#elias stack moore

[snailsfall]

I’m no better than a man

[tojisteddy]

He thinks you’re the most beautiful person in the world.

That’s what comes to mind since the first day he’s known you.

You’re the calm to his storm, the reason he has peace of mind. He finds your giggles to be the most harmonious song he’s ever heard.

And it’s not just the sparkle in your brown eyes from the sunset, or the streetlights and neon lights that pass through them, no, it’s the way you look at him with nothing but understanding. You take in every single word he says, be it one word answers or long on going sentences. And he does the same for you. Encouraging as you get embarrassed, looking away as the heat builds under your skin.

There are plenty of nights where you to just cruise around the city in his car, talking about anything. Some nights more serious than others, a much needed escape from home. Some nights just for 15 minutes, others for hours. Time together are filled with head nodding to the music, smoking weed and laughter. Ghost of smiles and blushes, stealing kisses and spilled fast food and silly jokes— his hand gripping your thigh like a vice. Admiring you in the corner of his eye because he truly can’t stop staring at you, Your seat all the way back, the windows down, that big smile on your face, eyes closed, singing the lyrics to Nights by Frank Ocean like a hymn because that’s what this was for the both of you.

Bliss, joy, and chaos— everything.

Even on the nights where you’d spend the car ride yelling at each other. Angry tears leaving your eyes as you hop out the car, and maybe he has to throw you back in. Slapping his back in frustration. But he reminds you that you to were meant to be, and that’s you can’t let the bullshit get in between the two of you. That he’s there for you, and will always be there for you.

So he fucks you slow in the back of the car, in the shade of an empty parking lot, steam filling the windows. His hands roam over your body through the dim moon light, remembering every curve on your body, every little thing that makes you twitch, that makes your messy cunt ache. Your hands clawing at his back as he fucks you like it’s the last time, loving you passionately as the car rocks.

But it’ll never be the last time, because a love like this is forever.

He’ll cup your face in his hands, pressing your foreheads together,

“You know I’ll take care of you, don’t you?”

And you nod because you know it’ll always be true.

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ Toji, Smoke, Stack, Gaz, Rafe, Gojo, Suguru, Eren, Sukuna.

a/n: it only made sense to post this at night. This is so college/post graduation coded.

[aniahvol3]

whose goddamn white baby is that

if smoke and stack decided to let remmick in, i feel like his white ass would step through the door, there would be a record scratch, and then everybody in the juke joint would look at him like this:

[mileenaxyz]

🤦🏽‍♀️🤦🏽‍♀️🤦🏽‍♀️

[vaultkween]

STACK - Behind The Scenes of Sinners

[oneiric-wanderlust]

Sweet little Sammie trying to subdue his urge to fight an old man.

[bella-donnass]

I’m sorry ?! Bert and Joan are literally Klan members ! And like you said Remmick literally forced Mary and Stack to hurt the people they care and love! I- I -I don’t even have any words for this. It’s already bad enough that there’s not enough Mary and Stack fics nor Annie and Smoke fics on ao3 but you are really pushing this whole white intsert reader thing or even black/other race reader being ship with Remmick of all people but I have to deal with the incest twincest fics too. A girl is tired y’all.

THIS IS THE SHIT IM TALKING ABOUT

Joan and Bert “My beloved vampires” Need I say more about this post?

They were literal racist klan members. They were not “slapped upside till they understood equality.” They were under remmick’s control. He forcibly made them “unracist.” Just like he made stack and Mary attack their loved ones; something that they would never do.

joan and Bert made no efforts to change their racist ideals before Remmick took control of them, and I bet if they had survived the night and gained consciousness once again they still would have been racist.

Also, let’s talk about how you make them these uwu people instead of the idiot racists they are.

[APPARENTLY THIS PERSON IS BLACK WTF]

[chromehoney]

“I GIVE MY ALL.” chap one,

THE SUN WAS SITTIN’ LOW IN THE mississippi delta, but the heat hadn’t let up none. It clung to your skin like syrup, thick and slow, curling into your lungs every time you breathed deep. The sky was the color of a blister — swollen pink and orange, humming with crickets and the soft, near-constant roll of thunder out west that never seemed to arrive.

You pulled off your headscarf and fanned yourself, wiping the sweat from the back of your neck. The town looked the same as it did when you left. Hell, maybe even worse off. Boards warped. Brick faded. Paint peeled like dried petals off windowsills. Men still posted up outside the barber’s with toothpicks and silence. Women watched from shaded porches, fans in hand, suspicion behind their eyes. Nothing stayed secret in Clarksdale, not for long.

Except maybe why you’d really come back.

Everybody thought it was guilt that brought you home. And maybe that was part of it. But truth was, your mama needed someone. And you were all she had left.

She didn’t always know your name now. Sometimes she’d stare right through you, her gaze floating above your head like she was searchin’ for something lost in the rafters.

The doctors didn’t know what to call it. Said her mind was “slippin’.” Offered pills in dusty little bottles and shrugged their shoulders when things got worse. You’d stopped giving her the medicine after the third night she woke up screamin’. Said somebody was tryin’ to drown her in the kitchen sink. You didn’t know much — but you knew your mama didn’t deserve to leave this world scared.

That’s what brought you here.

Moore’s Herbs & Remedies.

The wood sign above the shop had half the paint scraped off, and the windows were clouded with age, but the place had a feel to it. Alive. Heavy. Like something watched you from inside, quiet and patient, waitin’ for you to knock.

You stepped onto the porch. The air smelled like smoked pine and cinnamon bark. And a hint of fresh sex. Somewhere nearby, somebody was burning something low — sweetgrass or maybe sage. The screen door creaked open on its own when you touched it, and a little bell above the frame let out a tired jingle.

Inside, it was cool and dim. Dark wood floors. Shelves lined with bottles and jars labeled in faded ink. Dried bundles of herbs hung from the beams — chamomile, hyssop, lavender, rosemary tied with red twine.

And them.

Annie Moore stood behind the counter, laughing low, one hand on the edge of the wooden shelf, the other adjusting the collar of her dress. Her skin glowed like honey left out in the sun — golden, deep, and soft in the lamplight. Her lips were pink and parted like she’d just finished saying something sinful.

Her coils were a little messy. Her cheeks were flushed. And you’d swear on your grandmama’s grave that her dress was buttoned one snap too low. Behind her, leaned against the doorframe like a shadow made flesh, was Smoke Moore.

The stories didn’t do him justice.

Broad. Silent. Built like a tree. He didn’t blink when you walked in. Didn’t move either. Just looked at you. And kept looking. Not fast or greedy. Just… heavy. Measured. Like he was reading something on your face that even you didn’t know was there. And that stare made your fingers tighten around the basket on your arm.

Annie turned her eyes on you like a spotlight — slow and deliberate. The smile she gave you was dangerous. Not loud or obvious. But sharp. Smooth like polished stone and just as cold around the edges.

“Well now,” she said, voice like warm tea with too much bourbon in it. “You lookin’ for something, sweetheart? Or you just here to window shop?”

Your throat felt dry. “I’m— I was just…”

She stepped closer. You caught the scent of her then — cloves, rose oil, and a whisper of smoke. Her eyes dipped once, quick, from your mouth to your waist, then back again. “What can I help you with today?”

You felt your cheeks flush, but you didn’t look away. Smoke still hadn’t said a word. Still hadn’t moved. Just watched. Quiet, but heavy. Like thunder waiting in the clouds. Annie stepped up to the counter, wiping her hands on her skirt. You took a small breath.

“I’m lookin’ for something that might help… with rest. For somebody who’s… older. Mind ain’t quite what it used to be. The doctors got her on things, but they ain’t workin’. Not really. Makes her worse.”

Annie didn’t ask who.

Didn’t need to.

Instead, she turned to the shelves behind her and started gathering things — a jar of skullcap, a pouch of passionflower, a few threads of wild lettuce sap, and something so dark and twisted it looked like it’d grown from a grave. You watched her work, the way her fingers moved. Careful. Confident. She knew what she was doing. And she knew you were watching.

“She sleepin’ through the night?” Annie asked casually, not turning around. ���Sometimes. But it’s like… she don’t really sleep. Just drifts. Don’t recognize me in the morning.”

Annie nodded like she’d heard it before. “This tea won’t fix her. Nothin’ I got in here can. But it’ll quiet the fear. Ease her muscles. Give her body some peace while her mind wanders.”

You swallowed. “That’s all I need.”

When she turned back around, she handed you a brown paper pouch. But her fingers lingered — warm against your palm. She looked at you like she already knew the kind of grief you carried. Not the kind that made you cry. The kind that sat in your chest, heavy, dull, always whispering that worse was coming.

“That’ll last a week. Come back if you need more.” Then softer — but unmistakably close, like she wanted only you to hear it — “Or if you just wanna come back.” You blinked. Felt your cheeks heat. You weren’t used to being looked at like that. Not by women like her. Not while her husband was just feet away, watching.

You glanced over your shoulder. Smoke still hadn’t said a word. But he was staring so hard, it felt like his eyes were under your dress. He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t do anything but look. You adjusted your basket, then giving her money for the things and nodded at them both, trying not to let your knees tremble. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” Annie tilted her head, smile still playing at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t be a stranger.”

You left the shop, the bell tinkling behind you. The sun had dipped lower now, burning the sky orange-red. The wind picked up, warm and thick, and you swore you could still smell Annie’s scent clinging to your skin.

When you got back to the house, your mama was in her rocker on the porch. Humming a hymn. Staring off into the trees like she was waiting on someone who hadn’t been alive in years.

You sat beside her and brewed the tea.

And as the night rolled in and the moon climbed high, you watched your mama finally drift into sleep without twitchin’ or murmurin’. Her breathing slow. Her hands still. You held the mug in your lap. Warm, fragrant. Your chest tight with a grief that hadn’t come yet, but you knew was on the way. And all you could think about was the look in Annie Moore’s eyes. And the weight of Smoke’s silence behind her.

@cursed-carmine for the dividers.

i hope yk this takes place after smoke left annie for seven years… so ofc the next chapter will include annie playing a little hard to get with smoke!!!!

they both so far gone and don’t even realize it like damnnnn , smoke eying her up and then annie flirting and shittt😛😛. i haven’t decided if i wanna slow burn this or not.. should i???

btw! a actual smoke and annie fic without a reader — just them two will be coming out soon. been working on it for some days and i think yall gone like it.

@thickianaaaa @missramea @thebumblebeesworld @yallsuck-00 @junkie05 @brownsuugahh @pinkkycherrish @nervoussongengineer @nanak0matsux @caramelplug @tnychellee @chrome-edition @d1gitalb4rbie

[ridingreeves]

𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁*𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾*𝖬𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗑 𝖲𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－Smoke Moore cheated on the kindest girl he ever had—with the one girl who hated her most. She left without a scene, healed quietly, and showed up to the block party glowing. Surrounded by love, she didn’t look his way once. And as Smoke watched her slip further from his reach, he realized too late—he’d lost something he’d never find again.

𝖠／𝖭－ 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾

You always knew Smoke Moore wasn’t the easiest man to love.

He had this heat to him—sharp and sudden, like summer pavement burning the soles of your feet if you stood still too long. He was cold, dangerous, maddening, and magnetic. But even with all that, he was your soft spot. Your once-in-a-lifetime. The kind of man you loved with your whole chest, knowing damn well he could set the whole thing on fire.

Smoke had that kind of presence that made a room feel too small when he walked in. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to have everyone’s attention—he just had that heat about him. Quiet. Smoldering. Dangerous. People stayed out of his way, except you.

Because you…

You were kind in a way the world had tried to beat out of you.

You stayed soft, even when people gave you every reason not to be.

And you loved Smoke with the kind of love that was steady.

Unconditional. Unselfish.

You loved him through his moods. You were the quiet one in his world. Sweet. Always kind. Never raised your voice, never tried to tame him. That was never your goal. You just wanted to love him. Fully. Patiently. And he let you. Let you in farther than he had ever let anyone.

He used to tell you you were “the nicest thing in his life.”

He said it like a confession, like it scared him.

You were loyal to a fault. The kind of girl who baked for his brother, remembered birthdays, smiled even when she was tired.

⸻

But nice girls like you never see it coming.

Not until it’s already too late.

⸻

It started with little things.

Shorter conversations. Longer nights out. Missed calls. Cold shoulders.

You knew something was off—you just didn’t want to believe it.

Eyes heavy, jaw tight. Smelling like perfume that wasn’t yours. Wearing guilt like it was stitched into the seams of his clothes. You asked him if everything was okay, and he barely looked at you when he said, “Yeah. Just tired.”

But you weren’t stupid.

You felt it. The shift. The absence.

His love started dripping instead of pouring. He wasn’t cruel—not at first. Just… distant. You’d kiss him and he wouldn’t kiss you back the same. You’d touch him and he’d flinch like he forgot what your hands felt like.

And then it happened.

Your best friend told you first. She didn’t want to, but she couldn’t stand watching you stay in the dark.

“She’s been posting about him. Nia.”

Nia.

Of all people.

The girl who always talked slick about you, who never liked you from the start. The one who’d smirk when you walked into a room, who used to mess with Stack and swore up and down, Smoke wasn’t “your type anyway.” She was petty and loud and bitter—and she hated how soft Smoke got when you were around.

And now she had him.

You didn’t believe it at first. You wanted to give him the chance to explain..

You sat across from him at the kitchen table, hands shaking, voice soft.

“Are you sleeping with her?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the table like it had the words he didn’t want to say.

“Smoke,” you whispered, “please don’t lie to me.”

He looked up, jaw tight.

“…Yeah. I did.”

And in that moment, your world cracked.

It wasn’t just that he cheated.

It was who he chose to betray you with.

It was the girl who hated you the most, now holding the heart you’d thought was yours.

“How long?”

He didn’t lie. Didn’t bother.

“Couple weeks.”

A couple weeks. While you were home making dinner, texting him reminders to stay safe, folding his damn laundry. While you were loving him the best way you knew how.

You blinked through the tears, heart beating in your ears.

“Do you love her?”

He shook his head too fast. “Nah. I was mad. I was drunk. It just happened—”

“You let it happen,” you cut in, your voice breaking. “You let her touch what was mine.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but there was nothing he could say that would unbreak you.

⸻

You left.

You didn’t pack much—just enough to get through the night. You didn’t slam the door. You didn’t scream. That wasn’t your way. You cried in silence in the back of your friend’s car while the city blurred past you.

You told yourself it was just a mistake.

But mistakes don’t post pictures in his hoodie.

They don’t tag him under thirst traps.

They don’t smile in your face at parties like they didn’t help burn your home down.

⸻

Nia made it her mission to be seen. Loud and proud. Letting everybody know she had him now.

“She’s a good girl,” she said to you one night when y’all crossed paths in the club, fake laughing in front of her friends. “But he needed a real woman.”

You didn’t say a word. You just stared back, holding your drink with both hands so it wouldn’t slip.

You weren’t made for moments like that.

You were made for warmth. For quiet mornings. For soft love.

Not for games, not for drama, not for public humiliation.

But life didn’t care what you were made for.

It dragged you through it anyway.

You cried hard that night. Ugly, breathless sobs into your pillow, wondering what more you could’ve done. Wondering why being gentle wasn’t enough. Why loving someone so good didn’t keep them from hurting you.

⸻

Smoke didn’t reach out for weeks.

Not until you blocked him. Not until you started to disappear. That’s when he showed up.

At your door. Hoodie on. Eyes tired. Guilt all over his face.

“I messed up,” he said.

You just stared.

He stepped forward. “You were the only person who saw me—the real me. The one I don’t show nobody. You didn’t deserve that. I was scared. I felt like I was breaking and you were just… too good.”

You swallowed hard, voice quiet.

“So you broke me instead.”

Silence.

“I don’t want her,” he said. “I want—”

“You had me.”

You looked him in the eye, tears in your eyes. “And you threw me to the one person you knew would love watching me suffer.”

He exhaled, rubbing his face. “I can’t take it back—”

“No,” you cut him off, stepping back into your apartment. “But you can leave.”

You closed the door before he could say another word.

And then you sobbed. For all the good you gave. For all the quiet nights and small moments and homemade meals and unconditional love that went unappreciated.

⸻

You were the kindest girl Smoke Moore had ever known.

And he let a bitter, jealous girl touch what was meant to be yours.

One day, he’d feel the weight of that loss.

But by then, you’d be long gone.

And someone else—someone better—would hold your heart the way it always deserved to be held.

Soft. Gentle. Safe.

Because being nice was never your weakness.

It was your superpower.

He just never deserved it.

⸻

Summer came around again, just like it always did.

The block was loud. Kids ran through open hydrants. Grills were smoking. The block was alive—music blasting, people dancing, plates of food being passed around.

You didn’t even want to come.

But your friends convinced you. Said you deserved a day to be seen. Said healing looked good on you, and it did. The pain was still there, soft and tucked behind your ribs, but you were moving forward now. Smiling more. Laughing again. You had finally learned how to carry the ache without letting it consume you.

Sundress. Gold hoops. Braids done. You weren’t trying hard—you never had to. That smile alone made people look twice. You walked in with your friends, drink in hand, greeting people with hugs and soft laughs, and you didn’t look in his direction once.

And across the block, Smoke saw you.

He hadn’t seen you in months. Not since the night you closed the door on him. Not since he realized he could never undo what he did.

Now, there you were.

You didn’t look angry. Didn’t even look at him. You looked happy. Surrounded by people who were glad to see you, sipping your drink with lip gloss shining, smiling at something your friend whispered in your ear.

Smoke’s stomach twisted.

“She came?” he muttered, almost under his breath.

His cousin Sammie turned toward him with raised brows, sipping Hennessy in a cup. “Why wouldn’t she? She from the block too. You don’t own the whole street, Smoke.”

His brother Stack leaned back against a fence, eyes scanning the scene. “Damn,” he said with a low whistle. “She look good. Real good. That new glow hit different.”

Stack looked at smoke and snickered, “She thriving. And you over here with Nia the Gremlin attached to your damn hip.”

“Chill, Stack.”

“No, you chill. ’Cause I know you ain’t think she wasn’t gon’ show up. This her block too. She probably helped plan this whole sh*t. Ain’t nobody hiding from you.”

Smoke stayed quiet, jaw clenched.

Stack kept going.

“Nah, I love this for her. She out here shining while you stuck with this wanna be influencer.’ Look at you. Sad as hell under them damn shades.”

Sammie bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Smoke didn’t laugh.

Stack cut him a look. “You know Nia gon’ act up, right? She clocked her the second she stepped out that car.”

And sure enough—there she was.

Nia.

Clinging to Smoke’s arm like it was her full-time job, dressed too loud, eyes already burning holes through your dress. She whispered something in Smoke’s ear and kissed his cheek, hard and fast, all while staring at you from across the way.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn your head. Didn’t blink.

You just laughed at something your friend said, sipped your drink, and kept dancing like you were finally free.

Stack smirked and nudged Smoke. “Nigga. You see that? She ain’t even LOOK over here. You ain’t even a memory no more—you a ghost.”

Smoke didn’t respond. He was watching you now—completely. That ache in his chest spreading. You were everything soft he’d ever known, and now you were everything he couldn’t reach.

Sammie saw it too.

He shifted his drink. “She petty as hell for that. Ain’t nobody think that girl won, bro. She just loud.”

Smoke pulled his arm away gently, jaw tight. “Chill out.”

But Nia wasn’t letting go. Not with you glowing like that a few feet away.

You didn’t look over at them once. You didn’t need to. You felt her eyes. Felt the tension. But you kept laughing. Kept being you. Sweet, classy, untouchable. Unbothered on the outside, even if your chest still ached in places you didn’t talk about.

Stack leaned into Smoke, dropping his voice. Holding a laugh

“You gon’ keep lettin’ her play in your face like that? Like she proud of helpin’ you fumble, the only girl that ever really held you down?”

Smoke clenched his jaw, staring at you like you were a ghost.

Stack stepped back, still laughing. “You really let Nia fumble your whole legacy. You fumbled heaven. You was held like royalty and traded it for… that.”

Sammie spoke up. “Man, leave him alone.”

“No,” Stack grinned. “He need to sit in this. Look at him. Look at that sad little puppy face. Pitiful.”

Smoke muttered under his breath, “Stack, chill before I swing on you.”

Stack just laughed harder. “Swing on me for what? I ain’t the one who cheated on the nicest girl in the damn city with your ex’s biggest hater. You brought this clown parade to town.”

Sammie lifted his cup. “She really do look happy, though. That peace hit different when it ain’t with you no more.”

Smoke kept his eyes on you.

You were on a porch swing now, leaning into your friend, laughing again.

Stack shook his head and clicked his tongue. “You know what the truth is? She really loved you, bruh. And now she out here loving herself. You ain’t even a footnote in her story no more.”

Smoke finally said, low, broken. “I ain’t never gonna find that again.”

Stack looked at him sideways. “Nope. And she ain’t lookin’ back neither.”

“She ain’t hiding from you, Smoke,” Sammie said. “You the one duckin’ her shadow.”

⸻

That night, when the block quieted and people started heading home, you walked past Smoke once. Just once.

Your perfume hit him like a memory.

But you didn’t even glance his way.

Stack clapped him on the back, grinning wide. “That’s the sound of a door slammin’. And you locked out forever, Nigga.”

Smoke didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because in the end, all he could do was stand there…

And watch the kindest girl he ever had keep walking.

Without him.

And for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

Stack sighed beside him. Lit a blunt. Took a long drag before speaking.

“You miss her, huh?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Sammie walked up, eyes serious. “You ever tell her you sorry? For real, not that  shit you pulled on her doorstep?”

“She don’t wanna hear from me.”

Stack looked at him hard. “She shouldn’t. You broke the nicest girl I ever seen. You gave her away to that girl who been wantin’ to be her since high school.”

Smoke swallowed.

“I know.”

But it didn’t matter anymore.

Because the way you looked now—the ease in your shoulders, the light in your eyes—told him everything he needed to know.

You weren’t his anymore.

And the worst part?

He still loved you with everything in him.

But his love came too late.

And no matter how many block parties he showed up to, how many times he watched you from a distance, he knew deep in his gut

You were gone.

And Nia? She could never make him forget you.

[dxddykenn]

Still here

[rtfics]

For the life of me, even after seeing how they did it, I can't believe how they made Michael B. Jordan being both twins look so fucking, perfectly seamless.

Last time I seen my brother. Last time I seen the sun. And just for a few hours, we was free.

SINNERS (2025), dir. Ryan Coogler.

[ceaseriaswonderland]

creeping in the light

It’s been decades since Elias has seen the sun, felt the warmth of the light. He meets Angeline, a woman whose aura sounds like the soothing lulling sounds of the moon. New in town she radiates light and everyone wants a piece. their isn’t a certain time period but it’s modern

@uzmacchiato for the banner above

[cinnamonlouu]

Ruin me softly

Stack x black!Reader

The second you open the door, Stack pushes past you like he owns the air you breathe.

“Why’d you block me?”

You don’t answer. You shut the door gently behind you.

He turns to face you finally, chest rising hard under his black thermal. “Answer me.”

“I needed space.”

“Space?” He steps closer. “I gave you three days.”

“And that wasn’t enough?”

“For me?” He laughs, short and cruel. “Not even close. You disappear, block my number, ignore me like you’re untouchable. Like you didn’t spend the last month in my bed with your mouth around my dick and crying my name .”

Your breath catches. Heat floods your face. He sees it and smirks, but it’s joyless.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low now. “You remember.”

“Don’t start,” you say, but even you don’t believe your own plea. Your thighs press together.

“Don’t start what?” He stalks forward, fingers trailing up your arm. “Make you admit you like how crazy I get over you? That it makes you wet when I show up like this, jealous and out of my mind?”

“Elias”

“Say my name again,” he snaps, grabbing your jaw, angling your face to meet his. “Soft like that. Just once.”

“Elias,” you whisper.

His eyes close like it physically hurts him.

“I hate you” he says, voice trembling, hand slipping down your throat. “I hate you but I’ll kill any nigga about, with me or not.”

His words wrap around you. Twisted, raw, true. You try to speak but he kisses you before you can.

His mouth devours yours, teeth scraping your lip, tongue rough and fast. One arm locks around your waist, lifting you, pressing you against the nearest wall .

You moan into him.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants against your throat, already pulling your shirt up, hands sliding under to grip bare skin. “Say it.”

You don’t.

You yank his shirt over his head. His muscles flex under your palms like steel cords, tattooed and scarred, warm and yours. You hate that your body aches for him the second he touches you.

Raw. Desperate. And Completely out of control.

He grabs your chin again, tilting your face. “Eyes on me.”

He unbuttons your shorts with one hand, never breaking the stare. “You been thinking about me, baby?” His voice drops, softer now. “Been touching wats mine? Thinking about my mouth between your thighs?”

You don’t answer. He slaps your thigh, hard.

“Speak.”

“Yes” you gasp.

A crooked smile.

“Good girl.”

He drops to his knees.

Your shorts and panties are yanked down in one rough pull, and you barely get a breath before his mouth is on you. He licks you like he’s starving, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you.

You fist his hair, moaning, legs trembling. His tongue slides deep, curling up, lips wrapping around your clit like he’s drinking from you.

You’re so close your knees buckle. He holds you there, steady with your legs on his shoulders, middle finger sliding into your pussy slow, wet, easy.

You cry out.

“Cum on my face, baby,” he murmurs. “Come on. I need it.”

You break apart like glass in a scream, thighs clamping around his head, hips rocking against his mouth.

When he stands, his chin is slick, lips swollen. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand .

“Turn around,” he says hoarsely. “Bend over the couch.”

You do.

You hear the zip of his jeans. And then he’s pushing in, thick and unrelenting, hands on your hips.

“Pussy knows it’s mine.”

He bottoms out into you hard, wanting to ruin you for any man that you even think about, to drill into you that he’s the only who will please you.

You cry out, gripping the cushions, your back arching with every thrust.

“Tell me you missed me. That no one fucks you like I do.”

You sob, half-ashamed and half-drunk on pleasure. “Yes—yes—I missed you”

He leans over your back, hand gripping your throat again, thumb stroking your pulse. “Say my name baby.”

“Elias.”

He slams in once, twice, and you feel him losing control his thrusts rougher now, sloppy, deeper.

The way he holds you turns frantic, hands wrapping around you pulling you up, mouth immediately makingcontact with your neck, he licks the crease of your neck biting down, so desperate he’s shaking.

“Fuck- I hate you” he rasps into your ear.

“I love you.”

He stills.

And when he speaks again, it’s not a man fucking you — it’s a man breaking.

“Don’t say nothing you don’t mean.” His voice cracks.

Your breath catches.

You whisper, “I don’t.”

He slams into you again with a guttural cry, fucking you harder than before, faster, rougher — and he means it. He means every inch. He means every grip of your hips, every growl of your name, every slap of skin and every soft “mine” in your ear.

“Say it back to me” you moan reaching back pulling him closer. “Elias tell me baby”

“I love you” you lean you head back kissing him tongues dancing saliva coating your lips.

You cum again, body shattering, choking on his name.

He follows seconds later, moaning deep in his throat, burying himself in you as his body shakes with the force of it.

Silence.

Just breath. Sweat. The whimper of worn-out lungs and the shake of frayed nerves.

He pulls out slowly, kisses your shoulder once soft, reverent then helps you onto the couch.

Neither of you says another word.

But when Stack’s fingers tighten around yours, something about it feels permanent.

[vaultkween]

I love his laugh 😂😍

Behind The Scenes of Sinners

[keraiiszn]

​🇼​​🇭​​🇪​​🇳​ ​🇭​​🇪​​🇦​​🇻​​🇪​​🇳​ ​🇧​​🇱​​🇪​​🇪​​🇩​​🇸​

ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴀᴄᴋ x ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

Chicago, 1934

The platform groaned under the weight of travelers, steel wheels screeching as the night train rolled in under the dim haze of streetlamps and pipe smoke. Elijah stood by the edge, calloused hands shoved deep in his trench coat pockets, shadows clinging to him like memory.

Two years. Two years since the crash. Two years since they told him you died screaming his name.

The telegram came soaked in rainwater and grief. "Unrecoverable." "No remains." "We're sorry." But sorry don't bring back the woman who used to trace his scars with her fingertips and whisper "I love every broken piece of you." Sorry don't fill the empty chair at the kitchen table or silence the phantom sound of your laughter echoing through rooms that now felt like a tomb.

Every morning, Elijah would wake up dying. His body would jolt awake, arm reaching across the bed for warmth that would never come again. The sheets had long since lost your scent, but he'd kept that pillowcase—the one you'd pressed your face into during your last fever when you were eight months pregnant, delirious and calling for your mama who'd been dead ten years.

"Don't leave me, Elijah," you'd whispered that night, hands clutching his shirt. "Promise me you won't leave me."

He'd kissed your forehead, tasted the salt of your tears. "Never, baby girl. I ain't goin' nowhere."

But you left instead. And you took his unborn child with you.

The baby. Jesus, the baby. They said you were pregnant when the train derailed. Said you probably died trying to protect the life growing inside you. Elijah had never even gotten to feel the baby kick, never got to sing lullabies to your belly, never got to be a father.

Two lives stolen. Two dreams buried.

He'd started drinking that first month. Not to forget—God knows he never wanted to forget—but to numb the part of his soul that kept bleeding. The boys at the rail yard would find him passed out in the supply shed, your wedding photo clutched in his fist, tears dried on his cheeks like salt tracks on barren earth.

"You gotta let her go, Smoke," his foreman had said. "She's with the angels now."

But Elijah knew better. Angels don't weep. Angels don't wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Angels don't carry pieces of their heart in their pocket like broken glass.

He'd quit drinking after he tried to throw himself in front of the 6:15 freight train. Not because he wanted to live—Lord knows he didn't—but because he heard your voice in the wind, begging him to stay. "Live for me, Elijah. Live for the love we had."

So he lived. Barely. Like a ghost haunting his own life.

Every night after work, he'd come to this platform. Same time. Same spot. Watching trains arrive and depart, carrying other people's hopes and dreams while his lay buried in an empty grave. Sometimes he'd see a woman with your walk, your grace, your gentle way of moving through the world, and his heart would leap like a man grabbing for a rope while drowning. But it was never you. Never you.

The wedding ring hung on a chain around his neck, close to his heart. He'd bought it with money he'd saved for eight months, working double shifts and eating nothing but bread and beans. You'd cried when he proposed, said it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. Now it felt like a shackle around his neck, a reminder of promises that death had torn apart.

Then he saw you.

Across the tracks, holding the hand of a little boy no older than two. His eyes—Elijah saw them before he even saw you. Big, brown, defiant. Like looking in a mirror made of stars. Like looking at his own daddy, who'd died when Elijah was just a boy.

Those eyes. Sweet Jesus, those eyes. They were his eyes. His daddy's eyes. The eyes he'd prayed his son would have.

And then, you.

Alive.

Hair wrapped in a soft blue scarf—the same shade as the dress you wore the night he proposed under the magnolia tree behind his mama's house. Coat too thin for Chicago wind, but your hand was steady on the child's back. Your eyes darted nervously, scanning the crowd like a deer sensing wolves. You looked older now, worn down by whatever hell you'd walked through. But it was you. Every line of your face, every gentle curve, every graceful movement that had made him fall in love when he was seventeen and stupid and brave enough to believe love could conquer anything.

You were thinner now, paler, with lines around your eyes that hadn't been there before. But unmistakably you. The woman who'd danced with him at church socials. The woman who'd held his hand when his mama died. The woman who'd whispered "I do" through tears of joy while his cousins played guitar and the whole world felt like it was singing.

Smoke's knees buckled. The world tilted, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse right there on the platform. His chest felt like it was caving in, like every breath he'd taken for two years had been stolen, counterfeit, meaningless.

The boy—his son, he knew it in his bones, in his blood, in every prayer he'd ever whispered—clung to your leg. Those eyes. His eyes. The same defiant, soulful brown passed down from his father and his father before him. A curl to the mouth when he pouted. The stubborn set of his chin, just like Smoke when he didn't want to eat his greens as a child. This wasn't coincidence. This was blood. Beautiful. Perfect. The child he'd mourned before he'd ever gotten to hold him.

Elijah took a step forward, tears already streaming down his face. You stepped back, instinctively pulling the child closer.

"Elijah?"

The voice behind him made him freeze. A voice he'd grown up with, fought with, loved despite everything.

Elias.

His baby brother. Trench collar turned up, jaw clenched, coat dusted with snow. That boy still couldn't wear guilt without it eating him alive from the inside.

Smoke turned slow, two years of grief and rage and unbearable loneliness crashing over him like a tsunami.

"You said you was takin' trips. Said you was doin' deliveries for the rail line," Elijah growled, voice raw and broken. "But you out here bein' a snake in the grass?"

"Wait—" Elias started, but Smoke was already falling apart.

"You knew." The words came out strangled, torn from the deepest part of his chest where he'd buried his heart. "You knew she was alive. That's my son. My wife. My family. And you—" Smoke shoved him hard in the chest, years of betrayal and anguish behind the push. "How you gon' steal your brother's whole life?!"

"You lied to me," Smoke rasped, voice cracking from the inside out. "You said she died. You let me think my baby died."

Elias shook his head slowly, eyes already swimming with tears. "I didn't know at first. Not for months. She woke up in a clinic two states over. No name, no memory. Just... a baby in her arms. A miracle baby, they said."

Smoke's knees buckled. "She was still pregnant—she was still pregnant when they said she died—"

"She gave birth after the crash," Elias said softly. "Early. Hurt. Barely breathing. She went into labor in the woods. Someone found her and got her help. They didn't know who she was. Neither did she."

Elijah staggered backward like he'd been shot. "And you never told me. You found her. You found my son and didn't tell me—"

"I couldn't," Elias shouted. "She didn't remember you, Elijah! She woke up screaming, bruised, half-conscious, and wouldn't let no man near that baby unless he was quiet and kind. I had to earn their trust. I had to keep her safe. She didn't know me—but she trusted me just enough not to run."

"She's my wife!" Smoke roared. "That's my son! You had no right to—"

"I gave up everything for her," Elias said, voice cracking. "I watched your son take his first steps. I held him when he cried for someone he didn't know he missed. But I never once let him call me 'Daddy.' Not once."

Smoke's legs gave out. He hit the platform hard, knees scraping against concrete, falling to his knees in front of you. "I've missed it all," he sobbed. "His first word. First tooth. First laugh. I missed everything."

You looked down at Elijah — a stranger who somehow knew your soul — and then back at the boy.

"What's his name?" Elijah asked, barely holding himself together.

You hesitated. "Elias named him. Said it was after someone I loved."

Smoke looked up at his brother, who nodded solemnly.

"I named him Elijah," you whispered. "He said... you would've wanted that."

And just like that, the dam inside Elijah broke.

"That's my son," he cried, reaching out a trembling hand toward the boy. "That's my son. My boy."

The child looked up at you, questioning. You nodded once, gently.

The boy took a tentative step forward. Then another.

"Are you really my daddy?" he asked, voice shy.

"I am," Elijah choked. "I swear to God, I am. And I'm sorry it took me so long to come home."

The boy touched his hand.

And that was all it took.

Smoke looked past him, back to you. You were watching now, eyes wide with something that might have been recognition. The boy was pressed against your side, thumb in his mouth, watching his father break apart like a man made of glass.

"She had another baby," Smoke said, voice hollow. "After."

"She don't know who the father is," Elias said quietly. "She was... she was hurt bad after the crash. Someone took advantage. But she loves that boy like he's her own blood."

"He is," Smoke said, struggling to his feet. "He's hers. That makes him mine."

You were moving now, walking toward them with slow, careful steps. The boy stayed close to your side, but he wasn't hiding anymore. You stopped just a few feet away, close enough that Smoke could see the tears in your eyes.

"Elijah?" you said, voice uncertain but warming. "I know that name. I know your face."

His heart stopped, then started again, beating so hard he thought it might kill him.

"I dream about you," you whispered. "About brown eyes and gentle hands and someone who sang to me when I was scared. Someone who made me feel safe."

"That was me," Smoke whispered back, voice thick with two years of unshed tears. "That was always me, baby girl."

"I remember..." you said, hand going to your temple. "A garden. And dancing. And being so happy I thought I might die from it. Were we...?"

"We were married," Smoke said, and the words came out broken. "Three years. Best three years of my life. You were... you were everything good in this world."

The boy looked up at you, then at Smoke, then back at you. "Mama, why are you crying?"

"Because..." you said, then looked at Smoke with something like wonder. "Because I remember love. Real love. The kind that doesn't die even when everything else does."

"I never stopped," Smoke whispered. "Even when they told me you were dead, I never stopped loving you. I couldn't. It would've killed me."

"I felt it," you said, stepping closer. "In my dreams. In my heart. I felt someone loving me even when I couldn't remember who I was."

"Can I..." Smoke started, then stopped, afraid to ask for too much, afraid to hope.

"Can you what?" you whispered.

"Can I hold you? Just for a minute? I been dreamin' about holdin' you for so long I thought I was goin' crazy."

You nodded, and when he opened his arms, you stepped into them like you belonged there. Like you'd never left. And maybe, in the ways that mattered most, you hadn't.

Smoke buried his face in your hair, breathing in the scent of you, alive and real and here. His whole body was shaking, two years of grief and longing and unbearable love pouring out of him like a dam bursting.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you. I'm so sorry I let you go."

"You didn't let me go," you whispered back. "You kept me alive. Your love kept me alive even when I didn't know why I was fighting."

The boy watched, and slowly, carefully, he reached out and touched Smoke's hand.

"Are you my daddy?" he asked, voice small but trusting.

Smoke looked down at him—this beautiful child who'd grown up without a father, who'd been born from someone else's violence but raised by your love—and his heart broke open in the best possible way.

"I want to be," he whispered. "If you'll let me."

The boy studied his face for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay. But I don't know your name."

"Elijah," Smoke said, voice thick with tears. "But you can call me Daddy if you want."

"Daddy," the boy said, testing the word. Then, louder, with a smile that lit up the whole platform: "Daddy!"

And Smoke broke apart and came back together all at once.

"Yeah, son," he whispered, pulling both of you close. "I'm your daddy. And I ain't never lettin' either of you go again."

The train whistle blew, but for the first time in two years, Smoke didn't watch it leave. He had everything he needed right here in his arms.

His family. His heart. His reason for living.

Home had found him at last.

But as he held you both, he felt something else—a deep, bone-deep gratitude to his brother, who'd given up his own life to keep yours safe. Who'd loved you both enough to bring you home.

"Thank you," he whispered to Elias over your head. "Thank you for bringin' them back to me."

Elias nodded, tears streaming down his face. "She was never mine to keep, brother. She was always yours. I was just... keepin' her safe until you found each other again."

And as the four of you stood there on that platform—two brothers, a woman remembering love, and a boy who'd just found his father—the whole world felt like it was singing.

Like heaven itself was weeping tears of joy.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

@queenofklonnie22, @plan3tch1ld, @lizbehave, @vintigepimpzinio, @tnychellee, @nanamiismine

[thebumblebeesworld]

WHILE • AWAY

part six • modern!au annie x smoke (ft. stack, sammie, pearline, and mary)

summary: smoke, stack, and an oblivious sammie discuss the girls’ night out. annie, mary, and pearline discuss how much she craves smoke’s attention.

cw: angry!smoke, horny!annie, use of the nword

a/n: canva fucked up my emojis so don’t pay attention to that—-

part one; part two; part three; part four; part five; part seven.

masterlist

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a/n: i think i’m gonna write smut for this yaalllskdkdkdlsl