#writing with: Elias

[canis-or-cannotis-lycaon]

Mirabel

TIMING: July 9th LOCATION: Gael and Elias’ House PARTIES: Elias (@ and Gael SUMMARY: Elias brings Gael’s favorite kitten home as a surprise. CONTENT WARNINGS: None, just literal and emotional fluff!

After picking up Mirabel, Elias drove home with the rambunctious little kitten in the carrier he had picked up for her. She mewed the entire way home, and he attempted to calm her by talking to her and singing along to the radio. It worked. Because by the time he got back, Mirabel had calmed down in her carrier enough to fall asleep in a curled-up ball. He had picked up a litter box, food, and bowls for her before picking her up, and he first brought the cat in, then set up everything else in a discrete area that Gael wouldn’t see immediately upon coming home. 

Much to Elias's relief, Ren and Gael were both out when he got back. So he took the kitten out of her carrier and spent time playing with her and hanging out on the couch. Having the day off, Elias decided to get to work in the kitchen, having Mirabel beside him as he cooked. He had decided to make butter chicken with his mother’s recipe. The aroma filled the house, and he smiled at his work—nothing like a home-cooked meal. 

Before he knew it, he heard the jingling of keys to unlock the front door. Springing into action, Elias quickly hid the carrier beside the couch and put Mirabel back inside it, praying she kept quiet. And thankfully, she did. 

As Gael entered the front door, Elias stared at him with a giant grin on his face. “Welcome home!” He greeted, waving a hand toward him. He knew his smile would give it away that he was up to something, but he wanted to keep up the charade for even a moment. “How was work?” He innocently asked, hands folded in his lap, hoping Gael wouldn’t notice he was covered in animal fur. “I made dinner!” He then added, realizing that the smell would probably give him away. “And I have something for you.” He confessed, scratching at the back of his neck.  ____ There was a lot of thinking in Gael’s head the past few days, though he rather wished he could just turn his brain off. And the worst part was that he knew he was unintentionally making these internal thoughts and feelings external. He legitimately couldn’t remember the last time he was so prone to spacing out since he dedicated himself to sobering up aside from possibly being really sick. Was that what this was? Was he just sick? That would explain the nausea and possibly nightmares, which was another thing he couldn’t remember having. Too many variables. Whatever was going on wasn’t contagious or else Elias probably would’ve caught it by now. Or it was psychosomatic. Either way, as Gael examined himself in the rear-view mirror of his little car (that he had since put a plastic covering on his seat due to the glitter from his ‘amazing’ date with Beau a few weeks ago that he held zero memory of), he did a proficient job at cleaning himself up, changing his expression to his usual one of friendly attention. The good news was that he wasn’t even mopey, just… absent. And he hated it. He liked to be present, to listen to other people and participate and engage in the conversation. He hated someone having to tap him on the shoulder or yell at him to get his attention, that wasn’t him. So he shaped up. Cleaned himself, made himself look presentable (now if only he could get rid of the bags under his eyes) and exhaled with resolve that would carry him through the rest of the day. Gael heard that Elias was off that day, which was good because he figured the man could use it and he got out of his car, unlocked the door and before he could say anything, he was greeted with the warm aroma of chicken and spices. He closed his eyes instinctively, a smile finding its way onto his face. Opening his eyes again, the smile was for Elias now as the latter welcomed him home with his usual enthusiasm. Perhaps even a little bit more than normal, which Gael never minded. “Hello!” He waved back, setting his trusty messenger back on the hearth next to the fireplace, its familiar spot whenever he first got home. “Work was fine! Nice and easy. I’m guessing your day was good, too?” He asked, raising his eyebrows, his eyes dancing over Elias’ frame briefly. “You– you got me something?” Gael tilted his head slightly, his smile still evident though a little bit of confusion made its way onto his face. “...What are you up to?” Between making dinner, the way he was acting and the grin on Elias, it didn’t take him long to figure that something was evidently on Elias’ mind. ____ Upon seeing Gael’s face melt at the smell, he knew he’d done his mother proud by following the recipe. He had called her earlier that day asking for the recipe, which immediately aroused her suspicions. “Who is it for?” She had wanted to know. “What’s their name?” She immediately followed up. “You can’t just refuse to talk to us in forever and not expect questions, Elias!” She had finished with. It was worth it, in the end. He had ended up talking to her for over an hour, answering where he was working and what he’d been doing, and the fact that he had a roommate. He left out the part where he wasn’t sure where they stood. That wasn’t important, and he wasn’t about to reveal that to his mother. He’d never hear the end of it.

Elias thought about waiting until after dinner to reveal the cat, but he also knew it was on its own time and might make herself known first. “I’m up to nothing, thank you very much. What, I can’t make my mom’s butter chicken recipe?” He raised his brows, continuing up the innocence charade. He crossed a leg over the other, his long legs splayed out on the couch. “My day was just fine. I spent it running errands and cooking.” He replied, which wasn’t technically a lie. The errands were just picking things up for the cat. 

Then, he tilted his head toward where the cat carrier was hidden. “Go take a look.” His grin widened as he continued to tilt his head toward where Mirabel slept. “I thought you could use a pick-me-up.” He began to explain, standing up from the couch to follow Gael. “I noticed you’ve been more exhausted and out of sorts lately, and before you try to play it off, it’s already too late. I noticed.” He shoved his hands in his pocket, awaiting Gael’s reaction. He couldn’t help but be a little nervous. The good thing was he hadn’t been having any allergic reactions to Mirabel, and he had thoroughly tested it out by playing with her and cuddling with her. He’d like to believe that they had bonded rather well.  ____ When Elias mischievously replied that he wasn’t up to anything accompanied with what he’d done that day and crossing his legs, Gael quirked an eyebrow in obvious disbelief, though the smile never left his face. His gaze moved when the taller man motioned to ‘go take a look’ and Gael’s smile lessened slightly, casting Elias a quick look as he went to the spot that was indicated. He did, however, stop and start to protest when Elias called him out, his brow furrowing slightly but Gael clasped his mouth shut again, biting his lower lip as his expression faltered; had he been that obvious? He felt like he was being obvious but at the same time, the thought that it was so evident sent a fresh wave of guilt in his abdomen that he stuffed into a bottle. Later. For now, the only indicator that escaped from whatever denial he would’ve responded was a small exhale and instead of looking at Elias, he turned his attention to what seemed to be a small animal carrier. Immediately the wave was replaced by something else, something warm and a little bit exciting, almost as though he were a child who just realized that he was being taken to the toy store after excitedly talking about a toy he wanted. “This isn’t…” Gael didn’t finish his sentence as he dropped to a crouch slowly and carefully before falling back to sit on his rear as he leaned forward and peered through the bars of the carrier. A smile slid onto his face, wide, gentle, bright. “Ola, Mirabel.” He cooed softly, opening the carrier gate and welcoming the small, fuzzy black kitten he’d picked himself, gone out to see, and sat with in the barn. As the kitten, recognizing him, mewled and exited the carrier to clamber onto his knee, her claws going into his jeans, Gael leaned forward and buried his face in her side affectionately. She smelled like the barn, the hay, and he swore he could catch what he associated with Monty on her. “What are you doing here?” He asked the kitten though the both of them knew he was actually asking Elias. Naturally, he wanted to ask Elias directly but he was torn in two - on the one hand, he was overjoyed to see the little kitten, to hold her in his hands again but on the other…”I thought I’d have to settle for seeing you at Leticia’s store.” If Leticia ever wanted to talk to him again. ____

Elias clasped his hands behind his back as he watched Gael interact with the kitten. He knew that Gael would protest, claim that his allergies were important, but he didn’t care. When it came to the people he cared about, he had a habit of showering them with gifts. He wanted Gael to know he cared, so he’d gone out of his way to pick up the kitten. “I reached out to Monty the other day and went and got the kitten I know you’ve been missing.” He began to explain, picking at his nails as a nervous tick. He didn’t want this to go over poorly. “I thought you two could use each other.” He spoke in a soft voice as if afraid to speak further. 

He perked up at the mention of Leticia, a familiar name. He had befriended her at the bar. He didn’t comment on it, however. He just wanted to ensure that Gael was happy with the situation. “Before you ask, I’m on medication for my allergies. And yes, this was a decision I wanted to make, and yes, the medication is working. Mirabel and I played all afternoon.” He rocked back and forth on his heels, catching the kitten’s eye for a moment, only for her to wriggle out of Gael’s arms and bound toward Elias, batting at his socks. He chuckled. “And as you see, she likes socks.” 

He kneeled to pet her, unable to keep a soft and intimate smile off his face. He knew that the cat would be good for not only Gael but Elias as well. Something about an animal’s presence was just good for the soul. Mirabel quickly turned directions and ran back to Gael, now batting at his shoelace. “She’s got a lot of spunk.” He commented with a soft chuckle. “I hope you’re not mad…” He trailed off, smile turning to one of worry. He then began to ramble on, fidgeting with his hands. “I picked up two litter boxes, I got her the food they were feeding her and some dishes and toys…” He bit his lip, not knowing when to stop talking.  ____ The question that was on Gael’s mind, the question he was hoping Elias would answer without him having to, was ‘what about your health’. And fortunately, as he stroked Mirabel’s soft ears, her little head, under her chin, Elias seemed to know it and he answered. At first, Gael wasn’t mad or even upset, he was just concerned, and for what he thought was a good reason. But as Elias explained all the precautions he’d taken, the steps to help himself and the time that he had obviously thought about it, Gael realized that he hadn’t learned anything with his conversation with Monty. He still controlled other people, assumed their intentions, made decisions based on what he figured other people wanted or needed. Then as though to prove his point, Mirabel jumped out of his lap and pranced over to the taller man where she proceeded to mess with his socks. Gael’s gaze flickered from the kitten to Elias. He opened his mouth as if to say something but as he tended to do when he was nervous, the bartender started talking again himself. ‘I hope you’re not mad’. Gael felt guilty that no matter what all he’d done so far, he still gave people the impression that he got mad about things. Keeping his eyes on the taller man, he reached forward and unlaced his shoes around the ball of fluff. Gael should’ve gotten up to respond more immediately but he didn’t, instead just giving Elias a look that he hoped expressed his gratitude, his thankfulness and appreciation for all the trouble Elias had gone through, what he’d keep going through for Gael’s sake. “You know what I think?” Gael said matter-of-factly, still sitting down - it was gonna take him a minute or two to stand - but keeping his dark eyes on the other man. “I think this was an excellent decision.” He scooped the kitten up, poking her nose affectionately and wiggling his fingers to get her attention. “I think this is one of the best coming-home surprises I’ve ever had and of course I’m not mad.” He set Mirabel down again, pulling off his shoes so she could play with them. “I’m just glad you two get along.” He beamed up at Elias. ____ As Mirabel began to play with Gael’s shoelaces, Elias couldn’t help but smile. Maybe the kitten would be good for all three of them, not just Gael. Her presence made him feel better just by proxy. He couldn’t help but smile back at the professor. “I didn’t think you were mad,” Elias clarified as he decided to sit on the floor across from him. “I just got worried that you’d think about my health and not want to keep her for my sake, which would start an endless cycle of guilt.” He waved his hands in the air as he spoke. “I’ll stop talking.” He then muttered, watching Mirabel explore the living room further. “It’s just how I show that I like someone is all.” He nearly whispered to himself, finding himself a little embarrassed.

Then, it was just the two of them sitting on the ground. “I’m glad you’re happy,” Elias spoke, putting his hand over Gael’s momentarily before getting up from the ground and offering him his hand to help him up. “The food’s going to get cold,” he spoke with a grin. “We can let her explore for a little bit, right? I made sure all the doors were closed so we didn’t lose her that quickly.” Mirabel walked around a bit but made herself back at home in her carrier, which Elias had lined with a small blanket and some mouse toys. “I know she’s technically your cat, but… I’m definitely going to spoil her.” ____ “You’re a grown adult and you can make your own choices.” Gael replied first, tilting his head and giving Elias a keen look. He felt like he’d been saying that more recently and it just made him more aware that he kept making decisions that he felt were best when they weren’t, necessarily. He wondered if he made things more complicated sometimes, like with Monty. Then Gael’s sharp hearing picked up on a sentence that wasn’t meant to be heard and he made a decision right there. Inhaling, feeling Elias’ hand over his for a moment before the taller man stood and offered to help him up, Gael glanced up with his expressive eyes and took Elias’ hands. With some effort and an escaped grunt of pain, he was to his feet, where he glanced down at the kitten that wandered around before going to her crate, her little cave of safety. He smiled and looked back up at Elias, squeezing his hands gently. “I hope you do spoil her.” Gael assured. “She’s not my cat. She’s our cat. All three of us; I can’t possibly hoard her to myself.” He inhaled. “Elias, do you want to go out with me?” ____ After helping Gael up to his feet, he turned to the kitchen to turn the stove burner back on. It had begun to cool down, and he would be damned if he ate cold food. He laughed at Gael’s response to telling him to spoil the cat and nodded as he spoke of it being a household cat. “I have a good feeling that Ren will like her.” He spoke, stirring the mixture on the stove. Elias hadn’t had a chance to cook for the household much, but he enjoyed doing it. “I think I should cook for the house more.” He insisted aloud, then freezing in place when Gael spoke up again. 

“Huh?” He responded with as much tact as an elephant in a china shop. “I mean. Yeah, I’d love to!” He then said with a perked-up tone. He was confused. What had brought that question up all of a sudden? He turned around, still holding the wooden spoon in his hand. He didn’t know what to say, “We’ve gone out before?” He said with a question mark, narrowing his eyes at the man with a confused yet playful expression. The question didn’t put him off, but he found it funny. 

He then turned back to the food to make sure it didn’t burn and went into the pantry to find the naan he had purchased to go with it. “Get over here. It’s been ready.” He then said, not making a big deal of being asked out (even though they’ve gone out before). “It’s butter chicken.” He then explained as he plated up the food for two people, making sure there were left overs for Ren when she got home. “Have you had it before?” He then asked.  ____ The look that painted Gael’s face at the response ‘we’ve gone out before’ was wide-eyed and completely caught off-guard, almost as though Elias just slapped him out of nowhere. Accompanying it was a fine shade of red that dusted his cheeks. They… of course they’d gone out before, but– “I-I was…” He stammered stupidly as he followed Elias to the kitchen, treading carefully as though Mirabel could’ve been anywhere on the floor now. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of the water as he wanted to say something but faltered and Gael had to shake his head to pull himself out of his head where he suddenly found himself wondering what he did wrong. Was it the wording? It had to be the wording, right? It had been a while since he’d effectively been part of the dating scene and even then… At the question of where or not he’d had butter chicken before, Gael shook his head. “No, I haven’t… at least I don’t think I have.” He admitted. As he spoke, a fresh wave of the scent of the food wafted through his sinuses and he couldn’t help but inhale the aroma again, the scent seeming to calm him down. “It smells REALLY good though,” He added enthusiastically. “Hey, I uh…” He cleared his throat. “I meant like… if you wanted to date.” He felt the need to clarify as his eating utensil hovered over the food, wondering if he would even keep it down but hoping for the best in multiple ways as he further explained his initial inquiry. “Like… be a couple.” ____

After plating the food, Elias pushed the plate over to the other man, brow raised in confusion as Gael became flustered. He wasn’t sure what was going on, the sudden embarrassment on the professor’s face was enough to make him realize that maybe he had misinterpreted what he was asking. He narrowed his gaze, staring at the floor where Mirabel was sniffing around, trying to decipher what he was referring to. Putting a piece of naan onto each plate, he then turned himself around to grab a fork for the both of them. Mirabel darted back over to Gael’s discarded shoes and began to bat at the laces for everything it was worth. Elias turned around at the ruckus, smiling taking over his face at the level of cuteness she was exuding. 

Then, “be a couple.” That caught him off guard. He hadn’t been expecting that. The last time he was part of any couple was back in college when he was twenty-two. Needless to say, he didn’t know the first thing about these things. He had thrown his whole life into work and now that he was establishing relationships with people for the first time in his life at forty-three, he realized there were a lot of unfortunate firsts that were happening to him. “I…” he trailed off, blinking. He wore owlish features on his face, dropping his fork in shock. “Really?” He asked, ducking his head with those same wide eyes. 

He thought for a moment. In the past few weeks, they had surely grown a lot closer, not to mention they had more intimate moments. There was something about Gael that was magnetic and intoxicating. He then nodded his head, trying to get the words to connect to his mouth and work. “I’d love that.” He finally said, a soft smile growing over his face after speaking.  ____ Gael was holding his breath again and not even the loving obsession he’d formed over Mirabel could take his gaze away from Elias as the latter didn’t respond immediately, at least verbally. He evidently didn’t see the question coming as he dropped his fork and Gael realized that it was his error; he’d used the wrong wording before, saying what he said back when he was in high school instead of respecting Elias as an adult. He could be childish sometimes, unintentionally so so when Elias replied after the pause between them, confirming the question that floated ambiguously in the air, he practically vibrated with energy, his expression getting brighter and even seeming to eliminate the dark circles under his eyes, if only for a moment. “I’d love that, too!” Gael said, barely containing his enthusiasm and he looked down at at Mirabel, the latter of which had wandered over to their feet for a few moment. “He said yes!” He hummed down to her. Turning back to his food, he dug in, the nausea in his stomach dissipating at least long enough for him to actually enjoy the food that was made by his newly-appointed boyfriend after the latter picked up his kitten from Monty, all shows of faith and kindness that Gael hadn’t been able to offer Elias yet. It was unfair, really, how needy Gael had been the past week and he was sure that he’d do better in the future, if not for him than for Elias, for Ren, for Monty and Mirabel and Leticia. He owed a lot of people a lot of things and Gael gladly took on that challenge. Sleepwalker or no, it was Gael and that was all he could do and be for everyone. “This is SO good.” He complimented his mouth full of the butter chicken. “Thank you.” A pause. “For everything.” ____

The feeling of elation made Elias feel as if he were floating on air, his footsteps light as he pulled up to the kitchen island and set his food in front of him. Gael was cheering Mirabel, which put a bright smile on his face. Nothing could destroy such a fantastic mood he found himself in, and would probably ride the high for the rest of the day. “I haven’t… you’re the first person I’ve seriously dated since college.” He confessed sheepishly. “So forgive me if I have not a clue what I’m doing.” He frowned, though it didn’t last long as it was overtaken again by an infectious smile.

As they sat to eat, Elias hummed. It didn’t taste quite as good as his mother made it, but it was a close second. “It’s my mom’s recipe.” He explained between forkfuls, Watching as Mirabel sprinted around the island a few times, seemingly a boundless flow of energy. He chuckled at it. “So if you like this, you’d love hers.” He explained with a soft smile, thinking of his family. He’d have to contact them soon. He’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t tell his mom about the new development in his personal life. 

“You’re welcome.” He then replied, nudging the man softly. “You deserve nice things.” He added. “Like I said, it’s kinda how I show people they mean a lot to me.” He waved a hand in the air as he spoke, fork in hand. “So I’ll probably do it again, consider it a threat.” He took another bite, that same floating feeling in his body threatening to lift him up to the sky. He couldn’t get enough of it.  ____ “You deserve nice things too,” Gael responded lightly as he continued to eat the butter chicken, dipping the bread he was given into it on occasion. Elias could’ve told him that it was a store brand and he would’ve loved it - it wasn’t the comparison, it was that Elias took the time and effort to make it for him. This was for him. The kitten, a gift from two people who meant a lot to him. The food, a consideration after his poor behavior the past week. The globe, the stargazing, the kindness and the discussion to bring him back from the ledge he wasn’t aware he was even on. Either that or Gael was being utterly selfish and failing to read the room, something that wasn’t common for him but it happened on occasion. And maybe he could be selfish, just as he was when someone would let him know a small, intimate piece of them and he kept it close to his heart. Maybe, despite the new nightmares, the apologies he owed, the brain injury, he did deserve nice things. He was still tired. And he knew the shadow would return to his dreams tonight. But the illumination and joy that the past half hour brought him was sure to carry his mood through the rest of the day, which was a luxury he allowed himself to afford as he sat there eating the homemade meal, seeing the newest addition to their strange little family hopping around out of the corner of his eye.

[occudo]

A fish out of water story I just remembered last year I did some siren!jon and selkie!martin, so here is some more of them, for the end of May

[seaglassdinosaur]

The affection between Black men in Sinners!

Smoke and Stack hugging and saying ‘I love you’ before they part ways in the corn field

Stack’s excitement and cheering as he listens to Sammie’s music while the two of them cruise down the road.

Delta Slim playing with Sammie and mentoring him by explaining the historical and spiritual significance of music to their community.

The way Smoke and Delta and all the others place their bodies in between Sammie and Remmick when the cards are laid before them, holding out an arm to stop Sammie from sacrificing himself; insisting that they’re going to die before they let Sammie leave through that door.

The protective and desperate way Smoke clutches onto Sammie in the final act; Remmick burning up in front of them and Smoke wrapped around Sammie to shield and comfort him and provide another barrier between them and the vampires just in case.

Stack showing up, telling Sammie he’s been following his career the whole of his life, collecting his albums because that’s his little cousin! He’s known him, they’ve known him, and isn’t it amazing to see how far he’s come?Supporting him from a distance, but supporting him nonetheless.

The option Sammie is given at the very end, and the way his choice is honored. Because as much as Stack (and Mary) love him, theirs is not a possessive love. It’s the selfless kind, that they will not try to hold onto Sammie past his time, but instead make sure he knows how important and loved he has been in life.

[lostandunlovedd]

we went through all of that just to be strangers again?

[i-love-ptv]

Hand Prints and Good Grips…✱*.:｡✧

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Childhood Best friend!Reader

Trouble brews once Mary walks into the twins’ juke joint, and you just wanna be the girl Elias likes.

wc: 6,103

warnings: porn with lots of plot, jealous!dom!Elias, sub!reader, clit slapping, face-sitting, cunnilingus, unprotected p-in-v, dirty-talk, degradation (not tew much but it’s there), overstimulation (r receiving), rough sex, manhandling, slight tit sucking/licking, marking, creampie (gulp??), language, one klan mention, shitty southern writing

an: HEY GUYS!!! THIS IS MY LONGEST FIC EVER WOOHOO! (ignore how it took me a month to make it, i’ve been going thru it man) i’m literally obsessed w sinners so hopefully i did stack justice! do y’all even read these? anyways

feedback is always appreciated n welcomed <3

Your hair was starting to cling onto your forehead as if you were drenched in sticky molasses.

The air was humid and dry; of course, this was a Mississippi custom, but it doesn’t help that there’s dozens of bodies stomping and prancing around.

Though you can’t complain much, considering that you were right here with them—dancing as if you hadn’t in years.

In a way, you haven't. You haven’t felt a rush of autonomy and euphoria quite like this before.

With everyone being nothing but working busy-bodies, there’s been little to no time to plan big events such as tonight. The lack of excitement has been a major factor too.

Hence why as soon as the Moore twins came back into town with the intention to open up their very own juke joint, everyone was on board.

The pair hadn’t been seen here in seven years.

Seven long, cruel years without the twin you’ve grown to love.

Stack.

Well, he was Stack to everyone else. But to you? He was still Elias. Your ‘Lias.

Seven years without his lingering touches and pearly smiles.

You weren’t the only one that missed him, it seems.

Your sister told you that when she went down near the train station, she was right there waiting for your Elias.

Mary was waiting.

You don’t have a clue as to how she knew he was coming home before you did, considering that nobody from the Delta had heard from him except for you. And a letter from him was rather rare.

Mary had nearly thrown a fit once she saw him; it didn’t help that Elias had turned down her persistent advances.

The lack of contact obviously sent her over the edge.

Apparently she mentioned their former relations; their connection being a secret to none.

You were envious of this; never jealous, but overcome by a feeling of want.

Growing up with the twins meant that the three of you were as close as can be. That being said, though, they looked at you as if you were their little sister. It was fine when Elijah assumed the role of a family member, but Elias?

Just thinking about it makes your heart ache.

You longed for the flirtatious remarks that he’d give off to any and every woman, a night filled with intimacy plagued your mind constantly.

But you got over it.

You had to. Not only for the sake of your friendship with Elias, but also because of his prolonged absence from town.

That’s why tonight—right now, you had to pump the breaks and focus on celebrating the twins’ success.

Speaking of success?

You making your way over to the bar with your wobbly heeled-covered feet was a success. Surprisingly.

“Someone’s been dancin’ a lil too hard, huh?” Annie chortles, looking at you with nothing but sisterly-love, and a bit of amusement.

“Only dancin’ I was doing was during my cooking—nothin’ like this in a while,” you exclaim with bliss through a beaming smile. You huff as you sit down in front of the bar. “Y’got anythin’ good back here?” You motion to the bottles Annie has surrounding her.

“Better than good,” Annie replies before ducking down and searching below the counter.

You brace your hands on the counter and slightly peer over at the woman, but then she pops up quicker than you can plop back down onto your chair. She quirks a brow at you before placing a bottle down in front of you.

“What’s this?” You question; if Annie didn’t know any better, she would’ve thought that it was Christmas morning with the way you were looking at the bottle.

“Authentic Irish beer; straight from the north side of Chicago. Different from the rest they’re sellin’.” She replies. “Your man brought it specifically for you—made me promise I wouldn’t give it to nobody else, no matter how much they was payin’.”

You bite back a smile at her words; you knew exactly who she was talking about.

“He fixin’ to be Mary’s.” Your lips straighten, it’s bittersweet.

“That so? ‘Cause that ain’t what I heard,” Annie muses, making you pause. You savor Annie’s words as if they were your holy grail. Was there a chance that Elias looked at you the same as you did him?

You crane your neck and your gaze is set over your shoulder—over at him.

He catches your eye and he gives you a cheeky smile, to which you return rather eagerly.

You hadn’t had a single nonchalant bone in your body it seems.

Your shared staring was cut short as Mary forced Elias’ attention back onto her, but it wasn’t exactly a hard task for her.

Something about her was just so easy and simple, despite the ring shining on her hand that matched another man’s being anything but simple. The way that they connected even after all these years made you feel as if you swallowed a jar of mud.

After a few sips of beer, you can’t help but let a smile rest on your face. Elias knew you’d love it, and it makes your heart dance.

Speaking of dancing, your dearest friend Pearline struts up to you with a grin that soared for miles.

“What’s got you cheesin’ all hard?” You raise your eyebrows at her, making her giggle.

“Y’know the Preacher’s boy? The one that was just singin’?” Pearline’s nearly jumping out of her skin with excitement.

“Lil’ Sammie Moore? Course I do, why? What’d you do Pearl?” You gape at her and hold her hands tightly in yours.

“Well…” She trails off. “Let’s just say, he showed me he ain’t a boy, but a real man.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of the sockets as you exclaim a Pearline! that could probably be heard for miles.

Pearline gushes, “He made me feel things I ain’t never felt before.”

“Not even with your mister?” You gasp.

“Not even close. And that’s not all,” she pauses before looking around, then leaning in towards you.

“I wasn’t even able to freshen up. He didn’t want me to,” Pearline whispers.

You shout, then look around in embarrassment at your outburst; you shake Pearline vigorously by her shoulders and giggle some more.

You decide to look around the joint, and you coincidentally catch Sammie looking right at the back of Pearline’s frame in utter awe.

You nudge Pearline, and she looks over at him with you. The look that she throws his way is nothing short of flirtatious.

“He looked at ya like he wanted t’take a bite,” you snicker.

Pearline looks at you mischievously, “Funny, considerin’ he already did.” You can’t help but laugh.

“So, y’thinkin’ bout singin’ like he said?” You ask.

Pearline hums, “Maybe. ‘M thinkin’ you should too.”

“No, not happenin’. Not a chance,” You scoff playfully.

Pearline whines and grabs your wrists. “C’mon, sista! When’s the last time you got the chance to do this?” She pouts, and tries hardest to make puppy-dog eyes at you.

“Besides, this could be y’chance to make a move on Stack. Ain't that whatcha been waitin’ for?” She drags.

You falter at the question she poses.

“Tonight’s the night, sista.” Pearline murmurs softly.

It’s crazy how you always get in your head when it comes to him.

The thing is, you weren’t one to throw yourself out there just to entertain a man. No, that just wasn’t your style.

But God—tonight? His suit was fitting snug in all the right places, his grills glimmered dangerously in the dim lighting, and his eyes always found yours, recklessly.

You couldn’t resist Elias Moore.

And right now, you’re starting to wonder if you ever could.

“Y’better wrap that scarf on tight, Pearl,” you say as you grab her arm and start walking with her to the front. Pearline shrills and claps her hands with glee.

You saunter towards the stage with a pep in your step and your arm linked with a perky Pearline. Your heels clack on the wooden floors as you come face-to-face with the band and none other than Delta Slim, who’s now grinning at you.

“Been tryin’ to getcha to sing for years girl, what’s with the change o’ heart?” He questions with a smirk, as if he already knew the answer. You’re sure that he did with the way that his eyes looked past you and towards Elias.

“It’s a nice night, figured I’d try sum different,” you shrug, trying to mask your sudden embarrassment. Pearline intertwines her hand with yours and uses her other one to gesture to the band. You inhale deeply while looking at her; she gives you a look of reassurance.

The patrons of the juke joint grow silent at the sight of you two taking your stances and the band readying their instruments.

Pearline starts humming and you lightly stomp your feet on the stage, starting to form a beat as the band follows.

Elias feels as if his heart was being weighed down by a ton inside of him. He held his breath—scared that the rise and fall of his chest would make him miss the steady view of you: parading around as if everything outside the joint had come to a halt.

You looked completely, and utterly divine up there; moving swiftly and effortlessly, as if you owned the very ground you were stepping on.

You were absolutely ethereal in Elias’ eyes.

And he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t falling even harder for his sugar as of right now. He was the only man that could get away with calling you sugar; he knows it, so does everyone else in the Delta—and Elias can’t help but let his pride swell every time he thinks about it.

Your body sways carelessly as if you were one with the words that escaped your lips, but your eyes are grounded—powerful, even. Speaking of them: your glittering orbs meet his, your gaze nothing short of a vixen’s.

Though, the interlocking of your sights is interrupted when Mary makes her presence known yet again at Elias’ side. He can’t help but sigh at the intrusion.

Luckily, Elias’ ever-growing agitation fades when the patrons of the juke let out their elation around him. The band’s playing picks up, as well as you and Pearline’s voices.

Don’t let it shine, shine, shine once more

Pale, pale moon, pale, pale moon

Everyone chants and stomps rhythmically.

“I wanna sing, like I hear the crickets do,” Pearline sings seductively while peering at Sammy as she struts.

Pale, pale moon, pale, pale moon

“I wanna hoo,” you and Pearline sing simultaneously, harmonizing beautifully as your backs meet and you both slide to a crouching position.

Pale, pale moon, pale, pale moon

“I wanna howl,” the two of you sound as if you were straight out of a folktale—like one of those myths of the sirens that Annie had explained to Elias once before. You and Pearline then reside in a crawl as you look at the crowd with a sense of hunger in your eyes.

Mary gets ahold of Elias’ tie, but he quickly removes her grip from him—without even breaking eye contact with you. He knows she’s interested in spending the rest of the night with him; maybe in hopes of rekindling an old flame.

But how could Elias be interested in another woman when his woman—his sugar—was looking at him so deliciously.

You grin slyly at him, biting your bottom lip before licking your teeth.

Pale, pale moon, pale, pale moon

“I wanna scream,” Pearline sings, as you mouth the three words to Elias.

Three little words that have Elias fucking mesmerized, hypnotized even. You have him in a trance, right where you want him, and you both know it.

Elias wishfully thinks that the pick up in your breathing isn’t just from all the dancing you’ve been doing tonight. He bites his lip at the thoughts running through his mind.

Mary can’t even say that she recognizes the look that Elias gives you, for she has never been on the receiving end like you have been. Her frustration and jealousy boils over, and she eventually huffs before walking away from Elias, and out of the juke joint.

Elias doesn’t mind one bit, and he sure as hell doesn’t when the song finishes and you hug Pearline with excitement as the joint nearly turns upside down. You’re jumping up and down and Elias can’t help but smile til his cheeks hurt.

Elias feels a hand slap somewhat roughly on his shoulder. He knows good and well it’s his brother, with or without the wave of tobacco radiating.

“Came out here after the game finished, saw the way she was lookin’ at’cha, too.” Elijah grumbles.

“Breathtakin’, ain’t she?” Elias remarks breathily, not even turning to his brother—keeping his sights on you, as you hug Slim and the rest of the instrument players.

“Not ‘bout how I feel, ‘s ‘bout how you feel,” Elijah sighs. This makes Elias turn towards his brother.

“Don’t know what’chu waitin’ on, already been years,” Elijah then pauses before continuing, “Don’t be surprised when somebody see what’chu see.” Elijah trails off, almost ominously, and nods his head in your direction.

Elias follows his twin’s trail of sight and spots you: talking to a man he ain’t even seen before. You were beaming, your hair a little frizzed up by the humidity, your lipgloss smudged a little onto your shimmering skin.

Speaking of your lipgloss—whoever you’re talking to decided to rub his finger below your lip to wipe it away. Right now, Elias’ demeanor resembles the snake him and his brother killed earlier: cold and unmoving.

You glance around the sea of bodies, and Elias takes this as a sign. He starts to walk up to you, but not before having to mumble several ‘excuse me’s while side-stepping quite a few people—who seem to not be able to hold their liquor.

He finally reaches you, and he gets a glimpse of you over the guy’s shoulder, who has no idea he’s even there.

“We got a problem?” Elias murmurs, making the stranger nearly jump out of his skin.

“N-nah man,” the man chuckles awkwardly as he faces Elias.

“I reckon we do, since y’talkin’ to my lady,” Elias replies, sizing him up as he takes a step closer to him. The man takes a step back in return.

“I ain’t know, I-I’m sorry, Stack,” the man trembles meekly. Elias only hums. The man glances between the two of you before making himself scarce.

Elias stays in the same spot for a beat, before turning and giving you a look that says let’s go, before walking towards one of the back rooms of the joint. You hesitate, before inching behind him.

“So I’m y’lady now?” You don’t bother to tone down the sass in your voice.

“‘S what I said, ain’t it?” he mumbles, not even looking at you.

You scoff, “Yeah, well, y’got a funny way a’ showin’ it.”

Elias pulls you into a dimly lit room and finally faces you as you stand before him. “What’s that s’possed to mean?”

You narrow your eyes at him before speaking. “Means I saw you messin’ with ole Mary.”

“She don’t mean nun to me,” Elias guaffs. “Why d’ya think she left already?”

You roll your eyes and begin to head out the door you just came from. You’re not sure where this attitude just came from, in all honesty. The moment your eyes met him while you were on stage, it felt as if everything else had faded away, and it was just the two of you.

Maybe it was the irritation caused by Mary that left you in a sour mood now, you’re not sure. You know it won’t be beneficial to you nor Elias in this moment, but you can’t help it.

Elias grabs your wrist before you can get too far away from him.

“She ain’t nun, y’hear?” If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he almost sounded desperate. You stay quiet.

“Asked you a question, sugar. ‘N with that attitude of yours, I ain’t fixin’ to repeat myself.” His lips ghost the shell of your ear as he speaks, and heat twinges through your stomach. Elias seems to take notice of the subtle switch in your demeanor; he smirks and his chocolate brown irises darken even further.

“I…I don’t believe you,” You almost whisper, but still meet his gaze.

Almost immediately, he responds with, “What I got to do to convince you, baby?” Elias matches your tone, but there’s still a hint of assertiveness conveyed through his words.

You don’t speak—it’s almost like you couldn’t, but you release your wrist from his grasp gently.

Elias’ jaw clenched slightly, but you still spot it. He looks as if he’s pondering his next words.

“‘S not makin’ sense, darlin’. I mean, you were acting like a whore on stage, now you don’t want me to touch you?” He cocks his head at you and your lips part—like it was reflex, and maybe it was. Elias clicks his tongue.

Your breath picks up, and if your mind weren’t turning fuzzy, you would’ve chided yourself for making a fool out of yourself in front of a man—Elias at that.

The man you’ve yearned for longer than you can even remember.

“I ain’t no whore,” you speak, finally regaining your senses.

“That right, sugar?” You can feel Elias’ breath on your heated face, and all you can do is nod in return.

“Y’wanna know what I think?” Before you can answer the question Elias poses, he murmurs lowly, “I think that deep down….You are a whore—and you needa be fucked like one.”

Despite the vulgarity of his words, the way that Elias places his palm across your cheek is soft—loving, even.

You press your thighs together through your dress unconsciously, desperately seeking even an ounce of friction to cool the impending heat between your legs.

Elias takes the hand that rested upon your cheek and moved it to the stiff rim lock that resided on the door’s surface.

Thank god—You’d hate for the likes of someone such as Sammie barging in and being witness to sin hotter than the Mississippi sun.

Elias then starts to walk you back to the table that remained bare in the dingy-lit room, removing his suit jacket and vest, followed by his tie. The backs of your knees meet the edge of the firm table, making you stumble just a bit. Elias takes it upon himself to lay you down onto the table.

You rest on your elbows as you look up at the six-foot-something man in front of you, and you can’t help but swoon. His beating eyes look down at you lustfully—almost as if he were a predator, and you his prey.

It made you weak.

Weak at the hands of a man you’d been waiting on while he had the time of his life in Chicago, with all sorts of Italian customs. Your actions are beyond halfwitted, but you make no effort to straighten yourself out anymore.

Elias takes his warm hands and spreads your knees with ease after unbuttoning his shirt, making you yelp involuntarily at the near-abrasiveness. He licks his grillz and lets out a short, deep chuckle; you feel it vibrate your bones, while he aligns himself so that almost he’s eye-level with your warm core.

“Elias, wait—“ You whimper meekly,

He hums disapprovingly, letting out a firm ‘mm-mmn’. He rips his gaze from your thighs to your eyes, “Been waitin’ for years, sugar, not sure if I can any longer.” He repositions his hands, lifting your dress and hitching it up to your upper thighs, nearly to your pelvic bone.

Elias massages your thighs with an iron grip, it’s not yet rough, but not exactly gentle either. His switch between the two is making your mind reel.

He kisses up from your knee almost to where your dress bunches up as he removes his button-up, leaving him in his undershirt. He then says, “…So, m’sorry if I lose m’manners,” he breathes hotly against your skin, “But I don’t think I can live without destroying this pussy for a minute longer.” He damn near groans.

His mouth hovers above your clothed cunt—he purposely breathes in a way that makes you squirm at the feeling you’re unable to run from. As you shudder and tilt your head back, you suddenly hear a rip and you feel a gust of air.

You gasp and look down, where you’re met with Elias looking up at you cheekily, with one half of your panties in his mouth, and the other in his hand.

“‘Lias!” You exclaim.

Elias feigns innocence, “Told ya I ain’t mean no harm.” He then averts his focus to your legs, and he leaves a kiss to your mound.

“Y’not gon let me freshen up, will ya?” You ask quietly, already knowing the answer.

Instead of answering, Elias takes his tongue and trails it from your hole to your clitoris, and you puff out the air you didn’t know you were holding in.

Elias seems to enjoy your reaction, for he then gives you another long lick.

And another,

and another,

and you guessed it, another.

You press your lips together, muting your sounds, and Elias ‘tsk’s at the sight.

He nips a bit of the skin next to your lips, making you choke on your own spit. “Don’t like how quiet you’re bein’.” Elias reprimands you.

“Stop t-teasin’ then,” You manage to huff.

Elias chuckles in disbelief, “Wanted to be gentle, but y’makin’ it hard,” he then lifts you up from the table, and places his back where you once laid. He hooks your legs over the sides of his head, your pussy now inches away from his plump, shining lips.

Elias’ typical, million-dollar smirk is back on his face, but there’s something more sinister behind it—your legs would’ve buckled if he weren’t holding them.

“You’re a whore, jus’ like I said y’were.” His southern drawl makes your stomach twist in knots, despite the familiarity. Before you could get a word out, Elias placed you onto his face.

You mewl at the feeling of his tongue swirling around anywhere, and everywhere.

Your clit, your lips—it was almost as if he were starving.

There was no rhythm, no harmony and contentment, just the actions of a man on a mission.

A mission to make you scream louder than the birds on your farm.

Then, abruptly, Elias leaves a small, yet firm slap to your clit. “Admit it,” he says between licks. “Admit that you’re a whore.” He leaves another slap.

You don’t respond, too caught up in both the pain and pleasure. Your head hangs back and your eyes are clenched shut, and Elias grows impatient.

He removes his mouth from you with a ‘pop’ and almost snarls at you, “Thought I told ya Ion like repeatin’ myself.” He slaps your clit again, this time with more force.

“Okay—Okay! I was bein’ a whore tonight, ‘m sorry!” You cry out as your back arches.

Elias starts to lower you towards his grinning face, and you shiver at the feeling of his cold grillz.

Instead of teasing kitten-licks, Elias sucks at your slit and lets his tongue roam freely, without a care in the world. You writhe and whine on top of him, your body bending back and creating a dull aching sensation.

His advances are relentless, and you have no chances of escaping his grasp; he readjusts his grip as soon as he feels you start to slip away from him. You don’t know whether to clench around his tongue as he fucks you with it, or to cry–you end up doing both, and this continues on for who knows how long.

You’ve stopped counting the number of orgasms you’ve had after the second one–you think–but you think Elias has been keeping track. He’s muttered ‘jus’ one more, sugar’ maybe three times now, and you don’t know how many you have left in you at this point.

After what feels like hours, Elias finally lifts your hips up, allowing you to slide down and straddle his hips with your head resting upon his chest.

The beating sound of his steady heart fills your ear, and you try to match your breathing with Elias’. You feel a vibration as he shakes with laughter. You slightly drag your head up just enough to peek at his face, and he looks down at you with amusement.

“We ain’t done, not yet, peach,” he chuckles breathily at the wave of surprise that washes over your face.

You fumble with your words, “What d’ya mean? ‘L-Lias, I-I’m spent!” You continue to tremble in his arms.

“Y’still talkin’, ain’t ya, sugar?” He scoffs, it’s antagonizing. And before you can utter anything else, Elias flips you around onto the table, so you now lay with your back on the wood once again. Your dress rides down a tad at the sudden movement, and Elias holds your back, lifting you so that he can push your dress up past your breasts.

Elias lowers your back, before leaning peck your nipples. You bite your lip, but quickly let out a moan once he blows air onto your nipples, watching almost menacingly as they harden. One hand tweaks one of your nipples, as the other drags down your rib cage.

His hot, glistening tongue swishes around your tits, as he leaves sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to your skin.

He sucks harshly as you whimper beneath him. One of his hands leaves your body and goes down to his slacks, he unbuttons them with ease without even looking, as he continues to leave hickies on your chest.

He untucks himself from his underwear, and you can’t help but buck towards his cock in anticipation.

“Easy, girl. You’ll get it when ya prove y’deserve it,” Elias mocks, you whine in response.

“I deserve it, more than anybody else–y’know that, ‘Lias,” You plead in hopes of him giving you what you want.

“That right, baby? All this yours, nobody else's?” He challenges, starting to stroke his length.

You squeeze your eyelids together, almost as if you were personally pained by the question.

“Damn right,” You huff as you look at him with a sudden wave of fire blazing through your eyes. Elias scoffs with a mixture of incredulity and mirth.

“Yeah, baby–always been yours. Glad ya finally came to y’senses.” And with that, Elias pushes inside of you, and you let out a broken gasp.

Elias quickly finds his pace as he thrusts in and out of you rapidly. He nearly pulls entirely out of your dripping cunt–and you think he’s going to tease you again, but he then slams back into you roughly, making you cry out as your back arches into him.

You’re now chest-to-chest with Elias as he continues to pump into you with little regard to your overstimulation. The contact of skin makes your toes curl in your heels. Elias grunts at the feeling of you clamping down on his cock and bites forcibly at the flesh of your neck.

Elias groans–almost as if fucking you were the key to heaven’s gates. He takes his large palm and pushes it down onto your torso, making your sweating body meet the barely-covered, rumbling wood.

You weep helplessly and squirm as he keeps you pressed against the shaking table.

“Mmnf–”Lias! Please!” You cry yet again, but without knowing the reason behind it this time.

He doesn’t respond to your watery blabbering, instead putting your legs on either side of his shoulders. Elias slowly–and almost lovingly–kisses your ankle, before unclasping the latch of your heel and sliding it off of your foot, letting it hit the floor with a thump that neither of you seem to catch through the sounds of your bodies meeting.

You two damn-near become one.

He repeats his actions on your other leg, but this time he kisses from your calf to your ankle before removing your heel and letting it meet the ground with your matching one.

His hand grips at the ankle he just kissed, using it as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded; like an anchor. He then sucks and nips at your leg, quickly marking just above your ankle with a red bruise, which you know will be purple by the time the sun rises for morning.

You hiss when he bites a little too roughly, and he shows his sympathy by licking at the irritated skin, soothing the tender ache.

“That feel good, darlin’? Tell “Lias how much y’love it, peach, c’mon,” Elias coos, lifting his shirt up so he can get a proper view of your sex.

You babble through sobs intelligibly, mewling something along the lines of ‘so so good, ‘Lias!’—at least that’s what Elias makes of it.

“Can’t hear ya, baby. Ya gotta–fuck! Ya gotta speak a ‘lil louder f’me, hm?” Elias manages to speak through his panting and groaning. You bawl, hot tears dripping from your cheeks down to your chin.

“It feels so good–oh god—‘Lias!” You shriek, not caring about the volume of your crying. “Please don’t stop! Please, please, please–” You ramble with a slur.

If Elias ever felt guilty at the way he man-handling you, seeing your fucked-out expression made all his worries wash away at the sight of you: tongue hanging out, as your tears dribble into your open mouth.

Your panting grows more frantic, little ‘uh-uh-uh’s being let out more frequently as you feel another orgasm course through your veins. “‘Lias—cummin’! S-sh-it, I-I’m cummin’!”

Elias firmly plants his feet on the floor, repositioning the arm on your stomach onto your other leg so that he can fuck you even deeper–deep enough to create a slight bulge in your stomach with his throbbing tip. “Yeah, that’s it. Fall apart on this dick, y’know y’want to, sugar. Been dreamin’ ‘bout it f’years, huh?” He taunts.

You try to answer him, honestly! But he’s hitting your cervix just right and his abs rub against the backs of your thighs–it’s too much.

Elias thought you’ve learned by now that he doesn’t take silence for an answer, so to remind you, he gives your spent cunt a more forceful slap than before.

“Fuck—Yes! A-always been wantin’ you, ‘Lias,” you wail. “I-I never let nobody touch me! Nobody but you!” You exclaim without thinking.

This fuels Elias to quicken his pace; he almost fucking growls at your words, and he tightens your legs around himself–right now, as he feels himself getting closer and closer to climaxing, he has no plans on pulling out.

He continues to heave words of encouragement as fucks you ruthlessly through your orgasm.

You moan and blabber as your vision turns white, and your ears start to ring. Your toes curl and flex, and your nails scratch at the table, hands desperate for something to hold. Your voice then gives out, as your tongue lolls out of your mouth yet again.

Elias gives you a few more earth-stattering thrusts, before his seed fills your puffy, aching hole; the guttural groan that leaves his throat ups in pitch–nearly turning into a whimper.

He pumps his cum into you once more, before releasing your legs from his grip and laying down on top of you. As he half-lays-half-stands against the table, he feels as if a cold bucket of water was dumped onto him.

He can no longer focus on the tingling feeling that shoots from his skull to his toes, but now on the fact that he was the first man you’ve been with.

You spent your first time with him–in a rickety building he bought from a Klan member, on an even dingier table.

Elias then taps your face, just enough to get you to come back to your senses. You open your eyes with a lazy grin at the feeling of his seed mixed with yours, but when you’re met with his panicky expression, you quickly push yourself up–to the best of your ability.

“What? Wha’s wrong, ‘Lias?” You question worrisomely.

He allows himself to catch his breath before speaking, “Y’serious?” It’s all that he says.

You furrow your brows and tilt your head at him, “Bout what? Y’scarin’ me, Elias,” you chuckle awkwardly.

Had you said something you shouldn’t have?

A million thoughts run rampant throughout your mind.

“‘Bout all this,” he flails his hand, motioning to where your bodies had just met. “Was that really ya first time?” He speaks loudly, and you feel mortified.

Your breath catches in your throat. You confirm his worries, your voice softer than a freshly picked feather, “Yes.”

Elias takes a step back, and it takes everything in you not to reach out for him. Instead, you sit up fully and push your dress back down to your thighs. You twiddle your thumbs idly, seeking for even an ounce of comfort as Elias pushes his shirt back down and tucks himself back into his boxers after wiping himself off with a rag. Despite his glowering, he hands you a rag so that you can wipe away the slick from between your thighs.

Did he regret spending the night with you? Did he find the fact that you remained a virgin because of him embarrassing?

“Why you ain’t tell me, girl?” He exclaims, “I wouldn’t have said and done all that foolishness if I knew you ain't never been with a man before!”

You feel your soul come back into your body. “You would’ve been all sweet with me? That whatcha sayin’, ‘Lias?” You can’t help but giggle.

“Ain’t nothin’ funny, woman! I was all rough with you ‘n–” You cut him off with a kiss to his lips, wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling him closer to you. You fold your arms around his neck, and you feel his hands drift down to your waist and squeeze lightly. Your nose nudges his, his breath fans your face as yours does his.

You break the kiss when you feel yourself losing your breath, and you gaze at Elias lovingly.

“You were perfect, I couldn’t imagine it any other way,” you whisper.

“Well for starters, could've gotten you a bed in the house ‘stead of a table in this dark ass room,” Elias grumbles.

You grin, “I think the lightin’ was just fine. Added ambience ‘n all that.” Elias pouts, and you peck his lips.

“I don’t care ‘bout the details, “Lias. Long as it was with you.” Your tone is as sweet as the finest honey in Clarksdale, and it pulls on Elias’ heartstrings.

“Y’really waited all these years….For me?” He whispers.

“Course I did, couldn’t imagine bein’ with anybody else.” You speak just as softly. You recognize the guilt that crosses his face, despite his best efforts to mask it with his bravado. “Don’t feel guilty, please. I don’t blame you for nun.” You caress his hair. Silence fills the room as Elias deciphers what to say, you just hold him tenderly until he’s ready.

“I-I love ya, more than y’know, sugar…” He trails off before finishing his sentence, “I jus’ want ya to know that. I have since we was young.” He looks at you with adoration and love in his eyes.

“I love you too, Elias Moore. Have since you stood up to my daddy on his farm f’me when we was seven.”

He smiles, but it’s tight lipped, making you frown. “Jus’ wish I could’ve admitted it sooner. Then this would’ve went down differently—would’ve been better.” He sulks.

You take your thumb and index finger and pluck his lips, making him shout ‘hey!’ with a laugh.

“Stop beatin’ y’self up, Elias. I told you, I’m perfectly happy here, right now. Ain’t nun gon’ change that a bit.” You scold him.

“If ya stop all that moppin’, I’ll let ya try again tomorrow, however y’want,” you giggle mischievously. Elias’ eyes light up almost immediately, the way he perks up reminds you of a puppy that was just given a treat.

Elias roars with laughter and squeezes you, before lowering you back down onto the table, he presses nearly all of his weight onto you.

You squeal and cackle as he tickles your sides, “‘Lias!”

You lay wrapped up with Elias, you felt as if you could lay there forever, and honestly in this moment, you wanted to.

Clarity and revelations do the body good.

Everything was good.

Until you heard a commotion on the other side of the door.

[franzkafkagf]

new gen targaryens if rhaegar had tried a little bit harder when dodging that warhammer

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Blackline.

This is a sub-story about Stack’s Brothel in Little Rock, Arkansas in 1929. It will be within the same alternate timeline I plan to write when I explore Stack as a pimp. Exploring Smoke in the midst of it all.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry, tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part One.

There was a hum on Ninth Street that didn’t exist anywhere else in Little Rock.

Not in the white part of town with its strict corners and clean churches. Not along the cotton fields where sharecroppers bent their backs and begged the sun for mercy. But right here, between Gaines and Broadway, down near the old train tracks and past the Dreamland Ballroom. Black life pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath the city.

In 1929, Ninth Street was everything.

It was jazz sliding off trumpet bells, bootleg whiskey sweet as sin behind the curtain, girls in sequin dresses with rouge on their knees, and young men in sharkskin suits gambling rent money on backroom dice. It was barbershops and beauty parlors, Sunday suits and Saturday lust. It was survival. Black, brilliant, and dangerous.

This street had raised its own people.

It gave birth to musicians, conjure women, gamblers, preachers, and madams. And when the city turned its back on them, they turned to each other and built banks, clubs, undertakers, and juke joints from sawdust and spite.

But where there is rhythm, there is shadow.

And in that shadow lived a man named Elias “Stack” Moore.

Down a narrow alley off 9th, just past an old tailor’s sign faded into the brick, was a heavy red door with no name.

Folks called it The Blackline.

Not just because of how close it sat to the edge of everything respectable, but because crossing that threshold meant you were stepping into the soft belly of Black pleasure and vice. Nothing past that door was legal. Everything inside it was intoxicating.

To get in, you had to know the knock:

Three slow. Two fast.

Or the password:

“I got the blues but I ain’t broke yet.”

The inside glowed with low amber lamps and the heat of too many bodies. The walls were velvet red. The air was thick with jasmine oil, cigar smoke, and sweat. A gramophone crackled from the corner, slow jazz bleeding through the room like maple over a hot skillet.

Curtains hung heavy around each alcove, some whispering, some moaning, always shifting like silk being pulled from the skin. The floor creaked under heels, under knees, under lives slipping quietly into pleasure and forgetting.

The women here weren’t just working. they were art personified.

Dark-skinned goddesses with gold hoops and garters. Plump cuties with high cheekbones and wide backsides. Light-eyed country girls with long legs and sad stories. New flappers with pressed curls and voices like gin. All of them owned by no one: except Stack.

Stack ran The Blackline like a man who knew the cost of control.

He wasn’t loud like most pimps. He didn’t need to be. He watched everything, leaning in the corner with a cigarette between his fingers, or a drink in his hand, velvet coat open, fedora low and dapper over his brow. His eyes were sharp, mouth always curved in that half-smirk that meant he either wanted to fuck you or gut you, and sometimes it was both.

His girls respected him. Feared him. Some loved him, though they wouldn’t say it out loud. He didn’t beat his women. But he didn’t let them leave easy either. He fed them, clothed them, protected them from the white cops and the worse men who came knocking. And in return, they gave him their best—on the floor, in the backrooms, on their knees.

Stack wasn’t just a pimp. He was a businessman. A gambler. A bootlegger.

And he wasn’t alone.

They were born in heat and hunger, two Mississippi boys who came out the womb fists clenched, mirror images with mirrored scars.

Elias was the mouth, the mind.

Elijah “Smoke” Moore was the fire.

Stack ran the brothel, the books, and the girls. Smoke handled the bootlegging, the deals, and the dirty work. He was the enforcer, the bullet in the chamber, the one you didn’t see coming until your knees gave out.

Together, they built an empire on sin and silence.

People knew the Moore twins didn’t play. You crossed them, you didn’t just get beat—you vanished.

And yet…

Smoke had a way with women. A slow kind of seduction. A man who touched soft but fucked hard. Girls wanted him even when they didn’t know why.

Stack didn’t mind.

As long as the business kept running, the girls kept earning, and the city kept looking the other way, The Blackline stayed lit, and the Moore brothers stayed untouchable.

She didn’t belong here.

Not yet.

Not with her thrift-store shoes worn at the heel, her patched satin dress clinging too loose to her hips, or the scent of salt marsh and memory still clinging to her skin. Not with her innocence intact and her voice too soft to ask for anything out loud.

But Violet was desperate. And desperation was the only currency that mattered on Ninth Street after midnight.

The alley was narrow and damp, lit only by a flickering gas lamp and the far-off glow of the Dreamland Ballroom. Jazz bled through the brick walls like vapor, and somewhere in the distance, a woman laughed too loud.

The red door loomed before her.

She’d been told what to say by the older girl who’d found her crying behind the beauty shop two days earlier, the one with the silver eye and a split lip she wore like jewelry.

Three slow. Two fast.

“I got the blues but I ain’t broke yet.”

The peephole opened.

Two shadowed eyes looked her over, lingered on the bare knees below her hemline.

“You don’t look like you know what you doing,” the voice said.

“I can learn,” she replied, trying to keep her chin lifted.

The door creaked open.

And Violet stepped inside.

Heat wrapped around her like breath. The air was thick with perfume, pipe smoke, and the smell of sex so fresh it clung to the walls. Light came from low amber lamps, each corner flickering like a secret. Everything was red—the carpet, the drapes, the wallpaper—blood velvet and mahogany shadows. She could hear moans behind curtains. Laughter behind beads. Cards flipping. Shoes tapping. Skin slapping.

A woman walked past in nothing but a beaded bra and stockings, hips moving like a song no man could resist. A man in suspenders had his hand buried beneath the hem of another girl’s skirt, and no one batted an eye. The air tasted like cinnamon and heat. She felt it instantly—between her thighs, in her belly, behind her ribs.

She didn’t belong here. Not yet.

But something inside her, something deeper than fear, wanted to.

He saw her from across the room.

Stack leaned in his usual spot—against the far wall, velvet coat draped open, dark liquor in his hand. The room swam in bodies and fog, but his eyes landed on her like they’d been waiting for her arrival.

Young. Thin. Pretty in a way that wasn’t polished but raw. Something untouched. Her eyes were wide, posture tight, hands gripping the strap of a borrowed purse like it held a weapon.

He knew the look.

Fresh meat.

He stepped forward, smooth and slow, like the room parted just to let him walk.

“You lost, baby girl?” he asked, voice deep, syrupy.

Violet turned toward him, startled by the height of him, the sharpness of his jaw, the way his mouth didn’t smile even when his tone pretended to.

“No sir,” she whispered, “I’m lookin’ for work.”

He let his eyes drag down her body, slow.

“You ain’t been touched, have you?”

Her breath caught.

“No,” she said softly, “But I’m willin’. I just need a place to stay.”

Stack stepped closer, leaned in near her ear.

“‘Round here, baby…we don’t take what ain’t offered. But if you wanna give it, there’s a place for you upstairs.”

She swallowed hard.

He smelled like rum, spice, and danger. She felt like a match held to oil.

He straightened up and looked her over one more time.

“Name’s Stack. You remember that.”

Then he turned, nodded to one of the girls near the bar.

“Get her cleaned up. She sleep in the green room tonight. I’ll decide what to do with her come mornin’.”

And just like that, Violet was pulled into the velvet bloodstream of The Blackline.

Not as a worker. Not yet.

But as a girl the house would keep its eyes on.

The green room was small, no bigger than a boxcar berth, with peeling wallpaper and a single oil lamp that painted the cracked mirror gold. Violet sat on the edge of the old porcelain tub, steam rising in curls around her face. The bathwater was warm, not hot, the kind that clung to your skin like a whisper. Rose petals floated on the surface—leftover from another girl’s soak, but she didn’t mind.

It had been a long time since she’d felt anything soft.

She undressed slow, like it meant something. Like the silk slip she unfastened wasn’t secondhand. Like the stockings she peeled from her legs weren’t fraying at the toes. She laid them gently on the wooden chair. Her body looked thin under the lamplight. Not fragile—coiled, like something waiting to bloom.

Violet stepped into the water.

It wrapped around her like hands from the other side.

She exhaled, lowered herself in, and let her head fall back against the porcelain. Her eyes fluttered shut.

She thought of her grandmother.

Old Miss Luella. Thick hands, voice like saltwater and thunder, skin dark and smooth like polished shell. The woman who raised her on boiled root tea, haint blue, and Gullah prayers whispered to the wind.

“Your body is a gate, child. Not a gift. Not for free. And not to be feared.”

The memory of her voice wrapped around Violet now like arms.

She’d come here because she had nowhere else to go. But something inside her knew this was more than survival.

This was crossing a threshold.

She reached into her bag and pulled out her most precious thing.

a piece of lavender ribbon, worn and soft.

Her mother used to tie it around her wrist when she was scared.

Her grandmother would wrap it around her ankle and say, “No man can touch what’s guarded by memory.”

Now, Violet tied it around her throat.

Not tight. Just snug enough to feel.

It wasn’t just protection anymore.

It was a signal.

That she was hers first.

And whoever touched her after this…would have to be worthy.

She dried slow, humming a tune only her family would recognize. Her curls damp, cheeks feeling like brown velvet gone warm, the warmth of her body from the bath and the shade of her skin like café au lait. She stood in the cracked mirror, naked but not ashamed. There was still fear. But there was something else now too.

A quiet hunger.

Not just to survive…

But to become.

The room was warm with lamplight and perfume.

Not strong, just faint hints of amber, pressed powder, and lilac, the kind that clung to bedsheets long after a girl had gone. The velvet chaise against the wall sagged with familiar use, and lying across it, a cigarette in one hand and one heel kicked off, was Cordelia.

Cordelia Toussaint.

The girls just called her Delie. The men called her whatever she whispered in their ear.

She was thirty miles of legs and don’t-give-a-damn, eyes lined in coal, lips always painted in something dark like plum or wine. Her robe was silk and nearly see-through, the color of crushed garnet. One thigh peeked from the slit, golden and gleaming.

She didn’t flinch when Violet walked in.

Just raised one arched brow and looked her over.

“Mmm,” Cordelia hummed, “Ain’t you a delicate little thing.”

Violet froze in the doorway, arms wrapped tight across her front, “Sorry—I didn’t know anyone was—”

“I ain’t just ‘anyone,’ sugar. I’m the Queen of this floor,” Cordelia smiled slow, cigarette curling smoke toward the ceiling, “And this here,” she gestured to the piles of lace, satin, and beaded silk draped over the bed, “is your coronation.”

Violet stepped farther in, bare feet soft on the worn rug. The heat of the oil lamps made her skin glow, still damp from her bath. Her curls had puffed around her face, and her ribbon—lavender—was still tied around her neck.

Stack had sent up a box of clothes earlier. Beautiful ones. Too beautiful. Like someone else’s dreams.

“Stack got taste,” Cordelia said, eyeing the garments, “Or maybe he just sees somethin’ in you he don’t wanna say out loud.”

Violet looked down, fingers trailing over a lavender chemise trimmed in black lace, “I’ve never worn anything like this.”

“Well, try it on then. Ain’t nobody gonna bite. ‘Cept maybe me,” She grinned around her cigarette.

Violet turned her back, cheeks burning.

She slipped out of her plain cotton shift and stepped into a deep emerald set. It was a camisole that hugged her waist and barely reached the curve of her hips, paired with tap shorts that rode high.

When she turned around, Cordelia sat up, real slow.

“Well, well, well…” she purred, “Ain’t you a quiet little storm.”

Violet shifted, unsure, “It fits weird. I’m too skinny for it.”

Cordelia scoffed, “Skinny? No, baby. You just got all your weight where it counts.”

Her eyes dragged down Violet’s frame, deliberate.

“Those hips could rock a man stupid. And that little ass? That’s trouble. Small up top, soft down low. You built like a promise.”

Violet’s arms crossed her chest, trying not to blush harder, “You’re just sayin’ that.”

“No, honey. I only say what’s true.”

Cordelia stood then, barefoot, and came close. Close enough that Violet could smell the jasmine and smoke on her skin. She ran one fingertip over the satin strap at Violet’s shoulder.

“You ever had a woman look at you like this before?”

Violet swallowed, “No.”

“Well, Miss Vi, you better get used to it,” Cordelia stepped back and smiled, “‘Cause by the time Stack puts you on the floor, they all gon’ be lookin’.”

Violet sat on the edge of the bed now, legs crossed at the ankles, fingers tracing the hem of the tap shorts.

Cordelia had returned to the chaise, reclined with one arm draped behind her head, her cigarette replaced with a glass of dark wine that shimmered like rubies in the lamplight.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The room was thick with perfume and tension—not heavy, just tender, like when rain wants to fall but isn’t ready yet.

Then, softly, Violet asked, “Does it hurt?”

Cordelia didn’t turn her head. Just sipped her wine and let the question settle.

“When it’s your first?” she said finally.

Violet nodded.

Cordelia breathed slow through her nose.

“Sometimes. Depends on the man. Depends on how much you want it…or how much you pretend you do.”

Violet looked down, “And what about after that?” she asked, “After the first time?”

Cordelia set the glass down on the floor and finally turned toward her, one knee drawn up beneath her robe.

“After that?” she said, “You learn your own rhythm. What you can take. What you like. Where to let them touch. Where to keep to yourself,” She studied Violet for a long moment. Then added, “It don’t always feel like much. But sometimes…”

She trailed off.

“…Sometimes?” Violet whispered.

Cordelia smiled slowly.

“Sometimes, with the right one…it feels like your soul’s gettin’ kissed from the inside out.”

Violet’s breath caught. Her thighs pressed together instinctively.

Cordelia’s smile deepened, “Mmhm. You felt that, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Violet said, “I just—when I think about someone touchin’ me like that…I get warm. But I also feel scared. Like my body wants it, but the rest of me ain’t caught up yet.”

Cordelia nodded, “That’s natural. Your body been ready. It’s your heart that takes her time.”

She reached over and plucked a satin robe from the side of the bed. Rose-colored, soft, worn. She walked it over and draped it gently around Violet’s shoulders.

“You don’t gotta give nothin’ you ain’t ready to give,” she said softly, “Not to Stack. Not to Smoke. Not to nobody.”

Violet looked up at her, “Have you ever loved someone who paid you?”

Cordelia paused, just for a breath. Then said, “No. But I’ve loved how they made me feel. For a little while. That counts for somethin’, too.”

Violet pulled the robe tighter around her chest. “I don’t want to be just…a body.”

Cordelia tucked a curl behind her ear, “Then don’t be.”

She leaned in, kissed Violet’s cheek—soft, warm, and brief.

“Let ‘em touch your skin, sugar. But keep your name in your own mouth. Keep your soul in your back pocket.”

Violet had been at The Blackline for a week.

Long enough to learn which girls brought in the most coin. Long enough to know who Stack trusted with the money box. Long enough to stop flinching when the back curtain swayed with moans, and long enough to learn how to smile without meaning it.

She hadn’t let any man touch her yet.

But she knew how to lean soft against their side, how to let her fingers trail across a lap, how to pretend she’d whisper something filthy but only ask if they liked their drink cold.

Stack didn’t pressure her. Not yet.

“You sell the idea right now,” he’d said, voice low, one gold tooth catching the lamplight, “Let them chase what they can’t have. That body gon’ pay double when the time comes.”

So she played host.

She laughed when needed. Danced when asked. Gave lap dances in silk and lavender and let men groan beneath her without ever opening her legs. She was a ghost in perfume, a promise wrapped in ribbon.

And when her shift was done, she’d sit in the corner room behind a sheer drape, knees drawn to her chest, watching.

Watching the other girls work.

Watching bodies move like shadow puppets behind beaded curtains, the sound of wet mouths and thick groans muffled by the low hum of jazz.

Sometimes, she’d close her eyes and imagine someone touching her like that. Not the men who came in drunk and lonely.

Someone else.

Someone who hadn’t even looked her way yet.

He came and went through the hallway like a breeze before the storm.

He didn’t linger. Didn’t smile. Didn’t talk unless he had to. Just passed through with his coat open, sleeves rolled, his news cap pulled low over a face that made women stare without meaning to.

He hadn’t looked at her. Not once.

But Violet noticed everything about him.

The way he lit his cigarette with one hand. The way his loafers hit the floor slow but certain. The way his voice rumbled when he spoke to Stack—not raised, not rushed, but enough to make the other girls shut up just to listen.

He wasn’t dressed like Stack, who wore velvet and gold and lace cuffs when he felt like it.

Smoke was simpler. Cleaner. But not softer.

Dark shirts. Dark trousers. Black suspenders. He didn’t wear flash. He didn’t need to. He wore command.

And something about that…Something about how his silence filled a room more than any shout…

It did something to her.

It made her thighs press together beneath her dress.

It made her breath catch when he passed.

And it made her wonder, what would his hands feel like?

Not the hands of the laughing men who grabbed without asking.

But his?

Would they be rough? Careful? Would he say her name like it was a secret or a sentence?

Violet didn’t even know if he’d noticed her.

But her body already had.

On the third night she saw him, some drunk fool tried to grab at one of the newer girls—Peaches. The kind of man who forgot this place had rules. Smoke didn’t say a word.

He rose from his chair like a dark wind, flicked his cigarette to the floor, and grabbed the man by the collar. The struggle wasn’t loud. There were no threats, no curses. Just the wet sound of knuckles hitting bone, the quick thud of someone’s pride dropping to the floor. Then silence again, broken only by the ragged wheeze of the man as Smoke leaned in, murmuring something only he could hear.

He dusted his coat, lit another cigarette, and sat back down.

Violet hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing until Cordelia touched her hand beneath the table and whispered, “That’s how Smoke handles disrespect. Quiet and clean.”

They all tried him. The girls.

Some sat on his lap, giggling and twirling curls like schoolgirls. Others pressed their breasts to his arm, offering their best pout. Cordelia once wrapped her legs around him just to tease, but even she couldn’t break through that armor. Smoke didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. He simply watched. Took long drags of his cigar and let the world orbit him.

The only time he smiled was when Stack made some offhand joke, or when the saxophone player hit a particularly sweet note. But never at the girls. Not the way they wanted.

Violet found herself waiting for him. Listening for the weight of his boots on the floorboards. She never approached. Just peeked around corners. Hid behind curtains. Her heart fluttered every time his gaze swept across the room.

Once—just once—his eyes landed on her. Those sharp, heavy-lidded eyes. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

And Violet turned away so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet.

The night had finally slipped quiet, the gramophone long gone silent, the perfume of cigar smoke and gin clinging to the velvet drapes like ghosts.

Backstage, in the dressing parlor with cracked mirrors and soft lamplight, Cordelia peeled off her silk stockings slow, leg stretched out long, her golden skin catching the amber glow like honey poured over polished mahogany. She had high cheekbones dusted in old rouge, eyes lined sharp as razors, and a gold mole painted just above her full mouth. Her hair was set in glossy Marcel waves, pinned back with a diamond barrette she claimed once belonged to Josephine Baker herself.

She sat in front of the mirror like she was on stage again, one leg crossed over the other, smoking a thin clove cigarette in a long ivory holder.

Peaches was across from her, lounging in a pink floral robe that hugged her plush figure. She was soft in all the places men dreamed about—belly round, hips thick like southern bread dough, and breasts that spilled out no matter what she wore. Her sandy brown coils framed her moon-round face like a lioness, fake flowers tucked behind her ears—yellow hibiscus and a few wilted daisies from the night before. She smelled like coconut oil and rum, sweet and warm.

Violet sat quiet near the wall, still in her slip, legs curled beneath her. She wore a pale-blue robe Cordelia had passed down to her. It was satin and fraying at the sleeves, but still soft against her shy skin. She didn’t speak, not yet. Just listened.

Cordelia let out a long sigh and flicked ash into an old crystal ashtray.

“Mmm. That old man in Room 2 tried to suck on my toes again,” she muttered, “Swore up and down I was an angel sent to forgive him. I told him, baby, I ain’t the Virgin Mary, I’m just Cordelia with rent due.”

Peaches cackled, her laughter rich and sweet like a gospel solo.

“At least he’s clean. That man with the gold teeth wanted me to act like his damn mama,” Peaches said, fanning herself, “Callin’ me ‘mama’ while I was ridin’ him. I almost said ‘boy, go to bed’ just to mess with him.”

Cordelia leaned back, puffing on her cigarette, “These men want every kinda woman. Soft ones, mean ones, silent ones. But you know what they really care about?”

“Pussy hair,” Peaches said, deadpan, grinning.

Violet’s eyes widened slightly.

“Exactly,” Cordelia purred, “I swear, half these fellas more opinionated than a church mother. One want it waxed bald like a lil’ girl. Another want it wild like a thicket. One man asked me to braid it.”

Peaches hollered, “Stack like it full, but trimmed. Just enough for his nose to get lost but not choked.”

Cordelia raised her brows at Violet through the mirror, “You shy, baby, but you got somethin’ under there. What you got goin’ on? Don’t be modest. We all women here.”

Peaches wiggled her brows, “Show us, baby girl.”

Violet hesitated. Her cheeks burned, but something in the way they watched her wasn’t cruel, it was curious, sisterly. So slowly, carefully, she opened her robe just enough to reveal the soft down between her thighs. A natural, delicate triangle—neatly trimmed, but untouched by razor.

“Well damn,” Cordelia murmured with an approving nod. “That’s a pretty little thing.”

Peaches smiled warmly, “You keep it just like that, baby. Let the right man teach you how he likes it.”

Violet closed her robe again, heart thudding.

“I’m surprised Stack ain’t done your initiation,” Cordelia said next, shifting tones.

Violet blinked, “My what?”

Cordelia smirked, “The initiation, sugar. When Stack gets a taste. He don’t always fuck you, sometimes he just eats. But he gotta make sure you gonna sell. That your body gonna bring money in.”

Peaches nodded solemnly, “He say he can tell from just the first taste. If you gon’ be a money-maker or a waste of time.”

“All the girls been through it,” Cordelia added, “We love Stack, even when we hate him. He run things tight. If you need food, he got it. If a man put hands on you, he handle it. If you act up, he cut you off. But he protect his girls.”

A hush fell after that. Cordelia reached for her perfume, dabbing it behind her ears. Peaches picked petals out her hair.

Violet sat quiet again. Not with fear—just thought.

She wondered if Smoke had ever done an initiation.

But the idea seemed…strange. He didn’t look at them like Stack did. He didn’t play. Didn’t sample. He sat in the shadows like a king who’d already had every fruit in the orchard.

Still, she wondered.

if he did it…how would it feel?

Would he ask?

Would he taste slow?

Would he whisper her name?

The brothel was still humming low that night—music crawling through the floorboards like midnight pour, the scent of clove and spilled gin heavy in the air. Violet was in the hallway near the parlor, pretending to check a tear in her stocking. But really, she was watching.

Cordelia walked by in her silk robe, hips swaying like she owned gravity itself. She passed Violet without a glance but tossed, “Don’t stare too long, baby. You’ll get ideas,” over her shoulder with a sly smirk.

Violet followed behind, quiet as always.

Stack was in the main parlor, sunk into his velvet armchair like a man born to it. His legs were spread, gold rings glittering on thick fingers. A black button-down hugged his chest, the top few undone just enough to show the glint of a gold chain and the curve of a rose tattoo blooming over his collarbone. A toothpick rolled lazy between his lips, and his fedora was tilted just enough to cast a shadow across his sharp eyes.

He was flanked by two women—Black beauties dressed in mink-trimmed lingerie. One with midnight skin and copper-gold eyes, the other with a cinnamon glow and long, oil-slick braids. Girls from back in New Orleans. The kind who moved too quietly, whose laughter echoed wrong if you listened too long. Their glamour was turned up high tonight—cheeks glowing, lips stained bloodred, eyes like honeyed storm clouds.

They leaned into Stack like cats in heat, one on each arm, hands tracing his chest while he accepted the girls’ cut of the night’s earnings—crisp bills folded neat in silk pouches. He didn’t look rushed. He didn’t ever look rushed.

Cordelia stepped forward, elegant as a sermon, and slid her own pouch into his open palm, “For you, baby,” she purred.

Stack gave her that grin, slow, wicked, full of teeth and secrets, “That’s my girl.”

Cordelia stayed close, ran her hand up his thigh, “I got a question though,” she said lightly, tone flirtatious but eyes sharp, “That lil’ new one…Violet. Why ain’t you done her initiation yet?”

The question landed like a dropped match.

The girls giggled, expectant.

Violet froze in the hallway, half in shadow.

Stack chuckled low, licked his lips slow. Then he leaned back and finally looked up—right toward Violet. Right through the wall, through the shadows, like he felt her watching.

“’Cause she ain’t ready,” he said. Voice calm. Final, “She still soft. Still dreamin’. I bite her now, she won’t come back from it.”

The room went still for a moment.

One of the girls murmured, “Ain’t never heard you hold back before.”

Stack smirks, “I don’t break toys I like.”

Cordelia tilted her head, “You like her?”

He didn’t answer that part. Just sat there, eyes still locked in Violet’s direction.

The one of the girls leaned down, whispering something in his ear. He grinned wider, eyes glinting gold.

Cordelia laughed, kissed him on the cheek, and walked off, hips rolling like waves.

Violet slipped back down the hall, heart pounding, not sure what she felt.

She wasn’t afraid.

But something in her ached.

She didn’t know whether it was longing for Stack…or disappointment that it wasn’t Smoke who’d said those words.

The days passed, and Violet became a ghost of temptation.

She hadn’t laid with a single man yet—not really. Not how they wanted. Not how Stack trained the girls to break a John in, slow and sweet. Violet would let them look, let them taste her perfume and the way she moved when she walked—but that was all.

She’d lean in close enough for breath to catch in their throat, then pull away with a soft apology and a smile that made them want to beg.

They were starving for her.

Some started offering more; double, triple. One even brought roses. Another sent sweets and a gold bracelet. Stack let it happen. Watched from the upstairs rail with his cigar in hand, head tilted just enough to track every whisper, every reach, every ache in the eyes of the men who wanted to ruin her.

Cordelia called it “the long game.”

“You reel ‘em in slow, baby,” she told Violet one afternoon in the vanity room, lips lined red, a lace shawl loose over her shoulders, “Make ’em chase what they already think they own.”

She leaned in, breath warm against Violet’s ear, “You let ‘em think you’re green. Shy. Then one night, you open that door just a little…and they lose they whole mind.”

Peaches nodded from across the room, filing her nails, “Ain’t nothin’ like the first time a quiet girl turns bold. That pussy hit different when it’s got mystery on it.”

Violet listened. Blushed. But she held her posture a little taller now. Her silence wasn’t fear, it was control. And she was learning.

Upstairs, Stack knew.

He saw it in the way she moved through the hallway now, hips learning how to sway without effort. He saw it when she made the mistake of biting her lip in front of a customer and didn’t notice the way his hand twitched. She was blooming. Not all at once. But the petals were opening. And Stack…was patient.

He didn’t rush the flowers he wanted to own.

That night, Smoke returned.

The front door swung open in the low light. He came in like he always did—silent. Slow. Solid. Black suspenders over a white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms and the cut of his veins. Cigarette already lit. No words. No greeting.

Just presence.

Violet was sitting behind a sheer gold drape near the hallway curtain, her usual hiding place. A secret pocket of velvet and hush where she could pretend to be invisible and watch the world breathe.

She held still, barely blinking, eyes tracing the shape of his jaw in the smoke.

And she wasn’t the only one watching.

Two of the girls were near the bar, sipping gin and whispering low.

“Mmm mmm mmm…that man walk in here like sin in a suit,” one said, fanning herself, “I’d let him ruin my whole damn life.”

“He don’t even talk much,” the other whispered back, “But I love me a grown, confident-ass man. One that don’t gotta raise his voice to make the whole room shift.”

“You see how he move?” the first continued, “Like he ain’t gotta explain nothin’. Just action. He said forget all that talk, I’m bout that action.”

They giggled, voices thick with desire and bravado, but there was hunger underneath it. Real hunger. The kind even the boldest girls didn’t say too loud.

Smoke didn’t even glance their way. He walked straight to the far wall, leaned back, lit a fresh cigarette, and scanned the room with eyes that held weight. You didn’t look into them—you fell into them.

And then…he paused.

His eyes drifted. Toward the sheer drape. Toward her.

Violet held her breath.

Did he see her?

She didn’t know. But she knew one thing…

The ache inside her, the low simmer that burned beneath her belly, had a name.

And it wasn’t Stack.

It was him.

Smoke.

The brothel quieted in the small hours, when most of the girls had either gone to bed or were curled in the laps of men too drunk to finish what they started.

Violet slipped away to the back bathroom, the one with the deep porcelain tub and the cracked pink tiles, where steam clung to the mirror like breath. She twisted the knobs, hot water rushing out, cloudy with the salts and lavender oil Cordelia always kept in a little jar by the sink.

She stripped slow.

Her pale blue slip slid down her curves, skin dewy in the dim yellow light. Her breasts rose and fell with soft, shallow breaths. Her thighs were warm with sweat from the long night. Her curls stuck to her neck. She eased herself into the bath, the heat licking at her skin, pulling a sigh from her lips.

She sank deep with her knees drawn up, arms resting along the edges, eyes drifting shut.

And then the ache started again.

Smoke.

Not Stack. Not one of the slick-mouthed Johns who tried to coax her open with sweet words and sugar lies. But him—silent, watchful, heavy with power and mystery. The way he filled a room without ever trying. The cut of his jaw, the roll of his sleeves. The way he looked like he’d never say your name out loud—but growl it into your skin.

Her hand drifted down.

Fingers slipping between her thighs, slow at first. She breathed his name so softly it never left her lips. Her toes curled. Her hips arched slightly. She imagined his hand instead of hers. His fingers. His breath hot against her ear, not asking permission, just knowing what she needed.

The water lapped softly. Her moans were barely whispers, but they filled the little room all the same.

She was just on the edge, lost in that imagined weight of Smoke pressing her down, when—

Knock-knock. Click.

The door creaked open.

“Mmm.” Cordelia’s voice floated in, amused, “Now what we got goin’ on in here, sugar?”

Violet jerked up, water sloshing over the edge. She scrambled to sink lower into the bath, cheeks blazing red.

“I—I thought I locked—”

Cordelia leaned against the doorframe, fully dressed in a black silk robe trimmed with marabou feathers, cigarette holder dangling from her painted fingers.

“You didn’t,” she purred, eyes twinkling, “And even if you had, I got keys to everything in this house. Don’t look so scared. I ain’t mad. Girl’s entitled to her lil’ bath time fantasy.”

Violet covered her chest with her arms, mortified. Cordelia stepped inside, clicking the door shut behind her. She didn’t come to shame. She came like a storm that knew the rain was needed.

“Let me guess…” Her eyes narrowed, voice playful, “You wasn’t thinkin’ ’bout Smoke, was you?”

Violet didn’t answer.

Cordelia smirked and slid down to sit on the edge of the tub, letting her hand stir the water lazily.

“No shame in it, baby. That man walk in like judgment day, and every girl in this house got a little tremble in her thighs when he lights a cigarette.”

Violet looked down, face flushed, lips still parted from what almost was.

“You ever wonder what he’d do if you let him have you?” Cordelia asked, voice dropping, “Not rough like these other fools. Nah. A man like Smoke…he take his time. He don’t fuck. He consumes.”

Violet whimpered under her breath, thighs pressing together beneath the water.

Cordelia chuckled softly, “See? I knew it. You hooked and he ain’t even touched you yet,” She stood, smoothing her robe, “Just don’t drown yourself in here, alright? Save a little of that sweetness for when the time come. And baby…”

She paused at the door.

“When a man like that finally notices you? There ain’t no goin’ back.”

Then she was gone, leaving the room scented with her perfume and laughter.

And Violet?

She leaned back in the tub again.

But her hand moved slower this time.

And in her mind, she heard Smoke whisper her name.

After her bath, the house had gone hush. Only the soft lilt of old jazz drifted up from below—scratchy and faraway, like a memory playing through a wall. Most of the girls had gone to their rooms or curled up with company. Violet had begged off early. Said she had a headache. Nobody questioned her.

She wasn’t sick.

She was starving—but not for food.

The dressing room was dim, lit only by a row of half-burned candles flickering in their dusty glass jars. Smoke from earlier perfumes still clung to the air—rose, patchouli, hair tonic, clove cigarettes. The mirrors were fogged from the night’s heat and steam, the room heavy with the perfume of want.

Violet stood barefoot on the cold tile floor, wrapped in a short silk robe. Her curls were damp, falling in soft tendrils around her face, and her cheeks still flushed from her bath. Her skin glowed in the candlelight—bronze, delicate, young.

She stepped closer to the mirror.

The fogged glass showed only a whisper of herself at first, like a spirit trying to take form.

She wiped it clean with her palm.

Then stood still.

She studied her reflection. The cut of her collarbone. The shape of her mouth. The softness of her eyes, the way her lips always seemed half-parted like a question left unanswered.

“He don’t want soft,” she whispered to herself, “He want…sultry…woman.”

So she tried.

She dropped one shoulder of the robe. Let it slide down slow.

She ran her fingers through her curls and pushed them back, exposing her neck. Then she tilted her chin up just a little, parted her lips.

“You like this, don’t you?” she murmured, voice breathy, “I bet you wonder what I taste like…”

She paused. Cringed.

It didn’t sound right.

It sounded like someone else. Cordelia maybe. Or one of the other girls who knew how to speak a man into madness. Not her. Not sweet little Violet from the coast with Gullah blood and old folk songs still hiding in her bones.

She tried again.

Swayed her hips slow. Dragged her finger down her chest. Let the robe part just a little between her thighs.

“You want me, don’t you?” she whispered.

The words stuck in her throat.

Her shoulders tensed. Her eyes dropped.

It felt fake.

Like she was wearing someone else’s skin, trying to fit into a mold that wasn’t made for her. Pretty? Sure. She’d been told that. Men looked. Girls cooed. But she didn’t have Cordelia’s poise, Peaches’ sass, or the polished glamour of the girls from Stack’s past. She didn’t know how to weaponize her beauty yet.

And Smoke?

Smoke would eat a woman alive if she stepped to him wrong.

Violet sank onto the vanity stool, staring at her bare thighs, her robe still half-open.

She whispered, “You don’t see me, do you…”

She wanted to cry. Not from sadness. From that terrible tightness in the chest when your want grows too loud, and your confidence grows too quiet.

She reached for a lipstick tube and twisted it open. It was a deep wine red, something Cordelia once left on the table.

She painted her lips slow.

Then leaned in and kissed the mirror.

A print bloomed on the glass.

“If I was bold…you’d touch me, wouldn’t you?” she whispered again, softer now, “You’d press me to the wall. You’d tell me I was yours without sayin’ a word…”

Silence answered her.

And still, she sat there, robe slipping from one shoulder, red lips parted, candlelight dancing across her skin.

Just a girl aching to be noticed.

She didn’t even remember falling asleep that night. One minute, she was staring at her own reflection, robe half open, mouth painted, thighs pressed together. The next, the mirror seemed to ripple, soften, breathe.

And suddenly, he was there.

Smoke.

Leaning in the doorway behind her, half in shadow, cigarette in hand.

But this wasn’t the real Smoke. This was dream-Smoky, smoky Smoke—heavier, slower, hungry.

He stepped into the room with that same impossible quiet, like the floor moved for him, not the other way around. The door didn’t creak. The candles didn’t flicker. He just was.

His eyes moved over her…over her parted robe, over her soft thighs, over the kiss mark on the mirror like it was a challenge.

Violet tried to cover herself, but in the dream, her arms wouldn’t move. She could only look back, breath catching, skin prickling with heat and shame.

“I was just—”

Smoke didn’t speak.

He crossed the room in three long strides and stopped behind her. She could see him in the mirror now. Towering. Watching. His gaze dragged down her body like a match tip over dry bark. And then, he bent low, his mouth grazing the shell of her ear.

“You think I don’t see you?” he murmured, voice like liquid dusk on hot skin.

His hands slid down her shoulders, calloused palms dragging over her arms, her waist. He didn’t grab. He claimed. His touch said…this has always been mine.

No one else’s

You hear me?

You’re mine, my pretty Violet…

She whimpered. Softly. Slightly strangled. Like an echo. Like she’d been longing for him to say those words and it’s only been such a short amount of time.

He dipped his head further, pressed his lips to her neck feather-like, breathing her in like she was a fragrance. The robe fell from her shoulders. Slowly. Her nipples hardened in the air.

“I see everything, Violet,” he said, “Every little ache. Every quiet moan you try to hide from the night…”

He turned her gently in the dream, and she rose without resistance. She was bare before him, trembling, but not afraid. Ready. Puddy beneath his calloused hands. Ready and willing to be told what to do.

“You ain’t gotta perform for me,” he whispered.

Then he sank to his knees. His eyes never leaving hers. Not once. His mouth was at her belly, then lower, his breath hot against the soft thatch between her thighs. He pressed a kiss there—slow, worshipful.”

“I want this,” he said.

And she believed him.

Violet gasped—and woke with a jolt.

The candles were low. The room was quiet. Her thighs were wet with sweat, her robe askew. No one was there. No door creaked. No match was struck.

But her heart was racing like he’d just left.

And for a long, long moment, Violet sat in the hush, fingertips brushing her lips.

A thought bloomed in her chest like a secret.

Despite what Violet thinks Smoke wants—sharp, sultry, polished women like Cordelia…

She’s wrong.

He’ll want her exactly as she is.

Soft. Quiet. Ache and all.

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

[classytiti]

i wonder what Stack is like during sex. Rougher, deeper, meaner. The kind of man who doesn’t ask... just takes. (18+, MINORS DNI) Masterlist Here Discord link Here

he’s got your wrists pinned above your head with one hand, the other gripping your ass. his voice is a growl right up against your ear, hot breath coating your skin.

“you knew what you were doin’, wearin’ that little dress,” he mutters, hips slamming into you so hard the headboard slams the wall. “wanted me riled up, huh? well, now you got it.”

you can barely breathe. each thrust is painful, almost punishing. you arch, moan, claw at the sheets.

“stack—”

“say it right,” he bites down on your shoulder. “say my name like you need it.”

“stack,” you gasp, broken. “fuck, Stack, please.”

He pulls your leg higher around his waist, fucking deeper. your back bows. pleasure coils low in your belly, threatening to snap. his thumb drags over your clit in tight, rough circles, and it’s almost too much.

“i said please,” you whimper.

“and I said I ain’t done.” his eyes are sharp, hungry, eating you alive as he watches your fucked out body beneath him. “you’re gonna take every fuckin’ drop I give you, girl. every inch. every damn time.”

you don’t know where you end and he begins. there’s sweat, teeth, breath, bruises blooming on your hips. he flips you over like it’s nothing, hand on your spine, pressing you down.

“look at you,” he mutters behind you. “back arched like you lovin' this shit.”

and when he finally lets go, when he grabs your hips and slams in so hard your breath gets knocked out, you cum with a cry that echoes in the dim room, raw and wrecked.

he groans, low and deep, spilling into you like he’s been holding it back for years. his weight drops against your back, chest heaving.

a beat passes. Then:

“don’t go thinkin’ this was just tonight,” he says into your neck, lips brushing your skin. “next time, I’m takin’ my time with you. gonna make you beg for it slow.”

[blackberreh-art]

Being Known and Understood is so painful to Michael - it's a sickening, thrilling, delightful kind of pain that does Not Make Sense, and it should hate it. It DOES hate it - and yet, and yet, and yet…

Michael leaned closer, a shudder wracking its frame. Like basking in a clarifying light that highlighted all that was wrong with it, and it was wrong and yet-

It didnt make sense. This ... want.

But when does anything make sense with the Distortion?

Elias should Not Be Able to Touch Michael. Michael should not be tangible unless it wished it. And yet that is very much pressure against its arm, a very real and human heat sinking into its body, and Michael finds itself still. Caught. Held prisoner by the vile green glow of the Watcher as he was Seen. The hand pressed so gently against the sharp planes of Michael's own felt like a burning manacle.

Thrilled, disgusted, elated, Michael let out an echoing laugh that bordered on hysterical. Elias flinched in pain at the sound, but his grin widened, and his Gaze held steady. He was afraid, but then again, so was Michael - and wasn't that just terrible?

"Are you sure you want to play this game, Michael?" Elias' words shivered with a faint rasp.

"Oh yes, yes Watcher, Now? Now I definitely do~"

[fatalitysficbakery]

༒☙༒ A Glimpse Of Her —

Elias “Stack” Moore x Black Fem!Y/n

genre: angst???/fluff/SMUT.

warnings: SMUT. MY GOSH WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?

synopsis: you’re back in town, he ain’t missin his chance this time.

↳ ༒ Fatalitysficbakery navigation menu ༒.

↳ ༒ Fatalitysficbakery Sinners menu ༒.

༒

❝So, you rob trains and banks but you can’t come steal this pussy for a night?❞⁣

༒

༒ ☽ ☙ ༒ ༒ ༒ ☙ ☽ ༒

"I lied to you. Yes, I lied to you...I love the blues."

You stepped onto the front lawn of the old sawmill, your eyes held a storm in them, the kind ya wish you could ignore. It couldn't have been seven years since you returned to the delta. It felt like you was just a little girl, running behind them twins like a lovesick puppy. See, Stack had sold you a dream. A dream he wasn't man enough to deliver on.

When you stepped in front of that door, you held your breath and prayed to the Gods you still knew Elias well enough to know his bluffs; Cornbread sho looked at you like ya did. Not a shred of recognition on the man's face, but earlier that day Elias had promised you wouldn't be getting that door; that you should've walked right on back where ya came from, far as he was concerned.

'Look real pretty tonight, miss. Gon make these fellas weak in the knees."

Uh-huh. Jackpot. You couldn't help but giggle at Cornbread's attempt at a gentlemanly greeting; he still looked the same as when you'd left. couldn't quite say the same about yourself. "Oh, drop allat, Cornbread. We ain't never talked to each other like that."

His eyes go all wide, and he takes his hat off, a half smile printed on his lips, hat on his chest as it all came to him. "Know that ain't Genevieve's gal, nie? Girl, I sho ain't recognize ya. Come on in!" He opens his arms, allowing you in for a hug and squeezing tight fore patting ya back and chuckling, "Ain't seen ya since ya last sang for us. Hope them pipes get used tonight."

"We'll see now, Corn. Ima go get me a drink now if that's okay with you." Still looking at you in pure surprise and wonder, he nods quickly and lets you pass, still smiling all big and proud.

"Gon on, girl, it's good to see ya."

༒ ☽ ☙ ༒ ༒ ༒ ☙ ☽ ༒

You knew it wouldn't take long, his eyes had tracked ya since ya entered the room, his hands twitching around the glass of whiskey in his hand. He lets you settle for a moment at least before he makes his way over to you in short, swift strides.

Your finger taps against the side of your glass, looking at him from your peripheral vision. He looked sharper than a knife, good as the night, and clean as hell. You breathe in the scent of musk, smoke, and whiskey when he's next to ya, but you ain't falling for it; he looks irritated as all hell too.

"Y'know, songbird; ya always had a habit of showing up places ya ain't belong. Finish your drink up. Follow me." His body language is tense; you can see the veins in his neck straining, his hand on the glass clenching, and his body stays tense, but he don't look at you; nah, he avoids your gaze like the 14th century plague. Like he can't bear it. Looking your way.

"Following you would lead me to hell, boy. Sides, I gots me a meeting."

Your body steps one inch away from his before he's gripping your wrist firmly, pulling you right up against him, teeth gritted and grills gleaming, his chuckle is as bitter as the beer the patrons are drinking and it sends an absolute shiver through you. "You was going to hell fore ya stepped in this building, woman."

"You left too, Elias. You planned to leave first. Remember that, and get your damn hands off me, dog."

His hold grows tighter, and he has the nerve to shake his head; he stares you down with the heat of a thousand furnaces, his eyes burning through you, and if you didn't know better, you would've thought looks could kill. "Your dog. Seven damn years, seven damn years I ain't seen no sign of you."

"Like. wise." You get out stiffly, but there's that storm again, and this time you ain't got the guts to ignore it.

"You need to dance. Don't ya?" He says after a while and grabs your hand within his, raising it to his lips, and taking a deep breath of your scent. Shit, still smell like jasmine. He ain't never smelt nothing sweeter. "May I?"

You don't know if ya wanna scoff or take him up on that offer, maybe both. You contemplate your options for a moment before remembering what'd ya come here for. Kissing your teeth, your hand settles in his. "I know you'd better still know how to move your feet, Elias Moore."

When your hold releases from his, your figure saunters away to the dancefloor, and he fixes his tie, admiring the view as he follows right on behind ya. Whispering to himself, his eyes roam over you with a heated glaze; the sway in your hips something to stop traffic, "Sho do love to watch you walk away."

"I heard that."

He licks his lips with a smirk on em, "Shyat, I hope ya did."

[༒]

It wasn't long, not long at all, till you pressed against Elias just right whilst you danced; he's only a man, a weaker one when it came to you. He stilled you in your place, grunting, "I'm weak, darlin'. Ain't never been nothing but weak around ya."

"I know. Cornbread sho let me in easy enough when I walked up to that door. Thought you was keeping me out?"

"Cornbread ain't got half the brain to listen to me." He lies, knowing darn well he ain't tell the man not to let you in, hell, he barely even mentioned you coming back to the Delta to his own brother. He wanted this all for him. At least for the night, letting out a hiss of air, he drags you away from the floor and into an unused storage room.

He's smooth when he moves, hoisting you up and onto the counter before grabbing your face into his hands, looking you dead in the eyes like he needed you to know every word was real, and they were. He could lie to most, but not to you.

"Ya got that leash pulled too damn tight for me to breathe, darlin. Ain't no way I could've denied you. No matter how long we've been apart."

"Well, I'm still angry with you. I'm furious." His hand is inching up your dress, the roughness of his palm against the soft skin of your thighs, he's smooth as butter; a charming killer. He knows how to use that grin, especially with you.

"But?" He tilts his chin up, adams apple bobbing and that damn smirk still on his face, smug as he'd always been. The Moore way: confident and cunning. Ya ain't never hated and loved anything more.

When your eyes avert from his, it's like he's hit the jackpot. He knows he's got you now. Can feel it in the way ya can't meet his gaze. Always been a cute lil habit of yours he absolutely adored. — His thumb and index finger come up to tilt your chin, get those big brown eyes looking back at him; Lord, he couldn't get enough. "Aht, aht...Ain't nunnadet now, woman. Tell me what you was gon say."

You could punch him, hell, you oughta for all the promises he broke, the nights he had ya wondering if he ever even loved ya in the first place. A hiss of air is let out between your gritted teeth, and y'know he ain't letting you dodge this. "Making me say it?"

"Goddamned right." His hand doesn't remove itself from your chin, head tilted and brow raised; he's waiting patiently, and if he couldn't be patient with anything else, he could when it came to you. You knew he was prepared to do this all night. His eyes light up like a kids on Christmas when you let that resigned sigh out.

And Bingo was his name-o.

"But...Loving somebody else was never an option for me, Elias." Your whisper is like a butterfly kiss, the words a wisp upon his ears when you say them and press your head against his. His hand stops at the edge of your underwear, and the breath that escapes him almost sounds like a plea to God. A plea to keep the man grounded, because you damn sho wasn't. Not when you sounded so sweet admitting you still loved him.

"Them some pretty words ya speaking, sweetheart." His voice comes out rough, and strained with the restraint he was holding onto so damn tightly. His hands grip your hips, and suddenly you're being taken off the counter, the man sighing like he just realized he'd been starving all night. Famished.

"Turn round for me, girl. Finna see what I been missing out on being boneheaded."

"Ask nicely." You tease.

A hiss of air can be heard when you're turned around and bent over the table. Stack's fingers grip the edge like his life depended on it, trying to restrain himself from busting just at the sight of your soft, welcoming thighs. He slots himself between them before he loses the little mind he has left, unzipping his own slacks. His hands spread you open, yanking your panties down a little less gently than he'd intended.

"I been waitin too damn long to ask anything kindly, darlin'. You're lucky I ain't take ya right at that damn train station. Hold onto me."

His hand envelops yours, allowing you to brace yourself in his grasp, the other moving to line himself with your entrance, the feeling so familiar and yet so distantly felt until he's finally sank himself into ya, your walls soft and warm and so damn tight around that it pulls the most desperate grunt from his lips, and a whispered gasp from you.

Lord, he doesn't know just who to thank yet for bringing you on home. His hand slides around the back of your neck, his head finding its way next to your ear, nipping the tip of it; the gold of his grills like heat against your skin, your hand reaches up to bring his face even closer: your breaths mingle, and that first thrust feels like pure freedom.

"Feel just like home in here, girl. Gon get me hooked like a bad habit again, ain'tcha?" Pace slow yet deliberate, he guides your head down, getting you in a position where your head rests on the table, and he could get even deeper inside you. As deep as he possibly could. "Betcha still taste like honey, too. Ain't nowhere near done with rediscovering every part of you."

His words bit at her in the most embarrassing way, lips dripping with slightly whispered moans, keeping mind the party just outside the door; It ain't quite right how smooth he could be, a shuddered whine escaping her like summin she ain't never heard from herself before. It shows in the way her bite becomes reactive. "You sho talk a lot, don't ya?"

"Want me to shut up, huh?" He chuckles, angling his hips just so and rocking into you with a particular roughness that was so simply Elias, it'd almost be funny if it weren't for the way your mouth had fallen open into a moan too loud for your liking, given the location they were in. "Maybe you just need to be a lil louder, princess."

༒ ☽ ☙ ༒ ༒ ༒ ☙ ☽ ༒

Smoke ain't one bit surprised when he sees the two of you running out of the backroom, you giggling whilst Elias leads you out to his truck, the afterglow clear in the way both your clothes were a little wrinkled and tussled up.

"Aye, where you think you're goin'?" He yells out for his brother, but Elias simply waves him before yelling back.

"Gon go home and show my woman some real lovin'. We a be back."

༒ ☽ ☙ ༒ ༒ ༒ ☙ ☽ ༒

A/N: which sinner is next? i cannot let you know, there is evil watching and they will try to sabotage my plans </33.

[faestunna]

WHAT IF…Stack knew just how to speak to you?

PAIRING: elias moore (stack) x fem!reader

WC: 567

WARNINGS: smut (18+), p in v, unprotected sex, vulgar language and dialogue, creampie, maybe inaccurate translations

A/N: as always, the race/ethnicity of the reader is not disclosed and does not pertain to the story. smut is not my specialty and i wrote this up super quick but i thought i’d share 😌

After two semesters of Italian and a year of studying, i’ve been loving the idea of Stack knowing some Italian during his time in Chicago…

Maybe you speak some, maybe you don’t. Maybe you’ve spent more time in Chicago than you’d planned and picked up a few words along the way. Enough to understand what the men on the street were saying when they called after you.

So then maybe…you have just enough knowledge of it to understand what Stack whispers lowly in your ear with his fingers in your hair, pulling you to him as he plows into you from behind.

“Questa dolce figa.” You can feel his breath on your ear coming from his chest in heavy pants. He almost always does all of the work, but you’ll never hear him complain. “Così stretto che mi sta baciando.” This sweet pussy…so tight that it’s kissing me.

His hand drips the flesh on your hips like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough. Something inside you flutters at the sound of those words tinged so slightly but the swing of his accent. He must’ve been from somewhere deep in the South. You haven’t heard a voice like that in Chicago.

“You feel me, baby?” He asks as if you can answer. A broken moan croaks from your throat, earning a deep chuckle from Stack. “Esatto. Mi senti.” That’s right. You feel me.

Maybe he’ll flip you over so he can see you in all of your glory—head thrown back against the mattress, your tits bouncing along with every thrust he gives you. In between your legs is the sweet ache of a stretch you’d never felt before, not with any other man. Your hand reach for his shoulders, sweat lining his back. Stack knew that good things didn’t come easy; he works for what he wants.

And right now, your pussy is about the only thing in the world to him. To have your warmth practically consuming him to the point where he’d be cold as soon as your touch was gone.

“What’ya say about doing this every night, darlin’?” He says without halting or even slowing down his movements. He’s sitting up now, back straight with one of your legs pulled flat against his chest, reaching even deeper inside you. Stack pushes his thumb against your pearl. When he rubs, you swear you could’ve died right there. “Oh, beautiful girl,” he grins as you look up at him with heavy lids. “Ti farò mia.” I’m gonna make you mine.

Unable to let out anything coherent, he knew that he didn’t need to from the feeling of your grip clenching even more around his length before it began to flutter like a scattered pulse. Stack laughs, “Oh, wait. I already did.” He doesn’t pull himself from you or cease his movements. With sharp thrusts of his hips, he rides out the euphoria coursing through your body until he reaches his own.

You feel the mixture of your releases inside of you. Not a single bit drips out. When he goes to move, you grab his arm. “Wait,” you tell him, pulling his arm even tighter around you. He smiles. “I just wanna feel you.”

How can he say no to that face?

Stack doesn’t move. He’s got his arms wrapped around your torso. Keeping himself warm for as long as he wants, and you let him.

© faestunna 2025.

[nopaintjustpain]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63610357

“And then the next moment, he’s suddenly, blindingly awake.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like. A passing glance at the alarm clock shows it’s somewhere around 4 AM, but for the first split second of consciousness, he’s too disoriented to process the time. Jon woke them both up with a short, sharp, startled cry before he dissolved immediately into tears. Elias catches a glimmer of green and crimson as he turns, spectral eyes opening all around Jon and buzzing in response to his fear. Then they disappear just as fast. Elias sits up, still blinking blearily. He finds Jon curled on his side next to him, nearly smothering himself with the pillow from how hard he clutches it to his face. Oh. That makes sense. Blocking his senses to stop Beholding from slipping out through him in a moment of vulnerability.

Elias turns over, reaches, hesitates, then rests his fingertips ever-so-gently on Jon’s bent back. When this doesn’t elicit any reaction besides a brief hitch in the sobs, he smooths his hand up and down Jon’s spine in long, careful sweeps. He vaguely remembers his wet nurse doing this for him as a child. This is comforting, right?

“Ssshhhh… it’s okay, Jon. Everything’s alright,” he murmurs in the dark, his voice husky with sleep. “You’re safe. Can you take a deep breath for me?”

A pause, and then Jon obeys, his chest shuddering with the strain of sucking air through the silk pillowcase.

“Good. Good job. Another, please.”

A few more, and Elias convinces Jon to remove the pillow from his face so he can breathe more easily. He sees why Jon needs it, though. His eyes are pinned wide and unblinking with terror, glowing that unnatural shade of green they both know so well. The moment he can see again, the Eyes appear in the air all around him like a hungry swarm. It’s unclear whether they’re here to defend Jon from the perceived threat, or to feed on him.

It’s not often that Elias pushes any feedback into his link with Beholding, aside from the fear it feeds on and the pleasure he takes from it. He considers himself an instrument of his God: to speak back to it is as offensive as it is futile. But tonight, for Jon’s sake, he tries. He opens his own Eye — a single spectral visage glowing from the center of his forehead like the jewel of some terrible crown — and turns it away, across town to the nightmares of some other unfortunate soul. While he does this, he slips in behind Jon and folds his hand over the Archivist’s eyes. There’s a momentary but intense burn of static against his skin, Beholding displeased to be cut off from its Archivist and punishing him for daring to defy it. But he reminds it of its victim elsewhere and diverts its attention as best he can.

Almost instantly, Jon calms. A few more breaths and Elias feels the faint flutter of eyelashes against his palm as Jon finally regains the ability to close his own eyes. His sobbing turns from scared to relieved as he grips Elias’s wrist with one shaking hand, clutching tight as if begging him not to take it away.

So, Elias doesn’t. He crosses the remainder of the space between them, slips his other arm underneath Jon, and tucks the smaller man against his chest to make the angle easier on them both. But he keeps his hand sealed around Jon’s eyes despite the itch of tears drying on his hand. “You’re okay,” he murmurs into the Archivist’s hair. “You’re safe, Jon. All is well.”

It takes a few more minutes of soothing before Jon believes him. But he relaxes by degrees in Elias’s arms, until at last, sleep claims him again.

Meanwhile, Elias lays awake until dawn.

I did this.

I did this terrible thing to him.

He knew this logically. He did it on purpose. He spent years planning it. But to understand the consequences of his actions in the abstract is so, so different from seeing and feeling them now.”

[Excerpt from Chapter 3 of my JonElias fic, Villain and Violent (Infant and Innocent)]

[theegoldenchild]

Chapter Eight: Daddy’s Little Girl

Warnings: 18+ | Mentions of light BDSM | Blood | Death(?) | Angst | Wanted to nut but I’m crying in the club

Outside, the Mississippi heat simmered, but inside The Devil’s Tongue, cool shadows lingered, pierced only by slats of honeyed light through half-open shutters. It was quiet, but not silent. Too many things stirred beneath the surface for true peace.

Sera padded barefoot across the smooth floor, her legs bare and her body wrapped in one of Stack’s white button-ups—thin, oversized, and left undone at the top where her collarbone and a teasing slip of soft brown cleavage peeked through. The hem brushed the tops of her thighs and swayed with each step she took, revealing just enough to make the silence hum. She hadn’t bothered with putting on her underwear since she couldn’t find them. There was something sacred in the fainting throb between her thighs, something unspoken she wasn’t ready to cover up. Not yet.

She wandered around with a lackadaisical purpose, fingers trailing across the edges of makeshift tables, overturned crates, and the old piano Smoke had dragged in just three days ago. Her ginger curls were still damp from the wash Stack had insisted she take, and her skin shimmered faintly with the almond oil he had massaged into her thighs and hips while muttering something about “bruises that don’t belong on delicate things.” She didn’t protest. Not when his hands had been so gentle after being so wicked the night before.

Smoke stood near the long bar that stretched across the left side of the room, sleeves rolled up and eyes squinting over a dingy ledger as he scribbled figures in the margins. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his lips, unlit and forgotten. Beside him, Stack moved like a phantom, counting bottles on the shelf with one hand and tossing an empty one over his shoulder with the other. It shattered against the far wall and neither man flinched.

Both of them watched Sera out of the corner of their eyes. They always watched her. Like two wolves, one cold and calculating… the other wild and impulsive… tracking their prey even after the hunt was long done. Their eyes followed every sway of her hips, every turn of her neck, every flutter of her lashes as she bent to pick up a stray rag and wrung it absently between her fingers. She wasn’t trying to tempt them this time, not on purpose, but she wasn’t hiding either.

She was still learning what it meant to be touched, kissed… Worshipped with mouths and hands until she shattered like a glass bottle thrown against a wall.

Stack was the first to speak, voice laced with teasing danger. “Ain’t no shame in glowin’, baby girl. You look good in my shirt… Real good.”

Sera glanced over her shoulder, lips curving just slightly, unsure if it was pride or embarrassment that warmed her cheeks. “You got a lotta nerve talkin’ like that Mr. Stack… after what you did to me.”

Smoke didn’t look up from the ledger, but the side of his mouth curled with dark amusement. He liked that Sera was getting comfortable enough to sass them and wanted to hear more of it from her. “Ain’t even do half of what we could’ve. You still breathin’, ain’t you?”

Stack chuckled. “Barely.”

Sera shook her head but kept moving, pretending she wasn’t trembling under their gaze. “You always this loud in the morning?”

“Only when the night before was that sweet,” Stack said, licking his bottom lip.

Smoke finally looked up, eyes dark brown like fresh roasted coffee. “Stack, count again. I ain’t payin’ foe guesswork. And stop runnin’ your mouth… leave our woman be.”

That earned a tsk from Stack, but he obeyed, dragging his eyes away from Sera to focus on his assigned task. “We down six bottles of rye, four of corn, and two of the apple shine.”

Smoke’s brow furrowed. “That ain’t bad. If we keep the mixin’ tight and don’t let these fools pour heavy, we should pull close to two hunnid profit just tonight. Maybe more if Randy people show an stay too long.”

“Randy people?,” Stack quizzed, snorting. “After what we did last night, I doubt they gonna show at all.”

The barn-turned-juke was cleaner than it had a right to be after what happened outside just hours earlier. Blood never touched the floorboards, but the memory of it clung to the twins like cologne. Smoke’s hands still lingered with a scent of gunpowder. Stack’s boots still carried dried earth from where he’d dug one of the graves. They hadn’t planned to kill anyone. Not that night. Not before sunrise. But Samuel’s little “lesson” had come too early and been too bold. And now six men lay rotting behind the tree line.

Sera didn’t ask about it but she knew something happened last night. She felt it in the way Smoke’s voice lowered when she was near and how Stack’s smile didn’t fully reach his eyes today. It was in the tension stretched between their shoulders and the way they watched her like something holy that had almost been snatched away. They weren’t sorry. But they were… different. Quieter. More possessive.

Stack reached for another bottle, paused, then turned his head slowly toward her. “You eat enough this morning, sweet girl?”

She nodded. “I ate all you fed me.”

“That don’t answer the question.”

She looked down at her belly, smoothed the shirt over it, then nodded again. “M’happy.”

Smoke’s gaze sharpened. “Come here.”

Sera blinked and shifted her weight on each foot before listening. Her legs moved on instinct now. Like the imprint of last night was still guiding her steps. She reached him, and he tilted her chin up with his fingers, calloused and firm. “You still got that tingle?”

Her eyes flickered between his and Stack’s. “A lil’…”

Stack grinned. “Good.”

Smoke gave a warning glance to his brother before brushing his thumb across her bottom lip. “You say somethin’ if it gets too much. Got some that can soothe it… Understand?”

Sera nodded, heat rising again low in her belly. It wasn’t fair. The way they could talk about bottles of liquor and body counts and still make her thighs press together with just one look. One touch.

Smoke stepped back, letting her go with a sharp inhale. “Go sit, sweetheart. Can’t have you wanderin’ all over this place with no drawers on.”

Sera quietly squeaked and turned quickly with her cheeks burning as Stack let out a laugh so loud it bounced off the rafters. She walked toward the velvet loveseat in the far corner. Every step felt like a reminder of who she belonged to now. Of what her body had learned in the dark. The twins went back to work. But neither of them stopped watching. And neither of them planned to let her wander far. Not tonight. Not ever again.

Smoke scribbled one final figure into the margin of the ledger, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he mentally tallied the math. Profits looked promising. Folks had been whispering about The Devil’s Tongue all week, buzzing like flies around honey. If tonight went smooth, they would have more cash than they knew what to do with and a new kingdom to rule. Bootlegging, blues, bodies—it was all lining up.

Stack crouched near the lower shelf behind the bar, counting the last row of bottles, but his gaze kept drifting to Sera.

She was perched sweetly on the velvet loveseat in the corner, curled with her knees tucked to her chest and his shirt riding dangerously high along her thighs. Her eyes were drifting, heavy with leftover sleep and the itis. Every few seconds she’d stretch one leg, then the other, as if trying to find a way to sit that didn’t remind her of how they’d left her the night before.

Stack grinned to himself, licking his thumb and rubbing it across a dusty bottle of peach liquor. “She’s real tender today,” he stated, not really intending to be heard.

Smoke kept his eyes on the ledger. “That your way of sayin’ you sorry?”

Stack’s grin widened, voice dropping even lower. “Nah. That’s my way of sayin’ we need to think ‘bout jade trainin’ her. Eventually.”

Smoke froze and the room went still. The soft clink of bottles, the scratch of pencil, even the breath of the room seemed to pause for just a moment. Then Smoke slowly lifted his head, his eyes hard and cutting like steel. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Stack straightened, bottle still in hand, brows raised like he was daring Smoke to make this something it didn’t have to be. “I said what I said.”

“Nah nigga. Run that by me again?” Smoke asked, not loud, but sharp like barbed wire.

Stack dusted his palms on his slacks, gaze unwavering. “I say we jade train her. Like we used to. You know… soft stretchin’, light discipline. Build her up right foe’ we take that next step.”

Smoke’s eyes darkened. He turned fully now, shoulders squared and breath slow. “She ain’t like them sorry ass girls you used to pull from whorehouses out west,” he spat out. “She’s pure. A church girl. She don’t need all that.”

Stack’s expression twisted, his usual playfulness curdling into something sharper. “Don’t stand there actin’ holier than thou. You the one who taught me how to train a woman, Elijah.”

“Yeah, and I regret teachin’ you anything when you throw it ‘round like it don’t mean nothin’, Elias. Her daddy done enough damage to her.”

“It does mean somethin’!” Stack snapped, chest rising. “It means takin’ control. Breakin’ her down real slow so we can build her back up better. Softer. Obedient. That ain’t abuse, that’s moldin’. That’s what you told me!”

Smoke took a step forward. “That was for women who wanted it. Who came to us already half-ruined. You think Sera’s ready foe that? She still blushin’ when we kiss her, still squeezin’ her damn thighs together tryin’ to understand what we did to her.”

“She ain’t stupid,” Stack shot back. “She felt everything and she liked it. I saw the look in her eyes when she was rockin’ against you like her soul was on fire. You think she ain’t crave more?”

Smoke’s jaw ticked with frustration. “It ain’t about what she crave it’s ‘bout what she can handle.”

“You scared she’ll love it too much?” Stack pressed, stepping in closer. “Or is you scared you will? Huh?”

Their bodies were close now… twins face to face, tension simmering hot enough to spark.

Stack’s voice dipped into something darker. “You remember how you used to be? How many women begged to be your doll? Lucille, Dorothy, that pretty chocolate woman from Baton Rouge. You used to own ‘em. Used to bend ‘em over velvet couches just like that one and make ‘em beg with tears on their cheeks and spit hangin’ from their mouths. You don’t get to stand here and act like Sera’s too precious for that just ‘cause she pray on Sundays.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

Smoke didn’t answer. His eyes flicked over to the velvet couch where Sera now lay sprawled out like she’d been kissed by exhaustion.

Stack caught the look. “Don’t lie to me, Smoke… You want it too. You want her kneelin’ tween’ your legs with a jade plug stretchin’ her pretty lil’ ass while you tell her she’s been a good girl for takin’ your discipline.”

“Shut your damn mouth.”

“You want her wearin’ a collar so everyone from Mississippi to Illinois know she belongs to us.”

“I said—”

“You want her trained. Just like I do.”

Smoke moved so fast the ledger hit the floor. In one stride, he was in Stack’s space, gripping the front of his shirt, breath hot and sharp through gritted teeth. “She ain’t ready. And you don’t push her. Not unless she ask for it. You hear me?”

Stack didn’t flinch or blink. He was the only person on this earth his brother couldn’t intimidate. “She’s askin’ already. Not with words. But with her body. You think she don’t feel it? That ache tween’ her thighs? That emptiness we left her with?”

Smoke’s hand flexed and he nearly shoved his other half down to the ground. But Sera stirred then, shifting on the couch, making a soft and broken sound that immediately silenced both men. They looked over in unison. Her legs stretched slightly, shirt slipping higher up her thighs as she turned and tucked herself into the cushion, sighing like a kitten half-remembering the dream she just left behind.

The tension deflated a notch. Just barely.

Smoke stepped back first, running a hand over his hair as he looked away. “We go at her pace. That’s final.”

Stack smirked, though there was something bitter behind it now. “Fine. Her pace. But when she starts beggin’ for more, don’t act like it’s a surprise. You the one who taught me how to turn angels into demons.”

He stepped back, the heels of his boots dragging slightly across the old wood planks as he moved toward the liquor shelf again. He looked casual on the surface, but his jaw tightened with quiet defiance as his mind started plotting. He crouched again and plucked a half-full bottle of corn whiskey from the bottom row, then straightened slowly and tilted the bottle just enough for the liquid to swirl like it was mocking the tension still hanging between them.

“Bo’s got a new shipment comin’ in today,” Stack said offhandedly, but there was a sharp edge laced in the calm. “Chinese stuff. High-grade. All kinds of trinkets.”

He turned, leaned against the shelf, and took a mocking sip straight from the neck of the bottle. His eyes slid to Smoke like he was measuring just how far he could push him. “Imported jade. Premium glass. Leather cuffs softer than rabbit fur, strong enough to hold a horse.” He smirked around the mouth of the bottle. “Said he’s got some real rare pieces. Thought I’d stop by and pick up a few things… just in case her pace changes.”

Smoke’s eyes snapped back to him, flint meeting flame. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Stack asked, playing dumb as he rolled the bottle between his palms. “You said we wait on her, right? So I’m just preparin’. You know… like how you always taught me big brother. Be ready. Never let the opportunity come knockin’ and find you empty-handed.”

Smoke took a step forward again, this time slower and measured. “I ain’t lettin’ you put no damn plug, no collar, nothin’ on her without her beggin’ for it so hard she can’t breathe. And even then,” he growled, “I say when it’s time.”

Stack’s grin faded as he held Smoke’s piercing gaze. “She ain’t just your woman and I ain’t gonna hurt her, Smoke,” he whispered. “But I am gonna teach her. And if she starts beggin’? If she comes crawlin’, red-cheeked and teary-eyed, sayin’ she don’t know why her belly won’t stop cryin’ unless one of us fills her from behind—”

His voice dipped further, like poison in honey. “Then I’ll be ready. Cause’ you made me this way.”

Smoke silently glared at his brother. Nothing Stack said was wrong and that’s what he hated. Sera was different and he knew that… his heart knew that. But every time she would call him Mr. Smoke or Elijah… the sadistic part that he tried to keep buried away stirred inside of him begging to be released.

His voice was flat and dangerous. “You bring that shit back here and touch her too fast, I’ll put you in the ground right next to Samuel’s boys.”

Stack scoffed, pushing off the shelf. “You gonna kill me for doin’ exactly what we both dreamin’ ‘bout?”

“I’ll kill ya for gettin’ greedy.”

There was another pause. Both men stood chest to chest and the shadows around them stretched long and sharp across the dusty floor between them. The only thing breaking the tension was the quiet shift of Sera’s breathing in the corner, soft and innocent. Completely unaware of the storm brewing nearby.

Finally, Stack stepped back and his smirk had returned—but this one was filled with mischief. He wouldn’t be able to bring his brother on board just yet, but he knew he would come around in due time. He just had to help him see the vision clearly. “Relax, Elijah. I ain’t touchin’ her like that til’ she asks for it.”

He turned, walking back towards the bar, voice thrown over his shoulder like an afterthought. “But I’m still stoppin’ by Bo’s. Be a damn shame to miss out on good inventory.”

One hour turned into two. Then three. And by the time the clock inside the juke struck noon, the light bleeding in through the warped windowpanes was thick with summer heat… like God himself had turned His face from the Delta and let the devil take over.

Sera hadn’t meant to stay this long, but after breakfast and a much-needed nap, she couldn’t find her main two dresses and decided to wear the only thing that wasn’t missing, her thin, tinged-yellow slip. The cotton clung damply to her hips, more translucent now with every drop of sweat and shift in light. The heat had softened her edges and left a light sheen on her skin, and though she tried to cross her legs modestly on the couch in the back corner, the fabric rode up high each time she shifted.

She didn’t know that Stack had tucked her dresses behind a row of whiskey barrels in the far stall, where no woman would dare venture in fear of snakes or spiders. And she sure as hell didn’t know that Smoke… Mr. Smoke… the epitome of indifference and self-righteous perfection was currently carrying around her drawers like a thief with a holy relic stuffed in his back pocket. Folded neatly, pressed against the curve of his thigh like some shameful treasure.

“You forgot the goddamn kerosene,” Smoke snapped, bending near a battered crate of lanterns. Sweat darkened the fabric of his undershirt along the spine and under the arms while his broad back flexed with every move. His voice cut through the stagnant air like a blade.

“No the fuck I didn’t,” Stack yelled, tossing a hammer onto the floor with a metallic clatter. “You the one who said, ‘make sure we got extra nails.’ Which we DO. So stop all that lip flappin’.”

Sera flinched a little at the sound, but didn’t move. She was starting to get used to their arguing. It was always loud and always sharp but never dangerous. Not to her, at least.

She stretched her arms above her head and let her spine curve into a long, sweet arch, unaware of just how much she revealed as the hem of her slip inched up higher on her thighs and her breasts subtly outlined beneath the dampened fabric. Her wild ginger curls stuck to the sides of her neck, and when she turned slightly to fan herself, she didn’t see the way Stack’s eyes followed the movement like a hawk tracking a rabbit.

“Why she take my shirt off an wearin’ that slip?” Stack asked suddenly, wiping his brow with the back of his arm, a glimmer of mock innocence in his tone.

Smoke didn’t answer. Just grunted and pulled out a rusted lantern to test its wick.

Stack grinned, knowing damn well what he’d done. “Ain’t like she got nothin’ else to wear…”

“She had other clothes,” Smoke muttered, but there was no conviction behind it. No real protest.

Stack kept pushing. “You sure about that? ‘Cause I ain’t seen hide nor hem of them dresses since breakfast.”

Smoke shifted uncomfortably, reaching into his back pocket and brushing his fingers against the soft cotton stored there. Her underwear. White, ruined, and still drenched with her juices folded tightly. He didn’t know why he’d done it. He just remembered seeing them tucked into a corner of his bedroom after she’d gone back to rest. One look at the way they curled like silk petals in the morning light, and something in him snatched them up before reason could catch up.

Now, they were his little secret. And it was eatin’ him alive.

Sera stayed quiet, perched on the couch with her knees pressed together, the hem of that thin yellow slip barely reached her mid-thigh. Her eyes danced cautiously between the twins like she was watching twin Goliath’s fight for dominance.

Stack stopped working and leaned against the wall just a few feet away, arms folded as his gaze unapologetically raked down her legs so bare, smooth, and glistening faintly with heat. His eyes dragged ravenous, over the curve of her thighs, the bend of her knees, the delicate arch of her ankles. He wanted to taste her again… A sly grin curved his lips as his gold tooth glinted in the light.

“Ain’t said nothin’ since breakfast,” he quipped, voice silk-drenched and quiet. “You fallin’ asleep with your eyes open, little dove? Or just tryna drive a man crazy sittin’ there lookin’ like a glass of sweet tea on the hottest damn day of the year?”

It was like Smoke could read his twin's mind and his voice cut through the heat like a bucket of ice cold water. “Control yourself.”

Stack gave a quiet laugh but didn’t look away from Sera.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, voice softer than usual. Her fingers twisted the fabric of her slip in her lap, eyes cast downward. “Just… thinkin’. I—I think I’m ready to go now.”

Silence wrapped around the room like a noose. Smoke straightened from the crate he was leaning over, the muscle in his jaw ticking once… twice… before he finally spoke. “Go where?”

Sera swallowed. “Home. I… I didn’t mean to stay so long. I missed church this mornin’. My daddy probably worried sick.”

Her voice faltered at the end, lips parting like she wanted to say more but couldn’t bring herself to. Her eyes didn’t lift. She couldn’t bear the weight of theirs, not when her whole body still throbbed with the memory of what they’d done to her last night. Not when her soul still felt tangled in the sheets of their sin.

Smoke stepped closer, his feet heavy on the floorboards. “You sure?”

Sera nodded once, still twisting the fabric of her slip. “I just need to… check on things. I—I don’t wanna make it worse by stayin’ away. Not today… Not on the Lords day.”

Stack pushed off the wall, a flicker of something indistinguishable passing over his face. “You think that preacher man ain’t gon’ raise all kinds of hell the second he sees you in that?” He motioned loosely toward her slip, eyes narrowing. “He see you walk in with that and smellin’ like us? He gon’ throw a damn fit.”

Sera stiffened. “I’ll change,” she whispered. “If… if I can find my other dresses.”

Stack opened his mouth to respond, but Smoke shot him a look that made his brother fall back a step and press his lips into a thin, crooked smirk.

Smoke crouched in front of her, lowering himself until he was eye-level. His voice was softer now, deeper in tone but edged with something tight beneath the surface. “You sure this ain’t about guilt?”

Sera’s honey brown eyes finally lifted to meet his, wide and glistening. “It’s about what’s right.”

“You think what happened last night was wrong?”

She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Instead she looked away and nibbled on her bottom lip.

Smoke didn’t press her for an answer. Just stood. “If you ready, you ready,” he said, voice clipped. “I’ll take you.”

Stack scoffed and dramatically threw his hands in the air. “This nigga…”

Smoke started toward the barn’s back room where his coat hung on a hook and paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder. “You got five minutes to find ya other dresses, my love.”

That nickname… that damn nickname that made Sera’s heart race a million miles per minute almost made her rethink wanting to return home. Almost. She stood slowly, bare feet padding quietly across the floor as she moved towards the back and began her search. She didn’t ask where her other dresses or underwear were, didn’t accuse, didn’t cry. She just kept her head down and her fingers tight around the edge of her slip.

As she searched, Stack watched her go and his grin was long gone, replaced by quiet calculations. Smoke came back out with another cigarette between his lips, her drawers still tucked tight in his pocket.

“She ain’t stayin’ gone,” Stack said flatly.

Smoke didn’t answer. He just struck a match, lit the cigarette, and let the smoke curl around his head like a halo from hell.

The ride back to Sera’s home was quiet. Too quiet.

The iron-bell rumble of the C.R. Patterson filled the heavy air as it trundled down the long dirt road towards her home. Dust curled behind the wheels like smoke from a slow-burning fuse, and the sun overhead bore down in wide, unrelenting strokes. No birds sang. No breeze stirred. Only the grumble of the motor and the crackle of gravel beneath the tires marked time as the juke joint faded into the horizon behind them.

Sera sat in the back seat, small and still, with her knees pressed together and her arms wrapped tightly around her waist like she was holding herself in place. The tinged yellow slip still clung to her body, too thin for the sun, too sinful for Sunday, and too revealing to return to a preacher’s home. But she hadn’t found her dresses because Stack hadn’t let her. And Smoke had said nothing.

So now she rode like this. Silent, soft, and her curls pinned back but frizzing from the humidity. Her bare thighs stuck to the warm leather seat each time the car hit a bump, and every so often she tugged the hem of the slip lower as if modesty could be wrung from fabric already see-through in the light.

Smoke drove with his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his jaw sharp and a cigarette twitching between his lips though it had long since burned out.

Stack rode beside him, arms folded tight across his chest, hat tipped low but not enough to hide the scowl twisting his mouth. “You really takin’ her back there?” He muttered under his breath, voice sharp like a blade being dragged across leather.

Smoke didn’t look over. “Not now.”

“She’s sittin’ there half-naked, and you gon’ put her back in that house like it’s fine?”

“I said not now, Stack.”

“You think that bastard won’t smell us on her?” Stack snapped, tone just low enough not to carry to the back seat. “You think he won’t notice how she walkin’ slower? How she can’t even look either one of us in the eye for too long without her breath catchin’?”

Smoke gripped the wheel tighter, the leather creaking beneath his fingers. “Keep ya damn voice down.” My

Stack glanced back at Sera. Her soft, solemn profile lit with that tender glow from the window and then leaned in closer to Smoke, lowering his voice further, words slipping like venom through clenched teeth.

“You sendin’ her back to that man? The same man who beat her and locked her in a room like she was livestock?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

“She your woman now,” Stack hissed. “Ours. And you treatin’ her like she just some stray we borrowed for a night and now we takin’ her back to the pound.”

Smoke’s voice was barely above a growl. “You think this ain’t killin’ me too?”

“Don’t look like it,” Stack spat. “Look like you pacifyin’. Like you tryna pretend last night was some fever dream and not the start of the rest of her damn life.”

Smoke pulled the cigarette from his lips and crushed it dead against the dash. His eyes flicked once in the rearview mirror, landing on Sera just long enough to watch the way her lashes brushed against her freckled cheeks and her delicate hand rubbed over the bare skin of her sun kissed arm.

“She needs to want it,” Smoke said, barely moving his lips. “The blood, the break, the end of that bastard’s reign… it gotta come from her. Not us. Or it’ll never stick.”

Stack scoffed. “So what, we just drive her up the road and toss her back into the fire, waitin’ for her to crawl back blackened and burned?”

“She’s stronger than you give her credit for.”

“No. She’s softer than you wanna admit.”

They were both quiet for a moment. The car dipped in a rut, and Sera jolted gently in the back seat, adjusting her posture with a soft wince that didn’t go unnoticed by either man.

Stack ran a hand down his face, agitated. “You keep talkin’ about lettin’ her decide if Samuel dies,” he said after a beat, voice a harsh whisper again. “But the longer you wait, the more shit he stacks up on her shoulders. You think it’s gonna help her to walk back into that house lookin’ like she just rolled outta bed with the Devil himself?”

Smoke’s jaw flexed. His thumb tapped the wheel.

“She goes back now,” he said, each word drawn tight like a tripwire, “and she sees how different everything feels. How ugly it looks compared to where she just came from. How small he is. How loud we echo, even in silence.”

Stack shook his head and focused his eyes on the road ahead. He didn’t agree with this plan.

Smoke went on. “She’ll want blood soon enough. We don’t gotta ask for it. She’ll beg for it.”

When they finally arrived Sera stood outside her childhood home with her heart hammering behind her ribs and a fire bubbling low in her stomach. Smoke stood on her left. Stack on her right. She could feel them both watching the house ready to burn it down. But this—this was her fight.

She took a breath as deep as the river, held it in her chest, and stepped up onto the porch. Her bare feet brushed the warped wood slats, worn soft from years of Sunday shoes and silent retreats. The screen door creaked softly in the breeze, hanging slightly ajar. That was her first warning. The second was the smell. A thick whisky aroma clung to the air. It was sour, sharp, and it slapped her in the face the second she stepped over the threshold. Her nose crinkled. She looked around, brows drawn in confusion. Her father never drank. Never even kept it in the house. Had called it the Devil’s water since she was a child.

But now? A bottle sat open on the table next to Pastor Samuel's favorite chair—his Bible in one hand, his glass in the other. He was slumped in his seat, eyes bloodshot and brooding, lips moving silently over some passage as his thumb dragged across the underlined verses. The room was dark despite the daylight. Curtains drawn and a fan clacked softly overhead.

She took one step in, and the floor creaked. That was all it took before his eyes lifted and fixed on her. Suddenly it felt like Sera walked into a freezer the way a chill crawled down her spine.

“Close my damn door.”

Her fingers trembled as she obeyed, pulling it shut behind her. The latch clicked softly, and the silence between them became unbearable.

She swallowed. Hoping if she pleaded her case Samuel would be understanding. “Daddy, I—”

“Don’t call me that.” His voice was bitter and full of disappointment. “Not after what you done.”

Sera stepped forward cautiously. “I only stayed one night. I was safe. I came back...”

“I wanted you back ‘fore they touched you,” he snarled, standing slowly, the Bible still in his hand, knuckles red and split from God knows what. “Not after they finished with you like you some field whore they picked up for sport.”

Her face crumpled, shoulders drawing tight. “They didn’t—Papa, it wasn’t like that. They care about me.”

“They own you now!” he foamed at the mouth, stepping forward, eyes wild. “You walkin’ around dressed like your mother, talkin’ like her, thinkin’ a man—or two… Lord help us—can fill the God-shaped hole in your chest!”

Her voice was a whisper. “Why are you drinkin’? I’ve never seen you—”

“I’M drinkin’,” he shouted, spit flying from his lips, “because my daughter let not one but TWO killers lay with her like dogs, and now the whole damn town gon’ whisper about how the preacher raised a harlot!”

Sera recoiled, one hand pressed to her chest.

He stared at her, eyes roaming her slip, disgust carved into every crease of his face. “You couldn’t even pick one man like a regular whore? You had to take two? Two, Seraphim? TWO!?”

“They… they care about me,” she said, but the words were faint and trembling.

“They defiled you. And you let ‘em.”

And then—he raised his hand.

It happened so fast, it was barely a thought. His Bible slipped from his fingers and thudded on the floor, and his arm came up like it had done plenty of times back when she was a child and talked too loud in front of the church elders. That same heavy weight in his palm, same heat in his eyes.

But this time… his hand never reached her. The door burst open behind her so hard it slammed against the wall, and the air rushed out of the room. Smoke entered first like a hurricane moving in slow motion.

Stack followed, and he saw red. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t shout. Didn’t warn. He stormed over to Pastor Samuel and drove his fist into the man’s jaw with a crack so sharp it echoed like gunfire.

Samuel stumbled back, crashing into the armchair, glass shattering on the ground beneath him.

“DON’T YOU FUCKIN’ TOUCH HER!” Stack roared, dipping low and drawing his blade from the sheath at his hip, “I’ll gut you like the bloated fuckin’ coward you are. Say I won’t.”

Samuel groaned, clutching his jaw, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Get off me—get your devil hands off me—!”

Stack yanked him forward by his collar, pressing the tip of the blade against his ribs, slowly pressing the tip into his flesh. “I’ll carve out that lying tongue first, preacher man. Then I’ll go for the lungs. You won’t make a sound in ya own house eva’ again.”

“Stack.” Smoke’s voice rang out, sharp but quiet. He was standing beside Sera now, one hand hovering over her back. His eyes never left Samuel. “Wait.”

Stack looked at his brother with a bewildered expression. “You have got to be fuckin’ kiddin’! You saw him raise that hand!” he growled. “You saw it!”

“I did.”

“He don’t get to live!” Stack’s voice was sharp, crackling like heat off a skillet. His chest heaved with each breath, rage making his hands tremble around the knife still slick with threat. The veins in his neck bulged. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it hurt to speak.

Smoke didn’t blink and didn't look at Stack. Instead, he kept his gaze locked on the preacher slumped in the chair, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth like a bitter communion.

“He doesn’t,” Smoke said finally.

Sera inhaled sharply. Her head turned fast and her eyes darted between the two men. “Wait… what does that mean?”

Smoke turned to her, slow and sure, as if this wasn’t something sudden but something inevitable. He wished it could’ve played out differently but this moment had been circling the horizon since long before any of them were born.

He reached out and gently tucked a loose frizzy curl behind her ear. His voice was steady and barely louder than a hum. “I need to ask you somethin’, my love,” he whispered in a gentle tone.

Sera blinked, her heart hammering. “What?”

“If I protected you—if I did what needed to be done… would you ever hate me for it?”

Her lips parted, confusion creasing her brow. “What kind of question is that?”

Smoke’s eyes didn’t waver. “Just answer it.”

Sera pondered on the question for a long minute. She knew the twins were dangerous but she wasn’t quite sure how dangerous they were or what methods Smoke and Stack would use to protect her. And right now, after what her father told her… she didn’t want to think for herself. “I… No. Of course not.”

He nodded once, like that confirmed something inside him. Something he’d been holding back. Something that had been pacing behind his ribs for far too long.

“Go upstairs,” he said gently before tenderly kissing her forehead. “Take your time. Get whatever you want to keep, my love. You ain’t stayin’ here no more.”

Sera hesitated, looking between the twins. Stack was still vibrating with fury, standing over her father like a storm about to strike. Samuel wheezed, a dark wetness bubbling in his throat, but there was no remorse in his eyes when he looked over at her only resentment. “Whore.”

Sera swallowed, then gave a quiet nod and moved toward the stairs. She didn’t ask any more questions and didn’t look back. She trusted the twins to make the tough decisions she couldn’t make herself. The moment her bare feet disappeared up the steps, silence fell heavy in the room. Smoke didn’t look at Stack. Stack didn’t look at Smoke. But the air between them sparked like fireworks on the white man's favorite holiday. No words. Just a slow exchange of breath, memory, and pain.

Smoke gave the faintest nod and Stack’s shoulders dropped like he’d just been given permission to become what he’d been holding back. Without a word, he turned and grabbed Samuel by the collar, yanking the older man to his feet like he weighed nothing.

Samuel screamed. “NO—NO PLEASE—NOT LIKE THIS—!”

Stack punched him in the face again before dragging him across the floor, his boots thudding heavy against the worn wood.

“I’M A PASTOR! A MAN OF GOD! YOU TOUCH ME AND THE WHOLE TOWN—!”

The rest of it was lost in the slam of the back door flying open.

Smoke didn’t move. Just stood there, still as a statue, staring at the blood-streaked Bible on the floor. He bent down slowly and picked it up with one hand. Flipped through the pages. They were smudged and torn in places. One of them had a faint reddish smear right through Corinthians.

Love is patient. Love is kind.

He hummed and shut the book.

Outside, the sounds of struggle grew louder. Stack’s voice was deranged and Smoke could hear him somewhere near an old smokehouse. “You think ‘cause you wore a collar and stood behind a pulpit, you was safe, nigga? We warned ya ass.”

“PLEASE—PLEASE—SHE’S MY BABY—”

“She was,” Stack growled. “Now she’s ours. And you tried to put your hands on OUR woman.”

There was a thud. A grunt. Then more dragging.

Smoke still didn’t move and he didn’t flinch when Samuel screamed again, this time raw and animalistic. The sound echoed through the backwoods like judgment day had arrived on four legs and no mercy.

And then silence fell over the land. A door shut somewhere out back.

Smoke exhaled through his nose and looked up the stairs. He listened for Sera’s footsteps, the soft creak of the floor above. He imagined her kneeling at her old bed, folding a dress she hadn’t worn in two summers. Maybe she’d pause at the windowsill where her mother once planted violets. Maybe she’d run a finger across her old Sunday school book before leaving it behind.

He hoped she didn’t cry because after today… after what he let Stack do… after what he would do… there would be no going back.

And if she did cry… He hoped it wasn’t for that man. He hoped it was for all the things she’d finally been freed from and what he and his brother would show her.

The stairs creaked under Sera’s feet as she descended, a leather bag strap dug softly into her shoulder. It was a worn thing—her mother’s old market satchel, faded and stitched at the sides where time had aged it but it now held all the pieces of her she couldn’t bear to leave behind. A pressed church dress that still smelled of gardenia. Two dog-eared Bibles; one hers, one her mother’s with passages underlined and scribbled margins full of long-forgotten notes. And a photograph. Just one.

She took her time on the steps. The house was too quiet. Unnaturally so. The fan overhead still hummed and somewhere outside, a crow called once, then went silent. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused. Smoke and Stack were waiting. Just like she expected them to be. But something about them was different now.

They didn’t stand shoulder-to-shoulder like usual. Smoke had one hand tucked into the crook of his arm, his weight shifted to one hip, gaze calm but distant. Stack leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, the buttons of his undershirt undone halfway down like he hadn’t bothered to fix himself back up. Neither wore their jackets. Neither looked like they had an ounce of regret between them.

But it was the details that caught her. Stack’s sleeves were unevenly pushed up, and his slacks—dark gray wool, usually spotless—had irregular speckles dotting the fabric, just above the knees and down one thigh. A deep burgundy-brown. She blinked at it but said nothing. There were faint scratches along his forearm too. Raw and recent.

Smoke… he had cuts. Clean and shallow, but unmistakable across the tops of his knuckles. The kind that came from skin meeting bone. She could see where he’d wiped away the blood but hadn’t tended to it properly. His sleeves were also rolled up, exposing tendons and veins, and his shirt hung open at the throat. One collar tip was crumpled.

They looked like they had gone somewhere the devil would be too frightened to travel. Sera swallowed a nervous gulp and she still said nothing. Instead, she shifted her bag on her shoulder and let her fingers trail along the banister as she stepped down the final stair.

Stack straightened when he saw her, eyes scanning her face like he needed to know if she was alright with just a look.

Smoke tilted his head slightly. “You ready?”

Sera nodded. “I… I took what I could carry,” she said softly. “Some memories. Some… pieces.”

Smoke gave a small nod of understanding. Stack offered the tiniest, crooked smile that was soft, despite the hardened edge in his jaw.

She hesitated then, her voice wavering as she turned toward the kitchen. “I was gonna leave a note. On the table,” she said quietly. “Just a goodbye. Let him know I ain’t runnin’ from him. Just… choosing something different. Think he’ll write back?”

Smoke’s eyes flicked toward the hallway behind her towards the back door. Just for a second. Then he stepped forward, slowly, and brushed his thumb along her cheek. “He might,” he said, voice warm and sweet in the same way a parent would address a child asking about Santa. “But don’t hold your breath, sweetheart. Sometimes men like that… they already decided what they wanna hear. Nothin’ you write gon’ change their mind.”

Sera nibbled on her bottom lip. “Still feels wrong, leavin’ without sayin’ it.”

Stack heard enough and stepped in beside her then, reaching down to lift her bag from her shoulder and toss it over his own. His arm brushed hers. She felt his fingers graze the back of her hand—barely there, but firm enough to anchor her.

“You did say it,” Stack comforted her. “You just finally said it with your feet instead of your mouth.”

Sera turned back to Smoke. “So I shouldn’t leave the letter?”

He gave her a small smile gentle, that couldn’t hide his tiredness. “Leave it if you want. But write it for you. Not him.”

She stood still for a moment, caught in the middle of a house she no longer belonged to, between two men who’d done something while she packed up her innocence upstairs. Something she hadn’t seen, but felt. In the walls. In their skin.

Whatever had happened while she was gone… it was finished now. And they weren’t going to make her carry the weight of it. Smoke reached for the front door and held it open. Stack touched her lower back to guide her through. She stepped out into the sun, bare feet on the porch wood, the hem of her yellow slip dancing around her thighs in the breeze and didn’t look back.

The door shut behind her with a quiet click.

It sounded a lot like a lock turning.

Or a chapter ending…

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No one:

Sera after the twins ctrl+alt+deleted her daddy:

Authors Note: For anyone confused about ‘Jade training’ it’s basically anal training. Sex toys in the 1920’s weren’t common BUT glass and jade anal plugs existed (very rare). Listen… it’s fanfiction and if you’ve read my other work it was only a matter of time before I figured out how to incorporate toys while keeping things historically accurate 🤭🤭🤭

Tag list:

@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

[meo-eiru]

I like to imagine Elias as an insane and extremely messy concubine from those historical cdramas PFFT. Especially in his “omg you came to see me!” Sketch. Mc would be the emperor of course! Poor guy would die to palace drama for sure.

Elias would so secretly poison another concubine if you decide to visit them at night instead of him.

This AU kinda goes hard actually I'm getting a lot of ideas.

Imagine he's the son of a normal family but was blessed with incredible good looks by the gods. Due to that beauty he was yearned by all sorts of nobles which made his family get a lot of riches as gifts but he kept refusing all of them.

Until one day you, the ruler of the country, came to personally visit him and he fell in love with you at first time, saying he would marry you even before he saw what gifts you brought for him.

It's all amazing, he's prettied up by the helpers you assign for him and you two quickly go back to your palace. He's so happy the whole way there but little did you know it's the quiet before the storm.

Once you arrive there he becomes aware of the fact that he's not your main husband but a concubine. He's distraught and extremely angry, what do you mean he has to share a rank with other man. He's clearly the most beautiful one here. Okay maybe you two don't have a child yet but so what? Are you really going to prioritize tradition before him? Even though he loves you so much? Do you not love him is that it???

After that it's just constant chaos. Your other concubines getting poisoned left and right, some of them straight up getting assassinated, a few of them returning to their village while crying due to continuous bullying. Elias even breaks into the rooms of the concubines you decide to spend the night with while you're there.

You've considered sending him back many times but you just can't bring yourself to. He's like a rare flower, with a lot of nobles keeping their eyes on him. Just his existence brings you political power, and not to mention when you do spend the night with him he's like a dream.

While he might be hurting the others due to his selfishness it's also true that he loves you in a way no other concubine does. As a ruler most of the relationships you have with your concubines are for politics but it's Elias who wraps his arms around you as soon as you enter his room. Engulfing you in the flowery scents he covered himself in and kissing you like you two are soulmates fated to be together. He's the one who looks at you with those loving eyes while his face is completely red and his body is warm under you. He's the one who holds your head in place through the whole night to make you look at him, like a sweet hypnosis he puts you under.

So it doesn't take too long for him to impregnate you with a child, quickly raising to the imperial consorts status before everyone else. It doesn't slow down his terrible behavior outside of the bedroom though. In fact it fuels it more some might say.

He has this air of superiority to him, knowing he has won against the others even while coming from a lowly background. He spends so much gold spoiling himself, buying the prettiest clothes and hair pieces, receiving the best skincare and makeup.

But you can't say no to him right? He's your beautiful rare treasure after all.

[lostandunlovedd]

The devil couldn’t reach me, so he made sure the love I gave never found its way back.

[chevelleneech]

One of my peeves about audience reception to Stack and Mary, is that too many people don’t know their history, therefore their understanding of them as a couple is extremely narrow.

Y’all know Mary not my favorite and I think she’s selfish in her strive to get Stack to stay with/around her. However, it was 1932! She wasn’t just some lovesick woman who didn’t understand the “gangster lifestyle” Stack was living.

Mary was one drop Black, raised by a quarter Black mother, who was raised by a half Black man. Her family intentionally evaded the Klan because they knew what would happen had they been discovered, yet Mary seemingly continuously brushed that aside because she wanted Stack. Which is understandable to an extent. They fell in love at a young age and were partially raised in the same house. They’ve known each other their whole lives, so it’s an obvious bond that is difficult to break.

However, viewing Stack’s decisions to push her away and talk down to her, was not because he was a gangster. It is literally because, as he said in the movie, SHE COULD GET KILLED BY WHITE PEOPLE! Of course he could too, but he obviously cared less about his safety than he did hers, because that’s the type of guy he was.

But I say it’s a peeve, because the humor in their earlier moment seems to have distracted people from the historical context. Black people could be beaten if not murdered for simply making eye contact with the wrong white person, which was why Stack told Sammie not to look at Mary, and why he himself did not maintain prolonged eye contact with her at the train station (aka in public view of other white people.)

Their relationship was not impossible because he was a criminal. It was impossible because it was more likely to result in their deaths by way of the Klan or a “good samaritan” white person who happened across them and decided for themselves that Mary was in distress.

I get it, I know y’all love a pretty interracial couple with a white woman in it, but I beg folks to pick up a history book. Skim and scan a Wikipedia article. Something!

Stack and Mary were much more complex than “The gangster wanting to protect his love.” And Smoke didn’t oppose them because he didn’t support interracial relationships. He didn’t support them being together, because being with Mary was a direct threat to Stack’s life, and we know he didn’t play that shit.