Summary: Restless and hollowed out by a life of meaningless hedonism, a man who's never known a moment of genuine peace finds himself scrolling past an ad for a professional cuddling service. What starts as a cynical experiment to cure his boredom becomes an unexpected lesson in vulnerability, forcing him to confront the emptiness he's been running from. When his carefully constructed world is hilariously interrupted by his twin brother, he's left to choose between the comfort of his old persona or the terrifying possibility of something real.
Warnings: Explicit language, sexual situations and discussions, explicit sexual content, emotional vulnerability, twin brother teasing and humiliation, slow burn romance, professional-client dynamic, fluff, humor, romantic comedy elements.
The Texas sun baked the Houston skyline in golden syrup, thick enough to taste, but inside his climate-controlled fortress on the twenty-fourth floor, Stack felt a chill that had nothing to do with the recycled air. It was 3:17 PM on a Sunday, and the silence in his apartment was so profound it was ringing in his ears. Last night had been a masterpiece of excess. He'd rolled through three different spots, left a cloud of expensive weed and cheap perfume in his wake, and ended up at some socialite's penthouse in River Oaks, a girl whose name might have been Brittany or Bianca, all long, manicured nails and teeth so white they almost glowed in the dark. She'd been eager, pliant, exactly what he thought he wanted. He'd fucked her against a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the glittering city, her breath fogging the glass as he drove into her, his hand wrapped in her weave, his other hand gripping the expensive silk drapes.
He should have felt sated. Victorious. Instead, he felt nothing. He'd slipped out before dawn, leaving her asleep in a tangle of thousand-dollar sheets, the ghost of her scent already fading from his skin. Now, twelve hours later, the emptiness had settled deep in his bones, a hollow ache that no amount of liquor or pussy seemed able to fill. His sprawling apartment, usually a playground of chaos and comfort, felt like a museum dedicated to a life he was no longer sure he was living.
Stack stretched his long, muscular body out on the sectional sofa, his bare feet sinking into the plush cream-colored fabric. He was a magnificent specimen of a man, all dark umber skin and banked power. At thirty-two, he was in his prime, his body honed by a lifetime of discipline and indulgence in equal measure. He wore nothing but a pair of loose gray sweats that hung low on his hips, revealing the deep V-lines that disappeared into the fabric, and the black ink flowed across his ribs and climbed over one shoulder like living art. His face was all sharp angles and full lips, a mouth made for sin and laughter, but today it was set in a flat, unimpressed line. His haircut was timeless—a classic ’90s Caesar with a razor-sharp part that looked like it had just come from the barbershop, and his beard was trimmed into a sharp goatee that perfectly matched the clean lines of his haircut. He picked up his phone, the screen lighting up his handsome face, his deep-set eyes, the color of rich coffee after a splash of cream, as he scrolled listlessly through the digital noise.
He had a roster. A damn good one. Women who would drop everything at 3:17 on a Sunday for a chance to warm his bed. He could text Trina, the attorney with the ass that wouldn't quit and a mouth just as reckless. Or he could hit up Megan, the dancer whose flexibility was a goddamn miracle. But the thought of it, the whole performance of it, made him tired. The talking, the fucking, the leaving. It was all starting to feel like a job he was no longer qualified for.
"Shit," he muttered to the empty room, his voice a low, melodic rumble with that slow a drawl that made women's knees buckle. It was smooth as aged whiskey, but right now, it was laced with a frustration he couldn't shake.
He swiped past notifications from his brother Smoke, a couple of missed calls from his mama, and a dozen half-naked women thirst-trapping on his timeline. His thumb stilled, his breath catching in his chest. It was her again. Sade. Her profile name was just that: Sade. No last name, no clever pun. Just Sade. He'd been seeing her sponsored posts pop up for weeks now. At first, he'd laughed. A professional cuddler. What in the entire fuck? He'd scrolled past, dismissed it as some new-age California bullshit that had somehow made its way to Houston.
But her face... it kept stopping him. She was beautiful, but not in the obvious, manufactured way of the women he usually dealt with. Her beauty was soft, warm. Real. She was 25, according to the info on her page, with skin the color of warm caramel and a cloud of dark, natural curls that framed a face dominated by the most intelligent, knowing eyes he'd ever seen. They were big and dark, and even through the phone screen, they seemed to see right through his bullshit. In the ads, she was always smiling, but it wasn't a practiced, camera-ready smile. It was genuine, reaching her eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. She looked like she smelled like vanilla and sunshine, like she could make you feel safe just by being in the same room.
The ad was simple: a picture of her curled up on a comfortable-looking armchair, wrapped in a soft blanket, looking directly into the camera. The text read: "Need to recharge? Feeling disconnected? Let me help you find your calm. Professional cuddling services. Safe, platonic, and restorative. DM for rates and availability. Houston-based."
Safe. Platonic. Restorative. Three words that had never once been associated with Elias Moore. He was chaos. He was danger. He was the opposite of safe. But the thought of it, of just... being held, without the expectation of performance, without the need to be Stack the Wildcard, it was a foreign concept that suddenly felt as necessary as air.
He'd seen the ad for weeks, each time scoffing and moving on. But today, something was different. The hollowness in his chest was a physical weight. He thought of last night, of Brittany-or-Bianca's fake moans and the way she'd called him "daddy" ten minutes after meeting him. He thought of the rote, mechanical nature of it all. He thought of the silence in his apartment now, a silence so loud it felt like it was screaming at him.
"Fuck it," he breathed, the words barely a whisper.
Before he could talk himself out of it, before his pride could rear its head and tell him what a punk move this was, he clicked on her profile. His thumb hovered over the message button. What the hell did you even say? 'Hey, I saw you selling hugs on Instagram and my dick ain't working right so I thought I'd give it a try?' Nah. That wasn't it. He took a deep breath, the air catching in his lungs, and started typing.
Hey. Seen your posts a few times. What's the deal with this cuddling shit?
He erased it. Too aggressive. Too... him. He tried again.
Hi. I'm interested in your services. Can you tell me more about what you offer?
He erased that too. Sounded like a damn robot. He ran a hand over his face, the rasp of his stubble against his palm grounding him. He was Stack motherfucking Moore. He talked his way into and out of anything. This should be easy.
Aight. Lemme ask you something. This cuddling business. What exactly am I paying for? Like, is it just laying there? Or is there some kinda technique?
Better. It was still him, a little skeptical, a little crude, but it was a question. He hit send before he could overthink it again. The message showed as "delivered" and then "read" almost immediately. His heart, the traitorous bastard, gave a little thump against his ribs. He watched the three little dots appear and disappear, appear and disappear. She was typing. She was thinking about it. He found himself holding his breath.
Finally, a response came through.
Hi there! Thanks for reaching out. It's a great question. Professional cuddling is about therapeutic, non-sexual touch. It's about creating a safe space for you to relax, de-stress, and experience the benefits of platonic physical affection, like oxytocin release. There's no one "technique"—it's about finding what feels comfortable and supportive for you in the moment. Some clients like to talk, some prefer silence. Some like to be held, some like to hold. It's entirely client-led. I offer different session lengths, from 30 minutes to 4 hours. Does that help answer your question?
Stack read the message twice. It was so... professional. Kind, even. There was no judgment in her words, no hint that she thought his question was dumb or that he was some kind of creep for asking. He felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. He was used to women being flustered by him, either intimidated or instantly attracted. This was... different. And he wasn't sure how he felt about it.
So it's like... paying for a hug?
You could think of it that way, yes. But it's more than just a hug. It's about sustained, nurturing contact. Think of it as an investment in your mental and emotional well-being. Human touch is a fundamental need, and sometimes we don't get enough of it in our daily lives.
He stared at his phone. An investment in your mental and emotional well-being. The words landed with a strange weight. He'd never thought of it like that. He thought of his brother Smoke, who was probably at this very moment meditating or some shit, perfectly centered and in control. He thought of the constant noise in his own head, the drive to always be on, always be performing, always be the wildcard. The idea of just turning it all off for an hour... it was tempting as hell.
And this shit is really just platonic? Like, you don't get weirded out by a nigga getting a hard-on or some shit? Be real with me.
He cringed as he hit send. It was a test. A crude, unnecessary test, but he had to know. He had to know if she was for real or just another hustler with a new angle.
The dots appeared again, and this time they stayed for a long moment. When her reply came, it was just as calm and professional as before.
Erections are a natural physiological response to touch and relaxation and are not inherently sexual. They don't change the platonic nature of the session. My focus is on creating a safe, comfortable environment for my clients, and that includes accepting all of their physical responses without judgment or shame. My boundaries are clear, and I'm skilled at maintaining them. The session is about your comfort and well-being, nothing more.
Stack blinked. He read the message three times. Accepting all of their physical responses without judgment or shame. No one had ever said anything like that to him in his entire life. He was the one who made people uncomfortable. He was the one who pushed boundaries. The idea of someone just... accepting him, without agenda or expectation, was so foreign it felt like a punch to the gut. And for the first time all day, the hollow ache in his chest lessened, just a fraction.
Alright then, he typed, his fingers moving with a new sense of purpose. So how do we do this? You got a package deal or some shit? I ain't tryna be paying by the minute like it's 1998 and I'm using a landline.
I offer a 90-minute introductory session for new clients. It's $200. After that, I have hourly rates, and I also offer a 3-hour package for a discounted rate. The 90-minute session is usually a good way to start, to see if it's a good fit.
$200. For an hour and a half. He spent more than that on a bottle of whiskey he'd drink in one night. He dropped twice that on a pair of sneakers he'd wear once. It was nothing. And yet, it felt like everything.
Aight. Bet. When you available?
I have some openings this week. Tuesday evening at 7, Thursday afternoon at 2, or Friday morning at 10. Do any of those work for you?
Tuesday. 7. Send me the address.
Perfect. I'll send over my booking form and some guidelines to review before our session. It just outlines my policies and boundaries to ensure we're on the same page. I'm looking forward to meeting you, Elias.
His breath hitched. He hadn't given her his name. He looked back at his profile. His handle was just "@stackmoore." There was no "Elias" anywhere on his public page. He must've had his real name linked to his payment info or some shit. Or maybe she was just that good. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
How you know my name?
It's in the header of your Instagram profile. Under your name.
He clicked on his own profile. Sure enough, there it was. "Elias Moore." He'd forgotten it was even there. He felt a flush of embarrassment, hot and sharp. He'd been so sure she was some kind of psychic ninja, and it was just his own damn negligence.
My bad, he typed back. Aight. Send the form.
Will do. See you Tuesday.
He put his phone down on the glass coffee table, the screen facing down. The silence of the apartment rushed back in, but it was different now. It was no longer oppressive. It was filled with the hum of possibility. He had a date. A cuddle date. With a 25-year-old stranger named Sade who probably smelled like vanilla and had big eyes that saw too much. He was supposed to be the dangerous one, the walking temptation. But as he lay back on the sofa, staring up at the white ceiling, he had the distinct, unnerving feeling that he was the one who was about to be in real trouble. And for the first time, he couldn't fucking wait.
Two days.
Forty-eight hours.
Two thousand, eight hundred, and eighty minutes.
Stack had been counting. Not consciously, not like a kid waiting for Christmas, but the numbers had been ticking away in the back of his mind with the relentless precision of a time bomb. Every time his phone buzzed, a jolt of something stupid and unfamiliar shot through his system. Every time he saw a woman who looked even remotely like her profile picture—warm brown skin, a cloud of natural curls—his heart did a pathetic little skip-and-a-jump. It was pissing him off. He was a man who commanded rooms with a lazy smile and a voice like molasses. He didn't get nervous. He didn't anticipate. He took. He conquered. He moved the fuck on.
But this felt different. This felt like waiting for the verdict on a case he didn't even know he was on trial for. The silence in his apartment had changed. It was no longer just empty; it was expectant. He found himself cleaning shit. Not just tidying up, but cleaning. Wiping down surfaces he'd never touched with anything but a dust-covered sleeve. He'd even lit one of those expensive candles his last one-night-stand had left behind, something with sandalwood and vanilla that made the place smell less like a bachelor pad and more like... a home. The thought made him scowl.
He'd argued with her over text about the location. She had a clean, professional studio space in a quiet part of town, complete with soundproofed walls and a locker for clients' belongings. It was sensible. It was safe. It was the last place Stack wanted to be. He didn't do safe. He didn't do sensibly. And he damn sure wasn't going to be the one on the back foot in some neutral territory that smelled like lavender and essential oils.
My place, he'd typed, the words clipped and final.
My studio space is designed to be a calming, therapeutic environment, she'd replied, her text bubbles appearing with infuriating calmness.
So's my place. And I'm comfortable here. You come to me.
There was a long pause. He pictured her on the other end, those big eyes narrowed, probably tapping a thoughtful finger against her full lips. He was being an ass, and he knew it. He was pushing, testing the boundaries before they'd even been set in person.
Okay, Elias, she finally wrote. Your place it is. Just send me the address and make sure the space is clean and comfortable. We want to create a relaxing atmosphere.
The use of his name still threw him off. Only his mama and people who wanted money from him called him Elias. To everyone else, he was Stack. It was a name he'd earned, a name that fit the loose-limbed, dangerous chaos he carried in his bones. Elias sounded like a man who paid taxes on time and flossed every night. Elias sounded old.
It's Stack, he texted back. And don't you worry about the atmosphere. I got it.
Now, it was 6:58 PM on Tuesday. The Texas sun was finally beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in strokes of violent orange and hazy purple. Stack had showered, for the second time that day, and changed his clothes three times. He'd finally settled on a pair of black Nike joggers that hung just right and a soft, heather-gray vintage Nike tee that clung to his shoulders and chest. He wanted to look casual, like he'd just thrown something on, but he knew he looked good. He always did. He was a peacock, even when he was trying to pretend he was just a regular bird.
The doorbell chimed, a soft, melodic sound that was out of place in the hard-edged world he usually inhabited. His entire body went rigid. This was it. Showtime. He took a final look around his living room. The lights were dimmed, the candle was burning, and the ridiculously expensive sectional sofa looked like a cloud you could drown in. It was perfect. It was also the most transparent thing he had ever done in his life. He was trying to impress a professional hugger. Jesus Christ.
He swung the door open, his signature smirk already in place, a lazy, confident curve of his lips that was supposed to be disarming. But when he saw her, the smirk almost faltered.
She was... exactly like her pictures, and also completely different. Sade stood in his doorway, a vision of soft, warm earth tones. She wore a simple, long-sleeved dress the color of rich terracotta that fell to her mid-calf, and on her feet were a pair of simple, flat leather sandals. Her hair, a magnificent, voluminous cloud of tight, dark coils, was pulled back from her face with a simple brown headband, leaving those incredible eyes to do all the talking. She wasn't wearing makeup, as far as he could tell, and she didn't need any. Her skin was smooth and clear, glowing with a warmth that seemed to radiate from within. She carried a large, woven tote bag that looked like it was made of some kind of natural fiber, and in her hand was a tablet.
She was smaller than he'd imagined, maybe five-foot-five, but she carried herself with a quiet, unshakable confidence that had nothing to do with height or muscle. She looked at him, her gaze direct and steady, and a small, polite smile touched her lips.
"Stack?" she asked. Her voice was like her eyes, calm, warm, and deeper than he expected, with a hint of honeyed Southern drawl that was probably native to Houston.
"That's me," he said, his own voice a low, smooth rumble. He leaned against the doorframe, trying to reclaim his casual dominance. "You must be Sade. Come on in."
He stepped aside, watching her as she moved past him into the apartment. She smelled good. Not like the heavy, perfumed scents he was used to. She smelled clean, like she'd just stepped out of a shower, with a faint, underlying note of something warm and spicy, like cinnamon or cardamom. It was subtle. It was intimate. It was already fucking with his head.
"Nice place you got here," she said, her eyes taking in the panoramic view of the city through the seamless big windows. The last rays of sunlight were glinting off the glass skyscrapers, making the whole city look like it was on fire.
"It's alright," he said, following her into the living room. "Does the job."
She turned to face him, and he was struck again by the stillness about her. He was a man of constant, kinetic energy, even when he was standing still. He was always tapping a foot, cracking his knuckles, his eyes always scanning, always moving. But she was a portrait of calm. It was both unnerving and magnetic.
"So, this is the consultation portion of our evening," she said, setting her tote bag down on the floor and tapping her tablet to wake it up. "I just need to go over a few things, make sure we're on the same page, and then we can get started."
"Consultation, huh?" he said, a grin playing on his lips. "I usually skip straight to the main event, but for you? I'll make an exception."
She didn't even blink. "The main event, in this case, is relaxation and connection. So the consultation is how we get there." She looked around the room, her gaze practical and assessing. "This space is great. The couch is perfect. The lighting is good. Is there anywhere you'd feel most comfortable?"
He gestured to the massive sectional. "This is where the magic happens, baby."
Her expression remained unchanged. "Why don't you have a seat, and I'll just go over the boundaries and consent guidelines."
He did as she asked, sinking into the plush cushions. He watched as she remained standing, her posture perfect, her eyes on her tablet. She was all business.
"Okay," she began. "First and foremost, this is a platonic service. That means no sexual contact, no kissing on the lips, and no touching of sexual areas. Understood?"
"Crystal," he said, letting his eyes roam over her curves. "But you can't blame a man for looking, can you?"
She looked up from her tablet, her gaze meeting his without a flicker of hesitation. "Looking is fine. It's human. The key is mutual respect and clear communication. If at any point you feel uncomfortable, or if I feel my boundaries are being pushed, we use our safe word."
"Safe word?" he chuckled, the sound low and raspy. "Ain't that some Fifty Shades type shit?"
"It's a standard practice in any situation involving vulnerability and physical contact," she explained patiently. "It ensures that both parties feel in control. I suggest 'red.' It's simple and easy to remember. If either of us says 'red,' the session stops immediately, no questions asked. Does that work for you?"
"Yeah," he said, surprisingly intrigued. "Red works."
"Good," she said, making a note on her tablet. "Now, let's talk about touch. I'll check in with you throughout the session, asking things like, 'How does this feel?' or 'Is this pressure okay?' You are always in control. You can say 'stop' or 'slow down' at any time. I also encourage you to communicate your needs. If you want to be held tighter, or if your arm is falling asleep, you have to tell me. The goal is your comfort."
"Aight," he said, his voice softer than he intended. "I can do that."
"Payment," she said, moving on. "The ninety-minute introductory session is two hundred dollars. I accept cash, Venmo, or Zelle. Which do you prefer?"
He'd been expecting this. He pulled a thick wad of cash from his pocket, secured with a gold money clip. He peeled off two hundred-dollar bills and held them out to her. "Cash is king."
She took the money, her fingers brushing his for the barest of seconds. Her touch was warm, firm. She didn't count it. She simply folded the bills and slipped them into a small zippered pouch in her tote. It was so smooth, so professional, it was almost a turn-on.
"Thank you," she said. "Now, just one last piece of paperwork, and we're all set." She pulled a small, signed consent form from her tote and handed it to him along with a pen. "This just confirms that you understand the platonic nature of the service and that you agree to respect the boundaries we've discussed."
He took the form, the paper feeling flimsy in his large hands. He scanned it. It was all there, in black and white. No sexual contact. Respectful communication. The right to terminate the session at any time. He'd signed contracts for record deals and business ventures that felt less binding than this single sheet of paper. He scrawled his signature at the bottom, Elias Moore, the name feeling foreign and formal on the page.
"Alright," he said, handing it back to her. "We're official. What now?"
She took the form, gave it a final look, and then placed it back in her tote. She looked at him, and for the first time, her professional mask seemed to soften, just a little. A genuine, warm smile graced her lips, reaching those incredible eyes.
"Now," she said, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. "You get comfortable. Take off your shoes if you want. Pick a spot on the couch where you'll be most relaxed. And I'll come join you in a moment."
She turned and walked over to his state-of-the-art sound system, her movements fluid and unhurried. Stack watched her, his heart thumping a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, about to jump into unknown waters. He was used to being the one in control, the one setting the terms. But here, in his own apartment, he was completely at her mercy.
The soft, instrumental music she'd chosen, some kind of jazzy, lo-fi shit, filled the silence of the apartment, a gentle counterpoint to the frantic thumping of Stack's heart. He watched as she moved with an unhurried grace, slipping off her sandals and placing them neatly by the door. She wasn't looking at him, giving him a moment to adjust, to acclimate to the sheer strangeness of it all. He felt like a fucking teenager again, all nerves and anticipation, his body betraying the cool confidence he wore like a second skin.
She padded back toward the couch, her bare feet silent on the polished concrete floors. "So," she began, her voice that same calm, soothing melody. "We can start with something simple. How about we just sit here for a moment, get comfortable with the space between us?"
Stack let out a short, humorless laugh. "Nah. I didn't pay two hundred dollars to sit here and look at you. No offense."
"None taken," she replied, a flicker of amusement in those dark eyes. "What did you have in mind, then?"
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, trying to look casual. "Well, for starters, I was thinking you could lay your pretty little head right here," he said, patting his thigh. "And then I could tell you about all the things I could do to you for another two hundred."
It was a test. A stupid, juvenile test, but he had to know. He had to see if he could break that professional composure, to find the real woman underneath the calm exterior.
Sade didn't flinch. She didn't blush. She didn't even look annoyed. She simply tilted her head, a thoughtful gesture that made a stray curl bounce against her cheek. "That's a very common request," she said, her voice even. "But for a first session, I find it's best to start with something a little more... symmetrical. It helps establish a sense of equality and safety. How about we try spooning?"
"Spooning?" he scoffed, but the word came out weaker than he intended. "Like we're about to take a nap in a rom-com?"
"Exactly like that," she confirmed with a small, genuine smile. "It's one of the most intimate and comforting positions. It maximizes body contact without putting any pressure on either of us. I'll be the little spoon, you can be the big spoon."
He wanted to argue. He wanted to suggest something more provocative, something that would reassert his control. But the way she said it, so matter-of-fact, so reasonable, disarmed him. He found himself nodding, like a damn fool.
"Aight," he mumbled. "Spooning it is."
She moved first, settling onto the couch, lying on her side facing away from him. She arranged a couple of the plush throw pillows under her head and neck, creating a little nest for herself. The terracotta dress she wore pooled around her, accentuating the generous curve of her hips and the dip of her waist. She looked soft. Warm. Inviting. And terrifying.
"Alright, big spoon," she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. "Your turn."
He took a deep breath, the air catching in his lungs, and maneuvered his large frame onto the couch behind her. The sectional was huge, but with both of them on it, it felt suddenly small, intimate. He hesitated for a moment, his body hovering over hers, unsure where to put his hands, how to align his legs. He felt clumsy. Awkward. He felt like a fumbling virgin.
"Just relax," she said softly, as if reading his mind. "Slide your arm under my neck, and then just... wrap your other arm around me."
He did as she instructed, sliding his left arm beneath her head, his forearm coming to rest on the cushion beside her. The scent of her hair—clean, with a hint of something floral, like roses—filled his senses. Then he wrapped his right arm around her waist, his hand coming to rest on the soft fabric of her dress, right over her stomach. He was pressed up against her, his chest to her back, his thighs to the backs of her thighs. He was completely enveloping her. And it was... nice. Too nice.
"Comfortable?" she asked, her voice a low murmur.
"Peachy," he grunted, trying to inject some of his usual sarcasm into his voice, but it came out sounding strained.
They lay there in silence for a few minutes. The music played on. The city lights twinkled outside the window. And Stack's body began to betray him. The feeling of her soft, warm body pressed against his, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, the subtle scent of her skin—it was all working on him in a way he hadn't anticipated. He was used to immediate, explosive desire. This was different. This was a slow, creeping warmth that started in his gut and spread downward, a lazy, insistent heat.
He tried to think about something else. Baseball. Taxes. The ugly-ass painting Smoke had bought last month. But his brain kept circling back to the feel of her, the smell of her, the sheer, overwhelming femaleness of her. He felt the first stirrings of an erection, a familiar tightening in his groin. Fuck. Not now. Not here.
He tried to subtly shift his hips back to create a little space, but there was nowhere to go. He was already pressed against the back of the couch. And then, as if she knew exactly what he needed, she shifted, pressing back against him, a soft, unconscious wiggle that settled her more firmly into his embrace.
That was it. Game over.
His dick, which had been merely interested, was now fully, undeniably awake. It swelled against the soft fabric of his sweats, pressing directly against the curve of her ass. It was a hard, undeniable fact, a flagrant declaration of his body's willful disobedience. He froze, his entire body tensing up. He was mortified. He was a grown-ass man, thirty-two years old, getting a hard-on during a platonic cuddle session like some horny teenager who'd just discovered his first Playboy.
"Hey," she said softly, her voice cutting through his panic. "It's okay."
He felt her move, and then her hand was covering his, her fingers lacing through his where they rested on her stomach. She began to rub his hand with her thumb, a slow, soothing, back-and-forth motion. It was such a simple gesture, so maternal and comforting, but it sent warm heat straight up his arm.
"It's a natural physiological response to touch and relaxation," she said, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. "It doesn't mean anything. It's not sexual. It's just your body doing what it's supposed to do. There's no shame in it."
He wanted to believe her. He wanted to just relax and accept her words. But the feel of her hand on his, the gentle pressure of her thumb against his skin, was only making things worse. The intimacy of it, the simple, non-sexual tenderness, was more arousing than any dirty talk or skilled touch he'd ever experienced. He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with his dick and everything to do with the sudden, overwhelming ache in his chest.
"I, uh..." he started, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. "Maybe we should switch."
"Of course," she said immediately, her hand stilling on his. "Whatever you need. What would you like to try?"
He disentangled himself from her, rolling onto his back, his erection a conspicuous tent in his sweats. He felt his face flush with heat, a rare and unwelcome sensation. He couldn't look at her.
"How about..." he began, his mind racing. "How about I lay on top of you? Like, my head on your chest. That way, you know... nothing's... pressing."
He expected her to hesitate, to question the new position. But she just nodded. "Okay. We can try that."
She shifted onto her back, adjusting the pillows under her head. She looked up at him, her expression open and accepting. "Come on," she said softly.
He took a deep breath and positioned himself over her, being careful to keep most of his weight on his forearms. He rested his head on her chest, just below her collarbone, his cheek pressing against the soft fabric of her dress. He could feel the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart against his ear, a slow, calming thrum that seemed to sync with his own frantic pulse. Her breasts were soft pillows beneath him, and her scent was even stronger this close, a clean, warm, intoxicating cloud.
He closed his eyes, trying to focus on her heartbeat, on the music, on anything but the insistent throbbing in his groin. And then he felt her hands. One came to rest on the back of his neck, her fingers gently stroking the short, crisp hairs at his nape. The other began to rub slow, wide circles on his back, moving from his shoulder blades down to the small of his back and up again.
It was heaven. It was torture.
Every nerve ending in his body was on fire. Her touch was so gentle, so pure, so completely devoid of sexual intent that it bypassed all his usual defenses and went straight to the core of him. He was used to women touching him with desire, with hunger, with a need to possess or be possessed. This was different. This was... nurturing. And it was unraveling him completely.
His erection, which had started to subside, came back with a vengeance, harder and more demanding than before. It was trapped between his body and hers, a thick, rigid line of evidence that he was failing spectacularly at this whole platonic thing. He felt a groan build in his chest, a sound of pure, frustrated pleasure. He buried his face deeper into her chest, trying to muffle the sound, trying to hide.
"It's okay, Stack," she whispered, her voice a vibration in her chest that he felt through his entire body. "Just breathe. Let yourself feel it. It's just touch. It's just connection."
Her words, her touch, the steady beat of her heart—it was all too much. He felt the last vestiges of his control, his carefully constructed persona, begin to crumble. He was just a man, a lonely, touch-starved man, lying in the arms of a woman who was offering him exactly what he needed, even if he didn't know how to accept it. He felt his body begin to relax, the tension in his shoulders and neck melting away under her skilled hands. He was sinking, drowning in the simple, profound comfort of it all. He didn't fight it. He just let go.
The world narrowed to the space between his cheek and the soft fabric of her dress. The insistent throb of his erection, the source of his acute embarrassment, began to fade into the background, muted by the overwhelming sensory input of her touch. Her hand on his neck wasn't just stroking; it was mapping his tension, finding the knots of stress at the base of his skull and patiently, methodically, coaxing them loose. Her other hand on his back was a slow, steady rhythm, a metronome for a peace he hadn't known he was missing.
His body, a live wire of performance and aggression for as long as he could remember, began to unwind. It wasn't a conscious decision. It was a surrender. The rigid set of his shoulders, the permanent clench in his jaw, the tightness in his lower back, all of it began to soften, to melt into her. He felt heavy, but not in a bad way. He felt grounded, anchored by her body beneath him, by the steady beat of her heart against his ear. He was sinking, and for the first time in his life, sinking didn't feel like drowning. It felt like coming home.
He shifted, a subtle, unconscious movement, nuzzling his face deeper into the warmth of her chest. The gesture was so small, so instinctual, it surprised him. It was the kind of move a man made when he was completely comfortable. The kind of move he hadn't made since he was a child, falling asleep on his mama's lap. The thought settled deep in his chest, a brief flare of panic, but her hands didn't stop. They just kept their slow, soothing rhythm, a silent reassurance that this was okay. That he was okay.
The silence stretched, comfortable and thick. He was usually a man who filled silences, who couldn't stand the quiet because it forced him to listen to the noise in his own head. But this silence was different. It was a balm. It was full of the soft music, the sound of their breathing, the gentle rustle of her dress. He found himself speaking, the words a low, rough murmur against her skin.
"Got a brother," he said, the words coming out of nowhere. He hadn't meant to say anything. He hadn't even been thinking about Smoke. But there it was. "Twin, actually."
Her hand stilled for a fraction of a second on his back, then resumed its slow, steady circles. "Older or younger?" she asked, her voice a soft hum that vibrated through her chest and into his.
"Older," Stack said. "By eleven minutes. But you'd think it was eleven years by the way he acts." He let out a short, breathy laugh, but there was no humor in it. "He's the... calm one. The steady hand. The one who knows what fork to use at a five-star restaurant and which stock to buy on a Tuesday morning."
He paused, his fingers tracing the seam of her dress, a nervous habit he didn't know he had. "Me? I'm the other one. The one who shows up late, drinks too much, and says all the wrong shit. The one who's good for a laugh and a good time, but not for much else." The words were laced with a bitterness that shocked him. He never talked about this. Not to anyone. He barely even let himself think it.
He expected her to offer some platitudes, some empty reassurances like, 'Oh, I'm sure that's not true!' or 'You sound like a wonderful person!' But she didn't. She just listened, her hands never ceasing their gentle, grounding rhythm.
"Sounds like a heavy weight to carry," she said softly. "Being 'the other one'."
Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. She hadn't dismissed his feelings. She hadn't tried to fix them. She had just... seen them. Seen him.
"Yeah, well," he mumbled, his voice thick. "Somebody's gotta be the fuck-up."
"Is that what you are?" she asked, her voice gentle but probing. "A fuck-up?"
He didn't answer. He just lay there, his face pressed against her, the silence stretching again. He felt her shift slightly beneath him, a small movement to get more comfortable.
"My sister's the 'good one'," she said, her voice quiet, like she was sharing a secret. "She's a nurse. Married to a lawyer. Two perfect little kids, a house in the suburbs. She bakes cookies that look like they came out of a magazine and volunteers at the church on Sundays."
He felt a strange sense of relief, a feeling of being understood without judgment. He tilted his head to look up at her, his chin resting on her sternum. "And you?" he asked. "What are you?"
She smiled, a sad, sweet smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm the one who dropped out of grad school to become a professional cuddler," she said with a wry chuckle. "The one who shows up to family dinners alone and has to explain her job for the hundredth time while my sister's husband talks about his latest promotion. The one my parents pray for, but don't really know what to do with."
He looked at her, really looked at her. He saw the strength in her eyes, the quiet resilience in her posture. He saw the weight of expectations she carried, just like he did. They were two sides of the same coin, the black sheep of their respective families, finding a strange, momentary solace in each other's arms.
"Fuck them," he said, his voice low and firm. "Your family, my family. Fuck them for putting us in boxes."
Her smile widened, this time reaching her eyes, making them sparkle in the dim light. "Yeah," she whispered. "Fuck them."
The moment hung in the air, a fragile truce, a shared understanding forged in the soft light of his Houston apartment. He felt a wave of affection for her, so sudden and powerful it took his breath away. It wasn't sexual. It was recognition.
He closed his eyes again, his body going completely limp. The last of his tension, the last of his defenses, dissolved under the weight of her acceptance. He felt safe. He felt seen. He felt... tired. A bone-deep exhaustion he hadn't even been aware of settled over him, a pleasant, heavy blanket. The steady rhythm of her hands on his back, the calming beat of her heart, the warmth of her body—it was all a lullaby he couldn't resist.
His breathing deepened, slowing, becoming more regular. His grip on her dress loosened, his hand falling open, palm up, on her stomach. His thoughts, usually a chaotic whirl of noise and motion, began to quiet, to slow, to drift away like smoke. He was floating, sinking, falling. He was on the edge of a cliff, and this time, he didn't just jump. He let himself fly.
And then, he was gone.
His body went completely pliant, his full, muscular weight settling onto her in a way that was both profound and trusting. A soft, gentle snore escaped his lips, a quiet, rumbling sound that was surprisingly endearing. He was asleep. Truly, deeply, completely asleep. In the arms of a woman he'd met less than an hour ago. In the middle of his own living room. The wild card, the chaos, the fuck-up, had finally, unexpectedly, surrendered.
The silence in the apartment was a living thing, a warm, breathing entity born of shared secrets and unexpected vulnerability. Sade lay still, a vessel of tranquility, the weight of the man on her chest a profound testament to the trust he had just placed in her. Stack’s breathing was deep and even, a soft, rhythmic rumble against her sternum that spoke of a peace he rarely, if ever, found. His body was dead weight, all six-foot-plus of solid muscle and bone, completely surrendered. Her hands had stilled their stroking, now resting gently on his back and the nape of his neck, simply maintaining contact, a silent promise that he was safe. This was the core of her work, this moment of absolute, unguarded release. It was why she did what she did. And with Stack, it felt different. It felt like watching a fortress, impenetrable and formidable for years, finally lower its drawbridge.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Houston bled into twilight, the sky a deep bruise of purple and orange. The city lights began to blink on, a scattered galaxy of diamonds in the growing dark. Inside, the only light came from a single lamp in the corner and the ambient glow from the kitchen, casting the living room in soft, intimate shadows. It was perfect. It was peaceful.
Until it wasn't.
The sound was subtle at first, a faint click that cut through the quiet hum of the air conditioning. Sade’s eyes, which had been half-closed in a state of relaxed awareness, snapped open. It was the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a deadbolt. Her body went rigid, every muscle tensing. This was a breach. A violation of the sacred space she had just helped create. Her professional training kicked in, a calm voice in her head reminding her to stay centered, to assess the situation before reacting. But her heart was hammering against her ribs.
The front door swung open, silent and smooth on its expensive hinges. A figure stepped inside, and Sade’s breath caught in her throat. It was like looking at a photograph of the man asleep on her chest, but one that had been developed in an alternate reality. He had the same build, the same dark umber skin, the same sharp features. But where Stack was all raw, untamed energy, even in sleep, this man was stillness personified. He moved with a quiet grace, his presence filling the room without a sound. He was dressed in a tailored black button-up that was unbuttoned at the collar, exposing a hint of a gold chain, and dark, perfectly fitted slacks. His haircut was the same, sharp, clean, precise, but his face was a mask of calm control. This was the twin.
He closed the door behind him, the lock engaging with another soft, decisive click. He held a small, black key fob in one hand, the kind for a high-end car. He must have been coming to drop it off. His eyes, a shade of brown so deep they were almost black, swept the room, taking in the dim lighting, the soft music, the burning candle. And then they landed on the couch.
On them.
Smoke froze. His entire body went still, a predator scenting something unexpected in his territory. His gaze flickered from Sade’s wide, startled eyes to the tousled head of dark hair buried against her chest. He saw the powerful, muscular arm thrown possessively over her torso, the way his brother’s body was completely relaxed in a way he hadn’t seen in years. He saw the intimacy of the position, the profound vulnerability of the scene. And for the first time since Sade had laid eyes on him, a crack appeared in his composure. His eyebrows drew together, a faint flicker of disbelief, of confusion, crossing his features before being smoothed away. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched, his mind clearly working, processing a scenario that made no sense. This wasn't Stack. This wasn't the chaos agent, the man who left a trail of broken hearts and empty bottles in his wake. This was a stranger.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Sade’s mind raced. What was the protocol for this? There was no safe word for an unexpected twin brother walking in. She couldn't just push Stack off her; that would be a violation of the trust he had placed in her. She had to protect him, even in his sleep. She met Smoke’s gaze, trying to project a calm she absolutely did not feel. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head, a silent plea for him to just… wait.
But it was too late. The shift in the room’s atmosphere, the subtle change in the air pressure, was enough. It was an instinctual awareness of a new presence, a new threat.
Stack’s body tensed, a slow, coiling motion that started in his toes and traveled up his entire frame. His breathing hitched, the deep, rhythmic rumble broken by a sharp intake of air. His head, which had been nestled so comfortably against her chest, lifted slowly, his movements sluggish with sleep. His eyes, heavy-lidded and soft, blinked open.
For a moment, he was just a man waking up. He looked at Sade, a slow, sleepy smile gracing his lips, a look of contentment in his eyes. It was a look she hadn't seen on him, a look of boyish charm and genuine peace. It was beautiful. And it lasted for all of two seconds.
Then his gaze shifted, moving past her shoulder. And the world shattered.
His eyes, which had been soft and warm, snapped wide open, the sleep vanishing instantly, replaced by a look of panic. It was a visceral fear, the kind a man feels when he's been caught in a trap. His entire body went rigid, his muscles locking up. He pushed himself up, his movements clumsy and frantic, scrambling away from her as if she were on fire. He sat bolt upright, his back ramrod straight, his hands flying to his hair, a gesture of unthinking distress.
He stared at his brother, his mouth agape, his chest heaving. His eyes darted from Smoke’s calm, unreadable face to Sade’s, then back again. The look on his face was a kaleidoscope of raw, warring emotions: shock, horror, embarrassment, and a rising tide of defensive anger. He looked like a kid who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, except the cookie was his own vulnerability and the jar was his carefully constructed persona, now shattered into a million pieces on the floor.
"Eli," Stack breathed, his voice a choked, strangled gasp. He never called his brother by his name. It was a sign of how completely off-balance he was. "What… what the fuck are you doing here?"
Smoke didn't answer right away. He took a slow step into the room, his gaze moving between his disheveled, panicking brother and the woman on the couch, who was now sitting up, her expression a carefully constructed mask of professional calm. Smoke’s eyes lingered on Sade for a moment, taking in her composed demeanor, her simple dress, the way she held herself with a quiet dignity that was completely at odds with the women his brother usually brought home. A flicker of something, curiosity, maybe even a grudging respect, passed through his eyes before they settled back on Stack.
"I came to drop off your key fob," Smoke said, his voice a low, smooth baritone, the calm opposite of Stack’s panicked rasp. He held up the small black object as if to prove his point. "You left it in my car last night. Door was unlocked." He paused, his gaze dropping to the couch, to the space where his brother had just been lying. "Clearly, I was interrupting something."
The word "interrupting" hung in the air, loaded with implication. Stack’s face flushed a deep, mottled red, the color creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks. He looked trapped, cornered. He opened his mouth, probably to say something loud, something vulgar, something to deflect and distract and reclaim his territory, but nothing came out. He just sat there, a magnificent, powerful man, humbled and completely undone by the quiet presence of his twin brother and the woman who had just seen him fall asleep in her arms like a child.
The air in the room was thick enough to chew, a suffocating blend of panic, humiliation, and the faint, lingering scent of sandalwood and vanilla. Stack sat on the edge of the couch, as far away from Sade as he could get without actually falling off. His entire body was a clenched fist of tension, from his squared jaw to the way his toes curled into the plush rug. He was a man exposed, his soft underbelly ripped open for his twin—the one person on this planet whose opinion could cut him to the bone—to see.
Smoke, on the other hand, was the picture of unhurried calm. He took another step into the room, his expensive leather loafers making no sound on the concrete floor. His gaze, sharp and analytical, swept over the scene once more, cataloging every detail: the single lit candle, the soft jazz, the way Sade sat with her back perfectly straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, a portrait of unflappable professionalism. He was processing, filing away information, and Stack knew from a lifetime of experience that his brother was already ten steps ahead, connecting dots Stack didn't even know existed.
Smoke’s eyes finally settled on Sade. He gave a slow, deliberate nod, a gesture of acknowledgment that was both polite and deeply intimidating. "I'm Elijah," he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that was the calm before the storm. "Stack's... better half." The pause was deliberate, a tiny jab designed to draw blood.
Sade, bless her heart, didn't so much as flinch. She met his gaze directly, her own expression a masterclass in serene neutrality. "Sade," she replied, her voice steady and warm, in contrast to the chill in the room. "It's nice to meet you, Elijah."
A flicker crossed Smoke’s face. Surprise, maybe. He was used to women stammering or blushing or preening under his attention. Sade did none of that. She simply held his gaze, waiting. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her face.
"You look familiar," he said, the words hanging in the air between them. "Have we met before?"
Before Sade could formulate a response, Stack, desperate to derail this train of thought before it left the station, practically lunged forward. "Nah, nah, nah," he said, his voice a rushed, clumsy jumble of words. "Naw, man. She's, uh... she's a friend. From the neighborhood. You know. Just... kicking it."
The lie was so transparent, so poorly constructed, it was almost painful. Sade didn't look like she was "from the neighborhood." She looked like she belonged in a museum or a library or someplace where people used words with more than two syllables. And the way she was looking at Stack, with a mixture of pity and professional exasperation, wasn't the look of a woman who was "just kicking it."
Smoke’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk. It was a terrifyingly beautiful thing, a predator's smile. "A friend," he repeated, drawing the word out, savoring it. "Right." He took out his phone, his movements casual, almost bored. He began to scroll, his thumb moving with lazy precision over the screen. "You know, I've been seeing these ads on Instagram lately. For this... professional cuddling service." He didn't look up from his phone, but the air in the room grew colder, heavier. "Chick's really pretty. Skin like caramel. Big, doe eyes. Looks a lot like you, actually."
Stack’s heart stopped. It felt like it dropped out of his ass and onto the floor. He watched in horror as his brother, the human bloodhound, the man who could find a needle in a haystack the size of Texas, found the needle. Smoke's thumb stilled. He held up the phone, the screen illuminated. It was Sade's ad. The one with her smiling that soft, genuine smile, wrapped in a blanket, looking like the answer to every prayer a lonely man never knew he had.
Smoke looked from the phone to Sade, then to his brother. The smirk was gone, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated amusement. "Well, I'll be damned," he breathed, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Stack, you dog. You paying for hugs now? What's next, you gonna start paying somebody to tell you you're a good boy?"
His jaw tightened as the embarrassment washed over him. It hit Stack in the gut, stealing his breath, making his vision swim. He felt his face flush with a heat so intense it was painful. He wanted to disappear. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He wanted to launch himself across the room and wipe that smug look off his brother's face.
"Shut the fuck up," Stack snarled, his voice low and dangerous, a pathetic attempt at a threat.
"Or what?" Smoke challenged, his eyes gleaming. "You gonna cuddle me to death, nigga? Gonna tell me all about your feelings?" He was relentless, a shark smelling blood in the water. "I can't believe this. All this time, I thought you were out there breaking hearts and taking names. Turns out you're just paying for some goddamn therapy. What's the matter, the usual roster not cutting it anymore? You finally run out of women who'll put up with your bullshit for free?"
Through it all, Sade remained a pillar of professional grace. She didn't look at Stack with pity. She didn't look at Smoke with anger. She simply sat there, her presence a calming force in the center of the storm. When Smoke finally paused for breath, she spoke, her voice clear and steady.
"Elijah," she said, and both brothers stopped, their heads swiveling to look at her. "Your brother hired me for a professional service. He's a client. And right now, his session, which he paid for, is being disrupted. I'd appreciate it if you would show a little respect for both of us."
The sheer audacity of it, the quiet authority in her tone, was enough to make even Smoke pause. He looked at her, really looked at her, and a flicker of something other than amusement entered his eyes. It was respect. Grudging, but real.
He held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "My apologies," he said, though his voice was still laced with laughter. "Didn't mean to interrupt the... session." He looked at Stack, his eyes dancing. "Don't get up, little brother. I'll see myself out. Y'all finish... cuddling."
He turned to leave, but paused at the door, his hand on the handle. He looked back over his shoulder, one last parting shot. "Oh, and Stack?" he said, his voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. "Make sure you get your money's worth. Ask for the 'platinum package.' I hear it comes with a bedtime story and a lullaby."
And with that, he was gone. The door clicked shut, leaving behind a silence that was somehow louder and more oppressive than his mocking laughter.
Stack didn't move. He just sat there, staring at the closed door, his entire body vibrating with a rage so profound it was paralyzing. He was mortified. He was humiliated. He was so fucking angry he could taste blood. He had never felt so small, so exposed, in his entire life. The one person he couldn't stand to see him weak had just witnessed him at his absolute weakest. And there was no coming back from it.
The silence that followed Smoke's departure was a physical presence, a heavy, suffocating blanket that seemed to suck all the air out of the room. The front door eased shut, leaving an almost oppressive silence in its wake. Stack didn't move. He remained frozen on the edge of the couch, his back rigid, his shoulders hunched up around his ears like a cornered animal. He was staring at the closed door, but he wasn't really seeing it. He was seeing the mocking smirk on his brother's face, hearing the derisive laughter that would surely echo through family group chats for the next decade. He felt a hot, sick wave of humiliation wash over him, so potent it made his stomach clench. He was ruined. The legend of Stack had just been neutered by a professional cuddle session and a twin brother with a vicious sense of humor.
He couldn't look at her. He couldn't bear to see the pity in her eyes, the professional sympathy that would be the final nail in his coffin. He was a joke. A fucking punchline.
"Hey."
Her voice was soft, but it cut through the fog of his shame like a laser. It wasn't pitying. It wasn't sympathetic. It was just… steady.
He didn't respond. He just kept his eyes locked on the door, as if he could will it to open and swallow him whole.
"Stack," she said again, a little firmer this time. "Look at me."
He squeezed his eyes shut, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He couldn't. He couldn't face her.
He felt a shift in the cushions beside him, a subtle movement as she turned to face him. "Your brother," she began, her voice measured and calm, "he doesn't get it. He can't. This isn't about him. It's about you. It's about what you needed in this moment."
Her words were a balm, but his pride was a raw, open wound, and her kindness only stung. "He thinks I'm a punk," Stack gritted out, his voice a low, rough growl. "He thinks I'm paying for pussy I can't even get."
"He thinks what he wants to think," she countered smoothly. "Elijah doesn't understand vulnerability. He sees it as a weakness because he's never allowed himself to feel it. But you did. You allowed yourself to be here, to feel what you needed to feel. That's not weakness, Stack. That's strength."
He finally turned his head, his eyes, dark and stormy, meeting hers. "Strength? I just got caught cuddling like a damn toddler. My twin, the man who shares my damn face, just walked in on me looking like I needed a damn bottle and a nap. Don't talk to me about strength."
A small, sad smile touched her lips. "Okay," she said softly. "Then let's talk about something else. Let's talk about the fact that you were asleep. Deeply asleep. In the arms of a relative stranger. Your body, your mind, they trusted me enough to let go completely. When was the last time that happened? When was the last time you felt safe enough to just… stop?"
He couldn't answer. He couldn't remember a time. Not since he was a kid, maybe. Not since before he learned that being Stack was safer than being Elias.
"Exactly," she said, as if he had spoken out loud. "So don't let your brother's ignorance take that away from you. Don't let his mockery cheapen what just happened here. This was real. And you needed it."
He looked at her, really looked at her. He saw the strength in her gaze, the unwavering conviction. She wasn't just saying pretty words to make him feel better. She believed it. And a part of him, the small, wounded part he kept buried under layers of swagger and bravado, wanted to believe it too.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, the air burning his lungs. He had to do something. He had to regain control. He couldn't just sit here and be… analyzed. He had to be Stack again.
He pushed himself up, standing abruptly and running a hand over his low-cut fade, a nervous gesture he immediately regretted. He started pacing, his long, powerful strides eating up the space between the couch and the window. He needed to move, to burn off the restless energy that was crackling under his skin.
"Aight," he said, his voice louder now, trying to reclaim its usual smooth, melodic drawl. "Aight. You right. Fuck him. What does he know anyway?" He turned to face her, a smirk plastered on his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was a brittle, desperate thing. "So, where were we? I think we were just getting to the good part. You know, the part where you tell me how good I feel and how you've never been with a man like me before."
He was trying to flirt. He was trying to fall back into the familiar rhythm of seduction and deflection, but it was clumsy. It was forced. It was a performance, and they both knew it.
Sade just watched him, her expression unreadable. She didn't play along. She didn't shut him down. She just waited.
He stopped pacing, his hands on his hips, his frustration mounting. "What?" he snapped. "Why you looking at me like that?"
"Because you're lying," she said simply. "And you're not very good at it right now."
The bluntness of it, the unvarnished truth, stopped him cold. He stared at her, his mouth slightly agape.
"This was different than I expected," he confessed, the words torn out of him, raw and honest. He felt his shoulders slump, the last of his fight draining out of him. "I ain't gonna lie to you. I thought this was some bullshit. Some new-age nonsense for lonely white folks with too much money." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "I just… I was feeling empty. And I didn't want to call one of my… you know. I didn't want the performance. I just wanted to… not feel. For a minute. And then I fell asleep. And I haven't done that in… shit. I don't even know."
He looked at her, his eyes pleading, vulnerable in a way that made him want to punch himself. "I needed this," he admitted, the words barely a whisper. "And that's some shit I ain't never said to nobody."
Sade's expression softened, the professional mask melting away to reveal the warm, compassionate woman underneath. "I know," she said softly. "And I'm glad I could give that to you. That's what this is about."
They stood there for a moment, the air between them thick with a new kind of tension. It was no longer the tension of awkwardness or embarrassment. It was the tension of connection, of a shared truth that had been spoken into the world.
And then, because he was Stack, and because he couldn't leave well enough alone, he had to push it.
"So," he said, his voice dropping to that low, seductive rumble that had gotten him into (and out of) more trouble than he could count. He took a step closer to her, closing the distance between them. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and intense, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Since you know all my secrets now… how about you let me take you out? Properly. We can get some drinks and some food. I know this little spot downtown, real quiet, real private. We can get to know each other a little better. No money exchanged. No… professional boundaries."
He was doing it again. He was trying to turn this profound, transformative experience into a transaction. He was trying to slot her into the familiar role of "woman to be conquered" because that was a role he understood. It was a role he could control.
Sade didn't back away. She didn't flinch. She just looked up at him, her gaze clear and direct. "Stack," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "You know I can't do that."
"Why not?" he pressed, his charm turning into a challenge. "You don't date? You don't like to have fun? Or is it just me? You think I'm not good enough for you now that you've seen me all soft and shit?"
"It's not about you," she said, shaking her head. "And it's not about me. It's about my work. It's about the boundaries that keep this space safe for people like you. If I start dating clients, where does that end? How can the next person trust that I'm here for them, and not just looking for a date? It compromises everything."
"So that's it?" he said, his voice laced with disappointment and a hint of anger. "I'm just another client? Another two hundred bucks?"
"You were never just another client, Stack," she said, and the sincerity in her voice disarmed him completely. "But you were a client. And our session is over."
She stood up, gathering her tote bag and slipping on her sandals. She moved with a quiet efficiency, signaling the end. The session was over. The magic was gone. And he was left standing alone in his big, empty apartment, with the memory of his brother's laughter and the lingering scent of a woman he wasn't allowed to see again without an appointment.
The week that followed the Incident of the Cuddle-Blocking Twin was the longest seven days of Stack’s thirty-two years on this earth. He avoided his brother like the plague. Let Elijah wonder where he was, why his calls went straight to voicemail, why his usual spots, the dimly lit bars, the loud clubs, the exclusive card rooms, were suddenly Stack-free. He couldn't face him. Not yet. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that smug, knowing smirk, heard the echo of "little brother" dripping with enough condescension to drown a man. The humiliation was a sour taste in the back of his throat, a knot in his gut that wouldn't loosen.
But beneath the shame, something else was growing. A longing. A bone-deep craving for the quiet peace he’d found in Sade’s arms. He’d tried to replicate it. He’d brought a different woman back to his apartment, a bottle-blonde named Candi with a laugh like a fire alarm and a surgically-enhanced ass that defied gravity. He’d fucked her against the same window, trying to recapture the thrill, the power. But it felt hollow, mechanical. All he could think about was the scent of vanilla and cinnamon, the feeling of a gentle hand stroking his neck, the steady, calming beat of a heart that wasn't his own.
By Friday, he was crawling out of his skin. He picked up his phone, his thumb hovering over her contact. He had to see her again. He had to get back to that place, even if it was just for ninety minutes. This time, he didn't argue about location. He didn't try to assert his dominance. He just sent a simple text.
Your studio. Saturday. 3 PM. I'm coming to you.
Her reply was almost instant. Looking forward to it, Stack.
Sade’s studio was tucked away in a renovated loft in a quiet, artsy part of Houston, which he rarely had a reason to visit. The building was old brick and exposed pipes, the kind of place that smelled like history and creativity. He found her door on the second floor, a simple, dark wood with a small, elegant sign that read "Sade. Wellness & Touch." He took a deep breath, the air catching in his lungs, and knocked.
The door swung open, and there she was. She was dressed simply again, this time in a pair of soft, black joggers and a fitted, cream-colored sweater that hugged her curves in a way that was both modest and distracting. Her hair was pulled back in a loose, messy bun, and her face was free of makeup, glowing with that same inner warmth that had captivated him from the very beginning.
"Stack," she said, a small, genuine smile gracing her lips. "You're right on time."
"You know I'm punctual," he said, his voice a low, smooth rumble, but it lacked its usual cocky edge. He felt… nervous. Like a kid showing up for a first date.
He stepped inside, and his eyes widened. The space was beautiful. It was an open layout, bathed in the soft, natural light from massive industrial windows. The floors were dark, polished wood, and the walls were painted a calming, sage green. In one corner, there was a king-sized bed made up with what looked like a thousand pillows and a plush, cream-colored comforter. In another corner, there was a deep, velvet armchair. And against the far wall was a sectional sofa similar to his, but bigger, softer, with an assortment of different-sized couches and chaises arranged around it, like a choose-your-own-adventure of comfort. It was a sanctuary. A place designed for peace.
"Damn," he breathed, his eyes taking it all in. "This is… nice. Real nice."
"Thank you," she said, closing the door behind him. "I tried to make it a space where people could feel completely at ease, no matter what they need."
He turned to face her, his heart thumping a nervous rhythm against his ribs. "Look, Sade," he began, the words rushing out of him. "About last week. The way I acted after my brother left… that was some bullshit. I was embarrassed, and I handled it like a punk. I'm sorry. For trying to get your number, for turning it into some… some cheap hustle. That wasn't cool. You were just doing your job, and I disrespected that. And you. So… I'm sorry."
He watched her, his breath held, waiting for her judgment. He’d never apologized to a woman like that in his life. Not sincerely.
Sade’s expression softened, a warmth entering her dark eyes that made his chest ache. "Thank you for saying that, Stack," she said softly. "I appreciate it. And I accept your apology."
The relief that washed over him was so potent it almost made his knees weak. "Aight," he said, nodding. "Aight. Good."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cash, already counted and folded. "For the session," he said, holding it out to her.
She took it, her fingers brushing his, and just like last time, the simple touch sent a jolt of warmth through him. "Thank you," she said, slipping the money into a small wooden box on a shelf by the door. "So, same as last time? Or did you want to try something different?"
He thought about it for a moment. He thought about the king-sized bed, the thought of being that close to her, that vulnerable, almost too much. "Nah," he said, his voice a low grumble. "Let's do the spooning again. I know what to expect this time."
A knowing smile touched her lips. "Okay," she said. "The big couch is perfect for that. You get comfortable first. I'll be right there."
He moved to the large sectional, lying on his side, his back to the center of the couch. He arranged a pillow under his head, his heart already starting to beat a little faster. He knew what was coming. He knew his body was going to react, and he was determined to just… roll with it. To not let it derail him this time.
A moment later, she was behind him, settling against him. But this time, she was the big spoon. He felt her soft, warm body press against his back, her arm wrapping around his chest, pulling him gently against her. It was… different. Intimate in a new way. He wasn't in control. He was being held.
He tensed for a second, his body instinctively resisting the role reversal. But then she started to talk, her voice a low murmur right by his ear. "Just relax," she whispered. "Let me hold you this time. Let you just receive."
And he did. He let his body go soft, let his weight settle back into her. He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of her arm around him, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing against his back.
They lay in silence for a while, the soft music filling the space. He could feel the familiar warmth spreading through him, the lazy, insistent heat that signaled his body's response. But this time, he didn't panic. He just acknowledged it, a distant fact, and focused on her voice.
"So," he began, his voice a low murmur. "You really do this full-time? Just… cuddling people for a living?"
"For now," she said, her hand gently rubbing his chest. "It pays the bills. And I'm good at it. It feels meaningful, you know? Helping people feel less alone."
"Yeah," he said, his voice thick. "I get that." He was quiet for a moment, then asked, "You ever get creeps? Like, dudes who really don't get the 'platonic' part?"
"Sometimes," she admitted. "But I'm good at setting boundaries. And most people, even the ones who seem like they're going to be difficult, are just… lonely. They're just looking for connection, same as you."
He liked that. He liked being put in the same category as "most people." It made him feel less… broken.
They talked for a while longer, about nothing and everything. About the Houston heat, about the music she was playing, about his ridiculous collection of sneakers he never wore. He felt himself relaxing, sinking deeper into the comfort she was offering. And then, because he was Stack, and because he couldn't resist, he had to push.
"You know," he said, his voice dropping to that low, seductive rumble. "This is really nice. But it'd be even nicer if I could take you out after. We could go get some food. Some drinks. My treat. No money, no boundaries. Just us."
He felt her sigh against his back, a small, exasperated sound. "Stack," she said, her voice patient but firm. "We've been over this."
"I know, I know," he said, turning in her arms so he could face her. He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at her. "But that was before. Before I knew you. Before this." He gestured between them. "This ain't just a session anymore, Sade. And you know it."
She looked up at him, her expression unreadable. "Then what is it, Stack?"
"It's… something," he said, his voice earnest. "It's a connection. And I want to see if it's real outside of this room. Outside of this… job."
She studied his face, her eyes searching his. He could see the conflict there, the pull of her professional ethics against the undeniable chemistry that may have sparked between them. Finally, she spoke.
"You want to ask me out?" she said, her voice a low challenge.
"Hell yeah, I want to ask you out," he said, a grin spreading across his face.
"Then ask me," she said, her eyes locking with his. "Ask me out properly. No lines. No swagger. No persona. Just you, Elias. Ask me." Hearing his real name in her voice stripped away every version of himself he’d hidden behind. It stripped away all his defenses, all his carefully constructed layers of charm and bullshit. She wasn't asking for Stack. She was asking for him. And he had no fucking idea how to do that.
He stared at her, his mouth suddenly dry. He felt a wave of panic, the same panic he'd felt when Smoke walked in. But this was different. This was a good panic. A terrifying, exhilarating panic.
He took a deep breath, the air shuddering in his chest. He looked into her eyes, really looked at them, and he just… let go.
"Sade," he began, his voice rough, uncertain, but completely, utterly genuine. "I would be… really happy if you would let me take you out on a date. Just one. No pressure. We can go anywhere you want. Do anything you want. I just… I want to get to know you. The real you. Not the professional you. And I want you to get to know the real me. Not… this." He gestured to himself, a self-deprecating gesture. "So… yeah. Will you go on a date with me?"
He held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. He'd never been more vulnerable in his entire life. He'd just laid a piece of his soul bare, without a single joke or deflective comment to hide behind.
A slow, beautiful smile spread across her face, reaching her eyes, making them sparkle with a light that took his breath away. "Yes, Elias," she whispered. "I would love to go on a date with you."
He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, a wave of relief washing over him. He couldn't stop the grin that split his face, a real, genuine, unguarded smile.
"But," she added, her voice firming up, her professional mask sliding back into place, just a little. "Not until our contract is fulfilled. I have a policy. I don't mix business with personal. You've paid for this session. Let's finish it. And then… we'll see where we are."
He didn't even hesitate. "Okay," he said, his voice soft. "Deal."
He settled back into her arms, his head finding its place on her chest, the steady beat of her heart a comforting rhythm against his ear. He was still hard, still aroused, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that she had said yes.
Three weeks. It had been three weeks of torturous foreplay. Three weeks of bi-weekly, ninety-minute sessions in Sade’s studio that were the most intimate and frustrating experiences of Stack’s life. He’d learned the geography of her body in an entirely non-sexual way: the exact spot on her shoulder that made her hum in contentment, the way her breathing changed when he traced circles on her forearm, the specific pressure she liked on her lower back. He’d also learned the exquisite agony of wanting something he couldn't have. He’d fall asleep in her arms, wake up hard and aching, and have to walk out of there with nothing more than a polite, professional "see you next time, Stack."
The day after their last scheduled session, he texted her. Aight. Contract fulfilled. I'm cashing in my rain check.
Her reply was a single laughing emoji and an address. Saturday. 7 PM. Wear something you don't mind getting a little dirty.
He’d shown up at her door in his usual uniform of expensive jeans and a pristine, designer hoodie, a bouquet of flowers he’d spent way too much money on clutched in his hand. He’d been ready to take her to the most expensive steakhouse in the city, to pull out all the stops, to show her he could be the man she deserved.
Instead, she opened the door wearing a pair of faded overalls over a simple yellow t-shirt, her hair in two long, neat braids. She took one look at him, at the flowers, and burst out laughing. It wasn't a mean laugh; it was a bright, musical sound that made his stomach flip.
"Oh, honey," she said, shaking her head. "We are not doing what you think we're doing."
Which is how he found himself, an hour later, standing in the middle of a chaotic, cacophonous county fair, the air thick with the smell of fried dough, popcorn, and livestock. He was still in his designer hoodie, but now it was sprinkled with a fine layer of dust, and he was holding a comically large pink cloud of cotton candy that Sade had insisted on buying for him.
"I can't believe you talked me into this," he grumbled, but there was no heat in it. He was smiling. A real, genuine, goofy smile that felt foreign on his face but seemed to come naturally when he was around her.
"You needed to get out of your element," she said, taking a huge bite of her own cotton candy. "Besides, fairs are romantic. In a weird, sticky, 'I hope I don't get e. coli from this ride' kind of way."
They spent the next two hours wandering through the crowds, a world away from the quiet, controlled environments they were used to. He won her a giant, stuffed banana at a ring toss game, his competitive streak taking over until he’d sunk ten rings in a row. She dragged him to the petting zoo, where he stood awkwardly while a goat tried to eat the drawstring of his hoodie. They shared a funnel cake, their fingers getting sticky with powdered sugar and chocolate, and he didn't even mind. He was just… having fun. It was a simple, uncomplicated joy he hadn't experienced since he was a kid.
The sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that mirrored their first evening together. Sade pointed toward the towering Ferris wheel that dominated the skyline. "Last ride," she said, her eyes sparkling. "We have to."
He bought the tickets, and they settled into one of the swinging chairs, the world dropping away as they began their slow ascent. The noise of the fair faded, replaced by the gentle creak of the wheel and the whisper of the wind. Houston sprawled out beneath them, a glittering carpet of lights.
"This is nice," he said, his voice soft. He wasn't looking at the view. He was looking at her. The setting sun caught in her braids, turning them into threads of gold. Her face was turned up to the sky, a look of pure, unadulterated peace on her face.
"It is," she agreed, turning to look at him. Her smile was soft, intimate. "You're a good date, Stack."
"Elias," he corrected gently. "On a date, I'm Elias."
"Elias," she repeated, and the way she said his name, like it was something precious, made his chest feel tight. "You're a good date, Elias."
They reached the top of the wheel, the chair pausing for a moment, suspending them in a bubble of light and sky. The world was at their feet, and for the first time in a long time, Stack felt like he was on top of it without having to fight for his place.
"You know," he began, his voice low and hesitant. "These past few weeks… these sessions… they've been good. Better than good. But they've also been… hard. In more ways than one." He gave her a wry, self-deprecating smile, and she laughed, a soft, knowing sound.
"I know," she said.
"But the best part," he continued, his voice growing serious, "wasn't the touching. It was the after. When I'd leave. I'd sleep. Like, really sleep. No noise in my head. No… nothing."
He looked at her, his eyes dark and earnest, laying himself bare one last time. "So… I have a question. And it's probably gonna sound weird, and it's definitely crossing a line, but I'm gonna ask anyway."
He took a deep breath. "Would it be… too much? To ask for an off-the-clock cuddle session? Just to help me go to sleep. No money, no… professional anything. Just you and me. In a bed. For real this time."
He held his breath, waiting. He’d laid his cards on the table, his last, most vulnerable request. He was asking for the very thing he’d been paying for, but this time, he was asking for it for free. He was asking for a piece of her time, her comfort, her peace, with nothing to offer in return but his own clumsy, sincere affection.
Sade looked at him, her expression unreadable for a long moment. He saw the flicker of professional hesitation, the internal debate. But then, a slow, brilliant smile spread across her face, a smile so bright it could have outshone the entire city below them.
She didn't answer with words. She just leaned over, closing the small space between them, and kissed him. It wasn't a passionate, demanding kiss. It was a soft, gentle, perfect kiss. It tasted like cotton candy and funnel cakes and the beginning of something real.
When she pulled back, her eyes were dancing with laughter and light. "Yes, Elias," she whispered. "Yes."
He broke. A wide, goofy, completely un-Stack-like grin spread across his face, a look of happiness that made him look years younger, like the weight of the world had finally been lifted from his shoulders. He was just a man on a Ferris wheel, kissing a girl who made him feel like he could finally, truly, rest.
He wrong as two left feet for hitting on Sade like that, but she handled him well. Also, she better than most of us because meeting him at his house is an absolute no go.
Much as I hate Smoke busting in and laughing at him, that's another reason why Stack should've just brought his ass to her studio. Always gotta push some shit.
Anyway, this was cute. I just wonder how he's going to deal with dating her while she continues offering her services to other men.
STROKE: Remember The 1st Three Letters… S.T..R …
My friend sent this to me and encouraged me to post it and spread the word. I agree. If everyone can remember something this simple, we could save some folks.
STROKE IDENTIFICATION:
During a party, a friend stumbled and took a little fall - she assured everyone that she was fine and just tripped over a brick because of her new shoes. (they offered to call ambulance)
They got her cleaned up and got her a new plate of food - while she appeared a bit shaken up, Ingrid went about enjoying herself the rest of the evening. Ingrid’s husband called later telling everyone that his wife had been taken to the hospital - (at 6:00pm , Ingrid passed away.)
She had suffered a stroke at the party . Had they known how to identify the signs of a stroke, perhaps Ingrid would be with us today.
Some don’t die. They end up in a helpless, hopeless condition instead. It only takes a minute to read this…
STROKE IDENTIFICATION:
A neurologist says that if he can get to a stroke victim within 3 hours he can totally reverse the effects of a stroke…totally. He said the trick was getting a stroke recognized, diagnosed, and then getting the patient medically cared for within 3 hours, which is tough.
RECOGNIZING A STROKE
Remember the ‘3’ steps, STR . Read and Learn!
Sometimes symptoms of a stroke are difficult to identify. Unfortunately, the lack of awareness spells disaster.
The stroke victim may suffer severe brain damage when people nearby fail to recognize the symptoms of a stroke.
Now doctors say a bystander can recognize a stroke by asking three simple questions :
S * Ask the individual to SMILE ..
T * = TALK. Ask the person to SPEAK A SIMPLE SENTENCE (Coherently) (eg ‘It is sunny out today’).
R * Ask him or her to RAISE BOTH ARMS .
If he or she has trouble with ANY ONE of these tasks, call the ambulance and describe the symptoms to the dispatcher.
NOTE : Another ‘sign’ of a stroke is
1. Ask the person to ‘stick’ out their tongue.
2. If the tongue is ‘crooked’, if it goes to one side or the other that is also an indication of a stroke.
A prominent cardiologist says if everyone who gets this e-mail sends it to 10 people; you can bet that at least one life will be saved.
And it could be your own.
First reblog post that actually saves a life.
This is a life-saving post.
the more you know
yeah don’t think that this can’t happen to you or someone you know if they’re young. my cousin’s wife is 33 and she had a stroke last year
I’ve had a stroke. It happens to people, and the more you know about this kind of stuff, the better.Because it could be important to know.
Always worthy of a reblog. Please take heed of this information. It could determine whether someone stays on this side of the ground or winds up on the other. 😬
Author’s Note: Welp, here I am with another one-shot. This time it's about Incubus Stack x Plus Size Reader. Dedicated to @blackpantherismyish and @theethighpriestess
Warnings: +18 | Modern AU | Incubus Stack x Plus Size Reader | Dom!Stack | Bratty Sub!Reader | Degradation kink | BDSM | Tentacles | Bondage | Oral Sex | Edging | Incubus Demon x Female Human Pairing | Spanking | Creampie(s) | Overstimulation | Stack is mean af but I love himmmmm
The dreams started the night you published your first chapter online.
You hadn’t made the connection immediately, because why would you? You were a rational and disciplined woman who had spent the past three weeks defending a dissertation that had taken the better part of two years to construct, and you didn’t believe in coincidences any more than you believed in the subject matter of the unknown you spent so much time dismantling. You had posted Chapter One of your preliminary findings to your academic blog at eleven forty-seven on a Thursday night, closed your laptop, washed your face, and gone off to bed… but at eleven forty-eight, something lurking beneath the shadows came out to feed...
The first dream that disrupted your sleep had been somewhat “subtle”. You were in your bedroom, not some abstracted dreamscape, and you were lying on your back on top of the covers in the dark. The ceiling fan turned overhead, and the room was stickily warm the way Mississippi summers were muggy even up here in your fourth-floor New York apartment. Unlike your usual dreams, in this one you were consciously aware that you were dreaming and that you weren’t alone. The unknown presence that started as a thin shadow on your wall slithered around the dimly lit room until it decided to position itself right beside you. Then, in the way of dreams where geography was simply a suggestion, it was over you. The entity didn’t have a distinct shape or body you’d be able to recall to your dream journal in the morning, just a warmth and a knowing that settled across you like a second skin.
The first touch the entity placed on your skin was barely a touch at all. Its presence hovered over you and only allowed you to feel the suggestion of its fingers trailing up the inside of your thigh. The weight of its movements carried a certainty that told you, even then, that whatever was mapping out the shape of your body had done this countless times before. Had catalogued other women before you and knew the exact nerve ending it was hunting for before it arrived at its destination.
When it finally reached its goalpost, you gasped. The sensation that radiated from the entity's single point of contact moved through your entire body like a tidal wave of pleasure, and it didn’t spread outwardly from its origin the way an ordinary touch from an ordinary man did. No, this touch sent fireworks of bursting euphoric bliss throughout every single nerve ending in your body as if your nervous system had been primed for this moment and was finally given the signal to let go. Immediately your back arched off the mattress and your hands flew between your thighs attempting to grip onto something that wasn’t truly there.
“Shhh,” said a voice you couldn’t place. It was charming and thick with the particular cadence of the Deep South. Stretched vowels, swallowed consonants and the easy rhythm of something that was in no hurry at all. “I got you.”
As your dream mind attempted to figure out who this mystery voice belonged to, a warm mouth found you.
In true dream logic fashion, you hadn’t been wearing anything below the waist and your core lay bare as the first press of that skilled mouth landed against your center. Just like before, the sensations you were feeling were like nothing you had experienced in the waking hours. What you were receiving wasn't just merely oral. This was the targeted application of something that understood your body with an expertise level of intimacy that should have taken years to learn, and had no business existing in the context of a first encounter with an entity you couldn’t even see.
The tongue that moved against you was much too long and too thick in a way that no human muscle could replicate it. Every time you attempted to estimate the size of its dimensions, it grew larger and slithered deeper into your pulsating canal. You silently whimpered as it curled and pressed against your pussy, finding places deep inside you that made your vision spotty and reactively forced your thighs to clamp around something that wasn’t quite a head but was large and utterly unmovable like one.
In layman's terms, whatever person or thing that was between your thighs, it feasted on your core like it was famished. There was no other word for it. The way this otherworldly tongue flicked against you, it silently communicated that it was beyond the point of hunger. It was feeding on you, consuming your responses as fast as it drew them out. From the sounds you made, to the slick it pulled from your body, and the trembling of your thighs. All of this was taken over and over again without any indication it would ever be satisfied. The pleasure built past the point of bearing and it kept building as tears started to tack down from the corners of your eyes into your hair. You didn't mean to cry, and had no intentions of crying but the continuous pressure of unreleased pleasure sitting in your lower stomach was driving you towards the brick of insanity.
Your moans grew louder and desperate as your hands scrambled against the sheets for purchase, and then, at the precise moment when your entire body locked up and the sweet promise of release was right there, cresting, inevitable, one breath away… The warmth vanished and the withdrawal was instant, like a switch thrown. The weight lifted off your body and the presence withdrew so completely it was as if it had never been, leaving you flat on your back in your dark bedroom with your chest heaving, your thighs soaked, and your body wound tight around an orgasm that had been unfairly revoked at the last possible second.
You laid there sexually disgruntled for a full minute before you could move, and then you got up, changed your underwear, and told yourself a realistic dream like that was just a response to the stress from school.
The second dream was less subtle...
This one contained the same warmth and the same knowing presence, but this time it took shape, not in a way your sleeping mind could fully resolve, but enough. The entity was large and dark, with the impression of a face that was too beautiful and too something else to look at directly. Before you knew it, possessive hands gripped your hips with an assurance that allowed for no renegotiation, and this time the mouth found you faster, because it already knew where to go. It spent longer on you this time and that was the true torment of it all, the infinite patience this entity had. The way it worked you up through three distinct peaks, each one higher than the last, each one denied at the exact moment of culmination with the specific cruelty of something that knew exactly what it was doing and was enjoying itself thoroughly. You begged like a proper slut in the dream but it escaped out loud into the realm of the living, and the only reason you know this is because you woke with your voice raw and your roommate knocking on the wall between your rooms asking if you were okay.
“I-I’m fine,” you called out. “Just a bad dream.”
Not a lie, technically.
By the fifth night the dreams had graduated to something that had no clinical framework in your research notes. You were on your hands and knees on your bed, face pressed into a nearby pillow, and the presence behind you was no longer ambiguous about its intentions. The hands on your hips were large and rough-palmed, and the weight of two enormous pieces of flesh pressing against both of your pulsating holes from behind made your sleeping body shudder with a want so deep it had no bottom. It entered both of your canals slowly, given the enormous size of its double members, and it filled you to a depth and completeness that your waking anatomy had no accurate reference for. Simultaneously, this was where your sleeping mind began to seriously question how much you could take, but before you came to your own conclusion, something else found your mouth. It pressed past your lips with a purposefulness that was entirely at odds with the roughness of the hands at your hips.
All three of your holes were filled and your body accommodated all of it without pain or resistance, just an obliterating fullness that pressed against every wall you had all at once.
The entity moved all extensions of itself in a synchronized rhythm that was clearly the work of a single intelligence orchestrating multiple points of contact. Three separate rods of sensation worked in unison with a calculated focus that had no interest in your comfort, only in extracting a maximum response until you were shaking apart from the inside out. The sounds the entity pulled out of you during this dream weren't any that you wanted to claim ownership of in the morning.
And then, right at the moment of completion…
Poof. Gone.
As soon as the entity vanished you woke up screaming like a sexually frustrated mad woman into your pillow, and your roommate moved out two weeks later.
By week two, you started making changes to your day to day life in an attempt to combat what you still considered just stress dreams. You went to bed exhausted on purpose, hoping to fall too deeply into sleep for the dreams to reach you, but somehow they reached you anyway. You tried sleeping with the light on, but the presence didn't need darkness and the dreams still persisted onward. You tried sleeping in the living room on the couch, but somehow you always woke up in your bed without any memory of moving.
In addition to switching up your routine, you tried with increasing desperation and decreasing dignity, to relieve the built up sexual tension yourself, but that didn't work either. This was the only part you were having a hard time finding a logical explanation for. Unlike everything else, you couldn’t just file being unable to masturbate under the category of a stress response or the psychosomatic effects of spending eight hours a day immersed in erotic folklore, due to the fact that playing dj hero on expert mode has always been the number one way you’ve relieved stress in the past. It didn't matter what you did or how you did it, your body simply would not release. Each time you tried you would get achingly close, and then the sensation would simply stop, as though someone had reached in and removed the mechanism. As though the ability had been quietly confiscated.
You sat on the edge of your bed at two in the morning on the fourteenth night and pressed your palms to your sleep deprived eyes and said, out loud, to the room, “This isn’t real. This is not happening.”
As soon as you spoke, the shadow in the corner of your room shifted.
You looked at it for a long time before scoffing at it and mumbling, “Lamp,”
The shadow didn’t move again and instead of trying to indulge in self pleasure, you went back to your dissertation and wrote four more paragraphs about the psychological origins of incubus mythology with the specific, driven energy of a woman arguing with something she refused to name.
By week three, you were an absolute train wreck.
You had bruised hollows under your eyes, a hair-trigger temper, and a tight tension in your body that had moved past physical discomfort and into something pressurized that your body no longer had the vocabulary to name. You snapped at your advisor during office hours. You knocked an entire shelf of books onto the floor in the campus library and left them there before walking out. You sat in your car in the parking garage for forty minutes staring at the steering wheel before you remembered you had meant to go somewhere.
That night you came home, you were too exhausted to cook and settled on eating half a bowl of cereal before showering and falling into bed at nine-thirty like a woman who had lost a war. Because of your depleted state, you didn't notice how the shadow in the corner of your room was darker than usual, denser, like it too had reached its breaking point and needed to be fed something.
You were asleep for exactly four minutes and thirty seconds before you woke up to the feeling of being crushed. This crushing sensation wasn't like the ambient, low-grade unease of the past three weeks but the specific, acute, suffocating certainty of a body above yours. Whatever or whoever it was, had you pressed into the mattress with a weight that pinned the breath in your chest before you’d even fully surfaced from sleep.
Your tired eyes snapped open and hovering over you was him. His forearms bracketed your head on either side, both palms flat against the mattress, his torso blotting out the ceiling in a way that erased the water stain, the crack in the plaster, and the fan turning overhead. He had positioned himself so his weight distributed above you without fully resting on you, holding the threat of himself over you like a promise.
It took a couple seconds for your mind to try and process him. You couldn't comprehend him in his entirety and decided to process him in pieces. He was gigantic. Even braced above you with minimal space between your bodies, his frame dominated everything around it, too large for the ordinary furniture, too large for the room itself, the way a predator in a domestic setting made the furniture seem like props. His skin was a deep coffee brown, flawless in the low light of your bedside lamp, with a muscular frame that suggested he had never once in his existence worried about being threatened. Long hands planted into the mattress on either side of your head, with fingers slightly too long and nails slightly too dark at the tips.
His face was the thing that stopped you completely.
He was breathtakingly beautiful for a man… or a man adjacent entity. His face existed at the uncomfortable intersection of stunning and wrong, where every individual feature was arranged in a way that sent something ancient in your hindbrain screaming. High cheekbones. A jaw that could cut glass. A mouth set in a line that wasn’t quite a smile but carried all the confidence of one. His eyes were red, not bloodshot or irritated, but red. A deep arterial red, the color of old garnets held up to light, glowing with their own soft interior luminescence in the dark of your room. They were fixed on your face with an expression that held no humanity, but his eyes were focused and assessing you like he had already made a decision about you and was now in the process of collecting what he considered his property. Right above his eyes held two curved, dark horns rising from his temples, sweeping back and upward with the angular geometry of something grown rather than placed. And at his shoulders, filling the space above both of you, a set of wings fanning outward to the walls of your bedroom, swallowing the available light, making the room smaller by several degrees.
The full scope of what was lingering above you registered in your body before it registered completely in your mind. You opened your mouth to speak and he wasted no time making his first move.
One hand came off the mattress and closed around your throat, cutting off 25% of your airway. The contact hit your nervous system like a struck match and lit every nerve from your collarbone to the base of your spine in a single cascading surge. Three weeks of compression, denial, and your body’s desperate need for release met that one point of contact and combusted outward. Instantly, a wall of sensation crashed through you so fast your back arched off the mattress before you could even think about it. Your thighs tried to instinctively close, but his knee was already between them, braced against the mattress, preventing it completely.
He looked down at your face as this happened. Watching your body melt completely beneath him from just one simple touch. “So pretty,” he mumbled. His voice was everything the dream voice had been and more. “Three weeks. An one touch.” The not-quite-smile didn’t deepen as he tilted his head to the side and his voice quickly shifted from charming to demeaning. “You real fuckin’ pathetic, you know that?”
His insult quickly sobered you up as you glared at the man? entity? demon? hovering above you and began wiggling around. “Get hell off me,” you said. Your voice was shaking.
“Mm mm.” He didn’t move. The hand at your throat stayed wrapped around you like it was a necklace you were expected to wear for eternity. “You done with that?”
This time you did more than try to wiggle out of his grasp and shoved at his chest with both hands. He might as well have been made of concrete because that shove didn’t move him an inch. Instead, the close contact from both of your palms pressed against the warm bare skin of his chest sent fresh waves of pleasure radiating up your arms and straight between your thighs. Your own hands betrayed you, fingers going flat with defeat against him instead of pushing again.
He looked down at your hands and smirked with a knowing expression. “Mmm hmm,” he gloated.
“Don’t.” You yanked your hands back.
“Lil' late for all that.” He tilted his head to the other side, reading your face like you were a new toy handed over to a spoiled child on Christmas morning. “Know what ya problem is? You think too much.” The red eyes tracked down the length of your body beneath him, cataloguing, assessing. “Lemme’ help turn that brain off.”
“I’ll scream,” you said.
“Who the fuck gon’ hear you?”
The city outside your window went on about itself, indifferent and noise-soaked. You both knew he was right.
His free hand moved, and touched the center of your chest. One fingertip, directly over your sternum, pressing through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt with a settled intention that told you he had been here before, had mapped this exact spot, and had been waiting to press it. The surge that followed was different from the throat contact, deeper and more central, as though he had pressed a button wired directly to your spinal column. Your back arched again, involuntarily, hard enough to lift you completely off the mattress, forcing a sound from your mouth that you felt ashamed of before it finished leaving your body.
He silently watched as your body collapsed back down onto the mattress, still under his touch and control. “If you done bein’ dramatic,” he said, “that there is the mark… my mark.”
You stared up at him dazed and confused, still coming down from whatever that feeling was. “The what?”
“You called my name… said it real sweet too.” He stated simply and factually, like he was having a regular conversation about the weather. “Week two. Third night. You was in the dream, right at the edge, an you screamed my name.” His thumb traced a single line over your sternum and each pass of it sent smaller waves of sensation radiating throughout your body, enough to keep your breathing unsteady. “When a marked woman calls, the mark sets. Ain’t somethin’ I decided. That’s just the nature of the thing.”
You started up at him with a bewildered expression. You didn't know this man… entity from a can of paint and your brain was currently too frazzled to piece together what he was talking about. “I didn’t know your damn name.”
“You’d been writin’ ‘bout me for six months.” He held your gaze. “Some part of you knew.”
“Si-Six months?” The realization and the recognition started to settle in, but your stubbornness refused to believe that HE was currently present in your bedroom. After months of disproving the existence of incubus, there's absolutely no way The Shadow Man, also known as Elias ‘Stack’ Moore, the infamous incubus known for brutally feasting and discarding his victims was present in your bedroom… right? RIGHT?
“Yeah… its clickin’ now aint it?” he quipped, and a considerably dangerous flash of murderous intent slid beneath his eyes. Stack tilted his head again. “You spent six months studyin’ what I been doin’ for over a hundred years, little scholar. Fifty women in the Delta. Thirty in Chicago. Ten moe’ up here in this city.” His thumb pressed the mark again. “An nan one of ’em still alive.”
What little air you had left in your lungs evaporated.
“I don’t keep ‘em,” he said, with the same flat, unceremonious tone he might use to discuss something beneath his interest. “I feed, an I move. That’s how this goes.” He watched your face process that. “But you…” The thumb stilled. His eyes narrowed by a fraction, that cataloguing attention sharpening into something closer to actual curiosity. “You smell different. Even through three weeks of bein’ this close to you an only takin’ the crumbs.” He exhaled through his nose. “I ain’t decided yet whether that’s your problem or mine.”
For the first time in your life, silence blanketed you and you said nothing. Every smart thing you’d ever learned felt very far away.
“Now, what’s ‘bout to happen,” he continued, his voice dropping to a register that bypassed your ears entirely and settled at the base of your spine, “is I’m gon’ finish what I started three weeks ago. All them dreams I done built up an took away.” His eyes burned. “I’m collectin’ what's mine. All of it. Tonight.”
Another deathly silence fell over the room like a weight. Then out of nowhere you gained the foolish and courageous audacity to speak up. Regardless of what you knew about Stack’s endeavors as one of the top five devious incubi to ever exist, you refused to just lay down and take what was being forced upon you without a fight. “Nigga, have you lost your rabbit ass mind? I don’t care what or who you are. Remove this mark and leave my room!”
When you spoke, something shifted in Stack’s face. The not-quite-smile he was holding onto cracked open into something real, brief and genuine, but it was gone in an instant and replaced with something that lacked patience or concern for your wellbeing.
“Mmm, nice to know this lil’ school girl ain’t lose that mouth,” he said softly. “Been wonderin’ when that was gon’ come out.”
“I’m not joking.”
“I know you ain’t.” He looked at you with indifference and intentionally pressed the mark again before greedily watching the wave of cruel pleasure roll through your body with clinical satisfaction. “You scared, turned on, an you pissed off ‘bout both. So you come out swingin’ ‘cause that’s what prey do when it ain’t got nowhere to run.” He pressed again. “But we both know how this ends.”
“You keep saying that.”
“‘Cause I might tell a joke, but I ain’t neva’ told a lie.”
He sat back on his heels between your thighs, and the full height of him settled itself above you. You immediately understood with a cold, clarifying certainty that he had allowed you to see the room this whole time, had allowed you the illusion of something to run toward, because it had amused him. But tonight there would be no running. He had been living in your apartment walls for three weeks and now he wanted to live in your other set of walls for eternity.
Stack kept his intense glare locked on you as he reached down and removed the remainder of what he had been wearing, which had been minimal and evaporated it into thin air with the snap of his fingers. As your eyes traveled from his face down to his groin, the full reality of him boldly presented itself in the warm lamp-lit air of your bedroom. When you locked eyes with his twitching girthy member that was leaking clear ropes of precum, your brain frazzled out and stopped working. He was built proportionately, and the heavy weight that curved upward between his thighs had surprisingly not been an exaggeration within your dreams.
He watched you looking.
“‘Leven inches,” he said, conversationally. “Case you was tryna calculate.”
Your mouth went completely dry and you could feel your face heat up with embarrassment for staring so intensely. “It’s just like… in the dreams…” The sentence dissolved. “But… that can't be… That was…”
“Them dreams I gave you was accurate… sorta kinda,” he said nonchalantly. “I can make my pecker as big or as small as I want. Figure most women can take ‘leven inches… a properly trained slut can take moe’.” He paused and a sly grin spread across his face as he casually palmed his hardened length and stroked it. “”Member how, in them dreams, you was never empty? Not one hole of you?”
Flashbacks to weeks of being filled and denied the ability to climax raced at lightning speed through your mind. Your thighs pressed together when you thought about the first time he filled every hole with little to no resistance, as if your body was created to take everything he gave you with no complaints.
“Watch,” he commanded. The air around him shifted as the shadow-substance of him slithered around his body until beneath the first rod, emerged the second. It was identical to the first one, same length and girth, separated by just a few inches of space and curving in a slightly different direction with the readiness that couldn’t wait a second longer to be buried inside of you.
You continued to lay in the same position and said nothing for a very long time. For six months you spent hours upon hours gathering data that proved incubi were nothing more than a sexual myth spread amongst sexually deprived wives, but now the truth was staring right at you and this wasn't a dream.
After another minute passed you finally spoke, or at least attempted to. “Oh,” you said finally.
Surprisingly your silence amused Stack. You gawked at him as if he was a degenerate spawn of Satan sent from hell (he was), meanwhile the leaking lips between your thighs revealed a truth the lips on your face refused to confess. A connection was set in stone, he was now the one who wielded the keys to your pleasure and if you wanted to cum you would need to play by his rules.
“Oh, that’s…” You stopped yourself and thought for a moment. Your dissertation had seventeen footnotes about this specific capability. You had called it physiologically implausible mythological embellishment. “That’s…”
“Real?” he offered.
You closed your eyes briefly and took a much needed deep breath. “I owe some of my sources an apology.”
His laugh was genuine, short, and gone as fast as it came. “Yeah, you do.” He positioned himself over you again and the proximity of all of him filled your senses in a way your body responded to with immediate, embarrassing clarity. “Now.” He looked down at the full length of you beneath him with the flat, appetite-driven attention of something that had waited long enough. “You done wastin’ my time.”
That wasn’t a question.
The black tentacles arrived before you had finished deciding anything. They materialized from the shadow-substance of him the way all his other alterations had, not emerging from somewhere external but flowing from within, liquid darkness given direction and purpose. The first one coiled around your left wrist, the second found your right ankle, the third and fourth bracketed your thighs and repositioned you exactly the way he wanted, spread open and presented in front of him like an offering to a deity.
Where each tendril made contact with your skin, a warmth spread inward, not the warmth of touch, but the warmth of something entering your bloodstream, a seeping heat that traveled from each contact point along your veins and gathered at your core with a rising intensity. You felt it move. Could track its path spreading under your skin, pooling between your thighs, rising up through your chest and flooding outward to your fingertips.
And then out of nowhere an intense sensation of amplified sensitivity turned your brain to mush. Your nipples hardened so fast you made a whining sound, desperate for anything to touch them. The sensation at each tip was so acute and present that even the faint flow of air against them made you gasp. The heat between your thighs went from warmth to something else entirely, something that soaked through you in a rush you felt dripping, actually felt the wetness spreading and pooling beneath you on the duvet, your body betraying you with a thoroughness that left nothing unrevealed.
Stack watched as your body reacted to the aphrodisiac released from his tentacles. Each movement and twitch you made confirmed that he made the right decision edging you for three weeks, because now you were primed and ready to take everything he was willing to give. He glared at you with an expression that went beyond incubi hunger. His gaze held no warmth in it at all. You were a resource. You were something that had responded correctly. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“There she go,” he said flatly. “Every nerve probably feel lit up like a Christmas tree.” His eyes tracked the hard points of your nipples, the soaked state between your thighs and the way your whole body was vibrating at a frequency several registers above normal. There wasn’t a sliver of appreciation in his eyes. He just stared at you with the same assessing quality a man used when checking that an engine had turned over. “Took long enough.”
“What did you…” You couldn’t complete a sentence. Each word required more focus than you could currently locate.
“Natural chemical process,” he said, crouching down to your level to analyze you better. “What my kind produce… it amplifies what’s already there.” His eyes met yours. “An what was already there was…” He looked you over again, that flat inventory gaze. “Adequate.”
Before you could register the backhanded shade, Stack reached out and barely grazed the back of two fingers across the curve of your breast and the sensation that traveled from that graze through your entire chest made your hand jerk against the tendril holding your wrist. He pulled his hand back immediately and looked at what your body had done with the expression of a man confirming a predicted result.
“Sensitive,” he said, to himself more than to you.
“Shadow Man… Stack…”
“Don’t call me that.” His eyes cut to yours. “When I’m inside you, you call me Elias. When you beggin’, you gon call me Elias. Every other time, you don’t call me nothin’ at all.”
“I don’t…” Your voice gave out around the sensation still radiating from where he last touched you. “I’m not going to beg for you for shit.”
He looked at you for a long, flat moment before chuckling lowly to himself. “Yeah, you is,”
He dragged the same two fingers up the side of your other breast, over the top, and then traced the curve underneath, and what came out of you wasn’t a sound you planned on producing voluntarily. It tore itself free from your esophagus, raw and soaked in three weeks of denial. He studied the sound the way a linguist studied a dialect. Cataloguing. Storing.
“Nasty lil’ trinket,” he said, no warmth in the words, only that same nonchalant, clinical quality. “Look at all this.” His eyes moved over your body with thorough attention, the soft, generous swell of you, the brown skin gleaming covered in a thin layer of sweat, the roundness of your belly and the width of your hips and the full, heavy weight of your breasts nestled on your frame. “Three weeks I been smellin’ this an drinkin’ off the edges.” He sounded genuinely put out about it, not in the way of a man who cared about you but in the way of a man who found inefficiency irritating. “Almost felt like I was wastin’ my time.”
“You did it to yourself,” you managed.
“Yeah… I did,” he agreed. “An’ I’m done with all that… I’m starvin’.”
All you could do was watch in anticipation as Stack positioned himself between your spread thighs with the ease of something that had done this many times before. His forearms braced on your inner thighs and the full contact of his skin against yours sent cascading surges of sensation rippling down to your core from both sides at once. He looked at the state of you with his chin nearly resting against the inside of your thigh and his red eyes moving over your center with an expression that was purely functional.
“Look at this fuckin’ mess.” He drew one finger through your swollen folds, barely any pressure at all, the lightest possible contact, and held it up, examining what it had gathered. “Soaked clean through. Drippin’ on the sheets like you ain’t got no control over yaself.” He clicked his tongue in false disappointment. “An this ‘posed to be the lil’ schoolgirl who spent six months tryin’ to tell the world ion’ exist.”
You hated that this cocky ass incubus was correct. For six months you scrubbed through every crevice of the internet and readily available libraries in your district. For six months you worked day and night to prove that beings like this didn’t exist… just to be bound to a bed by one. “Don’t…” You mumbled quietly underneath your breath. Your mind was too far gone to even think about fighting back, but your stubbornness still held onto a small ember of defiance you refused to let die.
“Don’t what?” The question was filled with sarcasm as he pressed two fingers through your folds with slightly more intent and your hips jumped toward him involuntarily. He pulled back immediately, watching your body chase his hand. “Look at that. Can’t even hold still. Desperate lil’ cocksleeve.” The word landed low in your belly and lit something there that you weren’t going to examine at the moment. “Three weeks I kept you right on that edge an ya body got the audacity to act surprised.” He shook his head. “Pathetic.”
“You caused…”
“I know I caused it.” He pressed his thumb against your pulsating clit, barely, just resting it there, not moving, just the warm weight of contact, and watched you seize beneath him. He removed it and listened to the frustrated, broken sound you produced without any change in his expression. “I caused it ‘cause I wanted you exactly like this. Wanted to see what the scholar look like when all them fancy words run out.” He tilted his head to the side and smirked. “You look real stupid an needy like a bitch in heat... Case you ain’t know.”
“Fuck you. I am going to…”
“You gon’ what?” Again, his tone was full of ego and sarcasm as he called out your empty threat. Even if you somehow fought through the cloud of lust that now infiltrated your mind, you wouldn’t last another night without tasting the sweetness of release.
Silence filled the room for a second before Stack let out a dry humorous huff. “That’s what I thought.” He lowered his head. “Now shut up an’ lemme see if this juicy pussy as sweet as it was in them dreams.”
His warm mouth found you and the first contact pulled a sound from your throat that bounced off every wall in the room and came back to you unrecognizable. His tongue was just as otherworldly in real life as it was in your dreams. It was longer and thicker than it had any right to be and it was capable of configurations that no human musculature supported as it curled and pressed inside you, locating untouched zones in your pussy that your nervous system had never had a formal introduction to. It went directly where it was needed with no need for unnecessary exploration or uncertainty. Three weeks of dream-reconnaissance had given it a map it had memorized.
He licked through you like you were something he had been craving specifically, a long flat drag from base to tip that made your back bow off the restraints with your voice cracking on his name.
“E-Elias…”
He lifted his head just enough to speak against you, his voice rough and scraping. “What I tell you?” He pressed his tongue back inside you and curled it forward in a way that made your free hand fly to his head before a tentacle caught your wrist and returned it firmly to where he wanted it placed.
He devoured your pussy like a man making a point. All the responses he pulled out of you, from the overflow of your forbidden honey to the sounds you couldn’t contain, he silently catalogued everything and used it to calibrate the next strike. He found the specific place inside you that three weeks of dreams had identified as the most devastating and returned to it using his tongue with a frequency that removed your ability to form language of thought.
Just like in your dreams you began crying from overstimulation. Whenever he placed himself between your thighs you never intended to cry, but something about how he effortlessly built your pleasure past the point of bearing and kept building, your tears had no excuse but to fall from your eyes. Your body felt like it was on cloud nine and you so desperately wanted to teeter over that edge into the abyss of bliss. The tears tracked hot from the corners of your eyes down your flustered cheeks, while your thighs shook against his shoulders and your hands went pale in the shadowed restraints.
“Taste so goddamn sweet,” he growled against your fluttering pussy, and for once there was something raw in his voice outside of the nonchalant sarcasm he wore like a mask. “All the others…” He sealed his mouth over you again, tongue working in a tight, relentless rotation, and the sentence dissolved. He said it against your skin anyway, half to himself: “Nothin’ like this. Not one of ’em.”
That revelation shouldn’t have done what it did to you as your walls clenched at the compliment. You mentally filed this away for later.
He spread you wider with two fingers and rotated his tongue deeper before pulling his head back far enough to spit directly onto your entrance and then sealed his mouth over you again. The indignity crashed into the pleasure and made the pleasure worse, deeper, more consuming, your whole body jolting in the tendril’s grip, a sob tearing from your chest.
“Don’t… don’t you dare stop…”
Based on everything that transpired so far, you would assume that you would’ve learned to follow Stack’s rules by now, but you couldn’t help yourself. The second that whiney sentence escaped your mouth, he stopped. The withdrawal was instant and his mouth left you as the cool air hit your soaked and oversensitized skin, forcing you to make a sound that was a genuinely desperate, broken plea that you felt in your own sternum and could not recall back.
He looked up at you from between your thighs with his jaw glistening, his eyes burning, and one brow raised. “Thought I told you to shut the fuck up,” he said pleasantly.
“I… you… Elias…”
“You talk,” he cut you off, “I stop. Simple math. You wanna keep bein’ difficult or you wanna cum?”
Your jaw snapped shut as you silently glared at the bane of your existence settled between your thighs. You quietly decided to listen… for now.
“Mmm smart girl.” He lowered his head. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Stack finished what he had started with a relentless focus and refusing to leave his work incomplete. He worked you up through three distinct peaks, each one higher than the last and each one permitted to crest fully because he was no longer denying you. He was getting drunk off your pussy juice and indulging on every drop you released into his mouth as if he was a dehydrated man drinking from a well.
Your first orgasm after three weeks of denial almost made your soul leave your human vessel. As your voice hit a register that surprised the both of you, your body seized and wave after wave of backed up euphoria crashed through you while he effortlessly held you open and slurped up every drop.
Even though your orgasm was enough to almost make you pass out, he didn’t stop. Instead, his tongue retracted from your pulsating canal and he refilled your needy hole with two of his fingers while letting his tongue focus on your sensitive bundle of nerves. The dual input left your conscious mind with nothing to work with.
“Elias…” Your voice was wrecked. “E-E-Elias, I can’t… it’s too much…”
His massive hand came down hard across the outside of your thick thigh. The crack of it echoed in the room and the sting bloomed hot across your skin as the sharp contrast to everything else made you clench around his fingers hard enough to make him groan in delight.
“What I say?” he quipped against you. If you were any other human he would’ve ended your life right then and there for making him have to repeat himself.
Your mouth locked shut as you felt his controlled murderous intent linger in the air.
“Good little slut,” he said, and dove back in.
The second climax rolled through you just as harshly as the first one. Long devastating waves of pleasure left your legs shaking around his head and reduced your voice to a continuous, formless sound. When he finally lifted his head, his face was soaked and his eyes were burning brighter than they had been when he first appeared. He was now well fed and his eyes reflected that as they shined brightly in the dark.
“Two,” he said, voice rough and thick. “Just sum’ to the edge off.” He wiped his jaw with the back of his hand. Looked down at what was on it and then looked at you before licking your residue off his skin. “Now I’m confident I can fuck you without killin’ you.”
He moved your plush body with ease, his hands gripped the generous, soft flesh of your hips and repositioned you in a way that pleased him. You were pliant in a way you couldn’t prevent and couldn’t be embarrassed about because embarrassment required cognitive resources you no longer possessed at the moment. He turned you onto your stomach. Large hands spread across the full width of your hips, lifting, tilting, and settling you at the foot of the bed, knees and upper body braced across the mattress, the full generous curve of your backside presented to the room behind you.
He silently appreciated the fullness of your perfectly round ass and his palm came down before you were fully settled. The spank cracked through the room with a sound that made your whole body lurch forward, the sting blooming hot and immediate, causing you to yelp into the soaked duvet with your hands flying back instinctively. He caught your wrists, both of them, and pressed them into the small of your back.
“Keep ‘em there,” he said. “Move ‘em again an I’ll use a belt on you.”
“A belt? But… you don’t have a…”
His hand landed again, harder, on the same spot. Your teeth snapped shut around the cry you held back.
“I’m a demon, sweetheart. If I can produce two dicks, I can produce a muthafuckin’ belt.” His hand smoothed over the heat his palm had left, squeezing the soft flesh there with the assessing grip of someone checking the quality of something he owned. “Keep. Them. There.”
You learned your lesson and refused to make him repeat himself again as you obediently kept your hands where he wanted them.
“Look up,” he said.
You complied and the floor-length mirror in front of your bed reflected everything. You were spread, flushed, and looked thoroughly undone from just two simple oral climaxes. Every roll, curve, and generous soft inch of you was displayed beautifully under the dim lamplight with no concealment available. The roundness of your belly pressed to the mattress edge. The width of your hips were framed by his enormous hands. The fullness of your thighs trembled. And behind you, rising to his full height with his shadowed wings fanning wide and his horns catching the lamplight, both of his lengths were present and heavy as they gently nudged your aching entrances.
“Look at this ass,” he said, and now there was something in his voice he wasn’t entirely containing, something that crept through the flat, functional register and carried actual wanting in it. He squeezed both handfuls of your plump backside, spreading and releasing, over and over again, the flesh giving like playdough under his grip. “Softest thing I done ever touched. Should’ve had this weeks ago.” His hands continued to knead the generous curve of you, his thumbs pressing into the give of your lower back. “Gonna mark every inch of this pretty brown skin ‘fore I’m done with you. Leave somethin’ behind so ya body ‘member who it belong to now.”
His palm came down again, three times in rapid succession on alternating sides, and your wrists jerked against your own back but you held them in place, tears starting fresh in the corners of your eyes from the compounding sting.
“That’s it,” he said. “You learnin’.”
He looked at your reflection with those burning red eyes. Watched your face while his hands mapped every soft, full inch of your derriere and thighs. “Look at yaself,” he said. “Look at what you is right now. Bent over with that ass arched up for a demon that don’t know what mercy is an’ don’t want to.” His head tilted to the side and smirked. “An you love it. Look at ya’ face.”
Your reflection looked back at you with swollen lips, wet cheeks, and pupils blown wide. He was right. You hated that he was right.
He lowered his head and his teeth found the curve of your shoulder, the bite he left was sharp and deep enough to make you cry out. He sealed his mouth over the mark and sucked until your skin bruised dark beneath his lips, intentionally pressing the evidence of himself into your flesh like a brand. He pulled back to look at what he’d left there in the mirror.
“Mine,” he mumbled, to the mark more than to you.
Then his teeth found the back of your neck and he bit again, harder this time, one hand gripping the back of your head to hold you in place, and the sharp bloom of pain cresting into the pleasure already coursing through your system made your whole body lurch forward into the mattress and pull back against him in the same contradictory motion.
“Got a trail of bitches I done fed on in the Delta,” he said against the nape of your neck, his voice rough and low, the drawl thickening. “Couple more of ‘em up here in this bright ass city.” He pressed his teeth against another patch of skin at your shoulder blade and bit again, not as deep, dragging a sound from you that you felt deep in your bones. “Every single one of ‘em… I was done with after drainin’ ‘em dry.” His hands gripped the full width of your hips and held. “An then there’s you...”
He pressed both of his lengths against you simultaneously, one against your soaked entrance, the second against your chocolate starfish the stimulant had lit up completely, and his hand came around to wrap around your throat from behind, keeping you in place and silently reminding you who was the new owner of your body.
“Look at me in that mirror,” he commanded. “You look away, an I can’t promise I’ll keep bein’ nice.”
Immediately you locked eyes with him in your reflection as he slowly began pushing both of his lengths inside. Just like in your dream, he controlled and thrusted both of his dicks at once and the stretch they left behind was obliterating. His hand at your throat tightened, just enough, just the right amount of pressure that reduced your airflow without completely cutting it off, while making every sensation sharper and more present.
“So fuckin’ tight… mmm mmm,” he grunted, the control fraying at the edges. “Perfect lil’ fucktoy.” He drove deeper and the muffled cry you produced vibrated against his palm. “Both these tight holes. After three weeks.” His forehead dropped briefly to the back of your shoulder and the sound he made was genuine as he let out an uncontrolled satisfied groan.
For a few precious moments, Stack continued to give you slow and careful strokes until he felt your body loosening up, allowing him to stuff you deeper with dick. The moment your body gave him a silent green light, his hips drew back and snapped forward.
Your cry hit the room and he didn’t muffle it. Let it ring off the walls, watched in the mirror as your whole body absorbed the impact and rippled with it, the tender flesh of your thighs, belly, and backside shuddering with each drive of his hips. He watched that specifically. The way your body moved under him. The way the soft, full weight of you responded to every strike. His teeth found your shoulder again and tore another mark into your skin without breaking rhythm, and the quadruple combination of pain, pleasure, fullness, and his hand at your throat reduced your entire conscious mind to a single sustained frequency.
“Listen to you,” he said, his rhythm building, each stroke harder than the last. “All that smart mouth an now all you can do is cry on my dick like a greedy lil’ whore.” He drove forward and your knees buckled beneath you. His hand tightened on your throat, pulling you back up. “Stay up. I wanna see you take this dick.” He thrusted again. “Look in that fuckin’ mirror. Look!”
Even though it was one of the most difficult requests you were commanded to complete in a long time, you looked. What you saw reflecting back in the mirror was something you had no vocabulary for. The enormous, monstrous, and devastating reality of him behind you, wings spread, eyes burning, two separate places inside you being attended to simultaneously while his hand collared your throat and the mark on your chest glowed steady between your swaying breasts. When your eyes landed on your face you looked back at yourself as if you were seeing your reflection for the first time ever, and maybe you truly were.
He bit your neck again, on the other side this time, and the groan that tore from him when you seized around both lengths almost made you climax again.
“See it?” His voice was raw, grinding through clenched teeth as he worked into the tight grip of both of you. “See what you is right now? My cocksleeve. My personal filthy lil human fucktoy.” His free hand cracked across your backside again, hard enough to snap your attention and draw a fresh cry. “Answer when ya Master is speakin’ to you!”
“Yes…”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, sir… I-I-I see it…”
“Mmm.” He drove forward and held, grinding deep, both lengths pressing against their respective points of obliteration simultaneously. “An you like what you see. Don’t you?”
You unintentionally stayed silent for a moment too long and his hand at your throat tightened by one fraction.
“Don’t you?”
“Yes,” you said, and the word came out honest and immediate, stripped of everything you had been protecting. “Yes, I like it…”
“That’s my nasty lil’ bitch,” he said. The praise and the degradation arrived tangled together, inseparable, and your body seized around both of him hard enough to make his rhythm stutter. “I felt that. You squeeze me like that again an I’ll edge you for another week.”
Your inner walls loosened immediately.
“Smart girl,” he said.
He moved, and there was no performance left in it, no patience, no management, just the driven rhythm of a starved incubus taking what it had been wanting for a very long time. His hips snapped against the soft give of your ass with a force and sound that left no academic language available. The tentacles repositioned around your breasts, coiling and working your nipples with a relentless suction that pulled continuous sound from your throat above the steady percussion of his hips against yours. A fifth tendril found your swollen clit and circled it in tight, merciless rotations.
Everywhere simultaneously. Nothing was left unattended. At this point your body was nothing more than a complete and total instrument in his hands.
“You gonna cum again,” he demanded. Not a question.
“I… yes… Elias…”
“Say please.”
“P-p-Please…?”
“Please what, cumbucket?”
“Please…” The word broke. “P-Please let me cum…”
His free hand came down across your left asscheek. This time he landed six sharp strikes in succession that had you lurching forward into the mattress, the sting radiating up through your lower body and compounding with everything else until you couldn’t tell pain from pleasure and didn’t want to. “You gon’ beg better than that,” he said.
“Please…” Your voice was openly sobbing now, tears and saliva and all of your composed doctoral-candidate dignity dissolved completely. “P-P-Please, I need it, please… M-Master Elias I can’t… please…”
“Mmm sound like music to my ears.” his voice was low and dark, riddled with lust and domination. “That’s how a slut beg her Master proper.”
No other words were spoken as he drove forward once, deeper than expected, and the tendril at your clit pressed hard, forcing your body to make a decision on your release without waiting to be told.
This third orgasm hit you like a structural failure. You didn't experience a simple wave of pleasure coursing through your veins like before, but instead, you felt a blissful collapse as everything that was compressed and pleading for release finally received its wish. Your whole body convulsed around him in both places, the clench of you rippling around his dicks causing a string of profanity from him that was half prayer and half something else you couldn’t decipher.
“S-Shit…” He drove through it, chasing the feeling, his rhythm losing its pacing and becoming momentarily sloppy. “Demon dick got you feelin’ so good you tryna’ push me out?” He bit the back of your neck again, hard enough to make you see twinkling stars, and the sting made you clench harder. “Do that shit again.”
In all honesty, at this point you couldn’t have stopped even if you wanted to. His hand left your throat and came to your hair instead, gripping the base of it, wrapping once, pulling your head back until your spine curved and you could see the ceiling. The stretch of it combined with everything else made your body shudder uncontrollably under his touch.
“I’m gon’ fill you up,” he said, his voice stripped to its barest register, thick and rough and no longer making any effort at composure. “Every single hole. Tonight.” His hips drove forward and held, both of him buried to their full and impossible depths, your body wrapped tight around everything he was giving it. “An you gon’ take it. Understand me?”
There wasn’t much time to fully break down what Stack meant about filling all your holes before a shadowed tentacle pressed into your gaping mouth. The tentacle was warm and sweet on your tongue and effortlessly slid up and down your esophagus, skillfully avoiding your gag reflex. Just like the previous tentacles, this one released aphrodisiac fluids into your mouth, sharpening every sensation. He set a rhythm then that used extensions of himself simultaneously, in and out, in and out, the synchrony of it was like an orchestra with one conductor and nowhere in your body left untouched.
He continued to pull you up by the hair until you were chest-to-back with him, both of you upright at the foot of the bed, your back against his chest and his hands now settled on the soft rounds of your breasts, squeezing, releasing, and indulging in the generous weight of them. His teeth found the junction of your neck and shoulder and tore another mark into your skin while his hands worked your nipples relentlessly, and when you jerked against the pain he held you tighter, pinning you against the full length of him with one arm banded across your chest.
Your head fell back against his shoulder. Your hands gripped his forearms.
“Look at this,” he muttered into your ear, his voice guttural. “Marked up already. Every inch of this pretty neck an shoulder got my teeth in it.” His eyes found yours in the reflection and held. “That’s so everybody that come after me knows. Don’t matter what you put on, don’t matter how many layers… you walk out of this apartment tomorrow an you wearin’ me.” He rolled his hips forward, deep, and watched your face in the mirror as your mouth continued to deep throat his tentacle. “Mine,” he said, against the freshest mark. “Every filthy inch.”
He released your breast and tipped you forward again, your hands catching the mattress, and his hips resumed with the driven urgency of something approaching its own limit.
“Imma fill this ass first,” he grunted, through his teeth. “Then that slutty lil’ pussy, an finally that smart ass mouth.” He drove forward relentlessly.
The tentacle in your mouth pressed deep, adjusting to the dimensions of your throat with an intelligence that left no room for resistance, making your eyes water and your fingers curl into the duvet. It continued thrusting at a set rhythm in your throat and you had no choice but to accommodate it, your jaw stretched wide around the girth of it, saliva gathering and spilling freely from the corners of your mouth as it pressed deeper with each stroke.
“Every hole,” Stack rasped behind you, his voice stripped to its barest register. “Every one of ’em mine.”
You didn’t know how it was possible but his strokes became rougher as he thrusted uncontrollably within your tight walls and mouth. The sound your body made around that much fullness was obscene, wet and continuous. Your pussy walls and stretched asshole both, spasmed protest that his hips drove through without acknowledgment.
Then out of nowhere his already large lengths began to grow. It happened slowly enough that your overworked holes registered each degree of it separately, the stretch widening by fractions, your body forced to accommodate more and then more. Both of his dicks expanded inside you at the same time, thickening and lengthening in the way the dreams had shown you was possible and that your waking body was now receiving with an airless, wide-eyed, tear-streaming reality.
“A-A-a-A-a-Ah…” The sound was muffled entirely by the tentacle seated in your throat. Your hands clawed at the duvet. Your thighs tried to kick apart further as if more space might be found somewhere.
“You feelin’ that?” His voice was guttural, barely language. His hands gripped the wide, soft rounds of your hips with bruising force, his fingers pressing deep into the give of your flesh, holding you exactly where he wanted you while he continued to expand inside you. “Feel me gettin’ bigger in both them holes at once, lil’ cumbucket?”
You couldn’t answer. Your throat was thoroughly occupied, the tentacle stroking deeper with each pass, the fluid it kept releasing sending cascading heat down through your chest and belly that mixed with everything else until your body felt like one continuous raw nerve.
“Look at that stomach,” he ordered, as one hand released your hip and pressed flat against your lower belly, and there it was, the faint but undeniable outline of him visible through the plush skin there, the shape of what was inside you pressing against the surface. His palm pressed over it and you felt the pressure from both sides immediately. The sound that came out of you around the tentacle was shameless and continuous. “Feel that? Feel ya’ Master all the way up in this pretty belly?” He pressed his palm firmer, and his voice when he continued had roughened by several degrees. “You was made for this. Built just for this.” He pummeled forward and the pressure beneath his palm intensified.
The tentacle in your mouth pressed deeper, finding the resistance of your throat and pressing past it in slow, rocking strokes that left your eyes streaming and your lips obscenely stretched. Your face was a mess covered in a mixture of tears, drool, and sweat.
Stack looked at your face and growled as his dicks twitched inside of you. “Messy lil’ thing,” he mumbled. “Cryin’ an droolin’ like a good filthy cocksleeve.” His hips snapped forward, the force of it knocking your knees further apart. “That’s all you is, you know that? My new personal toy. Found you by accident an…” He drove forward again, harder, and the sentence took a moment to resume. “Decided to keep you. ‘Cause this pussy too good to waste.” He bit your shoulder again, in a place he had not yet marked, and the fresh sting drew a muffled sob from your throat. “Gon’ keep you alive. Long as you keep feedin’ me like this.”
He set his full rhythm then, both hips and tentacle synchronized, the triple occupation of your body moving together in a coordinated assault that left your body unable to prioritize any single input. The tentacle stroked your throat in the same cadence that his hips rocked against your backside, the fullness inside you now specific and pressing against every interior wall you had. The additional tentacles reappeared and latched back onto your body. The two at your nipples worked in pulsing, rhythmic suctions and the one circling your clit flicked back and forth in a clockwise and counterclockwise rotation. You were experiencing nothing but stimulation layered on top of stimulation, wave stacked over wave, and your body’s capacity to separate any single sensation from the mass of it was completely overwhelmed.
“You gon’ cum again,” he rasped. “Right now. With all of me inside you.”
Your muffled sounds around the tentacle were continuous and broken.
“Nod if you hear me.”
You nodded and let your mind continue to get drunk on the pleasure.
His palm pressed harder against your belly, pressing the outline of himself from outside while driving deeper from within, the pressure meeting itself through the soft wall of your skin in a way that made your thighs seize. “You so fuckin’ full. So fuckin’ stuffed like a proper lil’ bitch.” He withdrew both lengths almost entirely and then drove forward in one devastating stroke, burying himself to their hilt with no mercy.
Your final orgasm of the night had you questioning what life was like before this incubus infiltrated it and presented you with sex good enough for you to throw away your morals. Your whole body locked, thighs went rigid, back bowed, hands white-knuckled in the soaked duvet, and then finally your climax erupted through your body so violently and continuously that the tentacle in your mouth muffled a sound that might otherwise have woken the entire apartment building. Your walls convulsed around both lengths in frantic, milking waves, your body trying to process the simultaneous fullness and the crashing release at the same time.
Stack fucked you through every wave of pleasure. His hips never stilled, never slowed, working through your clenching and convulsing with a focused urgency as he began chasing his own limit. His rhythm became erratic and his breathing audible and ragged over your marked shoulder.
"Keep goin'," he said, through clenched teeth. "Don't stop. Gimme' every drop."
Your body obeyed its Master's command. The orgasm extended past any reasonable duration, sustained by the continued stimulation of the tentacles at your nipples and clit, drawn out past the point of coherence into something that felt less like pleasure and more like dissolution.
He hit his own limit in the middle of it. The sound that tore out of him was nothing like the controlled, drawling entity that had spent the last hour cataloguing your responses with clinical detachment. It was guttural and stripped of every layer he had on, ripped from somewhere as if he was genuinely overwhelmed for the first time in a very long time. His hips stuttered once, twice, losing the rhythm entirely, and then he drove forward with his full weight behind it and buried both lengths to their absolute hilt in a single punishing stroke that knocked you flat into the mattress and pulled a scream into the tentacle still seated in your throat.
He didn’t stop there. His release came in waves of his own and he chased every one of them, hips snapping forward in short, brutal drives that had no patience left in them, just the raw and shaking urgency of something taking what it needed. The first surge of heat inside your chocolate starfish filled you from the inside so completely that you felt it everywhere at once. The second wave inside your core drew another round of undone sounds from his chest, and his hands on the wide rounds of your hips gripped so hard you knew without looking that the bruises would be spectacular in the morning. The third had him pressing his forehead into the back of your shoulder, his breathing audible and wrecked, the drawl completely gone from what little language he had left.
"Shit," he said, against your skin. Then again, lower, more honest, "S-Shit."
The tentacle in your throat released in the same rhythm, filling that space with the same hot, steady pulses, and the combination of all three holes receiving his sticky seed at once reduced your body to a single sustained note of overwhelming fullness. You felt it pooling. Felt it gathering in the tight spaces his lengths had carved out and made their own. Felt it when he rolled his hips forward one final time, grinding himself to full depth with a slow pressure that was less about chasing release and more about making absolutely certain you felt every last pulse of it.
His hands on your hips shook and you felt that. Felt the tremor in the grip of something that didn't tremble, had never trembled, had spent a hundred and thirty-seven years putting its hands on women and leaving with nothing but a full belly and a body behind. You felt it and you filed it away in the part of your brain that was still running the dissertation, the part that took notes even now, even like this, and you said nothing about it because some things were better left unexamined for both of you.
As his body calmed back down, he pressed his forehead deeply into the back of your shoulder. Neither of you made a sound for a long moment beyond breathing. The tentacle in your mouth withdrew from your throat slowly and carefully, and the gasp that followed sounded as if you were on the verge of drowning. Your lungs pulled in air with desperate, greedy pulls. Your jaw was aching and your lips were wet and swollen. You swallowed what was left on your tongue. Shuddered in delight at the taste of him, then swallowed again.
After two long minutes and a few extra spurts of cum, Stack pulled free of both places with the same careful, deliberate slowness, and the sounds your body made at the loss of him were slightly embarrassing. The emptiness that followed was its own specific quality of devastation, your body reaching for fullness that was no longer there, walls fluttering against nothing, the absence amplified and felt everywhere.
He settled you down onto the dry portion of your bed. Both hands, steadying the soft weight of you down with a thoroughness that used every generous inch. Then he sat at the edge of the bed, threw his head back, and looked at the ceiling.
“Damn,” he said, to no one in particular. His voice was wrecked. Rough and stripped and nothing like the controlled, cocky entity that had appeared above you an hour ago.
You lay face-down in the duvet and assessed your situation. You had a dissertation to revise. You had office hours on Tuesday. You were thoroughly and completely destroyed by a century-old Mississippi Delta incubus who had just filled all three of your holes simultaneously and was currently sitting three feet away looking at the ceiling like a man who had also been through something. Your neck and shoulders were marked in at least ten different places, the bruises already surfacing in the dark, already tender when the cooled air of the room touched them.
“Four footnotes,” you said, eventually, into the duvet.
Stack turned his head and analyzed you but stayed silent.
“In the dissertation. I owe four separate footnotes an apology.”
The laugh that came out of him was genuine and startled both of you. It was gone just as fast as it had arrived, like he hadn’t intended to produce it. “Yeah,” he said. “You do.”
The lamp burned low in the corner of your bedroom. The fan turned overhead. The mark on your chest glowed faintly between your breasts, warm and steady in the dark.
Stack was quiet for a moment longer. Then he reached out and pressed his palm flat against your lower back. The heat of his hand spread through tired, overworked muscle the way a brand cooled slowly, staying in the skin long after the source withdrew.
“You gon’ be sore,” he said.
“I’m aware.”
“Gon’ be sore for a few days.”
“Also aware.”
A pause. “I’ll bring you somethin’ for it.”
You lifted your face from the duvet. Just enough to look at him sideways like he lost his mind. “You are an ancient demon entity,” you said, “with no human morals and a documented body count.”
“Mm hm.”
“And you’re going to bring me something for soreness instead of killing me?”
“For a scholar you sure do have a tough time listenin’. I done told you, you my property now,” he said, without a single inflection of irony. “Can’t have you damaged. That’s just maintenance.”
You put your face back in the duvet and sighed. “That is not the wholesome framing you think it is.”
“Wasn’t tryna be wholesome.”
Silence. The city outside went on with itself, thoroughly unaware.
“Elias,” you said.
“Mm?”
“The Moore documentation from 1923.” You turned your head enough to see his profile, the strong jaw, the horns catching the lamplight, the folded wings. “Hattie Price. The one who never wrote anything down.”
His expression shifted slightly. “What ‘bout her?”
“What did she know that Beaumont and Alcott didn’t?”
A long pause.
“She knew,” he said slowly, “that the women who called me did it on purpose.” He looked at the ceiling. “Every one of ‘em. Beaumont thought they was victims… Technically they was since I killed ‘em. Alcott thought they was sinners.” The corner of his mouth moved into a half smile. “Hattie knew they was just women who wanted somethin’ they didn’t have a safe way to want.”
You looked at him. “That’s the revision,” you said quietly.
“Yeah,” he quietly agreed. “That’s the revision.”
The shadow in the corner of your room breathed with its own slow tide. The lamp flickered once and held.
You closed your tired eyes. For the first time in weeks you felt as if you would be able to get a good night's rest. “Don’t let me sleep through my alarm,” you yawned lazily.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Stack.
He was lying. You both knew it. But the hand stayed settled on your lower back, warming the marks he had left into your skin, and the shadow stayed exactly where it was as you drifted off to sleep.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Author's Note: Wow what a ride (pun intended). He went from being in your walls to being in your walls.
Summary: Stack built his life on detachment. Nights that blurred, names that didn’t stick, and exits that came easy by morning. So when a baby shows up on his doorstep with nothing but a note and a claim he can’t verify, denial comes first, then chaos, then something he never planned for. While waiting on DNA results, Stack stumbles through fatherhood with more attitude than skill, leaning on his twin Smoke as they fumble through diapers, bottles, and sleepless nights. But somewhere between the noise, the mess, and the quiet moments he didn’t expect, the situation stops feeling temporary. And when the truth finally arrives, it doesn’t just give him answers; it forces him to face the fact that something permanent has already taken root.
Warnings: themes of abandonment (child left by mother), unplanned parenthood, emotional vulnerability, light angst, humor, depiction of immature behavior evolving into responsibility, mentions of past casual relationships, domestic chaos, soft fatherhood themes
The bass was still a deep, physical pulse against Stack's ribs when he kicked his front door shut, the sound chasing him inside like it wasn't done with him yet. Laughter bled through the hallway walls, distant, dissolving into the hum of his apartment settling back into its bones. The night clung to him—top-shelf whiskey sharp on his tongue, someone else's floral perfume tangled in his shirt collar, the kind of energy that didn't fade easily, just settled under his skin like a low-grade fever.
She was already inside before he made it to the kitchen.
No invitation.
No hesitation.
Just slipped past him like she owned the place, like she'd been mapping his space in her head for weeks. Stack watched her move, slow, assessing, head tilted as she navigated his apartment like she belonged there. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn't. The thought barely registered.
"Make yourself at home then," he drawled, voice rough from smoke and amusement.
She laughed, kicking off stilettos that landed with two soft thumps near the couch, the sound light and easy like this was just another Tuesday, just another him. "Don't act like you didn't bring me here for exactly this," she shot back, glancing over her shoulder with eyes that already knew the answer.
Stack smirked, dragging a hand down his face before reaching for the bottle of bourbon on the counter. He didn't confirm. Didn't deny.
Didn't need to.
The space between them closed the way it always did, magnetic, unspoken, predictable in a way that never felt boring. Hands found places they shouldn't linger in public, voices dropped lower, laughter melting into something softer, something slower. Her dress pooled on his floor like black water. His shirt followed. The night blurred at the edges, sharp focus narrowing to skin on skin, the way her breath hitched when his teeth grazed her collarbone, the taste of sweat and expensive perfume as he flipped her over his kitchen counter, the cool marble against her stomach making her arch back into him.
Fast until it wasn't.
Then morning came.
Pale light sliced through the blinds, cutting across the room in thin lines that landed across tangled sheets, across skin already cooling in the air conditioning. The apartment felt different in daylight. Quieter. Realer.
Stack was already up.
Jeans zipped but unbuckled, moving around the room with the same ease he always had, like this part was routine, like none of this required thought. He pulled his shirt over his head, glanced once toward the bed where she was still watching him with eyes that held morning vulnerability, the kind that wanted more than the night had promised.
"You always leave this early?" she asked, voice thick with sleep as she pushed up on one elbow, the sheet sliding down to expose the bite marks purpling on her shoulder.
Stack didn't look at her right away. Just reached for his keys, patting his pockets like he always did, making sure everything was where it needed to be.
"Got shit to do," he said simply.
It wasn't rude.
It wasn't gentle either.
It just... was.
She watched him for a second longer, like she was deciding whether to push it, whether to demand the morning-after tenderness she thought she'd earned.
"You gon' hit me later?" she asked, a little smile tugging at her lips like she already knew the script but wanted to hear it anyway.
Stack finally looked at her then.
Not long.
Just enough.
"Yeah," he said, already turning away as he spoke. "I'll hit you."
He wouldn't.
They both knew it.
But it sounded good in the moment, and that was usually enough.
His phone buzzed on the counter as he headed toward the door, lighting up with a name he didn't bother reacting to. Then another. And another.
He glanced down, thumb swiping across the screen, scrolling without urgency. Different names. Different conversations. Same tone.
Options.
Always options.
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth as he leaned against the doorframe, typing something quick back, already moving on before the message was even fully sent.
Behind him, she shifted in the bed, the sound soft, almost forgotten already.
Stack opened the door, stepping out into the hallway like nothing inside that apartment had weight to it, as it all stayed behind the moment he left.
No attachments. No follow-ups. No consequences. Just another night. Just another name. And nothing that stuck.
The pounding didn't stop.
It hammered through his skull like a jackhammer, loud, insistent, echoing through the walls of his apartment in a way that didn't match the lazy afternoon sun already painting stripes across his floor. Stack groaned into his pillow, one arm thrown over his face as if that alone might block it out. His head was still heavy from the night before, bourbon and someone else's perfume lingering on his skin, body slow, mind not fully caught up to the fact that morning had come, whether he was ready or not.
Then it came again. Harder. Followed by something else. A sound that didn't belong. High. Sharp. Persistent.
Stack's eyes cracked open, brows pulling together as he lay there for a second, listening. The knocking stopped.
The other sound didn't.
A baby.
Crying.
He pushed himself up slowly, blinking against the light creeping through his blinds, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. His apartment wasn't the type of place babies just... showed up in. It was the kind of place women slipped out of before dawn, not the kind where responsibility arrived unannounced. He sat there for a second longer than he should have, like maybe if he stayed still enough, the sound would go away on its own.
It didn't.
"Man, what the hell..." he muttered, dragging a hand down his face as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The floor was cold under his feet as he made his way toward the door, each step slower than the last, irritation building with every cry that echoed through the hallway outside. He didn't rush. Didn't think he needed to.
He opened the door halfway.
And stopped.
A baby carrier sat right there on his doorstep.
Small.
Still.
Except for the baby inside it—a perfect ball of chocolate with cheeks so full they looked like they might overflow, face scrunched up tight as it cried like it had been waiting on him specifically. The baby couldn't have been more than six months old, with skin the color of rich cocoa and fists balled up tight like tiny weapons.
Stack stared at it.
Then down the hallway.
Empty.
Dead quiet.
No footsteps. No elevator ding. No sign of anybody who might've left it there.
"...Nah," he said under his breath, like saying it out loud might undo whatever he was looking at.
He looked back at the baby.
The baby looked back.
Still crying.
Stack opened the door wider, stepping out just enough to glance both directions again, like somebody might pop out and claim this as a joke.
Nothing.
Just him.
And the baby.
"Yeah, aight," he muttered, running a hand over his head. "Y'all got the wrong door."
The baby didn't care.
It cried louder.
Stack exhaled sharply, crouching down like he wasn't fully committing to the situation yet. His eyes caught the folded piece of paper tucked into the side of the carrier.
He hesitated.
Then grabbed it.
Unfolded it.
His eyes scanned the words once.
Then again.
Slower this time.
"I'm not ready to be a mom.
He's yours."
Stack blinked.
Looked back at the baby.
Then at the note.
Then back at the baby again.
"...He?" he said out loud, voice flat with disbelief.
The baby hiccupped mid-cry like it was answering him, those chubby cheeks jiggling with the sound.
"Yours?"
His head tilted slightly, confusion shifting fast into irritation.
"WHO?"
The word echoed louder than he meant it to, bouncing off the hallway walls.
The baby flinched.
Then cried harder, little tears tracking paths through that perfect chocolate skin.
Stack cursed under his breath, looking down at the carrier like it had personally offended him.
"Nah, nah, nah," he muttered, shaking his head as he stood back up. "This ain't... this ain't mine."
But he didn't close the door.
Didn't walk away.
Didn't leave it sitting there either.
The crying didn't give him that option.
He crouched again, slower this time, staring at the baby like it might explain itself if he looked long enough. The baby had eyes the color of warm honey, now swimming in tears, and a shock of soft curls that were already damp with sweat.
It didn't.
It just kept crying.
Loud.
Relentless.
Stack exhaled through his nose, clearly annoyed now, one hand bracing against his knee as the other hovered awkwardly over the carrier.
"...Aight," he muttered. "Aight, shut up. Damn."
He reached down.
Paused.
Adjusted his grip like he wasn't sure what part of it he was supposed to hold.
Then picked the carrier up like it might explode if he moved too fast.
The crying didn't stop.
If anything, it got worse.
Stack stiffened immediately, arms locking in place as he held the baby out slightly, like distance might help. It didn't. He froze. Standing there in his doorway. Holding a crying baby. Looking like he had absolutely no idea what the hell to do next.
Stack made it three steps into his apartment before he stopped.
Just stood there. Door still open behind him. Baby was still crying in his hands like it had something to prove. He looked down at it slowly, like maybe the angle would change something.
It didn't.
"...Nah," he said again, quieter this time, like he was trying to convince himself instead of the empty hallway. "Nah, this ain't... this ain't right."
The baby cried harder, those chocolate cheeks turning blotchy with effort.
Stack's jaw tightened.
"Aight, aight, I hear you," he muttered, shifting the carrier awkwardly from one arm to the other like it was a hot potato. "Damn, you loud. You got lungs on you, I'll give you that."
He nudged the door shut behind him with his foot, the click echoing a little too final for his liking. Now it was just him. And the baby. Inside. Stack froze again for a second. Then immediately started pacing.
Back and forth across his living room, like movement would solve something his brain hadn't caught up to yet, the carrier bumping against his leg with every other step.
"This gotta be a mistake," he muttered, more to himself than anything. "Somebody got the wrong Stack. Ain't no way. I use protection. Mostly."
The baby cried.
Unimpressed.
Stack ran a hand over his face, already stressed, already irritated, already overwhelmed, and he hadn't even made it ten minutes into this situation.
"Aight... think," he said, pointing at the floor like he was addressing himself in a meeting. "Think."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Then he started talking.
Out loud.
To the baby.
"You got the wrong one," he said, pacing again, shaking his head. "It ain't me. I don't even be... like that. I'm the wrong kind of nigga for this parenting shit. You need a responsible one. Maybe my brother Elijah? He's the calm one. I'm the... other one."
The baby let out a sharp cry that sounded a lot like disagreement.
Stack stopped mid-step.
"...Don't do that," he said, pointing at it now. "Don't do that like you know somethin'. You can't even talk yet."
The baby kept crying.
Louder.
Stack sucked his teeth, frustration climbing fast as he shifted the carrier again, grip awkward, unsure.
"Aight," he muttered. "Aight, let's run this back. Let's make a list."
He started pacing again.
"Keisha?" he said, thinking out loud. "Nah. Keisha moved to Houston. And she had that little dog—she wouldn't even... nah."
The baby cried.
"Right," he said quickly, nodding like the baby confirmed it. "Exactly. Not her."
He kept going.
"Jasmine?"
Pause.
His face twisted.
"...Nah. Jasmine don't even like kids. She told me that. Like, aggressively. Said if she ever got pregnant she'd 'take care of it' if you know what I mean. And I did not stick around to ask questions."
The baby cried again.
"See?" he said, gesturing like he was making a point. "You hear that? She don't like you. You dodged a bullet with that one, little man."
The baby wailed louder.
"Damn, aight!" Stack snapped, immediately scrubbing a hand over his face again. "You ain't gotta take it personal. I'm just trying to figure out who your mama is so I can return you like defective merchandise."
He kept pacing.
"Brianna?" he tried next, slower this time. "Wait..."
He stopped.
Thinking.
Then shook his head.
"Nah, Brianna had a boyfriend. I remember that. She was stressin' him out, not me. Plus she was allergic to latex, so we used... other methods. Very thorough methods."
The baby cried.
Relentless.
Stack exhaled hard, chest rising and falling faster now as the noise started to get to him.
"This don't make no sense," he muttered. "Y'all just be droppin' kids off like it's Amazon or somethin'? I ain't order this. I didn't even get a confirmation email."
The baby did not care.
Stack stopped pacing and looked down at it again, really looked this time, like he was trying to find answers in its face.
All he saw was a tiny human screaming like the world was ending.
"...Aight," he said slowly, voice dropping like he was about to negotiate. "What you need? You hungry? You wet? You need to... I don't know, burp or some shit?"
The baby screamed louder.
Stack blinked.
"...That ain't helpful," he muttered.
He shifted again, trying to adjust how he held the carrier, then frowned like something about it felt off.
"Do I... take you out?" he asked, genuinely unsure. "Is that allowed? Like, are you supposed to stay in there until you're 18 or some shit?"
The baby cried.
Stack looked around his apartment like answers might be sitting on his couch.
Nothing. No instructions. No manual. Just him.
"Man..." he muttered under his breath.
He crouched down slightly, setting the carrier on the couch like he was defusing something dangerous.
The crying didn't stop.
If anything, it echoed louder in the space now that it wasn't moving.
"Aight, aight," he said quickly, hands hovering over the baby like he was about to perform surgery with no training. "I got you. I got you."
He didn't. He reached in. Paused.
Then awkwardly slid his hands under the baby, lifting it out with stiff, uncertain movements like he was afraid it might break.
The crying spiked immediately.
Stack stiffened.
"Oh nah," he said, eyes widening. "See? I knew I shouldn't have did that. You don't like it out here. Okay, back in you go."
He started to put the baby back in the carrier, but the baby's tiny fist caught on his chain, yanking it hard.
"Ow! Damn, little man, you strong as hell!" Stack yelped, fumbling to free himself while keeping the baby from falling. "Aight, aight, you win! You can stay out."
He held the baby out slightly, arms locked again.
"Hey," he said, trying a different tone, like talking to an adult. "Relax. You good. Ain't nothin' happenin'. We just gonna figure this out. Adult to... tiny adult."
The baby screamed.
Louder.
Stack grimaced.
"Okay, so that don't work," he muttered.
He tried rocking it.
Too fast. Too stiff. Like he was shaking a problem loose.
The baby hated that. Cried even harder.
"Aight—damn!" he snapped, immediately slowing down, panicking now. "Aight, my fault, my fault. Too much. Got it."
He tried bouncing next.
Then patting.
Then just... holding it.
None of it worked.
"Man, you hungry?" he asked suddenly, like that might be it. "You want some water?"
He paused.
Blinking.
"...You don't drink water, do you? You probably need that... what's it called... milk? Formula? I don't have none of that. I got almond milk for my smoothies. You want almond milk? It's vanilla flavored."
The baby screamed.
"Yeah, that sounded stupid when I said it," he muttered quickly.
He started pacing again, baby in his arms now, movements uneven, energy frantic.
"Aight, what else babies do?" he said, thinking out loud. "Eat. Sleep. Cry. You already cryin' so what that leave?"
The baby answered by crying louder.
Stack stopped.
Closed his eyes for a second.
Took a breath.
Then opened them again, looking down at the baby like he was out of options.
"...Nah," he said finally, shaking his head slowly, exhaustion and disbelief settling in at the same time. "Nah... this ain't mine."
But he didn't put it down. Didn't walk away. Just stood there. Holding it. Stressed. Overwhelmed. And very, very aware that the situation wasn't going anywhere.
Stack didn't even think about it. He just grabbed his phone. Still pacing.
Still holding the baby like it was a problem he couldn't put down.
The crying hadn't stopped, just shifted, louder in some moments, quieter in others, but constant enough to sit right behind his eyes like pressure.
He scrolled through his contacts too fast, thumb flicking with no patience until he found the one name that made the most sense in a situation that didn't make any.
Smoke.
He hit call immediately.
Didn't even think twice.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then picked up.
"...What?" Smoke's voice came through rough with sleep, irritated in a way that said this better be worth it.
"Pull up," Stack said instantly.
No explanation.
No context.
Just urgency.
Smoke went quiet for a second.
"...Why?"
"Just pull up," Stack repeated, sharper this time, pacing faster now as the baby let out another sharp cry right against his chest. "I got a situation."
There was a pause.
Then—
"...What kind of situation?"
Stack stopped pacing just long enough to look down at the baby like it might answer for him.
"It's a baby," he said flatly.
Silence.
"...What?"
"A baby," Stack repeated, already irritated at having to explain it out loud. "Like a real one. Small. Loud. In my house."
Another pause. Longer this time. Then Smoke laughed. Not a small laugh either.
A full one.
"Man, get the fuck off my phone," he said, clearly not believing him.
"I'm dead serious," Stack snapped, shifting the baby again as it cried harder. "Somebody left this baby at my door."
That got his attention.
"...You serious?"
"Yes!"
The baby cried again, loud enough for it to carry through the phone.
Smoke went quiet.
Then—
"...I'll be there in ten."
The line clicked.
Stack didn't move for a second.
Just stood there, breathing heavier than he realized, the weight of the baby settling into his arms whether he wanted it to or not.
"...Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "Hurry up."
By the time Smoke knocked, Stack was still pacing.
Same spot.
Same path worn into the floor.
Baby still crying.
Energy still frantic.
He opened the door quickly this time, like relief was standing on the other side.
Smoke stepped in slow.
Took one look at Stack.
Then, at the baby.
Then back at Stack.
And blinked.
"...Oh, you wasn't lyin'," he said, voice flat with disbelief.
Stack didn't even respond.
Just held the baby out slightly like he was passing off a problem.
"Take it," he said.
Smoke stepped back immediately.
"Hell no."
Stack frowned.
"What you mean hell no?"
"I mean hell no," Smoke repeated, holding his hands up like that boundary was solid. "That's yours."
"I don't know that," Stack shot back instantly. "That's the whole problem."
The baby cried.
Right between them.
Smoke winced slightly.
"...Damn, he loud," he muttered.
"Man, I said that already," Stack snapped.
They both stood there for a second.
Looking at the baby.
Listening to it cry.
Neither moving.
"...Why you holdin' him like that?" Smoke asked finally.
Stack glanced down.
"...Like what?"
"Like he finna explode," Smoke said.
"...He might," Stack muttered.
Smoke huffed a quiet laugh, stepping a little closer now, curiosity winning over hesitation.
"...Lemme see," he said.
Stack hesitated.
Then, slowly and awkwardly, he shifted the baby toward him.
Smoke reached out.
Paused.
Adjusted his hands.
Then took the baby like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing.
Which he didn't.
The baby cried harder.
Smoke stiffened immediately.
"...Oh nah," he said quickly, eyes widening. "He don't like me."
Stack snorted.
"He don't like me either."
Smoke tried rocking him.
Too slow.
Then too fast.
Then stopped altogether.
"...Aight, I don't like this," he said, handing the baby right back.
Stack took him automatically.
Like it wasn't even a question anymore.
They both paused.
"...So what babies need?" Smoke asked, looking around like the answer might be sitting on the counter.
Stack stared at him.
"...You the one with ideas."
"I ain't got no ideas," Smoke shot back. "I just came to see what the hell you talkin' about."
The baby cried.
Louder.
Stack groaned.
"Aight, Google it," he said, nodding toward Smoke's phone.
Smoke pulled it out, already typing.
"...Why baby cryin' so much?" he read out loud.
They both leaned in slightly.
Like this was serious.
Like the answer mattered.
"...It says they cry when they hungry, tired, or need a diaper change," Smoke said.
Stack blinked.
"...That's all of it."
"Yeah," Smoke said, scrolling. "That don't help."
The baby cried again.
Relentless.
Stack shifted him, trying again, bouncing a little softer this time.
"...Try holdin' him different," Smoke suggested.
Stack adjusted. Carefully. Awkwardly. But slower this time. Less panicked.
The crying…
Hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then lowered.
Just a little.
Both of them froze.
"...You hear that?" Smoke said quietly.
Stack didn't respond.
Didn't move.
Just held the baby exactly how he was.
The crying softened.
Not gone. But less. Breathier.
Like it was running out of energy.
Stack's shoulders dropped slightly without him realizing it.
Smoke leaned in a little.
"...Don't move," he whispered.
"I ain't movin'," Stack muttered back.
They stood there.
Still. Watching. Waiting.
The baby let out one more small sound.
Then…
Quiet. Not fully asleep. But calm.
For the first time.
Stack blinked down at him. Smoke blinked too.
Neither said anything for a second.
Then Smoke let out a slow breath.
"...We did that?"
Stack shook his head slightly.
"...I don't know what just happened."
They both stared at the baby.
Like they just survived something.
Like they didn't trust it to last.
And for the first time since it started…
It was quiet.
Smoke stepped closer, tilting his head as he really looked at the baby for the first time. His eyes narrowed slightly, then widened with realization.
"Damn," he said quietly, a slow grin spreading across his face. "He look just like you."
Stack frowned, glancing down at the baby's face. "What you talkin' about?"
"The mouth," Smoke said, pointing with his chin. "Same pout you had when we were little. And those cheeks... man, you were a big-ass crybaby too. Cried over everything. Couldn't find your favorite toy? Cry. Mama wouldn't give you extra dessert? Cry. I pushed you in the mud? Cry for an hour straight."
Stack shot him a look. "I didn't cry for an hour."
"You cried until Mama gave you that special attention," Smoke shot back. "This little dude got your exact same 'the world is ending' cry face. Look at that bottom lip sticking out. That's all you, bruh."
Stack rolled his eyes but kept looking at the baby, really seeing it this time. The resemblance was undeniable.
"Whatever," he muttered. "That don't tell me who his mama is."
Smoke's expression sobered slightly. "Yeah, about that." He crossed his arms. "Who the hell did you knock up? And don't say you don't know, 'cause I know your count better than you do."
Stack shifted the baby, now more comfortable in his arms. "I been thinkin' about that. Keisha moved to Houston. Jasmine don't even like kids. Brianna had a boyfriend..."
Smoke shook his head. "Nah, none of them would do this. This feels... personal. Like somebody who knows you enough to know you'd be home this morning, but don't know you well enough to know you ain't equipped for this."
Stack frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means somebody who thought you'd step up," Smoke said simply. "Somebody who believed in you more than you believe in yourself."
Stack looked away, jaw tight. "Ain't nobody ask for this."
"Well somebody asked for something nine months ago," Smoke shot back. "And now you got consequences showing up at your door like a Domino's order you didn't remember placing."
The baby stirred slightly, letting out a soft whimper. Both men froze, watching until he settled again.
"You need to get a DNA test," Smoke said quietly. "As soon as possible. And you need to figure out who left him here."
Stack nodded slowly. "I know."
"You also need to figure out what you're gonna do with him in the meantime," Smoke added, gesturing toward the baby. "'Cause he ain't going nowhere until you do."
Stack looked down at the baby's face, peaceful now in sleep, those chocolate cheeks still puffy from crying. For the first time, he didn't see just a problem; he saw a tiny version of himself, complete with the same dramatic flair and need for attention.
"Damn," he muttered. "I really was a crybaby, huh?"
Smoke laughed softly. "The biggest. But you grew out of it." He paused, then added, "Mostly."
Stack shot him a look but didn't argue.
"So what we doin' now?" Smoke asked.
Stack looked around his apartment, suddenly seeing it differently. Not as his space, but as a space that wasn't equipped for a baby.
"First," he said, determination replacing panic in his voice. "We figure out what babies need. For real this time."
Smoke nodded, pulling out his phone again. "Aight. 'What to buy for a six-month-old emergency baby situation'."
Stack snorted but leaned in to look at the screen with him, the baby still sleeping peacefully in his arms, completely unaware that he'd just changed everything.
Smoke's thumbs flew across his phone screen, eyes squinting as he scrolled through what seemed like an endless list of baby supplies.
"Aight," he said finally. "Diapers. Wipes. Formula. Bottles. Something called a 'burp cloth'—the hell is that? And... baby food? He six months, right? He probably eatin' solids or some shit."
Stack adjusted the baby in his arms, the little guy starting to stir again. "Just get the essentials. And hurry. I think he's about to wake up fully."
"I'm on it," Smoke said, already heading for the door. "Don't do nothing stupid while I'm gone."
"No promises," Stack muttered, watching the door close behind his brother.
Five minutes later, the baby's eyes fluttered open. Five minutes after that, he was crying again.
"Aw, hell no," Stack muttered, bouncing him gently. "We was doing so good. Don't do this to me, little man."
The baby responded by crying louder, his face scrunching up like he'd just witnessed the world's greatest injustice.
"Aight, aight, what is it?" Stack said, pacing again. "You hungry? 'Cause uncle Smoke comin' with the goods. You wet? 'Cause I ain't figured out how to check that yet. You just missin' your mama? 'Cause I can't help you there either."
The baby cried harder.
Stack groaned. "This is exactly why I wrap it up. Every time. Except for that one time with... actually, there was like five times I didn't. But four of them were in the shower, so that don't count, right?"
The baby didn't answer.
Just kept crying.
Twenty minutes later, Smoke bust back in with three plastic bags hanging from each arm.
"I got everything," he announced, dropping the bags on the counter. "And the lady at the store looked at me like I was a kidnapper. Had to explain this was an emergency situation."
"Did you tell her it was your nephew?" Stack asked, still bouncing the crying baby.
Smoke paused. "Nah, I just said it was complicated. Which part of these is the diapers?"
"The ones that look like little underwear," Stack said, nodding toward one of the packages.
Smoke ripped open the package, pulling out a diaper that looked way too big for the tiny human currently screaming his head off.
"Aight, let's do this," Smoke said, determination in his eyes. "You hold him, I'll change him."
Stack carefully laid the baby on the couch, but the moment he let go, the crying intensified.
"Damn," Smoke muttered. "He really don't like being put down."
"Then hurry up," Stack said, hovering over them. "Before he shatters my eardrums."
Smoke knelt down, fumbling with the diaper. "Aight, first we gotta take the old one off. But how do I... like, do I just rip these sides?"
"Man, how would I know?" Stack snapped. "I thought you was the one with ideas, Mr. Google."
"I'm the one who went to the store!" Smoke shot back, finally figuring out how to release the tabs on the dirty diaper. He peeled it back slowly, then immediately recoiled.
"Oh HELL no," he yelled, jumping back. "That's poop! That's actual poop on my hand!"
Stack burst out laughing. "Welcome to parenthood, Uncle Smoke."
"Don't call me that!" Smoke yelled, running to the sink. "This is disgusting! Why is it so... mustard-colored? And why is it everywhere?"
"It's a baby, Smoke," Stack said, still laughing as he tried to keep the baby from rolling off the couch. "What did you expect, roses?"
"I expected it to stay contained!" Smoke yelled, scrubbing his hands frantically. "That's what diapers are for! To contain! This one failed its one job!"
"Maybe you put it on wrong," Stack suggested.
"I ain't put it on at all! This was the previous one!" Smoke shot back, finally clean but still looking traumatized. "I ain't touching him again. You do it."
"I ain't touchin' no poop!" Stack yelled back.
"You gotta!" Smoke yelled. "He's your son!"
"You the uncle!" Stack yelled back. "Uncles do stuff like this!"
Smoke paused, hands still dripping. "When did I agree to be the uncle?"
"When you walked through that door," Stack said firmly. "Now grab a wipe and help me."
Smoke sighed dramatically, grabbing the container of wipes and pulling one out. "This is the nastiest shit I've ever done."
"Just hurry," Stack said, finally managing to hold the baby's legs up. "I think he's about to go again."
"Don't say that!" Smoke yelled, quickly wiping the baby's butt with the delicacy of someone defusing a bomb. "Aight, clean. Now what?"
"Now put the new diaper on," Stack instructed.
Smoke fumbled with the clean diaper, finally getting it positioned. "How tight is it supposed to be?"
"I don't know," Stack said. "Tight enough to hold stuff, loose enough for him to breathe?"
Smoke managed to get the diaper fastened, but it was crooked and barely contained the baby's chunky thighs.
"Well, it's on," Smoke declared, standing up. "That's a win."
The baby immediately started crying again.
"What now?" Stack groaned, picking him up. "We changed you, rocked you... what else you want?"
"Maybe he's hungry," Smoke suggested, pulling out the can of formula. "How do we make this?"
The instructions on the can might as well have been in another language for all the sense they made to two men who'd never mixed formula in their lives.
"It say mix two scoops with six ounces of water," Smoke read, squinting at the tiny print.
"Where we get six ounces of water?" Stack asked.
"From the sink?" Smoke suggested, as if it were obvious.
"I don't think that's right," Stack said. "Ain't it supposed to be... sterile or some shit?"
Smoke looked around the kitchen, then spotted a water bottle on the counter. "Aight, this water is purified. That's close to sterile, right?"
"Close enough," Stack decided, already trying to get the baby to take the bottle nipple.
The baby refused.
Turned his head.
Cried harder.
"He don't want it," Stack said, frustrated.
"Maybe the milk is too cold?" Smoke suggested.
"Or too hot?" Stack countered.
"Or maybe he just don't like your delivery," Smoke shot back. "Let me try."
Smoke took the bottle, but the baby refused him too.
"Man, what is wrong with him?" Smoke asked, exasperated.
"Maybe he ain't a formula baby," Stack said, pacing again. "Maybe he needs... real food?"
Smoke pulled out a jar of baby food peaches. "Aight, let's try this."
Stack managed to get the baby seated, though he kept trying to stand up. Smoke dipped the tiny spoon in the jar and approached cautiously.
"Aight, little man," he said softly. "Just a taste."
The baby opened his mouth.
Smoke spooned in a tiny amount of peach puree.
The baby's face scrunched up in confusion.
Then he smiled.
Then he grabbed the spoon.
Then he smeared peaches everywhere.
In his hair.
On his clothes.
On Stack's arm.
On Smoke's face.
"OH FUCK NO!" Smoke yelled, jumping back again. "Not again! Why is everything so messy?"
"That's what babies do!" Stack yelled back, trying to contain the chaos. "They make messes!"
"Why didn't nobody tell us that?" Smoke yelled, wiping peach puree from his cheek. "His ass should come with a warning label!"
They finally managed to get most of the peaches into the baby's mouth, though they both looked like they'd been in a food fight by the end of it.
The baby, however, seemed satisfied. His crying stopped. His eyes drooped.
And just as Stack was cleaning peach puree from his own arm, the baby's head lolled forward onto his chest.
And everything went quiet. Stack froze. Smoke froze.
They both looked at the baby, now asleep against Stack's chest, tiny breaths warm against his skin.
"Don't move," Smoke whispered.
"I ain't movin'," Stack whispered back.
They stood there for a full minute.
Just watching.
Just breathing.
Stack looked down at the baby's face, peaceful now in sleep, those chocolate cheeks still smudged with peach puree, tiny fists curled against his chest.
"...Man," he said softly, so quiet Smoke almost didn't hear him.
Smoke stepped closer, looking down at the baby too. "Yeah," he said quietly. "He really is your mini-me, huh?"
Stack didn't answer. Just kept looking at the baby. Like he was seeing him for the first time. Not as a problem. Not as a mistake. But as his.
The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur of chaos, exhaustion, and moments neither brother would admit were actually kind of sweet.
It started with the baby waking them both at 3 a.m. with a cry so piercing it cut through Stack's expensive sound system still playing softly in the background. They stumbled through a diaper change that left both men questioning their life choices, followed by a bottle feeding that ended with formula on the ceiling; neither could explain how it got there.
By morning, they'd figured out the baby's schedule: cry, eat, poop, sleep, repeat. Sometimes in that order. Sometimes all at once.
Stack tried to maintain his distance, calling himself "the babysitter" and referring to the baby as "the situation." Smoke, meanwhile, had fully embraced his role as "uncle," even though he still flinched every time the baby made a sound that suggested another diaper change was imminent.
They took turns holding the baby when he cried, discovered he liked being bounced gently while watching sports highlights, and learned the hard way that babies can projectile vomit without warning.
By the second night, both men were running on caffeine and desperation, the apartment littered with baby supplies and takeout containers they hadn't had time to throw away.
"You know," Smoke said around 2 a.m. as they both stared at the baby sleeping in a laundry basket padded with pillows (the makeshift crib Stack had refused to buy), "we've been calling him everything but his name."
Stack didn't look away from the baby. "His name wasn't on the letter."
"So we gotta name him?" Smoke asked, a hint of panic in his voice.
"I ain't naming him," Stack said immediately. "I'm the maybe daddy. Maybe daddies don't name babies."
Smoke snorted. "Maybe Daddy? That's what you're going with?"
"Until the test results come back," Stack confirmed. "Then I'll be the definitely not daddy or the oh shit daddy."
"Well, we can't keep calling him 'the baby' or 'chocolate baby' or 'little dude' forever," Smoke pointed out. "What are we gonna call him?"
Stack shrugged. "I don't know. Baby John Doe?"
Smoke rolled his eyes. "We're not calling him that. And we're definitely not naming him after you."
"What's wrong with naming him after me?" Stack asked, genuinely offended.
"Everything," Smoke said flatly. "The world does not need another Elias 'Stack' Moore. One of you is more than enough, trust me."
Stack shot him a look but didn't argue.
They fell silent again, both watching the baby sleep.
"You know," Smoke said quietly, "you've been acting like a dad even if you won't admit it."
Stack frowned. "How?"
"You check on him every five minutes when he's sleeping," Smoke pointed out. "You bought that expensive baby formula when the store brand was right next to it. You're currently sitting here watching him sleep instead of getting your own rest. That's dad shit, bruh."
Stack didn't respond, just kept watching the baby's chest rise and fall.
"I need proof," he said finally, so quiet Smoke almost didn't hear him.
"What?"
"I need to know for sure," Stack said, looking at his brother. "One way or the other. I can't... I can't keep doing this without knowing."
Smoke nodded slowly. "So what's the plan?"
"DNA test," Stack said simply. "Tomorrow."
The next morning, Stack found himself standing in a pharmacy, staring at the wall of DNA test kits like they were written in a foreign language. The baby was strapped to his chest in a carrier he'd bought at 3 a.m. from a 24-hour store, the little man now awake and chewing on his own fist.
"Which one?" Stack muttered to himself. "There's like ten different kinds."
The baby let out a soft sound, like he was trying to help.
"Yeah, you're a lot of help," Stack muttered, grabbing the most expensive one. "If you're mine, you got expensive taste, so this one's probably right."
Back at the apartment, they stared at the kit.
"Aight," Smoke said, reading the instructions. "It says we need to swab his cheek. And yours."
"What if he bites me?" Stack asked, genuinely concerned.
"He's six months old, Stack," Smoke said. "I don't think he's got teeth yet."
"Still," Stack muttered, opening the swab package. "He's strong. And he's got a temper. Definitely gets that from his mama."
Smoke snorted. "Or his maybe daddy."
Stack carefully approached the baby, who was now sitting on the couch surrounded by pillows. "Aight, little man," he said softly. "I just need to get a little sample from your cheek. Won't hurt a bit."
The baby opened his mouth willingly.
Stack quickly swabbed his cheek.
The baby didn't even flinch.
"See?" Smoke said. "That wasn't so bad."
"Now for me," Stack said, swabbing his own cheek. "Aight, now what?"
"We seal 'em and send 'em in," Smoke said, reading the instructions. "Results in 3-5 business days."
Stack sealed both samples in the provided envelopes, writing his information on one and just "Baby John Doe" on the other.
"You're really not gonna give him a name?" Smoke asked.
"Not until I know," Stack said simply. "Not until I'm sure."
Smoke nodded, understanding. "So what do we do while we wait?"
Stack looked at the baby, who was now trying to eat the corner of a pillow. "Same thing we've been doing. Taking care of him."
"Even if he might not be yours?" Smoke asked.
Stack paused, then shrugged. "Somebody's gotta. And right now, that's us."
Smoke smiled slightly. "You know, you'd make a pretty good dad. If you are one."
Stack didn't respond, just watched the baby, something unreadable in his expression.
"Maybe," he said finally. "But let's wait for the results before we start planning the daddy-daughter dance."
Smoke laughed. "It's a boy, dumbass."
"Whatever," Stack muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "Daddy-son dance. Same difference."
They both fell silent, watching the baby, who had successfully gotten the corner of the pillow in his mouth and was now gumming it happily.
Three to five business days. That's what they had to wait. But somehow, it already felt like it didn't matter.
The morning after they sent off the DNA test, Smoke stood in the doorway of Stack's apartment, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
"Aight, I'm heading out," he announced, watching as Stack tried to balance the baby on his hip while making coffee one-handed.
Stack paused, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. "What you mean, heading out? You my backup."
"I'm your twin," Smoke corrected, adjusting his bag. "Identical twins. I don't wanna confuse my nephew. He might think there's two of me, and that's just too much awesome for one little dude to handle."
Stack snorted. "You ain't that awesome."
"Plus," Smoke added, ignoring him, "you need to figure this out on your own. You and... little man." He gestured toward the baby. "You need to learn each other's language or some shit."
Stack frowned. "We communicate just fine."
"Really?" Smoke challenged. "What's he saying right now?"
Stack looked down at the baby, who was currently chewing on his own fist while staring at Stack's coffee cup. "He wants coffee. Obviously."
Smoke laughed. "Yeah, okay. Look, I'll be back tomorrow to check on y'all. But you need to do this alone. Call me if it's a real emergency. And by emergency, I mean blood, fire, or if you somehow manage to lose him in your own apartment."
"I wouldn't lose him," Stack muttered, but there was uncertainty in his voice.
"Just... call me if you need anything," Smoke said, his tone softening slightly. "Anything at all."
Stack nodded. "Aight."
Smoke hesitated at the door, then turned back. "Hey, what are you gonna call him while we wait?"
Stack looked down at the baby, who had now managed to get his fist stuck in his mouth and was making frustrated little sounds. "Choc."
Smoke raised an eyebrow. "Choc?"
"Short for chocolate," Stack explained. "He's chocolate-colored, so... Choc."
Smoke considered this. "Could be worse. Could be Baby John Doe."
"He's not Baby John Doe," Stack said quickly. "He's Choc."
Smoke smiled slightly. "Aight then. Choc it is. Take care of my nephew, little brother."
The silence that followed felt heavier than Stack expected. He looked down at Choc, who was now staring up at him with wide, curious eyes.
"Well," Stack said to the empty apartment. "It's just you and me now, little dude."
Choc responded by spitting up on Stack's shirt.
"Great," Stack muttered. "Just what this needed."
The first day alone was chaos. Choc cried every time Stack tried to put him down, which meant Stack carried him everywhere, including to the bathroom, which was an experience neither of them enjoyed.
By day three, Stack had learned to distinguish between Choc's different cries. There was the "I'm hungry" cry (high-pitched and insistent), the "I need a new diaper" cry (more of a whiny, uncomfortable sound), and the "I'm just being dramatic" cry (loud and attention-seeking, which Stack admitted was probably genetic).
"You better not be mine," Stack muttered on day four, bouncing Choc gently as he cried for what seemed like no reason at all. "You hear me? You better not be mine, 'cause I don't have the patience for all this drama."
But even as he said it, his arms tightened around the baby, his movements instinctively soothing.
That night, as Stack was trying to get Choc to sleep, the baby grabbed his finger, wrapping tiny chocolate-colored fingers around it and holding on tight.
Stack froze, looking down at their joined hands. Something warm spread through his chest, something unfamiliar and terrifying.
"Yeah, aight," he whispered, carefully extracting his finger only to have Choc grab it again. "You got a grip on you, little man. Must get that from your mama."
By the end of the first week, Stack's apartment had transformed. The expensive minimalist decor was now cluttered with baby gear, a proper crib (delivered and assembled by a very confused delivery guy), a changing table, and a high chair that Stack couldn't figure out how to fold.
His online shopping history told a story he wasn't ready to admit to himself yet. Baby clothes in sizes 6-9 months. Soft toys that made different noises when squeezed. A stroller that costs more than his car payment. Organic baby food in flavors that Stack couldn't pronounce.
"It's just temporary," he kept telling himself. "Just until we know for sure."
But on day eight, when Choc woke up crying from a nightmare, Stack didn't hesitate. He picked him up, brought him to his own bed, and let the baby sleep curled against his chest, tiny breaths warm against his skin.
In the morning, he found himself watching Choc sleep, tracing the shape of his full cheeks with his finger, marveling at the tiny curls forming on his head.
"You know," he whispered to the sleeping baby, "you got my eyes. Or Smoke's eyes. Whatever. Same eyes."
Choc stirred, opening his eyes and looking up at Stack like he understood.
"Yeah, you hear me," Stack said softly. "You hear everything, don't you?"
Choc responded by grabbing Stack's finger again, holding on tight like he never wanted to let go.
Stack didn't pull away this time.
Just lay there, watching the baby, feeling something rumble inside him.
Something permanent.
Something that felt suspiciously like love.
"Damn," he muttered to the ceiling. "I'm screwed."
Choc let out a soft sound, like agreement, and snuggled closer.
Stack wrapped his arm around the baby, holding him closer.
"You better not be mine," he whispered again, but there was no conviction in his voice. "You hear me, Choc? You better not be mine."
But even as he said it, he was already planning what they'd do tomorrow. A walk in the park with the new stroller. Maybe they'd try that organic sweet potato puree that had cost a ridiculous amount.
Anything. Everything. Whatever this little chocolate-colored dude needed.
And if the test came back positive? Well. Stack would deal with that then.
Nine days after Smoke had left, the knock on the door came at 2 p.m. exactly. Stack didn't even look up from where he was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, watching Choc attempt to crawl across the living room rug.
"It's open," he called out, reaching out to steady Choc when the baby's arms gave out, and he face-planted gently into the rug.
The door opened, and Smoke stepped inside, stopping immediately when he saw the scene before him. Stack—his brother, who once complained if someone breathed too loud in his apartment—was sitting on the floor, cooing softly at a baby who was currently spitting on the expensive rug.
"Damn," Smoke said quietly, closing the door behind him. "Y'all look domestic as hell."
Stack glanced up, a small smile playing on his lips. "Watch this," he whispered, then looked back at Choc. "Come on, little man, you can do it. Just a little further."
Choc pushed up on his arms again, determination in his eyes as he tried to move forward, managing to scoot about an inch before collapsing again with a frustrated grunt.
"He's been trying to crawl for three days," Stack explained, picking Choc up and settling him in his lap. "Got the arm strength but not the coordination yet."
Smoke watched them, something unreadable in his expression. "You learn all that from Google?"
"BabyCenter dot com," Stack corrected, bouncing Choc gently when the baby started to fuss. "They got articles on everything. Developmental milestones, feeding schedules, how to get them to sleep through the night..."
"You readin' baby articles?" Smoke asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Research," Stack said quickly. "Just research. For maybe daddy."
Smoke nodded slowly, his eyes taking in the changes to the apartment. The baby-proofed corners, the colorful playmat in the middle of the living room, the bottle sterilizer sitting on the kitchen counter.
"You been busy," he noted.
"Gotta be prepared," Stack said, already moving to the kitchen to warm a bottle. "You never know when the results might come back. Need to be ready."
"For what?" Smoke asked, following him. "To hand him over if he's not yours?"
Stack paused, bottle halfway to the microwave. "Yeah. For that."
But even as he said it, he was adjusting the bottle temperature with the expertise of someone who'd done this a hundred times. Testing it on his wrist. Making sure it was perfect.
Smoke leaned against the counter, watching his brother. "You know, when I left, you could barely figure out how to hold him without looking like you were handling a bomb."
"Practice makes perfect," Stack muttered, heading back to the living room where Choc was now chewing on a teething toy.
"You sayin' it ain't yours," Smoke said quietly, following him. "But you ain't put him down yet."
Stack didn't respond, just settled on the couch and positioned Choc for his bottle, the baby immediately latching on with practiced ease.
"I mean, look at you," Smoke continued, his tone softer now. "You got a system. You know his cries. You know his schedule. You bought him clothes that'll fit next season."
"Just being prepared," Stack repeated, but there was less conviction in his voice this time.
Smoke stepped closer, sitting on the coffee table across from them. "Stack."
"What?"
"Look at me."
Stack looked up, and for the first time, Smoke saw something in his brother's eyes he'd never seen before. Something soft. Something vulnerable.
"You're attached," Smoke said simply. "And that's okay."
Stack opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Looked down at Choc, who was now watching him with those wide, trusting eyes.
"I don't know what I am," Stack admitted quietly. "I just know... I can't imagine him not being here anymore."
Smoke nodded slowly. "Yeah. I see that."
They sat in silence for a moment, just watching Choc drink his bottle, tiny fingers wrapped around Stack's thumb.
"What you gonna do if the test comes back negative?" Smoke asked finally.
Stack didn't answer right away, just gently stroked Choc's cheek with his free hand.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I guess... I guess I'll figure it out then."
"And if it's positive?" Smoke pressed.
Stack looked up at his brother, something unreadable in his expression.
"Then I guess I'm a dad," he said quietly. "A really unprepared, probably gonna screw it up dad... but a dad nonetheless."
Smoke smiled slightly. "You'd be a good one."
Stack snorted. "Yeah, right. I can barely take care of myself."
"You're taking care of him just fine," Smoke pointed out. "Better than fine, actually. You're a natural."
Stack looked down at Choc, who had finished his bottle and was now blinking sleepily. "I just do what feels right."
"Exactly," Smoke said. "That's what parents do."
Stack carefully shifted Choc to his shoulder, patting his back gently until the baby let out a soft burp.
"You know," Smoke said quietly, "I was thinking... if he is yours, and if you need help with anything, I'm here. For real this time. Not just as backup, but as... whatever you need me to be."
Stack looked at his brother, surprised. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Smoke confirmed. "Uncle Smoke got a ring to it, don't it?"
Stack laughed softly, careful not to wake the now-sleeping baby. "Yeah, I guess it does."
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, just watching Choc sleep.
Stack shifted Choc in his arms, the baby stirring slightly but not waking. "You know, part of me hopes they don't come back at all."
Smoke raised an eyebrow. "How you mean?"
"Just... this," Stack said quietly, gesturing between himself and the baby. "This is good. This works. If the results come back, everything changes. One way or another."
"And if it stays like this?" Smoke asked.
"Then I get to keep him," Stack said simply. "Even if I'm not his dad. I get to keep him."
Smoke studied his brother's face, saw the raw honesty there, the fear and hope warring in his eyes.
"You know," Smoke said quietly, "it doesn't really matter what that test says. You're already his dad in every way that counts."
Stack didn't respond, just held Choc closer, burying his face in the baby's soft curls for a moment.
When he looked up again, his eyes were shining.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
The envelope arrived on a Tuesday.
Thin. White. Business-like.
Stack saw it the moment he walked in from grabbing the mail, his heart doing something strange in his chest. He'd been waiting for this—dreading this—for eleven days. Part of him had hoped it would never come, that they could just exist in this weird in-between space where he was the maybe daddy and Choc was his chocolate baby and nothing had to be decided.
But there it was.
The answer.
Sitting on his counter like any other piece of mail.
Except it wasn't.
"Smoke," Stack called out, his voice rougher than he intended. "Get in here."
Smoke emerged from the bedroom, where he'd been trying to teach Choc how to clap his hands (with limited success). "What's up? Did you order more of them expensive baby wipes again? 'Cause I told you, the store brand works just—"
He stopped when he saw the envelope in Stack's hand.
"Oh," Smoke said quietly. "It's here."
Choc started fussing in Smoke's arms.
"Shhh," Smoke murmured, bouncing him gently. "It's okay, little man. It's okay."
Stack stared at the envelope like it might bite him. "You open it."
"Nope," Smoke said immediately. "That's all you, bruh."
"I can't," Stack admitted, the words barely audible. "My hands are shaking."
Smoke stepped closer, shifting Choc to his hip. "You've been waiting for this. You said you needed to know."
"I know what I said," Stack muttered, running a hand over his face. "But that was before. Before... everything."
Before Choc learned to recognize his voice. Before he fell asleep on Stack's chest every night. Before Stack started ordering baby clothes in bigger sizes "just in case."
Before it started feeling real.
"Want me to do it?" Smoke asked gently.
Stack hesitated, then shook his head. "No. I got it."
He took a deep breath, ripped open the envelope with more force than necessary, and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside.
His eyes scanned the words once.
Then again.
Slower this time.
Like his brain couldn't quite process what it was seeing.
Smoke watched him, saw the exact moment the words registered. The way Stack's shoulders slumped slightly. The way his breath caught. The way his eyes closed for just a second.
"Well?" Smoke asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What's it say?"
Stack didn't answer right away, just kept looking at the paper like it might change if he stared long enough.
"Stack?"
"It's positive," Stack said finally, his voice flat. "99.9% probability of paternity."
Silence.
Choc let out a soft sound, like he felt the weight of those words.
Smoke reached out, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You okay?"
Stack didn't respond, just folded the paper carefully, like it was something fragile. Something important.
"Stack?"
"Yeah," Stack said finally, looking up at his brother. "I'm fine."
But he wasn't.
Not really.
There was something in his eyes Smoke couldn't quite read. Something that looked a lot like fear.
"You don't look fine," Smoke pointed out gently.
"I just... I need a minute," Stack said, walking to the window and looking out at nothing in particular. "I need to process this."
Smoke watched him, saw the tension in his brother's shoulders, the way his hands kept clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"You wanted to know," Smoke reminded him quietly. "You said you needed proof."
"I know what I said," Stack muttered, still not turning around. "I just... I don't know what I thought would happen. What I thought I would feel."
"And what do you feel?" Smoke asked.
Stack turned around then, and Smoke saw it clearly in his eyes. The conflict. The fear. The overwhelming weight of it all.
"I don't know," Stack admitted. "Relieved and terrified at the same time. Like I got what I wanted and what I was afraid of, all at once."
Choc reached out toward Stack, making soft sounds, like he could feel his father's distress from across the room.
Stack walked over slowly, carefully taking Choc from Smoke's arms, holding him close like he was trying to memorize the weight of him.
"Hey, little man," he whispered, pressing his face into Choc's soft curls. "Hey, chocolate baby."
Choc grabbed onto Stack's shirt, holding on tight like he knew.
Like he understood.
"You're mine," Stack whispered, the words barely audible. "You're really mine."
He looked up at Smoke, something raw and vulnerable in his eyes.
"Now what?" he asked.
Smoke smiled slightly. "Now you're his dad. The best damn dad you can be."
Stack looked down at Choc, who was now watching him with those wide, trusting eyes, like he knew exactly who his father was.
Like he'd known all along.
"Yeah," Stack said quietly, bouncing Choc gently when the baby started to fuss. "Yeah, okay."
He didn't say anything else, just stood there holding his son, his future, his everything.
Three days after the results came back, Stack was sitting on his couch, Choc propped against his chest as they watched sports highlights. The baby was now officially named Elijah—after his uncle, who had protested but secretly been thrilled.
"You know," Stack said, adjusting Elijah so he could see the TV better, "you're way too young to be watching basketball. But we gotta start you early. Can't have you growing up liking that weak-ass soccer Smoke tried to get you into."
Smoke, who was sitting on the other end of the couch, rolled his eyes. "Soccer is the most popular sport in the world. It's called culture, Stack."
"It's called boring," Stack shot back. "Ain't nobody wanna watch grown men run around for two hours and only score once. Where's the drama? Where's the trash talk? Where's the—"
Elijah let out a loud fart, followed by a giggle.
Both brothers stopped and looked at him.
"See?" Stack said, pointing. "Even he agrees with me. That was his opinion on soccer."
Smoke snorted. "That was gas, not an opinion."
"Same difference," Stack muttered, bouncing Elijah gently. "You hear that, little man? Your uncle don't appreciate sophisticated sports analysis."
Elijah responded by grabbing Stack's nose with his surprisingly strong grip.
"Ow," Stack complained, but he didn't pull away. "You got your daddy's strength. And your uncle's face. We gonna have to get you tested to make sure you ain't actually his."
Smoke laughed. "Nah, he's all you. Same dramatic flair. Same need for attention. Same inability to just sit still and be quiet."
Stack looked down at Elijah, who was now trying to eat his own foot. "Yeah, well, at least he's cute. That's gonna come in handy."
"What you mean?" Smoke asked, already suspicious.
Stack's eyes lit up with mischief. "I'm just saying... single moms at the playground? They gonna see this cute little chocolate dude and they gonna wanna know who his daddy is. Elijah here is gonna be my new wing man."
Smoke stared at him. "You're not serious."
"Dead serious," Stack said, grinning. "I'll be like, 'Yeah, that's my son. Single dad over here, just trying to make it work.' They love that shit. Makes you look responsible and sensitive."
"You are neither of those things," Smoke pointed out.
"Not yet," Stack corrected. "But I will be. For the playground moms."
Smoke shook his head, but he was smiling. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm practical," Stack corrected. "Besides, you need to go get some random girl pregnant so Elijah and I can have play dates with you and your baby."
Smoke's eyes widened. "I need to WHAT?"
"You heard me," Stack said, already planning. "We can be those dads at the playground. Comparing notes on sleep schedules and baby food flavors. Chicks dig that shit."
"I'm not getting someone pregnant just so you can pick up women at playgrounds," Smoke said firmly.
"Selfish," Stack muttered, adjusting Elijah when the baby started to fuss. "Just selfish. Here I am, trying to think about your future love life, and you're not even appreciating it."
Smoke watched his brother with Elijah, saw how naturally Stack held him, how instinctively he responded to every sound and movement. It was like watching someone who'd been doing this forever, not someone who'd been thrown into fatherhood less than two weeks ago.
"You're gonna be a good dad, you know," Smoke said quietly.
Stack glanced up, surprised by the sincerity in his brother's voice. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Smoke confirmed. "Even if you plan to use your son as a chick magnet."
"Hey, you gotta work with what you got," Stack said, but there was something soft in his eyes now. "And what I got is this cute little dude who's gonna help me find his new mama."
Elijah let out a loud yawn, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists.
"Someone's getting sleepy," Smoke noted.
"Yeah, well, it's hard work being this adorable," Stack said, standing up carefully. "Come on, little man. Nap time before your daddy takes you scouting for future stepmoms."
As Stack walked toward the bedroom, Elijah curled against his chest, already half asleep, Smoke watched them go.
"Hey," Smoke called out.
Stack paused at the bedroom door. "What?"
"You really gonna name him Elijah?" Smoke asked. "After me?"
Stack looked down at the baby in his arms, then back at his brother.
"Who else would I name him after?" he asked quietly. "You're the best man I know. If he grows up to be half the man you are... he'll be alright."
Smoke felt something tighten in his throat. "Damn, Stack. Getting all sentimental on me."
"Don't get used to it," Stack called out, disappearing into the bedroom. "I'm still gonna use my son to pick up women at the playground."
Smoke laughed, shaking his head.
A few minutes later, Stack came back out, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could hear if Elijah woke up.
"So," Smoke said as Stack sat back down on the couch. "What's the plan now?"
Stack leaned back, stretching his arms across the back of the couch. "Plan? The plan is to figure out how to be a dad. The plan is not to screw this up. The plan is to raise this little dude to be better than me."
He paused, then added with a grin, "And the plan is to find him a mama who's hot, rich, and doesn't mind that I plan to use our son to pick up women at playgrounds."
Smoke snorted. "Good luck with that."
"Hey, never underestimate the power of a cute baby," Stack said, his eyes drifting toward the bedroom door. "Never underestimate the power of having something that's yours. Something that matters."
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, just listening to the soft sounds coming from the bedroom.
"Man," Stack said finally, quiet now. "You got the worst timing I ever seen."
Smoke looked at him, confused. "What you mean?"
"Not you," Stack said, gesturing toward the bedroom. "Him. Showing up when I was least prepared. Turning my whole world upside down. Making me... feel things."
He paused, then smiled slightly.
"Best thing that ever happened to me too," he added softly. "But don't tell nobody I said that. Got a reputation to maintain."
Smoke laughed. "Your secret's safe with me."
They sat there for a while longer, just two brothers watching the sun set outside, both knowing that everything had changed.
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