#stackmoore

[yarsia-writesxx]

SINNERS LIKE US

Sammie “Preacher boy” Moore x Sofia (oc)

Stack x black foc!

Summary: Sofia, a gifted singer, now lives with her controlling husband, Louie, and her sister Estelle. While Sofia struggles to reclaim her voice and independence, Estelle works as a seamstress, trying to distract herself from a certain Moore brother

Warnings: none

Part 1

"Wade in the water......"

"Wade... in the water children"

"Wade in the water....."

".....Gods gonna trouble the water"

Sofia sings softly as she plucks each cotton boll from its root. The sun shines high, its heat pressing against her skin. She pauses to wipe her brow, then keeps moving, her hands never slowing for long. A low engine growl broke the stillness.

The old pickup rumbled down the dirt road, dust trailing behind it. It came to a slow stop near the edge of the field. Sofia didn't look up at first—just kept singing, head low beneath her faded straw hat. "Is that little Sofia?" a familiar voice called out. She pauses mid-reach, finally lifting her head. Her eyes met his—older now, but the same smirk beneath the years.

"Ain't little no more," she says evenly, brushing sweat from her brow. Stack chuckles as he shakes his head. He then leans out the window. "Ya sista here?" He questions causing Sofia to turn to him, her gaze traveling from his dusty boots to the slight twitch in his jaw.

"Inside," she says curtly, jerking her chin toward the house without another word. Then, without waiting for a reply, she turns her back and bent once more to the cotton—resuming her song like nothing had happened. "Stay here I'll be back" Stack says to Sammie before putting the truck in park and climbed out, boots crunching the dry earth as he heads toward the house.

....

The screen door creaks as Stack steps inside, removing his hat as he crosses the threshold. The air inside is a little cooler, laced with the scent of lavender, simmering stew, and years of memories pressed into the walls. A low hum of old gospel trickles from the kitchen. "Estelle?" he calls, his voice smooth, low, familiar.

She appears from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. Barefoot, wearing a worn cotton dress, her curls wrapped in a headscarf. She doesn't smile. Doesn't flinch. Just leans in the doorway with steady eyes. "Elias Moore," she says flatly, placing her hands on her hips. Stack grins and tilts his head. "Now I know you missed me, woman."

Estelle lets out a short breath through her nose, unimpressed. "The devil shows up when you least want him, too."

He laughs, slow and lazy, tipping his hat in mock surrender. "You always had a sharp tongue, Estelle. Sharper now than it was back when you used it to whisper sweet things in my ear."

She moves to the stove without a word, stirring whatever's bubbling in the pot, her back to him now.

"That was a long time ago, Elias."

"Don't feel like it," he says, his voice softening just a bit. "Not when I see you."

Estelle turns slowly, resting the spoon against the edge of the pot. "You come here to stir up trouble, or you come here for something real?"

Stack slides his hat onto the table.

"Maybe both."

....

Meanwhile as Sofia continues her work Sammie doesn't move instead he stays in the passenger seat, eyes locked on Sofia—quiet, unreadable. Something about the way she sang, how she didn't look back, held him in place. Sofia could feel the stare burning into her back like the sun itself.

"You gonna keep starin', or are you actually gon' say somethin'?" she calls out, not bothering to turn around. "Oh—sorry, ma'am. I was... just enjoyin' your singin'." Sammie stutters sheepishly, flustered. Sofia hums softly, wiping her hands on a rag as she works. "I've seen you somewhere before," he says, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. She pauses, then turns to face him, letting her eyes wander over him slowly. "Maybe," she replies, a faint smirk curving her mouth — just enough to draw him in. That was all the invitation Sammie needed. He climbed out of the truck, curiosity already getting the better of him.

"You sing, don't you?" he asks as he approaches, watching her closely. "Sometimes," she says, coy and cool, not giving too much away. He nods, intrigued, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "I'm Preacher Boy," he says, offering a hand.

"Sofia," she answers, glancing at his hand before taking it. He holds her hand gently, repeating her name like a lyric he wanted to memorize. "Sofia," he says, savoring it, then brings her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. "Mmm. Beautiful."

She pulls her hand back with a slow, graceful motion, a knowing smile playing at the corner of her lips. "Hmm. I'm married, by the way." She says raising a brow, lips curling in amusement as she gently pulls her hand away. "Happily?" He questions, grinning as he looks at her up and down. A soft laugh slipped from Sofia's lips—low and dangerous. She gave him a slow once-over, eyes lingering just long enough.

"Ooo... careful, boy. You might bite off more than you can chew." She says as she bends down to pick up her sack, slinging it over her shoulder, but as she turn to walk away, Sammie steps in front of her, hand raised. "Hold on now.... Stack, my cousin? He's openin' up a juke joint." Sammie says making her narrow her eyes a bit. Stack wasn't her favourite person if anything she'd prefer smoke. Stack left her sister too many times but for some reason she keeps taking him back.

"Stack? Openin' a juke joint?" Sofia repeats, raising an eyebrow. "Actually... I can see it," she adds, rolling her eyes just enough to make her opinion clear. Sammie grins. "Him and Smoke, together. Thought it'd be nice if you sang there."

Her lips twitch into a reluctant smile, the compliment softening her just a bit. Before she can reply, the screen door creaks open behind them. "I think that's a great idea," Stack calls, stepping down from the porch like he owns the dirt beneath his boots. "What you think, lil' Sofia?"

Sofia rolls her eyes again—this time, silently—but the irritation is all over her face. She turns toward Sammie instead and gives him a smirk. Then, without sparing Stack another glance, she hums as a response before walking away. "Maybe I'll see you tonight?" Sammie calls after her, a note of hope in his voice. She throws him a glance over her shoulder—half smile, half warning.

"Maybe."

Tags: @cup1dedd @motheroffae @emberindigocymbee @sailurmewn @marley1773 @heyyimmisunderstood @mmaira18 @melaninqueen04

[myadalastdon]

WICKED .

"WICKED, WICKED, WICKED, WICKED, WICKED."

black fem reader ! x elias stack moore ! x elijah smoke moore !

chapter 1.

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐍, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊

Alabama stayed complaining about her life. She was 27 and single. Fresh out of a 10 year relationship. Her fiancé had cheated on her with a white woman. Embarrassing right? Oh that wasn't just it, she had to move to New York. Her job transferred her, she was working in Atlanta. Alabama felt like it was a sign from God, a wake up call. She claims that her life is miserable because her relationship ended, she had to transfer, and she was in a new city. All her life she lived down south, so the north was very much different. The atmosphere was completely different than Georgia weather.

Anyways Alabama, was at work. Her lunch break was coming to an end. Her AirPod's Max were on her ear as she watched her favorite movie Black Panther, it was her peace.

There was a knock on her door, she shouted a come in. It was her assistant Brianne.

"Hey Ms. Bell your 3 o'clock is here!" She reminded me, her planner in her arms.

"Who is it again, Damson Idris or Keith Powers?" Alabama asked, she was a stylist and she dealt with a lot of different clients every week. She knew she was working with a male actor. She just forgotten who it was.

"Michael B. Jordan." Brianne giggled. Alabama nodded her head slowly, grabbing her custom Coach glasses. She was blind as a bat, she needs her glasses. "Well bring him in."

She disappeared bringing in Michael, who was dressed comfortably. He wore black sweatpants and a hoodie with black, white, and red Jordan 4's. A black durag on his head.

"Hey Mike!" Alabama greeted her close friend. Years ago when Michael played in TV show The Wire. Alabama met him on set, her uncle was casted in the show so that's how she met him. Ever since then they became close friends. Always in touch with each other.

"Wassup girl, how you been?" He asked, pulling her in for a friendly hug. Michael could give the best hugs, he was an affectionate guy.

"I'm great, what about you Mr.Hollywood? Any new roles coming?" She teased, nudging his shoulder playfully.

"I'm good, and Ryan got sum for me. I gotta start getting ready for filming." Michael revealed, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

"Ooooouuuu you can tell me?"

"Ight since you can keep a secret, it's a horror movie. Bout two twin brothers, I'm playing as them." Michael replied, his voice deep.

"Two Jordan's I like that." Alabama teased him. He couldn't help but to laugh. "Don't go running your mouth lil scrub."

"I'm not Mr.Hollywood." She rolled her eyes playfully. She went to her desk, so she can pull out her folder. "So um, I got the fits you sent me. And I love them." She complimented him. She walked over to her rack, pulling out the garment bag. Michael was modeling for David Yurman.

"Man I appreciate it, I know you're the best stylist out here."

"You know it ain't nothing, you're my friend." She waved it off, they were really good friends.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

The automatic doors of the high-rise office building slid open with a soft whoosh, releasing Alabama into the chaotic symphony of New York City.

She stepped onto the sidewalk, her shoulders hunched against the weight of another grueling day.

The city's cacophony enveloped her—honking cabs, chatter in a dozen languages, the distant wail of a siren, and the rhythmic clatter of construction.

She pulled her coat tighter around her curvy frame, her long, thick brown curls bouncing against her back as she walked.

The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain mingled with exhaust fumes, a smell she'd grown to despise.

It was a reminder of how far she was from home, from the warmth and familiarity of Atlanta.

Alabama sighed, her brown eyes scanning the crowded street. She'd been in New York for six months now, and it still felt like a foreign land.

Atlanta had been her sanctuary, it was her home. She wasn't used to a bigger even crowed city.

There, she'd built a name for herself as a stylist, working with celebrities and designers who respected her talent. But the industry had demanded she move, and here she was, drowning in a sea of concrete and ambition.

The city's relentless pace left her feeling isolated, despite being surrounded by millions of people.

"I hate this damn place." She muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the city's roar.

She wasn't one to complain—her shy nature usually kept her thoughts to herself—but New York had a way of wearing down even the most reserved souls.

The fame, the money, the opportunities—none of it mattered when she felt so out of place.

She missed the warmth of Atlanta, the familiarity of its streets, the ease of its pace.

She missed the way the sun would set over the skyline, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, a sight she hadn't seen since she left.

As she walked, her mind wandered back to the day she'd left Atlanta.

Her mother's tearful hug, her father's proud smile, her best friend's promise to visit.

They'd all thought this was her big break, her chance to shine.

But Alabama had known, deep down, that it wasn't what she wanted.

She'd sacrificed too much for this career—her relationships, her peace of mind, her sense of self. The late nights, the endless demands, the pressure to stay relevant—it had all taken a toll.

She felt like a shell of her former self, a woman who had lost touch with the things that once brought her joy.

"I wish I could just... live in a different time." She said aloud, her words echoing in the narrow alley she'd turned into.

She didn't mean it literally; it was just a frustrated thought, a fleeting wish.

She longed for simplicity, for a time when life wasn't so complicated, so fast-paced.

As she spoke, her foot caught on something uneven in the pavement.

She stumbled, her arms flailing as she tried to regain her balance. The ground beneath her seemed to shift, and before she could react, it gave way entirely.

Alabama screamed as she fell, her hands grasping for anything to hold onto.

The air rushed past her, cold and damp, carrying the stench of sewage.

She landed with a splash in a pool of filthy water, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. Pain shot through her ankle, and she cried out, her voice echoing in the darkness.

The water was icy, seeping into her clothes and chilling her to the bone. She splashed around, trying to orient herself, but the darkness was disorienting.

"What the—?" She gasped, her heart pounding. She looked around, her eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light.

She was in a sewer tunnel, the walls slick with grime, the air thick with the smell of decay.

The water lapped at her waist, and she could hear it gurgling ominously in the distance. "How did I—?"

Her question was cut off by the sound of rushing water. The tunnel was flooding, the water level rising quickly. Panic surged through her as she scrambled to her feet, her ankle throbbing with each movement.

She limped toward what she hoped was an exit, her hands brushing against the slimy walls. The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, a labyrinth of darkness and despair.

"Help!" She shouted, her voice hoarse. "Somebody, please!"

But there was no one.

The tunnel was silent except for the sound of the rising water and her own ragged breathing.

Alabama's breath came in gasps as she pressed on, her fear growing with each step. She didn't understand how she'd ended up here, but one thing was clear: she had to get out.

The tunnel began to slope upward, and Alabama quickened her pace, her heart racing. She emerged into a narrow alley, the sunlight blinding after the darkness of the sewer.

She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the light, and looked around. The alley was unfamiliar, the buildings old and weathered.

The air smelled different—cleaner, somehow, with a hint of earth and wood smoke.

Alabama frowned, confusion replacing her fear. This wasn't New York.

She stepped out of the alley, her eyes widening at the sight before her. The streets were unpaved, the buildings low and simple.

People walked by in clothing that looked like it was from another era—men in wide-brimmed hats and suspenders, women in long dresses and aprons.

A Ford Model A clattered past, the driver tipping his hat as he passed.

Alabama's breath caught in her throat. "What the fuck?" She whispered, her voice trembling.

A man in overalls stopped in front of her, his eyes widening at the sight of her. "Well, I'll be damned." He said, his voice thick with a Southern drawl. "You ain't from around here, are ya?"

Alabama stared at him, her mind reeling. Her modern clothes—her black Essentials hoodie, Nike tights, and Uggs—stood out like a sore thumb among the period attire.

Her hair, still damp from the sewer, clung to her shoulders in tight curls. She looked down at herself, her hands trembling. "Where... where am I?"

The man scratched his head, his brow furrowed. "Why, you in Clarksdale, Mississippi, of course. What's wrong with you, girl?"

Clarksdale. Mississippi.

The words echoed in her mind, impossible and yet undeniable. She looked around again, taking in the details—the dirt roads, the gas lamps, the old cars. This wasn't just a different place; it was a different time.

"What year is it?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The man laughed, a deep, hearty sound. "Why, it's 1932, of course. You must've hit ya head pretty hard, miss."

Alabama's knees buckled, and she sank to the ground, her hands covering her face. 1932.

She was in 1932. Her wish—her stupid, frustrated wish—had come true.

The weight of the realization crushed her. She was trapped in a time that wasn't her own, in a place she knew nothing about.

The man knelt beside her, his expression concerned. "You alright there, miss? You look like you seen a ghost."

Alabama shook her head, her mind racing. This couldn't be real. It had to be a dream, a nightmare. She pinched herself, hard, but the pain was all too real. The man's rough hands, the smell of the earth, the sound of the cars—it was all real.

"I... I don't know." She stammered, her voice shaking. "I don't know what's happening."

The man offered her a hand, his grip firm and reassuring. "Well, you in Clarksdale now, and that's a fact. Name's Henry. Maybe you oughta come with me, get yourself cleaned up. You look like you've had quite the day."

Alabama hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to run, to find a way back to her own time.

But her body was exhausted, her mind overwhelmed. She took Henry's hand, allowing him to help her to her feet. As she stood, she felt a wave of dizziness wash over her, and Henry steadied her with a strong arm.

As they walked, Alabama's eyes drank in the sights and sounds of this strange, unfamiliar world.

The people, the buildings, the very air itself felt foreign, yet there was a strange sense of calm here, a simplicity that New York had long since lost.

Children played in the street, their laughter ringing out, while women chatted on porches, fanning themselves against the warm Mississippi sun.

It was a world untouched by the chaos of the modern era, and yet, it felt both comforting and terrifying.

Henry led her to a small cottage on the outskirts of town. The door opened before they reached it, and a woman emerged, her face creased with worry.

She was in her late forties, with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. Her hands were calloused, and her dress was simple but clean.

"Henry, what's all this?" She asked, her voice sharp but kind.

"Found this young lady in the alley, Martha." Henry explained. "She's had herself quite the fall. Think she might've hit her head."

Martha's eyes softened as she took in Alabama's disheveled appearance.

Her clothes were soaked and dirty, her hair a mess, and her face pale. "Well, bring her in, then. We'll get her sorted."

Alabama followed them inside, her mind still reeling. The cottage was modest but cozy, the air warm with the scent of baking bread and wood smoke.

Martha ushered her to a chair by the fireplace, her hands gentle as she helped Alabama remove her coat.

The room was sparsely furnished but inviting, with a worn rug on the floor and a shelf lined with books.

"Now, what's your name, dear?" Martha asked, her voice soothing.

Alabama hesitated, her throat tight. "Alabama." She finally managed.

Martha nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Well, Alabama, you're safe here. We'll take care of you."

Alabama nodded, her eyes filling with tears. She didn't know what to do, where to go, or how to get back.

All she knew was that her life had changed forever, and she had no idea what the future held.

The tears she'd been holding back began to fall, and she covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.

Martha placed a hand on her back, her touch firm but gentle. "It's alright, dear. You among friends here. Let's get you cleaned up and fed, and then we'll figure things out."

Alabama nodded mutely, allowing Martha to guide her to a small bedroom.

The room was simple, with a iron bedframe, a wooden dresser, and a washbasin by the window.

Martha helped her out of her wet clothes and into a clean dress—a simple cotton garment that felt strange against her skin.

She washed her face and hands, the cool water soothing her frayed nerves.

When she returned to the main room, Henry had built up the fire, and Martha was setting a plate of food on the table.

The smell of fried chicken, cornbread, and collard greens made her stomach growl, despite her turmoil. She sat down, her hands trembling as she picked up a fork.

"Eat up, dear." Martha said, her voice gentle. "You look like you could use it."

Alabama took a bite of the chicken, the familiar flavors grounding her momentarily. The food was simple but delicious, and she found herself eating more than she intended.

As she ate, Henry and Martha exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity.

"So, Alabama." Henry began, his voice careful. "You said you don't know what happened. Do you remember anything?"

Alabama shook her head, her mouth full. She swallowed and took a sip of water before replying. "I was in New York. I was walking, and I fell into a sewer. And then... I ended up here."

Henry and Martha exchanged another glance, their brows furrowed. "New York, you say?" Henry asked. "That's a long way from here."

Alabama nodded, her eyes downcast. "I know. I don't understand how it happened. One minute I was in the city, and the next... I was here."

Martha placed a hand on Alabama's arm, her touch reassuring. "Well, you're here now, and that's what matters. We'll help you figure things out, but for now, you need to rest. You've been through quite the ordeal."

Alabama nodded, her eyelids heavy.

The warmth of the fire, the comfort of the food, and the kindness of her hosts had begun to ease her tension. She stood, her legs still shaky, and followed Martha to the bedroom.

The bed was soft, the blankets warm, and she sank into it, her mind still racing but her body exhausted.

As she lay there, the events of the day replayed in her mind.

The fall, the sewer, the sudden appearance in 1932—it was all too much to process. She closed her eyes, the darkness enveloping her, and let sleep take her.

When Alabama woke, the sun was streaming through the window, casting a warm glow over the room.

She sat up, her head pounding, and looked around. The room was still unfamiliar, but it felt less threatening in the light of day.

She got out of bed, her body stiff, and made her way to the main room.

Martha was by the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled delicious.

She turned as Alabama entered, a smile on her face. "Good morning, dear. Sleep well?"

Alabama nodded, rubbing her eyes. "I did, thank you. I... I still don't know what to make of all this."

Martha handed her a cup of coffee, the steam rising in the morning light. "I know it's a lot to take in. But you're safe here, and we'll help you figure things out. For now, just take it one day at a time."

"WICKED, WICKED, WICKED, WICKED, WICKED."

[mimellowdi]

#sinners #michaelbjordan #smokemoore #stackmoore #elijahmoore #michaelbjordan x Black!OC

[yarsia-writesxx]

Sinners Masterlist

Sammie “preacher boy” Moore:

Saints and Sinners

Summary: Serena and Sammie were practically inseparable when they were little. He's play his instrument in church while Serena sang in the choir. But one day she had to move away without warning. Now she's back....What happens when she is recruited by stack to sing at their juke joint?

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5 (coming soon)

Sinners like Us

Summary: Sofia, a gifted singer, lives with her controlling husband, Louie, and her sister Estelle. While Sofia struggles to reclaim her voice and independence, Estelle works as a seamstress, trying to distract herself from a certain Moore brother.

ONE

TWO (coming soon)

Elijah “Smoke” Moore:

Sinners among us

Summary: Agnes, Annie's sister in blood and magic, moves back to Clarksdale Mississippi to reunite with her sister.

Sneak peak