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hearteyes-for-killmonger · 8 months

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Hood Nigga Deluxe

Fontaine × Black Reader

Supposed to be one part but I'll split it for the sake of posting something. 💕

Part 2

Idea: You fell underneath the warmth of a self-proclaimed hood nigga for Spooky Szn and you've got a big secret that he doesn't know and you can't tell him.

Tags: smut, smoking, blood play, dark romance

Right now, you're in the Dunbarton Green 1976 Pontiac Gran Prix next to Fontaine as he lights up, the flame on his blunt bright in the night with the lights off. He came by late to say hello after a long day and to see if you felt like fucking him.

Of course you do. Fontaine is his own category, specially made to drive you feral. It's everything about him.. custom made. He's your boyfriend. He just doesn't know it yet.

Your seat is back, your braids are pineappled for optimum confort, and your window is down, letting in the crisp fall air while you share his blunt, filling your lungs.

It's a smoother kick compared to other wraps. It's got a distinct and earthy flavor with a hint of sweet from the tobacco. The sweet and thick cigar cigarillo scent fills your nostrils as it flows out the window mingling with the clean air.

Back and forth, the two of you pass it, giving grace when one of you hangs onto it a little too long. It's relaxingly quiet, even with the voices of a few guys from the neighborhood somewhere near. They're hootin' and hollerin' in the distance, out of sight... It's like a hood ass meditation track for people who enjoy white noise.

"Why do you think they call it white noise?" You hand the blunt back. "Is it still considered white if it's black people making it?"

"Yeah. You're fried." He takes his turn on the blunt as you watch him with eyes slit. "I never thought about it. It probably has to do with frequencies. All of them at once, none distinctly different."

"Distinctively," you smirk up at him.

He takes another pull, letting it flow from his lips. "Or maybe niggas is racist."

"Hm... Sounds about right."

There's a view of your apartment building in front of the car, so you just lay back casually and watch who's going in and coming out. It's a calm night. You look across the console, rubbing Fontaine's shoulder and down his thick arm through his grey cotton hoodie, trapping it in your grasp like a blanket. His hoodie feels soft and cool on your clean face, and it smells like his signature scent, a hint of soft jasmine and mimosa mixed with smoke. "Mm," you hum in ecstasy. His eyebrows wriggle ever so quickly.

"I've been meaning to ask you--what are your plans for Halloween?"

"Hm." He takes an unhurried moment to think. "I'm not for the door to door. I figure a few of the boys will wanna go out--find a party." He smokes. "You got plans?"

You sigh. "I was actually gonna ask you if you wanted to do some white people shit with me... You know how they do, pumpkin patch and shit," you murmur, playing absently with your nails.

"You mean go apple picking and drink hot cinnamon apple cider or pumpkin spiced lattes?" He smiles briefly in a rare show of teeth. You know it sounds corny as hell, and he's laughing at it, but you really wanna do it. "I know what you mean," he allows. "They got a nice pumpkin patch at that farm outside the city."

"You wanna go with me?" You sit up, hoping. Your eyes bear into him as you hold onto his hoodie sleeve.

"Sure. Why not."

"Aight," you shift, suddenly energetic. "I'm ready now." You unlock the doors waiting on him so the two of you can stroll together. You like it when he parks a little bit further back from your building to give you more steps before you hit the door, especially when the temperature is comfortably cool like this.

One inside, you lead him on the familiar, short route to your apartment. "Mouth bout dry as Rihanna's coochie when Drake's in the room," you mutter.

"The only thing I don't when I smoke."

He tugs off his sneakers, then his hoodie, draping it over the island as you walk backward to watch the muscles revealed. He's not paying attention, but you don't wanna miss the striptease. He's a thick, muscled baddie, cut, but with a layer of healthy fat that keeps him juicy. Next is his thin white t-shirt, which leaves him shirtless in a silver rope chain. He doesn't know how fine he is, and even more, he doesn't care.

You toast his bottle with yours, taking a big sip and sitting it on the island as you ogle his chest and sleeve tats, feeling like a slut. Even his Adam's apple as he chugs.

"That's enough," you grab the bottle, replacing it with your lips in a vacuum seal. You grip his locs, drinking in the unswallowed beer spilled into your mouth from his and sucking the remnants from his tongue. The hoodie coming off your body over your head disconnects you for a moment, but you pull him in again in the same way. You feel his fingers on the back of your bra, unhooking, the freeing drop of the bra from your shoulders, and his light touch running down your spine to the top of your waistband, pushing your matching Zara sweats to a cloth puddle.

Impulse takes over.

He doesn't react, except for a low "Ok" as you sink your teeth into his smooth, thick neck trap, sealing your lips onto his skin. His attention remains on squeezing the flesh of your ass in his tight grip.

"Mm," you hum when his finger slides into your cucci purse. You bite deeper, savoring the smoothness of the blood, and the flavor of warm iron as he slips in his second finger, curving them both sweetly.

"This what you like?"

"Mmhm." You dig through locs into his scalp, your breasts flush to his chest where you can feel his strong mortal heartbeat. Lost to reason, you lock him in place while you drink him in, in sexual ecstasy, only pausing once you re-gather the discipline.

"Open."

His fingers slimy wet with your own essence find their way past your reddened lips, mixing with his blood and fondle your tongue, cleaning themselves and reaching back into your throat until you grab his wrist with both hands. His fingers slide out against your bottom lip, bringing out a cloud of bubbling thick spit that blobs down your chin.

"Since you like to suck."

"You are so perfect," you murmer, sliding your fingers through the trickle of burgundy nectar building on the side of his neck to smear red down his chestnut chest and abs into the front of his sweats. It's like fingerpainting.

With a churning motion, you add the sticky spit from your chin to the hand of blood and watch it blend into his even complexion. All his dick is an even shade of healthy brown with a slight sheen of moisture, emphasized by your mixed fluids. It's delightful in the most sinful of ways. The smell of metallic love emanating from his length draws you to your knees.

"You gone keep playing with it or put it on your mouth," Fontaine asks, calmly waiting, his hands loose at his sides. One thing about Fontaine--he's an observer. He likes to watch you, especially in your unhinged moments when you're dick drunk and churning it desperately in two hands like the essence of life lies in his cum and you'll expire if you don't get it. He's a man of little words, but he's never frazzled no matter what manner of depravity you unleash.

"Master," you keen, submissively wrapping your arms around his thighs, your cheek pressed in the space next to his elevated erection as you watch the subtle bounce, the remnants of blood and spit still present on your chin.

"You ready for me to take over?"

"Yes," you pout, your voice suddenly small.

He guides you onto his dick by your pineapple of braids with a second hand firmly but gently holding your head in one place while he uses your mouth, forcing it wide and thrusting, his cockhead pressing against your palate with the subtle taste of iron.

"Bad girl," he grunts.

You wine, holding the back of your head after Fontaine delivers it a stern bop for biting him and takes his dick back.

"I couldn't help a tiny nibble," you grin impishly, not sorry for your little transgression. What's a little pain? Especially when his swollen thick skin-wand was pulsing in your mouth, full of fragrant and vitamin rich blood in your favorite flavor--Type O. "I could even feel the under-vein on my tongue," you laugh, head back like a naughty leech. His incoming hand around your neck is welcome.

"Looks like I have to teach you what a dick is for." He tosses you over the back of your couch, keeping a hold on your throat. His warm wet tip encirles your clit, popping it to send a sensation through your body.

"Please," you gasp, feeling his lips tickling against your ear as he sinks past your labial folds into your depths, filling you to the brim with dick and letting it marinate. Every time he so much as moves, he strokes the nerves, tingling and giving chills. You feel the sensation heighten the rougher he is and the harder the collision.

"Beat it up, Fontaine." Your moans build, eyes rolling back. As a woman who cums from penetration, you live for a big broad dick digging out your lower abdomen to the degree that you can feel it with your hand on the outside. Fontaine has that kind of dick. The kind to turn you crazy. It's why you're the way that you are now.

He covers your mouth, preferring your silence so your body does the talking, squirming under the weight and intensity of his tried and true tailored to you thrusts.

It feels like a deep cucci swedish massage where the cucci getting beat down when he stuffs you, pressing on the sensitive soft tissues of your fleshy walls. Even he's entranced by the sound, wet and squishy as he stirs. It's Crack. Straight backshots until you have your strong orgasm like he needs the money and rent is due.

You watch him as he redresses, helping him adjust his clothes to look as fresh as he did when he came in. Not that he cares, it's late and he ain't doing nothing but going to see a guy about some money. You know what that means, but he's careful what he tells you and what he involves you in. You know glimpses, nothing incriminating. You both prefer it that way.

"I'll call you... I ain't forget what we talked about," he turns, taking his beer on the way out.

This is y'all relationship. Sex, smoking, freaky shit, and a friendship somewhere within. There's an unspoken friends with benefits type of understanding, but that's about to change. You wanna be official and something is telling you that this October is your season to make that happen.

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