I really want for all bigger black girls to find love. Love that cherishes them, holds them like the most treasured gift that they are and protects them on the daily. Love that doesn’t just accept but absolutely celebrates every inch and facet of their mind and body. Love that they can actually receive and reciprocate. I want bigger black girls to know love like this.
telling, asking, or even expecting black folk to be understanding in the midst of experiencing overt racism is fucking madness. that's like someone smacking the shit out of you and telling you to relax afterwards. Hollywood can understand any and every other form of abuse but racism is meant to be met with understanding and compassion? i don't give a single solitary fuck about homeboy having Tourette's, disabilities don't make you racist and neither do they absolve you from being one.
how would Erik react if he fucking reader real rough and dominant like he usually does and she hit him with the puppy dog eyes and ask him to hold her hand ?
The door had barely shut before he was on her, one hand gripping the side of her neck, the other wrapped tight around her waist, pressing her back into the wall like he’d been starved of her. He dropped his duffel with a heavy thud, kicked his sneakers off sloppily without ever looking away, and caught her bottom lip between his teeth as he lifted her. The hem of her sleep shirt rode up as her thighs wrapped around his hips.
“You miss me?” he rasped, voice low, eyes sharper than they had any right to be after a long-ass trip.
She nodded, breath hitching, “Yes—”
He kissed her again. Didn’t let her finish. Didn’t need her to.
The way she clung to him said it all.
By the time they made it to her room, the hallway lights had long been forgotten. Only the soft glow from her nightstand lamp painted gold over her skin. He took his time undressing her, and then he peeled off his clothes like wearing the fabric was suffocating him. He laid her down like something sacred, arms bracketing her head, broad chest rising and falling as he stared at her. Then dipped down to taste the hollow of her throat.
The first stroke was slow. Deliberate. Thick.
She gasped, arching up.
His jaw flexed as he pushed in deeper.
“Yeah. That’s right.” His lips hovered by her ear, hips rolling in a rhythm that made the bed creak and her toes curl,“You feel that shit, huh? Been sittin’ here waitin’ on me…pussy still mine.”
A shaky breath left her mouth, soft and desperate. “Erik—”
“Tell me. Say what’s on your mind, baby.”
Her legs trembled where they were folded back, calves brushing his shoulders, ankles twitching as he worked her open from the inside out. She was so full. Every slow thrust dragged against her walls like he was re-learning her body, carving his shape back into her like he never left.
“Yours,” she breathed. “All yours.”
“That’s right,” he growled, thumb pressing into her thigh to keep her folded, so deep she couldn’t run if she tried, “Tight as fuck. Been thinkin’ ‘bout this the whole damn flight. Didn’t jack off. Didn’t do shit. Saved every drop for this pussy right here.”
She was moaning now, eyes glassy, voice cracking when she tried to form words. The stretch had her squirming, mouth open around half-formed cries. He was stroking her so deep it felt like he could rearrange everything. Her nails scraped down his back, her fingers clawing at him to pull him closer, deeper.
“I missed you,” she whimpered.
He kissed her shoulder, never stopping, “I know, baby. I missed you too. I’m right here now. Right where I belong.”
The rhythm changed. Slower. Longer strokes. He was feeling it now, not just fucking her. Sinking into her like he was letting go of the world outside her body. Like the only thing keeping him grounded was the way her pussy wrapped around him, wet and tight and perfect. Her hand reached for his arm. Not to push. Not to pull. Just to feel him.
And then she looked up at him. Eyes wide. Shining. Her voice small and sweet.
“Can you hold my hand?”
He stopped moving.
Still inside her, he shifted just enough to lean back and look at her. Chest heaving. Lips parted. Sweat starting to form at his temple. His brows drew together slowly like he couldn’t believe what he just heard. The way she said it…fucked-out and soft like she needed it more than the sex. Like something in her was breaking open under him and she needed to feel him hold her steady.
He tilted his head, “You want my hand while I make love to this pussy, huh?”
She nodded. Big eyes still locked on his. Lips trembling.
His jaw worked as he swallowed, something hard and protective curling behind his ribs.
“Yeah, baby,” he said, voice lower now, “I got you.”
His fingers reached down between their bodies and found her hand, large palm closing around her smaller one. He interlaced their fingers, squeezed gently, and never looked away.
Then he started moving again.
Slow. Deep. Every thrust was thick and wet and intentional. Like he wasn’t just inside her body—but inside her soul.
She cried out softly. The kind of sound that came from the chest. She held his hand tighter. He squeezed back.
“That feel good?” he whispered against her cheek, “Tell me. I wanna hear you say it.”
“So good,” she gasped, legs quivering against his sides, “Feels so good, Erik.”
He kissed her temple. Her cheek. Then her lips, “I know, baby. I know. I’m right here.”
And he was. All of him. No bravado. No armor. Just raw, grounding pressure inside and out. One hand in hers, the other cupping her jaw as he made love to her—deep and slow and firm—like she was the only thing tethering him to this earth.
And in that quiet, slick rhythm they breathed as one.
AMERICAN DREAM
soldier!smoke x virginteacher!annie
ONE
masterlist
cw: war
summary: the military does a lot to a man. for smoke it gives him dreams. dreams of a woman he’s never met a day in his life. all he knows is the sweet sound of her voice and the outline of her body. it’s like his soul is crying for her, but he doesn’t even know where to start looking.
notes: so excited for this journey we're about to go on! i love this story so much and i hope y'all will love it too! i've tagged everybody that wanted to be tagged for this story so please look out for more updates soon!
The night air in Vietnam was thick with wet heat, rot, and had the faint metallic tang that never quite left no matter how often it rained. Crickets screamed from the brush, and somewhere farther out, something heavier moved, branches snapping softly and then going still. Smoke stood on night watch with his rifle cradled against his chest, boots planted in the dirt he no longer felt beneath his feet.
Stack was talking. He was always talking.
“…I’m tellin’ you, man, when I get back, first thing I’m doin’ is eatin’ somethin’ that ain’t come out of a can,” Stack said, leaning back against a crate, grinning wide in the dark. “I don’t even care what it is. I’ll eat boiled cardboard if a woman hands it to me.”
A few of the other guys laughed quietly, careful not to carry the sound too far. But Smoke didn’t laugh.
He stood there like he always did with his shoulders loose, weight balanced, and eyes scanning the tree line without conscious thought. His body knew what to do even when his mind drifted elsewhere. Count the seconds. Listen for changes in sound. Feel the air shift. Breathe without being heard. It was pure muscle memory.
Stack glanced at him. “You good over there, Smoke?”
Smoke didn’t turn his head. “Yeah.”
That was all he offered.
Stack shook his head, smiling to himself. “Man don’t say more than five words unless he got to.”
Smoke wasn’t unfriendly. He just wasn’t present the way the others were. He’d learned early on that if you stayed too present out here, you started noticing things you couldn’t unsee. So he kept himself hollowed out, moved when he was supposed to move, fired when he was supposed to fire, slept when exhaustion finally dragged him under.
It had been working. Until the dreams.
The first time it happened, he’d thought it was just another trick of his tired brain. Out here, men dreamed of home all the time. They dreamed of their mothers’ kitchens, girls they left behind, and streets they’d grown up on. Smoke had expected blood or fire or the echo of gunshots that never fully left his ears.
Instead, he saw her. Standing in soft light, like late afternoon sun filtering through a window. Her dress was modest, her hair neatly done, her hands folded calmly in front of her. She looked at him much differently than he was used to. It was a look without fear or expectation. Like she already knew him.
Smoke had woken up from that first dream with his heart pounding. Something had settled deep in his chest and refused to leave.
He hadn’t told anyone. Not even Stack. But why would he? He never told anyone anything like that.
Stack sat a few feet away on an overturned crate, helmet pushed back on his head, chewing on something he’d scrounged from somewhere. A couple of the other guys leaned nearby, smoking.
“…I’m tellin’ you,” one of them said quietly, laughter tucked into his voice, “these women out here different.”
Stack snorted. “Different how?”
“They really don’t care if you’re gonna be gone tomorrow,” the man replied. “They don’t ask questions.”
Another voice chimed in. “That’s ‘cause they know better.”
Low laughter passed between them.
“I got a girl back in Detroit,” someone said. “At least I think I do. It’s been a while since she wrote me somethin’.”
Stack shook his head. “Man, if she ain’t writin’, she ain’t waitin’.”
“Cold world,” another added.
Stack grinned. “That’s why you don’t put all your hope in just one.”
They started comparing stories about girls they’d left behind, women they’d met since arriving, who was faithful, who probably wasn’t. The kind of talk that made the hours pass faster and kept the fear just far enough away.
Smoke didn’t join in.
He stood a little apart, eyes trained on the tree line. If anyone had been watching him closely, they might’ve thought he wasn’t listening at all. But he heard every word. He just didn’t have anything to add.
One of the men glanced over at him again, squinting slightly in the dark. “What about you, Smoke? Anybody waitin’ on you?”
Smoke shifted his weight subtly, the movement automatic. “No.”
It wasn’t a lie. There had been women before the war. But those nights blurred together. He’d learned early how to take comfort without attachment and how to leave without looking back.
That had been enough.
Now, standing on watch while the others talked about women like placeholders, Smoke found his thoughts drifting back to her without permission. To the way her presence had felt heavier than the jungle, quieter than gunfire.
He didn’t know her name or where she was. He didn’t even know why she came to him. But she had replaced everything else.
Where the other men filled the night with jokes and longing for bodies they might or might not see again, Smoke’s mind kept returning to the same image, over and over, until it felt worn into him. The sense that she existed somewhere untouched by this place.
Stack laughed at something someone said and slapped his knee. “Man, when I get back, I’m done with all this mess. I’m findin’ me a woman and lettin’ her feed me for the rest of my life.”
The rest of the shift went by surprisingly quick.
Smoke handed off his position, and moved through the camp on autopilot. The joking had faded behind him, replaced by the low murmur of men settling in for the few hours of rest they were allowed. Lantern light flickered against canvas and equipment, shadows stretching and shrinking with each step he took.
By the time he reached the sleeping quarters tent, his body felt heavier than it had on watch. Not just from exhaustion, but from the weight that settled in once there was nothing left to focus on but himself.
Inside the tent, the air was stale and thick with sweat, damp fabric, and the faint smell of gun oil. Rows of cots lined the space, some already occupied by sleeping bodies, others empty for now.
He sat on his cot, unlaced his boots, and set them neatly beneath the frame. His rifle within reach. He lay back, the thin mattress offering little resistance, canvas sagging beneath his weight. The fabric above him glowed faintly from a lantern outside, light bleeding through like a distant moon.
He closed his eyes and sleep took him immediately. The jungle, the tent, the camp vanished all at once. And she was there.
She hovered over him, close enough that her presence filled his entire vision and it felt intimate without being intrusive. She wasn’t touching him, but he could feel her all the same.
She was glowing. Just softly illuminated, as if light lived inside her and leaked outward. Her face was there and not there all at once, familiar but slightly blurred around the edges, like a memory he hadn’t lived yet. He could make out the curve of her cheek, the shape of her mouth, the gentleness in the way she looked down at him.
She was smiling at him. It was a small, knowing smile meant just for him.
Her lips moved. She was talking.
Smoke strained to hear her, every part of him leaning toward the sound that wouldn’t come. He could see the shape of the words forming, the care in the way she spoke them, but there was nothing to hold onto. Frustration tightened in his chest.
“Wait,” he tried to say, though he wasn’t sure if the word made it past his own mind. He focused harder, desperate now. He needed to hear her.
Her expression shifted slightly, brows drawing together in something like concern. She leaned closer, enough that her glow softened, light spilling across him, and for a moment he thought he felt it against his skin.
Smoke lifted his hand.
His arm felt heavy, like it was moving through water. He reached for her instinctively, fingers stretching toward the place where she hovered, every part of him intent on closing the distance. If he could just touch her, maybe–
Gunfire tore through the dream without warning, the sound ripping him out of her light and slamming him back into his body. Smoke jolted awake with a sharp inhale, heart hammering, the image of her face still burned behind his eyes even as the tent filled with chaos.
Men were shouting. Boots pounded against packed earth outside, voices overlapping in panic and command. The crack of rifles split the air, followed by the heavier, uglier sounds of return fire. Someone screamed his name…or maybe it was someone else’s. It didn’t matter. Smoke was moving before he was fully conscious.
He rolled off the cot, boots half-laced as he shoved his feet into them, hands already reaching for his weapon. Muscle memory took over completely now. Training swallowed thought. Fear had no place to settle. He burst from the tent into the humid night.
The camp was lit in sharp flashes of muzzle fire, flares streaking upward, and shadows jerking wildly across the ground. Men ran past him yelling. Smoke dropped low, rifle up, scanning, firing when he saw movement where it shouldn’t be.
Rounds snapped through the air, tearing into sandbags, ripping through canvas, throwing dirt and debris into the night. Smoke moved with his unit, covering angles, shouting when needed, silent when it counted. His body knew this rhythm and how to survive it. But something felt off.
The sense came too late. He turned and pain detonated through his side.
It was hot and immediate, stealing the breath from his lungs in a sharp, brutal gasp. Smoke stumbled, his footing faltering as another explosion rocked the ground nearby. The world tilted violently, sound warping into a dull roar as he tried to stay upright.
“Smoke!” someone shouted.
He tried to move, but his legs refused him.
Another impact sent him down hard. The ground slammed into his back, knocking the air from his chest completely. His rifle slipped from his grip, clattering somewhere out of reach.
The night blurred. Lights streaked and smeared together. The shouting grew distant, muffled, like it was happening underwater. Smoke’s vision narrowed, dark creeping in from the edges.
And even through it all he saw her face.
Soft and steady in the chaos. He thought he saw her mouth move again. Maybe this time he heard his name, spoken gently and urgently.
Smoke tried to focus on it. He tried to hold onto her, but the darkness won.
His eyes slid shut, the sounds of gunfire fading as his body finally gave out, consciousness slipping away into black.
He drifted through it, suspended somewhere between pain and nothing. His body was heavy and distant, as if it no longer fully belonged to him.
But then she appeared clearly this time. She was closer, more real. Her shape solidified the longer he focused on her. The blur around her face softened, edges sharpening just enough for him to recognize her again with that same bone-deep certainty.
She was kneeling beside him. And that was when Smoke realized he was lying down, though he couldn’t feel the ground beneath him. There was no jungle, no tent, no blood or gunfire, just an endless, quiet space that seemed to exist solely for the two of them.
Her hand rested on his chest.
The contact startled him. Her touch was gentle, fingers splayed as if she was grounding him, anchoring him to something living. She stroked slowly, palm moving over his heart, then up to his shoulder. It didn’t feel sexual, but it was intimate in a way that made his throat tighten.
“Stay,” he tried to say, though the word never quite left him.
She leaned closer, her hair falling forward slightly, brushing against him. He could feel it against his skin. Her other hand came up to his face, thumb tracing along his jaw with a tenderness that made his chest ache.
Her eyes searched his, filled with something that felt like longing and worry all tangled together. She touched him as if she was checking that he was still there.
Her fingers slid into his hair, cradling the back of his head, holding him steady. Smoke leaned into it instinctively, his body responding even in this in-between place. The pain he’d been carrying dulled, replaced by calmness.
Her mouth moved again, but her lips were near his ear now. This time, sound finally broke through the silence.
Her voice was warm and wrapped in an accent he couldn’t yet place, but it settled into him all the same.
“Come find me,” she whispered.
The words weren’t loud, but they echoed, rippling through him. Her grip tightened briefly, like she was afraid he might slip away before he understood. Then she pulled back.
Her hands lingered for a heartbeat longer, then slipped away. The space around him grew heavier, the quiet giving way to distant noise once more.
Smoke tried to reach for her again, panic flaring as her form began to dissolve.
“Wait–”
Her face was the last thing to go, her expression soft but resolute, like she trusted him to do what she was asking.
Smoke gasped as consciousness slammed back into him.
His eyes flew open to harsh light and unfamiliar sounds, voices calling orders cutting through the remnants of the dream. Pain bloomed sharply through his side, dragging him fully into his body.
But even as reality settled in, her voice lingered.
Come find me.
He lay still, staring up at the canvas ceiling of the medical tent, its pale surface glowing faintly under strung lights. Shadows of movement passed over it as medics and nurses moved outside, their voices low and practiced. Somewhere nearby, a man groaned in his sleep and another coughed.
His body protested immediately. White-hot pain flared along his ribs and side when he tried to shift. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and went still again, letting it pass. The pain was real. Which meant he was too. And she was gone.
The realization settled heavier than the injury. He closed his eyes briefly, half-expecting to see her hovering there again, to feel her hand on his chest. There was nothing. Just the slow rise and fall of his own breathing.
A medic noticed he was awake.
“Easy,” the man said, appearing at his side. “Don’t try to move yet.”
Smoke gave a short nod, throat dry. His voice felt far away. “How bad?”
“It’s bad enough,” the medic replied honestly. “But you’ll live.”
That was something.
Hours passed, or maybe days. Time blurred inside the tent, measured only by shift changes, IV drips, and the dull cycle of pain and sleep. Smoke spoke when spoken to, answered questions, and did what he was told.
One afternoon, while the light outside had softened into late-day gold, a man in a pressed uniform stepped into the tent. He carried a clipboard under one arm, a manila envelope tucked neatly against it. He scanned the rows of beds until his eyes landed on Smoke. He walked over.
“Private Elijah Moore?” he glanced down to confirm.
Smoke tensed despite himself. “Yes, sir.”
The officer stopped beside his bed. He pulled the envelope free and held it out.
“You’re being medically discharged,” he said.
“Discharged?” Smoke stared at the envelope, then up at the man’s face, searching for correction.
“Yes,” the officer said. “Effective immediately. Your injuries make you unfit for continued service. Transportation arrangements will be made once you’re cleared to travel.”
The envelope was set gently on Smoke’s chest, just above the bandages.
Inside it, folded and official, was his way out.
Smoke swallowed. He thought of her.
Come find me.
His fingers closed around the edge of the envelope.
“Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.
The officer nodded once, already turning away, moving on to the next bed.
Smoke lay there long after the man was gone, staring down at the envelope resting against him like something sacred. He was leaving. And now he knew exactly what he was meant to do next.
It took weeks before they finally told him he was cleared.
By then, Smoke had learned the rhythms of the medical camp the same way he learned everything else, observantly. He’d rebuilt strength inch by inch, until the medics nodded with reluctant approval and stamped the paperwork that said he was no longer their responsibility.
The morning he was set to leave, the camp felt different.
Too loud in places, too quiet in others. The jungle still pressed in from the edges, humid and alive, but Smoke was already halfway gone in his mind. His duffel sat at his feet, packed light. There wasn’t much he was taking with him, just some clothes and a few letters.
Stack found him near the edge of camp.
He looked the same and different all at once, but something sharper behind his eyes now. War did that. It carved things into men and left them there.
“So this is it,” Stack said, stopping in front of him.
Smoke nodded. “Looks like it.”
They stood there for a moment, neither rushing to say anything. Around them, other soldiers lingered, some pretending not to watch, others coming over to clap Smoke on the shoulder or pull him briefly into rough hugs. There were handshakes, muttered well-wishes, and promises that sounded hopeful and uncertain all at once.
“Hell of a way to get out,” one of them said.
Smoke huffed softly. “Yeah.”
Stack crossed his arms, studying him. “So you headed home?”
“Eventually,” Smoke replied.
Stack caught it immediately. His grin widened. “It’s that girl?”
Smoke shot him a look, but it lacked heat.
“There it is,” Stack said, laughing under his breath. “Man nearly bleeds out and still won’t shut up about a woman he ain’t never met.”
Smoke just shook his head.
Stack stepped closer, voice dropping. “You better find her and write me. I wanna know if she’s real or if you just got hit in the head too hard.”
“She’s real,” Smoke said without hesitation.
Something shifted in Stack’s expression then, the humor softening into something quieter. “Then I hope you find her.”
They clasped hands, grip firm, forearms locking. Stack pulled him in, holding on longer than expected, the hug tight and grounding, like he was trying to memorize the feel of him.
“I love you, man,” Stack said, voice rough.
Smoke swallowed, arms tightening around him. “I love you too.”
They pulled apart slowly, neither rushing the moment. Stack gave him one last nod, eyes bright but steady.
“Stay alive out there,” he said. “And send that damn letter.”
Smoke hoisted his duffel over his shoulder. “I will.”
He walked away without looking back, boots crunching against the dirt, carrying the war behind him and her whisper ahead of him.
Come find me.
end notes: here we are in the new year! and here we are with my most anticipated story! the full thing is outlined and ready to go! y'all better blow this up 😭. love y'all
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