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Watching my moot get dragged for saying something i agree with wholeheartedly

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tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ finally decided to post something hehe

ex-military! nanami who left the service because there was nothing left of him in it—just orders and ache and blood that didn’t wash off, no matter how hard he scrubbed.

ex-military! nanami who moves to a quiet part of the city, keeps his head down, works construction jobs, likes using his hands for things that build rather than break.

ex-military! nanami who has a scar that stretches jagged down his the left side of his face to his torso, old shrapnel near his ribs, bullet wounds on his shoulder and thigh. he doesn’t talk about them, but they hurt when it rains.

ex-military! nanami who visits the same tiny cafe every morning at 7:00 a.m. sharp. black coffee. no sugar. no cream. he always tips well. says little. the staff calls him “sir” until you show up.

ex-military! nanami who meets you because you’re new at the counter, bright smile, humming to yourself, and you mess up his order—give him a caramel macchiato by accident and call him “darling” out of habit.

ex-military! nanami who stares at the drink, stares at you, and doesn’t correct you. not about the name, not about the coffee. he drinks it anyway. comes back the next day. you do it again. he doesn’t stop you.

ex-military! nanami who is fascinated by how you talk with your hands, by how you remember customers’ pets’ names, by how you laugh even when your feet hurt and the espresso machine is spitting steam like a monster.

ex-military! nanami who starts lingering a little longer, taking his coffee at the bar, watching you scribble dumb little drawings on to-go cups for kids. you offer to draw him too. he says no. you do it anyway. it’s a stick figure with glasses and a tie. he keeps the cup.

ex-military! nanami who doesn’t know what to do when you ask what he used to do. he says “contract work” and changes the subject. you don’t press. you just say, “sounds intense,” and give him a muffin on the house.

ex-military! nanami who watches you dance behind the counter to music you think no one hears. your joy is so loud it drowns out the ghosts in his head.

ex-military! nanami who walks you home one night when your shift ends late. no questions. just a steady presence beside you. you chatter the whole way and he listens like it’s the only thing he’s good at anymore.

ex-military! nanami who doesn’t flinch when you touch his hand. doesn’t flinch when you see his scars. doesn’t speak when you kiss them—just closes his eyes like you’re rewiring something inside him that’s been broken too long.

ex-military! nanami who can’t believe you love him. don’t you see what i’ve done? his body says. don’t you see what i carry?

and you smile like sunrise and say, “i see you.”

ex-military! nanami who starts sleeping through the night again. because of you. because of the way you breathe beside him. because of the way you pull him into the light like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

ex-military! nanami who loves you like a silent vow. fiercely. quietly. fully. not because you saved him, but because you reminded him he was worth saving.

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big fan of romance horror. big fan of terrible people still being loved. big fan of bending morality and turning the grotesque into something beautiful.

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the internet can be a dark place, but my blog is pink and sparkly

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Hi I saw your tag says Vivian had BPD so how does that play out with her relationship with smoke and stack? as someone who has BPD I feel like all the power she has would constantly send me spiraling lol 😂 Love your fics !!! Never stop ❤️

hey!! thank you so much for reading and asking this it means everything. 🥺🤍

so yes, vivian has bpd, and i really wanted to explore what that means for someone who’s powerful, feared, and still emotionally raw underneath. power doesn’t protect her from spiraling. it just means her breakdowns come with higher stakes. she’s in charge of an empire, but intimacy? vulnerability? that’s where she unravels especially with smoke and stack.

she loves them both but very differently. and because of her bpd, her fear of abandonment, identity struggles, and emotional extremes show up in unique ways depending on who she’s with.

vivian & smoke – fire meets fire (volatile, passionate, dangerous)

smoke is impulsive, intense, and sharp-tongued. he mirrors vivian’s rage and passion, and that’s what draws her and scares her.

• they fight. loudly. brutally. smoke doesn’t back down when she gets cruel he gets cruel right back. sometimes they’re screaming, throwing things, and ten minutes later they’re tangled up on her office floor like nothing happened.

• vivian thrives on his attention, and smoke knows it. he can push her buttons, tease her, and then pull her close like he’s the only one who really gets her. that chaos is addictive.

• she tests him constantly. she’ll provoke him, accuse him, even flirt with someone else just to see if he cares enough to lose it. and when he does? she feels safe because rage means love in her world.

• their sex is volcanic, yes, but it’s also about control. smoke makes her feel desired and destroyed at the same time, and sometimes that’s the only way she can feel real.

vivian & stack – the calm in her storm (until he isn’t)

stack is quieter, more steady. he doesn’t get swept up in her whirlwinds right away—and that throws vivian off.

• she sees stack as safe but suspects that safety might mean indifference. when she’s spiraling and stack stays quiet, it cuts deep. she reads his stillness as coldness.

• he doesn’t play her games. he won’t rise to every bait but he’s always there when she needs him. that consistency terrifies her. makes her want to run. makes her want to pull him into her lap and never let go.

• vivian lets her mask slip with stack. she’ll cry in front of him, or ramble, or spiral out, and he won’t flinch. he’ll just hand her a drink, sit with her in silence, or remind her who the hell she is.

• sometimes his calm infuriates her. she’ll throw a fit just to get a reaction but stack knows when to let her burn herself out. and when it’s time, he’ll step in and anchor her.

vivian’s bpd shows up as this constant storm inside her. she craves love but doesn’t believe she deserves it. she needs control but spirals when she has too much of it. she fears abandonment but pushes people away just to test their loyalty.

• smoke gives her fire and intensity a reminder that she’s wanted even at her worst.

• stack gives her stability and devotion a reminder that she’s loved even when she can’t love herself.

together, they make her feel whole. but she never stops testing it, never stops fearing it’ll all fall apart.

that’s the tension i love writing, how someone so powerful can still feel like she’s one step from breaking.

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You're running from your ex, trying to get to your apartment door. He chased you from the dumpster, trying to grab you as you took out the trash. During your mad dash for escape, you miss your door by one. Slamming the door open and shut, locking the door right before the banging starts. Your ex's yells sounding.

It's only then do you realize this is not your apartment. Slowly turning you find your neighbor watching you, spoon hovering over a bowl of ice cream. Bare except his shorts. His eyes narrow when your ex gives the door a hard bang, throwing an insult at you.

"Evening sunshine....seems like ya got yourself in some trouble?" Kyle says taking a bite.

"I'm so so sorry, I didn't mean to barge in." You sniffle, trying to keep the tears at bay.

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LaRue: Earn My Favor | MOORE TWINS

Summary: Vivian LaRue gets a peace offering she didn’t ask for — two chained men, bloodied and defiant. She inspects them, breaks a man’s fingers, lays down her rules, and makes it clear they’re hers now.

Themes: dominant femme character, humiliation and dehumanization themes, implied kink (muzzling, control, forced obedience), emotional coercion, god complex behavior, blood injury and knife use, manipulation and power games, BPD-coded OC, dubcon-coded power imbalance, sub!smoke and sub!stack dynamics, captivity themes, asset language, mob setting and implied systemic violence Word Count: 1.9k

Authors Note: HERE DAMN!!! jk love yall and thank you for 1k omgggeee. Hope you all enjoy muah <33

Tag List: @christinabae @queenofklonnie22 @anaiyaflys143 @thedondada05 @junkie05 @essence-134340 @blackpantherismyish

Part One

The room is hushed, but heavy with tension like the moment before a jazz band’s first note. A long banquet table stretches the length of the room, dressed in white linen and gold trim, half-full with men trying not to look nervous. They drink, they whisper, they steal glances toward the head of the table where she sits.

Vivian LaRue.

All eyes are on her, and rightly so. Draped in deep plum velvet that clings to every curve like a second skin, she’s a vision — a mountain of womanhood, regal and immovable. Her gown plunges at the chest, gold chains draped like a necklace across full, brown cleavage. Her hair is coiffed and curled in the way only a woman who owns every inch of herself can pull off. Rings glitter on nearly every finger, and her heels sharp, sky-high, red-bottom stilettos gleam beneath the table like weapons.

She doesn’t smile.

Her gaze stays steady on the men dragging in two prisoners

They're a mess. Hands bound behind their backs, clothes torn from the struggle, knuckles bloodied, mouths smarting with the kind of bruises that only come from refusing to shut up. Even now, they don’t walk, they’re yanked in, half-fighting, half-grinning through the pain..

“Your new dogs,” the fool beside her says, gesturing to them like they’re slabs of meat. “Streets call them Smoke and Stack. Strong ones. Smart. Thieves, killers, both. But wild. Dangerous. Thought you might enjoy the challenge.”

Her brow arches extremely unimpressed. Vivian rises slowly, like a coming storm, no rush, no need. The air shifts with her, the whole room tilting on its axis as though gravity’s remembered who’s really in charge.

She doesn’t speak, She doesn’t have to

Click. Click. Click.

The measured strike of her spiked red bottom against polished floorboards echoes like a countdown. Men have pissed themselves at the least.  She walks past the squirming idiot who delivered the twins, doesn’t even glance at him. Her eyes are locked on the taller one, Stack. The quiet one. The one who watches like he’s memorizing exits and weaknesses.

She stops before him, close enough that he can smell her perfume, sharp cinnamon and danger. Her gaze drags over him, from the busted lip to the dirt-streaked trousers. Then her hand lifts, smooth, deliberate, and presses flat against his chest. The fabric is cheap, thin, torn near the hem. She touches it like it offends her. Then, with one flick of her wrist, she lifts his shirt, exposing bruised ribs and sunken skin. Her eyes narrow, not in pity, but in cataloging.

“Hmm,” she hums, voice silken and amused. “You’ve been starved. Shame. You have a decent frame.” Her fingers trail along the curve of his side, not soft, not kind. Just a long, black stilettos nailed inspection, like she’s checking the quality of a cut of meat.

Then she grabs his face.

Ringed fingers clamp around his jaw, tilting his head side to side. She doesn’t flinch when he stiffens, doesn’t pause when his nostrils flare. If anything, she smiles wider.

“Pretty bone structure,” she murmurs, tilting his chin. “Eyes like something that forgot it was ever tame.”

She releases Stack with a little push, like she’s finished inspecting a steak and found it slightly overcooked.

Then slowly, with an annoyed click of her tongue — she turns to Smoke.

She moves like a lioness eyeing the loudest animal in the cage. Smoke shackled at the wrists, blood on his lip, eyes full of hell. He doesn’t flinch. He leans forward, chains rattling, jaw clenched, daring her.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” he spits, voice raw with rage and pride. “I ain’t your pet, bitch.”

The room stiffens. One of her men steps forward, ready to hit him but Vivian raises one hand.

She just smiles. Power radiates off her like heat off summer asphalt. Her lashes flutter, delicate as moth wings, like she’s smelling something rotten.

“You really oughta wash your mouth before speaking in my house,” she says, cool as winter champagne. “But I suppose manners are hard to come by when you’re raised in a ditch and dragged here in chains.”

He lunges or tries to. The chains snap tight with a violent clank, halting him mid-surge. Still, his lip curls, teeth bared like a feral dog.

She doesn’t step back.

She leans in.

“You know what I do with animals that bite?” she murmurs, lips nearly brushing his ear. “I don’t put 'em down. I break 'em. Bit by bit. Bone by bone. Until they beg to be useful.”

Then she shifts suddenly, sharp and she’s right in front of him. Both hands come up to cradle his face. Not soft. Firm. Controlling. Like she’s fitting him for a muzzle.

She cranes his head upward, forcing his eyes to meet hers.

“You must not know who I am,” she says, voice low, mocking, rich with warning. Her nails dig into his jaw just hard enough to sting, to leave little half-moon reminders of who touched him and why it mattered.

Then she shoves his face aside like it’s nothing. 

Like he’s nothing.

She turns back to Stack, calm as a queen walking through her garden. Her fingers hook into his bottom lip, tugging it down, inspecting his teeth like he’s a horse she’s considering buying.

Her expression is thoughtful. Unimpressed.

“This is your idea of a peace offering?” Vivian drawls, voice smoother than chilled champagne but twice as cutting. Her gaze is locked on the fool who brought them, one brow arched like a guillotine waiting to drop. “You drag two filthy, mutts into my house, wrapped in rusted chains like a damn sideshow, and you want what? A handshake? A cookie?”

Smoke snarls, lip curling like a dog that still thinks he’s got a shot at the kill. Stack exhales hard through his nose, slow and deep, his broad shoulders rising with the warning of a storm. They’re bloodied but proud like wolves caught, not conquered.

The man who brought them chuckles, too high, too nervous. “They’ll learn. I promise. You break ‘em right, they’ll serve well.”

.“What the fuck do I look like to you?” she says, still smiling, each word dipped in poison and pearls. “A dog trainer? A madam? Or maybe a fool?”

The smile slips off the man’s face like oil off glass. He stammers, taking a step back. “I—I just meant—”

Vivian turns to him slowly, her expression unreadable but her intent crystal clear. The air in the room shifts. Her steps are steady as she closes the space between them, her eyes fixed on his with the cold detachment of someone who already knows how this ends.

He watches her, frozen, then tries to smile. It's weak, uncertain, a flicker of charm he doesn’t realize is already too late.

She extends her hand. He offers his without thinking, desperate to stay on her good side.

The moment his fingers touch hers, she tightens her grip and bends them backward with a sickening crunch.

He cries out, falling halfway to his knees, breath caught in his throat as pain floods his arm. Her fingers don’t let go. The rings she wears dig into the delicate skin between his knuckles, and she applies pressure with cruel precision, watching the panic bloom in his eyes.

“You brought me blood and chains when I asked for my  money,” she says, voice calm but heavy, every syllable deliberate. “That’s your idea of honoring a month long debt?”

He shakes his head, gasping, but she doesn’t wait for him to answer.

With her other hand, she reaches down to her thigh and lifts the slit of her dress. A thin leather holster clings to her skin, just above the curve of her garter. From it, she draws a sleek silver knife, polished and thin as a whisper.

Without hesitation, she drives the blade into his side not deep, but clean. Just above the hip. It won’t kill him, but it will make every movement agony.

He screams. His knees hit the floor. Blood begins to stain his shirt, his belt, the floor beneath them.

Vivian leans in close, lips near his ear. Her grip on his hand hasn’t loosened.

“I still want my money,” she whispers. Her voice is warm now, almost intimate. “And every time you look at this hand— feel this hip—” she presses her nails into the bruised knuckles until he flinches, “—I want you to remember what else you owe me, nigga.”

She yanks the blade free and wipes it with a silk handkerchief before sliding it back into its holster. Her hands are steady. Not a drop of blood touches her dress.

He collapses fully now, writhing on the floor. His breath comes in short, wet gaspsz Vivian steps back, heels clicking softly as she turns from him like he no longer exists.

“Get out.”

One word. No need for more.

The chairs scrape harshly against the floor. Men exchange nervous glances and hurriedly obey, filing out like shadows retreating from light.

The room empties until only Smoke and Stack remain. Their breaths are heavy, chests rising and falling in a tense rhythm. Their eyes flick between Vivian’s poised figure and each other, unsure if they should run, resist, or fall to their knees.

She smiles, eyes sharp, amused.

“Well?” she asks, voice soft but laced with steel. “Aren’t y’all gonna thank me”

They stay silent. Not out of respect, not yet. Out of calculation.

Vivian clicks her tongue, sharp as a nail driven through wood.

“I should’ve killed you for that little outburst, Smoke.” Her voice is warm, thick as honey left out in the sun. She tilts her head just slightly, watching him like a cat watches a wounded bird. “Would’ve made a fine example.”

Smoke doesn’t flinch. The blood crusted on his mouth has gone dry. His hands are still bound, but his stare is unyielding.

Vivian smiles wider.

“But no. I see something in you. In both of you. You’re wild. Filthy. Loud. But I’ve broken in worse.”

She begins to pace again  slowly, deliberately   letting her heels echo against the marble like punctuation. Her fingers trail along the edge of the table, casual, like she owns everything in reach. Because she does.

“You’re not guests,” she says. “You’re not men. You’re assets. And in no time…” She glances back at them, lashes fluttering like she’s amused by her own generosity. “You’ll both be begging.”

She stops again, standing just before them.

“I’ll take the chains off. But Smoke — you?” She points a blood-red nail at his face. “You get a muzzle. Since you like to bark so loud and bite before you’re fed.”

Her expression softens in the cruelest way.

“Learn your place, and you’ll eat well. Sleep safe. Maybe even earn your name back. Earn my favor…” Her lips curl into something dangerous and slow. “And maybe I’ll breadcrumb you both with my attention. A glance. A touch. A little praise, if you sit pretty enough.”

Her voice drops to a purr, like the last breath before a kill.

“But run?” She shakes her head once, almost gently. “Run, and I will catch you. Wherever you go. However long it takes. I will find you.”

A beat of silence follows.

Smoke and Stack don’t speak.

They just breathe, still heavy, still locked in place.

Stack glances at Smoke.

Smoke looks back.

Something passes between them not fear, not submission. Not yet. But something that says they know what they’re in for now.

And they know it’s only just begun..

They’ve seen what she does to a man who owes her.

They’re wondering what she’ll do to the ones who don’t even know the rules yet.

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dry humping with smoke! dry humping with smoke! dry humping with smoke! dry humping with smoke!

a littl modern reference! but the interpretation is up to u :3 + dumbifiaction, puppy!reader & daddy kink if u squint IDK.. 🙈

he has no business being in your room, he has no business fooling around with you but yet here you are on top of him letting out sweet sounds. "yeah, ma? that feels good doesn't it?" he says so sweetly with a hand pressed up against your cheek.

this man is twice your age and how you two got like this is between the four walls of your bedroom, moonshine and the devil but if you want the simpler version, you had your eyes on smoke since you caught wind him and his brother returned back to town.

with smoke you'd always steal little glances, sweeten your words a little more and flutter your eyelashes, do anything to make him see you and that he did.

your clad cotton underwear clinging to your cunt so tightly that smoke can see the wet patch forming and the sight makes his cock twitch in his pants.

your whines are divine, soft little shutters of breath and pants. his hand finds the back of your neck and pulls you down, slipping your tongue into his mouth causing him to land his palm against your ass so hard that the action cause you to jump forward a little. “be good, take what’s given to you.” stern, like a father scolding his child for misbehaving.

“yes, sir” you break away from the kiss, sitting up ontop his lap. your a sight for sore eyes, curls disheveled some pieces pulled loose from the puff you had in. your lips, swollen; glistening with spit. his prefect little angel.

you run your hands against his arms, reaching his biceps. you can feel his strength underneath him, how he can just put you into in position he pleased whenever but he didn’t need too. not when he already has control over you.

“whichu thinkin bout, hm?” his voice makes you rut your hips up. its so easy to get you like this. “you thinkin bout where my dick is gonna reach inside you?” you beg this time, leaning down and kissing the nape of his neck “please daddy, i will be good, u wont even have to do the work!” desperate as one can be.

so smoke nods, unzipping his pants, kicking them and his underwear off, he slips your underwear to the side seeing your cunt glistening under the warm ambient lighting, “fuck girl. your tryna kill me huh?” he takes his finger and guides it through your folds, a line of precum presents itself. he smears it on the base and tip of his cock.

he guides your hips over his length, slotting it in between you. “you ready baby?” he says it softly, you nod your head while looking at him with big doe eyes. you start moving your hip and down, his mushroom tip bumping your clit. you can hear the sounds you two make when you slide back and forth, its flithy.

“wann kiss, gimmie kiss” you pant, already worked up from amateur movements. “so fucking bossy, can never ask daddy nicely. always, want, want.” he mocks you while speeding your hips up. you lean back down, chest no pressed against his, your mouth sloppyly connects with his. you feel your toes tingling, you start fucking drooling, spit seeping out from the sides of your mouth, smoke pulls away “nasty fucking, bitch.” your head drops to his shoulder, your crying. “it feels soso good sir, daddy pslease” your slurring your words, and thats when smoke knows your far gone.

“yeah, baby? daddys got you, don’t worry about nothing else. just let daddy take care of his pretty puppy”

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i love love love love my black girlies that write 👸🏿🩷

and i love love love the girlies who indulge and read 🤍🤍 thank you babe

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your blog is such a vibe i feel so good over here

as you shld!! I love that my little corner of the internet feels good 4u, omg my heart!!! thank you sm baby 🥺🤍

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hi babies!! i was gonna post another part of LaRue tonight but tumblr is literally so stupid and I am sleep deprived asf 😭 ill be sure to post it tomorrow on my breaks or after work. also those who asked to be on a tag list I'll try but if I get irritated again you'll just have to turn notis on 🤧

anywhoo gonna answer a few asks then go to bed nighty night 🤍

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Bff!Kyle who takes full advantage of your love of cuddles, wrapping his arms around you, large hands splayed over your plush belly as you rest your back against his chest.

You cuddle all of your friends, but he likes to think you save the most intimate positions for him. Sitting on his lap, laying on top of him, you always end up rubbing against him in a way that has him having to discreetly readjust his cock.

Little do you know…

With his palm pressed to your underbelly, dangerously low on your pelvis without you noticing, his thumb, and pinky extended at an angle directly over your pussy. He’s measuring you. Assessing how much of his cock you could take before you felt him in your guts.

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Nothing to say except I’m obsessed with your fics🧎‍♀️

thank you sm!! yall are so nice to me omg 🤧 this feels like a big kiss on the forehead thank you again 🤍🤍

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just finished the first part of your latest ony story and i’m so hooked. like you capture the social nuances of being southern so well and it’s something that i always look for in fics that have a “southern” reader. i’m totally going to read through the rest of your account 😫😫😫

ahhh thank you so much!! my adhd brain has me doing every little bit of research on southern culture etc just so it feels accurate, so thank you for saying that… now my brain finally can rest 😭 and just a little warning ‼️ some of my older writing is really cringe!! bewareee lol

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pinned redone. there's a lot of you coming out the woodworks dnt be shy say hello !!

☾ 𖥔⠀about cupid ⠀𖥔 ☾

hey hey — name’s cupid 🐆

she/her. 19. college hottie

multifandom blog | tall & plus-sized oc/reader enthusiast

smut? yes. plot? absolutely.

i live in my head 24/7 so all my posts are raw daydream brainwaves straight from the source.

big fan of angst, intimacy, and tension you could cut with a knife.

i don’t take requests (they overwhelm me!) but suggestions & scenarios? always welcome.

i write what i feel and post what i love. this is my lil corner of the internet — be kind.

⠀✶ rules + notes ✶

minors DNI. this blog is 18+

no hate, no weirdness — just plot n vibes

all ocs/readers are tall & plus-sized unless stated otherwise

my work is soul-crafted & spell-touched. don’t steal. i’m divinely protected & your karma will be swift.

i write what speaks to me — please respect that

⠀currently daydreaming...

‿︵ ִ ꪮ 𐔌 ᝰ.ᐟ𝓜asterslist ꢾ꣒ | ARCHIVE YOUR OWN | PINTEREST 🎀 | This Months Fav

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LaRue | Moore Twins

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

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

Word count: 4.6k

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

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

The club was quiet now. Too quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ma’am, I—”

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

Nothing. No sound.

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

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

“Groery run,” he muttered.

Vivian laughed, humorless and bitter.

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

She turned to Smoke next.

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

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

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

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

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

She took a breath. Steady. Furious.

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

She looked them up and down like something spoiled.

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

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

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

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

The slap landed like a shot.

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

Vivian didn’t flinch.

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

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

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

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

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

Vivian leaned back, cool and quiet.

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

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

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

Her eyes flicked to them once more, colder now.

“But you both bets figure out who runs shit”

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

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

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

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

Her eyes were death in stilettos.

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

But tonight wasn’t about them.

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

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

Good.

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

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

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

“You’re not.”

The gunshot rang out sharp and sudden.

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

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

A third man grabbed her arm. Mistake.

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

Not until she turned and pointed the gun at him.

The whole club gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, she nodded once.

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

The crowd was silent. Shaking.

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

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

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

She took a long drag.

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

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

And just like that — her crown was back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when she saw him.

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

And watching her like she was something painted in gold.

Vivian slowed her step. Tilted her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “

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

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

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

Her smirk deepened.

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

She didn’t have

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He obeyed. Immediately.

Good boy.

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

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

“Reginald , ma’am…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She liked that.

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

“No,” he whispered.

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

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

And still, the twins didn’t move.

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

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

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

Vivian smiled. Like a queen watching her enemies drown.

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

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

Smoke’s cigarette snapped between his teeth.

Stack’s cut cheek twitched.

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

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

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

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

“Yes ma’am.”

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

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

Smoke stayed.

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

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

“You sulkin’, honey?”

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

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

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

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

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

His jaw twitches. She sees it. Loves it.

“You don’t own me.”

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

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

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

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

“No, you ain’t. You mine.”

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

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

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

“Where’s Reginald?”

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

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

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

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

Vivian doesn’t blink.

“You niggas think I’m joking?”

Silence.

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

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

“Where. Is. Reginald.”

Stack still says nothing.

She doesn’t wait.

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

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

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

“Home,” she said over her shoulder.

And they followed.

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

They pushed too far.

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

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

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

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

With want. With worship.

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

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

She giggled. It wasn’t sweet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smoke and Stack didn’t breathe.

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

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

Vivian’s fingers slid lower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn right I did.”

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

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

“Say please, baby.”

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

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

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

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

Stack moaned against her fingers.

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

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

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

“Tell me what to do.”

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

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

And Smoke did.

Jealous. Hard. Hungry.

Just how she liked them.

[ccwpidsblog]

it’s really annoying that my smut gets so much more attention than the stories i actually pour time, layers, and emotion into. i spend hours editing and shaping those, like saints and sinners, and white dress black cat it’s kinda discouraging when the stuff i barely think about gets the most interaction. i truly believe that if my ony fic was hardcore fucking it'd be way more notes etc.... but i digress 😞

so to everyone who supports me no matter what i post, I love you a lil extra 🥺🥺🩷

still… i’m on the verge of deleting a huge chunk of my old stuff again lol.