brownsugarcoffy

[brownsugarcoffy]

no one talks about how much of writing is just whispering “does this make sense” to the void

[brownsugarcoffy]

HONESTLY, YOUR PEN GAME IS SO MASTERFUL!!!😭❤️ Your storytelling got me feeling I'm in the room with them. I can't wait for the next part!!😭😭 I'm interested in how Smoke & Violet are going to interact with each other. Like, who is going to make the first move?

The Blackline.

This is a sub-story about Stack’s Brothel in Little Rock, Arkansas in 1929. It will be within the same alternate timeline I plan to write when I explore Stack as a pimp. Exploring Smoke in the midst of it all.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry, tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part One.

There was a hum on Ninth Street that didn’t exist anywhere else in Little Rock.

Not in the white part of town with its strict corners and clean churches. Not along the cotton fields where sharecroppers bent their backs and begged the sun for mercy. But right here, between Gaines and Broadway, down near the old train tracks and past the Dreamland Ballroom. Black life pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath the city.

In 1929, Ninth Street was everything.

It was jazz sliding off trumpet bells, bootleg whiskey sweet as sin behind the curtain, girls in sequin dresses with rouge on their knees, and young men in sharkskin suits gambling rent money on backroom dice. It was barbershops and beauty parlors, Sunday suits and Saturday lust. It was survival. Black, brilliant, and dangerous.

This street had raised its own people.

It gave birth to musicians, conjure women, gamblers, preachers, and madams. And when the city turned its back on them, they turned to each other and built banks, clubs, undertakers, and juke joints from sawdust and spite.

But where there is rhythm, there is shadow.

And in that shadow lived a man named Elias “Stack” Moore.

Down a narrow alley off 9th, just past an old tailor’s sign faded into the brick, was a heavy red door with no name.

Folks called it The Blackline.

Not just because of how close it sat to the edge of everything respectable, but because crossing that threshold meant you were stepping into the soft belly of Black pleasure and vice. Nothing past that door was legal. Everything inside it was intoxicating.

To get in, you had to know the knock:

Three slow. Two fast.

Or the password:

“I got the blues but I ain’t broke yet.”

The inside glowed with low amber lamps and the heat of too many bodies. The walls were velvet red. The air was thick with jasmine oil, cigar smoke, and sweat. A gramophone crackled from the corner, slow jazz bleeding through the room like maple over a hot skillet.

Curtains hung heavy around each alcove, some whispering, some moaning, always shifting like silk being pulled from the skin. The floor creaked under heels, under knees, under lives slipping quietly into pleasure and forgetting.

The women here weren’t just working. they were art personified.

Dark-skinned goddesses with gold hoops and garters. Plump cuties with high cheekbones and wide backsides. Light-eyed country girls with long legs and sad stories. New flappers with pressed curls and voices like gin. All of them owned by no one: except Stack.

Stack ran The Blackline like a man who knew the cost of control.

He wasn’t loud like most pimps. He didn’t need to be. He watched everything, leaning in the corner with a cigarette between his fingers, or a drink in his hand, velvet coat open, fedora low and dapper over his brow. His eyes were sharp, mouth always curved in that half-smirk that meant he either wanted to fuck you or gut you, and sometimes it was both.

His girls respected him. Feared him. Some loved him, though they wouldn’t say it out loud. He didn’t beat his women. But he didn’t let them leave easy either. He fed them, clothed them, protected them from the white cops and the worse men who came knocking. And in return, they gave him their best—on the floor, in the backrooms, on their knees.

Stack wasn’t just a pimp. He was a businessman. A gambler. A bootlegger.

And he wasn’t alone.

They were born in heat and hunger, two Mississippi boys who came out the womb fists clenched, mirror images with mirrored scars.

Elias was the mouth, the mind.

Elijah “Smoke” Moore was the fire.

Stack ran the brothel, the books, and the girls. Smoke handled the bootlegging, the deals, and the dirty work. He was the enforcer, the bullet in the chamber, the one you didn’t see coming until your knees gave out.

Together, they built an empire on sin and silence.

People knew the Moore twins didn’t play. You crossed them, you didn’t just get beat—you vanished.

And yet…

Smoke had a way with women. A slow kind of seduction. A man who touched soft but fucked hard. Girls wanted him even when they didn’t know why.

Stack didn’t mind.

As long as the business kept running, the girls kept earning, and the city kept looking the other way, The Blackline stayed lit, and the Moore brothers stayed untouchable.

She didn’t belong here.

Not yet.

Not with her thrift-store shoes worn at the heel, her patched satin dress clinging too loose to her hips, or the scent of salt marsh and memory still clinging to her skin. Not with her innocence intact and her voice too soft to ask for anything out loud.

But Violet was desperate. And desperation was the only currency that mattered on Ninth Street after midnight.

The alley was narrow and damp, lit only by a flickering gas lamp and the far-off glow of the Dreamland Ballroom. Jazz bled through the brick walls like vapor, and somewhere in the distance, a woman laughed too loud.

The red door loomed before her.

She’d been told what to say by the older girl who’d found her crying behind the beauty shop two days earlier, the one with the silver eye and a split lip she wore like jewelry.

Three slow. Two fast.

“I got the blues but I ain’t broke yet.”

The peephole opened.

Two shadowed eyes looked her over, lingered on the bare knees below her hemline.

“You don’t look like you know what you doing,” the voice said.

“I can learn,” she replied, trying to keep her chin lifted.

The door creaked open.

And Violet stepped inside.

Heat wrapped around her like breath. The air was thick with perfume, pipe smoke, and the smell of sex so fresh it clung to the walls. Light came from low amber lamps, each corner flickering like a secret. Everything was red—the carpet, the drapes, the wallpaper—blood velvet and mahogany shadows. She could hear moans behind curtains. Laughter behind beads. Cards flipping. Shoes tapping. Skin slapping.

A woman walked past in nothing but a beaded bra and stockings, hips moving like a song no man could resist. A man in suspenders had his hand buried beneath the hem of another girl’s skirt, and no one batted an eye. The air tasted like cinnamon and heat. She felt it instantly—between her thighs, in her belly, behind her ribs.

She didn’t belong here. Not yet.

But something inside her, something deeper than fear, wanted to.

He saw her from across the room.

Stack leaned in his usual spot—against the far wall, velvet coat draped open, dark liquor in his hand. The room swam in bodies and fog, but his eyes landed on her like they’d been waiting for her arrival.

Young. Thin. Pretty in a way that wasn’t polished but raw. Something untouched. Her eyes were wide, posture tight, hands gripping the strap of a borrowed purse like it held a weapon.

He knew the look.

Fresh meat.

He stepped forward, smooth and slow, like the room parted just to let him walk.

“You lost, baby girl?” he asked, voice deep, syrupy.

Violet turned toward him, startled by the height of him, the sharpness of his jaw, the way his mouth didn’t smile even when his tone pretended to.

“No sir,” she whispered, “I’m lookin’ for work.”

He let his eyes drag down her body, slow.

“You ain’t been touched, have you?”

Her breath caught.

“No,” she said softly, “But I’m willin’. I just need a place to stay.”

Stack stepped closer, leaned in near her ear.

“‘Round here, baby…we don’t take what ain’t offered. But if you wanna give it, there’s a place for you upstairs.”

She swallowed hard.

He smelled like rum, spice, and danger. She felt like a match held to oil.

He straightened up and looked her over one more time.

“Name’s Stack. You remember that.”

Then he turned, nodded to one of the girls near the bar.

“Get her cleaned up. She sleep in the green room tonight. I’ll decide what to do with her come mornin’.”

And just like that, Violet was pulled into the velvet bloodstream of The Blackline.

Not as a worker. Not yet.

But as a girl the house would keep its eyes on.

The green room was small, no bigger than a boxcar berth, with peeling wallpaper and a single oil lamp that painted the cracked mirror gold. Violet sat on the edge of the old porcelain tub, steam rising in curls around her face. The bathwater was warm, not hot, the kind that clung to your skin like a whisper. Rose petals floated on the surface—leftover from another girl’s soak, but she didn’t mind.

It had been a long time since she’d felt anything soft.

She undressed slow, like it meant something. Like the silk slip she unfastened wasn’t secondhand. Like the stockings she peeled from her legs weren’t fraying at the toes. She laid them gently on the wooden chair. Her body looked thin under the lamplight. Not fragile—coiled, like something waiting to bloom.

Violet stepped into the water.

It wrapped around her like hands from the other side.

She exhaled, lowered herself in, and let her head fall back against the porcelain. Her eyes fluttered shut.

She thought of her grandmother.

Old Miss Luella. Thick hands, voice like saltwater and thunder, skin dark and smooth like polished shell. The woman who raised her on boiled root tea, haint blue, and Gullah prayers whispered to the wind.

“Your body is a gate, child. Not a gift. Not for free. And not to be feared.”

The memory of her voice wrapped around Violet now like arms.

She’d come here because she had nowhere else to go. But something inside her knew this was more than survival.

This was crossing a threshold.

She reached into her bag and pulled out her most precious thing.

a piece of lavender ribbon, worn and soft.

Her mother used to tie it around her wrist when she was scared.

Her grandmother would wrap it around her ankle and say, “No man can touch what’s guarded by memory.”

Now, Violet tied it around her throat.

Not tight. Just snug enough to feel.

It wasn’t just protection anymore.

It was a signal.

That she was hers first.

And whoever touched her after this…would have to be worthy.

She dried slow, humming a tune only her family would recognize. Her curls damp, cheeks feeling like brown velvet gone warm, the warmth of her body from the bath and the shade of her skin like café au lait. She stood in the cracked mirror, naked but not ashamed. There was still fear. But there was something else now too.

A quiet hunger.

Not just to survive…

But to become.

The room was warm with lamplight and perfume.

Not strong, just faint hints of amber, pressed powder, and lilac, the kind that clung to bedsheets long after a girl had gone. The velvet chaise against the wall sagged with familiar use, and lying across it, a cigarette in one hand and one heel kicked off, was Cordelia.

Cordelia Toussaint.

The girls just called her Delie. The men called her whatever she whispered in their ear.

She was thirty miles of legs and don’t-give-a-damn, eyes lined in coal, lips always painted in something dark like plum or wine. Her robe was silk and nearly see-through, the color of crushed garnet. One thigh peeked from the slit, golden and gleaming.

She didn’t flinch when Violet walked in.

Just raised one arched brow and looked her over.

“Mmm,” Cordelia hummed, “Ain’t you a delicate little thing.”

Violet froze in the doorway, arms wrapped tight across her front, “Sorry—I didn’t know anyone was—”

“I ain’t just ‘anyone,’ sugar. I’m the Queen of this floor,” Cordelia smiled slow, cigarette curling smoke toward the ceiling, “And this here,” she gestured to the piles of lace, satin, and beaded silk draped over the bed, “is your coronation.”

Violet stepped farther in, bare feet soft on the worn rug. The heat of the oil lamps made her skin glow, still damp from her bath. Her curls had puffed around her face, and her ribbon—lavender—was still tied around her neck.

Stack had sent up a box of clothes earlier. Beautiful ones. Too beautiful. Like someone else’s dreams.

“Stack got taste,” Cordelia said, eyeing the garments, “Or maybe he just sees somethin’ in you he don’t wanna say out loud.”

Violet looked down, fingers trailing over a lavender chemise trimmed in black lace, “I’ve never worn anything like this.”

“Well, try it on then. Ain’t nobody gonna bite. ‘Cept maybe me,” She grinned around her cigarette.

Violet turned her back, cheeks burning.

She slipped out of her plain cotton shift and stepped into a deep emerald set. It was a camisole that hugged her waist and barely reached the curve of her hips, paired with tap shorts that rode high.

When she turned around, Cordelia sat up, real slow.

“Well, well, well…” she purred, “Ain’t you a quiet little storm.”

Violet shifted, unsure, “It fits weird. I’m too skinny for it.”

Cordelia scoffed, “Skinny? No, baby. You just got all your weight where it counts.”

Her eyes dragged down Violet’s frame, deliberate.

“Those hips could rock a man stupid. And that little ass? That’s trouble. Small up top, soft down low. You built like a promise.”

Violet’s arms crossed her chest, trying not to blush harder, “You’re just sayin’ that.”

“No, honey. I only say what’s true.”

Cordelia stood then, barefoot, and came close. Close enough that Violet could smell the jasmine and smoke on her skin. She ran one fingertip over the satin strap at Violet’s shoulder.

“You ever had a woman look at you like this before?”

Violet swallowed, “No.”

“Well, Miss Vi, you better get used to it,” Cordelia stepped back and smiled, “‘Cause by the time Stack puts you on the floor, they all gon’ be lookin’.”

Violet sat on the edge of the bed now, legs crossed at the ankles, fingers tracing the hem of the tap shorts.

Cordelia had returned to the chaise, reclined with one arm draped behind her head, her cigarette replaced with a glass of dark wine that shimmered like rubies in the lamplight.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The room was thick with perfume and tension—not heavy, just tender, like when rain wants to fall but isn’t ready yet.

Then, softly, Violet asked, “Does it hurt?”

Cordelia didn’t turn her head. Just sipped her wine and let the question settle.

“When it’s your first?” she said finally.

Violet nodded.

Cordelia breathed slow through her nose.

“Sometimes. Depends on the man. Depends on how much you want it…or how much you pretend you do.”

Violet looked down, “And what about after that?” she asked, “After the first time?”

Cordelia set the glass down on the floor and finally turned toward her, one knee drawn up beneath her robe.

“After that?” she said, “You learn your own rhythm. What you can take. What you like. Where to let them touch. Where to keep to yourself,” She studied Violet for a long moment. Then added, “It don’t always feel like much. But sometimes…”

She trailed off.

“…Sometimes?” Violet whispered.

Cordelia smiled slowly.

“Sometimes, with the right one…it feels like your soul’s gettin’ kissed from the inside out.”

Violet’s breath caught. Her thighs pressed together instinctively.

Cordelia’s smile deepened, “Mmhm. You felt that, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Violet said, “I just—when I think about someone touchin’ me like that…I get warm. But I also feel scared. Like my body wants it, but the rest of me ain’t caught up yet.”

Cordelia nodded, “That’s natural. Your body been ready. It’s your heart that takes her time.”

She reached over and plucked a satin robe from the side of the bed. Rose-colored, soft, worn. She walked it over and draped it gently around Violet’s shoulders.

“You don’t gotta give nothin’ you ain’t ready to give,” she said softly, “Not to Stack. Not to Smoke. Not to nobody.”

Violet looked up at her, “Have you ever loved someone who paid you?”

Cordelia paused, just for a breath. Then said, “No. But I’ve loved how they made me feel. For a little while. That counts for somethin’, too.”

Violet pulled the robe tighter around her chest. “I don’t want to be just…a body.”

Cordelia tucked a curl behind her ear, “Then don’t be.”

She leaned in, kissed Violet’s cheek—soft, warm, and brief.

“Let ‘em touch your skin, sugar. But keep your name in your own mouth. Keep your soul in your back pocket.”

Violet had been at The Blackline for a week.

Long enough to learn which girls brought in the most coin. Long enough to know who Stack trusted with the money box. Long enough to stop flinching when the back curtain swayed with moans, and long enough to learn how to smile without meaning it.

She hadn’t let any man touch her yet.

But she knew how to lean soft against their side, how to let her fingers trail across a lap, how to pretend she’d whisper something filthy but only ask if they liked their drink cold.

Stack didn’t pressure her. Not yet.

“You sell the idea right now,” he’d said, voice low, one gold tooth catching the lamplight, “Let them chase what they can’t have. That body gon’ pay double when the time comes.”

So she played host.

She laughed when needed. Danced when asked. Gave lap dances in silk and lavender and let men groan beneath her without ever opening her legs. She was a ghost in perfume, a promise wrapped in ribbon.

And when her shift was done, she’d sit in the corner room behind a sheer drape, knees drawn to her chest, watching.

Watching the other girls work.

Watching bodies move like shadow puppets behind beaded curtains, the sound of wet mouths and thick groans muffled by the low hum of jazz.

Sometimes, she’d close her eyes and imagine someone touching her like that. Not the men who came in drunk and lonely.

Someone else.

Someone who hadn’t even looked her way yet.

He came and went through the hallway like a breeze before the storm.

He didn’t linger. Didn’t smile. Didn’t talk unless he had to. Just passed through with his coat open, sleeves rolled, his news cap pulled low over a face that made women stare without meaning to.

He hadn’t looked at her. Not once.

But Violet noticed everything about him.

The way he lit his cigarette with one hand. The way his loafers hit the floor slow but certain. The way his voice rumbled when he spoke to Stack—not raised, not rushed, but enough to make the other girls shut up just to listen.

He wasn’t dressed like Stack, who wore velvet and gold and lace cuffs when he felt like it.

Smoke was simpler. Cleaner. But not softer.

Dark shirts. Dark trousers. Black suspenders. He didn’t wear flash. He didn’t need to. He wore command.

And something about that…Something about how his silence filled a room more than any shout…

It did something to her.

It made her thighs press together beneath her dress.

It made her breath catch when he passed.

And it made her wonder, what would his hands feel like?

Not the hands of the laughing men who grabbed without asking.

But his?

Would they be rough? Careful? Would he say her name like it was a secret or a sentence?

Violet didn’t even know if he’d noticed her.

But her body already had.

On the third night she saw him, some drunk fool tried to grab at one of the newer girls—Peaches. The kind of man who forgot this place had rules. Smoke didn’t say a word.

He rose from his chair like a dark wind, flicked his cigarette to the floor, and grabbed the man by the collar. The struggle wasn’t loud. There were no threats, no curses. Just the wet sound of knuckles hitting bone, the quick thud of someone’s pride dropping to the floor. Then silence again, broken only by the ragged wheeze of the man as Smoke leaned in, murmuring something only he could hear.

He dusted his coat, lit another cigarette, and sat back down.

Violet hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing until Cordelia touched her hand beneath the table and whispered, “That’s how Smoke handles disrespect. Quiet and clean.”

They all tried him. The girls.

Some sat on his lap, giggling and twirling curls like schoolgirls. Others pressed their breasts to his arm, offering their best pout. Cordelia once wrapped her legs around him just to tease, but even she couldn’t break through that armor. Smoke didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. He simply watched. Took long drags of his cigar and let the world orbit him.

The only time he smiled was when Stack made some offhand joke, or when the saxophone player hit a particularly sweet note. But never at the girls. Not the way they wanted.

Violet found herself waiting for him. Listening for the weight of his boots on the floorboards. She never approached. Just peeked around corners. Hid behind curtains. Her heart fluttered every time his gaze swept across the room.

Once—just once—his eyes landed on her. Those sharp, heavy-lidded eyes. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

And Violet turned away so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet.

The night had finally slipped quiet, the gramophone long gone silent, the perfume of cigar smoke and gin clinging to the velvet drapes like ghosts.

Backstage, in the dressing parlor with cracked mirrors and soft lamplight, Cordelia peeled off her silk stockings slow, leg stretched out long, her golden skin catching the amber glow like honey poured over polished mahogany. She had high cheekbones dusted in old rouge, eyes lined sharp as razors, and a gold mole painted just above her full mouth. Her hair was set in glossy Marcel waves, pinned back with a diamond barrette she claimed once belonged to Josephine Baker herself.

She sat in front of the mirror like she was on stage again, one leg crossed over the other, smoking a thin clove cigarette in a long ivory holder.

Peaches was across from her, lounging in a pink floral robe that hugged her plush figure. She was soft in all the places men dreamed about—belly round, hips thick like southern bread dough, and breasts that spilled out no matter what she wore. Her sandy brown coils framed her moon-round face like a lioness, fake flowers tucked behind her ears—yellow hibiscus and a few wilted daisies from the night before. She smelled like coconut oil and rum, sweet and warm.

Violet sat quiet near the wall, still in her slip, legs curled beneath her. She wore a pale-blue robe Cordelia had passed down to her. It was satin and fraying at the sleeves, but still soft against her shy skin. She didn’t speak, not yet. Just listened.

Cordelia let out a long sigh and flicked ash into an old crystal ashtray.

“Mmm. That old man in Room 2 tried to suck on my toes again,” she muttered, “Swore up and down I was an angel sent to forgive him. I told him, baby, I ain’t the Virgin Mary, I’m just Cordelia with rent due.”

Peaches cackled, her laughter rich and sweet like a gospel solo.

“At least he’s clean. That man with the gold teeth wanted me to act like his damn mama,” Peaches said, fanning herself, “Callin’ me ‘mama’ while I was ridin’ him. I almost said ‘boy, go to bed’ just to mess with him.”

Cordelia leaned back, puffing on her cigarette, “These men want every kinda woman. Soft ones, mean ones, silent ones. But you know what they really care about?”

“Pussy hair,” Peaches said, deadpan, grinning.

Violet’s eyes widened slightly.

“Exactly,” Cordelia purred, “I swear, half these fellas more opinionated than a church mother. One want it waxed bald like a lil’ girl. Another want it wild like a thicket. One man asked me to braid it.”

Peaches hollered, “Stack like it full, but trimmed. Just enough for his nose to get lost but not choked.”

Cordelia raised her brows at Violet through the mirror, “You shy, baby, but you got somethin’ under there. What you got goin’ on? Don’t be modest. We all women here.”

Peaches wiggled her brows, “Show us, baby girl.”

Violet hesitated. Her cheeks burned, but something in the way they watched her wasn’t cruel, it was curious, sisterly. So slowly, carefully, she opened her robe just enough to reveal the soft down between her thighs. A natural, delicate triangle—neatly trimmed, but untouched by razor.

“Well damn,” Cordelia murmured with an approving nod. “That’s a pretty little thing.”

Peaches smiled warmly, “You keep it just like that, baby. Let the right man teach you how he likes it.”

Violet closed her robe again, heart thudding.

“I’m surprised Stack ain’t done your initiation,” Cordelia said next, shifting tones.

Violet blinked, “My what?”

Cordelia smirked, “The initiation, sugar. When Stack gets a taste. He don’t always fuck you, sometimes he just eats. But he gotta make sure you gonna sell. That your body gonna bring money in.”

Peaches nodded solemnly, “He say he can tell from just the first taste. If you gon’ be a money-maker or a waste of time.”

“All the girls been through it,” Cordelia added, “We love Stack, even when we hate him. He run things tight. If you need food, he got it. If a man put hands on you, he handle it. If you act up, he cut you off. But he protect his girls.”

A hush fell after that. Cordelia reached for her perfume, dabbing it behind her ears. Peaches picked petals out her hair.

Violet sat quiet again. Not with fear—just thought.

She wondered if Smoke had ever done an initiation.

But the idea seemed…strange. He didn’t look at them like Stack did. He didn’t play. Didn’t sample. He sat in the shadows like a king who’d already had every fruit in the orchard.

Still, she wondered.

if he did it…how would it feel?

Would he ask?

Would he taste slow?

Would he whisper her name?

The brothel was still humming low that night—music crawling through the floorboards like midnight pour, the scent of clove and spilled gin heavy in the air. Violet was in the hallway near the parlor, pretending to check a tear in her stocking. But really, she was watching.

Cordelia walked by in her silk robe, hips swaying like she owned gravity itself. She passed Violet without a glance but tossed, “Don’t stare too long, baby. You’ll get ideas,” over her shoulder with a sly smirk.

Violet followed behind, quiet as always.

Stack was in the main parlor, sunk into his velvet armchair like a man born to it. His legs were spread, gold rings glittering on thick fingers. A black button-down hugged his chest, the top few undone just enough to show the glint of a gold chain and the curve of a rose tattoo blooming over his collarbone. A toothpick rolled lazy between his lips, and his fedora was tilted just enough to cast a shadow across his sharp eyes.

He was flanked by two women—Black beauties dressed in mink-trimmed lingerie. One with midnight skin and copper-gold eyes, the other with a cinnamon glow and long, oil-slick braids. Girls from back in New Orleans. The kind who moved too quietly, whose laughter echoed wrong if you listened too long. Their glamour was turned up high tonight—cheeks glowing, lips stained bloodred, eyes like honeyed storm clouds.

They leaned into Stack like cats in heat, one on each arm, hands tracing his chest while he accepted the girls’ cut of the night’s earnings—crisp bills folded neat in silk pouches. He didn’t look rushed. He didn’t ever look rushed.

Cordelia stepped forward, elegant as a sermon, and slid her own pouch into his open palm, “For you, baby,” she purred.

Stack gave her that grin, slow, wicked, full of teeth and secrets, “That’s my girl.”

Cordelia stayed close, ran her hand up his thigh, “I got a question though,” she said lightly, tone flirtatious but eyes sharp, “That lil’ new one…Violet. Why ain’t you done her initiation yet?”

The question landed like a dropped match.

The girls giggled, expectant.

Violet froze in the hallway, half in shadow.

Stack chuckled low, licked his lips slow. Then he leaned back and finally looked up—right toward Violet. Right through the wall, through the shadows, like he felt her watching.

“’Cause she ain’t ready,” he said. Voice calm. Final, “She still soft. Still dreamin’. I bite her now, she won’t come back from it.”

The room went still for a moment.

One of the girls murmured, “Ain’t never heard you hold back before.”

Stack smirks, “I don’t break toys I like.”

Cordelia tilted her head, “You like her?”

He didn’t answer that part. Just sat there, eyes still locked in Violet’s direction.

The one of the girls leaned down, whispering something in his ear. He grinned wider, eyes glinting gold.

Cordelia laughed, kissed him on the cheek, and walked off, hips rolling like waves.

Violet slipped back down the hall, heart pounding, not sure what she felt.

She wasn’t afraid.

But something in her ached.

She didn’t know whether it was longing for Stack…or disappointment that it wasn’t Smoke who’d said those words.

The days passed, and Violet became a ghost of temptation.

She hadn’t laid with a single man yet—not really. Not how they wanted. Not how Stack trained the girls to break a John in, slow and sweet. Violet would let them look, let them taste her perfume and the way she moved when she walked—but that was all.

She’d lean in close enough for breath to catch in their throat, then pull away with a soft apology and a smile that made them want to beg.

They were starving for her.

Some started offering more; double, triple. One even brought roses. Another sent sweets and a gold bracelet. Stack let it happen. Watched from the upstairs rail with his cigar in hand, head tilted just enough to track every whisper, every reach, every ache in the eyes of the men who wanted to ruin her.

Cordelia called it “the long game.”

“You reel ‘em in slow, baby,” she told Violet one afternoon in the vanity room, lips lined red, a lace shawl loose over her shoulders, “Make ’em chase what they already think they own.”

She leaned in, breath warm against Violet’s ear, “You let ‘em think you’re green. Shy. Then one night, you open that door just a little…and they lose they whole mind.”

Peaches nodded from across the room, filing her nails, “Ain’t nothin’ like the first time a quiet girl turns bold. That pussy hit different when it’s got mystery on it.”

Violet listened. Blushed. But she held her posture a little taller now. Her silence wasn’t fear, it was control. And she was learning.

Upstairs, Stack knew.

He saw it in the way she moved through the hallway now, hips learning how to sway without effort. He saw it when she made the mistake of biting her lip in front of a customer and didn’t notice the way his hand twitched. She was blooming. Not all at once. But the petals were opening. And Stack…was patient.

He didn’t rush the flowers he wanted to own.

That night, Smoke returned.

The front door swung open in the low light. He came in like he always did—silent. Slow. Solid. Black suspenders over a white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms and the cut of his veins. Cigarette already lit. No words. No greeting.

Just presence.

Violet was sitting behind a sheer gold drape near the hallway curtain, her usual hiding place. A secret pocket of velvet and hush where she could pretend to be invisible and watch the world breathe.

She held still, barely blinking, eyes tracing the shape of his jaw in the smoke.

And she wasn’t the only one watching.

Two of the girls were near the bar, sipping gin and whispering low.

“Mmm mmm mmm…that man walk in here like sin in a suit,” one said, fanning herself, “I’d let him ruin my whole damn life.”

“He don’t even talk much,” the other whispered back, “But I love me a grown, confident-ass man. One that don’t gotta raise his voice to make the whole room shift.”

“You see how he move?” the first continued, “Like he ain’t gotta explain nothin’. Just action. He said forget all that talk, I’m bout that action.”

They giggled, voices thick with desire and bravado, but there was hunger underneath it. Real hunger. The kind even the boldest girls didn’t say too loud.

Smoke didn’t even glance their way. He walked straight to the far wall, leaned back, lit a fresh cigarette, and scanned the room with eyes that held weight. You didn’t look into them—you fell into them.

And then…he paused.

His eyes drifted. Toward the sheer drape. Toward her.

Violet held her breath.

Did he see her?

She didn’t know. But she knew one thing…

The ache inside her, the low simmer that burned beneath her belly, had a name.

And it wasn’t Stack.

It was him.

Smoke.

The brothel quieted in the small hours, when most of the girls had either gone to bed or were curled in the laps of men too drunk to finish what they started.

Violet slipped away to the back bathroom, the one with the deep porcelain tub and the cracked pink tiles, where steam clung to the mirror like breath. She twisted the knobs, hot water rushing out, cloudy with the salts and lavender oil Cordelia always kept in a little jar by the sink.

She stripped slow.

Her pale blue slip slid down her curves, skin dewy in the dim yellow light. Her breasts rose and fell with soft, shallow breaths. Her thighs were warm with sweat from the long night. Her curls stuck to her neck. She eased herself into the bath, the heat licking at her skin, pulling a sigh from her lips.

She sank deep with her knees drawn up, arms resting along the edges, eyes drifting shut.

And then the ache started again.

Smoke.

Not Stack. Not one of the slick-mouthed Johns who tried to coax her open with sweet words and sugar lies. But him—silent, watchful, heavy with power and mystery. The way he filled a room without ever trying. The cut of his jaw, the roll of his sleeves. The way he looked like he’d never say your name out loud—but growl it into your skin.

Her hand drifted down.

Fingers slipping between her thighs, slow at first. She breathed his name so softly it never left her lips. Her toes curled. Her hips arched slightly. She imagined his hand instead of hers. His fingers. His breath hot against her ear, not asking permission, just knowing what she needed.

The water lapped softly. Her moans were barely whispers, but they filled the little room all the same.

She was just on the edge, lost in that imagined weight of Smoke pressing her down, when—

Knock-knock. Click.

The door creaked open.

“Mmm.” Cordelia’s voice floated in, amused, “Now what we got goin’ on in here, sugar?”

Violet jerked up, water sloshing over the edge. She scrambled to sink lower into the bath, cheeks blazing red.

“I—I thought I locked—”

Cordelia leaned against the doorframe, fully dressed in a black silk robe trimmed with marabou feathers, cigarette holder dangling from her painted fingers.

“You didn’t,” she purred, eyes twinkling, “And even if you had, I got keys to everything in this house. Don’t look so scared. I ain’t mad. Girl’s entitled to her lil’ bath time fantasy.”

Violet covered her chest with her arms, mortified. Cordelia stepped inside, clicking the door shut behind her. She didn’t come to shame. She came like a storm that knew the rain was needed.

“Let me guess…” Her eyes narrowed, voice playful, “You wasn’t thinkin’ ’bout Smoke, was you?”

Violet didn’t answer.

Cordelia smirked and slid down to sit on the edge of the tub, letting her hand stir the water lazily.

“No shame in it, baby. That man walk in like judgment day, and every girl in this house got a little tremble in her thighs when he lights a cigarette.”

Violet looked down, face flushed, lips still parted from what almost was.

“You ever wonder what he’d do if you let him have you?” Cordelia asked, voice dropping, “Not rough like these other fools. Nah. A man like Smoke…he take his time. He don’t fuck. He consumes.”

Violet whimpered under her breath, thighs pressing together beneath the water.

Cordelia chuckled softly, “See? I knew it. You hooked and he ain’t even touched you yet,” She stood, smoothing her robe, “Just don’t drown yourself in here, alright? Save a little of that sweetness for when the time come. And baby…”

She paused at the door.

“When a man like that finally notices you? There ain’t no goin’ back.”

Then she was gone, leaving the room scented with her perfume and laughter.

And Violet?

She leaned back in the tub again.

But her hand moved slower this time.

And in her mind, she heard Smoke whisper her name.

After her bath, the house had gone hush. Only the soft lilt of old jazz drifted up from below—scratchy and faraway, like a memory playing through a wall. Most of the girls had gone to their rooms or curled up with company. Violet had begged off early. Said she had a headache. Nobody questioned her.

She wasn’t sick.

She was starving—but not for food.

The dressing room was dim, lit only by a row of half-burned candles flickering in their dusty glass jars. Smoke from earlier perfumes still clung to the air—rose, patchouli, hair tonic, clove cigarettes. The mirrors were fogged from the night’s heat and steam, the room heavy with the perfume of want.

Violet stood barefoot on the cold tile floor, wrapped in a short silk robe. Her curls were damp, falling in soft tendrils around her face, and her cheeks still flushed from her bath. Her skin glowed in the candlelight—bronze, delicate, young.

She stepped closer to the mirror.

The fogged glass showed only a whisper of herself at first, like a spirit trying to take form.

She wiped it clean with her palm.

Then stood still.

She studied her reflection. The cut of her collarbone. The shape of her mouth. The softness of her eyes, the way her lips always seemed half-parted like a question left unanswered.

“He don’t want soft,” she whispered to herself, “He want…sultry…woman.”

So she tried.

She dropped one shoulder of the robe. Let it slide down slow.

She ran her fingers through her curls and pushed them back, exposing her neck. Then she tilted her chin up just a little, parted her lips.

“You like this, don’t you?” she murmured, voice breathy, “I bet you wonder what I taste like…”

She paused. Cringed.

It didn’t sound right.

It sounded like someone else. Cordelia maybe. Or one of the other girls who knew how to speak a man into madness. Not her. Not sweet little Violet from the coast with Gullah blood and old folk songs still hiding in her bones.

She tried again.

Swayed her hips slow. Dragged her finger down her chest. Let the robe part just a little between her thighs.

“You want me, don’t you?” she whispered.

The words stuck in her throat.

Her shoulders tensed. Her eyes dropped.

It felt fake.

Like she was wearing someone else’s skin, trying to fit into a mold that wasn’t made for her. Pretty? Sure. She’d been told that. Men looked. Girls cooed. But she didn’t have Cordelia’s poise, Peaches’ sass, or the polished glamour of the girls from Stack’s past. She didn’t know how to weaponize her beauty yet.

And Smoke?

Smoke would eat a woman alive if she stepped to him wrong.

Violet sank onto the vanity stool, staring at her bare thighs, her robe still half-open.

She whispered, “You don’t see me, do you…”

She wanted to cry. Not from sadness. From that terrible tightness in the chest when your want grows too loud, and your confidence grows too quiet.

She reached for a lipstick tube and twisted it open. It was a deep wine red, something Cordelia once left on the table.

She painted her lips slow.

Then leaned in and kissed the mirror.

A print bloomed on the glass.

“If I was bold…you’d touch me, wouldn’t you?” she whispered again, softer now, “You’d press me to the wall. You’d tell me I was yours without sayin’ a word…”

Silence answered her.

And still, she sat there, robe slipping from one shoulder, red lips parted, candlelight dancing across her skin.

Just a girl aching to be noticed.

She didn’t even remember falling asleep that night. One minute, she was staring at her own reflection, robe half open, mouth painted, thighs pressed together. The next, the mirror seemed to ripple, soften, breathe.

And suddenly, he was there.

Smoke.

Leaning in the doorway behind her, half in shadow, cigarette in hand.

But this wasn’t the real Smoke. This was dream-Smoky, smoky Smoke—heavier, slower, hungry.

He stepped into the room with that same impossible quiet, like the floor moved for him, not the other way around. The door didn’t creak. The candles didn’t flicker. He just was.

His eyes moved over her…over her parted robe, over her soft thighs, over the kiss mark on the mirror like it was a challenge.

Violet tried to cover herself, but in the dream, her arms wouldn’t move. She could only look back, breath catching, skin prickling with heat and shame.

“I was just—”

Smoke didn’t speak.

He crossed the room in three long strides and stopped behind her. She could see him in the mirror now. Towering. Watching. His gaze dragged down her body like a match tip over dry bark. And then, he bent low, his mouth grazing the shell of her ear.

“You think I don’t see you?” he murmured, voice like liquid dusk on hot skin.

His hands slid down her shoulders, calloused palms dragging over her arms, her waist. He didn’t grab. He claimed. His touch said…this has always been mine.

No one else’s

You hear me?

You’re mine, my pretty Violet…

She whimpered. Softly. Slightly strangled. Like an echo. Like she’d been longing for him to say those words and it’s only been such a short amount of time.

He dipped his head further, pressed his lips to her neck feather-like, breathing her in like she was a fragrance. The robe fell from her shoulders. Slowly. Her nipples hardened in the air.

“I see everything, Violet,” he said, “Every little ache. Every quiet moan you try to hide from the night…”

He turned her gently in the dream, and she rose without resistance. She was bare before him, trembling, but not afraid. Ready. Puddy beneath his calloused hands. Ready and willing to be told what to do.

“You ain’t gotta perform for me,” he whispered.

Then he sank to his knees. His eyes never leaving hers. Not once. His mouth was at her belly, then lower, his breath hot against the soft thatch between her thighs. He pressed a kiss there—slow, worshipful.”

“I want this,” he said.

And she believed him.

Violet gasped—and woke with a jolt.

The candles were low. The room was quiet. Her thighs were wet with sweat, her robe askew. No one was there. No door creaked. No match was struck.

But her heart was racing like he’d just left.

And for a long, long moment, Violet sat in the hush, fingertips brushing her lips.

A thought bloomed in her chest like a secret.

Despite what Violet thinks Smoke wants—sharp, sultry, polished women like Cordelia…

She’s wrong.

He’ll want her exactly as she is.

Soft. Quiet. Ache and all.

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg @inkdrippeddreams @rolemodelshit

[brownsugarcoffy]

Soul & Sanguine (3)

Summary

1976. Chicago.

Jackie Dubois, a confident and ambitious woman from a small town in North Carolina, has come to the city with big dreams of making a name for herself. But her reality is far from the glamorous Hollywood life she imagined. She’s stuck working as a waitress at The Pharaoh’s Den, an exclusive nightclub with an electric vibe and a dark undercurrent. The club’s owner, Elias "Stacks" Moore, is every bit the enigma—smooth-talking, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. On the outside, he’s just another businessman, but behind the scenes? He’s a vampire who rules a world of blood, power, and temptation.

As Jackie gets drawn deeper into the tantalizing and dangerous world of the club, she starts to realize there’s far more at play than she ever imagined. Stacks sees something in her—something he’s willing to help her cultivate, but at a cost. He offers her a deal: the chance to rise to the stardom she’s always dreamed of, but accepting it means stepping into a world of darkness, immortality, and secrets she isn’t prepared for.

Characters: Jackie Dubois(OC) x Stacks" Elias" Moore (Vampire/ 70's gangster)

Warning: Blood, Vulgar Language, Violence, Sexual content & more...

Chapters: PART 1 , PART 2

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Jackie stood at the sink in the tiny backstage bathroom, dabbing a warm cloth along her neck and collarbone. The liquor she spilled earlier clung stubbornly to her skin. Her reflection in the cracked mirror stared back, worn but still composed. She pressed her lips together, smoothing out the gloss.

The shift was over.

She should’ve felt relieved.

Marietta was still in the dressing room, changing out of her corset and sequined tights. Jackie had already peeled off her uniform, now back in jeans and a black turtleneck, hair pinned back under her headscarf. Her heels dangled from her fingers as walked out the bathroom. She was going to head to the bar to take a seat and wait for Marietta, so they could head back to the apartment together just like they did every night.

Jackie didn’t have her own place yet. She was new to the city, new to all of it. The lights, the clubs, the sharp-eyed men with expensive shoes and smoke trailing from their lips. It was nothing like home. It was louder. Faster. But she was learning. Marietta’s apartment wasn’t much. It was just a two-bedroom with a squeaky floor and radiator that clicked all night, but it was warm. And it was something. Jackie was grateful for that.

After Marietta and her conversation earlier, Jackie had kept her head down and gone back to work.

Stacks hadn’t returned.

But his crew had lingered and spread out at the corner booth like they owned it. Watching. Laughing too loud. Tipping too little. She kept the drinks full and the smile fixed, just like Marietta told her. Don’t ask questions. Don’t catch attitudes. Don’t flirt too much, don’t flirt too little.

It was a tightrope walk. But she could do it.

Because no matter what, Jackie needed this job.

She needed to save money. Needed to figure out how she was going to get to Los Angeles. That dream wasn’t going to pay for itself, and neither was the acting class she’d just started downtown. Tuesday and Thursday nights. She’d already missed the first one after arriving in Chicago late, and she couldn't afford to miss another.

So if all it took was a little grace and a little silence to keep the boss and his boys off her back?

Then she’d keep her mouth shut.

For now.

Jackie glanced toward the door as it creaked open, and Marietta peeked her head in. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Jackie said, slipping on her shoes. “Let’s go.”

As they walked out of the club and into the cool night air, Jackie pulled her coat tighter around her. She didn’t look back. But the weight of eyes still lingered at the nape of her neck.

The city buzzed low and quiet around them, streetlights flickering overhead like sleepy fireflies. Jackie shoved her hands into her coat pockets as she and Marietta walked side by side, the night cool but not quite cold. The hush between them had stretched out since they left The Pharaoh’s Den, and Jackie was starting to feel it more with every block.

“You good?” she finally asked, glancing over.

Marietta gave her a soft, absent smile. “Yeah, just tired.”

Jackie nodded, but didn’t buy it. She’d seen Marietta work late nights before—she was usually still cracking jokes by the end of them, maybe humming a little, always tapping out choreography with her fingers even when she was spent. But tonight?

Marietta had been quiet. Real quiet.

Jackie figured maybe it was the show. That last number she did on stage was a beast. Her cousin moved like silk dipped in fire—she had the whole place spellbound. Jackie would’ve clapped if her hands weren’t full of drinks and tension. And maybe that was it. Maybe Marietta had just danced herself into exhaustion.

Jackie didn’t press. She didn’t want to seem needy or annoying. She still felt like a guest in Marietta’s world, even if they were blood. So instead she focused on the click of their heels and the sounds of the city trying to fall asleep around them.

But Marietta’s mind was screaming.

She kept her eyes forward, posture tight, jaw set. Jackie couldn’t know. Not yet. Maybe not ever. How could she even explain it?

Stacks had summoned her right after their talk in the dressing room. She hadn’t even had time to reapply her lipstick before one of his men told her, “Boss wants a word.” She followed them, legs heavy, stomach tight.

He wanted Jackie.

Bring her to my penthouse party tomorrow night.

Just like that. Like she was a piece of fruit he saw and decided he wanted a bite.

Marietta had stood still, her voice caught in her throat. She didn’t yell. Didn’t argue. She didn’t dare. Not with him.

Because she had seen what he was. She still had nightmares about it. Still smelled iron and sweat and cigarette smoke when the memory crept too close.

But now he wanted Jackie.

And Marietta didn’t know what to do.

She glanced at her cousin out of the corner of her eye. Jackie’s eyes were bright, face fresh despite the long night..

Marietta’s stomach twisted.

Was she really about to sell her cousin out to the devil?

Could she live with that?

Could she survive if she didn’t?

They reached the apartment and started climbing the narrow stairs. Jackie finally spoke again. “You sure you’re okay?”

Marietta unlocked the door without looking at her. “Yeah. I’m just thinking about stuff.”

Jackie followed her inside, kicking off her shoes. “Well, if you wanna talk or anything…”

“I’m fine, Jackie,” Marietta cut in, sharper than she meant.

Jackie blinked, surprised. Then nodded slowly, lips pressed tight. “Alright.”

The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet. It was thick.

Marietta sat on the couch, fingers gripping her knees, eyes unfocused. Jackie disappeared into the back, probably to shower or write in that little notebook she kept hidden under her pillow. Marietta leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Debating.

Tomorrow night was coming.

And Stacks would be waiting.

Saturday morning crept in through the curtains like it didn’t want to be there. The city buzzed beyond the windows, faint horns and the rumble of the train nearby. Marietta sat at the kitchen table, her untouched cup of coffee cooling by the second, her hands balled into fists in the robe draped around her.

She’d been up for hours.

Sleep had danced just out of reach all night, slipping past her the second she closed her eyes. Every time she got close, she saw Jackie’s face and Stacks’ cold, unreadable eyes.

Her stomach churned.

She remembered the way Stacks leaned back in that leather chair, his voice smooth and low. “Bring your cousin. Penthouse. Party.”

Just a party. The same way a vulture just circled the sky.

Nothing was just anything when it came to Stacks.

Marietta knew what that meant. With Stacks, everything came with strings, even if you couldn’t see them right away. He never yelled, never threatened. He didn’t need to. His power came in whispers and choices that weren’t really choices at all. When he spoke, it felt like the room itself bent to his will.

Marietta had followed it for years.

But this was different. He wanted Jackie.

Jackie wasn’t like her. She was soft around the edges, hopeful, still green in the ways of this world. Still believed that dreams could come true if you worked hard and smiled enough. She wasn’t ready for Stacks. She wasn’t ready for what that party might mean.

And yet…

Marietta had nothing left to bargain with. If she said no, if she didn’t show up with Jackie tonight, she knew what would happen. Maybe not right away. Maybe not loud. But Stacks would make his disappointment known. Quiet punishments. A shift in power. A reminder.

Marietta squeezed her eyes shut and cursed under her breath. Jackie had no idea what world she’d stepped into. Wide-eyed, new to the city, still believing hard work and heart would be enough. Marietta remembered being that girl once. Before Timothy. Before blood on her hands. Before Stacks.

She shuddered, recalling the night her life changed forever.

Timothy, her then-boyfriend had crossed the wrong man, trying to steal from Stacks. She warned him. He didn’t listen. So Stacks made an example out of him. He didn't just kill him. He tore into him and ripped his throat open with inhuman strength, eyes glowing like burning coals.

That night, Marietta screamed until she couldn’t breathe.

That night, Stacks told her if she kept quiet, if she let the past die with her ex, he’d give her the life she wanted.

And he did.

She became the Pharaoh’s Den’s leading dancer. Private rehearsals. Costume budgets. Big spenders asking for her by name. He kept his word.

But now he was calling in another favor and this time, it had Jackie’s name on it.

And it wouldn’t just be her who paid the price.

Jackie needed her job. She needed every dollar she could stack to get to Los Angeles. Marietta knew what happened to girls who crossed Stacks or failed him. The best-case scenario was being blacklisted from every decent club in the city. Worst case?

Marietta didn’t want to think about it.

She rubbed her temples, dragging in a slow, trembling breath. She didn’t want to do this.

But she had to.

Because protecting Jackie might mean playing the part and smiling through her teeth and making sure her cousin stayed close, kept her drink in hand, and didn’t wander too far into the shadows of Stacks’ world.

Maybe she could talk to Stacks. Make him see reason. Lay down boundaries. Keep Jackie out of reach. Maybe…

Her thoughts shattered when Jackie walked in, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, wearing a tank top and pajama shorts.

“Morning,” Jackie mumbled.

Marietta straightened up quickly, hiding the tightness in her chest with a half-smile. “Hey. You sleep okay?”

Jackie shrugged, grabbing a mug and pouring herself some of the lukewarm coffee. “Not really. I kept thinking about last night.”

Marietta’s heart skipped.

Jackie leaned against the counter, frowning thoughtfully. “You were acting weird.”

Marietta forced a small laugh. “Weird how?”

“Just…off. Quiet. Distant. You always tell me to keep my eyes open in that place, and then you go all silent on me.”

Marietta looked down at her coffee. “Yeah. Sorry. I was just tired.” She wasn’t ready to tell her the truth. Maybe she never would be.

Jackie yawned and poured another splash of coffee. “That guy from last night. Stacks, right? He never came back after our little…chat.”

Marietta’s stomach twisted.

Jackie added with a shrug, “Probably for the best. I didn’t like the way he talked to me. But I ain’t stupid. I’ll play it smart.”

That only made Marietta feel worse. Jackie had no clue how dangerous charm could be in this city. They sat in silence for a moment before Marietta finally cleared her throat.

“There’s a party tonight,” she said softly.

Jackie looked up. “Where?”

“At the penthouse. Stacks is throwing it.”

Jackie raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “And why would we be invited to his party?”

Marietta set her mug down and folded her hands. “Because it’s a good opportunity. There’ll be actors, producers, people with money. People who can open doors.”

Jackie frowned. “You think it’s a good idea? Me going?”

Marietta’s chest ached. She wanted to scream No. She wanted to say, You’re not ready. You’re not for sale. You don’t belong in that world, not yet, not ever.

But instead she said, “It’s just a party. You don’t have to do anything but show up, smile, and let them see you. I’ll be there the whole time.”

Jackie studied her for a long moment. She looked unsure and rightfully so, but Marietta could also see the hunger in her cousin’s eyes. The longing. The dream that had brought her to Chicago in the first place.

Jackie sighed. “Alright. I’ll go. But only if you stick with me.”

Marietta nodded, pushing the guilt deeper into her gut. “Of course.”

She turned away so Jackie wouldn’t see the shame in her eyes.

Because deep down, she knew once they walked into that penthouse, they’d cross a line there’d be no coming back from.

Jackie stepped out first, heels clicking against the curb, her breath catching as she looked up at the building. She had never seen anything like it. The lobby alone, visible through the tall glass doors, looked like a museum. It had white marble floors, a chandelier that sparkled like dripping diamonds, and a concierge in a navy suit standing like a sentry behind polished mahogany.

Marietta stepped out behind her, adjusting the strap of her silver clutch, her eyes already scanning their surroundings. Her usual confidence was buried beneath layers of nerves and makeup.

Jackie smoothed her dress. A velvet burgundy number that clung to her in all the right places. Marietta had picked it out from her own collection, saying Jackie needed something “elegant but unforgettable.” Her hair was swept up in soft waves, and her lips painted a deep wine-red. She looked every inch the rising star, but her stomach flipped as they approached the doors.

“Damn,” she murmured, breath fogging the air. “This building looks like it belongs in a movie.”

“Come on,” Marietta said quietly, nodding toward the doors.

The glass doors slid open smoothly as they approached, and a subtle floral scent wafted out to meet them. Jackie swallowed. The space felt like a whole different world: quiet, curated, expensive.

They were greeted with a nod from the concierge, who clearly knew they were expected. He didn’t ask for their names. Just silently gestured toward the private elevator tucked in a corner of the lobby.

Inside the elevator, Jackie stood beside Marietta, heart ticking a little faster than she liked to admit. “This building is insane,” she said softly, eyes tracing the glowing control panel and mirrored walls. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a place like this. I feel like I’m about to meet somebody famous.”

Marietta gave a tight smile but said nothing.

The elevator rose with a smooth whisper, carrying them upward until a soft chime signaled their arrival. The doors opened to reveal an entirely different kind of luxury.

The penthouse spread before them like a palace in the clouds. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed off the entire city skyline, glittering and endless. Jazz music played low from somewhere inside, and the air smelled faintly of champagne, perfume, and something darker, something unplaceable but expensive.

The space was bathed in golden lighting, reflecting off glass tables and dark wood floors. Plush chairs, velvet couches, sleek art pieces and tall candlelit shelves filled the room in a way that said wealth without a single word.

Men in sharp suits leaned near the bar, while women in silk and diamonds moved effortlessly through the room, laughter curling in the air like smoke. Jackie glanced around, unsure of where to step or how to stand. It felt like one wrong move could shatter the illusion.

Reggie appeared near a corner lounge, his deep navy blazer gleaming under the lights, a glass of something amber and strong in his hand. He approached them casually, a smile tucked in the corner of his mouth.

“Ladies,” he greeted. “Looking real nice tonight. Come on in. You’re right on time.”

Marietta nodded, her hand gently pressing Jackie’s back as they walked deeper into the party. Jackie glanced sideways at her cousin, frowning slightly.

“You okay?” she asked. “You’ve been quiet since we left the club.”

“I’m just tired,” Marietta answered, keeping her eyes forward. “Long night.”

Jackie let it go, but the tension wasn’t lost on her. The way Marietta kept scanning the room, how stiff her posture was, this wasn’t just about a party. Still, Jackie reminded herself why she came: to make connections, to maybe be seen by someone who could open a door.

Nearly twenty minutes had passed since they’d arrived at the penthouse, and Jackie found herself caught in a spirited conversation with a small circle of women. Most were dancers from The Pharaoh’s Den—girls she recognized from backstage chatter and smoky dressing rooms. But sprinkled among them were others who stood a little straighter, spoke with a certain theater-trained confidence, and wore gowns that whispered money. Broadway performers. Showgirls. Women who had been in the game longer than she had been alive, yet still radiated glamour like it was stitched into their skin.

Jackie tried to keep up, laughing when appropriate, nodding politely, sipping champagne much slower than the others. Her cousin Marietta stood close by, smiling and laughing along, but Jackie noticed something strange beneath the gloss of her expression, something guarded. She couldn’t quite place it.

The penthouse itself was a vision. High ceilings with gilded trim, crystal chandeliers hanging like floating galaxies above them, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of Chicago’s nighttime skyline. Jackie had never seen anything so opulent. Her heels clicked against marble floors, and the air smelled of expensive perfume and something deeper like old secrets sealed behind velvet drapes.

She turned her attention back to the group just as soft murmurs swept through the room like wind brushing silk.

Then she saw him.

Stacks.

He’d just entered through the tall double doors with a quiet authority that didn’t need to announce itself. People noticed. Conversations dropped. Bodies shifted. His crew followed behind him, all sharp suits and watchful eyes, but it was Stacks who commanded the space like a god surveying his temple.

Jackie remembered him instantly, the man from her first shift, the one who had spoken to her like she was background noise. At the time, she’d been too flustered, too thrown by his tone and presence to take in anything else. But here, under the golden lights, with his face clear and fully visible, she saw him.

And he was…

His skin was smooth, rich like dark cedarwood. His eyes were two heavy coins of bronze rimmed with shadow, watching everything, revealing nothing. His suit clung to him in the way only custom-tailored cloth could, and his features were so precise, so ruthless in their beauty, it made her breath catch. He looked like the kind of man women wrote poetry about and the kind who’d never read it.

Jackie hated herself a little for noticing.

Yes, he was gorgeous. But he was also the same man who had dismissed her without a second glance. The memory of his cold, clipped voice still echoed in her chest. No warmth. No curiosity. Just command.

And yet… something about him pulled at her. Maybe it was the way the room tilted slightly in his presence. Or the way even the most poised dancers seemed to readjust their posture when he walked past. He didn’t have to speak to be dangerous. He didn’t have to smile to be noticed.

She didn’t realize she was staring until Marietta’s fingers gripped her wrist gently but firmly.

“Jackie,” her cousin whispered, the smile never leaving her lips. “Stop staring.”

“I wasn’t—” Jackie turned her eyes away, heat creeping up her neck. “I wasn’t looking like that.”

Marietta leaned in just slightly, her voice a low hum. “You don’t want to look at him in any kind of way.”

Jackie swallowed, forcing her eyes back to the women’s circle. The laughter had resumed, but her focus had not. Stacks now stood near the bar, saying little, sipping something dark. Every now and then, someone would approach him, a man with a briefcase, a woman with a diamond choker and he would listen, nod once, then move on. It was clear he didn’t owe this room anything. If anything, the room owed him.

Jackie reached for her champagne again, trying to still the fluttering in her chest.

Whatever else Stacks was, he wasn’t just a club owner. And Jackie was beginning to wonder if he was the kind of man who could ruin lives without ever raising his voice

Jackie had just taken another sip of her champagne when a shadow cut across the circle of women, silencing their easy laughter.

It was Reggie.

Stacks’ right-hand man. Always dressed sharp, with eyes that scanned a room the way a wolf surveys a clearing before striking.

“Marietta,” Reggie said smoothly, ignoring the rest of the women as if they were mannequins. “Boss would like a word.”

Jackie felt Marietta stiffen beside her, the hand resting on her champagne flute going still. For the briefest second, Jackie swore she saw something flicker behind her cousin’s eyes. Dread? Resignation?

Then it was gone.

Marietta smiled. “Of course,” she said, the words honeyed, her voice like silk stretched over stone. She placed her glass on a nearby table, her other hand gently curling around Jackie’s forearm.

“You’re coming too,” Reggie added, this time turning his gaze to Jackie.

Jackie blinked. “Me?”

Reggie didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The look he gave her said enough.

Marietta nodded quickly, her fingers tightening around Jackie’s arm before she could protest. “Let’s go, Jacks.”

They walked across the penthouse, heels echoing against the marble, moving through currents of perfume and curiosity. Jackie could feel eyes on them, some amused, some knowing. She kept her chin high, but her stomach had begun to knot.

Stacks stood near the massive windows, backlit by the pulse of the Chicago skyline, its golden lights flickering like a low flame behind him. He barely moved when Marietta and Jackie approached, his broad frame outlined in quiet authority. He sipped slowly from a tumbler of dark liquor, then set it down on the marble console with a soft clink.

Marietta’s fingers were still curled lightly around Jackie’s arm, but Jackie felt her cousin’s grip tighten the closer they came. Jackie couldn’t help but wonder—why did Marietta seem tenser than usual? Her usual poise was now locked behind a tight-lipped smile.

Stacks turned. His eyes cut through the two women like headlights through fog. He looked at Marietta first briefly, with familiarity before shifting his attention to Jackie.

The weight of his gaze landed hard.

He gave Jackie a long, assessing look. No smirk. No wink. Just a quiet inspection, like she was a painting he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to buy or burn.

“You clean up nice,” he finally said, voice low and even. “I barely recognized you from the club.”

Jackie tilted her chin slightly, unsure whether it was a compliment or a reminder. “Thank you,” she said, guarded but polite.

Marietta took a small step forward. “You said you wanted to see us?”

Stacks raised an eyebrow. “I did.”

He gestured toward the hallway leading to a private elevator. “I’ve got people upstairs. Producers. Club owners. Vegas talent scouts. They’re asking for you, Marietta.”

Marietta hesitated. “Both of us?”

“No,” he said plainly. “Just you.”

Marietta could feel the heat rising beneath her skin, even though her face remained composed. As soon as Stacks mentioned “upstairs,” she knew exactly what game he was playing.

He wanted to separate them.

It was never just about business with him. It was about control. Always.

She had made Jackie a promise earlier that night they wouldn’t split up. But promises didn’t carry weight in Stacks’s world. He snapped his fingers, and the whole room bent to his will.

Marietta’s jaw tightened slightly before she forced a soft smile. She turned to Jackie and touched her arm lightly.

“I’ll be back,” she said, low and careful.

Jackie blinked at her. “I thought we were—”

“I know,” Marietta cut in quickly, her eyes flicking toward Stacks and then back. “Things changed. I won’t be long.”

Her voice was smooth, but the tension behind her eyes betrayed her. Jackie could feel something wasn’t right, but didn’t know what. Couldn’t know.

Stacks stood with the quiet confidence of someone who already knew no one was going to say no to him. “Go on up, Marietta,” he said. “They’re waiting.”

There was no malice in his voice. No raised tone. But it was a command wrapped in silk.

Marietta swallowed the knot in her throat and nodded. She didn’t look at Jackie again as she walked away because she couldn’t. If she did, she’d fold.

Stacks turned his full attention to Jackie, who stood in place like someone unsure whether to step forward or turn back. She felt a little awkward now, just standing there in her borrowed heels and tailored dress. Around them, the quiet murmur of jazz spilled from the speakers, and across the penthouse, clusters of beautiful people laughed over champagne.

“You don’t have to just stand there,” he said to herself, trying to shake the edge off. Stacks raised a brow. “You can mingle if you’d like,” he said evenly. “But I was hoping you’d stay.”

Jackie hesitated. “Why?”

He stepped a little closer, his voice low. “Because I want to get to know who’s working in my house.”

The air tightened.

Jackie looked at him then, really looked at him. The first time they’d met, she hadn’t picked up on how handsome he actually was. That was likely because he was being rude and ordering her around like she was furniture. But here, under the warm amber lights, without the smoke and music of the Pharaoh’s Den blurring his features, Jackie could see it sharp jawline, thick mustache, eyes that glinted like polished metal.

Still, the man had an arrogance about him. Something untouchable and simmering beneath the surface. Even now, as he spoke kindly, something about him felt more predator than patron.

Jackie sank into the plush velvet cushions of the couch, the coolness of the fabric kissing her bare legs. Her posture was poised, legs crossed at the ankles like her mother had taught her. “Always sit like you know the room belongs to you, even if you just walked in.” She can hear her mother voice in the back of her head.

Stacks took his time. He didn’t flop down or lean back casually. He settled beside her with the grace of someone used to commanding a room, his arm resting along the back of the couch, not touching her, but close enough she could feel the heat radiating off him.

For a moment, the two sat in silence, the soft clink of champagne glasses and the laughter of other partygoers floating in the background. Jackie kept her eyes forward, scanning the glamorous crowd, but aware of every inch of the man beside her.

“I owe you an apology,” Stacks said suddenly, his voice a low murmur, intimate despite the open room.

Jackie blinked. “Oh?”

He nodded slowly. “Back at the club. I was short with you. Dismissive.”

She turned her head to look at him then, one brow rising slightly. “That’s one way to describe it.”

Stacks gave a soft, almost amused exhale. “I tend to be… direct. It’s part of how I run things. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have shown more respect.”

Jackie held his gaze for a beat. His tone was smooth, careful. Almost too careful.

“Well,” she said, slowly. “Thanks for that.”

He waited, like he expected more. Maybe a softening in her eyes, a flirtatious curve of the mouth. But Jackie wasn’t interested in stroking his ego. She needed this job, sure, but she wasn’t going to fawn over someone who barked at her like she was disposable just days ago.

Still, she was smart enough to keep her real thoughts in check. She offered him a tight-lipped smile. “Water under the bridge.”

But her body language said otherwise. Her spine stayed straight, arms lightly folded in her lap. Her tone was calm, but her eyes didn’t drop submissively the way many others might have.

Stacks noticed.

“You seem smarter than you act,” he said.

Jackie blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re quiet. You watch people. You don’t talk unless there’s something worth saying.” He studied her face. “That tells me a lot.”

Jackie’s hands tightened around her small clutch purse. “I try not to get in anyone’s way.”

Stacks smiled faintly. “That’s why you’re still standing here.”

The silence stretched. He walked over to a crystal liquor and poured himself another drink then offered her one.

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

He sipped slowly. “Suit yourself.”

Jackie looked away for a moment toward the high ceilings, the gold-accented trim, the artwork hanging like secrets on the wall. This place was nothing like where she’d come from. She’d never been around this much wealth. And now, the man who ruled it all was watching her like a chess piece.

Stacks moved back to her, his voice quieter this time. “You ever wonder why your cousin gets top billing at the club?”

Jackie turned to him again, slowly. “She works hard.”

“She does,” he agreed. “But I made her.”

Jackie’s stomach dropped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He swirled the drink in his glass, then took a final sip before setting it down. “It means I see potential. And I invest in what I see.”

His gaze settled on her once more. It was heavy and unreadable.

“You could be something too. If you like.”

Jackie didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure she could.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze traveling over her like he was trying to read a deeper page. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t know you,” she said plainly.

“Fair enough.” He sat back a little, draping his arm fully along the couch’s backrest. “But you will.”

Jackie’s pulse flickered at that. The words weren’t threatening exactly, but they felt heavy like a lock sliding into place.

She turned her eyes back to the crowd, focusing on a showgirl in glittering fringe laughing with one of the Pharaoh’s Den bouncers.

“Do you always have your girls around after hours like this?” she asked, redirecting the conversation.

“Not always,” he answered. “Only when I want to know who’s worth my time.”

Jackie stayed quiet, swallowing back the sarcastic reply that tried to rise. She couldn’t afford to be flippant. Not here. Not with him.

She forced a soft chuckle. “And do I seem worth your time so far?”

Stacks didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned his gaze directly on her, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as if calculating something far beyond the scope of her question.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’ll be more than worth it.”

Jackie’s throat tightened. She smiled again tight, polite, and reached for the glass of sparkling water on the table. Her hand was steady. She’d mastered that much. But inside, she could feel the unease simmering beneath the surface.

She needed to breathe. To remind herself she was in control at least outwardly.

Stacks leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes still on her. “You play it cool. Real cool. But I know nervous when I see it.”

Jackie glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “I’m not nervous.”

His mouth twitched into something like a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “No? Then you’re the rarest kind of woman in this room.”

She didn’t answer. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

Stacks straightened up again, dragging a single finger across the rim of his glass, watching the waterline tremble slightly. “I know what I look like to women like you. Dangerous. Maybe even arrogant.”

“Maybe?” Jackie she questioned.

He let out a dry laugh. “You’re bold. I like that.”

Jackie folded one leg over the other, her voice smooth. “I’m careful. There’s a difference.”

Their eyes locked for a moment, something electric but unspoken pulsing between them. He could read the walls she had up. She could feel the subtle pressure in every word he chose, every measured glance.

Stacks tapped the unlit cigar against the table edge, his gaze still tracking her with unsettling ease. “So tell me, Jackie…” His voice dropped into something smoother, more deliberate as he lit his cigar. “If you don’t dance, and you don’t flirt for tips, what’d you come to this city for?”

Jackie didn’t flinch. She crossed her arms gently, tilting her head like she’d been asked that question too many times already. “To work,” she said simply.

Stacks gave a low scoff, leaning in just enough for his voice to carry heat. “Liar.”

Her jaw tightened before she could stop it. She met his gaze, sharper now. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t blink. “You didn’t leave wherever you’re from just to pull night shifts for chump change. You’re hungry. I see it.”

Jackie’s spine straightened. “You don’t know me.”

His smirk didn’t waver. “Not yet. But I’m good at reading people. And you…you’re trying real hard not to be seen.”

She was quiet, but a fire licked at the back of her throat. She could’ve said something slick, something biting, because God knew it was on the tip of her tongue. But she didn’t. She forced a smile, slow and measured, folding her hands neatly in her lap like she had all the time in the world.

“I play my part,” she said coolly.

Stacks narrowed his eyes, like he could feel the weight of everything she was holding back. Then his mouth curved, like he’d just cracked the first layer of a locked safe.

“Your cousin wants to be a dancer,” he said. “So I’m guessing… you want to be an actress.”

Jackie blinked once, slow.

He leaned back, satisfied with her silence. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the real dream. You didn’t come here just to work. You came here hoping someone would see you.”

She looked away, lips pressing together.

Stacks’s voice softened just slightly. “Well, I’m looking now.”

Jackie didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. Her silence said more than words could manage equal parts defiance and fear, ambition and restraint.

He watched her like a man who’d found something valuable in a pawnshop window. Underpriced, underestimated, but gleaming just beneath the dust.

“Let me guess,” he continued, “you used to recite lines in your bedroom mirror. Maybe did a school play or two. Heard you had something special. Thought maybe the city would agree.”

Jackie’s face was calm, but her hands curled ever so slightly against the fabric of her dress. He was too close. Not physically, but mentally. He was peeling her open with questions she hadn’t even asked herself lately.

“And if I did?” she said, her voice steady. “What does that matter to you?”

Stacks smiled again, slow and confident. “It means I know what kind of story you’re trying to write for yourself.”

He stood then, straightening his jacket as if to punctuate the moment.

“And I might be the one who helps you write it.”

Jackie watched him as he turned to walk away, pausing only to glance back over his shoulder.

“Think about it,” he said, before slipping into the crowd like smoke in a room full of mirrors.

Jackie remained seated, her back barely touching the velvet cushion behind her. The low hum of voices and jazz mingled like smoke around her, but everything felt muffled, distant like she was underwater.

Stacks' words echoed in her head.

“You didn’t come here just to work… You want to be seen.”

Damn him.

He didn’t know her. Not really. He didn’t know what it felt like to grow up in a house too quiet, too small, where dreams weren’t nurtured they were tolerated at best, dismissed at worst. He hadn’t seen her standing outside the bus station with twenty bucks in her shoe, clutching her cousin’s address in one hand and a half-dead hope in the other.

She’d told herself this move was about survival. Just a job. Just a fresh start.

But he saw through that. Saw through her.

And what terrified her wasn’t that he was wrong, it was because he was right.

Her heart thudded behind her ribs. She wasn’t just here to help with rent. She wasn’t just tagging along with Marietta. She came here hoping for more. She came hoping the city would pull something out of her that had always been buried. Something raw and dazzling. A version of herself she could be proud of.

But now?

Stacks of all people was the one dangling that possibility like a string of pearls. And she didn’t trust him. His smile was too confident. His words too calculated. She could feel the manipulation dripping from every syllable. He was dangerous. The kind of man who offered gold only to chain it around your neck.

Jackie sipped her sparkling water again, the bubbles bitter on her tongue. She was angry. Not just at him—but at herself. For letting her pulse jump when he said he was looking now. For letting even a flicker of curiosity catch fire in her chest.

She turned her eyes toward the far end of the penthouse, searching for Marietta. Her cousin was still upstairs somewhere, out of sight, and that made her feel even more alone.

You said we wouldn’t split up.

Jackie swallowed hard.

A fresh swell of laughter came from a circle of dancers and bouncers a few feet away. Jackie straightened her posture and folded her hands in her lap, forcing her breath to steady.

She couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not here. Not tonight.

So she did what she always did when the pressure climbed too high. She performed. She painted on a small, practiced smile. Tilted her chin. Made herself look composed, unbothered, in control. Because if she couldn’t be seen the way she wanted, she’d at least control how she was seen.

Even if it meant pretending.

TAGLIST:

@marley1773 @lisayourworries @wabi-sabi1090 @honggihwa @remmickcherie @bxrbie1 @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @brattyfics @uzumaki-rebellion @333creolelady @melaninbabyboo @kinkythotsthoughts @d1gitalb4rbie @sk1121-blog1 @li-da-savage @sowhatariyana @billyjeanonthed @hairhattedhooligan

[brownsugarcoffy]

Soul & Sanguine (2)

Summary

1976. Chicago.

Jackie Dubois, a confident and ambitious woman from a small town in North Carolina, has come to the city with big dreams of making a name for herself. But her reality is far from the glamorous Hollywood life she imagined. She’s stuck working as a waitress at The Pharaoh’s Den, an exclusive nightclub with an electric vibe and a dark undercurrent. The club’s owner, Elias's "Stacks" Moore, is every bit the enigma—smooth-talking, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. On the outside, he’s just another businessman, but behind the scenes? He’s a vampire who rules a world of blood, power, and temptation.

As Jackie gets drawn deeper into the tantalizing and dangerous world of the club, she starts to realize there’s far more at play than she ever imagined. Stacks sees something in her—something he’s willing to help her cultivate, but at a cost. He offers her a deal: the chance to rise to the stardom she’s always dreamed of, but accepting it means stepping into a world of darkness, immortality, and secrets she isn’t prepared for.

Characters: Jackie Dubois (OC) x Stacks" Elias" Moore (Vampire/ 70's gangster)

Warning: Blood, Vulgar Language, Violence, N-word, Sexual content & more...

Chapters: PART (1) , PART (3)

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Stacks had been watching her all night.

From his corner table, dimly lit and wrapped in shadows, he sipped slow on his dark liquor while his eyes followed Jackie’s every move. The way she glided between tables, not once looking in his direction, not even acknowledging his presence—it didn’t sit right with him. He wasn’t used to being ignored, especially not by women like her.

But what intrigued him most was the way she carried herself. The curve of her hips when she turned. The natural sway of her waist, that figure she didn’t seem to flaunt—but couldn’t hide. She didn’t flirt, didn’t linger at tables. She was beautiful, yes, but there was something harder beneath the surface. Something dangerous.

Her afro was perfectly shaped, round and soft like a halo of rebellion. She looked like she stepped out of a dream and walked straight into his club with fire under her skin and no patience for nonsense.

She'd switched tables earlier, clearly avoiding his section. He caught it immediately. She thought she was being slick. But Stacks had been in this game too long to miss something that obvious. He didn’t like it. Not one bit. Still, he let it slide. For now. Because it was clear—she didn’t know who he was.

But then, something shifted.

From his seat, he saw her approach the bar and lean in close to one of his best dancers—Marietta. They spoke quietly, Jackie looking animated and frustrated, her hands moving as she explained something. Stacks tilted his head slightly, curiosity piqued.

Marietta’s face changed the moment Jackie nodded toward the back table. Her eyes went wide with a kind of horror he was used to inspiring. Then she looked—right at him.

Stacks grinned.

That grin alone was enough to make Marietta grab Jackie by the wrist and pull her with her like a storm warning just hit. She rushed her cousin through the bar, past the velvet curtains, and into the safety of the dressing room.

Inside, the room buzzed with the low hum of music and muffled conversations. Perfume lingered heavily in the air, mixing with hairspray and warm makeup lights.

Jackie yanked her arm free the second the door shut behind them.

“Girl, what the hell? You almost snatched my shoulder out of place.”

Marietta leaned against the door like she was trying to keep something out. Her breathing was quick, eyes wide with disbelief.

“You don’t know who that was, do you?”

Jackie rolled her eyes and  shrugged. “Some slick-talking fool sittin’ in the back with a grill full of gold and too much cologne. Why?””

“The man at the back table,” Marietta said. “Is NOT some regular nigga off the street.”

Jackie crossed her arms. “He was actin’ like some regular nigga off the street.”

“No, baby,” Marietta said, voice tight. “That’s Stacks. As in Stacks. The man that runs this whole damn club. All of it.”

Jackie frowned. “I thought the owner was some guy named Reggie?”

Marietta shook her head, stepping closer. “Reggie ain’t nothin’ but a name on the liquor license. Baby that’s nothing, but the cover up. Stacks is the real boss. The streets, the money, the girls—everything in here runs through him.”

Jackie’s stomach dropped. She turned away, running a hand across her forehead. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Marietta said. “And he been watchin’ you like you the last shot of whiskey on the shelf.”

Jackie swallowed. Everything clicked now—the intensity in his stare, the way he didn’t press when she skipped his table, the dangerous grin when their eyes locked. He let it slide because he was studying her. Testing her.

“I don’t care who he is,” Jackie muttered. “Him and his crew disrespected me like I’m some hoe.”

Marietta nervously sighed. “And he probably liked that you didn’t fall in line. That’s the part that worries me.”

“He doesn’t even know my name,” Jackie stated.

“Not yet, but trust me he will. Just take my advice and try not to bring much attention to yourself. If he asks you to get him or his crew a drink just, does it and don’t let the smart mouth get you in trouble. Do not converse with him!” Marietta warned her cousin as she began to get ready for her next performance of the night. Something about Marietta tone told Jackie that there was something more that she wasn’t saying.

Somewhere beyond the walls, deep inside the bones of the club, Stacks leaned back in his leather chair with a slow, deliberate grace. A grin played at the corner of his mouth like a loaded secret; his fingers coiled around a crystal glass filled with aged bourbon. The low pulse of bass from the dance floor below throbbed through the walls like a second heartbeat.

He’d found something he wanted—and Stacks never walked away empty-handed.

He hadn’t had a new plaything in months. The fresh meat with the perfectly shaped afro and eyes full of fire just had to be the one to challenge him. The way she carried herself, proud and distant, her curves wrapped tight in that little black uniform—it stirred something primal in him. Something old. Something hungry.

Stacks had been watching her all night from his usual corner table, hidden beneath the low light and cigarette smoke, eyes locked on the sway of her hips as she floated between tables like she owned the damn floor. She didn’t know who he was yet. That made it even sweeter.

When he saw her talking to Marietta by the bar, something tightened behind his ribs. The dancer’s body language was stiff. Tense. She was getting ready to warn the girl. He could read it in the way she leaned close and whispered, her wide eyes betraying more than she realized. Stacks didn’t even need to hear the words.

He read them.

The curse of immortality came with many gifts—some a burden, some a thrill. Reading minds was the one that never stopped tasting sweet.

Marietta had seen him once before for what he truly was—back when her sorry excuse of a boyfriend, Timothy, had stolen from him. Stacks remembered the blood. The betrayal. The taste of fear in Marietta’s mouth when he killed Timothy right there in her apartment.

He’d spared her, not out of mercy, but strategy.

Now, she was his star dancer. A silent witness. A living secret.

Stacks set his glass down and waved a waitress over with two fingers, his accent thick and sweet like syrup over hot cornbread.

“Go find Reggie, sugar. Tell him I need a word ‘bout the new girl—fro and fire. The one talkin’ to Marietta.” He stopped the waitress that had walked past him.

Not ten minutes later, Reggie stepped inside the office, wiping his hands on a towel, looking slightly winded.

“She’s Marietta’s cousin,” Reggie explained, folding his arms. “Jackie. From North Carolina. I hired her last week. Needed the help, and Marietta vouched for her.”

Stacks’ grin widened. “Well now… that’s real interestin’.”

He leaned forward slowly, resting his elbows on the desk. “Means I already got one hand around her without even touchin’ her.”

“You want me to send her up?” Reggie asked.

Stacks paused, lips twitching. “Nah. Send Marietta instead. Got a few words I wanna lay down first.”

A few minutes later, Marietta stepped into the room. The air in the office thickened.

Stacks didn’t rise. Just watched her with eyes too still, too ancient.

“You wanted to see me?” Marietta asked, arms crossed tight over her chest.

He motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “Sit a spell.”

“I’d rather stand.”

He smirked. “Suit yourself.”

Stacks stood then, slow and smooth, like shadow stretching at dusk. He walked around the desk, his steps silent on the hardwood floor, his presence swallowing all the light in the room.

“I got my eye on your cousin,” he said finally. “I want you to hook me up. Bring her to the party at my penthouse tomorrow.”

“No,” Marietta said instantly, her voice sharp.

Stacks clicked his tongue. “Didn’t ask for no debate, baby. I’m tellin’ you.”

“She’s not like that,” Marietta snapped. “She’s just here to work.”

He chuckled low in his throat and stepped closer. “Ain’t that always the story? Just here to work… til they see what I can give them.”

“She’s not for you,” she said again, this time quieter.

Stacks’ voice dropped to a purr. “You forgettin’ Timothy already?”

That stopped her cold. Her spine went rigid. The name hit like ice water.

“I remember,” she whispered.

“You was standin’ right there,” he said, stepping behind her. “Pink robe. Barefoot. I let you live. Made you a star.”

Marietta’s fists clenched.

“You said if I didn’t talk, I could keep my life.”

Stacks leaned down, his mouth inches from her ear. “And you still breathin’, ain’t ya?”

She turned to face him. “What do you even want with her?”

His eyes darkened, black as ink. “She’s got somethin’. I don’t know what yet… but I want it.”

“I won’t do it,” Marietta whispered. “I won’t help you pull her in.”

Stacks gave a soft laugh and pulled away, his voice now calm, almost amused.

“You will. Or I’ll come get her myself. Ain’t a wall thick enough to keep me out when I need somethin’.”

He turned his back on her and reached for his bourbon again.

“You got ‘til tomorrow.”

Marietta stood frozen for a moment, then slipped out the door like a ghost, leaving the devil in silk shoes behind—smiling, sipping, and plotting.

The door clicked shut behind Marietta, but the echo of her heartbeat still danced through the room like fading jazz.

Stacks stood motionless for a moment, fingers brushing the rim of his glass. The bourbon inside had gone still, but inside him, a storm churned.

He closed his eyes.

The old blood in his veins whispered like smoke winding through ruins—ageless, restless. He’d tasted nearly everything in this city at one point or another. Chicago had bled for him over and over since the 1920s—gangsters, flappers, crooked bootleggers, blues singers with broken hearts. The faces changed, the sins stayed the same.

But that girl.

That girl with the soft Carolina drawl and the untamed afro like a crown of black silk…

She had something different in her.

Stacks didn’t know what it was yet, but he felt it humming beneath her skin—like electricity in the bones. Her anger. Her pride. Her heat. She reminded him of something he couldn’t quite place—something he’d forgotten before jazz was even born.

And that made her dangerous.

He wasn’t used to not knowing.

He moved back to the window and stared out across the club floor. From this high, the dancers looked like ants in glitter, grinding for rent and validation. But he didn’t see them. Not really.

His mind was wrapped around her.

Stacks tilted his head, letting the night wrap around him like an old coat.

“Jackie,” he whispered, finally tasting her name in his mouth. It slid off his tongue like a psalm and a threat all in one.

It wasn’t just lust.

It was need.

She had woken up something in him.

The blood-hunger he kept so tightly caged stirred every time she walked past his table, oblivious to the predator watching her from the shadows. He didn’t just want her body—he wanted her mind. Her fear. Her devotion. He wanted to peel her open slowly and see what she was hiding behind those guarded eyes and snappy mouth.

Why’d she come here? What was she running from in North Carolina?

He’d find out.

He always did.

And when he finally broke her wide open—when she called out his name in that sweet southern tongue—she’d either belong to him completely… or she’d burn trying to resist.

“Mm,” he exhaled, his accent thickening like the fog rolling off the Mississippi. “Lord help that girl. She don’t know what door she done walked through.”

Stacks drained the last of his drink and licked the inside of the glass. The night was young, but his patience was older than sin.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow, Jackie and him will stand face to face.

And that would be the beginning of the end.

TAGLIST:

@marley1773 @lisayourworries @wabi-sabi1090 @honggihwa @remmickcherie @bxrbie1 @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @brattyfics @uzumaki-rebellion @333creolelady

[brownsugarcoffy]

Soul & Sanguine

Summary

1976. Chicago.

Jackie Dubois, a confident and ambitious woman from a small town in North Carolina, has come to the city with big dreams of making a name for herself. But her reality is far from the glamorous Hollywood life she imagined. She’s stuck working as a waitress at The Pharaoh’s Den, an exclusive nightclub with an electric vibe and a dark undercurrent. The club’s owner, Elias "Stacks" Moore, is every bit the enigma—smooth-talking, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. On the outside, he’s just another businessman, but behind the scenes? He’s a vampire who rules a world of blood, power, and temptation.

As Jackie gets drawn deeper into the tantalizing and dangerous world of the club, she starts to realize there’s far more at play than she ever imagined. Stacks sees something in her—something he’s willing to help her cultivate, but at a cost. He offers her a deal: the chance to rise to the stardom she’s always dreamed of, but accepting it means stepping into a world of darkness, immortality, and secrets she isn’t prepared for.

Characters: Jackie Dubois(OC) x Stacks" Elias" Moore (Vampire/ 70's gangster)

Warning: Blood, Vulgar Language, Violence, Sexual content & more...

Chapters: PART (2) , PART (3)

A/N: Although Smoke got hold on me. Lol I been thinking about how Stacks gave pimp and rolling stone energy in Sinners. This gave me the idea to write something with a Blaxploitation vibe to it.

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The Pharaoh’s Den was alive. Funk music hummed in the air, a pulsating rhythm that matched the heartbeat of the city. The heavy scent of cigar smoke mixed with the sharp tang of whiskey and perfume, filling the club with a sense of both luxury and danger. Jackie Dubois moved effortlessly through the crowd, and her tray of drinks balanced with practiced ease. The night was just beginning, and every step she took brought her closer to her dream: Hollywood. But first, she had to make the money, the connections—get noticed.

She wasn’t new to this life. She’d worked in enough dives and clubs to know how to survive in a world that wasn’t always kind to women like her. But there was something about The Pharaoh’s Den that felt different. It wasn’t just the thick, electric vibe in the air or the sharp glances that followed her every move—it was the way the place seemed to pulse with an unspoken power, as if the club itself had a secret it wasn’t sharing with her. And tonight, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was getting closer to discovering it.

Back in the dressing room, Marietta was getting ready for her set, applying bold red lipstick and adjusting her shimmering costume. Her cousin was the star of the club’s go-go dancers, her body a perfect blend of seduction and power. Marietta had been dancing here for months, her movements fluid and hypnotic, commanding the crowd’s attention with every beat of the music. She was the one who had gotten J. the job at The Pharaoh’s Den, promising her that the hustle would pay off.

“This is where the real connections are, J. You gotta stick with it,” she’d said, her eyes always sparkling with ambition.

Jackie watched her cousin for a moment, the way she moved with effortless grace, the confidence she exuded as she prepared for her stage time. Marietta had the kind of magnetic presence that made heads turn, but Jackie. wasn’t sure if that was the path she wanted. She didn’t want to dance for men’s pleasure—she was here for something more. But tonight, it seemed like something else was in the air. The energy was thick with tension, and Jackie wasn’t the only one feeling it.

The sound of the music grew louder as Marietta slipped into her stage outfit—tight, sequined, and glittering under the dim lights. She shot Jackie. a wink in the mirror before grabbing a feathered fan and turning to leave the dressing room.

“Make sure you don’t let those pigs walk all over you tonight,” Marietta teased with a grin, her voice full of knowing humor.

Jackie laughed and nodded. “I got this. You just go out there and do your thing.”

But even as Marietta walked out of the room, J. couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight might be different.

Jackie moved out to the floor, taking orders from the tables in her usual manner—graceful, efficient, a perfect blend of warmth and distance. She had no time for distractions, especially from the men who seemed to think they could treat her like an object. Her mind was on her goal—money for the Hollywood dream. She wasn’t here to entertain anyone. But tonight, as the evening rolled on, the tension only grew.

As she passed a table near the back, she felt the eyes of the men on her before she even saw them. They were rough, hard-edged, the kind of men who didn’t have to say much to make their presence known. And she could tell right away that these men were trouble.

One of them, a burly man with a scruffy beard and gold chains hanging from his neck, leaned forward and called out to her with a thick drawl.

“Hey, baby,” he said, his voice low but dripping with something she didn’t like. “How ‘bout another drink?”

She kept walking, eyes straight ahead. She was used to men like him—loud, overbearing, trying to take control with their money and their bravado. She wasn’t interested.

“Can I take your order, sir?” she said, her voice smooth but firm, her tone making it clear that she wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

But the man wasn’t done. He smiled like he knew something she didn’t. “Come on, girl. You ain’t got anywhere else to be. Bring me another whiskey, and maybe we’ll talk.”

Jackie didn’t stop, didn’t falter. She just kept walking, grabbing the whiskey from the bar and heading back in the direction of the table. But as she neared, the man’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist with a force that made her freeze.

“Now hold on a second, baby,” he slurred. “I said, come here. Don’t ignore me.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, a rush of anger and adrenaline flooding her veins. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away immediately, but something inside her snapped. She didn’t work in places like this to be grabbed, to be made to feel small.

Her eyes locked onto his, cold and steady. “Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice cutting through the air with an edge that was impossible to ignore.

Before the man could respond, a voice, low and commanding, rang out from across the table. It was calm, controlled—nothing like the drunk banter that filled the club.

“That’s enough.”

She turned her head instinctively, searching for the source of the voice. A man sat at the center of the table, his presence like a shadow in the dim light. His dark suit was perfectly tailored, and his black hair was slicked back with practiced ease. His expression was unreadable, his eyes—sharp, calculating—locked onto hers.

The man who had grabbed her wrist quickly pulled his hand back, muttering an apology. But the newcomer didn’t even look at him. His gaze never left Jackie's.

“You’re new here,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet but carrying a tone that demanded attention. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement.

She felt a chill run down her spine. She stood her ground, the whiskey still in her hand. “That’s right,” she answered, her tone sharp. “I’m just here to do my job.”

The man leaned back in his chair, still studying her with that cool, detached look. “Maybe you should learn the rules of The Pharaoh’s Den before you go around talking back,” he said, his voice cold and dismissive.

“Here, we serve the customers. No one talks back to my crew.”

Her pulse quickened. “I’m not here to be anyone’s servant,” she retorted, her voice rising slightly. “I’ll serve drinks, but I’m not anyone’s toy.”

For the first time, a flicker of something crossed the man’s face—an unreadable expression, like he was sizing her up, weighing her defiance. But his lips stayed curled in that faint, almost amused smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’ll learn fast enough,” he said, his voice turning to ice. “Now, get back to work. This is my club, and you’re just a part of it. Understand?”

Jackie's chest tightened, but she didn’t back down. She was used to being talked down to, but this felt different. The way he spoke, the way his presence seemed to suck the air out of the room—it unsettled her.

She opened her mouth to retort, to tell him just who she thought he was, but before she could speak, the man waved his hand dismissively, turning his attention back to the conversation with his crew. As if she were nothing.

She didn’t move right away. For a moment, she just stood there, trying to process what had just happened. This man—who the hell was he? Why did everyone listen to him like that?

Still seething, Jackie turned on her heel, walking away, but her mind was a whirl of frustration. She’d just been dismissed by a stranger who clearly had some kind of control over this place—and worse, he had made it clear that he expected everyone here to follow his rules. She wasn’t used to being told what to do, especially by someone who didn’t even have the decency to introduce himself.

As she reached the bar, she could feel his eyes on her, heavy and lingering. She didn’t look back, but she could feel it, that strange, magnetic pull. She didn’t know who he was, but she was certain of one thing: This man had just made his mark on her night.

She didn’t know it yet, but she had just crossed paths with the devil who ran The Pharaoh’s Den, the man who controlled not just the club but a world of power, secrets, and blood that no one outside the shadows would ever understand.

And Elias? He wasn’t done with her just yet.....

TAGLIST:

[brownsugarcoffy]

I can't decide which one to choose.😭

[brownsugarcoffy]

I just love me some Smoke. Love a grown ass, silent ass, confident ass man. Something about a man that doesn’t gotta say SHIT for everyone to know he’s in the room. A man who means what tf he says. He said FAWK all that talk, I’m bout that action 😫 Also a man that LOVES black women 🫦 It’s always gon be Smoke fah me!

[brownsugarcoffy]

happy Juneteenth to black fans in fandom specifically 🫶🏿 love yall

[brownsugarcoffy]

Chapter One: The Preachers Daughter

The morning sun spilled gold over the worn wooden planks of the porch, and Seraphim stood at the screen door with her arms crossed over her white nightgown watching it rise. The year is 1920 and the July summer weather has already made everyone in Mississippi feel muggy and sticky before 8:00 AM. Cicadas had already begun their high-pitched hum, and the sweet, cloying scent of honeysuckle drifted through the air as it wrapped itself around her like the arms of a mother she’d never known.

Sera let out a small yawn while her bare feet shifted on the cool floorboards, the only relief from the suffocating warmth that clung to her deep brown mahogany skin. Scratching her head she let out a small and annoyed sigh as she contemplated if her father would let her go one more day without combing her hair. Having a head full of unruly burgundy curls and a face full of freckles, Sera didn’t look like most of her peers. And at 5’8, she was half a head taller than most girls in town, which meant she got stared at more often than she liked… especially when she wore her Sunday best and the boys from town leaned in too close during service.

But like the good preacher's daughter she is, she learned to keep her eyes low, lips tight, and her curves hidden beneath modest skirts that go past her knees. It was what was expected of her and she didn’t question it. Her body and life was not hers to own. She belonged to her father. She belonged to God.

“Seraphim!” A call for her presence from inside the house that sounded deep, gravelly, and lined with worry. The voice comes from the only person she’s ever spoken more than five words to, her father, her shepherd, the town’s chosen man of God, Pastor Samuel.

Without a second to spare, Sera turned on her heels and hastily made her way to the kitchen before trying to smooth out her ginger curls that are now framing her face like a lions mane. “Yes, Daddy?”

Seated at the kitchen table, Bible open, spectacles perched low on his nose sits a black man in his late 50’s that time hasn’t been kind to. Sera takes note of the five new gray hairs that seem to have appeared overnight on her fathers head and how he doesn’t bother to acknowledge her presence by looking up. Dressed in his typical uniform of a crisp white button up shirt Sera ironed the night before, black slacks, and black suspenders, Pastor Samuel looks like a God-fearing man that commands respect from all who gaze upon him.

“We’ll be having company for supper tonight.”

Something in his tone makes her chest tighten with nerves as she scrunches her face in confusion and immediately fixes it before her father notices. Moving slowly to the table, Sera takes a cautious seat across from her father before folding her hands like she was still a child in Sunday school.

“Who, Daddy?”

Still, he doesn’t look up. “Don’t worry bout’ the names, Seraphim. Just… men… come to talk men business.”

Her fingers curl anxiously into her palms. Sera is the picture perfect daughter and typically she doesn’t ask questions. She never does… Not since Mama left after she asked about—… But the set of her father’s jaw and the way his hands tremble slightly as he turns the page of his Bible, it told her enough.

The Klan has been circling their 5 acres of land like vultures lately. First, their sneering whispers at the general store. Then the burning cross not a mile from the chapel’s steps that sits on the western field of the land. They said the property didn’t belong to a Black man. Said God wouldn’t build His house of worship on stolen dirt with niggers dwelling on it.

But Sera knows her daddy didn't steal anything regardless of what the rumors say. After her mama left, Samuel made a deal with some mystery man and God helped him acquire the title of this lot. At least that’s the vague explanation he gives her any time she asks about it. Nevertheless, when he acquired the land the first thing he did was build a church with his own two hands. And now those hands grip the edge of the table as if it were all that kept him from crumbling.

“You’ll head down to Bo’s,” he said. “Pick up what we need. Chicken, potatoes, cabbage, buttermilk and flour for the biscuits. We’ll show them hospitality, like the Good Book says.”

Sera nodded silently and swallowed down the million questions that burn on her tongue. After three beats of tense silence her father finally looked up, and in his amber eyes that have started to develop a thin blue coating around the iris, showcases a tiredness deeper than age.

“And Seraphim?” he added gently.

“Yes, sir?”

“Comb that rats nest on your head and wear the pale blue dress. The one that don’t cling too close and goes to your ankles.”

Her cheeks heated with embarrassment as she nodded in agreement. “Yes, Daddy.”

Standing up from her seat and turning to leave, Sera’s steps are slow and heavy. As she gets dressed and stares at her reflection in the mirror she allows one singular tear to fall down her cheek before quickly wiping it away and closing her eyes to say a silent prayer. Protection for her father. Protection for the church. Protection for the land. And above all else, protect her body from overheating in this dress that was made with a little too much material.

As she adds the finishing touches to her braided updo and grabs the cash for her errands, the screen door creaks behind her like a warning. The walk to the store would be long in this heat, and every step would carry the weight of knowing that tonight underneath the fake smiles and polite prayers there’d be devils seated at her table.

And she’d be expected to serve them.

The road to Bo’s twisted like a long scar through the red dirt and brittle tall grass. Seraphim walked it alone, her steps measured with her basket swinging gently at her side. The morning sun was already fierce and burning through the brim of her hat while causing the pale blue fabric of her dress to stick to her back. No matter how conservative she wanted to appear today it seemed like the universe had other plans as dust clung to her skin like guilt.

Even with the possibility of a heatstroke on the horizon, Sera didn’t complain and instead she kept her head down and continued on her way as she let her mind roam.

Smoke and Stack have come back.

The words had been whispered like scripture behind cupped hands all across town.

It started with the undertaker’s boy, who said he saw them pull up in a shiny black car that didn’t belong to Mississippi dirt. Then the ladies at Sister Odetta’s beauty shop had gasped between hot combs and gossip and said the twins were dressed like city men, with gold chains and sharp suits. Their hands heavy with sin and the smell of Chicago money lingering on their skin.

Sera had barely known them as a child. They were already grown men when she was still being scolded for climbing trees in her Sunday shoes. Ten years her senior, they’d been the kind of men who lived in whispers and warnings. Men born on the wrong side of the tracks, raised on violence, and baptized in war before vanishing North with nothing but a reputation and a revolver.

She remembered seeing them once from the church window with their long limbs and sharp mouths, laughing at something no decent folk should laugh at. Her father had pulled the curtain closed and muttered, “Devil’s work.”

Now they are back. And no one knows the reason why.

Her steps slowed as she passed the old barn where she once caught her mother kissing a white man in the shadows. She hadn’t meant to spy. She was only seven. Her baby brother had just been born and Sera… too curious for her own good… had wandered too far from home one night looking for fireflies. What she found instead was the truth.

She remembered asking her mama, “Why’s he so pale? His hair same color as mine but he white like a peckerwood?”

Her mama had gone quiet. Two days later, she was gone.

Took her baby brother. Left the ring her father gave her in his favorite bible. And never came back.

Sera learned silence that year. How to swallow hurt without chewing. How to keep her eyes low and her voice lower. Her father never spoke her mama’s name again. Just preached harder and held her tighter.

The screen door to Bo’s creaked as she opened it, the bell above chiming like a warning. Inside, the air was thick with tobacco and the musty scent of aging wood. A few men loitered in the back as they sipped bottled pop and muttered low under their breath. They quieted when she walked in.

Sera could feel them looking. Could always feel when men’s eyes lingered too long on her like they had the ability to see beyond what she attempted to hide. She was 25 now. Unmarried, tall, full-figured and soft in the face but with too much knowing in her eyes. She tried to hide it all under cotton and decency, but men saw what they wanted. Even here. Even now.

“Mornin’, Miss Seraphim,” Bo called from behind the counter, his drawl friendly but laced with caution.

“Mornin’, Mister Bo,” she said politely, keeping her voice sweet and even. Something she mastered at a young age.

“Your daddy got you runnin’ errands today?”

“Yes, sir. Company’s comin’ for supper. Said I need ingredients to make fried chicken, mashed potatoes, sautéed cabbage… and biscuits too.”

Bo raised an eyebrow, nodding as he scribbled on a small notepad. “Hmph. Important company, I reckon.”

Sera didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

As Bo disappeared into the storeroom, she wandered toward the shelves of canned goods and piles of flour sacks as she pretended to browse. Behind her, the men began to whisper again.

“Smoke’s the one wit’ the gold tooth, right?”

“Nah. That’s Stack. Smoke’s the nigga that talk too smooth.”

“Did you hear what they did to dem boys up in Yazoo?”

Sera kept her back turned, heart thumping louder than the bell had.

“They say Stack got a scar down his side big as a muthafuckin’ butcher’s knife.”

“They say Smoke talk a man into givin’ up his mama’s land and thank him after.”

“They say they brought Hell back with ‘em, and they got money to burn it down. But I ain’t scared of them niggas.”

Sera gripped the handle of her basket tighter as she continued to listen. She knew it wasn’t proper to ease drop but she would ask God for forgiveness later. The SmokeStack twins were men of sin. Of smoke, flame, and ruin. They didn’t belong in her world of hymns dressed up in linen and bowed heads.

But for some reason… she couldn’t stop thinking about them.

Before more could be discussed, Bo returned with a paper sack filled to the brim with all the needed ingredients and a few extras. “Here you go, darlin’. Tell your daddy I said God bless him.”

Sera nodded, murmured her thanks, and stepped back out into the scorching sun. As she made her way back home, she tried not to imagine what it would mean if the SmokeStack twins crossed her path. She tried not to think about her mama and how the world could never make space for a woman torn between desire and duty. And she tried not to ask why, after all these years, something in her stirred at the sound of their names.

By the time Seraphim returned home, the sun had dropped just enough to make the sky blush. Her childhood home sat quiet on its vast land. An old two story farmhouse with peeling paint and wide porch steps that creaked like old grandma knees. She stood for a moment at the gate, looking up at it. Her home. Her father’s sanctuary. Her… prison.

Inside, she freshed up and tied on her apron and got to work. She moved through the kitchen with practiced ease and muscle memory passed down from ancestors she would never meet. She seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and a heavy hand of cayenne, just the way her daddy liked it. Rolled it in flour and dropped it into the cast iron skillet, where the oil hissed like a warning.

Next were the mashed potatoes she added cream and butter to until they were silk. Then she cut the cabbage thin and tossed it with smoked pork fat until it wilted. And finally she kneaded the biscuit dough, cool and soft beneath her fingers, like clouds in her palms.

Sera tried to quiet her noisy mind as she focused on making sure this meal was perfect. But her mind wandered back to the whispers in Bo’s store and to the heat in her chest that wouldn’t cool, not even with the open windows and the evening breeze coming through.

Her father was in his study, silent behind the cracked door. He hadn’t said who was coming. Just that it was “important.”

Important enough to fry a whole chicken? Important enough to cook a Sunday meal on Wednesday and be forced to comb my hair? Is Jesus coming?

Then a singular knock came just as she pulled the biscuits from the oven, golden and steaming. Pastor Samuel said nothing as he closed the book he was reading and left his study to open the door himself.

Her oven mitten covered hands froze over the skillet. Sera expected Deacon Haynes. Maybe old Mister Lockett from the train yard. But when her father opened the front door, the whole house seemed to still.

Two men stepped inside. One moved like a cautionary tale. The other, like trouble.

They were damn near impossible to tell apart at first glance. Both tall and standing at 6 '4, both dressed like Chicago royalty with midnight-black suits cut sharp enough to draw blood, gold cufflinks, shiny shoes that didn’t belong on Mississippi dirt, and different colored accessories. One dressed in a haunting blue and the other in a firecracker red. Their skin was a deep sultry brown and smooth, cheekbones high, eyes sharp beneath wide-brimmed fedoras.

But there was a difference. You didn’t see it. You felt it.

Smoke stepped in first. He moved like a closed casket… silent, heavy, and final. His expression didn’t shift. His eyes scanned the room like he was casing it. His face was like expressionless chiseled stone and Sera could’ve sworn his eyes never blinked.

Then Stack, right behind him with the same face, same build, same shine to his shoes, but grinning like he’d already kissed your sister and was thinking about your mama next. His smile was wide and wicked, white teeth decorated with gold flashing like a trap with sugar on it.

Sera’s breath caught in her throat.

“Well, well,” Stack said, tossing his red hat onto a nearby rack like he owned the place. “Didn’t know the preacher’s house came with a view.”

Pastor Samuel cut him a glare sharp enough to chip stone. “Mind your manners.”

“I am mindin’ ‘em,” Stack chuckled, eyes lingering on Sera. “Just admirin’ God’s work. Hallelujah!”

Smoke didn’t speak. He didn’t even look at Sera at first like she was a non interesting piece of furniture sitting in a corner. Instead he removed his hat and placed it on the rack next to Stacks. Something about him was fascinating to Sera. He was the kind of man who knew where a bullet might come from and how to send one back twice as fast.

Pastor Samuel cleared his throat. “Sera. Set the table.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmured, breaking herself from her trance and slipping into motion like her body was trying to protect her soul. The food went out hot and she moved quietly, with her eyes focused on her task, but she could feel Stack’s lingering stare sticking to her like honey on skin. Smoke finally looked at her. Just once and she couldn’t tell if his look was approval or disapproval of her appearance.

They all sat at the dinner table that was piled high with food as if it was thanksgiving. Pastor Samuel took a deep breath before bowing his head. “Lord, bless this table and guide our hands in the war to come.”

“Amen,” Smoke said softly. Stack said nothing due to his mouth already full of biscuit.

Dinner started civil. The knives scraped politely on china. Stack asked for seconds. Smoke barely touched his plate. And her father finally cut straight to the point. “The Klan wants this land but MY church sits on it. They plan to burn it or steal it, and I won’t have either.”

Finally getting into the grit of the meeting, Smoke leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes at Pastor Samuel before letting his hand linger over his pistol that’s tucked to the side. “You want protection?”

“I want justice,” the preacher corrected without missing a step. “But I’ll settle for peace. And peace only comes with fear, these days.”

Stack chuckled, licking the remaining food residue off his thumb. “So you brought in the big bad wolves?”

“I brought in men who make devils cross the street,” Samuel snapped.

Smoke went back to a relaxed position and finally picked up his fork again before taking another bite of cabbage. Sera didn’t mean to stare but she couldn’t help herself as she made a mental note on which food he ate the most of. “We don’t work for free.”

“I ain’t askin’ for charity… You can use the north field. Store what you want. Liquor, bodies, goods… I won’t ask what it is.”

Stack whistled low. “Damn. Preacher man got teeth.”

Samuel didn’t flinch. “I got a daughter who still believes in mercy. I’d like her to live long enough to keep believin’.”

That made Smoke pause. His eyes shifted back to Sera, who immediately dropped her gaze. She didn’t need to see the look to know it was heavy, not lustful like his brother’s, but something deeper and calculated.

Instead of sitting in the hot seat Sera busied herself with the plates. An excuse and a shield she knew would protect her during this tense moment. The dishes clinked gently as she stacked them, one by one, careful not to seem rushed, even as her hands itched to flee the room.

A quiet girl trying to make herself seem small in a world that wanted nothing more than to sing her praises like the church mothers during Sunday service. They always said she was “obedient,” “graceful,” “a woman raised right.” None of them knew how much it cost her to bite her tongue raw, how often she turned her rage into silence, her questions into prayers.

Stack leaned over the table, eyes gleaming with mischief and something darker. “Tell me, sweetheart… a girl like you ever get tired of bein’ good?”

She hesitated. Her fingers curled around the edge of a gravy bowl slick with fat. She kept her expression even and soft, almost dainty. Inside, something rattled. But she smiled faintly, like the perfect and polite southern belle her father raised her to be.

“No, sir,” she murmured, not looking at him. “Good girls sleep sounder at night.”

Stack grinned wider. “That so? Guess I wouldn’t know. Ain’t had a full night’s sleep since I lost my innocence—”

“Stack.” Smoke’s voice cut through the room like a blade dragged across glass. That single word, low and sharp, dried up all the amusement in his brother’s throat.

Pastor Samuel stood slowly. His eyes didn’t go to Sera. They never did when men looked at her too long. He spoke like a man reminded of the devil’s reach. “Dinner’s done.”

Smoke stood as well, deliberate and careful in every motion like a man who didn’t waste energy on anything unnecessary. He looked around the room once more, as if he was searching for something. “We’ll be in touch,” he said simply.

Stack bowed his head, eyes still locked onto Sera. “Thanks for the supper, pretty girl. You cook like a woman with a heavy soul. And look like a redheaded angel. Any man round’ here would be lucky to call you his wife.”

Sera didn’t respond. Just kept her eyes on the plates in her hands. She stayed quiet like a bunny cornered by a pack of wolves. Being quiet was the safest thing to do around wolves… especially wolves who smile so pretty they remind you that Satan was once an angel.

The screen door shut behind them with a lazy clap.

Only then did her shoulders fall before making her way back to the kitchen and standing in it alone as the lace curtains drifted over the open window. Outside, the twilight bled into the nearby fields, shadows stretching long like the hands of men reaching for things they didn’t deserve. Her father didn’t say a word to her, he just disappeared into his study, muttering about the Lord’s will, the price of peace and the weight of duty.

Sera washed each dish with hands that trembled just slightly. Not from fear but from curiosity.

She hated that part of herself, the part that wanted to turn around and ask Stack what it felt like to not care. The part that wanted to ask Smoke what lived behind his silence. The part that burned for something she couldn’t name without falling to her knees in shame.

She pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane and closed her eyes.

Smoke and Stack were back.

And the peace in her house was already slipping through the cracks.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Well, well, well. Looks like we have another series on our hands. And guess what, chicken butt? I plan on actually finishing this one before we all die from old age. I’m a gen z boomer now so let me know if you want to be added to the tag list.

Tags:

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theethighpriestess @imagining-greatness @hearteyes-for-killmonger @blackpantherismyish

[brownsugarcoffy]

THIS IS SO CUTE!🥹😭

Uncle Stack’s Wild Day Off. 💰

Modern!Au Elias “Stack” Moore, Elijah “Smoke” Moore X Annie Moore, Jordyn Moore(S&A daughter)

Word count: 1.5k

Authors note: I apologize if the AU description is confusing. 😅 I just wanted to make it clear we ain’t on no Alabama type shit. This is a lil cute fluffy blurb I came up with. As an auntie, I can relate to all of this so I wanted to share. And let me know if yall want more stuff like this.

It starts with syrup.

Sticky, sweet, and halfway across her cheek.

“Unc-leee,” little Jordyn whines from across the table, eyes wide and cheeks puffed like she’s about to explode into laughter. “You said I could pour it!”

Stack wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans forward, brow raised. “And I did. But you said you knew when to stop.”

She looks down at the cartoon pool of maple flooding her pancakes, plate, and a little corner of the table. “I thought I did.”

He chuckles low, that familiar gravel-deep sound that always makes her giggle. “C’mon, syrup queen. Eat up before this place bans us.”

They’re tucked into a booth at Ruby’s Diner—one of the last places in the city with booths high enough to hide from the world and a jukebox old enough to make Stack nostalgic. Jordyn kicks her feet under the table, her tiny black sneakers thudding against his boots.

“You think Mama would let me dye my hair blue?” she asks, mouth full of pancake.

Stack’s fork pauses mid-air. “You ask your mama that, you better be ready to hear ‘no’ before you finish the sentence.”

“Papa said maybe when I’m older.”

He nods, chewing. “That’s code for ‘when you’re thirty.’” Jordyn giggles again, tipping her head like she’s caught on to a secret.

After breakfast, they head to the arcade—Stack’s idea, though he tells her she “wore him down with her big eyes and syrup bribes.” Truth is, he had the whole day mapped out since last week when Smoke casually said, “She been asking about you, man. Wants some one-on-one time.”

Now they’re in the neon glow of the game room, Jordyn’s face lit like a carnival bulb. Stack exchanges a twenty for a fistful of coins and follows her from skee-ball to air hockey to a chaotic driving game she insists she knows how to play. She drives them both off a digital cliff three times and cackles like it’s the best thing ever.

“Uncle Stack, you drive worse than me,” she teases, swinging her little body out of the seat.

“That’s slander,” he deadpans, straightening his shoulders like he’s offended. “I drive like a legend.”

“You drive like someone’s grandpa!”

His mock gasp makes her laugh so hard she hiccups.

Hours pass in a haze of flashing lights and sugar. He buys her a blue slushie—against better judgment—and wins her a giant plush octopus with his precision aim at the basketball game. She names it “Sir Wiggles.” Stack pretends to hate the name, but he buckles the thing into the back seat like it’s a VIP.

They end up at the park just before sunset. Jordyn’s arms stretch wide as she races ahead, spinning in circles through the tall grass like she’s chasing the wind. Stack strolls behind, hands in pockets, smile tucked under his beard.

“Uncle Stack!” she calls. “Race me to the top of the jungle gym!”

He raises a brow. “I’m not tryna break a hip today, baby girl.”

“You said you were a legend!”

He snorts. “A driving legend. Not a monkey-bar legend.”

Still, he jogs after her. Pretends to try. Pretends to lose.

They sit at the top once she’s conquered it, Jordyn perched like royalty on her throne of metal bars, the octopus half-dragging behind them. She looks up at him with quiet wonder in her eyes—the kind that always undoes him, no matter how many walls he pretends to have.

“Uncle Stack,” she says, suddenly soft. “You think when I’m big, I can be brave like you and Papa?”

He leans back, arms stretching behind his head. “You already are.”

She squints, not believing him.

He taps her chest. “Brave don’t mean you don’t get scared. It means you do what needs doin’ anyway. You—” he gently tugs a curl that’s come loose from her puff— “got more brave in you than you know.”

Her smile could break clouds.

By the time they return home, the sky is streaked with lavender and gold. Smoke’s on the porch with Annie, both of them watching with matching smiles as Jordyn tumbles out of the car like a storm, Sir Wiggles the octopus dragging beside her.

“Look what Uncle Stack won me!” she yells. “And I had a slushie! And pancakes! And I BEAT HIM at the driving game!”

Smoke smirks, arms crossed. “That so?”

Stack grumbles, grabbing the last of her wrappers from the passenger seat. “Don’t listen to her. She played dirty.”

“You let her win?” Annie teases.

Stack glances at Jordyn, who’s doing a victory dance on the porch.

“Nah,” he says, grinning. “She earned it.”

Annie kisses his cheek. “Thanks for takin’ her out today.”

He nods, quieter now, watching Jordyn with a weight in his chest that feels like love and something older.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, smiling. “It was good for both of us.”

Smoke tosses him a look—knowing and brotherly. Stack catches it, nods once. No words needed.

As Jordyn runs inside yelling for chocolate milk, Stack leans on the porch rail, sunset cutting across his eyes.

Best damn day off he’s had in years.

The porch creaks beneath them, soft and familiar. The day’s heat is cooling now, cicadas starting to sing in the trees. Stack sits down in the weathered rocking chair, arms draped loose over the armrests, a half-drained beer sweating on the porch rail beside him. Smoke’s got his feet propped up on the step, one hand idly bouncing a tennis ball against the wood post.

Inside, Jordyn is loudly explaining Sir Wiggles’ “backstory” to Annie like she’s pitching a Marvel movie.

Stack chuckles under his breath. “She really said the octopus has a secret twin that lives underground and only comes out when the moon’s full.”

Smoke huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Man, where she get this stuff?”

Stack doesn’t even hesitate. “You.”

Smoke stops bouncing the ball. “What?”

“C’mon,” Stack says, leveling a slow look his way. “You used to swear you had a twin trapped in a mirror that only I could see. Like I wasn’t the damn twin!”

Smoke pauses, grins slow. “Damn. I did, huh?”

Stack just nods like exactly.

They sit in silence for a moment, listening to Jordyn shriek with laughter inside.

“She’s got both of us in her,” Smoke says, voice a little lower now. “Clear as day.”

“Yeah,” Stack agrees. “God help y’all.”

Smoke smirks. “She’s got my mouth and your stubbornness. Worst possible combo.”

“Nah,” Stack counters. “She’s got your mood swings and my bad attitude. That’s the apocalypse right there.”

They both laugh, that deep-chested sound only brothers make when they’re remembering something that hit them sideways the first time.

Annie’s voice chimes in from behind the screen door. “You’re both wrong.”

They turn in sync.

“She’s got your sarcasm,” Annie says to Stack, pointing, “and his unpredictability.” She looks at Smoke. “But she throws shade like both of y’all owe her money.”

Stack raises his beer. “She do that little head tilt when she’s mad?”

Smoke sighs, nodding. “Like a villain in training. Yesterday she told me I wasn’t ‘emotionally intelligent enough’ to comment on her snack choices.”

Annie throws her hands up. “She’s eight, y’all.”

“Eight going on federal indictment,” Stack mutters, and they all crack up.

“I told her to clean her room last week,” Annie says, coming outside and leaning against the post, arms crossed. “You know what she said?”

“Please tell me it wasn’t ‘I’m setting boundaries.’” Stack groans.

“Worse. She said she was ‘centering herself for clarity before engaging in oppressive labor.’”

Stack coughs into his drink. Smoke wheezes.

“She called chores oppressive labor?” Smoke asks between laughs.

“Deadass,” Annie says. “And then walked away humming like a monk.”

“She’s you with better vocabulary,” Stack says to Smoke.

“She’s you with sass and a grudge,” Smoke fires back.

“She’s both of y’all with a dash of me just trying to survive,” Annie declares, shaking her head.

Inside, Jordyn is now narrating a dramatic octopus rescue mission. Her voice rises and falls with theatrical flair.

“She gon’ run the world one day,” Smoke says softly.

“She gon’ burn it down first,” Stack adds, but there’s pride in his voice.

Annie smiles, just a little tired. “Only if we survive raising her.”

They all go quiet for a beat.

The screen door creaks again.

“Uncle Stack?” Jordyn pokes her head out, curls wild, octopus still clutched in one arm. “Can I have more chocolate milk if I promise to do yoga before bed?”

Stack blinks. “What kind of trade-off negotiation is this?”

Smoke narrows his eyes. “Did she just ask you for chocolate milk like I ain’t her papa?”

Stack smirks. “Mmhmm. Like I’m the department of beverages and you don’t even exist.”

“She bold,” Smoke mutters.

“Bold don’t even cover it,” Annie says, shaking her head. “That child been bypassing your authority since kindergarten.”

Jordyn waits at the door, unbothered by the scrutiny.

Stack points a warning finger, sighs. “One cup. One. And don’t tell your daddy what you put in the last one.”

Jordyn’s grin is nothing short of villainous. “Deal.”

Then she’s gone again, sprinting for the fridge like she owns it.

Smoke groans into his hands. “She really just iced me out like I wasn’t sittin’ ten feet away.”

“Stack privilege,” Stack says with a shrug. “It’s real.”

——

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[brownsugarcoffy]

Still thinking about:

How Annie can persuade Stack quicker than she can Smoke. Smoke is her man. But Stack? That’s her baby brother.

[brownsugarcoffy]

Could you write a headcannon or Drabble about Smoke receiving from Annie in her shack? Something detailed and giving a vibe of how that goes? Maybe they aren’t married maybe he’s just falling for her? He can’t stay away?

Sorry I know you must be busy with other WIP! But I’ve been wanting to send this to you because I know you’ll do it justice!

Xoxo!

Just Before Midnight

Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore had started falling for a conjure woman on the outskirts of the Delta, and it was becoming a quiet kind of madness…

She lived just past the last stretch of sugarcane, in a weathered little shack that smelled of camphor and coals, where the trees hung low and the air always felt thick with something watching. Her name was Annie. Folks called her a rootworker, a healer. Some called her dangerous. Smoke didn’t give a damn what they called her—all he knew was, he couldn’t stop coming back.

He told himself it was the tobacco blend she made for him. A dark, earthy twist she rolled up with dried cherry bark, mugwort, and a pinch of low country marijuana she claimed helped calm his nerves. Said it soothed bad dreams, stilled the shaking in his hands. He told himself that’s what brought him out tonight, just before midnight.

But he still had a full pouch in his coat pocket. He didn’t need more.

He just needed her.

The shack was dim when he arrived, smoke curling from the chimney, moonlight bleeding through the moss. He knocked twice, slow. She opened the door barefoot, her skirt clinging to the curve of her hips, a scarf wrapped carelessly over her head. Her eyes scanned him like she already knew.

“You ain’t low on nothin’ but lies,” Annie murmured, leaning on the doorframe. “What you really come here for, Elijah Moore? You gon’ tell me the truth, gangster?”

He chuckled low, flashing teeth, not something he normally did, running a hand down the front of his cotton work shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm. He wore slacks and suspenders slung loose, his collar open to the night, a fedora hanging off one finger.

“Thought I’d get another mix,” he said, eyes trailing over her shoulder like he wasn’t staring at her mouth, “You put somethin’ new in that last batch. Had me dreamin’ sweet.”

Annie crossed her arms, one brow lifting, “Ain’t changed a damn thing.”

He licked his lips and looked away, smirking, then back again, “Maybe it’s you, then.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The night crooned outside, frogs in chorus and crickets whispering between leaves. A gust of wind stirred the altar smoke inside—thick and fragrant, curling toward the door like an invitation.

She stepped aside without a word, letting him in. The floor creaked under his boots. The inside of the shack was warm, close. Lit by the flame on her altar and a single oil lamp near the window. Shadows danced on the walls like they were keeping secrets.

Smoke hovered, eyes taking her in, “You always this quiet when a man comes knockin’?”

Annie turned to face him, arms loose at her sides now. Her gaze softened, but only just, “Only when I know he don’t need what he say he need.”

She stepped closer, fingers brushing the front of his suspenders, her body heat making him sweat under his clothes.

“You restless?” she asked, voice low, “Or just hard-headed?”

Smoke’s throat bobbed. He didn’t answer. He just let out a slow breath.

Annie reached up, unfastened a single button on his shirt, then another.

“You smell like gunpowder and need,” she whispered, “Ain’t nothin’ I can do for the first. But I know how to feed the second.”

He didn’t stop her.

Didn’t want to.

She eased him back onto the old blanket near her altar. The smoke from it rolled around them like a living thing, rising with the heat that sparked between their bodies. The candle flickered. The wood groaned. The world outside faded.

And then she dropped to her knees.

The air is thick in Annie’s shack, laced with incense and the slow curl of altar smoke, rising from a cracked ceramic bowl set before a cluster of bones, roots, and a half-burned red candle. The room breathes around them, the walls moan with age, and the wood under their knees creaks and shifts like it remembers old sin.

Outside, the swamp hums—cicadas whirring like tiny gears turning fate, frogs calling low and throaty, and the occasional rustle of something moving through leaves, like the woods are watching. Overhead, Spanish moss dances in the windless dark, casting shadows like fingers across the shack’s smudged windows. The smell of burnt sage and old secrets clings to everything.

Smoke sits on a worn blanket she pulled down from her cot, back against the wall, shirt unbuttoned, chest rising slow but ragged. The glow from the altar catches his skin, casting it in flickers—like fire trying to decide if it should lick or burn.

Annie kneels between his thighs, hands on his knees, her lips parted but not touching him yet. She looks up at him, and he meets her eyes…those hoodoo eyes, glinting with something old and knowing.

“You sure?” she whispers, voice honey-thick, but her fingers already tug at his waistband, “Soon as I wrap my lips ‘round this big boy…you ain’t gonna want me to stop…”

He nods, jaw tight. His throat works around a groan when her hands find him, warm and certain.

And then her mouth—

Soft, slow, sinful.

Like she’s tasting communion made flesh.

Smoke’s head hits the wall with a dull thud. “FUCK…Lord,” he exhales, then again, “Lord…”

The altar smoke billows behind her like it’s alive, coiling above her spine, dancing around the sway of her hair as she works. Her tongue moves with a conjure’s rhythm —not rushed, not hesitant, just deliberate. Reverent.

Up…down…up…down…

Smoke watches, mesmerized. Entranced by her magical mouth and those intense eyes. She didn’t use her powerful hands. She simply worked his girth and length with the strength her tight jaws and skillful tongue.

Every wet sound is amplified by the hush in the room. The slurp, the suck, the gentle growl of her throat tightening around him. It’s obscene…and holy…at once.

His hand trembles as it finds hers. Their fingers intertwine, his scarred knuckles rough against her smoother ones, grip tightening with every bob of her head.

“Annie,” he breathes, voice guttural, a warning and a prayer, “Damn, baby…”

But she doesn’t stop. She hums around him—a sound that vibrates so deep his hips jerk involuntarily, knees nearly buckling.

“Shit, baby… baby, that mouth of yours…”

The whisper of old spirits stirs behind them, almost lost in the haze, voices like wind caught in the cracks of the wood. Some say her shack is haunted. Smoke believes it in that moment. Not because of fear, but because something about this feels too powerful to be just flesh and want.

He’s sweating, chest heaving, eyes shut tight. The smoke curls around his head, mingling with the scent of her, the altar, the salt of his body. The floor groans beneath him, as if it too is straining under the weight of his pleasure.

“Don’t stop,” he rasps. “Fuck, Annie, don’t stop…”

She grips his thighs tighter, goes deeper, her rhythm now slow and messy, like she’s trying to ruin him sweet. Every moan he lets slip is filthy, laced with need and disbelief.

And when he finally comes—

It’s with a low, broken sound, like something ancient inside him cracking loose.

He clutches her hand like an anchor.

His body jerks once, twice.

He pants like a man baptized in sin.

She stays there, gentle now, slow licks to clean him, like sealing a spell. His breath is still ragged, hand still in hers.

The shack settles. The whispers go quiet. The altar candle sputters once, then stills.

Smoke finally opens his eyes and looks down at her, spent and dazed.

“You… you gon’ kill me one day, girl,” he says, voice raw.

Annie smirks, wipes the corner of her mouth with her fingers, and leans up close.

“Nah,” she whispers against his jaw.

“I’ma keep you right on the edge.”

And she does.

[brownsugarcoffy]

random gifs of my favorite people 3/?

[brownsugarcoffy]

This is good and has so much potential! If you do continue this, definitely keep tagging me. I love mystery, and I do enjoy it when people combine it with fanfiction it's kinda rare. Keep it up!💖

𝐀𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬

Smoke Moore AU fanfic.

After surviving the vampires massacre, Elias “Smoke” Moore buried his brother, lost his wife Annie, and disappeared from the world that made him a killer.

Now he’s sheriff of Marrowbone County, a slow-burning Southern town where secrets grow like weeds and the sky always smells like rain. With his teenage daughter, Everly Eden Moore, Smoke is trying to build a quiet life—free from blood, fire, and sin. The kind of life Annie would've wanted for them.

But peace is short-lived.

When the body of a young girl is found posed in the tall grass—her mouth sewn shut, a silver coin on her tongue—Smoke is dragged into a case that feels more like a message than a murder.

To solve it, he's forced into a tense alliance with Caleya Ryans, the local mortician. Beautiful, brilliant, and known for keeping to herself, Caleya sees things the living can’t explain—and she isn’t afraid of the dark.

As more bodies turn up and the past claws its way back, Smoke begins to question if Marrowbone is cursed... or if it’s just another kind of hell.

And in the middle of it all, a quiet fire grows between him and Caleya. Something dangerous. Something sacred.

Something Annie may not forgive.

𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐲𝐚 𝐑𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐬.

“𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘰.”

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐄𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐞.

“𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘮𝘢’𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘺’𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦.”

THE night hung heavy over Marrowbone County, thick with fog that crept slow and low through the sugarcane fields like some restless spirit. Crickets sang out steady under a pale moon, shining cold and hard like bone. A pickup truck rolled in without headlights, tires crunchin’ brittle stalks. Elijah Moore stepped out—no longer just “Smoke,” not since he took that badge and the title seriously. Now, he was Detective Elijah Moore, carrying the weight of the job in every tired step. The silver ring on his finger caught the faint moonlight as he slung a burlap sack over his shoulder, moving through the cane like a man who’d tried to leave his past behind but found it hard as hell to do.

Ahead, in a scorched clearing, lay the body of a little girl. Arms folded over her chest in some kind of silent prayer, crowned with burnt sugarcane that cracked like old bones in the cold. But it was the face that cut Elijah deep—the way it looked like his own daughter, soft and innocent, now frozen in terror. Her eyes were sewn shut tight, but the fear was still written plain on her skin. Worse yet, her body was drained—every drop of blood gone—but no wounds, no bruises, no signs of how she died. Death had come clean and quiet, like a ghost slipping through the night.

Elijah’s jaw clenched tight, anger simmering low beneath the calm he tried so hard to wear as a detective. Gone was the reckless “Smoke” from the streets; this was a man who had to answer to the law, to the people depending on him. But seeing this girl, so much like his own, unleashed something fierce inside him. He flipped his silver Zippo open, flame piercing the darkness as the patrol cars cast their flashing red and blue over the cane. Somewhere nearby, a deputy heaved, the sound swallowed by the night.

Later, in the cold light of the morgue, the girl lay still under buzzing surgical lamps. Dr. Caleya Ryans stood over her, bare hands moving gentle and sure, stroking the singed hair like it was a fragile thing. She spoke with a soft drawl, steady as river water, when Elijah stepped in.

“She looks like someone you know, don’t she?” Caleya asked, eyes steady on his.

Elijah rubbed the back of his neck, voice rough but measured. “Yeah… she looks just like my little girl.”

Caleya nodded slowly. “This death… it’s ain’t natural. No cuts, no blood. Somebody took her life clean, like the soul was pulled right out.”

His eyes stayed on that face, the terror carved deep in every line. “How the hell you kill a child like that and leave no sign? No mess? Just emptiness?”

Caleya’s lips pressed tight. “Whichever dark thing did this… it weren’t human, Elijah. Not by a long shot.”

He leaned in, voice low and fierce. “I don’t care if it’s human or devil. I’m gonna find it. And I’m gonna make it pay—for her, for my baby girl, for every last one of us.”

The weight of the detective’s badge pressed heavy on Elijah’s soul that night. This case was more than a file, more than another body in the cane. It was personal. And no matter how hard he tried to leave “Smoke” behind, some ghosts never let you go.

He only hoped that whatever this was...was human.

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝.

“Something Left Behind”

“The Ones We Bury”

“The Mourning House”

[brownsugarcoffy]

YES! This sounds really good, actually.

Would anybody want me to post my smoke au fic about him being a detective , who has a teen daughter that he shared with Annie before she died?

[brownsugarcoffy]

Siblings!

[brownsugarcoffy]

“hey… hey… y’all smell anything?”

no?

“i think i shat myself…”