writingsbytee

[writingsbytee]

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, supernatural 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.

She whimpered.

He dipped his head further, pressed his lips to her neck, breathed her in. The robe fell from her shoulders. 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.

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

Then he sank to his knees.

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

[writingsbytee]

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐈𝐧 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐭

Warnings: MDNI! 18+, Roommates, Enemies to Lovers, Smut, Dirty Talk, Rough Sex, Terry has a Dom Side. P in V, Oral (Fem Received).

Imagine waking up, walking on eggshells all because you and your roommate don't get along.

Sierra pulled herself out of bed, grabbed her house robe and walked downstairs carefully not to wake the big ass bully sleeping three doors down.

As she made her way down to the kitchen, she decided to only cook breakfast for herself since they got into a heated argument last night, she wanted Terry to suffer.

Deciding on a hearty breakfast, she made an omelette, turkey bacon, eggs with an assortment of fresh fruits, and some freshly squeezed orange juice.

Guessing the smell woke Big Grumpy up.

Terry walks in the kitchen not addressing you.

“Well good morning to you too.”

He glances at you briefly, his hazel green eyes cold and distant as he grabs a beer from the fridge.“Aight. Morning I guess.”

He pops open the can and takes a swig, his muscular tattooed arm flexing with the motion. Terry leans against the counter, eyeing you up and down appraisingly.

“Yo, you got plans today or what? Tryna keep it on the low, ya feel me?”

His voice is gruff and dismissive, clearly hoping you'll make yourself scarce so he can do whatever he pleases without interruption.

“Nah.”

He shrugs noncommittally, taking another long pull from his beer. “Cool, cool. Just don't be all up in my grill, aight?”

Terry sets the can down and starts rummaging through a drawer, pulling out a lighter and some rolling papers. He begins skillfully rolling a joint with practiced ease.

“I'm expectin' company later if you catch my drift.”

He smirks knowingly, his pink plump lips curling into a suggestive grin as he licks the edge of the paper to seal it. “So maybe bounce for a few hours, yeah? Give a bro some privacy to get his freak on.”

His tone is blunt and entitled, clearly used to you accommodating his extracurricular activities.

Terry's casual attitude and suggestive comments make it clear that he's expecting some intimate company and wants you to give him space for it. He's not shy about his intentions, using phrases like "get his freak on" and a knowing smirk to convey his plans. His request for you to "bounce for a few hours" is straightforward and assumes that you'll be accommodating his needs.

“Uhh… this is my apartment too! So no, I'm not about to ‘bounce’!”

Terry raises an eyebrow, looking at you like you're being obtuse. “Oh, word? This is your crib now too huh?” He snorts derisively, taking a hit off the joint before exhaling a stream of smoke. “Well ain't that somethin'. You best be mindin' your manners then, 'cause I run this half, understood?”

He steps closer, invading your personal space as he looms over you, his towering frame and intense gaze making you feel small. Terry flicks ash from the tip of the joint onto the floor before grinding it out under his heel. “Just remember, I'm the one payin' the bills around here. So if you wanna keep livin' here, you better learn to play nice. Capisce?” The unspoken threat hangs heavy in the air, leaving little room for argument.

“As if I don’t help you pay them too Terry.” Sierra said slamming her fork down.

Terry scoffs, rolling his eyes at your retort. “Oh please, like your measly rent check covers half the expenses.” He smirks condescendingly, leaning back against the counter once more. “I'm talkin' 'bout the real costs - utilities, property taxes, maintenance... You think you're shouldering equal weight in this arrangement? Please.” Terry crosses his bulging arms over his chest, his biceps straining against the fabric of his tank top. “But hey, since you brought it up, why don't you cough up some extra cash, aight? Maybe that'll shut you up and remind you who's really callin' the shots here.” His tone is mocking, a clear challenge aimed directly at you.

You take a deep breath, unfazed by Terry's posturing. "Oh, I see how it is," you respond, matching his condescending tone. "You think throwing your weight around is going to solve anything? Newsflash, Terry: I know exactly what the 'real costs' are. I'm not some naive little kid you can boss around."

You step closer, holding his gaze steadily. "And if you think I'm not pulling my weight, then maybe it's time you actually sit down and do the math. Maybe then you'll realize that your 'extra cash' demand is just a power trip. I pay my share, and then some. So, how about this: you back off, act like an adult, and we'll have a civil conversation about this. Otherwise, you can keep your macho act and your ridiculous demands to yourself."

Terry lets out a low, amused chuckle, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly nods. Alright then, Sierra. If you're dead set on stickin' around, I reckon I can accommodate that. He leans back, folding his arms across his broad chest once more.

“Just remember, when I bring my friends over, they're lookin' for a good time, and that includes with you if you're willin' to participate.” His tone is matter-of-fact, devoid of emotion. “So either you're down to join the fun, or you need to find somewhere else to be while I've got company. Your choice.”

Terry's gaze is challenging, daring you to defy him further. The air between you crackles with tension, each of you waiting to see how the other will react to this ultimatum.

You hold Terry's gaze, refusing to back down from his challenge. "You know what, Terry? I'm not some toy for you and your friends to play with. I have my own life, and I won't be bossed around like some kind of plaything."

You pause, letting your words sink in. "But I'm not going to run and hide either. I'll be here, and if your friends can respect that, then we won't have a problem. If they can't, well, that's on them. I'm not going to change who I am or what I do to accommodate their 'good time."

Terry raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Suit yourself, Si. But don't say I didn't warn you. My friends can get pretty rowdy, and they're not exactly known for their subtlety. If you're gonna hide in your room, make sure it's soundproof. Wouldn't want you getting disturbed by all the... fun." He winks, emphasizing the last word with a leer that makes his intentions clear.

He pushes off from the counter, taking a step closer to you. "But hey, if that's what you want, who am I to stop you? Just don't come crying to me if you change your mind and want to join in. Once the party starts, the rules are a little... different."

“I’ll rather stay in my room to be dealing with yall lame asses.”

Terry shrugs, a hint of disappointment flashing in his eyes before he quickly masks it with a nonchalant smirk. “Suit yourself, then.” He turns away, heading back toward the front door. “Just don't go gettin' all huffy puffy if you hear some moans echoin' through these walls, aight? It's just business as usual.”

With that, Terry exits the apartment, closing the door firmly behind him. The sound of his footsteps fades down the hallway as he disappears into his own unit, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the weight of his parting words.

Several hours later, the sound of raucous laughter and muffled voices filters through the thin walls of the apartment. Terry's deep baritone mingles with feminine giggles and the clinking of glasses. Suddenly, there's a sharp rap at your bedroom door, followed by Terry's voice, slightly slurred but still commanding.

“Yo, Sierra! Open up, would ya? Got someone here who's dyin' to meet you.” There's a pause, then he adds with a chuckle, “And trust me, you don't wanna miss this. C'mon out and play nice, yeah?”

You open the door. “Yes Terry?”

Terry stands in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame with a lopsided grin plastered on his face. His usually neat braids are slightly disheveled, and his shirt is untucked, giving a tantalizing glimpse of his toned abs. Behind him, you can see a group of scantily dressed women standing behind him and whoever his friend was , their eyes roving hungrily over Terry's form.

“Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her presence.” He slurs his words slightly, clearly a few drinks deep already. “Sierra, meet my main man, Jermaine. Jermaine, this is my sexy lil' roomie I was tellin' y'all about.” He gestures vaguely to a heavyset man with a gold chain who waves lazily in your direction.

Sierra looked at Jermaine and back at Terry with pure disgust. “Not interested.”

Jermaine, with a smirk, eyes you up and down, taking in your appearance with a slow, deliberate gaze.

“Ain't you a sight for sore eyes?” He chuckles, his voice a deep rumble. “Terry here has been talkin' 'bout you non-stop. Said you got a mouth on you and a body to match.” He flirts, his gold chain glinting in the light. “Come on in, don't be shy. We ain't got no strangers here, only friends we ain't fucked yet.” He lets out a hearty laugh, and the women around him giggle, their eyes still fixed on Terry

“Oh y’all got me bent. I’m not fucking your big ass! “You yelled as you pushed passed the both of them, going downstairs.

Terry pushes off from the doorway, stumbling slightly as he makes his way to the couch, flopping down next to Jermaine.

“Yeah, yeah, ignore his crude ass.” He waves a hand dismissively at Jermaine. “He thinks he's all that and a bag of chips” He turns to you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You wanna drink, baby? I got tequila, vodka, whiskey—you name it.”

“No Terry, I don’t want a drink.”

“Ight Si, I’m goin’ to go get the rest of us some drinks.”

Jermaine watches Terry leave, then turns his attention back to you, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in your reaction.

“So, you and Terry got a thing goin' on, or what?” He asks, his voice a low growl. “He's a good dude, but he's got a wild side.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gold chain swinging freely. “You gotta keep up with him, or he'll run right over you”. He pauses, his eyes never leaving yours. “But I get the feelin' you ain't the type to back down from a challenge. Am I right?”

“To be honest, we can’t stand each other.”

Terry stumbles back into view, draping himself over the back of the couch where the women are seated. He grins at you and Jermaine, his eyes glazed over with alcohol and lust. “Aww, don't be like that, Jermaine. Sierra and I got our own special arrangement, ain't that right, baby?” He winks at you salaciously before turning his attention to the woman beside him, nuzzling into her neck and making her squeal with delight.

“A definitive statement of a hoe!” You said grabbing some snacks from the kitchen.

“Man whatever, Si! You just don’t like me cause you want me.”

“Nah nigga! YOU mad cause you can’t fuck me!”

“Oh I can, but you won't let me. That’s the difference. I’ll have your ass screaming, seeing the fucking stars. Try me, babygirl.” Terry whispered into her ear as he pushed her back into the counter.

Sierra’s legs clenched together at his words, letting them sink in slowly. She knew he wasn’t playing with her by the way his voice got lower and deeper than usual and his eyes dropped. As much as she hated to say it out loud, she’d let this man ravage her, fix her attitude & more.

She couldn’t even count the number of times she spent in her room; masturbating to the sound of his voice when he was on the phone, the vivid picture of him naked in the shower; water running down his perfect body. The grunts and moans he made when he was stroking himself, letting her purposely hear him. She’d even have wet dreams about him between her legs, tongue buried deep in her cunt.

As the party continues in full swing, Terry periodically glances over at you, his gaze filled with a mixture of challenge and desire. It's clear he's enjoying putting on a show, trying to provoke a reaction out of you. The air is thick with the scent of alcohol, perfume, and the underlying current of sexual tension.

You got up and walked to the bathroom. After handling your business, you walk back out only to meet Terry in the hallway. You can see it in his eyes that the liquor has taken an effect on him. Terry grows increasingly bold in his flirtations and provocative behavior. He saunters over to you, a fresh bottle of liquor in hand, and slings an arm around your shoulders “You know, Si”, he purrs, his words slightly slurred, “I been thinkin'. Maybe we oughta renegotiate our little living arrangement.”

He takes a long swig from the bottle, his free hand trailing down your arm. His eyes glint with mischief and barely concealed hunger as he awaits your response, the party raging on around you both.

“Boy, move. You are not my type.” You try to push Terry’s built body out your way, clearly he’s not moving and you’re not pushing him enough.

“So Jermaine is? I saw the way you looked at him when I introduced y’all. You don’t want him, you want me. Stop denying yourself that.” Terry said getting closer to you, pushing his body against yours, making you hot and flustered as he did

“You know I can’t stand you.”

“And what’s wrong with us having a little fun that we both want. You can hate me all you want Sierra, but your body can’t.”

“Well you hate me! You walk around here everyday not speaking to me or can’t even being bothered to be in the same space as me.”

Terry blinks rapidly, momentarily caught off guard by your question. He pulls back slightly, studying your face intently as if trying to discern your true intentions. “Hate you? Nah, shorty. That ain't even close to what I feel.” He shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Truth is, you confuse me somethin' fierce. One minute I wanna wring your neck for all the lip you give me, and the next…” He trails off, his gaze drifting over your curves appreciatively before snapping back to your eyes. “Well, let's just say you got a certain... appeal, yeah?”

You chuckle, taking another sip from the bottle before handing it back to him.

"Appeal, huh? I'll take that as a compliment, Terry. And you know what? The feeling is mutual. You confuse me too, with your crazy antics and that damn charm of yours. But that's what makes life interesting, right? The unpredictability?"

You lean in a little closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"So, do we have a deal, rommie? Or are you chicken?" You wink, challenging him one last time, a playful smirk on your lips.

Terry's eyes darken with desire at your challenge, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. “Chicken? Nah, baby. You know I ain't scared of nothin', least of all a fine piece of ass like you.” He downs the rest of the bottle in one long gulp before tossing it carelessly aside, never breaking eye contact with you.

“Alright, Sierra. You want unpredictable? I'll give you the unpredictable. In one swift motion, he closes the distance between you, backing you up against the wall. His large hands come up to bracket your face as he leans in, his lips a hairsbreadth from yours. “Let's make this interestin', yeah? How 'bout we raise the stakes a bit? Winner takes all - control, submission, the whole nine yards. You game, or you gonna tap out now?”

Your heart races as you feel his breath on your lips, but you don't back down. You place your hands on his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt, and push back slightly, a defiant spark in your eyes.

"Control, huh? You think you can handle that, Terry? You think you can handle me?" You let out a soft laugh, your voice a low purr. "Alright, big talker. You're on. But remember, you asked for this. No backing out now."

You lean in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper,"And Terry? No holding back. I want to see what you've got. Let's make this night one to remember."

Terry's pupils dilate with lust at your bold challenge, a low growl rumbling in his chest as your hands press against him. In a flash, he spins you around and pins you to the wall, one powerful thigh wedged between your legs as he grinds against you. “Oh, I can handle you alright, baby. Question is, can you handle me?” He nips at your earlobe before trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline, his stubble deliciously rough against your skin.

His hands roam your curves possessively, squeezing and kneading as he maps out every dip and swell of your body. “Mmm, you feel that, Si? That's what you do to me.” He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust of his hips, letting you feel the hard evidence of his arousal.

You gasp at the sensation of his body against yours, but you don't miss a beat. You reach up and tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling his head back so you can look into his eyes.

"That's all you got, Terry? You think that's gonna break me?" You smirk, your voice breathless but determined. You wanna play rough? Let's play rough."

You grind back against him, matching his intensity, your other hand gripping his shoulder for leverage. You lean in, your teeth grazing his earlobe as you whisper, "But remember, you started this. And I always finish what I start."

Terry's eyes flash with a dangerous mix of lust and admiration at your fiery response. A feral grin splits his face as he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand while the other grips your hip bruisingly tight. Fuck, Sierra. You're playing with fire, baby.” He growls, his voice low and rough with desire.

He crashes his lips against yours in a brutal kiss, all teeth and tongue as he claims your mouth thoroughly. When he finally pulls back, you're both panting harshly. “You want rough? I'll give you rough.” In a blur of motion, he hoists you up, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you towards his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. “Last chance to back out, shorty.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, holding on tight as he carries you, your legs locked around his waist. You smile against his lips, your voice a low, sultry challenge.

"Who says I want to back out? You think I'm scared of a little rough play, Terry? Bring it on. I can take whatever you dish out and give it right back. You ain't seen nothin' yet. Send your bitches and your friends home.”

Terry shouts from upstairs. “Aight, y’all ain’t gotta go home but y’all gotta get the fuck outta hea.” He makes you giggle in his neck at his remark.

He kicks the bedroom door shut behind him, stalking towards the bed with you still wrapped around him. His eyes burn with primal hunger as he lays you down, covering your body with his much larger frame. “Oh, I know you can take it, Sierra. Question is, can you handle everything that comes after?” He rumbles, his voice dripping with dark promise.

His hands make quick work of your clothes, practically tearing them off in his haste to get to your bare skin. He sits back on his haunches, drinking in the sight of you laid out before him like a feast. “Fuck, look at you.” You arch your back, presenting yourself to him, a smirk playing on your lips.

"You think you're the first to try? Bring it on, Terry. Show me what you got. But remember, two can play at this game." You reach out, your hands roaming over his chest, feeling the hard planes of his muscles, before moving down to his belt, slowly unbuckling it.

"You talk a big game, but actions speak louder than words. Let's see if you can back it up."

Terry releases your wrists only to grab your thighs, pushing them further apart as he settles between them. He leans down, his lips hovering just above your breasts, his hot breath ghosting over sensitive skin. “Gonna markup this pretty skin, Sierra. Let everyone know who you belong to now. He murmurs, before drawing one dusky peak into his mouth, suckling hard as his hand kneads the other roughly.

His free hand trails lower, teasing along your inner thigh, getting closer and closer to your aching center without quite touching where you need him most. He alternates between loving attention on your breasts and peppering biting kisses along your collarbone, leaving a trail of reddened skin in his wake.

You moan, your head falling back as you give in to the sensations he's stirring within you. Your nails dig into his back, urging him on.

"More, Terry. Don't hold back. Show me who's boss." You gasp as his teeth graze your nipple, the sharp pain mixing with the pleasure, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core.

You buck your hips, trying to grind against him, but he holds you in place, his strong body pinning you down.

"Please, Terry. I need you. Now."

Terry groans at your desperate pleas, the sound vibrating against your skin. He releases your nipple with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to your breast. “That's it, baby. Beg for it. Let me hear how bad you want it.” He commands, his voice rough with lust.

He sits back, making quick work of his remaining clothes, revealing his impressive physique in all its glory. His cock springs free, hard and throbbing, the swollen head already glistening with precum. He strokes himself slowly, teasingly, as he drinks in the debauched sight of you sprawled out beneath him.

“Gonna fill this tight little pretty pussy up so good, baby. You ain’t gonna want anyone else. He promises darkly, positioning himself at your entrance.

You reach down, wrapping your hand around his length, stroking him in time with his own movements.

"I want it, Terry. I want you to ruin me. To fuck me so good I'll never want anyone else. Now stop teasing and give it to me." You guide him to your entrance, your eyes locked on his, daring him to hold back any longer.

"Show me what you're made of, Big Daddy. Make me yours."

With a feral growl, Terry surges forward, sheathing himself inside you to the hilt in one powerful thrust. He hilts himself fully, stretching you wide around his thick girth. “Fuck, Sierra! So goddamn tight.” He grits out through clenched teeth, giving you a moment to adjust before he starts to move.

He sets a pace, stroking into you with deep, purposeful strokes that hit all the right spots. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of exertion. “Take it, baby. This what you wanted huh? That’s the reason why you had all that fuckin’ attitude with me for? Don’t worry, I’ma fuck right out yo bratty lil ass.”

One hand finds your clit, rubbing tight circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves as he drives into you relentlessly.

You cry out, your back arching off the bed as he hits that sweet spot deep inside. Your legs wrap tighter around his waist, urging him on.

"Yes, Terry! Just like that. Harder, faster. I can take it. I want it all." Your hands grip his shoulders, your nails digging in as you meet his thrusts, our bodies slapping together in a frenzy of desire.

"Fuck, you feel so good. So deep. Don't stop, Terry. Don't you dare stop." Your words are a jumbled mess, your body on fire with pleasure as you chase your release, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“Ouuuu, I can’t stand yo ass but you fuck me so gooooood!” Sierra yelps, gripping Terry’s black sheets.

Terry throws his head back with a throaty laugh, undeterred by your declaration. If anything, it seems to spur him on, his thrusts becoming even more forceful and erratic. “Aw, but your body loves me though, baby. Look how wet you are, how perfectly you're takin' my dick.” He smirks, reaching down to where you're joined, collecting some of your slick arousal and bringing it to his lips, sucking it off his fingers with a groan.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a filthy kiss, all teeth and tongue as he continues to pound into you. “You can lie to yourself all you want, mama. But we both know the truth. You crave this, crave me. I'm the only one who can satisfy you like this.”

The more you tried to deny yourself of it, you couldn’t. You most definitely did crave him. More than you admit it. The way his toned body pressed into yours, the feeling of his dick massaging your walls; making you stuffed and full, the way he had your head feeling all fuzzy and dumbfucked. But you LOVED every part of it.

You kiss him back with equal fervor, your tongue battling with his as you moan into his mouth.

"You're right, damn you. I do crave this. I crave you. Now shut up and fuck me like you mean it." Your hands roam his body, feeling the sweat-slicked muscles rippling beneath his skin as he moves above you.

You can feel your orgasm building, your body tensing as you climb higher and higher. You break the kiss, your head thrashing from side to side as you chant, "Yes, yes, yes! Right there, Terry. Right fucking there!"

Terry's thrusts become shorter, more erratic as he nears his peak. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin there, marking you as his. “Fuck. Gonna cum so deep in this pussy. Fill you up till it's leakin' outta you.” He pants against your throat, his hips stuttering as he chases his release.

You feel your own orgasm crashing over you, your inner muscles clenching and releasing around him as you cry out his name.

"Terry! Yes! I'm cumming! Fill me up, baby. Make me yours." Your nails rake down his back, leaving red welts in their wake as you hold on tight, riding out the waves of pleasure that threaten to drown you.

Your body milks him, drawing out his own release as he roars against your neck, his hot breath and the pounding of his heart the only sounds in the room as you both come down from your high.

Terry pulls out of her, only to flip Sierra on all fours, arching her back even more. He wrapped his hand on the back of her neck and the other, directly in the middle of her back. “Mmm, look at this perfect ass. Could bounce a quarter off this shit.” He groans appreciatively, giving your rear a hard smack before gripping the cheeks and spreading them wide.

He leans down, dragging his tongue along your slit from front to back, circling your puckered hole teasingly. “I’m about to eat this pussy like it's my last meal. Have you squirmin' and beggin' for more.” Without warning, he seals his lips around your clit and sucks hard, two fingers plunging knuckle-deep into your soaked channel.

“Keep that ass up, if I see it fall, I’m drilling your ass more.” A rough, hard smack clashed with her ass. This caused Sierra to yelp out in pain.

“Daddy-.”

You moan loudly, your body pushing back against his face as he devours you. Your hands grip the sheets, knuckles white as you try to maintain some semblance of control.

Your words are a jumbled mess, your body on fire with pleasure as he fingers you expertly, curling his fingers to hit that sweet spot inside.

You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing as you push back against him, urging him deeper. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, your moans filling the room as you chant.

Terry smirks against your flesh, giving your clit one last firm suck before withdrawing his fingers. He rises up behind you, gripping your hips bruisingly tight as he notches the tip of his cock at your entrance. “Greedy little thing, aren't you? Can't get enough of my dick.” He teases, circling your hole with the swollen head, coating himself in your slick arousal.

With a grunt, he sinks back into you to the hilt, bottoming out in one smooth stroke. He sets a punishing pace, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room as he beats your shit up. “Pussy gripping me so fucking tight. Creaming my shit up so mothafuckin good.” He praises, one hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head back as he rails you from behind.

You cry out, your back arching as he pulls your hair, the slight pain only heightening your pleasure. Your hands reach back, grabbing his thighs, trying to push him back a little.

Your body is a mess of sensations, the feel of his cock filling you, the slap of his skin against yours, the pull of your hair. It's all too much and not enough all at once.

His free hand grabs both of yours. “Take this dick. You got a big mouth on you so be a big girl and stop running.”

At this point, you’re completely too fucked out to put a single word together. He had you right where he wanted you and there was nothing you could do to get out of it.

“Where’s my mouthy bitch from earlier, hmm? Dick got you in a trance? Yeah, I know, baby. Daddy fucking knows.” Terry put one leg up on the bed and started going in. You could feel his tip poking at your cervix and your g-spot. It was too much pleasure for you and your body opened up like Niagara Falls on a rainy day.

“There that shit go! Wet me the fuck up, princess. Good ass pussy. You've been keeping this pretty pussy from me and I don’t like that. No, Daddy doesn’t like that at all.”

Terry leans down, nipping at your ear as he talked you through it. He definitely meant when he said about you seeing stars, your ass was seeing the whole damn galaxy. Drool was coming out the side of your mouth falling onto your chest and the bed. You were completely and utterly having an outer body experience.

“You still got them Plan B’s in your drawer?”

You shook your head “yes”

“Good, you gone need it. I’m bouta’ nut all in this wet shit.”

As your climax hits, Terry follows soon after, burying himself balls-deep one last time as he emptied himself inside you with a guttural groan. “Damn! Take it all, baby. Milk every last drop.” He rasps, his hips jerking erratically as he rides out the waves of his intense orgasm.

Finally spent, he collapses atop you, both of you struggling to catch your breath. After a moment, he carefully withdraws, rolling to the side and pulling you flush against his chest. “Damn, girl. You really tried to kill me with that pussy, huh?” He jokes weakly, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to your temple.

Coming down from your euphoric high, you cling on to him. Terry holds you close in his arms. After a couple of minutes, he gets up and walks out the room. You lay there catching your breath and looking up at the ceiling. The sound of water running snaps you back into reality.

Terry comes back into the room, grabbing you and lifts you effortlessly in his arms. He carries you to the bathroom, slowly sitting you down in the tub before getting in with you. You both sit there soaking in the hot water, your back in his chest, and his strong arms soothing your body. You relax your head on him as he works his magic onto you.

“My pretty girl. I’m sorry for treating you like shit. Truth is I was protecting my feelings from you. I was scared you weren’t gonna’ want me Si. I actually do love you.” He says kissing your temple.

To hear those words was like heaven to you. All those times where you both fought, argued, gave each other the silent treatment; it didn’t matter anymore. You know after tonight that the relationship between you was bound to change. You were his and he was yours. You fell asleep as he started washing your body.

Hours later, you were awakened by something feeling slimy and wet between your legs. You rubbed your eyes, wiping away the sleep from them. You looked down and saw a head moving and you knew exactly who it was. Terry had his entire mouth over your pussy.

“Terry?” You said sitting up a little.

“Hush, lay back down. Let Daddy eat. I got hungry and wanted something sweet.”

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[writingsbytee]

𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖄𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖘, 𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝕸𝖎𝖓𝖊 

Warnings: MDNI! Vampire!Terry, Smut, Supernatural, Transformation, Sadistic, Submissive! Reader, Dominant!Terry, Cum Fucking, Dirty Talk, Oral (Fem Receving), Multiple Creampies

Song: Touch Me- Victoria Monet

Terry watched as you came into the coffee shop from his booth. His eyes flickered to a deep shade of red before returning to their normal shade of color. 

Terry's eyes locked onto you as soon as you entered, taking in every curve of your voluptuous figure. He felt an instant, inexplicable attraction towards you; your golden hazel amber eyes seemed to glow with an inner fire, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. As you approached the counter, Terry found himself rising from his seat almost involuntarily, moving closer for a better look at you. 

“Hey there,” he said smoothly, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine despite its casual tone. “I don't think I've seen you around here before. I'm Terry.” He extended a large, tattooed hand towards you, his heterochromatic eyes—swirling pools of blue, green, and gray—gazing at you intently.

“Hi, I’m Elyse.” You said before sitting down in the booth across from him. 

Terry smiled charmingly as he shook your hand, his grip firm yet gentle. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Elyse. That’s a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” His gaze appreciatively took in your curves before quickly returning to your face. “What brings someone as stunning as you to our little corner of the world?”

You wondered for a minute what he meant by ‘our little corner of the world’. You shrugged it off and continued with the conversation. 

He leaned casually against the counter, his tall, muscular frame radiating an aura of raw masculine energy barely contained beneath his casual attire. The scent of his cologne mingled enticingly with the aroma of coffee beans. “I must admit, seeing a face as captivating as yours light up this shop is quite a pleasant surprise. It almost feels like fate brought you here, don’t you think?” 

“I just moved here from Texas, I got a new job offer.” You said as you took a sip of your Vanilla Bean Frappe. 

“That’s nice, what kinda work do you do?” 

“I work with big law firms, so I’m always moving around. Hopefully with this one, I can stay put for at least 3 years.” 

Terry's eyes lit up with genuine interest, revealing something more intense. 

"Welcome to the town, Elyse. It’s always exciting to welcome fresh faces, especially ones as striking as yours." 

He darted his tongue out to wet his full lips, briefly glancing at your ample cleavage before meeting your eyes again. 

"A new start in a new place can be both thrilling and daunting. If there's anything I can do to make your transition smoother, please don't hesitate to ask." His deep voice was warm and inviting, with an undercurrent of promise. 

 "I know all the best spots in town - great restaurants, hidden gems, places where a gorgeous woman like you might enjoy spending her time." He reached out to brush a stray lock of your hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your cheek ever so lightly.

"So tell me, Elyse, how are you liking your new home?" Terry asked, genuinely curious about the intriguing woman who had so suddenly captured his attention. He leaned in slightly, eager to hear her response and catch another whiff of her intoxicating scent. 

As she spoke, Terry's eyes remained locked on her face, hanging on every word. The way her full lips moved and the sparkle in those mesmerizing eyes made it hard for him to look away. A part of him wanted to reach out and touch her again, to feel the softness of her skin, but he restrained himself, not wanting to come on too strong.

"I have a feeling you're going to do great things here, Elyse. With a presence like yours, how could you not?"

As the conversation flowed, Terry found himself increasingly captivated by your wit, charm, and beauty. He laughed heartily at your jokes and nodded enthusiastically as you shared your hopes and plans for your new life in the city. The easy rapport between you felt electric, charged with unspoken possibilities. 

Lost in the moment, Terry barely noticed the sun beginning to set outside, casting long shadows across the coffee shop interior. However, as the light changed, he felt a subtle shift within himself, an ancient power stirring to life. For the briefest moment, his eyes flashed with an otherworldly red glow before he blinked it away, hoping you hadn't noticed. But little did he know, you did see it. 

"Well, Elyse, I'd love to continue this delightful conversation, but I'm afraid I have some evening commitments to attend to," Terry said reluctantly, glancing at his watch. "But I insist on getting your number."

And what exactly ‘evening commitments’ were so important to him? 

“Oh sure, I don’t want to hold up your time. I’ll put my number in your phone.” You said while getting up from the booth. 

Terry's face broke into a delighted grin at your agreement. He quickly pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and handed it to you. "Here, go ahead and put your number in. I promise I won't spam you with texts... unless you want me to," he added with a playful wink. 

As you entered your contact information, Terry's mind raced with thoughts of all the ways he could see you again and get to know you better. The primal part of him yearned to taste your blood, to claim you as his own, but he ruthlessly suppressed those dark urges. No, he wanted to court you properly, to seduce you with charm and romance rather than brute force.

"There we go," you said, handing his phone back. Terry made sure to let his fingers brush against yours during the exchange, savoring the brief contact.

“Thank you, Elyse. I look forward to staying in touch,” Terry said, tucking his phone away and giving you one last intense look from beneath his lowered lashes. “Until next time, then. And trust me, there will be a next time.” With that promise lingering in the air, Terry turned and strode out of the coffee shop, his powerful body moving with fluid grace. 

As he stepped into the deepening twilight, he allowed his vampiric nature to emerge fully, his eyes glowing crimson in the gathering darkness. Soon, very soon, he would see you again under the cover of night. And when he did… A slow, wicked smile spread across Terry's handsome face as he disappeared into the shadows, already plotting his next move in his pursuit of you. 

That night, as you walked home from running errands, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, and a chill ran down your spine despite the mild evening air. You quickened your pace, hugging your purse tightly to your side. 

Suddenly, a dark figure emerged from the shadows of a nearby alleyway. Your heart leapt into your throat as you recognized Terry stepping into the dim light of the streetlamp. But something was different about him now. His eyes glowed an eerie, supernatural red, and his movements were unnaturally smooth and silent. 

"Elyseeee,"  Terry purred, his deep voice echoing in the empty street. "Fancy meeting you here. Perhaps it wasn't mere chance that drew me to this spot, knowing you would pass by..."

“T- Terry?”  You were shocked, half of you wanted to run away, but the other half was intrigued by his nature. This wasn’t the same man you met in the coffee shop hours ago. 

Terry chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. He stepped closer, his movements graceful and predatory. "The one and only," he said, a hint of mischief in his voice. "Though I suspect I may not be quite what I seemed earlier today."  His eyes raked over your trembling form, lingering on the rapid pulse fluttering at the base of your throat. Terry licked his lips, revealing the glint of sharp fangs. 

"I hope you're not frightened, my dear. I would never hurt you… much."  The last words were spoken in a husky whisper filled with dark promise. In a flash too quick for human eyes, Terry closed the distance between you, pressing you back against the brick wall of the alley. One large hand gripped your chin, tilting your face towards his, while his other arm caged you in, preventing any chance of escape. 

A scream erupted from your lips, but Terry quickly suppressed it. 

Terry's hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your scream as he pressed his body against yours, pinning you helplessly to the wall. “Shh, shh, none of that now,” he crooned, his breath hot against your ear. “We wouldn't want to attract unwanted attention, would we? Not when we have so much catching up to do.” 

His free hand trailed down the side of your neck, fingertips lightly grazing your racing pulse. Terry inhaled deeply, savoring your scent—the mixture of fear and arousal, the sweet aroma of your blood thrumming beneath your skin. It took every ounce of his self-control not to sink his fangs into your tender flesh at that moment. 

“You must have so many questions, my sweet Elyse,” Terry murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

“Let me go!” 

Terry's grip tightened fractionally, holding you firmly in place even as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, inhaling your intoxicating scent. 

“Oh, I don't think I will, darling. Not when I've waited so long to have you like this.” 

 His tongue flicked out, tracing the column of your throat in a teasing caress. Slow and deliberately, Terry began to grind his hips against yours, letting you feel the evidence of his desire. 

“Can't you feel how much I want you? How perfectly do we fit together?”  He nipped at your earlobe, tugging it gently with his teeth. “Please give in to me, Elyse. Let me show you pleasures beyond your wildest dreams.”  One hand slid down to grope your ass, squeezing the plush flesh possessively.

Something in you zapped you back into your senses, causing you to push him off. “No! Get off of me!”

Terry froze at your vehement refusal, surprise flickering across his handsome features. For a long moment, he simply stared at you, his crimson eyes boring into yours with an almost painful intensity. Then, slowly, he released his hold on you and took a step back, though he remained close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body. 

"You truly wish for me to stop?" There was a note of confusion in his deep voice, as if he couldn't quite comprehend your rejection. Terry searched your face for any sign of deception or hesitation. Finding none, he sighed heavily and ran a hand down his face. "Very well, Elyse. I will respect your wishes—for now." His words were tinged with reluctance and a hint of warning. "But know this: I am not done with you."

Terry took another step back, giving you space to breathe even as his eyes continued to rake over your disheveled form with a hungry gaze. “I miscalculated, it seems. I thought... I hoped you might feel the same undeniable attraction I do.” He shook his head ruefully. “But I am nothing if not a gentleman. Well, mostly.” A wry smirk played at the corners of his mouth. “Run along home now, my dear. Get some rest. And perhaps... reflect on what might have been.” 

Terry's voice dropped to a low, seductive purr as he finished his sentence. He turned to fade back into the shadows of the alley, pausing to glance over his shoulder at you. “Sweet dreams, mamas. I know mine will be haunted by thoughts of you.”

As Terry disappeared into the darkness, leaving you alone and shaken in the alley, you felt a confusing mix of relief and disappointment. Your body still thrummed with adrenaline from the encounter, and your skin tingled where his hands had touched you. Over the next few days, you tried to put the incident out of your mind, focusing on settling into your new apartment and starting your job. However, you couldn't shake the memory of Terry's smoldering gaze, the heat of his body pressed against yours, and the dark promises in his voice. Late one night, as you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, your phone buzzed with an incoming text. It was from an unknown number, but you instinctively knew who it was from before even opening the message: "I find myself thinking of you constantly, Elyse."

You set your phone down, purposely ignoring him. You didn't need this tonight. 

Terry frowned when he noticed that you hadn't responded to his text, a flicker of irritation crossing his mind. He was accustomed to women vying for his attention, eager for his touch and affection. Your cool reception was intriguing—almost challenging. Undeterred, Terry sent another message a few hours later: 

"I can practically hear your heartbeat from here, Elyse. It races whenever you think of me. Don't try to deny it."

At this point, you were scared, mesmerized, and frustrated that you just decided to turn your phone off completely so he wouldn’t distract you anymore, so you could get some sleep. 

Terry growled in frustration as he realized that you had turned off your phone, denying him access to you once again. This mortal's resistance was both infuriating and exhilarating. He couldn't remember the last time someone had captured his interest so thoroughly. Rising from his chair in the dimly lit study of his spacious apartment, Terry paced restlessly, his mind consumed with thoughts of you. Your defiance, your beauty, and the tantalizing scent of your blood called to him like a siren song. Unable to resist any longer, Terry slipped out into the night, moving with preternatural speed and silence. In an instant, he was outside your home. He stood outside your window, peering in at your sleeping form. Even in slumber, you were exquisite, your chest rising and falling with each breath.

Terry's eyes roamed hungrily over your exposed skin, taking in the swell of your breasts above the sheets and the long expanse of your legs. He longed to touch you, to taste you, to claim you completely. But he held himself back, not wanting to catch you off guard. Instead, he reached out and gently tapped on the glass, the sound barely audible over the distant noises of the city. When you didn't stir, he tapped again, a bit louder this time. "Come on, princess. Wake up for me." 

Terry's voice echoed in your mind, a telepathic whisper that penetrated your unconscious state. He smiled wickedly as he sensed your mind beginning to awaken, your eyelids fluttering. "That's it, darling. Open those beautiful eyes for me. I've missed you."

As your eyes snapped open, wide with shock and confusion, Terry grinned triumphantly. He could see the exact moment recognition dawned on your face, swiftly followed by wariness and a hint of fear. Good. He wanted you to be aware; he wanted you to know exactly who was intruding upon your dreams. 

"Hello again, my sweet," Terry said, his deep voice resonating directly in your mind. "Did you think you could escape me so easily? That turning off your phone could keep me away?" He chuckled darkly, the sound reverberating through your very bones. 

Terry placed a hand on the windowpane, his palm flat against the cool glass. In your dream state, it almost seemed to phase through, reaching for you. "I've been thinking about you non-stop since our little encounter."

You reached your phone, double-locking your doors through your security system app. 

Terry threw his head back and laughed, a rich, sinister sound that echoed through the empty streets. Your futile attempts to protect yourself against him only served to amuse and arouse him further. "Oh, you precious thing. You can lock down this entire building, and it won't make a difference. I can slip past any barrier, whether material or mental." 

To prove his point, Terry’s image began to flicker and distort, phasing through the glass as if it were no more substantial than mist. In an instant, he was standing at the foot of your bed, his tall, muscular form looming over your huddled shape. The temperature in the room plummeted, and your breath fogged in the frigid air. "I'm not limited by the constraints of the physical world, my dear. In here…" He tapped his temple meaningfully.

“AHHH!”  You screamed as you hurriedly ran downstairs and locked yourself in the basement

Terry’s laughter followed you as you fled, echoing through the house like a sinister chorus. He appeared at the top of the basement stairs just as you slammed and locked the door. His crimson eyes gleamed with cruel amusement in the darkness.

“Running away, are we? How delightfully old-fashioned,” he drawled, his voice seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. “But I’m afraid there’s nowhere in this house, or this realm, that you can hide from me, my sweet Elyse.”

The door rattled in its frame as an unseen force pushed against it, the wood creaking ominously. Terry’s chuckle sent shivers down your spine. “This game of cat and mouse is growing tiresome. Why don’t you come out and play properly?”

You picked somewhere to hide if he came into the basement, and judging by how hard he was trying to push the door, he was coming in. 

Terry's eyes narrowed as he sensed your movement, your quickened heartbeat revealing your location. A slow, wicked smile spread across his handsome face. "Clever girl, trying to hide from me. But it’s pointless, you know. I can smell your fear and taste your anticipation in the air." 

Suddenly, the basement door burst open with a deafening crack, splinters flying as Terry effortlessly tore it from its hinges. He descended the stairs with predatory grace, his gaze locked onto the shadowy corner where you crouched, desperately trying to make yourself small. 

"There you are," he purred, stalking toward you with single-minded intent. "Playing hard to get, are we? I do so love a challenge." 

Terry reached out, his fingers closing around your wrist in an iron grip as he pulled you to your feet.

Terry pulled you tightly against his chest, one hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing the vulnerable column of your throat. His eyes blazed with hunger as they took in every detail of your flushed cheeks, parted lips, and wide, frightened eyes. 

"You can't run from this, from us," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "I've chosen you. You're mine now, whether you accept it or not." 

Terry leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, "Stop fighting it. Surrender to me, and I'll show you pleasure beyond your wildest imaginings."

“Feel that, Elyse?”  he murmured, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass as he ground his erection against you. “That's what you do to me. What you always have. I've been waiting for this moment, for you to finally give in to what you know is true.” 

 His grip on your hair tightened, forcing your head back further as his lips hovered just above yours. “You want me. You always have. Admit it”. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Or shall I remind you how powerless you are against me?”  

With a sudden, brutal motion, Terry yanked you closer, pressing his lips against yours in a kiss that was more domination than affection. His tongue forced its way into your mouth, claiming you with a ferocity that left you breathless.

The kiss was everything you had imagined and more—intense, demanding, and utterly consuming. His lips moved against yours with practiced precision, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth as if mapping it out for future conquests. You felt dizzy, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of his touch, the way his body pressed against yours like a living furnace. 

When he finally pulled back, his eyes burned with an unnatural red glow, and his breath came in ragged pants. "See?" he rasped, his thumb brushing across your lips. "You can't fight what you are. You belong to me. And I will have you—one way or another." 

With that, Terry effortlessly lifted you into his arms, carrying you toward the far end of the basement where the shadows were deepest. "Now, let's see if you can resist me when I really start to play."

“You’re a fucking monster!” You yelled at him. 

Terry paused mid-step, his expression shifting from desire to a chilling coldness. “Monster?” he repeated, his voice a deep, dangerous rumble. “Is that what you think of me? After everything I've shown you?” He set you down gently, but the tenderness was gone, replaced by something darker and colder. His eyes burned with fierce intensity as he loomed over you. 

“I could have taken you without your consent, without your permission. I could have drained you dry and left you for dead. But I didn’t. I gave you choices. I gave you chances.” He stepped closer, his presence dominating the space between you. “And yet, you call me a monster?” His lips curled into a sneer.

"Do you know what real monsters are, Elyse? They don’t beg for mercy. They don’t cower in the dark. They don’t waste their time on weak, foolish mortals who refuse to see the truth." His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "You think I’m the monster? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am."

He reached out, his fingers grazing your cheek with a cruel gentleness. "But don’t mistake me for the devil. I’m something else entirely. Something far worse." His grip tightened, his nails digging into your skin. "Because I’m not here to destroy you. I’m here to claim you. To make you mine. And I will."

With that, Terry’s expression shifted again, a wild, feral hunger flashing in his eyes. "So tell me,do you want me to stop?"

You knew you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him no, so you just stood there, playing with your fingers, and he sensed your answer. 

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Terry's face as he noticed the conflict raging behind your eyes. "Ah, there it is," he murmured, tilting your chin up with his fingers so he could look directly into your pupils. "The truth. You don’t want me to stop. You never did." His grip on your chin loosened slightly, and his thumb brushed softly across your lips in an almost tender gesture. "You're afraid, yes. Terrified, even. But underneath that fear, there's something else. Longing. Desire. You want me as much as I want you." 

Terry’s other hand slid down your back, gripping your waist as he pulled you closer. His body pressed against yours with deliberate intention. "Don't lie to yourself, baby. You know what you want. You just don't know how to say it."

“Let me show you,” he whispered, his lips hovering just above yours. “Let me show you what you’re missing.” With that, he kissed you again—this time softer and more gentle, yet no less intense. His lips moved against yours with careful precision, his tongue tracing the outline of your mouth as if memorizing every curve. As the kiss deepened, Terry's hands slid to your back, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt to press his palms against your bare skin. His touch was electric, sending waves of sensation coursing through your body. You found yourself responding, your arms wrapping around his neck and your fingers tangling in his hair. “You feel it, don’t you?” Terry murmured against your lips. “The connection. The pull. You can’t deny it anymore, can you?”

"You're mine now, Elyse," he breathed, his fingers digging into your back as he pulled you tighter against him. "Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. You can't escape what's happening between us; you never could." His lips moved to your neck, kissing and nibbling along the sensitive skin, his tongue tracing the line of your pulse. "You're going to want me. You're going to need me. And I'll be here every second of every day, making sure you understand what you've given up by resisting me."

 Terry's hand slid down to cup your ass, lifting you slightly as he pressed his erection against you. “So why fight it? Why deny what you know is true? His voice dropped to a sultry whisper. Just surrender, baby. Let me make you mine.”

You gasped as his words sent shivers down your spine, your body betraying you by arching into his touch. "Terry," you whispered, your voice barely audible, "you know I can't just give in that easily." His response was a low chuckle, his breath hot against your ear. "Who said anything about easy, Elyse?" he murmured. 

"I want you to earn it. Earn every fucking touch, every kiss, every whisper of my name on your lips. I want you to fight me, and then I want you to submit. I want to break you down until all that's left is your raw, desperate need for me." 

His hand moved to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. "And then, baby, I'm going to build you back up, piece by fucking piece, until you're mine in every way that matters." His lips crashed down on yours, hungry and demanding, leaving no doubt in your mind that he meant every single word.

“Say it, Elyse,” Terry demanded, his voice a low, seductive growl. “Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you want this. Want me?” His hand slid under your shirt, fingers pressing against the small of your back, holding you flush against him. You could feel your heart racing and your skin flushing with heat. Your body knew the truth, even if your mind was still trying to catch up.

He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “Stop overthinking. Stop resisting. Just feel.” Terry's other hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back to expose more of your neck. He licked a hot stripe up your throat, tasting your pulse point. “Could you give in to me, Elyse? Give yourself to me completely. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

You let out a soft moan, your body melting into his touch as you struggled to find the words. "Terry," you breathed, your voice shaky with desire and uncertainty. "I... I want to. God, I want to." His grip on your hair tightened slightly, a silent encouragement to push through your hesitation. 

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, your eyes fluttered closed as you surrendered to the sensation of his body against yours. "I'm yours," you whispered, the words sending a shiver of finality and excitement down your spine. "I want this. I want you." A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest as he crushed his lips to yours in a searing kiss that left no room for doubt. 

His hands roamed your body, possessive and claiming, as if marking his territory. "That's my girl," he murmured against your lips, his voice filled with triumph and hunger. "Now let me show you just how good it can be."

Terry captured your lips in a searing kiss, pouring all of his pent-up passion and hunger into the embrace. His tongue delved into your mouth, stroking along yours, coaxing you to respond. At the same time, his hands began to wander, caressing your curves with bold strokes.

He broke the kiss to trail his lips down your jawline, pausing to suck at your pulse point hard enough to leave a mark.

“You're going to look so beautiful covered in my bites and bruises, Terry growled appreciatively. Everyone will know you belong to me.” 

His hands made quick work of your clothing, pushing your shirt up and over your head before deftly unhooking your bra. Cool air hit your heated skin, making your nipples pebble instantly.

You gasped at the sensation, your body arching into his touch as he cupped your bare breasts, his thumbs circling your hardened nipples. "Terry," you moaned, your hands gripping his shoulders for support as your knees threatened to buckle. He leaned down, taking one taut peak into his mouth, sucking and nipping until you were a writhing, desperate mess. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same tormented attention, his hands roaming lower to unbutton your jeans. "Please," you begged, not even sure what you were begging for, only knowing that you needed more. He chuckled against your skin, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. "What do you need, baby?" he murmured, his voice a low, teasing drawl. "Tell me, and it's yours."

“You taste even better than I imagined.” Terry rumbled against your skin, his voice vibrating through you. He released your nipple with a wet pop, blowing cool air over the damp peak and watching it pucker even more.

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping them possessively as he ground against you. “I'm going to take you right here.”  He declared, his tone brooking no argument. “I'm going to bend you over and bury myself inside you until you scream my name.”

Terry's fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, tugging them down your legs along with your underwear in one swift motion. He kicked them aside carelessly, leaving you bare and exposed to his hungry gaze. “Spread your legs for me, baby.” He commanded, his pants 

straining over his obvious arousal.

You complied, your breath hitching as you stepped out of your pants and slowly widened your stance, feeling vulnerable and exposed, but also incredibly turned on. His eyes roamed over your body, taking in every inch of you with a hungry, possessive gaze that made you feel like the most desirable thing in the world. 

"Fuck, Elyse," he growled, his voice thick with lust. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this. How long I've wanted you." He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip, then sliding down to cup your ass, pulling you against him so you could feel his hard length pressing against your stomach. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a fierce kiss as his other hand delved between your legs, his fingers finding your wet, sensitive folds. 

You moaned into his mouth, your body bucking against his touch, seeking more friction, more pressure. "So fucking ready for me," he murmured against your lips, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he began to circle your clit, his touch both teasing and torturous. "I'm going to enjoy this. I'm going to enjoy every fucking second of it."

“You're dripping for me already, he observed, his voice a low, approving growl. “Your body knows exactly what it needs.”

Without warning, he leaned in and dragged his tongue through your folds, groaning at your taste. Delicious, he purred, diving back in to lap at your essence. His tongue circled your clit, flicking over the sensitive bundle of nerves before dipping lower to thrust inside you.

Terry set a relentless pace, fucking you with his tongue while his hands held your thighs apart. He alternated between broad strokes and targeted flicks, reading your reactions and adjusting accordingly. 

You cried out, your hands tangling in his hair as you held him against you, your hips bucking wildly against his face. The sensation was overwhelming, his tongue moving with a skill and intensity that left you breathless and desperate for release.

 "Terry, please," you begged, your voice hoarse with need. "Don't stop. Oh god, don't stop." He responded with a low, rumbling growl that vibrated against your sensitive flesh, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. He slid two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that hidden spot that made your eyes roll back in ecstasy. His tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit, the dual sensations pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

 "Come for me, Elyse," he commanded, his voice muffled against your skin. "Let me feel you fall apart on my tongue." Your body obeyed, your muscles clenching around his fingers as a powerful orgasm ripped through you, leaving you shaking and gasping for air. He slowed his movements, gently lapping at you as you rode out the waves of pleasure, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he looked up at you from between your thighs. "That's my girl," he purred, his eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and unbridled lust.

As your climax crashed over you, Terry sealed his lips around your clit and sucked hard, prolonging your pleasure. His fingers continued their relentless thrusting, helping to ride out the waves of your release. He lapped at your flowing juices, savoring your taste as he worked you through your orgasm.

Only when the last aftershock had faded did Terry slowly withdraw, licking his lips with a satisfied smirk. Mmm, you taste even better when you come undone, he purred, crawling back up your body. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

Breaking away, Terry quickly shed his clothes, revealing his impressive physique. His dick jutted out proudly, long and thick and already leaking at the tip. “I hope you're ready for round two.”

You panted, your eyes wide with anticipation as you took in the sight of him. 

"I am," you whispered, your voice hoarse from your earlier cries. "I'm ready." He smirked, positioning himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your sensitive, swollen flesh. "Good," he rumbled, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Because I'm about to fuck you so hard you'll feel me for days." 

With that, he thrust into you, filling you in one swift, powerful stroke. You cried out, your nails digging into his back as your body stretched to accommodate him. He began to move, his hips snapping against yours in a frenzied, primal rhythm. Each thrust was deep and purposeful, designed to hit that spot inside you that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins. 

"Fuck," he grunted, his breath hot against your ear. 

"You feel so good. So tight. So fucking perfect." His words spurred you on, your body meeting his thrusts with equal fervor, your hips rolling and grinding against him as you chased your next release. The room filled with the sounds of your passion—the slapping of flesh, your ragged breaths, and the wet, obscene noises of his cock driving into you. It was raw, it was intense, and it was everything you needed.

“Take it”, he snarled, one hand fisting in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises. “Take every inch of my dick. This is what you were made for, what you've been craving.”

You moaned, the harsh grip on your hair and hip only serving to heighten your arousal. "Yes," you gasped, your voice breathless and desperate. "I need it. I need you." Your body complied, your muscles relaxing and then clenching around him as he continued to pound into you, each thrust claiming you, owning you. 

"That's it," he grunted, his teeth bared in a feral snarl. "Take it all. Every fucking inch." He leaned down, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, his tongue invading your mouth with the same ruthless intensity as his cock invaded your body. You could taste the salt of his sweat, the musk of his arousal, and it only spurred you on, your body moving in sync with his, meeting him thrust for thrust. "You feel so good," you whimpered against his lips, your voice a desperate plea. "So deep. So hard." He pulled back, his eyes locked onto yours, his expression intense and possessive. 

"I'm going to come inside you," he growled. "I'm going to fill you up until you're dripping with my cum. Until there's no doubt in your mind who you belong to." His words sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you, your inner muscles clamping down on him as your body neared its second peak. 

"Terry," you cried out, your voice a mix of plea and warning. "I'm close. So close." He responded with a low, dangerous chuckle, his pace never faltering. "Come for me, Elyse," he commanded. 

"Come all over my cock. Let me feel that tight pussy milk me dry." And with that, you shattered, your orgasm ripping through you with such force that you saw stars, your body convulsing and clenching around him as he continued to drive into you, chasing his release. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep, his body tensing as he came, his hot seed spilling into you.

Your eyes looked at him pleading for more. In a flash, Terry flipped you onto your hands and knees, kicking your legs apart. He ran a possessive hand down your spine, reveling in the way your skin pebbled under his touch. “This view is breathtaking”,  he murmured appreciatively, admiring the way your ass lifted invitingly.

Without warning, Terry grabbed your hips and slammed back inside you, setting a punishing pace from the start. The new angle allowed him to go impossibly deep, his heavy balls slapping against your clit with every thrust. “Fuck, you take me so well” he grunted, his voice strained with effort and pleasure. "Your cunt is like a vise, squeezing me so fucking tight." His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as he used your body for his pleasure, each thrust brutal and unforgiving. "You feel that, baby?" he panted. "You feel how deep I am inside you? I could stay here forever, buried in your tight, wet pussy." 

You moaned, your arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself up as he pounded into you. "Yes," you cried out, your voice hoarse and desperate. "I feel it. I feel all of you." He reached around, his hand finding your clit, his fingers rubbing and circling the sensitive nub in time with his thrusts. "Come again for me," he demanded, his voice a low, commanding growl. "I want to feel that pussy milk me dry a second time." Your body obeyed, your muscles clenching and unclenching around him as another orgasm built, this one even more intense than the last. 

"Terry," you screamed, your voice echoing through the room. "I'm coming! I'm coming so hard!" He responded with a low, satisfied growl, his body tensing as he found his own release, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his seed once again. "Fuck," he grunted, his body slowing to a stop, his chest heaving with exertion. "You fucking destroy me." He collapsed forward, his body covering yours, his lips finding the shell of your ear. "And I fucking love it," he whispered, his voice a low, contented rumble.

Once he had his fill of you, it still wasn't enough to satisfy his sexual needs. With preternatural strength, he easily lifted you off your knees, impaling you fully on his thick cock as he stood. Terry's other hand slid up to wrap around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your pulse jump. “Hold on tight, baby. Daddy's going to fuck you up.”

He began to bounce you on his shaft, using gravity to drive you down onto him with each upward thrust. The new position allowed him to reach even deeper, his cockhead kissing your cervix with every plunge. Terry's hips snapped up to meet yours, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

You cried out, your head falling back against his shoulder as you clung to him, your nails digging into his forearm wrapped around your throat. "Terry!" you screamed, your voice a mix of pleasure and desperation. "Oh god, you're so deep. So fucking deep." He growled in approval, his teeth nipping at your shoulder as he continued to impale you on his cock, his hips moving in a relentless, punishing rhythm. "That's it, baby," he grunted. "Take it all. Every fucking inch." 

His hand on your throat tightened slightly, restricting your air flow just enough to heighten your senses, making every touch, every sound, every sensation more intense. You could feel your body coiling tight, your muscles tensing as you climbed towards another earth-shattering orgasm. "I'm close," you gasped, your voice a desperate plea. "So close, Terry. Don't stop. Please don't stop." He responded with a low, dangerous chuckle, his pace never faltering. "I won't, baby," he promised, his voice a dark, seductive whisper. "I'm going to fuck you right over the edge. And when you come, you're going to drench my cock. Aren't you?"

 You could only nod, your body beyond words, beyond thought, beyond anything but the raw, primal need to be fucked, to be filled, to be claimed. And as if sensing your need, Terry's hand left your throat, his arm snaking around your waist, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing and circling the sensitive nub with a skill and precision that left you breathless. "Come for me, Elyse," he commanded, his voice a low, demanding growl. "Let me feel that beautiful pussy come undone on me." 

And with that, you shattered, your body convulsing and clenching around him as a powerful orgasm ripped through you, your screams of pleasure echoing through the room, your body milking his dickfor all it was worth.

In a instant, you felt Terry’s fangs pierce through your neck, sending electrical sparks through your body as you came on his dick. 

You gasped, your body jerking as Terry's fangs sank into your neck, the sharp pain immediately giving way to a surge of pleasure that sent electrical sparks dancing across your skin. 

"Terry!" you cried out, your voice a mix of surprise and ecstasy as your orgasm intensified, your inner muscles clamping down on his cock with a force that left you seeing stars. He groaned against your flesh, the vibration sending shivers down your spine as he began to drink from you, his hips never stopping their relentless pace. Each thrust was a claim, a possession, a declaration of ownership. 

"You taste so fucking good," he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied rumble as he continued to feed, his cock pulsing inside you, drawing out your orgasm until you were a boneless, trembling mess in his arms.

As your blood flowed into his mouth, mixing with your honeyed nectar, Terry let out a guttural moan of pure ecstasy. The combination of flavors, the feeling of your velvet walls clamping down on him like a vice, the sound of your cries of rapture - it all pushed him over the precipice.

With a final, brutal thrust, Terry buried himself to the hilt inside you, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself in long, thick spurts. He continued to feed from your neck, swallowing greedily, prolonging both your orgasms. His hips jerked erratically, riding out the waves of his intense release.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Terry withdrew his fangs, lapping at the puncture wounds to seal them.

He gently lowered you to the ground, your body still trembling with the aftermath of your intense orgasm. Terry hovered over you, his eyes locked onto yours, a mix of primal satisfaction and something softer, more tender, shining in their depths. "Elyseee," he murmured, his voice a low, hoarse whisper, "you are incredible. Every fucking time."

 He brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the ferocity of his actions moments ago. You reached up, your hand cupping his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble against your palm. "Terry," you replied, your voice soft and sated, "that was... intense. You're incredible." 

A slow, satisfied smirk spread across his face, and he leaned down to capture your lips in a deep, lingering kiss. His tongue explored your mouth, tasting and teasing, reminding you of the pleasure he could bring. When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes never leaving your gaze. "I meant what I said," he said, his voice serious and intense. "You're mine. Forever. And I'm going to spend every day making sure you never forget it." He rolled off you, pulling you into his arms, your back against his chest, his cock still semi-hard and nestled between your ass cheeks.

 "Rest, my love," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "Because when you wake up, I'm going to fuck you all over again." You smiled, your eyes fluttering closed as you snuggled into his embrace, your body already anticipating the next round of pleasure. "Promise?" you whispered, a soft, contented sigh escaping your lips.

Taglist: @theereinawrites @writingsbytee @nayaesworld @blowmymbackout @megamindsecretlair @brattyfics @episodes-ff @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @nayaxwrites @keyaho @dxddykenn @kaylalb @fakxmbj @hxneyclouds @contentfiend @kimuzostar @kumkaniudaku @uzumaki-rebellion @ranikyani @teenage-aria @jimmybutlrr

[writingsbytee]

I just love me some Smoke. Love a grown ass, silent ass, confident ass man. Something about a man that doesn’t gotta say SHIT for everyone to know he’s in the room. A man who means what tf he says. He said FAWK all that talk, I’m bout that action 😫 Also a man that LOVES black women 🫦 It’s always gon be Smoke fah me!

[writingsbytee]

Okay, I’ll stop now 😝

[writingsbytee]

The Hoodoo Apprentice

Summary: Amelia packed her things and took a train to Clarksdale Mississippi to reunite with an old friend, Annie. Annie promised she’d teach Amelia the art of Hoodoo. After a month, Smoke and Stack return with a plan to open a Juke Joint.

Warnings: SMUT

Part 5.1: This will be written in two parts because of length and detail!

They say fairies don’t feel guilt. That we glitter, giggle, and flit away from consequences like moths from flame. But I remember the way he looked at me—his mouth open in a half-smile, a question dying in his throat—before the room cracked open with light. And then silence. And smoke. And nothing.

So I ran. All the way to Mississippi, where the air is thick and memories can’t follow…

The Day The Truth Surfaced…

The earth smelled sweet before the sun rose. Not like New Orleans—no rot or river breath—but something deeper. Rooted. Green. Like a place that meant to hold you.

Amelia pressed her fingers into the dirt beside a rosemary bush and exhaled slow. A storm had passed the night before. The air was still swollen from it. Leaves glistened. A tomato vine lay broken on its side, too heavy with fruit to stay upright. She knelt to tie it gently, careful not to crush the stalk. Barefoot, in a cotton slip damp at the hem, her knees tucked in the soft dirt, she looked like part of the garden herself.

But inside?

Inside, she glowed.

Not a warmth you could see, not yet. But the kind that lived in her chest and behind her eyes. A soft spark that hadn’t gone quiet since Mound Bayou.

“I thought I was careful,” she whispered to herself, looping twine around the vine, “I didn’t mean to pull nobody in.”

But she had. Annie. Smoke. Even Stack—especially Stack.

That night in Mound Bayou had cracked her wide open.

She closed her eyes and let the memory drift up.

The heat of Smoke’s mouth on her skin.

Annie’s soft moan between her shoulder blades.

The weight of his body, the way he groaned her name like it hurt him.

The way they held her like she was a secret too sweet to speak out loud.

It hadn’t just been sex.

It was something tethered, something claimed.

And she felt it now, days later—like fire running under her ribs, warm and slow…

It started with laughter.

That warm kind that lingers in the corners of a hotel room long after the sound fades. Amelia could still hear it when she closed her eyes. Annie’s low, throaty chuckle, the kind she only let out when she was tipsy and happy. Smoke’s rare, softened smile. Her own small laugh, quiet and unsure.

They’d gone to Mound Bayou for rest. A night away from the pull of Clarksdale. Annie called it a “reset”— a little spell in motion. She wanted new perfume, new silk, a new memory to wrap around the bones of their tangled lives.

Amelia remembered stepping into Francesca’s boutique, the scent of vanilla and cedar thick in the air. She remembered Annie pulling her behind a curtain, pressing a deep red slip against her frame.

“This would melt off you,” Annie whispered.

And she’d been right.

The hotel was owned by a Black family—carved from wood and red brick, warm with lamps and iron balconies that caught the moonlight just right.

Their room was on the second floor. It had one bed.

Amelia sat on its edge, legs tucked beneath her, while Smoke stood at the window, puffing on a cigarette. The scent of bourbon and musk clung to his open shirt. Annie moved around the room with ease—fluffing pillows, humming to herself, already shedding layers of clothing like she couldn’t stand anything between her and skin.

Amelia watched them both with glittering eyes. She didn’t know where she belonged in that moment. She wanted both. Needed both.

“You alright, sugar?” Annie asked, already in her slip, curls damp from a bath.

Amelia nodded, though her heart beat too fast.

Smoke turned around. Looked at her for too long.

Then Annie crossed the room and touched her face, thumb tracing her cheek, and Amelia breathed again.

The first kiss was Annie’s.

The second was Smoke’s.

They didn’t rush her. They never had.

But once she said yes—once she leaned into Annie’s mouth and let her knees fall open beneath Smoke’s unnaturally steady hands—everything changed.

Smoke fucked her first.

His hands were rough but reverent. His mouth was pillow soft and ticklish at her collarbone, her thighs, the inside of her wrist. He kissed her like he was afraid of breaking her, but wanted to learn her shape by memory. All of this was by Annie’s command. Annie enjoyed watching. She’d spread her generous thighs and rub on her pussy while instructing Smoke on how to fuck Ameila. How to eat her. How to kiss her.

And Smoke would oblige with a dick as hard as steel.

She remembered how he tasted—like tobacco and heat.

How he held her hips in his large hands.

How his breath caught when he slid inside her.

“God damn,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers, “feel like I’m sankin’ my dick in warm honey…fuck…You feel like sin… and Sunday.”

Annie didn’t leave them—she stayed close, kissing Amelia’s mouth as Smoke moved, guiding their rhythm. Annie sat behind Amelia while Smoke fucked her missionary. He preferred to take Amelia from behind, but Annie wanted to watch the way his big dick thrust in and out of Amelia’s wet pussy.

They held her between them—her skin slick, breathless, glowing.

“That’s it, Elijah…fuck her good…give that pussy what she want…she hungry, Papa…she want some of that big dick…look how she creaming…feel good? Push her legs back some more…uh-huh…dig deeper…make her feel it…don’t be afraid to give her all ya’ inches, Elijah…she can take it…”

Smoke planted his fits against the bed and locked lips with Annie while Amelia whimpered beneath him. He bottomed out in her and groaned against Annie’s mouth. Amelia’s glossy eyes stared up at Annie’s heavy, sagging breasts and the way their tongues flicked and swirled around each other’s.

“Annie…he’s so deep…” Amelia cried out with a faint sigh.

“Fuck her like that pussy belong to you and not Elias…”

Those words hit Amelia like a freight train. It hit Smoke just the same if not harder. His dick seemed to grow wider in girth, stretching Amelia open so wide she almost cried.

A gasp ripped through her, half-moan, half-stunned cry. Her back arched instinctively, fingers clawing at the sweat-slick sheets beneath her, the bed frame groaning like it might break with them. He was too much. Too thick, too deep. She swore she felt him in her belly.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice gritty with restraint, staring down at her. His breath was hot, panting, “You too tight, sugar. Gotta breathe.”

But she couldn’t.

“Told you, Melia, you gotta take it…you took it so well last night…what happened, baby?”

He fit inside of her and Amelia clawed at his slick biceps. Annie rubbed her hair to soothe her.

And when they collapsed into one another—a knot of limbs and quiet moans, the record player whispering blues from the next room—Amelia felt something she didn’t know how to hold.

Not just pleasure.

Not even love.

But belonging.

And that terrified her more than anything.

The garden shimmered faintly around her.

Now, back in the garden days later, her fingers trembling in the dirt, Amelia could still feel his hands on her hips. Annie’s lips at her shoulder. The weight of being wanted by both—held between devotion and desire.

“They weren’t just in my bed,” she thought, “They were in my magic. I pulled them in… and now I don’t know how to let go.”

She opened her eyes, glanced down at her arm. For a moment, she could swear her skin glinted just faintly, like mica caught in sunlight.

“Not here,” she murmured, “Not now.”

She sat back on her heels, wiping her fingers on the front of her skirt. Her breath moved through her slow.

The way Annie had taught her.

The way her grandmother once whispered, too deep in the bayou, when her fae threatened to spark wild.

“Breathe like the wind don’t know you there. Breathe like fire gone to sleep.”

But the wind did know she was there.

It moved through the garden like it had questions.

And in her gut, she felt it—something shifting. A tug on the thread she’d been trying to keep loose. Not danger, not yet.

But conflict.

Longing.

A future she didn’t know how to stop.

She rose, brushed dirt from her thighs, and looked toward the house.

Smoke would be waking soon.

Annie might already be watching.

She turned her face to the sky and whispered to the morning.

“Don’t burn nothing today.”

And went inside.

The pulse under her skin changed.

It wasn’t just the usual flicker of her feu follet. It was… older. Sharper. Like a key turning in a lock she hadn’t known was there.

She shut her eyes. Breathed through her teeth.

And that’s when she saw it:

Annie, turned away from her, tears in her eyes.

Smoke, standing in the rain, lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers covered in blood.

Stack, kneeling before a grave she couldn’t recognize.

Herself, barefoot in the road, crying. Glowing too bright.

Her eyes snapped open. The thyme trembled in front of her.

“No,” she whispered, “Not now. Not yet.”

The visions had always come like that—in flashes. In warnings.

Her grandmother once said, “fire that sees too far burns too much.”

But this was new. Bolder. Clearer.

It wasn’t just her fae nature. Something in her was opening.

“A seer,” she breathed, lips dry, “Fae fire’s waking somethin’ else in me.”

She didn’t want it.

But it was coming anyway.

She stood slowly, pressing her hand to her belly like she could hold herself together from the inside out.

She thought of the first jar.

The one she buried deep under the floorboards in New Orleans, then packed and carried in her trunk when she fled.

The Nathaniel jar.

It had been meant to sweeten him—to draw him gently toward her.

But the love turned heavy. Sticky. Possessive.

She’d made it with honey, golden and rich. Damiana leaf, for passion. A piece of his sermon cloth, soaked in cologne. Her own fingernail, trimmed during a full moon

What she didn’t understand then—what she sees now—is that magic made in grief and hunger stays hungry.

“That jar don’t wanna die,” she said softly, “Even with him gone, it still wants…someone.”

It stirred every time she touched someone who reminded her of Nathaniel.

Smoke’s quiet control.

Stack’s commanding presence.

Even Annie’s pull.

It’s a jar that lingers. Still warm with unfinished want.

But then there’s the second jar.

This one she made weeks ago, in a fit of quiet ache, alone after a long bath.

She felt empty.

So she made a jar not to seduce, but to soothe.

Its contents were humble. Clover—for peace and soft attention. Honey—because she was lonely. Tobacco ash —to quiet the ache. A lock of her own hair—snipped while thinking about longing

She whispered into it.

“Bring me sweetness. Bring me warmth. Bring me something that don’t want to leave.”

She thought it was harmless.

But now?

Now she isn’t so sure.

Five Days Earlier…

Smoke sat back in the porch rocker, the old wood creaking beneath his weight as he watched the world unfold slow in front of him. He wore a white tank beneath a short sleeved, black button down shirt and dark denim pants with patches and distressed around the ankles. The sky was high and bright, the trees swaying gently like they had nowhere else to be. A cigarette burned between his fingers, curling smoke trailing lazily up toward the porch ceiling.

He hadn’t been able to sleep right since Mound Bayou.

Not because of guilt. Not really.

It was something else.

Need.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. Amelia. The way she arched beneath him. The way her voice caught when he slid inside. The shine on her lips when she moaned his name like it meant something.

“Elijah,” she’d whispered, breathless, “You feel so good inside of me…”

He exhaled slow, smoke curling around his jaw like a noose. The memory coiled in his chest—hot, aching, alive.

Annie had given him permission. Said it was alright.

“Give her what she needs.”

But that was in the moment.

In the fire.

Now that the heat had passed, all that remained was the weight of what came next.

Because now?

He wanted her again.

And again.

And not just when Annie was around.

He ground the cigarette out on the porch rail. Lit another.

He hadn’t meant to want Amelia this way.

At first, he’d just watched her from a distance—curious, cautious.

Annie trusted her. Loved her, even. So he tried to do the same.

But the more he stayed near, the more her pull crept into him.

Not just her looks. Not just the way her hips swayed or her laugh sounded like warm sugar.

It was something…underneath.

A pull. A heat. A hum.

He didn’t know hoodoo well. Didn’t put full stock in Annie’s charms. But he knew when something wasn’t natural.

And Amelia?

She didn’t feel like any woman he’d ever touched before.

Even after talking to Stack about what’s been going on since he’d been out of town after he picked them up from the train station, he could even sense it himself.

“You still feel her, don’t you?”

Stack’s voice echoed in his memory. A question from earlier that morning.

Smoke didn’t answer.

He wasn’t the type to talk about feelings. Hell, he barely spoke if it wasn’t necessary.

But he felt it.

That getaway in Mound Bayou hadn’t satisfied anything. It had woken something.

Something he wasn’t sure he could put back to sleep.

And then there was Stack.

The way his brother looked at Amelia lately—grinning, cocky, bold.

It was different than before.

Hungrier. Deeper.

Smoke didn’t know if Stack had touched her since they got back, but he could feel it brewing.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t sure if he had a right to care.

“She ain’t yours”, he told himself, “She was never yours.”

But his chest said otherwise. His body still remembered her heat.

And every time she passed, humming to herself, smelling like rosewater and peaches?

His hands clenched at his sides.

He leaned back in the chair, staring out at the coming storm. Clouds rolled slow and dark. The scent of rain curled in the wind. But despite all of that, the sun still showed its strength.

“I said I wouldn’t touch her again unless Annie was there,” he murmured to himself.

His voice was low. Gravel-rough.

“So why the hell do I feel like I’m about to break that promise?”

Inside the house, he heard Amelia laugh at something Stack said.

His jaw tightened.

He stayed on the porch.

But the fire inside him?

Refused to go cold.

“Glad you bought somethin’ sexy for me to take off that body…that red slip was Annie’s idea? Bless that sister of mine…”

Through the screen door, he could see his brother crouched inside with Amelia, the two of them laughing soft and close. Stack had that rare, mischievous smile on his face—the kind that reached his eyes—and in his hand, he held a velvet green box. Amelia’s bare legs were tucked under her, one delicate foot stretched toward him, her curls spilling down her back like dark syrup.

Stack sat on his knees, towering over Amelia as she sat on her butt. Stack wore a pair of jeans with some boots and a white T-shirt that clung to his biceps like plaster. A black fedora was tipped back on his head, giving a tease of his freshly slicked hair. His eyes glittered with mischief and the dimples in his cheeks deepened with every syllable he uttered.

Amelia looked like a gypsy—a silk, patterned scarf over her wild curls, a white dress that cinched at the waist and hung from her slender shoulders, and bare feet. Her ears were adorned with little pearls that Smoke purchased from Mound Bayou. It was more so a ‘thank you’ gift for being Annie’s happiness while he was away. They looked pretty on her. Smoke’s eyes drifted to her sweaty, bronze skin before looking away.

Stack watched her with that sly smile that made her belly stir. His hands were hidden behind his back, but his posture was too relaxed, too guilty. Mischief danced in his dark eyes.

Amelia narrowed hers, “What you hidin’?”

Stack just raised a brow, didn’t answer. His voice dropped into a lazy drawl. “Why you always so nosy, huh? Can’t a man keep a little surprise to himself?”

She scooted closer, batting her lashes up at him, “You got somethin’ for me?”

“Maybe.” He grinned, the dimple in his cheek cutting deep, “But you gotta behave.”

She gasped, reaching for the hand behind his back.

Stack jerked away playfully, circling her like a wolf teasing its mate, “Uh uh. Nosy and grabby? That ain’t how this works.”

“Stack,” she giggled, giving a small stomp with her bare foot. “Now you playin’.”

Smoke couldn’t hear every word, but he caught enough.

“You’re so sneaky!”

“Damn right I am,” he said, inching in closer until their noses almost touched. “Now close your eyes for me, bébé. Be good so I can give it to you proper.”

“Stack—”

“Close your eyes, girl. C’mon now…”

Amelia eyed him suspiciously, but the soft heat in his voice made her heart flutter. She obeyed, lashes lowering, lips parting with a whisper of a smile.

Stack moved slowly, pulling the small jade-colored velvet box from behind his back. He opened it just enough to see the glint of the gold catching the warm afternoon light—a delicate anklet, fine and glimmering, with a tiny cursive A dangling at the center.

She felt him crouch low, his breath brushing over her skin. Her toes curled in anticipation.

“Alright,” he murmured, “You can look now.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She gasped, hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, Stack…”

When Stack slipped the anklet around her ankle and fastened the tiny clasp, she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Her face lit up—genuine, flushed, sweet.

Elijah didn’t look away, he just smoked, slow and thoughtful. Folks had been drawn to Amelia since she showed up. There was a softness to her, sure, but something else underneath it too. Something none of them could name. He’d felt it himself—pulling at him like a string tied to his ribs.

The gold anklet sparkled in the light, catching the soft brown of her skin like a whisper of sunlight wrapped around her ankle. The A swayed gently as he fastened the clasp with large, steady fingers, careful and reverent, his touch a kind of worship.

Stack sat back on his heels, admiring his work. “Perfect,” he said, voice rougher now, gaze climbing up her legs. “A for Amelia. My sweet girl.”

Amelia blushed, cheeks warm as peaches, her lips trembling with a smile too big to contain, “You got this in town?”

He nodded. “The Delta got more than good food, you know. Saw it sittin’ there like it knew it belonged on you.”

She dropped down, arms circling his neck in one sudden motion. “You are…the sweetest damn man I ever met, Elias Moore.”

He caught her, laughed low in his throat. “Shh. Don’t ruin my reputation. My big brother out front. Can’t have him thinkin’ I’m a softy—”

She kissed him—soft at first, grateful and tender. Then deeper, longer, lips melting into his like honey off the comb. Stack groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding down the curve of her back until they found the swell of her behind.

He gripped it hard, then gave one cheek a firm squeeze, then a light slap. She squealed into his mouth, body arching against him.

“You tryna rile me up, girl?”

“I ain’t do nothin’ but kiss you…”

“And that’s all it ever takes,” He slapped again, this time slower, the sound echoing in the warm hush of Annie’s home, “You kiss me like that and I forget where I am.”

She pulled back just enough to whisper, eyes half-lidded, voice a velvet hush, “Then don’t remember. Just stay right here.”

Stack kissed her again, deeper this time, the anklet catching a ray of gold light as her legs wrapped around him and he lifted her off the floor.

The velvet box tumbled to the side—forgotten. The A on her ankle sparkled like a secret spell.

Smoke heard footsteps.

His eyes were fixed on the path.

She was coming.

Annie Moore.

She moved like molasses sliding down warm bread, slow and sure, like every step had purpose. Her hips rolled in a steady rhythm beneath a faded mustard-yellow skirt, cinched high at her waist with a knot of thick cotton. The fabric clung to the swell of her backside, catching a whisper of breeze as she walked. Her blouse was thin and ivory-colored, damp at the neck and under her full breasts with sweat, fabric pulled just a little tight where it hugged her curves. The buttons down the front strained at her chest, and one had come undone, just enough for a glimpse of the soft brown cleavage below. She had tied a rust-colored sash around her waist like a belt, making her hourglass shape impossible to ignore.

A wide straw hat shaded her face, but not enough to dim the richness of her skin—deep, sun-kissed brown with golden undertones, glowing like burnished copper beneath the summer light. Beads of sweat dotted her collarbone, and her ankles peeked out beneath her skirt as she climbed the road barefoot, dust clinging to her feet.

Smoke’s throat tightened.

His gaze slid over her like water over stone—slow, reverent, and hungry. He studied the sway of her thighs, the gentle bounce of her breasts under the blouse, the stretch of her skirt across her hips. Her body was thick, plush, womanly in all the ways that made him ache. She looked like she could hold storms and comfort and lust all at once. And she did.

She was Mississippi heat—humid, lush, heavy.

The trees lining the road bowed low with the weight of the season, their branches arching above her like they were drawn in by her gravity, bending with unseen devotion. Leaves rustled softly as if whispering her name. The light filtered through them dappled gold, painting her shoulders with moving shadows.

She saw him watching.

Even from that distance, her eyes met his, slow and knowing. She didn’t pick up her pace—no, Annie never rushed for a man. Instead, she smiled, lazy and deep, lips painted a dusky blackberry-red from some root-stained balm she mixed herself.

Smoke tipped his head and smirked, his chest lifting with something he couldn’t name. He looked like a man watching his favorite sin walk toward him.

She lifted her hand and blew him a kiss.

He caught it out the air like it was gospel.

“Come here, woman,” he said under his breath, barely a whisper, but it floated out over the porch like a spell.

She climbed the steps with grace despite the sweat, despite the heat, and the second she got close enough, he reached out and pulled her to him. The screen door rattled behind them as her body pressed against his, soft and full against his slightly taller frame.

Their mouths met—wet, deep, familiar. Not rushed. Like they’d done this a thousand times, but this time still mattered.

Smoke’s hands slid around her waist, palms dragging up the curve of her spine, down over her thick hips, gripping her like he needed reminding that she was real. His hands pressed into her skirt, fingers spreading over her ass, slow and claiming. She tasted like salt and sassafras, and her scent—clove, lemon balm, and something earthy he could never name—was all around him now.

She gasped into his mouth and leaned her forehead against his.

“You missed me that bad?” she whispered.

“I missed you like hell,” he murmured back, “Like my hands ain’t know what to do without ya’ to hold.”

She smiled against his lips. “Then hold on, baby.”

Behind them, the screen door creaked open.

“Aight now,” Stack’s voice called out, playful but loud, “I said lunch is ready, not foreplay on the porch.”

Annie pulled back, laughing, breathless and warm, “We was just gettin’ our appetite right.”

Smoke let his hand slide slow off her backside and called back, “What ya’ll make?”

“Catfish sandwiches with chow-chow and pickled onions. Collard greens on the side. Got watermelon chillin’ and sweet tea pourin’. Y’all comin’ or not?”

Annie turned to look inside. She could see Amelia blushing through the screen, one leg curled under her, ankle sparkling with a gold charm. Stack leaned in beside her, watching them both with a grin on his face.

Annie caught her breath, eyes narrowing slightly—but not out of jealousy. Just… curiosity. Something tugged at the air between them all, thick and restless.

Smoke watched her face and asked, low, “What is it?”

She shook her head slow. “Nothin’. Just…air feel different all of a sudden.”

He touched her cheek, thumb brushing her jaw, “Don’t matter. Long as you standin’ in it wit’ me.”

They walked into the house together, hand in hand, while the shadows behind them shifted like they knew something the rest hadn’t yet learned.

The air inside the house was thick with the smell of fried catfish and spices—hot oil, cornmeal, cayenne, and a hint of vinegar from the chow-chow cooling on the counter. The table in the center of the room was already halfway set with heavy plates and chipped porcelain bowls. Sunlight slanted through the open window, striping the floorboards like a ladder to something holy.

Amelia moved with grace between the kitchen and dining table, her dress now topped with a lightweight apron, curls still wild around her flushed cheeks. Stack watched her go, the sway of her hips, the way her gold anklet caught glints of light like it had a heartbeat of its own.

Smoke pulled a chair out, then went back for forks.

“You didn’t say much about Mound Bayou,” Stack said, casually, as he laid out the thick drinking glasses.

Smoke gave a faint grunt, noncommittal.

Stack raised a brow, “That bad?”

Smoke shot him a sideways glance, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Nah. That good.”

Stack paused, still holding a handful of cutlery.

The silence hung a second too long.

Smoke didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. The way he leaned back against the wall, cigarette now extinguished, eyes half-lidded like he was still dreaming of something soft, told enough of the story.

Stack gave a sharp, single nod—quiet and unreadable. But behind his calm face, something churned. Smoke knew it too. He could feel it through the air between them, that unspoken thread only twins shared. Stack wasn’t asking for conversation. He was asking whether something shifted. Whether Mound Bayou changed something between them all.

Smoke’s eyes met his brother’s again, harder now. It did, they said without words. But don’t ask me what.

He moved past him to the table, brushing Stack’s shoulder with a quiet finality.

At the counter, Annie was helping Amelia place the catfish sandwiches on a wooden tray. Amelia arranged each one with care, lining up slices of cornbread buns and pressing the pickled onions down with her fingers. She was still glowing—lit from within.

Annie leaned in close, her voice low, coaxing. “After lunch, we’ll head back to the shop, alright? We ain’t done with that drawing lesson yet.”

Amelia glanced up, her doe eyes curious. “Drawing?”

Annie smiled. “Mmhmm. Love drawing. Honey jars, sugar cones, follow-me spells. You gotta know how to build a jar that speaks without sayin’ a word. Yours pull somethin’ in already—I can feel it. But I want you to understand why. There’s spirit in the building. You feel it?”

Amelia nodded softly, but her breath caught when Annie reached to brush a stray curl from her face.

Annie’s eyes dropped to her ankle. “That’s real pretty,” she murmured, kneeling slightly, fingers ghosting just above the golden anklet.

The A charm shimmered like it had caught sunlight, though no ray touched it. For a moment, a shimmer pulsed from the charm outward—like heat rising off pavement, a soft flicker of energy, invisible to most but thick enough to make the hairs on Annie’s arms rise.

Her lips parted.

Something in her gut twisted—not fear, exactly, but an ancient kind of knowing. Like her blood remembered something her mind couldn’t name.

Annie blinked, shook it off, and stood quickly. “Mmm,” she said, clearing her throat, “I like that shine.”

Amelia, ever perceptive, felt the shift. Her smile faltered just slightly.

“I’ll bring the tea,” she said, almost too quickly, turning and slipping away from the moment.

Annie stared after her for a beat, chewing the inside of her cheek. Her eyes flicked once more to the anklet, then toward Stack—who was watching Amelia too closely—and then to Smoke, who wasn’t watching at all but felt everything.

She shook her head and carried the tray to the table.

“Let’s eat before this fish gets cold,” she said, her voice bright but slightly strained.

Amelia set down the pitcher of sweet tea and took her seat, carefully folding her hands in her lap. Stack sat across from her. Smoke poured Annie a glass of tea before pouring his own. For a moment, the only sound was the clinking of glasses and the rustle of napkins. The charm on Amelia’s ankle swayed as she crossed her legs beneath the table.

The sunlight seemed to lean in, too.

Watching. Listening. Waiting.

Something had shifted.

But no one yet had the words to speak it.

The catfish was crispy and golden, the chow-chow tangy and sweet. A bowl of collard greens sat steaming beside a plate of sliced watermelon, their red centers glistening. Smoke bit into his sandwich with slow satisfaction, licking a smear of hot sauce from his thumb. Across the table, Stack leaned back in his chair, toothpick stuck between his lips, one elbow on the table as he talked business.

“So we meet ‘em at the old cotton press, out past the levee,” Stack was saying, tearing off a piece of cornbread with thick fingers. “They’re bringin’ a truck, say they got buyers lined up from Memphis to Vicksburg. Cash in hand. All we gotta do is hand off the shine.”

Smoke nodded, chewing slow. “We takin’ the last barrels from the juke’s cellar?”

“Yeah. That batch aged good. Real smooth. Better than the stuff we been sellin’ to Johnson.”

“Alright. You loadin’ tonight?”

“Late,” Stack said, pausing to sip his tea, “You ridin’ with me?”

Smoke glanced at Amelia and Annie for half a beat, then back to Stack, “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

As his brother spoke, Smoke felt something warm press lightly against his leg.

He blinked once.

Ankles tangled under the table. He looked down—Amelia’s foot was sliding softly over his calf. Her bare toes curled against his slacks, teasing up the fabric.

Across from her, Annie was calm as a still lake, one hand resting on the table near her glass, the other… slipping low beneath the linen.

Smoke exhaled through his nose, quiet and slow.

Annie’s hand found the bulge beneath the table. Soft pressure. She stroked him through the fabric with practiced ease, fingers slow, teasing. Her touch was firm enough to make him shift slightly in his seat but subtle enough not to draw attention.

Stack kept talking, “We’ll leave the juke front lookin’ clean. Don’t want nobody sniffin’ around. Just music, drinks, same as always.”

Smoke grunted his agreement, but his jaw clenched as Annie’s hand kept moving—her nails grazing lightly, then flattening her palm against his length. Under the table, Amelia’s foot moved higher, pressing against his thigh with the same sweetness that lingered in her voice.

He gave her a sideways look.

She smiled at him—demure, unreadable.

Lord help me, he thought.

The air had thickened, gone heavy with heat and honey. Flies buzzed faintly near the window, the watermelon juice glistened like rubies on porcelain, and everyone was pretending not to feel what was very much being felt.

Finally, Stack stood up and stretched, toothpick between his teeth.

“I’m headin’ into town. Need to check on that shipment at the depot ‘fore we meet our contact later. I’ll grab the papers for the handoff.”

Smoke wiped his mouth, grateful for the excuse to breathe, “I’ll go too. We’ll ride back together and stash what’s needed.”

Annie stood as well, gathering plates, “Me and Amelia headin’ to the shop after we clean up. Got some more lessons to go over.”

Stack nodded, already heading for the door.

Smoke stepped in behind Annie just as she reached for the pitcher to rinse it. His presence settled against her back like a shadow stretching into dusk—warm, broad, unmistakable.

He leaned in, lips brushing just beneath her ear. His voice dropped low, gravel thick with hunger and heat.

“Don’t wash too hard, baby,” he whispered, letting his hand ghost along the curve of her hip, “I want that scent on you when I come back.”

Annie’s breath caught, lashes fluttering.

Smoke’s lips brushed her again, this time just behind her jaw, “You hear me?”

She didn’t speak—just nodded, slow and sharp.

He smiled against her neck, “Good. ‘Cause soon as I’m through with this run, I’m gon’ tear you up. Ain’t lettin’ you sleep tonight. You gon’ walk crooked by mornin’.”

Annie turned slightly, enough to meet his eyes—dark, hooded, steady, “You better come back ready,” she whispered.

Smoke chuckled low in his chest, kissed her temple once, and stepped away, grabbing his hat from the wall hook.

Near the doorway, Stack stood with his hat already in hand, watching Amelia. She was near the windowsill, pretending to adjust the lace curtain, but her whole body tilted slightly toward him—waiting.

He walked up slow, like the air between them was thick with something he had to wade through.

“You be good while I’m gone,” he murmured, his voice gentler than his brother’s, but no less heavy with promise.

Amelia looked up at him, soft brown eyes wide, lips parted like she had something to say—but didn’t.

Stack leaned in and pressed a single kiss to the side of her neck. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just firm and lingering—his lips dragging lightly across the pulse point beneath her ear. His hand slid to the small of her back and stayed there for a heartbeat too long.

Then he pulled back, his thumb brushing her side, “I’ll be back before sundown.”

Amelia nodded, a soft blush blooming beneath her skin.

Annie watched the exchange from the sink, lips twitching into a knowing smirk. She didn’t say a word.

“Y’all don’t be messin’ around too long.” Annie said.

Smoke met Annie’s eyes as he moved toward his hat. “Don’t I always mess around too long?” he muttered, low, with a wink.

The front door opened with a creak, then shut.

And just like that, the house exhaled.

Once both brothers had left—boots clomping down the porch steps, doors shutting behind them—the house fell into an almost too-quiet stillness.

Amelia looked up, her lips parted just slightly. Annie crossed the room slow, her hips swaying as she pulled the apron from her waist and tossed it over the chair.

“You play too much,” Annie said softly.

“So do you,” Amelia whispered.

They stood in the open doorway of the hallway, sunlight from the kitchen framing them. Annie reached out, trailing her hand down Amelia’s arm. Her fingers curled around Amelia’s wrist, thumb stroking the inside like she was feeling for a pulse.

“You got time before your lesson,” Annie said.

“I know,” Amelia breathed.

Without another word, Annie led her by the wrist toward the bedroom. The air was thick with jasmine and the ghost of frying grease. Annie closed the door behind them with a soft click.

Inside, the light was golden and low. A breeze moved the lace curtains just enough to flutter them like a breath.

Annie reached for the buttons on her blouse, slow and measured. “C’mere, sugar,” she said, voice warm and honey-thick.

Amelia stepped in close, her fingers brushing against Annie’s waist, her breath catching in her throat.

They had work to do, yes. But for now—just a little indulgence. Just a little sweetness before the spirits came calling.

For a long, loaded moment, neither of them moved.

“I felt you teasing me,” Annie murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “looking at me across the table with a bite of your lip. You want me to eat my pussy, sugar?”

“Yes….please…devour me, Annie. Ain’t been right since Mound Bayou…”

“Me neither. Got a taste for pussy juice and yours get me right every time.”

Amelia’s lips parted, but no words came.

Annie reached up and brushed a fingertip along the curve of Amelia’s jaw, following it like a map she already knew by heart. Her hand cupped the back of Amelia’s neck, warm and steady. She leaned in slowly, her breath brushing Amelia’s lips.

“Say stop,” Annie whispered, “If you need me to.”

“I won’t,” Amelia breathed, eyes already half-lidded.

And then Annie kissed her.

Soft at first—just the faintest press of lips. A tasting. A question.

Amelia leaned into it, answering.

Their mouths moved gently at first, grazing, brushing, lips molding and parting. Then deeper. Annie tilted her head and licked softly into Amelia’s mouth, her tongue teasing, coaxing.

Amelia gasped, the sound muffled between them, her hands rising to curl into Annie’s sides, bunching the soft fabric of her blouse. Her body melted forward, pressed into Annie’s with a hunger she couldn’t hide.

Their tongues tangled, slow and searching. No rush. Just sensation. A slow burn.

Amelia’s hand slipped around to Annie’s back, fingers dragging along her spine. Annie’s other hand slid low to Amelia’s hip, gripping it, guiding her closer until there was no space between them—just heat, breath, and lips that kept finding each other.

Annie pulled back slightly, just enough to speak against her lips, “You taste like summer.”

Amelia gave a breathless laugh, fingers still trembling where they touched, “You taste like somethin’ I ain’t supposed to have.”

Annie leaned in again and kissed her deeper, slower. Their breaths were shallow, shared. The kiss unfolded like a secret—satin-slow, layered with longing.

When they finally parted, Amelia’s lips were swollen, her breath unsteady, curls brushing Annie’s cheek.

Neither spoke for a moment. They didn’t have to.

Annie just took her hand and led her to the bed.

“C’mon, sugar,” she whispered, voice velvet-dark, “Let me show you what drawin’ in love really feels like.”

And beneath the quiet moan of the floorboards and the hum of summer outside, something unseen stirred in the room—a shimmer, a ripple—like magic holding its breath.

The bed sat in the center of the room, low to the floor with thick carved posts that framed it like an altar. A patchwork quilt was folded at the foot, worn and sun-faded but lovingly kept. The sheets were cream-colored and linen-soft, wrinkled slightly from the morning’s rest. A single red pillow rested where her head had been earlier, the indent of her shape still visible.

Beside the bed, a small wooden nightstand held a clay dish of jewelry—rings, copper bracelets, and silver hoops scattered like offerings. There was a well-thumbed Bible there too, tucked beside a tiny blue bottle of protection oil and a folded scrap of paper with faint handwritten sigils. A glass of water with lemon slices floated near the edge, the condensation sweating down its sides.

A cedar wardrobe stood open on one side, dresses hanging like pressed flowers—cotton, muslin, and the occasional silky piece saved for nights that needed it. A pair of leather boots lay kicked off beside a woven mat, and one of Annie’s headwraps draped over the edge of a wicker chair by the wall, where a half-finished doll made of Spanish moss and red thread waited in Annie’s lap basket.

In the far corner, a small altar sat against the wall, subtle but sacred. A photo of her mother, younger and smiling in black and white, sat framed in brass. A tiny bowl of salt. A bundle of sage tied in string. A glass of rum. And tucked near the base—something soft and wrapped in silk: a small charm bag she’d made weeks ago, before Amelia ever showed up.

The whole room breathed warmth. Lived-in. Loved-in.

It wasn’t grand or loud. It was hers—intimate, spirit-fed, and humming with the echoes of laughter, prayers, and the low, private moans of a woman who knew how to love hard and quiet.

And now, with Amelia standing before Annie naked, the light curling around her like it belonged to her, the room felt suddenly alive.

Annie sat bare before her, delicious curves revealed. She drew Ameila closer and wrapped her lips around her nipples.

“Hike a foot up, sugar…”

Amelia obeyed. Annie’s long fingers stroked her pussy lips back and forth. She was already slick between her thighs, warmth blooming there like honey left too long in the sun—thick, golden, sweet. When Annie’s fingers parted her, they came away shining, coated in the soft proof of her want. It wasn’t just arousal—it was surrender, a kind of sacred ache that pulsed with every breath Amelia took beneath her hands.

“You so sticky…I can smell you…so fuckin’ beautiful, Lia…”

Annie sucked Amelia’s arousal off of her fingers. Amelia watched, caressing her knee, nibbling on her lip. Annie’s eyes locked between Amelia’s legs. She gasped when she noticed a trail of her arousal dripping like honey from a comb. Annie scooted off of the bed and let her head recline back against the mattress.

“Sit on my mouth, sugar, please…”

Annie was desperate. Amelia climbed up and squatted over Annie’s lips while holding onto the bedpost. The floorboards creaked beneath Annie’s heavy bottom as she adjusted herself. The stroke of her lips against Amelia’s clit sent a jolt of electricity through her. Annie kissed her clit repeatedly, soft and sweet. Amelia couldn’t control the way her hips would roll along Annie’s lips when the kiss became too much.

“Annie…you kiss my pussy so good…”

Amelia allowed her full weight to settle down. That movement opened her pussy up more and her arousal dripped down Annie’s chin. Amelia arched her back and stared straight ahead at herself in Annie’s ornate mirror.

The mirror was old, its glass slightly warped, the wooden frame carved with roses and roots, stained by time and candle smoke. It leaned against the wall of Annie’s bedroom, right across from the bed, angled just enough to catch every inch of Amelia’s body.

She was glowing.

Not figuratively. Not metaphorically.

A faint, golden shimmer coiled along her collarbones, danced beneath her skin like lightning in honey. Her eyes—half-lidded, dazed with pleasure—flashed not brown, but molten, their irises threaded with soft embers. Each breath made her chest rise, and with it, tiny sparks of light pulsed at her throat and wrists, as if her veins carried starlight instead of blood.

Her lips parted on a moan—head tilting back, throat exposed—and the mirror caught it all: the sweat shining on her skin, the trembling curve of her stomach, the glistening slick between her thighs as Annie’s fingers slid deeper, Annie’s mouth pressed closer.

Annie murmured something low against her, a praise or a spell, but Amelia barely heard it.

She couldn’t stop watching herself.

She looked… not human. Not just human.

Her reflection shimmered around the edges, soft and flickering, like heat haze rising from a bayou at dusk. It was subtle, but unmistakable. Light clung to her like perfume. Her body looked too soft, too radiant, too real to be only flesh.

She wasn’t unraveling—she was becoming.

Becoming whatever she was always meant to be.

And Annie—now kneeling behind her, moaning softly between her thighs—seemed to feed it. Fuel it. Pull it to the surface. Each lick, each suck, each curl of a finger sent another flicker of light through Amelia’s reflection, like a ripple across moonlit water.

Amelia gasped, eyes locked on her glowing, god-touched self.

What am I becoming? she thought—but there was no fear in it.

Only wonder.

Only ache.

And the slow, delicious build of something ancient unfurling inside her, like fire waking in her blood.

“Annie, fuck…”

Annie’s chin dripped with Amelia’s release. The sound of Annie’s loud sucking grew louder. She didn’t want to stop. She’d only ever stop to admire her work. Amelia’s folds puffy and sensitive, slick with spit and cum. Annie would stroke it with her fingers before going in again to taste. Amelia stayed still like a good girl, arching more, spreading herself open more.

Annie dipped her head to suck her clit from another angle. Amelia felt herself clenching around nothing.

“Mhm…” Annie hummed.

Annie’s mouth moved with slow precision, her tongue circling, teasing, her fingers stroking Amelia deeper. The heat building between Amelia’s legs was unbearable—perfect—a slow burn that curled up her spine and bloomed behind her eyes. Her reflection in the mirror gleamed brighter now, as though the fire in her blood had taken root in the glass.

Her lips parted on a moan, and then—

“Sélas ti’mo lúmen… ai’triel sa lorrein…”

The words spilled out before she could stop them, half-gasped, half-sung—like smoke rising from the mouth of a flame.

Annie froze for just a moment, her breath catching against Amelia’s slick skin, “What… was that?” she whispered.

But Amelia couldn’t answer. Her head fell back, eyes fluttering shut as the sensation crested inside her. The words hadn’t come from her mouth alone—they came from deep within, from some sacred, buried root waking beneath her skin.

The mirror pulsed. Her reflection flared with golden light, the embers in her eyes glowing brighter now—alive, wild, ancient.

The words echoed softly through the room, even after her voice fell silent:

“Sélas ti’mo lúmen… ai’triel sa lorrein…”

Light of my flame… let the veil open…

Annie pressed her hand to the back of Amelia’s thigh, breathing harder now, but not just from desire.

From awe.

Amelia gripped the quilt, her whole body trembling as the climax rolled over her—but part of her, deep and sacred, had already passed through another threshold entirely.

She didn’t know the meaning of the words.

But her blood did.

“You speaking in tongues, sugar?”

Annie stood, staring down at Amelia. Amelia didn’t know what she was speaking, she was equally as stunned.

“It’s just…Annie, the way you, Stack, and Smoke eat me…it just…it…”

Annie stroked Amelia’s cheek to soothe her.

“Tell me what it does while I finish my dessert, sugar.”

Amelia gave Annie a slow nod. Annie got down on her knees and motioned for Amelia to come closer. Ameila scooted to the edge of the bed, spread her thighs, and watched Annie dive back in with a curl of her tongue.

Amelia sat back on her elbows to watch. Annie slipped a hand between her legs to touch her own pussy.

Annie spoke between licks and slurps, “You lovin’ my lips on this fat pussy?”

Amelia was choking on a moan. She couldn’t properly respond.

Amelia was soaked and leaking to the quilt. She couldn’t hear Annie’s wet folds and it made her sit up. Annie locked eyes with her while her lips lightly sucked on her clit.

“Annie…can we touch pussies?”

Annie paused.

“Please…I need it,” Amelia begged with a whiny voice.

“…Yes,” Annie says with a smile, “I’ve been wanting to do that to you…”

Annie stood, sharing a laugh with Amelia. She went to rest on her back and she hooked her heels in her hands before opening up wide and limber. Ameila stared astonishingly at Annie before clombing up to straddle her. She sat directly over Annie’s hairy pussy and when their clots touched Amelia moaned without restriction.

The feeling of their shared wetness pressed together and gliding sent shivers up Annie’s spine. It felt amazing. Slick and messy. She stared up at Amelia past her breasts that sat beneath her chin. Amelia looked like a goddess above her. Nipples erect and poking out. Hair falling into her eyes, skin glistening with sweat.

“Bump my pussy, Lia…”

Amelia braced herself on Annie’s legs. She tossed her hair back and bucked her hips like Annie commanded. The amount of wetness between them left no room for words. They locked eyes and moaned on a loop. Amelia bounced, her clit slapping into Annie’s.

“Lia, that fat pussy…oh, goodness…keep doing that…”

Annie felt her clit grow with each collision. Ameila found her groove and she would bounce then buck…bounce then buck…bounce then buck…

Annie couldn’t believe that she could feel herself cumming already. She stared up at Amelia with disbelief at how good it felt. Brows pinched together, lips parted. Amelia circled her pussy over Annie’s and Annie could feel her body seizing.

Ameila twirled her nipples and licked her lips. She looked so damn beautiful.

“Smoke gonna have a good time sinking into this pussy with how wet you are, Annie…”

Annie couldn’t believe the filth that just came from Amelia’s mouth while she brought her to climax. Annie felt her pussy pulsating against Amelia’s. It was such a powerful orgasm. While Annie tried to come down from her orgasmic high, Amelia spread her open and licked up everything that was left behind.

Annie stared down at Amelia with a look of defeat.

Amelia spoke between licks, “I think I’m ready for my lesson now, Annie.”

Amelia still felt warm between her thighs as they stepped into the shop—clean, dressed, but touched. She and Annie had to freshen up before the lesson, and though water cooled their skin and fresh cotton clung clean to their bodies, the memory of Annie’s mouth and the mirror’s glow lingered like heat under the skin.

She had slipped into a soft sage-green dress that clung in the right places, brushing just past her knees, and Annie had chosen a cotton wrap skirt and a white blouse that left her collarbones bare. They didn’t speak of what happened in the bedroom, but the way Annie’s eyes flicked over her as she unlocked the shop door, the slight curve of her smirk, said everything that needed saying.

Inside, the air was thick with rosemary, lemongrass, and mugwort. Dried bundles hung upside down from beams above, their stems bound in twine. Glass jars lined the shelves—full of roots, powders, dried flowers, little bones, and oil tinctures that caught the light. The old wood floor creaked under their bare feet. A low blues tune spun from the corner, soft and crackling, as if the record itself had a soul.

Amelia inhaled deeply. This space felt alive.

Annie moved behind the counter, pulling down a jar of honey and a bundle of cinnamon sticks. “Let’s get started on love work,” she said, laying the items on a cloth square, “Drawin’ in want. But this time, I want you to focus on how your hands move. What they say. Rootwork ain’t just what you use. It’s how you touch it.”

Amelia nodded, her fingers tingling as she reached for the honey.

But just as she uncorked the jar, the bell above the door jingled.

A woman stepped inside, soft-voiced and slow-footed.

Pearline.

She looked a little nervous, like she’d rehearsed her entrance. Slender and brown-skinned, wearing a faded yellow dress and a matching hat sitting low on her forehead. She carried herself like someone used to holding back—chin slightly tucked, shoulders not quite squared. But her eyes… her eyes were curious, wide-set, and shining.

“Miss Annie?” she said gently.

Annie turned, wiping her hands. “Mm. Pearline. You made it.”

Pearline nodded, glancing briefly at Amelia with a shy smile. “I—I wasn’t sure if it was too soon.”

“It’s right on time,” Annie said, motioning her in. “C’mon in, baby. You remember Amelia?”

“We ain’t properly met,” Pearline murmured, offering her hand. “I seen you ‘round town though. Folks say you Annie’s apprentice.”

Amelia smiled and took her hand. Pearline’s touch was warm, and there was something in her—some flicker, some faint light Amelia felt in her chest like a bell being rung softly. Recognition, but not quite knowing. A kinship unspoken.

“I’m learnin’ all I can,” Amelia said gently. “Glad to meet you, finally.”

Annie motioned toward the reading table, where the light pooled golden over a linen cloth, and a small bowl of herbs waited beside a red flannel bag.

“Now,” Annie said, “you said you wanted help for… your husband?”

Pearline flushed, fingers twisting in her skirt. “He—he don’t touch me no more. Not like he used to. And I ain’t sure if it’s me… or if somethin’ else got in the way.”

Amelia’s heart softened.

Annie nodded, all business now, the rootworker stepping forward. “Well. We gon’ see what’s what. I got somethin’ that might sweeten his tongue and stir what’s sleepin’. But first we talk, and then we make.”

She turned to Amelia with a flick of her chin. “You gon’ help me build it.”

Amelia stepped beside her, eyes on the ingredients: damiana, ginger root, licorice, rose petals.

But as Pearline spoke—softly, haltingly—Amelia felt it again. That flicker. That something in Pearline’s voice, her eyes, her blood. A faint glow behind her skin.

And deep in Amelia’s chest, her fae light stirred—curious.

She don’t even know, Amelia thought.

Not yet.

But maybe… she will.

Annie laid out the ingredients with care, every motion deliberate—rootworking wasn’t just craft. It was communication. A dance between spirit and touch.

“First,” she said to Pearline, “we work a tea to cleanse you—open your heart, clear out any grief cloudin’ your womb or your want. Then we draw what’s needed.”

Pearline nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. She sat on the stool quietly while Annie passed her a warm cup steeped with hibiscus, damiana, cinnamon, and a whisper of honey. It smelled like longing. Like heat waiting to be called back.

While Pearline drank, Annie handed Amelia the red flannel square, “You fix the conjure bag. Do it like I showed you.”

Amelia nodded and began.

A pinch of ginger root, to stir the flame.

Damiana leaves, for lust and passion.

A twist of licorice root, for control—gentle but firm.

Rose petals, for softness, for sweetness.

A drop of patchouli oil, slow and musky.

She moved with intention, each herb added like a verse of a prayer. Her fingers pinched and poured with grace, and Annie watched her, lips pursed in quiet approval.

“Now kiss it closed,” Annie said.

Amelia brought the cloth to her lips and pressed a soft kiss at the center before tying it shut with red thread. As she did, the bag warmed in her palm—just slightly, like something inside had stirred to life. Her heart skipped.

She didn’t say anything.

Annie dipped the tip of her finger into the honey jar nearby and wrote a symbol over the pouch—one Amelia didn’t recognize. Not hoodoo, exactly. Not completely. It looked older.

Pearline held out her hands.

Annie placed the bag into them gently, “Put this under y’all’s mattress. Sleep over it. And when you want to call him back into you, talk to it sweet. Like he already yours again.”

Pearline looked at them both, eyes glistening, “Thank you.”

“You ain’t alone,” Annie said, “Not never.”

After the working, Pearline lingered. She stood beside a shelf of dried herbs, running her fingers over the hanging bundles like she was trying to read something in the leaves. Amelia stepped beside her, drawn in like a moth.

“You did real good in there,” Pearline said softly, without turning, “You got a gentle hand.”

Amelia smiled, “Thank you.”

Pearline turned to face her. Their eyes met.

There it was again.

That flicker.

It wasn’t magic in the hoodoo sense. It wasn’t a spirit in the room.

It was in Pearline.

Amelia’s fae light stirred behind her ribs, curling like warm vapor. It responded without her permission, reaching—curious. Pearline had something inside her. Latent. Quiet. Maybe passed down without ever being named. Maybe watered down from a long-ago bloodline or hidden behind Sunday skirts and psalms.

But it was there.

Pearline stepped closer. Not in a flirtatious way. But open.

“Sometimes I feel things,” she said, almost whispering, “Things I don’t understand. Like… like the wind listens when I talk. Or animals follow me for no reason. Or my dreams come true in little pieces.”

Amelia’s throat tightened, “You ever told anyone that?”

Pearline shook her head, “Folks already think I’m strange. I don’t want ‘em thinkin’ worse.”

“You ain’t strange,” Amelia said softly, “You just ain’t been taught your name yet.”

Pearline blinked. “My name?”

“The one inside you,” Amelia said, placing her hand lightly over Pearline’s chest. “The one only the old blood remembers.”

Pearline stared at her for a long moment. The shop around them hummed—soft wind against glass jars, blues music fading into silence.

“Will you show me?” she asked.

Amelia nodded, “If you want it.”

And somewhere beneath them—below the floorboards, under the roots—something ancient and glowing turned over in its sleep.

Annie stood behind the counter, slowly cleaning the edge of a carved mortar with a linen cloth, but her eyes weren’t on the tools in her hands. They were on the corner of the shop where Amelia and Pearline stood, just beyond the reach of the sun filtering through the lace curtains.

The two women were close—faces turned inward, heads bowed slightly like they were speaking something soft. Private.

Annie couldn’t make out the words.

But she didn’t need to.

She watched Pearline touch one of the dried rosemary bundles, her fingers lingering, then drop her hand to her chest as if something there had just stirred awake. She watched Amelia answer her with that look—the one she wore when her spirit recognized something before her mouth could name it.

Well, Annie thought. Ain’t that something.

She didn’t feel left out. Not exactly. But there was something in the air now—like a thread had been pulled from a fabric she’d thought only she and Amelia shared.

Amelia, who had been so quiet at first. So sweet, tender. Powerful, yes—but soft with it. Careful. Annie had watched her bloom like a morning glory since the day she stepped into the shop, barefoot and smelling of river moss and honey. Now she was reaching out to someone else. And not just anyone.

Pearline.

Of course it would be Pearline.

There was something in that girl Annie had always noticed. The way animals followed her. The way her voice carried like wind through tall grass when she sang at the river. The way her eyes always looked like they were remembering something she hadn’t lived yet.

Two women made of ache and hidden light.

Kindred.

Annie narrowed her eyes slightly. Not in judgment—but in thought.

She set down the mortar and reached for the jar of frankincense resin, as if busying her hands would still her thoughts.

Pearline trustin’ her already, she mused, and they only just properly met.

But it didn’t feel wrong. In fact, it felt like something that was always meant to happen.

Amelia placed her hand gently over Pearline’s heart, and whatever she said made Pearline’s shoulders soften like they’d been carrying something too long.

Annie’s mouth twitched into the faintest smile.

“They speakin’ a language without words,” she murmured aloud, though no one heard it, “One they both remember, somewhere deep.”

Still—something in her belly curled tight. Not jealousy. Not even suspicion. Just a flicker of watchfulness. Like a door she’d thought was closed had quietly eased itself open.

She wiped her hands and called softly across the room, “Y’all alright over there?”

Both women turned at once.

Pearline gave a small smile, a little dazed but glowing.

Amelia’s eyes flicked to Annie’s, wide and unreadable.

“Mhm,” she said gently, “We just…talkin’.”

Annie nodded once, slow, “Good. ‘Cause the lesson ain’t over yet. And I want you both ready.”

Then she turned and walked into the back room, leaving the two of them in that golden hush.

But even as she moved out of sight, she could feel it: something had shifted.

Something was blooming.

And it wasn’t done yet.

The sun was streaming fuller through the windows by the time Pearline gathered her things. Her root bag was tucked beneath her arm, tied off with a strip of indigo cloth Annie had blessed with oil and a whispered prayer. She held the charm bag close to her chest, like it was more than fabric and herbs—like it was a secret only she and the spirits knew.

Her hat had lifted slightly, a soft curl slipping free at her temple. Amelia noticed it, and something about the way it curled—unruly and delicate—felt familiar. Kindred.

Pearline turned to her at the door, eyes searching.

“I know you probably busy with lessons and things, but… I’d really like to see you again.”

Amelia’s smile bloomed slow and warm, “I’d like that too.”

Pearline exhaled, a shy, breathy laugh escaping her like she hadn’t meant to be so bold, “Maybe we could talk more. I got questions, and you… you feel like someone I can talk to without feelin’ crazy.”

Amelia nodded, stepping closer, her voice a soft hush, “You ain’t crazy. You just woke up. And sometimes, when you first wake up, you need somebody to help you figure out what the dream meant.”

Pearline’s eyes welled with quiet emotion, but she held it back, smiling through it.

“Tomorrow,” Amelia offered, “why don’t you come by Annie’s garden? We’ll have a picnic out back. It’s quiet there—pretty, too. We could bring sweet tea, a little fried okra, maybe some biscuits if I don’t burn ‘em.”

Pearline beamed, “Yes. I’d like that real much.”

They exchanged a time—just after eleven, before the heat climbs too high—and Amelia gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it.

A faint clop-clop sounded outside the shop, the slow creak of buggy wheels against the dirt road. Pearline glanced back over her shoulder.

“That’s my friend, waitin’ with the horse. He gon’ take me home.”

“You need help carryin’ any of it?” Amelia asked.

Pearline shook her head, “I got it.”

Annie, who’d stepped out of the backroom just in time to catch the exchange, came forward and pressed a hand gently to Pearline’s shoulder.

“You did good today,” she said, “Now don’t go second-guessin’ it.”

Pearline nodded.

“And don’t forget,” Annie added, her voice slightly firmer now, protective, “what you feel inside—your voice, your power, your need—it ain’t wrong. Ain’t never been.”

Pearline’s eyes shimmered, “Thank you, Miss Annie. I mean that.”

Annie nodded once, “You sleep with that bag under your bed for the first three nights. Then move it to your pillow. And if that man start actin’ brand new, you send me a letter.”

Pearline laughed, then turned to Amelia.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be waitin’.”

Pearline slipped out into the sunlight, her figure framed by the doorway—slight, soft, but no longer small. She walked to the buggy with a spring in her step and a root bag full of magic nestled close.

Amelia watched her go, the door swinging shut gently behind her.

“Girl got a light in her,” Annie murmured, stepping beside her.

Amelia turned to her, voice low. “Yeah. She does.”

But inside, her fae light whispered something else.

She’s got more than that. She got something old.

And it’s waking up.

The sky had settled into a dusky violet by the time they got home, the final red threads of daylight curling low behind the trees. The scent of drying herbs still clung to Amelia’s dress, and the backs of her knees were damp with sweat. She was tired—but content. The shop had been quiet after Pearline left, and the energy between her and Annie had softened into something warm and close.

Annie pulled the screen door shut behind them and kicked off her shoes in the entryway. She moved toward the small stack of mail left tucked in the slot by the doorframe.

“Didn’t check it earlier,” she muttered more to herself than anyone.

Amelia walked into the kitchen and set her bag down with a sigh, already moving toward the icebox to fetch the leftover fried squash and red beans they hadn’t touched the day before. She hummed a little under her breath, comforted by the small ritual of reheating food in Annie’s cast iron skillet.

The house creaked with familiar sounds—floorboards groaning as they cooled, frogs beginning their chorus outside, and the soft crinkle of envelopes as Annie sifted through the mail at the table.

Then a pause.

Amelia turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder.

Annie sat still now—shoulders stiff, one envelope trembling slightly between her fingers. Her face changed—eyes narrowing, lips pressing into a firm, unreadable line.

“You alright?” Amelia asked gently, stepping closer.

Annie didn’t answer at first. Her eyes scanned the page, but Amelia could tell—she wasn’t reading it anymore. She already knew what it said. The kind of knowing that settled in your bones before your eyes caught up.

“It’s from Miss Ora Mae,” Annie said finally, folding the letter tight, voice thick but calm. “Down in Shelby. One of her girls went missin’. And a woman’s been found near the crossroads with her eyes gone.”

Amelia froze, the warmth of the skillet forgotten.

“Jesus,” she whispered.

Annie looked up at her then, face shadowed beneath the kitchen light. “I gotta go. She’s callin’ for me.”

“Tomorrow?”

Annie nodded, “First light.”

They didn’t speak much after that. Just ate quietly—red beans over rice, squash crisp at the edges, cornbread still soft in the center. Amelia wrapped a second plate in cloth and set it near the stove, leaving a pan warming for when Smoke and Stack returned from town. The brothers were handling something with the moonshine and juke joint supplies—last details before the weekend’s big opening.

Outside, the cicadas hummed.

Inside, tension curled behind Annie’s eyes like smoke in a closed room.

Smoke and Stack returned just as the crickets took up their night song, boots heavy on the porch. Stack stepped inside first, his shirt damp with sweat and the smell of whiskey clinging to his collar. His eyes landed on Amelia with a small, crooked smile.

“I’m takin’ her,” he said simply, nodding toward Amelia.

She gave Annie a quick glance, then followed Stack down the hall, her pulse already rising.

Smoke lingered, silent as ever, his gaze sweeping the kitchen before settling on Annie.

“Food’s hot,” she said softly, motioning to the waiting plate.

He sat across from her, taking his button shirt off and resting it behind him, and then he dug in. He didn’t say much—not at first. Just ate slow, chewing like he could taste something beyond the food.

Annie stared at her tea, fingers tapping absently against the cup.

“You gone quiet on me,” he said finally.

“I got a letter.”

He stopped chewing, “Bad?”

“Miss Ora Mae in Shelby. Trouble with one of her girls. Real bad signs.”

Smoke swallowed, jaw twitching.

“You think it’s them folks from that river camp?”

“I don’t know. But I gotta go see.”

“When?”

“Dawn.”

Silence.

Smoke set his fork down, leaned back slightly, “You ain’t goin’ alone.”

Annie met his eyes, “I am.”

He shook his head slowly, “Nah. Not for somethin’ like that. Not if they takin’ eyes now.”

“You got the juke openin’ this weekend. You can’t go runnin’ off.”

“Damn the openin’,” he growled, but the heat in his voice softened at the look she gave him. That stubborn calm she always wore when her mind was made up.

“Smoke,” she said gently, “This my work. Mine. They called for me, not you. You stay here. Handle what’s yours.”

He clenched his jaw, pushed the plate away.

“I don’t like it.”

“You ain’t got to,” she said, reaching for his hand, “Just trust me.”

He held her hand a long moment, callused fingers wrapping tight around hers.

Then—quietly—he nodded.

Later, beneath the open sky, Annie drew water from the hand pump and filled the iron tub on the back porch. The moon was nearly full, hanging low and round above the trees. Smoke sat in the tub, his back to her, steam rising around him in soft tendrils.

She bathed him in silence, her hands slow and reverent. She poured warm water over his broad shoulders, dragged the washcloth across the planes of his back, kissed the nape of his neck as she worked.

He said nothing at first.

Then, he spoke softly, “You come back to me.”

“I always do.”

“I mean it, Annie.”

She leaned in, pressed her lips to his ear.

“If I don’t, you’ll find me anyway. You always do.”

Water splashed soft against metal. Frogs sang in the cane grass. The moon watched from her perch in the sky, full and golden, as Annie’s hands moved slow over the man she loved.

And somewhere in the distance, the wind shifted.

Something was coming. Annie could feel it in her bones.

But for now, she just bathed her man in moonlight. And let the night hold them.

The steam curled in soft spirals from the surface of the water, carrying the scent of rosemary and bay leaf. The iron tub be on the back porch creaked faintly as Smoke shifted, his long legs stretched out, chest slick with heat. Moonlight cast him in silver—his dark skin gleaming, beard damp at the edge of his jaw.

Annie knelt behind him on a stool, bare feet braced against the wooden slats of the porch, her slip clinging damp to her thick body. She dragged a cloth over his broad shoulders, slow and deliberate, her fingers following behind to massage soap into his skin.

Smoke groaned low in his chest, head falling forward slightly.

“You always groan like that,” she murmured, lips curving at the edge, “Makes me think you been needin’ this more than you let on.”

“You already know I do,” he rumbled, voice thick as molasses, “Ain’t nothin’ like ya’ hands, woman.”

Annie reached for the tin pitcher and poured warm water over him again, watching the rivulets roll down the grooves of his back, over the scars he never spoke of, over the life he’d never explain. She set the pitcher down and leaned in close, breath warm against the nape of his neck.

Her right hand dipped lower beneath the water—beneath the surface, where heat pooled thick. She found him with ease, fingers curling gently around his length, already half-hardened from her touch alone.

Smoke exhaled, jaw tightening.

“Annie…”

She kissed behind his ear, slow and wet, and then her tongue flicked over the curve of his right ear—the sensitive part she’d discovered long ago that unraveled him like thread.

Her voice dropped, lush and low, and she began to whisper in his ear—not English now, but Yoruba, her grandmother’s tongue. The one passed to her through work and blood, never written down, only remembered through ritual and want.

“Mo ní ifẹ́ rẹ… gbogbo ara rẹ.”

I want you…all of you.

Smoke’s hand gripped the sides of the tub, knuckles pale.

“Jọ̀wọ́, jẹ́ kí n jẹ ẹ láradá…”

Let me be your healer.

She kissed just behind his jaw, her voice like silk wrapped in flame.

“Fọ gbogbo ìbànújẹ rẹ sínú omi yìí.”

Let the water take your sorrow.

Her hand stroked him under the surface, slow and steady, and she felt him growing harder with each breath. The moon above them seemed to hold its breath. The frogs, the wind, the night itself stilled.

Smoke turned his head slightly, his eyes finding hers—dark, unreadable, full of fire.

“You tryin’ to drive me outta my mind?”

Annie didn’t answer.

She simply rose from the stool and climbed into the tub with him, her full body slipping into the water, thighs parting as she straddled him, taking off her slip that clung to her curves like a second skin from sweat.

She reached between them, guiding him to her, and whispered one last thing against his mouth—

“Má ṣe bẹ̀rù ìfẹ́ mi…”

Don’t be afraid of my love.

Then she kissed him.

Hungry, deep, wet.

And the tub rocked beneath them as the water answered in waves.

The water sloshed softly around them as Annie eased down over him, her hands pressed to his slick chest, her breath catching the moment he filled her. Deep. Stretching. So familiar, and yet every time felt like the first—all heat and slow ache and a breath stolen too fast.

Smoke’s hands slid up her thighs, gripping her hips with reverence and hunger. He groaned, head falling back against the rim of the tub, the sound guttural and low.

Annie moved slow, rocking her hips in a rhythm as old as prayer. The iron creaked beneath them, moonlight bathing their glistening skin, steam rising like the breath of the spirits that bore witness.

“FUCK,” Smoke spoke sharply with a grunt, “Hot pussy…juicy…”

“Amelia warmed me up nice and good for you…”

Smoke gripped the tubs edge and stared into Annie’s eyes with smoldering passion.

“Feel this pussy, Papa…”

the curves of her breasts pressed tight against his chest as she leaned forward and whispered more Yoruba into his ear.

“Mo jẹ́ ayé rẹ… mo jẹ́ ibi ìsinmi rẹ…”

I am your world…I am your place of rest…

Her lips brushed his jaw as she moved, the words dripping from her tongue like oil over fire. Smoke’s grip tightened, and his hips bucked up into her, his rhythm becoming needful, deeper now—pulling moans from her throat she didn’t try to hide.

“Say it again,” he rasped, though he didn’t understand. “Whatever it is. Say it.”

She cupped his face in her hands, slowing her movements just enough to feel every inch of him. Her eyes searched his.

“Ìfẹ́ yìí… kò ní parí.”

This love…will not end.

She stuck her fingers in his mouth and then replaced them with her tongue as she kissed him then—full, open, wet. Their mouths met like they were starving, teeth grazing lips, tongues stroking in time with her hips. The water rocked louder now, the tin tub groaning beneath the strain of them. Her thighs trembled around him.

Smoke sat up, arms wrapping around her, mouth dragging along the curve of her shoulder, then her throat. His voice was thick, trembling.

“You feel like home, Annie. You are home.”

Annie buried her face against his neck, her arms wrapping tight around his back. Her body moved faster now, chasing the edge with him, the sound of flesh meeting water rising like thunder in their ears. His hands gripped her backside, guiding her rhythm, grounding her in his body. Water splashed, coating his face and hers.

Then—

He groaned her name, rough and breathless.

And she shattered against him.

Her cry was soft but shaking, clinging to him as her climax rolled through her like storm-wind. Her walls fluttered around him and that’s when he let go—gripping her close, his release pulsing deep inside her, their bodies locked in wet, heaving stillness.

They stayed like that for long moments. His forehead pressed to hers. Her breath still stuttering in her chest.

Then—

Smoke let out a slow breath, like something in him had finally exhaled after years of holding on.

Annie cupped his jaw again, stared into his face. “You hear me now?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“I heard everything.”

She smiled, kissed the corner of his mouth. Then leaned back, letting the warm water rise around her once more.

They bathed each other in the quiet that followed, no rush, no words needed. The moon hung high above them—witness, keeper, guardian.

They didn’t bother to dry off.

Smoke lifted her from the tub, water slicking off their skin in rivulets as he carried her into the house—her thick thighs cradled around his waist, her arms looped behind his neck. Their mouths stayed locked, breath hot and uneven, tongues tangled in kisses that never ended, only deepened.

The bedroom door slammed shut behind them.

Moonlight spilled through the open window, casting Annie’s skin in silver flame. Her body gleamed—full, bronzed, beaded with water. Her breasts heaved, nipples tight, Smoke’s eyes stuck to every curve like worship.

Smoke growled low in his throat.

“Lay back,” he said roughly, guiding her to the bed.

She obeyed, her body hitting the sheets with a soft, wet sigh.

His eyes swept over her slowly—deliberately—dragging from her hips, to her belly, to her breasts. He kissed every inch it revealed, moaning as he went.

“Look at you,” he muttered against her stomach, voice thick and reverent, “You so goddamn fine, Annie. Look at this body. Look at these hips. This ass. You know I ain’t never wanted nobody the way I want you?”

His hands roamed her like he’d forgotten everything else in the world.

“I’m gon’ take my time wit’ ya’ tonight,” he growled. “And YOU gon’ take all this dick, just like ya’ was made to.”

Annie whimpered, already arching beneath him.

Smoke grabbed her thighs, spreading them wide as he knelt between them. His mouth found her again—devouring, slow at first, then faster. She cried out, hips bucking, and he held her down with one strong arm, eating like he was trying to own her soul.

“You taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” he murmured against her folds, his beard slick with her arousal. “Keep runnin’ from me, I’ma pin you down and fuck you into the floor.”

She moaned—shaky, desperate—and reached for him.

“Elijah!”

His response was more pussy eating. He pinned Annie’s thighs back with both hands. Smoke ate her like it was his last supper. Annie watched with her breasts in each hand, cupping them like he loved. He loved it when she rolled her breasts and pointed them up so he could take in the beauty of her big areolas and perk nipples. Smoke missed wedging his big dick between them and pouring the Sweet Ember.

Sweet Ember smells like desire in summer dusk—thick, slow-burning, and sticky-sweet. Like brown sugar melting on a cast iron skillet. Like crushed clove in a warm palm. Like the smoke of a love letter burned and inhaled.

The scent lingers, curling behind the ears, at the collarbone, between thighs. It blends with the skin’s own chemistry, deepening as bodies warm. On Smoke, it sharpens—the cedar and tobacco becoming heavier, headier. On Annie, it sweetens, bringing out the molasses and vanilla, making her skin smell edible, holy.

Smoke took a breath, “You ‘bout to cum, I can taste it, baby, just let it go. Give me what the fuck I want.”

Annie was in paradise. She’d had her pussy licked and sucked twice in one day. Once by Amelia. And now her handsome husband. Her Papa Smoke.

“Papa my puss cummin’…”

The defeated tone of her voice followed by her sweet moans sent Smoke over the edge.

He climbed up, mouth crashing into hers, then flipped her onto her stomach like she weighed nothing. Smoke popped her on the rump, the sensation stinging from the lingering water against her skin.

“You want me to stop?” he rasped in her ear.

“No,” she gasped.

“Say it.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Say it.”

“Don’t stop, Papa, please don’t stop. Get in this pussy.”

“Then I’m a take this pussy.”

Smoke growled, sliding into her from behind in one slow, claiming thrust. Her back arched, hands gripping the headboard as he drove into her—deep, hard, full. His hips snapped against her ass, one hand against the side of her neck, the other hand wrapped tight in her hair.

Every thrust pushed a moan from her lips.

“You mine tonight,” he snarled, dragging his hand down her back, “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she choked out. “Yours, Elijah—”

He slammed deeper.

“Say my name again.”

“Elijah.”

“Louder.”

“Elijah!”

“Look at you—back bent, ass high, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word. You so goddamn beautiful, baby. This body? This body was made to be loved like this. You hear me?”

He grinned, kissed the side of her throat, then flipped her again—face to face now. His eyes, wild and full of dark heat, bore into hers. He kisses her shoulder, then bites gently, hand slipping beneath her belly to stroke where she’s most sensitive. He grips her hips tighter, pulling her back onto him with a grunt.

“Wanna see your face when you cum.”

He lifted her legs over his shoulders and drove in again, watching every expression as she came undone beneath him. The bed rocked beneath them, and the room was soaked in moans, skin slapping, gasps for air.

Then—

He slowed.

Pressed his forehead to hers.

Let the rhythm draw out again—long, deep, possessive strokes.

The moon poured over their skin, igniting the bronze and brown of their bodies like they’d been sculpted in flame. Their melanin shimmered beneath the silver light, sweat and want gleaming like how Sweet Ember across the curves of Annie’s stomach, the thick of her thighs, the swell of her breasts.

“I see you,” he whispered, breath ragged. “Ain’t never stopped. Ain’t never will.”

“Don’t ever stop, Papa. Don’t…don’t ever stop…shit, Elijah!”

“Didn’t I tell you?” he growls softly in her ear. “Didn’t I tell you I was gon’ do you good tonight? Mm. Got you moanin’ into the sheets like you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

Annie was teary eyed and speechless. That Yoruba, Creole, and English was trapped in her throat with how good Smoke was making love to her.

“Goddamn, Annie…This pussy always know how to take me. So fuckin’ soft. So wet. You feel that?”

“Mm… Elijah… yes.” She moaned.

Her breath catches as he thrusts deep.

“I’m doin’ it good, baby?”

He drives in deeper. She gasps, body arching.

“You said you’d do me good… and you doin’ it, baby… Lord…”

“Yeah… that’s what I thought. Grippin’ me like you ain’t ready to let go….moonlight all over you. Skin shinin’ like it’s been kissed by fire. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

He grinds into her, slow and heavy. She shudders beneath him.

“You got me meltin’… legs shakin’… You got me callin’ out ya’ name…”

He begins to stroke deeper, slower—his voice becoming thick with emotion.

“You makin’ me feel like I ain’t never had no woman before. And maybe I ain’t, not like this. Not the way you take me in. Not the way you make me lose my whole goddamn mind.”

He brushes a damp curl from her forehead, then rests his forehead against hers, breath shuddering.

“I told you I was gon’ have you walkin’ funny,” he whispers, grinning slightly. “And I ain’t nowhere near done.”

Then he kisses her hard, possessive. His hand curls around her throat—not to choke, just to hold—and his next thrust sends her gasping into his mouth.

“You mine, Annie. Mine ‘til the stars fall.”

“Take me, Elijah… Make me forget where I am…Just don’t let me forget who I’m with.”

Annie cupped his face as he moved inside her, their climax building again—slow and thick and soul-deep. She cried out his name as she came, her walls clenching tight around him. He followed with a low, broken moan, emptying into her as his whole body trembled.

Their bodies were still tangled, limbs heavy and wet with sweat. The bedsheets were half-kicked to the floor. The window remained open, and the night air curled in like a lullaby, carrying with it the scent of honeysuckle and damp earth.

Smoke didn’t pull out.

He stayed inside her—deep, slow-breathing, his chest rising and falling against hers. One hand cupped the back of her head, fingers slipping through the damp coils of her hair. The other held her thigh, thumb stroking slow circles against the softness of her skin.

Annie’s breath was still catching in small waves. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, her lips brushing his collarbone.

“Damn,” she whispered.

Smoke chuckled low in his throat. “That what you got to say?”

She smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s all I can say.”

He shifted slightly, just enough to slide deeper. She gasped—soft, not in pain, but from the sensation of still being filled. Still connected.

“You want me to stay like this?” he murmured.

“Mmhmm,” she nodded. “Don’t pull out yet. Not just yet.”

He kissed her forehead, slow and lingering.

“I ain’t never loved a woman like I love you,” he said, his voice raw.

Annie opened her eyes.

“You love me?”

He looked down at her. “I thought you knew.”

She swallowed thickly. “Sometimes I forget I’m allowed to have that.”

“You don’t just have it,” he said, brushing his nose along her temple. “You own it.”

They stayed wrapped together like that, his length still inside her, their bodies breathing as one, until sleep came in soft waves. The moonlight spilled over them, igniting their skin with silver, as if the heavens themselves had seen what they shared and blessed it.

They stayed locked like that, trembling in each other’s arms.

Then, slowly, he rolled to his side and pulled her with him—her back to his chest, his arms wrapped around her belly.

They lay bathed in moonlight.

Their breaths slowed.

But their hearts thundered on—tangled in sweat, salt, spirit, and something so ancient, not even the stars could name it.

And though tomorrow would pull Annie away…

Tonight, she gave him every part of herself.

And he received it like it was the last water on earth.

The house had quieted to a hush by the time Amelia settled onto her bed, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched out across the patchwork quilt. The oil lamp on her bedside table cast a soft amber glow, flickering shadows across the walls and the spines of her old books.

Stack was pacing slow, lazy circles through her room like a big cat with nowhere to be. He picked things up and put them down without real purpose—opened her music box again and let it chime its soft, broken melody. Then he clicked his lighter open and shut, open and shut, as if the rhythm steadied him. His eyes kept drifting back to her—watching her legs shift under her nightgown, her bare foot flexing as she adjusted her seat.

She pretended not to notice.

Her focus remained on the leather-bound journal resting across her lap—one of her grandmother’s oldest. The pages were filled with looping cursive, herbs smudged into the margins, candle wax stuck between spells. Amelia’s finger traced a line of ink that read:

For fire without flame: mix crushed red pepper, cedar smoke, and the tears of a woman scorned. Speak her name three times, and no man shall ever rest in her arms again.

She shivered a little.

In front of her, she heard the creak of floorboards.

Then—

Tickles.

She squealed as Stack’s fingers brushed the arch of her foot, light and devilish.

“Stack!” she laughed, pulling her leg up, but he caught it.

“Mm,” he hummed, crouching at the foot of the bed, “You so serious tonight. Thought I’d be the reminder that you got skin.”

He held her foot gently in his big hand, rough thumb brushing the soft pad of her sole. Then, without warning, he kissed the top of it. Just once. Warm and unhurried.

Amelia blinked, thrown off by the tenderness of it.

Then another kiss. This time just above her ankle.

Then higher—his lips grazing the side of her calf, his breath hot against her skin.

She swallowed, her fingers sliding to mark her place in the journal, but her focus was gone now.

“What you readin’?” he asked against her leg, his voice low, molasses-thick.

She hesitated, “My grandmother’s hoodoo book. One of her oldest ones. She used to write notes in the margins when things didn’t go right.”

Stack nodded, still kissing upward. “That the same grandmother raised you?”

“Mhm.” Amelia smiled faintly. “Vivienne. She taught me how to brew healing teas before I could even write my name. I used to sit at her feet while she read Psalms over herbs like they were alive.”

Stack paused, resting his chin gently against her knee. The lamp’s glow hit her just right—golden and warm—and for a second, she looked like something caught between a dream and a flame. His eyes didn’t leave her.

“She the one who gave you your shine?”

Amelia blinked, “My shine?”

He nodded slowly, brushing his thumb along her skin. “Yeah… that light. That thing you got around you. I don’t know what to call it. But it’s there.”

She tilted her head, intrigued but cautious, “What kind of light you think I got?”

Stack’s voice dropped, thick and reverent, “It ain’t somethin’ I see. Not with my eyes, not really. It’s like…I feel it when you walk in a room. Makes the air shift. Animals go still. Time slows up a little.”

He paused again, his thumb still drawing slow circles just below her knee.

“I see it in your skin when you laugh. Hear it in your voice when you speak over tea like it’s spellwork. You shine, Amelia. You glow. And I don’t think that’s just ‘cause you fine. I think that’s somethin’ in you.”

Her breath caught. She looked away for a second, her fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the journal in her lap.

“You don’t know what you talkin’ about,” she whispered, but it lacked conviction.

Stack gave a soft chuckle, “Maybe not. But I know how I feel when I’m near you.”

She looked back at him.

“And how’s that?”

He stared at her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her soul. “Like I’m standin’ in front of a fire that don’t burn… but still changes me.”

Amelia swallowed. Her heart was thudding now, not from fear—but from being seen.

Deeply.

More deeply than she’d ever been seen before.

She lowered her hand and brushed her fingers over the edge of his jaw, voice trembling just a little.

“My grandmère…she did give me somethin’. But I don’t think even she knew what it really was.”

Stack nodded, eyes never leaving hers, “Don’t matter if she named it or not. I see it. I feel it. Every time I touch you, it’s like I’m touchin’ light,” He leaned in again and kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and soft, “Reckon I’d like to hear more ‘bout her sometime.”

Amelia reached down, her hand brushing his jaw.

“You stay the night, and I’ll tell you one of her stories. The one about the bottle tree that kept whisperin’ her name.”

Stack grinned against her skin, “You tryin’ to scare me or seduce me?”

“Ain’t it always a little of both?”

He laughed, deep in his chest, and rose from his crouch, easing himself beside her on the bed. He took the journal from her lap and closed it gently, setting it on the nightstand.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Tomorrow,” she agreed.

Then she turned to him, let her head rest against his shoulder, her fingers finding his under the covers.

The music box wound down in the corner.

And somewhere in the house, the faint scent of cedar smoke lingered.

Amelia was curled against Stack’s chest, her head tucked under his jaw, their limbs loosely tangled under the thin sheet. His hand moved slow along her spine, trailing patterns she couldn’t name, fingers sometimes pausing to twirl one of her damp curls around his knuckle. She thought he might be drifting off.

But then he spoke, voice low and gravel-soft, barely louder than a breath.

“You ever believe in things you wasn’t supposed to talk about?”

Amelia blinked up at him, still hazy from the edge of sleep.

“Like what?”

Stack’s hand slowed, “When I was about… six? Maybe seven? Smoke and me used to sneak down by the bayou, out past where the cypress trees thicken and the ground gets soft under your feet. Real still out there. Too still sometimes.”

Amelia nodded slowly. She knew the kind of still he meant.

“One afternoon, I stayed behind after Smoke ran ahead. I was sittin’ on a rock, missin’ my momma again. It hit me sometimes… that ache. Like she was just outta reach but I couldn’t touch her.”

He paused. His fingers skimmed the curve of her waist, thumb settling lightly just beneath her breast.

“Anyway… that’s when I saw her.”

Amelia tilted her face up slightly. “Her?”

“Mmhm. A woman. Not like any I’d ever seen before. Skin gold and brown like riverstone after rain. Hair long and wild, blowin’ though there wasn’t no wind. She was dancin’, just beneath the trees. Twirlin’ like she ain’t had a care in the world. Like joy itself was pourin’ outta her feet.”

His voice dipped into something more reverent now, distant, “She… she glowed. Not like fire. Not like sunlight. She just…lit the world around her. The leaves. The water. My chest. Made everythang feel warm again, even though I’d been cryin’.”

Amelia stilled.

Stack’s jaw flexed as he remembered, “She looked right at me. Smiled, real soft. Then she waved her hand and said, ‘Everything’s gon’ be alright, baby boy.’ Just like that. Like she knew me. Like she meant it.”

He exhaled, long and slow, “I never told nobody. Not Smoke, not Annie, not my daddy. Folks would’ve laughed, said I made it up. Said I was just seein’ things.”

Amelia swallowed, “But you know it was real.”

“I do,” he said, with a conviction that surprised even her, “I ain’t never felt peace like that again. Not ‘til…”

He stopped, hesitated.

She looked up at him, “Not ‘til what?”

His hand returned to her back, stroking lower now, possessive, protective.

“Not ‘til you.”

A soft ache bloomed behind her ribs. Her throat tightened.

“Where was this? Where you saw her?”

Stack glanced toward the window, where the moonlight spilled across the floorboards like a path. “Out past Tchula Lake. Not far from a little four-way crossroads lined with willow trees. Place feelin’ wrong and right at the same time. Like magic and memory both live there.”

Amelia closed her eyes.

She knew that place. Her grandmother had once whispered that fae linger there—that the veil was thin along the water, where cypress trees root into more than just soil. She hadn’t been there since she was a girl.

“Amelia…” Stack’s voice pulled her back.

“Yeah?”

“I think maybe I saw somethin’ I wasn’t meant to. Or maybe I was meant to and just didn’t know what it meant yet.”

Her voice came out a whisper. “Maybe you still don’t.”

His fingers brushed her jaw, tipping her face up toward his.

“I ain’t never stopped thinkin’ about her,” he said, “Not once. Not ‘til now. ‘Cause now… now I think that light might’ve found me again.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t trust herself to.

Stack kissed her forehead, then pulled her tighter into his chest, tucking her beneath his arm like something precious.

“G’night, moon girl,” he murmured, half in jest, half in wonder.

And with his arm wrapped around her and her cheek pressed to his chest, Amelia finally let herself fall asleep. She leaned into him as the hush of night settled around them, her head resting on Stack’s shoulder, one hand still laced with his beneath the coverlet. Her breathing softened, deepened. Within minutes, sleep had pulled her under.

Stack stayed still.

He didn’t want to move. Not yet.

She was warm against him—soft, curved, steady. Her curls had spilled across his chest, a few strands sticking to the fine sheen of sweat that clung to them both. The oil lamp on the bedside table had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows up the walls, golden and slow.

He reached for one of her curls, coiling it gently around his finger.

There was something about her that wouldn’t leave him alone.

Not just the way she kissed, or the way she gasped his name when his fingers found the right place. Not even how sweet she smelled when she’d been working in the garden all morning, herbs clinging to her skin.

It was something else. Something in the way she watched people. The way animals didn’t flinch when she got close. The way her touch lingered in places long after she’d gone.

Stack had been with women. Slept beside a few. But he never stayed the whole night. Not unless he was too drunk to get home. He didn’t choose sleep like this. He didn’t seek it.

But tonight, with her weight curled into him and her breath fluttering against his ribs, he didn’t want to go nowhere.

He shifted carefully and reached across her to pull the journal from the nightstand—her grandmother’s book.

The leather was cracked and worn, edges curled like it had lived through fire and rain. He opened it.

Symbols. Words that looked like English but weren’t quite. Ingredients he half-recognized—calamus root, dragon’s blood, hyssop. He didn’t understand any of it, not the way Amelia did. Not in his hands.

But he wanted to.

He flipped through the pages slow, reverent, like maybe by holding it he could get closer to her. Not just her skin. But the parts she hadn’t shared yet. The deeper parts. The parts that whispered instead of moaned.

He closed the book after a while, eyes moving back to her sleeping face. Her full lips, parted just slightly. The slow rise of her chest beneath the sheet.

“I don’t know what you are,” he whispered, barely loud enough for the room to hear, “but you ain’t just a girl.”

He let that truth sit in the silence.

Then he moved.

Quietly, he unbuttoned his shirt, slipped it off his shoulders, and folded it once before setting it on the floor. His pants followed. He climbed back under the coverlet, bare-chested, the heat of Mississippi night wrapping around them both.

Amelia shifted slightly, sighing in her sleep. Her hand found his again, even in the dark.

He held it.

Let his head rest back against the pillow.

And for the second time in his life—maybe the first by choice—Elias “Stack” Moore let sleep come to him beside a woman not out of lust, but out of peace.

Out of want for something deeper than flesh.

Out of need.

And the journal on the nightstand pulsed with quiet energy, as if it, too, had taken notice.

The morning came heavy with dew and silence.

The kitchen smelled like sweet mint and cedar ash— the last remnants of the incense Annie had burned before sunrise. She stood by the stove, hair wrapped in a deep green scarf, her skirt cinched tight at the waist, boots laced high. The letter sat folded on the table, held down by a tin of red clover.

Smoke leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, bare-chested, his jeans riding low, belt slung loose.

His eyes didn’t leave her.

“You sure I shouldn’t come?” he asked, stepping closer, “I can put the juke on hold.”

Annie zipped the bag and turned to face him.

She cupped his face, thumb brushing the stubble on his cheek.

“You already came back, Elijah. You got work to do here. With your brother. With her. And you need a new shave. I’ll handle that when I get back.”

“Annie…”

She smiled softly and stood on her toes to kiss him — long, deep, her fingers sliding into his hair.

“You trust me?” she asked when they broke apart.

“Always,” he murmured.

“Then trust I’ll be fine.”

They packed the truck together.

Smoke tossed the bag in the back beside a small trunk of conjure tools wrapped in cloth and bone charms.

Annie tied her scarf tighter, smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt with steady hands.

“Train leaves at eight,” she said, “We got time.”

The drive was peaceful, Annie’s hand in his, windows down. The station was quiet. Just the sound of birds and the distant rumble of the engine coming down the tracks. Steam hissed. Metal whined.

Smoke walked her to the platform in silence, one hand on the small of her back, the other clenched at his side.

When they reached the edge, she turned to face him again.

“Watch the house,” she said, “And the shop.”

“I will.”

“And watch her.”

She didn’t say Amelia’s name, but it burned in the space between them.

Smoke’s brows furrowed.

“You sure—”

Annie stepped in close. Pressed her chest to his, whispering in his ear.

“I want you to enjoy her. If she needs you… even like that… you give it. She trust you. So do I.”

Smoke exhaled—slow and sharp. Annie slid her hand down, cupping his hardness through his jeans.

“You hard already,” she teased, “Ain’t no shame in that.”

She kissed him one last time—slower, with meaning.

“I love you, Elijah Moore.”

“I love you, Annie Moore.”

She stepped onto the train with her bag and trunk, turned at the top of the steps, and waved.

“Tell my girl I’ll be back soon.”

Smoke didn’t speak.

He just watched.

As the train pulled off, he reached under his shirt. Smoke pulled out the mojo bag she’d made him before he left for Chicago.

He held it to his lips.

Kissed it once.

“I got errythang,” he said under his breath, “I got our home…the shack…our baby grave…I promise.”

Smoke got back in his truck and drove home.

Smoke had only meant to close his eyes for a moment.

The bed was warm. The house too quiet. Annie’s absence settled deep in his chest like a stone in water. He stretched out, hand on his chest, boots still on.

And then…

He was somewhere else.

Stay tuned for 5.2...

@blackisy2k @thickeeparker @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 @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg @inkdrippeddreams

[writingsbytee]

Mamacita?😍

Mom—mommy ? @///@ 🥺🫣

[writingsbytee]

yearning!bestfriend!smoke x black!curvy!nasty!fem!reader

You and Smoke been thick as thieves since before y’all even had teeth. Since you were two loud little brown kids playin’ in the sprinkler in your grandma’s yard, barefoot on concrete and dripping in popsicle juice. He was the boy who always ran. Ran to get what you wanted. Ran to fix what you broke. Ran to grab the extra cookie you were too scared to ask for.

And even when you got older—full hips, lip gloss poppin’, that spoiled little whine always curled in your throat—you still didn’t have to finish a sentence before Smoke was already halfway to doin’ it.

“Smoke, can you—?”

“I got it.”

“Wait, you know what I want—”

“I already do.”

That was y’all’s rhythm.

He’d never said how bad he loved you. Never said that when you called him your best friend, it made his chest hurt. He never told you how many nights he stared at his phone, waiting for a text that said “Come over.”

You never told him either. You thought he knew. Thought maybe he didn’t feel the same. So you started dating other people. Just a little. Just to test the waters.

But you still showed up at every function on Smoke’s hip. Like today—his mama’s birthday cookout. You in that damn white dress. Tight up top, short in the back, every inch of you jiggling and glowing. Everybody noticed. But he noticed first.

He saw you before you even walked past the fence. Watched your thighs bounce with every step, your gold anklet glinting, your curls pulled up with just enough down to frame that smartass mouth he’d kill to kiss.

He didn’t speak first. He just stared. Chain glintin’. Blunt burning slow between his fingers.

You plopped down next to him at the table, legs crossed, plate in hand, talking loud with his cousins like you ain’t been skipping his calls.

And that’s when Aunt Vi turned to you, fork paused halfway to her mouth. “So baby girl, you still single? Or you got a lil boyfriend now?”

You blinked. Swallowed. Peeped Smoke from the corner of your eye. Then softly, like you ain’t really mean it: “…I do.” The clink of Smoke’s fork hitting his plate was the only sound for a moment.

He turned slowly, eyes glued to you. Not moving. Not blinking. That quiet, slow anger in his chest boiling over in silence. “You do?” he said low, voice tight.

You didn’t answer. You looked at Aunt Vi instead.“He tall?” she asked, eyes twinkling.

“Mhm.”

“Cute?”

“…Kinda.”

“Got a picture?” You pulled your phone out, too quick. Nervous giggle stuck in your throat. Smoke didn’t take his eyes off you. He leaned back in his seat, arms folded, watching you show the picture. Your screen faced Aunt Vi, but he saw it too.

And his jaw clenched hard enough to crack.

Marcus. From the block. A dude Smoke knew. A dude who tried to be like him but couldn’t hold a candle. He stood slow. Walked around the table. Quiet as ever. Then reached down and snatched your phone right out your hand.

“What the hell—” “Get up,” he said. You blinked. “Smoke, don’t start—” “I said get. The fuck. Up.”He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t curse loud. But his tone wrapped around your neck and dragged you up out that chair like gravity shifted. Your thighs trembled. You followed. You had to.

He yanked the back door open and took you through the house—ignoring every cousin, every curious glance—into the den. The door slammed behind you. And then? Silence. Thick and hot and tight. Smoke turned, chest rising slow. “You really fucking with Marcus?” he said. Voice low. Not yelling, but shaking. “Marcus?”

“He nice,” you whispered, but your voice cracked.Smoke stepped forward. Your back met the wall. He placed your phone on the dresser like he was lining it up for later. “You know how many times I wanted to tell you?” he said, hand finding your waist. “How many times I had to sit there and watch you run off with them clown-ass niggas? You do that shit on purpose?”

“I didn’t know you—” “Yes the fuck you did.” You didn’t answer. His mouth found your neck first. Hot, soft, trailing down like it was muscle memory. Your hands fisted in his shirt. His touch wasn’t rough—but it was hungry. Desperate. Like something that’d been waiting too long to be born.

“Still lettin’ me do everything for you,” he murmured against your skin, tongue flicking just beneath your ear. “Still callin’ me first. Still wearin’ shit like this around my damn family.”

“I didn’t know you cared,” you whimpered. His hands slid down your thighs, cupping your ass, pulling your hips against his. “You the only one I care about.” He kissed you. Slow and deep, lips pressed like a seal. Like a brand.

When he lifted your dress, you gasped. His fingers found the soaked cotton between your thighs and he smiled against your mouth. “This for him?” he growled. “Or me?”

“You,” you whimpered.

He dropped to his knees, pulled your panties down slow, kissed your thighs like he had all day. Then, without warning, he lifted your leg and buried his tongue in you—slow. Groaning into your folds, fingers digging into your hips.

You came on his mouth in minutes, shaking, gasping, whispering his name like a prayer.

“Say it right,” he whispered, standing, dropping his sweats. “You know what to call me.” “…Pa.”He moaned. Deep in his chest. Lined himself up and slid in—slow, deep, smooth, until his whole body trembled. Your mouth dropped open. You wrapped your arms around his neck, eyes glassy.“You feel that?” he groaned. “That’s mine.”

He moved slow but heavy, rolling his hips deep inside you like he was making a promise. His lips on your neck, your collarbone, your cheek. His hand on your jaw. “I been waiting so long for this, bunny,” he whispered. “Ain’t nobody ever gonna touch you again.”

You were close again. Shaking. Crying now.

And then he reached for your phone. “Call him.”“What—” “Call that little nigga now.” With shaking fingers, you dialed. Voice trembling. He pressed the speaker on.

“Hello?” he spoke. Your breath caught. Smoke thrusted deep. You cried out, breath hitching. “I’m with my boyfriend.” Then Smoke grabbed the phone and ended it. And came inside you with a long, low groan that rattled your bones. His forehead rested on yours, breathing heavy, thumb wiping the tears from your cheek. “You’re mine now,” he whispered. “And I’m done sharing.”

A few weeks later…

You don’t even call him “Smoke” no more. It’s Pa this, Pa that. The whole damn block know what it is. He walkin’ with his arm around you like you made of gold and velvet. One hand resting on your hip, thumb rubbing that little space on your waist like it’s his personal territory. And it is.

You’re wearing one of the three diamond rings he bought you. Not engagement, not yet—but you keep tellin’ folks, “This one’s for my mouth, this one’s for my attitude, and this one’s ‘cause I’m spoiled.” He don’t argue. He just adds another.

And right between your collarbones? That chain. Thick, gold, glinting in the sun. His name on the pendant in soft cursive—“Elijah’s”—like a warning and a lullaby. He’s got one too. Yours. Tucked under his shirt but always there, lying flat on his chest, heartbeat pressin’ against the letters.

You’re headed to get ice cream, arguing playful in the heat. You want strawberry shortcake. He already bought it for you ten minutes ago and it’s in the car. He just like hearing you beg. And then, like a breeze cutting through the thick summer air, you hear two girls on the stoop whispering:

“—you ain’t hear? Marcus? That nigga gone. Shot dead couple weeks ago. Just now found the body in that alley behind Glenwood. Whole clip in him.”

You pause mid-step. Smoke doesn’t.

His grip on your waist tightens just slightly, just enough to make your stomach flip. He’s still walking, face neutral, but you catch the edge of his mouth. That little curl. That little smile.

He don’t say nothing. Just keeps moving. Pulls you closer, presses a kiss to your temple. You look at him. “Pa…” He raises a brow like he don’t know what you’re about to ask—but you don’t even finish the sentence.

You know better. You know exactly what that smile meant.

He ain’t ever gonna tell you what happened. But you can feel it in his kiss, in the way he holds your hand a little tighter now. The way he makes love to you like he got rid of every last threat.

That chain around your neck ain’t just jewelry. It’s a warning label. “Property of Elijah Moore.” And when the streets whisper about Marcus? Smoke don’t blink. He just licks ice cream off your lip and says: “Open your mouth, bunny. You know I don’t like repeating myself.”

last one yall… last one for the day.

@cursed-carmine for the dividers.

[writingsbytee]

Sooo good like I can’t!!!

modern!au elias “smoke” moore x modern!au betty jones

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

In Elias’ line of business, it was rare to get a day to himself. Now that he had one, he didn’t know what to do to pass the time. He wanted to spend the day under his lady, eating takeout, catching up on their favorite reality tv shows, and putting each other through the mattress but she had other plans that didn’t line up with his.

Elias had the immense pleasure of being in a committed relationship with global country music superstar, Betty Jones. Her most recent album was an instant classic, merging the foundational sound of country music with R&B, hip-hop, and even opera. The album received critical acclaim from several prestigious music blogs and magazines who were also happy to report that Betty would be performing songs from the album for one-night-only in Los Angeles.

Country music artists aren’t known to put on extravagant productions but that’s what Betty prided herself on, putting together detailed, energetic, well-produced shows that would leave the audience in awe. Betty’s need for perfection called for rehearsal days that sometimes reached fourteen hours. There was no way that Stack would be able to stay in their shared apartment for the entire day by himself.

Elias had already eaten, worked out, cut his hair, and he didn’t want to continue watching any of their shows without Betty so Elias attempted to ease his boredom by calling his twin brother, Elijah, but that conversation was cut short when Elijah’s wife, Annie, called him so that he could try the new smoke blend that she created with the new batch of herbs she had just harvested.

After asking Annie to save him some, Elias hung up the phone, and tossed it to his side. Constantly being on the move, Elias didn’t know how to just stay put and relax. On the bed, Elias layed on his back and stared at the white ceiling. Soon, an idea popped in his head and he was up and heading into the bathroom to get ready. Elias was missing his lady and bored out his mind so why not go pop up on her?

After a quick shower, Elias dressed himself up in a simple white t-shirt, grey joggers, and white and black New Balance sneakers. A gold chain with a blinged out ‘B’ pendant hung around his neck to let everyone know who his heart belonged to. He decided to keep his black durag on to continue letting his waves set in place.

On the way to the venue, Elias stopped and picked up lunch for him and Betty then played his favorite song off of her newest album all the way to his destination. Elias was in the studio the night she recorded it. He listened intently as she sang the lyrics to him. Betty declared mutual loyalty, trust, support, and willingness to protect each other in any conflicts that may arise. Elias felt like it was the perfect representation of their relationship, along with the many other love songs that he was the inspiration behind.

The security at the door noted Elias’ name on the list of non-team members that were allowed into the venue during rehearsals and let him in and to Elias’ surprise the song he had on repeat in the car was blaring through the venue’s speaker system as Betty and her dancers practiced their dance routine on the stage. Elias slipped in on the floor of the arena and took a seat in the very last row to watch. Betty’s choreographer yelled out the counts and offered feedback to Betty and the dancers.

They started from the beginning of the routine again. Even though it was a rehearsal, Elias could honestly say that he was entertained. Even in her athletic wear, bare face, and her natural curly hair bouncing all over her head, Elias found himself captivated by her beauty. It warmed his heart to know that she was all his.

Betty was an absolute expert at working a stage, her voice sounding impeccable as she kept up with her background dancers. At the end, Elias stood from his seat, food in hand, and walked up to the stage. Betty immediately spotted him, a smile breaking out on her face but still not missing a beat. 

Elias applauded Betty and her dancer once their routine came to an end. Betty told her team and dancers to take a break before she walked off the stage to emerge through a tunnel on the side of the stage to meet Elias on the floor level.

“Wassup, Angel.” They shared a brief kiss.

“What are you doing here,” she spotted the bag in his hand, “and you brought me food?”

“I was bored as fuck in the house and needed something to do so I came to see you.”

“Awwn, you missed me that bad?” She smiled, giving him a quick peck again and like the fein he was, Elias wished it had lasted longer. “C’mon, we can eat in my dressing room.”

Betty took him to her dressing room backstage and they ate while catching up on Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. Elias was saddened when her break came to an end. There was nothing better than being up under his woman. Betty returned to the stage with her dancers and Elias stood at the bottom of the staging, watching as she worked.

To Betty and her choreographers’ surprise, Elias gave helpful commentary and suggestions on the choreography. When he was out of ideas, Elias took a seat in the first row and observed the routine. The moves were sensual and seductive to match the vibe of the song. Elias caught Betty’s eye several times, letting him know that she was performing for him. He gave her a look that told her to ‘stop playing’ because he would hate to cut her rehearsals short for the day.

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

a/n: sinners & cowboy carter on juneteenth? you're welcome. this was a short sumn inspired by this post that i made. i hope y'all enjoyed! <3

click here to be added to the taglist!

[writingsbytee]

‘ DOLLY’S GARDEN OF ROSES! ★

“ELIJAH “SMOKE” MOORE.”

• “plug!smoke x nerdy!black!fem!reader.”

• “smoke x reader x stack!”

• “yearning!bestfriend!smoke x spoiled!black!fem!reader.”

• “playground rules - smoke x reader x stack.”

• “criminal!smoke x black!fem!bimbo!dumb-ish!reader.”

• “olderman!smoke x black!fem!stubborn!sassy!reader.”

• “olderman!smoke & reader’s angsty text messages!”

“ELIAS “STACK” MOORE.”

• “smoke x reader x stack!”

• “playground rules - smoke x reader x stack.”

( @cursed-carmine for the dividers.)

“all i wanna, ain’t not other, we together i remember sweet love all long. they say true loves the greatest weapon. to win the war caused by pain. but every diamond has imperfections but my love was too pure to watch it chip away. boy nothing real can be threatened, true love brings salvation back into. me. with every tear came redemption, and my torturer ‘came my remedy. so many people i know just tryna touch ya, kiss up and feel up on ya. kiss up and feel up on ya. all night long.”

-beyoncé.

[writingsbytee]

Immediately yes!! Y’all fucking these fics UP!!!!!!

“YOU MINES,” chap 1, texts.

olderman!smoke x younger!sassy!black!fem reader.

synopsis: smoke told himself he wasn’t interested in no woman after he got divorced, but once he got his dark brown eyes on you.. his thought changed. and knew he needed you.

Smoke had seen her before—once at the corner store, twice outside his cousin Sammie’s little recording studio. Thick thighs and glossier lips than any sermon should allow, attitude rolled up in a sundress and a mean ass strut. She was the type to cuss out a man just for breathing near her car too long, then wink when you backed off. Dangerous in the way only a brat with body and bite could be. He never asked her name. Just took mental snapshots like a pervert and kept it pushing. Until Sammie decided to throw that damn pool party.

Smoke didn’t even wanna be there. Sun too hot, kids too loud, Bluetooth speaker blasting new trap over old R&B. But then she came through the backyard gate wearing a two-piece that looked like it had been painted on, skin glistening like God had oiled her up Himself, and all that irritation turned into something else. Something low and heavy that settled right behind his zipper.

She had on big hoop earrings, slick lip gloss, a see-through cover-up that did absolutely nothing, and when she dipped into the pool, ass first, his mouth went dry like a prayer lost in wind.

So he waited. Watched her sip Casamigos and sass Sammie’s homeboys, ass perched on the edge of a pool float like she knew what kind of show she was giving.

Then, when the sun dipped low and folks started rolling blunts and ordering pizza, Smoke slid up beside her with a red solo cup and a smirk. His chains glinting. Chest exposed. Cigar smoke curling out from his lips like he didn’t care about her little “I got a man” spiel.

“You always look this good when you disrespectin’ people’s peace?” he asked. She didn’t even look at him. Just sipped. “I got a man.” Smoke raised a brow. “I ain’t ask who you go home to. I asked about the goodness.”

“Still not your business, grandpa.” He chuckled. “You call me grandpa, but I’m the one got your knees twitchin’ every time I lick my lips.” She did glance at him then. Sharp. Saucy. “Boy, if I give you my number, will you shut up?”

“Not a chance,” he grinned. “But you’ll give it to me anyway.”bShe stared. Hard. Then sighed like he was an inconvenience she secretly liked and typed her number into his phone. “Don’t text me dumb shit. And don’t act surprised if I don’t respond. I’m with somebody.”

“Happily?” Smoke asked, mouth twitching.bShe scoffed, twisting her face like he said something nasty. “Mind ya business, smoke signal.” But when she walked away, hips swaying, she didn’t take her number back. And that was all the green light Smoke needed. The next couple of weeks were cat-and-mouse. She played hard. He played harder.

Smoke: What you doin?

[ ♡ ]: Literally layin’ on my man chest. Leave me alone.

Smoke: He know you textin me?

[ ♡ ]: you got dementia or sum? or are you just old? well we know you old so i guess what im asking is are you slow??? cause you keep pursuing me when you know i gots me a man already. that’s kinda slow don’t you think?

Smoke: Neither. Just a problem I’m tryin’ to fix. You.

Sometimes she wouldn’t respond for a day. Sometimes she’d FaceTime him late, hair tied up and voice all sleepy, actin’ like it was an accident. Then hang up quick. Smoke knew what she was doin’. So when he saw her at that restaurant, sitting with some corny ass man in a salmon polo and bootcut jeans, he snapped.

He didn’t give himself time to think.

As soon as that man stood to go to the bathroom, Smoke got up from his own table, crossed the floor like judgment day on a deadline, and pulled her right out of her seat.

“Smoke?! What the fuck—”

He had her in the women’s bathroom, door locked, body against tile before she could protest again.

“You outta your mind,” she hissed. “Draggin’ me in here like—”

“Like what?” he snarled, voice dark with heat. “Like you mine? ‘Cause that’s what you been actin’ like. Textin’ me at midnight, wearin’ dresses like that, and sittin’ here with a bitch-ass man like I ain’t watchin’ you give away my seat.”

“You got me out here lookin’ stupid, ma,” he growled, stepping in so close her breath hitched. “Havin’ me text you, dream about you, damn near obsess over you—while you sittin’ across some weak-ass nigga like he worth your time?”

“I told you—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you told me,” he barked, getting in her face. “Your mouth sayin’ ‘I’m with somebody,’ but your pussy probably drippin’ just lookin’ at me.” She scoffed before shaking her head and saying “You delusional.” “Nah, baby,” he whispered, brushing his nose against her jaw. “I’m the cure.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

The sound of her panties tearing made her suck in a breath. He threw one of her legs over his shoulder and kissed her inner thigh slow. Then he dove in.

No tease. No sweet start. He ate her like punishment—rough, messy, and focused. “Oh my God, Smoke—” “Shut up,” he growled between strokes of his tongue. “Let me work.” His mouth wrapped around her clit while two thick fingers slid into her. She grabbed his hair, but it only egged him on. His beard was soaked. Her thighs trembled.

She came once—so hard her voice broke—and he didn’t stop.

Didn’t let her stop.

He slowed his tongue, flicked, licked deep. Worked her back up. Sucked her until she was moaning in high-pitched gasps, begging with her eyes. “Mmm… this pussy so soft,” he muttered between licks, “actin’ like it belong to someone else, but this shit was made for me.” She moaned just from his words, When the second orgasm hit, her whole body arched, nearly sliding down the wall.

“Thaaaat’s it,” he whispered, licking his lips. “Look at that… two fuckin’ times. Ain’t even touched my dick yet.” She whimpered, eyes glassy, lips parted. Only then did he stand, licking his lips, eyes heavy with lust.“Now,” he said, voice low and dark, “turn around.”

She barely had time to catch her breath before he spun her around and bent her over the counter. Her cheek hit the mirror, fogging the glass with every pant. He pulled himself free and pushed in slow, making sure she felt every inch.

“Fuck…” he groaned, head dropping to her shoulder. “So damn tight. Greedy little pussy. Been waitin’ for me.” Her nails raked down his back. “Shut up and fuck me—” “Oh, I’m gon’ do more than that.”

His hips rolled, deep and slow at first, then sharp and mean. Her hands braced against the mirror, her moans echoing through the bathroom. “Bet he don’t fuck you like this,” Smoke rasped, biting her shoulder. “Bet he don’t fill you like this.”

“Y-you’re so cocky—” “You like me cocky. You want a man who make you cry from dick.” He pulled out just to watch her drip, then slammed back in, hands gripping her thighs like possession. Each thrust hit like a promise.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he whispered against her throat. “Not after this. Not after you squirted.” She moaned and nodded at his words, after a few more thrusts they found themselves both cunning together in harmony as moans and whines fell out of their mouths. Smoke thrusted deep inside her a few more times to make sure his seed was planted deeeep inside her,

Once he pull out, he put himself back into his pants and pulled up her panties. Whispering praises into her ears as he did so. He smiled at the state she was in, her ass looked wrecked. And he loved every second of it. “Cmon mama, let’s go tell this nigga youn need his ass no more.” She lightly nodded, completely out of it but complying to what he said.

She looked disheveled. Eyes glassy, dress rumpled, lipgloss gone. They walked out together. Smoke smoothed her hair down with a smug hand. She stopped in front of the dude waiting at her booth. “I… uh—” she looked back at Smoke, who just tilted his head, daring her.

“I’m not with you no more,” she said softly.

The man blinked. “Wait, what?” She didn’t answer. Just grabbed her purse, ignored the confusion on his face, and followed Smoke out with her head bowed—but a tiny smirk pulling at her lips.

….THREE WEEKS LATER.

They’d been out on six dates. Three ended in car sex. Two in her apartment. One in the back of a restaurant kitchen where he made her bite down on his wallet to stay quiet.

Now they sat on a rooftop at sunset. She had on a soft yellow dress that looked like it was made of petals. Smoke watched her sip wine and talk shit about everyone she didn’t like. She was laughing when she suddenly went quiet.

“Tell me about her.” He looked over. “Who?”

“Your ex. Annie.” He sighed. “She was strong. Kinda a little crazy like you. Loved hard. But I was gone a lot. Years. I used to disappear on business, disappear into shadows. Thought she’d always wait. She didn’t.” She nodded. Sipped. “You gonna do that to me?”

Smoke leaned in, resting his heavy hand on her thigh.

“That was a long time ago, a different world, a different era. I wasn’t as mature as I am now mama. Youn gotta worry bout nothing like that. I’m not goin’ nowhere.” She hummed before tilting her head. “Promise?” “I don’t make promises,” he said, tracing the edge of her wine glass with one finger, “but I do claim what’s mine.”

She squinted. “So I’m yours?”

He grinned, gold tooth glinting. “I already proved it. You walkin’ funny for three days after I ate you in a public bathroom, remember?” She blushed. Then smirked. “Yeah. You do got good memory. Maybe you don’t got dementia after all.”

Smoke leaned over and kissed her—slow and deep, like he could taste every bratty word she ever said and still crave the next one.

Because no matter how stubborn she acted…

She was his.

And Smoke? He wasn’t lettin’ her go.

ooo chile i need me a smoke in my life idc idc idc!!!! he so fine like . like omg. i’d let him ruin me , whatever he want whenever he wanttttt. anywaysss , @cremeful for the older man!smoke idea, (i fucking loved those fics omg.)

@kodaswrld & @cursed-carmine for the dividers!

btw, “AT THE SAME DAMN TIME” chapter two should be out soon. i will be tagging everyone whom asked to be tagged!!! which speaking of , if you’d like to be on my tag list just in general, not just in certain fics. tell me inna comments.

ignore errors. i do not proof read, & never will.

[writingsbytee]

what if…smoke has a submissive side? modern au! edition

warnings: 18+ (MDNI)

smoke was in heaven.

you were on top of him, riding him like the goddess you were. brown skin brushing against brown skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat, breasts bouncing against his chest with dark swollen nipples that were a victim to his persistent mouth. the scent of your vanilla perfume mixing with your natural pheromones and your body heat was the cherry on top to heighten his senses of euphoria. 

he wasn’t the type to let you take the reigns often, not because of preference (you loved being taken care of during your deeds) but he just never…asked. never considered it. but him being so stressed out with the new club him and stack bought? you being oh so sweet and patient, rubbing his shoulders and kissing his temples delicately, he could not say no to your glossy pouted lips asking to take care of him.

but now he was mad. mad that he missed out on the warm, gummy walls of your tight pussy clinging onto his cock like a vice while you bounced to your own rhythm in his lap, coaxing every moan and groan out of his kiss swollen lips, gently holding your waist. if he knew how natural it was for you to take control, he would let you have your way with him in any way you wanted, sore dick be damned.

“feelin’ better ?” you murmured sweetly, teasing laced in your tone  as you slowed your movements, hips rolling against his pelvis, drawing out the pleasure. 

all smoke muster out was a chuckle that turned into a partial grunt when you purposely clenched around his length. “hell yeah…goddamn that pussy grippin’ me like she don’t want me to go nowhere..” he groaned, his hands gripping your ass with a firm squeeze making you mewl. 

“i just wanna make you feel good…” you purred against his lips then capturing them, picking up the pace you set before. the sweet muffled sound of his moans, the curve of his dick kissing your g spot and the occasional spanks he cracked onto your ass was pure motivation. 

you broke away from the kiss, peppering kisses along his jaw. “am I makin’ you feel good, ‘lijah?” you cooed into his ear, licking the tip of his lobe before gently biting down on it coaxing a delicious whimper out of him that almost made you cum on the spot. “f-fuck baby..yeah you doin’ so good.”

“that’s my good boy.”

those four words made him come undone, shooting his warm load inside you and burying his face in between your breasts as he sung his praises to you. 

sinners taglist: @cafeluvs @cremeful

if you'd like to be a part of my taglist, sign up here to be the first to see my newest drops! 🫧 (I updated my taglist for the smokestack twins, if you'd like to be tagged in my smokestack drabbles/one shots/series and you are already on my taglist just let me know by commenting or messaging me🙂‍↕️🎀)

[writingsbytee]

plug!smoke x nerdy!black!fem!reader

She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose for the fifth time, heart jackhammering like it always did when he came through the door. Elijah “Smoke” Moore — with the thick chains, the matching attitude, the scent of tobacco and Dior — moved through her tidy little apartment like he owned the place.

Hell, he probably did — rent was always mysteriously “taken care of” before the first.

She sat cross-legged on the couch, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, highlighter-pink fuzzy socks peeking out. A textbook lay open in her lap, filled with notes so neat they could be printed. She looked like the embodiment of academic anxiety and innocent routines.

And he… didn’t.

Gold teeth flashed when he smirked at her, shutting the door behind him with his usual casual weight. Gun still tucked in his waistband, designer jacket draped off one shoulder, cigar pressed between his lips. She didn’t understand it — him. Not really.

“I just… I mean, I don’t get it,” she blurted, looking up at him from behind thick glasses. Her voice came out small, nervous. “Why are you even here, Smoke? You could be with— I don’t know, someone cooler. I’m just… me.”

He raised a brow, pulling the cigar from his mouth and letting the smoke curl lazy through the air. “What, ‘cause you like comic books and color-code your flashcards?” he said, voice a low drawl as he moved to stand over her. “That’s why I’m here, mama.”

She blinked, confused.

“‘Cause you soft. You sweet. You mine.”

He kneeled down, bringing his rough, ring-clad fingers to her calf, brushing those pink socks like they were silk. “All them girls out there wanna be seen. Loud. All that extra. But you? You don’t even know how pretty you are. That shit drive me crazy.”

Her face burned.

“You come in here smellin’ like books and vanilla lotion, mouth runnin’ ‘bout your midterms—meanwhile I just came from movin’ weight, and all I can think about is gettin’ back to you.” He tapped her textbook, voice softer now. “You don’t gotta understand it. Just let it happen.”

And she did. She soaked it in like sunlight on skin — the way he kissed her temple before kissing her mouth, the way he picked her up like nothing and sat her in his lap even when she squirmed shyly. The way he called her his princess when he tucked a stack of bills into her pencil case without a word.

She was still soft-spoken. Still unsure. Still didn’t feel like she fit in his world.

But when he curled his arm around her waist and pressed his lips to her throat, whispering “my lil genius,”

She didn’t question it anymore.

@cursed-carmine for the dividers.

[writingsbytee]

゛ᢉ𐭩 ⸝⸝⋆ 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘 𝑭𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐘 , elias moore.

𝑺𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ─── it’s stack’s first real father’s day and he’s been waiting to spend it with you and his lil man. just like old times. he told you a week ago his momma was throwin a cookout back home in mississippi, a special day for all the fathers in his family. he even cleaned up his act a lil bit, tryna show he still that man you fell for. instead of showing up with just his son, you bring your new nigga…on his day. you knew better, and now he gotta remind you. remind both y’all.

꒰ babydaddy elias “stack” moore x black!fem reader. established relationship, second chance. strong use of profanity, lots of n-word usage, drama, jealous!stack, toxic arguments, emotional tension, hurt feelings, possessive!stack, threats made, violence, reminiscence, sexual content, sexual tension, angry sex, degradation, rough sex, dirty talk, oral sex, creampie, light breeding kink, overstimulation and lots of other things so scroll now if you don’t want to read about people fucking. ꒱

the ride from atlanta to mississippi was long, too long for how quiet the car had gotten. even with the air conditioner running, the air felt heavy. your baby boy was asleep in the backseat, pacifier slack in his mouth, and his black curls stuck to his forehead from the heat. you had one hand on the steering wheel, fingers tapping in a rhythm to calm your nerves.

the road stretched on forever in front of you, with the GPS voice muted after the fifth "continue straight". your man, dominique sat in the passenger seat mindlessly scrolling through his phone, thumb moving fast like he was tryna distract himself. he had been feeling a type of way since you told him about today’s plans. you caught the look he gave you ten minutes ago, fake mean mugging you with his whole face turned up. full of questions he ain’t bold enough to ask outright.

the tension was cut when he asked, “why couldn’t we just stay in atlanta?” voice laced with too much attitude. “could’ve saved us this whole damn trip.” you sighed, you knew this was coming and could feel yourself getting irritated because he already knew the answer. “because his momma throwing a father’s day cookout. it’s his first one and it’s good for my baby to be round family.”

dominque rolled his eyes while shaking his head. “family? tuh. ain’t none of them came around since he was born, but now they wanna go all out. throwin cookouts ‘n shit.” he tried to mutter under his breath, but you still heard him.

you gripped the steering wheel tighter, eyes still focusing on the rode. “this ain’t about you dominque. i told you that before we even left.” out of your peripheral vision you could see him put the phone down and turn his body in the seat to focus in on you. “you right, it’s not about me.” his voice raised, “but let’s keep it a buck cause its damn sure ain’t just about your son either. you could’ve dropped him off and turned around.” you shot him a look, because now he was doing too much. “don’t start.”

his voice came out sharp, bitter. feeling like he could finally get everything off his chest, like your son wasn’t sleep, but he didn’t care. the words had been sittin on his tongue too long, and now they were spillin whether you liked it or not. “i’m not starting shit”, he snapped. “i’m just saying, look how you dressed. that thin ass sundress, hair done up, wearing jewelry i fasho ain’t get you.” his lip curled as he looked you up and down, voice dropping low, more insult than question now. “this all for me or him?”

his fingers tapped against his fake amiri jeans, eyes still on you, waiting for an answer he assumed he knew. you cut your eyes at him. the way he was acting? like he ain’t realize who he was talking to. like he forgot you had a whole baby in the backseat. “stop raising your voice like you ain’t got no sense”, you snapped. “my son is sleep, and i’m not about to keep going back and forth with you over bullshit.”

he tried to open his mouth, to defend himself, but you kept going. “i’m the mother of elias’ child. i’m gon show up put together regardless. you expect me to pull up lookin like some bag lady in front of his entire family?” the silence was evident after that. you heard him huffing and puffing clearly bothered by what you said.

then came his bitter laugh. he shook his head, staring out the window like he couldn’t believe what he was hearin, “you still call that nigga elias.” he was quiet for good after that, but the disrespect was loud. voice full of resentment and something else y’all both didn’t want to admit to.

this was one of those times you were lucky your baby couldn’t talk yet. if he did, he would of been running to his daddy about what dominique said and you were trying to get them to have a cordial relationship. unfortunately it wasn’t working.

the silence felt suffocating and pushed against your temple like a headache. with dominque’s resentment weighing heavily on you, each mile seemed to go on forever. you decided to pull over when you noticed a faded green symbol for a gas station up ahead. you flicked the turn signal, “i’m pulling over.” your voice was low, you hated arguing because it always drained you mentally. “tank low and i need a minute.” dominque didn’t say nothing, giving you the silent treatment.

you shifted into park, pulled up next to the pump, and released a breath you weren't even aware you were holding. the long drive caused your sundress to stick slightly to the back of your thighs as you climbed out slowly. you went to the rear of your car, swiped your card, and began filling up the tank.

the voice in the back of your head criticized dominque for not getting out to pump your gas. “elias would of did it, argument or not”, you thought. you shook them thoughts away because it was nothing you could do, ya’ll weren’t together anymore. you peaked into the back seat, as the gas nozzle stayed where it was at. inside the car, your son was still sleeping peacefully. completely unbothered by the mess unfolding around him. which he got from his daddy, they both could sleep through anything.

you glanced at your reflection in the car window — lips still glossy, no smudge in your makeup, hoops glinting, and your ass looked fat in this sundress. you fixed the placement of some of the bracelets around your wrist, the ones elias got you, by the way. you looked good and that’s what had him pressed.

from the passenger seat, dominique finally stepped out. stretching like the whole ride wore him out and he wasn’t behind the drivers seat once. he leaned against the car, arms folded across his chest, watching you. “you always gotta make shit harder than it gotta be, don’t you?” he mumbled. you didn’t even glance at him.

“and you always got somethin to say when you feel like you ain’t bein prioritized. ain’t nobody tryin to make you feel small, dominque. but today ain’t about you.” he sucked his teeth, pushed off the car and came stalking towards you. “nah it’s never about me. it’s always elias this, elias that. like he somebody for real. whole time he couldn’t even keep his family together.”

“you got it dominique.” and it was left at that. you weren’t gonna argue in public with a man who couldn’t handle you doin right by your child. you just needed to hurry up and get this over with. drop of your son, play cordial, make you a few plates, and leave before elias reminded you why he was the hardest man to walk away from in the first place.

─────────

after another thirty minutes, you finally made it to elias’ momma house. it took you a minute to find parking since cars was packed in the front of the house and the neighbors. you eased your car into a tight spot across the street from them. “come on”, you muttered hopping out the car.

the air smelt like smoke ribs, burnt ends, and sweet bbq sauce — a classic mississippi summer. your baby started to stir as you lifted him gently from his car seat, resting him against your hip. you didn’t pay dominque any mind, as you made your way to the back of the house. the moore house was vibrant — music loudly playing, uncles loud off liquor while playing spades, elijah was on the grill, kids ran through the grass barefoot with melting popsicles. elias’ momma was setting out foil pans on a fold-up table with her hands on her hips.

as you walked closer, your feet became slightly heavier. every step felt loud and all eyes on you, like everybody at the damn cookout paused just to see who the hell you brought with you. relatives of stack approached you, saying their hellos and cooed at your son. all you could do was give them half smiles in return.

because your attention was focused on him, your babydaddy. he hadn’t noticed you yet, which was a relief at the moment. lazily leaned back in a folding chair with his legs spread wide and elbows rested on his knees. he looked good, too good. stack had his go-to black durag tied tight around his head, white tank clinging to his muscles, gold chain glinting in the sun, and his grills lightly shined when he smirked at something his cousin said. he was having a good time, sipping on his favorite drink — hennessy in a red cup.

all that shifted when one of his messy ass aunties pointed you out in the crowd. “there go your baby mama, eli,” she said, smirkin over her plate of ribs. “ain’t that her right there in that lil pink dress?” he glanced up and just like that, all the playfulness dropped clean off his face.

his shoulders squared up and the relax lean he had in the chair turned into a full sit-up. flexed jaw. eyes narrowed. mean mugging. the moment he clocked the man next to you, his smile vanished, and the gold on his tooth stopped flashing. his eyes moved very slowly, taking you all in, from the bouncing curls on your shoulder to your glossy lips to his little man on your hip.

and the lame ass nigga next to you.

elias’ lips parted just slightly, but he ain’t say nothing. not yet. he just stared.

you felt it, that familiar look he gave you. the one he gave you back when you used to test his patience just to see how far he’d go. heat began to crawl up your neck, not from embarrassment, but knowing you fucked up. he was trying to keep it cute in front of his people, but stack wasn’t a level headed nigga. no, that was smoke. smoke was the calmer twin, the one you could reason with. and when he looked over at his brother across the yard and gave him that sharp nod. saying all the words he needed with his eyes —“if something pop off, be ready”. you already knew what it meant. you and dominique was beyond saving.

you gripped your son tighter, adjusting him on your hip and forced a smile towards elias’ momma who pulled you into a one-armed hug. “hey baby”, she greeted. “look at my grand baby, ain’t he getting big?” you nodded, voice light. “yes ma’am. growing too fast for my liking.”

she gave dominique a simple “hi”, but didn’t say his name. just looked him up and down real quick, then turned her attention back to the food table like she was tryna keep the peace.

peace was thrown out the window when you showed up with another man. stack was looking at you like you personally betrayed him. he rose slowly, as though tension tightened every bone in his body. the red cup hung loose in his fingers, but his whole frame said anything but relaxed.

one of his cousins who already peeped game, leaned over to try and stop him. “aye stack, chill.” but he wasn’t hearing none of that. nobody understood how he was feeling, that was his babymomma at the end of the day.

not just some random bitch he used to mess with. you were his, his headache, his soft spot, his unfinished business. and he would do anything to get his family back. he was already walking toward y’all, straight through the crowd, eyes locked on you. nothing about his body language gave soft or calm.

he made his way across the yard, cutting through chairs and coolers like the crowd wasn’t even there. like his whole family wasn’t lowkey staring, forks frozen mid-air, watching how this was about to play out.

dominque was right next to you, standing tall like he had something to prove. arms crossed over his chest, chin up like he was ready for whatever. stack��s eyes didn’t leave yours once. not even when he got close enough for you to smell the henny and versace cologne on him.

when he finally spoke, it was low and grumbled, like he was trying real hard not to raise his voice “this what we on now?” you didn’t answer right away. you couldn’t. because in reality, this was a terrible idea. there was a familiar sting in the back of your throat. the one you got whenever stack looked at you like this, like he knew you better than you knew yourself. as if he was waiting on you to say something dumb so he could call your bluff.

you shifted your son on your hip and shaked your head. "let’s not do this here, elias." he licked his bottom lip, head tilted slightly. still looking at you, taking you in like you owed him something. “nah we gon do this right here, in front of everybody.” he turned slightly towards dominique, just enough to size him up. “you the new nigga?”, stack asked straight up, grill flashing just a little — a crazed smile forming on his face.

dominque puffed his chest out, “yeah i’m with her. problem?” stack laughed, a serious laugh like what he said was funny to him. “you with her. that’s cute.” and like a switch he turned back towards you, looking dead in your face, expression wiped of every bit of playfulness. “you really brought this clown to my mama house? on father's day? with my son?"

your heart sank, because now whatever jealousy you were trying to get him to feel was biting you in the ass. “elias please—”, he snapped cutting you off. “you knew what you was doing. came all this way looking good and smelling sweet. ‘n had the nerve this bring this lame ass nigga, like i wasn’t gon say something.”

dominque stepped forward a little, trying to come to your defense. “she not doing shit. you mad emotional because she chose me, nigga get over it.” and had the nerve to laugh in his face. it was silent for a moment, stack had to process the straight bullshit he fixed him mouth to say. he stale faced him, voice oddly calm. “nah, she settlin. you the in-between. the lil nigga holding her bag while she waitin for me to remind her who the fuck she belong to.”

you bit your lip hard, head turned away as you gently patted your baby’s back — trying to soothe him, and yourself. you unfortunately knew what was coming next. dominique stepped towards stack, clearly not used to somebody pushing back. “man, i’m not scared of you. you just mad she don’t want your toxic ass no more-”. before he could finish his sentence, stack’s fist came up fast, clean, and cracked him dead in the mouth.

dominique stumbled back hard, hand flying to his lip that was already pouring blood in his hand. stack ain’t even flinch. just stood over him, eyes dark, jaw clenched, chest rising slow. “talk that shit again nigga,” he growled. “i dare you.” you stepped between them fast, voice loud. “alright that’s enough! both of yall need to stop.”

stack’s eyes flickered towards yours, and his gaze softened. he looked at your son, now whimpering soft against your shoulder and his whole face shifted. the anger inside him subsided at that moment. for a second, it was just you, him, and the baby.

and then, of course dominque had to ruin it. “you really gon let him disrespect me like that? you gon stand there and let this nigga think he can put hands on me?” you turned your head slowly. looked at him with nothing but exhaustion in your face. “you shouldn’t’ve said shit,” you muttered.

then you looked at stack again. he was still breathing heavy, still tense, but his eyes were on you now. not dominique. just you. “you comin with me,” he said, voice low, thick in a way that made your knees feel weak. “wait—” he stepped in close, barely touching you but still taking up all your space. “let me word it differently for you, bring yo ass inside.”

you looked back at dominque. his lip was busted. and he was scared to even look stack’s way. you couldn’t even feel bad. not really. you gently handed your baby over to stack’s mama, and she just took him with a sigh and shake of her head.

with your son safely out your hands, he reached and grabbed your wrist. and you let him, didn’t even fight it. he pulled you into his momma house like he paid mortgage himself. the screen door slammed behind y’all, and the second y’all hit the hallway, his hand was on your ass, gripping hard.

“you out your fuckin mind”, he snarled against your neck, lips dragging over your skin. “comin here looking pretty as fuck, smelling good. knowing i ain’t touched you in months.” you gasped, moaning softly when he bit your shoulder, rough teeth dragging over the dip of it before he licked the sting away. the grip he had on your hip got even tighter. you could feel how mad he was. his dick was pressed up against your ass, already hard and heavy through his jeans.

he tugged your sundress up, hand palming your panty covered ass like it was his again. “take yo ass up stairs.” he didn’t have to tell you twice, you practically ran up the stairs, flip flops almost sliding off your feet. you hit the top stair and turned to the first room on the left, his old room — your back hit the edge of the bed right as he stepped through the door.

he slammed the door shut with one hand, not bothering to lock it. stack pounced on you, gripping your throat slightly, just enough to make your breath hitch. he kissed you like he was punishing you for making him wait. tongue in your mouth, lips rough, teeth nipping at yours. his golds cold against your lips, his hands greedy, yanking at your dress like he didn’t care if it ripped. and he didn’t, he’ll buy you a new one.

he slowly peeled the straps of your dress down. you were already bare underneath, no bra, your breasts spilling out and brown nipples already hard. stack’s lips never left yours as he pushed the dress to your waist, palms rough against your back, until he finally pulled away to look.

“god damn”, he muttered, biting the corner of his lip as his thumb brushed across one peaked nipple. “i ain’t seen these titties since you was pregnant. they still mine?” you nodded too fast, chest rising with every breath. his hand came up and slapped your tittie once, not hard, just enough to sting and make your knees buckle a little.

“i said talk, not nod.” “yes—yes, they yours,” you breathed, mouth parted. “always been.” he let out a low chuckle, “i know.” his lips wrapped around one nipple and sucked hard, before doing the same to the other one. now both coated in saliva, he took his two thumbs to brush over your nipples. rolling and tugging on them, just to feel you squirm, to hear the way your moan cracked when it got to be too much.

“fuck i missed the way you sound”, he said while inching toward your neck leaving soft kisses. “you ain’t moan like this for that other nigga huh?”, his voice tickled your ear while one hand was still on your nipples.

“no, fuck no,” you gasped, thighs already rubbing together for friction. “bet he ain’t even know how to suck on these right.” he latched on again, sucking until your back arched, your body begging.

he slid down to his knees, “lay back”, he muttered. “legs up.” you followed quickly. he planted soft kisses on the inside of your thighs. “look at you”, knuckles grazing over your panties. “i can already tell this pussy wet.” you let out a low whine, wishing we would do something, “stack please.”

“i know, i know baby.” he let out a low, knowing grin. his fingers hooked into the sides of your panties, yanking them down your trembling thighs with no patience. slow enough to watch the strings of slick cling to them, but fast enough to remind you he wasn’t in the mood to be soft.

“fuck, look at this pussy”, he murmured, eyes locked between your legs like he was witnessing something sacred. “all this mess? you that fuckin wet for me, huh?” your thighs trembled as the cool air hit your soaked folds, and he held the ruined panties up with a smirk, index finger running through the sticky wetness clinging to the lace. “so sticky, baby. you must’ve missed me real bad.”

you whined when his fingers spread you open. clit on full display and wetness spilling out of your slit. the moment he slid his tongue between your folds, you cried. tongue flat, wide, dragging through your folds with no mercy. he sucked on your clit like he was mad at it. you jerked forward, but he grabbed your hips and pulled you back, eating like a man starved, nose buried, tongue fucking you.

“mmm,” he groaned into your pussy, beard soaked. “you missed this nasty shit, huh?” you could only let out a nod, hands gripping the sheets while your thighs trembled. “missed me suckin on this clit, fuckin you open with my tongue…makin you cum without even puttin dick in you.” “f-fuck, elias—oh my god,” you cried out, back arching.

that tongue was still disrespectful. sloppy, greedy, licking from clit to slit and back again like he missed the taste. he pulled you forward, buried his face deeper, eating like he was trying to drown in it. “i’m about to cum”, you screamed.

he smirked against your pussy, spit and slick dripping down his chin. “there she go.” your orgasm hit hard, too hard, and he didn’t even stop, not while you twitched and cried and begged. when he finally pulled back, you were soaked, thighs sticky, your pussy fluttering around nothing, empty and aching.

he stood, unbuckling his belt with quick hands, pulling his jeans and boxers in one swift motion to free his dick. that familiar fat dick slapped against his stomach, veins thick, tip angry red and leaking. you moaned at the sight. “gimme that dick,” you begged finally, your voice gone, eyes glossy. “elias—baby, please, fuck me.”

“now you remember how to act.” you looked down to see him stroking his dick slow, watching you squirm. “look at you. laid out like a slut. that nigga ever make you beg like this?” you shook your head no. “didn’t fuckin think so.”

“turn around”, he said voice hoarse. you did, planting your palms on the bed, back arched just the way he liked it. he stood behind you, taking a second just to admire. “she so pretty,” he muttered under his breath, rough knuckles brushing over the swell of your ass. “don’t make no sense…”you gasped when you felt him drag his tip through your folds, slow and steady, coating himself with your slick.

the low grunt he let out told you just how good it felt. his tip circled your entrance, teasing. “this my pussy?” he asked, voice a low rasp that scraped down your spine. you nodded your head, trying to push back into him, but he held your hips in place. “nah i need you to say it.” a frustrated, needy whine slipped from your lips. your voice trembled, breath catching in your throat. “yes, eli—”

you couldn’t even finish. he slammed into you with no warning, deep and rough, knocking the air straight out your lungs. your mouth dropped open but no sound came out for a second, just the echo of skin slapping skin and the high-pitched moan that followed once you caught your breath.

“say it again,” he gritted out through clenched teeth, dragging his hips back only to slam forward again. “tell me who this pussy belong to.” “y-you!” you cried out, eyes rolling back as he hit your sweet spot over and over again. “it’s yours elias, it’s yours. i promise.”

your knees were already starting to buckle, the way he gripped the fat of your waist, the stretch of him, it was all too much. your hand reached back instinctively, pushing weakly at his stomach. “eli—slow down,” you whimpered, voice barely a breath. “it’s too much.”

he wasn’t hearing none of that. he caught your wrists and twisted them roughly behind your back, pinning them in one strong hand. “you gon take whatever the fuck i give you.” without breaking rhythm, he lifted one leg up, planting his foot on the edge of the bed. the shift in angle had your spine arching, eyes flying open as the next thrust punched a cry straight from your chest.

he was deeper now, way deeper. dick punching at your g-spot. your face dropped to the mattress, fingers clawing at the sheets. you could barely breathe, and he didn’t let up. just kept digging deeper, rough and steady, the grip he had on your hips making sure you stayed right where he needed you.

“yeah,” he rasped, sweat dripping down his temple. “keep runnin that mouth, now look at you. can’t even talk.” broken moans spilled from you uncontrollably. you was sounding like you were possessed by the dick. repeating his name like a broken record. “sound real obedient now, huh?” his voice turned low, mocking, the gold on his tooth flashing with each groan behind you. “lil mouthy ass always actin like you don’t remember who you belong to.”

he leaned forward then, chest pressing into your back, lips right by your ear. “you do now, though, don’t you?” you nodded desperately, voice gone, body limp except for the way your thighs trembled from being split open and stuffed full.

you started shaking, vision blurry, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. heat bloomed from your core, spreading through your belly and straight up your spine. your mouth fell open, a soft string of moans tumbling out, breath hitching every time his hips slammed into yours.

your pussy clenched around him on instinct, thighs trembling as you tried to hold yourself up. but you were so close, you could feel it coming. his grip tightened on your waist, pulling you back harder into him. “you about to cum, baby?” he rasped, breath hot on your spine.

you barely managed a nod, a broken, desperate “yes” escaped your throat as he drove into you deeper. “that’s it. cream on my dick”, he growled. “i feel you mama.” your legs gave out completely, collapsing at the weight of your release. the orgasm that hit you was blinding, hips jerking, thighs twitching, body rocking with wave after wave of pleasure as your cries filled the room. you were sure anyone that came into the house would here you, but you didn’t care.

he kept going, fucking you through the aftershocks, letting you ride it all out. “damn, you soaking my shit.” he then flipped you onto your back like you weighed nothing. your legs fell open, lower half completely soaked and mind in the clouds. his body hovered over yours, his face twisted in that look he always got when he was about to nut, jaw clenched and eyes wild.

he lined up again, quick and calculated. one deep thrust and he was buried inside you, both hands sliding beneath your knees, pushing your legs up to your chest. “look at me,” he grunted. “eyes on me while i cum in this pussy.” you could barely breathe, let alone think, but you did, eyes locked on him, lips parted, whispering his name.

“take it”, he snarled. “take all this nut. i’m about to put another baby in you. you want that mama?” you nodded your head fast. “i wanna be a momma again,” you sobbed out, voice breathy and broken, thighs trembling where they clung around his waist. “gimme another baby, elias.” your nails clawed at his back, desperate to hold on to something, anything, while your body shook beneath his. “make me yours again,” you whispered against his lips, eyes glossy, lips swollen. “put one in me so i never forget.”

his strokes got meaner, like he wanted to carve himself into you. like he needed you to feel him even when he wasn’t around. his mouth dropped open, head tilted back, gold glinting as he groaned through his teeth, “okay, mama. i got you.”

his rhythm turned ragged, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep one last time. you felt the pulse of him inside you, warm, thick ropes filling you up, spilling out around his dick. you felt the weight of him collapse onto you, chest pressed to yours, his breath ragged and warm against your collarbone. he whispered low, sweet praise into your ear, words only meant for you. he then eased off you slow, dragging himself out like he hated to leave, his body already missing yours.

he didn’t go far though. just to the other side of the bed, where he leaned against the headboard, chest rising and falling to catch his breath, and dick still standing at attention. his chain rested crooked on his collarbone, catching the light as he reached over on the nightstand to grab one of his pre-rolled blunts, lighting it with a flick of his lighter.

you were curled into the bed, trying to catch your breath. trembling from overstimulation, thighs slick and warm, breath coming in uneven puffs. but when your eyes met his — dark and hooded, full of lust and love, you felt your heart skip a beat. "cmere," he murmured, voice dragging low and thick, smoke slipping between his lips as he stared you down. “we not done girl, come ride this dick.”

you blinked, eyes widened, lips parted in disbelief, and body already reacting before your brain could catch up. his legs were spread, one hand resting lazily on his thigh while the other held his pre-roll near his lips. that smug smirk crept up slow as he mockingly patted his thigh, like it was your permanent seat. “i’m nuttin all in that pussy. ain’t stopping till im shooting blanks”

his dick jumped with the promise of more, still thick and hard, despite busting a nut, slick from both of yall juices. he was making it hard to say no. and you didn’t have the energy to resist him.

A/N: omg who wrote this?!?);&:& anyways this was my FIRST time writing smut so tell me how i did😏. moral of the story don’t bring your new nigga around your baby daddy, unless you wanna get put through the mattress! i proofread this a few times, but if you see any mistakes ignore or you’re anti black LMFAOOOO. i hope yall enjoyed, feedback is welcome <3!!!! (im definitely dropping more bd!stack)

stack having a son inspo

LAYOUT INSPO: @dollerin

TAGS: @zomqiez @n3atjok3r246 , idk why it’s not letting me tag the rest sigh.

small confession … im a smoke girly so next up is smoke fics! what yall want next modern!plug smoke orrrr 30s!smoke.

[writingsbytee]

We Live Like Savages.🔞

Modern day! Stack & Smoke x OC!Kamari.

ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ sᴛᴀᴄᴋ ᴀɴᴅ sᴍᴏᴋᴇ ʜɪʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀɴɪᴏɴ. ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏғ ᴀ sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇs.

“Everything checks out. Both of them have no domestic violence charges or sexual assault. But as always, watch yourself because the amount of charges against both of them for battery, murder, and robbery is astounding.” Jerrall informed Kamari through the webcam screen.

Jerrall Wright was a hacker from Nigeria but made his fortune in America helping various politicians and Ceos. Being around those types of men made it easy for Kamari to cross paths with Jerrall and build her own connection with him. Her clientele had changed drastically since working with Jerrall. He also provided her with a sense of safety and security that had made her more confident walking into sessions with new clients. As a result her profits tripled.

"I will, thank you Jerrall. I'll talk to you soon." Kamari replied before she ended the call. She had been no stranger to clients with violent pasts. From boxers to men in the mafia…they all had something involving violence. And a lot of things got overlooked when it came to collecting as much money as possible.

Three days. Three days it had taken for 'Stack' to secure the appointment and Kamari to prepare for it.Tonight was thee night and there was no backing out. It'd been at least four years since Kamari had taken on two clients at once and the woman couldn't deny the jitters within her stomach. And despite one of her golden rules of not drinking before the job, she broke it in order to calm her nerves. Three dirty Martinis later, Kamari brushed her hands along her rosé oiled body. She wore a velvet bustier in black with a matching high waisted thong. The set was simple but alluring. It gave her pear-shaped figure an appetizing flare due to the way the fabric hugged her curves. Her hair was slicked back into a bun with a crisp middle part down the middle, which she perfected further as she eyed herself in the mirror. In times of getting filthy between the sheets, Kamari kept her appearance for arrival simple and clean.

Her route to travel to Downtown atlanta was a blur due to how mundane it had been. A town car was sent for her so the travel hadn't been anything of interest. She ended up in front of The William hotel nearly an hour later. The brisk winter weather kissed her chubby cheeks and sent chills piercing down her neck; which had caused her stuff her hands into the pockets of her polar-bear fur coat. Kamari strutted into the establishment with her head held high and a nonchalant expression across her face. SHe bypassed the sea of people that crowded the lobby and went straight to the elevators. P6. The sixth penthouse suite. When she had arrived, she was met with a singular hallway and two large black-double doors. The scent of bitterly sweet sativa swept past her nostrils as she grew closer to the door. The deep voice of Stack rapping along with drill beats vibrated off of the door, no doubt coming from a set of speakers. Kamari raised her hand and began firmly knocking on the door.

After a few continuous knocks, the door opened. There stood Stack dressed in a pair of Dior black joggers with the waistband of his crimson-red boxers sticking out. A black durag tied across his head and a fat blunt between his lips. Behind Kamari's shades, she looked him up and down. His bulky lightly-tatted frame was beyond alluring to her. She couldn't wait to lick him up and down. "Hi." she greeted as she slowly removed her shades, her eyes trailing along his body up to his lips as she had done so.

"Wassup." Stack replied as he held eye-contact. His eyes never looked away from hers. And Kamari couldn't help but stare back as she walked inside. Now that they were both standing instead of sitting like the night prior at the club Kamari could see that Stack was a foot and some change taller than her. He had to have been 6 '4 at best."Lemme take ya coat." As Stack got behind her once the door closed Kamari caught a whiff of his rich Christian Louboutin cologne. It was warm, the scent of amber was inviting. The musky undertones of powdery spice and sweet vanilla made her clit throb. The tip of his nose brushed along the side of her neck sending cold chills across her back as he slipped off her coat.

"Can i get you a drink?" The subdued tone of his voice kissing into her ear brought on a jolt of nervousness, excitement.

"Wine, if you have it. Thank you." Kamari turned on her heel with a light-sultry smile across her lips.

" I got you." His bottom lip curled inwards as his dark brown eyes skimmed across her thick frame. 'Thick as hell…got damn' Stack thought himself along with sinister thoughts of breaking her down in various positions.

"Where can I change into something more comfortable?" She asked, ready to undress and reveal herself.

"Bathroom inside the bedroom, Smoke chillin in the living room." Stack replied.

"See you there." Kamari smiled before turning around and stuttering in that direction. She could feel his eyes on her with every step she took. Passing what could be described as either a sitting room or living room; which was both luxurious and generic at the same time. The beige colored sofas and glass tables were a carbon copy of every other penthouse she had ever been to. Even down to the breath-taking view of the city. But, it was still nice.

The bedroom was surprisingly another story. A vibrant shade of red with a Japanese comfort Inn vibe to it due to the double-queen sized bed and golden accented sheets. The bed faced the view of the city. Directly placed in front of the tall windows. Kamari hadn't realized how long she stood there lingering because a warm hand had touched her arm. She looked to her left and her eyes veered up to Smoke. He stood before with glowy bronzed, smooth cocoa butter adorned skin. Dressed in a pair of crimson black silk boxers and a matching black Saint Laurent robe. He smelt of rich kush and cedar-Stacked musk cologne. A hint of mango was there as well from what she could smell. A blunt adorned his heart-shaped lips.

"Hi Smoke." She greeted softly as she looked into his warm brown eyes. Her cheeks started to burn from how hard she blushed when the back of his hand caressed the side of her face. His touch as smooth as butter, His thumb brushed along her bottom lip as a slight smirk curled in the corner of his lips.

"Excuse me for a moment." A mixture of his intense stare and soft touch made her heart race quickly. And just before she made her way into the bathroom, his hand wrapped around her wrist to stop her. His lips pressed against the side of her hand. The two exchanged lingering desire filled looks before she fully went into the restroom.

Kamari discharged her outside clothes and folded them neatly into her LV weekender bag. As she stood in her lingerie set and high YSL heels, she applied a second coat of lipstick. Followed by rolling on perfume oil on the back of her kneecaps, underneath her breasts, the back of her shoulder blades, and the creases of her inner thighs.

'The Zone' by the weeknd ft drake beat through the speakers as Kamari exited the bathroom. Stack and Smoke were seated on the bed passing a freshly rolled blunt between the two of them. A curvy woman shaped bong was placed on the floor between their large feet. The music was loud but Kamari could see Smoke's lips moving as if he were conversing with Stack.

"Come to find out dat bitch Netta tried to rob a nigga.Netta and dat nigga Rory laying six feet deep in piss right now." Stack explained as he sat closely beside Smoke.

"Mo probably behind that shit." Smoke replied in a low tone.

Monica wasn't the type of woman a man should make his main or his woman in general. She was far too thirsty for fame, money, and street cred off the backs of niggas she fucked. He wasn't one to shit-talk someone else's game but it was the acting genuine to get into Stack's heart for her own benefit was what he couldn't fuck with. They all played games but never had feelings involved. That was stated upfront. A slut like Monica trying to go deeper than surface level was what put her in the red zone with Smoke. His attention stayed on her with watch dog eyes. and her friend Symone was no different. Except, she was like a sheep following the wolf in sheep's clothing.

"Oh shit, look at chu' ' Stack whistled as Kamari strutted towards them, his eyes skimming along her figure that looked heavenly underneath the city lights and shining of the moon. Smoke blew a kiss her way followed with a thick cloud of smoke behind his lips. His left hand extended out as he offered her the glass of wine.

"I'd say the same about you but…"Her eyes slithered like snakes along his body before settling onto his eyes, "You're overdressed." she then took a sip from her glass before taking a seat upon both of their laps.

"Come undress me then." Stack challenged. The joint was passed over to him and he proceeded to place it between his lips.

The softness of her cheeks felt like a pillow against their toned, firm thighs. Her attention smoothly transitioned over to Smoke, "You too." she teased with her shoulder nudging against his. A mischievous smirk swept across his lips as his hand grasped at her jaw, nudging her closer as he drew in closer. The moment their lips met, Kamari felt semi-rough finger pads rubbed along her ass followed by firm palming along the thickness of her cheeks. The kiss shared between her and Smoke gave her this fuzzy feeling inside. A hot rumbling sensation within her stomach and chest. His lips were smooth, warm, and soft. Slightly parted against her own with the edge of his tongue tasting the plumpness of her bottom lip, tracing every inch of it. She couldn't help but run her own tongue along his lips. He tasted like aged bourbon; smokey with a strong, intense overtone of vanilla and the dried pineapple due to the joint that once sat between his lips. The way his tongue licked along hers made Kamari release an inaudible moan.

She felt a tight grip to the base of her bun causing her head to tilt back as her hair was tugged. Plumper, fuller lips pressed against her own. Stack's meaty tongue slipped into her mouth as he gripped at the back of her neck. Smoke's eyes flickered down to her ample breasts that her bustier hugged tightly. Soft and inviting. He peeled off the fitted fabric and engulfed her pebbled nipples into his mouth, placing open mouthed kisses against both of her breasts. Sloppily, he sucked against her rose scented skin. Her right hand and fingers ran along his shoulder blades as she and Stack engaged in a messily wet lip lock.

Their tongues plunged as deep as they could get into each other's mouths. Stack's kiss was the complete opposite of Smoke. He was sloppy and rough. Even with Kamari's tongue in his mouth, he overlapped hers. His lips captured her top lip, sucking and biting against it. It made her body grow hot as Smoke's warm tongue against her nipples and breast made her feel as though she was being attacked by both fire and ice at once. It made her clit throb rapidly like a racing heart beat. Kamari had been strung off high new found emotions that when Stack pulled away due to the bluetooth speaker stopping the music because of an incoming call, she whimpered.

"Yo, open shordy up for me." Stack placed a kiss to the side of Kamari's jaw before he stood up, "See you soon gorgeous." and with that made his way out the room.

Nothing stopped his money. And in a way, Stack was like a quarterback, he liked the ball brought to him so that he could come in and make the goal. Smoke was by no means a 'fluffer' but the two carried this mutual respect and had their own unspoken flow. Whichever one of them picked out their target, got to go in for the kill first. Or, in this case get the party started. This time it was Smoke. His arms engulfed her into a firm hold as he flipped Kamari onto her back on the bed.

She arched up on elbows, capturing his lip between hers with a soft bite. "Still overdressed," she mumbled as she released his lip with a tug. Her fingers gripped the edges of his robe and tugged it down. Her soft palms brushed along ebony skin, caressing at his muscles. Kamari trailed open mouthed along the side of his neck while smoke looped his fingers around the edges of her high-waisted thong. The moment he tugged it down her thick thighs with little hassle; was the moment that he wrapped his arms around her thighs and tugged her on top of him. Smoke manhandled the plump woman like a rag doll, tugging and holsting her over his face. Right where he wanted her. The thickness of her thighs warmed the sides of his face like a tight hug.

Smoke nuzzled his face against her smooth, hairless, wet pussy. His tongue slicked down her slit. His gold diamond-ring covered fingers gripped at her ass as he nudged her down closer. Kamari let out low moans as he ravenously sucked on her clit. The tip of his tongue outlined the inner corners of her slit before plunging deep into the center of her wetness. The moment that Smoke sneakily stuck two of his fingers into her pussy from between her cheeks, caused Kamari's hips to jolt forward as she squealed 'oooh' The rarity of Kamari being on the receiving end of oral sex had made her plump punani high-strung off of every miniscule feeling. Every flicker of his tongue made her warm center grow warmer like the August sun. Each time one of his long fingers caressed the edges of her inner walls, her moans grew louder. Her crystal clear nectar began to pour down and fall onto his chin with a splash as Smoke circled his tongue into her pussy. His fingers curled up deeply, scissoring into her wet cunt with a loud 'squish'.

Smoke's lengthy cock pulsated like a second heartbeat and grew larger in size due to the delicate taste of her pussy. The woman above him had an exquisite taste to her that could only be described as; fresh with an undertone of spearmint that could be assumed was from her feminine wash, with her clit having a smooth melt-in-your-mouth texture that poured a sweet-ish nectar. The Downtown Atlanta native ate her out ravenously like a starved man being fed for the first time in a long time. Darting his tongue upwards with his head tilted back, he licked her quickly with circling motioning as his fingers worked in and out lightly and slowly. Curling up his knuckles just enough to ghostly brush against her g spot. He grew almost addicted to the way the feeling of her thighs shaking felt like a head massage to him.

Smoke held onto Kamari so tightly that she couldn't move or rush backward from the pleasure. She was meant to service him. Perhaps perform a bit of 69 yet she couldn't. She could only grasp onto her trembling breasts for support as Smoke caused a fiery pleasure to ignite within her. "Smokee," she moaned out like a lullaby as her vision blurred and the sight of stars took over when she had cum. Reaching her first and second peak in the span of three minutes, back to back had Kamari trembling from head to toe.

When he had loosened his firm hold to her thighs and waist, Kamari slouched backwards and laid between his legs. She could feel his erection poking at her back as she breathed out deeply. Despite the lightheaded feeling she felt, curiosity and lust restored her energy. Kamari straddled Smoke as he rested his hand at the back of her neck and pulled her closer. The moment that their lips met she could taste herself on his mouth. Lips to lips and tongue to tongue, she proceeded to suck her cum off his tongue.The groan released from the depths of his throat caused her clit to pulsate. His large slightly-calloused hands ran along the sides of her body down to her thighs. His fingertips sank into the thickness of her skin as he sat up. Tracing and admiring every curve, every mark of stretched skin and dimple. Smoke found her body to be inviting and held a sense of serenity. His tongue sensually massaged the back of her throat as they kissed sensually. Smoke had Kamari in such a trance with their lip lock that she hadn't noticed that he had removed his last article of clothing. Smoke removed one of his hands from her body and proceeded to reach over to the nightstand to grab a condom.

"Allow me." Kamari whispered an inch away from his lips as she laid her hand on top of his. The challenging smirk on Smoke's lips felt like an invitation. He laid back against the silk sheets with his arms behind his head. His muscles flexed and his brown skin looked heavenly as it illuminated underneath the moonlight.

While Kamari peeled open the condom wrapper with her teeth, she got a chance to admire his naked body. Mainly his dick, which was a sight for sore eyes. It was a rich umber-brown complexion, ten inches in length that was circumcised, cleanly shaven with a six inch girth, and upward hook-like thickly veined tip.

He'd clearly been blessed below and Kamari would've been lying if she didn't admit that she was intimidated by it. It was a clear difference from her fifty and up clientele who passed no longer than four inches in length.

Nonetheless, Kamari was no quitter and slithered the condom on his dick with ease. His length felt heavy within her hands. Her grip was firm as she stroked his thick meat with her palms and fingers, her lips pressed against his curved tip. Where she proceeded to leave smooth & sweet open mouthed kisses, tasting the saltiness of his precum. Her tongue swirled underneath the base before she sucked him into her mouth with a deep inhale. A melodic hiss escaped Smoke's mouth. Her lips pressed up against the sides of his shaft closely as she began to sloppily slurped up and down his thick length. Hollowing her cheeks each time the curve head of his dick would hit the back of her throat.

Smoke being engulfed in the warm heat of her mouth made his hips buckle causing a loud gag to escape Kamari's lips. Her face grew hot as his cock stretched her mouth open with each plunging thrust into her mouth. His hands held a firm grip onto the back of her head, guiding her as low rasped groans escaped his lips. Smoke's locs fell over his eyes as the muscles in his thighs tensed. His length swelled and hardened within her the depths of her throat as she coated his dick in her saliva.

As Stack made his way into the bedroom, his eyes instantly fixed on Kamari's ass that glistened under the moon due to being coated with her wetness. The way she sat on her knees with her plump ass in the air looked nothing less than inviting to him. 'Stacko' he whistled as he approached the bed. His large palm smacked against her ass. Entranced by the way the thickness of her ass jiggled like jelly. Her muffled, choked out whines built the intensity of arousal in the air.

"Damn she real pretty." Stack murmured admiring her pussy as he spread her cheeks apart for a better view. His thumb glided down her slit as he dipped his middle finger inside. The way her warm and wet center sucked him in made his dick harder than it was originally. Arching in his finger, he coated it in her nectar before placing it in his mouth, "Sweet like peaches." he boosted with a deep rasp as he dabbed up Smoke.

Kamari whimpers vibrated against Smoke's cock as she slurped on it. The room suddenly felt hot as arousal was thick in the air. The two men shared menacing smirks as Stack said "I think she ready."

Smoke released his grip from her hair as he grew closer to his release. His hand grasped at the back of her neck before he tugged her up. His thumb swept across her bottom lip, wiping the drool off of it as Kamari fully straddled on top of him. Whilst Stack had focused on slipping the condom onto his own length along with a generous amount of lube.Her legs laid on either side of his thighs as she hovered over his body on all fours. Her breasts brushed against his chest as his hands swept along the sides of her curves. Smoke's right hand swept between them, aligning his fatty tip at her entrance; brushing against her clit teasingly.

As Smoke repeatedly teased her clit by smacking his tip against it, Stack plunged two lube covered fingers into her puckered hole, edging the tight spot open in a scissoring motion.

'a-aaaghh' Kamari let out a yelped whine of pleasure as the two men edged her on. Both of her holes being toyed with at once had caused her toes to begin to curl and her inner thighs to shake.

Stack pressed his hand firmly on her lower back causing Kamari to deeply arch her back and raise her ass higher up against him. Her thighs had spread apart further and as if on cue, both men had thrusted into her at once. Stack's hands gripping firmly at her ass and Smoke's hands on her hips.

"Ooh!...fucck!" Kamari moaned out loudly. A mixture of pain and pleasure fueled within her body.

Smoke stroked his dick deeply into her pussy, his hips rolling up against hers as he plunged in at a sensual pace. The thickness of his length massaged every inch of her walls. His grip on her sides tightening as her soaked center gripped onto him tightly. Her lips pursed and pressed against her right nipple that he tugged between his lips.

Stack's was length thicker than Smokes. He rutted into her at a relentless pace with ball's deep plunging strokes that worked her tight hole open wider. His low redden eyes were fixated on watching how her ass swallowed him whole. Her plump cheeks effortlessly shook, bouncing off his solid muscular abdomen like waves crashing against the rocky shore.

The mixture of sensual and ravenous had Kamari's body trembling. Her body is feverishly hot with overstimulation. She couldn't bounce back nor forward. They'd dominated her body and numbed her mind. Folded and split her for their own pleasure and in return she was being rewarded with her own pleasure. Their growls and grunts blended with her high volume whines and moans like adlibs. Her curvaceous body rocked forward against Smoke's body and back against Stack. Her body had been bent into a downward dog position. One of Smoke's hands grabbing at her right breast and his other hand had a firm hold on her throat to steady her. Three of his fingers plunging into her mouth. 'Fuck' Kamari moaned out as her eyes rolled back. Her hips naturally swayed backwards due to the increased pace of Smoke's rhythmic thrusts.

His fingers pinched at her pebbled nipple, caressing the center of it with the pad of his thumb. His teeth dug into her earlobe nibbling at it as he dug into the depths of her walls. Goosebumps formed across his skin as blood rushed to his lower abdomen making his dick pulsate rapidly inside her drenched center like a second heartbeat. The way her warm walls continued to flutter around his dick and squeeze at his length tightly made Smoke hiss out 'fuck, yo' in her ear. Both of his hands switched over to her breasts, squeezing them tightly.

Kamari's ears began to ring as her nails dug into the sides of Smoke's waist, her face burying into the side of his pillow as she cried and screamed out. 'i'm cummin'-aah!' A mixture of her tears and saliva coating the pillow as her hot cum was squirted across their dicks and painted their balls white. The feeling of pleasure and pain became overwhelming, orgasm ripped out of her one after the other as the loud slaps and claps of their cocks plunging in and out of her wet pussy and ass grew louder.

"Come here sweetness." Stack murmured raspily as he tugged her back by her hair. A firm grip of her now messy bun, he used to roughly pull her back as his climax was near. His right hand began aggressively smacking at her right asscheek as he rammed up into her. Her blushed throbbing hole sucking him in made his thrusts grow more relentlessly.

"What's my name?" he growled into her hair as he tugged at her hair. His hips snapping as his balls slapped against the back of her inner thighs.

"Stack!" Kamari cried out as her g-spot was hit from behind. She felt as though that her back would break due to how aggressive his strokes had gotten. Should feel him poking at the depths of her spin.

Smoke had raised his pelvis causing his cum covered abdomen to flex; Jack hammering his dick into her pussy with his tip firmly hitting her sensitive cluster of nerves. Spilling his seed into the condom shortly after as he continued to chase his climax by thrusting balls deep into her continuously.

'fuck!' Kamari cried at the top of her lungs. Smoke rotated her into Stack's arms as he spilled out of her; who had wrapped his burley arms around her thighs and pressed her to his chest. Smoke had shifted off of the bed and segwayed to the bathroom. She barely had time to recover before she was pinned over the right side of the bed with her ass up. Stack had now been kneeling on the bed with the full length of his shaft plunging into her pussy. With his pelvis bent forward and a tight grip to her soft love-handles, he penetrated her with broad, belly-pit deep strokes that knocked against her g-spot.

"w-wait i–it's too mmmuch!" Kamari stuttered out through her cries as he hit her tender spot over & over again. Her body shook as her hands grasped tightly to the edge of the bed frame. The loose hairs that escaped her bun now clung to the side of her face and forehead.

"Sssh, you doin good mama," Stack teased as he smacked her clit with his palm. A sinister smirk swept over his lips as he watched her back arch and her thighs spread when she came undone messily on his dick. His last three thrusts were vicious, plunging in balls deep as he jackhammered into her. His fingertips left marks in her caramel skin as Stack abruptly pulled out and tugged the condom off with a swift motion, painting her ass white with his cum.

Throughout that night until the early hours of the morning the two boxes of condoms that the men had brought were emptied. Kamari had blacked out a few times in the midst of one on ones with Smoke then Stack then both and water breaks in between. At times she begged for a timeout and other times she'd beg for more. The repeated acts of overstimulation had Kamari knocked out cold until the day turned to night. The sun had begun to set when she had awoken.

Her jaw was sore, her body was sorer, and her head hurt. Rubbing the tiredness from her eyes with the back of her hand, She slowly began to sit up in the bed. The sheets clung to her sweaty body as she sat up straight. "Got damn it." she huffed to herself as a sharp pain shot up her butt to her lower back. Peeling the discomfort away to the back of her mind, Kamari looked around. Both the bed and room were empty. To her left on the glass table lay stacked freshly stacked racks of money alongside a bouquet box of white roses. Her feet pressed against the carpet once she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She then got up and slowly made her way to the table.

'80k as promised, take care beautiful' - S & S had been written on a card that was laid on top of the money. A smile swept across Kamari's lips as she read over the note. She proceeded to grab her overnight bag at the end of the room and pull her clothes out. She focused on stuffing the bag with the money before carrying it with her to the bathroom where she got herself together with a hot shower.

[writingsbytee]

ANNIE MY DARLING

(DONT STEAL MY SHIT)

[writingsbytee]

"Y/n threw her long blonde hair into a messy bun"