half-used bottle of ibuprofen. She clocks in on a mounted tablet near the break room. The screen is greasy.

Patients are already piling in—coughing, complaining, slamming clipboards on the counter. One man with a limp is shouting about how long he’s waited. A woman with three kids and no appointment is pretending not to hear the staff asking for her insurance.

Malaya smiles like she means it.

Her boss, Miss Denby, walks past in nude flats and a too-tight blazer. Doesn’t say good morning. Just nods like a queen barely recognizing her court.

Malaya’s head starts to pound before 9AM.

She checks vitals, processes urine samples, logs notes into the system that always crashes mid-entry. She eats her granola bar while standing. Takes two sips of cold coffee from her tumbler before it disappears. Someone always needs something. At 10:42, she follows a coworker—Nisha—out the side door for a smoke break. Malaya doesn’t smoke, but she needs the air. 

Nisha lights up with the speed of a woman on edge, “Girl, you hear they tryna bring in some temp for front desk? Said we ‘undermanned.’ I said, ‘Bitch, we been undermanned.’”

Malaya chuckles, dry, “They gon’ pay her more than us, too.”

“Mmhm. Watch. Bet she can’t even spell phlebotomy.”

They stand in silence for a moment. The sun is warm on their forearms. The trash bins smell like old gauze and last week’s pot luck.

“You alright?” Nisha finally asks.

Malaya shrugs, “I’m breathing.”

“Let me know if you need help hiding a body.”

“Bet.”

She almost smiles. Almost. Then she tucks her badge back into her scrub pocket and heads inside.

The last four hours drag like wet laundry.

A man yells about his refill. A little boy throws up graham crackers on the waiting room floor. One of the nurses is crying quietly in the break room, pretending she’s just tired. Phones ring. The printer jams. Malaya’s feet ache. She walks the same hallway over and over. Exam room three. Back to station. Lab fridge. Front desk. Repeat. The armpits of her scrubs are damp. Her ponytail’s slipping, twists growing heavy. There’s a cramp starting behind her right eye, and she knows it’s the kind of headache that’ll outlast the sun.

At 2:08 PM, she gets a text.

Twan 🙄: u good? what time am I getting him?

Her jaw tightens. She replies quick, thumbs moving faster than her breath:

Malya: 5:30 at the latest. I paid the daycare fee u were supposed to handle. $150. You owe me.

Read. No response.

Of course.

She slides the phone into her pocket, breathing slow, swallowing back the heat bubbling under her tongue. That was grocery money. Gone. She’s tired of chasing men for things they should be doing without a prompt.

At 3:14, the notification hits. Just a soft buzz against her thigh. Her phone screen lights up under her badge.

[You have a new message.] 

Could I get a pic? Sent 200 for it. Just the top.

No name. No real context. But she knows exactly where it came from. Malaya doesn’t hesitate. Just grabs her phone, slips down the hall, and turns into the staff bathroom. Locks the door. 

She’s got two minutes.

The mirror hums under the fluorescent lights. The floor is cold tile. The soap dispenser’s busted. She sets her phone on the paper towel dispenser and rolls her shoulders back.

Then she peels her scrub top up and over. Her breasts fall naturally, full, wide-set, and soft with weight. The kind that don’t sit up on their own anymore, not since breastfeeding. Not since motherhood changed her body. Silver stretch marks lace along the sides like lightning beneath her dark skin. Her nipples are thick and dark, resting low, one slightly more sensitive than the other.

She cups them in both hands for a second. Lifts them gently. Tilts toward the light.

No face. Just chest. Just flesh. Just survival dressed up as seduction. She angles the camera. Clicks. The photo looks raw. Real. She doesn’t edit it. Doesn’t need to.

Upload. Done.

She breathes out.

Back on go the scrubs. She fixes her shirt, smooths the fabric, splashes water on her neck. One more look in the mirror—her eyes are tired, lips chapped, but her posture is solid. Stronger than most would guess.

She steps out like nothing happened.

Clock-out time hits at 5:37. She doesn’t stay a minute longer.

The city is dipped in honey light by the time she pulls out of the clinic lot. That slow, golden hour where the streets look soft even when they’re loud. People walking fast, leaning into their hunger or fatigue. Car horns echo. Somebody’s blasting trap gospel from their window. Malaya rolls hers down an inch to feel the air and doesn’t even notice when her eyes get glassy.

Her phone vibrates in the cupholder again.

Still no reply from Twan.

She lets the red light hold her in place, then taps into her private Instagram account. The one with less than 100 followers, no posts since last year. Her profile picture is blurry now, pixelated from too many crops and re-uploads. But it’s there. Him, too.

The last post still pinned.

A blanket in the grass. Messiah in her lap, cheeks shiny with drool and sunlight. Malaya looking off to the side, not quite smiling. No makeup. Curls pulled back tight. Tank top strap slipping off her shoulder.

The caption just said: “Everything I do.”

She remembers that day. The way Twan took the picture like he was doing her a favor. Like he wasn’t already texting some other girl ten minutes later. Like he hadn’t already decided he wasn’t staying.

She scrolls down and there it is—Keisha’s reel.

“It’s glow-up season, sis. Soft life only. If it don’t spoil you, it don’t deserve you.”

The music behind it is bass-heavy and fake happy. Malaya watches in silence, thumb hovering over the heart. She doesn’t press it. Just tosses the phone onto the passenger seat like it burned her.

Twan’s voice leaks into her head like rot water.

“I got you, Ma. I promise.”

“You stressin’ too much. Just sing, baby. Let me handle the rest.”

“You think I don’t care? Damn, why you always like this?”

She remembers the studio. Not the real kind, just a backroom with foam on the walls and a mic that didn’t work half the time. She remembers him standing behind her, hands on her hips while she tried to record. How she never finished a single track. How she wanted to sing, but all she did was swallow silence.

The car turns onto her street. Her duplex rises ahead like a tired sigh. She parks, engine ticking as it cools, and rests her head against the steering wheel for a second. She catches her reflection in the rearview—her twists loose around her face, her eyes heavy, lips dry.

That damn tattoo on her inner arm peeks out from her sleeve as she reaches for her bag.

What doesn’t kill you breaks you soft.

It was supposed to be strength. A reminder. But today it just feels like surrender.

Inside the house, the air is warm and quiet. Her dying plant looks a little deader. The lights stay off as she moves through the living room. She pulls off her shoes with one foot, lets them thud. Her scrubs feel glued to her skin. Her body is begging to collapse.

She hears her mother in her chest.

“You wanted to be grown. So be grown.”

“Always caught up in your feelings, girl. That’s your problem.”

The words cling to her ribs like grease. She opens the fridge. Stares. Closes it again. She exhales through her nose. Rubs her hands over her face. Then she moves. Messiah will be home soon and  tonight, the camera’s little blue light will blink again.

The knock is too light for a stranger.

Two quick taps, then silence.

Malaya opens the door with one hand still on the deadbolt. Messiah’s giggles burst through before she even sees him. He’s in Twan’s arms, gripping a juice pouch and sticky with sleep. Her son—all thick curls and cheeks and Velcro sneakers—reaches for her instantly.

“Ma-maaa,” he says, dragging the sound out like a song. Malaya softens without meaning to, arms already out. Twan passes him over too fast, like an item—not a child. Messiah’s bag hits the floor with a dull thud. His stuffed Elmo falls out, face-first.

“You good?” Twan says.

Malaya doesn’t answer. Her hand moves to support Messiah’s bottom, the other stroking the back of his head. His skin is warm, his breath sugary with whatever snack he was eating. She leans into him. Smells his hair.

Then looks past Twan.

His car is still running, headlights dim. In the passenger seat: her. The girlfriend. Baby hair gelled down, long lashes, scrolling her phone like this is a pit stop. She doesn’t look up.

Malaya’s voice dips low, “You owe me a hundred and fifty dollars.”

Twan blinks like he didn’t hear her, “What?”

“For daycare. You said you had it. You didn’t. I paid it. You owe me.”

Twan shifts his weight. Breathes in slow through his nose, “Damn, Malaya. You always—”

“Don’t,” she snaps, quiet but sharp, “Don’t start.”

He reaches into his pocket, exaggerated, like digging through gold. Pulls out crumpled bills and counts with a sigh.

“Eighty. That’s all I got till Friday.”

She stares at the cash. Doesn’t reach for it. Messiah squirms against her chest, tugging at her hoodie string. Her jaw clenches.

“Take it or not, damn,” Twan mutters, pushing the money toward her.

She snatches it. Not out of anger out of necessity. Their fingers don’t touch.

“I shouldn’t have to chase you,” she says, barely a whisper.

“And I’m here now,” he shrugs, “That count for something.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

She doesn’t look at the girl in the car. Doesn’t check if she’s listening. Doesn’t care. She just closes the door in his face. Not loud. Not petty. Just…final. Messiah hums against her chest, his thumb now in his mouth.

She presses her lips to his forehead, “Let’s get you a bath, baby.”

Bath Time

Messiah is perched on his little potty like royalty, cracked tablet in front of him playing some bright, chaotic YouTube Kids video about talking trucks and friendship. His chubby legs swing as he watches, juice-stained cheeks glowing in the dim hallway light.

Malaya doesn’t rush the bath. She never does. She crouches in the bathroom, legs already sore from the day, and turns the water on low. Checks the temperature twice with her fingers. Pulls the sweet almond bubble bath from under the sink, even though it’s halfway empty and not on sale anymore. She pours extra. Always does. The lights are dimmed, she screwed in a soft purple bulb a few months ago. It calms him. Makes the bubbles glow like clouds at dusk.

She arranges the toys.

The little slide suction-cupped to the tub wall.

Three plastic dinosaurs. 

Marvel superhero’s.

His yellow boat.

A cup he insists is for “water magic”.

And a rubber duck with a bite mark in the tail.

“Okay, baby,” she says softly, “Let’s wash the day off.”

Messiah comes running, butt-naked and wobbly, tablet still playing in the distance. He climbs in without hesitation, squealing at the warmth. Water sloshes. Bubbles rise. He starts throwing the duck like it’s in battle. Malaya kneels beside the tub, rolling up her sleeves. Her bones pop. Her knees ache.

But her heart…her heart swells. She takes the soft washcloth and begins gently scrubbing him—behind the ears, under his arms, between the little rolls on his legs. He splashes, cackles, yells “Mama look!” every few seconds. Her hoodie gets soaked. Her arms drip.

And still, she smiles. Through it all.

She watches him, really watches.

That goofy grin. Those long lashes. His coils, soft from the water. His little hands trying to pour one cup into another and missing completely.

Tears prick her eyes. It hits all at once. That swelling, stinging, proud ache. Because she made this boy. She’s raising him. Alone. And some days, it still doesn’t feel like enough. She blinks fast. Doesn’t let the tears fall.

Just whispers, “I love you, Messiah,” into the steam.

He doesn’t hear her. But that’s okay.

She lets him play for a few more minutes, then drains the water, lifting him gently into a towel—the one with the little bear ears. He’s still giggling, legs kicking as she carries him to the bedroom. She lays him down on the bed and rubs him down with cocoa butter, slow and sure. The scent fills the room—warm, sweet, nostalgic.

“Feet up,” she says, and he obeys, still watching her with bright eyes.

She slips on his Buzz Lightyear jammies, then the tiny slippers he insists make him “go faster.” He dashes off to his play area, crawling into the tent full of pillows and action figures like he’s on a mission.

Malaya exhales, heading for the kitchen. Dinner is what she always makes when she’s too tired to think but still wants him to smile. Baby carrots. Dino nuggets. Kraft mac and cheese with a little extra butter. She sets up his high chair in front of the TV, slides in the tray, and turns on Trolls. His plate is colorful and warm, and he eats with his fingers, humming between bites. She sits nearby with her own plate—leftover shrimp and broccoli, barely warm, eaten with a plastic fork because the others are in the sink. She watches him. She chews slowly. Doesn’t taste much.

For two full hours, she is only his.

They color. They stack blocks. They scream along to the Trolls songs. He falls twice. She kisses both elbows.

At 8:45, it’s time.

She scoops him up, already blinking heavy. They brush teeth, fight over the toothpaste, and finally settle with a hug that smells like cocoa butter and toddler sweat. She turns on his nightlight, the one with the little rotating stars. Tucks him in. Kisses both cheeks. Pulls the blanket up just right.

“Love you, stinka,” she whispers.

“Wuv you too,” he mumbles, eyes already shut.

She shuts the door halfway, then turns on the baby monitor. Blue light hums quietly in the hallway. She stands there for a moment. Just breathing. Then moves toward the closet.

The Mask Comes On

“No face. Just fire.”

The house is quiet. Not peaceful…just quiet.

Messiah is down, his soft breathing caught on the baby monitor’s faint static. Nightlight on. Stars rotating on the ceiling. His Mickey Mouse tucked into the crook of one arm. He had fallen asleep mid-sentence. She’d kissed his forehead, turned out the light, and shut the door with a whisper behind her teeth.

Now she moves like shadow.

Light off in the hallway. The small squeak of the closet door and the rhythm of her breath. She pulls the basket from the back corner—not Messiah’s toy basket, not the laundry one—the one with the handles wrapped in satin ribbon and the faintest hint of strawberry lube clinging to the lining.

Her cam gear is inside.

She lays each piece out on her bed like tools in a sacred ritual. Phone. Ring light. Tripod. Mic. Clip adapter. Oil. Her robe. Next, she wipes down her camera lens. Always. Doesn’t matter if she did it yesterday. The screen has to reflect clean. No prints, no grease. No traces of the real woman who held her baby thirty minutes ago and whispered lullabies. She undresses in silence. Hoodie first. Sports bra. Then the leggings that peel away like second skin, still warm from Messiah’s hug.

Her body is real.

Not porn-perfect, not Instagram-polished. Full. Heavy in places. Her stomach bears the stretch of motherhood— the soft belly with skin that doesn’t lie. Her navel pulled slightly lower now. A map of silver-gold streaks curves along her hips and the underside of her breasts, shimmering faintly under the ring light.

She oils her thighs. Slow. Not for pleasure. For the sheen. For the way the light dances over her dark skin, turns softness into spectacle. She rubs the oil down her legs, across her lower belly, lets a small moan slip—not arousal, just the relief of warm hands meeting sore flesh. Her breasts are next. She lifts one in her palm, squeezes gently. Full. Weighted. Her nipples darker now. Fuller. A little sensitive. She wears the bralette—the faded burgundy one. No padding, just lift from memory. Then the black thong with the rip on the side. She tugs it so the tear’s out of frame.

Over that, her robe. Black, silky, cheap, but drapes like money on camera. She doesn’t tie it. No perfume. Just the cocoa butter from earlier, mixing now with vanilla scented body oil. She glosses her lips—clear, thick, high shine. Checks the angle. Adjusts the mic. Pulls her twists up into a messy bun. Slips on clear strap heels. Her toes curl inside them. Not for them. For her. For balance. For the click when she stands and turns.

She turns on her VPN. Opens ObsidianPlay.

Logs in as LaceyBlaze69.

The screen flashes. “No face. Just fire.”

She exhales. Checks the angle again. Face cropped, always. Just collarbone down. A tease of jawline if she leans in too close.

Chatroom open. Room fills slow.

Camera0ff logs in within sixty seconds. 1,000 tokens drop. No message. No request. Just that sterile username sitting quiet like it always does. Watching.

Her breath hitches.

She clicks “go live.”

The screen floods with hearts, requests, messages she won’t read until they tip. She leans into the mic, lets her gloss catch the light, then whispers:

“Hey baby. Miss me?” Her voice is syrup. Low and breathy. Barely real.

Tips roll in. Thigh oil. 175 tokens.

Close-up bounce. 400 tokens.

Finger suck. 100 tokens.

“Ride for me?” 300 more.

“Do it slow.” “Say you need it.”

She smiles soft. Doesn’t break eye contact with the lens. Which is to say—she never really makes it in the first place. She turns. Straddles her riding pillow. Slides her hips slow, deliberate, until the bralette slips just enough to expose the top curve of one breast. She lets it. Doesn’t fix it.

More tokens. More noise.

She adds more oil. Lets it drip down the slope of her chest, across her belly, gliding over her stretch marks like a second skin. She lifts her breasts in her palms, squeezes them together. Lets her fingers roll over her nipples until they shine.

Another tip comes in. POV request.

She presses record.

No face. Just moans.

Fakes a climax at 47 minutes in. Loud enough to make them believe it. Quiet enough to hear her baby monitor if it changes pitch. Her thighs tremble. Not from pleasure. From holding the pose.

When it’s done, she clicks “end stream.” Tips: $638.

Not the best. But good enough to sleep on. She pulls the hoodie over her head. Wipes the oil from her chest. Sits on the bed, lets her feet breathe, then glances toward the hallway, the faint hum of Messiah’s nightlight still glowing through the crack under his door. She lies down sideways. One arm under the pillow. Eyes open.

She doesn’t cry. Not tonight. But her lips part, just barely. And the words slip out like breath.

“We still here.”

Twice. Always twice. She closes her eyes. Baby monitor steady. Phone screen dark. Oil still drying on her thighs.

LaceyBlaze is gone.

Malaya’s just a mama again.

Her Balance, Her Body

Time: 10:24 PM.

She was already exhausted before the day began.

Malaya had woken to Messiah’s whimpering cries from the bassinet beside her bed, her back stiff from sleeping half-curled with one arm draped over him like a shield. Her phone buzzed before her feet even hit the floor, a low battery warning and a string of unread texts from a co-worker asking to switch shifts. She ignored it. She scooped Messiah into her arms, kissed the warmth of his cheeks, and started the morning.

Bath. Oil. Pull-ups. Socks he kept kicking off. Feeding him oatmeal with mashed banana, wiping more from his chin than what made it in his mouth. He cried when she put him down to wash the bottles from the night before, and again when she tried to put on eyeliner with him on her hip. By the time she slid his diaper bag over one shoulder and balanced her lukewarm coffee in the other hand, she was already five minutes behind.

She dropped him off at the daycare off Hollowell, gave Miss Tonya a tight-lipped smile when she asked how things were going, and rushed out before the baby could start crying again. The only thing worse than the sound of it was leaving while it echoed behind her.

She made it to work just in time. Her badge didn’t scan the first time, and her manager raised an eyebrow when she clocked in two minutes before cut-off. The outpatient clinic was short-staffed again. She spent the entire day standing—prepping rooms, taking vitals, holding back a migraine while the phone rang, rang, rang. No time to eat. No time to breathe. She answered patient questions with a tight smile and a throat that burned from swallowing what she really wanted to say.

Her phone buzzed again at lunch. Miss Tonya. 

Need someone to pick up Messiah. You said his daddy would come today. He ain’t show.

Malaya stood in the alley behind the clinic, one hand clutching her phone, the other fisting the fabric of her hoodie. She called Twan. No answer. Called again. Straight to voicemail. She texted him once.

Don’t play with me. Come get your son. 

Then she called her mother.

That turned into a fight. Her mama picked up with a tone already steeped in judgment, talking about how tired she was, how she wasn’t the one that laid up with a no-good boy and made a baby. Malaya begged through clenched teeth, promised it wouldn’t take long, promised to send a little money from her next check. Her mother still sighed. Still made her feel like she was seventeen and stupid. But she went.

By the time Malaya picked up Messiah and got home, she was running on fumes. He wouldn’t settle down. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be rocked. He cried when she sat him down to change her shirt. She fed him applesauce and soft chicken with one hand while scrolling her bank app with the other. Overdraft. Her heart dropped low and heavy in her chest. Rent was due next week. Her phone bill was past due. The streaming platform would take their cut in the morning.

The only thing she could think of to eat was ramen. She gave Messiah his bath first, wrapped him in the softest towel they owned, kissed the curve of his damp forehead. She whispered soft nothings to calm him, slow him down. He giggled when she kissed his belly, and for a moment, she smiled too. But the heaviness didn’t leave. It sank deeper. She held him until he dozed. Slid him into his toddler bed with the quiet care of a thief. She closed the bedroom door partway, leaving the baby monitor screen angled toward the living room.

She ate her ramen standing up in the kitchen. No music. No TV. Just the crunch of the seasoning packet against the bowl’s edge and the echo of the microwave beeping long after the food was out. She cried halfway through. Not the kind that shook her shoulders or made her gasp. Just slow, hot tears running down both cheeks as she stood there, slurping noodles, tasting salt that didn’t come from the broth.

It was already 10:17.

Seven minutes later, she sat on the living room floor and pulled off her hoodie. Left it in a pile beside the book-stack she used as a camera stand. She peeled off her leggings, rolling them down to mid-thigh. Her tank top clung to her body, nipple outlines showing through the worn cotton. Her stomach wasn’t flat anymore. Her thighs had small stretch marks. She didn’t hide them.

She reached over and opened the laptop. The soft hum of it booting up was the only sound in the room. The hallway light buzzed faintly through the open door, washing just enough glow across her skin to be visible in shadows. The living room had been cleaned earlier—sort of. Messiah’s toys were pushed to the side. His water bottle rested on the coffee table beside a crumpled burp cloth.

She didn’t fix her hair. Her twists were hanging down her back heavy and dull. No gloss. No lashes. No perfume. She didn’t turn on the ring light. There was no soundtrack tonight. Just the low hum of the TV. A faint chirp from the dead battery in the smoke detector. The rhythmic click of her mouse. She stared at the login screen of ObsidianPlay for longer than she meant to.

It was a choice. Every time. And every time it felt like giving herself away one frame at a time.

She clicked the button.

LIVE.

The feed opened in silence. Her face wasn’t visible. Just the low-angle view of her thighs parted slightly on the floor, her stomach rising and falling with every slow breath. She shifted, sighing softly. No music. No smile. No show. The screen filled with viewers faster than usual. Notifications pinged silently on the side. She didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t wave. Didn’t ask how anyone’s night was.

She just let them watch.

Her hands moved slow. She didn’t spread herself wide or arch her back in some performance-ready pose. She rubbed soft, absent circles over the fabric of her panties, then slid them down one leg at a time. Her breaths were audible now. Shaky. Tired. Real. She leaned back slightly, legs bent, her heels pressed into the carpet. Her head tipped back. Her fingers moved again—slower now, slower than any clip she’d ever sold. Her other hand reached up, held the hem of her tank to her chest. Her nipples were stiff against the fabric, her lips slightly parted.

Comments poured in, but she didn’t read them. Her eyes barely opened.

“Yeah,” she said, so quietly the mic barely caught it, “Right there.”

Her voice cracked just a little.

There was no moaning tonight. No over-the-top gasp. Just breath. Her body rocked gently, thighs twitching from effort. Her brows pinched at one point. She came without warning—low, quiet, like a tremble passing through her. She exhaled, shivering a little, and then she stilled. She didn’t thank the tippers. Didn’t flash a smile. She sat there for a while, still breathing hard, eyes locked on the baby monitor screen in the corner. And then her face turned, just slightly, toward the lens. For one fleeting second, she let them see the pain that came after.

She shifts her weight on the carpet and reaches just out of frame, fingers curling around silicone still cool from the air. She brings it back into view slowly, not teasing, not presenting it like a prize. Just honest. She doesn’t look at the screen when she settles it between her thighs. Her lips part as she guides it against herself, her free hand bracing on the floor. The first press makes her flinch. She exhales through her nose, steadying. There’s no rush. No theatrics. Just the slow push as she sinks down, inch by inch, her brows knitting together while her body adjusts.

Her hips roll once, experimentally. Then again.

She’s not fully gone yet. Her mind is still on rent. On the number she saw in her bank app. On the way her mother sighed like Malaya was a burden she never put down. But her body responds anyway. Her thighs tense. Her shoulders drop a fraction.

She starts moving with more intention.

Not fast. Just deliberate. Her tank rides up slightly with the motion, exposing the soft stretch of her stomach. The toy glides easier now, slick with her warmth. She presses her lips together, a quiet sound catching in her throat when it finally starts to feel good in that slow, sinking way that makes everything else blur.

Then the notification hits.

A large one.

Her eyes flick to the screen before she can stop herself.

Camera0ff tipped.

The number makes her inhale sharply. Her hips stutter. Her grip tightens. Something shifts in her chest, not joy exactly, but relief mixed with pressure. She sits up straighter. Rolls her shoulders back. Gives more than she was giving before.

“Okay,” she breathes, barely audible.

She rides it now. Still restrained, still tired, but present. Her movements grow steadier. Her thighs lift and fall. Her hand slides to her chest, fingers brushing beneath the hem of her tank. Her nipple presses against the fabric, dark and obvious now.

Her breathing deepens. Her eyes close.

She comes again quietly. No cry. Just a sharp exhale and a tremor that moves through her whole body. She stills with the toy seated deep, her head bowing forward as she rides out the sensation. When she lifts it, thick slick clings and stretches before breaking. It drips down the length, catching the dim light from the hallway.

She watches it for a second.

Calculating.

She swallows, then looks toward the screen.

“Y’all want me to,” she starts, stops, clears her throat, “Want me to clean it?”

The chat explodes.

She doesn’t wait for confirmation. She leans forward and wraps her mouth around it, slow and deliberate, lips slicking over what she just left behind. Her cheeks hollow slightly. Her tongue traces. She keeps her eyes down, lashes casting shadows on her face. It’s intimate in a way that feels almost too much. When she pulls it free, she doesn’t wipe her mouth.

Instead, she shifts position.

She sets the toy aside and spreads herself open with both hands, silent. No smile. No commentary. Just showing. Her folds glisten. Wet, messy, honest. She lifts one leg high, knee bent, opening herself further. The angle changes everything. Her tank slips again, revealing the curve of her breast, the edge of her nipple peeking out fully now.

She stays like that.

Breathing.

The chat goes wild.

Another tip hits.

Camera0ff again.

Her lips part in something close to a smile this time, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. She glances once at the baby monitor, then back toward the lens, holding the pose just a few seconds longer. Then she lowers her leg, reaches forward, and ends the stream without a word.

She clicked end stream.

And the screen went black

$700. 

She stares at the screen a moment longer than she needs to, index finger resting on the corner of the trackpad. Her thighs are still sticky with drying oil, her tank top clinging to her back where the sweat gathered. The light from the TV fades as she clicks it off, and the room dips into shadows. The baby monitor hums. Messiah turns over in his sleep. A rustle. A sigh. Then stillness.

Malaya exhales.

She doesn’t cry tonight. She doesn’t smile either. Just drags the oversized hoodie over her head, its hem brushing against her thighs. It smells like cocoa butter and detergent. Safe. Quiet. Not sexy.She wipes the toy down in silence, the towel already stained from the last few shows. She puts everything away like she’s locking up the register. Phone in hand. Screens closed. Earnings saved. She crawls into bed sideways. One knee bent. One hand beneath the pillow. The hoodie slips slightly at the neck, exposing the damp slope between her shoulder and chest. Her fingers scroll out of habit. Nothing to see. No one to talk to.

But then—the a message appears.

One new DM.

From a name she doesn’t recognize.

GodbodyAnon.

No icon. No bio. No posts. Just a message.

You always look tired after the ride. I’d take care of you if you let me.

Her thumb freezes above the glass. Something about the message stills her. Not the words, but the weight behind them. It doesn’t read like a demand. It reads like… observation.

She clicks the profile.

New account. No followers. No comments. Just silence and that single message. Not even a token trail. He’s either smart or watching from a distance. Possibly both.

Her first instinct is to block him. A man noticing her fatigue isn’t always kindness. Sometimes it’s just strategy. A soft angle to slip in before the hard push. But something holds her there.

She rereads it.

You always look tired after the ride...

Ride. Not show. Not bounce. Not “stream.” Ride. Like he was really watching. Her stomach tightens. Not fear. Not desire. Something more complicated. Something that coils near the ribs and stretches under the skin like memory.

She taps her nails against the glass. Types.

You new?

Waits. A full minute passes.

Not really. Just never had something to say until now.

She shifts on the bed. The baby monitor clicks once, then settles. Her legs are bare beneath the hoodie, toes flexing against the sheet. She tells herself this is curiosity. Not need. Not attention-seeking. Not loneliness.

Just curiosity.

You talk like you know me.

Another pause. Then:

You looked beautiful tonight. But your shoulders dropped when you thought nobody noticed. That’s what made me write.

She stares at the message. Her throat tightens.

She types, then deletes. Types again.

I’m not really the fantasy tonight. That’s what made it better.

He doesn’t ask for anything. No photos. No tip menu tease. Just stillness.

Then another message.

You ever let someone rub that oil in for you?

She clenches her legs together. The robe beneath her shifts. Her body remembers how long it’s been since hands touched her with care instead of cost. Since someone asked without expecting a transaction in return.

You don’t even know my name.

I don’t need it. I see you.

The lamp on the nightstand flickers low. Her chest rises once, slow. Then again. She looks at the monitor. Messiah is still. Peaceful. The one pure thing she’s managed to protect.

She shouldn’t keep typing.

She does anyway.

Don’t catch feelings over fantasy, baby. It’s dangerous in here.

He doesn’t respond right away. And that  somehow feels worse than if he had. She leaves the thread open. No block. No warning. Just a flick of her thumb, a glance at the time, and the quiet breath she holds too long before she lets it go. In the dark, across town, Smoke watches the screen light up. He doesn’t type again tonight. He lets her linger.Malaya pulled her hoodie to her chin, closes her eyes without realizing she never locked her heart back up.

She doesn’t know who GodbodyAnon is.

Saturday Morning —8:12 AM

Messiah’s soft whine was what woke her. Not a cry, not a scream, just the slow, rising sound of his discomfort. Malaya stirred before she opened her eyes, hand instinctively reaching across the sheets for her phone. The screen glowed. Almost 8:15. The sun was already pressing light into the corners of the room, filtered through crooked blinds and dust in the air. She sat up slow, blinking the crust from her eyes. Her body ached— not sharply, but in that dull, mother-worn way that clung after days of doing too much with too little.

“Hey, baby,” she said quietly, voice still cracked from sleep. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded to his bed. 

Messiah kicked his feet at the sight of her. One sock missing. Pull up full. She kissed his forehead and lifted him into her arms, holding him against her chest as she moved into the kitchen. The floor creaked under her heel. There was no rush today. No badge to clip. No scrubs to wear. No clock to race. She changed him on the couch, humming something low as he babbled broken words at her. After, she set him gently into the high chair and snapped the tray in place.

She had $650 in her account. It wasn’t enough, not for everything, but she pulled out her phone while the water boiled for grits and she prepped the eggs and bacon. She’d push it towards rent anyway. Left herself with $42 and change. She’d get the rest on Friday. They ate together, him clapping his hands when the spoon danced in front of his mouth, her smiling soft between yawns and bites of toast.

It was their ritual.

Saturdays were slower.

Quieter.

After wiping his mouth and setting the dish in the sink, Malaya glanced toward the front door.

Something felt…she didn’t know. Just felt.

She opened it to check the mail, barefoot on the step in her oversized tee. The morning was cool, but not cold. Dew still clung to the railing.

That’s when she saw them.

Boxes.

A stack of them.

Three piled neatly, two others just off to the side, like the driver had run out of balance. Her name was printed on each label. Correct apartment number.

No mistake.

Malaya blinked. Looked up the street, then back down. Nobody was around. She gathered them slowly, carrying two at a time. Had to nudge one inside with her foot. Her chest was tight with curiosity. She hadn’t ordered anything. She slid a knife from the drawer and sliced through the first box.

A new cam stand. Adjustable. With a ring light mount and USB adaptor. The kind she bookmarked months ago but never bought.

Her brows lifted.

The second box had a sleek tablet. For kids. Protective case. Preloaded with learning games. She swallowed. The sound stuck in her throat.

Third box: LED lighting strips. New webcam. Velvet throw blanket. Microphone with a pop filter.

The fourth was smaller. Labeled discreetly. She opened it in her bedroom.

The air changed.

Inside was a Bluetooth toy, still in its high-end packaging. Glossy black. Remote-enabled. Retail price burned into her memory from all the nights she window-shopped it. Two cute plugs in pastel pink. One with a gem at the base. Another with a rose-shaped tip. There was a note card tucked between tissue paper. No words. Just a barcode. Underneath that was a small glass bottle of perfume. Soft, powdery, with notes of honey and sandalwood. It smelled expensive. A new lip gloss. High shine. Nude brown.

And finally…

Lingerie.

Wine-colored lace, sheer with delicate embroidery. Her size. Malaya sat on the edge of her bed and stared at it all. Her hands were shaking a little. She reached for her phone, opened the tracking app she used to monitor wishlist deliveries.

MoTh3rL0ad88

All of them. Every single one. Whoever they were, they’d spent good money. On things she needed. On things she wanted but would never admit out loud.

Not just for the camera. For her.

Malaya blinked hard, the sting behind her eyes catching her by surprise. She turned away from the boxes and glanced at the monitor. Messiah was still in his high chair, gumming his spoon, humming to himself. She pressed her palms to her thighs then back to her chest then over her lips.

She smiled. Just a little.

She stood slowly, still half-dazed. The boxes were open now, contents spread across her bed like a strange altar, one of softness and pleasure, of being seen in ways she hadn’t felt in months.

Her phone buzzed in her palm.

Venmo.

She hadn’t even remembered checking it lately. Wasn’t expecting much. A few tips here and there. Maybe a stray twenty if someone had been generous during the last show. She opened the app without thinking.

And froze.

$2,175.42

Her heart stopped. She stared. Closed the app. Opened it again. Still there. Still real.

Messiah let out a squeal from the kitchen, banging his spoon like a little drum. She turned and looked at him, stunned. He burst into a giggle—that full-body kind that made his curls bounce and his nose scrunch.

Malaya laughed too, hand pressed to her chest like she needed to catch her breath.

“You see this, baby?!” she called, walking back to him with the phone raised, “You see this?”

Messiah just slapped his tray, beaming.

She glanced down at the payment note. It was split across three transactions. Anonymous tip amounts. No cute messages. No emojis. Just a username:

MoTh3rL0ad88

Her brows furrowed. She’d never seen that one before. Sounded like some old man. Some sugar daddy behind a burner account. Probably watched her show in silence. Probably the type to jerk off slow in a recliner while calling her “baby girl” in his head. Still, she didn’t care. She was grateful. More than that, she was lit up inside. The kind of lit that felt like fresh oxygen after being underwater too long.

Rent was covered now. Groceries too.

She could even stop at Marshalls, get Messiah a few new onesies, maybe that paw patrol blanket he pointed to last time. Malaya scooped him out of the chair and held him close, kissing the side of his head.

“Somebody lookin’ out for us,” she whispered, “Somebody out there…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Just closed her eyes and let the moment settle.

8:42 AM–Smoke’s House, West End, ATL

Silence. Darkness. That’s the way he liked it, dim and disciplined, still holding the scent of eucalyptus from the cold steam that hissed under his bathroom door earlier. Fog lingered in the mirror, but not on his skin. His muscles glistened faintly, the sharp lines of his back twitching each time he flexed his grip around the mug.

He was shirtless now, black durag tied clean and flat, a soft knot resting at the nape of his neck. Black joggers hung low on his hips, waistband folding as he sat deep into the black leather sunken couch, one leg stretched long across it, the other braced against the floor.

His place was all restraint and ritual. Nothing cluttered. Nothing soft except the weight of the silence. The living room was curated in Smoke’s image—sharp, sensual, unbothered. Framed black-and-white photography along the wall, most too dark to read unless you studied them. The biggest one? A nude Black woman, faceless, her back turned to the camera, spine like a soft blade beneath skin. Strong. Still. Private.

The vinyl in the corner hadn’t been touched this morning. But the D’Angelo record stayed propped against the turntable like a holy book left open. He didn’t need the needle to move to hear the rhythm. He sipped his coffee slowly. No cream. No sugar. Mug heavy in his hand, warm against his rings. Silver kissed ceramic every time he drank. His other hand held a book—“Black Skin, White Masks.” Worn spine. Pages dog-eared, underlined, annotated.

Smoke always read with a pencil tucked behind his ear.

He underlined the sentence.

Not only must the black man be black; he must be black in relation to the white man.

But his mind slipped.

A flicker from the phone on the end table.

Small screen. New alert.

Malaya had received the packages. Safely. Untampered.

He’d set it up that way—each delivery scanned and tagged with tiny RFID slips. The moment she brought them inside and tore the tape, he knew. No interference. No porch pirates. No missing pieces.

He took another slow sip.

And for a few seconds…just let himself see her.

Not the curated, filtered LaceyBlaze69 version.

But her. The girl who sighed when her feet hurt. Who rubbed her shoulder after holding her son too long. Who still wore cheap slippers from Family Dollar with the fur curling off the edge. She didn’t even like doing cam shows every night.

He could tell.

He’d watched enough to know what her real moans sounded like…and which ones were forced out just to hit a tip goal. She didn’t even smile half the time anymore.

And still—she did it.

Did it tired. Did it hungry. Did it lonely. Trying to be everything at once: woman, mother, provider, soft and strong in a world that didn’t know how to handle either.

That was what got him. Not the show. Not the flash of thighs or spit on toys. The ache she tried to bury. The softness she never got to show.

“Im see everything you try to hide, and that’s what I want to touch.”m

That was how his obsession worked. Not loud. Not entitled. It bloomed in the quiet. In the in-between. He lifted his phone and pulled up the secured tracker connected to the final package. The one he packed himself. The one that hadn’t been opened yet. It sat in her apartment still sealed—he’d chosen every piece inside like a man sculpting the shape of a confession.

 A Bluetooth toy, sleek and glossy black. Still warm from where it rested inside its molded case. Remote-enabled.

Two butt plugs in pastel pink. One tipped with a jeweled base. One shaped like a rose bloom.

 A small bottle of perfume—powdered, faintly sweet, with notes of honey and sandalwood. A scent meant for the back of her knees. Her pulse points. Her sheets.

 A nude gloss with high shine. Kissable.

 And the centerpiece…lingerie. Wine-colored lace. Sheer. Floral embroidery at the cups. Scalloped trim. Backless. Cut to reveal. Her size. Perfectly matched. He’d studied her frame for months to get it right.

Smoke’s jaw tensed. She hadn’t opened it yet.

He liked that.

That it was still waiting.

Like him.

She’d put it on one day. Even if just for herself. Maybe while she fed her son, or cleaned her living room, or lay back and caught her breath before logging on. She’d tug those straps over her thighs. Adjust the bust. Smell that perfume drift off her collarbone.

And she’d feel it. The weight of being wanted. By someone she didn’t even know…was already in love with her bruises. He flipped the page in his book, but didn’t read it. His mind was already on the next move. The next name. The next message. Her next breath.

The closet light flicked on low—motion sensor.

Soft glow washed over neatly arranged black slacks, pressed tees, two rows of designer sneakers boxed like inventory, and the upper shelf with his locked case: cash, crypto, watches, weapons. That day’s mood dictated what went on the body. Today?

All black.

Smoke pulled a fitted thermal over his head. Fabric whispered against his skin. Muscles flexed, tensed, relaxed. He didn’t rush. He never rushed.

That was the secret to control. Don’t move fast. Move smart.

He fastened his dark wash jeans. 

Gold chain, hung low against his chest. Faint scorpion ink peeked from his fade as he leaned in to lace up his sneakers—minimal, quiet. Like him.

But his mind was loud.

Malaya.

The name dropped in again like it always did—uninvited, unshaken loose. He gritted his teeth and reached for his watch.

Been a year since he last fucked. Drier than he’d ever been in his life. Not cause he couldn’t. Cause he didn’t want to waste the nut. Most women felt like noise now. Clingy. Clout-thirsty. Chaotic. They wanted the myth of him, not the man. Wanted the dick, not the damage. And he was too old, too sharp, too damn obsessed to let his body become someone else’s vanity project.

He didn’t chase women. He tracked purpose.

But her?

That damn girl with the soft voice and slow eyes. That postpartum belly she never tried to hide. That pussy he hadn’t even touched but knew—knew—would wreck him. That voice that made his breath hold.

LaceyBlaze69.

She had no idea what she was doing to him. Or maybe she did. Maybe that’s what made it worse.

He’d watched. Too long. In the dark. Quiet. Hand gripped firm, jaw clenched, breath tight. Not even dirty strokes.  Hungry ones. The kind where he imagined her thighs shaking against his chest. The kind where he whispered her username like a psalm against his wrist. Where he stayed hard after, breathing deep, like he’d been starved and fed too little.

He stared at himself in the mirror now. Cold. Focused.

But his mouth twitched.

He’d played out whole scenarios. How he might show up at her door after dropping that package. How he’d stand quiet, all black, eyes low, voice deeper than need.

“Let me in.”

Or maybe he’d wait. Make her come to him. Watch her from the car, memorize the way her hands moved with her kid, the way her tank tops didn’t hide a damn thing. Wait for the day she looked into the dark and felt him watching.

He had plans, he just hadn’t picked one.

Yet.

Smoke stepped back into the hallway. Sunlight crept past the edges of the velvet curtains—thick, gold-dusted things that barely let the world in. A single sliver of light caught the back of his neck. Warmed the skin between his shoulder blades.

That spot had been on his mind for weeks. Right between the blades. The only place he hadn’t inked yet.

Hidden. Centered. Weighted.

He didn’t know the design. But he’d been feeling it. Like an itch beneath the skin. Like something needed saying that only pain and permanence could spell out.

Sol would know. She always did. She read bodies like prayers. Inked truths you didn’t say aloud.

Smoke rolled his neck, felt the tension there.

You didn’t stumble on The Parlor. You were led.

Down a tight brick alley behind a shuttered Black bookstore in West End, past rusted fire escapes and faded murals still bleeding protest. One door. No sign. Just peeling red paint, a black veil curtain behind cracked glass, and an old knocker shaped like a serpent swallowing its own tail.

Smoke rapped three times.

Waited.

The door cracked open. Not wide. Just enough for the scent to curl out—vetiver, tobacco, isopropyl, melted wax. Then Shay pulled it wider and stepped aside.

“You late,” she said, like always.

Shay was Sol’s wife, tall and sarcastic, with golden-brown skin and arms covered in black ink roses. She had a tiny blade tattooed under one eye and wore cropped denim with a black bra top. A septum ring. Chrome stiletto nails. Every part of her said don’t ask dumb shit.

Smoke grunted, stepping inside, “I brought it,” he said, lifting the brown paper bag.

She took it without breaking stride—12-year Japanese whisky. No label. She sniffed it once and nodded.

“Always coming through. She’s ready if you wanna go back.” 

The shop was dim, as always.

No overhead fluorescents. No harsh light. Just one stained-glass lamp over the back station and the flicker of candlelight tucked in corners. Walls were charcoal, but you could see hints of something older beneath—red wallpaper curled at the seams like shed skin. Wax bottles lined the shelves, each dripped like it bled. A massive alligator skull sat near the register, jaw parted just enough to hold crumpled bills.

The only sound was The Internet’s “Get Away” playing low. Vinyl. Needle hiss. Nothing digital.

Sol was already in the back, barefoot.

Black linen jumpsuit. Hair wrapped in a dark cloth, but the thick black locs still trailed down her spine, bone beads swaying like wind chimes in a crypt. She stood with her back to him, laying out fresh needle packs with surgical calm.

Smoke’s jaw relaxed. He stepped close.

She turned—slowly, fluidly—and offered him a quiet look. Hazel-green eyes, ringed in darkness. Her gaze moved over his face. Down to his chest.

He didn’t speak.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. She let him. This was their ritual. No words. Just silence and inking.  He stepped past her to the chair. Unzipped his hoodie. Peeled off his thermal. Bare from the waist up.

“Where?” she finally asked. Her voice was low. Raspy. Like wind on burnt sugar.

“Back,” he said, pointing, “Center. Just below the neck. No bigger than your palm.”

Sol nodded once. No more questions.

She began to prep.

No music back here. Just the soft squeak of gloves and the buzzing flicker of her antique lamp. Her station was spotless—everything covered in silk cloth until needed. She wiped down the chair, then cleaned his skin with a chilled antiseptic. Smoke didn’t flinch, but his breath slowed. That was Sol’s magic.

She picked up the stencil l—her design. One she’d drawn without asking. A hollow triangle, clean and minimal. Beneath it, three thin stacked lines. Like a personal cipher. Sacred geometry meets encryption. Symbol of control, of unity. Of power kept hidden. She placed the stencil between his shoulder blades. Pressed firm. Peeled. He sat still, elbows on knees, spine bowed just enough.

Sol moved around him silently, checking angles. Then she dipped her machine in black ink. Adjusted her grip.

The needle began to buzz.

Smoke exhaled.

He didn’t speak. He never did during the first line. Sol’s hand was steady. She worked in slow, deliberate strokes—never rushed. Her own breath matched his. Her nose ring caught the overhead light once when she leaned in. Her foot tapped once against the creaking floor. Outside, the world didn’t exist but inside, there was just needle and nerve. Skin and scripture.

Smoke didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to see it. He knew what it meant. This tattoo was for no one’s eyes but his own. Hidden like the rest of him. Shielded behind silence and obsession and layered control. A triangle for sight, mind, and discipline. Three stacked lines for everything he never says out loud. A new mark, placed by the only person he trusted to ink him.

Sol wiped the fresh line and pressed down gently.

Smoke closed his eyes.

And the work continued.

1:12 PM – Saturday Afternoon, Marshalls

The sun had warmed the day just enough to feel like a soft kind of forgiveness. Not too hot, not too loud just quiet and easy. Malaya pulled the sleeves of her loose top down over her wrists and adjusted the strap of her purse across her chest as she pushed the cart inside. High-waisted jeans hugged her waist, hugging the stretch she used to hide with longer shirts. Her top hung off one shoulder like a shrug, breezy and effortless, while her twists were tucked into a tidy bun she’d thrown up before leaving the house. She didn’t have on much, just lip balm, a little brow pencil but she still felt good. Not because she looked like somebody, but because she didn’t have to rush. Messiah was perched in the child seat of the cart, legs kicking in his little velcro sneakers, pointing excitedly every few seconds.

“Dat!”

“Wassat, mommy?”

“More!”

She laughed, shaking her head as she wheeled the cart down the baby aisle first. He reached for a stuffed Sonic The Hedgehog. She let him hold it.

“You gon’ name him or naw?” she asked, He babbled something back and stuffed the Sonic teddy in his mouth.

They moved slowly. Malaya let herself enjoy it. She picked up a few more little toddler tops, some little sneakers, a book with flaps and mirrors. Messiah slapped the pages as she flipped through.

They lingered by the home goods section next. A throw blanket she didn’t need but couldn’t resist. A new shower caddy. Cinnamon-scented candles she’d never light but liked to sniff anyway. She let Messiah help pick out a new bath towel. He chose the one with blue sharks. She smiled and dropped it in the cart. By the time they reached the beauty section, he was slouched, thumb in his mouth, eyes drooping.

“Stay up,” she whispered with a grin, “We got two more aisles, then we hittin’ Chick-fil-A.”

He perked up at that, making a sleepy noise of agreement. Malaya scanned the shelves for new makeup sponges, a fresh brow pencil, a deep berry gloss that reminded her of a show she did months ago. She reached for a travel-sized lotion that smelled like clean cotton and added it to her basket. Then she spotted a small carry-on travel bag in muted olive. Sleek. Understated. Hers was raggedy. This one had gold zippers. She ran her fingers across it, then set it gently in the cart. It wasn’t for a trip. Not yet, but maybe one day. At checkout, the total didn’t make her flinch. She tapped her card without hesitation and grabbed Messiah’s little juice pouch from her purse while they bagged up the items. As they stepped into the parking lot, the wind picked up just a little. Messiah squinted against the sun, still clutching his new stuffed animal and other toys. 

“Say bye-bye, Marshalls,” Malaya said playfully.

“Buh-byyyye,” Messiah echoed, waving his fat fingers at the automatic doors.

She loaded him into the back seat, buckled him in, then leaned into the trunk to fit the bags. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t calculating what had to be returned. She wasn’t worried if she’d have to dip into her backup fund, or hold off on groceries to make rent. For once, the world was still, just her and Messiah and a full backseat of things that didn’t have to be begged for.

She climbed into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirror, and smiled.

“Chick-fil-A,” she said out loud, tapping the wheel, “Then home.”

From the back seat, Messiah clapped his Sonic stuffed animal’s hands together.

The line inside Chick-fil-A was long enough to make her rethink the stop, but Messiah had spotted the cow through the window and lost his little mind with excitement. Malaya sighed, pushed open the glass door with her hip, and maneuvered the stroller inside, her purse tugging on one shoulder. Messiah kicked his light-up Buzz sneakers, a sticky straw wrapper clinging to his pants from the car ride. He was humming his little tune, clutching his tablet to his chest like it was a shield, though it had been dead for the last fifteen minutes.

She was tired but trying. That was the rhythm of her life. Every small joy scraped from the edge of exhaustion. She bounced a little on her feet, trying to keep Messiah occupied as they waited for their order. He was giggling now, asking for sauce he wouldn’t eat and poking his fingers into the cupholder on the stroller. The man behind the counter called her number, and she leaned over to grab the bags when a voice stopped her.

“Malaya?”

She turned. At first, her mind scrambled, searching for something familiar. Then it clicked.

“Jordan?” she blinked.

He laughed, stepping forward, and it hit her all at once same smile, same skin that always looked warm no matter the season, but grown now. Grown in a way that made her heart stutter for just a second. His face was broader, beard filled in, and he carried himself with a quiet, settled ease. Not flashy. Just…content. His hair styled in a tapered curly fro with a clean hairline. and his black hoodie pulled snug over strong shoulders. Still had that soft anime nerd sweetness in his light brown, expressive eyes, though.

“Damn,” he said, flashing a grin, “I wasn’t sure that was you.”

She laughed, shifting the tray onto the stroller and adjusting the strap of her purse, “Yeah. It’s been a minute.”

“At least ten years, right? Since high school?”

“Something like that,” she nodded, “You still in the city?”

“For now. Just came back from visiting my mama. She’s still in the same house, yelling at the same neighbors.”

Malaya chuckled, then motioned to the stroller, “This is Messiah.”

Jordan crouched slightly, offering the little boy a wave, “What’s up, young king?”

Messiah blinked up at him, shy, then leaned back with a small smile. Malaya reached down and tugged the napkin over his lap.

Jordan straightened again, looking her over in a way that was gentle, not greedy. “You look…good,” he said carefully, “I mean, I always knew you’d grow into something special, but—yeah. You look happy.”

“Do I?” she asked, not bitter, just amused.

He tilted his head, “You got that mom tired look, but otherwise…good.” 

She smiled, soft and private, “Thanks. You got kids?”

“One. A boy. Shiloh. He’s four,” he said, pulling his phone out and flipping it around to show her a lockscreen photo. A little boy with big eyes and wild curls grinned up at the camera, popsicle in hand.

Malaya tilted her head, admiring the photo, “He’s adorable. Got those big ‘I get away with everything’ eyes.”

Jordan chuckled, “Yeah, he gets that from me. The trouble too.”

She laughed—warm, full. The kind that caught her off guard, that made her feel like herself again for just a breath.

Jordan rubbed the back of his neck, his grin softening. “It’s wild seeing you here. I mean… I’ve thought about you before. Like, damn…I wonder what Malaya’s up to these days.”

She didn’t jump to fill the silence, just smiled a little. Then said, “Working hard. Dealing with this little guy. It’s hard but…he’s my heart and soul.”

Jordan’s eyes dropped to Messiah, who was now trying to eat a fry and hum at the same time, “He got your smile.”

Malaya looked at her son and nodded, “Mm. That he does. His good-for-nothing daddy took over the rest. But at least he got my chocolate skin.”

Jordan chuckled, gaze lingering on her a second longer than necessary, “Sho’ nuff.”

She nodded, folding the straw wrapper in her hand. She hadn’t had a real conversation with a man in weeks that wasn’t wrapped in DMs or veiled requests for more. This was…different. Familiar in a way.

“Look,” he said, stepping a little closer, “I don’t wanna hold you up, but…if you ever feel like catching up—just talking or whatever—can I get your number?”

She hesitated.

Not because she didn’t want to. But because everything in her life required calculation now. Every new connection could cost her peace. But he wasn’t a stranger. He was Jordan. The boy who used to doodle on his sneakers and wear Naruto shirts. He used to sit behind her in chem and pass her his extra pencils when she always forgot hers. He wasn’t flirting heavy. He wasn’t pressing. He just looked like somebody she used to trust.

So she pulled out her phone, handed it over.

He typed in his number and texted himself.

“Alright. I’ll let you go feed your boy,” he said, smiling again, “Don’t be a stranger.”

She nodded, then watched him leave—hoodie half-zipped, jeans cuffed, walking like he had nowhere to be but still meant to be there. Messiah tapped the stroller,  impatient. She gave him a nugget. Her phone buzzed. She looked down.

[New Message from: Jordan — 404-xxx-xxxx]

For the record…your smile’s still the same.

She shook her head, half-grinning, then took a sip of her lemonade. Messiah crunched into his nugget, ketchup on his cheek. 

5:41 PM – Saturday Evening Malaya’s Apartment, East Point

The front door clicked shut behind her, a soft thud of tired satisfaction. Malaya pressed her back to it for a second, exhaled slow through her nose, then hoisted the shopping bags up one more time and made her way inside. Messiah was still chattering about fries. “Fry fry fry fry fry,” he sang from the crook of her arm, legs kicking with toddler glee.

“You lucky you cute,” she muttered under her breath with a smirk, stepping around the scattered sneakers near the door, “Always get a toy and fries outta me.”

She set the bags down on the couch first, then carried Messiah to his high chair—an old hand-me-down from a cousin but still sturdy. She snapped him in, kissed the top of his head, and got him a plastic bowl filled with cut-up nuggets, apple slices, and half of her Chick-fil-A fries.

“Mickey?” she asked, already reaching for the remote.

“Mih-mouse,” he nodded, wide-eyed. “Mihhh-key!”

She flipped to the channel, and like clockwork, the intro music filled the apartment. Messiah’s eyes lit up. His feet swung back and forth in rhythm, hands sticky with juice from the apples. Malaya grabbed her bag and slipped into the small kitchen just off the living room. She poured herself a little sweet tea, popped the lid off her salad, and sat at the corner table, their “dining area” pressed into the far wall of the living room, right by the heater vent. The table was wobbly. She balanced her plate with one hand and grabbed her phone with the other.

Jordan had already texted.

Jordan: Made it home yet?

She smiled and bit into her salad.

Malaya: Just sat down to eat. Mickey Mouse on blast lol. 

Jordan: Classic. That was Shiloh’s favorite too when he was little. It still is 😂 He acts like it’s brand new every time.

Malaya: That’s how you know he happy. Repeats are for the soul.

She paused, fork halfway to her mouth, thinking about how easy the messages felt. No pressure. Just back-and-forth. He didn’t flirt heavy — not yet. Just smooth, friendly… lowkey sweet. She glanced at Messiah, who now had fries in his lap, ketchup on his cheek, and was giggling at Goofy trying to hula hoop.

She took another bite and typed slowly.

Malaya: You ever come back to the old neighborhood?

Jordan: Sometimes. Moms moved though, so it’s rare. You still in East Point?

Malaya: Yeah. Been here a few years now.

Jordan: You ever go out?

She hesitated.

Her phone buzzed again before she could decide how to answer.

Jordan: I mean like for fresh air. Farmer’s market, music, whatever. Not tryna put you on the spot lol 😂.

That made her laugh, soft and soundless. She took a sip of tea, letting it cool the bite of vinaigrette on her tongue.

Malaya: I try. Depends on the day.

Messiah made a sound like “ta-da!” and flung his cup off the tray. It rolled under the table. 

Malaya set her phone down and stood up, grabbing a baby wipe and scooping him out, “You a whole mess, man-man,” she whispered, holding him close as he wrapped his arms around her neck and leaned his head on her shoulder. She checked his pull-up, clean enough, and wiped his hands and face. Once he was wriggling again, she let him loose inside his playpen, a square of padded foam tiles and bright plastic toys. He crawled over to his musical drum set and started banging with glee.

Finally, finally, she could breathe.

She waited until Messiah was settled in his playpen, blocks scattered around him, Mickey Mouse still chattering softly in the background. Once she was sure he was content, Malaya stood and padded down the short hallway to her bedroom.

The door stayed cracked. Always.

The box sat exactly where she’d left it earlier, tucked against the foot of the bed like it belonged there. Plain brown. No branding. No drama. Just weight.

She sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled it into her lap. This time, she opened it slower. Inside, cushioned in smooth black tissue paper, was the Bluetooth toy. Still sealed in its high-end packaging. Glossy black. Sleek. The kind of design that looked more like modern art than something meant to disappear inside a body. Her breath caught when she saw it. Beneath it were two plugs in soft pastel pink. One capped with a small gem that caught the light. The other shaped like a rosebud, delicate and intentional. She touched the edge of the packaging with the tip of her finger, then pulled her hand back like it might burn.

There was a small card tucked between the layers of tissue. No message. No handwriting. Just a barcode printed clean and centered. Below that sat a small glass bottle of perfume. Heavy for its size. She uncapped it and inhaled without thinking. Honey and sandalwood bloomed warm against her senses. Powdery. Deep. The kind of scent that lingered close to the skin instead of announcing itself. A new lip gloss followed. Nude brown. High shine. She rolled the tube between her palms, imagining how it would look under low light.

And then the lingerie.

Wine-colored lace. Sheer, with delicate embroidery that traced curves like it already knew her body. Her size. Exactly. She lifted it carefully, letting it drape between her hands, the fabric catching on her fingertips.

Malaya sat there for a long moment, surrounded by the quiet hum of the apartment and the distant sound of her son laughing at something on the TV.

Her hands were shaking now.

She reached for her phone and opened the tracking app she used for her wishlist. Scrolled past the item list. Past the delivery confirmations.

There it was.

MoTh3rL0ad88.

Every item. Every purchase.

Grateful. Overwhelmed. A little afraid of how seen she felt.

She stared at the name, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling as if she’d just run up a flight of stairs. She didn’t know who he was. Hadn't seen the name pop up in the chat before. Didn’t know why he’d done this. Didn’t know what he expected, if anything at all. She set the lingerie back in the box carefully, closed the lid, and rested her palm on top. But if she where being honest with herself, she knew what most men wanted. The ones who tipped big, who watched every night without blinking. A taste. A touch. A chance to fuck the girl behind the glass. Didn’t matter how soft their messages sounded,  eventually, they all circled the same flame. But she didn’t do meet-ups. Never had. Never would. That line stayed thick and final, no matter how badly rent pressed against her spine.

From the living room, Messiah let out another happy shriek, banging two toys together like cymbals.

Malaya smiled despite herself.

She wiped her hands on her jeans, stood, and went back to him.

11:19 PM — Malaya’s Apartment

 Messiah is asleep, the baby monitor steady on the dresser, screen dimmed but close enough that she can glance and know he’s still breathing, still safe. That knowledge settles her shoulders before anything else does.

Malaya pours herself a small glass of wine and lets it warm her chest. Not enough to make her sloppy. Just enough to loosen the tight coil she carries through the day. She locks the bedroom door, pulls the blackout curtains closed, and pins the black satin sheet to the wall behind her. The fabric catches the low light and gleams faintly, like it’s already wet.

She switches on the purple LED. The room changes. Not brighter. Thicker. Intimate. Private in a way that feels almost conspiratorial. She steps out of her clothes slowly. Not for the camera yet. Just for herself. Oil goes on first, warmed between her palms. She works it into her thighs, over the soft swell of her hips, across her stomach where skin still bears the quiet evidence of carrying a life. The oil turns her dark skin luminous, highlights catching on the curves she used to try to hide. Tonight she does not hide a thing.

The lingerie comes next. The wine-colored lace from the box. She slides it up her legs, the fabric gliding easily, crotchless and unapologetic. It fits her like it was designed with her body in mind. The plug goes in after, pink and smooth, gem cool against her fingers before it disappears inside her. She exhales, slow, steady, grounding herself in the feeling. A quiet fullness. A reminder that she is still capable of wanting.

Clear strap heels click against the floor as she steps into them. She fastens the anklet, settles the velvet choker at her throat, and lets her twists hang loose down her back. Her lips get one pass of nude-brown gloss. Nothing else. Her face stays out of frame anyway.

She sets the camera low, angled up. Thighs first. Stomach. The curve of her ass when she turns. She presses the suction dildo into place, adjusts the riding pillow beneath her, and brings the wand close enough that she can feel its promise without turning it on yet.

Music hums low in the background. Kut Klose slipping into the room like a secret. SZA after that. Brent Faiyaz. A rhythm that makes her hips move even before she tells them to.

She goes live.

The chat fills slowly. Names she knows. Names she pretends not to know. Tokens start to trickle in, soft chimes that barely register compared to the pulse in her body.

Camera0ff appears without announcement. No greeting. No words. Just there.

Her breath stutters anyway.

She doesn’t look at the chat when he’s in the room. Never does. But her body reacts like it knows. Her thighs spread wider. Her hand goes back to the oil, slicking more over her skin, letting it drip between her legs, letting it catch the light as it slides.

Another thousand tokens drops. Exact. Clean.

She rolls her hips forward and sinks down onto the dildo, slow enough that it makes her gasp. Not loud. Just honest. The plug shifts inside her, presses where she needs it, and her head tips back out of frame. She rides like she has nowhere else to be. Like she has all the time in the world.

DIYDemon23 pops into the chat, tipping with a familiar rhythm. A request scrolls by about tightening bolts, about hands and effort and sweat. She smiles to herself and shifts her weight, pretending to brace against something invisible, thighs flexing, body moving like she’s working at a problem that requires concentration. The tips follow. Predictable. Comfortable.

JustForTheTaste sends a small tip and a message about oil, about how sticky she looks. She drags her palms over her breasts, slow squeeze, letting the lace darken as it absorbs the shine. She says nothing, just breathes into the mic, lets the sound do the work.

NothinButNecks asks for her mouth. She leans closer to the camera, just enough that her collarbone and throat fill the frame. Glossy lips part. She tilts her head, exposing the long line of her neck, fingers tracing where a mouth might go. The tip lands heavier this time. She hums softly, low in her chest.

BILLS4U arrives like a storm. Big numbers. Heavy drops. A message flashes asking her to ignore him, to use him, to let the money talk while she rides. She obliges without comment. Turns her back to the chat, focuses on the mirror angled just enough to show the arch of her spine, the way her ass moves as she picks up speed.

She straddled the clear dildo in reverse, knees spread wide on the plush throw she kept laid out for nights like this. The soft LED lights glowed low behind her, catching on the slick sheen across her thighs. She wasn’t in a talking mood. No teasing. No tip menu. Just riding. Just fucking. Just giving them a show.

She’d started slow—rocking her hips like she was warming up for something deeper. Her fat pussy wrapped the toy with a wet sound that filled the mic even without her saying a word. A pastel pink plug winked between her cheeks every time she lifted, then dropped again with a bounce. She was oiled up to the shine, body glowing like she’d been dipped in desire. Breasts jiggling with every roll, Her mouth parted. No words. Just little sounds. Soft, breathy gasps that got sharper when the toy hit the right spot inside.

And it did.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Her rhythm got filthier. Not rushed. But filthy. Like she was sinking into it. Like her body took over and she was nothing but hips and thighs and wetness now. The suction toy beneath her pulled at her clit in slow pulses—one hand anchored on the floor, the other sliding up to squeeze a breast, fingers slick with her own mess.

Tokens fell in steady. But then it hit.

+1,000

Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens

Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens

Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens

Somewhere out there, he was watching her just like this—still, quiet, obsessed. She fucked the dildo harder. She arched, bracing herself as she pushed down until the toy disappeared all the way into her soaked cunt. Cream spilled down the base, thick and glistening. Her cheeks bounced with every slap of her hips against the toy.

Her pussy sounded so wet the audio glitched.

Squish. Squish. Squish.

The suction toy buzzed louder now. She spread her knees more, back bowed, bouncing in tighter circles. The plug kept her open. Made her more sensitive. Kept her needy. Her thighs were shaking, ass jiggling with every stroke. It was the kind of show that made the chat explode.

But she didn’t give them anything back.

No name drops.

No thank yous.

No dirty talk.

Just fucking.

She grabbed the toy beneath her and held it in deeper, grinding down slow while her fingers found her clit and rubbed in tight, messy circles. Her breathing got ragged. Her back flexed. Her pussy spasmed around the toy, dripping so much now the mess had soaked into the pillow beneath her.

And still, she didn’t cum.

She paused. Caught herself. Stayed right on the edge and let her body throb with it. Her eyes fluttered closed, head falling forward as she rocked again. This time slow. Deep. Her plug shifted with every grind, making her hips stutter and her mouth fall open again in a silent moan.

She wanted to give it to them. She almost did.

Across town, Smoke sat still.

Shirtless. Durag pulled low. Joggers tented. One hand slow inside the waistband, the other gripping the glass of dark liquor he hadn’t sipped since she started.

He didn’t blink.

Not once.

Her pussy looked unreal—glistening and stretched around that dildo like it was made just for her. Cream laced the toy, the base, her thighs. Her ass looked tight and soft, plug shimmering pink between her cheeks. He adjusted in the chair but didn’t stroke. Just watched. Obsession thick in his chest. Jaw clenched.

The camera shook for a moment when she switched angles—reversed herself just enough to show her spread pussy from the back. Lips swollen. Messy. Pushed apart by the fat toy buried inside her.

He exhaled through his nose, finally taking a sip of his drink.

She was everything.

Everything.

She slowed her ride with a trembling gasp, thighs slick, cunt clenching around the last thrust before she lifted off the dildo with a wet pop. The sound was loud. Filthy. The mic picked up everything—drip, squish, her breath catching as she settled back onto her heels, hair stuck to the sides of her face. The clear toy was soaked. Glazed. Cream coating the shaft and pooling at the base. She brought it to her mouth without a word. Just a look.

Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted.

She sucked the mess off slow at first, letting the tip glide across her tongue like a treat. Her lips wrapped around it, mouth hollowing as she cleaned herself from base to head, then deeper—until her gag reflex hit and she choked just enough to make spit bubble at the corners of her mouth. Her fingers gripped tighter. She pushed again, tried to take more, gagging louder now. Saliva dripped down to her tits, joining the streaks of sweat and oil.

She laughed. Low. Nasty. Smirk curling on her lips as she pulled it free and licked up the side, tongue flat. He couldn’t see her eyes but he just knew she looked dead into the camera. Like she knew what it was doing to him. She tossed the dildo aside with a little flick of her wrist and leaned back, planting both palms behind her. Spreading her legs.

That pussy was still creamy. Still twitching. Lips fat, glistening, parted just enough to tease the view of her clit. She grabbed the dildo again, slapping it between her folds a few times—sharp, juicy smacks that echoed. Each one louder than the last. Her pussy drooled on contact. The chat went wild.

slap slap slap

Wet strings of arousal stretched from her to the toy with every tap. Then she reached for the hot pink wand. It buzzed to life in her hand.

And that was all it took.

She brought it to her clit like she was desperate now. No teasing. No buildup. Just need. The vibrator met her with a sharp jolt and her hips jumped, knees knocking together before she spread them again—wider this time. She let the camera see everything. Her pussy wide open. Cream still leaking. Her clit twitching under the wand.

She started to moan. Short, broken sounds that spilled out whether she meant to or not. Her head rolled back. One hand slipped to her tit, squeezing while the other held the wand steady. The closer she got, the sloppier her movements became. She bucked into the toy now. Back arching. Thighs trembling.

Smoke leaned forward in his chair, jaw clenched.

His dick was rock hard. Veins bulging. Head pushing up against the cotton of his joggers like it wanted to tear clean through. That thick, long piece of him lay heavy across his thigh, twitching once when she started moaning louder. His hand slid back beneath the waistband, slow. Grip tight. He didn’t stroke yet. Just palmed it. Felt how big he’d gotten.

He couldn’t look away.

The screen showed every slick detail. That pussy—fat and stretched, still pulsing from the toy, twitching under the wand. The sound of her moaning. The buzz of the vibrator. The sticky slap of her mess dripping onto the pillow.

God, he wanted her under him. Wanted to slide that plug back in, hold her hips down, and make her scream into the mattress. He tilted the glass of liquor without drinking it, annoyed now. Not at her.

At the wand. That wasn’t the one he sent.

She hadn’t used the Bluetooth vibe he gave her. The one he could control. The one that let him tease her from across the city with a tap on his phone. She chose her own tonight.

He took a breath. Shook it off. Let the irritation melt into obsession again. Because she was close. She was fucking close.

Her legs were shaking. Wide open. Toes curled. Ankles flexed hard as her thighs trembled with the effort of staying upright, staying present—but her body was gone now. Gone to pleasure. Gone to that buzzing wand pressed tight to her clit.

The wand was soaked. Her pussy was messier than ever. Every pass across her clit made her hips jolt, made her eyes roll, made her breath catch in ragged little sobs of sound. She was close—so close it was crawling up her spine, clamping around her like a fist.

And then she started talking.

“Y-you’re making my pussy cum…fuck…you’re making my pussy cum…”

Her voice broke on it. Again.

“You’re making my pussy cum—”

The chant left her lips in breathless repetition. Like she couldn’t stop. Like she needed to say it to get there.

“It’s right on my clit…fuck…it’s right on my clit… feels so good…”

Her head tilted, lips trembling, bottom one caught between her teeth like she was holding on to her last bit of control. But her eyes—those eyes looked gone.

“Keep tipping me,” she gasped, barely able to say it through the moans, “if you wanna see this phat pussy squirt.”

The chat exploded.

+1000

+500

+1000—Camera0ff

She moaned louder. Back arched. Hips rolled. Her pussy flexed hard around nothing. Just twitching in the open air, on full display. Her cream had already soaked the pillow. Her clit looked swollen, shiny, almost trembling under the wand.

Smoke’s jaw locked tight. His hand was finally moving now—gripping his dick through his joggers as it jumped in his palm. That big, fat length twitched every time she said pussy. Every time she moaned through another wave. Every time she begged for tips like the whole room wasn’t watching her come undone.

And then she came.

Hard.

Her whole body jerked. A strangled moan punched out of her chest. Her legs tried to close, but she held them open with sheer will, forcing them wide as her orgasm tore through her.

She squirted. Once. Then again. A messy gush soaked the wand and sprayed down her inner thighs, making her cry out louder. Her hips bucked into it, chasing more, chasing the tail end of it while her voice got high and tight and shaky—

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck—”

She nearly dropped the wand. Managed to hold it just long enough for one final pulse, one last desperate moan as her cunt clenched hard, leaking and twitching. And then she collapsed back, chest heaving. Body twitching in the aftershocks. Her pussy was a mess. Raw and creamy and wide open.

Smoke let out a sound between a groan and a growl.

He needed her.

Bad.

The kind of need that made his throat tight and his balls ache. His dick strained so hard against his joggers it hurt. He sat there, eyes burning into the screen like he could brand her with his stare alone.

She hadn’t said his name once.

But that pussy? That pussy was his.

She giggled.

Not shy. Not sweet. That giggle had drip to it.

She was still sprawled out, legs wide, pussy glistening and open, a fucking mess between her thighs. Her body trembled just slightly from the comedown, but she didn’t close. Didn’t hide. She spread herself wider. Fingers at the lips, pulling her pussy open for the camera—fat, raw, creamy pink, glistening under the studio lights. The chat exploded.

I’d tongue fuck that til you passed out.

Bet you taste like fruit. 👅 

On my knees already, Queen 😍

Let me slide in raw. Cream for me just like that.

Why it look that juicy tho?!

I’d ruin it slow, you don’t even know 😮‍💨

Line after line. Filth pouring in from hard, horny men who couldn’t keep their hands off their dicks. They were ready to worship. Ready to pay. Ready to beg.

She lifted one leg high. Planted her foot flat. And started grinding slow—tiny rolls of her hips that made her still-leaking pussy glisten even more as DVSN came through the speakers soft in the background. A low, moaning R&B groove that matched the wet circles she rode on air. She licked her lips, tilted her head, smiled like she already knew how every single one of them would nut thinking about this later.

Then her voice came through, low and slick, “I’m about to log off now…but I’m accepting private chats from top tier members only.” She sucked her bottom lip. Let it pop back out, “If I’m feelin’ the vibes…might be down to talk dirty. Don’t be dry, though. Come correct.”

She blew a kiss.

Gave the camera one last spread. Pussy still twitching faintly, clit still swollen, thighs wet.

“Goodnight, freaks.”

And ended the stream.

The screen went black.

Across the city, Smoke sat in silence.

Still shirtless. Still hard.

That thick dick lay heavy in his hand, pulsing in his palm, fat at the tip and leaking. He hadn’t even finished. Couldn’t. Not yet. Not when his mind was stuck on her. That pussy. That fucking smirk.

He sat there for a beat.

Thinking.

He had never messaged her for dirty talk. Not directly. Not from Camera0ff. He kept that account quiet. Sterile. Eyes only.

But now?

He reached for his phone.

Opened a different profile. One he hadn’t used in weeks.

@YungCipher 🕶️

Verified. Still active. He cracked his neck. Wiped his hand on his thigh. Typed slow.

And started the private chat.

You said come correct. So let’s talk. I’ve been watchin’. You been fuckin’ up my sleep.

Now I want your attention. Just for me.

No music, no chat chimes. Just the soft whir of her mini fan and the sound of her own breath, still unsteady, still thick with the rhythm of what she just gave them. Her thighs were parted, one knee cocked up, the other draped low, toes touching the floor like an afterthought. Cream glistened on her inner thighs—slick, messy, the kind of mess that lingered when the show ended but the need didn’t.

Malaya shifted slow, lazy, her silk robe clinging wet to the curve of her hip where her body had gotten too warm, too sticky. The robe was barely tied, a soft sage green thing she always reached for post-show when she wanted to feel pretty. Luxurious. She liked how it looked against her skin, the way the sheen picked up the low light of her desk lamp and kissed her curves. Her nipples poked through the thin fabric—fat, round, still stiff, still aching. Her pussy? Still creamy. Still throbbing. Still open.

She kept the cam room up in the background just in case someone sent a late tip or left a filthy review, but her eyes were on her DMs. Waiting. Thirsty in more ways than one. That creamy POV she just did? Slurpy, moaning, talking dirty into the cam like she could feel every inch of the dick she was pretending to ride? She knew it went crazy. Knew it had ‘em gripping themselves, leaking, moaning back. She knew how they got. How they begged. How they paid.

She was just about to close the app when the message pinged.

💬 Yung Cipher: What’s good, mamas? Down to chat wit’ me? I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.

Malaya blinked at the name.

She knew that username.

YungCipher.

Didn’t show up often. Only during certain shows. The ones where her pussy was on full display—glossy, slow strokes, cream gliding down toys. That was when he’d appear. Never right away. Always late. He’d drop in, say something filthy in the chat—short, bold, blunt—and vanish just as quick, usually leaving behind a clean tip with no message.

She’d never paid him much mind. Until now.

Now he was DMing.

She sat up a little, adjusting her robe, tucking one leg underneath herself as she stared at the message again.

Something about it…felt different. Not desperate. Not thirsty. Just…smooth. Intentional.

She smiled slow, fingertips grazing her lips.

💬 Malaya: Well hey there, stranger. Sure, we can chat. We’ll see if it’s worth my time 😘”

She sent it and waited.

Curious. Tempted.

Still a little creamy.

Still thumping.

Just like he liked it. 

Malaya sat up a little straighter, the tension in her belly returning like heat blooming under her skin. Her heart tapped quick against her ribs. She saw it—bottom right corner.

💬 Yung Cipher: Still creamy, huh?

Her lips parted. She bit the lower one. The robe slid open just enough for a sticky string to stretch between her lips, creamy and slow. She shivered.

She clicked it with her thumb, pulse fluttering like a moth trapped behind her breastbone.

💬 Malaya: Mmm…figured you were watchin’. Took you long enough, nasty.

She hovered, waiting, still gently rocking in her chair like her body didn’t know the show was over yet. Her legs squeezed together without her permission. That text had her sitting up—robe sliding further off one shoulder, nipples dragging against silk, heat flashing behind her knees. Something about the way he said it. So casual. So knowing. Like he wasn’t guessing—he knew she was still creamy. Like he was still watching her now. She leaned her elbow on the desk, fingers brushing her lower lip as she stared at the screen. There was a new message.

💬 Yung Cipher: I seen how you creamed all on that toy. Shit was glossy. Fat, too.

Her breath caught. Her thighs twitched. Not even a full minute passed before another came in—

💬 Yung Cipher: You still dripping?

She didn’t type right away. She adjusted the camera even though the stream was off, instinctual. Turned the chair slightly so she could spread her legs again. The robe slipped open completely. She looked down. Cream still there. Puffy, parted lips glistening, folds sticky, twitching like they missed the toy already. It was obscene the way she was still open. Still needy. She sucked her fingers clean out of habit, then typed with her other hand.

💬 Malaya: Still dripping, baby. Wanna taste?

She giggled to herself, but it wasn’t sweet. It was thick with lust. With the type of hunger that curled up in the belly and wouldn’t let go.

The dots appeared. Then vanished. Then came back.

Her pussy throbbed again.

💬 Yung Cipher: Nah. I wanna see it. Real close. Name your price. How much for a picture of that fat, creamy pussy? 

Malaya’s mouth fell open just slightly. She sat there, robe wide, pussy glistening, heart thudding. This wasn’t just tipping tokens in the chat anymore. This was direct. Intentional. A transaction of desire so specific it made her whole body hum. Her breath left her slow—like steam—and she tilted her hips in the chair without thinking, letting the air touch her.

She stared at the screen. Thought about the angles. Thought about how it would feel to send it. Thought about how bad he wanted it. Her fingers danced across the keyboard.

💬 Malaya: Depends…you want just the pussy? Or you want my fingers in it too?

She bit her lip.

💬 Malaya: $100 for the pic. $150 if I dip two fingers and show you what creamy really look like.

And then she waited. Dripping. Throbbing. Waiting for his answer like she’d already spent the money. Like her body wanted to be sold tonight.

The silence was syrupy.

Then—ding.

💬 Yung Cipher: $150. With two fingers. Slow. Creamy like you said.

The cash came through seconds later.

Cha-ching.

That PayNote alert hit her like a slap to the ass.

💸 Payment received: $150 from Yung Cipher

Malaya blinked, then grinned slow, teeth catching the inside of her cheek. Her nipples tightened again, responding before her brain even caught up. Her pussy gave a greedy twitch like it knew it had been purchased. Like it was proud. She clicked off the desk lamp. Let the screen glow light her.

Phone in hand now. Knees wide. Camera angle just right. She clicked to video mode. Took a deep breath and looked down.

Fat. Creamy. Puffy. Still leaking.

The lips were thick and plush, a dark rose shade flushed with blood, the inner folds glossy with wetness. Her slit still pulsed slightly—sensitive from her earlier release but greedy for more. The cream had pooled, coating her folds in milky white gloss. Her clit peeked out, shiny and swollen, practically begging for breath. She slid her fingers down once. Just to prep.

They came up glistening. Her breath hitched.

“F-fuck,” she whispered to herself.

The filth of it had her smiling. Wicked and pretty. She leaned back further. Raised her phone. Started the slow glide of her middle and ring fingers between her folds—just like he asked.

Two fingers. Slow.

She let the tips part her. Cream stretched in globs. Wet noises loud even without the mic. Her pussy opened like it missed being filled. Her fingers sank in just a little, just enough for the shot. Cream eased out, coating her fingers, dripping back onto her palm. It was a mess.

She snapped the pic.

Previewed it.

Her thick, wet pussy glistening under the glow of the screen. Fingers dipped and shining. A perfect strand of cream gliding across her middle knuckle like icing.

She sent it.

📷 Attachment sent: “malaya_creamy2fingers.jpg”

Then followed with a message:

💬 Malaya: You sure you don’t wanna upgrade to video? I’m still warm, baby. Still wet.

She hit send.

Her heart beat fast. Her robe slipped further. Her free hand drifted to her thigh again.

Another ping.

She didn’t even flinch—just licked her lips and leaned in. Eyes glowing in the light of the screen, the air around her humid with heat and musk and money.

💬 Yung Cipher:

“Nah.”

“I want that video.”

“Show me what them fingers do. Slow. Messy. Talk to me while you stroke it.”

Another notification hit.

💸 Payment received: $400 from Yung Cipher

With note: “Make me cum, mama.”

Malaya moaned under her breath, just at the message.

There was something about this one.

Yung Cipher wasn’t like the others. Didn’t fumble. Didn’t hesitate. His money came correct, his words came low and nasty, and his intent sliced through the screen like a hand at her throat. Malaya was slick just reading him.

She adjusted her camera.

Set her phone on the tripod, angled low—real low. The frame just showed the curve of her thighs, the dip of her hips, and the dripping heaven between. No face. Just raw, ruined, pussy.

She pressed record.

The first thing the camera caught? Her fingers spreading herself open.

Lips parted, folds swollen and glistening, clit hard and standing like it knew it was being watched. Her cream was thicker now—milky, wet, coating her entrance in glossy white where she’d clenched and released too many times tonight already.

She brought two fingers back to her opening. Eased in. A low moan slipped out her throat. Sticky. Sloppy. The sound of wet pussy filled the room. Her other hand lifted the bottom of the robe so her stomach and tits were visible too, jiggling slightly with every pump of her fingers.

Then came her voice. Sultry. Soft. Soaked in heat. 

“You see that, baby? That mess right there? That’s your fault…”

She pulled her fingers out. Cream spilled. She pushed them back in, slower this time. Grinding in circles. Her hips rolled with the motion, her clit twitching from proximity alone.

“These fingers just fillin’ in for you. I been creamy all night. Drippin’ down my ass. You wanted messy, daddy? Mmmph…fuck…you got messy.”

She whimpered as her fingers curved inside. Hit the spot just right. Her stomach jumped. She kept stroking, kept talking, her voice lowering to a hush.

“This pussy loud, huh? Sloppy for you. You like watchin’ it stretch? Creamy little fuckhole just soakin’ for you…”

Her pace picked up. Her body rocked. She was close. Too close. And she didn’t care. Back arched, thighs trembling, her other hand lifted to pinch her own nipple through the robe. Her clit screamed for contact, but she kept edging, kept fucking herself for him. The sound of her fingers was obscene. Messy. Wet.

And through it all, her voice purred, “Gon’ let daddy watch me cum…gon’ let him see all this cream…you ready?”

She moaned long, sharp—hips locking as the orgasm finally hit. A wave of cream spilled past her fingers, dripping down her ass and onto the towel beneath. Her pussy pulsed around her hand, still creamy, still fluttering.

She cut the video at the peak of the twitch.

Previewed it. No edits. Just pure filth.

She sent it.

📹 Attachment sent: “malaya_creampour_slowstroke.mp4”

Then—

💬 Malaya: You cum yet, baby? Or you need me to watch you too?”

She leaned back. Grinning. Sticky. Spent. Soaked in money and wetness.

The message preview flashed before she could even catch her breath.

📹 New Video from Yung Cipher

No caption. No words. Just a timestamp and a fire emoji.

Malaya’s pussy clenched on nothing. Her body still pulsed from her own release, the creamy mess between her thighs sticking to the inside of her robe now, still hot, still fresh. Her nipple throbbed from how hard she’d pinched it. She was soaked. Boneless. Breathless.

But her thumb moved fast. She tapped the video open.

First frame? A thick, dark dick filling the screen—heavy, glistening, jumping. Her mouth dropped open. She almost choked on a gasp. The tip was swollen, flushed dark, glistening with a pearl of cum pushing from the slit. The shaft twitched like it had its own heartbeat. Veins thick. Base wet. The whole thing dripping. It wasn’t even moving, not yet. Just standing proud like it knew it had her attention.

Then, slow stroke. Just the fingers—gripping the base, gliding up with a fist full of cum coating the length.

“Mmmf—fuck…”

His voice was low. Raspy. Almost growled. He wasn’t talking to the phone. He was talking to her. The strokes got faster, wet sounds sticky and deep. Cum leaked in thick globs. His breathing got ragged. He grunted once. Then twice.

Then came the deep moan, “Unnnhhh—fuck. That’s all you, baby girl…”

Another thick pulse shot from the tip—cum oozing, gliding down in slow strings over his knuckles. The dick twitched violently once, then twice. And then he spoke—low, deliberate, like he needed her to feel it. 

“This what you do to me, Miss Pretty Pussy.”

Video cut. Ended there. Like a slap.

Malaya just sat there—open, wet, unable to move. The cream between her legs warmed again like her body was responding. Like it wanted round two without permission.

Her thighs pressed together. She whined out loud—soft, helpless. She messaged back, trembling fingers on the keys.

💬 Malaya: I need to taste it next time. For real.

The cursor blinked. Her lips parted.

She added one more.

💬 Malaya: You always gonna call me that? Miss Pretty Pussy?

And she waited. Heart still pounding. Whole body humming like he touched her without even being here.

Then it came.

💬 Yung Cipher: Yeah. I’m always gon’ call you that. ‘Cause that pussy too pretty to go by anything else.

Her breath caught. She was already smirking, heart skipping, body tilting toward the screen like he was speaking in her ear.

The next message hit harder.

💬 Yung Cipher: Soon as I get you? I’m pullin’ those thighs open wide and buryin’ my whole face in it. I’ma suck that creamy clit till your knees give out. Talk all that nasty shit in my ear while I’m tongue deep.

Malaya’s lips parted. She inhaled sharp.

Fingers dipped. Just barely.

💬 Malaya: I’m gon’ cry. I already know I am. You eat pussy like you got a vendetta, huh?

The dots danced again.

💬 Yung Cipher: I eat pussy like I’m tryna survive it. Like the messier it get, the longer I live. I want it in my beard, on my tongue, runnin’ down my neck.

💬 Yung Cipher: You moanin’? I’ma keep suckin’. You twitchin’? I’ma keep lickin’. You creamin’? I’ma spit on it and fuckin’ slurp.

Malaya whimpered, rocking in her seat again.

💬 Malaya: Shiiit…I’m wet all over again. This chair got a stain now. And my thighs sticky, daddy. Sticky and shakin’.

He responded quick.

💬 Yung Cipher: Good. Keep that pussy sloppy for me. Next time? I ain’t talkin’. I’m spreadin’ you out like a meal. Tongue in your hole while I thumb your clit.”

💬 Yung Cipher: And after I eat? I’m liftin’ that pretty ass up and slidin’ in raw. No condom. No mercy. Just thick dick stretchin’ you slow…till I bottom out.”

Her pussy jumped.

💬 Malaya:I can’t even lie…I’m clenching. You got my whole body thumpin’. And I want it raw. Wanna feel every inch. Feel that nut fill me up when you cum.”

💬 Yung Cipher: I’m gon’ cum inside, Miss Pretty Pussy. Slow strokes. Moaning in it. You callin’ out my name. You gon’ squirt or cry or both?

💬 Yung Cipher: And when I pull out? I’ma rub that cream into your pussy lips like lotion. Then flip you over and do it again.

Malaya could barely sit still. Her fingers were back in her pussy, slow. Wet. Curling.

But she wanted more.

💬 Malaya: Say it again. Say what you gon’ do when you finally get this pussy.

And just like that—

💬 Yung Cipher: I’m gon’ fuck you like I paid for it. Like I own it. Like nobody else ever had it but me. Gon’ make you my nasty little throat and cumhole.

💬 Yung Cipher: You ready for that, mama? Ready to get used like the nasty lil wet thing you are?

Her hand was moving faster now.

💬 Malaya: I been ready. You wanna own me? Claim me? Say it, daddy. Say that pussy yours.

The response was instant.

💬 Yung Cipher: It’s mine. That fat, creamy pussy? That mouth that moan my name? Them legs that shake soon as I talk nasty? All that—mine.

Malaya moaned. Low. Raw. Shameless. She came again with her phone in her hand, his words still glowing on the screen, her body soaked and owned in every way but physical. Her skin was damp with sweat, thighs spread again, the air slick with sex and steam. She couldn’t stop replaying that damn video—his dick, thick and twitching, that fat tip leaking just for her. That low grunt. That final line.

This what you do to me, Miss Pretty Pussy.

It haunted her in the best way. And now, was still typing.

The dots danced.

Her body responded like it belonged to those three dots. She sucked in a breath and waited.

Then—

💬 Yung Cipher: That lil creamy pussy keep talkin’ to me, huh? Beggin’ for my tongue like it missed me. Let me tell you what I’m really gon’ do.

Her pussy clenched. She rubbed herself slow, fingers sliding through her own cream like syrup. Legs trembling. Chest heaving.

💬 Yung Cipher: First? I’ma have you laid back, ankles damn near by your ears. Make you hold ‘em. That way I can see all of it—pussy lips spread, hole twitchin’, cream waitin’.

She whined. 

💬 Yung Cipher: Then I’ma spit on it. Real thick. Let it drip right into your hole. Then I’m lickin’ it up. Long slow tongue from back to front.

💬 Yung Cipher: I ain’t rushin’. I’ma kiss every part of it. Left lip. Right lip. Suck on your folds like they my bottom lip. 

Malaya’s toes curled. She had three fingers inside now. Eyes fluttering. Pussy soaked.

💬 Malaya: I’m leaking. Fuck, I’m leaking just reading this. I wanna feel that tongue in me so bad.

💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ feel it. I’ma tongue-fuck that creamy hole until your hips lift off the bed. Gon’ make you cream in my mouth. You ever scream through a nut, baby? Gon’ have you doin’ that.

Malaya gripped her phone, knuckles tight. She could barely type.

💬 Malaya: I’ma be cryin’. Shakin’. Legs gon’ give out. You eatin’ pussy like you tryna steal my soul.

He didn’t stop.

💬 Yung Cipher: Exactly. I’ma trap your soul in my throat. Then suck that lil clit like I own it. Two fingers inside you, tongue flickin’ your clit…until you cum all in my beard.

Malaya’s legs spasmed.

She was panting. Whining. Her other hand was pinching her nipple raw now.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma talk shit with your pussy in my mouth. Let the sound of me slurpin echo while you cry. Then I’ma look up at you, face soaked, and say…

He paused. Malaya’s whole body paused with him.

💬 Yung Cipher:…You taste like heaven, Miss Pretty Pussy.

Malaya snapped. 

She cried out, back arching, pussy squirting in a sudden gush against her own palm. Her robe was soaked. Her desk chair dripping. She shook through the release, biting her lip hard to keep from screaming. She collapsed, trembling.

Phone buzzed again.

💬 Yung Cipher: You cummin’ right now, huh? Creamin’ off my words alone.

She barely managed to type. 

💬 Malaya: Yes. Daddy. You own me now. 

💬 Yung Cipher: Send me a voice note. Let me hear how wet you are. And moan for me while you do it.

Malaya bit her lip hard. She felt the throb again. That heavy ache in her pussy that never seemed to go away when he typed like this. That ache that whispered Obey him. That ache that had her already reaching for her phone before she even replied.

Her fingers were shaking. Not from nerves. From need. She slid two fingers back inside.

Schlllk.

The sound was loud—messy, wet, slick. She knew he’d want to hear that. She cranked the phone volume low, just to test, and the squelch echoed off her walls like sex in surround sound.

She hit record. Didn’t speak at first. Just moaned.bSoft at first. Breathless. Then deeper.

“Mmmm…fuck…you hear that?” Schlick-schlick—wet fingers plunging into cream again, “It’s so wet, daddy…so messy…so loud…You got my pussy screamin’. All this mess? Just from your voice…” moaning again, whimpering on the tail end of a gasp, “You got me creamin’ like you already here…wish your tongue was in it while I talk like this…wish I could ride your face ‘til you couldn’t breathe…”

She ended it with a sharp little cry—raw and soaked in lust.

📤 Voice Note Sent: 0:46

She didn’t even wait. Sent another message right after.

💬 Malaya: You hear how wet you got me? Tell me what that did to you…

She was trembling. Phone in one hand. Fingers in the other. Still not satisfied. Still craving.

He listened to it four times.

The voice note.

Every breath. Every wet sound. Every moan shaped like his name even if she didn’t say it.

She was soaked. Squelching. Fuckin’ creamy. Her pussy was singin’ for him. And it made his dick twitch so hard it jumped in his palm. He’d already pulled his sweats down, fist gripped around the base, head swollen and leaking just from the sound of her.

He sat back, legs wide, stroking slow. Deep. Face lit only by the glow of his phone screen, her moans still echoing in his head. Still hearing. 

“All this mess? Just from your voice…”

He let out a low breath, thumb teasing his slit to collect the drop of precum gliding down. His jaw was locked. Eyes half-shut. That same picture of her messy pussy flashing behind his lids. That creamy, pulsing, needy little cunt.

He hit record. His voice came out low. Rough. Deep like smoke caught in his throat.

“You got my dick hard as fuck, girl,” he released a slight groan as his fist moves slow over his shaft—wet strokes, audible, “Listen to that…that’s you. That’s yo nasty lil voice got me strokin’ like this…” shhk, shhk, shhk—his rhythm steady, thick, wet, You want this nut, don’t you? Wanna feel it warm inside that pretty pussy…” he grunts—low, chesty, sharp, “Fuuuck… yo voice got me ready to explode. Soon as get you? I’m pullin’ them thighs apart and eatin’ every drop. Cream in my mouth while I talk shit between licks…” his fist speeds up—slap of skin now louder, “That moan? That lil cry you made at the end? That shit made me cum, Malaya…” He sucked in a final sharp breath, then a raw, heavy groan as his nut hits—long and thick, Unnnghh…fuck… look what you did to me…you got this dick throbbin’, Miss Pretty Pussy…”

📤 Voice Note Sent: 1:02

He exhaled. Chest still rising, hand slick with cum, dick twitching in the aftershocks.

And he waited.

Knowing she’d listen to that with her fingers already back inside her.

She pressed play with a trembling thumb. Held the phone to her ear like it was sacred. His voice—thick, husky, dripping with control—slid into her like a wet tongue. His words weren’t rushed. They were paced. Drawled out. Like every syllable was chosen to own her.

“You got my dick hard as fuck, girl…”

Her knees buckled.

She wasn’t even standing. Just curled up, naked in her desk chair, but her knees buckled. She whimpered before the rest of it even landed. That low breath. That stroke. That wet shhk, shhk, shhk of his grip on his cock? It had her cunt clenching like it missed something it never even had. His voice was everywhere. In her ear. In her chest. In her pussy.

And then—

“Soon as I see you? I’m pullin’ them thighs apart and eatin’ every drop.”

Her lips parted in a soundless moan, fingers already sliding through her folds again, hot and swollen and dripping from just hearing him grunt.

She closed her eyes. Listened harder.

“That moan? That lil cry you made at the end?”

She bit her bottom lip so hard it almost bled. That moment? She’d been convulsing. Creaming. And he heard it. Claimed it. Owned it like he had a hand around her throat.

And then came the final blow—

“Look what you did to me…you got this dick throbbin’, Miss Pretty Pussy…”

Her whole soul short-circuited. No name. No pretense. Just that title. That possession. Miss Pretty Pussy.

She whispered it to herself, “Miss Pretty Pussy…” like it was a spell.

And the dam broke.

Her fingers plunged deep, palm grinding her clit, thighs shaking as she sobbed through her next orgasm—loud, uncontrollable, mouth open wide with no shame. She came so hard it made her dizzy. Body locking. Toes curling. Pussy gushing. She slumped back, dripping down her own thighs. A full mess now. Nails trembling, she finally lifted the phone again, vision blurry.

She typed.

💬 Malaya: I came so hard just now I saw fuckin’ stars. You talk to me like that again I might squirt all over my chair. You always this nasty, daddy?”

Then another.

💬 Malaya: Say more. Please. Miss Pretty Pussy want you in her ear again…

She didn’t even try to hide it anymore.

He had her.

Completely.

💬 Yung Cipher: Miss Pretty Pussy been a good girl. You made that pussy cum just for me. Your biggest fan. You got the prettiest moans and the creamiest pussy. But that throat? We gon’ have to work on that, baby. You can’t take dick down your throat?

Malaya’s breath caught mid-exhale. Her fingers twitched where they rested. That switch in tone. From praise to challenge. From sweet to sharp. He wanted more. He wanted all of her. And her throat? That was next. She stared at the message, heart racing. Her pussy gave another slow throb, pulsing at the idea of him gripping her jaw, nudging the tip of his dick against her tongue with that same voice in her ear. She could almost hear it now

“Open up, Miss Pretty Pussy. Show me what that throat can do.”

Her body ached at the thought. She typed, thumbs moving slower than usual, like her hands were shaking again.

💬 Malaya: Mmm…I can take it…just gotta hold my head and guide me. Show me how you want it…”

She added a second one.

💬 Malaya: You want me sloppy, daddy? Make this throat your toy?

The messages had been filth before. Obsession dressed up in dirty talk. Sweet ruin painted over hunger. But now? Now the words came in darker.

Tighter.

Like the leash had finally been pulled.

💬 Yung Cipher:  Don’t send no voice notes. Don’t moan. Don’t beg. Just listen.

Malaya froze. The command dropped like weight in her lap—heavy, absolute. It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t flirty. Her breath caught, fingers stilled, spine straightening like her body knew better than to move without his say-so. Her skin prickled. Her mouth parted. She could feel him in the room with her, even though he wasn’t.

And then the next message hit.

💬 Yung Cipher: Miss Pretty Pussy don’t make no rules. You do what I say. And when I get my hands on you? You ain’t askin’ me what I want. You givin’ it.

Her thighs clenched. That deep ache returned.

💬 Yung Cipher: That throat gon’ learn today. You ain’t never had dick like mine. I ain’t fuckin’ your mouth to be gentle. I’m stretchin’ that throat ‘til you tear up. Until you got spit runnin’ down your chin and your lashes blinkin’ fast like you can’t breathe.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’m holdin’ your head still. Lookin’ down while I slide in slow…feelin’ your gag all around me. Then I’ma fuck it. Deep. Fast. Dirty. With your hands tied so you don’t run.

Malaya moaned, her hips rolling into the empty air.

He kept going.

💬 Yung Cipher: When I nut? I’m not warnin’ you. I’m shootin’ it straight down your fuckin’ throat and holdin’ you there. And you gon’ swallow every drop.

Her whole body tensed. She was dizzy. She typed with shaking fingers, eyes glassy, cunt throbbing with no mercy.

💬 Malaya: Yes daddy. Please teach me. Please take it. I want your nut in my throat so bad I could cry.”

💬 Malaya: This mouth yours. This pussy yours. Do whatever you want to me.”

She hit send. Then collapsed back into the chair, overwhelmed, wrecked, completely owned.

And then he told her. Not asked. Not invited.

💬 Yung Cipher: Here’s how I’ma break you in.

She exhaled sharp.

💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ come to me dressed how I like. Not what you wanna wear. No panties. No bra. Just somethin’ soft and short enough for me to pull up quick. The second you walk through my door, I’m puttin’ you on your knees. Not speakin’. Not thinkin’. Just kneelin’.

She was whimpering.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma walk slow ‘round you. Let you feel it. The weight of what’s about to happen. The way you already soaked just from bein’ near me. Then I’m liftin’ you up by your throat. Bend you over the first surface I see. Couch, table, fuckin’ floor. It won’t matter.”

💬 Yung Cipher: I’m spittin’ on that pussy. Smackin’ it. Watchin’ it jump. Spreadin’ you wide just to see how messy you got for me. Then I’m slidin’ in slow…deep… until you scream.

Malaya’s mouth was open. Her fingers clenched the sheets. Her robe had slipped completely off now. She was bare, breathless, and throbbing.

He wasn’t done.

💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ take it all. Every inch. Every nut. You gon’ leak down your thighs, legs shakin’, beggin’ me not to stop. And I won’t.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma fuck you stupid. Until you can’t remember what day it is. Until your eyes roll and your mouth can’t say nothin’ but ‘daddy.’ That’s how I break you.

💬 Yung Cipher: You ready for that?

Her reply came broken, typed in bursts between breathless moans and soaked sheets.

💬 Malaya: I want it. I want all of it. Please break me, daddy. Make me forget my fuckin’ name.

Because that’s what he did. He didn’t flirt. He rewired.

Her screen lit up again.

💬 Yung Cipher: Soon. That’s if you ain’t scared to meet up. 

She still felt soaked. Still ached between her legs. Still had cream sticky on her thighs and a flutter in her chest just from the way he said “soon.” But that sentence? That word—meet—it landed different. Malaya’s body leaned in, but her mind pulled back. She’d never done meetups. That was a rule she never broke. No matter how fine they looked. No matter how much they tipped. No matter how nasty the chat got. She sat there for a beat, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Still wanting. Still tempted. But…

She typed slowly.

💬 Malaya: Mmm…I don’t do meetups, baby. Sorry. Just not my thing. Hope that doesn’t disappoint you. ❤️

She hit send.

Her heart ticked fast behind her ribs. It wasn’t from fear, but from the tension. That line between control and consent. Between fantasy and reality.

He didn’t reply right away.

She sat in that silence, wondering if it had ruined the mood. Wondering if he’d vanish like most do when they can’t have her.

But then…

💬 Yung Cipher: It’s cool, baby. No pressure. I respect that. 

Another ping.

💬 Yung Cipher: Just know I’m here whenever you change your mind. ‘Cause I’d love to show you. Real slow. Real deep. Real good.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’d take my time. Give you exactly what you need.

💬 Yung Cipher: I promise to be your favorite big dick.

Her whole body shivered.

Not from fear. But from the smoothness. The patience. The promise. He didn’t push. Just laid the offer out like a silk sheet and stepped back. And somehow…that made her want him more.

She replied without thinking.

💬 Malaya: You damn sure tryna make it hard to forget you. Favorite? That’s a big promise.

💬 Yung Cipher: Nah, baby. That’s a guarantee.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Stay Where I Left You

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 it once, then again without looking like he’s checking anything at all, and opens the door. 

Inside, things felt different. Not quite the 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. Very mysterious in a way that makes you wonder. 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 angled 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. Something she clearly didn’t prepare herself for. Because this space was dressed up like any other she’d been in. But clearly, this room full of powerful people was another side of stardom she didn’t understand enough.

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. Zariah blinks away quickly.

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. Heart racing.

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, baby.”

“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…the least you can do is play along. Don’t you want that Vogue spread?”

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. I–I didn’t realize he was tryna push up on me, Smoke.”

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. Because he could have taken advantage. Like that nigga always do.”

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. People walk in there one way and come out different. This industry will chew you up and spit you out, baby. I know it.”

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. And you don’t mean none of that shit. Soon as I leave you gon’ be right there , outside, waitin’ on me. Tell me I’m wrong?”

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. 

“Yes, daddy.”