lyssa🫶🏽

Black☀️ 21 ✨ Hopeless Romantic☄️ 18+ minors DNI

[inkdrippeddreams]

The Dreamscape(Lyssa's Masterlist)

Adonis Creed

In Your Corner

Adonis Creed xBlack Journalist OC Athena

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four (Coming Soon)

More Stories Coming Soon!

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

I always read smuts where Erik is dominant and gives directions to the OC, like "don’t move, dont cum yet", but what do you think his reaction would be if she retaliated like, in the middle of doing the do, she suddenly became the dominant one?

PUSSY GOT YOU QUIET

He had her on her stomach, one hand planted firm at the nape of her neck, the other gripping her hip like he paid for it. Sweat slicked down the dip of her spine, her legs trembling from the fifth—or was it sixth?—orgasm he had already wrung out of her.

“Don’t move,” he growled, low and dark, lips brushing her ear, “Don’t fuckin’ run from it.”

She whimpered, biting her bottom lip until she tasted blood. He was buried deep—thick, heavy, punishing. The headboard slammed against the wall in rhythm, and the only other sound was the wet, obscene slap of skin and her ragged moans.

He reached around to grip her jaw, forcing her face sideways, “You gon’ take all this dick like a good girl, right?”

She nodded weakly.

“Nah,” he barked, slapping her ass hard enough to make her yelp, “Say it.”

“I’ll take it, Daddy,” she choked out, eyes glazed, lips parted.

“That’s what I thought.”

But something in her snapped when he said it. Maybe it was the way he laughed after pulling out, letting the cool air hit her soaked pussy just to tease her. Maybe it was the cocky glint in his eyes as he leaned back on his heels, stroking himself in his fist, slapping the head of his dick against her clit with a devilish smirk.

She twisted suddenly—fast and fluid—and had him flat on his back before he could blink.

“The fuck—?”

She straddled him with a wicked smile, nails digging into his scarred chest as she sank down onto his fat dick in one smooth motion, swallowing him whole. He hissed, head snapping back, tapered locs shielding his onyx eyes, the vein in his neck jumping.

“Don’t move?” she mocked, grinding her hips slow and cruel, “You look real still now.”

His hands flexed at her thighs, muscles tightening—but he didn’t stop her. He couldn’t.

Her pussy gripped him like a vice, warm and dripping, and every slow roll of her hips dragged a curse from his throat. She watched him come undone—those gold fronts catching the light when he bared his teeth, the tendons in his neck tight with restraint.

“I said—” he growled, trying to buck up.

She slapped his chest.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned, breathless, “You don’t get to give orders tonight.”

Erik stared up at her, jaw locked, nostrils flaring. But he didn’t stop her.

Didn’t move.

She rode him mercilessly—faster now, each bounce sloppy and deep, the drag of his dick along her walls making her cry out. Her thighs slapped against his hips, and his hands fisted in the sheets like he was holding on for dear life.

“You like being used?” she panted, nails raking down his chest, “Big bad Killmonger letting a bitch ride him like a toy?”

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Eyes rolled back, lips parted, he was panting hard now. Sweat beaded down his temple, jaw twitching as he fought the urge to take control again. He wasn’t used to this—being made to feel this good and this helpless.

“Don’t cum yet,” she mocked him, voice laced with a smile.

“Shiiit,” he grit out, thighs jerking beneath her.

She leaned forward, pressing her chest to his, lips at his ear.

“Beg for it.”

His hand shot up to the back of her neck, lips brushing hers, voice low and rough.

Please.

That was all it took.

But it wasn’t that easy.

He growled, not from pleasure—but from defiance. His hand on her neck tightened just enough to remind her who he usually was, and his gold-lined teeth flashed in challenge.

“You buggin’,” he muttered, biting down on his bottom lip as she clenched around him, “Think I’ma let a lil thing like you—”

She cut him off with a sharp squeeze to his throat.

“I said beg.”

Her tone dropped into something molten, velvet with an edge of command. She shifted her weight forward, hips grinding with purpose—slow, circular, deep—each roll hitting that spot that made his abs seize and his eyes flutter.

“You always run shit, huh? Got your little rules. Got bitches on leashes. But look at you now,” she purred, licking up the column of his throat, “Trapped under me. Pussy got you quiet.”

He grunted through clenched teeth, body taut, hands twitching like he wanted to flip her over—but didn’t. Couldn’t.

Not when her grip was around his throat, not when her pussy was milking him so perfectly he was already twitching inside her.

“Mmm…oh, you feel that?” she taunted, voice all sticky heat and filth, “You close, huh? So fuckin’ close I bet your balls are tight. Bet you could bust right now and embarrass yourself.”

He groaned, a ragged, primal sound, and she smiled—dark and triumphant.

She eased off his throat just a little and slapped his cheek—light, but enough to make his eyes snap open.

“Tell me you need it.”

He didn’t answer. Jaw clenched. Sweat slicking his abs.

So she bore down on him hard—pussy tightening, hips rolling, body dropping until she was flush against him. She circled her hips once. Twice. Squeezed around him like a fist.

“Say it, Erik,” she whispered, her mouth brushing his, “Say please.”

He cursed under his breath, head falling back, throat exposed like a man about to break.

She licked a stripe up his neck, then bit down just under his jaw.

“Say it.”

And then—finally, through grit teeth and pure torment:

“…Please…FUCK.”

She slammed down hard one final time and came with a cry, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders. He grunted beneath her, body jerking, hands finally grabbing her hips tight as he came deep inside her—long, hot, and messy.

When it was over, she collapsed on top of him, slick and trembling, both of them heaving.

He was the first to speak.

“…Aight,” he huffed, voice raw, “That shit was disrespectful.”

She laughed against his neck.

“You loved it.”

His hand slid up her thigh, gripping her ass with a growl, “Yeah, but don’t get used to it, ma. Next time, I’m tying you down.”

[inkdrippeddreams]

Are u ever gonna come back and finish the adonis and athena fic?😭✨️

Hi!! Yes I will be coming back to finish it! I got really bad writers block over the summer, and then I just started my last year of undergrad so I’ve been busy, but I’ll be finishing it soon! A lot of it is already done so If I need to split into parts I will!

[saradika]

— stars & space dividers (sun edition)

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please like or reblog if you use 💕 [moon edition]

[ang3lofdivinity]

And these as well! (I’m using one for an upcoming fic!)

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Blackline.

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

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

Part Five

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

The room was hushed, the kind of hush that only comes after something holy. Dawn hadn’t fully broken, but the sky through the high window had softened into a dusty gray-blue. The sheets smelled of him—warm skin, faint bourbon, a thread of smoke and something deeper, like cloves pressed between old pages.

Violet stirred.

She was still nude, tucked beneath the heavy weight of Smoke’s dark sheets, and her body ached with the afterglow of the night before. Her thighs were tender, lips swollen. She felt claimed in the best way—not ruined, not marked—but remembered. His arm was slung heavy around her waist, palm resting possessively against the curve of her lower back. He lay behind her, shirtless, breath warm at her nape, the rise and fall of his chest slow and steady in sleep.

She turned slightly in his hold, shifting onto her side to face him, careful not to wake him.

He was still.

His long lashes were dark against his cheekbones, his mouth relaxed, slightly parted. The muscles of his chest and shoulders were softened by sleep, but even in rest, he looked powerful—the kind of man carved by real work, real hunger, and long silences. A faint scar slashed near his collarbone. Another peeked from under the edge of the sheet, faded but jagged like it had once meant something.

Violet lay still for a while, just watching him. Safe in the crook of his arm.

Her fingers itched.

She reached out—softly, carefully—and brushed her knuckles against his jaw. He didn’t stir.

She touched his lips next, feather-light. His breath ghosted against her fingertips.

Her hand drifted lower. Along the slope of his throat, down the broad plane of his chest, pausing at the dip between his pectorals, where the skin warmed into something more vulnerable. She traced the edge of his ribs… then found it—that spot.

That tender, secret space just beneath his ribs, where breath lived shallow and quick.

Her fingers brushed it.

He groaned.

It wasn’t sharp—more like a low sound from the belly. A warning and a want, all at once.

Violet gasped and jerked her hand back, instinctively curling her body against his in apology.

His voice came a moment later, still thick with sleep.

“Don’t stop.”

She blinked. His eyes were still closed.

“Don’t…don’t stop?” she whispered.

“Mmhmm.”

His voice was rough, gravelly—deeper in the morning, like it had been dragged through bourbon and dreams.

“Feels good when you touch me like that, girl.”

One arm tightened around her waist. The other lifted, brushing gently down her spine. His fingers splayed across her back and began to move, slow, warm, tender —rubbing soft circles like he was calming her or himself.

“Didn’t think I’d sleep at all after last night,” he murmured, voice lazy, “But you…you wore me out, sugar. Ain’t even had you fully yet.”

Violet’s lips parted, but no words came.

Her hand returned to his chest. She traced again—slow this time, more confident. He hummed low in approval, eyes still shut, face softened into something she hadn’t yet seen from him in the light: peace.

He pulled her in closer, breath ghosting over her temple.

“You keep that up, I ain’t lettin’ you leave this bed,” he whispered.

“Maybe I don’t want to,” she whispered back.

He smiled against her hair.

“Good.”

She felt her breath catch. But his hand didn’t push or pull—it simply invited. Violet shifted slightly in the sheets, and Smoke opened his eyes just enough to see her face in the soft gray morning. Then, without a word, he reached up and gently brushed a curl from her cheek, the back of his knuckles ghosting her skin.

“C’mere, baby.”

He guided her onto his chest, coaxing her to straddle him. She moved with hesitation—still nude, still blushing—but obeyed, limbs trembling slightly as she settled atop his waist. He was warm beneath her, all sinew and slow breath, wearing nothing but soft cotton boxers and the scent of sleep and her sex.

Her curls tumbled forward, framing her face.

Smoke leaned up slightly and kissed her—soft at first, reverent, letting her linger in it. Then deeper. Her blush bloomed across her high cheeks and the warm brown of her chest, blooming down her throat like syrup over copper.

“Damn,” he whispered between kisses, “You glow when you blush…You know that?”

She tried to look away, but he caught her chin, tilting it back toward him.

“Ain’t nothin’ to hide here.”

He kissed her again, and when they pulled apart, he kept her close—his hands roaming her thighs, her hips, not to claim her but to learn her.

Then his voice dipped lower. Curious. Honest.

“Tell me your full name,” he said, voice low and curious.

She hesitated, fingers tracing a soft line over his chest.

“Violet Elanora James.”

He watched her a moment longer, then asked gently, “You always gone by Violet?”

Her gaze dropped, and a small smile touched her lips. One laced with memory, not amusement.

“My grandmother used to call me Lula-Bee.”

“Lula-Bee,” he repeated, letting it settle on his tongue.

She nodded, her voice soft, “She said bees were sacred. Messengers between this world and the next. Lula-Bee was her name for me. Meant I was sweet… and not to be messed with.”

Smoke’s thumb brushed the curve of her jaw, tender.

“She saw you true. She sounds like she was somethin’ special.”

Violet smiled then, quiet but whole.

“She was.”

Her voice thinned, and the air between them turned quiet. When she spoke again, it was laced with something aching.

“She passed when I was fifteen. After that…things got real bad.”

He didn’t ask how.

Didn’t need to.

Just shifted beneath her, his hand steady at the nape of her neck.

“That why you came here? To Little Rock?”

Violet nodded once, then she spoke, “I needed to get away. South Carolina ain’t…safe for girls like me. Not when the ones who supposed to protect you are the ones who—”

Her voice caught. Broke off.

Smoke didn’t press. He just slid his palm to her back, warm and grounding.

“You got out,” he said gently, “That’s what matters now.”

She breathed in deep, let it settle in her ribs.

“What about you?” she asked softly, “Where you from?”

Smoke leaned his head back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded now as he looked up at her like she was a secret he’d been waiting for.

“Clarksdale,” he said, “Mississippi born. Fought in the war when I was barely grown. Came back with hands that shake and a temper I bury in work.”

She nodded, listening.

“…Chicago after that. Ran with men who made more enemies than friends. Came down here with my brother to build something new. Ain’t been touched by much good since…”

Smoke met Violet’s eyes, then his voice dropped quieter.

“Till you.”

Violet’s breath hitched again.

“Elijah. That’s my name. Elijah Moore. Folks call me Smoke.”

“It suits you,” she spoke with a hushed tone, “You burn slow.”

He smiled at that—crooked and soft.

Then his voice turned serious. Steady.

“I want somethin’, Violet. And I don’t take nothin’ without askin’.”

She straightened a little on his chest, her hands still on his skin.

“When I say you mine…I don’t mean I own you. I mean I see you. And I want you to be my woman.”

The air between them went still. She stared at him, lips parted. No one had ever asked her like that. Not as if she mattered. Not as if the answer mattered.

Her voice was soft, but it didn’t shake.

“I’d love to.”

Smoke exhaled, then smiled again—slow, warm, something private behind it.

“Good.”

His hands slid up her thighs again, resting at her hips.

“If you alright wit’ it…I wanna give you lessons.”

“Lessons?” she echoed.

“Not just sex. Not just touch. I mean real ones. How to open up. How to trust what you feel. How to let me in, bit by bit.”

She swallowed.

“You want to teach me?”

“Nah,” he said, “I want to learn you.”

He leaned up and kissed her again—longer this time, deeper, like sealing something.

“Lesson one,” he whispered against her mouth, “Don’t be afraid of what you want. Not here. Not with me.”

The windows were still dark, the first blush of dawn just threatening the edges of the sky. Smoke sat against the headboard now, legs spread, one big hand cupping the curve of her ass beneath the sheets, the other dragging slowly up her spine. He still wore his boxers, but her heat pressed against him so hot and wet he could feel her through the fabric.

“You tryna kill me this mornin’, little one?” he muttered against her mouth.

Violet’s hips rocked once, slow.

“Just…just want you…”

Her voice was breathless, sweet.

He groaned low, letting his head fall back, fingers gripping her tighter.

“Goddamn.”

He kissed her again—filthy, open-mouthed, tongue stroking deep, slow, as she whimpered into him. His hand slid up to palm her breast, thumb brushing across her nipple until she arched. Her bare skin was warm silk against his. Her ribbon, still tied, trailed lightly against his chest with every shift of her breath.

He tilted his head, dark eyes fixed on her flushed face.

“You my woman?” he asked low, voice dragging like honey poured over smoke.

Violet blinked slow, her lips parted.

He brushed a knuckle up her spine, over her shoulder, then down to cup her breast.

“Huh, little one? You my girl? My baby?”

Her breath trembled.

And then—soft as sugar melting on the tongue…

“Yes…”

That little voice he loved.

That whisper that made him feral.

His hand slid between her thighs, cupping her, not moving yet. Just holding her.

“You gonna let me spoil you?” he rasped, “Treat you like you deserve?”

She nodded—but he lifted her chin.

“Use your words.”

“Yes, sir…”

“That’s right.”

His lips brushed her jaw, then down her throat.

“Gonna be my good girl, huh?”

She whimpered against his mouth, body already rocking without meaning to.

“Yes…”

He slid his hand again—beneath her, between them—his length trapped against his boxers, the only barrier between him and her soaked heat.

“Fuck,” he groaned, grinding up just once, “You feel what you do to me?”

She nodded again, helpless.

And then—

A knock.

Hard. Twice.

“Elijah?” came Stack’s voice through the door, “Nigga, You up?”

Smoke let out a long, guttural groan.

Violet startled, chest rising fast, but he kept one hand on her back, steadying her.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, “You should answer.”

Smoke kissed her forehead, then reached down to pull the blanket high over her body. His palm lingered on her bare thigh before he pulled away.

“You just stay under that sheet. I’ll be right back.”

She nodded, curling into the pillow, breath still shaky.

Smoke yanked on his slacks and crossed the room barefoot, chest bare, hair slightly tousled from her hands and sleep.

He opened the door.

Stack stood there, one brow cocked, arms crossed, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Stack said, eyes flicking past his brother’s shoulder, “You tied up with that pretty little thing wearin’ a satin bow?”

Smoke didn’t blink.

“Go on.”

“I’m just sayin’—don’t let me stop you. Girl looks like a prayer somebody forgot to say.”

Smoke shut the door partway behind him, stepping into the office and letting it click shut to block Violet from view.

“What you need?” he asked flatly.

Stack leaned against the desk, still grinning.

“Came to ask if you still planned to visit that preacher about the numbers. He’s been takin’ more than his bite lately.”

“Yeah,” Smoke muttered, running a hand over his jaw, “I’m gonna head out soon. Ain’t gonna ask him twice.”

Stack nodded.

“Also asked Clyde to send word if he got anything back on Felix. But he ain’t back yet from the stakeout.”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“And Mercy?”

Stack’s smirk faded a touch.

“Hit her up this mornin’. Told her if she knew anything, now’s the time to start talkin’. Said she might swing by later.”

Smoke cracked his knuckles.

“Good. We need eyes everywhere.”

“Mhm.” Stack grinned again, “But right now, you look like you need somethin’ else. Somethin’ sweet.”

He tried to glance back at the bedroom door.

“You so much as peek, I’ll break your fuckin’ fingers,” Smoke muttered.

Stack laughed.

“Man, I’m just glad she got you smilin’ like that.”

Smoke didn’t smile.

Not really.

But he didn’t deny it either.

The office door clicked shut behind him. Smoke stood still for a beat, shoulders tense, jaw ticking. Then he exhaled slow, ran a hand down his face, and turned back to the bedroom. She was lying where he left her—under the sheets, tucked warm, but her eyes were on the door the whole time. Watching. Waiting.

He crossed the room in three strides.

Sat down on the edge of the bed.

And didn’t speak right away.

He just reached for her.

Violet sat up, the sheet falling softly from her chest. She was still bare, but didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide. Smoke’s fingers slid around the back of her neck, ribbon grazing his knuckles, and pulled her forehead to his.

Their breath mingled—slow, even, warm.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She nodded.

“You sure?”

Another small nod.

His hands slid down to her waist, thumbs tracing the curve of her skin.

“I’m sorry I gotta leave you like this.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

“It ain’t,”

She blushed, lips parting—but he kissed her before she could answer.

Not hungry.

Not greedy.

Just…home.

Smoke stood from the bed, still half-dressed and reluctant to leave her.

He looked back at her once, jaw working.

Then he softened.

“I’ll be back for you.”

Not if. Not maybe.

Just will.

She watched him as he moved into the bathroom, heard the water run. The clink of his toothbrush in the cup. The soft scrape of bristles. Then the low, wet sweep of pomade and comb through hair. He did it fast, efficient—but still took time to make himself presentable. She caught glimpses of him in the mirror: shirtless, powerful, focused. When he came back out, he was tucking in his dark button-down. Slipping into black slacks. A belt. The shoulder holster last.

She stayed quiet, clutching the sheet.

He leaned down, pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Use my shower if you want. Whatever you need.”

He looked at her—really looked—as if he wanted to burn the image into his mind.

Then he was gone.

Violet didn’t move right away.

She listened to the sound of the door shutting. The low creak of his office floorboards. Then nothing.

Just silence.

And the scent of him in the sheets.

She rose slowly, padding barefoot into his bathroom. Warm steam filled the space, laced with the sharp, clean scent of his soap and shaving cream.

She stepped into the shower. Let it run hot.

His scent stayed on her skin afterward—mixed with her own—and when she towel-dried and returned to the bedroom, she didn’t reach for her own clothes.

She went to his closet.

Button-downs. Slacks. Suspenders. Holsters. Everything in its place.

She picked a dark one—black cotton, soft and worn.

It hung off her frame like a memory, swallowing her arms and stopping mid-thigh. But it smelled like him.

It made her feel…safe.

She drifted into his office next, the wood warm beneath her feet, her hands trailing across his desk. Papers. Maps. A half-burnt cigar in the tray. She didn’t touch much.

Just took it in.

This was his space.

And for the first time, she was in it.

She stepped into the hall just as someone rounded the corner—

Cordelia.

The older woman slowed to a stop, eyes flicking over Violet in Smoke’s shirt, the fresh glow on her skin, the dampness still clinging to the ends of her curls.

A pause.

A look.

Then—

“Sleep good, baby girl?” Cordelia asked, smooth but sharp.

Violet’s cheeks flushed pink.

But she lifted her chin.

“Yes, ma’am.”

That answer was enough.

Cordelia let her pass.

No judgment in her gaze—just a flicker of amusement, maybe even a little approval.

The hallway carried more eyes.

Violet padded barefoot down the corridor, Smoke’s black shirt swallowing her frame, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, the fabric brushing mid-thigh with every step. Her damp curls hung down her back, a few still clinging to her neck.

She passed Peaches, leaning in the doorway of one of the upstairs sitting rooms, sipping from a chipped teacup.

Peaches didn’t speak.

She just offered Violet a soft, sleepy smile—gentle, not nosy, the kind of look that said: I see you, girl. I hope he was kind.

Violet smiled back, barely.

Odessa, on the other hand, made no effort to hide the way her eyes narrowed.

She stood farther down the hall, one manicured hand on her hip, silk robe tied too tight. Her gaze flicked from Violet’s bare legs to the way the shirt hung off her shoulder.

“Hmph,” she muttered, low but pointed, “Guess we lettin’ anybody walk around in management’s clothes now.”

Peaches shot Odessa a look.

“Ain’t nobody askin’ you,” Peaches spoke, not loud—but loud enough.

Violet didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t even blink.

She kept her head high, hands tugging the cuff of Smoke’s shirt where his cologne still lingered, sweet and smoky and hers.

And even though her mouth stayed neutral…

Her eyes sparkled like something precious had been hidden behind them all night.

She slipped into her room. Closed the door.

And for the first time since he left, she smiled wide.

The shirt was too big, the sleeves rolled up past her wrists, but it smelled like him.

Smoke.

Like tobacco and cedarwood soap. Like warmth and hands that never touched without asking. Like a man who said less and meant more. Violet let her fingers trail the buttons absently, curling into the soft cotton at her waist.

The room was quiet.

Just her breath.

The birds beyond the shutter.

The tug of something old and unfinished pulling from beneath the bed. She reached for the suitcase—that scuffed little thing with worn brass corners and a faded strip of ribbon tied to the handle.

She hadn’t opened it since arriving.

Not really.

She’d tucked it beneath the bed like a secret, hoping it would stay quiet. But this morning, her hands moved without asking permission.

She clicked the latches open.

The hinges creaked.

Inside, layers of her past folded like pressed laundry. The old blue scarf her grandmother used to wear while cooking. A dried bundle of herbs wrapped in red thread. A cracked mirror piece wrapped in flannel. A small cloth pouch she hadn’t dared open since the night she ran—its weight familiar, heavy with something unspoken.

She touched it, just once. Didn’t lift it.

Then closed the suitcase halfway again, lips parted, breath held.

Not yet.

They don’t get to know all of it yet.

Not even me.

Violet sat back on the bed, the suitcase at her feet, and tugged Smoke’s shirt tighter around herself.

It swallowed her in the best way.

Not like something meant to erase her.

But like armor she didn’t have to earn.

She let her hand fall to the space beside her—where his body the one night.

Where his arms had held her like she wasn’t breakable, only precious.

Is this what safety feels like?

She blinked up at the ceiling, eyes stinging.

Not from sadness.

Not even fear.

Just…relief.

For the first time in years, she wasn’t running.

Not from men.

Not from voices.

Not from what she’d done.

She was just here.

And seen.

She closed her eyes.

Let her hand rest over her heart.

Whatever this thing is between me and him…

I want to see where it goes.

Even if I ain’t brave enough to say it out loud yet.

Even if I’ve never had nothin’ last.

Even if I don’t know how to be someone’s woman…

I think I could learn with him.

The walls of the preacher’s office were paneled in dark wood and choked with dust. A yellowed photograph of a revival tent hung crooked above a cabinet of ledgers and hymnals. The air smelled like paper, old cologne, and sour sweat.

Reverend Leonard Ellis sat behind a mahogany desk that looked too rich for a man of God.

Smoke didn’t sit.

He stood just inside the door, coat still on, shadow cast long in the low lamplight.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched the man fidget behind his papers.

“Brother Moore…” Reverend Ellis said, voice uneven, “This a surprise.”

Smoke said nothing.

The silence settled thick, like dust before a storm.

“I, uh…I was gonna send word about the numbers take. We had a slight fluctuation—some of the sisters missed their plays this week, and—”

“Fluctuation?”

Smoke’s voice dropped like a body into water.

“You runnin’ the flock dry, and you call it a fluctuation?”

Ellis swallowed.

“I—look now, I never meant to short you. Just a few extra dollars, here and there, for the building fund. We got a leak in the roof. The children’s room—”

Smoke stepped forward. One step. Then another.

Boot heels on hardwood.

“We agreed on twenty percent. You been pullin’ forty-two. Some weeks, more.”

“Times are tight,” the preacher said, raising his hands, “These people…they trust me to handle what they give.”

“And you abuse that trust.”

Smoke moved behind the desk, slow, steady, like a shadow folding over the room.

Ellis went still in his chair.

“It’s a church. People know me. You take me out and the whole town starts askin’ questions.”

Smoke reached into his coat.

Ellis flinched—but Smoke didn’t draw steel.

He pulled a handkerchief.

A white one.

Neat. Folded. Starched.

He stepped close.

Took the corner of the cloth and wiped the sweat from the reverend’s brow. Careful. Gentle.

“I ain’t takin’ you out, preacher.”

He leaned in close, voice like smoke curling under a door.

“You gon’ fall asleep at this desk. One night. With a little too much communion wine. Maybe a bad heart. People’ll cry, sing, bury you good.”

Ellis didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“But you’ll know,” Smoke whispered, “Right before you go cold, you’ll know it wasn’t wine that did it.”

He folded the handkerchief. Tucked it into the reverend’s breast pocket like a final blessing.

Then he turned to leave.

Stopped at the door.

“You got one more Sunday to make it right.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t need one.

The tires hummed steady beneath the truck.

Smoke leaned back in the seat, arm resting out the window, the wind tugging at the loose ends of his sleeves. The road stretched quiet beneath the slanting golden light, dust kicking up behind him in long ribbons.

The preacher had folded like dry paper.

Didn’t even take much. Just a few carefully chosen words, a glance at the steel on Smoke’s hip, and that low voice that promised worse than bullets.

Handled.

But his mind wasn’t on that now.

It was on her.

On that slip of a woman curled in his sheets that morning.

On her whisper—“yes”—when he asked if she was his.

The ribbon at her throat.

The way she straddled him, bare and blooming.

That little smile she tried to hide when he kissed her temple before leaving.

Mine, he thought.

He passed a small roadside stall—painted red, shaded with a patchwork awning. A Black woman with silver braids sat on a stool surrounded by bouquets tied in twine.

He almost drove past.

But then his eyes caught the soft flash of purple bundled in the middle bucket.

Violets.

He eased the truck off the road.

Didn’t say much. Just pointed.

The woman smiled.

“She must be somethin’ real special.”

Smoke only nodded.

Paid in cash.

The house buzzed with its usual rhythm, but everything slowed when Smoke walked in. He carried the violets loose in one hand, the stems still damp. His boots hit the stairs one at a time—solid, unhurried—but every girl in earshot paused.

Odessa leaned on the railing just to watch.

Cordelia, sipping her drink from the bar, raised a brow but said nothing.

Peaches gave a soft little hum from behind her book.

By now?

They all knew.

He was going to her.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t need to.

Violet’s door was closed, but unlocked. He opened it gently and stepped inside. She was at her vanity, brushing her hair out in the soft late light. Still barefoot, still wearing his black button-down—it hung low on her thighs, sleeves rolled, the collar slipping off one shoulder.

Smoke stopped for a beat.

Just watched her.

Then crossed the room, slow and silent. She didn’t hear him at first—until she felt the heat of his body behind her, the way his lips brushed the side of her neck, soft and deliberate.

She gasped quietly—then smiled, relaxing back into him.

“You came back…”

“Told you I would.”

He reached around her.

Held out the violets, stems wrapped in brown paper.

Her breath caught.

“For me?”

“For you.”

“They’re beautiful…”

“Not as much as you.”

She turned slowly on the stool, took them into her hands, cradling them like something sacred.

Smoke brushed her curls back from her face.

“You said you were mine,” he spoke gently, “So I brought you yours.”

Violet stared at the violets in her hands for a long moment.

They were a little imperfect—a few petals slightly curled, the stems uneven—but that made them more beautiful. More real. She stood, crossed the room to the corner where a small white pitcher sat on her windowsill. It had once held sweet tea and lemon slices. Now it held water and possibility.

She placed the flowers inside.

Arranged them gently.

The light caught the petals—deep purple velvet, soft as dusk.

She stepped back and looked at them. Looked at Smoke.

“No one’s ever brought me flowers before,” she whispered.

Smoke leaned back against the edge of the vanity, arms folded, watching her like a man watching a candle catch.

“Then they ain’t been lookin’ at you right.”

She came to him, slow.

Stood between his knees and rested her hands on his shoulders. He let his palms slide up the backs of her thighs beneath the shirt, not to stir her—just to hold her. Her breath slowed as he pulled her in closer.

“Did everything go alright?” she asked.

“Handled.”

“You okay?”

He nodded, then paused.

“You make it hard to leave.”

She smiled.

“You make it hard to wait.”

He chuckled once, deep in his chest.

Then went quiet again.

His fingers traced slow, lazy circles along her skin.

“You ever think about leavin’ this place?” he asked after a moment.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “But I don’t know where I’d go. Not when I feel safest right here…”

“If I asked you to come somewhere—with me…would you think on it?”

She met his eyes.

“Are you askin’ now?”

“Not yet,” he said, “But I’m gettin’ close.”

The light dimmed behind her violets.

And in that hush, nothing more needed to be said.

They didn’t undress.

Didn’t touch each other with urgency.

Instead, they lay side by side atop her quilt, his shirt still on her body, her cheek against his chest, his arm folded beneath her head. One of his hands rested lightly on her hip, thumb moving in idle strokes, as if he needed the contact to stay steady.

The windows had gone gray.

Outside, the house stirred toward evening—distant music, faint laughter, the hum of something familiar.

But in Violet’s room, it was still.

No need to speak.

Smoke’s eyes closed eventually, not in sleep, but in rest. That rare kind of stillness that only she seemed to coax from him.

Her fingers played lightly with the chain around his neck, curling it between her thumb and forefinger.

“When you’re with me,” she whispered, “everything feels quiet.”

Smoke opened his eyes.

Turned his head.

And pressed a kiss to her crown.

“Then I’ll keep comin’ back to you.”

Meanwhile, The knock came just after sundown. Stack was alone, leaned over the desk, shuffling papers when Clyde cracked the door open—his silhouette edged with dusk and sweat.

“You said to come straight to you,” Clyde muttered, stepping inside.

Stack straightened.

Eyes already narrowed.

“You get somethin’?”

Clyde nodded.

“Saw Felix myself. Passed through the south end. Ain’t just him. He got new men.”

“New?”

“Big. Mean. Like they don’t speak much English. One of ‘em carried a knife bigger than my damn arm.”

Stack nodded once, taking it in.

“What else?”

Clyde hesitated.

“He had a woman with him.”

Stack stilled.

“What woman?”

“Dunno her name. Never seen her before,” Clyde said, voice dropping slightly. “But she wasn’t like the rest of ‘em.”

“How you mean?”

“She moved like she floated,” he said, “Didn’t blink much. Didn’t speak. Just stared. I was across the street, but I swear she knew I was there.”

Stack raised an eyebrow.

“She saw you?”

“Not exactly. But I felt it. Like she looked through the wall. Right through me. Made the hair on my neck stand straight up.”

He shifted, clearly unsettled.

“Felt like…like I was bein’ watched even after I walked away.”

Stack’s jaw clenched.

Slow. Heavy.

“You tell Smoke yet?”

“No. Was waitin’ on your say-so.”

Stack stepped away from the desk, ran a hand down his face, then reached for the small switchblade he always kept tucked beside his ledgers.

“Alright.”

“You want me to send word?”

“No,” Stack said, “Let him have a little more peace tonight.”

He slipped the blade into his pocket.

“He’ll need it.”

Violet lay soft and spent beneath the sheets.

Smoke had taken his time with her—his mouth pulling climax after climax from her trembling body until her thighs twitched and her voice cracked from moaning his name. She’d fallen asleep bare but glowing, her cheek against his chest for a while before she turned over, the satin ribbon loose at her throat.

He could still taste her.

But duty never slept.

Smoke rose quietly, dressing in the dark—black slacks, crisp shirt half-buttoned, holster strapped over his shoulders. He watched her a moment longer, watched her chest rise and fall, one hand curled against her lips like she was still dreaming of him.

Then he left.

The Blackline was still alive, even at this hour.

Downstairs, blues music played low and slow, the kind that dripped through the floorboards like molasses. Laughter echoed from the parlor. A few patrons lingered in the corners, their voices hushed, sticky with drink and desire.

Smoke moved through it like a shadow.

All smooth muscle and silence.

He pushed open the office door without knocking.

Inside, Peaches was straddled across Stack’s lap, laughing soft, her silk robe barely hanging on. She held a half-smoked cigar between two fingers and was tugging gently at Stack’s tie, whispering something that made him smirk.

“You always smell like trouble,” she said, brushing her lips near his cheek.

“Good,” Stack drawled, puffing smoke toward the ceiling, “Trouble’s my favorite sin.”

Then his eyes lifted.

“Alright, baby. Give us the room.”

Peaches pouted but obeyed, stretching as she slid off his lap—slow, teasing, soft thighs flashing in the lamplight.

“You boys and your whispers,” she teased, “I know you love me more than bullets.”

“We love you ‘cause you don’t ask questions,” Stack replied, deadpan.

Peaches giggled, kissed his jaw, and sauntered past Smoke on her way out.

The door clicked shut.

And the room shifted.

Smoke didn’t sit.

He stood by the desk, arms loose at his sides, jaw set.

“Talk to me.”

Stack stubbed out the cigar and leaned forward.

“Clyde got eyes on Felix. South end. He’s movin’ careful. Quiet.”

“Who with?”

“New muscle,” Stack said, “Mean. Doesn’t talk. One of ‘em had a blade longer than my forearm.”

He paused, serious now.

“He’s got a woman with him.”

Smoke’s gaze flicked sharp.

“What kind of woman?”

“Clyde don’t know. Said she didn’t feel right. Gave him chills. Said she looked like she could see through walls—like she already knew who he was.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

“Clyde ain’t the type to scare easy.”

“Exactly.”

“Mercy?”

“I sent word. Said she’s thinkin’ on it.”

Smoke scoffed, low.

“She better think fast.”

He moved to the window, looking out.

“You feel it?” he asked quietly, “That weight in the air?”

Stack nodded once.

“Something’s comin’. And it’s bringin’ things that don’t bleed easy.”

Mercy hadn’t sent word.

Not a letter. Not a whisper.

And that silence crawled under Smoke’s skin like a slow itch.

He didn’t like waiting.

Not when the weight of something unnatural pressed thicker in the air. Not when he knew a name but still didn’t have a face for the storm coming.

But the next night, he let himself focus on her.

Violet was working the main floor.

Moving through the velvet haze with a tray balanced on one hand and a shine in her step that hadn’t been there a week ago. She wore a soft, clinging dress the color of dusty wine—thin-strapped, low in the back, hugging her curves like silk poured over honey. Her ribbon was tied tight at her throat, but her shoulders?

Set back. Chin lifted.

He noticed it immediately.

The change.

The quiet confidence in the way she moved—no longer uncertain, no longer hiding. His shirt was gone, but the way she carried herself? Still wrapped in him.

And he watched.

From his corner, cigar in one hand, drink untouched.

Smoke didn’t just watch her—he tracked her.

Like a wolf waiting to be fed again. Every time she passed his table, he reached. Fingers on her wrist. A hand at the small of her back. Once, he pulled her in mid-step, leaned close enough that his lips brushed her ear.

“You keep walkin’ like that, I’m gon’ take you right here in front of everybody.”

Her breath caught. She kept walking.

Next time she came around? He hooked two fingers in her garter strap as she passed. Gave a slow tug.

“You lettin’ all these men see what’s mine?”

She turned her head. Eyes sparkling. Said nothing.

He grinned around his cigar.

Next time? He pulled her all the way down into his lap.

“You like servin’ drinks in this dress?” he whispered, one hand tracing up the inside of her thigh beneath the tray.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You look like temptation in velvet.”

He let her go.

Eventually.

But every time she returned? She was more sure. More fluid. And he could see it now—the beginning of her knowing what it meant to belong to him.

Stack watched it all from across the room with a slow shake of his head.

“You gonna teach her those lessons soon or you just gonna fuck her dumb one night and forget to explain?”

Smoke didn’t even turn.

“Lessons come after Mercy answers.”

“If Mercy answers.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked.

“She will.”

His eyes followed Violet one more time as she disappeared behind a sheer curtain, laughter trailing after her like perfume.

“She has to.”

And she did.

The Blackline wasn’t quiet, but it had settled.

The girls were winding down from a steady run of patrons. Dishes clinked softly in the kitchen. Laughter hummed from a back hallway. Somewhere upstairs, a radio played low.

Smoke and Stack were still waiting on word.

It had been two days.

The air was thick with restlessness.

And then the door opened.

Mercy Dubois didn’t knock.

She never had.

Didn’t need to.

Her name opened doors just by being whispered.

She stepped through the front entrance like a storm dressed in satin—a tall, commanding Black woman in her early forties, with warm bronze skin and hair curled into perfect waves beneath a sculpted black hat pinned with a silk veil that didn’t dare touch her face. Her gloves were lace, her coat dark blue velvet, and her walk—

Slow. Measured. Like every step remembered something worth avenging.

A cigarette sat between her fingers, untouched, like she only held it to give her hands something soft while her mind stayed sharp.

The girls noticed her immediately.

Cordelia, cleaning glasses behind the bar, froze.

Peaches blinked, stood up straighter, smoothing her robe.

Odessa narrowed her eyes from across the room but said nothing.

Mercy gave none of them a glance.

She once worked the big houses in New Orleans and Chicago—headlined on cards where her name shone in gold beside men who thought they ran things. She’d seen the best of them fall. The worst of them burn. And when the glitz turned rough, when vaudeville gave way to bootleg bars and blood money, Mercy walked out in full light and built her own damn name.

Mercy ran Swansong.

A brothel-turned-salon on the far edge of Little Rock, carved out of an old French boarding house with wraparound porches and white-painted shutters. Men came for the company. Women came for protection. And Mercy kept them all safe.

Her rules were simple:

No sloppiness. No begging. No disrespect.

If you worked for Mercy, you dressed sharp, spoke clean, and walked like every room owed you something.

She entered Stack’s office without knocking.

The twins were already inside—Smoke seated near the window, Stack at the edge of his desk, his cigar halfway to ash.

Mercy didn’t sit.

Not yet.

She peeled off her gloves, finger by finger, then slipped her coat from her shoulders and laid it neatly across the back of the extra chair.

“I know who’s backin’ Booker.”

Both brothers stiffened.

“It’s Felix,” she said, “No doubt in my mind.”

“You sure?” Smoke asked, voice low.

“Seen his men near Booker’s spot twice this week. Too clean. Too quiet. That ain’t local muscle.”

Stack let out a slow breath.

“Goddamn.”

“I don’t got proof in hand,” she added, “But I will. Soon. Just wanted to look you both in the eye and say—watch your backs.”

She finally sat, crossed her legs, and reached for the bottle of bourbon on Stack’s shelf like she knew exactly where everything was.

“You pourin’, or should I?”

Stack cracked a smile and took the bottle from her.

“You want small or generous?”

“I came all this way, baby. Make it generous.”

He poured. She sipped. Then—

“How’s business been otherwise? You boys still runnin’ this place like a holy house for sinners?”

“Always,” Stack said, “And speakin’ of sin—Player’s Ball comin’ up.”

“You plannin’ to show face?” Mercy asked.

“Might,” Stack said, “If Smoke don’t tie me to a truck axle first.”

“Ain’t makin’ no promises,” Smoke muttered.

“Mm.” She smiled into her glass.

“We’ll be headin’ up to Chicago soon anyway,” Stack added, “Got a man from Vincenzo’s crew—said he’s got hardware. We want eyes on it.”

“Tommys?” Mercy asked.

“And then some.”

“Good,” she said, “You’ll need ‘em.”

Her tone shifted again—soft, but pointed.

“Whatever that woman is…I don’t like her scent. She don’t blink. She don’t breathe. And she don’t belong.”

“You find out what she is,” Smoke said, “you come straight to us.”

Mercy nodded once.

“I’ll bring you more once I know for sure. Until then—watch your backs. Both of you. Don’t trust shadows just ‘cause they been there a while.”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Mercy finished her bourbon and set the glass down neat.

Mercy stood, slipped her gloves back on with slow, practiced elegance.

No rush.

But no softness either.

She draped her velvet coat over one arm, gave each man a final look—eyes like polished glass, hard enough to reflect something you weren’t ready to face.

“You hear anything strange,” she said, “you don’t ignore it.”

“We won’t,” Stack replied.

She reached the door, paused, then added without turning…

“Some things don’t knock. They just walk in and make themselves at home.”

Then she left.

The door clicked behind her with a sound too final for comfort.

Smoke didn’t move right away.

Neither did Stack.

The silence between them was familiar—not heavy with fear, but with the sharp, quiet calculation of men who’d seen worse and lived to warn about it.

Stack reached for the bourbon, refilled his glass halfway.

“I don’t like it.”

“Me neither.”

“Mercy’s not one to stir shadows unless they move first.”

Smoke stood, paced once, then leaned against the far bookshelf.

“She’s seen somethin’ like this before. That’s what she ain’t sayin’ out loud.”

Stack nodded.

“You believe it?”

“I believe her.”

Stack took a drink, eyes narrowing toward the shut door.

“Felix don’t move like this unless he’s scared or greedy. And if he’s scared, it ain’t us he’s afraid of—it’s whoever’s whisperin’ in that woman’s ear.”

Smoke cracked his knuckles.

“That’s why we wait. Until Mercy brings us more.”

“And if she don’t?”

Smoke looked at him, quiet.

Still.

“Then we burn it down first.”

The morning sun cracked pale over the treeline, the dew still thick on the grass behind The Blackline. Stack stood near the back shed, flipping through a ledger while Clyde and two other men loaded crates onto the truck bed. Smoke stood nearby, sleeves rolled, a fresh cigarette tucked behind his ear, inspecting each crate before it hit the truck.

“He said Vincenzo’s man’ll meet us two days from now,” Stack said, eyes skimming the page. “Armory in the south loop. Quiet, but watched.”

“You trust the contact?” Smoke asked.

“Trust that he wants to get paid.”

Smoke lifted one crate—heavier than it looked—and slid it into the bed with a thud.

“That’ll do.”

Stack closed the book, tucked it under his arm.

“We leave before dawn. Get there, get what we need, get back. No delays.”

Smoke gave a sharp nod.

“Once we’re stocked, I want to rework how we’re coverin’ our south routes. If Felix is watchin’, we can’t keep movin’ weight the same way.”

“I’ll draw it up.”

They didn’t say much else.

Didn’t need to.

They’d moved like this since France.

When silence was safer than doubt, and a plan meant the difference between making it home or digging a shallow grave.

The house had gone quiet by the time The Blackline whined down again.

The crowd had thinned. Most of the girls were in their rooms, slipping out of rouge and into silence. The hallways smelled of rosewater and smoke, faint perfume still lingering in the velvet-draped corners.

Smoke walked with purpose.

Slow. Measured. Starved.

Not for sex.

For her.

He didn’t knock.

He never did.

Violet’s door opened to soft lamplight and stillness.

She sat at her vanity, brushing her hair—wearing nothing but a silk slip and that ribbon he’d tied tighter the night before.

She turned when he entered.

“I was wonderin’ when you’d come.”

“I told you I would.”

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, eyes dragging down her bare legs to where her toes curled against the rug.

“You ready?” he asked low.

“For what?”

“Your lessons.”

Her breath caught.

But she stood.

Smoke didn’t move toward her right away. He just stood there. Watching her. Taking in the curve of her in the low lamplight, the soft cling of her silk slip against her thighs, and the faint shimmer of nervous energy in her fingers as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

“Take a breath,” he said gently.

She did.

“Again.”

She did. He crossed the room slow—all presence, all gravity. And when he stopped in front of her, he lifted a hand and brushed the back of his fingers along her cheek.

“I ain’t here to hurt you, Violet.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“But I am gonna pull things out of you you’ve never said out loud before.”

Her breath hitched.

“I’m gonna teach you to use your voice. Not just moan, not just whimper—speak. Tell me what you want. What you feel. Where it burns.”

She nodded.

He tilted her chin up with a single finger.

“Words, little one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s better.”

He walked her back, step by step, until the backs of her knees hit the bed.

“Slip off your straps.”

Her fingers trembled as she obeyed, letting the thin silk slip down her arms. The fabric caught at her chest for a moment before it fell lower.

She moved to cover herself.

“Don’t,” He caught her wrists in one hand—gently, firmly, “You don’t need to hide from me. Ever.”

Her chest rose with a shaky inhale, her nipples already tightening in the cool air.

“Good,” he said, voice a little rougher now, “Now tell me—how do you feel? Right now.”

“Nervous,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to touch me.”

“Where?”

She blinked.

He waited.

“Say it.”

“My breasts…and lower. Between my thighs.”

“That’s good,” he said, soft and proud, “You doin’ good.”

He kissed her slowly, deeply, and lowered her onto the bed. But he didn’t rush. Tonight wasn’t about taking. It was about teaching her to give. And as he began to touch her—mouth on her neck, hand sliding beneath her slip—he whispered every step into her skin.

“You tell me when it’s too much. You tell me when you need more. And when I ask you somethin’…you don’t nod. You answer. Out loud. You understand?”

“Yes, sir…”

And with that?

The first lesson began.

Violet lowers her eyes instinctively.

“Nah. Look up.”

She does.

“You don’t get to be quiet when I’m giving you this much. You feel somethin’, you name it.”

She swallows, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. We gon’ start easy.”

His fingers gliding down to press gently between her thighs—over the silk, the pressure deliberate.

“Now tell me what that feel like.”

She gasps softly. Her hips twitch, “Warm,” she whispers, “It’s warm. Wet. Throbbing.”

“Where?”

She blushes, “My pussy.”

“Say it again.”

“My pussy.”

“And what it feel like right now?”

She closes her eyes, trembling, “Like it’s open. Needy. It keeps…pulsing.”

“Good girl,” he says, stroking her softly, “Now tell me what it feels like when I press here.”

His thumb applies pressure just above her clit, slow and unrelenting.

She whines, arching, “Tight. Like I’m about to lose it.”

“But you ain’t gon’ lose nothin’. You gon’ tell me everything.”

His fingers circle her now—smooth, consistent, gentle torment.

“Tell me how your nipples feel.”

She moans, voice cracking, “Hard. They’re tingling. I wanna touch ‘em so bad.”

“Do it.”

Her hands rise, trembling, to her breasts. She rolls her thumbs over her nipples and cries out softly.

“Now say what you feel.”

“I feel…full. I feel hot, sir. I feel…like I’m about to break.”

“Keep talking, baby. Stay with me.”

“It feels so deep—it won’t stop—I still feel it—I still feel you—I can’t hold it—I feel it building in my stomach—it’s crawling up—it’s—”

“You wanna cum?”

“Yes, sir. Please. Please let me.”

“Then say it.”

“I want to come for you. Please, I need to come, I can’t—I—”

“You may.”

She shatters—moaning his name, grinding against his hand, voice hoarse, body slick with sweat and satisfaction. But even as she comes, she keeps talking. Telling him how good it feels. Smoke doesn’t stop touching. He draws every ripple out of her, watching her chest heave, eyes flutter, lips part with trembling pleasure.

When it passes, she collapses forward, head on his shoulder, breath shaky.

He kisses her temple.

“That’s how a woman learns to love herself. By tellin’ a man who listens.”

She nods, dazed, glowing. She feels claimed—and powerful in it.

“You spoke so pretty, baby. I ain’t never heard nothin’ sweeter.”

He came for her again, the next evening. She was bare-footed and quiet, her ribbon tied neatly at her neck like she was offering herself in silence. Smoke didn’t speak right away. He just watched her. Let the weight of the day melt off both their shoulders. Then he stepped forward and brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek.

“You sleep good today?”

She nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“That ache gone?”

She flushed, “Some. Still a little bit there.”

He grinned, slow and dark, “Good. I like you a little needy.”

He took her hand and led her to the bed—not to lie down, but to kneel, facing him. Her hands rested in her lap. Her shoulders tense.

“Tonight,” he said, “you gon’ learn how to stay in it. Not run from what you feel.”

She looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“You hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

He leaned down, brushed her lips with his thumb. Then, slowly, he began to undress her—not all the way. Just enough. Robe loose. Panties peeled down. Ribbon still on. He eased her back onto the bed and hovered over her. Their bodies didn’t press yet. Just breath and heat between them. His hand slid down again, finding her still slick, still soft. He touched her with precision—just enough to build pressure without release.

“You remember your lesson?”

She whimpered, “Yes, sir.”

“Then keep your eyes on mine.”

He began to move his fingers, slow and steady. Circling, pressing, stroking.

Her hips twitched, and her eyes fluttered shut.

“Ah—open,” he said.

She opened them. The effort it took to keep them there, on him, made her moan louder.

“You ain’t used to being seen like this, huh?”

She shook her head, breath catching, “No, sir.”

“You gon’ get used to it. ‘Cause I’m gon’ watch you fall apart every damn time.”

She bit her lip. Her legs were trembling.

“Don’t hide your face. Don’t look away. Let me see how pretty your pain is.”

She moaned, louder now—half broken, half in bliss.

Her hand gripped his wrist. Not to stop him. Just to anchor herself.

“Say what you feel.”

“I—it’s so much. I feel—full, sir. Full and empty.”

“Good girl. You hold onto me, I’ll hold you through it.”

His fingers never stopped. Her thighs began to shake harder. Her chest heaved.

And still, he held her gaze.

“You look so damn pretty when you obey,” he said, “Go on, baby. Let go.”

She came with a cry—eyes wide open, locked on his, tears falling down her temples from the sheer intensity of staying present.

Smoke leaned down and kissed her forehead. Then her lips. Then her neck—right at the base of the ribbon.

“You did perfect,” he whispered, “Didn’t hide once. That’s how you love a man with your eyes.”

She sobbed gently—not from sadness, but from the power of being held while falling.

Never spoken. Never scheduled. But every night, as the rooms dimmed and the music softened, Smoke would find her. Always in the same place. Violet’s alcove—a quiet little corner curtained off from the main parlor, where she could sit just beyond the haze of conversation and watch the house with wide, patient eyes.

Some nights she wore silk. Other nights, just the softness of one of his shirts. Her ribbon was always tied. Smoke would walk through the main room like he wasn’t looking for anything—but his eyes always found her. And the moment she felt him near, she’d straighten. Heart racing.

He never said much.

Just held out a hand.

And she always took it.

No hesitation.

No question.

Just trust.

He would lead her through the halls like he owned them.

Like he owned her.

Fingertips brushing her wrist, his grip warm but firm. Sometimes he’d whisper to her on the way to her room—filthy things, low and slow, that made her knees weak before they’d even crossed the threshold.

“You been good today?”

“You ready to learn somethin’ new for me?”

“No, baby. That ain’t how we talk no more. You know so. Or you don’t.”

“I ain’t gonna ask twice tonight, little one. Use your words.”

“Say it better.”

She would falter.

“Go on. Be a good girl. Say it for me.”

She closed her eyes. Swallowed. Then whispered...

“My pussy hurts.”

Smoke’s breath hitched. He stepped back around to face her, dark gaze locked on hers.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he said, low and full of pride. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with sayin’ it. That’s yours. You tell me what it needs, and I’ll listen.”

Every night, a new lesson.

A new command.

A new part of herself pulled gently into the light.

No one asked where they went.

But the girls noticed.

Cordelia smiled more when Violet passed by, a quiet knowing in her gaze.

Peaches offered her tea in the morning and called her “baby girl” with a different tone.

Odessa? Said nothing.

But her stare grew colder.

And Violet?

Violet began to move through the house differently.

Shoulders lifted.

Eyes clear.

She was learning.

And Smoke?

He was teaching her with patience, with precision—and with possession stitched into every soft command.

It got filthier.

The tension rolled off him like heat off asphalt, silent and searing. Jaw locked tight. Shoulders drawn like bowstrings. Every move precise, like he was holding something in. And he was.

His fucking dick.

Big and angry, twitching behind his slacks from the moment the sun broke through the windows each morning to the hush that settled when doors were locked and the house quieted down. It throbbed when he glanced at Felix’s name scribbled in ledgers. When Stack whispered that the guns up in Chicago would arrive late. When Violet passed him a glass of water and her fingers brushed his.

By now, Violet knew the signs. She could read him in a room full of noise—could feel the moment his eyes locked on her like a fuse had lit in his belly. Her own thighs clenched when his voice dipped lower than usual. When his hand brushed the small of her back. When he leaned down, murmuring praise like “good girl” after she walked by in a new slip.

She knew what he needed before he said a word.

Tonight, he didn’t knock.

He opened her door and stepped in slow, jaw flexing. His shirt was half-buttoned, sleeves rolled high, forearms dusted with dirt from the day’s work. His slacks rode low on his hips, and she could see it—the thick length of him bulging, strained, outlined and unmerciful. He didn’t speak. Just looked at her. His breath came through his nose, heavy. Controlled.

Violet rose to her knees on the bed in nothing but a silk chemise, eyes soft and knowing.

“You need it bad, don’t you?” She spoke softly, fidgeting.

Smoke’s jaw ticked. His chest rose and fell once. Then again.

“I’ve been walkin’ ‘round damn near crippled with this dick hard, baby,” he ground out, “Can’t think straight. Can’t sleep. Ain’t even safe to sit down long without it hurtin’.”

Her lips parted, breath catching.

“I—can I help?”

“You gon’ do more than help. Lay back for me.”

Smoke’s voice was low, thick like molasses poured over fire. Violet paused at the edge of the bed, breath caught, heart thudding in her chest.

She knew that tone.

Shirt unbuttoned, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, cigar half-burned in his mouth. But his eyes were already on her like a predator who didn’t need to pounce to consume. Violet eased back onto the mattress, her body bare now, glowing in the amber light of the room.

“Legs open,” Smoke said, stepping closer, his voice barely above a whisper, “Wider. Come on, baby. I want to see all that pretty mess you been hidin’ all damn day while Daddy been busy.”

She obeyed. Slowly, achingly, she spread her thighs—then bent her knees up and held herself open, fingers trembling as they sank into the softness at the crease of her thighs, keeping her pussy bared for him.

And Smoke groaned.

“God…damn,” he breathed, “You don’t even know what you do to me layin’ like this.”

He sank into the chair at the foot of the bed, legs spread, elbows on his knees, just staring.

“Look at you,” he rasped, “Pussy swollen, glistenin’ like you already came three times. That’s for me, huh? You got this wet just knowin’ I was gon’ look at it?”

Violet’s breath hitched. She nodded, cheeks hot, chest rising in fast little pulls.

“Open it a little more, baby. Let me see that hole.”

She spread her fingers, exposing herself fully, and Smoke growled low—an animal sound, deep in his chest.

“There it is. Fuck. Look at that little pussy. Look how pink she is. Drippin’ for me already.”

He stroked himself over his trousers, slow and deliberate, just watching. Dick jumping. Tip sticky. Balls tight.

“Don’t touch it,” he said when her fingers twitched toward her clit, “Not yet. Just hold it open. Let daddy talk to it a while.”

Violet whimpered, thighs shaking with restraint.

“You got the kinda pussy a man lose his whole fuckin’ mind over. I swear. Look at it—all soft, pouty, wet. You leakin’, baby. You know that?”

She bit her lip hard, eyes wide.

“I can see your little hole twitchin’. She want me, don’t she? Want this tongue, this pole, this mouth tellin’ her she mine. Don’t she?” Smoke gripped his girth, “don’t she?”

Smoke leaned forward, eyes locked on the slick between her folds.

“Bet if I spit on it, she’d suck it in like a good girl. Bet if I kissed her, she’d come just from that.”

She whimpered, hips lifting.

“Nah, keep still. I ain’t touched you yet. You just lay there and let me look.”

A bead of slick slipped down from her center to her hole, and Smoke licked his lips.

“Fuck, baby. You keep showin’ me this, I’ma end up down there all night. Tongue in your ass, mouth on your clit, fingers buried so deep you forget your own name.”

She trembled—wide open, drenched, the air thick with heat.

Smoke stood finally, towering over the bed now, gaze dark and heavy.

“You ready for me to ruin it?” he asked, undoing his belt with slow, measured fingers, “Or you want me to keep talkin’ to it ‘til she comes from nothin’?”

Violet whispered, breathless, “Both.”

Smoke smirked, tossed his belt to the side.

“That’s my girl.”

It was late.

The kind of hush that wrapped the house in velvet, the walls breathing slow like they knew what was about to happen. Smoke stood in front of Violet’s bed, hand at his crotch. He hadn’t for a minute—just watched her. Stroked up her thighs. Held her face in his palm like it was something sacred. And now, he looked like a man at the edge.

“I can’t do it no more,” he whispered, voice rough and low, like he’d been biting it back for days, “I been tryin’, baby. Lord knows I have.”

Violet’s breath hitched. She sat up, hair mussed, lips flushed from his earlier kisses. Her thighs still trembled faintly from the last time he’d dropped to his knees and fed from her like a starving man.

He’d already undid his belt slow. Now it’s the button. Eyes still on her.

Her heart galloped.

“I’ve been keepin’ my big boy in,” he said, jaw clenching, eyes dropping to his waistband, “Tryin’ to be gentle. Tryin’ not to scare you. But I can’t keep it caged. It’s hurtin’, baby. Feel like it’s got its own heartbeat.”

He unzipped.

Her mouth parted, but no sound came out.

Then—

He pulled it free.

It slapped up, thick and heavy, the head flushed and angry, the shaft veined and dark. It hung long, proud, weighty like it had been straining behind his slacks for days—and it had.

Violet gasped. Loud.

She’d never seen one in real life before. Not like this.

Not this big.

Not this pretty.

Smoke watched her face closely, “You alright?” he asked, voice husky, “Ain’t too much for you?”

She blinked, cheeks flushed, lips parted. “It’s…big.”

A slow, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, “Mhm. That’s why I been takin’ my time. Letting you get used to everything else first. This boy?” He gave himself a lazy stroke and exhaled low, “He’s greedy. He don’t know how to be sweet.”

Her eyes stayed locked on it—wide, transfixed. She wet her lips, then looked up at him.

“Can I…touch it?”

His breath caught.

“Shit, baby,” he muttered, stepping closer, “Please. Been needin’ your hands on me so bad, I almost fucked my own palm last night just thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

She reached out tentative, like she was approaching something holy. Her fingers brushed the base, then slid up. It jumped in her hand.

“God, it’s hot,” she whispered, “And heavy…”

Smoke groaned—deep, guttural.

“I told you,” he said through grit teeth, one hand clenching at his thigh, “He ain’t used to bein’ out this long without gettin’ fed.”

Violet glanced up again, her voice barely a whisper.

“…Then maybe you should teach me how.”

And with that, Smoke knew—he wasn’t gonna make it much longer. He’d tried to be patient. Tried to hold the line.

But his big boy was out now.

And he wasn’t going back in.

“Lay back,” Smoke said, voice velvet-wrapped gravel, “Open wide for me, baby. I wanna see everything while you touch me.”

Violet obeyed, cheeks flushed, breath shallow. She laid back on her elbow, legs parting slowly. She was bare amd open wide for him—soft, slick, aching. Smoke’s eyes dropped instantly, darkening as they landed between her legs.

“Good girl,” he rasped, “Look at that pretty pussy. Always so wet when I’m near, huh? She know who I am.”

He knelt beside the bed, his fat, veiny dick out, heavy and thick in her hand. One slow stroke, and his breath hitched.

“Been dreamin’ about slidin’ into you,” he spoke softly but with hunger, eyes never leaving her center, “But I ain’t gonna rush. Nah…I’m gon’ take my sweet fuckin’ time molding this big boy in you, makin’ sure you feel every inch stretch real slow until your little pussy don’t know what hit her.”

Violet whimpered, thighs twitching.

His gaze flicked up, “Now look at me while you touch it.”

She sat up closer, reaching for him again. Her small hand wrapped around the thick base of him, warm and trembling. His dick jumped in her grip, and a hiss slid through his teeth.

“Yeah,” he groaned, “That’s it. Hold him like you mean it.”

Violet began to explore—fingers gentle, tracing the thick veins, sliding over the soft skin of the shaft, pausing at the swollen head. She watched his face as she did—watched how his jaw clenched, his eyes fluttered closed for just a breath, then snapped back open to look at her.

He was beautiful like this.

Eyes dark and hungry. Lips parted. Brows furrowed like he was barely keeping it together. That scar at his temple twitched. His breath came in slow, shaky draws like he was on a leash he wanted to snap.

“Look how good you make me feel. You feel how hard I am, baby? That’s for you. That’s what happens when I smell you walk past. When I see you lickin’ honey off your fingers in the kitchen. You been teasin’ me and don’t even know it.”

She smiled shyly, still stroking him. His dick twitched again, precum beading at the tip. Smoke let his eyes drag down her body again, hungry, possessive. He leaned one arm between her soft thighs and tapped her pussy lips. Wet, gushy noises echoed. Violet nibbled on the corner of her pouty, bottom lip. Smoke groaned deep.

“You hear that?” he said, nodding toward her thighs, “That little pussy talkin’. She’s cryin’ for me. So pretty and open. I’m gon’ make her mine. Gonna ease it in till you feel full, then stop. Let you sit on it. Let you feel me throb inside. Let you cry a little.”

Violet whimpered, thighs squeezing around nothing.

“Y-you make my whole body ache.” She spoke soft and angelic.

“I better,” he growled, “You think I been walkin’ ‘round with this fat dick all day just itchin’ for a breeze? Nah, baby. I been savin’ it. Savin’ it for you. And when you ready?”

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

“I’ma fuck you slow…so slow, sugar. Gon’ ruin every other man before they even get a chance to dream ‘bout you. You’ll be so used to this dick you won’t know how to walk without it.”

Her hand tightened.

His breath caught.

Their eyes locked—hers wide and adoring, his blown with hunger.

“Smoke…” she whispered.

“Say it again.”

“Smoke.”

He groaned, deep and guttural.

“I’m gon’ give it to you, baby. But not tonight. Tonight, I want you to know what you beggin’ for.”

And she did.

Because every inch of him in her hand, every filthy word in her ear, every twitch of his cock as she touched it—that was a promise.

And Violet had never wanted anything more.

Smoke sat at the edge of the bed now, thighs spread, his big dick heavy in Violet’s hand, glistening at the tip. She looked up at him through her lashes, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like she’d run a mile barefoot through a thunderstorm. He reached for her with one hand, the other resting behind him, steadying himself. His fingers found her slick heat with no hesitation—warm, wet, and already throbbing for him.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice hoarse with need, “Keep your hand wrapped around it like that. Now use your other to stroke the top…slow…yeah, like that. Slide that little thumb over the head.”

Violet did as he said, nervous but eager, fingers trembling. He groaned low—real low—like it had been pulled from deep inside his chest. His cock twitched in her grip.

“That’s it, baby,” he breathed, stroking her folds tentatively, “Don’t be scared of it. Grip it like you own it.”

She squeezed gently, wrist twisting just like he taught her.

“Shit,” he hissed, “That’s good. You feel how he jumps for you? That means he like it. Now slide your hand down the base—slow—and come back up. Like you mean to drain me.”

Her thighs trembled. Her pussy clenched around nothing. And Smoke felt it. His fingers slid through her folds, two teasing at her entrance, the pad of his thumb circling her clit with firm, knowing pressure.

“Mmhm, yeah. Look at this little cunt,” he muttered, eyes locked where his fingers played, “She loves watchin’ you stroke my dick, huh? She throbbin’. Can’t even sit still.”

She moaned, soft and gasping, and her hand jerked on him. He caught her chin with his clean hand, tilting her face toward his.

“Easy, baby. Don’t rush. Feel me. Watch what your hands do to me. This dick yours—ain’t nobody else ever made me this fuckin’ hard.”

She blinked, stunned, lips quivering.

“You…you mean that?”

“Look at my face,” he growled, “You see me lyin’? This dick been damn near hurting since the day you walked in that door. Now go on…stroke it just how I showed you.”

Violet resumed the rhythm—one hand tight, the other playing at the tip. Her movements were more confident now, guided by his breath, by the way his chest rose and fell faster. Smoke’s fingers slid deeper inside her—two now, slow and stretching.

“That’s it,” he muttered, “Take me in, nice and easy. Gotta get you ready. Ain’t no way this tight little pussy’s takin’ all of me unless I work you open real slow.”

Her hips rolled against his hand as she pumped him. He pressed a kiss to her temple, then her jaw.

“You makin’ me feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Can’t wait to come home to this. Sit back, let you touch me just like this…let you ride my fingers while you stroke my pole. Teach you all the ways to make a man lose his fuckin’ mind.”

She whimpered, clutching him tighter.

“Smoke, I—I’m close.”

He grinned against her ear, voice dark with heat.

“Then cum for me while you still strokin’ my dick. Show me what it does to you…watch me watch you fall apart.”

And with his fingers curling just right, his voice in her ear, and the thick weight of him twitching in her hand, Violet did. Her cry was soft but shaking. Her body trembled as pleasure washed through her like floodwater breaking loose.

Smoke didn’t stop. He just held her.

Stroked her through it.

Let her hand rest on him even while she shivered in his lap—because this was just the beginning. She’d touched him now. Seen him. Felt him throb for her. Smoke’s breath was ragged now. His thighs tensed, his hips barely jerking into her touch as he tried to hold on—but he was close. So close. Violet’s hand was slick with him, working the shaft with a rhythm he’d shown her, her smaller palm sliding over his dick with trembling confidence.

“Just like that, pretty baby,” he gritted, voice almost desperate, “Fuck…just like that. You gon’ make me cum.”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t blink. She wanted to see him lose control.

Smoke’s head fell back, jaw tight, chest rising in sharp pulls. His hips flexed and his hand—still between her thighs—slowed just slightly, overwhelmed by the feeling building in him like a breaking dam.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, “I ain’t cum for nobody like this. You—you got me gone…”

Then it hit. His body snapped forward like the air had been punched from his lungs. His dick jerked violently in her grip—and then he spilled. A thick, hot rope of cum shot out, splattering across her fingers, her wrist, her thigh. Another followed. And another.

Violet gasped, stunned.

There was so much.

His cum painted her skin, dripping in slow, milky trails down the inside of her arm. Her breath hitched as she stared—lips parted, eyes wide. It was messy, primal, intimate. He was still twitching in her hand, still panting, still softening slow, his hips flexing in aftershocks.

“Lord…” she whispered.

Smoke opened his eyes halfway, still caught in the haze of release.

Then he said it.

Soft. Barely a whisper.

“Lula-Bee…”

Her whole body shivered.

It wasn’t just her nickname.

It was her real one. The name her grandmother whispered into her hair as a child. The name that hadn’t passed another person’s lips since—

She looked up at him, eyes suddenly glassy, “How—How did you do—?”

He blinked slow, dazed, “It came out. Like it was pulled from the bottom of me. You feel like home, sugar… somethin’ older than this life.”

Her heart thudded like a drum in a deep forest. She looked down again, at the mess he’d made across her hand. Curious. Intrigued. Tentatively, she brought two fingers to her mouth and tasted. Salty. Warm. Faintly bitter. But more than that—his.

Smoke watched her, eyes dark with awe and disbelief, still riding the last waves of pleasure.

“Shit, you tryna kill me, baby?”

She licked her lips, shy but glowing, “I just wanted to know what you tasted like.”

He groaned again, his hand reaching to cup her face, thumb dragging over her lips, “Next time,” he murmured, still breathless, “you gon’ take wit’ your sweet mouth. Feel me come down your throat while you whimper on my tongue.”

Her cheeks burned—but she didn’t look away.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Blackline.

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

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

Part Four

Part One Part Two Part Three

The sounds of the Juneteenth celebration still hummed through the walls with muffled laughter, the rasp of blues guitar, the clinking of glasses. But in Violet’s room, it was quiet. She stepped inside gently, her pulse still racing. Her thighs ached faintly from the lap dance, but not from exertion, but because of how he had looked at her. Like she was a dream made flesh. Smoke had said he’d come to her tonight. Not for sex, he’d whispered. But he wanted to see her. Hold her.

Violet unfastened her dress with trembling fingers, letting it slip to the floor. She left on the silk panties—still damp and clinging—and pulled her robe around her shoulders. Pale lavender with faint embroidery at the sleeves, the robe fluttered slightly as she walked. She tied it loosely, the silk whispering against her skin. Then she sat down on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap, her breath unsteady.

She kept thinking about the way Smoke had held her earlier. The way his voice dropped low when he called her beautiful, the way his hands guided her hips when she danced on him. And that kiss—shy, soft, her first real one. His lips had tasted like smoke and something sweeter, something she couldn’t name.

She touched her lips with two fingers, her eyes distant. Then came the knock.

Three soft raps.

Her heart leapt into her throat.

The door creaked open, and Smoke stepped inside, his broad frame filling the space instantly. He was in a white tank, his muscled arms bare, and a pair of black slacks slung low on his hips. His skin glowed golden in the warm lamplight. He looked like he didn’t belong to any ordinary world—all heat, all possession. His gaze scanned her immediately, taking in the robe, the bare legs, the ribbon still tied around her neck.

“You sittin’ here waitin’ on me like that?” he asked, voice low and thick.

Violet nodded, eyes downcast.

“Good. That’s what I wanted.”

Smoke walked over slowly, eyes never leaving her. When he reached her, he brought his fingers under her chin and tilted her face up gently.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Violet smiled faintly.

He sat beside her on the bed, then pulled her gently into his lap. She curled there like she belonged, her legs tucked beneath her side–saddle with one hand resting on his chest. He cupped her jaw, angling her chin up so she’d meet his eyes.

“You alright, little one?” he uttered softly.

She nodded again, though her breath hitched.

“You were somethin’ else tonight,” he added, “Dancin’ on me like that. You remember how that felt?”

She blushed furiously, lips parting.

Smoke leaned in closer, voice honey-thick, “Did you like it? The lap dance?”

“…Yes,” she whispered.

“Did you like how it made you feel?”

She gave a slow nod, breath catching again.

“Did you like bein’ at my command? My hands on your hips, tellin’ you what to do?”

She made a soft, involuntary sound and nodded once more.

“Mm,” He bit his lip just slightly, eyes growing darker, “You want more of that, don’t you, pretty baby?”

Her eyes flicked to his, wide and unsure, but the desire was there.

“I do…”

Smoke exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening around her waist.

“Then let me show you. Let me help you blossom.”

He brought a hand up to her neck, fingers grazing the satin ribbon tied there.

“You always wear this. Why?”

Violet’s throat tightened. Her fingers brushed the ribbon as she answered softly.

“My…my grandmama gave it to me. Back in South Carolina. When I was little. She said it was a protection charm…said I was delicate, but I’d grow into something strong. She told me to never take it off unless I gave it to someone I trusted.”

Smoke stared at her then—long and silent. The heat between them shifted, turned reverent. His voice was low when he spoke again.

“She was right…you are delicate. But you already strong, baby. You just don’t see it yet,” He paused, stroking her arm with his thumb, “You look beautiful in that ribbon, Violet.”

Violet’s breath stilled. Then, slowly, she leaned in. Their lips met again—this time with intention. The kiss was slow, lingering. She pressed her mouth to his like she was learning him by feel. His hand slipped behind her neck, thumb stroking her jaw, and he deepened the kiss with just enough pressure to guide her.

When she whimpered softly against his lips, he pulled back just enough to whisper, “Straddle me.”

Her breath caught. But she obeyed, sliding one leg, then the other, across his thighs. The robe parted slightly, and the silk panties pressed flush against the hard plane of his abdomen. She gasped at the feel of him beneath her.

“That’s it,” he said, voice thick, “You can feel that, baby? That what you do to me. Wanted you the minute I laid eyes on you…”

She swallowed hard, hands braced on his chest. Their lips met again—this time hungrier, but still wrapped in tenderness. Smoke’s hands moved slowly down her sides, caressing the curves of her hips, then trailing lower to her backside. He squeezed gently, pulling her closer.

“You got a body made to be worshipped,” he spoke softly, pressing his forehead to hers, “Soft little hips…pretty ass…you feel so good sittin’ on me like this.”

Violet whimpered again, but her arms wrapped tighter around his neck. Her hips shifted, just a little, responding instinctively.

Smoke smirked against her lips, “That’s it, sweet girl. Just feel. You don’t gotta rush.”

His hands kept gliding over her, learning every inch, coaxing her open like a flower in bloom.

And Violet—silk, trembling, ribboned and radiant—bloomed for him. Violet’s breaths came in little stutters now, shallow and uncertain. Her thighs trembled where they bracketed his lap, but she didn’t move away. She stayed with him. Stayed on him. Smoke kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then lower, just beneath her jaw where her pulse fluttered wild and sweet.

“Feel that throb, baby? That all for you,” he whispered, letting his thumb trace slow, lazy circles into the small of her back, “That’s your body wakin’ up.”

“I…I feel it,” she said, voice paper-thin.

“You ain’t gotta be scared of it. That heat? That ache in your belly?” He pulled back enough to look her in the eyes again, “That’s all you, baby. That’s you learnin’ what you like.”

She blinked at him, her lips parted, eyes full of soft wonder.

“You like my hands on you?”

She nodded.

“You like sittin’ right here, feelin’ how hard you make me? How fuckin’ stiff you make me?”

Another nod, smaller this time. Shyer.

Smoke smiled faintly before biting his bottom lip, one hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, “Good. ’Cause I could sit like this all damn night.”

Violet exhaled slowly, her head falling gently to his shoulder, her heart beating like hummingbird wings. Smoke stroked her back in long, steady motions—fingertips grazing the edge of her robe, the curve of her waist, the rise of her ass.

He tilted his head, lips brushing her ear, “You want more?”

She nodded again, but this time her voice came with it.

“Yes.”

Smoke’s hands shifted. He tugged her closer, until her soaked silk panties rubbed directly against the hardness in his pants.

She gasped.

“Feels good, don’t it? Say, yes Sir.”

“Y-Yes…Sir…”

His lips found hers again, this kiss slower than the rest. He parted her lips with his tongue, tasting her carefully, teaching her how to kiss like grown folks do. She followed him, soft and uncertain, moaning into his mouth when he deepened it. His hands stayed low, gliding over her hips, coaxing a gentle rhythm from her body.

“Let go,” he whispered, “Just follow what you feel.”

She did.

Violet’s hips began to roll in tiny, instinctive movements, seeking friction, connection. Her silk panties were slick now, clinging to her with every slow grind.

Smoke groaned low in his chest,” That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, sweet girl. Look at you.”

She whimpered and pressed her forehead against his.

“Lil’ pussy messy already, ain’t it? Feel how you want it to?”

She gave the faintest nod, panting.

“Good,” he said, guiding her hips again, “You s’posed to…enjoy it, baby…don’t be scared…”

He let one hand drift beneath the hem of her robe, cupping her ass over the silk, then kneading gently. His touch was reverent, possessive. Worshipful.

“Still wearin’ these for me I see,” he graveled, rubbing his thumb across the curve of her backside, “My soft little girl in silk.”

Violet trembled, burying her face in his neck.

Smoke just held her.

No rush.

No pressure.

Just heat and sweetness and trust.

After a long stretch of quiet motion, her riding his lap slow and steady, her panties clinging to every delicate curve—he leaned back to look at her again.

“Stop.”

Violet’s motions paused but her breath was shaky and uneven. Her heart raced and her clit pulsated with need.

“You did good, baby. Let me lay with you,” he said, “Just hold you ‘til you fall asleep.”

Violet nodded. Smoke gently adjusted her, lifting her with strong hands and laying her back across the pillows. He kicked off his boots, removed his tank top, and climbed in beside her.

She curled into him, breath still shaky. He drew her close—one hand stroking her back through the robe, the other resting on her hip.

“You did so good tonight,” he whispered into her hair,“You bloomed just like I knew you would.”

And in the dark, pressed against the thrum of his heartbeat, Violet whispered back.

“Thank you…for seein’ me.”

And not too long after, she drifted off to sleep.

The room was still dark when Violet stirred in the early morning hours. Smoke’s arms were still around her, his scent laced through her robe and the sheets—tobacco, wood, sweat, and something warm, like skin after sun. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep in his arms. But there was something about the way he held her, how he didn’t rush, didn’t ask for anything more than what she gave—that lulled her into safety. The last thing she remembered was his palm on her hip and the soft rasp of his voice against her ear.

Now, in the early hush before dawn, the bed was empty beside her.

Violet sat up slowly, her robe still draped loosely over her body. The ribbon was still around her neck. She touched it, fingers tracing the knot, heart fluttering at the memory of his voice asking where it came from.

She was right. You already strong.

She glanced toward the nightstand and stilled. There, left beside a small tin of peppermint salve, was something that hadn’t been there before. A silver lighter—weathered, warm in tone, engraved with a barely visible mark. A small flame and the initials.

E.M.

It was his. She’d seen him use it dozens of times, flicking it open to light cigars or cigarettes, flipping it shut with that sharp little click. He always kept it in his breast pocket.

And now it was here.

Beneath the lighter, folded neatly, was a slip of brown paper. Violet opened it with care, reading his dark, slanted handwriting:

Sweet girl,

Didn’t wanna wake you.

You looked too peaceful, curled up like that.

Got a job runnin’ me out past the river.

Be gone a bit, but when I get back, you got all my attention.

If you still want more…

I’ll teach you real slow.

All the touchin’. All the ways you like to be held.

Keep the lighter.

Now you got fire close, even when I ain’t.

Smoke

Violet read it twice, her eyes misting. She pressed the note to her lips, then tucked it beneath her pillow like it was sacred. She picked up the lighter next. It was heavier than she expected. Still smelled faintly of smoke and cedar.

And it was warm.

Like him.

With trembling fingers, she slid it into the little keepsake box tucked on her windowsill, beside the ribbon her grandmother had once tied in her hair. Then she lay back down, robe slipping from her shoulder, and pulled the blanket to her chest. The air still smelled like him.

She closed her eyes, whispering softly, “Come back soon.”

The sun rose behind gauzy curtains, casting soft ribbons of light across Violet’s bare legs as she stepped out of the bath. The water had been warm, steeped with herbs from a jar labeled soften & soothe a blend she remembered Aunt Pearl mentioning once. She’d stayed in until the water turned cool, soaking in the silence, the ache still pulsing low in her belly from last night’s closeness.

Her silk robe clung to damp skin as she moved back through her room. She dried off slowly, humming without realizing it, the tune drifting from her lips like steam from the tub. Her eyes were brighter. Her walk—still shy, still soft—held a new rhythm. Something in her had shifted.

She stood before her small mirror and reached for the ribbon. Now she looped it once more around her neck, tying it snug, the bow sitting just beneath her throat like a secret.

She touched it gently.

Fire close, even when I ain’t.

Violet smiled—small but steady.

She slipped into a cotton day dress, pale blue with tiny white flowers, then padded down the back stairs barefoot. The sound of breakfast drifted up. Pans clinking, a radio crooning somewhere low, and the rich, warm scent of butter and smoke and grease.

In the kitchen, Aunt Pearl was tending to a cast iron skillet, flipping cornmeal cakes and humming along to the radio. Her apron was dusted in flour. A pitcher of infused water sat on the counter, lemon and mint floating lazily beneath the glass.

Violet stood in the doorway a moment, soaking it in.

She felt real. Present.

Alive.

“Don’t just stand there starin’, baby,” Aunt Pearl called without turning, “Come get you a cup before it’s gone.”

Violet smiled softly and stepped inside. The floor was cool beneath her feet. She moved to the stove and poured herself some chicory coffee, then helped herself to a small glass of the water too. It was fresh and sharp, the mint making her breath feel cleaner, calmer.

“You eatin’ with us this mornin’?” Aunt Pearl asked, glancing over at her with one of her knowing looks.

“Yes, ma’am,” Violet replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “If that’s alright.”

“Course it is,” Aunt Pearl turned back to the skillet, then paused, “You look beautiful this mornin’.”

Violet froze, then ducked her head, cheeks burning.

“Thank you.”

“Mm-hmm.” Aunt Pearl flipped another cake, the pan sizzling, “Ain’t just the dress. It’s in your eyes. In your shoulders. Like somethin’ bloomed overnight.”

Violet pressed the rim of her glass to her lips and said nothing. Aunt Pearl smiled to herself, quiet now. She didn’t press, didn’t pry. She just added an extra scoop of eggs and grits to Violet’s plate and passed it over.

“Go on. Eat up, sugar. You got a day ahead.”

Violet took her plate and coffee and slipped into the main parlor. The place was quiet this early, just the golden spill of morning sun and the faint hum of last night’s energy still lingering in the velvet drapes. She sat on a low couch near the front window, her food warm in her lap.

And for the first time since arriving at The Blackline, she didn’t feel like a stranger.

She felt seen.

And wanted.

And safe.

She ate slowly, savoring each bite of buttery grits and corncakes, coffee still warm at her side. The sunlight coming through the front windows kissed her skin, caught the delicate sheen on her cheeks, made the ribbon at her throat look like something ceremonial. She didn’t notice the way her glow caught the eye until she heard a whisper and a soft laugh from the staircase.

Peaches was the first to notice. The Georgia girl sauntered in barefoot, wearing a house slip, robe, and rollers in her hair. Sleep still clung to her eyes and the planes of her plump lips as she yawned and her curvy frame silhouetted in the morning haze. She looked Violet over from head to toe, smirking.

“Well, don’t you look like you been fed by somethin’ other than corncakes,” Peaches teased, grabbing a piece of bacon off a nearby plate and popping it in her mouth.

Violet’s face flushed, but she didn’t look away.

Peaches grinned wider, “Mmhmm. Thought so.”

Behind her, Minnie emerged, humming as she stretched her arms over her head, “Y’all smell that breakfast? Aunt Pearl done threw her foot in it this morning.”

Peaches tilted her head toward Violet, “She smell like somethin’ else too.”

Minnie’s brows lifted. Her eyes flicked to Violet, who looked down quickly, lips parted in nervous surprise. Then Lana strolled in, cowrie shells clinking softly in her braids. She caught the shift in energy instantly and narrowed her eyes. Her lips curved into a knowing smile as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Mm,” Lana mused, “Ain’t that sweet. Glow like that don’t come from soap and perfume.”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” Peaches said with mock innocence, licking bacon grease off her fingers, “But somebody’s been touched.”

Violet’s eyes widened. She looked down at her plate, unable to speak, heart pounding. The women all laughed lightly—teasing, not cruel—but it was enough to make her shrink just a little in her seat.

Then the laughter stopped.

Because the front door opened, and Odessa entered.

Statuesque and svelte, with softly flaring hips, a tight waist, and high-set breasts often emphasized by corsetry and stagewear. Skin like creamy bronze with hints of honey-gold—smooth as satin film reel, glowing under powder and gaslight. Cool hazel eyes, lined in kohl, always half-lidded like she’s either amused or just bored. And cheekbones carved sharp as suspicion. Odessa didn’t walk, she glided. Hips swaying, dark lips painted to match her mood: wine-dark and unbothered. Her silk slip dress clung to her like it was born on her skin, and her hair was wrapped high in a patterned scarf that matched her nails—deep red and dangerous.

Her eyes cut across the room, cool and calculating.

And when she saw Violet?

They sharpened.

“Morning,” Odessa said, her voice like velvet with an edge.

“Morning, Dess,” Peaches chimed, suddenly much more demure.

Odessa’s heels clicked across the wood floor as she crossed to the bar cart and poured herself a splash of brown liquor into her coffee. She sipped, slow, then leaned against the counter and finally addressed what everyone was dancing around.

“So. Is it true?”

Nobody answered.

Odessa tilted her head, one brow lifted, “Smoke. And her?”

Violet’s breath caught.

Lana tried to play it smooth, “Now you know rumors don’t mean nothin’, Dess.”

Odessa didn’t look at Lana. Her gaze stayed locked on Violet.

“She don’t look like a rumor,” Odessa said, “She look like she seen the whole damn fire.”

The room fell quiet.

Violet set her plate down carefully, hands trembling just slightly. Odessa walked closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to tower.

“Funny thing. Smoke’s never so much as glanced at one of us with heat in his eyes. Never dipped in the house pool.”

Peaches spoke, “Well, that might be changin’.”

Odessa didn’t blink, “Seems it already has,” Her eyes dropped to Violet’s ribbon, “That what got his attention?” she asked coolly, “That sweet little bow?”

Violet stood, sudden but quiet. Her voice barely a whisper.

“Excuse me.”

She gathered her plate and coffee and turned to leave. The room remained still as she slipped through the side hallway, her robe fluttering slightly behind her.

Odessa watched her go, then said, to no one in particular, “Gotta be somethin’ real special about her.”

Her words weren’t cruel. Just cold. Curious. Dangerous.

And the room knew then. Whatever was blooming between Smoke and Violet wasn’t secret anymore.

It was noticed.

The air inside Stack’s office was warm with leftover cigar smoke from the night before. Golden light filtered through half-drawn velvet drapes, catching the glint of his gold cufflinks and the gloss of the black leather couch where Smoke now sat—one leg crossed, hat in his lap, eyes sharp and silent. Stack stood at the liquor cabinet, pouring two fingers of bourbon into mismatched crystal glasses, even though it wasn’t yet ten in the morning.

“Shit’s gettin’ messy,” Stack muttered, voice gravel-thick from sleep and smoke, “We lost Isaiah.”

Smoke looked up. Not surprised. Just still.

“How?”

“Set-up over by the Pine Bluff run,” Stack said, handing Smoke a glass, “Tried movin’ early. Two crates, our best rye. Gone. Boy bled out in the gravel with a smile still on his damn face,” He sat down across from him with a sigh, “That little bastard always smiled when the stakes got high.”

Smoke took a slow sip.

“Ain’t no ordinary jackboys doin’ that,” he said after a beat, “Somebody knew his route. Knew the time. Knew what we was movin’.”

Stack nodded, “Somebody talkin’. Or watchin’.”

Silence settled thick. The only sound was the ticking of the old wall clock and the low rumble of voices in the kitchen. Smoke leaned back, pulled a folded map from his coat pocket, and spread it across the desk. His fingers still stained faintly from trigger grease—tapped three points: Pine Bluff, Jackson, and a new corner in Helena.

“We cut this corner,” he said, “Bring the dry goods through Helena instead. Have Tiny run the next haul—but only with two others. Nobody new. And we go quiet about the cargo.”

Stack scratched at his jaw, then nodded slowly, “And we start shakin’ our Numbers boys. Somebody’s loose,” he sat back into his chair, “Speaking of the Numbers racket,” Stack added, “That preacher in Crossett’s got his congregation playin’ every damn day. He takin’ a cut bigger than he promised. You wanna handle that?”

Smoke’s lips barely moved, “Yeah.”

Stack smirked, “Didn’t think you’d say no.”

Smoke took another sip, then leaned forward, “We gettin’ too known,” he said flatly, “Bootlegging. Numbers. Girls. Gamblers. Somebody gon’ try us harder than that little ambush.”

Stack stood again, pacing.

“Been thinkin’ the same,” he said, “Which brings me to what I wanted to ask,” He walked to his desk drawer and pulled out a sealed envelope, thick with names and numbers.

“Word is, there’s a man from up Chicago. Friend of Vincenzo’s crew. Specializes in hardware.”

Smoke raised a brow.

“Guns?”

“Tommy guns,” Stack said, voice low, “Modified. Drum-fed. Clean serials.”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed—interested now.

“How many?”

“Enough to arm a funeral or a wedding. Depends on how we play it.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of it all heavy between them. Then Smoke spoke.

“We go see him. Not as buyers. As men who already know how to use ‘em.”

Stack grinned and leaned back in his chair, gold tooth flashing, “I knew you’d like that.”

“Start pullin’ cash from the street girls’ side pots,” Smoke said, “I’ll move quiet through Clarksdale this week, see who’s sniffin’ around about Isaiah.”

Stack nodded again, then raised his glass.

“To funerals and weddings.”

Smoke clinked his.

“To the Blackline.”

After another twenty minutes talking business with his twin, Stack stood near the back dressing hallway, sleeves rolled, vest unbuttoned, cigar lit and tilting from his lips. Around him, three of the girls—Odessa, Peaches, and Minnie—stood barefoot in robes, sipping coffee and trading sleepy glances.

“Listen close,” Stack said, exhaling smoke, “Ain’t no more slippin’. We tight now. We hot. That boy Isaiah got hisself buried too early, and if you don’t wanna join him, you do what I say.”

Odessa raised a brow, “You sendin’ me to roll bones or dodge bullets?”

Stack smirked, “Both, if the Lord willin’. You run Numbers tonight. Poker room in Midtown. Use the blonde wig. Take Clyde with you. He ain’t pretty, but he shoot straight.”

Peaches grinned behind her teacup with a sultry gaze.

“And me, Daddy?”

Stack looked her over with a casual drag of his eyes, then tipped his cigar toward her belly.

“That stomach brings in drunks like bees to sweet honey. You workin’ tipsy soldiers tonight. Not too touchy. Make ‘em believe they the ones in charge but don’t let ‘em take nothin’ but a look unless they pay up front.”

Peaches winked, “They don’t get past the look.”

“Minnie,” he turned, eyes softening just a touch, “You stay home. I want you keepin’ an eye on our Violet. She too sweet to sniff trouble when it’s ‘round the corner. And she bein’ watched now. I feel it.”

Minnie nodded, jaw set, “I’ll keep her safe.”

Stack kissed two fingers and tapped them to her cheek, “I know, my Minnie.”

Meanwhile, as the late afternoon approached, in the back of the property, past a false pantry door and down a narrow stairwell, Smoke walked into the safehouse storage room—cigarette dangling, fingers itching. The air was cool. Damp with stone and iron. He moved with practiced quiet, opening crates and drawers, counting stock by memory more than sight.

•Rifles: Three—two bolt-action, one rusted and useless.

•Pistols: Five total, including his. One gone missing.

•Rounds: Enough for a fight. Not enough for a war.

•Cash bundles: Low. Too low. Someone’s skimming.

•Two molasses tins stuffed with fake IDs, calling cards, and coded route notes.

•Two sawed-off shotguns tucked in satin-lined cases. Smoke’s favorite touch.

He paused at the shelf with the moonshine crates.

One was light.

He bent down, lifted it, and saw the false bottom had been pried. Gone. Gone clean.

He straightened slowly, jaw locked, lit cigarette glowing like a fuse.

Someone had been here.

Smoke walked back upstairs, slow and tight, cigarette clenched between his teeth like it was the only thing keeping him from drawing blood. He met Stack back in the hallway, sometime after the girls had scattered.

“One of the crates is light,” Smoke said simply.

Stack nodded once, “I’ll call in Clyde and Alonzo. You bring your gun. We check the fence in North Little Rock tonight. If it ain’t him…”

Smoke looked toward the dressing room, where Violet’s laugh echoed softly with Peaches.

“…it’s somebody closer.”

Stack walked off to prepare.

The door was cracked, and the sound inside was soft. Laughter. Sweet. Light. Like something made of sugar and silk. Smoke paused just outside the doorway, his shoulders still hot with rage, jaw stiff from clenched silence. One hand rested at his side, the other still held the cigarette he hadn’t smoked, just burned down—ash curling, untouched.

Inside the dressing room was Peaches on a stool, laughing full-bellied and warm, her robe hanging loose, hair tied up with a yellow scarf. Beside her, Violet—knees pulled to her chest on the vanity counter, feet bare, ribbon still around her throat.

She was giggling.

Not just pretty giggling—honest, breathless giggling, her face turned toward Peaches, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed. The sound didn’t match the fire in his chest. Didn’t belong in a world where boys were dying in alleys and bullets were missing names by inches. It was too pure.

Too dangerous.

Smoke stepped in without saying a word.

Both women turned. Peaches straightened her back instinctively. Violet’s lips parted, eyes wide—not afraid, but alert, like a doe catching scent of something heavy in the trees.

Smoke looked only at her.

Then to Peaches.

“Give us the room.”

Peaches blinked, “Somethin’ wrong, Smoke?”

He didn’t answer.

She rose slowly, squeezing Violet’s hand, then slipped out, glancing over her shoulder once before the door closed.

Silence.

Just the two of them now.

Smoke crossed the room with quiet steps, boots thudding soft on the old floorboards. Violet’s knees were still drawn up, hands folded over them, fingers wringing each other like nervous ribbons.

“You get my note?” Smoke questioned.

Violet nodded, smiling faintly, “I did. And the lighter,” she glanced down at her knees then back up to meet his gaze through her lashes, “Thank you. How was your run this morning?”

Smoke exhaled, exhaustion lining his features, “Long. Nothin’ to worry your pretty head over.”

“You alright?” she asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her.

At her skin. Her eyes. The curve of her neck above that ribbon. The smell of her—floral, clean, faintly powdered with heat beneath.

Then he said it, voice rough as gravel soaked in slow-poured sugar.

“You laughin’ like the world don’t burn.”

She blinked.

His tone wasn’t cruel. But it wasn’t gentle either. Just low. Tired. Wary.

“I didn’t mean to laugh too loud,” she whispered, shrinking slightly.

He shook his head once, “It ain’t that.”

Smoke stepped closer. The tension coiled in his shoulders hadn’t broken—not yet. But now it focused on her. On how delicate she looked in the morning light. On how someone like her shouldn’t be anywhere near the kind of men who move crates of guns and bury boys in back fields.

“I counted two crates light,” he said after a beat, “Safehouse been touched. Somebody inside’s runnin’ they mouth, movin’ hands where they shouldn’t.”

Violet’s brows pulled in slightly, the color almost draining from her cheeks.

“Is it…one of the girls?”

“Maybe,” His voice was quieter now, “Maybe not.”

He stepped in front of her now, so close her knees brushed his shirt.

“You got anyone askin’ questions?” he asked, “Clients gettin’ too close? Anybody follow you?”

Violet shook her head, quick, “No, Sir. Nobody. I swear.”

Smoke studied her face. Not just her eyes. Every little shift—the twitch of her lips, the flick of her lashes, the breath caught in her chest.

She wasn’t lying.

She was just…close.

Too close to all of it.

And too sweet for the kind of storm that was coming.

Smoke lifted a hand, slid it gently up the side of her calf, warm and slow, until he was stroking just beneath her knee.

“Don’t let nobody in your room,” he said softly, “Not without my say.”

She nodded.

He tucked a stray curl behind her ear, the strand bouncing free because of it’s thickness, fingers brushing her temple.

“You mine, right?”

She swallowed, “Yes.”

His eyes darkened, but his voice softened again.

“Good. ‘Cause when fire comes knockin’, I ain’t lettin’ it touch what belongs to me.”

He leaned in then—not for a kiss, but just to breathe her in. His forehead nearly touched hers. That ribbon brushed his cheek. And for a moment, the world outside—stacked with bullets and betrayal—fell away.

Her scent wrecked him.

It wasn’t perfume. It was her. Clean skin still warm from sleep, a trace of rosewater on her neck, and something else…something deeper. The sweet, damp heat that came from being near a woman who wanted, even if she didn’t fully know how to name it.

She shifted, breath catching in her throat, and the ribbon around her neck swayed slightly, the end of it grazing his cheek like a secret hand.

It was so soft.

Too soft for a place like this.

He let the backs of his fingers trail along her calf again, higher now. Her skin was warm and trembling, like her blood had started to quicken. Every little gasp she gave wasn’t loud, it was tight and shallow, escaping like she didn’t even realize she was breathing for him now. He felt her chest rise near his, the silk of her robe catching faintly against the buttons of his shirt. Her lips parted slightly—not in invitation, but in pure reaction.

She couldn’t help it.

And that alone…

That was enough to make him close his eyes for a beat and press his cheek against the ribbon, just lightly. As if he needed to feel it, not just on his skin, but in his bones. As if her softness could remind him he wasn’t only made of knives.

“You smell like somethin’ sacred,” he spoke with a low gravel, voice hoarse. “Like you was made to be touched slow.”

She let out the faintest whimper—a hiccup of sound, sharp and wet behind her teeth. Her hand moved, unsure, brushing the fabric of his vest before falling back into her lap.

“Smoke…” she whispered.

He opened his eyes, gaze locked on hers—dark, low-lidded, and full of something she didn’t yet have the language for.

He didn’t say a word.

Just watched her chest rise. Listened to that breath hitch again. Felt the ribbon shift against his skin like a kiss too soft to hold. His thumb rubbed over the bone of her knee, a silent reminder that she was still his. Even if the world was unraveling around them. And then—only then—he leaned in close enough to speak at her lips.

“You keep wearin’ that ribbon like this, girl…and I’ma have to show you what happens to pretty little things that keep temptin’ me.”

He didn’t touch her mouth.

Didn’t need to.

She was already trembling for him.

His thumb stilled on her knee.

That ribbon still kissed his cheek.

But Smoke didn’t go any further.

He didn’t part her legs.

Didn’t let his hands slide up to where her heat waited—though every part of him burned to.

Instead, he breathed in deep, one last drag of her scent, like a man pulling smoke into his lungs and deciding not to choke on it. Then he pulled back slowly, deliberately, just enough to look her in the eyes.

She blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, lashes heavy with the weight of unsaid need.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

His voice was low, controlled, like it cost him something to say it.

“Wanna see you come apart, girl. But not here. Not now. Not when I got blood on my mind.”

Her lips parted, a soft breath leaving her like a moan caught in prayer.

Smoke reached up, tugged lightly on the end of her ribbon—just enough to feel it tighten around her throat.

“Next time you laugh like that,” he said, “save a little breath for me.”

Then he dropped his hand, turned, and walked out of the room without looking back.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And Violet was left sitting on the counter, ribbon trembling, legs pressed tight together, mouth open in silence. Her hands curled into the silk at her thighs, trying to hold onto something, anything, that would keep her from falling apart right there where he left her.

And in the silence, the only thing louder than her heartbeat…

was the echo of his voice in her head.

Not yet.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And Smoke didn’t move right away.

He stood still in the hallway, the air around him thick and quiet, lit only by a single amber sconce overhead. His fingers twitched once at his side. Then he raised his hand and pressed it to the spot where her ribbon had kissed his cheek.

It still burned.

Soft as it was, it had scorched him.

His jaw flexed, teeth clenched so tight he could feel the ache deep in his molars. He breathed out hard through his nose—low and ragged—then dragged his hand down his face, slow, like he could wipe her scent from his skin.

He couldn’t.

It was still there. Clinging to him like silk left out in the rain—rosewater, breath, and that faint trace of heat that lived between her thighs. The smell of want. Of innocence. Of something not meant for a man like him but offered anyway.

He swallowed.

Then paced.

Three steps down the hallway. Turned. Three steps back. He was trying to think—trying to clear his mind and make sense of the business, the betrayal, the missing merchandise. But all he could feel was the ghost of her breath on his neck.

You mine, right?

Yes.

Not yet.

He could still feel her tremble.

Still hear that little gasp. The one she didn’t mean to make when his thumb moved up her calf. That soft hiccup of need that no man had ever drawn from her before. He didn’t take her then, not because he didn’t want to, but because he did.

Too much.

Because once he started with her, he wouldn’t stop.

And right now?

He needed his head.

He needed his pistol.

He needed to bury whoever touched his crates.

But damn if she didn’t make it harder to think.

He took the last drag of his cigarette, tossed it onto the floor, and crushed it beneath his bootheel. Then he exhaled one last time and whispered, to no one:

“Next time…I ain’t walkin’ away.”

Then he straightened his collar, ran a hand over his slicked-back hair, and strode toward the back stairs—a man at war with the world and with his own restraint.

About an hour later, Smoke found Stack out back near the shed, sleeves rolled up, arms dusted in dirt and oil as he worked on the handle of the delivery truck. A cigarette hung loose between Stack’s lips, and a bottle of corn whiskey sat sweating on a barrel nearby.

The sun was low, throwing gold across the gravel and long shadows between the trees.

Stack glanced up when Smoke approached, catching the hard set in his brother’s shoulders.

“Damn. You look like you walked outta the chapel wit’ a sin still in your hand,” Stack muttered, flicking ash.

Smoke didn’t answer.

Just said flatly, “It’s time.”

Stack wiped his hands on a rag, tucked it in his back pocket, and pulled the truck keys from the nail on the wall.

“Clyde’s already out front. He got the shotgun under his coat. Alonzo’s meetin’ us at the spot.”

“Good,” Smoke replied.

Stack grabbed the whiskey bottle, took a long pull, and handed it over.

Smoke didn’t drink.

Just stared at the bottle for a second too long—like he wanted to pour it over his head and drown out the feel of her ribbon still brushing his skin.

Then he passed it back and said, “Let’s move.”

They rode in silence for a while, the truck rattling over the worn streets of Little Rock. Sunset turned to dusk, and the sky bled purple behind old brick buildings and railway lines. Smoke drove, both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead. Stack loaded the pistol he kept beneath the seat.

“You sure it’s this fence?” Stack asked, voice low.

Smoke nodded, “He was the only nigga that knew Isaiah’s route. Said he’d take ten cases. Got eight. We counted nine goin’ out.”

Stack snorted, “Dumb bastard’s probably sittin’ on ‘em waitin’ for top dollar. We should make an example.”

“We will.”

They pulled up to a run-down warehouse on the edge of the rail yard, the kind used to store cotton before the war and liquor now that times changed. Alonzo stood at the door, chewing a toothpick, already watching for movement. Inside, the warehouse smelled of rust, sweat, and old wood soaked with secrets.

The fence, a weasel-faced man named Booker, stood near a stack of crates, arms crossed, nervous already.

“I ain’t expectin’ both of y’all,” Booker said, eyes flicking from Stack to Smoke.

Smoke walked in first, slow, deliberate, methodical.

“We ain’t expectin’ thieves,” he replied.

Booker stammered, “Th-there a problem?”

Stack stepped in next, lighting a fresh cigarette, eyes gleaming under his wide-brim hat.

“You tell me. You said ten. We gave you nine. Now Isaiah’s dead and we only see eight sittin’ here.”

Booker swallowed hard, “Look, man, I don’t—”

Smoke’s fist landed before the lie finished.

One hit. To the gut.

Booker dropped hard.

Smoke crouched over him, pulled his pistol, and said real calm, “You talk, or you bleed ‘til the rats get curious. Who you sellin’ to?”

Stack leaned against a crate, watching. Cool. Collected.

“I’d talk if I were you,” Stack said lazily, “My brotha’s already holdin’ back a lot today.”

Booker was gasping like a dog in August heat, one hand on his stomach, the other trying to crawl toward the door like that was gonna do anything.

Smoke didn’t let him get far.

He dragged him back by the collar, tossed him flat on his back, and pressed the barrel of his pistol to Booker’s temple.

“Don’t. Lie. Again,” Smoke said, voice like gravel dragged slow,“You know who took that crate.”

“I–I don’t,” Booker wheezed, “I swear I don’t—”

Smoke’s finger tapped once on the steel. Then again.

There was a pause. A stillness that would make trepidation creep through.

“Wrong answer.”

CRACK.

The butt of the pistol connected with Booker’s cheekbone—clean and hard. Blood bloomed under the skin. Booker shrieked, curled in, and spat red onto the floor. Stack didn’t flinch. He just exhaled smoke from his pre-rolled cigarette and leaned back against a crate, hat tipped low, watching like a man at the picture show.

“Booker,” Stack drawled with a sly, dimpled smirk, “you bleedin’ on our investment, nigga.”

“I ain’t—I didn’t know they’d hit the boy,” Booker croaked.

“They who?” Smoke asked, calm again. Too calm. Tilting his head menacingly.

Booker froze.

“Say the name,” Stack said, “Now.”

“Felix Vaughn,” Booker said finally, lips trembling, “From over in El Dorado. He sent word through one of his boys…said he’d pay double what y’all were askin’. I didn’t mean to cross you, I didn’t—”

Smoke stood slowly.

Felix Vaughn.

That crooked bastard had been pokin’ around the Delta for months. Ex-pimp turned runner. Heard he was building a warehouse in Pine Bluff. Now he was trying to edge in on The Blackline’s routes?

“You gave up a Blackline boy for pocket change,” Smoke said coldly.

“I didn’t think—”

“That’s right. You didn’t.”

CRACK.

Smoke’s boot slammed into Booker’s ribs, hard and sharp. Booker howled. Stack finally moved, strolling over and squatting beside the gasping man. He snatched Booker’s handkerchief from his front shirt pocket and tossed it on the ground before Booker’s bloody mug. 

“You listenin’, Book?” Stack said, voice suddenly low, conspiratorial, “We gon’ leave you alive. You gon’ bandage yourself up, go back to your hole, and whisper into every damn alley that The Blackline don’t forget. You hear me?”

Booker nodded, coughing blood.

Smoke knelt beside him.

“But first…” Smoke reached into his coat, pulled a switchblade, and flicked it open slow. He grabbed Booker’s hand—the one that signed for the stolen shipment.

And cut off the tip of his pinky finger.

Booker screamed.

Smoke just wiped the blade on the man’s coat, stood, and walked out like he was leaving a barber shop.

Back in the truck, the sun had dipped behind the treetops, and the sky was streaked with blood-orange light. Crickets were just starting to chirp, and the wind smelled like cotton, sweat, and copper.

Smoke sat behind the wheel. Stack beside him, oxfords up on the dash, a new cigarette lit, still calm.

“You alright?” Stack asked after a minute.

Smoke didn’t answer right away. Just stared out the windshield, jaw tight.

“That boy was just a runner,” he finally said, “Didn’t deserve to go out like that.”

“No, he didn’t,” Stack said quietly, “But he knew the work. And he didn’t die soft. That’s somethin’.”

Silence.

Then Stack looked over, smirking slightly.

“You kept it clean. Thought you was gon’ gut the bastard.”

Smoke cracked the tiniest smirk, eyes still cold.

“Still might. But first, I’m makin’ a trip to El Dorado.”

Stack nodded.

“I’ll make the call about the guns.”

Smoke reached into his coat, pulled out Isaiah’s old route ledger—now blood-stained—and tossed it onto the dash.

“Let’s arm up.”

The Blackline was wide awake by the time Smoke and Stack walked back through the front. Things took longer than expected, crime life don’t come easy. The heat of the evening clung to their coats. Bourbon clung to their breath. And blood clung to their boots, drying dark beneath the soles.

Inside, the air was thick—perfume and sweat, perfume and blues, perfume and sex. The velvet-red glow of the parlor seemed deeper tonight, shadows darker, lights warmer. Smoke could feel it in his bones.

The floor was packed.

Laughter rolled under the slow crawl of music—a low-slung jazz trio with a silver trumpet and a whisper-soft piano. Cordelia stood near the bar, hips swaying lightly, speaking to two clients who looked like they’d sell their mother to buy her smile.

Stack exhaled with satisfaction and tipped his hat low as they crossed the threshold.

“Now that’s what the fuck I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”

Cordelia caught Stack’s eye from across the room. She gave him a knowing smile, subtle, sharp, full of unspoken pride—and lifted her glass.

He winked, slow and lazy.

It was thanks without words, the kind of acknowledgment only those who ran empires with charm and iron understood. She had held The Blackline together while they were gone. She always did.

He veered off toward her, walking with that Stack swagger—all silk and shadows.

Smoke didn’t slow down.

He passed the crowd like a shadow sliding through heat, boots silent against the hardwood, coat dusted with the day’s ghosts. He was headed for his office—not the parlor, not the bar, not the women calling to him with their eyes.

But as he turned down the corridor, someone blocked his path.

Odessa.

Leaning against the wall in a backless sapphire gown, cigarette in hand, lips blood-red and eyes lined sharp. She caught him before he could pass, stepping directly into his space.

“You look like you left some poor bastard in pieces,” she purred, “That true?”

Smoke’s jaw clenched, “Outta my way, Dessa.”

She tilted her head, “Don’t ‘Dessa’ me like we strangers.”

He tried to walk past.

She followed.

“Mm. Thought you didn’t mess around with women in The Blackline, Smoke,” she said, too sweet, “That still the rule? Or you just makin’ exceptions now…excuses for soft little things with ribbons on their neck?”

Smoke didn’t stop.

Didn’t answer.

Just moved past her like she wasn’t even there. The smoke from her cigarette curled around his shoulder as he brushed by. Odessa turned to watch him walk away, teeth clenched, cheeks burning behind her rouge. That familiar tight ache settled in her chest—the one that only came when a man she couldn’t break refused to look back.

He entered his office and closed the door behind him, finally exhaling.

The room was dim.

Still.

Quiet.

The only sound was the soft tick of the wall clock and the creak of the leather chair as he sat down. His coat hit the back of it. The pistol came next, laid gently on the desk. He rubbed his temples, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on the worn oak surface.

His bones ached.

His fists still buzzed.

And Isaiah’s scream still echoed somewhere deep in the back of his head.

He didn’t regret it.

But he felt it.

The blood. The weight. The edge of the blade in his own hand.

And now…the pull.

The soft, unrelenting pull toward her.

Smoke slipped into his private room—tucked behind a false panel, separate from the office. No one entered unless invited. He undressed in silence. Set his belt on the chair. His boots at the door. The pistol on the dresser. The blade on the basin edge.

Then stepped into the shower.

The water was hot. Scalding. He needed the burn. Let it strip the day from his skin. Blood, sweat, and memory ran down the drain in long, copper streaks. His hands braced the tile. His forehead pressed against the wall. But in his mind—it was her hands washing him. Her ribbon brushing across his spine. Her breath catching when he touched her the way only he could.

He washed himself slow. With intention.

Then dried, shaved, and dressed in silence.

A clean white button-down, pressed crisp

Simple black slacks, the waistband sitting just right.

Black leather oxfords, polished, quiet.

His chain, tucked in.

No cologne. Just soap and skin and cigarette smoke and control.

He looked in the mirror.

And for a moment…he didn’t see a killer.

Just a man.

A man walking toward something that made him feel clean again.

He ran a hand over his slicked hair, straightened his collar, then stepped out.

Toward her.

She’d been sitting in the alcove for over an hour.

Perched on a velvet bench tucked behind layers of sheer drapery—red on black, like dusk layered over smoke. From where she sat, she could see the main parlor ripple and pulse with laughter, low jazz, bodies moving like heat waves. She liked it here—half-visible, half-forgotten, a place where she could be part of the rhythm but untouched by it.

Except tonight, she didn’t feel still.

She felt like a bell strung too tight.

Because she was waiting for him.

Her hair had been done hours ago by Peaches—a soft, updo, pinned carefully at the crown of her head, but loose enough to let delicate tendrils fall. One brushed her temple. Two curled down the nape of her neck, sticky with sweat and anticipation. She wore a cream silk slip dress—low at the back, lace at the bust, clinging to her waist like whisper-thin sin. The hem stopped mid-thigh when she sat, and her stockings shimmered subtly under the gaslight. Her ribbon was tied around her neck, soft against her pulse.

She wasn’t serving drinks. Wasn’t dancing.

She was just…waiting.

Watching the front.

For him.

She saw him before anyone else did.

He came through the side hall, crisp and clean, his body carved in shadow beneath a white button-down and black slacks. His walk slow, heavy, deliberate, like the floorboards owed him something.

And then, he looked up.

Straight through the haze.

Straight through the drapes.

Straight at her.

Her breath caught.

He saw her the second he stepped into the room.

That ribbon. That skin. That silk.

The way she sat like a girl who didn’t know what power she held—and also like a woman who was waiting for the exact man she’d chosen to give it to. The light caught in her hair just enough to turn those tendrils into fire. The rest of her was already glowing.

And she was his.

There were bodies moving all around them. Laughter. Music. Talk.

But all of it faded.

Smoke’s pulse slowed. Focus sharpened. Nothing else mattered.

Not the stolen crates.

Not Booker’s blood.

Not Felix Vaughn.

Just her.

He started walking.

Didn’t say a word. Didn’t glance sideways. Just moved toward her like he was being pulled by a thread tied to her ribbon. Violet’s chest rose as he neared. Her legs shifted, thighs pressing close, her breath unsteady. She tried to straighten—but she didn’t move from the alcove. She stayed seated. Waiting.

She didn’t have to rise.

He came to her.

He stopped just outside the drapes, eyes locked on hers.

And then, with one hand, he reached forward and parted the fabric. The velvet hush of it felt like the start of something holy.

He stepped into her space.

She whispered his name, “Smoke.”

He didn’t reply.

Just stood there, taking her in up close. Her breath. Her dress. The curve of her knees. The tremble in her fingers.

Then, low and thick in his chest, he spoke his command.

“Come on with me.”

And she did.

She rose from the alcove like silk lifted by steam, her hand slipping into his like she’d always belonged there, and followed him into the dark. They moved slow. Measured. The sound of her heels a soft click behind his oxfords. His hand held hers steady, but not too tight—just enough to remind her: you’re mine.

They passed through the main parlor, bodies parting like fog around them. The music dipped low—a hush of bass and piano—and the air was thick with perfume, bourbon, and the murmur of desire.

People watched.

Of course they did.

Cordelia caught a glimpse and smiled to herself. Peaches tilted her head, whispering something behind a fan. Even Stack—leaning against the bar—tapped ash from his cigar and didn’t interfere.

But Violet didn’t see them.

She only felt the heat of Smoke’s hand.

The weight of his presence.

The press of his thumb at the back of her knuckles as he walked her past the velvet curtains, past the locked doors, past the places where other men waited for what he was already claiming. Her ribbon—the only ribbon she wore, the one her grandmother gave her, frayed but sacred—fluttered slightly at her throat as they moved through the dim corridor.

He glanced at it once.

Then down at her legs, the way her thighs brushed with each step under that cream silk. And when they reached the back hall—where only he and Stack held keys—Smoke opened the door to his quarters with a slow twist of the wrist.

He stepped inside first.

Then turned.

And waited.

Violet stood in the doorway, heart thudding, lips parted.

She knew the moment she crossed the threshold, she wouldn’t be the same.

Smoke curled his fingers in a come-higher motion, “Come in,” he said low, like a command and a promise in one.

And she did.

The door closed with a quiet finality.

The click echoed like a match struck in a cave.

She stood still at first, just past the frame, the shadows curling around her like velvet. The lamplight was dim, golden. His bed sat in the far corner—dark wood, crisp white linens, a folded towel at the foot like he’d been planning this.

Smoke turned the lock.

Then faced her again.

His white button-down was still crisp, sleeves rolled to the forearm. The muscles in his chest moved as he walked toward her, slow, not like a man rushing hunger—but like a man who already owned what he was about to touch.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Not until he reached up and ran his fingers along the ribbon.

“Still wearin’ this one,” he spoke soft and hungry.

She nodded.

That made him pause.

Just a flicker.

Then he spoke, voice low, “Good. I like knowin’ it’s the only thing you wear for me.”

He slipped one hand around her waist, the other up to the back of her neck, just beneath the curls pinned there. His thumb grazed her hairline. Her breath caught.

“I’m gon’ touch you slow,” he said, “’cause you deserve to be handled like you cost more than any man can pay.”

Then he kissed her.

And the world burned down soft.

He kissed her slow.

Deep.

His mouth lingered at the corner of hers, then traced down to her jaw, tasting the nerves that pulsed beneath her skin. Violet melted into him, hands fisting the front of his shirt, unsure where to put her want—so she let it live in her breath.

Smoke pulled back just enough to look at her.

He hooked one arm beneath her thighs and the other around her back, lifting her clean off the floor. She gasped—soft, startled—but trusted him. Her arms looped around his neck as he walked them across the room toward the bed. He sat down at the edge, settling her into his lap, facing him, silk dress bunching slightly beneath her thighs. Her knees straddled his hips, trembling just faintly. He looked up at her—dark eyes full of restraint, but need too. Need and command and something close to worship.

He kissed her again, hands sliding over her body with slow purpose—one traveling up her back, the other down over her hips, then circling to stroke the front of her thigh through the silk.

“You shakin’,” he spoke softly against her lips.

“I can’t help it,” she whispered, “It’s not bad. I’m just…”

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, “I know.”

His hand moved higher.

The strap of her slip slipped easily beneath his fingers. He let it fall from her shoulder, slow, the way a man unravels prayer beads—with tenderness, not rush.

She gasped.

A true sound.

Startled, breath caught behind her teeth. Her hands paused mid-clutch at his shirt.

Smoke stopped immediately.

Tilted her chin toward him, thumb brushing just below her lip.

“Look at me,” he said.

She did.

Eyes wide. Laced with fear and longing.

His voice dropped low.

“It’s okay, sugar. You ain’t gotta do nothin’ you ain’t ready for.”

She swallowed.

He ran his thumb slowly along her collarbone, then back to the ribbon at her throat.

“I just wanna see you,” he spoke with a hush tone, “Just a little more. You can keep your silk on. Please? You ain’t gotta go full butt naked for me.”

His hand grazed down to her hip, fingers brushing the outline of her panties beneath the slip. He kept his eyes locked on hers then his tongue swiped his bottom lip ever so slightly.

“…For now.”

A beat.

Then she nodded.

Soft. Shy. Certain.

“Take my shirt off first, baby…can you do that for me?”

Violet gave the faintest smile, “okay…”

Violet raised her fingers, latching onto Smoke’s shirt again.

“Remember…slow…steady…we got all the time in the world, pretty thing.”

Violet exhaled.

And drew her gaze to her fingers.

She undid his buttons. The sensation of the faint pluck as the fabric parted to reveal flesh causing her breath to hitch. Smoke’s torso isn’t chiseled like a sculpture—it’s worn-in, worked-over, and quietly devastating. His shoulders are broad and strong, the kind that stretch a shirt at the seams, shaped by years of carrying weight—physical and otherwise. They roll when he moves, smooth and deliberate, like he knows just how much space he takes up and dares you to question it.

His arms are thick and muscled, but not for show—earned, not carved. Veins sometimes rise beneath his forearms when his fists clench, when he’s holding back, or when he’s pointing his pistol, or when the tension climbs just beneath the surface. There’s a softness at his inner arms and at the curve where his biceps meet his chest—warm places, meant for shelter, for holding, for comfort.

His chest is wide and heavy, the kind of chest that pillows you if you sleep there, but could crush a man in a fight. It’s covered in a light dusting of hair, tapering in a trail down the center. His nipples are small, dark, sensitive to the right touch—but ignored by most because Smoke doesn’t ask for pleasure. He just gives it.

Below the chest, his torso narrows into a tapered waist, still strong, but with a slight softness that comes from good food, long nights, whiskey, and the comfort of not needing to prove anything to anyone. Not sculpted—but thick, solid, and real. His stomach flexes when he moves—rolling muscle beneath skin—but it’s not flat like a pageant man’s. There’s something human about it. Something touchable. Something hungry.

Her eyes trailed lower, past the slow rise of his ribs, down to the soft dip of his stomach. He wasn’t hard like marble. He was soft in the way a man is when he’s lived and survived—a body made of fire, smoke, and all the things that burn beneath skin.

And still…he looked at her like she was the one worth trembling over.

When she reached out—just her fingertips, shaky—her hand barely grazed the slope beneath his ribs. The heat there was startling. Alive.

Smoke didn’t flinch.

Didn’t tease.

He just sat there and let her see him.

And Violet—trembling, ribbon fluttering, heart hammering behind her ribs—fell harder than she knew a body could bear.

“You like what you see, baby?”

Violet gave Smoke a slow nod, lips parted slightly, eyes soft as she studied the stroke of her fingers gently grazing his skin. Warm. Soft. Scarred. Violet smoothed her fingers over his abdomen before drawing back. She peeked up at Smoke timidly.

“Can I see you now?”

Violet swallowed, then nodded.

Smoke’s hands moved slowly—one pulling the other strap down, the fabric sliding along her warm skin. The slip fell to her waist like it was meant to be draped at his lap, puddled and light, baring her chest to the cool air and his hungry eyes.

She trembled.

Harder now.

Not in fear. In the quiet quake of surrender.

Smoke leaned back just enough to take her in.

Her breasts were perky and full, sitting high with a natural curve that fits perfectly in a man’s hand, glowing in the lamplight. warm brown areolas with nipples peaked under his gaze, her breath unsteady, mouth parted like she might cry just from being looked at. Her breasts rose and fell sweetly when as she breathed, round, not heavy, but soft enough to press against a lover’s chest and stay there.

He didn’t touch her. Not yet.

He just watched.

Studied.

Admired.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, “You the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on.”

And Violet—blushing, trembling, wide-eyed and breathless in his lap—believed him. She sat in his lap, trembling and bare from the waist up, her slip bunched soft around her hips like silk rain. Smoke leaned back slightly, his hands resting gently on her thighs. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just grounding her, steady as stone.

His eyes stayed on her chest—slow, unashamed, worshipful. Not just because of the way her breasts rose with every breath, or the way her skin looked in the golden lamplight, but because of how she tried to hide herself from his gaze and couldn’t.

Her arms fluttered like she might lift them—cover herself.

He caught her wrists, tender but firm.

“Don’t,” he said gently, “Don’t hide what’s mine to look at.”

She froze.

Then let her arms fall.

The shyness in her eyes lit something in him he didn’t expect. He wasn’t used to softness. Not like this. Not paired with trust. Not paired with trembling grace.

He could feel her heartbeat through her thighs.

His voice was rough with restraint.

“They perfect…soft…full. Look like they’d overflow my hands if I tried to hold ‘em.”

He raised one hand then—slow, from her hip up to the underside of one breast. He didn’t grab. Just cradled. Brushed his thumb along the slope.

“This what men kill each other for,” he said low, “And you just sittin’ here lettin’ me look. ‘Ppreciate you, sweet baby…”

She whimpered softly at the praise, eyes fluttering down, her lashes thick with heat and nerves.

“Don’t look away,” he said, “Wanna see how you take it.”

She tried.

Tried to hold his gaze while he stroked his hand across the curve of her breast, brushing the pad of his thumb slowly, teasingly over her nipple. It hardened under his touch, and her breath hitched in her throat.

That sound?

It nearly undid him.

But Smoke swallowed his hunger and kept it slow.

Then, finally—he moved.

He lifted her gently off his lap, like she weighed nothing, and laid her back against the cool white sheets. She arched slightly at the temperature shift, silk rustling softly as her slip stayed bunched around her hips. Her thighs squeezed together, still hidden beneath the fabric. Smoke sat beside her at the edge of the bed, one hand trailing up the inside of her stocking clad calf, over her knee, then resting at the top of her thigh—not touching where she was soaked, but close.

Close enough that she knew he could feel her trembling still.

He leaned down and kissed her chest right between her breasts, then lower, the slope of one, then the other.

“You so soft,” he whispered, “Could stay here all damn night.”

And maybe he would.

Because right now?

She wasn’t just in his bed.

She was in his care.

Her breath feathering shallow beneath the warm light. Her curls had loosened from their pins, falling around her temple, clinging faintly to the sweat at her brow. That ribbon still clung to her throat like a whispered promise. Smoke sat beside her, hand slow over the top of her thigh, eyes taking her in like a man savoring the sight of something he’d waited his whole life for.

But then his gaze drifted back to her chest—those perfect, trembling breasts, flushed and full and rising with every breath.

“Can I suck ‘em?” he asked, low.

Violet froze—eyes wide, lips parted—but she nodded.

That didn’t satisfy him.

He leaned down closer, his hand pressing gently into the side of her thigh. His voice came next, gravel-soft but edged with that dangerous, quiet command that made her body ache.

“Nah, baby. Not your head. Not your eyes. I’m gon’ teach you how to use your words. You want me to put my mouth on you, you say so. Say it with a yes, sir.”

Her breath caught again. A flush spread over her chest. She blinked—flustered, trembling.

But her voice came.

Soft at first. Then clearer.

“Yes, sir.”

Smoke smiled. Not cruel. Not smug. Pleased.

“That’s it. You gon’ learn to tell me what you want. Where it feel good. When to keep goin’. When to stop. You keep quiet with the rest of the world, but with me?”

His thumb brushed her bottom lip.

“…You gon’ speak.”

Then, slow and fluid, he reached down, caught the silk slip at her hips, and pulled it down over her thighs, past her knees, until it slipped off her feet. He tossed it onto the bed beside them—a pale heap of silk, trembling like her. Now, she lay there in nothing but her ribbon and her soft silk panties, breath shallow, legs pressed tight, chest rising high and sweet.

He took one more moment to look.

And then he dipped his head.

His lips brushed the underside of her breast first—a warm, open-mouthed kiss that made her gasp. He shifted slowly to the other, doing the exact same. Taking his time with his tongue and lips. He would lick, then pucker his lips, then nibble with his teeth to tickle. All of this caused her nipples to react. They poked out more. Stiffer. A little achy. Sensitive. Smoke peppered kisses up and up until he circled the tip slowly with his tongue, his palm kneading gently at the other. Her back arched slightly, legs tightening as a soft, broken moan slipped from her mouth.

“That feel good, baby?” he coaxed against her skin.

“Y-yes, sir…”

He smiled against her breast.

“Where else you want me?”

Her lips trembled, “I—I don’t know…”

“You will,” he said.

Smoke sucked her nipple into his mouth—deep, slow, wet, tongue flicking, mouth claiming. He would suck and draw back, releasing with a soft pop. Each time Violet would whimper. That little noise trapped in her throat, as if that ribbon prevented her from speaking, drove Smoke fucking crazy.

Her hands curled into the sheets, her thighs shifting open slightly without her even realizing it. Her panties were damp, soaked through with how much she needed him now. And Smoke could smell it. Feel it. Taste the ache in her breath. He moved between her legs, still kissing and sucking her nipples, still whispering to her while she squirmed and gasped.

Then his hand drifted down. He paused before his hand was given the gift of warm, wet pussy through soft silk.

“Violet,” Smoke sounded out, “I need you to tell me with words and not a nod, baby. Is it okay if I touch on your little pussy through your silk?”

She fought to speak, still delirious from the way his mouth devoured her breast. She looked down at him with glossy eyes and wet lips.

“Violet.” He drawled.

Smoke couldn’t believe how gahdamn stiff his dick is. He had a thing for edging. He enjoyed the ache. The pain that came with being too solid and too constricted. He loved the way his dick would throb and pulse while tucked to the right. Always to the right. It didn’t help that his balls were just as heavy. He needed to touch her. And if he came in his pants? So be it.

It’s been too long since he’d felt like this for a woman. To clarify, he can’t recall ever feeling this much intensity for a gal. He’d had his share of good rumps between sheets and banging iron bed frames, but this…

“Words, pretty girl…”

A breath later she parted her lips.

“Yes, Sir.”

Smoke moaned. A foreign sound. But her consent did something dangerous to him.

His hand moved to the silk between her thighs again.

He stroked her slowly through the fabric, fingers pressing just enough to make her cry out.

“Thank you, baby…” he said, voice thick, “I’m gon’ make you cum just like this. Right through the silk.”

Smoke didn’t rush her.

Didn’t take her apart all at once.

He kissed her breasts for long minutes, slow and wet, sucking and licking while one hand stayed low, rubbing gentle circles through the silk between her thighs.

He was in no hurry.

His touch was confident, firm without being rough, just enough pressure to drive her mad but not enough to let her slip away too fast. Violet gasped and writhed, her legs twitching, her hips arching into his hand. She was already so wet—the silk clung to her folds, soaked, sticky with heat and wanting.

Smoke groaned low in his throat.

Her moan answered him.

“You feel that? How hard you pressin’ into my fingers?”

She nodded—then remembered.

“Yes, sir…”

That made him smile dark. And he rarely smiled. Smoke slid his fingers deeper into the crease of her panties, rubbing tight, lazy circles over her clit, feeling the silk pull slick beneath his knuckles.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he whispered, “You like bein’ touched with your panties still on, don’t you? Like me rubbin’ you slow while you tremble for me? Huh? I’m strummin’ that button? That fat button? You like it? Want more from your Sir?”

“I—I do,” she gasped.

“I know you do. You so sensitive, baby girl. Got this pretty little pussy cryin’ through silk.”

He kept his eyes locked on her—watching her mouth fall open, watching her hands fist the sheets, watching her thighs shake.

“You gon’ cum for me, baby? Huh, good girl? Cum for me?”

“Yes, sir—yes—please—”

“That’s my girl. Give it to me. Let me feel it.”

And she did.

She came hard, grinding helplessly against his hand, panties soaked, thighs shuddering around his wrist as her head tilted back and a strangled moan tore from her chest.

Smoke didn’t stop touching her until the tremors slowed.

Until she was panting—soft, ruined, stunned.

Then he moved.

Down between her thighs.

“Goddamn, baby…you drippin’ for me. Can I see?” he asked, voice suddenly lower, “Through the silk. I just wanna see how you look right now.”

“Y–yes…”

He kissed her knee first. Then her inner thigh. Then ran his hands beneath her legs, lifting and opening her softly, possessively. His hands smoothed down the fabric of her knee highs, enjoying the texture beneath his fingertips.

And there she was.

The wet patch soaked through her panties.

Silk clinging to every curve, every swollen fold. He could see the triangle of hair at the top—dark, soft, pressed flat by the wet fabric. Her clit was outlined sharp. Her lips plump and sticky, begging through the silk.

He groaned low and leaned closer.

One hand came up and pulled the panties taut, pressing her open even more so he could see the shape of her clearly through the silk.

“Look at you,” he rasped, “You see what I did to you?”

She was trembling again.

Watching him.

He looked up at her from between her thighs, his voice low, and filthy.

looked up at her.

Still holding her open—panties pulled taut, her slick heat glistening through the thin barrier, the triangle of soft hair at the top glistening with moisture.

She was perfect. Ruined. Beautiful.

And waiting.

Smoke ran his hands slowly along her thighs, then up to her hips, curling his fingers into the elastic of her panties, but not moving them yet.

“Tell me,” he said low, “Tell me I can taste what you gave me. Please? It’ll feel so good…”

Her breath stuttered. Her hands clenched the sheets.

“Yes, sir…”

“I can’t wait to see you,” he said softly.

The panties were delicate, nearly sheer—and visibly wet.

Smoke let out a low, aching groan.

“Goddamn, baby…”

She tried to look away.

“Uh-uh,” he said, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “You stay right here. I wanna look at you.”

He knelt beside the bed, large hand sliding slowly down her thigh.

She did—slow and timid, the silk stretching across her soaked folds, the damp fabric clinging to every curve, every soft dip of her heat.

Smoke’s breath hitched.

“Fuck…Look at this.”

He leaned closer, eyes fixed between her thighs.

“You see this?” he whispered, This is what heaven look like. This little pussy all swollen and wet, beggin’ through silk. You know what that does to me?”

She covered her mouth, blushing deep.

“Don’t hide,” he said, “Let me talk to her.”

He dragged two fingers slowly over the fabric—just enough to press, not enough to tease.

“She so soft. So wet. I can see every bit through this little thing. You wore this for me?”

She nodded.

He leaned in and kissed the inside of her thigh.

“Prettiest thing I ever seen. All this slick, just from thinkin’ ‘bout me?”

“Yes,” she whispered, barely audible.

Smoke kissed higher. His voice dropped even lower, “You nervous, baby?”

She hesitated, “A little.”

“You ain’t gotta be. I ain’t gon’ rush you. But I’m gon’ tell you the truth. I wanna taste her right through this silk first. Then I’m takin’ these off with my teeth.”

Her thighs tensed.

“And then I’m gon’ spread you open and make you feel so good, so full, you forget your own name.”

She moaned—soft, shaking.

“But not yet,” he said, voice velvet, “Right now, I’m just admirin’. ‘Cause this view?”

His fingers stroked slowly down the center of the silk, the fabric wet and clinging.

“Hold still for me, baby. I ain’t gon’ rush this. This view is mine.”

And then he pressed his mouth to the silk.

Violet gasped—sharp and helpless—as his tongue flattened over the fabric, dragging slowly up the soaked seam. It wasn’t even skin-to-skin, but it lit her up like flame. The wet silk warmed under his breath, and she could feel every stroke through it—soft pressure, firm licks, the drag of his tongue following the curve of her.

“You tastein’ this sweet through layers,” he growled into her, “What you think gon’ happen when I pull ‘em off?”

She writhed, her thighs trembling, hips lifting toward him—but his big hands pinned her down.

“Don’t you run. You stay right there and take it.”

He licked her again, slower. Then sucked the soaked fabric into his mouth, tongue pressing right over her clit, the silk pulling taut between his lips.

Violet cried out, her hands flying to the sheets. She was still sensitive from his fingers touching her through her panties and making her pussy cum. Smoke was insatiable. The texture of the thin silk in his mouth and against his tongue had her dripping profusely. Her inner thighs trembled and her moans—soft and sweet—couldn’t be contained. She tried to stop her moans but it was out of her control.

Her whole body shook under the worship of his mouth.

“Let me hear you,” he said, looking up, his mouth wet, “Don’t you ever hide that sound from me. You know what that moan do to me?”

He kissed her inner thigh, then bit it gently, “Gettin’ this wet from just my mouth on silk? That’s power, baby. That’s yours.”

Then he pulled back, voice low and dark.

“You let me pull these to the side and taste you, baby? You tell me yes, sir…yes, sir, please…and I’ll make your pretty wet pussy cum on my tongue ‘til you forget every name but mine.”

Violet nodded with a quiver of her lip and sweat dripping down her chest.

“Words, pretty girl.” Smoke said.

“Yes Sir…please.”

“Good girl.”

Smoke peeled her panties to the side—slow, steady, dragging the damp silk across her folds. They clung to her before letting go with a soft, obscene sound.

Her pussy was soaked. Glowing. Pink and dripping. The heat poured off her in waves.

Smoke groaned deep in his chest.

“You see what you do to me, little one? Fuuck. This pussy so mothafuckin’ beautiful.”

She whimpered.

He leaned forward, lips hovering.

“You gon’ let me be your Sir?” he whispered, “Your daddy?”

She gasped. The word hit her like lightning.

“Y-yes, sir. Please…”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“Yes, daddy…”

That sound.

That surrender.

He didn’t wait another breath.

His mouth was on her in seconds.

Hot, deep, open.

Tongue dragging from base to clit, slow at first—teasing, tasting, taking in the slick sweetness like it was the only thing he’d been hungry for in years.

She cried out, hips jerking.

He didn’t let her move.

His hands came up and pinned her thighs open, spreading her wider than she thought she could go. And she gave—flexible, open, trembling.

That made something primal growl low in his chest.

“Look how bendy you are, baby…” he rasped between strokes, “You was made to be opened.”

His tongue circled her clit slow. Then again. Then faster. Then slow. Then picked up speed again to feel it grow and twitch against the tip of his tongue. Then slow and back and forth. Then up and down swipes that started under the hood of her clit where she’s most sensitive to the top ridge that hardened. He sucked—hard—then flicked it fast until her thighs shook. Then he sucked slow, delicate. He’d admire his work between savors then delve in for more sucks.

“Tell me,” he growled, “Tell me how my tongue feel. How my lips feel. How that pussy feelin’.”

“So good—oh God—so good, sir—”

“Where it feel best, huh? Here?” His tongue moved lower—thicker, flatter strokes between her lips, sounding like a dog lapping up water from a bowl, “Or here?” Back to her clit, tight, quick pressure, flicking, pointed tongue teasing, tasting her shake. Back and forth. Over and over.

She sobbed. Sobbed so pretty. Body trembling.

“There, daddy—please there—don’t stop—”

He moaned into her.

She opened even more. Her legs pulled back, thighs trembling.

Smoke released her clit and looked up at her. He took in the sight of her mouth hanging open. Smoke reached up and pushed two thick fingers into her mouth to suck. She wrapped her lips around them instinctively.c sucking softly, whimpering around his digits.

That made his dick strain harder. Made his tip leaky and sticky.

“Open.”

She obeyed, a trail of her spit clinging to his fingertips. Smoke slid one finger down, gently grazing her entrance.

“You ready to be stretched for me, baby?” he growled, “You want your daddy’s mouth and hands makin’ you come again?”

“Yes, sir—yes—please—”

His tongue didn’t stop.

Smoke pulled back to watch as he gently pushed his finger in. He did it with care. Eyes flicking up to watch her reaction. She clenched down on him tight.

“You alright, baby?” Smoke asked.

“Y–yes…”

“Does it hurt?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Good.”

He licked her until she was writhing, gasping, begging, her hips fighting the air, her hands digging into the sheets. Stroked her little hole with tender care. Loving the warmth and creamy feel of her walls.

“You cummin’?”

“Yes, d–daddy—”

“You ready to cum on my tongue?”

“Please.”

“Beg better.”

“Please, daddy, sir, can I cum on your tongue!”

And when she came again, thighs locked around his head, sobbing his name through her cries—Smoke stayed there, licking her through it, praising her softly between filthy words.

“That’s it, little one…that’s my good girl. Taste so sweet, You mine now. Ain’t nobody touchin’ this but me.”

Violet was still shaking.

Her thighs trembled around his shoulders, and her fingers clung to the sheets like they were the only thing keeping her anchored. Her skin glowed with the sheen of release, and her ribbon fluttered faintly with each shallow breath.

Smoke lifted his head slowly from between her legs.

His mouth was slick with her, lips swollen from how hard he’d kissed her there—claimed her with his tongue, again and again, until her sobs turned to whimpers and her body melted into his hands.

He leaned over her now.

Big, warm, solid.

But soft.

So soft.

He braced himself over her with one arm, and with the other, he gently brushed back the damp curls from her forehead. Her cheeks were flushed, and a few tears had streaked down, not from pain—but from everything. The way it felt. The way it broke her open.

Smoke kissed those tears one by one.

“Shh…you did so good, baby.”

Another kiss—this one to the corner of her mouth, slow and sweet.

“So fuckin’ good. Took everything I gave you. Let yourself fall.”

He kissed her jaw next. Then her ribbon.

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy, dazed.

“Breathe, little one,” he purred, stroking her hip, “Just let me take care of you now.”

Then he slipped away from the bed.

She whimpered—soft, like a baby bird missing the warmth of the nest.

But he was back a moment later, a bowl of warm water in one hand and a soft cloth in the other.

No rush. No words.

Just care.

Smoke knelt beside the bed and gently cleaned between her thighs, murmuring quiet things as he moved—reassuring her with his hands. His touch was slow, warm, deliberate. He dabbed carefully where she was most tender, wiping away the shine of his own desire, the mess of her pleasure.

“You still with me, sugar?” he asked softly.

Violet nodded. Voice gone. Breath slow.

When he finished, he set the bowl aside, lifted her hips gently, and pulled her silk panties back into place, smoothing them over her soaked skin.

“There,” he whispered, “Back where you belong.”

Then he climbed into bed beside her, pulling her into his arms like he couldn’t stand to be more than inches away. One arm hooked under her head. The other draped over her waist, holding her close.

He kissed her again.

This time on her temple.

“Sleep if you need,” he said against her hair, “Ain’t no rush. I got you.”

And wrapped in his arms, with the scent of him still on her lips and the silk clinging to her thighs, Violet finally let herself fall all the way apart—right into his hold.

The sheets were still warm beneath them.

Violet lay curled against his chest, her cheek resting on the slope of his shoulder, breath soft and slow as she recovered. Her bare body felt small wrapped in his arms, and the ribbon at her throat rose and fell with every quiet breath.

Smoke held her close—one arm around her back, the other stroking down her spine, slow and calming. His fingers traced the dip of her waist, the softness of her hip, the warm place behind her knee where her leg draped across his.

He kissed her forehead.

Then again.

“You alright, baby?”

She nodded against his chest, cheeks warm, lips swollen from soft cries. She still hadn’t said much—not out of fear, but because she was so full she had no more words left.

Smoke chuckled low, chest rumbling beneath her.

“You enjoyed that?”

Her voice was barely above a breath.

“Yes, sir…”

He tilted her chin up, just enough to see her face, her lashes heavy and her mouth still parted with the memory of him.

“Good. That’s what you get with me. Every time. When I touch you, I take care of you. I know what you need.”

She flushed again, looking down.

And that’s when her eyes caught the shape of him, still hard beneath the fabric of his slacks—thick and long, pressed against his thigh, tenting the material in a way that was impossible to ignore.

He saw her eyes linger.

Saw the way she looked, then glanced away. Then looked again.

“You keep lookin’ like that,” he said, voice low, “and I’m gon’ think you wanna touch.”

Her breath caught.

She hesitated.

Then…nodded.

“I do,” she whispered, “If…if that’s okay.”

Smoke searched her face.

“You sure, little one?”

“Yes, sir.”

Her hand was trembling when she lifted it, fingers hovering just above the fabric of his slacks. She paused—shy, nervous, blushing like fire.

Then she touched him.

Just her fingertips at first—pressing gently over the heavy outline of him through the pants. She stroked up, then down, fingers barely grazing the ridge of his length where it strained against the fabric. She felt him twitch beneath the pads of her fingertips. She held her breath for a second, then released.

Smoke groaned softly—not loud, just a deep sound from his chest, and his eyes dropped half-lidded.

“That’s it, sugar. Just like that.”

Violet kept her hand moving—slow, tentative strokes, watching her own hand with wide eyes before she tucked her face away against his chest, hiding her fluster behind her ribbon.

He let her.

“Feelin’ me like this,” he said, his voice curling hot against her hairline, “just means you curious. That’s good. That’s sweet.”

His hand rubbed slow circles into her back while she stroked him.

“But you don’t gotta rush, baby. You already gave me more than enough tonight. You makin’ me proud just lettin’ yourself learn.”

She kept her hand there a moment longer—testing the pressure, marveling at how warm and solid he felt even through the fabric.

Then he gently took her wrist, brought her hand to his lips, and kissed her fingertips.

“Next time,” he promised, “When you ready, I’ll let you take care of me proper.”

She nodded, breath soft.

And Smoke pulled her close again, tucking her beneath his chin, whispering low against her crown.

“You mine now, little one. All this…starts and ends with me.”

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

[inkdrippeddreams]

Hey guys! While yall wait on part 4 of In Your Corner (which is coming but I’m still in college😔) if you guys like reading physical books and loved Sinners you’d love Ring Shout by P. Djèlí Clark! It’s such an amazing book that follows a girl and her resistance group in 1922 after the KKK was regrouped, in Macon GA. The KKK have now resorted to summoning demons to reign terror and Maryse and her group hunt and kill them. I haven’t finished it yet but it’s so good so far! Short and sweet and straight to the point 🙂‍↕️ it’s also written by a black man!

[xanaxfarts]

allow yourself to be a beginner

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Blackline.

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

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

Part Two

The air was thick with the smell of mud, gasoline, and tension.

Smoke crouched near the edge of the swamp, one hand resting on the rusted hood of the Ford truck stacked with crates of illegal whiskey. The wood was still damp from its time hidden beneath floorboards in a dry preacher’s shed two counties over. Now, it was headed to a juke in Helena run by a man with gold teeth and too many enemies.

Moonlight shimmered off the bayou. Mosquitoes buzzed. Fireflies gleamed. Cypress trees stood like sentinels in the dark. Stack wasn’t with him this time. He’d taken a different route—diversion. If anyone was watching, they’d trail Stack’s decoy load and leave Smoke to move the real cargo quiet and clean.

He lit a cigarette, took a slow drag, then puffed it out through his nose.

Bootlegging in the Delta wasn’t for loudmouths. It was for men who could ride the edge of blood and silence, and Smoke was the best at it. He wasn’t just muscle. He was methodical, deadly when necessary, and trusted by the wrong kinds of powerful men.

As he drove down the narrow dirt road through the trees, wheels kicking up mud and stones, he kept his pistol close. A sawed-off sat under the seat. A blade tucked behind the brake lever.

By the time he reached the turnoff toward the dock, two headlights appeared behind him.

Too close.

Too fast.

He cursed under his breath, flipped the lights off, and turned into the trees.

An ambush.

They thought they had him cornered. Had him outsmarted. Two trucks boxed him in.

But Smoke didn’t panic.

He reached for the sawed-off, climbed out the side of the cab, and disappeared into the trees like a ghost. By the time the two men stepped out with rifles and cocky grins, Smoke was behind them. He took the first one down clean—barrel to the back of the skull. No sound but the crunch of bone. The second tried to run. Smoke caught him by the collar and shoved the shotgun into his gut.

“You workin’ for Silas ‘Shine’ DuBose?” he asked low.

The man stammered, “We—we just got told to—”

BOOM!

He didn’t let him finish.

Smoke never left loose ends.

He loaded the whiskey back up, blood on his knuckles, sweat dripping from his brow.

When he pulled up to the drop site an hour later, the man with gold teeth handed him a fat envelope.

“You always deliver, young blood. Can always count on you to come through.”

Smoke lit another cigarette.

Didn’t smile.

He spoke to himself, “Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop my route but death. And even then, you better check twice.”

This job would pay for more supplies at The Blackline. It would keep him and Stack in power. And when he walked through the red door the next night, dusty, armed, and silent, he still hadn’t noticed the girl behind the curtain.

But she noticed him.

He’d just come off the job.

Boots still dirty from the swamp road. Hands scabbed from a scuffle. Chest humming with the kind of quiet that followed violence. A calm earned by taking care of unfinished business. The Blackline was warm that night. Velvet air. Laughter soft. Jazz slow. He walked in like always with a cigar in his mouth, hat low, shoulders square, dragging a heat behind him that made men straighten and women stare.

He was headed for his usual booth.

Didn’t glance around. Didn’t speak. Didn’t acknowledge a pretty eye or a pretty smile.

But then…he felt it.

A pull. A tether.

Not sharp, but deep. Low. Like a string tugging at the base of his spine.

He turned his head slow.

And saw her.

She wasn’t working.

Not like the others.

She sat behind a thin curtain, legs tucked under her, body half-shadowed by lamplight. A ribbon tied around her neck. A short slip hugging hips that didn’t move. Hair pinned up loose with curly tendrils falling around her cheeks.

She wasn’t trying to be seen, which made her impossible to look away from. Her skin glowed like candle-warmed honey, and her lips looked soft, untouched and parted slightly when their eyes locked.

Smoke’s removed his cigar from between his full lips slowly.

His whole chest tightened.

He didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Didn’t believe in fairytales or fate.

But something about the girl behind the curtain hit him like a ghost recognizing home.

Violet saw the shift in him.

The pause.

The narrowing of his gaze.

And her breath caught because she could feel it too.

Heat.

Recognition.

Danger.

Need.

Smoke took a step forward.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t smile.

Just stared like she was something he couldn’t name but already missed. And in that moment, under velvet light and saxophone moans, a man like Smoke noticed a girl like Violet, and everything started to unravel.

The Blackline hummed around them with low laughter, glasses clinking, piano weeping under the weight of a blues tune. Smoke had barely stepped inside when Stack appeared at his shoulder, tugging him toward the back, behind the curtain where the light dimmed and the shadows got honest. They stood near the back hallway, a worn fan rattling overhead, paint peeling on the wall.

“Big Brotha. Job go smooth?” Stack asked, lighting a cigarette with one hand, leaning against the doorframe.

Smoke rolled his shoulders, jaw clenched, “Ran into trouble near the canal. Two sent by Shine.”

“That so?”

“Handled.”

Stack nodded, “Figures.”

A pause passed. Long enough for Smoke to glance back through the curtain and towards the floor.

Toward her.

Stack noticed the look but didn’t press it.

Instead, he exhaled smoke slow and said, “Things been movin’ here while you were gone. We took in two new girls. One’s already makin’ her money.”

“…And the other?”

Stack smirked.

“That one,” He jerked his chin toward the soft drape near the corner booth, “Name’s Violet. Gullah blood, I think. Quiet. Real sweet lookin’, but icy. Ain’t opened up to no one. Still got her flower too, far as I can tell.”

Smoke didn’t respond. Just kept staring.

Stack watched his brother’s profile. The way his jaw ticked and his mouth set.

“Ain’t initiated her yet,” Stack added casually, “But I planned to ease her in. Once she soften.”

Smoke’s voice cut in low.

“Don’t.”

Stack arched an eyebrow, “…Don’t?”

Smoke turned to him now, finally, eyes hard.

“Hold off. Not sayin’ I’m stoppin’ you. Just…don’t rush her.”

Stack leaned back slightly, measuring with a mischievous smirk, “You interested?”

Smoke looked away, back toward the drape.

“I just want a feel…she different…and I wanna know why.”

Stack grinned faintly, dragging his cigarette.

“Well, well. Ain’t often you speak first on a girl.”

Smoke didn’t flinch, “I ain’t speakin’. I’m studyin’.”

And with that, he pushed off the wall and walked back into the room, steps slow, eyes never leaving Violet.

It was late now.

That kind of late where everything turns honest. Voices lower, movements looser, touches less disguised. The scent of sweat, bourbon, tobacco, and sex wove through the air like a sensual fog caught in lace. A girl moaned in the back room. Laughter burst at the poker table. A piano crooned something low and tired in the corner.

Smoke hadn’t moved from his booth.

Hadn’t touched his drink in nearly twenty minutes.

Because she was stepping out.

Violet.

For the first time all night, she peeled back the sheer drape and moved out into view.

Not for a man.

Not for money.

Just to breathe.

But even from across the room, Smoke saw it. The way her eyes scanned carefully, the way her shoulders rounded slightly inward, like her body had learned how to make itself smaller when it needed to.

She walked slow.

Barefoot.

In a short silk slip the color of wet bone, the thin straps slipping down the curve of one shoulder, the hem hitting just above the soft part of her thighs.

Her ribbon was still tied.

Smoke’s eyes dragged down her figure—the roundness of her hips, the narrow slope of her waist, the high curve of her small, perky breasts beneath the silk.

But it wasn’t just her body.

It was how she carried it.

Careful. Quiet. Measured.

She wasn’t used to being seen.

Not like that.

And now she was. By him.

He watched the way her fingers brushed her own wrist absentmindedly, a soft nervous tic. The way her chin stayed tilted downward, even though she tried to glance up. The way she paused at the edge of the light, just short of where the men gathered, hovering between the safety of shadows and the threat of being chosen.

And still…

She felt his stare.

He saw it in the way she shifted her weight.

The way her hand lifted to her ribbon like it gave her armor.

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

His cigar burned down to the nub in the ashtray. He sat forward, just slightly, and let his eyes take her in like a man thirsting in the desert.

This girl was untouched.

This girl was hiding.

And this girl had no idea that the man in the shadows had already started claiming pieces of her just by watching.

He didn’t approach.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

And in that stretch of air between them, the room changed.

Everything else faded.

All he could hear was her breath.

All he could see was her legs.

And all he could think about was how she was already in his mouth, in his hands, in his thoughts, and she didn’t even know his name yet.

Violet felt it.

Not like the way men usually looked at her all hungry, obvious, leaning too far forward. This was different.

His gaze didn’t lurch toward her.

It crawled.

Wrapped.

Rooted itself.

And it didn’t let go.

She turned slightly, pretending to adjust her ribbon, pretending not to notice how heavy her breath had become. But her hands trembled against the silk.

Smoke Moore was watching her.

The quiet one. The twin with shadow in his shoulders and heat behind his eyes. The one who hadn’t said a single word to her since she arrived. Not even a hello.

And yet…

He was staring like he knew every secret she was trying to keep.

Her cheeks burned.

Her thighs clenched.

And her skin buzzed like it’d been read.

She couldn’t take it.

Not yet.

She turned slowly and slipped back behind the drape, her posture softer, her steps smaller, her breath caught just behind her lips.

She didn’t look back.

But Smoke…

He never stopped looking.

He waited just waited.

Gave her a minute.

Let her sit in the heat of what just passed between them—no words, no touch, no promises. Just pressure.

Then he stood.

Slowly. Like smoke rising off a fire that didn’t go out when the logs burned down. He adjusted his cuffs, reached for the bottle on the table, and poured two fingers of bourbon. But he didn’t sit again, instead he started walking. Not toward her.

Just…near.

To the bar.

Which just happened to be along the wall beside her curtained corner. His boots echoed soft on the floorboards. His coat moved around his hips like liquid shadow. And every pair of eyes in the room followed him out of instinct.

But Violet?

She felt him coming.

Like a raging storm rolling in.

Her body tensed even behind the curtain. She could feel the way the air changed. How the room shifted around his presence. Smoke stood at the bar, one hand resting on the wood, eyes on the row of bottles like he was deciding what to drink.

But in reality? He was listening to her breath.

Sensing the tremble behind the curtain. Reading the way her silence now said more than any voice in that house. He didn’t speak to her, didn’t look at her. But she could feel the back of his coat inches from the silk veil.

And Smoke?

He was close enough now to smell her skin.

And he didn’t even need to touch.

The music in The Blackline rolled slow and dirty like honeyed drag through a throat full of smoke. Laughter bounced off the walls. Someone moaned behind a closed door. A card game roared to life across the floor.

But Violet couldn’t hear any of it.

All she could hear was his boots near the edge of her world. Smoke was just outside the curtain now, standing at the bar, pouring bourbon like he hadn’t just shaken her to her core. His presence radiated like heat through floorboards, like thunder behind silence.

She sat on the edge of the velvet cushion, hands clasped, her chest rising and falling too fast.

Then…

She leaned forward.

Just slightly.

And slipped two fingers into the edge of the drape, parting it a whisper.

She peeked.

He was there.

So close.

Back turned, coat draped over broad shoulders, shirt tight across a back and chest shaped by violence and long days on the road. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, veins thick across the backs of his hands. His knuckles were scarred. His boots scuffed. His holster dark with wear.

He didn’t fidget.

Didn’t glance around.

He just stood there like the world wasn’t allowed to move without him giving it permission. And yet, there was no tension in him. No vanity.

Only gravity.

A presence that said…

I’ve done worse than you think.

And better than I deserved.

And I’m still standing.

Violet’s lips parted.

Her thighs pressed together.

She didn’t understand it, this pulse that bloomed between her legs just from looking. But she couldn’t stop. She studied the line of his jaw, the angle of his nose, the glint of sweat on the back of his neck. And for a moment, he moved.

Not toward her.

Not away.

Just shifted.

And somehow, she swore he knew. He knew she was watching. And he was letting her.

Violet let the curtain fall.

Her heart was still racing. Her breath shaky.

She tried to sit still again, tucking her legs beneath her and staring at the candle flickering on the table like it might hold the answer to why she suddenly felt like her skin didn’t fit right anymore.

She could still feel him out there.

That man.

That stare.

That heat like a hand around her throat.

The drape shifted again behind her.

And then a voice slid in, low, slow, honey-slick and sharp.

“Mm. So that’s who you watchin’.”

Violet flinched.

Cordelia stepped into the little curtained corner like smoke curling under a door. She smelled like jasmine and rum. Her silk robe was open at the thigh, and her eyes gleamed like a cat that already caught the mouse. She sat without asking, legs crossed, one arm draped over the back of the chair.

Violet tried to say nothing.

But Cordelia smirked.

“Girl, you act like I ain’t seen the way your breath left your body the second he walked by.”

“I wasn’t—” Violet started.

“Don’t lie to me now,” Cordelia said, laughing soft, “You look like somebody plucked your ribbon loose just by lookin’ at you.”

Violet dropped her gaze, cheeks burning.

Cordelia leaned in close.

“Let me tell you somethin’, baby…you ain’t the first girl to sit behind this curtain and melt for a man like Smoke Moore.”

Violet blinked, “what’s his real name?”

Cordelia smiled wider, “mm. Now she wanna know names,” She tapped her nail against the glass on the table, “His name’s Elijah, but we all call him Smoke. The quiet twin. The one who don’t look at much. But when he do look,” she snapped her fingers, “you best believe he seein’ every inch of you.”

Violet shifted in her seat, flustered.

Cordelia leaned closer, voice softer now, “He done killed men with those hands, baby. And still…he touches a woman like she was made of glass. You think a man like that ain’t dangerous?”

Violet swallowed then licked her lips, “I ain’t never had nobody look at me like that.”

Cordelia nodded slowly, “No, you haven’t. And you ain’t ready for what it means when he don’t just look…But comes back.”

She stood then, smoothed her robe, and before slipping out, gave Violet one last glance.

“You better start askin’ yourself one thing, baby girl…Do you wanna be safe? Or do you wanna be seen?”

And with that, Cordelia disappeared into the curtain fold, heels clicking softly.

The curtain was still swaying when Violet sat forward.

Cordelia’s words throbbed in her chest.

Do you wanna be safe?

Or do you wanna be seen?

She didn’t know the answer. But her body moved like it did.She uncrossed her legs slowly and adjusted the tie of her ribbon with quiet grace. Instead of retreating, she shifted closer to the edge of the booth, to the space where the curtain parted just enough to let the world in. And for the first time…She let herself be looked at.

Smoke was back at the bar.

Same place. Same stance.

Only now he turned.

Not fully.

Just enough to lean against the bar with his elbow propped, bourbon in one hand, and his gaze fixed on the sliver of light where Violet now sat, half-shadowed, half-glowing, waiting. He could see her now. Not all of her just the outline. A bare thigh, one strap slipped from her shoulder, the delicate slope of her neck. Her curls had loosened slightly. Her lips were parted, soft and unsure.

But her eyes?

They were different.

Still shy. Still wide.

But no longer retreating.

Now she was inviting.

Smoke’s throat tightened. His grip on the glass flexed. She was sitting still but everything about her screamed movement. The curve of her hip pressed into velvet. The dip of her collarbone catching firelight. Her chest rising in a soft, unsure rhythm.

She hadn’t spoken.

Hadn’t smiled.

Hadn’t even glanced directly at him.

But she was waiting.

For him.

And he felt it like a thread wrapped around his ribs. She wanted to be seen now. Not by everyone.

Just him.

He raised his glass slowly and took a sip, didn’t look away.

And Violet?

She stayed right where she was, trembling, blooming, letting herself be devoured.

No more hiding.

Just heat.

The curtain fell closed again.

She hadn’t moved but everything inside her was shifting. Violet sat still in the quiet hush of the velvet nook, hands resting in her lap, heart drumming like a hummingbird’s wings against her ribs.

She could still feel it.

Him and that gaze and that weight. The pull of it like silk wrapped around her waist, tightening with every glance. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just nerves. It was something older, something deeper. Something unnamed. Her thighs were slick and tense and her lips dry. Her mouth unable to remember how to form a word. She reached for the edge of the table for something to ground her and exhaled slowly, as if trying to breathe the heat out of her blood.

Why’d he look at her like that?

Like she was the last quiet in a room full of noise. Like he could taste her without touching. Like he’d already chosen her and she ain’t even spoke his name.

She closed her eyes.

Violet tried to remember how it felt to be invisible. Tried to remind herself that she wasn’t made for a man like him.

Men like that didn’t look at girls like her.

But he did.

And that look made her body buzz like the string of a plucked violin—tight, thin, and trembling.

She touched the ribbon at her throat, fingers grazing the knot.

Her voice caught.

Her skin burned.

And somewhere behind the curtain, she could still hear the faint clink of a glass. The sound of a man drinking slow, like he had time. Like he had already decided.

What if he speaks to me?

The question rang in her chest like a bell.

And still…she didn’t run.

She smoothed her thighs. Straightened her spine.

Let herself bloom in the dark.

She wasn’t ready.

But she wasn’t hiding anymore.

Violet waited until the noise swelled just enough to carry her movement. A crescendo in the music. A burst of laughter near the bar. The groan of wood shifting beneath dancers’ feet. That’s when Violet rose slow and smooth. A breath exhaled into motion.

She didn’t rush.

Didn’t push back the curtain with drama.

She let it part like the petals of a flower at dusk—quiet and deliberate. And when she stepped out, the silk of her slip whispered against her skin, catching the light in places that made every inch of her look soft and secret.

The room was darker now.

Oil lamps turned low. Smoke coiled above heads like lazy ghosts. The scent of musk, pipe tobacco, sweat, and sweet perfume hung thick.

And there she was.

Barefoot. Ribbon still knotted at her throat. Shoulders bare. Back straight. Face calm but burning.

Smoke saw her immediately.

He was still at the bar, leaning with his drink in hand, but his whole body shifted like gravity itself had tilted in her direction. He didn’t move but his gaze locked on her with the kind of stillness that carried weight like he was memorizing her. Violet walked slowly along the edge of the floor, trailing one hand along the wall, not toward anyone in particular, just out into the open. Her hips swayed gently with the rhythm of the piano. Her thighs brushed, and the hem of her dress floated just above the softest part of them.

She passed two men.

One looked.

One said something.

She didn’t hear it.

Because she could feel him behind her.

That gaze. Heavy as a hand.

She turned ever so slightly and glanced over her shoulder.

Her eyes met Smoke’s.

And there it was again. That low-burning tension between them, thick as sticky glide. A pull. A knowing. And this time, she didn’t look away. Her body stayed open, her lips stayed parted. Violet let him look. Let him feel the weight of the woman she was becoming—the woman who was no longer hiding.

Violet walked past the bar.

She didn’t rush. Didn’t sway too much. She held her chin up just enough to look composed, her fingertips grazing the edge of the wall, the slip of her dress brushing the inside of her thighs. She was trying—trying to own her steps, to hold the quiet fire Cordelia lit in her chest. Her breath still fluttered, but she kept moving.

Behind her…she heard nothing.

But she could feel it.

That weight.

That energy like coiled thunder.

She didn’t have to look back to know he was moving.

Smoke Moore.

He was following.

Not loud.

Not rushed.

Just present. Like the slow drag of stormclouds across a summer sky—you don’t hear it right away, but you know the air’s about to change. She turned the corner near the back hallway, just beyond the glow of the main room. A curtained doorway behind her, a stack of crates ahead. Dim. Quiet. Close. She paused, pretending to smooth the ribbon at her throat.

And that’s when she felt him.

Close.

So close the heat from his chest kissed her back.

And then…

His voice.

Low. Velvet-wrapped gravel.

Southern Smoke.

“…You walk like you tryna convince yourself you ain’t afraid.”

Her breath caught. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. But she could feel him—just inches away, his energy wrapping around her like silk ropes.

“…You that scared of me, baby girl?”

She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Her hands tightened at her sides, the edge of her dress clenched between her fingers.

“No,” she whispered timidly.

He leaned in closer. His heat consuming her from behind. Still not touching. Just air, heat, and hunger.

“…Say that again,” He spoke with a hushed tone.

Her breath hitched. She tried to sound steady.

“…No.”

Smoke exhaled slowly near her ear, his mouth barely a whisper from her skin.

“You tremblin’. I ain’t even laid a hand on you yet.”

She felt a shiver ripple down her spine. Her knees wanted to give. Her voice betrayed her body.

And still…she stayed.

Quiet.

Soft.

Open.

He could smell her now. Skin warm, breath sweet, the faintest scent of fear laced with something deeper.

Want.

“You run now, I’ll let you go,” he murmured, pausing for effect, “But you stay?” He tilted his head dangerously close, “You mine to learn.”

And she stayed.

Trembling.

Timid.

But not moving.

She didn’t dare move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe right.

Smoke was right there with his breath still warming her shoulder, his voice still curling around her spine like smoke through cracks in a door. Her body was betraying her—softening, aching, silently begging.

She didn’t need his hands to feel claimed.

She already did.

But then…

He stepped back.

Just a half-inch or less. And somehow, the loss of him, of his warmth, his weight, his watchfulness, hit her harder than the press of his body ever could have.

She blinked.

Her fingers curled against her thighs.

And then she felt it…

The tension between them stretch like silk soaked in heat.

He hadn’t touched her once. But she felt more bare in that moment than she ever had undressed. He watched her for a breath longer—just watched. Then his voice came, quiet. Steady.

“…You don’t even know what you doin’, do you?”

She shook her head. Slowly.

Smoke hummed, “Didn’t think so.”

Another pause. The air thick between them.

“…But I do.”

And then?

He turned.

Walked away slow. Boots low and heavy on the floor.

Didn’t touch her.

Didn’t speak again.

Just left her standing there in the soft light, alone with the ache he placed between her thighs without ever laying a finger on her.

The room was still.

Only the faint hum of music bleeding through the walls, the occasional moan from the back hallway, the creak of footsteps overhead.

Violet sat alone on her narrow bed behind the curtain, legs curled beneath her, slip still clinging to her thighs like a second skin.

Her breath was slow. But her chest rose too fast.

She could still feel him.

The heat of his body. The gravel of his voice. The way he whispered like he could taste her fear and loved the flavor.

And the worst part?

He hadn’t even touched her.

He didn’t have to.

She slid her hand to her chest.

Just above the ribbon.

Her fingers trembled slightly, tracing the bow. Then lower—over the curve of her breast, down the dip between her ribs.

She thought of his voice in her ear.

You tremblin’. I ain’t even laid a hand on you yet…

A whimper caught in her throat.

She lay back, the pillow cool beneath her, eyes half-lidded.

Her knees parted.

The silk slipped higher.

And with a breath she didn’t know she was holding, her hand slid lower.

Between the heat.

Through the ache.

Right where he left her wanting.

She touched her pussy like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to—soft, tentative, gasping.

But the more she remembered his voice…

But you stay? You mine to learn.

…the deeper her fingers sank.

Violet stroked her clit gently, like she was afraid of what her body would do if she pressed down harder. Her hips twitched faintly. She shut her eyes, drifting back to the way his body felt behind her, a heat so intense. She could hear how soaked her folds are. The sound deafening. Violet opened wider, whimpering. Moaning soft and faint. Barely above a whisper.

She came quickly, shaking, the sound muffled against her wrist as her body clenched and opened around nothing—but the memory of him. When it passed, she lay there breathless, thighs damp, skin burning. He hadn’t touched her.

But Smoke Moore already owned her breath.

The ache between her legs and the exhaustion of her strong climax had Violet slipping into sleep like a drop falling into warm syrup. She was still wet between her thighs. Still flushed from the touch she gave herself.

But what lingered most wasn’t her own fingers.

It was him.

Smoke.

His breath.

His voice.

His presence like thunder waiting to break.

And now…he was in her dream.

She wasn’t sure where she was. The walls didn’t matter. The light was soft and gold. She was bare, thighs parted, laid out like a sacrament on fresh sheets.

And he was standing there.

Smoke Moore.

No coat. No holster. Just skin and shadow and slow breath.

He didn’t say a word. He just stepped forward and stared at her like she was already split open for him.

She felt no fear.

Only ache.

Only longing.

If he had touched me…

He knelt between her legs, eyes locked to hers as his hand grazed her inner thigh.

Not rushed.

Not rough.

Just…inevitable.

“Did you cum thinkin’ about me?” he asked in her dream, voice low as river water.

She couldn’t speak.

He smirked.

“You wet in your sleep. That ain’t just a dream. That’s your body rememberin’ what it never had.”

She gasped when he touched her there—just once—and it was enough to make her cry out.

He didn’t stop. He dragged his tongue along her thigh, slow, teeth grazing her skin. Her hips lifted on instinct.

His voice came again—dark and thick.

“You want me to eat it, baby?”

She nodded.

Eyes wide. Lips parted.

He smiled against her inner thigh.

“Then keep your legs open, and let me feast.”

And when he did?

She broke.

Soft cries. Trembling thighs. A climax that rolled through her like waves licking the shore of some secret island.

She woke gasping.

Sweating.

Empty.

And aching all over again.

Don’t hide from me, girl. I see you. And what’s mine don’t got to shrink…

Come here. Bring all that fear, all that want. Bring it to me. I got you…

Next time you touch yourself thinkin’ ’bout me, you better come find me instead. I wanna see it. Hear it. Taste it…

Violet hadn’t slept much.

The morning light pressed in low through the gauzy curtain, soft gold and dust-flecked. She’d stirred on and off—waking breathless, thighs damp, her dream replaying in vivid, pulsing fragments. Now she sat at the small vanity tucked in the corner of her sleeping space, brushing her hair in slow, gentle strokes.

Her eyes were unfocused.

Her thighs still pressed together.

Her body hummed with memory.

His mouth.

His hands.

That voice—low and knowing—telling her to stay open and let him feast.

She swallowed.

Her ribbon was untied. Hung loose down her chest like a thread of silk she no longer needed to hide behind.

She glanced at herself in the mirror.

Her cheeks were warm. Her lips slightly swollen from biting them in sleep. She looked kissed. Touched. Marked. But it had only been a dream.

And still…

Her body didn’t care.

She picked up a small notebook from the drawer—just pages she sometimes jotted thoughts in when the silence got too loud. She didn’t write much. Just a line.

Her hand trembled as she spelled it:

He hasn’t touched me.

But I feel like I belong to him.

She closed the book softly.

Set it down.

And then went to draw her bath, knees still aching from how hard they had clenched the night before.

The Blackline was quieter in the morning.

But not silent.

The house never slept fully. It shifted. Stretched like a cat in the sun, its sounds softer but still alive. Footsteps on creaking floorboards, water boiling on the stove, a distant radio playing slow Delta blues on the back porch. The sun leaked in through the stained-glass windows—coloring the wooden floors in fragments of amber, rose, and wine.

Curtains hung loose.

Smoke from someone’s cigarette curled lazily through a shaft of light in the parlor. The girls were up and moving—some in robes, hair pinned, faces bare. Others already dressed, painting their mouths red in shared mirrors, laughing soft between swigs of morning bourbon. There was perfume in the air, powder and orange blossom, musky oils, sweat sweetened by heat.

Stockings were hung over chairs to dry.

Heels lined the baseboards like soldiers.

Some girls cleaned their rooms. Others climbed into each other’s beds for warmth or gossip or comfort. Someone was ironing lingerie in the kitchen. Someone else was bent over a basin, washing blood from silk with careful fingers and a hymn on her tongue.

Stack was around, but easy.

He was seated at the long table near the front room, counting money from the weekend, cigar between his teeth. His suspenders hung loose over a rumpled shirt. Every so often, he’d pause, lean back, and scratch the side of his face while listening to the radio.

“We need more rye,” he muttered to no one, “And more ice.”

No one answered.

He didn’t care.

He just kept flipping bills.

Violet moved differently.

Not slower. Not faster.

Just…more aware.

She’d bathed early. Combed her curly hair back into a bun. She wore a soft green slip today, thin at the shoulders, hugging her hips.

Violet didn’t talk much. Just lingered in doorways. Sat near open windows. Swept when asked. Watched.

Always watched.

Her eyes traced the curls of smoke rising from Cordelia’s cigarette…the shape of a dancer’s back as she stretched in the hall…the gold necklace one girl wore backwards so it draped down the small of her back like a secret.

But her thoughts weren’t on the house.

They were on him.

Smoke.

His voice still echoed in her.

His breath still lived in the bend of her neck. Every step she took, every time her thighs brushed together under silk, she remembered.

You mine to learn.

She didn’t know what she wanted.

But she knew what her body remembered as she walked the halls of The Blackline with his gaze still burned into her skin.

Not to long after, Violet was folding linen napkins in the side parlor, the morning light slanting across her bare feet. She didn’t speak much that day. Just moved with her usual softness, her hair pinned loose, her green slip fluttering just above her knees.

Her body still felt tender.

Sensitive in places she didn’t dare touch again just yet.

She’d just finished setting the last napkin down when Cordelia passed by with her robe open, heels clicking, cigarette trailing a ribbon of smoke.

She paused at the archway and looked back at Violet with that same cat-glint smile.

“Smoke’s back from town.”

Violet looked up.

“Oh?”

Cordelia nodded, walking over to the tea tray on the buffet.

“He asked for coffee. But he don’t really drink it. Likes it warm, though. Something bitter in the mouth, sweet in the aftertaste…”

She poured a black cup, added a drizzle of cane syrup, then held it out to Violet.

“You bring it to him.”

Violet’s hands froze.

Cordelia’s smile widened just slightly.

“He’s out back, takin’ off his boots.”

“Why me?” Violet asked softly, eyes lowered.

Cordelia leaned in, voice low and lazy.

“Because he didn’t ask for it from nobody else.”

She pressed the handle of the cup into Violet’s palm.

“Go on. He won’t bite…Not yet.”

Cordelia sauntered off, leaving Violet with a task. A task that left her heart thumping beneath her ribs. She stared down at the cup, then exhaled a rattled breath. She took a moment to gather her thoughts before facing the man that she thought of while playing with her pussy. Dreaming of almost every night since she’d laid eyes on him.

Violet walked down the hall slow, cup trembling slightly in her hand.

Each step felt louder than it should.

The back door was open, light pouring in golden against the floorboards.

She could smell him before she saw him—leather, pine, dust, tobacco. The scent curled around her like haze and made her thighs press together. He was seated on the edge of the porch, shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled up, one boot off, the other halfway unlaced.

He didn’t look up when she approached.

“Heard you comin’,” he said, voice rough from the road.

Violet paused just behind him, heart pounding.

“…Cordelia said you wanted coffee.”

“Mmm.”

She stepped beside him, carefully placing the cup on the small table near his hand.

He finally looked up.

Right at her.

His eyes dragged over her face. Her lips. Her collarbone.

“You bring it ‘cause she asked you to?”

Her breath hitched.

“Yes.” She replied with a small voice.

He reached for the cup, sipped once, then leaned back.

“And you stayin’ now ‘cause she told you to?”

Violet said nothing.

Smoke’s lips curled faintly at the edges, “Didn’t think so.”

He looked out over the trees again.

“You smell like rosewater. That yours?”

She nodded.

“Don’t wear too much of it,” he murmured, “Makes a man wanna follow you ‘til he finds where it’s comin’ from.”

Violet swallowed hard.

“I’ll…I’ll remember that.”

He didn’t look at her again. But his voice was low enough she felt it in her stomach.

“Good girl.”

The words followed her like heat.

Good girl.

Two little syllables—barely more than breath—but they landed like a hand pressed between her thighs.

Violet didn’t reply.

Didn’t dare look at him again.

She turned.

Careful. Quiet. Controlled.

And walked back inside with the empty tray still trembling in her fingers.

Her knees felt soft.

Her core hummed.

The ribbon at her throat suddenly felt like too much and not enough all at once. She moved through the hallway like a girl floating—dazed, raw, skin warm from within. In the mirror of the front parlor, she caught her reflection.

Cheeks flushed.

Eyes wide.

Lips parted.

And she whispered it once—not for anyone else to hear.

“Good girl.”

Her thighs clenched hard.

Her breath hitched.

And she didn’t sit for a long time after that.

Because the ache between her legs was too tender.

Too fresh.

And that voice—his voice—was still buried in her bones.

It was Cordelia again.

Mid-afternoon, warm light spilling through the windows, the house quieter now—girls resting, Stack gone off with a bottle and a deck of cards. Cordelia found Violet in the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

“Smoke’s washin’ up out back,” she said, casual, like she wasn’t smirking behind her cigarette, “He asked for a fresh shirt. You know where the clean ones are. Go on and take it to him.”

Violet didn’t ask why.

She just nodded.

And tried not to let her hands shake when she folded the crisp white fabric over her arm.

Smoke was on the porch again.

Hair freshly slicked, combed back with a deep side part by Stack’s hand, glinting beneath the low sun. He wore only his trousers now—bare from the waist up, his back to her as he dried his hands with a cloth. His skin was the color of wet earth and iron, all tanned deeply from the heat of the South. Broad back, ridged muscle. Scars. One long one across his shoulder blade like he’d been cut once and never talked about it.

He turned when he heard her.

Didn’t speak at first.

Just looked.

“You bring that for me?” he asked, voice thick as velvet syrup

She nodded, holding out the shirt for him to take.

“You wanna help?” he said low.

Not teasing.

Just offering.

She hesitated.

Then stepped closer.

Violet unfolded the shirt in shaking hands. His body radiated heat. He smelled like soap, cedar, and something underneath—raw and masculine and animal. He bent his arms slightly and she slid the fabric over one first, then the other, brushing her fingers along his forearm to pull the sleeve through.

Her hands trembled against his skin.

When she reached up to guide the shirt over his back and onto his shoulders, her palm skimmed the top of his chest.

He was watching her the whole time.

Quiet.

Steady.

Hungry.

“You always this careful,” he murmured, “or is it just me?”

She couldn’t speak.

Her fingers hovered at the buttons.

Smoke leaned forward slightly.

“Start at the top, baby. I like it slow.”

She obeyed.

One button.

Then the next.

Each one closer to his heart.

Violet’s fingers brushed the top button.

The white cotton was still warm from his skin, soft from wear but clinging in places where his chest curved and swelled—solid and unyielding. She pressed the first button through the hole slowly, careful not to tremble too much.

Smoke didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

He just watched her.

His head tilted slightly, eyes locked on her mouth as she worked her way down.

Each button brought her closer to the center of him.

Her knuckles brushed his sternum.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, like if he breathed too deep he might lose the self-restraint he wore better than his clothes. By the third button, she could feel the beat of his heart beneath the cotton.

Not fast.

But heavy.

Her hands moved lower, guiding the fabric closed over his ribs, over the slight dip above his navel.

She could feel his heat through it.

Could smell the mix of soap and sweat and skin.

And even though he hadn’t touched her…

She felt him everywhere.

His voice came, low and gritty, just as she reached the last button.

“You always this gentle?”

She didn’t look up.

Didn’t trust herself to.

Her fingers slowed at the last button. Held it there.

“I…I don’t know,” she whispered.

Smoke leaned forward just slightly.

“That mean I’m your first?”

She blinked hard.

Her lips parted.

But her answer—whatever it might’ve been—caught in her throat.

She finished the button.

Pulled her hands away.

Tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

He stared at her.

A full breath.

Two.

Then stepped back.

Not far. Just enough for the air to grow colder between them.

His shirt was buttoned now.

His body clothed.

But the tension?

Still naked.

“You done real careful,” he said finally, “Almost too careful.”

He turned before she could reply. Smoke reached for his hat, smoothed it on top of that slicked-back part, and stepped off the porch.

No touch.

No praise.

No smile.

Just the soft clink of his belt, the low creak of the stairs…

And the sound of Violet’s breath shaking in the absence of everything she wanted.

As Smoke stepped off the porch, the screen door whispered closed behind him. He didn’t light a cigarette right away.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t curse.

He just kept walking—down the back path, past the chicken wire fence, past the empty rain barrel, boots scuffing dirt as if the earth itself needed to feel how tense he was.

His hands flexed at his sides.

Jaw tight.

Chest tight.

He could still feel her fingers—soft, unsure, adoring—moving down his shirt one slow button at a time like she was afraid touching him might make her burn.

Hell, it just about burned him.

Good girl.

He’d said it without thinking.

But the sound of it on his tongue felt too damn natural.

Too right.

He made it to the old toolshed behind the fig tree and leaned against the frame, the wood creaking under the weight of him.

He rolled his neck once.

Twice.

Then finally lit a match.

The tobacco sparked. Smoke curled.

But the fire in his blood?

It didn’t cool.

She didn’t know what she was doing to him.

She couldn’t.

That little ribbon at her throat, the way her lashes fluttered when he spoke, the way her thighs brushed with every step like they ached even when she didn’t move.

She didn’t even smell like the other girls.

She smelled…quiet. Like rosewater and something softer underneath. Something only he’d find if he buried his face deep enough to taste it.

And that tremble in her hands?

God.

He wanted to hold her wrists and make them tremble harder. He wanted to hear what her breath sounded like when it broke. He wanted her on his lap, in his bed, under his weight, whisperin’ his name like a sin she’d learned to love.

But he didn’t touch her.

Because if he did?

I wouldn’t stop. And I ain’t ready to let her see that part of me…Not yet.

He took another drag from the cigarette.

Felt the ache in his dick throb hard beneath his belt. He wouldn’t jerk off. Wouldn’t give himself that release.

Not for her.

Not yet.

He’d wait.

And when she came to him—when she begged?

He’d give her everything he’d been holding back.

And she’d finally understand why he kept walking away.

The next few days passed like molasses poured over flame. The air in The Blackline stayed thick—sweet in the morning, sultry at dusk, dangerous by night.

Smoke and Violet never said much.

But everything between them spoke loud as thunder.

Every morning, she brought him his coffee.

Same way: hot, bitter, with a thread of cane syrup stirred slow.

She never asked if he wanted it.

She just brought it.

And he always took it from her hand, brushing her fingers like an accident he meant.

She watched him when he cleaned his pistols. He’d sit out back with a rag over his lap, gunmetal gleaming, sunlight sliding down the ridges of his forearms. She’d pretend to be folding laundry near the open window—but her eyes always found him.

And Smoke?

He let her watch.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

Just dragged a slow cloth over the barrel like he was teaching her how he handled things that got out of line. When Stack came by, they sat close at the porch table, talking in low tones over the hiss of liquor being poured into tin cups.

Business.

Bootlegging routes. Threats. Names.

Violet couldn’t hear it all. But she saw how they leaned in close—twin shadows, born from something brutal, bound tighter than blood.

And even then…

Smoke would glance at her.

Every time she passed, every time she walked near.

He noticed.

By nightfall When the house came alive, Violet floated. Soft slip. Ribbon back around her throat. Mouth painted the color of crushed berries.

Men watched her like moths.

Some tried to talk sweet.

Some talked slick.

She smiled. Laughed. Gave lap dances but never let them touch too much.

And always, Smoke watched.

Sometimes from the booth near the back. Sometimes from the bar. Sometimes while he cleaned a blade behind the curtain.

Until one night.

A man—drunk, swollen with coin and frustration—grabbed her arm too tight.

“I done spent two whole nights feedin’ you drinks, girl,” he slurred, spit thick in his throat, “You ain’t gon’ keep teasin’ me like that.”

She pulled back, “let go of me—”

He grabbed harder.

Her ribbon pulled loose.

“Lemme see what I paid for,” he snapped.

Smoke moved like a shadow with teeth.

No warning.

No shout.

Just there—sudden, solid, deadly.

Hand at the man’s collar. Gun drawn. Cold steel pressed against his cheekbone. Violet flinched, stepping back as she watched with wide eyes.

“You touch her again,” Smoke growled, voice like thunder in a cellar, “and I’ma put a hole in your face so clean they’ll bury you in silk.”

The whole room stilled.

Girls froze.

Men backed up.

Even Stack sat up straighter.

The man stammered. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Empty your pockets.”

“What—?”

“Every dollar. Every coin. Give it to her.”

The man looked at Violet.

Then at Smoke.

Then started dumping crumpled bills and coins into Violet’s palm.

Smoke’s voice dropped lower, but heavier. He raised the end of his pistol and cracked the man on the side of the face. Sharp. Bloody.

“You step foot back in this house…I’m killin’ you where you stand.”

Then he shoved him back hard—sent him stumbling towards the front by Stack’s bodyguards, half-drunk and humiliated, clutching the side of his face as blood seeped through his fingers. They shoved him out the front door. Left him stumbling into the night with his pride bleeding and Smoke’s threat still ringing in his ears.

The man was officially gone.

And just like that, everyone knew.

Violet wasn’t just pretty.

Wasn’t just new.

She belonged to someone.

Even if he hadn’t said it yet.

The room had started breathing again—slow, nervous, pulsing like something had just been broken and patched back together.

But Violet…she hadn’t moved.

She stood near the back wall, breath shallow, one hand curled around the ribbon at her throat, the other hanging limp at her side.

Smoke stepped toward her.

“You alright?”

His voice was low, but she felt it in her chest like it pushed past her bones.

Her eyes lifted to meet his, then they dropped, dragging slowly down the front of him.

The crisp lines of his buttoned shirt.

The shadow of muscle straining beneath cotton.

The dark holster vest at his chest and the way his gun disappeared into it like it had always belonged there. He shifted his arm and the fabric clung tight across his biceps.

Violet nodded faintly.

But her eyes… they were wide. Glossy. Shaken.

Smoke moved closer.

Suddenly.

His hand came up, rough fingers catching her wrist before she could tuck it behind her back.

She flinched.

“Lemme see,” he murmured.

His thumb pressed into the skin just above her pulse.

There was a faint red mark where the man had grabbed her.

Smoke’s jaw ticked.

That was when Stack stepped in.

“What the hell happened?”

His voice hit the room like a hammer.

He looked between them.

Saw the look on Smoke’s face.

Saw the way Violet’s body shook.

“He hurt her?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Stack turned to Violet, eyes gentler, “You alright, baby girl?”

She nodded. Still quiet.

Stack looked at Smoke again, voice lower. Sharper.

“If we catch that son of a bitch,” He stepped closer, “We kill him. Don’t nobody hurt my girls. You hear me?”

Smoke gave a slow nod.

Stack squeezed Violet’s shoulder and walked off, muttering something to one of the other men.

When they were alone again, Violet looked up.

“…Thank you.”

Her voice cracked.

Her eyes still glossy.

Smoke met her gaze, calm and steady.

“You ain’t got no worry,” he said, “Me and my brother? We’ll kill any man that tries to put hurt on a woman in this house.”

His thumb brushed over the mark on her wrist once more.

Gentle. Intentional.

“That’s a promise.”

Then he let her go.

Turned.

And walked back into the dark—the weight of his words curling in the air like gun smoke.

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

[glxtterberrytree]

Okay, I’ll stop now 😝

[wakandamama]

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Hoodoo Apprentice

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

Warnings: SMUT

Part 5.2: had to break this one down as well! Look out for part six soon!

A feu follet was never meant to be alone for too long. Born of heat and want and light that lured men into wet places, her kind weren’t built for stillness or restraint. They were hunger in human skin. Need, shaped like a woman. Flame with a heartbeat.

When left untethered—without gaze, without touch, without the breath of another whispering want into their skin—a feu follet’s light didn’t dim. It grew brighter. Wilder. It flared and sparked until it scorched whatever it touched, including itself.

That’s what was happening to Amelia.

She couldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t sit still. Her skin felt too tight, her breath always just a little shallow. Lust curled in her belly like smoke, low and constant, rising in waves no matter what she did. It was erratic now—no longer soft, no longer sweet. Her light had grown too loud, and she could feel it leaking out of her: in the shimmer on her skin, in the sway of her hips, in the way even her shadow pulsed like a living thing.

Her fae had tasted too much—of longing, of lust, of power—and now it clawed through her veins unchecked. There was no one to feed it gently, to soothe it with a palm on her neck or a mouth against her thigh. No one to speak her name like prayer.

So it twisted.

And when a feu follet is left unfed, untethered, she begins to pull.

Draw.

Summon.

Because a starving fae doesn’t simply glow.

She consumes.

The garden behind Annie’s house buzzed with quiet life. Bees kissed the blossoms of okra and squash. Cicadas clung to tree bark, their slow chorus building in waves like the rhythm of a summer lullaby. The sun beat down heavy but not cruel, filtered through the drooping shade of a fig tree and tall rows of pokeweed and flowering basil.

Amelia moved barefoot through the grass, arms full of a gingham-lined basket. Inside: honey-drizzled biscuits, cold tea in a stoppered jug, fried chicken wrapped in wax paper, and slices of fresh melon. The blanket she’d spread out beneath the fig tree danced a little in the breeze—cream-colored, old, and soft from many washes. A pitcher of lemon balm tea sweated gently nearby, beads of condensation clinging to the glass like a second skin.

She smoothed her curls back and smiled as Pearline stepped through the garden gate, her lavender cotton dress glowing against her skin like summer caught in cloth. She clutched a small satchel, her nervousness blooming in the twist of her hands—but her eyes were wide, open, searching.

“You made it,” Amelia said, setting down the basket and straightening up.

Pearline smiled shyly, “Didn’t want to miss this.”

Amelia extended her hand and led her to the blanket, where they both sat with a grace born of habit—soft-spoken women used to holding their weight in silence. They poured tea, shared bites of chicken, let laughter settle like sugar between them.

Then the gate creaked open again.

A figure stepped through the garden’s edge—young, dark-skinned, shirt slightly open at the collar. Slender but built, with quiet strength in his shoulders and a bright, easy smile. His walk had a preacher’s poise but a bluesman’s sway.

Sammie Moore.

He had his father’s strong jaw and his mama’s eyes—almond-shaped and full of spirit. His voice, when he greeted them, was velvet and river-smooth.

“Afternoon, ladies.”

Pearline turned. Her breath caught just enough for Amelia to notice.

Sammie tipped his hat, then rested the neck of his old guitar against his thigh. The instrument was well-worn, with a patch of missing lacquer near the base where years of playing had stripped it down to the bone. Smoke and Stack had given him that guitar when he was just thirteen—Stack said it had once belonged to Charlie Patton, won in a card game outside Dockery. That was a lie.

The truth was it had belonged to their father—a violent man with a musician’s touch and a devil’s shadow. Stack had told the story different, because truth was heavier than Sammie needed.

“Brought this in case y’all wanted some music,” Sammie said, smiling Amelia’s way first, then letting his eyes land on Pearline. He lingered there.

Pearline’s cheeks burned. She pushed a curl behind her ear, lips parting slightly.

“We’d like that,” Amelia said, sensing something shift.

Sammie nodded and walked to the far side of the garden. He sat on the porch steps in the sun, started to tune his strings. A few light notes drifted out—lazy, golden, slow Delta blues—but his eyes kept flicking up toward the fig tree, where Pearline sat.

Amelia leaned close to her and whispered, teasing, “You alright?”

Pearline swallowed, still looking toward him, “I… don’t know. Somethin’ about him.”

Amelia smiled knowingly, “He got a voice that sound like he born prayin’ and sinnin’ at the same time.”

Pearline laughed, her nerves cracking just a little.

As Sammie plucked the first full phrase of a song—soft, aching, beautiful—Pearline glanced at Amelia, then back at him.

Their eyes locked across the garden.

And just like that, the air changed.

Pearline sipped the last of her tea and tucked her legs beneath her, eyes still drifting toward Sammie like her body hadn’t yet caught up with her thoughts.

“He…always look that good?” she asked softly, like a secret.

Amelia smiled over her biscuit, “Mmhm. He just don’t always know it. That boy been blessed and don’t even realize it’s spillin’ out his skin.”

Pearline glanced down at her lap, “It’s more than just looks. Somethin’ about him feel…warm. Like the kind of warm that sits in your chest. Like…I done seen him in a dream or somethin’, and now I’m tryin’ to remember why.”

Amelia looked at her gently, “Maybe you already knew him. Somewhere deeper than this.”

Pearline turned to her, eyes soft, curious, “You believe in that?”

Amelia nodded, sun catching the gold flecks in her eyes.

“More than I believe in almost anything.”

Before Pearline could reply, the side gate swung open with a creak and the low thud of boots hit the garden path.

Two shadows moved through the bright green of the garden.

Smoke was first—shirtless beneath a white tank, the fabric clinging damp to his chest and back. His shoulders rolled with slow power, arms thick and corded with muscle, glistening slightly from the sun. A pair of worn canvas work pants rode low on his hips, and his gaze was shaded by the tilt of his head.

Stack followed behind, relaxed in a deep grey vest with no undershirt, the dark fabric clinging to his chest. His hair was a little tousled, a lazy grin already in place. They each carried tools—Smoke a hammer and handsaw, Stack a roll of tar paper and nails.

They looked like they stepped out of heat and into heaven.

Amelia shifted slightly on the blanket, her breath hitching at the sight of them. She felt them before they even looked her way.

Stack’s eyes found her first.

And froze.

Amelia was seated with her back long and straight, skin glowing golden-brown from the sun, her legs tucked to the side beneath her thin, pale blue dress—the kind that caught every curve like it had been sewn for her alone. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun at the crown of her head, but loose curls had escaped, framing her face like wild vines. Her lips were glossy with the balm Annie had made her—sweet almond and clove oil—and her eyes were heavy-lidded with summer ease.

She looked like summer seduction, like a honey trap wrapped in silk and sunlight.

Stack’s throat worked as he tried not to stare.

Smoke’s eyes flicked from Pearline to Sammie to the women on the blanket. His jaw twitched.

Then he turned toward the shed.

“Sammie.”

The music stopped mid-note.

“Yeah, Smoke?”

“Time to put that down. Annie said this roof’s been bad since we left.”

Sammie cleared his throat, stood, and slung the guitar behind his back, “Right. Yes, sir.”

Stack chuckled under his breath, nudging Sammie with his elbow as they passed him on the way toward the old tin-roofed shed leaning near the back fence.

“You gettin’ soft, preacher boy. Gotta work first, flirt later.”

“I wasn’t—” Sammie started, but Stack was already grinning.

Amelia caught Stack’s glance as he passed. He slowed just a hair.

“Afternoon, ladies,” he said, voice thick and slick like sweet tea over ice.

Pearline flushed.

Amelia smiled, “Afternoon.”

Smoke didn’t say much. He just dipped his head once in greeting as he passed, but his eyes lingered on Amelia for a fraction too long.

He said nothing.

But his look said everything.

She watched them move—shoulders broad, hands already working, power in every step—and for a moment, the whole garden felt like a stage set for something ancient. Men building. Women blooming. Desire thick in the air like pollen.

And behind them, the shed stood waiting—its door half-hinged, shadowed inside, filled with tools and secrets.

The garden had quieted again, but the stillness between Amelia and Pearline wasn’t empty—it was thick. Pearline sat with her knees drawn up beneath her dress, fingers plucking absently at the hem, lips parted slightly like she was chewing on something she hadn’t decided to say.

Finally, she exhaled.

“Is it always like this?”

Amelia tilted her head, “Like what?”

Pearline glanced toward the shed, where Sammie was now hammering nails into the roof alongside Stack.

“When somebody sees you…really sees you. Like you ain’t got to say nothin’, and they still feel it?”

Amelia’s smile faded into something softer.

“Not always. Not often. But when it happens…” she reached over, brushing a stray curl from Pearline’s cheek, “it don’t ever leave you.”

Pearline nodded, breath catching.

“I felt like… like he reached back into me. Into some old part I forgot about. And for a second, I wasn’t scared of bein’ strange no more.”

Amelia stilled.

She felt it again—that hum.

That strange, shimmering pull that Pearline carried just beneath her skin. Sitting next to her felt like sitting too close to a live wire wrapped in silk. It wasn’t loud or flashing, but it was present. A vibration. A frequency. Familiar. Fae.

Her fingers tingled where they’d touched Pearline’s cheek.

She looked at her friend—not just at her, but into her—and felt her own magic whisper

She don’t what she is yet…but she’s blooming.

Pearline leaned into her slightly without realizing it, their arms brushing.

A pulse passed between them.

Pearline didn’t react.

But Amelia felt it. Like the air thickened. Like the garden leaned in closer. Her breath caught, and for a moment, she wondered what might happen if they were alone. If she kissed her. If she called to her in the old tongue.

But Pearline just smiled and looked away, unaware.

“I’m glad you invited me,” she said.

“I’m glad you came.”

Meanwhile, the air in the shed was thick with sawdust and heat. Smoke had stripped off his tank top, sweat dripping down the hard lines of his back as he hammered down a warped board in the roof frame. His muscles flexed with every strike, jaw tight.

Stack leaned against the inner wall, shirt still off, tying down a fresh roll of roofing paper, glancing out the open slats toward the garden.

He grinned faintly, “Sammie still tryin’ to pretend he wasn’t lookin’. But he damn near tripped when Pearline smiled at him.”

Smoke grunted, “He better keep his focus.”

“Mm.” Stack pressed the back of his wrist to his forehead, wiping sweat, “You seen Amelia today?”

Smoke didn’t answer right away. He drove in another nail, hard. The crack of it echoed through the shed.

Stack didn’t need his brother to speak. He saw the way Smoke’s eyes had lingered. The slow flare of his nostrils. The heat rolling off his skin that had nothing to do with the sun.

“She look like she stepped out the middle of a summer storm,” Stack said. “That dress? That mouth? She shinin’ like the garden built itself just to hold her.”

Smoke turned slightly, leaning the hammer against the wall. His chest heaved as he wiped sweat from his brow.

“She dangerous,” he muttered, “Too damn much.”

Stack’s grin deepened.

“And yet here we are. Sweatin’ in a shed while she got the whole garden leanin’ toward her.”

They both fell quiet for a moment, the sounds of nails and rhythm echoing over the soft drift of Sammie’s guitar, now laying forgotten beside the porch.

Outside, Amelia laughed.

Smoke’s head turned sharply toward the sound.

Stack didn’t miss it.

He just smiled, laid-back and low, voice like smoke curling in the dark, “She got us both actin’ like fools.”

Back in the garden, Amelia reached to brush a breadcrumb from Pearline’s lap, and their fingers touched—just briefly.

But the way Pearline looked at her when it happened…

Their eyes locked. Neither of them spoke. The air held still.

There was a soft hum between them again—like the garden itself was holding its breath.

Pearline leaned in, just a little. Her knee brushed against Amelia’s thigh.

And Amelia—without meaning to—leaned back.

The distance between them was no more than a breath.

If Pearline kissed her in that moment, Amelia would’ve let her.

She could smell her—sweet jasmine oil, soft sweat, and something faintly metallic beneath her skin that called to her in that ancient, secret tongue.

Pearline’s lips parted, as if she might say something.

But behind them…

A loud hammering stopped. The garden fell silent.

Amelia blinked.

They both turned their heads.

Smoke, Stack, and Sammie stood just outside the shed now, watching them from the shade. The light caught the sweat on their skin, their broad frames backlit by afternoon sun. All three of them had stopped working.

Smoke stood with his arms crossed over his bare chest, tank top hanging from his back pocket. His eyes were fixed on Amelia—sharp, unreadable, burning like coals left under a lidded pot.

She felt it immediately.

That heat. That pull.

His gaze crawled up her legs, past the soft cling of her dress, to the curve of her collarbone. Her skin flushed deeper. She looked away, pretending not to feel it, but the ache it left behind stayed.

Stack, on the other hand, didn’t even try to hide his smirk. He leaned against the frame of the shed, cocky and gleaming, arms loose, vest open. His gold tooth caught the light when he smiled.

“Well now,” he drawled, “Ain’t y’all lookin’ cozy out here. Garden must be sweeter than the pie.”

Pearline giggled behind her hand.

“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on but shade and biscuits.” Ameila sassed.

Stack stepped forward, eyes on Amelia, “Then maybe I oughta come sit in that shade too. Ain’t fair for the flowers to be the only ones enjoyin’ all that sun on ya’ skin.”

Amelia rolled her eyes but couldn’t keep the smile from tugging her mouth, “You ain’t slick, Stack.”

He tilted his head, tongue licking his bottom lip. “Ain’t tryin’ to be. Just honest.”

Sammie stayed back, eyes flicking from Pearline to Amelia, unsure of whether to step forward or retreat. He looked like he wasn’t sure if he’d walked into a picnic or a spell.

Smoke said nothing.

But his gaze never left Amelia.

She could feel the weight of it, like a hand pressed gently to the small of her back. She adjusted her dress unconsciously, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin, every curve shaped by heat and cotton.

Pearline nudged her gently, whispering just loud enough for her to hear, “Your men look like they tryin’ to figure out who gon’ claim you first.”

Amelia choked on a laugh and elbowed her, “Shut up, girl.”

They both broke into giggles, turning their heads just enough to make the men guess what had been said.

Pearline raised her cup in salute, “Y’all can stop starin’. Ain’t no show here.”

Stack stepped back with a grin, “Coulda fooled me.”

Smoke finally moved—picking up a coil of rope from the grass and slinging it over his shoulder.

“Get back to work,” he muttered, low but firm.

Stack laughed, “Yessir, boss.”

Sammie picked up his hammer and gave one last look at Pearline—soft, sweet, like a man who’d just seen a miracle—before ducking back into the shade.

The sound of work resumed—faint hammering, low murmurs, the roll of gravel beneath boots.

But Amelia still felt it. Smoke’s eyes on her. Stack’s charm licking at her edges. And Pearline beside her, body radiating a light she didn’t even know she had. The garden was full of sweetness. But below the surface, something was ripening. And it wouldn’t stay quiet for long.

By the time Amelia stood and called the men over for lunch, the hammering had slowed to a lazy rhythm and sweat glistened across every broad chest in the yard. She carried the platter like it was something sacred—crispy fried chicken stacked high, buttered cornbread, sweet pickled onions, and cool slaw with specks of dill. The lemonade sat sweating in a thick glass pitcher, a halo of citrus hovering in the heat.

Smoke, Stack, and Sammie approached, stripping off gloves, wiping brows with the backs of their arms. The garden table had been pulled near the shade, and the scent of food curled around them like praise.

Amelia leaned slightly over to pour lemonade into tin cups, and Stack hummed low behind her.

“That dress keep doin’ the Lord’s work, princess,” he murmured, “If I die out here, bury me beneath this fig tree with a plate in one hand and your ass in the other.”

Amelia shot him a look over her shoulder. “You full of it.”

“I’d rather be full of you,” he said, grinning wide.

Pearline choked on her drink. Sammie covered his laugh with a cough.

Amelia rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her smile.

Stack caught her by the waist with one arm and tugged her gently onto his lap as he sank into the wooden chair. She landed with a little squeal, her body pressing against his chest, his hand splayed over her hip.

“Mmm,” he exhaled dramatically, tilting his head back. “That’s it. Done found religion.”

“Don’t start with me,” she said, but she didn’t move.

Smoke sat across from them at the head of the table, jaw tight, watching with a gaze that could cut granite. He didn’t speak. Just picked up his tin cup and drank slow, but Amelia felt his eyes like heat sliding up her thighs.

She glanced at him—just once—and their eyes locked.

That single second sucked all the sound from the garden. Her breath caught. His grip tightened around the cup. His nostrils flared slightly, jaw flexing hard enough to show his molars.

She knew that look. She felt it between her legs.

Smoke looked away first, but not before she saw the muscle in his thigh jump, his control fraying at the edges.

Sammie, oblivious, had pulled out his guitar again and sat cross-legged near Pearline on the blanket. His fingers strummed something soft—slow, swampy, with a gospel ache in the chord. Pearline leaned closer, her hand resting near his knee, her eyes half-lidded as the music wrapped around her like a shawl. She looked dazed. Entranced. Like she was listening with her whole soul.

“Where you learn to play like that?” she asked.

Sammie smiled slow, “Same place I learned to pray. From my daddy’s porch… and my mama’s ghost.”

Pearline blinked, quieted. They stayed like that—music and heat and hunger all around them.

After the meal, Amelia stood and stretched, “We’ll be inside,” she said, collecting cups.

Stack slapped her backside lightly as she passed. “Don’t go too far.”

Amelia gave him a look but let her fingers trail along his shoulder before slipping away with Pearline into the house.

The cool of the house wrapped around them like balm after the weight of the sun. Amelia set the empty pitcher in the sink, then led Pearline to her room. The light through the shutters was soft now, golden and thick with late afternoon peace.

Pearline sat on the bed, legs tucked beneath her, while Amelia rifled through the wooden box where Annie kept her hair products—shea butter, mango cream, castor oil, and a jar labeled “shine balm.”

“You ever had someone do your hair?” Pearline asked gently.

Amelia shook her head, “Not since my grandmère.”

Pearline smiled and patted the spot in front of her, “Come here.”

Amelia sat between her legs on the floor, heart hammering. Pearline began running her fingers gently through her curls, spritzing a little rosewater to bring them back to life, then smoothing the balm between her palms before defining each coil.

The touch was tender. Careful. Worshipful.

“You got hair like it was kissed by fire,” Pearline murmured, “Thick, but soft. Like it remember where it came from.”

Amelia’s breath caught. “And where’s that?”

Pearline didn’t answer. She just kept twisting curls.

Time folded in on itself.

They didn’t speak much after that. Just hands and hair. Breath and closeness. Then a knock at the doorframe.

It was Sammie.

“Pearline?” he asked gently, “If you ready, I can take you on home. Stack said I could borrow his automobile.”

Pearline stood, smoothing her dress. She turned to Amelia, brushing her thumb over her cheek.

“Thank you… for today.”

“You sure you wanna go?” Amelia asked, the words heavier than she meant them to be.

Pearline smiled, but her eyes said I don’t know.

Sammie waited at the door, looking shy but eager.

Pearline stepped out, and as they passed the porch, Stack gave Sammie a look—not threatening, just clear.

“Bring her back safe,” he said, “and bring my damn car back in one piece.”

“Yes sir,” Sammie said, with a little salute.

The screen door shut behind them.

And Amelia was left alone, lips still tingling from Pearline’s fingers, heart still beating to the rhythm of a song Sammie never finished playing.

The house had changed.

It wasn’t just the silence left behind after Pearline and Sammie drove off, or the way Annie’s absence curled in the corners like a breath held too long—it was something deeper. The walls felt stretched. The floorboards listened harder. Even the air felt warmer, as if her presence was taking up more space than it did before.

Am I stronger when she’s not here? Amelia wondered.

She stepped into the hallway barefoot, her curls now fully defined, swept to the side and cascading down her back like ink poured from a bottle. The balm Pearline had used caught the light, every coil shining with life. That same pale blue dress clung like it had been made from a wish—hugging her hips, draping over her breasts, slipping off one shoulder like it had grown tired of hiding her.

In the front, Smoke and Stack sat at the dining table with a half-played game of cards between them. An open bottle of white lightning sat beside a dented tin cup. Cigarette smoke curled in the air like ghosts.

They looked up as she entered.

Both men froze.

The cards slid from Stack’s fingers. Smoke stopped mid-drag, cigarette hovering just inches from his mouth. Neither said a word.

Amelia tilted her head, eyes soft with a smile, “Y’all look like you seen a ghost.”

Stack sat back in his chair and gave a low whistle, “If that’s what death look like, I’m ready.”

Smoke said nothing, but his eyes tracked her like prey—down her collarbone, the slick curve of her hip, the shine in her curls. His jaw clenched, and the cigarette sizzled softly between his fingers.

Amelia crossed the room and without asking, plucked Stack’s tin cup off the table.

“Careful now,” he warned, but she had already lifted it to her lips.

The liquor burned like fire—hot, rough, and wild. Her eyes widened, and she coughed hard, the taste ripping through her throat like molasses soaked in gunpowder.

Both men shot up from their chairs.

“Amelia!” Stack reached for her, hand firm on her back. “I told you—”

Smoke stepped forward too, but paused as Stack helped her. She waved them off between coughs, one tear sliding down her cheek as she sucked in air and laughed breathlessly.

“Y’all could’ve warned me it was brewed by the devil himself.”

Stack rubbed her back in slow circles, laughing, “Told you it was too strong, baby.”

Smoke stood a step back, watching, fists clenched. His eyes flicked between Stack’s hand and her shoulder.

Amelia caught it—felt it—and something twisted warm and dangerous in her stomach.

She straightened, licking her lips.

“Y’all playin’ spades?”

“Tryin’ to,” Stack muttered, pulling his chair back out, “But we lost track of what was what when you walked in here lookin’ like trouble wrapped in a ribbon.”

Amelia sat down in Annie’s empty chair.

That made it worse.

The absence was tangible now. The space Annie would’ve filled—laughing, rolling her eyes, checking the cards. Without her, the balance was off.

Amelia could feel it pulsing between the walls, under the floorboards, in Smoke’s pulse where he sat stiffly across from her. Her fae power felt closer to the skin now.

Hungrier. Thicker.

Like the boundary between herself and everything she touched had thinned.

Stack felt it too. He leaned back in his seat, watching her with an openness that made her chest ache.

Smoke lit another cigarette.

Stack broke the tension with a small sigh, “You think she’s alright out there?”

Smoke’s voice was low, “I know she can handle herself. That don’t mean I don’t worry.”

“She’s been doin’ this work longer than we been drinkin’,” Stack said gently.

“She’s alone,” Smoke snapped, then pulled back, “Ain’t no rootworker strong enough to fight what they don’t see comin’.”

Amelia reached across the table, resting her fingers lightly on Smoke’s wrist, “She’ll be alright,” she said, “She’s wrapped in protection. And she knew what was calling her.”

Smoke looked at her hand on him like it was glowing. Like it branded.

“You sure about that?” he asked.

She nodded slowly, sensing how tight he was under her touch, “I can feel it. In here.” She placed her other hand on her chest.

Something in Smoke’s expression broke just a little. He looked at her like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull away or pull her into his lap and bury his face in her neck.

Stack saw it all and leaned back with a grin, folding his arms, “Lord. You gon’ burn both of us down before Annie even get back.”

Amelia smiled, curling her fingers around the tin cup again, “Then maybe y’all oughta stay out the kitchen.”

But none of them moved.

And in the stillness that followed, even the house held its breath—watching, waiting, glowing faintly with power that no one had named.

Yet.

After a while, Amelia left to her room. The screen door swung open again, loose on the hinge, and Smoke looked up from his seat at the table just as Sammie stepped inside—shirt half-tucked, collar wilted, hair not as groomed. He smelled faintly of honeysuckle and sweat. A scratch marked the side of his neck, half hidden beneath his collar.

“Returned ya’ car,” Sammie said, trying to sound easy, but his voice carried that post-confession thrum.

Stack stood from his chair, eyes narrowing like a brother who didn’t need to ask.

“You get her home safe?” he asked casually, though there was weight in his tone.

Sammie nodded, “Yes sir.”

Stack smirked. “Uh-huh. Let’s get you back ‘fore your daddy starts prayin’ circles ‘round your bed,” He grabbed his hat and gave Smoke a look, “You alright here?”

Smoke nodded, slow and silent. The muscles in his forearm tightened just slightly.

Then they were gone. The door shut behind them, and silence poured back into the house like molasses.

The quiet was too thick. Annie’s presence—her breath, her grounding voice, her laughter that used to curl around the edges of these rooms—was gone. In its place, something else had taken root.

Something softer. Something magical.

Smoke felt it the moment Amelia entered. She stepped lightly into the room, barefoot, curls freshly defined and glistening down her back like dark silk unraveling. She was wrapped in a linen towel—looking like sin—hugging her hips like it had memory. The fabric slipped lower in the front, showing some cleavage as she crossed the room. Her skin, caramel-kissed from the day’s sun, glowed like bronze smoothed by prayer. Her lips were slick with gloss, catching the low lamplight.

She didn’t have to say a word. Smoke looked up and forgot to breathe. It hit him low in the gut. That heat. That ache. A weight behind his zipper. The slow, dangerous hunger he thought he’d tamed. She walked past him and brushed his arm—casual, like a breeze—but her fingers left a tingle in his skin, like static after a lightning strike.

“You alright?” she asked, her voice soft as wet silk.

Smoke cleared his throat, “Feels… different in here.”

Amelia nodded. “I feel it too.”

He turned to her, watching the candlelight dance across her shoulder, “You feel stronger.”

Her lips curled, slow and knowing, “That a compliment?”

“It’s a warning,” he muttered.

She stepped closer, palm pressing gently against his forearm. Her touch was tender, but her eyes didn’t waver.

“You ain’t got to be scared of what you feel.”

Smoke blinked. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, Annie’s voice echoed in his head—low and loving, the last thing she whispered before she left:

Make sure she feels safe. Welcomed. Loved, if she needs it. You take care of her, Elijah. You hear me? Loved if she needs it.

The words clawed at his resolve. Amelia stepped back, her smile slow and velvet, “I’m gonna take a bath in the yard. That heat’s still sittin’ in my bones.”

Smoke swallowed hard, “You gon’ on and do that.”

Amelia turned and walked away, curls bouncing down her back, hips swaying in that dress like they were speaking in tongues. The screen door closed behind her and Smoke was left alone in the quiet, his chest rising too fast and fists clenched. He had his eyes already turning toward her bedroom. Ameila was too busy cleansing to focus. Smoke stood outside her bedroom door for a moment, hand on the knob.

Just breathing.

The house was dead quiet. No movement. No witness. He turned the handle and stepped inside. The air was thick with her—rosewater, sun-warmed skin, lemon balm, and something beneath it all that felt… ancient. Like crushed clover and riverlight. Like the shimmer that lives in the corners of your eye when you’re not sure if you’re awake or dreaming.

Her bed was half-made, quilt soft and rumpled. The pillow held the shape of her head. Her journal sat closed on the table beside a carved wooden comb. A few long strands of hair curled over its teeth.

Smoke ran his fingers across the wood. Then looked around.

He told himself he was here to find something. To understand her. To protect the house. But his eyes already knew what they were looking for. There, near the side of the bed, tucked halfway under the quilt—her bloomers.

White cotton. Thin. Wrinkled at the waistband. Still warm from wear.

His breath hitched.

He stepped closer.

Picked them up with two fingers first. Then slowly, gently, he cupped them in his hand. Soft. Still holding her shape. Faintly damp.

He brought them to his face and inhaled.

And everything else fell away.

Her scent flooded him—sweet, sharp, utterly female. Sweat and oil. Citrus and musk. And beneath it…that thing. That pulse. That shine he couldn’t name but craved like a man starved.

Smoke exhaled through his nose, lips parting.

“Goddamn…”

His hand tightened around the cotton. The bulge in his pants pressed heavy against the seam, straining. He was already hard. Aching. Embarrassed by how fast it had come. How natural.

“I just wanted to know more,” he whispered, not even convincing himself.

But he didn’t put them down.

Instead, he brought them to his nose again, eyes fluttering shut, moaning low in his throat as he breathed her in.

It wasn’t just desire. It was addiction.

He turned slowly, lowering to sit on the edge of her bed, the bloomers still clutched in one hand, his other sliding over the comforter she slept under.

“I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you,” he muttered, voice low and cracked.

The room didn’t answer. But his body did. Hard. Heavy. Haunted. And outside, the bathwater rippled in the breeze, waiting for her.

Smoke didn’t mean to follow her.

Not with his feet.

But his body went before his mind could argue. Before his guilt could crawl back up and remind him whose house this was. The path along the side of the house was damp with summer dew, grass brushing his ankles as he moved slow. Careful. Silent.

The iron tub sat just past her open window, framed by the back porch columns and a row of yellowing daisies. The moon poured down over her skin like a spotlight drawn only for her.

Amelia.

Her back was to him—slick and golden under the silver light, curls piled high on her head, a few tendrils clinging to the back of her neck where the steam rose and kissed her skin. Water shimmered around her, moving in slow ripples where she’d shifted her thighs apart. Her knees peaked just above the surface, rounded and bare. Her breasts floated partially submerged, the slope of one visible as she reached lazily to the side, pouring a little water over her shoulder with a tin pail.

She moved like she had nowhere to be.

Like the night belonged to her.

And Smoke?

Smoke stopped breathing.

His hand slid into his pocket, fingers tightening around the fabric he hadn’t returned—her bloomers. The same soft cotton still damp with her heat. Her scent still clung to his fingers. To his mustache. He’d buried his face in them too long, too deep, and now her essence haunted every inhale. He reached up, rubbed two fingers across his upper lip. The scent hit him again—warm, salted sweetness. Her.

He groaned low in his throat.

His trousers were already too tight. His arousal pressed hard against the fabric, straining with each slow breath. From where he stood watching, Amelia shifted again. She lifted one leg, bare and glistening, and began to smooth soap over her skin in slow, languid circles. Her palm moved from ankle to thigh, over the full curve of her hip. Her head tilted back. Lips parted. She looked like something out of a fever dream.

Smoke pressed his palm to the wood siding of the house, breathing harder now. His other hand dropped lower. He opened his trousers.

And then he touched himself.

The first stroke made him shudder—deep and full, slow at first. His hand matched her movements. As she glided a sponge across her chest, he watched her breast rise from the water and disappear again.

He licked his lips, “Jesus,” he whispered.

But there was no saving here. No prayer. Just sweat, breath, and shame-laced hunger.

She turned slightly, a curl escaping its pin and clinging to the nape of her neck. Her profile caught the light—the gentle part of her lips, the soft bow, the tip of her nose catching silver. Her lashes fluttered.

She was moaning.

Not loud. Not performative. Just a hum. A sigh. Like the water pleased her. Like her own hands pleased her. Her moans—quiet and barely audible through the glass—were worse than sin. They were invitation.

Her lips curved into a smile.

A knowing one.

Smoke’s hand stilled.

For a split second, he couldn’t breathe.

He pulled back from the edge, panting, hand still on himself, her bloomers clenched in the other.

Did she know? Was she letting him watch? Or was she casting something without even trying?

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but her scent was still there. Embedded in his skin. Flooding his chest.

Owning him.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

Not tomorrow. Not ever.

He stepped back from the side of the house like a man walking out of a fever dream—slow, breath caught in his chest, harder than he’d ever admit, and ashamed of nothing except that it felt good. Too good. His legs felt heavy, his fingers tingling from gripping the wood too tight. His lip still tingled from where her scent lingered in his mustache, and his jaw clenched at the memory of it. Inside, the house was still.

Too still.

The wooden floor creaked beneath his boots like it recognized the shift in him. Smoke moved through the front in silence, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. His chest rose and fell too fast. His tank top clung damp to his spine, sweat born not of heat but of restraint worn raw.

He smelled like her.

It wasn’t just her bloomers still tucked in his pocket—it was the way the scent of her had crawled into his skin. Into the corners of his mouth. Into the lines of his palms. She was under his nails and in his breath. He sank into the worn leather chair by the hearth, spreading his knees wide, forearms resting on his thighs, head bowed.

The quiet pressed on him. It didn’t feel like a house anymore.

Not a home.

It felt like something watching him back.

His eyes flicked to the walls. The altar shelf. The herbs Annie had left hanging in the corner, bundled and dried. Smoke had never paid much mind to those details before. But now? Now they felt like eyes.

Like Annie knew.

Like the house knew.

You take care of her, Elijah. You make sure she feels safe. Loved, if she needs it…

He dragged both hands over his face. His fingertips dug into his scalp, into his beard.

And wasn’t that the truth?

Amelia had stepped into this house quiet as a whisper, soft-spoken and sweet-eyed—and now she was everywhere. In his dreams. On his skin. Beneath his tongue.

He’d watched her bathe like a man possessed. He hadn’t looked away once. He hadn’t wanted to.

“This ain’t right…” Smoke whispered, his voice low and hoarse in the dim.

But it wasn’t just lust anymore. It was something blooming. Something taking root. Something deep and dark and glowing. He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes. He tried to picture Annie. Her scent. Her hands. Her voice. But all he could see was Amelia’s wet skin, and the way her lips had curved when she turned her face toward where he stood.

She knew I was watchin’.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

Still, his body reacted. Still, he pulsed between his legs. Still, her name hovered just behind his teeth.

Smoke fixed his pants when he’d heard footsteps.

He didn’t hear her at first. But he felt her. The shift in the air. The faint thrum behind his ribs.

And then he looked up.

Amelia stood in the hallway, fresh from her bath.

Her skin shimmered with water, the hair that had fallen from her bun damp and curling against her neck. She wore nothing but a thin linen towel, wrapped loose around her—too thin, too light. The curve of her hip showed when she stepped into the lamp’s low glow. So did the tops of her breasts. Her feet were bare. Her silence louder than thunder. She looked at him—soft, unreadable—then crossed the room slow.

Smoke didn’t move.

His pulse climbed into his throat.

She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could see the droplets still clinging to her collarbone. She bent down—graceful, slow, deliberate—and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Not a peck. Not heat.

Just a promise.

Soft. Lingering.

When she pulled back, she whispered, “do you need anything?”

Her voice was silk dragged over coals.

“Your smoke pipe? Something strong to drink?”

Then her eyes drifted down.

To his lap.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Smoke’s jaw locked.

Her scent hit him next—fresh soap, rosewater, and that same impossible sweetness that he’d started chasing through the house like a man gone mad. It was in the walls. In the sheets. On his hands. Her eyes found his again—wide, brown, but tonight the color shifted. Gold shimmered at the edges. Not bright. Not glowing.

But flickering.

Like a lantern had been lit behind her gaze.

Goddamn, he thought.

His throat worked around the dryness.

He swallowed hard, then forced out, “Nah, I’m good, darlin’.”

His voice cracked slightly.

He stood fast—too fast—and stepped past her. Didn’t touch her.

Didn’t trust himself to.

He could feel the heat she radiated against his side as he moved. In his pocket, the folded bloomers burned against his leg. He hadn’t returned them yet. Hadn’t been able to. He slipped into his room without looking back and closed the door. Smoke leaned against it like it might stop the ache inside him from spreading. Her kiss still warmed the corner of his mouth — light, innocent, but searing.

It hadn’t even been a real kiss. But now?

He could taste her.

That scent… Lord, that scent.

It was in his clothes. His hands. The folds of the goddamn bloomers still in his pocket. He pulled them out, slow, holding them in one hand. Soft white cotton. Slightly damp from where he’d clutched them too long earlier.

He brought them to his face.

And breathed.

Long. Deep. Full.

The scent of her—earthy, sweet, like warm skin and clean linen and something deeper, wilder—filled his lungs like a drug.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice already breaking, “I can’t…”

But he could.

And he would.

He sat on the edge of the bed, unbuckled his belt slow, as if trying to justify it to himself with every quiet motion. His hand found the bulge in his pants, already stiff and twitching. Smoke pressed the fabric of her bloomers to his face again, grinding his teeth as his other hand slipped under his waistband. The first touch of his palm to his length made his whole body shudder.

“Goddamn you, girl,” Smoke whispered, “What the fuck are you doin’ to me?”

Smoke released his big dick and it sat heavy in his hand and pulsating with need. He stroked slow at first, his eyes shut tight, the scent of her all over him. Smoke pictured her wet hair clinging to her neck. That towel sliding off her hips, inch by inch Her eyes shimmering gold when she looked at him. That sweet, wicked glance toward his lap

You need anything?

“Yeah, baby, I need you.”

Smoke finally opened his eyes to stare down at his dick. He scrunched his face and dragged his bottom lip between his teeth, golds glinting from the glow of the lamp light. His balls sat tight and fat over the waistband of his boxers. His dick stood firm and solid without his hand holding him steady. If he squinted hard enough, he could see the veins in his dick contract.

Smoke’s breath caught.

His thick fingers wrapped around his girth and then he started pumping. He used his free hand to open Amelia’s bloomers, placing the crotch in his mouth to suck on while he fisted his dick. He’d never done such a taboo thing. Sucking on bloomers. Tasting the day and her discharge. It was so sinful. But the way his dick felt. The way his pre cum beaded at the tip and spilled over like lava from a volcano, it felt too good to stop.

He imagined pushing that towel aside, burying his face between her thighs like he had in his dreams. He imagined her moaning for him again, trembling under his mouth, gasping into Annie’s lips like she’d done the other night.

His hand moved faster now.

The scent of her filled the room.

His back arched. Jaw clenched.

“Fuckkkk—Amelia—”

Smoke came hard, breath stolen from his chest, thighs shaking, cum shooting from his slit heavy and messily. He groaned into her bloomers, muffling the sound like it was something to be ashamed of. He stayed still for a long time. Chest heaving. Eyes glazed. Her name still caught in his throat.

When he finally stood, he looked at himself in the mirror — sweat-damp, wild-eyed, undone.

He folded the bloomers.

Didn’t return them.

He slid them back into the drawer of his nightstand, like a secret. Smoke cleaned himself off and undressed, skin on fire and dick twitching. It wanted to be fed pussy. Amelia’s pussy. He stared down at his long dick with it’s impressive girth and shook his head.

And when he lay down?

He didn’t sleep. He just stared at the ceiling, waiting for morning.

Dick bobbing beneath the quilt.

Waiting for her scent to come back through the hallway again.

Stack didn’t head straight home after leaving Sammie.

He meant to.

But then he saw Delta Slim and a few of the boys posted up outside Messenger’s Juke—passing a jar of white lightning and laughing loud enough to raise the dead. The kind of night howl you can hear from two fields over.

He pulled in without thinking.

Vest unbuttoned. Hat low. That grin that always got him in trouble already spreading.

“Y’all still breathin’?” he called as he stepped out, “Ain’t burned this place down yet?”

They welcomed him like kin.

He took a swig from the jar, let the heat settle behind his eyes.

Talked slick, too.

Talked about the new juke he and Smoke were building out on the east end — how it was gonna have real sound, real women, and no flatfoot standing guard at the door.

“Gon’ outshine this place so bad,” he slurred with a chuckle, “Messenger’ll be sellin’ moon pies out the back just to keep up.”

They roared with laughter.

Stack threw dice for a while, made a few dollars. Lost twice that.

But when the shine got heavy on his tongue and the night started spinning slow, he remembered her.

Amelia.

He made it back to Annie’s house with his vest swinging open and his slacks riding low on his hips. His collar was damp with sweat, and his hands smelled like tobacco and dice dust.

Inside, the house was quiet. Still. The lights were dim. A record had run out hours ago. He made his way down the hall—slow, loose—expecting to find her curled up in bed, silk-slick and waiting.

“Mm,” he muttered, licking his lips, “My little princess oughta be laid out with that glow I like. Legs open. Waitin’ for me to come home and do her right.”

He pushed open the door to her room, already smirking.

Empty.

He groaned. Low. Frustrated.

“Now where the hell…?”

He stepped back out, ran a hand through his hair.

Then he heard it.

Water.

A splash. Then a soft sound. A hum.

Not just any hum.

A song.

In a language he didn’t recognize—liquid, airy, and old.

“Aye li dan la limyè,

Santi mo kè, santi mo flanm

Tire ou vin, pa plenyen non,

Ou ka chayé difé an mwen.”

“Soufle pa soufle,

Tèt ou ka tonbé

Ant bra mwen,

Ou ka brile dousman…”

You in the light,

Feel my heart, feel my flame

Come closer, don’t complain,

You carry my fire now.

Breathe, don’t breathe,

Your head will fall

Into my arms,

Where you’ll burn slowly…

Stack moved through the back of the house, past Annie’s root garden, across the soft grass that led toward the shack.

And there, behind the trees…the pond glistened silver.

He stopped.

Caught his breath.

She was there.

Amelia sat at the edge of the pond, legs folded to one side, toes brushing the surface. She wore a thin, ivory-colored slip that clung in the wrong places—loose at one shoulder, sliding down her arm. Her curls hung long and defined, damp from the humidity, swaying down her back. The gold anklet he gave her—the one with the tiny A charm—caught the moonlight and flashed like flame.

She was singing. Soft. Rhythmic. It wasn’t English. Wasn’t French. It was older.

And the sound of it stirred the hair on Stack’s arms. She hummed the last line as the water stilled and the fireflies hovered around her. Her voice was a current, pulling the night into her chest. Stack watched her from behind the willow, stunned by the sound. It felt like the air bent toward her when she sang. Like even the pond was listening.

Fireflies hovered above her. Not random—drawn.

Hovering like they were listening.

And her skin?

She was glowing. Just a little. Just enough.

Like someone had kissed gold dust into her blood.

Stack leaned against a willow tree. He was Speechless for once. He watched her like she was a spell he couldn’t undo. His smirk faded. Replaced by something softer, deeper. Want, yes—but also wonder.

“I came home lookin’ for you,” he said finally, voice low, smooth, “Thought you’d be in bed. Maybe dreamin’ about me, keepin’ my side warm.”

Amelia didn’t startle.

She turned her head slightly, voice still distant, dreamy.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Mm,” Stack stepped forward, eyes dragging down her silhouette, “Well damn, baby. You look like a ghost out here. A real pretty one.”

She didn’t answer. She kept humming for a moment. Then stopped.

He approached slowly, circling behind her. Sat beside her on the bank, shoulder barely touching hers. He stared at her. Stack Couldn’t stop.

“You out here singin’ to the water like it’s gon’ carry your secrets off.”

“Maybe it will,” she whispered.

He chuckled. Quietly. Not mocking.

“You somethin’ else,” he said, watching the way her curls shifted in the breeze, “And I don’t even care what,” He looked at her, eyes heavy, “All I know is…I came back wantin’ a taste of you. But now I’m sittin’ here feelin’ like I don’t deserve it.”

She turned to him nice and slow.

And when their eyes met, the pond stilled.

She didn’t have to look at him to know.

The scent of moonshine and licorice clung to Stack’s breath. It curled around her like the breeze, low and heady. It wasn’t harsh—just warm, like he’d come from laughter and bad bets, the kind of night that ends with pockets light and heart full.

But beneath it, she caught something else.

Need. Not rough, not greedy. Just…quiet.

He sat close, too close now. His thigh brushed hers. His hand settled in the grass between them, fingers flexing like they weren’t sure what to reach for.

She turned to him, and their eyes met.

Even in the low moonlight, she saw the gleam in his gaze—half-drunken, half-devoted.

“You been drinkin’,” she said gently, not as a scold, just fact.

“Yeah,” he admitted, breath soft against her cheek, “Took a few sips. Played some bones. Told a few lies.” He smiled slow, “But I ain’t drunk, baby. Not like that.”

His fingers lifted, brushed a damp curl off her shoulder.

“Only thing got me twisted right now is you.”

He leaned in.

Not fast—reverent.

His mouth found the side of her neck, warm and slow.

He kissed her there.

Once.

Then again, lips open, breath curling against her skin like heat rising from the water.

“You smell like gold,” he whispered, “Like fire wantin’ to be touched.”

She exhaled, slow. Let her eyes flutter closed. He kissed lower. Along her shoulder. Down to her collarbone.

“I came lookin’ for you ‘cause I missed you,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and shine, “But now I see you like this…and I feel like I’m dreamin’. And baby…I don’t wanna wake up.”

She turned toward him. Fully now. The thin strap of her slip slid off her shoulder without her touching it.

The anklet he gave her glittered at her ankle, the A catching moonlight every time she shifted.

“You really mean all that?” she asked, barely above a breath.

“More than I mean anything.”

His hands rose to her face. He cupped her cheek. Stack looked at her like she was something he never meant to find but couldn’t walk away from now.

“You just let me kiss you one more time, girl,” he said, “and I swear…I’ma remember it the rest of my life.”

Stack’s thumb brushed her jaw as his eyes drank her in. She looked like a fever dream under the moon—slip clinging to her skin, shoulder bare, curls cascading like a storm down her back. That little gold A glinted at her ankle every time she shifted. He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to. Stack’s lips found hers—slow, sure, and hot. Not forceful. Not greedy.

Just…needing her.

Like he’d been carrying the kiss in his mouth for days and could finally let it out.

Amelia sighed into him.

Her hands rose to his chest, fingers tracing the edge of his open vest, skimming over the damp cotton of his undershirt. His heart thudded beneath it—fast and full. She pressed her mouth more firmly to his, and he groaned—just a little, like the kiss was breaking something loose inside him. His hand slid down to her thigh, fingers brushing where the fabric clung, then lifting it gently to touch the soft skin underneath.

“You always this soft?” he whispered against her lips, “Or is it just for me?”

“Just you,” she murmured, not even sure it was a lie.

He kissed her again.

Deeper now.

His tongue slid against hers, slow and coaxing, and she opened for him with a quiet gasp. The fireflies drifted closer. The pond stilled. The night held its breath. Her fae pulsed beneath her skin—not glowing bright, but enough to make the gold in her eyes catch fire. His hand moved up her thigh, trailing heat. His other hand slid around her waist, pulling her into his lap.

She felt the hardness of him beneath her now. Seated between her pussy lips. Throbbing and hot with a gluttony for her.

And still—he moved slow. Like he meant to memorize her. Like this was prayer, not passion.

“You feel that?” he murmured, voice hoarse. “That’s what you do to me, princess.”

She nodded, breath shaky.

“Say it,” he said, hand gripping her hip, “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” she whispered, lips brushing his.

And in that moment, every part of her meant it.

Stack lifted her in his arms like she weighed nothing. Her slip slid up her thighs, caught at her waist. She didn’t stop it. Didn’t stop him. Her breath was on his neck, her skin damp with heat. Ameila sucked on Stack’s neck greedily, then she trailed her tongue to his right ear. Stack double-cuffed her ass beneath her slip, happy to find her bare. He crossed the mossy stretch of grass and brought her to the old tree stump by the water—smooth and wide, hollowed by time. A perfect place to worship something wild.

He sat and pulled her into his lap, her knees on either side of him. He felt her warmth over his hips. Her glow kissing his chest. His hands slid up her thighs, gripped her waist, pulled her down so that her center pressed right against his growing hardness.

She gasped.

He groaned.

Their foreheads touched.

“I’m about to fuck you in this paradise, princess…claim that sweet little pussy,” he whispered, voice wrecked.

“You think it’s yours to claim, Elias?” she whispered back, a smile at the corners of her mouth.

He kissed her again—harder now.

Mouth open, tongue tangled with hers, his hands moving under her slip, gripping her bare ass, squeezing, lifting. Amelia rocked against him, slow and aching.

His dick twitched beneath her. She reached down, unbuckling his belt with hands that shook only slightly, sliding his slacks open, freeing him. Amelia took him in her hand, gasping at the heat of him. A hot rod in her delicate hand.

“Oh my goodness,” she murmured, eyes catching on him—long, thick, full of heat.

“You gon’ take this dick out here?” he asked, voice like gravel, “Like an animal?”

“You already one,” she whispered, guiding him to her.

Amelia raised her hips and pointed his tip at her wet entrance. Stack raised up as he slid inside her slow. So slow he had to grip the stump behind him to stop from losing himself right there.

Her body opened for him—hot, tight, velvet-soft—like she was built to hold him.

“Fuck—” he breathed against her throat, “You feel like a spell…”

She moaned, low and sweet, riding him with slow, rolling hips. Each motion pulled a sound from him— raw and real. His hands tangled in her curls, his mouth on her breast, his teeth scraping her nipple through the slip.

She gasped. Ground down harder. He met her thrust for thrust now—the tree stump creaking beneath them.

The pond rippled.

The fireflies circled faster.

Her glow bloomed.

That soft gold beneath her skin burst to the surface— not too bright, just enough to make her look otherworldly. He stared up at her, panting, sweating, shaking.

“You ain’t human,” he said, voice breaking, “But I don’t give a fuck.”

She cupped his face, “Then take me like you mean it.”

He did.

Stack bucked into her harder, rougher, the stump thudding under them, his mouth on her shoulder, her name breaking from his lips.

“Fuck me, Elias, get up in this pussy!”

Stack wrapped an arm around her waist, dipped his hips, and ducked up into her fast and steady. Stack stared up at her all puppy eyed with a bite of his bottom lip. He sat back on the stump, hands on her hips, watching them connect over and over and over.

“All that dick just sankin’ in that pussy…you was built to fuck on Stack, huh?”

“Yes!” Amelia released a sharp moan, “Yesssss…”

“Lean forward,” Stack popped Amelia on the rump, “Let’s go.”

She leaned in and Stack drilled up into her. It was sharp, speedy, ferocious. Amelia balled his vest up in her fists. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, mouth unhinged, moans trapped in her throat.

“Got me goin’ crazy…fuck you doin’? You gon’ make me kill some nigga for lookin’ at you…breathing ya’ air…Amelia…”

She opened her eyes to stare down at him.

Stack flipped her over, her back against the stump, hair splayed out. He dug into her with his back hunched and necklace with his dog tag swinging in her face.

“Ask daddy to make this pussy cum. Do it right fuckin’ now.” Stack barked out.

“Daddy! Please! Can I cum?”

Stack leaned down, opened his mouth, and flicked tongues with her, slick with drool that filled Amelia’s mouth. She felt her fae glow brighter.

“You so…so nasty…” she moaned out.

Stack sucked on her nipples, pausing to savor. She ran her hand over his slick hair. Stack pulled out and got down to eat her. Her decorated ankle draped over his shoulder. She jolted with each suck and lick. Wherever she squirmed, Stack was right there. He made her button swollen and sensitive with his tongue saliva-slick before sucking on it.

“Unhhhnnn…”

Her eyes glowed and her thighs trembled.

“Fuck,” Stack resurfaced, face glistening, “Shit taste so damn good,” he licked again and groaned, “Gon’ make me lose my tongue in this shit…”

Amelia felt herself getting ready to climax. Stack did too. He focused his slurping over her entrance and twirled his tongue in it.

“Open that pussy up,” Stack popped Amelia on the side of her ass, “Stop fighting it, baby…”

Amelia released a lengthy moan. Her body quaked with her release. Stack didn’t wait for her to calm down. He was back in it like he never left. There was more lubrication. More slip. Like he was plunging into a body of water. Balls covered in it, slapping her with each deep stroke.

“Melia…baby…you ‘bout to make daddy cum...”

That shook her. He’d never cum inside her.

“Stack—”

He shut her up with deep strokes she could feel in her belly.

“I’m nutting…”

Amelia whimpered.

She came first—glowing gold, moaning loud, clawing at his chest. He came right after, gasping, cursing, burying his face in her neck as he pulled out, emptying all over her. He almost didn’t pull out.

And when they stilled, breath tangled, hearts pounding?

He held her tight in his lap.

Afraid to let go.

Regretting not filling her up.

Wanting to do it again so he could.

Amelia woke slow.

Her body ached. Not sharply, not painfully, but deep in her hips, her thighs, the backs of her knees. The kind of ache you don’t forget for a while.

Her lips still tingled.

So did the place behind her ear where Stack had kissed her and whispered he’d never felt anything like it.

She reached for him without thinking.

But the bed was cool.

He was gone.

She sat up slowly, slipped her legs over the edge of the bed, and took a deep breath.

The sunlight sliced through the curtain in soft gold slats.

She pressed her palm to her belly.

Closed her eyes.

Still full of him.

Still glowing.

She bathed quick—cool water, a touch of rose oil, a prayer under her breath to keep her skin steady, her magic still.

Then she dressed.

Something light. Flowy. Pretty—without looking like she tried too hard. Soft yellow cotton. Bare shoulders. A locket at her throat. Her curls were loose, still damp, falling around her cheeks.

She stepped into the kitchen with ballerina flats on her feet. Smoke sat at the table, back to the window, coffee in hand. The steam curled around his knuckles like a ghost.

He didn’t look up at first.

Didn’t need to.

He felt her.

Like he always did.

Amelia moved to the counter and opened the cabinet slow.

“You eaten yet?” she asked softly, without turning.

He shook his head once, “Just coffee.”

His voice was low. Rough. Barely there.

The silence after stretched long.

Thick with tension.

She could feel him looking at her now. Dragging his eyes down her back. Across her legs. She kept her face toward the shelf, fingers wrapped tight around the edge.

He knows.

He don’t know everything, but he knows something.

Smoke took another sip before setting the cup down slow. He watched the way her hips moved beneath the cotton. The way her skin glowed just faintly in the light.

She had Stack last night.

She’s still sore from it.

She’s still full of it.

He swallowed.

The coffee was bitter now.

“Shop openin’ today?” he asked finally.

“Mm-hm,” she nodded, keeping her voice light. “Got to mop and sweep, maybe burn a little cedar if the air stays heavy.”

“I’ll come with you,” Smoke said suddenly.

Amelia glanced over her shoulder.

“You don’t have to. I got it.”

“Didn’t ask if you got it,” he said, “Said I’m comin’.”

He stood, moved into the kitchen, and rinsed out his mug he set it in the sink with slow care. But he didn’t leave. Smoke lingered real close. Too close. Amelia’s hand brushed the counter, knuckles tightening slightly.

“Did…did Stack go back home?” she asked, casual as possible.

Smoke’s jaw ticked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Gone ‘fore I even got up. Most likely to change into fresh clothes after last night.”

He turned to face her.

Arms crossed. Voice low.

“Why you askin’? Your bed miss him?”

Amelia looked at him sharply.

Saw it then—the flicker in his eyes. The edge in his smile.

A slow, creeping jealousy that he didn’t name but couldn’t hide.

She tilted her head, her own lips curling into a sly, knowing smile.

That fae was biting back.

“Maybe it did,” she said, “Why? You missin’ it too?”

That earned her a scoff and a slow shake of his head.

But his eyes never left her face.

Or her body.

She moved to the stove and cracked four eggs into a skillet. The sizzle filled the room like a warning.

“You want breakfast or you just gonna stand there glarin’?”

Smoke walked back to the dining table and pulled the chair back out.

Sat down, elbows on the table, his gaze heavy on her back.

“Yeah. I’ll eat,” he finally spoke.

After cooking, Amelia brought him a plate—eggs, grits, a biscuit she’d reheated from yesterday, setting it down without fanfare. Smoke immediately tucked in, chewing his food like a starving man.

“You ain’t said thank you,” she muttered.

He swallowed his grits before licking his lips slow, “Didn’t know if it was meant to be a gift or a guilt offering,” he replied, eyes steady.

“Depends on how good it tastes.”

She grabbed a rag, turned toward the sink, and let her gaze trail over his bare chest—the rise of muscle, the ink on his shoulder, the faint shimmer of sweat still clinging to his collarbone.

She didn’t hide it.

But when he noticed, he smirked.

“You gon’ wash those dishes or just stare at me?” he asked, voice low and rough.

“You like being looked at,” she said, turning back with her smile tight, “Don’t play coy now.”

She washed the plate she used for cooking, slowly. The room felt smaller. Hotter.

“I’ll meet you at the shop,” she said once the last glass was set aside, “Let me open up, light the candles first.”

“I’ll be there,” Smoke said, pushing back from the table, “Soon as I throw some clothes on.”

She grabbed her satchel and her keys. Took one more glance at him—still shirtless, still watching her. He looked like trouble with too much memory in his eyes.

She didn’t say goodbye.

She just opened the door and stepped out into the sun.

The shop smelled like cedar and beeswax, smoke and lemon balm. Amelia moved slowly between the shelves, fingers trailing over labeled jars: mugwort, valerian, graveyard dirt. A blue floor wash cooled the worn floorboards beneath her bare feet. She’d opened the shutters wide to let in the light.

It was peaceful. Mostly.

Except for the way Smoke kept drifting in and out of the doorway—flannel shirt open and jeans low, a trail of sweat glistening down his torso.

He didn’t say much. He fed the chickens, tossed corn, slopped water for the goats and muttered under his breath about the heat. But every time he passed the open shop door, he looked in, and every time he looked in, he watched her. Watched the way her hips moved when she reached for bundles of sage. Watched the curve of her thighs under her dress when she bent to sweep salt from the corners.

She acted like she didn’t notice.

But she did.

She was lighting the last of the altar candles when he stepped into the doorway again, arms dusted with hay, hat pulled low.

“You doin’ alright in here?” he asked, voice low and thick with heat.

“Makin’ it,” she replied without turning.

“You hummin’ earlier.”

She didn’t answer.

He lingered longer that time, leaning in the doorway, one arm braced overhead, eyes on the low dip of her back as she knelt to tuck a small offering beneath the table.

“What’s that one for?” he asked.

“Protection,” she said softly, “In case anyone comes round who don’t mean well.”

She finally looked at him.

Eyes unreadable. Knowing.

“That mean me?”

“You tell me,” she said.

By midday, the shop was quiet again.

Smoke had disappeared somewhere behind the trees, and Amelia wiped her hands on a cloth and headed back toward the house to make lunch.

She passed the chickens. The goats. The porch.

But no sign of him.

Inside, the house was cool and dim. The front room empty.

She moved toward the kitchen…but something stopped her.

A sound.

Soft. A drawer closing.

Her room.

She stepped quietly to the door, pushed it open.

Smoke stood at her dresser.

One hand still on the handle, the other holding something pale and folded—her bloomers.

He turned, startled but not guilty.

He didn’t hide them.

Didn’t move.

Their eyes met.

Her breath caught.

Heat bloomed between them.

“I just came to put ‘em back,” he said, voice low.

“You already had your nose in ‘em,” she replied, not unkind, “Why return ’em now?”

Smoke blinked.

Something shifted in his chest.

A flicker of shame.

Then something darker.

Want.

“You mad?” he asked.

She took a step forward.

“No,” Another step, “I’m curious.”

He swallowed hard.

“’Bout what?”

She moved closer. Slow.

He could smell her now.

Soap. Skin. That sweet, unplaceable scent that made him hard in his sleep.

“’Bout what you was gonna do after.”

He didn’t answer.

He just watched her.

She reached out, took the bloomers from his hand, and let them fall to the floor between them.

Then she touched his chest.

Slow. Firm. Familiar.

“Was you thinkin’ about me when you did it?” she asked, voice silk-wrapped flame.

He nodded once.

“Every time.”

She didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. She just stepped in close until her chest brushed his bare skin, until she could feel the tension humming beneath the muscle in his arms. Her eyes burned gold around the edges now —not bright, not glowing, but alive. She looked up at him through thick lashes, voice honey-slow:

“You like how I smell, don’t you?”

Smoke’s throat bobbed. His jaw flexed.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, “I do.”

Her hand slid from his chest to the back of his neck, fingernails dragging gently along the skin there.

“What part you like the most?” she whispered, tilting her head innocently and batting her lashes up at him, “My sheets? My bloomers? The part between my thighs?”

He groaned, low and guttural—a sound of desire and surrender.

Then her tone shifted. Just a shade sharper. Still soft, but with teeth.

“Annie likes how I smell too…Stack can’t get enough…So tell me…”

She leaned up, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“You want it ’cause they had it…Or because you can’t stop dreamin’ about bein’ next?”

Smoke’s hand clenched at his side. His breath hitched.

She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye—to make sure he couldn’t look away.

“You can’t stand it, can you?” she whispered, “Knowin’ I left that bed smellin’ like him.”

“Amelia…” he warned, voice rough. Tense. Torn.

“And you still wanted me.”

Her hand slid between them now—slow—dragging her palm down the hard ridge rising beneath his waistband.

“You want me now.”

He did. God help him, he did. He was already rock hard, breath shaking, skin hot under her touch.

“Say it,” she whispered, “Tell me you want my scent on your fingers, on your tongue—everywhere.”

He grabbed her wrist suddenly—not rough, but firm.

“You need to stop talkin’ like that unless you ready to be fucked against this damn dresser.”

She smiled.

Slow.

Licked her bottom lip.

“Then do it.”

Amelia’s wrist was still in his grip, but she didn’t pull away. She leaned in closer, on her tip toes, her mouth just shy of brushing his. Her voice dropped to something syrupy, reckless, and dark with challenge.

“You gon’ keep pretendin’ you ain’t hard for me every time I breathe?”

She pulled one strap of her dress down with her free hand, then the other, letting the fabric fall low, exposing the soft swell of her breasts—warm and flushed from heat and hunger.

Smoke’s eyes dropped. His grip tightened.

“Annie told you to take care of me while she was gone,” Amelia whispered, “Said if I needed anything…”—she trailed her fingers over his chest—“you was the one to give it.”

She leaned closer, lips grazing his ear.

“Well I need you now, Big Smoke. And I’m tired of you fightin’ it.”

He exhaled hard. A curse. A prayer. A warning.

But she wasn’t done.

She slipped her dress lower, letting it fall in a pool at her ankles, leaving her bare beneath the light, her skin glowing like fire kissed with sugar. Her nipples were hard. Her thighs pressed. Her scent thickened the air between them.

“You didn’t have no problem fuckin’ me in Mound Bayou,” she said softly, taunting, “Bent me over that hotel bed and filled me with your thickness. Made me cry into Annie’s neck while you came so much, filling my mouth…fuckin’ me for hours.”

Smoke growled.

A low, broken sound from somewhere in his chest.

“Don’t you remember?” she whispered, “Don’t you wanna do it again?”

She stepped closer, brushing her bare body against him, her voice all sugar and sin.

“I need it again, Smoke. I need you again. Not the man pretendin’ to be noble. I need the one who made my knees shake last time.”

“You need to stop—” he hissed, jaw tight.

“No,” she snapped, eyes glowing now. “You need to stop actin’ like you don’t feel what I feel.”

She reached down and pressed her palm against his dickthrough the waistband of his jeans.

“You so damn hard for me, I can feel your pulse. You gon’ let it go to waste?”

Smoke let go of her wrist.

“I need Big Smoke. The one that knows how to fuck, not just babysit.”

Smoke grabbed her by the hips.

Lifted her like she weighed nothing and set her on top of the dresser, wood creaking beneath her bare thighs.

His eyes were wild now—full of guilt, lust, and the ache.

“You gonna fuck me like you did before? Right here? Against this dresser? You gon’ give it to me again—thick, hard, deep?”

“Amelia…” he warned, voice raw. “Don’t start nothin’ you can’t finish.”

“I can take it,” she whispered, rubbing herself against him now, bare and slick, “Took it before, remember? Took every inch of you. Gave you all my moans. All my mess.”

She looked him dead in the eye, voice dropping.

“You gon’ let me ride that dick like I did last time? Make you moan in my mouth and beg me not to stop?”

That was it.

Smoke snapped.

That last line broke him.

“You gon’ let me ride that dick like I did last time?Make you moan in my mouth and beg me not to stop?”

No more warnings. No more hesitation.

Smoke grabbed her by the hips, spun her around, and bent her over the dresser so fast her palms hit the wood with a gasp.

“You want Big Smoke?” he growled, chest pressed to her back, “You gon’ get every fuckin’ inch.”

She moaned, but it turned into a breathy whimper as he kicked her legs wider. His hand slid between her thighs, felt how ready she was—hot, slick, soaked.

“Goddamn, baby,” he muttered, lining himself up behind her, “You already dripping. You been waitin’ on this.”

“I told you,” she breathed, “I need it.”

He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough and slammed into her in one smooth thrust. Amelia cried out—high and sharp—her hands gripping the edge of the dresser, the wood creaking beneath her.

“That what you wanted?” he hissed, voice ragged, “This what you been teasing me for?”

He pulled back and slammed into her again, harder.

“Say it.”

“Y-yes,” she gasped, “Yes, Smoke—just like that—”

His hands gripped her waist, dragging her back onto him with every thrust. The sound of their bodies colliding filled the room—wet, hard, relentless.

He fucked her like he’d been holding it in for years.

“Takin’ it so damn good,” he grunted. “My pretty little whore.”

Her whole body jolted at the word—a shiver rolling through her. He reached up, grabbed her hair, pulled her head back to whisper in her ear.

“Takin’ this dick like you starvin’ for it,” he growled, “Drippin’ all over me—greedy little bitch.”

She moaned loud, back arching, her ass slapping into him with every thrust.

“That right?” he snarled, “You like takin’ your this married dick, huh? Even after you been cryin’ on my wife’s pussy and ridin’ my brother’s?”

Amelia gasped—breath catching in her throat—but she didn’t deny it.

She loved it.

“Yeah,” he spat, “I know all about it. You love Annie’s sweet little cunt in ya’ mouth. Love Stack stretchin’ you open like you was made to take him.”

His voice turned cruel. Not hateful—just real. Honest in a way only filth could make him.

“And now here you are—soakin’ my dick like you ain’t satisfied ‘til you had the whole fuckin’ house.”

She cried out again, hips pushing back into him like she wanted every word carved into her spine.

“You got so much dick, Elijah,” Amelia spoke between moans, breathless, “you taking my pussy like Annie wanted…yesss…give me that dick…please fuck me with that big dick—”

“You mine right now. You hear me? You ain’t Stack’s. You ain’t Annie’s. You mine.”

Amelia threw it back on him, her fae on fire and eager for more. It loved the ferocity. The roughness. The tension boiling over like a witched brew.

“You nasty lil’ pretty-lookin’ whore,” he groaned, “You love this don’t you?”

“Yes,” she panted, “Yes, I love it—give it to me—”

“You love my wife’s pussy?”

“Yes!”

“My brother’s dick?”

“Yes, oh yes!—”

“And my dick right now?”

“Yes, Smoke—fuck—yes!”

His fingers dug into her hips. His teeth sank into her shoulder.

“You mine right now,” he hissed, “You hear me? Ain’t nobody else in this room. Just me inside you.”

“I feel you—everywhere—”

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she whimpered, “I’m your filthy girl—ride me like I need it—Yes,” she gasped. “I’m yours—right now—I’m yours—”

He shifted the angle, drove into her deeper, harder— until her moans turned to cries, her legs shook, and her eyes fluttered shut. Her glow rose up—faint but not visible—gold dust along her spine, fae magic blooming beneath his hands.

“You warm in my hands, baby,” he groaned, “You burnin’ for me.”

He slammed into her one final time, burying himself so deep her whole body arched. Ameila came—her scream echoing, his groan pressed into her shoulder, both of them shaking and gasping in the thick, heavy silence that followed.

He stayed inside her for a long moment. Dick twitching for more. One hand on her hip. The other braced on the dresser.

Their sweat mixing. Her glow fading soft. He had to hold off his nut.

“You gon’ talk reckless again,” he said finally, panting, “I suggest you do it after I recover.”

Amelia giggled breathlessly, her cheek pressed to the wood.

“You recovered enough to go again?”

Smoke groaned.

Smoke hooked an arm around her waist and lifted her up like she weighed nothing. Her legs dangled, trembling.

She gasped—breathless, dazed.

“W-what are you—”

“Said I wasn’t done wit’ you,” he growled, carrying her across the room.

He dropped her on the bed — not gentle — sheets catching her bare thighs, her hair spilling across the pillow. Before she could catch her breath, he flipped her onto her belly, hands dragging her hips up.

“Arch your back.”

She did—instantly, instinctively—ass in the air, face buried in the pillow.

“You know how to listen,” he rasped.

He climbed in behind her, one hand gripping her waist, the other spreading her thighs wider.

Then he slid back in.

All the way.

Deeper than before.

“Fuuuck,” she moaned, legs trembling again. “Smoke—Smoke, you—oh God—”

“Yeah, baby,” he groaned, burying himself to the hilt,“That’s that deep stroke you been missin’. Annie’s sweet mouth ain’t reachin’ where I’m hittin’ now.”

He fucked her slow but punishing—dragging every inch out, then slamming it back in so deep she cried out.

He reached down, grabbed her by the throat, pulled her head back so he could whisper in her ear:

“You gon’ remember this. Next time you lay up in my brother’s bed or ride my wife’s face, you gon’ feel me still inside you.”

She gasped—a sound that broke in her throat, her hands clutching at the sheets.

“You want me to stop?” he growled.

“No—don’t stop—fuck—don’t stop—”

“Say it again.”

“Don’t stop—please—don’t you dare fucking stop—”

His thrusts got harder. Deeper.

He arched her back even more—pushing her thighs wide open, big ass dick slamming up against the sweet spot inside her over and over.

“You gon’ rain on the dick? Huh?!”

Her body convulsed.

Her moans turned to sobs.

She sprung a leak all over Smoke.

Her glow flared, gold licking across her skin in flashes.

“You gon’ cum again?” he hissed, “all on this dick like a dirty little slut? Wit’ yo’ cute fuckin’ ass?”

“Yes—yes—yes—!”

And when she did, he followed—slamming deep, holding her in place, drilled her with two quick thrusts before he withdrew his hips, pouring out everything he’d been holding back for weeks. Smoke painted her backside like she was a canvas.

When it was over, he collapsed beside her, chest heaving, sweat slicked.

The room smelled like heat and sin.

Amelia curled into him—glowing, dazed, wrecked

“You still alive?” he muttered, voice gravel.

She giggled weakly.

“Barely.”

“Good.”

He dragged her closer, lips brushing her hair.

“Ain’t done yet.”

She barely had time to breathe before he flipped her over. Amelia landed on her back, legs splayed, body still twitching from the way he’d taken her.

But Smoke wasn’t done.

Not even close.

He spread her thighs wide and got between them like a man starving, like the taste of her was his last salvation.

“Your smell,” he growled, dragging his nose up the inside of her thigh, “It’s curlin’ up in my fuckin’ head. Got me lightheaded, baby. You got magic between your legs.”

She whimpered.

Her hands clawed at the sheets, gold light flickering again over her skin.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groaned, mouth hovering right over her dripping center, “I could eat this sweet little pussy for the rest of my life.”

Then his tongue dragged through her folds—slow, thick, deep.

He moaned against her.

She arched up instantly, gasping.

“That’s it,” he whispered against her clit, lips wrapping around it like a kiss, “That’s what I been dreamin’ about. This pussy right here. You better finish in my fuckin’ mouth.”

His hands came up, pinned her thighs wide.

His eyes locked on hers.

His mouth never stopped moving.

Tongue circling. Flicking. Sucking. Groaning.

“Look at me,” he ordered, “When you come, you look at me.”

Her eyes fluttered.

He sucked harder.

“Don’t look away.”

His voice dropped.

“You hot for me again, baby. You gon’ cum hot on my tongue? Go ahead. Give Big Smoke what he wants.”

Amelia cried out, her entire body pulling taut.

Her thighs shook against his hands, gold sparks dancing up her belly, through her hair, down her calves.

She tried to close her legs.

He held them open.

“Don’t you run,” he growled, “Take it. Take it like a big girl. Cum in my mouth. Be a good girl and come for me—now.”

She shattered. Eyes locked on his. Back arched. Voice breaking.

“Smoke—Smoke—fuuuck—!”

He groaned deep in his throat as he licked her through it — every tremble, every pulse, his mouth soaked with her glow. He didn’t stop until she went limp. Until her hands fell from the sheets, her thighs twitching around his shoulders, her breath ragged and broken.

When he finally lifted his head, his face glistened, his lips swollen.

And his eyes?

Still locked on hers.

Smoke stood, still naked, sweat clinging to his chest.

He looked down at Amelia—spread across the bed, skin glowing soft, thighs slick, hair wild across the pillow.

He leaned over her, kissed her shoulder, then her temple.

“Clean yourself up,” he murmured, voice low, rough again, “Make it real good. Don’t need nobody else knowin’ how bad I fucked you.”

She didn’t answer.

Just smiled—lazy, flushed, wrecked.

He walked out, closing the door behind him like a secret.

@blackisy2k @thickeeparker @theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg @inkdrippeddreams

[ali3nsupastar]

random gifs of my favorite people 3/?

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Wrought in Honey and Flame

Amelia’s backstory. A Hoodoo Apprentice prequel.

Summary: Amelia Broussard’s backstory unfolds in a slow-burning tale of grief, magic, forbidden love, and the dangerous sweetness of longing.

Warnings: Light smut, Angst, Flashback

“Sweeten a man’s thoughts with sugar and fire, and he’ll follow you straight into the water.”

— Old conjure saying, St. Landry Parish

“I didn’t mean to burn him. I only wanted to be loved. But some of us are made from things that don’t cool easy.”

— Amelia Broussard

Long before Amelia Broussard ever opened her eyes to the world, she was already a secret the bayou couldn’t keep.

In Louisiana, folks say the feu follet are trickster lights that drift just above the water at night—flickering blue-white orbs that draw travelers off the path. Some say they’re the souls of unbaptized children. Others swear they’re witches in exile, restless and cruel.

But the oldest tellings—the ones whispered over boiling pots and told in French-Creole by candlelight—say the feu follet are fae folk, born of swamp mist and starlight, wild as river currents and bound by rules older than blood.

They don’t marry. They don’t bear children.

And they sure as hell don’t fall in love with humans.

But Lysara did.

Lysara was not of the Bright Court—not silver-haired and crowned in jewels like the fae in books. She was wilder than that. A bayou-born daughter of dusk and marshlight. The kind of beauty whispered about in nighttime stories, where men vanish following flickers between the trees.

She stood at just under average height, but nothing about her ever seemed small. Her presence filled a space the way mist fills a field—slow, sudden, impossible to hold.

Her skin was a radiant bronze-brown, with undertones of gold that caught the light like wet stone. It shimmered faintly when she moved, not like glitter, but like heat rising off summer roads. People often stared and couldn’t say why—only that she glowed.

Her hair was thick and long, black as swampwater at night, but when it caught the moonlight, it revealed strands of deep green and indigo, like oil slick on river glass. She wore it loose and wild, tangled with moss threads or little clover flowers when she returned from the trees. It curled like smoke around her shoulders and sometimes moved even when the air was still.

Her eyes were the color of dark amber honey, flecked with motes of green and gold. When she looked at you, it felt like sunlight filtering through cypress trees—soft, warm, but full of secrets. The kind of eyes that saw through you, and into you, all at once.

Her lips were full, always slightly parted, as if she were holding back laughter or a sigh. Her smile was rare but devastating—not from cruelty, but from the way it felt like light breaking over the bayou after days of rain.

She walked barefoot, even in places she shouldn’t, and she never made a sound. Her footsteps were silence. Her presence was thunder.

She smelled of wild things—crushed mint, fresh rain, and the faint sweetness of night jasmine. If you got close enough, you’d catch a trace of something deeper: like damp earth, warm sugar, and candle smoke. That scent lingered long after she left a room, clinging to clothes and memory.

Her voice was low and melodic, with a lilt like wind in the reeds. When she spoke, it was as if the trees leaned in to listen. There was music in her tone—not song, exactly, but rhythm. Gentle. Lulling. Dangerous in its softness. She never raised her voice. She didn’t have to. You heard her whether she whispered or wept.

Lysara was a full-blooded fae of the feu follet kind— born of light, moon-soaked waters, and marsh spirits.

Her court was wild and ancient, dwelling in the bayous of southern Louisiana, hidden in veils of mist and magnolia bloom. The feu follet fae are luminous, emotionally potent beings who walk the line between seduction and sorrow.

Lysara was known for her beauty and her curiosity about humans, which made her suspect in her court. She often slipped into the mortal world to dance at the edges of hoodoo rituals and funerals, unseen by most —but not all.

August Broussard was a mortal man—a preacher’s son and jazz pianist in Louisiana. Handsome, thoughtful, and disillusioned with the rigid expectations of his family.

He was tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders and a long, lean frame shaped by years of hard work under Southern sun. There was something statuesque about him, like he’d been carved from river stone and polished by time, a man who carried the weight of expectation but bore it with quiet ease.

His skin was deep umber, rich and dark as fertile soil, with undertones of copper that came alive when the light touched him. It gave his features a kind of glow that wasn’t magical, but still arresting—the glow of a man fully alive in his body.

He had high cheekbones and a strong jawline softened just slightly by a neatly kept beard. His nose was straight and broad, his mouth full but rarely smiling— though when it did, it changed his whole face. His teeth were ivory and even with a touch of gold, a flash of brightness that felt earned, not effortless.

His eyes were dark brown, almost black, with a steadiness to them—the kind of eyes that could silence a room without raising a voice. When he looked at you, it felt like a quiet challenge: Tell the truth. Say what you mean. But those who knew him well swore his eyes held a softness too, something protective, especially when he looked at Lysara.

His voice was low, resonant—a preacher’s voice, but without the fire. He spoke with patience, depth, and a quiet conviction that made people lean in. Whether reading scripture, reciting poetry, or simply asking how your mama was doing, there was music in the way he talked. Earthbound music. Southern gospel. Muddy water hymns.

He often walked alone at night, especially after gigs, humming lullabies his mother used to sing. One night in the bayou, he saw a flicker of light—and followed it. That’s where he found Lysara. She didn’t flee. She laughed. And she kissed him before he could ask her name.

It began as a secret—stolen hours under cypress trees, in the crook of Spanish moss.

Fae magic does not know time the way mortals do. A season to a fae can feel like a lifetime to a human—and for August, those nights were eternal. Lysara fell in love despite knowing she shouldn’t. Fae are not meant to bear children with mortals—it breaks laws older than any written. Her court warned her: “If you carry his blood, you’ll lose your light. Or worse—your child will bear both hungers.”

But she was already pregnant.

August called her his ‘sugar-light.’ She called him her jeune fou, her foolish boy. They met under moss and moon, traded kisses for poems, made love in wildflower patches only the fae remembered.

For a season, it was bliss.

The bayou sang with it. Her glow softened around him. His music changed; became richer, aching.

But when her people discovered she’d conceived a child, the swamp itself recoiled.

“A feu follet does not give life,” they told her, “If you keep the child, you will fade. If you stay in this world, you will tear it apart.”

August asked her to stay. To live with him. Raise their child. Lysara wanted to, more than anything. But her magic began to change. The child inside her dimmed her glow, made her ache in ways she didn’t understand. Her kin grew fearful of her. She was no longer safe in the fae realm and not safe in the human one either. On the eve of Amelia’s birth, she returned to the Broussard family home in the dead of night. She was weak. Fading.

She didn’t want to let go. August begged her not to.

“Stay. We can raise her. I’ll love her. I’ll love you. Just be mine.”

But she wasn’t made for staying. She was made of in-between. The longer she held the child inside her, the more her glow dimmed, her skin thinned. Her kin turned their backs. Her magic faltered.

August’s mother, Mère Vivienne Broussard, was a powerful rootworker and midwife. She had seen Lysara once before, dancing at a crossroads when she was a child. She knew what she was. Knew what her son had done.

She helped deliver the baby.

“She shines too bright,” Vivienne whispered, “She’s not meant for here.”

Lysara, dying, begged her, “Raise her. Hide her light. Teach her love but not hunger.”

Vivienne agreed. But she made her own vow: Amelia would know the truth one day. And no man — no magic — would claim her before she knew who she was.

Lysara kissed Amelia’s forehead once before she vanished in the mist before dawn. Vivienne wrapped baby Amelia in blue silk with silver threads, fabric woven with old fae symbols to protect and veil. She laid her gently on her own doorstep, as if someone had left the child by accident.

She called the neighbors and said only, “A baby’s been left at my door. Looks like kin to me. I’ll take her in.”

After Lysara’s disappearance, August spirals quietly and grieving, still holding onto his baby girl from afar. He’s changed. He stops playing music in public. Whispers swirl around town about him. August becomes an object of suspicion—a Black man seen consorting with someone people claimed was ‘not right.’ One night, a white woman accuses August of ‘looking at her wrong’ in the street. No crime. No trial. A mob forms. He’s taken from his home. He is lynched at the edge of the swamp, near the same waters where he first met Lysara. His mother, Mère Vivienne, buries him quietly, lighting candles for both her son and the daughter of magic he left behind.

a few days after August Broussard’s death. Vivienne sits in her candlelit living room in New Orleans. Rain taps on the roof. Outside, the town pretends not to know what happened. Inside, she’s building a shield between Amelia and the world.

The baby wouldn’t sleep unless she held her. Her beautiful granddaughter.

Vivienne rocked gently in an old creaking chair that belonged to her late husband, her arms full of too much light and too much sorrow. The child swaddled in blue silk shimmered faintly, even in sleep, her breath like moth wings, her skin warm like sunlit water.

Vivienne had seen many things in her years. Rootwork and spirits, dreams that came true. She’d pulled babies out of women screaming, buried others too small to cry.

But this child?

She was something else entirely.

Born of a man whose love got him killed. Born of a woman who vanished like fog. A child glowing with fae fire and carried by blood that made her a target before she could even walk.

Vivienne whispered a prayer under her breath—not one from the Bible, but older. A calling to her people. To the old spirits. To the ancestors who walked barefoot through fire.

“Watch over her. Don’t let her shine blind. Don’t let her light get twisted...”

She lit seven candles and placed a small jar of honey on the windowsill.

She’d done what she could for August. Washed his blood off the porch, cut a lock of his hair, buried it deep beneath the cypress tree he used to sit under when he played the blues alone. But she hadn’t saved him.

She couldn’t save Lysara either. That poor glowing thing who looked at her like a girl begging to come inside from a storm.

But this baby?

This baby girl she could raise. Quietly. Carefully. Between hymns and hoodoo. Between sugar water and salt lines.

“You gon’ grow up strong,” she whispered to the infant, “But quiet. Hidden. I ain’t letting the world eat ya’ like it did ya’ daddy.”

Amelia stirred, eyes fluttering—and for the first time, they glowed.

Just for a moment.

Vivienne didn’t flinch. She only pulled her closer.

“Ain’t no light that bright that can’t be taught when to dim.”

She blew out six of the candles. Left one burning.

Always one.

And as time passed, the girl glowed…

It’s a warm Louisiana evening, thunder rumbling in the distance. Mère Vivienne is brushing her hair on the porch. The storm hadn’t broken yet, but the wind told secrets.

Seven year old Amelia sat between her grandmother’s knees, her little feet bare, a book clutched in her lap. Mère Vivienne’s fingers moved through her hair slow and steady, the same way she stirred a pot or mixed herbs for a customer—with intention, with knowing.

“Keep still now,” she murmured.

But Amelia fidgeted. Her skin prickled. She was too warm. Not from the weather, from inside. She opened her mouth to speak and light leaked from it. Just a flicker—like candlelight dancing on a wall. But Vivienne saw it.

Her hands paused.

“Did you feel that?” Amelia whispered.

Vivienne didn’t answer right away. She placed a cool hand over the child’s heart.

It beat fast. Glowing faintly beneath the skin.

“I didn’t mean to,” Amelia said, trembling. Misty–eyed.

“I know, baby. You never do.”

Vivienne stood and went inside. She came back with a glass jar filled with bay leaves, ashes, and a drop of molasses. She anointed Amelia’s temples with the thick mixture, muttering words that weren’t English.

“What’s that for?” Ameila asked.

Her grandmother exhaled, “To keep ya’ light low. Ya’ too little to carry what ya’ carry. Too many people see brightness and want to break it.”

Amelia didn’t understand. But she nodded.

She fell asleep in Vivienne’s lap, glowing faintly, the storm finally breaking overhead.

Then there was a time when she was nine years old, it was a late summer evening in Louisiana. Amelia was playing in the yard behind her grandmother Vivienne’s shotgun house. Crickets hummed. The smell of warm bread and woodsmoke lingered in the balmy air.

Amelia was supposed to be skipping rope. But the rope had other ideas.

Every time she got to seven, the air shimmered.

The first time, she thought it was just heat.

The second time, she saw fireflies hovering in daylight, circling her, matching her breath.

The third time, the rope sparked in her hands.

It wasn’t flame. Not exactly. More like light—gold-white, flickering across her fingers like something alive.

She dropped the rope and backed away.

The fireflies followed.

She ran inside, heart pounding, hands trembling.

Vivienne didn’t flinch when she saw her.

“It’s coming sooner than I thought,” she muttered, already lighting a candle, “Your mama had the same shimmer in her blood.”

Her teenage years were torture living in secret.

Vivienne taught Amelia how to dim her light with baths of blue hyssop, chamomile, and graveyard dirt. She taught her to speak softly to mirrors, to never cry in public, and to carry iron when walking alone at night.

But it didn’t always work.

Her glow leaked out when she was overwhelmed, when she blushed, when she bled, when she loved anything too much.

At fourteen, a boy tried to kiss her under the magnolia tree.

When he touched her cheek, he gasped—said she felt ‘like warm lightning’ he never looked her in the eye again.

And then 1922 came, a little before Amelia’s eighteenth birthday.

Tragedy struck.

The house smelled of mint and old pages.

Vivienne lay beneath a quilt stitched with protective sigils, her breathing thin as thread. She reached for Amelia’s hand.

“You were born from something wild, baby. Something bright. You got both the ache and the hunger in you.”

“What am I?” Amelia questioned between sobs.

“You ain’t a curse, no matter what anyone says. But you got to learn to walk careful…”

Vivienne placed a velvet pouch in Amelia’s palm.

Inside: a small, obsidian pendant strung on red thread, and a folded note wrapped in oil paper.

“This’ll help keep ya’ light tucked in. When ya’ feel like you’re gonna glow, hold it. Think of me.”

Amelia cried.

Her grandmother cupped her cheek, smiling weakly.

“Don’t be afraid of what you are. But don’t trust the wrong hands to love it, either.”

Vivienne died that night. Quiet. The candle at her bedside snuffed itself.

After the funeral came a new scenery. Amelia packed up and moved to New Orleans with Celine, her aunt, in a tall, polished house along Esplanade Avenue, in a neighborhood lined with magnolia trees, wrought iron gates, and quiet money.

The people there were Black and powerful—bankers, doctors, teachers, wives in pearls and linen gloves.

They didn’t speak of hoodoo or ghosts.

They spoke of Jesus, of dignity, of not being like the old folk from the backwoods.

Celine was marrying Nathaniel, a doctor with a voice like scripture and skin like mahogany. He didn’t smile easily. He didn’t touch often. But he looked at Amelia— really looked.

Celine Broussard was raised in a world where appearances were survival—especially for light-skinned Creole women navigating both privilege and constraint within the Black elite. Her family, especially her mother Vivienne, carried power behind closed doors through conjure and healing, but in public, they cultivated a gentle image of piety and refinement.

Marrying Nathaniel—a well-respected, dark-skinned Black doctor and preacher—elevated her. It allowed her to reinforce her position in society as ‘The First Lady’ of the church, admired for her beauty, her grace, and the impression of virtue. It gave her legitimacy not just socially, but spiritually.

She loved the idea of being admired.

Celine warned Amelia:

“No glowing. No humming. No stories about spirits. You keep that side of you locked tight. You hear me?”

Amelia nodded.

But the light inside her wasn’t meant to stay hidden forever.

Celine first noticed it in the plants.

Her lilies, so carefully tended in the front window, leaned toward Amelia when she passed. The camellias bloomed early. Her lavender wouldn’t dry right—it stayed wet, fragrant, pulsing like it was still alive.

Then it was the animals.

The neighbor’s cat refused to cross the porch unless Amelia was gone. Dogs barked through fences. And birds lingered too long outside her window.

Then it was the light.

Flickering candle flames. Mirror surfaces humming with faint gold. Once, Celine swore she saw a second reflection of Amelia in the glass—glowing, smiling faintly—even when the girl looked solemn.

She began to pray harder. Burn frankincense. Salt the thresholds. She said nothing.

But she watched.

Sunday Morning at Mount Calvary Baptist Church

1925:

The church smelled of sweat, starch, and sweet oil— the holy trifecta.

Crisp white gloves, pressed suits, and polished shoes filled the sanctuary like a river of devotion. Ceiling fans turned slow and deliberate overhead, clacking in rhythm with the rustling of paper fans printed with funeral home ads. The choir had just finished a number that shook dust from the rafters—all low moans and high wails, voices lifted to Heaven and somewhere deeper. Somewhere closer.

The sanctuary was a long rectangle, wood-paneled and warm, with windows painted in pale stained glass that let in the sunlight like softened fire. The pulpit stood elevated at the front, wrapped in white lace and gold-trimmed velvet, and behind it towered Dr. Nathaniel DuPont, pastor, healer, and pillar of the congregation.

He preached like thunder rolled through his chest.

Not loud. Not wild. But with a stillness that commanded. When Nathaniel spoke, the room leaned forward. Every syllable landed like a nail in wood—deliberate, strong, crafted to last.

“There is a light,” he said, holding the air in his palm, “and it is not ours to hold or to dim. It is the Lord’s. And He places it in each of us as He sees fit. But beware, beloved, for not every light comes from God. There are other lights. Strange ones.”

There were nods. Calls of mmm and tell it. The kind of agreement that passed down through bone and blood.

From the first pew, Celine Broussard, fiancé of Nathaniel DuPont, sat tall and polished like she was carved from marble. Wide-brimmed cream hat. Gloves that matched. A delicate veil shadowed her painted mouth. She never said amen aloud, but her posture exuded satisfaction—a woman not just engaged to the preacher, but master of the house of God itself. People whispered about how refined she was, how her women’s ministry raised more money than the men’s ever could. They said God had blessed her hands.

And maybe he had. Or maybe someone else had.

Celine’s rootwork was never visible, never spoken of. But it was there. It was in the oils she dabbed behind her ears before service. In the bathwater she poured down the drain before hosting luncheons. In the church donations that always seemed to circle back to her. She kept her altar locked in a back closet and wrapped her working jars in lace handkerchiefs, but the spirits knew her by name.

Beside her sat Amelia Broussard, a shadow in silk.

She was too quiet, too still. Fresh-faced from grief, still mourning the death of her grandmother—the woman who had raised her, taught her things in secret and in moonlight. Here, under Celine’s roof, she had no footing. No roots.

Her dress was simple. Her hands folded. She barely blinked as Nathaniel spoke. She didn’t say amen. She didn’t move. But she felt everything.

And the eyes—the eyes of the congregation felt her back.

They looked at her like something uncertain. She was family, yes. But not of them. There was something soft about her, something other. A strange shine behind her gaze, like dusk just before the lightning bugs appeared. Her presence unsettled. Women whispered behind fans. Men looked twice and then looked away, shame burning at the edges of their thoughts.

Amelia didn’t know the words to their hymns. She didn’t know the names of the women in the second row. But she knew the weight of judgment.

She felt it press into her shoulders like hands from behind.

And yet, when Nathaniel glanced down from the pulpit, just once, and their eyes met, something passed between them. Not recognition. Not yet.

Just an ache. The kind grief carves into those who pretend they’ve moved on.

He looked away quickly, back to the Bible.

“Let your light so shine before men,” he said, voice deep, solemn, “that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in Heaven.”

Amelia lowered her gaze.

Because her light did shine.

But it had never belonged to Heaven.

Four Years a Flame in Hiding

New Orleans, 1922–1926

Amelia Broussard, aged 18 to 22

She bloomed slow, like something half afraid of sunlight.

The house was beautiful but cold. Celine kept it pristine, full of lace curtains and polished wood, and every mirror wiped spotless. Amelia learned to walk through it like a ghost—quiet, careful, unseen. She kept her grief hidden beneath silk and prayer.

At eighteen, she was still all colt-legs and caution. By twenty, she had grown into her curves like honey settling into glass—smooth, deep, sweet. Her hair thickened into a wild halo of curls. Her eyes, wide and dark, held a flicker of gold that never went out, though she tried to dim it.

Because Celine watched her.

And so did Nathaniel.

She made friends—eventually.

Girls from church, mostly. They called her pretty but strange. They liked to braid her hair and tell her which boys liked her. They whispered during service and passed notes folded in fans.

Sometimes she snuck out with them, just after supper, when the heat of the day clung to the bricks like molasses. They’d meet boys on corner stoops, near the ice cream parlor or behind the neighborhood school. Boys who smelled like pomade and cologne. Boys with hands that moved too fast but words that melted like butter.

Amelia let them kiss her.

She’d lean back against peeling wood and part her lips just enough. Let them touch her cheek, her collarbone. But she never let them past her dress buttons. Never let their breath tangle too long in her throat.

Because she couldn’t trust what might slip out of her— that golden shimmer that burned brighter when she was flustered, the flicker that made boys fall too fast, too deep.

One boy swore he saw light in her mouth when she sighed.

Another tried to follow her home after one kiss and carved her initials into a tree.

She stopped seeing him after that.

By day, she was Celine’s niece. Respectable. Quiet. Presentable.

She wore pastels to service. Said ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no sir.’ Read scripture aloud at the dining table. Nathaniel barely looked at her when they ate, but she felt the crackle of tension—low and persistent, like heat behind the walls.

He was kind. Reserved. But sometimes his gaze slipped.

Celine never mentioned it. But she noticed everything.

By night, Amelia became someone else.

She would lock her bedroom door, turn down the lamp, and draw the curtains tight. Then she’d pull out her grandmother’s leather-bound journal from beneath a loose floorboard. A book soft with age, full of folded prayers, dirt smudges, and wax seals.

She practiced quietly.

Footwork first—where to step to find or lose a thing. Crossroads blessings. Ways to turn someone’s tongue or sweeten a neighbor’s opinion.

She whispered Psalms into jars and slipped cinnamon under her tongue. Pricked her finger just once, to learn what power tasted like. Learned to blow smoke just so. To anoint. To hide.

All of it in secret.

Because even though Celine worked root too—Amelia felt the difference. Celine’s work was all command and iron, her jars full of hair and heat and pressure. Celine’s magic controlled.

Amelia’s didn’t want to control. It wanted to call.

To beckon. To illuminate. To stir.

Which made it far more dangerous.

Suppressing her light was the hardest thing.

At first, she used cotton gloves to hide her fingertips when they glowed. Sat in cold baths to calm the fire in her blood. She prayed hard and often. Chewed bitter roots to keep her magic still. Bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper every time she smiled.

By twenty-one, she had learned to keep it in—most days.

But it was like trying to hold back tidewater with her bare hands. Especially when she was alone. Especially when Nathaniel passed too close. Especially when her own loneliness pushed against the corners of her ribs, aching to be seen.

She became a woman quietly, secretly, dangerously.

Not the kind who bloomed in public.

The kind who kindled in private—learning her curves in candlelight, whispering her grandmother’s name when the light started to rise. She didn’t need anyone to tell her what she was becoming. She felt it every time a boy looked at her too long, or a married man tipped his hat, or Celine’s gaze cut sharp like a blade across her back.

She was becoming something Celine feared.

Something even Nathaniel, for all his righteousness, would not be able to resist.

The Ride Home

Early Summer, New Orleans, 1929:

The heat didn’t let up, not even after sundown.

Church had run long. Nathaniel’s sermon had been on temptation, but his voice had softened by the end— less fire and brimstone, more like a man preaching to himself. The congregation lingered in the fellowship hall, sipping sweet tea and fanning themselves. Celine was still inside, smiling tightly at Sister Marguerite’s gossip, already halfway into next week’s planning.

Amelia slipped out onto the front steps, arms folded around her waist. The cicadas had begun their night chorus, humming like something ancient and relentless. Her hair clung to her neck in damp curls. She longed for air, for stillness. For somewhere she could be herself again.

A shadow fell across her shoulder.

“Would you like a ride home?”

She turned.

Nathaniel stood a step below her, his hat in his hands, shirt collar slightly unbuttoned, sweat darkening the edges of his vest. The look in his eyes was practiced— neutral, authoritative. But his voice had a catch in it, low and unreadable.

“I can walk,” she said, though her feet ached in her Sunday shoes.

“It’s late. Celine won’t be leavin’ no time soon either. Got work to do back here. I can take you to the house, Amelia.”

She hesitated, searching his face for motive.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t crowd her. Just waited.

And she said, “Alright.”

The car was quiet.

A clean old Ford, smelling of cedar and something sharper—maybe bay rum or holy oil. The windows were cracked, letting in the warm wind as they rolled past the dark oak-lined streets. They didn’t speak at first.

That was, until he broke the silence.

“You’ve grown,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road, “Not just older. Wiser.”

Amelia glanced at him, then quickly away. “That what you tell all the girls?”

He laughed, surprised. “You’re not a girl.”

The words hung between them.

She shifted in her seat, suddenly hyperaware of her own body—the curve of her thigh against the leather, the pulse in her wrist, the way her bosom sat full and rose and fell with her shaky breath.

“…You used to call me that when I first came to live with Celine.” Amelia recalled.

“Well,” he said, “you aren’t that anymore.”

Silence.

The house came into view—tall, pale, still glowing with electric light. Celine’s fortress. Amelia felt her ribs tighten just looking at it.

He pulled to the curb.

“Thank you,” she murmured, hand on the door handle.

But before she could open it, his fingers touched her wrist.

Just lightly.

Just long enough.

The heat from his skin went through her like flame. Her light—that cursed, beautiful thing—sparked under her skin, flickering behind her eyes.

She didn’t move. Neither did he.

“I know what it’s like to live in someone’s shadow,” he said quietly. “To feel like you gotta shrink just to survive.”

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Then he let go.

She slipped out of the car without another glance, heart pounding like a drum in her throat. She didn’t look back until she was halfway up the walk—and even then, only once.

He was still sitting there, hands on the wheel, unmoving.

Watching.

Then came the sweetening of the flame.

Nothing transpired for some time, but then by late fall, 1929—Amelia is twenty-six.

It began with the brush of his hand again.

This time, he didn’t pretend it was accidental.

It was a Wednesday. Bible study had ended. Rain tapped soft against the chapel roof. Nathaniel offered her a ride again, and she took it again—this time without hesitation.

He didn’t speak when they reached the house.

Didn’t let go when his fingers grazed hers in the doorway. His touch lingered—thumb grazing her palm, a pause full of something unspoken.

Then he leaned in.

Not to kiss her. Just to look. To be close enough that she could feel the breath between them. Her light stirred beneath her skin, drawn to him like a tide to moonlight.

“You feel it too,” she whispered.

“I’ve been fighting it longer than I can stand.”

And then she was back inside the house, alone, trembling, lit from within like a paper lantern about to catch fire.

That night, she made the jar.

Not for him exactly. Not at first.

She lit a white candle and a blue one. Wrote her full name and his, folded the paper in honey, and pressed it into a small jar with rose petals, brown sugar, orange peel, and cinnamon. She added his handwriting—a scrap from a discarded sermon draft. A sliver of his sermon robe’s thread. A whisper from her mouth.

“Sweeten his thoughts of me. Pull him close, let it build.”

It was half rootwork, half instinct.

Part of her—the fae part—understood how sweetness could snare. How longing could bind. How fire could feed. When the wax melted down, she felt it inside her. Like something opening.

The first time happened days later.

Celine was away—called out to tend to a friend dealing with her own mother’s sudden illness. Nathaniel stayed behind to tend the church. Amelia wandered into the sanctuary just before dusk, barefoot and silent, drawn by something low and humming in the air.

She found him in the pulpit. Alone.

Reading scripture by lantern light.

He looked up when she entered—and didn’t look away.

Neither spoke.

She stepped forward like sleepwalking. He came down from the altar like he had waited a thousand years. And when their bodies touched, it wasn’t desperate—it was inevitable. As if the universe had always planned for this.

He kissed her first. Gentle, reverent.

Then again. Harder. With tongue and grunts.

He lifted her onto the front pew, parted her thighs with trembling hands. Her dress hiked up over her hips. She felt like silk and smoke, warm and wet, breathless beneath him. She let herself open—not just her body, but the light inside her, that golden, forbidden thing.

He got on his knees and spread her flower that bloomed with arousal and inexperience. Nathaniel removed his glasses so they wouldn’t fog his vision. He took one look at Amelia, at the way she glowed like the sun. He delve in for a taste of her and Amelia moaned so angelic.

“You taste so good…this virgin pussy is so good, baby…”

She wanted Nathaniel to be her first. She needed him to break her down.

And he responded to it. Moaned into it. Sank into her like a man starving.

Nathaniel fucked Amelia in that church like he ain’t have pussy in a long time. The sound of their sex echoed within the sanctuary beneath the large cross nailed to the wall. Instead of preaching the word, Nathaniel preached lustrous.

“Pussy so tight…been wanting this pussy for so long…you take me deep, baby…look how you take me…”

He lifted so Amelia could watch. Dress hiked up. The ache had settled into a tingle she was addicted to. The wetness and the heavy girth of him. He had grown man dick and it fucked her with talent and attentiveness. Something the younger men couldn’t give her. Nathaniel hooked her legs over his arms and plowed into her, claiming her pussy as his, thick sweat trickling down and over her.

Amelia gasped with each stroke. Eyes glowing and brows pinched together.

“Yes, Nathaniel! Take me! Take your pussy!”

He groaned.

Nathaniel picked her up and fucked her standing. She glowed in his arms. Powerful. All consuming.

“You tugging on the root of my dick, baby…what kinda pussy you got?” Nathaniel spoke between moans.

“I–I feel like I’m gonna climax!”

Amelia felt Nathaniel hold her legs open further and he dipped her, drilling into her while she clung to his neck. He fucked her so hard her breasts popped out of her silk dress and bounced.

“NATHANIEL!”

Her head lulled back and her eyes crossed. Like she was capturing the holy essence. Nathaniel didn’t stop feeding her broken in pussy with seven inches of fat dick. He felt her grip him up tighter, tugging on his dick like a boa constrictor to its prey.

“You gonna make me cum, Amelia…”

Nathaniel sat her down and dug in her with all he could, sweet moans tickling his ears. He pressed his lips into hers, swallowing her cries of pleasure. Nathaniel felt himself ready to bust.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum!”

Nathaniel pulled out, jerking his hot semen all over Amelia’s pubic hair. He fought to catch his breath.

After, Amelia lay stretched out across the empty pews, chest rising slow.

Nathaniel sat nearby, his head in his hands. Regret already thick in the air.

But Amelia didn’t feel shame.

She felt powerful.

Not over him—though she knew now she had that, too.

But over herself. Her own body. Her own hunger.

Her light hummed low under her skin, fed by touch, by heat, by the release of holding back for so long. Her magic had fed. And it wanted more.

She turned her head toward him, lips still swollen, curls wild across her shoulders.

“I’ve never felt like this before.”

“You shouldn’t,” he muttered, eyes dark. “We crossed a line I can’t uncross.”

“But you wanted to.”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Because the truth was in the way he looked at her now —not like a child or a niece or even a woman from the pews.

He looked at her like she was dangerous.

And she was.

The jar never left her room.

She hid it beneath her bed, in a velvet pouch wrapped with silk thread. The honey inside grew darker over time, thicker—like time itself had settled into it. Like all the sweat and sighs and secrets between them had soaked into the sugar.

She’d light the same candle when she wanted to stir him. And it worked.

He would show up.

Late at night, with excuses and shadows. Under the guise of checking the lock on the side gate. Or coming to leave a Bible in the parlor. Sometimes he’d only linger near her door. Other nights, he’d slip in.

And each time, she gave in.

Not because she was powerless—but because she wanted him. Loved him. Needed him to need her.

He was her first.

The first man to see her, want her, touch her.

And every time he returned, it reminded her: she could keep him.

But she couldn’t keep all of him.

Even as he loved her, he married Celine.

The wedding was a church affair—lace and pearls and lilies. The First Lady of the church, finally crowned. Celine glowed with pride, not love. She wore success like perfume, thick and heavy. Her smile was sharp, her hands cold as crystal.

Amelia stood on the church steps, watching the white doves release, the crowd clapping, her heart folding into itself like paper in flame.

Nathaniel looked at her only once that day.

A glance.

It was all she needed.

Still, it continued.

Behind closed doors. In hotel rooms. Once even in the church office, late on a stormy night when he said he couldn’t help it.

He told her he loved her. Told her he wished he’d met her first. Told her she made him feel young, like God hadn’t given up on him yet.

And she believed it.

But belief doesn’t hold a woman through the night.

Eventually, she began to see other men.

Not because she didn’t love Nathaniel—but because she needed to feel wanted in the open. Not stolen. Not hidden. Not touched only in shadows.

She let young men take her dancing. Let them kiss her neck, slow and soft, on streetcars and porch swings. Let their hands touch her waist in public.

She never slept with any of them.

But Nathaniel saw.

And it worked.

His jealousy flared like a match—sudden, violent, consuming.

“You think I don’t see the way he looks at you?”

“Let him look. At least he’s not ashamed.” Amelia argued back.

Nathaniel never said he was ashamed of her.

But he never said he wasn’t, either.

Amelia kept the jar anyway.

Even when she thought about smashing it. Even when she hated herself for lighting that candle again.

She kept it because it was hers. Because it had worked. Because it was proof that she could take something, shape it, and make it stay. Even when the world told her she was unnatural. Even when Celine gave her that tight, knowing smile across dinner plates and prayed longer every time Amelia passed the salt.

The jar was control.

A spell for sweetness. For longing. For power disguised as love.

But it was still love.

And with every stolen night, Amelia changed.

Her light burned lower, but deeper. No longer wild. No longer flickering.

It smoldered.

Nathaniel never understood how much of her he was feeding. How each kiss—each desperate return—wasn’t weakening her. It was growing her.

She stopped asking him to choose.

Because she knew he never could.

Celine had always been watchful.

She never raised her voice, never accused. But she could peel flesh with a look. And lately, she looked at Amelia too long. When they sat together in the parlor, the silence between them grew heavy. Sticky.

She asked strange questions.

“You still lighting candles in your room at night?”

“You walk with so much light, girl—don’t let it blind you.”

“I remember how your grandmother glowed before she burned out.”

Celine started keeping track of her husband’s hours. Staring longer at his collars. Laying out shirts with starch so sharp it scratched his neck—as if she wanted the marks left behind.

She began sprinkling powders at thresholds, whispering at night behind her closet door. Her altar grew fuller—oils, bones, a cracked jar of molasses.

And when Nathaniel came home one night too quiet, smelling faintly of gardenia and guilt.

The walls of the parlor hummed with silence, too still for midday. Outside, cicadas droned in the heat, their song like static under the thick tension in the house.

Celine sat perched in her velvet chair, her back rigid, hands clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles paled. Nathaniel was just inside the door, hat still in hand, the sweat of the street clinging to his collar.

“…I ran into Sister Deveraux at the market this morning,” Celine said coolly, eyes fixed on the embroidered cushion beside her. “She said she saw you stepping out of the Hotel Maison. With a girl.”

Nathaniel blinked. He remained still, like prey trying not to spook the huntress. “She must’ve been mistaken.”

Celine finally lifted her gaze. “Don’t insult me.”

He sighed and set his hat on the small table near the door. “Celine—”

“You’ve been slipping!” she cut in, rising from the chair. “Sneaking in late. Avoiding me. You barely touch me anymore. You think I wouldn’t notice?!”

“I’ve been working more. You know the clinic’s short-staffed.” Nathaniel argued in his defense.

“The Lord may forgive liars, Nathaniel, but I am not so generous.” Celine replied spitefully.

That stopped him. He stepped forward, tone low. “You want the truth?”

“I deserve the truth.”

His face faltered, but only for a moment.

“You’ve built this life to be a monument. A museum. No room in it for love. Only appearances. Respectability. You stopped seeing me years ago, Celine.”

Celine’s lips parted, then flattened. “So you find yourself in the arms of some little whore instead?”

The word struck him. His jaw clenched, hands balling at his sides.

“You don’t even know what you’ve done,” he said, voice trembling, not with fear—but guilt, “You think you can shame me into righteousness, but you don’t know the half of it.”

A silence stretched between them like a drawn blade.

Celine’s voice dropped to a hush. “Who is she?”

Nathaniel’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

Celine stepped forward, searching his eyes.

“It’s someone close, isn’t it? Someone I know.”

Still, he said nothing.

Her voice broke. “Is it her?”

His silence was answer enough.

Celine staggered back like she’d been slapped.

“My niece?” Her voice cracked. “That girl I took in? That child?!”

“She’s not a child.”

“You raised her with me!”

“NO! You raised her. You used her to fill a silence you refused to face. She was never yours to control.”

“And you think she was yours to take?!” Celine’s hand flew to her chest. “You disgust me.”

“I never meant to hurt you,” Nathaniel said, stepping back toward the door, pain etched deep into the lines of his face.

“No,” she said coldly, “You just wanted to ruin the last good thing you had.”

He stood there for a breath longer, then reached for his hat.

“I’ll come for the rest of my things tomorrow.”

He left without another word. The door clicked shut like the final nail in a coffin.

“I hope she’s worth your soul.”

A day later, Amelia sat cross-legged on the wide windowsill of her small room, overlooking the alley behind the jazz club below. A trumpet floated up, muffled and mournful, while cigarette smoke curled like lazy ghosts around her. Her suitcases sat half-unpacked beside the bed.

She hadn’t meant to stay long. Just long enough to figure out her next move. It had been two days since she’d fled Celine’s house. The walls there had started to close in, thick with tension, judgment, and the shadow of everything she and Nathaniel had done.

She thought she might weep again, but her tears had dried out like the swamp after a long drought.

A knock rattled the door.

Her heart jumped, but when she opened it, no one was there—only a slip of paper tucked under the door.It was Nathaniel’s handwriting.

Room 302. If you’ll still have me.

She looked down the hall, but it was empty.The club downstairs burst into applause, the crowd roaring under the rise of the saxophone. Amelia pressed the paper to her chest, eyes fluttering shut. She didn’t know whether to run or to open the door wider. But in her bones, she already knew what she’d do. The hotel room was Nathaniel’s final goodbye. A discreet room above a jazz club, late one afternoon.

The hallway smelled of sweat, cigarette smoke, and the ghost of old perfume. Room 302 waited at the end, its number brass-plated and tarnished by years of fingertips.

Amelia opened the door slowly.

Nathaniel stood inside, hat in hand, kinky hair damp from the walk in the rain. The soft light from the bedside lamp gilded the edge of his profile, catching the deep lines of guilt etched around his mouth.

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

“You came,” she said, voice hushed.

“I shouldn’t have,” he answered.

“But you did.”

He shut the door behind him and crossed the room in three slow steps. She stood in a simple cotton slip, her curls loose around her shoulders, face bare but glowing with something that wasn’t of this world.

“Tell me not to touch you,” he said.

She didn’t.

So he did.

His hand rose, trembling slightly, and cupped her cheek. “I thought I could stay away,” he whispered, “I told myself it had to end.”

“I know.”

He kissed her.

It wasn’t the kiss of a man who planned to stay. It was the kiss of a man starving, who knew the meal was his last. His mouth claimed hers with longing and guilt braided tightly together. Her hands slid beneath his coat, pushing it off his shoulders, and he let it fall to the floor.

His fingers moved with reverence, pulling the strap of her slip down her shoulder, tracing the path with his mouth. She moaned softly as he trailed kisses down her collarbone, her breath hitching when he knelt and pushed the fabric down past her hips.

Amelia guided him to the bed.

He worshipped her slowly at first—his mouth moving over her belly, her thighs, between her legs— murmuring prayers in the shape of her name. She arched under him, her body lighting from within like swampfire. The glow behind her eyes pulsed, faint but unmistakable.

When he entered her, it was deep and unhurried, as if he wanted to memorize every sound she made. Her hands pressed into his back, her mouth at his ear. Usually, he couldn’t last inside of her, but this time, he fought the urge to release prematurely. He wanted it last.

“I love you,” she said.

He froze for a second—just a second—and then moved faster, as if to chase the truth back into the dark.

They came together wrapped in sweat and shame and something too sacred to name.

After, he lay beside her in silence, one hand resting on her bare thigh, the other pressed over his eyes. Amelia turned her head to look at him.

“I know you’ll go back to her,” she said.

He didn’t deny it.

“She’s calling you already,” Amelia murmured. “I can feel it.”

He sat up, hands trembling. “I don’t want to hurt either of you.”

“But you already have,” she said, softly.

A wind picked up outside the window, rattling the loose panes. The jazz had long since faded into quiet. Something was stirring beneath the surface of the night.

The sheets were still warm when Nathaniel rose from the bed. The sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting golden stripes across Amelia’s bare skin. She lay on her side, watching him button his shirt with practiced guilt. His collar trembled in his fingers.

“I can feel it, you know,” she said softly.

“When you start pulling away, even before you speak.”

Nathaniel paused, knuckles tightening around his cufflink.

“It ain’t about you.”

“That’s a lie.”He turned, his jaw hard, lips thinned like a closed door. “Celine’s been looking at me different. Watching. I come home smelling like… like gardenia and something older. Something that ain’t her.”

“You said she didn’t believe in magic,” Amelia murmured.

“She don’t. But she believe in sin,” He walked over and crouched beside the bed, the weight of his body making the mattress shift, “This can’t go on.”

Amelia’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers curled in the sheet.

“Don’t say that. Don’t make this something ugly. You came to me. You followed me here.”

“I was weak.”

“You were human.”

He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing the high arc of her cheeks.

“You’re not, “His voice cracked, “I don’t know what you are, baby, but I can’t be part of it no more.”

Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with light. That faint, otherworldly glimmer just under the surface of her brown irises, like a candle’s reflection in a puddle. He kissed her once, too quickly. Then stood and gathered his coat like it was a shield.

She didn’t try to stop him.As the door closed, Amelia sat up in the quiet, the ache settling between her ribs. Outside, a jazz trumpet wailed in a slow, lonely note.

New Orleans, 1932 – Late Night

The parlor smelled of ashes and rosewater.

Celine sat on the floor before the cold hearth, her silk house robe open at the throat, curls unpinned and wild like a storm had passed through her. Candles circled her—red for passion, white for peace, black for truth. She held Nathaniel’s undershirt in one hand, still damp at the collar with the sweat he’d worn out of their home.

Her mother had taught her not to meddle too much with the heart. “A man’s will is like a snake,” she once said. “If you force it into a jar, it’ll still try to bite.”

But Celine didn’t care. Not tonight.

She ground cassia bark with her teeth, letting the heat burn her tongue, and spit it into the bowl. Next came his hair, plucked from the comb in their bathroom. Then a sliver of her fingernail. Her blood, drawn fresh from the palm. Last, a pinch of dirt from the church steps where they married.

She chanted low:

“Come back on bent knee, with guilt in your chest.

Forget her taste, remember mine.

Dream of the wedding bed,

And wake with my name in your mouth.”

The candle flames jumped.

The room trembled—or maybe it was just her heart, fluttering like a sparrow with a broken wing.

She bound the shirt around the bowl with red thread, tied it thirteen times, and buried it in the hearth ashes, whispering, “Let shame drag you home.”

Meanwhile, Amelia feels the shift

Across the city, in a room above a jazz club, Amelia startled awake.

Her breath came fast, heart pounding. The air had turned heavy, like the moment before thunder cracked. She felt it — the pulling. Not from Nathaniel. From something around him.

A spell.

She sat up in bed, pressing her hand to her chest. She could still feel the echo of Nathaniel’s touch, the softness in his voice when he said he didn’t want to leave her again. But something in him was bending now. Like a tree forced against its natural lean.

“Celine,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes and tried to calm the glowing heat rising in her blood—that strange, ancient light that wanted to push back, to unravel whatever had been done.

But she didn’t fight it.

She let him go.

And Nathaniel returns home.

The front gate creaked open as the sun began to rise. Celine had fallen asleep in the parlor, slumped against the velvet arm of the couch. She woke to the sound of keys turning in the door.

Nathaniel stepped in, his coat wrinkled, face drawn, eyes red. He looked like he hadn’t slept—or had dreamed too much.

She rose, wordless.

“I shouldn’t have left like that,” he said.

“You did,” she said, voice soft.

He came to her slowly, like a man walking into a confessional.

“I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just—”

“I do.” She stepped closer. “It’s her. She bewitched you.”

He blinked.

“No woman takes another woman’s man without some sort of working. I see the shine on her. Something ain’t clean.”

Nathaniel didn’t argue. He simply sagged into her arms, overwhelmed by guilt, by something pulling him back—home, whatever home meant now.

Celine held him tightly, but her eyes stared into the dark, calculating.

Amelia prepared to leave.

Later that afternoon, the sky hung low and gray. Rain threatened. Amelia stood at the edge of her hotel room, her suitcases packed. Her hands lingered on the window ledge one last time.

The jazz club’s music below was faint, just a memory now.

She hadn’t heard from Nathaniel since dawn. That meant he went back. She felt the severing of it, like someone cutting a thread tied to her soul.

She didn’t blame him. Not entirely.

Celine had deep magic, thick with old pain and old pride. It was the kind of rootwork that clung. But it wasn’t truth. What she and Nathaniel had—that had been something real. Even if it wasn’t meant to last.

She touched the necklace her grandmother had left her —a simple glass bead on a thread of fae silk. It shimmered faintly in her hand.

“I’m going home,” she whispered, and meant it this time.

To St. Landry Parish. To the cypress trees and waterbirds. To the memory of her grandmother. To the swamp that still knew her name.

She turned her back on New Orleans, on the secrets that had bloomed there like poison lilies. And walked out into the rain.

Return to St. Landry Parish

Two Days Later:

The road curved through cane fields and low hills thick with cypress and willow. The train dropped her at a depot that hadn’t changed in twenty years. A single mule cart waited near the platform, and the driver recognized her at once.

“You Vivienne’s girl?”

She nodded. “Amelia.”

He tipped his hat. “Thought you looked like her.”

The ride to the old house was slow and swaying, the path muddied from summer rain. Spanish moss clung to the trees like secrets. Birds called from deep in the swamp, and the air buzzed with that thick, honey-slow stillness she remembered from childhood.

The house stood just where she left it—weathered but proud. White paint peeling from the shutters. Porch swing hanging crooked. Ivy claiming the back chimney.

But it was home.

Amelia stepped up the porch steps slowly, her boots echoing against the wood. She unlocked the door with the same iron key her grandmother had given her at eighteen. When it opened, the smell of old cedar, dried herbs, and dust washed over her like a baptism.

Inside, time had barely moved.

The dried bundles of rosemary and mugwort still hung from the rafters. Her grandmother’s rocker faced the hearth, a folded shawl still draped across it. On the mantle, a cluster of faded photographs, candles burned down to stubs.

She walked through the kitchen, trailing her fingers across the table where her grandmother used to crush herbs in a stone mortar. She touched the cupboard that once held charms and tinctures. A smile flickered across her face, then softened into something lonelier.

She didn’t cry.

She simply breathed.

And then—something stirred.

A creak in the floorboards beneath her grandmother’s bedroom. A memory whispered against her skin. She followed the pull to the far room, the one where Vivienne used to sleep.

Amelia opened the armoire. Beneath folded linens, she found a small chest bound in worn red leather. She lifted it gently, set it on the bed, and opened the clasp.

Inside:

•A bundle of fae silk, soft as spider thread and shimmering faintly in the light.

•A worn journal, its pages edged in gold leaf, written in a looping hand.

•A silver pendant shaped like a flame. When she touched it, her fingertips glowed faintly in response.

She opened the journal.

On the first page, there was writing in her grandmother’s script. Amelia settled down to read it.

To my dearest Amelia. If you are reading this, then you have begun to glow too brightly to hide it anymore. You are not just of this world. You are born of the feu follet—child of the marsh flame, the shimmer between dusk and dark. Your mother was fae. Your father, human. What you carry is both blessing and burden.

Amelia sat down slowly, heart thudding, the words ringing like bells in her ears.

Her fingers trembled as she turned the page.

I kept your truth from you to keep you safe. But you’ve always known, haven’t you? The way animals follow you. The way you light the dark. The way love burns too quickly in your hands. It is not madness. It is power.

She closed the journal gently, pressing it to her chest. The pendant still pulsed softly in her palm, warm now, alive.

And for the first time in weeks, she wept.

Not for Nathaniel. Not even for the girl she used to be.

She wept for the truth.

For the strangeness inside her finally having a name. For the ache of being other, and the strange peace of finally seeing herself—all of herself—clearly.

She stood, walked to the mirror in her grandmother’s old room, and looked at her reflection.

The soft glow behind her eyes was no trick of the light.

She didn’t need to hide anymore.

The house had settled around her like an old cloak. Floorboards creaked in familiar places. Wind sang through the trees outside. But inside Amelia, something new had begun to stir.

She sat cross-legged on her grandmother’s bed, the red-leather journal resting on her thighs. The pendant still lay against her chest, faintly pulsing like a heartbeat not her own.

She opened the journal again.

The ink was faded, but the writing flowed in her grandmother’s firm, looping script. The pages smelled faintly of rose oil, cinnamon, and smoke.

Your mother’s name was Lysara. She came from the swamps north of Belle Forêt, where the will-o’-the-wisps still gather under moonlight. She was not fully of the Bright Court — not one of their silken elite. No, she was bayou-born. Wildblood. Faeling. And she fell in love with your father, August, a preacher’s son who liked to fish the river bends at dusk. He saw her light one night, followed her flame, and never turned back…

Amelia’s breath hitched. She turned the page.

…Their love was forbidden. Not just by the fae, but by the people. The old women whispered your mother was a spirit. A temptress. They weren’t wrong. She loved fiercely, too much. And when you were born, glowing and quiet and beautiful, she wrapped you in silk spun from her own hair and left you on my doorstep. She kissed your brow and vanished before the sun rose…

Amelia swallowed hard, tears blurring the words. She turned to the next entry.

…I raised you in secret, masking your shine with salves and shadow work. You were always drawn to fire, to love, to water. You didn’t cry like other babies. You hummed. And when you grew, you made animals follow you like you were made of honey…

She reached the last entry.

…You are feu follet, child. A flame spirit. You carry the light of both bloodlines—human and fae—and your glow will always draw hearts, stir longing, cause unrest. You must learn to use it wisely. Love, when it flows through you, can be sweet…or ruinous…

Amelia closed the book, heart thudding. She pressed her lips to the cover as if to kiss the memory of Vivienne, her grandmother, her protector.

Everything made sense now. Why Nathaniel had been drawn in like a man pulled toward flame. Why animals tilted their heads when they saw her. Why her touch stirred heat and hunger, even when she didn’t mean it to.

She had always been half-light.

Now she knew why.

That evening, as the last light bled through the trees, Amelia lit the hearth.

Not out of need—but memory.

She moved barefoot across the floor, gathering the things her grandmother once taught her to use: sweetgum bark, cypress twigs, a pinch of cinnamon. She added dried rose petals to the flame for remembrance, and a drop of her own blood on the coal for truth.

She stirred the fire with an iron poker, then sat before it in silence.

No prayers. No chants. Just her presence. Her breath. The crackle of flame.

The air around her shifted.

It was subtle at first—a warmth blooming in her chest, the scent of honey and night-blooming jasmine curling around her shoulders. A faint shimmer began to thread through the smoke, like silver light dancing between the sparks.

Then she heard it.

A whisper—not with her ears, but inside her blood.

Welcome home, child of fire.

She didn’t flinch.

She let it wash over her.

Outside, fireflies gathered by the window. Inside, her skin shimmered faintly, her heartbeat slowing to the rhythm of the land.

She pressed her hands into the wooden floor, grounding herself. She felt her grandmother’s energy in the bones of the house. Felt the memory of old rituals humming beneath the boards. Felt the swamp lean in, curious, as if the land itself had been waiting for her return.

Amelia closed her eyes.

And for the first time since fleeing New Orleans…since discovering what she truly was—

She felt still.

Whole.

The girl, the lover, the root worker, the flame.

No longer hiding. No longer afraid.

St. Landry Parish – Three Days Later:

It came mid-morning, in a plain envelope, the handwriting unmistakably his—careful, upright, the tail of his s still curling like it did when he wrote scripture notes. She’d received letters from him before.

Amelia stood at the porch with the letter in her hands. Her stomach clenched.

She didn’t open it right away.

She laid it on the kitchen table beside a mason jar of fresh moon water and a sprig of black sage, then stared at it for a long time. The house was still. The birds outside quieted.

Eventually, she unfolded the paper.

Amelia,

I can’t find peace. I see you when I close my eyes. I wake up next to her and feel like a man buried in the wrong grave. I know I hurt you. I know I ran. But I can’t pretend anymore. Please. Just one more time. Let me see you. I’ll come to you if I have to…

Nathaniel.

She folded the letter, hands shaking. Not with longing.

With rage.

He had chosen. And now he wanted to un-choose? Now he wanted to come back, after all he’d torn up in her?

She didn’t burn the letter. She didn’t cry over it.

She just left it there, and walked into the swamp to gather Spanish moss, barefoot and bright with silence.

Dusk – Two Days Later:

The sun sank like a slow coin into the horizon, painting the bayou in deep gold and violet. Cypress knees poked from the water like crooked fingers. Bullfrogs called low in the distance. A heron shifted in the reeds.

Amelia stood waist-deep in the marsh grass near the edge of her grandmother’s trail, skirts hiked in her hands, the water cool against her calves.

That’s when she heard it.

Twigs cracking. A breath she didn’t recognize. A presence.

She turned slowly.

Nathaniel emerged through the moss and brush, soaked in sweat, chest heaving. He looked older somehow. Like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Amelia,” he said, voice cracking.

She went still.

He took a step forward, but her eyes flashed with something not human. The dusk light caught the shimmer in her irises. Her hair moved like it was alive with static.

“I told you not to come.” Ameila spoke with venom.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he said, stepping closer. “You wouldn’t write back. I—I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t pray. It’s like you’re inside me now.”

“You don’t get to say that!” she said, voice trembling. “You left me! You chose HER!”

“She put something on me, Amelia! I know it now. I can feel it wearing off. You’re the one I want—”

“No,” she said sharply, stepping back. “You’re just chasing what you broke. You want to fix it, not keep it.”

His eyes darkened. “You think this is easy for me? You think I haven’t been tearing myself apart trying to—”

She raised her hand and he stopped mid-sentence.

“You played with my heart,” she said, voice low and heavy. “You laid in my bed and told me you loved me. Then you left. And now you come into my land like it still belongs to you?”

The air shifted.

Fireflies blinked around her in erratic patterns.

Nathaniel took a step back. “Amelia…”

But it was too late.

The hurt inside her flared—too bright, too wild. It sparked like flint in her blood.

A glow began to rise off her skin, her hair lifting on a breeze that wasn’t there. Her body shimmered like the swamp lights—unearthly, tragic, burning from the inside out.

“I told you not to come,” she whispered again.

Nathaniel stumbled, suddenly disoriented. He looked around like the trees were closing in. The path was gone. The water deepened.

“Amelia?”

The swamp responded, not with words, but with pull. The mist curled, thick and golden, rising from the water like hands. The land had always known her. Now it answered her grief.

Nathaniel tried to move toward her, but his feet sank deeper into the mud.

“Please,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean—”

She screamed.

Not loud, but raw. A sound that cracked the sky open inside her chest.

The light burst from her, sudden and wild.

Nathaniel slipped, hit the water hard. The glow clung to him like fireflies in a storm. He reached for her, eyes wide—

And then the water pulled.

He sank.

She lunged forward too late, hand outstretched.

“Nathaniel!”

Silence.

The ripples calmed.

The birds stopped singing.

The only sound left was the rush of her breath and the glow fading from her skin.

She fell to her knees at the water’s edge, trembling, numb. The swamp watched, impassive. It had only obeyed the wound she carried.

Her light flickered faintly, soft as a candle in mourning.

St. Landry Parish – That Night:

Amelia sat at the water’s edge until the moon climbed high, casting a silver veil over the trees. Her skirt was soaked, feet caked in mud, curls limp with sweat and mist.

She hadn’t moved since the bayou stilled.

The air buzzed faintly, like the magic hadn’t quite settled. A few fireflies still blinked around her, circling close, drawn to the grief that clung to her like perfume.

Her hands trembled in her lap.

She had seen death before.

But never like that.

Never because of her.

Her breath came shallow, uneven. She didn’t cry—not yet. The shock hadn’t cracked enough to let the tears come.

She stared at the place where he went under. No body surfaced. No bubbles rose. Just dark water and memory.

And still, part of her wanted to call his name again. Part of her wanted to believe the swamp might spit him back out—angry, coughing, yelling her name.

But it was over.

He was gone.

And she had done it.

She didn’t walk home. She wandered.

Branches snagged her dress. Mud pulled at her ankles. The night hummed with crickets and frogs, but it felt like the swamp had eyes now—and they were all on her.

By the time she reached the porch, she was shaking.

Inside, she stripped out of her clothes and washed her hands at the kitchen basin. The water ran red-brown with bayou dirt, her reflection warping in the rippling surface.

Her eyes still glowed faintly.

Too bright.

Too much.

She gripped the edge of the sink and finally gasped out a sob.

A single, ugly, sharp noise—ripped from the pit of her.

And then another.

And then she was on the floor, crumpled in front of the basin, the pendant around her neck glowing dim as a dying star. She wept hard, her body folding in on itself like flame snuffed by rain.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered to no one. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.”

But the land didn’t answer.

The swamp didn’t forgive.

And neither did she.

Now, the sweetening jar she’d made for Nathaniel changes. Inside has darkened. Not rotted — but thickened, like it’s carrying something unsaid. The jar sometimes fogs from the inside without temperature change. When Amelia touches it, she swears she hears faint echoes: his voice, or her own.

The rose petal has turned black at the edges. The note remains intact, but the ink bleeds slightly, as if the words are dissolving over time.

Most strange of all:

The jar has begun to warm when she dreams of him.

It hums faintly.

Soft. Sad. Almost like a heartbeat trapped in glass.

She keeps it in a velvet pouch inside her belongings — hidden, but never far. She tried once to bury it. The next morning, it was back on her windowsill, beads of honey at the lid.

Later that night, she sat in her grandmother’s rocker with the red journal in her lap. She didn’t open it. She just held it, like a child might hold a doll for comfort.

She tried to feel her grandmother’s presence.

Tried to imagine her hands, her voice, her touch.

But all she felt was heat under her skin, like embers buried beneath her flesh.

She knew now what her grandmother meant by blessing and burden.

She had the power to enchant, to glow, to stir hearts.

But she could also burn.

And she had.

“I’m not meant to love,” she whispered, “I ruin it.”

The rocker creaked softly as she moved.

A soft breeze stirred the curtains. Somewhere out there, the swamp was reclaiming him.

She thought about the way Nathaniel had looked—confused, afraid, reaching for her even at the end.

She could still feel his hand brushing hers before he sank.

The ache turned cold.

She rose, walked to the hearth, and placed the journal on the mantle.

Then she lit a single white candle. For the dead.

“For you,” she murmured, “For what we had. And what I took.”

She let it burn until dawn.

The glow didn’t vanish overnight.

It took days of practice. Days of sitting still in her grandmother’s old garden with soil between her fingers and her bare feet pressed into the earth. Days of whispering her own name over and over, as if calling herself back from the edge of becoming something too wild, too luminous.

Amelia learned to ground it.

To slow her breathing when her power flared.

To imagine pulling all that radiance back inside her body like coals drawn under ash. Still warm. But hidden.

She drank teas made from moss and wild yam and cooled her pulse with damp cloths of mugwort and fern. She stitched little sachets of lavender and salt and tucked them into her dress pockets, charms to keep her aura muted.

By the seventh day, even the birds that once lingered near her began to treat her like one of their own again. The fireflies stayed at a distance.

She had tamed her light. Or at least caged it.

No one would suspect now—unless they already knew.

The Visit from Celine:

It was near dusk when Amelia heard the sharp crunch of carriage wheels on gravel. A fine-boned white mare stopped at the edge of the path, its reins held by a man in a clean gray suit—hired help.

From the carriage, Celine descended like she was still stepping off the pulpit stairs: spine straight, jaw set, dressed in black satin like mourning suited her even when there was no funeral.

Amelia met her on the porch with calm eyes and clean hands.

“Celine,” she said, voice smooth.

Celine tilted her chin. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to come this far.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wrote Nathaniel,” Celine said, “He never wrote back. Then I followed his trail. I found your name in the ledger at that hotel on Chartres. I know he came to you.”

Amelia didn’t blink. “He left me too, Celine.”

Celine studied her face like it was scripture, her dark eyes taking in every line, every breath.

“I know he loved you,” Celine said, with the faintest quiver in her voice.

Amelia looked past her, out toward the trees. “And he still went home.”

Silence. Thick as summer heat.

Celine stepped up onto the porch, close enough to smell the rose water in Amelia’s hair. “You’d tell me if you knew where he was?”

Amelia met her eyes. Her voice was steady. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. She had known. Just not anymore.

Celine watched her a moment longer, then relented. Her grief didn’t show on her face, but Amelia could feel it—taut and tight, roiling under the surface.

“Vivienne always said you were too soft,” Celine muttered. “But I see now. You’re just quiet. Not innocent.”

She turned and stepped down. The carriage rolled off with a brittle dignity.

Amelia waited until the wheels were long gone before she sank onto the porch steps and exhaled—deep, full of something that wasn’t quite relief.

She had held her mask. She had passed the test.

But she couldn’t stay.

That night, under a quilt that smelled faintly of dried camphor and cedar, Amelia stared at the ceiling and asked herself where she could go.

Not back to New Orleans.

Not deeper into the parish, where old families remembered her face too well.

She closed her eyes and let her mind drift like smoke—and then, like a warm note rising through memory, she saw her.

Annie.

Older than her by seven years, but never unkind. Strong hands, even as a girl, always tugging Amelia’s hair into ribbons or lifting her up so she could reach the sycamore fruit hanging from the tree.

Annie had laughed easily, talked slow, but watched everything. Her eyes were brown-black like polished stones, always catching glints of what others missed.

Her mother had been a healer, one of Vivienne’s few trusted friends.

Sometimes, when Vivienne left for her rootwork rounds, she’d leave Amelia with Annie. They’d sit on the back porch and Annie would braid herbs into Amelia’s curls, telling her stories about bones that danced and crossroads men who could grant you music in your fingers if you gave them something of your soul.

Annie had smelled like sassafras and moonflower, and even as a teenager, there was something grounding about her — like standing in deep water, cool and slow, but never dangerous.

St. Landry Parish, Louisiana — Summer, 1912

Amelia is 8. Annie is 15.

The colored section of Opelousas was a patchwork of red-dirt roads, shotgun houses, and porches that sang with gossip and music. Heat shimmered off tin roofs, and the air was thick with cayenne and the sound of washboards scraping rhythm into the afternoon. Zydeco spilled from radios and mouths like prayers.

Amelia ran barefoot down the road, curls bouncing, a rusted sardine can swinging from her hand. She was looking for crushed bottle caps to turn into charms. Her grandmother said she had a gift for finding the right ones — the ones that still held stories.

But the neighborhood children didn’t see that as a gift.

They called her strange.

“Swamp girl.”

“Creepy eyes.”

“Glows when she get mad.”

She tried to ignore them. But today, they’d followed her. Threw bits of gravel at her back. One boy grabbed her hair and pulled — hard.

“She ain’t right. She’s like a candle about to catch fire.”

That’s when she heard the voice.

“Let her go, ‘fore I put a root on your whole house.”

The kids froze.

Annie stood at the end of the alley, hands on her hips, skirts dusted with red clay. Fifteen and tall for her age, with smooth brown skin and sharp eyes like she’d seen more than most grown folks ever would.

She marched over, pulled Amelia behind her, and stared the boys down.

“You pick on little girls, you gonna learn what your mama’s belt feel like and what a snake root under your bed’ll do.”

They scattered.

Later that day, Amelia sat on Annie’s porch, knees pulled to her chest while Annie oiled her scalp.

“They call me names,” Amelia whispered.

“People fear what they don’t understand,” Annie said, parting her curls with careful fingers. “But fear ain’t the same as truth.”

Amelia relaxed beneath her touch—the rhythm of the comb, the scent of sweet almond oil, the hum of someone who cared.

Inside, Annie’s mama—Miss Geneva—hummed over a pot of herbs and bones. She didn’t talk much, but she’d given Amelia a long look earlier. A look like she’d seen her before. Not her face. Her light.

Later, Amelia overheard her speaking to Annie in a low voice.

“You watch that one. She’s touched. Not just by spirits…by something older. Something that walks between.”

“You mean like a ghost?”

“No. I mean like the wind that stirs before a storm. Like the glint you see in a fox’s eye right ‘fore it disappears. Girls like her shine too bright, baby. And light like that either draws folks in… or burns ‘em up.”

Annie didn’t understand all of it then.

But she remembered.

And so did Amelia.

Years later, when the memories blurred and the road twisted, Amelia would still remember the feeling of Annie’s hands in her hair. The sound of her defending her. The smell of fried okra drifting through the air.

And most of all—that someone had seen her, even if they didn’t yet know what she was.

Amelia hadn’t seen her in years.

But maybe… maybe she’d still be in Clarksdale.

Still working roots. Still living slow. Still sharp-eyed and warm.

Maybe she’d open the door, if Amelia knocked.

She would go to Mississippi.

To Annie.

To whatever came next.

St. Landry Parish – Two Days Later:

Rain tapped gently at the tin roof. The sky outside was overcast, low and thick like it couldn’t decide whether to cry or break open. Inside, the house was hushed. Amelia sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in one of Vivienne’s shawls, a cup of tea cooling beside her elbow.

Before her lay a blank sheet of paper, cream-colored and faintly textured. It looked too fine for what she was about to confess.

She dipped her pen in ink and began to write.

Dear Annie,

It’s been some years since I last wrote, though I’ve thought of you often.

I hope this letter finds you well, and that Mississippi has been kind to you. I heard, some time ago, that you and your mama had set up shop for healing and rootwork near Clarksdale. If she’s still with you, please send her my love.

I won’t pretend I’m writing with lightness. Things have gone dark for me here. My grandmother passed, and I’ve been adrift ever since. I tried staying with family, but it wasn’t right. Not safe, not for my spirit.

I remember how you used to braid herbs into my hair and tell me stories about the ones who walk the in-between. You always seemed to see more than others did—even then.

I need that now. Someone who sees. Someone who doesn’t turn away.

I was wondering if you might have room for one more. Just for a little while. I can work, clean, help with the healing if you still do that kind of thing. I won’t be a burden. I just need a place to be quiet. A place where I won’t be looked at too closely.

If it’s not too much to ask, write me back or send word to St. Landry Parish. I’ll wait.

With warmth,

Amelia Broussard

She read over the letter once, twice, and folded it carefully. No magic, no charm worked into the ink. Just truth—the parts she was brave enough to share.

She sealed it, wrote ‘Annie Fontaine, Clarksdale, Mississippi’ across the front, and set it near the door for the next post.

As she stood and looked out the window, she saw a single ray of sun slip through the clouds and strike the cypress trees beyond the fence line. The light shimmered briefly—not fae, not power. Just light.

Hope.

Clarksdale, Mississippi – One Week Later:

It was near sundown when Annie came back from tending old Mrs. Rucker’s hip poultice. The wind carried that earthy Delta scent—mud, cotton, honeysuckle—and the porch boards groaned beneath her sandals the way they always had.

Her mother’s old dog, Duma, lifted his head and huffed, tail thumping.

“Don’t get up on my account,” Annie murmured, grinning slightly.

She stooped to pick up the mail off the porch table— mostly circulars, one letter from Jackson, and then—

She paused.

The envelope was cream-colored. Southern Louisiana postmark. Handwritten in ink that curved gently, like someone who’d been taught to write with care.

The name hit her in the gut like memory:

Amelia Broussard.

Annie didn’t sit to read it. She opened it right there in the slanting light, her rough fingers careful, her heart suddenly tapping like a drum.

As she read, her eyes softened—then darkened. She reached the part where Amelia asked for shelter, and something in her throat went tight.

I just need a place to be quiet. A place where I won’t be looked at too closely…

She looked up from the page, the edges of her mouth pulled taut.

“Baby girl,” she whispered, “What’ve ya’ gotten yourself into?”

She folded the letter carefully, pressed it to her chest for a moment, and closed her eyes.

Annie remembered the way Amelia used to hum without knowing it, the strange way cats followed her around the porch like she was dripping cream. She remembered Vivienne’s warning once, years ago: “That child shines too bright. Best hope she learns how to shade herself before someone tries to bottle her up or burn her down.”

Annie didn’t write back.

She just set a bed with fresh sheets, cleared out the back room, and told herself: When she comes, I’ll be ready.

Arrival in Clarksdale

Four Days Later:

Amelia stepped off the train in Clarksdale with a small suitcases and a tired heart. The heat clung to her like breath on skin—Mississippi thick, sun low and orange in the sky.

The town moved slow. Mules in the street, voices floating from storefronts, blues drifting faintly from a porch radio.

She felt exposed, but no one looked too long. She had dulled her light well.

Still, the closer she got to Annie’s house, the more her stomach knotted.

What if Annie didn’t want her anymore? What if she had changed? What if—

Then the door opened.

Annie stood barefoot in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, a smear of flour on her cheek.

She looked at Amelia once, just once, and all the worry in Amelia’s chest crumbled.

“Get on in here,” Annie said, voice low and warm like river silt. “You look like you been run ragged.”

Amelia didn’t speak. Her throat was too full.

She stepped forward and Annie opened her arms without asking. Amelia melted into them like rain into soil. Annie held her close, one hand behind her head, the other stroking her back with long, patient movements.

“You ain’t gotta say a word yet,” Annie murmured. “You’re safe now.”

And Amelia believed her.

In that porch-light dusk, wrapped in the scent of woodsmoke and magnolia, something inside her exhaled.

@blackisy2k @thickeeparker @theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg @inkdrippeddreams @rolemodelshit

[massiv3tr33p3rsona]

Please tell me this is not going to come back and bite her in the ass 💔💔💔💔💔

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

It is 😩😂

Sort of and it will be hard 😪😂

[massiv3tr33p3rsona]

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

😭😭😭

[jazziejax]

★ 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘 ★ 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘 ★

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Terry Richmond x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - 𝐎𝐡, 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲, 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲! 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝!

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Slow burn, one-sided pining (or is it?), blurred lines, emotionally tense bodyguard dynamics, light possessiveness, princess-core x protector energy.

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - seeing this fine ass man and his fine ass girlfriend got me in the mood to write again 🤷🏽‍♀️. Also, he looks like a bouncer every time he wears all black. Also, also, this is corny as fuck but I wanted to be a bit original so I went, fuck it, Princess! Sorry for any grammar mistakes or spelling errors! I hate reading my own work back!

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 3,908+

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The screen lit up with the TikTok app’s familiar start-up jingle, followed by a soft gasp from the girl on-screen. She wore a silk bonnet, lip gloss, and an oversized tee, holding her phone like she had just discovered treasure

“Okay. Y’all… I was just trying to figure out who this woman was that literally almost shut down a street in Milan yesterday. Like—shut it DOWN. And I fell into a hole. So, let’s get into it because—why did no one tell me this princess is that girl?”

The screen cut to the now-viral photo of Princess Atarah Mbali, draped in a chartreuse Jacquemus mini dress with a long sculptural train, strappy metallic heels, and a pair of gradient sunglasses that half-covered her face. Her hair was in two sleek, waist-length braids, and her brown skin glowed under the paparazzi’s camera flash. In the background was a blurry figure in all-black — broad, tall, still.

“First of all — yes. This is an actual princess. Like, royalty. Heiress to a fucking throne. Her mom is Queen Samira — which is the one who brought that sapphire headwrap to a UN gala she attended with her husband, and it broke Twitter. Yeah, that’s her mother. So, her bloodline is already fashionable as fuck. Sort of known to be on of the best dressed families in power.”

The video then cut to a mashup, which was actually a vintage Vogue spread from years ago featuring Queen Samira’s wedding to King Kwame Mbali, followed by a slideshow of archival footage showing a much younger Atarah. From boarding school photos, grainy royal family candids, and charity gala appearances and even the occasional one of her as a child, waving to the paps. She was always poised, always beautiful, and was always watched.

“She’s twenty-four now. Went to university in London, dipped in and out of the spotlight for most of her life — and then bam, started popping up in these random clips and videos all over social media. Baby she’s been here.”

The TikTok cuts to a now-infamous video. It shows a bustling crowd outside an afterparty in France. Nothing but chaos and screaming as different security guards yelled in four different languages. The camera shakes wildly until it catches a tall, sharply built man with deep brown skin and a calm, stoic expression emerging through the crowd from the door of the party. It shows as he turned and effortlessly lifts a girl. And there, effortlessly balanced across his shoulders, laughing in a mini dress and stiletto boots, was Atarah Mbali, shades across her face as she blushed at the attention.  

“This was her. THIS was her. And that man carrying her like a paper doll? That’s not her boyfriend. That’s her bodyguard. Terry. Richmond. Who has apparently been with her for, like, almost ten years now???”

The voiceover softened, almost dreamily.

“And he is always so there? Like—girl, look at this.”

It then cuts to another video. A jet ski gliding across the turquoise coast of Antigua. Atarah in a red bikini, long braids flying behind her as she’s driving with her sunglasses on and laughing. And behind her, hands gently resting on her waist to make sure the standing girl didn’t fall, face unreadable, sat Terry. Wet shirt clinging to him with his eyes trained on the horizon.

Then it cut again — quick flashes of mirror selfies she’d posted on her now semi-active account throughput the years. Some of them were classic influencer content in a way. Chic bags, nails, jewelry. But if you looked closely, there he was in the background every time — blurred in the mirror, half cropped, standing at the door, boots in the frame.

“So like… she doesn’t post a lot, but when she does? He’s always there, which I know he’s her bodyguard, but he’s fine as fuck.” 

The TikTok cuts to one last clip , one low-resolution and shaky.

It was a New York Fashion Week afterparty. There was loud music and flashing lights. Atarah’s hand is in Terry’s as they move through the crowd with her in front. At one point, she stumbles in heels and he catches her by the waist like it’s second nature. She doesn’t even look that surprised by the touch. She just leans back into him for one second longer than necessary with a slightly agape mouth.

“You’re telling me that’s just professionalism? She not fucking his fine ass? Please. I bet that man is in love with his job for…many reasons. Either way, I need this in a book or on a screen near me, immediately.”

The TikTok ends with a picture of her reflection in Capri, Atarah smirking under sunglasses, head slightly tilted toward the large window she was taking the photo in. And Terry was behind her, one hand on the car door, the other on his hip as he watched her. 

That was the video Atarah watched on her phone last night, the hum of the private jet subtle. Once it send and automatically started over in her headphones, it was then she felt how much she was smiling. She looked away from the phone illuminating her face, the video still playing in her ears, and her eyes landed on the man across the aisle. There Terry sat in a reclined airplane seat, asleep with a fluffy yellow blanket thrown over him, the one she placed earlier. And as she gazed at him, the end of the video rang in her ears again. 

“She not fucking his fine ass? Please. I bet that man is in love with his job for…many reasons. Either way, I need this in a book or on a screen near me, immediately.”

With that, she shut her phone off and took her earphones off her ears. She let out a soft sigh as she placed the items in her carryon bag next to her before snuggling up in under her blanket and going to sleep, the last thing she saw being the sleeping man next to him. 

────୨ৎ────

The private jet cut a clean line through the skies above Los Angeles, the soft hum of descent barely noticeable within the luxurious interior. Plush cream seats gleamed under the warm glow of the cabin lights, and through the oval windows, the city stretched like a golden mirage beneath them.

“Terry, wake up!”

Atarah’s voice rang out like morning bells, crisp and bright, far too lively for someone who had been curled up asleep moments ago. She sat up quickly, brushing a stray coil of dark hair from her cheek, her smile wide as her eyes danced toward the window. “We’re here!”

Across the aisle, Terry sat upright, dressed in all black, as always—black trousers, black fitted shirt, black earpiece, black watch. His presence alone was intimidating, but unmoved. “I see that. He replied coolly, casting her a sidelong glance, unimpressed but not unamused. “I’m awake.”

“Well get excited!” She grinned, undeterred by his tone. Her international accent—a rich blend of aristocratic English with the softness of African musicality—filled the cabin as effortlessly as the scent of her lavender oil did earlier. No one on board blinked at her enthusiasm. The flight staff were used to her, used to them. Atarah, Princess of the House of Mbali. And Terry…her unflinching shadow.

They began their landing procedures, Atarah adjusting her pale yellow polo sweater over her grey sweats, slipping on her worn-in Uggs. “You’re going to help me carry my bags, right?” She teased as she stuffed her hair into a claw clip and collected her Hermès blanket.

“I already coordinated your luggage, Your Highness.” Terry muttered.

She beamed at that, softly clapping her hands while Terry stared at her. 

Fifteen minutes later, the jet touched down, the California sun spilling across the tarmac like honey. The moment Atarah stepped off the jet, she squealed in delight, her laughter light as she slipped her arm through Terry’s. She barely made it down the steps before the sound of shrill voices caught her ear.

“Tarah!”

“Ahh!” The woman squeaked, letting go of Terry immediately to run toward the small group of girls gathered near the base of the jet. They wore matching wide-brim hats and high-cut shorts, their Louis Vuitton crossbodies swinging as they jogged forward to meet her.

The girls collided in a chorus of shrieks and perfume.

“Omg, I haven’t seen you guys in ages!” Atarah said, pulling back just slightly to admire them, her cheeks still flushed from sleep and sun. Behind her, Terry stood like a statue, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding the storm in his eyes.

“That’s because you’ve been MIA.” Said Bailey, her British accent curled like a ribbon. Bailey was slim and surgically preserved, her cheekbones a little too sharp, and her lip filler giving her a constant pout. Classic British babe with an iffy tan but a nice beat face. 

Atarah shrugged with a soft laugh. “Because I’ve been busy. You know…princess, eldest daughter things.”

Harper rolled her eyes. “Besides not hearing from you for almost months, yeah, we can tell.” She said in that soft Italian accent, before her eyes racked the princess. “What are you wearing?” She added as she brushed her Bon blonde hair away from her face, her gaze, and the rest of theirs, lingering critically on Atarah’s oversized grey sweats, polo sweater, and Uggs. 

Atarah glanced down at herself and blinked. “What?” She said. “I was on a jet.” She stated, defending herself from the scrutiny she felt. Bailey scoffed, but it was Harper’s curled lip that gave it away. Atarah followed their gaze and saw the others already dressed for Coachella, all fringe, mesh, lace, and glitter. “Oh, are you guys heading out now?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Bailey said. “Didn’t think we had to tell you we wanted you to be ready.” Her tone was achingly sweet. And it scratched under Atarah’s her skin. She gave the girl a tight smile. “Well, Lady Gaga doesn’t come on ‘til later, so I’ll catch up with you guys after I get ready.”

“Where are you staying?” Sofia asked then, her soft blue eyes too curious. She was the prettiest of the trio, a nice blonde blowout and a Swedish accent with a supermodel’s height and bone structure to tie it all in.

“Uh, the private villa up north.” She responded. Sofia nodded, but Terry saw it—the subtle glance Harper threw Bailey, the way Bailey blinked hard just before she turned her cheek. He stepped forward without a word, hand landing protectively on the small of Atarah’s back.

Atarah glanced up at him, then back at her friends. “I gotta go get ready. I’ll see you guys later.” She said with a small smile. Terry ushered her toward the line of black SUVs parked nearby. He didn’t have to say a word. She already felt the prickle on the back of her neck. She waved at the girls once more before slipping into the middle car, and Terry followed.

As the door shut behind him, Atarah exhaled, gaze flicking over her stacked LV trunks in the back, just as the sound of Terry shutting the car door sounded. She settled into her seat as her eyes then drifted out of the window. Her friends were already climbing into their own vehicle, laughing again. The engine thrummed and the SUV pulled off into the city, heat shimmering off the asphalt.

There was a silence, thick and unspoken before looked over at the man next to him. “Go ahead and say it.” She muttered.  “I know you want to.”

“I don’t like your friends.” Terry said without a pause, looking away from the passing plains and connecting his eyes with her.

Atarah turned her body to face him, legs tucked under her. “And why is that again?”

“It wouldn’t be respectful for me to say.”

She tilted her head back with a small groan, but she couldn’t help the smile on her face. “You know it’s just you and I. You can say anything.” She looked over his face, his ocean-green eyes unreadable, but they always made her comfortable. Terry just started at her and after a brief pause, the girl snapped her head over to the driver. “And you too, Sergio!” She called up to the driver.

“Thank you, Miss.” The man replied evenly, and it was never clear if he even heard what she said or was just responding to the sound of his name. But Atarah nodded before she looked back over at Terry. “Come on.” She urged with a small whine, and since she was twisted in her seat, she poked his thigh with her so foot, since she slipped out of her uggs. There was silence, so Atarah began to repeatedly nudge him with her foot. 

And Terry had the patience of a monk. He was military trained since the young age of sixteen and there was little to nothing that could break him. Even the ever spoiled persistence of a princess that he’s known for years now. But Atarah had grew to be a friend, someone he had a soft spot for. So he grabbed her ankle gently, his large hand wrapping around it as his gaze slid over to hers. Her toes wiggled in his lap.

“I think they’re spoiled brats.” He said, voice low.

“That’s not what you wanted to say.” She sing-songed, looking him in the eye. She knew him too well. “You say the same thing about me.”

Terry’s jaw ticked. “I think they’re bitches.”

“There it is!” Atarah squealed, clapping once. “See, I know you so well.” She grinned. She leaned over, pressing her fingertip from her temple to his, her smile all honey and victory. He didn’t flinch and held the most subtle smile as he watched her. Her touch lingered a little too long before she dropped back into her seat, legs still draped across his lap.

She folded her hands in her lap, then gave him a prim look. “Now let’s talk about your choice of words for women.”

He chuckled—just a breath—but it made her heart skip. He rarely laughed, rarely softened around anyone but her. And when he did…it made her feel like she was the only person on earth who could. She watched him quietly, chin resting against the back of her seat. His thumb rubbed a slow, lazy circle into the inside of her ankle, unaware or uncaring of the way her breath hitched and made her heart beat. 

Outside the window, the desert sprawled into sun-drenched silence. But inside the car, it was warmer. And there was a tension that hung somewhere between comfort and longing.

Terry finally looked away from her and back over to the passing plains. “They don’t deserve your time.” He said simply.

And for the first time all day, Atarah didn’t have anything to say back.

The ride to the villa stretched across golden stretches of highway, sun slicing through the tinted windows in drowsy beams. Atarah chattered about the things she’d missed of the city. The food trucks on Melrose, late-night runs to Erewhon, how nobody did iced lattes quite like L.A., all while Terry responded with low hums and sparse nods. It wasn’t that he wasn’t listening; he always listened. He was just…more focused on watching. Her. 

When they finally pulled up to the secluded villa, tucked high in the Coachella Valley hills and wrapped in flowering bougainvillea, Atarah reached for the door instinctively, ready to burst out like she always did—except Terry’s sharp glance caught her mid-motion.

She froze. And with a dramatic sigh and a roll of her eyes, she folded her arms and waited.

Terry stepped out first, the desert sun casting sharp angles across his sharp cheekbones. His black shirt hugged the contours of his broad chest and arms, a quiet authority in his every movement. His eyes scanned the villa once before flicking back to the SUV. He reached out a hand.

“Come on.” He said.

With her small hand in his, she stepped down from the vehicle, her fingers tightening briefly around his. Terry guided her across the gravel path as Pedro and Nash, two more men from her security detail, did a sweep of the property. When the nods were given, he opened the front door for her, and they stepped into the villa together, hands still clasped like a quiet ritual neither of them ever spoke about. It was second nature to them now. A rhythm of theirs.

He led her through the villa and to her room—an airy, high-ceilinged suite with floor-to-ceiling windows and light pouring in. The rest of her bags were already being delivered in shifts by Sergio, the ever-loyal driver. When Terry finally released her hand, Atarah darted toward the patio doors like a spring uncoiled.

She threw them open, linen curtains flying up as wind surged in, tousling her dark curls. Her body moved to the edge of the balcony, where the view opened into a vast stretch of golden plains. In the distance, she could make out the Coachella stages being lit up for the day. “I’m soglad to be back in the States!” She cried, arms wide open, wind tugging at her baggy sweats and polo. She stood there a moment, basking in the warmth like a cat in sunlight.

When she turned, Terry was there, posted by the door, hands behind his back, as disciplined as a palace guard. Her grin softened as she brushed past him to return to the room, the curtains trailing behind her like silk.

Sergio was just finishing with the bags.

“Thank you.” She said sincerely as she pulled her phone form her pocket and ,add her way over to her bed 

“You’re welcome, madame.” He replied with a small bow, and after a nod from Terry, he quietly exited.

She was halfway through connecting her phone to the portable speaker when she noticed Terry turning for the door.

“Where are you going?” She asked, pausing mid-pairing.

“To keep watch.” He answered, never quite turning fully toward her.

“But I need you to help me pick an outfit.” She said quickly, padding barefoot toward him. “My friends aren’t here, and I need someone honest to help me figure out what looks good.” She explained, but his face didn’t change as he looked down at her.  She saw the hesitation in the twitch of his brow. She stepped closer, reaching for his hand, wrapping hers around it like it was natural—like it always had been. “Terry,” She said, voice soft. “Just for a little while.” She pleaded. 

The fight in him dissolved instantly. He released a long breath through his nose before squeezing her hand once, a gesture so gentle it made her chest flutter.

He turned and pressed a hand to his earpiece. “Keep watch.” He said, eyes scanning the view of the living space elf the villa before closing the doors. “Copy.” Pedro’s voice came through as Terry turned to face her again to see Atarah’s beaming face. 

Then she squealed and bolted to her bags like a child on Christmas morning. The speaker kicked on, flooding the room with a blasting beats, songs from R&B to hip hop. Thumping basslines, soft synths, and female vocals that bled into every corner of the suite. 

Terry settled into the ottoman at the foot of her bed, sitting with his legs apart, elbows on his knees. His eyes followed her as she disappeared into the bathroom with an armful of options, and the show began.

She stepped out a minute later in a white two-piece, mesh skirt riding low on her hips and a crochet halter top tied around her neck, showing the cursive tattoo she had on her hip that said “made in heaven”. She twirled in front of the mirror, then turned toward him.

“What do you think?” She asked, posing for him with a smile. 

Terry tilted his head, assessing her from head to toe.

“Cute. But more so for the beach, not a music festival.” He said. 

She let out a small sight before turning away from him, giving herself one more look. “Ugh, okay.” She said before walking back into the bathroom. Next came a butterfly top with flared jeans, but she shook her head before even asking, disappeared again.

Then came sequins—so many sequins. A matching bra and shorts combo that shimmered like fish scales in the light. She struck a few poses and snapped photos in front of the mirror. She glanced back to find Terry watching, his jaw slack just barely, the muscle ticking.

“This one’s hot.” She said, teasing.

“It is.” He agreed. “But what shoes would you wear with that.”

She teasing smirk dropped and disappeared again, this time taking longer. Each time she reappeared, her confidence built. She laughed freely, twirled for him, winked at herself, even bent to see if she would flash anyone when she twerked. The air in the room grew warmer with every outfit. Every look. Every comment from Terry that made her feel seen and admired.

Finally, she emerged wearing the outfit she didn’t want to try at first. A storm-gray hooded mini-dress clung to her curves, cinched with a thick, black belt that sat high on her waist. Beneath the draped neckline peeked the edge of a black lace bra, sultry and deliberate. Stacked silver jewelry shimmered at her collarbone and wrists. Chunky black boots hit just below the knee, elongating her legs.

She didn’t pose this time. She just stood there and watched as Terry sat up straighter and eyed her up and down, her hands brushing down the front of the dress to straighten it

Her lips curved slowly. “Well?” She asked, placing her hands on her hips.

“I think that’s the one.” He said, voice low, rougher than it had been all day.

She didn’t say anything at first, just smiled, almost shy, before walking to the mirror to snap a few photos, her behind facing him. 

Terry watched her the whole time, fingers curled on his knees, heart beating louder than usual. The song playing in the background was low and sultry, ‘Naught Girl’ by Beyoncé almost like a whisper meant just for them. When she lowered her phone, her eyes met his in the mirror. “I think I just needed you to remind me who I am.” She nodded, her eyes moving to rake over her figure again, though her voice was soft. 

Terry stood slowly, the space between them suddenly much smaller than before. “You never forgot.” He said, approaching her with a quiet kind of reverence. “You just let them convince you to question it.”

Their eyes locked and her breath caught a bit as her eyes moved over his alluring features.  In the silence that followed, they didn’t touch. They didn’t need to. But it was clear as the sunlight pouring in through the balcony door—neither of them wanted to walk away. Atarah softly cleared her throat before turning around to face him, looking up at the handsome man, his grey eyes moving down to look into hers. “Now let’s get you dressed.” She smiled, giving his broad chest a pat before moving past him. But her brushing him against him was something that didn’t go unnoticed by either of them,  especially with the spark it sent through their bodies. 

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 & 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 🗑️ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

[inkdrippeddreams]

In Your Corner 3

Pairing: Adonis Creed x Black Journalist OC

Word count: 5.9K (hot DAYUM)

Warnings: dry humping/ grinding, heavy making out, petting?? other than that just fluff and Donnie being a charm warning

Summary: Athena hadn't seen Adonis since their interview, but their flirty daily texts, late-night FaceTime calls, and a surprise for her made it clear he was serious about pursuing her, but Athena isn't sure she believes it. Torn between her growing feelings and letting him pursue her, Athena agrees to a private dinner at her place. When Adonis shows up wearing his heart on his sleeve and dancing with her in the kitchen, Athena thinks it might be more than just a small crush.

Notes: song that inspired this chapter: There Is Something on Your Mind- Big Jay McNeely. Guys I tried, I hope you enjoy part 3, this has turned into a series and IDK if I'm going to continue it as a series or just turn it into a bunch of drabbles. I also will be making a masterlist soon! As always, tell me if you want to be tagged in part 4 (hopefully there will be one, work has been smth serious) I'd love feedback and support <3 Enjoy!!! Song for the chapter

Part One, Part Two

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It had been almost two weeks since the interview with Adonis Creed, and Athena hadn’t seen him since. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t made himself known. What started as a simple “You make it home okay?” had snowballed into a string of increasingly warm, and increasingly flirty messages.

“Good morning, pretty girl.” “Sleep tight, mama.” “Can I call you when I wake up?”

She hadn’t meant to look forward to them, but her heart still did a little leap every time her phone lit up.

This… whatever it was… didn’t make much sense. But it felt like a friendship, a real one. Something Athena hadn’t had much of back home. Or even in L.A., if she was being honest. Still, this thing with Adonis didn’t feel like just friendship. Not when his “good morning” texts made her smile like an idiot in the mirror, or when she’d spend half her lunch break teasing him on FaceTime about his obsessive ranking of ‘90s action movies.

The calls became routine, her curled up on the couch after work, clothes from the day still clinging to her skin haphazardly, curls escaping the updo she had to wake up 3 hours before work just to do perfectly,  him sprawled across his bed or parked in his car outside the gym. He told her all the ridiculous drama that went down in the gym,complete with impressions, her favorite was the one of Duke, where Donnie’s voice would drop 2 octaves, but he’d always circle back to ask about her day, her article, her take on whatever random movie he’d just seen.

She never turned on her camera, but that didn’t stop him. Oh no. Adonis stayed front and center. One night he leaned back on his couch in a hoodie and beanie, the next he was fresh from training, glistening with sweat in a wife beater, muscles flexing as he reached for a water bottle. Athena had stared so long when she answered the phone that she almost let her dinner burn, cursing at herself and the stove while he laughed, oblivious to what was unfolding.

Even today, the first thing she saw when she woke up was: “Have a good day at work, mama.”

She’d been staring at the message the entire walk to her office, typing and retyping a reply, deleting it before she could send anything that sounded too eager. She was still fussing with it in the elevator when,

“Thena! Good morning!” Of course. Sherri.

“Hi Sherri,” Athena mumbled, barely lifting her eyes from her phone.

“Christian said he liked the interview, but he’ll follow up about the release tomorrow. Oh! I had something else to tell you. What was it again? My mom always said I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached—”

Athena half-listened as they walked through the office, finally settling on a simple: “Morning Donnie. Have a good day.” No emoji. No exclamation mark. Casual.

Sherri was still chattering behind her when they turned the corner to Athena’s office.

“—I swear I don’t know how Christian expects me to remember everything for him. But he keeps me around. Oh! That’s it! Some guy came by super early this morning with something for you.”

Athena opened her door—and stopped.

Her breath hitched.

Sitting on her desk was the largest bouquet she had ever seen. Deep red roses peeking out between lush white and golden blooms. She stepped closer, fingers brushing against the petals. Cherokee roses.

Her chest tightened. Her home state’s flower. Georgia.

“That’s what it was!” Sherri squealed, practically bouncing behind her. “Flowers! Someone brought you flowers!”

“Who?” Athena whispered, eyes still fixed on the bouquet.

“ Oh, he gave me a name… Come on Sheridan. Oh! I remember. Delivery guy said they were from someone named… ‘Donnie’ It could have been Ronnie too, I’m not entirely sure.”

A jolt ran through her.

“There’s a card too,” Sherri chirped, rushing to grab it from a drawer. “I didn’t want Christian snooping—figured it might be personal. Or romantic.” She winked and handed Athena the envelope.

Athena opened it with shaking fingers.

To the Georgia Peach, Thank you for such an amazing interview. I can’t wait to read the article, I already know it’s fire. I’ve read everything else you’ve written. You’re a breath of fresh air for me. So here’s a little breath of fresh air from home. Breathe easy,

~ Donnie

“Oh,” Athena breathed, heart doing somersaults.

“What’s it say?” Sherri pressed. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

“It’s nothing,” Athena lied—badly. “Just someone thanking me.”

Sherri narrowed her eyes, unconvinced, but backed off. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you to your secret admirer.” She shot Athena a smirk and disappeared.

Alone now, Athena dropped into her chair, still stunned, the scent of the roses filling the room. She picked up her phone and typed quickly:

| Cherokee roses? Sent 9:42 AM

A second later: | wanted you to get a glimpse of home, plus I figured out what the state flower was. I hope you like them, pretty girl.

Her smile bloomed so fast it made her cheeks ache. That pet name again.

| I love them, Donnie, thank you. The note was beautiful too. How did you even get Cherokee roses to L.A.? they’re usually crazy expensive Read 9:46 AM

| Called in a favor with my ma’s gardener. Training for my next match is gonna include digging flower beds now but if it puts a smile on your face, i’ll do it...

Her fingers hovered before replying.

| Donnie you didn’t have to Read 9:48 AM

| But I wanted to. I still want to take you out, Athena.

Athena nearly dropped her phone.

He wasn’t playing.

Whatever she thought this was—casual texts, sweet calls, harmless attention—it wasn’t casual to him. Adonis Creed wanted her. Wanted to know her. Wanted her. And suddenly, that didn’t feel so impossible anymore, but this was thin ice for her. Christian had already been on her ass about the article, and if she went out with Donnie and something broke in the press, especially before the article even broke, she was up shits creek.

| Donnie, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.

Read 9:51 AM

Adonis read the message quickly, but he wasn’t responding in the text thread. Athena sighed about to place her phone down when it began vibrating with a Facetime call from Adonis. She let it ring for a moment so she didn’t seem too desperate to answer. When she finally did she was met with Adonis’ face directly in the camera. He was laid back on his gray couch with a brown hoodie on, face moisturized and beard full. His phone rested on his lower stomach, pointing towards his upper body. 

“Hello Adonis,” Athena wheezed at how fine he looked, pointing her camera at the ceiling.

“Uh uh, girl. Prop that phone up somewhere, I gotta talk to you,” Adonis lifted his hand up and shook it in the camera, his eyes and voice low with sleep.

“Adonis, I do have a job to do.”

“You didn’t when you were texting me back,” he teased, playfully showing his dimple.

“I was thanking you for the flowers, that’s it Donnie,”  She said, powering up her computer, making herself seem busy.

“Prop the phone up, so I can see you, mama.”

She was almost sure she stopped breathing at that moment, her mouth dry as hell and she tried to gather herself. But she listened, propping the phone up against her office computer. Adonis smiled at her, his arm now resting behind his head. 

“Thank you pretty girl.” Athena rolled her eyes at him, typing aimlessly on her computer.

“Now,” Adonis cleared his throat, “why is it a bad idea to go out with me?”

“Adonis,” Athena sighed, “If something breaks before the interview, which drops in 2 days, Christian will have my ass. You’re a celebrity, regardless and Christian wants to be able to control everything the outside media gets. We’re dropping that we got an exclusive with you tomorrow, he doesn’t even know we’re still talking and I really don’t care to deal with him right now.”

“As much as I want to say, ‘who cares?’ I get it. But I still can see you, Athena. How about you come to my apartment or I’ll come to yours, I can cook, and we’ll watch a movie or something?” Adonis was practically begging now. Athena was weary, she was nervous about these feelings she was having for Adonis, even more nervous about what it would change in her career, but she owed it to herself to let someone in besides the one man she had dated years ago.

“Okay, Donnie,” she breathed, “But I'd be more comfortable if you came to my apartment, instead.”

Adonis grinned and licked his lips, “That’s okay with me beautiful. I’ll pick some stuff up and do the cooking. Do you have wine?”

“I mean I do. But I buy the cheap pink Moscato from the grocery store, so if you want something better, you might need to pick yourself up a bottle,” Athena laughed.

“We’ll drink Moscato, pretty girl. What do you want me to cook? I can make a mean alfredo,” responded, giving a laugh of his own. 

“Alfredo is fine, Donnie,” Athena surprised her sigh of contentment, as Donnie smiled at her.

“Okay, baby girl. Call me when you go to lunch.” Athena rolled her eyes and grabbed her phone mumbling a ‘good bye Donnie,’ as she hung up the phone. Athena did not get a moment of peace before her office door swung wide open, Sherri barreling through, almost tripping on her own heels.

“Was that him?” Sherri exclaimed.

“Who?” Athena swallowed.

“The guy that sent the flowers, Athena! Don’t hold out on me! I swear I won’t tell anyone.”

“Sherri, keep your voice down,” she gritted in response, “if you must know, Adonis Creed sent these. We’ve been talking since the interview, but you cannot say anything to Christian.” Sherri squealed at Athena.

“Athena oh my gosh he’s so fine, girl, how did that happen?” She plopped down into one of the chairs across from Athena.

“We ate lunch together during his interview, he was insistent that we talked about things other than him. He’s a huge flirt and he kept complimenting me and basically was just being charismatic. He asked for my number so he could check when I made it home, then he just kept texting me, tonight he’s coming over to cook dinner because he wants to see me again,” Athena heaved, her words jumbling. Sherri listened intently, a wide grin stretching across her tawny shaded cheeks as Athena spoke.

“Girl, if you don’t get on that Athena!” Athena hushed her in response.

“Keep your voice down Sherri! Christian can’t know.”

“Wait,” Sherri waved Athena off as she leaned back in the chair, “why is it a big deal if you get to know Adonis? Why can’t Christian find out?”

Athena sighed, “This is an exclusive, right after his biggest fight, Christian wants us to be quiet about it because we’re the only interview he’s given like this besides the press run at the end of the fight. Christian had to pull some serious strings to get this and that’s why he was so pissed about the article. Plus Donnie is still a celebrity and that’s paparazzi and I don’t want Christian to think that I'm unprofessional. This is one of the biggest articles I’ve ever done Sherri. If I start dating a guy that I interviewed, imagine what I’d look like, people would hate me.”

Sherri giggled and rubbed her forehead, “Athena, respectively, that’s such a bullshit answer.” Athena shook her head in surprise at the bluntness. “I doubt Christian would give a fuck, ‘scuse my language. The guy likes you. I understand where you’re coming from but that doesn’t make you seem unprofessional, the guy just liked you so he asked you out, period. Love you down girly pop, but you’re just scared and that’s okay. All Christian really cares about is just a good article, and you got it for him, he likes what you’ve written. Yes, he might be a bit weirded out but I don’t think he’s gonna think that you’re hooking up with every celebrity we’ve interviewed. Even if he did Thena, the man can’t afford to lose you, that threatening he did the other day was such bull. He got back to his office and immediately freaked out about not wanting to let you go.”

Athena gaped at Sherri as she ranted. 

“What did Donnie, as you call him, say when you explained this to him, Athena?” Sherri crossed her arms, lifting her eyebrow, beckoning Athena for a response.

“He said that he would just cook for us if I didn’t want to go in public but he still wanted to see me. So he’s coming over tonight and making pasta.”

Sherri grabbed her chest and gritted her teeth at Athena, “Girl! Get on that man right now! And if you don’t, I will! Athena you’re about to let Adonis Creed slip through your fingers because you’re too scared to like him? Athena- Renee, you are insane! The guy likes you dummy.”

Athena rolled her eyes before she opened her mouth to respond to her. Before she could, her office door swung open Christian entering.

“Does anyone here knock, Lord?” She mumbled, slipping back into her chair.

“Funny, Athena,” Christians voice boomed through the office, “Sheridan, I need you to come with me to a meeting in 10, I don’t need you in here slacking.”

“Yes, sir,” Sherri stood, brushing her skirt and balling her lips at Athena, wordlessly telling her to go through with Adonis.

“By the way, Athena, I enjoyed the article, it was great. Keep up the good work,” Christian held the door open for Sherri as she walked through, “Come on, beautiful,” he spoke to Sherri and she had the nerve to blush. Athena furrowed her eyebrows and jutted her head outwards. Since when did Christian and Sherri flirt? Sherri turned and looked towards Athena’s office as she walked off, sticking her tongue out at Athena. She sat there for a moment. Since when did Christian call her Sheridan? No one did besides her mother. Also, when did Sherri have enough time to get to know Christian to the point that he confided in her about being scared to fire Athena? She was gagged, she picked up her pen and began clicking it while she stared at her desktop. She needed to have a long conversation with Sherri, and soon.

“What the actual fuck?” she breathed.

******************************************************************************

When Athena got home from work, the first thing she did was deep-clean the entire apartment, after she put her delicate Cherokee Roses on display in her favorite vase, of course. She had about an hour before Donnie would show up, so she watered her plants, cleaned her bathroom, vacuumed and dusted everything she could, she even lit her good Bath and Body Works 3-wick Vanilla bean candle. After she was done cleaning she showered and put on a beige 2-piece loungewear set that hugged her gracious hips, just so she didn’t have to sit in her work clothes while Adonis was there. The tension headache from her curly bun was too much for her to handle so she let the bun down, having to fluff it out because of the stiff state. Athena walked into her living room and sat down on her plush sofa but before she could get comfortable, her door buzzed. She huffed, as she stood and walked to the door, pressing her buzzer.

“Yes?” She hummed into the buzzer.

“Hi, Ms Athena, I got a ‘Donnie’, here to see you. Send him up?” The voice of her doorman, Tony filled the room. Athena swallowed and pressed the buzzer again.

“You can send him up Tony,” She sounded.

A crackling noise filled the buzzer before Tony’s voice spoke again, “Sure thing, Princess.”

*************************************************************************

Not even five minutes later, a knock landed on her door—three quick taps, almost like he was teasing her with his own rhythm. Athena took her time answering, trying not to seem too eager, even though her pulse was thumping like it knew exactly who was on the other side.

She opened the door to find Adonis standing there, arms full with three Trader Joe’s bags that looked like they were cutting his biceps. He was in a matching grey sweatsuit, the hoodie hood still up, and his feet, Lord help her, were in slides with long white socks.

Athena bit back a giggle. “You couldn’t commit to shoes?”

He grinned, eyes trailing over her slowly, deliberately. “You judging my socks when you answer the door looking like that?”

Her oversized tee had slipped slightly off one shoulder, and the soft  pants she wore did nothing to hide the curve of her hips. She folded her arms across her chest, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered low before traveling, almost reluctantly, back up to her face.

“You coming in or are you gonna keep standing there letting the bags cut off your circulation?” she teased, stepping aside.

He walked past her, brushing shoulders as he did. “Hard not to stare. You make this whole hallway look good.” He slipped his sandals off neatly at the door.

Athena closed the door a little harder than necessary just to keep from blushing.

“This place is beautiful, pretty girl. It’s really nicely decorated, screams you,” he said, already glancing around at the cozy earth aesthetic of the apartment, his eyes landed on the Cherokee rose bouquet decorating one side of her kitchen island, a glint hit his eyes “ I’m glad you liked the roses baby girl, Where should I put these?”

She pointed toward the kitchen with a soft hum blushing. “Thanks, Adonis.”

That grin again, the one that showed his dimple and made her stomach flip. He walked to the kitchen, hoodie stretched across his back and shoulders in a way that had no business being so distracting. Athena followed, eyes locked on the fabric clinging to his arms.

As he set the bags down, she moved to help, reaching into one just before his hand shot out and swatted her hand gently away.

“Uh uh. Nope,” he said, shaking his head with a smirk.

Athena narrowed her eyes. “I can help—”

“Girl, I came here to cook for you,” he said, stepping closer and grabbing her hands before she could argue again. His touch was warm and easy, his thumbs brushed lightly over her knuckles. “Now don’t mess up my plan. C’mon.”

He led her around the counter to the cushioned green bar stools, his fingers still wrapped around hers. “These look cozy. Sit,” he said as he pulled the chair out for her.

She arched an eyebrow as she took her time to slide into the seat, but he waited, patient and still holding her eyes. Once she was settled, he leaned down and, without warning, pressed a kiss to her cheek, his lips soft and lingering just long enough to make her breath hitch.

Athena blinked as he pulled away like it was nothing, already turning back to unpack the groceries. Athena was sure you’d be able to see her heartbeat in her chest.

“I didn’t know which one you’d prefer, so I bought chicken and shrimp. Your choice, or I can add both,” he said as he finished taking everything out of the bags, voice casual but with a little extra warmth to it. He made his way around the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves before washing his hands.

Athena smiled slowly, her gaze following every move he made, “Chicken will be fine, Donnie.”

“Alright, baby girl,” he turned and smiled at her, his eyes sparkling, “point me to your seasoning cabinet, and where your pans are.”

Athena bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling, “Pots and pans are in the bottom cabinet, left of the stove. Seasoning is right above it. Also, Adonis?” She prodded when she looked at the bags he had placed on the ground next to her trash can. He hummed his response, as he moved to the cabinets taking what he needed. 

“Since when did you shop at Trader Joe’s?” she grinned. Adonis stood and glanced over his shoulder.

“I’m a boxer, and Publix groceries are too expensive for me to buy every week for my meal prep. Plus, their food is good and fresh,” he shrugged, moving back to the counter to be face-to-face with Athena, now leaning over the counter. 

Athena squinted as she studied his face, “ your hair has grown too; beard coming in.”

Adonis scoffed playfully, “My hair always gets a little unruly when I’m training for a fight.” Adonis turned and began to wash the chicken. He placed it on the cutting board, washed his hands and began cutting it into smaller chunks.

“Another fight? It’s barely been a month since your last one.”

“Oh so you’ve been paying attention?” He cut the chicken, glancing up at her with a smile on his face. She shook her head and rolled her eyes as she spoke her reply.

“I just interviewed you, I kind of had to study your life.”

Adonis pressed his lips into a thin smile and nodded his head.

“Yeah, I have another fight but it’s not for another 8 weeks. It’s not a huge one either. Duke told me to go ahead and do it, just so I had an excuse for my title to not be challenged for a while after that, so I could take more time to heal.” She nodded her understanding as she watched him move through her kitchen, seasoning the chicken and placing it in a saucepan before bringing a pot of water to a boil. A pregnant, yet comfortable silence fell over the two of them.

“Baby girl?” Adonis tossed over his shoulder a minute later. Athena hummed. “You keep staring a hole in my back, I might catch fire.” 

The embarrassment that filled her chest was something fierce. She hadn’t even noticed that she was staring. She mumbled a quick apology, one that he waved off.

“Don’t apologize, pretty girl, I stare at you all the time, surprised you haven’t burned the whole building down. I like your hair like this by the way,” Her cheeks heated in response.

“Do you have a speaker?” He spoke again. “Nah, I actually just have a record player,” Athena pointed to the stand next to her window facing the LA skyline. 

“Record player? Oh you old school,” Adonis chortled.

“It was my Grandma’s housewarming gift when I moved to Atlanta. I used to love going to her house during the summer, she’d be cleaning with the records playing something from the 60s. Summertime in Georgia means the screen door would be open, because the A/C hardly worked,  so I’d go outside and just twirl around on her porch pretending my husband was dancing with me at our wedding or something. Granny had Bradford pear trees in her yard so these little white blooms would fly up, like I was actually at my wedding. Smelled so bad when she would make me sweep em’ off the porch though,” Athena’s accent slipped out as she recalled her childhood summers in Georgia. She didn’t like talking much about her life growing up, but anytime she could talk about being around her Granny, she would in a heartbeat. Adonis smiled at her, studying the way her face lit as she spoke about her grandmother. Something about it made his lower stomach hot, and the more he spent time with her, the more enamored he became.

“What records do you listen to?” 

“Mostly the ones from the 60s that my Granny gave me when her record player stopped working. But I also have Lauryn Hill and an Erykah Badu Vinyl.” She said.

“Can I choose one?” He asked, rounding the corner. She nodded, “Help yourself.” Adonis went through the basket full of Vinyls before he slid his hand over one with a blue cover. He grabbed it and slid the vinyl out carefully and placed it on the record player before pressing play. The record player whirled to life, coughing a mechanical whir as it did so. Athena swiveled in her chair to face Donnie as he read the back of the album casing.

There is something on your mind,

By the way you look at me

A strange feeling washed over Athena as she realized what song was playing. He had unironically chosen the album that her Granny used to play that she would dance to. Big Jay McNeely, specifically his song titled There is Something on Your Mind. She looked up at Adonis as he held his hands outstretched towards her.

“This isn’t your wedding,” he shared, “But, dance with me?” 

There is something on your mind, 

pretty baby, by the way you look at me

Athena stood and grabbed Adonis’ hands which he trailed up to wrap around his neck before he dropped her hands to her lower waist as he pushed her lower torso into his. They moved through the living room dancing as the lyrics filled the space.  Athena couldn’t; wouldn’t meet Donnie’s eyes, which were staring down at her, intensely. She decided to just turn her head away from his.

Can what you're thinking bring happiness, or will it bring misery

No, no, please don't try to tell me, 'cause I may not understand

Adonis tried to will her eyes up at his face, but instead he just closed his eyes and turned his head to the side, pressing it into the side of her head.

No, no, you don't have to tell me, pretty baby, 'cause I may not understand

You want me to try and forget you, but I'll do the best I can

They rocked back and forth to the music as the sound of the trumpet filled the room.

If you ever think about me, if I ever cross your mind

Adonis twirled Athena out, surprising her and making her let out a surprised laugh. He pulled her back into his chest before rocking her back and forth. She looked up and met his gaze, a sheepish smile on her face.

“This was the song my Granny used to play on the record,” she smiled.

He looked down at her before letting out a soft hum at her revelation. His eyes got lost in hers for a moment. Before Athena knew it, Donnie’s lips were slotting over her own, like a puzzle piece that was finally returned to its rightful place. Her eyes fluttered closed. The kiss was soft and warm, and ignited goosebumps on both of their skins. Donnie’s hands traveled lower, finding the small of her back and pulling her impossibly close to him as the kiss continued. The kiss was measured, and while slow was so intense, like Adonis was finally saying to Athena what he had wanted to for the two weeks she had known him, and she was reciprocating it. The buzz that Athena felt was only the one that she would get from that cheap store bought wine she bought. They moved together, Athena’s hand landed on his face holding his jaw as the kiss picked up in heat, which was filling her lower abdomen quickly. In a moment of needed breath, she broke the kiss, his head fell into her neck.

A burning smell filled her nostrils.

“Adonis….” she started.

“Hmm?” 

“Did you just burn the chicken?”

******************************************************************************

When Adonis had gotten done cooking the shrimp since he decided to leave the chicken in the saucepan for too long and charred it, the two ate in mostly silence, Athena with her Moscato and Adonis with a simple water. Neither of the two knew what to say about the kiss, just that they liked it really. The food was amazing, but Athena couldn’t gush about it with the way the awkwardness felt in the room, so she just settled for a “foods really good Donnie,” and continued to eat quietly.

After dinner, Athena cleared the table while Adonis insisted on cleaning the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves and promising to wash every dish before he left. She didn’t argue, mostly because she couldn’t stop replaying the way he’d looked at her while they danced in the kitchen, like she was the only thing in the room that mattered, like she meant something more than what she had always thought of herself to be.

She had just sunk into her usual spot on the couch, curling into the corner, turning on the Tv to a random show, when Adonis walked in, drying his hands on a towel before tossing it over the armrest. He sat down beside her, closer than usual. His knee brushed against hers, and neither of them moved away.

“We gone talk about it?” he said suddenly, his voice low and serious.

Athena blinked, surprised. “Talk about what?” She was hoping he’d make the rejection quick so she could move on with her life. Drop the article and pretend that Adonis is no longer.

He licked his lips slowly, staring ahead, then turned his body toward her, his dimple out, but his expression was anything but playful.

“The kiss, Athena.”

She looked away, heart racing. “What about it, Adonis?”

He let out a breath, frustrated but soft, like he’d been holding this in for too long. “Everything about it. You act like it didn’t mean anything, but I know you felt it. I know you did. I heard the way your heart was beating when I was holding you while we danced. That kiss wasn’t just some moment. That was me laying it out there. I’ve been trying to show you how I feel, in every way I know how. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t want more than just your number in my phone or your voice on FaceTime.”

Athena opened her mouth to speak, but he wasn’t done.

“I’m not done, Athena,” her mouth clamped shut, “I like you, Athena. More than I probably should already. And I kissed you because I couldn’t help it. You make me lose focus in a way that’s scary as hell but so damn good. And you… you just froze. You didn’t say anything. You ran.”

He leaned in, his hand brushing against hers as he searched her face.

“You’re awkward, and guarded, and complicated as hell, and I swear to God, I find it all so damn attractive. You drive me crazy. But I want to know you, like really know you. Listen to you for hours talk about your childhood in the country, dancing on your Granny’s porch, but you have to let me. So yeah, let’s talk about the kiss. Tell me you felt it too. Tell me I’m not out here falling for you alone.”

His voice dropped to almost a whisper.

“Please.”

And in that moment, with the way he was looking at her, like she held every answer he’d ever needed, Athena felt the wall she’d been hiding behind begin to crack. Her breath caught. The fire in his eyes was too warm to ignore. Too real.

She couldn’t hold herself back anymore.

Athena was on him in a second, this time the kiss was rushed and hot, painfully so. Adonis’ tongue prodded into her mouth as they continued, hot and heavy. They battled for dominance in the kiss, it was only when Adonis sucked her bottom lip into his mouth that she whimpered, which made him grow painfully hard in his sweats. He let out his own groan of approval as she sought his mouth out further, climbing onto him so she was straddling him. They continued this battle for dominance until Donnie’s hand slid down to one of her butt cheeks, while the other hand came up to grip the back of her head through the mane of curled ringlets to push her head closer to his own. He leaned back into the couch, melting into the pillow, Athena chasing his lips as he did so. He groaned low and deep in his chest, the noise making Athena gasp.

This wasn’t like Athena. if she was describing herself, blunt, yes, hard headed, yes, spontaneous, sometimes, but willing to hook up with a guy she met two weeks ago, who happened to be obsessed with her and a celebrity? Hell no. She did have to admit though, she was insanely attracted to Adonis, She hummed as she began to rock her hips into his in order to feel closer to him, in order to get some sort of friction going. Adonis let out a noise, and it wasn’t a whimper this time, it was a full on moan, which only made her grind herself harder, arousal now pooling itself in the seat of her panties. 

Donnie pushed her hips down further to continue to rock against his as he damn near inspected her entire mouth with his tongue, only breaking the kiss to place wet kisses on her neck down to her exposed chest, where her shirt had slipped off of her shoulder. He hit a point that made her back arch, and he started to suck. It was only when she did the same to him and it sent another rush of blood south that he stopped, realizing that they were moving way too fast, and that she meant a lot more to him than a quick fuck on her couch while a random record played in the background. He began grabbing at her hips to stop her slow grinding, as good as it did feel.

“Athena, baby, stop.” He announced breathily. She was in her own world, mouthing aggressively against his neck. He held back another moan, “Athena.” She only hummed in response as she stopped kissing, breathlessly hiding her face in Donnie’s neck in shame. They both sat there for a moment to catch their breath. Athena swallowed before speaking.

“I’m sorry.”

Adonis pulled her head away from his neck gently and studied her face. Her cheeks were red with warmth and her eyes were shiny and wide as if she was on the brink of crying. Her  dark curly hair that flowed past her shoulders was disheveled  with the way his fingers had run through it only moments ago, and yet the tight curls  still framed her face. Still Adonis thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her shirt, falling off of her shoulder and wrinkled, hugged her heaving chest. He searched her face.

“Apologizing is something you do when you are wrong. And nothing about what we just did was wrong, Athena,” he cupped her jaw, “When I confessed that I wanted you I meant it, and as much as I want to ruin you in this moment and make you forget everything else but my name, you deserve a foundation. That’s what I’ll give you first. This can wait until we’re both ready.” His voice lowered and so did his eyes to her lips. He licked his own as he stared. Heat blossomed in her chest at his words.

He leaned in and kissed her slowly but passionately, jaw still gripped into his palm. He leaned back out of the kiss, tugging her lip before letting it go. He smiled up at her, her eyes now low with passion and heart racing again. 

“I like your hair like this, pretty girl.” He spoke, letting the compliment hang in the air, “Get cleaned up and I’ll pick a movie okay?” Athena nodded as she slid out of his lap and started towards her bathroom. She looked at Adonis over her shoulder, who was smiling at her, his dimple ever so present and his eyes soft with something she hadn’t experienced until tonight.

*********************************************************************

As always LMK if you want to tagged pretty people🤍 Hope you guys enjoyed! Love, Peace, and Hair Grease <3

Taglist: @jazziejax @5starsativa @foxybrownsugababe @thickemadame @venusesworld @yornayyy @daughterofapollo-7 @wettbaby

[yeehawnce]

MICHAEL B. JORDAN AS SMOKE BEHIND THE SCENES OF SINNERS (2025) WITH DIRECTOR RYAN COOGLER

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

It Should Have Been You

Imagine: Pearline is Stack’s wife. She finds out the hard way when her husband continues his adulterous behavior.

Pearline Moore ONE-SHOT

Warnings: Smut. Angst, LOTS of dirty talk.

There is a humid, subtropical climate afoot in The South. Everyone takes shelter, and those with homes on raised beams above the waters that flow from the Mississippi River are the more fortunate. The rich, agricultural soil of The Delta is muddy and automobiles have a hard time getting through. A characteristic of alluvial deposition in deep water, where the river actively builds new land through sediments.

Shops close downtown, church’s postponed their congregations, and the plantation fields are overgrown and empty of sharecroppers picking cotton. The heavy showers beat down on rustic, tin roofs and bounced off the edges of iron tubs. Farm life make aggravated noises, stomping and shifting in their designated stalls surrounded by haystacks and various tools.

The weather didn’t keep Pearline Jacqueline Moore away from a local pharmacy owned by a Black Pharmacist named Robert Browning Jr.

Pearline wore her favorite riding boots, a trench coat, and a cloak hat over her moisturized curls with the help of Annie Minerva Turnbo Malone’s Poro Products. Her lush skin glistened from sweat and water as she hurried through downtown from her parked automobile. Pearline shoved past the doors to the pharmacy, the tiny bell above dinging softly, alerting Dr. Browning Jr. as he busied himself within a back room that he used as a storage unit.

She brushed her boots off on a mat as best as she could to keep mud from tracking the floor. Pearline removed her cloak hat, twisting it in her hands nervously, not realizing that she was ringing it out onto the floor. Her riding boots squeaked as she walked further into the pharmacy.

It was a bustling community hub with a strong focus on soda fountains and sundries. While they sold medicines, they also served as social gathering places, particularly during Prohibition, with soda fountains becoming popular. Pharmacists were not just dispensing medications but also providing advice and even counter-prescribing.

Pearline grabbed a basket and loaded it with random items, trying to appear less suspicious on why she was really there. She slipped past a newspaper rack and peeked at the headline on the front in bold, onyx print.

“Mrs. Moore? What you doing out in this awful weather?”

Pearline snapped her eyes towards the front counter.

Dr. Browning Jr. removed his reading glasses and stood dapper in a brown and beige suit with a maroon bow tie. He got rid of his suit jacket and replaced it with an apron, sleeves rolled up past his elbows revealing skin the color of pepper corn. He had a full goatee with a mustache that curled at the tips, sprinkled with gray hair and the hair on his head was close cut. He was a little over fifty years old and married to a stunning black woman from Alabama.

“Evening, Dr. Browning. My pantry is looking a little low. And I…I need some Arsenic to help with these pests hanging around my garden.”

Dr. Browning Jr. accepted Pearline’s basket and began ringing her up at his cash register. Pearline shifted her weight, anxious eyes looking around as if she were being watched.

“Would you like a vial of the poison or an entire bottle?”

“…I’m sorry?” Pearline inquired, seemingly lost as a nervous smile graced her heart–shaped lips.

“I’d suggest a bottle if the pest problem is serious. It’s quite pricy though, Mrs. Moore.”

“Oh! Oh…I think I should go ahead and buy the bottle. You never know, I may need it again.”

Pearline rushed to open her change purse, digging inside to grab a crisp twenty dollar bill. Dr. Browning Jr disappeared within his supply room for all but two minutes. He returned with a bottle of Arsenic, placing it within a box before gently covering it with a paper bag.

“That’ll be eighteen dollars.”

Pearline’s heart raced.

Pearline shifted her gaze towards the door, making sure no one was behind her.

“Mrs. Moore?—”

“Sorry,” she handed him the twenty dollars, “Keep the change. Thank you, Dr. Browning.”

Pearline accepted her bag, carrying it hugged to her slim–thick frame as she backed away.

“You need some help? I’m surprised Stack let you out in this mess.”

The mention of her husband’s name gave her pause.

It also filled her with rage.

“He’s a busy man, Dr. Browning. You know that. I won’t keep you. Have a good rest of your night.”

“You do the same, Mrs. Moore.”

Pearline entered her home, quickly shrugging off her coat to hang on a rack and she took a seat on a wine red chesterfield ottoman within the front foyer of her home to remove her boots. The rain had turned to drizzle by the time she returned home. Pearline wore one of many silky slips, a scandalous choice for wear in public, but she was on a mission.

Pearline lived in one of few luxury homes in The Delta with her husband, Elias ‘Stack’ Moore. It was surrounded by rolling hills and they had their own greenhouse where Pearline enjoyed spending time sipping herbal tea and tending to her botanical garden. Stack had it built for her as an anniversary gift because he knew how much it meant to her. Reminding her of days spent with her grandmother. A Botanist and Holistic Nurse.

Pearline entered her kitchen and sat her grocery bag down on her dining table. She scanned the mess she’d created hours before, old photos cut into pieces, scattered along the floor. Her husband’s dress shirt resting over a dining chair with lipstick stains on the collar. A gut wrenching reminder of what Stack had put her through.

Pearline was every man’s dream girl. She’s beautiful, can sing, built like a brick house, and smart. She’d turned down many boys, all except Elias Moore. He was a little older than her by nine years, but when he set his eyes on her, he made it his business to court her. Stack was a man that moved with a carefree personality. He joked and smiled and charmed everyone in his path. Deep dimples and a smooth tongue.

The opposite of his stoic, quiet, observant brother. Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore was known for bringing the smoke; the smoldering heat. You didn’t want to get to close for comfort and cross him. Smoke had no problems laying you out with a gun or his fists. You’d think he was made of railroad steel and cast iron.

Pearline was drawn to Stack’s playful energy and the amount of passion and chemistry they shared was like no other. Pearline didn’t care that she was falling head over T-straps for a criminal, Stack made her feel special. He bought her the lifestyle she’d always dreamed of. That made women envious, especially when he married her before leaving to Chicago. They had a beautiful barn wedding where all of The Delta attended.

But, Pearline had to learn the hard way that her husband was a rolling stone. He couldn’t keep his married dick to himself. Whispers of women he bedded while vowed to Pearline sparked heated arguments and lies that rolled off his slick tongue and past his plump lips. One woman living in Little Rock, Arkansas had him by the balls.

Mary.

And her lipstick is what stained her husband’s shirt.

Pearline grew tired of crying. Tired of sleepless nights and waiting for him to return home. Tired of the manipulation and the constant drama filtering back to her. Her so–called girlfriend’s side eyed her. Her mother chastised her for being weak and not going after her man like a proper wife should.

She thought about what it would be like to make him hurt. There was no man in town that she could even think to fuck as a get back. Elias ‘Stack’ Moore and his twin are practically gods within The Delta. Sleeping with some random man would only make her look like the fool. She wanted to kick him off his high horse. And her anger drove her to buy some poison.

And bake it into a chocolate pie.

It’s a luscious chocolate custard resting on a flaky, almost salty crust, topped with a springy meringue. For Pearline, it’s la pièce de résistance and whether times are good or times are bad, it’s always welcome and appropriate.

Stack loved her chocolate pie. She made it for him once a week. If she didn’t stop him, he’d sit and eat the entire thing for himself. At first, she thought to poison his moonshine, but that would only contaminate the entire batch since he prepared it in barrels with Smoke.

Pearline put away her groceries and then she grabbed the poison, setting to work on the chocolate pie.

Ingredients for the pie:

4 tablespoons cocoa or 1 1/2 squares baking chocolate

3/4 cups sugar

5 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1/4 teaspoon salt

2 egg yolks, lightly beaten

1 1/2 cups whole milk

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

1 tablespoon of butter

Ingredients for the meringue:

2 egg whites

1/8 teaspoon kosher salt

4 tablespoons sugar

And a splash—maybe a cup of Arsenic.

As she moved about the kitchen, the smell of rain and grass brought in by the humid wind through her open kitchen windows, an apron secure around her petite waist, Pearline hummed to calm her nerves down and stop herself from crying.

She hummed a song she’d written.

Poison was seen as a discreet way to eliminate someone, with arsenic being a particularly popular choice due to its tastelessness and ability to mimic natural illness.

No one would be able to suspect. It could be something as simple as bad moonshine.

And Stack drank a lot of it. He was well on his way to becoming the next Delta Slim.

Smoke couldn’t stop his brother, that would make him a hypocrite. He had his own addiction to smoking.

Flour painted her cheek and chocolate splattered her apron. Pearline wiped sweat from her forehead as she stared down at the pie. She placed it on a towel before washing her hands to prepare dinner.

She couldn’t believe she was going to kill her husband.

Pearline dressed in a gold silk burlesque flapper cocoon dress with batwing sleeves and a deep plunge in the front. It glided across her skin and molded into the shape of her frame as she walked, the long train dragging along behind her elegantly. Her curly hair was styled in an updo with tendrils framing her oval face. She plucked away unruly hairs from her thick brows to keep them neat and smoothed coca lip balm on her lips.

Chandelier earrings in, skin the color of espresso, she heard the front door open from her place at her vanity. She listened, making out distant laughter and the familiar sound of her husband’s voice. He wasn’t alone. Pearline took meditating breaths to calm herself. She’d already done the deed. It was only a matter of time before he cut himself a slice.

Revenge. Sweet revenge. A desire for freedom. Divorce wasn’t even an option. She wouldn’t get a penny. He needed to die and she would collect all his money and move up north. Maybe New York. Sing in the Cotton Club. Make a new life for herself.

Pearline spritzed perfume on her skin, activating the squeeze bulb, opening with dewy gardenia, its floral heart blooming with African neroli before settling into the intoxicating depth of a merlot wine accord. The essence of magnetic beauty and luminous grace.

One final look at her reflection, Pearline made her way down to the kitchen. In the living room, helping themselves to bourbon from a drink cart, were Smoke and Stack. Stack poured from a decanter, filling Smoke’s glass tumbler full. He did the same for himself. They whispered, smoke puffing on a cigarette as he nodded his head in response to Stack’s scheming words.

Smoke drew his eyes towards the stairs, eyes that took in the sight of Pearline. She looked down at him, meeting his intense gaze, looking away to focus on her husband who not once stopped to acknowledge her. It took for Smoke to nudge his little brother for Stack to finally pay attention.

That cut deep. Pearline flicked her gaze away to her feet covered in kitten heels. She released a shutter.

“Baby…”

Stack left Smoke’s side to approach Pearline. She gave him a practiced smile before opening her arms to hug him. Stack buried his face against her neck, inhaling her perfume while his hands rubbed and groped her.

“Mmm, you smelling good. Looking good too,” Stack leaned back to admire her, “Beautiful, baby,” Stack kissed her hands, “I missed ya’.”

“Missed you,” Pearline bat her lashes at him and tucked her chin with a coy smile, “You hungry?”

“I sure am. Is it aight if Smoke stay for dinner?”

Pearline drew her attention to Smoke. He perched himself against the fire place, lighting the end of his cigarette, orange flame vibrant. He looked at her with this expression that Pearline couldn’t quite understand. He was always unreadable.

“Only if it’s okay with you, sis–in–law,” Smoke spoke with a rasp.

“Of course.”

Pearline hadn’t expected an extra guest. Now, she had to figure out how to get the pie out of the way. Smoke could sense things. He’s observant. He can probably tell Pearline was being sneaky and devious. Seeing as he possesses those exact qualities. She inwardly panicked, wanting to escape from Stack’s hold to dump the pie in the garbage.

“Saw that chocolate pie in there, was about to dip my finger in it but Smoke stopped me before I could…”

Sweat trickled down her temple. She looked between both twins, smiling as best as she could and laughing in a flirty way she’d always had. Stack kissed Pearline’s lips, humming softly as he smiled.

“I got the finest woman in all the fuckin’ world.” He boisterously said, flashing his golds, “Let’s go eat us some food!”

“I’ll set the table, ya’ll go on and drink. I’ll call to supper when it’s ready…”

Pearline turned to walk away, hips switching. She couldn’t control the fact that she had a dump truck. Stack popped her on the underside of her behind, the motion causing her deep brown cakes to jiggle around. Her breath hitched and she swatted Stack’s hand away with a roll of her eyes.

She gave Smoke a sideways glance, heat rising over her face as he watched the two of them.

Pearline entered the kitchen and practically sprinted over to the pie. She exhaled with relief, glad to find it untouched. Pearline lifted the pie and hesitantly tossed it into the trash. She paced for a minute, trying her best to come up with a lie.

She choked on her words slightly as she spoke.

“I–I gotta make a new pie!”

Stack entered the kitchen with his brows pinched together.

“What? Why?”

He searched the kitchen for the pie before walking over to the trash. He lifted the lid, peering inside. The pie was on its side and sliding out of the dish.

“It–uh–it was covered in flies. I saw a couple flies on it.”

Her eyes fell on the open window.

“Must of gotten in through the window,” Pearline released a nervous laugh, “No worries, Stack, won’t take me long.”

“Damn…”

Smoke leaned against the entryway to the kitchen. He removed the cigarette from between his lips, eyes dancing back and forth between Pearline and Stack. His eyes fell to the cupboard beneath the sink, squinting slightly.

“I was looking forward to it, Pearlie. You sure you wanna make another?” Stack asked with a disappointed look.

“Won’t take me long. Promise.”

Stack sucked his teeth.

“Aight, baby…me and Smoke gone be in there listening to some tunes while we talk business. Holla when you finished.”

Stack pecked Pearline on the cheek before leaving the kitchen.

Smoke lingered.

“Errythang aight, Pearlie?” Smoke asked with a hushed tone.

“Yes. Why you askin’?” Pearline replied, eyes darting away from his.

Smoke’s eyes roamed the kitchen before focusing back on Pearline with a penetrating stare, “Listen, Stack—”

“Don’t.”

Pearline held up a shaky finger. She shut her eyes to hold back tears.

“Smoke!”

“Be there a minute, nigga. Be patient!” Smoke shouted back.

He gave Pearline one final look before leaving her alone.

She should have never thrown that pie away.

Hearing his laughter enraged her.

Knowing that he was fucking his octoroon whore inflated her anger.

What the fuck that bitch got on Pearline? What she got over her?

Privilege

Freedom

Fare skin

Loose hair

The beauty standard of America

And Stack craved it. Even though he’d fucked around with other black women, the minute Mary crossed paths with him after she returned to The Delta to bury her mom, Stack wanted that old thing back.

Pearline baked a new pie, silently crying.

But the chaos in the kitchen with her constant stomping and slamming of things had Stack’s attention.

Pearline set the table, almost breaking their fine China.

Stack took longs strides, oxfords loud as he walked.

“The fuck goin’ on, Pearlie?”

He snatched his toothpick from his mouth, glaring at her.

“Diner’s ready!”

Pearline snatched her apron off and tossed it onto the counter aggressively. Smoke trailed in behind his brother, eyes wide and unblinking. He tracked Pearline’s footsteps, jaw clenching.

“I can see the table is set,” Stack swept his concerned eyes over the plates of food, “But why you slamming shit? Got something you wanna say?”

Pearline whirled around, a look of surprise and confusion etched into her pretty face.

“ME?” She inquired with a loud tone.

“Yeah, YOU.”

“Wow…After all the shit you been putting me through. And you askin’ ME if I got something to say?!”

Smoke raised his hands to diffuse the situation.

“Let’s just eat now, aight? Save this shit for later.”

Pearline pinched the bridge of her nose. Stack sat down at the dining table. Pearline almost shivered when Smoke lightly grasped her arm to get her attention. She held his gaze, fighting hard not to break down.

“Come eat, Pearlie…”

“I’m not hungry.”

Stack’s fork and knife clattered to the table. He chewed the rest of his smothered pork chop down before turned his attention to his wife.

“Whatever it is, just say it, woman. I ain’t been messin’ around!”

“Yes you HAVEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!”

Smoke and Stack stared at her.

“Liar…fucking lying ass…piece of shit…”

Pearline opened her pantry and snatched up the shirt with lipstick stains. She marched over, balled it up, and threw it at Stack. He caught it, opening the shirt and when he noticed the lipstick stains, he froze.

“CARE TO TELL ME WHY THE FUCK YOU GOT LIPSTICK ON YOUR SHIRT?! A SHIRT I DISCOVERED WHILE TAKING IN DRY CLEANING?! A SHIRT YOU TRIED TO HIDE FROM ME?! YOU CHEATING BASTARD!”

Smoke fought to keep Pearline back. Stack stared off into space, no words, no more lies. What could he say to get himself out of this?

Pearline shouted between cries of heartbreak, “HOW COULD YOU? AFTER EVERYTHING? WHY DO YOU KEEP GOING BACK TO HER?! WHY, STACK?!”

Pearline snatched a butcher knife from the counter and launched it at Stack. He quickly pushed away from the table, the knife whizzing past his cheek and lodging in the wall. His chest rose and feel with rapid breaths. Smoke grabbed her up by her upper arms to keep her still.

“You crazy?! Tryna kill me?! That shit could’ve been in my head!!!!” Stack yelled, spit flying.

“PEARLIE! ENOUGH!” Smoke boomed.

“Get off me, Smoke!”

“You throwing knives, the hell, Pearlie?!” Smoke shook her to stop her from writhing.

“LET GO OF ME!”

Pearline slapped Smoke. Slapped him across his handsome face. He clutched his cheek that stung from her strikes.

“STOP PROTECTING HIM! HE’S A GROWN ASS MAN! YOU KNOW WHAT HE DOES AND YOU JUST LET HIM DO IT! FUCK YOU. BOTH OF YOU!”

Stack stood, tossing the shirt over his unfinished meal. He was ashamed to even look her in the eye.

“BE A MAN AND FACE ME, ELIAS! OWN IT!” Pearline laid into him with venom, “DO YOU LOVE HER?!”

“Pearlie—”

Pearline grabbed the chocolate pie and catapulted it, watching it hit Stack in the chest. He rocked back on his heels, arms outstretched, his eyes bugged out and his lips curled into a menacing pout.

“ANSWER ME, DAMMIT!!!!!!”

Pearline tried to catch her breath. Stack looked at her with wavering eyes. He titled his head down at his oxfords.

“I…Pearline…”

She gasped.

“You do…”

Smoke shut his eyes.

Stack gave her a cowardly look.

“You can’t even be a man and say it. You’re such a coward, Elias. Why did you marry me? To trap me? To have a notch on your belt? Afraid I’d find a man that really loves me? Your cracker slut is married to a cracker man In Arkansas and yet you can’t stay away from her and be loyal to me?”

Pearline clutched her chest as if she were going into cardiac distress.

“Am I not beautiful? What did I do to deserve this—”

“I have urges, baby. I’m sorry—I know it ain’t the apology ya’ want, but I…can’t control myself. I hate that I keep hurting ya’.”

“No,” Pearline shook her head as tears fell, “you ain’t sorry. You sorry you got caught.”

Pearline folded her arms over her chest. She exhaled, wiping tears away with her fingers.

She sniffled, “And the sad part is…I love you.”

She locked eyes with him. Smoke didn’t pull his attention away from her face for a second.

The grandfather clock on the wall within the living room ticked and ticked.

“I want both of ya’ll to leave.”

“Pearlie—”

“Fuck you, Elias. You don’t get to be sweet and charming. I want you to leave. NOW. Before I grab that knife from the wall, and cut your fucking dick off and feed it to you instead of this food I made!!!!!!”

Stack’s mouth was agape.

Smoke stepped aside.

Pearline made as if she were going to leave but instead she jumped on Stack, beating her fists on his back. Stack tried to grab her arms while shielding himself from being struck in the face.

“PEARLINE!”

Smoke picked her up and sat her on the counter.

“Get your shit, Stack. GO. We leaving.” Smoke ordered.

“Let her blow steam. I deserve it.” Stack said.

“Oh, so now you want her to kick your ass? She wanna kill you, nigga! Unless you wanna be scraps for pigs, I suggest you get your shit and leave!”

Stack looked from the dining table, to his wife, parting his lips to speak. Instead, he walked away, climbing the stairs to pack a luggage.

Smoke looked at Pearline, “If I let you go. Will you stay here while he gettin’ his shit?”

Pearline nodded her head slow.

Smoke released her arms and stepped back. He lit a cigarette and didn’t take his eyes off of Pearline.

“I’m real sorry, Pearlie. I know that don’t mean shit to you comin’ from me…but you don’t deserve this shit. You too good of a woman. Always been. I tried to get him to come home to you…I did…he can’t control himself with that bitch and…I hate to see ya’ hurting.”

“Smoke,” Pearline was exhausted, “You could have told me. You could have come to me. I need to be alone. Just leave. Please leave.”

She hung her head and started bawling. Her cries broke Smoke. Deep, sorrowful, body shaking. Her tears leaked to her dress. Smoke wanted to comfort her. He tried to touch her and Pearline flinched.

Stack’s footsteps caused Smoke to back off. He locked eyes with his little brother, glaring at him. Stack turned away, luggage in his hands.

Smoke allowed his eyes to sweep over her. He didn’t care if she fought him off. He didn’t care if she slapped him.

Smoke positioned himself in front of her, grabbed her face, and planted a kiss to her forehead.

That made her cry harder.

Word spread like famine.

And Pearline refused to feed into the nosy crowd.

She walked around town with her head held high and hips swaying seductively. No matter how hurt she felt, she looked ravishing.

Pearline entered The Chow’s negro store, picking up oranges and lemons, checking to see if they were a good batch before buying them. Bo Chow walked out from a room with a notepad and a pen behind his ear. Little Lisa took care of the line. Pearline helped herself to a jar of strawberry jam.

“Mrs. Moore! You’s doing alright?”

Bo pulled Pearline into a hug.

“I’m doing fine, Bo. Hello Lisa,” Pearline waved to her, “Grace good?”

“Is! She’s expecting.” Bo said with a side smile, glossy black hair falling over his forehead handsomely.

“Oh! My! Congratulations, Bo!”

Pearline beamed.

“I’m hoping for a boy this time.” Bo said.

“Just be glad for a healthy bundle of joy.” Pearline said.

She stood in line behind four people until it was her time to be helped. After paying for her items, she waved goodbye to Bo and Lisa before leaving the store.

The rain had finally stopped and in its place was that humid, Mississippi air. The sun shone down brightly, heating Pearline’s skin. She found her car and got in, heading back home.

Driving back, Pearline pulled up to her home, finding a truck she recognized immediately. Pearline stared at the truck, eyes fluttering with resentment. It’s been damn near two weeks.

Pearline couldn’t deny that she missed her husband, but at the price of her own happiness? Why should she have to put up with his constant disregard for her feelings?

It won’t last, Mary is just a phase.

She hated that she had that voice in her head.

After another minute, Pearline exited her car and with her groceries she walked up to her home. Pearline didn’t pay the truck any mind, expecting Stack to shout her name from the window and beg for forgiveness.

Instead, she caught a whiff of tobacco.

Pearline turned, eyes falling on Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore with his back against the truck. He stomped out his cigarette. He clasped his hands in front of him and over his crotch. He stared at her beyond the brim of his blue hat. Smoke pushed off his truck, one hand clutching onto the opening of his tweed suit jacket as he approached her with methodical eyes and careful steps.

A breeze picked up, ruffling the bottom of her fitted, purple, floral–printed lapel dress. She wore white T–straps on her feet, and a hat with lace gloves to match the colors in her dress. Pearls decorated her ears.

“How you be?” Smoke finally spoke.

“…I’m okay.”

Smoke stood at the bottom of the steps, staring up at Pearline.

“Stack stayin’ wit me. He not there right now.” Smoke revealed.

Pearline tilted her head, eyes searching for the inevitable truth, “He’s with her?”

Smoke rubbed his hands together, eyes roaming the ground.

“She came knockin’. He answered.”

Pearline stood still and watched Smoke.

“Say sum’, Pearlie.”

Pearline exhaled.

“I want a divorce.”

Smoke frowned slightly.

“I’m tired, Smoke. I deserve better.”

Pearline turned away from Smoke to open her door. She sat her groceries down at her feet. Smoke climbed the steps, picking up the bag. Pearline didn’t say a word. The door swung open and Smoke followed her inside. He walked past the front foyer and disappeared into the kitchen.

Pearline sat her purse down and removed her gloves and hat.

She walked into her kitchen and her footsteps slowed down when she caught Smoke putting away her food.

“Smoke, I can handle it.”

“No, no, no, now…you have a seat.”

Smoke pointed to a dining chair. Pearline took a seat, crossing her ankles modestly and folded her hands within her lap all ladylike. Her back was straight, body screaming confidently, but her eyes told a different tale. She was sad. Lonely. Torn.

Smoke opened her icebox to pour her a glass of lemonade. He then grabbed a napkin, walking over to her and placing it on the table. He removed his hat and sat it on the table. Pearline didn’t say a word as she grabbed the glass, helping herself.

“Why you come checkin’ up on me?”

Pearline searched Smoke’s eyes.

“…Because ya’ mean a lot to me.” Smoke replied.

Pearline scuffed, “Sure I do, Smoke. Poor old Pearline.”

Pearline stood, smoothing out her dress as she walked towards her pantry, grabbing a bottle of wine.

“I need something stronger…”

She drank from the bottle. Smoke watched her with a single brow raised. They sat in silence, Smoke with a cigarette and Pearline with her almost empty bottle of wine. She grew warm and relaxed, tipsy and just as sad and angry as before.

“I wonder if Stack thought of her every time he made love to me…”

He blew smoke from his nose.

“Don’t wonder. Stop thinking about it.”

Pearline rolled her eyes at Smoke.

“Serious…”

Pearline sucked on her bottom lip to stop it from quivering.

“Smoke, am I not good enough? I’ve done things for this man…to please him…make him happy.”

Smoke glanced at her sideways while reclined back in the dining chair, legs wide.

“What things?”

Pearline laughed bitterly, “Doesn’t matter. And it’s personal.”

“You said the shit.” Smoke replied defensively.

“I’m just talkin’. Okay? Venting.”

“And I’m here to listen. Aight?”

Pearline stared at him intently.

“…sexual things…”

Smoke hummed, “Okay…” He made a gesture for her to proceed, “And?”

“…Settled here for seven years. Dealt with all the bullshit. Rubbed his feet and massaged his shoulders. Put my dreams aside to help him fulfill his. Gave him every hole to use…”

Smoke twisted his lips as he listened.

“I thought it made him happy. I guess not.”

Smoke studies his cigarette, the wheels in his head turning.

He licked his lips, “Can I tell ya’ a secret?”

Pearline looked at Smoke curiously.

“You? Opening up?” Pearline teased.

“It’s about you. So I don’t see why not.”

Pearline shifted to face him, hip jutted out enticingly. She propped her elbow onto the table, resting her chin against her palm.

“Well?” She uttered.

“I ain’t want Stack to marry you.”

A pregnant pause.

“…what? Smoke? You serious?”

Pearline didn’t know how to interpret what Smoke revealed. She drew her thick brows together, intrigued by what he said. And the feeling of butterflies.

“Why the hell not?” Pearline questioned.

Smoke struggled to answer her question. He puffed on his cigarette, smoke billowing from between his thick lips. His hand shook slightly until he flexed his chest to gain control of his muscles. He finally met her gaze, never looking away as he parted his lips to speak.

“Cause you should’ve been mine.”

Pearline was paralyzed with shock. She couldn’t believe Elijah’s words. All this time? He’d wanted her too? No way.

“Smoke–Smoke I–I–you’ve always felt like this?”

Smoke gave her a sideways look with unwavering eyes.

“I have. Still do.”

Pearline almost dropped her wine bottle.

She shot up from her seat.

“Go, Smoke.”

Smoke rose to his feet.

“You don’t feel the same?”

Pearline couldn’t believe his words.

“NO!” She shouted with a disbelieving expression.

“I don’t believe ya’, Pearlie. The way ya’ look at me…the way ya’ always looked at me.”

“Stop…”

Pearline brushed past Smoke, climbing the stairs to her room. Her vision blurred with tears. She could hear his footsteps behind her.

“Pearlie…”

Smoke moved around her swiftly, blocking her path.

“I love you—”

“HOW DARE YOU?!”

Pearline shoved at his chest, no use because he was too solid and strong to move. Smoke watched her fire herself out before locking her wrists in his firm grip. He leaned in, eyes boring into hers like he was staring into her soul.

“Go on and beat away, Pearlie. I mean what I say. I’m in love wit’ ya. And you deserve to be happy. I care about my brother, but I ain’t gonna keep fighting this feeling. And ain’t no way I’m a let you sit up here thinkin’ you ain’t the prize.”

Pearline blinked up at Smoke. He stroked her cheek with his thumb. Softly. Delicately. Reassuringly.

“…You bastard. How dare you take advantage?”

Smoke cocked his head.

“I’m pouring my heart out, and you say that?”

Pearline slaps Smoke. Hard.

“GET. OUT.”

Smoke growled, top lip snarled.

“You gon’ stop hitting me.” He warned.

“You deserve it.” She sassed.

Smoke toward over Pearline. She jumped slightly.

“So, you don’t feel the same?” Smoke’s husky voice challenged her.

“No.” Pearline replied, looking down his body with a slow sigh.

Smoke stood firm. Pearline peered up at him.

“…I’ll leave. But I’m still keepin’ my eye on you.”

Smoke gave her a once over before making his way down the stairs. Pearline’s chest heaved up and down with a shaky exhale.

Some nights later, Pearline got dressed to perform a new song she’d written titled Pale Pale Moon. She spent majority of the day emptying the closets and drawers of Stack’s things, part of her wanting to burn them but deciding it wasn’t worth it. Instead, drove down to a local thrift store and dropped the bags off without a backward glance.

He’d taken the things that meant more to him. His money. His jewelry. Leaving behind the one person he vowed never to leave. She’d done enough crying herself to sleep. And yet she couldn’t get Smoke out of her head. His confession.

Pearline deep down admired Smoke beyond him being her brother–in–law. She’d always known him to respect women and he always treated Pearline kindly. He would listen to her speak about things he didn’t understand, like how to grow certain flowers. He always took up for her, checked in on her, and stared at her with What Pearline now understood as deep affection.

She was seen with Smoke.

That’s all she ever wanted.

“Stop talking to her like that, Stack for I beat ya’ ass.”

“You ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask, Pearlie.”

“You just as important to me, Pearlie.”

Everything he’d ever said to her. Every hug, every smile, every look. All of it was much more. Much deeper.

Messenger’s gave her a standing ovation.

Delta Slim and his band played to the words of Pale Pale Moon.

Pearline felt alive. Her lush skin so smooth like the sultry blues music.

She needed a distraction from Smoke.

But his words the other day…

He told her that he was in love with her. Told her to her face and with no shame.

Pearline was dropped off by a friend to her home since she’d been drinking. She waved goodbye before entering, shutting and locking the door behind her. Pearline braced herself against the wall, removing her shoes. She walked the length of her front foyer and the sound of a lighter flickering caused her to grab a vase, ready to lunge it at whoever broke into her home.

Vase raised above her head, she turned the corner.

“Who’s there—”

Standing tall and wearing a soft blue shirt rolled up his arms and black slacks, was Smoke.

“You broke into my house?”

Smoke dug into his pocket, swinging a key ring in front of her face.

“Put that shit down before you break it.” Smoke ordered.

“Why should I? You show up unannounced.”

Smoke took it upon himself to take it from her. Pearline didn’t fuss. Smoke placed it back where she’d gotten it from.

“You performed at Messenger’s?”

Pearline’s eyes swept over his body. She drew her shoulders back, strutting past him, removing the silk scarf draped over the front of her neck and down her back. Smoke caught it before it hit the floor. He folded it neatly and placed it on the coffee table, patting it with his fingertips. Pearline gazed at him.

“You look lovely, Pearlie.”

“What do you want, Smoke?” Pearline asked with an exasperated look.

“The truth.”

“It’s late. You can see yourself out…”

Pearline crossed her arms and poked her hip out.

Smoke motioned towards the kitchen with his head, “What that arsenic for?”

Pearline’s arms dropped.

“Mhm,” He puffed on his cigarette, “You tried to poison my brother with that pie.”

Pearline exhaled, “I did. No use in lying. Maybe you shouldn’t have stopped him from sampling it.” Pearline replied with her voice laced with unshed tears, “Don’t matter, I ain’t gonna poison him.”

“Cause of me.”

“So? I chickened out, Smoke.”

“Why you keeping it?” Smoke probed with narrow eyes.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Pearlie…” Smoke clenched his jaw, “I care about ya’…And I need to know if ya’ feeling the same.”

Pearline bounced her foot.

“You won’t stop unless I tell you…”

Pearline locked eyes with Smoke.

“Smoke..I…I should have picked you. Then I know I’d be treated better.”

A single tear fell.

“You can still chose me—”

“It’s too late for that. Won’t do us any favors acting on those feelings, now would it?”

Smoke disagreed.

“It’ll do us more than just a favor, baby…”

Pearline nibbled on her bottom lip.

Smoke strolled up on Pearline. Her breath hitched, eyes closing when his body pressed against hers. He placed a hand on the nape of her neck, tilting her head. Smoke leaned in, closing the distance between them. Pearline parted her lips ever so slightly, giving Smoke and entry. His fluffy lips touched hers with uncertainty. Pearline snaked her hands up his chest and secured her arms around his shoulders.

Smoke intensified the kiss. Soft pecks turned into open–mouthed movements. Pearline’s skin tingled with desire. Smoke’s chest bloomed with passion. He’d longed to taste her. He regretted not making a move on Pearline when he should have. His little brother had always been the smooth talker, the lady magnet.

The sound of lips smacking and soft breaths.

The feel of his rough hands gliding over her hips to grab ass.

Pearline pulling him in closer with her hands clutching onto his shirt.

They kissed their way towards the stairs. Smoke broke away from her lips to pick Pearline up. She wrapped her legs around him, diving in for more. Their tongues battled for dominance as Smoke climbed up the stairs. They stumbled, knocked against walls, and snatched off each other’s clothes all the way to her room.

“I need you,” Pearline whispered longingly.

“I’m here…I’m right here…”

Pearline wiggled out of Smoke’s arms and she dropped to her knees in a flash. He snatched off his shirt and watched her pull his belt from the loops. She tossed it to the floor and with her eyes on his, Pearline opened his zipper and unbuttoned his pants.

“Let me pleasure you, Elijah.”

“Go on, bring him out.” Smoke commanded.

Pearline did just that. She hummed sensuously. It was heavy in her hand and warm to the touch. She jerked him a little, watching the way he licked his lips down at her. Pearline wrapped her lips around his head and started sucking with no hands.

“Ahhh, fuck…”

Pearline gathered spit on her tongue as she sucked. Smoke watched like he was staring down at a circus act. Pearline was doing tricks he ain’t never experienced in his thirty plus years on earth. She made spit bubbles and slurped it back up. Her tongue curled around his shaft like a slick tentacle. She would pop her lips off and spit on it. Over and over. Getting down right disgusting like some street walker.

“This how you do it, Pearlie? FUCK.”

She attacked his balls with gusto. Moaning and whimpering with a mouth full of his nuts and big dick. Smoke couldn’t believe his eyes. He guessed the saying pretty girls love sucking dick that his little brother always said was true. He had a woman at home that did it like this? Ain’t no other woman come close to Pearline.

“Pearlie…don’t stop…”

She inhaled his dick and stroked him with two hands. Bawdy blues and all. Smoke weaved his fingers through her soft curls and controlled her movements. He fed her mouth some dick since she worked so hard to make him cum. His eyes turned puppyish and he dragged his bottom lip between his teeth.,

“I’m a cum so fucking hard!”

Pearline did a disappearing act with his dick. Smoke almost saw heaven. He grunted deep with his release. Not a single drop wasted.

He stared at her as she licked him clean. He backed away, slapping his tip on her wet tongue.

“So nasty wit’ it. You suck me like I’m ya’ man.”

“I’m passionate about giving, Smoke. It’s my favorite job,” Pearline licked her lips, eyes staring at his dick like it was made of the purest gold, “Especially when it’s nice and big like this. One thing about me,” Pearline stroked him and tongue kissed his tip between words, “I was known for being the best dick sucker. I’m not ashamed to admit…when you’re good at something,” Pearline ran her tongue from base to tip, “you keep going…and going…”

“Dayum…”

She was sucking on him again. Smoke stroked her face, caressed her hair, told her how pretty she looked, and moaned her name.

“You nice and thick in my mouth again, Elijah. Wanna give me what I’m workin’ so hard for?” She teased.

“Pearline! Ahhhh…”

She gulped his cum down again, giggling at his face.

“Get up.”

Smoke didn’t wait for Pearline to do it, he picked her up himself. Smoke spun her around and let his hands explore her naked body. Toned and thick at the same time. He watched her ass recoil beneath his palm, chocolate ass bouncing like jello.

“All this body…I’d handle ya’ ass erryday.” Smoke talked slickly.

“How would you handle me, Papa?”

That papa drove him crazy.

“I’d bend ya’ over…stick my tongue in ya’ pucker and ya’ cat…make ya’ suck my dick outta my sleep…after a hard day,” Smoke whacked her on the butt, “Then I’d make nasty, messy, love to ya’ baby…all over this fuckin’ house…”

Smoke picked Pearline up and placed her on the bed. She crawled away from him and he followed like a predator to his prey, nibbling on her flesh with his teeth, licking the soles of her feet. She got on all fours and dipped her back like a feline. Smoke put his face in it, suffocating himself on purpose. Pearline moved her hips, riding his face.

“Smoke…” she moaned, “Just like that…eat Stack’s pussy…”

“This ain’t his no more…”

Pearline whimpered.

“It’s yours?”

“All mines, baby. All this twangy pussy…”

“Shiiittttt…”

Smoke resurfaced, growling. He put his face in it again and growled some more. Pearline arched her back and cried out when Smoke jabbed her entrance with a pointed tongue.

“I can’t see you…I need to see how you doin’ that, Papa…”

Smoke couldn’t agree more. He flipped Pearline over and she opened up so wide her hips ached.

“Can’t get no wider than that, baby…so eager…”

“Feast on me, Papa…let me watch…” Pearline begged.

Jagged, labored, and sharp breaths escaped her mouth. Smoke’s handsome face and those juicy lips munched on Pearline’s pussy with gluttony, exactly what she wanted to see from her position on her back. His eyes are low like he was high off of her tangy taste and his lips and tongue moved in sync with each other. Pearline tightened her vaginal muscles around his fingers that were seated deep in her pussy and just like that, she leaked on his tongue. As long as his tongue, lips, and fingers stay on her she’ll give him what he wanted.

“Your pussy is so pretty and tight, baby…” Smoke takes two fingers to gently stroke her cum covered inner lips with an enthralling and spellbinding expression on his face, bottom lip all pouty, and golds on display, “I’ll take care of ya’ Pearlie…anything ya’ need…ya’ pussy ate up…fucked real good…spoiled…loved on the proper way…I’m there…”

Pearline held her legs up like Smoke instructed. She begged for him to eat her pussy. Smoke wanted to taste that twat, taste the mixture of salty sweetness. The way Pearline moved like a feline on stage, captivating the audience, hips gyrating and ass moving in a slow motion, smoke wanted to dig his tongue in it and sample it. He wanted her to do all that on his tongue and his dick.

“I think these inches about right for ya’, huh?” His onyx eyes flicker up to gaze at her. The way his irises looked, she can feel his eagerness to fuck the shit out of her instantaneously. No words needed, just his eyes doing the talking. Pearline nodded her head slowly before chewing on her bottom lip. 

“Smoke,” Pearline started pushing her pussy against his tongue, humping as Smoke wiggled it and sucked away, “Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck!”

Her musk crowded his nose and grew stronger the more she creamed.

“That’s right…feed me this good pussy…”

“As tasty as you are…mmm,” Smoke showed her just how delicious she is, “Don’t you worry, Pearlie, I’ll give you what you deserve…”

“I…I–I deserve it…” Pearline struggled to form words between moans.

She stilled her hips so he could suck her up. Pearline gasped, hands shaking and unsure if she wanted to grab his head or the sheets.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh—”

Smoke’s rattling breaths fanned her pussy. He licked his lips and stared at the beautiful flower before his eyes with an intoxicating gaze. He covered her inner thighs with soft kisses, listening to her calm breaths. He stared up the valley of her glistening body.

“I need you on top, Pearlie…”

Smoke gets up to sit on the end of the bed, helping Pearline climb on top of him. His large hand is on the back of her head, pushing her face towards his so he could make her taste his lips. Smoke smirked as he kissed her, slipping his skillful tongue into her mouth so she could taste that sweet pussy all over his taste buds. All you could hear was the slurping of lips and heavy breathing.

Pearline fumbled with his pants, his lips fighting to keep kissing her and each time she pulled on the fabric his fat dick would jump and brush against her pussy lips. Finally, skin-to-skin contact. Smoke’s muscular thighs, heavy balls, and that thick dick. Pearline didn’t even wait, as soon as his pants were pushed past his dick she squatted over him while his toned hips pushes his dick up to meet her.

“Elijah…” Pearline grabbed onto his shoulders.

All she can feel is solid, throbbing, long girth entering her from beneath. Her inner lips all the way to her clit pulsates with need. Smoke continued to pump her pussy at a slow pace with his hand reaching up to grip her throat. Pearline’s eyes are focused between her legs and she watched with awe at the seductive motion of his hips burying his dick deeper and deeper...his abdominal muscles crunched and the more noise her pussy made, Smoke’s thrust deepened.

She was staring back and forth from his dick to his face with a delusional expression—still in disbelief about how much dick this man possesses. Identical to his brother. Pearline is still in shock that she was fucking her brother–in–law. She let out a gasp and her head goes back so far Smoke had to cradle it. The closer Smoke pulls her body towards him, her erect nipples brush his lips. He opens his mouth wide, his long, thick tongue showing both stiff peaks some attention before gently sucking it.

He had her slim waist in a firm position as he rocked her up and down his dick. It was a sensual dance.

“Why you fuckin’ me like you love me?” Pearline whispered.

“Cause I do love ya’…”

“We shouldn’t be doing this…” Pearline whined.

It was too late for that.

“I’m ‘bout to tear that ass up,” Smoke warned her with a forceful, guttural voice. He picked Pearline up by her waist and turned her around, “Spread your fucking thighs...c’mon, baby, open that pussy up I need that shit so bad...yessss...got this pussy driving me crazy, Pearlie...this wet ass pussy...make love to this pussy all fucking day, baby…”

“Oh, my goodness!”

"Pussy getting wetter with papa’s fat dick up in it?” 

Pearline moaned in response. This was the most vocal Smoke had ever been. He couldn’t wait to have her.

"Pearlie…fuck…" Smoke moaned, "darling...I swear to God,...do you know how I’d kill to be up in this? Huh? Make you mines...I’m stroking it…all this wet pussy wrapped around my fucking dick...alla ‘dis ass? dassit baby...fuck on daddy like that…”

Pearline couldn’t help herself as she leaned over, ass high while she rode Smoke’s dick in reverse cowgirl. She looked back at him, curls in her face and heart racing from the workout she was giving her pussy. She could feel Smoke’s fingers graze her ass cheeks before they were on lower lips. Pearline’s peach fuzz tickled his thumbs as he spread heropen so that he could watch the way his dick pushed past her swollen vulva, producing more cream. 

“Damn, Pearlie…it’s like ya’ pussy been wanting this dick…you’re so wet…”

“Unh, yes—”

“Ohhh, you work it like that, huh? That’s how you riding this daddy dick?” Smoke groaned and it made your clit twitch. 

“You makin’ this dick hella sloppy,” Smoke said and she heard the obstacle in his voice to hold his nut off. Pearline was working the tip of his dick now, all that beautiful dark skin and the muscles in her back mesmerizing him.

“Elijah…” Pearline moans, but it’s so low with how loud her pussy is.

Smoke was in a trance watching her ass bounce and clap against his crotch each time she came down on his dick. The cotton candy pink center in contrast with her deep brown skin made him salivate.

“Ooh—”

“Papa hittin’ that spot? Yeah? Here, lemme hit it for ya’ some more.. ooh, baby, ya’ takin' it…there ya’ go…hmmmm, pussy is yankin’ me...here some more dick for, ya’…”

Pearline looked back and saw the intensity in his eyes and then she could feel his dick in her stomach. Her face felt tight and hot and the heat from Smoke’s body had her shimmery skin sweating. Pearline felt tears pricking her eyes and her mouth fell open, drooling with lust. This shit was too good. 

“Ima cum on this dick, Papa!”

“Gon’ head that’s what the fuck I want,” Smoke said menacingly, “Where the fuck is it?!”

“Ohhhhhhh, Shit—”

“Bounce on that dick…just like that…bring that ass down on me, girl...ahhhh, fuck…you do it so nasty on this wood, girl...so fucking nasty. Been wanting me to fuck ya’ tail up…you like fucking the other twin, baby?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Pearline’s ass flopped down in Smoke’s lap, her walls like a tight capsule squashing his dick for dear life.

“Fuck, Pearlie…”

Smoke stood with his dick still buried inside of her and turned her around with her back arched, knees on the bed, and feet hanging over the edge. His eyes swept over her body as he spread her cheeks apart. Pearline glanced back, eyes lowering between his legs. Thick. Veins pulsing. She reached behind to spread her creamy folds for him. Their eyes met and he purposely sank into her agonizingly slow. 

“I love the way you moan when I push all this daddy dick deep inside of you…” Smoke pulled out, doing it again, “Like ya’ singing the blues to me…”

“It makes my pussy feel so full, Papa...I love the way you fuck me...it feels so good, baby, don’t stop stroking me…”

“You love knowing you fuckin’ Smoke, huh?”

Pearline’s warm, wet, tight pussy gripped his dick and when she reached back to grab for his balls, she couldn’t believe how heavy they were. If he keeps going at a slow pace like this, making her pussy cream and sound like this, Smoke gon’ erupt and make a large mess all in his sister–in–law’s pussy.

His hands were slapping her ass around to let her know she made his dick feel good with the loving he was giving her. It was deep and his words were nasty but his strokes were patient and savoring—like he wanted to stay in her married pussy as long as he could and make her moan as much as her voice box can produce. 

His thick dick is slow and torturous sliding in and out her, pussy lips snug around the head of his dick every time he enters her. Smoke would slide all the way in, her pussy making all kinds of noises, then he would pull all the way out. Pearline knew why he was doing this—sliding in and pulling out. He loved the way his wide tip pushed past her walls. He loved the warmth and her juices making his dick all sticky.

He was taking his time, learning the hole his brother fucked, the pussy his little brother neglected. Smoke could only imagine slippery and sticky Pearline could make his dick. She was creaming and oozing out with each stroke and it’s all over his dick and balls.

“You like it messy, yeah?” Pearline asked with a gasp in between. 

“Arch that fuckin’ back.” That was his response. 

“Like this, Papa?” She whispered as she pointed that plump ass further in the air, shaking it a little for him, “I want you to hit the bottom of this wet pussy...hold it there and feel me squeeze that dick…”

“Pearlie…”

“You like it messy, make your pussy cum—”

Smoke grunted.

“This shit mines? I thought you said we ain’t suppose to be doin’ this here?”

Pearline whimpered when he pushed deep enough for her to feel pressure. He was playing with her. She loved it.

“We ain’t…it’s wrong…”

Smoke hooked his hand around the front of her neck and he peered down at her with a mug on his face.

“I shouldn’t be fuckin’ my pussy? Thought ya’ wanted this dick?”

Smoke gave her two forceful strokes as a reminder. Pearline’s eyes crossed. He did it again, watching her face contort in the vanity mirror across from them.

“Talk to me, baby. Want it?”

“Yes, yes, please, give it to me…”

His punishing strokes hit Pearline out of nowhere, knocking the wind out of her chest and tearing her guts up. 

She continued her shit-talking while her ass clapped back on him, “Yes, Elijah, fuck this pussy, take it, I’m a cum all over that dick...fat dick making me cum right now...oh my God…that big dick making me cum right now…uhhhhhhhhhhh…”

She was cut off from Smoke’s hand on the back of her neck, pushing her face down into the mattress. 

“This fuckin’ pussy...I’ll get ya’ knocked up, baby. I swear I will.”

Her lips parted and she started drooling on the bed. 

“I know you feel these nuts banging that clit...that’s what I’m talkin ‘bout.”

“SMOKE!”

“Yeah? Yeah, baby?” Smoke teased. 

He was beating her walls out.

“Don't you ever think you ain’t special...look at all this…you ain't playing with no lil’ boy…you know what a beast can do to ya’ sexy ass…”

Smoke was reminding her that this is what she’ll be getting tonight, the next morning, the day after that…

Smoke pulled out and rubbed her clit back and forth with his dick, and all she could remember before seeing stars was pushing out a fountain from her pussy—wetting up the sheets, the hardwood, and Smoke. He kept going, his dick rubbing her swollen clit back and forth. 

“This pussy is too fat and juicy...wet pussy dripping...making a fucking mess on this dick...keep it up and I’m sucking on ya’ pussy again.” 

“Please…I wanna feel your lips again, Papa.”

Smoke groaned.

He got down behind Pearline and ate to his hearts desire. She reached around and grabbed his head. Smoke massaged her ass while french kissing her pussy from the back. Loud, smacking of the lips.

“You think you can steal this pussy from your brother every night?” Pearline dirty talked.

Smoke’s tongue worked harder. When he was finished, Pearline turned over onto her back, thighs spread and knees to her chest with her fingers pushing her puffy folds back to show him where he needed to nut. 

“Clean Big Papa dick off first,” Smoke is knelt on the bed near her face. All she can see hovering above her is the underside of his dick and his balls. Pearline extended her neck, mouth wide and tongue flicking before grabbing him by the balls. Mouth engulfing him, Smoke swipes two fingers over his tongue before bringing them to her clit while she sucked.

“Get that motherfucker nice and wet too, baby…”

Her lips pop off his dick, “Drain that dick in me, Papa.” 

“Shit, get ya’ pregnant? Pearlie don’t say sum shit that’ll get ya’ in trouble…let my dick go.”

Pearline’s lips left Smoke’s tip. She looked up at him with glossy eyes.

“I wanna cum like this,” Pearline spread her thighs so far that her feet touched the bed on either side of her. Smoke walked around and between her legs, his erection in hand, jerking downward to open his slit and show her his tasty pre-cum. 

“Damn...my dick...shit so stiff I could bust from the sight of ya’ pretty ass,” Smoke was back inside of her, “ima always have ya’...ya’ love me, girl?”

The gruff tone mixed with his words has her breath uneven and her heartbeat a little faster.

“...Wha?” Pearline was astounded. He was still sexing her missionary, her body moving back and forth against the bed in time with his strokes. 

“I said...do ya’ love me?” His jaw clenched tightly and his eyes were serious. 

“...Yesss…” Pearline turns her head away because now she can’t look at him as her tears begin to cloud her vision. Smoke wasn’t having that. He grabs her chin, forcing her to look at him. His brows are furrowed and his lips are parted.

“I love ya’. I love you and I ain’t letting ya’ go...I want ya’ to remember that and take every fucking word I’m saying seriously, Pearlie.”

Smoke’s lip had curled up and his eyes were so intense that she could literally feel them burning into hers.

“Do ya’ understand me, girl? I fucking love you...”

Pearline weeped. Smoke’s tongue found its way to her nipples and he starts sucking each one softly. His patience. It didn’t matter how long it took for him to finally have her, he made that his mission. Her happiness means the world to him. She had moments of insecurity but his reassurance makes her realize it doesn’t matter. He dreams of all the ways he can take care of her, how he would treat her better and love her better. She’d wake up happy knowing she was properly taken care of. She’d feel more at home with him than she ever felt with Stack. And she believed him.

Smoke buries his face against her neck and with his hands wrapped around her shoulders to keep her still and his hips pistoning in and out, Pearline can feel him pushing all the love that he could deep inside of her.

She locked her ankles around him and shut her eyes tight to stop her tears. He was licking, sucking, and biting all over her neck. Pearline continuously gasps in his ear with each deep thrust of his. Her hand is on his firm ass and she start forcing his hips down even more.

“Dig fucking deeper,” She whispers to him. 

“Dayum...dayum,” He groaned in her ear, “Pearlie…I wanna cum inside of ya’!”

“Yes!”

“I’m about to bust this shit wide open—”

Her mouth went wide with ecstasy and Smoke’s hand was on the back of her head to watch her face while he forced himself deep inside, stopping at the precise moment he heard her try to utter a sound before doing it all over again and making her eyes roll. Smoke kissed and nibbled along her jaw. Her pussy didn’t make no sense to him.

Pearline felt the same about his dick. He was really stretching her out and the way his biceps trembled she knew he was about to cum heavy and hard. Pearline widened her legs for him some more. Smoke brought her ankles up to rest on his shoulders and he lifted to his hands, dropping dick off in her.

“It’s right here for you...cum in your pussy, Papa...this your pussy,...this your pussy, Papa...this your pussy—”

“Take my cum...take all my cum up in this pussy...ahhh...shit...I got more for ya’...that’s it...goddamn this pussy won’t let me go...keep cumming—”

Pearline could feel the sensation of his cum filling her pussy up and that’s when her own orgasm extended from the bottom of her pussy all the way up to the surface and made her spasm beneath him. It was fucking, but with so much affection for each other. Smoke eases out of her and even with him not there she still felt stretched out and aching. Smoke is on his back next to her, his dick still rigid. Pearline turns to the side, one leg coming up to rest on top of his while her feet rubbed against his inner thigh. She looked up to see Smoke staring at her—just studying her face.

“I love you.”

Pearline’s shyness took over. The intensity in his eyes. She knew he meant it.

“You really love me?” Pearline asks with a shaky and sweet voice.

“Real shit, baby...real shit.”

She beamed and hid her face. Smoke chuckled.

“I can’t believe we just had sex.”

“We made love, Pearlie.” Smoke corrected.

The harsh reality of what just happened loomed over her.

“…What does this mean?” Pearline asked with a small voice.

“It means whatever ya’ want it to mean…but just know, I can make ya’ happy, Pearlie. Let me love ya’.”

Pearline sits up.

“Smoke…if Stack finds out—”

“So what?”

“You came in me! What if I get pregnant? We ain’t had sex in months! He would know!”

“Pearlie…”

Smoke stilled her. Pearline locked eyes with him. Smoke tried to find the words to say.

“What is it, Smoke?”

He was crestfallen.

“Pearlie…Stack…Stack been seeing Mary more…cause he thinking of how to get her away from Arkansas without her husband finding out she pregnant.”

Pearline cocked her head back. A fresh wave of tears swam in her eyes.

“W-what? What you sayin’? She pregnant with his baby? Smoke? No…no, no, no, no—”

Smoke wrapped his arms around Pearline.

“You knew all this time?!—”

“She just found out. She came to tell him. Pearlie…”

Smoke lifted her into his lap. He allowed her to cry, stroking her back and kissing her hair. She cried for a while, shaking against him. Smoke stared down at her, his thumb caressing her cheek.

“Pearlie?”

“…I should have killed him.”

Pearline sat up in Smoke’s lap. She had this far away look in her eyes.

“Stack a grown man. I can’t keep blaming you for his faults, Smoke. You’ve done enough to protect him and look after him. He never knew how to watch his own back without you being there…”

Smoke dropped his eyes. Pearline finally looked at him. She tilted his chin up, her eyes flicking from his face to his chest.

“Why didn’t you steal me from him? Why did you let him take me away from you?” Pearline contested with a knot in her throat.

“…why did ya’ have to fall in love wit’ him instead of me?” Smoke brazens.

Pearline held his gaze, even as tears streamed from her eyes.

“It should have been you.”

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