#strangerexee

[strangerexee]

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

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

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

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 | 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐/𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎/𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 | 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 | 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 (𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜), 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 | 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢 | 𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 | 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

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?

[strangerexee]

LAWDDD HAVE MERCYYYY😩😩🫟🫟🫟🫟

The way I would let him do ANYTHING to me.

The arms??The smirk??The ATTITUDE??

Can we PLEASE talk about how fine this mf was the entire movie?? Vampire or not, he can have this 🐱

[tforpresz]

Finals are almost over, so I'm redoing the list yayy. I will update more as I come across them but if anyone has any recommendations comment pls!!! ALSO THANK YOU TO THE AMAZING WRITERS THAT ARE PUTTING OUT THESE WORK I LOVE Y'ALL DOWN 🫂🫶🏽

Work by @writerofautumnnights A Dance with the Devil

Works by @jazziejax ModernAU Jumpin' (SmokexBlack!OC,StackxBlack!OC) From the Same Cloth(SmokexBlack!OC,StackxBlack!OC)

Work by @hotgrlcece Fever (soon to be out,StackxReader)

Work by @strangerexee Sir,You're Too Fine (Bo ChowxReader)

Works by @livingmybestfakelife Castle Made of Sand (StackxReader, PlatonicSmokexReader) Love Rollercoaster (pt1)(StackxReader) Love Rollercoaster (pt2)(StackxReader) Waiting to Exhale(SmokexReader)

Works by @rdmasevi The One Who Asked (RemmickxReader) The Long Night (RemmickxReader) Blood&Blues (StackxReader) Bloodlines&Blues (Stack and SmokexReader)

Works by @aviawrites Love Bites (StackxOC) Wait For Me (SmokexOC) Anastasia Antoinette (StackxOC, SmokexOC)

Works by @fckwritersblock I Never Told You (Pt1,StackxBlack!Reader) What I Should've Said (PT2) Works by @spikedfearn Mercy Made Flesh Upon the Scarlet Alter Work by @uzumaki-rebellion Choose One (Smoke,Stack&OC. first three chapters posted)

Drabbles by @crystalgemcrusaders Til Death Do Us Part(Stack) They Are All Sinners(18+)(Stack) Headcanon-devils temptation:NSFW(Smoke) Work by @melancholymetropolis "Stop pretending that you hate me" (StackxReader) Work by @coldeforprez Is It The Way;2003 teaser (StackxBlack!OC)

Works by @szatears Just a lil' something (SmokexReader,Plantonic StackxReaer) ModernAuSmoke (personal fav 🤭) Three's Trouble (StackxBlack!Reader, StackxMary, MaryxBlack!Reader) Works by @spookysanta The Stack Effect 1/3 The Stack Effect 2/3

Work by @freshbakedbreadstick Advantages and Disadvantages (Smoke&StackxPOC!Reader) Work by @ughdontbeboring Let Me In (SmokexWOC!ReaderxStack)

Work by @starcrossedxwriter Still Standing pt1 (SmokexBlack!Reader) SmokexReader sneak peak

if any author wants to be removed, let me know and I'll glad do so 😁

also here are the A03 works :) A' Lil Taste by Katetypes (Sammie rec) Blood Ties by Xoslimm26 (Remmick fic) níl sé ina lá, níl a ghrá by Subedarling (Remmick/reader) Where's There's Smoke, There's Fire by CreativeBuzz (Smoke/Annie, my parents fr) Dangerous by Cohrareads (Stack/Mary)

[thevelvetwhispers]

Elijah 'Smoke' Moore — SINNERS Masterlist

@fatalitysficbakery — nsfw alphabet

@euon111a — smokestack blues

@livingmybestfakelife — waiting to exhale

@aviawrites — wait for me

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes — i put a spell on you — [part 1 2 3]

@starcrossedxwriter — still standing [part 1]

@szatears — thinking about

@novahreign — sinners

@luna-thecreator — flicker and fade

@kenshisluvrgirl — tease your man

@szatears — comfort zone [modern!au]

@visforvengeance — where did you sleep last night?

@cloveroctobers — forgive me

@localfanficlover — baptized in heat

@mothernaturesthings — teeth whom bite the skin i kiss

@bxunyx — head in a jar

@strangerexee — told you i like gentle giants [part 1 2 3 4 5]

@saudad3 — daddy was rolling stone

@szatears — t.l.c.

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes — route 666 [part 1 2 3]

@solastarr — both ain't shit

@cremeful — dry humming with smoke!

@feral4youu — piece of me

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes — it should've been you [smoke X pearline]

[diamondsinterlude]

Sinners

divider by strangergraphics

Smoke

standing still -> @starcrossedxwriter

told you I like gentle giants -> @strangerexee

i miss you -> @feral4youu

Smoke and Annie

the vine between us -> @brownsugarcoffy in your arms tonight -> @uzumaki-rebellion held by you -> @araybiaaa home -> @araybiaaa savor -> @enticingmelanin

mending hearts -> @partylikemajima

something to believe in -> @wakandamama

Stack

no guidance -> @willyoubemycherryy

i never told you -> @fckwritersblock

the reckoning -> @enticingmelanin

the hallelujah heat -> @brownsugarcoffy

happy father’s day -> @pyraomen

nobody else but you -> @mrsknowitallll

stacked up -> @nire-nacheal-writes

Preacher Boy

when you know,you know -> @slut4smokemoore09

Bo Chow

Remmick

updated june 28 2025

[szatears]

Hi omg I loved your bo chow x reader fic. Idk if u are taking an requests but if u aren't then that's fine, if you are, if you don't mind that is. Could you do a nsfw bo chow x short, mexican reader where the reader meet him at the party stock and smoke are having in the movie, and they like get to know each other and slowly start to flirt and then they do the dirty in the back room. Maybe if you want, if you could have her at one point in doggystyle and the people outside hear it?

hi!! that fic wasn't actually mine, i just reblogged it but it was from @strangerexee !!! maybe they'd like to take on your request so i'll still post it :)

[strangerexee]

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

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

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

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 | 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐/𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎/𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 | 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 | 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 (𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜), 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 | 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢 | 𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 | 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

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.

taglist - @sertonins - @crimsonxm00n - @klssngss - @juicypinksblog @mingisg00dgirl - @stilestotherescue - @imperfectlyperfect78 @hoouno06 - @kirayuki22 - @christinabae - (lemme know if I forgot any of you)

[strangerexee]

ʟᴀᴛᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴇᴀʜ | ʙᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴡ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ᴘᴛ.3 ᴏꜰ ꜱɪʀ, ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰɪɴᴇ)

Set in 1932 Reader x Bo Chow (Smut | Explicit sexual content | soft but rough Bo | possessive behavior | missionary position | chain kink (necklace watching) | moaning | smoking | slightly obsessive energy | post-sex vulnerability | reader being down bad | praise | 18+ only | domestic affection | morning kisses | reader so down bad for arms/hands )

ᴡᴄ: 2.9ᴋ

Time Skip: Some Months Later

The store had changed.

Not in the way it looked, really, the wooden beams still groaned in the morning, the floors still creaked when the sun shifted, and the same old glass jars of penny candy still sparkled near the front register.

But you had changed. And Bo had changed with you.

You’d been working there full-time for a few months now. Steady pay, cash in hand every Friday, and your name on the list of employees, right under his.

He let you do nearly everything now. Trusted you with the books. With the money box. With the spare key.

And with him, more than anything else.

Bo still looked sexy himself every time he rolled up his sleeves, forearms thick and dusted with hair, veins strong under that golden-tan skin, and he still touched you in ways that made your knees weak and your cheeks hot.

But now, he touched you like you belonged to him. A hand on your back while you rang someone up. A brush of his fingers under your chin when no one was looking.

And that little look he gave you, every time you passed too close, like he was two seconds from hauling you into the storeroom again.

Everything was good. Until she came in. It wasn’t that bad, really.

Two weeks after your birthday. You were nineteen now.

Her name was Lisa. She came through the front door one quiet Monday afternoon, silent as a shadow, with dark eyes and a book pressed to her chest.

She was younger than you, maybe sixteen? Seventeen? And she looked up at Bo like she already knew him.

Which, as it turned out, she did.

“This is Lisa,” Bo said, like it was casual. “My daughter.”

You blinked. You hadn’t even known he had a daughter.

Lisa didn’t say much, barely looked at you, actually, just nodded in that stiff way teenagers do and wandered off to stock shelves.

Bo hadn’t told you everything, but you didn’t press him. You knew what you were. You knew what you weren’t, too.

That night, though, when the store closed and Lisa had gone back to wherever she stayed. Bo kissed you like he was scared you’d walk away.

And you didn’t.

The ex-wife came two days later.

Grace.

She worked across the street, same store but for the white peoples, and when she crossed that dirt road and stepped into Bo Chow & Co., the sunlight caught her hair like a damn halo.

She was tall. Not that much taller than you, but enough. Beautiful. Put-together. Nails done. Cheeks pinched with rouge.

And her mouth curled up when she looked at you, like she already knew she could ruin you. Keep that in mind.

“You’re cute,” Grace said, in a voice too smooth for the middle of the day. “Did Bo pick you out himself?”

You only laughed.

Bo didn’t.

He came out from the back, wiping his hands on a rag, eyes narrowing.

“Grace,” he said flatly. “Don’t start.”

Grace just smiled, walked over to you, and brushed a speck of lint off your apron.

“Just saying hi, Bo,” she said sweetly, eyes flicking down your body. “Your new hire’s a little snack, is all.”

Bo didn’t say anything. Just stood there, jaw tight, arms crossed, watching as Grace winked at you and then strolled out of the store like she owned the whole damn town.

It kept happening.

Every couple of days, Grace would stop by, always with something to say. Always lingering by your side too long. Always close enough for Bo to hear.

Sometimes, she’d whisper things when she knew he couldn’t see —

“You really like it here, huh?” You nod.

Grace had a finger tracing your jaw. “Bo treatin’ you sweet?”

“You a pretty lil thing…” you bit your lip.

It made you wet, truth be told.

But the way Bo looked at you after?

The way he grabbed your hips at the register and pulled you into the backroom…

The way he told you, smirking, “She don’t know how good I be fuckin’ you…”

The way his hands were all over you when he kissed you…

It made something in you burn.

Lisa never said much.

She came in, she worked, she read. She didn’t talk about her mom. She didn’t ask about you and Bo. She didn’t flinch when Grace flirted or when Bo ignored her completely.

But sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, she’d glance at the two of you. Bo with his hand on your back, you laughing into his chest, and you swore you saw something soft in her eyes. Just for a second.

And you? You were still working. Still flirting. Still keeping Bo’s bed warm and his books straight and his hands full.

But there was a new tension in the air now.

Not bad. Just heavy

You wiped your hands on your apron and leaned against the counter, watching Bo scribble something in the inventory log with that same pencil he always used.

Lisa left a few hours ago.

You should’ve gone ten minutes ago. But you hadn’t told him yet.

Bo didn’t look up when he said it:

“You stayin’ tonight?”

You shifted, biting your lip.

He finally did glance up, those honey-dark eyes still soft from a long day of stealing touches and grazing your waist every time he passed you in the store.

“Can’t,” you murmured. “I gotta go home. My neighbor’s letting me borrow her washer before sundown. It’s the only time she ain’t using it.”

Bo didn’t say anything for a beat, just tapped the pencil twice on the page and nodded, jaw flexing like he didn’t want to be annoyed but was anyway.

Then he got up, walked over, real slow, like always.

His arms slipped around your waist.

And then his lips, warm, smelling faintly like tobacco and soap, pressed against the side of your neck.

“You comin’ back after?” he asked, voice rough from smoke and restraint.

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut.

“Late,” you whispered, “but yeah.”

His breath ghosted down the back of your neck. And he didn’t say anything else. Just let you go.

It was damn near midnight by the time you let yourself into his house.

Bo was already in bed, propped up on one elbow, shirtless, chain glinting against his chest, and a cigarette between his fingers, a book in his other hand. Smoke curled around him in thin silver trails, glowing orange when he brought it back to his lips as he read.

The whole room smelled like him. Like firewood. Like skin. Like home.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come back,” he said, smoke trailing from his mouth, dropping the book.

You didn’t answer. You just walked right over, boots off, dress loose, and climbed straight into his lap like you belonged there.

And you did.

Bo handed you the cigarette, eyes never leaving yours, and you took a slow drag, blowing the smoke out past his ear as you leaned in.

“Missed me?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Bo’s hand slid up the back of your thighs, grabbed your ass, hard, and then flipped you under him like you weighed nothing, plucking the cigarette from your fingers and putting it in the ashtray on the nightstand before coming back to you.

And then he kissed you. Not quick. Not polite.

It was hot and wet and slow, his hands everywhere, sliding your dress up, pulling your panties down, spreading you open under him like he couldn’t wait another second.

He only groaned. And then he was inside you — deep, slow, hard, and all you could do was moan.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, tight.

Bo braced one arm beside your head and grabbed your jaw with the other, forcing you to look at him while he fucked you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

The chain around his neck swung gently above you, catching in the light every time he thrust deeper, hypnotizing.

“You feel that?” he grunted, voice ragged against your cheek. “That’s mine, baby. This body. This fuckin’ pussy. Mine.”

You nodded. Because of course you did.

You couldn’t talk, only moan.

Again and again, choked and high and needy, until it was all that filled the room.

“Bo—”

“Bo, oh god—”

“Don’t stop—”

Your nails raked down his back. He hissed. And then he smiled.

“Ain’t stoppin’,” he said darkly. “Not ‘til I’m done.”

And he wasn’t.

He kept going, slow, full strokes that had you shaking, eyes rolling, until the only thing you could think, hear, or feel was him.

He kissed you when you came. Hard. Deep. Like he wanted to swallow the sound of it.

You moaned into his mouth.

Again.

And again.

And again.

He collapsed on top of you after, sweat-soaked, panting, and nuzzled his face into your neck, had you chuckling lazily, still holding you like he couldn’t stand to let go.

You laid there for a long moment, skin stuck together, chests rising and falling in rhythm, until your fingers wandered up to his chain.

You toyed with it. He watched.

And then you whispered, low:

“Bo…what are we?”

The silence hit heavy. Thick. But not cold.

Bo pulled back just enough to look down at you, his eyes all sleepy heat and dark promise.

“You askin’ if you’re mine?” he murmured.

You swallowed.

“Yeah.”

His mouth curled.

“You been mine,” he said simply. “Been mine since you walked into that store and didn’t look away when I stared.”

He leaned down. Kissed your mouth, soft and possessive.

“But if you need me to say it out loud, I will.”

“You’re my girl, sugar.”

“Ain’t nobody else touchin’ you.”

Your breath caught. Bo smiled against your mouth.

“Now go to sleep,” he whispered. “Gotta be up early for work.”

It was early.

The kind of early where the light coming through the windows was still a soft gold, not full sun yet, just the glow before it. The town outside hadn’t quite woken up, but Bo’s house was already warm, filled with the smell of coffee and fresh bread that someone must’ve left cooling next door.

You stretched slow, like a cat, body still sore in all the right places.

Bo wasn’t in bed anymore. But he wasn’t far.

You found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in nothing but his trousers, suspenders hanging loose at his sides, his chest bare and golden in the soft light. His hair was a little messy, like he hadn’t done it yet. There was a mug in his hand, and a newspaper tucked under his arm, though he wasn’t reading it. Just watching the window.

When he heard your bare feet on the floor, he turned.

“Mornin’, sugar.”

His voice was low. Raspy. Still waking up.

You padded across the floor and stepped into his space, and he didn’t hesitate, set the mug down and wrapped both arms around you, pulling you in against his chest like you were the thing he needed most in the world.

“You sleep okay?” he murmured into your hair.

You nodded, pressing your cheek to his collarbone.

“Sore,” you whispered. “Good sore.”

Bo huffed a warm laugh. You could feel the smile on his lips when he kissed your temple.

“Told you I wasn’t done with you. Still not.”

You tilted your head back just enough to look at him.

The chain around his neck was still there, glinting softly, and your fingers reached up to toy with it.

“You always up this early?”

“Only on days that end in Y,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over your back. “Got a lotta work to do today. Truck’s comin’ with the new sacks of rice and coffee. Gotta clear space in the storeroom.”

“I can help,” you offered.

He gave you a long look.

“You sure you don’t need a few more hours in bed?” He asked. “You were walkin’ like a baby deer just now.”

You flushed and lightly smacked his chest, and he caught your wrist, grinning, pulled your hand up to his mouth and kissed your knuckles one by one.

“I’m serious,” he said more softly. “You help me too much. Spoilin’ me.”

“That’s the point, I work for you.”

“Eh.”

He smiled again, wider this time, and leaned down to kiss you properly. Slow. Lazy. Sweet.

His fingers slipped under the hem of the shirt you’d he have you, and rested on the curve of your waist like he just needed the touch.

“You make me feel like a damn husband again,” he said, voice rough.

“Like I got a real home.”

You blinked up at him.

That was…a big thing to say…

Bo must’ve felt you stiffen a little, because he gently cupped your cheek and pulled your face back to his, brushing your nose with his.

“Don’t panic,” he murmured. “Ain’t askin’ for a ring. Just like havin’ you here. That’s all.”

You didn’t panic. Not really.

You just…leaned into it.

Let him kiss you again. Let him pour you some coffee with that crooked grin of his. Let him stand behind you while you sipped. The coffee was hot in your hand, but his body was hotter.

You leaned your back against the counter, holding the chipped ceramic mug with both hands like it was anchoring you, while Bo turned to the old gas stove and twisted the knob with a quiet hiss. Flame gone. Just like that.

Then he reached up to open the window slightly, bare chest catching the pale early morning light, muscles shifting beneath smooth skin and the slope of his shoulders stretching under his warm tan skin like God took his time.

You watched the whole thing like a film reel slowed down just for you.

The way his forearm flexed, veins visible but not harsh, his fingers long, thick at the base, a little rough, strong like they knew what to do with every part of you. His hands looked like they were made to build and fix and lift you with one arm.

And God help you, you’d let him.

He turned, caught you staring. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat.

Just gave you this sleepy little smile that said I know what you’re looking at.

And then he crossed the room with that walk, you knew the one, like every part of him was just slightly too powerful to be casual but too smooth to show it off.

And then he was in front of you. Warm. Big. Bare.

Smelling like skin and fire and smoke.

“You like lookin’ at me?” he asked, voice low, scratchy, soft with affection, not teasing.

“Mmm-hmm,” you hummed into your coffee, not looking away. “I like the show. Think it’s why I spend the night.”

“Not my charm?”

“No, sir.”

Bo huffed, and then leaned down, kissed your forehead real quick, then your cheek, then lower, mouth brushing the hinge of your jaw.

Your fingers found the waist of his trousers. Just rested there. Nothing more.

He didn’t stop kissing. Didn’t rush it either.

Just pressed his lips against your skin, trailing them down the side of your neck like he needed to taste you before the world turned the lights on outside. It wasn’t sex. Wasn’t leading there either. Just a mouth. And a moment.

And his hands, god, his hands, one on your hip, the other sliding up your back slowly. His thumb caught the hem of the big shirt you wore, and pushed it up just enough to touch the skin of your lower back.

It was soft. Subtle. But it burned like it mattered.

“You smell good,” he mumbled against your skin. “That my soap again?”

“Maybe,” you murmured. “Maybe I like smellin’ like you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You dangerous,” he whispered.“Don’t even got to touch me to drive me crazy.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Your free hand trailed up his chest, slow, fingertips dancing along his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, until they found the chain he never took off. You loved that thing. Loved the way it caught the light, the way it swung when he was above you.

You kissed him there. Right on the center of his chest.

Then again. A little lower.bRight over his heart.

Bo stilled, body tensing for a breath, then sighed and slid both arms around you, holding you tight against him like he needed it more than his morning smoke.

“You soft this morning,” you whispered into his skin.

“I always been soft for you.”

You looked up. That was not a lie. He meant it.

You blinked, touched his jaw with your fingertips.

“You tryna wife me up already, Mr. Chow?”

He arched a brow.

“Ain’t gotta try.”

The air between you felt golden. Like honey melting into warm bread.

Bo reached past you to take your mug and finished the rest of you coffee, like he always did, then set it down and kissed your temple again. His hands stayed at your waist for a long moment, thumbs stroking soft circles, like maybe he’d forgotten there was a store to open at all.

“We got fifteen minutes ‘til Lisa shows up,” he said eventually.

“That’s enough time,” you said.

“For what?”

You smiled.

“Nothin’. Just wanna look at you more.”

And so you did.

A/N: raw, next CHAPTER…get it? Because the…I’ll shut up now.

[strangerexee]

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ: ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

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

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 | 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐/𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎/𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 | 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 | 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 (𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜), 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 | 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢 | 𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 | 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7 (ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ…)

[strangerexee]

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

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

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

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 | 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐/𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎/𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 | 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 | 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 (𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜), 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 | 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢 | 𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 | 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

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

[strangerexee]

✦ ɴᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ | chapter one: “he fine as hell.” ᴇʟɪᴀꜱ “ꜱᴛᴀᴄᴋ” ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ғᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗!𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐!𝚊𝚞 | 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚜-𝚝𝚘-𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜 (𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊) | 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑

Parings: Elias “stack” Moore x Black!Fem!Reader

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: (𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎 | 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 | 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 | 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝 | 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 | 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 | 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 | 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎 | 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜 | 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 | 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 )

It was one of them hot-ass, Southern block parties where everybody came out fresh — twists crisp, lashes long, t-shirts tight and music loud. The pavement still held heat from the day and the air smelled like smoke, and sweat. You had on your short shorts, gold bamboo hoops, and your feet were hurting from the cute sandals you swore up and down you wouldn’t regret buying.

You was posted on the porch with a red cup full of Hennessy and your cousin Chey when the twins pulled up.

Smoke and Stack Moore.

You didn’t need nobody to say their names — you could feel it when they hit the corner. That street just got quiet for a second. Not because they was famous or anything…but because they were the kind of trouble everybody respected. The kind you don’t look at too long.

The kind you don’t look at too long. Stack had on all black — fitted tee stretching over muscle and tattoos, gray sweats hanging low, and a thick rope chain swinging like it had a mind of its own.

Smoke walked a step beside him, grill glinting, eyes cold like always.

But Stack?

Stack’s eyes landed on you.

And baby, you smiled.

You dipped your chin and sipped slow, pretending like your pulse ain’t trip over itself, pretending like your legs ain’t weaken the second y’all locked eyes.

He stared hard, too — like he was counting every gold fleck in your eyes. Like he saw past your lip gloss, past the hoops, past the good-girl act you wrapped around yourself.

And you slipped.

“He fine as hell,” you muttered to Chey under your breath. Just loud enough to blame the liquor if anybody heard.

Chey choked. “Girl —!”

Too late.

Tyree, your hot-headed, too-much-of-a-gangsta older brother, was walking up with Kash, your older brother-slash-bodyguard.

Tyree squinted. “Who fine?”

You blinked. “…the ribs.”

“Yeah,” Kash muttered, side-eyeing the twins, “say that again and see what happen.”

You said it one time. One time.

And your life ain’t been peaceful since.

See, your brothers were deep in that street shit. You wasn’t. You wanted no parts of it — hell, you ran a salon. You made girls feel pretty, lined up kids before their first day of school, did mamas’ curls before church.

You was soft life. But your blood? That was Tyree and Kash.

And the Moore twins?

They were opps.

Not “arguing on the internet” opps.

Not “we got problems” opps.

You was talking blood-on-the-sidewalk type of history. Years of tension. Men dead. Streets painted red. Your family ain’t even say their names in full. Just “them Moore boys” like they was a curse.

But still…

Still…

You looked at Stack every time you saw him.

You flirted bold when your brothers weren’t watching. Called him “trouble” with a smirk. Laughed when he said things you shouldn’t let slide. One time at a car wash pop-up, you even let him feed you a mango snow cone and sucked the juice off your thumb while holding eye contact.

“I’m not scared of you,” you’d whispered.

“Yeah, but you should be,” he said, licking his lips.

He never touched you. Never crossed a line. But he looked at you like he wanted to.

And that’s what made it worse.

Because if you touched him?

You ain’t know who’d kill who first — your brothers or his.

Back at the block party, Stack walked past, slow as ever. You felt him before you saw him. He smelled like wood smoke and something sweet. A cologne you couldn’t name.

You turned your head and —

There.

He caught your eyes again. Smiled. That little cocky tilt of his head, like he knew.

And you?

You let your eyes travel down. Chest. Waist. Print.

And back up.

You bit your lip.

He shook his head.

Tyree grabbed your shoulder like he could see sin on your face.

“Fix your face, girl.”

“I am,” you said sweetly. “You fix yours.”

The night rolled on. Music blasting. You danced with Chey, with a few boys you didn’t care about. All the while, Stack was watching. Sitting on a car hood across the lot, cooling in a black durag, legs spread, licking a lollipop like he ain’t give a damn about nobody else breathing.

Your heart raced, but you knew the rules.

You wasn’t fucking that man.

You couldn’t.

Your brothers would kill him.

And then kill you.

So you played the game.

You kept flirting.

Kept pretending.

Kept aching.

Two nights later

The block was quiet. Too quiet.

It was one of them sticky nights — when the humidity sat heavy on your skin and the streetlights buzzed like they was tired of burning. The No Love Beauty Bar sign was still glowing soft in your window as you swept the last bit of hair into the dustpan. The smell of mango oil and flat iron heat still lingered in the air, soft and familiar.

You glanced at the clock — 9:37 PM.

Late, but not unusual.

You closed the shop alone all the time. Had the routine down to a rhythm — wipe the chairs, count the cash, lock the front, leave out the back. You moved through it mindlessly, humming Summer Walker under your breath with your slides scraping the tile.

Until you saw him.

At first, it was just a shadow. A shape hunched outside your front window, head down, arms resting on knees.

Then the streetlight caught the shine of a chain.

And you froze.

You knew that silhouette. That slouch. That stillness.

Stack.

What the hell —?

You inched closer, peeking through the blinds, heart lurching straight into your throat.

He was bleeding.

T-shirt ripped near the shoulder, blood spreading like a slow leak. His arm dangled loose, and his jaw was clenched like he was holding pain between his teeth. But his eyes? They found you fast.

Like he felt you coming.

You yanked the door open.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

His head lifted slow, and even in pain, he had the nerve to smirk.

“Hey, pretty.”

“You bleeding on my concrete, Elias.”

“Yeah.” He coughed. “Couldn’t think of nowhere else to go.”

You stood there, halfway between slamming the door or dragging him inside.

“This a setup? One of my brothers out here? You tryna get me killed?”

He laughed, but it turned into a wince.

“Baby, if I wanted to get you killed, I wouldn’t be knockin’ on your damn salon door.” He hissed, leaned back against the wall. “I just need a minute. I’ll go.”

You stared at him. Your jaw locked, nails digging into your palm.

Then you muttered, “You dumb as fuck.”

And opened the door wider.

The bell above the door jingled as you helped him in — one arm around your shoulder, the other limp, body heavy and warm and bleeding all over your damn floor.

He stumbled a little. “Damn. You strong, huh?”

“Shut up.”

You led him to the break room couch in the back, the one your girls took naps on between clients. You grabbed a towel, peroxide, and a mini first aid kit from the cabinet.

He groaned as he leaned back.

“Take your shirt off.”

“Damn, buy me dinner first?”

“Stack.”

He chuckled low, and started peeling off his shirt — slow, careful, muscles flexing with every hiss. You tried not to look. But your eyes betrayed you. They always did with him.

His body was all bruises and chocolate-brown skin, ink swirling down his ribs and over his chest. A bullet graze near the shoulder — a bit deep, but bleeding steady. You pressed the alcohol drenched towel to it hard.

“Shit —” he groaned.

“You gon’ cry?”

“You gon’ kiss it better?”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands stayed soft. Your fingers trembled slightly as you poured peroxide and wiped him clean.

Silence fell.

Except it wasn’t silence.

It was his breath. Heavy. Real.

It was the closeness — his legs spread wide, yours between them, tension so thick you could taste it.

You glanced up. His eyes were already on you.

Always were.

“You need to go,” you whispered.

“I will.”

“When?” You tilted your head.

“…Soon.”

Your hand paused against his chest. You swallowed.

“My brothers ever find out you stepped foot in here —”

“I know.”

“They’ll kill you.”

He stared at you.

“You care?”

You hesitated.

“…No.”

Stack laughed low, the sound raspier now. “You such a bad liar, pretty.”

“I’m not doing this with you.”

“Yeah, you are,” he murmured, eyes burning into yours. “You been doin’ it. All them looks. All them little games. We both know this. You act like I don’t see you.”

“You ain’t supposed to,” you whispered.

“Oh - But I do.”

He reached up with his good hand. Brushed a curl from your cheek. Touched you like you was something delicate — like he ain’t just walk in bleeding and cursed.

Like you was the only soft thing he had left.

“You so damn pretty,” he said.

“You so damn stupid,” you whispered back.

The moment pressed, thick and dangerous.

If you leaned in, you wouldn’t stop.

If you kissed him, the line would blur forever.

So instead?

You stepped back.

“You got ten minutes. Then you’re gone.”

He leaned back on the couch with a sigh, eyes on you the whole way out.

But before you turned the corner, he said —

“Thank you, baby.”

Three nights later

You wasn’t even supposed to be there.

But Chey begged.

And your brothers were out of town, handling “business” in Atlanta.

So you slipped on a little dress, sprayed too much perfume, and told yourself you was just going out for drinks, not trouble.

That was a lie. A sweet one. A soft one.

Because the moment you stepped into Sable, that dark red-lit club two neighborhoods over, you felt him.

Before you saw him.

You felt him.

As always.

The music was up loud — bass sliding down your spine, fog machines in the corners making the lights blur soft. Your curls were piled high, your gloss was thick, and the dress you had on? Baby pink. Tight. Strapless. Short. Every curve of your body humming in the heat.

Chey handed you a shot. “To being bad bitches with no brothers in sight!”

You clinked and downed it.

That Henny kissed your soul before it burned.

You was four shots in when you saw him.

Stack.

Leaning on the wall near VIP, chain thick, teeth shining when he grinned. His eyes landed on you like he expected you to show up. Like he wanted you to. Like the club was his trap and you walked right into it.

You tried to look away.

You failed. Obviously.

You danced with Chey first, swaying slow, arms around her shoulders, letting the liquor and beat melt your worries. But every time you turned your head?

Stack. Watching.

Stack. Licking his lips.

Stack. Sipping brown liquor from a lowball glass, jaw tight, smirking.

You gave in.

You always did with him.

By the fifth drink, you made your way across the club, hips swaying on purpose, fingers grazing his waist as you passed him.

He caught your hand.

Pulled you close.

You didn’t resist.

His mouth brushed your ear. Shit, you wanted that mouth kissing all over your neck.

“You look good, pretty.”

“You owe me,” you whispered, lips brushing his jaw. “Bled all over my damn couch.”

Stack smirked. “Let me make it up to you then.”

You said nothing.

Just licked your lips and led him through the back hall like a woman on a mission.

A Storage Room…a fucking storage room - Jesus Christ.

Low lights. Locked door. Concrete floors and bass from the club thumping through the walls like a heartbeat.

Not exactly the most romantic place to fuck the man you’ve been wanting to fuck for the first time.

You pressed him against the wall and smiled up at him, heart racing, breath shallow.

“You shouldn’t be in here with me.”

“I know.”

“You the enemy.”

“So are you.”

“…You like that?”

Stack leaned down slow, face inches from yours. “I like you.”

Then his lips were on yours.

Hard. Hungry. Heavy.

Like he was starving and you were the first thing he could taste.

You moaned into his mouth and kissed him back just as bad. Your hands curled into his shirt, tugging him closer. His hands gripped your waist like he had every right to, like he forgot who your brothers were, like you weren’t forbidden fruit.

“You drunk?” he murmured against your lips.

You grinned. “A little.”

“You freaky when you drunk?”

“…Maybe.”

He groaned, lips brushing your neck. “Goddamn.”

You pushed him onto the little loveseat in the corner, climbed on his lap, thighs spreading around him like you been dreaming of this — and baby, you had.

Your lips found his again. Slow. Deep. You kissed him like he was already yours. Then slid down to his neck, lips pressing soft under his jaw, then sucking just below his ear.

Stack hissed through his teeth, low and deep. “Shit, girl…”

“You owe me,” you whispered, reminding him once more, mouth still on him.

He let his hands roam — slow, big palms smoothing over your hips, up your back, gripping you like he was scared you’d disappear.

“Say the word,” he whispered, voice rough.

You didn’t say anything.

You just kept kissing down his throat, trailing your lips lower while your fingers tangled in that chain around his neck.

His hands slid back down. One on your hip. The other…

Slipped under your dress.

It kept going.

Past the panties.

You gasped when his fingers slid through your folds — slick, slow, deep.

Stack sucked in a breath through his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tight as hell. “Damn, baby…”

You clenched around nothing, thighs twitching.

His fingers stayed there, just resting between your folds, feeling how soaked you were, how hot it was — like your body had been waiting for him.

“Drunk lil freak,” he mumbled, smirking, voice dark. “I barely touched you.”

You bit your lip.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He already knew.

Stack brought his fingers up slow — wet, glistening in the dim red light — and pressed them against your bottom lip.

You parted your mouth.

He slid those same fingers right onto your tongue.

“Suck.”

And you did.

Wrapped your lips right around them, moaned low, let your tongue swirl like you was practicing for what you really wanted. You looked him dead in his eyes as you did it, cheeks hollowing just enough to make that man groan

“Shit, girl…”

He pulled his hand back and kissed you filthy — like you belonged to him, like he ain’t give a damn about your brothers, about rules, about nothing but you right here, right now.

And then?

You moved.

Lifted up, grabbed his belt, and undid it slow while still straddling him. He let you, hands gripping your hips tight, breathing like he was losing control.

When you pulled him out, your eyes widened just a little.

Because — lord.

He was thick. Dark. Heavy in your hand.

“I—”

“Yeah,” he cut in low, cocky. “You see it.”

You ain’t say nothing else. Just shifted your panties to the side and sunk down slow.

“Oh — ha, Stack —”

He groaned, head falling back.

Your hips stopped when he bottomed out.

Thick and deep. Stretching you so good.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, and your mouth fell open. “Oh my god —”

“Feel that?” he whispered. “That’s all you, pretty. All you.”

And then?

You started to ride.

Slow at first.

Lil rolls of your hips, his hands ‘guidin you, mouth kissing every inch of your neck. You bounced just a little — his hands grabbing your ass, pressing you down deeper.

“Stack — Stack…”

You moaned his name over and over, like a chant, like a prayer.

He cursed low, bucking up into you, matching your rhythm. “Don’t say my name like that…”

You did it again.

“Stack…”

He slapped your ass hard, gritted his teeth. “You tryna make me lose my mind in this damn club?”

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

The way he filled you? Thick, pulsing, dragging against your walls like he was made to fit inside you. That type of deep stroke that made your eyes roll back. That good hood dick you always said you’d stay away from.

Too late now.

You started bouncing faster, your moans louder.

Skin slapping. Lip ‘bitin. Nails on skin.

“Fuck — fuck, girl—”

He gripped the back of your neck and kissed you hard, tongues tangling, breath shared. His other hand slid between your legs, thumb brushing your clit just right.

You jerked.

“Right there?”

“Yes — please, right there —”

“Tell me who pussy this is.”

Shit — it was his now.

You couldn’t lie.

Couldn’t fake a thing.

“Yours, Stack…it’s yours…”

He smirked.

Started stroking up into you, harder, faster, watching your body shake on top of his.

You let your head roll back.

Your moans echoed in that room — sweet, filthy sounds.

You was gone.

So gone.

And when your walls squeezed tight, trembling all over him?

He knew.

He held your waist still, let you ride it all the way out, let you come deep on him, slow and heavy, thighs shaking.

Your body was done.

You were done.

Or so you thought…

You collapsed against his chest, breathing heavy, legs weak from riding him slow, deep, and nasty. His hands gripped your waist like he owned it, face buried in your neck, both of y’all sweaty and stuck together in that small, locked storage room.

But Stack didn’t move.

Didn’t lift you off.

Didn’t let you go.

Instead?

His fingers dug in.

His lips touched your ear.

And he whispered low, voice dark and sticky:

“Nah, pretty. Keep going.”

You blinked, still panting.

“Stack—”

“I said keep going. You not done ‘til I say so.”

And baby, that’s when you knew you was in trouble.

You tried to move — hips lifting just a little — but he pulled you back down with a groan, grinding you on him slow.

“Mmmph —”

You shifted, walls fluttering from the aftershock of that orgasm still rolling through you.

He was still hard inside you. Still deep. That slow, thick stroke that reached so far you felt it in your belly.

“You got one more in you,” he muttered. “Don’t you.”

You whimpered. “I’m tryna — shit — it’s too much…”

“You can take it,” he smirked, licking into your mouth before pulling back. “You took it once, you gon’ do it again.”

He moved his hips up.

Deep.

You huffed, grabbing onto his shoulders for balance.

Stack held you steady, lips brushing your jaw. “Bounce on it.”

“Say please.” You smiled lightly.

“Please, pretty.”

You obeyed.

Slow at first — hips rolling in little circles, rising and falling, his dick dragging right across that spot that made your toes curl. The overstimulation was real — too real — and every stroke made your pussy squeeze around him like it was trying to keep him inside.

“That’s it…yeah…”

He grabbed your ass, lifted you up, dropped you back down.

You moaned—loud.

“No one can fuck you like I can,” he said, voice low, possessive. “Ain’t nobody ever had you like this.”

You nodded fast, eyes fluttering shut.

“Say it.”

“You, Stack — ha — just you —”

“Damn right.”

He started moving under you now — hips thrusting up while you bounced, rhythm locking together like y’all done this before. Like your bodies knew each other.

Your second orgasm snuck up fast.

You tried to stop it — couldn’t.

“F-fuck— I’m—”

“You gon’ come again,” Stack whispered in your ear, teeth dragging down your neck. “‘Cause I said so.”

This bitch.

Your mouth fell open.

Eyes rolled.

You came hard — walls squeezing him tight, thighs shaking, moans breaking into high, breathless whimpers as he kept stroking through it.

“Shhh,” he cooed, lips at your neck. “You good?”

You nodded, laying your head on his shoulder.

You couldn’t even move.

But he was still hard. Still inside. Still fucking you slow.

And then?

He kissed your shoulder and whispered:

“Now ride me one more time, pretty…”

You whined into his chest. “Stack, I can’t—”

“Yes you can. You just scared ‘cause you know I fuck you too good.”

You clenched.

His damn voice alone had your pussy fluttering.

Then his hands slid down your spine — slow. He dragged your hips back a little, adjusted his seat under you, and pressed up from below.

Deep.

“Ohh — shit—”

“Yeah…you feel that?”

You bit his shoulder to keep from screaming.

Stack chuckled, low and smug, fingers curling around the fat of your ass, pulling you back until his tip was nearly out — then slamming you back down so hard you bounced.

“Ride me like you mean it, baby.”

Your hips moved on instinct.

You didn’t have no pride left. None. He took it when he made you come the first time — stole it again when he made you suck your own slick off his fingers.

Now? Now you were drunk, fucked out, but riding him like your life depended on it.

“I hate you so much.”

“No you don’t — Say my name.”

“Stack.”

“That’s it, baby.”

His grip got tighter, his mouth meaner — biting at your neck, licking up your throat. Your body rolled, bounced, circled on top of him. And every move? Sent his thick, heavy length dragging against that spot — that deep ache that made your walls clamp down like a fucking vice.

“Damn, you don’t stop gripping me,” he groaned. “Like your pussy know who it belong to.”

You moaned.

“Don’t go quiet now. You was real loud five minutes ago.”

“Fuck — please shut up—”

His hand went between your legs again. Brushed that swollen clit just right.

And your hips bucked.

Hard.

“Stack—Stack, wait— hollon—!”

He only chuckled.

Your whole body locked up — legs seizing, mouth falling open, a broken cry slipping past your lips as your climax hit like a freight train. Walls pulsing, heartbeat pounding, breath knocked out your chest.

You slumped forward, crying into his neck, trying to breathe.

Stack held you.

Stroked your back.

And then?

“You done?”

You nodded.

“Too bad.”

“Bitch…”

“Nah, I’m just fuckin’ with you.”

“STACK—” You slapped at his chest.

He laughed — deep, raspy, smug as hell — pulling out slow and watching you squirm from the sensitivity.

“Chill, baby,” he said, leaning back, dragging his hands down his face. “You damn near passed out on me. I had to say something to keep you up.”

You groaned. “You ain’t right.”

“You knew that before you brought me back here.”

You rolled your eyes — but your body was still shaking. And the air was hot, too hot. All that sweat, that steam, your legs sticky and trembling.

So you slid off the little couch and laid flat on the floor.

“Mm…this floor cold,” you mumbled, cheek pressed to the tile. “Thank God.”

Stack raised a brow. “You deadass on the floor?”

“Hell yeah, I’m on the floor.”

You spread your limbs like a starfish, toes still curled. You needed a minute. Maybe an hour.

Maybe Jesus himself.

Stack just watched you, still ‘sittin with that smug-ass look, dick hangin’ halfway hard, sweats barely pulled up.

And then it hit you.

“Wait—” You turned your head. “You ain’t even…you didn’t cum?”

He smirked. Shrugged.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“GOOD??”

He leaned his head like he wasn’t the reason your soul left your body. Like he didn’t just rearrange your organs then get up and walk off like it was nothing.

You narrowed your eyes.

“A girl ever told you she felt it in her stomach?”

Stack grinned. “Few times.”

You blinked, chest still rising and falling.

“…Well I just felt you leave my stomach.”

He barked out a laugh.

That smug-ass, hood-rich, cocky laugh that let you know he was proud of every. single. stroke.

“Yeah?” he said, licking his lips. “You welcome.”

You rolled onto your side, lips twisted. “Nasty-ass…”

He came over, crouched beside you, ran his hand down your bare thigh, real slow.

“You look good like this. Fucked out. Quiet.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“You was just now.”

You glared. He kissed your cheek. You hated how much you liked it.

“Do I look okay to walk out?” you asked, sitting up slow. “Or should I just stay here till morning?”

Stack looked you up and down.

Dress wrinkled. Lip gloss gone. Hair slightly wild but somehow still pretty. Panties still askew.

He licked his lips again.

“Nah, you cute…but stay with me ten more minutes and you ain’t walkin’ nowhere.”

You sucked your teeth. “Ughhh, nigga.”

He laughed, stood up, pulled his sweats back on, adjusting himself with a wince.

You watched him, curious.

“So you really ain’t finish?”

Stack leaned over, helped you up — gentle like he hadn’t been tearing you in half couple minutes ago.

He whispered, mouth against your neck:

“Nah…I’m savin’ it.” He said pulling you dress down by the hem.

You blinked. “For who?”

He smirked.

“For when you beg me next time.”

You rolled your eyes.

"Boy bye."

Sorry yall…

Lil taglist — @deadvilesworld (ik you hurt girl...so I will apologize again - sorry) @wingedpeachjudgegiant @myfavscentislavender @remmickcherie @majorkee @authentic-girl03 @vintigepimpzinio @heauxtales @honestlyurslol @li-da-savage

[strangerexee]

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

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

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

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 | 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐/𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎/𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 | 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 | 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 (𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜), 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 | 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢 | 𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 | 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

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.

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

[strangerexee]

ᴍɪᴄ ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ, ᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ | ꜰᴀᴍᴏᴜꜱ ꜱɪɴɢᴇʀ!ꜱᴀᴍᴍɪᴇ ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝙰𝚄: 𝙼𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗 | 𝙵𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚁&𝙱 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚎

Pairings: Sammie Moore x black!reader

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 : (𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝙺𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝙵𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚜)

You were embarrassing.

You knew it.

Sweating under the stage lights, your phone gripped in both hands like your life depended on it, scream-singing along to every word like your soul might exit your body from pure, unfiltered thirst.

Because Sammie Moore was right there.

Fine as all hell.

Dripping sweat.

Voice deeper than sin itself.

His chain glittered under the stage lights, swinging every time he leaned forward and dragged those thick, ringed fingers down the mic stand. His shirt was half open. His skin glistened.

And God help you, you had no dignity.

You were screaming so hard you couldn’t even record.

Voice cracked. Makeup surprisingly not melting. Hair sticking to your neck.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you were at the front.

At a Sammie Moore concert.

And you’d never wanted a man more in your whole damn life.

The crowd swayed like ocean waves behind you, arms raised, girls crying, some throwing bras. Sammie walked slow across the stage, drinking from a bottle of water, that voice of his curling around lyrics like smoke. Like velvet dragged over your spine.

He looked good.

Too good.

Painfully good.

And then — Lord, then — he stopped singing.

Paused, lifted his mic.

“I got one question,” he said, deep voice rich like heat.

The whole crowd screamed.

“Who want a kiss?”

Bitch.

The way every hand shot up — like a coordinated attack.

You raised yours too — screaming like your life depended on it, half laughing, tears in your lashes from sheer embarrassment. Your phone was long forgotten. You were just pointing up, jumping like a damn idiot, yelling:

“ME! ME! OH MY GOD, ME PLEASE!”

He looked around. Took his sweet time. Eyes dark. Smiling low like he knew he had y’all wrapped around his finger.

And then — oh my god.

His eyes landed on you.

Not just glanced. Locked.

And that smile —

The cocky, tilted smirk with the dimples and everything —

That was for you.

“You.”

He pointed.

“Come here, baby.”

The security guard was at you before your brain even registered what was happening. You gasped. Sputtered. Let yourself be helped up and over the barricade while the entire front row screamed.

You were shaking.

You were sweating.

You were convinced your soul had just left your damn body.

Sammie watched you walk up — real slow — and you swear you almost tripped on air when he leaned down with the mic and whispered into it —

“Don’t be shy now, baby. C’mon.”

When you made it to the stage, he stepped forward and took your hand.

His palm was warm.

His fingers curled around yours like it was normal. Like this wasn’t the craziest thing to ever happen to you in your whole damn life.

He leaned in close — way too close — and brushed his lips near your ear.

“What’s your name, pretty?”

You told him.

“Mmm. Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

The crowd was SCREAMING.

You were DEAD.

And then — then.

He cupped your cheek with one hand, tilted your chin up, and kissed you.

On the mouth.

Not a peck.

Not a polite little brush.

No — Sammie kissed you like he meant it.

Like he’d been thinking about it.

Like it wasn’t just a stage bit.

His lips were warm. Slow. The kind of kiss that melted your knees. His hand slid down to your jaw, holding you in place, and his mouth lingered—just long enough to steal your breath — he had you squealing against his lips.

When he pulled back, your eyes were wide and glassy, and his thumb brushed under your lip like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted.

He still had the mic in one hand.

“Y’all saw that?” he asked, turning to the crowd. “She sweet as hell.”

You covered your face, sobbing. Literally sobbing.

He laughed.

Real, deep, low in his chest.

Then leaned back in.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered against your ear, so low it didn’t even hit the mic, “I’b be crying too.”

When you were led back down to the crowd, every girl around you looked shook.

You couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Your lips still tingled.

Your hand — he held your hand.

Sammie winked at you once more before turning back to the mic.

And you?

You were a goner.

Js wanna say thank y’all for 1k followers — just got like 900 more strange-babies — preciate all the loveeee — all yall comments and reblogs bring me so much motivation…I love you guys especially the anons and my moots🫶🏽💕 and my wife (she don’t know we married on the low — @pinkpantheris )

[strangerexee]

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

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

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

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 | 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐/𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎/𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 | 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 | 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 (𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜), 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 | 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢 | 𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 | 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

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

[strangerexee]

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

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

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

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 | 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐/𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎/𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 | 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 | 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 (𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜), 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 | 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢 | 𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 | 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

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

[strangerexee]

YOURE SAMMIE FICS, AUGHHHH can we get sammie with a woman with an attitude that knows how to shut her up with his lips everywhere HDHFS maybe she's not the rudest, but she can speakkkk ykwim so he puts it to good use 😛

ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ, ʜᴜʜ? | ꜱᴀᴍᴍɪᴇ ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝙼𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗!𝚊𝚞

𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔!𝙵𝚎𝚖!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚎

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: ( 𝙿𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 | 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 (𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐) | 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚒-𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 (𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖) | 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 | 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚢!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎!𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚎 | 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚖!𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚎 )

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ : ᴀɴᴏɴ…

A/N: I don’t really like this…🫩

You had one problem.

And it was that mouth of yours.

You weren’t even that rude — Sammie had seen worse. You weren’t reckless or bratty. You just…talked too damn much. Sharp. Quick. Lethal with a rolled eye and a muttered “You ain’t my man,” even though, let’s be real, he was.

Sammie swore up and down he liked it—loved that fire, called it “cute” when you challenged him — but you could always tell when he’d had enough.

And tonight?

Tonight you were testing him.

It started in the back of the club.

He’d pulled you back behind the bar to keep your ass outta trouble, made you sit on an old stool with his coat over your lap while he dealt with some idiot in the parking lot. Said - he’d be “ten minutes, max baby.”

So when he came back and saw you chatting up one of the new bouncers — laughing no less — his jaw ticked. You caught the look. You ignored it. You smiled sweet and said, “This one’s got manners, Sammie. You should take notes.”

And you said it loud.

Slow deliberate.

That was the spark.

The strike.

The lit match to a short-ass fuse.

He didn’t yell.

Didn’t snatch you up like you expected.

Just stepped real slow into your space — cool, calm, that usual Sammie lean — and said:

“C’mere.”

“Since you got so much to say tonight…”

You were grinning when he pulled you by the wrist into the back room, past crates of liquor and crates of old flyers, the lights dim and flickering overhead.

“You mad at me?”

“Can’t take a joke, pretty boy?”

Sammie closed the door behind you.

Leaned against it.

“Keep talkin’, baby,” he said low, tilting his head. “You look real good with that mouth runnin’. Real good.”

And you did.

You always did.

Full lips, smart tongue, biting wit.

But the second he stepped forward and slid his hand up your neck, the back of your scalp burning under his fingers, you felt that change in the air. That subtle shift. The grip that made you shut up just long enough to wonder —

What’s he about to do?

“Ain’t mad,” Sammie said, fingers threading into your hair. “Just figured if you gon’ keep that pretty mouth open, you might as well use it.”

Your lips parted to shoot back a line —something bold, something smug — but he was already pushing your back toward the edge of a stacked crate.

“Get on your knees for me, baby.”

You blinked.

He said it again.

Slower. Thicker.

“On. Your. Knees.”

You knelt.

Slow — biting your lip while doing so.

He unbuckled with the kind of ease that came from knowing you’d obey, and you stared up at him, mouth already watering.

“Since you like to talk so damn much,” he muttered, “let’s see how you handle somethin’ better on your tongue.”

You licked your lips.

“Thought you said you liked my mouth.”

“I do.”

“But I like it better when it’s full.”

You didn’t even get to reply — his hand tightened in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to guide you on his dick. He groaned the second your lips parted around him.

He was warm. Heavy. Slow.

Thick enough to make your throat burn on the first push, and Sammie exhaled like it was the first drag of a cigarette after a long day.

“Relax your throat.” The man looked down at you with furrowed brows, his other hand rubbing on your jaw — you attempted to do it. “There she go…” he breathed, watching your lips wrap around him. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

You tried to keep your eyes up, tried to keep that smug spark behind your lashes — but he was already pushing deeper. And harder.

His fingers flexed at the back of your head, pulling your hair just tight enough to send your scalp tingling.

“Still feel like runnin’ that mouth?”

“Or I finally found a way to shut you up?”

You whined.

Literally whined around his dick.

And Sammie laughed — low and smug, dark and hot — chest heaving.

“Mmm,” he groaned. “Sound even prettier when you can’t talk.”

He started thrusting — not rough, but deliberate. Slow enough to tease, deep enough to make your eyes water and roll back. His other hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek like he couldn’t get enough of seeing your lips stretch around him.

“Pretty girl,” he muttered. “You love this shit, don’t you?”

You couldn’t answer, but you nodded. Or tried to.

He twitched.

Pulled out just long enough to hear the gasp that tore from your throat, spit dripping down his chin, then slid right back in — deeper this time, groaning like it was hurting him to go slow.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Say you love it, baby.”

You blinked up at him, throat wrecked and lips swollen. “I love it — I love you.”

The man above you only smirked, his grills twinkling in the dim light. “Lil attitude gone now, huh?”

You nodded, lips parting again — ready to take him, to drown in it, to shut the fuck up.

Because it wasn’t about punishment anymore. Not really.

It was about him.

About Sammie.

Head tilted, eyes dark — moaning low every time you swirled your tongue, every time you let him slip deeper into your throat, every time you let your nails dig into his thighs for balance.

He looked like art.

One hand gripping the shelf behind him, head thrown back, chain swinging faintly with every thrust.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned. “Goddamn — don’t stop — don’t —”

You didn’t.

You let him use your mouth, let him fuck your throat, let him feel everything you couldn’t say with words anymore. And when his hips started to stutter, when his abs clenched and his moan got ragged —

You didn’t pull back.

Not once.

You swallowed it all. Every drop.

He slid down the wall like he couldn’t stand.

You wiped your mouth, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed, smiling.

“Mouth still workin’,” you whispered, hoarse but smug.

Sammie blinked at you — totally wrecked — and laughed.

“Yeah,” he said. “But I like it better like that.”

He pulled you into his lap, kissing you slow, deep — tongue tangled with yours like he needed you to taste every bit of what you just did.

“Still ‘gettin smart with me?” he murmured between kisses.

“Always.”

“Good.”