nanamiismine

[nanamiismine]

August 22nd…

Please… be ready.

[nanamiismine]

When author decides to put a picture of the outfit y/n is wearing and it’s lowkey really ugly

[nanamiismine]

Smokestack Birthday

(Naomi x The Smokestack Twins — Franklin County, 1932)

Summary: Naomi, new in town and turning 29, gets pulled into the kind of “birthday celebration” only the SmokeStack twins know how to give. Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, dub-con undertones, heavy dirty talk, vulgar language, grinding, oral, double-teasing, spit/slick/mess, comeplay, degradation, rough handling. Canon-era Franklin County grit.

The night air clung thick and wet as Naomi left town behind. Her little bookstore sat locked up and quiet, birthday ignored like every other day since she’d come up from Florida. But her body buzzed restless, unwilling to let the night die alone. That’s how she ended up on the dirt road, pulled toward the barn she’d only heard about in whispers.

The closer she came, the louder it got—boots slamming wood in rhythm, a fiddle slicing through the haze, laughter cracked open by liquor. The smell hit next: smoke, corn whiskey, sweat.

Naomi paused at the doors, smoothing her dress down over her hips. Cotton clung to her curves in the August heat, strap slipping loose on her shoulder. She knew damn well she didn’t belong here. Black, new in town, sharp-tongued where most women bit theirs. But it was her twenty-ninth birthday, and she was sick of being careful.

Inside, the barn was alive. Lanterns swung, throwing light over clouds of smoke. Men leaned over jars, faces red and grinning. Women twirled, skirts flashing thigh as the banjo snapped faster. Naomi hugged the wall, chin up, bright eyes scanning the room as whispers rippled in her wake.

That’s when she felt it—two stares heavier than all the rest.

They were in the corner, half-shadowed but impossible to miss: the Smokestack Twins.

Same broad shoulders, same rough jaw, but different kinds of dangerous. Smoke leaned against the wall like he’d grown from it, cigarette dangling from his fingers, eyes locked on her with steady heat. Stack leaned forward, restless, grin wide and wolfish, like he’d already thought up three different ways to ruin her night.

Naomi’s gaze caught theirs and held. She hadn’t meant to throw a challenge, but she wasn’t about to back down either.

Stack moved first. He pushed off the wall, swagger rolling through his step, eyes eating her alive.

“Well, look at this,” he drawled, voice low and cocky as he stopped in front of her. “Don’t reckon I’ve seen you ‘round here before.”

Naomi tilted her chin. “That’s ‘cause you haven’t.”

His grin cracked wider. “Got a tongue on you. I like that.” He leaned in, shine heavy on his breath. “What’s your name, sugar?”

Her eyes slid past him to Smoke, who still hadn’t moved, just dragging slow on his cigarette, watching her like he could see straight through her. Then back to Stack.

“Naomi,” she said, steady. Then, sharper: “And I’m not your sugar.”

Stack’s laugh burst out, loud enough to make the fiddler falter. He liked that. Too much. He shifted closer, crowding her against the wall, hand hovering near her hip.

“You walk in here lookin’ like that, you sure you don’t mean to be sweet?” His voice dropped. “Bet your pussy’s sweet as sin.”

Gasps snapped from a few nearby. Naomi didn’t blink.

“You talk a lotta shit for a man who ain’t been invited,” she fired back, her voice slicing through the noise.

For a heartbeat, even Stack shut up. Then he barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “Goddamn. You hear that, brother?”

Smoke flicked his cigarette to the dirt and finally moved. His steps were slow, heavy, deliberate, parting bodies as he came. He didn’t smile, didn’t grin. He just came to stand in front of her, chest near enough to feel the heat. His eyes dragged over her face, steady and sure, before he spoke.

“Dance.”

It wasn’t a request.

Naomi arched a brow. “That how you ask a lady?”

“Didn’t ask,” he muttered, and his hand closed around hers before she could breathe. His palm was hot, calloused, grip unshakable. He pulled her straight onto the floor, crowd shifting to watch.

Whispers rippled fast. Black woman. Smokestack. Trouble.

The fiddle struck back up, the banjo following, but Naomi barely heard it. Smoke hauled her against him, his hand gripping low at her back, dragging her body to his. She felt every inch of muscle under his shirt, smelled tobacco and sweat sharp in her nose.

“You always this pushy?” she snapped, though her voice came out thinner than she liked.

Smoke leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “Only when I see somethin’ worth it.”

Her breath caught, heat crawling up her chest. Before she could spit back, a rough hand shoved Smoke’s shoulder.

Stack.

“Mind if I cut in?”

The whole barn stilled. Naomi’s pulse thumped so loud she swore the fiddle matched it.

Smoke’s grip tightened on her waist, jaw ticking. Stack’s grin sharpened.

Naomi planted her hand on her hip. “You boys fightin’ over me like I ain’t standin’ right here.”

The crowd broke into laughter, boots stomping, someone hollering. Smoke’s lip twitched, Stack’s laugh burst loud again.

Then Stack’s arm hooked her waist and yanked her flush against him. “Birthday girl don’t mind a little fight,” he rasped, low in her ear.

Naomi froze.

Her head whipped toward him. “How the fuck—”

“We hear things,” he smirked, his hand dragging low on her spine.

Smoke stepped in close, chest colliding with hers, caging her between them both. His voice was gravel, eyes burning holes through her.

“Say the word,” Smoke muttered, so low only she could hear. “I’ll let go. But you won’t.”

Naomi’s heart slammed. She should’ve shoved him back, should’ve walked out. Instead, she stood trapped between them, the heat of their bodies pressing in, their stares daring her to choose.

And for the first time that night, Naomi didn’t have a sharp word ready.

The crowd parted just enough for Smoke to drag her off the floor. His hand clamped around her wrist, iron-hot, unyielding. Naomi jerked against it once, twice, but his grip didn’t budge.

Stack followed like a shadow, grinning, catching whispers from the gawkers. Smokestacks got themselves a girl tonight. The crowd buzzed louder, stomping feet harder, half egging them on, half waiting for blood.

The door slammed behind her, muting the fiddle and laughter. The backroom was tight, stacked high with mason jars of clear liquor. The air was hotter here, heavy with smoke, sharp with corn whiskey.

Naomi spun, yanking her hand free. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?”

Smoke didn’t answer. He just stared, eyes black and burning, like he was peeling her open without a touch.

Stack laughed low, leaning against a crooked shelf. “Relax, sugar. We just wanna get acquainted.” He plucked up a jar, twisted the lid off with a pop, and held it out to her. “Birthday toast.”

Naomi glared at the jar, then at him. “I don’t drink with strangers.”

Stack tipped it back himself, the liquor flashing down his throat, then shoved it into her hand. “Then it ain’t a drink. It’s a dare.” His grin sharpened. “Bet you look real pretty with your lips wet.”

Naomi should’ve shoved it right back in his face. Instead, she tilted the jar slow, letting the liquor touch her mouth before she pulled it away. Her lips glistened, a bead sliding down her chin.

Smoke swore under his breath, jaw flexing.

Stack groaned, dragging a hand down his own face. “Goddamn. Thought I was jokin’, but look at you drippin’ already.”

Naomi wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “That line work on every girl, or just the drunk ones?”

Stack barked out a laugh, eyes hot. “You’re fuckin’ wicked.”

Smoke stepped closer, silent but heavy, his thumb lifting her chin before she could jerk away. His skin was rough, grip unyielding as he forced her gaze up.

“You talk tough,” he murmured, voice gravel. His thumb dragged across her jaw, slow, deliberate. “Bet you squeal soft.”

Her breath caught. Anger and heat tangled, curling low in her belly. “Try me,” she snapped.

Stack let out a whistle. “Shit. She’s beggin’ for it.”

Naomi rounded on him, finger jabbing at his chest. “I don’t beg.”

His grin widened, filthy. “Not yet.”

Smoke’s hand slid from her jaw to her throat, not squeezing, just resting there, warm and heavy, a threat more than a touch. His other hand pressed to the wall behind her, boxing her in.

The jars clinked as Stack shifted closer, trapping her on the other side. His knuckles brushed her hip, deliberate, daring.

Naomi’s bright eyes flicked between them, pulse hammering. “You boys plannin’ to fuck me or kill me?”

Stack’s grin was sharp enough to cut. “Both sound fun.”

Smoke leaned down, lips brushing her ear. “Depends how loud you scream.”

Naomi’s thighs clenched hard, heat flooding her belly despite the steel in her voice. “You two don’t scare me.”

Smoke’s hand at her throat pressed a little firmer, just enough to make her swallow. His breath scraped low. “You should be.”

Naomi shoved past them, the jars rattling as her shoulder clipped a shelf. She pushed the door hard enough to send it slamming against the barn wall, sucking in the cool night air like it might burn away the heat crawling up her neck.

The music still thumped inside, muffled by the walls, but out here it was quieter. Cicadas screamed in the trees, the creek babbled low just beyond the yard. Lantern light from the barn spilled a weak glow over the grass.

Boots crunched behind her. Of course they followed.

Stack was first out, licking his teeth like a man chasing blood. “Damn, sugar, walkin’ off like that. Thought you was havin’ fun.”

Naomi spun on him, eyes bright, chin high. “I’m not your sugar. And if either of you think you can drag me ‘round like I’m some prize, you’ve got me fucked up.”

Smoke came out slower, closing the door with a thud. His stare pinned her harder than his hand had. “We didn’t drag. You walked.”

Naomi’s lip curled. “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

Stack chuckled, pulling the jar from his coat. He took a long pull, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then held it out. “C’mon. Birthday sip. Make a wish.”

Naomi glared, then snatched it, drinking just enough to let the burn sear down her throat. She shoved it back into his chest. “Wish is you shut the fuck up.”

Stack laughed loud, tossing his head back. “Goddamn. You’re mean. I like mean.” His eyes dragged over her curves, pausing low. “Bet your pussy’s mean too—squeezin’ tight, fightin’ cock.”

Naomi’s breath hitched, heat flashing through her belly, but she refused to let it show. “Keep talkin’ like that and you’ll never find out.”

Smoke stepped in close, so close his chest brushed hers. His voice rumbled low, dark. “He don’t need to find out. I already know.”

Her thighs pressed together on instinct, betrayal sharp in her bones. She shoved at his chest, but his body didn’t budge.

The creek glimmered behind them, black and slick under the moon. Stack plopped down on a fallen log, spreading his knees wide, watching like he owned the night. He patted the space beside him.

“Sit. Or I’ll pull you.”

Naomi’s glare could’ve cut glass, but she sat anyway, mostly to prove he didn’t scare her. Her thighs brushed his for a split second before she shifted away, only to have Smoke settle heavy on her other side, trapping her in the middle.

The jar passed between the twins. Lips wet from the shine, tongues dragging slow across mouths. Naomi’s gaze betrayed her, following the path, heat biting down low.

Smoke leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “Bet you taste sweeter than this.”

Stack’s hand slid onto her thigh, casual, fingers grazing the hem of her dress. “Bet she’s drippin’ already.”

Naomi’s pulse hammered. She snapped her knees shut hard enough to trap his hand. “Bet you lose a finger if you don’t move it.”

Stack just smirked, eyes gleaming. “She clenched.” He flexed his fingers, pressing higher, closer. “Fuck, she squeezed.”

Smoke’s hand came down on her other thigh, heavier, his thumb rubbing lazy circles through the cotton. “She’s shakin’.”

“I’m not—” Naomi’s voice broke sharp, breath catching when Stack’s thumb pushed up against her heat, firm enough she couldn’t hide it.

Stack groaned low, filthy. “Goddamn. Soakin’ through already.”

Her body betrayed her, a hot slickness she couldn’t stop, thighs trembling against their hands. She clenched her teeth, snapping out the only defense she had left.

“You two talk too damn much.”

Smoke chuckled low, dark, his breath dragging along her throat. “Then let us put our mouths to better use.”

Naomi should’ve shoved them both off and walked. Instead, her thighs trembled, pinned between their hands, the night thick with liquor and heat.

Stack’s thumb pressed harder at the damp spot between her legs, rubbing through cotton that was already sticking to her. His grin went wild. “Fuck me—she’s wet as a spill.”

Naomi’s chest heaved. “It’s sweat.”

Smoke’s mouth dragged over her jaw, voice low enough to shake her bones. “That ain’t sweat, sweetheart.” His teeth scraped her throat, biting sharp enough to make her gasp.

Stack shoved his hand higher, fingers grinding at her slit through the thin fabric. The sound was filthy—slick, obscene. “Listen at that—drippin’ for us.”

Naomi’s hips bucked against his hand before she could stop herself. Heat burned her face, shame and hunger twisted tight.

“Fuck,” she hissed.

Stack’s laugh was dirty, his breath hot on her lips. “There’s the truth.”

Smoke’s hand slid up, gripping her jaw hard, turning her to him. His mouth crashed against hers, tongue pushing past her lips like he meant to claim her whole throat. The kiss was rough, spitting heat down to her belly.

Stack cursed under his breath, eyes blazing. “Goddamn. You’re kissin’ him while you’re soakin’ my fuckin’ fingers.”

Naomi gasped as his fingers shoved her panties aside, knuckles dragging through her slick folds.

“Christ,” he groaned, voice rough. “You’re spillin’ down my hand. This pussy’s greedy.”

Naomi clawed at his arm, nails scraping his sleeve. “Bet you won’t last long if I get your dick in me.”

That laugh broke out of him, hot and sharp. “Baby, you’d be the one beggin’ me not to stop.”

Smoke’s hand slid down her chest, pinching her nipple through the thin cotton, rough enough to make her choke on a moan. His other hand caught her wrist, pinning it against the tree bark. “Quit frontin’. Your mouth lies. Your body don’t.”

Stack’s fingers pushed into her, two at once, wet sounds spilling in the night. Naomi’s head dropped back, breath tearing loose, thighs twitching.

“Fuck, she’s tight,” Stack groaned, pumping harder. “Clamped down like she’s starvin’ for it.”

Naomi bit her lip until it bled, voice jagged. “Fuck… you.”

Smoke chuckled dark, his breath on her ear. “Keep sayin’ that, but your pussy’s milkin’ his fingers.”

Stack twisted just right, thumb rubbing hard at her clit. Naomi broke with a cry, her whole body shuddering against them, slick dripping down his hand.

“Jesus Christ,” Stack hissed, forehead pressed to hers. “You just gushed all over me.”

Smoke shoved his hand down too, palm pressing against her quivering heat, feeling her squirm. “She’s still spillin’.” His voice was rough, half-growl. “Soakin’ us both.”

Naomi slumped against the tree, panting, dress bunched high, thighs trembling.

But the twins weren’t done.

Smoke’s mouth brushed her ear, voice a filthy promise. “That was just your first mess. We ain’t finished.”

Naomi’s body shuddered against the tree, breath ripping out of her, thighs trembling around Stack’s hand. Her slick dripped down his wrist, soaking into his sleeve.

Stack groaned, pulling his fingers free just to look at the mess glistening on them. “Goddamn. Look at that—pussy made a flood on me.” He shoved the fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean, eyes rolling back. “Sweet as shine.”

Naomi’s chest heaved, fury and hunger tangled on her tongue. “You’re disgusting.”

He grinned, teeth flashing wet. “And you fuckin’ love it.”

Smoke’s hand pressed her harder into the bark, chest pinning hers. His mouth dragged over her throat, tongue licking the sweat at her collarbone before biting down sharp. She gasped, the sound breaking filthy in the night.

“Listen at her,” Smoke rasped, his voice gravel. “Little whore’s pantin’ already.”

Naomi snapped back even as her knees buckled. “Keep talkin’, and I’ll bite your goddamn tongue off.”

Stack laughed dirty, stepping in closer so she was caged between both of them, nowhere to move. “She’s got bite now, but this pussy?” His hand shoved between her thighs again, grinding the heel of his palm against her clit until she bucked. “This pussy begs.”

Naomi’s head slammed back against the bark, a strangled moan slipping free.

Smoke’s hand slid down, catching her jaw again, forcing her eyes up to his. His thumb pressed hard into her spit-slick lips. “Say it. Say you like our hands on your pussy.”

She shook her head, but the tremble gave her away.

Stack’s grin sharpened. He shoved two fingers back inside, harder this time, the squelch obscene. “Her pussy’s screamin’ it for her.” He leaned down, voice rough. “You’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight, sugar. Dick would split you wide.”

Naomi gasped, words tumbling jagged. “You wouldn’t last—”

Smoke’s mouth crushed hers before she could finish, swallowing the curse, tongue tangling rough with hers. His hand slid under her dress, gripping her thigh hard enough to bruise. “Shut up,” he growled against her mouth. “All you’re good for right now is soakin’ us.”

Stack twisted his fingers, thumb rubbing harder. Naomi broke again, thighs clamping, slick gushing down over his hand. Her moan ripped out raw, desperate.

“Fuck me,” Stack snarled, pulling back to look, his chin wet where her slick had smeared. “She’s spillin’ all over. Look at her fuckin’ drip.”

Smoke’s palm pressed low, cupping her pussy, feeling it spasm against his brother’s hand. “Soakin’ both of us,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “She’s a mess.”

Naomi gasped, shaking, nails clawing at the bark behind her. “You bastards—”

“Yeah?” Stack bit at her jaw, filthy grin flashing. “Say it louder. Let the whole county hear you call us bastards while we ruin your pussy.”

Her hips ground down on his hand without permission, body betraying her sharp tongue. “Fuck—”

Smoke’s hand left her thigh only to shove up her dress higher, fabric bunching at her waist. The night air hit her skin, cool on her slick thighs. He stared down at her panties, dark with wet. His voice came rough, hungry. “Pull ‘em off.”

Naomi’s eyes snapped wide. “The fuck I will.”

Stack chuckled low, still fucking her with his fingers. “She’ll do it. Pussy’s already beggin’ for more. Look at her shakin’.”

Smoke’s thumb dragged across her clit through the soaked fabric, his voice a rasp. “Either you take ‘em off, or we rip ‘em.”

Naomi’s chest heaved, defiance hot on her tongue—but her hands trembled down, hitching the hem higher, sliding the panties down her thighs. They clung wet before dropping to her ankles.

Stack let out a filthy groan. “Christ almighty. Shaved clean. Little pussy’s bare and shiny.” His fingers shoved back inside, now skin on skin, her slick coating him to the knuckle.

Naomi moaned sharp, biting her lip until blood touched her tongue. “Fuck you—”

Smoke’s mouth crushed hers again, swallowing the words. His other hand slid down, fingers joining Stack’s, both of them now working her, stretching her wide.

The sound was wet and obscene, each pump pulling a squelch from her pussy, slick running down the insides of her thighs.

Naomi’s nails clawed Smoke’s back, gasping into his mouth.

Stack growled low, breath ragged. “Gonna cum on both our fuckin’ hands. Already squeezin’ like a fist. You hear that? Fuckin’ gushin’.”

Her body broke again, harder, thighs clamping as her pussy pulsed around their fingers, slick pouring down. She screamed hoarse, muffled against Smoke’s lips, trembling against the tree.

Smoke groaned, his forehead pressing to hers. “This dirty pussy’s ours tonight.”

Naomi slumped, shivering, dress bunched at her waist, thighs glistening.

Stack licked his fingers clean with a filthy moan, eyes rolling back.

Naomi slumped against the tree, dress shoved high, thighs glistening under the moon. Her chest heaved, lips swollen, body trembling from the last mess they’d wrung out of her.

Stack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning filthy. “Christ, sugar. Pussy’s still spillin’.”

Smoke crouched low without a word, his big hands sliding under her thighs, spreading them wide until she gasped. His stare locked on her bare cunt, slick shining down her folds. He muttered low, almost to himself: “Fucking drippin’.”

Naomi tried to snap back, but her tongue caught when his mouth pressed hot to her pussy.

Her cry tore sharp into the night. Smoke’s tongue dragged flat and slow up her slit, lapping through every spill, groaning against her like he’d been starving for it. His grip on her thighs tightened, holding her still when she tried to squirm.

“Jesus,” Stack hissed, watching, breath ragged. “He’s eatin’ you like his last meal.”

Naomi’s head slammed back against the bark. “F-fuck—”

Smoke growled against her clit, sucking it hard enough she nearly screamed. He pulled back just enough to rasp, “Sweetest pussy I ever tasted.” Then his mouth sealed over her again, tongue flicking relentless.

Naomi’s thighs trembled, slick pouring down his chin. “God—goddamn you—”

Stack shoved Smoke’s shoulder. “Move. My turn.”

Smoke’s lip curled, wet with her. “Get your own mess.”

Stack laughed filthy and dropped to his knees beside him, dragging Smoke off just enough to shove his face in. His tongue stabbed rough against her clit, groaning loud. “Fuck me—she’s gushin’.”

Naomi jolted, nails scraping the tree bark, voice breaking on a moan. “Stop—fuck—”

Smoke shoved Stack back with a snarl. “You’ll drown her, dumbass.” He leaned in again, slow, deliberate, tongue circling until she cried out. “That’s how you treat a pussy.”

Stack growled, eyes blazing, and shoved his brother aside again, diving in greedy. He sucked her clit hard, two fingers jamming back inside at once, pumping as he licked. Naomi screamed hoarse, body bowing forward.

“Christ almighty,” Stack groaned against her, voice muffled in her cunt. “She’s fuckin’ floodin’ my mouth.”

Smoke gripped Naomi’s chin, forcing her to look at him while his brother devoured her. “Watch me while he ruins you.”

Naomi’s eyes watered, thighs twitching around Stack’s head, slick spilling fast. She gasped, half-sob, half-laugh. “Y-you bastards—”

Stack pulled back just long enough to wipe his chin, grinning up at her. “Taste like heaven, sugar. Wanna see if my brother agrees again?”

Before she could breathe, Smoke shoved him off hard, planting his mouth back over her swollen clit. His tongue dragged slow, deep, groaning into her heat. “She’s mine.”

Naomi broke again, her scream shattering into the night as another gush spilled over his tongue. Her whole body shook, pussy clenching empty, thighs clamping his head.

Stack barked a laugh, filthy and raw. “Look at her fuckin’ cum. You makin’ her gush like a fountain.”

Smoke didn’t let up, tongue relentless, lapping until her cries thinned to broken whimpers, body quaking against the tree. He pulled back finally, chin dripping, eyes dark.

“She’ll never forget that taste.”

Naomi sagged, body boneless, dress shoved to her waist, slick running down her thighs. Stack licked his lips, leaning close.

“Happy birthday, baby girl. That pussy’s ours tonight.”

Naomi was wrecked against the tree, dress shoved to her waist, thighs trembling, slick dripping down both her legs. Her breath came in ragged bursts, chest heaving.

Stack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grin shining wet. “Pussy’s a fuckin’ feast. I could drown in it.”

Smoke rose slow, wiping his chin with his sleeve, eyes locked on her ruined state. His jaw worked, tight with hunger. “She ain’t done yet.”

Before Naomi could snap back, Stack’s hand caught hers, dragging it down over the front of his pants. Hard, thick, straining against denim. Her fingers brushed the outline of his dick and he groaned sharp, head tipping back.

“Feel that? That’s what you did, sugar. Had me hard since you mouthed off in the barn.”

Naomi jerked her hand back, face burning, but Smoke caught her wrist, rough fingers closing over hers. He shoved her palm flat against his own bulge, harder, thicker, heat radiating through the fabric.

“Both of us,” Smoke rasped, his voice shredded with need. “You’ve had us hard all night.”

Naomi’s lip curled, sharp even as her thighs trembled. “Maybe your dicks can’t take a woman with a brain.”

Stack’s laugh came dirty, sharp. “

Smoke shoved him back, already undoing his belt with one hand, the rasp of leather loud in the night. “Quit talkin’ and show her.”

Naomi’s eyes snapped wide as Stack’s dick sprang free, heavy, flushed, pre-cum shining at the tip. He wrapped his fist around it, giving one slow stroke while staring her down. “See what you do to me? Pussy ain’t even touched it yet.”

Smoke yanked his own trousers open, his dick thick in his hand, darker, angrier. He stepped in close, pressing the blunt head against the slick lips of her pussy, dragging it slow through her folds.

Naomi’s cry tore sharp. “Goddamn you—”

“Goddamn us?” Smoke’s teeth caught her ear. “Say goddamn this dick.”

Stack shoved in from the other side, his cock slapping heavy against her thigh, smearing her slick across her skin. “Fuck, feel how wet she is—she’s coat in’ me already.”

Naomi squirmed, body betraying her, hips rocking against Smoke’s shaft as it slid over her clit. Slick sounds filled the night, obscene.

Smoke groaned low, head dropping to her shoulder. “You’re grindin’ on it, sweetheart. Pussy beggin’ to get split.”

Stack gripped the back of her neck, forcing her eyes on him while he rutted against her thigh, wet smacks loud. “Look at me while I rub this dick all over your pretty skin.” His voice broke filthy. “Bet you’d cream all over it if I shoved inside.”

Naomi spat through clenched teeth, voice ragged. “You—ain’t puttin’—shit in me.”

Smoke groaned, dragging his length through her folds again, the head catching on her clit, making her whole body jolt. “Then why’s this pussy huggin’ me already?”

Stack cursed, jerking himself against her thigh, pre-cum smearing hot. “Fuck me, she’s squeezin’ air like she’s already full. She’s cryin’ for dick.”

Naomi’s head slammed back against the bark, a broken sound spilling from her throat as both men ground into her, slick squelching, their cocks hot and wet against her.

Smoke’s voice tore low, filthy and sure. “One push and I’d bury this dick in you.”

Stack’s grin went sharp. “Bet she’d take us both. Pussy this messy? She’d swallow two.”

Naomi’s eyes flew wide, body clenching, a sharp gasp ripping from her lungs. “Fuck—you’re insane—”

Smoke’s teeth caught her bottom lip, biting hard enough to sting. “Insane for this pussy.”

Stack growled, rutting faster, his voice breaking rough. “She’s drippin’ all over us, brother. She’s ours tonight, through and fuckin’ through.”

Naomi’s body convulsed, another orgasm tearing through her without warning, slick spilling over their dicks as they ground against her, both groaning filthy into her ear.

Naomi’s thighs quivered, slick smeared over both their dicks, the sound of wet grinding obscene in the night. The tree dug rough into her back, the creek whispering dark behind them, but all she could hear were their voices, their breaths, their groans.

Smoke pressed the blunt head of his dick right against her entrance, hot and thick, rubbing in slow circles. Her breath hitched sharp, whole body tensing.

“Jesus,” he rasped, voice shredded. “Pussy’s twitchin’ for it.”

Naomi gasped, nails clawing at the bark. “Don’t you—”

Stack crowded closer, his cock slapping heavy against her thigh, leaving slick streaks. He grinned, teeth flashing. “Don’t what, sugar? Don’t slide in and split you open?” His hand wrapped around his shaft, jerking slow, head rubbing against her hip. “Fuck, I’d bury this dick in you so deep you’d scream.”

Smoke groaned, dragging his length down through her folds, the tip catching and pressing at her hole, just barely dipping inside before pulling out again. Her whole body seized, a sharp cry tearing out of her throat.

“Christ,” Smoke muttered, forehead pressing to hers. “Tight already. Haven’t even fucked you, and you’re tryin’ to suck me in.”

Naomi’s breath came jagged, desperate, but her tongue still cut sharp. “That’s… my body tryin’ to spit you back out.”

Stack barked a filthy laugh, pumping himself faster against her leg. “Sugar, if he pushed that dick in, you’d claw him bloody beggin’ for more.”

Smoke’s mouth crushed hers again, swallowing her next curse, grinding his shaft against her clit until her body jerked. He broke the kiss, teeth catching her lip. “Say it. Say you want this dick.”

She shook her head hard, but her hips betrayed her, rocking against him, dragging slick across his length.

Stack groaned, grabbing the base of Smoke’s cock and shoving it harder against her slit, smearing her wet everywhere. “Look at her grindin’—she’s fuckin’ herself on it.”

Naomi gasped, thighs clamping, but the head of Smoke’s dick pushed just barely past her lips, the blunt tip stretching her for one terrifying, filthy second—then he yanked back out, slick popping free.

She screamed, half frustration, half relief. “You fuckers—”

Smoke’s growl shook against her throat. “One push, Naomi. That’s all it’d take. One push and this pussy’s mine.”

Stack shoved his own dick against her swollen clit, rutting rough, smearing her slick over his head. “Or mine. Christ, she’d milk me dry in a minute.”

Naomi’s head slammed back against the bark, a guttural moan tearing free despite the fury in her eyes. Her whole body trembled, slick dripping in messy trails down her thighs, coating them both.

Stack leaned in, tongue dragging up her cheek, whispering filthy against her ear. “Bet she wants both our dicks fightin’ inside her. Pussy greedy enough to take it.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched, his tip pressing against her hole again, sliding in just a hair—then pulling back when she gasped, leaving her empty and aching.

Naomi’s cry was ragged, furious. “Quit… fuckin’ with me!”

Smoke’s smirk cut dangerous. “We ain’t even started, sweetheart.”

The tree bark bit into Naomi’s palms as Smoke shoved her forward, bending her over rough against the trunk. Her dress was shoved up around her waist, panties long gone, thighs shining with slick.

Behind her, his breath came ragged, his dick thick and heavy against her slit. He dragged the head slow through her folds, spreading her open, groaning low. “Christ almighty. Pussy’s gushin’ like it’s beggin’ me to split it.”

Naomi’s voice broke sharp, half a snarl, half a moan. “You put that in me, I’ll—”

Stack stepped in front, hand fisting her hair, tilting her head back. His dick slapped heavy against her lips, smearing her mouth wet. “You’ll what, sugar? Bite me?” He rubbed his tip over her lips until they glistened. “Fuckin’ do it. Bite my dick. I dare you.”

Naomi’s mouth opened to spit a curse, but he shoved forward just enough to smear himself past her teeth, not deep, just rubbing across her tongue. His groan ripped low. “Goddamn. Mouth’s as hot as that pussy looks.”

Behind her, Smoke pressed harder, the blunt head stretching her lips apart, sliding just barely inside before pulling back again. Naomi’s whole body jolted, a ragged cry tearing free.

“Shit,” Smoke growled, voice cracked. “Tight as a goddamn fist. Took an inch and she already grabbed me.” He pulled out, slick popping, grinding up against her clit instead. “This pussy’s hungry.”

Stack rutted against her mouth, not deep, just smearing, letting spit and slick run down her chin. His laugh came filthy. “She’s hungry both ends, brother. Look at her—fuckin’ dripping while she sucks me.”

Naomi gagged a curse around him, spit running messier down her throat. Her fists clawed at the bark, her body shaking even as she tried to twist away. “B-bastards—”

Smoke shoved the head of his dick back against her hole, pressing harder, slipping just a little deeper this time, stretching her walls before yanking out again. The slick sound was obscene. “Goddamn it, she’s squeezin’ like she don’t wanna let go. Pussy’s fuckin’ starvin’.”

Stack hissed, guiding her mouth back to his shaft, rutting against her lips. “Bet she wants both of us. Pussy clamped on you, throat workin’ on me—she was built for double.”

Naomi’s eyes went wide, her muffled cry vibrating against his dick.

Smoke’s growl was animal, pressing in again, teasing the tip inside just enough for her to feel it stretch. “One thrust and you’d be split on this dick.”

Stack’s voice cut filthy, taunting. “Split front and back. Stuffed full ‘til she don’t remember her own fuckin’ name.”

Naomi’s body betrayed her, a high, broken moan ripping out, slick spilling faster down her thighs. Her hips bucked back against Smoke’s tip, even as her mouth opened wider against Stack’s rutting.

“Fuck me,” Smoke groaned, forehead pressed to her back. “She’s pushin’ on me. She’s beggin’.”

Stack laughed dark, his voice jagged. “Hear that whine? That’s a beg. Say it, sugar. Say you need our dicks.”

Naomi shook her head hard, spit flying, but her voice cracked around him, weak, ruined. “N-never—”

Smoke’s thrust shoved the head in deeper, another inch before dragging back out, her walls clenching hard around nothing. Her cry was guttural, desperate.

Stack slapped her cheek with his shaft, filthy grin flashing. “Pussy sayin’ yes while that smart mouth says no. Goddamn, brother, we’re makin’ her ours tonight.”

The bark bit deeper into Naomi’s palms as they bent her forward, dress bunched at her waist, ass bare in the moonlight. Her slick thighs trembled, already wrecked, but the twins weren’t finished.

Smoke ground the head of his dick against her soaked slit, sliding slow up and down, pushing the blunt tip just an inch inside before dragging it out again. The pop of slick each time made her cry out, half-snarl, half-moan.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, voice raw. “She’s swallowin’ me and I ain’t even fuckin’ her.”

Stack fisted her hair from the front, guiding her mouth back to his shaft. He didn’t push deep — just smeared his tip across her lips, spit and her slick coating her chin. “Open wider, sugar. Wanna see that smart mouth messier.”

Naomi’s lips parted against her will, letting him rub across her tongue, heat and salt spreading on her mouth. She gagged out a curse, muffled, broken.

“Fuck,” Stack hissed, rutting slow against her lips. “That tongue’s beggin’ for dick.”

Smoke shoved forward again, sliding the head in deeper than before, stretching her hole open just enough to feel it, then yanking out. Naomi screamed, nails clawing bark, her hips jerking back after him.

“See that?” Smoke rasped, his voice shredded. “She’s fuckin’ pushin’ back. Pussy’s desperate.”

Naomi’s whole body shook, slick pouring down her thighs. Her voice cracked, ruined: “S-shut… up—”

Stack slapped her cheek lightly with his shaft, groaning. “No, baby girl. You shut us up. You make us cum.”

Her body betrayed her, another orgasm tearing through her before she could fight it — pussy clenching on empty, gushing hot over Smoke’s shaft as he rubbed against her. Her scream ripped into the night, throat raw, slick dripping down to her knees.

“Goddamn it,” Smoke snarled, grinding harder against her folds, his forehead pressed to her back. “She’s floodin’ again. Pussy’s squeezin’ air like I’m buried in her.”

Stack’s laugh came sharp, dirty. “She’s fuckin’ drippin’ down both of us. Filthy little thing.” His hand tightened in her hair, his other pumping his dick as he rutted against her lips faster, groaning louder. “Shit, I’m close—”

Smoke cursed, dragging his shaft through her slick folds, tip catching at her hole, pressing deep enough to make her choke out another scream. “So fuckin’ tight—Jesus—”

Naomi sobbed a broken sound, body convulsing against the tree.

Stack groaned rough, his grip yanking her head back as he spilled, smearing it across her mouth and cheek, breath tearing ragged from his chest. “Fuck me—look at you painted up—”

Smoke bit out a growl, grinding against her slit one last time, his body jerking as he broke too. Heat spilled across her ass and thighs, his voice a hoarse snarl. “Christ almighty—ruined me—”

Naomi slumped against the bark, legs shaking, her own mess dripping down to the dirt, their release sticky on her skin. Her breath came in ragged bursts, sharp gasps mixing with the cicadas’ scream in the dark.

Stack staggered back, laughing low, filthy.

Smoke’s hand stayed braced against the tree above her, his chest heaving, his eyes dark. His voice came rough, dangerous even now: “You’re ours tonight.”

Naomi’s lips parted, a curse caught on her ruined tongue — but her body shook too hard to make it stick.

The cicadas hummed like nothing had happened. The creek babbled low, steady, uncaring.

Naomi sagged against the tree, bark biting into her palms, legs trembling too hard to hold her. Her dress was bunched high around her waist, thighs slick with spit and cum, her mouth wet, her chest heaving like she’d run miles.

Stack staggered back first, laugh breaking rough in his chest. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes gleaming filthy as he stared down at her. “Shit. Never seen a pussy put two men on their knees like that.”

Naomi’s head lifted sharp, her bright eyes burning even through the mess streaking her face. Her voice came cracked, but her bite was still there. “Don’t flatter yourselves. I’ve had worse nights.”

Smoke leaned against the tree beside her, not touching, just close enough for his heat to sink into her. His chest rose slow, heavy. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, struck a match with a snap, and lit it. The flare lit his jaw, his stare locked on her.

“You’ll remember this one,” he muttered, voice gravel.

Naomi forced her legs to straighten, dragging her dress down over her thighs, smoothing it with shaking hands. She ignored the stickiness on her skin, the bruises blooming along her hips, the way her body still throbbed. She lifted her chin high.

“I’ll remember how damn loud you two talk,” she snapped, her voice steadier now. “And how little you finished what you started.”

Stack barked out a laugh, filthy and sharp. “Oh, sugar, we finished plenty.” He tucked himself back into his trousers, grin sharp as a knife. “You just don’t know when to quit.”

Naomi stepped past him, head high despite the shake in her legs. Her hair was mussed, her lips swollen, her thighs still glistening in the moonlight — but she walked like a woman who dared the whole county to whisper her name.

Behind her, the twins lit their cigarettes, smoke curling into the breaking dawn. Neither spoke. Both watched.

The sky split pale at the horizon, fog clinging low over the creek. Naomi didn’t look back.

Her twenty-ninth birthday had ended filthy, ruined, unforgettable. Tomorrow, Franklin County would talk.

And she would make damn sure they said her name with it.

[nanamiismine]

SINNERS KINKTOBER 2025

[nanamiismine]

My sinners fyp so dry like, where y’all at?

[nanamiismine]

People are slowly down making stories for sinners and it’s making me sad 💔

[nanamiismine]

Chapter One: Dreams or Nightmares

Authors Note: Yeah so… I have a habit of starting something new while working on something else… Enjoy my coochie muffins!

Warnings: 18+ | Angst | Slow burn | Smokie Smoke is MEAN :/ but it’s lowkey justified | Stack is a grown toddler | OC x SmokeStack Twins | Of course this story is going to be freaky. Can’t you tell by the header?

By the time Alexandria Watkins stepped into her penthouse, the night had settled over Los Angeles like a veil of lies, thin enough to let the city’s light bleed through, but heavy enough to feel suffocating if you stood still too long. The glow from her skyline view flickered across the glass walls like a heartbeat, pulsing with the life of a city that never slept, even when she desperately needed to.

The soft click of the door behind her was the only sound in the apartment. No greetings, condescending voices, clinking glasses or microaggression congratulations. Just pure silence.

Her heels tapped against the polished marble floor with a rhythm that felt foreign to her ears now, echoing in a space designed to impress but not to comfort. The second the lock turned behind her, something in her spine gave out. Not physically… but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. Her shoulders dropped, her posture dissolved, and the woman she carefully performed as all night unraveled in deliberate threads.

She stood there, motionless, for a long moment. Still in the shimmering midnight-blue gown that clung to her figure like it had been painted on. Still wearing the smile she’d forced through every conversation, every camera flash, and every tight-lipped exchange with producers who wanted to “talk numbers” but kept looking at her breasts instead of her eyes. Still reeking of expensive perfume and polite applause and the sour, invisible stench of a man who’d embarrassed her in front of everyone.

Adam.

The name tasted rancid on her tongue. She had watched him. All fucking night. Watched his hand linger just a little too long on the curve of his assistant’s hip. Watched the corners of his mouth tilt in that smug little smirk he used when he wanted to make someone feel chosen. She’d seen it before, back when it was still being used on her. The worst part was that no one knew about their split. Not her manager, her PR team, or even her friends. No one knew she and Adam were done. And this wasn’t their typical fight or just “taking a break.” No, they were completely finished. And because no one knew, she didn’t have an outlet to vent her frustrations.

Admitting the breakup out loud meant opening the door to questions, pity, and sly whispers that she couldn’t afford to trail behind her name right now. Not when her first major film was finally on its way to the theaters. Not when people were beginning to call her “a force.” So she smiled through it all. She nodded, posed, and she swallowed the humiliation like a jagged pill and let it catch in her throat while she played the part of the adored, the accomplished, and the unbothered.

But now that she was home, she peeled it all off.

The zipper groaned as she yanked it down her back, the fabric loosened like a secret exhaled into the dark. She stepped out of the gown with a quiet grunt, letting it collapse onto the floor in a puddle of sequins she would tend to in the morning. Her skin prickled with leftover adrenaline and her breath was shaky with the effort of keeping herself composed for hours on end.

She moved in silence letting the soles of her feet guide her to the kitchen. Her mid-back, jet-black curls still held the memory of tight red carpet glamour and were finally frizzing at the edges. She reached up and roughly gathered them into a pineapple bun at the crown of her head, letting the weight of it sit heavy. Loose curls spilled over her forehead and temples, framing her face with a messy kind of honesty she hadn’t allowed herself all night.

She walked over to a dining chair and grabbed her favorite shirt that was draping over the side. It was an old, oversized thing with faded lettering from a film festival she’d once been too broke to attend but swore she’d headline one day. She tugged it over her naked frame, relishing in the cotton softness against her bare skin. Her nipples hardened beneath the fabric and the chill of the penthouse finally caught up to her now that her mask was off. Next came a pair of fuzzy socks. They were pink and mismatched and one of them had a tiny bleach stain near the toe. Nothing about them screamed “Hollywood,” and that’s exactly why she loved them.

She wandered to her bar cart and selected the darkest red she owned. Didn’t even glance at the label. She poured it into a glass that was definitely too big for a single serving and brought it to her lips. “I need a fucking vacation,” she spoke like the words tasted as bitter as her drink of choice.

She moved to her couch that was a wide, curved velvet thing the color of dried roses, plush and dramatic and far too large for someone who spent most nights curled up alone. She dropped onto it unceremoniously, the wine sloshing a little in her glass as she pulled her legs under her and reached for her phone.

The screen lit up and showed multiple missed calls.

Adam.

Five of them. One right after the other.

Persistent bastard, she thought, rolling her eyes before tossing the phone across the room. It hit the far end of the couch with a dull thump and tumbled between the cushions like it had the good sense to be ashamed of itself.

For a moment, she just sat there breathing and letting her mind wander. The city beyond the windows kept moving. Cars zipped across the hills like fireflies. Somewhere, someone was proposing. Someone else was crying in an Uber. Someone was having the best night of their life. And Alexandria was just… here. She wasn’t crying or screaming like a typical heartbroken woman, but she also wasn’t okay. She felt suspended in a quiet that felt like it might devour her if she let it.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of the wineglass. Her throat burned from the heat of the alcohol, but she took another sip anyway. This kind of pain was something she could understand. She leaned back, closed her eyes and let her mind continue to drift. Not to her film, not to the critics, not even to Adam—but to something else. Something unreal. Something dangerous. The only thing lately that made her feel remotely alive: Smoke and Stack.

Two fictional men from a movie she’d watched too many times. Characters she’d written about late into the night, fingers flying over her keyboard, breath caught in her throat as she imagined the rough timbre of their voices, the weight of their hands, and the danger in their eyes. Alexi’s lips parted slightly as the thought lingered. She finished the rest of her wine in one long unapologetic gulp and let the glass fall to the plush carpet with a careless thud. It didn’t break, because nothing ever did in her world unless she wanted it to.

She pushed up from the couch and drifted toward her bedroom. The lights were low, casting soft shadows across the white oak floors of her bedroom and modern art hanging on the walls. Her bare thighs brushed against the hem of her oversized shirt as she moved, wine-warmed and restless. There was something electric building beneath her skin. A low hum of obsession that refused to quiet down no matter how tired she pretended to be.

She climbed into her California king bed and dragged her laptop onto her lap. The screen lit up painting her mahogany brown face in pale blue light, highlighting the dark crescents under her eyes and the soft crease between her brows. Her desktop background was a still from Sinners—the one where Smoke and Stack lean against the car and share a cigarette, their silhouettes outlined in danger and vengeance. That scene had branded itself into her memory the first time she saw it. And the second… And the fiftieth.

She opened her latest fanfic doc and began typing.

Ryan Coogler deserves every fucking award for what he did with these two.

No, seriously.

This man cracked open some dusty-ass door in my brain and summoned two men who’ve ruined every real man for me. I’m a writer. I create characters for a living. I’m good at it. But I haven’t been this crazy about a fictional man since I was watching Black Panther on repeat wishing Erik would climb out of the TV and claim me.

Her fingers flew across the keys, each word pouring out of her like a confession. She wrote about the way Smoke’s hand flexed around the grip of his pistol when he got angry. The glint of Stack’s gold tooth when he smiled right before doing something that should’ve landed him in Hell. She gave them more than just lines. She gave them purpose, pain, and power. She breathed life into every slow-burning stare, every drawled threat, every moment of brutal tenderness between them and the girl who could finally bring them to their knees.

The wine made her bolder and the silence made her reckless. She didn’t stop writing. Not when the clock struck midnight. Not when her eyes began to sting. Not even when her fingers began to cramp. She kept going until the lines between her fantasy and her reality blurred into something deliciously sinful. And finally once exhaustion took over, her laptop slid off her lap and landed beside her on the bed as sleep took her.

The sound that woke her wasn’t gentle.

It was sharp, metallic, foreign and completely out of place in the curated calm of her penthouse. Something slammed against the marble floor in her kitchen, followed by the distant scrape of movement. Then came the unmistakable clatter of glass hitting the ground.

Alexi’s eyes snapped open. Her room was a cave of shadows, faintly illuminated by the screen of her sleeping laptop. Her limbs were stiff from sleeping half-upright, her shirt twisted around her body, her curls now a wild mane around her face. For a moment, she thought it had been part of a dream. Until she heard it again. A heavy footstep… one… two… maybe three.

Every nerve in her body lit up with fear and she scrambled out of bed, disoriented with her heart thundering in her chest. Her eyes quickly scanned her room in search of her phone. She needed it to call help, she needed to—

“Shit.” Her voice was a strained whisper as she remembered how she threw her phone angrily after seeing Adam’s missed calls. It was somewhere across the living room possibly dead and definitely out of reach. Barefoot and breathless, she moved to her closet and yanked the old aluminum bat from behind her coats. It felt ridiculous in her hand, like a toy. But it was better than nothing.

Her penthouse was extra silent now, the kind of silence that pressed against the walls like it knew something she didn’t. She crept down the hallway and every step felt like a mistake. And then she saw the light spilled across the polished floor from the kitchen. Her breath caught in her throat as she inched closer with her bat raised. She peered around the corner—and froze.

Two men stood in the center of her kitchen. They weren’t dressed like intruders. No masks, no frantic searching for valuables. No tools or backpacks or signs of panic. They were dressed like legends.

Both wore deep black three-piece suits that looked pristine, heavy, and cut in a style that belonged to another era. Smoke’s jacket hugged his frame, shoulders broad, chest commanding. Stack’s coat was open, revealing a pressed vest and blood-streaked white dress shirt beneath. Their shoes were scuffed but polished. Their suits were tailored, but dusty. Like they’d walked through a battlefield in their Sunday best. And in their hands—pistols. Not modern handguns. They both had antique revolvers, polished to a dull gleam, gripped tight like they were still warm from being fired.

Alexi’s bat hit the floor and her heart seized as she felt her legs lock. This was too much and her brain refused to process what was going on.

Smoke, who was standing closest to the stove, looked up first. The dim light in the room made him look larger than life. His stare was menacing and he looked like chaos with a pulse even in a state of confusion. Next to him, with a slightly looser and cockier silhouette stood Stack. He was fiddling with a pot and glanced up from it like it just swindled him out of money. “What in the cotton pickin’ hell…” Stack’s voice bristled, caught between doubt and fascination. “This ain’t no Mississippi.”

They both turned toward her at the same time. A lost breath left Alexi’s lips unsealed. Her vision blurred and her knees wobbled. And then she did what anyone in this situation would do… she laughed. It started in her belly, light and breathless, then exploded upward into her chest until it cracked out of her mouth in full, echoing peals.

“Oh my God,” she choked, gripping her stomach. “Oh, this is a good one.”

Stack looked over at Smoke with a face full of confusion. “Is she alright in the head?”

“This is definitely a dream,” Alexi said between gasps, wiping tears from her eyes. “Jesus, I really outdid myself this time.”

Neither man moved. Their pistols stayed lowered, but ready.

Alexi took a few steps forward, still smiling. Her oversized shirt hung just off one shoulder, exposing smooth brown skin and the curve of her collarbone. Her fuzzy socks slid slightly across the tile as she moved. “Usually when y’all show up it’s way more romantic,” she mused. “Lot more kissing and licking. But you look good.” She eyed them slowly, boldly. “So… who wants to take a turn first?”

That stopped everything. Smoke’s brows furrowed sharply. Stack’s head tilted, confused and vaguely entertained. Neither man smiled.

Alexi raised her arms, twirling once. “I’m guessing this is my subconscious playing out one of the older drafts. The suits? The guns? You boys here to teach me a lesson?”

Stack blinked. “…Elijah, is this woman touched?” Smoke didn’t speak. Instead, he slowly raised his pistol and leveled it at her forehead.

Alexi didn’t even flinch; she just grinned wider, like the muzzle of a gun was a compliment. “Dramatic. I like it. You gonna rough me up a little, Big Daddyyyy?”

Stack’s jaw twitched. But Smoke’s stare stayed fixed. His voice was even and he didn’t find this exchange entertaining. “You got five seconds to tell me where we is,” he said. “Or I’ll put a fuckin’ bullet in ya pretty lil’ head an paint this shiny floor red.”

The words landed like a slap and the amusement drained from Alexi’s face. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a scene. The gun pointed at her was real and the man holding it was not playing with her. Her breath caught as she blinked in confusion. “Wh… what?”

Smoke took one step forward. “Four.” The weight in his voice was unbearable, like judgment and death wrapped in bourbon and thunder.

Alexi’s hands shot up, her words tumbling over each other. “W-WAIT! You’re in Los Angeles. You’re in my penthouse—I swear—I didn’t bring you here—I don’t know how you got here—”

Stack tilted his head slightly and he squinted. Suspicion threading his glare. “Los Angeles? We out west?”

“Y-Yes! And it’s 2025,” Alexi whispered.

That stopped them… kind of. Smoke’s pistol faltered, just for a moment. Stack turned slowly, scanning the space again. He took in the high ceilings, the clean, sterile light, the floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a skyline like stars poured into glass.

“This…” Stack muttered, “this really ain’t Mississippi.”

“I know,” Alexi rambled, overwhelmed. “Because you’re not supposed to be here. You’re fictional.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked and his finger hovered over the trigger.

Stack blinked. “Fictional?”

“You’re from a movie!” she cried, chest heaving. “A movie called Sinners! I wrote about your characters. I know everything about you… your birthday, the scar behind Stack’s ear, the way Smoke clenches his jaw before he kills someone… I-I didn’t make you but I definitely added on to who you are.”

Stack looked like Alexandria had grown a second head.

But Smoke… Smoke just stared. His eyes darkened, not with fear. “You sayin’ we dead?”

“No!” she said, backing up. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I just… I was writing… I fell asleep—”

Smoke took a step forward, gun still in hand.

Stack caught his arm. “Smoke,” he said quietly, “if she’s tellin’ the truth…”

“We ain’t in Clarksdale no more,” Smoke spoke through clenched teeth, tone sharp as a switchblade before lowering the weapon. His eyes still fixed on Alexi.

She collapsed to the floor, hands shaking. The sterile floor was cold against her skin, a cruel contrast to the heat flooding her body. Her knees hit first, then her palms. She didn’t care how she looked, didn’t care that her oversized shirt had risen high on her thighs or that her body was quaking with disoriented doubt. Her mind was a cyclone of disbelief and rising terror.

Smoke was still watching her silently and unblinking. Like a wolf trying to decide if the rabbit at his feet was already dead or just playing dumb.

Stack lowered his pistol completely now, sliding it into the shoulder holster beneath his jacket as he took a cautious step forward. There was a strange glint in his eye that wasn’t cruelty or even suspicion, it was akin to childlike intrigue. A hunter trying to figure out what kind of trap he’d just stepped into.

Alexi’s brain itched for answers. Her voice came out thin and breathless. “This isn’t possible.”

Stack crouched slowly, resting his forearm on his knee, eyes level with hers now. His voice, when it came, was low and coaxing, a balm compared to his brother’s edge. “Start from the top, sweetheart.”

“I told you.” Her voice cracked. “You’re from a movie. A film called Sinners. It came out this year… 2025. You’re both in it. You’re fictional characters played by a really talented actor. But I’ve been writing stories about you… in my spare time. Fanfiction… A lot of it.”

Smoke’s lips curled around the word like it was poison. “Fiction.”

“I didn’t mean to bring you here,” she rushed on, words tumbling over themselves. “I don’t know how you got here. One second I was writing about you, and the next…” She looked up, eyes wide and unfocused. “There was a crash,” her voice slipped out like a ghost. “And then you were here.”

Smoke scanned the room like it might offer him answers. His fingers flexed around the grip of his pistol, but he didn’t raise it again. “This some magic shit,” he grumbled low, letting the words barely escape.

Stack let out a soft, humorless laugh. “You been writin’ spells, baby girl?”

“No!” Alexi shot back, sitting up a little straighter. “I write romance. Angst. Sometimes smut… maybe a lot of smut… B-But I don’t write portals!”

That made Stack blink. Then his eyes drifted to Smoke, who looked like he was resisting the urge to shoot the floor just to hear something familiar.

Alexi dragged herself back to her feet, wobbling slightly as she leaned against the kitchen island. Her voice dropped, quieter now, the fear finally catching up to her. “How did you get here?”

Smoke’s voice cracked like embers in the dark. “Last thing I ‘member, we was collectin’ on a debt.”

“Lil whiskey runner out in Lambert’s Creek,” Stack added. “Owed us for three weeks. Thought he could run.” His eyes narrowed, distant. “We was just about to make an example of him.”

Alexi’s heart skipped. “And then?”

“There was this… sound,” Stack said, frowning. “Low. Wrong. Like thunder inside ya’ skull. Next thing we know, we here. Bright lights an a kitchen full of glass that ain’t hold no food.” Alexi’s gaze darted to the kitchen island where a few pieces of broken glass glittered on the floor. She followed Stack’s gaze to her refrigerator, to the sleek stovetop, to the glowing digital clock above the oven. “Where we come from,” he muttered, “none of this shit exists.”

Smoke leaned against the counter now, finally slipping his pistol into the back of his waistband. His voice was dangerous like there was a blade behind every syllable. “An you expect us to believe we just appeared here ‘cause you was scribblin’ stories ‘bout us?”

“No,” Alexi whispered. “I don’t expect you to believe anything. I can barely believe it myself.”

There was a long, heavy pause. Then Stack, always the lighter of the two, turned his head and looked at her with something like wonder. “If you did write us… that mean you wrote this, too?”

Alexi blinked. “This?”

He gestured at his own body, then Smoke’s, then the suits. “These clothes. These scars. The way he talk. The way I smile.”

She swallowed hard. “I… yeah. I mean, I took inspiration from the movie, but the rest… yeah. I wrote all of it.”

Smoke’s eyes were flint. “Then you better explain why you brought us here. ‘Cause I don’t take kindly to bein’ yanked outta my life foe’ a lil girl daydream.”

Alexi cut her eyes to Smoke and her lips were still trembling with a mixture of emotions. “I didn’t bring you here on purpose! You think I would’ve done this to myself voluntarily? I thought I was dreaming when I saw you. Hell, I still think I might be dreaming.”

Stack smirked. “What kinda dreams you usually have ‘bout us?”

Alexi didn’t bother answering. Her silence said more than words could. Smoke’s gaze cut between them, and the heat in the room thickened. “You… you’re not gonna hurt me, are you?” That question hung in the air like a lit fuse.

Stack tilted his head and greedily took in Alexi’s figure. “Depends.”

“On what?”

Smoke answered, his voice a low, lethal hum. “On whether you keep lyin’.”

“I’m not,” she huffed, dragging the words out like a spoiled child. “I swear I’m not.”

The silence that followed was long and awful. Then, at last, Smoke exhaled deeply and reached up to loosen his tie. It fell away from his collar like a sigh. “We need answers, lil girl,” he said. “An ‘till we get ‘em, we stay here.”

Alexi’s brows lifted. “Wait. Stay? As in… here? With me?”

Smoke didn’t bother answering her right away. His eyes cut sharp across the room before taking in every inch of her. Weird colored socks planted stubbornly on a weird floor, arms crossed tight over her chest in a weird looking nightgown, and a mouth twisted in disbelief like she didn’t know how to address a man like him. She wasn’t like any woman he was used to dealing with and he was becoming more annoyed by the second while pulling off his coat.

Alexi’s breath snagged. “You can’t be serious,” she blurted. “This isn’t a boarding house. I don’t even… WAIT! Look, I can pay for you to stay somewhere else, okay? I’ll get you an Airbnb—nice view, clean sheets—”

“Air… what?” Stack murmured, his brow crinkling.

“‘Bee an bee,’” Smoke echoed, low and disinterested. He tossed his coat over the back of her pristine couch, already turning away like her words were gnats buzzing near his ear.

“It’s a rental! A place to sleep that isn’t my home!” Alexi whined, spinning on her heel to follow him as both men began to move through her penthouse like they owned the place. “You can’t just… HEY! STOPPP! This is MY space!”

But they didn’t stop. Stack’s polished shoes tapped across her floor as he trailed his twin, fingers giddily gliding across her countertops, poking into drawers, plucking items like a child in a toy store. He turned her electric kettle upside down and shook it like it owed him money. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s not a weapon, it’s for tea!” she barked, yanking it out of his hands. “Jesus! Stop touching everything!”

Smoke said nothing. His steps were slow and deliberate and his gun was already back in his hand. Not pointed, but heavy and ever-present in his palm as he swept into her hallway.

Alexi stormed after them, her oversized shirt swishing angrily around her upper thighs. “You’re both out of your damn minds! I don’t know what sort of Wild West fantasy you think this is, but this is my apartment and you are not allowed to just squat here!”

“You talk too much,” Smoke muttered, tone dry as dust. “Shut the fuck up.”

She halted mid-step. The words cracked across the air like a whip. He didn’t even glance back, just opened a door, peeked in, checked corners, and moved on. He treated her like she was background noise… like she wasn’t even there.

Stack turned to her with a lazy shrug. “He don’t mean it, sweetheart. He just don’t like unknowns. Ain’t nothin’ personal.”

“This is personal,” she growled. “He’s in my goddamn home with a gun telling me to ‘shut the fuck up’!”

“Exactly.” Smoke’s voice came from further down the hall now. “Which mean it’s mine an you listen to me ‘til I say otherwise.”

She chased the sound, catching up to find him standing outside her bedroom. Smoke’s hand reached for the doorknob and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“No!” Alexi darted forward and threw herself in front of the door, planting both hands on the frame like her, ‘pilates every other Tuesday’ body could stop him. “Absolutely not. You DON’T get to go in there.”

Smoke’s gaze slid down to meet hers, dark and silent. She could feel the air constricting, coiling tighter and tighter. Then, without giving another warning he raised his pistol and the barrel kissed her forehead. She felt her soul leave her body as her spine went rigid, her heart started to hammer like it was going to jump out of her chest, and her throat became dry as ash.

“Move lil’ girl.”

Her voice caught in her throat, but she held her ground. “I told you… no… you don’t get to go in there… And I’m not a ‘lil’ girl!”

Stack, behind him, tilted his head in interest and instigated the situation. “Maybe she got a man in there, Smoke”

“If she do, I’ll shoot him,” Smoke said flatly, eyes still locked on Alexi’s.

“I live alone,” she hissed. “There’s no one in there. It’s just my space and it’s private.”

His finger ghosted over the trigger. “You want me to believe you?” he asked, voice as sharp and filled with disbelief. “Then you let me see foe’ myself.”

She didn’t flinch. Not even as the cool metal pressed deeper into her mocha skin. Her eyes blazed. “You want answers?” she whispered. “Then stop acting like a fucking villain and ask like an adult.”

For the first time, something flickered in his stare just for a breath. Recognition, maybe. Or rage. Who knows. But it vanished just as quickly as it appeared, swallowed by that same calm brutality. “Stack,” he said.

His brother moved up beside them, suddenly all charm gone from his face. There was a hidden message in the way Smoke said his twin's name. He was watching her too now. Serious and coiled like a predator ready to toy with its prey.

She stood alone, but she still didn’t move.

Smoke exhaled. “Three seconds.”

“Or what?”

“One—you get shot. Two—ya’ door get kicked in. Three—”

“Stop!” she shouted, stepping aside at last. Fury, fear and exhaustion came crashing down all at once. “Just… go. But if you break one thing in there, I swear to God…”

Alexi stood just outside her bedroom, arms stiff at her sides while her fingers twitched with the effort of not clawing the doorframe. From inside, she could hear the low thump of drawers opening, the scrape of hangers sliding across the metal bar in her closet, the rustle of fabric being disturbed by hands that didn’t belong in her space.

And then, she heard a sound… that sound… a faint high-pitched hum. Followed by silence so sharp it pierced the air like a sword. Her blood froze before she shoved open the door. Smoke stood in the center of her bedroom, a hulking shadow in the lamplight, backlit by the faint silver spill of moonlight and city backdrop through the sheer curtains. In one hand, he held her pink vibrator. The long, curved silicone shape looked obscene in his large palm. It was out of place, too modern, too intimate. His thumb rested on the base, where a single button still glowed faintly red.

He was staring at it. No—studying it. Like a weapon. Like a quantum physics equation that needed to be solved.

“PUT THAT DOWN!” Alexi’s voice tore from her throat before she even knew she was moving.

She lunged for him, arms outstretched, but Smoke being a soldier was faster and stronger. His arm extended smoothly, raising the toy just above her reach and he didn’t even have to shift his weight. She collided with his chest, hands scrambling to reclaim what was hers, but it was like hitting a wall of stone.

“Back the fuck up,” he warned, low and quiet.

The air in Alexi’s throat snagged like silk on thorns. She took an instinctive step back, eyes flashing. Her heart was slamming so hard against her ribs she could feel it in her neck.

“That’s mine,” she hissed. “It’s private.”

Smoke’s eyes drifted back to the toy. The faint buzz had stopped, but his attention remained fixed.

“What is it?” Stack’s voice came from behind her now. His posture was still lazy but his eyes were sharper than before.

Alexi’s cheeks flamed. “It’s none of your business.”

Smoke didn’t even look at her. “It move,” he said, almost to himself. “Got a hum in it. But it ain’t no weapon. Ain’t no blade. Ain’t got no trigger.”

“It’s not a weapon,” Alexi spat, arms crossed tight over her chest. “It’s a damn vibrator.”

Stack squinted. “A what?”

Smoke finally looked at her. Really looked at her. His eyes moved over her like a clock ticking down. He finally noticed the oversized shirt clinging to her curves. Her bare legs that looked soft enough to sleep on and that fire in her glare.

He held up the toy. “What’s it foe’?”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Alexi clenched her jaw, heat crawling up her neck, and said through gritted teeth, “It’s for pleasuring yourself.”

Smoke blinked once before tilting his head, as if trying to make sense of a foreign language. “Pleasurin’ yaself?” he repeated, voice flat.

“Yes,” she said, arms folded tighter. “It’s mine. It’s for me.”

A beat of silence passed and then Smoke laughed. It was a quiet, joyless sound that didn’t touch his eyes. He took a step forward, still holding the device, and stared down at her like she was some kind of sick joke.

“You that pretty,” he said, voice like bloodily thorns, “a you layin’ up in this glass box gettin’ off with toys?” Alexi didn’t respond and he pushed the issue further. “Ain’t got a man?”

She rolled her eyes, but her voice cracked. “No.”

“You fuckin’ lonely,” he muttered, more to himself than her like he finally cracked a code. His mouth curved, not into a smile, but something darker. “Makes sense. That why you keep talkin’ to me like I won’t put a bullet in your fuckin’ skull? Must be why you brought us here.”

Her nostrils flared. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, voice low. “No man in ya’ bed. No discipline in ya’ mouth. No sense in ya’ head.”

Alexi laughed at Smoke's audacity. “You think I need a man to control me?”

“I think you need somethin’,” he said, stepping into her space again. “You act like a damn child. Spoiled. Loud. And very disrespectful.”

Alexi’s spine stiffened. “I don’t owe you shit,” she barked. “You teleport into my house, you threaten me, you wave guns around like it’s 1920 and I’m supposed to what? Shut up and smile? Be grateful you’re ransacking my room instead of putting a bullet in my head?”

Smoke didn’t blink. “I’on like the way you talk.”

“And I don’t like the way you breathe, nigga,” she snapped. “Wanna start counting again?”

Smoke’s voice dipped into a register so cold it made the air shift. “You ain’t nothin’ but a beautiful waste of woman. I see why you lonely.”

A slap came from her hand and it landed across Smoke’s cheek before she even realized she’d done it. The sound cracked like a whip in the air. Stack, who was standing behind Alexi, went completely still and Smoke didn’t flinch. He sucked his teeth slowly, then turned his face back toward her, eyes narrowing just slightly. He didn’t raise his hand. Didn’t reach for his gun.

But the air between them died. And when he spoke, it was quiet. Razor-sharp. “You value ya’ life?”

Alexi swallowed, but didn’t look away. Her lips were still parted, her chest heaving with breath.

“You wrote me,” he said, voice low and lethal. “That’s what you said, right, lil’ girl? You wrote me.”

Her throat tightened.

“Then tell me,” he continued, gaze slicing through her like a scalpel, “did you write that I’d let a woman lay hands on me an live?”

She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

“I killed a man for talkin’ outta turn,” he said, almost conversational now. “Slit another’s throat for steppin’ in my way. Shot a boy through the eye just ‘cause I ain’t like his stare. You think I wouldn’t kill you for hittin’ me?”

Alexi took a step back and was met with the muscled wall of Stack.

“You think I give a fuck ‘bout ya’ softness? Ya’ lips? You think ya’ little bare legs an smart mouth make you untouchable?”

Stack’s voice cut in low but thunderous. “Smoke.” And then he stepped forward keeping his eyes on his twin. “That’s enough.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked. His eyes were still on her.

“She don’t know where the line is,” Stack said, voice like gravel. “But we do.”

Smoke’s lips parted. A breath passed between his teeth like a dragon cooling itself down before setting a city ablaze. Then he turned and dropped the vibrator on her bed without looking at it. Let it fall limp and silent into the rumpled sheets like it was nothing more than a joke that had run its course. Alexi stood in the same spot, her heart pounding so loud she could barely hear anything else. Her palms were damp. Her knees were shaking.

Smoke passed her like a shadow, shoulder brushing hers as he moved. Stack lingered a moment longer. His gaze, once playful, was sharp and focused. He looked at her not like a fantasy but like a woman who had just stepped into the jaws of something she couldn’t tame.

“You talk like you ain’t ever been put in ya’ place,” he said quietly. “But if you keep on, sweetheart… one of us might teach you.” Then he followed his brother into the hallway, and the door closed behind them.

Alexi stood alone in the middle of her bedroom, the silence wrapped tight around her throat. She knew something had changed. She hadn’t just brought killers to life. She had summoned storms.

.

.

.

.

.

Authors Note: TOLD YALL KNEEGAS I WOULD FIGURE OUT HOW TO BRING THESE MEN TO LIFE… OC might be a self insert *cough* or not *cough*

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed for this series… yes… I said series…)

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theethighpriestess @imagining-greatness @hearteyes-for-killmonger @blackpantherismyish @theogbadbitch @queenofklonnie22 @underated345-blog @bxrbie1 @harleycativy @hermyowney @kcundercover0 @cleo92bitch-i-am-old @gtf-o-m-d @merranerra @afroslacks @wingedpeachjudgegiant @smutattack @solarssins @xoxodaedreams @rolemodelshit @chrisevansmentee @honggihwa @softy212 @michifilmz @hon3yjaxx @ladymac82 @fruitypatooties-blog @whysoceerious @deexoxomuah @nanamiismine @monstaxmomma0 @a4g3lstarfire @blk-afrodite @melodyofmbaku @championshipshade @aretasreads @nubiagurllll @wabi-sabi1090 @swiftscepterdragon @midnightmemoirsofher @plan3tch1ld @dutifullythoughtfulenthusiast @iceyyycapsicle @honeytoffee @joonseuph0ria @desire4ella @li-da-savage

[nanamiismine]

Smoke X reader

Y/N is going to a concert and she gets pulled on stage and smoke saw a video on TikTok or on Y/N instagram story of her, getting pulled on stage and the artist getting a little too close and touching her. He see it the next day (drawing inspiration when Keke Palmer went to the usher concert)

You can change smoke for stack if you want to because I feel like smoke is secure and himself as a man and his relationship that he wouldn’t go crazy and get all jealous, but he will remind her who you with.

babyy, im do the both version cuz why not

[nanamiismine]

He is so fionneeeeeeeeeee

Idc I’ll never be ashamed writing about Michael b Jordan fine ass

Like do you not see this man?!!!!

[nanamiismine]

How it feels going to people tumblrs looking for updates on Killmonger, the SmokeStack twins, or Sinners content, but I have read everything MULTIPLE TIMES😭

[nanamiismine]

Chapter 3- The Thirst Beneath the Song

A/N: First off, thank y'all so so sooooo much for all the love y'all have been showing my little story. I have a few more chapters left in me before we close the book on Eden, but her story is far from over.

Characters: Elias "Stack" Moore, Eden Taylor (OC), Oriana Mireaux (OC)

Warning(s): 18+, Adult language, Blood & vampirism, Supernatural Elements, Vampire Kink, Explicit Sex

Summary: Eden’s broke. Her rent’s late, her car sounds like it’s choking, and her dreams of making it as a singer in New Orleans are getting harder to hold onto. So when she sees a sketchy little ad offering big cash to be a “discreet donor,” she answers it. She tells herself it’s just money. Just blood. Just once. But the contract’s signed, the room is breathing, and Eden? She might’ve just stepped into something deeper than debt.

Word Count: 6K

Eden woke up with the taste of him still in her mouth.

Not blood, since she hadn’t been the one feeding, but something heavier. Copper-soft and electric. It sat on her tongue like a memory, low and honeyed, like the ending of a song you didn’t know had already ended. The fan buzzed overhead, stirring the thick July air but doing nothing to move it. The sheets clung to her skin like a second body. She kicked them off and sat up slowly, her throat dry.

The clock blinked 3:47 AM.

Her limbs felt loose. Her thoughts didn’t. They curled tight behind her ribs, coiled and pulsing, like something inside her was waiting for instructions.

She hadn’t heard from Stack since that night.

Not a message. Not a call. Just the envelope of cash, the press of his mouth, and the silence that followed like steam after a summer storm. She told herself it was fine. Just business. A high-end transaction. Money for moments. But her body remembered too much. The weight of him between her thighs. The way his fangs dragged slow, deliberate. Like he could taste more than just her blood. Like he could taste her secrets.

She hadn’t written anything in over a week. Not a full verse. Not a line.

Every time she picked up her pen, it started hopeful, then sank into something else. Something slow and aching. Lyrics that tasted like want and satin. Rhymes that pulsed like bruises in candlelight. She couldn't finish a single song without slipping back into that red-lit room and the feel of his breath against her skin.

She tried humming instead, keeping her hands busy with dishes or her hair or folding laundry she hadn’t worn in weeks. But even her melodies came out low and syrupy, dragging like river silt. By sunrise, she gave up on pretending she could sleep.

The sun had just started to bake the sidewalk when she threw on sandals and grabbed her keys, no real destination in mind. Her curls were still damp from the shower, piled on top of her head, and she’d thrown on one of her dad’s old Tulane Law tees that hung low on her thighs. No makeup. No earrings. Just a set of keys, five crumpled dollars, and something gnawing at her chest that wasn’t quite fear and wasn’t quite hunger.

Her silver Camry purred to life, cool air blowing steady from the vents. She’d only had the car for a few weeks, but it still felt like a quiet kind of miracle. No dashboard tantrums. No grinding starter. The dealership had thrown in a peach-scented air freshener and a full tank of gas, and she’d nearly cried in front of the finance guy.

She made it as far as Chartres and Iberville before she turned the wheel on instinct and pulled to the curb.

The Sugar Séance sat nestled between a shuttered florist and a barbershop with a crooked barber pole and faded saints decals on the door. Its storefront was painted in soft lavender and buttercream hues, like a slice of cake someone had dreamed into being. Glass jars dangled from the porch beams, filled with pastel candy rocks, dried herbs, and tiny paper spells that fluttered when the wind caught them. Wind chimes made of antique spoons, skeleton keys, and chipped teacups clinked gently overhead. The windows were fogged with lace curtains and dusted sugar, and the hand-painted sign above the door shimmered in the morning light—gold lettering curling like incense smoke across a board carved to resemble a bitten praline.

Inside, the air was thick with scent: warm pralines, candied citrus peel, bourbon vanilla, and something older and greener beneath it all. Not unpleasant, just unexpected. Like walking into a candy store that had a working altar in the back and whispered when you weren’t looking.

The bell over the door jingled low as Eden stepped inside. The floorboards creaked beneath Eden’s feet, and for a moment, she thought she was alone.

Then Oriana Mireaux, the bubbly shop owner, appeared from behind a curtain of beaded strings, barefoot and unbothered, as if the room had conjured her on cue. She moved like incense smoke; slow and sure, every step threaded with something otherworldly. Her silk slip dress clung to her body like moonlight to water, dyed the color of periwinkle smoke and trimmed in antique lace. Long dark locs tumbled over her shoulders, wrapped in velvet ribbons and rosemary sprigs, tiny golden charms glinting like secrets where the light caught them.

She smelled faintly of rosewater and scorched citrus peel, with a note of ash clinging like a memory. A black cord circled her neck, the small iron key at its center resting just beneath her collarbone. Her gold-rimmed glasses flashed as she tilted her head, eyes narrowing through enchanted lenses rumored to show only the truth.

“Well, look who finally wandered in,” Oriana said, her voice a velvet drawl. “Miss Eden Taylor.”

Eden offered a half-smile, suddenly aware of how loud her own breath sounded in the foggy hush of the room. “Was I expected?”

The shop shimmered behind her, all sugar smoke and drifting whispers, but Oriana’s gaze held steady. Not quite amused. Not quite surprised. Just certain.

“Always,” she murmured, like the answer had been written long ago.

“You been humming in your sleep,” she said softly, stepping around the counter. “Dreamin’ in red. Thinking I wouldn’t hear it.”

They weren’t close, not really. Acquaintances, more than friends. Same circles. Same city. The kind of woman you see at shows, at bookstores, on sidewalks with a paper bag full of herbs and intentions. But Oriana had always looked at her like she saw more than the surface.

“I didn’t come here for anything serious,” Eden said, wandering toward a shelf lined with jars of rock candy and candied ginger.

“Mhm,” Oriana hummed. “That why you drove straight here with your hair still wet and your heart all tangled up?”

Eden blinked. “You’re really doing the full clairvoyant thing today, huh?”

Oriana grinned. “I don’t do anything half-assed. Besides, I know a hunger dream when I smell one.”

Eden picked up a tin of cinnamon drops. “You’re not gonna ask what happened?”

“I already know what didn’t,” Oriana replied, walking past her to a low cabinet near the register. She crouched, pulled open the drawer, and came back with a small stack of books tied together with twine.

“You came looking for answers,” she said simply. “Here’s a few to start.”

Eden looked at the bundle. “What kind of answers?”

“The kind you don’t get by Googling,” Oriana said. “First one’s a grimoire from a healer in St. Lucia. Talks about beings that feed off life force, not just blood. Second one’s vampire folklore collected from Creole families down in Plaquemines Parish. Half of it’s myth, the rest is memory. You’ll know which is which. And the last one…” Her lips curled. “Let’s call it a manual for women learning how to hold their power without flinching.”

Eden stared at the twine. “And you keep this kind of stuff tucked between bubble gum and jawbreakers?”

“Sugar makes the medicine easier to swallow, or whatever Mary Poppins said,” Oriana said with a wink. She added a sachet of candied hibiscus to the stack and nudged it forward. “For the heart. On the house.”

Eden reached into her pocket. “Let me pay you—”

Oriana shook her head. “Just tell me what you learn when you come back to see me.”

The morning light glinted off her dragon tattoo as she turned away, the scales inked in ocean tones that caught like moonlight. Eden stood for a long moment, the books pressed to her chest, the weight of them anchoring her in a way nothing else had lately.

Outside, the city simmered, golden and loud. She got back into her Camry, shut the door, and sat with the engine running, watching the steam rise off the pavement. One of the books shifted in her lap, the corner catching a glint of sun.

Blood remembers what the mind forgets.

She traced the words with her finger, then put the car in drive.

She had a lot of remembering to do.

–

Eden read everything over the next two days. She read like someone starving. Like the words might stitch the holes she didn’t know she had. She didn’t eat much. Didn’t sleep. Her songbooks lay untouched on the floor beside the bed, lyrics abandoned in favor of pages filled with things older than memory. The books smelled like old paper and fennel, and sometimes, when she turned a page too quickly, something floral and unfamiliar drifted out. Rose, maybe. Or dried blood.

The first book read like a letter from a world she almost recognized. It spoke in symbols and metaphors, riddled with footnotes, but something about it made sense in the marrow. There were no fangs. No coffins. No capes. Just hunger and power, described in strange, beautiful prose. It spoke of ancient rites hidden in songs and salt lines. Of those who fed not only to live, but to listen. To taste the truth in someone’s breath and mirror it back with intention.

The second book was messier. Marginalia scrawled in red ink by someone who clearly didn’t trust the stories. There were interviews. Fragments of oral tradition from families along the Gulf Coast. Tales passed down from grandmothers who had seen too much and said too little. Stories of midnight visitors who never knocked, only whispered. Of lovers who fed beneath cypress trees and left their marks behind in freckles shaped like constellations. Of women who woke up glowing and wrecked, their mouths bruised with silence, their lives never quite their own again.

One account stopped her cold. A Creole midwife in 1913 claimed she’d seen a man waiting just beyond a woman’s doorstep, still as a shadow, until she beckoned him inside. She said he didn’t touch her, not in the way people meant, but knelt at her feet, placed his hands on her thighs, and took something she didn’t know she’d offered. The woman wept without knowing why. For seven nights after, her dreams ran thick with blood and candlelight. On the eighth, she vanished. No sign of struggle. Just open windows and sheets still warm.

Eden shut the book and stared at the ceiling.

She tried to shake the image, but it clung. Not the story, but the sensation. The heat of remembered breath against her skin. The curve of hands. The weight of silence. She dropped her head back against the pillow and closed her eyes, and the vision opened like a door.

Stack.

In the dream, she was sitting on the chaise again, red light painting the room in velvet shadows. He knelt in front of her, still and grave, the way he always was before feeding. No hurry. No hunger in his face. Just that watchful, measured calm. His fingers grazed her thighs as he leaned in, and she remembered the moment not by sound, but by pulse. How hers jumped. How his slowed. How everything between them thickened.

She could feel the way his mouth pressed into her skin. Not with greed, but with reverence. The kind of slowness that demanded surrender. She remembered the pull, not just from her body, but from somewhere deeper. Like he wasn’t just drinking, but drawing something out. Something molten and tender and unsayable.

She gasped and sat up.

The book had slipped from her lap to the floor, its spine cracked, pages spilling like open wounds. She rubbed her eyes and tried to steady her breath.

The final book was different. Smaller, bound in thick navy cloth with no title on the cover. The kind of thing you wouldn’t pick up on instinct. Inside, it read like a guide. A warning. A promise.

There were diagrams. Symbols in ash-colored ink. Notes written by a woman named Esmé Duval, who claimed her great-aunt had once been “bonded” to a feeder for nearly a decade. The term wasn’t explained so much as whispered around. But one sentence stood out, underlined already in faint pencil, as if it had mattered to someone before her:

The bond is a thinning of the veil. A place where breath and blood and memory meet. It is temporary. It is dangerous. It is addictive.

Eden stared at the words. Her pulse slowed. She reached for her own pencil and traced over the line, darkening the letters like they might come alive if she gave them enough weight.

She leaned back against the couch and tried to process it all. The heat outside pressed against the window, thick and humming, but her skin had gone cold. Not in fear. In recognition.

The bond. That was what it had to be. She hadn’t imagined the way her body lit up beneath his touch, or the way the world blurred into velvet and honey when he fed. It wasn’t just chemistry. It wasn’t even lust. It was a threshold. A place she hadn’t known she was capable of crossing until he opened it for her.

She touched the side of her neck, absently rubbing a spot that still felt warm, though nothing had been there in weeks. The next few pages detailed signs of a bond forming. Lucid dreams. Heightened senses. The inability to write, sing, or create without summoning the other person in your mind. A kind of echo, the book called it. A soulprint.

Eden flipped to the next chapter, but the words swam. She shut the book and pressed her fingers to her temple, breathing slow. She had wanted clarity. Instead, she’d found a name for something she hadn’t been ready to claim. A name for the burn in her chest and the way her melodies kept turning into confessions. And if this was only temporary, if it really was meant to fade like the book said, then why did it feel like she was just beginning to be pulled under?

Her phone buzzed.

A text from the DJ who had promised to spin her single on the radio again.

Can’t play your track this week. Sponsor pulled. Maybe next month.

She stared at the screen. Her reflection ghosted in the glass. Curls pulled back. Face bare. Eyes sharp and unsure.

She tossed the phone onto her bed, the words from the book still carved into her thoughts.

Temporary.

Dangerous.

Addictive.

So was music. So was dreaming. So was trying to touch something sacred with your mouth open and your hands trembling.

But she didn’t stop singing.

And she wasn’t ready to stop dreaming about Stack.

So she dressed.

Not in anything extravagant. Just a fitted white tank top, soft from too many washes, and a long black skirt that kissed her ankles when she walked. Her curls were pulled back in two space buns, loose bangs falling in her face casually. She dabbed rosewater at her pulse points and slid gold bangles up one arm until they clinked softly when she moved.

She wasn’t planning to see him. She just needed to drive.

Needed the hum of the city in her ears, the blur of houses and shotgun porches flickering past her window like beads on a second line. Maybe she’d loop around City Park. Maybe she’d find a corner to sing on just to hear her own voice move through the air again. Something to break the silence that had started feeling personal.

The Camry was cool and ready, the stereo humming something slow and unbothered. She didn’t touch the volume. She just drove. By the time she made it past Canal and turned onto Baronne, the air had begun to shift. Not the weather, but something quieter. Underneath. A low pull, almost magnetic, settling beneath her ribs like a string being tugged.

She told herself she was just heading toward the river. Just driving.

She passed a corner store that sold pink coconut pies and menthols in singles. An old woman sweeping her stoop looked up at her like she knew something Eden didn’t. She turned off the next street.

And that’s when she saw her.

A woman. Slim. Pale in that fragile kind of way that always looked a little haunted in this heat. Her hair was the color of night oil, long and brushed to shine, not a strand out of place. She wore a silk dress the color of champagne, high heels in one hand, a phone in the other, smile small and tired.

Eden slowed instinctively.

Not because she recognized the woman. But because she recognized the ache behind her posture. The way she walked like something inside her had been poured out and carefully refilled. Not sluggish. Not broken. Just... stretched.

Like Eden had felt.

That’s what did it. Not her looks. Not the gleam of her jewelry. But the air around her. That afterglow. That softness edged in something sacred and bone-deep. The woman crossed the street. Eden kept driving, eyes flicking to the rearview.

The woman moved with purpose, but not urgency. She turned left at the light. And something in Eden’s chest clicked hard, like a trap being set.

She circled the block and caught up, easing her foot off the gas just enough to watch without drawing attention. The woman stopped in front of a nondescript warehouse tucked deep in the Warehouse District. The surrounding buildings were lifeless, windows dark and walls crumbling with time. To the untrained eye, Stack’s place looked just as abandoned, just another forgotten relic of the city. But above the steel door, a single red light pulsed, dim and deliberate, like a secret only some could see.

Stack’s warehouse.

Eden’s stomach pulled tight. She turned down the next alley and parked behind a van with peeling paint. Cut the engine. Waited. The woman pressed something into the hand of the man at the door, maybe an envelope, maybe a card, and smiled like she’d done it before. Not warmly. Not flirty. Just… familiar. Like this wasn’t a favor. Like this was a rhythm.

Eden watched her disappear behind the door.

She sat still for a long time. Long enough for the windshield to fog faintly from her breath. Her hand stayed frozen on the gearshift. Her mouth felt dry. She told herself it made sense. Stack was powerful. Wealthy. Undead, yes, but polished. Controlled. It made sense that he had others. That she wasn’t the only one.

It made sense.

But sense didn’t settle anything. It just rang hollow in her chest, like a bell with no echo. She hadn’t expected this kind of feeling.

It wasn’t jealousy. She refused to name it that. It wasn’t love. She wasn’t that naïve. But it was something that curled tight in her gut and whispered things she didn’t want to say out loud. Something old. Something human. A want to be singular. A want to be remembered. 

A want to matter.

She let her forehead rest against the steering wheel. Closed her eyes. Breathed deep.

He hadn’t lied to her.

He’d never said it was exclusive. Never promised intimacy beyond the sharp end of a transaction. And maybe the money had been clean. Crisp. The experience curated. Gentle even, in its own strange way.

But it had changed her.

And now, watching someone else walk that same path, unbothered, glowing, undone—it scraped against her like a blade in silk.

She sat up and started the engine again. Didn’t drive off this time.

Instead, she pulled out her compact mirror and stared at herself under the flickering streetlight. Skin slightly damp. Eyes rimmed in shadow. Lips parted like she’d been caught mid-confession.

She didn’t recognize herself. Not fully.

There was a woman inside her now who craved more than answers. Who wanted to understand not just the what, but the why. Why her melodies trembled when she thought of him. Why her lyrics always led back to his mouth. Why she had started humming in minor keys even when she felt victorious.

Maybe she needed to ask him.

Not about the other woman. Not about rules.

But about this.

This pull. This weight. This ache she hadn’t known how to carry.

She checked the rearview again.

The door hadn’t opened. No one came or left. Just the pulse of red light above the threshold, like a heartbeat in concrete. Her fingers hovered over her phone. She didn’t text.

Instead, she drove home slow, letting the city wind around her. Spanish moss dipped low from the trees. A second line ghosted down St. Charles, distant brass echoing like it belonged to another lifetime.

By the time she reached her apartment, the sky had gone purple-black. The books were still where she’d left them on the coffee table, but she didn’t touch them. Instead, she let her body carry her to the kitchen, where she stared at her reflection in the microwave door.

Still hers.

Still Eden.

But the name felt softer now. Like it had been spoken too many times in too many dreams.

She turned off the lights and lay on her bed with her knees drawn up and her hand pressed lightly to the center of her chest.

The ache wasn’t going away.

But neither was she.

–

His text came late.

Later than usual. Later than polite. Midnight was already breathing down her neck when her phone lit up across the room.

Eden rolled over in bed, her arm draped over the nearest pillow, her hair still damp from the shower. The screen glowed cool in the dark.

Tomorrow. Midnight. I want to show you something.

No greeting or pleasantries. Just that message. Short. Final. Like he knew she’d come.

She stared at it for a full minute, thumb hovering. Her first impulse was to ask for details. Her second was to pretend she hadn’t seen it. But all she did was lock her phone again and hold it to her chest, heart already kicking up a rhythm like her body knew something her brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

She didn’t sleep. Not really.

The next day passed in a quiet blur. She cleaned the kitchen twice. Tried to write. Tried to eat. Settled for tea and the last of the pralines Oriana had slipped in the bag with the books. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw someone less frayed than before. But not quite steady either. Like a record with one deep groove too many.

By the time the clock hit 11:30, she was already dressed.

Not stage-dressed. Not pretty.

Just real.

A black tank dress with thin straps. Clean face, clear gloss on her lips. A single gold ring on her finger. Her curls pulled back into a high puff that crowned her head soft and proud. She looked like the girl she was before him, or close enough.

The drive was quiet. The address he’d sent took her out of the Quarter and into a neighborhood that sloped low, where the houses sat quiet behind wrought iron fences and jasmine spilled over from every second gate. She slowed in front of a narrow cream-colored home tucked between two tall oaks. No number on the door. Just a single porch light glowing warm above it.

She parked at the curb and took a breath before stepping out.

The heat hugged her instantly. July heavy. Still and watching.

The front door opened before she knocked.

Stack stood in the frame, barefoot and unsmiling, wearing a black shirt and loose cotton pants. His sleeves were pushed up. No watch tonight. Just the gleam of his chain and the soft violet burn in his eyes.

He didn’t speak. Just stepped back and let her in.

The house was quiet.

Not the sterile kind of quiet. But lived-in. Dimly lit and warm, with dark wood floors and worn rugs. The walls were lined with framed photographs. Sepia portraits, places she couldn’t name, people in old clothes with eyes that followed her as she walked past. She swore there was even a photo of Stack, except his expression was much more serious and his tweed suit sported blue trim and detailing. A piano sat under the front window, its lid closed but freshly dusted. Somewhere deeper in the house, she heard the whisper of a record player, old jazz playing like it had been waiting for her to notice.

“You live here?” she asked, voice softer than she meant it to be.

Stack gave a small nod. “Most of the time.”

She turned to look at him fully. His posture was easy, but something about him was wound tighter tonight. Not tense. Just alert. Like this moment had been rehearsed in his mind too many times.

“Come,” he said and turned without waiting.

He led her through a narrow hallway that smelled faintly of cedar and smoke, the walls lined with gilded sconces dimly lit by candlelight. The floorboards creaked softly beneath their steps, their footfalls swallowed by the hush of something deeper. At the end of the corridor, he opened a tall door and guided her into a back room that felt more like a study or a sanctuary.

Tall windows reached nearly to the ceiling, their panes streaked with rain and city light, but the velvet curtains had been drawn wide open to the night. Outside, the moon hung low and swollen, casting silver onto the wooden floors. A low fire crackled in the hearth, the scent of burning oak mingling with something faintly sweet, like tobacco and aged vanilla.

Books filled the built-in shelves from floor to ceiling, their spines worn, many of them leather-bound, some tagged with ribbons or crumbling slips of parchment. A few were stacked haphazardly on the floor and side tables, as if they’d been read recently and often. There was no overhead light, only antique lamps with amber bulbs and thick beeswax candles in mismatched holders. Their flickering glow danced across the room, turning gold against the stone mantle and deep burgundy rug. Everything shimmered in the firelight, as if the room itself was exhaling warmth. It was quiet in the way sacred places were quiet. Like the kind of silence that asked something of you.

He gestured to the armchair. She sat. He remained standing.

“I saw you,” he said after a moment. “Across the street. A few nights ago.”

Eden’s mouth went dry.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You weren’t the first,” he said, gently. “To come back with questions. You won’t be the last.”

“But you texted me.”

“Yes.”

“Why now?”

His eyes caught the firelight. “Because you’re still here.”

The silence stretched between them, not cold but close. His voice was low when he spoke again.

“I don’t feed from many people, Eden. I never have. What you saw... it was just a rhythm I kept. Clean. Efficient. But you...”

He trailed off, looking down at his hands.

“You made something stir in me I thought was gone. Not just the blood. Not just the body. You brought something back.”

Eden didn’t move.

He stepped closer.

“Tell me what you feel when I’m near.”

She shook her head. “You don’t want that answer.”

“I do.”

She hesitated.

“I feel seen. Not the way people look at me on stage or when I post something pretty. But like... like you see the parts I didn’t mean to show. The ones I try to tuck away.”

Stack’s jaw flexed, almost imperceptibly.

“Do you feel safe?”

“Yes,” she said, before she could second-guess it. “But not in the way that makes me comfortable. In the way that makes me want to give more. More than I should.”

He knelt down in front of her. His eyes flicked up to hers, slow and deliberate.

“I want you to stop feeding with anyone else,” he said. “If you ever have.”

“I haven’t,” she said. “Only you. I didn’t even believe this was real initially. Sometimes it still feels too good to be true.”

He looked relieved. Or as close to it as a man like him could look.

“I want us to be exclusive,” he said. “You and me. No other donors. No other exchanges. This doesn’t have to be permanent. But I want to walk this further.”

“Why me?”

“Because your blood tastes like truth,” he said. “And I haven’t tasted that in a very long time.”

Eden’s breath caught.

No one moved.

She didn’t lean in.

Neither did he.

But something shifted between them anyway. A thread pulled tight and quiet. And for the first time in days, Eden didn’t feel like a woman unraveling. She felt like a flame being watched. Nursed. Fed.

Stack didn’t speak right away, and Eden didn’t fill the silence. The fire crackled behind him, casting long shadows against the floor. He was still kneeling, his body so still it almost startled her when he finally moved, sitting back on his heels, gaze steady and waiting.

But Eden wasn’t ready to say yes. Not just yet.

She tilted her head, voice quiet but unflinching. “What do you get out of this? Really?”

Stack’s lips curved slightly. “You.”

She didn’t flinch, but something fluttered behind her ribs. Still, she leaned forward.

“I want something too,” she said. “Something more than candles and soft chairs. More than whatever it is we do when I let you feed.”

Stack didn’t blink. “Say what you want.”

And just like that, the air between them shifted.

Eden exhaled through her nose, gathering the pieces. She hadn’t known until this moment how badly she needed to speak these things aloud.

“I want a guarantee,” she said. “That I make it. That all this work I’ve done, the nights I’ve spent singing songs into a busted mic, rehearsing with a sore throat and a busted engine... I want to know that it’s not for nothing. That I don’t have to keep begging DJs to play my music or chasing tips in half-empty lounges where people talk over my lyrics like they cost nothing.”

She stood up slowly, letting her words stretch out into the quiet room. Her feet padded across the rug as she walked toward the window, not facing him now, but her reflection hovered ghostlike in the glass.

“I want to live like my voice means something,” she said. “I want the kind of apartment where I can record properly. A bathtub I can actually fit in. A kitchen that doesn’t hum when I run the microwave and the lights at the same time.”

She turned then, arms folded.

“I want my father to stop looking at me like I’m a disappointment. Like I picked a hobby instead of a future. I want him to hear me on the radio one day and have to sit down.”

The words hit the floor between them, heavy as bone. Stack rose from his knees slowly. He moved with that same careful grace he always had, like every inch of him was aware of the space he occupied.

“You want power,” he said.

“I want my life to stop feeling like a question mark.”

He stepped closer. “Power has a price.”

“So does silence,” she replied.

He studied her for a long moment. The firelight threw gold across his skin, catching the line of his jaw, the gleam of his eyes. Something stirred there. Not desire. Not yet. But recognition. A flicker of ancient memory that lived in the marrow of people like him. People who had once been human. Who remembered the hunger of wanting.

“Come with me,” he said at last.

He led her down the hall, through a tall door she hadn’t noticed before. Inside was another room; darker, smaller, but warmer. A set of tall French doors opened to a back courtyard lit by string lights and the hush of wind in the trees. Eden followed him outside.

The garden beyond was wild and fragrant, lined with herbs and climbing roses, citrus trees heavy with fruit, and deep stone planters brimming with mint and marigold. A wrought iron table sat near the center, its surface dotted with candle stubs and something else. A long velvet pouch.

Stack pulled the pouch open and emptied it slowly. What spilled out didn’t glitter. It shimmered. A small collection of items, old and strange. A ring that pulsed faintly. A coin that made the air tighten when you looked at it. A spool of black thread that seemed to swallow the light around it. And a mirror, no larger than a pocket watch, but so polished it looked wet.

“Each of these belonged to someone who asked for more,” he said.

Eden leaned closer but didn’t touch. The ring was carved with a language she didn’t recognize. The coin looked ancient. The mirror... the mirror seemed to watch her.

“These are tokens,” Stack said, “tied to old favors. Old debts. None of them came cheap. But each one delivered exactly what was asked.”

Eden licked her lips. “Are you saying you’ll make it happen? Everything I want?”

“I can’t force the world to bend,” he said. “But I can show you the door. I can give you the key. The rest…”

“Depends on whether I walk through it.”

Stack nodded once.

“And the cost?”

He looked at her then. Full, quiet, unguarded.

“Your trust,” he said. “Your willingness to let this be more than a transaction.”

Eden swallowed hard. “You want me to belong to you.”

“Not as a possession. As a choice.”

She looked down at the items again. Her skin buzzed like it did right before she sang something new. Like a current lived under her bones and had just found a way out.

“And if I say yes?”

“Then I will show you what that life feels like,” Stack said. “Tonight.”

She lifted her eyes to his. “Just a taste?”

His smile was slow. “Enough to remember.”

She nodded.

He held out his hand.

Eden placed her palm in his, warm against his cool fingers.

They returned to the house, but the room had changed. Or maybe it hadn’t. Maybe it was only Eden who had.

She moved through it like it was already hers. Like the fire had been lit for her. Like the walls had heard her stories before. Stack handed her a glass of wine. Rich, dark, with a scent like fruit and something metallic. She drank, slow, the warmth blooming down her throat.

Music began to play from the record player. Vinyl, smooth and slow. Something older than jazz. A voice that knew longing intimately. Stack sat across from her. Not close. Just present.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

Eden obeyed. The air shifted. She smelled the roses again, but stronger. Felt the weight of silk brushing her arms. Heard the soft applause of a stage. A microphone buzzing to life. Her name whispered through a crowd.

She was singing.

No scratchy feedback. No static. Just her voice, clear and honey-deep, filling every corner of the room. The crowd leaned forward. Held their breath. Hung on her words.

She saw herself, bathed in light. Smiling. Steady. Not begging.

Owning.

A man in the front row pulled out his phone, and she heard a familiar voice on the radio. Her voice. A car zipped past a corner store with her face on the side in a local station ad. Her boots were new. Her apartment had tall windows and shelves full of vinyl. Her father’s voice cracked on the line. He told her he was proud.

She opened her eyes. And gasped.

The fire had dimmed, but the heat remained. Her hand still held the wineglass. Stack sat exactly where he had before.

“Was that real?” she whispered.

“It can be,” he said. “If you want it.”

She set the glass down. Her heart thundered.

And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like she was chasing a dream.

It felt like it had finally turned to look back at her.

“Where do I sign?”

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[nanamiismine]

Are you a man like that?

A/N: Smoke x black OC x Stack. This is a big project, so expect a few chapters a head. They’re will be filled with strong language, explicit violence scenes, smut, threesomes and angst. Please be advice for future chapters, this was only the opening. Please let me know if It’s any good! Ily!

Hennessy was smart, funny and a total bad ass. She grew up in south side Chicago, working mother, working grandma, a big lineage of woman behind her, and no father. She went to a public high school and was a straight A student. She didn’t party, she barely had any friends, she didn’t even go to prom, she studied and worked. She took every shift in Miss Angie’s bookstore, the only one in the 100’s. She saved every dime so she could put herself through college and made it to Northwestern Pre-Law with a full scholarship, after that she went to Harvard Law School.

Hennessy had a pain. Her sister had died in the hands of organized crime. Her brother, the only man in her house was robbed a life by drugs flooding the streets of her neighborhood. She had a pain, a family pain and was starving for justice.

She graduated with multiple offers from law firms in Boston, Chicago and New York, but she decided she was going to work at New York’s Districts Attorney’s Office as a Prosecutor.

And the hell she worked.

For ten years, she climbed the ladder in that office, she earned her place and the nickname the “Ice queen”. It was said that she made grown man cry in the stand. She owned the penal law courts and was proud of it. Her sense of justice made her an ally of the people, her pragmatism made her a darling of the court’s officials, and her body made her a killer weapon.

She was loved by the good guys, hated for the bad guys and desired by everyone else.

____

Today was Hennessy’s big day.

The jurors had been delivering for the last 36 hours and now everyone was being called to the courtroom, they had a verdict.

It was the trial of the decade. She had been in the hunt of the head of an Italian mob family for years. She worked day after day, relentlessly in collaboration with NYPD to caught every member of their family, cleanse every step of the ladder, street sellers, collaborators, wife’s, girlfriend’s, dealers, she caught them all up until their concierge, then she offered him a deal to force him as an informant, with that she build a strong case. She had been threated, harassed and intimidated, but she didn’t back out. This is for my family, she repeated in the mirror every single day.

Today was her day.

She need it that verdict, she need them to say guilty to send an urban war lord to jail forever. To get some justice for his victims. Today was her day, if she made it, she finally had earned her future.

She wore a black pencil skirt, a white shirt with faint black lines, nice fitted blazer hitching at her waist and hugging her curvy ass; a pair of red heels, golden small earrings and a golden watch that was and heirloom from their grandmother. She batted herself in Love don’t be shy and before she left the house she gave herself a last look. Big curls, black skin, red lips, black purse with a hint of red and golden, she was ready for a win.

She went into the courtroom confident, but with a feeling in her stomach she couldn’t quite put to rest. Her boss was in the DA’s side already sat down waiting for her.

-Hennessy, are you ready?

-I was born ready.

Their shared a complicit smile

A few minutes later, the defendant and his entourage walked in. He kept looking at her with an unsettling smirk. Her knees weaken for a moment, -don’t fall Hen, you’re almost there-, she whispered to herself.

Some moments later the judge and the jury went in. 

“We find the defendant guilty”, the lead juror said and a loud sigh leave her body causing her to relieve the stress she was carrying for the last 12 months. The public in the room loudly clap, some others were crying, and you saw yourself been hugged by your boss and some other people.

“Hey Ice queen”, someone yelled and that make you look to the defendant. “I’ll be seeing you baby girl, don’t forget me”, he said while he was being dragged by the marshals. She was scared, but the mood of the room didn’t let her think too much on that, her boss grabbed her and said “don’t worry, today was your win Hennessy, congratulations, we need to talk as soon as possible”.

Hennessy left court and she felt like floating. Her boss had given her the rest of the day so she could get ready for dinner. She lived in a very small condo close to work, she didn’t have much, because she never had time to make a home, she did have an awesome closet thought, great shoes and bags collection, she also had a huge mirror cause she had taken a like to look at her body complete. She used to repeat affirmations at herself, she had learned from her grandmother she only had herself and was the sole responsible to make herself feel good, that caused her to be independent from an early age, but also incredibly distrustful and lonely.

She never dated. A couple of coffee dates in Northwestern and some defense lawyer she tumbled once in a while and that was it. Her best friend was her cousin still in Chicago, a hair dresser and the best part of her day was their daily call, she also spoke to her mother and grandmother often and that was is it. Hennessy’s routine consisted in working and boxing, her second love outside the law. In the ring, she left it all, she forgot about herself, she could release control, she could lose it and also have some fun punching random man that believe were stronger than her.

After a power nap and some dumb scrolling in her phone, she went to get ready for dinner. She was hoping to receive a promotion as a District Attorney for the City of New York, she was craving for the job, the struggle, the hard work, the paycheck but mostly to able to help, to be there for the people, she hoped for this her whole career.

“You’re ready”, she told herself in the mirror, “you deserved it”, “you’re a champion and you’re dressed so cute!”.

A small laugh was formed in their lips, a pink dress and black high heels, a black bag and lose curls were looking at herself in the mirror. “Go get your prize Hen, you earn it”.  

At the restaurant was her, her boss current DA’s and next in line to be a judge and other person she didn’t knew and wasn’t expecting.

Christian, her boss told her, “Hennessy thank you for coming, please be seated”. She sat down and that sinking feeling in her stomach was there again. “Hennessy this is Robert Nolan Chicago’s District Attorney”. They all stand up, shake hands with her and then all got seated. “Okay, let’s get into business”, Robert said, “Hennessy, you have done an outstanding job as ADA in NYC, your win today put you in the map and we want you to know we saw you”.

“Thank you sir”, she said with a small nod, “We wanted to offer you the position of senior ADA in Chicago, running for a year, and we promise you next year, Chicago’s elections will be yours”.

She was shocked, she was hoping this position for New York, she didn’t wanted to go back to Chicago.

Robert slide a picture on the table. Two man, one in red, the other one in dark blue, the same but with totally different auras. “Those are the SmokeStack Twins and their ruling Chicago right now”, we are on to them and we aim to catch them, this case will make your career Hennessy and Chicago need’s you”.

She couldn’t speak. This was growth but she just didn’t, couldn’t go back.

“I know you haven’t thought to go back to Chicago. I know you run away from there a long time ago, but we believe the city needs you, and we also believe you can make a difference”, Christian said. “I know your family is still down there”, Robert responded, “you’d be able to help them directly”.

Yes, my cousin and favorite person alive was there, she actually owned a hair salon in the 100 and she tried to buy her mom and grandmother a house outside the neighborhood and she never let me. “This is our house, our life, we are staying”, she used to say all the time.  

I thought about them, my sister, my brother. Maybe if someone had fight for them they still be alive…

After a few moments, Robert told Hennessy she had to make a decision and emphasized that this opportunity wouldn't happen again. The faces of Hennessy's sister and brother, her mother, and her cousin filled her mind. The streets of the South Side... deep down, she knew she could do something there, and it would only be for one more year. New York would never choose a foreigner like DA; in Chicago she had an real shot.

“Okay, give me a car an a driver and I’ll take it. I will go back to Chicago”.

___________________

SmokeStack Twin’s POV

“Did you see the verdict?”, Smoke asked with the heavy voice he always used when he had business to attended to.

“Yeah…”, Stack responded. A hint of worry could be felt in his voice, just enough to be picked up by her brother.

“She is coming Stack and she will be trouble”, Smoke said.

“We can only hope man", he turned aroud to look at him with a huge smirk.

"We will have to tame her". Smoked sentence before taking the blunt from Stack hands.

[nanamiismine]

Chefs kiss 🤭

Private Show

Club owner Stack X Reader

The club smelled like sweat, perfume, and cheap ambition. Laser lights cut through the haze while some no-name track off a scratched Ginuwine CD tried to make the moment sexy.

Stack sat back in that wide leather chair like a man bored at church, one arm draped lazy over the side, the other nursin’ a glass of brown. His gold watch caught the light every time he shifted. Smoke leaned on the arm beside him, a half-smirk tucked beneath that toothpick he never took out his mouth.

Another girl was up. She spun half-hearted on the pole, heels clackin’ off beat, body rollin’ like her bones didn’t quite agree with the music.

Stack let out a quiet breath. “She movin’ like somebody mama at the family reunion after two daiquiris.”

Smoke grinned without lookin’. “Mmm. And not the cute mama either. The one who made that dry-ass macaroni salad.”

Stack sipped his drink. “Shame, too. She fine. But that rhythm? Tragic.”

“She dancin’ like her knees owe child support,” Smoke muttered, crossing one ankle over the other.

Stack chuckled low. “That spin was a hate crime.”

They weren’t unkind—not out loud to her—but the judgments between ‘em cracked like knuckles.

They’d seen talent. Real heat. Girls that could make a whole room hold its breath.

This? This wasn’t that.

Stack leaned forward just a bit, shadows carving deep under his jaw.

“She got one more spin ‘fore I cut the track.”

Smoke took the toothpick out his mouth just to say, “If she fall, I’m takin’ my drink back.”

The girl slipped. Right on cue.

Stack hit the remote.

Music died. Lights stayed hot.

She blinked down at ‘em, sweat on her brow, chest heaving.

Stack didn’t raise his voice. Just tilted his chin.

“Next.”

Smoke shook his head. “Lawd. Can’t even lie, I felt bad for the pole.”

Stack didn’t smile, but the twitch in his jaw betrayed him. “We ain’t here for charity. I need somebody who can own that floor.”

“We need a star, Stack. Not a stumbler.”

“You need somebody who make the room shut up and pay attention.”

Stack downed the rest of his drink and leaned back again, settling into the shadows like a king waitin’ on a better contender.

“Send the next one.”

The hallway outside the main room lit up with the slam of a door.

That girl—tan tights ripped at the thigh, lip gloss smudged—stormed out fast, mutterin’ something about “they don’t know real talent.”

But ain’t nobody chased after her.

You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, one hip cocked like you didn’t care—but your stomach was knotted tight.

You’d been listenin’ through the walls. The bassline. The mutters. The music cuttin’ off sudden.

They was in there takin’ names and crushin’ dreams like empty beer cans.

Mary popped her gum beside you, cool as ever, like she wasn’t up next.

Skinny, pale thing. No ass to speak of, just a little apple swingin’ in a room full of peaches and plums.

But she moved like she had somethin’ to prove. Sharp little walk. Collarbones cuttin’. And attitude to match.

She fixed the strap on her heel, then stood like she was on a runway. “Aight,” she said, snapping her waistband, “Watch how it’s done.”

You almost laughed.

Not ‘cause you ain’t respect her hustle—but because that was confidence you couldn’t fake.

Truth was—you ain’t never wanted this. Not the stage. Not the lights. Not the eyes. But if men was gon’ stare anyway… might as well make ‘em pay for it.

You needed money. Real money. And fast.

Mary ain’t need this the same way. Not like you. You were the kind of girl who had to survive every night.

She was the kind that could leave and be fine.

Still, you watched her walk toward the door, spine straight, heels clickin’. Watched her vanish into the smoke of that main room, where the music lived and died on Stack’s say-so.

The girls in the back room fell quiet.

And you?

You leaned against the wall and waited your turn.

The lights had settled low again, casting long shadows across the velvet floor.

Stack swirled the last of his drink in the glass, the ice clickin’ soft. Smoke had taken to lightin’ a Black & Mild, though it hung mostly unbothered from his lips, ash crooked and long.

“You think the next one gon’ have some sense?” Smoke asked, voice dry.

Stack didn’t answer. Just watched the stage, that same slow lean in his spine, like a man waitin’ for the earth to shift.

Then—heels.

Sharp clicks on the hardwood. A silhouette in the fog.

Mary.

Skinny little thing with that slick ponytail and walk like a mean girl in study hall. She stepped out onto the stage like she belonged there, not even glancin’ at the pole yet.

She grabbed the mic by the DJ booth—somethin’ none of the others dared do.

“Name’s Mary,” she said, chin up, voice loud. “Y’all can call me Duce.”

Smoke leaned forward, brow raised. “Duce? What that even mean?”

“Probably some white girl sh*t,” Stack muttered, but his eyes didn’t leave the stage.

Then the music hit.

Not trap. Not soul. Not slow.

It was No Doubt—“Just a Girl”—that sharp drum kick and Gwen’s voice blarin’ through the club like a dare.

Stack blinked once.

Mary—Duce—hit that stage like she ain’t got nothin’ to prove but everything to sell. She didn’t swing her hips low, didn’t crawl like the others. She bounced, spun, popped her little apple like it had weight. Arms up, hair whippin’, attitude electric.

She hit that pole with precision—not sensual, but controlled. Like a gymnast raised in chaos.

Smoke made a face. “Mmm. I ain’t feelin’ this. She bouncin’ like a wind-up doll.”

Stack tilted his head. “She workin’ it, though.”

“For who?” Smoke asked, side-eye hard. “That’s for the frat boys and trailer park bar tabs. We tryin’ to sell champagne and sin, not Monster energy.”

Stack didn’t laugh. Just kept his gaze steady. “Don’t matter. Room quiet.”

And it was. For the first time all night, the club hushed.

She flipped over, legs up the pole, upside down with her back arched like a drawn bow. Hit the floor and slid into a split like she didn’t weigh nothin’. Stood up again and winked directly at Stack.

Smoke groaned. “Aight, hell nah. She winked at you? That’s why you entertainin’ this?”

Stack smirked. Just barely. “She bold. I like bold.”

“She white,” Smoke said flat. “You got all these peaches in here and you lookin’ at that lil green apple like it’s forbidden fruit.”

Stack finally chuckled, deep and slow. “Ain’t about color. It’s about command. And she got the room.”

Mary twirled once more, breath comin’ hard now, sweat glintin’ on her collarbones, and ended with a sharp bow. No smile. Just the walk-off—cool, collected, heels clickin’ into the silence she owned.

The music cut.

Stack leaned forward. “Keep her name. I want her on Friday rotation.”

Smoke sucked his teeth. “She ain’t even shake nothin’ proper.”

“She ain’t have to,” Stack said, standin’ now, shadows stretchin’ behind him. “She made folks shut up. That’s the first rule.”

He handed Smoke his empty glass. “Next.”

Mary pushed through the door, ponytail swayin’, heels clackin’ loud with her exit. Still buzzin’ off her own performance.

But you were already standin’ there—leaned on the wall, arms folded, weight on one leg like you owned gravity.

She saw you. You saw her.

Didn’t say a damn word.

Just looked her dead in the face. Cold. Clean.

That kind of look that said: Cute show, bitch. Now let me show you how a woman moves.

Mary hesitated. Just for a second. Then kept walkin’.

You turned, stepped through the door slow, your breath deep and full—like you were breathin’ in the stage. The lights. The weight of the floor.

Stack and Smoke looked up.

No heels echo yet. No music. Just you.

You ain’t announce yourself with a mic. You walked right into the center of that room like you’d been here before, voice cool and full when you finally said:

“Evenin’.”

That voice—smooth like syrup but with a low edge, like trouble sweetened just enough to taste.

Stack sat up straight first. Eyes narrowed. That lazy sprawl he kept all night? Gone. His elbows hit his knees. Chin lifted.

Smoke leaned forward, blinked once. Even the toothpick came out his mouth.

“And you are?” Stack asked, voice low.

You looked at him. Then looked at Smoke.

“I’m the reason y’all about to stop lookin’ for who you need.”

Smoke let out a low “mmm.”

Then the music hit.

“Back to Life” by Soul II Soul. That slow bounce. That bassline smooth like hips in silk. That beat with breath built in.

You ain’t rush it.

Didn’t hit that pole right away. You started with your back turned. One hand slid down your thigh, the other in your hair, hips movin’ like smoke off a match tip.

You didn’t dance fast like Mary. You didn’t crawl slow like molasses either.

You moved like you knew exactly what every man in the room wanted—before they did.

That balance of tease and confidence. Power and grace. You rolled your hips and dipped low, flipped your hair like a question with no answer, and when you finally touched that pole?

Stack whispered, “God damn.”

You swung out clean, legs long, back arched just enough, never sloppy, never out of control. You used the music like it was made for your body.

Smoke let out a breath like he’d been holdin’ it. “That’s it.”

Stack didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“She don’t need the pole,” Smoke said. “She is the pole.”

You turned, caught their eyes mid-spin, and that look? Direct. Unapologetic. You didn’t flirt. You dared.

Smoke sat back. Then leaned forward again. “Club ain’t just quiet, Stack. They froze. Like she Medusa or somethin’.”

Stack nodded, eyes still on you. “Nah. Worse. She the prayer and the punishment.”

You dropped low. Split. Slow drag up the pole with your back to them. Then turned and strutted straight up to the edge of their platform, sweat gleamin’ down your chest.

No smile. Just breathin’. Just eyes.

Just silence thick enough to swallow the room whole.

Music faded. Still nobody moved.

Neither said a word for a moment.

Then Stack cleared his throat.

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “You hired.”

You were still breathin’ hard, sweat clingin’ light to your collarbones, chest risin’ slow as the music died out behind you.

No one spoke for a second.

Then Smoke raised one hand—lazy but deliberate—and the waiter snapped to attention like he’d been waitin’ on that cue all night.

“Bring another round,” Smoke said, eyes still on you.

Stack didn’t move. Just studied you—jaw locked, throat shiftin’ like he just swallowed somethin’ that burned on the way down.

“You drink?” he asked, voice low, like he already knew the answer.

You tilted your head. “If it’s good.”

Smoke chuckled. “Everything here good. ‘Specially tonight.”

Stack nodded slow, eyes draggin’ over you one more time. “Have a seat.”

You didn’t hesitate. Just turned and dropped right there—on the stage edge in front of them. Legs hangin’ down casual, like you was born up high.

Your knee brushed Stack’s.

He looked down fast—like the contact caught him off guard, like his whole train of thought skipped a rail. His fingers twitched on his thigh.

But when he looked back up?

You were already lookin’ at him.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just… watched.

Smoke leaned back in his chair, grinnin’ like the devil in silk. “Well, damn.”

The waiter returned with the tray—dark liquor in low glasses. Smoke reached out, grabbed one, then passed it straight to you.

You took it, fingers grazin’ his just enough to feel the heat.

Stack picked up his own, but didn’t drink yet.

“So what you lookin’ for?” Smoke asked. “You want night shifts? Feature sets? Talk to us.”

You swirled the liquor in your glass, eyes not leavin’ Stack. “I want top billing. A cut of my pull. And I want the good music—not that tired sh*t y’all keep runnin’ for the other girls.”

Stack raised an eyebrow.

Smoke let out a low whistle. “She negotiatin’ already.”

“I ain’t here to crawl,” you said, voice calm. “I came to work. I came to earn.”

Stack finally took a sip. Then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. That gold chain around his neck caught the light—so did the heat behind his stare.

“You came to build somethin’?”

“I came to make money,” you corrected. “And you look like the kind of man who don’t mind sharin’ when he see return on investment.”

Smoke nodded. “Sh*t, I like her.”

Stack nodded once. “Two weeks. Feature nights. We’ll see your pull.”

You raised your glass. “You gon’ see more than that.”

Stack clinked his glass against yours—sharp. Final.

Smoke lifted his next. “Welcome to Elysian. Where heaven’s earned.”

You smirked. “I ain’t lookin’ for heaven, baby. Just a good stage and a fatter envelope.”

Stack and Smoke were still talkin’ numbers, percentages, music rotation—big boss talk—but you already knew you had it in the bag. Ain’t need to keep sellin’ yourself.

You slid off the stage smooth, heels kissin’ the floor soft as satin. Your glass still in your hand, your body humming with leftover heat, that slow kind you don’t rush off.

You’d just slipped past the curtain when you heard Stack murmur, “Call one more.”

The DJ’s voice crackled overhead:

“Next up… Annie.”

Your head whipped around before you could think.

”Annie?”

And there she was—steppin’ out that back hallway, all hips and honey, skin kissed deep by the Delta sun, big curls piled on top her head like a crown she never took off.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

“Annie?” you called, stepping forward.

She looked up—and the second she saw you, her whole face lit up like the Fourth of July.

“Bitch, shut up!” she half-laughed, already movin’ toward you.

Y’all met in the middle of that hallway like homegirls who’d been through some things—tight hug, arms locked, hips swayin’ with joy.

“I thought you was gone,” she said, eyes wide, voice thick with surprise. “I ain’t seen you since—what, Club Magnolias?”

“Girl,” you breathed, smiling. “Since forever. You still dancin’?”

Annie rolled her eyes playful. “Makin’ just enough to stay in trouble.”

You laughed, clinking your glass lightly against her nail-tapped hand.

“They treatin’ you good in there?” she asked, chin noddin’ toward the stage.

You shrugged. “Just made ‘em sit up straight. Might’ve made Stack blush.”

Annie’s brows rose. “Stack? Blush?”

“Swear to God.”

She laughed, deep and rich, then the DJ’s voice buzzed again, calling her name soft.

She sighed, pulling her straps up.

“I gotta go shake it for the bosses now. You stickin’ around?”

“I might,” you said. “Ain’t seen you spin in a minute.”

Annie grinned over her shoulder as she stepped onto the stage, hips already rollin’ light.

“Then get comfy, baby. I’m ‘bout to remind ‘em what sin really look like.”

And just like that, she vanished into the light and smoke.

You stayed just behind the curtain, glass loose in your hand, leanin’ on the wall now with a smile curled at the corners of your mouth.

Annie was up.

They ain’t ready.

She stepped out into that low golden light with a slow roll of her shoulders, her body carved like Sunday blessing and summer heat. Thighs thick, stomach soft, arms strong like she carried love and hurt both in ‘em.

Stack was still seated when she walked out, but Smoke? He straightened up a little. That lazy lean gone.

Annie didn’t speak—just let her eyes find theirs, one by one, then settle on Smoke like she already had a plan for him.

He blinked.

“Say Yes” by Floetry came in slow. Real slow. That moan of a bassline, that whisper-smooth vocal.

Stack took a sip of his drink. “Ain’t that your song?” he muttered to Smoke, real low.

But Smoke didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

Annie stepped to the beat like she was dancin’ in honey, every move full and deliberate. She ain’t speed it up—she let the music hold her, like a slow grind prayer.

And the thing was—everybody always underestimated Annie.

Too thick. Too quiet.

But you’d seen it.

You knew when Annie danced, the damn clouds paused to watch.

She dropped low, thighs spread wide and slow, rolled her hips like a tide just starting to pull—and looked dead at Smoke while she did it.

No smile.

Just that look.

Smoke exhaled deeply

Stack laughed soft. “She got you stuck, huh?”

“She real graceful for somebody so…” Smoke paused, caught himself.

Stack raised a brow.

“Thick?” he offered.

Smoke shook his head. “Nah. That ain’t the word. She… full. Like she got her own gravity.”

Stack watched as Annie climbed the pole just a little—just enough to flip slow and come down with a bounce that had the whole damn room leanin’ forward.

“She floatin’,” Smoke muttered.

Stack nodded. “She choosin’ you.”

“Huh?”

“Look at her. She ain’t flirtin’ with the crowd. She flirtin’ with you.”

And she was.

Every swivel of her hips lined up to where Smoke sat. Every arch of her back gave him a front-row seat. She licked her lips once—once—then slid a hand down the inside of her thigh like an invitation he wasn’t ready for.

Smoke didn’t even try to play cool.

You watched from behind the curtain, smilin’ like you already knew how this scene was gon’ end.

Annie was castin’ spells.

Stack leaned back in his chair, grinning now. “Look at you. Tryna play hard. That girl got your whole spine at attention.”

Smoke didn’t argue.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t look away.

And Annie?

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t rush.

She let the end of “Say Yes” stretch like taffy, slow and warm, every note a thread she was wrappin’ tight ‘round Smoke’s neck.

She turned on her knees, still on the stage, and ran both hands down her own sides, hips rollin’ soft, slow. Then, without a sound, without askin’ permission—she crawled.

Right off the edge of that stage.

Low. Smooth.

Eyes never leavin’ Smoke’s.

He leaned back on instinct, eyes wide but not movin’. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

Stack just sat there watchin’, amused like he knew how this was gon’ play out. Like a man watchin’ his brother get baptized in fire.

Annie reached Smoke, slid her hands up the arms of his chair, her thick thighs nestled right between his legs like she belonged there.

Didn’t sit. Didn’t rush.

She danced on him. No lap grind—this wasn’t desperation. This was control.

She leaned in just close enough for Smoke to feel her breath. Ran a fingertip along the line of his collar.

Let her chest brush his—barely.

Her hips still moved with the music, slow like syrup. Her eyes locked on his.

Smoke’s hands didn’t move. But his breathing did.

He swallowed. Hard.

Stack smirked. “You good?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Annie? She smiled then—just a little. Just enough.

She turned with one final roll of her hips, walked off the same way she came—owned.

And left Smoke sittin’ there like the damn chair was holdin’ him up.

You and Annie were already back in the waiting room, still breathin’ hard from laughin’, flopped down like queens after the war.

“Glued, girl,” you wheezed, “you had that man like his soul left his body.”

Annie wiped her brow, grinnin’ wide. “He was sittin’ so still, I thought he was tryin’ not to pass out.”

Y’all both cracked up again, heads tossed back, no shame in the joy.

Then came the high click of heels.

Mary.

She strolled in like she was the one headlinin’ tonight, arms crossed, ponytail swingin’, lookin’ the both of y’all up and down like you tracked mud in her mama’s kitchen.

“Well ain’t y’all havin’ a moment,” she muttered, eyes narrow.

Annie didn’t even blink. She just looked at you sideways, one brow raised.

You smiled back.

Then together—without even plannin’ it—y’all turned and looked Mary dead in the face.

Silent.

Flat.

Mary rolled her eyes with a huff. “Whatever.”

She flipped her hair and flounced her little apple out the room.

Annie leaned in close. “She don’t know how we get down.”

You smirked. “Not a damn clue.”

“She ain’t never fought barefoot on river mud,” Annie said.

“She don’t know nothin’ about Delta dirt,” you said, voice low now. “Or what it made.”

Annie nodded. “Girls like us? We don’t learn how to dance. We born with it.

Y’all bumped shoulders, breath finally slowin’, still wearin’ that quiet grin that come from knowin’ you run the room even after you leave it.

Stack clapped Smoke on the back, the grin on his face damn near permanent.

“Boy, she climbed down and you turned to stone. I ain’t never seen you fold like that.”

Smoke was still starin’ at nothin’, jaw tight.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

Stack raised a brow. “Uh huh.”

Smoke ran a hand down his face, then looked Stack dead in the eye. “I felt… hypnotized.”

Stack paused.

“She got my vote,” Smoke added, quiet but sure.

Stack let out a low whistle, then nodded. “Well… if she got yours, she got mine too.”

He grinned wide. “Ain’t no point pretendin’ we both wasn’t starin’.”

Smoke didn’t answer. Just shook his head, like he still ain’t believe what just happened.

You and Annie were still loungin’ in the waiting room, settled deep in the aftermath of the show you both just gave. The other girls were scattered—nervous, tryin’ to fake confidence, side-eyein’ y’all like they knew they didn’t measure up but didn’t wanna admit it.

Then the door opened.

Stack walked in first. That slow, easy stride, cigar still tucked behind his ear now, like he forgot it was there.

Smoke followed—less relaxed, jaw tight, brows low.

Stack clapped his hands together once, loud.

“Alright,” he said, voice smooth but cuttin’. “Let’s not drag it out.”

He glanced around, let his eyes pass over a few of the girls near the wall. “If I ain’t call your name, better luck next time.”

Couple girls shifted in their seats. One stood up too fast and had to sit back down, pretendin’ like her heel was twisted.

Stack’s voice rang clean:

“Babygirl and Annie.”

Your head lifted. Annie already had her arms crossed, a knowing look playin’ at her lips.

“You two—come back Friday. Featured spots.”

The room got quiet. Long and awkward.

Stack glanced around, eyes skippin’ past all the other hopefuls, brows drawin’ a little as he squinted. “…Oh. Right.”

He nodded toward the far side of the room. “You too.”

Didn’t even say the girl’s name.

Just “You too.”

That silence came again. One girl let out a shaky exhale, another grabbed her purse fast like she knew her name wasn’t ever gon’ be called.

Stack dusted off his hands like the matter was settled. “Welcome to the team. Don’t be late.”

Smoke was quiet.

Real quiet.

And Annie?

She ain’t said a word either—but she ain’t need to.

She was lookin’ at him.

Eyes steady. Still. Heat behind ‘em like a slow fire set for cookin’ somethin’ tender. She didn’t blink when his gaze slid past hers—just waited.

You saw the shift.

The bob of his Adam’s apple.

The way his stance changed—just a little. Like he needed more room in his own skin.

Stack paused mid-sentence, glancin’ over at his brother. Brow raised.

Smoke cleared his throat.

“Mm,” Stack said low, like it was nothin’. But his eyes flicked between the two of ‘em again.

And then it happened again.

Annie didn’t move, but she pressed, without touchin’ a thing.

Smoke’s jaw clenched, breathin’ deeper now, like the air was too heavy.

Stack caught it this time.

He looked at her, then back at Smoke. Then just huffed out a breath and shook his head.

“Lawd,” he muttered, chucklin’ under his breath.

He turned toward the door. “Alright ladies, that’s it. Be sharp, be early, and bring what you brought tonight.”

He tipped his head as he passed you.

“Good night, baby.”

Then winked.

Quick. Smooth. Like it was nothin’.

But Annie saw it. You felt her clock it.

Her head turned just enough to catch the corner of your grin.

FRIDAY NIGHT.

The dressing room smelled like glitter, cocoa butter, and new money.

Lashes on mirrors, lip gloss tubes open like bullets. Somebody’s baby oil spilled across the counter, mixin’ with the bass thumpin’ from the main room. The crowd out there was already loud—louder than usual.

Because they knew who was on the bill tonight. Top of the flyer in hot red cursive:

FEATURE NIGHT — PEACH & HONEY

Annie sat across from you in front of the mirror, smokin’ a clove with one hand and tightenin’ her garter with the other. Her thighs shimmered in gold body oil, her hair piled wild like a lioness that dared the jungle to try her.

“You ready?” she asked, voice low like a dare.

You smirked. “I been ready.”

Your fit was black and plum, skin peepin’ out from all the right cuts. You ain’t even need a full beat—just liner, gloss, and attitude. The rest? Carried in your walk.

The other girls moved quieter than usual. Some tried not to stare. Some did. Mary was there, still tryin’ to find the rhythm between jealousy and admiration.

“Y’all got the good slots, huh,” she said, applying lip liner crooked in the corner.

Annie didn’t even look over. “We ain’t get ‘em, baby. We earned ‘em.”

You raised your drink, smilin’ just enough. “Cheers to that.”

Behind y’all, the manager cracked the door open halfway. “Ten minutes, Peach. Honey after that.”

Annie winked at you in the mirror. “Go on and warm ‘em up.”

You stood slow, smooth, every inch deliberate. You weren’t just dancin’ tonight.

You were opening nirvana.

You stepped out under that spotlight like you were born to own it.

The first low moan of “Any Time, Any Place” crept through the speakers, and the crowd fell silent—like they felt the heat before they saw it.

Bass deep. Keys soft. Janet whisperin’ sin through velvet.

You moved slow. Deliberate. Every heel-click like punctuation. Each hip roll an invitation. Body oil gleamed under the lights—your shoulders, your thighs, your belly catching glints like gold.

A chair waited center stage. You circled it once, let your fingertips trail over the back. Then you climbed it. Straddled it. Dropped slow, real slow, hips winding like smoke before sliding back down the legs, smooth as honey.

The crowd? They didn’t cheer—they worshipped. Bills flew up like praise. Fifties. Hundreds. It rained.

You didn’t even touch the pole yet.

Up on the balcony, Stack and Smoke leaned over the railing, drinks half-drunk, attention full.

Smoke’s eyes tracked your silhouette against the soft amber glow. His voice low:

“Lord… she ain’t just earnin’ money—she crowning this whole stage.”

Stack grinned, lips twitchin’. “Them boys down there givin’ up rent checks like she the landlord.”

Smoke tilted his head. “That ain’t no dance. That’s a sermon.”

They both watched as you finally took the pole—walked toward it like you had all night. Grabbed it. Arched. Spun once, slow, before dropping into a split that had the whole front row gasp.

“Goddamn,” Stack murmured.

“She’s control,” Smoke said, his tone lower now. “Pure control.”

Stack laughed soft. “That’s what we bought into, huh?”

“Nah,” Smoke corrected. “That’s what bought into us.”

Down below, you eased into your last roll. Took your time standing. Made a slow turn toward the crowd—toward the balcony. You didn’t look up just yet, but you knew they were watching.

Then finally—you met their eyes.

Smoke stood still.

Stack tipped his glass.

And you? You just smiled, and walked off slow while Janet’s last note faded like sweat drying on hot skin.

The DJ caught his breath before speaking. “Give it up for Peach.”

Thunder. Applause. More money hit the floor even after you left.

Up top, Stack flicked his cigar.

“That’s our girl,” he murmured.

Smoke tapped the ashtray. “She made it look easy.

And down below, the stage still buzzed with you.

Back in the dressing room, sweat still cooling on your skin, you sat fannin’ yourself with a stack of fresh bills.

Annie strolled over, heels still on, lips glossy, hair wild.

“Girl,” she said, mouth open like she couldn’t believe it, “they was throwin’ money like you was a damn hurricane.”

You laughed, a low, easy sound. “That stage owe me a thank you.”

She sat beside you, tossed her leg over your knee. “I bet we could make double that.”

You blinked. “How?”

She smiled. Lazy. Intentional. That same smile she gave Smoke that night. The kind that ain’t askin’—it’s tellin’.

“Come on stage with me,” she said. “Tonight.”

You paused, brows lifting. “What? You want me to intro you or—?”

“No,” she cut in. “With me. Together.”

You leaned back a little. “Annie…”

She leaned closer.

Close enough you could smell her perfume and cocoa butter. Her thigh slid further across yours. Her voice dropped to a hush.

“Come on,” she said. “We work it together. You already know how I move… Now match it.”

And suddenly you felt what Smoke did. That pull. That lure. She wasn’t just pretty—she was magnetic. Her gaze slid down your neck like fingers.

You swallowed.

Then smiled.

“Alright.”

The DJ’s voice cracked through the speakers.

“Next up, our feature—give it up for Honey—”

He paused.

“—and Peach.”

The crowd rumbled. Confused.

Up in the balcony, Stack frowned, leaned over the railing. “both?”

Smoke’s brow furrowed. “Wasn’t just Annie scheduled?”

Stack shrugged. “Change of plans.”

Smoke sat forward slow. His eyes cut to the curtain. “They doin’ somethin’.”

The beat dropped.

“Feenin’” by Jodeci.

Low and deep. The kind of bass that made knees weak and hearts stupid.

Then y’all walked out.

Together.

Annie in crimson. You in black. Y’all ain’t touch—but you didn’t have to.

You circled each other first. Like rivals. Like sisters. Like flames dancin’ just close enough to warm but not burn.

The crowd got quiet.

The money didn’t even fly yet. They just watched.

Waited.

You grabbed the pole first, hands high, thighs flexed. Annie stepped behind, slow drag of her fingers across your hip—not nasty, not sweet, just… heat.

Stack leaned over the balcony, grippin’ the rail. “What the hell…”

Smoke didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

You dropped. Smooth split.

Annie rolled under you, back arched, chest lifted, her thighs grazing yours without contact. The lights hit the oil on your skin like stars shimmerin’.

And the crowd?

Exploded.

The money came in waves now.

Fifties. Hundreds.

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

His eyes locked on Annie—but every time she turned toward you, bent for you, looked at you, his breath caught.

Stack watched you wind slow up the pole, twist and drop into Annie’s arms like she was waitin’ for you.

He muttered, “You see this?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

Annie flipped you slow—real slow—and climbed over your thigh with a grin like she had secrets written across her chest.

Your hand slid behind her neck—guiding, not takin’.

It was art.

It was fire.

It was damn near holy.

Neither of you stripped much. Didn’t need to.

Just sweat, muscle, and unspoken understanding. Backbends, pole spins, body rolls together. You in front now, Annie mirrored behind—hands above both your heads, arching the same, dipping like you was water in two glasses.

From above, the boys watched.

Stack shook his head, laughed under his breath. “They gon’ bankrupt the whole damn club.”

Smoke didn’t blink.

He just swallowed hard—watchin’ Annie watch you.

The way her eyes drank you in.

The way your body answered her.

And when y’all finally closed it out—cheeks glowing, eyes locked, bills piled like thrones around your feet—you reached for her hand.

She took it.

Y’all bowed together.

And left the stage like two storms rollin’ back into the night.

Backstage was loud with celebration—but only between y’all two

You and Annie tumbled through the curtain breathless and shining, cheeks glowing, bills stuck to your thighs like gold leaf.

“Bitch!” she yelled, smacking your hip with her wad of cash. “We did that!”

You doubled over laughing, high off the moment, that whole stage still vibrating in your chest. “Girl, we burned it down!”

You flopped into the chair, still panting, still tingling. Annie paced, pulling her hair tie out, shaking those curls loose like a lioness unwindin’.

She looked at you, slow.

Still smilin’.

Still that same heat in her eyes from the stage—but heavier now.

She came over, real close, crouched next to your chair.

“I don’t know what it is about you,” she said, voice low, husky. “But when we up there? I feel a buzz”

“You feel it too?”

You blinked, mouth open to speak, but—

The door slammed open.

Stack walked in first, jaw tight.

Smoke behind him, hands on his hips, chest still rising like he’d jogged the whole damn building.

You and Annie didn’t flinch.

You just watched.

“Y’all lost your damn minds?” Stack asked, lookin’ straight at you. “What the hell was that?”

Annie leaned back on her heels, still crouched by your side, head tilted.

Smoke stepped forward, eyes cuttin’ toward her. “That wasn’t what we agreed to. You was supposed to go solo.”

“Oh, my bad,” Annie said, standing slow. “Didn’t know we needed permission to elevate the brand.”

Stack scoffed. “That ain’t the point—”

You stood too, brushing your leg against Annie’s as you rose, all slow-like, lazy with defiance.

“You mad ‘cause we made y’all feel somethin’ you wasn’t ready for?”

Stack blinked at you, lips parting. “Ain’t nobody say all that—”

“No,” you said, stepping closer. “But your mouth hangin’ open like it wanna.”

Smoke folded his arms. “It was too much. That crowd ain’t know what to do with all that… heat.”

Annie stepped right up to him, head high, smile soft but sharp. “Did you?”

Smoke’s jaw twitched.

Annie leaned just close enough for him to feel her breath again. “’Cause you looked frozen. Again.”

Stack’s eyes shifted between them, then locked back on you. “You supposed to dance, not—start somethin’.”

You moved into his space, slow, deliberate, voice all honey and smoke. “And yet here you are. Lookin’ like somethin’ I started.”

He blinked.

Didn’t step back.

Didn’t step forward either.

You could see it—all of it. His pulse in his neck. The way his fingers flexed like he wanted to grab somethin’. Or you.

Annie grinned, watching Smoke.

“Next time,” she whispered, “maybe I’ll call you up there with us.”

Smoke’s breath hitched.

Stack huffed, ran a hand down his face like he was tryin’ to stay professional.

Then his eyes met yours again—long. Low.

He smirked.

“I see what this is,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah?” you asked, still too close.

“Mmhm.” His voice dipped. “Y’all dangerous.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you like it.”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t have to.

Annie brushed past Smoke, slow and deliberate. “We’ll be on time next week,” she tossed back.

Smoke just watched her walk, jaw clenched, hands useless at his sides.

You followed, but not before dragging your eyes over Stack one more time.

“Tip better next time,” you said, winkin’.

Then you and Annie disappeared down the hall, hips swingin’ like the stage never ended.

-—————————

Hey yall! Hopefully yall like this and if yall do ill continue requests coming soon😫🙏🏾

[nanamiismine]

𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈

𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁*𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾*𝖬𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗑 𝖡𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－dropping off your son at your ex’s place, and Stack taking the opportunity to taunt you about your boyfriend

𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗁𝗌－Harsh language, N-word usage, toxic ex dynamics. Stack & Smoke are being arrogant, petty assholes.

A/N: I watched Sinners for the first time and loved it. I’m pretty sure I’m a Smoke girlie, so here’s a little story.

It was a hot afternoon when you pulled up to Smoke’s house—well, your old house, if we’re being technical. Your son was in the back seat babbling about Roblox and fries, kicking the passenger seat every few seconds like he knew your nerves were already hanging on by a thread.

You adjusted your sunglasses, took a deep breath, and walked your baby to the front door like you hadn’t just been arguing with your new man ten minutes ago about “boundaries” with your ex.

But the second the door opened?

Trouble.

And that’s exactly what stood on the other side of the front door when it opened

Elijah “Smoke” Moore.

Your ex-husband.

Your baby’s father.

The man who ruined you for everybody else.

Smoke was leaned against the doorway shirtless, tattoos gleaming, chain swinging just enough to catch the light. His usual low-eyed expression flipped to a grin the moment he saw you—and then his eyes dropped to your outfit.

“Mmh,” he hummed, already staring too long. “You showin’ up in them tight-ass leggings like that for me or for him?” he nodded down at your son. “’Cause either way, I appreciate it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“Ain’t startin’ nothin’ but missin’ what used to be mine,” he muttered, stepping aside to let y’all in.

Your son took off toward the living room while you stayed back to hand over his backpack. That’s when you heard it

“Damn, she came by lookin’ like that you sure she don’t want you back?” came Stack’s voice—from the kitchen.

You froze. “Oh lord, not both of y’all here today.”

You gave him a tight smile. “Hey, Stack.”

Smoke smirked as Stack walked in with a paper plate of wings, wearing a gold chain and a devilish smirk. “What’s up, baby mama?” Stack grinned, licking his fingers. “Or should I say baby mama who downgraded to a nigga who work at T-Mobile?”

You squinted. “Y’all are ridiculous.”

“Nah,” Smoke said, closing the front door behind you. “He ridiculous. Walkin’ ‘round thinkin’ he competition. Heard he wear them little loafers with no socks.”

“He don’t,” you muttered, lying.

“Bet he say ‘grand rising’ too,” Stack added with a snort. “That’s not a man. That’s a therapist with a fade.”

“I’m not doin’ this today,” you said, putting the backpack down hard. “He treats me right.”

“‘Treats you right’ but don’t know how to fight?” Smoke stepped in, arms folded across his broad chest. “You lettin’ a soft nigga be around my son? C’mon, mama. He ain’t even built for this life. If somethin’ popped off, he’d hide behind you.”

“Nigga probably cry when he get pulled over,” Stack added, cracking open a Sprite. “Talkin’ about, ‘I pay my taxes!’”

You wanted to be mad. You did. But their tag-team was relentless—and funny.

You groaned.

“He look like he cry after sex. Probably moans with his eyes closed and say, ‘Am I pleasuring you?’”

“Y’all done?” you asked flatly.

Smoke shook his head. “Nah, not until you answer one question.”

You tilted your chin. “What?”

He looked you dead in the face.

“When shit hit the fan, and you need somebody who’s gon’ slide, gon’ ride—you really think that cornball you got now gon’ stand ten toes behind you and our kid? Or you gon’ end up callin’ me?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The silence in the room got loud.

Stack laughed from the kitchen. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Smoke stepped up close, all low voice and heavy heat. “Keep playin’ house with that nigga. But when you tired of fake peace and yoga-ass sex, you know where I’m at.”

You scoffed and turned to leave—but not before Stack called out, “Tell him next time he come pick you up, to park on the other side of the street. My neighbors allergic to bitch-ass energy.”

You stood frozen in the doorway for a long second before your son called from the back, “Mama? You leavin’?”

“Yeah, baby,” you said, voice thick. “Mama’s leavin’.”

But even as you walked away, the way Smoke watched you—hungry, smug, dangerous—you knew you’d be back.

And that’s what scared you the most.

Smoke leaned against the doorway again, smiling like a man who knew he still had it. “Later, mama.”

You didn’t look back. But your heart? Yeah—it stayed right there in that damn house.

And worse?

Smoke knew it.

You made it halfway down the steps before you heard the door open again behind you.

“Wait.”

You stopped, hand on your car door, not turning around. Just… waiting. Breathing.

“What?” you asked, already tired, already knowing whatever he had to say was gonna make things worse.

Smoke’s voice dropped. “You leavin’ like that, and we not gon’ talk for another week? You cool with that?”

You slowly turned, face blank, lips tight.

“We don’t need to talk,” you said. “You got him for the weekend. I’ll pick him up Sunday.”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

Your fingers tightened on the car door.

Stack was still inside, but quiet now—too quiet. You could feel the weight of both their eyes on you.

Smoke walked toward you slow, steady. Like he had nowhere to be but here. Like he didn’t give a damn about the new man, or the way your jaw clenched when he got too close.

“Y’know what I think?” he said, voice low and gritty. “I think you tryna prove somethin’—to yourself. Not to me. Not to him. You tired of this life, tired of the mess, so you went and found the safest man you could. Somethin’ neat. Predictable.”

He stepped in close enough that you could see the gold in his grill glinting when he spoke.

“But safe don’t mean happy.”

You blinked at him, your throat tightening before you could stop it. “I am happy.”

Smoke raised an eyebrow. “That why your hands shakin’ right now?”

You glanced down—and cursed under your breath when you saw he was right. Fingers trembling around your car keys.

“I’m fine.”

“Fine ain’t love. Fine ain’t joy. Fine is what people say when they tryna convince themselves they ain’t settlin’.”

Your breath hitched.

“You got me twisted if you think I want to come back here and be played with,” you snapped. “I left for a reason.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But you came back for one too.”

“You forget who the fuck you built all this with?” he asked, voice low and ragged. “Who kept you safe?Who put money in your mama pocket and never said a word?”

You opened your mouth to argue—but the words didn’t come. Because he wasn’t wrong. And you hated that he wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t just about your son. It wasn’t just about co-parenting.

It was about the way this house felt like it knew you. Like you’d left parts of yourself here that your new man never even touched. It was about the way Smoke looked at you like you were still his, even after all this time. And the worst part? You didn’t even fight it anymore. You just buried it. Swallowed it.

“I gotta go,” you whispered, finally unlocking your door.

“Yeah,” he said, stepping back. “Go ahead. But you know where the real is.”

“Next time you come over here wit’ his scent on your skin, I’m fuckin’ it off you”

You slid behind the wheel, started the engine.

And just as you reached to shift gears, Stack leaned out the front door with his usual smug grin. “Hey!”

You looked up.

“If little man’s stepdaddy ever wanna learn how to change a tire, tell him we do classes now. Free for lames.”

You flipped him off through the windshield. He just laughed.

Smoke leaned in, one last time, one hand on your car door. “He can’t protect what he can’t handle. And you?” His voice dropped. “You too much woman for half a man.”

You didn’t say anything. You just drove off, pretending you didn’t see the way your hands still trembled on the wheel.

But later that night?

When your son was already asleep in his Spider-Man sheets, and your man was still out at some networking dinner that didn’t include a plus-one, your phone lit up.

Smoke:

“He ever fix that weak-ass handshake? Felt like I was dappin’ a wet napkin.”

You stared.

Cutting your phone off you turned over when you got a call from smoke.

Groaning you answered

@enchanthings

[nanamiismine]

I was wondering if you could do more smoke and stack black!fem!curvy/plusize!reader

pretty and plush

Smokestack twins x black!femcurvyplusize!reader

Mdni 18+

That thought kept echoing in your head, loud even under the bass thudding through the club walls. You weren’t the girl who partied. You weren’t bold or flashy. You were soft. The kind

that avoided crowds, and barely spoke unless someone spoke to you first.

But tonight… you let your friends talk you into something different.

They’d bought you a hus tracksuit that hugged every dip and curve, hyped you up with glitter gloss and soft curls. They said it was your night to be seen. That you were beautiful, thick in the best ways, and needed to act like it.

You didn’t believe it. Not really.

But then you stepped into the club.

And they saw you.

Smoke and Stack.

You didn’t know they were here. Wouldn’t have come if you had.

But the moment you looked up and saw them through the crowd, Elijah’s dark stare locked on your, Elias’s slow grin stretching across his face like with that gold glint.

You knew it was too late.

You tried to disappear back into the crowd, heart pounding, nerves buzzing. You just needed to make it to the bathroom.

But they didn’t give you that chance.

“Damn, Big Mama,” Stack said, catching you near the back wall. “Out here lookin’ like this and didn’t think to tell nobody?”

You startled, swallowing hard, eyes on the floor. “I didn’t know y’all were here…”

“That right?” he asked, eyes dragging down your body slow and hot. “So all this softness just for you, huh?”

You nodded once, voice barely audible. “I wasn’t tryin’ to be seen.”

Stack chuckled low. “You gon always be seen around us.”

You flinched when a second presence stepped behind you. Elijah. Quiet and still. He didn’t speak right away, he just stood there, his stare made the hairs on your neck stick up.

“You came out here alone?” he asked, low.

“With friends,” you murmured. “I think they’re still on the dance floor.”

“You think?” he echoed.

Your stomach flipped.

“You always look pretty and when somebody appreciate it you wanna disappear.” Stack murmured.

“I just wanted to feel nice.”

“You look better than nice,” Elijah said behind you.

You looked up at him shyly and that was your mistake.

Because he didn’t look away.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared you down like you’d just signed your name on something serious.

“You wore this for attention,” Stack said, his hand brushing the bare skin of your upper arm. “You just didn’t think it’d be ours.”

“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” you whispered.

Stack leaned in. “You sure?” His hand slid around your waist, fingers splaying low on your back. “You look so good right now”

You couldn’t speak.

“Say the word,” Elijah murmured, voice dark. “And we’ll take you outta here.”

Your breath caught.

“We’ll take real good care of you, Muffin,” Stack said, thumb stroking the side of your waist. “Ain’t gotta talk. Ain’t gotta explain.”

“I-I don’t usually…” you trailed off, voice tiny.

“We know,” Elijah said, stepping in behind you now, his chest at your back. “Let us show you”

Stack smiled slow. “That’s all we need.”

⸻

You didn’t remember the drive.

Didn’t remember what song was playing, or how long it took to get there.

All you remembered was Stack holding your hand the whole way, thumb brushing over your knuckles, and Elijah’s hand firm on your thigh, never moving, never hesitating.

By the time the car pulled into the quiet driveway, your hands were shaking in your lap.

You weren’t scared. But you were overwhelmed. These were them.

Elias. Elijah.

Smoke and Stack.

They weren’t just fine, they were dangerous. Everybody knew it. Everyone warned you. But none of that mattered when their hands were on you.

Stack opened your door, then stood with his arm resting on the frame, watching you with that slow, crooked grin. “You still with us, Muffin?”

You looked up at him shyly. “Yeah.”

He reached for you. “Come on, baby.”

The house was quiet when you walked in. Big, but not showy. Clean. Dark walls, soft lights, hardwood floors that echoed the sound of your heels like a heartbeat.

Stack closed the door behind you with a soft click. Elijah brushed past silently, locking it.

Then it was just the three of you.

No music. No club lights. Just the sound of your breath catching in your throat as you stood in their living room — curves wrapped in a dress that suddenly felt way too tight, eyes too wide, heart in your throat.

Stack came up behind you. “Relax.”

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

“You sure?” Elijah asked, watching you from across the room with that unreadable look on his face, the one that always made your stomach flip. “You can say stop anytime.”

He stepped in front of you, eyes dragging over your body like he’d been starving. “ lemme see you.”

Your hands twitched at your sides. “Here?”

Elijah stepped in behind you, voice low in your ear. “You trust us?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“Then let us take care of you.”

Stack’s fingers reached for the zipper of your jacket unzipping it.

“Take these off” smokes hand tapped on your bottoms.

You obeyed, heart hammering.

You stripped the rest down until you stood in just your bra and panties, heels still on, curls falling softly around your shoulders.

Stack let out a soft whistle. “Goddamn.”

Elijah’s fingers brushed your waist from behind. “Beautiful.”

You froze under their eyes, arms instinctively coming up to cover your stomach but Elijah caught your wrists gently, pulling them back down.

“Don’t hide,” he said.

You bit your lip.

“You ever been touched like this before?” Stack asked.

You shook your head slowly. “No.”

Both of them stilled.

“Not even a little?” Stack asked, brows raised.

“Not like… this,” you whispered. “Not… both.”

“Then we gon’ take our time, Make sure it feel right” Elijah said his voice making that heat pool in your panties.

Stack leaned down and kissed you,soft at first, lips barely brushing yours. Then firmer, deeper, until you gasped into his mouth.

Elijah’s hands slid up your sides, over your ribs, unhooking your bra with one smooth motion. You shivered when it fell.

“You cold?” he murmured, breath on your neck.

“No,” you said, barely audible.

“Good.”

Stack dropped to his knees in front of you, mouth trailing kisses along your belly, his hands smoothing down your thighs.“Softest thing I ever touched.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then higher. “You smell good as hell.”

“Elijah,” you whispered, overwhelmed.

He was already pulling you gently into his chest, holding you steady as Stack’s hands slipped under the band of your panties and dragged them down your thighs, slow.

Elijah tilted your face up. “Look at me, baby.”

You did.

Stack kissed the soft flesh just above your knee. “You feelin’ shy still?”

You nodded.

“That’s alright,” Elijah said. “Be shy. Just don’t run.”

Then Elias’s tongue met you — and everything broke.

You gasped, knees trembling, body jerking back into Elijah’s chest.

“Oh—!”

“Easy,” Elijah said, tightening his grip on your waist. “We got you.”

Stack moaned into you like he couldn’t help it. “You so damn sweet.”

You whimpered when he licked again, slow and deep, tongue pressing where it hurt sweetest. Elijah held your hands in his, keeping you still, grounding you.

“Let it happen,” Elijah whispered. “You don’t gotta do nothin’.”

And you didn’t.

You just stood there, trembling, panting, fingers clutching Elijah’s, while Elias devoured you with a hunger that made you want to cry. It was too much. Too good. Too new.

Then he added a finger.

You bucked.

“Stack—!”

“I know, baby,” he groaned. “I know.”

You came embarrassingly fast, body curling into Elijah’s arms as you moaned through it.

And they praised you for it.

“Just like that,” Elijah said, kissing your temple.

You were still panting when Stack rose, mouth glistening, eyes dark.

They took you to the bedroom. Lifted you onto the bed like you were the most precious thing in the world. Elijah kissed your thighs while Stack mouthed at your chest, both of them everywhere at once.

When Elijah slid inside you, slow and thick, you cried out.

But Stack was there,licking and kissing your neck.

“Shh,” he whispered. “you doing so good.”

You moaned his name, breath breaking.

“Shh. We got you.”

Elijah moved slow, deep, filling you over and over while Stack whispered everything in your ear, how good you felt, and how pretty your moans were.

“You under us, eyes rollin’ back, callin’ our names like you need it.” Stack said, voice rough.

“She does,” Elijah growled, thrusting deeper. “She need all of it.”

You came again harder this time, a sob wracking your body as you clenched around Elijah.

Stack kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.

“That’s it, baby. That’s our sweet girl.”

When Elijah finally finished inside you, he pulled out slow, leaning down kissing your lips.

Then Stack laid you flat again, stroking your thighs, your belly.

“You okay?”

You nodded weakly.

“You want me too?”

You looked up at him, eyes wide. “Please.”

He groaned.

Then he kissed you and fucked you soft, slow, deep.

And when he came, he said your name like a prayer.

Tag list: @chrisevansmentee @queenofklonnie22 @christinabae @cocooned-butterfly @midnightmemoirsofher

[nanamiismine]

Speakin In Tongues

SmokeStack x Reader

A Collab with @themindfulwriter16

Pt. 1/?

The bell cracked through that mornin’ like judgment day thunder, but most folks was already in they seats, fannin’ themselves with Blue-Back Readers and whisperin’ low ‘cross slates. Sunlight poured through crooked windowpanes, dust floatin’ like ash.

You was second row, center—good for learnin’, or for watchin’ Elias Moore cut up, if you was feelin’ weak in the will.

The door slammed open hard enough to shake chalk off the board.

“Miss Collette,” Elias hollered, hands raised like he walkin’ into church, “forgive me, for I have overslept!”

Class groaned. He strolled in grinnin’, suspenders hangin’, shirt wrinkled, sock rolled funny, wildflower behind his ear.

Miss Collette didn’t flinch.

“You oversleep every mornin’, Elias.”

He flopped into his desk. “That’s ‘cause my dreams treat me better’n this classroom.”

Some boys snorted. You tried not to smile.

Miss Collette huffed. “Alright then. Let’s see who still laughin’ when y’all get these test papers back.”

Silence flipped on like a switch

She walked the rows passin’ pages folded like secrets. At Elias’s desk, she paused.

“An F,” she said. “Didn’t even finish the back.”

Elias squinted. “Finished it in spirit. Besides, Miss C, I told ya—I ain’t got no use for Italian. I talk just fine.”

“You talk too much.”

“Exactly. Ain’t tryin’ to muddy up my mouth with no ciao bella nonsense. Sound like what a white devil whisper ‘fore he steal your land.”

The class cracked up. Even Miss Collette’s mouth twitched, but she kept movin’.

You shook your head, peeked back. He leaned in that chair, hummin’ lazy, hands laced behind his head like he ain’t had no failures to his name.

Then he caught your eye. Tilted his head. Smirked.

“Mornin’, lil sugar,” he murmured.

You blinked. He winked.

Ain’t flinch none. Elias Moore could set a room on fire and still walk cool.

But you? You was steady.

Miss Collette dropped your paper with a big red A+.

“Now this here,” she said, holdin’ it up, “is what preparation look like.

She ain’t turn, but you felt the sting travel back like a paddle swingin’.

Behind you, he shifted.

“Well damn,” Elias muttered, “ain’t never been nobody’s bad example before.”

More chuckles. Miss Collette snapped her ruler.

“Language, Elias.”

“Just buildin’ my vocabulary, ma’am.”

She leaned on your desk. “Some of y’all might follow in her steps if you’d hush and learn somethin’. No doubt.”

That hung heavy.

And for once, Elias went quiet.

Class moved on. But behind you, he was still. Watchin’. Thinkin’. You didn’t turn.

Not yet.

When class let out, benches scraped, books closed, whispers filled the room.

You caught him watchin’.

No grin. Just watchin’.

Still sittin’ when he said it, soft but sure:

“Don’t worry, sugar. I’ma catch up to you one day.”

You ain’t turn.

But you paused.

Miss Collette clapped once. “Mr. Moore.”

He jumped. “Ma’am?”

“If you gone speak to her, it better be for learnin’ purposes only.”

Some boys hollered. Elias smirked

“But I am learnin’. She smarter’n you, ain’t she?”

“She prepared. Maybe if you’d shut your trap, you’d graduate ‘fore you thirty.”

He picked up his test. “Finish school for what? So I can talk like them folks out East? Say things don’t taste right in my mouth?”

“You need this class to graduate.”

He stood, slow and calm. “Ain’t it funny? They stole our tongue, gave us new ones, and told us to be grateful.”

He looked at you.

“You ever think maybe we already talk how we s’posed to?”

You looked up.

And for a second, he wasn’t clownin’. Just a boy who knew himself.

Miss Collette’s voice softened. “Every language is a key, Elias. You ain’t gotta use it. But you best know how to hold it.”

He smiled, crooked. Shrugged. “Well… if I gotta learn, might as well learn sittin’ next to her.”

Miss Collette sighed. “Alright then. You insist? Fine.”

She looked at you.

“You’ll tutor him.”

You straightened. “Miss Collette, I—”

Elias leaned in, syrup-sweet. “Don’t fuss, sweetheart. I’m real hands-on when I study.”

Class oohed.

Then—clap.

From the back, Sammie Moore dapped Elias.

“Ain’t no damn way,” he hollered, “you ‘bout to be gettin’ ass and education in the same sittin’!”

Room exploded. Chairs knockin’, hands slammin’.

You rolled your eyes.

“Sammie Moore, you a vile thing.”

He grinned. “Don’t be mad, sugar. We all just tryna graduate with honors.”

Elias buried his face, shoulders shakin’.

Miss Collette banged her ruler. “Enough! Sammie—I’m callin’ your mama.”

“Tell her I said hey.”

The bell rang.

You gathered your books. As you passed Elias, he leaned close.

“See you after class, Miss A-plus.”

You ain’t look at him. Just walked out.

Sammie called after: “Boy better show up with his homework and a Bible!”

⸻

Lunch bell rang loud and grateful. Folks poured out the schoolhouse like heat out an oven—some runnin’ barefoot, others draggin’, already tired. The air smelled like earth and fried okra snuck in a tin.

You and your girls walked together—books hugged close, braids tight, brows unbothered. Pearl on one side, Mabel on the other, all three of y’all in step like a march.

Y’all wasn’t loud.

Wasn’t silly.

But when y’all came ‘round that corner near the boys’ table under that leanin’ pecan tree?

The whole yard looked up.

“Now look at this,” Elias drawled, leanin’ back with a hunk of cornbread and mischief in his mouth. “My favorite professors.”

You didn’t pause. Just kept walkin’.

Mabel chuckled. Pearl rolled her eyes.

“Y’all eat today?” he called after y’all. “Brains burn more calories than bodies, I heard.”

“You would know,” you tossed back, “seein’ as you ain’t fed neither.”

Whoop from behind the tree. Elias slapped his knee.

“Ain’t she cruel?” he gasped. “Got venom in that velvet voice.”

You ain’t blink—till you did.

Cause behind him, leanin’ in the shade like he was carved from it, stood another one.

Same slanted eyes. Same dimple.

But different.

His gaze wasn’t wild. Wasn’t loud.

It was slow. Still.

And fixed on you.

You hesitated—just a beat.

He pushed off the tree like he’d been waitin’.

“Don’t mind my brother,” he said, voice smooth like a record playin’ low. “He don’t know how to act ‘round beauty.”

Pearl’s brow lifted. Mabel nudged you.

You blinked. “Brother?”

He nodded. Stepped in easy—not cocky, just sure.

“Folks call me Smoke,” he said. “Elijah, if we bein’ formal.”

He took your hand like it was glass. Kissed the air above your knuckles.

You blushed. Just a second.

Then your spine straightened like a hymn note.

“Well, Elijah,” you said cool, “I hope you act better than your brother.”

He chuckled, low. “Can’t promise that. But I’ll try.”

You clicked your tongue, holdin’ back a smile.

Pearl grinned big—eyes soft on Sammie, who was sittin’ with lunch forgotten, starin’ at her like she’d read his diary.

You ain’t even have to ask. You knew that look.

That me too gaze that got girls caught up.

You looped your arm through hers and pulled her gentle.

“Come on, Pearl.”

She came easy.

The boys didn’t call after y’all.

Didn’t have to.

They just watched.

Admired.

Y’all wasn’t shy, book-buried, head-down girls.

Y’all was dream-beautiful. Riverbank clay skin. Edges laid, ribbons tied. Perfume warm like honey on the stove.

You gave them one glance.

And right at the steps, you turned—just a flicker.

Caught Elias’s eye, that mischief still sparklin’.

He looked at you like he was waitin’ on you to say his name in a dream.

You smirked.

And walked on inside.

—————-

The bell rang low and lazy—just a reminder time was passin’ whether you kept up or not.

You moved steady down the hall, books in your arms, list in your head—history text, composition paper, that dictionary heavy as a baby. You had half a mind to swing by the library ‘fore class let back in.

But fate—and gravity—had other plans.

Your elbow knocked wrong—

Crash.

Books scattered. Pages fluttered. That fat dictionary flopped open like it gave up.

You sighed. Squatted down, already mad at yourself—

Then saw ‘em.

Polished shoes. Creased slacks. Scuff on the left toe like he’d been kickin’ rocks.

You ain’t even need to look up.

“Don’t say nothin’ slick,” you muttered.

“Wasn’t gone say nothin’,” Elias said, crouchin’. “I was just… lookin’ for you.”

He helped gather your books, brushin’ your fingers on purpose.

You narrowed your eyes. “What for?”

“To study,” he said. “Or we could study each other.”

You blinked. Rolled your eyes. “Lord.”

He just grinned, slid in the last loose page. Stood when you did.

For a second—chest to chest, breaths lined up.

You shifted, books hugged tight.

He held out his arms. Waited.

You ain’t say nothin’. Just… dropped ‘em.

All of ‘em.

Right into his arms.

He staggered a step. You raised a brow. “Too heavy for ya?”

He huffed, bounce-lifted the stack. “Girl. I can carry these books and you.”

That caught you. You laughed—real, sudden, loud enough to echo.

His eyes lit up like dusk lanterns. He looked like he could live off the sound.

You turned. “You comin’, Mr. Moore?”

He jogged to catch up. “Yes ma’am. Lead the way, Miss A-plus.”

Y’all walked in step all the way to the library. And this time, you ain’t stop him from lookin’.

⸻

It was quiet in the study room—not soft, but like a rule.

You spread your notes neat—Italian phrases in long cursive, conjugations circled.

Elias kicked back across from you, eyes trackin’ your lips more than the words.

You pointed at the page. “Ripetere. Say it.”

He squinted. “Rip… reaper?”

“No. Ri-pe-te-re.”

“Rib-betta-ray?”

You stared. “You butcherin’ that word like it owe you money.”

He grinned. “Sound like somethin’ I’d whisper to a girl behind the schoolhouse.”

“This ain’t that,” you warned.

“Aight, alright…” He sat up. “What’s this one?”

You pointed. “Mi piace… It means ‘I like…’ Follow it with whatever you like.”

He leaned in.

“Mi piace… quando parli piano e mordi le labbra.”

Your eyes snapped up.

“What’d you just say?”

He grinned. “Said I like when you talk soft and bite your lip.”

“That ain’t in the book.”

“Ain’t all of me dumb.”

You leaned back. “You know this already.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the book like a hole.

“Why you failin’ then?” you asked, softer. “You pretendin’?”

He sighed. “I am strugglin’. You don’t get it. That stuff don’t come out my mouth right. I sound stupid.”

You stared.

“I mess up a word, and I’m just another fool from nowhere.”

Your heart thudded. You reached across the table, slow. Touched his cheek, turned him toward you.

Your voice stayed firm.

“Ain’t nobody callin’ you stupid in this room. Not even you.”

He blinked.

You pulled back and tapped the book.

“Now say it again. Mi piace.”

He swallowed.

Then said it.

Soft. Clearer. Like it belonged in his mouth.

⸻

Y’all had been seein’ a lot of each other.

Same library table every afternoon. Same book. Same boy tryna hide his smile when you leaned close.

Elias started showin’ up on time. Fresh shirt. Even brought his own pencil—mostly to twirl.

Still, he was tryin’.

And the strange thing was…

You didn’t hate it.

“You know this,” you said one day, pointin’.

He didn’t look down. “Posso portare i tuoi libri.”

You tilted your head. “Meanin’?”

“I can carry your books.”

He smirked.

“And you, if you ask nice.”

You tried not to blush.

Failed again.

⸻

Folks started noticin’.

Pearl nudged you on the steps one day. “That boy startin’ to shine like a new penny. Ain’t jokin’ as much. I think you done tamed Elias Moore.”

You snorted. “Still a clown. Just educated now.”

“Mhm,” she said, poppin’ gum. “Boy look at you like he learnin’ more than Italian.”

Inside, Sammie and Smoke sat in the back, passin’ notes and commentary like church pews.

“You see how my cousin look at her?” Sammie said, crackin’ up. “Boy gone fail on purpose just for more lessons.”

Smoke chuckled low. “She sharp, though.”

⸻

Test day came.

Classroom tight with nerves. Paper rustlin’, slates clickin’. Miss Collette movin’ down the rows passin’ out fate.

Under the desk, his foot nudged yours. You didn’t look over.

But you felt the grin in your bones.

Bell rang. Elias leaned back like he just finished preachin’.

You whispered, “You better not fail.”

He leaned closer. “I ain’t. You ain’t let me.”

The hallway buzzed with scores.

Miss Collette passed out tests face-down. Elias flipped his. Froze.

Then stood up fast.

“Ha!” he shouted. “Look at that!”

B+. Red ink

The class clapped. Sammie whooped. Pearl beamed.

“Boy passed and actin’ like he got baptized,” she teased.

Elias turned, holdin’ the paper high. “She the reason. Couldn’ta done it without her.”

You rolled your eyes, blushing. “Could’ve if you applied yourself sooner.”

He stepped in close, voice low just for you.

“I been applyin’ myself.

To you, sweetheart.”

————————

Ayeee this is GONNA BE LONG but worth it stick around babies💀🤞🏾💕

[nanamiismine]

🙌🏽🫶🏽