Modern 90s/2000s College AU!
Warnings: come on yall know me by now 😏(smut) Sammie Moore……
Back in school, you wasn’t ever that girl folks looked twice at. Glasses too big, always ducked off somewhere, eyes to the floor like you was scared to be seen. You kept to yourself mostly. Not all the way solo—you had a lil crew. Two, maybe three homegirls, but y’all was all on the same wave. Quiet. Closed off. Real lowkey.
But your girls started poppin’ over time—glowin’ up for real. Got they first lil boyfriends. Started rockin’ with dance teams, joinin’ clubs, throwin’ on them cheer uniforms. Meanwhile, you stayed tucked in. No boyfriend, no flings, no nothin’. Head always in a book, studyin’ for some exam that wasn’t even on the radar yet. Two semesters ahead, tryna be grown before you had to be.You did have one lil crush though—if that’s what you could even call it that.
His name stayed floatin’ down them hallways like the beat of a marching band on game day. He had that kinda presence—loud without even sayin’ nothin’. You used to tag along to his games with your girls, sittin’ up in them bleachers pretendin’ like you was there for the team. But truth was, you barely even cheered. Just watched. Quiet. Nervous. Lowkey fascinated.
You liked Sammie in that way where just hearin’ his voice made your heart do flips. Couldn’t even look him in the eye. That country accent? Whew. Only ever caught it when he passed by, talkin’ to his boys or flirtin’ with some girl in 3rd period.
Then one day he was gone. Transferred schools—somethin’ about bigger chances, better shine. You ain’t ask too many questions.
And just like that, the crush faded. So did that version of you.
Your girls held you down, pulled you outta that shell. Got you dressin’ different. Walkin’ different. Laughin’ louder. You was still shy, yeah, but you had a lil swag now. Started feelin’ yourself. Steppin’ into that new vibe. That grown woman glow-up.
And for the first time… you was feelin’ real good. Like, damn, this might be my season.
Delta U had that feel to it. That’s why you chose it.
Like somethin’ out a Spike Lee joint or a Jill Scott song—Black, loud, full of soul. First week on campus was like a block party and a family reunion all wrapped in one. Greek orgs out on the yard strollin’, grills fired up on the lawn, somebody’s cousin tryna DJ off a Bluetooth speaker while the Ques already sweatin’ through they shirts. Whole campus smelled like shea butter and BBQ chicken. It was Welcome Day. And your dorm? A whole mess of chaos and lip gloss. You was posted up on the edge of your bed, half-dressed, heart racin’. “I don’t think I wanna go, y’all,” you mumbled, barely audible over the music comin’ from the hallway.
They all groaned in unison like a tired choir. “Here she go again, y’all,” one said, floppin’ down on the bed across from you.
“Girl, don’t piss me off tonight,” your other homegirl snapped, already halfway through her winged eyeliner.
Then the ringleader of the crew—the bold one with the rat tail comb always ready to check somebody—got dead in your face. Eye to eye. That comb damn near touched your nose.
“Look, bitch,” she said real calm, too calm. “It’s fine-ass niggas outside. The sun out. You thick as hell. And guess what? We in college now. Not high school. Not church. College. So guess what we doin’? We goin’ out.”
She spun away like she dropped the mic. You sighed, stood up, and turned to the mirror. Took yourself in.
Them little jean shorts was hangin’ on by faith and friction. Your thighs was thangin’. Your chest sittin’ real proper thanks to the double-bra combo your homegirl swore by. You turned side to side, let out a tiny smile.
You knew you looked good.
“Aight, y’all… I’m ready.”
You turned back to face the room, grinnin’ from ear to ear.
The whole squad paused for half a second—then exploded. Screamin', tongues out, feet stompin', hypin’ you like you just stepped on stage at Homecoming.
Y’all laughed, yellin' over each other, snatchin’ purses and keys, lip glosses flyin'.
Ready for whatever the night was gonna bring.
And in that moment? You wasn’t shy no more.
Y’all finally hit the yard, and it felt like the ground was vibrating beneath your feet. Bass thumpin’ so hard your chest caught the beat before your ears did. Speakers stacked on folding tables, Greek letters spray-painted on bedsheets hangin' off dorm windows.
Boys in jerseys sweatin’ and flexin’. Girls in sundresses glistening in the heat, edges laid, gold hoops swingin’. DJ shoutin’ over the mic, “WELCOME TO DELTA U, CLASS OF LEGENDS!” and the crowd goin’ stupid.
Y’all walked through like you owned the place, hips swayin’, laughs high-pitched, bodies glistening in that 5 p.m. sun. Somebody handed you a red cup—pink punch with that bite in it. You took a sip and coughed low, but didn’t let it show. Your girls was already two-steppin’ near the speakers, hips rollin’ to the beat. Dudes slid up behind ‘em, tryna catch a vibe.
“Ayo, ma, you got a man?” one dude tried, leanin' in a lil too close.
Your homegirl turned around slow, gave him a once-over. “I got three. All of 'em crazy.”
“Damn, you can’t just say no?”
“I did say no,” she said, turning right back to the beat like he ain’t exist.
Another boy tried your other friend: “You dance like that in church too?”
“Only if Jesus show up wearin’ grey sweatpants.”
He stood there stunned while she twirled away, drink in hand, and you laughed—finally loosening up.
You were buzzed just enough to stop overthinking, but not enough to stop squintin'. Your lashes too long for your glasses, so everything looked like it had that soft blur to it.
You kept glancing around the yard, eyes skimming faces. Not really lookin’ for nobody… just watchin’. Floatin’
Hard shoulder to your arm. Your drink flew out your hand like it got snatched by the air.
Your cup hit the grass with a soft splat, pink liquid staining the blades.
“Damn! You can’t say ‘scuse me, nigga?” your girl barked, already turnin’ up.
His boys stepped forward like what’s up then, all arms folded and necks cocked.
“Man, y’all too loud for no reason. It was an accident.”
“Accident is trippin’ over a curb. He bodied her like she ain’t got bones!”
“Nah, y’all better back up ‘fore we get un-Christian out here.”
You stayed quiet, eyes still low, focused on that cup layin’ sideways in the grass. Lips pressed tight.
Didn’t like heat that wasn’t from the sun.
Soft drawl. Familiar rhythm. Sounded like old gum wrappers and middle school yearbooks. Like gym bleachers and hallway whispers.
A hand—big, warm, steady—came into view. Reached down, picked up your cup like it was glass instead of plastic. And as your eyes followed his fingers up to his wrist, to his arm, to his—
You said it out loud before you could catch yourself.
All your girls paused mid-argument. Froze. One even blinked twice like she needed confirmation.
“Oh mf! Why didn’t you say it was you?” your homegirl shouted at him, pushing her lipgloss back into her purse.
He looked at her for a second, then back at you. Smiling like trouble you knew better than to want.
“I remember you,” he said, voice low, rich.
He stepped back just a bit, eyes dragging over you real slow. Licked his lips. That old
You tried to hold it in, but your smile betrayed you. It was comin’ anyway, soft and shiny like the gloss your girl put on you.
Your girls noticed. Of course they did.
They looked at each other eyebrows raised, hands covering grins, whisperin' fast.
You panicked. Had to say something.
You cleared your throat. “I remember you too… benchwarmer.”
His boys hollered behind him, all hands to their mouths, jokin’ like they was on the schoolyard again. Sammie dropped his head, one hand rubbin' over his waves, that crooked smile sneakin’ back out.
“It’s like that, ma?” he said, eyes locked on you.
“Maybe,” you replied, real smooth. Then turned around like it was nothin’.
You walked off, hips steady, heart doin’ flips. Your girls followed close behind, mouths pressed shut just enough to stop screamin’. Y’all didn’t have to say it—but they knew.
You wasn’t just out here now.
The party was long gone, the music a ghost now, just bass memories still rattlin' in your chest.
Your dorm was dim, lit only by the soft blue TV glow and a phone light somebody forgot to turn off. One of your girls was already knocked out across her bed, one shoe still on. The other halfway under the covers, lashes askew, mouth wide open. They didn’t even bother changin’.
You laid there for a second, buzz finally faded, makeup itchin', body tired but restless.
So you got up. Showered slow. Let the heat wash over you until the bass left your bones.
Now you were in your real skin. No lashes, no gloss. Just you. Clean. Barefaced. Sports bra, cotton shorts, big t-shirt. Edges puffed up, bonnet tied loose. Slippers slid on, keycard in hand.
You went lookin' for a snack—first the mini fridge, then the cabinets. Nothin’ but dry-ass ramen, ketchup packets, and your roommate’s suspicious yogurt.
You sighed, tugged your t-shirt lower, and shuffled down the hall to the vending machines.
The hallway was quiet, just the hum of old AC and the click of your steps.
You stood there, starin' through the glass like it was gonna speak to you. Your finger hovered over the buttons. Hot Cheetos? Snickers? Twix?
“Damn, the machine got you stuck like that?”
Leanin' in the doorway like he belonged there, hoodie half-zipped, white tee underneath, chain glintin’ under the cheap fluorescent lights. Eyes real low. Smile even lower.
You rolled your eyes. “Why are you even in here?”
He stepped forward with a smirk.
You sighed and pressed B7. The machine groaned, then thunked out your Twix. You bent to grab it, not even thinkin’ about it.
Sammie thought about it though. Thought about it real hard.
His eyes trailed up from your calves, slow like honey. To the curve of your thighs. To the way them shorts barely held on. He bit the inside of his cheek.
Cornbread-fed. Just how he liked ‘em. He was from the South—he didn’t believe in women who couldn’t hold a plate or carry a man’s whole attention without even trying.
You stood back up, unbothered. Turned to him.
“Get a good look, pervert?”
“I don’t know… let me see again,” he
You smacked his arm lightly. “Horny lil’ boy.”
“I was jokin’, you know that, mama,” he said, stepping up close behind you. His arms slid over your shoulders like he done it before.
“Boy, if you don’t get off me—”
He laughed but held on tighter. “Why you bein’ like that?”
“I ain’t bein’ like nothing. Boy, you got all these girls on you already. Drama ain’t for me.”
He leaned back, blinked like you just told him the sky was purple. “And it’s for me?”
You gave him that be serious look. Chin tilted, eyes narrowed.
“I’m serious,” he said, voice low now. “Them girls just… girls. That’s it.”
You looked at him like he was wearin’ stupidity on his chest instead of that chain.
“Boy, you don’t even make sense.”
You didn’t wait for him to try again. You turned. Walked.
Back in your dorm, you slipped into bed, pulled the blanket up, popped a DVD into your player— Brown Sugar—just somethin’ soft and familiar.
You watched the screen flicker, eyes growin’ heavy.
But he was in your head now.
The dining hall was loud like always—linoleum floors, the smell of syrup and turkey bacon mixin' with cheap coffee and last night’s regrets. You sat at your usual table, bonnet still on, hoodie zipped, tray full of breakfast you barely picked at. Your girls were all around you, gigglin' between bites, still full off last night’s turn-up.
“I know you not gon’ sit there and act like that ain’t Sammie Moore had you stuck at the vending machine like a redbone deer in headlights,” one of your girls said, grinnin’ wide.
“I was not stuck. I was mindin’ my business.”
“Chile please,” another said, mouth full of biscuit, “you was starin’ like he had a scholarship between his lips.”
You rolled your eyes, sippin’ your orange juice. “I don’t even like what he stand for. He drama. I ain’t come to college for all that. I’m tryna keep it cute, keep it clean, get my degree.”
“Cute and clean, huh?” your friend teased.
“Is that what they call that ass you had out last night?”
You swatted her with a napkin, smilin’ despite yourself.
That’s when some boys walked over—three of them, tall and lookin’ like trouble dressed in varsity jackets and gold chains. One had dreads, the other two low fades. But it was the one in the black tank and Cuban link that caught your attention first.
He locked eyes with you like he already knew your name.
“’Scuse me,” he said, voice low and syrupy, “didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m Smoke.”
You raised a brow, not budgin’. “I don’t do nicknames.”
He smiled slow, head tilt slight. “Then let’s get it right. Elias.”
That name sat nice on his lips.
You felt your spine react before your mouth even moved.
You cleared your throat, coolin’ the smile that wanted to creep. “Okay then, Elias.”
“Okay then,” he said back, eyes takin’ you in respectful—but not shy.
He turned a little so he wasn’t blockin’ your homegirls. “Y’all should come out tonight. We throwin’ somethin’ over on Palmer. Real easy. Just vibes.”
He looked back to you. “Be good to see you there.”
Then just like that, he turned and walked off, smooth like the song playin’ low from somebody’s speaker nearby. You blinked, caught off guard.
“Uhhh–HELLO?” your girls said in unison, smacking the table.
“You better get your ass in formation!”
“Baby I’m wearin’ heels tonight—I don’t care if my ankles bleed.”
You laughed, tray forgotten, heart a lil' fluttery. “I mean… why not?”
And right on cue—like somebody summoned him with your thoughts—Sammie walked up, his boys trailing behind, chain swayin’ over his chest, durag tied down, eyes already scanning the table.
“What y’all so juiced about?” he asked, a lazy grin on his face.
You didn’t even flinch. “Elias invited us to his party.”
His smile dipped, just a second. He looked off to where Elias and his boys were posted up.
“Mhm. Said it’d be good to see me there.”
You said it calm. But your girls caught the shift—Sammie’s jaw tightenin’, the light in his eyes dimmin’ just a touch. He played it off though, noddin' once.
You tilted your head, leaned forward just a little.
He looked down at you, lips pressed but still smirkin’.
“Nah. Ain’t no reason to be.”
You stood up, the air thick now, the table quiet like the cafeteria just paused for y’all.
“You want me,” you said, eyes never leavin’ his.
He stepped up, close, eye to eye. He was taller, but you ain’t back down.
“I do,” he said, noddin’ once.
That heat was back—heavy like the Delta sun in July. You felt it, and you liked it.
You looked in each of his eyes slow, readin’ the want sittin' behind them lids.
“Drop the hoes then, Moore.”
You popped your gum, eyes draggin’ down his chest and back up like you were takin' inventory. Then you turned and walked off with your girls, hips swingin’, all of them whisper-screamin’ behind you like high school all over again.
Sammie and his boys were still there, stuck in place.
One of his boys leaned close, clapped his shoulder.
“Better get busy, my boy.”
He didn’t say nothin’, just smiled slow, hands in his pockets as he watched you leave.
But you weren’t a type. You were a whole damn category.
And Sammie Moore wanted all of it.
Music knockin’ low from the speaker—some classic R&B remix with a new-school beat. Perfume in the air. Heat from flat irons and the smell of edge control mixin’ with laughter. You and your girls were in full formation, baddie-mode activated.
Legs out, arms oiled, bangles singin’ every time y’all moved. Lip gloss poppin’, shades sittin’ right on top of your brows. You had on a lil Baby Phat-style jean romper, hugging every curve like it got hands.
Pumps to the sky. Hair curled up with that midnight bounce—your mama would’ve smiled seein’ them braids had finally done what they was supposed to.
You posed in the mirror, tongue peeking between your teeth, adjusting your hoops.
“Damn, I love college,” one of your girls said, doing a slow turn in the mirror.
Another smacked her gum, tossing her curls. “Both them boy crews? Whew. It's like God dropped fine into the registration office.”
“Okay, but who you tryna lock in with?” they asked, looking right at you.
You smirked, sliding your shades down your nose.
“Let’s see who show up tonight.”
They screamed. Laughed loud. Even the shy one was gigglin’. You all looked too good to be humble.
You raised your arm up, gold bracelet catchin’ the light.
They all clinked their red cups with yours. “TO COLLEGE!”
The energy was different on this side—lower, smokier, but just as electric. Loud bass thumped from a Bluetooth speaker, weed smoke curling up to the ceiling fan.
Sammie was leaned back on the futon, durag hangin’ off, T-shirt stretched over his chest, black jeans crisp. One of his boys rollin’ a blunt, another lined himself up in the mirror with a phone flashlight.
“Bro…” one of them said, already crackin’ up.
Sammie looked up, raising a brow.
“You really gon’ act like we ain’t watch ole girl stiff-arm you in the caf this morning?”
The whole room broke out laughin’.
Sammie shook his head, grinnin'. He could take it.
“Aye, man…” he exhaled, takin’ the blunt slow. “Y’all wild. I ain’t even on that lil groupie run no more. I’m tryna make her mine. Real talk.”
One of his boys mugged up, snatching the blunt.
“Man, here you go with that soft shit again.”
He hit it, exhaled deep, voice cuttin' through the smoke.
“All I know is—her girls? Man... them girls look like they stepped out a Vibe magazine.”
The room lit up with head nods, somebody clappin’.
“They bad bad.”
“I’m talkin’ curated bad.”
“Shit,” another said, sittin’ up, “we could all lock in tonight.”
The whole room paused, lookin’ around.
“Oh nah, y’all niggas trippin’,” one laughed.
Sammie stood, brushing his shirt off, lookin’ in the mirror like he was about to sign a deal. Ran his hand over his waves, durag in one hand, gold watch glintin’ under the light.
He looked through the mirror at his boys, confidence written all over his face.
They stood like a unit—too loud, too good-lookin’ for their own good.
The four of you stepped out that car like destiny walkin’ on heels. Laughter on your lips, gloss shinin’ under the porch lights, hips swayin’ to the beat echoing out the open doors.
Elias was the first to greet y’all.
“Whewww—look at this,” he said, leanin’ against the porch post like he been waitin’ all night. “If y’all was any finer, I’d need a warning label just to breathe.”
You smiled without tryin’, lookin’ away as your girls giggled. His boys peeled off fast, gravitatin’ toward your crew like bees to fresh honey.
Elias took a step closer, hand brushing the small of your back.
“You came,” he said, voice low and smooth.
“I said I would,” you replied, tryin’ like hell not to let his cologne live rent-free in your chest.
“Come on, let’s grab a drink.”
He led you through the crowd, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, the house alive with bass and bodies. Somewhere between the kitchen and hallway, a Soul Train line was tryin’ to start.
Girls were twerkin’ like it paid the rent. Air hot. Thick with weed. Full of life.
Y’all stopped at the drink table—red cups stacked, Jungle Juice swirling in a Gatorade cooler.
“You want sweet or strong?” Elias asked, already pourin’.
“Strong,” you said, takin’ the cup from him—fingers brushing, eyes meeting.
Leanin’ against the counter, y’all fell into that low talk. He told you about his major, his plans, how he liked how you carried yourself. Quiet confidence, he called it.
You were just startin’ to let your smile relax when—
Black tee clingin’ to his chest, pants sittin’ grown-man low, chain swayin’ like a whisper.
That smirk already cocked on his lips like he knew the script before the scene started. His eyes scanned the room once—twice—
You felt it in your neck, your spine, the base of your stomach.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. Just dipped his chin, gave you that look, and walked deeper into the crowd—dap-tappin’, noddin’ to the beat like it was just another Friday night.
Elias leaned close, voice soft in your ear.
“That your man or somethin’?”
You shook your head, steadyin’ yourself.
He grinned. “Good. Come dance with me then.”
You followed him to the living room-turned-dancefloor, Jungle Juice in hand. The song shifted—Aaliyah’s “One in a Million” remix slid in low and sensual.
Y’all moved close. That slow grind—just enough to spark heat but not burn. Elias knew how to move. Hand on your waist. Breath near your ear.
But your eyes kept driftin’.
Across the room—Sammie, posted on the wall. Watchin’. Not hiding it. Jaw tight. Eyes hard.
He wasn’t sayin’ a word, but his body was yelling loud.
That look? That look said you had no damn business lookin’ that good with somebody else.
The song faded. Elias leaned back just a little, like he might say something deeper.
“Lemme borrow her real quick,” Sammie said, low and gravelly, eyes never leavin’ yours.
Elias raised his brows, but you already knew. You nodded at Elias, heart thumpin', and let Sammie guide you away.
He pulled you down a short hallway, the noise behind y’all fading into a hum.
“Boy, what the hell is wrong with you?” you said, tryin’ to snatch your arm back—but not really.
Sammie turned, steppin’ close ‘til the wall kissed your back.
“You was lookin’ too good to be up on him like that,” he muttered, voice thick.
You blinked at him, lips parted, chest tight.
“Elias don’t got nothin’ to do with you.”
He smirked, leanin’ in, his breath all up in your space.
“Then why you keep lookin’ at me like he do?”
No answer. Not with his hand braced beside your head, not with that fire in his eyes like he was daring you to lie.
Your breath caught. His face inched closer.
You swallowed, eyes lockin’ with his.
“I told you,” you whispered. “Drop the hoes, Sammie.”
Next day, class hit—but your mind was somewhere else. Still buzzin’ from the party, from the hallway, from the way Sammie looked at you like you was the only thing in that room.
You slid into your usual seat in the back of the lecture hall. Hoodie on, lips glossed, eyes low. Tryna stay out the way.
Then the door opened—and the whispers started before you even turned around.
It was him. Sammie Moore.
Steppin’ in like the whole classroom was his stage.
Girls straightened in their chairs.
You could hear the lil, “Hey Sammie,” “Oh my God he in this class?” floatin’ through the air like perfume.
He didn’t give none of ’em no play. Just scanned the room, eyes movin’—’til they locked on you like a bullseye.
Then he grinned.
Next thing you know, he joggin’ up the stairs—loud, on purpose—then flopped down next to you like he’d been doin’ it all semester.
His arm slid over the back of your chair, all casual, like it belonged there.
You ain’t say nothin’ at first. Just stared straight ahead, pretendin’ like your heart wasn’t thumpin’ out your chest.
“Morning,” he said, voice low and lazy—like y’all just rolled outta bed together. “You miss me?”
You sucked your teeth, tryna hide your smile. “Boy, get on.”
He chuckled, leaned back, spread his legs wider like he paid rent in the seat.
That’s when they walked up—two girls in Fashion Nova fits, tryin’ to play it off like they needed help with the syllabus.
One leaned in too close, eyes skippin’ past you like you ain’t even there.
“You really not gon’ say hey to nobody now?” she said, twisting her mouth. “You actin’ brand new, Sammie.”
He didn’t even blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t smile.
The other girl gave you the slow once-over, nose turned up. “You ain’t even all that. He gon’ treat you the same way he did the rest of us.”
This was exactly what you meant.
You wasn’t even gon’ say nothin’. You ain’t need to.
But Sammie turned—slow. Looked her dead in the face.
And when he spoke? His voice dropped into somethin’ you hadn’t heard before—deep, steady, real.
“I don’t talk to girls like this,” he said, jaw tight. “But for her? I will. So back the fuck up.”
You blinked. Looked at him like… who is this?
He was still watchin’ them, unblinking. Daring one of ’em to say something.
They didn’t. Just rolled their eyes and stomped off, heels clackin’ down the stairs.
You turned back to him, still lowkey stunned.
“You don’t talk to girls like that?” you said quiet, voice almost teasing.
He leaned in, looked you dead in the eye.
“Nah. Never had a reason to.”
Your heart dipped, flipped, did all types of flips.
You looked at him like you wanted to be mad… but you wasn’t.
Not even close.
Class started. Professor talkin’ about somethin’ you couldn’t even pretend to care about.
‘Cause next to you? Sammie’s knee kept brushin’ yours. His arm still draped behind you. And that look on his face?
Like you was already his.
Professor Davis was old-school. Always came in wearin’ some too-tight slacks, cologne from the ‘70s, and vibes like he been waitin’ all year to catch somebody slippin’.
He clapped his hands once—loud—snappin’ everybody out they whisperin’ and giggling ’.
“Aight class, listen up. Time to separate the passers from the repeaters. First project of the semester starts today. Two-person teams. Full breakdown due in three weeks. I’m assigning partners—don’t come cryin’ to me.”
You sat up straight. That anxious flutter startin’ in your chest.
You always took school serious. GPA clean. Ain’t no way you was about to let some random boy mess that up.
Professor started callin’ names off his clipboard, pairin’ folks up one by one.
“Danielle and Marcus… Tiffany and Kayla…”
You tuned most of it out, until— he looked up pen pointing through the seats before his eyes landed on you.
The whole row went: “Ooooooooh.”
You closed your eyes, breathed deep. Lord, why me?
You turned your head slow, like maybe you heard it wrong.
But there he was—grinnin’ like he just won a Grammy.
Mouth wide open. Gold flashin’.
He slapped the desk once and leaned into your space, breath smellin’ like spearmint and sin.
“Oh, this gone be fun,” he said, teeth gleamin’.
“I ain’t never even seen you with a syllabus, Sammie.”
He threw his head back laughin’. “Ayo chill on me! I’m tryna turn over a new leaf. Be a scholar n’ whatnot.”
You side-eyed him. “You ever even own a textbook?”
He pointed at your bag. “Nah… but you do.
And since we partners… closed mouths don’t get honor roll.”
You blinked, jaw tight. “Lord.”
He leaned closer, voice low, smooth. “What? You don’t trust me?”
He grinned wider, tapped the desk twice. “Well. Guess that’s what the project’s for.”
Sammie kept it one hundred.
He said he’d put in work—and he did.
Showin’ up every day like clockwork.
Sometimes early, posted up outside the library like he belonged there.
“Thought I’d get a head start,” he’d say, flashin’ that cocky half-smile.
“Or maybe I just like lookin’ at you tryna act like you ain’t impressed by a nigga.”
You’d scoff, but you never sent him away.
Truth was—he was tryin’. Hard.
He’d sit across from you, brow furrowed, tryna follow your notes while low-key givin’ you his own kind of test.
“Yo, derivatives?” he said one day, flippin’ his notebook around with dramatic flair. “These just wild disrespectful.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself—and he grinned like he just won the championship game.
“There she go,” he said. “Knew I could crack that mean girl shit eventually.”
You tried to play it cool. “Focus, Samuel.”
“I am focused,” he said, eyes lockin’ on you just long enough to make your heart skip.
“On the sexiest tutor on campus. Don’t blame a nigga if you distractin’.”
Every time he talked slick like that, you swore you wouldn’t react.
But your cheeks always gave you away—heat risin’ like you caught a sunburn indoors.
“That a blush?” he teased, leanin’ in like he tryna get a better look. “Don’t start fallin’ for me now.”
“In your dreams,” you shot back. But even you heard the smile in your voice.
From then on, study sessions were never just about the project.
He’d pass you a highlighter and let his fingers graze yours.
Let y’all knees touch under the table like it wasn’t on purpose.
Lean over your shoulder like he tryna read the worksheet—when really, he just wanted to breathe you in.
“Okay, brainiac,” he’d say when you breezed through a problem. “You really just be out here rememberin’ formulas off the dome like that? You sexy as hell.”
“What?” He shrugged, all fake innocence. Eyes scanning you full of anything but. “I’m just sayin’— brains and looks? That’s dangerous.”
It wasn’t long before you started leanin’ in too.
Not ‘cause you had to.
But because you wanted to.
A hand on your back when he leaned closer.
The way his eyes tracked every word when you explained something. Really listened.
Like you was the only person in the room.
He still messed up equations. Still talked too much. Still flirted like it was second nature.
But he was showin’ up.
Every time.
And somewhere between late-night study grinds and lowkey heart flutters…
Sammie Moore stopped bein’ the boy from the back of the class and started becoming the one who had you smilin’ between blinks,
blushin’ between smile lines and fallin’ just a little harder every time he cracked a joke.
College life meant party life—and here y’all go again.
Your girls talkin’ you into steppin’ out with ’em.
You was easier to convince than usual. All it took was them bringin’ up Sammie.
“How close is close?” one of ’em asked, nudgin’ you.
You tried to play it off, but that blush crept up quick.
You rolled your eyes, but you told ’em. How fine he was. How deep his voice got when he was focused. How you couldn’t hold out much longer.
“Who said you had to?” one of them smirked.
Another girl leaned in, fanning herself. “I bet he talk you through it too,” she said, and y’all lost it, laughin’ all over again.
You grabbed your gloss, touched up in the mirror, and tried not to smile so hard.
You was feelin’ yourself tonight. And you should.
Y’all finally headed out—heels clickin’, perfume thick in the air, dressed like you had something to prove.
Which maybe you did.
Or maybe… you just knew Sammie was gon’ be there.
And tonight, you was gon’ let him see it.
The party started before y’all even hit the door. Lights low. Bass heavy. Air thick with perfume, weed, and sweat. Everything bathed in that purple-blue glow like a dream you wasn’t supposed to wake up from.
Y’all pulled up together—but separate.
You and your girls all sharp edges and lip gloss, heels clickin’, skin glistenin’ like honey under neon.
Them and Sammie? Posted on the opposite sidewalk, black tees, gold chains, eyes cuttin’ through the dark like heat.
You stepped out the car and locked eyes with him.
Sammie already waitin’. Already smilin’.
“Damn,” he said under his breath, loud enough for the fellas to hear. “Y’all see this?”
You tried not to, but you blushed. Again.
Your girls noticed. Teased you. One popped your arm with her clutch, whisperin’, “Girl, if you don’t go say hey—”
Sammie was already crossin’ the street. Already comin’ to get you.
He stopped in front of you, the world hummin’ low behind his eyes.
“You wear that for me?”
His voice hit your chest first, then your knees.
You looked him up and down—black denim, clean kicks, rings on his fingers, that gold chain you always noticed when he was leanin’ over your notes.
“You think everything for you,” you murmured, tryin’ to sound unaffected.
He just grinned. “Only the good shit.”
Your girls and his boys fell into that easy, flirty back-and-forth.
Laughin’, flirtin’, dappin’ each other up like this was just another night.
But you and Sammie?
Y’all was in your own bubble. One step slower. One look longer.
And when the door to the club cracked open, that bassline slid out like smoke—and Sammie turned to you.
“Aight,” he said, reaching for you smooth and easy, like he already had the right.
Arm slid over your shoulder. Firm. Warm. Protective.
And just like that, you let him guide you in.
Walkin’ through that crowd like you was made for it.
Shoulder to chest, his hand droppin’ to your hip when somebody brushed too close.
Eyes on the DJ, the dancers, the lights—but always comin’ back to you.
Inside, it was wall-to-wall heat.
Bodies movin’. Drinks spillin’. Hooks loopin’. Lights stutterin’ like camera flashes in slow motion.
Sammie leaned down, lips close to your ear.
“You good?”
You nodded, barely able to hear yourself think.
But his arm didn’t move. Stayed locked around you like it belonged there.
And for the first time… you let it. Let yourself settle into it.
Let yourself feel how good it felt to be next to him—not just in study halls or library booths, but here.
In the lights. In the noise. In his world.
Some girl tried to come up. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Just kept his body turned toward you like she wasn’t even there.
“You drink?” he asked, mouth back at your ear.
You nodded again. And just like that—he was leading you through the crowd, still holdin’ you close.
You felt eyes.
Felt envy.
Felt the beat thumpin’ in your chest.
But most of all—you felt safe.
Like maybe, just maybe… this boy was serious.
Like maybe… you was ready to find out.
Sammie didn’t say nothin’—just nodded toward the back, hand still resting heavy on your waist as he guided you through the bodies like he had a key to every room in the house.
Past the living room speakers, past the swayin’ couples, past the girl in red heels dancin’ like she ain’t have a care in the world.
The kitchen was cooler, quieter.
Dim light from the stove clock. Ice clinkin’ in cheap glass cups.
Somebody’s cousin passed by with a bottle tucked under his arm and a blunt behind his ear. Didn’t even look twice at y’all.
Sammie stepped to the counter, opened the fridge like it was his place.
“What you drink?” he asked, back still to you.
You shrugged, leanin’ against the island. “Pick for me.”
He turned, brow raised. “You don’t drink like I do.”
You tilted your head, smirkin’ just a lil. “Try me.”
He chuckled—low, lazy.
“This gone be funny,” he said, grabbing a red bottle and somethin’ brown from the corner.
Poured heavy in two cups, eyes low from the weed hummin’ through his system.
Eyes on you the whole time.
Mouth still on the rim when your gaze dropped—followin’ the line of his throat, the way he pulled back from the cup slow, lips glossy, glistening under the overhead light.
He wiped his hand down his mouth, rings glintin’, and your eyes tracked every. damn. move.
Then—he licked his lips.
Just once.
Your gaze dropped there, couldn’t help it. You watched his tongue slide across those thick lips, the gold of his slugs lookin at you.
He stepped in closer, the space between y’all shrinkin’ like breath in cold air.
Held your cup in one hand, lifted your chin just a touch with the other.
“Go 'head,” he said, voice dipped in honey and dare. “Let’s see if you real.”
You opened your mouth, and he pushed the cup to your lips—fingers gentle, but sure.
His other hand slid back, found the nape of your neck, thumb pressin’ just enough to ground you.
All the while, his eyes never left you—low, watchful, wantin’.
That tilted POV got you dizzy, heat spreadin’ slow down your spine.
He smelled like kush and cologne and the sweat on his skin. You looked up from under your lashes, caught his mouth twitchin’ like he was thinkin’ somethin’ he couldn’t say out loud.
You dropped the cup without speakin’.
He let it fall—plastic, not glass—no spill. No need to say nothin’.
His thumb brushed your bottom lip, slow.
Wet. Glossy. Warm.
He hummed low in his throat.
“Sweet,” he said. Could’ve meant the drink. Could’ve meant you. Didn’t matter.
Then he pulled back, just enough to breathe, fingers curlin’ around yours.
Didn’t tug. Didn’t pull. Just led.
Back through the smoke and color.
Back to the music, where it was louder, hotter.
Back to the floor, where the bass made your bones hum and the lights turned his eyes to fire.
And this time… you didn’t let go.
AYEEE my first req of many whoever requested this it got too long baby this coming in parts but enjoy thiss one 😏
Next up is : @yourm0mish0t Sammie x Reader cause yall can’t get enough. It’ll come soon so here’s a title ‘songbird sins’ #staytuned #stayloyal #stayfreaky
