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wakandamama · 1 day ago

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THIS IS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT!!!! THIS IS WHAT THE PEOPLE NEED!!! AHHHHH

In Their Paradise: A Smoke and Annie Story

Summary: Elijah and Annie have fallen into a comfortable pattern, and are pleasantly surprised by a visitor.

Contains: Mostly fluff, a little smut-cunnilingus, sex, very loving. Short mentions of grief. SOFT FIRST AND FOREMOST. Smoke x Annie.

The silence pulled Elijah from his sleep like a warm hand, soft and steady. Through it all, the silence of the woods of Mississippi was what he missed most. Those days in Germany when it felt like the whole world was shaking with the sounds of gunfire and bombs cracking through the air. Those nights in Chicago that felt like the music would never end, like the people would never stop moving, like he couldn’t close his eyes for one second or it all would spin out of his control. Whenever he mentioned it, missing the silence that it seemed like they would never get back to, Stack would wave it away with a joke. “Graveyards is silent, nigga. Life supposed to have some noise to it.” Elijah heard his brother say, and for what felt like the millionth time, he wished that he could explain. The weight of the silence of a Mississippi night, when everyone had gone to bed for the evening, and all that was cutting through the heavy, weighty silence was the chirp of night bugs and the rustle of trees. Where a man could think and breathe and be with no interruptions.

It was in that silence that Elijah woke up, rolled out of bed and padded on bare feet in search of his Annie. She was in the kitchen, where he knew she would be, her back to him, her hands moving quickly and silently. He couldn’t see her front but he knew she had their baby strapped to her chest, knew that she was making him breakfast, knew that she felt him enter the room when he crossed the threshold toward her. “Morning cher.” Annie said to him, her voice low as she turned, folding into the velvety silence of the morning. Elijah’s eyes landed on hers, brown and deep and knowing, the corners crinkling from the soft smile on her mouth. Then they drifted down to the baby on her chest. Their Naomi, brown and whole and beautiful, her fist up and reaching toward him. His women, safe and sound, happy and whole. Forever.

“She be walking soon, and who knows what I’ll do with both of ya’ll getting into everything.” Annie spoke softly, her eyes on the baby. “You’ll do what you always done, you’ll look out for both of us.” Elijah replied, stepping closer. Then Annie’s eyes were on him, the familiar feeling passing through them both like a current. Elijah knew that they were both thinking of Stack, thinking of his brother, and missing him terribly. Time didn’t exactly move the same for them in their patch of paradise, and it didn’t exactly move the same for Elias anymore either, so the hurt was still there but it was different. Not as awful and overwhelming as that first and only true sunrise without him. It was more subdued, more manageable but still present, and Elijah knew without speaking that Annie had felt it too. They didn’t try to run from it, didn’t try to cover it up by mentioning their blessings, when they thought of the loss, and they often did, Elijan and Annie let the hurt move through them. They knew better than most that that was the only way to truly get from underneath it.

“You say that now, until she gets a hold of your knife again. You were up all night last time, sticking everything out of her reach.Annie joked, turning back to the kitchen counter and the breakfast she was making. As Elijah came to stand beside her he saw what she was making, her homemade biscuits and ham steaks left over from dinner the other night, thick ones that could brown perfectly in the pan the way that only Annie could do. He had dreamed of Annie’s cooking when they were apart, and no matter how many times she served him a meal it felt like something that he should cherish, and he did. “Go on and sit down.” Annie said, tilting her head toward the kitchen table. It always felt like she could read his mind, Elijah thought as he reached for the plate that Annie made for him. “Go on and sit” Annie urged, trying to pull the plate away. She liked to lay his plate on the table for him. She said that knowing he was always there to eat her cooking moved something in her, soothed some way back ache, and usually he indulged her, sat patiently while she set his plate and cup down, her eyes gleaming while he complimented everything in front of him; but sometimes he liked to push her buttons just to get some of that old, fiery Annie.

“You too stubborn for your own good.” Annie pouted as she sat on the other side of the small table, nursing Naomi. “And you too sweet to me.” Elijah smiled, leaning over the short distance between them. Annie, anticipating his affection, tilted her head up, her eyes on him and a smile playing at her lips. She wasn’t expecting the passion of when their lips met. Elijah felt her gasp, and took the opportunity of her slightly parted lips to slip his tongue into her mouth. She tasted like coffee too sweet for his liking, like cinnamon candy; the secret Annie that only he got to see who had a mean sweet tooth since they were young. Back when she would eat raw sugar out of a square of paper to soothe her craving.Annie pulled her mouth away, slightly gasping, and Elijah, chasing that connection between them, wanting to hear her those slight sounds she made get louder and louder until her voice broke into a wail, put his lips onto her collarbone, pressing kisses up and down. From her shoulder and toward the hollow of her throat where her heartbeat thudded. “Let me put the baby down.” Annie said firmly, pushing back in her chair, breaking their contact. Her brow was firm set, her lips pressed together, her eyes a blaze on him. Elijah struggled not to smile, he loved his woman fiery.

Annie stood wordlessly, walking toward the bedroom to lay Naomi down, and Elijah followed right behind. When Annie removed Naomi from her chest and placed the baby into the nest of pillows that she made for her, Elijah laid his hands onto her waist, his palms resting on the soft curve of her to pull her toward him. “Elijah.” Annie breathed, tilting her head back, giving him access to the tender column of her throat which he took advantage of, pressing kisses to her neck that made her soften in his hands, her shoulders sinking and giving him more room to explore with his lips. Elijah knew just what Annie liked for him to do to her. At one point, he had committed it to memory. When he was away from her, Elijah spent his nights practically feeling the weight of her in his hands, the rise and fall of her chest against his. He replayed their wedding night over and over in his head, how in the moment he felt like he needed to commit her in her dress, in their bed, to memory- and how he had no idea how right he was. But not anymore. There was nothing pulling them apart, nothing higher to commit to than themselves.

Elijah led Annie to their bed, soft and sunlight, and laid her pliant body down. Annie’s eyes were soft on him as she watched his movement.There was only a moment of stillness before Elijah was on Annie, taking her barefoot in his hand and kissing at her firm,solid calf. As he expected, Annie broke out in soft giggles, trying to pull away which only opened her legs to him further, giving him space to kiss up her leg to the back of her knee, nibbling slightly at the warm skin there. Annie opened her legs wider to accommodate Elijah, allowing him to sink further between her legs and allowing him access to her thighs. Inhaling, Elijah took her in, placing a firm kiss on the softness of her right thigh before switching to the left. Annie was so soft in places only he could see; her eyes when she was smiling just at him. Her thighs, her tummy, her chest,her laugh- his Annie only for him. Forever. “Elijah” Annie commanded, a firmness in her Louisiana lilt that made him chuckle slightly, the puff of air from his laugh making Annie jolt. “I got you, pretty baby.” Elijah assured her, still kissing up her thighs, taking his time. He felt her sink her hips into the bed as he neared the apex of her thighs, and wrapped his arms around her thighs to anchor her to him where she belonged.Annie shifted in his arms, testing the tightness of Elijah’s hold, but it was firm, and he wasn’t letting her get out of his grasp.

Elijah never tired of tasting Annie. When he parted her lips with the point of his tongue,her hips bucked up in the span of his arms, making him tighten his hold on her thighs and press deeper into her, his lips parted as they travelled up and enclosed around her pearl. When he pulled slightly, Annie gasped, her voice quivering. His Annie, always under control, always pulled back, open beneath him and coming apart- Elijah never got tired of taking her there. Of tipping her over the brink of pleasure and reducing her to her softest. When he lifted his head from between Annie’s lush thighs, Elijah took her in, her chest rising and falling, her arms stretched across the bed decadently, like she was trying to ground herself. He didn’t speak- other times he may have teased her to watch that daze in her eyes dissolve as that fire that he loved returned. But he loved her like this too, well loved and taken care of in his arms and underneath him and with him where she belonged. Instead of words Elijah placed kisses up Annie’s body, placing his lips across her thighs, and over her hips, and up to her waist, each kiss rippling into a quiver that radiated through his woman’s body. Then he was at her chest, soft and warm and heaving with the effort of his love. Elijah kissed between the valley of her breasts, reverent. There was no scar there from his act of love when she laid beneath him, their world ending. If they wanted to, they could pretend that it had never happened at all. But neither of them wanted to. Elijah lathed kisses there, his lips and his tongue travelling back and forth over the smooth, cool skin over Annie’s heart, over and over as he felt her begin to squirm beneath him.

Elijah didn’t know how long he lingered there, lost in the softness of Annie, before she pulled her arms around him, cocooning him around her, and bought her right hand to the back of his head, guiding his head to the dark sweetness of her nipple, where she wanted him. And he obliged her, he never could deny her. He knew just how to pull her into him, how to give her the heat and the pressure of him that made her breathe loud and hot and made her arms and legs pull around him like she never wanted to be away from him. “Si-S’il vous plait.” His love stuttered, her words smoothe and halted at the same time. “Please what, baby?” Elijah teased around the peak of her nipple. He loved to take her here, to this pleading place before he gave her what she needed how only he could. “S’il vous plait, mon amour. Mwen bezwen.Mwen bezwen.Mwen bezwen.” Annie chanted beneath him. “What you need, baby? What you need from me?” he asked her, already rising up between her legs, his body aligning with hers. “Toi. Mwen bezwen.” Annie pleaded, her voice low, her eyes locked on his. And because he never could tell her no, and because she looked so pretty beneath him, lips parted, eyes wide, and because he needed her just as badly, Elijah gave Annie what they both needed, sliding home into her body where he belonged.

Annie was warm and soft around him, pulling him into the love of her so intensely that Elijah dropped his head into the crook of her shoulder, hissing as she moaned aloud, the sounds of them mingling in the silence around them. Elijah rocked into her slowly and precisely, travelling the path of her body as he had so many times before, with the same reverence of coming home to her, body and soul. Elija didn’t have to look at his Annie’s face to know that her eyes were soft, that her lips were parted, that her pulse was thumping in the hollow of her throat like it did before she came apart around him, but he did anyway, taking her in indulgently. “”This what you needed, love?” he asked her, knowing that the question would send her over the edge again, hard. “Ahh” Annie gasped, like she was surprised they were here again, at this place where he took her, where she belonged, his beautiful girl.

Elijah valiantly kept his pace as Annie came apart around him, her arms around him, pulling him deeper into her as she mumbled Creole and English and I love you and you’re perfect, baby, don’t stop, please, mon amour, I’ll die. Right there, baby,like that.” It was too much, his Annie at her softest and most perfect for him. Just for him. Nobody else saw her like this, pleading and satisfied and his. Nobody else could take her here, pin her to pleasure and let her ride it out around him until she was satisfied. It was too much, and it drove Elijah right behind her as he sunk deep, deep, into Annie’s depths, their hips pressed together, his arms braced around her head, her arms around him in a shaking embrace, his breaths matching her moaning words. Perfectly in tune. Elijah finished with a low groan just as Annie’s arms and legs relaxed, making her jerk around him again, twitching with overwhelm and overstimulation beneath him. “Bondie, ti cheri. My Lord, my love, cheri.” Annie muttered as he moved to pull from the space between her legs. “Don’t go.” Annie said simply, her lips pouting as she weakly lifted her arm to pull him back to her. And Elijah knew that he needed to get Annie water, and to run some water for a bath for her, but they did not have to rush. They had all the time in the world to luxuriate amongst each other. It was a luxury that had eluded them for so long, and it was one of their biggest blessings. So of course he laid back down, laying in her arms, their breaths slowing, their bodies cooling, and their mutual pleasure tapering out to a warm and comfortable blanket over them.

Annie fell asleep in his arms, her face pressed up against his chest, her thigh thrown over his, glowing and radiant in her softness. She was so well loved and at peace that she didn’t hear their baby crying from her bed in the other room. And Elijah had no desire to disrupt his beautiful girl from her peace, and got up to see about Naomi. Elijah knew that her cry was one of curiosity. When he entered the room, her cries soften to coos, and when Elijah walked up to her, her wide eyes followed him, her dark lashes spiky with tears. She looked like Annie, her high cheekbones and her knowing dark eyes. She looked like him, his nose. She looked like Stack, that set to her mouth like she was always just about to laugh. “Papa’s here, baby.” he said softly, and she cooed in response. Elijah walked over to her, and Naomi reached up, her hands seeking him. And when he gave her his hand, her fingers gripped his tightly, holding him as she babbled and cooed. “Yeah?” Elijah questioned, smiling down at her. “And then what?” he urged her. His girls loved to be the center of his attention, and he loved to give them all of the attention they wanted. “She need changing?” Annie questioned from behind him in the doorway, suddenly awake and with him. “Naw, she just want to talk to her daddy.” Elijah said, picking his daughter up in her arms, prompting a gummy smile that lit up her face and his. “She do love her daddy.” Annie agreed.

****

Time passed in its own way for them, natural and mysterious.There were seasons- the leaves changed, cold came and went, birds migrated and returned, but they didn’t know where and from where. Naomi cut small teeth, and grew stronger pulling herself up on furniture wobbly and determined. Annie’s belly swelled with another baby which they both hoped was a boy. They lived a content life in their corner of the universe. Annie continued her work, serving the people that she loved, coming to them when they called for guidance and help. Elijah watched over their people. He watched Clarksville grow and change, he watched his brother with the same curiosity that he always did as he moved in the world that he was no longer a part of. Mostly he loved his women, lived with them through the long days, telling stories and singing songs and teaching Naomi about their home and their people. Talked with Annie just to hear her voice.

It was like that for some time, and neither he nor Annie wanted to change it. But of course life, in all of its forms, moved in accordance to its own rules. They were sitting on the front porch. Annie was sewing something, her hands moving quickly and efficiently, and Elijah was whittling, a hobby that he found himself doing even though it reminded him of his father. Naomi was playing some sort of game where she climbed up the four short steps from the ground to their porch and sliding back down on her knees. Both parents had their eyes on her, the sun was setting lazily, the evening bugs were perking up and calling to each other from the trees and the tall grass and Elijah was just about to ask Annie what they were having for dinner when Annie stood up, wordlessly, her eyes on the distant horizon. Elijah stood, coming up beside her, and saw someone approaching, moving through the swaying grass. They waited patiently, accepting what was coming in the way that they had adopted in their time together in the afterlife. When the figure approached, it was a welcome surprise. It was Sammie, little Sammie, looking the same as the morning that Elijah had picked him up from in front his daddy’s church all those years ago, and simultaneously a grown man who had lived the full and storied life that both Elijah and Annie had watched. In one hand he had a guitar, his daddy’s guitar, gleaming in the evening light, and in the other he held his hat, pressed over his heart.

“Smoke” Sammie breathed, his brown eyes wide and focused on him with reverence. Elijah hadn’t heard that name of his in so long. It felt like it didn’t belong to him, but did in a deep and natural way. “Sammie” Elijah said with a smile, picking up Naomi in his arms as he walked down the short steps from the porch to greet his younger cousin. “The baby” Sammie said, his eyes bouncing from Elijah’s face to his child’s, “Annie.” Sammie continued, meeting her eyes. “How you doing, Sammie?” Annie said softly, her smile in her voice. Elijah and Annie knew that he had to be overwhelmed. Annie, who came first had the benefit of her knowledge and her faith, and Elijah had the benefit of his faith in Annie, and they were never alone because their daughter was waiting for them to love her like they always wanted. “I’m fine, I think. I-” Sammie started, his voice low and smoothe like they both remembered, but aged with the many years that had passed. “I know.” Annie said, her voice soothing. “I know.”

Sammie stayed for a while, asking more questions of them than they asked him. Reminiscing. Annie cooked, making Sammie any dish that he asked for in abundance, serving him heaping plates of catfish and chicken and biscuits and hush puppies. Happy to give him as much of a time and place that she could. Sammie, newly in the body that Elijah and Annie remembered like it was yesterday, ran around the house with Naomi, and strummed his guitar all well into the evening, playing any song that either of them requested. It was one afternoon, after a lunch of smothered pork chops that Sammie had asked for first thing that morning, that he looked at Elijah and Annie with eyes so tender that they knew that he was moving on. “I thank ya’ll, I really do.” Sammie started, his gaze going from Elijah to Annie. “We know, Sammie.” Annie spoke first, her voice soothing. “And we know you a blues man, and they don’t stay in a place too long.” Elijah finished. They didn’t need him to explain. The peace that they found in each other, in their small house on their piece of land, with their baby child, Elijah and Annie wished for every single person in their life. “I want to try and find her.” Sammie said simply. And they knew who he was talking about- his Pearline. There was so much that they knew, and so much that was still a mystery, and that was life, even the life that they lived. Annie and Elijah had talked at length about it. They had hope that somewhere, everybody who left the Juke that night made their way to a home like theirs, and that one day their families came to meet them. That the music that sometimes travelled over to them on very quiet nights was coming from Slim playing an encore to a loving crowd. They had hope that one day they would wake to a knock at the door and Elijah would see his own face, see that wide, wiley smile again. That he would hold his brother again, and they would catch up in person. But there were still mysteries that they couldn’t control, and that was the nature of life and the blessing that they were given.

Sammie looked at Annie, silently asking for direction. Annie placed her hand on the table in front of him, her hands strong and capable. “I don’t have that answer for you, baby.” Annie said, her voice low and just for him. “There’s so many miracles, so many blessings, and I got mine. You have to let love guide you to yours, and believe that it’s out there.” Sammie nodded, saying no more. With what they had seen, with what he had lived through, there was an understanding of surrendering to the mystery of it all. He was gone by that evening, full of Annie’s cooking, and with some to go in a sack to tide him over wherever he was about to journey. He had sang all day, almost nonstop, and as he departed he hugged Elijah last, long and lingering, their embrace weighty with so much that they didn’t have to say. “Love you, cousin.” Elijah said. “And you know I love you.” Sammie replied. “Here, if you want them.” Sammie said, handing Elijah a bundle of rolled cigarettes. He hadn’t held one since his brother had last handed one to him. And at one point the gesture may have caused pain, have made him think of last moments and of regrets, of things that he missed and may never have back. But Elijah had seen enough life unfold in all of the messy, beautiful, complicated ways that it did, to take his cousin’s offering as a connection to a time that he had loved and lost in place of something different and lovely in its own way.

“I thank you.” he said with a nod, knowing that Sammie knew what he meant. And then his cousin was gone, walking away with the same purpose that he had walked up to their house with, his guitar strapped to his back where it belonged. Elijah watched him walk away until Sammie was a small dot in the horizon, then he was gone, off into the mystery. When he turned back to his house, Annie was feeding Naomi, mashed carrots he assumed by the way the baby reached eagerly for the spoon, and they locked eyes across the distance. “Matches are by the stove.” Annie said, smiling at him as the sun set. “Make sure to smoke ‘em slow, who knows if you gone get any more.” “You never know” Elijah shrugged, walking the short distance to stand beside his women “You never do know.”

#black culture #sinners #smoke x annie

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wakandamama · 3 days ago

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What Does Yesterday Whisper to The New Day's Sun

Summary: You are on the hunt for your family's history. This takes you from Mississippi to Louisiana, where you meet a man who unravels you. An AU where Smoke also became a vampire. Smoke x Reader.

Warnings/AN: UNEDITED, NOT PROOFED. SMUT. If it isn’t obvious from my lack of ability to write metropolitan, I am not American nor North American-based. Everything comes from Google and books/movies. As such, I do apologise for inaccuracies in describing Charlotte or New York. I am borrowing from the fact that in the Caribbean, we can only trace our Black ancestry as far back as someone can tell it. Only our immediate elders have papers or have even begun to keep records. If I am erring in assuming the same for AA, I apologise and hope it doesn’t ruin your fanfiction!

You feel the shiver of the night on your skin; chill and damp, like a storm was coming.

The Louisiana air was rife with humidity, the sounds of the saxophone player in the bar besides your hotel echoes like a distinct cricket. Your fingers grip the lapel of your coat as you tighten it – looking out of the smudge window, you see a long-haired white boy bum a cigarette light off a brother with a fro thick as an ixora bushes outside your grandmother’s house.

“Looking for someone?” asks a young woman, not a bartender or waitress. Another patron who seems to have noticed your easy watching. She’s dark-haired and pretty with big, brown eyes.

“No.”

She lingers, lean over the back of the booth across from you. “Awfully pretty to be so alone.”

“I’m not alone.” You lie, lighting a cigarette. Your red painted lips suck on the stick and blow the smoke beside you. “Are you?”

“Nah.” She drawls, smiling. “You remind me of someone.”

“You local?” you ask, peeked.

“Been that way for a while.”

“I’m looking for my people. Got some family from here and the Delta.”

“Really?” she grins; smile wide and teeth bright. “What’s your last name?”

You squint, but you’re on your third Merlot and finished a second Whiskey Sour not that long ago so your lips are loose. “Landry. I have a long-lost aunt that disappeared in Mississippi a few decades back. She went by Cormier though. Annie Cormier then Moore. I’m doing research on her for my masters in Cultural Studies out in New York.”

The woman doesn’t say anything. You’re not sure, but you’re certain you saw her eyes grow misty – even for a moment. She plasters on that odd smile again. “Isn’t that something!”

“Yeah.” You finish your drink and smile at her. “You have a nice night, alright?”

“Oh, you’re going already? We just got to talking.” She says with no small intensity.

You slid out the booth, standing. “I’m good on the drinks. Gonna close off before I get reckless.”

“Now that ain’t no fun. You gotta be reckless once and a while. I’m Mary.”

“You here alone?”

You give your name, eyes catching the bartender’s figure moving across the counter. You pick up your jacket and knot it at your waist. “I’ll see you some other time, Mary.”

“I’ll catch you.”

The sentence stings like a promise against your back – haunting you as step into the Louisiana air. Charlotte was a lively city. Music pouring out from everywhere, food as good as any kind of sin. Soon as you turn your head; there was a homeyness to it too. One that Brooklyn didn’t have, that country flair to the city that you were sure you’d miss when you left.

You turn back to the bar; Annie’s, sprawled across the neon sign, hanging like ripened apple. There’s an iron wrought balcony beneath it, a man stands, leaning over – with a fat cigar in his hand. You can’t see his face clearly, but you feel his eyes on you. Unnerving you in a look.

A shiver runs through you, like a river full of life, and you keep on ahead trying to forget that man and his gaze. When you hit the door of your apartment, you find yourself racing to the flat, keys trembling in your hand. You breathe air into your palms and rub them, crafting warmth.

You burn cinnamon that night, all around the flat, and dust salt on the door.

The next night, though fear pushes your heart to your ribcage, you return to the bar. This time, when you see Mary, you go straight to her and ask her to dance with you. She smiles at you; like you’ve been expected and pulls you onto the dancefloor.

The heat of the club burns against your skin, bodies on bodies on bodies, she smells like the root of a peppermint. You think you can feel her on your soul when your bodies press together. Screaming Jay Hawkins echoes from the stage, crooning mean into the air. The muggy heat presses upon you, sealing you closer. You don’t stop though – hips rolling over her, hands reaching behind her.

“Come ‘long, baby.” She murmurs, turning you around and pulling you through the crowd. Her hand is cool in your own. Ice in a flesh sack.

Mary takes you through the crowd, cutting until you met double doors – a circle emblem at the centre, like the roots of a big oak tree.

“Where are we going?” You ask over the sound of the holler at the end of Put A Spell on Me. “You got a secret red room back here?”

Mary laughs. “Child, if you only knew.”

The hairs on the back of your hand stand out and you pull from her hand, but she holds you tighter, brown eyes staring you down fierce. You tug again, narrowing back your gaze at her. “I need to take a piss.”

“There’s a bathroom back here. You scared of me or something?”

“You ain’t nothing to be scared of.” You say, mimicking her accent.

She laughs. “Then why you trembling like that. Looking like a rabbit ‘bout to be slaughtered.”

You roll your eyes about to speak, but a deep vibrato rings behind you.

“Why you don’t leave that girl alone, Mary.”

Turning your face, you catch the look of a young man – about Mary’s age, with deep brown eyes and full, well-shaped lips. He was tall and seem to be of a stern nature. It wasn’t his good looks that took you though; rather, it was his familiarity. You feel tender just thinking of it.

“We just having fun, Smoke. No harm, no foul.” Mary insists.

Your eyes bounce between the two and you clear your throat. “Think I need a drink.”

“You do that, darlin’.” Smoke says, dragging a cigarette between his lips and puffing white into the air.

Brushing pass him, you try not to inhale the tobacco, but you do. You take in his scent too. Eucalyptus and whiskey; like a fire was under him, burning up something furious. Just walking by you feel the heat, dragging you in like a hearth. You’ll be warmed by me, it seems to whisper, you’ll be safe with me.

You look up and catch his gaze on you, its softness stifling.

This time when you ran from the bar, you did not glance back at it though you feel that stare all the same.

***

You go back during the day, knocking on the door to see staff cleaning it out. You seem to have barely made it in time before they closed up. A man scrubs the entrance with high-scented water, he speaks in deep Cajun, “Sis, you gon’ get yo’self in trouble askin’ ‘em sort of ques’ions.”

“All I’m asking is a name. Who owns it?”

“All I know is my cheque clears.”

When they weren’t any help, you head down to city hall. This sort of thing was public record after all. You sift through records and civil servants who want to be less than helpful, to find the name of a famous blues singer – who was about fifty years old and currently touring Japan according to the papers. Sammie Moore.

It is the first clue you’ve had in two weeks.

After you’d been to the Delta, gathering what you could from registries and whoever was still alive to even remember Annie, you’d taken the bus to Charlotte. The history on black folks on paper was limited; if existent at all.

You go through decades of newspapers; find one stray article that Sammie had given when he was a young man in his twenties, interviewed by a short-lived coloured papers. The Ohio Tribune, titles the article “Bluesman of the Century: Barely a Quarter Century”.

…the son of sharecroppers, the seed of a preacher. You sing about the complex relationship you had with your father a lot. What does your Daddy think of you all the way out of that plantation – selling out arena worldwide?

I figure, if he was still alive, he might have hated it.

Did your family outside of him encourage?

My cousins. Gave me the guitar I play with. Annie, my cousin’s wife loved it too. She would ask me to sing whenever I could.

You read on, searching for a name or names. Only to find nicknames – Smoke and Stack. What the fuck could you do with that? You rub your eyes. You were hoping to see Annie’s husband’s name, so that could be a connection. Elijah – Elijah Moore. The name on the tattered journal you’d found while rummaging that abandoned shack in Mississippi. Elijah. Elijah. The man shared the same face as this Smoke fella. But the Smoke Sammie spoke of, an older cousin, could be kin to the Smoke you met? His father maybe? But Smoke looked so much like Elijah.

You sigh. A headache was coming on. You were twisting yourself something ugly.

Could it be another Annie? Sammie and her were from the same community, that much you had gathered. Maybe you could write the archive there, ask them to send a copy of the list of residents to you? If they even had it.

You sigh, head hurting even more from all the questions. The more you uncover, the less you seem to find. Turning your gaze to the window, you see the twilight of the fallen day. Night coming slowly. You could go back to that club. Make sure that Smoke probably had no connection to Annie; but could you risk it? Sammie Moore owns the club, and this mysterious man who was the carbon copy of your great-aunt’s husband was no small coincidence.

Tapping your fingers on the table, you hum. It was about the time that even if the club couldn’t open – that could be there, preparing for opening. Grabbing your bag, you run out, hoping not to miss the bus.

The bar – as you suspected is partially opened. The front is all locked up but the back is spawled, with two workers sharing a cigarette and chatting. They pause, staring at you as you approach.

A lie slips easily; “Mary asked to see me.”

They part in a second and let you in, telling you she’s in the back room. But you don’t go there. You enter the bar, which looks different brightly lit. Clean and aired out. Sitting at a booth, is Smoke and a man who is identical to him. He’s dressed in white shirt and a dark blue suit. The man, in a black to what he’s wearing. The man looks at you in the strange way Mary had before he grins; white teeth glittering by golden grills. They’re a handsome pair; sitting there like two haunts.

“Good evening.” You greet. “If I could speak with you, Smoke.”

“Good evening.” The new man drawls, chuckling. “Girl sound like Dracula. Good evening. Who the fuck are you?”

“I didn’t speak to you.” You say at the same time Smoke says. “Shut the fuck up, Stack.”

Stack whistles, raising his hands. “Well damn.”

“I’m doing some research on the area, well a woman from this area. She’s kin to me, though deceased.” You stammer, going right up to their table. You empty your bag, spreading the photographs, files, and copied data sheets. “Annie Cormier. I’m doing my paper on Hoodoo and its connections to black womanhood. Rather, Black American womanhood and the efforts to drown it.” You pluck the copy of her photograph out, the one with her husband. You look up at them; Stack looking like he was longing to be anywhere else but there and Smoke looking like he might combust. “You look just like him. It’s like a doppelganger. If you’re related to the Moores from there – like Sammie Moore, you could help me find out more about her. I gotta know her. Gotta understand her.”

For a moment, the twins look at the paper. Like it was something sacred and holy. Smoke’s fingers reach for it then pull back. Like it might burn him up. He turns his face away, looking to the wall, as though something might be summoned from it.

“Sorry, darlin’. No clue what this about.” Stack starts, pushing your paper away. “Best of luck. Feel free to come back later and drink some vodka. Straight from Russia. Real pure shit.”

“I don’t want no fucking vodka. I’m just looking for some answers.”

“Ain’t no answers here for you little girl.” Smoke snaps. “You bes’ get to getting befo’ you find yourself in trouble.”

“You planning on doing something to me for asking a few questions?” You dare.

Smoke stands, towering over you by a good few inches. Though, you were sure if you stretched – you could punch him in his fucking throat real smooth. “I can promise you, you won’t like the answers.”

The threat slams into you with a force, fear making your knees buckle but you never dropped your gaze. “I’m not going to be bullied out of this. You aren’t going to stop me from searching.”

“Yeah, well, you keep searching lil’ girl. You gon’ find some shit you never wished you did.” Stack says, placing a cigarette between his lips. He takes along, deep pull.

“I’m a grown ass woman, nigga.” You cuss with a sneer, huffing you pack up your papers and spin out of the room. “Fuck y’all for not helping me. Fucking gangstas.”

A low, humoured whistle follows you as you leave. Anger burning in your chest. You make it all the way to your bus stop before you cool down. Your hands tremble as you hold your bag. Your frustration seeping out like the flood of a broken dam. Those motherfuckers. You steel yourself; they wouldn’t be done with you yet. There was no chance of you leaving now; not when you’d gotten so close.

Why else would they be so adamant you left them alone? They knew what it was. They had to know something about Annie. You weren’t a fool. You might be impulsive – but not foolish. They hadn’t seen the last of you. You’d be there every night until your research months died out. They’d be sick of you. Or they’d kill you.

Knowing your history was worth it.

***

At 3AM, a rapping at your apartment door wakes you up. You tumble out of bed, tripping over books scattered about your bedroom and hitting a broken typewriter at your ankle. Your blurred vision doesn’t help; sleep addled, you open the door without peeking and find yourself startled at the sight before you.

“Mary?” You say, rubbing the cold from your eye. “How the fuck did you find where I was living?”

“You sure as fuck pissed Smoke off.” She says instead of answering you. “I think I might have some answers for you.”

“Yeah?” You whisper; awake. “Well get in then, girl.”

Mary takes a seat on your couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She goes into her bag – a broad designer thing that looks good even in the dim, yellow light of the apartment. You feel self-conscious all of a sudden, shy. “What do you know about Annie?”

“I know she disappeared, along with tens of other poor black people one night. She had a husband who’d abandoned her after the death of her infant. She was known as a witch doctor of sorts in her area and was the sister of my Grandmother. Annie was around thirty-three when she died, though we’re not sure cause my Grandmother isn’t even sure how old she is.”

“And did your Grandmother share much of the practice with you?”

“No. She’d converted to Catholicism when she married my Pops, didn’t want to lose him.”

“Ain’t that some shit.”

“Ain’t it.”

The two of you chatter amongst each other, Mary tells you the twins have kin in the Delta. Roots deep as the Earth’s core. The way she tells stories about Annie, you feel as though she were there. You set your recorder up half-way through the first one. While she speaks, you try to cross check with the limited information you have on Annie and the oral history passed down on Hoodoo, on the roots within your blood.

There is something about what she says that strikes you as true, like she knew Annie.

“It’s getting late.” She says, looking out your window, the view of the city obstructed by another apartment building.

You chuckle. “You mean early. Do you want breakfast? I make a mean cup of coffee.”

“Come by the bar tonight.” She says, moving faster than you’d ever seen her. “The twins will be more willing to talk. I promise.”

“Alright.”

You sleep for most of the day and make notes in the afternoon. Mary had given you information smartly – part here, part there. She teases you and leaves you hanging. There was no choice in going to the bar tonight.

You picked your hair out, nice and wide. Glossed your lips and curled your lashes. You wore thigh high boots with a sensible heels for kicking �� just in case those gangstas tried to bully you again. A mini-dress that skirted your bum complimented it, the purple looking royal against your skin as your thighs shun.

When you arrived at the bar, barely a foot in, your purse clutched at your side, Mary greets you. Dark hair curled in big Farrah Fawcet style curls. She gives you a fleeting look, smirking. “You look damn good, girl.”

Shyness fills you up, warming your cheeks with her tone. “Do they have the time to answer my questions?”

“They don’t.” She corrects, leading you away from the crowded floor. “Smoke will have everything you need. It’s his area of expertise.”

“He related to her? Or got kin in it?”

Mary doesn’t answer you, just leading you closer and further down the back of the club. The same path Smoke had blocked you from entering. This time, she made no pause or gave no look-backs. She opens the door with a key that had been tucked into her bosom and puts you in front of her. “Door opens from inside. You go straight up that staircase, the first door belongs to Smoke. You don’t gotta knock, just open. He knows your coming.”

You follow her instructions, trying not to flinch at the sound of the door slamming shut behind you. The stairs creak as you walk up them. Bleach and pine sol fill your nose, like they clean here constantly, like it was some sterile hell.

Fighting against your natural instinct, you open the door and find Smoke pulling on a cigarette, face the opened balcony door of his office. His silhouette looks drawn out of a dirty magazine; broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs. He turns his face to you, smoke clouding his head. Then he steps forward, outing the cigarette on the iron flooring of his balcony before he came in. The yellow light casting an attractive glow on his face.

He was a good-looking man. Too bad y’all might be cousins.

“I want to apologise for chasin’ ya out here the other day.” He murmurs, sitting on the side of his desk. “Family is a touchy subject. Annie is a touchy subject.”

“You talk like you knew her.”

He smiles, though it looks sad and forced. “I knew her well enough.”

“I don’t want no trouble. I’m just looking for my history, sir.”

“Sir.” He chuckles, looking at you like he was searching for something in your face. “Got manners like someone from the Delta. Tell me again how Annie is related to you.”

“She’s my grandmother’s sister. My Gran was her little sister, her name was –”

“Marie.” He says. “Annie was twelve years older than her and would write her once a month.”

“Yeah…” you murmur. “Are you Annie’s grandson? You look just like that picture of her husband and her. I knew it couldn’t be coincidence.”

“Nah.” He drawls. “I’m Moore but ain’t kin to her. Too good of a woman for me to have come from her. Too pure a soul.”

“No such thing as a pure soul.” You correct. “I have a few of her documents, like her marriage license and birth certificate. Mary gave me a lot of good data but I still feel as though I need parts of her. Like I’m getting surface level shit.”

He hums, the front of his expensive shoe pushes at the chair in front of him. You take the hint and sit down. “I’m not a practitioner but I know a few things. I don’t have the sensitivity people say she had but I know when my ancestors are speaking to me. They keep sending me here. To you. You have to have some sort of information about her that I can’t get elsewhere.”

“Yo’ gut telling you that?”

“Yes.”

Smoke shakes his head.

He goes behind his desk and removes a paint, one of sunrise across the Mississippi. The face of a safe stares back and you, and he unlocks with his back blocking your gaze. From it, he lays a chest on his desk. When he opens it, there’s a plethora of notes, sketches of herbs and plants, wax coated bottles and letters. You don’t even have to ask to know its all Annie.

When your hand touches the box. Filled with authentic things that holds her spirit, held by her hands. You feel your vision darken and you collapse; hums ringing in your ear.

***

Smoke doesn’t make you feel bad for fainting. In fact, when you awake you’re startled by the look of fear in his eye. Though he discounts it, saying he didn’t want a lawsuit or anything. You sit up, sipping the water he had one of the waitresses bring up for you.

“Can I take these back to my apartment? I just wanna go through them. I’ll go to the library and make copies.”

“We got a copy machine in the office. These,” he presses a ringed index finger on one of the few photographs. “Don’t leave here.”

“How often can I come then? Can I stay till you close?”

Smoke narrows his eyes. “You can stay till we close. You can come tomorrow then after you’ll have to call.”

“The club number?” You ask, removing your purse and taking out your notepad and pen. You stand over the chest and start to go through it. You find a letter addressed to someone named Elijah, her husband.

“Take mine.” A card slides over the letter and you pocket it.

“I’m grateful for this.” You say, for the third time. “You don’t know what it means to have this in my hand.”

Smoke hums. You find he tries not to say more than he has to.

You stick around until the music from the bar is done. Till your boots feel too tight and chafe, till your belly roars in hunger as you feast upon the information laid out to you. Annie had been meticulous. Her knowledge of herbal medicine was something special; not even in the most detailed of interviews garnered this.

A pang of loss stings you; had you not found your way here, all of this ancestral knowledge would’ve been lost. The roots, gone.

“This should be in a museum.” You mutter, half-way through her notecard on herbal treatment for chickenpox scars. “A history tucked away in a box.”

“It ain’t history if you lived it. It’s part of you.”

“Well, I haven’t lived it. Millions of black people haven’t. Millions of us don’t have someone who kept records, or who told us these parts.” You bemoan. You set the notecard down and put your pen and notepad back up. “I’ll be here tomorrow ‘round six. Is that okay?”

Smoke waves his hand. “Just put my shit back in the box.”

On instinct you roll your eyes. Jackass.

That evening, Smoke is who greets you. Looking sharp in a blue jeans, colourful waistcoat that was finely made, and a long-sleeved shirt. You hated when a man knew he was good-looking. Smoke doesn’t say anything, walking you up to his office and taking a seat on the balcony while you took notes.

You’re a few hours into reading her letters to her husband, Elijah. When the door opens to reveal his twin. Stack glances at you briefly before looking straight at Smoke.

“Nigga, we got a problem.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy.”

“It’s urgent.” Stack stresses on the last word, the toothpick between his teeth threatening to snap. Smoke curses low and stomps out, but not before issuing a warning to you. “Don’t take none of my shit.”

“I don’t steal.” Not that the thought hadn’t crossed your mind.

You set that letter down and pluck another one. This one is one of the later dates. Post-war, many years. This one wasn’t written by Annie, rather, her husband. Elijah writes with flourish to her, his chicken scratch promising betterment through schemes. Yet there is an earnest, mature affection there. A love divine.

Your heart aches for him, you wonder if he panicked when she disappeared. If he mourned. Setting it back, you go to her notes – wishing for a reprieve from sentiment. There’s a cluster of notes based on all kinds of spirits; haints, wendigos, vampires, she had them by the dozens. You buzz with curiosity, slipping the notes into your bag.

Smoke wouldn’t notice it missing. Right?

When he comes back, looking more frazzled than you’d ever see him, you continue reading and note-taking until its time for you to leave. One of his staff brings up some copies you’d asked for, and you pocket them, leaving.

“I’ll call around six to make sure I can still come?”

Smoke nods and turns his face, looking out the balcony with no small amount of longing.

Yesterday’s routine of sleeping and note neatening repeats, settling on a dull rhythm. You unravel yourself in the daylight, lingering over what was taken from you. No. Hidden. You watch the sun set slowly over the horizon of Charlotte. Beneath your apartment, you smell the crawfish stew your neighbour seems to cook every night for dinner. The only thing she seems to know to cook; at first it had sickened you but now it was delightful cause you know it meant you hadn’t disappeared behind your research, behind the maybes and ifs of histories.

Hungry gnaws at your stomach and for the first time of the day, you get up to get some food. You set a pot on the stove to boil, adding some stray noodles. You begin the clean the studio apartment, picking up the clothing you’d stripped off that morning. You pick up your purse and rummage for garbage, finding Smoke’s business card.

Annie’s, the front says in simple script and below the bar’s landline. You flip the back and see his scrawl. You stare at the number for a moment. Then two.

Then you go to your coffee table, which doubles as desk, and pick up the last letter you’d read. From Elijah to Annie. You stare at it. Really, truly stare.

Dropping them, you lock your front door and windows. Toss salt at them and hang cloves of garlic. You curse. You swear. You cry.

The handwriting was identical. Hauntingly. Like you’d copied it.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, going through copies of Annie’s notes. There was a bath recipe for clarity of mind. Maybe that would help. Yeah, that would fix you up. You had almost everything in your kitchen. Rosemary, cinnamon, and white candles. That was simple enough. Even you could try it.

You fill your bathtub of warm water, soak the rosemary, sprinkle cinnamon. You light white candles; seven as written. When you’re done, you wonder what the fuck is wrong with you? This wasn’t just basic protection work, you were doing a bath. A full-fledged one that might have serious consequences.

Filled up with fear, you sink yourself in, dunking your head and staying as still as you could. When you open your eyes; crimson greets you and a story that makes your skin crawl.

***

“I just thought you were passionate about this topic,” your Professor says as you sit across from her, back in New York are weeks out-of-state.

You shake your head. “It was a fool’s errand. I was in over my head. I think this new research will yield better data.”

“But you were getting good, honest to God data before.” She grouses. “We need more black stories. We need African American history written by African American scholars.”

“This will still be African American scholarship.” You remind, folding your hands.

She sighs, raising her hands. “Listen, you’re ahead of the curve. I’ll give you a week to just think about this and make a decision. How about that?”

Frustrated, you nod and leave her office. The campus trees have lost their greenery, brown and yellow coating the flooring. It was fall. The days had gotten darker and you – jumpier. You’d ran from Louisiana so fast you were sure you left skid marks in your tracks. You took a month off from classes and returned with a new research proposal and a reverence for leaving the past where it belonged. What you’d seen when you went under water changed you. Whether it was for the better or worse, you had yet to decide.

You find yourself back home, in your grandmother's brownstone she’d left you in her passing. Her Catholic mementos collecting dust on every shelf. Slivered cross hanging above her mantle. It feels hollow.

At around seven, your doorbell rings.

Thinking it was pizza, you go straight to it without looking out. The ten dollar bill you hold drops and so does your heart. Standing at your stoop, hands in the wool trench coat, was Smoke – his eyes crimson in the yellow stoop light.

“Hello Little Girl.”

You slam the door shut and press your back to it, eyes closed. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

“Don’t be rude.” He says curtly, muffled through the door. “I’d hate to start knocking off yo’ neighbours. I think Imma start with that old lady across the road. Miss Shirley? Then, I’ll go to the family…”

You open it again.

“I don’t want any trouble.” You start. “I haven’t said a thing. I haven’t done shit to you and your brother.”

Smoke tsks. “Liar.”

“I’m not –”

“You stole from me.”

“She’s my family.”

“She was my wife.”

You shiver. You hadn’t expected him to outright admit it. Admit to being a monster. “I have it in a security deposit box. I got to have time – I can only get it in the day.”

“I’ll be here tomorrow evening then. Seven sharp.”

Smoke disappears as easily as his namesake, dusting in the air with the unnaturalness of his nature. You close the door and scrub your face. Your appetite disappears. In the following day, you take everything out of your box and prepare and wait.

When Smoke appears again, you toe the box out and jump back when he takes it. He takes his time inspecting it. The notes you’d stolen are in his hand. The box is tossed into your home.

His gaze rolls over you, he licks his teeth. “Was never gon’ kill you.”

You believe him. “You still one scary motherfucker.”

“You remind me too much of her.” He admits. “I’m gon’ be here for a few months. If you wanna learn ‘bout her, ‘bout your family, I can tell ya.”

“Where are you staying?”

He smirks. “Nah, little girl. You gon’ have to find me.”

***

Smoke looks like he’s waiting on you when you step into the foyer of the Cortez. He’s in the lounge, reading a newspaper with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Not one of those rolled ones you notice he smoked back in Charlotte, but a premade one with the brown tip.

When you enter his eyes look up, drawing over you from head to toe. From your knitted hat to thigh-high black boots. Smoke doesn’t say anything but stands at your entry, hand behind his back as you walk over to him.

“I didn’t think vampires stayed at hotels.”

He quirks a brow. “Where the fuck you think we stay?”

“Graveyards and mausoleums.”

His lips tremble but he doesn’t smile. The two of you find an alcove in the hotel’s restaurant, secluded. You order a malt and he orders a whiskey.

“You can still eat and drink?”

He hums.

You let a moment pass. “Was she allergic to shrimp?”

His brows furrow. “Made her vomit.”

You smile. “Me too. Hate the smell of catfish too.”

“Nah. She loved that. Made the best fried catfish in the county.”

“I read that she cooked.” You say, rubbing your forearms. “How did she die?”

Smoke blinks, clearing emotion from his throat. “The vampire that made me…tried to make her but she didn’t want it.”

You’d read their love, their care. Why wouldn’t she want that forever? “She kill herself?”

“I killed her.”

“Oh.”

The waitress brings your drinks. You take your malt, suddenly wishing you’d taken whiskey instead. “How long had she practiced Hoodoo?”

“Long as I knew her.”

“Did she tell you who taught her?”

He sips his whiskey. “Her Ma. Your Granny told you any stories ‘bout her? Annie told me she was mad as a hare but gifted. Did some bad root and it turned her over.”

You scoff. “My Granny didn’t talk about her Ma. She was ashamed of her. Of Hoodoo and her roots.”

“That’s a shame.”

“I think she was ashamed my Grandfather would leave her. See her as lesser.”

“That ain’t love.”

“Nah.”

“But is survival.”

You shake your head. “Yeah. It was.”

The two of you sit and talk, casual and cool, until the bar closes and Smoke invites you up to his room. You sit by the window and listen to him tell you all he knows. You ask if you can come back – if you can return tomorrow, the day after and the day after that. He lets you. By some miracle. You keep coming back for weeks. Until you memorise cinnamon on his skin. The two of you seem to listen to other, and hear, and wonder and want.

Smoke isn’t the kind of man who screams that he wants you. Or anyone. From his letters, you gleaned that he was the kind to observe you and consider how you might want him. How you might like to spoken to, listened to, kissed, touched, known. His style was to know you. To know you, then romance you. Though, you didn’t want to assume that’s what he was doing.

Maybe he was just being kind.

Maybe you were letting your want of him get ahead of yourself. You know you got dumb when you got wanting something. Oh. You did want him. You wanted him so much that you let Monica – a friend from your political science class talk you into going out with a group of other classmates to a party in Greenwich.

You wanted him so much you were going to will yourself to forget him.

The club was an abandoned factory about two bus rides from your brownstone. The air was filled with weed and good music pouring out of the walls. You could see long-haired fellas sorting lines of power off perky breasts. You turn your head and see Monica with a group of your classmates, giggling behind a bottle of beer. The two of you make four and she calls you over. Removing your jacket, you reveal the black tights, thigh-high heels and mini red dress you’d worn with long sleeves to your knuckles. The dress was snug and made you look like you stepped off of Jet Magazine; it was the ideal mood-lifter for tonight.

“Looking sexy, baby!” she hollers, pulling you into the group. You recognise some face but greet everyone with a smile.

Drinks begin to slowly come out, the drunker you all got, the easier conversation and dancing got. Diana Ross’ voice fills the air and you couldn’t help but drag Monica out, dancing with her to the hymn of love. Your hands went in the air as your hips roll in the air.

Hands that were too large to be hers settled on your waist; you ignored the shiver of want running down your spine and danced. You close your head, leaning against your new partner. When the song changes and he spins you to face him you open your eyes and gasp to see Smoke.

You try to move but he holds you close, settling his thigh between your legs, your skirt riding and he made you grind on his thigh. You open your mouth to say something but words fail you. Instead, you let him control the dance. Your hands on his shoulders as your hips roll against his thigh and his hands slide under your dress.

Smoke and you move like two slippery things, stuck to each other and synchronised as you moved. The song changes and you move from his leg, turning your back to him and dancing against him. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the way his hands seem to need to be on you; touching you, feeling you, as though you might slither away.

Monica calls your name; ripping through your moment. And when you turn, Smoke is gone.

You get home at around 3AM, feet sore as you stumble into your apartment. But you find energy to make it to your couch. All your layers too warm. Too much. You peel them off, huffing at the inconvenience of being clothes. When the layers are on the carpet, you try to mimic Smokes hands on your skin, try to imagine that club as your fingers find purchase between your thighs.

You try to think of his hands forcing your legs wider; index pressing onto your clit as he made circles on it, preparing you for him. You close your eyes so you can see his face; his red eyes and full lips. His want. His need. When you come on your fingers, you swear you hear his voice, growling your name in the wind.

There isn’t a next meeting because you don’t schedule it. Shame fills you at the sight of his name. At the sight of Annie’s name. You feel like you’ve betrayed her. Like you’re some low, evil slut.

Instead, for the next month you focus on your new research and get out ten chapters, though your Professor only starts making notes on their first two. Academia, you bemoan, a fickle bitch.

One night, when you’ve been cramming late at the library, you climb your stoop half-aware and find him sitting there. No cigarette in hand. Just his hat and his gaze straight; holding you in place.

“Hello.” You whisper, fiddling with your key.

“Hello.”

“I thought you left.”

“Did ya’ want me to?”

“No.” You climb up and open the door, looking behind you. “Come inside, Elijah.”

Your home feels different with him in it. You’re conscious of its smallness. Of his largeness. Of the Catholic figurines. Your half-opened books on every counter. You scramble to clean it but stop, feeling silly. Removing your coat, you hang it up and leave your bag on the ground beside your couch.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” he asks in his sweet, deep drawl.

You almost laugh. “God, no.”

“Why didn’t you come back?”

“I felt bad.”

Smoke’s eyebrows raise.

“Fuck. You didn’t make me feel bad. I felt bad because of Annie.”

A look of realisation crosses his face, then understanding. He nods. “Annie was the best of women. I understand. But she’s also dead. Been dead for forty years. Ain’t no guilt there.”

“I didn’t want to force you either. Make you feel like you had to.”

At that, Smoke looks almost dying of laughter. He steps forward, grabbing your neck and kisses you deeply. His lips soft and mouth melting onto your own. His tongue, thick, cloying into you.

Your back hit the wall and the buttons of your dress pop was his hands travelled further. Your hands fell to his belt buckle, undoing it blindly so you could slip behind the waistband of his briefs to tug his member.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, pulling his lips back for a moment, the word soft on your mouth when your lips reconnected. His hands went behind your back, unhooking your bra and rubbing along your skin till he cupped your buttocks.

You released him to let the bra slide, pulling away and pushing him against the wall. Fluttering your lashes at him, you tug his pants and boxers down, sinking to your knees. “Put your hands on the wall.”

Smoke obeys, watching you with desire-tinged eyes. You run your tongue along his length, opening your mouth along its base, over the long vein, spit coating. Your hand circles, tugging from root to base. You put your mouth on the tip, sucking.

Above you, you hear his honeyed voice muttering, moaning.

Beneath him, you command him. You make his knees buckle and made him murmur madness. For a moment you go groin deep and pull back, then again, then again, then again. A muffled, ‘Fuck’, dances in the air.

When you pull him from your mouth, you kiss his tip softly and tug at him faster, firmer. “Are you close?”

Smoke can’t speak but it isn’t hard to guess. You smile. Big bad vampire reduced to this by your mouth. How powerful you felt.

You keep tugging him, giving a languid lick to his sack, putting your mouth on it, sucking it. It doesn’t take long for his to coat your hand. Ensuring your gazes are met, you lick the sensitive tip and the essence on your hands, shivering at the salt in it.

Smoke bends to your level and lifts you up, unto his hips and walks with you until he plants you on the dining table. You hold a breath as he kisses you once more, before forcing you on your back, his mouth on your centre. His lips suctioning on your button for a moment before he licks you from the base of your slit to your nub, lathering you with his drool. It made you tingle, nerves alit by the saliva.

As if sensing your gaze, his red eyes flash up; dangerous.

That thick tongue that had licked your throat divided inside your, swirling around your cove, lapping at the growing dampness, lips pressing against your own as he moved against you, rubbing you along his mouth. Smoke doesn’t raise his head. He drags up onto your clit, kissing, sucking until you ride his face to completion.

You kiss. The taste of the others on your tongue, and mixing with the other. Hands everywhere and no enough places. It’s maddening. You feel a hunger you never have before; a need as if in this touch you would find air – salvation – damnation.

The blunt velvet of his member presses against your trembling centre, he kisses you softly, closed mouth, as if asking for permission. You stretch forward, biting his lip and slipping your tongue for a taste his mouth again.

Yes.

When he enters, you yelp into his mouth, wide and long, he burns for a moment before the giddiness of being filled thrills you. His hips nestle close to you, his breathe cool as it fans on your face. Smoke’s voice drops real low, he says, “You’re beautiful.”

Words don’t get to fall from your lips before he starts, building slow and holding you close, hips rolling against your own. He takes his time, like the sun isn’t rising to kill him, like you aren’t aging, like the two of you have forever.

It’s so delicious, it sends you screaming under him. Hips rolling back and nails digging into his skin like sliver.

“Been thinking about this pussy since I saw you,” he admits, teeth nipping the swell of your breast. “Feels like heaven. Like I came home.”

“You feel good,” you whimper. “You taking such good care of me, baby. God. You’re so sexy.”

“You want me, baby?” He teases, raising on of your legs over his shoulders. The depth of the new angle makes you mewl like a cat in heat. “Fuck, you do. Got me deep in this.”

The two of you lose your power for words and keep going until you become jello from a shuddering climax, and he stiffens in you, flooding you. When you part, you hold each other close and stare at your ceiling. Cooling down in the other’s hold.

His thumb strokes your shoulder, wiping at the cooling sweat.

“When do you go back to Louisiana?” You ask, taking the risk to ruin the moment. His thumb doesn’t stop, his cold body pressing close to you doesn’t try to inch away.

“We leaving there. Been too long. They gon’ notice us not aging.”

You hum, kissing his chest. “Where are you going next?”

“Been thinkin’ of setting a place up down in Harlem.”

You wonder if he hears your heart speeding up in excitement. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good.” You whisper, the sounds of rain starting upon your roof, rolling louder into a storm. “That’s real good.”

Though he leaves before sunrise, you know when the sunsets in the evening, he’ll be in your house again, dragging that honey voice with each step.

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