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Slow Burn, Sharp Blade 🍃

Modern!au Elijah “Smoke” Moore X Black!OC Joya Sable

Word Count : 4K

Authors Note : 👀 Hey y’all. While I love my Smoke and Annie, I wanted to bring in this OC to give it a lil twist. If you like this enough, I’ll definitely drop a part two. Yall just have to let me know. And fun fact, that picture of the sky was taken by yours truly ☺️🙂‍↕️ I have a whole gallery full of them so you may see some more in the future. There’s some teasing in here so I wouldn’t say it’s quite smut but it definitely ain’t vanilla either. So enjoy! 😉

The bell above the east Oakland barbershop door jingles like it’s in on the city’s secrets—like it knows something’s about to go down.

Smoke steps inside slow, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light of the barbershop. It smells like clove oil, fresh fade spray, and something sweet—a woman’s perfume laced with warning. Stack told him this was the spot. Said “Trust me, bruh, she got hands like magic. And she don’t scare easy.”

Didn’t mention she was fine as hell too.

She’s behind the second chair, finishing a fade on a boy too young to sit still but smart enough not to move when her fingers lock his chin. Short and thick, her shape’s impossible to miss. Denim hugging hips like they owe her something. Her locs are gathered up, edges slick, gold hoops dancing when she tilts her head and a two toned Cuban that didn’t miss it’s opportunity to shimmer as she moved. There’s a dragon tattoo wrapped around her forearm, and a nameplate necklace that reads: Joya.

“Take a seat. I’ll get to you in ten,” she calls, not looking up.

That voice? Sweet heat with a bite on the end.

Smoke chooses the waiting bench near the back, watching through lowered lids. Stack didn’t just set him up with a sharp cut. He knew damn well she’d spark something. That fire. That attitude. That don’t-fuck-with-me drawl every time she tells the kid to quit twitchin’.

When she finally turns his way, it’s like she feels him watching. Eyes drag over him, from the twist in his short Afro to the scar along his collarbone. Her smirk’s small, but it’s there. Confident.

“You Smoke, right?” she asks, snapping her cape loose and shaking it once before motioning him over. “Stack said you needed someone with a steady hand. That true, or you just tryna get up under my chair and flex?”

He chuckles low, something in his chest waking up.

“I don’t need to flex. You see me.”

She narrows her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “You talk smooth, but can you sit still?”

“I can sit still real well,” he says, settling into the chair. “Especially when the view this good.”

That earns him a soft snort. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a dismissal. She steps in close, tugging the cape around his shoulders with quick fingers, then starts examining his fro and the line of his fade.

“Mmhm,” she hums, mostly to herself. “You got nice hair. Thick. Clean. I’ll keep your part, tighten your taper, touch your beard. But if you flinch, I’m nickin’ you. An’ I don’t wanna hear no lip either.”

Smoke lets his eyes close, voice warm. “Bet.”

But when her fingers start in—when the clippers buzz low and her hands guide his head like she owns every angle of him—his breath gets slow. Her touch is firm. Sure. She smells like peach sugar and something spiced, like she might knock a man out and kiss him after.

“You always this quiet when a woman got blades near your neck?” she teases, close enough for her voice to brush his ear.

“Only when I’m thinkin’ dangerous thoughts.”

Joya pauses, her wrist resting just above his jaw. “You better focus on that lineup, baby. Not that fast tongue of yours.”

Smoke smiles slow. He likes the way she holds a blade—like it’s a promise.

He might’ve come for the cut, but he’s stayin’ for the fire.

The clippers hum against his skin, but it’s her voice that makes his pulse skip.

“You got a lot of heat sittin’ in this chair,” she says, brushing hair off his temple with the back of her hand. “You always run this warm, or you sweatin’ ‘cause I’m touchin’ you an’ you get nervous around pretty ladies?”

Smoke doesn’t even open his eyes.

“I don’t sweat easy. But you? You got hands like you used to fight in a past life.”

Joya chuckles low, the sound syrupy with mischief. “Maybe I did. Or maybe I just learned to handle men who talk slick.”

“Is that right?”

She taps the top of his head twice. “Chin up.”

He obeys, letting her angle him where she wants. Her nails graze his jaw as she guides it, not gentle—but not careless either. Like she’s letting him know this chair is hers, and so is the moment.

“You from around here?” he asks, voice still soft, curious.

“Born and raised. Mama ran a salon, Daddy ran a garage. I cut hair in the morning and fix old schools on Sundays. What about you? You from here or just passin’ through lookin’ for your next conquest?”

He opens his eyes now, catches her reflection in the mirror. “What makes you think I’m lookin’ for one?”

Joya meets his gaze without flinching. “’Cause men like you don’t come into shops like mine unless they got a reason.”

“Maybe I came ‘cause Stack said you were the best.”

“Stack don’t hand out compliments unless he’s tryna set somebody up.”

Smoke tilts his head, grin creeping in. “Maybe he was.”

Joya cocks her brow, lips parting just a little, like she’s trying not to smile but it’s slipping anyway. She moves to the other side of the chair, close enough now that her hip brushes his arm. On purpose.

“You flirt with all your barbers like this?”

“Only the ones with gold hoops and a dragon on their arm.”

She scoffs, but her smirk’s telling. “You think I’m impressed ‘cause you noticed my tattoo?”

“No,” Smoke says, voice lower now. “I think you’re curious why a man like me got quiet the minute you touched me.”

That gives her pause. Just a second.

Then—click. She switches to the trimmer and leans in so close her breath fans his cheek. “Don’t get too comfortable. I still might nick you for runnin’ that mouth.”

“I’d bleed for you,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

Joya stills, lips inches from his ear.

Then she pulls back and flicks the trimmer off with a snap.

“Line’s clean. Beard’s tight. You can look now.”

Smoke opens his eyes slow. His reflection stares back—fresh cut, sharper jaw, eyes darker than when he walked in.

Joya removes the cape with a flourish, brushing stray hairs from his shoulders. “That’ll be forty.”

He stands, towering over her, but not looming. Just there. Present. The air between them feels different now—warmer, charged.

He pulls a crisp Benjamin from his pocket and presses it into her palm, letting his fingers drag slow across her skin.

“Keep the change.”

She tucks it into her waistband without breaking eye contact. “Next time you want a touch-up, book ahead.” She motioned her head to the stack of business cards at her station.

“I don’t just take walk-ins.”

Smoke leans down just enough to brush his lips near her ear, voice wrapped in velvet heat.

“I wasn’t walkin’ in, babygirl. I was bein’ sent.”

And with that, he’s gone, the door jingling behind him, leaving Joya standing there with clippers in one hand and a grin she doesn’t bother hiding.

——

The bass inside Velvet Ridge rolls like slow thunder through the floorboards.

It’s a Thursday night, mellow crowd but not dead—just the way Joya likes it. She walks in solo, locs out and wild this time, hugging her waist with a ribbed crop top and black jeans. No clippers tonight. Just gold hoops, lip gloss, and attitude.

She’s halfway through her first drink at the bar when Reese, her longtime friend and part-time bartender, slides over with a lazy grin.

“Well damn. You clean up all right.”

Joya smirks. “Better watch your mouth before I bring the clippers up here and leave you with a crooked line on purpose.”

Reese laughs, wiping a glass. “You only get that spicy when you got an itch.”

“I’m here for music, not men,” she says, sipping slow.

Reese lifts a brow, looking past her shoulder. “Then why you got a fresh whiskey ginger coming your way from tall, dark, and locked-in over by the pool table?”

Joya turns her head.

Smoke.

Leaning against the wall like he’s part of it, pool cue in one hand, untouched drink in the other. Same dark tee, same watch and pinky ring glinting under low light. His eyes are already on her, steady and unbothered, like he expected her to walk in eventually.

Because maybe he did.

Joya huffs through her nose and turns back to the bar, trying to play it cool.

“Stack really out here runnin’ matchmaking services now?” she mutters.

Reese whistles low, nudging the drink toward her. “If that’s Stack’s doing, tell him I owe him dinner. That man is fine and lookin’ at you like he’s picturin’ your ass back in that chair—except this time he the one doin’ the sittin’.”

Joya chokes on her sip. “Reese.”

“I’m just sayin’!”

She glances over her shoulder again. Smoke lifts his glass in a silent toast—no wink, no smile. Just that same quiet heat he carried in the shop. And now it’s pulsing between them again, thicker in the dark.

Reese leans in close, grinning. “Go talk to him before I do.”

Joya rolls her eyes, snatches the drink, and slides off the stool. “Keep the seat warm.”

“I’ll keep it icy in case he melts your ass.”

Joya’s already walking, drink in hand, hips swaying like she means it. Smoke watches every step. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just waits.

When she’s close enough, she takes a long sip and licks her bottom lip. “Sending drinks now? You tryna impress me?”

“No,” Smoke says, voice deep and lazy. “Just thanking you for the cut. And the view.”

She bites back a smile. “Mmhm. You like women who talk back, don’t you?”

“I like women who talk real.”

“Then you better listen close.” She steps into his space, lifting her chin. “If you came here lookin’ for some easy thing, you barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

Smoke leans in just enough for her to feel the heat off his chest. “Nah, I came here hopin’ you’d bark back.”

And just like that, the air around them turns thick again. Charged. Everything unspoken stretching taut between two people who don’t scare easy.

Joya sips again, slow. Then:

“You shoot pool, or just posted up lookin’ pretty?”

Smoke breaks into the smallest smirk. “Rack ‘em.”

Smoke breaks first.

The crack echoes like a warning across the table. Stripes scatter, solids hold tight. He doesn’t say a word—just leans back, pool cue balanced lightly in his hand like it belongs there.

Joya circles the table, eyes on the felt. “Solid,” she declares, tapping the cue ball with the tip of her stick. “Of course. Strong foundation. Like me.”

Smoke watches her the way a wolf watches movement in tall grass—quietly hungry.

She sinks the two ball, easy. Then the five. Walks around him with just enough sway to make sure he notices. She lines up for the four, but the angle’s off, so she stretches forward, hips lifting just slightly, and—

Smoke clears his throat.

Joya grins without looking at him. Got him.

She misses the next shot on purpose.

He steps up, slow. “That move was cheap.”

“You didn’t call no rules,” she says, sauntering over to lean on her stick. “What’s the stakes?”

Smoke circles the table, casual but coiled. “Winner calls it.”

“Oh, you bold,” she says. “What if I ask for something reckless?”

“I’m countin’ on it.”

He sinks three in a row—smooth, patient, no showboating. Just precision and pressure.

When he misses the corner pocket on the eleven, Joya claps her hands once. “And just like that, the throne’s mine again.”

Smoke leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Make your shot, Queen.”

She drops the eight-ball like it owed her something. Stands tall. Sips what’s left of the drink he sent. Then sets the glass down like a statement.

“You owe me now.”

Smoke nods, low and slow. “Say the word.”

Joya steps in close—real close. Her voice drops an octave, sultry and bold. “Winner gets…a nightcap. Your place. But you don’t touch me ‘til I say.”

Smoke’s jaw tightens, something carnal flickering in his eyes.

“That what you want?” he asks, low.

She tilts her head. “That’s what I earned. You got a problem with that?”

He steps into her space, chest brushing her shoulder, his voice like smoke curling up her neck. “I don’t got problems, baby. Just patience.”

Her lip curls into a slow smile.

“Then lead the way.”

Joya’s car hums down the freeway, windows cracked just enough to let the warm California night wrap around her like a silk scarf. Her locs are still coiled from earlier, makeup still fresh, but her pulse? That’s not nearly as calm as the playlist floating through her speakers.

She drums her fingers on the wheel, glancing at the glowing street signs passing by like checkpoints on a map she didn’t plan to follow.

“What the hell am I doing?” she mutters, half-laughing. “Talkin’ slick and now I’m halfway to his place like I don’t got sense.”

She taps her screen, pulls up her group chat.

✨Edge Snatchers Inc✨

Joya, Tish, Kenya, Bri

She hits the voice message button.

Joya:

“Y’all. So. Y’know how Stack’s been pushin’ that one client on me? Smoke? His brother …Yeah, that Smoke—the soft spoken half of SmokeStack twins? Big, broody, quiet, tattooed up like a sin with a story? Anyway… he came through today. Sat in my chair, flirted like he got time to waste, and had the nerve to act unbothered while I was fightin’ for breath. That man don’t talk much, but when he do, it’s low and dangerous like the bassline in a baby-makin’ song.”

Her phone lights up—Tish is typing. Then another voice message comes in:

Tish:

“I told you he had that quiet fine. That ‘write his name on the lease’ fine. You got him in your chair and didn’t melt? Bitch. You stronger than me.”

Kenya:

“Wait, y’all always joked about ‘what if SmokeStack sat in your shop’ and now it’s real?! Tell me you gave him that Joya fade where you put love in the line-up?”

Joya snorts, already recording her reply.

Joya:

“Girl, I gave him the fade and the fire. He sat still like he knew I was sculptin’ royalty. Then tonight—child—ran into him at Velvet Ridge. Sent me a drink like he owned the bar. Didn’t even wink. Just looked.”

The typing bubbles go wild.

Bri:

“So now what? You goin’ home or…?”

Joya exhales through her nose and smiles to herself, tapping the next voice message.

Joya:

“Heading to his place. But I set the rules. I said don’t touch me till I say. And he said ‘I got patience.’ Y’all. He said it like he meant it. I don’t know what this is yet, but I know one thing: that man? He ain’t regular.”

Her phone pings again—heart emojis, devil faces, Kenya yelling “Fumble him and I will ghost you for eternity!”—and it makes her laugh out loud.

But as she turns off the highway and the city lights fade into the quiet of backstreets, something else stirs underneath the teasing. A different kind of hum.

That man sees her. Not just the barber. Not just the smart mouth or the hips or the gold hoops.

He sees the fire. And for once—he’s not trying to tame it. Just… match it.

She parks. Kills the engine. Grabs her lip gloss and dabs it once. Quick breath. One more voice note:

Joya:

“If I’m not at the shop by ten tomorrow… tell Stack when he come in for his line up that it was worth it.”

She slides her phone into her purse and steps out into the night, her heels clicking on the concrete like punctuation to a decision already made.

Smoke’s apartment is nothing like she expected.

No smoke and mirrors. No overdone flex.

Just clean lines. Dark leather. Low lighting. An open bottle of bourbon on the kitchen counter, two glasses, untouched. The scent of something woodsy lingers in the air like it belongs to the bones of the place.

He opens the door, steps aside, and lets her in without a word. Doesn’t crowd her. Doesn’t rush.

Joya walks in like she owns the space anyway. Slow. Confident. A queen inspecting her new throne. She doesn’t speak yet—just shrugs off her jacket, drapes it over a dining chair, and gives him a glance over her shoulder.

“You live like a man who don’t bring company home.”

Smoke closes the door behind her, leans on it for a beat. “I don’t.”

Her brow lifts just a little. “Then I’m your first?”

He nods once. “In more ways than you know.”

She doesn’t ask what he means. Not yet.

Instead, she walks to the center of the living room and turns to face him, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. “Get comfortable. I said this was a nightcap, not a sprint.”

Smoke kicks off his shoes and walks toward her, slow and measured, like he’s syncing with her rhythm on purpose. He stops just shy of touching her.

“You want music?” he asks.

“Mmhm. Something low. Grown.”

He moves to the speaker on the shelf. The playlist starts with a bass-heavy, velvet-laced groove—Snoh Aalegra, maybe. D’Angelo bleeding into the next. Joya doesn’t say a word. Just smiles.

She sinks onto his couch, crossing her legs slow, drink in hand now, which he’d poured without asking—two fingers neat. She raises it in mock toast.

“To men who sit still when told.”

Smoke chuckles low, sits across from her on the other end of the sectional. Legs open. Elbows on knees. That same quiet confidence wrapped around him like armor.

“You keep testin’ my patience,” he says, sipping.

“And you keep passin’.”

Joya watches him over the rim of her glass, letting the silence bloom between them. Letting her presence fill the room. This is what she does best—hold the line.

She’s been around men who try to lead too fast. Who rush into her space like it’s owed. But this man? This man sits in the tension, meets her energy, rises with it.

When she finally leans forward, her voice is smooth and sweet, but there’s iron under the honey. “You really let women call the shots like this?”

Smoke meets her gaze, slow. “Not always. Just the ones who know what to do with the power.”

That earns him her full smile. No games now—just heat and curiosity.

“So what would you do,” she asks, “if I said you can touch me now?”

Smoke doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe heavy. Just leans in, eyes darker than the bourbon in his glass.

“I’d ask where.”

That shouldn’t have landed like it does.

Joya’s breath catches, then releases slow, deliberate. She sets her drink down, stands, and closes the space between them until her knees brush his.

“You ask good questions,” she murmurs, tilting his chin up with a single finger. “Let’s see if your hands give the same respect.”

His fingers slide up her thighs—slow, reverent, like the build-up is better than the prize. He doesn’t grip. Doesn’t move too quickly. He explores.

Joya watches him, her hands still, body poised like royalty.

“You want permission,” she whispers, brushing her lips just shy of his. “You wait for it.”

Smoke nods, voice low and solid. “Every time.”

And that’s when she shifts.

Straddling his lap, her hands on his chest, her mouth finally—finally—meeting his in a kiss that doesn’t ask, doesn’t warn. She tastes like the bourbon he poured and the fire he didn’t know he needed.

He doesn’t take control. Not yet. But when he kisses her back, there’s something in it—heat that mirrors hers, hunger that doesn’t beg but matches. It’s not surrender.

It’s a challenge met.

A game just beginning.

The kiss doesn’t break.

It just… bends.

Slows, curves, folds into something molten.

Joya moves like a woman in no hurry—like the heat between them is best when it simmers. Her hips press down, just enough to make her presence known. Her mouth traces Smoke’s like a secret. And he stays still for her. All that muscle, all that power, waiting under command.

When she finally pulls back, her lip gloss smudged and eyes half-lidded, she speaks like she’s still tasting him.

“Not bad,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb across his jaw. “You kiss like you respect women.”

Smoke’s voice is a gravel drawl, thick and low. “I do.”

Her smile is slow and approving. “Then you’ll have no problem sittin’ right there and lettin’ me enjoy myself.”

She glides off his lap with effortless grace, rising to her full height before him. His eyes track her every motion, intent and devout, like a man absorbing sacred text.

She turns around and walks away from him. Just a few paces. Enough to let her curves sway under the low light. Then she stops, peeks over her shoulder with a knowing little smirk.

“You like watchin’ me?”

Smoke leans back, spreading his legs wider, arms resting on the back of the couch. “You already know.”

She chuckles under her breath and pulls the crop top over her head in one smooth motion. No theatrics, just confidence. Her skin gleams warm and soft in the golden light. Her bra’s a deep burnt orange lace, delicate, and meant to be seen.

She turns around slowly. “I don’t move fast for nobody,” she says. “But I do like to tease.”

Smoke’s jaw flexes. His eyes drink her in. Still—he doesn’t move.

“I’m not tryin’ to speed you up,” he says, voice barely above a growl. “Just grateful for the view.”

Joya walks back toward him, hips fluid, unhurried. She climbs onto his lap again, bare skin warm through her jeans. Her fingers trace the neckline of his shirt, dragging slow.

“You always this good at holdin’ back?” she asks, cocking her head.

Smoke’s hands rest on her thighs, his palms wide and hot but still gentle.

“I only move fast on the field,” he says. “Everywhere else? I like to take my time.”

That earns a low laugh from her, rich like honey. “Careful,” she whispers, brushing her nose against his. “You keep talkin’ like that, I might start believin’ you’re dangerous.”

He lifts his hand, finally, slow—and curls his fingers around the back of her neck. No pressure. Just a hold. A claim. The first real touch with intention.

“I am dangerous,” he says, low and clean. “But not to you.”

Something flickers in her eyes—interest, maybe. Or challenge. She leans in and kisses him again, deeper this time, slower. Her tongue traces his bottom lip like she’s drawing lines only she can cross.

Smoke groans into her mouth, a sound so soft and restrained it makes her thighs clench.

Joya pulls back and whispers, “Take your hoodie off. Slow.”

He obeys.

He shrugs off his hoodie, peeling it over his head like a man shedding a moment, not just clothing. The fabric drops to the floor, forgotten. Tattoos ripple across his chest and arms—ink etched deep into muscle, old warnings and stories carved in black. Her eyes follow every line. She reaches out, tracing one with her finger, circling a flame curling around words she can’t quite read in the low light.

“You always burn this hot?” she asks.

He tilts his head, voice low and rough. “Only when I’m invited.”

She leans in, her mouth brushing his exposed collarbone, then gliding up the side of his neck. Slow, deliberate kisses that stop just shy of giving in. When she speaks, each word skims across his skin like a spark.

“You’ll wait until I say when. And when I do… you better hold on.”

Smoke’s grip on her waist tightens, just enough to promise restraint won’t last long.

Then he smiles—that quiet, dangerous smile that means the fuse has already been lit.

“I’ve been holdin’ back for hours, ma. You tell me when, and I’ll give you everything.”

————-

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#the tension!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#Such a good read!#I'm only used to reading about my girl #Annie but Joya 🤏🏽🤏🏽🤏🏽🤏🏽#Smoke for sure was the best one for this fic #two fine holiday thumbs up #Sinners Fic

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