boonoonoonus

[boonoonoonus]

ik both the twins love putting toes in their mouths while fuckin u … stack also loves anal. I KNOW IT

[boonoonoonus]

𝙈𝙊𝘿𝙀𝙍𝙉!𝘼𝙐 𝙎𝙏𝘼𝘾𝙆

modern!au stack, who loves your modest bikinis. “damn” he’d state re-adjusting his suddenly tight boxers. “it ain wrong if don’t nobody know” he convinces referring to him pulling you away and into his car to handle his ‘problem’.

modern!au stack, who is still very very, chivalrous. “that shit taste damn good, baby” he’d tease after having sucked your clit as if there wasn’t a tomorrow. he also chuckle smugly at how your toes curled or how you’d push his head down further. “slow up mama, y’know i got you”.

modern!au stack, who loves when you squirt on his face and in his mouth. “shit! ‘s like a damn waterfall, baby” he would smile smugly before dipping his head low and lapping up your essence.

modern!au stack, who gives you sloppy kisses on your mouth to drown out the sound of your moans as he fingers you. “mm—you look so pretty mama” he’d coo eliciting a needy huff from you.

modern!au stack, who finger-fucks you faster as he feels you getting closer. “cum on my fingers, [𝜗𝜚]” he would encourage before slowing his pace “there you go” as he’s fucking you through the aftershocks.

modern!au stack, who drives you home as you nap in the passenger seat. when you stir he’s quick “you feelin’ good, baby?” teasingly, of course. “we be home inna minute..ill clean you up there” the man spoke as if it was a promise.

and knowing him, it was.

(what do we think of the new theme?!)

[boonoonoonus]

Mary introduced Annie to Smoke. Mary's mom knew Annie's family, and they were cordial and Annie was quiet, and Smoke was quiet, and Mary wanted someone for Smoke.

This is literally my next fic!!!! Mary introducing Annie to Smoke

[boonoonoonus]

Smoke tryna Court Annie🤣

@uzumaki-rebellion @brownskincheyenne @spaceshipsandpurpledrank @free-range-tiddies @lizbehave

[boonoonoonus]

Wading Towards Shore Pt. 2

A/n!: Quick updates for a lil bit because I wrote quick a bit! I need to slow roast yall so this is more Angst, Lil Hurt/Comfort!

Smoke and Annie settle back into life with one another once again. However, Annie can't help but let her insecurities of being left being creep into her mind at same time she is plague with bizarre dreams of grief and fish.

Annie wakes from her spell in the yard and a conversation is had Wife to Husband

Trigger Warnings: grief, dream sequences, mentions of child loss, delusional denial

WTS Part One

It is two in the afternoon when Annie wakes up again. She is sweaty, placed on to rest on the daybed in the living room due to being covered in the rusty delta dirt from trying to bury into Mariah’s grave and her throat feels torn to shreds. 

Annie kicks off the sheet Smoke has laid over her and wearily props up on her arm, she finds her man sitting in front of their coffee table with his back to her. Smoke uses his left to press his right hand steadier as he drafts a note of some kind on a thin strip of paper in pencil. Annie sees about seven of the thin strips rolled and bound with purple threads tied into dainty bows (a task nearly impossible for Smoke most of the time) set to the side on a small neat pile. 

Annie reaches over, pouting to see her hand trembling; she curls it back around to rest on her middle. “ ‘Lijah?” Annie croaks with a wince. 

Smoke sets his pencil down, massaging his palm as he turns to her, Smoke then scoots closer until his knees touch the front of the daybed and grasps her dirty hand resting on the cushion. 

“You a’ right now?” Smoke asks her and Annie feels the urge to sob again but feels no tears well in her dehydration.

“I…I don’t know. I can’t believe this day snuck up on me like this. Now it’s so late in the day an-” Annie fades off with a dry cough. 

“Hol’ on.” Smoke mutters with a kiss to the top of her head before getting up and heading to the kitchen. Annie can’t help but hold her breath as she watches his back walk from her, anxiety spikes into nausea when he disappears around the corner. Annie forces herself to lay back down and stare into the ceiling, she stares and stares, before closing her eyes tightly. 

“He’s just in the kitchen getting a glass of water, Antonia. Listen to the water running. He’ll be back in a minute. I need that water” Annie prays in her mind, forcing her thoughts to be rational. She swallows a dry lump in her throat to remind her body that she needs water and that Elijah had only left to provide just that. 

Smoke left to provide before and then he was gone fo-

Annie turns her head into the back cushion so she can listen to the sink run, to the cabinet doors thump, to Smoke’s steps on the tiles, to the birds chirping outside, to the drops of falling water splas-

Falling water?

Annie shakes her head as another drop of water falls and she feels it land on her cheek. The next drop of water falls into her ear. Annie jerks her head straight and opens her eyes, gasping at what she finds. There floating above her head seemed to be the entire sea, mossy blue water with lapping waves engulfed her ceiling and spilled itself to her floor, slowly flooding from the bottom and top of the room. 

Annie reaches a hand up to it, in awe as a huge orb of water descends down to meet her finger tips. Shiny golden scaled minnows dance and dart within the rippling navy water, she reaches her hand fully in and sighs at the sweet coolness of the water on the warm skin. 

“Annie?”

A fish kisses her pointer finger, she gasp at the touch.

“Annie?” 

Another fish kisses her palm, she hums at the feeling.

“Annie?”

Annie turns towards Smoke’s voice, it sounds distant and underwater, pitching her name in time with the lapping waves. 

“Huh?” Annie answers back dumbly.

Smoke appears, his body gliding through the churring waves flooding the floor. As steps, the water calms and deepens. Finally, Smoke comes to her side and sits in the space next to her hip, tranquil waters behind him. Annie’s breath hitches as Smoke’s hand bursts through her bubble of water, grabbing her hand. Globs of water and squirming golden minnows rain over Annie as Smoke brings her hand down to rest on her middle. 

“C’mon baby, sit up for me.” Smoke instructs his voice clearing up as Annie's ears pop.

Annie blinks hard and just like that all the water is gone besides that in the mug in Smoke’s hand. The only shine of gold is the sun filtered through the window behind her reflecting off her sweat-damp skin. Annie grunts sit up in the daybed, then lets Smoke ease her back to rest against the arm.

Smoke hands the mug to her, waving for her to drink up as his other hand rests on top of hers on her middle. Annie gulps down the cool drink in quick shallow swallows as, for the first time since she was 15 at their first dance, Annie feels a sick urge to suck her belly in at Smoke’s presence.

She suddenly felt too big and too full, Annie had a deep need to put a part of herself away from him. Smoke’s hand just laying on her, with not a comment or a flicker of disgust on his face, made Annie want to melt down to nothing and run away. 

“Finish that whole cup, you need to get ya fluids back up. Ya had me worried, passing out like that.”

Annie swallows a big gulp harshly at his statement.

“Passed out?” she whispers and Smoke nods, running his thumb over the top of her wrist. She hasn't passed out in eight years.

“Yeah, you was crying, then you was slurrin’, and then you was all limp in my lap, Talk to me woman, tell me how you feelin?” Smoke asks of her and Annie sighs around the rim of her cup.

How dare he.

He didn’t ask this of her when he kissed her goodbye eight years ago. 

He didn’t ask how she felt about being left behind and alone. 

He didn’t ask about how desperate she got for just a kiss on the hand let alone his body back to her. 

He didn’t ask about how she felt in the times where it was just Annie and Mariah’s grave all summer day. Hot day after hot day, yet Annie’s chest was ice block cold in grieving fury. 

Now he dares to ask, how do you feel?

Annie busies herself with finishing her water, she smacks her lips as she tunes into the taste of crushed mint steep into it.

(When she was first pregnant, she couldn’t stand the taste of tea. So to battle the nausea Elijah crushed mint into water to steep all morning. When the hell he had time to make this? She was only down for four hours)

Annie looks over at the rolled and tied notes again, then blinks in surprise at the flinch that ruffles her man when Smokes notices her observations.

“It’s a sill- no, no it ain’t silly I guess. It’s what I did when I was in Chicago on this day. Just something I thought would be fitting to honor her.” Smoke tries to explain through his stammer of nerves. 

Annie brows furrow, “Ya ritual?”, she asks. 

“Nawh…. Nawh you do that ritual stuff. You know the proper rules and ways and whatnot. This here,” Smoke snags the note he was still drafting earlier and waves it “,this here is…. Just me tryin’ sumthin’ cause it felt right for me to try and talk to Mar- to talk to Ma-.... for me to try and talk to our babygirl again. Even with me being such a coward and could only do it once a year.”

Smoke settles the note on his knee then leans down and grabs a box from under the coffee table. He unearths a pearl white cigar box with two purple M’s painted on the face of it. Annie recognizes Stack’s loopy font from when he’d write Smoke’s letters for him their second year into the Great War. Tears start to in Annie’s eyes at how carefully her husband holds the box, like it was sacred and pure.

Smoke held few things like that. He always needs a deeply firm grip on things and Annie could list on one hand the few things he handled with such soft reverence.

Herself

 Stack, when the brother needed it

 A trigger

Fish hooks

 . . . and their baby.

Annie sniffles when Smoke holds that cigar box out to her as he would their first baby. 

She takes it from him just as gentle, and carefully opens it. 

The box is halfway full with those same notes all neatly rolled and sweetly tied with purple thread bows. Some are a little burnt on the edge, or wrinkled or slightly water damaged. Dried and faded flower petals are sprinkled among the notes and the whole box smells like,

“Carnations?” Annie hums and Smoke swallows but nods. 

“Yeah. The pink and white ones from ‘er funeral with those… uhm what's it called…baby breaths? I’d saved some of them in my pocket and it just felt right to put ‘em with her little letters.”  Smoke explains shyly. He wipes his eyes as Annie takes a deep smell of the box, that sweet and soft smell makes her bosom ache. 

Her baby needs milk soon, Annie can feel it.

“Little letters?” Annie asks and she’s glad Elijah is so richly brown, with how flustered he became at the question that man may as well be bubble gum pink. Smoke stares down at the box as he speaks to her, a croak promising tears in the back of his throat.

“I would write to her all day on all them July firsts back in Chicago. Every time I got the alone time to sit and do it, I’d write to M-her. Stack ain’t even know! I always seem’ d to catch a not real busy day from them Irish boys while Stack was busy to his ears. So I’d spend all day trying to keep steady and make them letters neat as I could so babygirl could read ‘em from heaven. I got seven of em done today, working on the eighth when ya woke up.” Smoke explains. He finally wipes his eyes and looks at Annie.

“Pretty foolish, huh?” he tries to joke with a sad smile.

Annie surges forward and kisses him.

Damn him. How dare Elijah light her fire just to douse it cold with sorrow. 

She thinks deeply of his bravery. His love. His strength. His protectiveness. And finally her appreciation (and longing desperation) for his conviction in caring for his family. Annie prays he feels that in her kiss. 

The intention must hit him because when they break apart Smoke’s frame relaxes in that special way that only Annie can bring him to do. There was no need for his nerves to tremble when it came to his woman and her ways.

“I think that’s just right.” Annie starts.

“It sounds right that a Poppa wants his babygirl to know what’s best. Mariah needs to know her Poppa loves her. Love like that is never foolish, Elijah. Please believe me when I say that.”

“You are my trust, Annie. So can you please… trust back in me.”

“I-I-”

“Please trust in me baby. Tell me what's wrong witcha, please let me fix it.”

Annie swallows, pulling back from him and looking at lap. His hand had found home on her thigh, fingertips brushing her belly. 

Annie wishes she was underwater right now.

Smoke’s head dips and they lock eyes again. 

Annie thinks she found part of the truth, gripping his hand as she speaks.

“I… I think I’m mad at you?” Annie starts. Smoke hums deeply in his chest, nodding his head in acceptance of it. He can understand that.

“I… I had to spend six July firsts alone, Elijah. Just me, this house, and her grave. And you just left me like that.”

Smokes face crumbles at her truth but he doesn’t cry or shake just keeps holding her hand. He licks his lips and starts to speak-

“ Stack had-”

“Dontcha bring little brother into this Elijah! You left me… you needed to run away and Stack just gave you the excuse. Elias done ran scams and schemes in right here in Mississippi a hundred times and he’d have found a thousand more. You told him you had to get out and he found y'all's way.” Annie revels bitterly, she grips his hands so hard her fingernails leave crest of pain on his skin. Yet, he kept holding her back just as steady as he was. 

“... I never ran to another woman.” Smoke starts and Annie kissed her teeth at the statement.

“I know. I ain’t feel no hussy break my tie on ya.”

“I didn’t run to a bottle or putta belt on my arm”

“You were tempted.”

“Plenty. Ya tab at Bo’s was paid every week.”

“I’d buy out the whole candy aisle and the rest of the cakes on Sundays and hand it to the kids outside, just so you’d feel me.”

“And I deserved to go hungry all that day from it. Every man I beat, I made sure he had bills for a doc. Evertime I wanted to die, I held that mojo to my chest.”

“I felt you repent.”

“So what I gotta do Ann? What I gotta do to prove to you I’m home to stay?  What I gotta do for you to not be so scared that imma go?”

Annie looks up sharply, snatching her hands out of his and fighting to stand. Smoke lets her do as such, closing his eyes in weary submission once Annie is on her feet, with hands on hips and fury burning in her eyes as she gazes down on him.

“Annie Moore ain’t ever scared!”

__________________________

Annie sits on the edge of the tub, shaking a jar of dried magnolia petals, dried orange skin and star anise into her warm bath. As Annie lights her candles she can't help but tick the nights off in her brain.

It had been a moon's month since she last took a proper charged bath in the moonlight.

That means a month and a half since her monthly.

"Shit." Annie curses under her breath as her finger tips burn on the hot wax trying to escape the matches' flame. Annie quickly sets the last candle down and peels out of her dirty dress, she glances through the thin curtain over the bathroom window. She huffs to see Smoke's silhouette in the moonlight.

Damn him.

Annie makes point to prick her finger on the clothing pin from the back of her dress. She watches as the drops of blood sluggishly fall to her thighs.

drop, drop, drop

She smears it into her skin with a triumphant nod before slipping into the water, sinking in until just her face and the top of her knees are exposed to the cool air.

There, she bled.

Ain't no way she pregnant. No need to get her hopes up. No need to be taken care of. Ain't no way she's going to have another child to lose. No need to for Smoke to do anything more than just be her man.

No need for Annie to worry about a thing. Ain't no need to fear being left so vulnerable again.

_____

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[boonoonoonus]

The Best Part of Me (Chapter One)

PAIRINGS: Smoke X Annie, Stack X OC, Cornbread X Therise, Sammie X Pearline, Solomon X Esther | (Previously): Stack X Annie

OC CHARACTERS: Twin's mother = Esther Moore; Twin's father = Solomon Moore; Stack woman = Genevieve Campbell-Brown; Smoke/Annie daughter = Armantine "Tina"

PREMISE: The last time Elijah Moore saw his brother, Elias swore he would never forgive him, that the gulf between them was too deep, the pain too hard to traverse. And just as he couldn't help the love he felt for Annie, even if it meant breaking his twin's heart, Elijah couldn't help the longing for his other half, even if Stack would rather see him dead. The last time Elias Moore saw his brother, Elijah promised he would always love him, even through his hate, and Elias promised hatred everlasting. Now, he's found a love even greater than which was lost, and all he wishes to do is to protect it and ensure that his past doesn't fuck up his future. Esther Moore's mild chest pains hide a sinister disease and bring her sons back to her side. The prodigal runaway Stack, whose sojourn into fatherhood has fundamentally changed him as a man and brother, and her jaded Jonah, Elijah, whose adamance in being the cornerstone has him cracking at either side. She hopes her frail health will bring healing; if not, at least allow her to spend her golden years with her grandbabies at her side.

CHAPTER ONE

“This was the closest airport to Clarksdale?”

“Yessir” Stack’s mouth shaped easily into his signature cheeky grin, and Genevieve found much of the stress of the past 48 hours melting away. She peeled her eyes away from Stack to scan outside the window.

“It’s … ‘different’” she offered as politely as she could.

He gave a loud belly laugh that rumbled in his chest before exiting his mouth.

“Yeah, you not in Kansas no more, Dorothy.”

Genevieve sniffed, but she couldn’t help the smile teasing its way across her face.

“Hmmm, yeah, Toto, carry on laughing.” She punctuated her words with another sniff and glanced up at the rear-view mirror. She knew the silence had been too good to be true. With the light streaming in through the windows, she could see that four of her five babies were knocked out. Only Ezekiel remained awake, content on attempting to pull his sock off of his chubby little foot and babble incoherently at his soundly sleeping twin. Genevieve stifled a laugh when he was finally successful and promptly shoved the sock in Ezra’s face with a smack of his hand. Thankfully, Ezra had always been the twin to sleep heavier and a warmed-up serving of cornmeal porridge made with breastmilk had knocked him out sweetly.

“Just a quick 3-hour drive and we’ll be home, Gem”

Genevieve snorted, the sound reverberating through her nose. “Sure, Stack, quick 3 hours? This ain’t London, I’ll tell you that.”

Stack shot her a brief look before staring back at the road, a smile dancing on his lips.

“Yeah, it’s not like London at all,” he paused, an inscrutable look passing across his face. “Gem, you sure you good with this baby?” “A little late for you to be asking me that, Bups?” Genevieve asked, her eyes were soft, brows crinkling as she let her cheeks pull her lips into a smile. “Your mum needs you, and the babies can adapt. You missed out on damn near a decade, if we didn’t do this I’d be taking the piss.” She hummed, stretching a hand over to place onto Stack’s, which held the clutch.

He hummed before flipping his hand to clutch at hers and bring it to his mouth, pressing a kiss flush against the skin.

“Ain’t kno’ what I did to deserve you, but I thank God.”

“You supported me through the tail end of my PhD with Sai and the shit with mummy. We buried Brown together, have five children together, you attended 3 births and cut 4 cords. Elias, I can go on. You’ve never been anything but good to me. I don’t need to thank God for shit, I just need to trust you.”

Genevieve’s words hung in the air between them as quite comfort, the long drapes that blew gently in the wind, warm evenings spent on the veranda drinking Kola Champagne D&G - it was love.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He pressed another kiss to the back of her hand, his eyes staring out into the distance.

“You gonna be okay to see everyone?”

A heavy sigh blew out through Stack’s nose as he shook his head, releasing Genevieve’s fingers to rub at his eyes and brow.

“Baby I don’ know. I just kno’ I need to see my mama an -“ ‘I may not have much time life’ was left unsaid.

Her nodding pulled a few of her locs out of their bun, falling across her face as she lay back in her seat and reverberated her lips. Stack stole glances at her as she mulled over her thoughts. Taking note of the tattoos that danced down her arms and were concealed by her sweats, or joggers as he knew she called them, her long locs currently bleached blonde at the ends and the fresh set of acrylics. She was perfection, his perfection, and he loved her so much it ached.

“Are you prepared to see your brother?” She asked lightly, as gentle as such a probing question could be.

His grunt escaped him before he could cage away the nonchalance; Genevieve sorted, shaking her head slightly, “Imma take that as a no then.”

Stack hefted a sigh, stretching his hand to scratch at the round scar on his shoulder, distantly, he was glad to have worn a white vest under his shirt, one of the organic cotton blends that Genevieve swore was better for the environment and his body but Stack couldn’t tell the difference - a vest was a vest.

Him kissing his teeth drew Genevieve’s attention back to his person.

“I left all that shit to ‘em when I left the delta. Didn’t take nothing but the clothes on my back and mama’s blessing. Shit, I ain’ worried about nem, they s’pose to be worried bout me.”

“That’s it then. Elias Saul Moore is returning to Clarksdale, Mississippi.” She quipped with a smirk, looking at him from the corner of her eye.

It seemed grunting had become his newest form of communication as he gave another in reply.

Dark brown eyes, the colour of molasses, glanced at the rear-view. Their conversation hadn’t been low enough, as Zipporah was a mess of furrowed brows, her father’s pout and narrowed hazel eyes she shared with her uncle. “Mumm-mmy,” she yawned midway as she rubbed at her eyes and hair, “is this the Mississippi?” she chirped, glancing out the window and back at her parents.

Stack’s frown slipped into a smirk as he glanced at their daughter, too. “Yessir, pretty girl. Welcome to the M-I-Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter-I-Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter-I-Hump Back, Hump Back-I Mississippi Pride, Pride.”

Zipporah wrinkled her nose, ”I don’t know all ‘bout that, daddy, and I’m feeling parched.”

“Parched?” Stack shot a look at Genevieve, who rolled her eyes, stifling her own amusement.

“Yes, Daddy, parched,” Zipporah shot Stack a look before turning and shaking her brother awake. “Zach, Zach, wake up, tell Mummy you’re hungry.”

Genevieve rolled her eyes as the kids rose from the death embrace of sleep, Sai popping her lips as she pulled her headphones around her neck and Ezekiel succeeding in pulling off his second sock and throwing it in Ezra’s face once more.

She turned to look at Stack, who grinned, looking between the rear-view mirror and the straight road ahead. “An’ you want more pickney?” her patois coated her words easily and she sucked her teeth when all he gave her was 32 pearly whites.

Stack’s grin widened. ——————————————————————————————————

LIT airport and Little Rock were far from Heathrow and London. There wasn’t any underground, and the 3-hour drive was an issue for those born on the other side of the pond. Stack didn’t mind the drive, missed it even. It has been some time since he’d been able to drive on the long open roads of the delta, with just the hum of the engine and cicadas as company, and this time he wasn’t fleeing in Sir’s rusted down cutlass supreme, praying between tears and cursing between cries. His heart open and bleeding, his shoulder seeping blood, his jeans pissed soaked.

Stack’s memories faded as he closed the trunk of the car. Nodding to the delivery men who were still unpacking what had been loaded off the shipping containers and driven down. Genevieve had wasted no time, springing into action as soon as he’d pulled up in front of their new home.

His woman was a formidable thing, and he’d smirked when she’d badgered the first man into compliance, the others quickly falling into line. The kids had run out of the car into the house to call dibs on their rooms, and he’d taken a moment with his babies, changing their soiled pampers and soothing them as they cried out of boredom.

Clicking the car door shut, Stack pocketed the keys and reached down for the double carrier, the furrow in his brow easing as Ezekiel chewed his feet and Ezra gave him a look of complete upset, as though blaming his father for Ezekiel’s uncouth behaviour.

“Aht, aht, aht, Rafael, no need to fix your face like that. If Ez wants to chew his toes, that’s his business.” The manner in which Ezekiel cut his eye at Stack let him know that the baby did not agree with the verdict at all.

Stack gave a belly laugh, shaking his head as he walked up to the house. It was the only structure on the 98 acres of land they’d purchased, and it was a labour of love, a testament to how grateful he was to Genevieve for moving their family halfway across the world for him. He and Therise had worked earnestly to get it completed enough for move in whilst Genevieve was incubating the twins, and it had paid off.

It was a handsome structure with a wrap around porch, big windows and high ceilings. Everything Genevieve loved, sustainability, reusing antiques and employing local artisans, had been a part of it, and he knew from the look in her eye the moment they pulled up that it had made the impression he wanted on her.

Stack let the stress roll off his back as he shrugged his shoulders and hoisted the babies onto his shoulder, and walked up the steps, holding the bannister steady. The movers still milled around, pulling off plastic and connecting lights, so Stack side-stepped them and walked through into the kitchen, where he could hear Genevieve talking aloud.

“The range is being connected here, so the dishwasher needs to be moved because I’m not straining my back for n- hey bups, you okay?” Genevieve spun on her heel, cocking her head to the side as her eyes darted between Stack and the babies in question.

Lifting the bassinet higher, Stack gestured to the twins and back to his woman. “You got my babies starving, withholding the goods, I see?” he said pointedly with pursed lips. Genevieve barked a laugh and stepped closer to Stack, grasping the handles of the bassinet to set it on the counter.

Ezra cut his eyes something fierce, and Genevieve took a double look, squaring up to the baby and asking, “Are you good, Rafael? What’s with the attitude,e mummy’s baby? You hungry?” She made a face, and the baby looked to roll his eyes and Stack laughed hard and heavy as Genevieve shook her head in disbelief.

“You your daddy’s son,” she sang with a giggle as Stack handed her a cloth that she threw over her shoulder before pulling down her top and bra, shifting her boob out of its place. Stack unbuckled Ezra and handed the baby to Genevieve, and she expertly guided his mouth to her nipple and held him in place.

“Got your appetite though, Gem,” Stack quipped, leaning against the kitchen island, stroking Ezekiels’ soft skin as the other twin chewed his feet and babbled under his breath.

Genevieve kissed her teeth, the sound echoing in the emptiness, “Stack, you’re speaking like you didn’t hear and see the aftermath of that first Indian we had in ends? Bullets in that toilet, nuclear warfare, my nose ain’t been the same since.”

His laugh also echoed as he looked lovingly at her disapproving face. Ezra finished his meal with a satisfied gurgle, and Genevieve passed him to Stack as she reached for Ezekiel. Without hesitating, Stack threw a cloth over his shoulder and started rubbing at Ezra’s back, no reaction bar the wrinkling of his nose when the smell of Ezra’s throw up hit his nose.

“The baby belly sour,” he murmured, an exact imitation of her mother.

Genevieve wrinkled her nose to match and shook her head, “don’t do that, you sound just like that woman.”

“Hmmm”

They rocked, fed and soothed the babies together, and soon they were asleep again, knocked out against one another and curled up in the carrier. Stack swaddled them happily as Genevieve watched with a smile on her face.

He stepped back.

“Aight, I’m bout to head out to the hospital.”

Northwest Mississippi Regional Medical Centre was close enough to the house that he didn’t need to worry too much about getting down there in no rush, but he didn’t know when visiting hours where and he didn’t want to miss seeing mama.

“All mighty God, you really a’ guh leave me and five pickney inna dis house, in a country I don’t know fi gah’ hospital?” Genevieve asked, arms crossed in front her chest as she looked Stack up and down with pursed lips.

Stack scratched the back of his head, searching for something to say, before a soft look crossed Genevieve’s face, and she shook a fly loc out from the front of her face.

“I’m fucking about baby,” smiling as she dropped her arms to her side, “You want us to come with you?” she asked gently. His body stilled briefly as he mused over her words before shaking his head.

“Nah, you good. I don’ know you all even there, don’t wanna make a scene and bring the babies until I seen the place.”

Genevieve nodded, “Okay. We’ll I’m gonna get the beds made up and the babies bathed before calling Rach and Mia, then shoot T a text.” “Hm, tell T and Cornbread to come over tomorrow, bring the breadcrumbs."

That nickname pulled a smile at both of their mouths, and Stack stepped forward, pulling Genevieve into his arms.

His lips melded against her own, as he ran his hand down her back to grasp at her waist and pull her into his orbit. She melted against him, their chests rubbing close as she scratched her nails against the skin of his neck, tugging on his right ear. Stack groaned, their teeth knocking as spit leaked from the corner of their mouths, trailing across sweat-slicked skin.

“Mmmhhmmm,” Genevieve hummed, as their lips caressed one another. She pulled back first, her thumb swiping away the spit on her bottom lip, her brow raised in question.

“Nothing, just wanted to kiss my wife”, he offered in answer, rubbing at her waist. Genevieve looked into his eyes for a long time before stepping back.

“Aight, baby, be safe.”

“I will.” ——————————————————————————————————

Hospitals had never been known as hospitable places, no matter how many fake cherry grins or half-dead potted plants, the hallways still stunk of antiseptic, the fluorescent lights still flickered, and the white walls still spoke of death.

The low distant buzzing of one of the machines connected to the thin brown arm by long wires skated on the little nerves Smoke had left. His fingers twitched in his pockets, rubbing the calluses as he watched Annie and his mama.

Annie tried, she’d brought a bouquet of peonies and sunflowers, a lavender pouch to go under her pillow, and a big smile, thought not Tina which is who his mama really wanted to see. Mrs Esther Moore was nothing less than a saint, perfectly coiffed curls, her signature plum Fashion Fair lipstick across her lips, and her manicured but shaking hands perfectly poised in front of her as she gushed over the flowers and asked after Tina.

Smoke couldn’t help stealing glances at her as she fussed over Mama, gently encouraging her to try to eat something out of the containers Aunt Ruthie had sent up with them. Annie hadn’t changed in the years since he met her, not where it counted. She remained the beautiful young woman he’d met all those years ago in town, back when their teenage years seemed so long. Tall, ebony-skinned, and rubenesque, dressed elegantly in a navy sundress and black leather sandals and a mixture of gold and beaded jewellery that dangled from her ears and draped across her chest. She gleamed, glimmered and glowed, a force of life in the house of hell. Esther was glad for her company too, smiling wider than he’d seen on her face in days, and carrying on conversation like she’d never been sick with chest pains and holed up between the four walls for days on end.

Still, no attempt at joy could break the spell Sir cast each time he was around others. It took very little time for him to ache for the comfort of burning tobacco and nicotine, his skin itching for the fix, fingers twitching, eye blinking just that much faster than usual. Smoke would have stood, grunted an excuse and left for a moment if not for the sound of the door opening.

Mrs Esther Moore had a room set apart from others, a privilege given she’d just recently come out of surgery, and all of her family was in attendance so no one was expecting anyone else. Her church sisters had been told to wait until she was in a bit of a better sense of self, and even Ruthie, her sister law had given her a day or so, but had sent food.

“This the room,” the nurse had an uncharacteristically happy voice as she spoke, opening the door with much more flourish and enthusiasm than she had given to the Moore family since Esther’s stay. The eldest of Esther Moore’s children, Smoke, couldn’t help the narrowing of his eyes or the frown that seemed almost permanently attached to his jaw. Mrs Esther flashed him a stern look, pining him in place with her eyes, before smoothing out her sheets as the collective attention of the room was pointed at the door.

Moments later, it was as if time stood still. Ducking his head down to enter the room, he was tall, broad-shouldered, with tattoos peaking up through the arms of his t-shirt and crawling up his neck. Apart from the tattoo’s there were two stud earrings in each ears and cornrows covered his scalp and he wore a white vest, with a loose denim shirt/jacket thing, jeans and sneakers.

Smoke would have recognised that face anywhere.

Stack looked exactly the same.

Simply older, and somewhat wiser if the wrinkles at his temple and brow were true.

Mrs Esther Moore couldn’t hide her happiness. She shined, as though she was in her home hosting and not in a hospital bed connected to wires and machines. She gushed in a way Smoke couldn’t remember her sounding in recent years.

“Elias?! Elias, baby!” With joy and outstretched hands, she beckoned him forward into her arms. A wide grin broke across Stack’s face, and he crossed the room in three long strides, stretching over the bed to gather their mother in his arms.

“Mama,” he breathed into carefully brushed curls as she gasped and teared up, clutching at his shoulders with both hands. Her nails, a sensible length and painted red, dug themselves into his shoulders as she collapsed into his arms.

At the other side of the hospital bed, at his side sat the old man with a thick glower smeared across his face. Smoke could see the moment it registered on Stack's face, how much he’d aged. His hair was greyed, his moustache and beard peppered with salt, and he sat with crossed arms, slowly tapping his feet as Stack covered their mother in love. He was an old man, weighed down by life, but bitter, the bitterness having stolen the good looks Smoke had heard about all of his childhood. He did not parse his mouth to make a sound, but neither did the two people at his side. Smoke because he was far too perturbed, pinned in place by the appearance of Stack and Annie, because though she was Moore, their tensions had existed long before she had joined the family.

Intimately acquainted with his reflection, Smoke knew he looked similar enough to Stack, but enough time had passed that the identical in their twinhood had morphed into an individual look that Smoke didn’t know if he liked. They were no longer mirrors of one another, and Smoke wondered if they ever were.

“Elias, oh baby, you a sight for these sore eyes,” their mama gushed as she pulled back to look into Stack’s face, running her hands down his face.

“Nothing would have kept me from your side, Mama.”

Smoke resisted the urge to spit or scoff, but he bottled his disgust, burying it deep in his chest. At his side, Annie discreetly raised her hand and squeezed his shoulder companionably.

“When did you get in? H-Ho-ow you know I was in here?”

Stack laughed, his adams apple bobbing as he chided their mother gently. “Chill, mama, Cornbread and ‘nem don told me and we packed u-”

“Eh-hem,” a deep voice interrupted the reunion with the clearing of his throat and the drawing of attention back to himself. Though Smoke was no fan of Sir, he was glad in the moment for Mr Solomon Moore having been the miserable old man he always was, sucked up the little joy that sparked in the room and and as time had done nothing to his better his prickliness, spread his venom freely. To his surprise, though, Stack turned his face but did not say a word, simply staring Sir down.

“It seems you have forgotten your manners, boy. This here room was not empty when you arrived, the very least you could do is greet us with what little manners an’ respect you have left.”

Elias stared him down as he spoke, but did not interrupt, merely waiting until he was finished with his spiel and offered a monotone,

“Afternoon, Sir, Elijah, Nanette”, in return. He nodded at each as he addressed them, but there was no joy in his face nor happiness in his eyes, a stark difference to the looks he bestowed upon Mama.

Smoke felt himself nod slowly, offering a gruff, “How you be’?” to Stack.

His mirror image paused, eyeing him before giving a “yeah aight, nothing to complain bout” in response.

He tried to ignore the way Mama’s weary face stretched into a smile, joy reaching her eyes properly and without the twinge of sadness she’d maintained since Stack left. Latching onto the moment, she clutched at Stack’s hand and asked, “How are the babies, Elias?”

Smoke heard the short catch of breath, the moment of Annie’s hand tightening on his shoulder, and the feel of her spirit sinking into sadness. The hatred reared itself again in his heart, like an untamed bull; it stampeded forth.

“Boy, who made you a daddy?”

---------------------------------------------

A/N I'm done for the night! Enjoy reading!

[boonoonoonus]

“Let Me In” Pt. 1

Modern AU: Smoke x Annie

This wasn’t supposed to turn into an actual mini-story, but it did lmaaooo. Will be following my idea for the song “Let Me In” by. Tanerelle, but I learned shortly after crafting this idea that I must always include plot with my porn so here we are. This will be part 1 before the good stuff comes, but I hope y’all still enjoy it and that it gets everyone excited for the next part :). I will be uploading the second part of Witchy before that though because I need to get more coordinated with my stories lol.

WC: 3.2k

Characters: Smoke (29), Annie (29), Stack (29), and Dee (OC; 25)

Enjoy! :)

————————

He was back.

After four years, two months, and eleven days, Elijah “Smoke” Moore finally returned home. Home not simply being Mississippi, not simply Clarksdale, but home.

When he’d showed up to his home (or what he believed would still be home) for the first time in half a decade, he was met face to face with the barrel of a wooden Ruger Nine the second the front door opened. It was far from the first time Smoke was placed in such a predicament, but he couldn’t remember the last time it caused him to freeze up. His eyes quickly shifted to meet the holder of the firearm, seeing her eyes piercing into his with a searing glare. He’d been blessed in his youth to witness the many emotions those beautiful eyes could hold, but never had he seen such resentment held in them.

Smoke hadn’t thought to put his hands up, some part of him didn’t feel to be in true danger, but his voice shook slightly as he’d finally spoken after a small stare-off between the two. “How you be?”

As her eyes hardened even further and her finger brushed up against the trigger daringly, he realized those words were clearly not what she wanted to hear. This time, his hands did raise a bit. “Come on now, Annie.”

“Figured you had to be a haint.” His heart stuttered over the sound of her voice, he’d yearned for it so even with the bitter tone of it. She dropped the barrel, but her grip remained the same. “And I don’t take kindly to trespassers.”

Smoke didn’t exactly relax, but he did sigh as she continued to guard the door. He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “I’m guessin’ you not gone let me in?”

Annie raised a lethal eyebrow his way, not a single ounce of her softening under his gaze. “You should consider yourself lucky I’m lettin’ you leave this property unscathed.”

She took one calm step back, placing the rifle into one hand as her other promptly slammed the door right in his face. Smoke didn’t flinch at the action, just dropped his head with a dry chuckle before walking from the porch and towards his truck. He hadn’t known how he’d expected the interaction to go, but he at the very least hoped for them to speak more than a couple of sentences. And at the very very least, he hoped she’d let him into her home. Their home. A home they’d built with one another, cherished with one another.

This was the first of a long line of rejections he would face in the coming weeks.

———————————————————————

Clarksdale was a small town, and it was absolutely impossible to avoid running into one another, no matter how hard Annie definitely tried. But things didn’t become any easier with how intentional Smoke became about entering her life once more. During the second week of his return, he dined in the very front booth of her restaurant, Mama Lucille’s, for four nights straight with the hope she would eventually cave into even a sliver of an interaction. On the fifth night, he had only just parked his truck when his phone lit up with a notification from his brother.

Stack: So… apparently you just got banned lmao. Dee just told me

Smoke’s lip curls up as his fingers type furiously.

Smoke: How the fuck she know that?

Three little dots pop up and disappear just as quickly.

Stack: Annie texted her. You def ain’t gettin that no time soon 💀

Smoke’s head falls back with an annoyed groan as he tosses his phone to the side. He has half a mind to walk in anyway, maybe pretend to be his twin just to at least make her speak with him. He decides against it, Annie could tell the difference between the two with all five of her senses blocked away. He pulls out of the parking lot with a sigh, already thinking of his next potential plan.

———————————————————————

Stack gets a mysterious allergic reaction about a week later after the siblings have brunch at the diner. It’s nothing dire, but it hits him when they’re on the way home and he realizes his tongue is feeling a bit bigger than normal.

He’s in the middle of blabbing about something neither his sister or brother are paying true attention to when he realizes what’s happening. “The fuck? What the fuck they put in my food?!”

Dee startles a little in the back seat, her eyes rising up from her phone at the clear panic in Stack’s voice. “What you mean? You only had pancakes, bacon, and grits.”

Stack snaps his seatbelt off and starts shuffling around the truck to look for his EpiPen. His panic increases tenfold when he realizes it’s not in there. “My tongue is swelling up, I think they slipped me something!” His words start to get a little muffled as he feels around the swollen muscle. “Them niggas tryna take me out!”

“Relax, aight.” Smoke’s voice isn’t unusually calm, but it’s clear he’s not as shocked as the other two. “We just need to get you that stuff from Annie.”

Stack’s too busy trying to dramatically draw his breaths in (it reminds them of him as a kid) to notice Smoke’s behavior, but Dee clocks it immediately with a howling laugh. “Elijah, you did not!”

Smoke’s eyes remain forward on the road, already en route to Annie’s house. Their house, but he ignores that thought at the moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

This draws Stack’s attention as his memory finally clicks the last time he had a reaction without his EpiPen. Smoke was usually the responsible one of the two, but there were two things Stack absolutely never left the house: his blade and his fucking pen. His head whips towards his brother with a shout. “Di’ ‘ou do som’in to my ‘ood?!”

Smoke rolls his eyes defensively. “Nigga, why would I do something to your food?”

Dee checks around the backseat area just in case, her head shaking in amused disappointment. “Cause the last time his EpiPen went missing was when Annie kicked you out the house for a week.”

“‘ou mo’da’fucka’!” Stack’s hands twitch to wring around his brother’s neck. His face just drops into his hands with a distressed groan.

Dee rubs a soothing hand over Stack’s shoulders, trying her damndest to not laugh in his face. Her eyes find Smoke in the rear view mirror. “You're going straight to hell, you know? This won’t kill him, but this gotta be something only the Devil would accept.”

Smoke meets her eyes with a shrug before returning to the road. “I ain’t do shit to his food. They could’ve gave him the wrong order.”

And he wasn’t lying. He didn’t touch a thing on Stack’s plate.

But if he accidentally slipped a bit of his grapefruit juice into Stack’s glass of orange juice, then sue him.

By the time they make it to Annie’s home, Smoke has semi-figured out what exactly he plans to say, with no help from either of his siblings. As he approaches the door, he wonders the possibility of being met with a rifle yet again. But this time, the door opens to an even more devastating sight.

The last time he’d come to her house, he hadn’t been able to properly appreciate the sight of her for long before the door had been shut in his face. This time, he couldn’t seem to focus on anything but.

His eyes first land on the dark jeans that accentuate the curves of her thighs and the long length of her legs. They scroll up slowly to her waist, where a pretty brown belt cinches around it, before reaching the tucked ends of her knitted, sleeveless, cream turtleneck. The entire outfit glues to every slant of her figure, and what a figure she’d grown into over the last few years. Smoke would’ve felt like a voyeur of sorts if he weren’t so familiar with what laid beneath the tight layers.

Her hair was slicked back nicely into a ponytail with a bump at the end, and it swayed as she opened the door. Her tone is clipped and expectant, and if he had to bet, she’d likely seen the exact moment the truck pulled into the driveway. “Yes?”

Smoke sets his shoulders, keeping his eyes on hers with a quieter tone. “Stack’s having a reaction.”

Annie’s gaze only grows more agitated before she dips her head with a heavy scoff. She bites her lip in a necessary attempt of restraint before maneuvering herself to gain full view of the truck. She makes eye contact with the younger twin as he sulks in the passenger’s seat. “Stack!”

Stack shoots up at the sound of her yell, immediately rolling down his window. Dee rolls her own down as well, waving to the other woman with a bright smile. It almost breaks through Annie’s reserve, but she responds to Dee with a polite nod before gesturing her head to Stack. “Come on!”

Stack exits the truck quickly to ensure Annie doesn’t change her mind. Smoke feels a small twinge of hope, but it is swiftly swiped away as Annie blocks the side of the door he attempts to slip through.

Her eyes harden in warning. “Just him.”

Stack freezes up as he balances between the outside and inside of the doorframe. He shrivels as the two stand in a bit of a stare off, but his decision is made as the throbbing of his tongue only worsens. “‘orry ‘moke, ‘ou ‘ook my pen.”

Smoke would feel betrayed if he wasn’t so focused on the way Annie’s eyes dangerously gleamed into his. He was trying his damndest to find something, anything, that would help him break through to her. He doesn’t even fully register that Stack has entered the household, instead finding it increasingly harder to voice his thoughts. To voice anything really.

His lips move before his mind is able to catch up, but it's already too late. “You look beaui-”

She shuts the door before he can even finish the sentence. His jaw tightens, his teeth threatening to crack his golden grills, as he slowly saunters to the truck with an air of defeat. When he gets in the driver’s seat, Dee doesn’t give him her usual shit this time, but she does advise him to take his foot off the metaphorical gas pedal.

“That’s one thing she could never stand about you. You always gotta make something happen as soon as possible. Sometimes, things just gotta come along on their own.”

Smoke shakes his head with sigh, resting back on the headrest. “I don’t want her thinking I gave up.”

Dee shoves his shoulder softly, shutting down that reservation instantly. “She knows you too well for that. Trust me, this isn’t the type of thing you can force ‘Lijah.”

———————————————————————

Though Smoke doesn’t say as much, he does in fact take Dee’s words into consideration. When they get home that evening, he makes the final decision to step back from his scheming. It’s an agonizing effort, and as time wears on, it only places his mind even further from being productive at work. Stack takes notice of it first, but only bust his balls over it, throwing quips at his chivalrous act of celibacy and how stupid of a commitment it was to make in the first place. As for Dee, she wouldn’t care too much about his muddled focus if not for how downright pitiful he becomes in the face of business.

Now Dee loves her brothers more than anything on this earth, but even that has its potential limits.

It’s on the fifth week of their return that she bustles into Smoke’s room with a barely-spilling bucket of water in hand. “Get up, Smoke.”

Her older brother grumbles something under his breath about it being too early, pulling the comforter further along his body. It’s enough of an answer for her. She empties the bucket in one swoop, and Smoke’s limbs flail about in an image comparable to that of a cat escaping a bathtub. A loud thud echoes around the room as he falls from the bed in a tangle of soaked sheets, coughing and heaving from his sister’s sick attempt of practical water-boarding.

His head finally manages to submerge from the sheets, his words fighting to escape through his shaken demeanor. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

It doesn't deter his little sister in the slightest, her hand placed on a pointed hip. “We’re going to the supermarket.”

Smoke reaches for his phone, his eyes widening in the face of Dee’s audacity. “It ain’t even 9 am yet!”

Dee’s voice remains steady as she explains the plan. “Annie goes to the supermarket on Broughton St. at 9:15 every Saturday morning before the rush comes at 10:30. We need to leave here at 8:45, you have 30 minutes to get ready.” She turns to walk out of the room with that, but he stops her just as she reaches the door.

“Wait, wait.”

She turns back to him with an unfazed expression. He’s still gaining his own bearings due to the last fifteen minutes, but he has to ask this first. “Why are you doing this? I thought you said not to scheme.”

Dee scoffs. “That was before I remembered something I can’t stand about either of y’all.”

Smoke’s face scrunches in confusion. “What?”

Dee’s eyes squint in annoyance. “Y’all are fucking miserable without one another, and you make everybody else just as miserable instead of just talking or fucking it out like normal people.”

They make it to the market a little earlier than Annie but go ahead and start shopping around. Dee takes advantage of the new delivery of fresh produce and sends Smoke off to look through that section while she moves through the other items of her grocery list. He tries his best not to, but every thirty seconds or so, he finds himself glancing at the time on his phone. Annie would’ve gotten there about ten minutes ago, and he knew his woman to be the punctual type when it came to her routine. Ten more minutes go by of him appearing to look through the ripeness of the seasonal peaches before he almost caves into just searching around for her. Then a laugh, that laugh that hadn’t graced his ears in a torturous amount of time, sounds just to the far right of him.

Smoke’s head whips towards the direction, his eyes landing on their target the second he looks her way. And there she is, standing in the middle of the bread section adorned in a white, patterned sundress that falls just to her knees. She’s speaking animatedly with an older, shorter woman, and it’s the most expressive Smoke has seen of her since coming home. It makes him freeze in place, simply wanting to watch her like this during the chance he has to do so. The way her eyes scrunch up when her lips curl into that radiant smile… it will never fail to take his very breath away. He looks at her as if it’s the first time he’s ever looked at her period, and he’s hit with a sudden moment of deja vu.

At 15, Smoke had choked and stepped into the nearest alleyway when she began walking his way.

At 29, Smoke stands still as his mind and soul scream for her to turn his way.

When she finally does so, his heart cracks at the way her smile diminishes in recognition. But it can’t help but beat a little harder when she doesn’t immediately look away.

The older woman in front of her takes notice of Annie’s change in attention, and when she turns to the direction of Annie’s eyes, Smoke is barely able to register the sound of a squeal.

“Why is that my favorite math student?!” The older lady screams just loud enough to be heard, but not enough to disturb the other shoppers.

Her exclamation pulls the two of them from their momentary daze, and Smoke can’t help but give the older woman a small grin once he recognizes her voice. He walks towards the two women with a polite nod. “Ms. Ruby.”

“Oh, it is you!” Ms. Ruby pulls him into a tight embrace, and he has to bend down a good bit to comfortably adjust to her. She pulls away with a squeeze on his biceps. “I was afraid I was mistaking you and your brother for a second, it's been years!”

“Yes ma’am, it has.” Smoke masks his strained tone, trying not to keep straying his gaze Annie’s way.

Ms. Ruby looks between the two with clear joy, the underlying tension in the air falling straight over her head. “This is just the biggest coincidence! Running into my two star students in the same morning!”

Annie’s smile isn’t as genuine now, and Smoke picks up the sarcasm easily. “Yes ma’am, it is.”

Ms. Ruby clearly doesn’t notice as she brings her attention to Smoke. “Well, what is it you’ve got going on now? I feel like I heard about you being engaged at some point.”

This causes Smoke to stutter uncharacteristically, and he can’t help the way his gaze wanders between the two women. “Oh, well yes I-”

Annie cuts him off with a strict tone. “It broke off a few years ago.”

Smoke crumbles under the weight of the statement paired with the hidden glare behind her eyes. He knew her too well.

Ms. Ruby sends him a look of pity, giving his arm another squeeze. “Oh. Well, I am so sorry to hear that Elijah.”

Annie clears her throat abruptly, smiling warmly towards Ms. Ruby. “If y’all will excuse me, I’ve got some more errands to run. It was wonderful seeing you, Ms. Ruby.” Her smile twitches downwards as she gives Smoke a onceover. “Smoke.”

But before she can make her escape, Ms. Ruby grabs hold of Annie’s hand. “Oh well wait, I would just love to have brunch with you two! I leave town tomorrow evening, but maybe we could try in the afternoon?”

Smoke clasps his hands together as Annie’s grip tightens on her basket handle. The two silently communicate for a little before Annie finally takes the leap.

“Actually, I think Smoke might be b-”

Smoke cuts her off before his mind can fully catch up to speed. “I’ll be free.”

Annie’s head whips to him in shock, but before she can reprimand him, Ms. Ruby is already more than excited. “Amazing! Annie? It’ll give me a chance to try that food of yours since I wasn't able to visit your restaurant.”

Smoke watches as she softly bites her tongue, a tendency of hers whenever she’d been holding a few choice words from spilling. She grins harshly, her lips puckering as she responds. “I would love to, Ms. Ruby.”

Ms. Ruby laughs gleefully. “Excellent! Alright, I won’t hold y’all no longer!” She gives them both two quick hugs, waving as she walks away towards the produce section. “I’ll see y’all then!”

They each hold their breath, remaining quiet as she walks away. Once she’s out of ear shot, Smoke turns to Annie with an apology on his tongue. “Annie, we don’t-”

Annie doesn’t give him the chance to say more. “Be there at 1.” She struts off a few aisles away without another word. Smoke takes a self-encouraging deep breath, just barely hiding his excited grin as he walks with a small pep in his step to find his sister.

————————

Hope y’all liked it! The next part is going to be very very fun to write hehe. But wish me luck because I’m deadass nervous lmao. 🫶🏾

Til next time!

Taglist:

@thelifeoflagab , @omgffs , @bigjh , @championshipshade , @mindyouthisismyaccount , @brownskincheyenne , @lizbehave , @hdfen2474 , @sweetarchivistsiege , @strawberrylemonades-stuff , @whysoceerious , @chknnwffls , @thefutureemmywinner , and @partylikemajima

[boonoonoonus]

Slow Burn, Sharp Blade 🍃

Modern!au Elijah “Smoke” Moore X Black!OC Joya Sable

Word Count : 4K

Authors Note : 👀 Hey y’all. While I love my Smoke and Annie, I wanted to bring in this OC to give it a lil twist. If you like this enough, I’ll definitely drop a part two. Yall just have to let me know. And fun fact, that picture of the sky was taken by yours truly ☺️🙂‍↕️ I have a whole gallery full of them so you may see some more in the future. There’s some teasing in here so I wouldn’t say it’s quite smut but it definitely ain’t vanilla either. So enjoy! 😉

The bell above the east Oakland barbershop door jingles like it’s in on the city’s secrets—like it knows something’s about to go down.

Smoke steps inside slow, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light of the barbershop. It smells like clove oil, fresh fade spray, and something sweet—a woman’s perfume laced with warning. Stack told him this was the spot. Said “Trust me, bruh, she got hands like magic. And she don’t scare easy.”

Didn’t mention she was fine as hell too.

She’s behind the second chair, finishing a fade on a boy too young to sit still but smart enough not to move when her fingers lock his chin. Short and thick, her shape’s impossible to miss. Denim hugging hips like they owe her something. Her locs are gathered up, edges slick, gold hoops dancing when she tilts her head and a two toned Cuban that didn’t miss it’s opportunity to shimmer as she moved. There’s a dragon tattoo wrapped around her forearm, and a nameplate necklace that reads: Joya.

“Take a seat. I’ll get to you in ten,” she calls, not looking up.

That voice? Sweet heat with a bite on the end.

Smoke chooses the waiting bench near the back, watching through lowered lids. Stack didn’t just set him up with a sharp cut. He knew damn well she’d spark something. That fire. That attitude. That don’t-fuck-with-me drawl every time she tells the kid to quit twitchin’.

When she finally turns his way, it’s like she feels him watching. Eyes drag over him, from the twist in his short Afro to the scar along his collarbone. Her smirk’s small, but it’s there. Confident.

“You Smoke, right?” she asks, snapping her cape loose and shaking it once before motioning him over. “Stack said you needed someone with a steady hand. That true, or you just tryna get up under my chair and flex?”

He chuckles low, something in his chest waking up.

“I don’t need to flex. You see me.”

She narrows her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “You talk smooth, but can you sit still?”

“I can sit still real well,” he says, settling into the chair. “Especially when the view this good.”

That earns him a soft snort. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a dismissal. She steps in close, tugging the cape around his shoulders with quick fingers, then starts examining his fro and the line of his fade.

“Mmhm,” she hums, mostly to herself. “You got nice hair. Thick. Clean. I’ll keep your part, tighten your taper, touch your beard. But if you flinch, I’m nickin’ you. An’ I don’t wanna hear no lip either.”

Smoke lets his eyes close, voice warm. “Bet.”

But when her fingers start in—when the clippers buzz low and her hands guide his head like she owns every angle of him—his breath gets slow. Her touch is firm. Sure. She smells like peach sugar and something spiced, like she might knock a man out and kiss him after.

“You always this quiet when a woman got blades near your neck?” she teases, close enough for her voice to brush his ear.

“Only when I’m thinkin’ dangerous thoughts.”

Joya pauses, her wrist resting just above his jaw. “You better focus on that lineup, baby. Not that fast tongue of yours.”

Smoke smiles slow. He likes the way she holds a blade—like it’s a promise.

He might’ve come for the cut, but he’s stayin’ for the fire.

The clippers hum against his skin, but it’s her voice that makes his pulse skip.

“You got a lot of heat sittin’ in this chair,” she says, brushing hair off his temple with the back of her hand. “You always run this warm, or you sweatin’ ‘cause I’m touchin’ you an’ you get nervous around pretty ladies?”

Smoke doesn’t even open his eyes.

“I don’t sweat easy. But you? You got hands like you used to fight in a past life.”

Joya chuckles low, the sound syrupy with mischief. “Maybe I did. Or maybe I just learned to handle men who talk slick.”

“Is that right?”

She taps the top of his head twice. “Chin up.”

He obeys, letting her angle him where she wants. Her nails graze his jaw as she guides it, not gentle—but not careless either. Like she’s letting him know this chair is hers, and so is the moment.

“You from around here?” he asks, voice still soft, curious.

“Born and raised. Mama ran a salon, Daddy ran a garage. I cut hair in the morning and fix old schools on Sundays. What about you? You from here or just passin’ through lookin’ for your next conquest?”

He opens his eyes now, catches her reflection in the mirror. “What makes you think I’m lookin’ for one?”

Joya meets his gaze without flinching. “’Cause men like you don’t come into shops like mine unless they got a reason.”

“Maybe I came ‘cause Stack said you were the best.”

“Stack don’t hand out compliments unless he’s tryna set somebody up.”

Smoke tilts his head, grin creeping in. “Maybe he was.”

Joya cocks her brow, lips parting just a little, like she’s trying not to smile but it’s slipping anyway. She moves to the other side of the chair, close enough now that her hip brushes his arm. On purpose.

“You flirt with all your barbers like this?”

“Only the ones with gold hoops and a dragon on their arm.”

She scoffs, but her smirk’s telling. “You think I’m impressed ‘cause you noticed my tattoo?”

“No,” Smoke says, voice lower now. “I think you’re curious why a man like me got quiet the minute you touched me.”

That gives her pause. Just a second.

Then—click. She switches to the trimmer and leans in so close her breath fans his cheek. “Don’t get too comfortable. I still might nick you for runnin’ that mouth.”

“I’d bleed for you,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

Joya stills, lips inches from his ear.

Then she pulls back and flicks the trimmer off with a snap.

“Line’s clean. Beard’s tight. You can look now.”

Smoke opens his eyes slow. His reflection stares back—fresh cut, sharper jaw, eyes darker than when he walked in.

Joya removes the cape with a flourish, brushing stray hairs from his shoulders. “That’ll be forty.”

He stands, towering over her, but not looming. Just there. Present. The air between them feels different now—warmer, charged.

He pulls a crisp Benjamin from his pocket and presses it into her palm, letting his fingers drag slow across her skin.

“Keep the change.”

She tucks it into her waistband without breaking eye contact. “Next time you want a touch-up, book ahead.” She motioned her head to the stack of business cards at her station.

“I don’t just take walk-ins.”

Smoke leans down just enough to brush his lips near her ear, voice wrapped in velvet heat.

“I wasn’t walkin’ in, babygirl. I was bein’ sent.”

And with that, he’s gone, the door jingling behind him, leaving Joya standing there with clippers in one hand and a grin she doesn’t bother hiding.

——

The bass inside Velvet Ridge rolls like slow thunder through the floorboards.

It’s a Thursday night, mellow crowd but not dead—just the way Joya likes it. She walks in solo, locs out and wild this time, hugging her waist with a ribbed crop top and black jeans. No clippers tonight. Just gold hoops, lip gloss, and attitude.

She’s halfway through her first drink at the bar when Reese, her longtime friend and part-time bartender, slides over with a lazy grin.

“Well damn. You clean up all right.”

Joya smirks. “Better watch your mouth before I bring the clippers up here and leave you with a crooked line on purpose.”

Reese laughs, wiping a glass. “You only get that spicy when you got an itch.”

“I’m here for music, not men,” she says, sipping slow.

Reese lifts a brow, looking past her shoulder. “Then why you got a fresh whiskey ginger coming your way from tall, dark, and locked-in over by the pool table?”

Joya turns her head.

Smoke.

Leaning against the wall like he’s part of it, pool cue in one hand, untouched drink in the other. Same dark tee, same watch and pinky ring glinting under low light. His eyes are already on her, steady and unbothered, like he expected her to walk in eventually.

Because maybe he did.

Joya huffs through her nose and turns back to the bar, trying to play it cool.

“Stack really out here runnin’ matchmaking services now?” she mutters.

Reese whistles low, nudging the drink toward her. “If that’s Stack’s doing, tell him I owe him dinner. That man is fine and lookin’ at you like he’s picturin’ your ass back in that chair—except this time he the one doin’ the sittin’.”

Joya chokes on her sip. “Reese.”

“I’m just sayin’!”

She glances over her shoulder again. Smoke lifts his glass in a silent toast—no wink, no smile. Just that same quiet heat he carried in the shop. And now it’s pulsing between them again, thicker in the dark.

Reese leans in close, grinning. “Go talk to him before I do.”

Joya rolls her eyes, snatches the drink, and slides off the stool. “Keep the seat warm.”

“I’ll keep it icy in case he melts your ass.”

Joya’s already walking, drink in hand, hips swaying like she means it. Smoke watches every step. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just waits.

When she’s close enough, she takes a long sip and licks her bottom lip. “Sending drinks now? You tryna impress me?”

“No,” Smoke says, voice deep and lazy. “Just thanking you for the cut. And the view.”

She bites back a smile. “Mmhm. You like women who talk back, don’t you?”

“I like women who talk real.”

“Then you better listen close.” She steps into his space, lifting her chin. “If you came here lookin’ for some easy thing, you barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

Smoke leans in just enough for her to feel the heat off his chest. “Nah, I came here hopin’ you’d bark back.”

And just like that, the air around them turns thick again. Charged. Everything unspoken stretching taut between two people who don’t scare easy.

Joya sips again, slow. Then:

“You shoot pool, or just posted up lookin’ pretty?”

Smoke breaks into the smallest smirk. “Rack ‘em.”

Smoke breaks first.

The crack echoes like a warning across the table. Stripes scatter, solids hold tight. He doesn’t say a word—just leans back, pool cue balanced lightly in his hand like it belongs there.

Joya circles the table, eyes on the felt. “Solid,” she declares, tapping the cue ball with the tip of her stick. “Of course. Strong foundation. Like me.”

Smoke watches her the way a wolf watches movement in tall grass—quietly hungry.

She sinks the two ball, easy. Then the five. Walks around him with just enough sway to make sure he notices. She lines up for the four, but the angle’s off, so she stretches forward, hips lifting just slightly, and—

Smoke clears his throat.

Joya grins without looking at him. Got him.

She misses the next shot on purpose.

He steps up, slow. “That move was cheap.”

“You didn’t call no rules,” she says, sauntering over to lean on her stick. “What’s the stakes?”

Smoke circles the table, casual but coiled. “Winner calls it.”

“Oh, you bold,” she says. “What if I ask for something reckless?”

“I’m countin’ on it.”

He sinks three in a row—smooth, patient, no showboating. Just precision and pressure.

When he misses the corner pocket on the eleven, Joya claps her hands once. “And just like that, the throne’s mine again.”

Smoke leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Make your shot, Queen.”

She drops the eight-ball like it owed her something. Stands tall. Sips what’s left of the drink he sent. Then sets the glass down like a statement.

“You owe me now.”

Smoke nods, low and slow. “Say the word.”

Joya steps in close—real close. Her voice drops an octave, sultry and bold. “Winner gets…a nightcap. Your place. But you don’t touch me ‘til I say.”

Smoke’s jaw tightens, something carnal flickering in his eyes.

“That what you want?” he asks, low.

She tilts her head. “That’s what I earned. You got a problem with that?”

He steps into her space, chest brushing her shoulder, his voice like smoke curling up her neck. “I don’t got problems, baby. Just patience.”

Her lip curls into a slow smile.

“Then lead the way.”

Joya’s car hums down the freeway, windows cracked just enough to let the warm California night wrap around her like a silk scarf. Her locs are still coiled from earlier, makeup still fresh, but her pulse? That’s not nearly as calm as the playlist floating through her speakers.

She drums her fingers on the wheel, glancing at the glowing street signs passing by like checkpoints on a map she didn’t plan to follow.

“What the hell am I doing?” she mutters, half-laughing. “Talkin’ slick and now I’m halfway to his place like I don’t got sense.”

She taps her screen, pulls up her group chat.

✨Edge Snatchers Inc✨

Joya, Tish, Kenya, Bri

She hits the voice message button.

Joya:

“Y’all. So. Y’know how Stack’s been pushin’ that one client on me? Smoke? His brother …Yeah, that Smoke—the soft spoken half of SmokeStack twins? Big, broody, quiet, tattooed up like a sin with a story? Anyway… he came through today. Sat in my chair, flirted like he got time to waste, and had the nerve to act unbothered while I was fightin’ for breath. That man don’t talk much, but when he do, it’s low and dangerous like the bassline in a baby-makin’ song.”

Her phone lights up—Tish is typing. Then another voice message comes in:

Tish:

“I told you he had that quiet fine. That ‘write his name on the lease’ fine. You got him in your chair and didn’t melt? Bitch. You stronger than me.”

Kenya:

“Wait, y’all always joked about ‘what if SmokeStack sat in your shop’ and now it’s real?! Tell me you gave him that Joya fade where you put love in the line-up?”

Joya snorts, already recording her reply.

Joya:

“Girl, I gave him the fade and the fire. He sat still like he knew I was sculptin’ royalty. Then tonight—child—ran into him at Velvet Ridge. Sent me a drink like he owned the bar. Didn’t even wink. Just looked.”

The typing bubbles go wild.

Bri:

“So now what? You goin’ home or…?”

Joya exhales through her nose and smiles to herself, tapping the next voice message.

Joya:

“Heading to his place. But I set the rules. I said don’t touch me till I say. And he said ‘I got patience.’ Y’all. He said it like he meant it. I don’t know what this is yet, but I know one thing: that man? He ain’t regular.”

Her phone pings again—heart emojis, devil faces, Kenya yelling “Fumble him and I will ghost you for eternity!”—and it makes her laugh out loud.

But as she turns off the highway and the city lights fade into the quiet of backstreets, something else stirs underneath the teasing. A different kind of hum.

That man sees her. Not just the barber. Not just the smart mouth or the hips or the gold hoops.

He sees the fire. And for once—he’s not trying to tame it. Just… match it.

She parks. Kills the engine. Grabs her lip gloss and dabs it once. Quick breath. One more voice note:

Joya:

“If I’m not at the shop by ten tomorrow… tell Stack when he come in for his line up that it was worth it.”

She slides her phone into her purse and steps out into the night, her heels clicking on the concrete like punctuation to a decision already made.

Smoke’s apartment is nothing like she expected.

No smoke and mirrors. No overdone flex.

Just clean lines. Dark leather. Low lighting. An open bottle of bourbon on the kitchen counter, two glasses, untouched. The scent of something woodsy lingers in the air like it belongs to the bones of the place.

He opens the door, steps aside, and lets her in without a word. Doesn’t crowd her. Doesn’t rush.

Joya walks in like she owns the space anyway. Slow. Confident. A queen inspecting her new throne. She doesn’t speak yet—just shrugs off her jacket, drapes it over a dining chair, and gives him a glance over her shoulder.

“You live like a man who don’t bring company home.”

Smoke closes the door behind her, leans on it for a beat. “I don’t.”

Her brow lifts just a little. “Then I’m your first?”

He nods once. “In more ways than you know.”

She doesn’t ask what he means. Not yet.

Instead, she walks to the center of the living room and turns to face him, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. “Get comfortable. I said this was a nightcap, not a sprint.”

Smoke kicks off his shoes and walks toward her, slow and measured, like he’s syncing with her rhythm on purpose. He stops just shy of touching her.

“You want music?” he asks.

“Mmhm. Something low. Grown.”

He moves to the speaker on the shelf. The playlist starts with a bass-heavy, velvet-laced groove—Snoh Aalegra, maybe. D’Angelo bleeding into the next. Joya doesn’t say a word. Just smiles.

She sinks onto his couch, crossing her legs slow, drink in hand now, which he’d poured without asking—two fingers neat. She raises it in mock toast.

“To men who sit still when told.”

Smoke chuckles low, sits across from her on the other end of the sectional. Legs open. Elbows on knees. That same quiet confidence wrapped around him like armor.

“You keep testin’ my patience,” he says, sipping.

“And you keep passin’.”

Joya watches him over the rim of her glass, letting the silence bloom between them. Letting her presence fill the room. This is what she does best—hold the line.

She’s been around men who try to lead too fast. Who rush into her space like it’s owed. But this man? This man sits in the tension, meets her energy, rises with it.

When she finally leans forward, her voice is smooth and sweet, but there’s iron under the honey. “You really let women call the shots like this?”

Smoke meets her gaze, slow. “Not always. Just the ones who know what to do with the power.”

That earns him her full smile. No games now—just heat and curiosity.

“So what would you do,” she asks, “if I said you can touch me now?”

Smoke doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe heavy. Just leans in, eyes darker than the bourbon in his glass.

“I’d ask where.”

That shouldn’t have landed like it does.

Joya’s breath catches, then releases slow, deliberate. She sets her drink down, stands, and closes the space between them until her knees brush his.

“You ask good questions,” she murmurs, tilting his chin up with a single finger. “Let’s see if your hands give the same respect.”

His fingers slide up her thighs—slow, reverent, like the build-up is better than the prize. He doesn’t grip. Doesn’t move too quickly. He explores.

Joya watches him, her hands still, body poised like royalty.

“You want permission,” she whispers, brushing her lips just shy of his. “You wait for it.”

Smoke nods, voice low and solid. “Every time.”

And that’s when she shifts.

Straddling his lap, her hands on his chest, her mouth finally—finally—meeting his in a kiss that doesn’t ask, doesn’t warn. She tastes like the bourbon he poured and the fire he didn’t know he needed.

He doesn’t take control. Not yet. But when he kisses her back, there’s something in it—heat that mirrors hers, hunger that doesn’t beg but matches. It’s not surrender.

It’s a challenge met.

A game just beginning.

The kiss doesn’t break.

It just… bends.

Slows, curves, folds into something molten.

Joya moves like a woman in no hurry—like the heat between them is best when it simmers. Her hips press down, just enough to make her presence known. Her mouth traces Smoke’s like a secret. And he stays still for her. All that muscle, all that power, waiting under command.

When she finally pulls back, her lip gloss smudged and eyes half-lidded, she speaks like she’s still tasting him.

“Not bad,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb across his jaw. “You kiss like you respect women.”

Smoke’s voice is a gravel drawl, thick and low. “I do.”

Her smile is slow and approving. “Then you’ll have no problem sittin’ right there and lettin’ me enjoy myself.”

She glides off his lap with effortless grace, rising to her full height before him. His eyes track her every motion, intent and devout, like a man absorbing sacred text.

She turns around and walks away from him. Just a few paces. Enough to let her curves sway under the low light. Then she stops, peeks over her shoulder with a knowing little smirk.

“You like watchin’ me?”

Smoke leans back, spreading his legs wider, arms resting on the back of the couch. “You already know.”

She chuckles under her breath and pulls the crop top over her head in one smooth motion. No theatrics, just confidence. Her skin gleams warm and soft in the golden light. Her bra’s a deep burnt orange lace, delicate, and meant to be seen.

She turns around slowly. “I don’t move fast for nobody,” she says. “But I do like to tease.”

Smoke’s jaw flexes. His eyes drink her in. Still—he doesn’t move.

“I’m not tryin’ to speed you up,” he says, voice barely above a growl. “Just grateful for the view.”

Joya walks back toward him, hips fluid, unhurried. She climbs onto his lap again, bare skin warm through her jeans. Her fingers trace the neckline of his shirt, dragging slow.

“You always this good at holdin’ back?” she asks, cocking her head.

Smoke’s hands rest on her thighs, his palms wide and hot but still gentle.

“I only move fast on the field,” he says. “Everywhere else? I like to take my time.”

That earns a low laugh from her, rich like honey. “Careful,” she whispers, brushing her nose against his. “You keep talkin’ like that, I might start believin’ you’re dangerous.”

He lifts his hand, finally, slow—and curls his fingers around the back of her neck. No pressure. Just a hold. A claim. The first real touch with intention.

“I am dangerous,” he says, low and clean. “But not to you.”

Something flickers in her eyes—interest, maybe. Or challenge. She leans in and kisses him again, deeper this time, slower. Her tongue traces his bottom lip like she’s drawing lines only she can cross.

Smoke groans into her mouth, a sound so soft and restrained it makes her thighs clench.

Joya pulls back and whispers, “Take your hoodie off. Slow.”

He obeys.

He shrugs off his hoodie, peeling it over his head like a man shedding a moment, not just clothing. The fabric drops to the floor, forgotten. Tattoos ripple across his chest and arms—ink etched deep into muscle, old warnings and stories carved in black. Her eyes follow every line. She reaches out, tracing one with her finger, circling a flame curling around words she can’t quite read in the low light.

“You always burn this hot?” she asks.

He tilts his head, voice low and rough. “Only when I’m invited.”

She leans in, her mouth brushing his exposed collarbone, then gliding up the side of his neck. Slow, deliberate kisses that stop just shy of giving in. When she speaks, each word skims across his skin like a spark.

“You’ll wait until I say when. And when I do… you better hold on.”

Smoke’s grip on her waist tightens, just enough to promise restraint won’t last long.

Then he smiles—that quiet, dangerous smile that means the fuse has already been lit.

“I’ve been holdin’ back for hours, ma. You tell me when, and I’ll give you everything.”

————-

Taglist: @gtf-o-m-d @spookysanta @michelley-rome @bigjh @anniensmoke3 @hdfen2474 @uzumaki-rebellion @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @killmongerdispussy @theogbadbitch @ccwpidsblog @princesskillmonger @blowmymbackout @theethighpriestess @blktinkerbell @steampunkprincess147 @diamondsinterlude @partylikemajima @theegoldenchild @mhhhhmmmmmmm @coolfoodrunworld-blog @lilchubbs @thebumblebeesworld @mastertia221b @brownskincheyenne @belleofthefloor @c0tt0ncandi @irefusetobeacasualty @cocoxciv-blog @melodyofmbaku @lb-xci

[boonoonoonus]

Costume appreciation series: Sinners (2025) dir Ryan Coogler

Costume Design by Ruth E. Carter

[boonoonoonus]

I think mostly what young fandom types (and I guess younger people in general) who are very very invested in the idea that “20 is still basically a minor” need to understand is that the feeling of “I’m just a child pretending to be an adult, and everyone else around me is a REAL adult” is DEEPLY universal (and won’t stop, ever, by the way, sorry!) and also is not, like, praxis.

Believe me, I get it, but the self-infantilization needs to stop, especially when you’re trying to engage in conversations about actual children and the harms they can face. Yes, it is scary to wake up and realize you’re 22 and you still feel like you’re 15, but it happens to all of us. You’re an adult. You have to deal with it.

[boonoonoonus]

Annie & Smoke🤎

[boonoonoonus]

ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ'ᴠᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ɢᴏ

ꜱᴛᴀᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ | ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴜɪɴ | ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴀʟ, ʏᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

You loved him like salvation. But he only knew how to sin.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

You hated the way his name still echoed in your chest like a warning.

Stack.

You used to say it with laughter in your throat. Now it sounded like something scraped out of glass.

You used to say it like prayer.

Now it felt like punishment.

He wasn’t supposed to get that close.

Not when you knew what came with him—anger, scars, a silence that always came before the storm. But he had that soft look sometimes, the one you swore was just for you. When his jaw relaxed. When his eyes didn’t look like warzones. When his voice dropped and he whispered shit like:

"I don’t let people in, but you… you different."

And you believed him.

You fucking believed him.

Because there was a part of you—some wounded, desperate part—that thought if you loved him enough, he’d finally feel safe. That your softness would be enough to teach him peace. That you could hold all his chaos and still be whole.

But loving Stack felt like trying to carry fire with bare hands.

It always burned. And you always let it.

The night it all fell apart was humid, thick with tension. You felt it before it happened—like the air was trying to tell you something your heart wouldn’t admit.

Your body always knew before your mind did. The unease. The ache in your chest that wasn’t quite sadness yet. Just a slow cracking in your ribs that said brace yourself.

He came in late. Again. Smelling like weed, liquor, and a perfume that didn’t belong to you.

Something sweet. Fake. Loud.

Nothing like you.

He didn’t even try to lie. Not really.

"You gon' ask or you already know?" he said, tossing his hoodie on your couch like this was still his place to fall.

You stared at him. Not because you didn’t know the answer—but because hearing it, saying it, would make it real.

"Do you even care anymore?" you asked, voice calm—too calm. That was the thing about heartbreak: it didn’t always come with screaming.

Sometimes it sounded like silence.

Sometimes it sounded like I’m done pretending I don’t know who you really are.

"Don’t start with me, Y/N," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "You knew what this was."

"No, you don’t get to say that," you snapped. "You don’t get to act like I imagined this. Like you didn’t lay next to me every night and kiss my back like I was yours."

"I never said I was good for you."

"You didn’t have to. You just had to stay. But you couldn’t even do that."

He scoffed, pacing now. “You always want something I don’t got in me. You want soft. You want... fairy tale shit.”

"I never asked you to be perfect," you said, voice breaking. "I just wanted honesty. Loyalty. A fucking phone call if you were gonna disappear."

"I don’t owe you explanations every time I breathe, Y/N. You not my wife."

"And yet you called me your peace, right?" you said, bitterly. "I was your peace, but only when it was convenient. Only when you needed somewhere to hide from the world you created."

"Man, I’m not doing this,” he muttered, heading toward the kitchen like he could walk away from the mess.

"No, you never do this," you said, following him. “You run. You shut down. You fuck up and expect me to sit here and make excuses for you. And I did that. Over and over.”

He turned then, face hard.

“You think you some savior? You think being with you made me better?”

“No,” you whispered. “I think being with you made me forget who I was.”

The silence returned, but this time it wasn’t empty.

It was loaded. Heavy. Grief-filled.

You should’ve left then. Should’ve walked away with your pride before it got dragged through the mud. Before you started rewriting your own worth just to make sense of his distance.

But your heart—your dumb, loyal heart—held out for a miracle.

The kind where he turns around and says he’s sorry.

The kind where he admits you were enough.

“Did you love her?” you asked, voice barely holding.

You knew the answer.

But still, you asked. Because part of you wanted him to say no. To say there was only you.

He looked at you then. Eyes soft. Regret painted across his face like it could fix anything.

“I didn’t even love myself,” he said.

And it hit you harder than any betrayal.

Because that was the truth you’d been ignoring. You weren’t fighting another woman. You were fighting his demons. His guilt. His self-loathing. His idea that love was dangerous and being loved was a death sentence.

And baby, you were losing.

Because no matter how much you bled for him, he never learned how to stop cutting.

When you left, you didn’t slam the door.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t cry—not yet.

You just took what little pieces of yourself remained and walked into the night, knowing he wouldn’t chase you.

Because Stack never chased anything he thought he could find again.

But this time, you weren’t coming back.

Not as the same girl.

Not as the girl who waited up, who forgave silence, who thought love was proving your worth to someone who only saw your heart as collateral.

And even if he did try?

You weren’t the same girl who waited up anymore.

You were done surviving him.

[boonoonoonus]

Dahomey (2024) 🇧🇯🇸🇳 a documentary by Mati Diop

[boonoonoonus]

The Best Part of Me (Prologue)

PAIRINGS: Smoke X Annie, Stack X OC, Cornbread X Therise, Sammie X Pearline, Solomon X Esther

(Previously): Stack X Annie

OC CHARACTERS: Twin's mother = Esther Moore; Twin's father = Solomon Moore; Stack woman = Genevieve Campbell-Brown; Smoke/Annie daughter = Armantine "Tina"

PREMISE:

The last time Elijah Moore saw his brother, Elias swore he would never forgive him, that the gulf between them was too deep, the pain too hard to traverse. And just as he couldn't help the love he felt for Annie, even if it meant breaking his twin's heart, Elijah couldn't help the longing for his other half, even if Stack would rather see him dead.

The last time Elias Moore saw his brother, Elijah promised he would always love him, even through his hate, and Elias promised hatred everlasting. Now, he's found a love even greater than which was lost, and all he wishes to do is to protect it and ensure that his past doesn't fuck up his future.

Esther Moore's mild chest pains hide a sinister disease and bring her sons back to her side. The prodigal runaway Stack, whose sojourn into fatherhood has fundamentally changed him as a man and brother, and her jaded Jonah, Elijah, whose adamance in being the cornerstone has him cracking at either side. She hopes her frail health will bring healing; if not, at least allow her to spend her golden years with her grandbabies at her side.

PROLOGUE

"Who all gon be there?" Smoke asked as Annie tightly wrapped the cassava and okra in fresh newspaper, the ink staining the tips of her fingers from the force of her wrapping. Her hum was a low sound that carried through the air.

"The family, some of the men from round the way," she paused and put her hands on top her hips, "honestly, 'Lijah, I don't know. Big Mama just told me to bring myself and the baby over."

Smoke nodded slowly, the smoke curling up to the sky from the end of his cigarette. "Not me?" Brown eyes stared out into the distance.

Annie pursed her lips, cocking her head to the side. "Big Mama knows where I go, you follow. 'Sides, she may feel a way after ..." her voice trailed off at the end, but she didn't need to explain further, both knew exactly what she was referring to. The incident had set heavily on top of them since they'd arrived home.

Smoke nodded, eyes still distant.

"You right,"

He paused to pull at the cigarette and tap the cinders into the ashtray.

"I shouldn't 'ave said nuffin' to 'im at the hospital", his slurred words murmured under his breath, meshed together, but Annie knew him well enough to parse them.

"You telling me," Annie quipped with empathetic sweetness.

"Jus' didn't expect Stack." Those words hung heavy in the air.

"I don't think he'd have thought 'bout seeing you neither, not if Big Mama never took sick."

"What's that supposed to mean?" There was an accusation on his tongue.

"Jus' that, Stack said he weren't never coming back to the delta."

He sucked his teeth. "Things change,"

"And the more things stay the same."

"This ain't some shit to be childish about woman."

"It's not illegal to speak on it is it? Plus I'm jus' as involved as you are 'Lijah" Annie crossed her hands under his breasts and gave her husband the look.

"Well, I'm not tryna to bring up old stuff", Smoke explained, a grimace passing his face.

Annie rolled her eyes. "Well, look here, Elijah David Moore, Tina wants to play with her cousins, and you can't expect her to wait all day and all night for you to stop sulking."

"Aht, aht, aht woman, stop all that clucking, I'm coming."

Stretching his legs, Smoke cracked his neck before standing to his height and drawing Annie close to his side.

"I love you," he breathed across her cheek before pressing a kiss against her neck.

"I love you too."

----

Thoughts?

Basic premise just so no one is surprised, is that Stack and Annie were together originally before she got with Smoke, and that mess is central to the plot. Hell, it is the plot in some ways. I'm writing out chapters as we speak, but yes welcome to my newest story!

[boonoonoonus]

gross!könig × female!reader

warnings: +18, smut, piss kink, dubcon!

"baby, i miss u so much"

könig's cock was so deep inside you that you could feel it even in your gut. your legs were on his shoulders and he was on top of you, almost crushing you with his weight.

it had only been 3 days since you had seen each other, but for könig it seemed like an eternity. he missed you and your pussy so much that the first thing he did when he saw you was take you to his room and fuck you like an animal.

"you love how my fat cock opens you up, don't you? my little cumslut"

könig sped up his thrusts, leaving you almost breathless every time his cock hit your cervix. he laid down even further on top of you, crushing you and making his thrusts go deeper. soon he brought his mouth to your neck and began to drool desperately.

"kö, slow down please"

your pleas were in vain, all that mattered to könig now was finishing inside you.

you felt that familiar sensation, his warm, thick load filling you to the point that it was starting to leak out even though könig was still inside you. suddenly, you felt a strange sensation. it was hot and liquid, and it was starting to fill your insides.

you looked at könig, who was looking into your eyes with a smirk. the son of a bitch just pissed INSIDE you.

he laugh softly notices your expression, as if he were a child who had just done something mischievous.

"i'm sorry, i just couldn't help myself. don't be mad at me, please?"

[boonoonoonus]

Valentine’s Plans

Rafe had been patient. Too patient. He knew exactly why you’d been acting like this, short replies, annoyed sighs, that little scoff whenever he so much as touched you. Valentine’s Day was in a few days, and he hadn’t asked you to be his Valentine yet.

He had a plan. A good one. But you didn’t know that.

So when he walked past the other Kooks and overheard you saying, “He’s such a pussy. I swear, if he doesn’t ask me, I’m done.”—Rafe saw red.

He bit his tongue, shoving his hands into his pockets. He wanted to call you out right then and there, but he wouldn’t. He’d make sure you felt stupid for ever doubting him.

Dinner was at the nicest restaurant on the island. Private booth, dim lighting, a box waiting on the table before you even sat down. A Vivienne Westwood necklace, because he knew you liked that shit. The cake came out after, white frosting with Be My Valentine? scrawled in red.

Rafe leaned back, watching you take it all in. Now he could be smug.

“Still think I’m a pussy?” he asked.

Your face burned, but you rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

“That’s what I thought.” He smirked, nudging the box toward you. “Say yes, or I’m taking that back.”

You huffed but reached for the necklace, letting your fingers run over the silver chain. “Obviously, yes.”

He leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to your cheek. “Good girl.”

You thought everything was fine until you got home.

The second you stepped inside, Rafe kicked the door shut behind you, gripping your jaw to tilt your face up.

“Gonna talk shit about me to my friends again?” he murmured, voice low.

You swallowed, pulse spiking. “Rafe—”

He smirked. “No, go ahead. Tell me more about how I’m a pussy.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

That night, you learned never to doubt Rafe Cameron. He made sure of it.

You were beneath him, writhing, your body burning under his touch as his thick cock fucked you deeper into the sheets. His breath was hot against your ear, his voice low and taunting.

“What was it you said?” he murmured, dragging his lips along your jaw, making you shiver. “I’m a pussy, huh?”

You whimpered, your fingers twisting in the fabric beneath you as you felt him pound into your sweet spot. “Rafe—”

His teeth scraped against your skin as he chuckled darkly. “No, no, sweetheart. Say it again.”

You shook your head, your body arching against him. “I didn’t mean it.”

He tsked, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you roughly onto his cock. “Didn’t mean it?” His voice was mocking, teasing. “You sounded pretty fucking sure earlier.”

You whimpered as rolled his hips to meet yours, his hands gripping your body like he owned it. He did.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured. His lips brushed your ear, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “You talk a lot of shit, but look at you now—squirming, whining, completely at my mercy.”

You gasped, your fingers clutching his shoulders as he fucked you even harder.

He smirked against your skin. “Bet you won’t doubt me again, huh?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, sir.”

“Good fucking girl,” he muttered, nipping at your collarbone. “Now, let this be a reminder of who you belong to.”

A hand remained on your hip, gripping you while another went into your hair, pulling your head down to watch as his cock disappeared inside you. He wasn’t going easy, he was fucking the doubt right out of you.

“You wanna fucking doubt me? Huh? Call me a pussy? You can’t even fucking talk. Fucked you dumb, who’s the pussy now?”

You cried out in pain and pleasure, his thrusts unrelenting and hard.

For a moment you thought the lesson was over but you thought wrong. He flipped you onto your stomach, slapping your ass making you wince and pulling it up to him.

He wasted no time burying himself to the hilt inside your wet pussy, the new position making him feel like he was deeper. You cried out, reaching around to put your hand on his chest but he just grabbed it.

He chuckled darkly, pinning your hand behind your back. “Take this fucking dick, you’re gonna learn your fucking lesson tonight.”

He fucked you like he hated you, cock dragging along your walls, stretching you so much you thought he would tear you apart. You could feel him so deep, the tip kissing your cervix with each thrust. All you could do was bury your face into the sheets and moan, unable to form a single coherent word or thought.

“This is exactly how you should be all the time. Fucked out and keeping your mouth fucking shut,” he growled.

He grabbed you by the neck so you were arching off him.

“Do what I say for once and rub that clit so you can cum on my dick. You don’t fucking deserve it but I’m such a good boyfriend, I’ll let you cum.”

Your body jolted in his arms as you rubbed your clit and he gripped your neck even tighter. “Fuck, cum on my cock. Cum on my cock so I can fill this ungrateful pussy up.”

With a loud cry, your body went limp in his arms. Your walls clamped around him, squirting on his dick and your orgasm triggered his own. He moaned in your ear, his load filling you to the brim and your pussy milking him of every drop.

“Good fucking girl. Now you’ll know never to doubt me or call me a fucking pussy again.”

[boonoonoonus]

FANTASIZING ABOUT a needy Choso Kamo ♡︎.

He can’t help it. Ever since you first introduced him to sex, he just can’t get enough. It’s not his fault that your cunt is so addicting, so much so that he’s often begging you to let him fuck you on his cock. It’s not his fault that you moan so beautifully that he can’t help but thrust into you harder so you’ll make more of those pretty sounds for him. It’s not his fault that you taste so good and he has to have you on his tongue, drinking your juices until you’re shaking and crying. He doesn’t mean to be so needy, but you bring out this side of him he can’t control.

How is he supposed to control himself when you walk around in those skimpy clothes, showing off your plump ass and perfect tits? It’s impossible. He’ll try to resist, have some self-control. But it isn’t long before he’s hugging you from behind, dotting wet kisses along your neck and pushing his hard-on into your ass. All while he’s begging you let him feel your wet cunt. And of course you’ll let him, how could you say no to your cute desperate boyfriend.

The minute you agree he has you laid out under him as he fucks his big cock into your tight cunt. Moaning and whimpering about how good it feels to be inside you again, his face red as he pushes every last inch of himself into you. He uses his weight to thrust into you, which only made your head go dizzy. He has you in a lazy mating press and your plush thighs slap against his hips every time he comes down, the sound of Choso’s deep thrusts is so musical, his tip abusing your womb to the point your eyes roll back. His mouth is so filthy too, and the worst part is, is that he doesn’t even realize it. “Fuck, baby... you’re sucking me in... your pussy’s so tight.” He groans into your ear, sucking onto your skin and leaving purple marks behind, intent on marking you as his. Although there was no point since you still had the hickeys from your last encounter, but it was never enough for Choso.

The poor curse is so in love with your body that he’ll go on for hours and hours just playing with your body. If it was up to him, you both would never leave the bed. Who needs to eat when he can just eat your cunt and you can suck his cock? Who needs to sleep when there’s a new position he wants to try? This man will not stop because that’s how addicted he is to your cunt. You curse the curse’s stamina and sometimes wish you had a normal boyfriend, but he usually fucks those thoughts right out of your head before you can try and act on them. “Choso… ngh!— h-hold on, my body…” you mumbled, unable to fully say your sentence. He hits a particularly sensitive spot and you let out a strangled cry, bucking your hips wildly to try and get that same pleasure again. Choso eyed your reaction, angling his hips to continue hitting that spot over and over again til you’re seeing stars and screaming out his name. You had no thoughts about shame, or how you should lower your voice, not when your handsome boy was fucking you within an inch of your life.

“Right there? ‘s that the spot, dove?” He pants, voice hoarse from his overwhelming desire for you. You’ve lost track of time, to obsessed with the way Choso has you creaming around his cock for the nth time. Everything was too much, but you loved it, in an addictive way. The overstimulation was addicting. His words were addicting. The sound of the bed hitting the wall was addicting. His cock was addicting. He was addicting. You always tease Choso about his neediness when in reality, you’re just as needy and obsessed as he is. You can tell Choso is close by the way his cock twitched inside you and how he speeds up his movements, rutting into you with wild abandon and chasing his orgasm.

You throw your head back into a pillow, your vision almost going black as you were consumed with ecstasy. The air was knocked out of your lungs with every snap of his hips, your senses filled with just the pressure of Choso. It felt like you were gonna throw up, but not in a bad way. “Baby… babybabybabybaby! A-ah! Mgn…” you cried out in pleasure, clawing at the sheets below you. Choso’s hands tightened around your hips, his careful grip growing into a bruising hold as he was solely focused on reaching his climax. “Hah— you feel sososososo good, dove. I love you, I love you so much,” he whimpered. It was right there, he could feel it, just a couple more thrusts and he’ll finally have his release. He wants to cum so bad, he needs to cum.

“Hey dove? C-can I fill your pretty pussy with my cum? Wanna cum inside you,” he begged, his voice broken as he pleads with you. “Please, my love… I want to stuff your pussy with my cum, wanna fill you up…” he continues, kissing your ankle and calf to convince you further. You didn’t need much convincing though, you were already to dumb and out-of-it to deny the poor curse. Frantically, you nodded your head, just wanting to feel his hot semen inside you. And you finally got your wish after a few more sloppy thrusts, before Choso goes still and empties his balls into your awaiting cavern. He lets out a guttural moan as ropes of cum spurt out. Slowly, he pulls out, his cock coated in a translucent white, his thighs and pelvis sticky from a mix of sweat and cum.

You both lay there in silence, the sounds of your labored breathing being the only noise echoing through the room. While coming down from your high, you remember that the reason you even got dressed today was because you had work. Annoyed, you lightly smack the upside of Choso’s head, complaining about how he made you late while you go to get out of bed and put your clothes back on. Choso rubs the area where you hit him as he watched you struggle to move and get out of bed, he looks at you like a kicked puppy and he knows he should be sorry for making you late but he can’t find it in him to feel guilty. Instead, Choso reaches out and wraps his arms around you, pulling you back further onto the bed and flushed against his sweaty chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and he lines soft kisses to your nape.

“I’m sorry, dove… Why don’t you call out and let me eat your pussy as an apology?”