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𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐲 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Franklin Saint x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - In which a promised night out reveals more to two unexpected parties.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Mature themes, implied tension, gossip, emotional restraint, let me know if I’m missing something

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - I’m not a slow pace kind of girl at all, this is the third chapter and things are already getting a lil hot….but I’m writing this to get my fix of Mr.Idris, so trust, I will be doing that the way I see fit! I hope yall like it though.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 12,081 +

It had been a week or two since Kimora and Franklin really talked—nothing major, just life getting in the way. Between work, family, and everything in between, there wasn’t much room for anything else. They still greeted each other when they crossed paths—quick nods, soft “hey’s,” polite smiles. Nothing deep. Nothing that implied they were anything more than neighbors, because they weren’t. Not really.

That was until tonight. But that’s a later topic.

It was the weekend, in a way. Friday night. Her parents were finally taking a much-needed date night, and Mason was spending the evening at his girlfriend’s place. That left Kimora with the whole house to herself and no excuse to stay in.

That how she found herself at the mall with Lexie. It was buzzing with life that afternoon—families weaving through department store aisles, teens huddled in food court booths, sneaker scuffs echoing off the tiled floors, the soft hum of mall music blending with chatter and the occasional ring from the payphones. Posters of Aaliyah and Boyz II Men hung in store windows, and the air smelled like soft pretzels, popcorn, and perfume samples.. Kimora had a mission, and she was determined to stick to it: find her mama the perfect birthday gift. Something elegant, useful, maybe a little sentimental. Kimora clutched her purse tight under her arm, determined not to get distracted. “I’m only here to find Mama a birthday gift,” she reminded Lexie as they passed a Claire’s bursting with glittery barrettes and chokers. “Nothing else.”

Lexie, however, had a different goal entirely.

“I’m just saying,” Lexie called over her shoulder as she stopped in front of a window display for a trendy boutique, “You came all the way out here, might as well grab somethin’ cute. You always talkin’ about how you don’t got nothin’ to wear, but you pass up every sale like you allergic to spending money.”

Kimora rolled her eyes, shifting her purse on her shoulder. “Because I came here to get a gift, not act like I got money just to some like that.” She coffee softly. Lexie turned to her with a tried look. “You do have money to spend like that, little miss spoiled. You’re the youngest and only daughter of your rich ass family.”

“We’re not rich.” Kimora stated.

“You see how that’s the o my thing you took from that? Right.” Lexie scoffed and pushed open the glass door anyway, motioning for Kimora to follow. “One dress won’t kill your budget. And I know you got it like that—you just like being responsible and boring.”

Kimora grinned despite herself, letting Lexie lead her inside the store filled with sleek racks and soft lighting. “Being responsible isn’t boring.” She argued as she glanced at a display of silk tops. “It’s called being an adult. Try it sometime.”

Lexie waved her off. “Whatever. I’m just trying to keep you from showing up to places lookin’ like you came from work when we not at work.” She said, giving the girl a once over.

That earned her a light smack on the arm and a shap look from Kimora, even though she was laughing. “This is a sweater set, not a uniform. And you’re the one always talkin’ ‘bout savin’ for bigger things.”Lexie shrugged. “Yeah, but that don’t mean I gotta look broke doin’ it.” She grinned, and the playful energy stayed between them as they drifted through the aisles. Lexie grabbed things off hangers left and right—a velvet crop top, a body-hugging midi dress, a faux leather mini skirt—while Kimora kept her arms folded and her wallet zipped tight, eyeing a silky button-down blouse for a moment before stepping away.

“I still need to check JCPenney.” She said. “Mama mentioned wanting a new robe last week, and I think they got that soft kind she likes.”

Lexie waved her off, one hand already full of hangers. “A robe? Girl, she’s gonna be forty-five, not eighty-five. Get her something fly.”

Kimora ignored her and made her way across the mall, Lexie eventually falling back in step beside her after ditching half the clothes she’d picked. They cut through the beauty section of a department store, where women in red lipstick and blazer skirts offered paper perfume strips to anyone who passed.

Lexie caught a whiff of something floral and spun around. “Hold up. That smell good. What’s that?”

Kimora leaned over the counter. “Ooh, that’s the one I was tellin’ you about. It’s by Dior.” She grinned.

Lexie squinted at the fancy cursive on the bottle. “You know they ain’t cheap.”

“I ain’t buyin’ it,” Kimora said, spraying a bit on the white card. “I just want to see if it smells like Mama. She like powdery scents. Clean ones.”

Lexie took a sniff and tilted her head. “Mmm… that’s like Sunday morning.” She said before taking another sniff. “Han picked flowers before church, and don’t touch my tablecloth.” She said and Kimora chuckled, holding the strip close to her own nose. “Exactly.”Kimora smiled. Her mom was picky, but it wasn’t about brand names or big price tags—it was about the little things. The ones that told her someone had paid attention.

“Ooooh, girl, come smell this!” Lexie called, waving Kimora over with exaggerated urgency. “I’m not tryna spend $140 on a scent I’m gon’ wear once a month.”

“That’s why I’m smelling it for free,” Lexie shot back. “I swear, you act like we 40 and got mortgages.”

Kimora smirked and stepped beside her, reaching for one of the testers. “That Dior one wasn’t bad though,” She said, spritzing it on a card and waving it gently in the air. “It got that powdery kinda warmth. Like… fresh laundry.”

Lexie leaned in to sniff and nodded with approval. “And it smells expensive. But like… soft expensive. Not ‘I sell lashes out my trunk’ expensive.”

They both cracked up, the easy laughter settling between them like old times. They were just about to head toward the checkout when Lexie paused, her brows lifting as she spotted someone a few counters over. “Who is that?”

Kimora looked up to see a man with neat cornrows and a trimmed goatee leaned casually against the counter, talking to a salesgirl. He wasn’t dressed loud—just a white tee, some dark jeans, and spotless sneakers—but there was something sharp about him. Like he didn’t need to talk much to get his point across.

As if sensing eyes on him, he glanced over—and when he saw Lexie, he grinned.

“Damn,” Lexie muttered, straightening herself just a little.

He walked over, two of his boys trailing behind at a distance, hands in their pockets, peering around the mall with their head on a swivel.

“Wassup, Ma, how you doin’? You from around here?” He asked Lexie, giving her a once-over with a grin that said he already knew the answer. “I might be.” She said, arms crossed, trying to keep it cute. “Who’s askin’?”

“Name’s Leon.” He said. “My people just opened a spot not far from here. New club. Thought you might wanna stop by.”

Lexie gave him a skeptical look, though she was clearly intrigued. “And how do I know you not just saying that? I ain’t heard about no new club.” She questioned as she crossed her arms.

Leon’s smirk widened as if he found her challenge cute. “I don’t have a reason to lie to you, mama. They just got it up last week. It was being renovated, closed for a hot minute.” He said, licking his lips.

That’s when Kimora spoke up, her curiosity getting the better of her as she stood behind Lexie, holding the bottle of Dior in her hand. “Oh, you mean the old joint behind the laundromat? That’s been boarded up since summer? Southside Peach?”

Leon’s eyes flicked to her, his eyes skimming her face before dropping briefly to take in the rest of her. A glint of interest sparked behind his lashes. “Yeah.” He said with a nod. “It’s under new ownership now. Called Candy Paint now.“ He looked back at Lexie. “You should come to the door.” He said to Lexie, a little smirk on his lips as he gave her a slow once-over. “Tell them Leon said let you in. They’ll let you right in. Should be no problem.”

Lexie raised a brow. “You sure about that? I ain’t tryna stand outside no club like a dummy.”

“You won’t.” He said, stepping closer just a bit. “You—beautiful—and your pretty homegirl too. Y’all should come through. See what it’s about. Speak to a fella.” He gave them both a last look, tongue wetting his lips in a way that made it clear he wasn’t shy about his intentions. “If not… I’ll catch y’all somewhere else.”

With that, he turned and walked off, rejoining his crew and leaving behind a silence filled with perfume and surprise.

Kimora blinked after him, a little stunned. She wasn’t used to being hit on like that—so boldly. So confidently. All she could really do was stand there, unsure if she was flattered or caught off guard.

Lexie turned slowly, arms still folded, eyes narrowing as she looked Kimora up and down. Then, without missing a beat, she said, “We’re going to that club.”

Before Kimora could argue, Lexie grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the next store. “Come on. We need outfits.”

“What?” Kimora asked.

“Girl, we are not missing this.” She said, already pulling Kimora toward the nearest boutique. “You heard him. New club, new energy, and you saw the way he looked at us.”

Kimora let out a soft laugh, still trying to shake off the encounter. “He was lookin’ at you. I was just standing there like a third wheel with a perfume strip.”

“Please,” Lexie scoffed. “He called you pretty too, don’t act like you ain’t clock that. You know what that means?”

Kimora rolled her eyes, though a small, amused smile tugged at her lips. “That we gotta go spend money we wasn’t supposed to spend?”

Lexie tugged her into a cute store, the loud music from the speakers almost drowning them out. “Exactly.”

Inside, it felt like stepping into a fashion capsule curated by every cool, grown woman—silky slip dresses in rich jewel tones, cropped leather jackets, sheer blouses with lace trim, and high-waisted trousers that hugged in all the right places.

Lexie made a beeline for the rack of halter tops, her eyes locking onto a pink satin one with a low cowl neck and a delicate tie that dipped low at the back. It was bold, grown, and perfect for the kind of night that didn’t start till after midnight. “This right here?” She said, holding it up to her chest. “This is a ‘you gon’ regret not speakin’ to me twice’ top.”

Kimora looked around, her brow furrowed. “I don’t even know what I’d wear to the club. I wasn’t prepared for none of this today.” She shrugged. “I done even know the vibe of the place.”

Lexie snorted. “You already got the body, Ki, you don’t gotta do too much. Just do enough.”

Kimora picked up a black satin mini skirt, hesitated, then tucked it over her arm. “You think this with a crop top would work?”

Lexie’s eyes lit up. “See, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

From there, it was game on. They bounced between stores like they were on a timer—Contempo Casuals, DEB, even a quick detour into Wilsons Leather to feel on some jackets they definitely couldn’t afford. Lexie tried on three outfits, finally settling on a skin-tight spaghetti strap dress with a thigh-high slit in a deep plum that hugged her like it was made for her. She turned to Kimora with a satisfied smirk.

“I’m about to break hearts in this.”

Kimora stepped out in a black ribbed crop top with short sleeves and silver buttons down the middle, paired with the satin mini and strappy block heels she already had at home.

Lexie eyed her up and down. “Yup. You look like a problem. Like one of them girls that walk in and got every man adjusting his collar.”

Kimora turned to the mirror, smoothing her skirt down as she looked at herself. “I don’t know… it’s cute, but I don’t want to look like I’m tryin’ too hard.”

Lexie leaned against the dressing room wall. “You not. You look grown. That man at the counter gon’ wish he’d stared a little longer.”

They both laughed, walking up to the cashier with their selections, trying not to look at the growing total. As they left the store, shopping bags in hand, Lexie looped her arm through Kimora’s. “Now we just need some lip gloss, a cassette with slow jams for pre-game, and somebody sober to drive.”

Kimora then rolled her eyes. “I’ll drive us back, Lex, damn.”

Lexie grinned. “Perfect.” She cheesed as they walked off, bags swinging, already buzzing with anticipation.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

It wasn’t long before the car slowed in front of Kimora’s house, tires crunching lightly over the gravel. The sun was now behind the horizon , the last peaks of lights waving them goodbye from afar. Lexie leaned over the steering wheel, her bangles clinking against the leather as she parked.

“You good?” She asked, glancing over.

Kimora nodded, arms already full with shopping bags and the small box for her mother. “Yeah, I’m good. You sure you don’t wanna come in?” She asked, pointing over to her home.

Lexie shook her head, already unbuckling. “Nah, girl. I gotta go home and beat this face. My palette’s there and I need time to marinate. But I’ll be back in a couple hours. Don’t be late to get dressed!”

“I won’t,” Kimora laughed, pushing the car door open with her shoulder.

Lexie waited until Kimora made it to the porch before she pulled off, music already blasting through the rolled-down windows. The echo of her engine faded down the block, leaving Kimora alone under the porch light, her arms aching with bags and her heels clicking against the wooden steps.

Balancing everything on one arm, she started digging through her purse with the other.

“What the hell…” She murmured, brow furrowed as her fingers combed through lip gloss tubes, receipts, gum wrappers—everything except her damn keys. She crouched down and shuffled through the shopping bags next, even checking inside the box with her mother’s gift, though she knew better.

Still no keys.

“Fuck.” She hissed, louder now, as she dropped her bags with a thud and sat down on the porch swing. Her head sank into her hands, the soft creak of the chains and the distant sounds of the neighborhood filling the quiet frustration swelling in her chest. She took a deep breath, then another, trying not to get too hot too fast.

After a moment, the realization hit her like a slap.

She’d left the keys sitting on the kitchen counter. She was too busy talking to her mom about her plans for the day that afternoon, but was distracted thinking about the woman’s birthday gift, as well as simply being used to someone being home to unlock the door.

“Shit.” She muttered, leaning back on the swing and staring out at the street. It was full-on nighttime now. A few porch lights glowed, some windows still flickered with television static, while others dimmed one by one. The air was warm, still sticky with the last traces of the day’s heat.

She blinked slowly, her eyes drifting toward the house to her left.

Franklin’s house.

Though the lights were off upstairs, she could see a faint, warm glow coming from one of the downstairs windows. She sat there, chewing her lip, her eyes on that window. For a second she hesitated—but just a second.

Then she was up.

With a soft grunt, she tossed her purse strap over her shoulder, grabbed her mother’s gift, and hopped down from the porch and hopped the fence instead of cutting through the side gate that separated their homes, just like she had done that morning weeks ago. She moved quickly across the grass, her sandals barely making a sound as she stepped up onto his porch.

She took in a small breath before she knocked gently. A few taps. Just once.

Her knuckles met wood, and then—silence. And then more silence.

She sighed, already turning to leave. “Of course.” She whispered to herself. One foot hit the first step.

And then the door creaked open.

She turned, eyes widening just a little.

There stood Franklin. Dressed in a casual dark button-down and khakis, looking freshly showered and relaxed, with that same calm expression she couldn’t ever seem to read all the way through. But tonight, there was a softness to it. Like he didn’t mind being caught off guard by her.

“Hey.” He said, voice low and almost amused, the corners of his mouth tugging into a small smile.

Kimora smiled too, a little embarrassed, a little grateful. “Hi.” Kimora said, her voice soft as her arms crossed behind her back.

They stood there for a moment, just staring. The glow from inside his house spilled across the porch and lit her face, casting a faint golden hue on her cheekbones and catching the gloss on her lips. Franklin looked down at her, not saying a word just yet, his face unreadable, and Kimora suddenly became hyper-aware of how long the silence had stretched.

“Uh… sorry if I disturbed you or anything.” She mumbled, breaking eye contact.

“Oh—nah, it’s fine. I wasn’t doing anything,” Franklin said quickly, straightening a little as he shifted in the doorway. His voice was calm as ever, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Interest.

Kimora adjusted her footing, looking at him. “Well… my keys are locked inside my house, and I was wondering if I could use your phone to call Lexie?” She asked.

“Of course.” He said without hesitation, stepping aside and nodding toward the inside. “Come on in.”

“Thank you,” She breathed, brushing past him as she stepped inside. The citrusy scent of her lemon perfume trailed behind her, and Franklin clenched his jaw slightly as his eyes shut briefly, exhaling through his nose. He shut the door gently and followed her toward the living room, where the dim amber lamp lit up the couch and a little side table.

“The phone’s right there.” He said, gesturing.

Kimora rushed to it and picked up the beige rotary phone. She brought the receiver to her ear and began to dial Lexie’s home number from memory, her finger slipping into the round slots.

But then she paused.

The dial hovered above the last number. Her shoulders slumped a little as her hand dropped back to her side, the phone still pressed to her cheek.

“What’s the problem?” Franklin asked from behind her, folding his arms across his chest.

“It’s no use,” Kimora sighed and gently set the phone back in its cradle. “Lexie’s probably not even home yet. She left to go get ready, and her folks don’t even know we’re going out tonight. And I don’t wanna be the one to tell ‘em.”

Franklin nodded, slowly stepping a little closer. “Makes sense.”

“Everyone else is busy. I can’t tell her I’m not gonna make it… can’t even get ready for the the party.” She huffed and let out a breath that puffed her cheeks before collapsing onto the couch. “Ugh, and I left my clothes outside.” She groaned, throwing her head back before springing up again. “I gotta go grab them before someone snatches my stuff.”

“You can get ready here,” Franklin said casually, but his words stopped her in her tracks.

She paused mid-step and turned to look at him. “Huh?” She asked, a bit genuinely since she couldn’t quite hear him but also a little shocked if she heard him correctly,

“You said you had your clothes with you, right?” He asked. “You can just get ready here. Bathroom’s clean. Ain’t no big deal.” He shrugged,

Kimora blinked, surprised. “Really?” She asked, her voice rising just a little with hope.

“Yeah.” He nodded, his mouth curving into that soft little smirk he wore sometimes.

A gasp escaped her as she lit up with joy. “Oh my goodness, Franklin!” She gushed, rushing over to him and wrapping her arms around his neck without thinking.

The sudden contact caught him off guard—his hands hovered awkwardly in the air for a beat before settling gently on her hips, his fingers warm and grounding against the thin fabric of her dress. “You don’t even know how much this means.” She said sincerely. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s cool,” He chuckled quietly, feeling the way she melted into the hug just for a second.

And that second felt like more.

Kimora’s heart was fluttering now, thudding loud in her ears. The contact, the scent of his cologne—woodsy and clean—so close to her face, his voice low and near her ear… it was all suddenly too much and not enough. She drew in a sharp breath, her chest rising against his. Slowly, she pulled back just a little, her arms still draped over his shoulders as she looked up at him. Her eyes met his and held them there.

She started to pull away further, suddenly aware of how intimate it all had become. Franklin, as if on instinct, gave her waist a gentle pat before letting his hands fall.

They stepped back from each other, the air still thick with something neither of them could quite name—but both of them felt.

And for the first time in a long while, Franklin couldn’t help but smile for real.

“Go grab your stuff.” He said, voice still low. “I’ll clear the bathroom for you.”

Kimora nodded, her heart still fluttering as she made her way back to the porch. “Ahh!” She squealed with delight, darting back across the lawn to her place. Her sandals slapped against the grass as she bounded over to the fence, jumping against it with the careless energy of someone still high off a small but important win. The night air hit her skin, cool against her flushed face, but her mind was still stuck inside—still stuck on the feeling of Franklin’s arms, the tone of his voice, and the way he looked at her like.

Franklin stepped out onto the porch after her, watching with a faint smirk playing on his lips. His brow lifted slightly as he observed her shimmy halfway over the fence and then almost trip as she walked up her porch and grab the bags she’d left behind. The girl had no business being that graceful and that clumsy all at once.

He walked over, shaking his head a little but unable to look away. “Damn.” He muttered to himself, just low enough that the night could swallow it.

By the time he reached the fence, Kimora was bent over grabbing her tote and the little shopping bag she’d left on the porch. Her shorts lifted just enough to reveal the soft curve of her back. Franklin quickly looked away, pretending to fix the cuff of his sleeve.

“Here.” offered, stepping forward and gently taking the bags from her hands when she walked back over, before she could hop the fence again.

Kimora glanced up at him, her cheeks flushed from rushing, and gave a small smile. “Thank you.” She said, softer now—less excited and more… intimate? At least, that how he felt by the effects of her tone.

Franklin didn’t say anything, just dipped his head in a short nod before turning back toward the house. Kimora climbed the fence again, a little more carefully this time, as he held the bags steady for her on the other side.

Back inside the house, the air was warm and quiet—softer than outside, like stepping into another world entirely. Franklin led her down a narrow hallway, their footsteps muted against the worn carpet runner. He stopped just across from what looked like a study—glass-paned doors slightly ajar, papers scattered across the desk inside—and opened the door to the downstairs bathroom.

“Here you are.” He said, setting the bags down gently inside.

Kimora stepped in behind him, eyes darting around the decently sized bathroom. Cream tiles, soft lighting, and other intricate and fancy details. It smelled faintly of soap and something else—a cologne lingering in the space.

She turned toward the doorway, where he still stood, leaning a shoulder lightly against the frame.

“Thank you so much, again, Franklin.” Her voice was quieter now, a little breathy. “Really.”

He shrugged one shoulder, though his gaze stayed steady on her. “It’s no big deal, Kimora.” He said, and the way he said her name sent a little ripple through her chest. “Just… have fun.”

He offered her that signature half-smile then—the kind that made people nervous because you never quite knew what he was thinking. Kimora leaned against the edge of the doorway, her fingers gripping the trim lightly as she looked up at him. The space between them felt heavier again, thick with the kind of tension they’d danced around all evening.

There it was again.

That stare.

That lingering moment where neither of them moved, where it felt like the world dipped into slow motion just to give them a beat too long in each other’s eyes.

Franklin’s gaze swept her slowly, not in a rude way, but measured—like he was taking in all the little details of her, memorizing the way she looked standing in his hallway, holding onto her nerves and excitement at the same time.

“I’ll be over here.” He said finally, nodding toward the study. “Catching up on some business.”

“Yeah…” Kimora breathed, not fully moving just yet. “Okay.”

They peeled away from one another slowly, like something inside them didn’t want to let the moment go. Kimora slipped inside the bathroom and gently closed the door behind her. Franklin crossed the hall and pushed one of the glass study doors open, but left it cracked—whether for air or for her, it wasn’t clear.

Inside the bathroom, Kimora stood still for a moment, leaning back against the closed door, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her heart was racing. She touched her lips absently, then smoothed her clothes down with trembling fingers. The scent of soap and tile cleaner mixing faintly with her own floral body spray. She paused for a moment, then let out a soft breath as she dug into her bags on the counter. With practiced hands, she unzipped the small makeup pouch she always carried—her “just in case” kit that never failed her—and pulled out a compact mirror, a tube of brown lip liner, and the soft mauve lipstick she swore by.

The mirror lights were soft overhead as she leaned in, touching up her lips with precision. Her roller set had settled nicely last night, but it needed styling. She pulled out a few pins and began twisting sections of her soft curls upward into a loose, elegant updo. Her nails clicked gently against the bobby pins as she secured the final curl into place, letting two face-framing tendrils fall forward to soften the look.

And across the hallway, Franklin sat behind the desk in his study, the soft glow of the desk lamp illuminating stacks of papers and notebooks spread out before him. He adjusted his reading glasses, tapping the eraser of a pencil against the wood, his eyes scanning numbers he’d already memorized but double-checked out of habit—but his eyes kept drifting back toward the door.

Some deals were clean. Most were not. The money still coming in from the projects needed a wash—he had a few fronts still operating, but one was behind on rent and the other had too many eyes on it.

The music of the house, the tension of the night, the quiet pull between two people who weren’t quite sure where the line was—but were getting dangerously close to crossing it.

And the night was still young.

He rubbed a hand down his face, the weight of the work pressing behind his temples.

Then—

“Franklin?”

His head snapped up, the sound of her voice slipping through the open door like smoke. Soft. Sweet. That same slow melody she always spoke in, like honey dripped on hot cornbread.

He looked up to see her in the bathroom again, leaning over the sink. Her updo was styled now, her dress smoothed out as she touched up her eyeliner. She didn’t even look his way.

“Yeah?” Be answered.

“If you don’t mind me asking…” She paused to check the angle of her blush, dabbing at her cheekbones with a steady hand. “Where’s Lucia?”

Franklin’s fingers hesitated over the corner of a sheet of paper.

“She’s out.” He said, flipping to another page he wasn’t really reading. “Dinner with some of the women from the neighborhood. Something about them wanting to start an HOA.”

“An HOA?” Kimora blinked, eyes going wide in the mirror. She opened the bathroom door a bit more and turned her head to glance across the hallway. “She’s out with Lauren McAllister?” She asked.

Franklin looked up at her again, brows raising slightly.

“Uh… yeah. I think so.”

Kimora gasped, stepping just outside the bathroom now with her mascara wand still in hand. “Franklin, you cannot let those women get their hands on Lucia. They will suck the life and all of the ethnic qualities out of that woman.”

Franklin blinked, sitting back a little in his chair. “What?”

“Lauren McAllister and the rest of her little PTA-HOA-Bring-Your-Own-Botox crew,” Kimora started with a hiss. “They’ve been trying to kick out the Black residents on this side of the block for years.”

She pointed her mascara wand like it was a pointer stick in a classroom. “They’re all mad they live at the front of the block, and want the houses in the back. But majority of these houses? Generational. Been here. And now that Lucia done snagged one back here, they’re either gonna snatch it from under her or get her in on their scheme.”

Franklin gave a dry chuckle. “I can guarantee you Lucia isn’t interested in that kind of thing.”

“Oh, I’m not saying she is,” Kimora said quickly, spinning back toward the bathroom but pausing at the doorway. “But Lauren? Lauren is not the type of woman you want your wife around.”

“Fiancée,” Franklin corrected gently.

“She recently got caught cheating on her husband of fifteen years,” Kimora said without missing a beat, “And they have six kids together.”

Franklin blinked. “Six?”

“Six.” She repeated, holding up her hand and wiggling her fingers. “She was sleeping with the yoga instructor.”

Franklin leaned back in his chair, blinking. “Wow.” He mumbled, more so just playing into the young woman’s gossip session instead of actually being that interested.

“I know, right?” Kimora said, crossing her arms now. “Is that the kind of woman you want around your wife?”

“No,” Franklin admitted, chuckling airily. “That is not the kind of woman I want around my fiancée.”

“Exactly.” She turned back toward the bathroom and looked into the mirror, brushing her lashes delicately with the mascara wand. “And if I’m being completely honest with you, Frank—can I call you Frank?”

“No.”

“Well, Frankie.” She continued with a sly smirk in the mirror, “I just don’t like the woman.” She shrugged.

Franklin tried to suppress a grin but failed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, still holding onto a half-filled ledger but no longer reading it. “And why is that?”

Kimora gave a little shrug, as casual as a summer breeze. “She’s a bitch.”

Franklin’s brows shot up. “She’s a bitch?”

“She’s a bitch,” Kimora repeated without flinching. “Always has been. Hates anything that isn’t up to her standards, like she doesn’t live in Bankhead. Her sons are misogynistic assholes who hit on Black girls for some ‘exotic’ thrill. Her daughters wanna be thugs, like they not out here wearing Guess jeans and lying about their curfews.”

Franklin let out a low whistle, watching her in the mirror as she smoothed a bit of setting powder across her jawline.

“And her husband?” Kimora added, lowering her voice just a touch. “I think her husband has been hitting on me since I was about sixteen but I can’t necessarily prove it. It’s just this vide he gives off when we he’s around. You know that vibe?”

Franklin’s face went still, the humor draining from his features just enough to show a sliver of something protective. “Yeah.” He said carefully. “I know that vibe.”

Kimora paused in the mirror, catching his reflection catching hers.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then she broke the silence with a small, teasing smile. “So yeah. Just… keep an eye on your girl.”

Franklin nodded, his voice low. “I always do.” He said, staring at her intensely, trying to fight the double meaning that flickered in his mind at his own words.

Kimora’s gaze lingered for a moment more before she turned back to the mirror, eyes soft but steady.

And Franklin, for all his business and numbers, didn’t even remember the papers sitting in front of him.

But he eventually had to go back to. He couldn’t stare at her all evening when he had things to do. So his eyes scrolled through the papers in front of him. Numbers. Notes. Numbers. Notes. The balance of his world was wrapped up in these sheets, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Kimora’s words from earlier still lingered in his head like the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights above him.

She’d told him Lauren wasn’t the type of woman he or Lucia should be associating with. Lauren McAllister—PTA president, neighborhood whatever but the things that seemed to stick the most was that she was an all-around snake. Kimora’s assessment of the woman was blunt, but sharp. He wasn’t wrong to be cautious. He wasn’t wrong to protect Lucia.

His fiancée was could be too naive for her own good, and he knew it. That’s what got them in the situation to begin with. This dilemma of a faux marriage since she wanted independence from her psychotic mob family.

But before he could think more on that, the office phone rang, cutting through the silence. He picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Yo, Franklin!” Leon’s voice came through, loud and clear, like a breath of fresh air after a long day.

“Yeah?” Franklin asked, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his forehead as if he’d already been through too much today.

“I’m gonna need you to pull up to the club tonight, Candy Pain,” Leon said. “We got some fine girls coming through, and you know how it is. A little fun never hurt nobody, right?”

Franklin immediately shook his head, even though Leon couldn’t see him. “Nah, man. I’m not really up for it tonight,” He replied, his voice dismissive but not harsh. “I’ve got business to handle.”

Leon sighed on the other end of the line, clearly not deterred. “Come on, man. I’m telling you, it’s not just about partying this time. I need you to come check out the club, see how the money’s moving now that it’s up and running. We need your eye on it. Business, you know?”

Franklin paused, the flicker of the neon sign outside his window casting shadows across his desk. Business. That was what he was about. That was what he needed to focus on.

“Alright.” He said, relenting, but his tone remained firm, detached. “I’ll come by. But only for the business, Leon. Nothing more.”

“Yeah, yeah, man,” Leon replied, and Franklin could hear the grin in his voice. “I got you, I got you. See you tonight. But aye, I also wanted to say….”

Franklin was leaned back in his chair as he listened to his closest homie talk, just as the bathroom door softly clicked open, and Kimora emerged. His eyes instinctively trailed to her as she stepped out, her figure now transformed.

Her hair was styled into a sophisticated updo, the glossy curls twisting into a neat, elegant shape at the back of her head. The dress she wore was a slinky black slip with delicate spaghetti straps, clung to her frame and swayed gently at her thighs. Vibrant flowers bloomed across the fabric in shades of deep red, violet, and fiery orange, their petals wrapping around her like nature’s own armor. Her earrings—tiny gold hoops shaped like tiny hummingbirds frozen mid-flight—glistened as she turned her head, catching whispers of candlelight. Emerald-green stones circled one of her fingers, and on the other hand, a chunky gold ring gleamed like a secret. She walked in heels that clicked softly on the floor, her black bag tucked neatly under one arm, her presence confident, untouchable.

The dress was short, just enough to be playful but still mature, a perfect balance of sex appeal and sophistication. The thin straps highlighted the grace of her shoulders, and the little black leather handbag she carried was a small but elegant touch that completed the ensemble.

Franklin couldn’t help but stop whatever he was doing. His eyes traced the length of her from the tips of her mules, up the curves of her legs, over her hips, and finally resting on her face. His gaze lingered, slow and deliberate, almost as if he was savoring the sight of her, taking it all in. His breath hitched as his gaze lingered, and he felt a slight heat rise in his chest. It wasn’t just the dress, though that was enough to make any man pause. It was the way she carried herself, the effortless grace, the poise in every movement. She knew she was captivating. The tension in the room thickened as his mouth went dry, his thoughts clouding for a moment.

“Damn…” He muttered, almost under his breath, but loud enough for her to hear.

“What?” He heard a nice say, and that’s when he realized he was still on the phone with Leon. “Uh, yeah, I’ll be there, Leon.” He muttered, cutting the conversation off with the click of the receiver. He didn’t need to hear Leon’s “goodbye” or whatever else. His attention was firmly on the woman in front of him.

Kimora stopped in front of the mirror, adjusting the lipstick in her hand. Franklin stayed rooted to the spot, lost in her presence. He tried to shake himself out of the trance but couldn’t. Kimora stopped what she was doing and turned to face him, the smirk on her lips growing. “Be honest, Frankie. How do I look?”

Franklin sat there, speechless for a beat, his eyes still locked on her. The words didn’t come right away. His gaze slowly drifted up to her face again, his lips parted slightly as he swallowed hard, his eyes following the curves of her body again before slowly meeting her gaze. She was a vision, and his breath hitched. He could feel the air in the room thicken, the tension between them almost palpable. He swallowed hard before he spoke, his voice rougher than he intended. “You look…wow.” He said, his eyes not leaving her figure. “You look good, Kimora.”

Kimora took a small step forward, the heels of her mules clicking softly against the floor. She stood in front of the study’s door, the air between them charged with something unspoken. “Good enough to turn heads tonight?” She asked, a playful grin creeping onto her lips. She hit a few more poses for him, almost too comfortable in her skin. She was feeling herself, the way she always did when she wore something that made her feel like she owned the room.

Franklin’s throat went dry, and he swallowed hard, trying to shake off the haze of desire that clouded his thoughts. His eyes were still fixed on her, his chest tightening with a growing intensity he wasn’t used to. He cleared his throat and forced himself to focus. “I’m sure you always turn heads.” He said, his voice steadier now, though the tension still clung to the air between them like a heavy fog.

“Oh, why thank you, Franklin.” She gushed, crossing her arms lightly over her chest as she assessed him with a look that made Franklin feel like she was reading him. “You look good yourself, you know?” She added with a wink, her tone dripping with playful flirtation.

Franklin’s response was cut short by the sound of a horn honking outside. Kimora glanced down at her watch and her expression shifted to one of mild surprise. “Opp! That’s Lexie, I gotta go.” She didn’t waste any time, grabbing her handbag and rushing toward the door. “Catch you later, Franklin. And again, thank you so much! You’re spectacular, love!” She said over her shoulder as she was already halfway out the door, not even waiting for his response.

Franklin sat frozen for a moment, his eyes still on the door she had just walked out of. His mind was reeling, his body betraying him in the quiet of the room. He could still feel the weight of her presence lingering, the warmth of her figure still fresh in his thoughts. Her voice echoed in his ears, and his body responded to the image of her in that dress, those heels, her confident grace. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he felt his khakis tighten.

“Shit.” He hissed under his breath, his body betraying him as a wave of desire hit him unexpectedly. He was still sitting there, eyes closed for a moment, trying to force the image of her out of his mind. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape it. The memory of Kimora’s curves, her scent, the sound of her heels, all of it lingered in his mind, and his body reacted accordingly.

Franklin’s pulse quickened as he reluctantly peeled his eyes open. His hands were tense as he moved from the desk, trying to distract himself. His gaze fell to the bathroom door she had just left ajar, her bags still scattered across the floor. It was a mess, a little bit, but it was better than the alternative. He knew he couldn’t just leave them there; that would raise too many questions with Lucia. Questions he didn’t even know where to begin to answer.

With a heavy sigh, he bent down and started gathering the shopping bags she had left behind. They were filled with clothes, trinkets, things that were far too personal to leave lying around. He knew if he didn’t handle it, the story would end up being something he’d have to explain later — and he didn’t need any more explanations tonight. So, he took the bags, grumbling under his breath, and made his way to his study.

The closet door creaked open, and Franklin tossed the bags inside, trying to get it over with as quickly as possible due to the lingering scent of her lemon perfume wafting in his nose. But when he placed the clothes Kimora had changed out of onto the shelf, his eyes caught a glimpse of something that made his heart skip. Her undergarments—black lace panties and matching bra with white polka dots and a tiny bow at the center—were still partially visible, tangled in the fabric. Franklin’s breath caught in his throat, and he couldn’t help but stare for a second longer than he should have.

His pulse raced, his mouth dry as he swallowed, snapping himself out of his daze. His hands moved mechanically as he placed the clothes into the wardrobe, but his mind was still consumed by the image. He shut the closet door with a slight snap, trying to regain control of himself as he caught the sight of the tent in his pants.

“Shit.”He muttered again, his voice low, almost lost in the quiet of the room. He exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the desire building in him. But it wasn’t working. Franklin leaned back against the desk, a low groan escaping him as he adjusted himself, still trying to ignore the rising tension in his pants.

Everything about Kimora had him off-balance. She was a temptation he couldn’t seem to avoid, a complication he had yet to sort through. And he knew deep down that tonight was only going to make things worse.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The moment Kimora slams the door shut and buckles her seatbelt, Lexie peels off from the curb with a grin that practically glows in the dark. “Okay, and here the hell are you coming from?“ she asked, glancing over at the girl in her passenger seat. Kimora just sighed, leaning back against the leather with a soft shake of her head. “It’s a long story.”

“I’m glad you said it because we don’t have the time, let’s tune on some music.” Lexie grinned before she twisted the knob to let the radio up, letting the R&B flood from her speakers.

Kimora lets out a soft laugh, looking out the window as the streetlights strobe across her face. Her mind tries to stay in the moment—focus on the bass she can already imagine, the drinks she’ll sip slow, the warmth of bodies under flashing lights—but her thoughts keep snagging on a pair of slow, trailing eyes… and the way Franklin said, “You look good, Kimora.”

She shifts in her seat, pressing her thighs together and shaking the memory from her head.

The glow from the neon signs outside washes over the dashboard—gas stations, liquor stores, the outlines of bodies posted up on the corner like statues in the night.

Kimora leans back, finally letting a small smile spread across her lips. She wasn’t ready to unpack what happened at Franklin’s—not yet. Not until her blood warmed with something stronger than tension. Not until she could bury that look he gave her in the blur of lights, smoke, and sweat. “Let’s just have a good time.” She said softly, once they stopped at a red light. Lexie looked over at her, a bit confused on where this was all coming from but smiled at her nonetheless. “That’s the only kind I believe in.”

The light turns green. The bass in the car kicks in, loud enough to blur thoughts. They speed off into the night, headed straight for Candy Paint.

And when they arrived, the old Southside Peach was unrecognizable.

Gone were the boarded windows and weathered paint—Candy Paint glowed now, bathed in pink and purple neon like a candy-coated mirage. The line stretched halfway down the block, a living display of gold grills, bold prints, baby hair, and high-top fades. The bass hit deep, like a second heartbeat for everyone standing outside.

Lexie eased her freshly oiled legs out the Cadillac, high heels clicking onto the cracked pavement. Her fit was tight, red, and didn’t leave much to the imagination. She checked her lip liner in the side mirror, then glanced at Kimora—who looked less like she just left a man’s house and more like she meant to shut the club down.

The club glowed like a jewel in the middle of a dimly lit block, its name flickering in hot pink neon above the entrance. Music throbbed from inside, pulsing right through the pavement as the line wrapped around the building. Bodies were already swaying to the bass on the sidewalk, heels clicking, gold glinting, perfume cutting through cigarette smoke and cologne.

“Let’s just make sure we don’t get stuck outside lookin’ crazy.” Kimora said, eyes bouncing around at all of the people waiting to get in. Lexie scoffed, looking over at her. “Girl, please.” She said before flipping her ponytail over her shoulder and strutting forward. “He said tell ‘em Leon sent us.”

They walked past the velvet rope, heads turning before they even made it to the door. A few men called out soft “damn”s and “what’s your name?”s, but Lexie kept her focus. So did Kimora, even though she felt her own nerves trying to rise—like she was stepping into something bigger than just a club.

The bouncer squinted down at them when the duo walked closer, suspicion clouding his gaze. “Y’all on the list?”

Lexie didn’t hesitate. “Leon said to let us in.”

There was a shift in the bouncer’s demeanor—subtle, but there. His eyes moved over them, lingering just a moment too long on Kimora. Then, with a grunt, he nodded toward the entrance and unhooked the velvet rope. “Go ’head.”

Lexie’s lips curved into a smug smirk as she stepped past him. Kimora followed, her expression unreadable, though her eyes scanned the dimly lit entryway. In the shadows, near the wall, she caught sight of a familiar face—one of the men who’d been with Leon at the mall. He stood like he was casing the place, casual but alert. For a moment, their eyes locked. Then he looked away.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The night had folded in heavy around Candy Paint, and the inside of the club pulsed like a living body—thick air, sweet smoke, and a bassline that rattled through bones. Neon light painted everyone in shades of violet and rose, glinting off gold hoops and slow-rolling sweat.

Lexie and Kimora were deep in the crowd now, just left of the dance floor but still in the orbit of it. They’d been posted at the bar for a while, but now, a couple drinks in—Patrón for Lexie, gin and pineapple for Kimora—they were loose-limbed and laughing. Not quite drunk, but definitely buzzed, shoulders relaxed, filters low.

Lexie was throwing her head back mid-laugh, pointing out a girl across the club wearing the same dress she almost bought earlier that day. Kimora was leaned against the table they’d claimed, her glossy lips parted in a dreamy smile as she swayed slightly to Jodeci playing in the background. She hadn’t thought about Franklin in at least twenty minutes, which felt like a record.

She didn’t notice the shift in energy near the entrance.

But Leon did.

Near the entrance, he stood just past the velvet rope, posted up like security with a little more swagger. He dapped up a few regulars, exchanging nods and hand slaps, when Franklin Saint walked in—cool, calm and collected, cutting through the noise with that signature slow stride of his in his father usual attire. The short-sleeved black button-up he wore was crisp, tucked neatly into dark slacks, a gold watch flashing with every flicker of light overhead. Always clean. Always quiet.

Leon grinned wide when he spotted him.

“Look who crawled out the house.” He quipped

Franklin smirked, hands in his pockets as he walked closer to him. “Had to see it for myself. Heard y’all flipped this spot and needed to see how serious this was.” He said as he looked around at the place before nodding subtly. “It’s nice.” Leon’s chest swelled with pride. He nodded toward the back booth, where a few men leaned into a quiet conversation, and behind a curtain, a girl in fishnets was counting out a thick wad of cash.

“Yeah, we movin’. Right now, it’s just frontin’ as a club, but give it a minute. You see all them bottles flyin’ off the bar?” He chuckled. “That’s two-fold. Half that liquor ain’t come from no distributor.”

Franklin’s eyes sharpened. “And the other half?”

“Clean money, bro. Every bottle sold, every door cover paid? That’s straight wash. We got dancers pullin’ tips too, we runnin’ games upstairs, and we lookin’ at a late-night kitchen next month. Whole other stream.”

Franklin gave a slow nod, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. “You got it runnin’ smooth?”

“Couple bumps, but it’s under control. No heat yet.”

Then Leon’s gaze shifted—and a grin stretched across his face as he caught something far within the crowd. “Aye… hold up. Ain’t that shorty from the mall?” He asked himself before he nodded subtly across the club.

Lexie was near the dance floor, hips rolling slow to the beat, fingers slicing the air in rhythm as she hyped the DJ’s drop. But it wasn’t Lexie Leon was really looking at.

It was Kimora.

She stood by a table, drink in hand, head tossed back in laughter at some guy she talked to. Her curls bounced with every breath, her hips swayed lazy and loose like the music was something her body understood better than words. The blue lighting kissed her skin, gave it a glow. And the way she moved—unguarded, carefree—made her look like someone else entirely. Not the girl Franklin remembered in his kitchen. But he still recognized her.

Even before she saw him.

His jaw tightened as he stared, a strange weight settling in his chest as he and Leon walked closer. Not jealousy. Not exactly. But something close.

“…Kimora?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the bass just enough.

She turned.

And blinked.

“Franklin!”

A grin broke wide across her face. Her eyes, glassy from liquor and surprise, lit up as she stumbled forward without hesitation. Her heels clicked fast against the floor until she landed in his arms.

“What are you doin’ here?” She asked, her voice slurred just slightly, full of joy.

Franklin caught her easily, his hands firm on her waist to steady her. For a second, neither of them moved. Her body was soft, warm against his. The scent of her perfume drifted up, sweet and expensive. And she was looking at him like nothing else in the room mattered.

“I could ask you the same.” He murmured.

Kimora pulled back just enough to see his face. “Lexie said we should come, remember? This is the spot I was talking about. This dude from the mall told us to say his name at the door. Leon.”

She gestured vaguely in Leon’s direction, still beaming.

Franklin glanced past her, catching Lexie near the bar. She’d clocked the whole thing and was already sipping her drink as Leon eased his way over to her.

Kimora looked up at him again, and something shifted in her face—just a flicker. A moment of clarity. Of awareness settling in, like the haze of the night was starting to lift. The club thumped behind them, neon lights washing the place in flashes of pink and red, but Franklin and Kimora stood still—caught in a silence the music couldn’t touch.

The beat of Aaliyah’s “Back & Forth” rippled through the open doors, a low, seductive pulse that vibrated in the air. But Franklin barely registered the sound. His focus was on Kimora, her voice a little slurred, a little soft—still touched by whatever she’d been sipping on inside.

“You didn’t answer me.” She said, head tilted, lips glossed and parted slightly. “What you doin’ here?”

Franklin didn’t rush to answer. His voice came quiet, steady. “Just checkin’ on some business.” He said, tilting his head down some so she could hear him over the speakers.

He cast a quick glance toward Leon, who was conveniently turned away, playing dumb as he whispered something in Lexie’s ear. Franklin’s eyes returned to Kimora, and his gaze traced her—how the thin straps of her black dress seemed to slip off her shoulder, how her curls framed her face like they’d been made to do it. There was something a little unraveled about her at this moment, opposite of her normal demeanor. A little reckless. A little magnetic. It didn’t line up with the girl-next-door image he’d filed away. But he didn’t hate it.

He didn’t shy away from it.

“…Didn’t think I’d see you here.” He said finally.

Kimora leaned in just enough to sway, a half-drunken smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, well. I didn’t think I’d see you either. Doesn’t seem like you vibe.” Her words teased, but there was a thread of curiosity underneath—like she wanted to know if she was wrong.

Franklin didn’t back up. Didn’t touch her either. He just held her gaze—still, unreadable.

“You here with… Lucia or something?” She asked next. Tried to toss the question out casually, but her voice dipped on the name. Like it tasted strange in her mouth. Like she didn’t want to say fiancée out loud.

Franklin didn’t flinch. “Nah. I came solo.”He said it smooth, not giving much away. “But that’s my boy Leon over there.” He added, nodding toward the man still wrapped up in Lexie’s laugh.

Kimora turned to glance, squinting slightly like the scene in front of her was funny in a way she couldn’t quite explain. “Oh, you know Leon? What?” He questioned before looking back over at him. “How crazy is that? Him and Lexie?” She blinked slow, a grin tugging at her lips.

Franklin let out a quiet, amused breath. “Yeah, I’ve known Leon a long time. That ain’t even the wildest thing I’ve seen him caught up in.”

Kimora raised a brow. “You saying Lexie’s trouble?” She asked, ceasing her arms as she looked up at him.

Her body swayed slightly, and Franklin reached out without thinking, placing a hand on her arm. Light. Steady. Just enough to keep her balanced.

She looked down at his hand, then back up, eyes searching.

He didn’t move it right away.

“Nah,” Franklin said. “Not trouble. She’s just sharp. Got teeth, you know what I mean?”

“Mm.” Kimora hummed as a reply.

He didn’t smile. Just met her gaze with the same even stillness. Whatever was between them wasn’t flirtation. Not exactly. It was quieter. More dangerous.

The beat from the club shifted behind them, rising, and a group of girls brushed past in a blur of perfume and laughter. But Franklin and Kimora stayed locked in their own space—unbothered by the noise, untouched by the crowd.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” She asked after a moment. Her voice was softer now. Less play. More curiosity.

“Say what’s necessary.” He replied.

“Necessary for what?”

Franklin didn’t answer right away. Just breathed out through his nose.

“Keepin’ things simple.” He said, tilting his head at her. Kimora copied him, tilting her head like she heard something between the words. She didn’t smile either. Just looked at him with something steadier. Something that saw through.

Her perfume lingered in the space between them. Warm. Sweet.

And close.

Franklin shifted slightly, eyes flicking toward the door, then back to her. “You got someone makin’ sure you get home alright?” He asked, his eyes darting across her obviously tipsy form.

“Lexie drove.” She said. “So I should be good.”

He nodded at that.

“Appreciate you askin’, though.” Kimora said softly, her eyes darting between his as she looked up at him.

Again, he nodded—barely a movement. No smile. No line. Just a weight in his expression that said more than his mouth ever would.

“Well…” Kimora said, stepping back, her shoulder brushing past his arm just enough to make him notice. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Wouldn’t wanna hold you up.”

She moved past him, heels tapping against the pavement. Not hurried. Not slow. Just sure.

Franklin didn’t watch her go. He stared ahead, jaw set, the pulse of the music swallowing him again.

He’d come to handle business. But now, business wasn’t the only thing on his mind. Not even close.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The hours blurred after that. Candy Paint got hazier—louder. The lights dimmed further, strobes slicing across the dance floor while the DJ spun from Janet to Biggie to SWV. Kimora stayed near Lexie, nursing a watered-down cocktail and laughing a little louder than usual. But every so often, her eyes flicked across the room, catching a glimpse of Franklin posted near the edge of it all, cool and unreadable like always.

He didn’t dance. Didn’t mingle. Just talked low with Leon every now and then, eyes always scanning—like his mind never quite sat still. But once or twice, she caught him looking back at her. And each time, he looked away first.

Around 1:30, the club began to thin. Bodies spilled out onto the sidewalk—some still laughing, others arguing, someone throwing up in the alley beside the club. Leon and Lexie were already gone by then, slipping out with their arms around each other, leaving Kimora behind at the bar with a half-empty drink and tired eyes. And slightly pissed since the girl was supposed to be her ride, even though she wasn’t supposed to be getting as tipsy as she was tonight. But and blamed all that on the man she couldn’t get out of her head.

She pushed the glass aside and grabbed her little bag off the stool. Her heels pinched now. Her curls frizzed at the edges from all the sweat and humidity in the room. She didn’t feel as pretty as she had walking in.

Still, she stepped out into the night.

The air hit sharp—cool and damp with the city’s leftover heat. She paused outside the club, one arm crossed over her body as she rubbed her own shoulder. A part of her was wondering whether she should call a cab. Another part was just catching her breath.

She didn’t hear him at first.

“You good?”

His voice came soft, low—cutting through the chill. She turned slightly, surprised. Franklin stood a few feet away, hands deep in his coat pockets, eyes steady. Like he’d been waiting. Or maybe like he’d just never left.

Kimora nodded. “Yeah. I’m good.” She mumbled.

Franklin nodded before he took a step closer. Not much. Just enough for his voice to land quieter. “You waitin’ on Lexie?” He asked

She shook her head, curls brushing her cheek. “She left with your boy.” She scoffed softly.

He didn’t seem surprised that and just gave a short nod.

“Need a ride?”

The pause that followed wasn’t about distance—it was about all the things wrapped in that offer. Kimora didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him for a long second, unsure of what she saw. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

Franklin didn’t rush to respond. The streetlight above them flickered, casting a dim halo that outlined the space between them like a line neither was sure they should cross. He studied her.

“Why not?” He asked with a small shrug. “I did let you into my house and all. Just bein’ neighborly.” He said, and Kimoraa small, dry laugh, not unkind, just tired. “You’re a lot of things, Franklin. And though you are kind, I’m not too sure ‘neighborly’ is one of those things to make the list.” She chuckled.

His jaw ticked, something unreadable passing across his face as he tried to hold back his own amusement.

“It’s still an option.” He said, like that was all it needed to be.

Her hand clutched tighter at her purse as she gulped. “Don’t you have someone waitin’ on you?” She didn’t know why she said that, even though she had the urge, she couldn’t help but blame it on the alcohol she still felt in her system. She said it so softly. There was no sort of accusation laced within it, no heat. Just a question hung loose in the night.

Franklin didn’t blink.

“That can wait.” He stated, not taking his eyes off her.

Somewhere down the block, a car horn blared. A group of girls stumbled past, laughing too loudly, voices echoing down the emptying street. Life kept going around them, but not either of them budged. Kimora felt that moment land between them like a held breath.

She looked away first this time, eyes down the sidewalk. She didn’t move at first.

She stood on the sidewalk, one hand curled around the strap of her purse, the other tucking into the crook of her elbow like she could hold herself together.

Franklin stood a few feet away, hands tucked into his coat pockets, eyes shadowed beneath his brow. He hadn’t said much, hadn’t moved either. Just waited.

The space between them buzzed—something low, heavy, full of the things that shouldn’t be spoken.

Then, without a word, Kimora stepped forward.

Her heels tapped softly against the pavement as she followed him to the curb where a black ‘95 Chevrolet Corvette sat parked clean and quiet. He opened the passenger door for her like it was nothing, like it wasn’t 2 a.m. and she wasn’t someone he wasn’t supposed to be this close to.

But she slid in.

The leather was warm. The door shut with a muffled click. Franklin got in on his side and took a moment adjusting the mirrors, even though they were fine. His movements were slow, precise. A stalling tactic.

The silence settled thick between them.

Kimora glanced at him, the corner of her mouth twitching. “You always this quiet?” She asked, voice low, more curious than annoyed.

Franklin started the engine, eyes straight ahead. “Sometimes quiet’s safer.” He mumbled, and that statement seemed to have a double meaning as they let it sit in the air.

She didn’t argue. Just turned her gaze out the window as the car pulled away from the curb, the glowing sign of Candy Paint shrinking behind them into the night. Inside the corvette , it smelled faintly of leather and expensive cologne, the kind that lingered—warm, masculine, subtle. The dash lights glowed against Franklin’s profile as he drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose in his lap.

The car ride was quiet.

Not awkward—just full. Like there were too many words sitting in the space between them, none of them quite ready to be said. The night outside drifted by in slow motion—dim storefronts, the occasional blinking streetlight, flashes of gold washing across Kimora’s face before retreating back into shadow.

She sat still, composed, her posture deliberate. One leg crossed over the other, her purse tucked tightly in her lap like it might anchor her to the seat. Her curls had started to frizz from the heat of the club, and her lip gloss had all but faded—but somehow, in the dim glow of the streetlights, she looked more herself than she had all night. More real. Like the shine had peeled back just enough to let something truer breathe.

Franklin glanced over, just a flick of his eyes, careful not to linger.

“You alright?” He asked, voice low but tainted with an ounce of worry.

“Yeah.” She said after a pause. “Just… head’s loud, that’s all.” She mumbled. And she didn’t explain further, didn’t have to. The echoes of the club—its bass still thudding somewhere deep in her chest—weren’t the only thing rattling around in her mind.

Franklin gave a small nod, like he understood. He knew what that was like.

The streets out were different this time of day. Calmer. No sirens screaming past. No cars bouncing basslines off the sidewalk. Just the soft hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of wind against the windows.

“You didn’t have to drive me.” She said after a while, her voice quieter now, and when Franklin glanced over at her, she seemed to be sobering up. He blinked before his eyes moved back to the road. “Didn’t feel right lettin’ you call some random car. Not this late. It the least I could do with Lexie going off with my boy Leon.”

She turned her face toward the window then, like she didn’t quite know how to hold that kind of care in her hands. Like it was something fragile and unfamiliar.

“People will talk if they see me gettin’ outta your car this time of night.” She said after another mount of silence between them, letting the heavy truth slip from her lips in a tipsy haze she was still feeling.

Franklin’s jaw ticked, just slightly at that. But when he spoke, his voice stayed level. “Then they talk.” He said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Don’t mean it’s true.” He said, not even looking her way.

“They don’t care what’s true.” She murmured.

And that sat heavy in the air between them. Long enough for both of them to feel it settle into their bones.

Franklin then pulled up to the curb in front of her home. The street was dead quiet, like it was holding its breath. A single porch light flickered two doors down, the bulb threatening to give out at any moment.

He shifted the car into park but didn’t kill the engine. Let it idle there, soft and steady. His hand tightened around the wheel, thumb tapping once before going still again.

Kimora didn’t move. Didn’t reach for the door.

She just sat there, the hum of the engine filling the silence where neither of them seemed ready to say goodbye.

She then blinked slowly, the moment cracking just a little as she reached for the door. “Thanks for the ride.” She said, looking over and connecting eyes with his, his gaze already locked upon her.

He gave her a single nod, quiet. “Anytime.”

She stepped out, heels clicking against the pavement again. But before she shut it, she turned back.

“You have a good night, now,..Franklin.” She uttered softly. Franking blinked, subconsciously licking his lips as he darted at her. “You have a good night too, Kimora.” With a small smile to her, the door closed softly.

Her heels clicked quietly as she made her way up the walkway, a steady sound in the still air. Franklin watched her the whole way—not because the street was dangerous. Not because he didn’t trust the neighborhood, hell, he lived directly to her left.

But he watched because he didn’t trust the world not to twist whatever this was into something it wasn’t.

Or maybe, deep down, he wished it was something.

She got inside the home with ease, knowing her mother left it unlocked after discovering she wasn’t home. The place was dark and still. She didn’t bother turning on the lights. Just stood by the door, breathing.

Then, slowly, she walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside with two fingers.

Franklin’s car was still there. Engine humming low, headlights off. He hadn’t driven off yet for some reason. He was just sitting there. Still.

Kimora watched him, heart knocking gently against her ribs. She didn’t know what she wanted, and she knew she couldn’t blame what she was feeling on a drunken haze she was barely feeling anymore. She knew it was all an excuse to express something she desired for a while but felt shame to admit.

After another moment, the car eased away from the curb, disappearing into the garage of his own home next door. So she let the curtain fall.

In the bathroom, she stripped off the night slowly—unzipping the dress, peeling off the heels, wiping off her makeup in slow circles. But nothing she did could scrub away the sensation that still clung to her skin. That feeling of him in the air. Of his body against her when they made contact. Of the things they didn’t say but could feel below the surface, things that held other meanings.

She crawled into bed in just a tee, pulled the covers up, and stared at the ceiling.

Next door, Franklin sat still in the car for a moment longer, the engine finally cut. The silence inside was louder than anything else. He didn’t move right away—just rested his head back against the seat, eyes closed, like maybe he could stop the thoughts if he stayed still long enough.

Eventually, he made his way inside.

The house was quiet, lights dim, everything exactly how he left it. He peeled off the night piece by piece—kicked off his sneakers by the door, shed his dress shirt and tossed it in the hamper, ran cold water over his hands like it might wash away the heat still sitting in his palms. He walked down the hall, passing Lucia’s room and glancing in to see the room empty.

His room was across the hall, drenched in a low light and a figure protein from the mattress. He let out a small sigh before he pulled on a pair of sweats and climbed into bed. No music. No TV. Just the creak of the mattress and the steady whir of the fan overhead.

He laid there, staring at the ceiling while Lucia slept. Too aware of how close she was, but not the woman next to him.

She was further away, but not far at all. Mere feet.

And still—it wasn’t close enough.

@notapradagurl7 @onlyrealjoy @frank1nsaint @kindofaintrovert @glassmermaids @ohshesamonet @sweaterblog @orchidwonder @b-m-scott @imsohappyilovekbop @thisaintnai @theghostbusterbitch @capricornrizingheaux @wonderlustwrites @jazziejax @blkandchic @jazzieinthefuture @lotuswritesworld @daelynnnn @kinkymami @vile-harlot @honeipot @niahxo @vampwns @hxneyclouds @borednblk @angel-bx @aldallure @susanhill @dariequeen @333symone @aphroditesdaughter222 @dolldial @earth2niyah @fairy-cores-world

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notapradagurl7 · 8 hours ago

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𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐮𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Damson Idris x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - He finds out, and everything shifts

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Mentions of past absence, emotional tension, infidelity, drinking, mild language, angst to softness

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - I saw this TikTok of a super adorable baby and he looked like he could literally be Damson Idris’s son so I wrote this…might not be a full me tho fic but I will be writing blurbs about them.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭- 2,770+

𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆

Thanksgiving Weekend, Los Angeles – 2024

The November air had that soft bite that only showed up once a year in LA — cool enough for long sleeves, warm enough to eat outside.

Keith’s house smelled like cinnamon and butter. The kind of scent that hugged you at the door. Music played low through the speakers — a “Black Folksgiving” playlist looping artists from Stevie Wonder to Ari Lennox, Frankie Beverly and the likes with no skips.

Sade, who only lived a few houses down, was running late — not unusual — but Keith knew she’d show up with a fresh bunt cake and something sarcastic to say. She always did. A woman on routine. Though she had changed a lot in the past year, due to reasons he knew were obvious but never pointed out. She was still quick with a joke, still sarcastic as hell, but something had softened around the edges. Her heart was a little less cold. She was still Sade, but more rooted now.

The baby had done that.

Her son, Zion, was everything. To her, to him, to their family, but most importantly and most definitely to her. Keith wasn’t just the cool uncle — he was the emergency contact, the godfather, the “you better tell him I said no” backup. He and Sade were like family, so that made him family. Not by blood, but by a bond that was so solid, Keith could’ve sworn the boy was starting to look like him.

And though their family and dynamic were a little unconventional, they made it work like some nuclear arrangement. Seemed to be the cute, Black American dream if you were just looking at them with no insight to who there were.

But things then got unexpectedly tricky then Damson had called out of nowhere last yesterday — said he was going to be back in town for a bit, no press, no cameras, just trying to reconnect — Keith figured this Friendsgiving was the perfect time.

A little reunion. No pressure.

Expect that Damson didn’t know about the baby. Well, not many people did. The only people Sade told, were the people closest to her. Her mother, Keith, and her best friend, Tati. Sade’s just really secretive and private as hell. Even people close to her didn’t know until the baby was already crawling. She didn’t want anyone to know, because by the story she told them, the father wasn’t in the picture and she didn’t want the pity of being a single mother when she could’ve just gotten rid of the baby if she wanted to. She wanted the baby, she just didn’t want the questions from everyone else.

Keith never told anyone — not out of malice, but because it just never came up. And Damson had been gone and out the loop for a minute now. So him showing up at his door was a nice shock.

The knock on the door was easy, very polite.

Keith wasn’t expecting anyone new. Everyone was either in the house or on their way. Tati had just texted a “ten minutes out” and Sade said she was waiting on her mother to come her house to watch Zion. Ryan was somewhere in the kitchen being effortlessly fine, already side-eying everyone’s macaroni with a sharp tongue and a subtle smirk.

So when Keith opened the door and saw Damson standing there with his hands in his coat pockets, a fresh cut, and that trademark lopsided grin — his first instinct was to laugh.

“You were serious?” Keith said, squinting like the sight might dissolve. “You really pulled up?”

Damson grinned wider, stepping into the cinnamon-and-butter air. “Aye, if I was going to celebrate the holiday in the states, there was one place I knew to go.” He grinned.

“Yeah well, welcome to the crib.” Keith said, daapping his boy up. “You know if I told anyone you was coming, half the city would’ve shown up. The other half would’ve FaceTimed Lori.”

Damson smirked. “Man, stop. We’re not doing that today.” He grumbled, casing Keith to let out an amused laugh. He then waved a hand, already turning back toward the living room, where Algee, Martin, and Brett were posted up near the drink table, arguing over whether or not cranberry sauce should even exist.

When Damson walked in, the room shifted like it always did when someone famous-famous entered. Not because anyone was surprised, but because Damson just had that type of presence. Like he walked in wearing whatever invisible crown people imagined he had.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Martin said, grinning.

“Yeah, man, we thought you were still in London.” Brett called from across the room.

“I had to come celebrate while I was here.” He grinned as he called up his fellow London brethren. “See what the hype was about.”

“Oh, you’ll see for sure.” Martine grinned, already accustomed to the American holiday with great food.

Damson gave out handshakes, hugs, and that smooth charm he kept holstered like a weapon. And while he did that, Keith accounted his girlfriend in the kitchen, who looked over all the food while he was away.

“I know this isn’t everyone.” Damson said, following behind the man and looking at the food laid out around the kitchen island.

“Oh, no, not at all. Tati is sliding through in bit and Sade still getting ready or something like that.” He shrugged. And speaking of his best friend as he stood over the food reminded him of something. “I actually got a quick favor to ask.” He said suddenly, piquing the other man’s attention. “Before she gets here.”

“Who?” Damson asked.

“Sade,” Keith said, already halfway out the door. “Forgot to grab sugar this morning. She’s right down the street. You mind grabbing some?”

Damson blinked. “You’re sending me to borrow sugar?”

“Yeah, it’s an American thing, keep up.” He said, causing the other man to scoff. “You sound just like her.” He mumbled, referring to the woman they were currently speaking about. Neither grinned was he waved him off a bit before continuing. “C’mon man, it’s for the milkshakes. It’s our tradition!” Keith said with a grin. “Plus, you get to see her face when she realizes it’s you.”

Damson chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. Lemme grab my jacket.”

“Don’t need it. It’s L.A. cold, not London cold.”

Keith handed him a mug of something spiked, pointed down the sidewalk, and said, “Blue house with the wisteria. Go knock.”

“Aight, I’ll be back.” Damson said before walking out of the front door, earlier than he originally anticipated.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

And inside dark blue house with the haint blue door, a frantic woman ran around with a giggling weight on her hip and a phone held between her shoulder and her ear. “Yo, before you come over, can you do me a quick favor?” Keith’s voice asked the woman through the phone speaker. “I ran outta sugar and I know your sweet tooth-having ass has some. Slide me a lil cup? I’ll owe you.”

Sade responded with a sarcastic laugh as he rolled her eyes. “You better have wine waiting.” She demanded more than asked.

“You know I do.” He said, and she could practically see that stupid grin she knew he wore. She then scoffed softly. “Yeah whatever. Get off my phone boy.” She said, and didn’t even give him time before she hung up in his face.

Sade was in her kitchen with Zion propped on her hip, babbling at a plush giraffe with one chewed-up ear. She had one hand on the baby, the other balancing a half-covered sweet potato pie as she moved around her place — barefoot, overalls on and her curls pulled into a wild bun with a silk scarf wrapped around the base.

“Now where are my glasses?” The woman mumbled as she moved around her home, squinting to see better in the permanent blur that covered her retinas. After a few more minutes of moving a looking, she finally stopped in the living room, letting out a sigh as she adjusted the baby in her hip. “You are getting heavy, puddin’.” She said, looking down at the boy. The deep skinned baby just looked up at her, silent as always before a grin spread across his face as he made eye contact with his mama. Sade couldn’t help but smiling back at him, his face filling her with pure joy. “Oh, my handsome baby!” She gushed in an exaggerated tone, moving forward rubbing her nose against his

In doing so, the glasses she’d spent what felt like forever looking for, fell down from her head and onto her nose. “Uh.” She said in surprise, and if Zion could talk, he would’ve done the same as the mother and son blinked at the glasses in sunrise. “Well would you look at that.” Sade mumbled to herself. She then let out a sigh before she sat herself on the couch. It was silent for a minute, Zion still playing with his stuffed animal while Sade looked at him. The she remembered.

“What am I supped to be doing?” She asked herself. She looked around for a bit before catching sight of the pie she sat on the table. “Oh, Keith’s!” She said, moving to stand up with the small boy on her hip again.

She didn’t hear the knock right away.

Zion did, though. His head perked up, that goofy little smile falling from his face as he turned curious at to who was at their home.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear it,” Sade muttered, shifting him to the other hip as she padded toward the door.

She didn’t look through the peephole. Should’ve.

She opened the door with a “Keith, I swear if you don’t start grocery shopping like an adult—”

And froze.

The man on the other side was not Keith.

Tall, clean-cut, dark skin catching the sun just right. Dressed in all black, with that signature and slight slouch to his shoulders and softly downturned eyes that somehow looked older than the last time she saw them.

Damson.

Sade’s lips parted but no sound came out.

And Zion, similarly to his mother, stared at the stranger on the porch, grabbing at the edge of his mother’s overall buttons.

Damson stared at her for half a second.

Then at the baby.

Then back at her.

“…I’m not Keith,” He said, and though his tone was flat, he held a small smirk on his lips, more so out of shock, through Sade could see the question running through his mind.

Sade’s throat tightened. “I—Damson.” Was all she could say as she started at the man.

“Whose baby is that?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hand instinctively pulled Zion a little closer, her body blocking most of him from view — like that would change what was already spinning out. “Uh..Damson.” She begun, blinking as her eyes flickered all over the man, just trying to make sure he was actually before her, on her porch. “Damson.” She said again, her mind not quite piecing together a coherent sentence just yet.

Damson’s eyes didn’t leave her face. But she could see it — the storm brewing behind them. A thousand thoughts he wasn’t saying.

“Keith sent you here?” She finally asked, quietly as she adjusted the weight of her son, that now felt ten times heavier as she stood before a man she never seemed to know how to talk to.

“Yeah.” Damson nodded. “Yeah, he said something about the sugar. I’m sorry, this may seem weird, but are you babysitting?” He asked, tilting his head at her, brows furrowed as his eyes junked between her and the baby that laid his head on the woman shoulder.

Sade paused again. Her mouth gaping as she tried to form an answer for the man. “Uh..no.” She said. “No, I’m not babysitting. Damson…this is my son, Zion.” She said.

And that bomb didn’t quite go off how she expected it to. She wasn’t even sure if it detonated.

Damson just started at her.

“You have a baby?” He asked, and his tone was eerily calm. And his heavy blinks didn’t help.

“Yeah.” Sade said. And it was silent for a long time, the pair just staring at one another.

“Let me go get you that sugar.” Sade suddenly spoke up, and even with the weight of another human, though small, in her arms, she was quick on her feet and was in her kitchen in no time. She moved with ease and precision as she walked over to her pantry and grabbed the small bag of sugar that just so happens to the rest she got from Keith two weeks ago.

Damson trialed into her home not far after she walked away, silent as ever as he subconsciously followed after the woman.

Sade turned around and jumped a bit, seeing the man standing near the kitchen interface now, his face still blank but his eyes as curious and questioned as ever. She quickly fixed herself and sat the bag down in the counter, avoiding the man’s eyes. “Here’s the sugar. If he needs some more, I have some.” She said with a small and nervous smile.”

“Sade.”

Um, tell Keith I’m gonna be a little late because I waiting on my mom-.”

“Sade.”

“She’s gonna watch him—.”

“Sade!” Damson shouted to get the woman to stop taking. His tone caused both the woman and the baby to jump, their eyes snapping up at him, the lights glinting off three deep brown orbs. His heart clenched at the sight at the startled pair, but that unexpected feeling wasn’t his main priority

“Don’t yell.” Sade stated softly. And Damson nodded once, staring at her. He then let out a short sigh. “Sade.” He repeated, hoping to get some sort of clarity or answer out of the woman.

“Damson…” She started, but it came out more like a breath than a word, feeling the conversation easing into one she’d been dreading for ages. She blinked, feeling the back of her eyes beginning to sting as she started at the man. Damson opened his mouth, his gazed locked in her as he tried to collect his thoughts. “You…you have a baby?” He asked breathily, taking a step closer.

Sade blinked back tears, nodding her heard as she looked up at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me this?…How old is he?” He asked. And his voice didn’t carry any anger. Or anything for that matter. It was just hollow, but his eyes were filled with so may emotions, they both felt that they would begin to overflow.

Sade looked down at Zion, who blinked up at them both like nothing was wrong in the world, gripping onto his giraffe stuffy.

She lifted her chin, jaw tight.

“He turns one in January.” She said softly. And there knew that that had to be the straw that broke the caramels back.

Silence.

No birds. No music. Just the weight of a moment too big to ignore.

Damson didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He just stood there, his eyes flickering with something too complicated to name. Anger? Hurt? Confusion?

“Is he…” He trialed off, only unlocking his eyes from her, to look down at the baby in her arms, that looked up at him at the sound of his voice. Sade visibly gulped, avoiding glancing at Damson as she looked down at her son, licking her lips before she nodded her head hesitantly. Damson could feel his heart drop at the subtle movement while the woman sniffed. He blinked, letting out an airy, humorless chortle, caught in complete disbelief. “You weren’t even gonna tell me?” He asked, voice still low.

“I didn’t know how,” Sade admitted, looking back up at him as her voice cracked for the first time. “I didn’t even know if you remembered that night.”

His eyes narrowed. “Of course I remembered.” He said firmly, his eyes beginning to water as he looked down at her. She looked away again.

“I thought maybe you didn’t. You were drunk. We both were. I left before you woke up and… after that, I didn’t know what to say. And when I found out, it felt too big. Like if I told you, I’d ruin your whole life. I didn’t want to do that to you, you were with Lori.” She let out a dry laugh. “I wasn’t even sure you’d believe me.”

“I believe you now.” He muttered, staring at the boy in her arms.

Zion yawned, his little head dropping against Sade’s shoulder.

For a moment, Damson looked like he might step back. Like he might turn around and walk away.

But then, something in him shifted.

He took a step forward.

“Can I hold him?”

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notapradagurl7 · 11 hours ago

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I want to see them in a romantic comedy, and more movies together 😩🤎

that's literally his baby

#sinners #michael b jordan #wunmi mosaku #more black romance movies

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notapradagurl7 · 11 hours ago

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notapradagurl7 · 11 hours ago

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Tems attends the 2025 Met Gala Celebrating "Superfine: Tailoring Black Style" at Metropolitan Museum of Art on May 05, 2025 in New York City. (Photo by Dia Dipasupil/Getty Images) if you want to support this blog consider donating to: ko-fi.com/fashionrunways

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notapradagurl7 · 11 hours ago

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notapradagurl7 · 11 hours ago

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notapradagurl7 · 11 hours ago

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Miss Me?

Black Fem! Reader x Elijah “Smoke” Moore.

Summary: After those years of hearing of his disappearance, your husband Elijah “Smoke” Moore had finally returned home, and you weren't up for a warm welcome. But he wanted to speak with you, and remind you that you're still his. Only his.

A/N: Here is something for our main man Smoke, 😩 enjoy!

Warnings: dirty talk, praise, possessive!Smoke, slight back talk, stubborn reader, fingering, cursing, unprotected sex, use of the n-word, established marriage, creampie, consensual intimacy, multiple orgasms, squirting.

Taglist: @megamindsecretlair @satoruya @planetblaque

@playgurlxoxo @dabratzchronicles

@becauseimswagman1

@beenathembo @brattyfics

@hxneyclouds @yassbishimvintage

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @nayaesworld @ovohanna24

@novahreign @writingsbytee @avoidthings @kimuzostar @slippinninque @keyera-jackson @theblacklewinsky

@euphorichappiness10 @life-in-the-slut-house @secret89sblog @ranikyani

@uniqueoutlierblog @mama-2001

@fakxmbj @kaylalb @theereina @uzumaki-rebellion @blyffe @kumkaniudaku @luckydaye777 @that-one-anxious-mango @rose-bliss @wanderingreader1 @kindofaintrovert

—————-

The rich aroma of marinara sauce mingled with a variety of seasonings and spices, enveloping the medium-sized kitchen, the walls painted in sage green and pictures of you, and Smoke.

Your deep brown eyes were fixed on the bubbling pots simmering on the stovetop, the vibrant colors of the food enticing your senses. With a gentle turn of the knob, you watched as the blue flames flickered and gradually faded to embers, silencing the hissing gas.

You moved with quickness, pulling out an array of containers, each one filled with fragrant foods. Scooping out generous portions, you layered your plate with creamy mashed potatoes, perfectly cooked spaghetti, and sautéed cabbage with sausage that glistened with a hint of olive oil.

A low rumble from your stomach reminded you to eat, prompting a sigh of relief as you finally took your first bite. The flavors danced joyfully across your tongue, eliciting a soft hum of delight as each taste unfolded, cleaning your plate, after sipping your glass of water to quench your thirst.

Suddenly, a sharp knock echoed through the air, cutting through the meal you finished and breaking your concentration. You wiped the remnants of food from your lips.

You let out a resigned sigh, reluctantly leaving your plate behind as you hurried to the front door. Peering through the window, your heart raced as the amber-orange glow of the porch light illuminated a familiar silhouette, casting a soft shadow that stirred curiosity and cautious within you.

Smoke or as you called him, Elijah. That was who stood at your door, a shadowy presence in the twilight. Also known as your husband.

He was the twin brother of Elias “Stack” Moore, a pair known for their ruthless dealings in Chicago and New Orleans, everywhere.

Together, they undertook the grim tasks laid out for them by the notorious Al Capone, their hands stained with the dirt, and blood of their illicit trade.

In a moment that felt both tender and fleeting, he had expressed a desire to marry you before he vanished into the chaos of the city.

His promises dripped with hope as he claimed he would return to you, that the day would come when you would once again find him wrapped in your arms.

But as the shadows deepened and trouble began to swirl around them like a whirlwind, each passing day drew you further away from that heartfelt vow, leaving you to wonder if he would ever return.

Your family warned you that marrying him was a grave mistake; they insisted that being with Smoke only invited trouble.

Yet, despite their concerns, your love for him and his love for you ran deep—deeper than you could articulate. Now that he was finally back home after those long years, everything felt different.

With a sigh of disappointment, you shook your head. “What the hell does this nigga want?”

You knew you'd regret this, at least a little. You were still his wife, and he was still your husband.

Turning the brass knob, you swung the door open. Your gaze fell upon the man in his gray suit, blue tie, and the hat he had removed. His brown eyes met yours, brimming with raw emotion—love, longing, and a hint of fear.

“So, you’re back?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, skepticism lacing your voice.

His expression softened momentarily before he composed himself, gripping his hat tightly. “Yeah, I’m home, back wit’chu. Just like I promised, baby,” he said, his tone laced with seriousness and tenderness, each word resonating with sincerity.

Elijah stepped into the house, and you quickly closed and locked the door behind him. The way he said “baby” sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a wave of desire within you. How could you feel this way at such a moment?

The scent of the meals you cooked filled his nostrils, his stomach rumbled as his tongue glided through his lip. “What’chu cookin’ tonight? My favorite?” he teased, smirking at you.

You should have been angry with him; he was at home, but he might have been driving for work, putting in long hours until his hands hurt and his body was exhausted. Smoke couldn't wait to return to you.

“You can always make yourself a plate, sweetie. Don't starve yourself.” You replied frimly, you walked through the hallways as he followed behind you.

You settled into the chair at the neatly set table, the crisp brown cloth contrasting with the rich, dark wood beneath. He began to fill the meal, carefully lifting the lid from a steaming porcelain dish and dishing out vibrant, aromatic food that filled the air with its savory aroma.

The utensils clinked softly against the plates as he prepared his serving, a sense of expectation hanging between you. You knew he loved your cooking, there was no need to speak about that.

Taking his seat across from you, he dug into the meal with a satisfied hum, savoring each bite and clearly relishing the flavors.

You watched him intently as he slipped off his shoes, the soft thud breaking the gentle ambiance, and unfastened his coat, draping it casually over the coat rack. “I love your cookin’ you know that?” he mentioned, his eyes on you.

Your lips curled up in a warm smile, your heart fluttered in your chest. “I know that, you tell me that shit every time I cook,”

He then moved to the counter sink, filling a glass with cool water, the sound of liquid pouring into the glass punctuating, and took a long, refreshing gulp.

His gaze wandered over you, lingering on the nightgown you wore—the delicate black fabric that clung to your figure in all the right places, a garment he adored.

The playful glint in his eyes suggested that the food was not the only captivating thing in the room, making it thick with undeniable attraction. He stood up from the table, made his way to the sink, washed his hands and his plate. Drying them off with a towel.

“Why did you come back? After all these years, couldn’t you have stayed with your brother?” You replied back, your brows knitted in anger.

“You gon’ kick me out? This is still my home. I bought this place for us, so we’d always have a home to return to, Y/N,” Smoke retorted, placing his empty plate in the sink.

You stood up from the table, walking toward your husband where the sink was, cutting the distance between the two of you. His gaze locked upon you, the closeness he missed so much was here, the intimacy beckoning for both of your calls.

He was right about that, ever since the two of you were teenagers, he vowed to do this, keep you happy and safe from the threats of his life, be with you.

He stepped closer to you, his clothes lingered with the scent of gun smoke, and his fresh cinnamon, eucalyptus cologne evaded your senses. Why don't you just speak up? Tell him.

“I…I never thought that you'd be back for good, all this time I prayed that you weren't dead, and you can't make up for those years taken from us, Elijah!” You yelled harshly, your voice broke with emotion.

His hands cradled your face, bringing you closer while your face softened at him, his thumbs swiped over your cheeks to wipe those tears away, and your hands laid on his clothed chest.

“You pushin’ me away cuz’ you think I'm gon’ leave you again? Nah, I'm a man of my word baby.” Smoke replied firmly, his voice filled with sincerity, grabbing your hand in his.

He placed your hand on his middle of his chest, feeling his heartbeat like a drum, he smiled at you before kissing your forehead and then lifting your chin, kissing your lips passionately before pulling away to look at you again.

“You feel that? My heart beats for you, keeps me alive, and strong. I ain't going nowhere, you hear me?” Smoke replied, wrapping his arms around you.

You chuckled lightly, shaking your head. “You a poet now, my love? I hear you but who did you get that from? Langston Hughes?”

“I'm tellin’ you what’s on my heart, darlin’ or do I need to show you?”

“Why don't you do that?”

Following that, the two of you retreated to the bedroom, clothes strewn across the floor, with soft moans mingling with slurred words as your face was buried in the pillow.

Smoke held your hips tight from behind, driving into you with a rapid yet forceful rhythm. Making sure that you felt every inch of his dick, all you could do was scream his name and you took it like a pro.

“You miss me, baby?” He groaned, his hand delivering a rough smack on your ass, watching your wetness coat his dick completely. The sheets shocked underneath, remnants of the passion he left behind.

“I-i..missed you..fuck!” You moaned loudly, eyelids closed shut nails while your hands balled up the blankets. Tears blurring your vision, you came undone quickly which made him darkly chuckle before kissing you.

He smirked at your face contorting in pleasure, your body shaking against his as sweat covered your bodies, he peppered kisses along your spine, “Good, cuz’ I missed you more, and I told you I'm stayin’ right?” Smoke grunted after every thrust after pulling out.

He wrapping his arm around you and flipped you on your back, sliding his dick back inside you. You shudder at the warm feeling, it felt so right. With him. “Y-yes, I..I need you, Elijah. Only you,” you gasped, your words a desperate plea that only fueled his intensity.

His eyes darkened with desire as he leaned closer, his lips peppered kisses on yours. Wet noises of your pussy swallowing his dick, the bed creaked. “Sounds like your pussy ain't forget about me,” he said to you, his voice deepened. He released low groans, “Eiljahhhh..shit!” you lamented, clawing at his shoulder blades. he missed you so much that words couldn't even explain.

“That’s what I like to hear, baby. You’re mine, and you know just how much you mean to me,” he murmured, his thrusts became sporadic and deliberate. Flipping you onto missionary.

Smoke’s hands roamed your body, his nails dug deep every curve as if he were tracing the stretch marks on your dark brown skin. “My beautiful wife, where would I be?” he said, His fingers tangled in your braids, pulling you closer as he thrust deeper, hitting that sweet spot.

“Elijah! Please—more,” you cried, your back arching as waves of pleasure coursed through you. You could feel his heartbeat matching the rhythm of your own, tiny cries from you spurred him on.

He chuckled darkly, his thrusts becoming more relentless, pushing you to the edge. “You think you can handle it? You’re not too sore for me, are you?” he taunted, his voice thick with lust.

“No, I can take it! I want it all, Elijah!” you whimpered, feeling yourself teetering on your climax.

“Damn right you can,” he growled, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you in place as he drove into you. Your knees buckling in response.

With each crazy thrust, he punctuated his claim, and you felt your body responding, tightening around him, begging for release. “Elijah…I’m gonna cum,” you breathed, your voice breaking. Your legs rested onto his shoulders.

“Can I give you some twins, baby?” he coaxed, his lips finding yours again, swallowing your moans as you succumbed to the overwhelming pleasure.

“Yes…baby,” You cried out his name, your body shaking as you came undone once more, Smoke followed closely behind, his warm cum spilling deep within you, giving you the twins he asked for.

Breathing heavily, he pulled out and collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms. His hands stroked your face, “You good?” he asked, and you felt the warmth radiating from him, “Yeah…I’m good…” a comfort you had longed for during his absence.

“I missed you so damn much,” he confessed, his voice softening as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re here now, baby. And that's what matters most.”

—————-

#black!reader #black fanfiction #sinners fic #smoke sinners #elijah smokes x black!oc #smoke x reader #sinners 2025 #notapradagurl7 #michealbjordan #michaelbaejordan #michael b jordan smut #black writer

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notapradagurl7 · 13 hours ago

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Reblog if you've ever cried over the death of a fictional character

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notapradagurl7 · 16 hours ago

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notapradagurl7 · 2 days ago

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FYT (Stack.M x R)

Summary: “I might end up with us kissing, touching, fuckin’…girl ya body’s callin’ for me, I’m fucking you tonight.”

Contains: my extremely poor self control, everyone has a country accent, this is still for the _ strictly for the _, cursing, smut, kissing, oral (fem receiving), he’s not a vampire but he’s STILL a munch, his di��k is big and fat because cmon look at this man, nasty kissing seriously, unprotected s£x, fingering, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, rough s£x, I’m talm bout innnitttt, choking, one spank, petnames, begging, nippIe sucking, biting, u got that WAP fr, it’s cool bc Stack ain’t scared of drowning, he’s also a pvssy bully, smoke got jokes apparently😒and anything else I know I’m forgetting 🙂🤷🏽‍♀️

A/n- this is long so good luck🤝🏽🫶🏽 @childishgambinaax @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @twistedsistas-stuff @ayeeeitsmiracle @browngirldominion

⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢ ﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉୨♡୧﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉୨♡୧﹉﹉﹉﹉

The room was silent.

Nothing besides the sound of your breathing and the muffled music from downstairs but the air buzzed with an electric kind of tension, thick and dangerous.

“Last chance baby, you wanna tell me what was that earlier?”

Your heart skips a beat as you feel yourself grow even more restless. The fact that he was giving you an easy way out already tipped you off that you were about to get put through your paces and that was fine because you didn’t want it easy, you wanted it hard. And in order to guarantee that…

“Not unless you wanna admit that yo’ ears was working just fine and that you don’t really need me to tell you a damn thing, then nah. I’m good.” You snark as you tilt your chin up and it actually does get dead quiet. Stack squints, furrowing his eyebrows while blinking because it’s no way he heard you correctly…except he did.

There’s a click of teeth and before you can brace yourself or open your mouth to sass him some more- you’re flat on your back with your heart in your neck and a big hand locked around your throat getting tighter by the second.

It doesn’t paint you in the best light as a lady, especially not one who’s supposed to be respectable the way you soak through your panties, hips twitching upwards and your dress pooling around your hips from because of the man standing between your thighs looking down at your everything as you whine- shamelessly. Stack watches the way your eyes flutter, mouth dropping open as you gasp. Partially because of the lack of oxygen and also because of the arousal burning though your body.

His grip is tight.

Tight enough to make you lightheaded but he knows you wouldn’t have it any other way; so wet he can taste you in the air and he smiles at how your mouth wasn’t the only thing slick about you. The sight of gold adorning his canines almost make you pass out. Shuffling your hips back a bit, you go to hump up against the fat swell in the front of his slacks and surprisingly, not only does Stack let you- he meets you. Grinding down heavily against your cunt, bending over to suck wetly at your mouth and you’re in heaven.

Bringing a hand to his belt, you pull softly at the leather and instead of taking it off, he pulls away, cooing in mock sympathy at the needy frustration on your face.

“You want it, sweet thing?”

Instinctively, you almost close your eyes because it’s bait and you know it is. It always is when he gets to talkin’ to you like that- low and indulgent. Still,

“Mhm”, you swallow; breathing somewhat clearer with Stack’s hand loosened, “I-I want it-”,

“Tough, ‘cause you can’t have it.”

Your blood is boiling underneath your skin from how bad you need him and pissed off tears begin to bud in your eyes as you glare up at him with all the heat in hell itself but his grin stays in place. Moving his hands on either side of your head as he starts moving against your core, hitting your button with every filthy grind and you moan weakly.

“Why n-”,

“Because I’m in charge and you ain’t ask nicely enough for my tastes.” He purrs against your collarbone before licking a hot wet stripe up your throat to suck nasty bruises under that spot beneath your ear that makes you keen. Large hands grope all over your body, settling on the low cut of your dress and Stack slots his mouth over yours again, tongue filling your mouth and you’re rutting against him just as hard while sucking on the muscle in pleasure. Before you can stop yourself, you run your nails down the nape of his neck. Bad(good) move.

All of the sudden, there’s a loud rip. Stack yanks away from your lips to look at the torn top of your dress. Was it expensive? Yes. Did you care? No. He swears before taking one of the swollen buds into his mouth and you gasp, drawing your eyebrows together in bliss- head spinning. Yet before you can loose yourself, Stack rolls the bud between his teeth and bites.

Pain blooms through your chest instantly making you choke, Stack tugging it before he lets go, letting the swell bounce back into place. The sting lingers something real fierce though and before you can bitch at him for it, he laves his firm tongue thickly over it, soothing the tenderness and you shudder.

Unfortunately for you, it’s only the start of the cycle as he gives your other nipple the same treatment. Sucking, biting to the point of pain, then heavy licking. It hurt but it was also good. So good that the thrumming pain in your nipples paired with the delicious waves of pleasure in your rutting core has you coming hard.

Stack doesn’t take his eyes off you.

No, he loves to see the way your pretty face forms into a pout and your swollen lips form that sexy O as you gasp and cry for him, smooth skin and licked raw nipples. Biting his lip, he watches dazed as you writhe in ecstasy, panting when you start to come down.

You’re dizzy and sweaty but you’ve never felt better still you need more. When try you catch your breath, you end up swallowing it when Stack begins to undo his vest and shirt with one hand and sliding your cum slick panties off then pocketing them with the other. You get to drink in the hard lines of muscle before he drops to his knees, pushing your dress up all the way n pressing a fat wet kiss to your clit before sucking it into his greedy mouth and you hear colors.

He’s got you sobbing in under a minute because normally when you cum, he’s kind enough to give you a couple minutes.

You really should have taken him up on taking the easy way out.

Nestling himself further into your cunt, it’s lick after lick between your swollen pussy lips, electricity running up your spine as you tremble. Heat rushes over you in mind numbing waves and threatens to overtake you completely when you’re filled with three of his thick fingers, back arching as they start to swirl harshly against that spot inside you that makes you melt, thrusting sloppily.

Stack presses his lips tight around your nub and when he starts to suck, you fall apart and he groans into your pussy while you lose it and it’s music to his ears.

And just like he knew you would, you beg.

Between the sobbing, the screaming, gasping, moaning and even apologizing…you beg- certain you were gonna lose your mind if he kept going. But that wasn’t what he wanted to hear so he kept lapping away. Drinking you down like you were the best liquor in the country.

“I- uh! Said I was s-sorry- fuck!” Shaky, worn out moans break up your sentence as Stack pulls away with an obscene smack, looking up at you with a wet mouth and lidded eyes- he licks his lips, humming at your taste.

“I heard ya but you know I want more than a lil sorry..”, he trails off and you know what he means; left to choose between your pride or your sanity.

In the moments that you decide, Stack resumes. You feel him roll your nub around with his tongue and when you feel the start of teeth- you break.

“Okay! Okay! Before- I-i said somethin’ under my breath! You was right..”, and Stack looks like the cat the got the cream.

“And what did y’say, pretty?”

Your face burns but you still speak loud enough for him to clearly hear that:

“I said that I..,” you swallow and decide to just get it over with.

“‘Said that I wish you’d break me in.”

“Good girl.”

Satisfaction rolls off Stack in waves as he nods slowly, rising to his feet with a smirk. He hums to himself as he manhandles you onto your stomach, pressing you down into a deep arch and when you hear his belt and fly come undone, blood rushes through your ears. The fat head of his tip presses at the messy wetness of your hole and he bites his lip.

“Y’ready for me to break you in, sweets?”

A warbled moan is the best you got and he takes it, stuffing you full in one thrust. Jesus Christ, it’s such a tight fit that it hurts but in the best way- back arching further as you grapple weakly at the desk. Sobbing moans and wet smacks filling the room. Stack lets out a heady groan, watching the fat of your ass recoil with every thrust, thick strings of your wetness dripping off his cock every time he slides out and he snaps.

Tangling his fingers through your hair, he gets a good grip and pulls, landing a heavy smack on your ass too. The sting makes your eyes water, intensifying the pleasure you already feel as you tighten around him and he’s fucking into you hard enough to knock the air clean out of your lungs. Meanwhile, Stack’s so overcome with pleasure that he can barely think, tingles coiling up is spine as his cock is wrapped in the tightest heat he’s had in his life, ears ringing with your moans that are rising and he knows that when you cum, it’ll be heard-even over the music.

He’s so big that he doesn’t even have to try to hit that spot inside you- shifting a little, pounding away at the nerves n’ the way you go boneless tells him all he needs to know.

“That’s the spot, huh?”

It feels like his fat head is snug up against your stomach and you just can’t quiet yourself down. Broken cries spilling from your throat with drool pooling underneath your cheek and the sight makes his chest burn; railing more than a few of your screws loose.

You were so close.

You’d been close before you waved the white flag by admission and of course he knew that. The twitching of your cunt is on the verge of milking him and he lets go of your hair to wrap his grip around your throat instead, biceps bulging as he squeezes, lips flush against your ear whispering the nastiest things and it’s too much.

Clamping down around his fat cock so tight, he can’t even move as you cum. Its like each and every one of your nerves sizzle before exploding while you leak messily around him, almost blacking out from the overwhelmingness of it all. Stack hisses at how your walls pulse around him, fucking into you with his grip tight around your windpipe until soon enough he lets go too, shooting deep into your pussy with a heavy groan.

You both take a good couple minutes to catch your breath but Stack recovers first. Pulling out slowly then adjusting himself before helping you turn over to lay on your back, breathing heavily. You’re sweaty, you can’t feel your legs, you didn’t have an extra dress to change into, but you got what you wanted and that’s what matters. A lazy grin comes over your face and Stack smiles with you, leaning down to kiss you softly and you purr happily.

“See? Y’so much nicer after you get sum ‘act right’.” Stack’s grin broadens, dimples deepening when you roll your eyes, unamused.

“Not true. I always act right.” Now that was a lie. A lie so blatantly obvious that he laughs, chest warm as it moves against yours and your face warms in affection.

“Right. And I’m Jim Crow-”, his chuckles cut off his own sentence as you swat him on the arm, laughing with him and he’s all too content until there’s a knock at the door.

“Stack n’ company? Y’all decent?” Smoke’s voice is muffled through the wood. You snort at the ‘n company’ part while Stack hurries to cover you with his jacket. It’s big so it works and kind of itchy but smells wonderful and you glow as you nod at him to respond.

“As decent as we’ll be tonight. Come in.”

Smoke comes in and his eyes widen at the state of you two. Whistling,

“Damn! You know it’s bad when you can tell who floats like a butterfly and who stings like a bee-”,

You cover your face in embarrassment as Smoke laughs so hard he has to lean against the door to hold himself up. Stack has to bite his lip to keep from laughing with him too. Sucking his teeth instead.

“Man, what do you want?” Smoke shakes his head before answering like it’s obvious.

“To see if y’all ready to go home or if y’all staying here all night.”

Huh?

“Smoke, what time is it?” He looks at his watch then back at you.

“1:47- almost 2 in the mornin’.”

Damn. The joint closed at one. Wait-! That meant-

“Could y’all-”,

“Hear? Nah, we imagined it. Cornbread gon be talkin’ bout y’all though. Anywho-“,

Your lips thin into a line and you feel a headache coming on before Stack tells his brother that yes, you’re going home and to go wait by the bar and while y’all fix up and he shoots him a look before going, turning on his heel and closing the door. You look up to find Stack already looking at you, smile soft as cotton.

“You alright, baby?”

Warmth blooms all over and you just wanna cuddle him but that’ll wait until you’re back in bed. Leaning up, you kiss him sweetly on the cheek.

“My back hurts but m’ absolutely perfect, now cmon. Smoke’s waitin'.” He nods, kissing you one last time before pulling off you. Making himself presentable and buttoning the oversized blazer of his you have on.

Stack’s carrying you down the stairs to meet Smoke and go home when you gasp, remembering something.

“Do you think Cornbread’ll have told the entire world by tomorrow?”

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notapradagurl7 · 2 days ago

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🐴When Nature Calls 💀

OJ Haywood x supernatural!blackpresenting!reader!

warnings: maybe graphic imaging, mentions of a little gore, supernatural!reader, a little cursing, self-indulgent, mentions of animal death.

“OJ!”

He poked his head from beneath the truck’s hood at the sound of your voice. You were at the last porch staring into the hills beyond.

OJ took in your stillness and noted your hands still dripping with soapy water. The bluetooth speaker wasn’t going anymore, had you turned it off so quickly? He put the hood down, going to where you remained. When he was close enough, you took his hand and pulled him back towards the stairs.

“Stay on the porch.”

OJ’s stomach flipped when the sound of Angel coming out of the front door, screen door slapping hard behind his offer of finishing the dishes if you were busy. Where was Em? She was there, phone aimed towards the sun as it sewed the sky in pink and purple.

He was about to call for her, but you were at Em’s side in the next breath. Em jumped and cursed but tried to follow your gaze as it stayed focused on the hills. You gently guided her to where OJ and Angel stood, the three of them crowded behind you.

Around them, the air stilled and then thickened. OJ kept his eyes on you as you watched the empty space before you.

Angel’s voice dripped with nerves, “What’s going on?”

OJ shook his head, deciding to stay quiet. Beside him, Em released a shaky breath and all at once–your head snapped upwards and your left arm shot out as if you were blocking someone’s entry,

“TaaaAAAAaaaasssSStEEeeey….”

A crinkling whisper, a voice ground between grave and ash raking through his mind. OJ vision winked at the edges and suddenly there was something standing just to the side of you. Beside him Angel retched at the sight and Em’s hand gripped OJ’s.

It looked like the colt they lost a month ago. Only now it was bleached white, its skull picked clean aside from the runny, lidless orbs that rolled about its head. It stood on two legs, stretched to fit whatever crawled inside as flies and gnats haloed as an awful crown.

OJ felt Angel reached behind him to grab into Em’s wrist. They huddled closer together, OJ trying to fit them behind him–trying to fit behind you.

“They are tasty but they are not yours.” The sound of your voice drew air back into his lungs. The air chilled and then some more, Angel hid his face into OJ’s shoulder.

“Wwannt…OOooonlY…ONE.”

The tall-colt made a noise, unhappy and it took a step closer. Your extended arm did not move, but it reared back as it shoved away.

“They are all mine.”

“You are old. You are hungry.” Your voice swam across OJ’s skin and it sank in as a salve the longer you spoke, “I can find you food. I can give you peace. You cannot have them. They are not yours. Or anyone else’s.’

OJ’s eyes met Em’s, neither of their heads moving but they remained silent. Were there more? Were they surrounded? OJ felt his hairs raise on end and dared to swallow the rising nerves.

The colt’s head tilted until its crooked chin pointed to the sky. Different parts of it inhaled, exhaled– it’s right thigh, the wrong side of its chest but never at the same time. The imitation of breathing, it reminded OJ of a broken accordion.

“CooooOould….taKe…”

“Could try. Will die. Hungry, still.”

It froze and OJ wondered if it was weighing the pros of testing your boundary, but he got his answer when the colt took a step back. The scent spiked like a demon’s skunk-like reaction to distress, the stench of rotting flesh bursting into the air.

“SSsSssooosoOOOOO huUUnNgry….”

The words came out in a nasty gurgle, Angel flinched as he held in another lurch but you nodded with casual understanding.

“Stay inside until I come back.” You were talking to them now, voice carrying over your shoulder perfectly, “Do you remember what we talked about?”

Lock up, don’t look out.

Only when OJ, Em, and Angel recite it to your liking did you begin walking toward the tall-colt. It made a sharp, sad noise as it was repelled by your force. OJ could see bloody tears spring from its eyes before it turned away, your arm now guiding it back into the nothingness in which it came.

They all gasped when the pressure lifted, the stench of rotting flesh vanishing lingering. OJ felt like he could float from the sudden absence of other-wordly pressure. Angel finally darted inside to release his lunch into the kitchen sink.

Em braced herself against the house coughed, “Fuck, that’ll never get old.”

…….

OJ knew the exact moment when you returned.

His stomach swooped, as graceful as a bird coming down to its home branch. He told the others to stay put inside as he readied to go outside, Pop’s 12-gauge at his side for peace of mind. He knew it wasn’t a sure solution but it was a good buy of time.

OJ made a quick walk to the barn, knowing you were there before he even heard your conversation with the horses. He paused at the sight of the heavy imprint of webbed feet, as large as a cougar’s until they led to Maple’s stall.

He took in the scales surrounding your feathered body, the claws scratching rhythmically into the oft dirt. You were quite large in this feline-lizard body, but Maple found comfort in the curl of your body. OJ wanted to wedge in, but this wasn’t about him.

“She wondered why her offspring reeked of Other.” your voice drifted into the cool, open air as crystalline eyes trained on Oj, “I told her the truth. That was not her offspring, they are at peace.”

OJ wished he could tell Maple he was sorry. That he wishes he could have at least buried Agave deeper into the ground.

He sat down outside of the stall, gauge pointed away but near, “What was it? On the inside?”

“It was an old thing. Seeped into Agave’s remains to walk again.” The large, fan-ended part of your tail patted the ground, “It traced Agave’s bones back to here. Seeped deep enough to remember her love for Maple, her love for you. That’s what made you all so…tempting.”

He tried so hard to keep Agave going. She was born too early, and was just too weak. Oj spent every last one of her 12 days of life trying to give her a chance. It was good to know that, maybe, Agave did understand his care, “And did it go back?”

Your bismuth eyes glowed in the dark as the tip of your tail gave a flick, “It did. It will not be returning.”

He nodded. While OJ did not know where this creature came from in your history, the form was built to win a fight. He wanted to ask more questions. About ‘old things’ and if they were staking out the horses, but he decided to have faith in you. After all, your senses were keen even before the confrontation at the porch. For the last few days, there has been tension along your spine, your eyes more animal than not. OJ has woken up more than once to your silent vigil in the night. Just as many times, he was lulled by the soft scrape-thud’s of your heavy wings on top of the roof.

“It is getting cold.”

Your voice was like a gente hug and prod, OJ knew he was being coaxed but allowed it. With OJ safely inside, he could watch over Em and Angel while you watched over them all. OJ understood, the last of adrenaline leaving as he began to stand.

He went into the stall, pressing a kiss to your textured nose and petting Maple’s mane. He told her that you would take care of them all, but OJ had a feeling they already knew that.

“Goodnight, baby.”

“Goodnight, my OJ.

OJ still did not know exactly what you were, but he trusted you. He trusted what he knew about what made you the being he loved. He loved you the moment you decided to grow gorgeous brown skin and coily hair, to live as his woman for as long as you could.

So, he would go inside and have a stiff drink and listen for your wings above his head.

💕taglist💕: @megamindsecretlair @sageispunk @mcondance @notapradagurl7

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@theerina @kindofaintrovert @hobiesblackgf

✨ending notes✨: this would not leave my head (or my drafts) but it's finally out! I think OJ would be a good fit for an creature!reader for some reason 😂I imagine her as something that crawled out of some deep, deep hole from the Earth's otherside😌tell me what you think and thank you for reading as always!✨💕✨💕✨💕✨💕

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notapradagurl7 · 2 days ago

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All the people walking out of Sinners with Remmick as their main point of interest… I know what y’all are… because how do you watch TWO HOURS of Black people being gangsters, music lovers, lover lovers, be silly, be stoic, be family, be friends, and be preyed upon by Remmick, yet still find him most interesting? Yet still thirst after him the most?

Sure, enjoy what you enjoy. Write fics about whatever you choose, but damn. Even in a movie that centers Black people and says flat out that the white man villain is a greedy racist, y’all still sideline the Black folks. It’s actually more disheartening than it is upsetting, because it means no matter what, like literally no matter what, white men still get to be the most important for y’all. Y’all truly don’t give a fuck.

It’s even more obvious, because Smoke and Stack weren’t some holy protagonists. They were gangsters who killed and robbed, and one of them literally becomes a vampire. If you want to thirst after the bad guys, you could have easily picked the twins. You can easily write Stack as a bad guy the same way y’all reimagining Remmick as misunderstood and fuckable.

Black characters do not exist to y’all, even in movies where the sole focus is Black people.

And don’t even get me started on the Sammie/Remmick fics. This ain’t Nosferatu, where Orlok could be interpreted as part of the deep seated want from ol’ girl, and them having sex was possibly her way of finally giving in to that carnal desire.

Sammie is Remmick’s victim through and through. He murdered Sammie’s friends and family to get to him, and planned to murder him to literally steal his voice. His gift. I love a dark fantasy myself, but this ain’t that, y’all just don’t view Black peoples as victims, let alone Black boys and men.

Yes, write your Remmick/self-insert or whatever, but the amount of character assassination it takes to write Sammie into a relationship with Remmick, is ridiculous. You have to ruin him and all he believes in for it to work, or completely absolve Remmick. Y’all are wrong for that, and I wish there was a way to block it all.

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notapradagurl7 · 2 days ago

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tease your man

ao3 link

summary : "you got to tease your man, you got to please your man and let him know just how you feel. 'cause when he loves you right, it's a real done deal"

pairing: smoke moore x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ (mdni), language, smut, oral (male receiving), stack is heavy on that younger brother energy

a/n: short lil one shot about giving smoke head while he smokes a cigarette; hit my inbox with requests if you have any!

"Girl, yo' husband a certified asshole!"

Stack's voice arrived before he did, causing you to furrow your brows. The door swung open and revealed your brother-in-law, frowning as he walked into the room.

"You need to put his damn pecker in your mouth so he'll lose the fuckin' attitude!" he continued.

"Shut the fuck up, Stack" you heard your husband grumbled, coming in right behind him.

You offered him a smile and ignored your brother-in-law's comment, knowing Stack had a special skill for tap dancing all over Elijah's last nerves.

"This nigga here meaner than a damn snake, I'm tellin' you," Stack continued, plopping down in the arm chair across from where you were seated. "Don't know how you deal with the motherfucker."

You gave him a short hum as a response. The calmness between the two told you that they weren't arguing about anything serious, just butting heads over something small.

"What'd my mean, mean husband do to you this time, poor baby Stack?" you questioned softly, a faux pout on your lips as you teased him.

Stack rolled his eyes at you, scoffing and mumbling about him not being a "damn baby," which earned a short laugh from Elijah, who had walked behind the couch you were sitting on and leaned down to press two soft kisses to the side of your neck.

You shivered from the contact, feeling your stomach twist now that he was back. He'd been gone a few days on business that you didn't care to know about. The two of you had an arrangement that as long as he came back in one piece and you stayed safe at home ready to take care of him when he returned, you would never need to know what he did when he left the walls of your shared home.

"Well, lemme tell you, my beautiful sister," Stack started, inhaling deeply. "Two of us was..."

Stack trailed off when he caught a mean glare from his brother that told him to be careful what all he revealed to you. He swallowed before continuing.

"On some business. Shit got outta hand with some of the men we was dealing with...white, y'know? I tell Smoke we need to just forget the shi-"

"Stack," smoke warned.

"Forget the deal," he corrected. "Just forget the damn business deal and haul ass, but you know this nigga. All about his damn business, so he pulls out that pistol and start wavin' it around, threatenin' to put a bullet in everybody in the building."

Your eyes widened at the image your brother-in-law was painting for you. You'd be lying if you said you didn't like it, the idea of Elijah all tough and mean and doing anything to get the job done and bring some money home for you.

"I'm standin' there tryna calm his crazy ass down. 'Smoke, nigga this ain't the plan, calm yo ass down'. I kept sayin' the shit. Guess what this nigga do? Guess!"

You shrug, attempting to hide an amused smile. Stack could be a pain in your ass sometimes, but he was your little brother and he was one hell of a storyteller and you loved him.

"What did he do?" you humored softly.

"Nigga gon' pop me in the fuckin' mouth with the fuckin' gun!"

You hated to laugh, truly, but you couldn't help yourself. The giggles escaped you before you could stop them and it wasn't long before you heard your husband's low laughing above your head.

Stack rolled his eyes.

"Nah, now I see how you deal with his ass. You just as mean. Here I am thinkin' my big sister of all people would understand the sheer pain a nigga in but no. You don't give a damn, neither!"

You kept giggling as Stack stood, huffed, and left the room, going out back to do God knows what as you called for him to come back between laughs.

"He gon' be alright," you heard Elijah sigh, rounding the couch to sit beside you. "He gon' be just fine."

You smiled at him and leaned over, pressing a kiss to his lips and earning a hum from him.

"Missed you," he told you, "A lot."

"Missed you, too. You make us some money?"

He laughed at that.

"That all you care about?"

"It seems like somethin' to care about if you goin' round threatenin' white men. What's wrong with you, Elijah?" you questioned, a raised brow sending a shiver down his spine.

There were few people on the earth that could intimidate Elijah Moore. At the top of that list was his lovely wife.

"Yes, I brought you back some money, baby," he assured you.

You passed him one of the cigarettes you'd rolled for him yesterday and took the lighter off of the same side table that was holding the cigarettes and lit it for him when he placed it between his lips.

"Thank you, baby. You always so good to me," he cooed.

"I try," you replied gently, bringing your hand to his thigh and rubbing slowly.

Your touch, like always, never went unnoticed by Elijah. He raised his eyebrow and looked down at you, a dangerous glint in his eye.

Every time he left, he missed everything about you. He missed your eyes, your smile, your thick thighs and curves. Usually, most of all, he missed the way you tasted and the way you sounded when he took you apart piece by tiny piece. This time was no different. He was ready to dive into you completely.

"What you thinkin' bout, baby girl?" he asked you.

"Somethin' Stack said," you replied honestly, deviousness written all over your features.

Usually, you knew better than to take half the shit Stack said into account, but one comment of his got you thinking.

You'd never taken Elijah in your mouth before, but you'd heard some rumors about how good it can feel for both parties. It was just something you'd never thought about trying out, but for some reason, between Stack's comment, images of your husband getting tough and meaning all business, and him sitting right beside you with that damn cigarette in his mouth, you were ready to give it a shot.

"You know you can't listen to that nigga. He-"

"I want to try something," you cut him off. Standing and smoothing out the bottom of your dress before getting down on your knees in front of your husband.

You didn't miss the way his eyes widened a little, amusement and shock plastered on his dark features. He inhaled his cigarette before exhaling, eyes rolling back as the pleasure flooded through him and that look on his face alone was enough to certify this for you. You were going to make him cum from your mouth if it was the last thing you did.

You thought back to some of the conversations you'd had with Mary, the tips she'd given you for if you ever decided to try with Smoke.

'Tease him. Don't give in straight away. They like it when you play games.'

Your fingers trailed up his thighs softly before one hand rose to his crotch, pressing down gently. He shuddered at the contact, cocking his head to the side and looking down at you.

"What you doin'?" he asked you, a smirk growing on his face as he took the cigarette out of his mouth momentarily and held it in his right hand.

"You'll see."

He laughed shortly when you began to unbutton him, pulling his length free. His cock sprung up and landed on his stomach. He was hard and leaking and it was making your mouth water.

'Give him a lil' kiss. Right at the tip. Drives a man crazy.'

You pressed your lips against his tip, ghosting a kiss there and feeling satisfied when you heard his breath hitch. You kissed down his shaft and heard him grumble something about getting on with it.

You were beginning to feel a bit more adventurous and stuck your tongue out, finding the thick vein on his shaft and slowly licking it, earning a groan from him. You did it again, swirling your tongue along his length as he looked down at you with thinning patience.

"Quit playin', woman," he warned, no weight behind that threat. He was loving every second of your slow toying with him.

'Don't forget to spit on it. They love that.'

A string of spit dripped down onto his cock and he swore he was about to see stars. His fine ass wife in this state was enough to make him finish right then and there all over your face, but he kept his composure, taking another hit of his cigarette to focus on something other than the feeling of your warm saliva on him.

'Then it's up to you. Take the whole damn thing in your mouth and suck like a damn lollipop.'

You took him in your mouth, going down as far as you could go without gagging. Elijah cursed above you and you felt pride. He'd always been reactive to you.

'Anything you can't fit in your mouth, use your hand. After that, smooth sailin'.'

You gripped the base of his cock and stroked as you sucked on the rest, bobbing your head up and down.

"Fuuuck, baby!" he hissed, eyes rolling back like they had just moments ago. "Feel so fuckin' good."

You felt your cheeks warm up at the compliment and kept bobbing your head and sucking him. It felt good, but he needed more. He was so close.

"Lemme help you out a lil bit. You trust me, baby?"

You rose off of him, a string of spit falling on your chin and he shook his head at the sight. Your full breasts were getting spit on them as well and the neckline of your light pink dress was darker from the wetness of your saliva.

"I trust you. With my life, you know that."

"Alright, go back down."

You obliged, taking him back in your mouth and stopping when his hand gently pressed to the back of your head.

"Just breathe in, baby. This okay?"

You nodded as best you could and he smiled down at you.

"My pretty wife. Keep goin'."

You obliged, continuing to suck him as he pushing your head down. You choked a bit on his cock when his tip hit the back of your throat and you were expecting him to let you back up but the moan he let escape him told you he had other plans.

"Feels so fuckin' good. Breathe through your nose, pretty girl."

He'd always made sure you knew how beautiful you were to him, constantly calling you pretty and beautiful and everything in between. The man was in love with every single thing about you and he never failed to let you know it. You'd come a long way from the emotionally pent up version of him that you'd met. You first met him as Smoke, but the more your relationship grew, you got to know him as Elijah. Your Elijah.

Elijah loosened his grip on your hair, letting you come up for a minute to breathe before pushing you back down.

"You're makin' a mess," he grunted. "We gon' have to clean that up later."

The smell of cigarette smoke filled the room and you shivered, picturing him above you casually smoking while you were on your knees for him.

"Can I fuck those pretty lips?" he questioned, pulling you up again so that you could look him in the eyes. "Please?"

You nodded slowly. You'd do anything for him at this point. You knew after you were done with him he'd please you. You wondered if he could even imagine how wet you were for him at the moment.

"Whatever you want, baby," you replied softly, whole body feeling like it was on fire.

He cupped your face and lowered you back down, sloooowly pushing his tip past your lips before allowing you to sink all the way down on his cock. Elijah held you there for a moment, letting you get used to the feeling of him in your mouth again before thrusting his hips upwards.

You felt yourself clench around nothing at the feeling, growing impatient for him to fuck you where you needed him the most, but you didn't mind waiting. He deserved this, deserved to get this pleasure from you.

"Ssssoooo good," he moaned out, hips picking up speed as he felt himself getting closer and closer to his climax.

Your mouth was so damn warm and wet and perfect just like the rest of you. He couldn't believe the two of you had waited so long for this. He wasn't even sure how he could ever leave you at home again, beginning to contemplate bringing you along next time he and Stack had to handle business. That way you'd be there waiting for him when he needed to get some release.

The noises coming from you as his tip hit the back of your throat were nothing but sinful, but it was music to his ears, only spurring him on as he rambled about how perfect you were and how he was going to fuck you so good after this. You couldn't fucking wait.

"Shit, shit, shit, baby!" Elijah cried out, one last thrust sending him over the edge as he held your face against him.

He spilled into your mouth, warm and salty. The load was big. So big that you couldn't catch it all, some of it spilling out the side of your mouth and dripping onto his dick.

"Messy fuckin' girl," he mumbled, letting you finally come up for more air. "Where the hell you learn to do that, huh?"

You suddenly felt shy as he brought his thumb to your face, wiping away the mixture of your spit and his cum.

"Just some gossip around town," you told him, keeping your source to yourself, sure that he didn't want to hear that Mary had taught you everything she knew. He didn't need that mental picture of her and his brother.

"Well, you just keep listening to that damn gossip," he told you with a smile and dazed eyes. "Come up here."

You obliged, sitting down beside him once more.

He put a large hand on the back of your neck and pulled you closed for a hot, messy kiss. His tongue slipped past your lips, tasting himself in your mouth. It was just heavenly.

He shook his head and put his cigarette out before standing.

"Gotta return the favor for my pretty girl," he told you, lowering to his knees and pushing up your dress. "Show you some tricks of my own."

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notapradagurl7 · 2 days ago

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Paring: Smoke (Elijah Moore) x Eboni (Black OC) Plot: A quiet singer and a dangerous man cross paths again under the haze of whiskey, heat, and music. What begins in silence soon burns into something neither of them can control. Word Count: 4k Tags: 18+, Minors DNI, language, possessive behavior, power dynamics, emotional tension, SMUT!, dangerous love interest

Eboni stood on the small, dimly lit stage, her back straight, feet planted firmly on the wooden floor of the juke joint. The heat of the evening clung to the air, thick and heavy, the kind of warmth that made you feel like you were breathing in someone else’s secrets. The crowd swayed, some lost in their drinks, others in the smooth pull of Eboni’s voice.

She’d been singing in this place for over a year now, the rhythm of the night sinking into her bones. Each song was an escape, but she never let herself get too lost. Not in front of the crowd.

But tonight, as the last notes of the song floated away, she felt something shift. A presence. Her eyes caught the corner of the room, and there he was. Elijah. Or rather, Smoke. His name didn’t matter. It was the way he stood, quiet and still, as if the noise of the world didn’t reach him. And the way his eyes—dark and heavy—found hers, like he’d been waiting for this moment for years.

Two years ago, they had never spoken a word, but they didn’t need to. They’d shared looks, stolen moments in the same dark corners, their silent understanding hanging between them like smoke. He’d get lost in her voice, until he disappeared, and she hadn’t expected to see him again. But now he was back.

The crowd cheered, but it sounded far away, muffled. Eboni couldn’t look away from him. She took a slow breath and nodded to the band to start another song, her fingers still tight around the microphone. The music kicked in, but it felt different now. Heavy. Personal.

She sang through the next verse, her eyes flickering back to him, the tension building like a slow storm. Smoke didn’t move, not an inch, his gaze locked onto her like it was the only thing that mattered.

When the song ended, the applause was distant, echoing in her chest. She didn’t bother with a smile or a thank-you. She stepped off the stage, her heels clicking on the worn wood, moving like she was walking toward something she couldn’t quite reach.

She made her way to the bar, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as she kept her focus on the two men across the room. Her pulse quickened, but she didn’t let it show. She leaned against the worn oak of the bar, her fingers curling around a glass of whiskey that had already been poured for her—one of the perks of being a regular. Her eyes never left them, even as she took a slow sip.

Stack was there, as always, the easy smile on his face. He was doing what he always did, moving through the crowd with a charm that could melt the coldest heart. He was talking to a few women, laughing, his broad shoulders almost swallowing up the small talk that surrounded him. He liked to be the center of attention, and everyone loved him for it. But Eboni knew better. She’d seen this act before. Stack wore his charisma like a badge, a way to distract from the emptiness underneath.

But it wasn’t Stack who held her gaze. It was Elijah—Smoke.

Even from across the room, she could feel his presence. He was standing by the wall, arms crossed, his face set in that same unreadable expression she remembered from two years ago. The way his eyes followed her, dark and calculating, made her stomach tighten. He wasn’t looking at her like Stack did—like she was something to possess or conquer. No. Elijah watched her like she was a puzzle he’d been trying to figure out for years, and every second he spent looking at her only brought him closer to the answer.

She tore her eyes away, but only for a moment, enough to see Stack stack a cigarette, the tobacco wrapped neatly in a paper that had seen too many hands. He moved with a practiced ease, the kind of movement that said he’d done this a hundred times before—maybe more. His fingers worked quickly, rolling the tobacco into a perfect cylinder before he offered it to his twin.

“Smoke,” Stack said, his voice loud enough for Eboni to hear from where she stood. “You want this?”

Elijah didn’t respond right away. He just lifted his eyes, slow and deliberate, meeting Stack’s gaze. When he finally nodded, Stack’s grin grew, the kind of grin that always made Eboni want to look away.

Stack handed the cigarette to Elijah, his fingers brushing against the man’s hand as they exchanged it. It wasn’t a gesture that meant anything on the surface, but Eboni knew better. That was the kind of touch that meant everything to them, a bond forged in blood and silence.

She swallowed another mouthful of whiskey, her thoughts a muddled haze, and turned her attention back to the stage. But her mind was elsewhere, still following Smoke and Stack’s every movement, every small action.

Eboni had downed about four shots of pure whiskey, the burn spreading down her throat and settling heavy in her chest. It was enough to push the fog in her mind to the back of her thoughts, enough to shake the tension that had wound too tightly in her body. She needed something to fill the hollow feeling, to drown out the noise in her head. And there was only one way she knew how to do that.

She stood, shaking off the weight of the barstool as the music played its sultry tune. The brass band had kicked into a slower, heavier rhythm, the kind that made you want to move, to let everything slip away. The bassline thrummed in her bones, and before she could think twice, she was on the dance floor.

Her hips swayed with the beat, body moving like liquid, each step flowing in perfect sync with the music. She didn’t care who watched. She didn’t care who noticed. The men around her—just a blur of faces—seemed to melt into the background, their eyes fixed on her every move, their hands reaching out in desperate need of a connection they could never quite understand. But none of them mattered. Not tonight.

Tonight, Eboni danced with her demons. She swirled around a sea of bodies, lost in the music and the heat, in the chaos of everything falling apart outside these walls. Bills were piling up, her rent overdue, the landlord knocking on her door at all hours of the night, and here she was—dancing like everything was fine. But she knew it wasn’t. Her personal life was spiraling, and all she had left was this—the music, the sweat, the whiskey, and the rhythm that refused to let her think.

God forbid a woman wanted to let go. To forget the weight of her world for a moment and just move, lose herself in something that felt alive. That’s what the dance floor was—freedom, if only for a song.

The air in the joint was thick with the smell of sweat, cigarettes, and something more, something that Eboni could never quite name. The crowd, hungry for an escape, moved around her like sharks, drawn to the pulse of the beat, the rawness of the night. But none of them understood her like she understood herself—this was her release, her moment to disappear into the shadows of the music.

But what she didn’t know, what she couldn’t have known, was that Smoke was still watching her. From the corner of the room, leaning against the wall as if he had nowhere else to be, his eyes never left her. He’d been watching her since she stepped off that stage, his gaze unwavering, the weight of his attention a constant pull at her spine.

Every sway of her hips, every flicker of her eyes, every step she took was like a thread that drew him in closer, whether he wanted to admit it or not. There was something about the way she danced—free, wild, untamed—that got under his skin. She was a force, a hurricane in the middle of a quiet night, and he couldn’t help but be drawn to her storm.

The smoke from his cigarette curled in the air as he took a long drag, his jaw tight, eyes locked on her every movement. He could feel the heat of the room, but it wasn’t the heat of the bodies around him that made his skin burn. It was her.

Elijah knew he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be watching her like this. He had enough trouble of his own—trouble he couldn’t afford to share with anyone, least of all her. She was trouble enough. She didn’t belong in the world he lived in, didn’t belong in the shadows that clung to him like a second skin. But there she was, moving in a way that made him question every decision he’d ever made.

Stack, ever the talker, was nowhere near as focused on her as Elijah was. He’d caught a glimpse of Eboni, then immediately turned his attention to another woman, pulling her into his orbit with that easy grin of his. But Elijah didn’t look away, didn’t break his stare. Not even when a few people bumped into him, pulling him out of his trance.

Now, as she moved on the dance floor, he felt that same pull in his chest—the same tug that made him want to reach out, grab her, pull her close and make her forget the world around her. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Eboni spun, her eyes catching his for a brief second before she turned away again, lost in the rhythm. For just a moment, she felt something shift in the air, something that wasn’t just the heat or the crowd—it was him. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was still watching. She could feel it, deep in her bones.

The crowd had thinned to a whisper. Chairs scraped the floor as bodies filtered out into the sticky New Orleans night, laughter echoing down the crooked streets. The music was gone now—only the ghost of it lingered in the air, like perfume after the woman’s long gone. Eboni stood near the stage, her heels finally killing her, fingers curling around the worn leather strap of her bag.

She was tired. Soul-tired. The kind of tired that couldn’t be fixed with rest. She grabbed her coat from the back of a chair, stuffing her tips into her pocket without counting. Her feet ached, her head buzzed with leftover whiskey and regret.

She didn’t even notice him at first—not until his hand wrapped gently, but firmly, around her arm.

She turned fast, caught off guard. Smoke stood there, close. Closer than he’d ever dared to be.

"I missed it," he said.

His voice was low, thick with something she couldn’t quite name. Not gravel. Not smoke. Something in between. The way he looked at her—it wasn’t like how the men looked at her from the crowd. It wasn’t hunger. It wasn’t lust. It was something deeper. Something like memory.

She blinked. “Missed what?”

“Your voice,” he said. “I missed your voice.”

Eboni stared at him, lips parted. She hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Not tonight.

“You always used to stay in the back,” she said, her voice soft. “Never spoke. Just watched.”

“I was listening,” he said. “Always was.”

Eboni felt her stomach twist. His hand was still on her arm, not rough, but like he couldn’t bring himself to let go. She glanced down at it, then back up at him. She should’ve pulled away. But she didn’t.

“You came back,” she said. It wasn’t a question. More like a statement she didn’t know what to do with.

“Didn’t plan to,” Elijah murmured. “But I heard your voice again and—shit—I couldn’t stay away.”

There was a pause, long and heavy. The rest of the room faded. It was just them, the lights humming low, the floor sticky with spilled gin and too many late nights.

Eboni’s throat tightened. “I ain't looking for trouble, Elijah.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m not here to bring it.”

“Then what are you here for?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer with words. Just looked at her with those dark eyes—still, unreadable, but deep. “Come with me,” he finally said. “Just for a while. No music. No crowd. Just quiet.”

She should’ve said no.

She should’ve turned around, walked out, kept herself from falling into the pull she’d tried so hard to ignore. But instead, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and nodded.

The ride to his place had been quiet.

Not the awkward kind. Not full of nerves or forced words. Just silence that spoke louder than anything either of them could’ve said. She watched the streetlights flash across his face in the dark car, gold slicing over his cheekbones and jaw, softening nothing. Elijah didn’t look at her much. But his hand rested near hers on the seat—close enough she could feel the heat of it, like a live wire she was trying not to touch.

When they reached his building, he opened the door like a man who never brought anyone through it. The hallway creaked under their steps, and Eboni had to remind herself to breathe.

Upstairs, the room was dim. No music. No radio. Just the hum of old pipes and the weight of night pressing against the windows.

Eboni stood just inside the doorway, her arms still crossed, as if she hadn’t fully decided to be there. Elijah shrugged off his jacket, draped it over the back of a chair, then turned to her.

“You can sit,” he said gently.

She nodded but didn’t move right away. Her eyes trailed across the room. There wasn’t much to see. One lamp in the corner, books stacked by the bed, a half-full ashtray on the table. It was clean. Lived-in, but quiet, like the man who owned it.

“You live like a ghost,” she said softly.

Elijah turned, brow raised.

“This place…” she said, stepping further in. “It don’t got fingerprints. It don’t got... you in it.”

He paused at that. “I never liked leaving too much of myself anywhere.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated. “’Cause people break the things they know belong to you.”

Eboni sat then, slow and careful, like the couch might bite. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, though the room wasn’t cold.

He moved to the table, poured a drink without asking. Whiskey. He handed it to her, his fingers brushing hers as he passed it over. She held it but didn’t drink.

“I ain’t used to you talking so much,” she said after a moment.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You never gave me a reason to talk.”

“And now?”

He looked at her like she already knew.

Eboni finally took a sip. The burn was sharp and welcome. “You watched me for two years. Never said a word. What made you speak now?”

Elijah stared for a long beat before answering.

“’Cause I realized I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

She held his gaze, and something thick hung in the air—want, memory, something more dangerous than both. She set the glass down, slow and deliberate.

“You still dangerous?” she asked.

Elijah stepped forward, his voice lower now, softer. “Always.”

“And I’m still the girl who’s got no business with danger.”

“I know.”

“But you brought me here anyway.”

“I couldn’t help it.”

She tilted her head. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

Another silence. Another moment where one of them could’ve pulled away—but didn’t.

“You want me to go?” she asked, standing up.

He looked at her like it hurt to answer. “No.”

“Then why you standing all the way over there like you don’t know what this is?”

He didn’t respond. Just crossed the room, slow, until he was right in front of her. He didn’t reach for her—not yet—but his presence was close enough to drown in.

“This ain’t a love story, Eboni,” he said. “You know that, right?”

She looked up at him, steady. “I didn’t come here for love.”

Elijah’s eyes dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “Then why’d you come?”

Eboni’s voice didn’t shake. “Because I couldn’t stay away either.”

That was all it took. One breath between them, then his hand slid up her arm, slow and warm. His other touched her jaw, thumb brushing the curve of her cheek.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Her body buzzed like a live wire under his touch.

And when he kissed her—it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was slow, but deep. The kind of kiss that made the whole room disappear. His hands stayed at her jaw, holding her like she might vanish. Her fingers twisted into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

There were no promises in it.

Just the quiet understanding that both of them were already too far gone.

The door barely clicked shut before Elijah was on her—hands, mouth, breath—all of him. Eboni barely had time to breathe before her back was pressed against the wall, the cool plaster grounding her for one sharp second. Then his mouth was on her neck, dragging slow heat up her throat.

“Couldn’t keep seein’ you dance wit’ them niggas like that,” he muttered against her skin, voice low, ragged. “Had me out my mind.”

She gasped as his hand slid up her thigh, hitching her dress higher. “That why you pulled me like that?” she whispered, breath catching. “’Cause you jealous?”

Elijah pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, jaw clenched. “I ain’t jealous, Eboni. I’m possessive. There’s a difference.”

She let out a shaky laugh, but it faded when his fingers slid beneath the hem of her dress, tracing the inside of her thigh.

“I ain’t yours, Elijah.”

He smirked, sharp and knowing. “You keep tellin’ yourself that.”

With one hand, he gripped the back of her neck, tilting her head up. The other dragged the straps of her dress down, slow, like he was unwrapping something sacred. Inch by inch, fabric fell, pooling at her waist before slipping past her hips. She didn’t stop him. Didn’t say a word. Her body burned under his touch, and she didn’t care if it showed.

“You been singin’ all sweet up on that stage,” he whispered, mouth brushing hers, “but I know you got heat in you. I see it every time you look at me.”

“Then take it.” she whispered back.

That was all he needed.

He peeled her underwear off one by one—no rush, no apologies. His hands moved like he was memorizing her skin, every curve, every breath. Eboni stood bare under the weight of his gaze, chest rising fast, lips parted.

“Turn around,” he said.

She hesitated—but only for a second. Then she did. Her back faced him, hands braced against the wall. She heard the sound of his belt, the rustle of his shirt hitting the floor.

Elijah stepped close behind her, one hand sliding around her stomach, the other teasing down her hip. His breath was hot against her ear as he pressed his hard dick onto her back.

“You feel that?” he murmured, voice gravel and hunger. “That’s what you do to me.”

She said, “I Ain’t stoppin’ you.”

His growl was low, more animal than man. He slid his dick into her gummy pussy in one slow, deliberate motion that made her cry out, her fingers clenching against the wall.

“O-oh my god..,” she whispered, body arching.

He held her there, buried deep, not moving yet. Just breathing. Letting it build. Letting her feel all of him.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he said through gritted teeth, pressing his lips to her shoulder. “I been thinkin’ about this for years, Eboni.”

She pushed back against him, hips moving slow. “M-me too.”

Hard. Deep. Slow at first—like he wanted to savor every second. His hand gripped her hip, the other sliding up to palm her breast. Their rhythm was rough, needy, matched breath for breath. Eboni moaned, loud and unfiltered, her voice breaking into the night like a song meant only for him.

Elijah bent her forward slightly, his chest against her back now, lips pressed behind her ear. “Say my name.”

She tried to hold it, tried not to give him the satisfaction—but his thrusts made it impossible.

“Elijah—” she gasped.

He groaned, mouth dragging along her neck. “Say it again.”

“Elijah,” she whimpered, nails scraping down the wall. “Fuck…”

Her knees started to buckle, the pleasure climbing too fast, too high.

“I got you,” he whispered, hand sliding between her thighs to find her clit. “I got you.”

It sent her over. Her body trembled, falling apart in his arms. She cried out, shaking as he kept fucking her, chasing his own release. He wet juices pooled on the floor beneath her as he he fucked her sloppy. It didn’t take long—his breath turned ragged, his rhythm breaking. With a final thrust, he spilled into her, holding her so tight it almost hurt.

Silence fell, thick and breathless.

They stayed like that for a moment, foreheads pressed to the wall, hearts thundering in sync.

“You still think you ain’t mine?” he asked, voice rough in her ear.

Eboni didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Not yet.

Because something in her had just changed. And they both knew it.

Elijah didn’t let her go right away. He held her against him, both of them catching their breath in the quiet shadows of the hallway. His lips brushed her shoulder again—this time softer, slower. Less heat, more feeling.

“You alright?” he murmured, voice low.

Eboni nodded, still breathless. “Yeah,” she whispered.

He turned her around, his hands gentle now, fingertips skimming the sweat-slick curve of her waist. He looked at her like he was trying to memorize her face, like this was the first time he’d ever really seen her.

“Come with me,” he said.

She didn’t ask where. She just let him take her hand.

He led her through the dim apartment, past old vinyls stacked on the side table, past the open window blowing in the warm New Orleans night. His bedroom was simple—dark walls, linen sheets tangled from nights like this, heavy silence hanging in the air like smoke.

The door shut behind them with a soft click.

Eboni stood still, suddenly aware of how bare she was—inside and out.

“You always bring girls back here?” she asked, voice trying for sharp but falling soft.

Elijah stepped closer, so close her back hit the edge of the bed.

“I don’t bring anyone back here,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Ain’t nobody ever felt like you.”

She wanted to roll her eyes, call it a lie, but something in his tone cut through her doubt. It wasn’t charm. It wasn’t a line.

It was truth.

“You used to sit in the back of the juke,” she said, eyes on his chest now. “Never said nothin’. Just watched.”

“I was scared if I opened my mouth, I’d say too much.”

She smirked. “You talkin’ plenty now.”

He leaned down, mouth just above hers. “And I mean all of it.”

Then he kissed her again—deeper this time. Slower. His hands found her waist, pulled her in like he couldn’t get close enough. She sank into it, arms winding around his neck, her body aching all over again.

He guided her down onto the bed, lips never leaving hers. The sheets were cool against her skin, but he was warm everywhere. He kissed down her collarbone, across her chest, pausing just long enough to make her breath catch.

“Elijah…” she whispered, fingers curling in his hair.

“You trust me?” he asked.

She hesitated—then nodded. “I do now.”

His fingers ran over every inch—her thighs, her hips, her ribs, her mouth. When he entered her swollen pussy again, it wasn’t urgent like before. It was deep, slow, like he wanted to stay inside her forever.

Eboni gasped, her nails dragging along his back. “God… I don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.”

He groaned softly, forehead pressed to hers. “Just givin’ you what you deserve.”

They moved together, breath for breath, his name falling from her lips like a prayer. Her body trembled again, and he held her through every wave, never looking away. He followed right after, his release crashing through him like thunder.

After, they lay tangled in each other, skin warm, limbs heavy.

Eboni rested her head on his chest, her voice barely a whisper. “I wasn’t supposed to feel like this.”

Elijah’s hand stroked her back, slow and gentle. “Me neither,” he murmured. “But I ain’t lettin’ you go now. Not again.”

“You don’t even know me.”

He looked down at her, eyes dark and honest. “I know enough. I know your voice makes the world stop. I know you drink whiskey straight but kiss like honey. I know I been missin’ you for two years and it ain’t never stopped.”

She looked up at him, lips parted. Her heart beat too fast.

“Elijah…”

“I don’t want no one else touchin’ you,” he said. “No one else hearin’ those songs like I do.”

Eboni bit her lip, her voice shaking. “Then make me yours.”He leaned in and kissed her again, slow and deep. “I already did.”

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