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writerbee-ffs · 2 months ago

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Chapter 1 - The First Bite

A/N: First off, I wanna thank @nahimjustfeelingit-writes for coming up with this dope ass idea & @anaiyaflys143 for suggesting I write it. I hope I do you both justice. I think I want this to have multiple parts, but I need life to cooperate. Hope y'all enjoy!

*All character images created by me ☺️*

Characters: Elias "Stack" Moore, Eden Taylor (OC)

Warning(s): 18+, Adult Language, Supernatural Elements, Typical Vampire Shit, Vampire Kink, Explicit Sex (Not yet, but it's coming)

Summary: Eden’s broke. Her rent’s late, her car sounds like it’s choking, and her dreams of making it as a singer in New Orleans are getting harder to hold onto. So when she sees a sketchy little ad offering big cash to be a “discreet donor,” she answers it. She tells herself it’s just money. Just blood. Just once. But the contract’s signed, the room is breathing, and Eden? She might’ve just stepped into something deeper than debt.

Word Count: 5.5K

New Orleans, 2005

Eden stared blankly at the digits on the weathered ATM.

$14.26.

All the money she had left from her work-study check that wouldn’t replenish for another week. Between rent, paying for studio time, and outfits for her upcoming shows, Eden had left herself broke and destitute yet again.

“Who told you to take the term ‘starving artist’ so literally?” she muttered to herself, tucking the receipt into the pocket of her tattered jean jacket.

She hadn’t eaten a real meal in two days. Just a gas station honey bun, half a bottle of warm Sprite, and whatever sleep could trick her body into thinking it was full. Her rust-colored Honda ran on a quarter tank and prayer, the engine coughing every time she turned the key. The inside smelled like jasmine body spray, fried hair, and quiet panic.

Fishing her Motorola Razr from the depths of her tote, she scrolled to the contact labeled “Pops.” She stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering, before finally pressing CALL.

Three rings. A click.

“Yo,” came the gravelly voice on the other end. Always detached. Always mid-something more important.

“Hey,” Eden said, trying not to sound too pitiful. “You got like…twenty dollars I could borrow?”

A long pause. She could practically hear him blinking.

“Sorry, kiddo, I’m all tapped out.”

She knew it was a lie. He always said that. She could hear a game show buzzing faintly in the background, followed by the sound of beer cracking open. But she didn’t press it.

“It’s cool, Pops.” She cleared her throat, pushing down the lump forming there. “I’ll make something shake. I saw an ad for a babysitting gig in the Garden District, so I’ll try that.”

“Good,” he said, voice already drifting. “See? You ain’t gotta always be runnin’ after those stage lights. Just find somethin’ steady.”

She didn’t respond. Just hung up and slid the phone back into her purse like it was a loaded gun.

Back at her tiny studio apartment in Mid-City, Eden sat cross-legged on her futon, her open planner in her lap. A flyer for an open mic night at Tipitina’s was pinned above her bed with a pink glitter pushpin. She had two weeks to come up with a new track and scrape together the $80 she owed her producer for the beat she was using.

She opened her laptop, praying it would connect to the neighbor’s spotty Wi-Fi. While it loaded, she scribbled in the margins of her notebook:

“I ain’t tryna sing for scraps, I want velvet on my mic stand Moët in my vocal booth, not noodles from the nightstand…”

Cute. Maybe.

She clicked over to Craigslist. Typing “cash gigs” in the search bar had become second nature.

Dog walking. House cleaning. Foot modeling?

But then, something new. Something far from anything she’d seen listed before.

“DONOR OPPORTUNITY – NIGHT WORK. DISCREET. HIGH COMPENSATION. 21+ ONLY. Must be comfortable with blood. Text 504-9VAMPYR.”

Eden raised an eyebrow.

“Blood?”

She clicked anyway.

The ad was vague but intriguing. It promised “stress-free, safe work” for “exclusive clientele.” It also mentioned “consent-based feeding arrangements,” which sounded... weirdly medical. Or criminal.

She almost exited the tab—but her mouse hovered over the last line:

“Neck: $300/hr. Wrist: $400/hr. Inner thigh: $550/hr. Discretion required.”

She burst out laughing, sharp and alone in her little apartment. “Yeah, okay. That’s definitely a scam. Probably run by some dude named Clarence with a fake fang kink.”

But something about it stuck. Along with her passion for music, she also had a passion for all things occult: vampires, black magic, and everything in between. She was the bayou bruja stereotype personified, save the fact that she didn’t actually know any spells.

Eden wasn’t sure what it was about this ad that had her so curious. Maybe it was the dollar signs flashing in her mind. Perhaps it was the way her stomach twisted with nerves and low-grade hunger. Or maybe it was the fact that being bitten on the thigh for rent money somehow felt less soul-crushing than waitressing at a chain diner where the manager hit on her.

She grabbed her phone and typed quickly.

Eden T. | Type O- | Available Nights

Then she added, like a joke she hoped the universe would get:

“I sing too, in case that’s relevant.”

She snickered to herself until the number responded, almost immediately.

504-9VAMPYR:

“Voice matters more than you know. You’re expected tonight. Come dressed in black. No perfume. Bring ID.”

Attached was a pin drop to an address in the Warehouse District. The kind of place that always looked abandoned from the outside but was crawling with secrets beneath the surface.

Eden stared at the screen. Then at her closet.

She had a mesh crop top, a fake leather skirt, and her beat-up Doc Martens. Close enough to black. She pulled them out with a sigh and laid them across her unmade bed. Her hands lingered on the hem of the skirt, suddenly wondering if she should shave. Then she laughed out loud, dry and humorless.

“Girl, if he’s a vampire, you think he cares about some stubble?” she mused, glancing down at her untamed bikini line.

She peeled off her hoodie and leggings and tugged on the outfit with practiced ease. The crop top rode up a little too high, showing off the silver belly ring she got impulsively after a poetry night and three Hennessy shots. She tightened the straps on her Docs and pulled her curls into a high puff, fluffing it just enough to look intentional.

Eyeliner came next. Heavy, winged, and slightly uneven, like it had been applied in a moving car or in the middle of a breakdown. She smudged a bit of charcoal shadow beneath her lower lashes for good measure, giving her eyes that soft, smoky bruised look, like she hadn’t slept in days but might still stab you if you stared too long.

A dusting of translucent powder dimmed the natural shine of her skin, but she let her freckles peek through. She dabbed a hint of burgundy gloss on her lips and pressed highlighter onto the high points of her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Just enough to glow under bad lighting.

She looked like something out of a Southern ghost story. Part beauty queen, part grieving widow. Like the kind of girl you'd see barefoot on a sagging porch in the heat of July, black veil over her eyes, sipping sweet tea that might just kill you.

She stepped back from the mirror and tilted her chin to the left.

She didn’t look like someone about to audition for a vampire sugar daddy.

She looked like someone who had nothing left to lose.

But that was the thing about having nothing. It made you bold. Eden didn’t feel fear. Not yet. What she felt was unavailable. Numb, on the edge of something primal. Like her instincts were holding their breath, waiting to see if she was about to step into a miracle… or a casket.

She grabbed the rose water mist from her nightstand, hesitated, then spritzed a light veil of it over her curls instead of her neck. Just a whisper of hydration and a ghost of a scent that faded almost instantly. The text had said no perfume, and she wasn’t trying to test boundaries with creatures who drank life juice for breakfast.

She grabbed her keys, slipped her phone into her bra, and stared down at her chipped black nail polish before muttering, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Then she locked the door behind her.

The drive to the Warehouse District felt longer than it was. The rust-colored Honda coughed once at a red light and stuttered like it was nervous, too. Eden slapped the dash like she was coaxing a stubborn mule.

“Not tonight, baby, c’mon…”

She turned up the radio, some old Destiny’s Child track with a beat strong enough to drown her thoughts. She sang along half-heartedly, mouthing the lyrics more than meaning them, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel like she was trying to tap the fear out of her bloodstream.

Her mind didn’t cooperate.

What if it’s a cult? What if they drain you and leave you in a ditch behind a daiquiri shop? What if it’s real?

She wasn’t sure which possibility scared her more.

She pulled up to the address just after midnight. The building loomed like it had been waiting for her. It was tall, industrial, and built from bones and bad decisions. The kind of place that still smelled faintly of sweat, rust, and prohibition. Like someone had converted a cotton mill into a nightclub and then forgotten to put up a sign.

All the windows were blacked out. No buzz of neon. No music. No movement. Just that single red light above the steel door, blinking slow and steady like a pulse. Or a warning.

Eden sat there for a second longer than she meant to, the engine idling as her hand hovered near the key. Her stomach flipped, hard and sudden. It was that same twist she felt before going on stage, before she opened her mouth and let the world judge her voice, her dream, her want.

That anticipatory ache. That leap of faith you had to take before a mic, a man, or a monster.

Then she got out.

The air hit her like a wet rag, thick with humidity, heavy with something else. Something older than the pavement beneath her boots. The breeze curled around her ankles and crept up her spine, stirring the hem of her skirt and making the back of her neck prickle.

There was a scent in the air, faint but unmistakable. Jasmine. Smoke. No, ash. Burnt incense. Like the end of a ritual.

She stepped forward, gravel crunching beneath her boots, the only sound in the stillness. No music. No voices. Just her breath and that red light, blinking above her like a slow countdown.

When she reached the door, it opened before she could knock.

Not with a creak. Not with a dramatic hiss. Just a smooth, effortless glide, like whoever or whatever was on the other side had been expecting her the whole time.

Eden paused in the threshold, heart thudding against her ribs like a warning bell. She glanced once over her shoulder, back at her Honda parked under the flickering streetlamp, its paint dull and flaking like old blood.

She could leave. She could run.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she squared her shoulders, tucked her gloss-smudged lips into a tight line, and stepped into the dark.

A man stood just inside. Pale. No older than thirty, if you could even put an age on someone like that. His black dress shirt was perfectly pressed, tucked into tailored pants that caught the low light like water. Silver chains shimmered across his collarbone, subtle and cold. White gloves on both hands, like he was either about to serve a five-course meal or prep a body for burial.

His eyes swept over her. Not sexual, not even curious. More like he was measuring her for something. A scan. Efficient, impersonal. She might as well have been a barcode.

“You’re Eden,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I am,” she replied, doing her best to keep her voice steady.

“Follow me.”

So she did.

The hallway was long and narrow, padded in deep red velvet that brushed against her shoulders every few steps. The walls breathed warmth, but the air stayed cool, scented faintly with clove, old paper, and something floral that had long since dried out. Dim amber sconces flickered along the path, casting warped shadows that stretched and curled with her movements. It didn’t feel like walking into a building. It felt like being swallowed.

Each step took her further from reality. Her dad’s voice in the car, still ringing with disappointment. The zeroes in her bank account. The half-finished demo she couldn’t afford to master. All of it fell away, like static detaching from a radio dial. She wasn’t sure if she was floating or sinking.

The man said nothing, just led her deeper.

Eventually, they reached a door. It looked ancient, carved with symbols she didn’t recognize. Something that felt older than language, older than the city itself. They pulsed faintly under the glow of the hallway lights, as if alive beneath the grain of the wood.

The man knocked once. A dull, heavy sound.

Then he turned the handle and pushed the door open. He didn’t go in. Just stepped aside and motioned for her to enter.

Eden hesitated. Only for a second. Long enough to feel her heart rise in her throat, thick and loud. Then she stepped over the threshold.

And the world changed.

The air inside was cooler, denser, but it didn’t chill her. It settled around her skin like silk. Everything glowed in shades of wine and shadow. Low lights glinting off crystal, velvet drapes billowing near tall windows sealed shut. Music played somewhere far away, too soft to follow but rich enough to taste.

It wasn’t a room. It was a scene. A set. A spell.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, drawn toward the figure seated at the far end.

And that was when she saw him.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, drawn to the figure at the far end of the room.

He sat like he owned more than just the building. Like he owned the hour, the tension, even the breath in her lungs. Leaning back in a high-backed leather chair, one leg crossed over the other, fingers resting loosely on the armrest, he looked every bit the gentleman devil.

He wore a deep burgundy suit that soaked up the light like velvet. It was tailored so sharply it could’ve drawn blood. Gold embroidery traced the lapels in delicate patterns, only catching the light when he moved. Serpents, maybe, or ivy, curling like secrets. A thick gold Cuban link chain sat heavy against his chest, and a matching pinky ring caught the lamplight when he lifted his hand to his jaw.

His skin was smooth, the kind of smooth that didn’t come from skincare, but from time. A warm brown, almost bronze, like whiskey left out in the sun. He looked like he could be in his late twenties, but Eden could feel the weight behind the stillness. The kind of quiet you feel in old houses or graveyards.

Then there were his eyes.

They held a faint glow, not glaring or artificial, but soft and strange, like candlelight burning behind thick purple glass. The color wasn’t the unsettling part; it was the depth. If she stared too long, she’d probably see everything he’d done and everything he wanted from her now.

And when he smiled—

It wasn’t wide. Just a small curl of his mouth, more on the left side, like he was letting her in on a secret she didn’t deserve to hear yet. That’s when she saw it. A gold open-faced grill on one of his fangs, subtle and gleaming. Not flashy or loud, just intentional. The kind of accessory that told you he’d been rich for longer than you’d been alive and had nothing left to prove.

Eden’s breath caught before she could stop it. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or fascination. Probably both.

He didn’t stand.

He didn’t need to.

His voice rolled out, low and velvet-smooth, the kind that made people lean in without realizing.

“Eden,” he said, her name sitting on his tongue like something rare and expensive.

She nodded once. “That’s me.”

His gaze flicked downward, taking in her boots, her skirt, the smudge of eyeliner she hadn’t meant to look perfect. He wasn’t judging her. He was gathering details, building a file in his mind.

“Pretty name,” he said. “Pretty girl.”

Her jaw tightened at the compliment. She’d heard it too many times before from broke boys and drunk strangers. But from him, it didn’t feel cheap. It felt like a warning.

“Thanks,” she replied, her voice quieter now.

Stack tilted his head just enough to shift the mood. Not much. Just enough to make her uneasy.

“I’m Elias Moore,” he said. “But folks around here call me Stack.”

“Stack,” she repeated.

He gave her that same half-smile.

“I like a girl who listens.”

Then he rose from his chair.

Not quickly. Not slow either. Just smoothly, like he didn’t have to try. He was taller than she expected, and his frame filled the room like music you couldn’t turn down. He moved with purpose, not just confidence, but certainty, like the floor had always been waiting for his footsteps.

When he stopped in front of her, close enough for her to feel the stillness coming off him, she realized he didn’t wear cologne. The flyer had warned against perfume, and he clearly followed the same rule. But still, there was a scent. Faint and warm, like sandalwood, old leather, maybe even dried jasmine crushed into parchment.

He raised a gloved hand.

“You can leave anytime you want,” he said. “But if you take one more step, you’re choosing not to.”

She looked at his hand. Elegant. Dead. Gold ring catching the light.

Her heart kicked hard in her chest.

She didn’t take his hand.

But she didn’t move away either.

His hand hovered in the space between them for another second before he let it fall.

Stack nodded toward a low velvet chair across from his own. “Sit if you want. Or stand. Some people feel safer that way.”

Eden moved without thinking, sliding into the seat like her knees might give out otherwise. Her palms were sweating, but she kept them in her lap. He didn’t look like the type who’d offer napkins.

The silence stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt full of decisions. Stack poured two fingers of something amber into a crystal glass from a decanter by his elbow, then slid it across the table toward her. He didn’t pour himself one.

Eden stared at it. “Is it safe?”

Stack grinned, just a flash of gold and teeth. “Safer than most things you’ve done to chase a dream, I’d bet.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared down at the drink and finally lifted it, more out of pride than thirst. It burned, but not bad. Smooth like molasses with a bite at the end, like it knew you had secrets and didn’t mind.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Let’s talk about the job.”

Eden sat straighter. “Alright.”

“You know the basics,” Stack said. “You let someone feed. You get paid. How far you want to go is up to you.”

He tapped a long finger against the table, slow, like a metronome counting down something important.

“Neck’s three hundred an hour. Wrist’s fourhundred, thigh’s five-fifty. Shoulder anywhere else, we can negotiate. You can sign on as a regular, or keep it casual. We also offer exclusive arrangements. More private. More lucrative. More dangerous.”

Eden pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded, pretending she wasn’t halfway to hyperventilating. Her mouth felt like cotton and her stomach wouldn’t stop fluttering. But her voice held steady.

“What’s the risk?”

Stack shrugged. “Some vampires don’t know when to stop. Some donors fall in love. Some folks just aren’t built for it. We vet both sides, but accidents happen. That’s why we sign oaths. Confidentiality. Consent. Boundaries.”

She stared at him for a moment. “And you? What do you do here? Besides sit in velvet and look... like that.”

He smiled again, but slower this time, like he appreciated the jab. “I run this place. I built it. I make sure the hungry don’t get sloppy, and the desperate don’t disappear. That’s my job.”

“And if I disappear anyway?”

Stack’s smile faded, not into anger, but into something quieter. He looked at her in that same scanning way from before. Like he was looking past the makeup, past the attitude, down into the parts of her she didn’t let people touch.

“You got people who’d come looking for you?”

Eden thought of her dad. His voice on the phone, always clipped when she brought up music or asked for help. She thought of her name on the caller ID and the way he probably paused before letting it go to voicemail.

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

Stack didn’t look surprised. “Then you’re the kind of girl this place was made for.”

The room settled into stillness again, thick as gumbo. The only sound was the soft buzz of something electrical and the faint thump of music far beneath them. Eden’s thoughts were running in circles, dragging every old warning and new curiosity with them.

She thought about her bank account. About the way her car shuddered when she turned the key. About the silk dress she wanted to wear for her next show that still sat in the consignment window with a tag she couldn’t afford.

She thought about her voice. That gift she was chasing like it owed her something. Every sacrifice. Every studio hour. Every burnt-out candle and scribbled lyric.

And then she thought about this room. This man. This offer that felt like it came from a door she didn’t know she’d already opened.

“What happens if I say yes?” she asked.

Stack’s eyes didn’t blink. “Then I’ll take care of you. I’ll make sure you’re fed, rested, paid. Protected. You give me your time and a little of your blood. I give you everything else.”

“And if I want more?” she asked, softer now. “Not just money. I want freedom. A little power of my own.”

For the first time, something shifted in his face. Not surprise, but interest. Real interest.

“You’d be surprised what blood can buy,” he said. “Especially when it’s yours.”

Eden exhaled slow. She didn’t know if she believed him, but she wanted to. That scared her more than anything.

She looked down at her chipped nail polish, at the ring she kept on her pinky for good luck, then back up at him.

“I’ll try it,” she said. “Once.”

Stack nodded like he already knew. He stood again and reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of parchment. Not paper. Parchment. The kind that smelled like it belonged in a museum. He laid it on the table with a small, weighted pen.

“Name, date, initials here and here. Once you sign, the room changes.”

Eden raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Stack’s purple eyes gleamed. “You’ll see.”

She stared at the parchment. Her heart thumped a little faster now, but she didn’t hesitate.

She signed.

And the room breathed.

Not literally, but that’s how it felt. The wallpaper shifted, shadows deepened. Something behind her spine tingled, as if the walls were watching now.

Stack watched her, too. “You hungry?”

Eden blinked. “A little.”

He extended a hand. This time, she took it.

His hand was cool. Not cold like death, just cooler than it should’ve been. Like he hadn’t been touched by sun or sweat in years. Eden followed him through a second doorway that hadn’t been there a moment ago. She could’ve sworn that wall was solid when she walked in. Now it opened like a secret.

The new room was quieter. Darker, too, but not in a threatening way. It felt... sacred. The lighting came from candles tucked into glass sconces, their flames barely flickering. The walls were painted a deep garnet that made the space feel like it had been dipped in wine. Heavy curtains hung in the corners like they were hiding more than windows.

At the center of the room sat a low velvet couch and a wide leather chair shaped like a throne, but not gaudy. Worn in. Like someone had loved it for a long time. The air smelled faintly of clove and something richer, something warm. It wrapped around her like a robe.

“Sit wherever you’re comfortable,” Stack said, his voice lower now, closer to a whisper.

Eden moved to the couch. Her legs didn’t feel like her own anymore. The velvet was soft under her fingers, like the kind of fabric rich people bought without checking the price tag. She leaned back and took a breath.

Stack remained standing. He didn’t hover, didn’t crowd her. Just watched.

“I’m going to ask again,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

Eden nodded. “Yeah.”

He smiled, slower this time. Less show. More meaning.

“Good. Then we’ll make it clean.”

He walked over to a cabinet near the back of the room and pulled out a shallow silver bowl, etched with symbols she didn’t recognize. Then he lit a bundle of dried herbs and let the smoke curl into the corners. It didn’t choke the air, just warmed it, changed it. Eden felt something loosen in her chest. The fear didn’t vanish, but it dulled.

“This is how we start,” he said. “No one touches without consent. You say stop, I stop. You say no, we’re done. Say the word mercy if anything feels wrong.”

She nodded. “Mercy.”

“Good girl.”

The words should’ve felt patronizing. But they didn’t. They felt like a key turning in a door.

He set the bowl on a low table beside the couch, then took off his gloves. His hands were ringed in gold and the veins under his skin looked faintly violet, like there was something strange running through him.

“Where?”

Eden’s throat went dry.

She remembered the ad. Neck. Thigh. Wrist. Options like a damn menu. It sounded transactional until it was real. Until you had to say it out loud to someone who would actually do it.

She tilted her head, just slightly, exposing her throat.

“Neck,” she said. “Just there.”

Stack moved slowly, no rush in him. He came to sit beside her, close but careful, like she was a page in a holy book he wasn’t sure he had permission to read. He didn’t touch her at first. Just looked.

His eyes had that same violet glow, soft and low like candlelight. There was no hunger in them, not the way she’d imagined. No animal in the shadows. Just need, steady and patient.

He brushed her curls back with a single finger. His touch was deliberate. Reverent.

“You’ll feel pressure,” he said. “Then warmth.”

She nodded, even though her heart was hammering so hard she could barely hear her own breath.

He leaned in.

His mouth was cool against her skin, not open at first. Just resting there. Then she felt it. A brief, sharp ache, like a pinprick from a needle that knew where to go. Not pain exactly. More like being opened.

Then came the warmth. A slow pull that tugged at her chest and her belly and somewhere deeper. It was dizzying. She gripped the couch cushion beside her and let her eyes fall shut.

She thought it would feel like something being taken from her. But it didn’t. It felt like something shared. Something circular. Like her blood was telling a story and he was just listening, slow and careful, taking only what he needed.

When he pulled back, he let out a slow breath against her skin.

“That’s enough.”

Eden blinked her eyes open. Her limbs felt light, her mind foggy but soft, like she’d just come out of a warm bath.

He pressed a cool cloth to her neck, then leaned back to give her space.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

She had to think about it. Then she smiled.

“Like I just got kissed by something dangerous.”

Stack chuckled, low and pleased. “That’s because you did.”

He stood and reached for a small black envelope on the side table. Inside was a stack of crisp bills. Cash. The real kind. Eden took it with fingers that still tingled.

“This is yours,” he said. “For tonight.”

She didn’t count it. She didn’t need to.

Stack looked down at her, head slightly tilted. “You ever want more, you know where to find me.”

Eden stood, a little shakier than she expected. She gathered her purse, her keys, her thoughts. Her neck still throbbed gently, but not in a bad way.

“Thank you,” she said, unsure if that was the right thing to say.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “And Eden?”

She turned.

His eyes were glowing again, soft but unreadable.

“You were made for this.”

She didn’t answer. She just walked out into the night, heart pounding, mouth dry, and mind racing. The street outside was the same as when she’d arrived. But she wasn’t.

Not anymore.

The rust-colored Honda didn’t shudder this time. It purred like it was just as stunned as she was.

Eden drove with the windows down, letting the thick New Orleans night wrap around her like a wet velvet shawl. The air was rich with honeysuckle, oil, and the ghost of a second line that had long since moved on. Her neck still buzzed, not with pain, but with presence. A lingering echo of fangs and breath and a moment that felt like it cracked something open inside her.

She rolled past the neon flicker of corner stores and daiquiri shops, the cracked sidewalks of uptown giving way to potholes and porch lights. Her thoughts moved as slowly as her car did. Heavy, syrupy things that stuck to the edges of her brain and refused to form full sentences.

She’d sold her blood. Just handed it over like a receipt. Signed her name on a scroll older than any contract she’d ever seen. Sat inches from a man with glowing eyes and a golden fang and said yes.

And yet… she didn’t feel wrong.

Her heartbeat was steady now, settled. Her limbs were loose and lazy, like her body knew something she didn’t. Like it had crossed a threshold and didn’t see a reason to go back.

At a red light, she glanced at the cash in her passenger seat. Real money. More than she’d made in a month of folding sweaters at the campus bookstore. Her fingers twitched with the urge to count it, to be sure, but something in her resisted. That wasn’t what mattered.

What mattered was how she felt. And for once, it wasn’t desperate.

It was dangerous.

She parked outside her apartment just after two a.m., the same flickering streetlamp buzzing above her like always. Normally, she would’ve slumped inside, peeled off her shoes, microwaved something sad, and stared at her ceiling until sleep came to find her. But tonight she sat still in the car, engine off, listening to the sound of cicadas and the low rumble of the city that never really slept.

She touched her neck. There was no bandage. Just skin. Tender, yes, but smooth.

Like he’d never been there.

But he had. And her body remembered.

When she finally made it inside, Eden didn’t bother undressing. She collapsed onto her bed face-up, curls fanned across the pillow, clothes still sticking to her from the sweat of the night. She meant to scroll her phone, maybe check her email. Instead, sleep came hard and fast.

And with it, the dream.

She was back in the velvet room, but everything was softer. Louder. Redder. The walls pulsed like they had a heartbeat. Candles melted into puddles on the floor, filling the air with the smell of blood-orange and clove.

Stack stood across from her, suit jacket off now. The sleeves of his burgundy shirt rolled to the elbows. The gold on his wrist glinted in the candlelight, and his grill caught her eye when he smiled.

Not a smirk. Not cold.

This smile was hot and low and deliberate.

He crossed the room without a word, steps soundless, until his hands were on her waist. His touch wasn’t demanding. It was magnetic. Her body leaned in before her mind caught up.

“Still not scared?” he murmured.

His voice brushed her skin like silk and sin.

“No,” she said, or maybe just thought it. In dreams, it didn’t matter.

He pressed his forehead to hers, just long enough for her to feel the thrum of something ancient behind his skin. Then his lips traced the spot on her neck he’d bitten. Not kissing. Not quite.

Tasting.

She gasped.

And woke up breathless.

Her bedroom was dark and quiet. The fan whirred above her, and outside someone’s dog barked once, then stopped. Her skin was slick with sweat, but she didn’t feel hot.

She felt hollow. Wired. A little drunk on something that hadn’t happened.

She stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, and reached for her phone.

The screen lit her face in blue, and for a moment, she didn’t recognize herself. Her eyes were too sharp. Her lips too calm. She looked like someone with secrets. The kind of girl you warned people about.

Eden opened her messages and scrolled to the last number in her phone.

504-9VAMPYR.

She stared at it for a long minute, thumb hovering. Then she typed three words.

When’s the next?

She hit send. No emoji. No punctuation. Just intent.

The message delivered with a quiet chime.

And Eden leaned back in her bed, the dream still clinging to her skin like smoke.

She didn’t know what came next.

But she knew she wanted more.

Her phone buzzed again.

Tomorrow. Midnight. Same place. Wear red.

Tag List: @whoaitslucyylu @omgffs @healanette @secret89sblog @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @soufcakmistress @thickemadame @blackpantherismyish @kumkaniudaku @youreadthatright @post-woke @chaneajoyyy @kissmyafropuff @empressdede @melodyofmbaku @blktinkerbell @turbulentvoids @writerbee-ffs @jasssdee1 @cerya @hearteyes-for-killmonger @theegoldenchild @theogbadbitch @honggihwa @dashhoney25 @jackierose902109 @hotcommodityyy @browngirldominion @j0ysyndr0m3

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writerbee-ffs · 2 months ago

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Ooou! I need more 👀!

Cuz who is this maaaaan?!

Lousiana Blues

Note: I am considering publishing this story and would appreciate your feedback. Please COMMENT!!!

Chapter One: Daisy in the Bayou

New Orleans, Louisiana — 1942

The sun spilled over New Orleans like warm molasses, golden and slow, casting long shadows across the sleepy streets. Morning light filtered through the oaks draped in Spanish moss, gilding everything in a glow that felt like a hush—like a secret only the South knew how to keep.

Daisy Belle Rousseau walked the gravel path toward the schoolhouse, her every step steady, graceful. Her kitten heels clicked softly against the ground. Her skirt—navy blue and pressed crisp—swayed just below her knees. A white blouse clung to her frame, perfectly starched, and a leather satchel bumped rhythmically against her hip, full of arithmetic papers and a dog-eared copy of W.E.B. Du Bois.

“Mornin’, Miss Rousseau!” old Mr. Langston called from his porch, waving his cane.

“Morning, Mr. Langston,” she smiled back. “Ain’t it a pretty one?”

“Prettier now that you done walked by!”

She chuckled and shook her head. “Flatterin’ this early in the mornin’ should be a crime.”

New Orleans was small—too small for someone like Daisy, who had dreams as big as Lake Pontchartrain. But she loved it anyway. The moss-draped oaks, the sound of gospel humming through open windows on Sunday mornings, and the children’s laughter spilling from every dusty corner—it was home.

Daisy stepped into her classroom, sunlight filtered through tall windows, warming the wooden desks lined in neat rows. The scent of chalk and ink clung to the walls, and the quiet moment before her students arrived gave Daisy pause. Her students would arrive soon, but for now, she took a quiet moment, running her hand along the edge of her desk. A stack of neatly written arithmetic papers waited for grading, but her mind drifted elsewhere.

To music.

To dancing.

To something... more.

That evening, Daisy sat before her vanity, pressing small gold hoops into her ears. Her roommate and closest friend, Eloise, peeked her head in.

“You ready, sugar? The juke joint don’t stay open forever.”

Daisy looked at herself in the mirror, then back to Eloise. “Do you think this dress is too much?”

“It’s just enough,” Eloise grinned. “Besides, we need a little joy these days. Let’s get out this house.”

It was a Thursday night in the spring of 1942, New Orleans breathed like a living thing. The air was thick with magnolia blossoms and trumpet smoke. Somewhere near Oak Street, the sound of a saxophone kissed the evening wind.

The Rusty Note, the town’s only Black juke joint, pulsed with life. Laughter spilled out the door, smoke curled from cigars, and blues music danced through the thick Louisiana air.

Inside, Daisy swayed in rhythm, surrounded by her friends, sipping on a glass of sweet tea doctored with a little something extra. She tried not to think about the headlines in the Bayou Sentinel—about war, about Hitler, about Black men being called to serve a country that barely saw them as human.

No, tonight was for dancing.

Her dress hugged her waist and flared at the hips, her curls pinned just so, skin kissed with cocoa powder. She sat at a small table, watching, listening, heart half-hoping for nothing and something all at once.

“You gonna sit here all night lookin’ like a painting,” Eloise said beside her, “or are you gone get up and dance?”

Daisy smirked. “I’m fine right here. Ain’t no crime in restin’ my feet.”

“You work them feet hard all week with them children,” Eloise said. “Let ‘em have some fun.”

Daisy’s eyes wandered. “Fun got a price.”

Just then, the club’s door creaked open, and a soft hush moved through the crowd like someone had dimmed the room.

In stepped a man.

A slow guitar riff slid into a melody, and the crowd shifted. That’s when Daisy saw him.

He was standing near the bar, tall and solid, with a deep brown complexion that gleamed under the amber lights. His eyes were soft, curious—watchful. He wore suspenders over a pressed white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his forearms.

He wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. Just clean lines in a brown suit, polished shoes, and dark eyes that moved slowly—like he was soaking everything in. He had the stillness of someone who’d seen storms and learned how to wait them out.

Daisy’s breath caught. She looked away quickly, cheeks warming beneath the dim glow of the hanging lanterns.

She noticed him noticing her.

Something fluttered in her chest—annoying and unfamiliar.

“Lord, have mercy,” Eloise whispered, fanning herself. “Who is that?”

“I don’t know,” Daisy murmured and quickly looked away.

Behind her, Eloise nudged her side. “Go on, Daisy. Talk to him. Ain’t nothing to be scared of.”

Daisy shook her head, trying to steady her nerves. “I’m here for the music, not trouble,” she whispered back.

But fate had its own rhythm.

And then, he walked over.

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writerbee-ffs · 2 months ago

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Summary:

000: https://www.tumblr.com/writerbee-ffs/784659392500023296/000

001:

Atlanta, 1992

ShaNiece McIntyre, 33

Oh baby, baby, baby

I got so much love in me

Ooh (baby, baby) baby, baby, baby

‘Cause if you’re gonna get me off

You gotta love me deep…

ShaNiece swayed her hips to the newest TLC track, wine cooler in hand, curves dipping low with every beat. She was in her element. Vibing. Glowing. Free.

Her mama had finally caved and agreed to watch Shanaye for the night. Fifteen or not, that little girl had more energy than most grown folks, and ShaNiece—thirty, fine, and flying solo—needed a break.

Sure, she’d made what Big Mama still called “the biggest mistake of her life” at eighteen. But that baby saved her. Made her sharper. Wiser. Stronger. She went to college, graduated top of her class, and broke into finance like a storm in heels. In a world full of men trying to “rescue” her from single motherhood, she was already saving herself—six figures deep, child in tow.

She was good. Or so she thought.

“Damn, Niecy! Slow down on them drinks, girl!” Belinda—BeBe to the crew—called out, passing her a murky shot of something strong.

ShaNiece laughed, tossing it back without hesitation. The burn kissed the back of her throat and lit her chest with fire. “Girl, I don’t get out like this often. Let me shake this ass in peace!”

The bass dropped, and the house party roared to life. BeBe kept the shots flowing, and ShaNiece kept dancing like the night owed her joy.

Then he came.

He didn’t ask. He just stepped behind her like he’d been invited by the rhythm itself. He’d been watching, she could feel it. His body slid into place behind hers, close but not too close, letting the music guide them. He wanted to catch what she was throwing—and baby, she threw it well.

When the next beat hit, she paused, teasing, until his breath brushed her ear.

“You scared now?”

His voice was smooth, deep and sure. Her hips responded before she could. Fueled by liquor and laughter, she rolled her ass back into him like it was their song playing—and it damn sure was. He matched her every move, gripping her waist, hips meeting hers with intention. A few heads turned. Let them watch.

“That’s it, lil’ mama,” he murmured, before spinning her to face him.

ShaNiece caught her breath. His golds flashed when he smiled. Coogi sweater. Baggy jeans. Mustache thick and neat. Skin the color of sweet caramel. His eyes were hidden behind shades, but she didn’t need to see them to know he was fine. Real fine.

“You tryna fuck me on the dance floor?” she teased, snapping her fingers in his face. “Helloooo?”

“You always got an attitude like that?” he asked, raising one brow as he pushed his shades higher.

She smirked. “Only when men act brand new after grinding on me for four songs straight. What’s your name?”

“You can call me Stack.” He lifted his hand to show a gold-plated ring spelling it across three fingers. “Yours?” He already knew it. He’d heard her friend call her name throughout the night.

“I’m sure that ain’t what your mama named you,” she said, popping her gum and patting her finger waves. “But I feel you.” Her gold earrings swung with flair—Niecey etched on both. “My friends call me Niecey”

“So we friends now?” he asked, grinning.

“We danced, didn’t we? That counts.” She winked, stepping back into the crowd. “Later, Stack.”

“Hol’ up,” he said, catching her wrist.

A jolt shot through both of them. He dropped her hand like it burned and shook his head like he forgot what he meant to say. “Uh… take my number.”

She smirked as he scribbled digits in her palm before they vanished in opposite directions.

⸻

It was close to 2 a.m. when they stumbled out, trying to make the one-block walk to BeBe’s apartment.

“Biiitch, I’m drunk,” BeBe groaned, hunched over a fence. It was their third stop in a five-minute walk that was now dragging into twenty.

“You ain’t lyin’,” ShaNiece muttered, pulling tissues from her fanny pack to dab the sweat from BeBe’s face and spit from her mouth. “Here. Drink.”

BeBe slumped to the grass. “Go without me!”

“You dramatic.” Still, ShaNiece knew they weren’t making it home like this.

She pulled BeBe’s cell from her jeans and called the number in her palm. A shot in the dark.

“Hello?”

That voice. Smooth, like that dark brown liquor she’d been downing all night.

“Niecey?” His tone softened her name like he already missed her.

“Yeah, um… it’s me. I know it’s late but—”

“Where are you?”

She gave him the corner.

BeBe gagged. “I hope this nigga ain’t no murderer! What you know about him?”

“I know he’s giving us a ride. Hush!” ShaNiece palmed her blade, just in case.

Stack pulled up minutes later. The ride was quiet except for the radio—and his humming. She joined in softly, their voices finding a rhythm even without the music.

When they reached the building, he tapped her thigh. “Take your girl in. Come holla at me.”

She paused. “Or… you could come in.”

She wasn’t the one-night stand type. But something about Stack made her brave.

They carried BeBe to bed. ShaNiece made sure she was okay before returning to the living room, kicking off her Reeboks and tugging her earrings off with a chuckle. “We might’ve gone too hard tonight.”

Stack kicked off his sneakers and sank into the couch beside her. “This every weekend?”

She shook her head. “Not even. Between work and my daughter, I’m booked and busy.”

“Then let’s not waste this rare time.”

He leaned in. Kissed her neck. Hands roaming. Mouth hungry.

By the time their lips met, she was pulling him into the spare room.

Clothes hit the floor in rhythm. His Coogi sweater. Her button-down jersey. Her lace bra fell away and he growled, mouth on her chest. Her shorts slid down and she took him in—his strong chest, curved girth springing free. She reached for his glasses.

He pulled away. “No”

“What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Just kissed her deeper.

ShaNiece gently reached again, this time with both hands, easing the glasses off.

His eyes were unreal—shifting hues of shimmering silver, and something old. They sparkled like a curse and a promise all in one.

She couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to.

“Damn,” she whispered. ShaNiece kissed his lips to reassure him before leaning back.

She stroked her clit watching him take over. He kissed her down to her center, tongue working slow, fingers thick and skilled. She shook beneath him, whimpering, reaching for him.

“I need you,” she moaned, staring into those eyes. “Please.”

He slid into her slowly, possessively. With every stroke, he seemed to pull lightning from her bones.

“Yeees, Stack!” she cried out.

He zoned in on her neck.

Just a taste, he thought hearing her blood pulsating. Calling out for him.

“You like that, baby?” he whispered in her ear. “I’mma keep fucking you until I’m the only thing you think about.” He growled into her ear licking the tip of it.

She screamed his name, eyes wet with pleasure. He flipped her, stroked her deeper. She climbed on top, riding him backwards. He couldn’t resist that pulsating force.

When he bit her neck, she gasped. The bite—sharp, precise.

Pain bloomed, bright and quick, but it unraveled into something else. Heat. Wetness. A pull so deep it made her knees buckle.

She felt the suction of his mouth, the way he fed—not ravenous, but sensual. Worshipful.

Her breath caught, then spilled out in a moan. Her body trembled against his, hips arching, thighs clenching. It was as if he were drinking more than blood—like he was pulling memories, want, soul from her skin.

She was floating. Melting.

And Stack groaned against her, one hand sliding to pinch her chocolate perky nipple.

“You look so fuckin’ delicious,” he moaned, licking the blood. “Had to taste.” His eyes sparkled more.

She turned to kiss him, tasting herself and him and whatever magic sparked between them.

“You’re mine now, baby,” he whispered against her lips. “Whatever you had before—dead that.”

She stared, expecting a laugh. None came.

Their bodies slapped in time, her bangles rattling like wind chimes. She gave him everything—and he took it, pushed her further, until the world fell away.

When they were done, tangled and sweaty, he whispered, “You’re beautiful,” against her frizzy finger waves.

She laid there, one hand on his chest, circling gently.

He meant every word.

She told herself it was just the drinks talking. Tomorrow, he’d be a faded memory.

But tonight?

Tonight, he was everything.

⸻

Atlanta, 1992

Elias “Stack” Moore POV

He should’ve never touched her.

The moment her ass backed up into him on that dance floor, something in his chest cracked open. He hadn’t felt that kind of pull in decades—not since Mary. But this? This was different. This woman wasn’t casting a spell. She was the spell.

ShaNiece. Niecey. That name settled on his tongue like honey and heat.

When she called him later, voice soft and a little slurred, asking for a favor—he didn’t hesitate. He was halfway to her before she dropped the cross street. It wasn’t just lust pulling him. It was instinct. Fate. Hunger.

He helped carry her friend inside, eyes flicking to every corner. He didn’t sense any other presence. No one watching. No threats.

Except the one inside himself.

When she invited him in, he knew he should’ve said no. He had rules. Boundaries. Protocol. Fallon would curse his whole bloodline if she knew he was entertaining a mortal woman this drunk, this vulnerable.

But she wasn’t vulnerable. She was vivid. Fully alive. That rare kind of woman who knew who she was and didn’t apologize for it. And that laugh? It had weight.

He couldn’t explain it. Didn’t want to.

So he followed her into the back room, watching as she stripped with casual grace, like she’d done this dance a thousand times for no one but herself.

Then she reached for his shades.

“No,” he said too fast, too sharp.

She blinked but didn’t flinch. Just eased her hands back. “What’s wrong?”

But he saw it in her eyes—curiosity. Maybe a little hurt.

He couldn’t let her see. Not yet. Not until he knew what the hell was happening between them.

Because something was happening.

And it scared the hell out of him.

When she touched herself, moaning his name, his resolve cracked. She smelled like warm rain and vanilla and the faintest trace of something familiar. Not perfume. Not lotion.

Bloodline.

The first time he tasted her, tongue pressed to that aching pulse between her legs, it was electric. Tense. She trembled like her body already knew him—like her soul was calling out something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

Then she begged for him.

“Please.”

He gave in. Sank into her slow, controlled, trying to keep the beast leashed. But the moment her nails dug into his back and her cries filled the room, he felt it rise The thirst.

He pressed his mouth to her neck and just breathed, trying to ground himself. She smelled divine. Real. Unfiltered. Not the sterile, synthetic blood bags he forced on himself. This woman carried something pure—unspoiled by darkness.

Just a taste, he told himself. Just enough to remember who he used to be.

When he bit down, she gasped. He moaned against her skin.

The blood hit him like a lightning strike. A rush of her hit him—heat and copper, sun-drenched laughter, a child’s cry, an old gospel hum from a porch swing on a Sunday afternoon. Her blood poured over his tongue like silk, thick with grief and joy, survival and sweetness. It wasn’t just sustenance. It was a story.

He gripped her tighter as her body bucked beneath him, her moans hitching on the edge of pain and pleasure. Her heartbeat pounded in his ears, steady and brave. She didn’t scream. She gasped. Then melted.

“Damn, you look so fuckin’ delicious,” he groaned, licking the wound gently, sealing it with his tongue.

The moment he did, her body arched again. Her orgasm hit with tremors—shaking both of them. The taste of her climax still clung to his lips when she turned to kiss him, like she needed to taste what he’d taken.

She kissed him like she knew something.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t push him away. She turned and kissed him like she knew. Like she wanted him still.

He wanted to stop.

But he needed to finish.

So he fucked her like he’d been waiting lifetimes.

Because maybe… he had.

She came apart in his arms, all curses and moans and fingernails, and he held her through it, burying his face in her hair like a man at prayer.

Afterward, she curled against him, fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. Her breathing slowed. Her eyes fluttered closed.

He stared at the ceiling, wide awake.

Not from the sex. Not even from the bite.

But from the knowing.

ShaNiece wasn’t just some fling. She wasn’t random.

He’d felt this before—decades ago, in shadows and dreams. Every couple of years or so, someone would spark that flicker, but it always faded.

This? This burned.

He looked down at her, sleeping like she trusted him.

He didn’t deserve it.

He’d tasted her blood—and buried in it, something simmered beneath the surface. Not just sweetness. Not just warmth.

Something immortal.

Something dangerous.

And for the first time in a long time, Elias “Stack” Moore felt something close to fear.

Because he didn’t know if he’d been sent to protect this woman… or destroy her.

Atlanta, 1992- The Next Day

Elias “Stack” Moore POV

The sky was still painted indigo when he walked into the back office of the club. The city wasn’t fully awake yet—but Fallon was.

Of course she was.

She leaned against the desk, arms crossed, in a black turtleneck and gold hoops. Her eyes—that sharp hazel gold—tracked him like prey.

“Where the fuck were you last night?”

Elias didn’t answer right away. He took off his sweater, dumping it to the side. Peeled off the rest of his clothes one item at a time down to his boxers. He needed to shower.

Fallon didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“You didn’t check in,” she said, voice low and flat. “And you didn’t feed yesterday.”

He looked up then, jaw tight. “I fed.”

“You fed,” she echoed, nostrils flaring. “Not from a bag.”

He didn’t answer. Just walked past her to the small bar and poured two shots of bourbon. It burned going down, but not enough. He still tasted her.

“I told you,” she said, stepping closer, “the girl from the party. She’s not clean.”

His hand stilled on the glass.

“I didn’t say she was dirty. I meant she’s… special. Like she’s different or something.”

“You think I didn’t feel that?” he muttered, turning toward her.

Fallon’s eyes narrowed.

“So you did see her?”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t have to.

Fallon’s jaw locked. “You bit her.”

He stayed silent.

“You fucking bit her?” Her voice dropped, but it hit like a punch. “Jesus, Elias. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“She was already in it,” he said quietly. “Before I touched her. Before I knew her name.”

“Don’t give me that ‘destiny’ bullshit,” she snapped. “You felt a pull? Great. You know what that means.”

He looked at her then, really looked. Her face was tight with fear—not anger. That scared him more than anything.

“She didn’t scream,” he said. “Didn’t push me away. When I bit her, she leaned in.”

Fallon shook her head. “You don’t get it. That’s worse. That means she already in trouble.”

He stilled. “What?”

Fallon lowered her voice. “Mary.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then she whispered, “The Juke, Elias.”

“Don’t” he growled.

“They died, Stack. And it tore a hole in you big enough to crawl through. Don’t pretend like this ain’t déjà vu.”

He turned away, gripping the edge of the desk until the wood creaked.

Fallon stepped closer, softer now. “You said she was the only one who ever made you feel like this until she didn’t”

“She broke me on purpose.” He thought of her and the curse she forged in him.

“But this one,” Fallon pressed, “ShaNiece. She’s making you feel again.”

He nodded once. Slow. Painful.

Fallon’s voice trembled. “Then we got a problem. Because if you felt that bond, Stack, if you took ShaNiece’s blood because it called you—you know what comes next.”

He closed his eyes. “Mary.”

Fallon nodded. “She always knows when you give yourself away.”

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writerbee-ffs · 2 months ago

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Not Just Tonight

Here’s the final part to my Smoke x Annie Wedding series — the reception/ wedding night!!!

This one’s for all you Smut lovers out there 😏

TW/CW - use of the N word, cursing, unprotected sex, oral sex, mild bondage, mild choking, dominate vs. submissive, fluff, f!ingering

OG time period with modern influence; Smoke and Annie 1st person POV — Inspired by the song So Beautiful by Music Soulchild

***********************************************

“As the best man, y’all know I’m obligated to make a speech…” Stack started, interrupting the roaring chatter of guests in Delray’s — the intimate, local juke joint Annie and I were holding our reception at.

“…So why don’t y'all sit ya’ll happy asses down and let a real playa speak to you for a minute.” He continued, clinking his glass.

It was visibly clear that Stack was feeling a little tipsy — his goofy ass pacing around the stage as he waited for everyone to take their seats —but he was still holding onto his usual suave composure tightly.

“Oh lord, here he go.” Annie said, chuckling softly; hand covering her face.

This nigga betta not embarrass me… I whisper to myself, taking a seat beside Annie at a circular table toward the front of the Juke.

Taking a swig of my Italian wine — courtesy of a connect I made while up in New York — I turn my attention toward Stack, mentally preparing for whatever shit he was about to say on the mic.

“Anybody who knows the SmokeStack twins, knows that I inherited all the swag, and Smoke inherited all the sense…” Stack began, already getting a few chuckles from the crowd.

“I mean, if it wasn’t for me the nigga would probably wear a wife beata and khakis every damn day!” He added, eliciting more laughter from the audience as if he were a comedian testing out a new set.

“Not to mention, he has no game — The looks and some more help from me saved him in that area…“

“Alright nigga, not too much! ” I interrupted, with a light chuckle, taking another swig of wine.

Annie laughed, rubbing a gentle hand along my arm in an attempt to defuse any ill feelings that tried to arise at the mention of Stack’s arrogant but well-intentioned comments.

“Don’t worry chief, I’m getting to a point.” Stack laughed , tilting his glass toward me.

“Even though I helped Smoke become the sharp looking pimp we see here today, he’s helped me in more ways than I can count; far more important than looks and sweet talk…” he started up again, his tone shifting from playful to sincere.

“Growing up, Smoke was the closest thing I had to a dad.” He continued, tensing up a bit at the thought of our deceased deadbeat father. “He taught me how to shave, how to fight, how to drive — the list goes on. We’ve developed a system; a bond that not many understand. It takes a lot for people to get close to us and infiltrate that system. And on the off chance they do, they’re usually too intimidated to stay. But Annie… Annie you different.” Stack said, turning his attention directly to the woman next to me.

“I knew from the moment we met that Annie would steam roll her ass between us and stay.”

I turned to look at Annie who was laughing heartily, her bright smile lighting up the room. I sat there staring for a moment, admiring her beauty as Stack proceeded to speak.

“In all my 25 years of living, I ain’t never seen Smoke care about a woman the way he cares about you Annie. Hell, I’ve rarely seen him talk to or think about a woman longer than a few days before you come along.” He stated, throwing in another joke for good measure.

“That man right there...” Stack pointed at me.“would lay down his life for you and then some. And knowing the kind of woman you are, I know you’d do the same for him.”

“And would!” Annie shouted boldly, placing a reassuring hand on the back of my neck.

“So imma end with this: I ain’t much of a praying man but I hope the powered that be give you both everything you want and more. Love y’all to life; Now drink up mothafuckas!” Stack finished, chugging the last of his drink and tipping his glass toward me and Annie. The crowd erupted into applause as Stack exited the stage to make his way over to us.

“That was beautiful Stack, thank you!” Annie said, embracing him and placing a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Not gon lie you had me in the first half nigga, but I appreciate you. Much love bro!” I said, dabbing him up.

“ You know I gotta keep you on your toes G.” Stack teased before returning to his seat at the table behind us.

For the next 30 minutes or so, friends and family went up to the mic, recounting stories and saying their congratulations to me and Annie. There was of course little Mary, Annie’s grandmother and cousins, Delta Slim— who was like an Uncle to me, my homies Bo Chow and Corn Bread; hell even little Sammie got up and said a few words.

After all was said and done, it was time to party.

With the moon high and dry, those with young kids said their goodbyes, while those grown enough to stay coupled up and took to the dance floor to do what they do best — bump and grind.

Finishing off my drink, I could see Annie looking at me from my peripheral, a glint in her eyes.

“How you feeling?” She asked me, her voice soft like the supple skin on her radiant body.

“Full.” I said, turning my attention to meet her gaze. I meant that in every sense of the word as I took in the beauty of my newly wedded wife and the moment surrounding us once more.

“You?” I asked in return.

“Like I’m on cloud 9.” She smiled with that big ol’ smile of hers. “Dance with me Elijah.” She demanded, standing from her seat and grabbing me by the hand to follow.

The room filled with sensual rhythm and blues as me and Annie made our way to the dance floor. Like second nature, her arms wrapped around my neck, as I snaked mine around her waist, resting at them at the small of her back.

Like two pieces of a puzzle, our legs intertwined as we began slow grinding to the melodies swirling around us. It was like we were the only two people in the room.

“Mrs. Moore, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” I said, voice thick with awe.

“You’re not so bad yourself Mr. Moore.” She said, placing her head on my chest. Even though I was fully clothed, the contact made my skin sting with desire.

“You don’t know what you do to me.” I whisper in her ear, hunger lacing my tongue. “Drives me crazy…”

I could feel Annie’s body shiver against me as I began peppering kisses along her neck.

“Elijah —“ she warned, lifting her head to look me in the eyes. I cut her off with a deep kiss, no longer in the mood for talking.

“Respectfully, Annie…” I started, pulling away from our kiss to remove my jacket and place it on a nearby chair. “ The only words I want to hear come out of that pretty little mouth of yours for the rest of the night are: “more”, “right there”, and “yes”. “ I said pulling her body against me, tighter than before.

Though bashful, I could see the lust-filled excitement dancing around in Annie’s eyes.

“Whatever you say Elijah.” She whispered, biting her lip. Our lips reconnected with more intensity than before — tongues swirling around, as carnal need coursed through our veins.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good Annie. Not just tonight, but for the rest of your life. So long as I’m by your side, you won’t have to worry about nothing.” I said between kisses, promise infused in every word.

“Show me.” Annie said, eyes dark and daring.

***

Smoke grabbed my hand, leading me carefully through the crowd of dancing bodies until we reached a room on the second floor of the hole in the wall Juke.

Opening the door, I could see a small bed on one side of the room and a closet and dresser —- dawned with candles — on the other. Fragrant rose petals scattered the floor, as the moonlight peaked in through the cracks of a small window to the left of the bed.

“I had a buddy of mine fix the room up for us.” Smoke explained, closing the door behind him and locking it. I took a moment to revel at the intention put in by the man beside me.

“You are too sweet Elijah Moore.” I said, my gratitude evident.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that baby.” He said menacingly, undoing his tie. “Sit.” he commanded, ushering me toward the edge of the bed.

“You remember what I said downstairs right? Those words I want you to say?” Smoke questioned, lust dripping from his lips with every word.

“Y-yes.” I answered, voice catching in my throat. I could feel myself already getting aroused at his dominance.

“Good girl. Now lay down and scooch up.” He smirked, a devilish sparkle in his eyes.

Oh this man is on demon time tonight I thought to myself as I silently obeyed his command. I watched carefully as my husband made his way toward me, his undone tie draped in hand.

“Put your arms above your head for me baby.” I do as I’m told. Without warning Smoke pulls my arms together, preparing to tie them to the headboard above me.

“Let me know if this gets too tight.” He said, tying a firm knot around my wrists. I could feel my adrenaline rush through my body as I began to fantasize about the things this man was about to do to me. Whatever he had planned, I knew it was going to be good

Pleased with his work, Smoke trailed a hand down my arm and placed it gently on my neck, giving it a squeeze. I clinched at the sensation of asphyxiation mixed with the warmth of his lips as he leaned down to plant a long sensual kiss on my lips.

Smoke pulled away slowly, a teasing smirk on his lips. He turned to unbutton his shirt and remove his shoes. My body twitched at the sight of his chiseled muscles flexing in the moonlight, as he threw the discarded clothes in the corner.

God took his time on this man I thought, watching intently.

Rather than making his way back to my lips, Smoke moved toward the edge of the bed, kneeling at in front of me as if he was praying at an altar. Removing the heels from my feet, he began to rub my sore ankles and toes, causing a soft moan to escape my lips.

“Feel good baby?” Smoke asked, his sexy voice piercing the air.

“Mhmm” I moaned again with a sigh of relief.

“Good.” He replied softly, placing a gentle kiss to my ankle.

As Smoke continued to massage my feet, ankles, and calves with his strong, heavenly hands, I could feel him start to leave soft kisses up and down my legs.

“Elijah—“ I whispered breathily, heating up at the sensation of his lips on my skin.

“Shh mamas. Let me take care of you.” He said between kisses.

Shifting positions, Smoke rose to hover over my lower half — one hand anchored on the bed, the other on my thigh. Lifting my dress for further access, he placed warm wet kisses along my thighs. As he got closer to my sex, I could feel my pussy throb in anticipation; legs tensing up in response.

“You gon open up for me mama?” Smoke joked teasingly as he looked me square in the eyes, mouth inches away from heat. His warm breath sent goosebumps throughout my body.

“Yes.” I exhaled, slowly opening my legs.

“Thats a good girl.” He said before placing firm kisses against my clothed pussy. I could feel my breath hitch as Smoke moved my panties to the side, taking a long thick finger and sliding it down my swollen wet core.

“Look at that pretty pussy already warmed up for me.” Smoke said proudly, before sticking his tongue deep into my folds and swirling it around.

Not being able to use my hands, I squirmed and whimpered under his touch.

“Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want. I’m all yours.” He said assertively, backing away slightly from my now aching center.

“Please Elijah, make me cum.” I said looking down desperately at the beautiful man peaking between my legs.

“ My pleasure.” Smoke replied smugly, immediately going to work.

He inserted two thick fingers into my pussy, instantly moving them in and out — slowly at first, then picking up steam. My hips bucked wildly. A frenzy of moans filled the air; signaling him that I wanted more. Digging deeper, he began slurping up my juices with his tongue.

“God damn baby, you taste so good.” Smoke moaned into my heat, the vibrations of his voice sending me into overdrive.

“Shittt” I moaned out; my skin on fire from the overwhelming, addictive pleasure I was receiving. “ Right there Elijah. Just like that.”

I could feel myself getting close, as Smoke inserted a third finger, curving his digits and circling his tongue around my clit.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m gonna cum, Elijah. I’m gonna cum.” I cried out, chest heaving and sweat dripping from my brow.

“Let loose baby.” Smoke said, mouth never leaving my heat. He placed a firm hand on my stomach, the pressure sending me over the edge.

Engulfed with pleasure, I cried out, unraveling as Smoke continued to eat and finger me through my release.

After a minute or so, I finished — post orgasm waves surging periodically through my tired body. I breathlessly watched as Smoke removed his face from between my legs, licking his lips like he had just finished the last supper.

Using his dry hand, he wiped my excess orgasm from his beard. As if he couldn’t get enough of the taste, he began sucking on one of his wet fingers.

“Want some?” He asked, looking deep into my eyes. Matching his fiery gaze, I nod my head yes. He moves to stand beside me, towering over my disheveled figure.

“Open.” Smoke ordered.

Obeying his command, I open my mouth wide — making sure to look him dead in the eyes — as he placed two of his slick fingers in my mouth.

***

“Shit.” I whispered through gritted teeth as I watched Annie suck her sweet nectar from my fingers.

She looks so sexy with my fingers in her mouth. Imagine how good she’d look with my d— I cut off the tempting thought, feeling my dick twitch in my pants. As much as I loved the idea of getting head right now, tonight was about Annie.

“You like how sweet you taste mamas?” I asked, shoving my fingers a little deeper down her throat.

“Mmhmm” Annie nods, the vibration from her throat sending electricity down my spine. Slowly, I remove my cleaned fingers from her mouth.

“What else do you want to do tonight?” I probed, reminding Annie that I was here to take care of her needs. “Let me hear you say it baby.”

“I want you inside of me Smoke.” she whispered darkly, her voice hoarse. Even though she was still reeling from her last orgasm, Annie wanted all that Smoke had to offer.

That’s my girl I thought, a small smile creeping on my lips. I lean in to give her kiss before making my way back down to the edge of the bed.

“Lift.” I requested, urging her to raise her hips.

Pulling down her soaked panties, I throw them to the corner of the room with the rest of my clothes. Wanting to take in the full view of her body, I roll up her dress even more so that it sat just above her chest.

“Can I remove this, baby?” I asked, looking down at her laced white bra. Annie, completely submissive in the moment, lazily nodded her head yes. She lifts up a bit so that I can unclasp and remove the binding cloth from her chest. I turn to throw it in the pile with the rest of our clothes.

“Mmm…” I moaned, returning to take in the sight of my wife’s ample bare breasts. I could tell she was feeling a little shy from my scanning eyes as her body started to tense.

“Mrs. Moore…” I started, softly caressing the skin on her cheek “you are truly a work of art.” I affirm, placing a gentle kiss to her forehead. I could feel her body ease under my touch.

That’s more like it, I thought. Standing, I move back toward the edge of the bed to admire the fullness of Annie’s body.

“How you want it ma?” I ask, unbuckling my pants; ready to please my woman in any way that she needs.

“Deep and slow.” Annie said seductively; fully embracing the power of just being able to lay back and give commands. Her teasing eyes caused my dick to stiffen.

Dropping my pants, I began to roll my thick shaft in my hands. Annie watched with lustful dark eyes — lip tucked between teeth — as I twisted and tugged. Moving to hover over her, I position myself so that I perfectly aligned with her center.

Kissing up her stomach and chest slowly, I land on one of her swollen breasts. Cupping it in my hand, I take her nipple in my mouth, sucking on the warm chocolate mound. I could hear Annie hiss at the sensation, as I began swirling and flicking it with my tongue.

“S-Stop teasing me Smoke.” She whispered, her voice stinging with need as her eyes fluttered close.

Not breaking away from her chest, I reach my free hand toward her ankle and lift her leg so that it’s now propped over my shoulder.

“You said you wanted it slow baby, remember?” I teased before readjusting myself at the entrance of her peak.

“You ready?” I asked, searching Annie’s twisted face for confirmation.

“Yes.” She replied hungrily.

Slowly, I slide my dick into her wet folds, cursing instantly at how tight she was.

“Fuck Annie…” I exclaimed, letting myself get used to the pressure of her warm pussy around my hard cock.

Getting fully acclimated, I began bucking my hips to the slow, steady rhythm of the music that’s been playing throughout the Juke.

“Ohhh yes, just like that baby.” Annie exhaled, her eyes rolling back in pleasure. As I continued grinding my hips into hers, I made sure to place gentle kisses along her stomach and legs.

“Fuck you take me so good Annie. You look so beautiful taking me like this.” I praised her, marveling at the woman beneath me.

As I went deeper with every stroke, wild moans continued to escape Annie’s plump lips; mouth agape. Her cries, mixed with the music from the band below, created the most beautiful symphony.

Man I could listen to this shit for the rest of my life I thought to myself, no intentions of stopping anytime soon.

***************************************************

What Beyonce say? “Fan me off I’m hot, hot, hot….” Cause SAME sis.

The wayyyyy I’d turn Smoke every way but loose if he told me he’d do whatever I asked him to. I’m talking round after rounddd!!!!

ANYWAYS, yall I hope you enjoyed this series! I had so much fun writing about Smoke x Annie’s marriage story — especially with it being in 1st person. Let me know what you thought about the shifting POV’s, speeches, or literally anything else, in the comments 😊

@bigjh , @sarcastic-sunshines , @lizbehave , @christinabae , @destinio1 , @spicypiscesssss , @thefutureemmywinner

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writerbee-ffs · 2 months ago

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“God Forbid” 😂 cuz no seriously

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.

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writerbee-ffs · 2 months ago

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Honestly? I don’t want them writing fanfics about Black characters. They do a shitty job of it anyway. I don’t want them describing Black bodies; I don’t want them describing our skin and hair. Keep Black folks out of your bullshit. Write about Remmick and stfu.

This isn’t “Just a movie.” There’s historical, ancestral, and cultural context involved. My grandmother was born in 1932. Her mother was born in 1910. This movie means something to those of us who are descendants of chattel slavery especially.

Just like I said in another post: Y’all ARE your ancestors. You’re proving that shit every single day in these tags/fandom.

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writerbee-ffs · 2 months ago

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Summary: Elias lost her once in 1992. In 2025, her eyes find him again—through someone new. But some love stories never die… they just wait.

000:

Mississippi Delta– 1932

Elias laid there in a back room of the juke, shirt torn, blood soaking the front. His hands trembled—not from pain, but from the weight of what she’d just done.

He’d broken free from the hold his twin, Elijah, had him in before reuniting with Mary and the others. He just needed his brother and his wife, Annie, and their little cousin, Sammie. He needed them to feel the joy and excitement.

But then it all fell apart. The Juke Joint had turned into a massacre. Blood, death and destruction all from a powerful hem.

“I gave you life,” Mary whispered behind him, her voice soft as poison. “You were a selfish man.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he said, jaw clenched.

“But you let me.” Her heels tapped once against the pinewood floor. “On that floor. In that back room.” She smirked. “You came for me, Stack.” The flirtatiousness in her voice wrapped around his body.

He turned around. Her face was beautiful but cold. Pale curls down to her collarbone. Her eyes gleamed in the poor lighting.

“That don’t mean I wanted this.” He was coming to his senses. Smoke was gone.

She smiled bitterly. “But now you’ll never leave me. Not again.”

Elias took a step back. “Mary…”

“You think I didn’t feel it?” Her voice cracked—just once. “You think I didn’t see the way you looked at all of them? All those colored girls in the Juke?”

“That wasn’t—”

“They wasn’t me!” Mary screamed like thunder rattling through.

“I’ve given you everything,” she said, stepping closer, eyes glowing now, inhuman and hungry. “Power. Life. Eternity.”

“I don’t want eternity, Mary. Not if it means being yours.”

Her face twisted. “Then you’ll have it alone.”

She raised her hand. Blood dripped from her wrist, and she spoke in the old tongue, the one her mother taught her before she died under a pale sky.

Elias fell to his knees, choking, as the room grew darker—colder.

“From this night forward,” Mary intoned, “you will walk this earth never knowing peace. You will remember every face you love, and every one you lose.”

Blood spilled down his chin. His gums ached. His heart beat once—then slowed.

“I curse you, Stack. You will hunger, but never be filled. You will love, but never be loved back. And every woman you desire will feel my shadow on her soul.”

The final word hit the air like a storm breaking. The candlelight blew out, one by one.

Mary knelt beside him, cupping his face.

“I made you, Stack,” she whispered. “And I’ll unmake anyone who tries to take you from me.”

She kissed him, slow and coldly, and when she pulled back, her lips were red with his blood.

He screamed into the darkness as the curse settled in his bones—burning, binding, eternal.

From then own, Elias vowed to be alone. He hated Mary. She bound him to her. She was selfish, envious and entitled. Qualities he never saw from her growing up until that night.

@destinio1 @chaneajoyyy @reci1996 @jackierose902109 @blackisy2k @bxrbie1 @thickemadame @honeytoffee @twistedcharismaaa @wakandamama @soufcakmistress @scrumptiouslytenaciouscrusade @fd-writes @thehomierobbstark @dameshaemonique @lovelymari4 @raysunshine78 @l-auteuse @artsninspo @ghostfacekill-monger @tastingmellow @eye-raq @bakarilennox @theogbadbitch @tastingmellow @erikismybitch

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writerbee-ffs · 2 months ago

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LaRue | Moore Twins

Summary: When betrayal cuts close, Vivian reminds her men who really owns them with bare hands, blood, and the slow twist of a heel.

Themes: femdom, power imbalance, emotional tension, blood and lipstick, mild character death, possessiveness, jealousy, toxic devotion, kneeling kink, plus-sized black femme OC, 1930s mob chic, club AU, punishment, tiny foot play, manipulation, femme softness used like a weapon, light humiliation, sub!stack, sub!smoke, dom!fem, oral fixation, praise kink, power play, soft sensual tension, mob politics, viv has a God complex

Word count: 4.6k

Authors Note: ik yall wanted an x reader but i really wanted to use this OC ive been hiding in the closet for a long time still i hope this is enjoyable i love powerful fat women 😋🩷 there will be no part 2 sorry!! but i might make one shots based of these 3

Also thank you for 1k :(( shout out to everyone who's been here even when my writing was booboo garbage 😭😭 pls support me on AO3 and read my other works here if you like :)

The club was quiet now. Too quiet.

Downstairs, a trumpet sobbed into the midnight hour, but up here in Vivian’s office the only thing louder than the silence was the rage pressing in from every corner

The air in Vivian LaRue’s office was thick not just with the usual haze of cigarillo smoke, but with heat, blood, and disappointment. Jazz bled faintly through the floorboards from the club below, cheerful and cruel in contrast to the silence pressing on the three people in the room.

Vivian sat at her desk like a wounded queen, her legs crossed at the ankle, one hand resting on the polished wood, the other slowly twirling the cigarillo between her fingers. Her left eye was already swelling, turning a sick shade of violet. Blood clung to her temple in a jagged trail, dried and cracked, and her bottom lip was split wide open.

But even beat to hell, she was beautiful. The blood had dried, but the rage? That still simmered

Smoke and Stack stood before her, still as statues, their usual confidence hollowed out. Neither dared to speak. Vivian didn’t look at them. She just stared ahead, smoke curling from her lips like a slow-dancing threat. Her nails tapped against the desk — a steady, sharp rhythm that grew louder with each second they stayed silent.

The twins were Silent. Gutted. Waiting for the burn.

“You boys must think I’m real stupid.”

Her voice was low, calm. Too calm. Stack shifted first, opening his mouth.

“Ma’am, I—”

“No,” she cut him off, still not looking up. “Don’t talk. Don’t lie.”

Nothing. No sound.

Then she stood. Slow. Smooth. Like a gun rising off the table. She walked around the desk, stopping just in front of them. Her gaze pierced through flesh and bone. Her heels adding onto her height so that she was looking them in their eyes.

“Tell me, sugar,” she said to Stack, “what you doin’ out on the South Side two nights ago?”

“Groery run,” he muttered.

Vivian laughed, humorless and bitter.

“South Side don’t sell groceries ‘less you lookin’ to buy a casket.”

She turned to Smoke next.

“And you what’s your excuse? You let him walk. You met with Morales’s people behind my back. Y’all thought you were savin’ me?” She tilted her head. “You thought I needed y’all to fix what I built?”

She let the silence hang. Then, softly, like a blade slipping into flesh:

“I let you both fuck me a couple times, now yall think I’m soft?”

They froze. Stack blinked. Smoke’s jaw ticked.

Vivian stepped even closer, voice low and lethal. “Is my pussy that good? Hm?” Her smile was sharp as broken glass. “That you thought you could macho your way into my throne room? Into my empire?”

She took a breath. Steady. Furious.

“Me lettin’ y’all stick your dicks in me was your power. That was your reward. And you couldn’t even appreciate it.”

She looked them up and down like something spoiled.

“You thought just ‘cause I moaned your name you could walk in here like kings. But sugar, I made you kings. And I can make you beggars.”

She turned from them then, walking back to her desk, voice soft as velvet and twice as deadly.

“You gave my secrets away. Tried to broker deals behind my back like I wouldn’t find out. I bled ‘cause of your arrogance. And now I gotta remind the city that Vivian LaRue ain’t to be fucked with.”

Her hand lifted slowly, not clenched, not rushed, just a smooth glide of wrath.

The slap landed like a shot.

A sharp crack echoed through the office as her palm struck across Stack’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. Skin breaking from the cut diamonds that were on her fingers. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare raise his eyes. The skin bloomed red under the contact, blood trickling down his cheek.

Vivian didn’t flinch.

“You let me bleed,” she whispered. “And I need you to remember what that feels like.”

She didn’t look at Smoke, but he felt it anyway the threat unspoken. The promise wrapped in silk and fury.

“You thought I was soft?” Her voice dipped, sweet and syrupy. “Because I opened my legs for you?”

“You can’t earn my power between my thighs,” she said. “You earn it at my feet.”

Then, as if it was just another day, she turned her back to them, walked behind her desk, and sat.

Vivian leaned back, cool and quiet.

“You forgot who built this empire. You forgot who made you kings.”

She took a long drag from her cigarillo. Exhaled smoke through her nose like a dragon in mourning.

“I ain’t gon’ kill you,” she said finally. “Not tonight.”

Her eyes flicked to them once more, colder now.

“But you both bets figure out who runs shit”

And with that, she dismissed them with one flick of her hand.

The club’s floor was all polished brass and perfume tonight, buzzing with the usual swirl of laughter, liquor, and low stakes lies. Men in pinstripes and fedoras lined the walls, women in sequins clutching champagne glasses like they were trying to hold onto their lives. The music had stopped. No one breathed. Not really.

Because Vivian LaRue had just walked in. She had that smile on. The dangerous one.

She wasn’t limping anymore. Wasn’t bruised or broken. Her curls were piled high, slicked and pinned, She walked through like smoke in silk black dress hugging her frame, curls pinned back, just enough gloss on her mouth to make men stupid. Not that she needed help. Her nails gleamed red. Her lips were darker than sin. And her eyes?

Her eyes were death in stilettos.

Smoke and Stack flanked her like shadows. Silent, stiff, still not in her good graces. Stack’s cheek was still marked from where she’d slapped him — a fading cut, clean and thin like a signature. Smoke wore no scar, but his silence was heavier than iron. Neither one dared speak.

But tonight wasn’t about them.

Morales stood near the back, flanked by his men, cocky as ever with his crooked smile and too-loud laugh. He clapped when he saw her, slow and sarcastic.

Morales’ smirk flickered when Vivian stepped closer. Just for a second barely a twitch but she saw it. The fear.

Good.

But he got it together fast, puffing up like a rooster with a dozen guns at his back. “You come waltzing in here like you still got teeth,” he said, gesturing lazily to the twins. “But your boys? Your precious little shadows? They were in on it, sugar. Didn’t lift a finger while I took your crown.”

Vivian didn’t even look at Smoke or Stack. Her gaze was molten steel, locked on Morales. “They’ll be dealt with,” she said, smooth as scotch. “But they’re still valuable to me.”

She leaned in, her voice turning intimate and ice-cold.

“You’re not.”

The gunshot rang out sharp and sudden.

Morales howled, dropping to one knee, clutching his thigh as blood bloomed through his cream trousers. His men moved like wolves, ready to strike, but Vivian was already a storm

She pivoted, slicing through the air with grace and fury, her second shot knocking a pistol from one goon’s hand. Another came charging, but she ducked low, slammed the heel of her stiletto into his knee, and fired point-blank into his chest. The club erupted into chaos, but no one ran. No one dared.

A third man grabbed her arm. Mistake.

She sank her teeth into his neck, pulled back with a snarl, and headbutted him hard enough to drop him cold. Stack handled the rest with brutal efficiency. Smoke didn’t move. He didn’t have to.

Not until she turned and pointed the gun at him.

The whole club gasped.

Smoke didn’t flinch. Not even when she fired.

The bullet grazed his shoulder, a clean slice that painted his shirt red. He grunted, but stayed on his feet, jaw tight, eyes on her. Loyal. Silent. Bleeding.

Vivian looked at Morales, now crawling through his own blood, hand outstretched, whimpering.

“You said I was done,” she said, voice low. “You thought I was finished. You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”

She stepped over him, pressed the barrel of her gun to his forehead. He was crying now, wet-faced and pathetic, begging like a dog. She didn’t blink.

“You want mercy?” she said. “Ask my city.”

And then, she nodded once.

Smoke moved fast quieter than death putting a bullet through Morales’ skull without a second’s hesitation. Vivian turned to the room.

The crowd was silent. Shaking.

Vivian, blood-spattered and beautiful, smiled like the devil in diamonds stepped over Morales’s body, heels clicking like a clock ticking toward someone else’s death. She reached down, took his cigar from his twitching fingers, and lit it with her own flame.

Then she looked up at the crowd — the gangsters, the girls, the dealers and bootleggers who had all whispered that Vivian LaRue had gone soft.

“Let this be a lesson,” she said, her voice clear and cold. “I don’t bleed twice. And none of you are above MY law."

She took a long drag.

“Y’all must’ve forgot who runs this city.”

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Even the jazz seemed too afraid to start again.

And just like that — her crown was back.

She looked down at Morales’s corpse bleeding out on her polished club floor and clicked her tongue with mild annoyance — like someone finding a scuff on her favorite shoes.

“Somebody clean my floors,” she said coolly, waving two fingers without even turning around. “Don’t want this bastard’s blood dryin’ into my marble.”

A few of her staff snapped into motion instantly, no hesitation, no questions. One even slipped trying to grab a mop.

Vivian smirked, then she raised her voice just enough to command the room again, posture regal as ever, standing in a pool of red like it was part of her outfit.

“Now that that’s settled—” she turned, lifting her glass from the table beside her, “—y’all can get back to drinkin’.”

Her voice curved into a playful dare. “Drinks on me. All night. Hell, I’m feelin’ generous.”

A cheer rose, cautious at first, then louder, wilder, like the entire room had just taken a breath for the first time in weeks. The band picked back up, horns wailing in relief, the rhythm like a heartbeat snapping back to life.

Vivian stepped down from the small platform, weaving through the crowd like a crowned serpent. People moved for her like water parting for a ship. She paused to take a sip of her drink, whiskey, neat, then handed the rest off to some wide-eyed girl before grabbing another from a passing tray.

That’s when she saw him.

Leaning against the far wall, holding a drink he clearly wasn’t old enough to have, stood a boy too pretty for the company he kept. Young, wide-eyed, maybe twenty-one on a bold day. Slick hair, clean skin, suit too neat to have been worn more than once. New. Out of place. Out of depth.

And watching her like she was something painted in gold.

Vivian slowed her step. Tilted her head.

He froze. Gulped. Eyes fixed on her like a man staring into the sun.

She raised a brow and started walking toward him, heels tapping, hips swaying like music lived in her bones. By the time she reached him, he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“You ain’t from around here,” she said, smooth and amused, looking him up and down like a piece of art she might buy just to hang in her private room.

He fumbled the glass in his hand, nearly spilling it. “I—uh, no, ma’am. I just got hired tonight. Kitchen… runner.”

Vivian’s lips curled. “You sure don’t look like no kitchen boy.”

His eyes jumped to hers, panic and awe wrestling in his chest.

“Are you listenin’, sugar?” she asked, sweet and slow, tilting her head as she leaned in just enough for her perfume to hit.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “

Vivian blinked once. Then let out a slow, dangerous giggle — the kind that made men rich and ruined in the same breath.

“Well, well,” she said, almost to herself. “Ain’t you precious.”

Her gaze flicked over her shoulder, catching the twins where they stood behind the crowd, both watching the exchange a little too closely. Smoke’s jaw clenched. Stack’s arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was physically restraining himself.

Her smirk deepened.

Vivian let her fingers trail down the boy’s tie slow, absent, just enough to make his knees lock — before she turned on her heel without a word and walked deeper into the club. She didn’t tell him to follow.

She didn’t have

He was on her heels in an instant, weaving through the crowd like he belonged there, like he’d always known how to move in her shadow. The floor swallowed them whole as the music swelled, leaving Smoke and Stack frozen where they stood like two statues watching their own thrones crumble.

She swept through the velvet curtain into the VIP lounge, her sanctuary. Dark and gold and dripping in champagne and silk. It smelled like power, perfume, and secrets, just the way she liked it.

The boy hovered near the entrance, unsure, until Vivian crooked her finger. “C’mon, baby face. You followed me this far.”

He stepped in and the curtains closed behind him like a coffin lid.

The music outside swelled, and from beyond the velvet curtain, laughter and life kept on — but in the VIP room, time slowed.

Vivian poured herself a fresh glass of champagne, but when baby face reached for the bottle to pour for her, she stopped him with a glance that could’ve shattered glass.

“Mm-mm. Sit pretty,” she said, crossing one leg over the other, letting her robe part just enough to flash a sliver of thigh.

He obeyed. Immediately.

Good boy.

She sipped again, leaned back, and let her eyes run over him like a hand, slow and deliberate. He was handsome — that soft kind of handsome, baby deer in the headlights, all jaw and lashes and wide-eyed reverence. He had that look of a man who didn’t know what to do with power. But Vivian? Vivian could spot potential like a hawk smelled blood.

“You got a name, sugar?” she asked, swirling her glass lazily.

“Reginald , ma’am…”

“Mmm. ‘Reginald’ Sounds like a banker.” She made a face. “You look like one, too.”

“I used to be,” he admitted, then quickly added, “But I left that. I wanted… more.”

She chuckled, dark and smooth. “Of course you did. Don’t they all?”

Her eyes flicked toward the curtain — toward the looming presence of Smoke and Stack. She didn’t need to see them to know they hadn’t moved. They were locked in place like watchdogs behind glass. Exactly where she wanted them.

She turned her attention back to Reginald— her baby face and her voice dropped to a near whisper, thick with promise and poison. “So what exactly you want more of, hm?”

He swallowed hard. “This. All this. The power. The—” he stumbled, eyes licking down and back up to her face, “—you.”

That earned him a slow smile. Real, dangerous, pleased.

“Oh baby,” she purred. “You don’t even know what wantin’ me means yet."

“I’m sorry, it’s just…you're just more beautiful than the stories they tell”

Her lashes dropped slow and heavy. Then she laughed. Not sharp this time,warm, delighted, tipsy and dangerous.

“You sweet lil’ liar,” she said, reaching forward and dragging her manicured nails gently along his jaw. “They ain’t tell you nothin’ ‘bout me worth rememberin’. Not yet.”

He leaned into her touch like he was starving for it.

She liked that.

Her fingers grazed his lips. “They ever tell you who I really am, sugar?”

“No,” he whispered.

Vivian leaned close, too close. Her breath kissed his mouth. Her voice dipped lower.

“I’m the woman that made the devil put on a tie and wait his turn.”

And still, the twins didn’t move.

She wanted them to feel it. The helplessness. The hunger. The sting of irrelevance.

She draped her arm around baby face’s shoulders, pulling him in like a favorite toy, one hand caressing his knee absently, deliberately — and only then did she lift her eyes and finally look toward the curtain.

Smoke met her gaze like a punch. Stack was breathing hard, hands clenched into fists.

Vivian smiled. Like a queen watching her enemies drown.

Then she leaned over and whispered into baby face’s ear, loud enough to carry.

“You wanna learn how to please a woman, babyface? Stick with me. I’ll make you into the men they’re supposed to be.”

Smoke’s cigarette snapped between his teeth.

Stack’s cut cheek twitched.

But neither of them moved. Because they couldn’t. Because tonight, she wasn’t theirs.

She was herself. Entirely. And she was making sure they remembered what it meant to be on their knees even when they weren’t.

“Now go get me a drink, boy. Whiskey. No ice. Throw a cigar in there too.”

Her voice was honey over broken glass. Baby Face stood too fast, nodding, flustered, but grinning like he’d just been knighted.

“Yes ma’am.”

He left with the urgency of someone afraid to wake up. She watched him go, but only just — her eyes half-lidded, mouth resting in that smug little curve that said she already knew how tonight would end.

And she pretended not to notice Stack slipping away from the curtain to follow. Quiet as a shadow. Loyal like a dog with something to prove. She didn’t stop him. Let him watch. Let him learn.

Smoke stayed.

He doesn’t move when she calls. Not at first.

He’s still standing there like a stone pillar trying not to burn, jaw tight, eyes locked on the curtain Reginald just slipped behind. Vivian leans back on the velvet couch, letting the slow sting of whiskey kiss her throat before she speaks.

“You sulkin’, honey?”

Smoke steps into the room like it’s a trap. And it is. Always is, with her.

“Since when you interested in the help?” he says, low.

She raises an eyebrow, licking a smear of red from her bottom lip. “You are help, baby.”

That draws a scoff from him, all teeth. “That so?”

“You give me what I need when I ask for it. Sometimes when I don’t. And you stay where I put you.” She leans in, lashes low. “That sound like somethin’ else to you?”

His jaw twitches. She sees it. Loves it.

“You don’t own me.”

Vivian grins like a wolf. “That why you still here?”

He doesn’t answer. Won’t. She shifts, crossing one leg over the other slow enough to count the seconds. Her dress rides high, and his gaze flickers—traitor quick—before it drags back to her face.

“You think I don’t see how you look when I touch someone else?” she purrs. “You think I don’t know how bad you want me to break you open and make you beg?”

He growls, low in his throat. “I ain’t your toy.”

“No, you ain’t. You mine.”

Before he can fire back, Stack pushes through the curtain with her glass in hand and a thick cigar balanced perfectly on the edge.

“Whiskey. No ice. Just like you said.”

Vivian turns, eyes flicking up and down. She doesn’t reach for the glass.

“Where’s Reginald?”

Stack glances toward the curtain, jaw twitching. Doesn’t answer fast enough.

Her smile vanishes like a pulled trigger. She rises, smooth, deliberate, dangerous. In one motion, she snatches the cigar from his hand and taps the glass against his chest with a sharp clink that echoes like a warning.

Stack lets out a weak little laugh, trying to play it off. “C’mon now, Viv. He’s fine. Just settlin’ in. You know how new boys be. Ain’t nothin’ to—”

Smoke snorts — short, nervous — like he’s trying to co-sign the joke, but his eyes are already darting away.

Vivian doesn’t blink.

“You niggas think I’m joking?”

Silence.

She steps closer. Just once. And the air shifts.

Poor boy didn’t know trouble was looking him in the eye with lashes too long and a smile that meant hell.

“Where. Is. Reginald.”

Stack still says nothing.

She doesn’t wait.

Vivian shoves past him, heels clicking like gunshots down the hallway. Through the back door, down the steps, the crowd had thinned and the lights dimmed, down the stairs then she found him outside with a split lip and a limp, trying to play it off like he slipped on a puddle. Vivian didn’t say a thing. Just stepped over him, heels clicking, a soft sigh leaving her lips as her hand brushed through his hair almost affectionately.

“Somebody gets him cleaned up,” she muttered. “And I told you boy, you don't know what wanting' me means"

She didn’t even glance at Smoke and Stack as she walked past them.

“Home,” she said over her shoulder.

And they followed.

Like dogs. Like sinners. Like men who knew what was coming.

They pushed too far.

And she’s going to remind them who owns the leash.

LaRue’s penthouse was all marble and indulgence high ceilings, soft jazz curling out of a gramophone, and windows that watched the city like a queen over her court. Smoke and Stack knelt in the glow of it all, floor polished to a mirror beneath them, eyes lowered, muscles tight. Not out of pain. Out of want.

She was drunk on champagne, whiskey, and power, lounging on her velvet couch like it was her throne and the city below was hers to burn or bless. The robe had fallen open just enough to tease, bare thigh stretched out across the cushions, silk and honey-brown skin gleaming in the low light. Hair unpinned flowing on her shoulder, lips still painted, face bare otherwise and still the most lethal thing in the room.

Smoke and Stack knelt on the floor before her, side by side, silent and still like two prized dogs waiting for command. Their eyes were lowered, but every muscle in their bodies was tense, not with fear, not exactly.

With want. With worship.

Vivian shifted, her legs crossing slowly, one foot rising to rest on Stack’s broad chest. Her toes curled, her foot dragging softly down his sternum, slow enough to tease, not enough to satisfy. She did the same to Smoke next, letting her heel press just beneath his collarbone, eyes narrowing as she felt his pulse flutter.

“You two look pitiful down there,” she drawled, voice rich with condescension and amusement. “Big, strong men brought to their knees by a little ol’ girl in a robe.”

She giggled. It wasn’t sweet.

Smoke grits out, “You not a girl. You’s a woman.”

His voice is hoarse, reverent — like a prayer pulled from the back of his throat.

Vivian’s lips curve, lazy and pleased, as her toes trail higher, finding the soft part of his bottom lip. He doesn’t dare move at first, just breathes against the glint of her French tip, wide-eyed and burning.

Then his mouth parts — just barely — like he’s ready to taste, to take.

And before he can even try to latch on, her foot snaps, swift and light, just enough force to turn his face aside.

“Down, boy,” she laughs, wicked and honey-slow.

It’s not cruel — not entirely — but it is sharp, like a slap wrapped in satin. Smoke groans, breath hitching, humiliated and hard under the command.

She swings her foot back to Stack, who’s watching her with his jaw tight, that cut on his cheek still raw from her ring days ago. He flinches when she touches it with her big toe, not from pain — from awe.

Vivian croons, “Y’all look like you forget who you belong to.”

Stack’s mouth opens, no sound at first, just that look of devotion like he’d lick blood from the floor if she told him it was wine.

Smoke recovers, jaw flexing, but he doesn’t rise. He stays knelt, stays still — the way she likes them.

Vivian reaches behind her, grabs her glass from the table, takes a long, slow sip of her whiskey. Her legs spread just a little wider, one arm draped across the back of the couch like a throne.

“I don’t fuck dogs,” she purrs, eyes dancing. “But I do love watchin’ ‘em beg.”

Then she leans forward, foot returning to Stack’s chest, this time over his heart.

She slouched deeper into the couch, the belt of her robe loosening just a touch as she parted her legs, slow, deliberate, knowing exactly what kind of effect it had on the men kneeling in front of her.

Smoke and Stack didn’t breathe.

“I should let babyface learn how to please me,” she murmured lazily, fingers grazing down her own thigh, nails scratching soft across her skin. “He listens. Sweet little thing. I could train him real nice… mold him into what real men are supposed to be.”

Stack made a broken sound in the back of his throat.

Vivian’s fingers slid lower.

“Bet he’d worship me proper. Might even get to taste what y’all been takin’ for granted.”

Smoke’s mouth parted, a sharp exhale escaping through clenched teeth.

“Nobody can be us,” he said, voice low and tight, barely holding back.

Vivian’s lashes fluttered, amused. Her fingers didn’t stop moving.

“Oh really?” she cooed, spreading her legs wider, letting them see the gleam between her thighs, her fingers playing soft over slick heat. “And why can’t nobody else be like you, huh baby?”

Stack answered before Smoke could breathe. His voice was ragged; eyes locked between her legs like he was starving. “Because you made us.”

That drew a soft moan from her lips — not from pleasure, but pride. She looked down at Stack with something close to affection.

“Damn right I did.”

Her fingers slowed, her thighs still open. She sat tall again, hips rolling forward just slightly to bring herself closer to them. She rested two fingers against her folds, glistening and sticky. “You want a taste?” she purred, watching Stack’s eyes follow every movement like a man hypnotized.

He nodded like he couldn’t stop himself, lip trembling.

“Say please, baby.”

“Please,” he whispered, eyes wet, voice reverent.

Vivian smiled, cruel and sweet, then smeared her essence across his lips before slipping her fingers between them. Stack opened up without hesitation, tongue lapping eagerly as she fed him like a good little pet.

She giggled softly, watching his mouth move, watching Smoke burn beside him in silence.

“Ain’t that somethin’,” she said, one hand gripping the back of Stack’s head now, keeping him there. “All that bark, all that muscle, and you still just a dog beggin’ for scraps.”

Stack moaned against her fingers.

Vivian turned to Smoke, who hadn’t moved an inch but looked ready to snap in two.

“You gonna behave?” she asked, lifting her brows. “Or you gonna sit there actin’ like I don’t own you?”

Smoke didn’t answer right away — but when he did, his voice was low, nearly a growl.

“Tell me what to do.”

Vivian leaned back against the couch, thighs still parted, glowing with sweat and satisfaction.

“Oh, I’ll tell you, baby,” she purred. “But first, you’re gonna sit there and watch while your brother remembers how to be mine.”

And Smoke did.

Jealous. Hard. Hungry.

Just how she liked them.

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