#stack asks

[mereyapalais]

I can totally see Stack letting his woman plan the vacations, he just hands her his card and book it, just tell him where it is, what the weather is expected to be like and he’ll just worry about packing 😂

“Babe, can you get off the game real quick? I have these clothes I want you to try on.” You said hugging him from the back. Placing faint kisses against his cheek as he focused on the game. Not even sure he heard you.

After a few moments of no acknowledgment from his part, you put your finger in his nostril before booping him. That got his attention.

“Yo, hol’ on guys. Gotta handle something.” He removed his headset before turning to face you.

His arms wrap around your waist, drawing circles, before his fingers travelled south running up and down your thighs. You could hear Bo complaining on the other end.

“Whatchu say baby?”

“Come try these clothes on. I gotta see if they fit before the trip.”

“Why you gotta see if they fit..? You tryna call me fat?”

“What? No baby. Besides, what’s wrong with you adding a lil bit of weight? I’m not complaining.”

You said as you massage his stomach. The hard surface that used to be there a few months ago now replaced with soft, cushy surface. No one else could be blamed but you and your exquisite cuisine.

“ Whatever. You finally decided on a destination?”

“Yes, we going to JAMAICA!” You said visibly excited. Doing your lil happy dance.

Stack honestly left everything in your hands. Not because he couldn’t be bothered to plan the trip. Simply because he knew you liked planning vacations. Your itinerary planning always on point. The amount prepping you did before every vacation? Very much professional. From the research, to the Pinterest boards.

See how he let you plan everything, from the destination to his outfits? Very mindful. Very demure. Very ‘Big Daddy Stack energy.’

[inkskinned]

every fucking conversation on the internet looks like

subject matter expert: hey :) i'm here to help, i love you and this subject matter. i studied really hard and have literal years of training and experience with this. please make this 1 very small change to your life that is virtually no effort whatsoever and will help the environment and everyone around you.

random guy: i don't like that because my life will have to change. what if the change is impossible for me specifically. you cannot ask me either to stop or start an action - i will do whatever i want forever and i am offended you even asked about that because it would be a change in my life. plus what if it sounds like no effort but it's huge effort. what if i made that change and then i died because of it.

subject matter expert: again, it's not really a lot of effort, but of course we understand there might be a lot of reasons (medical, financial, etc) that you can't make this change, so we have experts who have created programs/infographics/alternatives so you can make this change smoothly. but of course maybe if it would actually kill you - we have compiled a very big list on other ways you can help out! :) we are just trying to make the world a better place for you and those around you :)

random guy: this is propaganda because of Big Subject Matter. this is going to destroy me and my life forever. where is your proof. i saw you attached studies but i don't want to read them. i really liked doing this thing to harm the environment and those around me and now they are saying that i cannot do that and i am just wondering how do we know you are an expert? my mormon lobster who uses flags to communicate has a different opinion than you and i trust Mormon Lobster . he Knows things :)

[op-la]

Can you draw Lestat trying to balance a cup on Lou’s ass?

i'm not gonna draw this but the imagery from this ask just made me laugh for a whole minute thanks anon

[ingeniousmindoftune]

Hi i was wondering if you could write a fic about a virgin with either stack or smoke

“First Time for Everything”

Featuring Stack Moore (Michael B. Jordan) from Sinners (2025)

Reader Insert / Virgin Female OC Style / Modern day

Slow burn | Realism | Adult themes | Emotional depth | Emotional realism | Subtle intimacy

Words: 1,389

She felt the city’s pulse in her bones—the relentless drumbeat that lifted some and swallowed others whole. New Orleans in midsummer wore a heavy, sultry cloak: the air thick with steam, the low murmur of secrets slipping through cracked shutters, and tendrils of cigarette smoke drifting from open bar doors like gray ribbons. Tourists swarmed the French Quarter in camera-bright colors, never noticing the hidden heartbeat beneath the jazz. She did.

She savored the hush after midnight, when street lamps blurred into halos and the clatter of late-night traffic faded to a soft percussion. From the front desk of the Maison de Chartres—a peeling pastel building wedged between a smoky jazz lounge and a voodoo stall that only opened at dusk—she heard saxophone notes spiral down from a second-floor balcony, unwinding like warm jasmine perfume onto the sidewalk. Behind her desk of burnished mahogany, she was the silent anchor for a revolving cast of guests.

They came and went: weary salesmen in damp suits, backpackers with muddy shoes, couples in too-tight formalwear clutching plastic hurricane cups. None of them registered her pale face or the way her dark eyes tracked each arrival and departure. She was the fixed star in a sky of passing comets—always watching, never seen.

Then he appeared.

She didn’t know “Stack Moore” that first humid evening. All she saw was a man who inhabited the air around him as if he’d claimed it by right. He stood at the threshold, tall in a soaked charcoal overcoat, collar turned up against sudden rain, a wool scarf knotted at his throat. His gait was deliberate, silent—an echo of confidence that didn’t need volume to fill the room. His broad shoulders hinted at stories carved into muscle; his eyes, dark and unreadable, never gave anything away for free.

“You the night clerk?” His voice was low, a rumble she felt more than heard, like thunder through a wall.

She looked up from her laptop, mouth parting into a flicker of surprise. “Yes, sir—um, I am.”

He let a brief, crooked smile slip across his face, sharp as broken glass. “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Ain’t earned it.”

Her fingers trembled as she swiped the check-in tablet. “Of course. Stack Moore?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You know me?”

“Just from the reservation.” Her voice floated in the hush between them.

He studied her for a beat too long, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “Good,” he said. “I like that.”

Over the next nights, he morphed into a living ghost. Always arriving just before midnight, alone, the hem of his coat dark with rain or something darker. Some evenings a bruise, pale and spreading, bloomed along his jaw; other times faint smears of dried blood crusted under his knuckles. She never asked. She simply slid his room key across the desk with the same controlled calm—her nod the ritual, his departure the final note.

He had money—of that there was no doubt. His matte-black car with tinted windows whispered power. Yet he chose this modest hotel: clean rooms, polished floors, an anonymity that let him slip through shadows. Maybe that’s why she watched, puzzled by his insistence on returning.

One night he lingered longer than usual, leaning against the cherrywood counter as she refilled the lobby candy jar. The tin echoed with each gumdrop she dropped inside. Outside, the street was slick with fresh rain, neon signs winking through puddles.

“You from here?” he asked, voice low.

She paused, lifting a handful of pastel mints. “Born and raised. Lower Ninth—before the flood.”

He nodded slowly, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his coat. “Most people run from something.”

“I’m not most people.” She didn’t look up.

He exhaled, a sound almost like relief. “That scares me.”

His patronage haunted her thoughts as she locked up each evening. What corners of the city swallowed him? Why did he always arrive with that look—eyes like ash, as if he’d just walked away from something burning?

Then came the thunderstorm that cracked everything open. She was about to turn the key in the front door when he burst in, drenched. Water dripped from his hair, his shirt clung to his ribs. A dark bruise marred his temple—angry, raw.

“You okay?” She stepped around the desk before she could think, heart pounding.

He met her gaze, tension coiling in his sternum. “You always this kind?”

She shrugged, cheeks warm. “Not always. Just with you.”

He paused, something in his expression softening, or maybe it was regret. “You ever been touched?” His voice went brittle.

Her breath caught. “What do you mean?”

He closed the distance, voice dropping until only she could hear. “You look like the type who’s never been kissed unless he asked real nice. You ever been with somebody, sweetheart?”

There was no cruelty in his question, only blunt curiosity. She swallowed. “No, I haven’t.”

He blinked, jaw flexing. “I didn’t think so.”

She could have shut him down—called security, turned him away. Instead, she said, “I’m not saving myself.”

His shoulders sagged in a silent concession. “I didn’t think that either.”

“I just never felt… safe. Not really seen.” Her voice was a whisper.

He reached out, brushing a wet curl from her cheek with a tentative thumb. “I see you. More than I should.”

She met his gaze, heartbeat echoing in her ears. “You scared of me?”

He gave a short laugh, bitter and low. “You don’t even know.”

That night they didn’t go to a room. They sat on the worn leather couch in the lobby, sipping mint tea from chipped porcelain cups, listening to raindrops drum against the skylight. He told her about a childhood shaped by alleys and hard choices; she spoke of books that became lifelines and dreams of distant cities. When his fingers found hers across the coffee table, she let him hold her hand.

Their first kiss came weeks later, not in a fevered rush but slow and certain, as if they’d been rehearsing in silence. He returned with styrofoam containers of oxtails and collard greens, a stack of vinyl records crackling with distant trumpets. He teased her about her first taste of spicy gravy; she laughed until her sides ached. He told her her lips made quiet seem holy.

“I want you,” she said one rainy afternoon, her voice soft but unshakeable.

He paused, eyes darkening. “This ain’t just a night. Not with me. I’m not built for perfect.”

“I’m not asking for perfect,” she replied. “I’m asking for you.”

He laid her flat across the bed in Room 307—white sheets smelling faintly of lavender—and tended to her with reverence. Each touch was deliberate. When she winced, he stopped. When tears came, he kissed them away. “You good?” he murmured.

“Never been more sure,” she whispered.

Afterward, they lay tangled in sweat and scent—his heartbeat against her ear, her fingers tracing the scar near his collarbone. He pressed her closer, voice husky. “You ain’t a secret now. You’re mine.”

She simply pressed her lips to his jaw and held onto the stillness.

But nothing golden ever lingers in New Orleans forever. At dawn, the air felt thicker, heavier. He stood by the rain-streaked window, their sheets pooling at his feet like a forgotten promise.

“I ain’t good for you,” he said, eyes on the gray morning sky. “You carry light. I got things chasing me that eat light.”

She rose on one elbow, brushing sweat-damp hair from her face. “Then stop running.”

He turned, pain flickering across his features. “You make it sound easy.”

“I’m not saying it is,” she replied, touching his cheek. “I’m saying I’m not afraid.”

He sank to his knees before her, voice raw. “You should be.”

She leaned down and kissed him—lips soft, determined. “I’m not. Not of you.”

Stack Moore was a sinner.

But to one quiet girl behind a hotel desk, he’d become a beginning. A first. A man who didn’t take but offered—a man who saw her not as something untouched, but someone worthy of careful handling.

Maybe the world wouldn’t understand.

She didn’t care.

Because when you’ve been invisible your whole life, the first person to truly see you becomes unforgettable.

And Stack?

He never looked away.

[tealgoat]

Did you ever post that one art of siffrins hat getting flicked off by the king to Tumblr

I don't think so (?) It's pretty rough but here you go

[rogdona]

c-CINDY?!?!!?!?! SHE CLONED 😱

JASHDJFGHFJSFDFHJ SHES MULTIPLYINGGGGG SHES GONNA TAKE OVER THE WORLDDDDDD😱😱😱😱😱😱😱😱😱

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Congratulations to TEAM CHEESE for winning the popular vote on the Charcuterie poll!

[themortaldraw]

I saw your tags on that reblog of Nell's art and now I too want to stack mandarin oranges on the Hero of Time's head.

i looked it up and actually they are yuzu

[chillinglikeashilling]

Lord forgive me for paying attention to the YT comments section but I really want people who claim Annie was treated as a less 'desired love interest' than Mary to remind me which of them was told she didn't have any business being near them by both Micheal A and Michael B Jordan.

"Oh but Mary is shown to be the focus of desire and Annie isn't"

Are we forgetting that the first thing Stack tells Mary to do is kick rocks? That one of the first things we learned about their past relationship is that he left her in the middle of the night without any communication at all?

Yes Smoke also left Annie but that to me is representative of the fact that both twins always chose each other over either of their respective lovers, or anyone else in their lives. At the very least we know from the fact that he married her that Smoke considered Annie someone in his life, who was not Stack, that he could build a life with. She made him a mojo bag so it's not like Smoke left in the middle of the night.

And it's not like either twin is best friends with the other's lover but Annie clearly gets so much more consideration and respect from Stack than Mary does from Smoke. Smoke would clearly rather Stack and Mary never even have been together in the first place but even from (what was supposed to be) the opening night of the Juke we see Stack and Annie working together to manage Smoke and the business. Annie is being paid to cook there sure, but to me it's clear that she was always supposed to have a huge role in the business.

I'm not saying the movie is perfect or that people can't have their own opinions but even if we're appealing to the respectability argument- Annie is the only person in the main cast apart from Sammie with very little 'sin' on her record. For one thing she's the only woman of the three love interests who isn't cheating on her husband for whatever that's worth to folks in a movie called Sinners.

And even the comparison of the love scenes feels disingenuous to me. I've seen some people say Mary is the one shown to be desired between her and Stack while Smoke is shown to be desired by Annie and I want to remind everyone that again Mary is the person chasing Stack. He saw her that morning and said go back to your white husband. Annie and Smoke are reuniting as a couple that went through a horrible loss that can rip modern couples apart, without the additional stresses of being sharecroppers on top of that.

Additionally I don't think it's a coincidence that the love scene between Smoke and Annie happens before the sun goes down and the one between Stack and Mary - which I remind everyone leads to Stack dying!!- happens after nightfall and after Mary has already been turned by Remmick. Sammie and Stack both talk about that day before the sun went down being one of the best days of their life. Given the connection and parallels between the twins I would assume that the same would probably be true for Smoke.

So one of the best days of his life involved getting to reconnect with his wife. Getting to fold her into a business he and his brother were building not just for their own financial freedom and independence but also as a safe space for their community. A community Annie was a central part of.

One of those love scenes happened between a couple that had a real chance of reconciling if Remmick hadn't shown up and it's not the one featuring Mary.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

forest 01

next

[mereyapalais]

Reader hitting stack with that “so basically..” line during an argument.

“So basically, I’m annoying and you hate me. Bet.”

“Yn really? I’m literally just tired.”

“Okay excuse me for wanting some attention from my man.” You said attitude dripping from your voice. In all honesty, you just missed him. It’s been a long day of both of you being busy and you just wanted to show some love and get some back.

God forbid a girl misses her boo.

“Baby..not today.”

“Well lemme book an appointment whenever you’re available so I can love on you.”

Stack just stood there blinking at you. Nothing he could say in this moment would be received the way he meant it. He knows you’re acting up because you missed him. So he’s not even going to entertain you right now. Just place a kiss on your forehead and ask you to grant him 30 minutes.

He misses you too. Just wants a few minutes to wind down after the long day he’s had. Sue him.

[four-pointed-leaf]

DRAGON’S HOARD

[why-animals-do-the-thing]

Just a note - I have seen the asks about Moo Deng, and do plan to get to them. I'm a little mired in work and some meatsuit shenanigans so I haven't had the time yet to do a deep dive into her and her care team. Hopefully soon, if the flesh allows.

[ingeniousmindoftune]

Can you please do Sinners with Sammie x Reader. But please make sure that reader or your of gets bitten but not turned. Basically just do the whole scene with the vampires invading the speakeasy and then reader gets bitten, then sammie sees her and he follows through with his promise of killing her if she gets bitten.

Bite of Betrayal

Sammie x Reader

Warnings: Vampires,violence, emotional angst, betrayal, near-death, protective love, heartbreak, blood, gore, trauma, intense emotional angst, heartbreak, violence, protective/possessive love, emotional aftermath, themes of death and trust.

Note: Reader gets bitten but not turned. This is a bittersweet/angsty scene with strong emotions and gritty atmosphere.

Word Count: ~2,000

The speakeasy felt like a secret carved into the earth—its ceiling hung so low your shoulders brushed the dark-stained beams, and the thick limestone walls swallowed every roar from the street above. Rich burgundy velvet drapes pooled at the floor, muffling footsteps and hiding corners where whispers curled like curling smoke. The mahogany bar gleamed under wrought-iron sconces whose amber flames trembled against chipped plaster. A lone pianist’s fingers coaxed a smoky jazz lament from yellowed keys, each breathy trumpet cry sliding through the haze of whiskey fumes and hushed confidences. Candlelight puddled in brass holders, flickering over brass footrails and stained-glass mirrors, giving the whole room a secretive, golden hush.

You hadn’t noticed Sammie slip in beside you until his elbow pressed against the small of your back. His trench coat still clung to the damp chill of the alley, and the brim of his fedora cast a shadow over his eyes. He leaned forward, the scent of cedarwood cologne drifting against the whiskey in the air, and his lips, cool and deliberate, brushed your temple. He straightened, fingers curling around the ornate brass rail. “Don’t move,” he murmured—so low you might have imagined it. “I’ll be right back.” His smile was a promise you’d never doubted.

Then something snapped.

First, the sconces guttered, their flames sputtering like wounded insects. The pianist’s final chord hovered in the air and died. A woman’s scream ricocheted off the stone, sharp enough to freeze your blood. Crystalware shattered—glittering rain against the polished floor—as cold seeped through the candles’ warmth. Then came the sour tang of spilled bourbon fused with something rotten, like soil left to rot under a forgotten tomb.

Shapes unfurled from the gloom: towering silhouettes, limbs too long and thin to be human, sliding across the floor with a disturbing grace. Their eyes burned ember-red, teeth curved into cruel crescents that gleamed white in the candlelight. A hungry stench rolled off them in waves, sinking into your gut and twisting your stomach into knots.

Chaos ignited. Glass bottles exploded in showers of amber liquid; patrons stumbled, screaming, arms flailing as overturned stools skidded across the boards. A red-faced drunkcareened into a table, sending glasses flying. In the far corner, a man’s howl cut off mid-word as invisible hands yanked him across the floor, his throat opened in a spray of ruby that painted the wood in wicked arcs.

Vampires.

Your heart thundered so loud you felt it in your ears. Instinct sent your hand to your thigh, fingers closing around the slender silver blade Sammie had clipped to your garter. In one fluid motion you drew it free—only to freeze as icy breath ghosted across your neck.

“I always liked sweetbloods,” a voice rasped, low and amused. A gaunt figure drifted into the candlelight, pale collarbones gleaming, a cruel smile curving his lips.

You spun and slashed. The blade carved a burnished arc across translucent flesh; the creature’s laughter echoed like bone rattling. In a heartbeat he seized your wrist, yanking it back until pain flared along your bones. His amber eyes danced with savage delight.

“Feisty,” he growled, tilting you toward the bar. You felt the polished wood bite into your spine as he slammed you forward—glass beneath you shivered and splintered under the impact. Pain exploded up your back in hot shards, but rage blazed brighter. You kicked out, boot connecting with his shin. He snarled and bared his fangs.

Then he struck—jaws clamped down on your shoulder in a vicious arc of white and crimson. Fire surged through you, searing nerve endings with each pulse. You screamed raw, a ragged sound that cut through the din as cold began to snake through your limbs, dulling your world.

Bang! Bang!

Two thunderous cracks shattered the frenzy. You convulsed as the vampire’s weight slumped from your shoulder. The world tipped; your vision fractured into shards of shadow and flame. Through the haze you saw Sammie standing amid splintered glass and overturned chairs, his trench coat ticked with ash and blood. A pistol hung limply in his hand, smoke curling from its twin barrels. He had shot point-blank into the creature’s skull; gray dust drifted down from its ruined face.

“Y/N—!” His voice cracked, wrenching the edges of panic and relief together.

Strong arms swept beneath you, lifting you from the wreckage. Sammie pressed you against his chest, his fingers trembling as they probed the crimson stain blooming at your shoulder. His eyes, wide with horror, locked on the curved silver blade slick with your blood.

“He bit you,” he hissed, every breath rattling like a cracked bell. “If they bite you—”

You forced your throat to work, croaking out a nod. “I—I tried to fight—”

He recoiled as if struck, light flickering in his eyes, turning cold. “Do you remember what I said?” His voice was hollow, like a gravestone.

You did. If their fangs ever broke your skin, Sammie would kill you before you could rise as one of them—a vow he’d fulfilled for countless others. Your pulse hammered in your ears as you met his gaze.

“Sammie, please,” you whispered, fingers clutching the lapel of his coat. “I’m still me. I can feel it.”

He flinched, pain warring with resolve. His pistol arm rose, hand shaking so hard the barrel quivered against your chest. “You don’t know that,” he rasped.

“Sammie, you love me,” you pleaded, voice raw.

His jaw clenched like steel. “I do,” he choked, “and that’s why I can’t let you become one of them.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you reached for his shaking hand. “Then help me live,” you begged. “Don’t—don’t kill me.”

His shoulders trembled; the barrel lifted, wobbling. He stared at you, the weight of every promise pressing down. The gun slipped from his feeble grip and clattered to the floor. Sammie sank to his knees, pulling you into his lap, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath was hot, ragged against your skin.

“I should kill you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “But I can’t. I won’t.”

You closed your eyes against the pain, drawing what little strength you had into a single breath. “Then help me live.”

A fierce determination flashed in his haunted eyes. He brushed your hair back, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. “We’ll find a healer—witch, alchemist, whatever it takes. I’ll burn this city to ashes before I lose you to the darkness.”

Your blood dulled your limbs, but in Sammie’s arms you felt a fragile spark of hope. “I trust you,” you murmured.

He lifted you gently, cradling your injured side against his heart. “Then trust me this: I will save you. If you do turn, I’ll be the one to end it. But until then, I swear I will not let you go.”

With that vow echoing in the ruined speakeasy, he carried you into the night—leaving behind splintered wood and spilled blood. Beyond those battered doors lay a world ablaze and unknown, but in Sammie’s steadfast grip you were still alive.

But little did you know, he planned to kill you once you entered the night. Because he made a promise, a promise he would hold to heart.

[geesekey]

Although we don’t see much of Sammie’s family, we do see a glimpse of his little siblings. I do believe Sammie is the oldest, and by a good margin at that. The eldest son with all the weight of his father put upon him.

However, we do not see him as an older brother. We see him as the little cousin, the young new star, their Little Sammie. Everyone treats him like a younger brother, protects him like one. It must be the first time in a while he had felt like this. So loved and protected.

[daily-grian]

Wild life grian with little spider details on his sweater <3

lil guy who has nothing bad happen to his team ever