disc0fairy

[disc0fairy]

Seeing her with my dream man makes me so happy for her I cannot lie!!!

Cutie Pies 👑👑❤️

Aaron Pierre and Teyana Taylor with her parents

[disc0fairy]

Cutie Pies 👑👑❤️

Aaron Pierre and Teyana Taylor with her parents

[disc0fairy]

[disc0fairy]

Without You, Without Me

A/N : I hope you guys enjoy this. More to come on this!😌

W A R N I N G S : Angst, Slow Burn, Mentions of Depression, Curse Words, Emotional Tension

W O R D C O U N T: 5,320

The clock on the wall ticked too loudly for a room that was supposed to feel safe. Ezra sat with her fingers twisted in her lap, staring at the rug. The therapist didn’t speak right away. She just waited, pen balanced between her fingers like she was measuring the weight of Ezra’s silence.

Finally, she leaned forward. "If Terry never came back," she said, voice steady but not unkind, "Would you still fight to become the person you’re trying to be?"

Ezra balanced her phone against a stack of books on the dresser. She angled the camera so her therapist wouldn’t see the laundry in the chair behind her. The apartment felt too quiet without cartoons humming in the background. Rowan was still sleep. She’d used the pocket of silence to tidy and then ruined the illusion with a spill of half-folded clothes across the bed.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Dr. Salgado said, gentle as ever.

“I keep packing and then unpacking,” Ezra admitted. “Like if I put the little socks in the wrong pocket, we won’t make the flight.”

“What would it mean, to not make the flight?”

“It would mean I don’t have to see him and find out whether I’m ready.” Ezra’s laugh was small and crooked.

“Ready for what?”

“For being in the same room for more than an hour without… without the history dragging its chair up to the table.” She sat on the edge of the bed and dug her thumb into the seam of the comforter. “We’re going for Rowan’s birthday. That should be simple. Balloons and cake and grandparents who spoil him. But I keep thinking Terry will look at me the way he used to. Like I’m home…and I’ll have to decide if I’m brave enough to walk through that door.”

Dr. Salgado nodded. “You’ve been married how long now?”

“Six years,” Ezra murmured, voice dipping low, “but… separated for almost a year. Not divorced. Just… living apart. Co-parenting. He comes to Texas every few weeks to pick up Rowan, spends time with him, brings him back. But we haven’t really been in the same house together for longer than a drop-off in months. And when we talk… it’s usually about Rowan, school, doctor appointments.. Nothing about us.”

“You still love him.”

Ezra didn’t even hesitate. “I could never see myself with anyone but Terry. He’s….he’s such an amazing father. Patient with Rowan in a way I never have to ask for. The love is still there, on both ends. I feel it every time I see him hold our son. I still… miss him. I miss the way he made me coffee every morning without asking how I wanted it, because he just knew. I miss his stupid habit of singing the wrong lyrics in the shower. I miss the way he used to wrap his whole body around me at night, like he could shield me from everything.” Her eyes burned. “But it’s like… we broke something. And I don’t know if just loving each other was enough to fix it.”

They unpacked bravery, anxiety, and hope in careful layers, like the layers Ezra laid in Rowan’s suitcase after the call. Tiny jeans. Soft joggers. The galaxy pajamas with smiling planets that he wishes he could wear everyday. In another bag she added his favorite coloring books, snacks for the plane, and his small blanket that still smelled faintly of baby lotion. Every folded piece felt like a promise to show up, even messy. Ezra paused, palm on the suitcase, and breathed through the knot in her chest. In twenty-four hours, she’d be in North Carolina. She didn’t know if she was ready, but she knew she was going.

That evening, Rowan was full of chatter. Ezra made him grilled cheese cut into stars and french fries, and they sat together at the table. That was his thing at the moment. Anytime she asked him what he wanted to eat, that was always the answer. She didn’t want to fuss with him tonight. While he ate dinner, she set up the tablet for FaceTime.

“Daddy!” Rowan squealed when Terry’s face appeared on the screen.

“Hey, buddy!” Terry’s whole face lit up. “Did you have a good day?”

“Uh-huh! I’m eating stars for dinner!” Rowan proudly held up the remnants of his grilled cheese.

Terry laughed. “Stars? That’s awesome, buddy. Can daddy have some?

Rowan laughed as he held his food up for Terry to take a pretend bite.

“Hmmm! Thats so good! Guess what Ro? I’m gonna see you tomorrow.”

Rowan bounced on the chair. “Me and mommy are gonna go on the airplane!”

“That’s right. We’re gonna have cake, and Gammy and PopPop are gonna spoil you rotten.”

Ezra watched from the side, the way Terry’s smile softened when Rowan talked, the warmth in his voice. Her chest ached. Part longing, part fear, because she still wanted that smile turned toward her, too.

 Rowan laughed, “Daddy’s happy,” in the simple certainty only a child could have.

Ezra kissed the top of his head. “Yeah, baby. Daddy’s happy.”

After Rowan’s bath, the apartment smelled faintly of lavender shampoo and the clean laundry. He was tucked into bed, sprawled on his side like he’d been poured there, his blanket clutched in one small hand. Ezra lingered in the doorway, watching his chest rise and fall before retreating to the half-zipped suitcase on the bed. Her phone lit up again with Terry’s name. She hesitated, thumb hovering for half a second longer than it should, then swiped to answer.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, warm. “You’re packed?”

“Almost.” She wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear while rolling another pair of Rowan’s socks into a tiny ball. “Flight lands tomorrow at three.

“I’ll be there,” Terry replied, no hesitation, like it was a given fact and not a choice. “Do you want coffee when you land? Or something for Rowan?”

“Coffee’s fine,” she said, smiling despite herself. “But you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cut in, gentle but certain.

There was a beat of silence.

“I’m glad you’re coming,” he said finally. “I know it’s for Rowan, but… I’m still glad.”

Ezra closed her eyes, her throat tightening. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Me too.”

They went through Ezra’s packing checklist, Rowan’s bedtime routine, and the plan for their first night. But under every logistical note was the unspoken truth of what this week could mean. Neither of them named it. Neither of them had to.

The airport was all bright glass and noise, the hum of rolling suitcases and distant boarding calls. Rowan clung to her hand with one small fist, the other gripping his stuffed dinosaur like a lifeline. His eyes darted from the moving walkway to the towering windows where planes taxied slowly into place.

“Mommy, is that ours?” he asked for the fourth time, pointing at a plane that had just parked.

“Not yet, baby” Ezra said, crouching to zip his little hoodie against the chill from the air vents. “Ours is still getting ready.”

They settled into a corner of the gate area, Ezra digging in her tote for snacks while Rowan sat quietly watching videos on his iPad.

“Mommy?” he asked, tone small but curious.

“Yes, my love?”

“Do you think we can all live in the same house?”

The question hit her like turbulence, sudden, stomach in her throat. She blinked, hoping he didn’t notice the split-second delay before she answered.

“What makes you ask that?” she said, keeping her voice light, steady.

He shrugged, staring at the carpet. “I don’t like it when Daddy’s far away.”

Ezra felt it in her ribs, that sharp ache of knowing he understood more than they’d ever explained. Kids weren’t blind to distance; they felt it too.

She ran her hands over the top of his head and kissed the spot gently. “I know, baby. I wish we could be in the same place all the time, too.”

“Then why don’t we?” he asked, the kind of honest, impossible question that didn’t know it was breaking her heart.

Her throat burned. “Sometimes grown-ups have to figure some things out first. But Daddy and I both love you more than anything. That’s never going to change.”

He seemed to accept that, leaning into her side with the easy trust only children had. She wrapped her arm around him, holding him closer than maybe necessary, breathing him in.

When their boarding group was called, Rowan gripped her hand tighter. His small body tensed as they stepped into the narrow tunnel leading to the plane.

“Is it gonna be loud?” he asked.

“A little,” she said, bending down so she could talk to him at his level. “But I’m right here the whole time. We can watch the clouds together, okay?”

Once seated, he pressed himself against her side, blanket draped over his lap. She let him keep his dinosaur on her tray table during takeoff, his fingers gripping its tiny arm while her own hand rubbed slow circles on his back.

As the plane rose, the city shrinking beneath them, she caught their reflection faintly in the window: her face pressed to his curls, his eyes wide but trusting. And beneath the hum of the engines, she felt the weight of his earlier question settling deep into her chest.

Ezra kept Rowan close as they made their way through the arrival gate. The noise of the airport swelled around her, but her heartbeat was louder, thudding against her ribs like it was trying to break free.

When the panic rises, don’t fight it. Name five things you see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, and one you can taste. Dr. Salgado’s voice came back to her, as if she were right there beside guiding her along the way.

Five things she saw: a man in a wrinkled business suit checking his watch, a little girl dragging a pink unicorn suitcase, the worn carpet patterned in blue swirls, the flicker of a departure board, the faded “Welcome to Charlotte” sign.

Four things she could touch: Rowan’s hand in hers, the strap of her bag digging into her shoulder, the smooth plastic handle of Rowan's cup, the crumpled boarding pass in her palm.

Three things she could hear: the sharp squeak of rubber wheels on tile, a baby fussing somewhere behind her, the echo of her own shallow breath.

Two things she could smell: coffee, floor polish.

One thing she could taste: the metallic tang of nerves on her tongue.

She spotted him before he saw her. Broad shoulders in a gray hoodie, head scanning the crowd. Even from here, she could see the slight twitch in his jaw, the restless shift of weight from one foot to the other. Was he nervous? She’d memorized those small tells years ago.

For a second, she let herself stand still, hidden in the river of people flowing past. It was the luxury of a heartbeat to study him without being seen. He looked both exactly the same and like someone she’d have to learn all over again. And then his eyes found hers...

Rowan spotted him too. “Dada!” The little boy wiggled until Ezra let go of his hand, and he tore across the polished floor. Terry bent and caught him mid-run, lifting him high, laughing in a way Ezra hadn’t heard in months. When he looked up, over Rowan’s shoulder, his eyes found hers and stayed there. Not a smile, not yet. Just that steady, claiming gaze that said, I'm happy you’re here. Truthfully, she felt the same way.

Ezra adjusted the strap of her bag and walked the last few feet to reach them. The hug they shared was careful, polite for Rowan’s sake, but her skin still knew the map of him. Wishing it lasted just a little bit longer.

“Flight okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. He did great.” She glanced at Rowan, who was babbling about airplanes and pretzels. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” His hand brushed hers as he took their suitcases, the touch electric and fleeting. They walked out into the Carolina air together, their son between them.

The drive from the airport was about thirty minutes, but it felt longer in the way moments do when you’re trying to memorize them.

Ezra sat in the passenger seat, one hand resting on the edge of her seatbelt. She kept stealing glances at Terry. The sharp line of his jaw, the way the gray hoodie stretched over his shoulders, how his hair had grown just a little bit. He smelled faintly of a cologne she remembered buying him one year, a scent she’d once buried her face in every night. The rhythm of his hands on the steering wheel was steady. She’d missed this. Missed him, more than she could put in words. And maybe that was the dangerous part. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked toward her. Once, he caught her looking. She didn’t look away quickly enough, and the corner of his mouth tilted, not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment, like yeah, I see you too. He didn’t comment, but the air between them shifted just enough to make her throat tight.

In the back seat, Rowan chattered like he’d been saving up every word he learned since the last time he saw his dad.

“Dada, guess what? My birthday’s almost here. I’m gonna be four! And Gammy said she’s making me a chocolate cake and PopPop said he’s gonna build me a pirate ship. A real one!”

Terry laughed, deep and warm, glancing at Rowan in the rearview mirror. “A real pirate ship, huh? Think we can fit it in the backyard?”

“Yep,” Rowan said with absolute certainty. “And you can be the captain, Daddy. And Mommy can be the pirate queen.”

Ezra felt something twist in her chest at that. “Pirate queen? That’s a big job for mommy. You think I can do that?” She teased.

Rowan grinned. “Yup! We can all live in the ship together. Then daddy won’t be so far away.”

The words hit her like an unexpected wave. Kids didn’t always understand the why of things. She didn’t realize that Rowan thought about them not being together as much as he did. She swallowed against the sudden sting in her eyes. “That… would be nice, buddy.” Her voice was soft, almost swallowed by the hum of the tires on the road.

Terry’s eyes flicked to her again, longer this time. He didn’t say anything, but she could feel the weight of what he wasn’t saying filling the small space of the car.

Flashback

It had been raining hard. Heavy drops rattled the windows while she sat hunched at the table, a mug of untouched coffee getting cold in front of her. She just wanted energy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. The last time she’d laughed without faking it. Terry came in from work, smelling faintly of the night air. He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door.

“You didn’t make dinner,” he said. Not accusing, but weary.

Ezra didn’t look up. “Wasn’t hungry.”

“That’s… every night this week. Ez, you gotta eat.. Did Rowan eat?” His voice was tight, frustration threading through it. “I work twelve hours and come home to a dark house. You’re just… here. Not here.”

He moved closer, bracing his hands on the table. “You don’t even try anymore. Not with me. Not with Rowan. Not with yourself.”

Her jaw clenched. “Do you think I want to feel like this? You think I enjoy waking up every fucking day and feeling like I’m drowning?”

His voice cracked, just barely. “I think I miss my wife. I miss the person who looked at me like I was worth something. Now you barely look at me at all.”

Her eyes burned. “Because when I look at you, all I see is what I’m failing to be. And I can’t fix that overnight. I can’t fix me overnight.”

“You don’t even try to let me in anymore!” His voice rose, ragged. “I’m standing here knocking and you’re on the other side, building walls!”

Tears slid down her face before she could stop them. “Maybe I’m protecting you from me.”

“Ezra, I want all of you! What don’t you fucking understand! Even the ugly, messy parts. But you keep pushing me out. And I—” His voice broke. He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “I’m starting to think you don’t want me here.”

Her breath hitched. “I don’t know what I want.”

He stepped back like she’d slapped him. “Then maybe I should go before you make it clearer.”

“You’re such a fucking coward,” she spat, anger flaring to cover the hollow ache inside her. “You’re just looking for an excuse to leave.”

“And you’re looking for an excuse to make me the bad guy,” he shot back. “You think I want to walk out? I’ve been trying to love you through this shit, but it’s like hugging a damn shadow.”

Something in him broke then, and she saw it. His eyes glassy, his chest heaving. He grabbed his jacket from the hook and walked out slamming the door.

That was the worst part.

End of Flashback

Stepping across the threshold, Ezra felt a strange tug in her chest. This was their house. The one they had shared before the distance grew between them. She could still see it as it had been. The sofa where they used to curl up after work, the little bookshelf by the stairs that had held Rowan’s baby books, the kitchen where they’d cook together and laugh in equal measure. Everything was mostly the same. The cushions had been fluffed, the hardwood gleamed under the late afternoon sun, and the smell, fresh linen, mixed with the lingering warmth of the house. It all hit her like a memory she’d been trying not to force away. A memory she both wanted and feared.

Rowan ran ahead straight to his room, clutching his dinosaur. Ezra followed slowly, her steps tentative as if the floorboards might remember her absence. Each room told a story. The framed pictures of birthdays, vacations, and small victories lined the walls; the rug in the living room that had seen spilled juice and baby Rowan’s “first’s.” It all belonged to them. And yet, for months, it had been just Terry’s. Her fingers ghosted along the banister of the staircase. She remembered arguing here once, voices rising. It wasn’t their worst one, but close to it. Rowan napping upstairs, unaware of the tension that would later tear them apart. Those memories still stung, a sharp pull in her chest, but she pushed it back gently. This week wasn’t about blame. It was about showing up, about fighting for what they both still wanted. Terry moved around the kitchen, checking on a small pile of mail, tossing his keys onto the counter, his movements casual. Every step, every glance he gave her, spoke volumes without words. The house had held them together once. Maybe it could hold them again. Ezra found herself pausing in the living room, letting the air settle around her. She sank onto the couch, Rowan climbing into her lap. She let herself inhale the familiarity, the faint trace of the life she’d left behind. She was happy to be back. Even if it was just for a week.

“I missed this house,” she admitted quietly, almost to herself.

“You mean… the place,” Terry said, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed loosely, “or the people in it?”

She looked up and saw him watching her with that same steady, claiming gaze, the one that could make her knees weak even after all this time. She swallowed. “Both.”

Terry moved closer, crouching beside her. “I missed you,” he said softly, and she felt the words settle around her like a warm blanket. He didn’t reach for her, but the sincerity in his tone filled the room.

Rowan squealed, breaking the tension. “Mommy, Dada, look! My dinosaur can fly!” He flapped the plushy in his small hands, eyes wide.

Ezra laughed, the sound catching in her throat. Watching Terry scoop Rowan into his arms, seeing the gentle patience in his every movement, the way Rowan’s face lit up. Her heart ached and swelled all at once.

This is him. My husband. This is the man I still love.

 This house had been a home once, broken by circumstances neither could fully control. But being here now, watching them together, she realized something: it could be again. It had to be.

Terry moved into the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, pulling ingredients from the fridge like muscle memory. Ezra lingered at the counter stool, elbows on the cool granite, watching him without meaning to.

“You want water, tea, wine?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Water’s fine, thank you.” Her voice came out softer than intended.

He handed her a glass without looking, but she caught the small quirk of his mouth when their fingers brushed.

They talked while he worked, tomatoes chopped, chicken sizzling in the skillet, about the plan for tomorrow. “My mom and Dad are so excited,” he said. “They’ve been counting down to this birthday like it’s Christmas.”

Dinner came together quickly, the three of them gathering at the table like they used to. Conversation bounced from Rowan’s favorite toys to which balloons he wanted, to who might come to the party.

Halfway through his chicken, Rowan looked up, completely unprompted. “After my birthday… will I go to school with Mommy or Daddy?”

Ezra froze for half a second, fork in hand. She could feel Terry’s eyes on her, steady, waiting. Also wanting to know the answer to that question.

“Buddy,” she said carefully, “we’ll figure all that out. You don’t have to worry right now.”

“But why can’t we all just be in this house?” His voice wasn’t sad exactly, just curious, like he was asking why the sky was blue.

Ezra’s throat tightened. She reached across the table, covering his small hand with hers. “We’re still a family. Even if Mommy and Daddy live in different places.”

Terry’s hand slid over Rowan’s other one, closing the circle. “And we love you. That’s not ever gonna change.”

Rowan seemed satisfied, returning to his meal with the single-mindedness only a four-year-old could manage. But Ezra’s heart kept thudding in her chest. She caught Terry looking at her. Not just the polite, co-parent kind of glance, but the one that saw straight through her. She didn’t look away this time. This was going to be a long week.

By the time they unpacked the suitcases, mostly Rowan’s clothes and a few toys he managed to sneak into his suitcase, night had begun to settle over the house. The soft glow of the kitchen lights reflected off the floors, and the quiet hum of the refrigerator seemed unusually loud.

Rowan was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Mommy! Dada! Can we call Gammy and PopPop now? I wanna tell them I’m here!”

Terry crouched to meet him, voice warm. “You wanna call them now? Alright, let’s do it.”

Ezra followed, standing a little back, letting them have this moment. Her chest squeezed at the sight of them together. Terry’s fingers brushing Rowan’s hair back as he helped him navigate the video call. Rowan’s little voice bubbled over the screen, excited and high-pitched.

“Gammy! PopPop! Guess what! I’m here! And my birthday’s almost here! We’re gonna have cake and pirates and—”

“Ro!” Terry laughed, shaking his head. “Save some surprises for when we get there, buddy.”

Ezra couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped her. It felt so normal, so ordinary, and yet it carried the weight of months apart. Watching Terry interact with their son in his element as a father, made her heart ache with longing and pride all at once.

Rowan jabbered on, and Ezra caught snippets of the conversation:

“…Mommy helped me pack… Dada, you’ll see!… Can we play pirates tonight?”

Rowan scampered over to Ezra. “Can we have cake tonight?” he asked, big brown eyes wide.

All Ezra could do was laugh. Rowan was so excited.

Mama Richmond’s voice floated through the speaker, warm and indulgent. “We’ll see yall tomorrow, babyboy. Get some rest so you can be ready for all the fun.”

Poppa Richmond added, “And give your mama and daddy a big hug and kiss from us.”

“I will!” Rowan promised.

“Love you guys,” Ezra said, leaning into frame.

“Love you,” Terry echoed.

“Love yall too!” came the reply, and then the call ended with a soft chime.

She laughed softly, ruffling his curls. “No cake tonight, baby boy. Soon, though. Very soon.”

For a moment, the quiet filled the living room, broken only by the patter of Rowan’s feet as he dashed toward the stairs. “Bath time!” he announced, as if it were a game.

“Bath time it is,” Terry said, giving Ezra a faint, amused smile before following their son upstairs.

Ezra trailed after them. In the bathroom, steam began to rise as Terry ran the water, Rowan already half undressed and chatting about some new show he found on his iPad.

They worked together without speaking much. Ezra kneeling to help Rowan out his shirt while Terry poured in a swirl of bubble bath. She caught herself watching the way his hands were so sure, so gentle with their son, like nothing in the world could shake his patience.

After the bath, Rowan padded into his room in fresh pajamas, smelling faintly of soap. They tucked him in together, Ezra smoothing the blanket over his legs while Terry adjusted the nightlight.

“Night, buddy,” Terry said, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Night, Dada.” Rowan turned his face toward Ezra expectantly.

“Goodnight, lovebug.” She kissed the warm curve of his cheek.

Then, without thinking, she and Terry met over their son to kiss his forehead at the same time. Their eyes caught, just for a second, lingering, before they both straightened.

“Love you, Mommy. Love you, Dada,” Rowan mumbled, already half-asleep.

“Love you too,” they said together, the words overlapping in the soft glow of the room.

She followed Terry out, pulling the door closed behind them, and for a few steps down the hall, they walked in silence. But her skin still tingled from that accidental closeness, and she had a strange, almost reckless thought.

Ezra disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the quiet house. Terry stayed in the living room, pretending to scroll his phone but really just listening to the faint hum of her voice as she sang in the shower. He hadn’t realized how much he missed those tiny sounds, the everyday ones that used to fill their shared space without him thinking twice.

When the water shut off, his stomach did a little twist. A few minutes later, the door cracked open and she stepped out, wrapped in a towel. Damp curls clung to her shoulders, steam still curling from her skin.

They met halfway in the hallway, both pausing like they hadn’t done this dance a thousand times before.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, glancing to the side as if the beige carpet suddenly became fascinating.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Terry said, trying for casual, even though his brain was screaming, She’s my wife...why do we feel like strangers?

Ezra’s eyes flicked up to his for a second, then away again, like she wasn’t sure how much space she was allowed to take up here. She tightened the towel around herself, fingers worrying the edge. Terry wanted to reach out and just hook a finger under her chin, make her look at him, and remind her that they’d weathered worse than awkward hallways and too much unsaid. But his feet stayed planted. He didn’t know if the wrong move would send her retreating again.

You know her better than anyone, he told himself. And somehow she still feels far away.

Ezra’s heartbeat thudded in her ears. Everything about this house was muscle memory, and yet she couldn’t shake the tension in her chest. She hated that part of her wanted to disappear back into the bathroom just so she could breathe.

“You good?” he asked, voice softer now, the edge of concern cutting through the casual.

“I’m fine,” she said, though it wasn’t the truth. “Just… tired.”

He nodded, like he didn’t quite believe her but wouldn’t press. They stood there for a beat too long, suspended between habit and hesitation. Then he stepped aside, giving her the hallway like a peace offering. They moved in opposite directions without a word. Terry toward the master bedroom, Ezra toward the guest room down the hall. The soft creak of the floorboards followed them like a reminder that the house remembered when they used to walk side by side instead of apart. Terry’s hand brushed the doorknob, and for a split second, he thought about calling her name, asking her to stay. Just for tonight. Just to see if it still felt like home when she was lying next to him. But the words caught in his throat, heavy with the weight of everything unspoken. Ezra’s fingers hovered over the guest room light switch. She could see him in her peripheral, the broad line of his shoulders as he disappeared into their…his….bedroom. The door stayed open for a moment, like it was waiting for her. She flicked on the guest room light instead.

“Night,” she said, her voice quiet enough that it almost got lost in the stretch of hallway between them.

“Night,” he answered, equally soft, and the sound of it lingered in the air long after both doors closed.

Terry laid in bed staring at the ceiling, one arm behind his head.  They’d slept in the same bed for years, through the best nights and the worst ones. He wanted to roll over, walk across the hall, and just pull her into him. But that wasn’t where they were right now. So he closed his eyes, listening for any sound from her room. A shift in the sheets. A sigh. Something. Anything. But the house stayed quiet, holding the space between them like it knew they weren’t ready to close it yet.

Ezra laid on her side in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the faint shadows on the wall. The sheets smelled faintly of detergent. She should’ve been able to sleep, but her body wouldn’t settle. It had been so long since she’d been here, and longer still since she’d fallen asleep with his arm draped over her, his breathing evening out against the back of her neck. She missed that warmth more than she would ever admit out loud. The steady, quiet proof that she wasn’t alone. Her chest ached with the want of it. Just… to be. To not tiptoe around the space between them or wonder if she was saying the wrong thing. To not have this ache where their life used to be. But fear still lingered like a shadow in the corners of her mind. The kind that whispered memories of nights when her own head felt like an enemy. When her depression convinced her she was too much, too broken, and not enough all at once. She hated the thought of pulling him back into that darkness, hated the thought of him looking at her the way he had back then, scared he couldn’t reach her. She rolled onto her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and wondered if maybe someday soon they could share a bed again. If maybe his hand could find hers in the dark like it used to. It wasn’t impossible. Not yet..

L U X <3

Tags: @onherereading @naughtynolly @plan3tch1ld @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @fakxmbj @injerafiend @putitonhimmakehimwannamarryme

More to come on this! Let me know what you guys think! I love the feedback. Im not done with Terry and Ezra.

Also, I am thinking about scraping What Love Takes... :( I'm just not feeling that one anymore... I have also had a hard time even wanting to work on it. BUT THISSSS idea has taken over my mind. IDKKKK let me know..😭

[disc0fairy]

Rivalry & Romance

Enemies to Lovers workplace romance

*Remember you are in charge of your own consumption. 18+ up audiences only; minors please don’t interact!* THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION 

*Please do not plagiarize, repost, or steal my work. This doesn’t count for re-blogs!*

*the book excerpt above is from ‘The Cruel Prince’  by Holly Black

SUMMARY: I think I’m obsessed with the early 2000s. But this is set in the era of MapQuest and Motorola Razrs. You and Terry have been at each other’s throats for months. Putting the term “Workplace rivalry” to shame. 

PAIRINGS: Terry x Tatum (black, fem, reader)

WARNINGS: Terry being an asshole

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is going to be a slow burn, So there won’t be any smut in this fic. Just simple character building.

TAGLIST

@nayaesworld @keehendrixx @theereinawrites @theereina @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @megamindsecretlair @episodes-ff @blackgurlnhermoods @dxddykenn @pinkkycherrish @pinkkycherrishh @uzumaki-rebellion @urfavblackbimbo @kianaleani @shallipii @mymindisneverhere @onherereading @skyesthebomb @gg-trini @blyffe @melalsworld @mogul93 @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @sweettea-and-honeybutter @notapradagurl7 @miyuhpapayuh @simplyzeeka @playgurlxoxo @yassbishimvintage @dbaileyblog @jimmybutlrr @versaceslutz @ruewritesoccasionally @kaylalb @noir-lullaby @jadatingz @madamedantes @charmedthoughts @daughterofapollo-7 @cardi-bre91 @thabiddie23 @mama200195-blog @venusincleo @slvt4her @skvrpion @constanthavok @dutifulliythoughtfulenthusiast @massivenightdreamer @astasteofmir @callingallbaddies @nubiawrites @nubiagurllll @theglamclosetsl @alicewonderringland @kumkaniudaku @zunibugsiren @secrettawolfpanda @fakxmbj @zunibugsiren

If I missed anybody, please comment and let me know!

“I told you to make a left three miles back!” you exclaimed, crossing your arms in frustration. 

“I swear to god if you say that one more time, I’ll pull this car over. I’m literally an ex-marine, I know my way around a map,” Terry said, his voice taking on a rumbling growl. You roll your eyes, huffing as you turn away from him to look out the window. Your cybersecurity company planned a business retreat for you and your coworkers as a way to celebrate the huge account they just obtained and boost morale. Pairing you with your ‘least compatible match’, your boss thought it’d be a great way for you and Terry to try and get along.

FLASHBACK

“Nora please! Pair me with anyone but him,” you begged your boss. You knew it was a strong possibility that she’d pair you with Terry, that doesn’t mean that you weren’t going to fight it.

“Tatum, try and look at it from my perspective. I’ve got two team leads who don’t get along, which is making it really hard for me to conduct meetings. You two can’t be in the same room for more than 5 minutes without world war three happening.”Nora says, closing her laptop. 

“Look at it like this, if my top two performers of my team are constantly butting heads, what kind of example do you think that’s going to set for your subordinates? You and Terry either find a way to deal with each other or both of you will have to think of a change in departments.” She finishes, her tone signifying that there’s no room for discussion. 

With a sigh you say, “Fine, I’ll do my best. Just make sure you tell that meathead the same thing.”

END FLASHBACK

With a huff you say, “I can’t believe Nora actually though pairing us together would work. We still have 3 hours left on the road.”

“It’ll go by quicker if you shut up,”Terry grumbles, reaching forward to turn his playlist up. 

“Ugh! And do we have to listen to classic rock the whole way? Nobody wants their eardrums to bleed  24/7 like you do” You add, positioning your body to stare Terry down. Despite hating his guts, Terry was fucking hot, and boy did he know it too. 

“Well, it’s better than listening to your voice all day, or at all for that matter,” Terry glances over at you, a teasing half smirk on his face. He reaches  for the volume switch on his steering wheel, turning the volume up yet again. 

He wasn't exactly sure how your rivalry started but Terry knew that he couldn’t stand you. How you were always so warm and glowy. Flashing your grossly attractive smile around the office like those knuckleheads deserved to be graced by the sun each morning. Walking around in your stupid clothes that seemed to cling to every curve, his eyes would always be drawn to your annoyingly plump ass. Terry hated your guts, but he could appreciate a fine woman. 

You roll your eyes at Terry’s comments, not wanting to further this verbal sparring session. Sliding your eye mask over your eyes, “Just wake me up when we get there,” you said, reclining your chair back.  

Terry lets out a defensive snort, clearly unimpressed with your dismissive attitude. “Fine, princess. Don’t let me disturb your beauty sleep.”

You roll your eyes, sitting in silence at Terry’s harsh words. “You’re insufferable,”you mumble under your breath. 

Terry just smirks, he laughs,a deep mocking sound that echoes throughout the car. “Insufferable? That’s rich coming from you Tatum. At least I’m honest about who I am and what I want.”

You snatched the eye mask off your face, a gentle rage brewing under the surface. “Don’t pretend that you know anything about me, Terry.”

Another chuckle leaves his mouth, a cold and mirthless sound. “Oh, I know plenty about you, Tatum. More than you like probably. After all, it's not hard to figure out what makes you tick when you’re so transparent.” He reaches forward, turning down the volume slightly, “You’re a puzzle, sure, but not a particularly complex one. Jealous, insecure, and secretly craving validation from those you despise.”

You scoff, meeting his eyes, “Please remind me when I asked for your lackluster input. You know nothing about me Terry.”

He raises both hands in mock surrender, a teasing smirk adorning his infuriatingly handsome face,”You didn’t have to ask, it’s written all over you. I figured since we’re stuck on this drive together, I might as well entertain myself by analyzing your pathetic attempts at independence.”

“Why are you like this?” you ask with a shake of your head. 

Terry pins you with his piercing green eyes, “We don’t have enough time to go through all of that, princess.”

“Well whether we like it or not we’re stuck together for the weekend. Obviously it seems like we’re not going to make any progress so how about we don’t speak to one another unless it’s absolutely necessary,”you say your hands wringing together. All of this hostility was triggering you, and you didn’t want to have a full fledged episode in front of Terry. 

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “If that’s what you want, then so be it.” He adjusts his hands on the steering wheel focusing on the road. Terry looked seemingly lost in thought, but the set of his jaw and the rigid line of his shoulders betrayed his true state. You got under his skin, and he couldn't put his finger on why. Terry just knew he had to get you out of his system one way or another. 

You however, were fuming inside. How dare Terry pretend to even know a thing about you. It pissed you off even more to know that he was right. 

“You’ve been avoiding me around the office,” you start. “Whenever we need to come up with a proposal together, you send someone else in your place. You always leave the room when I enter it. What did I do to you to make you dislike me so much?”, you ask, your eyes burning holes in the side of his head. 

Terry sighs, “Avoiding you implies that I care more than I should. That is not the case.” His words are dismissive, but the way he keeps glancing at you could indicate otherwise. 

You huff in frustration, you’re not getting through to him, “So if you’re not avoiding me, what would you call it?”you press, tilting your head to the side slightly. “Because it feels like you’ve been going out of your way to avoid me these past few weeks.”

Terry flicks on the blinker before exiting the highway, within the next six minutes you’re parked at a ‘Buc-ee’s’. You watch as Terry takes a deep breath, seemingly composing himself before saying, “I’m focused on my work, performing well and efficiently. I don’t understand why you can’t get that through your thick fucking skull.”

The deflection pisses you off, “So why me then? You’re perfectly pleasant with everyone else in the office, but when I’m involved it’s different.” 

Terry’s eyes drift over you, a mask of indifference painting his face. “Is this conversation going anywhere? Or are you going to keep whining about not being liked?” 

You sigh with defeat, turning to face forward you decide to keep your mouth shut, this conversation doing more harm than good. 

“I’m just going to fill up and grab something to eat, do you want anything from inside?” Terry asks, grabbing his keys and wallet. You shake your head, ready for a few minutes alone to screw your head on straight. 

“Suit yourself, just don’t bother me if you’re hungry in an hour,” and with that, Terry gets out of the car. Halfway into the store, Terry turns back and spots you wiping your eyes. Something in his chest tightens at the fact that he made you cry. Your verbal sparring sessions would always be the highlight of his day, you always had a witty comeback, giving him a run for his money. He’s so lost in his thoughts about you, he doesn’t even realize that he’s next up in line. Terry places his order, getting something additional for you, then heads out. 

Back in the car, you call your mom, needing a pep talk from her. “Baby, sometimes two people just don’t get along. Just keep being you, that’s all you can do. I’m sure he’ll come around, what’s not to like?”

You sigh, “But mama, you don’t get it! He’s so frustrating, nobody’s ever gotten under my skin like this. It’s like he knows where and how to press my buttons. It’s getting tiring, Nora said we need to get along or she’ll transfer both of us.”

Your mother stays silent on her side of the phone. She knows her daughter, and her daughter just might have a crush on her work rival. “Are you sure there’s no other reason why you two don’t get along?”

Her statement stuns you, your train of thought coming to a complete halt. “Mama be serious, he’s told me time and time  again that I’m not his cup of tea,”you say, wrapping your cardigan tighter around midsection. Looking up you see Terry come out of the Buc-ee’s, bags in hand, making his way to the car.

“Look mama, I have to go but I’ll call you once we get settled in. I love you , bye” you say ending your call. Terry watches as you hang up the phone and pull down the sun visor to wipe away any moisture gathered under your eyes. Guilt heavy like a rock sat uncomfortably in his gut. He never wanted to make you cry, or feel bad about yourself. The truth is, he admires you, how you never seem to let the pressures of the day get to you. How you had a smile for everyone in the office, including Greg, who obviously wanted to fuck you. Always smiling your perfect smile at these people who didn’t deserve it, him included. 

Walking to the passenger side window, Terry taps twice to grab your attention. With a start, you meet Terry’s gaze through the tempered glass. Rolling your window down, you look at Terry over your librarian-esque glasses, something he finds oddly cute. 

Passing the bags of food through the open window. “I wasn’t sure what you liked so I got chicken, beef and tofu in case that’s your thing,” Terry said, his eyes refusing to meet yours. This was uncharted territory for him, he wasn’t the ‘thinking about others feelings’ type.  He liked to avoid attachments, they slow him down. Terry didn’t need another person he cared about being ripped from his life, he couldn’t take that pain again. 

“Terry? Are you good?” you ask when you notice Terry’s eyes went unfocused and he was lost inside his head.

Terry nods his head, handing you the food, “Yeah sweet girl, hold these for me. I’m going to fill up so we can hit the road.” You barely have time to respond before Terry’s on the other side of the car filling up. 

Where the fuck did that come from? You thought. Reaching into the back you pull out a chicken sandwich. Reaching for your drink, you notice Terry bought your favorite. His thoughtfulness sends a shiver down your spine. Terry might not think you’re a puzzle, but he definitely is, infuriating and alluring in equal measure. 

Once the tank is full, Terry slides back into the driver’s seat. You can feel the energy shift as he settled in. You glance over at him and you’re startled to find he’s already looking at you. 

“Look, I don’t want to spend the rest of this retreat biting each other’s heads off. Believe it or not Tatum, I don’t want to fight with you. It’s clear we both are passionate and have strong viewpoints.  For the sake of our jobs, and a cohesive work environment, I think we should just pretend to get along for the duration of the trip.” Terry looks over at you apprehensively, hoping what he just said didn’t piss you off. 

You sighed before turning your body to face Terry, “I don’t want to argue with you either, but pretending isn’t going to help anything when we have to go back to the office next week. I’ll do my best to not piss you off, all I ask is that you do the same.” You state, finally meeting Terry’s eyes. He’s looking at you with apprehension, sizing you up. 

“You’ve got a deal,” he says, outstretching his hand. You place your hand in his, the familiar spark shooting up your arm. Terry quickly slides his hand out of yours, starting the vehicle, you both head back out on the road. 

3 HOURS LATER 

“Well, look who finally decided to show up!” Nora exclaims, as Terry rolls both your suitcases into the hotel lobby. Despite being a complete asshole at least Terry was raised as a gentleman.

“Ha Ha, very funny Nora. Those directions you sent sucked,” Terry grumbled, taking his room key from Nora’s outstretched hand, not noticing the devious smirk her face held. You follow behind Terry outstretching your hand as well.  

Nora’s face pinches with nervousness, “So, umm, little mix-up with the rooms.” Terry stops abruptly. You watch his head hang, shoulders sag, and you hear a deep sigh come from him. 

“Does this mean what I think it does?” Terry asks, turning to face Nora. 

“Well somewhere during the registration process, the amount of rooms needed got mixed up. And since you two were the last to make it in, you guys have to room together. And before you ask, the hotel is fully booked for some medical conference.” Nora finished. This was obviously an uncomfortable conversation for her to have. Her face was red as hell. 

The last thing you wanted right now is to be rooming with Terry. But, being the people pleaser you are, you give Nora a small smile. “It’s only a few days Nora, I’m sure we won’t burn the hotel down.”

You hear Terry scoff behind you, “Speak for yourself.” You roll your eyes at his comment before patting Nora on the shoulder. With the deepest sigh you can muster, you head toward the elevator. 

“Tatum, wait,” Terry says. You turn and Terry takes in your exhausted expression. “I don’t think anyone should be subjected to my snoring. That’s all I meant,” Terry said, with a shrug of his shoulders. A sheepish smile forms on his lips.

Another heavy sigh leaves  your lips, “This isn’t ideal for me either, Terry. Do you think I want to be trapped in a room with someone who would rather be anywhere else?” Your enthusiasm meter had finally reached E. All you wanted was a hot shower, a face mask, and a glass or three of wine. Now you’d be spending your evening undoubtably bickering with Terry over what to watch. 

Terry’s smile fades, replaced by a grimace of discomfort. “Look, Tatum, I didn’t ask for this anymore than you did.” He rakes his hand down his face, the action oddly attractive to you. 

“But let’s get something straight: this isn’t personal. It’s complicated.” Your gaze flickers away from him, unable to hold his stare for long. “We can figure out a way to coexist, can’t we?” he asked, the smirk returning. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s about fifty other things I’d rather be doing.” Terry turns, clearly dismissing you. 

An unamused chuckle leaves your lips as you stride past Terry toward the elevators. You may or may not have called him an asshole along the way. Terry scoffed, following behind you. A dark smirk rose on his face as he watched your ass move in the leggings you wore. Not that you needed it, but Terry could really see the difference the pilates classes were making. 

You two ride up the elevator in tense, annoyed silence. Terry insists on carrying both your luggage all the way to the room. “You can have the shower first, I’ll run out and grab us something to eat. So you can have privacy. Just text me when you’re decent.” Terry says, placing our luggage in a corner then heading to the bathroom. 

“Terry?” you ask, nervousness creeping its way up your spine. To your left there was one king bed. The indication is clear that you’d either be sharing a bed with Terry, or sleeping on a very unappealing loveseat.

A small sigh leaves Terry’s lips. He needed to put some distance between you two if he was going to keep his head in straight for the rest of this trip. “Yeah, Tatum?” he asks, you can hear the tiredness seep through the edges of his voice. 

With a deep breath you say, “I know this arrangement isn’t ideal for either of us. But, I appreciate you being a gentleman about everything. I think we’re both adult enough to manage sleeping next to each other for a few days. And don’t try to be coy about it, you can’t sleep on the floor for 3 nights. I won’t let you.” 

Terry opens his mouth to argue with you, but he sees the determination settled into your features and concedes. Usually, with anyone else he’d put up a fight,” Fine, fine, I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

A triumphant smile blooms on your face, and Terry looks away. Your brows crease in confusion, until you see the tips of his ears begin to turn red. 

“Well, I’ll just go take a shower now. You don’t have to wait, I should be done in like an hour and a half.” You say, bending over to open your suitcase. You smirk deviously when you hear Terry’s sharp intake of breath behind you. 

“Right. I’ll see you in an hour and a half.” Terry says, and then he’s out the door. Before you have time to dwell on Terry’s abrupt exit, your phone rings. A small smile erupts when you see your sister’s contact appear on the tiny screen. Flipping open your phone, you press the green button, and put the phone up to your ear.

“Taryn, you always call when I’m about to do something,” you teased. You can practically hear your sister’s eyes roll through the phone.

“My timing is perfect then. I’m with mama we’re calling to check in on you,” your sister replies. 

You smile and shake your head, “We just got in. Apparently there was a mix-up with the reservation so Terry and I are going to be sharing a room for the next three days.” You say, pulling out everything you need for your shower routine. On the other side of the line your mom and sister are staring at each other, mouths hanging open. 

“Wait, you're going to share a room with someone you once called ‘green goblin’. And I don’t think you meant it in a nice way,” your sister said.

You sighed and rolled your eyes, “When is calling someone a goblin ever a term of endearment? Terry and I came to an agreement while we’re here, we’ll do our best to try and get along. Or we’ll fake it.” You finish with a shrug. 

“Riiight, an agreement. That hotel is going to burn down,” your sister finished with a cackle. 

You rolled your eyes, a dry chuckle leaving your lips. You’re sitting on the bathroom sink yapping with your sister and mom. Before you knew it you glanced at the clock and 30 minutes had passed. “Taryn I appreciate you and mama calling to check on me, but I need to shower before Terry gets back with the food. I’ll talk to y’all later. I love you.” Your sister, mother, and you all exchange goodbye’s and you hang up. 

Turning on the radio nestled on your nightstand, you start to gather everything for your extensive night routine. Landing on a random station, the sensual voice of Dru Hill floods your suite. Humming the melody, you begin to undress. Your body taking on an autopilot, the regular routine of cleansing yourself putting your stimulated mind at ease. It was nice to shut your brain off after spending all day at war with your emotions about your current predicament. 

You always admired Terry, his calm but loud presence, how self assured he was, and how he always seemed to know the answer before the question was asked. Searching through memories, you tried to find one that could pinpoint when the animosity started to take root, but you came up empty. Shaking your head, you try to ignore thoughts of Terry and focus on your shower. 

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

TERRY

“So, how was the drive up?” Maurice (co-worker) snickered, passing Terry a beer. 

Terry’s eyes were going to get stuck as much as he rolled them today. “Don’t even start that shit man, I came down here for a minute of peace.” Terry says, grabbing the beer and taking a large gulp. 

“So I take it you two didn’t solve your issues,” Maurice teases as he watches his usually calm, cool, and collected co-worker break a sweat. 

Terry scoffed, setting his beer down with a little more force than necessary, “No, Mo, we didn’t. In fact, she suggested that we just fake getting along for appearances.” Maurice studies his friend, the former marine usually never let anything get to him. Yet, here he was about to blow a gasket over their fine ass co-worker. His knee bouncing in irritation, the subtle but constant tick of his jaw.

“Aye, T, are you sure you’re good man? You just don’t usually get this rattled. Did Nora say something?” Maurice asked.

Terry shook his head, a grimace turning his face down. “Basically she told us if we can’t find a way to get along, then we’re both out.” Terry sighs, running his hand over his face in exasperation.

”I don’t know what it is, man. It’s like she found her way under my skin and is stuck there. Everything she does annoys me, c’mon man, you’ve seen how she is around the office.”Terry said, motioning the bartender to bring him another beer. 

“C’mon what? She’s a nice girl, cool to work with, really pretty, and has a great ass. What’s not to like?” Mo teases, hoping to get Terry riled up. 

Terry could feel his chest tighten at his friend’s obvious approval of your appearance. It was the same chest tightness he got when Greg would hold open doors for you and bring you your favorite Starbucks order.

“Aye, T, I’m going to say something. When I say this, just think, don't give me an answer. But have you ever thought that maybe you’re attracted to her?”

The question hits Terry like a ton of bricks, his beer frozen mid-air as Maurice looks at him with a knowing smile on his face. Was Terry attracted to you? ‘He couldn’t be’, he thought. But, deep down he knew the answer to Maurice’s question. Of course he was attracted to you. 

A knowing smile appears on Maurice’s face at Terry’s lack of answer,”You have three days to change her mind and think you aren’t the asshole you pretend to be. Look man, I get it, some people really just don’t like each other. But, I don’t think that’s the case here. Give Tatum a chance, she isn’t all bad. Figure it the fuck out, for everyone’s sake,” Maurice finishes. With two slaps to the back, Maurice leaves Terry in the hotel bar with his thoughts.

Was he attracted to you? Terry scoffed to himself, you were beautiful obviously. Intelligent, charming, funny as hell, and as much as he hated to admit it he loved working with you. The bickering arguments were the highlight of his day. Terry always made his coffee at 7:42am, because he knew 3-5 minutes later you would come strolling in, and he’d have the perfect view of your early morning strut, beaming smile, and a figure to kill for. 

The waiter comes out with a huge to-go bag full of foods that Terry thought you would like. With a deep sigh, Terry grabs his beer and the food, heading back up to your room.

The seductive sounds of Dru Hill filters through the bathroom door as Terry enters the suite. He tenses, muscles in his jaw ticking as he can hear you singing softly. 

He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose, an attempt to calm his suddenly racing heart. The image of you, naked and wet under the cascading water, flashes through his mind like abrupt bursts of light. He shakes his head, trying to banish his sinful thoughts of you. 

Walking over to the small kitchenette , Terry placed down the bag of food. Plating it, and setting out a glass of wine for you and beer for him. In the bathroom, you’re completely unaware of Terry’s presence. The cherry blossom scent of your shampoo fills your nose, its familiarity bringing you a sense of calm. 

Not to mention the radio station you picked was playing all your favorites. Detangling through your curls, you sang Mariah Carey’s ‘Obsessed’ damn near at the top of your lungs. Terry sat on the other side of the door with a small smile on his face at your carefree singing. Unable to sit any longer, Terry rises from the bed and begins to pace the room. His thoughts waging a war in his head. He stops in front of the window in your room, staring out at the city lights below without truly seeing them.

Whether he liked it or not, somehow you’d managed to worm your way under Terry’s skin. He had yet to decide if this was a good or bad thing for him. 

The bathroom door creaks open and Terry hears the startled gasp you let out behind him. “Oh, did I take too long? You set all the food up, thank you Terry!” You cooed, patting your hair dry with an oversized t-shirt.

You watch Terry’s tense shoulder as he turns to face you. You had forgone your contacts, black cat eye frames sat on your nose giving you an innocence that made Terry clench his fist. You looked so soft, not the office siren that strutted around and ruled her team with an iron fist. Just Tatum. 

You watch as Terry scratches the back of his neck, “Yeah, no problem. Think of it as phase one of my apology.”

Your eyes widen as you take in Terry's words, “Wait, did I transport to a parallel universe in the shower? You’ve never apologized to me before,” you say, skeptically. Your mind was reeling, there’s no way this is the same guy you arrived with. 

A bashful grin spreads across Terry’s face at your acceptance, “I’m turning over a new leaf here, now come please sit down,” he gestures to the sofa. “C’mon, sit with me,” Terry says, as he pats the spot next to him. 

You eye the food, then back up to Terry before saying, “Sure, just give me a minute, I don’t want my hair dripping all over you.” 

Terry nods, shooting you a small smile, “If your food gets cold, it’s on you,” he finishes, with a teasing tilt in his voice. You playfully roll your eyes as you try your best to soak up your damp hair with a t-shirt. 

“So what are we watching?” You ask, sitting next to Terry. The gentle brush of your bare thigh against his, causing goosebumps to bloom across your skin. 

Terry clears his throat before mumbling, “sports highlights.” He turns up the TV signaling that he wants silence.

A dry chuckle leaves your lips, “I see the asshole is back.” Reaching for your kindle and your food you settle into the couch completely prepare to tune Terry out for the rest of dinner, this was going to be a long 3 days. 

Okay y’all! Please Tell me what you guys think! I think this could be a 4 -5 part series. I hope you guys like it! I just wanted to get this out before I start flooding y’all with sinners/ MBJ fics. 

UNTIL NEXT TIME <3

TEE

[disc0fairy]

Leticia's New Cat

Chapter Five

Note: To those who follow this story, I'm sorry I haven't updated it in a while. Stolen had me in a chokehold, and it took some time to move back into writing fantasy again. While I'm here, I'll also try to update the Jaguar this week. Thanks for your patience.

Leticia walked out of the restaurant with two large bags, grinning widely.

Pierre was going to love her for this. For the past two weeks, she'd been swamped with her new project and had been feeding him and her pumas canned food. He never complained, always cleared his bowl, but she still felt guilty.

The chef she’d hired to cater Gerald’s event had been so sweet. After hearing about her situation, he whipped up a whole feast just for her cats.

She shifted both bags into one hand and was about to flag down a taxi when her phone rang.

Gerald.

She picked up, her smile spilling into her voice. "Hey."

“Ohh, someone’s in a good mood.”

"Yeah… my cats are about to have a feast. I’ve been neglecting them since I started working on your event. I’m just happy I can finally give them something special.”

“Oh, you’re a cat mom! What kind of cats are we talking about?”

"Uhh… well… they’re very big cats. I have two pumas and a jaguar.” She let out a nervous laugh.

There was a low whistle on the other end. “Lettie… I knew you were a strong woman, but this? How are you keeping them as pets?”

"Well, they’re not exactly pets. More like rescues. Foster kids, even. I’ll let them go once I’m sure they’ll be okay on their own. They’re too wild to be kept permanently."

“Wow. I’m impressed. I want to hear more—which actually brings me to why I called. I want to take you out to dinner.”

Leticia smiled and quickly straightened her expression before replying.

"I don’t have any new updates on the event yet, Gerald. We’ve been talking every day, and I’ve seen you twice this week already.”

“Mmhmm. And when have we ever actually talked about work?” He paused. “Send me your address. I’ll pick you up by eight. Maybe I’ll get to meet your cats too.”

“My place is kind of hard to find if I’m not there to guide you.”

“I’ll find it.”

Pierre was just finishing hiding his clothes when he heard Lettie’s cab pull up. He shut the wardrobe with a soft click and glanced around the room. The bowl was clean, the canned tuna—he shuddered—disposed of.

Two weeks of back-to-back tuna. Really, Lettie? He chuckled to himself. He never ate his. But the pumas? They had no choice.

With a sigh, he shifted back into his jaguar form and stretched out on the floor to wait.

Lettie came in humming, her key jingling in the lock. She’d mentioned wanting to start leaving the door open for him, but he’d insisted she keep it locked.

“I can always use the window,” he’d told her.

Juggling both bags, she danced her way to the kitchen, tossing a casual, “Hey,” over her shoulder.

“You’re in a good mood,” he said.

Her laugh rang out from the kitchen. “I’m always in a good mood.”

“Debatable.”

“Don’t start or you’re getting tuna.”

“Oh, so you know it’s a punishment,” he muttered dryly.

A mouthwatering aroma drifted from the kitchen and Pierre lifted his head, curious.

She reappeared moments later with a tray piled high with food — rich, steaming, and obviously expensive.

She dropped the tray in front of him, then sauntered back into the kitchen, poking her head out just to tease,

“What? Cat got your tongue?”

She giggled and resumed her happy dance.

Pierre sniffed at the tray, cautiously impressed. “Where did you get this?”

Lettie popped out again, now holding two bowls for the pumas. “A chef made it! I’ll give you the details when I get back.”

She rushed outside to feed the others. When she returned, she kicked off her shoes and began undressing, tossing her clothes aside as she spoke.

“I’ve been waiting all day to shower,” she called, already halfway to the bathroom.

Pierre raised his head, eyeing her. “Come back?”

“Yeah. Gerald’s picking me up for dinner.”

He frowned. “Picking you up… as in, he’s coming here?”

“Yep,” she replied, slipping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind her.

Moments later, she hopped out naked and started putting on the dress she’d picked out — sans underwear.

Pierre felt a sharp tug in his chest.

“Lettie… don’t you think you’re moving too fast? You just met this guy.”

She rolled her eyes, spritzing perfume onto her neck. “No, Mom. I don’t think I’m moving too fast.”

“Does he know you live with wild animals?”

Leticia laughed, loud and carefree. “Why would you say it like that? Like I’m some kind of cavewoman.” She glanced at him through the mirror. “Anyway, yes. He knows — and he doesn’t care. He’s intrigued, actually.”

Pierre swallowed hard, the bile rising in his throat. The food now looked unappetizing.

“…Did he buy this?” he asked, eyeing the tray again.

“No, he didn’t. Why?”

“No reason.” His voice was tight. “How long are you staying out?”

“Good question…” Lettie paused, thoughtfully tugging her zipper.

“I haven’t seen his place yet, so… might kill two birds with one stone.”

Pierre blinked. “What does that—? Wait. You want to go to his place tonight?”

“If he asks me… yes.” She turned to face him. “You don’t get it, Pierre. It’s been too long since the last time. I like him. I want this.”

Pierre went quiet. A dull ache began to pulse behind his eyes. Too many emotions stirred at once; none of them pleasant, none he could name.

Her phone rang.

“Oh hi!” she answered, her voice instantly brighter. “You can come to the house.”

She glanced over at Pierre and sighed. “Sorry… I need you to go outside. You made me a little sensitive with that cavewoman comment, and now I don’t want him seeing you inside. Blame yourself.”

She carried his half-eaten tray into the kitchen and covered it with care.

When she came back out, Pierre was gone.

Pierre watched the house from his perch in the tree.

A sleek black SUV had pulled up to the curb. The back door opened, and a man stepped out, maybe in his forties, wearing narrow black glasses and an expensive-looking outfit.

Pierre’s eyes tracked him as he walked to the door, where Lettie greeted him. They exchanged smiles and a brief hug — though Pierre’s jaw tightened when the man’s hand lingered on the small of her waist.

He watched as they strolled hand in hand to the car.

Only after the SUV pulled away, and the fog of jealousy cleared, did realization sink in.

He hadn’t heard that man’s thoughts.

A shiver ran through him.

Previous

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[disc0fairy]

In my “CC’ing whoever’s in charge” and giving it to God era .

[disc0fairy]

Third Wheel

Chapter 4

Word count : 3K

⚠️: Eating Disorder Panic , BPD, Angst

She hadn't said anything. They just drove home in a sinister silence.

Janae plunged her attention into the neighborhood's night scenery, begging her thoughts to wander somewhere else than the text Stack received. She knew she had no right to feel jealous, bitter, or even hurt. That guy wasn't hers.

She sighed, cursing herself for believing something would have happened if they weren't interrupted.

Well, he did steal her first kiss—nothing big, right?

Niggas like Stack always got whatever they wanted.

He probably felt lonely, thinking he could have an easy way with Janae. One thing was sure: earlier, she would have given him everything he wanted. Love is such a fucking disease, and she was sick of it.

Janae laughed internally. Let's be honest for once—Stack was genuinely too drunk to realize it was her—the one and only Sister Janae.

She guessed Calypso's rum worked too much on him. Should've stuck to beers.

Hands on his Mercedes' steering wheel, he didn't say much either.

How could he have expected a message from Mary? At this hour?

But more importantly—what the fuck was he doing with lil Janae minutes ago?

Stack could tell she was inexperienced by the way she twisted her lips, reluctantly opened her mouth, slightly slid her wet tongue out, then immediately pulled it back; by the way her eyes stayed open, scanning him with honey and fire.

Lords above.

Janae had a grip on him, just by looking mesmerizing and... vulnerable?

He couldn't explain it. Yes—she was still the messy girl who wore worn, loose tops and baggy jogging pants in the morning.

Pooed so loudly one could easily think she was born with diarrhea printed in her digestive system.

The same girl with the pink satin bonnet and frog-printed yellow pajama dress, who had developed a habit of waiting up late for him to get home.

He glanced at her through the rearview mirror—quiet.

Her dress clung to her skin, glowing under the moonlight.

Her expression seemed far away, as if she was deprived of every single emotion.

However, through that thick veil, Stack saw her watery eyes reflected in the rear door window.

He didn't stare too long. That sight of her breaking something inside him.

He could only imagine how she felt : Confused.

"Jan—" he muttered, afraid of rejection.

Obviously, Janae didn't answer.

Not only had he stolen her first kiss, but at the fucking worst timing, his femme fatale of teacher had decided to make her presence known.

"I—I'm sorry, okay. I just got carried away," he tried to explain, awkwardly.

Carried away?

Ah.

Well, good grief.

Janae knew it all along.

There was no universe in which thee Elias Stack Moore would be interested in her.

Carried away...

The words echoed in her head again, again, and again—banging at her brain with violence.

The butterflies that had been freely flying in her stomach—gone. Replaced by a tight knot.

Are girls like her not worthy of love?

Would she ever melt under someone's touch, their caresses? Jesus ! She deserved to be special too. She craved affection.

The way he smacked her lips was just... an accident? He didn't mean it.

Damn, she wasn't expecting anything, but it still hurt.

Janae bore her heart on her sleeve, smiled softly every fucking day, killed her neurons on study books...

She had done all these bullshit to stop nurturing hopes of being, one day, embraced by her roommate.

All her efforts vanished tonight.

He touched her.

Confessed that he had always been the one carrying her to bed when she fell asleep on the sofa.

She saw the bulge he tried to hide.

Felt the heat of his— hypocrite—kiss.

Was playing with her feelings funny?

Mary. Was she that beautiful, that his attention naturally drew toward her?

She was surely thin, fit.

Men loved women they could easily present to their relatives... that's what her mother always told her.

"I expected it. No worries," Janae replied, turning her gaze toward him, voice inaudible.

Uninvited tears were flowing down her cheeks, the salty water wetting her lips he had pressed with false hunger.

"You got somewhere to go. Just drop me home, okay? I got the beers!"

She cracked a smile barely holding together.

It was fine.

She had always been the unchosen.

In high school, she was the best buddy boys her age never had—the one who played ball with them.

Always the goalkeeper, because they were afraid her stamina couldn't follow.

Never been the girl they confessed to.

In her mother's neighborhood, only grown men, dads and uncles, would lurk on her body.

The old lady would lecture her on her 'appealing' clothes before grounding her.

Since then, she had stopped wearing shorts or cropped skirts.

Mom was rarely wrong. Who wanna see cellulite and flabby skin?

'I expected it'  what did she meant? They were supposed to drink beers together, going home, play games and sleep. That was the plan. Now he had somewhere else to go but shit ain't changing, Janae and him would just have to postpone their moments...right ?

Stack tried to speak, reassuring her. However, the lump in his throat choked him, shutting his mouth. His hand trembled on the steering wheel as rain started to drop on the windshield, putting the wipers to work.

He couldn't dare looking at Janae again. Not without wanting to reach over, wipe her tears away. He had a vague idea of what was going on.

Her caring eyes, protective gestures, silent monitoring, the delicious meals she cooked...her love language didn't went unnoticed. Yeah. He knew. Deep down, Stack fucking knew.

This wasn't just about the mere half-kiss. She buried too much weight in her heart.

Three long years she had admired him from afar, even though they lived under the same roof.

The nights she had lent him a shoulder to cry over, after being dump by another girl.

The tenderness she offered him selflessly—not allowing herself to dream of reciprocity.

The softness she covered him with — infinite and free.

He took it all.

Not because he deserved it, but because she gave it anyway. Gave it with a kind of loyalty that never asked for anything in return. Not out loud, at least.

Reflecting on himself, Stack concluded he wasn't better than those sons of bitch at the party. He made her cry.

Her eyes had shifted from the window door to low down her dress. She was staring at it like some odd entity.

"I expected it"

Fuck—she ain't even yelled. Didn't curse him out.

She just... folded in the backseat. Tucked herself behind that barrier she always used when life reminded her where she stood.

And Stack hated himself for being the one who put her there. Again.

He parked near their building. Janae She didn't wait. Indeed as  soon as he shut off the engine, she popped the door open and walked out, barely holding her purse to her side.

"Wait—Janae !" Stack shouted.

She didn't turn around. Continuing on her way. She called the elevator, jumped in when it hit the current floor and disappeared.

The cold air inside the apartment welcomed her. Janae didn't bother switching on the lights. The loft blackness was somehow healing. She threw her purse on the sofa, tossed her heels in corner and rushed wailing on her silk mattress sheets.

She ain't even had the strength to undress properly.

The zipper on her dress dug into her ribs, but she didn't move. Just laid there, face buried in the pillow, sobbing.

Her chest became heavy, knotted with something unbearable,as if something or someone was tearing her gut apart.

She rolled onto her side, curled up, and stared at the dark ceiling.

After a while she wiped her face and weight up, legs heavy as she dragged her carcass to the kitchen.

The white full-stickers fridge hissed when she opened it. Anxiety overwhelmed her, shame rising. Eating was not a solution. She knew but couldn't resist.

There was leftover pasta, a half-eaten rotisserie chicken, few yogurts, a pack of sliced cheese.

Her fingers twitched. She didn't want any of these, Janae wasn't hungry. But she needed to fill the hole in her heart. So she ate.

She grabbed the chicken. Her fingers tearing the flesh from the bones, salt and grease piling her lips, mixing with the tears she didn't bother wiping away anymore.

She shoved cold pasta in her mouth, barely chewing, not even breathing between gulps. Her stomach ached, her throat burned. She wanted to puke, but she hadn't punished herself enough.

She opened the cabinet above the stove, pulled out the jar of peanut butter. Again, with her fingers, she stuffed more than five scoops past her lips until she painted her mouth's corners brown.

Her belly cramping, the mix of junk food crawling up, menacing to jerk on the tiled kitchen floor.

The clock sang 2:AM. Stack had yet to cross the door of their home. If he cared, even a little, he would have stayed. Talked with her, tried to ease her turmoil.

Instead, he went to see Mary. Mary with the red rose.

He chose the prettier one.

Not the girl sitting on a freezing floor with peanut butter in her teeth and chicken grease on her fingers.

"God, I'm so disgusting," she shrieked out, her nails clawing against her hips.

Four days had passed since the incident. That night Stack came home after 3:AM, finding peanut butter spread in the sink, bones of the rotisserie chicken knotted in a paper towel.

They never discussed what happened.

Janae simply avoided him.

She took the decision to leave as soon as the sun shone through the blinds in the morning—just so she wouldn't have to see his face.

She memorized his shower schedule, adjusting hers to avoid him.

She became workaholic, nose buried in books until the pages blurred. Black bags under her eyes, highlighters dead, post-it notes stuck in every wall of her bedroom.

At last, this Saturday. Janae decided to take a break. It was her birthday.

Not that she felt like celebrating. But Pearline—who had been harassing her for days with texts, memes, voice notes, and passive-aggressive "you better not ghost me on your day" threats—had organized something : A girls club night.

Four days ago, she swore she would craft another version of herself.

She tried everything to love her body—every trick possible —except one: pretending.

She never faked it. Never stood in the mirror and lied to her reflection. Never forced herself to show skin or smile like she believed she deserved the attention.

But tonight?

Pray the Lord, because yes—Janae had made up her mind.

She gonna be sexy. Bold. Seen.

And if she had to fake confidence to become more assertive ?

Then so be it.

Who gave a fuck if it her self love wasn't real ?

Stack left the apartment at 5:30 PM, slipping out without a word. He didn't bump into Janae, she barely stepped outside her room.

He drove to the bakery a few blocks over—small spot with fogged-up windows and the smell of warm vanilla leaking through the windows.

"Mmh. Hello?" he knocked gently on the glass door. "I ordered a birthday cake?"

A short woman in a flour-dusted apron appeared from the back, wiping her hands on her hips. She squinted through the glass, then unlocked the door halfway.

"Elias Moore. For... Janae."

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how strange her name sounded in his mouth.

The woman nodded, disappeared, then came back holding a white box tied with pink ribbon. Stack took it carefully then murmured :

"She loves chocolate and praline"

The woman didn't respond. Just gave a soft smile and shut the door behind him.

Back in the car, the box sat untouched on the passenger seat. Stack stared at it, tapping the steering wheel with one hand. He did wrote a card. But words were cheap without actions.

Every year, they baked her birthday cake together.

Made a mess in the kitchen. Laughed until they choked. Threw a house party loud enough to piss off the neighbors. Janae's girls would flood the apartment and Stack—always the only man in sight—would cook something while Janae watched with that suspicious side-eye like she didn't trust him near her spice rack.

But this year? He bought the cake.

No more mixing bowl. No music. No flour on her chubby cheeks.

He didn't even know if she would eat the cake. He did choose chocolate and praline though.

She might have somewhere to go tonight, it was her day after all. And maybe—for the first time—she didn't include him.

Hours blended together. Janae alarm rang 8:PM loud while she was busy, in the bathroom, shaving : cooch and legs. Don't even ask why she was bushing off her pussy, she just felt like doing it.

She showered quick, with cold water. When she stepped out, her towel stuck on her damp skin, her deep brown thighs glistened, pores open, body moistened from the rush. Then she darted to her bedroom,leaving wet footprints on the hallway floor.

For the first time in three damn years she ignore Stack gaze on her.

Didn't grip the towel tighter.

Didn't tuck her stomach in.

Didn't apologize with her eyes.

She knew he was looking. She felt it. But she didn't care.

Not that his eyes stopped making her belly flutter but she just understood that behind them, there was no meaning. She was just his buddy.

And buddies ain't shy about seeing each other half naked.

Inside her room, she got rid of the towel. Lotioned her dark skin with her favorite coconut body milk, grabbed a laced black string panties from the drawer, pulled it up to her waist and walked to the dressing.

The dress he had bought for her, last year.

She never wore it.

Back then, she called him a perv for choosing something so damn revealing. Glittery, low-cut, barely-there straps, deep slit up the thigh, dangerous cleavage. She remembered laughing, tossing it back in the bag, saying, "the hell I looked like ? Cardi the fuckin B ?"

But tonight felt different.

Guess now was the right time to show its potential.

She stepped into it, pulled it up. The dress slid over her dip hips, stretched tight across her ass, hugged her waist. She adjusted the top so her breasts sat right. No bra were needed.

Her nipples pressed bold through the glitter mesh, daring anybody to look too long.

She faced the mirror. Tilted her head. Ran her fingers along the strap slipping down her shoulder. The side slit climbed so high she caught a flash of her lace panties.

"Yeah..." she mumbled to her alter ego in the mirror "welcome home, 22 Janae"

Janae stepped out with a new confidence. She wore her blonde locs wild and free, cascading over her shoulders, her lips glossed in caramel sheen.

Her makeup was on fleek. Cheekbones refined, lashes spiky and dramatic.

Beyoncé ain't even shit compared to the bih she was becoming this night.

She walked by Stack in the living room. He was sitting on the barstool, hunched over his tray, breaking down weed. His hands slowed the moment he looked up, stopping his roll blunt activity.

His eyes caught up her oiled thighs first, and for a second, he thought he was hallucinating. Her dress slit was so high, he sure could sure see her panties—well if that shit could be called like that : Black string, small enough to disappear if she bent over.

That wasn't Janae. That wasn't the girl who lived in oversized tees and fuzzy socks. He didn't recognize her.

His eyes followed the line of the fabric up her back, past the dip in her spine, to the two straps barely holding her plumping body together. Her big tits pushed against the cloth, brown nipples poking through like they were tryna get free. She wasn't even wearing a bra.

"Ain't that the dress I got you?"

A hot, angry pulse beat his dick. That bitch was crazy — Wearing all that for some other guy ? And he was the dumbass who paid for the dress.

"You da one who bought it huh?" She replied, dry, focusing on her phone screen.

Funny. Now she was giving him attitude.

She never did that before. The real bad Janae he knew would have folded, pulled that dress' hem down, maybe laughed it off.

Black Jesus — she wouldn't have wore that stripper ass outfit to begin with ! He bought that, only to tease her. Nothing more.

"You never wore it," he muttered, throwing a stare at her bouncing ass, "thought ya ain't Cardi the fucking B !"

She laughed. Not with her usual adorable, lovely sound — Nah, this laugh was meaner, condescending.

"Nah, am ha cousin" she grinned, half looking at him.

His jaw locked. That shitty smirk her face? It pissed him off in ways he couldn't explain. His blunt sat dead on the tray. Nothing he could smoke would get him high enough to numb the feeling crawling through him.

He wanted to rip those straps off and watch her big titties sagging on his face. Press his hands down her slick thighs just to squeeze her ass cheeks. Tug that black string aside and slid two fingers in her super tight pussy, thrusting her until she stopped playing cold and started moaning his name.

But none of that was gonna happen. At least, not now.

Not after the way she looked at him  like he was a random-ass nigga.

Stack hated the feeling building in his chest—aching and embarrassment. He didn't have a right to say shit. To control her. He knew it. But that didn't stop the heat spreading in his gut.

"Later" she purred.

He couldn't stand up. Not yet. His pants were too damn full with the way he was hard. He swallowed and looked at the door as it shut behind her.

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[disc0fairy]

The Blackline.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry and supernatural, 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 Three

Part One Part Two

The sky was still black when Smoke left.

He didn’t tell nobody. Not even Stack. Just wrote a note on the kitchen counter in clean block letters.

Gone out. Handle somethin’. Watch the girls.

He buttoned his shirt slow, slid the pistol into the holster beneath his vest, then lit a cigarette and stepped into the dark.

The air was thick with dew and honeysuckle.

The road ahead was slick with moonlight.

And he didn’t look back.

The drive to Belzoni was quiet.

Just the hum of the engine and the crackle of his cigarette. Fields blurred past, soaked in fog. Cypress trees arched over the road like shadows waiting to reach for him.

He didn’t play music.

Didn’t whistle.

His mind was too full.

Violet.

That girl was still in his blood like a fever.

That ribbon.

That mouth.

That silence.

She hadn’t even let him kiss her yet.

And still he could feel the heat of her body every time he closed his eyes.

He pulled into town just past nine and parked on a side street near a clapboard house with peeling green paint and a rusted tin roof. He knocked once. Waited. The door opened to a man with a crooked mustache and sweat already beading on his brow.

Smoke didn’t smile.

“You owe Clifton’s brother three hundred. And you ain’t paid Stack back his cut from the last run. We got a problem?”

The man tried to laugh. Tried to talk slick.

Until Smoke sat down, pulled out his pistol, and laid it across the table like it was part of the conversation.

“Don’t make me raise my voice,” Smoke warned, “I ain’t no loud man. But when I talk, folk tend to remember.”

The money came quick after that.

In dirty bills.

Folded and counted slow.

Smoke took it. Counted again. Tucked it away.

Then stood and gave the man one last look.

“Next time I come back out here, it won’t be talkin’. You hear?”

The man nodded.

Smoke lit another cigarette on the porch.

And left.

The drive back felt longer.

The road stretched out wide and golden, heat shimmering just above the gravel. He cracked the window and let the wind roll in.

His thoughts drifted again—always back to her.

Violet.

That quiet breath when he called her good girl.

The way she trembled just from his thumb on her knee.

The smell of rosewater and heat that stuck to his skin after he walked away.

By the time the lights of Little Rock blinked into view, his hands were tight on the wheel.

His mouth dry.

His dick hard.

He adjusted himself beneath his slacks, jaw clenched.

“She doin’ this to me,” he muttered.

Didn’t even touch her.

But she had him.

When he reached The Blackline, the place was alive with sound.

Jazz spilling from the windows.

The scent of bourbon and heat rising off the porch like breath. He rolled up slow, straightened his coat, tucked the stack of bills in his inside pocket, and fixed his hat low over his eyes.

Tonight?

He was goin’ to see her. Not to fuck. Not to rush. But to let her feel how deep she’d already got inside him.

And if any man looked twice?

He’d deal with that too.

As time passed, The Blackline was full again. Laughter spilled into the street. Music throbbed from the walls. Light flickered in the windows. Smoke stepped to the door and gave the knock.

Low. Rhythmic. Familiar.

A voice behind the door cracked it open.

“Password?”

Passwords change once a week to keep things orderly.

“Moon don’t rise ‘til she call it.”

The door swung wide.

And Smoke stepped in like he owned every soul in the room.

He was dressed to kill.

Brown tweed suit, crisp collar, loafers polished, cigar tucked between sharp teeth, and a gold chain shining just beneath the button of his vest.

The crowd buzzed.

Some girls looked up. Some men moved out of the way.

But Smoke?

He scanned.

Eyes narrowed.

Pulse slow.

Searching.

And then…

There she was.

Violet.

Tucked behind the sheer curtain near the back booth, seated low on the velvet settee like a secret worth keeping. Her hair was pinned up soft, loose curly tendrils kissing her jaw. She wore deep red silk tonight, thin straps falling over brown shoulders, the hem barely covering the swell of her thighs.

She wasn’t looking at the floor this time.

She was looking at him.

Smoke moved without a word. He crossed the floor.

And instead of calling for her…

He sat beside her in hiding. The curtain swayed shut behind him. The noise of the room dulled. And in the half-light between them, he turned slowly.

“You been sittin’ back here thinkin’ I wouldn’t find you?”

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Smoke leaned in close, the scent of cigar and citrus peel warming the space between them.

“You wore that dress for me?”

Silence.

“You don’t gotta answer. I already know.”

He let the curtain fall completely closed.

And then?

He just looked at her.

Long.

Dark.

Hungry.

For a while.

Watching her tremble and shift beneath his penetrating gaze.

“I came back for this. For you.”

The sheer curtain was shut behind him like a closing door. They were alone now—tucked in shadow, the hum of laughter and jazz muffled into something soft and faraway. Violet sat beside him, legs pressed together, hands folded over her lap. Her perfume rose slowly in the warm air—lavender and rosewater, delicate but impossible to ignore. Smoke leaned back slightly, one arm draped along the curve of the seat behind her, his other hand resting against his thigh.

Close.

Not touching.

Not yet.

He let the silence stretch first.

Let her feel the weight of it.

Let her squirm in it a little.

Then his thumb—rough, callused, slow—brushed her knee.

Just once.

Back and forth.

Small, steady strokes that made the silk of her dress cling tighter to her thigh.

“You always this quiet?” he asked, voice low and rich, “Or is it just with me?”

Violet blinked slowly. Her lips parted, but her voice stayed caught in her chest.

Smoke’s thumb kept moving.

“Don’t gotta be nervous, baby. I ain’t in no rush to take nothin’ you ain’t ready to give.”

His gaze slid over her—that dress, those thighs, her trembling fingers.

Then back to her face.

“But I gotta ask…why you so shy around me? You sit on other men’s laps. Smile at ‘em. But when I walk in the room, you go real still. Like you afraid if you breathe too deep, I’ll catch it.”

Violet swallowed hard.

His thumb traced up, closer to the inside of her thigh—just barely—then back down to her knee.

“I like you shy though,” he murmured, “Sweet. Real sweet, “He leaned in a little more now, voice brushing the shell of her ear, “But, baby…you too sexy to keep your eyes low all the damn time.”

She looked at him then.

Eyes wide.

Soft.

Lit with something she was still learning how to carry.

And that’s when he noticed it.

The ribbon.

Lavender silk.

Still tied around her throat like a secret.

Smoke tilted his head. His hand slid up, thumb tracing the knot.

“This right here,” he said, “What this mean?” His voice dropped even lower, “You wear it like it’s holdin’ you together,” His thumb brushed beneath it, just enough to graze the warm skin of her throat, “You lettin’ it keep you closed? Or waitin’ for the right hands to untie it?”

The soft glow of the room kissed the edge of Violet’s cheek. Smoke’s thumb stayed under her chin, gently grazing the silk knot at her throat.

That lavender ribbon.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t lean in.

Didn’t pull away.

She just let him touch it.

The knot was small. Clean. Pulled snug. The kind that only unravels when someone means to undo it slow. Smoke’s thumb circled once beneath it, then up the side of her neck, dragging lightly across her skin—barely a whisper of pressure, but deep enough to make her breath falter.

“You ain’t gonna answer me?” he asked softly.

She parted her lips, then closed them again.

Nothing came out.

She held his gaze.

Eyes wide.

Dark.

Heavy with something she didn’t know how to name.

Smoke didn’t smile.

He didn’t smirk.

He just studied her.

“So that’s how you play it,” His voice dropped lower. Like the weight of it was sliding down her spine, “You gon’ let me touch. Let me talk. Let me sit up here with you behind this curtain like I’m already yours…”

His fingers brushed the underside of the ribbon again, then curled gently around the back of her neck—not pulling. Not claiming. Just there. Warm.

“…but you won’t give me nothin’. Not your words. Not your story. Not what this little bow means.”

Still, she said nothing. Just sat still, heart thundering, body melting, silence blooming like a bruise.

And that?

That did something to him.

Smoke leaned in just a little more, mouth near her jaw, voice softer than anything he’d ever said.

“You lettin’ me make up the story then?” He asked.

His hand moved up. Fingertips at the edge of her hairline now, palm warm on her throat, thumb still brushing that ribbon.

“Maybe this means you someone who wanna be unwrapped slow…by the right hands…only if they patient.”

Her lashes fluttered. Her thighs squeezed tight beneath her dress.

She didn’t speak.

And Smoke?

He didn’t need her to.

He leaned back slightly, dragging his fingers down her arm this time, to her wrist—where he let them pause, then pulled away entirely.

“Alright then.”

He stood.

Straightened the sleeves of his coat.

Lit a cigar from a silver lighter.

Then he turned his head just enough to say, “Next time I come back behind this curtain…don’t wear that bow if you don’t want it noticed.”

And just like that, he slipped out of the curtain, smoke trailing after him like a vow.

It was the day before Juneteenth, and The Blackline vibrated with a pulse all its own. Downstairs, the men drank harder. The dice slapped louder. The music ran long and low and full of heat.

But upstairs?

The women had made something different.

Behind one closed door, a spare room had been transformed into a silk-laced haven. The girls had dragged in pillows—velvet and satin in deep jewel tones—layered over thick rugs that swallowed footsteps. The windows were dressed in sheer gold curtains. The lamps had scarves tossed over them, turning the room amber and red.

And in the center of it all: the women.

They weren’t working.

They were living.

Laughing. Drinking. Swaying their hips in the soft candlelight.

Cordelia had orchestrated the whole thing.

She sat in a chaise by the wall, long legs crossed, cigarette perched in one hand while she gave direction like a madam turned jazz conductor.

“Turn that song up!” she said with a grin, “Peaches, shake that ass like the South done blessed it!”

Peaches grinned and did exactly that—hips wide and rolling, soft brown thighs clapping in time with the bassline, her breasts swaying under a sheer chemise that left nothing to the imagination. The girls hollered and clapped, laughter ringing like bells.

They were every shade of gorgeous.

Skin the color of warm pecan, copper, blue-black, honey, and cream.

Some with thick afros adorned in scarves and gold pins.

Others with finger waves pressed tight to their scalps, lips painted red, eyes lined in kohl.

Some wore corsets that cinched them sharp.

Others were bare beneath sheer slips, thighs out, stretch marks shining.

They were soft.

They were strong.

They were free.

Violet sat in the corner, cross-legged on a plum-colored cushion, giggling behind her fingers. Her hair had been pressed and set into elegant finger waves, glossy and pinned just so behind her ears. She wore a pale lilac chemise trimmed in lace—nothing revealing, but delicate enough to show the soft swell of her breasts and the curve of her waist.

She looked like a secret somebody would beg to keep.

And she was glowing.

The girls swayed to a slow blues number now, hips rocking, shoulders rolling, bottles passed hand to hand.

Then came a knock at the door.

The room went hush for a breath.

Then—

“What all that ruckus in here?!” came Stack’s voice, low and teasing.

Cordelia grinned around her cigarette, “Ain’t no business in here for you, sugar.”

Peaches bent over at the waist and gave a slow shake.

The girls laughed.

“C’mon now,” Stack said from the door, “My gals up here hidin’ silk and sweat and I ain’t invited?! Typa shit is this?!”

He leaned in—shirt loose, sleeves rolled, gold tooth catching the light in his smirk.

The girls looked at each other—then pounced.

They grabbed his wrist, pulled him inside with mock protests and real laughter, tugged him down onto the pillows. Stack hit the floor with a low grunt, his back dropping into the silk pillows as the women circled him like cats with warm bellies and wild smiles. Peaches straddled one thigh, her weight full and soft, her hips shifting slow just to feel his breath catch.

Stack just laughed as Peaches dropped onto his lap.

“You sure you can handle this?” Cordelia asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You better hope I can’t.” He fired back with a dimpled smirk.

“Look at him,” Peaches grinned, “Already tryin’ not to breathe too deep.”

The other girls laughed.

Cordelia passed a bottle of peach liqueur over her shoulder and leaned in beside his ear.

“You always come knockin’ when the air’s thick and the women ain’t lookin’ for nothin’ but laughter.”

Stack opened his mouth to speak, But someone else—a petite girl named Raylene with skin like sweet tea and a high giggle—slid behind him, draping her arms around his shoulders and licking a stripe up the side of his neck.

“Bet he came up here hopin’ to be worshipped,” she purred.

“Bet he ain’t ready for what that feel like,” Peaches muttered, and started moving her hips in slow, exaggerated figure-eights right on his thigh.

The room filled with heat.

Bodies swayed.

The blues kept playing low and dirty through the speaker.

Silk rustled under shifting thighs.

Laughter broke open in waves.

Stack tried to speak again—tried to sit up.

Cordelia pushed him back down with one palm to his chest.

“Nah, baby. You stay right there.”

She tapped her cigarette against a glass tray and crossed her legs on the other side of him.

“You wanna see how pretty women play when ain’t no men watchin’? We givin’ you a front-row seat.”

Another girl—tall, dark-skinned, thick with golden bangles stacked up her arms—bent low in front of him, so close he could see the sweat shining between her breasts.

“Touch if you brave,” she teased, “but if you grab, we tie you up.”

The room howled with laughter again.

Stack exhaled hard, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple.

“Y’all gon’ make me sin…make me act the fuck up,” he said.

Peaches laughed and ground down a little harder, just enough to make him groan.

“Baby,” she said, low and sugar-dripping, “you already sinnin’. We just teachin’ you how to enjoy it. Our way. AINT THAT RIGHT?!”

The girls hollered in agreement.

In the corner, Violet couldn’t stop laughing.

She had both hands covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking with giggles. She’d never seen Stack like this—flushed, overwhelmed, surrounded by women who didn’t care who he was outside that room.

They were having fun.

But they were also showing power.

And Violet, glowing in lilac silk, lips still red, was learning how much of hers had yet to be touched. She had settled deeper into her corner, half-curled into a mound of golden pillows now. Her cheeks still ached from laughing, and her belly was warm—not from food, but from the air, the music, the perfume of women drunk off each other’s freedom.

She was still glowing.

Still breathless from watching Stack squirm beneath Peaches’ wide, slow hips.

That’s when a girl dropped beside her.

Velvet skin the shade of polished mahogany.

Wide smile, gold tooth glinting in the lamplight.

Hair coiled and braided up into a crown, adorned with a few stray cowrie shells.

Her name was Lana.

And she handed Violet the half-empty bottle of peach liqueur like they’d been friends for years.

“You look like you blushin’ behind that laugh,” Lana said, grinning, “Go on and sip. Loosen that little heart up.”

Violet giggled shyly, then brought the bottle to her lips and took a warm, syrupy swallow.

It burned sweet.

Lana stretched her legs out and leaned back beside her.

“Mmm, chile,” she said with a satisfied sigh, “I can’t wait for Juneteenth.”

Violet smiled, licking her lips.

“Y’all do somethin’ special every year?”

Lana nodded, her gold hoops catching the light as she turned her head.

“Stack always make sure of it. Says if we gon’ sell pleasure, we better know our freedom too.”

Her voice dropped slightly, turning warm, thoughtful.

“I’m from Galveston, you know.”

Violet blinked.

“You serious?”

“Born and raised. My granny used to tell me ‘bout that day like it was still smokin’ in her bones. When the soldiers came with the news. When them shackles was lifted in word, but not yet in law.”

She took the bottle back, sipped slow.

“So when Stack first told me he celebrated it here? With us? With me? Whew.” She laughed, loud and musical, “Let’s just say I ain’t hesitate to thank him properly.”

Violet raised an eyebrow, lips curved, “Oh?”

Lana leaned in, shoulder brushing Violet’s. Her voice dropped to a sexy whisper, meant just for the two of them.

“He said new girls need a proper welcome. Took me right in that music room…just me and him and Billie singin’ low on the record. Said he liked my stretch marks. Said my moanin’ sounded like prayer.”

Violet’s eyes went wide.

Lana just grinned wider.

“Had my legs shakin’ so hard, I thought he conjured me straight through the floorboards.”

They both dissolved into giggles, Lana’s bolder, Violet’s softer.

But Violet?

She was squirming.

Not because of Stack.

But because every line of that story made her think of Smoke.

Would he talk like that?

Would he move slow like jazz?

Would he notice the softness of her thighs and the sound her mouth made when she whimpered?

She took another sip of peach liqueur.

Pressed her thighs together.

And looked across the room—half-expecting Smoke to be there already. Watching. Waiting. Wanting.

The peach liqueur was humming in Violet’s veins like a lazy river—warm, thick, and slow.

She felt it in her fingertips.

In the way her giggle stuck to her throat.

In the heat building low in her belly.

Lana’s story still echoed in her ears, all moaning and silk and praise, and now Violet’s thighs wouldn’t stop pressing together beneath her lilac chemise.

The laughter in the room rose louder behind her.

Peaches was straddling Stack again—this time facing him.

Her robe was open.

Stack’s shirt had come off.

His chest was slick with sweat and grinning teeth.

“Lord,” Violet murmured with a little smile.

She slipped up from the pillows, careful not to wobble, smoothing the hem of her chemise and adjusting a clip behind her ear that held her soft waves flat.

She didn’t announce she was leaving.

Didn’t call attention.

She just slid through the veil of the curtain—soft and shadowed—and into the dim hallway where the laughter dulled to a hush behind the closed door. The house outside that room felt quieter now. Like it had exhaled. The lights were lower. The music from below was muffled—just the steady thrum of blues crawling up the floorboards.

Violet leaned lightly against the wall for a moment.

Pressed her hand to her chest.

Her pulse was wild.

The ribbon still clung to her throat.

The peach burned behind her lips.

And all she could think about was Smoke.

She started walking—barefoot, slow, silk brushing her thighs—down the hallway, away from the noise.

She didn’t know where she was going.

Just away. Just toward something quieter. Something rougher. Something waiting. Violet walked soft and barefoot down the narrow hallway, one hand gliding along the wall for balance.Her thighs brushed with every step, warm beneath her chemise.

The silk stuck in places now.

The ribbon at her throat was looser but still there.

The house was quieter here.

Just the creak of old floorboards, the distant moan of blues from downstairs, and the faint rhythm of something wild echoing from the silk-draped room she’d left behind. Her chest rose and fell in slow waves.

The laughter had faded.

But the heat?

Still lived in her bones.

She slipped into a small room at the far end of the hall.

It wasn’t much, just a settee, a lamp with a broken shade, a cracked window that let in a breath of breeze.

She sat down, slowly.

The cushions hissed beneath her.

She leaned back, her arms behind her, head tilted toward the ceiling.

The soft press of liquor had made her loose, not clumsy, just unguarded.

And Smoke…

He was in her now.

The ribbon.

The way he held her jaw and said nothing.

The promise in his silence.

Violet exhaled.

Juneteenth morning broke hot and honey-slow.

By midday, The Blackline was alive with motion.

Doors open. Windows flung wide. Fans turning slow over polished wood. The scent of pressed hair, roasting pork, peach smoke, and lilac water mixed in the air like a love song. Downstairs, tables were being rearranged. Candles trimmed. Extra bottles of rye brought in. Stack barked instructions from behind his cigar, and men moved fast to keep up.

Upstairs?

The girls were getting ready.

In the dressing room, silk and lace hung like ghosts from every hook and beam. Violet stood in front of the long mirror, fingers twitching at the hem of her slip, a slight crease between her brows as she tried to choose what would make her look like she belonged in a room lit by moonlight and blues. Her hair had already been styled in soft finger waves pinned with precision, falling just over one brow. Her skin—café au lait and glowing—looked kissed by morning light. Her ribbon still rested at her throat, a little looser today.

But she couldn’t decide on the dress.

Something short?

Tight?

Black?

Or maybe red?

She exhaled.

That’s when Cordelia entered, followed by Minnie, a curvy girl with skin like polished bronze and a laugh that stuck to the walls.

Cordelia eyed Violet immediately, hands on her hips.

“You still standin’ there like you don’t know you fine?”

Violet smiled, soft and unsure, “I don’t wanna pick wrong…”

Minnie came up behind her, adjusting the mirror with one hand.

“Chile, there ain’t no wrong. Not with that figure.”

Cordelia circled her like a hawk, eyes sharp, appraising.

“You slim, but them hips? Mmm. You hold your weight sweet. We gon’ show that off. Right, Min?”

Minnie nodded, already reaching for the vanity.

“Come sit. I’m doin’ your face.”

“Face?”

“Makeup, baby,” Minnie grinned, “We gon’ give you that flapper fantasy.”

Violet sat, heart racing, while Minnie began to work—soft brushes, careful hands, rich creams and powders. Dark liner winged out from the corners of her hazel eyes, making them glow like firelight. Her lips were painted in a deep, kissable cherry red, the shape exaggerated just a little. A touch of shimmer dusted her cheekbones.

“Whew,” Minnie whispered, “You look like trouble walkin’ slow.”

Cordelia had vanished and returned with a hanger draped in velvet and shine.

“Here.”

She held it up.

A deep plum slip dress, short enough to show thigh, cut low in the back, trimmed in beaded fringe that would shimmer with every sway of Violet’s hips.

“This,” Cordelia said, eyes narrowing with approval,“gon’ stop time when you walk in.”

She helped Violet out of her slip, careful with the ribbon, her fingers lingering at the waist.

“You got softness,” she spoke seductively, “Don’t hide that. Men don’t forget the ones that move gentle.”

When Violet turned to the mirror again, she barely recognized herself. She looked like she belonged on stage, wrapped in midnight, dipped in jazz and warm wine.

And behind the softness of her blush?

Was a glimmer of power.

After she got herself dolled up with the help of Minnie and Cordelia, Violet sat perched on a velvet stool just outside the dressing room, her knees pressed together, fingers tracing the curve of her ribbon. The house was buzzing beneath her, music warming up, laughter echoing, the scent of perfume and pomade thick in the air. Girls passed by in heels and fringe, calling to one another, adjusting earrings, reapplying rouge.

But Violet?

She stayed still.

The plum dress hugged her just right.

The fringe tickled her thighs when she shifted.

Her hair—finger-waved and set—framed her face like a jazz record come to life. She sipped from a glass of sweet red, breath steadying.

Smoke would see her tonight.

And maybe, just maybe, she’d let him do more than just look.

Upstairs, the door opened with a slam and the low sound of boots on floorboards.

“Ladies!” Stack’s voice echoed down the hall like a preacher warming up,“Line up! Time for your check-in. Y’all ain’t gon’ embarrass my house tonight! least not before midnight!”

The girls squealed and scattered, lining up along the upper hallway, backs straight, lips pursed, fringe glittering. Violet slid off her stool and joined them, second to last.

Her heart beat like a slow drum.

Stack walked slow, cigar tucked behind his ear, jacket slung over one shoulder. He moved like a man who already knew what he’d find but still enjoyed the art of the viewing.

He passed by Peaches first, tapped her thigh.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, Georgia Peach! Hips look like jazz.”

He smirked at Lana, winked, told her she better not steal all the attention before ten o’clock. He circled Minnie, tugged the strap on her dress just enough to hear her cuss and laugh.

“Keep that energy later,” he muttered, “when they toss bills at your feet.”

Then he got to Violet.

And everything…paused.

He didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t tap her hip like the others.

He just looked.

Took her in.

Head to toe.

The pressed waves.

The plum dress.

The blush that crawled up her neck when she realized how long he’d been staring.

“Damn, girl,” he said softly, “You look…sweet.”

Violet blinked.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He leaned just a little closer, voice dropping, “You gon’ stop the room when you step in, you know that?”

She bit her lip, eyes lowering.

He grinned, eyes soft now.

“And Smoke?” he added, quieter, “He gon’ lose his whole mind.”

Stack tipped his chin, stepped past her, and clapped his hands.

“Alright now! Y’all ready? Juneteenth done arrived, and I want ‘em cryin’ into their cigars by the time the blues hit the third verse!”

The girls hollered. Cheered.

But Violet?

She stayed still a little longer.

The warmth of that compliment curled around her like satin.

And somewhere inside?

She hoped Smoke was already downstairs.

And waiting.

“Freedom rings at midnight.”

The sun dipped low behind the pines, casting the sky in ribbons of gold and plum. And as the heat shifted into dusk, The Blackline came alive. Music poured from the doors like honey—slow, sticky blues, harmonicas wailing, bass low enough to rattle your ribs.

Cigars lit.

Skirts swayed.

And the air was thick with freedom.

Inside, the parlor was packed.

Women in satin and lace glided across the floor, heels clicking, hips rocking.

Men leaned in shadows, sipping rye, eyes roaming like they were hunting songs they hadn’t heard yet.

Candles flickered in cut-glass holders.

Rose petals floated in a basin by the entryway.

The whole place smelled like warm bourbon, magnolia petals, and sweet smoke curling in from the back.

At the bar, Juneteenth specials were scrawled in chalk.

Red punch. Hibiscus gin. Pickled watermelon chasers. Sweet tea with a kick.

Cordelia raised a toast on her third round of punch, hips swaying to the beat.

“TO FREEDOM!!!!!” she shouted, “And to the fine, fast, filthy ways we claim it TONIGHT!!!!”

The room roared back.

“To freedom!”

A deep-voiced guest at the bar shouted, “We ain’t just survivors we the blueprints!”

One of the girls, standing barefoot on a table, dancing screamed, “They tried to bury us, baby but look at us grow!”

Stack, in the middle of the room, raising his glass slow and raised his voice, “To the ones that didn’t make it. And to us for carryin’ ’em forward!”

A woman with a gold-tooth grin near the piano shouted, “We put blood, sweat, and tears into this so-called free land don’t you ever forget it!”

Laughter erupts. Then a man with a harmonica slaps his knee and booms, “We ain’t free ’cause they said so we free ’cause we know so!”

Another girl, hips swaying in a fringed dress, tosses her curls hollered, “Juneteenth ain’t just a date, baby it’s a declaration!”

An older man in suspenders and scuffed boots, eyes watery, “My grandmama died never knowin’ this kind of joy…I drink for her tonight.”

The room falls briefly silent, then a voice cries out.

“To the Black soul, to the Black spine, to the Black grind! TO FREEDOM!”

Outside, the gravel crackled under boot heels and the sharp scent of wood smoke drifted in the breeze.

A man with arms thick as tree trunks stood over a pit grill—flipping ribs, brushing them down with sauce so sweet and spicy it made folks moan before they took a bite.

Back porch windows were open wide, letting music and sweat roll out into the warm night air.

And in the back kitchen was Auntie Pearl. She stirred her pots like she was conjurin’ spells. Mid-60s. Wide smile. Streaks of gray woven through her braids. Gold hoops. Apron stained with grease and pride. Her hands moved fast—black-eyed peas, candied yams, pan-fried chicken, cornbread dressed with sage. Stack ducked into the kitchen, a damp cigar between his fingers, his vest already unbuttoned, sweat clinging to his chest.

“What I gotta do to get a piece of that chicken?!”

Auntie Pearl didn’t look up. Just swatted his hand away from the plate he reached for.

“You want somethin’? Grab a broom and sweep that porch first. You ain’t too pretty to be useful.”

He laughed.

“Auntie, I’m celebratin’. This the one day I get to just eat and watch these women tear the world down with a shake of they hips.”

“And what have you done to earn that, hmm?”

“I threw the party.”

“So?” she said, rolling her eyes, “And I raised the one who made the damn ribs. Now get!”

He leaned in, kissed her cheek, and stole a piece of fried okra from the plate anyway. She smacked the back of his head and called him hard-headed and fine, in that exact order.

Back inside, the rhythm picked up.

A girl started dancing barefoot on the table.

Men hollered.

Smoke rose.

The Blackline, for one night, felt like the kind of freedom the ancestors dreamt of.

And somewhere upstairs…

Violet was about to walk into it.

Smoke leaned against the far wall of the main room, sipping slow from a glass of rye.

His jacket was slung over the back of a chair.

His vest hung open.

A fresh press of sweat slicked his throat beneath the low collar of his white shirt.

The room was hot with movement—shoulders swaying, drinks clinking, girls laughing with throats open wide and free.

Somebody yelled out a toast near the piano.

Somebody slapped a domino down with force.

But Smoke wasn’t watching them.

Not tonight.

He was watching the door.

Had been for the last twenty minutes.

Eyes sharp.

Cigar burning low between his fingers.

Boot tapping once every few seconds like a slow, ticking clock.

She wasn’t late.

He was just impatient.

Violet.

He could feel her coming before she showed.

Could almost smell that lavender and rosewater.

Could still feel the shape of her wrist in his palm, the bow at her throat brushing his lips like silk threaded with breath.

And when she stepped through that door?

He knew it’d be done.

Violet descended the stairs like the first note of a Pleasure chant.

Soft.

Intentional.

Unmistakably beautiful.

The plum dress clung to her curves like it was painted on.

Fringe shimmered with every step.

Her finger waves were carved with care, pinned just so above one brow.

The lights caught on her collarbones, her eyes, her lips painted deep cherry red, slightly parted as if she were afraid to breathe too loud.

And the ribbon?

Still there.

Lavender.

Tied clean and snug.

But tonight, it looked less like protection…

And more like invitation.

The room didn’t hush all at once.

But some men slowed their dice rolls.

Some girls paused mid-laugh.

Even the piano hit a few lazy, wondering notes.

And Smoke?

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Just took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaled through his nose, and watched her like she was the reason this house had walls. She didn’t scan the room. Didn’t search for him. But her eyes found his anyway.

And when they locked?

The noise disappeared.

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t tip his hat.

Didn’t speak.

But every inch of him said it

You wore that for me.

Violet stepped fully into the room.

The lights bounced off the beads along her hips.

Her heels tapped softly over the floorboards, steady but slow.

Not with fear…but weight.

Presence.

Heads turned.

Peaches let out a low whistle from across the parlor.

“Look at her…”

Men leaned toward her like flowers drawn to sun. One tried to get her attention, reaching gently to brush her hand.

“You new?” he asked, voice hopeful.

She gave a soft smile—polite. Noncommittal.

But her eyes?

They were still with Smoke.

Cordelia watched from the bar, a knowing smirk curling her lips. Stack leaned on the banister above, eyes wide, cigar paused halfway to his mouth.

“Lord, that girl look like a glass of red velvet.”

And still…

Smoke hadn’t moved.

He stood near the piano now, cigar ash curling, glass still in his hand.

Watching her.

Like a storm waiting on thunder.

Violet reached the center of the room where the music thickened and sweat ran deeper. The piano played low and slow, and she turned her body to the rhythm, hips swaying beneath the fringe just enough to make a few mouths fall open.

And then…

He moved.

Smoke stepped forward slow.

Not aggressive. Not loud. Just intentional.

Men parted.

Some watched, some stepped aside, and a one knew better. He reached her without touching. Just close enough for her to feel his breath stir the air between them. He looked her over from top to bottom.

Took his time.

Then brought his eyes back to hers.

“You tryin’ to kill me tonight, pretty thing?”

His voice was low, dry, almost worshiping.

Violet didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Because her breath caught.

Her thighs pressed.

And that little bow at her throat?

Trembled.

The air between them thickened—warm and sweet with bourbon, blues, and breath.

Smoke extended his hand.

Didn’t say a word.

Just offered.

Violet looked at it like it might burn her. Then she slipped her palm into his. His fingers curled around hers—firm, sure.

He didn’t lead her far.

Just a few steps to the open space near the piano.

The music shifted. Something low. Drawn out. A rhythm born from fields and firelight. And he turned to her, close now, one hand on her waist, the other guiding her wrist.

“You ever danced like this to blues?” he asked, voice brushing her ear.

She shook her head slowly.

“Mmm, I figured.”

He didn’t tease.

He didn’t smile.

Just pulled her in a little closer.

Their bodies aligned—not chest to chest, but close enough for the heat to build between them like a storm cloud waiting to crack.

“Start with your hips,” he murmured, “Don’t think. Just follow me.”

She hesitated.

He felt it—her body tight, her spine straight, her weight too light on her heels.

He whispered lower, “Blues ain’t fast, baby. Ain’t showy.“It’s slow. Deep. Comes from down low. You feel me?”

Violet nodded, barely.

His hand dropped just a little—to the slope of her hips.

“Move from here.”

She tried. A soft sway. Hesitant.

He let her.

Watched.

Then leaned in more, breath warm at her neck.

“That’s it. Just loosen. Let it roll.”

She exhaled shakily.

He guided her again, hips circling with his grip, low and slow, his body staying just enough behind hers to let her move without pressure, but never without presence.

“Drop your weight a little. Uh huh. Right there. Now roll that ass just like that. Mmm…yeah.”

His hand stroked across the base of her spine.

Not groping.

Not claiming.

Just marking the rhythm.

“That’s how blues supposed to look. Like you mournin’ and flirtin’ at the same time.”

She blushed.

But her hips obeyed.

And soon?

The room around them blurred.

The voices, the dice, the clink of glass.

All gone.

Just Smoke’s breath at her neck.

His hand at her waist.

And the slow, sacred drawl of a blues guitar sliding between their bodies.

The music slowed. The last note of the guitar lingered like a moan in the bones of the room.

Violet’s breath trembled.

Her cheeks were pink. Her lips slightly parted. And the fringe of her dress still shook from the sway of her hips.

Smoke’s hand lingered at her waist.

Still.

Warm.

She didn’t speak at first.

But when she turned—slow, timid, eyes lifted only halfway, she spoke.

“…Thank you,” she whispered.

Her voice was soft, breathy, almost buried in the noise around them.

But Smoke heard it.

Felt it.

He leaned just a little closer, enough for her to smell the tobacco on his collar and feel the heat of his chest through the air.

“You learn quick,” he said, “And you move like honey on a hot plate.”

That made her blush deeper.

She started to turn away, but his hand found the small of her back again.

Not to stop her.

To guide her.

He led her slow.

Past tables. Past smoke. Past the low laughter and flicker of gas lamps.

To a corner near the back—curtained off, barely lit, where the sound of the party dulled into velvet hush. He pulled the curtain aside with one hand. Held it open for her. Inside, a single high-backed chair sat angled beneath a low amber lamp. Shadows danced across the walls like they’d been waiting.

Violet stepped in slow, her heels whispering against the worn rug.

She didn’t sit.

She just turned—uncertain, lips parted.

Smoke stepped in after her.

Let the curtain fall behind.

Now it was just the two of them. Breath and silence. And that tension curling between them like a thread of sweet smoke. He walked past her, slow, and sat in the chair—legs wide, elbows on his knees, looking up at her like she was made of silk and candlelight.

“You did real good out there,” he spoke closely to her, “But you still movin’ like you ain’t been touched proper yet.”

She swallowed.

Hard.

“You ever been in a man’s lap while the whole world burned outside that curtain?”

She shook her head.

“Good,” he said, voice low and thick, stroking his bottom lip with his thumb as he studied her, “Then come sit. Let me show you how heat’s supposed to feel when it ain’t rushed.”

Smoke glided his hands over his thighs invitingly. With slow strides, Violet eased into Smoke’s lap like she was stepping into warm water. Her weight sank slow, uncertain, her body perched delicately across his thighs. She didn’t know where to put her hands or if she was breathing too loud. Didn’t know how she looked.

Until he spoke.

“You look perfect.”

His voice was low, close, brushing against her ear like haze curling over a flame.

She flushed, lips parting, eyes flickering down.

“Mmm…mm,” he hummed.

One hand—rough, wide, warm—slid to her thigh. His thumb stroked her gently, just above the knee, up and down. Up and down.

“I mean that, Violet. You look perfect tonight.”

She swallowed.

Hard.

“And you sexy too,” he added, voice thickening, “This dress. That color on you. The way that fringe move when you walk…”

His hand stroked higher now—still outside the dress, slow, patient.

“But this right here…” He lifted his other hand to the soft knot at her throat, “This ribbon?”

She nodded, breath catching.

“You kept it on. That say a lot.”

She looked down again, shy.

“I like that,” his eyes tracked her, “I like a woman that don’t let go of her softness just ‘cause the room get loud.”

His hand moved again. Back to her thigh, slow strokes, up and down. The silk of her dress whispered beneath his fingers.

“What you know about touch?” he asked softly.

Her eyes darted to his, then away again.

“You ever been with a man before?”

She shook her head.

“You touch yourself?”

She hesitated. Her lips parted.

But no sound came.

Smoke’s hand paused.

He leaned in, his voice firmer now. Lower.

“Look at me.”

She tried.

Her lashes fluttered. Her gaze lifted, but didn’t quite stay.

“Uh-uh. Don’t shy away now. If I’m talkin’ to you like this, touchin’ you like this…”

His hand moved again—higher now, grazing the inside of her thigh so lightly she whimpered.

“…You give me them eyes.”

She looked.

Really looked.

And something shifted in the room.

“That’s it,” he uttered, “You feel what I’m doin’, don’t you? Right there?”

She nodded, lips parted, breath trembling.

“Good. You keep lookin’ at me, and I’ma keep showin’ you how a real man makes wantin’ feel like worship.”

Smoke’s hand never left her thigh.

Still stroking.

Still coaxing.

Every pass dragged up a little higher—just enough to feel the soft heat between her legs without breaking the barrier of silk. Violet sat trembling across his lap, her breath catching at the top of each inhale, eyes locked to his like he’d told her.

“You feel that?” he asked again, voice low and smooth, “You feel how soft you get when I touch you like this?”

She nodded.

“Say it.”

She hesitated, lips barely moving, “I-I feel it…” voice tiny.

His fingers paused.

Then circled slowly at the crease of her thigh.

“Mmm. You ever felt like this before?”

She shook her head.

“Never? Say it.”

“Not…like this…”

The words were whispers, shaky, unsure—but real. And Smoke groaned under his breath, eyes darkening.

“Goddamn. That little voice drivin’ me crazy, girl. You don’t even know.”

His fingers kept moving, barely grazing the inside seam of her thighs, brushing heat without claiming it. His dick was throbbing so heavy and hard it almost made him dizzy.

“You ever touched yourself thinkin’ ‘bout a man?”

She blushed.

Pressed her legs tighter.

His fingers pushed between—not deep, just enough to remind her he could.

“Answer me.”

“Y-yes…”

“That man ever make you feel like this?”

She swallowed, eyes still on his. She didn’t want to fully answer that. Truth is, Smoke had never touched her before this.

“No. Not even close…not–not ‘til now…”

That did something to him. Something low and hungry and deep in the chest. He dragged his thumb in slow circles over the dampening fabric between her legs.

“You know I ain’t gon’ hurt you, right?”

She nodded.

“And if I keep touchin’ you like this…You gon’ let me take you wherever this leads?”

Violet blinked.

Trembled.

Then nodded again, “Yes.”

Smoke leaned in and kissed the bow at her throat again—slower this time. And when he pulled back, he didn’t move his hand.

He whispered, “Then you keep lookin’ at me. And you keep speakin’ when I ask. ’Cause I ain’t just tryna make you feel good…I’m tryna learn what you never been told you deserve.”

Smoke adjusted her gently, large hands curling around her waist as he guided her forward.

“Come on now. Straddle me.”

Violet hesitated, heart thudding in her ears. But she obeyed—knees bending, dress sliding up her thighs as she carefully perched herself on top of him, her softness settling over his lap like velvet over stone. Smoke’s hands rested on her hips now—not moving, just holding.

Grounding.

“Look at me.”

She did.

Wide eyes. Lashes fluttering. Breath caught behind her ribs.

Smoke tapped his lips with his pointer finger.

“Gimme a kiss.”

She blinked. Then leaned in slow, shy and unsure, pressing a small, delicate peck against his mouth—just a whisper of contact, barely there.

She started to pull back.

He didn’t let her go far.

One hand came up to cup the back of her neck.

“That was cute,” he spoke slow and even, “Sweet,” His thumb traced her jawline, “You ever kissed before?”

She nodded, eyes downcast.

“Yes…once.”

“Yeah?” His brow lifted, “What kind a kiss?”

Violet’s voice was soft, nearly breathless.

“The same. Just like that. A little one.”

Smoke hummed low in his throat, almost a growl.

“Mmm. You ain’t kissed for real, then. You ain’t learned what a man’s mouth can do when it wants to ruin you.”

He brought her a little closer.

Their faces inches apart.

His thumb moved to her bottom lip, stroking it gently.

“Lemme teach you.”

“…Teach me?” she whispered.

“How to kiss with tongue, baby. Real slow. Real deep. So next time you touch your lips, you remember what it feel like to lose yourself there.”

Violet’s lips parted on a shallow breath. Smoke kept her there—his hands warm at her hips, steady, anchoring her as she sat straddled over his lap in the hush behind the curtain.

Their eyes stayed locked.

She was trembling slightly, mouth still soft and cherry-red from the makeup Minnie had given her, her gaze flicking down to his lips and back again.

“Just follow me,” Smoke reassured her, “Don’t think. Just feel.”

He leaned in and kissed her again.

This time, not a peck.

He held it.

Pressed in slow, letting her feel the fullness of it.

The heat.

The shape.

His mouth was warm.

His breath tasted like whiskey and clove.

He kissed her once—just pressure. Then again, mouth parting slightly against hers.

“Loosen your lips,” he whispered against her mouth, “Don’t tighten. Let ‘em soften. Mmm, just like that.”

He kissed her again, this time deeper. Violet responded—tentative at first, her mouth moving, copying his.

Her breath caught.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice molten, “Now open up a little. Just a little…let me in.”

His tongue slid gently between her lips, slow and patient—not invasive, just inviting. And when hers flicked back in return, unsure but willing—Smoke groaned.

Low.

Rough.

Appreciative.

He kissed her longer now.

Let it stretch.

Let it warm.

Let it unravel her.

His hands stayed firm on her hips, but one moved slowly up her back, drawing her in.

Not forcing, just deepening.

“Don’t rush,” he said softly, lips brushing hers between each kiss, “This ain’t about speed. Blues never is. Use your tongue like you dancin’. Let it glide.”

She followed.

Tried again.

This time slower.

More confident.

Their tongues met.

Tasted.

Slid and circled in that hot, shared space where breath and desire blurred into one.

“That’s it,” Smoke coaxed, “You feel that?”

She nodded against his mouth.

“You feel how I taste?”

“Yes…”

“You like that?”

“Mm-hmm…”

“Say it.”

“I like it…I like how you taste.”

He kissed her again.

Slower now.

Deeper.

Like he was savoring her.

And when he finally pulled back, lips brushing the corner of her mouth, her eyes fluttered open—glazed and wide, lips wet, chest rising fast.

“You kiss me like that again,” he said low, “and I ain’t gonna stop there.”

Smoke’s hand slid from the back of her neck to the curve of her spine, palm dragging slow as he exhaled warm against her cheek.

“You sittin’ in my lap like you beggin’ for more…But I ain’t gon’ take it yet…unless you want me to…”

Violet swallowed hard. Her thighs clenched tighter against his hips. She didn’t know what to say—couldn’t find her voice if it was placed in her palm.

He looked up at her.

Studied her face.

The heat in her cheeks.

The tremble in her fingers.

“…You ready for a lil’ more?”

She opened her mouth. Then stopped.

He chuckled under his breath—not cruel. Just deep.

“Thought so.”

He leaned back in the chair slightly, legs still spread, arms relaxed—but eyes locked on her.

“Let me see how you dance.”

She blinked.

“Dance?”

“Yeah, baby. A lap dance. Like you would for a man payin’ for your time.”

Her breath caught.

“I—uh—I haven’t done many…”

“That so?” he smirked, “Then show me what you have done.”

Violet shifted slightly, uncertain. She started to move—rolling her hips slow, shoulders loose, grinding soft against his thighs the way she’d seen some of the girls do downstairs.

But Smoke?

He just watched.

No hunger in his eyes.

Not yet.

His brows drew low.

His fingers tapped once on her hip.

“Mmm. Nah.”

She froze.

“That ain’t it.”

“It’s not?”

He shook his head, slow, gaze burning, “You movin’ like you performin’. Like you tryna please a stranger.”

She looked away, embarrassed.

“Hey,” he said softly, “Don’t pout. You ain’t wrong for not knowin, “His hands slid to her waist again—gentle but firm, “Lemme show you.”

He guided her hips forward. Pressed her chest just slightly closer to his. Tilted her pelvis so the center of her heat rested exactly where he wanted it—right against the thickness of him.

“Now…move like this.”

He rolled her hips in a figure-eight, his hands controlling the rhythm.

Slow.

Grounded.

Deep.

“That’s how you do it.”

She whimpered softly—the contact making her thighs tremble, breath catching.

“You feel that?”

“Y-yes…”

“That’s what a lap dance supposed to do. Not entertain,” He leaned in, lips brushing her ear now, “It’s supposed to tease. Supposed to make a man feel the heat before he ever even touches the flame.”

His fingers dug into her waist a little harder.

“Now do it again. By yourself. Just like I showed you.”

Violet swallowed, still perched over Smoke’s lap, her body caught between tension and want. His hands slid from her waist but didn’t leave her completely—fingers resting on the tops of her thighs, thumbs stroking slow encouragement.

“Go on, baby…show me what you just learned.”

She exhaled.

Closed her eyes for half a second.

Then began to move.

Slow at first.

Tentative.

Her hips rolled in the rhythm he’d given her—not perfect, but real. A soft, deliberate sway that brushed her heat against the heavy ridge beneath his slacks.

Smoke’s breath caught.

His hands stayed at her thighs, flexing slightly.

“That’s it…just like that.”

Violet’s cheeks were hot, her lips parted, her movements trembling but steadying.

She rolled again.

This time slower.

Deeper.

Her body tilted slightly forward, just like he showed her, so her chest brushed his, so her thighs held him tight.

“You feel what you doin’ to me?” he asked, voice rough now.

She nodded, too breathless to speak.

“Mmm. That’s my girl…”

He watched her hips.

Watched the way her body started to find its own rhythm—not just mimicking his, but becoming something natural.

Instinctive.

Her eyes stayed mostly low, lashes fluttering, but once or twice she looked at him—and it nearly undid him.

“Look at me while you ride.”

She did.

Soft brown eyes, hazel sparks glowing, mouth damp from their kiss.

Her lips formed his name without sound.

“Just like that. You makin’ me proud, baby,” His voice dropped to a growl, “You dancin’ on me like you mine.”

Her hips rolled again—slower this time, firmer.

And his jaw clenched.

His hands gripped her thighs.

“Keep movin’. I wanna feel every part of you get comfortable sittin’ on what you can’t even see yet.”

She whimpered.

And still—she obeyed.

Violet’s hips slowed, trembling now, her breath shaky as she rolled against the firm, thick ridge beneath her.

She was starting to feel too much.

Too warm.

Too exposed.

Her movements paused—

Until Smoke’s hands closed over her hips again, fingers strong, grip unshaking.

“Don’t you fuckin’ stop.”

His voice was low, commanding, but never cruel. It was teetering on the edge of begging. She tried to move again, the same way, but he halted her.

Held her still.

“Widen your legs.”

Violet blinked.

“What—?”

“Wider,” he repeated, “Let me feel all that heat you been keepin’ locked up.”

She whimpered but obeyed, knees shifting out, her weight lowering, the center of her body pressing more firmly against the solid length straining inside his slacks.

Smoke growled under his breath.

“Yeah…that’s it.”

He adjusted her hips with his grip, tilting them slightly.

“Now grind on me again. Just like before. But deeper. Slower.”

She moved.

Tentative.

Unsure.

“Mmm, no—eyes on me.”

He tipped her chin up with one hand, forcing her gaze to his.

“You gon’ learn to watch me when you makin’ me feel this good.”

Violet whimpered.

Her hips rolled forward—deep, heavy, dragging her center across the thick heat of him. Violet’s body moved up and down…up and down…like she was riding a wave to shore in the Gullah coast back home.

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

His nostrils flared.

“You feel that?” he rasped, “That’s what you do to me. You sittin’ right on top of it, and I ain’t even inside you,” His voice dropped lower, “You so hot down there, baby. So fuckin’ wet I feel it through all this fabric.”

Violet moaned softly—embarrassed, breathless, but too far gone to stop.

“You ridin’ me like that and wonder why I stare at you like I’m starving?”

He let her roll again.

Then again.

Each movement slower. Deeper. Hotter.

His grip on her hips tightened, but he didn’t guide her this time—he let her find it.

And when she did…

He leaned forward, lips close to her ear.

“You keep grindin’ like that, and I’ma soak this whole chair with how wet you get.”

Violet’s breath came in soft pants now—short, sweet little catches in her throat each time her hips rocked forward.

She was moving like he taught her.

Slower now.

Deeper.

Wider.

Hands on his shoulders now.

Shaking.

Her weight pressed firm against the length of him—thick and rigid, straining beneath his slacks, the heat of her damp center soaking through both layers.

Smoke groaned.

Low.

Torn from deep in his chest.

“You feel what you doin’ to me?”

She nodded.

But it wasn’t enough. He brought her forward with a firm grip, one hand still wrapped around her waist, the other sliding up the curve of her back.

“Come here.”

He tipped her chin again, this time pulling her mouth to his.

And when he kissed her?

It wasn’t gentle.

Not anymore.

His lips were hot, firm, hungry—his tongue sliding deep, coaxing hers into rhythm, claiming her with a kiss that made her knees weak even as she sat on him. His hips lifted slightly, grinding up into her roll, making her gasp against his mouth. Soft, barely audible. Like and was longing for air.

“Mmm, that’s it,” he growled, “Grind into me like you mean it. Ride me like your little body don’t know what to do without this pressure.”

Violet whimpered.

Her hands gripped his shoulders tighter, hips working slow and deliberate, guided now by want—not just instruction. Smoke kissed her again—deeper, slower, until they were breathing each other, mouths wet, lips swollen, tongues sliding lazy between heat and promise. His hand moved lower—to the curve of her ass, squeezing through silk as he held her closer.

“Feel this dick?” he whispered, “That’s how I want you to move when I finally put you where you belong.”

Violet was trembling now.

“Can’t wait to see ya’ lil’ pretty ass unravel. From my mouth…from my fingers…from this dick you humpin’.”

Violet whimpered.

“You and them little noises,” Smoke growled.

Still straddled across Smoke’s lap, silk bunched at her thighs, fringe swinging with every grind of her hips. She moved in slow, steady circles—riding the thick, pulsing heat of him beneath her, soaking through both their layers. Her lips were red and swollen from his kiss. Her eyes—half-lidded, glassy, glowing.

Smoke’s grip tightened at her waist.

“Look at you…” he rasped, “So fuckin’ pretty when you grind like that. You feel how hard I am under you, don’t you?”

She whimpered, her hands clutching his shoulders.

“Yes…”

“Say it.”

“I feel it.”

“Mmm, yeah, you do. Ridin’ it like you tryin’ to melt it through my bottoms,” He leaned in, his mouth brushing her jaw, teeth grazing the skin, his voice low and filthy, “How’s it makin’ that little pussy feel?”

She gasped, hips faltering, embarrassed, lips trembling.

But his hands held her steady.

Insistent. Firm.

“Tell me.”

“It… it feels—good…”

“Good ain’t enough, baby. I can feel how hot you are. Soaked through that pretty dress. I wanna hear what it’s doin’ to you.”

She swallowed hard.

“It’s…it’s…it’s makin’…makiin’ my pussy… ache. I-I feel it pulsing…”

Smoke almost came all over his damn self.

“Mmm, fuck, That’s it, baby. That’s what I wanted. You ridin’ me like you need it to breathe.”

He looked at her—really looked at her.

Eyes trailing down her flushed chest, her lips parted, the little ribbon still tied at her throat like a gift meant only for him.

She was trembling in his lap.

Her thighs quivering.

Her hips stuttering.

“You close, ain’t you?” he murmured, “Feel that tension buildin’?”

“Y-yes…”

“How it feel? Full? Like you ‘bout to burst?”

“Yes,” Violet spoke with a whimper.

“Don’t run from it, baby. Grind deeper.”

She obeyed—hips rolling slower, harder, pressing herself right over the rigid length of him, dragging her soaked heat in tight, aching circles.

“That’s my girl…” he whispered, “You take it. Let go on me. I want you to cum ridin’ my dick like it’s already inside you.”

She moaned—high, soft, almost helpless.

Her hands gripped his shirt.

Her body locked up—tight, quivering, grinding once, twice more and then—

She came.

Shaking.

Silk soaked.

Mouth parted.

Eyes wide with the pleasure she never knew she could feel without being touched there.

Smoke held her through it, mouth close to her ear.

“That’s it, sweet girl. You just came for me. I ain’t even pulled your panties to the side yet.”

He kissed her jaw.

Then her lips.

Then held her—tight, possessive, proud.

“I…I ain’t never felt nothin’ like that before.”

Smoke cupped the back of her neck, pulling her forehead to his.

“You gon’ feel more tonight. I’ll be at your room in a little while. But when I come, you best be ready for me. You hear?”

She nodded again, lips parted, trying to find her breath.

“Yes, sir.”

Smoke brushed a kiss to her cheek—delicate but possessive.

“Don’t you take off that ribbon. And don’t you go touchin’ yourself neither. That’s mine now.”

Violet spoke softly, “I’ll…I’ll wait for you.”

He let her slide off his lap, letting his hands trail down her thighs as she stood.

Smoke kissed her forehead, “Good girl.”

@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

[disc0fairy]

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

[disc0fairy]

Big Brother 3

Characters: Sabreea Waite x Big Jim

Warnings: Language & Smut

Word Count: 2.3K

Previous Chapter

“You got pretty beat up out there. You good?” Jon smiled. “Yeah, I’ll be good. What’s up?” Bree smiled. “I heard that you had the bat signal out for ya boy.” he laughed. “Yeah, about that…sorry if I came on a little strong.” Sabreea laughed. “It’s cool. There’s something attractive about a woman who knows what she wants.” Jon smiled. “How is your hamstring?” she smiled. “I should let you look at it? I heard you were good with hamstrings.” he teased. “Like you wouldn’t believe! Listen cutie…I gotta go. Will you be around later?” Bree asked. “Yeah, I’ll be around….just hanging out.” Jon smiled. “Ok, I’ll find you.” Sabreea smiled as she turned to walk off. Jon grabbed her hand to stop her. “I really like this ring gear. You need it in red.” he smiled, his fingertips trailing along the chain trim along the tattoo under her breasts. “I got something in the prettiest shade of pink I’d love to show you,” Bree smiled as she walked off to the locker room.

“Whew shit, that was intense.” Jon grumbled as he decided to walk off and find his brother. Now Jon was viewing Sabreea in a different light. Little did Jon know, the whole interaction was caught in the background of an interaction between Finn Balor and Roxanne Perez. “I think Jon was flirting with me.” Sabreea mumbled as she changed out of her ring gear. “As he should be! I mean, this was a very sexy little number. Mami approves. And…I know on the inside you were giggling and kicking your feet! You are so thirsty for him! You should ask him out, be the badass you are. Go for it!” Demi smiled. “Yeah! Fuckin go for it!” Liv Morgan added as she walked by on her way to shoot her segment. “That weirdo doesn’t even know what she’s cheering for.” Sabreea laughed. “She’s right tho. I think that you should leave the ring top on with that cargo jumpsuit. It makes your ass look good, this top makes the tits look good, you can’t lose!” Demi smiled.

“Why you smiling so big, Uce? You see some titties? Yeah, it was some titties!” Josh asked his smiling brother. “I just talked to Sabreea. She said that she was gone find me after she got changed.” Jon smiled. “And you ain’t even want to come and look at you. Listen…the aura on that woman is undeniable. And for some reason…she’s crazy about you.” Josh laughed. “Don’t hate, Uce. Think she’ll wanna grab Waffle House after this?” “You bet not take that woman to Waffle House…unless she suggests it. This little spot that Luis took us to, little Mediterranean spot that stays open late. Shoot him a text, I’m sure he’ll tell you the name. If he’s not taking her there, he’s bringing her food from there.” Josh shrugged. “Her and Luis?” Jon groaned. “Nah, they worked together in ROH and they just been cool ever since. She be kicking the shit out of people like he does. They train together a lot. He’s not her type and she’s not his. You got nothing to worry about on that front.” Josh laughed. Jon decided to make the call. “Big Jon…what’s up?” Luis’s deep voice boomed. “You cool with Sabreea, right?” Jon asked cautiously. “Yeah, Bree’s the homie. She’s good people. Wait…she finally got her hooks in you?” Luis laughed, he knew about her crush before Josh did. “Damn, how does everyone know but me? Was I that blind?” Jon grumbled. “Yes and no. You were over there on Fridays with Big Chief and she’s been over on Monday’s wreckin’ shop. And I think you were with someone when she first signed. Anyway, what’s up?” Luis laughed. “What’s the Mediterranean spot she likes? Josh can’t remember the name. I kinda want to surprise her with dinner.” Jon spoke. “Oh, Manos. I’ll make the call and get you a table. They get busy after the show since it's close to the arena. I’ll put it in your name. Jon….don’t fuck this up.” Luis laughed before he hung up.

“Ok girls, how do I look? I might have a date tonight.” Sabreea smiled as she packed up her bag. “Playfully sexy. Whoever he is…he’s getting a treat.” Zelina smiled. “The ass is assin’ chica! Go ahead and let him take a bite!” Bayley laughed. “Send me the link for this jumpsuit. It’s super cute.” Maxxine Dupri smiled as she packed up her things. 

Sabreea walked towards the locker room. “Oh, this cute girl.” Josh laughed as he spotted Sabreea. “Thanks. Be real with me, it’s not too much is it?” She asked. “Not at all. It’s not enough. You need some stacked gold necklaces and some heels with your toes out.” He smiled. “Sometimes the homies are fine. Don’t make it weird.” Josh reminded himself. “Alright, Uce. We bout to head out, if that’s okay with Bree.” Jon smiled. “Yeah, that’s perfect.” She smiled. “Y’all have fun. Use protection.” Josh teased as they walked off. “Let me get this.” Jon smiled as he grabbed Bree’s suitcase. “Ooh, a gentleman.” She giggled. The silence between them was comfortable as they walked towards the parking lot. He opened the door for her and smiled as she passed by. She smelled amazing. He popped the trunk and put her bag in the back. He walked around her side and opened the door. “Thank you.” She smiled.

Jon got in and started driving, she recognized the route immediately. “Martinez give you food recommendations?” “I wanted to take you somewhere you liked since you’re probably hungry after that match. Speaking of…how are your ribs?” “Sore, but I’ll live.” She smiled as her excitement grew. It had been a while since she had been to Manos. Luis invited her over for dinner last time she was in town. The restaurant was a little hole-in-the-wall type place decorated with columns and frescos on the outside. The inside was decorated like the white buildings of Santorini. “You ever been to Greece?” Jon asked as the waiter walked away to get their drinks. “I haven’t but it’s my dream trip.” She smiled. Jon locked that tidbit away, he had never been to Greece but he heard about it.

The night couldn’t have gone any better. They laughed and talked until they were the last ones in the dining room. “We should go so they can go home.” Jon smiled. “I better get you back to the hotel. It’s late.” He smiled as Sabreea yawned on cue. “You’re right. I’m lowkey sleepy.” She laughed. He loved how her eyes sparkled as she struggled to keep them open.

Three Months later

“Why you ain’t give me none on the first date?” Jon teased as he sat down on the couch next to Sabreea. “I really wanted to, but I try not to listen to Big Mama. She’ll get me in trouble each and every time.” Bree laughed as she offered him a spot under her blanket. “Well, let me talk to Big Mama directly cuz you was trippin.” Jon laughed as he pulled the blanket over him and snuggled up. “I threw it at you after that though. And after that. And after that. And every time since!” Sabreea laughed as his arm slinked around her waist to pull her closer. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely not complaining. I’ve never been with a woman who does the same thing as me. It’s been…my favorite experience. Oh, met with my doc before I flew out, I’m ready to return whenever the story allows. I called Joe but he’s off doing lord knows what.” Jon laughed. “He needs Big Jim by his side ASAP. He can’t keep getting his pretty ass packed up by the youngins.” Bree laughed. “Oh, you think Joe fine? Girl…get off me.” he laughed as he pulled away from her. “He is. But so is Josh and so are you. I can think your cousin is fine without wanting to fuck him. I can talk to him and my pussy doesn’t get wet. I have shown Josh a submission move where we were damn near on top of each other…Sahara desert. You on the other hand…Niagara fuckin’ Falls the moment you say my name. It’s embarrassing.” Bree laughed as she cuddled into his chest.

“Nuh uh, you not getting off that easy.” Jon laughed. “Oh? So getting me off is light work? Damn. I gotta make you work harder.” She smiled, her focus going back to the movie they were watching. “I know you don’t wanna really watch this movie. I’m trying to explore Niagara Falls.” Jon smiled as he pulled Bree into his lap. She could already feel him getting hard beneath her thighs. “You are so nasty. Aye, you tell your brother that you were in town?” She smiled, her eyes drawn to a particular strand of gray hair in his beard. “No. He’s currently in his clingy era and he would be over here third-wheeling. I’ll call him tomorrow, I promise.” Jon smiled as Sabreea straddled his lap. “Mmm hmm. Don’t be neglecting my friend for pussy.” She giggled. “But what if it’s really, really good pussy? I mean…it’s deep. And wet. And grips like you wouldn’t believe! He’s gotta understand, right?” Jon teased. His hands cradled her ass, his lips kissing along her collarbone.

Her hips rocked against his as his lips lured her in deep. “Take them shorts off, mamas.” Jon whispered as his hands traveled up under her tank. “Swear, I need to buy you 17 more of these little sets. This pink might be my favorite. It makes you look all soft an’ shit. Definitely not Badass Bree Carter.” Jon growled. “Ooh, they have it in red.” She laughed, showing him the outfit on Amazon. “And why aren’t we buying them? Big Jon’s got you.” He smiled as he added her size in every color except pink and black. “I can buy my own loungewear.” She sighed, her hands playing in his wavy hair. “I know. This shit for me. You haven’t had panties on all day and I have been holding back on suckin’ on your titties all day! This the only thing you wear when I come to visit! Or you can be naked. Them your only options.” Jon laughed as he tossed her phone aside. Sabreea stood up and Jon wasted no time pushing the shorts down her thighs.

“Come sit down on it.” He smiled as he pulled her on his lap again. “My favorite thing to do.” She kissed his lips. She swallowed her moan as she felt his fingers teasing her wet opening. “I know what my favorite thing to do is. You want me inside you, baby?” He smiled darkly. “Yes, Daddy.” She moaned as her lips found his. As her tongue slid across his, he pushed a finger in. Jon’s free hand grabbed her ass, pinning her against his chest. “Goddamn, you’re so tight.” Jon groaned as his ring finger joined his index in her warmth. “Ooh baby.” She whispered as he curled his fingers right into her spot, her body shaking at the sensation. “There it is. Cum for Big Jim.” He smiled. He nipped at her bottom lip as he watched her slowly come undone. “Fuck me…please.” She whimpered as she teetered on the brink of her orgasm. “Be a good girl and nut and I’ll stuff you full of this dick.” Jon cooed with a smile.

Sabreea’s eyes squeezed shut as she let go. “Nuh uh. Let me see you.” Jon smiled, his fingers doing the “come here” right into her g-spot. Sabreea’s eyes met Jon’s as her body shook in release. “You’re so pretty when you let me stretch you out.” Jon grunted as he pulled his shorts down. His hard dick bounced up as it sprang free. “I got the best seat in the house ready just for you.” Jon smiled as he pulled his fingers from her core. “Fuccckkk. I love when you finger me. It’s just so perfect.” She smiled as she buried her face into his neck. Jon eased his coated fingers into his mouth, her eyes watching. “Thank God for pineapple and mango. All sweet an’ shit.” Jon smiled as he felt her hand easing him into her. Her mouth dropped open as she sank him deeper into her warmth. “You feel so good. I wanna put my baby in you but we can’t do that right now. My girl’s gotta have her Wargames match.” Jon laughed as her hips rocked against his. “Shh. I don’t wanna talk about work.” She laughed. “But seeing you all sexy locked in that cage. It’s gonna make my dick hard.” He growled, his hips bucking up into her. “Want me to come and bounce on it before your Wargames match? Cuz seeing you all locked in that cage is gonna just make me wet all over again. Will you be able to get me off, twice in one night?” She moaned. 

“I’m bout to do it right now. Don’t think I don’t feel you gripping me. That shit feel too good. I wanna spend the rest of my trip just like this. Just buried inside your pretty ass. Just bouncing on this dick.” Jon moaned softly, his big ending tingling in his spine. Not even the ringing doorbell could disturb this moment. “You order something?” Bree asked. “No. Did you?” Jon groaned. “Nuh uh.” She said, her lips nipping his neck. “You marking me up? Letting people know that I’m taken?” He laughed. He had given her a few love bites all over her body during his last visit. Conveniently, none of the marks were covered by Bree’s ring gear. Jon’s moans echoed across the room as he climaxed. “I love you.” Jon breathed. “I love y…...ohhhh shit Daddy.” Sabreea moaned out as her orgasm blindsided her. She buried her face into the warmth of Jon’s neck as she rode the wave of her bliss.

The Ring app on her phone chirped loudly. "Aye! Now that y’all are done, can someone come open the door? The wings getting cold!” 

@surdelcielo @aisharmi @fearlesschimera @cyberdejos2 @po3ticb3auty @sweetpeainadysfunctionalpod @chocovibesonly @wrestlingprincess80 @alichesmi @lov3rla03 @christinabae @brie-mode-activated @trippinsorrows @sassginaswanmills @becauseimswagman1 @adoreesun @jstarr86 @expert-texpert @trippiexlove @justazzi @purplementalitybluebird @paigereeder @disc0fairy @theusotwinzcom @naomi-xxi @annyanse @deepestbluestworld

[disc0fairy]

Leticia's New Cat

Chapter Four

Pierre made a split-second decision. His hand darted out, his second and middle fingers striking a specific nerve behind her ear. Her body slackened almost instantly, sinking back into the mattress as her breathing evened out.

He backed away from her sleeping form, his chest heaving as if he had just escaped a trap. Shifting swiftly into his panther form, he padded to the far corner of the room, curling his sleek body into the shadows.

How could I be so reckless? Pierre’s mind raced, the sharp sting of regret biting at him. He’d put everything in jeopardy with a single, foolish gesture. A soft growl rumbled in his throat, muffled by the darkness.

He cast a cautious glance at Leticia, who remained still, her expression serene in slumber. It was pretty dark in the room; she couldn’t have really seen me, could she? He shook his massive head, dismissing the thought. He couldn't afford to dwell on what-ifs.

The faint rustling of the night breeze through the window calmed him slightly, but his muscles remained coiled, ready. Sleep was out of the question now. He couldn’t afford another mistake.

Instead, he lay in silence, watching the rise and fall of Leticia’s chest, his thoughts spiraling. The bond he sought to forge with her was delicate, requiring precision and patience. Yet in his moment of weakness, he had nearly shattered it.

He hoped she'd raise it when she woke up. He would convince her it had all been a dream—a trick of her exhausted mind. Tomorrow, he resolved, he would be the perfect confidant—charming, attentive, and unassuming. Whatever it took to keep her close, he would do. For now, all he could do was wait.

When Leticia woke up, the first rays of sunlight were filtering through her curtains. She jumped out of bed, tossing her nightshirt over her head as she dashed into the shower.

Emerging from the bathroom completely nude, she grabbed a towel, roughly dried her body, and oiled her skin with practiced efficiency. Dressing in record time, she opted for a no-makeup look, applying only a quick swipe of lip gloss before heading to the kitchen.

She dished out canned food for her cats, casting an apologetic smile at Pierre as she emptied a tuna can into his bowl.

“I’ll make it up to you tonight, I promise!” She planted a loud, smacking kiss between his eyes before hurrying out the door.

By the time she arrived at her office, her staff were already hard at work. The sight brought a smile to her face. She’d sent out emails late the previous night outlining their new project, and it was clear they’d taken her instructions seriously.

A chorus of “Good mornings” greeted her as she made her way to her desk. She hadn’t stopped by Macy’s, her favorite coffee shop, for breakfast and hesitated to ask anyone to make the run for her. Unfortunately, Macy’s didn’t offer delivery, so she resigned herself to ordering from a chain she didn’t like as much.

Could this morning get any worse? She sighed, picking up her phone to place an order.

Before she could dial, the phone rang. Leticia blinked at the name on her screen: Gerald Hayes. She did a quick mental check. She’d sent him a quote after their dinner, and he’d surprised her by paying in full. She wasn’t expecting to hear from him so soon.

Please don’t let him be the type to micromanage, she thought, clearing her throat before answering.

“Good morning, Mr. Hayes?”

“Back to formality, Leticia?”

Despite herself, she smiled. “Good morning, Gerald.”

“Much better. Now, what’s your favorite breakfast spot?”

“Excuse me?” She blinked, caught off guard.

“Where do you like to grab breakfast? I know you don’t eat before you leave home—not with how focused you are. So, where do you go?”

“Well... I usually get two cups of mocha and a croissant from Macy’s. It’s a small family-owned coffee shop two blocks from my office building.”

“Got it. Bye.” The line went dead before she could respond.

Leticia stared at her phone, shaking her head. With a shrug, she set it aside, opened her laptop, and dove into work, completely forgetting why she’d picked up the phone in the first place.

It wasn’t even thirty minutes later when the soft ding of her office door caught Leticia’s attention. A young man, casually dressed but neat in appearance, stepped inside. He carried several coffee packs and a large, towel-covered basket.

The tantalizing aroma wafting from the basket revealed its origin before she even spotted the familiar Macy’s label on one of the coffee cups.

The young man approached her desk and set the items down carefully.

“Miss Leticia? He said I’d recognize you right away. You’re easily the most beautiful woman in the area.”

Leticia arched a brow, hiding her smile. “Delivery and compliments—impressive combination.”

The man gave a slight bow before leaving without another word.

Before Leticia could unwrap the basket, Janelle, her quirkiest employee and the unofficial spokesperson of the team, piped up from her desk.

“Coffee and pastries from Macy’s for all of us? Must’ve cost a pretty penny. You didn’t even ask who it’s from! I know that boy didn’t buy it.”

Leticia shot her a chiding glance, one that sent Janelle ducking her head with a sheepish grin as she returned to her work.

Of course, Leticia didn’t ask. As she pulled back the towel, revealing an assortment of steaming-hot pastries and a variety of coffee flavors, she didn’t need to. She already knew exactly who it was from.

Gerald.

Pierre paced the room, his thoughts churning. She hadn’t mentioned the previous night, not even in passing. Perhaps she didn’t remember. She had woken up late and rushed out in such a flurry that he hadn’t had the chance to gauge her mood.

He’d hoped they could have discussed it, laid the matter to rest before she left for work. Now, the uncertainty gnawed at him. He hated suspense, especially when it threatened the careful balance he was trying to maintain.

His gaze fell on the tuna in his bowl, and he wrinkled his nose in disdain. It would have to wait. He’d find something more palatable when he ventured into town.

Heading into the bathroom, Pierre decided to take a quick shower. He preferred to avoid public baths when he could. Grabbing her shower gel, he hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. She’s too scattered to notice something like this, he reasoned. It wasn’t as if she marked the bottle after every use.

As the warm water cascaded over him, a fresh realization struck. The oil in the gel clung to his skin, leaving a faint trace of its scent. He groaned, cursing his lack of foresight. She’ll smell it on me.

He considered his options, then dismissed the thought with a flick of his head. I’ll just say I was playing with it out of boredom. That explanation should suffice, as long as he kept his tone casual.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Pierre paused. Unbidden, memories of Leticia moving about naked flooded his mind. He had been too apprehensive earlier to focus on her, but now, standing alone in the quiet of the empty house, water dripping down his body, the fragments came rushing back, piecing themselves together.

A heat stirred in his core, unwelcome and insistent, his body betraying him. It had been too long—far too long since he had been with a woman. The ache of desire clawed at him, relentless and maddening. His fingers twitched at his sides, resisting the primal urge to reach down and address the evidence of his growing arousal.

I need to take care of this, he thought grimly, as he walked stiffly to the wardrobe to get his clothes. I can’t afford distractions, least of all this one.

By the time Pierre reached his third bar of the day, he was still chasing whispers. Listening to thoughts and probing for information had yielded little so far, and he was starting to lose patience. He focused on his plate, tearing into a medium-rare steak and chasing it with a generous gulp of scotch.

He smiled into his glass as a deft hand slipped into his pocket. Turning slightly, he spotted the thief: a tall, willowy Japanese woman dressed in sleek leather pants and a matching corset that revealed her toned midriff. She moved with the ease of someone who had done this a thousand times.

Pierre watched her saunter toward the exit, slipping his wallet into her pants. He gave her a head start before following.

He caught up to her just as she swung a leg over a glossy black motorcycle.

“Nice bike,” he said with a smirk. “Is it even yours?”

The woman didn’t so much as glance at him. She focused on starting the engine, her slender fingers twisting the ignition.

Pierre stepped closer, placing a calm hand on the handlebar. His gaze locked with hers. “My wallet,” he said evenly.

Her eyes narrowed. “Jibun o okashitekudasai,” she hissed.

Pierre chuckled, his smirk widening. “Quite a mouth you’ve got there. No, I won’t go fuck myself. And I know you speak English. Hand it over—I need to pay for my meal.”

Her lips curled into a sly smile as she leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper in Japanese. Her eyes gleamed, flashing an unmistakable yellow.

Pierre didn’t flinch. “Can I have my wallet now?”

The smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of fear. She recoiled, her yellow eyes darting away from his and blinking rapidly as it turned back to a human shade of dark brown. Without another word, she yanked his wallet from her pocket and tossed it at him before revving her engine.

Pierre watched as the bike roared to life and she sped off into the traffic, her leather-clad figure disappearing amidst the cars.

He chuckled softly, tucking the wallet back into his jacket. A kitsune. Mischievous as always. He’d encountered one before during his time in Japan, and this one was no less cunning. The panic in her eyes when she realized her magic didn’t work on him was priceless.

As he strolled back into the bar, Pierre shook his head. For a fleeting moment, he considered how it hadn't even occurred to him to flirt with her or any other woman, for that matter, since he left home that morning.

It’s like I only remember I’m a man when I’m around Leticia, he thought with a groan. I’m truly fucked

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

Leticia came home in high spirits, humming a tune as she unlocked the door and kicked it shut behind her. The click of her stilettos echoed on the wooden floor as she strode toward the kitchen, arms full of shopping bags.

After depositing her haul, she returned to the living room, kicking off her shoes with a satisfied sigh. With practiced ease, she unbuttoned her shirt and tossed it onto the couch, leaving her in a fitted tank top as she disappeared again to prepare food for her cats.

The whole time, Pierre’s sharp gaze tracked her every movement. She hummed away, occasionally wriggling her hips to the rhythm of the song in her head. Her high spirits radiated through the room, lifting the air like a warm breeze.

She’s in a particularly good mood, Pierre thought, his brows furrowing slightly. More so than usual.

When Leticia returned with a tray of meat, her smile brightened as she placed it in front of him. But Pierre shook his head.

“I’m not hungry,” his clear voice resonated in her mind.

Leticia tilted her head, an arched brow lifting in mock surprise. “You’ve only had canned tuna all day.”

“I went out,” he replied, his tone calm. “Caught a couple of rabbits.”

Her playful expression shifted into mock sternness. “I know we’re on the outskirts of town, but you need to be careful, Pierre. You’re too big to roam around freely. Someone could see you, and the last thing I want is for you to get hunted or shot.”

Pierre couldn’t stop the warmth that crept into his chest. Without thinking, he spoke into her mind, his tone carrying more intensity than he intended. “I’ll be careful. Don’t worry.”

Leticia paused, her eyes softening at his words. She nodded and turned to return his uneaten food to the fridge.

“How was your day?” Pierre asked, his voice quieter this time.

“You would not believe what happened!” she replied, almost giddy.

Pierre smirked, rolling his eyes. Here we go.

“Gerald bought coffee and pastries for my entire office—straight from Macy’s!” she exclaimed, practically bouncing as she spoke. “Macy’s! That’s where I get my breakfast, and let me tell you, they are not cheap.”

She came back into her room as she continued to recount the event. Pierre stayed where he was, listening with an amused expression as she moved around, changing into her nightwear.

She plodded to her bed and climbed on without pulling back the blanket, lying on top of it and facing Pierre.

“Who is Gerald?” Pierre queried, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“My latest client. Remember? I just told you about him,” Leticia replied, arching a brow.

“Oh, the one too lazy to plan his wife’s memorial?”

She frowned, but before she could retort, Pierre chuckled, the sound low and teasing.

“I’m just playing with you. Why did he buy you coffee? Is he hitting on you?”

“I hope so!” she giggled, the sound light and carefree.

Pierre stilled for a moment, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. “Why would he be hitting on you?”

Leticia rolled her eyes, leaning back on her hands. “I know you don’t see it because I’m not a sexy jaguar with shiny fur and bright spots,” she teased, her tone dripping with mock exasperation.

Pierre made an exaggeratedly exasperated sound, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, though a flicker of warmth crossed his features.

“But in the human world, I’m very much above average looking,” Leticia continued, her tone playful but confident. “I turn heads wherever I go. So, yeah, it’s not surprising to me that he might like me. I might like him, too. Anyway, we managed to get a lot of work done today. We’ve booked almost all the vendors we need, and I’ll be finalizing arrangements after I visit his place.”

Pierre’s ears perked up at that. “You’re going to his house?”

“Well, yes,” she replied matter-of-factly. “The anniversary is taking place there. I need to see it to organize everything, including where each item will go. That’s Events Management 101.”

“Please tell me you’re not going alone,” Pierre said, his voice firm.

Leticia smirked. “No, I’m not. I’m going with my team.”

“Good,” Pierre muttered. “I don’t want you visiting that man alone for any reason.”

“Yes, Pa,” she teased, rolling her eyes.

Pierre sighed. “I just want you to be safe.”

Leticia chuckled lightly, her expression softening. “I know. I feel the same way about you too.”

Ohh, I doubt it, Lettie. You don’t know half the things I want to do to you. You do not feel the same way, Pierre thought, biting back a groan.

Leticia climbed onto her bed and closed her eyes. But as soon as her lids shut, a vivid image flashed in her mind: feline green eyes and full, pouty lips. Her eyes snapped open, and she turned to Pierre, who was already alert.

“Pierre,” she said cautiously, “did a man come into this house last night?”

Pierre stiffened but kept his expression neutral. “A man? I’d have ripped him limb from limb at the door. What’s wrong?”

“I feel like I saw someone sitting on my bed last night,” she said, her brows furrowing. “The memory is fuzzy, but I could’ve sworn I fell asleep on the couch and woke up in my bed.”

“You did fall asleep on the couch,” Pierre said smoothly. “But I remember watching you stumble like a drunk all the way to your bed. I was going to tease you about it later. Also, didn’t you meet your coffee buyer yesterday? You must have been so taken by him that you conjured him in your dreams.”

“Nah... this man I saw was more beautiful than any person I’ve ever seen,” she murmured, her voice dreamy yet unsure.

Pierre suppressed a smug smile. Ahhh... she thinks I’m the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

“It was just a dream, Lettie,” he said reassuringly. “I’d never let anyone get that close to you. You can sleep well—I’m right here.”

Leticia nodded, seemingly satisfied, and drifted off to sleep. Pierre, however, remained tense. He searched her thoughts for signs of doubt and found none, exhaling a sigh of relief.

That was one crisis averted, he thought grimly. But the weight of his mistake lingered. He had to ensure it didn’t happen again. If she saw the same face twice, there’d be no convincing her it was just a dream.

Previous

[disc0fairy]

Tumblr is such a icky place at times , I literally delete the app twice a month

[disc0fairy]

When I Was Your Man [ Annie x Smoke ] +18

⚠️: Public masturbation, Smut, strong language, betrayal

Words : 4.4 K

Recap

"Annie—baby—" he tried desperately to explain. But Annie didn't speak. Didn't even scream.

All she could do was stare at the man she came with, buried balls-deep in a full STD's bag.

He was still inside her. Still hard.

She spat hard on the floor, then disappeared. Her heels singing louder than the bass back in the barn.

Part 4

Anders yanked his pants up, dressed as fast as he could, and rushed after Annie. He ran out the juke, sure she'd taken his truck to head home.

"Annie!" he shouted out, anxious, his voice cutting through the night, folks laughing as he passed.

Fool. Of course she wasn't gonna answer. What the hell had he been thinking, bending that milf over like that?

He jogged up to the red truck. Something felt off. He narrowed the distance, squinting down at the engine, then cursed loud:

"Lords above! How old are you, Annie?"

She had slashed his tires. How the hell was he supposed to get home now ?

He scanned around him, looking for someone who could help him get the truck on feet. Oddly, his eyes landed on Cornbread. Clutching a few wooden coins, Anders made his way toward the grizzly shaped man.

"Hey, I really need help with my truck—"

Cornbread turned his back without a word, ignoring him.

Damn. Anders had come here to have fun with his girl, but now everything had  gotten outta hands. Even her people weren't fucking with him no more.

Guess the only solution left, was to push the damn truck to escape this place.

With no other choice, he set his hands to the truck back bumper and started to push.

Suddenly, the sky split, rain began to fall, cold and accusing, each drop feeling personal.

Annie didn't go home.She stormed upstairs, crashing some glasses as she drifted, trying to pull air into her thoughts.

The night was still young, and she refused to break down in tears.

The whole situation smelled like shit—the kind of shit those evil twins would definitely set up.

She sighed, taking another sip of her whiskey.

"Old Crow pure bourbon, darling."

She sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes.

Here Satan comes, she thought.

"You done searching your dignity in that girl's cunt, Smoke?" she said, leaning her body further against the railing.

"Jealousy don't look good on you, Annie."

"Cool. 'Cause I ain't got an ounce of it," she shot back.

"You ain't like the show then? I swear I seen you squirming more than that bitch, behind that window," he said, puffing a gray cloud off his lips.

Annie grinned—half menacing, half amused.

She released the railing in a slow, delicate cadence... then in a flash, she threw the drink straight into his face.

"Be careful not to bite more than you can chew, Elijah."

She patted his now wet, whiskey-scented blazer, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders. Annie stepped closer, her breath grazing his neck, her whole body lined up against his, chest to chest, hips to hips.

She could feel him tense, feel his pulse skip under his soaked shirt. She pressed her tits tight against him, shaking the sweaty boobs under his eyes .

Lower,his hard cock rubbed her thighs. Still hot, swollen and leaking from the girl he just fucked.

"Mmm," Annie hummed, "still leakin' from ol' girl's blowjob, and you got the nerve to get hard on me?"

Her hand slid down his chest, nails teasing the trail below his navel. Then, cruelly, as she waited for the moment, she grabbed his dick tight , squeezed it in her fist and watched his body jerked with pain, knees buckling.

"AAARH! Stupid witch—" he gasped, spitting the cigarette from his mouth, hand flailing toward hers.

She leaned in, lips caressing his ear and said, "Looks like we got a new champion in the Squirming competition."

She released his bulge, then straightened up before turning her heels away. Perched on the stairs she looked back his direction threateningly :

"You hadn't been a good boy Elijah, you hadn't been..."

Smoke watched her go.

He was fuming, his brain ready to explode. Never in his life had someone disrespected—humiliated—him like that. Now standing close to that damn railing, clothes stained with bourbon, balls bruised, he started envisioning every trick possible to make Annie pay.

If only she was just some random bitch—he would've shot her dead.

"Fuck she wanna play. Betta not cry later," he muttered, whistling through clenched teeth, jaw tight.

So consumed by his thoughts, Smoke didn't even notice his brother's arrival.

"Damn, nigga, what happened to you? I saw Ann—"

"Shut it," Smoke snapped, cutting him off. He was too pissed, too twisted up by that hoodoo witch, even hearing her name made his skin crawl. How the hell could someone be that fine and that bratty all at once?

Smoke needed to remind her. He needed to take her in every way—drill every hole, choke that venomous little mouth with his dick. Her throat needed to be stuffed full of his cock until she gagged. He wanted to bend her over that same damn railing and shove it in her cunt, so hard her knees gave out. Then grab a fistful of that coiled afro hair she wore like a crown, and fuck her till her voice cracked. Watch her makeup melt while he spit in her face.

Yeah. Annie was his, and it was only a matter of time before she surrendered.

Smoke had never been crazy about a woman before. But Annie? Annie was in his bones. In his fucking blood. He never even saw another woman after her. And during these seven long years, all he did was jerk off to the memory of her.

Sitting in his office back when he worked for the Italian mob, dick in hand, cum-soaked napkins piling up while he imagined her on her knees. Mouth open, drool running down her chin. Hands behind her back like a good little slut.

He pictured her riding him, her chocolate big tits slapping against his chest, moaning his name with tears in her eyes, her fat ass swollen from all the spanking. He imagined her begging to be tied up, to be pinned face down the desk while he spit in her pussy and rammed his cock in raw.

Even when he was getting shot at war, his whole fucking mind turned into a cinematic reel of Annie. Her smile, her eyes, the way he took great care of her pussy when she was pregnant with his child.

"I wanna know what she was up to during all these years."

"Who?" Stack asked, incredulous.

"Your mother," Smoke bit back. "Annie. Of course."

"Ayo, I ain't your damn runner," Stack said, fed up with playing errand boy between those two.

"Stack..." Smoke warned, his tone low, eyes fierce.

"Okay, okay! I don't want that Smoke on me," Stack grinned at his own dumb joke.

Proud of himself, Stack moved out.

He had infos to gather.

Finally reaching her doorstep, feet aching from the weight of her heels, Annie turned mad all over again.

"Annie—baby," Anders rushed up, trying to grab her attention. "I can explain, I was—"

"CUT IT OUT." She barked. "I'm real tired, Anders Ray Johnson. You take that lame-ass truck off my porch—and your broke self along with it."

She passed him without another glance, kneeled at her daughter's grave, and brushed the dust off the headstone. She wasn't in the right emotional state to pray, so all she could do was clean the dirt from the rock.

"By the time I get up, I hope you gone, darling."

"You can't just throw out everything we been through."

"Back then, I had a wooden dildo," she said plainly. "Used it so damn much it got torn. I plunged it down the toilet and made another one."

She paused. Then stood up and faced the man standing there, soaked by the rain.

"Bigger. Stronger."

"What—you mean?"

"You a broken wooden dildo, Anders. Ain't nobody want that."

Anders's face twisted into a hurtful grimace. He couldn't believe his ears.

There she was, looking straight at him, her eyes blank of any emotion, lips numb.

She loved him. Anders was sure of it. All this had to be a misunderstanding.

Yeah, he fucked up—but he was ready to fix it, to do whatever it took to earn her forgiveness.

"Annie, sweetie, I know—" he started, his throat tightening, tears threatening to fall. "I mean... what about my things? Where would I go? I helped you get back on your feet, Annie. That's how you thank me?"

Shit.

He didn't mean for it to come out that way.

Annie smirked. Walked inside the house.

From the old closet, she gathered up his shabby clothes, every last piece, even the clean ones she bought for him. Then flung them out the window, one by one.

"Here you go. The ones you brought in—and the ones I paid for. Oh wait—"

She dug into her purse, pulled out a few crumpled plantation bills, and tossed them down beside the pile.

"For your long and loyal services."

Long and loyal services ? What the fuck she meant?

"I done fucked your stanky cooch for free, what the hell kinda 'loyal service' is that supposed to be?" Anders snapped, screaming into void. She had already closed the window.

He lost it.

Humiliated.That bitch gone and humiliated him like he was just some stray mutt she picked up and tossed out.

Thank God there wasn't nobody out here to see him like this.

Still, pride or not, he bent down, snatched up the clothes now dirtied by the muddy ground, grabbed the wrinkled bills she threw at him and stuffing them in his pocket.

Then, he trudged back toward the red busted truck, rain slapping back.

"Dumb bitch gon' regret this. She gon' see who she messin' with."

The next morning rolled in slow and sticky, like molasses left out in the Mississippi heat. At Lizzie's boarding house, the twins' room smelled of tobacco and faint traces of bourbon still clinging to Smoke's breath.

He was dead asleep, shirtless, abs carved hard across his brown pecan skin. A faint sheen of sweat glazed his rising chest, sliding lower, trailing the V-line that pointed right to where the cotton sheet barely clung to his crotch.

Stack sat by the window, ashtray full, lighting another cigarette.

"You snore like a mule dyin', you know that?" he spoke loud enough to wake his brother up.

Smoke grunted, ran a hand down his face, then stretched, joints cracking like gunfire.

"Wut you got fa me?"

"Oh, Miss Annie ain't just sittin' home cryin' and gettin' head like you thought."

That made Smoke sit up, brows raised.

"She kept the herbalist shop," Stack said. "And opened a whole soul food joint down near the old courthouse."

"That right?" Smoke smirked, licking his lips. "She cookin' now?"

"Opened two years ago. Got folks linin' up for peach cobbler and catfish on Sundays. Shit smells good from three blocks away."

Smoke stood, naked except for the sheet falling off his waist, his toned ass flashing as he walked toward the bathroom.

"We eatin' there."

"Twelve o'clock," Stack said with a shrug. "Place gets packed quick."

Noon came fast.

The little soul food spot sat between two rundown laundromats, freshly painted with deep blue shutters and a hand-painted sign that read: Sweet Mama's Kitchen. The air around it was thick with fried grease, black pepper, and smoked ham hocks.

The older twin stepped inside first. Stack followed, but nearly tripped on the threshold.

There Annie was. Her glorious glistening dark skin shinning with sweat. She bent  over the counter, talkin' to some old man about greens, hips cocked to the side like she knew exactly what she was doing.

She was wearing a cinnamon colored cropped skirt, tight around her ass cheeks, phat and spread enough to make a man lose it and take her over the damn cash register.

Stack's eyes wide opened. SHIT. One more inch and he'd see the whole print of her laced panties.

Her breasts were covered by a loose mustard blouse, leaving so much place that  her titties damn near spilling out the front.

Her afro was wrapped tight in a hot sauce-colored scarf, piled high, gold hoops swinging with every turn of her head. Her lips were glossed deep plum, wet and pouty like she'd just sucked a soul outta somebody.

Stack blinked, throat tight. His dick was getting hard fast, pushing up in his pants like it wanted to be release. He looked down quick, put a hand on his bulge, wishing his brother ain't see any of his reaction.

"Lord... have mercy." He then whispered under his breath.

Smoke didn't react. Except for his fists getting strong and stronger, his knuckles stretching tight until they damn near cracked.

His brother was seeing red, Stack peeped it. Well he wasn't thinking clear either.

Smoke burned inside. That woman was toying with his damn nerves ! So she gone wearing back-alley pumpkin's clothes now ? Oh so she grown ? Running a damn restaurant wearing slutty clothes ?

Fuck. She might as well come out buck-naked, asking who wanted first taste.

And these dudes ?

These crusty-ass men standing around with their hungry eyes, watching her like she was the goddamn prize at the end of a lottery. Young ones. Old ones. Daddies with babies. Grandpas with liver spots. All of them struggling not to stroke their crotch while she leaned over and talked sweet about mustard greens.

All these motherfuckers pending at her lips like she was serving herself up instead of the damn fishes and fries.

Smoke knew she saw them too. Persuaded she saw every stiff jaw, every feverish eyes, every twitch in them pants like they were trying to hold back a nut.

And she ain't stop. She smiled.Talked sweet. Turned her fat ass just right.

Annie too concentrated on her orders didn't see the twins until her employee pinched her arms to look in their direction.

"Oh boy" she hissed annoyed. Grabbed a towel and wiped sweat from her neck.

"Fetch me the sage incense in the shelf. We gon visited by demons today" she said making the young waitress laugh.

Annie took orders after orders until both twins stoned up in front of her register.

"And what can I get you Sirs ?"

"Your ass, since it seems on menu too" Smoke barked, loud enough to make heads turn.

She sucked her teeth "Usually them kind of meals get served after 8:PM, get back on time. Be quick though the line is quite long" she smirked cocky.

"Annie, you really don't know when to shut the fuck up, do you?" he hissed. "Always playin' with fire."

"Smoke..." she paused lowering her bust close enough for him to see her brown titties transparent through the blouse "this is my damn restaurant. Either you eat or get your fucking asshole outta there. You're on my damn territory here, don't ever think you can talk big without consequences. Huh ?"

"Hey Smoke." Stack closed up, mumbling in his brother ears "look around a bit. Let just eat, we gon plan some after"

Smoke glanced up. Dark figures all around them, tall, muscular, sitting in corners, glocks bulging in Waistbeads.  These were kind different niggas. Big dawgs. Some wearing dreadlocks, others bald like some mafioso he already dealt with back Chicago.

"And so you did give your cun—"

"Two plates of fried catfish and red rice, Annie. Not too spicy," Stack cut him off.

"Got it." She winked, writing down on paper "Forty-five cents. Y'all can take a seat two tables back. Next."

Hours later Smoke exited the building, leaving Stack, sat at the damn seats she gave them.

Annie noticed how the young twin eyes stayed on her, dragging down the back of her thighs, crawling up her ass every time she moved between tables, serving plates. He thought he was slick, but she saw it.

These nigga ain't loyal at all, she laughed internally.

Fuck he wanted a show ? She was about to gave him one unforgettable.

Annie strode close to the corner spot, feigning to clean up a random table right in front of his.

Purposely dropping the rag, she bent down, arching her back, her thick thighs brushing each other in a soft sound.

Her tight cinnamon skirt crept up damn near to her hips, barely holding on. A good breeze flew, lifting the fabric up, then Stack peeped : a black lace string, slicing her cake in twos. The sweat on her skin shined bright and the cloth of her panties watered.

He wasn't thinking about Smoke.

Wasn't thinking about right or wrong.

Wasn't thinking at all.

He saw one cheek jiggle slightly when she shifted her weight. She stayed down longer than she needed to and he was fighting demons to not reach out, pull that lace aside with one finger and see how wet she was.

Fuck. He couldn't resist any longer. Stack dropped his stiff huge penis out, under the table, his thang already leaking milk. With firm hands he stroked his swollen dick, teasing the tip, squeezing his heavy balls as he jerked off.

That woman had no business bending like that, making her bubble ass cheeks swaying like she wanted to knock him out. He slid his hand on his crotch, up and down, slow at first , palm slick with precum.

The heat of getting caught masturbating didn't stop him, his whole mind was poisoned with nasty images of Annie.

He closed his eyes, fantasizing about dropping down on his knees, his face buried between them fat chocolate cheeks. His wet tongue dragging slow over her brown, tight bootyhole, smelling all the feminine scent of her. Then ,sliding two fingers hard inside her dripping, sweet strawberry pussy—

"You good ?"

Shit. He came instantly after hearing her voice. She surprised him, stopping him in his deeds. The sticky, white cum exploded on the tiled floor and all over his muscular thighs "Wh—what ?" He replied feigning innocence.

Her hair now unwrapped, falling down her shoulders, Annie supported herself on the table. She leaned in, her breast slamming on the woody furniture. Stack distracted, couldn't take his eyes off her huge tits naked beneath the sweaty, now transparent blouse. Her tits danced at every breath, teasing him.

As if she wanted to push him deeper off the edge, Annie stepped beside him, her hard milking nipple grazing on his left arm, twitching his cock again as he didn't just nut all over his pants.

"I owe you the change, come get it" she whispered clicking her tongue in a lascivious way.

Did she really not see under the table ? She looked pleased, devilishly. Did she planned that all along ? Talking about the change when her damn restaurant empty and near to close !

Stack watched her leave, her backside shaking left and right as she disappeared behind the counter.

He sat there, frozen, breathing like he'd ran five blocks.

His life was over. His brother done killing him.

"The change" she laughed. She sure had to give it to him though, she was not a thief.

Walking in the restroom, she said bye to some of her girls who were still packing their stuffs

"Don't be late tomorrow Anaya !"

" Yes. And sorry for today Annie"

The teen girl rushed outside, it started to get dark.

To be honest? Stack ain't give a fuck about that damn change. The hell was the point anyway ? Chasing after her with his nut-stained pants ? He was still in awe. How could he, Stack, the lady killer, be infuriated by...Annie ?

He never saw her that way. Fairly, Smoke never let him the tiniest chance to see her more than Annie the weirdo. She was playing with spirits, seeing things everybody ain't see.

For Stack, she was just creepy. But now he was under her spell. She could make him join the ancestors right away if she wanted to.

"Shit, I'm cooked," he mumbled, already stiff again, his boxers still wet from the nut he'd spilled earlier. He was badly decided to make her Catherine play with his Johnson this instant.

"I'm here, sorry! Since we closin', I already shut the register—come on, I got coins in my purse!" She called from the back.

Stack tidied himself up, put on his hat to hide the blood-shot in his eyes, then pushed the restroom door half open, trying to play it cool.

"Shit. Sorry I ain't mean to—"

There she was, full naked, her back sculpted with cinnamon rolls yet muscles driving a lane along her spine to the two dimples stuck above each of her ass cheeks. Her thick thighs were spreading wide to show the creamy sauce dripping between her legs.

The lace panties she was peeling off stuck to her pussy before falling. God—her holes looked like they had been leaking for hours

"You shy Stack ? I ain't bite you know" she laughed "well, unless you wanted me to"

She dipped lower, pretending to reach for her underwear off the tile

"Could you put this in my locker please"

She picked the panties up by one finger and handed them to him like it was nothing.

Annie wanted him take the same drawers that been sticking to her wet, juicy pussy all shift long?

Stack stared at the delicate black lace first, then his fingers sank into the damp cotton.

The young twin looked down the panties in his palm, "Fuck—now you gon' ask me to fold' em next ?"

Annie didn’t answered right away. She just stood up dangerously, her peach bouncing as she straightened up, then turned to face Stack. She was posing, her tits out, big and soft, her cocoa nipples stiff, like they'd been waiting for his hungry mouth.

She tilted her head and smirked, her face too adorable for the filth running through her mind "Nah. I want you to sniff 'em first."

His eyes widened. He was turned on. Stack was not submissive but strangely, he loved receiving order from Annie.

grunting low, he gripped the sticky panties, driving them close his nose. The smell hit instantly, his nostrils flaring as he drank her scent : strong, musky, sweaty with a fresh-fucked sweetness that made his throat tighten.

"Lick it"

Fuck she didn't need to ask. Stack was literally drooling. Smelling her pussy was not enough. He caught the wet spot of the panties crotch, licked it once, then twice, slower, letting the salty taste penetrate his tongue.

" yeah I thought so" Annie whispered teasingly "You done stained my floor earlier baby boy. I saw you. Jerking off your big black cock to the sight of my cunt" she shrugged "on this one, you ain't different from your brother"

"Fuck don't say his name—"

"Or what ? Oh lil saddie, you ain't fuckin' me yet. You still safe" she said swallowing the harsh distance between them.

Annie pulled the lace panties deep in his mouth "keep it there, don't drop it"

She turned her wide waist off him, letting his eyes stare at her backside. Next second, she dropped all fours on the cold tiled floor. Her gaze locked on him, reached between her thighs and spread her pussy lips so wide they queefed a squishy sound that rang loud in the small room.

"Mmmh you want that cake Stack ? Sassy brat, you went solo but you balls still heavy huh"

The man was on the verge of crying, whimpering behind the stuffed panties in his mouth. His knees failed him, he fell down the floor brutally, dick throbbing in his pants, aching, beating through his ears. His erected penis was bigger than earlier the day, threatening to tore his pants out.

In front of him, Annie gushy pussy was drenched, milking her juice all over the tiles. That shit was begging for his dick.

"Oh you finally wanna take it ?"

Keeping her dirty panties in his mouth, chewing all flavor of it, Stack lined up behind her, gripped her hips and roughly shove his cock right into her.

Annie gasped. Lord, they were truly twins.

Stack thrusted harder into her, thumb playing with her clit.

"You such a bad slut Annie" Stack was no Anders. He wasn't pretty familiar with decency.

His soggy dick twitched inside her cunt, grazing violently over her pussy walls. Freeing one hand from her hips, he slapped hard her peachy cheeks making them bounce to the rhythm of his back shots.

"Mmmh Fuck— go deep" she moaned seizing her tits in her palms "You never been the big boy huh, how it feel to fuck your brother's girl Stackie ?"

"Should've done it before going Chicago"

He drove his thang deeper. Annie was satisfied, she knew all about Stack insecurities and it was fun to play with.

Sweat cascading all over his face, to down his neck. Stack released his squelched dick from her coochie, then cum on her back — a monstrous amount of his fluid.

"Ain't done with you yet" he squirmed

"Hmm wait for me here. Just minutes, alright?"

Stack nodded, still panting, mouth full of soaked lace. His body twitched with leftover nut, and yet his dick wouldn't go soft. He laid on the tile, legs spread, still staring at the creamy glaze she left across the floor.

Annie stood, cum sliding down her back. She stepped into the hallway toilet. She cleaned her thighs, pussy, and spine, tied her hair up, found an old dress laying there, wore it and grabbed her purse.

She walked out through the front, turned off the lights, and locked the door behind her with a click. The keys jangled in her pocket as her heels tapped down the sidewalk.

"Look what we got there."

Speaking about timing. Smoke.

Annie didn't flinch. "What now?"

He pushed off the pole, eyes narrowed. "You seen Stack?"

She snorted. "Last I saw, he was still in the restaurant. I mean that's where you left him right ?"

"We need to talk bout some important things, fetch him fa me"

"Nah you go in. I'm pretty tired." She tossed him the key "put them above the carpet if you done searching"

He caught it one hand, then pushed the door open rough, as she disappeared in town.

Ten minutes passed—

"ANNIE— " Smoke's voice exploded down the hallway.

Tag List

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A/N :

MY POOR FINGERS ! Y’ALL AINT SEE HEAVEN 😒😒😒

[disc0fairy]

When I Was Your Man [ Annie x Smoke ] + 18

⚠️: Smut, Nasty, Peeping Tom, Betrayal, Manipulation, Prostitution, Alcohol Abuse.

2.5 K words

Part 3

Recap :

"You still talk to Crystal?" the older asked.

"Hol' on! You ain't goin' to smash Crys' lil cookie, right?" Stack shot back, straightening up. "Poor thing-Smokey finally resolves to visit her bootyhole only to spit on Annie"

Smoke rolled his eyes, lighting his cigarette, uncaring of the big NO SMOKING sign on the wall.

"She still workin'?" he asked, exhaling a grey cloud off his lips.

Stack's brown eyes blinked once, twice,

Smoke crooked a smile, a gleam dancing in his eyes.

"Tell ha to come by the juke tonight."

Guitar and piano blues, Pearline voice. Music buzzed from the Juke joint, thrilling and loudly.

Folks were dancing, newlyweds grinding skin to skin, some drunkard arguing with the bartender about the alcohol price.

The singer's pitch note announced the twins arrival. Smoke stepped in the sweaty barn, a woman creeping at his arm. A straight face, no more than what he wanted to show. Stack was off in the corner, talking to Crystal, laying out the creepy-ass plan Smoke cooked up to win Annie back.

"Nigga, y'all done lost it fa real," The hooker hissed, arranging the pin in her updo hairstyle "What she s'posed to do, huh? Sit round waitin' damn seven years? Shit, I'da been bent over 'fore the first month, baby."

She clicked her tongue. "Chii—anyways, how much?"

"Now we talkin'!" Stack grinned. "Eighty if you kiss 'im, hunnid-fifty if Annie catch y'all red-handed."

He peeled the bills slow, letting her see every last one. "Real-ass dollars, sugar."

Crystal eyes lit up, her mouth curling into a mean little grin.

"Mmmhmm, love it when we speakin' same language," she purred, snatching  the bills like she been waiting on them all week.

"Shit, I'll ride nigga two times slow 'til that girl lose her mind."

She shoved the cash down her chest, gave it a lil tap."Tell Smokey we got a deal."

The trap had been set, it waited for Annie and new boo to come. Twos can play the same game and Stack couldn't tell which one would win.

"As the time we arrived, the show would be over."

"Good. 'Cause I ain't wanted to go anyway." She said.

Anders caught his girlfriend's wrist, dragging her to his truck, deaf to her complaints.

From miles away, they could hear the blues resonating across the landscape. Annie tapped her foot, swaying her hips on the hard truck seat.

"So you wanted to go after all."

They both laughed. Anders parked close to the barn. They stepped out the engine and walked toward the juke joint's entry, the ground humming beneath them with bass and footsteps.

"Hey, Cornbread," Annie threw gently to the grizzly shaped man.

"Annie," he greeted. "Sir." He tipped his hat to Anders. "Y'all come on in."

Inside, Annie's stomach flipped. She felt anxious. She wasn't the funny one at parties, especially not tonight. Not with her ex posted up across the room, smiling like a fox with a stolen prize. Her eyes stuck to him longer than she meant.

Smoke was parading with a fucking hussy, puffin on his cigarette, a hand sliding snug around that ragtime queen's waist.

The girl was pretty enough to match him—Annie couldn't lie about that : tall, thick-waisted with a petite yet round, swaying backside, brown skin oiled and catching every lick of the barn candlelight. Those greenish eyes of hers, clung to him, hanging on his every damn word.

Annie felt a knot in her stomach, twisting so hard it made her breath hitched. 'A damn frivolous man, he sure had a change of taste. Guess plain ol' me don't shine no more'

She shifted her weight on Anders, arms folded tight across her chest, pretending like she didn't see Smoke lean in and whisper something low in the girl's ear. Whatever it was, it made her giggle and dip her head, all coy and sweet.

Hell, she the one who taught him how to be loving. How to be tender. Now here he was, pouring it out like cheap gin on some wide-eyed bitch wearing too much gloss and not enough shame.

Smoke lifted his gaze and caught Annie's grimacing face.

The effect of his little surprise landed hard, knocking the wind right out her gut. Annie was standing exactly where he wanted her to be.

Yes, twos can definitely play the same game. Her bastard gigolo disrespected him when he dared to open that damn door pant unbuttoned. Worst thing ? She didn't even let him in. He was the fucking father of her child and she belittled him in front of that piece of shit.

Were they over ? If so, he had every right to pull any woman he desired.

Anders said something above his girlfriend shoulders, some joke maybe. Well, Annie missed it entirely. She gave a laugh on delay out of politeness.

Embarrassed, the lumberjack went out. He had in fact told her that he needed a cigarette but didn't feel comfortable smoking inside. Anyway, Annie was too busy with her thoughts to pay attention.

He walked for minutes, away from the juke's ruckus, sat on a bench then lit his cigarette, the tip flaring orange , then fading.

"You always look that tense when you smokin', or just tonight?"

The voice slid in, smooth and spicy. Anders turned his eyes on the newcomer : A big black woman, mature and alluring. Her busty chest hanging two fat rounded yet saggy boobs—not those of grandmas, more the kind to bounce back and forth between every thrust . Her curled, ginger-colored hair stylized in a updo gave her that southern touch Anders had always been weak for.

Her wide hips danced left and right as she walked toward him. Anders could only fantasized of that meaty ol' country ass she dragged behind her. He had been in that town too long to not recognize a back-alley whore.

"Ain't got no pennies for ya ma'am"

Sure, she was delicious to watch but he didn't want no smoke with his lady.

"This night free for you sugar"

She sat beside him, the ruby dress hugging her voluptuous breasts, dipping low in the front with an indecent cleavage.

She crossed her legs, heels clicking in the muddy dirt. She was there to be picked, and Anders might not have the strength to resist her tricks.

Inside the roadhouse, Annie was still planted at the bar—right where Andy had left her. She had lost count of how many glasses of corn liquor she'd drunk.

That motherfucker... she told him she ain't even wanna come to this stupid-ass party.

And now? He was gone. Boof—disappeared from her sight.

"Shit," she cursed, pushing herself up from the stool with effort, legs wobbling beneath her.

Annie was determined to find her way out of this juke joint. She wasn't about to sit there and play along with Smoke's little soap opera.

He wanted to fuck that tramp's cooch? God bless his precious johnson, she didn't give a shit.

Lord, he really thought she'd be jealous of the way he slid that big hand down ol' girl's spine? Or the way he kissed her neck, shameless, right there in front of everybody?

"Good for him," she mumbled under her breath. "Hope she drained him. And not only his dick," she said bitterly between three hiccups.

Alcohol was teasing Annie's system as she dragged herself along the juke's wooden walls. Her drunkard steps led her through a smoky hall to a room threshold.

Yellow lights flashed, blinding her sight then lewd sounds made their way to her ears: moans, groans, bed creaking, thighs slapping, wet and lecherous.

"Do it for daddy."

A husky voice she recognized. She spent so many years hearing it—how could she forget? No...no. Annie didn't want to believe it.

It was true she wished for him to go to hell. She wished for that juke joint mattress to drain him and leave.

But...no ? He was a bastard, a fucking piece of shit... certainly not to that extent?

Not when he knew she was still around?

She blinked hard, trying to focus, to believe her ears were tricking.

Slowly, with bones now trembling, Annie reached for the doorframe, her heart pounding faster than her lazy steps.

She leaned on the dirty window and saw them:

Smoke,bare-chested sitting back against the headboard, legs spread wide—facing her like he knew she'd come looking.

Between his thighs, that butter-toned girl was bent on all fours, ass up, knees stretched so far apart her pussy lips gaped on their own.

He had a tight grip on her curly hair, yanking her head back as she sucked his fat, veiny dick with her wet mouth, slobber running down her chin, spit stringing from his tip to her tongue like she was starving for every inch. She went deep, throat choking on him, then dropped lower to eat his heavy balls.

Smoke never broke eye contact. He didn't flinch, he just stared at Annie, making sure she enjoyed the show.

His gaze lingering at the hoo-doo woman in the window, he let go of the pecan skinned girl's hair and gripped her soft, petite cheeks, spread her ass, squeezed, slapped them together until her flesh jiggled and the wet claps burst through the walls.

The girl bucked, belly shaking, her moans muffled by the huge dick still stretching her mouth.

Smoke wasn't done. He did it again, rougher this time. He pulled her pussy open with both thumbs until they popped apart, cream and juice spilling out with a sloppy, squelching noise.

The girl's swollen clit throbbed, and her pinky inside were all thrown at Annie face.

She was gushing for him.

And Smoke wanted Annie to see all of it.

Wanted her to suffer.

His message, clear as day were written deep in his eyes :

"You see this nasty bitch?"

"You see how wet she is for me?"

"That's what a real man do, babe."

Without understanding her own body, she turned into a damn peeping tom.

Annie's hand clutched the window frame like it could anchor her to sanity, but the heat between her legs said otherwise. Her chest rose and fell too fast, her big tits brushing together with each breath. Her nostrils flared,eyes wide, and locked on the filth playing out in front of her.

That heifer's cookie was too hot. Stretched open and leaking sauce. So wet, Annie had the sick,shameful urge to drop down and taste it.

She should've walked away.

Should've kicked the damn door down and snatched that bitch by the scalp.

But all she did was watching, breathing heavy, her moist thighs unconsciously pressing together.

Her brown roundish nipples hardened under her dress, swollen and aching. Let not speak about her panties. Her fat pussy was drowning in its own mess, throbbing with need and disgust all at once.

And Smoke knew it.

That bastard knew it.

He didn't smile. Didn't smirk.

Just kept glaring at her with that same hooded stare, like she was the one getting fucked.

Then, he shift the obscenity to another angle. He released his dick from the girl’s mouth, stood up across the bed, spat on his hand and dragged it down her gaping cunt.

Annie saw it all. Saw the thick shine of spit smear across those glossy lips before he shoved back in, all the way.

The girl's ass bounced back, jiggling from the thrust before squirting on the sheets.

Annie let out a ragged breath she didn't even know she was holding.

One hand slid to her belly, then lower, hovering just above her underwear.

She almost touched herself.

Almost.

Angry, she mouthed "Fuck you", then fled the scene.

"Where the fuck that nigga at?!" she snapped, now completely sobered up, her shoes slamming angrily against the juke joint's wooden floor.

She'd had enough. Her blood was boiling and her chest was tight, she needed to release all that heat.

"Anders!" she shouted, veins crawling up her temple. Annie was so wrapped up in fury, she didn't even see Stack coming. She bumped straight into him.

"Oof! That's eighty dollars in damages, ma'am," he joked, rubbing his chest like she broke a rib.

Annie rolled her eyes. "You seen Anders?"

Stack straightened his posture with mock formality. "Oh? That gentleman? Last I saw, he was headed toward the storeroom, just behind the band's stage."

"Thank you," she said flatly, smacking his shoulder.

"You're very welcome, my lady," Stack grinned, a little too pleased. He knew exactly what she was about to find out back there.

He kept walking, whistling low under his breath, until he passed the room where his brother was busy handling his sexy business.

Smoke's numb voice cut through the air: "Stack."

Stack doubled back and stepped in. The room smelled : pussy, sweat, semen, ass, all mixed up in the air. The girl on the bed was still squirming, eyes wild, her tongue hot, her pussy glistening and breathless.

"Hold on, what? You just gon' leave me hangin' like that?" she moaned, voice sticky.

Stack blinked, confused. "What the hell ?"

Smoke leaned in close, always wearing his unreadable mask. "Handle that for me," he murmured in his ear, then slid past him, walking out without another word.

"Damn," Stack muttered, watching him go. "Usually I'm the messy one..."

He turned back toward the girl, still all four knees on the wet bed.

He took off his red hat, tossed it aside, and sat down next to her.

"Alright, alright, listen sweetheart. I know you mad," he said, trying to soothe her. "But everything okay."

He leaned in, eyebrows raised. "You can put your clothes on and go... or—"

His eyes slid slow down her body.

"You can stay right here and play with the funnier twin."

The girl looked at him up and down, he wasn't that different from Smoke. Weird, she never knew he was twins. Moreover, his brother seemed happier than him.

"And what kind of game you wanna play ?"

Sigh. Stack succeeded with all points.

On the dance floor, Annie made her way through the crowd. She passed the bandstand, ducked behind a hanging curtain, and slipped into the dim, narrow hallway that led to the storeroom.

The further she walked, the quieter it got. Just the bassline of the music humming behind her, drowned out by a different kind of rhythm.

A thudding. Wet. Repetitive. Followed by a low moan.

Annie stopped. Her brows furrowed. Then she stepped forward. The storeroom door wasn't closed all the way.

She pushed it open with the tip of her fingers and witnessed another nightmare.

Anders, behind a curvy ol' country slut. His pants hanging off his, hands locked tight on her wide waist. He was hunched over her back, fucking her meat, raw from behind with rough thrusts.

He grunted, hips slapping against her BBW' ass cheeks, his breath ragged. "Fuck bitch, yo pussy damn good," he growled, head thrown back.

Crystal arched into it, one leg lifted, giving him more of her cake. "Mmm yass boy. Beat mommy pussy up," she purred

Annie stopped thinking straight. Couldn't move. The sensation was different from earlier when she busted Smoke out with his girlie. Now, she felt murderous.

Her mouth hung open, and the whole world went silent around her. Her heart was beating hard in her ears, but her body just froze. Her throat tightened with the sting of disbelief.

He wasn’t even using a condom.

He ain't even look sorry.

And then—he did. His eyes glanced up and he saw her.

"Annie—baby—" he tried desperately to explain. But Annie didn't speak. Didn't even scream.

All she did was staring at the man she came with, buried balls-deep in a full STD's bag.

He was still inside her. Still hard.

She spat hard on the floor, then disappeared. Her heels singing louder than the bass back in the barn.

Tag list per request :

@jasssdee1 , @katezy2x ,

Tag list from Hush :

I took this tag list from my other fluffy angsty serie HUSH, if you want to be removed just tell me friends ❤️

@thelifeoflagab @juniooox @tadjoa @shamansha @brownskincheyenne @freelandgoddess @Ib-xci @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @iammyownlover @stormynovashambler @summrsovrinterlude @prettygirl2800 @puffmamaa @harleycativy @jasssdee1 @itstayleigh @queenofklonnie22 @bigjh @tadjoa @Isc72 @forzaferrariii , @blxckberrie @avidreader73 @partylikemajima @lolalikesgames @ultralspblr @post-woke @jasssdee1 @lizbehave @kindofaintrovert

A/N : I wanna thank Google for the vocabulary, @uzumaki-rebellion cause it’s literally their stories that inspired me doing smut and less angst 🤣. AND obviously thank youpor— I mean YouTube for the visual inspiration 🙂‍↔️

BTW I LIED Y’ALL I’M NO GOOD AT DOING ONE SHOT STORY

😭. So this one will prolly end up in 5 parts not 3 🤓. Forgive me

[disc0fairy]

[disc0fairy]

Leticia's New Cat

Chapter Three

Leticia was just clearing her table when a man who looked to be in his early forties walked into her office. He wore a bespoke three-piece suit, the charcoal fabric subtly shimmering under the light, exuding wealth and affluence. He had small tinted shades over his eyes, but the rest of his face was strikingly handsome. Leticia’s body reacted to him instantly, and she cursed her busy lifestyle and lack of a date in a couple of years. Reining in her body’s physical reaction, she fixed a professional smile on her face and greeted him.

“Hello, you’re welcome to Leticia Barma Events. How may I be of service?”

“Hello. I take it you’re Leticia then?”

His voice was smooth and rich. Leticia liked the way he said her name, as though savoring each syllable. She allowed her smile to widen just a tad more.

“Yes, I am. How can I help you?”

“The anniversary of my wife’s death is coming up one month from now. I’d like you to plan it.” He took off his glasses, and Leticia’s heart broke at what she saw. His brown, soulful eyes were red, like he’d just finished crying. He looked lost. Leticia made a fist to keep herself from reaching out to touch him.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr…?”

“Gerald. Gerald Hayes.” He extended his hand, and Leticia shook it, noting how firm his grip was.

“Don’t be,” he continued, his voice steady but distant. “I’ll see her again.”

“Of course. We’ll see our dead loved ones again eventually,” she said as she withdrew her hand.

He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

“This is closing hours already. Would you like to book a consultation so we can go over the details together? One month is not a lot of time. We have to speed things up to be able to deliver exactly what you want.”

Gerald inclined his head as if considering her words. “Why don’t we discuss this over dinner? I’d like to start planning as soon as possible. Please, pick a place that suits you.”

Leticia mulled this over. She’d had business brunches and dinners before, but for some reason, she hesitated this time. She blamed it on the unmistakable attraction she felt for him. She wasn’t a shy person, but his gaze was so intent that it left her self-conscious, a rare feeling that made her itch to glance at her reflection in the nearest mirror.

Her thoughts flickered to her cats. She’d fed them generously that morning—Pierre, in particular, had enjoyed a fat slab of medium-rare meat. They’d be fine for the night, especially with the window left open for him.

She grabbed the last of her things, picking up her notebook and purse. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

The restaurant she chose was packed but not noisy. Leticia knew the importance of picking an open place with plenty of people for a business dinner, even if Gerald appeared genuine. She reminded herself of this practicality as she sat across from him, her gaze briefly drifting to the steady hum of activity around them. It’s safe, she thought, though she couldn’t ignore the small voice chiding her for riding in his car to get there.

After the waiter took their orders, Leticia retrieved her notebook and stylus. Turning the device on, she tapped a few quick notes as she prepared to start the consultation.

“Tell me about your wife, Mr. Hayes,” she began, her tone professional yet softened by genuine curiosity.

“Call me Gerald,” he replied, his smooth voice coaxing her to drop formality.

She nodded with a polite smile. “Okay, Gerald. Tell me about your wife. What kind of person was she? And what do you want this event to be? Should it be mournful, or would you prefer a celebration of life?”

Gerald leaned back slightly, his expression pensive. “Oh, I want it to be a celebration of life,” he said, his tone carrying an odd mix of sadness and determination. “I’m close to seeing her again, and I want this event to show her as if she’s still here with us.”

Leticia’s stylus paused above her notebook as her brow furrowed. This is the second time he’s mentioned seeing his wife again, she thought, her concern deepening.

Looking at him carefully, she asked, “Mr… Gerald, are you sick?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “No. Why? Do I look sick?”

“Not at all,” she replied, her tone measured. “But this is the second time you’ve talked about seeing your wife again, like you know exactly when it’s going to happen. You’re not…” She hesitated, setting her notebook down. “You’re not planning to take your life after this, are you? Because if you are”—her voice firmed as she straightened in her seat—“I won’t do it. I won’t help you plan a suicide note.”

For a moment, Gerald stared at her, utterly baffled. Then, he threw his head back and laughed—a deep, resonant laugh that filled the space between them. Leticia remained calm, her posture rigid and her expression unyielding as she watched him.

When his laughter finally subsided, Gerald wiped a tear from his eye and said, “My, my, Leticia. You’re a straightforward, no-nonsense woman, aren’t you? No, I’m not planning to kill myself. This is not a suicide note.” His tone softened as he continued, “It’s just a celebration of life. I hold my wife so close to my heart that I speak of her as if she’ll be returning soon. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

Leticia studied him for a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied with his explanation. Picking up her notebook once more, she resumed her questions.

“When did your wife pass away?” Leticia asked, her tone softening.

“Five years ago,” Gerald replied quietly. “I lost her to cancer.”

Before she could think twice, Leticia reached out and rested her hand on his where it lay on the table. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Gerald,” she said, her voice warm with sincerity.

Gerald’s hand twitched under her touch, and when she began to pull away, he gently caught her fingers. “I’m sorry if I startled you,” he murmured, holding her hand lightly as his gaze met hers. His brown eyes were earnest, almost pleading. “I haven’t felt a woman’s touch since I lost my wife.”

Leticia’s lips curved into a gentle smile as she gave his hand a brief, reassuring squeeze before withdrawing it. “Tell me about your wife, Gerald,” she encouraged softly, redirecting the conversation.

When Leticia unlocked the door and stepped inside, Pierre was pacing restlessly in the living room. The moment he saw her, his piercing yellow eyes pinned her in place. A low growl rumbled from his chest, sending a chill down her spine.

“Pierre?” she called hesitantly, instinctively raising her hand to the pendant around her neck, readying herself for defense.

The jaguar’s sharp gaze flicked to her hand, and then he turned away, padding back to his corner with a quiet huff. Curling up on the floor, he lay still, his body language signaling he meant no harm. Leticia exhaled, her tension easing as she realized he was simply agitated, not aggressive.

She closed the door behind her but left it unlocked, her movements deliberate.

“Lock your door, Lettie. I’m not going to eat you,” came the lazy drawl in her mind.

“That’s not what it looked like a moment ago,” she shot back, her tone sharper than she intended. “What got into you?”

“Where have you been?” Pierre countered, his voice low and simmering with irritation. “It’s way past your closing time.”

“I wasn’t aware I had a curfew,” Leticia retorted, arching a brow.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he said, his tone hard enough to send her anger spiking.

Her brows rose higher, her temper now bubbling to the surface. “First of all, watch your tone with me, Jaguar. Secondly, I am a grown woman who runs her own business, and I alone decide how I spend my time.”

“That’s pretty irresponsible for a multiple pet owner, don’t you think?” he drawled, his yellow eyes narrowing. “I wonder what animal rights activists would say about someone who abandons their pets all day. Where were you, anyway?”

Leticia froze for a moment, disbelief etched across her face. “I can’t believe this,” she finally said, her voice calm but laced with venom. “I don’t know what you think you are, Pierre, but let me make one thing very clear: I do not answer to you. So, unless you’re prepared to adjust your attitude and talk to me with respect, this conversation is over.”

Pierre went silent, his jaw tightening as he wrestled with his thoughts. Leticia, unimpressed by his lack of response, let out a quiet “hmph” before heading into the kitchen. She busied herself dishing out food for the pumas, her movements deliberate and pointed. Returning to the living room, she began stripping off her work attire without sparing him a glance. Pierre averted his gaze, his internal battle raging over how to warn her she’d been targeted without revealing too much about himself.

When she finally settled onto her favorite couch with a book in hand, he turned toward her, the tension in the room palpable.

“I’m only worried about your safety,” he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with sincerity.

Leticia didn’t look up from her book. “I wonder how I managed to survive thirty whole years without you to worry about me,” she replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she rolled her eyes.

Pierre’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I know I’m being annoying—”

“Understatement of the century,” she quipped, not missing a beat.

His golden eyes narrowed as frustration bubbled beneath the surface. He closed them momentarily, taking slow, deep breaths to push down his rising anger. If he wanted to make her see reason, snapping at her wasn’t the way. He needed a different approach—one that wouldn’t drive her further away.

“What are your powers as guardian?” Pierre asked, his tone even but curious.

Leticia glanced up from her novel, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m not going to tell you that, but I have a feeling you’re going to find out soon if you ever pull a stunt like tonight again.”

Pierre blinked at her pointed words, momentarily taken aback. A low chuckle rumbled in her mind, smooth as velvet. The unexpected sound made her lips twitch, and she hid a smile behind her book.

“I’m sorry for my behavior tonight, Lettie,” Pierre said, his voice softer now. “I was worried about you.”

Leticia set her book down, her expression softening. She reached out to scratch his head, her fingers brushing against the coarse fur. Pierre’s ears twitched, and his cat-like features morphed into what looked suspiciously close to a frown. She couldn’t help it—she laughed, her earlier annoyance melting away.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I had a client today,” she began, leaning back into the couch. “A man who wants me to plan the anniversary of his wife’s death.”

“Shouldn’t that be done by family? Why hire an event planner?” Pierre queried, his tone tinged with skepticism.

Leticia threw him a sharp look. “Because he has the money and wants to make it special. It’s the fifth anniversary of her death. Why is it that poor people always think everything is a waste of money?”

“Poor people?” Pierre arched a brow. “You don’t strike me as the materialistic type.”

“I’m not,” Leticia shot back, her irritation clear. “But I just told you about a new client, and that’s the first thing you say?”

Pierre hesitated before replying, his tone softening. “Congratulations on your new job. When is the event?”

“One month from now,” she said, her voice lowering with doubt. “It’s too soon. I don’t know if I can pull it off.”

“Of course, you can.” Pierre’s voice was steady and reassuring. “You’re very efficient when you want to be.”

“Thank...you?” Leticia tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “What do you mean, ‘when I want to be’?”

“You turn this house upside down when you’re in a hurry,” he said with a faint grin. “But you always put it back together just as quickly—and beautifully, I might add. That’s efficiency. That’s how I know you’ll pull this off.”

Leticia smiled grudgingly. He was right, and she couldn’t argue with that. Shaking her head, she began outlining the details she had gathered about the event. As their conversation deepened, she noticed Pierre was making surprisingly insightful comments. Intrigued, she pulled out her tablet, tapping away as they brainstormed ideas together.

The hours slipped by unnoticed, and Leticia eventually dozed off on the couch, her tablet slipping from her grasp.

Pierre watched her for a moment, his feline features softening. With a quiet sigh, he shifted forms, his human silhouette glowing faintly in the dim light of the room. Catching the tablet before it could hit the floor, he placed it gently on the table. Then, with practiced ease, he scooped her up in his arms, careful not to disturb her sleep.

As he carried her to the bedroom, a tender smile ghosted across his lips. Tucking her into the bed, he smoothed the blanket over her and paused, unable to resist brushing his fingers across her cheek. Her skin was warm and soft under his touch, and his wistful expression deepened as his gaze lingered on her peaceful face.

Leticia’s eyes fluttered open, groggy but alert, and locked onto his. For a moment, the air between them was charged with something unspoken, fragile, and potent. Pierre froze, his hand still resting lightly against her cheek.