PART 2 OF TOJI AND NEGLECTED! READER LETS SINCE ALL WERE BARKING IN THEM COMMENTS
Trying to get myself back in the swing of things so have fun with this one part 1
The Fushiguro name was never meant to mean home—not for Toji, at least. It was a mask, a way to disappear into the crowd, to bury the Zenin name so deep that no one could dig it up again. But when he met you, the name stopped being a hiding place. It became something else entirely a promise, a foundation, a family.
He’d taken your hand and said, “Let’s both start over,” and for the first time, he meant it. No more blood money. No more gambling. No more ghosts. Just the two of you, a quiet apartment, and the sound of construction boots instead of gunfire.
When Megumi was born, Toji had stared down at the tiny, scowling face in disbelief.
“Why does he look so angry?” he’d grumbled, brow furrowed.
“Well, you’re the father,” you teased, “you don’t smile much either.”
He’d gone quiet then, realizing you were right. Megumi was his mirror same sharp eyes, same stubborn mouth. The only traces of you were the warm tone of his skin and the faint curl in his hair.
Toji never asked about your past, and you never pressed about his. But one night, six months in, he turned his back to you for the first time. The scars were deep, jagged, carved into him like a cruel story.
“I was cursed from birth,” he said quietly. “And I still am.”
You kissed every mark, every line, until his breath trembled. “You’re not cursed,” you whispered. “You’re loved.”
He never forgot that. Every holiday, every small victory, he celebrated you like it was sacred. He made sure you never felt forgotten again.
And then came the day everything unraveled.at least, for the Bat-family.
You’d gone to visit Alfred, Megumi in tow, introducing him to his “grandfather.” But the boy had other plans. The moment your back was turned, he bolted down the hallways of Wayne Manor, giggling as he explored the maze-like corridors.
By the time you caught up, chaos had already bloomed. Damian stood frozen, Titus wagging his tail beside a very content Megumi, who was happily petting the massive dog like they were old friends.
“Why is there a random child in the house?” Damian demanded, eyes wide.
Then you appeared in the doorway, breathless. “Megumi! I told you not to run off like that!”
Every head turned. The silence was heavy, thick enough to choke on.
And then, with perfect timing, Megumi looked up, grinning. “Mommy!”
The room erupted questions, shock, disbelief but all you could do was sigh, scoop your son into your arms, and mutter, “Well… surprise.”
The secret was out. The Fushiguro name wasn’t just a disguise anymore. It was your family.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ summary: everybody thinks they know why michael jackson is dating you. unfortunately for them, they’re completely wrong.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ no serious warnings, female reader, age gap relationship. user michaeldiary writing angst, fork found in kitchen. 🙄
Nobody expected Michael to meet her in a nightclub.
Even years later, the story sounded almost strange coming from him. People preferred imagining his relationships beginning somewhere private and secluded, not in the middle of flashing lights and bass heavy enough to vibrate through the floorboards. By that point in his life, Michael barely existed publicly without layers of protection around him. Security teams. Private entrances. Controlled environments. Fame had turned spontaneity into a logistical nightmare years ago.
But clubs were one of the few places where he could briefly disappear. Not literally, of course. There was no such thing as anonymity for Michael Jackson anymore.
But still, nightclubs created this illusion of normalcy he secretly liked. The darkness helped and the music helped more. Everything blurred together inside clubs. Sweat, noise, lights, bodies moving without thought. People looked absolutely ridiculous there in the best possible way. Human. And Michael, who spent most of his adult life feeling observed down to microscopic detail, liked environments where perfection stopped mattering.
That night he sat tucked into a private section partially hidden from the rest of the crowd, one leg bouncing restlessly beneath the table while security hovered nearby pretending not to watch him people watch.
Because that’s what he mostly did in clubs. Observed. The thing is, Michael loved people quietly. Their energy. Their confidence. Their weirdness. He liked seeing how others interacted when they weren’t performing for cameras or for other people.
And then he noticed her, she was trying to get his attention either. She wasn’t hovering near his section pretending not to stare like everybody else had been all night. Wasn’t sending drinks over. Wasn’t whispering frantically to friends while sneaking pictures.
She was dancing.
Actually dancing.
Laughing openly with her friends without checking every thirty seconds to see if Michael Jackson was still watching her. Which of course immediately made him watch her. There was something so wonderfully magical about people who didn’t seem consumed by his presence. Michael spent so much of his life being treated like an event instead of a person that confidence fascinated him instantly. Especially in women.
At one point she glanced toward his section briefly.
Just once.
And instead of freezing or acting shocked, she held eye contact for maybe two seconds too long before smiling slightly like she’d privately decided something.
Then she started walking toward him.
One of the security guards shifted immediately, preparing to intercept her before she got too close to the section.
But Michael quietly stopped him first.
“I like that one,” he murmured casually without taking his eyes off her. The guard looked over and Michael leaned back slightly in his seat, amused already. “That’s some good fish right there.”
The guard barked out a startled laugh while Michael grinned to himself beneath the brim of his hat. And just like that, security stepped aside enough to let her approach.
That tiny moment probably changed everything.
Because most people never got close enough to Michael organically anymore. Access to him had become curated by layers of protection and paranoia. Entire teams existed specifically to filter human interaction before it ever reached him.
But Michael chose her immediately, not fully consciously maybe. Just instinctively, curiosity more than anything at first.
She stepped near the table, close enough now that he could properly see her expression beneath the club lights.
Still not nervous.
That fascinated him too.
Most women became visibly affected once they actually stood in front of him. Either intimidated or performative. But she looked almost entertained instead.
Then she leaned down slightly so he could hear her over the music and asked: “Do you wanna dance or are you just gonna sit here lookin’ mysterious all night?”
Michael laughed instantly. A real laugh too—bright and unguarded enough that even security glanced over surprised because people rarely tickled him like that anymore.
And Michael loved teasing. Loved boldness. Loved people willing to pull him out of himself instead of carefully orbiting around his fame.
“Do you always walk up to strangers like this?” he asked her.
“Only the pretty ones.”
Ough. That got him again. He ducked his head immediately smiling into his hand in that shy embarrassed way he still had despite decades of global fame.
“What’s your name?” Oh, he’s so, so tickled by her. He hasn’t been asked that in.. decades but he likes how it feels.
“Michael.” He says shyly.
“I’m (Name).”
And from there, everything happened strangely naturally.
She slid into the booth beside him like she belonged there already while Michael found himself more relaxed within ten minutes than he’d been all night. They talked between music and flashing lights while he kept catching himself staring at her whenever she wasn’t looking. She was beautiful, yes. But she interacted with him normally and that was rare enough to feel intoxicating.
She interrupted him. Challenged him. Rolled her eyes when he got dramatic. At one point she grabbed his restless hands off the table and told him to stop fidgeting so much.
Michael stared at her afterward completely thrown by the casual touch. Nobody touched him casually anymore either. Everything in his life had become loaded and handled carefully, filtered through status and fear and fame.
But her hand around his felt easy somehow, so.. natural.
And maybe that was the real reason he got attached so quickly afterward. Because for one night inside a loud crowded nightclub, she made him feel reachable again.
At first, almost nobody knew and that was intentional.
Michael had become deeply protective over the private parts of his life by then because experience had taught him what public attention did to anything soft. Fame didn’t just observe relationships. It distorted them. Pulled them apart at the seams. Turned ordinary affection into spectacle.
So for the first couple months, their relationship existed mostly behind tinted windows and locked gates.
Late night phone calls stretching until sunrise (that phone was HOT). Private dinners at hotels rented out entirely for security reasons. Her falling asleep curled against him during movie nights at Neverland while he absentmindedly played with her fingers, he couldn’t stop touching her once he got used to her there.
And the strange thing was how quickly Michael attached emotionally once he realized she was safe. Michael had spent most of his adult life surrounded by people who wanted pieces of him. His fame created this constant uncertainty around human intention. Everybody wanted something eventually. Access. Money. Proximity. Validation. Stories.
But she seemed startlingly uninterested in exploiting him and that sincerity affected him deeply. Probably deeper than he intended.
Within months, she had clothes permanently left in his closets. Her favorite snacks started appearing stocked automatically in his kitchens. Staff learned her routines. Security stopped treating her like a visitor and started treating her like part of Michael’s orbit.
And Michael himself became softer around her in ways even people close to him noticed immediately: lighter. More openly affectionate. He smiled differently when she entered rooms. And that was the first thing people picked up on, not the age gap or even the relationship itself But his happiness, ut radiated off him too obviously.
The problem was that happiness only intensified media obsession once rumors started leaking publicly. At first tabloids framed her like a passing fling. Young nightclub girl catches Michael Jackson’s attention. Something temporary. Disposable. The kind of story gossip magazines churned through weekly.
But then the sightings kept happening.
New York.
Vegas.
Paris.
She appeared beside him consistently enough that speculation hardened into narrative. And suddenly the age difference became the centerpiece of every conversation because it disrupted people’s emotional image of Michael.
The public had always struggled categorizing him properly. He existed in this strange place culturally where people simultaneously infantilized and demonized him. To some, he still seemed emotionally frozen somewhere younger than his actual age. To others, he was mysterious enough to project danger onto automatically.
So dating a significantly younger woman made people deeply uncomfortable in ways that had less to do with the relationship itself and more to do with what Michael represented psychologically to the public.
And the scrutiny became relentless.
Everywhere they went, cameras zoomed in on the difference between them. The way she dressed beside him. The age in her face compared to the exhaustion in his. Reporters started asking subtly cruel questions disguised as curiosity.
“What do you two even talk about?”
“Does the age gap create insecurity?”
“Do her parents approve?”
As if she weren’t a grown woman sitting right there.
Michael hated that part immediately, not criticism directed at him. He’d learned to survive that years ago. But criticism directed at her unsettled him badly because unlike him, she hadn’t spent decades building emotional armor around public cruelty. Michael understood fame as violence already. Understood how dehumanizing it became once millions of strangers decided they owned opinions about your personal life.
She was still learning that and Michael watched it harden her in real time over those months.
The comments online. The tabloid photos.
The headlines reducing her into stereotypes: Gold digger. Groupie. Child. Manipulator. Victim. Just to name a few.
The world couldn’t decide whether she was exploiting him or being exploited by him, so they accused her of both simultaneously.
One night after paparazzi followed them through an airport aggressively enough to leave her visibly shaken, Michael found her crying privately inside the hotel suite afterward. Just silent tears while she sat curled on the edge of the bed staring down at her hands.
Michael’s chest practically caved in seeing it.
Because the thing people misunderstood most about him was how emotionally absorbent he was. Other people’s pain affected him almost too deeply. Especially people he loved.
And by then, he loved her. That was obvious now. Michael loved with frightening intensity once he fully trusted somebody.
He crossed the room immediately and crouched in front of her, hands sliding gently around hers.
“Hey,” he whispered softly.
She wiped at her face quickly. “I’m okay.”
Michael frowned instantly because he recognized the lie for what it was. “No.. you’re not.” The tenderness in his voice nearly made her cry harder.
“I just..” She swallowed shakily. “I didn’t know people could hate somebody they don’t even know this much.”
Michael went very still after that because unfortunately, he did know. Intimately and probably more than almost anybody alive. His thumb brushed slowly across her knuckles while he searched quietly for words.
Then finally: “They don’t know you.”
The simplicity of it made her look up.
Michael’s eyes looked exhausted in the dim hotel lighting. Sad too. But calm in the way people become calm after surviving cruelty too long.
“Not me,” she said softly. “you.”
Then his expression shifted slightly, becoming gentler again as he looked at her. “Me?”
“People are so mean to you, I cannot stand it.”
The room went still, completely still. Michael was used to people crying over what fame did to them. The pressure. The media. The chaos surrounding his life.
But nobody ever cried for him, not really in this way.
She looked genuinely heartbroken on his behalf now, tears slipping down her face while she spoke.
“They treat you like you aren’t human,” she whispered. “Everywhere we go people stare at you and say awful things and you still keep being so kind to everybody anyway and I just..”
Her voice broke apart and Michael couldn’t speak for a second as something in his expression changed completely.
Softened? Opened? Like her words had reached someplace in him untouched for years.
Because admiration wasn’t rare in his life. Love wasn’t even rare.
But this? This.. was different.
She grieved for him.
For the loneliness of his life. For the cruelty surrounding him. For the exhaustion he carried so quietly all the time.
And suddenly Michael realized with terrifying clarity that he wanted this woman beside him forever. She saw the human being underneath all the mythology and loved him with almost painful sincerity.
Michael lifted his hand slowly to her face then, brushing tears beneath her eyes with his thumb while looking at her like she’d just unknowingly handed him something sacred.
“You’re so sweet..” He says with a small smile before he leans over to place a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll be okay.. don’t cry, too pretty to cry..”
A/N: Ummmm a bit late but here you go for all my Smoke girlies! 💙💙
Read part 1 if you haven't already!
Warnings: This is a reader fic (not Smoke x Annie - unless you wanna read it that way! I just love this gif (sue me lol), SMUT, DNI, mentions of violence and abuse.
***
The love between you and Elijah was forged one silent moment after another. He did not capture your heart with clever words and long winded soliloquies. He did with his presence. His ability to exist in utter stillness. His steadiness. Storms could be raging around him, designed to rattle, shake, and scare him. But none of it worked.
He never rushed.
And when he struck? It was with perfect precision and control.
It’s what made him Smoke. Lethal and unforgiving. Merciless.
But it was also what made him Elijah. How in his childhood silence, he watched everything about you. And showed you the depths of his understanding of you in the most exact ways. As if he studied you long enough to learn your soul.
How he brought you your favorite flowers for the first time once on a whim. A fact he knew not because you ever told him, but from noticing which flowers you spent the longest tending to in your garden.
How he endured being yelled at by your mama for staying too late when a storm was headed in. All so he’d be allowed to spend the night because he knew thunder frightened you. He’d stay up with you working or talking, holding you through the worst of it. You found out what it felt like to fall asleep in the warmth of his arms that way, only breaking apart if you heard the creaking floorboards of your mama coming to check on you.
It was the way he held you close to his chest after you bandaged his cuts and bruises after their father’s beatings, knowing you needed the reassurance that he was alright.
You had long stopped allowing yourself to fantasize about what it would feel like to be cocooned in his silent focus again. To be loved by a man as devoted and singular as he.
But at this moment, his silence was not the calm you once dreamed of returning to the heart of. It was thick, prickly with the tension of everything bearing down on both of you like a ton. Trauma, lost time, lingering questions, concern.
When he walked out of the barn some time later, his energy felt as if someone had dropped all the weight of the world onto his back. Blood splattered across his crisp white shirt, only interrupted by his charcoal vest. He did not say a single word to either of them as he slid his jacket back on. Stack whispered something in his ear as he passed him a rolled cigarette.
It was about you, you knew when Smoke’s eyes flickered over to you before climbing into the passenger seat. You imagined it was just to share what you’d said or done while the two of you waited, which had been nothing. Nothing that you knew would still be of interest to your husband.
You‘d allowed Stack’s gentle arm to lead you to their car and climbed into the backseat without a fuss, not uttering a word to your long lost brother. You just stared blankly with bloodshot eyes at the barn entrance, chewing your lip raw, body trembling as a small piece of you deflated every time the door opened and your husband did not emerge.
Stack had attempted to engage you in conversation, he could never stay quiet for too long. But even that could not thaw you out. You were not sure you even really heard him. Every brain cell was occupied with thoughts of him.
Your blank expression was not from a lack of things to express. But from the sheer overwhelm of too many questions and discussions.
What did he do to Red?
How the fuck were they back here?
Why were they back here?
Why did he leave you?
Would he leave again?
But it was folly to ask a single one to either brother. Stack was, rightfully so, far more terrified of his big brother than you so you weren't going to be able to pry a word out of him that Smoke did not want you to know. And when Smoke wordlessly climbed into the passenger seat, you knew he was not going to answer a question until he decided you were alright. All your questions about him would have to wait.
You and Stack could almost see his internal spiraling as Stack drove them a few miles home. You could feel him agonizing over what almost took place, what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been there. You could feel his focus on you the entire ride. Every few minutes, his head tilted toward the backseat.
With only the corner of his eye, he examined you. How you anxiously chewed your lip, how your arms cradled around yourself, how you sat trembling but so stiff despite the exhaustion etched in your eyes.
You felt every millisecond glance, each one helping him understand what you needed to feel the depths of his love and devotion.
That tension rattled around you three until you reached your home. Stack helped you out, a relaxed grin taking over his features. The years away aged your husband a bit more than his brother. You wondered when he last smiled? Elias smiled all the time and always made sure you were too, even if it was while you rolled your eyes at him. But Elijah, smiles were rare for him. Laughter too rare. You imagined Elias and you were the only two people on Earth blessed enough to witness either.
It showed even in how they settled around your kitchen table, Stack leaning back in his chair without a care in the world. While Smoke sat but remained on high alert, sitting straight as if someone tied a board to his back. Always watching, always examining.
You busied yourself to fix them both something to eat. The same prickly silence expanded like air to fill your quaint kitchen. You felt his eyes following you in every motion and movement throughout your kitchen. Here, he was not regulated to side glances in the car. Here, he could consume you like the most riveting novel, memorize how your body changed in the last eight years.
You placed Elijah’s porcelian bowl down first, the man merely nodding.
“Thanks, darlin’.” His gratitude reflected sincerely in his eyes despite his lack of movement. His fork remained untouched, his body rigid as steel. His eyes decidedly cast on you.
You raised your eyebrows in a brief challenge. No husband of yours was going to sit at your table and not eat a proper meal. And the attitude starting to form as your free hand rested on your hip communicated just that.
But he remained unbothered as he continued smoking, consuming his drugs of choice. Tobacco and you.
This man of mine, you thought to yourself. Stand-offs such as this were far too common Being one of two people Elijah trusted came with the honor of being the person he trusted to care for him. But it had to be on his terms and only when he deemed it necessary. Stubborn as hell when he wanted to be. And today, he wanted to be.
But you couldn’t fathom loving anyone else.
You imagined he often had similar thoughts about you.
“If that nigga won’t eat, I sure as hell will. Specially if that’s yo gumbo?”
Stack’s words ended your staring match in defeat, forcing you to move on to hand his brother his food.
You remembered the last time you made their favorite meal, a family recipe from Louisiana that had been passed down to you. You made it for them on their last birthday in the Delta, before they left for Chicago. The first of many birthdays you expected the three of you to celebrate in you and Elijah’s home.
“Yea. I get the urge to make it every once in a while. Made it before Hattie’s. Helps remind me of home, I guess.”
In the last eight years, the memories of that last birthday were a buoy at sea you clung to, filling you with the joy the days alone depleted. You remembered Elijah, Elias, Mary, Grace, and Bo sitting around your table, smiles bright, laughter loud, bellies full with all of the twins’ favorites. You remembered Elijah’s gentle hands sliding around your waist to pull you into his lap as you passed him, your body exhausted from a long evening of hosting and an even longer day of giving him the birthday he deserved. And every time you tried to get up to pour someone another drink or fix him or Stack another bowl of gumbo, he’d gently tighten his grip forcing you to rest against him.
You remembered thinking that this was exactly what you wanted the rest of your life to be.
You and Elijah would grow old in the home he built to your exact specifications. With every passing birthday, your walls would grow full and vibrant with the memories of the life you built together; your furniture would become more and more loved and worn with time as the gathering spot for your family; your house would become louder and more rambunctious with the children you’d have together.
You remembered thanking the ancestors for that day, for how profoundly in love you were with your present and the rich future you saw with Elijah and this chosen family you had together. It had not been much. In your world, your people were not afforded much more than 'just enough.' But to you, it was everything.
The first birthday without him forced you to contend with the reality that such a coveted dream was barely clinging to life. Was it dead and lost to you forever? Everyone around you believed so. Or would your Sun return and breathe life back into your universe and future? At first, you held onto that hope that you could get everything you once had back again. But with every passing birthday, the dream lost its color, lost its sharpness and clarity as it slipped farther and farther away from you. And so did home, forcing you to cling to every fleeting memory and wisp of it that you could.
Your eyes lifted from your hands to glance at your husband, his eyes squarely set on you as if he knew what home really meant.
Him.
“Them ghosts you be talkin’ to might be onto somethin’.”
You jokingly hit him upside the head with your towel before returning to the stove. You knew the twins didn’t believe in the same powers you did. You didn’t believe in what they did either. But there was respect on both sides, acknowledgement that all of it worked together, somehow and someway. That their individual ways had their place in this world and why, against all odds, the three of you were still standing.
“Heard you takin’ care of crackers cross town now?” Stack asked in between bites, his bowl vanishing faster than light itself traveled.
You waved your hand, dismissing the concern you already heard laced in his tone. You did not need to turn around to feel your husband’s gaze intensify against your skin.
“Remind me to kill Grace tomorrow,” you muttered in annoyance. “Just a couple of the wives… one of ‘em Geraldine works for is from somewhere down in Louisiana. She likes her healin’ a bit stronger than the medicine them white doctors use.”
“Just be careful, aight? Met a lot of white folk n they all trouble.”
You chuckled, your eyes glancing from the towel in your hand to his brother who was still laser focused on you.
“You know mama used to say the same bout you two. ‘Always trouble with the SmokeStack twins’”
"'N whatchu think?”
“Trouble ain’t all bad. There’s good trouble in there too if you can find it.”
“And the SmokeStack twins? What kinda trouble we to you?”
“The kind that makes it worth it.”
Elijah’s hand stilled, his cigarette halfway to his mouth as he recalled the first time you told him that. The night Smoke was born and became the world’s, and Elijah became yours. Though, if you let him tell the tale, he was yours long before you caught on.
“Mama, please. Somethin’ could be wrong. He don’t live far.”
Two days. You hadn’t seen Elijah in two days. And that was just so unlike him. For over two years, you spent almost every day together, even if he just stopped by for a few moments.
With your increasing responsibilities in your home and grandmother’s shop, Elijah’s presence was the stolen sweet moment in long, aching days. A sacred ritual. As your granny became too sick and her work fell to you, Elijah always seemed to know exactly what you needed when he stopped by. Some days, he would just come by to help you finish whatever task your grandma and mama set you to. Sometimes, he’d take on the task himself to give you a brief respite in your garden. And some days, he'd convince you to let him whisk you away to sit on the bank of the river or under the shade of a tree. And he let you lay your head on his shoulder and he let you just be.
And you tried to be the same for him.
You gave him your hand to squeeze when he needed to talk about his father or worry himself about how he could protect his brother, as if they both weren’t just boys themselves. You bandaged up his cuts and wounds privately, giving him the space to be in pain and vulnerable. You held him as he shared his fear that the talk around town would be true. That he and Elias were doomed to be as rotten as their father was. And you told him every time he needed to hear it that he was so much more of a man than his father could ever be, that they would survive him.
Without even noticing, he’d become everything to you. And the sweetest boy - who captivated your thoughts when you should be focused on so much else - had no one to check on him. No one to know or care if something was wrong with him or his brother. All they had in this world was each other… and you.
If you did not go, who would?
“You can wait till mornin’. Sun goin’ down, n Elijah lives too far to go now.”
“But mama-”
“Stop all that back talk now,” your daddy called from his perch on your porch.
“One more word bout it n you won’t go tomorrow either. How about that?”
“Yes ma’am,” you grumbled, deciding it was better not to push your luck.
“N I keep tellin’ you I don’t want you anywhere near his daddy or his house. I’ll let you go over tomorrow to check on em if it’ll get you to quiet down bout it n do your work in peace but then the twins gotta come here.”
“Elijah won’t let his daddy hurt me.” The conviction in your voice was unwavering.
“Can’t stop him from beatin’ the hell outta his own flesh and blood. Don’t see how he can protect you. From his daddy or anyone else for that matter. Even himself.”
You stilled, turning your head to her.
“I don’t need protection from Elijah. Why would you even say that? He’s a good boy, mama.”
“He’s a good boy now, Y/N. But we all know who his daddy is…”
“Elijah ain’t his daddy. He’s just him. N he’s a good friend to me, mama.”
Your mama shook her head and turned around to return to the stove. “You know I have eyes too, Y/N. I see the way that boy looks at you. N’ I see the way you look at him."
"N what way is that?" you asked defiantly.
"The way I looked at your daddy when we first met. Actin like you ain’t sweet on each other. It’s friendship today, yall too young for much else. But in time, it won’t be friendship. 'N not all good boys grow to be good men, Y/N.”
You shook your head in disbelief at her words. You tossed down your towel. “I know him, mama. You keep sayin' I got a gift but you don't trust that I know him? I know what I need to know."
“Quit hasslin’ that girl, Evie," your father jumped in, saving you the beating with a switch your mother would unleash if you kept pushing her. Even if you were technically right.
"You wasn’t listenin’ to Mama Mabel when I started comin round either. She just like you. Young, stubbon, n in love.”
“We’re not in love,” you tried to interject when your mama cut you off.
“Aint the same thing at all. We was grown, not two kids chasin’ after each other. That boy ain’t no good. Everybody in town know it. Why you think you’re the only one that spends any time with the twins?”
“Cause you raised me to do right by people who do right by me. N Elijah does right by me, helps me. Why ain’t that enough for you?”
“She right, Evie. N nothin’ you say gon’ change her mind n you know it,” Your father stood tall, his broad shoulders and frame taking up the door frame into the kitchen.
“I guess errbody in this house know better than me, huh? Like I ain’t the mama n I just don’t know shit,” your mama ranted as she angrily stomped back into your parents’ bedroom.
You bit down on your lip, your anxiety at upsetting her clashing with your gratefulness for your father for defending you. You understood it was your mother’s job to be concerned and protective but what you felt for Elijah? It was not some childish infatuation. And you knew he felt more for you.
“Do me n you a favor n don’t push it again tonight, aight? I’ll make sure she lets you go tomorrow.”
He leaned down so you could peck him on the cheek, too tall for you to reach even when you stretched. “Thank you, daddy.”
Tomorrow had never seemed so distant, as if they were asking you to wait ions not hours.
You’d get up at first light to check on him, you decided as you laid in bed. Elijah was an early riser anyway so he’d be awake. You made a plan to sneak over a few pieces of cornbread for them for breakfast too. Seemed like they only ate well at your or Mary's house and they had not been around in days. It would not be much but you could convince Elijah and Elias to come over for dinner once you saw them.
You tossed and turned into the night, sleep difficult to sustain as worry consumed you with every passing moment. The wind against your window, the calls and rustles of nighttime critters called out to you, begging you to break your mother’s rules altogether and race to him.
Something was wrong. You could feel it.
However, despite your age, you knew this was not the world for reckless choices, not for people who carried your skin tone. Reckless choices led to death and harm, harm you were forced to confront daily.
So you tempered yourself. The morning. At first light. You’d be safe and you’d make sure he was too.
A soft thud against your window disrupted your fitful tossing and turning. You glanced over your shoulder, deciding it must’ve been a small bird or something running into it. However, before your head could fall back onto your pillow, you noticed a hand knocking on it again.
Who on Earth would be at your window?
But you knew it could only be one person.
“Elijah.” You whispered it as a prayer as you catapulted yourself out of bed.
Your nightgown swayed around your feet as you tiptoed to your window. Something warm nestled in your chest, loosening the sharp talons of concern enough for you to breath again.
You gently pushed open your window, the clouds bathing you both in darkness. As your eyes adjusted, you could see Elias’ frame leaning against the house a few feet away.
“Elijah! You know it ain’t safe to be out in the middle of the night. You two alright?”
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he whispered, his voice more unsure than you ever remembered it being. “But he needs you.” He paused, hesitating for a second before his eyes fell down to his hands. “I… need you.”
Your eyes misted, three simple words steamrolling you like a train. You knew since your first meeting two years ago that, in some complex way, Elijah needed you as you needed him. But he never asked for it, never explicitly said the words.
But here, in a voice as uncertain and broken as you’d ever heard him, he asked for you. And there was not a world in which you would deny him.
A shift in the clouds bathed them in moonlight, his bruises and the dried blood splattered across his shirt. You did not need to be able to see Elias to know, if Elijah looked this bad, his state was far worse.
You clenched your eyes. You knew something had been wrong. You reached your hand through the window, cupping his cheek briefly as your heart splintered for him and his brother. How could anyone hurt them like this? They deserved so much better.
His head nestled softly into your palm as if it was the first comforting touch he had felt in far too long, a single tear sliding down his cheek. Your thumb whisked it away as he sniffled, clearly trying to hold it all inside.
“You got me, I promise. Meet me at the shop door.”
A look of guilt formed on his face.
“Yo mama? Don’t wanna get you in trouble.”
“Sleep. But I don’t care.”
He pressed a kiss into your palm, your heart fluttering.
This boy… your mother’s words of warning floated back to your mind. She had been so wrong. Whatever this was was so much more than friendship already. You were not certain you could live without him. You tentatively leaned forward and pressed your lips to where your palm had just been. You had never kissed him before but it felt right, like what he needed to know you would choose him, be there for him, every time.
“Come round to the front, okay? I’ll be right there.”
You grabbed your granny’s shawl, which she has given to you shortly after falling ill, wrapping it around your shoulders. You quietly snuck out of your room and down the hall to the shop attached to your parents’ home.
You were quiet, praying your mama and daddy stayed sound asleep for a while.
You held open the door, both staggering in, Elijah leading Elias to the bed while you turned to light a few candles.
With a candle in hand, you started to rush toward Elijah but a minuscule jerk of his head forced you to change course. Elias first, always.
As you approached them, you had to muffle a gasp. While their father had always done his worst, this seemed beyond even that, their bodies bloodied and bruised to a degree that should send their father straight to a county jail. Blood caked around a poorly patched wound on Elias’ head, which you figured accounted for the blood splattered on both their clothes.
You were so focused on their injuries that you did not even notice the pistol held tightly in Elijah’s hand.
Elias’ head hung low, a certain shame and despair settling around him that you weren’t accustomed to. His signature smile gone and the mischievous glint in his eyes completely extinguished.
Your finger lifted Elias’ head as you gently pulled the bandage off his forehead, the young man hissing in pain. Your breath was sharp as you took in the gash on his head.
“What he hit you with?” No one’s hands could produce such a wound. He hesitated. “You can tell me,” you whispered.
You were not as close to Elias as Elijah, of course, but as you fell in love with Elijah, a more sisterly love similarly bloomed for his more talkative half.
“Pistol whipped me. H-He didn’t mean it… tho,” Elias offered slowly, his voice breaking slightly as his hand lifted to wipe away a tear. “He was ju-...“
You glanced over at Elijah whose eyes seemed to soften for a mere moment with guilt before settling into something far harsher.
“I know. But let’s worry bout you for a while. Not him, hmm? Let me bandage this up right so you can get some rest. Then we can talk bout the rest in the mornin.’”
“Will it scar?” He asked quietly, a fear you often heard with injuries to people’s heads and faces.
“I think I can preserve your good looks,” You offered with a grin as you grabbed everything you needed to clean him up. “This gon’ sting a bit.” You paused for a moment before adding, “You know even with a scar, Mary would think you’re still the better lookin’ twin.”
You tucked your legs under you as you worked, cleaning his wounds and bruises with intense care. Your words about Stack’s crush, Mary, lightened the load weighing him down. His body perked up ever so slightly and he gave you the tiniest half smile.
“Ain’t nobody thinkin’ bout Mary,” he muttered, unconvincingly.
You merely nodded with a skeptical look on your face. “Uh huh, I’m sure nobody is. You know… she’s sweet on you too. Too shy to say it, maybe but she asks bout you all the time. Like today when I ran into her at the store.”
“What she say?” he asked far too quickly.
You giggled, even Elijah cracking a smile that made your heart soar.
“Thought nobody was thinkin’ bout Mary?” You teased playfully. “Just asked if I’d seen you round. Told me to tell you hi if you both came by.” You lifted his head to study it again before nodding. “Head wounds bleed an awful lot but you don’t need stitches or nothin’. Keep it covered, don’t mess with it, n’ it shouldn’t scar too bad. Got some salve for the cuts and bruises."
“Thanks, Y/N.”
“Of course, Elias. I’m just sorry you…” You stopped yourself, they never needed or wanted anyone’s sympathies. “Just sorry. How bout you lay down while I tend to this one?”
“If he’ll let you.”
“I think he’ll let me. I got the magic touch. But I’ll need you if he gives me any trouble. I’ll grab you another blanket.”
However, when you turned around, Elijah had already pulled another out and sat it beside you.
Of course he knows where we keep the spare blankets.
You draped the extra blanket over him, gently ensuring it covered his entire body. Your hand rested on his shoulder for a brief moment before you turned to grab the few things you needed to care for Elijah.
“Thanks.”
The word was soft, almost inaudible, but you heard and felt it all the same.
“You’re welcome. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.”
You gestured for him to follow you to your bedroom. You snapped the door shut, knowing you’d be in a world of hurt if your mama caught you with a boy in your room. But you’d accept whatever punishment she doled out. Caring for Elijah would be worth every minute.
“Shouldn’t be in here. Your mama will…”
“I told you, I don’t care bout none of that Elijah,” you offered as you went to sit your burning candle on your nightstand before turning back to his rigid form by the door. Now able to truly focus on him, you saw it. His pistol.
The gun should’ve scared you, should’ve made you call for your daddy to talk to him. But you found that you were not in the least bit scared. All you saw in his eyes was exhaustion. Not anger, not rage… not an intent to cause harm. Just a weariness you were only familiar with in the eyes of the elderly, people who were haunted by too much.
It wasn’t fair.
“You’re worth every bit of trouble I’ll be in.”
Your words seemed to almost startle him as if no one had ever considered him worth sacrifice. You could tell he almost could not process such an idea, such consideration and devotion directed at him.
“Thanks for takin’ care of him,” he offered lowly as you closed the space between the two of you.
“Don’t gotta thank me. He’s gon’ be alright. So you gon’ put that down ‘n let me take care of you now?”
The old pistol shook as soon as you drew his scattered attention to it, likely for the first time since they stepped into your home. Now, no longer under the eye of his younger brother, the cracks in his iron wall started to show.
Your hands slowly cradled his face as he tried to avert his gaze, his eyes glassy from tears he refused to let fall.
“Elijah… you’re safe now.”
Silence. You did not repeat yourself, did not rush him to move or surrender his weapon or soul to you. That was not the way with Elijah. No, you just stood still beside him in the silence until he felt safe enough to move or speak.
“I… I needed it,” he finally whispered, his words barely audible. “H-he wasn’t gon’ stop. H-He was j-just gonna keep on hurtin… N’ Elias… he- I thought he was-” his words splintered as he finally spoke life into whatever brought them to you. “I had to do it.”
You did not miss the implications in his words, how he spoke about his father as he was - not how he is. You foolishly assumed the blood had been Elias but now the look in his eyes told a very different story. Your eyes clenched shut for a moment, your head bowing in sadness. Not for the loss of his father’s life, he did not deserve to live given what he did to his own sons. But for what Elijah was forced to do to be safe, to be free.
“H-he hit em with it n… I… took it. I d-didn’t even think… just had to. Y-You gotta believe me, I didn’t… h-he was gonna-”
Your hand moved to grab his free one as his sentences broke apart into pieces, frantic and erratic. He pleaded his case but you did not need to hear it. You saw what his father was capable of so you knew exactly what he feared, what your small corner of the world would believe.
“Breath for me, Elijah.” You helped him take deeper breaths, your hand moving to his chest to ensure his heart rate slowed back down a bit.
“I believe you, I know what you had to do, Elijah. But hey, look at me,” You gently lifted his chin so his solemn brown eyes were set on yours. His free hand gripping your hip to bring you closer to him. “It’s just me here. Just your girl. N I promised to be good to you so… you don’t need that in here, not with me.”
He said nothing, an internal battle raging so loudly around him that you could almost hear the debate. To acquiesce the weapon would force him to confront what transpired, what they lost throughout their childhood, and what they lost today. And you did not know if he was ready for that just yet. But you’d stand here as long as it took for him to rest.
“You can put it down. Just for while? Let me take care of you, Elijah. Please. Put it down for me, baby.”
At your pleas, he lifted his hand, allowing you to pry the weapon from his fingers. It pained you to move from his presence, even for the few seconds it would take to stow the gun somewhere safely. In those few seconds, the tremble in his hands spread to his whole frame.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you whispered as you rushed back up to him, enveloping him in the most tender hug you could muster.
You could feel his surrender. First, of his body as he went slack, falling heavy and fully into your embrace. His legs gave way to his weight like paper beneath him, forcing you both onto the weathered wooden planks of the floor.
Then, of his heart as he shifted you into his lap. He intertwined your bodies so tightly, you no longer were certain where he began and you ended. No space for the ancestors between you as you clung to each other as if you were the rarest of air.
And his last and most vulnerable surrender of his soul as the dam finally burst and tears fell and sobs bubbled to the surface.
Neither of you spoke, time simply slipped past you both without conscious thought because every thought was wrapped up in your private cocoon. You just allowed him the space to feel it all privately, and stayed exactly where you were so he knew he’d always have comfort. He’d always have you.
Eventually, he shifted to look at you, his eyes bloodshot and filled with the emotional and physical exhaustion of the day. Of his life.
“Didn’t mean to… I’m sor-” he started to say but you would not hear it or accept it.
“Don’t apologize to me. Whatever you need, I’m here. You wanna lay down?”
He nodded softly, allowing you to extrapolate yourself from his arms long enough to get off the floor. You led him gently to your bed, both of you climbing in without thought or hesitation. Your bodies were chaste but the energy around you cracked with intimacy, yearning, need. You kept a gentle hand on his arm while you laid facing each other.
It was improper, you both knew, but you were not sure you cared. You were not sure you would have even been able to rest if he were too far from you.
You often found yourself searching for Elijah, finding his presence in a crowded room before anyone else's. You did not quite understand it, how instinctual it felt to be near him. But it was the strongest you’d ever felt tonight, this irresistible pull to be as close to him as possible, decency be damned.
“You think it makes me like him? Like everybody say?” The words were so faint but the weight of them, the fear in his voice let you know if he had been scared to ask it, scared of the answer. “T-that I was able to… maybe I’m a monster too.”
“No.” The sudden blaze in your eyes was fierce. "Never wanna hear you talk about yourself like that. He was the monster n you saved yourself. Freed yourself n your brother from him. That's all that matters.”
“N you? You not… scared of me cause of what I did?”
“I could never be scared of you, Elijah. You’re my best friend. You hurt him to defend someone you love, defend yourself. N that’s brave… that’s strength n courage. N that tells me everything I need to know about your heart. Your soul. N the kinda man you’ll be.”
He seemed skeptical, even in the darkness. So you continued, taking his hand and bringing it to your chest, “I know who you are, Elijah Moore. You’re a protector… you’re loyal, devoted, kind, gentle. You could never be a monster… Not to me.”
His hand rested tightly on your hip. Your bodies inched closer to each other, Elijah’s lips capturing yours. The first brush of his lips was light as a feather before he pressed in. Slow and deliberate as everything Elijah did was.
If someone had stolen your heart right then, you imagined its glow would eclipse the moon. In his arms, you felt flooded with such light that you could shine as bright as the Sun outside. You’d never been kissed before, never felt the fire of another’s touch quite like this. But it was surreal, magic as if the ancestors had blessed this stolen moment.
You loved this boy. And he eliminated any confusion or doubt you had that such a love was reciprocated. It was and it was the sweetest freedom this world had to offer. Your soul felt as if it could float away with Elijah Moore and no one and nothing on this Earth could stop you.
You whimpered as he pulled away, your body jerking forward in a bid to reclaim his lips. He rested his forehead against yours, pulling your body so you were flush against his chest.
“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered in your ear. “Don’t know what’s next… what Elias n I gon’ do but I know I want you around. That I wanna be more than good to you as a friend.”
“I love you too, Elijah.”
When you returned to the present, you realized you were not the only one who retreated into the past. That memory played like a film in both your minds, the only oblivious one seemed to be Stack who was contently rolling a cigarette, wanting for one of you to speak.
“Or at least one of you is,” you cleared your throat and threw him a teasing grin, desperate to stop the tension from rising to a boil. “Ancestors haven’t given me the final verdict on you yet, Stack.”
“I’ll just have to have a talk with em, then?”
“They don’t respond to threats,” you reminded him with a playful grin. “Don’t think you’ll get very far.”
“My powers of persuasion have evolved over the years, lil sis. They even work on you now.” He gracefully threw his hat back on his head as he stood, handing the cigarette he had been rolling in between bites of food to his brother.
However, this time, he rejected it with a slight shake of his head as his hand reached for his pipe, still in the window sill where he always kept it.
He caught your eye, which had softened at the exchange. Stack still rolled for him, not out of habit or kindness. But out of necessity. You hoped, when he first returned home from the war, that the tremors were temporary. That one day, he’d be able to do something other than hold a gun with a steady hand. Even though he’d proclaim, for your benefit, his gratefulness at being one of the “lucky ones.”
“Just an unsteady hand n bad dreams,” he’d say. “Nothin’ worth cryin’ over. "
But you knew, back then, that he did not feel lucky when you examined the resigned and defeated look that haunted his eyes with every tremor. The pang of sadness in yours to see him struggle with a pain your gifts were not enough to heal, a pain that made you question whether all your prayers and work to keep them safe had been enough.
Stack merely chuckled and handed over his lighter. “See nothin’ round here’s changed. Gonna grab a few hours of shut eye,” he gestured toward the spare bedroom in your home.
“Go head. Smoke that o-“
“On the porch, I know I know. Whatever yall bout to do… just don’t be too loud. I need my beauty rest.”
Before stepping outside, he walked up to you and pulled you into a tight hug. You were surprised at first before you leaned into it earnestly. He was not Elijah but there were wisps of comfort in Stack’s embrace, tendrils that wrapped around you with warmth and comfort.
“You aight, lil bit?” His voice low as his own eyes examined you, reviving a nickname you'd once prayed would be left in the past..
The lighthearted smile on his face took a moment to reach his eyes, replacing the flash of real concern you spotted within them. As loyal and protective as his brother when it came to you. You had not realized just how much until now, but you had missed him so much too.
“Yea I’m ok. Think that twin of yours’ll believe me?” Your voice dropped a bit to a fake whisper, grinning as Smoke rolled his eyes. He always claimed you and Stack were “conspiring” to tease him, gang up on him.
He chuckled before placing a chaste kiss on your cheek.
“Not a chance. Just glad we were…” He stopped himself, glancing at Smoke before allowing the unfinished words to settle in your kitchen as calmly as an off note on a piano.
It felt wrong to remember it here. Breath life into it here. But you knew you would have to. Elijah would not allow you not too.
“Me too,” you answered simply. “Thanks. And for bringin’ this one back to me in one piece.”
“Anythin’ for you. Night,” he squeezed your hand one last time for good measure and clapped Elijah on the shoulder before disappearing out your back door. It creaked in the night air, a tense symphony to the long-awaited private reunion with your husband.
You watched the door until it shut with soft finality. Restlessness, itchy and uncomfortable, spread in your chest as you two stared at each other. You glanced down at his plate, food still untouched.
“How long?”
Your eyes bored into him, not uttering a single word. Stretching and twisting his patience but you never particularly cared about that when your mind was focused on his well-being. When was the last time he even ate a real meal? Your eyes flickered his bowl and back up to him in a pointed fashion. A demand from his wife, one you knew he would not refuse. Elijah grunted his exasperation before eating two heaping spoonfuls to appease you.
Not enough to relax you but just enough to loosen your lips.
“How long?” The new edge in his voice felt just as sharp and quick as a blade. Reiterating. Demanding.
“Couple months. Hattie can’t stand on her feet for long anymore with her back. You know my brothers, they can only guard the door n try to fuck every girl that walks through it. Hattie said, ‘Needed somebody charmin’ n pretty to serve drinks n they ‘bout as charmin’ n pretty as rattlesnakes.’”
He took another bite off his plate, your body slowly easing back into the counter Elijah’s hands crafted for you. This maddeningly sweet dance you two weaved since you were children. A battle of wills and instincts between a caretaker and a protector. Two sides of the same stubborn ass coin. But when you both demanded answers but also required care? It was a battle to see who would surrender control and lean into vulnerability first?
Often, you succumbed first, soaking up the healing aura of Elijah for as long as you could spare. It had taken so long for him to convince you that it was not selfish to need him. To put yourself first. That it was not a burden to him as you feared, it was a privilege.
But you were not sure you were ready to crumble just yet. You did not know whether you wanted to fall into his arms and weep, curse the ground he walked on for abandoning you, or just run into your bedroom and sob. And you knew he would push and force you to make a decision sooner rather than later. It was inevitable but you could buy yourself some time.
“But there won’t be a charming soul left in the family now when Hattie gets her hands on me for breakin’ all those bottles.”
“Stack’ll talk to her in the mornin. Give her money for the liquor.”
“Thank you. She got a softer spot for money than me.”
“Everybody got a soft spot for money ‘cept you.”
“I just know it don’t get you nothin’.”
“Gives you freedom.”
“No kind that’ll last. Real freedom ain’t tethered to somethin’ someone can take from you.”
You bowed your head as your body leaned into the carved back of Stack’s former chair, silence surrounding you. It felt so familiar, countless minutes turned to hours spent in this kitchen while you worked or cooked and Smoke just sat with you. He just existed with you, let you talk his ear off or sit in utter silence. Whatever you needed in that moment, while he existed in your peace.
“You alright?”
“Suppose so. Still standin’.”
“Been a minute. But you know that ain’t what I asked, darlin’.”
He knew no one understood him like you, understood the intention behind every word he spoke like you did. Often, he did not need to say anything at all.
“I’m fine. It happens.”
“Some other nigga put his hands on you?” His eyes flashed with red, his hand instinctively twitching toward his gun.
“No, no. That ain’t what I… just that you know, men gettin’ drunk n too handsy at a juke ain’t exactly anythin’ uncommon. Shook me up a bit but no sense dwellin’ on it.”
He said nothing, infuriating silence loud pounding your kitchen like the bass in the juke joint.
“I’m fine, Smoke.” You attempted to reiterate.
His hand paused as he started to bring his pipe up to his lips. You let out a sigh and cursed under your breath.
Smoke. The fatal tell. If you used his moniker in this house, he knew one of two things were true: He was in trouble or you weren’t ready for him to be Elijah. Because there was no hiding with Elijah. Your love demanded authenticity, it demanded truth. Your deepest joys and purest happiness to the agonizing sorrows and terrifying vulnerabilities. In each other’s arms, there was no pretending.
You tried to deflect, push the conversation back onto him before he could pick at that thread further.
“You gon’ tell me why you came back? What trouble you and that fool out there brought back with you?”
“No trouble this time.”
“There’s always trouble chasin’ Stack. Which means there’s always trouble chasin’ you.”
“No trouble chasin’ either of us. We did what we needed in Chicago, now we back.”
“Why? For how long?”
“For you. Only reason to come back. Now… you gon’ keep standin’ over there or come here so I can take care of you?”
You raised your eyebrow, communicating that you were not ready to fall into his arms so quickly regardless of what he saved you from. He left you. You accepted it, you understood it, you justified it. But you would not pretend that it had not broken something in the depths of your spirit, leaving you lost without a piece of your heart for years.
And being back in his presence made every bit of it bubble up again. All that love, all that righteous rage, all that agony. You felt it. Those endless nights you laid awake sobbing resigned to living with the knowledge that - despite the depths of love you held for him - you weren’t enough to keep him here. The knowledge that life would be duller, so much darker without him and you'd just have to learn to live with that.
If you were going to open the floodgates again, let all the love you stored for him flow like waters through the Delta, you needed to know he was not just passing through. You needed to know that when the sun rose at dawn, he’d still be there. And when the sun would rise the next day and every day after, he’d still be here. With you.
You wished you were strong enough to withstand such torment again. But you wouldn’t. Seeing him again, even wrapped in his silent steadfast energy again, you did not think you’d be able to survive without him again. So you needed to know he was not planning to abandon you again, that he was going to put in the effort to earn your trust.
“What if I don’t need you to take care of me anymore? Been takin’ care of myself fine… Tonight excludin’,” you muttered, acknowledging the miniscule raise of his eyebrow at your words. “But hardly your business to tell me I need takin’ care of when…” you stopped yourself, turning away from him in frustration and shame at what almost crossed your lips. You didn’t want to still be angry. Your fingers curled into a tight fist to stop yourself from unleashing all that suppressed hell and outrage on him.
“Say what you gotta say, baby. I can take it.”
“You… you left me here. Abandoned me here alone. Broke your promise for eight years."
Your eyes glistened with tears, all that devastation threatening to boil over along with all the love you were struggling to maintain control over. There was not one without the other in a love like this.
”What if I’m still mad about that?” Your voice fell quieter, back to chewing your lip. “What if I’m still mad at you? What if I… hate you?”
The word did not even feel right directed at him. But that was what most women and men whose spouses ran off into the night felt. Hatred, deep and boiling, all consuming. Isn’t that what everyone would tell you to feel? To scream and curse him for leaving and then sauntering back as if nothing had changed. Some part of you desired to feel that, to just be angry. Anger was easier than confronting the hurt, all the nights you questioned your love, your worth. All the time lost without the person you could not live without.
He tilted his head as he blew out a billow of smoke. He sat it gently by his ashtray, never taking his eyes off of you.
“I’d deserve it. N I’ll spend every day of the rest of my days provin’ that I’ll still be good to you… like I promised.”
He stood up, slowly closing the space between you with calm and assured steps. He stood before you and all you wanted to do was touch him. Your hand twitched, desperate to rest on his chest, feel his hard-earned muscles beneath them, but you tightened a hand around your arm to stop yourself. Your body swayed as if his aura compelled you forward, a captivating drug enticing you to just surrender to him. You almost forgot why you were resisting.
His hand cradled your cheek, a content sigh escaping without warning at his touch. Soft. Warm. Healing.
“Yell at me, curse me… give me your worst, Y/N, for as long as you need, darlin’. I’ll take it. I’ll own it. Cause I love you. Never stopped lovin’ you. You get to be mad at me all you want. But I know he hurt you.”
“N-No, he didn’t. You made sure of that.”
“Just cause he ain’t leave a bruise, don’t mean he ain’t hurt you, baby. Ain’t that what you told me?”
“Hate when you repeat my words back to me,” you grumbled.
“I know you do, baby. Can’t help that you’re always right.” His hand gently tilted your head so your eyes were focused on him. You knew he could see it all. The anger, the heaviness, the sadness… the guilt and shame.
“I just wanna take care of you, like you’ve always done for me. If you’ll let me? Please.”
His voice was the soft embrace of a prayer, the steadiness of a summer rain shower. You could see the warm fog that was him encompassing you, slowly eating away at the walls you erected when he left until there was nothing standing between him and your soul.
In the contemplative silence, he retreated to his chair, sitting with his legs spread wide. An action that communicated your agency, that it was your choice whether to seek his comfort, seek his love. His words were a plea you could easily refuse. You could walk away, curse him as he suggested, and leave him alone at your table to feel a fraction of the rejection you did.
But how would that heal you? You wanted to feel whole more than you wanted to be prideful. And only his anchoring spirit and tender touch could stitch you back together this time.
Your steps toward him were tentative, each step increasing your courage. However, you stopped yourself just before he was at arm's length. He’d wait as long as it took, you knew. A natural nurturer and protector falling in love foretold some challenges. You each required patience, and a certain degree of coaxing, to strip yourselves bare. It was difficult, even with each other, to reveal the pieces of yourselves that were composed of glass, not steel. The pieces too fragile for another soul to hold.
One final question. And you knew you couldn’t surrender without an answer. Because in those eight years, in that abyss of heartache, you had become more like glass than he remembered. And you would not withstand the blow of him leaving again, not if this was not permanent.
“You leavin’ again?”
His eyes filled with sincerity, whatever was left of the boy you fell in love with and the man you married shining through.
“Next time I leave you, it’ll be to leave this world. I’m not goin’ anywhere again.”
His words loosened out the knot in your stomach, forcing you to nod. You had no other excuses, no other reasons not to feel everything the night conjured, every emotion consuming you.
You stepped in between his legs, your hands gingerly resting on his shoulders as you stared down at him. His hands gripped the soft curves of your hips to bring you as close as humanly possible before perching you on his thigh.
Your hands slid up to cup his face, his beard tickling your palms. Your eyes stung as you just stared at him for a brief moment.
“Elijah,” you whispered his name like a blessing as your entire body finally gave in, sagging into him as you finally felt the weight of the last eight years.
His broad hands tightened you to his hardened chest. If you leaned in any further, you’d be living in his skin. This was more than you could have dreamed. The callouses of hands against your skin, the soothing rise and fall of his calming breaths, his reassuring familiarity of his scent.
So perfectly him.
His natural musk from a long day in the Mississippi heat. The lingering hints of citrus in his cologne. The sting of gunpowder from defending your honor. Even the fading bite of copper from drying blood. Richly weaving the soothing scent of a man fiercely devoted to you. The soothing scent of home.
And with every moment in his arms, it became harder to hold the rushing waters back. Your poorly constructed dam fracturing with every second he held you. Because this was the one thing time was not powerful enough to diminish. Elijah remained forever your healer, forever the one place you could retreat to feel everything. And you were his.
“Look at me.”
You did not heed his instructions, your body tensing against his from the shame.
“It’s alright, darlin’. You’re ok.”
His patience. Steady and calm. He rubbed soothing circles against your back, he whispered assurances in your ear until you pried yourself out of his neck to look at him.
“There’s my girl,” he whispered, his smile brighter than you’d ever seen it, a smile that reminded you he was your safe haven.
The tears that welled up in your eyes immediately spilled over as they met his concerned ones. You tried to wipe them away but he stopped you.
“I-I told him no, Elijah. I-I told him I w-was still yours. H-He just w-wouldn’t listen ‘n I got scared. N I j-just froze. I’m s-sorry. B-but I didn’t want him o-or that. You b-believe me, don’t you?” you stammered, your voice cracking as sobs threatened to escape your throat.
You did not realize how your fingers dug into his jacket, gripping the wool fabric tightly as you begged him to understand.
His hand massaged the base of your neck, the spot where all your tension resided, as he held your gaze to him. “I know, sweetheart. I know. Don’t apologize to me. Ain’t your fault. That the only time? He hurt you before?”
You could see the anxiety and concern in his eye, the fear that the answer would be no. That all the threats of violence he left in his wake had not been enough to protect you from the realities and evils of many men. Abandonment forced you to question much about your marriage over the last eight years. But one truth you could not deny was that Elijah would unapologetically turn their corner of the Mississippi River into a graveyard to avenge you, to punish any other man who thought they could harm you and live to tell the tale.
“Yea, only time.”
“Y/N.”
“Only time, I swear. Red is… was harmless, I thought.”
He held your gaze for a singular moment longer than he needed before he allowed your eyes to fall away from his and he buried his face in your neck.
“Only harmless man is a dead one,” he muttered into your supple skin.
“Well I imagine he very harmless now then?”
“And restin’ for eternity at the bottom of the Mississippi River. No nigga in this town gon’ be a problem for you again. I know what I did ain’t how you wa-“
Your intention was to assure him that all you felt was gratitude for his actions. But the first brush of your lips against his set your soul ablaze. Whatever self control you believed you possessed vanished, you were as wild and untamed as flames as your hand cradled the back of his neck, the other clutching tightly to his suit. A carnal need to bring him closer than you’d ever been before.
You held it back as long as you could, held onto the fraying threads for as long as possible. But they were broken and you needed him. More than a hug or kiss or sweet words. You needed him to strip you down and heal you from the inside out.
Frantic.
Desperate.
Hungry.
Elijah did not often let you take the lead, did not often allow you dominance in the bedroom. But today, he allowed your lips and tongue to do whatever they craved. To consume him.
It only ended with a need that superseded the desire flooding you. The frustrating human requirement to breathe.
You rested your forehead against his, chest rising and falling with every inhale and exhale.
“Thank you, Elijah.”
If you had not been on his lap, Elijah would have been hard-pressed to hear your words. your voice so soft, vulnerable, and sweet, everything he was not. You had never done that before. Specifically thanked him for his violence when it served you. Fussed at him for doing it against your wishes? Sure. Offered him a kiss shortly after fussing that he knew meant thank you, a reluctant understanding of how their world worked? More than once. But to utter the words? This was a first. And the only way he could think to properly acknowledge it was with a soft kiss.
Slower. Measured. Intentional. As all things Elijah did was. His hands shifted your waist, turning you so you naturally straddled his lap.
“What do you need, darlin?”
You sniffled. You allowed the comfortable silence you were accustomed to with Elijah to fill your space, calm the storm raging in your heart and soul. Slowly, those winds stopped lashing against your skin, the thunder quieted and you could find clarity again.
He was the only balm your soul needed, the only one that would work.
“I need your hands to be the ones I remember touchin’ me… not his.”
You knew the meaning was not lost on him, a quick flame of lust lighting in his eyes before he tempered himself.
“You sure?”
“Never been more sure of anythin’.”
And that was all the permission he needed. In a fluid motion, he stood, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, his hands gripping your ass, as he walked you to your bedroom. He could not see a thing as he kissed you, his legs moving off instinct to your marital bed.
He gently sat you on the edge of the bed, his strong arms shedding his suit jacket before he sank down to his knees before you. He stared up at you with the reverence of a man staring at his reason for being.
“You know I dreamed about you every day?” His steady low voice felt as smooth as honey, as calming as a soft summer breeze, against your soul. He kissed the top of your thighs as he pushed the cerulean blue silk fabric of your dress up.
“Your laugh, your smile, the way you feel in my arms… how you taste, your moans. Tried to come back to you so many times.”
“Why didn’t you?” You breathed out, everything in you aching for him.
“I was a fool, baby. N I’ll spend every day makin’ it up to you.”
His teasing touches proved he still knew how to expertly play the instrument that was you. Fine tuned to perfection, he knew every inch of you intimately. And the music he created? It summoned more than mere pleasure. It was a magic all its own, strengthening the glittering threads that connected your souls. In him, you saw the past. The present. And a new future.
His fingers hooked into your panties, your hips lifting just enough for him to pull them off. You expected him to discard them to the side but instead he brought them to his nose, inhaling the scent drenched into the fabric. His eyes fell closed as he inhaled, a shuddering breath escaped him as if the scent of your slick injected him with new life. And then, he discarded them with a cheeky wink in your direction.
His hands gripped the meat of your thighs, spreading them widely to reveal his promised land. He licked his lips, his eyes focused on the essence leaking from your folds, already creating a mess at the zenith of your thighs. You knew his intention by the glint in his eye and you instantly became aware of how long of a night it would be. Smoke could stay head down between your thighs for hours, unsatisfied until you were boneless. Until your brain was a vacant plane of yearning and pleasure.
“I missed you too, baby. Lay back for me, darlin.”
He hooked your legs over his shoulders, bringing you closer to the edge of your bed as you leaned back on the soft quilt. You did not lay down fully, choosing to prop yourself up on your elbows. Eye contact was an aphrodisiac for you both. To see the other in their most human element, so uninhibited. No one who knew you both would call you reckless. Tempered, steady, patient. But in these four walls, you could be wild. Watching him uncoiled something in your gut, unlocking a new altitude of pleasure to reach.
His eyes locked onto yours as his tongue communicated what he did not have the words to.
His agonizing remorse.
His unyielding reverence.
His everlasting devotion.
His unquenchable thirst.
All for you.
He poured it all into every stroke of his fingers into your weeping heat, every lick of his tongue against your sensitive button. You felt like a person gasping for air, every cell in your body struggling to consume him after being without it for just too long.
“Elijah! It’s… too much!”
“That’s right, scream my name, baby. Missed hearin’ you scream my name.” He detached himself from your flower long enough to gift you with a soft nip to the inner thigh before returning to his favorite meal.
It was almost too fast, how quickly you found yourself dangling from the edge of the cliff. The rocks rough against your palms as an oasis of bliss invited you to lose all control in it. But you found your brain would not allow you to let go, not just yet. You tensed as you inched closer to the point of no return but it did not feel as simple as it once was to give into him.
“You can let go, baby. I’ll be here, I’ll catch you. Cum for me, sweet girl.”
Some called you the witch, but what was he? What spell did he cast that gave him such control over you, mind, body, and soul? Only he could command your body to such a degree? That every barrier crumbled at his assurances, his word? That he knew the layers of your soul so intimately that he knew his actions had shaken your trust, your foundation. And that one night would not erase that. But it was proof that he would offer whatever assurances you required, as often as you desired, to knock down every barrier your brain erected. Brick by brick, for as long as it took to earn your forgiveness again.
“Fuck! Fuckkkk! I c-can’t… Elijah!”
Your head fell back in ecstasy. Shuddering, shaking, breathless. The meager orgasms you gave yourself paled in comparison to what his skills provided. This was more than a reunion. It felt like a renaissance of your love, a revival of the sheer extent of joy he gave you space to feel.
“That’s it, darlin’. Fuck, you taste too good. So sweet,” he lapped up your juices hungrily, sending continued jolts of pleasure as you fell back fully onto the comforter.
“Elijah… please,” you moaned, your body twitching away from him from the overload of pleasure.
Your curls had fallen out of the updo you had created for the night, your eyes half closed lazily as your hand rested on your chest. You just needed to catch your breath. You were lucky these days if your orgasms moved you with the strength of the creek near your home. Elijah’s were the force of the ocean, knocking you right off your feet. And yet, you did not know if you actually wanted him to give you reprieve.
You were exhausted. But the chant building in the back of your mind was so much louder. More, more, more.
And frankly, far more enticing.
“You ready for me, pretty girl?”
“Please… I need you.” You would rest plenty amongst the ancestors one of these days. As for tonight? Your words were colored in desperation to be filled to the brink. To feel everything your body harbored and release it into the world.
You watched as he stood up, just long enough to shed the rest of his suit. It accentuated his hard-earned muscles, taunt and straining against his thick physique. But as delectable as it looked on him, it would look far better on the floor.
He unbuckled his pants, his eyes never leaving yours, as he pulled them off.
You licked your lips, your eyes glossing over with lust as you took in his manhood. Hard, thick, and leaking just enough that you wanted to ignore the ache between your legs and steal a taste. You missed the weight of him against your tongue, the salty taste of his cum. But you knew he was not going to let you steal that treat just yet. He was as desperate to be inside you as you were for him to be.
Your logical brain snuck to the forefront for a single moment, showing through in the faintest flicker of fear buried underneath fogs of lust in your eyes. His girth. Even when he made a sport of bending you over every surface in your home day after day, the stretch could still take your breath away. But eight years without him? Without nothing more than a finger or two? You would need him to take it a lot slower than he remembered.
Would that bother him?
“See what you still do to me, darlin? How bad I need you?”
His hand slid down your thigh as he kissed you before gripping your hips. He lined himself up with your weeping entrance. However, he paused as your body tensed beneath him, anticipating the sharp pain of his thrust.
“What’s wrong, darlin?”
“N-Nothin’.”
“It’s somethin’. You wanna stop? We ain’t gotta-”
“NO! No!” You almost shouted, Smoke holding back laughter at the aggrieved look on your face at the idea that you’d ever want this to end. You glanced up at him with your perfect doe eyes and whispered, “It’s not that. It’s… silly.”
Elijah shook his head as he lazily rubbed his tip along your entrance, coating it in your juices and teasing you. “You ain’t never said nothin’ silly to me. I ain’t movin’ till you talk to me.”
Maybe we do hate him, you seriously considered for a moment. When all you desired was a hiding place, the man you fell in love with would never allow you to wallow in darkness. It was why you fell in love with him, even if you hated it sometimes.
“I just… haven’t been with anyone since you left. Not like this, anyway. N I remember what you like. Just… may need you to go a little easy on me at first, baby.”
“Worried you can’t take me, baby?” The heat of his breath tickled your skin as his lips dragged against your neck. His touch was so featherlike, you questioned whether he was actually touching you. “Cause I know you can. My girl can take me. Just relax n I’ll go as slow as you need.”
A lesser man would’ve just sheathed himself in your heat without consideration to the hesitation in your muscles. He likely would not have even noticed. But not Elijah.
He sucked at a sweet spot on your neck, his greatest discovery on his many voyages of your body, to add bursts of pleasure to the painful sting as he pushed inside you.
“Shit, shit, shit. Elijah… i-It hurts,” you cried out at the familiar stretch of being filled by him.
“Deep breaths, darlin’. Keep those pretty eyes on me.”
He kept his eyes on you as he sank deeper and deeper into them, and you. You breathed through it, feeling every inch of him fill you again, your soft whimpers and moans instructing his pace. When he bottomed out inside you, he held you there for a few moments, letting you adjust to it.
Your eyes connected for a moment and it felt as if the world cracked open around you. Everything else sifted away like sand. There was no him. No you. Just a love so eternal, it floated you above to the heavens before gently guiding you back home.
“Fuck. You’re takin’ me so well, darlin.”
For Smoke, you knew slow only meant cautious. His strokes remained as deliberate and powerful as you once remembered. However, today, he maintained a pace that forced you to remember what every inch of him felt like.
His grip on the meat of your hips was tight as if he worried something would steal you from right beneath him. Your legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he fucked into you with controlled precision, his entire being focused on bringing you pleasure.
“Yes! Shit, Elijah! I love it, I love it.”
“You like how I’m fuckin’ this pussy, baby? I can tell this fuckin’ tight pussy missed me, darlin’.”
“You f-feel soooo good, Eli… don’t stop. Ah!” You cried out at the uncomfortable stretch in the back of your thighs as he brought your legs to rest on his shoulders, allowing him fuck you deeper.
A litany of curse words flooded your room as you felt him deep in your guts as he fucked you slow and hard. Your eyes rolled back into your head as every stroke forced you deeper into your mattress.
“No nigga gon’ touch what’s yours n what’s mine again, you understand? You’re mine.” His words were punctuated by the loud slaps of skin as his hips hit the back of your thighs with every thrust. “Tell me whose you are, baby?”
“I’m yours!” You panted, your heart fluttering like a sea of swallowtails in the wind at his declaration. And there was no one else’s you’d rather be. “I l-love you. Fuckkkk, I love you.”
You felt as if time slowed down for you or perhaps you were too enthralled in each other as he showed you the secrets of this universe time after time after time. He had no reason to rush as he moved you from position to position and forced you to feel every moment in each one. You screamed his name over and over again as he fucked you with abandon.
The closer he came to, what you knew would be his last release for the night, he had lost all control. Your body fell into his as he pounded into you, your thighs giving out while you rode him. Your body breathless and utterly spent. But you both were chasing one last high, the perfect explosion of euphoria that would allow you to collapse in a heap of limbs until midday tomorrow.
“Eli… baby.. I-it’s too much. I c-can’t…”
“Don’t run from me, darlin’. You can take it, pretty girl. Last one for me,” he demanded, the vibrations of his voice enthralling you like a spell you could not withstand.
He pounded into you, your pussy clenching around him as you felt your orgasm build.
“Where you want it, darlin’?” He asked, his words accentuated with grunts as he bounced your body up and down on his dick.
You could barely formulate thoughts, your mind a canvas with his name painted over and over again. You just wanted to feel him. You were spent, your body maxed out and you still craved more? To feel every single thing he could offer?
“Inside me, baby!”
“Don’t say that shit to me, Y/N.” His voice was a lethal warning. A dangerous proposition that you both knew would unleash a feral side of Elijah, a man possessed.
But that was exactly what you wanted. What you needed.
“Need you to fill me, baby. Please,” you unabashedly begged into his ear, tears streaming down your face from the force of his strokes.
“Gonna fuckin’ flood this sweet ass pussy, fill you with my baby. You’d like that? Keep you in here, safe, round n pregnant?” Every word accompanied his most powerful strokes of the night, reaching places you believed to be anatomically impossible.
But you asked for this, demanded it actually. And you did not have an ounce of regret.
You crashed first as a last particularly deep thrust sent you tumbling off the summit. Your toes curled as he thrust into you final time, your orgasm only continuing in waves as you felt him fill you with warmth.
Your orgasm faded slowly as you felt him pulsing like a heartbeat inside you, coating your walls with his seed. He held you against him for a few moments, giving you both a moment to get your boots solidly planted on solid Earth. But there was also some small part of you that just did not want him to move, did not want this moment to end even though it lasted all night.
He let you feel him deflate inside you, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back as he held you close. You whimpered when he finally released himself from your warmth, shifting your boneless frame into a new position.
“Stay right there, baby. Hold on.”
“As if I could go anywhere,” you muttered lazily, you imagined your legs would work about as well as a newborn baby’s.
Your eyes started to fall shut in the few short moments it took him to grab a wet towel to clean the mess between your thighs. Once he was satisfied, he lifted your body and repositioned you so you were resting on your pillow.
Elijah walked around to his side of the bed, everything on his nightstand exactly as he left it. He had been so worried, scared that he would not recognize you or this place when he returned. He would’ve understood it, accepted it. He left, not you. But it would’ve been a difficult hurt to reckon with.
Time ensured that things had evolved. You had grown older, wiser, as he had, more slick at the mouth like Stack than he remembered. But the core of you, the girl he fell in love under a live oak tree? She was still standing, still as steady, vibrant, and uniquely her as he remembered.
Smoke had seen all the jewels and all the suffering this world offered its hands. He’d traveled every part of this world with his other half to find it, the amount of money or power to feel like no one could have power over them again. But no trucks filled to the brim of money could make him feel a fraction of the freedom you did. He had not needed to go searching for more when he had you and his brother. That was everything that mattered.
He slid into his side of the bed and immediately brought you into his chest. Muscle memory. Your soft brown eyes opened long enough to savor one last look at him before sleep consumed you. Your fingers played in the coarse hair of his beard as he brought your thigh to drape over his, allowing you to be as close as possible.
“Never thought I’d have this again. Thank you for comin’ back to me,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
“Don’t thank me. I shouldn’t’ve left. N I’m sorry. But I’m gonna make it up to you like I said.”
“I know you will, Elijah Moore,” you grinned at him. “But don’t think we ain’t still havin’ that fight tomorrow,” you warned.
He would gladly fight with you all day if that was what you needed to heal, to move forward.
“I don’t expect nothin’ else.”
His lips curled into a rare smile, not his half one. But a true smile, as small as it was, it flooded your world with the light of the Sun. Decades with him and your heart still skipped a beat when Elijah Moore smiled at you. Your eyes welled up with tears as you savored the moment.
“Still make you cry that easy, huh?” He teased. “With just a smile?”
You gently swatted at his shoulder in faux annoyance. “Thought you’d given me your last smile a long time ago, I guess.” Your hand rested on his chest as he held you. “I missed it.”
“I’ll always give you a smile, Y/N. And my shoulder,” he winked at her, an ode to their history. Rich and long it was, but it still felt like yesterday.
He opened his arms, inviting you to snuggle into his chest in your preferred sleeping position. Your cheek rested against his chest, the light thumbs of his heart lulling you to sleep. A sigh of relief and contentment escaped your lips as you settled against him, his arms tightening around you.
Sleep came easier than it had in eight years. You were finally home.
A/N: It's 2 am, idk who I think I am being up this late but when I tell y'all I was on a ROLL hahaha anyway, this became so much longer than it should've and took too long (sorry!) butttttt had to do big daddy justice hahaha
Drop a comment and let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!
Also I got a lot of the tags but not everyone! So sorry!! I'll update when it isn't 2 am lol
Amara thought she just escaped to the countryside for peace and quiet. Instead, she accidentally tamed a wild bear with sandwiches… only to find out her "Teddy" is actually a dangerous, possessive hybrid who’s decided she’s his.
Warnings: hybrid!Smoke, primal vibes, size kink, heavy smut, possessive/obsessive themes, hard claiming, spanking, biting, knotting mention
Amara was exhausted, burnt out. As the oldest daughter, every burden fell on her shoulders. Her family expected her to cook, clean, fix everything, and still somehow smile while doing it. Work wasn’t any better. Endless deadlines, bosses breathing down her neck. One night, staring at her bank account, Amara made a decision. She pulled from her savings, packed up, and disappeared. A cabin, way out in the country, far from family, far from responsibility. She even locked her phone away in a drawer. For three weeks she lived free—waking when she wanted, eating when she wanted, being no one’s savior but her own. For the first time in years, she could breathe.
But peace has its limits.
On the twenty-first day, Amara decided to take a long walk through the forest. The sun broke through the canopy in golden streaks, the air sharp with pine and earth. She wandered deeper than she meant to, humming to herself, until a sharp crack echoed behind her. Then a heavy thump. She froze. Her heart skipped as she turned—slow, careful—and there it was. A massive bear. Amara’s breath caught in her throat. This wasn’t some zoo bear behind glass; this was raw, powerful, wild. Its dark eyes locked on her, unblinking, reading every flinch. She had nothing to defend herself with. No knife. No spray. Just… a sandwich. Her hands shook as she held it up. "You—uh—you hungry?" she whispered, more to herself than the beast. Slowly, she bent down, placing the wrapped sandwich on the ground.
The bear stepped closer, massive paws pressing into the earth, and picked it up with its mouth. For a moment, it almost looked… calm. Curious. But by the time the bear looked back up, Amara was already gone—running full speed back to her cabin, lungs burning, heart hammering like a drum. She slammed the cabin door behind her, chest heaving, back pressed to the wood. "What the hell," she gasped, "did I just do?"
That night, she peeked out the curtains, half-expecting the massive creature to be waiting for her. Nothing. No golden eyes, no hulking shape in the dark. But the next morning, when she stepped onto the porch with a piece of toast in hand, she froze. There he was—sitting at the edge of the clearing like he’d been waiting for her. Amara’s first instinct was to dart back inside, but something stopped her. He wasn’t charging. Wasn’t even moving. Just…watching her. "You again," she muttered, easing down the porch steps with shaky hands. Her laugh was nervous. "Guess I should’ve known you’d come back. You liked that sandwich too much, huh?" The bear tilted his head, huffing softly through his nose. Amara sighed, setting the toast on a flat rock a few feet away. "Here. Breakfast. Don’t say I never fed you."
The bear lumbered forward, massive and terrifying, but instead of snapping, he sniffed at the toast, then took it delicately in his jaws. When he lifted his head, those strange golden eyes locked with hers again, as if he understood far more than she gave him credit for. From that day forward, it became a routine. She’d set food out—sandwiches, scraps from dinner, sometimes even full plates when she cooked too much—and he’d appear. Morning or night, didn’t matter. At first, Amara stayed on the porch, talking nervously to fill the silence.
"Work nearly drove me insane back home. You don’t know what it’s like to be the oldest. To have everyone leaning on you all the damn time." She shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. "That’s why I’m here. Needed to breathe, you know?" The bear would just sit there, chewing slowly, gaze never leaving her. It didn’t take long before she started sitting closer, braver each time. By the second week, she was on the steps. By the third, she was in the yard, just a few feet away. "You don’t care if I’m tired, or if I screw up, or if I say no. You just…listen." Amara smiled softly, staring at the firelight one night while the bear sat across from her. "Sometimes I think you understand me better than most people ever did." The bear shifted then, lowering his head like a bow. Amara laughed. "Don’t do that. You’ll make me believe you actually get it." She didn’t know he did. Every word. Every sigh. Every secret she let slip into the night air. He drank it all in, his patience unshakable.
Weeks had turned into months before she even noticed. Mornings didn’t feel right without him there at the edge of the trees, waiting. She’d brew coffee, butter her toast, then glance out the window to find him sitting in the clearing, golden eyes soft on her. It became her comfort, her little secret. She even gave him a name. "Teddy." It made her laugh every time, calling a beast like him something so harmless. But to her, he was. Her Teddy. Loyal. Gentle. Hers. But today was different.
The forest felt too still when she woke up. No lumbering shadow between the trees, no quiet huff of breath. Just silence. She made breakfast, left a plate by the porch like always, and waited. Nothing. By noon, her nerves started chewing at her stomach. Storm clouds crawled in from the horizon, thick and black, promising trouble. Amara sat by the window all day, chin resting on her knees, eyes scanning the tree line. Where are you? By nightfall, the storm had broken. Rain poured so hard it blurred the glass, lightning splitting the sky wide open. Thunder rattled the cabin. Still, no sign of him.
Her chest ached. She told herself he’d come tomorrow, when the storm passed, but it felt wrong to go to bed without seeing him. Still, exhaustion finally dragged her down. She curled into her sheets, whispering, "Tomorrow, Teddy…just tomorrow." Then came the sound. Thump. Her eyes flew open. Not thunder. Not the wind. That was on the porch. Grabbing the only weapon she had—a worn wooden bat—Amara crept toward the door, heart pounding in her throat. She swung it open, rain lashing her face, and gasped. Not a bear. A man. A huge, broad-shouldered man lay crumpled on her porch, chest heaving, rain running in rivulets down his bare skin.
A savage cut split across his side, blood mixing with the stormwater. "Oh my God—" Amara dropped the bat and fell to her knees. "Hey! Hey, can you hear me?" His eyes flickered open. Golden. Familiar. Her heart stopped. It can’t be. It can’t be Teddy. No…no way. But deep down, she knew. Panic surged through her as lightning lit up the porch. She pressed her hands to his wound, trying to stop the bleeding, rain soaking them both to the bone. "Stay with me, please—don’t you dare die on me!" With a grunt, she hooked her arms under his, straining to drag him inside.
He was heavy, too heavy, but she refused to quit. Inch by inch, she pulled him across the threshold, slamming the door shut against the storm. Her chest heaved as she collapsed beside him, staring down at this stranger with her Teddy’s eyes. "What are you?" she whispered, trembling fingers brushing rain from his forehead.
–
The last thing he remembered was the storm. Pain tearing through his side. The taste of iron in his mouth. And her voice—sweet, frantic, begging him not to leave her. When he came to, the cabin was warm. The sharp sting in his ribs told him someone had cleaned and wrapped the wound. His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the golden light flickering across the walls. A quilt was thrown over him, the scent of lavender clinging to it. Her scent. Then he heard it. The soft clatter of pans. The low hiss of batter hitting heat. And beneath it, a melody—Amara humming under her breath. His throat rumbled without thought, something between a growl and a sigh. He turned his head just enough to see her in the small kitchen, hair loose around her shoulders, moving in a rhythm that was all her own. She was barefoot, wearing one of his shirts—no, her shirt, but the way it hung off her curves made him ache.
And she was cooking. For him. His girl. A strange ache clawed through his chest, sharper than the wound. All these weeks she’d fed him like a beast, talked to him like a friend, cared for him without knowing who he truly was. Now, here she was, still caring. Still his, even when the truth should’ve sent her running. He couldn’t hold his tongue. "Babygirl." The word rolled out of him, rough and low, making her jump. The spatula nearly slipped from her fingers as she spun around, wide eyes meeting his. "You’re awake," she breathed, hand pressed to her chest. Relief softened her face.
"Thank God. You scared the hell outta me." He shifted, wincing at the pull of stitches.
"You patched me up?"
"Of course I did." Her voice cracked, then steadied. "What was I supposed to do, leave you out there to bleed? You—" She stopped, shaking her head, lips trembling.
"You’ve got a lot of explaining to do." His gaze burned into hers. Slowly, he sat up, the quilt falling from his shoulders. "And I will, Amara. But first…" His nostrils flared, pulling in the scent of sweet batter and butter melting on the stove. "You made pancakes for me?" She blinked, flustered, as if only just realizing it.
"Y-yeah. I figured…you’d be hungry when you woke up." A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. His golden eyes gleamed in the dim light.
The smell of pancakes filled the cabin, warm and comforting, but his hunger had nothing to do with food. From the bed, his golden eyes followed Amara as she moved around the kitchen, her hair damp from the rain, her body soft and perfect in the faint glow of the stove. She tried to distract herself with cooking, but he could hear her heartbeat—fast, nervous, betraying her calm.
"C’mere, babygirl," he said, his voice rough with command. Amara stiffened, spatula trembling in her hand. "You need to rest—"
"Didn’t ask what I need." His lips twisted into a dark grin. "I said Come here." She hesitated, torn between common sense and the pull of his voice. In the end, she set the spatula down and stepped toward him, slow and careful, as though she were approaching the bear all over again. The second she was within reach, his hands were on her, large and unyielding, dragging her into his lap.
She gasped, palms braced against his chest, mindful of the bandage at his ribs. "teddy—you’re hurt—"
"And still stronger than you, baby. Don’t forget it." His palm slid up her back, anchoring her to him, while the other settled heavy on her thigh, fingers squeezing hard enough to make her squirm. "You should be eating pancakes," she whispered, lips trembling. "Not…not this."
He dipped his head, his nose brushing against the slope of her neck, inhaling like he could drink her down. A low growl rumbled through his chest. "Fuck them pancakes," he muttered against her skin. "I’m hungry for you." Her breath hitched. She tried to pull back, but his hand caught her jaw, tilting her face until her wide eyes met his. "I don’t even know what you are," she whispered. His eyes glowed faintly, gold burning through the dim light. His voice was low, a vow, a threat.
"You know exactly what I am. I’m the one you've been feeding. The one you've been talking to. Your Teddy." His thumb stroked her jaw, slow and possessive. "And I ain’t waitin’ no more." Before Amara could speak, his mouth crushed against hers—hot, hungry, desperate. Her protest broke into a gasp, then melted into a sound that only spurred him on.
He devoured her moan, deepening the kiss until she felt dizzy. One hand tangled in her damp hair, angling her head just right, while the other slid from her thigh to grip her hip, pulling her flush against him. She could feel every hard line of his body—the coiled strength, the faint tremor of restraint beneath his skin—and it terrified her how much she wanted more.
He lifted her effortlessly, her legs instinctively wrapping around his thick waist. He held her close, impossibly strong, every inch of his body pressing against hers. The movement tore a gasp from her lips, but he swallowed that too, his growl vibrating against her chest.
His large hands roamed, gripping her curves possessively. One landed firmly on her ass with a sharp, startling smack. The sound cracked through the quiet cabin. Amara jolted, a shiver racing up her spine, followed by a low moan she couldn't stifle. She squirmed against him, overwhelmed by the raw heat radiating from his skin, the sheer, undeniable hunger in his touch. Completely trapped in his arms, the world narrowed to the feel of his calloused palms, the possessive weight of his hold, and the dizzying scent of rain and wildness clinging to him.
His lips trailed lower, teeth scraping the sensitive skin just above her collarbone. She gasped, arching instinctively. "Teddy—" His name was a choked plea. He answered with a low growl, vibrating deep in his chest and resonating against her skin. His hand slid from her hip, fingers tracing a burning path up her side beneath her thin t-shirt, rough skin catching on the soft fabric. She felt impossibly small, fragile, yet consumed by the intensity of his focus.
He nipped at her earlobe, sharp enough to make her jolt, then soothed the sting with the warm, wet glide of his tongue. "Told you," he murmured, voice thick and dark, "ain't waitin'." His other hand fisted in her damp hair, holding her still as his mouth moved down the column of her throat, tasting the frantic pulse beating there. Each possessive kiss, each scrape of teeth, was a brand. She felt claimed, dizzy with the raw, primal energy pouring off him.
His hips rolled up against hers again, deliberate and slow, grinding the hard, impossible length of him right where she was most sensitive. Amara’s breath strangled in her throat. Her eyes flew wide, not just at the sheer, overwhelming size of him pressed so intimately against her, but at the sensation – she could feel it, the heavy, powerful throb beneath his skin, the ridges of thick veins straining against her own softness. It was terrifying. It was intoxicating. A choked whimper escaped her.
His low laugh vibrated against her throat, hot breath fanning over the damp skin he’d just marked. “Feel that, babygirl?” he rumbled, the words rough gravel against her pulse. “That’s all for you. Been starin’ at you walkin’ around this cabin in those thin little things, smellin’ like rain and sugar… drivin’ me goddamn crazy.” His hand tightened possessively on her backside, pulling her harder against the insistent ridge. “Thought I’d go mad watchin’ you pretend you weren’t tremblin’ every time I looked at you.”
He lifted her effortlessly, her body pressed flush against his. Amara gasped as he gently but firmly shifted her, laying her back with him between her legs. The worn quilt bunched beneath her, the rough texture a stark contrast to the smooth, terrifying strength pinning her down. His weight settled over her hips, thick thighs caging hers, the sheer bulk of him blocking out the faint light from the stove, plunging her into the shadow of his dominance. The air crackled with the scent of him—musky, wild, and utterly overwhelming. She felt the hard planes of his chest press against her own softness, the heat radiating from him like a furnace.
"You go let me taste you," he commanded, the words rough velvet against her skin. His eyes, molten gold in the dim cabin light, bored into hers with an intensity that stole her breath. There was no escape, no room for refusal in that burning gaze. It held hers, stripping away pretense, demanding complete surrender. She felt pinned, seen down to her very core, her own wide eyes reflecting the primal hunger burning in his.
She bit her lip, nodding. The small, sharp pressure was a grounding anchor against the dizzying storm of sensation – his overwhelming heat, the possessive weight of his body, the raw, undeniable need radiating from him. Her nod wasn't just agreement; it was the shattering of her last thin barrier, the silent yielding to the inevitable force of him. A tremor ran through her, part fear, part exhilarating release. His answering growl was pure satisfaction, vibrating deep in his chest and resonating through her own bones.
His hands moved with shocking speed. Not gentle, not hesitant. One massive palm splayed possessively across her lower belly, pinning her hips to the quilt, while the other gripped the thin cotton of her t-shirt just below the collar. There was a sharp, rending tear as the fabric gave way instantly under his strength, ripping cleanly down the center. Cool cabin air rushed over her newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps instantly. The ruined halves of her shirt fell away, pooling uselessly at her sides, leaving her clad only in her flimsy panties. She gasped, eyes wide, her arms instinctively crossing over her chest for a fleeting, futile moment of modesty.
He didn't allow the that. His growl was a low, possessive rumble as he effortlessly caught her wrists in one enormous hand, stretching them above her head and pinning them firmly against the rough quilt. The sudden exposure left her utterly vulnerable. Her breasts, brown and full in the dim light, were completely bare. He stared down, the molten gold of his eyes burning over her skin. Her breath hitched, coming in shallow, rapid pants that made her chest rise and fall sharply. With each gasp, her soft breasts moved, the peaks tightening instantly under his intense, unwavering gaze. They trembled slightly, a delicate bounce echoing the frantic rhythm of her trapped heart – a visible, helpless reaction to the sheer dominance of his presence and the sudden, shocking exposure.
He licked his lips, a slow, deliberate slide of his tongue over the fullness of his lower lip. A thin sheen of wetness glistened there for a second before vanishing. He was damn near drooling, his focus utterly predatory, locked on her right nipple. He leaned down, his broad shoulders blocking the faint stove light entirely. His lips sealed around it with perfect suction, pulling the sensitive bud deep into the scorching heat of his mouth. He held it there for a long, breathless moment, the pressure intense and overwhelming. Then, with a sharp, wet pop, he released it. The sensation was a jolt of pure electricity, arcing from her breastbone down to her core. Amara cried out, a sharp, startled sound that dissolved into a ragged moan as the cool cabin air rushed back over the wet, sensitive peak he’d just branded.
His huge hand slid from her belly, the rough pad of his thumb scraping possessively over her other nipple. It hardened instantly under the friction, pebbling into a tight, aching point against his calloused skin. He didn’t linger. His grip shifted, engulfing the entire soft, heavy weight of her breast in his palm. His fingers dug in, kneading the yielding flesh with a firm, possessive pressure that was almost painful. She gasped, arching instinctively into the overwhelming sensation. He squeezed, testing the softness, his thumb circling the taut, darkened peak he’d teased but not yet tasted. Her breast spilled slightly over the top of his hand, the sheer size of his palm making her feel impossibly delicate. He watched her face, her wide eyes locked on his, her lips parted on shallow, desperate breaths. He wanted to see every flicker of sensation, every tremor he pulled from her.
He released her wrists. Her arms instinctively started to lower, to shield herself, but he caught them mid-motion. Not forcefully, but with undeniable command. His eyes held hers, burning gold, as he guided her hands down to her sides, pressing her palms flat against the rough quilt. "Keep 'em there," he growled, the vibration resonating deep in his chest. The implicit threat was clear: disobey at your peril. Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric, knuckles white, but she obeyed, utterly exposed. His gaze never wavered from hers as his other massive hand joined the first, both engulfing her breasts. He squeezed them together, pushing the soft mounds towards each other, making the dark, hard nipples stand out even more starkly against the flushed skin. He fumbled for a moment, large hands struggling to contain the sheer abundance, his rough fingertips catching on the tender flesh. A low grunt escaped him, frustration and desire mixing as he adjusted his grip, pulling her breasts up firmly towards his mouth.
One hand shifted, fingers splaying wide to hold the soft weight of her left breast steady, his thumb grinding a rough circle around the neglected peak. His head dipped down, lips parting. With deliberate slowness, his hot, wet mouth closed over her right nipple, sucking it deep inside. He held it captive, the suction intense and unyielding, his tongue swirling roughly over the hypersensitive bud. All the while, his eyes remained locked on hers. He watched the exact moment the sensation overwhelmed her – the dilation of her pupils, the flutter of her eyelids fighting to stay open, the sharp intake of breath that hitched into a low, trembling moan. Her hips shifted unconsciously beneath him, seeking friction against the hard ridge pressing into her through his joggers and her panties.
He released her nipple with a sharp, wet pop, the cool air instantly chilling the wet skin. Before she could gasp, his other hand, the one not pinning her breast, drew back. It wasn't a gentle tap. His palm, large and calloused, cracked down hard on the tender swell of her left breast. The sound was startlingly loud in the small space – a sharp, percussive smack that echoed off the wooden walls. Amara jolted violently, her entire body arching off the quilt as a startled cry tore from her throat. Her breast bounced under the impact, the soft flesh rippling, the nipple hardening impossibly tighter. He watched the shock ripple across her face, the wide-eyed disbelief melting into a dazed, breathless heat. A flush bloomed across her chest, spreading upwards to her throat.
His gaze, molten and predatory, His free hand – the one that had just delivered the stinging blow – didn't linger. It traced a burning path down the quivering plane of her belly, rough fingertips catching on the delicate skin just above the waistband of her thin panties. He paused, his thick index finger hooking under the damp, flimsy lace edge. His eyes locked back onto hers, holding her captive as he applied deliberate, increasing pressure. The fragile fabric strained, the tiny threads groaning in protest. Then, with a sudden, sharp rrrrip, the lace gave way. The sound was a violent whisper, tearing through the charged silence. The panties shredded instantly, the ruined halves falling uselessly to either side of her hips, leaving her completely bare.
"Fuck," he growled. He didn't hesitate. His large, calloused hand slid down her belly, past the newly exposed curls, and landed heavily, possessively, over her mound. His entire palm covered her completely, the heat and weight of it overwhelming. Then, one thick finger – impossibly rough against her delicate folds – dipped lower. It glided slowly, deliberately, through the slick heat gathering there. The touch wasn't gentle; it was a claiming. He traced her slit from top to bottom, the pad of his finger catching on her swollen, sensitive flesh, parting her folds with undeniable pressure. Her hips bucked involuntarily, a choked gasp escaping her lips as the raw friction sent sparks through her nerves.
He withdrew his finger, holding it up between them in the dim light. It glistened, coated thickly with her arousal. "Fat pussy" he rumbled, his voice thick with dark satisfaction. He brought that slick finger to his mouth, his tongue sliding slowly, deliberately, along its length. His eyes never left hers as he tasted her, a low, primal groan vibrating in his chest. "All that sweet, drippin' need... just for me." The possessive hunger in his gaze pinned her more effectively than his hands ever could.
Without warning, his massive frame shifted. He slid down her body with startling speed, his broad shoulders pressing her thighs wide apart. Before Amara could gasp, his face was buried between her legs. The sudden, overwhelming heat of his mouth on her most sensitive flesh stole her breath. His tongue was broad, rough, and relentless, laving a firm, wet stripe straight up her slit from her trembling entrance to her aching clit. The contact was electric, shocking in its intimacy. Her back arched violently off the quilt, a ragged cry tearing from her throat as her fingers scrabbled uselessly against the rough fabric beneath her palms.
He growled against her, the vibration resonating deep into her core, intensifying the already dizzying sensations. His hands clamped onto her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh with bruising force, pinning her completely as his tongue worked her with fierce, possessive strokes. He devoured her hungrily, as if starved, each flick and press deliberate, demanding. The slick sounds filled the cabin, mingling with her choked whimpers and his low, rumbling growls. He didn’t tease—he consumed, his focus absolute, driving her relentlessly toward the edge with a desperation that bordered on violence.
His beard scraped roughly against her inner thighs, soaked through with her wetness, glistening in the dim cabin light. Every time Amara’s eyes fluttered open, vision blurred and head swimming, she saw only the rough-hewn ceiling beams above—or, when she managed to tilt her chin down, the impossible intensity of his gaze locked onto hers. Even buried between her thighs, his golden eyes burned into her, fierce and unblinking, watching every twitch, every gasp, every flicker of surrender crossing her face. It was unnerving, terrifyingly intimate, that unwavering connection even as he ravaged her.
He pulled away abruptly, his mouth leaving her slick heat with a sharp, wet pop that echoed in the sudden stillness. A thin strand of saliva and her own wetness stretched between his lower lip and her swollen folds before snapping. The cool air rushed against her exposed core, a shocking contrast that made her hips jerk helplessly. He didn’t pause. His tongue, broad and rough as sandpaper, dragged slowly, deliberately, from the base of her trembling entrance all the way up to her throbbing clit. The single, deliberate lick was agonizingly slow—a claiming, a savoring—before he dove back in with renewed ferocity, burying his face deeper than before.
"T-Teddy—" Amara gasped, the name fracturing into a ragged moan as his nose ground firmly against her clit while his tongue plunged deep inside her. The dual assault—broad pressure above and relentless thrusting below—sent white-hot sparks detonating behind her eyelids. Her fingers clawed at the quilt beneath her palms, desperate for purchase against the tidal wave of sensation threatening to drown her. "Too much—" The plea was strangled, lost beneath the wet, rhythmic sounds of his devouring her. Her thighs trembled violently against his temples, pinned wide by the sheer, unyielding strength of his shoulders.
She felt it building—a terrifying pressure coiling low in her belly, tightening like a spring wound past its limit. Her hips bucked uncontrollably against his face, seeking more friction, deeper pressure, anything to shatter the unbearable tension. He growled in response, the vibration resonating through her core, intensifying the frantic pulse between her legs. His fingers dug bruisingly into her hips, forcing her down, holding her immobile as he worked her ruthlessly. Her breath hitched, became shallow, rapid pants that did nothing to fill her lungs. Stars exploded in her vision. She was teetering on a knife-edge, suspended between agony and ecstasy, every nerve screaming towards release.
And then she shattered. A sharp, keening cry ripped from her throat as her back arched impossibly high off the quilt. Her entire body convulsed, a violent tremor wracking her from head to toe. A gush of wet heat surged out of her, soaking his chin, his cheeks, his beard. She felt the warm liquid splash against his skin, heard the slick, audible rush of her release. He didn't pull back. Not an inch. He pressed his mouth harder against her pulsing flesh, drinking deep, swallowing her essence as it flooded him. His tongue continued its relentless rhythm, lapping every drop, chasing the aftershocks that trembled through her with desperate intensity. He drank her down like a man dying of thirst, his low, satisfied groan vibrating against her sensitive flesh.
His face was soaked, glistening in the dim cabin light—her wetness slicked his beard, dripped from his chin, coated his lips. His chest heaved, drawing in ragged breaths. He stared down at her, molten gold eyes locked onto hers, burning with primal satisfaction and a hunger that was far from sated. He dipped his finger in her wetness. One massive hand rose, fingers glistening. He slowly, deliberately, dragged his thick tongue along the length of his index finger, tasting her again, savoring the remnants clinging to his skin. The wet rasp echoed in the sudden quiet, broken only by Amara's own shallow, shattered gasps.
Amara instinctively tried to squeeze her trembling thighs together, seeking refuge from the overwhelming exposure—the cool air on her wetness, the possessive burn of his gaze. Her muscles clenched, knees drifting inward. Before they could even brush, Teddy’s hand cracked down hard on her inner thigh. The sharp smack echoed off the cabin walls. Pain bloomed hot and bright across her sensitive skin. She cried out, flinching violently. His palm pressed down firmly where he’d struck, fingers digging into the tender flesh just above her knee. "Keep. Them. Open," he growled, low and dangerous. His gaze never wavered from hers—golden fire pinning her in place. The implicit threat vibrated in the air: "Try that shit again, and it’ll be worse."
He didn’t wait for compliance. His hips surged forward, pressing the thick ridge of his clothed erection firmly against her soaked core. The friction was electric—rough fabric grinding against her swollen, hypersensitive folds. Amara gasped, arching off the quilt as the unexpected pressure sent sparks racing up her spine. He leaned his full weight into it, rocking his hips in a slow, deliberate grind. She could feel every contour—the heavy length, the pulsing heat trapped beneath his joggers—pressing directly against her slick entrance. The damp cotton rasped against her tender flesh, an exquisite friction that blurred the line between pleasure and pain. Her hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more contact, deeper pressure. A ragged moan tore from her throat. His answering growl was pure satisfaction, vibrating against her skin as he pinned her hips harder against the quilt.
"T-Teddy, please—" The plea spilled out, fractured and breathless. She didn’t know what she was begging for—mercy or more. Her hands twitched against the quilt where he'd commanded them to stay, fingers curling into fists. His gaze, molten gold and utterly predatory, locked onto hers. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. He leaned down, his breath hot against her ear. "Please what, babygirl?" His voice was rough velvet, thick with promise. "Tell me." His hips rolled again, harder this time, grinding the impossible hardness against her clit. She cried out, her vision blurring. The sensation was overwhelming—a relentless pressure igniting every nerve ending. "Need to feel you," she gasped, the words raw and desperate. "All of you. Now."
He growled, low and triumphant. In one fluid, powerful motion, Teddy reared back onto his knees, his broad shoulders blocking the faint light. His hands hooked into the waistband of his worn joggers. With a sharp jerk downward, he shoved the fabric past his hips and thighs. The thick, heavy length of his cock sprang free instantly—an obscene, veined pillar flushed dark and straining. It slapped hard against her slick, swollen folds, the heavy impact resonating through her entire body. Amara gasped, her eyes widening impossibly at the sheer, terrifying size—the blunt, ruddy head pressed flush against her soaked entrance, the thick shaft pulsing with heat against her sensitive flesh. The cool air hit him briefly before his scorching heat replaced it, searing her skin where they touched.
He gripped himself at the base, thick fingers wrapping possessively around the impossibly thick shaft. He lifted it slightly, the heavy weight resting hot against her lower belly for a heartbeat. Then, with deliberate, brutal slowness, he brought it crashing down against her core again. Smack. The wet sound echoed sharply—her arousal coating him, mingling with the sharp impact. Smack. Again. Each heavy slap landed precisely against her exposed, sensitive folds, the ridge of his swollen head dragging through her wetness with deliberate friction. Amara cried out, her hips jerking helplessly beneath him. The sharp sting blended dizzyingly with the deep throb of pleasure radiating from her clit, each impact forcing a choked gasp from her throat. Her juices glistened thickly on his skin, dripping onto the quilt beneath her trembling thighs.
He didn't pause. Aligning the blunt, ruddy crown directly against her slick, fluttering entrance, Teddy leaned forward, his immense weight pressing her deeper into the mattress. He locked his molten gold gaze onto hers, holding her utterly captive. Then, with a low, guttural growl that vibrated through her bones, he pushed. Slowly. Relentlessly. The impossible stretch burned instantly. Her inner muscles clenched in instinctive panic, resisting the sheer girth invading her. Her breath hitched, sharp and ragged, her fingernails digging into the quilt until her knuckles turned white. He pushed deeper, the thick ridge forcing her impossibly tight channel wider. She felt every straining inch stretch her, the burning pressure mounting, her whimpers dissolving into ragged, desperate moans. Her body yielded slowly, tremblingly, opening around him as he claimed her inch by agonizing inch.
Amara’s head flew back. Her spine arched violently off the quilt, neck straining taut as the overwhelming fullness consumed her. A guttural cry tore from her throat, raw and primal, shattering the charged silence. "Fuck!" The word ripped out, pornographic in its sheer desperation and abandon, echoing sharply off the wooden beams. It wasn't a curse; it was a visceral surrender, ripped from her core by the relentless invasion. Tears pricked her eyes, blurring the rough ceiling as her entire world narrowed to the searing stretch, the impossible heat, the possessive weight pinning her down. Her hips bucked instinctively against him, seeking relief or deeper penetration—she couldn't tell. His answering growl was pure triumph, vibrating against her skin as he buried himself deeper, finally seating his hips flush against hers, utterly filling her.
He didn't give her time to adjust. His massive hands clamped onto her hips, fingers digging bruisingly into the soft flesh, anchoring her completely beneath his bulk. Then he pulled back—a slow, deliberate withdrawal that dragged every straining inch against her clenching walls, the friction excruciating, pulling a ragged sob from her lips. Her inner muscles fluttered wildly around the retreating thickness. Just before he slipped free entirely, he slammed back in. Hard.
The brutal thrust drove the breath from her lungs, forcing another choked cry. "Yesss," he hissed, the sound thick with dark satisfaction. His rhythm was punishing—deep, powerful strokes that hammered into her core, each inward surge lifting her entire body off the quilt. The wet, rhythmic slap-slap-slap of their bodies colliding filled the cabin, a lewd counterpoint to her gasping breaths and his low, possessive grunts. Her breasts bounced heavily with each jarring impact, her trapped hands curling into fists against the quilt.
Amara didn't know what to do. Every instinct screamed—to push him away, to claw at his shoulders, to beg him to stop or never stop—but her body betrayed her, arching hungrily to meet each brutal thrust. Tears blurred her vision, hot tracks spilling down her temples into her hair. The sheer size of him stretched her to a trembling edge, the relentless friction burning through her oversensitive nerves. Her thoughts dissolved into static, drowned out by the pounding of her own heart and the slick, rhythmic pounding of flesh against flesh. Her legs, pinned wide by his knees, trembled violently. She felt suspended between agony and ecstasy, utterly consumed by the overwhelming sensations—the crushing weight of him, the searing fullness, the rough scrape of his calloused palms on her hips. She was adrift, lost in the storm he commanded.
He moved with raw, possessive power. Each withdrawal dragged against her clenching walls, pulling a ragged gasp or choked sob from her throat. Each deep, driving surge slammed the air from her lungs, lifting her entire body off the quilt only to crash her back down. His hips pistoned relentlessly, his rhythm punishing and unyielding—a deliberate conquest. Sweat slicked his brow, dripped onto her heaving chest, mingling with the sheen covering her own skin. The cabin air thickened with the scent of exertion, sex, and pine resin. Her breasts bounced heavily with every jarring impact, the neglected nipples aching and tight. His gaze remained locked on hers—golden, fierce, predatory—watching every flicker of pain, every tremor of helpless pleasure cross her face. There was no tenderness, only a feral intensity, a claiming laid bare in that unbroken stare.
"Why," she gasped, the word fracturing as he hammered into her core again, the force lifting her hips. Tears spilled over, hot tracks tracing paths through the sweat on her temples. "Why you fucking me like this?" Her voice was raw, stripped bare, pleading beneath the relentless onslaught. Her fingers scrabbled uselessly against the quilt beneath her palms, knuckles white. The sheer, brutal stretch burned, her body yielding tremblingly to his impossible size, yet arching hungrily to meet each thrust. "Hurts..." The whisper was lost in the wet slap-slap-slap of flesh meeting flesh, the low, guttural grunts vibrating from his chest. Her thighs trembled violently against his hips, pinned wide by his bruising grip.
He didn't answer. Not with words. His rhythm shifted abruptly. The relentless pounding ceased. He held himself impossibly deep, buried to the hilt, grinding his hips in a slow, deliberate circle against her clenching core. The thick ridge of his cockhead dragged against her swollen inner walls, igniting sparks deep inside her abused flesh. The pause was agonizing—a suspended moment filled only by their ragged breathing, the slick heat trapped between them, and the frantic thud of her own pulse in her ears. She felt every thick vein pulsing against her sensitive tissues, the possessive weight anchoring her utterly. His gaze remained locked on hers, molten gold burning into her soul, watching the confusion, the dazed pain, the involuntary flutter of pleasure ripple across her face. His stillness was more terrifying than the pounding.
Then he withdrew. Slowly. Torturously. Every straining inch dragged against her clenching walls, the friction a raw burn that pulled a ragged gasp from her throat. He pulled out until only the swollen, ruddy tip remained lodged inside her fluttering entrance, stretching her impossibly tight opening. The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cruel vacuum that made her hips jerk helplessly upwards, seeking the fullness again. Cool air kissed her exposed, slick folds. His low growl vibrated through the charged silence.
"Fuck this pussy feel so good," he rasped, his voice thick and guttural, stripped of anything civilized. His hand shot out, thick fingers wrapping possessively around her throat, cutting off her desperate moan mid-breath. His grip wasn't playful; it was a vise, cutting off her air, forcing her head back against the quilt, exposing the frantic pulse hammering beneath her jaw. His golden eyes blazed down at her, primal and unyielding. Her choked gasp died into a strangled whimper, her own hands twitching uselessly against the quilt, forbidden to move.
He slammed back into her with brutal force, the thick intrusion tearing a ragged sob from her compressed throat. Her body arched violently against his hold, her inner walls clenching in shock around the relentless thickness invading her. Sweat dripped from his brow onto her heaving chest, mingling with her tears. His hips pistoned relentlessly, the wet slap of flesh echoing obscenely. "Yeah," he growled, leaning closer, his breath hot and harsh against her ear. "You're such a good girl taking Papa's dick like this." The mocking tone dripped with dark satisfaction, twisting the childish endearment into something filthy, degrading. His fingers tightened fractionally on her throat, emphasizing the claim, the ownership.
His rhythm shifted again – faster, harder, driving into her with punishing precision. Each deep thrust lifted her entire body off the quilt, only to crash her back down onto the rough fabric. "A." Thrust. "Good." Thrust. "Fucking." Thrust. "Girl." The words pounded into her with the same brutal force as his cock. His voice was raw gravel, stripped bare. Her choked gasps hitched with each emphasized syllable, her vision blurring at the edges. He wasn't praising her; he was branding her, imprinting the words onto her shuddering flesh with every brutal surge. Her thighs trembled violently against his hips, pinned wide by his sheer bulk. Her trapped hands curled into desperate fists against the quilt. The dual assault – the relentless pounding deep inside her abused core and the cruel, rhythmic proclamation – shattered her resistance. A fractured whimper escaped her compressed throat.
Suddenly, he stopped. Dead still. Buried deep. The abrupt silence was deafening after the relentless pounding. Only their ragged breaths filled the small cabin, harsh and uneven. Before Amara could process the stillness, his hand released her throat. He hauled her hips upward, flipping her with terrifying ease. Her breath left her lungs in a shocked gasp. Her world spun violently. Rough quilt scraped her cheek. Her hands instinctively braced against the mattress beneath her shoulders, but Teddy's grip was faster, crueler. He seized both her wrists in one massive hand, wrenching them high and tight against the small of her back. The sharp angle strained her shoulders, forcing her chest flat against the mattress while her hips remained arched high, utterly exposed. Cool air rushed against her slick, stretched entrance, the emptiness a cruel ache. She felt the thick shaft slide free, leaving her clenching around nothing, wetness trickling down her trembling inner thighs.
He leaned forward, his sweat-slicked chest pressing hot against her pinned shoulder blades, his breath scalding her ear. "Take it," he commanded, voice thick and guttural. Then, with no preamble, he slammed back into her. Hard. A single, brutal thrust that buried him to the hilt. The impact punched the air from her lungs, forcing a choked scream against the quilt. The angle was deeper, sharper, the thick ridge grinding against a raw, untouched place inside her. He didn't pause. His hips pistoned immediately into a punishing rhythm—short, savage strokes that hammered into her core without mercy. Each inward surge forced her hips higher, her trapped wrists bearing his crushing weight. The wet thud-thud-thud of flesh meeting flesh echoed like a drumbeat, drowning out her ragged whimpers. "Take this dick," he growled against her ear, each word punctuated by a brutal thrust that drove her face harder into the mattress. "Take it all."
His rhythm intensified, becoming frenzied, possessive. He leaned back slightly, gripping her hips like handles, wrenching her back onto his cock with bruising force. The relentless friction burned, her inner walls fluttering wildly around the invading thickness. "Fuck," he rasped, voice cracking. "This good pussy… this my shit!" The declaration was raw, primal, a claiming ripped from deep within him. His thrusts lost any semblance of control, becoming erratic, desperate lunges. He slammed into her, grinding deep, the thick shaft pulsing violently against her sensitive tissues. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto the small of her arched back. "Gonna fill you up," he gasped, the words thick and slurred. "Imma breed you… right here… right fucking now…" His rambling intensified, a torrent of filthy promises growled against her skin. "Imma fill this tight pussy… pump you full… make you take my seed… make you mine…"
Amara’s head snapped back, a ragged cry tearing free. Her trapped wrists strained against his iron grip. The brutal angle, the relentless pounding against that deep, raw spot, the crude promises vibrating through her bones – it shattered something loose. A tremor ripped through her, starting low in her belly, radiating outwards in violent waves. "Fuck!" The word exploded from her, raw and desperate. Her hips bucked wildly against his bruising hold, seeking friction, seeking release. "Fuck yes!" Her voice fractured, pitching higher, breathless. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with sweat. "Im yours!" she gasped, the admission ripped from her core. "Yours!" Her body arched impossibly higher, throwing her ass back with desperate, instinctive force, grinding herself onto his driving cock, meeting his savage thrusts with abandon. "Take it!" she cried, the plea ragged, ecstatic. "Fill me!"
"Please, Papa," she gasped, the words fractured, thick with tears and desperate surrender. Her voice was barely a whisper above the wet slap of flesh and his ragged grunts. Her trapped fingers flexed uselessly against the quilt. The plea wasn't a denial; it was a raw admission, a desperate cry for completion, for the brutal claiming he promised. "Please… breed me." The word felt filthy, sacred. Her hips jerked back against him, forcing him impossibly deeper. "Give it to me… your seed…" Her voice dissolved into a choked sob, her body trembling violently beneath his onslaught, utterly overwhelmed, utterly claimed.
Her desperate plea ignited something primal in him. It wasn't just consent; it was fuel. A low, guttural roar ripped from Teddy’s chest, vibrating through the cabin walls. His hips pistoned faster, harder, losing all semblance of rhythm in a frantic, possessive frenzy. The wet thud-thud-thud intensified, echoing like frantic drumbeats. His fingers dug deeper into the soft flesh of her hips, bruising, anchoring her as he hauled her back onto his cock with savage force. "Mine!" he snarled, the word thick and slurred. "Fucking mine!" His thrusts became wild, erratic lunges, each one driving the thick, pulsing head against her deepest, most vulnerable core. Sweat poured down his temples, dripping onto her arched spine. He felt impossibly huge inside her, stretching her trembling walls to their absolute limit, the relentless friction a white-hot brand.
His control shattered completely. The powerful, deliberate strokes dissolved into frantic, sloppy jerks. He grunted, a raw, animal sound, with each desperate shove. His hips bucked wildly, losing their punishing cadence, becoming a chaotic scramble for deeper penetration, for release. His massive frame shuddered above her, muscles straining. The thick shaft pulsed violently within her clenching heat, throbbing like a second heartbeat. His breath came in ragged, explosive gasps against her sweat-slicked back. "Fuck... fuck... gonna... ahh..." The words choked off, replaced by incoherent growls. He buried his face between her shoulder blades, teeth scraping her skin, his entire body tensing like a coiled spring about to snap. The wet slap of flesh lost its rhythm, becoming a frantic, uneven staccato.
Amara felt it building – the raw, primal tension coiling in his hips, the frantic pulse of his cock against her deepest walls. She braced herself, arching higher, offering herself completely. Then, with a guttural roar that shook the cabin, Teddy slammed home one final, brutal time. He locked himself impossibly deep, grinding his hips hard against her ass. His cock swelled, throbbing, and then erupted. Hot, thick pulses of seed flooded her core in violent jets, scalding her sensitive inner walls. He groaned, a sound ripped from his soul, low and possessive, as he pumped his release deep inside her trembling body. Each powerful spurt forced a choked gasp from her lips, the sheer heat and volume overwhelming. He kept grinding, milking every last drop into her, his hips jerking with the force of his climax. His grip on her hips tightened to the point of pain, holding her pinned and filled as he emptied himself completely.
His breath came in ragged, explosive gasps against the back of her neck. The immense weight pressing her into the mattress seemed to increase as the frantic energy drained from him. Suddenly, his grip on her wrists and hips slackened. With a heavy, exhausted groan, Teddy collapsed sideways onto the quilt, dragging Amara with him. She landed half on her side, half on her back, her body limp and trembling. His thick arm, slick with sweat, snaked possessively around her waist, hauling her back flush against the solid wall of his chest. The sudden shift sent a jolt through her oversensitive core. His softening cock, still thick and heavy, slipped partially out, leaving a trail of wet heat, but the swollen base remained nestled deep within her, a possessive plug trapping his seed inside. Cool air washed over her exposed back, raising goosebumps, contrasting sharply with the furnace heat radiating from his skin.
Amara lay utterly still, her breath shallow and uneven. Her entire body felt shattered, raw nerves singing a discordant tune of pain and lingering aftershocks. The scent of sex, sweat, and pine resin hung thick in the air. She stared blankly at the rough wooden wall, tears drying in salty tracks on her cheeks. Teddy’s breathing began to even out behind her, his hold tightening slightly. His large hand slid from her waist, moving slowly, deliberately, up the curve of her ribs. The calloused pads of his fingers traced the damp skin, leaving a trail of sensation that made her flinch involuntarily. His hand didn’t stop. It continued upwards, over the swell of her breast, the touch possessive but not gentle, until his palm settled heavily at the base of her throat. His thumb pressed lightly against the frantic pulse hammering beneath her jaw.
"Give me a kiss," he said, his voice a low, sleep-thickened rumble against the back of her head. The demand was soft, almost lazy, yet it carried the same weight of command as everything else he did. His thumb stroked the vulnerable skin of her throat once, a silent reinforcement. She didn’t move, her body frozen in the aftermath. The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire and the heavy rhythm of his breathing. His hand on her throat remained, a warm, unyielding weight. "Now," he added, the word barely more than a breath, but the pressure of his thumb increased just enough to be a warning.
And she did. Amara turned her head slowly, the movement stiff, muscles protesting. Her lips brushed the rough stubble of his jaw first, a tentative, feather-light touch. His scent filled her nostrils – sweat, pine, and something darker, primal. She tilted her chin further, seeking his mouth.
Her lips met his, dry and chapped. It was a hesitant, bruised kiss, tasting of salt tears and exhaustion. But Teddy wasn't satisfied. A low growl vibrated in his chest. His hand at her throat slid up, fingers tangling roughly in her hair, fisting it to hold her head still. His other hand clamped onto her jaw, forcing it open wider. Then his tongue surged forward, thick and demanding. It wasn't a kiss; it was an invasion. He pushed past her teeth, plunging deep into her mouth, filling it, claiming it. He tasted of her own release, metallic and musky. She gagged, reflexively trying to pull back, but his grip in her hair was iron, holding her immobile.
Amara knew one thing. Her decision to move to this cabin was the best she had ever made.
Summary: In the thick Mississippi heat of the 1920s, identical twins Elijah “Smoke” Moore and Elias “Stack” Moore return home from war—ragged, restless, and searching for something steady. Promised opportunities have dried up, and the only offer worth taking comes from August Langston, a wealthy Black ranch owner and old friend of their father’s. August gives the boys work and a place to sleep on his sprawling land just outside Clarksdale.
Part three: (this got to be too long and I am pissed because it was getting good! I’m having a lot of fun with this filthy ride! 🥵🥵🥵)
A 1920s Southern Gothic sex comedy where a frustrated ranch wife fucks two dangerous twins behind her husband’s back—and everyone’s sweating, scheming, and sinning under the Mississippi sun.
The room was dark but not silent.
Cicadas murmured through the open window like they’d witnessed everything. Elijah Moore—Smoke—lay flat on his back in a narrow guest bed that smelled faintly of cedar and rose soap. The sheets were cool against his skin, but sweat still lingered at his collarbones, in the crooks of his elbows, beneath his knees. The ache between his legs had dulled, but his heart hadn’t slowed—not once since she left them.
He stared at the ceiling. Wide awake. Naked.
His chest lifted with each breath, slow but uneven. The shadows from the swaying pecan tree outside filtered through the curtains and moved across his body like restless ghosts. His clothes lay in a heap on the floor. Belt unbuckled. Shirt hanging half-off the chair like it had tried to crawl away and failed.
His lip was still wet. He licked it absentmindedly.
He could still taste her.
Delphine Langston.
Lord, have mercy.
He’d never had head like that before. Not even close.
He’d been with a few women—quiet encounters in borrowed rooms, rushed touches behind juke joints, lips that tried their best. But nothing like this. Nothing like her. Not the shy girl who giggled too much. Not the one who whispered scripture after she came. And damn sure not the woman in Mound Bayou who bragged she could suck the soul out a man—but barely touched the edge. Not even the kind of dame who prided herself on taking men apart slow, with spit and eye contact and a wicked little smile.
Delphine had ruined him.
Mouth like silk. Tongue like salvation. Like she knew his body better than he did.
She didn’t ask. She took. Worshipped him. Broke him slow.
And now he was hooked.
What Delphine did? That wasn’t just head.
It was possession.
She swallowed his whole name and made him thank her for it. She moaned while she sucked—moaned like his dick was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted. Like she was hungry. Like he was her last supper and she meant to savor every bite. She held eye contact through the whole thing—like it mattered to her, seeing the life drain out of his control, watching him jerk, watching him beg. Because he did. He begged. Once or twice. Maybe more.
Her mouth was wet and filthy and divine.
And then—she made them eat her.
Both of them. One after the other. Smoke had gone first, of course. Delphine looked at him and said, “C’mon then, soldier. Show me what that mouth been trained for.”
He hadn’t said a word. Just dropped to his knees like he’d been called home.
And Lord…that taste.
Sweet like peach brandy. Slick and hot and soft as velvet. He had to hold her thighs down at one point just to breathe. And when she came? She did it like a woman who knew exactly what her body was for—loud, unashamed, spine-arched to God. She didn’t cover her mouth. Didn’t tremble quiet like girls often did. Delphine shouted, hand twisted in his curls, back bowed. She flooded his mouth, and he drank.
Now he couldn’t stop tasting her.
Couldn’t stop remembering how her thighs trembled, how she praised him afterward like he was a man worth praising. How she turned right around and made Stack go next—“I ain’t done with y’all.” And that was just it—she took them. Not because she was desperate. Not because she was drunk. But because she wanted to. Because she could. And Smoke let her. Stack let her.
He shifted in the bed.
His dick stirred again.
He wasn’t hard—yet. But it was there. That twitch. That heat. That ghost of her mouth still clinging to his skin.
He rubbed a hand down his face, groaned into his palm.
Delphine…Delphine…Delphine…
She was down the hall right now. Probably asleep. Maybe naked under those soft, monogrammed sheets. Maybe glowing still—warm with the aftershocks of sin and satisfaction. Maybe still wet from their mouths.
Smoke squeezed his eyes shut.
He’d kissed women before—a few women here and there. Tasted lust off their lips in alleyways and moonlit fields, let them climb him like a ladder to heaven. But nothing in his life had ever turned his bones to water like what Delphine did to him tonight.
Not just her mouth. Not just her thighs.
Her eyes.
The way she looked at him afterward. Smirking. Proud. Knowing.
Like she saw everything. Like she knew he was trying to keep himself together and was loving the fact that he couldn’t.
That woman had years on him.
And she wore every one of them like silk and ash. Like slow burn molasses. Like something he wasn’t meant to touch but did anyway—and now couldn’t scrub off.
He exhaled slow.
Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked.
His eyes shot to the door. But nothing followed.
No footsteps. No whisper. No soft laugh trailing down the hallway.
Still, the sound of her voice rang in his ears:
“Y’all ain’t never had no grown woman take her time with you, huh?”
He hadn’t. Not like that.
He’d had quick head in the back of juke joints. Rough handjobs in alleyways. Soft thighs in creaky beds. But this? This was worship. This was something holy and filthy all at once. Like she was correcting all the little mistakes younger girls made. Like she was making him feel something, not just bust something.
He ran a hand across his chest, then lower.
His palm brushed his abdomen. Hot. Sensitive. He was sore. Raw. Like her name had been stitched into the muscles.
Stack hadn’t said a damn word when they parted. Just grinned, shook his head, and closed his door like a man too full to speak. Smoke knew that look. Knew his brother felt it too.
The way her mouth worked both of them like she was the one choosing. Like they were the ones auditioning for her.
He turned his head, looked out the window again.
Moonlight spilled in, pale and forgiving.
Smoke inhaled deep.
He could still smell her perfume in his beard.
Could still feel her tongue on his shaft.
The warmth of her palm beneath his balls.
The way she sucked him from root to tip like she meant to undo him.
And she did. She did.
He wasn’t the same man now that he’d been before she knelt between them.
And God help him…
He wanted to do it again.
The ceiling fan above Elias “Stack” Moore ticked soft and slow, slinging lazy air across his bare chest.
But he wasn’t asleep.
Couldn’t be.
His hands were behind his head. His legs stretched wide across the bed. His dick? Still soft, but twitching now and then like it remembered the trouble it had just been in.
He exhaled through his nose, real slow.
What the fuck just happened?
Delphine Langston.
That woman just did something criminal.
He’d been with women. Grown ones too. The ones who whisper filth while they bounce. The ones who like to be watched while they suck. The ones who put on a show just for him.
But Delphine? That wasn’t no performance. That was execution.
She came in like a storm and left them wrecked.
He still felt the way her tongue curled around the head of his dick. The way she sucked him like she was starved—and grateful. Not grateful for him, no. Grateful for the taste. For the way he jerked and hissed and whispered, “Goddamn, baby…who taught you that?”
And she just laughed. Kept going. Didn’t blink.
Stack bit his lip now just remembering it. Remembering the wet pop when she pulled off him with a smirk. That nasty little lick she did up the shaft, slow as a sin, while her eyes burned holes into his soul. Like she could see how many times he’d jerked off alone. Like she could smell it on him.
“Both y’all taste like trouble,” she said. And then she licked her lips and said, “Good thing I like trouble.”
Lord.
Stack had erupted so hard, he felt it in his chest. His thighs shook. His vision blurred. And when he opened his eyes, she was already turning around—already crawling onto the bed like they didn’t just give her half their souls.
That’s when she told Smoke to eat.
Stack had watched. Breathless. Stroking himself slow as he watched his brother vanish between her thighs.
And Delphine…Lord.
She spread wide for it. Rolled her hips like worship. Grabbed the chair and hollered so loud the windows might’ve wept. She called his brother “baby.” Pulled at his curls. Rode his face with purpose.
And then—she looked at Stack.
Right at him.
“Don’t think I forgot about you,” she said.
His dick jumped.
She beckoned him over while Smoke was still on his knees, face shining like he’d been baptized in her. And Stack? He went. Dropped to his knees beside his twin like it was Sunday school and he was ready to repent.
But it wasn’t repentance he gave her.
It was devotion.
Her pussy was hot. Soaked. Sweet like brown sugar and just a little tang of brandy and sweat. He tasted her deeper. Slower. He moaned into her, loud, messy, deliberate. He spread her wider. Took his time. He wanted her shaking. Crying. Squirting. Screaming.
And she gave him all of it.
He still had scratches on his shoulders from where she grabbed him. Still had the taste of her slick on the back of his throat. Still had her voice ringing in his ears:
“Goddamn, Elias—don’t stop. Don’t stop. That’s it. Right there. Baby, yes—right there.”
He groaned now, remembering it.
Hand slid down his stomach.
He was already half-hard again.
His body didn’t know what to do. It wanted her back.
Wanted that mouth.
That grip.
That grown-woman sex energy that made him feel like a boy on his first time. He’d laughed, smug and cocky, when she first pulled them close—talkin’ that slick talk, purring about how they ain’t never had it like this.
But she wasn’t lying.
She meant that.
And Stack? He was humbled. He was blown. And deep down?
He was hooked.
He liked her age. Liked the way her tits hung heavy and natural. Liked the curve of her waist, the fullness of her hips, the confident way she gripped the back of his head like she owned him.
She didn’t ask for permission.
She gave instructions.
She praised. She panted. She came twice—maybe three times. And when they were all breathless and spent, she just smiled. Got up and walked down the hall with her robe open, ass on display like she knew they were watching.
Stack had to close his eyes just to keep from following her.
And now here he was.
Naked. Dick twitching. Mouth dry. Neck still sticky from sweat and perfume and Delphine’s thighs.
He chuckled to himself, low.
“Shit…”
He glanced toward the door.
Thought about going to her room. Real quiet. Just to see. But he didn’t. Because something told him she’d come back.
She’d want it again. And next time?
He was gonna make her beg.
The first thing Delphine noticed was the light.
It slipped through her open shutters like a kiss, warming her thighs beneath the sheets. The room still smelled faintly of brandy, sweat, and sex—not her own, but theirs. The Moore boys. Sleeping in her guest rooms like two worn-out wolves. Spent. Sated. Stretched out naked in the aftermath of her mouth.
Delphine smiled to herself.
A slow, sleepy thing that curled at the corners like honeyed smoke. She rolled over onto her back, arms stretched above her head, letting the silk of her sheet slide down just enough to expose one breast to the sun. She didn’t cover it. Didn’t hide. The nipple pebbled from the air, but she just grinned and let it.
After a long yawn, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Barefoot. Soft feet touched hardwood. Her robe was waiting—champagne-colored silk, too thin, too short, too wrong. She slid it on like she was slipping into sin. Left it untied for now. Let it hang open just enough to tease the tops of her thighs and the gentle curve of her belly. The sash fluttered behind her as she pinned up her hair—messy, tousled, purposeful. A few curls left dangling, one just barely brushing the edge of her jaw.
After brushing her teeth and rinsing her face, she smeared on some lipstick. Not bright red. Something softer. Rosy. Like bitten fruit.
Then she went about her day.
As if nothing happened.
As if she hadn’t bent them both open last night with just her tongue and a few well-timed moans. As if they hadn’t taken turns between her legs while she coached them like a choir. As if she hadn’t come hard on each of their faces and laughed in between.
No, this morning she was sweet Delphine.
Wife of August Langston. Lady of the house.
She opened the windows. Wide.
Let the fresh Delta air pour through her home. The long white curtains danced, brushing her thighs as she passed. She hummed as she walked—a soft hymn, sweet and clean, like she hadn’t nearly choked on dick hours before.
A small bird landed on the kitchen sill. A brown thrasher. Her favorite.
“Well look at you,” she cooed.
She plucked a piece of biscuit from a tin on the counter—one from yesterday—and crumbled it in her palm. Opened the screen slow and let the bird take a peck. Her smile widened.
“Woke up hungry too, huh?”
She shut the screen with a gentle click and moved on. Humming louder now.
She didn’t rush. She swayed.
With each step, the silk of her robe slid over her bare nipples, caught between her thighs, kissed the heat of her already aroused cunt. She liked it like that. Liked how the morning air slid up between her legs when she bent over.
Which she did.
A lot.
She bent slow to sweep the veranda. Bent at the waist, letting her ass peek from beneath the robe as the sun rose behind her. Let her breasts sway freely, hair spilling to one side. She swept like a woman possessed, hips rocking gently with each stroke of the broom.
Then she moved back inside to cook. The kitchen smelled like butter and sassafras as she set out everything she’d need. Grits. Bacon. Biscuits. Eggs. Molasses. Fresh churned butter. A slice of peach pie she thought about frying up in the skillet with cinnamon and cream.
“Mm,” she purred, running a finger through a bowl of syrupy fruit.
She licked her fingertip. Sucked it, slow.
Eyes fluttered shut.
“Mmm…mmph. Whew laaawd,” she whispered, fanning herself with a folded napkin as she leaned back against the counter. Her fingers fluttered against the base of her throat, then slid down…just briefly. Just to her collarbone.
She drew lazy shapes over her chest.
Rolled her shoulders.
Let the robe slip off one side and didn’t bother fixing it.
She moved to the skillet, stirring thick grits with a wooden spoon. Slowly. Sensually. She bent just slightly at the hips as she stirred—just enough to make her ass shimmy. If anyone was watching, they’d think she was doing it on purpose.
They’d be right.
She leaned in to check the oven, pulled it open, and let the heat blast her thighs. She didn’t flinch. Just stood there, legs parted, letting the warmth stroke the bare lips of her pussy. Her folds were already slick from memory alone. She could still feel Stack’s tongue, Smoke’s lips, the way their moans vibrated against her core.
She arched her back and sighed. Whispered a soft, sinful “Whew…”
And then she got back to stirring.
Like nothing ever happened.
She made fresh-squeezed juice, licking the sweet citrus from her knuckles. She powdered her décolletage, humming a dirty blues tune she tried to cover with a hymn. She fan-flipped her hair in the mirror with a smirk that would melt wax. All while two young men slept in her house—naked, drained, dreaming of her mouth.
And as for Miss Delphine?
She had plans, but for now, she let them rest. Because she knew boys like that always wake up hungry.
The smell hit him first.
Stack stirred, blinked once, then again—eyes adjusting to the haze of sunlight creeping through the slatted blinds. His room was warm. Too warm. Sheets tangled around one leg, his bare chest slick with sweat and sleep. But the scent…
Butter. Bacon. Sweet peaches and sausage. Something thick and milky on the stove. And beneath it—her. Delphine. The ghost of her still lingered on his lips.
He shifted.
His dick was hard again. Just from the smell of her breakfast and the way his memory played tricks on his body. A grown woman had sucked his soul out less than twelve hours ago and was now cooking for him like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t squirted on his tongue and walked away whistling.
He ran a hand down his face and groaned.
“Fuck.”
He slid from the bed slowly, naked as the day he was born. His clothes were still crumpled on the floor, but he didn’t bother with all of them. Just stepped into his slacks—no drawers—and let them hang low on his hips. No shirt. Barefoot. He scratched absently at his jaw as he walked toward the door.
That’s when he heard it.
The soft click of the hallway bathroom door opening. He peeked out and saw Smoke, stepping into the hall.
His twin had a towel over his shoulder, another in his hand, dabbing at his face. His slacks were on, hung just as low, but his chest was still damp from the wash-up. The sharp V of his hips glistened. His curls were wet and messy. His eyes, though half-lidded, were watchful. Alert. Just like Stack’s.
They made eye contact. Didn’t speak at first.
Just nodded, slow.
A quiet understanding between brothers.
Then Smoke glanced down the hallway, where the scent of bacon rode thick through the house.
“She cookin’,” he murmured.
Stack smirked, lazy and knowing, “That’s what it smell like.”
Smoke stepped aside, “Bathroom’s free.”
Stack padded across the hall, brushing shoulders with him as he passed, “Appreciate it.”
The bathroom was still steamy from Smoke’s rinse. Stack grabbed the basin, cupped his hands, and splashed his face. The cold water shocked him just enough to bring him fully into his body. He reached for the small tin jar on the shelf—some kind of tooth powder Delphine must’ve kept. There was a little brush laid beside it. Horsehair. Fancy.
He dipped the brush, wet it, and started to scrub his teeth.
Smoke lingered outside the door.
“You sleep?” Stack asked, voice muffled.
“Barely.”
Stack spat. Wiped his mouth, “Me neither.”
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Smoke’s voice again, lower this time:
“She got some kinda hold, huh?”
Stack chuckled, shaking his head as he rubbed his jaw with a towel, “Man. I ain’t never in my life…”
He trailed off, lost in the memory.
The slurp. The suction. The heat. The eyes.
“She put somethin’ in that pussy,” Stack said, voice rough, “She gotta be cursed or touched or…some kinda honey magic.”
Smoke didn’t laugh. Just muttered, “Something.”
They both stood in silence again, staring into different corners of the same thought. Then Stack stepped out the bathroom, leaning in the doorway with the towel still around his neck.
“She act like last night ain’t even happen,” he said, squinting toward the stairs, “Got birds singin’ outside, Windows open. Smell like a juke joint breakfast after revival.”
Smoke nodded, jaw flexing.
“She dangerous.”
Stack smirked, “That the part you like?”
Smoke didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
They both turned slightly toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. The scent was stronger now. Butter and spice and something baked.
But underneath it all?
Her.
She was down there—bare-legged and barefoot, probably humming again, hips swaying with every stir of her spoon. That silk robe barely hiding the wicked she wore like perfume.
Stack let out a slow breath.
“You ready?”
Smoke nodded, “Let’s eat.”
The stairs creaked beneath their bare feet.
Smoke led the way, still drying the back of his neck with the towel, slacks slung low, chest bare and clean. Stack trailed behind—equally shirtless, belt loose, that sleepy-lusty look in his eyes. Neither of them spoke as they descended. They didn’t have to. The scent of grits and sweet cream, frying bacon, and hot peaches hit them like a punch to the chest. But it was her they smelled underneath it all.
Still fresh. Still warm. Still haunting.
And then they saw her.
Delphine.
Standing at the stove like some kind of housewife fantasy sent straight from hell. Silk robe—champagne-colored and criminally short—barely covering the round of her ass. Her legs bare and golden. Her hair pinned up in a messy twist, a few curls falling at the nape of her neck. One bare shoulder peeking out. Nipples just barely visible beneath the thin silk. Lipstick soft, fresh, and bitten. Feet bare. Ankles delicate. Hips rocking slow with every stir of the grits.
And she was humming. A hymn. Sweet and pure. Like her throat hadn’t been full of two dicks and heavy jewels the night before.
Smoke froze halfway into the kitchen.
Stack bit his bottom lip.
Delphine glanced over her shoulder with that same soft, sugary smile. As if they were just neighbors dropping in. As if she hadn’t ridden both their tongues and made them beg.
“Well good mornin’, boys,” she purred, “Y’all sleep alright?”
Neither answered at first.
Stack was the first to recover. He stepped forward, leaned against the doorframe with one shoulder, arms crossed over his chest, watching her every move.
“Somethin’ sure smells good,” he drawled.
Delphine didn’t look at him right away. Just kept stirring—hips swaying side to side, robe shifting dangerously.
“Mm. I figured y’all might be hungry this mornin’. Put a little extra butter in the grits. Bacon’s thick-cut. Biscuits just came out the oven. Got some peach preserves too…little sticky, but sweet.”
She glanced back, her smile laced with venomous innocence.
Smoke cleared his throat, “That for us?”
Delphine turned, slow, “Course it is. Y’all guests, ain’t ya?”
She walked to the table, hips rolling like tidewater. Set down the plates—two of them—heavy and full. Eggs piled soft and golden. Grits rich and steaming. Bacon curled and perfect. She slid each plate down in front of them like offerings at an altar.
Then—without a word—she climbed up onto the table between them.
Leg crossed.
Hip poked out.
Silk robe riding high on her thigh.
Neither man moved. They just stared. Still. Silenced.
She reached behind her and grabbed a small porcelain bowl she’d placed earlier—filled with fresh sliced fruit. Grapes, peaches, bits of plum. Cold and glistening.
Delphine plucked a piece of peach first.
Turned to Smoke.
“Open, baby,” she whispered.
He didn’t hesitate.
She slid the peach slice past his lips, slow.
Watched him chew. Watched his jaw flex. Watched his eyes darken like storm clouds rolling in.
Then she turned to Stack.
Plucked a grape. Raised it to his mouth.
He leaned in, smirking just slightly, and sucked it off her fingers with a low hum. Let his lips linger on her fingertip just a beat too long.
Delphine didn’t flinch.
She just laughed under her breath and reached for another fruit. Then began to speak, all business.
“Now,” she said, soft and proper, “August left y’all a little list of things he was hopin’ to get done ‘round the property today.”
She fed Smoke again. A plum this time.
He licked the juice from the corner of his mouth.
Delphine continued, “Shed doors out back need fixin’. Hinges loose and one of ‘em don’t close all the way. If y’all don’t mind takin’ a look?”
Stack nodded slowly, lips parted.
She fed him another grape.
“Mmhmm,” he said, chewing slow, “We got it.”
“Good,” she purred, “Kitchen cupboard near the sink’s comin’ off the hinge too. I was gonna wait for August to do it, but…I got two strong men right here.”
She smiled between them.
Smoke’s jaw tensed. Stack shifted in his seat.
She knew what she was doing.
“And the fence near the chicken coop?” she went on, plucking another piece of peach, “One of them posts done leaned in like it’s drunk. Might could use a reset.”
She didn’t offer the fruit this time. She licked it herself.
Slow. Tip of her tongue curling around the syrupy edge before she bit down.
“Oh, and if y’all hear any strange noises near the barn… don’t pay it no mind. Just possums gettin’ bold.”
She fanned herself with a napkin, tilted her head back, neck exposed, robe falling deeper into sin.
“Whew laaawd…it’s gettin’ warm already.”
Stack let out a low whistle, “You sure you want us to go outside? We could stay here. Fix a few things in the kitchen first.”
Delphine raised a brow, mock scandalized.
“Now, Mr. Moore, are you flirtin’ with a married woman before breakfast is even finished?”
Stack grinned, “Didn’t seem to bother you none last night.”
Delphine didn’t blink.
She just leaned in close, her voice velvet, “Well baby, that was last night.”
Then she popped another grape into her mouth and chewed, slow. The juice dripped down her thumb. She licked it—tight suction, eyes closed.
When she looked back at them, she smiled.
“Y’all better eat. Don’t want your food gettin’ cold.”
The sun had climbed higher now, burning lazy through the thick Mississippi air. It glazed the house and yard in that golden haze, made sweat bead up along the spines of working men, and turned every movement slow—slower than sin.
Smoke was out by the fence, shirtless, slacks clinging low to his hips, hammer in one hand, nail balanced in the other. His forearms flexed with each strike. Jaw clenched. Back damp. Stack was kneeling near the shed, elbow-deep in rusted hinges and fresh curses. A cigarette hung unlit from his lips. Sweat rolled down his temple.
That’s when they heard her screen door creak.
Delphine.
She floated down the porch steps barefoot, a sweating pitcher of lemonade in one hand and two cold glasses pinched elegantly in the other. She moved like she had all the time in the world, like she wasn’t about to ruin the men she was walking toward. Her dress was gauze-thin, the color of cream soaked in sunlight. It clung to her body in all the right places—and all the wrong ones. The breeze caught the hem, lifted it just enough to show the sway of bare thighs. No drawers. No bra. Her nipples pressed firm against the fabric, hard from heat and intent.
She was humming.
Low and lazy. Something that might’ve been a hymn… or a slow drag blues tune. When she reached them, she stopped in the middle—between fence and shed—and looked them both over with the kind of smile that made men sell their souls.
“Whew,” she breathed, fanning her collarbone with the edge of her hand, “Y’all workin’ so hard…made me feel like bringin’ out somethin’ cold.”
Stack looked up from his crouch, jaw ticking. Smoke set the hammer down, slow.
Delphine set the glasses on a nearby bench and poured. The lemonade slid thick and slow, catching light. Ice clinked. The pitcher hissed with sweat. She poured Stack’s first. Just a little too slow. Just enough to let the sugar drip down her fingers.
“Oh…” she said sweetly, “’Scuse me.”
She lifted her hand to her mouth and sucked the sugar off two fingers, slow and deliberate. Her tongue curled around the tips, lips closing tight with a slick little pop. Smoke watched, expression unreadable—but his chest was rising faster.
Delphine turned to him next.
“Yours comin’ up, baby.”
She leaned forward to pour his glass—and leaned too far. Her breasts hung heavy beneath the gauze, swaying with every tilt of her wrist. He could see the soft outline of her nipple through the fabric. Could smell her now—fresh lemon, honey sweat, and something darker. Something still lingering from last night.
“Oops…”
She let the pitcher drip just a touch. The lemonade spilled over the rim, ran down the side of the glass, and over her hand. She licked that, too.
Stack stood up slowly, eyes dragging down the line of her body like a man looking for sin on a Sunday, “You tryin’ to kill us, woman?”
Delphine just laughed—sweet, light, dangerous.
Then, without warning, she walked behind him.
Stack didn’t move.
She pulled a wooden chair from beside the bench and straddled it backward, her sundress parting just slightly at the center. Her bare thighs kissed the sides of the seat. The curve of her ass pressed to the top rail. She folded her arms on the backrest, resting her chin on them. Watching him work.
“Don’t mind me,” she said, voice all syrup and smirk, “Just keepin’ y’all company.”
Stack muttered something low and filthy under his breath.
Smoke turned away, jaw flexing. Tried to focus. Picked the hammer back up.
Delphine just sat there, humming again. Her thighs glowed in the light. Her lips glistened from sugar. Every time they stole a glance—she was looking already.
Then she was in the garden.
Like the water run hadn’t already wrecked them both. Like the juice she sucked from her fingers didn’t still sit heavy on their tongues. Like she hadn’t already straddled a chair behind Stack, lips curled in a lazy grin, watching the sweat roll down his back like it was her favorite show.
But now?
Now she was barefoot in the garden. Bent low, hips high, arms deep in the soil like she was being blessed by it. The same gauzy sundress clung damp to her skin—splotched with water, pinched by breeze, and painted with light. It barely covered her. Didn’t try to. The lace trim danced around her thighs as she moved, but offered no real modesty. Every time she bent forward, the back lifted.
Stack could see everything.
Smoke saw it too. He was across the yard, fixing the fence post August had asked about, but his eyes had drifted again. He was trying to work. Really trying. But all he could think about was the sweet curve of her ass, the way her dress split open like a ripe fig, the sun turning every bead of sweat into glitter on her thighs.
“Damn shame,” Stack muttered, his hammer resting against the shed.
She didn’t look up. Not at first.
She just kept pulling weeds and pretending she didn’t know they were watching.
But she knew.
Her back arched deeper. She shifted her stance—left leg planted, right one out, open just slightly. Her fingers dug into the earth, but her lips parted like she was remembering their mouths.
Then came the sound, That soft, low moan.
Not loud.
But enough.
“Mmm…”
A sweet, sensual hum—like she’d found the softest dirt in the Delta. Or maybe like she was grinding on memory. Either way, it knocked the air right out of Smoke’s chest. Stack leaned on the side of the shed, chewing a toothpick now to keep his mouth busy. His pants were tight. Real tight. And he hated how easily she did this to him.
“You see this shit?” he asked toward Smoke without taking his eyes off her.
Smoke grunted, jaw locked. Didn’t respond.
Delphine finally looked up. Only then.
Hands dirty, smile wicked.
“Oh,” she said, pretending surprise, “Y’all still workin’? I thought maybe y’all packed it in, the way everything got so…quiet.”
She stood slowly, wiping her hands on her thighs. Purposefully smearing the dirt higher, The dress clung worse now. Between the heat and the work, it was practically glued to her skin. She fanned herself with her hand and looked toward the house.
“I oughta rinse off before I start ya’ll lunch,” she said, voice innocent as a dove, “Might wash out here. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little sun on the skin.”
She turned—slow—and walked back toward the house.
Stack watched the sway of her ass, the outline of everything beneath that thin cotton. He looked toward Smoke again, voice rough:
“We gon’ die here.”
Smoke didn’t disagree.
By late afternoon, the Delta heat was heavy enough to press a man to prayer. Cicadas hummed loud in the trees. The air hung thick with honeysuckle and sawdust. Smoke was still at the fence post, forearms flexing with each strike, shirt long abandoned, chest slick and gleaming. Stack had moved closer to the side of the house, now fixing the warped kitchen shutter—just below the open window Delphine had leaned out of earlier to hum and tease and ruin.
Neither of them saw her come out the back door.
But they heard the creak.
And when they turned, she was already at the wash basin—bent low, lace hem hiked, thighs parted just so.
Delphine.
Barefoot. Bare-legged. Damp curls pinned up high but falling loose around her neck. That same white cotton slip, thin as moonlight, sticking to the small of her back and the curve of her ass like it had been painted there.
She crouched down next to a tin bowl filled with cool water from the pump. She dipped her hands in first—fingers delicate, movements slow—then cupped her palms, lifted, and poured the water down over her chest
The fabric turned see-through instantly.
It clung to her nipples, hard and proud, the pink of her areolas clearly visible beneath the wet cotton. The water ran between her breasts, down her sternum, and disappeared beneath the soft swell of her belly.
Stack froze mid-step, one hand braced against the wood siding.
Smoke dropped a nail.
Delphine didn’t look at them. Not yet.
She cupped another handful of water and poured it behind her neck. Arched her back. Let out a quiet, breathy “mmm…” as it slid down her spine. The slip clung tighter with every drop, now fully pasted to her backside, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Then she sat back on her heels—legs open, knees pressed wide, lace trim bunched at the crease of her thighs.
Water dripped between them. Slowly.
The breeze licked her bare folds. She didn’t close her legs.
She took a small cloth—threadbare and soft—and began dabbing the insides of her thighs, not to dry… but to tease. Her fingers moved slow, deliberate, pressing the cloth between her legs and holding it there. Her mouth parted.
She whispered something to herself.
Neither man could hear it, but the look on her face?
That said enough.
Her eyes fluttered shut. Her lips curved. She rubbed the cloth in a soft, circular motion—once, then again. A third time. And then she let it drop back into the basin like it burned her.
Only then did she look toward them.
Eyes lazy. Lidded. Hungry.
“Oh,” she purred, “Y’all losing focus? Didn’t mean to distract.”
Stack’s jaw was clenched. Hard. One hand gripped the windowsill, knuckles white. Smoke stood behind the fence post like it was the only thing holding him upright.
Delphine smiled, soft and slow.
“Hot day,” she said, almost a whisper, “Needed a little cool-down. Hope y’all don’t mind.”
She reached for the basin again—tipped it forward—and let the water pour down the front of her dress in one last long stream, soaking her completely. It splashed her thighs, clung to her mound, dripped from the place they both dreamed about.
She gasped at the cold.
Pressed one hand to her chest.
Arched, just slightly.
Then stood. Slipped her fingers beneath the hem of the dress and wrung out the fabric between her legs. The sound was obscene. Wet. Sloppy. She turned, hips glistening, thighs slick, and walked back toward the house—bare ass bouncing beneath cotton so soaked it was transparent.
Stack stared so hard he forgot to blink.
Smoke muttered something under his breath that sounded like a prayer. Or a curse.
And both men?
Rock hard. Breathless.
Ruined.
The screen door shut behind her with a soft click. Delphine was gone from sight now, but the image lingered—wet thighs, lace clinging to her cunt, that smirk like she knew exactly what she’d done to them. And she did. Stack stood near the porch steps, breathing hard. His chest rose and fell like he’d just fought somebody. His jaw twitched. One hand balled at his side, the other flexed like it didn’t know what to grab—his dick or a damn rope to pull him back from the edge.
“She crazy,” he muttered, “She fuckin’ crazy.”
He turned toward the steps.
Started moving.
But Smoke’s voice came sharp behind him.
“Stack.”
He didn’t stop.
“Stack,” Smoke said again—louder, firmer.
Stack froze at the base of the steps, fists clenched. He turned back, slow. Sweat slid down the line of his neck. Smoke stood a few yards away, shirt still off, chest heaving, his mouth tight with restraint. He didn’t walk closer. Just held his ground.
“Don’t,” he said, “Don’t go in there.”
Stack’s eyes narrowed, “You gonna try and stop me?”
Smoke didn’t blink, “You don’t need to go in there hot like that.”
Stack laughed—low and bitter. Ran his tongue across the inside of his cheek, looked off like he was trying to find the words. Then his eyes locked back on his brother.
“She got me fucked up, ‘Lijah,” he said, voice rough, “Out here playin’ like that. Dress all see-through. Water runnin’ between her legs like she know what she doin’. Like she want me to see it.”
He took a step closer to the porch.
“I’ma tear her ass up.”
Smoke’s jaw flexed. His hand twitched by his side. Stack pointed back toward the house, voice lower now—gritted.
“You see how she wrung that damn dress out right between her legs? You see that shit?”
Smoke didn’t answer.
Stack stepped forward again, this time slower. More deliberate.
“She want it. I ain’t stupid. That woman up there actin’ like she cookin’ biscuits and hangin’ laundry but she’s beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word. And I ain’t gon’ let her play me like a boy.”
Another step.
“I’ma tear her up, Smoke. I mean that,” he balled his fist, “Best believe I’m gon get her.”
Smoke’s voice came like gravel.
“You do it angry, she gon’ flip it on you.”
Stack paused. Eyes locked. Breathing ragged.
“I ain’t angry.”
A beat.
“I’m needy.”
The tension between them was tight enough to choke.
Stack’s chest was still rising heavy, jaw set like stone. Smoke hadn’t moved, but his eyes were sharp—watchful. The sun pressed down on their skin, slick with sweat, dust stuck to their forearms, and Delphine’s ghost still dancing behind their eyes.
Then the screen door creaked open again.
Delphine stepped out.
Same robe as before.
Champagne-colored. Thin. Wrong.
It clung to her like it belonged there, cinched lazy at the waist, just barely holding the heat of her body behind satin. Her thighs were glowing. Breasts soft and high beneath the fabric. Hair still pinned up, though a few curls had fallen loose. Lipstick still fresh, like she’d only just touched it up. She stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, grinning like she hadn’t just pushed both men to the brink of madness.
“Lunch is ready,” she called out.
Her voice was light. Sweet. Wholesome.
Her eyes weren’t.
She looked between them, slow. Let her gaze linger. One on Stack. One on Smoke. That curve of a smile never faltered.
“And don’t you two filthy things dare sit at my table with them hands. Go on and wash.”
Then she turned and disappeared inside, bare feet tapping soft across the kitchen floor.
Smoke exhaled first. Stack shook his head like he’d been snapped out of a spell.
“Woman act like she don’t even know what she done,” he muttered, heading toward the steps.
Smoke followed behind, still silent, still unreadable.
They washed up at the spout out back, dried their hands on a towel that smelled like lemon and lavender, then stepped up onto the veranda—both plates in hand. Lunch was hearty: smothered pork chops, stewed okra, cornbread soaked with honey, and tea cold enough to draw sweat on the glass.
They ate standing up.
Neither man said much.
Then—
the sound of a car. Gravel crunching. An engine slowing.
Both turned.
A battered old Chevrolet pickup was rolling up the dirt drive, tires spitting dust. Inside, a man—late fifties maybe. Skin dark and tanned by years of sun, wearing a straw hat and a crooked grin. The back of his truck was stacked with lumber. He parked and stepped out slow, wiping his hands on a rag. Looked around the property. Spat once. Then his eyes caught on something—or someone.
Delphine.
She’d just stepped out onto the path again.
Still in that robe.
Still barefoot.
Still glowing with whatever that was only she knew how to carry.
The man’s mouth dropped a little.
Delphine didn’t flinch.
She walked toward him, hips swaying in that slow rhythm that had already hollowed two younger men out. She didn’t speed up. Didn’t act surprised. Just nodded once in greeting.
“Mornin’, Mr. Granger,” she said sweetly, “Right on time.”
The man adjusted his hat, eyes never leaving her body, “Got that lumber your husband asked for.”
“Mmm. Yes. I was wonderin’ if you could stack it near the side of the barn. That corner under the awning—he wants to keep it dry.”
Her hand rose to fix the tie on her robe. But she did it absentmindedly. Tugged it just a little tighter. One side slipped, exposing the curve of her breast before she adjusted again. Not rushed. Not flustered. Unbothered.
Mr. Granger swallowed hard.
From the veranda, Smoke and Stack both watched.
Smoke’s brow ticked.
Stack chewed slower, jaw flexing.
Delphine turned slightly to point at the spot—one hand lifting to gesture, the other brushing her hair back from her neck. Her whole silhouette gleamed in the sunlight. The robe clung. The swell of her hip pressed through the fabric.
Mr. Granger stared.
Asked something. Probably dumb.
Delphine laughed. A light, honeyed laugh. Like she didn’t notice his gaze crawling all over her like heat on glass.
“She playin’ too damn much,” Stack muttered, licking honey from his thumb.
Smoke said nothing. Just kept chewing. Kept watching.
But his hand gripped the edge of the veranda railing.
Hard.
The screen door creaked behind him. Stack stepped inside, the cool air of the kitchen brushing over his sweat-damp skin. His bare chest still glistened from the sun, pants slung low, boots leaving a faint trail of dust on the clean wooden floor.
Delphine was by the sink.
Still in that robe.
Still barefoot.
Still the most dangerous thing in the room.
Her back was to him—shoulders relaxed, hips easy, humming low under her breath as she ran water over a glass bowl. She was rinsing peaches. Casual. Calm. Like she hadn’t spent the day pulling them apart with every moan, sway, and glance.
Stack’s jaw flexed.
He took his time walking in. Didn’t announce himself. Just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes dragging slow down the length of her body.
“You always like this?” he asked finally.
Delphine didn’t turn.
“Like what, baby?”
His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek.
“Walkin’ ‘round damn near naked. Moanin’ into open windows. Splashin’ your pussy in front of folks like it’s just another pot to rinse.”
That made her smile.
She turned then—slow and soft—still drying her hands on a towel.
“You mad about the peaches, Elias?” she asked sweetly, “Or the pussy?”
His nostrils flared.
Delphine walked past him without waiting for an answer, swaying toward the table to grab a fresh napkin. Her robe shifted with every step, that satin whisper of a hem barely brushing the backs of her thighs. She bent—just slightly—to pick something up off the chair cushion.
Stack’s eyes dropped instantly.
“You enjoy torturin’ men?” he asked, voice lower now.
Delphine stood upright again, turning back toward him with that calm, unbothered expression that made him ache, “Torture’s such a harsh word,” she said, folding the napkin delicately, “I just like seein’ what a man’s made of.”
Stack laughed under his breath. Stepped off the wall. Closed the distance slow, one heavy boot at a time.
“Keep playin’ like that, Delphine…” he murmured, “I’ma show you exactly what I’m made of.”
She tilted her head, “Mmm. Promise?”
He stopped just in front of her—close enough to feel her breath. His eyes dropped to her mouth. His voice dropped too.
“You don’t know what you doin’. You think you runnin’ the show, but all you doin’ is wakin’ somethin’ up that ain’t gon’ let you sleep.”
Delphine didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t retreat.
Instead, she took a slow step forward—closer than close now—until the silk of her robe brushed his stomach. She looked up at him with that same lazy, dangerous smile.
“Maybe I like wakin’ things up.”
Stack’s breath caught.
She reached past him—to grab a spoon off the counter—but let her chest press against him in the process. Just for a second. Just enough. Her nipple grazed his skin through the robe.
Stack clenched his jaw, hard.
“You tryin’ to get fucked in this kitchen?” he asked, voice tight.
Delphine turned around—back to him again—and stirred something in a bowl like he hadn’t just threatened to bend her over the damn counter.
“You tryin’ to lose control in front of your brother?” she replied, light as sugar, “’Cause that’s what I see.”
Stack’s lips parted. His hands twitched at his sides.
She glanced over her shoulder, coy.
“Go on and breathe, baby. You run hot, don’t you?”
He stepped forward, fast. One hand caught the edge of the counter beside her. His voice was a rasp.
“Don’t play with me.”
Delphine didn’t even flinch. She just dipped her finger into the batter—slowly—then licked it clean.
Her lips smacked.
“I’m not playin’,” she said softly. “I’m just…preppin’ the oven.”
She walked past him again.
This time, her eyes lingered.
And he didn’t follow.
Not yet.
Stack didn’t move. Just stood with his arms crossed, chest still heaving, pupils still blown wide. That heat was still there—beneath his skin, in his jaw, his clenched fists. Delphine’s scent, her sway, her smirk… all of it had left him twitching like a fuse about to light.
And then the screen door creaked.
Smoke entered.
Quiet.
Heavy-footed. Bare-chested. Tension walking. He closed the door behind him with a slow click and looked between them—first at Stack, who gave him a sharp nod, and then at Delphine.
She was already looking.
That same lazy, dangerous smile curling her lips like the steam rising off the gumbo pot on the stove. But there was something new behind her eyes now.
Challenge.
She gave Stack one last glance—just a flick of the eyes, a smirk of a smirk—and then turned with a slow, dragging sway toward the dining room.
Every step was intentional.
Like the floor itself bowed for her.
She pulled out a chair at the head of the table, slow and graceful, turned it toward herself—and looked at Smoke.
“Sit down, baby.”
Her voice was soft. Low. Like a secret between lovers.
Smoke didn’t speak. He obeyed.
He stepped forward, silent and slow, those dark eyes never leaving her. His jaw was tense, his chest rising steady, but his body moved like it had no question. No hesitation. He lowered himself into the chair, spreading his legs just slightly, hands resting on his thighs.
Delphine stepped between them.
And then—she straddled him.
Slid down onto his lap like honey pouring slow, one thigh at a time wrapping around his hips. The robe hiked. Her skin touched his. No panties. Just warm, wet heat resting soft against the front of his slacks.
Smoke sucked in a slow breath through his nose.
Delphine leaned forward—one hand resting on his chest, the other brushing over his thick hair. Her lips just inches from his own. Her voice? Velvet sin.
“You agree with your brother?” she asked sweetly.
She kissed his jaw.
“Hmm?”
She dragged her lips across his cheek, down to his neck. Her hips rolled once against him, soft and slow, “Think I been misbehavin’?” Her hand trailed lower, brushing across the hard line beneath his waistband, “You think I been a bad girl?” she whispered.
And then—
She leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear.
“You think I been a little ol’ whore, Elijah?”
The word came sugar-slick. Southern-slow. Like she’d said it before. Like she liked saying it.
She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes.
Smoke stared up at her. His hands hadn’t moved.
His voice came low.
Gravel.
Controlled fire.
“…Yeah.”
Delphine’s eyes fluttered. Just slightly.
“Think I been a lil’ nasty bitch?”
Smoke’s lips curved.
“You been walkin’ ‘round this house like a lil’ backwoods pussy-slickin’ Jezebel,” he said, each word unhurried, unmerciful.
Delphine’s thighs clenched around him.
He went on.
“Moanin’ through open windows. Drippin’ water down your slit like you ain’t had two grown men starin’ at you ready to fuck the soul out your body.”
Her mouth parted.
Her breath hitched.
“And now you sittin’ on my lap, askin’ questions you already know the answer to.”
A pause.
Smoke tilted his head up, eyes sharp, jaw set.
“Yeah, baby. You been a nasty lil’ thing.”
Delphine let out a quiet moan in the back of her throat. Stack watched it all from the kitchen—arms still crossed, dick still hard, rage and arousal warring in his chest. Watching her straddle his brother. Watching Smoke speak filth into her ear like he wasn’t the quiet one.
Delphine turned just slightly, eyes flicking to Stack again.
She licked her lips.
Whispered to Smoke—but loud enough to be heard.
“You wanna see how nasty I can get?”
Delphine rocked her hips slow.
Real slow.
Her slick heat rubbed along the hard shape of Smoke beneath her, separated only by the rough fabric of his slacks. Each grind was drawn out—measured, like a sermon dragged on for the purpose of temptation.
Smoke didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
His hands were still on his thighs. Still.
But his jaw was tight. His nostrils flared with every pass of her soaked pussy over him.
Delphine moaned low against his neck, her arms sliding around his shoulders, fingers curling in the damp curls at his nape. She wasn’t rushing. She was savoring. Her lips brushed his ear as she whispered between breathy gasps:
“August says I oughta go away…”
Another roll of her hips. Slow and wicked.
“Says I’m too hungry. Too filthy. Says I need a room in a house far from men…”
Her voice trembled, but not from sadness—from pleasure.
Her lips grazed Smoke’s temple, her thighs tightening around his waist.
“He said no woman should need dick like I do.”
She ground against him again—harder this time. A whimper slipped from her lips. She let it happen. Let it echo in the room.
“Said it’s unnatural.”
Smoke swallowed. Hard.
Delphine’s hand slid down his chest, fingers spreading over his sternum, nails dragging lightly across his skin.
“Do you agree?” she whispered, “You think I’m indecent?”
Neither man answered.
Not a word.
But the heat in Smoke’s eyes, the way his chest rose beneath her, the twitch in his thigh muscle beneath her leg—it told her everything.
Still, she wanted more.
Her fingers tightened in his curls. Fisted. She yanked his head back just enough to expose his throat.
“What’s your favorite thing about my body?” she asked, voice hoarse now. Dangerous.
Her other hand slipped between them.
She untied the sash of her robe.
Let it fall open like petals in the sun.
Breasts bared. Nipples hard. Skin glowing and soft and mine, mine, mine. She was breathing hard now. But her eyes never left his.
“Hmm?” she purred, “You like my titties? My mouth? The way my pussy soaks your lap like I’m beggin’ for you?”
Smoke’s lips parted, just slightly.
Delphine leaned closer. Her breast pressed to his chest. Her hips rolled again—slower, filthier.
“You like the way I fuck?” she whispered, “Like a married woman who ain’t been touched right in years?”
She dragged his lower lip between her teeth. Not biting—just holding.
Then she released it and moaned against his cheek.
“You gon’ let me sit on your face, baby?”
Smoke’s hands moved.
Finally.
They gripped her thighs like claiming, like possession had just started.
Stack made a noise from across the room.
Like a growl swallowed down too late.
Delphine’s head turned, just enough to look at him—still seated. Still watching. Still raging and rock hard.
She smiled.
And ground down harder.
Smoke’s hands were still on her thighs. Tense. Trembling. Fighting against the instinct to flip her, tear that robe off, and ruin her right there on the chair. But before he could act—Delphine lifted.
Lifted slow.
Lifted wet.
His slacks glistened where her soaked heat had marked him. His dick strained hard, thick and angry against the fabric.
She kissed the side of his jaw one last time and whispered, “Don’t move yet.”
Then she turned.
Graceful.
Hips leading like gospel rhythm.
Her robe had fallen open fully now—slipping from her shoulders, draped behind her like scandal. She walked toward the center of the kitchen with a sway that belonged in dreams and baptisms gone wrong.
Stack watched her move like she was the rapture itself.
She stopped. Turned. Looked at him.
“C’mere,” she said.
Her voice wasn’t loud.
But it landed.
Stack didn’t budge at first. He stood tall. Arms still crossed. Head cocked slightly like he needed clarification.
Delphine raised a brow, chin tilted. That syrupy smirk rising.
“I said come here, baby.”
Still, Stack hesitated. He licked his lips, jaw tight.
“You ain’t gon’ boss me around like I’m one of them boys beggin’ in the juke line,” he muttered.
Delphine’s smile widened.
“You already beggin’. You just too proud to know it.”
Then, like the filthiest fairy tale ever whispered, she lifted her leg—slow, smooth, deliberate—and hiked it onto the edge of the kitchen counter next to the steaming pot of gumbo.
The robe slid further off her body, baring her entirely.
Her pussy was glistening. Open. Dripping.
She looked down at herself, then back at Stack.
“Wanna make sure I got a good clean earlier,” she said sweetly, “That cloth felt real nice, but I’m wonderin’ if I missed a spot…”
Stack twitched.
His fists clenched at his sides.
Smoke shifted behind them in the chair—silent, barely breathing, still throbbing in his pants. Delphine dragged two fingers across her inner thigh, slow as vanilla bean paste.
“Come inspect me, baby,” she purred, “Real close. On your knees.”
Stack stared at her for a long beat.
Then he dropped.
Slow.
Knees hit the floor.
He crawled the last few inches like a man walking into hell, and grabbed hold of her hips, his face just inches from her slick, swollen folds.
He didn’t touch yet.
Just stared. Breathing heavy. Jaw ticking.
“F-FFuck,” he whispered.
Delphine looked down at him, the queen of all things indecent.
“You see somethin’ that needs cleanin’?”
Stack looked up—eyes blazing.
“You a filthy-ass bitch,” he muttered.
Delphine laughed.
Loud. Free.
The sound filled the kitchen like wind through satin curtains.
“Damn right I am,” she said, “That’s what August hates the most. Says I fuck like a stray. Says my body got a mind of its own.”
Stack groaned. Pressed his forehead to her thigh.
Delphine grabbed a fistful of his hair and guided his face just barely closer.
She whispered, “Tell me again what I am.”
Stack’s breath hit her skin.
“You a goddamn whore,” he rasped, “Drippin’ like this with your husband gone? Flashin’ your pussy like it’s the fuckin’ evening show?”
She gasped, soft and high.
Laughed again. Moaned right after.
“Mm. Yes, baby. Keep goin’.”
Smoke sat watching it all.
Still.
Ruined.
Waiting his turn.
The smell of her was dizzying. Warm, sweet, musky like molasses soaked through cotton drawers—except she wasn’t wearing any. Just bare, wet pussy lips glistening in the light over the stove. One thigh was hiked up on the counter next to the gumbo, and Stack was crouched on the floor like a sinner at the altar, hands braced on her hips, breath hot against her skin.
Delphine.
Robe open, one hand braced against the wall, the other wrapped around the handle of a kitchen drawer like it might float away if she didn’t hold it down.
“Slow,” she warned him, her voice syrupy but firm, fingers slipping into his hair as he leaned forward too fast, “Uh uh. This ain’t no race, lover.”
Stack paused. His mouth was damn near trembling from how bad he wanted to taste her.
He groaned low, lips brushing the top of her thigh, “You gon’ kill me.”
Delphine smiled, her nails scratching lightly across his scalp, “Then die slow.”
She guided him in, hand firm behind his head. Her thighs parted more. He started at her crease, tongue dragging up the slick heat of her pussy, tasting every bit of her teasing and all of her filth. She gasped. That pretty mouth of hers parted, eyes fluttering back.
“That’s it,” she cooed, hips starting to rock, “Lick me like you mean it. Like you want me to cum on your face.”
Stack moaned into her. He licked slow, then again, then circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, lazy and careful like he was tasting a peach for ripeness. Delphine rolled her hips into his face and let out a low, broken moan that tightened his pecker in his pants.
“Yesss…there you go, baby…”
Stack wrapped his arms around her thighs and buried himself deeper.
She was soft and wet and filthy, and he wanted all of it. He started moving faster, sucking her clit into his mouth with just enough pressure to make her cry out. Then—he slid two fingers inside her, slow and deep.
“Stack—ohhh, fuck…”
Her head dropped back. Mouth open. Her leg trembled. Her robe had fallen further. One breast was fully exposed, nipple hard and bouncing gently with each thrust of his fingers.
Stack didn’t stop. Didn’t come up for air.
Her hand twisted in his curls, pulling him tighter, grinding her hips right into his mouth.
“That’s it. Just like that. God, you learn quick…”
Stack flicked his tongue faster, groaning into her wetness, soaking his mouth, his chin, even the top of his chest. He could barely breathe. Didn’t want to. Wanted her to drown him in it.
She was moaning louder now.
One hand on the counter. One hand on his head.
Her voice rose—pure, Southern, filthy heat.
“You want it, baby? You want me to cum all over that pretty face?”
He nodded while eating. Sucked harder.
“I need it,” he panted against her skin, “Say my name when you do.”
Delphine’s body seized up.
Her thighs clenched around his head. Her breath caught.
Then she broke.
“Elias—fuck—Elias, don’t stop, don’t—don’t you stop—!”
Her pussy pulsed around his fingers. Her body shuddered against his mouth. She came like she was built to, wild and loud, hips jerking forward, voice cracking with pleasure.
He kept licking.
Slower now, sweetly, gently.
Kept his tongue on her clit while she trembled, while she whimpered his name, while her legs nearly gave out.
She exhaled hard. Laughed once. Breathless.
“Mmm…God, I could keep you down there forever.”
Stack finally pulled back, his face shining with her.
He looked up, lips swollen, eyes dark.
“Let me,” he said, “Please.”
Stack was still on his knees, breathless and shining. Delphine’s thigh slipped from the counter, shaky but sure, and she leaned forward—hands in his hair—and pulled him up by the mouth.
Their lips crashed together.
Filthy. Deep. Wet.
Her taste was still all over his chin, and she kissed him like she wanted to taste herself again. Her tongue swept through his mouth, curling against his. Her hands gripped the sides of his face as she moaned into him, hips grinding against his thigh. Stack groaned and kissed her back hard, his hands roaming, greedy.
Then—
Smoke stood.
The chair scraped back, soft but final.
Delphine didn’t break the kiss right away. But she smiled against Stack’s mouth.
“I knew you’d come,” she whispered.
She turned, robe still hanging loose, body bare and slick, and looked at him—Elijah.
He stood a few steps away, fists clenched, chest rising fast. His dick was rock hard and tenting the front of his pants, and his eyes were wild with restraint.
But underneath?
He was nervous.
She saw it.
And she softened.
“C’mere, baby,” she said, breath still ragged.
Smoke hesitated.
Delphine stepped closer, slowly, until they were chest to chest. Her hand lifted—gentle, tender—and cradled his cheek.
“You don’t have to rush. You ain’t gotta be perfect. Just feel.”
She took his hand and led him to the edge of the table. She hopped up, legs open, thighs glistening.
She slid her fingers between her folds and parted herself, shameless and glowing.
“Start here,” she whispered, voice sweet but dripping, “Slow…lick me like you tastein’ honey off your knuckles.”
Smoke dropped to his knees.
His breath hitched.
He leaned in, face flushed, eyes locked on her glistening heat. He inhaled—
And groaned.
Her scent was sweet, earthy, thick with heat and arousal. It punched him in the gut, made his mouth water, made his hands tremble as they gripped her thighs. His tongue touched her—tentative, a soft flick.
She gasped.
“Mm…there you go.”
He did it again. Longer this time.
Delphine let her head fall back slightly, one hand sliding through his curls.
“Don’t stop now,” she breathed, hips starting to rock, “Just like that, baby…yes…don’t you dare stop.”
Smoke’s tongue grew bolder—stroking, circling, tasting. He latched onto her clit with a gentle suck that made her cry out. Her thighs tensed around his head.
“Fuck—Elijah…”
Her voice was shaking now.
She was squirmin’ under his tongue, moanin’ like she was breakin’, gripping his curls, breath catching.
And Smoke?
He moaned into her—overwhelmed by her taste, by the slick glide of her heat on his lips, the wet sounds, the way she writhed under his mouth.
“Right there, right there, baby—oh, you learnin’ fast…”
He sucked again—deeper, longer, slower. She jerked.
Then—
She came.
Hard.
With a cry that echoed through the kitchen.
Her body bucked, thighs locked around his head, her voice breaking.
“Fuck, Smoke—don’t—don’t you—stop—don’t—”
But he didn’t.
He kept licking.
Slower. Deeper. Worshipful.
Because something had changed.
Smoke was shaking.
But he stayed between her thighs.
Longer than needed.
Tongue soft now. Gentle licks that dragged across her, making her twitch and tremble and whimper.
He didn’t want to stop.
Not ever.
He’d found something he hadn’t known he needed.
Her taste. Her sound. Her shaking. Her surrender.
He was addicted now.
Smoke didn’t come up. Didn’t pull away.
His tongue was steady now—focused, gentle but unrelenting. He licked her like a man who had found a new religion, like every soft gasp that left her lips fed something inside him. Delphine’s head was tipped back. Her curls shook with every tremble. Her thighs, once strong around his head, were starting to quiver.
Her mouth was open—but no words came. She couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Her body was fluttering, caught somewhere between ecstasy and prayer. Smoke’s tongue dragged up her slit again, slower this time. His lips latched back around her clit with a kind of worship.
And she jerked.
A choked noise left her throat. Her hand flew to his head, fingers twisting into his tight curls.
“Elijah,” she gasped, “Wait—baby…”
He moaned into her.
Didn’t pause.
Didn’t hear the warning for what it was.
Delphine gasped again, this time sharper—panicked with pleasure.
“I’m—oh—sugar, I’m gon’—”
She bit her lip.
Voice dropped to a whisper, ashamed but trembling with it, “Lawd, I’m ‘bout to gush—”
She tried to pull back.
But Smoke gripped her hips tighter and dragged her in.
And then—
She broke.
Delphine cried out, legs kicking, eyes flying wide as her orgasm spilled over, slick and sudden and shocking, a warm flood against Smoke’s mouth.
She squirted.
Hard.
Her thighs clamped. Her voice cracked.
“Oh my God—”
Smoke flinched. Eyes wide. The shock of it hit him—wet and messy and violent in its sweetness.
But he didn’t stop.
Not for a second.
He groaned against her, licking through it, tasting her release like it was something sacred. His hips rutted against the floor. He didn’t even realize he was doing it.
He was drunk now. Gone.
Delphine collapsed back against the table, one arm over her eyes, chest rising and falling like she’d just run through a storm. Her robe had slipped entirely off one shoulder. One breast rose and fell, glistening with sweat.
Her body twitched.
Her hand was still in his hair—but it wasn’t guiding anymore. It was holding on.
Smoke finally pulled back. Slowly.
His lips were shiny. His jaw was slack.
And his eyes?
Worship.
He looked up at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Delphine peeked down at him—eyes dazed, lips parted, chest still heaving.
She opened her mouth to speak.
But nothing came.
She just laughed once. Breathless.
Shook her head.
And Smoke?
He licked his lips slow.
And whispered—
“Do it again.”
Delphine was still catching her breath. Her body limp, her robe hanging half-off, her thighs twitching from aftershocks. But her hand? It didn’t let go of Smoke’s hair.
She tugged.
Soft at first. Then firmer.
“Elijah,” she whispered.
He looked up.
His mouth was slick, lips swollen, chin shining with her. His eyes were dark and dazed, like he was floating somewhere between worship and want.
“C’mere.”
He rose slow.
She pulled him up from his knees, hand still curled in his curls, her other palm resting flat over his pounding chest. When he was standing fully between her spread thighs, she leaned in.
Their foreheads touched. Her breath hit his mouth.
Then she kissed him.
Filthy. Deep. Slow.
She moaned into his mouth as she tasted herself on his tongue. Licked it clean from his lips. Sucked his bottom lip between hers and let her body roll against his like she hadn’t just squirted all over his face moments ago. Her hands roamed his chest. His arms. Slid up around his neck. When she finally pulled back, her eyes were half-lidded, lips wet.
“You did so good, baby,” she breathed, voice thick and honey-drenched, “So fuckin’ good.”
Smoke was silent.
But his hands were gripping the edge of the table behind her like if he didn’t, he might lose control. Delphine leaned in again, kissed the corner of his mouth. Her voice brushed his cheek:
“You want more, don’t you?”
He nodded.
Swallowed hard.
Delphine smiled—soft and sinful.
“Good. ‘Cause I ain’t finished with either of you.”
Delphine was still perched on the table, legs spread, body glowing with sweat and aftershocks. Her robe hung open, forgotten, her breasts rising and falling with each breath. Her lips were swollen, slick with kisses. Her thighs were wet with her own pleasure. Stack was already stepping forward—eyes wild, chest heaving, dick straining hard in his pants.
But he didn’t just take her.
Not this time.
He slid one arm beneath her thighs, the other across her back—and lifted her.
“Mm,” Delphine purred, arms looping around his neck, “You finally gon’ carry me to bed like I deserve?”
Stack smirked, “Ain’t carryin’ you nowhere you ain’t earned, sweetheart.”
She giggled breathless. Her head fell back, curls tumbling. Then Smoke came up behind them, silent, steady—grounding them both. His hands slipped beneath her open robe, one brushing the soft skin of her belly, the other cupping her breast.
He kissed her neck.
Soft. Deep.
“Mmm, Elijah…” she gasped.
Smoke’s mouth trailed to her ear. His voice was low.
“We ain’t done with you.”
“Good,” she whispered.
Stack grunted, “Shit—she like bein’ manhandled. I can feel her soakin’ my damn arm.”
Delphine moaned and bit her bottom lip. They carried her like something precious and wicked, up the old hallway, feet bare on the floorboards, the heat of their bodies pressing around hers. She kissed Stack’s throat on the way there. Reached back and tugged Smoke’s curls just to make him groan. And when they reached her room—warm, dim, sheets still messy from a restless morning—Stack laid her down right in the center of the bed. Delphine stretched out like a gift. Arms over her head. Robe open. Thighs still slick and glistening. Her mouth curled into that sinful smile.
She looked between them, voice soft, but dripping with promise:
“Well…which one of y’all wanna sit on my tongue first?”
The room was hot with tension—thick, humid, pulsing with everything unsaid. Her robe slipped off her shoulders, soft and satin, pooling around her arms as she stretched them overhead and smiled up at the two men undressing before her. Skin glowing, thighs slick, her breasts rose and fell with every slow breath.
“Go ‘head,” she purred, eyes locked on Smoke, “Take it off for me, baby.”
Smoke peeled off what was left of his clothes, slow and deliberate. Slacks fell. Shirt gone. His dick stood thick and heavy, glistening with need, the head flushed dark. He was already twitching. Stack stripped beside him, less controlled. He was already half-wild—thick and ready, hunger in his eyes, jaw tight with restraint that wouldn’t last long. Delphine looked between them like she was admiring two parts of a dream.
“Goddamn,” she whispered, licking her lips, “I’m ‘bout to be fed real good.”
She sat up slowly, dragging her palms down her own stomach, then opened her thighs. Dripping.
“Smoke…” she said, voice sweet and hoarse, “lemme taste you, baby. I been thinkin’ about it all day.”
Smoke stepped forward to the edge of the bed. Delphine rose to her knees in front of him—naked, glowing, mouth already parted. One hand reached for the base of his dick, wrapping slow. The other traced the line of his stomach, nails dragging lightly as she looked up at him.
“You nervous again?” she whispered.
Smoke didn’t answer—he just grunted, dick jumping in her grip.
She smiled.
“Good. Keep feelin’ everything.”
Then she leaned in and pressed her lips to the tip—just a kiss at first. Then a soft lick, tongue swirling around the head, catching the taste of him like she was savoring molasses from a spoon.
Smoke hissed.
She moaned against him, lips curling, “You taste so damn good…”
Then she opened wide and sank down.
Slow. Deep. Her throat flexed as she took him, inch by inch, eyes never leaving his. One hand gripped his base, stroking. The other cupped his balls gently, massaging. Her moans vibrated against his shaft.
Below her?
Stack had crawled between her thighs.
He grabbed her hips and pulled her down the bed until her knees bent at the edge, until her pussy met his mouth again like it belonged there. She moaned hard around Smoke’s fat dick, hips jerking as Stack devoured her, tongue slow at first, then faster, more eager. More starved.
“Fuck…” Smoke whispered, hands curling in her hair. “Delphine…”
She pulled off with a wet gasp, a thick strand of spit trailing from her lips to his dick.
“You like that, sugar?” she panted, stroking him slow, eyes hazy with need, “Don’t you dare cum yet. I ain’t done playin’.”
Then she took him again—deeper.
Throat swallowing him whole, her nose almost brushing his stomach. She hummed as she bobbed her head, twisting her wrist just right. Drool ran down her chin. She wiped it with the back of her hand and grinned up at him like a woman possessed.
He shoved two fingers inside her as he licked her clit, tongue flicking, lips sealed. Delphine’s thighs shook, her moans muffled by Smoke’s dick.
She came up for air just long enough to whimper:
“That’s it—oh fuck, Elias—right there—yes, yes…”
She came.
Smoke groaned and threw his head back. His hand slid from her hair to her shoulder, gentle but shaking. Delphine popped off his dick again, licking him slow from base to tip.
“Look what y’all done to me…” she breathed, her chin soaked, her thighs trembling.
She spit in her hand, stroked him twice more, then kissed the tip like a promise.
“You ready to give Stack a turn?” she whispered against Smoke’s dick, looking up through thick lashes.
Smoke only moaned, hips twitching.
Delphine grinned.
Then she turned her head, looked down her body, and said, “C’mere, baby. Lemme clean your face with my tongue.”
Delphine was trembling from her climax, lips swollen, chin glazed, thighs still twitching where Stack had just feasted. He stood and they leaned in, tongues first, clashing hungrily. Delphine licked her juices from his chin with a whimper. She kissed Stack slow and filthy, tasting herself on his tongue. Her hand was still wrapped around Smoke’s dick, pumping him lazy, savoring how hard he stayed even after eating her.
“Your turn, sugar,” she purred, voice husky and electric, “Come get this blessing.”
Stack didn’t need telling twice.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, chest heaving. His dick was thick, veins bulging, glistening with pre-cum. He stared down at her like a man starved. Delphine turned on her knees, slow and graceful, and crawled toward him.
“Lie back,” she whispered, tongue flicking out to wet her lips.
He obeyed. Laid back on the bed like he was about to be baptized in sin. Delphine straddled his legs, her bare ass on his thighs, and licked her palm before wrapping it around the base of his dick. She looked up, face glowing, curls sticking to her cheeks.
“You been patient all day,” she crooned, stroking him slow, “I’mma take care of you.”
Then she leaned down and sucked him in.
Warm. Wet. Expert.
Her mouth sealed around his shaft, slow bobbing strokes that went deeper each time. Tongue swirling. One hand massaging his balls, the other gripping his thigh for leverage.
Stack’s head fell back with a growl, “Fuck, Delphine…”
Her moans vibrated around him.
Above her, Smoke moved back between her thighs.
He couldn’t stay away.
He dropped to his knees on the mattress, hands spreading her cheeks as he dipped his face back into the heat of her. Tongue slow at first—then deeper, hungrier. He groaned against her folds, burying his mouth in her like she was water in the desert.
Delphine arched, still sucking Stack’s dick like it gave her life.
She pulled off just long enough to pant, “God, y’all gonna ruin me…”
Then she dove back down—gagging herself on Stack, spit coating his shaft, mouth sloppy and eager. Her eyes locked on his, watching him twitch every time she swallowed him deep.
Stack tangled his fingers in her curls, “Shit—just like that, baby…suck that dick…”
Smoke groaned into her pussy, sucking her clit slow while sliding a finger inside. Her hips rolled. Her moans spilled out around Stack’s dick. She was completely wrecked between them—used, loved, worshipped—and loving every second.a
Delphine popped her lips off of Stack and climbed off of the bed with a sultry laugh, Smoke groaning when her slit left his tongue. Stack’s jaw flexed as he stared from his dick twitching to her movements. She lowered herself to her knees slow—like something sacred and unholy all at once. Her silk robe slid off her shoulders, pooling at her wrists. Hair shaken loose, cascading wild around her flushed face, sweat already gathering at the hollows of her throat. The mirror in front of her was fogged at the edges, but she didn’t look away. Not once.
She watched herself.
Watched her fingers pinch her nipples until they ached. Watched her lips part with a gasp as her hips rocked forward on instinct. Then she said it—voice low and thick like syrup, but with command stitched through the center.
“Y’all come here. Come suck these titties like you hungry.”
Smoke didn’t speak—just moved, quiet as a storm about to break.
Stack chuckled under his breath, a filthy little “Damn…” before obeying. They dropped to their knees on either side of her, and without hesitation—each took a breast into his mouth. Not gentle. Not rushed. But deep, wet, possessive. Smoke’s hand slid around her waist, pulling her to him. His mouth was hot on her left tit, tongue curling, lips tugging until she whimpered. Stack palmed the other, thumb teasing her nipple before his mouth closed over it — licking slow, then fast, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to worship or ruin.
“Fuck,” she whispered, eyes still locked on the mirror. Her lips were red now. Her chest flushed.
She had one big dick in each hand, stroking them in rhythm—rougher on Stack, slower on Smoke.
Their groans vibrated against her skin.
“That’s it, babies,” she cooed, “Suckle ‘em like I’m feedin’ you from Heaven.”
They didn’t stop. Didn’t pull back.
Smoke’s hands slid down her back, gripping her hips, anchoring her.
Stack moaned against her chest and pulled back just enough to say, “Goddamn, you taste like honey and heat.”
She laughed—breathless and mean—and jerked both dicks harder.
“’Cause I am heat. Now don’t stop till I say so.”
Smoke growled low in his throat. Stack bit down just enough to make her gasp.
And in the mirror—they looked like something wicked.
Two men starved. One woman fed.
Their mouths never left her chest.
Delphine’s head tilted back, lashes fluttering as the pleasure rolled through her in waves. Stack was sucking harder now, greedier, making obscene noises as his tongue circled her aching nipple. Smoke was slower, lips gentler, but he didn’t let up—he groaned low with each suck, like the taste of her alone was putting him in pain. She clenched her thighs together, panting, arms braced behind her as she thrust her chest toward them. Her hands never stopped moving —fists stroking their dicks, fingers teasing their tips with practiced cruelty.
“Mmm, I’m so fuckin’ nasty,” she moaned, “What if August sees us? What if he walk through that door right now and sees two young men—two strong, fine young men—on their knees suckin’ on his wife’s titties like this?”
Stack groaned hard, biting her nipple just enough to make her cry out, “Goddamn.”
“He’d see I’m just a filthy woman,” she went on, breath hitching, “Just a dick-drunk housewife with her robe open and her nipples in younger mouths. He’d cry. Or stroke his little dick and cry.”
Stack pulled back just long enough to sneer.
“Fuck August. He don’t run shit no more.”
His voice was sharp, possessive. Almost jealous.
Smoke didn’t stop suckin’. He pulled her closer, wrapped his arm tighter around her waist, and looked up at her through his lashes while his lips tugged harder—hungrier. Then he spoke, voice deep and quiet like always, but raw:
“Ain’t his house no more. Ain’t his wife neither.”
Delphine broke.
A moan and a laugh tangled in her throat. Her head dropped forward, curls clinging to her sweaty chest.
“Ohhhh, I love when y’all talk like that,” she purred, “Love how disrespectful you are. Ain’t no fear in your mouths—just me. You taste me and forget your fuckin’ names.”
Smoke’s dick twitched in her hand. Stack cursed under his breath.
“I hope he sees,” she said, eyes darting toward the mirror, “I want him to walk in. I want him to see how I give it up when I’m finally touched right.”
Delphine’s grip tightened on their shafts, then released them with a slow stroke. Her nipples were slick with spit, flushed and swollen from their mouths. She licked her lips, panting—that feral gleam in her eyes now glowing full. She looked down at them—both still kneeling, breathless, hard as sin. Then she leaned back, spread her thighs wide, and sat on her heels like a queen on a throne made of fire.
“Show me your tongues.”
They hesitated for half a second—not in defiance, but from shock. That tone. That command.
“Now.”
Stack smirked first, always ready for a show. He stuck his tongue out slow and wide, wiggling it for effect. Smoke followed, more reluctant—tongue curling out thick and pink, breath hot from his nose.
She moaned right then.
“Mmm. That’s what I thought. And look at that…Elijah’s got the tongue of a sinner and the eyes of a killer. Perfect combination.” She grabbed him by the chin, tugging his face close to the slick heat between her thighs. Her inner thighs were trembling. She was already soaked—glistening for him, dripping against the backs of her calves.
“You go first, baby,” she whispered, “But don’t get cocky. I’ll tell you how I want it.”
Smoke’s breath hitched. His hands slid beneath her thighs, locking her open, and then—he dived in. No hesitation now. His mouth met her pussy with a groan so deep it shook her to her core.
“Yessss,” she hissed, “Just like that, baby. Slow licks first. Top to bottom. Let me feel all that tongue.”
He obeyed. Long, heavy swipes from clit to entrance, slow enough to make her gasp.
“Mmm, now circle it. Yeah—‘round and ‘round that swollen clit. Just tongue. Like you tryin’ to paint me with it.”
Smoke groaned again, deeper. The sound of him eating was wet, rhythmic, needy.
“Goddamn, Elijah…you better keep that rhythm. Don’t stop till I tell you. You do not come up ‘less you feel me gushin’ on your chin. You understand?”
He hummed against her in response—vibrating her whole body. She shivered.
“Good boy.”
Stack’s hand gripped his dick tight, watching. His other hand slid to her breast, tugging a nipple as he leaned forward, whispering into her neck.
“I’m next, sugar. Gonna make you cry into that mirror when it’s my turn.”
Delphine whimpered and laughed at once, hips grinding into Elijah’s mouth.
“One at a time,” she panted. “Y’all gone share this pussy—but I want him to learn first.
Smoke licked deeper, lips wrapping around her clit now, sucking soft then firm—tongue flattening and curling in exactly the ways she demanded. His fingers tightened around her thighs. His whole face buried in her like it was the only way to breathe.
And her voice? Still coaching. Still filthy.
“Mm, yeah…just like that, baby. Lick that clit like you missed her. Like she fed you and left you starving for more.”
Delphine’s legs were trembling, spread wide and soaked with Elijah’s devotion. He was still on his knees between her thighs, lips slick, chin wet, breathing heavy like he’d run a mile in heat. Her fingers threaded into his curls and pulled his face up, slowly. His mouth glistened with her. His lips were red and swollen. His eyes?
Dark. Wild. Possessive.
“Mmm. You did good, baby,” she purred, voice hoarse with satisfaction, “Damn good. But you know what?”
She turned her head, locked eyes with the other one— the cocky one, the grinning devil with the dimple and the twitching cock in hand.
“I think your brother think he can do better.”
Stack smirked so wide it was damn near vulgar. He dropped to his knees with that slick charm still oozing off him.
“You damn right I can. I know I can.”
Elijah didn’t move—just slid back on his heels and watched. His chest rose and fell hard, arms resting on his knees, lips still wet. Delphine spread her thighs even wider, leaned back on her elbows, and arched.
“Aight then. It’s a contest. Let’s see which one of y’all makes Mama squirt first.”
Stack moaned under his breath.
“Shit.”
“Make it messy,” she warned, “I wanna drip down the back of your throat. I want it on your chin, on the floor.”
That grin disappeared.
Stack dove in.
But unlike Elijah—who started slow—Stack went wild from the jump. He sucked her clit into his mouth like he was trying to take it with him. Tongue flicking fast. Fast. Then slow. Then fast again. His rhythm was chaotic but intentional—cocky, unpredictable.
“Mmm!!” Delphine cried out, hands flying to his head. “Goddamn, Elias!”
Smoke cursed behind her. Watching his brother tear into her like he owned her.
“He tryna show out,” Smoke muttered, jaw tight.
Stack moaned against her and shook his head while sucking—tongue and lips fluttering around her clit, hands spreading her wider, thumbs pressing into the creases of her thighs like he needed to anchor her to the earth.
“Yesss…oh fuck yes—THERE baby—stay right there—”
She was unraveling. Quick.
“Oh, I feel it—feel it comin’—you want it? Huh? Wanna drown in it, Elias?”
He nodded into her pussy. Groaned again.
She arched hard—stomach tight, thighs twitching. She locked her legs around his neck and rode.
“OHHH FUCK— THERE IT GO, BABY. TAKE IT. TAKE ALL THAT CREAM, NASTY BOY.”
Stack didn’t stop. Didn’t breathe. He took it—all of it— face dripping, tongue still working even as she squirted, crying out, body convulsing.
She collapsed back, chest heaving, body shaking like a tuning fork.
“Mmm-mm-mm,” she gasped, “Shit…We might have to call it a tie.”
But then she sat up. Face flushed, lips slick, sweat beading on her neck.
“Nah. You know what?”
She looked down at both of them—wrecked and still hard, kneeling at her feet like two beasts waiting for their next command.
She licked her lips.
“Y’all gon’ have to fuck me at the same time to really settle this.”
Goddamn, black people can’t go anywhere without being called a nigger! Not even to another country or to work! And I’m seeing people (mostly non black) telling us we shouldn’t be offended because it’s an involuntary tic or whatever. Like I’m just beyond irritated!
The Sinners cast made history at the BAFTAS, all during Black History Month. Like imagine you’re enjoying yourself at work, your fellow colleagues/friends making history as the first black person to win the award for Best Original Screenplay (in damn near 8 decades) and Best Supporting Actress (cause Annie was the best character in the movie and if you disagree go argue with Remmick) AND ALL THAT BLACK EXCELLENCE being reduced to being called a NIGGER in front of all your peers and viewers(because BAFTA was quick to edit out “free Palestine” but not NIGGER 2 hours before it aired)
Yes, the man has Tourette’s. Is that supposed to cancel out the embarrassment, the irritation, the blatant disrespect black actors and viewers felt?! Who tf wants to be called a NIGGER?!
Goddamn, black people can’t go anywhere without being called a nigger! Not even to another country or to work! And I’m seeing people (mostly non black) telling us we shouldn’t be offended because it’s an involuntary tic or whatever. Like I’m just beyond irritated!
The Sinners cast made history at the BAFTAS, all during Black History Month. Like imagine you’re enjoying yourself at work, your fellow colleagues/friends making history as the first black person to win the award for Best Original Screenplay (in damn near 8 decades) and Best Supporting Actress (cause Annie was the best character in the movie and if you disagree go argue with Remmick) AND ALL THAT BLACK EXCELLENCE being reduced to being called a NIGGER in front of all your peers and viewers(because BAFTA was quick to edit out “free Palestine” but not NIGGER 2 hours before it aired)
Yes, the man has Tourette’s. Is that supposed to cancel out the embarrassment, the irritation, the blatant disrespect black actors and viewers felt?! Who tf wants to be called a NIGGER?!
