moonlitrapture

[moonlitrapture]

Selling souls for dollars? 4/30?

Warnings : Smut,Gore , Murder , Black mail , Stalking , Manipulation & obsession, Mentions of substance use. Dark themes , Angst , Emotional abuse, Dub con.

A/n: 🥲 sorry for being absent for a lil, getting ready for prom next week .

————-

The club pulsed low with tension. The usual rhythm of clinks, laughter, and grinding bass was off-beat — like the building itself could sense that something was wrong.

You stood behind the bar with Annie, quietly rinsing out glasses neither of you planned to serve. Every now and then, you’d both glance toward the back — where Bo Chow, Stack, and Smoke had set up what was starting to feel less like a staff meeting and more like a war room.

Bo’s voice was hushed but sharp. “Somebody knew the drop schedule. Somebody fed that to Remmick.”

Stack slammed his hand down on the table. “We don’t got a mole,” he snapped. “We got a fuckin’ ghost.”

Smoke didn’t look up. He was quiet, jaw tight, fingers drumming on the table like he was trying to keep himself from punching through it.

“No,” he said finally. “Ain’t no ghost. This was surgical. Someone on the outside, yeah — but they were watching. Studying us. Every move. Every shift.”

Mary walked by slowly, eyes narrowing at the sound of Remmick’s name. You saw the way she paused behind the curtain, the way her hand protectively drifted to her stomach — quiet and defensive. Stack glanced at her, just for a second, then looked away fast.

Bo Chow exhaled sharply. “Doesn’t matter who it was right now. What matters is they’re still out there. And we’re bleeding.”

Delta Slim appeared in the hallway, wiping powdered sugar off his hands from a box of donuts no one remembered ordering.

He tripped over a damn floor mat, arms flailing like a cartoon, and fell flat on his back.

Everyone stared.

“I swear to God,” he wheezed, from the ground, “I’m too old for hoes, ghosts, and mystery raids. Just give me a boat and a diabetic stripper and let me retire in peace.”

There was a beat.

And despite everything — despite the fear, the doubt, the cracked trust — you and Annie couldn’t help but laugh. Even Bo cracked a grin.

But that warmth disappeared as fast as it came when Smoke stood up.

“This ain’t funny,” he muttered. “It’s a message.”

You looked at him, brows furrowed.

“What kind of message?”

Smoke met your eyes.

“Remmick’s not done.”

—————

The beat dropped heavy — all bass, no mercy.

You hit the stage like you owned it, eyes low, hips liquid. The crowd faded into background static. This wasn’t for them.

This was for control.

A slow, deliberate split — your thighs snapping open, gliding down like velvet soaked in gasoline. Every damn muscle sang.

The lights caught the glint of sweat along your spine. You didn’t have to look to know they were watching.

Smoke, off to the right near the bar, his jaw tense, lips wrapped around the rim of a glass he hadn’t touched in minutes.

Stack, leaned against the far wall, arms folded, but his stare was devouring.

And Annie? Annie danced up beside you, her laugh sugary and wicked. She bent low, mirrored your move, her hand brushing your thigh. It looked like part of the act — but it wasn’t just for the crowd.

It was for them.

Stack’s eyes narrowed.

Smoke’s grip on the glass tightened.

The music slowed for a beat. The two of you rose, Annie brushing against you, whispering in your ear loud enough for the twins to hear:

“Guess we both like playing with fire.”

You smirked. “Only way to keep warm in a place like this.”

Back near the bar, Stack muttered under his breath, voice sharp.

“What the fuck is she doing?”

Smoke didn’t answer. His eyes never left you.

Annie leaned in again, this time slower, her lips ghosting your shoulder.

Behind you, cheers rose from the stage floor, the other girls hyping you both. But that didn’t matter. None of them mattered.

This moment was electric — the twins frozen, watching the woman they both burned for, watching her choose not to choose.

And when the track ended, and you walked off stage — glitter sticking to your legs, your mouth curved into a silent dare — you didn’t look back.

You didn’t have to.

They’d be right behind you.

———-

Back then, the only powder they touched was chalk from busted lockers and cheap vending machine donuts.

It was after school — one of those sticky afternoons where the air buzzed with heat and low-level trouble. The twins were posted up behind the gym, legs sprawled out on cracked concrete, a half-eaten bag of chips between them.

Stack tossed a pebble at Smoke’s shoe. “You ever think about what we’d be if we weren’t, y’know… us?”

Smoke smirked, mouth full. “You mean if Ma didn’t bounce and Pops wasn’t in county for boosting church tithes?”

“Yeah,” Stack chuckled. “Like, I dunno… a lawyer.”

Smoke snorted so hard he almost choked. “You? A fuckin’ lawyer?”

“Why not?”

“Bro, you’d object just to object. Judge would ban your ass out the courtroom in a week.”

Stack grinned wide. “Better than you. You’d be a doctor but only for the prescription pad.”

“I’d be one of those rich-ass Beverly Hills surgeons. Walk in with designer scrubs, cufflinks and a Rolex stethoscope.”

“You’d probably botch someone’s nose job and still charge ‘em double.”

They both laughed then, loud and easy — the kind of laugh that came from kids who still believed they had time to change. Who hadn’t yet learned that the world had claws.

Smoke leaned back against the graffiti-tagged wall, looking up at the sky like it held answers.

“You think we’ll get outta here?”

Stack didn’t answer for a moment.

“I think we’ll end up rich or dead.”

Smoke looked over. “What about happy?”

Stack laughed. “Don’t get greedy.”

That memory flickered through Smoke’s head like a scratchy film reel as he watched you and Annie disappear behind the curtain — the crowd’s applause chasing after you like smoke.

He was quiet now, a drink in his hand, a thousand miles behind his eyes.

And all he could think was

We didn’t end up lawyers or doctors.

Just wolves in silk.

And the hunt wasn’t over.

———

Stack leaned against the sound booth, nursing a glass of Henny that was more melted ice than liquor at this point. His eyes kept trailing toward the back hallway — where you and Annie had disappeared minutes ago. His shoulders were tense, lips set in that I-don’t-give-a-fuck smirk he only wore when he cared too much.

Then Holly a veteran stripper , she was known around the way , strutted up, hips swinging like temptation had a sound.

“Damn, you always look this good when you brooding, or is tonight special?”

He looked over, eyebrows cocked. “You stalking me, girl?”

She giggled, leaning on the bar beside him, her short platinum wig clinging to her sweaty skin. Glitter dusted the curve of her collarbone like cosmic fallout.

“Only when you’re too fine to ignore,” she purred, tracing the rim of her drink with a manicured nail. “You still mad about earlier?”

Stack blinked. “Mad?”

“That thing with Smoke,” she said casually, voice dipping. “And your girl on stage… lookin’ like a sin and a half.”

Stack looked away, jaw twitching. “Ain’t my girl.”

Holly leaned in. “Coulda fooled me. You were lookin’ at her like she owed you prayers.”

He chuckled dryly, then turned toward her, eyes glinting. “And what, you here to preach?”

She smirked. “Nah, baby. I’m the sermon.”

There was a pause. A heavy beat thumped. Her hand slipped up his arm, fingers light.

“I get off in twenty,” she whispered, lips close enough he could smell the strawberry gum she always chewed between songs. “You ever get tired of waiting on a girl who keeps choosing both of you? I’m not that complicated.”

Stack tilted his head, watching her — not quite cold, not quite warm.

“You always offer yourself to tired men?” he asked.

She grinned. “Only the dangerous ones.”

He let the tension rest for a beat… then tipped his glass back and finished it in one swallow.

“You’re bad for business, Holly.”

“And you love bad business,” she winked.

As she sauntered away, hips still spelling trouble, Stack leaned back and sighed.

She wasn’t wrong.

But she wasn’t you.

And that was the problem.

——-

Stack didn’t chase after Holly.

He never did.

He stayed frozen in place, one foot in lust and the other ankle-deep in regret, letting the throb of bass shake against his ribs like a warning.

Then his phone buzzed.

Not the usual line — the one hidden under his waistband, the dirty one.

A message.

“Burn mark on the second floor. Check the girl.”

His blood ran cold.

He pocketed the phone and started moving — cutting through the club’s back hallway like a shadow. Smoke saw him and followed without a word, instinct. They both knew this kind of message. Encrypted. Ugly. Too many years in the game for it to be anything good.

They reached the dancer’s dressing room.

And there — on one of the cracked vanity mirrors — was the mark.

A black lipstick smear shaped like a flame, smudged just enough to say: someone was here who wasn’t supposed to be.

Annie stood frozen by the door, wide-eyed, phone in hand. “She just left,” she whispered.

“Who?” Stack asked.

“Holly. She came back for her bag. But… she wasn’t alone.”

The silence between the twins felt like a vacuum.

Smoke stepped in. “You think she flipped?”

Stack looked at the mirror.

“Not flipped.”

He touched the smear with his thumb.

“Used.”

Then a crash echoed from the back loading dock — heavy, metal, real.

Stack pulled his piece.

Smoke was already moving.

They ran toward the sound — past neon, past shaking walls, past music that didn’t know the night had turned lethal.

Outside, they found one of their runners.

Blood smeared along his jaw. Limp. Trying to breathe.

He choked out the name:

“Delta Slim.”

The alley behind the club was slick with oil and shadows.

Smoke and Stack stepped into the open—guns drawn, senses dialed in. They followed the sound: coughing, grunting, something dragging behind the dumpster like wounded pride.

“Slim, you better not be dying in piss water, bro,” Smoke muttered, sweeping his aim across the alley.

A groan.

“Over here, you tight-ass bastards,” came a familiar raspy voice. “Goddamn… this concrete’s colder than my last divorce.”

There he was—Delta Slim, half-slumped against a trash bin, blood streaked across his scalp, holding a busted piece of wood like it meant something.

Stack knelt beside him. “What the fuck happened?”

Slim spat out something red that wasn’t gum.

“I was tryna be helpful,” he wheezed. “Saw Holly outside meetin’ with someone in a car. Real nice one. All blacked-out windows. Looked too clean for this street.”

“Did you see who it was?” Smoke snapped.

“Nah. Just a voice. Cold. Called her ‘Cherry Drop.’ Paid her somethin’. Then I stepped closer and—whack. Next thing I know, I’m gettin’ laid out like a retirement plan.”

Stack cursed under his breath.

Cherry Drop. That was Holly’s old street name. Nobody should’ve known it. Not unless they knew her before she danced.

Before she was theirs.

“Did they say anything else?” Smoke asked.

Slim wheezed. “Yeah. Said ‘tell the kings of concrete the prince is back.’ Then laughed like he owned death.”

Stack went still. “Fuck.”

Smoke’s eyes flicked up.

“Remmick.”

Slim gave a ragged little laugh. “Guess I’m important again, huh? Got jumped for information I didn’t even know.”

“Or maybe you knew more than you think,” Stack muttered.

Suddenly Slim sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Wait! He dropped this—”

From his jacket pocket, he pulled a small, bloodstained card. Black foil. No writing.

Until Stack tilted it in the light.

A single word glowed red across the front.

“Reclaim.”

Smoke’s mouth tightened.

Stack crushed the card in his hand.

Delta Slim, despite the blood on his lip and the bruise blooming on his cheekbone, let out a wheezy chuckle.

“Y’all got ghosts now. Told you this life’s too much for old bones. I should’ve stuck to bootlegging dvds .”

the twins couldn’t help but crack a grin, just for a moment.

Then reality settled in.

Remmick wasn’t playing anymore.

He was declaring war.

——-

Back inside the club, everything looked almost normal.

Almost.

Music still thumped from the speakers. The crowd hadn’t thinned yet, high off bodies and booze. Girls still danced, some oblivious, others watching the back door with growing unease. But behind the curtain — the mood was shifting.

You stood near the hallway with Annie, both of you mid-laugh from a joke about one of your high roller clients when Stack burst in, blood on his shirt and his jaw locked so tight it looked painful.

“Get Bo. Now.”

Smoke came in behind him, gripping a phone to his ear, already barking into it. “We need a ride. Nearest trauma center, fast. Yeah. Bleeding, head trauma. He’s still conscious but fading.”

Your laughter died instantly.

“Wait, who’s hurt?” you asked.

Stack didn’t look at you.

Didn’t have to.

“Delta.” was all he said.

You and Annie exchanged a look—shock, confusion, and that rising heat of fear when the streets send back blood instead of a message.

Bo Chow appeared from the far end of the hall, eyes narrowed, his usual calm replaced with rare urgency.

“Back alley?” Bo asked.

Stack nodded. “Yeah. Remmick sent someone. Left a mark. Left a message.”

Bo whistled low, grabbed his coat. “This shit just escalated.”

Delta was wheeled out minutes later, slumped against Stack’s side as Bo guided the club’s old emergency van around back. Slim was still trying to crack jokes through a split lip.

“Tell the nurses I want morphine and models. And someone to hold my damn hand—I’m fragile now.”

Smoke barked a short laugh, half in grief. “Man, you ain’t fragile. You’re a cockroach with a pension.”

As the van peeled away, Stack finally looked at you — and something broke behind his eyes.

Not quite fear.

Not quite rage.

But something ancient.

He walked past you without a word, headed straight for the basement.

Smoke lingered a little longer, eyes scanning your face like he was searching for an answer you hadn’t given yet.

“Be careful tonight,” he muttered. “And don’t trust no one, not even the ones already paid for.”

Then he was gone too.

You and Annie stood in the silence.

“…What the hell is happening?” she asked softly.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, your gaze drifted toward the glitter-covered stage, where just an hour ago you’d been dancing, playful and free.

And now?

Now the war had entered the building.

———-

The Basement – 12:47 AM

Stack lit a cigarette even though the basement reeked of sweat and mildew. The old records room under the club had turned into their unofficial war room — cracked concrete, cheap folding chairs, and a map of the city marked up with gang routes and pawned safehouses.

Smoke paced like a panther.

“Remmick ain’t just flexing. He’s got intel. The mark, the name drop, the message—he’s in our house.”

Stack blew out smoke through his nose. “Delta said Holly was with him.”

“Yeah, but Holly’s not stupid. She wouldn’t flip unless someone gave her a reason. Money. Leverage. Fear.”

“Or maybe…” Stack said slowly, “she ain’t flipped at all. Maybe Remmick’s using her without her knowing. That’s worse.”

Smoke stopped pacing.

“You think we got someone feeding him info?”

Stack nodded toward the map. “We’ve been too loud. Too comfortable. He knows shit only an insider would know.”

Silence.

Then, in a voice low and bitter:

“Mary?” Smoke asked.

Stack shook his head. “No. Not her.”

“But you hesitated,” Smoke said.

“I hesitate with everyone now.”

They looked at each other. Years of trust swaying under a single, flickering bulb.

————-

Westside General Hospital – 1:12 AM

Delta Slim lay in a stiff white bed, a bandage on his head, his left arm hooked to a drip that beeped in tired rhythm.

He stared at the ceiling like it owed him money.

Bo Chow leaned in the doorway, chewing on a toothpick, arms crossed.

“They drug you?” he asked.

Delta sighed. “Yeah. I’m high as hell. Got titties in my dreams already.”

Bo grunted a half-laugh.

“Focus, Slim.”

Delta turned his head. “Alright. That voice—Remmick’s guy. He said reclaim. Like it meant somethin’. But it ain’t just a message. It’s a crew. Or… was.”

Bo stepped forward. “You serious?”

“Back when Remmick first came up, there was a whisper of a crew from over east called ‘Reclaim the Crown.’ Real militant shit. Red leathers. Chains for belts. They disappeared after a turf war. Everyone thought Remmick killed ’em off.”

Bo narrowed his eyes. “Or took their name.”

Delta nodded.

“And if he’s using it again… it ain’t a message. It’s a revival.”

——

Back at the club, the twins emerged from the basement, and you were waiting at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, tension radiating off you like heat from a flame.

Stack looked at you, tired and hard all at once.

“You still wanna be in this?” he asked.

You smirked. “Baby, I am this.”

The three of you walked down the hallway together — the walls shaking from bass, the crowd still grinding upstairs, clueless.

[moonlitrapture]

Oceans away

Paring Soft ! NWH Dark Peter Parker x Black ( fem) reader

—————

Warning ; ⚠️ Stockholm syndrome, very much manipulative Peter , toxic relationship , slow Dub -con / non con ( look it up if u don’t know the meaning before reading please), self harm , Character Death , kidnapping , Angst , Violence, Stalking , Somnophilia, Dacryphilia, Cuckolding, Yandere Peter . 18+ MDNI

Summary; From the playful chatter and laughter filled with joy and camaraderie with her classmates at Coney Island's beach, to a terrifying reality of awakening in the confined, unknown surroundings of a bunker deep within the woods, your plunged into a nightmare orchestrated by Peter's deranged mind . As you delve into the sinister depths of your childhood best friend’s deranged mind,The greater terror lies in the realization of the horrors lurking within their own psyche and the horrifying shadows of the bunker.

———

Your face was pressed against the glass, eyes aglow with curiosity and delight, as you watched the grey shark circle in its enclosed confinement. Your gaze mirrored those of animals on TV or boys in gym class, studying creatures behind an impenetrable barrier. There was a sense of voyeurism in the way you observed, with a tinge of unsettling fascination.

“ Scary right “?, a voice broke through your reverie, pulling you back to reality. It was Peter Parker, standing beside you, his expression a mix of intrigue and mischief. He leaned closer to the glass, his breath fogging the surface for a moment before dissipating. “They’re like the ultimate predators, just waiting for something to swim too close.”

You glanced at him, caught off guard by his intensity. There was something in his eyes, a flicker of something deeper—an understanding of fear and power that sent a shiver down your spine. You nodded, trying to shake off the chill that crept into your thoughts.

“Yeah, scary,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. But your heart raced not just from the thrill of the shark’s predatory grace, but from the way Peter studied you, as if you were just as fascinating as the creature behind the glass.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and almost conspiratorial. “You know, they say sharks can sense fear. Maybe that’s why they’re so terrifying.” He turned to you, his gaze piercing, as if he were trying to read the unspoken thoughts swirling in your mind.

You felt exposed, like the shark in its tank, and for a moment, you wondered if he could see the darkness lurking just beneath your surface. “Or maybe it’s the thrill of the unknown,” you countered, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Peter’s smile widened, but there was something predatory about it, a glint of mischief that sent a thrill of unease through you. “True. But sometimes, the unknown can be scarier than what’s right in front of you.”

As he turned back to the tank, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was talking about more than just sharks. The air around you felt charged, heavy with an unspoken tension that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You stole a glance at him, wondering just how much he saw when he looked at you.

The two of you stood in silence, the rhythmic swishing of the shark’s tail echoing in your ears like a heartbeat. You could feel the weight of Peter’s presence beside you, an invisible thread pulling you closer, even as a part of you wanted to step back. The museum was alive with chatter and laughter, but in this moment, it felt like you were in your own world, surrounded by glass and shadows.

“Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be in there?” Peter asked, his voice low, almost conspiratorial again. “To be the one swimming with the sharks?”

You swallowed hard, your heart racing at the thought. “I don’t think I’d survive very long,” you replied, trying to keep your tone light. But the truth was, you felt a strange allure to the idea, a dark curiosity that mirrored the thrill of being watched. “I’d be the one they’d mistake for lunch.”

He laughed softly, but there was an edge to it. “Maybe not. You’ve got a fire in you. I can see it.” He turned to you, his gaze intense, and for a moment, the world around you faded away. “You’d surprise them.”

“Alright, everyone!” came a voice in the distance, cracking over the murmur of conversation and waves lapping nearby. “Let’s load up. Bus leaves in five!”

You turned quickly, blinking as the spell broke.

Mr. Harrington was waving his clipboard, already shepherding a group of students toward the parking lot. MJ groaned audibly behind you, still clutching a nearly-finished sand sculpture shaped like Loki’s horned helmet.

You stepped back from the glass. “Guess it’s time to go.”

Peter lingered for a moment, eyes tracing your movements like he was memorizing them. Then he nodded slowly and fell into step behind you.

You started toward the group, pace quickening when you spotted Ned leaning against the rail, half-asleep in the shade.

“Hey,” you said, nudging him with your elbow. “Your boy’s getting weird again.”

Ned blinked, lifting his head. “Peter?”

You nodded subtly, glancing back. Peter had stopped to help Mr. Harrington count heads, all polite smiles again.

“He said something about sharks , and “…..you muttered.

Ned chuckled, rubbing his eyes. “Classic Parker. He probably read five psychology books last night. He gets weird when he’s tired.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yeah. Guess he’s just… intense.”

“Try living next door to that brain. He used to collect spider molts in jars and leave them on my porch.”

You both laughed, and it was easy again for a moment—comfortable. The strange feeling from earlier began to fade as you climbed onto the bus and slid into a seat near the middle, next to the window.

You thought that would be it for the day. Just a weird moment by the shark tank. Nothing more.As you guys went to the nearest exit, waiting for the bus .

————

the seat beside you shifted.

Peter.

He didn’t say anything right away, just sat beside you and stared out the window as the bus rumbled to life. His knee brushed yours when the vehicle turned, and you pulled away slightly without thinking. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did.

“Did you have fun?” he asked finally, his voice quieter than before. Less performative.

“Yeah,” you said. “It was nice. Weirdly peaceful.”

Peter nodded. “You always liked the ocean. I remember that.”

You turned to him, brows raised. “You remember that?”

He smiled to himself, tapping his fingers against his thigh. “You told me once, in fourth grade. After your science fair project.”

You blinked. That was so long ago. You barely remembered telling him that.

But he remembered.

“I listen when you talk,” he said, so softly you almost didn’t catch it.

You didn’t know how to respond, so you looked back out the window, letting the silence stretch between you. Something about it felt like standing too close to an edge—but you couldn’t tell if you wanted to step back or lean forward.

And Peter just sat there, content.

Watching the trees blur past the glass.

Watching you through the corner of his eye.

Already thinking about the next time he could get you alone.

————

The hotel wasn’t anything fancy—just a modest place off the boardwalk with a sun-bleached exterior and a flickering neon sign that buzzed faintly in the twilight. The kind of hotel that always smelled faintly of chlorine and old carpet, no matter how clean it tried to seem.

The bus hissed to a stop in front of the entrance, and a chorus of groans and rustling backpacks filled the air as students started rising from their seats.

“Room keys will be handed out in the lobby!” Mr. Harrington called as he stepped off the bus. “Nobody goes anywhere alone! I mean it! And no one touches the minibar!”

You grabbed your bag and stood up, nudging past Peter without making eye contact. You could feel his presence behind you though, quiet and watchful like always.

Outside, the night air was cooler. Salt kissed your cheeks, and somewhere in the distance, you could hear a carousel winding down.

“I call top bunk,” MJ said as she appeared beside you, dragging a suitcase that looked like it had seen better days.

“You literally always get top bunk,” you replied, laughing. “You snore less when you’re up there.”

“Lies and slander,” she deadpanned. “But fine. I’ll allow it for the sake of justice.”

You both made your way inside, passing by the reception desk where Mr. Harrington was hurriedly organizing room assignments. Behind him, Mr. Dell was struggling to operate the luggage cart, nearly knocking over a decorative plant in the process.

“Y/N, MJ, you’re with Zoe and Betty,” Mr. Harrington said without looking up. “Room 312. Keep it PG, ladies.”

MJ snorted. “Please. Zoe’s the wild card here.”

You took the keycard and rolled your bag toward the elevator. In the lobby, you spotted Ned chatting with Flash, who was clearly bragging about something that made Ned look painfully uncomfortable. You caught Ned’s eyes and gave him a mock pity expression as the elevator doors closed behind you.

The room was basic: two twin beds, two bunks, a mini fridge humming in the corner, and one tiny bathroom with a loud vent. You tossed your bag on the bottom bunk and kicked off your shoes, flopping back against the mattress with a long sigh.

Zoe was already digging through the mini shampoo bottles. “I call first shower. I’ve got sand in places sand should never be.”

“Too much information,” Betty mumbled, already changing into oversized pajama shorts.

You weren’t quite ready to settle down. The buzz from the aquarium was still humming in your chest. Or maybe it was something else. Something left over from Peter’s eyes on you. That look.

You excused yourself quietly, claiming you wanted snacks from the vending machine downstairs. No one questioned it.

The hallway was dim and quiet. Only the soft buzz of overhead lights and the muffled sounds of TVs behind closed doors kept you company. You stopped by the vending machine near the ice room and squinted at your choices, debating between chips and something sweet.

“Too many options?”

You jumped.

Peter stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. He’d changed into dark sweatpants and a Stark Industries t-shirt, but the shadows under his eyes were more noticeable now.

“How do you do that?” you asked, pressing a hand to your chest. “You move like a ghost.”

He shrugged, stepping closer. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I saw you leave and thought I’d check in.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. It sounded casual enough, but the way he said it—check in—felt too familiar. Like you were something he needed to keep tabs on.

“I just wanted snacks,” you said, turning back to the machine and swiping your card.

Peter didn’t leave.

Instead, he stepped even closer, enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back.

“Want me to walk you back?”

You hesitated.

Then shook your head. “I’m good.”

His silence was long. Uncomfortable.

Then, softly: “Okay. Just… don’t stay out here too long.”

You turned your head slightly. “Why?”

His eyes met yours. There was something in them—something dark flickering behind the boyish softness. It passed quickly, replaced by a smile that felt too rehearsed.

“No reason,” he said lightly. “Just… want you to be safe.”

Then he turned and disappeared down the hall, his footsteps making no sound.

You stood there a moment longer, your hand still hovering over the vending machine buttons. Something cold crept up your spine, curling around your ribs.

He watched you leave the room. He followed you.

And the weirdest part?

You weren’t scared exactly. You should’ve been.

But what you felt instead was worse.

You felt seen.

———

The next morning arrived heavy with mist, a pale fog rolling in from the ocean and clinging to the hotel windows like breath on glass. You’d slept, but not well—your dreams were fragmented and strange, filled with flickering images of teeth and water and eyes that never blinked.

MJ’s alarm had gone off at six, far too early, and now the four of you shuffled bleary-eyed into the continental breakfast area like zombies.

Betty was already halfway through a bowl of cereal, scrolling through her phone and humming something under her breath. Zoe was fighting with the waffle machine like it had personally wronged her.

You grabbed a Styrofoam tray and quietly built a sad plate of eggs, toast, and a single sad slice of melon. The dining room buzzed with sleepy teen chatter, chairs scraping against linoleum floors and the low hum of cartoons playing on a mounted TV in the corner.

You found a seat near the back, hoping for peace, but of course—

Peter.

He appeared with a tray of his own and no hesitation, dropping into the seat beside you like he belonged there.

“Morning,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “You sleep okay?”

You nodded, chewing slowly. “Yeah. Fine.”

He studied your face with that same intensity from the aquarium. You tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on your food. But then he leaned in just a little.

“You had a dream, didn’t you?”

Your hand stilled mid-bite. “What?”

Peter smiled, sipping his orange juice. “You’ve got that look. Like you woke up thinking too hard.”

You stared at him. “You’re weird, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he replied easily. “But I’m usually right.”

You didn’t answer. Just went back to your toast. He let the silence hang, but his gaze stayed on you, heavy and unblinking.

After a moment, he shifted slightly closer—just a few inches, subtle, but intentional. His knee brushed yours under the table.

You moved your leg instinctively, but he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned forward, his voice quieter now. “Hey… can I ask you something?”

You hesitated. “Sure.”

“Do you ever feel like people don’t really see you? Like… they look at you, but they don’t actually notice who you are underneath?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. It was too deep for breakfast. Too close to something you didn’t want to admit.

“I guess,” you said carefully. “Sometimes.”

Peter’s smile widened just a little. “I knew it. I’ve always thought that about you.”

You frowned slightly. “Thought what?”

“That you hide parts of yourself. Maybe without meaning to. Maybe because no one ever gave you a reason not to.”

You didn’t answer. Your throat was suddenly dry.

Peter reached over and gently nudged your wrist with his fingers. It was such a light touch, almost nothing. But it felt too intimate. Too practiced.

“You don’t have to do that with me,” he murmured.

Before you could respond, Ned dropped into the seat on your other side with a dramatic groan.

“Dude, that elevator takes forever. I swear I aged like five years.”

You shot him a grateful look you hoped he picked up on.

Peter leaned back slowly, his hand falling away from your wrist. “You should eat more,” he said softly. “You’ll need your energy today.”

You looked at him. “For what?”

He just smiled. “You’ll see.”

And then he stood, walking away with his tray before you could say another word.

Ned blinked after him, then turned to you. “What was that about?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Because you didn’t know.

You just knew something had shifted. Subtly. Quietly.

Peter was watching. Not just watching.

Learning you.

And little by little, he was pushing at your boundaries to see how far you’d bend before you broke.

———-

The trailhead twisted into a dense strip of woods just past the hotel parking lot, marked by a crooked wooden sign that read Oakridge Bluff Nature Preserve. A fog still clung low to the trees, silver and wet, threading between branches like fingers. The air was rich with pine and damp earth, the kind of scent that made your clothes cling to your skin.

Mr. Dell the second chaperon on the trip as already panting before the class even started walking, clutching a laminated map and muttering about mosquitoes.

“Okay, everyone! Pair up!” Mr. Harrington also called, his voice trying to sound enthusiastic but landing somewhere between exhausted and caffeine-deprived. “We’ve set up a science-based treasure hunt—that’s right, treasure hunt. You’ll find markers along the trail, each with a clue. If you and your partner solve at least five of them, you’ll earn extra credit in any science class you’re currently failing—or ‘improving in,’ as the administration insists we call it.”

That last bit earned a few groans and eye rolls.

You felt your stomach sink a little. Extra credit—you needed that. Desperately. The last bio quiz had gone up in flames, and your chemistry teacher was two sighs away from sending an email home.

Around you, the sound of shuffling and voices pairing off filled the air. MJ and Betty locked eyes and were off. Ned and Flash somehow ended up together through a mutual “ugh, whatever” grunt. Even Zoe paired up with some theater kid named Quentin.

You stood awkwardly on the edge of the path, watching as group after group disappeared up the trail.

When the last stragglers had paired off and Mr. Harrington started counting heads again, you realized with a sharp twist in your chest—

You were the only one left.

Mr. Dell glanced up from the map and frowned. “Did… someone not find a partner?”

You raised your hand halfway, already feeling dumb. “I’ll just go alone.”

“Are you sure?” Mr. Harrington asked, sounding vaguely concerned. “We strongly recommend buddy systems. You know, for nature and… stuff.”

“I’ll be fine,” you said quickly. “I need the credit.”

He nodded slowly, not thrilled but too tired to argue. “Okay. Just be back at the trailhead in two hours. And don’t go off the marked path.”

You offered a quick thumbs up, already turning away before anyone could pity you.

The woods swallowed you almost immediately.

At first, it wasn’t bad. Quiet, almost peaceful. The crunch of leaves under your shoes was rhythmic, the occasional chirp of birds and the distant rustle of water keeping you company. The first clue was easy—matching local leaves to their Latin names. You nailed it.

But after clue three, the trail grew more narrow, the woods more shadowed.

The silence shifted.

The deeper you walked, the more aware you became of the way the trees crowded in. The canopy above thickened, and what little sunlight filtered through was pale and fragmented. You paused at a fork in the trail where clue four should’ve been posted, but the marker was gone. Just the jagged stump where the sign had once been.

You turned slowly.

And felt it.

That prickle at the back of your neck. Like you were being watched.

You scanned the trees behind you—empty.

But the quiet was different now. Not peaceful. Too quiet.

You pulled your phone out of your pocket—no service. Of course.

A branch cracked behind you.

You spun, heart racing.

Nothing. Just a squirrel darting into the brush.

You laughed to yourself, but the sound was hollow.

“Okay,” you whispered, “next clue.”

You turned back toward the trail—only to find Peter standing a few yards away.

Your breath caught.

He was leaning against a tree, half in shadow. He looked… calm. Like he’d been there the whole time.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice thinner than you intended.

Peter tilted his head, smiling like it was obvious. “You said you were going alone.”

You swallowed. “Yeah. I am.”

“You looked lost.” He took a step forward. “I figured I’d help.”

“I’m not lost.”

His smile didn’t fade. “You hesitated at the fork.”

You blinked. Had you? Maybe. You weren’t sure anymore.

“How long have you been following me?”

Peter shrugged. “Not long. Just enough to make sure you didn’t get hurt.”

Your fingers tightened around your phone. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

He stepped closer again—slow, deliberate. “I’m not babysitting.”

Something in his voice changed. Softer. Darker.

“I just don’t like seeing you by yourself.”

You looked around—just trees and trees and more trees. The others were long gone.

“You followed me,” you repeated, as if saying it aloud would make it less insane.

Peter only smiled again, and this time it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I told you,” he said gently, “I listen when you talk.”

He reached past you, brushing your hand as he pulled something from the brush—a marker. The next clue. Half-buried and tilted sideways like it had been knocked over on purpose.

He handed it to you. “See? We’re already a good team.”

You stared at it, then at him.

Your gut screamed that something wasn’t right.

But your voice came out small.

“…Thanks.”

Peter smiled wide now. Too wide.

He didn’t say it out loud. But you could hear it in the silence between you.

You’re not alone anymore.

Even if you wanted to be.

——-

The sun had dipped low by the time you trudged back into the hotel. Your legs ached, your back was sore, and the damp fabric of your hoodie clung uncomfortably to your skin. The walk back from the trailhead had felt longer than the actual hike, each step dragging with the weight of something you couldn’t quite name.

The lobby was buzzing with students—some flopped onto the ugly paisley couches with snacks, others gathered around vending machines and took selfies like the woods hadn’t unsettled anyone at all. You kept your head down as you passed them, scanning quickly for Peter.

He wasn’t in sight.

You didn’t know whether that relieved or disappointed you.

Upstairs, your shared room was in mild chaos—Zoe had claimed the bathroom, MJ was drawing eyeliner wings on Betty, and someone had already spilled trail mix on your bunk.

When MJ caught sight of you, her eyebrows lifted. “Damn, you look like you got chased by a mountain lion.”

Betty laughed from where she sat cross-legged on the bed. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, kicking off your shoes. “Just tired.”

“Did you finish the treasure hunt?” MJ asked.

You nodded, pulling your hoodie off. “All five clues.”

Zoe’s voice floated from the bathroom. “Nerd.”

“Desperate nerd,” you corrected. “I need the extra credit.”

You collapsed onto your bed and stared at the ceiling, letting their voices fade into a low buzz. But your mind didn’t stop racing.

The hike hadn’t been dangerous, not really. Peter never touched you in a way that could be labeled wrong. Never raised his voice. Never threatened you.

But it was in the way he watched. The things he said. The fact that he just appeared in the middle of the woods without a partner, like he’d planned it all along.

You turned your head slightly toward the window. Your bed faced it directly. From here, you could see the parking lot and the woods beyond, just barely visible in the orange hue of the setting sun. The trees were still.

But for a moment, you thought you saw someone standing at the edge of the forest.

Watching.

You sat up, blinking hard. Nothing there now.

The sound of running water stopped, and Zoe stepped out of the bathroom with steam clinging to her skin. “All yours.”

You nodded, trying to shake off the chill crawling up your spine.

In the shower, you scrubbed harder than necessary. You traced faint scratches along your legs you hadn’t noticed until now. Small, but new. You didn’t remember falling.

By the time you returned to the room, towel around your shoulders and your clothes clean, the others were laughing about something you hadn’t heard. The room felt warmer now. Normal.

Until a knock came at the door.

All four of you froze.

Zoe raised a brow. “Did someone order food?”

“No,” you said immediately.

MJ rolled her eyes. “Probably Ned or Flash doing something stupid.”

Zoe padded over to the door and peeked through the peephole. Her face shifted.

“It’s Peter.”

Your breath caught.

“Tell him I’m asleep,” you said quickly.

Zoe blinked, then smirked. “Ooookay.”

She cracked the door and leaned casually against it. “Hey. She’s knocked out. Hike wiped her.”

There was a pause.

Then Peter’s voice, low and smooth. “Just wanted to make sure she got back safe.”

“She did,” Zoe said simply. “Thanks.”

She closed the door before he could say anything else.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. Not for them. They moved on.

But for you, it pressed in around your chest.

You walked over to the window again and looked out. The woods were dark now. The lot was mostly empty.

And still, you felt it.

Like you were being watched.

And Peter? He hadn’t spoken to you directly since the trail.

But you knew that knock wasn’t the last time you’d hear from him.

Not even close.

——

The next morning, The dining room of the hotel was too bright, too cheerful.

Warm yellow walls, chatter, the smell of powdered eggs and slightly burnt toast — all of it clashed with the heavy silence sitting in your chest. You stood in line for breakfast with a flimsy paper plate, feeling the scratch of your oversized hoodie against your neck, trying not to glance over your shoulder every few seconds.

You hadn’t seen Peter since last night.

And yet, you felt him.

You found a quiet spot near the window, tucking yourself into a corner booth. You poked at your eggs. You weren’t hungry.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

Peter stood there, hands in his pockets. The morning light cut across his face, casting half of it in shadow.

“I’m… sorry,” he said softly.

Your throat tightened.

“I didn’t mean to creep you out yesterday,” he continued, eyes downcast like a guilty child. “I just saw you walking alone, and I panicked. I thought you might trip or get hurt, and I know how much the credit meant to you. I just… wanted to help.”

You hesitated.

His voice was calm. No edge. No threat.

Just soft.

And sincere.

“I should’ve asked. I shouldn’t have followed you. I’m… working on that. Boundaries. I know I mess up sometimes.”

You bit your lip.

Maybe you had overreacted. Maybe you were just exhausted, and the woods, and your nerves—

“Okay,” you said, barely audible. “Thanks for saying that.”

Peter smiled — not wide, not eerie. Just… grateful.

He slid a small apple onto your plate. “These were the only decent things at the buffet. You skipped dinner, didn’t you?”

Your heart twinged a little.

You took the apple.

“Thanks.”

He nodded and stepped away, not pushing it, not lingering.

And for a moment… he just looked like your childhood friend again. The same Peter who used to climb trees with you, who walked you home in middle school when the streetlights flickered.

Maybe this trip had just messed with your head.

———

Backpacks were tossed into the undercarriage of the bus as Mr. Harrington waved his clipboard around like it was a sword, shouting names over the chorus of groans and last-minute selfies.

“Zoe!”

“Here!”

“Ned!”

“Right here, Mr. H!”

You were finishing a juice pouch near the vending machines inside the lobby when Peter sidled up beside you again, casual and unbothered. “Forgot my bag in the back storage room,” he murmured, gesturing down the hall. “Can you come help me carry it?”

“Uh…” you glanced toward the door. “Shouldn’t we check in with the teachers first?”

“They’re still counting heads. You’ll be back in like thirty seconds.” His smile was easy. “Promise.”

You hesitated.

Then nodded. “Fine. But hurry.”

He led you down a short, carpeted hallway off the side of the lobby. It smelled like dust and pine cleaner. The storage door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing rows of chairs, extra linen carts, and a few lost umbrellas.

You stepped inside behind him.

The door clicked softly shut.

You waited for him to move.

He didn’t.

“Peter?” you said, frowning.

He turned around slowly.

And something had changed.

The softness from earlier was gone. Not replaced by anger—no, it was worse.

It was replaced by calm.

“I lied,” he said quietly.

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“I didn’t forget anything.” His voice didn’t rise. If anything, it was gentler now. “I just needed them to leave without you.”

You stepped back. Your shoulder bumped a stacked chair.

“What the hell are you talking about—?”

“They already left,” he said. “She missed your name in the headcount. I distracted them long enough for the bus to pull off.”

He smiled faintly.

“Five hours away. That’s a long time to realize someone’s gone.”

Your mouth opened. But no sound came.

The silence in the storage room suddenly rang louder than the screaming in your mind.

“You’re safe,” Peter added softly, stepping closer. “No more pretending. No more being ignored. You and me—this is how it was always supposed to be.”

You backed up again. “You’re insane.”

“I love you,” he said like it was an explanation. Like it was enough.

And then—

He shut the door behind him.

Locked it.

The Smell Was the Last Thing You Remembered

Your scream caught somewhere in your throat before it ever reached the surface.

Peter moved faster than you thought was possible — not violent, not rough — just inevitably, like gravity. Like the moment was planned a thousand times in his head. You shoved a chair between you, tried to bolt for the door, but the rag was already in his hand. The sharp, chemical scent hit your nose a second before it hit your mouth.

“Shhh,” he whispered, even as you flailed against him. “It’s okay. I have you.”

Your limbs were screaming but your body wasn’t listening anymore. A warm, tingling fuzz crept from your fingertips inward like your skin was melting off your bones. The ceiling twisted. Peter’s face was the last thing you saw, up close—too close—his eyes wide and focused, his expression peaceful.

The world folded in on itself.

——

You Slipped In and Out

There were flickers. Images. A road blurred by night. The hum of tires on wet pavement. The faint rhythm of music from a cracked stereo, distorted and low. Something about the melody felt familiar, like something you’d danced to once at a sleepover. Back when your world was smaller. Safer.

Your face was pressed against something warm. Leather, maybe.

The scent of Peter’s hoodie.

His hand brushed over your forehead like a caretaker checking for fever.

“You’re so calm now,” he murmured. “You always look so pretty when you sleep.”

You tried to move, but your limbs were unresponsive. Like you were underwater.

Then—

Darkness again.

————-

You woke up slowly.

At first, you weren’t sure what was real.

The air was too still. The silence was so thick, you thought maybe you’d gone deaf. Then came the cold — biting and dry, bleeding into your lungs every time you tried to breathe. Your eyes opened.

The ceiling was concrete. Cracked. Water-stained.

You were lying on a mattress on the floor — no sheets, no pillow. Just the thinnest layer of padding, covered in an old blanket that smelled faintly of mothballs and bleach.

Your wrist hurt.

You moved it — or tried to. But the clinking of metal stopped you.

A chain. Heavy and rusted, bolted into the wall. Attached to a leather cuff around your right wrist.

You sat up too quickly. The room spun.

There were no windows. Only one small lightbulb in the ceiling. A camera—tilted just slightly toward the bed—blinked red in the corner.

Your mouth felt dry. You licked your lips and tasted dust.

“Hello?” your voice cracked. “Peter?”

The only reply was the hum of an electric fan somewhere in the wall. Distant. Constant.

You stood on shaky legs. The chain rattled.

Your body was sore. Your knees were scraped, probably from the trail. Your neck ached. You were still wearing the hoodie. Your jeans were stiff from dried mud. Your phone — gone.

Panic began to set in.

You rushed to the door. It was steel. Seamless. No handle on the inside.

You screamed.

Nothing.

Only the camera’s little red eye, watching.

Watching everything.

Time passed strangely in the bunker. There were no windows, no clocks. Just that buzz of the vent and the flickering camera light. Hunger gnawed at you. Your throat was so dry it hurt to swallow. Your body screamed for water, for answers, for freedom.

Then, the door clicked.

Your entire body went stiff.

The metal groaned open, and Peter stepped inside.

He wasn’t wearing his usual hoodie. He’d changed — clean clothes, hair damp, freshly shaved. He held a tray. Water bottle. A small bowl of fruit. A sandwich cut diagonally like a child’s lunch. A damp cloth draped over the edge.

He smiled like this was a visit. Like this was normal.

“Hi,” he said gently, as if he hadn’t drugged and chained you to a floor. “You’re awake. That’s good.”

You didn’t speak.

He placed the tray down at the edge of the mattress and knelt. Close — too close — his hand resting on the mattress just inches from your knee. You flinched away from it.

Peter’s eyes never left your face.

“I know you’re scared,” he whispered. “But I need you to understand something. You were always meant to be here. With me.”

You tried to pull farther back, but the chain clinked and stopped you.

His eyes dropped, scanning you—slowly. Reverently.

“I used to watch you sleep in class sometimes. You probably never noticed. You’d lean your head on your hand, your locs falling across your cheek like vines.” His voice went quieter, almost dazed. “Your skin always looked like velvet in the sunlight. Like something warm and sacred.”

You stared at him.

He smiled wider. “I used to wonder what you smelled like up close. Like the curve behind your ear. Or your pillow after you’d been crying.”

You sucked in a breath, trying to shrink into yourself. His attention on your body felt like heat—too close, too raw.

Peter reached up suddenly, brushing one of your locs from your face. His fingers were gentle. Careful.

“I love your hair,” he murmured. “I always wanted to touch it. You look like art.”

Your stomach twisted. “Don’t touch me.”

He froze.

Then tilted his head, studying you.

“I won’t,” he said softly, withdrawing his hand. “Not until you ask me to. I want you to want me, eventually. That’s how love works.”

You didn’t reply.

He stood, stepping back, eyes lingering on you.

“I’ll give you space to rest,” he said. “But you need to eat something. You’ll feel better once you do.”

And just before he turned to leave—

“I used to think the world didn’t deserve you,” he said. “Now I know it doesn’t. That’s why I took you away.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

You were alone again.

But your skin still burned where his eyes had lingered.

———-

Peter stood, brushing his palms off on his pants like he hadn’t just whispered things meant to stay buried in the dark corners of a stalker’s mind. His gaze dropped to the chain bolted to the wall — the one keeping you tethered, like an animal.

“I had to reinforce it,” he said casually, like he was discussing drywall. “Steel wasn’t strong enough.”

You blinked.

“What…?”

He looked at you then. Not lovingly. Not hungrily.

Just honestly.

“You pulled away from me so hard last night when I was carrying you down here, it dented the frame of my car door.”

Your mouth went dry.

Peter stepped over to the far wall, where a steel support beam ran through the corner of the room. Without warning, he reached out — and gripped it.

His fingers curled into the metal like it was foam.

And he squeezed.

The steel groaned. Bent inward.

Your breath caught.

He turned back to you, calm. “I don’t usually let people see that part of me. But I trust you.”

He crouched down again in front of you, just close enough that you felt the shift in the air.

“I’m not just some guy with a crush,” he said softly. “I’m strong enough to protect you from anything. Anyone. Even yourself.”

The way he said yourself sent ice down your spine.

He stood and walked toward the door.

You couldn’t look away from the twisted steel.

“And don’t bother screaming,” he added gently, hand on the door’s bolt. “No one can hear you down here. Not even if you break your throat trying.”

Then he was gone.

The lock turned with a brutal finality.

And you were left alone, in the silence, with a metal chain that now looked more like a suggestion than a safety net.

Because if Peter Parker ever changed his mind?

No lock, no wall, no person could stop him.

As days turned into weeks, and summer turned into autumn , The days became shorter, and chain is gone now.

Not because Peter trusts you.

Because he doesn’t need it anymore.

You don’t run.

You don’t scream.

You wake up on the thin mattress, pull the worn blanket tighter over your legs, and wait for the sound of the lock turning. The hum of the vents has become white noise. The camera, still blinking its red light, no longer feels like an invader.

It feels like company.

The steel walls don’t press in like they used to. The stillness is less suffocating now. You’ve made peace with the silence.

Or at least… you’ve accepted it.

The door opens with its usual groan, and Peter steps inside, carrying a mug.

“Good morning, pretty,” he says. He always calls you that now. Pretty. Sunshine. My girl. Names that don’t feel foreign anymore. They feel inevitable.

He sets the mug down — chamomile tea. You don’t even flinch when he brushes your hair behind your ear. Your locs have grown longer, heavier, and he tends to them like ritual. Oils. Water. Fingers that move with too much care to belong to a captor.

You used to flinch at every touch. Now you lean in.

Just a little.

“I had another dream about you last night,” he murmurs, sitting beside you. “You were safe. Smiling. You looked so free.”

You blink slowly. “I don’t dream much anymore.”

“That’s okay,” he says, as if sadness is something to be soothed away. “You’re not missing anything out there. You have everything here.”

You nod.

You don’t know if you believe it. But you nod.

——-

He sits across from you as you eat. The food is better now. Sometimes he brings you fruit from outside, or takeout from places he swears you used to love.

It’s almost normal.

Almost.

He watches you, quiet, before finally saying, “You know… no one’s looking for you.”

Your fork stills.

“I told you, right?” he continues, eyes gentle but voice low. “I made sure the crash looked real. Your bag burned in that wreck. They found a bracelet you used to wear. That was enough.”

You swallow hard.

“Your mom cried on TV for a few days. Ned left some flowers at the spot on the highway. MJ wrote a poem. The school even put a memorial bench in the courtyard.”

He smiles faintly.

“They all let go.”

You stare at your hands.

Peter leans forward, fingers brushing your wrist. “But not me. I knew the real you wasn’t meant to disappear like that. You were always mine.”

You don’t argue.

You haven’t in weeks.

He taps your chin gently. You meet his eyes.

“I know it’s taken time. But you see it now, don’t you? What we have? No lies. No noise. Just us.”

There’s a flicker inside you — the part that still remembers the beach trip, the shark tank, the sunshine, your friends.

But it’s quiet now. Smaller.

And when you nod, it feels real.

“I see it,” you whisper.

Peter exhales like he’s finally breathing for the first time in years. “That’s my girl.”

———

Sweat clings to your skin, dried in places where his touch lingered too long. The sheets are tangled beneath you — heavy with warmth and memory, but offering no comfort.

Peter lies on his side, watching you like you’re still something sacred. His eyes are soft, almost worshipful, one hand trailing lazily down your bare shoulder.

“You’re so good to me,” he whispers, voice thick with satisfaction and something darker. “Always so good.”

You don’t answer.

You can still feel the ghost of his hands on your hips. The bruises blooming on your thighs. The weight of him.

You remember giving in.

Not because you wanted to… but because resistance felt futile. Because saying no didn’t change the outcome. Because somewhere between month four and five, your body had learned how to shut down the fight and just float.

He leans in and kisses you — slow, deep, possessive. His lips move like he’s savoring something he believes he’s earned.

You let him.

Your mouth opens for him like a reflex.

But the emptiness in your chest is cavernous.

He pulls back and brushes his thumb across your cheek. “I love you,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “You know that, right?”

You nod.

Because he needs you to.

Because it’s easier.

He hums softly and kisses your collarbone, arms curling around you like you’re something precious. Like you’re his.

And as the light dims and he whispers promises into your hair — about building a future, a garden, a home — your eyes slip shut.

Not from peace.

From exhaustion.

From surrender.

From the unbearable weight of surviving love that isn’t yours.

———-

The two of you sit on the floor near the mattress, sharing the faded blanket like a couple watching rain from a cabin window. The illusion of peace has settled in like fog — not because it’s real, but because it’s constant. It’s easier that way.

You stir the tea in your mug. It’s too hot to drink, but you like the ritual of holding it. It reminds you of mornings before.

Peter’s sitting next to you, legs stretched out, a notebook in his lap. He’s sketching again. You. He always sketches you.

Your voice breaks the silence, quiet and too calm.

“Peter.”

He glances at you, pencil pausing.

“Yeah?”

You hesitate. “That day. The day I… disappeared.” The word still feels unreal in your mouth. “What did you tell them? How did you… make it look like I died?”

Peter sets the pencil down.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t play coy. For once, there’s no sick sweetness in his voice. Just honesty. Cold, razor-sharp honesty.

“I started planning it a week before the trip,” he says quietly. “Once I knew you were coming. I knew the terrain, the weather reports, how long it would take the teachers to realize someone was missing. I timed it down to the minute.”

You stare at him.

He continues.

“I had already stolen your spare bracelet from your locker. The one with your name on the plate? I scratched it up a little, broke the clasp, and left it near the wreck site.”

“Wreck site?” you echo.

Peter nods. “I had an old car — one I fixed up with parts from the junkyard. Looked close enough to the bus we were using. I drove it off a ledge the night before, made it explode in the ravine off the hiking trail.”

Your heart pounds.

“No one questioned why you weren’t on the bus. I’d already started creating chaos before the headcount — made Mr. Delaney think Sammie was still in the bathroom. Delayed everything. Confused everyone.”

You blink hard, trying to keep your face still.

“I told them you texted me that morning saying you weren’t feeling well and were gonna meet us at the next stop. And I… faked the texts. Photoshopped the screenshots. I even left a few cryptic posts on your socials. Something about needing space. About running away.”

He exhales through his nose, slow and measured. Like a confession.

“By the time the bus got moving again, your ‘signal’ was gone. The wreckage had started burning. They assumed you tried to drive back and crashed. By the time they got to it… there was nothing to identify. Just ashes. A bracelet.”

You stare at him, silent, horrified.

And then—his hand finds yours.

“I killed the version of you that didn’t belong to me,” he says softly. “And now… you’re here. You’re real.”

Your voice trembles. “They really think I’m dead?”

He nods, brushing a tear from your cheek you didn’t realize had fallen.

“They cried. They mourned. They moved on.”

You don’t know what you feel. It’s a storm — grief, rage, confusion… but buried underneath it all is something worse.

A tiny piece of you feels safe.

Because if the world thinks you’re dead… there’s nothing left to go back to.

Peter squeezes your hand.

“None of them loved you like I do. That’s why I had to do it this way.”

You don’t pull away.

You just close your eyes and nod.

You don’t remember when you started crying.

It’s not loud. No sobs, no shaking. Just tears slipping quietly down your temples, pooling in your hair, soaking into the pillow.

Peter sees them.

Of course he does.

He leans over you, brows furrowed, but not with concern — with fascination.

“Still so sensitive,” he murmurs, voice low and intimate as he brushes your cheek with his thumb, smearing the wetness. “Even after all this time.”

You flinch slightly when he presses a kiss to your eyelid. Then the other. His mouth lingers, warm against your skin.

“You don’t even realize how beautiful you are like this,” he breathes. “The way your body shakes… the way your eyes plead even when your lips don’t.”

He drags the pad of his finger across the curve of your jaw, then down your throat, slow like he’s memorizing it again.

“It was never about hurting you,” he says. “It was about having all of you. The fear just made it real.”

You close your eyes again.

Not to block him out — there’s no use in that anymore.

But to try to retreat somewhere deeper inside yourself, where his voice can’t reach.

But he keeps talking.

“You didn’t understand at first,” he says softly. “But I think you’re starting to. It’s not about pain. It’s about belonging.”

His hand finds yours under the blanket. He laces your fingers together.

“I’m the only one who ever really saw you,” he whispers. “And now you’re mine. Just like you were always meant to be.”

You don’t answer.

But your hand doesn’t pull away.

And that silence — that stillness — is what makes him smile against your skin.

It was one of those quiet afternoons when time seemed to blur — the kind where the shadows on the walls moved slower than usual, and the silence pressed in around you like cotton.

You were lying on your side, facing the wall. The bed dipped behind you.

Peter slid in without a word, his hand resting lightly on your hip.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Just stared at the small crack in the drywall, tracing its shape with your eyes like it meant something. Like it could take you somewhere else.

He curled behind you — spooning you like it was routine. His breath was warm on your neck.

“You’re soft today,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “I love when you let me hold you like this.”

His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers ghosting over your skin like he was trying to memorize you all over again.

You tensed.

Just for a moment.

But that was enough for him to pause. His lips touched the shell of your ear. “Relax, baby. It’s just me.”

That sentence used to mean something.

Now it just made your stomach twist.

“I want to be close to you,” he murmured, his hand moving again, slow and possessive. “Not just because I love you — but because I need you to know I belong to you just as much.”

You didn’t answer.

He pressed against you, his body aligning with yours perfectly. You felt the weight of him, the inevitability of what he wanted, and the ache of your own stillness.

“Let me make you feel it,” he said softly. “Let me show you.”

The room stayed quiet.

Your eyes never left the crack in the wall.

And when he moved — slow, deliberate — you didn’t stop him.

You just breathed.

One long, hollow exhale.

And faded away inside yourself, like you always did.

He flashed a crooked grin, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I love you," he whispered, voice low and unsteady. "Been waiting forever to feel your love—touch it, really. Please, Y/N." Then, with a disturbingly gentle swipe, he licked away one of her tears, as if it were nothing more than a drop of rain.

He took her hands, his grip gentle but trembling, as he pushed inside her. Her body went cold, numb, like a switch had been flipped. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last, each time worse than the one before

tormenting ache consumed his senses. Bound by a twisted yearning, he drove into her, each thrust a weight of unspoken despair; she, trembling into numbness, bore the silent agony, while shadows of crimson marred her midnight skin—silent witnesses to a tragedy woven in the depths of their despair.

His voice was a low, rough whisper, almost a growl. "You're so wet," he murmured, eyes glinting with something dark and hungry. "Gonna fill you up, make a litter of babies right here."

His bucked harder, a relentless rhythm against her , driving deeper, seeking her very essence, as sick as it was , Her own moans, a tangled mess of pleasure and surrender, escalated into a primal cry as his release, a roiling, white-hot wave, crashed within her.

He shuddered, his name spilling from her lips in a broken whisper as his massive load squirted deep inside her, filling her warm, welcoming depths.

The sensation was explosive, a searing flood that left her trembling, aching, and utterly his. His rigid cock, still pulsating within her, drew a shuddering breath from her as she clung to him, savoring the lingering heat, the undeniable proof of their union etched in the very core of her beina. He fell asleep inside her .

——

It started with the mirror.

You weren’t supposed to have real glass — Peter said it was dangerous, and “girls like you don’t need to see their pain reflected back at them.”

But one day, while cleaning, he forgot to lock the drawer under the sink.

You found a shard. Small. Jagged. Just enough.

The silence in the bunker that night was too thick, your thoughts too loud. Your chest ached with the pressure of pretending to be okay. Of smiling when he fed you, nodding when he kissed your forehead, thanking him when he brought books or fresh fruit like a husband should.

You sat on the floor, back pressed to the cool tile, legs drawn up, and held the shard to your skin. Right above the hip. Where he wouldn’t see.

But before you could press down—

The door burst open.

Peter’s voice cracked through the air like a gunshot. “What are you doing?!”

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just stared down at the trembling hand that still held the glass.

And then he was there — in front of you in an instant, that inhuman speed cracking the air, his hand wrenching the shard from yours like it was nothing.

The pain didn’t come from the glass.

It came from the sound you made when he pulled you into his arms.

You broke.

Fully.

Finally.

Ugly sobs burst out of your throat like you were drowning from the inside out. Your whole body shook, and for the first time in weeks, you didn’t try to hold anything in.

“I can’t do this,” you sobbed, fingers digging into his shirt. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want this—”

“Shh,” Peter whispered, arms locking around you like steel. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

He rocked you gently, lips in your hair.

“It’s just the fear talking,” he murmured. “I know it’s hard now, but someday… you’ll thank me. You’ll see this was love all along.”

You shook your head weakly, trying to push him away, but he was stronger. Always stronger.

And soon, you stopped trying.

You curled into his lap and cried until there was nothing left. And he held you through all of it — humming softly, kissing your temple, wiping away every tear with a careful touch.

Later, he brought you a stuffed animal.

And a lockbox with no sharp edges.

And a new mirror — shatterproof plastic.

You cried until your body gave out. And even then, he didn’t let go.

————

Then scissors.

Plastic ones, blunt-tipped. The kind a preschooler might use.

Peter had switched out all the sharp things after the mirror incident. He even kept your razors in a locked box now — said he didn’t “trust you with yourself.”

So when you found the scissors — buried at the bottom of a forgotten arts and crafts bin — it felt like fate. Or rebellion. Or maybe just the last shred of control you had.

You sat on the edge of the bed, fingers trembling as you gripped a thick loc near the root.

You stared into the reflection of the plastic mirror across the room — warped and cloudy.

“I want it gone,” you whispered to no one. “I want me gone.”

You didn’t even get to make the first cut.

The scissors were plucked from your hands so fast you barely registered movement.

Peter stood over you, calm and terrifying in that way only he could be.

“You weren’t even gonna part it first?” he asked, like it was just another conversation. Like this wasn’t a scream into the void.

You didn’t answer.

You just glared at him. Shaky. Dull. A little wild around the eyes.

“I don’t want them anymore,” you said.

Peter looked at you for a long time. Quiet. Studying you like you were a code he couldn’t crack.

Then — to your surprise — he crouched in front of you and gently took your hands.

“You should’ve just told me,” he murmured.

And then — he did it.

Carefully.

Methodically.

He sat you between his knees and parted each section with his fingers. He pulled out shears from some hidden drawer. Real ones. Sharp. Heavy.

“I only ever kept them because they’re beautiful on you,” he said, as the first loc fell to the floor. “But I’ll love you no matter what. Even if you shave your head bald. Even if you never smile again. I’ll still want you.”

You couldn’t tell if that comforted you or made you feel sick.

By the time he finished, the floor around you was covered.

He ran his hands gently over your scalp — fingertips tracing the places where hair once lived.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Still mine.”

You looked in the warped mirror, at the uneven stubble and shadow of who you used to be.

And for the first time… you didn’t cry.

You just stared.

Because the girl in the reflection was gone.

And what was left behind was his.

———-

You stood in front of the plastic mirror, twisting your fingers through what was left of your hair.

Your once thick, heavy locs — the ones that framed your face like a crown, the ones that took years to grow and nurture — were gone. Now, all that remained was a short, uneven mini afro. Coarse in some places, soft in others, your natural texture curling back into itself like it was trying to protect you.

But nothing could protect you anymore.

The air was still. Quiet, except for the buzz of the old radio Peter insisted on playing in the mornings — soft static laced with old soul music. He said it made the place feel “homey.”

You pulled on one of the curls absently. It sprang back.

You didn’t cry. Not today. You just… observed.

This new version of yourself looked smaller.

Lighter.

Like if you disappeared right now, no one would recognize you.

————-

Peter’s voice floated in from the next room. “You getting dressed, baby? Breakfast’s getting cold.”

You didn’t answer right away. You opened the dresser drawer — the one he’d stocked with clothes he said “fit your new life.” Cotton. Soft fabrics. Warm colors. No lace. No black. Nothing loud or bright.

You used to wear crop tops and hoops and jeans that hugged your hips just right.

Now, you pulled a muted yellow sweater over your head. Slipped into soft joggers. No bra. No effort.

When you walked into the kitchen, Peter looked up and smiled like the sun rose just for you.

“There she is,” he said, setting a plate on the table. Pancakes, fruit, eggs. He always cooked when you had a “rough day.”

You sat down without speaking.

He reached over and tucked a curl behind your ear, fingers lingering on your cheek. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he said softly. “Stripped down. Natural. Raw”.

You nodded.

Because he wanted you to.

Because what else was there to do?

And when he leaned in to kiss your forehead, you let him.

Because part of you believed it now — this version of you wasn’t the same girl who laughed with her friends, who danced at house parties, who once took up space like she deserved it.

This version of you didn’t need thick locs or loud lipstick.

She only needed him.

————

Nine Months In – “Home”

Your new room is painted a soft, warm cream. The bedding is pale blue, like ocean water in pictures. There’s a lamp with a dimmer switch. A bookshelf filled with all your favorite titles — some worn, some clearly bought recently. A television mounted on the wall plays old romcoms and nature documentaries.

Peter says it’s “your space.”

A gift.

But the door still locks from the outside.

The windows are screens — fake ones — LED panels that show clouds moving or birds fluttering through a forest. Sometimes he programs sunsets to match what he imagines you’d want to see.

And you try to pretend it’s real. Sometimes you need to.

Because the truth — that you’re still trapped, still being watched, still at the mercy of a man who could crush your bones like toothpicks — is too big to hold all the time.

——

You’re flipping through channels when static cuts in. Then a video.

It’s your face. Your photo.

On TV.

A memorial video. Your old classmates crying. Your mom sobbing into a tissue. A slideshow of images — you in cheer uniform, you at the aquarium, you holding a birthday cupcake with a candle.

A headline at the bottom reads:

“Almost a Year , Since Tragic Death of High School Senior. Family Plans Memorial Walk This Weekend.”

You feel everything and nothing all at once.

Your chest is tight.

Your vision blurs.

You don’t cry.

You can’t.

The door opens behind you.

Peter walks in, holding something small in his hands — a velvet box.

You don’t turn.

He sits beside you and watches the screen. Quiet. Calm.

“They still think you’re gone,” he says. “But you’re here. With me. Safe.”

He opens the box.

Two simple silver bands rest inside.

“I know we’re not… traditional,” he says softly. “But this feels right. You and me. It always did. It always will.”

You finally turn to him, your voice barely a whisper.

“Where do you go, when you leave for hours?”

He smiles faintly.

“Told you — my cousin’s farm, out in Jersey. I help when he needs muscle. People are used to me disappearing now. I’m forgettable.”

You nod slowly.

Like it makes sense.

Like you’re buying into it.

Because some part of you is.

That same part lets him slide the ring onto your finger.

——-

You lie in bed. He’s asleep beside you, one arm draped over your waist like he’s earned the right. Like he belongs there.

The ring on your finger feels heavier than metal.

You stare up at the ceiling, the simulated stars twinkling.

And you whisper to no one.

“I love you, Peter.”

You don’t know if it’s true.

You don’t know if it’s you saying it… or the version of you he’s created.

But you say it again, softer this time.

“I love you.”

Because it’s safer to love the cage than fight it.

And Peter stirs in his sleep, his grip tightening — like even in his dreams, he knows you’re his now.

Forever.

[moonlitrapture]

Selling souls for dollars? 3/30?

Warnings : Smut,Gore , Murder , Black mail , Stalking , Manipulation & obsession, Mentions of substance use. Dark themes , Angst , Emotional abuse, Dub con.

A/n: when on a writers high last night .

The back office was thick with smoke and frustration. Stack leaned against the peeling wall, jaw clenched, while Smoke paced like a restless predator, his dark eyes stormy.

You sat on the cracked leather couch, the weight of the night heavy in your chest. The unspoken between you and Smoke was a raw wound, still bleeding.

Smoke finally stopped, his gaze piercing. “You think I don’t see it? You, running back and forth between me and him…”

Your voice caught, but you held steady. “It’s not that simple.”

He laughed bitterly. “It’s never simple with us, is it? But I don’t know if I can keep pretending it’s okay.”

Stack’s eyes flicked between you both, tension thick like fog. “We got bigger problems than this.”

Smoke shot him a look. “Maybe. But this—” He pointed at you. “—this is the hardest.”

You met Smoke’s gaze, feeling the vulnerability beneath the anger. “I never meant to hurt you.”

His jaw tightened. “Doesn’t change the fact I’m still hurting.”

Stack cleared his throat. “Save it for later. We need to be sharp. The cops aren’t the only danger tonight.”

Smoke’s voice dropped to a growl. “I’ll protect what’s mine… even if it kills me.”

You swallowed hard, knowing the words were as much a threat as a promise.

The room grew heavy with silence, the cracks between you all deeper than any raid could reach.

The club was closing, but no one had gone home.

Not tonight.

Bo Chow stood in the middle of the security hallway, headset on, calmly directing bodies like a battlefield general. The way he moved, it was clear — this wasn’t his first time handling something dirty. Probably not even his tenth.

“Stack, check the alley cameras. Smoke, run the register logs for inconsistencies. I want every exit guarded. Nobody leaves unless I say so.”

You stood near the dressing room door, watching as girls scrambled to grab cash, stash stashes, or just stay out of the way.

Bo looked over at you briefly, nodding once — like he remembered the history between you and the twins. But now wasn’t the time for drama.

“This is cleanup. Not a war,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Just then—

THUD.

Everyone froze.

And then — a loud groan.

———

Delta Slim had completely wiped out at the end of the hallway, tangled in a crate of cheap vodka bottles. One bottle rolled toward Smoke’s feet. A silence fell.

And then Stack actually snorted.

Delta groaned dramatically from the floor. “Shit! I’m too old for clubs , and surprise SWAT visits. I shoulda been a fuckin’ Uber driver.”

Annie burst out laughing. Even Mary cracked a reluctant smile.

But Bo Chow didn’t.

He walked over, helped Delta up, and then crouched where the crate had fallen — his sharp eyes spotting something just under the broken bottles: a burn phone, hidden.

He picked it up slowly.

Stack stepped forward, expression darkening. “That’s not ours.”

Bo powered it on.

One number in the recent calls.

Blocked.

But the last message said just one word:

“Remmick.”

The room went still again.

Bo looked up at all of you, voice like steel.

“This wasn’t a random cop tip. This was a setup.”

Smoke’s fist tightened. Stack’s face was stone.

And you?

Your stomach dropped.

Remmick hadn’t disappeared.

He’d just been waiting.

————

Five years ago.

The strip club was different back then — smaller, grittier, just a few flickering signs and a lot of sweat holding the walls together. The twins were on the rise, young and reckless, hungry to turn dirty money into an empire.

You had just started — still new, still pretending it was just “for now.” Mary was fresh off the bus, and Annie? Already jaded, already laughing too loud to keep from crying.

And then came Remmick.

Tall. Smooth. Dressed like he came from money but talked like he came from war.

He showed up one night in a sleek, black coat, no entourage, just a single woman on his arm — the kind you couldn’t tell was a girlfriend, a bodyguard, or bait.

He watched from the VIP booth for hours, drinking water. Just water.

That’s what made Stack curious.

Smoke, on the other hand, didn’t like him from the jump.

“He don’t blink,” Smoke muttered to you. “Anyone that still can stare through strobe lights without flinching? That ain’t human.”

But Remmick didn’t force his way in.

He was… polite.

Charming.

He offered the twins a loan. Quiet. No pressure. No name on paper. “Just a helping hand,” he said, with a smile that felt like a wolf in silk gloves.

They took it. Money like that, back then, was salvation.

But salvation always comes with a leash.

And now?

Now it’s tightening.

—————————-

Back to Present Day

In the cold, buzzing quiet of the post-raid lockdown, Bo Chow tossed the burner phone onto the table.

“So,” he said, locking eyes with each of you. “Someone’s feeding Remmick from the inside.”

Stack didn’t move.

Smoke’s eyes narrowed.

Mary stiffened in the corner.

Annie leaned against the wall, chewing gum like a fuse waiting to be lit.

Bo looked at you last.

And his voice cut deep.

“Who’s the mole?”

———-

The hotel suite was penthouse level — sleek, sterile, cold. The kind of place that said, I have money, and no intention of sleeping.

The window stretched from floor to ceiling, revealing the city like a broken glass puzzle. Below, the club was just another neon smear.

Remmick stood barefoot on the marble floor, shirt unbuttoned, sipping something dark from a crystal glass.

The door behind him opened softly.

“You’re late.”

The informant stepped inside, face shadowed by a hoodie, hands tucked into the sleeves. The energy was jumpy. Nervous.

Remmick didn’t turn.

“You bring me anything useful?”

A pause. Then: “The cops were just a warning shot. Bo Chow’s onto the phone.”

Remmick smiled.

“I expected more.”

“I gave you names. I gave you entry points. You said no one would get hurt.”

“I said no one important.”

The informant tensed. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

Remmick finally turned, eyes like winter storm clouds. “Oh, sweetheart — there are no deals in this world. Only delays.”

A tense silence.

Then Remmick stepped close — too close — and reached into the hoodie pocket, retrieving something without asking.

A folded picture.

Of you.

“Still chasing her ghost, are they?”

The mole flinched. “It’s not like that.”

Remmick smirked. “Oh, it always is.”

He looked down at the photo. “They’ll destroy each other over her. All I have to do is wait.”

He waved the informant toward the door like an afterthought. “Go. Before you’re missed.”

The door clicked shut behind them.

And Remmick?

He just sipped his drink.

Waiting.

————

[moonlitrapture]

Selling Souls for Dollars 2 /30?

Warnings : Smut,Gore , Murder , Black mail , Stalking , Manipulation & obsession, Mentions of substance use. Dark themes , Angst , Emotional abuse, Dub con.

18+

The music inside the club was pulsing again.

Heavy bass. Neon strobes. The scent of sweat, smoke, and stale perfume bleeding through velvet curtains. You stood just inside the staff hallway, watching dancers slip back into routine like the drama outside never happened.

But your head was still in the alley.

Smoke’s words echoed like a bruise.

“They don’t care about us. They care about her.”

The way he said her like you were a possession. Like Mary didn’t even exist in that moment.

Mary was quiet now, sitting on a worn couch in the dressing room, slowly rubbing her stomach like she could smooth the tension away. Annie stood nearby, arms crossed, keeping an eye on the door. She didn’t trust the silence.

Stack had vanished — probably counting cash or breaking up a fight on the floor. Smoke was out front too, flashing that lazy, dangerous grin to customers like he hadn’t just threatened to unravel all of you minutes earlier.

You adjusted your heels, reapplied your lipstick in the smeared mirror, and stared at your own reflection.

You didn’t look shaken.

You looked ready.

Because survival in this place meant knowing how to bury fear behind beauty.

Mary’s voice finally broke the quiet.

“You think he meant it? About you?” Her eyes met yours in the mirror, tired but sharp.

You blinked slowly. “Smoke always means it.”

She nodded. “He’s gonna be the one who ruins it all. I feel it.”

You didn’t disagree.

But you also didn’t deny the part of you that liked the way they looked at you — even when it burned. Especially when it burned.

“You’re still in love with him,” Mary said softly, like it wasn’t a question.

You turned. “Which one?”

Her mouth tightened. She didn’t answer.

You both knew there wasn’t one answer anyway.

———-

Front of the Club — 3:40 AM

Stack slammed the cash drawer shut. Smoke leaned against the bar, lighting a cigarette like nothing mattered. Girls passed between them — a blur of glitter, thigh highs, and half-fake laughs.

“They can’t work like this,” Stack muttered, motioning toward the stage. “Everyone’s on edge.”

“Then you calm them down,” Smoke said, exhaling slowly. “You’re the ‘good’ one, right?”

Stack turned, jaw tense. “You always gotta provoke her like that? Mary’s carrying your damn niece.”

Smoke smirked. “Yeah. And I’m still not the one pretending I’m over her.”

They locked eyes.

Another unspoken war starting to spark.

But the door opened behind them — and you stepped back into the light.

Both brothers straightened. Just like they always did when you entered the room.

As if they’d been waiting.

As if they were wired to.

You smiled slowly. “We back in business, or should I start charging extra for the family drama?”

Stack cracked a rare grin. Smoke raised his glass.

Mary watched from the shadows. Annie folded her arms, eyes unreadable.

The music surged.

The club came alive again.

But underneath the rhythm, the cracks widened.

And none of you were walking away clean.

—————

Mary’s POV.

The music was loud again.

It rattled in her ribs, even back here behind the dressing room door. But it wasn’t the music that made Mary feel like she couldn’t breathe.

It was the way he looked at her.

Or rather — didn’t.

Stack hadn’t said a word to her since the alley.

No “Are you okay?”, no hand on her stomach, no glance to check if the baby had kicked after all that screaming.

Just… silence. Followed by him disappearing into the haze of liquor and latex and cash.

That silence stung worse than Smoke’s mouth ever could.

She sat on the edge of the busted velvet couch, fingers spread over the curve of her belly like she could somehow protect the kid from the emotional landmine she was living in.

She hated herself for being used to it.

For still loving him, even as his obsession with her — with you — played out like a slow, toxic opera every damn night.

She wasn’t stupid.

She’d known from the start she was walking into a fucked-up legacy.

She’d watched the twins orbit around you since day one, two wolves gnashing their teeth for a piece of something they couldn’t share. She knew what she was to them — what she was allowed to be.

Comfort.

Breeding ground.

Disposable.

Even with the baby, she still felt like a rented room in Stack’s life. A place he could sleep, maybe cry, but never stay.

Because his real home?

It was somewhere between your skin and Smoke’s smirk.

She swallowed hard, fingers twitching. The baby moved — small, fluttery.

At least someone still needed her.

At least someone belonged to her.

The thought made her eyes sting, but she blinked it away. Crying didn’t fix anything in this place. It never had.

And besides, Stack wasn’t just her man.

He was her pimp.

That made things complicated in a way she couldn’t admit out loud.

There were nights she felt like she didn’t even own her own body anymore — just borrowed it, just worked it, just waited for someone else to tell her what it was worth.

And tonight?

It wasn’t worth enough to make him fight for her.

Not when you were in the room.

She heard your voice now, playful, reckless — “We back in business, or should I start charging extra for the family drama?”

Laughter.

Stack’s smile.

Smoke’s stare.

And Mary? Still sitting backstage, stomach tight and soul half-gone.

Family.

What a joke.

If this was family, then it was the kind that came with blood on the floor and secrets in your teeth.

And maybe — just maybe — it was time to stop pretending she wasn’t bleeding too.

You and Annie were huddled in the far corner of the dressing room, perched on the makeup counter like two teenagers ditching class. The music throbbed behind the door — heavy bass, sultry vocals — but in here, it was just whispers and cheap perfume and fake lashes curling under warm lights.

“I swear to God, if Smoke winks at one more customer like he’s God’s gift to sex,” Annie snorted, flicking her long braid over her shoulder, “I’m gonna throw one of Mary’s prenatal vitamins at his face.”

You laughed — really laughed — for the first time all night.

Annie grinned wider. “You know I’m serious. That man thinks his dick is made of gold and trauma.”

You choked on your Red Bull.

“Okay but…” you leaned in, lowering your voice, “was it though?”

Annie gasped — then cracked up. “Bitch—!”

“I’m asking!” you said, giggling harder now. “You were with him for like, what, six months? You know I gotta know.”

She gave you that look. That “girl, don’t make me go there” look. Then she sighed dramatically, biting her lip.

“…okay, I’m not gonna lie — the man knows what he’s doing. Like, ruin-your-credit-score level.”

You wheezed.

“But,” she added, raising a finger, “Stack? That man is gentle. Like… whispering filth in your ear with his hand on your throat type gentle.”

You blinked. “You what?”

“Oh don’t play innocent, we all know you’ve had both. You’re basically the twins’ unofficial third spouse.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, heart twisting in that too-familiar way. “It’s not like that.”

“Please. They look at you like you’re oxygen and they’ve been drowning since birth.”

You went quiet for a moment. The laughter still hung in the air, but the truth buzzed beneath it.

Annie bumped your shoulder. “But hey… between you, me, and the pole? You deserve it.”

You looked at her.

Her eyes were kind tonight. No bite. Just girlhood and grime, glitter and grit.

“Thanks,” you murmured, softer than you meant to.

She reached for your hand and squeezed it. “Now c’mon. Let’s go shake something expensive and toxic. Rent’s not gonna pay itself.”

You laughed again — a little sad, a little wild — and followed her toward the stage lights.

And for just a second, you didn’t feel owned.

You just felt alive.

————-

The music on the floor was vibrating through your heels, but it felt like background static now.

You’d just finished a stage set, tips tucked into your garter, glitter still clinging to your inner thighs. Annie had gone to count her cash and touch up her lip gloss. Mary was still laying low. Smoke was nowhere in sight.

You were alone for the first time in hours, backstage by the side exit — the red light buzzing above the door, casting everything in danger-colored glow.

And then you felt it.

That unmistakable weight of someone watching you.

Stack.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. You felt him before he even stepped closer — quiet, careful, intense in that way only he knew how to be.

You turned your head just slightly, catching him in the reflection of the half-cracked mirror on the wall.

He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that chain around his neck glinting under the red.

His voice was low when he finally spoke.

“Thought you’d slipped out again.”

You shrugged, not looking at him directly. “Needed a minute.”

He was silent. Then:

“Annie have you laughing.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. The air between you stretched tight like a wire.

“She’s good for you,” he said.

You finally looked at him — really looked.

Stack didn’t look mad. He didn’t look jealous. He looked like he was trying to stay calm. Like he’d rehearsed this moment and still didn’t know how to say what he meant.

“You alright?” you asked softly.

He stepped in, slow.

“Not really,” he murmured. “Watching you laugh with her… made me think how long it’s been since you laughed like that with me.”

Your heart kicked.

You turned fully toward him now. “Stack…”

But he shook his head. “I know. I know it’s fucked up. Me. Us. This whole place. But it still burns.”

He took one more step.

“You think I don’t see how Smoke looks at you? How I look at you?”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because you did know.

You knew all of it.

Stack was in front of you now, inches away. His hand hovered, then landed gently on your hip.

“I don’t know how to let you go,” he whispered. “Even when I should.”

The hallway was quiet. The music muffled behind the wall.

You should’ve pulled away.

You didn’t.

His fingers curled just slightly against your skin, not possessive — almost like a question.

Like he didn’t know what he was asking, only that he needed to.

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“You’re not the only one burning.”

And just like that, the wire snapped — tension bleeding into want, want bleeding into chaos.

And somewhere in the background, the club kept pulsing.

But here?

Time stopped.

His hand stayed on your hip — not gripping, not forcing — just there. A tremble beneath the calloused skin. His thumb moved in a slow circle, like he was memorizing the shape of you all over again.

You hadn’t kissed him yet. Not technically.

But it felt like your mouths were already tangled. Your breath was his. His heartbeat was yours. Everything in your body screamed danger — but in that seductive, all-consuming way that made you lean in instead of pull back.

Stack’s voice was rough. Barely audible.

“I think about you every night I close my eyes.”

Your lips ghosted over his jaw. “Do you dream about me too?”

“I don’t sleep much,” he said. “But when I do? Yeah.”

Then he kissed you.

Hard, but slow. Not frantic — just hungry. Like this wasn’t about sex, not really. Like he needed to remind himself you were still made of warmth and softness and skin that responded to him. Not Smoke. Not some customer. Him.

Your back hit the wall gently, his body pressing into yours like he was trying to shield you from everything — including himself. His hand slid under your top, fingers tracing the lines of your ribs.

“You feel like fucking fire,” he whispered against your neck.

You gasped — half-laugh, half-moan — tangled your fingers in his shirt and pulled him closer.

It was dizzying.

Too much, not enough, everything.

But then—

“The fuck is this?”

The sound cracked through the hallway like glass.

You and Stack broke apart instantly, breathless, guilt blazing red-hot in your faces.

Smoke stood in the doorway.

He wasn’t yelling.

He didn’t need to.

His eyes were doing all the damage. Like twin knives dipped in betrayal and gasoline.

And behind him?

Mary.

Wide-eyed.

Silent.

Hands on her stomach like she was trying not to collapse.

The moment shattered. All of it — gone in an instant.

Your lips still tingled. Your shirt was still slightly crooked. Stack looked like he’d been hit in the stomach.

Smoke looked like he wanted to hit someone.

And Mary? She didn’t cry. She just turned and walked away.

Stack started to follow. “Mary, wait—”

“Don’t.” Her voice cut like ice. “Just don’t.”

Smoke didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

You whispered, “Smoke, it wasn’t—”

“Save it,” he said flatly. “Go dance. Isn’t that what you’re good at?”

Then he turned and walked off, rage stitched into every step.

And you?

You stood there alone.

Still burning.

But now with nowhere to put the flames.

—————

Annie’s POV

She wasn’t surprised.

Not really.

She’d seen the tension winding tighter between you and Stack for weeks. The stolen glances, the soft arguments in back rooms, the way his hand lingered on your lower back just a second too long.

She’d seen it all.

She always saw it all.

So when she rounded the corner with a drink tray in hand and caught sight of Stack kissing you like his life depended on it, she didn’t gasp or drop her glass.

She just raised an eyebrow.

Well, shit.

She stayed hidden for a beat. Watched Mary freeze. Watched Smoke’s face go stony and cold.

Watched you try to unmake the moment like it hadn’t just exploded in everyone’s faces.

She didn’t feel jealous. That was old news.

What she felt was something murkier. Something heavy in her chest.

Sadness?

No. Too soft.

Pity?

Closer.

Mostly for Mary, who still believed this place had rules. That the heart meant something here. That you could hold onto someone if you carried their child.

Annie knew better.

This was a club built on currency: sex, power, fear, addiction. No one left clean.

Not even the ones who smiled the prettiest.

She turned on her heel and headed for the floor, past Smoke — who wouldn’t even meet her eyes — and past you, who looked wrecked and dazed and painfully alive.

And then, because she couldn’t help herself, she leaned in and whispered just loud enough for you to hear:

“Told you he fucks like he forgets who’s watching.”

You blinked, stunned.

She winked and walked away, her heels clicking like punctuation.

It wasn’t cruelty.

It was a reminder.

That in this world?

Even love came with receipts.

Annie moved through the haze of the main floor like she owned it — hips slow, chin up, a smirk on her lips like nothing rattled her. Like she hadn’t just watched four hearts fracture in a dirty hallway.

Men whistled. Girls brushed past her. The scent of body spray, bourbon, and desperation clung to the velvet walls.

She slid into a booth where a couple of high rollers were posted up, letting one of them pull her into his side with a greedy hand.

She smiled like it was fun.

Like her world wasn’t splintering.

But behind her lashes, Annie was calculating.

Mary was quiet. Too quiet.

Smoke was cracking.

You? Teetering on the edge of something irreversible.

And Stack… Stack was chasing a ghost that might finally bite back.

She tilted her glass. “To dumb boys and expensive mistakes.”

And drank.

————

You sat outside on the back steps, legs crossed in your fishnets, coat slung over your shoulders, the night air biting at your skin.

Your heart was still pounding.

You didn’t even know if it was from Stack’s kiss or Smoke’s eyes — or maybe just the way Mary had looked at you.

Like you’d stolen something that couldn’t be given back.

You rubbed your hands together, staring up at the dirty city sky. Somewhere, above the strip club neon and rusted fire escapes, there were stars. You just couldn’t see them anymore.

The door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t have to turn around.

“Thought I’d find you out here,” Annie said softly, voice calmer now. She came and sat beside you, lighting a menthol, holding the smoke between perfectly manicured fingers.

Neither of you spoke for a second.

“You alright?” she asked.

You shrugged. “Define alright.”

Annie exhaled slow, watching the smoke curl up. “Messy night.”

“Yeah.”

“You love him?”

You blinked. “Which one?”

She laughed, dry and sweet. “That’s what I thought.”

Silence again. Not heavy this time. Just true.

Annie finally bumped her shoulder into yours.

“You don’t gotta choose yet. Let ‘em sweat.”

You looked at her, surprised.

“What? I’m toxic, not heartless,” she said, smiling with her eyes. “But be careful. ‘Cause some of us? We don’t bounce back from love that isn’t returned.”

You nodded, heart suddenly too full.

“Come on,” she said, standing. “Let’s go back in before Mary sets the place on fire or Smoke punches another wall.”

You stood with her. “You really think she’d burn it down?”

“I think,” Annie said, throwing her arm around your shoulders, “that we all would, if it meant someone finally saw us bleeding.”

The music had changed by the time you and Annie stepped back inside — something bass-heavy and hypnotic, a rhythm you could lose yourself in. But tonight? It didn’t numb the tension. It made it worse.

Stack was leaning over the bar, running a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. Smoke was back near the VIP section, counting bills like they owed him something more than paper. The other girls were whispering — the kind of whisper that spreads like gasoline on tile.

And Mary?

Nowhere.

You caught Stack’s eyes first. He looked away just as fast.

Annie leaned toward you. “Want me to distract Smoke while you disappear again?”

You didn’t answer. Because suddenly, everything felt too real — like the walls had ears and the floor remembered every lie.

You moved past the others, ignoring the heat of eyes on your skin, the way some men leaned in closer like they could taste the drama. You found a quiet corner, behind the curtain leading to the dressing rooms.

Your pulse was still too loud.

And it wasn’t from the kiss anymore.

It was from what it meant.

—————

Mary’s POV

She didn’t cry until the bathroom door was locked.

Even then, it was silent — the kind of crying that doesn’t come out in sobs but in full-body tremors, like something is being exorcised from your chest.

She slid to the floor, arms around her knees, her stomach a small curve under her sweatshirt.

His baby.

She hated that she still used the word his.

Stack had always been the one she thought she could trust. Smoke? Too chaotic. The twins were fire and gasoline, and she had let herself be the match.

She thought a baby would change something.

It hadn’t.

And what hurt more than the kiss was the look in his eyes when he kissed you — soft, hungry, alive.

He hadn’t looked at her like that in months.

And maybe he never would again.

She touched her stomach, fingers splayed like a shield.

“I’m not gonna let this wreck me,” she whispered.

But she didn’t believe it.

Because here?

You didn’t get to choose who you loved.

And love?

Love didn’t save anyone in this place.

It only branded you.

The club was finally winding down.

—————-

The crowd had thinned, the last few stragglers nursing drinks or arguing quietly at the bar. The harsh neon lights softened to a dull buzz. Music was low now — just enough to fill the empty spaces.

You, Annie, Stack, Smoke, and Mary were all scattered in small pockets, nursing bruised pride and fractured loyalties.

And then the door swung open.

In stepped Bo Chow — cool and deliberate, like he owned a secret the whole room was dying to hear. Tonight, he wasn’t just a shadow in the background. He was the new security manager for the club. Part muscle, part negotiator — the kind of guy who could break up fights or start them with equal ease.

Behind him, Delta Slim followed — lean, sharp-eyed, and quiet. Tonight, he was the club’s driver and fixer, handling the rides for dancers and cash drops for the bosses. But everyone knew there was more to him — something buried beneath the easy smile and fast feet.

Bo’s gaze scanned the room, landing on you and the twins.

“You all look like hell,” he said, voice low but edged with something like concern.

Stack cracked a bitter smile. “Welcome to the family.”

Bo’s eyes flicked to Mary, who stiffened, clutching her stomach like a shield.

Delta Slim leaned in, whispering something in Bo’s ear.

Bo nodded, then turned back to the group.

“Keep your heads down. But if things go sideways again, I’m the one you call. Understand?”

Smoke snorted. “Like you’re gonna stop shit.”

Bo didn’t flinch. “Try me.”

The tension in the room shifted, like a storm just passing but leaving the air electric.

You caught Annie’s eye across the room — that smirk back again, like she was already plotting.

Mary just exhaled, slow, eyes never leaving the floor.

And you? You wondered if the next fight would be the one to finally burn this whole place down.

Bo Chow’s sharp gaze had just landed on the group when Delta Slim, standing casually by the bar, let out a low chuckle and shook his head.

“Man, shit,” he said, voice dripping with mock exhaustion, “I’m too old for hoes and boats and all this damn drama.”

The words hung in the air for a beat — and then, unexpectedly, a ripple of laughter spread through the room.

Even Stack cracked a grin.

Annie let out a soft laugh, shaking her head as if Delta Slim’s joke had cut through the heaviness like a cool breeze.

Smoke rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything — and Mary even managed a small, rare smile.

You caught Delta Slim’s eyes. He just shrugged like he’d said something completely obvious but true.

“Old dogs,” Bo muttered, smirking, “but sometimes the old dogs know the tricks.”

The mood shifted — just enough to remind everyone that even in this mess, they were still human.

The laughter from Delta Slim’s joke lingered, softening the edges of the tension that had been choking the room all night.

You caught sight of Annie gathering a few of the other girls near the back booth, her grin mischievous as she passed around a bottle of cheap whiskey.

One of the younger dancers whispered something to Annie, who just rolled her eyes and retorted, “Please, if I had a dollar for every dumbass I’ve dealt with, I’d be out of this hellhole by now.”

The group erupted in giggles, the sound fragile but genuine.

You found yourself smiling — a little lightness in the dark.

But then Stack’s two men — Jax and Trey — slipped through the crowd and intercepted him near the bar.

Jax’s face was tight, eyes darting nervously.

Trey leaned in, voice low but urgent.

“Boss, we got a problem. Some shit went down near the docks.”

Stack’s smile vanished.

“What kind of problem?” he demanded.

“Cops showed up — but that’s not all. Looks like someone tipped them off.”

Stack’s jaw clenched, his entire body coiling like a spring.

“Who?” he hissed.

Jax glanced around before whispering, “Don’t know yet. But it’s bad. Could put the whole operation under heat.”

Stack’s eyes locked onto you for a split second — cold and distant — before he turned away.

“We move fast. Get everyone ready.”

The club’s pulse shifted again, heavier, darker.

And just like that, the fragile moments of laughter vanished into the night.

You found Mary by the side exit, the neon glow from the club spilling over her tired face. Her eyes were distant, as if she was carrying a weight too heavy even for her to name.

You stepped closer, voice low but steady. “Mary.”

She turned, startled, but didn’t pull away.

“This shit… it’s getting worse.”

She nodded slowly. “I know.”

You took a breath, searching for the words. “You think loyalty means something in this world? That there’s a code? That someone’s got your back?”

Mary’s lip trembled. “I thought… maybe with Stack. But—”

You shook your head. “No. Loyalty in a game like this? It’s a myth. Everyone’s playing for themselves, even when it looks like they’re on your side.”

She looked down at her hands, clenched tight against the curve of her stomach.

“It’s brutal. It’s dirty. And it’s the only way we survive.”

Mary’s voice cracked. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

You reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You hold your ground. You protect yourself first. Because no one else will.”

Her eyes flickered up to meet yours — raw, scared, but also something like understanding.

“Maybe… maybe that’s enough.”

You squeezed her shoulder gently. “It has to be.”

Behind you, the music throbbed, the night waiting for the next move.

And in a place like this, every move could be the last.

—————

Stack slammed his fist on the bar, the noise cracking through the room like a gunshot. His jaw was tight, eyes stormy as Jax and Trey laid out the details of the tipped-off cops and the potential raid.

Smoke hovered nearby, arms crossed, pacing like a caged animal.

“Who the fuck betrayed us?” Stack growled, voice low and lethal.

“No idea yet,” Trey said, rubbing his neck. “But whoever did it’s got balls. We’ve been careful.”

Smoke’s gaze flicked to you and Mary, then back to Stack.

“This could blow everything,” he said quietly. “If the cops hit, it ain’t just the club. The whole network’s at risk.”

Stack looked at Smoke — the tension between them thick, complicated. But right now, they needed each other.

“Get the girls ready,” Stack barked. “Annie, you too. We’re shutting this down till we know who’s clean.”

Annie appeared at your side, whispering, “Looks like we’re back to work — but this time, it’s more than just the club.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the night settle deeper.

The twins exchanged a glance — fierce and brotherly, a silent vow to protect what little they still controlled.

And you?

You knew this storm was far from over.

[moonlitrapture]

Selling Souls for Dollars 1/30?

Warnings : Smut,Gore , Murder , Black mail , Stalking , Manipulation & obsession, Mentions of substance use. Dark themes , Angst , Emotional abuse, Dub con.

18+

A/n: Friday I’ll release the first part of velvet arteries. ( these are just drafts , hope u guys enjoy it ) 🤭.

Summary : You dance for kings in a city built on rot. Your stage name is “Candy,” a stripper in one of the most dangerous underground clubs in New Babel. Smoke is your manager, your protector, your pimp — until he isn’t. Stack, a quiet enforcer from the city’s most brutal gang, becomes your favorite client… but he watches you like a predator sizing up prey.

Smoke thinks it’s about money. Stack says it’s about obsession. You’re not sure who to trust —. But both men claim they’ll protect you. Both men want to own you. And you’re starting to think you were never free in the first place.

Paring : Pimp! Gangster Stack & Smoke x Black ! Reader (Exotic Stripper) x Remmick

The music was still pulsing through the walls when you stepped off the stage, glitter sticking to your sweat-slicked skin like a second, more honest costume. Velvet was always the one they wanted—soft voice, hard eyes, the way your hips moved like a whisper and a threat all at once. But backstage, under the buzzing red lights and the smell of blood-warm perfume, you started bleeding back in.

Smoke was already waiting by the backroom, cigarette ghosting between his lips, eyes hidden behind tinted lenses.

He didn’t smile. He never smiled when he was working.

“Private client,” he said, voice low. “Big tipper. No touching, unless he pays for it. And you listen to me, Candy —this one’s different.”

You gave him your best deadpan smirk. “They’re all different until they come.”

Smoke’s jaw twitched. “Not him.” He opened the door.

Inside, the room was dark except for one violet neon light casting everything in slow, pulsating shadows. And there he was—Stack—leaned back on the plush, ruined leather of the booth like sin made flesh. He didn’t look at you right away. Just let his eyes drag up the wall, then down your body like he already owned it.

He didn’t clap. Didn’t whistle. Didn’t smile.

“You’re not what I expected.”

You walked in anyway, letting the door click shut behind you like a coffin lid.

“Yeah?” you said, heels clicking slow against the floor. “And what were you expecting?”

Stack leaned forward, elbows on knees, head tilted like you were a puzzle he planned to take apart with his teeth.

“I thought Candy was just a name. Didn’t realize it was a warning, didn’t know I had a sweet tooth til now “. Something cold slithered down your spine.

Behind the glass wall, Smoke watched. You felt his eyes, even if you couldn’t see them.

Two men.

One room.

And the sense that neither of them was going to let you leave the same.

Smoke wants to possess you emotionally, control your choices, keep you caged.

Stack wants to unravel you, break through and meet the real you, even if he has to destroy everything around you to get there.

They don’t fight fair. And they both think the other is too unstable to be trusted with you.

You crossed the room like the space between you was nothing, even though it felt like the mouth of a pit.

Stack didn’t touch you. Just watched.

Eyes like Smoke’s — but colder. Slower. Hungrier.

You dropped to your knees in front of him, as if on instinct, head tilted, fingers ghosting up his thighs without contact.

“You paid for a dance,” you murmured. “Not poetry.”

He smiled — a sliver of something feral, crooked like it didn’t belong on a human face.

“Didn’t pay,” he said. “Smoke did.”

That threw you.

Your eyes flicked to the tinted glass. Smoke was still there. Still watching. You could just barely see the orange ember of his cigarette glowing like a sniper’s scope.

The air changed.

Stack leaned forward, close enough that his breath hit your cheek.

“He says he’s protecting you,” he whispered. “But you’re just his favorite cage bird. Dances pretty. Never flies.”

You didn’t pull back — couldn’t.

Your voice was thinner now. “And what do you want?”

Stack’s head tilted like he was tasting the answer before speaking it.

“I want to see if you bleed the same.”

You didn’t flinch. That’s how they win — when you flinch.

But something inside your chest — the you beneath the candy persona — shrank anyway.

Behind the glass, Smoke knocked once on the wall.

Sharp. Loud.

Stack smiled again. Didn’t move.

You rose to your feet slowly, deliberately, your fingers brushing his jaw on the way up — not tender, not cruel. Just a warning.

“I don’t dance for free,” you said.

Stack sat back, as if letting you retreat was a favor.

As you opened the door, Smoke was already waiting, arms folded, cigarette crushed beneath his boot.

“He touched you?” he asked, voice razor-flat.

You didn’t answer. Not with words.

Smoke’s jaw ticked once, twice — then settled.

“I told you,” he said quietly. “Stack isn’t like me.”

You stepped closer, breath still shaky. “That’s the thing, Smoke.”

“You are like him.”

His expression didn’t change — but something in his eyes flickered.

Like heat under a steel door. Like love turned violent.

And you suddenly knew you’d never get out of this without burning.

You were halfway to the dressing room when you heard the door slam.

Fast footsteps . A pair of heavy set air forces , to be exact. You didn’t even have time to turn before a hand gripped your arm — not hard, not gentle — just enough to stop you.

Smoke.

“What did he say to you?” he asked, voice low. Dangerous.

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come. He was too close. His breath smelled like nicotine and rage. You knew this version of him — the one trying not to snap.

“He talked,” you managed. “That’s all.”

“That’s all,” he echoed, jaw clenched. “He looked at you like he already had you wrapped in his fucking bed sheets, and you think that’s all?”

Before you could answer, the hallway went cold.

Stack was behind him.

His shadow hit first, long and sharp under the flickering hallway light. Then his voice — silk over broken glass.

“Move.”

Smoke turned slowly. “The fuck did you say?”

“I said move,” Stack repeated. “She’s not yours.”

Smoke laughed, short and mean. “She sure as hell isn’t yours either.”

“She will be.”

Then it happened.

No warning. No buildup.

Smoke’s fist connected with Stack’s jaw, sharp and loud like a gunshot in a church.

Stack didn’t fall. Didn’t even stumble.

He just looked back — blood at the corner of his mouth — and smiled.

And then he hit back.

You’d never seen either of them like this. Not when they were working. Not when they were playing predator. This was something ancient. Brother against brother. Hate born from love that curdled in the womb.

Smoke slammed Stack into the wall, elbow to throat.

“You’re gonna get her killed,” he growled.

Stack kneed him in the ribs, twisted them both, sent Smoke crashing to the floor.

“She was dead already, working for you.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Fists. Blood. Boots scuffing tile. Stack’s knuckles split open on Smoke’s face. Smoke’s rings cutting a line across Stack’s temple. Both of them breathing like animals.

You finally screamed.

“Stop!”

They did.

Not because you said it — but because you meant it.

Stack was on top now, one hand pressed to Smoke’s chest, blood dripping from his jaw. His other hand twitched like it wanted to reach for you, but didn’t dare.

Smoke coughed. Laughed again. Red teeth.

“You see?” he spat. “He’s not in love with you. He just wants what I have. He’s been trying to steal from me since we were ten.”

Stack didn’t deny it.

He just looked at you.

“You gonna let him keep owning you?” he asked. “You think he’ll ever let you go, if you ask nice enough?”

You didn’t answer.

Because suddenly, you weren’t sure who the cage belonged to anymore — them, or you.

The hallway was smeared in blood. Stack still hadn’t moved off Smoke. Smoke’s lip was split. His eyes were cold, dark — but the fury wasn’t the kind that flared and vanished. It seeped. It waited.

“Get off me,” Smoke hissed. “Or I’ll put a bullet in your fucking skull.”

Stack didn’t move. “Do it.”

From the corner of your eye, movement. Voices rising. And then—

Annie burst in.

High heels loud. Makeup smeared like war paint. Blonde wig wild, gold earrings still swinging from her last set onstage.

“The fuck is going on back here?!”

She took one look at Smoke bleeding, then Stack on top of him, and something unhinged snapped in her face. She stormed across the hallway, heels clacking like gunshots, and shoved Stack hard with both hands.

“Get the hell off my man, you psycho discount twin!”

Stack stood. Slowly. Turned his head toward her.

“Still calling him that after he left you choking on your own vomit outside Club Medusa last fall?” he said, voice like crushed velvet. “Cute.”

Annie swung. He caught her wrist mid-air, grip iron-tight. She whimpered — more out of shock than pain — and you could see the flicker of fear in her mascara-streaked eyes.

“Enough!”

Mary’s voice cut like a blade.

She stepped out from the breakroom door, still in her dancer outfit, blood-red mesh hugging her like a second skin. She didn’t run. Didn’t yell. Just stared — at you, at the twins, at Annie — and moved in like she was used to cleaning up dead bodies with a mop and a sigh.

“You’re drawing attention,” Mary said. Her voice didn’t waver, but her eyes were ice. “You think Remmick upstairs can’t smell this shit through the vents?”

Everyone froze for a heartbeat.

Remmick.

You’d almost forgotten about him. Almost.

Stack loosened his grip on Annie and stepped back.

Smoke sat up slowly, spitting red to the floor. “This isn’t over.”

Mary looked at you then. And for the first time, you realized — she knew. She’d seen the way you looked at them. Both of them.

She walked over to you, placed one steady hand on your shoulder, and whispered low enough only you could hear.

“If you’re smart, Candy… you’ll let ‘em kill each other.”

Then she walked away like she hadn’t just dropped a lit match in a gasoline bath.

But it wasn’t over. Not even close.

The hallway was too quiet now. Stack and Smoke stared at each other like they were still fighting in their minds. You were shaking — not from fear, but from the truth in Mary’s words.

You could feel them unraveling.

And the sickest part?

You didn’t want either of them to stop.

The hallway stayed quiet for three full seconds. Then the speakers glitched — just a hiccup, a static buzz like a broken neon sign.

But in The Glass Eye, that was all it took.

The customers didn’t like static. They liked rhythm. Pulse. Distraction. Anything that made the walls shake and the lights blur their sins. But now?

Now the music skipped again.

A murmur started. Low. Uneasy.

The bouncer at the end of the corridor turned his head. One of the dancers — Harlow, still half-naked, glitter clinging to her chest — poked her head into the hallway, mascara smeared from sweat and nerves.

“What’s going on?” she asked, eyes flicking between the blood on Smoke’s shirt, the knuckle-splits on Stack’s hand, and the panic scrawled across your face.

No one answered.

Then came the third glitch. Louder this time. The bass dropped out entirely. The main room went quiet.

And just like that, the walls of The Glass Eye started to feel too thin.

Smoke stood, staggering a bit, face wet with blood. His mouth twisted into a smile — but it didn’t reach his eyes. It never did.

Stack wiped his jaw with the back of his hand. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. But you could see something shaking under his skin — like he was still fighting the urge to finish what he started.

Annie rushed past you, out into the main floor. “We got a situation back here!” she called toward the DJ booth. “Somebody fix the goddamn sound before this place implodes!”

And that’s when you heard it:

A man’s voice from the crowd.

“Hey! What happened to the girl in red? Is this part of the show?”

Another voice, slurred, louder:

“I paid for a lap dance, not a goddamn soap opera!”

The customers were getting restless.

Another dancer slipped into the hallway behind you, face tight. “We’ve got drunks getting loud. Booth three just started pushing over furniture.”

Mary appeared again, this time holding a rag and a bottle of club-grade vodka — makeshift first aid. Her eyes flicked to Stack, then Smoke. She didn’t say anything at first.

Then, to you: “This is gonna get worse. You know that, right?”

Smoke was already moving — toward the floor. Toward the crowd.

You grabbed his arm.

“Don’t,” you said, voice thin. “You’re bleeding. You’ll escalate this.”

He turned, slow, eyes burning. “They want a show?”

“No,” Mary cut in sharply. “They want a story they can jerk off to and forget in the morning. Not a massacre.”

Smoke stared at her like he was seconds from cracking.

Stack stepped forward now, voice low, directed at you:

“Let him go. Let them see what he really is.”

Your stomach dropped. They were going to implode — and they were going to drag you down with them.

The lights above flickered again. The music stuttered to life — but now it was off-tempo, warped, like a heartbeat out of sync.

The whole club was watching now. Some were leaning forward with interest. Others were backing away toward exits.

And in the center of it all…

You.

Covered in glitter. Heart pounding. Blood on your heels.

And two twin wolves, circling.

Someone killed the music completely.

The lights dimmed. Not ambiance — damage control. A way to dull the panic before it hit the press

They ushered you out of the hallway fast. You didn’t remember walking — just Stack’s fingers curled around your wrist, too tight. Smoke followed without speaking, his blade now tucked god knows where. Mary walked behind like a shadow — slower, heavier.

The booth was private. At least, that’s what it pretended to be.

You knew there were cameras in the corners. You knew every booth in The Glass Eye had ears. But no one cared about privacy now. Not when power was the only currency left.

The bouncer shut the door behind you. Thick. Soundproof.

Stack sat first. Wide-legged, elbows on knees. Watching the floor like it might confess something.

Smoke didn’t sit. Just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes burning holes into Mary’s stomach.

You stood. You always stood. Dancers don’t sit. Dancers perform. Even when the show is over.

Mary finally spoke. “I didn’t tell you because you’d use it like a weapon.”

Smoke didn’t blink. “You’re damn right I would.”

“You don’t get to play victim,” she snapped. “You treated me like a dirty secret. You treat her like a toy you forgot to put away. And him—” she looked at Stack “—like something you pissed out of your own shadow.”

Smoke stepped forward. “You think he’s better?”

“No,” she said. “But at least he’s honest about being rotten.”

That did sting. You saw it on Stack’s face. A twitch. Barely there. But real.

The silence that followed was deep.

You finally broke it.

“What do you want from me?”

Both of them looked at you. Like they forgot you could speak.

You kept going. Because you had to.

“You dragged me into this. You used me to piss each other off. Now there’s a baby. There’s blood on the floor. People are scared. So tell me—what the fuck do you want me to do now?”

Stack stood slowly. Smoke mirrored him, like some sick reflection.

Stack: “Come with me.”

Smoke: “He’ll run. Leave you like he always does.”

Stack: “I’ll keep her safe. Both of them.”

Smoke: “You’re a liar.”

Mary finally sat down. She looked exhausted. She put one hand to her belly and closed her eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “But she should.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You should walk. Out the back. Tonight. Let them rot in here. Let this place eat them alive. It already is.”

She was right.

And yet—

Stack looked like he might fall apart if you left. Smoke looked like he’d burn the whole city to make you stay.

So now it’s you.

The bouncer’s hand closed the door behind you with a thud that echoed like a verdict. Inside the VIP room, the red light bled into every shadowed corner, draping the crushed velvet seats and cracked glass panels in a dark glow. Surveillance mirrors caught fragmented reflections — blood, glitter, broken promises.

Stack sank into a seat, elbows on his knees, jaw clenched tight. His eyes stayed on the floor, but the tension in his body was like a taut wire ready to snap.

Smoke didn’t bother sitting. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes locked on Mary’s stomach — the secret growing beneath her shirt.

Mary’s voice cut the silence, low and dangerous.

“I didn’t tell you about the baby because I knew you’d use it against me.”

Smoke’s bitter laugh was sharp. “You’re still fucking him, aren’t you?”

Mary’s eyes snapped up, fierce and unflinching. “You think I’d waste my time on a man like you? You’re a goddamn ghost.”

Smoke smirked, venom dripping from his words. “A ghost who still haunts you.”

She stepped closer, voice icy. “You don’t get to play the victim here. You treated me like dirt — like some secret to hide. You treat her like a toy you forgot to put away. And Stack? You look at him like he’s your rival, but he’s just another ghost you can’t escape.”

Stack’s head jerked up, face tight with pain and rage.

Smoke’s eyes darkened. “You think he’s better?”

Mary didn’t blink. “No. But at least he’s honest about being broken.”

The room fell into a heavy silence.

You finally spoke, voice steady but shaking inside.

“What do you want from me?”

Stack stood, body taut, voice low. “Come with me.”

Smoke matched his stance, voice like a blade. “He’ll run. Leave you behind like he always does.”

Stack’s hand twitched toward you. “I’ll keep you safe. Both of you.”

Smoke spat on the floor. “You’re a liar.”

Mary sank down, exhaustion in every line of her body. Her hand pressed protectively over her belly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said quietly. “But you should. Walk out the back door tonight. Let this place swallow them whole.”

Stack looked like he might fall apart. Smoke looked like he’d burn the whole city to the ground.

And you realized—the choice was yours.

You stood still, every eye locked on you like you were a fragile, volatile spark in a storm ready to blow.

Stack’s voice broke first, rough and low.

“Look, I know I’m not perfect. I know I’ve made mistakes — hell, maybe I’m the reason this whole damn thing’s fucked. But I’m the one here. I’m the one who’s trying to build something real. For Mary. For the kid. And for you.”

He stepped closer, eyes burning with a mix of desperation and something softer — hope. “I can protect you. I swear I will.”

Smoke laughed bitterly, but there was an edge of pleading underneath.

“You think I’m some monster? Maybe I am. But I’m honest about it. You don’t get to choose him and walk away like this was some fairy tale. You’re stuck with us — with me — whether you want it or not.”

His gaze slammed into yours, fierce and raw. “I’m not going to beg. But if I have to, I will.”

Mary shifted, rubbing her belly as her voice cracked through the tension.

“This isn’t just about you two. It’s about what’s coming. And if you tear us apart now, there won’t be anything left for anyone.”

You swallowed, heart hammering. This was a war — and you were the battlefield.

What do you say? What do you do?

The room grew heavy with silence, the kind that presses into your lungs until you have no choice but to move.

Stack rubbed the back of his neck and gave a bitter laugh.

“This isn’t over,” he said, standing and nodding toward the door.

Smoke didn’t argue. He just flicked a glance at Mary, who gave a small, resigned sigh.

You all stepped out of the booth, the low hum of the club rising again — music grinding back into place like a beast waking from a nightmare.

The bass bumped hard, the crowd pushing forward, oblivious to the storm that had just passed behind the scenes.

Annie caught your eye from the bar, giving a curt nod as she moved to calm a jittery customer.

The night carried on — lights flashing, bodies moving, money changing hands — but the tension lingered, thick as smoke.

As you made your way through the throng, your mind flickered back.

You saw them younger — rougher edges, bruised knuckles, and eyes full of war.

Stack, the quiet kid with a hard jaw and a chip on his shoulder, always standing just on the edge of trouble.

Smoke, the wild one, barely held back by a crooked smile and a dangerous temper.

Mary, fierce and fearless, protecting her own like a lioness.

And Annie, once the girl who kept them tethered — the girl who saw through the chaos and still chose to stay.

They’d all met back then, in a world that was just as unforgiving, just as cruel. Broken homes, broken rules, and no one to trust but each other.

It wasn’t friendship at first. It was survival.

But it became something more.

Something fierce. Something unbreakable.

And tonight, that past—those scars and secrets—were still holding them together. Even as they threatened to tear everything apart.

The music swelled. The night rolled on. And the dance of chaos and loyalty never stopped.

The club throbbed around you—lights flickering over bodies moving like waves, music pounding like a heartbeat lost in the dark.

Stack hovered nearby, tense and watchful. Smoke prowled the edges, sharp-eyed and restless. Mary was quieter now, the weight of her secret growing heavier with every breath.

But then you saw him.

Remmick.

A man who owned the room before he even spoke—a rich, dangerous presence dressed in tailored black, gold chains catching the light like trophies. His eyes were cold and calculating, a predator in a designer suit. The kind of man who could buy anything… except loyalty.

His reputation was whispered in every dark corner—a ruthless pimp with an empire built on control and fear. He didn’t just deal in flesh—he dealt in power, in broken promises, and shattered lives. And tonight, he’d come for something more.

You felt his gaze lock onto you from across the club, icy and possessive. It wasn’t just interest—it was a claim.

—

The club’s usual chaos was cracking at the seams.

Annie was tangled in a fight with some rowdy customers—rumors about Mary’s pregnancy had spread like wildfire, igniting old grudges and fresh wounds. Drinks flew, tempers flared, and the bouncers scrambled to keep the peace.

Smoke’s voice was low and fierce as he pulled you aside.

“They’re testing us tonight,” he growled. “If it blows up, it’s not just a fight—it’s a takeover.”

Stack appeared behind you, his expression grim. “We hold this ground. For Mary. For the baby. For you.”

But Mary was already slipping away—pale and determined, her hand resting protectively on her stomach.

You wanted to follow, but something stopped you.

That cold, burning gaze cutting through the crowd.

Remmick moved closer.

His voice was silk and steel.

“You don’t belong here—not really. Not with these broken boys.”

You met his stare, heart pounding.

“Who the hell are you?”

A slow, cruel smile. “I’m what you’ll never have. Control. Power. Everything you’re trying to survive.”

—

The night was tipping.

And you were caught in the eye of the storm.

The bass was thunder now — lights flaring like lightning behind the haze of perfume, liquor, and tension. The crowd was thick, the heat rising, the night sliding out of control in slow, grinding shifts.

Smoke was at the far end of the club, jaw tight as he barked at one of the newer girls — Kiki, half-dressed and high as hell, laughing too loud at a customer she should’ve turned away. Stack stood nearby, talking fast to two of the other dancers near the stage, counting tips, eyes constantly sweeping the crowd like a man expecting a hit.

They were doing what they always did — cleaning up the mess, holding down the walls. But tonight, it wasn’t enough.

Because Remmick had slipped in through the cracks.

You barely noticed him approach until his cologne hit — dark spice and money. His hand ghosted along your lower back, subtle and possessive.

“You should’ve left this place by now,” he said, voice low and smooth. “But I guess the broken ones always stay a little longer.”

You pulled back slightly, lips tight. “I’m not interested.”

He smiled — the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

“No? Not even in leverage?” He tilted his head toward the booth where Mary had just stepped out, her hand on her stomach.

Your blood ran cold.

“What do you want?”

Remmick leaned in, whispering like the devil.

“I want what everyone here is too afraid to take — control. And I don’t like to be ignored. Especially not by a girl with eyes like yours.

Across the club, Smoke caught a glimpse of Remmick near you and froze. His whole body tensed like a fuse had just been lit.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

Stack was already moving before Smoke even said it, pushing through the dancers, knocking a tray out of someone’s hands.

“Remmick’s here?” Smoke growled.

“He’s talking to her.”

The two brothers stormed across the club, shoving past the crowd, Annie calling after them — “Don’t start anything here!” — but they didn’t care. Not when it was you.

Not when it was him.

—

Remmick didn’t flinch as they closed in. He stood calm, sipping from a glass he hadn’t paid for.

“Boys,” he drawled. “Didn’t know you were still running this little playground.”

Smoke’s face was a thundercloud. “Back off.”

Stack stepped between you and Remmick, his voice low and shaking with anger.

“You don’t get to breathe near her.”

Remmick just smirked. “Protective. Cute. She deserves better.”

You could feel the air twist — heavy with the threat of something explosive.

And all around you, the club kept pulsing — music too loud, bodies too close, the dancers too distracted. Another girl slipped into the back hallway with a man who didn’t belong. Kiki was crying now, pushed against the bar. Mary had disappeared again.

Everything was unraveling.

And you were the thread being pulled.

The tension cracked like lightning across the floor — three men, one woman, and a hundred hidden sins between them.

Stack’s fists clenched at his sides. Smoke’s hand hovered near his waistband, where you knew a piece was always tucked, just in case. And Remmick? He didn’t blink. He just watched, calculating, like this was all a game he’d already won.

You saw it now — the way he moved, the way he spoke.

Remmick wasn’t just rich.

He was untouchable.

⸻

Remmick Maddox.

Once a street-level runner who sold girls out of trap houses, he got smart — started blackmailing judges, laundering money through ghost-owned real estate, and playing club owners like puppets. Rumor was, he used to work with Stack and Smoke before a deal went south and a girl turned up dead — a girl neither brother ever talked about again.

Now he ran his own stable of girls, high-end, leased to the elite behind closed doors. He didn’t need the club. He wanted what it represented — control, and you were his newest obsession.

⸻

Then Annie appeared — sharp eyeliner, boots stomping, voice like steel.

“Back. The fuck. Up.”

She stepped between Remmick and Stack, her arm out like a shield.

“You don’t get to waltz in here and pull this shit,” she hissed, eyes blazing. “Not tonight. Not with her.”

Remmick raised a brow, but something in Annie’s fire made even him pause.

“You used to be more fun, Annika,” he said coolly.

Annie didn’t blink. “You used to be human.”

The room held its breath.

Then Stack grabbed your hand and pulled you close.

Smoke’s voice was ragged. “This is our home. Get out before we burn it down around you.”

Remmick’s grin returned — not fear, not fury. Satisfaction.

“You’ll call me,” he whispered, eyes flicking to you. “When you finally realize who’s in control.”

He walked out without another word, the crowd parting like the sea around him.

The club slowly started moving again — the music creeping back into rhythm, the dancers resuming their routines, customers pretending nothing had happened.

But nothing was the same.

Annie turned to you, softer now.

“You good?”

You nodded, but your chest was tight. You felt the shift. The war wasn’t coming — it had already started.

Smoke and Stack stood on either side of you, tense and silent.

And somewhere in the shadows, Remmick was already rewriting the rules.

Flashback — Two Weeks Ago. Backroom of a Closed Diner, 3:12 AM

The diner was long closed. Only the buzz of the old soda fridge filled the silence.

Annie sat in a cracked booth, cigarette burned to the filter between her fingers, lips tight. She hadn’t touched her coffee.

Remmick stood across from her, arms folded, watching.

“You’re late,” she said without looking up.

“You’re ungrateful,” he replied.

A long beat.

She finally met his gaze. No fear — just cold exhaustion.

“What do you want, Remmick?”

He smirked. “To collect.”

Annie’s jaw tensed. “I paid you back in full. Twice over.”

“No,” he said calmly, “You paid me what you thought was full. But I don’t work in cash. I deal in secrets. And favors.”

Her breath hitched. Just barely.

“Leave them out of it,” she snapped. “Stack, Smoke, her—she doesn’t belong in this.”

“You mean the girl who works the psych ward by day and takes her clothes off for dollar bills by night?” he chuckled. “She belongs more than anyone.”

Annie stood. “You touch her, I’ll bury you.”

Remmick leaned in, voice like ice sliding down her spine.

“You should be more careful, Annie. You’re not as free as you think.”

He dropped a folded note on the table and walked out.

On it — a photo.

You. In your work uniform.

Taken from outside your apartment window.

Back to Present — The Club

Annie stood with her back to the bar now, eyes scanning the room, watching you, watching them.

She hadn’t told anyone.

Not yet.

Because the truth wasn’t simple.

Once, long ago, she’d owed Remmick everything.

And now?

She might still owe him one last favor.

Location: Back Office, 4:37 AM — Post-Close

The thud of bass had finally died down, leaving only the low hum of vents and the distant sound of heels clacking on sticky floors as girls cleaned up. The club was asleep but not dead. Never dead.

Smoke leaned over the desk, slicing a key through the powder. His fingers trembled faintly, but not from nerves — from the weight of restraint, always pressed just under his skin. Stack sat across from him, leaning back, eyes red-rimmed and unreadable.

“You still mad at me?” Smoke asked, voice scratchy, like his throat was made of gravel.

Stack shrugged. “You swung first.”

Smoke gave a crooked smirk. “You looked at her like you were gonna marry her. Got under my skin.”

Stack sniffed a line, coughed. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who used to whisper her name in his sleep.”

Silence.

Then they both laughed — not loud, not free. But it was real.

Smoke sat down, rubbing the back of his neck. “We always do this shit, man. Always fighting over something neither of us can hold.”

Stack nodded slowly, the coke buzzing in his chest now. “She ain’t a ‘thing’ though. That’s the difference. She sees us.”

“Too much,” Smoke muttered. “She sees the parts we don’t even wanna fuckin’ admit are there.”

Stack was quiet for a beat. Then: “She deserves better.”

Smoke met his brother’s eyes. “But she chose us.”

Stack exhaled, leaning forward. “Yeah. That’s what scares me.”

A long pause. Then the subject they’d both been dodging landed hard in the room.

“Mary,” Stack said.

Smoke’s jaw twitched. “You sure it’s yours?”

Stack nodded once. “Yeah. I know it is.”

Another silence. This one thicker. Heavier.

Smoke looked at the floor. “You gonna step up?”

Stack hesitated, then: “I want to. Doesn’t mean I know how.”

“She’s scared,” Smoke said. “And pissed. At both of us. You for the baby. Me for… everything else.”

“You still love her?”

Smoke didn’t answer right away. Then he picked up the key, raked another line, and let the silence answer for him.

Knock. Knock.

They both turned. Annie poked her head in, eyes sharp, energy coiled tight.

“You two done measuring dicks in here, or should I give you another five minutes?”

Stack half-laughed. “You jealous?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Please. I only snort things when I want to forget. You two? You snort shit to feel.”

Smoke stood, stretching his neck. “What’s up?”

Annie’s expression changed, more serious now. “She’s gone.”

Stack stiffened. “What do you mean gone?”

“Gone,” Annie repeated. “Didn’t clock out. Didn’t tell Mary. Walked out the back door twenty minutes ago. Alone.”

The brothers exchanged a look — silent, but loud with panic.

Annie stepped further inside, softer now.

“I think she needed air. But this place? It doesn’t let you breathe. It chokes.”

Smoke grabbed his jacket. Stack was already halfway out the door.

And somewhere in the night…

You stood alone under a flickering streetlamp, heels in your hand, mascara smudged.

Your phone buzzed.

**> 2 missed calls: Stack

3 missed calls: Smoke**

But still, you didn’t answer.

You just looked up at the moon, half-gone behind cloud cover, and whispered:

“Don’t follow me.”

⸻

Location: Back Alley, Behind the Club — 4:58 AM

The air was heavy with spring humidity and the metallic scent of rain not yet fallen. The dull thud of music from inside the club was just a distant heartbeat now, fading behind the thick steel door you and Mary had slipped out of together.

The alley wasn’t glamorous, but it was quiet — and that was rare enough to feel sacred.

Mary lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, her other hand resting on the soft swell of her stomach. You slid down beside her on the crumbling concrete step, heels dangling from your hand, makeup slightly smeared, skin dewy from the heat and dancing.

She passed you the lighter.

“I keep forgetting I can’t smoke,” she muttered, puffing anyway. “Bad mom move.”

You took a breath but didn’t lecture. Just gave her a look.

Mary grinned around the filter. “What? Baby’s already surviving in hell. Might as well toughen up early.”

You laughed — really laughed — for the first time all night.

“I swear,” you said, “we are so fucking broken.”

Mary leaned back against the brick wall, staring up at the stars just barely visible over the city glow. “Nah. We’re just… overcooked.”

You leaned your head on her shoulder. “How the hell did we end up here, huh?”

Mary exhaled smoke toward the sky. “Same way everybody does. Thought we were making choices. Turns out we were just making peace with what we had.”

You went quiet for a second. Then: “I used to wanna be a nurse. Still kinda do.”

Mary smiled. “You are one. Just… not always in scrubs.”

You nudged her. “You?”

“Dancer,” she said immediately. “Like real ballet. Tights and bloodied toes and all that shit.”

“No way.”

“Swear to God. Broke my foot senior year. Couldn’t afford rehab, so…” she gestured around. “Now I shake my ass for rich assholes who can’t remember my name.”

The two of you burst out laughing — sharp and sad and real.

Then Mary went soft again.

“You think this’ll ever feel… safe?” she asked, voice small.

You hesitated. “Not safe. But maybe… ours. If we’re loud enough.”

Mary nodded slowly. “Loud’s the only language this place speaks.”

The door creaked open behind you — Annie, silhouetted in the glow.

“There you two are,” she said, half-scolding. “You know you gave those boys a panic attack?”

You rolled your eyes. “Let ’em sweat.”

Annie grinned. “Good. ’Bout time they learned what that feels like.”

Mary stood, brushing off her skirt. “Guess we should get back before they start calling in a missing persons report.”

You stood with her, but just for a moment longer, you looked up at the stars again.

Overcooked, she’d said.

But maybe — just maybe — you were still soft in the middle.

You and Mary were still finishing your last laughs when the back door swung open again. This time, it was Stack first — chest rising hard, eyes wild until he saw you sitting there.

Right behind him, Smoke. He looked less panicked, more pissed off — but there was relief behind it, too. That quiet kind that makes a guy pretend he’s mad so he doesn’t have to admit he was scared.

“Y’all serious right now?” Stack said, walking toward you, voice somewhere between breathless and scolding. “You dipped without a word.”

“I left a note on a napkin,” you said with a smirk.

Smoke raised a brow. “It said ‘BRB’ and had a lipstick kiss on it.”

“Yeah,” you shrugged. “Seemed clear enough.”

They both stared. Then Stack cracked a smile first, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Thought something happened,” he admitted, voice low. “To you… to the baby…”

Mary stood up and smacked his chest lightly. “I needed air. And she needed to laugh. That’s all.”

Smoke let out a slow exhale and finally leaned against the brick wall beside you. “You could’ve said something.”

“I did,” you teased. “BRB.”

Stack groaned. Mary snorted. Annie reappeared with a paper bag of warm pastries from the 24-hour spot around the corner, tossing one at Smoke with perfect aim.

And just like that — for a few minutes, the world softened.

There was no club. No past. No shame.

Just the five of you — leaning on each other in the dead of early morning, passing fried dough and inside jokes around like a lifeline.

Mary leaned into Stack’s shoulder, her hand resting on her belly.

Smoke sat at your feet, arms resting on his knees, head tilted toward you.

Annie stood a little ways off, watching with tired affection, biting into her food like a soldier at rest between battles.

“I never thought I’d have this,” Mary said softly.

“Have what?” you asked.

She smiled — real and worn and glowing.

“A family. Even a fucked-up one.”

No one corrected her.

Because she was right.

That’s exactly what this was.

And then…

A sharp click echoed from somewhere beyond the alley — metallic and clean.

Everyone stilled.

Stack’s arm dropped toward his waistband. Smoke’s jaw tensed. Annie turned slowly.

You rose to your feet, heart skipping once, twice.

But it wasn’t a gun.

It was a camera.

A single flash.

Someone had taken a photo from across the street. No footsteps. No voice. Just the click, and then nothing but silence.

Smoke was already moving toward the street.

Gone.

Whoever it was — they were already gone.

Annie’s expression tightened.

“No one should know we’re out here,” she muttered.

Mary went pale.

Stack stood in front of you instinctively.

You looked down the street, where the flash had come from, and whispered under your breath:

“…We were just starting to breathe.”

——————

Location: 8th Grade Detention Room – 3:45 PM, Years Ago

The flickering overhead light buzzed like a mosquito trapped in glass. Detention at Hollow Creek Middle was a purgatory built for kids no one wanted to deal with — and most of the time, that included the Mitchell twins.

Stack had a busted lip from a fight in gym. Smoke had ink on his fingers from vandalizing a locker. You were sitting in the back corner, hoodie up, Walkman blaring something angry and melodic.

Three ghosts in the same room, pretending to ignore each other.

Until the principal slammed the door and left you alone.

It was Smoke who spoke first. “You got a problem with eye contact, or is that just a ‘fuck you’ hoodie?”

You didn’t look up. “Depends. You got a problem with boundaries?”

Stack smirked. “She’s got teeth.”

You finally looked up, pulling the headphones off one ear. “And claws. You wanna find out?”

The room went quiet for a second. Then Smoke grinned like he’d just found religion.

“You ever hear someone talk and know it’s gonna fuck your whole life up?” he asked Stack.

Stack stared at you. “Yeah. Just did.”

You rolled your eyes and put the headphones back on — but something shifted. You saw it. Felt it.

That moment wasn’t small. It was the spark.

Weeks later.

Smoke offered you his hoodie when yours was soaked in a thunderstorm.

Stack gave you the only Pop-Tart he had left at lunch.

Smoke skipped class to meet you in the back stairwell just to hear you rant about your home life.

Stack let you sleep on his shoulder during an assembly when you hadn’t slept the night before.

You were the only softness they ever let in.

And neither of them knew how to not fall in love with that.

⸻

Back to Present – Behind the Club

Smoke’s hand is clenched around the last bite of pastry. Stack is staring into the street where the flash came from, jaw locked.

But in their heads — that memory still lives. That version of you with fire behind your eyes and walls taller than the school itself.

That was when it started.

Not lust. Not love, even.

Obsession.

Because back then — you weren’t just another girl.

You were the only person who ever made the chaos in them go quiet.

And if that meant sharing you now?

That was a war they were still quietly waging.

The alley felt smaller now. Thicker. Like the walls were closing in to listen.

You were still catching your breath from the sudden flash — the invisible eyes that watched you all — when Smoke’s voice cut through the night like a razor.

“No one,” he muttered, stepping close enough that Mary’s pregnant belly was between them. His words weren’t just about the ghost in the dark — they were a warning.

Stack’s jaw clenched beside him, but he said nothing.

Mary’s hand tightened around your wrist — you could feel the tension ripple from her fingers up her arm.

Smoke’s eyes flicked to Mary. “They don’t care about us,” he said low, slow, deliberate. “They care about her.”

His gaze locked on you like a claim branded into the night.

Mary’s face went pale, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she lifted her chin, voice sharp and cold. “You think that scares me?”

Smoke smirked — a dangerous, knowing smile. “It should.”

Stack finally broke the silence. “Enough, Smoke.”

But Smoke wasn’t done.

“No one gets to forget who she belongs to,” he said, voice dropping to a growl, “not even you.”

The words weren’t just for Stack.

They were for Mary.

For you.

For the fragile family you were trying to build — and the chaos that wouldn’t let you.

Mary’s breath hitched, eyes burning with something fierce — fury or heartbreak, maybe both. “You don’t get to decide that anymore.”

You swallowed hard, caught between two worlds — the violent devotion of two brothers who’d built their lives around you, and the quiet hope of a new family growing in Mary’s belly.

Smoke took a step closer, voice dangerously low.

“This isn’t about what you want. It’s what she is — and what she’s always been.”

The air between you crackled.

The night was waiting.

And none of you could look away.

[moonlitrapture]

Clean Hands, Dirty Mouth 1/2

Black! Nurse Reader x Smoke x Remmick Modern Au

Summary: By day, you’re a nurse in the underfunded, overburdened psych ward of Saint Ashcroft Hospital. The fluorescent lights flicker. The walls sweat secrets. And the patients? Some stare right through you—others see too much.

You tell yourself you’re just here to help people. But it’s not enough. Rent’s high, and your past has left you buried in debt. So by night, you disappear into alleyways, neon-lit motel rooms, and backseat encounters—selling what’s left of your body to keep your life from caving in.

And then he arrives—

A new patient. Or someone claiming they just got “lost” in the ward’s labyrinthine halls. You’re not sure what’s real anymore. He stares too long. He says things no one should know.

“You carry death in your scent,” he says, brushing past you in the hallway.

You’re unraveling. You’re not sleeping. Your night clients whisper the same strange names your patients scream in their sleep. And when you try to quit, leave it all behind—

You find a note in your locker.

“You were never just a nurse.”

The hospital smells like bleach, sweat, and something rotting just beneath the surface.

They say you stop noticing it after a while. That’s a lie. You just learn to breathe through your mouth and pretend your uniform doesn’t cling to you like a second skin soaked in ghosts.

Room 4C/5C is humming again.

It always hums when the new patient is inside.

I don’t ask why. The other nurses know better, too. We draw straws, whisper bets, and laugh just a little too loud when we pass him in the hallway. Because the alternative is admitting that none of us sleep right anymore.

I enter quietly. He’s sitting up this time—back straight, eyes empty. But they track me.

“Rough night?” His voice is smooth, disarming. Like a lullaby laced with static.

“You could say that.”

My fingers fumble at the tray of meds. I don’t flinch when he stands. I’ve learned not to. Predators love a flinch.

“You’ve got city on your skin,” he says, stepping closer. “Perfume and sin. You shouldn’t come here smelling like that.”

I look up, meet his stare dead-on. “And what do you smell like, Remmick?”

He grins. “Graves.”

⸻

I don’t see Smoke until my shift ends.

He’s waiting outside, leaning against a streetlight like he’s part of the night. Black Nike hoodie, half-lit cigarette dangling from his fingers, Black Jordans , scuffed like they’ve walked through every wrong part of the city and liked it.

“Long shift?” he asks, voice like gravel and heat.

“You here for work or for me?”

His smile never reaches his eyes. “Same thing, ain’t it?”

He walks me further down the block, where the red lights start flashing again . Where my second life begins. We don’t talk much on the way. We never do. But his presence says what words can’t—he sees me. Not the nurse. Not the girl on her knees. Me.

At the curb, he turns to face me, steps in close.

“I saw the new guy , watching you again.”

“So?”

“So,” he says, voice low, “you think you’re running this little double-life of yours, but you’re not. You’ve got wolves at both doors now.”

I should be scared.

But I’m not.

Because the truth is—I don’t know which part of me they’re chasing.

The nurse.

The whore.

Or something even darker in between.

Smoke pulls a long drag from his cigarette, eyes cutting sideways at me. “You’re late.”

“I had to clean up after Remmick again. He’s getting bolder.”

He exhales slowly, smoke curling around his face like a veil. “He’s not your problem past 7 PM. I am.”

There’s no cruelty in his voice—just fact. Cold, familiar, intimate.

By day, Smoke hands me IV bags and charts. He helps restrain patients when they get violent. He slips me pills when I need to numb out. But once the clock ticks over, he’s the one who handles the cash. The one who picks the clients. The one who reminds me what surviving costs.

His hand grazes my lower back. Not tender. Possessive.

“You’ve got three tonight. No nonsense. One’s a regular. The other two are new.”

I nod without looking at him. My stomach twists.

“Don’t make me come looking for you,” he murmurs.

“I never make you look.”

He laughs, low and tired. “Not yet.”

Smoke turns and walks off into the dark, his shadow swallowing the street behind him. I stay still, waiting for the moment I can become someone else again. Not a nurse. Not a whore.

Just something that survives.

——————

By the time the ride-share drops you at the second location—a sagging apartment building with graffiti-covered mailboxes and the smell of weed clinging to the stairwell—you already feel like a ghost in your own skin.

Smoke’s waiting by the stairs, arms folded, hoodie pulled over his head.

“You’re early,” you murmur, brushing past him.

He stops you with a hand on your arm—gentle, but firm.

“Clients canceled. Still paid the deposit.”

He shrugs. “Your lucky night.”

You laugh, brittle. “Yeah. Lucky.”

Smoke tilts his head, eyes scanning you like he’s trying to read past the makeup, past the mask.

“You’re tired,” he says.

“I’m always tired.”

There’s no pity in his face—just understanding. That quiet, hard-edged kind that doesn’t ask for explanations. He exhales slow through his nose and tugs you toward the concrete steps.

“Come inside,” he says. “Five minutes. Just sit. That’s it.”

You hesitate, then follow.

The apartment isn’t much. Peeling paint, a stained couch, the hum of something broken in the walls. But it’s quiet. Warm. Dim. And for five minutes, you let yourself melt into it.

Smoke doesn’t say anything. But pulls out his phone and , sits next to you on the couch, and lets your head fall onto his shoulder. His hand finds your thigh—steady, grounding. Not asking for anything. Just there.

You close your eyes.

You don’t cry.

But if you did, he’d pretend not to notice. That’s his way of showing love as your pimp.

The next shift at the hospital is brutal.

You’re running on two hours of sleep and a bottle of flat vending machine Coke. Your scrubs smell like disinfectant and city sweat. A patient in 3B tried to swallow her own tongue. Another one smeared blood across the walls like a warning no one’s willing to read.

You smile through rounds. You pass pills with shaking hands. You nod when the supervisor talks about cutbacks like they aren’t bleeding you dry already.

By the time noon hits, your vision blurs when you blink too long. But you don’t stop.

Because you’re not allowed to stop.

And because somewhere between exhaustion and numbness…

Smoke’s voice is still in your head.

“Just sit. That’s it.”

You wish that was enough.

But it never is.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as you grab your clipboard from the nurses’ station. It’s just past shift change, and the ward hums with tired conversations and footsteps echoing through the sterile halls.

“You ready for the new guy again “? Mary asks, sliding her coffee cup onto the counter with a sigh.

You nod, pulling on your gloves. “He’s been here less than 48 hours, right? What’s his story?”

“Supposedly some kind of breakdown. No real history yet. Quiet, but watchful.” She leans in, lowering her voice. “Word is, he’s got a temper. Not like the usual flare-ups—more… cold.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Cold how?”

“Like he’s always measuring you, weighing if you’re worth his time.”

Mary shrugs and sips her coffee. “He’s got to take his meds in the next half hour. I’ll come with you, just in case.”

You head down the hall toward 4C, the sound of distant TVs and muffled voices growing louder. The door to the room is cracked open, and you peek inside.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond the room. His hands are clenched loosely in his lap, fingers twitching.

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping inside. “I’m here to help you with your meds.”

He doesn’t respond, but his eyes flick to you, sharp and assessing.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you add, keeping your tone light. “We’ve all been new here once.”

His jaw tightens. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nods.

You pull the medication tray closer, and Mary slips in behind you with a reassuring smile.

As you hand him the pills, you can’t shake the feeling that this one’s story is just beginning — and that the quiet ones are always the most dangerous.

Mary’s radio crackles.

“All available nurses, ER wing. We’ve got a code red incoming—multiple.”

She meets your eyes with a silent question. You nod once.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, already moving. “You got this?”

“I’m fine.”

And then she’s gone, her footsteps echoing down the corridor, swallowed by the chaos erupting beyond.

The door to 4C clicks softly shut behind you. You’re alone with him now.

The patient still sits on the edge of the bed, watching you—not like you’re staff, not like you’re an authority. No. Like you’re a puzzle. A mirror. Something that might show him who he is if he stares long enough.

The silence stretches, thick and warm. The kind that settles on your skin like something alive.

“Rough night?” he says finally, voice low and calm.

You glance at him, surprised. Most patients this early in intake don’t bother with small talk.

“You could say that,” you reply, keeping your tone neutral. “It usually is.”

He tilts his head. “You don’t seem like someone who minds the rough stuff.”

Your spine stiffens just slightly. Professional wall back up.

“I’m here to help you take your meds,” you say. “That’s all.”

He smiles—not wide, not cruel. Just enough to show he’s been studying people longer than he should’ve.

“You’ve got that tired look,” he murmurs. “The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep.”

You don’t answer. He doesn’t need confirmation.

“Let me guess,” he continues. “You work doubles. You take extra shifts. You pretend it’s for the paycheck, but it’s not really. It’s because the silence outside these walls is worse than the noise inside them.”

You cross your arms. “Do you always try to dissect people who bring you medicine?”

He chuckles. “Only the ones who walk in looking like they’ve been chewed up by the world and still came back for more.”

His gaze lingers too long, too deep. Not sexual. Not exactly. But intimate in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” he says, softer now. “I just… I see things. In people. And I think I see it in you too. That thing you keep buried.”

You step back, reaching for the door. “Take your pills. I’ll check back later.”

His voice stops you. “You don’t have to keep pretending you’re alone.”

You glance over your shoulder. And for a second—just a second—you wonder how he knows exactly what to say to crack the ice from the inside.

But you shut the door behind you, harder than necessary.

And still, you feel his eyes on you long after you’ve left the room.

——————

Smoke’s at the front desk, one foot propped against the filing cabinet, typing slowly into the patient database. His fingers tap with deliberate boredom, the monitor casting a cold blue light across his sharp features. He doesn’t look up when you walk in.

“You look like hell,” he mutters.

“Feels worse,” you reply, dropping into the squeaky chair next to him.

A beat of silence. You glance at the screen—new intake paperwork, standard protocol—but you can tell he’s already tuned into you. Smoke always listens before you start speaking.

“That guy in 5C. New one.”

You pause. “He said some things. Personal things.”

Now he looks at you, one brow arching.

“Patients say weird shit. Comes with the job.”

“Yeah, but this wasn’t just weird,” you say, lowering your voice. “He… knew things. About me. About how I feel when I’m not here. The kind of stuff I don’t even tell you.”

Smoke leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. For a second, something flickers behind his eyes. Not concern. Calculation.

“Name?” he asks.

You glance down at his screen. “Already in there.”

He swivels the monitor toward you. You scan the info. Standard red tape. Nothing that screams danger. Nothing that explains what he said.

“See?” Smoke shrugs. “Sometimes they guess right. Sometimes it’s coincidence.”

“Or sometimes,” a new voice cuts in, “they’re just looking for someone to latch onto.”

You both turn. Mary stands in the doorway, balancing a tray of med cups, chewing gum like she hasn’t slept in days. She walks past you, doesn’t stop.

“Don’t give it too much air, hon,” she says. “These guys? They sniff out cracks in your head and pour gasoline into ’em. Nothing personal.”

Then she’s gone, hips swaying, the scent of her perfume trailing behind like static.

Smoke watches her go, then looks back at you.

“You gonna let it go?” he asks.

You don’t answer. Because you know what he wants you to say.

But when your next shift starts, the first room on your rotation is 4C.

And behind that door, you can already feel the tension waiting—like something holding its breath.

——————

Your called again soon to the inevitable , Room 5C. Again.

The lights flicker as you push the door open.

Remmick sits cross-legged on the bed, hair a tangle of copper flame, wrists tucked neatly against his knees. He looks up like he’s been waiting all day just for you.

“You’re late,” he says, with a faint smile. Irish lilt curling under every word.

You check the clock. You’re on time.

He tilts his head. “But time doesn’t mean much in here, does it?”

You don’t answer. Just hand him the cup with his meds. He takes it slow, fingers brushing yours too long.

“Don’t let them break you,” he says, suddenly quiet.

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs. “You’re already cracked. I can hear it in your breath.”

Before you can respond, he swallows the pills dry, lies back, and closes his eyes like nothing ever happened.

——————

By the time your shift ends, you can’t feel your legs. Your chest hums with static. The walls whisper when you lean too close.

You press your forehead to the break room mirror, eyes bloodshot, teeth clenched.

Maybe Remmick’s right. Maybe you are cracked.

You haven’t slept in two days.

Smoke hasn’t looked you in the eye since yesterday.

Mary laughs too loud now, like she’s trying to drown something out.

You dig your fingers into your scalp until it hurts. Just to feel something.

And still, when you walk out of the hospital, your shadow feels just a little too long behind you.

——————

The shower does nothing.

You stand under the boiling water until your skin is blotchy and raw, but the hospital still clings to you—the stink of bleach, the sound of restraints snapping shut, the distant screams echoing long after they stop.

You dry off with shaking hands. Your phone buzzes.

Smoke: You got the heels or am I grabbing them?

You sigh, thumb out a reply.

You: Already in the bag. Be down in 10.

⸻

The car ride is silent at first. Just the low throb of a bass-heavy beat from Smoke’s shitty speakers and the occasional sound of him lighting a cigarette. He glances over when you rub your eyes too long at a red light.

“Long day , My Heart ?”

You scoff. “Define long.”

He nods like he already knew. Like he’s always known. “Remmick again?”

You don’t answer.

⸻

The apartment is dim, reeking faintly of weed and old perfume. Smoke empties his jacket onto the table—condoms, gum, a burner phone, and a wad of cash.

He starts counting.

You slump onto the couch, heels kicked off, your thighs still sticky from someone else’s sweat.

“Two clients,” he mutters. “Rich assholes. Good tippers. Nine hundred, all in.”

You swallow thickly. “Smoke…”

He stops counting. Looks at you. Waits.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

The words fall out of you before you can catch them. “The hospital’s killing me. This—this is killing me. It’s all starting to feel the same. The screaming. The staring. The pretending.”

Smoke sits on the edge of the coffee table, bills still in his hands. He leans in close, voice low and steady.

“This city doesn’t care what kills you. It only cares what you’re willing to do to stay above it.”

You don’t look at him. You can’t.

“You think you can make rent on nurse pay? You think the kind of life you want just happens if you work hard enough?” He laughs, bitter and short. “You’re smarter than that.”

You stare at the cash. Neatly stacked. Tangible. Real.

“This is the only way,” he says, quieter now. “It’s ugly. But it’s ours.”

You want to fight him. You want to scream. You want to throw the cash in his face.

But you don’t.

Instead, you just nod—once.

And when Smoke touches your chin, when he kisses you like it means something, you let him.

Because at least here, in this rotting apartment with its flickering light and greasy floors—you know the rules.

And you’re too tired to try and change the game.

Somewhere between clock-ins and code blues, I stop feeling real.

I forget if I brushed my teeth. I wear my ID badge like a noose. The fluorescent lights hum a little louder every day, like they’re telling secrets in a language I’m too tired to learn.

Mary catches me staring too long at the wall.

“You need sleep,” she says.

I nod, but I don’t go home.

⸻

The new patient, Remmick, watches me like I’m a burning church.

Sometimes I find him already sitting at the door before I open it. He never knocks. Never calls for help. He just waits.

Like he knows I’ll come.

“You look different,” he murmurs one night, eyes gleaming like split emeralds. “Something inside you’s started shifting.”

“I’m tired,” I say, like that’s all it is.

But I’m lying.

Because it started three nights ago.

The first time he moved something without touching it.

It was subtle—barely a whisper of movement. A med cart inching sideways when I looked away. A pen rolling uphill. My lanyard lifting off my chest like a breeze passed through me, though the air stood still.

I told myself it was stress. Hallucination.

A trick of light.

But I felt it in my bones.

The old kind of fear. The kind children know before they have words for it.

⸻

Then came the night I opened his door and he was standing in the middle of the room—arms spread, eyes shut—and everything around him was floating.

Bedframe, lamp, pillow, pills—suspended in air like a saint mid-miracle or a man caught in a dream.

“Stop,” I whispered. “Stop it.”

He opened his eyes.

And everything dropped at once.

⸻

No one believes me.

They call it burnout. They call it trauma.

They say I need time off.

But Remmick only smiles when I pass his room, and sometimes, I hear his voice in my head without him ever speaking.

“You’re not insane,” it says.

“You’re awakening.”

⸻

Now the clocks tick backward in his room.

The glass doesn’t reflect my face.

My hands tremble when I try to pray.

And still—I show up.

Because somewhere between the blood and the whispers, I feel myself being drawn to him like tide to moon.

And I don’t know if I’m falling into madness…

Or being called home.

The whispering starts in the breakroom.

Not mouths. Not words.

Just this pressure behind my ears, like I’m underwater in a place where sound remembers how to bleed.

Mary offers me coffee. I flinch like she’s holding a knife.

She raises her brows. “You good?”

I lie. Again.

But her face is different lately—warmer than usual. Too warm. Too practiced. Like it’s a mask sewn to her skin.

They’re watching you.

The thought slips into my head so smoothly I forget it isn’t mine.

⸻

Later, Remmick presses his palm to the glass in his door.

“You think you’re cracking,” he says. “But maybe this is you unfolding.”

“You’re manipulating me.”

“I’m reminding you,” he purrs. “Of who you are beneath the flesh. You think this pain, this night work, this rotting hospital… you think that’s all you are?”

I try to turn, but my legs betray me.

I stay. Listening.

Breathing him in like smoke off a fire I should’ve put out.

———-

The break room is dim, the hum of the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

You and Mary lean against the worn counter, sharing a moment stolen between grueling shifts.

“He’s a strange one, that Remmick,” Mary says, voice low, eyes flickering with curiosity and caution.

You nod, stirring your lukewarm coffee. “Yeah. I heard he was dropped off by the police last week. Just… left there, like a package.”

Mary snorts. “Right? No family, no friends, nothing. Just this wild Irish redhead with a past darker than the ward’s basement.”

You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting him to be lurking nearby.

“Do you think he’s dangerous?” you ask, biting your lip.

Mary shrugs, but there’s an edge to it.

“Dangerous? Maybe. But he’s more than that. Heard he was involved in some serious mess back home—something about a cult, disappearances, maybe even murder.”

Your skin prickles.

“Jesus. No wonder the cops didn’t want him.”

Mary leans closer, whispering, “They say he’s not just crazy. There’s something… else. Something nobody can explain.”

You swallow hard.

“Like what?”

Mary’s eyes glint with mischief—or warning.

“Like he’s not really human.”

The words hang between you, heavy as the night.

You both laugh, a little too forced, a little too loud.

But deep down, you know something’s off.

And Remmick’s arrival is only the beginning.

Smoke notices , the weird strange behaviours you start to display .

He leans in the apartment doorway one night as I undressed. My scrubs hit the floor like a discarded skin.

“You’ve been different,” he says, tone flat.

I look over. “Different how?”

He shrugs. Lights a cigarette. Doesn’t inhale. “You don’t flinch when I touch you anymore.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

His eyes narrow. “Depends on what made it stop.”

He tosses a stack of twenties onto the counter. “That new patient messing with you?”

I don’t answer.

He steps in front of me, lifts my chin with two fingers.

“I don’t care if he’s crazy or cursed or part of your damn imagination.” His voice is low, heavy with something like fear. “If he’s changing you, I want him gone.”

⸻

But it’s already too late.

Remmick visits me in dreams now.

He speaks in riddles. In memories I never lived.

He shows me blood-soaked hands I swear are mine.

He whispers, “They don’t see what you are because they only see what you give them.”

⸻

The next morning, I forget Mary’s name.

The pills rattle louder.

The clocks in Remmick’s room stop.

And Smoke watches me like I’m slipping through his fingers.

Because I am.

—————

It starts with Bow Chow’s coffee.

Lukewarm, cheap, always half full and sticky with sugar on the rim. He’s talking too much again, not paying attention—his laugh big and grating as he sets the cup down right on top of the central controller unit.

The one marked:

DO NOT PLACE OBJECTS ON SURFACE.

“Dude, move that—” you start, too late.

The coffee tips. A slow-motion arc of caramel brown, seeping down into circuits with a faint, almost delicate sizzle.

The system whines.

Lights flicker.

Then the alarms begin to scream.

The coffee tips. A slow-motion arc of caramel brown, seeping down into circuits with a faint, almost delicate sizzle.

The system whines.

Lights flicker.

Then the alarms begin to scream.

⸻

Patient Room 5C: OPEN.

Patient Room 7D: OPEN.

PATIENT ROOM 3A: CODE RED.

Doors that should stay locked slam open. Screams echo up the hallway like a choir from Hell.

Bow Chow drops the cup. “Shit—oh, shit, oh—”

You’re already running.

Mary’s voice bursts through the intercom, frantic:

“Security to East Wing. NOW.”

You pass Remmick’s room—and he’s standing in the middle of the hall, calm, serene, untouched by the storm.

He meets your eyes.

“I told you it would come.”

⸻

Nurses are tackled. Blood hits tile.

A patient rips a defibrillator off the wall.

Another crawls across the ceiling like a spider, eyes wide with too many pupils.

You try to help—try to ground yourself in the chaos—but the lines blur. Screams layer over beeping monitors. Time doesn’t move forward. It circles.

Someone is crying your name.

You don’t know if it’s real.

⸻

Later—hours, maybe—you’re back in the locker room, covered in bruises and dried adrenaline. You’re shaking.

Smoke calls you on your break. You answer on the third ring.

“Turn on the TV,” he says.

You don’t.

He exhales on the line. “Come home.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re not safe there anymore.”

He’s right. But safety isn’t the issue anymore.

Smoke had already handed in his two weeks the moment they offered him something bigger—another hospital, another city. A cleaner title to cover the same dirty hands. When he said come home, he didn’t mean to the apartment. He meant to the life. His life. Full-time. No more pretending this was temporary. No more pretending you could leave it behind. The streets.

You meet Remmick again after the floor is cleared and the survivors are sedated. He stands beside a shattered mirror, no reflection.

“You think this was an accident?” he asks, gently.

“No.”

His hand touches your cheek. Cold. Familiar.

“You weren’t made for small lives, little nurse.”

⸻

That night, you pack a bag.

Your keys feel foreign in your hand.

You don’t even lock the door.

You just walk—out of the hospital, out of the life that’s rotting from the inside—and disappear into the city’s dark mouth.

Smoke meets you at the edge of the street.

He doesn’t ask questions.

He just lights a cigarette and starts walking beside you, to his car.

And you realize, This isn’t just a breaking point. It’s a second beginning.

Something old and buried, something not entirely yours, begins to stir beneath your skin. It stretches slow, like a limb shaking off sleep, coiled and ancient in its hunger.

One minute, it’s charts and vitals and the soft hiss of sedatives.

The next—screaming.

Not human. Not really.

It slices through the ward like a blade through wet paper. A sound so sharp it vibrates in your spine, lodges behind your eyes. Reflex kicks in before thought—your body flinching from something it hasn’t evolved to survive.

This isn’t madness.

This isn’t a mistake in dosage or a lapse in protocol.

This is wrong—

In the way rotting meat smells wrong,

In the way mirrors sometimes don’t feel empty,

In the way something looks at you from inside a man’s eyes,

and doesn’t blink.

All that fell was silence as he opened the car door for you—

Not a word, not a glance, just the hollow creak of the hinge cutting through the dark like a warning.

The kind of silence that isn’t empty.

The kind that waits.

⸻

[moonlitrapture]

Blues beats the clues

Warning : ⚠️ Domestic Abuse , Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Blood, Gore, Manipulation, Supernatural Horror, Smut , Unreliable Narrators, Stalking, Power Dynamics.

A/N:This one shot is a work of dark fiction and does not glamorize or romanticize domestic violence, manipulation, or abuse of any kind. While themes like gaslighting, dubious consent, and trauma are explored, they are done so through a dark fantasy lens meant to evoke emotion—not endorsement. ( wrote this one a few days ago and forgot to post hope you guys enjoyed it.🤭).

None of the harmful behavior depicted is condoned by the author.

If you’re sensitive to these topics, please read with care. Your safety and comfort come first. 🖤

Paring : Mary x Stack x Black ! Reader , Throuple, 1980’s au, ( this takes place a decade before the final credits of the film ifykyk.)

Summary: By day, you’re the invisible wife of an angry man—an alcoholic line cook with nothing left to lose and fists that speak louder than words. Your life is a patchwork of burnt dinners, bruised ribs, and the quiet hum of Top 40 radio as you scrub the kitchen floor. But when the sun dips low and the neon signs flicker to life, you slip out your window, trade your apron for fishnets and eyeliner, and disappear into the pulsing shadows of Club Euphoria—the town’s best-kept secret, where the music never stops and the night never ends.

That’s where you meet Mary and Stack.

Mary, the club’s haunting torch singer, and Stack, the brooding bouncer with eyes that follow your every move. They seem drawn to you—obsessed, even.

But they’re not just watching.

They’re waiting.Stay in your cage, or remake your destiny? 

The kitchen light flickers like a dying star, casting long, wavering shadows against the cracked wallpaper peeling in silent protest. The air is thick and heavy, swollen with unsaid things—bitterness, rage, and a grief so old it has hollowed you out from the inside.

He stands across from you, a silhouette carved from years of fury and disappointment. His voice cuts through the silence like shattered glass, sharp and unforgiving.

“Where the hell have you been?” The words are less a question, more a verdict, weighted with accusation.

You do not meet his eyes. Instead, you feel the cold press of the chipped mug in your trembling hands, the porcelain slick beneath your skin. Your voice is barely more than a whisper, a fragile thread pulled tight.

“Working late.”

He laughs—a sound void of humor, raw with contempt. “Don’t think I’m blind. The lights were on. You were sneaking like a thief in the night.”

His gaze is a blade, slicing through the thin veil of your carefully constructed calm. “You owe me more than this,” he spits, stepping closer until his shadow swallows you whole. “I hold this house together.”

Your heart hammers, a frantic, desperate rhythm against ribs that ache too much to breathe. “I’m tired,” you say, voice cracking like dry earth. “Tired of pretending.”

“Pretending?” His fist slams against the counter, the force rattling chipped plates and fragile peace. “You think you can just walk away? You think you’re better than me?”

Before the shock can settle, The blow came fast. A slap, then a shove. Your hip slammed the edge of the counter. You dropped like a doll with the strings cut, and the breath left your body in one jagged wheeze. He stood over you for a moment, his shadow stretched across the floor like some ancient god.

You curl into yourself, a wounded thing beneath the unforgiving light, tasting copper and salt on your lips. Tears prick your eyes, but they fall only as threats—silent defiance against a darkness that tries to swallow you whole.

“This is your fault,” he snarls, voice low and venomous, “You brought this on yourself.”

You lie there, broken and burning, the night swallowing your whispered apologies.

Once, you dreamed in colors brighter than the flicker of this failing kitchen light. Born in a small town where the air was thick with the scent of pine and possibility, you carried a hunger for something beyond the dust and quiet. Your mother’s lullabies still echo faintly, gentle reminders of a world where love wasn’t measured in silence or bruises.

But life—cruel and patient—wove its web tight around your ankles.

You met him when you were young, naïve, and thirsty for love. His smile was a promise, a warm ember in the cold nights of your youth. But embers turn to ash when fed with neglect and anger. His charm cracked, revealing the storm beneath—the man who would cage you not with locks, but with fear.

Financial chains wrapped around you next. The bills, always in your name. The rent paid on a paycheck that was yours alone to earn. He scoffed at your work, sneered when you spoke of saving, controlled what little money you managed to scrape together. “Don’t spend it all,” he’d say, but every dollar was a thread holding you prisoner.

Every debt, every overdue notice was a silent scream in your chest.

And so you stayed—because where else could you go? Because the nights of pain were softened by brief moments of quiet, and the hope that somewhere beneath the bruises, a flicker of you remained .

You don’t have much family. That truth sits heavy inside you, cold and constant, like a stone in the gut.

Your mother died when you were ten—too young to understand how quickly a woman could vanish from a world that never made space for her. It was a crash on a rain-slicked road, a blur of blue lights and a mangled sedan. Your father followed not long after, grief hollowing him out until all that remained was silence and the smell of stale cigarettes. One day he just didn’t wake up.

After that, you were sent to your grandmother’s house—an old shotgun-style home on the poor side of town where lace curtains yellowed in the sun and the furniture never moved, as if even the rooms had resigned themselves to stillness.

She raised you on 5 a.m. chores and bitter coffee, and said things like:

“A woman’s gotta keep her man fed, or he’ll find someone who can.”

“Don’t talk back, you’ll push him away.”

“Sometimes men get angry, that don’t mean they don’t love you.”

Her voice, always low and clipped, still rings in your skull whenever you consider leaving. She loved you the best way she knew how—by teaching you how to stay silent.

When you got married at twenty, she called it “the best thing you ever did.”

She didn’t ask if you were happy.

She didn’t want to know.

You learned early that the world had no place for women who cried out. Especially not in 1986, when men still owned everything—the house, the car, the story. And if your husband drank too much or hit too hard, well… maybe you were the one who said something wrong. Maybe your lipstick was too bright. Maybe dinner was late.

That’s how it starts.

And tonight, it ended with his fist once more . The fight started small. They always do.

“I do everything,” you whispered into the linoleum. “You don’t pay a single goddamn bill.”

He didn’t answer. He just stumbled away, slurring something cruel as he collapsed into the couch, the familiar sound of a beer can cracking open the only reply.

You waited.

Waited for his breathing to slow, for the room to fall into that suffocating hush that meant he’d passed out. Then you pushed yourself up, slow and aching, one arm curled protectively around your ribs.

You moved like a ghost, silent and deliberate.

From beneath the loose floorboard in the hallway closet, you pulled your secret: the burner phone. Cheap, scratched, pre-paid. He didn’t know about it. He wouldn’t care even if he did—he never bothered with the bills, never asked where the money went. You worked three jobs. He watched TV. The weight of debt was yours alone.

A single message blinked on the screen:

LISA: You still comin’? I got us in free.

You didn’t reply.

You just moved.

————-

You met Lisa two blocks away, near the corner store where the streetlights flickered like warning signs. Her hair was pulled high, hoop earrings gleaming, a cigarette dangling from her painted lips. She looked like every woman who refused to be broken—and for a moment, you let yourself pretend you were one of them.

“Damn,” she murmured when she saw you. “That bad?”

You nodded, wordless. Lisa didn’t ask more. She never did. She was the kind of friend who didn’t need the details to believe you.

“Then let’s make tonight worth it.”

You climbed into her rusted Camaro, the leather cracked and sticky with heat. The windows rolled down, the night rushing in like a second wind. The city lights blurred past in streaks of pink and gold, and the music pulsed low through the speakers—some synth-heavy song that made your bones ache with nostalgia.

You didn’t feel beautiful.

But you felt alive.

And when you saw the red glow of Club Euphoria in the back of your mind rising through the city smoke like a mirage—sharp, loud, and decadent—you knew you weren’t going home tonight.

You were going somewhere else.

Somewhere far from him.

Somewhere you’d finally be seen.

Somewhere something was waiting.

Something ancient.

And hungry.

Lisa’s Camaro rattles as it tears down the avenue, windows down, summer air clawing through your hair, warm with exhaust and neon static. The city hums all around, alive with a feral kind of joy. Your bruises throb in rhythm with the road beneath you—thump, thump, thump—like your body is trying to remember it’s still here.

“Okay,” Lisa says, eyes darting between the road and you. “What’s the vibe? We need music. Like, soul-saving, end-of-the-world, strut-into-the-club-and-own-it music.”

You reach under the seat, fingers brushing past forgotten receipts and half-melted lipstick tubes. Then you find it—your old cassette case, plastic cracked at the spine, a mixtape you made back when the world still felt like it belonged to you.

The label is handwritten in smeared ink: “Night Drive Vol. I”

You click it into the deck with a satisfying snap. A moment of hiss and fuzz—and then the soft synth of Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” floods the car.

The bass kicks.

And so does your heart.

You close your eyes for a second. Just one. Letting the voice of Annie Lennox coat your ribs like velvet. Every note a prayer to keep going.

Lisa turns the volume up and rolls her window down further, howling into the night air like a wolf set loose. “Sweet dreams are made of this, baby!” she yells, grinning.

You laugh, really laugh, for the first time in weeks.

The city whips past like a memory trying to outrun itself.

Neon signs flicker like eyelids on the verge of dreams, and car horns cry out like restless spirits. The world you knew fades with every block passed, every pulse of bass seeping through Lisa’s rusted car speakers.

Your bruises still ache. Your ribs still burn. But as the glow of Club Euphoria rises ahead—red and gold and wicked—you feel something unfurl deep in your chest. It’s not joy, not yet. But it’s close.

You don’t dress like this at home.

God no—he’d never allow it.

He called heels “whore shoes” and said lipstick meant you were “asking for trouble.” The idea of you in anything tighter than a church dress was enough to trigger one of his mean moods. But he never looked in Lisa’s truck. Why would he? He didn’t pay attention to where you went, as long as dinner was on time and your voice stayed small.

Three days ago, you’d tucked the outfit away, folded it like something sacred, wrapped in an old band tee and a CVS bag. Hidden there like contraband, like a secret version of yourself waiting in the dark.

Now, in the Camaro’s passenger seat, you peel away your daytime skin.

Out comes the black minidress—ruched, off-the-shoulder, with a neckline that whispers sin and freedom. The velvet hugs your curves like a memory you haven’t dared to touch in years. Over it, a cropped leather jacket, more worn than warm, with a cracked patch on the sleeve that reads “Hell is boring.”

Fishnet tights kiss the bruises on your thighs, the mesh digging in just enough to remind you you’re still alive. Your boots—chunky, scuffed, defiant—thump against the pavement as you step out, tall where he made you small.

You slide on a pair of hoop earrings and pull your hair back into a half-up tease. Lipstick—a red so deep it looks like blood beneath candlelight.

Lisa whistles low. “Damn, mama. Look at you. Homicide in heels.”

You smirk, adjusting your jacket. “Think he’d approve?”

“If he saw you like this, he’d die.”

“Good.”

The laugh you share is sharp and small and carved out of old pain. The kind that doesn’t try to forget but chooses to survive.

And then—Club Euphoria.

A creature built of neon and heat. The marquee above the door flickers like it’s breathing, like it’s waiting for you. Music pours through the walls like blood through veins.

The line outside stretches down the block. Sequins, stilettos, spiked mohawks, lace gloves, boys in eyeliner and girls in leather. The ‘80s in full divine decay.

You and Lisa skip the line, walking with the confidence of sinners in satin. You catch people’s stares—and for once, they don’t feel like threats. They feel like confirmation. As you guys step behind the red velvet rope, that hugged the long line together.

And there he is.

Stillness incarnate.

Stack.

He stands by the entrance like he was carved from the night itself—stone-still, one boot propped against the wall, arms crossed, jaw lit by the hum of the red club lights. His eyes drag over you like fire over silk. Not lewd. Not surprised. Just coldness , with a hint of amusement . His gaze drops from your heels to your throat, slow and deliberate. “You sure that little costume’s not going to melt off the second you sweat?” he asks, the edge in his voice wrapped in velvet.

You raise an eyebrow. “Careful. Sounds like concern.”

“It’s not,” he says, deadpan. “Just hate watching a good performance fall apart halfway through.”

The words sting, more than you’d admit.

Lisa shoots him a look. “Jesus, Stack, maybe try not negging girls at the door for once?”

But you don’t flinch.

You smirk, lips red as ruin. “I’m not a performance.”

He leans in—too close. His breath is cool against your neck, and the bass of the club seems to stutter as his voice grazes your ear.

“No,” he murmurs. “You’re a scream waiting to happen.”

Something shifts in your spine. Your breath catches—sharp, furious, seen.

You disliked him. You wanted to dislike him whole at least , but for some reason deep down couldn’t.

Like he didn’t just peel something inside of you, like it didn’t matter , or that he cared if it did, in fact almost got a kick out of it.

“You sure you’re ready?” he says low, like a warning. “Past this door, you don’t come back the same.”

You open your mouth, but Lisa grabs your arm and pulls you toward the velvet rope.

Lisa rolls her eyes and mutters, “Fucking weirdo,” before tugging your arm. “Come on. Before I punch your personal vampire bouncer in the teeth.”

He doesn’t even blink. Just lifts the rope with a slow, deliberate motion, never breaking eye contact.

And just before you pass, he murmurs—

“Let’s see if you make it to midnight.” With a low toned chuckle as the gold between his teeth start to show even more than before .

Your heart bangs against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. You hold his gaze for half a second longer—refusing to break.

Then you step inside.

And the night swallows you whole.

Inside the club, the world is louder, hotter, hungrier.

The bass hits you in the chest like a second heartbeat. The lights don’t just flash—they move, red and gold and ultraviolet, dancing across smoke-thick air like living things. The ceiling disappears in darkness, but the floor—sticky with liquor, shadow, and secrets—holds you fast.

You take a shaky breath. It smells like sweat, perfume, blood orange, and old wood.

Lisa spins beside you, arms raised, shouting something into the noise you can’t hear—but you feel it. She’s alive here. Free here.

And for the first time in a long time, so are you.

The crowd parts like a stage curtain, revealing the soul of the place.

A raised platform at the far end of the room, bathed in soft red, like the inside of a mouth. That’s when you see her.

Long, black hair piled atop her head in a messy cascade, strands curling around her throat like silk vines. Her dress is pure ‘80s opulence—black sequins and sheer mesh, thigh slit high enough to cut heaven in half. Her mouth is the color of desire. Her eyes: two dark wounds that watch everything and give nothing.

She is the main act and the final sin.

As if pulled by invisible thread, her gaze lifts—and locks on yours.

A second stretches longer than it should.

The noise dims.

Your breath stops.

Then she smiles—slow and precise, like she’s already unwrapped you in her mind.

Lisa nudges you. “That’s her,” she whispers. “Mary. She owns the place. Or haunts it. No one’s really sure.” She chuckles.

“Why’s she looking at me like that?”

Lisa smirks. “Because she knows something you don’t.”

Before you can answer, a server appears with a tray. One drink, dark and fizzing, served in a highball glass with a cherry bleeding down the side. You didn’t order it.

“It’s from her,” the server says, nodding to Mary.

You glance back to find her gone from the platform.

Your stomach flips.

You turn.

And she’s suddenly in front of you.

Up close, she’s even more unreal. Her skin catches the light like she’s lit from inside. And she’s taller than you imagined. Not just in height—in presence.

“You wear pain like pearls,” she says, her voice like silk soaked in smoke. “Did he pick them out for you?” She leans in whispering in your ear.

You can’t breathe. Can’t lie.

You look confused at the woman , as if she’s lost her ever lasting mind, you remain frozen for a moment , out of confusion and shock.

She reaches out and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. Her fingers linger on your cheek, dangerously gentle.

“Well, darling,” she says, “tonight, you wear fire.”

And before you can look to your friend for some kind of guidance out of the current situation , Lisa’s grabbed by a dancer in mesh and glitter, twirled away with a laugh and a wink.

You are alone.

With Mary.

And somewhere behind you, you know Stack is still watching.

And for the first time tonight—

you don’t care.

Time slips in places like this.

It doesn’t pass.

It melts.

Hours bleed together in streaks of laughter and sweat, of empty glasses and refilled promises. You and Lisa dance until your legs ache, until your lungs burn sweet. Neon soaks into your skin, softens the bruises he left behind, even if only for now.

Strangers swirl around you—beautiful, strange, sharp-edged like broken mirrors. You don’t know where one ends and another begins. Hands graze hips. Eyes linger too long. But there is no fear here, only the illusion of it, dressed in rhinestones and eyeliner.

You’re drunk on it.

Not just the drink.

The feeling.

Of being seen.

Of being someone else.

Of being alive in a body that used to feel like a cage.

Then—a vibration.

Lisa checks her pager. Frowns.

“Shit,” she says. “It’s my sister. She’s freaking out about the baby again. I gotta step out and call.”

Your smile falters. “Now?”

“Just a minute,” she promises, already vanishing into the crowd like smoke. “Don’t get kidnapped!”

You laugh. But it doesn’t quite reach your chest.

You wait.

And that’s when the music changes.

The DJ steps down.

The lights dim.

The crowd hums in anticipation.

And Mary reappears.

Not just dressed to kill—dressed like death itself might pause to watch her. Her gown has changed—now deep burgundy velvet, strapless, carved tight against her waist like a funeral kiss. The lighting makes her glow, impossibly alive and yet not of here.

She takes the stage like she owns the concept of stages.

Then—she sings.

It’s not a voice.

It’s a spell.

Low, sultry, slow. A classic—“I Want to Be Evil”—but not like you’ve heard it before. Her voice curves through the lyrics like smoke around a knife. The room stills. A few dancers fall silent mid-step. A man drops his drink.

And you?

You forget how to breathe.

Her eyes stay on you the entire time.

As if this song, this moment, this haunting—was for you alone.

But the spell starts to break.

First, the regulars notice the time. People begin filing out in twos and threes. The mood shifts—like something’s coming that shouldn’t be witnessed. Like the glamor’s fading.

Mary’s last note hangs in the air like incense.

She steps down.

And just like that—she’s gone again.

You turn to look for Lisa. Still missing.

That’s when you feel the presence at your side. Heavy. Familiar.

Stack.

“Didn’t think you’d last the night,” he says quietly.

You don’t turn. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

“I didn’t.”

You look up at him.

His posture is different now. Less stone. More man. Arms loose at his sides, a slouch that reads wounded more than tough.

“Look,” he says, eyes tracking the floor, “I was… out of line earlier. Being an asshole ,outta fun, Doesn’t excuse it.though “.

The apology is stiff—but real. Raw.

You nod. “I’ve heard worse. But thanks.”

You both pause, surrounded by the quiet collapse of the night. The remnants of the party hum softly behind you like a heart slowing down.

Stack glances sideways at your middle finger, as he observes you, “You married?”

You tense. “Used to be. Still technically am. He doesn’t let me forget.”

Stack studies your facial features change drastically for a minute, “ you don’t seem so happy, has he ever? Hit you or sum “. He chuckled trying to lighten the mood.

Your jaw clenches. “Yes.”

He nods slowly, as he slowly began to unveil the seriousness of the conversation as his gaze became more soft, you fiddled with your wedding ring.

He nods slowly. “Same as my old man.”

You glance at him. His eyes are far off now, cast into some memory that tightens his jaw.

“He’d knock us around just for breathing wrong. My mom—she’d disappear in her own house. Me and my brother, we tried to protect her. We were kids. We couldn’t.”

A pause.

“ I use to have a brother … that didn’t make it “.

Your breath hitches. “I’m sorry.”

Stack doesn’t look at you, but his voice lowers. “I don’t talk about him. Not with anyone.”

“Why me?”

His smile is soft and bitter. “Because I see the same ghost in your face.”

The silence stretches like a wound between you—shared. Clean. Undeniable.

And somehow, for the first time in years, it doesn’t hurt as much.

You open your mouth to respond—

And the lights in the club flicker.

The music skips.

You feel it—like something brushing the back of your neck.

The air turns colder, sharp and unnatural. A gnawing unease coils in your gut, rising like a warning you can’t ignore. The night isn’t over—not even close.

You try to drown it out, losing yourself in the music, swaying your hips and elbows in a slow, desperate rhythm. But even as the beat thumps, something feels off. Stack drifted away a while ago, shaken, his steps uncertain after the emotional hit—and you’re left standing in the shadow of something you can’t quite name.

———

Laughter trails off into the night. Glitter sticks to the floor like stars that lost their shine. Bodies exit in slow waves—some swaying, some stumbling, all marked by Mary’s voice like a dream they’ll never quite remember right.

She steps offstage, radiant and composed, her glass heels whispering across the floor. The crowd that remains parts for her—offering compliments in hushed reverence. Someone hands her a rose. Someone else calls her a goddess.

She takes it all in with a half-smile, like none of it matters and yet she expected it all.

Lisa appears in the doorway a few minutes later, breathless and amused.

“There you are,” she says. “Was wondering if I should leave or wait for the wedding invite.”

Mary laughs softly. “Oh, she’s not ready for vows. Not yet.”

“I—shit, I didn’t mean to dip like that. My sister called freaking out. Baby’s fine. She’s just… you know. Chaos. I should’ve told you. I didn’t mean to leave you stranded.”

Relief washes over you. “It’s okay. Really.”

Lisa glances between the two of you. “Right. Well, I’m off. You sure you’re good?”

Lisa was okay leaving the video with Mary, since she was kind of a local and they knew each other as acquaintances. There was a certain level of trust there, even if they weren’t exactly close.”

You nod. “I’m fine.”

“She’s better than fine,” Mary says. “She’s becoming.”

Lisa laughs. “Okay, creepy. But I like it. You two be safe. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“You wouldn’t do a tax return,” you quip, and she throws you a wink as she vanishes through the entrance way.

You and Marie start so small talk before she mingles back into the crowd of fans , and you’re left back to yourself. Stack lingers for a moment, eyes still tracking her silhouette as it fades into the thinning crowd. The music is winding down, the pulse of the night slowing like a heartbeat losing momentum. People drift toward the exits in clumps, laughter turning quiet, bodies no longer pressing together but pulling apart.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.

Then he moves.

You feel him before you see him—his presence cutting through the haze, steady and warm in a night that’s turning cold. He joins you without ceremony, standing close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

“She’s leaving,” he murmurs, like it matters more than it should.

You glance at him a little confused, but he doesn’t look away from the door she slipped through.

“So what now?” you ask, quieter than you meant to.

Stack exhales, something heavy in the sound. “Now,” he says, finally turning to face you, “we see if the night’s really over… or if it’s just changing shape.”

You don’t answer right away. The club is nearly empty now, the last echoes of bass fading into a dull hum. Neon lights flicker overhead, casting everything in washed-out reds and blues. A few stragglers laugh drunkenly on their way out, their joy feeling like it belongs to another world.

Stack shifts beside you, his posture relaxed but his jaw tense. You get the sense he’s weighing something—an impulse he hasn’t quite decided to follow.

Then he moves.

“Come on,” he says, low and certain.

“Where?”

He offers a glance that feels like both a challenge and a promise. “Wherever Mary went. Or somewhere better.”

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then your feet move, following his lead, chasing that strange pull neither of you are willing to name.

But now most of the bar was now empty, and the party was damn near over as the crew on stage started packing to leave, and soon it was just down to a handful of people.

 Then he turns to you.

“She doesn’t invite people back,” he says. “Not usually.”

Your pulse skips. “But she’s going to?”

His mouth quirks. “If she doesn’t, I will.”

You glance sideways at him. “Oh? You run the show now?”

He shrugs. “Only the door. And the parts nobody wants.”

————-

Mary’s eyes suddenly flick over to you through the last of the people leaving . She inclines her head. The invitation is silent, but unmistakable.

Stack nudges his head toward a side corridor lit by a single hanging red bulb. “Come on.”

You follow.

The hallway backstage is quieter, but not safer. You can feel it. The walls hum with old sound, old lives, old secrets soaked into the brick.

Mary’s dressing room is tucked behind a velvet curtain.

Inside, it’s a den of velvet and smoke and mirror glass, a chaos of luxury—half-spilled perfume bottles, an old chaise lounge piled with fur coats, vintage posters curling at the corners. There’s music playing from a turntable—low jazz, something sultry and slow.

Mary lounges on the couch like it was made for her.

Stack pours drinks from a side table stocked with cut-crystal decanters—blood-wine, dark rum, something glowing faintly gold.

“Sit,” Mary says, gesturing to you with fingers like sharpened silk. “Don’t be afraid.”

You sit. Slowly.

Stack hands you a glass.

The silence feels different now.

Heavier.

Stack moves to lean against the wall, sipping his drink with eyes half-lidded. “You ever sing?” he asks, casually.

You blink. “What?”

“Mary says she can tell when someone’s got a voice. A real one. The kind that comes from surviving.”

Mary tilts her head, considering you like a painting in a museum no one’s ever seen quite right.

“You wear your past like eyeliner,” she says softly. “And I like the smudge.”

You shift in your seat, suddenly aware of your breath, of your blood.

Stack chuckles darkly. “She’s starting again.”

Confused you fear your eyebrows between the two as the awkwardness becomes too much for you to bear as you pour your cup full of liquid courage, to fill the confusion and awkwardness with blissful ignorance.

Mary narrows her eyes at him, smiling. “Don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not,” he says, but his voice drops—low and amused. “Yet.”

You take another sip. The drink is sweet. Strong. Strange.

Time moves strangely here. Again.

Mary rises, barefoot now, and moves to the record player. She flips the vinyl with one hand, hips swaying like a rhythm only she can hear.

“You ever think,” she says, half to herself, “that some of us are just waiting to become monsters?” Her thick southern accent becoming more prominent.

Stack doesn’t answer.

Neither do you.

The air in the room thickens like something waiting.

You clear your throat, softer than you mean to. “So… how do you two know each other?”

Mary’s eyes flick to Stack. A ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“He used to run with someone I knew,” she says.

Stack gives a short, dry nod. “We’ve crossed paths. A few times.” He shrugs

You feel like you’ve only been handed the edge of the story—but something in the way they look at each other says the rest is still very much alive between them.

And maybe dangerous.

⸻

Mary turns, and her face shifts—not exactly a smile, but something warmer than before. The edges of her expression soften, like she’s letting her guard down just a crack.

“She loves you, you know,” she says, tone lighter now. “Lisa. In her own chaotic, bossy way.”

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “She’s all I have.”

Stack’s voice cuts in, low but not unkind. “Not anymore.”

Mary moves to you, kneeling beside the couch with an ease that feels rehearsed. She doesn’t touch you, but her hand hovers near the hollow of your throat—close enough to feel the space between.

“She used to talk about you like you were some kind of myth,” Mary goes on, her smile turning mischievous. “All fire and loyalty and biting sarcasm. I figured you had to be made up.”

You glance down, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “Sounds like her.”

“She always loved talking about you during our school days” Mary says. “Fat lot of good that did.”

There’s a pause, light but loaded.

Then she grins. “Still. I like you better in person.”

⸻

A little tipsy , Mary glides to you, slow and deliberate, like she’s moving through water. She kneels beside the couch, so close now you can feel the faint stir of her breath. Her fingers reach out—not quite touching—but hovering just above your skin, right at the hollow below your collarbone.

“There’s something under your skin,” she murmurs, her voice low and intimate, like a secret slipping into the dark.

You hold still, your breath catching as her fingers ghost along the edge of sensation. Your body tenses—part anticipation, part confusion, part something else you don’t want to name.

“What is it?” you ask, barely managing the words.

Her gaze flicks up to meet yours, and there’s something burning behind her eyes. “Survival,” she says. “Something wild. Something that doesn’t ask permission.”

The air between you hums, thick and charged.

She doesn’t move away—not right away. For a moment, the space between your mouths feels like it’s shrinking. Her eyes linger on yours, then dip lower.

Then she smiles—slow, knowing—and stands, as if pulling the heat with her.

“There’s something I want to show you.”

Stack shifts, setting down his drink with a soft clink, watching from across the room. His jaw’s tight, eyes unreadable, like he knows exactly what just passed between you.

You blink, trying to gather your thoughts. “What… what is it?”

Mary glances back over her shoulder, the curl of her smile still playing at her lips. “Something that’ll make everything make sense.”

You glance at Stack, who doesn’t move—just stares at you with that same careful tension.

“Should I be worried?” you ask, voice a little rougher than before.

He lifts one brow. “Only if you’re not.”

Still, your body rises before your mind can catch up.

And already, something inside you is unraveling.

Something that wants more.

Of answers. Of her.

Of whatever this is.

You start to move your body , but Stack’s already watching. Already moving. He sets his drink down slowly on the ground , as if bracing for what comes next.

The tension hangs heavy between the three of you—sexual, emotional, primal. And then he speaks.

“We’re… together,” Stack admits finally, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Been through hell and back. Twins lost. Fathers broken. That kind of pain makes strange bedfellows.”

Mary nods, a flicker of something darker in her eyes. “We fight like hell, but we protect each other harder. We bleed for each other.”

Their words don’t feel rehearsed. They feel lived-in. Raw.

Their honesty curls around you like smoke—thick, hypnotic.

Stack steps closer. His gaze meets yours, unwavering. “This isn’t just some show. We live this. And if you’re here now, it means you’re part of it too.”

Mary leans in, close enough that her breath dances across your cheek. Her voice drops to something hushed and dangerous. “Do you want to feel alive?” she whispers. “Really alive?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because your body already has.

Stack’s hand finds yours—rough, warm, steady. Mary’s follows, delicate, electric, sliding over your shoulder.

And then their lips are on you. Hers first—slow, coaxing, tasting. Then his—hot and unrelenting.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s ignition.

A collision of heat and shadow, of buried longing and sharp truth. A rhythm older than memory, deeper than reason.

In the hush of this backstage sanctuary, the world outside falls away.

You’re not just watching anymore.

You’re choosing.

And now, you’re part of the story—the part no one dares to write down.

Mary’s lips linger on yours, her kiss slow but sure—like she’s claiming something. Then Stack’s hand tightens around your waist, grounding, guiding, and suddenly he’s there—pressing closer, the warmth of his chest against your back.

You barely have time to react before his hands are on your hips, firm and possessive, steering you.

A gasp catches in your throat as he pushes you gently but unrelentingly down onto the couch.

The cushions catch you with a soft thud, the world tilting as your body gives in before your mind can catch up.

Above you, Mary watches—lips curved in a knowing smile, dark eyes gleaming with a mix of hunger and amusement. Like she’s seen this before. Like she’s waited for it.

She kneels beside you again, brushing your hair back with reverent fingers, her touch softer now, almost tender. “You’re not afraid,” she says, more observation than question.

Stack leans over you, one hand braced by your shoulder, his presence all heat and tension. “You feel it too, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice like smoke curling low in your ear. “Whatever this is.”

You nod—barely. But it’s enough.

Mary shifts closer, her hand resting lightly on your thigh. Her smile deepens, not cruel, not kind—just honest.

“You’re ours now,” she says.

And with that, the room folds in on itself—just the three of you, lost in a moment where the past doesn’t matter, and the future is rewritten in breath, touch, and fire.

Stack’s hands are already on you—rough palms sliding up your sides as he presses you gently but firmly back into the couch. The cushions sigh beneath you, but your breath catches in your chest, too focused on the heat unfurling under your skin to care.

Mary watches from just a step away, lips parted, her eyes dark and gleaming with amusement, curiosity, hunger. Then, with unhurried grace, she lowers herself beside you, her fingers tracing a line from your collarbone to your jaw. Featherlight, electric.

“You should see yourself right now,” she murmurs, leaning in close, her lips brushing your ear. “Absolutely burning.”

Stack leans over you, his body heat pouring onto yours, his mouth finding the edge of your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—each kiss hot, deliberate, claiming. His breath is rougher now, like he’s been holding it in too long.

You gasp as Mary’s hand finds your thigh, sliding upward with slow, teasing purpose. Her lips are at your temple, then lower, ghosting over your cheek. “Let go,” she whispers. “No one’s watching but us.”

And then she kisses you again—deeper this time, more demanding—and Stack’s lips follow, chasing hers, until you’re caught between them, their hands moving over you in tandem, fire on both sides.

The heat builds fast—crackling tension giving way to something wilder. Their bodies press in, mouths hungry, hands restless, all three of you caught in a gravity that feels ancient and irresistible.

You’re dizzy, not from fear, but from the rush—of sensation, of surrender, of finally letting go.

Stack growls low in his throat as he kisses you harder, his hands tangling in your hair. Mary laughs softly, a sultry sound that melts into another kiss as her fingers tug at your shirt, dragging it up just enough to feel your skin beneath hers.

“You feel that?” she breathes. “That’s real. We’re real.”

The couch creaks beneath the weight of the moment, bodies tangled, breath ragged. And still, it’s not enough.

Not yet.

Because the fire they’ve lit inside you is only just beginning to consume. And the next thing you saw , was a pile of clothes on the floor , it was fast.

The lights in the back room are low—just enough to throw golden shadows over Mary’s skin as she circles you like a lioness. Stack leans back on the couch legs spread, watching with that unreadable expression he wears when he’s feeling everything and showing nothing.

Mary’s hands kneels between your legs, her hands slow, steady, reverent. Her eyes stay locked on yours, never flinching. Not once. “You trust me?” she asks, voice low and thick, not seeking permission—confirming something already decided.

You nod, your breath shallow.

Stack watches from across the room, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. Not out of jealousy—control. This is something he’s done before. Something he knows how to handle. He wants you to see what it’s like to be touched, seen, undone in their hands.

Mary’s fingers slide along your inner thigh, deliberate, teasing, never quite where you want them. “Look at him,” she whispers, mouth ghosting over your jaw. “He’s watching you come apart already.”

You glance at Stack. His eyes are molten, locked on yours, unmoving. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Every breath from him matches yours, syncing into something that feels ritualistic, sacred, and a little wicked.

Mary leans in, her breath hot on your neck. “We do this together,” she says, her hand finally dipping between your thighs, her touch featherlight, almost cruel in how gentle it is. “We always do.”

Your body arches instinctively, and Stack shifts forward in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests tight. His jaw works as he breathes through his nose, steady but deep—like he’s barely holding back.

The pressure builds. Mary’s rhythm is slow, patient, devastating. Her free hand moves to your chest, fingers brushing over your heart. “You feel that?” she whispers. “That pulse? That heat? We’re going to take that… and burn it into forever.”

Mary doesn’t rush. She watches your face—every flicker of breath, every shift in your body—as her hand moves lower, her fingers pressing with unerring purpose.

You suck in a breath, sharp and unsteady.

Her touch isn’t hesitant. It’s deliberate. She explores like someone who already knows the shape of your desire, tracing slow, maddening circles that have your hips lifting toward her without thought. She leans in closer, breath warm against your neck, lips brushing your ear.

“Don’t hold back,” she whispers. “I want you to feel everything.”

Across from you, Stack’s eyes are locked on the connection between you and Mary. His hand has moved to his thigh, fingers flexing. There’s a tension in him now—not restraint, not jealousy—but hunger, tightly coiled, waiting for its turn.

Mary’s fingers slide deeper, and your head tilts back with a stifled moan. The room is full of heat now—thick, slow-burning, sacred in its own wicked way.

“You’re doing beautifully,” she murmurs, her voice low and rich. “He’s watching every second.”

You glance at Stack again, and something flares in his eyes—approval, need, something darker. He’s not moving, but you can feel him right there, pulling every breath from your lungs with just a look.

Mary kisses your neck, then lower, lips grazing your chest, her rhythm never faltering. You’re unraveling—bit by bit—and both of them are watching it happen.

You’re no longer sure where pleasure ends and transformation begins.

And somewhere deep inside, a part of you whispers:

This is how it starts.

This is how they pull you into their world.

Your hands clutch the fabric beneath you as Mary’s fingers move in perfect, devastating rhythm—tuned to your body like a song only she knows how to play. She doesn’t rush, doesn’t falter. Just smooth, unrelenting pressure that pulls soft gasps and bitten-off moans from your throat.

Every nerve is awake.

Every breath is molten.

She lifts her head to watch your face—her eyes glowing now, not just with lust, but something more primal. Something ancient. Her lips are parted, glistening from the trail of kisses she left across your skin.

“She’s close,” she says to Stack, but she never looks away from you. “So close she’s humming.”

Stack moves forward, the tension in his body finally giving way. He kneels behind you, his presence wrapping around you like heat, like gravity. His hands come to rest on your shoulders, grounding you as your body quakes beneath Mary’s touch.

His lips brush the back of your neck. “Let go,” he murmurs, voice like smoke. “We’ve got you.”

Your body is still trembling, a slow aftershock of pleasure rolling through your limbs. Mary withdraws her hand gently, trailing her fingers back along your thigh, her touch featherlight and lingering. She doesn’t break eye contact, her gaze warm and dark with satisfaction.

“You’re sensitive,” she murmurs, voice like velvet. “I like that.”

Stack shifts behind you on the couch, one hand tracing idle patterns along your arm, the other resting just above your hip. His presence is calm but charged, his breath still a little unsteady. You can feel the heat of him, the weight of his attention.

Mary leans in again, her lips brushing your cheek before they trail toward your jaw. She kisses slowly, purposefully, leaving little sparks in her wake.

————

Mary reaches behind her back, unhooking the bra with a flick of her wrist. It falls away, exposing her full, round breasts to your hungry gaze. Her brown nipples are hard, begging for attention. "Come here," she whispers, crooking a finger at you. "Let me show you how a real woman kisses."

As you move towards her, Stack's hands are at the fastening of his pants, undoing the button and zipper with a swift, impatient tug. He shoves them down his hips, stepping out of them to stand before you in a pair of tight black boxers that leave little to the imagination. His erection strains against the fabric, a thick, rigid outline that makes your mouth water.

Mary pulls you into a deep, passionate kiss, her tongue dancing with yours.

Mary's lips move against yours with a fervor that steals your breath, her hands gripping your shoulders as she deepens the kiss. The contrast of her light skin against yours is electrifying, the pale brown of her nipples a stark contrast to the rich chocolate of your own. She breaks the kiss, panting softly as she looks into your eyes. "I want you , no I need you," she whispers, her voice husky with desire.

She moves away from you, crawling over to where Stack is, his muscular brown body sprawled out invitingly. With a graceful motion, she straddles his face, her back to him, facing you. His hands grip her hips, pulling her down onto his mouth as he begins to feast on her pussy, his tongue delving deep into her slick folds.

Mary's eyes flutter closed, her head thrown back in ecstasy as Stack's mouth works its magic. She reaches out for you, her pale hand grasping yours, pulling you closer. "Come here," she urges, her voice trembling with need. "Sit on his cock, darling”

As you move closer, Stack's eyes lock onto yours, burning with an intensity that makes your knees weak. He releases Mary's hips, his hands reaching out to grasp your waist, guiding you to straddle him. His thick, pretty shaft stands proud and erect, the tip glistening with precum.

“Climb on,” he growls, his voice thick with heat, rough against your skin. “Nice and slow at first—I want to feel every inch of you sliding down. Then I want you to lose control. Ride me like you need it. Like you’ve been starving for it.”

Mary's hand squeezes yours encouragingly as she watches you with heavylidded eyes, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "Do it," she whispers, her voice thick with arousal. "Take him deep inside you. Let us pleasure you like you've never been pleasured before."

You position yourself just above Stack, the heat of his body like a furnace beneath you. His hands grip your hips with a mix of reverence and raw need, guiding you as you sink down onto him—slowly, achingly, until he’s buried deep inside you.

The stretch, the pressure, the fullness—it steals your breath.

His head falls back with a low groan, fingers tightening around your waist. “Fuck… just like that,” he growls, hips shifting to meet your slow, grinding rhythm.

Stack’s hands slide up your back, holding you steady for a moment before he leans forward, mouth at your ear. “Don’t stop,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I want to feel you—every move, every clench—while I taste her.”

Before you can answer, he shifts under you, guiding you forward just enough to free himself, then turns slightly, his hands dragging Mary closer. She lets out a laugh, low and sultry, as he lowers his mouth between her thighs, tongue tracing her slick heat like he’s starving for her.

Mary moans, her hands tangling in his hair, hips arching into his mouth. “God—yes,” she gasps, eyes locking with yours. “Keep riding him, sweetheart. Let him feel how good we both taste.”

You move again, slow and deep, every thrust echoing with shared heat, tangled breath, and the electric pull between the three of you—pleasure looping in waves, building with no end in sight.

And in the middle of it all, there’s no before, no after—

Just this.

Bodies, mouths, heat, hunger.

Just need.

hips rolling in deep, deliberate circles, and every inch of him presses into you, claiming you from the inside out. Your hands plant against his chest for balance, muscles tight, pleasure coiling hotter with each movement.

Beneath you, Stack groans against Mary’s thighs, tongue working in rhythmic, hungry strokes. She writhes under his mouth, one hand in his hair, the other snaking behind your back to grip your waist, guiding your rhythm harder, deeper.

The room is drenched in heat and breath and skin.

Mary’s lips find your jaw, then your mouth—hot, open, tasting you like she’s drinking you down. “Look at you,” she whispers between kisses. “So fucking gorgeous like this. You feel everything, don’t you?”

You nod, barely—your breath shallow, body trembling as the fire between your legs starts to burn out of control. Stack’s grip tightens again, his hips bucking upward just as his tongue draws a moan from Mary that sends shivers down your spine.

She’s close. So are you.

The rhythm becomes frantic—your bodies moving together like instinct, like hunger, like a storm breaking.

Mary’s head falls back with a cry, thighs clenching around Stack’s face as she comes undone, her pleasure spilling over like a dam breaking. Her moans trigger something in you—your body tenses, heat flooding your core as your climax builds, surges, breaks.

You cry out, nails digging into Stack’s chest as he groans, his own release following hard and deep inside you, body bucking with raw, unfiltered need.

And then everything slows.

Breath. Movement. Sound.

Stack leans back against the couch, breathless and flushed. Mary breathlessly gets off of him , laughing softly, like she’s high on every part of you both. Her hand finds yours, fingers lacing through, grounding the moment in something quiet and real.

For a moment, none of you speak.

No one needs to.

The only sound is the thrum of your hearts and the cooling hush of the dark room around you—three bodies tangled in sweat, breath, and something deeper.

Something binding.

Stack starts kisses down your neck with reverent slowness, dragging his teeth lightly, like he’s tasting where he wants to sink in. Mary’s lips press against yours, coaxing, owning, her hands curled around your face as though you might shatter if she let go.

You think you’re unraveling in pleasure.

You don’t realize you’re being prepared.

“Tell me you want this,” Mary whispers against your lips. “All of it.”

Stack’s voice is molten in your ear. “Even the pain. Especially the pain.”

You’re trembling, caught in their rhythm, your breath stolen—until suddenly…

Mary’s kiss deepens—and then sharpens.

A white-hot spike of pain bursts through your lips as her fangs slide into your mouth. The taste of blood blooms like a dark flower, coppery, electric, and wrong.

Your gasp chokes in your throat.

Then Stack strikes.

You scream—but it’s a muffled, helpless thing, swallowed by Mary’s iron grip.

Your body arches. Limbs twitch.

And still—they drink.

Mary’s hand is in your hair, holding you still like a doll, her mouth smeared crimson. She watches the life drain from your face with a feverish, terrifying affection.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” she breathes.

Stack growls low, blood slicking his lips and chin. “She’s almost there.”

Your vision blurs. The lights spin in slow spirals.

Your heart—once frantic—now thuds softer, weaker.

Your thoughts fragment, melt. Something ancient creeps into your mind, cold and endless.

Mary strokes your cheek with a bloodstained thumb.

“This is the part they never tell you about,” she whispers. “When dying starts to feel like being born.”

And then—

Darkness.

The first thing you feel is cold.

Not the cold of winter or a draft through an open door—no, this cold lives inside you. It coils beneath your skin like ice forming on bone.

And then—

Pain.

Like your blood is glass. Like your breath is shards.

Your lungs heave, but no air comes. Your heart punches wildly once… then halts.

You jolt upright with a scream caught in your throat, eyes wild, back arching off the velvet floor.

Everything is wrong.

The world is too sharp—colors bloom too bright, sounds too loud, the overhead light buzzes like a swarm in your ears. You can hear everything—Mary’s whisper-soft breath, Stack’s boot scuffing the wood, the distant flutter of a moth’s wings against glasses on the floor .

You crawl backward, limbs jerking, frantic , now fully clothed, along with Mary and Stack .

“What did you—what did you do to me!?”

Your voice comes out raw, cracked, feral.

Mary moves toward you slowly, her bloodstained hands open. “You’re okay, baby. Just—breathe.”

“I can’t breathe!” you choke. “I’m not—I’m not supposed to be—this isn’t real—”

Stack crouches in front of you, his hands steady. “It is real,” he says, calm as a storm about to break. “But you’re not dying anymore. You’re waking up.”

You stare at him, the weight of your own heartbeat—now silent—reverberating in your head like a scream.

“You killed me—”

“No,” Stack says, voice low, serious now. “We saved you.”

He leans in, eyes burning with something ancient and fierce. “You were already dying in that house. Every single day, slowly. We saw it.”

“What are you talking about?” your voice trembles, panic clawing your ribs.

Mary kneels behind you, gently smoothing your hair, her voice like velvet soaked in honey and sorrow.

“We’ve been watching you. For months. We saw the bruises. The way he screamed at you like you were nothing. The night he broke your favorite dish and blamed you. The way you cleaned blood off the kitchen tiles with shaking hands and lied to your neighbors about the ‘stairs.’”

Tears burn your eyes. You want to deny it. But you can’t.

Stack’s gaze holds yours. “He wouldn’t stop. You know that. You know it.”

A long silence swallows the room.

“You can start over,” Mary whispers into your ear. “Right now. With us.”

“With me,With us ” Stack adds. “We’ll leave this city, this life. You’ll never have to feel afraid again. No more bills in his name. No more hiding phones. No more waiting to be hit.”

Your voice cracks. “He’ll come looking for me…”

Stack’s face darkens with a cruel, sharp smile. “Let him. He won’t find you. And even if he tries—he won’t survive.”

Mary kisses your temple, her lips soft against your cooling skin. “Let go. Come with us. You’ve already crossed the threshold. You just have to say yes.”

You sit in silence, shaking, your hands still stained with the remnants of your own blood.

Then slowly, slowly…

You nod.

Not because you’re fearless.

But because you’re done being afraid.

——————

Months pass like smoke.

Somewhere coastal, the sea winds wrap around your new skin, and the stars greet you like sisters.

You learn to walk with sharpened heels and a tongue dipped in fire.

You sleep in silk, feed in shadow, and smile at the moon with teeth no longer afraid to bare themselves.

Mary teaches you to dance and enjoy life again—not in secret—but in joy, beneath chandeliers and candlelight.

Stack teaches you how to kill cleanly.

And how to love in the aftermath.

They give you more than freedom.

And for the first time, you wear it like armor, not a shackle.

But some ghosts don’t vanish quietly.

You still see him sometimes in your dreams—beer-soaked, red-faced, with rage for breath.

And then one night that all changed , as Stack watches you from a near by tree , eyes glowy , near your former home, he asks you a simple question.

“You ready?”

You are.

He lives in the same house. The curtains hang heavy, stained yellow from years of nicotine. The porch light flickers erratically, casting shadows that dance with every gust of wind. The thought had crept into your mind again and again, always pushed aside—until you finally opened up to Stack and Mary. They didn’t just listen; they convinced you to take the leap, to finally face what you’d been avoiding.

You wait in the dark, heels clicking against pavement slick with drizzle.

He opens the door half-drunk, stumbling forward, shirt stained.

Then freezes.

You are radiant—skin like glass-polished obsidian, lips painted black, your hair in thick waves that cascade past a leather trench. Eyes glowing faintly, like a storm brewing behind them.

His mouth moves. “Is that—?”

“You thought I died, didn’t you?” you say softly.

He stares, slack-jawed, as Mary steps out of the shadows behind you, in a blood-red velvet coat and heels sharp as blades. Her lips curl into something not quite a smile.

“Shame,” Stack says from beside the porch, flicking a lighter open and closed. “You could’ve just let her go.”

Your husband turns to run. But he barely gets two steps.

You move like wind. He hits the wall hard, your hand around his throat—cold, unyielding.

“I begged you to stop,” you whisper.

He thrashes. Mary tilts her head.

Stack doesn’t intervene.

You lean in close, your breath colder than winter. “Now you beg.”

His scream barely starts before you silence it—fangs bared, jaw locked.

The blood is sour. Full of rot. But it’s earned.

Mary watches, eyes gleaming with approval, as you tear away everything that once terrified you.

When it’s done, you rise—glistening, unshaken.

Stack drapes a jacket over your shoulders. Mary threads her arm through yours.

No words are needed. The house behind you smolders.

And as you walk into the night, no longer a wife, no longer a victim—only vengeance and freedom walking in stilettos—

You smile.

Not because it’s over.

But because it’s just beginning.

A/n: A little rushed lol but I hope u guys like it

[moonlitrapture]

Penname: Delta Wise -3- [Sinners]

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authors note: this one is longer than my usual update so I hope those of you who always ask for longer fics enjoy. Not too much on the summary - I don't want to spoil anything but I promise its a ride 🌪️ This Chapter has multiple POV's. summary: What if you make a fortune from a harrowing tale that affected your family? What if it had supernatural elements that only you and few others believed to be true? What if nearly 100 years later those truth's start finding you? This is Knotty James story, better known as Delta Wise. word-count: 5.6K

THREE

Knotty

I can't stop staring at Eli, trying to piece the puzzle together, trying to make sense of what I know. A love spell gone wrong and a night of horrors has a man that shouldn't be alive and breathing in my company. If I was a drinker I’d need a shot. I try to sew the seams of my memory together, finding pieces of the mosaic that make up the face I see now. Mississippi Eli had braids, he was slim, not so muscular and his voice was higher if memory serves me correctly. He was stern, holding back smiles for when we didn't have an audience then deep dimples would appear. I was as infatuated with Eli as I was with my grandmother's stories back then. I look down and see I have goosebumps. I blink away the reveries of the past and ground myself in the present at this event with my parents. I take a deep breath trying to be the charming daughter but it goes away when I turn and see Eli watching me from across the room. His expression is serious but his eyes soften as he raises a brow - like he’s asking me if I’m alright. I force a smile nodding curtly and he half smiles slightly before nodding. My mother’s perfume ends the moment.

“He’s handsome isn’t he?” Ma says following my line of sight over to Eli as she misinterprets my staring for the same wide eyed wonder I had for him as a child. She stands straight brimming with pride for her rediscovery of the only boy I’ve ever really gotten along with.

“That’s not why I’m staring” I mutter killing her vibe.

“Then why are you staring?” She asks.

Sighing I look into my glass. “It’s a long story”

“I have time,” Ma smiles.

“You and daddy need to stay in after dark and be very careful who you invite into your home” I tell her and she closes her eyes. 

“Not this again” she sighs. “My mother created a very vivid world and an intricate story in order to live with her mother’s abandonment of her” Ma says and it hurts me, so I know it hurts Granny.

“She never lied about anything else” I quip.

Ma sighs. “I don’t judge her for it”

“So Her mother just absconded?” I ask.

“Knotty…”

“Ma…” I respond

“So you believe her tales?” she asks with a huff.

“If I go missing out of the blue just know I didn’t abscond” I tell her.

“Knotty” she snaps as I walk away. “Knotty James” she continues reaching for me but I keep going. “Don’t make me say your name” she warns and I stop not wanting it uttered in this space.

“You’re too superstitious” she snaps, taking my hand and walking me out of the ballroom. She’s furious as am I.

“When have I been a liar?” I ask and she sighs.

“So Pearline was turned into a vampire and died at sunrise?” She asks with a mocking tone. “I’ll keep your father and I indoors and remind him not to invite anyone in the house” she relents only out of her love for me: she doesn’t believe it. Nor does she understand the conundrum Eli poses. While he’s human his mirror image is a bloodsucker.

“I’m gonna leave now” I swallow wiping my runaway tears caused by overwhelm.

“Knotty” my mom sighs, her tone turning maternal as she reaches for me.

“Is everything alright?” A concerned Eli asks with a cigarette in hand.

“Fine” I lie wiping my tears away.

“You really shouldn’t smoke,” Ma tells him.

“I know” he nods, sparing her a glance before looking at me with another raised brow.

“Let me walk you out,” Ma says, taking my hand.

“It was nice seeing you again Elijah” Ma smiles politely.

“You too Mrs. James, Knotty” he says.

“Likewise” I nod following my mother’s lead.

“Knotty please if you’re worried or scared about something tell me and we can get you help” she says trying to be supportive but it’s insulting.

“I’m not crazy” I insist.

“I don’t think you’re crazy but this time of year is always hard for you. You and mama were so close” she says and I sigh.

“I’ll be at Merin’s” I tell my mother and she tenses. She could tolerate me wanting my grandmother more than her but Mama Meringue is where she draws the line. 

“Knotty, why don’t you come home. I can leave now with you we can go home and spend some time together” Ma offers and I sigh.

“Merin knows I’m not crazy or superstitious enough. Take care” 

“Then I’m coming with you,” Ma says, opening the passenger door. She’s as stubborn as a mule.

Pearl (Knotty’s Mom)

I don't remember the last time Knotty and I spent real quality time together just because. I don't remember the last time we hung out without it being put into either of our schedules and as I watch her drive it pains me. She’s been so self sufficient these past few years that I’ve seen less and less of her. Even I was closer with Ma, in spite of our differences. I remember coming home from my first date with Knotty’s dad John with stars in my eyes and telling my mom all about it. Knotty never tells me anything aside from what she’s sure I want to hear and it’s my fault. I text John that I’m with Knotty before setting my phone down in my purse so I can be present for our not-so-little-girl.

I look her over again, wondering what’s going on in that head of hers. It was easier when Ma was still alive. Ma was a fortress and I trusted her more than anyone else with Knotty. Their bond was otherworldly and there was nothing Knotty would keep from her so I always knew when and when not to worry. Ma’s passing hit Knotty the hardest and until a few years ago she worried me. Nothing made her genuinely happy no matter how much she smiled to put us at ease. I thought at the very least Ma’s passing would make Knotty and I closer but it’s been the opposite. It’s like she needs me less and less and her patience for my skepticism has thinned into nothingness. 

“Did you tell dad to stay in after dark?” Knotty asks.

“I’ll text him right now” I tell her and she holds the steering wheel tight before letting go.

“You can tell me anything Knotty” I assure her.

“But you don’t believe me” she says with judgement absent from her tone.  She’s always been more measured with me. Ma and even Merin got the bubbly inhibited version of my child. When she was with me she wanted mani pedis and shopping. When she was with Ma she wanted to dance in the rain and pick whatever fruit was in season.

“Why don’t we make plans to go pick strawberries and raspberries before the season ends” I propose.

“Ma”

“What”

“It’s late september.” She says matter of fact.

“So how do I spend time with you? Do I book some time and help you at the shop?” I ask, trying to make the effort.

“Ma, I’m fine,” she says, sounding exasperated with me.

“You’re a grown woman, who’s alluding to vampires being real. Either you’re unwell and this is serious OR you’re perfectly sane and this is serious. Either way - I’m involved now. You’re my kid and whether it’s supernatural or psychosis I am here” I affirm. Knotty lets out a deep sigh like she could ever understand what it is to bring life into this world and love a child with every essence of your being. 

“You still don’t believe me,” she says, sounding more disappointed than anything.

“Are you telling me they are real? Not just some symbolism from southern folklore?” I ask and she grips the wheel again. She doesn’t answer me, instead she cuts the radio on. I turn it down.

“So you’re staying in, making your favorite - garlic knots, all silver everything, wooden stakes, cinnamon sweeping to keep the energy clear, staying in at night, not responding to voices calling our names in the forest” I list to show Knotty I’m right here with her and we were raised by the same woman. Her expression softens.

“Colloidal silver cream when you leave out at night, jewelry on all the accessible artery points. Garlic tea prep before nights out” She says taking Ma’s warnings very seriously. Knotty’s heart is so pure she’s always believed what people tell her.

“Did mama ever tell you who Pearline was fooling around with in the juke that night?” I ask knowing the story my mother believed to be true. Knotty looks at me and nods.

“She never told you?” Knotty asks me.

“No” I admit and she smiles.

“What do you know then?” she asks.

“That Pawpaw was hard on her, he was older and their marriage was unhappy. She would dress up and go out and sing whenever he was cheating or being neglectful. They had a fight the night before she disappeared”  I tell Knotty.

“She tried to get back home that night, she fought, not for Pawpaw but for her kids. Like any mother would” Knotty says as convinced as my mother was. “Ask yourself this, if Pearline was such a bad mother. Why was Granny such a good one? Why would she name you after her mother? Why?” Knotty asks.

“I don’t know” I tell Knotty and she takes a breath. “Enlighten me” I ask and she shakes her head like I’m a lost cause. I look up and see Merin’s house. My mother’s surrogate daughter. Knotty exits and Merin moves off the porch into the house fanning the flames of my daughter’s superstitious episode.

“Pearl, nice to see you!” She smiles from behind the screen door. “Knotty didn’t tell me you were coming, I only set the table for two”  she says.

“I’ve already eaten thanks” I force a smile heading in behind my daughter. If I believe in anything supernatural it’s that Merin’s a witch. There’s no other explanation for how she burrowed herself too deep into my mother and daughter’s affections. A trusted advisor and confident to both of them. Mama Meringue, what a fucking ridiculous moniker.

“How are you, baby?” Merin asks, taking Knottys arms. Without a word I watch my daughter remove a bangle. Something unspoken passes between them and Merin’s eyes double in size.

“I’ll set you a place Mom” Knotty says, turning to me as Merin disappears.

“What was that?” I ask Knotty.

“Merin made my favorites - I don’t think there’s anything for your diet”

“I’ll have the same fried fish as you.” I respond and Knotty serves me. Dinner is cordial and then Knotty leaves us to have a bath leaving Merin and I together.

“She needs you Pearl,” Merin says, overstepping as usual.

“Why do you think I’m here?” Impatience seeps from my tone.

“She needs you to believe her”

“She needs you to stop indulging her, She’s vulnerable right now” I snap but it has no effect on Merin.

“She’ll always be yours, she loves and trusts you more than you know. She just needs me because you don't listen” she says, working on my nerves.

“I listen, I just don’t believe in these stories. It’s nonsense!” I tell her frankly.

“Shame isn’t it? Your mother always believed in you, even when she didn’t like it. But I guess as children we choose when our parents are worth believing” she says, talking in circles.

“What’s Knotty worried about?” I ask.

“Why’d you invite Knotty to the fundraiser? Was it the boy from Mississippi?” Merin asks.

“Yes because she’d be better off if she settled down with a nice man and stopped with all this woo woo stuff”  I snap.

“Because you’re a mother and you know what’s right for Ivy” Merin says and it unsettles me. I know these lot are superstitious about the connection names have to spirit.

“Knotty” I correct, not liking the sound of her name being uttered by this charlatan. 

“She’s gonna need you P, I won’t make it thanksgiving” Merin says and it hits me. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask, wanting her alive in spite of our differences.

“My time here is coming to an end,” Merin says, talking in more circles.

“Why? There are too many doctors in the family for you not to have a second opinion on whatever it is” I tell her but she frowns shaking her head and sighing. She takes my plate heading to her kitchen.

“Knotty freaked out today because the man you hope she connects with has a brother who is dangerous and capable of bringing you harm. Harm gated communities can’t protect from. Harm Knotty would never survive. It isn’t psychosis - it’s love. You need to stay with her, especially when she’s with Carmen. Be present. I’d go if I could but outside this house it’d be clear I was sick Knotty would notice and worry. There’s no time for that” Merin says. As much as I mistrust her I know she really does genuinely love my daughter, the same way she did Ma. I see in her eyes that she is sick. Her typically bright hazel eyes are weary and she is thinner now that I focus on her frame. I hear footsteps and turn to see Knotty in a bubu ready for bed. She looks more at home here than she does at my house. 

“What are you two discussing?” She asks.

“You” Merin says, earning an eye roll from Knotty.

“My mother thinks I’m psychotic.”

“No she doesn't, she's just afraid of what believing you will mean.” Merin says I don’t correct her as Knotty gets comfortable on the couch. “I’m gonna shower, I’ll look for something for you to sleep in P. Sun is setting, so you can leave in the morning.” 

———

Eli (Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore)

When I ran into the James' and they told me Knotty would attend this fundraiser it was the first time I felt excited in years. That summer in Mississippi was hell until she showed up and then it was a different type of headache. She was the greenest kid I’d ever seen - something about that made her precious. She had no fear or a self-conscious bone in her body. She was like a ray of sunshine bouncing around in the summer heat untouched by the weight of the history. I met her grandmother first. I was bringing her water as Knotty was drawing and singing too loud. The old woman saw the look on my face and smiled. “She’s their wildest dreams” she had said and it stuck with me. It was clear she was privileged. Two parents that loved each other, money, family, a happy child under no threat. Knotty has always been a little odd but she was never sad orr composed. 

I know people change when they grow up but something wasn’t right with Knotty, it was like she was afraid. The girl without fear. I feel the need to check up on her even though I wouldn’t do this shit for anyone else but Knotty’s always needed protection. I make the turn the GPS advises and stop in front of Bonnie’s Apothecary. I hop out and check my surroundings before heading in. The bell rings as the door opens and Knotty is rearranging items on a ladder. She waits looking me over for a moment before climbing down. The store's ambiance is clean and modern, not exactly the Knotty I remember.

“Eli?” she says but there’s a question in it.

“Who else would it be?” I ask and she nods.

“Right, what do you need?” She asks, looking around.

“This all you?” I ask and she nods. I see silver link bracelets hanging and remember the one she made with reeds of grass as kids. I chose a blue one with a silver coin. I can’t make out the coins design but it makes her smile as she comes over to me smelling divine.

“Protection”  she says taking the bracelet when her hands brush mine there’s an electric shock. She looks down at her footwear. “Sorry I’ve been dragging my feet around” she apologizes in shoes that are definitely a choice. Fur lined loafers.

“What’s wrong?” I ask like it’s my place after all this time. She smiles looking into her hands. Silver polish pops against her deep brown skin. I’ve never liked many people but Knotty was different. I watched her for a week after meeting her Granny. Knotty was always laughing, screaming and giggling like her world was new as she tried to fly kites, chase bubbles and decorate the pavement with chalk. It was silence that made me look for her. Silence and the congregation of her boy cousins. Then I found her in the river with a net searching for clams. If they weren’t patrons of my uncles business I would’ve fucked those little niggas up for playing with baby girl like that.

Knotty doesn’t respond, placing the bracelet on me and tying the  threads into a knot.

“My business isn’t failing, if that’s why you’re here” she says.

“I don’t think it would. People always need something to believe in. This is a second opinion and alternatives” I tell her looking around.

“Don’t mock me” she warns, stepping back. 

“Why are you so wound up?” I ask and she swallows, getting serious again.

“It’s more ridiculous than trying to find pearls in the river so I’ll save myself the judgement and scolding from a stranger” she says, cutting me.

“I’m not a stranger” I correct. “I listened to you talk everyday nonstop for six weeks” I remind her and she smiles. “You were gonna open one of these and find Atlantis and become a writer. Is it Atlantis?” I ask and she smirks.

“You’re mocking me again” she smiles.

“No I’m not. I came here to patronize your shop and pick up the book your pops said you wrote about natural healing … and figure out what’s wrong with you?” I ask and she walks around the island in the center of the store with tills. She picks up a book and hands it to me.

“Maybe you can put some in your gun range. In case you patronize the outdoorsy type. A lot of stuff in here can keep them alive in the wilderness” she says being the Knotty I remember. 

“How much will that run me?” I ask.

“I’d have to go home and run the numbers” she winks playfully.

“No lifesaving discounts?” I ask and she smiles for real this time. She looks at me again like she can’t believe I’m real. If I didn’t know her as well as I did for those six weeks I’d think she was checking me out like most women.

“That can be arranged” she shrugs, turning away from me and going to grab glass jars of herbs. She makes up a concoction.

“Drink this every morning” she tells me, placing a loose leaf tea bag set in front of a blend. “This at night” she says, taking a sharpie and drawing a sun and a moon on each beg instead of spelling out morning and night.

“What’s it gonna do for me?” I ask and she looks me over again.

“Make you feel better, protect you from lead exposure from your gun range” she says being sweet and the bell rings. A woman that doesn’t quite look right comes in with a smile.

“Your order is right here Mrs. Pace” Knotty says, stepping back into the center island of the store but I feel her hand slip into mine pulling me in with her as she latches it shut. She doesn’t skip a beat bending to find the order as I look at the woman who stares back at me with glassy eyes.

“Here you go,” Knotty smiles, pushing a brown paper bag across the counter.

“Good day Knotty” the woman says with a scratchy voice. 

“Good day.” knotty says and the bell rings again as she leaves. “Don’t ask,” she says, turning to face me again for a moment before getting a bag for my order.

“What if I’m allergic to something in this?” I ask.

“Call 911” she mutters sarcastically. An alarm sounds just as the bell rings again. This time a woman that is well placed walks in looking between Knotty and I.

“Hey Knotty, sorry I’m late”

“No worries Dora” Knotty smiles.

“Who’s this?” Dora asks.

“Old …. Friend” she says. Knotty puts the bag of my items against my chest stepping out from behind the  counter. 

“Look after her well, this morning was a red dawn. You know what they say” she tells me.

“I’ll be fine Dora, he’s not invited” Knotty says to the women.

“I didn’t pay” I remind Knotty.

“Lifesaver discount” she says, fanning me off. She heads into the back leaving me and her coworker. My hands tremble and I need a smoke.

“Meditation is good for those,” the woman says, pointing to my hands.

“Thanks” I tell her as Knotty emerges holding a garment bag. 

“I’ll walk you out” I say, relieving her of the bags. “What’s in here?”

“My cousin is performing tonight at a showcase. I got her a dress”

“I thought singing wasn’t safe?” I ask and she stops smiling.

“So you listened to everything I said?” She asks. “And you still remember?”

“Wilder tales have never been spun” I tell her and she smiles some more popping her trunk.

“Thanks for helping me and stopping by” she says trying to get rid of me.

“Where’s this performance happening?” I ask.

“You really have nothing better to do?” she asks.

“I figure it might be good for business” I shrug but she doesn’t buy it. 

“Do you have a nickname?” she asks.

“In the military they called me Smoke” I tell her and her eyes close. 

“That’ll do,” she says serious again.

“You really hate killing don’t you?” I ask.

“Give me your phone number. I’ll go ahead and help my cousin set up. You text me when you’re there. In the meantime khakis won’t cut it. Jeans a black tee, a watch. Whatever you have. Think rapper or actor if you want to fit in” she instructs.

“You don’t like my outfit?” I ask her.

“I care about character. Carmen cares about clothes and I don’t want to make her look bad” she explains as I hand her my phone. She sends herself a message and then tells me the time and place. 

“Send me some pictures so I can figure it out” I say before I know why. She pulls out her phone, taking screenshots and sending them to me. 

_____

Knotty

I try to shake the feeling gnawing at me, try to ground myself in the moment instead of the realm of possibilities. Carmen’s worked too hard  for me to tell her not to sing so I’m doing the next best thing - bringing her an outfit that can double as protection to put my mind at ease. Which it was before Eli came in, his larger than life aura and his protective stare. I wonder how I missed it back then, how close he was to Smoke of the Smokestack twins. His name Elijah is the same and he never seemed to smile. I learned quickly the meaner his glare was at me the more he was fighting, setting his dimples free. He was patient with me then and somehow that same patience has carried over to now. How we’re both in the same city again at this time is beyond me. The proximity of today's date to the 15th and 16th of October is another unnerving reality. Merin has answers but they aren't ready for me yet. I check my messages from her before exiting the car. I see sunsets in a little over and set a timer to be out before then.

I feel like a bag lady as I enter the venue. I’m so preoccupied I almost don’t notice the energy of this place. Thankfully security is kind enough to take the garment bag and suitcase off my hands so I can present Carmen with flowers. Her name is on the door and she answers in a moment after I knock. Her hair is pin curls and her make up is almost done by the looks of it. She’s bright today and light too with strong energy.

“Thank you” I smile as security sets down what I’ve brought. Carmen takes the flowers from me with a smile.

“You wouldn’t believe the last time someone bought me flowers,” she says.

“Aren’t you always dating?” I ask, surprised.

“Clearly I don’t date gentlemen. Speaking of - you smell like cologne” Carmen says awfully quick. “Not the expensive kind.” She frowns, making me laugh.

“My parents are trying to set me up again but I don’t think the guy knows he’s being used as a pawn”

“Knotty, you’re gorgeous. The sound engineer and producer both wanted your number. If he doesn’t know he’s still there for the same reason” Carmen says but I’ve never liked the gorgeous compliment on its own.

“Tonight’s all about you but he’s stopping by”

“Knotty bringing around a nigga. Must be special” she says, pouring herself a shot.

“It’s not like that. Do you remember the summer vacation we spent in Mississippi as a family?” I ask Carmen.

“Who could forget it, I’m not sure how Granny survived childhood with the bugs, the reptiles and the heat” she says.

“Remember the boy that saved me from the gators?”

“One with the braids?”

“Yeah”

“It’s him” I say and she smiles.

“What I remember is he didn’t play about you. He had the boys in line. It was good, they feared a country asswhoopin’” She recalls with accuracy, amusing herself in the process. “Is he fine?” She asks and I roll my eyes.

“Carmen…”

“Come on, talking about this is way better than me getting nervous about performing” she says and so I respond.

“Yes that’s being perfectly objective” I say and she grins like the Cheshire Cat.

“I thought earthy girls knock ‘em down the same as the rest of us” she asks winking as she takes up her palette but I know better. He’s someone else’s and wore that mojo bag for at least seven years straight. She’s all over him.

“I got you something for your performance” I change the subject and she giggles.

“Stop being so uptight Knotty” she turns perfecting her makeup look.

“I’m not uptight, Carmen I’m just not thinking of having sex right now”

“Or ever”

I sigh. “I have a lot on my plate.” 

“Like”

“You’re going on stage” I remind

“Like Knotty come on tell me” she says and I pull out the dress that looks like a chandelier. Her eyes bug out.

“Oh my fuck-“ she stops looking at it and covering her mouth. “It’s gorgeous, where'd you find it?” She asks.

“The earthy girl store” I tease as she takes it from me.  She holds it against her frame in the mirror and I get the slip lining options for it.

“And you matched my nude perfectly?” She asks to pick the shorts jumpsuit option that matches her skin to go under the dress.

“Sex sells” I wink.

“Knotty,” she says, hugging me tight. “Thank you for being here and going out of your way for me” she says. 

“That’s what family is for” I remind her but she scoffs.

“My parents scorn me and my brother is ashamed of me too.” She says. I squeeze her tight.

“Josh is- I don’t want to put my mouth on him” I stop myself. “You aren’t missing out on anything and your dad and my mom are from a different time. What do they know about the present they’re in their own worlds more than me. “Block out all the nerves and perform.” I smile, handing her one of my bracelets. She puts it on and there’s a knock on the door.

“You need to be backstage in five” security said and it takes exactly that to get her in the dress and to fix her hair. She looks ethereal when she opens the door. We separate and I go to find a good vantage point of her performance. The venue is one level with the exception of the stage but my heels are a helping hand. When Carmen is announced as Melo, I smile and when she starts I get goosebumps. It’s her poise and presence that’s captivating. I sway knowing the words already and see a message from Eli telling me he’s here. I don’t respond, not wanting to stop the video recording until Carmen’s finished. I get the subsequent applause and her thanks on video. I stop recording the same moment arms wrap around me from behind. My skin crawls. As alarm bells go off. The cologne is expensive and decadent.

“If it isn’t Delta Wise enjoying a griot sing” Stack says pulling my hips against his groin and whispering by my ear. I elbow him and he chuckles letting me go. I move through the crowd quickly, ceased by panic. I try to keep an eye out for Mary but it’s hard in the dark. I make it backstage as another text from Eli comes through. My heart races for his safety. My phone is snatched by a manicured hand only for it to be dropped when I look up Mary is hissing with her fangs out. I pick up my phone.

“Don’t you dare” I hear Stack say from behind me I freeze but when Mary’s fangs retract I realize he’s talking to her.

“Stack, why the fuck are you always flirting with women when you have crazy here out of the asylum?!” I hear Carmen say. She pulls me to her. “I perform at your spot and bring all this good business and your bitch is fucking with my people!” She continues. All the warnings I have for her are lost in my throat.

“Your people?” Stack asks and I cover her mouth.

“Carmen, we have to go now!” I snap knowing the sun has yet to set. When I turn I see Stack’s wearing gloves and full sleeves. I understand why he was able to get so close. Thinking fast I slide the bracelets down  locking them in place around my knuckles as a ball a fist. Stack’s eyes track the gesture and he steps forward like a lion who plays with their dinner. I look to my left and see a fire alarm. Before Stack can read my plans I pull it. The sprinklers start and chaos ensues. I take a clear path holding Carmen’s hand. We make it to a hall with a clear path out when I’m grabbed again. Stacks hold tight.

“Stop fighting” he snaps, growing impatient. I punch him in the face, searing his skin with the silver and making him withdraw. I make it back to Carmen who’s stopped looking confused. A man is in front of her. I know it’s Eli when he reaches for me with concern.

“Her teeth fucking grew. Her teeth!” Carmen screams at the door when I feel the three of us be yanked back. I fall hard but scramble to get my bearings and when I do Smoke and Stack are face to face for the first time in nearly a hundred years. Both of them freeze. Eli’s chest rises but he holds his arms out to keep Carmen and I behind him ever the protector as he pants. Stacks teeth retract as his eyes bug out. I open the door to see it's nearly sunset but Stack doesn’t wince as daylight scorches him, searing his russet skin. I pull Eli back outside with me as he stares at his twin. Spirit knowing what this iteration of his brain doesn’t. Stack watches closely walking towards the light to keep eyes on his brother until his skin begins to bubble. Carmen screams and I let the door go. I don’t have to check her for a bite. Her dresses links are all silver.

“We need to go quickly before the sun sets” I tell her and she nods. I catch my breath and find Eli dazed. He looks down at me.

“Go where?” He asks.

“Follow me” I tell him.

“I didn’t drive,” Carmen snaps.

“Come with me” I tell her getting in my car.

“I’m not leaving you” Eli says, opening the driver's door. I hand him my keys.

“KNOTTY WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!” Carmen asked inside. “Smokestack twins” she says chest heaving.

“Seatbelt” Smoke says and we both obey as I turn to face her. Tears are streaming, streaking her make up ruining her day.

“How do you know Stack?” I ask and she looks dazed and confused.

“When I used to dance. He owned one of the clubs” she says. “And he’s a vampire, and vampires are real? And what the hell is he!” She screams pointing at Eli as I set our destination into the gps. 

“Knotty” he says and because I don’t have words I swallow hard connecting my phone to the car and telling them everything I know the best way I know how.

“Club Juke by Delta Wise - chapter one” the audiobook reads.

______

Authors Note: Soooooooooo this was a lot! Hope the multiple POV's weren't too much I know it's outside my norm but I think it's necessary for this story.

What do we think of the following:

Knotty's Mom?

Merin? (Mama Meringue)

Eli 'Smoke' and Knotty's relationship?

Carmen a griot?

What does Stack want?

Smoke and Stack seeing each other again?

What happens next?

Sound off in the comments. DOn't forget to reblog, comment, tag and leave a like.

_____

TAGS:

@chessteena @babymelaninn @destinio1 @kianaleani @blackpinup22 @invisiblegiurl @cardi-bre91 @dollys-world224 @childishgambinaax @iheartamora

@browngirldominion @queenofklonnie22 @tadjoa @fadingbelieverexpert @jasssdee1 @bluevenus19 @roughridah0 @cloudy-starz @heyyimmisunderstood

@hrlzy : @rolemodelshit : @marley1773 : @bendoverboo18 : @kimmiedream : @secret89sblog : @tian-monique : @lovepeacehappinessalluneed : @letsgomamas : @motheroffae

[moonlitrapture]

For the people shipping smoke x stack and Sammick, You never deserved to watch nor experience sinners.

There were ways we could’ve dug in their relationships further without shipping them.

*The OP of this picture is from TikTok and I cannot thank them ENOUGH for putting my thoughts in front of me.*

“Toxic yaoi” Put the bl down and get the fuck out of my face.

“Babies first fandom” Kiss my ass.

“Ship and let ship” no, not if your ship is stupid and erases everything.

“This is what fandoms are” incorrect, it’s what you guys force a fandom to be and when you’re done ruining this one, you’re gonna run on to the next one.

Before anyone says anything, I’m a queer woman. I’m appalled at how many people try to defend these kinds of ships. You’ll watch something that’s truly ART, and your first instinct is: “I need to hurry up and ship someone” ????

The whole Smoke x Stack shit makes me SHUDDER. It’s mostly on AO3 (which was originally for incest fanfiction and others such as r@pe and p3dophilia…).

And, of course, the infamous excuses:

“They’re fictional!” “It’s fiction!” “They’re not real!”

People say that to defend messed-up shit. abusive, toxic, or just straight up wrong shit. they think it doesn’t matter if it’s not real. Fiction is a space where people explore ideas, fantasies, and taboos without immediate harm to real people, and that excuse can act as a shield against criticism. I think people use ‘fiction’ and ‘fantasy’ to get away with weird shit. That doesn't mean people can't explore dark topics in fiction. The issue starts when people romanticize or glorify toxic dynamics and then refuses to acknowledge valid criticism by hiding behind "they're not real."

It sickens me. It sickens me that you took something so beautiful and dragged it down to the weirdo slums, like you do with every other fandom because you have no media literacy and just want to play dollies.

[moonlitrapture]

[moonlitrapture]

How yall feeling if I write a nurse oc x remmick fanfic maybe even potentially throwing in the twins and Mary? Thinking about doing it like potentially in a hospital or psych ward. Sometime in the 1990’s or 80’s potentially.

less "preacher's daughter" readers and other christianity based sinners fics.. more spiritual reader.. rootwork/hoodoo practitioner reader.. witch reader.. medicine woman reader.. chief's daughter.. idfk.. pls

[moonlitrapture]

Prologue

⸻

You weren’t supposed to be here.

But you were always drawn to the quiet places—

The ones everyone else abandoned.

The forgotten. The forbidden.

The monstrous.

His name had clung to your thoughts like ash in your lungs.

Remmerick.

A shadow stitched into every photograph you’d chased.

A God, among killers.

A king of rot wrapped in silk.

They said he was a myth. A relic from when the Sinners ruled the dark. A whisper, they said—with a body count.

A maestro of ritual.

But myths don’t show up in photographs.

Burned into your mind like an afterimage.

A near shadow caught slipping out of frame.

A coat like liquid shadow.

Blood on the glass like a signature.

And eyes—one pale as winter, the other black as the pit beneath the world.

That was all it took.

You followed him into the dark.

And the dark, obliging, folded around you like a mouth.

⸻

You woke in silence—

Not the kind that soothes.

The kind that watches.

A cathedral of hush.

The velvet beneath you clung like a second skin. The settee was old, regal, too soft. Firelight flickered—

the kind that existed before wires and switches.

Books lined the walls, heavy with dust and use. Titles worn to ghosts.

And under the woodsmoke and age—

Blood.

Faint. Coppery. Sweet.

Familiar in a way that turned your stomach.

You sat up. Too fast.

The world spun, then locked back into place.

And then… he spoke.

“You’re awake.”

A voice like silk drowned in wine. Smooth. Low. Not kind , but predominantly predatory.

Cruel by nature, not intention.

He hadn’t raised it.

He would never need to.

He stood in the corner, half-swallowed by the dark, and still he commanded the room like it was his by right.

When he stepped forward, moonlight found him.

And you saw what fear looked like when it was beautiful.

Remmerick.

No mask.

And yet—everything about him hid something.

One eye, the color of cream coffee.

The other, a storm with no name.

His skin, pale like marble left in the cold.

His coat, stitched from shadows.

“You followed me,” he said, your name already in his mouth, though you hadn’t spoken it.

“You wanted truth.

How does it taste?”

You tried to answer. But your throat was a grave.

“Where…” you rasped, “where am I?”

He smiled. Just a sliver. Enough to let you know it wasn’t kindness.

“Somewhere you can’t scream loud enough.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Are you going to kill me?”

He chuckled—soft, almost warm. As if you’d told a child’s joke.

“Kill you?” he echoed, drifting closer.

“No.”

He stopped before you. No blade. No chain.

He didn’t need them.

He was the cage.

“You’re not here because I dragged you,” he said.

“You came looking for monsters.

It’s only fair you meet one properly.”

Then his hand extended.

Not in welcome. Not in mercy.

But in promise.

A promise to undo you.

And something in you—something too quiet to name—reached back.

“Let’s begin.”

[moonlitrapture]

Velvet Arteries ( the series )

Warnings : ⚠️ CONTENT WARNINGS — READ BEFORE CONTINUING:

This story contains mature, disturbing, and graphic themes, including but not limited to:

• 🔞 18+ Only: Dark Erotic content / sexual tension / smut / Gore , Blood imagery, Ritualistic Violence. Psychological,Stockholm Syndrome , Manipulation, Captivity, Dub con, Non- con, kidnapping , Angst , Stalking , Somnophilia, Dacryphilia, Cuckolding.

This is a dark fic. It will explore twisted intimacy, blurred consent, and emotionally manipulative situations between reader and Remmerick. Reader discretion is strongly advised and is only for 18+.

I will be writing this new series that will have a total of 42 chapters.

Pairing: Modern Dark! Remmerick (The Sinners, 2025) x Detective Black!Reader (You)

Summary : You were just a curious journalist with a fascination for the truth hidden beneath the blood-soaked glamour of the Sinners case. Obsessed with the enigmatic figure known only as Remmerick—the orchestrator of the chaos—you made the mistake of chasing his shadow too far. Now you’re his guest… or his prisoner, depending on the hour. Now you’re in his orbit. His cage. His story.

He should’ve killed you.

He didn’t.

And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.