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draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

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LOST COUNT — E. (SMOKE) MOORE

➠ tattooartist!smoke x blk!reader

➠ mulan’s input; listen to nekkid by muni long yall… its def smoke coded

➠ cw; y/n is just girl who wants a pretty tatt, hints at ptsd, angst & slow burn (but like barely if you squint)

“ ‘ight, we done the easy part,” stack muttered, reaching for a clean paper towel and gently wiping over your swollen, red skin. you winced even at the touch.

“i think the numbing cream wore off,” you said nervously, eyeing the needle now buzzing back to life in his grip like it was plotting against you.

“sucks to suck,” he shrugged, absolutely no mercy in sight. “‘cuz this next part? gonna sting bad. real bad.”

you instinctively tensed, gripping the cushion beneath you as stack lowered the machine toward your thigh again — right over the part you knew was all soft nerve endings and suffering.

the second the needle touched your skin, your whole leg jerked like it had been hit with a live wire.

“damn!” stack pulled back fast, glaring. “girl, you tryin’ to catch a charge? i told you this part ain’t no joke!”

“i wasn’t ready!” you cried, gripping your own thigh. “you ain’t give me a countdown or nothin’—you just went in!”

stack cut the machine off, dropped his gloves on the tray, and stood up like he was done with life altogether.

“nah. no ma’am. i got high blood pressure. you not finna send me to the er ‘cause you don’t know how to sit still.”

“wait—stack, i’m sorry—”

he threw a hand up, already backing toward the hallway.

“nope. don’t apologize now. i need a break. i need a sandwich. maybe therapy.”

he peeked around the curtain.

“yo, smoke! ol’ girl over here tap dancin’ on the table again. i’m taggin’ out.”

you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “i’m not trying to be difficult,” you mumbled.

a few moments later, you heard the soft tread of boots, then felt the shift in air as smoke stepped into the room. he said nothing at first — just quietly took in the unfinished tattoo, your flushed face, and stack’s dramatic exit.

“he quit on me,” you said weakly, glancing up.

smoke raised a brow. “stack barely got patience for mosquitos. you think he gonna survive a jumpy first-timer?”

“you still want it finished?” he asked, setting down the stencil and gently grabbing a fresh pair of gloves.

you nodded quickly. “yeah. i’m just—i don’t know. my brain knows i want it, but my body’s bein’ a punk.”

that got the faintest flicker of a smile from him. “it happens more than you think.”

he pulled the stool close, adjusted the tray, and checked the lines stack had already done. the buzz of the machine hadn’t even started again yet, but your leg was already bracing itself.

smoke glanced up at you, calm and even.

“you ever try takin’ your mind off the pain?”

you blinked. “like... how?”

he leaned back slightly, considering. then said with a shrug,

“count my tattoos.”

you blinked again. “wait—what?”

“i’m serious.” he gave a soft laugh. “start with what you can see. out loud. keeps your brain busy. works better than holdin’ ya’ breath or squeezin’ the life outta that cushion.”

you hesitated, eyes trailing down his inked arms — and yeah, there was a lot. the longer you looked, the more you noticed the details: a portrait hidden in negative space, script in cursive so tight it looked like it whispered.

“okay... one,” you said, pointing to the jagged barbed wire wrapped around his wrist. “good,” he murmured, flipping the switch on the machine, the buzz soft and familiar

“two...” you said, moving your eyes up his forearm.

he started tattooing again, slow and steady. you winced slightly but kept going.

“three... four... five—”

you stopped, brow furrowing. “wait. that looks like two separate pieces. is it five or six?”

smoke glanced up briefly. “six.”

you nodded, returning to your count. it wasn’t painless, but it was manageable. his voice helped. his presence helped.

“seven... eight...”

he paused the machine suddenly, just for a moment.

“you missed one.”

you looked up at him, confused. “where?”

he didn’t answer right away. just reached down and, with a casual motion, pulled off his black tank.

your jaw damn near dropped.

his chest, arms, collarbones — all of it was marked. more than what you saw before. black and gray realism, smoke-like shadows blending into text, symbols, loss. pain and poetry inked into skin. and near the top of his collarbone sat the one you missed — an abstract design tucked near his heart.

“that one’s easy to overlook,” he said softly, touching the piece near his collarbone.

you blinked.

“...you are so much more tatted than stack.”

he gave a small shrug, almost like he was apologizing for it.

“yeah. i got carried away after the war...”

your eyes found his. he didn’t look at you at first — he just turned the machine off for a moment, resting it carefully beside the tray.

“me and stack enlisted together. thought it’d give us some structure. get us outta mississippi for a while.” he leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs.

“but war… it don’t care where you come from. it strips shit from you.”

you were quiet, letting him speak. something about the way he sat — shirtless, half in shadow, tattooed from shoulder to hip — made him look both larger than life and completely exposed.

“every one of these,” he gestured slowly to the ink that wrapped around his chest and arms, “is a piece of what I lost. a name, a moment, a version of me i can’t get back.”

his fingers tapped lightly over the cracked halo on his ribs.

“that one? that’s innocence. got carved out of me overseas and never came back.”

you swallowed hard, not sure what to say at first. the air between you felt full — not heavy, but sacred, like stepping inside a story no one had told out loud in a long time.

“i didn’t know,” you said quietly. “you wear it all like armor.”

he looked at you then, soft eyes full of something between exhaustion and understanding.

“that’s the thing,” he said. “it ain’t armor. it’s a reminder. i don’t wanna forget who i was… even if i don’t recognize him anymore.”

you reached out before you even realized it, fingertips brushing the ink at his shoulder. he didn’t flinch. he let you.

“you’re still here,” you said. “that’s worth something.”

smoke gave you a look then — not surprised, not guarded. just present. like no one had ever said that to him before, and he didn’t quite know how to hold it.

he cleared his throat, lips twitching faintly. “you ready to finish this tattoo, or you need a minute to keep starin’ at me?”

you snorted, blinking quickly and pulling your hand back.

“just trying to be respectful of your trauma, sir.”

“mhm. sounded like thirst to me.” he teased

you studied him with a quiet laugh as the sweet lyrics of tevin campbell’s ‘can we talk’ cushioned your ears whilst he focused on your skin — his brow furrowed, mouth set in a calm line. so careful, so still. nothing like his brother, all loudness and sharp commentary. where stack talked with his hands, smoke spoke in silence. in patience. in presence.

and damn, now that you were this close, really looking…

“you’re nothing like your brother,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

smoke’s eyes flicked up, a little glint hiding behind his lashes.“that a good thing or a bad thing?”

you smirked. “good. stack’s the kind of loud people notice. you’re the kind of quiet they remember.”

he chuckled low in his throat. “careful. say one more poetic line and i might start thinkin’ you sweet on me.”

you opened your mouth to clap back— something equally slick, equally brave — but then the needle hit that spot on your thigh.

“oh—shit—” you gasped, jerking slightly, hand flying to grab the table’s edge like it could save you.

smoke’s hand pressed gently on your hip to steady you.

“breathe. deep. in through your nose, not through your scream.”

you groaned through clenched teeth, hating how good he smelled, hating how good his voice sounded, even when you were on the verge of seeing stars.

“i was having a poetic-ass moment,” you wheezed, “and then my nerve endings decided to jump me.”

he chuckled, eyes back on your thigh.

“that’s how it goes. beauty always costs somethin’.”

you clenched your jaw as the needle buzzed back to life, digging into the softest part of your thigh like it was trying to start a fire. your hands curled around the cushion beneath you, nails biting into the leather, but you didn’t move.

you refused to.

smoke had already seen enough — the flinching, the squirming, stack quitting on you like it was nothing. you weren’t about to fold now. not in front of him.

“you good?” he asked, not even looking up.

“mhm.” you nodded quickly, too quickly.

smoke didn’t say anything. just kept going, slow and steady. the room was quiet, but your body was screaming, and you were doing everything in your power to hide it. your eyes were glassy, your breathing shallow. your leg twitched once— just a little — but it was enough.

he stopped. turned off the machine.

you didn’t dare look up.

“why’d you stop?”

“because you lyin’,” he said calmly, setting the machine down like this was routine.

you blinked at him, heart stuttering.

“i said I’m good.”

smoke finally looked up, expression unreadable but firm.

“and your face said otherwise.”

you opened your mouth to protest, but he was already wiping your skin clean again — gentle, deliberate, careful.

“you don’t gotta prove anything to me.”

“i’m not,” you muttered, but it came out too soft. too guilty.

smoke raised a brow.

“so you makin’ that face just for fun?”

you went quiet. the weight of his stare was heavier than the pain had been. it wasn’t judgment. it wasn’t pity. it was just real.

“you don’t think i’ve seen people try to sit through more than they should? you think i’d let you walk outta here hurt worse just so you can feel tough?”

he leaned back slightly, peeling off his gloves with a slow tug.

“you wanna finish this piece? cool. i got you, but not if it means watchin’ you suffer and act like you not.”

you looked away, jaw tight. you hated that he could see through you like that. hated even more that he was right.

he didn’t press. just stood up, pulled out the wrap, and moved with the same quiet care he always had with 702’s ‘get it together’ whispering through the shop like a sign from the universe, telling you to sit your stubborn ass down.

“we’ll finish it when your body’s ready. not before.”

as he wrapped your thigh, you finally let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. disappointed, frustrated, but… grateful.

“you didn’t have to stop.”

“i know,” he said, taping the last edge down. “but i wanted to.”

“we’ll finish another day,” he reassured, securing the bandage in place one last time. “ink ain’t goin’ nowhere. and neither am i.”

you watched him reach for the clipboard to jot something down, still trying to swallow the strange ache that had nothing to do with the tattoo.

“stack left you mid-session like a punk. you’re not payin’ full,” he said without looking up, like it was a decision he’d already made before you ever sat down.

“you sure?” you asked.

he shrugged, “you sat longer than most first-timers would’ve.” you opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off with a glance.

“ain’t charity. it’s respect.”

that shut you up. you looked at him and felt something twist deep in your chest. not regret. not pain. just that awful ache of wanting more time with someone right when it runs out. you were just starting to understand him. just starting to peel back the quiet. and now the session was over.

“guess I’ll see you soon, then.”

it sounded casual, but the hope in your voice gave you away. smoke nodded, handing you the paperwork.

“i’ll keep your stencil ready.” you took it from him, your fingers brushing his — just barely. but it lingered like a promise neither of you said out loud.

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draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

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what if…smoke has a submissive side? modern au! edition

warnings: 18+ (MDNI)

smoke was in heaven.

you were on top of him, riding him like the goddess you were. brown skin brushing against brown skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat, breasts bouncing against his chest with dark swollen nipples that were a victim to his persistent mouth. the scent of your vanilla perfume mixing with your natural pheromones and your body heat was the cherry on top to heighten his senses of euphoria.

he wasn’t the type to let you take the reigns often, not because of preference (you loved being taken care of during your deeds) but he just never…asked. never considered it. but him being so stressed out with the new club him and stack bought? you being oh so sweet and patient, rubbing his shoulders and kissing his temples delicately, he could not say no to your glossy pouted lips asking to take care of him.

but now he was mad. mad that he missed out on the warm, gummy walls of your tight pussy clinging onto his cock like a vice while you bounced to your own rhythm in his lap, coaxing every moan and groan out of his kiss swollen lips, gently holding your waist. if he knew how natural it was for you to take control, he would let you have your way with him in any way you wanted, sore dick be damned.

“feelin’ better ?” you murmured sweetly, teasing laced in your tone as you slowed your movements, hips rolling against his pelvis, drawing out the pleasure.

all smoke muster out was a chuckle that turned into a partial grunt when you purposely clenched around his length. “hell yeah…goddamn that pussy grippin’ me like she don’t want me to go nowhere..” he groaned, his hands gripping your ass with a firm squeeze making you mewl.

“i just wanna make you feel good…” you purred against his lips then capturing them, picking up the pace you set before. the sweet muffled sound of his moans, the curve of his dick kissing your g spot and the occasional spanks he cracked onto your ass was pure motivation.

you broke away from the kiss, peppering kisses along his jaw. “am I makin’ you feel good, ‘lijah?” you cooed into his ear, licking the tip of his lobe before gently biting down on it coaxing a delicious whimper out of him that almost made you cum on the spot. “f-fuck baby..yeah you doin’ so good.”

“that’s my good boy.”

those four words made him come undone, shooting his warm load inside you and burying his face in between your breasts as he sung his praises to you.

sinners taglist: @cafeluvs @cremeful

if you'd like to be a part of my taglist, sign up here to be the first to see my newest drops! 🫧 (I updated my taglist for the smokestack twins, if you'd like to be tagged in my smokestack drabbles/one shots/series and you are already on my taglist just let me know by commenting or messaging me🙂‍↕️🎀)

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draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

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what if…smoke has a submissive side? modern au! edition

warnings: 18+ (MDNI)

smoke was in heaven.

“feelin’ better ?” you murmured sweetly, teasing laced in your tone as you slowed your movements, hips rolling against his pelvis, drawing out the pleasure.

“that’s my good boy.”

those four words made him come undone, shooting his warm load inside you and burying his face in between your breasts as he sung his praises to you.

sinners taglist: @cafeluvs @cremeful

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draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

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Hate The Club | cw: 18+ mdni, >1k words (probably) modern au, angsty but happy end, situationship, tipsy!smoke, no use of y/n, avoidant!reader, love confession.

or: Smoke tries to get you to go home with him.

Elijah could see you from across the club.

The space was with bodies moving to the music, chatter and alcohol. Something he should’ve been used to at this point in owning a few spots along with his brother, Stack. But something had changed when he met you— no- started fucking with you.

That need to feed off the energy of people enjoying themselves didn’t cut it anymore. Not when he could get a smile as bright as the sun from you, not when he could hear the almost harmonious voice and laughter erupting from your stomach, feel the curve of your hips grinding on his to the music, that look of want and yearning swirling in your mocha brown eyes. And not when he could feel the warmth of your velvety walls of your cunt taking in his cock in your apartment, your pretty face screwed up in pleasure.

He had everything he wanted in the tip of his fingers.

But emotions ruin everything, don’t they?

The man was never good at expressing his feelings directly, he was forced to grow up a little more and sooner than Stack. When things went to shit, he swore to handle it, which lead to him being closed off, more reserved. He couldn’t get his words out to reach you like he should have.

Which lead to you looking for that communication else where.

Which lead to Elijah crashing out.

No man coukd step foot anywhere near you with him starting something, taunting an idiot for even thinking about getting their hands on you. Fueling more arguments between the two of you, hate fucking in the car, beating someone busted and blue in the ally way while Stack stood close by, shaking his head at all the foolishness.

Beating around the bush was Stacks job, not Smokes— so what the hell was the problem?

It came to a hilt.

You called it quits.

More than serious that time. And Smoke didn’t fight it, didn’t try to confess his truth— that he longed for you so bad that it hurt, that he would’ve gave you the world if you’d ask. Just let you make that distraught look, mentally begging, ‘please Elijah.’

But you threw your bag over your shoulder at his silence and cold look, eyes blurry with tears and a shaky breath, letting the door slam behind you.

He couldn’t stand the idea of seeing you after that.

Scared of the face you’d make when you saw him, said ‘no’ to everything he was invited to or make up an excuse that he had plans already. Couldn’t even be at the clubs during the night just in case he ran into you. Your circles were too close on top of all that, and you were still close with Stack. He’d hear about you doing big things, a new and better paying job, how you’d gone on a couple dates, thinking about changing your wardrobe.

He knew his twin was simply rubbing it all in his face.

It irritated him more and more— he had to witness you in all your glory, just one more time.

So he watched from across the club, alone, lets his eyes dance all over you, long braids cascading down your back, breasts sitting perfect in a cropped shirt and over sized jeans hanging off your hips as you moved to the beat of the song from the balcony of the second floor. You were an Angel, his in his head, Angelic as you swayed to the beat of the song he didn’t even know.

If it wasn’t r&b or blues, he didn’t really care for it.

You didn’t have a care in the world, your friend though, Eva, caught him, a smirk growing on her glossed lips as she whispered in your ear. You didn’t move though, not at first, still dancing, then a glance over the shoulder. And he stood on the first floor, handsome as ever, tattoos all over his arms, a fat blunt in between his plump lips.

Right on que, the dj said his name, giving him a shoutout which made everyone cheer. But that was the last of his worries, there was no point in even coming if he couldn’t get the chance to see you like he was now.

He swore that would be it. Smoke could control himself even when he was across the room from you. Right?

But one drink turned into another, two drinks turned into four, maybe a round of drinks for everyone on the top floor— dumb move?

Elijah would worry about it later.

Self control out the window, he wanted you, had to have you— yearned to drown himself in the thought of you. That liquid courage finally hitting his throat, he adjusted his clothes, making his way through the crowded room to get to you.

Your friends were both at the dance floor, still dancing the night away, whilst you took a seat on one of the couches alone, legs crossed over the other, scrolling away on something Smoke couldn’t make out and nodding to the music.

He called your name as soon as he got in ear shot.

Your eyes flickered up, and your breath caught in your chest. You gulp down whatever was in your chest— want? fear? worry? pride? heartbreak?

A mixture of it all.

“Been a while, hasn’t it Elijah?” You inquire. He takes a seat next you, eyes still misty in the being that you were.

Angelic, heavily, everything and more—

“I been around.” He finally speaks.

A ghost of a smirk is on your lips, you close your phone, looking around the room, “ ‘S that right?”

No, not right. Not right at all.

You both knew that. But you didn’t push, why would you need to? He wasn’t yours, you weren’t his.

Least, that’s what you thought.

You sigh, eyes closing, “What’d’you want Smoke?”

There’s a beat, that push— it’s enough for him now— heart pounding while he fumbles on his words that have sat dormant on his lips for too long—

“I missed you [+], more than anythang, I missed ya. Couldn’t stand bein apart for you.”

You scuff, shaking your head, this is stupid. Letting him even talk to you after the state he left you in was stupid. “No you don’t.”

It’s his turn to shake his head, “I ain’t just talkin [+], you know what I say in this moment is the truth-“

“—You’re drunk and just. fuckin. talkin.” You’re trying to convince yourself that you won’t fall for his words— no one’s words so easily.

“We had fun. that’s it, that’s all. Let’s move on.”

And Smoke hates the way you’re brushing this all off like it’s nothing. Words too clouded, yet they hold weight. Smoke smacks his lips, “Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?” You finally look him dead in the eyes, eyebrow raising, “Like how you talked to me the last time we talked? I’m only bein fair.” You shrug.

His nose flairs, just a bit, but he relaxes at your words, willing to confront them head on, “So we both went ‘nd lied to ourselves then. Me with how I felt about you and you on the state of the relationship.”

“I never lied-“

“—So you tellin me that ‘keeping it casual’ was fine with you? That you never had feelings for me?”

It was something you wanted from the beginning, Smoke never in his life did one off relationships like this, not once. Didn’t like the idea of someone else being with you, but if that’s what you wanted, he’d oblige. He’d agree to anything when it came to you. He just didn’t know where his head ended up going, maybe he was tired of fighting over you. Maybe he didn’t want to overstep. Hole you in. But that’s what you needed. A reminder of where you should be.

“I don’t- I don’t know-“ you stammered, but it’s faulty.

Smoke scuffs, his hand going to your waist to hold you still, he whispers in your ear, “Now yer lyin again. ‘Nd ‘m not matchin ya this time.”

His breath tickles your ear, and you can’t help but squirm, heat rising all over you, “I care about you [+], want you more than you’d ever know. My heart has always been with you, and it haunts me when yer like this.” His large hand travels down ward, making you shudder. Got your thighs then to your back, pulling you into his lap.

He lifts your chin with his fingers, cupping your beautiful face, “Let me take you home, leave all this hidin bullshit here with all her friends ‘nd these strangers. Get you alone, prove to you I’m the man you’ve been wantin this whole time. The man you’ve been needin. Show you how important you are t’me.”

Your heart skips a beat, setting your pride aside, and letting him entangle himself in you as soon as he gets you in his home

a/n: kinda abrupt ending, but I wanted this to be short and sweet. is this proof enough that saw Kehlani live 3 times? I love Hate The Club real bad. Sorry if this is bad I don’t proof read and this is off of vibes.

most recent masterlist.

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draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

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𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞

Pairing-ModernAU- Elijah*Smoke*Moore x Black reader

Summary-After months of silence and distance, Elijah “Smoke” Moore returns home to face the wife he’s been drifting from. With their marriage hanging by a thread, they must decide if love is enough to rebuild what pride nearly destroyed.

A/N-This is only supposed to be for the first part of the song

Even Stack could see that—and he never liked to get in his brother’s business when it came to women, but the way Smoke had been pulling up to the trap, quiet, jaw locked, eyes colder. That said, enough.

They sat in the back of the shop late that night, after everyone else had cleared out. Smoke’s blunt burned low between his fingers, eyes fixed on the concrete floor like the answers might be hiding in the cracks.

Stack leaned back in the chair across from him, sipping a Sprite, watching his older brother fall apart in slow motion.

“You good, E?” he asked finally. Nobody ever called Smoke by his first name—only Stack did when shit got serious.

Smoke blew out a breath, smoke curling around his gold grill. “I been seeing the signs, bro. All of ‘em.”

Stack raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like her not lookin’ at me the same. Like the way the house feel colder even when the heat on. Like I pull in the driveway and sit in the car ‘cause I don’t even know if I’m welcome in my own crib.”

Stack didn’t say anything right away. He let Smoke talk.

“Took a trip last weekend,” Smoke went on. “Just rode out to the lake. No phone, no straps, just me. Thought I needed air. Thought I needed space.”

“Did it help?”

Smoke looked at him, eyes low, heavy. “Nah. Came back feelin’ even more lost. And she still so fine, man… but it’s like I can’t reach her. Like I’m stuck on the outside of my own life.”

Stack tapped the rim of his cup. “Y’all talk?”

Smoke shook his head. “We tried. turned into a screaming match with her leaving, slamming the door. It's like when the baby came, she got more annoyed with me”, Smoke mumbled, sitting back

“Damn.”

“Man, I don't think we’ll even make it.” Smoke said, almost to himself. “I don’t know if we can fix it. And if we are, it's not gonna be the same

Stack exhaled. “Far like… It’s already over?”

“Far like… I’m still actin’ like I don’t love her just to protect myself. Far like she cryin’ in the next room and I still don’t go in. Far like she sleepin’ next to me and I ain’t touched her in months.”

He paused. “Far like… I’m here—but I ain’t there.”

Stack leaned forward, serious now. “You want this to work?”

Smoke hesitated for the first time. His throat tightened. “Yeah… but I don’t know how to be no more. Ain’t no blueprint for this. I know how to ride for my niggas. How to get to the bag. But this? Lovin’ somebody when they tired of tryin’? When you tired too?”

Stack nodded. “That ain’t in the streets. That’s heart work.”

Smoke sat back, looking defeated. “With me bein’ wherever I’m at—trappin’, movin’ around—and her bein’ wherever she at mentally? Bro, we takin’ this a little too far. I’m scared we gon’ break something we can’t fix.”

Stack tapped his brother’s chest, right over his heart. “Then go home. Don’t just pull up and sit outside. Go home. Talk to her. Don’t let her feel like she’s fightin’ for y’all alone.”

Smoke looked at the time. It was late. But maybe not too late.

He put the blunt out, grabbed his keys.

“Good lookin’, bro.”

Stack nodded. “You know what to do. Don’t let your pride be louder than your love.”

⸻

That night, Smoke sat in the car outside the house again.

But this time, he turned the engine off, stepped out, and went inside.

Maybe their marriage was too broken to be fixed.

But he’d be damned if he let her walk away without trying to pull them both back.

The house was quiet.

Not peaceful. Just quiet. The kind that comes after too many arguments and not enough apologies. The kind that settles in like dust and grief—subtle, but heavy.

You sat at the dining table in one of his old hoodies, hands wrapped around a mug of tea gone cold. The baby was finally asleep, the monitor blinking faintly on the counter. But sleep wouldn’t come for you. Not when your chest was still tight with things unsaid, and your eyes were still fixed on the front door, waiting for a man you weren’t even sure would come back.

Then—you heard his key.

The door opened slow, almost hesitant, like even he wasn’t sure if he should be there. He stepped in, wearing that same black hoodie, face shadowed, shoulders heavy. He looked around the room like he was stepping into someone else’s life.

Until his eyes landed on you.

“I ain’t come here to argue,” he said quietly.

“Then don’t,” you said back, flat but tired.

He stood there a moment, like he didn’t know what to say next. Then he came further inside, resting his hands on the back of a chair like he needed something to hold him up.

“You were right,” he started. “I been gone. Not just physically. Emotionally too.”

You stayed quiet. He’d said this before. Once. Maybe twice.

But tonight, he sounded different. Raw. Like the words were hurting coming out.

“I thought if I kept the lights on, paid the bills, kept the streets in check—that meant I was takin’ care of y’all. But it ain’t enough, is it?”

“No,” you said simply. “It’s not.”

He nodded. Took that hit on the chin. “I’ve been scared,” he admitted. “Of losin’ you. Of bein’ a bad father. Of showin’ up and not bein’ enough, so I just… stopped showin’ up.”

Your voice cracked. “Do you even understand how lonely it feels to have someone right next to you but still feel abandoned?”

“I do now,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I went out to the lake last weekend. No phone, no music. Just me. Tried to clear my head. And all I could think about was you. The baby. This house. The family we built… and how far away I’ve let it all get.”

You looked at him—tired, but not angry. Not anymore.

Just sad.

“I’ve been doing this by myself, Elijah,” you said, using his name like a weight. “I love you, but love don’t raise a child. Love don’t heal silence. You check in with your crew more than you check in with me.”

He flinched at that. Because it was true.

“I didn’t know how to handle this. How to be what you needed after the baby. How to say I was struggling too,” he said, finally sitting down across from you. “I felt like I was losin’ you and I didn’t have the tools to fight for us.”

“So why are you here now?” you asked, voice small.

“Because I’m done runnin’,” he said. “I’m done lettin’ pride ruin what we still got left.”

You looked at him. Past the chain around his neck, past the tattoos and the stress in his jaw, past all the nights he came home too late or not at all.

He looked like the man you fell in love with.

Worn out. But honest.

“I’m not askin’ you to forget all the shit I messed up. I just want a chance to fix what I still can.”

You swallowed hard. “And what if we can’t go back to the way things were?”

“We don’t have to,” he said. “I’ll take you how you are now. If you’ll take me—mess and all.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then, slowly, you reached across the table.

And he took your hand in his, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You didn’t forgive him all at once.

But you let him in.

And tonight, that was enough.

His fingers were rough against yours—warm, trembling slightly, like he didn’t know if you’d pull away. You didn’t. You just held his hand, staring at the lines in his palm like they might tell you if it was safe to believe him again.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he said, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “But I’m askin’ anyway.”

You blinked back the heat behind your eyes. “You don’t need to ask to be a father. You already are one. But to be my partner again? That’s gonna take more than words, Elijah.”

“I know,” he nodded. “That’s why I’m stayin’.”

He said it like a promise.

You studied him. His shoulders weren’t as square as they used to be. He looked tired—like the streets had been chewing him up and spitting him out. But beneath all that wear and weight… was the man who used to kiss your belly before bed. The man who held your hand through contractions. The man who held you when the baby wouldn’t stop crying, and you felt like a failure.

You remembered all of it.

The good hadn’t vanished. It had just been buried under the bad.

You let out a slow breath. “You say you’re stayin’… but that don’t just mean bein’ in the house.”

“I know,” he said again. “It means showin’ up. Every day. Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m tired. Even when I feel like runnin’.”

He paused. “It means you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

Your throat tightened. You’d been carrying so much by yourself—bottles, diapers, fears, postpartum anxiety nobody warned you about. Nights spent rocking the baby while crying silently so you wouldn’t wake him. And all the while, Smoke was out, lost in a world that didn’t love him back like you did.

“Where’ve you been sleeping?” you asked softly.

Smoke shrugged, eyes dropping. “Couch at Stack’s. Car sometimes.”

You nodded, looking down at your intertwined hands.

“I didn’t change overnight, Eijahl. I just stopped waiting on the version of you who never came back.”

“I’m here now,” he said. “I don’t wanna be a ghost in your life. Or our daughter’s. I want her to see what real love look like. Even if we gotta rebuild it from the ground up.”

You looked at him for a long time, searching for a lie.

But there wasn’t one.

Just your husband. Raw. Worn out. Honest. Finally showing up.

“You can sleep in the guest room,” you whispered.

A beat passed. No joy, no celebration. Just quiet grace.

And for Smoke? That was more than enough.

He stood slowly and leaned down to kiss your forehead—light, reverent. Like he wasn’t sure if he deserved it, but needed it anyway.

You closed your eyes for the first time in weeks without flinching.

And maybe, just maybe, the hard part was over.

The healing would take time.

But it could start tonight.

With the door unlocked.

And him finally walking through it.

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draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

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(6) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ “ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ” ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

It had been a few weeks since smoke let you back in his bed. You had a lil life to get back to. Ya lil apartment to get back to. Your job…that you kept calling out of…

Not just back in tho — back in good.

Now? You was up in there every night like rent-free real estate.

You done made yourself real comfortable.

Damn near lived there. Clothes in his drawer. Lipgloss on the nightstand. Breakfast every other day. You were living the dream.

He was gentle when he wanted to be. But clingy as hell in his own quiet way — always touching something. Your hand. Your leg. That lil crease in your waist.

He’d kiss on you randomly, like he just remembered he could.

Pull your bonnet down before bed like it was a crown.

Sleep hard as hell behind you with a thigh between yours like a seatbelt.

Anyway.

You had just got your hair done.

Knotless. Butt-length. Parts crispy. Baby hairs laid by God himself.

You posted one lil pic, and he was already texting like:

“Where you at? I’m tryna see somethin.”

So when he pulled up? You really didn’t know what he was doing there...

He came in smelling like Dior and weed.

Looked you up and down, reaching over to twirl a braid around his finger. Then nodded all calm like it wasn’t nothing.

“You wanna come with me?”

“Come where?” You tilted your head.

He just smirked.

Threw his arm around your waist. Kissed the side of your neck.

“Miami.”

You blinked.

He said it so casual. Like he was askin’ if you wanted to go get wings.

“We got a lil shit to handle, me and Stack,” he added, “but…figured I’d bring my girl with me. Have some fun.”

Damn near shed a tear…he called you his girl…

Your heart jumped so ugly. You played it cool, though.

Bit your glossed-up lip, leaned into his hoodie.

“Aight then. Lemme pack.”

next day.

Private jet.

No TSA. No crying babies. No coach seats. No stress.

You stepped up the lil steps in a skims set, black hoodie tied round your waist. Sunglasses on. Edges still immaculate. And he let you go first, his hand under your ass like a lift.

Stack was already on the plane, lounged out with a PS5 controller and a pair of Louis slides like they wasn’t headed to commit light crime.

“Daaaamn, look who came wit’chu,” Stack grinned. “Don’t start fuckin’ on the seats, damn.”

You rolled your eyes.

Smoke just smirked, wide and lazy.

Yall sat down and he had you in his lap like luggage. Hand on your inner thigh, thumb rubbin’ slow back and forth like he was markin’ territory.

You was takin’ pictures, snappin’ vids, postin’ lil sneaky ones on your close friends story like

“He don’t like pics, but look at himmm.”

He’d lean into your neck while you posed, kissin’ behind your ear.

Real quiet and low under his breath.

“Keep postin’ me like I ain’t gon’ fuck you when we land.”

“Nigga —” he cut you off.

“Keep postin’. Watch.”

You were gigglin’ so much he had to press a hand to your stomach just to stop you from movin’.

He kissed you.

Hard and slow. With tongue. With pressure. Pullin’ you closer by your jaw.

Not even tryna be discreet.

You straddled him sideways for a lil minute. Y’all was talkin’ low, touchin’ lips, whisperin’ stupid shit back and forth like —

“You miss me already?” You bit your lip.

He gave you a look. “I’m lookin’ at you.”

“Still.”

The jet hit the clouds, and all you could feel was his hand between your thighs and his hoodie strings looped around your fingers.

And his mouth?

Every couple minutes?

Back on your skin.

Just because he could.

The house was stupid nice.

Like MTV Cribs meets Cartel safehouse nice.

Marble counters, all white everything, a pool out back that looked like it came with a breathtaking view.

You walked through barefoot like a dream, silk robe flutterin’ behind you, braids tied up in a high bun like a crown. Took you a minute to do it.

Everything smelled like money, weed, and cologne. Like a music video before the chaos hit.

You had packed many bikinis.

The one you’re wearing right now. Just a simple one. Strings tied at the side of your hips and back of your neck and the trust you put into it was��let’s not talk about it.

It was cute tho.

When you put it on, you looked like a problem. Like his problem. His prettiest problem.

Like somebody who deserved to be on a boat right now, not chillin’ while her man got dressed to leave.

You threw on your anklet. Stepped out into the main room and leaned in the doorway.

“You leavin’?”

Smoke glanced up from where he was putting his chain on.

Black tee. Cargo pants. Diamond in his ear. Beard lookin’ sharp. Skin glowin’ like sun-drenched honey. Too fine.

“Yeah. Stack need me for a sec. Be right back.”

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

“I thought the whole point of me comin’ was to have fun with you.”

That man had the audacity to smirk.

“You is havin’ fun with me. I flew you out, didn’t I?”

He said it all calm. Like he didn’t see the way you were standing — thighs out, bikini on, glistening like a goddess in the Miami light.

You sucked your teeth.

“So I’m just supposed to sit here lookin’ cute while you go do…whatever the hell?”

Smoke walked over slow. Hands in his pockets. Laughed low under his breath.

“That’s what you wanted to do. When I first met you, anyway.”

Not true.

“Yeah, well.” You looked away, arms crossed, lips pouted. “Now I wanna do it with you.”

He was in front of you now.

Close enough to smell his neck. Close enough to feel the warmth off his body.

One of his hands slid up under your robe — just a little. Found your waist. His thumb brushed along the side of your swimsuit.

“You gon’ be alright for a couple hours, pretty girl,” he murmured. “Ain’t like I’m leavin’ for good.”

You leaned back against the door frame. Looked up at him from under your lashes.

“You always say that like I don’t be countin’ the minutes…”

His hand flexed just a little on your hip.

“Don’t start.”

You tilted your head. Let your lips brush his jaw real soft.

“I miss you.”

“I’m standin’ right here.” He chuckled.

“Still.”

He kissed you.

Once. Deep. Slow.

Then again. Tongue soft. Pullin’ a sound from your lips.

His fingers slid up to your neck and pulled you closer, pressed your bodies together. Your teeth tugged on his bottom lip before finally letting go.

“You gon’ make me stay,” he whispered. “For real.”

You smiled, real slow. Pressed your lips to his again like you didn’t care. Like that was the goal.

“Then stay.”

“Girl —”

“You gon’ leave me here like this? Hair done, skin out? That’s disrespectful.”

You could feel him biting back a grin. His hands were already low again. Gripping. Palming. Getting lost.

“Damn, baby…”

“Mhm.”

He pulled back finally. Swallowed hard. Adjusted his chain like it was your fault he was about to be late.

“Aight. Ima be gone just a couple hours. Pool out back. Pour somethin’. Relax.”

“Whatever,” you mumbled. But your eyes were still stuck on him.

As he walked off, you called after him:

“You better not be lyin’ this time!”

“You better not post no thirst traps while I’m gone.”

You smirked.

Already had your camera out. Face glowy, body glistening, caption loading.

Out back, you let the robe slide off.

Dipped your feet in the water. Slid your sunglasses on and leaned back like you owned the place.

Smoke might’ve had to handle business but when he come back he was gon’ have to handle you.

Sun was gettin’ low.

But the heat hadn’t backed off.

It was that sticky kind of Florida air. Heavy.

Sky soft orange, palm trees still.

Not a breeze in sight.

Smoke and Stack sat on the hood of a matte black Range Rover. Parked deep in some dead-end lot behind a warehouse near the water — boats nearby, tugboats creakin’, seagulls loud. Whole place smelled like sea salt and decomposing seaweed.

Smoke had the blunt between his lips. Stack was rollin’ another, long fingers fast, calloused. Gold chain glintin’ when he moved.

“Man takin’ his sweet ass time,” Stack muttered, eyein’ the road.

Smoke shrugged slow, eyes half-closed.

He was always the calm one. Looked like he could nap through a shootout.

“That’s how Miami niggas move,” he said, low around the smoke. “Slow n’ flashy.”

Stack just snorted. Lit his blunt and leaned back.

Then —

Headlights turned the corner.

Low, black Benz. Tinted.

Came rollin’ real slow into the lot like it was feelin’ them out before committing.

Smoke sat up just a bit. Didn’t move fast. Just tapped Stack’s arm once. They both stood.

The Benz stopped. Engine still running.

Door cracked. Out stepped a dark-skinned dude in his late thirties — gold fronts, lil chain, Dior shades on.

He had a blunt too. Lit already.

Wasn’t in a rush.

“You Hakeem?” Smoke asked, voice like sandpaper and quiet fire.

The man grinned wide around his blunt. Blew smoke through his nose.

“Y’all niggas twins?”

Stack barked a soft laugh, the sound light but not friendly.

“Nah,” he said, smiling. “We cousins.”

Smoke hit the blunt again, eyes on Hakeem the whole time. Didn’t blink much.

Hakeem laughed. More like a snort.

Didn’t seem fazed.

“That’s good.”

Then a pause.

Tension. But not sharp — more like everybody here knew what this was.

“You got it?” Stack asked.

Hakeem stepped back toward the Benz.

Opened the back door and popped the trunk from inside.

Didn’t say nothin’ — just walked to the rear of the car and lifted it up like he done this a hundred times.

Inside?

Two black, weatherproof duffle bags. Heavy. Zipped up like they were locked down tight.

“Glocks, baby,” he said. “Nine mils. Forty-fives. Couple of those titanium slides — real stealth, real light. Got the Cerakote finish, black and slate gray, keeps ‘em slick and quiet.”

Smoke and Stack didn’t move right away.

They let the silence stretch. Like they were tryna make Hakeem feel something. Nervous. Small.

Didn’t work — the man just pulled on his blunt again and leaned on the bumper.

“Y’all out here for vacation?” he asked, glancing between them.

Smoke finally stepped forward.

Grabbed one bag. Unzipped it halfway. Peeked inside. Matte black frames with silver accents gleaming under the lot lights, mags loaded, safety off.

He nodded once.

“Work don’t stop,” was all he said.

“So y’all workin’ and partyin’?” Hakeem said, grinning again. “That’s crazy. Niggas like y’all always end up with trouble.”

“Niggas like us always end up with money,” Stack said, stepping forward now.

“Or dead.”

Stack smiled again. Brighter this time. Teeth sharp.

“Ain’t we all?”

Smoke zipped the bag up again. Passed it to Stack.

“What about the other drop?” he asked.

Hakeem shrugged.

“Later tonight. Same place. Different face.”

“He good?”

Hakeem just tapped the ash off his blunt and looked off at the skyline.

“You ever seen a nigga with no tongue run his mouth?”

Smoke tilted his head.

“You tryna be poetic?”

“Nah.” He smirked. “Just sayin’. He good.”

They left it at that.

Money was handed off. Quick count. Nobody flinched. Nobody reached.

It was calm like rainwater — until it wasn’t.

As they got back in the Rover, Stack glanced in the mirror.

“Why that nigga talk like he in a Spike Lee monologue?”

Smoke laughed soft.

Started the engine.

“Long as the shit clean, I don’t care if he speak in haikus.”

You was warm.

Not just body warm — but deep.

Bones relaxed. Eyes heavy. Muscles floated.

That wine done crept up on you.

You ain’t even realize it at first.

Just a lil glass to sip while the Bluetooth speaker played some SZA in the background.

Legs stretched out across a plush outdoor chair by the pool.

The whole place glowing in the blue light of underwater LEDs and Miami night.

But that one glass turned into two.

Two turned into three.

Next thing you knew, you was giggling at your phone and talkin’ to yourself.

You dragged your thick lil tipsy self into the house just before midnight.

Shower ran hot — steam curling up against the mirror like a ghost.

You scrubbed that chlorine off your skin, deep conditioner in, body butter after.

Tied your scarf like somebody grandma.

And slid into bed like you was in love.

Only you wasn’t.

Not technically.

But god — you felt like it.

The sheets smelled clean, expensive.

Room dim, soft glow from the bathroom light spillin’ across the floor.

You were on your side, legs bent, hoodie on — his hoodie, matter fact — the grey one you stole off his suitcase and never gave back.

You curled into it.

Nose pressed to the collar.

Smelled like detergent, weed, cologne, and him.

And you just laid there.

Still.

Quiet.

Thinking.

You wasn’t tryna be dramatic or nothing, but…

You kinda missed him.

And that didn’t make sense.

Because he’d only been gone 13 hours.

But something about the silence when he wasn’t around made the world feel off balance.

Like he carried the gravity of every room he walked into, and without him, shit just floated weird.

You stared at the wall.

Breathing slow.

Mind wandered to the way his hand found your thigh like it was made to rest there.

How he kiss your cheek without warning.

How he look at you sometimes — eyes low, lips parted, jaw tight like he ain’t know what to do with all that feeling.

You swallowed.

Tucked your bottom lip between your teeth.

You thought about earlier.

The way he’d said, relax, like it ain’t hurt him to leave you.

Like he ain’t look back at you twice on his way out.

You thought about the way he touched your chin that morning.

Real gentle.

You exhaled, slow.

Wasn’t nobody who ever made you feel like this.

Not soft. Not wanted. Not heavy in a good way.

He didn’t even say too much — but he was loud in all the places that mattered.

You blinked slow.

Mind startin’ to fade with the wine, body heavy against the mattress.

And then —

Click.

You snapped up.

Quick — like your body knew him before your mind caught up.

Eyes still half-sleep, but your ears perked at the sound of the front door shutting soft.

Not slammed.

Not loud.

That careful-close he only did when you was sleep.

Your heart kicked.

Then melted.

Then flipped again.

A minute later — you heard his voice, you heard his steps.

That slow, heavy-footed walk he always had, like the floor owed him silence.

And when the door opened and he walked into the room, it felt like somebody lit a match in your chest.

There he was.

Elijah.

Neck glintin’.

Chain heavy on his collarbone, eyes low like he ain’t had nothin’ left to prove.

He smelled like cold night air and weed and heat.

Your lips parted.

You was sobered up just enough to realize you wasn’t ready to pretend like you hadn’t missed this man this bad.

He was quiet. Just stood in the doorway for a second, eyes skating over you in bed.

The room still dim.

You in his hoodie, legs bare, scarf tied like a good girl.

Looking at him like he was the moon.

And you wanted to hug on him.

Kiss all on him.

Pull him in and lay up on his chest and tell him don’t go nowhere else ever again.

But your limbs was lazy.

Body melted into the mattress.

You just blinked at him slow, eyes all big and pink in the corners.

He came over though.

Didn’t say nothing at first.

Just leaned down and kissed you.

Real slow.

Real him.

One warm hand cradled your cheek and the other braced on the mattress as his mouth met yours like he’d been waitin’ to all night.

You sighed into it.

Drunk lips parting, letting him taste that wine you still had on your tongue.

You sucked his bottom lip out of instinct.

He pulled back a little, licking his own lip.

Eyebrows dipping just slightly. “You drunk?”

You blinked. Smiled lazy.

“…Just a lil bit drunk.”

He squinted. “Did you eat?”

You shook your head on the pillow.

“Damn…” He looked down at you, thumb brushing your cheek. “You want somethin’ to eat?”

You closed your eyes, still smiling.

“…No. Just miss you.”

That part came out softer.

Almost a whisper.

Like you was embarrassed to say it out loud, but you couldn’t not say it.

He stared at you for a second.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t joke. Didn’t play.

His eyes just softened real slow, mouth parted like he ain’t expect you to hit him like that.

You looked back at him.

Skin glowing gold from the lamp light spillin’ in behind him.

Lashes low. Lips pouty. Eyes full of every feeling you had no business tryna hide.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered.

That time you meant to say it loud.

Meant for him to hear it.

And he did.

Smoke leaned down again — kissed you with his hand sliding under the hoodie, up your side, slow and possessive.

His breath was warm against your cheek when he whispered, “You been thinkin’ about me, huh?” He asked before standing up.

You nodded.

You smiled.

Then giggled.

The one you only do when your feelings real warm and gooey and girly.

The kind you hate that he be causin’.

You tilted your head, cheek mushed into the pillow.

Lashes fluttering.

Eyes a lil glossy from that wine, but they was all on him.

He ain’t say nothing else for a moment.

Just breathed.

Took another long look at you beneath the covers, then backed up slow to the edge of the bed.

The low thump of his shoes hit the carpet first — then the quiet creak of the mattress as he sat down, back to you.

Tugged his shirt off, slow.

He ain’t face you.

Just sat there in the golden spill of the bedroom lamp, the muscles in his back flexin’ soft as he rolled his shoulders a bit.

You blinked — then shifted.

Sat up onto your knees.

There was no hesitation in your body.

No wine fog between your thoughts.

Just need. Just comfort. Just the overwhelming ache of him.

You crawled across the bed and kissed the space between his shoulder blades.

Real slow.

He stilled.

You kissed his up spine next.

Then the back of his shoulder.

Then up the column of his neck, warm lips soft and open against his skin like a sigh.

Tasted his sweat and cologne and Florida air.

Your arms slid around him from behind, hands resting on his chest, and your cheek pressed against his back like you belonged there.

“You smell good,” you whispered, lips grazing the shell of his ear.

Elijah reached for your arms and pulled your hands up to his mouth, kissing your knuckles one by one.

Then turned, real slow, to face you.

You sat up on your knees in front of him.

He looked at you like you were everything.

His fingers ghosted your jaw, then dipped under the hem of your hoodie to rest against your waist.

Just warm enough to make you inhale.

He said nothing at first — just looked you up and down like he was taking inventory of all the parts he’d been craving since the moment he left the house.

Then finally — his voice low and soft:

“Imma spoil you tomorrow.”

You blinked. Your breath caught.

He smirked just barely. “You deserve it.”

“You say that now,” you mumbled, tilting your head. “Then you gon act like spoilin’ me is a chore.”

He shook his head once, low chuckle spilling from his chest as his hands slid down to your thighs.

“You dramatic. But I’m for real.”

“You mean it?” you asked, tilting your face toward his.

He nodded, this time slow. Real slow.

“Whatever you want.”

You paused. Then smiled.

And kissed him again — soft, wine-lazy, slow enough to melt the moment.

He pulled you closer, slid his hands under your thighs and brought you into his lap like you was weightless.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, lips never leaving his.

It wasn’t about sex.

Not yet.

It was about intimacy.

And you was wrapped up in it — right here. On his chest. In his hands. In his arms.

A/N: Love me some Elijah “smoke” Moore — he can have this anytime- anywhere he want — I’m talkin abt IN ITTTT — NO lube, NO protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jittering, mind boggling, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and I'd still ride.

Lil taglist — @sertonins - @crimsonxm00n @klssngss @juicypinksblog @mingisg00dgirl @stilestotherescue @imperfectlyperfect78 @hoouno06 @kirayuki22 @christinabae @pinkpantheris @kxllanxtdoor @heartgirllover @spicypiscesssss @italiekim @rarow-racee @fadingbelieverexpert @juicu @roughridah0 @yornayyy @reignsinmydreams @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @thequeenkhlo @lewispool @levibabymama-blog

795 notes · View notes

draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

Text

(5) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

A/N: lmk if I forgot you in the TAGLISTTTT

Friday had felt like a movie.

You slid over to his house in leggings, lashes, and with a bag packed like it was a field trip—shower things, clothes for a couple days, a lil ‘just in case’ lingerie set…

Ain’t nobody say you was stayin’ the weekend butttt also ain’t nobody say you couldn’t.

And he let you in without a blink.

Kissed your cheek when you stepped in.

Took your bag like it belonged there.

Put it in corner you probably would leave there the next time you spent the night.

“Back again?” he teased.

“Back always,” you grinned, stepping out of your shoes.

Y’all been vibin’ for a good while.

Loungin’ in the living room, feet in his lap, random episodes of whatever playin’ on the TV.

He cooked again Friday night — stir fry this time, okay chef — and y’all ain’t do nothin’ but eat, laugh, and fall asleep halfway through a movie.

Now it’s Saturday night…

…and this man…lord…this man.

“Where you goin’ dressed like that?”

You had asked it real chill when he came out the room in black jeans and a fresh tee, chains hangin’ just right. Cologne hittin’ from the hallway.

“Out with Stack,” he said, leanin’ down to kiss your temple. “Won’t be long.”

You gave him the squinty side-eye.

“How long is not long?”

He smirked.

“Few hours.”

Mmm hmm.

You ain’t trip. Just made a lil face, rolled over on the couch when tried to touch you, and let him go.

But you was watching the time.

An hour passed. Then another.

You ate leftover takeout.

Scrolled on instagram.

Tried to start a show but ended up fallin’ asleep mid-episode.

You was cozy as hell in his tee, bonnet on, face washed, stretched out in his bed like it was yours.

And when you woke up?

He still wasn’t home.

So naturally…

You FaceTimed him.

And babyyyy.

When that screen popped up?

You was lookin’ at chaos.

Loud music. Laughter. Smoke. Some lil LED light tryna change the mood.

He was reclined on some couch, phone low like it was sittin’ on his chest. Eyes low. Shirt halfway up his stomach.

Big, thick ass blunt between his fingers.

“Yoooooo,” Stack’s voice came from behind the screen. “Is that her??”

Smoke tilted the camera slightly and Stack leaned in, grinning like a devil.

“Hiiiii baby mamaaaa,” Stack said in that ghetto ass singsong tone, throwin’ up a peace sign.

You blinked. “Boy bye.”

Smoke was smirkin’. All slow and sticky-eyed.

“Why you look like that?” he asked, voice hoarse from smokin’.

You frowned at him.

“Because you said you was gon’ be back a lil while ago. It’s almost midnight.”

He squinted like he just realized what time it was.

Then smiled wider.

“You miss me?”

You sucked your teeth.

“Answer the question.”

He laughed, real low and lazy, smoke curling from his mouth as he hit the blunt again.

“I’ma be there in thirty minutes, chill.”

Stack was screamin’ in the background, talkin’ to somebody, then suddenly popped back in frame.

“You tryna get pregnant or what?” he cackled.

“STACK—”

“Let me talk to her real quick,” Stack said, snatching the phone. “He be tryna play it cool but he always checkin’ his phone for your name, don’t let him fool you—”

Then it fumbled back to Smoke, who looked like he was too high to even argue.

“Stack drunk,” he mumbled.

You leaned closer to the camera. “You high.”

He grinned.

“You horny?”

Your whole face dropped. “WHAT?”

He licked his lips, all slow. “I said—”

“I HEARD WHAT YOU SAID, RELAX.”

Stack and them was dyin’ in the back.

You covered your face, wheezing.

“Y’all are embarrassing. Y’all need to go to hell.”

Smoke just laughed, then looked dead at the screen with them low eyes.

“Go lay down. I’ma be there in thirty. Maybe twenty.”

You squinted.

“Don’t come home on no weird high shit. I’m wearin’ your shirt and everything.”

He bit his lip at that.

“Bet.”

Then he hung up.

You flopped back in his bed.

Face warm. Heart beatin’ a lil fast. Still lowkey flattered and fake annoyed at the same time.

Now you just had to wait.

And he better not take forty-five minutes…

The last time you looked at the clock it was 12:46am.

You’d been trying to stay up. Really.

Was on YouTube with your eyes fighting for their life and your bonnet hangin’ on by a thread.

You even put one of his hoodies on top of the shirt you stole — cocooned in that big boy scent, just a lil pissed, just a lil turned on still from that dumbass FaceTime call.

And you fell asleep all curled up, thighs tucked together tight like you didn’t know what he was comin’ home to do.

And then…

POP.

You JERKED awake, eyes flarin’ open, body tensing like somebody tried to break in.

Only to hear the deep ass chuckle right behind your ear.

“Nah, don’t get to flinchin’ now.”

He’d slapped the shit out your ass. It started burning a bit from how hard he slapped it.

Woke you up out your sleep.

Real disrespectful. Real unnecessary.

You was finna swing and everything ‘til you felt his chain brush your neck from behind.

“You hit me like I owed you money.”

“You do,” he mumbled, voice all raspy from the weed and the night. “Interest been accruin’ since I left.” He rubbed the spot on your ass.

You turned over and he was standin’ there, shirt halfway off, jeans unbuttoned. Eyes low, gold grill catchin’ the light.

Face a little flushed. Smellin’ like smoke and Hennessy and the kind of sin you don’t come back from.

“Boy. It is one o’clock. In the morning.”

“And you still up.” He smirked, leanin’ down to kiss your cheek. “That mean you was waitin’.”

You rolled your eyes. “You woke me up.”

He laughed again and grabbed your thigh, lifted it up high to his hip like he was about to climb on you.

Started kissin’ up your jaw, your neck, pressin’ himself all into you.

Then next thing you knew?

You was on top.

“You want somethin’ so bad,” he said, voice low, breath hot as his hands slid up your hoodie. “Come take it.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Take it, baby.” he said again. “Ride me.”

And that’s how you ended up straddlin’ him, still sleepy-eyed, bonnet gone, tryna get it together as he leaned back on the headboard, arms behind his head like he was watchin’ the show.

You lifted your hips slow, dragged him in even slower.

He hissed through his teeth, eyes clenching shut, tongue pokin’ the corner of his mouth.

You bit your bottom lip.

Started movin’, workin’ it like he ain’t just come home three hours late.

Bouncin’ a lil faster, leanin’ back for leverage. The hoodie you had on ridin’ up over your ass, thighs burnin’ already.

You was moanin’ soft.

Tryna keep the rhythm.

Tryna not let your knees give out.

He was so damn thick, the stretch makin’ you dizzy.

“Fuck,” he grunted, hands goin’ to your hips finally. “Just like that — damn, you tryna make me come already?”

You smirked, breathless.

“You talk all that shit, now you foldin’?”

He bit his lip hard, grabbed the back of your neck, and pulled you down into a nasty ass kiss — teeth clashing, tongue heavy, breath hot.

Then he leaned back again.

“Stop.”

You froze, hips mid-roll.

“…huh?”

He looked you dead in the face, jaw clenched.

Voice serious.

“I said stop. You movin’ like you tryna win.”

You blinked again.

“I am??”

He leaned up just slightly, whispered low in your ear, “You wanna make me come, you gon’ have to earn that shit. Now come here —”

You still sittin’ there straddlin’ him, lips parted, brows furrowed like — sir?

You just gave him three minutes of your finest choreography. You damn near caught the holy ghost on that dick.

And this man got the nerve to tell you to stop.

Now he got one hand wrapped around your thigh, the other holdin’ your lower back, pullin’ you down, bringin’ you back, slidin’ you onto him slow like he finna run this now.

“Lemme do it my way.”

His voice all rough and sleepy, thick from the liquor and late hour.

Eyes half-lidded but focused, locked in like you the only thing in his world.

You couldn’t breathe for a second, ‘cause the way he filled you? Had you clenchin’ all over again.

He tilted his head to the side and smirked just a lil. “That’s what I thought.”

Now you tryin’ to ride again, but he’s not lettin’ you bounce.

He’s holdin’ your hips in place, grindin’ you down into him, movin’ you the way he want.

Slow. Deep. Pressure in every roll.

You swear you can feel everything.

The heat. The weight. The way he pulses thick inside you with every tiny lil moan that slips past your lips.

Your head falls forward against his chest and he laughs, low and cocky.

“Yeahhh, that’s what I wanted,” he mutters, thumb draggin’ up your spine under the hoodie.

“I don’t need all that fast shit. Let me feel you.”

You whimper.

Like a real whimper.

He lifts your chin, makes you look at him while you grind on him like you tryna make a baby.

You feel so full. So slow-drunk on the way he’s movin’ you, the way he knows what he’s doin’.

“You miss me?” he asks, like it’s not obvious.

Like your pussy didn’t answer that the moment he slapped your ass.

“Yeah,” you mumble, eyes glossy.

“Miss me like this?”

You nod quick, grindin’ harder, and he sucks his teeth.

“Say it.”

“I missed you like this.”

He smirks. “I know.”

Then he’s kissin’ you.

Hard.

One hand on the back of your head, tongue slidin’ deep into your mouth.

Other hand grippin’ your ass, pushin’ you down on him deeper.

You swear he hit a spot that made your whole body lock up.

You moanin’ into his mouth.

Shakin’ from how thick and deep he’s inside you.

Fingernails diggin’ into his shoulders, hoodie startin’ to stick to your back from sweat.

His lips break away from yours and go straight for your neck — you already know.

Kissin’ that spot under your ear, suckin’ on your pulse point, leavin’ a wet trail down your shoulder while you grind on him like you forgot how to stop.

And when you do try to lift up, finally try to bounce again?

He groan low, grips your waist tight, and mutters:

“Nah. Don’t run now.”

“I’m not tryna run —“

And he start movin’ his hips —

Up into you.

Controlled.

Deep.

He takin’ over now.

You can’t even ride no more — he fuckin’ you from under, thick strokes that got your toes curlin’ and your forehead sweatin’.

Eyes rollin’ and lips tremblin’ and you swear he hittin’ your soul.

“Who this pussy belong to?” he asks, voice dark.

“You,” you gasp.

“Say it again.”

“It’s yours — it’s yours, Elijah f-fuck —”

Next thing you knew — flip.

Whole body turned over like you was on a damn rotisserie.

He had you on your stomach, ass up, legs parted just a lil, still slippery from the first round.

You barely even processed the motion and this man was lining it back up.

He slid back in slow — so slow you clenched up on instinct.

You could feel every thick inch stretchin’ you open all over again.

“Mhmm,” he muttered under his breath. “Yeah, you still got it f’sho.”

You didn’t even respond. Couldn’t.

You were too busy gripping the pillow like it owed you money.

First he went slow.

Real deep. Real calculated.

Like he was tryin’ to memorize your shit.

Pushing in alllll the way — till his pelvis kissed your ass —

Then pullin’ out real deliberate, leavin’ just the tip in before doin’ it all over again.

Over.

And over.

Had your mouth open, but nothin’ was comin’ out. Just gasps. Lil shaky whines.

Then suddenly — like he changed his mind mid-stroke —

SMACK.

Hand landed hard on your ass, made you jolt, and then he picked up the pace.

Started pounding it, grip lockin’ down on both your shoulders like he was tryin’ to anchor himself.

Like you was runnin’ and he wasn’t lettin’ you go nowhere.

“Ain’t tell you to go like that,” he muttered, low and gritty, fuckin’ you through his own breathlessness. “Shit feel too damn good.”

You cried out something soft, probably ‘fuck,’ probably ‘please,’ probably your own name ‘cause you forgot his in the moment.

Didn’t matter.

He was locked in.

Elijah—well, “Smoke,” technically—you still don’t even know his full name.

But what you do know is he love him some backshots.

He worship that view.

Be behind you talkin’ to himself like ‘damn she thick.’

Takin’ long strokes just so he can watch it jiggle back on him.

Holding your ass open with both thumbs, spitting just a lil to keep it sloppy, whisperin’ shit like:

“This the part I missed the most.”

“Could nut just off this view, swear to God.”

“You was sleepin’ pretty earlier. Bet you ain’t think I’d fuck the rest of the night out you.”

He leaned over you now, chest grazin’ your back, lips brushing your ear —

“You finna come again?”

You nodded, whined, damn near cried.

Then he bit down on your shoulder, just a lil, like he was tryna remind you who’s shit this is.

“Good,” he whispered, grindin’ into you deep, finishin’ you off with strokes so raw and filthy, you felt your whole body go limp.

Legs tremblin’.

Pussy clenching hard like you tryna keep him in.

You gushed, loud and messy — like your body was spillin’ over from the pressure.

When he finally pulled out?

He was breathing heavy. Forehead glistening. Chest rising and falling like he just ran laps.

You barely got your bearings.

Still facedown in the sheets, tryin’ to remember your own damn name, when you felt him tug you up — strong ass arms slid under yours and pulled.

Next thing you know, your back hit the headboard and he was kneelin’ in front of you on the mattress, cock already hard again like he ain’t just fuck the soul outta you a minute ago.

He kissed you first, slow and messy — still breathing heavy — and his hand slid down to grip your jaw real soft before he whispered:

“You good?”

You nodded, but only glared up at the man.

You already knew what time it was.

He shifted forward on his knees, one hand guiding your face down, the other gripping the headboard behind you for balance.

“Put that pretty mouth to work,” he said low, tapping the thick tip against your bottom lip. “You got it.”

You looked up at him all slow, mouth already watering, lips partin’ soft as hell —

He slid in easy, let you suck just the tip at first, then eased deeper…hand cradling your jaw, thumb rubbing the hinge of it.

Deeper…

And he moaned — actually moaned — head falling back just a little, abs tight, the kind of sound that made you clench around nothing.

You didn’t even care that your jaw was starting to ache.

Didn’t care your lashes were stickin’ together from the lil tears in your eyes.

All you knew was his hand was resting real firm on the crown of your head now, not forcing, just guiding, and you wanted to give him exactly what he needed.

Then…he started movin’.

Real slow at first.

Pushin’ his hips forward while he kept his grip on the headboard — and suddenly it wasn’t just head, it was a full-on face-fucking.

Your headboard knockin’ lightly behind you from the pressure, your throat stretched wide, lips glossy and spit-slick, and he lookin’ down like:

“Mmm, that’s it. Look at me. Don’t look away.”

You glared up through your lashes, jaw sore, throat burning — but you didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

You was in too deep — literally.

He kept it slow at first, hips grindin’ into your mouth like he was fuckin’ your throat the same way he fuck your pussy —

But then he started gettin’ bold.

Picked up the pace a little, started rockin’ into your mouth with a rhythm that had your whole head movin’ against the headboard —

Bump. Bump. Bump.

Like he was tryin’ to put your tonsils on sick leave.

Every now and then he’d pause, pull back and tap his tip against your tongue — watchin’ the spit fall from your lips to your chest —then slide back in all slow with a breathy, “That’s my girl…”

At one point?

He laced his fingers in your curls, held your head steady, and said with the softest lil grunt —

“I’ma cum if you keep doin’ that shit.” Then added with a smirk, “You want it?”

You nodded. Couldn’t even speak.

He let go of the headboard to use both hands on your head now, thrustin’ real slow and deep, jaw clenched tight, abs flexed as he fucked into your mouth like he was damn near in love.

His breathing turned to groans.

His thighs started tremblin’.

And finally — finally — he gave a rough groan and buried himself deep, chest stuttering as he came down your throat.

You swallowed every drop.

Because…obviously.

Afterwards?

He leaned forward, kissed you slow, wiped your chin, whispered against your lips like:

“You gon’ be the death of me.”

And you just smiled.

You barely caught your breath before he leaned back, lashes low and tipsy smirk tugging at his lips — eyes dragging over you like he was tryna savor you all over again.

Still flushed from that mouthwork he just got. Still kneeling on the bed in just his damn chain and a glistening trail down his abs.

That’s when he said it — voice all raspy and deep like he ain’t just moan your name a second ago.

“Let me eat it next…”

He bit his lip a little. “C’mon. Sit it right here.”

You blinked. “What?”

He tapped his chest, then slid both hands down his stomach slow as hell, eyes never leavin’ yours.

“Sit. On. My. Face.”

Chile.

You ain’t even get a full thought off before he grabbed your thighs, pulled you up like you was light as air, and laid back against the pillows — one arm under your ass, the other spreading your legs like he already knew the script.

“You scared?” he teased, that smirk still sittin’ pretty even with his head on the damn mattress.

And you? Tipsy off his energy now.

You climbed over him slow, shaky thighs hovering, hands braced on the headboard — and when you finally lowered down, you barely touched his lips before he grabbed your hips and pulled you all the way down like:

“Mm-mm. I said sit.”

BABYYYY.

He devoured you.

No warning. No easing into it. Just straight tongue work like he was starvin’ for it.

Mouth wide open, lips partin’ soft before he flattened his tongue and licked one long, slow stripe through your folds — and then he locked in.

Eyes closed.

Low groans vibrating right through you.

He had your thighs trembling in under thirty seconds and his grip on you? Lord. Possessive. Firm. Like he wanted the weight of you on his face.

You looked down at him, eyes glossy, and he just groaned against you like he was the one getting off. Grippin’ your ass, guiding your hips to ride his mouth like you was a lil toy.

“That’s it… keep goin’,” he muttered into you, lips wet and chin gleamin’. “Tastes so fuckin’ good…”

He ate you like he meant it. Like it was the last meal and you the last girl on earth.

Tongue fuckin’ into you, lips suckin’ your clit, switchin’ it up every time your breath caught just to keep you beggin’. You was grindin’ without even meanin’ to — rockin’ into his face while your hands clawed at the headboard, back archin’, moans comin’ out all high and helpless.

Then —

He hit you with the combo.

Two thick fingers slid in while he sucked your clit — and that was it.

You came so hard your whole body stiffened, legs tryna close on his head and he just hummed, held you open and kept going.

“Uh uh. Let me get that other one.”

You was breathless. Sweaty. Legs weak.

And he still had the nerve to pull you down closer, lickin’ you slow like he was tryna memorize the taste.

“Damn, mama…you gon’ kill me with this.”

You slid off him eventually, thighs shakin’, face buried in the sheets — and he just laid there lookin’ smug, mouth glistening, hand on your lower back like yeahhh, I did that.

You tried to move.

Key word: Tried.

But all you managed was a whisper: “You a munch.”

He smirked wider, leaned over and kissed the back of your thigh. Then both your ass cheeks.

“Yeah,” he said, voice deep and sleepy now. “And?”

Lil taglist — @sertonins - @crimsonxm00n @klssngss @juicypinksblog @mingisg00dgirl @stilestotherescue @imperfectlyperfect78 @hoouno06 @kirayuki22 @christinabae @pinkpantheris @kxllanxtdoor

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draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

Text

(4) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

It was a couple days later.

You still couldn’t get the damn smell of him off you.

You washed up twice, too.

Didn’t help that every time your phone buzzed, your stomach did that lil flip thing like he was texting you right now.

And he was texting.

Not blowin’ your phone up, not tryna run game, just… consistent.

“U eat today?”

“Let me know when you get home”

“What u doing Sunday”

“Send me a pic”

And every one of those little dry-ass texts made you bite your bottom lip and giggle like you was 16 again.

You didn’t even tell your friends everything yet.

You was tryna gatekeep a little. Keep it soft and sacred. But babyyyy…

You liked this man.

You really did.

So when he hit you like:

“yo my people throwin something Friday, u tryna slide?” you ain’t hesitate.

You threw on the real cute outfit too.

Crop top, jeans that made your lil shape do what it needed to do, hoops, lipgloss hittin’…and you threw on that same hoodie he gave you just to be annoying.

You told him, “I’m not dressin’ up.”

He texted back, “I already know u gon be fine, idc.”

Like it was that simple.

And of course it was.

The party was jumpin.

Like…somebody’s backyard turned into a whole scene.

Lights strung from the fence, music bumpin’ from a giant-ass speaker tower in the corner, girls dancin’, people posted up in little circles with red cups, full tables of bottles and plates of food and somebody uncle tryna get the aux.

You pulled up with your girls but instantly spotted him — Smoke.

Black tee, big chain, jeans hangin’ just right, and those same intense-ass eyes that always made your legs weak.

He came straight to you, didn’t say a word at first — just slid his hand around your waist, kissed your cheek like it was owed, and whispered, “Didn’t I tell you I wanted to see you again?”

You grinned like a fool.

“Thought you was playin’.”

“Do I look like I play wit you?”

Whewww.

Somebody come pick you up. You not gonna make it through the night.

Y’all walked around for a little—he introduced you to a couple cousins, some friends, his best friend, TRINAAAA — she hugged you and she smelled nice and she so pretty — then met some dude named “Man Man” who sold dirt bikes on the side — and everything felt…easy?

But of course, of course, somebody had to come ask him to handle something.

You ain’t hear the whole convo, but you caught enough:

“…bro trippin’ with the bottles…”

“…nah, I’ma fix it, stay right here.”

He kissed the side of your neck.

“Gimme like five minutes.”

You nodded.

No biggie.

Until ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

You wasn’t pressed, but like…this a lotta people you don’t know. And your friend…where outta sight.

Music was loud.

Your cup was gettin’ low.

Your girls had wandered off to find plates and take selfies.

You was kinda bored.

So you started minglin’. A little.

Couple girls waved you over like, “girl you too cute to be standin’ there by yaself, c’mere.”

You ended up talkin’ to a couple of them —nothing crazy.

They was funny.

Some girl named Nessa was tellin’ a story about her baby daddy tryin’ to sell her wig on Facebook Marketplace.

And just when you was laughin’ and about to ask for another drink —

You see him.

Smoke.

Or…wait.

You blink.

Nah. That’s not Smoke.

Same build.

Same lil mustache.

Same face damn near.

But something was off.

The walk? The energy?

Different.

He had on a red shirt, first off.

Gold watch, tattoo on his neck that Smoke ain’t have.

He was talkin’ to somebody but then his eyes landed on you.

And whewww…he looked you up and down like he was tryna figure out if you was edible.

You felt your throat get dry.

Then he started walking your way.

Confident. Slow.

Like he knew you was gonna stand there and take it.

“Damn,” he said, smirking as he got close. “You must be the one my brother been actin’ funny behind.”

You blinked.

“You stack…?”

He grinned.

“Yeah, that’s me. Nice to meet you.”

And lawddd.

The voice?? Just as deep.

Smile? Just as fine.

But the vibe? Whole different breed.

Smoke was smooth. Quiet. Watchful.

But Stack? Stack was a problem.

Loud. Flirty. Ghetto.

He leaned in way too close when he talked.

Looked at your mouth when you answered.

Licked his lips when you laughed.

“Yeah I been hearin’ about you,” he said, eyes glintin’. “He don’t ever bring girls around the family but now look — gotchu walkin’ round here in his hoodie, lookin’ all cute and shit.”

You laughed, shy.

“Stop.”

“Nah I ain’t even flirtin’ for real. Just sayin’. If I saw you first? You woulda been mine.”

EXCUSE ME???

Your heart damn near did a lil jump jump.

He winked.

“But it’s cool. I’ma let him have you. For now.”

And just like that, he walked away.

Left you blinking and tryin’ to catch your breath like…

Who tf was that and why he got me feelin’ like I just cheated??

You turned around — and who you see walking back up like he just missed the whole interaction?

Smoke.

“Sorry bout that. Had to check a situation,” he said, looking calm and casual as ever. “You good?”

You nodded real fast. A smile creeping on your face.

“Yeah, I just…I met your brother.”

His jaw ticked.

“Yeah. I figured he’d find you.”

You raised a brow.

“He ‘lil flirttt.”

Smoke looked you dead in your eyes.

“He don’t mean nothin’ by it. He just talk too much.”

You smiled.

“He told me if he saw me first, I woulda been his.”

Smoke leaned in real close.

Tugged you by the waistband of your jeans till your chest was almost pressed to his.

“Good thing he didn’t, then.”

And just like that?

You forgot all about Stack.

Or tried to, anyway.

You kinda forgot there was two of them.

Like…deadass. For a minute?

You was lost in the sauce — Smoke’s sauce.

All wrapped up in that deep voice, that slow walk, that ‘you-mine-until-I-say-you-not type’ shit.

But then Stack came floatin’ through the function like a walking distraction.

Grinnin’ all bold. Chain glintin’. Mouth reckless. Lookin’ like he ain’t never heard of a moral in his life.

And it hit you all over again:

TWO OF THEM.

Two of him.

Same face. Different fonts.

One lookin’ at you like you a whole meal, the other treatin’ you like dessert he already claimed.

And you? You standin’ there like Future in 2012 talkin’ bout:

‘Fuckin’ two bad bitches at the same damn time.’

(Okay, maybe not fuckin. But like. Thinkin’?? Wonderin’??? Daydreamin’ a little???? Don’t judge.)

Anyway.

You try to get back to the vibe — smooth and chill and pretty — just bein’ held against your man’s side, watchin’ the party from the edge of his hoodie.

You still grinning about the twin thing when she comes up.

Yeah.

Her.

Some girl in a lil two-piece set, lashes long enough to fan Jesus, hips switchin’ on autopilot like they got Bluetooth.

She don’t even look at you at first.

Slides right up to Smoke, touches his arm like she forgot who he came with.

“Heyyyy Elijahhh,” she says, voice way too soft.

(And yeah — Elijah. Like government name.

You ain’t even know that shit yet and she droppin’ it like a social security number.)

You blink.

Oh okay.

She flippin’ her hair, playin’ in his bracelet like she bought it.

And Smoke…?

He steps half a step back.

Light. Polite. Barely noticeable.

But you see it.

“Wassup, Asia,” he says.

And he don’t smile.

Not even a lil.

She giggles.

Like he told a joke.

He didn’t.

“I been textin’ you,” she says, all fake poutin’. “You don’t fuck wit me no more?”

And that’s when she look at you.

Right at you.

Then back at him.

Then smirks.

“Ohhh. I see what this is. My bad. I ain’t mean to interrupt.”

You smile real sweet.

“And yet — you still did.”

She blink.

Smoke grinned at the corner of his mouth but said nothing.

So you took it there.

Polite, petty, poetic.

“Anyway. You good though? You tryna be around or you just tryna be seen?”

She scowled.

“Oh don’t get cute.”

You blinked.

“…Baby I woke up like this.”

Smoke’s whole body shook tryin’ not to laugh.

You felt his hand slide around your waist, real slow.

Possessive. Warm. Heavy.

“She straight,” he told Asia, finally.

A gentle version of ‘you can go now.’

And she did.

Slow. Swishin’. Still talkin’ bout ‘we’ll see.’

But you ain’t care.

’Cause his hand stayed put.

And he whispered, lips right by your ear:

“You been waitin’ to say that, huh?”

You grinned.

“Swear I didn’t. She brought the energy, I just matched it.”

He laughed, low.

“You funny as hell.”

You leaned back into him.

“You ain’t tell me people was gon’ try to test me.”

He kissed your cheek.

“You pass every time.”

Later, y’all end up posted up by the side gate — away from the crowd, tucked behind somebody’s car.

Music still bumpin’. Stack walkin’ around in a ski mask for no reason.

But you and Smoke?

Y’all quiet now. Real still.

He leaned back against the fence, pulled you between his legs, arms draped around your waist like he needed to feel you close.

“I don’t like loud parties like that,” he mumbled after a while, chin on your shoulder.

“So why you invite me?”

“Wanted you to meet my people.”

You turned a little to face him.

“…You like me or somethin’?”

He looked at you.

And the look??

That sht did something to your chest.

“Ion invite people to shit. Ion cook for people. I definitely don’t sleep next to ‘em.”

Your breath caught.

“But you do all that for me?”

“Yeah.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“…Damn.”

The party kept going — but you was already gone.

Floatin’.

Drunk off him.

Off this.

You’d almost forgot what it felt like to be wanted.

Not for a night, not for convenience—but for real.

This man was making it real hard to play it cool.

And lowkey… you didn’t wanna play at all.

You just wanted to keep bein’ wrapped up in his hoodie.

Kissed slow behind fences.

Claimed in front of petty girls.

You ain’t say none of that out loud, though.

Just smiled and pulled him closer, whisperin’ like you was tellin’ a secret:

“Next time your twin flirt with me, I’m tellin’ him I’m spoken for.”

Smoke smirked.

“You better.”

You wasn’t drunk drunk.

Not like…on the floor, crying-in-the-bathroom, slurring-your-secrets drunk.

But you was…

tipsy.

Real cute drunk.

That sweet lil zone where your mouth got no filter and your hands do what they wanna do.

So when y’all ducked off again — behind the shed this time, some dark corner where the porch light couldn’t see you — you got real bold.

Smoke pulled you in, all warm and low and heavy-handed with the touchin’, and you?

You just started kissin’ on that neck.

Real gentle-like at first.

Just lips.

Slow. Pressin’. Lingerin’.

Right under his ear where he smelled like cologne.

He went real still.

Didn’t stop you. Didn’t say nothin’.

Just exhaled real quiet — like he was tryin to keep calm.

You grinned.

Then did it again.

Right a little lower, where his hoodie hung loose at the collar, skin warm underneath. You nuzzled there, then kissed down to his collarbone just because you could.

“Aight…” he warned, voice tight like he was holdin’ back a smile. “That’s how you act off five lil cups?”

“Five and a half,” you mumbled into his neck. “Lemme live.”

He tilted his head back. Let you keep goin’.

Shiiiii.

You was in your own lil world.

High off vibes. Off his skin and the weight of his hands pressin’ down on your waist. His fingers flexed a lil every time your lips hit the right spot.

“You always this affectionate?” he asked, real low.

“Nah,” you murmured. “I just like you.”

He hummed.

“You tell all the niggas that?”

You grinned against his jaw.

“You the only one still around, ain’t you?”

Then you snatched his phone.

Playfully, of course.

He ain’t even fight you on it. Just watched you scroll through his camera like he was amused.

No wild shit in there — just lil selfies, some blurry gym pics, one video of Stack rappin’ in the backseat and soundin’ like he needed water.

You turned the camera to yourself.

“Smile.”

He blinked. “For what?”

“For me.” you said, like duh.

Then scooted up close, leaned into his side, and took it anyway — your face real cute, his real unimpressed but lowkey grinning in the corner of the frame.

You giggled, looked at it again.

“Wait wait wait — we fine as hell.”

He smirked. “Say it louder.”

“WE FINE AS HELL!” you whispered-yelled, crackin’ up.

Then you took another one. This time he kissed your cheek right as you clicked.

That one? You saved to his favorites. Respectfully.

You kept takin’ em too.

Layin’ on him. Tongue peekin’. Lashes poppin’. Lookin’ like y’all was already three months deep in a soft launch.

He ain’t stop you once.

Just kept lettin’ you lean on him, arms heavy around your waist, head tilted like he was memorizin’ the way you smiled.

You bit his lip, thumb still flickin’ through the lil gallery.

“You gon’ delete these later?” you asked, tryna play.

He looked at you like you was dumb.

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

You blinked.

“Cause you’re weird.”

Next thing you know, he takin’ the phone back, scrollin’ a bit — and now he’s takin’ one. Of just you this time.

Candid as hell.

Neck kissin’ fresh. Lip gloss poppin’. Lookin’ real claimed.

“Lemme seeee,” you whined, tryna grab it back.

“Nah,” he said, tucking it in his pocket. “That one mine.”

You blinked.

“You keepin’ it?”

“Yup.”

“…So I’m your lockscreen now?”

He grinned slow.

“Not yet.”

You gasped, all fake-offended.

“Wow.”

Then he pulled you close and whispered:

“Don’t worry. You workin’ your way up.”

After that?

You damn near climbed him like a tree.

Tipsy and flirty and feelin’ way too comfortable.

Kissin’ on his neck again, tugging on the strings of his hoodie, actin’ like you ain’t just argue wit some girl two hours ago over this same man.

You didn’t even care about the party no more.

Didn’t care that Stack kept poppin’ in and out the side gate yellin’ ‘y’all nasty as hell!’

Didn’t care that your lipgloss was smudged or that your phone was probably dead.

All you cared about was the way he was lookin’ at you.

Like you was all warm light and soft touches.

Like he was seein’ a part of you nobody else even tried to notice.

“You gon’ spend the night?” he asked, fingers playin’ with the hem of his hoodie you wore.

You shrugged. “Maybe. You gon’ behave?”

“No.”

You smirked.

“Well then.”

Lil taglist — @sertonins - @crimsonxm00n @klssngss @juicypinksblog @mingisg00dgirl @stilestotherescue @imperfectlyperfect78 @hoouno06 @kirayuki22 @christinabae @pinkpantheris @kxllanxtdoor

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draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

Text

(3) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

A/N: short lil chapter…sorry

You woke up the next morning sore.

But not like “I need a chiropractor” sore.

More like…“Yeah, that man did exactly what needed to be done” sore.

Thighs tender.

Lower back pulsing a little.

Neck stiff in that good way from how he bent you up last night.

And your coochie?

Worn. The hell. Out.

Not in a bad way.

More like: “Damn, this what it feel like to be dealt with properly?” kind of way.

More like: “Maybe I am the problem, because how the hell I let myself go this long without THIS??” kind of way.

And his bed?

Way too comfortable.

It smelled like cedarwood, lavender, and wealth.

Blankets soft. Pillows plush. Sheets cool on your bare skin.

It was giving “he paid for thread count.”

It was giving “this ain’t no twin mattress on the floor”.

You groaned a little when you stretched, body sore but satisfied.

Rolled over, ready to complain about being broke in half —

Only to find him already up.

Sitting against the headboard.

Shirtless.

Sweatpants on.

Phone in one hand.

Other arm draped behind his head, showing off the kind of bicep that made you forget how to spell.

He was quiet.

Scrolling.

Thumb tapping slow like he was sending voice notes.

You blinked up at him.

“Damn…good morning to you too.”

He looked down.

Smirked.

“Sleep good?”

You rubbed your eyes.

“Like the dead.”

He leaned down, kissed your forehead.

You smiled.

Then narrowed your eyes a little when you noticed that he kept typing.

“Who that?” you asked.

He didn’t flinch.

“My best friend.”

You raised a brow.

“Girl best friend?”

He grinned.

“Yeah.”

You stayed quiet.

Not mad.

Just noted.

Because one thing about a girl best friend?

You been through that war before.

You stretched again, slowly.

Let the blanket fall just a little — just enough to remind him of what he wrecked last night.

He glanced down.

Smiled.

And then?

Then he pulled you in.

One strong arm around your waist, dragging you close until you were tucked against his chest, legs tangled up like y’all been sleepin’ like that for years.

He kissed your temple.

“You jealous already?” he murmured.

You frowned.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You gave him a look.

“Is she cute?”

He chuckled.

“Slick question.”

“Is she?”

“She married, baby.”

“Oh.”

He kissed you again.

“And pregnant.”

“Oh.”

You still squinted, skeptical.

“You tell her about me?”

He nodded.

“She was the one blowin’ up my phone the night you came to my place.”

Your brows jumped.

“For real?”

“Deadass. She said I had the ‘I found somebody’ look on my face.”

You sucked your teeth.

“I bet she did.”

He unlocked his phone again.

Tapped.

Then held it out to you.

A message thread open.

The name “Trina” at the top.

Most recent message?

“Sooo…did she sleep over or just blow her back out and kick her out? Cuz if you playing with another one I will key your car.”

You burst out laughing.

“Damn, she protective.”

“She real dramatic.”

You gave him a look.

“Can I respond?”

He raised a brow.

“You bold like that?”

You reached for the phone.

He didn’t stop you.

Typed real quick:

“Hi Trina. This is her. I’m alive. He did not kick me out. I made him feed me after. 10/10 would do it again. Sincerely, back blown.”

Sent it.

He looked over your shoulder and wheezed.

“You foul as hell.”

“She gon’ love me.”

“I already do,” he muttered, quiet.

You froze.

Then turned.

“…What?”

He blinked.

Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Cleared his throat.

“Like, you cool,” he said, trying to recover. “I ain’t sayin’ I’m in love with you.”

You smirked.

“So you saying I could make you fall?”

He kissed you again.

This time, on the lips.

Long. Slow. Deep.

When he pulled back, he smiled real low.

“Ehh.”

“I mean…if you goin’ through phones…”

He raised an eyebrow, amused.

“You offering?”

You shrugged, but it was giving nonchalant with a hint of panic.

“I mean, I ain’t got nothin’ in there for real. Maybe some lil randoms but like…nothin’ recent.”

He looked at you over the rim of his lashes.

Leaned his head back against the headboard and gave you this lil squint like he was tryna figure out if you was playin’.

“You said randoms?”

You blinked.

Paused.

Because okay maybe you didn’t phrase that correctly.

“Not like recent recent…”

He snorted.

“Okay. What’s the timestamp, then?”

You fiddled with the blanket.

Looked down at your fingers.

Tried to act all innocent.

“Like…last month.”

He blinked again.

Tilted his head.

You clarified, quick:

“BUT like…early last month. Like — barely February. The first. Matter fact it was still snowing out. That don’t even count no more.”

Now he lookin’ at you with the most “mhmm” face you ever seen.

“Girl…that was four weeks ago.”

You held your hand up.

“I ain’t even like him like that for real. It was one of them ‘lemme not be dry’ situations. He didn’t even get to stay the night. And he ain’t have snacks. You got snacks. That’s already more.”

He laughed, low in his chest.

Not mad.

Just enjoying the way you squirmed.

“So what if I said I do wanna see your phone?”

You looked at him sideways.

“You tryna make me nervous?”

He leaned in, real calm.

Voice deep.

Soft.

“I just let you talk to my best friend and reply to her wild ass message. You gettin’ breakfast and pillow privileges. Of course I wanna know who got access to you before me.”

You blinked.

Damn.

Okay then.

You picked your phone up from the charger on the nightstand — because yes, he let you use his actual fast charger, not some raggedy off-brand one — and unlocked it.

Held it out.

“You wanna see? I ain’t gon’ lie to you. There’s one lil link, but that’s it. He texted me like…two weeks ago tryna spin the block but I ain’t even open it. See the lil preview? Boom. Dry. Just ‘hey stranger.’ He ain’t even come with a plan.”

He took your phone real slow.

Looked down at the messages.

Scrolled a lil bit.

You felt your soul leave your body just a smidge.

Because okay you might still have a couple old flirty convos in there, but it ain’t like you was double-bookin’.

He didn’t even look pressed, though.

Just nodded.

Scrolled back up and handed the phone back.

“That’s cute,” he said, voice all deep and casual. “But you not linkin’ with him again.”

You blinked.

“I’m not?”

He looked at you like you knew better.

“Nah. You mine now.”

You blinked twice.

You weren’t expecting the claim to come out so smooth.

So sure.

And now you sittin’ there in his bed, still slightly sore, still wrapped in his T-shirt, phone warm in your hand —

Heart doin’ the absolute most.

“…Oh.”

That’s all you could say.

Just: oh.

Cuz you ain’t have no rebuttal.

No smart-ass comeback.

No “boy please.”

Just that quiet little oh that means ‘yup…I fell but I’m not saying that shit out loud.’

He chuckled, leaned over, pulled you back into him —

Pressed your cheek to his chest.

Started playin’ in your hair like he already knew how you like your scalp scratched.

“You deleting his number?”

You nodded against him.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You pulled back, looked up at him.

“I said yeah. You think I’m tryna lose this over a dry-ass ‘hey stranger’ text? Please.”

He kissed you again.

Slow.

Real kiss, too.

Like he was stampin’ his name on it.

Then he smirked and climbed out the bed.

“I’m makin’ food again. You comin’ downstairs or you need me to carry you?”

You groaned.

“My thighs still don’t work right.”

He looked back at you, proud as hell.

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

You threw a pillow at his back.

He dodged it.

Didn’t even break stride.

And you?

You laid there grinning like a fool.

Phone cleared.

Mind quiet.

Heart, dangerously invested.

The food was crazy again.

Like — no joke — you damn near cried into your second plate.

He made some pancakes, eggs, bacon and sausage.

And it wasn’t no “quick lil plate” either.

You was lowkey embarrassed the way you licked the damn plate.

You leaned against his marble countertop like, “You tryna marry me or just fatten me up so I can’t run away?”

And he laughed — that laugh, the deep one that comes from his chest — and said, “Who said you was allowed to run in the first place?”

Oh.

Right.

You grinned like a dummy.

Still full, still floatin’, still sittin’ there in his hoodie and them shorts he gave you last night, legs swingin’ from his barstool like you didn’t just get rearranged in his bedroom less than twelve hours ago.

And the whole time he movin’ around the kitchen — puttin’ leftovers in Tupperware, washing up dishes, wiping down counters — he stoppin’ every so often to lean down and kiss you on the cheek.

Or your shoulder.

Or the side of your neck, real low and slow like he tryna get your pulse to spike again.

You whispered “stop playin’ with me” every time.

And every time he said “who said I was playin’?”

And just kept on.

By the time he grabbed his keys, you was damn near goo.

You didn’t even expect him to drive you home. Like…you just assumed he’d call you a car or something.

But no.

This man held the door open, unlocked the car for you, and even adjusted the heat because it was a bit chilly.

He didn’t play no loud-ass music.

Didn’t rush you.

Just cruised through the city, hand on your thigh, thumb makin’ lil circles on your skin while you looked out the window, heart beatin’ like boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom on some high school crush type shit.

The sun was out.

Your lip gloss still poppin’.

And he looked so damn good drivin’.

One hand on the wheel. One hand on you.

Gold chain glintin’ in the light.

Lips all plush and sittin’ pretty like they made to kiss you exclusively.

Like…Lord.

Why was he like this.

And why did it feel so easy?

When y’all finally pulled up to your spot, he parked real smooth, put it in park like he already made up his mind.

You blinked.

Looked at him.

“You…gettin’ out?”

He looked over, like “of course?”

“You think I’m just gon’ let you walk upstairs by yourself? After I had you folded like a towel last night? Nah, baby. I’m escortin’ you.”

You wanted to laugh.

You tried not to smile.

But it was bad.

Like — you was cheesin’ so hard it hurt your cheeks.

He walked around the car.

Opened the door for you.

Walked with you all the way to the building door.

And then — THEN — when you got to the top of the steps, he stepped in close.

Real close.

His body was warm, big, familiar.

Like he already knew how to stand in your space without overstepping.

His hands found your waist automatically.

You looked up at him like ‘please don’t kiss me unless you mean it.’

And then?

Of course.

He meant it.

He leaned down real slow.

One hand tilted your chin.

The other slipped around your back, fingers splayed on your lower spine.

He kissed you — real deep, real soft — like he wasn’t in no rush to leave.

Like he ain’t have nothin’ better to do than taste you one more time.

And just when you thought it was over, he kissed your neck.

Not just one lil peck.

A line of kisses.

Right up the side.

Lips, tongue, little graze of teeth that made you damn near arch against him on the damn stoop.

You whisper, “You tryna start somethin’?”

He whispered back, lips pressed to your collarbone —

“Nah. Just don’t wanna leave you without a lil reminder.”

You grabbed his wrist, grinning.

“You think I’m not gon’ be thinkin’ about you all day anyway?”

He smirked, let you go real slow like it was physically difficult.

Like pullin’ away from you took effort.

“You gon’ text me when you get inside?”

“We’re literally right outside the door...”

He gave you a look.

“Don’t worry that — I’m tryna see you again. Of course I’m textin’ back. Matter fact—go head. Send me that lil ‘home safe’ text now so I got it locked in.”

You did.

Right there on the steps.

And he waited until the ding came through before he finally backed up, gave your hand one last squeeze, and walked off like the finest man on planet earth.

Which, honestly?

Might be true.

And now you standing in your hallway, phone still warm in your hand, hoodie still smellin’ like him, neck kissed and soul stretched out, thinking:

What the hell just happened.

And how fast can I see him again?

Lil taglist — @sertonins - @crimsonxm00n @klssngss @juicypinksblog @mingisg00dgirl @stilestotherescue @imperfectlyperfect78 @hoouno06 @kirayuki22 @christinabae @pinkpantheris @kxllanxtdoor

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draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

Text

(2) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

It had been a couple weeks.

Two and a half, to be exact.

Not like you were counting.

Okay. You were.

He said he’d call.

He didn’t.

Didn’t hit your line. Didn’t pop up. Didn’t say not one damn word.

Which was fine. Totally fine. You weren’t pressed.

Not really.

You had a life. A job. Rent. A soft little routine. Did your Target runs. Lit your candles. Even hooked your iPad up to the TV like a suburban housewife and watched your little shows.

But still.

Every time your phone buzzed? Your eyes flicked to the screen too fast.

You tried not to, but your body did it anyway.

It was dumb. You knew that.

A man like that don’t linger. Don’t play house. Don’t kiss you soft and sit on your couch like he belonged there unless he’s got a reason. And if you weren’t the reason — well. You wasn’t gonna beg for it.

So you did what hot, sad bitches do when they need a reset.

You got dressed.

And hit the club.

Your friends were already inside when you walked up. Music spilling out the door. Bass so heavy it shook the sidewalk.

You were cute, too. Thighs out. Gloss poppin’. That short dress that hugged you like a problem.

One of your girls whistled when she saw you.

“Ouuu, not you comin’ out like you got revenge on your mind — who got you feelin’ sexy like that, girl?” “Nobody,” you lied. “I just needed some air.” “Uh huh.”

Whatever.

You grabbed a drink and danced anyway.

Tried to lose yourself in the crowd, in the bass, in the strobe lights and the slippery neon fog.

Tried not to think about him.

But God ain’t like you. He don’t let you lie for long.

Because when you turned around —

There he was.

Smoke.

Not in a hoodie this time.

Nope.

Tonight, he was in a black tee that hugged his arms and hung loose off his belt, jeans low on his hips like a sin, gold chain catching every light in the room.

He looked so good, you damn near moaned on sight.

Lord.

It's been too weeks too long and you forgot how tall he was. How that walk looked — slow, heavy, like he was carrying something dangerous in his back pocket.

His eyes found you like they’d been searching all night.

And when they landed?

Whew.

That stare had you wanting to throw your phone across the damn club.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t give him shit.

You just kept sipping your drink, real slow, like your knees weren’t already warm and turned away, as if that would make everything better.

He came up behind you, didn’t say nothing. Just leaned in a little — voice deep, low, close enough to brush your ear.

“I was gon’ call.”

You turned your head a little, gave him a look.

“Uh huh.” “I had to handle some shit.” “Of course you did.”

His eyes dragged down your body like he was trying to catch up for lost time.

“Missed me?”

You scoffed, rolled your eyes.

“You missed me,” he said, already sure.

You started to say something slick, but he was already reaching — hand sliding around your waist like it was made to be there.

“You look good, baby,” he said. And lord…the way he said baby.

Like a prayer. Like a promise. Like a problem you couldn’t wait to get tangled up in again.

“You ain’t supposed to be out here alone,” he muttered against your ear, voice wrapped in molasses. “I’m not alone.” “You ain’t with me.” “You not my man.” “Yet.”

Girl.

You had to finish your drink just to keep from screaming.

Your friends were watching.

One of them caught your eye and made the oooh he fineee face. You ignored her. Barely.

“Why you here?” you asked. “Don't you got corners to haunt or empires to run?”

“Empire still standing. I wanted to see you.”

“And you just knew I’d be here?”

He smirked.

“Like I said. People talk. Eyes on you.” “That’s not creepy at all.” “I ain’t tryin’ to be cute. I’m tryin’ to keep you safe.”

Safe.

You hated that the word made something in your chest flutter.

“You don’t even know me,” you said. He leaned down just a little, nose brushing your cheek.

“I know enough.”

He didn’t try to dance. Didn’t drag you off. Just stood there. Close. Warm.

Watching you.

Protecting you...?

Claiming you without saying the words.

And you let him.

Because what else were you gonna do?

Act like your thighs weren’t shaking? Pretend that kiss from two weeks ago didn’t haunt your dreams? Lie and say you didn’t want his hands on your skin?

You finally turned to face him.

Head tilted. Arms folded. Slick as always.

“You done handling whatever that shit was?”

His smile was slow this time. Crooked.

“Not even close,” he said. “But I’ll make time for you.”

You were maybe halfway through your sixth drink when the tipsy started to hit.

Not the sloppy kind.

The cute kind. The I’m smiling a little too hard, my hips feel loose, and I want to make bad decisions with a good-smelling man kind.

And lordddd—he was right there.

Still standing behind you, still close. One big hand ghosting the curve of your waist like he knew you were starting to melt.

“I shouldn’t let you drink like that,” he murmured, deep and gravelly, against the shell of your ear.

“Why?”

“‘Cause then you gon’ start actin’ up.” You leaned back a little, smiling like a brat. “And what if I wanna act up?”

He exhaled — low and slow, like you were getting to him.

You were.

You felt it.

His hand slid lower, not too low, but just enough to let you know he wasn’t playing fair.

“You tryin’ to get in trouble?” “Already in it,” you muttered.

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Next thing you knew, you were in the back of a sleek black car, windows tinted too dark to be legal, the city sliding past like it was watching you make a mistake.

You weren’t even nervous.

You should’ve been.

But you weren’t.

“Where we going?” you asked, a little breathy, a little buzzed, legs crossed and hand pressed to your thigh like you needed to keep your heart from leaping out.

“My place,” he said. “Is it nice?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you out the corner of his eye, smirk curling his lip like ‘you’ll see.’

And baby. You saw.

His house?

Was not a regular ass house.

This was not no “man cave, LED lights, half-eaten wings on the counter” type of bachelor spot. No.

This was grown. This was dangerous man with money and secrets levels of fine.

Soft lights. Dark wood. Cold stone countertops. Art on the walls that looked like it cost more than your whole rent for a good couple months. A massive floor-to-ceiling window facing the city skyline.

And it was quiet.

No TVs blaring. No music. Just the low hum of the fridge and the sound of your heels hitting the floor as you walked in like you hadn’t just made the worst best decision of your week.

“Smoke,” you breathed, doing a slow turn. “What the hell do you do?”

He took your jacket, didn’t answer. Just hung it on a hook and walked past you like he owned everything in the world.

“You want some water?” “Nah, I want you.”

You hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

But you were tipsy. And a little freaky. And he looked so good, standing there all quiet and fine with his jaw clenched and his eyes low like he could already smell what you wanted.

You took a few steps toward him.

And he didn’t move.

Just let you come close, slow, like you were testing something.

Your hands slid up his chest — slow — and lord that man was solid.

He looked down at you like you were a riddle he wanted to solve with his mouth.

You tilted your head, smiled. “Still tryna keep me safe?” He dipped his head a little, whispering — “I’m tryna keep you mine.”

Whewwwww.

He kissed you before you could even react.

Hard.

Like he’d been starving. Like he was mad you were out there in the world and not already pressed against him like this.

And you… Baby. You melted.

Gripped his shirt. Lifted on your toes. Moaned into his mouth like a little problem.

He picked you up so fast your brain lagged a second. Next thing you knew, your legs were around his waist, your back was on some soft-ass couch, and his mouth was on your neck like he was trying to figure out where to bite first.

“Goddamn,” you gasped, grabbing at him. “Why you this fine?” He just chuckled low, a little mean.

“You still drunk?” You nodded. “A little.” “You always act like this when you drink?” “…maybe.”

He pulled back, eyes dark and glinting.

“You gon’ let me find out?”

Let?

LET??

Sir.

You were already undone.

Already laying there squirming with your dress riding up and your pulse thumping like a bassline.

So you sat up. Slid your hands under his shirt. Let your mouth trail down his throat just enough to make him grunt.

“Why don’t you show me what you been handling these last two weeks?”

That was all it took.

He picked you up again like you weighed nothing, carried you through that fancy ass house like a fever dream, and the next thing you knew —

You were in his bedroom.

And girl.

It was worse.

Soft gray sheets. Pillars of shadow and light. More floor-to-ceiling windows with the moon shining right in.

Like something out of a movie.

Or a memory you’d been waiting to fall into.

He laid you down so gentle it made your heart ache. Palmed your thigh. Watched your face. Like he needed permission. Like he needed you to say yes even though your body already had.

You pulled him down by the chain around his neck. “You gone keep playing with me or what?”

And then — he stopped.

Just for a second.

Looked at you.

Really looked.

And he said—

“You sure?”

And girl. That’s when you knew.

You were cooked.

Because even though his voice was deep and mean and velvet-rich, there was care in it.

And that made you want him more than anything.

So you pulled him in and whispered, “Don’t make me ask twice.”

And he didn’t.

One second you were teasing him by that chain, and the next — you were on your stomach, hips lifted, cheek pressed to the plush of that expensive-ass comforter, looking back with your brows furrowed.

He’d pulled your dress up and your panties down like they offended him.

Didn’t even rush. Didn’t talk much. Just stood there behind you for a second, one big hand gripping the meat of your thigh like he was lining up a shot he was not gonna miss.

And then —

Lord.

That first stroke?

Deep. Slow. Painfully good.

You gasped into the sheets, fingers grabbing for anything, back arching nasty off instinct.

“Smoke —”

He exhaled real low. Did it again. Slid back in like he was tryna carve himself into your soul.

And you felt all of him.

Thick. Heavy. Dragging against every soft spot you had with a pace that was filthy in its control.

He fucked you like he had all night. Like he didn’t need to chase it. Like he was making you lose your mind first.

And babyyy — you were.

You were gasping into the sheets, body rocking forward with every stroke, thighs trembling, toes curling hard in the blanket.

“Shitttt — smoke—” He groaned behind you. “You takin’ it so good.”

That voice???

That deep, almost lazy voice like he was in a trance from the way you squeezed around him every time he slid back in??

It had you GONE.

You tried to push back. Tried to meet him stroke for stroke. But he caught your hips—held them down with both hands like 'nah, let me work.'

And he did.

Deep, slow strokes that ached. That made you whimper and slap the mattress with a shaking hand like—'goddamn.'

You were losing it.

Legs starting to give out. Back arched up so sweet your lower spine was humming. Face buried in the blanket, eyes rolling every time he bottomed out with a thick, quiet grunt.

“Fuck, baby, you feel — mm — you feel too good,” he muttered, a little strained now. Like your shit was really getting to him.

And it was.

You felt him twitch. Felt his grip tighten. Felt his rhythm falter just a little as he locked his hips deeper and held it.

Just pressed into your ass, thick and full and pulsing, like he wanted to live there.

But he didn’t come.

That man just pulled out slow, grunted under his breath — “mm-mm. Not yet.” And flipped you over.

Round two came fast.

Didn’t even give you time to breathe.

Your legs were still shaking. Your pussy still clenching at air like it missed him.

But he was back.

Kissing you messy now. Dragging the tip across your folds just to tease before sinking back in.

Faster.

Not too fast. But more urgent. More filthy. More 'I should’ve had you weeks ago and I’m making up for it now.'

You moaned loud, head thrown back, nails dragging down his back like — 'yes please thank you more.'

He buried his face in your neck, groaning now. Little, breathless sounds against your skin. Hands planted firm on either side of your head, his body caging you in.

He fucked you like he wanted to own every damn part of you.

Your moans. Your breath. Your arch. Your fucking soul.

And when he hit that spot?

When that thick dick curved just right and dragged over it a few times like he was taking notes??

You folded.

Tried to close your legs. Tried to twist away.

He didn’t let you.

Just grabbed your thighs and pushed deeper. Mouth at your ear now — “Where you goin’, huh?” “You was talkin’ all that shit — now you running?” “Take it. Take all this dick.”

You screamed.

Not loud. Not theatrical. Just real.

A raw, gutted moan from deep in your chest that came right with that sharp, perfect burst of pleasure that had you seeing stars.

Your orgasm hit hard.

Made your whole body clench around him like a fist. Back arched, hands clutching the sheets like you were scared you might float away.

And still — he didn’t come.

He kept going. Harder. Meaner. Like he was chasing it now, low growls spilling from his chest like thunder.

He buried his face in your neck again. Grunted once.

And finally — finally — he twitched inside you, hips stuttering as he filled you up with a hot, heavy pulse that made you moan again.

Just one long, breathless “fuckkkk.”

The room was quiet after that.

Except your breathing. And his.

Both of you laying there, sticky and tangled up in the mess y’all made, heartbeats racing like you just ran through the apocalypse hand-in-hand.

He kissed your shoulder. Real soft. Almost shy.

You laughed a little — voice hoarse. “You gon ghost me again?”

He looked up from your neck.

And that man smirked.

“After this?” he said, slow, cocky, voice low as hell. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You ain't even realize he pulled out until the bed creaked, real soft-like, and the heat of his body left you.

You blinked. Felt all loose and jelly-limbed, like your bones had melted under that big ass man. Face still buried in his pillow. You were still tryna process what the hell just happened.

Your legs twitched. Still trembling. Your whole pussy was throbbing, empty and wet and so overstimmed you could barely think.

And then —

You felt him.

That soft wipe of a warm towel between your thighs. A gentle little 'shh' when you flinched. Big hands bracing your thighs open like he was apologizing for fucking you so deep.

“Still sore?” he asked, real low. Like he was asking if you needed a minute, or a whole second round.

You hummed something that didn’t sound like English.

“Damn,” he chuckled under his breath. And you could hear the smug in it. But also — something softer.

The towel moved slow. Careful. Wiping you clean like you were something delicate. Like he gave a fuck if he hurt you.

And it hit you.

You never had this before.

Never had a man fuck you dumb and still hold you like he ain’t wanna let go. Never had someone take their time cleaning you up when the high wore off. Never had anybody kiss on your shoulder like you meant something right after they blew your back out.

It felt...nice. Too nice.

You sniffed. Stretched out lazy and boneless when he tossed the towel to the floor and leaned back over you.

“Don’t move,” he said, low. “You good?”

You nodded, still kinda floatin’. “Yeah…m’good…”

He kissed the top of your spine. Then your shoulder. Then your cheek.

One long kiss right between your brows.

You blinked up at him — soft, dazed. He looked…different now.

Still fine as hell. Still tatted and thick and built like a damn linebacker. But — softer.

His eyes weren’t hard like when you first met. His touch wasn’t cold. He looked at you like he saw something in you he wasn’t expecting.

Then he stood up — Still naked, dick still heavy and swinging, and lorddd you were tempted to climb back on that man —

But he just ran a hand over his face, muttered, “Be right back,” and went to grab something.

Came back in a pair of gray sweatshorts — that damn print was PRINTING — and tossed you the same kind but shorts...

“I ain’t got nothing cute, but you can wear these,” he said, dropping a folded-up black tee on the bed next to you. “I’ll get you some socks too if you want.”

And — like — You didn’t know whether to scream or suck his dick.

Cuz why the fuck did that feel so intimate? Why he look so good in the warm light? Why he still got lip gloss on his neck from earlier??

You put on the shorts. They were big, of course. Sat low on your hips. The shirt too. Soft and clean and smelled like laundry and cologne.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Hair a mess. Lips swollen. Whole thighs out. And his shirt hangin’ off your shoulder like a confession.

Yeah. You looked fucked. And claimed.

You padded downstairs barefoot, the floor warm under your toes. His place was quiet. Clean. Minimalist but cozy.

Not the kind of space you expected from a man like him.

And he was already in the kitchen.

You leaned on the doorway, watching. Quiet. Just soaking it in.

He moved like he knew what he was doing—pulling shit from the fridge, turning the stove on, opening cabinets like he’d done this before.

“Not breakfast?” you teased, voice still a little hoarse.

He turned, a lazy smirk on his face. “Nah. You gon’ need real food after that.”

WHYYY he say it like thattttt. You bit your lip. Felt another throb.

He pulled out a container of pasta, some veggies, chopped chicken—like he was ready. He even poured you a glass of water. Sat it next to the barstool and gave you that look.

“Drink this before I bend you over that counter.”

Your legs damn near gave out again. “Yessir.”

He laughed. Walked up behind you while the pan heated. Kissed your temple. Then your jaw.

Then your neck, where he knew he left a mark.

You leaned back into him with a soft little sigh, the weight of his body behind yours like a safehouse.

He liked kissing, you could tell. The kind that didn’t rush. That meant something. Even if y’all hadn’t put a name to this thing yet.

You didn’t know his real name. Didn’t even know what he did for work. Didn’t know what any of this meant.

But right now, you were standing in a warm kitchen, wrapped in his shirt, belly rumbling, lips tingling, neck still sore from the way he kissed you while he stroked through you like he studied your body.

And he was cooking for you. Not because he had to. But because he wanted to.

This man — this quiet, deep-voiced demon of a man — was smiling a little while he stirred sauce in the pan like you didn’t just have your soul knocked into another timeline.

“Damn,” you mumbled. “What?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

You looked him up and down. The shorts. The arms. The softness. The fact that he touched you like you were fragile after doing unspeakable things to your guts.

You sighed. “Nothing. You just…fine as fuck. That’s all.” you breathed out.

He chuckled. Walked over. Took your chin in his hand and kissed you slow, deep, with a hum that had your toes curling again.

Then he said — “Wait ‘til you taste how I cook.” Smirked. Turned back to the stove.

You sat down with your knees pressed together, whole body humming, thighs clenched.

You ain’t expect to get emotional behind some damn food, but here you were.

Sittin’ in this man’s dimly lit kitchen, in his oversized shirt, drinkin’ cold water while your insides still shivered from how he handled you in the bedroom — And the smell hittin’ your nose like somebody’s Southern auntie been hoverin’ over that stove for hours.

Garlic. Butter. Onion. A lil heat in the back of your throat. He threw something in that pan that was doing spiritual things to your spirit. Like it was hugging the parts of you that ain’t been held in a while.

You blinked. Fidgeted. Chewed on your thumbnail like you ain’t want your lip to quiver.

“You good?” he asked, lookin’ at you sideways while he stirred up some pasta in a cast iron skillet.

You nodded. Too quick. Voice a lil too light.

“Mhm…I’m fine…”

Lie. You was not fine.

You was bout two seconds away from cryin’ over sautéed chicken and perfectly seasoned noodles. What the fuck.

“I put a lil cayenne in there,” he said casually. “Not too much though. Just a kick.”

You swallowed hard.

“Yeah, okay, Chef Boyar-dick,” you whispered under your breath.

He heard you. Grinned. Didn’t say nothin’ — just looked at you with that smug ass I know what I did to you smirk.

Then he plated your food.

Real neat. Pasta twisted all pretty. Chicken stacked just right. Grated cheese on top. Sprinkled parsley like it was chopped with intention. He even wiped the side of the plate off with a damn paper towel like he was competing on MasterChef.

OH YOU WANTED TO SOB.

He slid it over to you with a fork and another glass of water. Didn’t even fix his own plate first.

“Eat, baby.”

Lorddd.

Your stomach fluttered. Your coochie fluttered. Your heart fluttered.

You scooped up a bite, let the noodles wrap around the fork, and took it to your mouth.

BAYBEEE.

Flavor exploded like a damn prayer on your tongue. Savory. Warm. Just the right amount of heat. Like the food was made by hands that knew what the fuck pain felt like.

You stared at the plate. Stared at the man.

He watched you. Quiet. Patient. Like he wanted to see your reaction.

You chewed slow, then swallowed. Put your fork down.

And then…

“Why you doin’ this?” you whispered. Voice low.

Barely above the hum of the stove fan.

His brow furrowed. “Huh?”

You licked your lips. Blinkin’ fast. Eyes glossed over.

“Why you bein’ all…sweet like this? Like — you dicked me down, cleaned me up, made me a plate — now you feedin’ me like I’m some kinda…favorite.”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t try to joke it off.

He walked back over, real slow. Took your chin in his hand again — soft. Held your eyes in his.

“Because I wanted to.”

Simple. Honest. Soft.

You stared at him.

“You makin’ it real hard not to fall for you tonight,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed your cheek. Then your lip. His eyes dropped to your mouth like he was ready to kiss you all over again.

He didn’t say nothin’. Just leaned in, real gentle, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Then your nose. Then your lips.

And when he pulled back, he smirked.

“Who said not to?”

SCREEEEEEEEEAMMMMMMMM.

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draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

Text

Legs shaking… toes curling…. eggs cracking…..

(1) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

You weren’t even supposed to be out that night.

Whole week had been trash — your boss on your ass, car acting stupid, apartment loud as hell with neighbors fighting through the walls.

You needed a break.

So when your girls hit you up — “Bitch, we outside tonight, put some heels on” — you said yes.

You didn’t even think twice.

Short dress. Glossy lips. The kind of heels that said you might make a bad decision if the right man breathed on your neck.

The club was packed — lights flashing, bass thumping deep in your chest — and you felt yourself finally breathe when you got a drink in your hand and a song you loved came on.

You were dancing, laughing, living your little free life — when you felt it.

Eyes.

Heavy.

Watching.

You turned your head — slow — and caught them across the room.

Two of them.

Tall. Built like trouble. Dark eyes gleaming under the lights like wolves in the woods.

And fine?

God help you.

One leaned back against the wall — arms folded, chewing on a toothpick — looking at you like he already knew what you tasted like.

The other was talking to some girl, but his eyes? Still on you.

You swallowed — heart hammering.

Your friends screamed when the song switched — dragging you further onto the dancefloor — but you kept glancing back.

Who the hell was that? You couldn't really tell.

Fast-forward twenty minutes — you outside cooling off, drink in your hand, scrolling on your phone.

And he stepped to you.

The one from inside.

Black jeans. Black hoodie. Gold chain swinging. Those heavy-lidded eyes eating you alive.

“What’s your name, lil’ mama?” he said, voice low and slow.

You squinted up at him — heart pounding — but your mouth moved faster than your brain.

He was tall in that way that made you straighten your spine, hoodie hanging loose on that broad-ass frame like it was clinging for dear life. Gold glinted at his neck, catching the low streetlights, and the way his eyes moved—

Slow. Unhurried. Heavy-lidded like sin itself.

He wasn’t blinking. Wasn’t smiling either. He was watching.

And it was doing something to you that your little glossed-up, club-ready self hadn’t prepared for.

You scoffed lightly, not letting your eyes linger too long on his mouth, or his hands—veined, tatted, big enough to make your thighs press a little closer.

“Who, me?” You sipped your drink. “I don’t know you like that, sir.”

That “sir” was sweet. Smart. Maybe a little sharp.

And it made his jaw tick.

He dragged his tongue across his teeth, slowly, like he liked the way you tasted already.

“You gon’ know me,” he said. “Sooner or later.”

Lord.

He didn’t say it loud. Didn’t say it with a smile.

Just…stated it. Like gravity. Like fact.

You swallowed hard and tried not to show how hot your neck was getting.

He took a step closer.

Not enough to scare you. Just enough for the space between you to feel smaller. Warmer.

You leaned back against the wall casually, trying to play it cute—but your pulse was thudding. Your friends were still inside, probably throwing ass to the beat, and you were out here flirting with a man who could’ve been the devil’s body double.

“What’s your name?” you asked, voice smooth.

He smirked—but barely.

“Smoke.”

“That your real name?”

“Nah. But it’s the one you need to remember.”

You hummed, glancing down at your phone. Trying not to melt.

You had heard the name before. People whispered about him.

And his brother, Stack.

The Moore twins.

Trouble in two different fonts.

But Smoke? Smoke was the one they said moved different. Quieter. Crueler.

The one you didn’t want mad.

He didn’t act out.

He handled shit.

And here he was. In your face. Asking your name like it wasn’t probably already in his notes app under “sweet lil’ thing in that pretty dress.”

“You dangerous?” you asked him, tilting your head.

“What you think?” he said, voice low. “I look dangerous to you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t need one.

Because the way your lashes dipped told him plenty. The way you bit the inside of your cheek, looked away real quick like you weren’t all hot in the chest…

Yeah. He knew what time it was.

But still—you had the final move. And you weren’t about to let him play you into giving it all up like a dumb little groupie.

So instead—you smiled.

Real pretty.

You put your hand out slow, took his phone when he offered it, and dropped your number in.

Just your first name. Nothing more.

He looked down at it like it was gold.

And when you handed it back—you leaned in. Light. Soft.

Kissed his cheek.

“That’s all you getting tonight, smoke.”

And then you turned—heels clicking, dress swaying—walking right back into the club like you hadn’t just left the king of the damn city standing there with your number in his hand and a smirk blooming slow on his face.

He didn’t even chase you.

Just watched.

You woke up in your bed with one heel still on and glitter in your eyelashes.

Head pounding.

Mouth dry.

Phone buzzing.

“Ughhh…”

You rolled over and squinted at the screen.

Smoke (Mobile) 9:07 AM.

Hell no.

You tossed the phone face down and curled back under the blanket. Mind still foggy with club lights and too many tequila shots, feet sore from dancing in heels you should’ve thrown out two summers ago.

The night felt like a dream.

A blur.

Except him.

You remembered him crystal clear.

That voice. That smirk. That goddamn cheek kiss you gave him like some sweet lil’ Southern belle.

You groaned into your pillow.

Why did you do that?

Phone buzzed again.

Smoke (Mobile) 9:12 AM.

Back-to-back?

You side-eyed the screen, biting your lip.

And then—

Third call.

Smoke (Mobile) Incoming Call…

You stared.

Then finally hit ignore.

“Sir, it’s not even 10am,” you muttered, dragging yourself upright.

You made it to the kitchen, sipping orange juice straight from the bottle like a menace, still in last night’s dress with one strap slipping off your shoulder.

You rubbed your temples, then your phone dinged.

Unknown Address shared a location with you.

Your stomach flipped.

No name. No message.

Just a red pin hovering over your damn building.

You froze.

Then another message dropped.

“Come open the door”

No punctuation.

No emojis.

Just that.

Your eyes snapped to the door.

Was he joking?

You tiptoed over, heartbeat in your damn mouth. Peeked through the peephole.

And there he was.

Black hoodie. Hood up. Leaning against the wall like he owned the entire floor. One hand in his pocket. Other hand holding his phone. Head down.

Smoke at your damn front door like he’d lived there his whole life.

You didn’t even think.

Just unlocked it.

He looked up when it clicked open — and that slow, heavy gaze rolled over you like smoke under a door.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyes dipping down your body. “You always look like this in the morning?”

You pulled the door open wider and stepped aside, blinking up at him.

“How the hell you know where I stay?”

He stepped in without answering, brushing your shoulder — his presence thick — that quiet heat pouring off him again.

He looked around slow. Clocked your messy counter, the couch, the half-dead plant in the corner.

“You live alone?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, arms crossed. “You still ain’t answer—”

“I will get to that,” he said, low. “I asked a question.”

You stared at him, mouth open.

He just smirked.

“Relax,” he said. “Ain’t like I kicked the door in. You let me in.”

Damn.

You did let him in.

Something about the way he stood — tall, calm, like a storm in a hoodie — made your mouth dry.

You cleared your throat.

“I need a shower.”

“Go ahead,” he said, tossing himself onto your couch like it belonged to him. “I’ll be here.”

You blinked.

He pulled his hood down, leaned back, spread his legs — just making space. His gold chain caught the light. His eyes flicked to you.

“Go on, baby. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You stood there like a deer in headlights, every nerve buzzing.

You turned and headed to the bathroom — lowkey speed-walking — and locked the door behind you.

Your back hit the wood. Chest rising and falling.

Why was this man in your house?

More importantly—

Why did it feel good?

You stripped, hot all over, and stepped into the shower.

Let the water run over you while your mind raced.

He was sitting on your couch.

Comfortable.

Knowing damn well you were naked in the next room.

And your heart was pounding like you liked it.

You stepped out, dripping, towel wrapped around you, and cracked the door open to peek.

He was still there. Phone in hand. One knee bouncing slow.

“You good?” he called out, not even turning around.

“Yeah…”

You closed the door fast and leaned against the sink.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t ask to come in.

Just showed up.

Showed up and sat there like he belonged.

And maybe that was the scariest part.

Because some twisted, hungover, half-dressed part of you?

Kinda wanted him to.

Anyway —

You weren’t about to be that girl. Walking out in a towel like you ain’t have an ounce of sense. He was fine, yeah. Dangerous, yes. Built like everything you knew you should run from…

But still.

You had dignity.

Even if you did keep looking at yourself in the mirror—checking your face, adjusting your curls, heart thudding like you had something to prove.

You took your time. Went out the bathroom and into your bedroom.

Lotioned slow. Fresh pair of panties. Cotton shorts. Cropped tank top, soft and snug, your favorite one that always sat just right.

Simple. Cute. Still had a little “you can leave if you want, I ain’t pressed” to it.

Even though you were very much pressed.

You stared at the door for a second.

Took a breath.

Then turned the knob and stepped out.

The scent of your vanilla body cream followed you like a cloud as you moved through the hallway—each barefoot step slow, hesitant, but steady.

And there he was.

Smoke.

Exactly where you left him.

Leaning back into your couch like it was a throne. Legs spread. One arm tossed over the backrest. Phone gone now—he was looking at you.

Eyes dragging from your face, to your neck, to your waist, to your thighs.

Slow.

Like he was learning you.

“You clean?” he said, voice low, warm.

You nodded once.

“You still here?”

He smirked.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“You mad about that?”

“I ain’t say that.”

He nodded, eyes never leaving yours.

“But you thought about it.”

You shrugged, stepping into the kitchen to pour a glass of water—partly to distract yourself, partly to avoid looking back at him.

He watched you move, the way your shorts hugged your curves, the way your fingers curled around the glass.

“You let all strangers up in your spot like this?”

“You a stranger?” you asked, turning to lean against the counter.

His lips curved.

“Not after last night.”

You swallowed and sipped slow, heart tight in your chest.

"I kissed your cheek — you're acting like we fucked."

He wasn’t loud.

He wasn’t boastful.

But something about the way he said it — like you were already his — made your skin hum.

“So,” you said, setting the glass down. “You just…decided to pull up? No warning?”

“You ain’t answer the phone,” he said simply. “You gave me your number, yeah? Thought that meant something.”

You squinted.

“So you tracked me down?”

“Didn’t have to,” he said. “You know how many people know you? Or watch you? You too pretty to be out here thinking nobody’s paying attention.”

That made your breath catch.

And he saw it.

He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, voice dropping deeper.

“Don’t matter how late you leave. Don’t matter what you post or what you don’t. Eyes on you. Always. I’m just the first one to say something about it.”

You didn’t know if you were flattered or terrified.

Maybe both.

But you crossed your arms, trying to act cool.

“You always this intense?”

“Only when I want something.”

That shut you up.

Because that gaze? That posture?

He didn’t look like he wanted your number anymore.

He wanted you.

And not in some quick, messy way.

No.

He wanted to pull you. Keep you. Figure out how your day started and ended. Learn what made you tick. Put his name in your phone and in your mouth, just to hear how it sounded.

He wanted to sit on your couch with his hood off and his legs wide and look at you like you were already home.

And it was scaring you.

Just a little.

“You hungry?” you asked finally, voice smaller than you meant.

He leaned back, eyes raking over you again.

“I’m good. Unless you cooking.”

“You ain’t getting all that today, sir,” you said, smiled a little. “I’m still hungover.”

“I could fix that.”

You gave him a look.

He just chuckled — low and short — like he already knew he’d wear you down eventually.

And maybe he was right.

Because when you sat down across from him, arms still crossed, biting the inside of your cheek —

You didn’t tell him to leave.

But the quiet stretched out thick between you.

Not awkward — but heavy. Heavy like smoke after a fire. The kind of silence that made your skin itch ‘cause you felt like you were supposed to be doing something, saying something — but he was doing just fine saying nothing.

His eyes moved slow when he looked at you.

Not greedy, but precise.

Like he was trying to clock your tells. Your tics. The way you blinked when you got nervous. The little tongue poke when you were being smart.

Made you wanna fidget.

But you didn’t.

You sat on that couch, one leg crossed over the other, arms still tucked under your chest like a shield, trying not to let your eyes drop to the gold chain hanging loose around his neck.

That chain was disrespectful.

“So what you do?” you asked finally. “For work. For money. Or is that a rude question?”

Smoke snorted low — amused.

“What I do,” he said, dragging the word out, “ain’t always something you ask in daylight. Especially not when you still smell like vanilla body oil and got your knees showin’.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Sir—”

“But since you asked,” he cut in, “I got a few things. People call. I handle it.”

“So vague.”

“You want details, or you want the truth?”

“Both.”

He smiled—slow, lazy, like it tasted good in his mouth.

“Truth is, I move weight. Truth is, I don’t clock in nowhere. Truth is…” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, head tilting just slightly. “I don’t let nobody tell me what to do. Been that way since I was fourteen.”

You blinked.

He didn’t sound like he was bragging. No hype, no theatrics. Just matter of fact. Like he knew what he was and wasn’t about to apologize for it.

“So you are perilous.”

“I’m useful.”

“That what they call it now?”

“Only when I’m being nice,” he said, eyes dipping low as he glanced over your body again, “which I usually ain’t.”

You felt your breath catch. Again.

God, this man was good.

“I feel like I should tell you I don’t get down with all that,” you said, voice light, deflecting. “I like peace. Quiet. I like my little paycheck and my little business and my little sanity.”

“And yet,” he said, “you still gave me your number.”

Damn.

He had you there.

You leaned back, lips pursed.

“You’re real sure of yourself.”

“Nah,” he said. “I’m just sure about you.”

You looked away.

Because what the hell do you say to that?

No man ever told you that before—not like that. Not like he meant it.

Not like he already decided that the two of you were something, and your mouth just hadn’t caught up yet.

“You ever get tired?” you asked. “Of acting like nothing scares you?”

“You ever get tired of pretending you don’t like when I act like that?”

You snorted, surprised.

“You good at reading people?”

“I’m good at reading you.”

That stopped you. Again.

You felt your arms uncross before you even realized you were doing it.

Like some part of you was already surrendering.

Your voice was softer when you said, “Why me?”

Smoke let that question sit.

Then —

“’Cause you smart. Real smart. But messy with it. Like you trying to keep it together and falling apart at the same time.”

You blinked.

Hard.

“And you pretty,” he added. “But you don’t lead with it. You act like it ain’t your weapon. That’s cute. Dangerous too.”

Your throat got tight.

“And I like the way you talk. Mouth slick. You got fight in you. But your eyes? They stay looking for something. You tired, but not done yet.”

His voice dropped.

“I like that.”

You weren’t sure what emotion was creeping up your chest, but it was hot. Heavy. A little scared, a little intrigued. A lot turned on.

You leaned your head back on the couch.

“You always do this?” you asked. “Pull girls in with that therapy voice and street prophet energy?”

“Nah,” he said. “You special. I don’t do repeat games.”

You swallowed again.

"Right, right..."

Felt your stomach knot.

“You staying long?” you asked.

“Long as you let me.”

You looked at him.

He was still sitting back like he owned the room. But now his hand was resting on his thigh, slow-tapping, like he was thinking about moving.

Like he wanted to.

“Don't you got a brother?” you asked randomly, needing to ground yourself.

He nodded.

“Twin.”

You tilted your head.

“Fraternal or Identical?”

“Identical.”

“So there's two of you running around town?”

Smoke smirked.

“Yeah. But he ain’t me.”

You smiled — real slow.

“Noted.”

He tilted his head.

“Why? You planning to test it?”

“I don’t repeat games either.”

That made him grin — wide this time.

“Told you,” he said. “You real slick. Keep playing like that and you gon’ have a hard time getting rid of me.”

“Who said I wanted to?”

You didn’t even mean to say that out loud.

But the way his eyes lit up? Whew.

“Aight then,” he said, voice silk. “Now we getting somewhere.”

You rolled your eyes, checking the time without meaning to.

He’d been on your couch longer than some of your exes lasted in your bed. Legs spread like he paid rent here. Voice low and lazy like he had nowhere else to be.

So you said it.

“You don’t got shit else to do today?”

Smoke turned to you with that half-smirk, half-squint thing he kept doing. Like every word out your mouth amused him more than the last.

“I mean, I’m flattered,” you added, kicking your bare heel against the floor. “But I know y’all street boys don’t just sit still like this. Ain’t you got corners to stand on or money to count or something?”

He snorted.

“You think that’s all I do?”

“Ain’t say that,” you shrugged. “But I know you didn’t wake up and decide to play house on my couch. I’m not that fine.”

“You are that fine,” he said easily. “I just got better taste than time.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Boy, whatever.”

But he didn’t respond.

His phone buzzed.

Once. Then again.

You clocked the quick glance he gave it. The screen lit up bright across his thigh. He tapped it, turned it face-down, didn’t move.

“What’s that?” you asked, leaning a little.

“Nothing.”

“Your girl?”

That made him grin. Head tipping back a little as he stared at the ceiling like he couldn’t believe you asked that.

“You think I’d sit this long in your house if I had somebody else blowing up my shit?”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen men do worse for less.”

“Ain’t my girl,” he said, straight-faced now. “If I had one, I’d have said it.”

You gave him a long look.

Didn’t say anything else.

But then the phone rang.

Loud. Sudden. The name flashed up — too quick for you to catch it — but his mood shifted the moment he saw it.

Just a flick of something. That calm-mask tightening.

“Yo,” he answered, standing up.

His tone dropped. Business.

He turned away, walked toward your door.

You stayed on the couch.

Didn’t ask.

You weren’t stupid. You didn’t need the details. Man like him? Phone call like that? It wasn’t brunch plans.

“Aight,” he said into the phone. “I’m on my way.”

He hung up.

Turned around.

And there it was — the shift back.

That calm he wore like armor.

You didn’t bother asking what it was. You already knew better.

Instead, you pulled your phone into your hand and scrolled. Just enough to let him know you weren’t pressed.

He watched you for a second. Then:

“Lemme get a kiss.”

You scoffed — head jerking up.

“You for real?”

“Deadass.”

“You wasn’t even here ten minutes and now you tryna act like this our place. Boy, please—”

“C’mon, baby,” he said, slow and syrupy. “You not gon’ do me like that.”

And the worst part?

You folded.

Not fast. Not right away.

But slow, like butter melting on hot bread.

You rolled your eyes — hard enough to give attitude — and stood.

“You so needy,” you muttered.

“You like that.”

You walked over.

He was already smirking.

And when you got close enough for him to reach — you knew.

You knew what he was gon’ do.

Still leaned in.

Still let him pull you in soft. One hand to your lower back, the other brushing your jaw.

His lips found yours like he’d kissed you before.

Like he’d been thinking about it since the second he saw you.

The kiss was slow — firm. Not sloppy, not rushed.

Just pressure. Warmth. Intention.

And right when you started to lean in deeper—

Boom.

Not one, but both his hands slid down to your ass.

Gripped.

Full palms, full squeeze.

You pulled back just enough to give him a look.

“Really?”

“You surprised?”

You tried to step back.

He didn’t let you.

Just stood there with that fucking smirk, hands still in place like they had a right to be there.

“You gon’ let go?”

“You gon’ ask me nice?”

“Smoke.”

“Aight, aight.” He finally eased up. “Go on then. I’ll call you.”

“Please don't.”

He leaned in one more time — kissed the corner of your mouth.

Then he was gone.

Door clicked shut behind him.

And your heart?

Still tapping a wild rhythm in your chest.

What the hell was that?

And why the hell did it feel like the beginning of something you wasn’t ready for?

2K notes · View notes

draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

Text

(1) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

You weren’t even supposed to be out that night.

Whole week had been trash — your boss on your ass, car acting stupid, apartment loud as hell with neighbors fighting through the walls.

You needed a break.

So when your girls hit you up — “Bitch, we outside tonight, put some heels on” — you said yes.

You didn’t even think twice.

Short dress. Glossy lips. The kind of heels that said you might make a bad decision if the right man breathed on your neck.

The club was packed — lights flashing, bass thumping deep in your chest — and you felt yourself finally breathe when you got a drink in your hand and a song you loved came on.

You were dancing, laughing, living your little free life — when you felt it.

Eyes.

Heavy.

Watching.

You turned your head — slow — and caught them across the room.

Two of them.

Tall. Built like trouble. Dark eyes gleaming under the lights like wolves in the woods.

And fine?

God help you.

One leaned back against the wall — arms folded, chewing on a toothpick — looking at you like he already knew what you tasted like.

The other was talking to some girl, but his eyes? Still on you.

You swallowed — heart hammering.

Your friends screamed when the song switched — dragging you further onto the dancefloor — but you kept glancing back.

Who the hell was that? You couldn't really tell.

Fast-forward twenty minutes — you outside cooling off, drink in your hand, scrolling on your phone.

And he stepped to you.

The one from inside.

Black jeans. Black hoodie. Gold chain swinging. Those heavy-lidded eyes eating you alive.

“What’s your name, lil’ mama?” he said, voice low and slow.

You squinted up at him — heart pounding — but your mouth moved faster than your brain.

Slow. Unhurried. Heavy-lidded like sin itself.

He wasn’t blinking. Wasn’t smiling either. He was watching.

And it was doing something to you that your little glossed-up, club-ready self hadn’t prepared for.

You scoffed lightly, not letting your eyes linger too long on his mouth, or his hands—veined, tatted, big enough to make your thighs press a little closer.

“Who, me?” You sipped your drink. “I don’t know you like that, sir.”

That “sir” was sweet. Smart. Maybe a little sharp.

And it made his jaw tick.

He dragged his tongue across his teeth, slowly, like he liked the way you tasted already.

“You gon’ know me,” he said. “Sooner or later.”

Lord.

He didn’t say it loud. Didn’t say it with a smile.

Just…stated it. Like gravity. Like fact.

You swallowed hard and tried not to show how hot your neck was getting.

He took a step closer.

Not enough to scare you. Just enough for the space between you to feel smaller. Warmer.

“What’s your name?” you asked, voice smooth.

He smirked—but barely.

“Smoke.”

“That your real name?”

“Nah. But it’s the one you need to remember.”

You hummed, glancing down at your phone. Trying not to melt.

You had heard the name before. People whispered about him.

And his brother, Stack.

The Moore twins.

Trouble in two different fonts.

But Smoke? Smoke was the one they said moved different. Quieter. Crueler.

The one you didn’t want mad.

He didn’t act out.

He handled shit.

And here he was. In your face. Asking your name like it wasn’t probably already in his notes app under “sweet lil’ thing in that pretty dress.”

“You dangerous?” you asked him, tilting your head.

“What you think?” he said, voice low. “I look dangerous to you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t need one.

Because the way your lashes dipped told him plenty. The way you bit the inside of your cheek, looked away real quick like you weren’t all hot in the chest…

Yeah. He knew what time it was.

But still—you had the final move. And you weren’t about to let him play you into giving it all up like a dumb little groupie.

So instead—you smiled.

Real pretty.

You put your hand out slow, took his phone when he offered it, and dropped your number in.

Just your first name. Nothing more.

He looked down at it like it was gold.

And when you handed it back—you leaned in. Light. Soft.

Kissed his cheek.

“That’s all you getting tonight, smoke.”

He didn’t even chase you.

Just watched.

You woke up in your bed with one heel still on and glitter in your eyelashes.

Head pounding.

Mouth dry.

Phone buzzing.

“Ughhh…”

You rolled over and squinted at the screen.

Smoke (Mobile) 9:07 AM.

Hell no.

The night felt like a dream.

A blur.

Except him.

You remembered him crystal clear.

That voice. That smirk. That goddamn cheek kiss you gave him like some sweet lil’ Southern belle.

You groaned into your pillow.

Why did you do that?

Phone buzzed again.

Smoke (Mobile) 9:12 AM.

Back-to-back?

You side-eyed the screen, biting your lip.

And then—

Third call.

Smoke (Mobile) Incoming Call…

You stared.

Then finally hit ignore.

“Sir, it’s not even 10am,” you muttered, dragging yourself upright.

You made it to the kitchen, sipping orange juice straight from the bottle like a menace, still in last night’s dress with one strap slipping off your shoulder.

You rubbed your temples, then your phone dinged.

Unknown Address shared a location with you.

Your stomach flipped.

No name. No message.

Just a red pin hovering over your damn building.

You froze.

Then another message dropped.

“Come open the door”

No punctuation.

No emojis.

Just that.

Your eyes snapped to the door.

Was he joking?

You tiptoed over, heartbeat in your damn mouth. Peeked through the peephole.

And there he was.

Black hoodie. Hood up. Leaning against the wall like he owned the entire floor. One hand in his pocket. Other hand holding his phone. Head down.

Smoke at your damn front door like he’d lived there his whole life.

You didn’t even think.

Just unlocked it.

He looked up when it clicked open — and that slow, heavy gaze rolled over you like smoke under a door.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyes dipping down your body. “You always look like this in the morning?”

You pulled the door open wider and stepped aside, blinking up at him.

“How the hell you know where I stay?”

He stepped in without answering, brushing your shoulder — his presence thick — that quiet heat pouring off him again.

He looked around slow. Clocked your messy counter, the couch, the half-dead plant in the corner.

“You live alone?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, arms crossed. “You still ain’t answer—”

“I will get to that,” he said, low. “I asked a question.”

You stared at him, mouth open.

He just smirked.

“Relax,” he said. “Ain’t like I kicked the door in. You let me in.”

Damn.

You did let him in.

Something about the way he stood — tall, calm, like a storm in a hoodie — made your mouth dry.

You cleared your throat.

“I need a shower.”

“Go ahead,” he said, tossing himself onto your couch like it belonged to him. “I’ll be here.”

You blinked.

He pulled his hood down, leaned back, spread his legs — just making space. His gold chain caught the light. His eyes flicked to you.

“Go on, baby. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You stood there like a deer in headlights, every nerve buzzing.

You turned and headed to the bathroom — lowkey speed-walking — and locked the door behind you.

Your back hit the wood. Chest rising and falling.

Why was this man in your house?

More importantly—

Why did it feel good?

You stripped, hot all over, and stepped into the shower.

Let the water run over you while your mind raced.

He was sitting on your couch.

Comfortable.

Knowing damn well you were naked in the next room.

And your heart was pounding like you liked it.

You stepped out, dripping, towel wrapped around you, and cracked the door open to peek.

He was still there. Phone in hand. One knee bouncing slow.

“You good?” he called out, not even turning around.

“Yeah…”

You closed the door fast and leaned against the sink.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t ask to come in.

Just showed up.

Showed up and sat there like he belonged.

And maybe that was the scariest part.

Because some twisted, hungover, half-dressed part of you?

Kinda wanted him to.

Anyway —

You weren’t about to be that girl. Walking out in a towel like you ain’t have an ounce of sense. He was fine, yeah. Dangerous, yes. Built like everything you knew you should run from…

But still.

You had dignity.

Even if you did keep looking at yourself in the mirror—checking your face, adjusting your curls, heart thudding like you had something to prove.

You took your time. Went out the bathroom and into your bedroom.

Lotioned slow. Fresh pair of panties. Cotton shorts. Cropped tank top, soft and snug, your favorite one that always sat just right.

Simple. Cute. Still had a little “you can leave if you want, I ain’t pressed” to it.

Even though you were very much pressed.

You stared at the door for a second.

Took a breath.

Then turned the knob and stepped out.

The scent of your vanilla body cream followed you like a cloud as you moved through the hallway—each barefoot step slow, hesitant, but steady.

And there he was.

Smoke.

Exactly where you left him.

Leaning back into your couch like it was a throne. Legs spread. One arm tossed over the backrest. Phone gone now—he was looking at you.

Eyes dragging from your face, to your neck, to your waist, to your thighs.

Slow.

Like he was learning you.

“You clean?” he said, voice low, warm.

You nodded once.

“You still here?”

He smirked.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“You mad about that?”

“I ain’t say that.”

He nodded, eyes never leaving yours.

“But you thought about it.”

You shrugged, stepping into the kitchen to pour a glass of water—partly to distract yourself, partly to avoid looking back at him.

He watched you move, the way your shorts hugged your curves, the way your fingers curled around the glass.

“You let all strangers up in your spot like this?”

“You a stranger?” you asked, turning to lean against the counter.

His lips curved.

“Not after last night.”

You swallowed and sipped slow, heart tight in your chest.

"I kissed your cheek — you're acting like we fucked."

He wasn’t loud.

He wasn’t boastful.

But something about the way he said it — like you were already his — made your skin hum.

“So,” you said, setting the glass down. “You just…decided to pull up? No warning?”

“You ain’t answer the phone,” he said simply. “You gave me your number, yeah? Thought that meant something.”

You squinted.

“So you tracked me down?”

“Didn’t have to,” he said. “You know how many people know you? Or watch you? You too pretty to be out here thinking nobody’s paying attention.”

That made your breath catch.

And he saw it.

He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, voice dropping deeper.

“Don’t matter how late you leave. Don’t matter what you post or what you don’t. Eyes on you. Always. I’m just the first one to say something about it.”

You didn’t know if you were flattered or terrified.

Maybe both.

But you crossed your arms, trying to act cool.

“You always this intense?”

“Only when I want something.”

That shut you up.

Because that gaze? That posture?

He didn’t look like he wanted your number anymore.

He wanted you.

And not in some quick, messy way.

No.

He wanted to pull you. Keep you. Figure out how your day started and ended. Learn what made you tick. Put his name in your phone and in your mouth, just to hear how it sounded.

He wanted to sit on your couch with his hood off and his legs wide and look at you like you were already home.

And it was scaring you.

Just a little.

“You hungry?” you asked finally, voice smaller than you meant.

He leaned back, eyes raking over you again.

“I’m good. Unless you cooking.”

“You ain’t getting all that today, sir,” you said, smiled a little. “I’m still hungover.”

“I could fix that.”

You gave him a look.

He just chuckled — low and short — like he already knew he’d wear you down eventually.

And maybe he was right.

Because when you sat down across from him, arms still crossed, biting the inside of your cheek —

You didn’t tell him to leave.

But the quiet stretched out thick between you.

His eyes moved slow when he looked at you.

Not greedy, but precise.

Like he was trying to clock your tells. Your tics. The way you blinked when you got nervous. The little tongue poke when you were being smart.

Made you wanna fidget.

But you didn’t.

You sat on that couch, one leg crossed over the other, arms still tucked under your chest like a shield, trying not to let your eyes drop to the gold chain hanging loose around his neck.

That chain was disrespectful.

“So what you do?” you asked finally. “For work. For money. Or is that a rude question?”

Smoke snorted low — amused.

“What I do,” he said, dragging the word out, “ain’t always something you ask in daylight. Especially not when you still smell like vanilla body oil and got your knees showin’.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Sir—”

“But since you asked,” he cut in, “I got a few things. People call. I handle it.”

“So vague.”

“You want details, or you want the truth?”

“Both.”

He smiled—slow, lazy, like it tasted good in his mouth.

You blinked.

He didn’t sound like he was bragging. No hype, no theatrics. Just matter of fact. Like he knew what he was and wasn’t about to apologize for it.

“So you are perilous.”

“I’m useful.”

“That what they call it now?”

“Only when I’m being nice,” he said, eyes dipping low as he glanced over your body again, “which I usually ain’t.”

You felt your breath catch. Again.

God, this man was good.

“And yet,” he said, “you still gave me your number.”

Damn.

He had you there.

You leaned back, lips pursed.

“You’re real sure of yourself.”

“Nah,” he said. “I’m just sure about you.”

You looked away.

Because what the hell do you say to that?

No man ever told you that before—not like that. Not like he meant it.

Not like he already decided that the two of you were something, and your mouth just hadn’t caught up yet.

“You ever get tired?” you asked. “Of acting like nothing scares you?”

“You ever get tired of pretending you don’t like when I act like that?”

You snorted, surprised.

“You good at reading people?”

“I’m good at reading you.”

That stopped you. Again.

You felt your arms uncross before you even realized you were doing it.

Like some part of you was already surrendering.

Your voice was softer when you said, “Why me?”

Smoke let that question sit.

Then —

“’Cause you smart. Real smart. But messy with it. Like you trying to keep it together and falling apart at the same time.”

You blinked.

Hard.

“And you pretty,” he added. “But you don’t lead with it. You act like it ain’t your weapon. That’s cute. Dangerous too.”

Your throat got tight.

“And I like the way you talk. Mouth slick. You got fight in you. But your eyes? They stay looking for something. You tired, but not done yet.”

His voice dropped.

“I like that.”

You weren’t sure what emotion was creeping up your chest, but it was hot. Heavy. A little scared, a little intrigued. A lot turned on.

You leaned your head back on the couch.

“You always do this?” you asked. “Pull girls in with that therapy voice and street prophet energy?”

“Nah,” he said. “You special. I don’t do repeat games.”

You swallowed again.

"Right, right..."

Felt your stomach knot.

“You staying long?” you asked.

“Long as you let me.”

You looked at him.

He was still sitting back like he owned the room. But now his hand was resting on his thigh, slow-tapping, like he was thinking about moving.

Like he wanted to.

“Don't you got a brother?” you asked randomly, needing to ground yourself.

He nodded.

“Twin.”

You tilted your head.

“Fraternal or Identical?”

“Identical.”

“So there's two of you running around town?”

Smoke smirked.

“Yeah. But he ain’t me.”

You smiled — real slow.

“Noted.”

He tilted his head.

“Why? You planning to test it?”

“I don’t repeat games either.”

That made him grin — wide this time.

“Told you,” he said. “You real slick. Keep playing like that and you gon’ have a hard time getting rid of me.”

“Who said I wanted to?”

You didn’t even mean to say that out loud.

But the way his eyes lit up? Whew.

“Aight then,” he said, voice silk. “Now we getting somewhere.”

You rolled your eyes, checking the time without meaning to.

He’d been on your couch longer than some of your exes lasted in your bed. Legs spread like he paid rent here. Voice low and lazy like he had nowhere else to be.

So you said it.

“You don’t got shit else to do today?”

Smoke turned to you with that half-smirk, half-squint thing he kept doing. Like every word out your mouth amused him more than the last.

He snorted.

“You think that’s all I do?”

“Ain’t say that,” you shrugged. “But I know you didn’t wake up and decide to play house on my couch. I’m not that fine.”

“You are that fine,” he said easily. “I just got better taste than time.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Boy, whatever.”

But he didn’t respond.

His phone buzzed.

Once. Then again.

You clocked the quick glance he gave it. The screen lit up bright across his thigh. He tapped it, turned it face-down, didn’t move.

“What’s that?” you asked, leaning a little.

“Nothing.”

“Your girl?”

That made him grin. Head tipping back a little as he stared at the ceiling like he couldn’t believe you asked that.

“You think I’d sit this long in your house if I had somebody else blowing up my shit?”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen men do worse for less.”

“Ain’t my girl,” he said, straight-faced now. “If I had one, I’d have said it.”

You gave him a long look.

Didn’t say anything else.

But then the phone rang.

Loud. Sudden. The name flashed up — too quick for you to catch it — but his mood shifted the moment he saw it.

Just a flick of something. That calm-mask tightening.

“Yo,” he answered, standing up.

His tone dropped. Business.

He turned away, walked toward your door.

You stayed on the couch.

Didn’t ask.

You weren’t stupid. You didn’t need the details. Man like him? Phone call like that? It wasn’t brunch plans.

“Aight,” he said into the phone. “I’m on my way.”

He hung up.

Turned around.

And there it was — the shift back.

That calm he wore like armor.

You didn’t bother asking what it was. You already knew better.

Instead, you pulled your phone into your hand and scrolled. Just enough to let him know you weren’t pressed.

He watched you for a second. Then:

“Lemme get a kiss.”

You scoffed — head jerking up.

“You for real?”

“Deadass.”

“You wasn’t even here ten minutes and now you tryna act like this our place. Boy, please—”

“C’mon, baby,” he said, slow and syrupy. “You not gon’ do me like that.”

And the worst part?

You folded.

Not fast. Not right away.

But slow, like butter melting on hot bread.

You rolled your eyes — hard enough to give attitude — and stood.

“You so needy,” you muttered.

“You like that.”

You walked over.

He was already smirking.

And when you got close enough for him to reach — you knew.

You knew what he was gon’ do.

Still leaned in.

Still let him pull you in soft. One hand to your lower back, the other brushing your jaw.

His lips found yours like he’d kissed you before.

Like he’d been thinking about it since the second he saw you.

The kiss was slow — firm. Not sloppy, not rushed.

Just pressure. Warmth. Intention.

And right when you started to lean in deeper—

Boom.

Not one, but both his hands slid down to your ass.

Gripped.

Full palms, full squeeze.

You pulled back just enough to give him a look.

“Really?”

“You surprised?”

You tried to step back.

He didn’t let you.

Just stood there with that fucking smirk, hands still in place like they had a right to be there.

“You gon’ let go?”

“You gon’ ask me nice?”

“Smoke.”

“Aight, aight.” He finally eased up. “Go on then. I’ll call you.”

“Please don't.”

He leaned in one more time — kissed the corner of your mouth.

Then he was gone.

Door clicked shut behind him.

And your heart?

Still tapping a wild rhythm in your chest.

What the hell was that?

And why the hell did it feel like the beginning of something you wasn’t ready for?

2K notes · View notes

draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

Text

༒☙༒ The Secrets To Loving A Black Woman (NSFW Alphabet) — Elijah “Smoke” Moore x Black Fem!Y/n

genre: SMUT/somewhat fluff???

warnings: everything, i suppose.

synopsis: nsfw alphabet. duh.

↳ ༒ Fatalitysficbakery navigation menu ༒.

↳ ༒ Fatalitysficbakery Sinners menu ༒

༒

❝Your body ain’t forget me.❞⁣

༒

༒ ☽ ☙ ༒ ༒ ༒ ☙ ☽ ༒

༒ Smoke is A = Aftercare.

"Come here, girl." Elijah sighs, arm reaching the night table to grab his cigarettes, other arm stretched out, and waiting for your presence by his side. He's utterly satisfied when you take your rightful place beside him, and he can feel your skin against his again.

Y'all could clean up later, right now he just needed to feel the freedom he'd fought like hell for, all with you by his side. "There ya go...That's right." He mutters when you're safely snuggled against his chest, puffing idly on his cig and letting the smoke flow out before pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

Smoke's aftercare usually consists of him smoking a cigarette with you in his arms, if tomorrow might bring more challenges — He was happy to hold you for tonight. He'd rather bask in the glow than think too much.

༒ Smoke is B = Body Part

"Hold on now, brotha man. I got my eyes on a prize, sho nuff." Smoke pats Stack's chest, a cat's grin on his usually neutral features when his eyes laid on his woman. The belle of the ball; looked good enough to damn near eat, and fuck, those hips.

They get him every damn time; he stalks up to you in measured steps, his hands immediately reaching for your hips when he reaches you, he pulls ya close, his lips hovered above her ear. "Remind me why I let you out the house looking so damn good, darlin'? Because shit, woman, I'm having my regrets."

Your hips. The man is obsessed with your hips; if you're in his presence, you're in his arms, and his hands are gripping your hips like his life depends on em to keep on breathin'. It's no secret that Elijah adores a thick woman; his hands are always restless when he's near you, but they almost always land on your hips. Like it's muscle memory.

༒ Smoke is C = Cum

Smoke has your body memorized like a fucking book. He knows what pace you like it, what rhythm, and just when to snap his hips to make you see stars. He needs to please you, so when he sees the familiar signs, the dance begins. Your eyes are squeezed shut, eyebrows knitted, and legs locked around his waist, but he's gonna change all that. He needs to see your eyes. His hand that's now on your jaw, squeezes gently, and you know exactly what it means; you open your eyes, whimpers, and moans dripping from you like the most beautiful blues Smoke had ever damn heard. He feels his own climax approaching, but he's far too focused on you. "You know what you do to me, mama. Now let me see what I do to you." He whispers, hips snapping up into you, making you scream out his name like he was a God. There's a fucking gleam in his eyes when you start pouring over him like a fountain. He's so focused on you, he barely notices when his seed starts to overflow and drip down your thighs.

Okay, so, Smoke is a pleaser. No one can tell me any different. That's where he derives his own pleasure from, watching you feel good, and even further — watching you come undone from the pleasure. He wants to see how your eyes look as they glaze over; he wants to hear every moan, whimper, and every breath, but again...He wants to see you come undone. Needs to see your eyes, and if they're closed?

He's getting em back open. Usually with a jaw grip, sometimes a muttered "Open 'em." But he makes sure he sees you, when you cum. It's the quickest way to get him to do the same.

༒ Smoke is D = Dirty Secret

His eyes track you like a tiger as you cook, singing to yourself the music that flowed through the juke joint. You worked hard whilst everyone danced the night away, but that didn't mean you wasn't gone catch a vibe all on your own. Smoke saw the way your hips moved to the beat, the way you danced around that kitchen, and the Lord ain't have no fence strong enough to keep Elijah Moore away from you. "You look like yuh havin' fun over here, girl. Got room for another?" He comes up behind you, hands instantly meeting that golden spot, landing straight on your hips. He pulls you back until you can feel his muscled chest against your curves. "C'mon, boy. Now, you know I have work to do. Who you think gone feed all these people?" You protest with a smile on plump lips, but he's already grinning like a Cheshire, that Elijah. "A lil break ain't gone leave em' niggas famished, beautiful."

You. You are literally that man's dirty secret. He's obsessed with you. I've said it multiple times. You are his addiction. Smoke, as quiet. hard, and protective as he is, is a loverboy. You being who you are turns him on like nothing else. Watching you work is his foreplay.

You're lucky on the days he's able to keep his self-control, otherwise, you'd never get nothing done, always being pulled away.

༒ Smoke is E = Experience

You weren't mad at him, you were pissed. You were pissed that he was back again, and you were pissed that you missed him. Like you always did. Protecting him and that twin of his wherever the wind took them whilst in your shop, too far away for your liking. "That all ya come for? A cook?" Your eyes narrow, jaw ticking; you need the truth from Smoke, nothing but, tired of being left behind. They say they staying, but the Moore twins had been saying that since they left for Chicago. "Whatchu want from me, woman?" Smoke steps back when you finally relax, and your blade ain't on his neck no more. He knows what you want, but he also needs to hear it. You were part of the reason he'd come back in the first place. "The truth, boy. Be honest for once in ya life. It'd do ya some damn goo-." Before you could even get your words fully out, he was on you like white on rice, and you were pressed against the nearest wall, his finger trailing down the wet spot he knew was under that dress. "I ain't never forgot you, mama. I loved you then, woman, and I love you now." He presses you even closer to the wall, his breath hot on your ear, "Feels like you ain't forgot me either."

There's no doubt Smoke is an experienced man; he's smooth, cunning, and charming. Handsome as hell, too. He ain't never had to try to hard to get a lil pussy, but all he really wanted was you. Found himself in your bed every time he'd come visit.

Moth to flame, like clockwork.

༒ Smoke is F = Favorite Position

"Look at her. Look at you, girl. Beautiful, ain't ya? Yeah, I know it." He tugs at your hair, forcing you to look into the mirror at yourself getting fucked into before he moved you over to the bed, and laid you back. He hovers over you, looking into those beautiful e/c eyes of yours; he grips your legs and pulls you closer to the edge of the bed, adjusting his position, and grunting softly, sliding back into that soft heat only you seemed to possess. He moves your hair from your face. "God took his time with ya, didn't he...? Goddamn..."

Again, yes, AGAIN! Smoke is obsessed with you, yada yada ya, you get it. But seriously, he is. Any position where he can see your face? He's gonna take that over anything 9/10, whether that be fucking you in front of the mirror or having you under him.

He is so outwardly in love with everything that's you, he'd never be able to take it if he had to hide it.

༒ Smoke is G = Goofy

"I love you, Smoke, oh God, I love you." You whisper into nothingness whilst Elijah fucks into you, his thrusts slow and intimate, something he needed after a rough night, to make love to his woman? Oh, he's more than content. "Say that again fa me, ain't hear ya." His hand is gripping your jaw, eyes staring into yours, and taking in every expression. He knows what you said, but it wasn't gone hurt nobody if he heard it again. Your voice is shaky this time, he's hitting that spot that he knows makes you insane, and he knows exactly what he's doing. He's doing it with proper intent. "F-...fuuck, Elijah, I love you." You just barely get out without soundin like your mama ain't teach ya nothing, but that's still not good enough for him. He's biting back a smile, maybe even a chuckle, repeating himself. "Ion think I heard ya, sum ain't right...I said..." A laugh rumbles within his chest, speeding his pace up, "Say that shit again." This time, though joking, he was also serious. 100%. You knew it, even as you giggled along with him, moaning out a weak, "You're a bastard, Elijah Moore. I love you..."

While I feel Smoke is a tad more serious during the intimate moments, that doesn't mean there isn't humor...sometimes. More often than not, however, he's focused on pleasuring you, talking you through it.

༒ Smoke is H = Hair

I personally feel like both Moore boys are well-groomed. Smoke keeps his beard trimmed, and that means he also keeps his bush trimmed. He believes a well-kept man keeps a happy woman, and so far, you've proved him right, so why change the system?

༒ Smoke is I = Intimacy

Your eyes are kept on one another, one hand intertwined with his as the moon shines in on you. You were smiling tonight, hand on his damn throat, and you were smiling at him. He was stroking you slow tonight too, the after effects of a glass of wine or two, he just needed to feel you soaking him. That's all he fucking needed. His other hand is toying with your clit, and he relishes in the way you seem to seek his hand out like a vice, only forcing your pussy down on him even further; He wasn't complaining, in fact, the way his fingers moved? He was more than encouraging.

Now, as I've said, Smoke is a loverboy and a pleaser, so every moment with him, whether it be sexual or non, is an intimate moment, but if we're talking about sex specifically? He's always gonna be looking in your eyes, holding your hands, gripping you, and making love to you slowly.

On the off chance you catch him in a rougher mood, it's still with a slight gentleness to soothe the pain.

༒ Smoke is J = Jack Off

You were working, it was a busy night at the juke joint, and Smoke knew if he interrupted you right now, he'd be in for a scolding, not that that wouldn't make his problem worse. You made his problem worse. He snuck away to another room, the scent of your perfume clouding his every thought; he closes his eyes, envisioning you whilst his hand wraps around his length, letting out a curse, and grunting as he bucks into his hand, imagining it was the warmth of your welcoming pussy.. He has your handkerchief with him, wrapped around him, and aiding in his pleasure. Afterwards, he'd silently slip it into your hand, letting you know that he'd had enough with waiting.

Elijah really only likes you touching him, but on the off chance that that's not what he can have in that moment, and he has to handle himself? He does so with one of your items, your name on his tongue, and your figure in his mind.

After he cums, he becomes impatient for the real things, and that's usually when you get a cum-stained item of yours handed to you silently, and with nothing more said; the two of you usually slink away.

༒ Smoke is K = Kinks

His thumb presses against your lips, heavily suggesting that you open your mouth to allow him in, his eyes say the very same. When your lips part, his eyes darken, slipping his finger in and immediately probing around, pressing against your tongue, and seeming like he was a hellbent man on a mission, until... Smoke watches the drool finally seep down from your lips and leak down to your chin. He's addicted with the dumb look on your face, eyes glassed over, and pussy clenching down on him like a nice long hug. Fuck, he loved the sight.

Oral fixation. Man loves to look at you, he's addicted to your expressions, and wants to see you go stupid from pleasure. One of his favorite ways is having you suck on his thumb, or seeing your spit connect with his after a kiss, spitting in your mouth, etc.

Anything that had your eyes glazed over, and drool making its way to your chest? He's there for it.

༒ Smoke is L = Location

They'd sent you down to the cellar for more beer, but that ain't matter to Smoke, he'd been eyeing you the entire night, and the man was hungry. When you got down the stairs, he was already there, holding a case of beer. He smiles, grins real wide. "You come get this, come gimme a kiss. C'mon now, girl. Ain't nice to leave a man waiting."

Anywhere. Okay, maybe that's a stretch, some places are off limits but most of the time, he doesn't mind where he can get you...as long as he gets you.

༒ ☽ ☙ ༒ ༒ ༒ ☙ ☽ ༒

༒ Smoke is M = Motivations

Again, you were doing absolutely nothin that could've possibly turned Elijah Moore on; sitting there with a book in your hand, ya looked like the picture of perfection to Smoke. Just gorgeous, and it ain't never got no easier to be around you. "Damn precious, gotta stop doing me so wrong." He clutches his chest, moving to sit next to you with his eyes roaming every feature like he hadn't ever seen you before. "Enlighten me, Elijah. Far as I could tell, I was just sitting myself down reading." His hand grips your thigh, and suddenly you're being pulled closer to him without much effort on the soldier's part, unsurprisingly. "That ain't the damn point, mama. Where I'm sittin, looking twice as fine as the finest wine. That ain't right." He slides the book from your hand and tosses it to the table before leaning you back into the couch. "Just ain't quite right..."

We've been over this. Should I write a paragraph for this or just say the word "You", and hope you understand?

There's nothing else that motivates him like you do, just you; he felt it when you were just around him, looking so peaceful, happy, and comfortable. He liked the look of it on you. Hell, he liked the look of you. Just you.

༒ Smoke is N = No

Now, while I feel Elijah can get rough in bed, I feel like one of his biggest Nos is hurting you. He's not big on impact play unless it be something like a light spanking, maybe a little bit of choking, but he worships the ground you walk on, and he wants to keep it that way.

He could never see himself actually harming you; he's much more aroused by the threat of it. The tease. A knife to your thigh in the gentlest manner possible so you're not cut.

He'd consider gun play, after emptying it, of course. Even still. Elijah's hurt people before, it wasn't a pretty sight to see; He sure as hell ain't gonna hurt you, though. Never that.

༒ Smoke is O = Oral

He gripped your hair tightly within his fist, grunting as he gently pulled your mouth away from his dick, the spit shining on those plump lips of yours, spit and precum connecting you to him? Pretty fucking nice sight to behold if Smoke were to tell it, he could die happy. But that ain't what he wanna see. He was much more invested with what lied when you spread those thick ass thighs. You'd gotten used to the way Elijah pressed you back against the bed, and when he looked into your eyes with that glint in em, you knew he was aiming for one thing, and it was always worth the time. He pushed your legs open and smiled like he'd struck gold, and in his eyes, he had. He licked his lips, eyes darkened and blown with lust. "Ya ain't gone run if I take this here pussy from ya, are ya darlin'?"

It's been established that Smoke is a service dom, he wants you pleased and satisfied always, and if he took his own pleasure from it? So be it, but it was all about you.

He could cum in his pants just from sucking your pussy into his mouth, and that taste had him gone each damn time. And don't worry about him stopping after you cum, he's not stopping until he's satisfied that you're satisfied.

༒ Smoke is P = Pace

"How ya want it, baby? Talk to me." He frames it as a question, though you know it's not, he's telling you to speak up, and you know he's petty enough to stop if you don't. "Just...Make love to me." You ain't ever had to tell that man twice; he was ready to fulfill your requests each time. Eager to even. His rhythm slows down drastically, and pretty soon he's set a pace in tune with your goddamned moans, pulling reactions from you he knew how to get when hitting certain spots, exactly when he needed to. He knew your pussy better than it knew itself. "Look at that shit...Gushing like a slut, baby. I ain't never seen nun more beautiful."

༒ Smoke is Q = Quickie

You had 20 minutes before customers started pouring into the juke joint, and shit, Smoke only needed 15 when it came to you; when he pulled you into the backroom, you couldn't say you were complaining much bout it. You knew your husband, he was a stallion in ways that electrified your very being. You flash him that pretty lil smile of yours, and he's all gone. "Slide 'em down, sweetheart. I got 20 minutes to make your body do that shake fa me, and I plan on using my time wisely."

Smoke is an opportunist, he gone take that chance always. If y'all got a couple minutes to get it in, he absolutely doesn't mind trying. He just wants a piece of you at all times.

༒ Smoke is R = Risks

It didn't matter that it was a dark, starless night, that you couldn't see anybody for miles in the distance out that window. All that mattered was the way it made you feel, how taboo it was being bent over in front of a window, the risk of being caught by eyes below. — It was tantalising, and Elijah couldn't help but tease. "You get off on it, don'tchu darlin? I can feel that pussy squeezing like a vice right now. It get you off knowin anybody can walk past? See you getting fucked nice and slow?" He relishes in the way you spasm around him, his hand around your throat, your back arched, and the prettiest noises he'd ever damned listened to in his ear. "Let 'em see, baby. Let 'em see it all."

It's no secret; neither of the Moore boys was quite shy. In fact, it thrilled Elijah more than anything when he could get you like this anywhere he could. He feels pride in taking you where somebody can see you feeling so good...and all. because. of. him.

༒ Smoke is S = Stamina

He'd finished his cigarette off, ashing it before turning his attention back towards you. He needs to stop looking your way, it's what's gotten ya into this mess in the first place. You still look all beautiful, fucked out and glowing as your pussy leaked with his seed. Goddamn. He feels it in his gut, washing over him like that first glass of scotch. He'll never understand how you have like a little schoolboy without even trying; four, five rounds and still he was aching for more like he'd never left. Lord knows how he survived when he and Stack were still hitting licks back in Chicago. Now that he didn't have to wait, it seemed his body no longer knew how to. "C'mere, woman, put your lips on mine." He murmurs, a strong hand guides itself to your hip, and pulls you on top of him with little effort. He kept his body right just for moments like these, grinning like a Cheshire, he continues, "Want some more sugar." Your giggle fills his heart with something he hadn't felt in a while. pure unadulterated joy. "You always want some sugar." "Damn right." His hands move to grip your asscheeks, pulling you closer, "Damn fucking right."

When it comes to fucking you, it'd take a group of firefighters to pry Elijah off of you. On a calm night, you might go once or twice, but on those nights? — Expect him to be insatiable. 4-5 is the goal, and he'll soothe your pussy with his tongue right after.

Again, insatiable.

༒ Smoke is T = Toys

He has you tied up, hands and feet. You can see him rummaging through the drawers in the room until his hand lands on the right items. You hear him whisper to himself, and when he turns around, he wordlessly walks back over to you with a grin on his face. "You won't mind if I go downstairs and talk to my brother for a second, would ya baby? Got a gift for ya." Your eyes tracked him like a lion to prey, only you were the prey, and Smoke was stalking over to you like he'd found a new meal, and it looked quite divine. Wouldn't take him no time at all to get back to ya, but you knew it'd feel like hours; you could hear it vibrating as he inched it towards your entrance, and he wouldn't stop looking at you, scanning your every reaction. "You's a sick man, Elijah." You whisper, your eyes hold no fear or disgust; however, arousal lowering your gaze, he says nothing for a moment, slipping the black vibrator inside you, to his delight, your back arches into his hold, pulling the rope tight with a sweet moan leaving you. He chuckles in satisfaction. "Never claimed to be a good man, darlin'. Ya gone be good, and wait for me?" When she sends a glare his way, he simply grins, "I'm just messing with you, mama. Don't go causing too much trouble now; Ion mind changing the sheets."

Elijah doesn't mind toys...when he's trying to make a point, or gets interrupted. He hates getting interrupted when making you feel good so you're no stranger to him leaving you with a little gift inside you or buzzing against your clit.

He likes how needy, and desperate it makes you when he comes back; your body writhing with the need to cum. He likes watching you fight against your bindings, glaring at him with tears pricking at the edge of your eyes. Yeah, he could get down with a toy or two.

༒ Smoke is U = Unfair

How long had he been staring? Smoke ain't quite know, all he knew was that in the quest to keep you away from him, teach you some patience; he was ultimately torturing himself in kind. He watched you dance across that floor, and decided he couldn't damn take it no more. "Keep your face neutral and keep dancing, sweetheart. I'm just checking something real quick." You'd been frozen against him before his instructions to keep rhythm, the hand that wasn't squeezing her hip traveling up her thigh; she wasn't wearing panties — Of course, he'd been the one to tell her not to, but it still got him going how bad she could be at his behest. His pretty lil thing. He's got one goal in mind, and when he finds it, his hand tightens round your hip when you gasp, rising to your tiptoes with your chest pressed against the hard planes of his chest; he presses a kiss to your hair, and shushes you, his words whispered in your ear like a lullaby. "Shh, shh, shh...Don't need nobody hearing you. Just need a lil taste." He pulls you even closer to him, tugging his hand away from you when he finds what he's looking for. Makes sure you're looking directly in his eyes when he puts two fingers between his lips, the taste of you on his tongue making him grunt. — He lets you go. You're breathless as he disappears into that crowd again, the music grows wilder, and there's nothing to do except keep on dancing. Keep on feeling the blues till your face turns too.

Smoke is all about teasing, should be the man's middle name, and while you loved it too, there was a distinct pain in the utter vulnerability in the ways he teased you, but unironically, it was a pain you heavily adored, something you craved.

༒ Smoke is V = Volume

Your nails mark down his back, journeying in a path that stopped when your hands met his ass, pulling him closer and sheathing the man deeper inside your pussy; he stops for just a second, taking a deep breath because you, indeed, had him fucked up. He grunts, taking your hands and pinning them above you before his weight lays into you like a weighted blanket, and he's so deep it has you biting into his shoulder to keep from screaming out his name. He gives you leeway this time, lets you hide your face, too in ecstasy to care much bout anything else; a growl rumbles within his throat, a deep ragged murmur leaving his lips, "Puttin it on me like this...Gone...have my f..ucking babies."

Now, Elijah might not be much of a moaner but he absolutely makes noises, whether it be grunts, groans, the occasional growl, but most importantly...He's the vocal type. Degrading, praising, or talking you through it? Elijah does it all.

He needs you to hear how you're making him feel, very verbally.

༒ Smoke is W = Wild Card

What if Smoke had been turned into a vampire? We already know he's shameless, but walk with me...

The music is once again blaring and the vibes are high, but Smokes eyes are on you, there's hooting and hollering as you begin to step out of that little black dress you wore. His eyes were observant, protective, while he made his way over to you, loosening his tie as he goes; he's smirking. Your thoughts go south, wondering if this is really happening. You'd gotten them all turned once he'd died. When he came back begging to be let in, voice all sweet and southern and smooth talking like he talked, you couldn't resist allowing him in. He'd gone through their friends and family like a man starved, and now it was your turn. The rest start to wake up, reborn of the night, all while he made his way to you like no one else was there. When he gets to you, he sinks down to his knees and slowly spreads your legs. "Imagine, suga... comin back to a show like this. It's gone hurt a lil bit, but think about it...what happens after. It's worth it now. Don't you think, mama?"

༒ Smoke is X = X-ray

I believe Smoke is the more muscled of the twins; he's built and muscular, but in a way that's not too overpowering to look at. He's definitely leaner and a little bigger than his younger twin.

When he takes his shirt off, there's a 6-pack with a well-trimmed happy trail and bush meeting a caramel, lighter brown tipped 8-inch, thick in length. He's more of a grower than a shower, and is definitely uncut, me thinks.

༒ Smoke is Y = Yearning

The end of the night is what Smoke loves best, he loves it best because it's when he finally gets you behind closed door...alone. He ain't gotta worry bout the neighborhood kids, your friends, family, nunnadet. You were finally all his, and he could finally feel you real, and truly honestly sucking him deeper into the gushing pussy he'd been envisioning all day.

༒ ☽ ☙ ༒ ༒ ༒ ☙ ☽ ༒

….

And, finally….

༒

༒ Smoke is Z = Zzz

Honestly, me thinks that you and Smoke lie awake for a little, talking about everything and nothing before even attempting to get any rest. It's when you both debrief and let the outside world go before the morning comes. When he looks at you and sees your eyes shutting is when he knows it's time for bed, but other than that, he absolutely follows your lead on where the night goes after sex.

But that wasn't the best part. The best part was your head on his chest right after, safe and unharmed, and home.

༒

༒ ☽ ☙ ༒ ༒ ༒ ☙ ☽ ༒

authors note: welcome back to the fic bakery! so happy you could make it to the reopening. my very first sinners writing and we feel good about this, don’t we? a lil smoke never hurt nobody.

- fatality/bubbles 🫧.

1K notes · View notes

draco-in-the-sky · 3 months ago

Text

Both Ain’t Shit- Smoke vers.

Smoke Moore x Black Reader

Genre: Smut with plot

Word count: 6.2k+

Summary: You and Smoke have been having a little fling for a while now. But Smoke pushes you too far. And now it’s time to show him you can play the game just as well as him, and remind him who he’s dealing with.

Warnings: cheating if you squint, p in v, fem receiving oral, use of n word, banter, and cussing

Authors notes: i’m so sorry for making yall wait so long for this. This was very long so i think my next few pieces will be short. I have a lot more ideas to come tho! Enjoy!!

He is not my man.

I mean, yeah he be at my place more than his own. He got a designated space in my closet for his clothes, he sometimes gets packages sent to my address, and my neighbors think he’s my husband…

But Elijah Moore is not my man.

And I wasn’t his woman neither.

Or at least that's what we tell everyone…

Me and Smoke wasn’t nothing but a good time to each other at first. The risky nights, flirty texts, and playing house was fun and all at first. But then I fell too deep into our fake fantasy.

Smoke has everything I want in a man–drive, ambition, quite confidence and he gave me sex that made me forget my own name. Everything I dreamed of, but he didn’t give me the security, honesty, and title of the relationship I wanted.

I used to care, I used to ask, I used to cry about the women that approached us in public like I was some homewrecker, the days when he would leave and not talk to me, the late nights where he would up and go handle “business” without putting on proper clothes or packing his work bag. And I say this with my chest because I will never again fall for his games.

He use to gaslight me so well I thought I was going crazy and made up the entire thing. And I tried to leave, put the mess of a relationship behind me but Smoke can make you feel like you the only one, even when you know for a fact you’re not.

And I always knew, I always knew.

Between the late replies, dirty stares from women I don’t know in shops giving me dirty stares, and the way his phone magically stayed face down every time he came over.

I’d have to be stupid to not know.

But now?

I play it cool. Smile in his face, moan in his ear, and act like I’m not being used. Because I know I can run game too. He wants to be a player? Bet you I can play dirty too if not dirtier.

Because even when he’s out chasing whatever new girl that caught his eye, he still ends up in my bed. He might go ghost for a day or two, but he always shows back up with that same sorry ass smirk like he ain’t been doing me wrong. But I know I mean something to him because I’m the one he slips up and calls when he’s drunk, the one he trusts with his silence, his stress, his secrets. I’m not stupid—I know I’m not the only one he touches, but I’m the only one that sees Elijah Moore. They might get Smoke, but I get both. And maybe that makes me just as dumb as them, but at least I’m the one he always runs back to. Even if he pretends like he’s just passing through.

I don’t return the energy to the same extent—not 'cause I’m loyal, but 'cause none of them other dudes make me feel what Smoke do. They don’t got that pull on me. They don’t got that calm but dangerous aura that make your knees weak and pride nonexistent. And I hate that. I hate that I crave the same man that got me second-guessing my worth, but still got the power to fuck me like I’m the only woman in the world. They couldn’t handle me anyway—not like he can. So I let him think he winning… while I lose my damn mind behind closed doors.

But tonight he did something that was a new low.

I should have know something was off when he showed up to my door with flowers.

Smoke ain’t ever gave me no fucking flowers. He do give orgasms and headaches. He do “You good?” texts at 2 in the morning. But flowers. Roses? Never .But there he was—standing in the doorway like a fever dream—holding roses like that alone could undo months of hurt. They were fresh too, like he’d actually cared enough to stop and pick the best ones for me. The red looked loud against the cool evening light, too loud for a man who whispered lies in a voice so calm it sounded like love.

That was guilt wrapped in a heart shaped box. With a weak ass smirk.

“What’s this for?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe of my front door with my arms crossed. Staring at him with confusion and surprise in my voice.

He smirked. “ I can’t do something nice for you?” He says dressed in his typical grey suit with a blue tie, with a caring but deceitful look in his eyes.

He walked past me like he owned the place– even though some days he practically lived here. He dropped the roses in the middle of my dining room table like they meant something to me and then found his way back to me by sliding his arm around my waist. I let him. I always let him. Because I deserve some fun out of this too.

The night started like our normal routine. Dinner. Jokes. Laying in his chest while telling him about my day. He even started talking to me about how he wants to take me on a getaway trip so he can show me the world. Which should have been red flag number two. But again I just wanted to get the most out of him being with me.

The third flag was what got me though.

I was looking for one of my heels that I had recently broken on accident in hopes I could get a little money out of him for all the problems that come with him. But while I was looking I saw a little velvet box tucked in the bag he packed to spend the night.

At first, my heart jumped–thinking that maybe something came over him and knocked him into his senses to commit to me. Thinking maybe it was a promise ring or something stupid like that.

But as I got closer I realized how familiar the box looked. When me and Smoke started messing around he gave me a gold anklet as a little keep me in mind gift. And I still wear it to this day because you cant see it under my clothes in public, it makes him pound me into the mattress when he sees while we fucking, and because I thought it was a genuine gift he was giving me because he cared.(you’re a dummy bitch)

Out of curiosity I kneeled down checking my surroundings to make sure he wasn’t about to come help me look for whatever I came in my room for. I opened the box to see the exact anklet that was on my leg. The box has a note attached to it that read,

“To J.”

“J… Who the fuck is J?” I thought to myself. My blood immediately started to boil. Vision blurring. But I collected myself to steady my hands as I closed the box and zipped his bag right back up with a smirk on my face. This was my green light to start fucking with him.

I walked back into the living room. I didn’t ask no questions. Didn’t start a fight. Didn’t even make a petty remark. I gave him one more night, one last kiss, and last moan. Letting him think everything was sweet. Made it real good too, gave him my all.

Because tomorrow?

I’m getting my lick back.

Next day

I woke up like I knew nothing.

Played the same role—sweet, soft, and familiar. I kissed him good morning, made him breakfast, even ironed the shirt he accidentally wrinkled from throwing it in his bag.

He was still in bed by the time I was done, shirtless in only his underwear, stretching like he ain’t just spent the whole night with his tongue in me. The sun crept in through the blinds, laying golden ribbons across his broad muscular back. He looked good—too damn good for someone who didn’t deserve me.

I walked past the bedroom doorway with my coffee in hand, making sure to get all his shit together so he could be on his way. I looked like a woman coming down from a long night—curls falling messily from the makeshift bun, nightgown straps slipping off my shoulders from running round the house. But the second I heard his voice, I paused.

“Damn, you just gon’ walk past me like that?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and fake concern.

“Didn’t know you were still here,” I replied over my shoulder, taking a slow sip from my mug. “Usually you’d be gone by now.”

He chuckled, that lazy one he does when he thinks he’s charming.

“That how we acting today?”

I kept moving, gathering his keys, wallet, phone charger—placing everything neatly by the door.

“I made breakfast. Even ironed your shirt. What else you want?”

“I thought maybe we could chill for a second.”

I glanced over at him, leaving my bed, half-dressed and stretching. Taking his sweet time like he ain’t planning to meet another girl in a few hours. “I’ve got stuff to do. You got places to be and people to see, don’t you?” I tilt my head, all sweet like honey over broken glass.

He raised an eyebrow, trying to read me.

“You good? I just wanted to make sure my girl was alright after last night.” He grinned—half pervert, half innocent—as if the memory of his mouth on me gave him the right to ask.

“I’m great,” I said with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Got what I needed, didn’t I?”

He laughed, low and amused like he thought I was playing. But I wasn’t.

I brushed past him, slow enough to feel his heat, fast enough to pretend it didn’t burn. Before I left the room, I paused.

“Your shirt’s on the couch, still warm. Coffee on the counter, take it to go.”

I walked toward the hallway mirror, pretending to fix a loose curl, but really, I was watching him through the reflection. Watching him fake like he wasn’t confused.

He moved slow, dragging himself out into the hall, “Damn, you rushing me out?”

I turned, still calm. “Not rushing,” I shrugged. “Just... reminding you that you do have somewhere else to be. I mean, don’t you have brunch plans? I know I’m not the only per—I mean, thing you tend to in your day-to-day.” I offered a soft, fake smile

He smirked. “Why you always doin’ that?” he asked, pulling his shirt over his head, voice dipped in charm and guilt like he didn’t know where he stood.

I turned back to the mirror. “Doing what?”

He walked into the hallway like he owned it—coffee in one hand, confusion in the other. “Throwing lil’ jabs like I ain’t been here every night this week.”

I tilted my head, slow. “And yet somehow, still not doing right.”

That shut him up for a second.

“If you got something to say—”

I cut him off with a soft laugh, eyes still on my reflection. “I don’t. Nothing to say. Nothing new, anyway.”

I walked to the door, held it open like a polite hostess.

“I don’t want to stand between you and your business. They seem to be getting impatient.” I nodded toward his phone lighting up again with a text he didn’t bother hiding.

He looked at it, then back at me. “You really on one today, huh?”

I shrugged. “Not really. Just on schedule.”

He stepped onto the porch, shirt tugged, ego bruised, still confused

“You good though?” he asked again, this time softer. Smaller.

I leaned against the doorframe, cool and casual.

“Always,” I said.

And then I slammed the door in his face.

Later that day

The silence in the apartment after he left was thick. Like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for me to fall apart.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I ran a hot shower, scrubbed him off my skin, and let the steam cleanse every trace of him from my pores. Then I pulled open my closet and picked the one dress I knew would make someone stare too long and think too hard.

It was satin—deep red, the kind of red that doesn’t beg for attention but demands it. It clung in all the right places and slid over my thighs like water. I slipped on gold hoops, sprayed the perfume he used to compliment before he stopped noticing, and glossed my lips.

I needed to get back at Elijah in a way that would make his blood boil. Elijah used to have a friend named Darius that always showed me a little too much attention when me and Elijah would run into him. Compliments that were too attentive, gifts too expensive, and hugs that were intended to be more than friendly.

Elijah hated it. Hated him.

Then my phone lit up:

Darius: I’m outside.

I smiled to myself, grabbed my bag, and walked to the door with the same grin smoke gives when he’s fucked me over.

We walked into Club Eden like we’d done it before. Darius had one hand on the small of my back, the other in his pocket, grinning like we go together. I kept my chin high, every step deliberate, the red satin of my dress catching the lights just right. Heads turned, we looked good, and I knew it. But I wasn’t here for the stares. I was searching for one face in the crowd. Just smiling, slow and sweet, as Darius guided me deeper inside the club I knew too well.

Smoke wasn’t hard to spot.

Even in the low-lit haze of Club Eden, he stood out like sin dressed in success. Black slacks tailored to perfection, button-up open just enough to show that gold chain he never took off, and a gold watch to match catching flashes of light as he leaned back, calm and calculating.

And he wasn’t alone.

She sat next to him, legs crossed, laughing because she didn’t know about our twinning anklets. It shimmered around her ankle like a middle finger straight to my face.

I didn’t react. Couldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Instead, I leaned back against Darius, legs draped over his lap like it was second nature. I smiled, slow and sweet, twirling my straw in my drink as if I wasn’t locked in a silent war with the man across the room.

Smoke’s eyes met mine—dark, unreadable, but I knew that look. His jaw was clenched. His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. The girl next to him leaned in to whisper something, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Just kept his gaze on me like I had his whole night wrapped around my finger.

Good.

I tilted my head, let my curls fall over one shoulder, and whispered something in Darius’s ear. Didn’t matter what, I just needed to see Smoke look at me.

He did and I knew I had him right where I wanted him.

“Wanna dance?” I asked Darius, my voice soft but just loud enough. He grinned like he’d been waiting for the invite. “You know I do.”

The second I stood, I felt Elijah’s stare follow every step I took. I didn’t look back. Just led Darius to the dance floor like we owned it. The bass hit heavy, the colorful led lights spun soft, and I let my body move—slow, effortless, sensual. Darius tried to keep up, hands respectful but curious. I didn’t care. I wasn’t dancing with him for him. I was dancing for the man sitting in the corner pretending he didn’t care.

Elijah didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But when I twirled to catch his gaze again—he was gone.

Just like that.

I smirked, satisfied, even as my chest tightened.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Darius, brushing a kiss on his cheek before slipping toward the restroom.

The bathroom was cool and quiet. I touched up my lip gloss, adjusted my dress, and took a deep breath. The game was fun, but it was stressful. And I was starting to feel the heat of it rise to my skin.

I opened the door, and there he was.

Smoke.

Leaning against the wall like. His arms were crossed. His shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show the tattoos on his forearms, jaw tight, eyes darker than I remembered.

I blinked. “You lost?”

He didn’t smile. “Was about to ask you the same thing.”

I crossed my arms, mirroring him. “Bathroom’s not your usual hangout, is it?”

“I saw you dancing,” he said, voice low and clipped. “Looked like you were real comfortable.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Darius is sweet,” I said, letting the name linger to make sure it burns.

His jaw flexed. “He’s a clown.”

“He’s not you,” I shrugged. “That’s kind of the point.”I look at him with amusement because I know i’m getting under his skin.

“You really brought him here?” he asked, stepping closer. “To my spot?”

“Oh, my bad,” I said with mock concern. “Didn’t realize I needed permission to come to the club. Should I check in next time?”

His tongue dragged across his teeth like he was trying not to snap. “You knew I’d be here.”

I tilted my head. “Did I?”

He scoffed, stepping in just close enough that I could smell his cologne. “You doing all this for what? Huh? To make me jealous?”

I smiled. “Ain’t nobody checkin for you Smoke?”

His hand came up, not touching me—just hovering near my waist like muscle memory. As he towered looking down at me, “You think I care about Darius? You think I give a fuck about that lame ass nigga?”

I leaned in, just a breath from his lips. “Well… he was talking real good about having dessert back at my place. So maybe I will leave your “spot”.”I give him a menacing grin.

His whole body tensed.

“You lyin’,” he said, but his voice cracked just enough to expose the panic under the rage.

I laughed. “Am I?”

I stared up at him, not moving. “See, I think you care more than you wanna admit. But I think you should head back to your little date. I wouldn’t want her ankles to get sore waiting on you.”

He flinched. Just a flicker. But I saw it.

“Keep playin’ with me,” he warned, voice almost a whisper. “You forget, I know how to handle you.”

I laughed, low and bitter. “Yeah? If that’s what you want to call your lame ass stroke game.”

His mouth opened—but I started to walk away before he could respond. Because I was definitely lying about his stroke game unfortunately.

“Have fun tonight, Elijah,” I said, brushing past him, the scent of my perfume trailing between us like a dare.

And then I walked away—hips swaying, heels clicking, heart pounding—but head held high.

As the night continued I still felt the heat of Smoke and his date that hes not paying any attention to anymore on me. I continued to dance, flirt, and laugh with Darious to prove that I can play game too. I even let Darious’s hands explore my body a little. Rub my thighs, grip my ass a little while dancing, let his hands run up and down my curves. By the time the lights came on in the club and all the drunks were scrambling out to their rides. I let Darious drive me home.

The car ride was actually nice. The moon was bright and full, soft R&B music was playing, and the conversation we had was amazing. Darious is a really sweet guy, but I know it would be wrong to drag him into me and Smoke’s mess. Plus I don’t want smoke to kill him…

We made it to my apartment and I knew I wouldn’t have much time until Smoke showed up at my door to interrogate me. Darious wanted to come up, but I knew if he did someone would end up in jail. So I said my goodbyes to Darious and promised him another night out soon as I walked back into my apartment.

As soon as I walked through the door I took a quick shower, changed into a silk blue night gown with white lace trimming, fluffed my curls, removed my make up and prepped my skin for whatever is going to happen in the next few hours. Lastly I got myself a glass of wine and sat on my couch and read a book as I waited for him. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I needed to be ready nonetheless.

Not even twenty minutes late I hear a loud banging at my door. Three quick, violent knocks. Like the wood itself owed him an answer. I didn’t rush.

I took my time taking a last sip of wine, stood slowly, let my silk nightgown cling to my hips like it was made to tease. I walked barefoot to the door, cool and collected, like I hadn’t been waiting on this exact moment since I walked out of that damn club.

I opened the door just enough so he could see me. And there he was leaning against the door frame using one of arms for leverage.

Pupils dilated with nothing but anger. Jaw tight. Other hand clenched at his sides trying to contain himself.

“Where that nigga at?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play with me,” he snarled, stepping inside like this was his home. His head was on a swivel. “You let him fuck you?”

I shut the door. Walked right past his rage and sat on the edge of the couch, crossing my legs with purpose.

“Hello to you too Elijah, come one in?” I stated.

“Answer the question,” he snapped.

I smiled, slow and dangerous. “I don’t have to do shit.”

Smoke stepped closer, his whole body on fire with fury.

“You wasn’t gon’ fuck him.”He looked at me like he was challenging me to give him the wrong answer to send him over the edge.

“Wanna bet?” I raise an eyebrow and give a deceitful smirk.

He snatched the glass from my hand, set it down with a rough thunk, and stepped between my knees. Boiling with anger waiting for me to say the wrong thing to make him explode.

“Say that shit again.”

I looked up at him, lips parted just slightly.

“I was gon’ let him taste every inch of me… then let him sleep right where you do.”

His hand wrapped around my throat in a flash—tight, hot, possessive.

“You gon’ let another man lay where I sleep?” he growled.

I smiled, the tension around my neck turning me on, breath hitching. “I was gon’ let him do more than that.”

He paused. That’s when I stood up. No fear. Just slow, deliberate grace as I walked past him and down the hall.

“You can keep lookin’ for him if you want,” I said over my shoulder, “but if you was really scared I let that man touch me, you’d be too late. He left already.”

I didn’t wait to see if he followed. I went straight to my bedroom, sat at the vanity, touched up my lip gloss with calm hands. Behind me, I heard heavy footsteps pause in the doorway.

His eyes were all over the room. Searching. Burning.

“You think this shit cute?” he asked, voice gravel-thick. His eyes looked me up and down almost in disgust and jealousy.

I met his gaze in the mirror. “No. I think it’s fair.”

He stepped inside, slower now. Confused. Angry. Hurt. “What the fuck mean by that?”

I turned on the stool and faced him, legs crossed again. My night gown starting to rise a bit up my thighs.

“It means I’ve been waiting on you to choose me, Elijah. Or at least grow a pair and tell me that this bullshit we got going on isn’t going nowhere. But you’d rather keep me close, fuck me, then go back to pretending I don’t exist.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His shoulders dropped like the weight of my words finally registered.

“I’ve given you space, time, silence. I’ve let you spin this thing however you wanted, and I stayed. Quiet. Loyal. Patient. But I’m done beggin’ a “grown-ass” man to act like one.”

Smoke’s jaw flexed. His hands were twitching at his sides like he didn’t know whether to grab me or punch a wall.

“So yeah,” I said softly. “I let him touch me. I let his hands roam a little. Not ‘cause I wanted him. But because I needed you to feel what it’s like to watch the person you believed was yours go play boyfriend to other bitches.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched hard enough to crack bone.

I watched him. Calm on the outside. Heart thudding like a war drum on the inside.

“You really was thinking of letting that nigga touch you?” His voice was low now. Dangerous. “He don’t even know what to do with you.”

I stood up slow, walked toward him like prey that didn’t fear the predator. “He may not know how to handle me,” I said, standing chest to chest. “But at least he acts like he wanted me.”

That landed. Hard. He blinked once—tight, sharp—like the words had cut straight through his ribcage. His hand gripped the back of my neck, and whispered against the shell of my ear.

“I ain’t act like I wanted you, huh? Was that before or after I fucked you outside that club becuase you was letting niggas grind on you and I had you cryin’ and creamin’ on my dick?”

My breath caught.

“Or when I had you bent over your own counter, sayin’ you was mine with a mouth full of my name? Because you like flirting with dudes in front of me. That's not ‘wantin’ you’ either?”

My knees pressed together tight.

“You sayin’ he acted like he wanted you…” he scoffed. “Cool. But did he make you cum in under five minutes on your bedroom floor? Did he eat you ‘til your voice broke because you was hitting up the dudes in your DM’s?”

“Shut up,” I breathed, voice shaking.

“Say it,” he taunted, eyes on fire now. “Tell me he could have touched you like I did. Tell me he could have made you forget your own fuckin’ name. When you go out half naked with your girls and come back with ten new numbers in your phone”

“I—” My chest rose and fell too fast. “He didn’t.”

Smoke’s gaze burned through me.

“I didn’t lose you,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Even when you out here pretending like I’m the only one fucking up. You ain’t been right by me either.”

My mouth parted, but I didn’t respond.

“You mine,” he said. “Still mine.”

He stepped forward as I kept moving back, until the backs of my knees hit the bed. Still, he hadn’t laid a single hand on me—but I could feel every word on my skin.

“Say it.”

“Say what?”, I give him a confused but intrigued look.

“You know what the fuck I’m askin’, ma.”

My mouth opened, but he didn’t wait.

He dropped to his knees and pushed me back on to the bed.

“I should make you beg,” he growled. “After that bullshit you pulled tonight.”

“But I missed this pussy…” he muttered, shoving me back onto the bed, hands pushing my nightgown up slow.

He paused. Smirked. “No panties?”

I smiled, real smug. “Why wear ‘em when I knew you was gonna end up on your knees anyway?”

His eyes darkened. Jaw clenched.

Then his mouth was on my clit immediately. Hot, angry, wild.

He licked me like he was punishing me, tongue stiff and fast, nose buried deep like he needed every drop. He groaned when I whimpered. Flattened his tongue against my clit, then flicked it until my hips jerked.

“Say who it belongs to,” he growled against me.

I gasped. “Fuck—”

He sucked my clit hard enough to pull the words out of me.

“Say it.”

“Fuck you Elija–”

He slapped the inside of my thigh. “Try again.” starting like and suck faster.

I gave in, my climax was near and continued to build, “It’s yours! It’s your pussy!”

His eyes locked on mine, lips shiny and glistening with me. “Damn right.” He licked me slower now, dragging it out, two fingers slipping inside me, curling just right.

My back arched off the bed.

“Louder,” he whispered. “Let the whole fuckin’ building know who got you cryin’ like this.”I whimpered his name, high and cracked, as he tongue-fucked me like he needed it to breathe.

“Had me stressing bout you letting some other dude in here?” he muttered between licks. “In this pussy?”

“Wanted you to feel it,” I moaned. “Wanted you to know—what it felt like.”

“Never again,” he growled. “You mine. You hear me?”

“Then act like it,” I snapped, as I begin grinding against his face. “Act like I’m yours.” I say as I grab the back of his head to push him further in to me.

He laughed low, filthy. “Oh I’m ‘bout to show you, baby.”

Then he dove back in, no mercy, dragging me through a climax so hard I shook, hands fisting the sheets, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse all in one.

My thighs were still shaking when he stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’d just devoured something messy and rare.

He looked down at me—lips glistening, chest rising and falling, jaw tight with hunger.

“You talk too much,” he muttered.

“I was making a point.” I snap back, out of breath.

He grabbed my waist, flipped me over onto my stomach like I weighed nothing.

“Yeah?” His voice dropped. “Make it now.”

I didn’t have time to speak—he yanked my hips back, arching my ass high in the air, pressing my face down into the mattress with one heavy hand on the back of my neck.

“Say that shit again,” he hissed into my ear, breath hot. “Say how he acted like he wanted you.”

“Elijah—”

“Mm-mm.” He pressed harder on my neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to let me know who was in control. “You wanted Daddy’s attention?”

He lined himself up, thick and heavy against my soaked entrance. His other hand gripped my ass, spreading me open.

“Well, you got it now.”

And then—he thrust inside me, deep and fast. No hesitation. No gentleness. Just raw, angry, need.

“Fuck!” I try to muffle my moan as I pushed my face into the mattress.

“Nah, don’t get shy now,” he growled, snapping his hips against me again, again. “You was runnin’ your mouth a minute ago. Where all that shit talk go?”

The slapping of skin echoed through the room, loud and wet. His hips slammed into mine, balls smacking against my clit with each brutal stroke. The bedframe creaked under the force, the mattress giving under the weight of his big, muscular body.

Smoke’s build was all lean muscle and hard edges—wide back, thick arms caging me in as he pounded into me from behind, I could feel the tension radiating off him.

“You wanted to make me jealous? You wanted me mad?” he breathed, chest pressing into my back. “Well, now you got me.”

He drove deeper, grunting, hips rolling in filthy rhythm. “This what you wanted, huh? Daddy stretchin’ you out like this? Say it.”

I whimpered, arching into him, my ass bouncing back against his thrusts.

“Say it.”

“It’s what I wanted,” I moaned into the pillow. “I wanted you—fuck—I needed you.”

He leaned in closer, biting the curve of my shoulder.

“You mine, baby. You don’t gotta play games for me to see you. You all I ever see.”

He fucked me harder then, no mercy. My pussy clenching around him, trying to keep him in with every stroke.

“Look at this pussy suckin’ me in,” he growled, voice thick with possessiveness. “You act up just to get it like this, don’t you?”

His palm came down on my ass, the sting making me cry out.

“You love it when I fuck you back into your place, huh?.”

I could barely respond, the way he was hitting made my thoughts scatter like dust. All I could do was moan and take it.

“You gon’ behave now?” he asked, yanking my hair so I lifted my face off the pillow. “Or you need another round?”

“Give it to me,” I panted. “I can take it.”

That did something to him. His next thrust knocked the wind outta me.

“You do all this talkin’, just to shut the fuck up when this dick in you. That’s your problem.”

The pace got even filthier—fast, relentless, dragging sounds out of both of us that had no place outside of a bedroom.

The air was thick with heat and sweat and desperation.

“Say you mine again,” he ordered, breath ragged. “Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m—fuck— i’m yours, Daddy.”

That sent him over. He slammed into me one last time, deep and hard, filling me up with a loud groan that vibrated against my spine.

I followed right after, walls pulsing around him, toes curling, throat raw from moaning his name.

We collapsed together, breathless and shaking, tangled in the mess we made.

He was still catching his breath, eyes fluttered shut, mouth open like he was trying to gather himself.

I sat there for a second, letting the weight of what just happened settle between us. Sweat slicked my skin, my curls wild and frizzy from all the grinding and grabbing and all that heat. My chest heaved. I watched his body twitch—sensitive, eyes closed, overwhelmed, but still so hard for me.

He didn’t even notice me move.

Until I straddled him again. Hovered over him, lined us up—

And slammed down on his dick.

“Shit—!” he yelped, eyes snapping open like I’d snatched his soul. “Wait—wait—baby—”

I bounce on him hard, grinning down at him like a beast that finally caught its prey.

“You good?” I asked sweetly, breathless.

He gasped barely able to make a sound. “Damn, girl—”

“Thought so.”

I started to move. Slow at first. Just enough to hit him right. His whole body tensed, trying to brace, but he couldn’t. He was too sensitive, and I was overriding his nerves.

“I’m tired of bullshit, Elijah. I want to settle down,” I reminded him, voice low, sultry, taunting. “You going to be better for me, baby?”

“I—I am,” he stammered, jaw tight. “I am, baby—I swear—”

I sped up.

That had him groaning, loud and full in his chest. His hands shot to my thighs, gripping, begging me to slow down—and I didn’t.

“You gon’ answer when I call?” I asked, breath hitching from how deep he was hitting. “No more games?”

“Yes! I got you, baby, just don’t—don’t stop—”

I moved faster.

“Say it again,” I demanded, hips rolling harder, rougher. “Louder.”

“I’m gon’ do right! I swear to God, I’m—fuck—”

He tried to hold my hips, tried to make it last, but he couldn’t keep up. He was shaking, whining, and I loved every second of it.

But so did I.

Every stroke had my moans cracking, turning breathy and sharp, like I was losing the same control I held over him. I started to tremble too, thighs quaking, chest heaving. He was hitting that spot, again and again—stretching me just right.

My hands landed on his chest to steady myself, nails digging in. “You better,” I gasped, voice splintering. “You better fucking do right by me.”

“I will—I swear—baby, please—”

I felt it creeping up on me—my legs tightening, the heat coiling in my belly. “Oh my God—Elijah—”

“Come for me,” he begged, hips bucking under me. “Let go, baby. I got you.”

That did it. I shattered around him with a loud, raw cry, my walls clenching hard, dragging his name out like a prayer. My body folded forward as I pulsed around him, riding every wave, every tremor, until my whole frame shook.

His voice broke under me, hands locking around my hips like he never wanted me to move again. “That’s it, baby… fuck, that’s it.”

Breathless, dazed, I slumped against his chest, heart pounding, sweat glistening on my skin.

“I’m sorry,” I moaned against his neck. “I know I ain’t been fair either.”

His hands slid up my back, holding me tighter.

“I ain’t mean to hurt you,” I whispered. “I just needed to feel wanted too.”

“You got me, ma,” he said hoarsely. “You been had me.”

“I don’t wanna fight no more,” I breathed. “But you gotta do better.”

“I will,” he promised, kissing the side of my face. “You got my word.”

We laid there tangled in silence, both of us wrecked and breathless

~ I hope you liked it! Also send me some asks if you have a request, question, or fic ideas!!

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sola💫

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