nahimjustfeelingit-writes

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

I DIDNT TAG ANYONE IN THIS POST BUT I POSTED IT FOR YALL TO HAVE AN IDEA OF SOME OF THE GIRLS. I MAY TAG LATER!

The Blackline Girls

Summary: This is an introduction into the women of The Blackline!

Cordelia. Peaches. Odessa. & Minnie

Part one

Spotlight hits the stage. Gold flecks shimmer in the smoky air. The pianist taps out a teasing tune—a slow, jazzy build like foreplay. The host steps into the light, all charm and smirk.

HOST (with a grin and a Charleston bounce in his step):

“Ladies…gentlemen…sinners of every shade and flavor…I hope you’re holdin’ tight to your drink—’cause what you’re about to witness? She ain’t just sugar, baby. She’s spice, gunpowder, and a silver-tongued kiss with a bite on the end.”

The crowd whoops. Someone whistles. A glass clinks.

HOST (cont.):

“She walked into this house in a worn-out dress and a war in her eyes. Said she could outpour any man, outshoot any thief, and outlove any woman. And guess what? She did.”

The music kicks. Slow, sultry brass and a high hat. The curtain draws back.

HOST (cont., voice rising):

“Put your hands together for the storm with a waistline—The siren with a pistol in her garter—The only woman Stack Moore lets run his house when he’s gone—Give it up for the one, the only…Miss Cordeliaaaa!!!”

The lights shift red. Cordelia emerges.

She doesn’t walk—she glides.

Velvet black gown hugging her hips, slit high enough to cause prayer. Gloves to her elbows. Hair slicked and waved like a river at midnight. A cigarette burns between her fingers, curling smoke into a question mark. Her eyes scan the room—lazy, unreadable.

She doesn’t smile. She smirks.

A slow, deliberate smirk that says:

“I know what you want. I might even give it to you. But it’ll cost.”

The music hits its stride. She sways to it—hips like molasses, slow and thick.

One heel steps forward. Click. Another. Click.

She leans against the upright piano, crosses one leg over the other, and says without a mic:

CORDELIA:

“Well damn. I didn’t know y’all missed me that much.”

Laughter. Cheers. Someone throws a rose.

CORDELIA (blows smoke, purring):

“You want a drink? You’ll wait. You want a dance? You’ll tip. You want me? You’ll bleed.”

The house erupts.

She lifts her glass. Doesn’t drink—just holds it high like a queen acknowledging her kingdom.

CORDELIA (to the crowd):

“Welcome to The Blackline, babies. Let’s misbehave.”

From the corner booth, she looked like a sin dressed in velvet.

The Blackline pulsed around her—jazz thumping low like a heartbeat, women laughing behind silk fans, and men trying to buy time they couldn’t afford. But Cordelia? She didn’t move like the rest. She didn’t rush, didn’t lean, didn’t flirt unless it fed her. She sat like the air belonged to her. And in many ways, it did.

She was perched behind the bar now, elbow resting against the worn wood, cigarette balanced between two fingers gloved in black mesh. The red glow of its tip lit the curve of her cheekbone like an ember caught in motion. Her lips were painted the color of ripe plums, and her eyes—dark, long-lashed, knowing—swept the room not to see, but to assess. A glance from Cordelia wasn’t curiosity.

It was calculation.

Someone whistled from the end of the bar. A young buck, new to The Blackline. He leaned in, cocky, loose with liquor and assumptions.

“You lookin’ like a sweet treat tonight, baby,” he slurred, “How much for a bite?”

Cordelia exhaled slowly, the smoke curling toward him like a curse. She didn’t even blink, “That line tired, sugar. Go sit down before I call Stack to remind you what respect sounds like.”

He chuckled. Loud, stupid, “You ain’t all that.”

She smiled then—slow and dangerous, “You’re right. I’m more.”

He opened his mouth to say something slick, but Cordelia had already turned. Didn’t waste breath. She poured a drink, slid it down the bar to Peaches with the kind of grace that made you forget there was steel beneath the silk.

Cordelia was siren and shadow. Velvet and venom. She liked women best—said they bloomed softer, came harder, and left thank-you notes instead of bruises. Still, when Stack wanted her, she let him. Not because he asked. Because she allowed it. Because their bodies spoke in a language made of control and combustion, and Cordelia knew how to turn surrender into command.

She didn’t need to be in charge to be powerful. She just needed to choose.

Later that Night

Violet watched her from the side, chin propped on one hand. She hadn’t known women like Cordelia growing up—women who didn’t shrink themselves, who wore desire like diamonds and didn’t apologize for it. Cordelia had helped her find her voice here. Her style. Pulled her into the back once and said, “You wearin’ lace like it’s armor. But baby, lace ain’t meant to hide you. It’s meant to dare someone to touch.”

Violet never forgot that.

Tonight, Cordelia caught her watching.

Their eyes met. A flash of something old passed between them—desire, maybe. Or recognition. Cordelia smirked, lifted her glass in silent salute, then turned back to her drink.

Violet smiled.

Cordelia might’ve come from hard edges and hushed names, but here, in this place built on sweat and firelight?

She was royalty.

“She Ain’t Crude—She’s Crowned”

Where She Came From: South Memphis, Tennessee

Cordelia was born on a sticky summer night in South Memphis, behind a storefront church where her mama swept the floors and sometimes sang Sunday solos with tears in her throat. Her father was the kind of man who looked good in a pew but didn’t stay for the benediction—he left before Cordelia could form her first full sentence.

She was raised by women who had too little money and too much pride. Her grandmother wore a pistol under her apron and didn’t believe in sparing the rod. Her auntie, a tired beautician with burnt-out eyes, once told her, “You either learn to stir men, or get stirred by ’em. Choose fast.”

Cordelia chose early.

Cordelia’s beauty came in like a storm: sudden, sharp, impossible to ignore. Long legs, deep brown skin that glistened like oiled mahogany, eyes that told grown men to sit down and hush. By thirteen, the deacons were looking too long. By fourteen, the church women had branded her with whispers.

She wasn’t fast. She was curious. Curious about her body, her power, the way boys stuttered and men stared. She didn’t feel shame—she felt charged.

At fifteen, she let a boy touch her under a flickering streetlamp—not for love, not even for pleasure, but to test how easily he’d give up control. He cried afterward. She didn’t.

Word spread. Names were thrown. Jezebel. Devil’s girl. Crude.

She wore it like perfume.

At sixteen, a married choir leader tried to corner her in the baptismal. Cordelia scratched his cheek open and walked home like nothing happened. That night, her aunt slapped her hard enough to split her lip and screamed, “I won’t have a whore under my roof!”

So Cordelia left.

With nothing but a silver comb, a small bag of clothes, and a tin of pomade, she boarded a train heading west. The first night, she slept upright between a box of chickens and a preacher who didn’t try her—but watched.

She learned two things on that ride:

1. Men don’t need an invitation.

2. Her silence was sharper than a blade.

She hit Little Rock with blistered feet and a stare that cut glass. A cousin told her about a place—“not quite a juke, not quite a whorehouse… something special.” Said it was run by two brothers, dangerous and dark, but good to the girls who held their own.

The Blackline.

Cordelia showed up in a wrinkled skirt and an attitude. Stack met her at the door, cocky and amused. “You look like trouble,” he said.

“I am trouble,” she replied. “And I pour drinks better than any man in your backroom.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You shoot?”

“Only if I mean to kill.”

He let her in.

She become a Queen in Silk Gloves

She started behind the bar, learned fast, watched harder. She didn’t just flirt—she studied. She didn’t beg—she chose. Stack saw it right away. She wasn’t soft, wasn’t shy, wasn’t sweet. She was something else.

He took her to bed one night and found she didn’t moan for praise. She moaned for control. He liked that. So did she.

Cordelia slept with Stack when she felt like it. Watched his moods. Helped manage the girls. Cleaned up his messes with elegance. Over time, he trusted her more than anyone else. She was never called madam—but she acted like one.

And she chose her clients: women, mostly. The ones curious, quiet, or aching. She didn’t just fuck them—she fed them. Power, release, sometimes even tears.

Men were rare for her. They had to pay well, act right, and leave quick. Stack? He was the only one allowed to touch her how he pleased. Because he respected that power.

Some still whispered about her past.

That she was loose in Memphis.

That she came from sin.

That she couldn’t be trusted with anything pure.

Cordelia would just smile.

Let them talk.

She knows what they really mean when they say “crude.”

They mean she’s unbothered.

Unclaimed.

Unforgiving.

A woman who don’t beg.

A woman who don’t fold.

When Violet arrived—soft-spoken, unsure, eyes full of shadow—Cordelia felt something crack open. Not lust. Not competition.

Something older. Deeper. Protective.

She wanted her, yes. For a moment. But then…she just wanted her whole.

Cordelia helped her find her style, her hips, her voice. Teased her about Smoke. Pulled her close. Kept her safe.

She still does.

Cordelia might’ve been born crude.

But she grew into something rarer.

A woman who knows her worth.

A woman who teaches softness how to survive.

——

The lights dim, and a hush rolls over the crowd like molasses—thick, slow, and sweet with anticipation. Smoke curls from cigars and mouths alike, swirling beneath the chandeliers. Glasses clink. A piano murmurs. Somewhere, Stack leans back in his booth with one arm stretched across the velvet, lips curled into the kind of smile that says just wait.

Then…red curtains part.

Spotlight.

The stage is bathed in gold, and there she is.

PEACHES.

She steps forward on bare feet, toes painted rouge, her thick body wrapped in sheer peach-colored silk that kisses every curve. Her sandy brown curls are pinned high with rhinestone combs, and her eyes—lined in smoke and kohl—flicker with wicked play. A feather fan unfurls with a flick of her wrist, fluttering across her shoulders like a tease. The crowd inhales. She hasn’t sung a note yet, but already men are leaning forward, and the women? The women are sitting up straighter, watching her like she might swallow the room whole.

A deep voice cuts through the hush from just behind the curtain—

“Ladies and gentlemen, sinners and saints…The Blackline proudly presents: the velvet voice, the Georgia sugar drop, the woman with hips that’ll make you see God…”

“Give it up for PEACHES!”

The band kicks in—upright bass, a slow jazz crawl, tambourine shimmer—and Peaches grins. Not sweet. Dangerous. Like she’s about to ruin someone’s marriage and make them thank her for it.

She struts forward—hips rolling, silk robe trailing behind her like smoke—and leans into the mic.

“Mmm…I want a little sugar…in my bowl…I want a little sweetness…down in my soul…”

Her voice is a molasses drizzle, warm and deep, wrapping around the room and pulling every neck toward her. On “bowl,” she dips low—hips cocked, eyes closed, lips barely touching the mic—and the spotlight lingers on the curve of her ass.

The crowd gasps, then laughs, then applauds.

She opens her eyes slow, like a cat stretching in heat, and purrs into the next line. When she tosses the fan behind her, revealing more skin, a man in the front row drops his cigarette. Cordelia cackles from the corner. Odessa glares.

And Stack?

He watches with that stillness he saves for only when something’s worth savoring. One boot propped on the table. Whiskey sweating in his hand. Tongue tapping behind his teeth.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters under his breath.

“Show ‘em how Georgia raise ‘em.”

As the final note slides off her tongue like honey off the spoon, Peaches turns, bends, and lets the hem of her robe fall from her shoulder, offering one last soft glance over her bare, glowing skin.

She whispers into the mic, “You boys behave now… or don’t. I like a little trouble.”

The curtain drops. The room erupts.

Some stand. Others holler.

And Peaches?

She blows a kiss, slow and cocky, then turns and struts backstage with laughter bouncing off her hips.

Stack doesn’t move—not yet.

He waits for the silence to settle again.

Then, with a slow nod to Cordelia behind the bar, he rises.

“Put her on the damn posters,” he says.

“Top billing.”

The Blackline – Dressing Room & Stage, Late Night

The mirror lights hum. There’s powder in the air, perfume in the corners, and a low Billie Holiday record spinning soft on the gramophone. Most of the girls have gone home or curled up in their rooms, heels off and corsets loosened.

But Peaches sits at her vanity, still in her robe—peach satin, of course—a warm glow bouncing off her golden-brown skin. Her sandy curls are pinned up with rhinestones, and her lips are freshly painted red, even though there’s no one left to impress. She hums as she slides rings off her fingers, wiping makeup from the corners of her eyes. There’s a soft knock.

She doesn’t turn.

“That you, baby?”

The door creaks open. It’s Stack, leaning in the frame with his shirt half-buttoned, suspenders loose at his sides, a half-drunk bottle of rye in hand.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he drawls.

Peaches smirks into the mirror.

“Ain’t no interruptin’ when you bring good liquor and bad intentions.”

He chuckles low. It’s that kind of laugh she can feel in her thighs.

“You sounded good tonight,” he says, stepping inside, closing the door behind him, “Real good. That last note…had me breathin’ funny.”

“Mm. I noticed,” she says, finally turning to face him, “You was sittin’ there like a man about to catch the Holy Ghost. Or a heart attack.”

He crosses the room, slow, letting the tension build between them like smoke before a fire. He stands behind her now, hands sliding down the slope of her shoulders.

“Sing for me,” he mutters into her neck, “Just me. Right now.”

She leans back into his chest, one hand reaching for his thigh, gripping it with those thick, painted fingers.

“You want a show, or a confession?”

“Both.”

She tilts her head and begins to hum again—soft and low, a sultry lullaby that sounds like steam rising from warm molasses.

Stack kneels in front of her, hands on her plush thighs, lips grazing her knee.

“Georgia Peach,” he says, voice gravelly, “You got me down bad.”

She slides her robe off one shoulder and whispers,

“Then stay there, baby. Right where I want you.”

Peaches knows exactly who she is. And she’s not in the business of pretending.

She came from Savannah with hips full of rhythm and a mouth sweet enough to turn a man inside out. She’s a singer, a dancer, and a sex worker—but more than anything, Peaches is a presence. She walks through The Blackline like it was built around her curves, humming old hymns and naughty blues in the same breath.

Peaches doesn’t fight for attention. It follows her. When she sings, men hush. When she dances, women watch. She has no jealousy in her—only confidence. She adores Cordelia, teases Odessa, and watches out for the new girls like a thick-hipped guardian angel with a dirty sense of humor.

But when it comes to Stack, it’s different.

With him, she’s both velvet and flame. Their sex is filthy, loud, and unashamed—but what makes her dangerous is how easily he submits. He lets her ride him, talk down to him, hush him like a child—and he loves it. She never demands his surrender. She just reaches for him… and he gives.

She sings for him. He kneels for her. And when the lights go down, he sleeps best with his head on her belly and her fingers in his curls.

Peaches isn’t just a girl at The Blackline.

She’s the soul of it.

Peaches was raised by her mother, Miss Lottie Whitfield—a former laundress turned backroom card dealer known for her sharp tongue and sweeter tea. They lived in a shotgun house near the river, where music floated in from steamboats and church choirs alike. Her daddy wasn’t in the picture—just a name and a smooth voice her mama cursed every time a certain song came on the radio.

She grew up surrounded by women—her mama, three aunties, and a cousin named Melba who could read cards and charm snakes. The house was noisy, loving, and full of secrets. Lottie made sure her daughter could cook, sew, and hold her own in a room full of men without giving away a thing.

Peaches was always the loudest baby and the best-dressed girl in church, with a voice like a bell and hips that swayed before she even knew what they meant.

By thirteen, she was singing in Sunday school and dancing with the older girls on porches at twilight, mimicking the grown women. By sixteen, she was sneaking out to a local juke joint dressed like a grown woman, slipping into sets when the regular singer got too drunk.

But Savannah was small, and mouths ran fast.

A deacon’s son got too bold. Rumors swirled. Her mama slapped her, then cried for hours when she found out the truth. There was no going back after that. The church turned cold, and the ladies who once cooed over her baby dresses wouldn’t even look her way.

By seventeen, Peaches packed a small satchel and left on a midnight train heading north.

She bounced through Macon, Birmingham, and Memphis, performing where she could and doing what she had to survive. Sometimes it meant singing. Sometimes it meant more.

It wasn’t always pretty. But she never let it break her.

She heard about The Blackline from a woman in a Memphis juke joint—said it was safe, Black-owned, and protected by two brothers who didn’t let no white man spit on their floor. That was all Peaches needed to hear.

She arrived in Little Rock with two silk slips, a stolen pair of heels, and a voice that still had syrup in it.

Stack was the first to take a real look at her—not just at her curves, but how she held herself. Confident but tired. Sweet but steel-backed. He let her sing. Then he let her stay.

The Blackline is the first place that feels like home since Savannah. The other girls remind her of her cousins. The sound of laughter and cussing in the dressing room makes her feel alive. She’s good at what she does—pleasure and performance—and she takes pride in it.

She sings for Stack when he asks, dances because she loves to, and works the rooms with grace and warmth. She doesn’t cry over men, but she does hum sad songs when she’s alone. Sometimes, she thinks about Melba and her mama and wonders if they’d be proud or ashamed. Then she puts on her peach-colored lipstick and gets to work.

—-

The crowd was loud until they weren’t.

The velvet curtain trembled.

The spotlight flared, golden and sultry.

Peaches—gilded and grinning, hips wide, lips red—took the stage in a flurry of feathers. She threw a wink to the dice boys in the corner and tapped the mic twice, sending a soft thump through the smoky room.

“Now y’all been drinkin’, gamblin’, sinnin’ and smilin’,” she purred, voice dripping molasses, “But it’s time to pay attention. And I mean really pay attention.”

Laughter rippled, low and eager.

Peaches smirked. “She’s what happens when Louisiana heat gets hips and heels. She sings sweeter than sin, dances like a dirty dream, and don’t you ever take your eyes off her hands—unless you wanna go home without your watch, wallet, and pride.”

The band hit a slow, jazzy lead-in. Cymbals shimmered. A horn crooned. The lights shifted to the curtain.

Peaches stepped back, her voice cutting through the hush like a blade licked in sugar.

“Y’all better hold your breath. And hold your man. ‘Cause here comes the one, the only…Miss Odessa!”

Boom.

The curtains burst open with a theatrical flair—and Odessa emerged, tall as temptation, draped in deep plum satin that hugged her like it owed her rent. The slit in her gown ran so high it looked criminal. Her curves poured out like smoke—hips swaying slow, breasts full and proud, that impossible Jessica Rabbit figure demanding reverence.

Her lips were red. Her nails were red. Her eyes were lined in black like danger spelled out.

She held a cigar in one hand and a rhinestone mic in the other.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t wave. She devoured the room.

The music dipped as she strutted center stage, one long leg leading the other like a tease. When she stopped, it wasn’t with a pose—it was with a claim. That stage was hers now. That night was hers.

She brought the cigar to her lips, puffed slow, and then…

She sang.

Low. Sultry. Velvet and smoke.

🎵 Trouble got my name stitched in satin…And sugar never dripped like me.He said his vows to a preacher’s daughter—But he knelt for a sinner like me…🎵

Her voice was heat in silk. The men leaned forward. The women looked to see who’d survive her.

As she moved, she let her eyes drift across the crowd—taunting, choosing. She blew smoke toward the poker table. A gambler’s hand trembled on his chips.

Behind her, two girls from her little following sat cross-legged near the curtain, whispering like schoolgirls at confession. Odessa didn’t need backup. But she liked it.

She finished the song with a sigh and a smirk, the band holding that final note like it was afraid to stop.

When she turned to walk off, one hand slid down her thigh, brushing the spot where the blade sat tucked in her garter—just enough for the audience to wonder.

As she passed Peaches on her way down the stage stairs, she spoke, “Let me know when Cordelia’s ready to retire.”

Peaches tilted her head, lips curled in that too-sweet smile.

“Well don’t she just glide in like she own the whole damn world…and a mirror in every room,” Then louder, for the crowd, “Give her a hand, y’all—she worked real hard to make it look effortless!”

Odessa winked, stepped into the crowd, and made her way toward the private tables—Stack’s table. She dropped herself into the seat beside him like sin made flesh.

The house hadn’t taken a breath since she appeared.

The Blackline, late night. Cards slap, dice roll, and smoke curls like secrets.

Odessa sat at the edge of the roulette table, long legs crossed, plum velvet gown hugged tight to her hips like it had been poured on in candlelight. One manicured hand dangled a thick cigar, the other slid a single red chip forward with a flick of her nail.

“Twenty-three. Black.” Her voice was soft. Dangerous.

The dealer hesitated. Nodded.

She didn’t look at the wheel. She didn’t need to. Her eyes—wide, sultry, and lined like Cleopatra’s revenge—were locked on something else entirely.

Smoke.

He stood near the back of the room, talking low with Stack and Clyde, arms folded across his chest like every damn inch of him was carved out of tension and quiet violence. He wore that charcoal vest and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and Odessa’s mouth went dry just watching the way his forearms flexed when he moved.

He never smiled. That was the thing.

Stack flirted. Stack teased. Stack smirked when he fucked her. But Smoke? He was a closed door Odessa couldn’t pick—and Lord knows, she’d tried.

She licked her lips and shifted in her chair. The slit of her gown fell open just enough to flash a slice of garter and the glint of steel beneath it.

The girls in her orbit—Mirabel, Cherry, Lenette—sat perched nearby, pretending to chat, but really waiting for her to speak. That was the thing about Odessa, people listened when she talked. They wanted to be her. Or be near her. Or survive her.

“I could snap my fingers,” she spoke, watching Smoke light a cigarette, “and half the men in here would crawl to lick ash off my shoes.”

Mirabel, wide-eyed, leaned in, “So why not him?”

Odessa’s expression didn’t flicker. She just exhaled a slow stream of cigar smoke and whispered, “That’s the question that keeps me up at night, baby.”

Because she’d tried.

Oh, had she tried.

She’d worn silk that matched his tie. Dropped stacks of chips at his table. Sent drinks with notes that said things like Come ruin me. Once, she’d even waited for him in nothing but heels and her birthday diamonds.

Nothing worked.

He looked at her the way a man looks at fire—not in longing, but in warning.

And now that new girl was here. That sweet little thing with soft eyes and honey in her walk. Violet.

Odessa’s smile sharpened.

She leaned back and crossed her legs again, slow enough for the dress to part like curtains in a midnight cabaret.

“Girl like me? I don’t chase. I trap.”

The roulette wheel spun. Chips clattered.

She turned her head just enough for Smoke to feel it. Just enough for him to know she was watching.

He didn’t look her way. Not once.

Odessa crushed her cigar in the ashtray, rose from her seat like a goddess bored with worship, and strode toward the private rooms.

Her hips swayed like promises. Her heels clicked like gunshots.

And behind her, the girls followed—quiet, wide-eyed, knowing that when Odessa moved like that, something sharp was coming.

Odessa was born in New Orleans, the only child of a Creole courtesan and a small-time card hustler. Her mother, Rosalinde LaRue, was once known as “The Orchid of Orleans”—a woman with velvet gloves, red nails, and a laugh that could unlock safes. Her father was a gambler who disappeared when Odessa was six, leaving behind little more than a pair of dice and a trail of debts.

She was raised behind silk screens and behind-closed-doors performances. Her mother taught her how to sing in French before she could read in English. How to dance without showing everything. How to command attention without asking for it.

More importantly, her mother taught her one rule above all

“Men want to feel powerful. Let ’em—until it’s time to remind ‘em who taught ‘em how to beg.”

Odessa never forgot it.

By age fourteen, Odessa was already sneaking into cabarets on Rampart Street under a false name. She could mimic accents, change her walk, style her hair like five different women—and lose a man’s wallet in the time it took him to blink.

She got in trouble early and often. The kind of trouble men called enchanting—right up until they realized their pockets were empty.

When her mother died of consumption, Odessa was seventeen and furious. She wore red to the funeral, kissed the preacher on the mouth, and left town that same night with two suitcases, a blade in her boot, and a voice like smoke over sugar.

Odessa arrived at The Blackline under a different name, singing for her supper in a backroom piano hall in Little Rock. Stack Moore was there that night—watching the game tables, drinking bourbon, and paying very little attention.

Until she sang.

She didn’t audition. She performed.

Dressed in midnight-blue satin, Odessa sang a sultry jazz number and stripped a married man of his wallet, his watch, and his wedding ring without ever touching him.

When the song ended, she turned toward Stack and said,

“You want me or not, sugar? ’Cause I’m too good for second chances.”

Stack didn’t blink. Just nodded.

She was in.

Odessa quickly became a client favorite—not just for her voice, but for her vaudeville routines, her way of sitting at a card table like she owned it, and her ability to distract, delight, and destroy in equal measure.

She smokes cigars, not cigarettes.

Carries a blade in her garter and knows how to use it.

She’s slept with Stack, but only on her terms. The sex is wild, thrilling, and clever—like everything she does.

And yet, the one man she wants most—Smoke—won’t give her the time of day.

She hates that. She hates Violet more.

Odessa has tried everything: song, skin, schemes. Smoke doesn’t even flinch. It drives her wild. Not because she loves him—but because she can’t stand that she can’t have him.

She watches. She waits. And when Violet showed up? Odessa started sharpening her tongue—and maybe her blade.

She’s not just a singer. She’s a storm with lipstick. And she’s just getting started.

Smoke’s office. Midnight. The Blackline. The first time a man told her NO:

The moon slipped through the high window in long, ghostly ribbons, painting the office in silver and shadow. The bourbon bottle on the desk caught the light, glowing amber. Papers lay untouched. A pack of smokes sat unopened. Everything was still.

Except for her.

Odessa LaRue stood near the window, one arm folded loosely beneath her breasts, the other holding the stem of a cigar she hadn’t lit. She wore a long black robe, sheer as a whisper, trimmed in elaborate feathers that shimmered like crow wings.

The robe hung open—untied. Beneath it: nothing. Only the curve of her waist, the dark sheen of her thighs, the gleam of birthday diamonds at her throat and ears. A necklace her mother once wore when seducing kings in parlors and gamblers in shadows. Tonight, Odessa wore it like armor.

She heard him before she saw him—the quiet thump of his boots, the slow turn of the doorknob.

And then there he was.

Smoke.

He stepped into the room like the night itself, tall and still and watchful. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and he smelled faintly of leather and gunpowder and clove smoke. Odessa’s pulse kicked.

He paused. Took her in with that unreadable stare of his. No flare of surprise. No hunger. Just that heavy, infuriating quiet.

She smiled.

Walked to his chair.

Turned.

Lowered herself into it like a queen.

Her leg draped over the side, her hand trailed across the armrest, and her voice—slow and honey-dripped—cut the silence.

“Been waitin’ for you, baby.”

He said nothing.

So she rose, letting the robe slide down her shoulders. The feathers kissed her calves as it fell to the floor. The diamonds caught the light. Her skin glowed under the moon.

She stepped toward him, bare and radiant, hips moving in a slow, practiced rhythm—the kind that had made men forget their names.

“You ever wonder?” she whispered, “What it’d feel like? Just once? I don’t bite… unless you ask.”

She reached out, fingers grazing the front of his shirt—right over his heart.

He caught her wrist.

The moment froze.

His touch wasn’t rough, but it was firm. Unyielding. A man used to making decisions and not looking back.

“You done?”

His voice was low. Unmoved. A wall of stone with no crack for her to crawl through.

And it hit her.

He meant it.

Not teasing.

Not testing.

Just…no.

For a beat, something inside her trembled. Something sharp and unfamiliar. Odessa had never been turned down. Not once. Men tripped over themselves to have her. Women envied her. She had used her body like a weapon since before she knew how dangerous it was.

But Smoke wasn’t flinching. He wasn’t even tempted.

The sting came quick—hot and bright behind her ribs. A flush crept up her neck, one she disguised with a smirk.

“So that’s a yes to beggin’ later?” she said lightly, eyes shining like she still had the upper hand, “I can wait.”

She pulled her wrist free—not with force, but with grace. Her fingers lingered near his belt for half a second, just to leave the ghost of a possibility he’d never take.

Then she turned, stooped, and lifted her robe slowly, letting the feathers trail behind her like a queen exiting court.

The moonlight glowed against her back. Her silhouette—dangerous, divine—was the kind of image that might haunt a man’s memory.

She walked barefoot to the door, her voice floating back without looking:

“One day, Elijah Moore, you gon’ wish you said yes.”

But even as she closed the door behind her, the chill didn’t fade.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream.

But in the privacy of her own dressing room, she lit the cigar with shaking hands and stared at herself in the vanity mirror for a long, long time.

She told herself it didn’t matter.

But deep down, Odessa LaRue would never forget the first man who said no.

And she would never forgive him for it.

——

The house is buzzing—shoulder to shoulder with men in suspenders and fedoras, women in silk slips and rhinestone combs, sweat and perfume melting into the air like bourbon and smoke.

The lights dim just enough for the crowd to hush.

Cordelia steps forward in a shimmering black gown, the slit high enough to make every man lean forward, and lifts her hand.

“Now, I know y’all done seen somethin’ sweet tonight,” she purrs, voice like honey-dipped sin. “But this next girl? She ain’t just sweet—she’s soulful. Got the kind of sugar make you cry on her shoulder and forget your wife’s name.”

The audience chuckles, leans in.

Cordelia glances toward the shadows of stage right. “So go on now—lean close. Clutch your chest if you must. Light a cigarette for the ache in your heart.”

A spotlight snaps on.

“And give it up for the Blackline’s bronze beauty with the velvet laugh… the one, the only—Miss Minnie Lavonne!”

Boom—ba-dum—ta-ta!

A little tap flourish kicks in from Peaches, who’s perched on a drum stool at the edge of the stage, tossing in mischief with every beat.

From the dark, Minnie appears—sashaying slow, hips swaying like gospel hand fans on a humid Sunday. She’s in a deep wine-red corset top, high-waisted bloomers with fringe, and sheer black stockings rolled just above the knee. One hand clutches a silk robe that slips from her shoulders like a promise. The other holds a long, teasing feather fan.

She saunters straight for the center of the room—not the stage—then climbs up on a round table, heels clicking against the wood.

A few glasses slosh. One man mutters, “Lord, have mercy.”

Minnie sits down slowly—real slow—crosses her plush thighs, and lets the robe fall the rest of the way off her arms. Her skin catches the light just right, like bronze dipped in buttered rum.

Then she throws her head back and laughs—rich, full, and golden. The kind of laugh that sticks to the walls and makes even the bartenders forget they got work to do.

“Y’all don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” she coos, plucking a cherry from someone’s cocktail and slipping it between her lips. Her voice is smoke and satin, dipped in Mississippi and mischief.

The crowd hollers. Somebody yells, “Take your time, sugar!”

She smiles slow. Not the kind of smile that asks for attention. The kind that knows it already has it.

“Well now…I ain’t the loudest, I ain’t the wildest…but I am the sweetest,” Minnie says, letting her fingers glide down her leg like piano keys, “And if you cry in front of me? I’ll kiss you, bake you a pie, and make you feel like cryin’ again just so I can do it twice.”

Cordelia cackles behind her. Peaches throws in a rimshot.

Minnie shrugs, her lips curling with faux innocence, “Can’t help it. I got a soft heart and a sinful mouth.”

Then she leans forward, picking a man from the crowd with those knowing eyes. “You look like you been carryin’ somethin’ heavy. You come see me after, baby. I got just the place for you to lay that burden down.”

She winks.

The crowd roars.

And just like that—Minnie Lavonne Ford makes everyone feel like they were the only one she was talking to.

Late afternoon, The Blackline kitchen:

Rain patters soft against the windows. Smoke curls from Aunt Pearl’s stovetop, and the smell of cinnamon and vanilla fills the air.

Minnie stood barefoot on the cool kitchen floor, her hips swaying gently to the low scratch of a Billie Holiday record playing from the parlor. The apron around her waist was dusted with flour, and her hands moved with lazy confidence as she stirred brown sugar and softened butter into a thick, golden batter.

Aunt Pearl was across the room, humming softly while peeling sweet potatoes. But it was Minnie who filled the space. She didn’t try to command it—she just belonged to it. Like cinnamon in cobbler. Like a porch swing in the Delta.

The back door creaked open, and a figure slipped inside—Frankie, one of the new piano men Stack had brought in last month. He was twenty-two, sweet-faced and stuttering, with hands that played like ghosts but eyes that rarely held your gaze. He looked soaked through, curls dripping, shoulders hunched.

Minnie didn’t turn. Just said, “There’s a towel on the hook and a seat at the table.”

Frankie hesitated.

She glanced up then—just a flicker—and smiled. “Come on now. Sit before you drip yourself into pneumonia.”

He moved slow, like someone unworthy of kindness, and settled into the chair nearest her. His eyes darted around the room, then down to his hands.

She scraped the batter into a greased tin and slid it into the oven. Wiped her hands on a towel. Then crossed to the table and poured him a cup of chicory coffee from the pot that had been waiting on the warmer like she knew someone would need it.

He mumbled, “Thanks.”

Minnie sat across from him, folded one arm under her bosom and rested her chin in her hand. “Mmhm. You look like a man who been runnin’ from a woman—or maybe himself.”

Frankie blinked.

She just watched him. Calm. Patient. Like she had all the time in the world.

And maybe she did.

“You don’t have to say it,” she said softly, “But if it’s eatin’ at you, baby, you can lay it down here. I won’t tell nobody. Not even the butter.”

A flicker of something passed through his face—shame, maybe, or grief. He looked away.

“I ain’t touched a drink in six months,” he said finally, “But last night…after I played…I—”

Minnie didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. Just reached across the table and took his hand—rough, calloused, trembling.

She said, “You slipped. That’s all.”

Frankie looked at her like she was lying. Like kindness couldn’t be real.

“You tryin’, ain’t you?”

He nodded.

She smiled, “Then you ain’t lost.”

Behind her, the oven ticked. The whole room smelled like home.

Frankie’s shoulders loosened. He didn’t cry—not yet—but something in him settled.

Minnie let go and stood, “You gon’ stay for cake?”

“…Yeah.”

She nodded and went back to the counter, hips swaying again, humming softly as she pulled out the pan and set it down to cool.

From the hallway, Cordelia peeked in, clocking the scene with a knowing smirk, “You fixin’ folk again, Mama Minnie?”

“Just feedin’ ‘em,” Minnie said without turning.

Cordelia winked, “Same thing.”

Minnie Lavonne Ford was born in Biloxi, Mississippi, the middle child of five—three boys and two girls—in a little shotgun house not far from the docks. Her mother, Delilah, worked two jobs—one as a laundress, the other frying fish at the corner juke. Her father was a stevedore, mean when drunk and tired even when sober. Home was always loud—either from laughter or arguments—and Minnie learned young how to soothe a room.

She was the girl who rocked her baby brother when Mama was too tired, the one who wiped her sister’s tears with the edge of her apron. By eight, she was already mimicking her mama’s movements in the kitchen, learning to stir love into batter like sugar into grits. That’s where she learned the secret to comfort: warmth, sweetness, and quiet understanding.

Like many girls in the South, Minnie grew up in the church. But unlike the other girls, she didn’t sing, didn’t shout—she listened. Sat quiet on the back pew and heard every sorrow tucked beneath “Amen.” Folks said she had a “gift,” that she could feel people’s hurt like it was her own. She didn’t like the attention that brought.

After service, the elders would touch her cheek and say, “That child got an old soul.” Some whispered she’d be a healer. Others whispered she’d be a problem. Especially when the deacon’s wife caught her seventeen-year-old son pouring his heart out to Minnie behind the baptismal pool.

At sixteen, she fell in love with a smooth-talking boy who said she had “star eyes” and “lips like velvet.” He was nineteen, fast, and gone just as quick. Got her pregnant, promised to come back from Jackson with work and a ring—never did.

She lost the baby in her sixth month. Quietly. Alone. In the back bedroom of her aunt’s house with her older cousin wiping sweat from her brow. It changed her—deepened the way she understood silence, grief, and what it meant to hold space for someone who couldn’t hold themselves.

After that, Minnie stopped waiting for rescue.

At twenty, she left Biloxi under the hush of night. Her aunt had just passed, the house was being sold, and her mama—though she loved her—was too worn down to notice when Minnie slipped away. She took a train north, following a rumor she’d heard about a speakeasy in Little Rock where a woman could start over.

She met Cordelia first—who saw Minnie’s curves, her calm, and the sadness behind her pretty eyes and said, “You don’t talk much, huh? That’s alright. We need your kind.” Then she met Peaches, who took her out for catfish and made her laugh for the first time in months.

Stack met her on her second week. She’d made a warm sweet potato pie for the house, not expecting him to take a slice, let alone sit down next to her and ask for another. He didn’t flirt at first. Just looked at her and said, “You always this soft?”

She smiled and answered, “Only when it counts.”

He started coming to her room after that—when he couldn’t sleep, when his demons got loud, or when he just needed a moment of stillness. She never asked questions. Just kissed his knuckles and let him be.

Now, Minnie’s the one girls go to when they’re questioning their worth. The one men confess things to mid-kiss. The one who always has something sweet cooling in the kitchen and a soft lap for Stack to rest on when his mind won’t settle.

She doesn’t crave attention, power, or even permanence. What Minnie wants—what she’s always wanted—is to matter quietly. To be the one folks remember not for what she said, but how she made them feel.

They all came to Minnie eventually.

Not for sex—though she gave that, too—but for something deeper. Something they couldn’t name. She never asked for hearts, but they gave them anyway, tucked between kisses and confessions, crumbs left on her kitchen counter like offerings.

She wasn’t the loudest girl in the house. Wasn’t the wildest or the sharpest-dressed. But she was the one they remembered. The one who made the pain taste like cinnamon. The one whose lap could hold even the heaviest burdens.

And when Stack Moore couldn’t sleep? It wasn’t lust he needed—it was Minnie’s hush. Her warmth. The way her fingers stroking his hair made the whole world go quiet.

She never called herself magic.

But she was.

And that? That’s her real power.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

-so in fairly recent interviews, he mentions how he’s a delayed gratification person lmaoo and though he’s saying it in relation to his hustle, it always sound sexual/sensual -u think he a soft!dom or what?? 🤭

((-this kae btw -it won’t let me switch out my parent blog))

It’s all good! Lmao

I think so 👀 I get a sense of that with him. Nothing deeply kinky though.

Him being a delayed gratification person makes a lot of sense lmao

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

How do you manage to produce so much content in that quality?

Depends on inspiration, depends on if I have it organized and outlined, I also do a lot of research and I also draw inspiration from movies and books.

Smut isn’t an issue for me to write, it’s fairly easy. It’s the world building for me. If I don’t outline or at least have a basic understanding of what I want, how I picture it, it takes me longer. Most of these stories I have “summaries” for that I share with ya’ll and then I outline them. As I write, it comes to me with more details and such. So not everything is completely flushed out. The only story that I know how it will end is The Hoodoo Apprentice. I just have to get back into it, I sort of lost inspo when I took a break to write The Blackline.

But that’s just me, I can’t speak for everybody else. And it’s not always like this for me lol if you’ve been following me a while I tend to take my time updating. Sinners is just…idk what it is about it but I’m so eager to push my pen!

Side note: I also use synonyms, physical descriptions, facial expressions, historical details, draw inspiration from characters/stories/movies already created, I look up accents/slang to fit what I’m writing. I use Pinterest faithfully. I watch a lot of YouTube to help. I can go on and on.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

I know you got a lot of stories on your plate rn, and I’m not asking you to write a part 2 rn but I am asking if there is a possibility of a part 2 for, “The Beast and the Sweetest Cherry” in the future?

I’ve been asked to write a part two this!

In the near future, yes, I want to give you guys a part two!

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

i just found your blog earlier today and i'm reading the first chapter of The Blackline and you've already got me hooked onto your blog !

your such a good writer and the way you write violet and the rest of the characters is sooo good ❤️

you just got me outta of my writers block and excited to execute all of my drafts 😘

THANK YOU AND WELCOME!!!!!!!! 🙏🏾 ❤️

Omg!??? That’s what’s up! Glad you got that spark back! Tag me!

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

🥰❤️ @theegoldenchild I know !

Velvet Heat & Country Sin

Summary: In the thick Mississippi heat of the 1920s, identical twins Elijah “Smoke” Moore and Elias “Stack” Moore return home from war—ragged, restless, and searching for something steady. Promised opportunities have dried up, and the only offer worth taking comes from August Langston, a wealthy Black ranch owner and old friend of their father’s. August gives the boys work and a place to sleep on his sprawling land just outside Clarksdale.

But what neither twin expects is Delphine Langston.

Warnings: HARDCORE SMUT (Age gap, threesome, intense masturbation, voyeurism, exhibitionism, hyper sexuality, cheating, oral fixation, dirty talk, domination, teasing, rough sex, degradation, mirror kink, violence)

Part One

The road stretched ahead like a dried tongue, cracked with heat and caked with dust. Nothing moved but the occasional vulture overhead and the slow roll of their truck’s wheels grinding over gravel. The air was thick, syrup-thick, and even the wind seemed tired.

Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore sat behind the wheel, jaw clenched tight as the steering wheel in his grip. He hadn’t said much in over two hours—not since they passed the gas station where that white boy stared too long and spit in their direction. Stack almost got out the truck, but Smoke told him no. Not today. Not for that.

Beside him, Elias ‘Stack’ Moore leaned back, boots kicked up on the dashboard, hat pulled low over his eyes. He chewed a sliver of sugarcane between his teeth, but the sweetness didn’t touch his face. He looked asleep, but he wasn’t. Stack never slept while Smoke was driving. Never trusted a road that ran too quiet.

They both wore old army trousers and threadbare shirts that clung to their backs with sweat. Neither had shaved in days. The war had ended two years ago, but it still sat in their bones like an echo—especially in Smoke, whose hands still trembled sometimes when he wasn’t paying attention.

“We close?” Stack finally spoke, voice low and rough like gravel soaked in whiskey.

Smoke nodded once, eyes fixed on the sign just ahead

Langston Ranch – Visitors Welcome By Invitation Only

Private Property. No Trespassing.

“You think this man gon’ really help us?” Stack asked, sitting up and pulling his hat back, “Or just pat our heads and send us on to pick cotton like the rest?”

“He knew our Daddy,” Smoke said flatly, “Owes him somethin’. Said he got work. We’ll see.”

They hadn’t wanted to return to the Delta. Not like this. They’d left boys and came back changed—men made of wire and war, fists quick and tempers quicker. The government promised land, work, dignity. They got none of it. Just stares. Just silence. Just heat.

Still, Mississippi was home. And Clarksdale… Clarksdale held ghosts they hadn’t faced yet. Smoke had kept that quiet, but Stack knew. They always knew each other’s truths, even unspoken.

The road curved, and then they saw it.

A stretch of land that looked like it could swallow the sun. Cotton fields long retired, now golden with overgrown grass. Fences well-kept. A distant herd of cattle lowing under the blaze. A cluster of pecan trees in the distance. A wide barn the color of clay. And in the center of it all, perched atop a slight rise like it ruled the whole world, was a whitewashed house with a deep wraparound porch and two shadows standing still beneath it.

Smoke cut the engine. The truck sputtered to silence.

“That him?” Stack asked, hopping out of the passenger side and rolling his shoulders.

“Only one way to find out.”

Smoke stepped out slowly, dust curling around his boots. The Mississippi sun hit his back like a memory he didn’t ask for. He looked up at the house. The man on the porch stepped forward. Mid-fifties, built strong, skin dark and proud, with silver dusting his beard. Wide-brimmed hat. Suspenders. A presence like a mountain that wouldn’t move for nobody.

“Elijah. Elias,” the man called down. His voice carried without shouting, “Ain’t seen y’all since you were barely up to my hip.”

Stack smiled first. Smoke just nodded.

“Mr. Langston,” Smoke said, “Appreciate you takin’ us in.”

August Langston gave a small smile, more respectful than warm. The kind men used when they remembered burying too many good people.

“Y’all’ll earn your keep. This ain’t charity. But I meant what I said in the letter—I knew your father. Owed him my life once. Time to pay it back.”

He stepped aside, motioning them up the steps.

“Come on in. I’ll show you to the bunkhouse. Come meet the heart of it. My wife’s inside gettin’ supper ready.”

Stack’s smirk faltered.

Smoke’s eyes shifted to the doorway.

And that’s when they saw her.

August gestured toward the house with a slight cant of his head.

And then he turned.

And she stepped out.

Delphine Langston.

She moved through the doorway like light pouring through gauze—soft, slow, but certain. She wore a pale green dress with a collar just loose enough to show the hollow of her throat, sleeves cuffed above the elbow. Her skin held the glow of someone who’d been in the sun, but not too long. Barefoot on the porch planks. A gold bangle on one wrist, hair gathered in a soft knot low on her neck.

She stood behind August as he spoke, but her eyes were already on them—open, unreadable, and quiet like a hush in church.

“This here’s my wife,” August said, “Delphine.”

“Well,” she said, voice dripping slow and warm as honey in a skillet, “Y’all must be the Moore boys. It’s Elijah and Elias, isn’t it?”

Smoke tipped his head, words caught in his mouth. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Not right away.

Stack cleared his throat gently, smiling as he stepped forward.

“Ma’am.”

“Miss Delphine,” she corrected softly, “But only if you plan to stay polite.”

Her voice was like water drawn from a well—cool and full-bodied, something that settled deep and lingered sweet at the edges.

She smiled then, not too wide, not too coy.

Just enough.

Stack nodded.

Delphine’s gaze moved between them, slow and searching—not cold. Just curious in a way that made the air thicken.

“Well,” she said, folding her hands loosely in front of her. “House gets a little quieter with company. Hope y’all don’t mind the sound of your own footsteps.”

“We don’t,” Smoke said, eyes still on her.

She was a silhouette in the frame, sunlight curling around her like a halo. Barefoot, hips high, house dress clinging to her curves like it knew every inch of her. A breeze teased the hem, lifted it just enough to show thigh. Her hand rested lazy on the doorframe, but her eyes…her eyes were awake.

Smoke’s mouth went dry.

Stack forgot how to breathe.

August Langston led the twins down the steps, the sun pressing down harder with each footfall. His stride was steady, boots crunching on dry gravel, and his words were few—measured like a man who didn’t waste air or kindness unless it counted.

“You’ll rise with the sun. Feed, clean, ride. Cattle mostly, some horses. I run a tight place. No slackers. No late mouths at the table.”

“Yes, sir,” Stack said with a smirk, rubbing the back of his neck.

Smoke only nodded, eyes flicking back toward the house—toward her.

Delphine hadn’t said another word after that first molten greeting. But she didn’t have to. She’d lingered in the doorway just long enough to feel like a dream—and then disappeared into the shadows of her home. But Smoke felt her. Like a hand still resting on his chest.

August pointed across the fields.

“Over there’s the retired cotton fields. We let ‘em rest a few years back. Still good land, but we focus on cattle now.”

“That’s a lotta land to work,” Stack noted.

“More than two hands can manage,” August said, “But I trust y’all.”

“We ain’t afraid of sweat,” Smoke said low, jaw set.

August nodded once, then gestured ahead, “Bunkhouse’s past that split fence. You’ll have it to yourselves for now. Supper’s at six. Delphine don’t like late men.”

Smoke heard the way he said her name—casual, but faintly possessive. As if he knew what she stirred just by standing still.

“She always cook like that?” Stack asked under his breath once August was a few paces ahead.

“Don’t start,” Smoke muttered.

But he looked again. Couldn’t help it.

Behind them, lace curtains fluttered.

She was watching.

The bunkhouse sat warm and sun-bleached, the wood gray from years of heat and memory. Inside, it was simple, two cots, a basin, a cracked mirror, a shared dresser with dents in the drawers. A breeze slipped through the screen window, not enough to fight the sweat pooling in their shirts.

Stack dropped his bag on the cot nearest the window.

“Ain’t bad,” he said, sitting down, legs spread, “I’ve laid my head on worse.”

Smoke stood still in the doorway, letting the dust settle around his boots. He could still feel her—Delphine—in his chest. Like he’d breathed her in without meaning to.

“You see the way she looked at us?” Stack asked, tossing his hat onto the dresser, “Like we were somethin’ sweet she wasn’t supposed to want.”

“You already thinkin’ wrong,” Smoke said flatly.

“Hell, I ain’t even touched her.” Stack said.

“Don’t plan on it either.”

Stack turned toward him, brows raised, “You didn’t feel that?”

Smoke didn’t answer. Just sat on the edge of his own cot and pulled off his boots slow, one by one.

“She’s married,” he finally said, low and sharp.

“So’s temptation,” Stack replied with a grin, “Still shows up uninvited.”

They didn’t speak for a minute.

A fly buzzed somewhere near the rafters.

The silence stretched. Long and heavy. Full of things neither of them could name yet.

Then Smoke leaned back, closed his eyes, and whispered, more to himself than to Stack.

“That woman gon’ burn us down.”

Two Years Earlier. 1919

Winter. Chicago

The city didn’t sleep right. Smoke could never rest with all that noise—the screech of trolleys, the grind of alley fights, the cold that bit through wool like it was personal.

They’d come to Chicago after the war. Promised jobs. Land. Dignity. A new world.

What they got was cold soup, calloused white hands pointing to the back door, and too many “no vacancies.” Stack worked a factory line for two months until the foreman told him to go back where he came from. Smoke boxed underground for money. Once killed a man with one punch. They never let him fight again.

Stack remembered that night. The blood. The silence. Smoke’s knuckles split open like scripture.

“You okay?” Stack asked, kneeling beside him.

“That ain’t what I wanted,” Smoke whispered, “Just wanted to be seen.”

They left the city after that.

Took what little money they had, rode freight trains and backroads all the way south. Too proud to beg. Too angry to break.

And now…now they stood on land their father once touched. Answering the call of a man who owed him something. But what neither of them knew—what no voice had warned—was that the real test wasn’t work. It wasn’t survival.

It was her.

Delphine Langston.

Standing behind lace.

Wearing sunlight like perfume.

And stirring a hunger they’d never had a name for.

The dining room smelled of smoked ham and sweet bread, peach glaze and fresh rosemary. The table was long, hand-carved mahogany, with a cream linen runner and pressed napkins folded just so. There were only four chairs. And only one woman who made the air feel tight.

Delphine Langston was already seated when the twins walked in. She wore soft blue tonight—a house dress, but fitted just enough to suggest something beneath it worth wanting. Her hair was pinned loose at the nape, one curl tumbling near her collarbone like it was daring a man to follow it with his mouth.

“There they are,” she said, smiling slow as honey off the spoon, “I hope y’all brought your appetites. I do like feedin’ men with manners.”

Stack cleared his throat and tugged at his shirt collar like it suddenly didn’t fit.

Smoke said nothing, but his eyes dipped once to her neckline. He forced them back up before August could notice.

“You boys sit,” August said, nodding to the chairs across from him, “Delphine, you done outdid yourself.”

“I do try,” she spoke, slicing a honey-drizzled ham and passing the platter down. Her fingers brushed Stack’s as she handed him the tongs—just for a breath, just enough to feel.

The table was filled with food. Candied yams, biscuits soft as air, collard greens with smoked turkey, pecan cornbread that steamed when broken.

“Eat,” she said, smiling at Smoke now, “Ain’t nothin’ cold here but the tea.”

That voice—sweet, low, warm at the edges—hit him somewhere behind the ribs. He picked up his fork but didn’t speak.

August started in with ranch talk. Branding schedules, feed orders, the next week’s work. But Smoke only caught half of it. His eyes kept flicking back to Delphine’s hands—how she cut her greens slowly, how her lips closed softly around her tea glass. She didn’t touch her food much. She watched them eat.

“You two are quiet,” she said, amusement in her voice, “You always that quiet? Or just around women who use too much butter?”

“You don’t use too much,” Stack said before he could think, “You use it right.”

Delphine’s smile turned sharp and wicked, though her tone remained pure sugar.

“Well now. You keep talkin’ like that and I might start feedin’ you separate from your brother.”

August chuckled, not catching the undertone. Smoke did. His jaw flexed tight, eyes dropping to his plate like it might save him.

Delphine rose to fetch another pitcher of tea. When she passed behind them, both twins turned slightly, drawn to the soft swish of her dress and the scent of rosewater and cinnamon clinging to her skin.

“She’s gonna be a problem,” Smoke muttered once August excused himself to get his pipe from the parlor.

“The best kind,” Stack said, already looking toward the door she disappeared behind.

The scent of warm yams, cinnamon, and sweet cornbread still lingered in the kitchen, though the plates were scraped clean and the men had gone quiet. August was out on the veranda with his pipe, tapping the bowl against the railing and staring out at the pasture like it held answers.

Delphine stood at the sink, sleeves pushed up, her hands submerged in warm, sudsy water. Her hips rocked in a slow rhythm as she washed one dish at a time—not rushed, not idle. Just enough motion to keep from thinking too hard.

She heard the door creak.

Footsteps. Hesitant.

She didn’t turn around.

“Ma’am—Miss Delphine?” a voice said, deep and careful, “You need a hand with that?”

A second voice followed—lighter, smoother, with a flick of charm in it.

“Ain’t right letting you do all that alone.”

She smiled to herself before answering. That kind of sweetness didn’t come from manners. It came from curiosity.

“That so?” she said, still facing the sink, “Y’all done eaten my food and now want to see how I clean up after it?”

“We figured we could help.”

She turned then, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she looked at them.

Both standing just inside the threshold. Both tall, built from sweat and war. One had his arms crossed. The other had his hands in his pockets. They looked the same but held themselves different. She’d been watching—quietly cataloguing.

She tilted her head.

“Now which one of y’all is Elijah, and which one is Elias?”

They glanced at each other—brief, silent.

“I been married to a man fifteen years and I still get surprised by his moods. Twins? Lord, I don’t stand a chance.”

“I’m Elijah,” the quieter one said, “Folks call me Smoke.”

“Stack,” said the other, a grin teasing the corner of his mouth, “Though Mama named me Elias.”

Delphine gave a soft laugh, the kind that stayed low in her throat and curled sweet at the end.

“Smoke and Stack,” she repeated, pointing slowly between them, “What kind of names are those?”

“Earned,” Smoke said.

Stack winked, “Sticky names for dirty work.”

Delphine turned back to the sink before they could see her amusement. She didn’t like feeding men too much pride too quick. Not even the beautiful ones.

“Well,” she said lightly, rinsing a plate, “Y’all feel free to dry if your hands work.”

They didn’t move at first. Just stood there, watching her body shift with the soft sway of her cleaning, the rise and dip of her back beneath the cotton, the curl of her neck as she leaned.

She felt their eyes like a second heat.

“You ever met twins before?” Stack asked after a moment.

“Once,” she replied, drying her hands now, “Back when I was still singin’. Danced with one, flirted with the other. Got in trouble with both.”

She didn’t look back, but she heard the breath one of them sucked in.

She turned, holding a dish towel out.

“Here,” she said, “Dry, then go. A woman can only take so many eyes before she start wonderin’ if they mean to watch or take somethin’.”

Neither of them spoke.

But they both took a plate.

And she smiled.

Because she knew the look in a man’s eye when he lingers.

The bunkhouse was hot that night. The kind of thick heat that made sweat pool behind the knees and dreams come too slow. Stack kicked off his sheet and rose with a grunt, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He needed to piss and cool off. Maybe splash some water on his neck and shake the itch crawling under his skin.

He stepped outside barefoot, the grass damp and cool beneath his soles. The moon was high—full, round, bright enough to make everything silver.

He walked behind the bunkhouse, and that’s when he saw her.

Delphine.

Standing barefoot in her garden beneath the moonflowers, in nothing but a thin cotton nightgown and a silk robe tied loosely at the waist. Her hair was down, wild around her shoulders. She moved slowly, running her fingers over the petals, humming something low under her breath.

She looked like a ghost in the dark. A ghost with hips. Stack stayed still in the shadow, heart hammering too loud in his ears.

She picked a jasmine bloom, lifted it to her nose, and smiled.

Then—she looked up.

Straight at him.

He didn’t know if she’d heard his breath or just felt him. But her eyes locked with his like a slow trap, like she already knew what part of him was burning.

She didn’t speak. Just raised one hand… and let her robe slip down her shoulder, baring one honeyed arm and the soft curve beneath it.

Then she turned, slow, and disappeared into the house.

Stack stood there, jaw tight, eyes dark, his need sharp and sudden as a switchblade.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

She was going to ruin him.

And he hadn’t even touched her yet.

Smoke couldn’t sleep. He lay on the cot, one arm behind his head, eyes open to the ceiling, his other hand draped over his chest. The fan above them creaked in lazy circles, stirring nothing.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled him under.

And when it did, it took him somewhere warm.

He dreamed of magnolias.

Not the flowers—but the scent. Sweet, sultry, with a sharp edge beneath it like rain on hot dirt. He stood in the garden, the night air thick around him. And she was there.

Delphine.

Wearing white. Not a dress. Not a nightgown. Just… white. Like mist wrapped in silk. She stood by the pecan tree, lips parted, one bare foot raised slightly off the earth like she didn’t quite belong to it.

“You gonna come closer?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. He just walked to her.

When he reached her, she didn’t move. Just looked up at him with those heavy-lidded eyes and let her fingers trail along his jaw. Not possessive. Not shy. Like she already knew how he tasted.

She leaned in, mouth at his ear.

“You ain’t gotta be good with me.”

Smoke stirred in his sleep, one leg shifting beneath the sheet.

In the dream, her hands were warm on his chest. She pressed a kiss to his sternum. One to the side of his throat. Her breath was heat. Her hair brushed his lips. And her voice—

“I won’t tell.”

He woke with a hard gasp, sweat rolling down his temples, one hand pressed to his stomach.

His dick was stiff—aching—his heart thudding too loud in the stillness.

He hadn’t felt like this in over a year. Hadn’t let himself.

Smoke sat up slowly. Ran both hands down his face.

“Goddamn woman,” he whispered.

He didn’t touch himself. Didn’t finish the burn.

He just sat there in the dark, needing something he couldn’t name, and knowing—

She wasn’t just a problem.

She was the match.

And he was already burning.

The kitchen smelled of browned butter and cane sugar.

Sunlight poured in through the east window, catching the copper pans and glass jars with a glow so rich it looked like amber syrup was seeping through the air. The house was still quiet—August was out tending to the horses, and the twins were likely just rising.

Delphine moved with instinct, gathering what she needed. Butter softened in a chipped white dish. Cornmeal and flour sifted together. Buttermilk cold against her fingers. Her night was still on her skin, a hum beneath her clothes she hadn’t shaken loose.

She hadn’t slept long. Didn’t need to. The ache she carried wasn’t the kind rest could mend. A curl slipped loose from her wrap and fell along her cheek. She didn’t bother brushing it away.

She hummed as she moved. Not a full tune—just the ghost of a melody she used to sing when her hands weren’t full of chores or memory. Something slow. Bluesy. Low enough to stir a soul without waking it fully.

She cracked an egg, one-handed. A familiar rhythm.

Behind her, floorboards creaked.

Then she felt it.

That shift in the air.

A stillness that meant she was not alone.

She didn’t turn immediately.

She let the silence stretch—let him think she hadn’t noticed.

Then, gently, she set the spoon down and wiped her hands on her apron.

“Morning, Miss Delphine.”

Elijah’s voice.

Low, rough with sleep, like sugar cane crushed down to something thick.

“You always move that quiet, Elijah? Or is it just my kitchen brings out the hush in men?”

Smoke cleared his throat behind her.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t.”

Now she turned.

He stood in the doorway, shirt half-buttoned, boots unlaced, hair still a little damp from washing. The sun caught him sideways—lit his jaw and collarbone in honeyed amber, and the look in his eyes…

That look was what women pretended not to see.

She tilted her head slightly, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“You eat in the morning, Elijah?”

“I do.”

“Good. I make my biscuits with lard. None of that city butter nonsense.”

He nodded, gaze dipping briefly to the curve of her waist, the slip of skin at her collarbone.

Delphine caught it.

But she didn’t shame it. She understood it.

The war had starved men in ways they didn’t speak of.

She turned back to the oven, bending just slightly as she slid the cobbler in. When she stood, she wiped her hands again and walked toward the stove, where a pot of coffee was beginning to bubble.

“Want me to pour you a cup?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She reached for the mugs, her fingers lingering just a second longer on the rim.

When she handed it to him, their fingers brushed.

That same quiet heat.

That unspoken dare.

Still nothing overt.

But nothing innocent either.

“Stack still sleepin’?” she asked, taking a sip from her own mug.

“He’s up. Just movin’ slow.”

“Y’all always move different in the morning?”

“Stack gets loud. I get still.”

Delphine smiled. Let that truth settle between them.

She walked to the open back door and stood in the sun, sipping her coffee, robe fluttering lightly at the hem.

Smoke didn’t leave the kitchen. He stood behind her, quiet, still. Watching the morning light slip across her skin like prayer. He didn’t speak again, just lingered in the doorway. She could feel him there—big and quiet like thunder in the distance. Not moving. Just watching her shoulders. Her waist. The easy sway of her hips as she worked.

“You gon’ stand there lookin’ till I burn the cornbread?”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. He shook his head, but didn’t leave.

Delphine rolled her eyes, soft and teasing, and slid the skillet into the oven.

She bent slightly—knew how she looked from behind. Knew exactly what he was seeing.

But when she stood, she only dusted her hands and kept it moving. She moved to the sink, rinsing her hands in the cool basin. His eyes stayed with her the whole time. She felt it the way a woman always does.

By the time Stack stepped into the kitchen, the scent of baking cornbread and fried salt pork had already curled through the house like a lover’s whisper. He paused just past the threshold. Delphine was at the sink again—elbows deep in soapy water, her back to him, shoulders relaxed, humming low under her breath. Something old and gospel-sweet. Her hips moved slightly with it, swaying like branches in wind that knew its rhythm.

Stack leaned against the frame, arms folded. Took his time admiring what August probably hadn’t touched in months.

Shame.

She turned slightly, glancing at him from over her shoulder, one brow arched.

“You lookin’ for breakfast or a job, Elias?”

“Could be both,” he answered, pushing off the doorframe, “Figured I’d earn it if I ate it.”

She smiled—just a flicker.

“You know your way around a kitchen?”

“’Round it, maybe. Inside it? Not unless I’m fixin’ to steal pie.”

That got a laugh from her. A rich, honey-warm sound that curled around his spine like smoke.

“Mmh,” she said, rinsing a plate, “Dryin’ cloth’s over there. Let’s see if you halfway useful.”

He found it, moved beside her. Not too close. Just enough that her scent—brown sugar, lemon balm, and something woman-warm drifted up each time she moved. They worked in silence for a moment. Her hands washed, his dried. The air between them heavy in that kind of way that don’t need words.

“Folks say twins can feel each other’s thoughts,” she said, not looking at him, “That true?”

“Sometimes,” Stack said, “Depends on what kind of thought.”

“And what kind you got now?”

She turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his. There was no flirt in her voice. Not obvious, anyway. Just that Southern dare that sweet women use when they know they’re dangerous.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

“None I’d say out loud, Miss Delphine.”

A beat passed.

Then she handed him the next plate. Fingers brushed. Her touch lingered a second too long.

“Good answer,” she said, “Keep thinkin’ quiet.”

They went back to work like nothing happened.

But both of them felt it.

Felt the thrum rising slow between them, quiet as a storm before it breaks.

Smoke was already sitting at the table, shirt still clinging damp to his back from the early work. The smell of salt pork and baked cornbread hung thick in the air, warm and coaxing. Delphine was at the stove, back turned again, humming soft as she slid eggs onto a plate.

Stack didn’t speak. Just moved to sit across from his brother, nodding once as he did.

Smoke gave the barest nod back.

The only sounds were the scrape of chair legs, the crack of plates against wood, and the faint creak of the ceiling fan overhead.

Delphine placed a plate in front of Stack without a word, her fingers brushing the edge. He looked up just as she turned. Her eyes didn’t linger, but her hips did—rocking slow with each step back to the stove.

Stack looked across the table.

Elijah was watching her too—quiet, unreadable, chewing slow like he was thinking of anything but food.

“Mr. Langston wants me to ride into town with him after this,” Stack said, tearing off a piece of cornbread, “Wants to check in on somethin’ before next week’s shipment.”

Smoke didn’t say anything at first. He just kept chewing. Then he nodded.

“You drivin’ or just ridin’ along?”

“Said I’d help load whatever he needs. Might stop at the feed store, maybe the grocer.” Stack paused, “You want me to pick you up anything?”

Smoke’s eyes flicked toward him.

“No,” he said, “Don’t take long. Still need to finish the fence.”

“I know.”

They lapsed into quiet again.

Both men ate. Slow, methodical. Each aware of the other’s silence.

From the stove, Delphine poured herself a glass of water. She didn’t sit. Just leaned on the edge of the counter and sipped, the morning light washing her skin gold. Her dress clung in the front now too—showing the outline of her soft belly, the heavy curve of her breasts beneath the cotton.

Stack glanced at Smoke again.

His brother was still eating—but his jaw had gone tight.

That quiet, still rage that came not from anger but from hunger. The kind a man buried so deep it became part of his bones.

Stack smirked a little and shook his head.

He took another bite of cornbread, butter melting down his fingers, and kept chewing. Like the end of the world wasn’t already stewing in the kitchen.

Clarksdale hadn’t changed much.

Same sun-baked roads. Same whitewashed storefronts. Same men with slow eyes and women with quicker ones. But something felt different now that he was back. He wasn’t a boy anymore. Wasn’t just some loud-mouthed twin with quick fists and a sharper tongue.

Now he was a man with dirt under his nails and blood in his memories.

And folk could see it in his eyes.

He rode passenger while August Langston drove the truck through town, a crate of sweet potatoes and muscadine jelly jostling in the back, along with a few bags of corn feed for the horses.

“You remember where the store’s at?” August asked, eyes straight ahead beneath the brim of his hat.

“The Chow’s place?” Stack replied, “Ain’t moved since we were little. Always smelled like fish and pepper vinegar.”

August gave a low chuckle, “Ain’t nothin’ ever really change in Clarksdale. Just people come and go.”

“Sometimes they come back different.”

August didn’t answer that.

They parked near the curb where dust curled off the wheels and boots slapped against the porch steps. The sun was beating good now, but the town was alive—women with baskets of greens on their hips, kids chasing chickens in the alley, men chewing toothpicks in the shade with stories they wouldn’t say around wives.

Stack hopped out, leaned against the side of the truck for a breath.

That’s when he saw him.

Bo Chow—still short, still lean in the chest, all wiry muscle and sharp eyes—was out front hauling in a crate of catfish wrapped in newspaper from a local supplier. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms slick with water, apron tied tight around his narrow waist. His face lit up when he saw Stack.

“Damn, Stack?” Bo dropped the crate right there, “Boy, I thought you was dead or married!”

“Half dead, ain’t married!” Stack grinned, stepping forward to grip his hand, “But the Lord saw fit to spit me back out.”

Bo pulled him into a quick hug, clapped his back twice.

“Where Smoke at?”

“Ranch. Got us work again. August Langston took us in.”

“That man still upright?” Bo laughed, “Hell. You must’ve made an impression.”

“Daddy did. August owed him.”

Bo sobered for a breath. Looked Stack over.

“You look good, man. A little haunted—but good.”

Stack smirked but didn’t argue.

Behind them, Bo’s younger cousin peeked out the door of the store, curiosity in her eyes.

“You still runnin’ this place?” Stack asked.

“Yeah. Mama passed. Daddy’s mostly in the back. Got cousins helpin’. We stayin’ afloat. You comin’ by for real food soon or just flirtin’ with my fish?”

“Both.”

August called from the truck then, voice sharp but not unkind.

“Elias.”

Stack tipped his hat.

“Gotta run.”

Bo nodded, “A’ight. Come by later. First jar of pickled okra on the house.”

As Stack walked back to the truck, he felt it: something strange in the ease of that conversation. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

Belonging.

August was quiet as he shifted the truck into gear.

Then, after a few minutes on the road, August spoke.

“You your daddy’s boy.”

Stack looked over, unsure what to make of the tone.

“He was fire,” August said, still not looking at him, “Hard-headed. Could charm a knife out a man’s boot. Trouble, but loyal.”

“He wasn’t always kind,” Stack said.

“No. He wasn’t. But he protected what was his.”

The truck hit a bump. The crate shifted behind them.

“You got that same edge,” August added, softer now, “It’s not a bad thing. Just be careful who you cut with it.”

Stack didn’t answer.

He just stared out the window, the trees passing like ghosts.

And in the quiet space between them, he thought of Delphine’s robe slipping down her shoulder.

And wondered what kind of cut that would be.

That dress this morning—so thin it might as well have been nothing. The way she moved through that house like it was hers and always had been. A full-grown woman with hips made to cradle. Breasts that begged to be worshipped. Skin that looked like it held the day’s heat long after sundown.

She was older. He knew that. Not by much, but enough.

Old enough to know how to undo a man slow, and never say sorry for it.

Stack shifted in the seat, jaw flexing.

Was August even touchin’ her like that anymore?

He didn’t seem the type to keep up. Not lately. Not with that stiff, preacher-like calm he wore more and more. Stack had watched the man leave for the stables early, smoke his pipe late, barely brush Delphine’s arm in passing.

Shame, he thought, jaw ticking. All that woman should be tended to regular.

He imagined how she’d be—sweet and mean at the same time, pressing her mouth against a man’s throat, pulling his hair, saying his name like a song and a warning.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

Bet she’d lose her damn mind over a young dick. One that could go more than once. One that ain’t afraid to lift her up and take his time with every inch.

Stack let out a breath and adjusted his legs.

He shouldn’t be thinking like this.

Not with the man right next to him.

But hell, he couldn’t help it.

Delphine wasn’t just beautiful. She carried something. That kind of sexual energy you didn’t just see—you felt it on your skin. Like heat before a thunderstorm. Like static on your knuckles before a spark. She smiled soft and polite around August, but Stack saw the glint in her eye. The still-burning woman under all that sweet.

And Lord, did he want to be the one to let her burn.

The truck hit a bump, rattling them both slightly.

“You alright?” August asked, glancing at him for the first time.

Stack nodded once, clearing his throat.

“Yeah. Just thinkin’.”

August made a small sound, something between understanding and dismissal. He tapped his pipe against the doorframe. Stack looked out the window again, the ranch drawing closer, the sky starting to split gold and rose over the fields.

He didn’t say another word.

Didn’t need to.

His thoughts were already back in that kitchen.

Back with her.

He didn’t mean to stop.

Smoke had just come from the field, shirt tied at the waist, dirt smudged along his arms and neck. The sun was cruel overhead, but there was shade near the kitchen window—just enough to pause a minute and let his body cool.

Butter. Brown sugar. Cobbler still warm, crust soft and golden like a kiss to the tongue. That’s what hit him when he stepped around back, arms sore from the woodpile, sweat clinging to his neck.

That was when he saw her.

Delphine.

She was at the window, back turned, sliding cobblers from the oven to the sill with practiced ease. Bare arms flexing gently with each lift. Her thin cotton dress—white, almost sheer in the sunlight—clung to every curve God took His sweet time on.

Hips like she was poured into the world.

Breasts full and soft beneath the fabric, bouncing faintly with her motion.

That ass—Jesus—round and high, framed like a painting in the kitchen light.

She moved like a woman who knew she was being watched, even if she didn’t look up.

She was humming low—something bluesy and wordless. It wrapped around Smoke’s spine like honey drizzled slow.

He stood still.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe much either.

A bead of sweat rolled from his temple down his jaw. He wiped it absently, eyes never leaving her. She licked her thumb, touched the edge of a crust, then gave a soft, satisfied sigh.

Smoke shifted his stance, suddenly aware of the way his pants felt tight around the groin. He cursed under his breath.

This ain’t nothin’ but trouble.

But he didn’t walk off.

Not yet.

She reached up to adjust the curtain, her body stretching just so—and the dress lifted higher on the backs of her thighs. Lord, he could almost see the split where her legs met. Could almost taste the sweetness she kept pressed between them like fruit in summer heat.

His hands balled into fists at his sides.

He was hard.

Hard and angry about it.

Not at her—but at himself. At the way he wanted so bad it made his teeth ache.

“You gon’ stare all day, Elijah?”

Her voice came through the window, amused but low—thick like syrup over warm bread.

He froze.

She didn’t look at him. Just set the last cobbler down and turned back to the counter.

“Ain’t polite,” she added, voice smooth.

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“It’s Miss Delphine.”

He backed away slowly, jaw tight, heat still pulsing between his legs. He turned, headed back toward the field, dust swirling around his boots.

He shouldn’t’ve looked.

But the scent got him first.

And then she leaned into the windowsill.

Dress clinging. Hips tilted just so. That thick ass perched high like it was placed on a platter, framed by the sunlight pouring in.

He stopped breathing.

She didn’t even glance his way. Just lifted onto her toes to slide another cobbler outside—hips shifting with that slow, syrupy grace that turned his knees loose.

His dick jumped.

And then she had turned.

Eyes like she’d been waitin’ on him to break.

Shit.

Smoke jerked his head back to the woodpile like it mattered. Gripped the axe too hard. Split the log wrong. But it didn’t matter. It was too late.

Because now all he could see was her mouth.

That lush, wicked mouth—full lips that looked like they were born to take things slow. He’d watched her drag a spoon between them the day before, licking peach juice like it was some private ritual. He’d had to leave the room.

And her thighs? Soft as risen dough, wide and welcoming when she sat with one leg crossed slow over the other. When she bent down, they kissed at the top, leaving just the smallest shadow between them.

He’d gone half-hard just watching her serve biscuits.

But her ass?

Lord. That was the thing that ruined him.

It moved like water. Like molasses warmed over fire. Every sway dragged his eyes and every curve told him he didn’t know a damn thing about control. When she walked past him that morning, the heat of her hips brushed him—just barely—and he’d nearly moaned out loud.

It’s only been two days.

And he was hard constantly.

Working with his shirt stuck to his back, dick pressed to the inside of his thigh like it was trying to reach for her. Dreaming about the way she said “baby”, like she could feed it to you with a spoon.

She didn’t even have to try.

Delphine was indulgence. Warm and sticky. Sin in a silk robe, humming blues under her breath while she stirred honey into hot biscuits with one bare foot up on the counter.

He wasn’t a boy, but she made him feel like one.

That ass…that mouth…the soft inside of her thighs…

“Fuck,” he muttered, adjusting himself behind the stack of logs like the wood might give him mercy.

She was still at the window, humming now. Slow. Sweet.

He swung the axe again. And again.

It didn’t help. The ache had settled deep.

Tonight he’d lie on that narrow cot, sweaty and strung tight, imagining the taste of brown sugar on her skin and her voice calling him baby.

And he’d pray to God she never caught him looking again.

Or worse—pray that she would.

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

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Blackline Girls

Summary: This is an introduction into the women of The Blackline!

Cordelia. Peaches. Odessa. & Minnie

Part one

Spotlight hits the stage. Gold flecks shimmer in the smoky air. The pianist taps out a teasing tune—a slow, jazzy build like foreplay. The host steps into the light, all charm and smirk.

HOST (with a grin and a Charleston bounce in his step):

“Ladies…gentlemen…sinners of every shade and flavor…I hope you’re holdin’ tight to your drink—’cause what you’re about to witness? She ain’t just sugar, baby. She’s spice, gunpowder, and a silver-tongued kiss with a bite on the end.”

The crowd whoops. Someone whistles. A glass clinks.

HOST (cont.):

“She walked into this house in a worn-out dress and a war in her eyes. Said she could outpour any man, outshoot any thief, and outlove any woman. And guess what? She did.”

The music kicks. Slow, sultry brass and a high hat. The curtain draws back.

HOST (cont., voice rising):

“Put your hands together for the storm with a waistline—The siren with a pistol in her garter—The only woman Stack Moore lets run his house when he’s gone—Give it up for the one, the only…Miss Cordeliaaaa!!!”

The lights shift red. Cordelia emerges.

She doesn’t walk—she glides.

Velvet black gown hugging her hips, slit high enough to cause prayer. Gloves to her elbows. Hair slicked and waved like a river at midnight. A cigarette burns between her fingers, curling smoke into a question mark. Her eyes scan the room—lazy, unreadable.

She doesn’t smile. She smirks.

A slow, deliberate smirk that says:

“I know what you want. I might even give it to you. But it’ll cost.”

The music hits its stride. She sways to it—hips like molasses, slow and thick.

One heel steps forward. Click. Another. Click.

She leans against the upright piano, crosses one leg over the other, and says without a mic:

CORDELIA:

“Well damn. I didn’t know y’all missed me that much.”

Laughter. Cheers. Someone throws a rose.

CORDELIA (blows smoke, purring):

“You want a drink? You’ll wait. You want a dance? You’ll tip. You want me? You’ll bleed.”

The house erupts.

She lifts her glass. Doesn’t drink—just holds it high like a queen acknowledging her kingdom.

CORDELIA (to the crowd):

“Welcome to The Blackline, babies. Let’s misbehave.”

From the corner booth, she looked like a sin dressed in velvet.

The Blackline pulsed around her—jazz thumping low like a heartbeat, women laughing behind silk fans, and men trying to buy time they couldn’t afford. But Cordelia? She didn’t move like the rest. She didn’t rush, didn’t lean, didn’t flirt unless it fed her. She sat like the air belonged to her. And in many ways, it did.

She was perched behind the bar now, elbow resting against the worn wood, cigarette balanced between two fingers gloved in black mesh. The red glow of its tip lit the curve of her cheekbone like an ember caught in motion. Her lips were painted the color of ripe plums, and her eyes—dark, long-lashed, knowing—swept the room not to see, but to assess. A glance from Cordelia wasn’t curiosity.

It was calculation.

Someone whistled from the end of the bar. A young buck, new to The Blackline. He leaned in, cocky, loose with liquor and assumptions.

“You lookin’ like a sweet treat tonight, baby,” he slurred, “How much for a bite?”

Cordelia exhaled slowly, the smoke curling toward him like a curse. She didn’t even blink, “That line tired, sugar. Go sit down before I call Stack to remind you what respect sounds like.”

He chuckled. Loud, stupid, “You ain’t all that.”

She smiled then—slow and dangerous, “You’re right. I’m more.”

He opened his mouth to say something slick, but Cordelia had already turned. Didn’t waste breath. She poured a drink, slid it down the bar to Peaches with the kind of grace that made you forget there was steel beneath the silk.

Cordelia was siren and shadow. Velvet and venom. She liked women best—said they bloomed softer, came harder, and left thank-you notes instead of bruises. Still, when Stack wanted her, she let him. Not because he asked. Because she allowed it. Because their bodies spoke in a language made of control and combustion, and Cordelia knew how to turn surrender into command.

She didn’t need to be in charge to be powerful. She just needed to choose.

Later that Night

Violet watched her from the side, chin propped on one hand. She hadn’t known women like Cordelia growing up—women who didn’t shrink themselves, who wore desire like diamonds and didn’t apologize for it. Cordelia had helped her find her voice here. Her style. Pulled her into the back once and said, “You wearin’ lace like it’s armor. But baby, lace ain’t meant to hide you. It’s meant to dare someone to touch.”

Violet never forgot that.

Tonight, Cordelia caught her watching.

Their eyes met. A flash of something old passed between them—desire, maybe. Or recognition. Cordelia smirked, lifted her glass in silent salute, then turned back to her drink.

Violet smiled.

Cordelia might’ve come from hard edges and hushed names, but here, in this place built on sweat and firelight?

She was royalty.

“She Ain’t Crude—She’s Crowned”

Where She Came From: South Memphis, Tennessee

Cordelia was born on a sticky summer night in South Memphis, behind a storefront church where her mama swept the floors and sometimes sang Sunday solos with tears in her throat. Her father was the kind of man who looked good in a pew but didn’t stay for the benediction—he left before Cordelia could form her first full sentence.

She was raised by women who had too little money and too much pride. Her grandmother wore a pistol under her apron and didn’t believe in sparing the rod. Her auntie, a tired beautician with burnt-out eyes, once told her, “You either learn to stir men, or get stirred by ’em. Choose fast.”

Cordelia chose early.

Cordelia’s beauty came in like a storm: sudden, sharp, impossible to ignore. Long legs, deep brown skin that glistened like oiled mahogany, eyes that told grown men to sit down and hush. By thirteen, the deacons were looking too long. By fourteen, the church women had branded her with whispers.

She wasn’t fast. She was curious. Curious about her body, her power, the way boys stuttered and men stared. She didn’t feel shame—she felt charged.

At fifteen, she let a boy touch her under a flickering streetlamp—not for love, not even for pleasure, but to test how easily he’d give up control. He cried afterward. She didn’t.

Word spread. Names were thrown. Jezebel. Devil’s girl. Crude.

She wore it like perfume.

At sixteen, a married choir leader tried to corner her in the baptismal. Cordelia scratched his cheek open and walked home like nothing happened. That night, her aunt slapped her hard enough to split her lip and screamed, “I won’t have a whore under my roof!”

So Cordelia left.

With nothing but a silver comb, a small bag of clothes, and a tin of pomade, she boarded a train heading west. The first night, she slept upright between a box of chickens and a preacher who didn’t try her—but watched.

She learned two things on that ride:

1. Men don’t need an invitation.

2. Her silence was sharper than a blade.

She hit Little Rock with blistered feet and a stare that cut glass. A cousin told her about a place—“not quite a juke, not quite a whorehouse… something special.” Said it was run by two brothers, dangerous and dark, but good to the girls who held their own.

The Blackline.

Cordelia showed up in a wrinkled skirt and an attitude. Stack met her at the door, cocky and amused. “You look like trouble,” he said.

“I am trouble,” she replied. “And I pour drinks better than any man in your backroom.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You shoot?”

“Only if I mean to kill.”

He let her in.

She become a Queen in Silk Gloves

She started behind the bar, learned fast, watched harder. She didn’t just flirt—she studied. She didn’t beg—she chose. Stack saw it right away. She wasn’t soft, wasn’t shy, wasn’t sweet. She was something else.

He took her to bed one night and found she didn’t moan for praise. She moaned for control. He liked that. So did she.

Cordelia slept with Stack when she felt like it. Watched his moods. Helped manage the girls. Cleaned up his messes with elegance. Over time, he trusted her more than anyone else. She was never called madam—but she acted like one.

And she chose her clients: women, mostly. The ones curious, quiet, or aching. She didn’t just fuck them—she fed them. Power, release, sometimes even tears.

Men were rare for her. They had to pay well, act right, and leave quick. Stack? He was the only one allowed to touch her how he pleased. Because he respected that power.

Some still whispered about her past.

That she was loose in Memphis.

That she came from sin.

That she couldn’t be trusted with anything pure.

Cordelia would just smile.

Let them talk.

She knows what they really mean when they say “crude.”

They mean she’s unbothered.

Unclaimed.

Unforgiving.

A woman who don’t beg.

A woman who don’t fold.

When Violet arrived—soft-spoken, unsure, eyes full of shadow—Cordelia felt something crack open. Not lust. Not competition.

Something older. Deeper. Protective.

She wanted her, yes. For a moment. But then…she just wanted her whole.

Cordelia helped her find her style, her hips, her voice. Teased her about Smoke. Pulled her close. Kept her safe.

She still does.

Cordelia might’ve been born crude.

But she grew into something rarer.

A woman who knows her worth.

A woman who teaches softness how to survive.

——

The lights dim, and a hush rolls over the crowd like molasses—thick, slow, and sweet with anticipation. Smoke curls from cigars and mouths alike, swirling beneath the chandeliers. Glasses clink. A piano murmurs. Somewhere, Stack leans back in his booth with one arm stretched across the velvet, lips curled into the kind of smile that says just wait.

Then…red curtains part.

Spotlight.

The stage is bathed in gold, and there she is.

PEACHES.

She steps forward on bare feet, toes painted rouge, her thick body wrapped in sheer peach-colored silk that kisses every curve. Her sandy brown curls are pinned high with rhinestone combs, and her eyes—lined in smoke and kohl—flicker with wicked play. A feather fan unfurls with a flick of her wrist, fluttering across her shoulders like a tease. The crowd inhales. She hasn’t sung a note yet, but already men are leaning forward, and the women? The women are sitting up straighter, watching her like she might swallow the room whole.

A deep voice cuts through the hush from just behind the curtain—

“Ladies and gentlemen, sinners and saints…The Blackline proudly presents: the velvet voice, the Georgia sugar drop, the woman with hips that’ll make you see God…”

“Give it up for PEACHES!”

The band kicks in—upright bass, a slow jazz crawl, tambourine shimmer—and Peaches grins. Not sweet. Dangerous. Like she’s about to ruin someone’s marriage and make them thank her for it.

She struts forward—hips rolling, silk robe trailing behind her like smoke—and leans into the mic.

“Mmm…I want a little sugar…in my bowl…I want a little sweetness…down in my soul…”

Her voice is a molasses drizzle, warm and deep, wrapping around the room and pulling every neck toward her. On “bowl,” she dips low—hips cocked, eyes closed, lips barely touching the mic—and the spotlight lingers on the curve of her ass.

The crowd gasps, then laughs, then applauds.

She opens her eyes slow, like a cat stretching in heat, and purrs into the next line. When she tosses the fan behind her, revealing more skin, a man in the front row drops his cigarette. Cordelia cackles from the corner. Odessa glares.

And Stack?

He watches with that stillness he saves for only when something’s worth savoring. One boot propped on the table. Whiskey sweating in his hand. Tongue tapping behind his teeth.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters under his breath.

“Show ‘em how Georgia raise ‘em.”

As the final note slides off her tongue like honey off the spoon, Peaches turns, bends, and lets the hem of her robe fall from her shoulder, offering one last soft glance over her bare, glowing skin.

She whispers into the mic, “You boys behave now… or don’t. I like a little trouble.”

The curtain drops. The room erupts.

Some stand. Others holler.

And Peaches?

She blows a kiss, slow and cocky, then turns and struts backstage with laughter bouncing off her hips.

Stack doesn’t move—not yet.

He waits for the silence to settle again.

Then, with a slow nod to Cordelia behind the bar, he rises.

“Put her on the damn posters,” he says.

“Top billing.”

The Blackline – Dressing Room & Stage, Late Night

The mirror lights hum. There’s powder in the air, perfume in the corners, and a low Billie Holiday record spinning soft on the gramophone. Most of the girls have gone home or curled up in their rooms, heels off and corsets loosened.

But Peaches sits at her vanity, still in her robe—peach satin, of course—a warm glow bouncing off her golden-brown skin. Her sandy curls are pinned up with rhinestones, and her lips are freshly painted red, even though there’s no one left to impress. She hums as she slides rings off her fingers, wiping makeup from the corners of her eyes. There’s a soft knock.

She doesn’t turn.

“That you, baby?”

The door creaks open. It’s Stack, leaning in the frame with his shirt half-buttoned, suspenders loose at his sides, a half-drunk bottle of rye in hand.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he drawls.

Peaches smirks into the mirror.

“Ain’t no interruptin’ when you bring good liquor and bad intentions.”

He chuckles low. It’s that kind of laugh she can feel in her thighs.

“You sounded good tonight,” he says, stepping inside, closing the door behind him, “Real good. That last note…had me breathin’ funny.”

“Mm. I noticed,” she says, finally turning to face him, “You was sittin’ there like a man about to catch the Holy Ghost. Or a heart attack.”

He crosses the room, slow, letting the tension build between them like smoke before a fire. He stands behind her now, hands sliding down the slope of her shoulders.

“Sing for me,” he mutters into her neck, “Just me. Right now.”

She leans back into his chest, one hand reaching for his thigh, gripping it with those thick, painted fingers.

“You want a show, or a confession?”

“Both.”

She tilts her head and begins to hum again—soft and low, a sultry lullaby that sounds like steam rising from warm molasses.

Stack kneels in front of her, hands on her plush thighs, lips grazing her knee.

“Georgia Peach,” he says, voice gravelly, “You got me down bad.”

She slides her robe off one shoulder and whispers,

“Then stay there, baby. Right where I want you.”

Peaches knows exactly who she is. And she’s not in the business of pretending.

She came from Savannah with hips full of rhythm and a mouth sweet enough to turn a man inside out. She’s a singer, a dancer, and a sex worker—but more than anything, Peaches is a presence. She walks through The Blackline like it was built around her curves, humming old hymns and naughty blues in the same breath.

Peaches doesn’t fight for attention. It follows her. When she sings, men hush. When she dances, women watch. She has no jealousy in her—only confidence. She adores Cordelia, teases Odessa, and watches out for the new girls like a thick-hipped guardian angel with a dirty sense of humor.

But when it comes to Stack, it’s different.

With him, she’s both velvet and flame. Their sex is filthy, loud, and unashamed—but what makes her dangerous is how easily he submits. He lets her ride him, talk down to him, hush him like a child—and he loves it. She never demands his surrender. She just reaches for him… and he gives.

She sings for him. He kneels for her. And when the lights go down, he sleeps best with his head on her belly and her fingers in his curls.

Peaches isn’t just a girl at The Blackline.

She’s the soul of it.

Peaches was raised by her mother, Miss Lottie Whitfield—a former laundress turned backroom card dealer known for her sharp tongue and sweeter tea. They lived in a shotgun house near the river, where music floated in from steamboats and church choirs alike. Her daddy wasn’t in the picture—just a name and a smooth voice her mama cursed every time a certain song came on the radio.

She grew up surrounded by women—her mama, three aunties, and a cousin named Melba who could read cards and charm snakes. The house was noisy, loving, and full of secrets. Lottie made sure her daughter could cook, sew, and hold her own in a room full of men without giving away a thing.

Peaches was always the loudest baby and the best-dressed girl in church, with a voice like a bell and hips that swayed before she even knew what they meant.

By thirteen, she was singing in Sunday school and dancing with the older girls on porches at twilight, mimicking the grown women. By sixteen, she was sneaking out to a local juke joint dressed like a grown woman, slipping into sets when the regular singer got too drunk.

But Savannah was small, and mouths ran fast.

A deacon’s son got too bold. Rumors swirled. Her mama slapped her, then cried for hours when she found out the truth. There was no going back after that. The church turned cold, and the ladies who once cooed over her baby dresses wouldn’t even look her way.

By seventeen, Peaches packed a small satchel and left on a midnight train heading north.

She bounced through Macon, Birmingham, and Memphis, performing where she could and doing what she had to survive. Sometimes it meant singing. Sometimes it meant more.

It wasn’t always pretty. But she never let it break her.

She heard about The Blackline from a woman in a Memphis juke joint—said it was safe, Black-owned, and protected by two brothers who didn’t let no white man spit on their floor. That was all Peaches needed to hear.

She arrived in Little Rock with two silk slips, a stolen pair of heels, and a voice that still had syrup in it.

Stack was the first to take a real look at her—not just at her curves, but how she held herself. Confident but tired. Sweet but steel-backed. He let her sing. Then he let her stay.

The Blackline is the first place that feels like home since Savannah. The other girls remind her of her cousins. The sound of laughter and cussing in the dressing room makes her feel alive. She’s good at what she does—pleasure and performance—and she takes pride in it.

She sings for Stack when he asks, dances because she loves to, and works the rooms with grace and warmth. She doesn’t cry over men, but she does hum sad songs when she’s alone. Sometimes, she thinks about Melba and her mama and wonders if they’d be proud or ashamed. Then she puts on her peach-colored lipstick and gets to work.

—-

The crowd was loud until they weren’t.

The velvet curtain trembled.

The spotlight flared, golden and sultry.

Peaches—gilded and grinning, hips wide, lips red—took the stage in a flurry of feathers. She threw a wink to the dice boys in the corner and tapped the mic twice, sending a soft thump through the smoky room.

“Now y’all been drinkin’, gamblin’, sinnin’ and smilin’,” she purred, voice dripping molasses, “But it’s time to pay attention. And I mean really pay attention.”

Laughter rippled, low and eager.

Peaches smirked. “She’s what happens when Louisiana heat gets hips and heels. She sings sweeter than sin, dances like a dirty dream, and don’t you ever take your eyes off her hands—unless you wanna go home without your watch, wallet, and pride.”

The band hit a slow, jazzy lead-in. Cymbals shimmered. A horn crooned. The lights shifted to the curtain.

Peaches stepped back, her voice cutting through the hush like a blade licked in sugar.

“Y’all better hold your breath. And hold your man. ‘Cause here comes the one, the only…Miss Odessa!”

Boom.

The curtains burst open with a theatrical flair—and Odessa emerged, tall as temptation, draped in deep plum satin that hugged her like it owed her rent. The slit in her gown ran so high it looked criminal. Her curves poured out like smoke—hips swaying slow, breasts full and proud, that impossible Jessica Rabbit figure demanding reverence.

Her lips were red. Her nails were red. Her eyes were lined in black like danger spelled out.

She held a cigar in one hand and a rhinestone mic in the other.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t wave. She devoured the room.

The music dipped as she strutted center stage, one long leg leading the other like a tease. When she stopped, it wasn’t with a pose—it was with a claim. That stage was hers now. That night was hers.

She brought the cigar to her lips, puffed slow, and then…

She sang.

Low. Sultry. Velvet and smoke.

🎵 Trouble got my name stitched in satin…And sugar never dripped like me.He said his vows to a preacher’s daughter—But he knelt for a sinner like me…🎵

Her voice was heat in silk. The men leaned forward. The women looked to see who’d survive her.

As she moved, she let her eyes drift across the crowd—taunting, choosing. She blew smoke toward the poker table. A gambler’s hand trembled on his chips.

Behind her, two girls from her little following sat cross-legged near the curtain, whispering like schoolgirls at confession. Odessa didn’t need backup. But she liked it.

She finished the song with a sigh and a smirk, the band holding that final note like it was afraid to stop.

When she turned to walk off, one hand slid down her thigh, brushing the spot where the blade sat tucked in her garter—just enough for the audience to wonder.

As she passed Peaches on her way down the stage stairs, she spoke, “Let me know when Cordelia’s ready to retire.”

Peaches tilted her head, lips curled in that too-sweet smile.

“Well don’t she just glide in like she own the whole damn world…and a mirror in every room,” Then louder, for the crowd, “Give her a hand, y’all—she worked real hard to make it look effortless!”

Odessa winked, stepped into the crowd, and made her way toward the private tables—Stack’s table. She dropped herself into the seat beside him like sin made flesh.

The house hadn’t taken a breath since she appeared.

The Blackline, late night. Cards slap, dice roll, and smoke curls like secrets.

Odessa sat at the edge of the roulette table, long legs crossed, plum velvet gown hugged tight to her hips like it had been poured on in candlelight. One manicured hand dangled a thick cigar, the other slid a single red chip forward with a flick of her nail.

“Twenty-three. Black.” Her voice was soft. Dangerous.

The dealer hesitated. Nodded.

She didn’t look at the wheel. She didn’t need to. Her eyes—wide, sultry, and lined like Cleopatra’s revenge—were locked on something else entirely.

Smoke.

He stood near the back of the room, talking low with Stack and Clyde, arms folded across his chest like every damn inch of him was carved out of tension and quiet violence. He wore that charcoal vest and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and Odessa’s mouth went dry just watching the way his forearms flexed when he moved.

He never smiled. That was the thing.

Stack flirted. Stack teased. Stack smirked when he fucked her. But Smoke? He was a closed door Odessa couldn’t pick—and Lord knows, she’d tried.

She licked her lips and shifted in her chair. The slit of her gown fell open just enough to flash a slice of garter and the glint of steel beneath it.

The girls in her orbit—Mirabel, Cherry, Lenette—sat perched nearby, pretending to chat, but really waiting for her to speak. That was the thing about Odessa, people listened when she talked. They wanted to be her. Or be near her. Or survive her.

“I could snap my fingers,” she spoke, watching Smoke light a cigarette, “and half the men in here would crawl to lick ash off my shoes.”

Mirabel, wide-eyed, leaned in, “So why not him?”

Odessa’s expression didn’t flicker. She just exhaled a slow stream of cigar smoke and whispered, “That’s the question that keeps me up at night, baby.”

Because she’d tried.

Oh, had she tried.

She’d worn silk that matched his tie. Dropped stacks of chips at his table. Sent drinks with notes that said things like Come ruin me. Once, she’d even waited for him in nothing but heels and her birthday diamonds.

Nothing worked.

He looked at her the way a man looks at fire—not in longing, but in warning.

And now that new girl was here. That sweet little thing with soft eyes and honey in her walk. Violet.

Odessa’s smile sharpened.

She leaned back and crossed her legs again, slow enough for the dress to part like curtains in a midnight cabaret.

“Girl like me? I don’t chase. I trap.”

The roulette wheel spun. Chips clattered.

She turned her head just enough for Smoke to feel it. Just enough for him to know she was watching.

He didn’t look her way. Not once.

Odessa crushed her cigar in the ashtray, rose from her seat like a goddess bored with worship, and strode toward the private rooms.

Her hips swayed like promises. Her heels clicked like gunshots.

And behind her, the girls followed—quiet, wide-eyed, knowing that when Odessa moved like that, something sharp was coming.

Odessa was born in New Orleans, the only child of a Creole courtesan and a small-time card hustler. Her mother, Rosalinde LaRue, was once known as “The Orchid of Orleans”—a woman with velvet gloves, red nails, and a laugh that could unlock safes. Her father was a gambler who disappeared when Odessa was six, leaving behind little more than a pair of dice and a trail of debts.

She was raised behind silk screens and behind-closed-doors performances. Her mother taught her how to sing in French before she could read in English. How to dance without showing everything. How to command attention without asking for it.

More importantly, her mother taught her one rule above all

“Men want to feel powerful. Let ’em—until it’s time to remind ‘em who taught ‘em how to beg.”

Odessa never forgot it.

By age fourteen, Odessa was already sneaking into cabarets on Rampart Street under a false name. She could mimic accents, change her walk, style her hair like five different women—and lose a man’s wallet in the time it took him to blink.

She got in trouble early and often. The kind of trouble men called enchanting—right up until they realized their pockets were empty.

When her mother died of consumption, Odessa was seventeen and furious. She wore red to the funeral, kissed the preacher on the mouth, and left town that same night with two suitcases, a blade in her boot, and a voice like smoke over sugar.

Odessa arrived at The Blackline under a different name, singing for her supper in a backroom piano hall in Little Rock. Stack Moore was there that night—watching the game tables, drinking bourbon, and paying very little attention.

Until she sang.

She didn’t audition. She performed.

Dressed in midnight-blue satin, Odessa sang a sultry jazz number and stripped a married man of his wallet, his watch, and his wedding ring without ever touching him.

When the song ended, she turned toward Stack and said,

“You want me or not, sugar? ’Cause I’m too good for second chances.”

Stack didn’t blink. Just nodded.

She was in.

Odessa quickly became a client favorite—not just for her voice, but for her vaudeville routines, her way of sitting at a card table like she owned it, and her ability to distract, delight, and destroy in equal measure.

She smokes cigars, not cigarettes.

Carries a blade in her garter and knows how to use it.

She’s slept with Stack, but only on her terms. The sex is wild, thrilling, and clever—like everything she does.

And yet, the one man she wants most—Smoke—won’t give her the time of day.

She hates that. She hates Violet more.

Odessa has tried everything: song, skin, schemes. Smoke doesn’t even flinch. It drives her wild. Not because she loves him—but because she can’t stand that she can’t have him.

She watches. She waits. And when Violet showed up? Odessa started sharpening her tongue—and maybe her blade.

She’s not just a singer. She’s a storm with lipstick. And she’s just getting started.

Smoke’s office. Midnight. The Blackline. The first time a man told her NO:

The moon slipped through the high window in long, ghostly ribbons, painting the office in silver and shadow. The bourbon bottle on the desk caught the light, glowing amber. Papers lay untouched. A pack of smokes sat unopened. Everything was still.

Except for her.

Odessa LaRue stood near the window, one arm folded loosely beneath her breasts, the other holding the stem of a cigar she hadn’t lit. She wore a long black robe, sheer as a whisper, trimmed in elaborate feathers that shimmered like crow wings.

The robe hung open—untied. Beneath it: nothing. Only the curve of her waist, the dark sheen of her thighs, the gleam of birthday diamonds at her throat and ears. A necklace her mother once wore when seducing kings in parlors and gamblers in shadows. Tonight, Odessa wore it like armor.

She heard him before she saw him—the quiet thump of his boots, the slow turn of the doorknob.

And then there he was.

Smoke.

He stepped into the room like the night itself, tall and still and watchful. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and he smelled faintly of leather and gunpowder and clove smoke. Odessa’s pulse kicked.

He paused. Took her in with that unreadable stare of his. No flare of surprise. No hunger. Just that heavy, infuriating quiet.

She smiled.

Walked to his chair.

Turned.

Lowered herself into it like a queen.

Her leg draped over the side, her hand trailed across the armrest, and her voice—slow and honey-dripped—cut the silence.

“Been waitin’ for you, baby.”

He said nothing.

So she rose, letting the robe slide down her shoulders. The feathers kissed her calves as it fell to the floor. The diamonds caught the light. Her skin glowed under the moon.

She stepped toward him, bare and radiant, hips moving in a slow, practiced rhythm—the kind that had made men forget their names.

“You ever wonder?” she whispered, “What it’d feel like? Just once? I don’t bite… unless you ask.”

She reached out, fingers grazing the front of his shirt—right over his heart.

He caught her wrist.

The moment froze.

His touch wasn’t rough, but it was firm. Unyielding. A man used to making decisions and not looking back.

“You done?”

His voice was low. Unmoved. A wall of stone with no crack for her to crawl through.

And it hit her.

He meant it.

Not teasing.

Not testing.

Just…no.

For a beat, something inside her trembled. Something sharp and unfamiliar. Odessa had never been turned down. Not once. Men tripped over themselves to have her. Women envied her. She had used her body like a weapon since before she knew how dangerous it was.

But Smoke wasn’t flinching. He wasn’t even tempted.

The sting came quick—hot and bright behind her ribs. A flush crept up her neck, one she disguised with a smirk.

“So that’s a yes to beggin’ later?” she said lightly, eyes shining like she still had the upper hand, “I can wait.”

She pulled her wrist free—not with force, but with grace. Her fingers lingered near his belt for half a second, just to leave the ghost of a possibility he’d never take.

Then she turned, stooped, and lifted her robe slowly, letting the feathers trail behind her like a queen exiting court.

The moonlight glowed against her back. Her silhouette—dangerous, divine—was the kind of image that might haunt a man’s memory.

She walked barefoot to the door, her voice floating back without looking:

“One day, Elijah Moore, you gon’ wish you said yes.”

But even as she closed the door behind her, the chill didn’t fade.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream.

But in the privacy of her own dressing room, she lit the cigar with shaking hands and stared at herself in the vanity mirror for a long, long time.

She told herself it didn’t matter.

But deep down, Odessa LaRue would never forget the first man who said no.

And she would never forgive him for it.

——

The house is buzzing—shoulder to shoulder with men in suspenders and fedoras, women in silk slips and rhinestone combs, sweat and perfume melting into the air like bourbon and smoke.

The lights dim just enough for the crowd to hush.

Cordelia steps forward in a shimmering black gown, the slit high enough to make every man lean forward, and lifts her hand.

“Now, I know y’all done seen somethin’ sweet tonight,” she purrs, voice like honey-dipped sin. “But this next girl? She ain’t just sweet—she’s soulful. Got the kind of sugar make you cry on her shoulder and forget your wife’s name.”

The audience chuckles, leans in.

Cordelia glances toward the shadows of stage right. “So go on now—lean close. Clutch your chest if you must. Light a cigarette for the ache in your heart.”

A spotlight snaps on.

“And give it up for the Blackline’s bronze beauty with the velvet laugh… the one, the only—Miss Minnie Lavonne!”

Boom—ba-dum—ta-ta!

A little tap flourish kicks in from Peaches, who’s perched on a drum stool at the edge of the stage, tossing in mischief with every beat.

From the dark, Minnie appears—sashaying slow, hips swaying like gospel hand fans on a humid Sunday. She’s in a deep wine-red corset top, high-waisted bloomers with fringe, and sheer black stockings rolled just above the knee. One hand clutches a silk robe that slips from her shoulders like a promise. The other holds a long, teasing feather fan.

She saunters straight for the center of the room—not the stage—then climbs up on a round table, heels clicking against the wood.

A few glasses slosh. One man mutters, “Lord, have mercy.”

Minnie sits down slowly—real slow—crosses her plush thighs, and lets the robe fall the rest of the way off her arms. Her skin catches the light just right, like bronze dipped in buttered rum.

Then she throws her head back and laughs—rich, full, and golden. The kind of laugh that sticks to the walls and makes even the bartenders forget they got work to do.

“Y’all don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” she coos, plucking a cherry from someone’s cocktail and slipping it between her lips. Her voice is smoke and satin, dipped in Mississippi and mischief.

The crowd hollers. Somebody yells, “Take your time, sugar!”

She smiles slow. Not the kind of smile that asks for attention. The kind that knows it already has it.

“Well now…I ain’t the loudest, I ain’t the wildest…but I am the sweetest,” Minnie says, letting her fingers glide down her leg like piano keys, “And if you cry in front of me? I’ll kiss you, bake you a pie, and make you feel like cryin’ again just so I can do it twice.”

Cordelia cackles behind her. Peaches throws in a rimshot.

Minnie shrugs, her lips curling with faux innocence, “Can’t help it. I got a soft heart and a sinful mouth.”

Then she leans forward, picking a man from the crowd with those knowing eyes. “You look like you been carryin’ somethin’ heavy. You come see me after, baby. I got just the place for you to lay that burden down.”

She winks.

The crowd roars.

And just like that—Minnie Lavonne Ford makes everyone feel like they were the only one she was talking to.

Late afternoon, The Blackline kitchen:

Rain patters soft against the windows. Smoke curls from Aunt Pearl’s stovetop, and the smell of cinnamon and vanilla fills the air.

Minnie stood barefoot on the cool kitchen floor, her hips swaying gently to the low scratch of a Billie Holiday record playing from the parlor. The apron around her waist was dusted with flour, and her hands moved with lazy confidence as she stirred brown sugar and softened butter into a thick, golden batter.

Aunt Pearl was across the room, humming softly while peeling sweet potatoes. But it was Minnie who filled the space. She didn’t try to command it—she just belonged to it. Like cinnamon in cobbler. Like a porch swing in the Delta.

The back door creaked open, and a figure slipped inside—Frankie, one of the new piano men Stack had brought in last month. He was twenty-two, sweet-faced and stuttering, with hands that played like ghosts but eyes that rarely held your gaze. He looked soaked through, curls dripping, shoulders hunched.

Minnie didn’t turn. Just said, “There’s a towel on the hook and a seat at the table.”

Frankie hesitated.

She glanced up then—just a flicker—and smiled. “Come on now. Sit before you drip yourself into pneumonia.”

He moved slow, like someone unworthy of kindness, and settled into the chair nearest her. His eyes darted around the room, then down to his hands.

She scraped the batter into a greased tin and slid it into the oven. Wiped her hands on a towel. Then crossed to the table and poured him a cup of chicory coffee from the pot that had been waiting on the warmer like she knew someone would need it.

He mumbled, “Thanks.”

Minnie sat across from him, folded one arm under her bosom and rested her chin in her hand. “Mmhm. You look like a man who been runnin’ from a woman—or maybe himself.”

Frankie blinked.

She just watched him. Calm. Patient. Like she had all the time in the world.

And maybe she did.

“You don’t have to say it,” she said softly, “But if it’s eatin’ at you, baby, you can lay it down here. I won’t tell nobody. Not even the butter.”

A flicker of something passed through his face—shame, maybe, or grief. He looked away.

“I ain’t touched a drink in six months,” he said finally, “But last night…after I played…I—”

Minnie didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. Just reached across the table and took his hand—rough, calloused, trembling.

She said, “You slipped. That’s all.”

Frankie looked at her like she was lying. Like kindness couldn’t be real.

“You tryin’, ain’t you?”

He nodded.

She smiled, “Then you ain’t lost.”

Behind her, the oven ticked. The whole room smelled like home.

Frankie’s shoulders loosened. He didn’t cry—not yet—but something in him settled.

Minnie let go and stood, “You gon’ stay for cake?”

“…Yeah.”

She nodded and went back to the counter, hips swaying again, humming softly as she pulled out the pan and set it down to cool.

From the hallway, Cordelia peeked in, clocking the scene with a knowing smirk, “You fixin’ folk again, Mama Minnie?”

“Just feedin’ ‘em,” Minnie said without turning.

Cordelia winked, “Same thing.”

Minnie Lavonne Ford was born in Biloxi, Mississippi, the middle child of five—three boys and two girls—in a little shotgun house not far from the docks. Her mother, Delilah, worked two jobs—one as a laundress, the other frying fish at the corner juke. Her father was a stevedore, mean when drunk and tired even when sober. Home was always loud—either from laughter or arguments—and Minnie learned young how to soothe a room.

She was the girl who rocked her baby brother when Mama was too tired, the one who wiped her sister’s tears with the edge of her apron. By eight, she was already mimicking her mama’s movements in the kitchen, learning to stir love into batter like sugar into grits. That’s where she learned the secret to comfort: warmth, sweetness, and quiet understanding.

Like many girls in the South, Minnie grew up in the church. But unlike the other girls, she didn’t sing, didn’t shout—she listened. Sat quiet on the back pew and heard every sorrow tucked beneath “Amen.” Folks said she had a “gift,” that she could feel people’s hurt like it was her own. She didn’t like the attention that brought.

After service, the elders would touch her cheek and say, “That child got an old soul.” Some whispered she’d be a healer. Others whispered she’d be a problem. Especially when the deacon’s wife caught her seventeen-year-old son pouring his heart out to Minnie behind the baptismal pool.

At sixteen, she fell in love with a smooth-talking boy who said she had “star eyes” and “lips like velvet.” He was nineteen, fast, and gone just as quick. Got her pregnant, promised to come back from Jackson with work and a ring—never did.

She lost the baby in her sixth month. Quietly. Alone. In the back bedroom of her aunt’s house with her older cousin wiping sweat from her brow. It changed her—deepened the way she understood silence, grief, and what it meant to hold space for someone who couldn’t hold themselves.

After that, Minnie stopped waiting for rescue.

At twenty, she left Biloxi under the hush of night. Her aunt had just passed, the house was being sold, and her mama—though she loved her—was too worn down to notice when Minnie slipped away. She took a train north, following a rumor she’d heard about a speakeasy in Little Rock where a woman could start over.

She met Cordelia first—who saw Minnie’s curves, her calm, and the sadness behind her pretty eyes and said, “You don’t talk much, huh? That’s alright. We need your kind.” Then she met Peaches, who took her out for catfish and made her laugh for the first time in months.

Stack met her on her second week. She’d made a warm sweet potato pie for the house, not expecting him to take a slice, let alone sit down next to her and ask for another. He didn’t flirt at first. Just looked at her and said, “You always this soft?”

She smiled and answered, “Only when it counts.”

He started coming to her room after that—when he couldn’t sleep, when his demons got loud, or when he just needed a moment of stillness. She never asked questions. Just kissed his knuckles and let him be.

Now, Minnie’s the one girls go to when they’re questioning their worth. The one men confess things to mid-kiss. The one who always has something sweet cooling in the kitchen and a soft lap for Stack to rest on when his mind won’t settle.

She doesn’t crave attention, power, or even permanence. What Minnie wants—what she’s always wanted—is to matter quietly. To be the one folks remember not for what she said, but how she made them feel.

They all came to Minnie eventually.

Not for sex—though she gave that, too—but for something deeper. Something they couldn’t name. She never asked for hearts, but they gave them anyway, tucked between kisses and confessions, crumbs left on her kitchen counter like offerings.

She wasn’t the loudest girl in the house. Wasn’t the wildest or the sharpest-dressed. But she was the one they remembered. The one who made the pain taste like cinnamon. The one whose lap could hold even the heaviest burdens.

And when Stack Moore couldn’t sleep? It wasn’t lust he needed—it was Minnie’s hush. Her warmth. The way her fingers stroking his hair made the whole world go quiet.

She never called herself magic.

But she was.

And that? That’s her real power.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

x

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Velvet Lights and Quite Hearts

She works nights at a strip club no one knows about. She studies during the day. And in between, she’s raising her little sister alone — after losing their mom and watching their dad disappear into addiction.

Layla is quiet, shy, and used to doing everything on her own.

Until she meets Stacks, the club's powerful owner with a soft spot he keeps hidden… and Mary, the dancer with fire in her eyes and warmth in her touch. They see her — all of her — and somehow, they stay. The three of them build something real in the dark, something safe.

But she never lets them near Ava.

Her two worlds don’t mix. They can’t.

Until a knock at the door changes everything.

Now CPS is watching. Her secrets are cracking. And the people she tried to protect might be the only ones who can save her from herself.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

you think michael is a ww lover 🫣 just curious LOL

No I don’t. Not in the way people say he is. He’s stated he likes all women so all women is free game but I wouldn’t say he’s strictly a WW lover. Out of all the years I’ve been a fan of this man, I’ve rarely if ever seen him all over a bunch of white women. It sparked when he took a pic with white women and then that Italy trip back in 2018 and he embarrassed himself on live talking about he “like all milk” 😂😭 but yeah Mike is just a hoe for women period. And in my opinion especially women who are spoken for 😭😭😭

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Midnight Ballerina - One

Pairings: ModernAu! Elijah “Smoke” Moore x ModernAu! OC (Jodie aka Siren)

Warnings: MDNI!, Age-Gap relationship, Cursing, use of N-word, strip club shenanigans, down bad Smoke

Word Count: 4.7K

Smoke

Pigs were flying and hell had officially frozen over. Stack was getting married.

When Smoke saw his baby brother get down on one knee at the opening of their new restaurant he almost thought he was hallucinating . It was real though. Stack had finally decided to end his days as a single man.

He had a good woman on his hands. Dominique had been there for him through all the ups and downs. When he acted like he ain’t need her, she showed his ass how much he really did. Their love story was far from perfect but it was theirs.

Everyone they knew always thought Smoke would be the one to get married first. For a long time he thought he would too. Though he always called Annie his wife they had never legally took the steps.

However, things had gone south with Annie after they opened their club. She felt like he was spending too much time working on the business instead of working on them. They had argued, fussed, and fought but Smoke always felt like they would make it out at the end of the day. Annie didn’t have the same sentiments. He woke up one day to all of her stuff removed from their shared apartment and a note on the kitchen counter letting him know she was tired of being left alone.

Smoke had been licking his wounds from the breakup going on a year now. It was bittersweet seeing his brother begin to live the life he had carved out for himself but he was happy for him nonetheless.

“Smoke wake yo ass up nigga,” Stack’s voice ripped Smoke from his thoughts as he came back to his surroundings.

They were out in New Orleans for Stack’s bachelor trip. Him, Stack, Sammie, and Bo. The four were currently in the living room area of the suite pregaming before they headed to the strip club.

The Honey Trap.

Stack had been ranting and raving about the club since he decided to do his trip in Louisiana. He and Stack were really good friends with the owner who promised to have the best strippers in the state. They were going to the club tonight to scout some ladies for Stack’s private party he would be having the next night when the rest of the groomsmen made it in.

“Nigga I’m up. Just thinkin’ bout some shit that’s all.”

“Aye nigga I told ya to stop all that sulking over Annie. I know she was the love of yo life but shit we in Nola! Let’s find you the love of the night instead,” Stack jokes as the room erupted into laughter from the two other men.

Smoke sucked his teeth as he threw back his shot of whiskey. Leave it to Stack to make a joke at his expense.

“I ain’t sulking over Annie. Mind yo fuckin’ business sometimes nigga,” he spoke with irritation as he slammed the glass on the counter of the kitchenette.

“You is my business and as my business I gotta make sure you get some pussy.”

“Don’t worry bout me. I ain’t never lacked in the pussy department.”

Stack kissed his teeth as he laid his gaze upon his older twin.

“Nigga I know you ain’t talking about Brianna thirsty ass. Desperate pussy might as well be no pussy.”

“Smoke….not Brianna,” Sammie with a shake of his head as concern washed over his face.

“You need this more than I do,” Bo said with a chuckle as he passed Smoke the shot he had initially poured for himself.

Smoke grimaced as he snatched the shot from Bo’s hand before throwing it back just like the last one. He grabbed his leather jacket from the chair and threw it over his wife beater clad upper body.

“We going to this fucking club or what?”

Cheers filled the room as the other men took their last shots before they all filed out of the room. They hopped into the black truck Stack arranged to chauffeur them around.

The ride to the club didn’t take long and once they got there Smoke could feel the base from the music in the club as they stepped out of the car. The four men walked in passing over the line of disgruntled patrons before they were met at the door by Lucki, the owner.

Lucki used to move weight out in Louisiana some years back with her older brother. They would always look out for Smoke and Stack whenever they had to do business in the area so she was always cool people in their book. About 5 years ago her brother was killed in a drug deal gone bad so Lucki left the game and decided to go legit with the money she had saved up.

“Well if it ain’t two of my favorite people. It’s been too long since I seen y’all,” Lucki remarked with a smile on her face as she widened her arms.

Smoke gave her a hug before Stack leaned in next.

“This our lil cousin Sammie and our good friend Bo. Bo and Sammie this is Lucki. One of the baddest muthafuckas to ever walk the streets of Louisiana.”

“Oh don’t make me blush now,” she said as she waved Stack off bashfully.

“Plus that’s not my life no more. This is,” she spoke as she held her arms out and did a slight turn.

Smoke looked around the building taking in the business Lucki built over the years. Smack dab in the middle of the room was a large square shaped stage for the girls to do their big performances. The stage was surrounded by seats for men to enjoy the show and get a good look but not close enough for them to possibly touch the girls. It was lit up by various changing lights and there was a singular silver pole in the middle. She had also had smaller circular stages placed around the rooms near the sections for the girls to entertain smaller groups.

On the main stage Smoke could see a woman with a milk chocolate complexion putting on a show as Lil Demon by Future blared through the speakers of the club. She spun the pole with her legs spread before she latched onto the pole and flipped herself upside down.

“Damn, who is that,” Sammie damn near gasped as the girl flipped off of the pole into an effortless split causing the men watching to roar in applause as money began raining down on her.

Lucki glanced at the stage before a smile graced her face as she turned back to the group.

“That’s my baby NovaKane. She been here since I opened the place. She did gymnastics in high school so she’s always flipping around that damn stage like an acrobat.”

“She’s gorgeous,” Sammie remarked as he seemed to be put into a trance.

Lucki let out a small chuckle before she clapped her hands together.

“Y’all fellas come on. I reserved seats for you all right at the front so you can have the best view and pick out the girls you want for the party tomorrow.”

Stack eyed Sammie with a grin on his face.

“You can go ahead and add NovaKane to the list for lil cuz. Nigga ain’t looked away yet,” Stack joked as he regarded Sammie with a shake of his head.

Lucki tapped away on her phone as she led the men down to their seats. Once they all sat down NovaKane had finished her set and the DJ announced the next dancer to come on the stage.

A few girls performed and only two stuck out enough for Stack to pick before the DJ announced a dancer by the name of Flame.

Hollywood by YG began playing as the woman strutted onto the stage. She twirled around the pole a couple of times before she set her sights on Stack and slowly crawled to the front of the stage. In front of the group she turned her back to them as she leaned over and shook her ass before looking back with a bite of her lip. Stack and Bo were howling like wolves satisfying her as she got onto her feet and walked back to the pool.

Her performance was really good and of course Stack added her to the list. Smoke thought the women were doing a pretty good job but no one had truly stuck out to him. He wasn’t really feeling the strip club shit anyway. Strippers never excited him but he was here to support his brother.

After Flame finished her set the DJ announced that the next girl would be coming on in about 5 minutes. Smoke took the break to wave the waitress down for a Hennessy on the rocks. He didn’t know how much longer they would be in the club so he needed to start up a buzz.

“Don’t look too excited now Smoke. Look like you about to jump out yo skin,” Lucki remarked sarcastically.

Smoke smirked a little knowing she was one of the few people who really knew him.

“You know this ain’t really my scene. You got a good group of girls round here though.”

“They just ain’t sticking out to you huh,” she said knowingly as she looked at him from the corner of her eye.

“It ain’t like that,” Smoke said sheepishly.

“It’s alright. I do have a feeling you’ll like the next girl though,” she said with a smile as if she had a secret.

Smoke looked at her with his brows furrowed. Before he could pry her with another question the DJ’s voice came over the club.

“Alright ladies and gentlemen. You know her, you love her, and you wanna fuck her. Coming to the stage our number 1 temptress. Give that money up for Sirennnn.”

It seemed as if the whole club had left from wherever they were to surround the stage. The entire area buzzed with excitement as if he had just said Beyoncé was coming out.

Fckin U by 4batz played over the speakers as the stage lights lit up with a hot pink hue. Slowly a woman emerged from the shadows and once she got to the center a blue spotlight lit over her.

The first thing he noticed was her eyes. They were piercing like she could see into your soul 2 seconds into looking at you. They were hypnotizing like if she gave you a single glance you would be wrapped around her finger.

The pink in her outfit popped against her skin making her look like a goddess and her black hair flowed elegantly to the middle of her back.

She grasped the pole with one hand as she stood in front of it. She widened her legs as she slowly dropped into a squat while running her other hand down her body. She stood slowly and made her way to the edge of the stage in front of them.

As soon as she got near them Smoke leaned up in his seat unknowingly just wanting to be closer to her. His actions garnered attention from Stack who looked over at his twin with a shit eating grin before he looked at Lucki and nodded his head.

Siren got to the edge of the stage and laid on her back. She lifted her legs in the air together before she fanned them and let them fall into a V. With her legs open she was able to make direct eye contact with Smoke.

It seemed as if she knew the effect she had on him because the cutest smirk graced her face. She did a shoulder roll from her back on to her stomach where she then rose onto her knees and flipped her hair.

Smoke did something he hadn’t done all night. He stood up and threw his money. He let the bills rain down on her in appreciation and for a second they made eye contact.

He was hooked.

She eventually left the front of the stage to finish her set on the pole. Hard 4 Me by The Dream playing now. She climbed all the way to the top of the pole before flipping upside down and putting her feet on the ceiling. She then dropped and just when it seemed like she was about to hit the floor she stopped herself. Effortlessly she dismounted, ending her performance.

“That shit was crazy,” Stack basically yelled as he threw money onto the already crowded stage.

“It was amazing,” Smoke said absentmindedly as he watched her form retreat from the stage. He turned to Lucki.

“What’s her name again?”

“That’s my baby Siren. The youngest here. Real quiet girl. Just here to make her money and go.”

Smoke ingested the information as his mind began running wild with thoughts. All thoughts about her.

He felt the tingles of interest peaking in his body. A feeling that he truly hadn’t felt in years. After Annie there hadn’t been a woman to truly turn his head for more than a fuck but here goes a woman whose real name he doesn’t even know undoing pieces of the brick wall he had built in just 15 minutes.

He didn’t see her the rest of the night. His eyes discretely searched the club for a glimpse of her the entire night.

No sign of her. Stack was enjoying his silent pining for the mystery girl a little too much.

“Damn nigga. If I ain’t know no better I would think you had a lil crush,” Stack spoke loudly as he slapped a hand down onto Smoke’s shoulder.

Smoke shrugged him off, deciding not to even grant him a response as he whipped out his phone. He went to instagram and before he knew it he was on the page for the club.

He scrolled and scrolled until he saw a picture of her. She was perched on the stage looking like an angelic sin. She wore black bunny ears, a lace bra, and stockings. He noticed an icon at the bottom left of the screen showing she had been tagged. He tapped on it a little too eagerly.

Damn, her page is private.

He sucked his teeth in annoyance before a message came in on his phone. From Brianna.

Brianna

“You better be behaving out there”

Smoke had been avoiding her lately because she had begun overstepping their arrangement. He could see her slowly trying to turn their casual sex into a serious relationship. Much to his dismay.

He swiped the message away before he locked his phone and slid it back into his pocket. He made a mental note to hit her up for a discussion when they returned to Atlanta.

The men stayed at the club for another hour having a good time and catching up with Lucki before they retired back to their penthouse suite.

The next day seemed to fly by as the men lounged around with nothing truly planned for the day except for the party later on. The rest of the groomsmen, which consisted of their most loyal homeboys, arrived and everyone was buzzing with excitement.

Even Smoke was cracking a smile or two as they all sat around joking and shooting the shit.

Then at midnight right on the dot there was a knock at the door. Stack quickly made his way to the peephole. He leaned back and let out a long whoop before he turned to the men.

“Yall go out on the balcony. I’m gone let the ladies in so they can get changed.”

Smoke and the rest of the men filed out onto the balcony as they sat on the seats surrounded by the sleek silver stripper pole. Stack soon joined them as he sat in the very middle of the men in his designated seat. Smoke occupied himself with his phone before he heard heels clicking against the pavement.

Lucki stepped through the doorway as if she owned the place. Her body was clad in her signature all white which consisted of a jumpsuit covered by a fur coat.

“Y’all ready for the show of a lifetime fellas?”

The men roared with cheers causing Lucki to smirk before she pressed a button on the speaker next to her. Soaking Wet by Pleasure P began playing and two women walked out. Smoke recognized them from last night, Flame and NovaKane.

Smoke looked to the side to see Sammie sitting up in his seat a little straighter once NovaKane came into his view.

The women did their thing as they worked the room together by making sure they gave each man attention. They interacted with each other doing the moves not just as a pair but as partners. Soon their set was over and another girl came out and did her thing.

Two more women performed and soon Lucki stepped up to the men again.

“Now I’m sure you all enjoyed those girls but now it’s time for the finale. Welcome Siren.”

Smoke’s neck damn near broke as he turned away from the conversation he was having with Dominique's brother. A beat began playing. Something more fast paced. A contrast from the slow song that played the night before.

Bitch ass nigga get some mothafuckin money

I got money you ain’t gettin no money, got her comin’

Sick to ya stomach cause you broke, it make me vomit

Stick it in her guts say she feel it in her stomach

Bounce that ass, shake that booty for this money

Nigga talkin bout making it rain, I’ll start thunderin

She strutted into the room like she owned the place. She wore a leather burgundy trench coat with a lace body suit to match underneath. She had on a pair of glasses as if she was cosplaying as a librarian. As she got to the middle of the room she dropped the coat and threw it. Smoke's eyes followed the coat as it flew into his lap. He looked up to see Siren smirking at him while the other men yelled around him.

She got to the pole and again put Smoke into another dimension where the only people in the room were her and him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she swung her body upside down on the pole and let her legs fall into a v. She jumped down into a squat where stayed and made her ass jump as if it had a mind of its own.

Smoke could hear the men hooting and hollering around him as money fell from the sky. He began throwing from his own bag as he stood with a cigar in his mouth. She slowly began to make her way around the room before she stopped in front of him.

She gently pushed him back into the seat behind him and slowly turned before she bent over and shook her ass in his face. The men howled, some in congratulations and some in jealousy at him getting special treatment.

Smoke snatched the cigar from his mouth before he grabbed a stack of cash and smacked it against her ass roughly.

She stood immediately and turned to face him. She kicked his feet apart and got into a squat between his legs. She gently ran her hands up his thighs and to his chest before she leaned up a little. She wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and brought him down to her.

Smoke's eyes widened a little as she licked the side of his face and placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth before rising up and strutting away, ending her show.

Just before she completely left the room she turned to catch his eye before sending a wink his way.

A smirk ghosted his face and he slightly nodded.

Aight Siren.

After the girls performed they came back out in their regular clothes deciding to party with the guys at Stacks prompting.

The party had moved back inside of the suit but Smoke decided to sit outside for a few minutes just to get some air. He was becoming overwhelmed with all of the people and needed a break from the hoopla.

He sat facing the skyline as he nursed his drink. He heard the click of the balcony door but paid no attention until he heard a soft voice that washed over him like silk.

“Hey.”

Smoke turned his head to see Siren standing there with a small smile on her face. She now wore a lounge set that still brought out her curves and her hair was pulled back with a claw clip, a couple pieces hanging in the front. The glasses still on her face.

“Hey,” he almost stammered out causing him to mentally kick himself.

“Mind if I keep you company? I’m not really feeling the large crowd,” she asked as she rocked back and forth on her feet.

“Yeah, yeah that’s cool,” Smoke breathed out as he moved over on the bench giving her space to sit down.

Once she was next to him she blew out a breath as if she had been holding it all night while Smoke sat next to her trying to keep his cool.

They sat in an awkward silence for ten minutes. She played some game on her phone and he mindlessly scrolled while his mind ran with thoughts on how to begin a conversation. He needed to hear her voice again.

“So, what’s it like being a twin?”

Hearing her again caught him so off guard it took him too long to answer. Finally he found his voice again kicking himself for looking like a jackass.

“It’s cool. I mean besides sharing my face with somebody else, life really ain’t no different.”

“Where you from if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Clarksdale, Mississippi.”

A smile graced her face adding to her already impossible beauty.

“I’m from Mississippi too! I’m from McComb.”

“It’s nice to run into a fellow Mississippian,” she said excitedly.

Smoke chuckled a little bit at her genuine excitement about them being from the same state.

“Why they call ya Siren?”

“Lucki said I had eyes powerful enough to lure a man in with just a look so she named me Siren.”

Smoke took in the information with a slow nod as he looked at the skyline over the balcony. He wasn’t trying to be rude by not looking at her but her name rang true and he was afraid of what he’d do once she got those eyes on him.

“Why they call you Smoke,” she countered as she folded her legs under her body and leaned against the back of the seat.

“That’s a long story. One I ain’t really ready to get into,” he answered truthfully.

He slightly turned his gaze to Siren to see her with a polite smile on her face as she nodded in understanding.

“No problem.”

They sat in a comfortable silence just taking in the scenery before the door opened and Stack loudly yelled from the frame.

“Aye bring yall antisocial asses in here! We partying!”

Siren let out a small chuckle while Smoke yanked his head towards his brothers direction.

“Nigga shut up! We gone be in there when we good and damn ready!”

Stack kissed his teeth and waved Smoke off before rejoining the party.

“Crazy idea….but instead of going in the party you wanna get outta here,” Siren asked catching Smoke off guard.

“And go where,” he asked.

“Come see,” she said as she rose from the seat and stuck her hand out for him to grab.

Smoke stared at her and her hand for a moment before he enclosed her small hand in his large grasp.

After a ten minute walk from the hotel Siren led him into a small diner that sat off the corner of Canal St. that went by the name of Mama Bees.

They sat down in a booth towards the back of the quaint diner, a peaceful contrast from their previous surroundings.

“I recommend the seafood gumbo. It’s the best thing I done ever tasted,” she mused as she watched him look over the menu. Smoke smiled lightly.

“You must come here a lot?”

“Yeah, Mama Bee took me in when I first got out here 5 years ago. Let me stay in the apartment upstairs for little to nothing til I got on my feet.”

“That’s nice of her to do.”

“She had a big heart like that. I don’t know too many people who woulda trusted some 18 year old girl with a trash bag of clothes.”

“It’s good you still come round even though you done moved out,” Smoke complimented.

“She uh, she passed away last year. Heart attack.”

Smoke watched as she cast her eyes down onto the menu. Not reading it but probably trying to collect her emotions for a second before she looked back up at him trapping him in with those eyes.

“My name is Jodie by the way. My mama had an obsession with Baby Boy,” she said simply.

Smoke stared at her for a second before he nodded his head.

“My name is Elijah. My mama was obsessed with E names,” he answered back, causing the most beautiful smile he had seen in years to break out across her face.

The pair continued to talk and eat as they got to know each other. They talked for hours up until the diner shut down at 4 am. They carried their conversation out of the diner and just kept walking and talking with no real location in mind.

Smoke felt free and lighthearted as the younger woman told him the small things about her life and some funny stories about her growing up. He in turn told her stories about living in Chicago and moving back home to open their club. He made sure to leave out the parts about Annie not wanting to touch that subject just yet.

Before they realized it, daylight had come and it was 6 in the morning. They took their time walking back to the hotel. Both of them not ready to end their time together but both too shy to say something. The unspoken reluctance hung in the air. Them knowing Smoke would be flying back to Atlanta in two short hours.

They got to the front door of the hotel and just stood not ready to say bye.

“Well Prince Charming, here’s your stop,” Jodie joked as she motioned her hands towards the door.

Smoke laughed a little as he looked at the door knowing he needed to go in and pack his stuff.

“Thank you for showing me a good time Jodie.”

“Any time. You ever come back out here I got some more hidden gems you could see,” she spoke.

Smoke smirked and turned to walk inside of the hotel before he got the craziest idea he’s probably ever had in life. Dominique would have some shit to say but he had to see this girl again.

He turned back from the door just as she had began walking down the sidewalk.

“Jodie!”

She stopped abruptly and turned to him, her face contorted in slight confusion. He jogged his way down the sidewalk to her. Once he reached her he grabbed her by the back of her neck and crashed his lips into hers.

He could tell she was shocked because of how her body tensed but she soon relaxed and reciprocated the kiss before she pulled away.

“Smo-,”

“Be my wedding date,” he said, cutting her off by accident.

“What?”

“This probably sounds crazy as hell but I want ya to be my date to my brother's wedding. Please.”

Smoke don’t remember the last time he said please to anybody but he would say it as long as the woman in front of him granted his wish.

Jodie sat there frozen in silence for a few minutes before she finally dragged her eyes from his chest to his.

“Okay.”

Note: Hi guyssss!!! Sorry it took me so long to get this out. Between work and some family situations I hadn’t had the time or the energy but I finally got it to you guys!! I’ll be starting a different tag list for this fix outside of Summer Romance so if you would like to be tagged for this one and haven’t said it already lmk here. Please lmk what you think and I’ll see you guys later!! Enjoy.

Tag List: @empressdede @christinabae @underated345-blog

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Any chance to disrespect a black woman will happen I tell you smh like clock work. She ain’t got shit to do with that damn recast.

I need Michael b Jordan haters to keep Wunmi Mosaku’s name out of their mouth! I understand the frustration about the recast for Thomas Crown Affair ( I knew she would be recast as another mixed or yt woman) but the discourse/ disrespect towards wunmi is unacceptable. Michael never disrespected or acted negatively towards Wunmi and I need folks to stop the lies.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Chloe booty look like two buttery rolls 😭😩😂