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spookysanta · 4 days ago

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Chapter 7: Just One More Night

Ongoing tags: [Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

Read Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6.

helloooo we're offically halfway through! again, thank y'all so much for your love on this fic. i'm really happy with how this story is unfolding, and as my first series since ending my hiatus, i feel really excited to bring this universe to life. i literally can't stop writing for this universe lmao. i can't wait for y'all to see what's in store for when michael meets the rest of the crew. also... this is my last three(ish) weeks of being 23. it feels weird. idk.

You could tell it was going to be a perfect day by how the sunlight poured through the windows.

There were alarm clocks, no rushed schedules. Just five women, half-asleep, scattered around the suite’s common area – on the couch, on the floor, and in chairs, warm with the ease of having nowhere to be but together.

Kris was the first one to stretch. Tati was the first to demand coffee. You were the first to check your phone – quietly, a bit too quickly – heart tugging at the possibility of his name.

You smiled into the pillow. A soft, warm kind of smile that bubbled up from your chest. The “he didn’t forget me, even when I’m busy” kind.

–

Melrose Avenue was loud in all the best ways. Your group took over sidewalks and storefronts, music playing in earbuds, fingers trailing over expensive fabrics, squeals from the dressing rooms, “Oh, that’s the one,” erupting from every corner of every boutique.

Lex bought boots she didn’t need. Tati flirted – or, according to her, “asked nicely” – her way into a free tote. Nas found a lip gloss that made her gasp. You tried on a dress that made everyone scream.

“Oh, you’re wearing that when we go out tonight,” Kris said flatly. “I will not be taking no for an answer.”

“I–”

“You’re wearing it.”

You nodded, afraid to rebut.

After the escapade of shopping, lunch was late and leisurely. It was at a cute bistro on the corner, with patio seating that seemed to stretch for a mile – umbrellas on the rooftop deck, cups sweating on the table, and mini flutes of mimosas turning into a carafe of sangria.

You shared plates, hand to fork to bite, not caring at all who ordered what because everything was for everyone.

The lunch was filled with laughter that took over your whole body. You were a little sun-dazed. A little tipsy. But very, very happy.

And no one mentioned Michael, but he was there: in your phone, in the ache at the base of your spine, and in the way your eyes softened when the girls weren’t looking.

Back at the hotel, the suite turned into a glam bunker, with hot tools on every counter, foundation spilled across makeup bags, and music blasting loud enough for the people down the hall to hear the “heyyy!” every time a new outfit hit.

Tati put on a black leotard with light wash denim shorts and an oversized bomber jacket. Lex was hellbent on wearing the black and red corset she bought earlier that day, pairing it with a deep red skirt. Nas opted for a dark wash denim minidress. And Kris… Kris put on leather pants that made her ass look illegal, hugging her in the right places. She, of course, made it a point to show off to her fiancé, Jamal, on FaceTime, who took no time to say as a warning, “Kris, don’t make me fly out there”.

You stepped out into the common area last. You put on an off-shoulder leather top, paired with tiger print bottoms with a lace-up front. The ass was sitting, and you were showing just enough cleavage to complete the look.

The girls went silent for just a moment.. And then all hell broke loose.

–

Dinner was luxurious: a private dining room on the back patio of a restaurant you didn’t remember booking, all arranged by Nas somehow. The ambiance was fancy to the nines, with a candlelit atmosphere and smooth jazz kissing your ears through the speakers.

Tati told the waiter it was your birthday just to see what would happen, which resulted in the whole wait staff singing “happy birthday” as they brought out a dessert that came with sparklers and a free bottle of prosecco.

You were breathless by the end of it, tired, but the good kind. The kind that meant that you laughed until your abdomen ached and your cheeks burned.

Back in the suite, shoes (and bras) came off immediately. Half-zips of suitcases and purses, makeup wipes, wine glasses refilled. Then someone put on a speaker and yelled, “KARAOKE!”

You all took turns. From “Cater 2 U”, “No Scrubs”, and an especially dramatic version of “Weak” by SWV that had everyone on the floor clutching throw pillows and singing like you were being paid for it.

By 11:45 PM, you were stretched out in leggings and a tank top, makeup mostly gone, thighs sore from dancing, phone in your hand. Your phone chimed with a text notification that you didn’t even have to see to know who sent it, after having texted him throughout the night.

You padded to your room, rummaging through your suitcase to put on a hoodie, some shorts, and a pair of slides, checking your pockets once again, you palmed for your keycard, phone, and wallet.

Sneaking toward the door, you almost made it past the couch, when: “Where do you think you’re going?”

You’d only made it five steps, turning around sheepishly at the group, still settled into the common room like schoolgirls at a slumber party. Tati didn’t even look up from her phone. “I–I was just–”

“Is that his hoodie?” Kris asked, pointing a manicured finger in your direction, already knowing the answer since she’d seen him wear it at some point during the week.

“Babe,” Lex added with a laugh, “Not you thinking you’re smooth. We heard you leave the room to change.”

You groaned. “Y’all are so annoying.”

Nas shooed you from the armchair, her legs sprawled out across the chair’s arms as she laid horizontally. “Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled, “Be safe, hoe.”

“Text when you get there,” Tati nagged. “We’ll let you live.”

You smiled to yourself and slipped out the door. Once you made it downstairs, he was waiting for you just outside the lobby just as he promised, leaning on the passenger side of the car like he was posing for a cologne ad – hoodie up, one hand in his pocket, the other opening the door like this was already his. “You’re not very sneaky.”

You slid into the seat, scoffing playfully at his statement, “Neither are you. Says the guy pulling up in his Escalade.”

He kissed your cheek, then your mouth – soft, sure. “Jokes on you, I wasn’t trying to be.”

He decided to reserve the penthouse suite in a hotel across downtown, clearly deciding at the last minute to spoil you more than he already had. Part of you thought this was a gesture to reconcile for yesterday, but another part of you knew he was just being over the top.

The suite was quiet when you stepped inside. Low golden light pooled near the bed, one lamp on, the rest of the room blanketed in shadow. The curtains were drawn, the air cool. Music played low from a speaker tucked somewhere behind the minibar, humming something slow and instrumental, all bass and breath.

Michael didn’t speak right away, but instead watched you close the door behind you. He watched you walk across the room and take in the way everything was already waiting.

There was water on the nightstand. A folded towel. A single robe laid neatly at the end of the bed. “You really weren’t playing,” you said, soft.

His voice dropped, velvet and gravel. “I meant it when I said I wanted to see you.”

You stepped toward him, hoodie still on, hair in a bun, eyes full of a hundred things you hadn’t said yet. “You gonna kiss me or just stare all night?”

He smiled, kissing you slow.

It started soft. His hands cradling your face, lips only just brushing. Fingertips tracing your jaw, your spine, your waist like he’d missed mapping it with his hands. “You had a good night?” he murmured against your cheek.

“Yeah.” You replied with a slight nod.

“You look like you did.”

You laughed a little, breathy, barely there, and buried your fingers in his hoodie. “I missed you,”

“I know,” he said, kissing your temple. “I missed you too.”

Then he kissed you like he meant it. Like the whole day had been aching for this. Like his mouth had been hungry for yours since the second he walked away yesterday.

Your hoodie – it was actually his, but still – came off first. Then his. Then your tank top, then his shirt.

He eased you on the bed, pulling you on top of him. Your body melted into his, slow and easy, like there was no in-between anymore. His hands mapped your thighs, your waist, the curve of your back, eyes heavy, his voice deeper now. “I wanna take my time with you.”

You nodded.

“Wanna make you feel good,” he added.

“You do.”

He leaned up, kissed your neck. “Not like this yet.” Flipping you gently, he laid you back on the pillows, pulling your shorts off menacingly slow, running his hand up the inside of your thigh. His fingers brushed your pussy and came back soaked. He groaned at the feeling. “This wet for me?”

You nodded, dazed.

He pressed a heavy kiss to your mouth. “Good. I plan on ruining you.”

And he made good on his promise: first with his mouth, tongue deep and unhurried, sucking your clit with slow rhythm, not rushing the build. Then with his fingers, pressing two inside you, curling against that spot that made your knees jerk and your back arch. “Yeah, right there,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted.”

He watched you cum, basking in the way your body shook, the way your chest rose and fell breathlessly, the tear that slipped down your cheek when it got too good.

“You feel that?” he whispered, kissing your inner thigh. “That’s me. Doing that to you.”

He stripped himself down, stroking his cock in one hand, spreading the precum over his shaft. He positioned himself at your entrance, the palm of his free hand pressing into the mattress next to your head.

Then he slid in. But it wasn’t sweet – it was deep. Completely filling you to the hilt, pushing against your cervix so sweetly you wanted to cry.

His hand moved to wrap firmly around your throat, his body pressing down over yours. “You love this dick, don’t you?” He grunted, his voice right at your ear.

You moaned in response, but that wasn’t good enough.

“Say it.”

“I love it – I love it, Michael–”

“Damn right, you do. You need it.” He fucked you slow… Then rough… Then mean. Like he’d been waiting months for this. Like he didn't have you splayed out like this 48 hours ago. Like every second away from you had to be earned back stroke by stroke.

He flipped you over, gripping your hips. His thrusts were relentless, and he added fuel to the fire when he slapped your ass and moaned when you clenched around him. “You’re not leaving this bed until I feel you cum on me again.”

You were sobbing now, moaning incoherent babbles into the mattress. You were absolutely wrecked, drool escaping nastily from your mouth, your lips spit-glossed and your body limp.

He reached under you, rubbing your clit perfectly. “Yeah. That’s it.”

Your body tightened, feeling another orgasm wash over you. And just like he knew your body already, he grunted in reply.

“Let it go.”

And that was it. You couldn’t fight the orgasm off anymore. You screamed into the pillow, his thrusts never ceasing as he made you ride it out.

He followed shortly behind you. You, however, were still twitching from the aftershocks when he came – deep inside, groaning against your back, muttering your name like a prayer. Then, he collapsed next to you. “Only you tonight. Only you.” he whispered against your skin

The room was still, just the low hum of the air conditioner and the sound of your breathing, deep and staggered, like your body hadn’t quite come down yet.

Michael shifted, didn’t speak. He reached for the towel he’d laid out earlier – warm now from the residual heat of the room – and slipped from the bed quietly.

You rolled onto your back, your limbs loose, thighs trembling.

He came back, knelt beside the bed. “Lift up for me,” he mumbled.

And you did, slowly, still hazy, and let him clean you gently. There wasn’t any rush. No words exchanged. Just soft touches and reverence.

He tossed the towel into the hamper, pulling the covers back and sliding into bed beside you, bare chest warm and broad, arms open and waiting. You curled into him without a word.

He kissed your hair, then your forehead. “You good?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Better than good.”

“Yeah?”

He felt you nod against his skin. “Yeah.”

The silence stretched. Not awkward, just full of weight neither of you wanted to break. Until you whispered, “I don’t want this to end.”

He took a breath. “It doesn’t have to.”

“I'm going home in two days.”

He shrugged, “I’ll fly out.”

You blinked in surprise, eyes glancing up to meet his.

“I mean it,” he said softly, his eyes boring back into yours with ease. “You’re not just a vacation for me.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“...But it scares you.”

You nodded.

He ran his thumb along your cheekbone. “We’ll figure it out. Okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

You smiled. A little broken, a little bashful. “I don’t really do long-distance.”

“Then we'll make it short-distance,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll come to you. And you come back to me.”

You stared at him, eyes wide. “You want that?”

“I want you.”

He pulled you closer, pressing your cheek on his chest. The sound of his heart slowing under your palm. And in the quiet that followed, he asked, “Stay with me a little longer?”

You nodded, letting yourself fall asleep in the arms of something that finally felt safe.

–

It was still dark when you stirred.

You weren’t awake – at least, not enough to open your eyes – but felt the soft, drowsy pull of consciousness shifting beneath your skin. You felt the ache first, sitting low in your belly, in your thighs, in the delicate curve of your throat where his hand had held you last night.

You were wrapped in warmth. In blankets.

His chest behind your back, breath slow and deep at your shoulder.

You felt safe. Like… you could do this. With him.

You settled there for a while, letting the memory of hours before bloom against the silence. The way he had touched you, the way he had seen you. Not just your body, but the way you’d kept your voice low when you were scared. The way you tried not to ask for too much. The way your breath caught when he said your name like it meant something.

He hadn’t let go of you once.

And by the time you turned to face him, the room had shifted just enough to catch the first edge of daylight. Michael was already awake, propped up slightly against the pillows, one hand beneath his head, the other resting gently across your hip. His eyes, warm and quiet, were on you like they’d never left.

“You weren’t gonna say anything?” you whispered.

“I didn’t want to break it.”

“Break what?”

“This,” he murmured. “Us. Here. Now.”

Your heart skipped as he reached down, the backs of his fingers brushing your cheek. “I know you have to go back… There’s still a lot we haven’t figured out,” He sighed. “But right now, you’re the only thing I care about.”

You didn’t speak. Or rather, couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you like you were something he’d been praying for without knowing the words.

“And I know it’s been quick,” he continued, low and steady, voice never faltering. “But I already know that you’re it for me. I just want to make sure you know that.”

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes. You touched his face, the pads of your fingers tracing his jaw, drawing a line to the soft fullness of his bottom lip. “I know,” you whispered back. “I feel it, too.”

He kissed your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. Then, he held you close again. And you stayed that way, even as the sun crept in. Like time had finally slowed for just the two of you.

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spookysanta · 4 days ago

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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.”

————-

Taglist: @gtf-o-m-d @spookysanta @michelley-rome @bigjh @anniensmoke3 @hdfen2474 @uzumaki-rebellion @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @killmongerdispussy @theogbadbitch @ccwpidsblog @princesskillmonger @blowmymbackout @theethighpriestess @blktinkerbell @steampunkprincess147 @diamondsinterlude @partylikemajima @theegoldenchild @mhhhhmmmmmmm @coolfoodrunworld-blog @lilchubbs @thebumblebeesworld @mastertia221b @brownskincheyenne @belleofthefloor @c0tt0ncandi @irefusetobeacasualty @cocoxciv-blog @melodyofmbaku @lb-xci

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spookysanta · 4 days ago

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see no cuz yeah!!! 🤣 lookin like a church auntie in a slip omg

it’s still fuck mary’s character though

Lmaooo 😂💀😭

I thought yall would find humor in this 😂@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @spookysanta

@jazziejax @soufcakmistress @miyuhpapayuh @chromehoney @maugustiee

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spookysanta · 6 days ago

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this is too cute! i live for uncle stack 🥰

Tales from Pillowfortia 💰

Modern!Au Elias “Stack” Moore, Gisele Moore (S&A daughter), Elijah “Smoke” Moore X Annie Moore

Word Count: 2.1k

Authors note: Since everyone loved Uncle Stack so much, I figured I’d give yall some more. This is a different timeline, but I will be making more Jordyn and Uncle Stack content, I promise. I love making these little blurbs because they end up being so adorable. I may or may not have some filth for yall this weekend. We’ll see 👀🥴🤭

The kingdom of the living room has been transformed.

A pink blanket cascades over the coffee table like royal velvet. Stuffed animals sit upright on cushions, wearing plastic crowns at slightly crooked angles. A glittery wand rests on the arm of the couch, and a rainbow tea set gleams like it’s made of fine porcelain instead of Target plastic.

In the middle of it all, five-year-old Giselé sits on a small velvet pillow, tutu puffed around her like a blooming flower, a glittery tiara on her curls.

Stack sits across from her on a cushion that barely fits his frame, long legs folded awkwardly under the table like a contorted warrior in a too-small tent. He wears a lopsided crown she commanded him to wear. A pink feather boa dangles loosely around his neck. One of his fingernails sparkles with blue polish—courtesy of Princess Giselé’s royal makeover hour.

“You may sip now, Uncle Stack,” Giselé says with all the poise of a seasoned monarch.

Stack lifts the tiny teacup with two fingers, pinky raised. “Your Royal Highness, this tea is exquisite.”

“It’s not tea,” she whispers dramatically. “It’s invisible unicorn milk. Very rare.”

“Ohhh,” Stack says, widening his eyes. “A rare vintage, I see. I’m honored.”

Giselé nods solemnly. “Only the bravest knights and the nicest uncles are allowed to drink it.”

Stack chuckles and sets the cup down. “Guess I better protect this castle, then.”

Before Giselé can answer, Smoke walks past the archway, freezes mid-step, and backs up slowly like he just caught a glimpse of Bigfoot in a feather boa.

He smirks.

“Is that my tough brother wearing a tiara and sipping unicorn milk?”

Stack narrows his eyes. “Say one more word and I’m tellin’ Giselé you said fairies aren’t real.”

Smoke holds up both hands. “My bad. My bad.” Then he leans in, stage-whispering to Giselé, “You got him good, baby girl.”

Giselé beams, proud as a queen on coronation day.

Just then, Annie appears behind Smoke, holding her phone, camera already recording.

“Annie, don’t,” Stack growls without heat.

“Oh no, no. This is for the family archive,” she says, grinning as she captures a full shot of him pretending to pour tea for a plush hippo named Glitterfluff.

Smoke bites down a laugh and disappears down the hallway, still chuckling. Stack groans, rubbing his temples, but Giselé reaches over and pats his hand gently.

“You’re doing amazing,” she says seriously. “You’re the best royal uncle in the kingdom.”

Stack melts a little. Just a little.

“I better be,” he mutters, adjusting his crown.

Then Giselé stands up with her wand and spins twice.

“Now it’s time for the Royal Sword Ceremony,” she declares.

“Sword ceremony?” Stack arches a brow.

She holds out a foam pirate sword, completely clashing with her princess aesthetic. “You gotta fight the evil broccoli monster before we can eat cookies.”

Stack grins, already rolling up the sleeves of his black hoodie.

“Oh, now that I can do.”

They had ventured upstairs from a brief moment. Stack had to get the rest of his battle gear.

The palace doors creak open.

Stack peeks around the hallway corner, a foam sword slung over his shoulder and a suspiciously glittery shield strapped to one forearm (made from a plastic dinner plate and one of Annie’s old belts). Giselé walks beside him in pink jelly sandals and a flowing princess cape made from a repurposed pillowcase. She holds her wand out like a compass, eyes narrowed.

“The broccoli monster is hiding somewhere in the land of Downstairsia,” she whispers.

“Downstairsia,” Stack echoes with a low, serious tone, scanning the shadows. “That’s dangerous territory.”

Giselé nods, her curls bouncing with royal confidence. “We must be brave.”

They pass the kitchen table, where Annie left a plate of grapes and crackers, but Stack stops.

“Could be a trap,” he mutters.

Giselé gasps. “He lures his enemies with snacks!”

“Crafty little green demon,” Stack agrees.

She grabs his wrist suddenly. “I hear him.”

Stack goes still. It’s quiet. Too quiet. He squints toward the pantry.

“I think he’s in the Cavern of Cold Foods,” Giselé whispers. “That’s where the villagers last saw him.”

Stack nods. “Alright, Highness. I’ll go first.”

He tiptoes toward the pantry, foam sword in hand, pressing his back to the wall like a soldier clearing a room. Giselé crouches behind a laundry basket, her wand held like a dagger.

Stack opens the pantry door—slow, methodical.

Inside, nestled between a bag of rice and some granola bars… sits a green plush dinosaur with googly eyes and a tiny paper crown.

Giselé gasps, pointing. “THAT’S HIM!”

“The broccoli monster!” Stack yells.

He lunges forward, swooping the plush villain up with his sword. It falls to the ground dramatically, spinning once like it’s been mortally wounded.

Stack stands over it, chest puffed, holding his sword to the sky. “Victory, Your Majesty! The kingdom is safe!”

Giselé runs over, leaps into his arms. “YOU DID IT, SIR TOUGHSNUGGLE!”

Stack freezes.

“Wait—what?”

“That’s your royal name now,” she says, grinning. “Sir Toughsnuggle, Protector of Pillowfortia.”

“…You came up with that just now, didn’t you?”

“Yup.”

Stack sighs, but his mouth twitches with a smile. “I better not hear your daddy call me that.”

She giggles into his shoulder. “Too late.”

Behind them, they hear the click of Annie’s phone camera again.

“You two are ridiculous,” she says from the doorway, holding back a laugh.

“Ridiculously heroic,” Giselé corrects, still in Stack’s arms.

Smoke appears just behind her, biting a cracker, looking far too smug.

“Sir Toughsnuggle,” he says with a slow, exaggerated nod. “Legend of the Snack closet.”

Stack gives him a hard stare, but Giselé giggles harder, which softens it all.

“Come on, baby girl,” Stack says. “Let’s get back to the royal dining hall. I think we earned those cookies.”

As they walk back toward the couch-turned-castle, the plush broccoli monster dangles upside down from Giselé’s wand like a defeated beast on parade.

“Next time,” she whispers to it dramatically, “you better think twice.”

The living room glows gold with late afternoon light as the kingdom celebrates its victorious heroes. The air smells like chocolate chip cookies and childhood—warm, sweet, and a little bit sticky.

Giselé stands atop the footstool-turned-throne, her pink pillowcase cape fluttering as she points her sparkly wand at the brave knight kneeling before her. Stack is back in his royal boa and crown, one knee on the living room rug, the foam sword resting across his lap.

“Sir Stack of the West Sofa,” Giselé begins, voice solemn, “you have shown great bravery and serious snack restraint in defeating the Broccoli Monster.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Stack says seriously, though the corners of his mouth are twitching.

“You faced the pantry of doom. You protected the villagers—also known as Glitterfluff and Queen Teddy. And…” She reaches for the plate of cookies on the royal tea tray. “You did not eat the last cookie, even though it had the most chocolate chips.”

“I was tempted,” Stack admits, looking skyward like a knight burdened by his honor.

“But you resisted. That’s the heart of a true knight.”

She picks up the cookie with the most chocolate chips—clearly the sacred prize—and holds it above his head like a jeweled crown.

“By the power of Princess Giselé the Fearless, I now name you… Sir Toughsnuggle, Cookie Defender and Royal Knight of the Couch.”

She gently taps the cookie on each of his shoulders like a sword.

Stack doesn’t flinch. “I accept this sacred responsibility with pride and crumbs.”

She beams. “Rise, Sir Toughsnuggle.”

He stands tall—well, kneels, then awkwardly tries to stand without knocking the tea tray over, then finally rises—lifting Giselé off the footstool with one arm and spinning her in a circle.

They both laugh.

Annie peeks her head in from the kitchen, holding a juice box in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. “Is it safe to reenter the kingdom?”

“It is now,” Giselé calls. “The broccoli beast has been defeated.”

“And the knight has been officially knighted,” Stack adds, grabbing a cookie of his own.

Smoke strolls in behind Annie, holding a miniature broom like a battle axe. “Guess I missed the war, huh?”

“You would’ve fainted,” Giselé says with exaggerated pity. “It was super scary.”

Smoke grins. “I’ll leave the monsters to the tough guy, then.”

Giselé hands him a cookie. “Even non-knights get snacks. We believe in kindness here.”

“Mm. Good policy,” he says, ruffling her curls.

The four of them settle onto the living room rug in a cozy little circle—Giselé in the middle, passing out cookies like gold coins. Glitterfluff leans against Stack’s leg. Teddy has been given a crown made of a cupcake liner. The whole kingdom is at peace.

Giselé leans her head against Stack’s side and lets out a happy sigh. “This was the best tea party ever.”

“Yeah,” Stack murmurs, eyes softening as he watches her. “I think it might’ve been.”

The kingdom has gone quiet.

Upstairs, the only sound is the faint hum of the hallway nightlight and the soft rustling of a princess duvet being adjusted just so.

Giselé snuggles beneath it, her tiara placed carefully on her nightstand beside a mostly empty juice box and a single, half-bitten cookie—one she had “reserved for emergencies.” Stack stands at her bedside, gently tucking the blanket around her like it’s a sacred armor.

“You comfy, baby girl?”

She nods, eyes already heavy with sleep. “Yes, Sir Toughsnuggle.”

He chuckles under his breath. “You gonna call me that forever?”

She grins sleepily. “Forever and ever. Even when you’re old and have grumpy knees.”

“Grumpy knees?” He raises an eyebrow. “What kind of knight slander is that?”

She shrugs, cheek squishing into the pillow. “You make that sound when you sit down—like unghhh.”

Stack stares at her for a beat, then lets out a warm laugh that fills the room like a favorite song. “I do not make that noise.”

“You do too.” Her voice is fading, slurring into giggles. “You sound like a dragon with bad knees.”

Stack shakes his head, leans over, and plants a kiss on her forehead. “Alright, sleepyhead. No more roasting me after bedtime.”

He turns to head out, but she calls after him softly.

“Uncle Stack?”

He turns back. “Yeah, baby?”

She blinks up at him, serious now. “Do broccoli monsters have moms?”

Stack freezes. “…What?”

“Do they? Like… is there a Mommy Broccoli Monster? And is she sad?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, tilts his head. “…I guess? I mean, maybe. Even monsters probably got moms.”

She considers this with the sleepy intensity only five-year-olds can manage. “I think we should make her cookies, too. In case she’s lonely.”

Stack’s face melts.

“Okay. Tomorrow, we’ll bake the Broccoli Mama a peace offering,” he says. “I’ll let you handle the glitter sprinkles.”

“Good,” she murmurs, eyes already closing. “You’re the best knight ever.”

Stack stands there a second longer, watching her drift off with a half-smile still curled on her lips. Then he eases the door shut behind him, soft as a secret.

Later — The Porch

The night air outside is cool and slow, the kind that hums with crickets and smells like watered grass. Stack leans against the porch railing, a fresh cookie in hand, watching the moonlight dust the backyard.

Annie sits on the porch swing, legs tucked under her, warm mug resting on her knee. Smoke is beside her, sipping tea and trying not to smirk too hard.

“You good?” Smoke asks casually.

Stack exhales, a quiet laugh escaping. “Man… she asked me if broccoli monsters got moms.”

Annie smiles. “And what’d you say?”

“That they probably do,” he says, shaking his head. “Then she said we should make one cookies so she’s not lonely.”

Smoke raises his eyebrows. “Diplomacy. Smart kid.”

“She’s… something else,” Stack says, a little dazed. “I used to think I was tough. Then this tiny human comes along, puts glitter on my neck, and makes me fight vegetables—and I liked it.”

Annie grins wide, her eyes soft. “She’s got you wrapped.”

“Completely. Like a damn fruit roll-up,” Stack mutters, but he’s smiling.

Smoke leans back in his chair, his arm draped behind Annie. “That’s what it is, though. She don’t just play. She makes you believe in the world she builds.”

Stack nods, looking back toward the house. “Yeah… She really does.”

For a moment, they all sit in easy silence—just the creak of the swing, the hum of the night, and the shared weight of love that feels bigger than blood.

“She’s gonna be dangerous one day,” Stack says quietly, not with worry, but with wonder.

Annie clinks her mug against his. “Already is.”

————

#spooky’s fic recs

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spookysanta · 6 days ago

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Chapter 6: All Hell & Honey Lavender Lattes

Ongoing tags: [Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

Read Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5.

helloooooo update #2 for this week. we’re rolling full-steam ahead. thank y’all for your support on this series! i can’t wait to show you what else is in store for tati & company. this is just the first fic in this universe ;)

—

You woke up warm. The kind of warm that felt like heaven.

Your legs were tangled in sheets, throat dry, and thighs aching in ways that didn’t feel like pain. The light coming in through the curtains was soft and gold, early enough that the hotel suite was still hushed, like the city hadn’t made up its mind about waking up yet.

You stretched lazily, reaching an arm out for the other pillow.

It was empty.

You blinked slowly and sat up, scanning the room for any signs of life.

There were none.

No shirt draped on the chair. No boxers on the floor. No spare keycard on the nightstand.

No Michael.

You stood slowly – still sore, still flushed – and crossed the hall to peek into the bathroom… nothing.

You padded through to the kitchen… nothing.

You checked your phone.

There were no new text messages. No missed calls. No note on the dresser.

Your stomach dropped.

He left, you thought. He actually left. I was right, yet again. As soon as I made the stupid decision to sleep with him, he leaves.

You were halfway through an internal spiral when Kris popped her head into your room. “You good?” she asked gently. “You… don’t look good.”

“He’s gone.” you said flatly.

“What do you mean gone?”

“Gone like not here. He’s not in the bathroom. Not in the suite. No text. No nothing.”

Her eyes widened, almost to the size of the dinner plates stacked in the kitchen’s cabinet. Then slowly backed out of the room. “Girls?” she yelled out, loud enough to stir the entire suite. “We got a Code Red!”

–

Ten minutes later, you were wrapped in a blanket on the couch, with your legs tucked up to your chest, and Tati rubbing your back like someone had died.

Nas offered you a bottle of water, while Lex was checking social media for clues. On the opposite end of the suite Kris stood near the window facing the parking garage, pacing like a bodyguard trying not to panic.

“I just don’t get it,” you said softly. “Last night was–”

“That man made you levitate,” Lex said. “That was not a hit it and quit it situation.”

“He called me his,” you whispered.

“And I’m sure he meant it,” Tati said. “If he left, it can’t be because of you.”

“Then why wouldn’t he tell me?”

Nas perched on the opposite side of you on the couch, brushing your unruly hair from your shoulder. “Maybe it was an emergency.”

“Hm.” You laughed coldly, feeling the embarrassment rise in your chest. “Maybe I was the emergency.”

Everyone fell silent, unsure what to say, or how to soothe the ache in your heart (and still, in your body). The room stayed still for a moment, until –

Beep.

The suite door clicked open.

You all turned sharply, only to find Michael stepping into the suite sideways – a (wrinkled) hoodie on, keycard clenched between his teeth, arms full of to-go bags, and a drink carrier piled high with iced coffee and hot tea. He stacked little cartons of fruit and pastries across his chest, boxes balanced like a high-stakes game of Jenga.

He froze as he crossed fully into the threshold.

Three girls on the couch – one in tears – one glaring into his soul from the armchair, and another standing in the kitchen, eerily close to the knife set.

All of their eyes bore into him like he walked into a crime scene.

He dropped the keycard from his mouth. “…Why is everybody looking at me like I committed a murder?” His mouth was parted, bags still in hand. “…Did I miss something?”

Tati stood up first. Arms crossed. Hair tied back like she was ready to lose it all. “Where. The fuck. Were you?”

His eyes flicked from her to you – wrapped in a blanket on the couch, eyes glassy, tears streaked down your face.

“I–I just ran out to grab breakfast.”

“WITHOUT SAYING ANYTHING?” Kris cut in, stomping into the common room, voice high-pitched and shaking. “You left her alone, no text, no note, and naked in a suite full of people who just listened to you devastate her body for half the night!”

“I didn’t think it’d be a big deal,” he said, quietly panicked. “I thought I’d be back before she woke up–”

“Oh, because that makes it better!” Lex snapped. “You just vanished! After all that whispering and ‘mine’ talk?”

Michael blinked. “I brought pastries,” he said helplessly.

“WE DON’T WANT YOUR FUCKING DANISHES.” Tati thundered.

“Actually,” Nas murmured, already having gotten up and taking a coffee from the drink carrier he was holding, “I do want this iced lavender latte. Thank you.”

“Treason.” Lex hissed under her breath.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said, voice earnest now, setting the bags down slowly on the table behind the couch. “I didn’t mean to disappear. I really didn’t. I thought I was doing something sweet – for her and for y’all. ‘Cause, I mean…”

He paused, gesturing vaguely at the floor. “You definitely heard me make her scream.”

The group went silent as your cheeks burned.

Michael cleared his throat. “I just wanted to do something nice to make up for… you know. That. The sound barrier thing. I didn’t mean to start World War III.” He turned to you, eyes soft. “I’m sorry, sweet girl.”

The girls shifted. The atmosphere in the room was still heavy. Tati still looked suspicious. Kris still had her arms crossed. But Lex was quietly sipping a cup of tea and Nas was already unpacking the food.

“He really got everything,” she said, eyes scanning the bag labels. “He even got all the coffees with oat milk, Tati.”

Tati rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

Michael moved toward you slowly, cautiously, like if he moved too quick you’d run away and hide. He crouched down in front of you, Tati’s glaring eyes never leaving him, and her arms around you unmoving. “You okay?” he asked, voice low, only for you.

You nodded, blinking fast, feeling more tears coming. “I just… I thought you left.”

“I would never leave you like that.”

Your voice cracked. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

He reached up and cupped your cheek, still cautious. “I thought I’d be back before you noticed. I didn’t think about how that would feel. That’s on me.”

He stood, taking a look around the suite, examining the five women that could (would, and probably have) plan his untimely demise. “I fumbled. Bad.” He confessed to the group, palms raised in surrender.

The girls stared, glares slowly started to soften. The room remained quiet for a moment, except for Nas unwrapping a breakfast sandwich from a ball of foil.

“You gonna keep treating her like this isn’t casual?” Kris asked from across the room, folding her arms tighter.

He nodded immediately, voice firm and steady. “This is not casual.”

You let out a shaky breath, then mumbled, “Save me a muffin.”

He smiled. “Every one you want.”

Food bags and drink cartons slowly made their way over to the kitchen table, containers of pancakes, bacon, eggs, pastries, sandwiches, and sides for all palettes strewn across the dark oak wood.

It was quiet at first – and definitely not because anyone was shy. They were just watchful. Intentionally keeping eyes on you, and almost equally as important, him.

The girls had their coffee, smoothies, and apology croissants. But their eyes were still cutting across the table like they were waiting for Michael to breathe wrong.

Meanwhile, he stayed seated next to you – grounded, no flashy excuses. He handed you your tea first, the paper cup warm and soothing between your palms.

Then, he looked at you. Not down, not away, but right at you. “I’m sorry.”

The quiet in the room thickened.

“I should’ve said something,” he continued. “Left a note. Texted. Woken you up and told you where I was going. I just wanted to surprise you. Thought I was doing something sweet.”

You didn’t say anything yet. So he kept going.

“I heard how hard last night hit you. Not just the… well–” he cleared his throat, glancing around the room, “–the physical… But the trust… The pace… The way you let me in.”

Your stomach clenched.

He dropped his voice, leaning in a bit closer to your ear. “I scared you this morning, and that’s on me. That’s not the kind of man I want to be for you. That’s not the kind of space I want you to hold in your chest when you think about me.”

If there was anything happening outside of this conversation, it paused. It seemed like everything and everyone froze, with even Tati pausing mid-bite at his statement.

You stared down at your tea. Then whispered, “I thought I’d done something wrong.”

Michael’s whole body shifted. “No. Baby, no. Don’t ever think that. Not for a second.”

You blinked fast.

He reached under the table, interlacing his fingers between yours. “Let me earn back whatever I shook. I’ll spend the rest of this week showing you that I meant what I said last night. Every word.”

You looked at him, scanning for an iota of untruth. There was none. “Okay,” you replied simply, nodding once.

The girls collectively exhaled – loud and strong enough for him to notice.

Nas broke the tension first. “You know we’re still judging you, right?”

Michael nodded. “As you should.”

“And that apology croissant only gets you, like, thirty percent of the way back,” Kris added.

“That’s fair.”

“You did steal her three times already,” Lex said, narrowing her eyes. “Once from the club. Once from our suite. And once from her body.”

You choked on your tea.

“Wow.” Michael turned bright red. He ran a hand over his face. “…I really didn’t think y’all were that close to the door the entire time.”

“We were an audience on the other side of the door,” Nas said. “And we damn near got as baptized as she did. Lex was gonna buy flowers in her memory.”

“You should’ve seen what they said in the group chat.” You replied with an embarrassed laugh.

Michael buried his face in his hands.

“But,” Tati said slowly, conceding but still not happy. “if you wanna try again at impressing us, you could give us the details of where you’re taking her next. We’re approving all scheduling from now on.”

Michael looked up – defeated, but smiling. “Yes, ma’am.”

She didn’t smile back. Instead, she pushed her container of food away from her, setting her cup on the table. Her hands folded in front of her, one eyebrow raising in inquisition. “So what exactly are your intentions with our friend?”

Michael glanced at you – still seated next to him, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, warm tea in your hands – and said without flinching, “To take my time. To be clear. And to make sure she never has to second-guess where she stands with me.”

Kris squinted. “And?”

“To make her laugh. Feed her. Treat her right.”

Nas hummed. “You say that now.”

“I’ll say it again,” he replied. “Every time she needs to hear it.”

Lex sipped her latte, shrugging in contentment. “Okay fine. He’s kinda smooth.”

Tati folded her arms across her chest. “One more question.”

Michael nodded. “Shoot.”

“Are you gonna keep fucking her like she’s the only woman on Earth, or was that just a special occasion?”

The room exploded, and you nearly fell out of your chair.

Michael froze, ears pink. “I–um–”

“Because,” Tati continued with a completely straight face, “we were planning a second baptism.”

“I’m leaving,” he muttered, standing with his hands in the air.

You stood with a laugh, grabbing his wrist and tugged him gently toward the hallway. “Come on.” You led him to the door of the suite, turning to face him and choosing to ignore the four faces watching creepily from the kitchen.

“I’m sorry again,” he said softly, hands cradling your waist.

“I know.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be better.”

You tilted your head. “You’re already good. Just… keep being real.”

He nodded. “That’s easy. You make it easy.”

You smiled.

He leaned down and kissed you slow. Not needy, just sure, whispering “Let me know when you’re free next. I’ll make it worth every second.” Then he winked at you… and turned to face the gauntlet of your girls one more time.

Tati raised her tea. “We’ll be in touch.”

Michael bowed his head like a soldier headed into war, opening the door and walking out smoothly. “Y’all have a good day.”

After Michael left, the suite stayed unusually quiet. You found yourself stood by the door for a few seconds too long, fingers playing with the hem of the blanket engulfing you, eyes set on the hardwood floor.

Still totally unsure if the morning fog had fully lifted.

Then Tati approached you. “You okay?”

You nodded slowly. But in true Tati fashion, she wasn’t buying it. “Don’t lie.”

You blinked, eyes finding hers. “I just… feel stupid. For spiraling like that.”

“Don’t.”

“I was so quick to assume the worst–”

“Because the worst has happened before,” she said gently, cutting you off. She grabbed your hand, ushering you to have a seat on the couch, setting herself next to you. “And you’re still learning how to trust. That’s not stupid – that’s human.”

You swallowed. Nas coming over with your tea. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Except fall for someone who actually deserves you,” Kris added, she and Lex joining you in the common room and taking space on the floor. She leaned her head back onto your knee. “And now your whole nervous system’s catching up.”

You exhaled, sharp and shaky.

–

The rest of the day was soft, complete with face masks and Spotify throwback playlists, chopped fruit and half-watched reality TV.

Socks on, bras off. Just you and the girls, completely unfiltered and unjudged.

No one brought him up again until the afternoon. And even then, it wasn’t teasing. “I like him,” Nas said as she painted orange polish on her toes. “Not just because he’s fine – which, duh. But because he’s intentional. And because he looked wrecked when he saw how upset you were.”

“I can tell he meant everything he said,” Tati added. “That apology? That was a man who cares.”

You bit your lip.

“Agreed,” said Kris, “He could’ve made excuses. But he just sat there and said, ‘I hurt you. I’m sorry. I’ll be better.’ That’s rare.”

“He still owes us an actual brunch,” Lex muttered.

Everyone mumbled an agreement, because… obviously.

Later that evening, your phone buzzed. Your chest tightened at the notification, then softened.

It was a little after 10 when your phone lit up.

Michael B. Jordan (no seriously) calling…

You slipped out of the common space and into your room, curled up beneath the same blanket you’ve been wrapped in all day. The perfume he’d gifted you still clung faintly to your wrist.

You picked up on the third ring. “Hi.”

“Hey, baby.” His voice was much lower at night. It was less performative, like a hum under your skin. “You sound tired,” he said softly.

“I am.”

“You rest at all today?”

“A little,” you murmured. “The girls kept me distracted. They gave you a lot of side-eye, by the way.”

He groaned. “Rightfully.”

“You did scare the hell out of me.”

“I know. I hate that I did.”

You were quiet, but then you mumbled, “But you showed up.”

“I always will.”

There was a pause. It wasn’t awkward… just full.

“I missed you today,” he said finally.

“You were literally just here this morning.”

“I know,” he replied. “Still missed you.”

You smiled, biting your lip.

“I kept thinking about you wrapped up in that blanket. Hair all messy. Pouty little face.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re a menace.”

“You love it.”

You didn’t deny it. Instead you said, “I’m glad you called.”

“I’m glad you picked up.”

Another beat of silence.

“You gonna sleep okay tonight?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“You want me to talk till you do?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Just stay with me a little longer.”

And he did. He told you about the playlist he queued up after he left. The way the bakery guy raised an eyebrow at the order size when he ordered your breakfast. How he didn’t know exactly what you liked, so he got one of everything.

“You could’ve just asked.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

You sighed with a smile on your face. “You’re such a weirdo.”

He chuckled. “I like being weird with you.”

You smiled into your pillow. “Me too.”

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#michael b jordan x black reader #michael b jordan x reader #michael b. jordan #michael b jordan #mbj x reader #mbj #x black girl #x black woman #x black y/n #x black fem reader #x black reader #x y/n angst #x you angst #x y/n fluff #x you fluff #x y/n #x you

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spookysanta · 7 days ago

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TOO MUCH fucking fun yo

app is called chattales. v fun. highly recommend

girl’s trip spoilers below the cut!

playing around with this app i found to help me do more immersive text message graphics, and it got me thinking of y/n reading all of her missed text messages after.. the events of chapter 5.

i’m having wayyyy too much fun with this app lmao

#michael b jordan #michael b jordan x black reader #the crew 🐍#the girls' trip fic #mbj x reader

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spookysanta · 8 days ago

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girl’s trip spoilers below the cut!

playing around with this app i found to help me do more immersive text message graphics, and it got me thinking of y/n reading all of her missed text messages after.. the events of chapter 5.

i’m having wayyyy too much fun with this app lmao

#the girls' trip fic #michael b. jordan #just fucking around #spookysanta

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spookysanta · 8 days ago

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“i wouldn’t do that” “i wouldn’t say that” “i wouldn’t wear that” “i wouldn’t kiss them” too bad you pedantic dorks, you’re not the one in control here.

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spookysanta · 8 days ago

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Chapter 5: Permission to Ruin Me.

Ongoing tags: [Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

Read Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

and now.. it is time. everybody make sure you got fresh draws on. all my heathens and sluts come to the front! chapter 6 is also done so i might - MIGHT - publish again tomorrow. tryna keep y'all waiting bc.. i love validationnnnn. anyway! enjoy my babies. don't forget to send me some asks, gonna be drafting some requests this week ;)

The next morning, there was a knock. The knock came just after breakfast – almost jarring, the sharpness of a fist against polished wood.

Before, you were still in the oversized tee you’d slept in, lazily brushing your teeth and half-scrolling your messages when the suite phone rang.

You heard Tati answer the phone from the common room. “Room 904.”

A pause.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll let her know.”

You’d heard her hang up the phone, and before you could come out of the bathroom, she met you in the hallway.

“Just got off the phone with the concierge,” she said, not even bothering to greet you with a “good morning”, nor hide her suspicious smile. “There’s something coming for you.”

When the knock came, you met the bellhop at the door.

He handed you a white matte box, tied in black ribbon. It was minimal, with no branding. Just your name, handwritten, and a note tucked beneath the bow. The moment you closed the door, and meandered to the couch, the girls surrounded you like sharks in the water.

“Open it,” Lex said, already filming on her phone.

“What is it? What is it??” nagged Tati.

“He did not…”

“OH, he did.”

Inside the box were a stack of things that almost made the air leave your chest: a glass perfume bottle, a soft floral fragrance with a heat-heavy dry-down; a pair of gold hoop earrings – lightweight, diamond-cut, a gleam that caught the light like water; and nestled in satin paper, a handwritten note:

I want to take you out again. If the answer’s yes – wear the earrings. I’ll know. I want to listen to you. And if you’ll let me… I want to touch you. — M

You sat back against the couch’s cushion, your heart pounding in your ears.

Tati read it over your shoulder, shaking you with excitement. “Yes! Baby girl, he’s ready to worship. Get your mind right.”

–

You carefully pulled out your gifts to show to the girls. You felt like you were in school and it was your turn to do Show and Tell, and by the way your friends gasped in excitement, passing around the perfume to smell, this was a presentation for the ages. And of course, Tati made you read the note out loud.

“You have to say yes,” Kris said immediately.

“I mean,” Nas added, “look at you right now. You’re already glowing and he hasn’t even seen you today.”

Lex spun her phone around. “Say the word and I’m curling your hair.”

Tati whispered, “If you don’t wear those earrings and get dicked down respectfully tonight, I will personally seduce him. I don’t even care that I’m married – that’s how serious I am.”

You tried to fight back a smile, failing miserably. But your voice was quiet. “I don’t think this is just a fling for him.”

They all went still.

“You really like him?” Nas asked gently.

You nodded once. “I.. I do. I really feel him.”

And suddenly, they weren’t screaming anymore. You could feel their gazes soften.

Tati took your hand and kissed the back of your palm, in the way that only she has since you were eight-years-old. “Then we got you.”

After a group pep talk, coupled with Kris reminding you to take your birth control – you did – and Nas calling her partner to fill her in on the drama, you got ready for another night out with Michael. Lex made good on her promise, styling your hair with a hairdresser’s precision, loose curls framing your collar.

Tati picked your outfit – a copper-toned backless satin dress with gold lace-up stilettos to match the earrings that you were definitely wearing tonight. The dress had a draped collar, fabric ruched perfectly to show off your chocolate legs, and was completely backless. Tati dressed you with the intention of providing Michael with an “appetizer” of what was to come later.

Once you were fully dressed, you admired yourself in the mirror. And as much as you thought you were nervous about tonight, you found yourself buzzing all over with excitement. Though you’d only seen him a couple days ago, your hands were itching to be held. Your lips were begging to be kissed.

He met you in the lobby, grinning like a schoolboy when you approached him. Pressing a kiss to your cheek, he whispered “you wore them” in your ear like a vow. If nothing else didn’t lit a fire in your belly, that was the thing that did it. He ushered you in front of him, a hand resting gently on your lower back as he guided you out front where a sleek, blacked out Cadillac Escalade was waiting.

The ride wasn’t long, but it felt like time slowed down when you pulled out of the lot. He filled you in on the last couple days of work, some new projects he’s planning, and most importantly, how excited he was to see you.

The dinner spot was tucked down an alley. There was no signage – it was just a steel door and a man who nodded when Michael approached. The space had one table, one server, and a private chef’s tasting menu.

The restaurant – if you could even call it that, you weren’t sure – was super intimate. The lights were dim and there was an R&B playlist that buzzed softly through the speakers that accentuated the way his voice shifted when he got comfortable.

As you dined together, he didn’t work overtime to impress. Instead, he asked what made you laugh. How you learned to protect your joy. When the last time was that someone gave you the kind of attention that didn’t ask for anything back.

And honestly, you weren’t even sure how long the two of you sat there, but you were sure you didn’t want to leave.

–

As you pulled into the hotel’s carousel, he leaned over to peck your jaw, mumbling against your skin, “I already asked,”

You blinked. “What?”

He smiled sneakily, showing you his phone.

You laughed sheepishly. “My friends are crazy.”

He nodded in agreement, with a chuckle, opening the door and helping you out of the truck. “I’ve gathered that.”

Upstairs, the suite was quiet. It seemed the others were suspiciously gone – or hiding. And, knowing your friends, they’re more likely to be doing the latter.

You guided him through your suite and to your room. You entered first, eyes set on his, the room lit low and soft with your perfume lingering in the air.

He began to follow you in, but stopped at the doorway. “You sure about this?”

You nodded quickly, probably having made the easiest decision of the whole trip thus far. “I want you to touch me.”

And without hesitation, you pulled your dress up over your head teasingly, tossing it elsewhere in the room. There, you stood before him, braless, thin black lace panties riding low on your hips, the middle soft and sheer.

His jaw clenched, eyes scanning your frame. He shut the door and locked it with a swift motion, eyes not leaving your body. “Jesus,” he muttered, stepping forward.

You turned your back to him and climbed slowly onto the bed, looking over your shoulder, eyes beckoning him to you.

He didn’t hesitate to move forward. He approached the edge of the bed, previous softness and gentle care completely leaving the room as he ripped your panties down, dropping to his knees and pulling your lower half closer to him so your ass hung over the edge of the bed.

Then he spit right on your pussy. And as if he already knew how to work your body, he dragged his tongue through your slick before you could even register what he’d done. He ate you from behind in a way that you could’ve only dreamed of. His mouth was wet with a warmth that reached parts of your core that no one had ever tried to. He planted full-mouth kisses against your clit – slow at first, then focused, sucking your nub into his mouth and licking the mess back up with reverence, groaning at your taste.

He dragged two fingers through your wetness, “That for me?” he asked, clearly having known he’d gotten you in his clutches. “All this?”

You nodded, dazed, your “Mhm” sounding more like a moan than an actual response.

He hummed simply, gripping the back of your thighs and spreading you open, fully devouring you. It was sloppy and messy in the absolute best way, with lips sucking at full force and flicks of his tongue that made you clench the pillow under your chest like it owed you money.

You came without warning, fast and loud, your moans and his slurps being the only sounds in the room. He moaned gruffly against your clit, letting you ride out your orgasm on his face, already eager to make you cum again.

“You’re shaking,” he said, using his thumbs to spread your hole open more, warm breath against your cunt. “You want more?”

You whimpered.

“Then beg.”

“I want it,” you whined out. “Yes, Michael – I want it, I need it, please.”

He stood, stripping down to nothing, pulling the condom out of his wallet’s fold. He ripped the wrapper open with his teeth, smirking when he saw your pussy clench at the sound. “I got you.”

He lined himself up behind you, dragged his mushroom head through your soaked folds – and thrusted in, filling you to the hilt in one stroke. And though you tried to fight it, a moan escaped your throat at the stretch, a sound that easily echoed through the walls of the room.

And outside the door, there was, in fact, an audience. But a silent audience – one that did their screaming in your group chat.

It was downright nasty the way he fucked you. Aggravatingly slow and mean – he was gripping your waist, slapping your ass, rubbing pressured circles along your clit with his thumb, all while he whispered filth into your neck. “This pussy is mine now. All mine. You understand me?” he grunted, chest to your back.

“Mhmm,” was all you could let out in between moans and gasps.

“Nuh-uh.” he replied, smacking your asscheek again, “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped, “Oh fuck, Michael, I–I’m yours!”

He used his free hand to brush your curls behind your back, enwrapping it into a makeshift ponytail, and pulling your head back to look at him as he towered over you. “Open.”

And of course, you obliged, mouth agape. And as if he couldn’t fuck you filthier, he spat in your mouth. And because he was fucking you absolutely stupid, you swallowed, opening your mouth again eagerly in hopes for more of him.

He leaned over instead, kissing you sloppily while your arms lost strength from yet another orgasm. But just when you thought it was over, he flipped you onto your back, throwing your legs over his shoulders, and fucked you deep, whispering “eyes on me, baby” when your eyes rolled back.

Kissing your swollen lips, his tongue burying into your mouth. He pressed his forehead to yours as you came again, this time, him following being you, your walls clenching around him like you were crying for it. He let out a groan from deep in his chest at the tightness, muttering, “Goddamn, you’re perfect,” as he spilled into the condom.

He eased out of you, peeling the soiled condom off and tying it closed, setting it hastily on the floor next to the bed. He pulled you into his arms, your bodies still twitching slightly from the aftershocks. And when you finally passed out, still damp with sweat and thighs covered in your slick, he kissed your temple tenderly. “Mine,” he murmured. “All mine.”

And you laid like that for a while. At least, until he heard your quiet snores against his chest. He gently slid out of bed, tucking you snugly under the covers. Then, he pulled on his boxers, throwing away the trash in the bin across the room.

When he opened the door, still scantily clad in his grey boxers, sweat still cooling on his skin, the girls were there.

All of them. Stunned. Eyes the size of saucers.

He blinked.

Then, without missing a beat, he nodded. “Evening.” Before sliding past them like he hadn’t just turned your body into gospel, strutting to the suite’s bathroom in search of a cloth to clean you up.

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